Chapter 39: Ha, it's all over!

While Ma Zhaodi was working his third job, District Attorney Harvey Dent had already returned home early.

Tonight was not quite what he had imagined. The fire was significant, but it was not urgent; he did not even need to stay at the scene and simply turned back home, as there was nothing left for him to do for the moment. As for the murder of Johnny Vitti, that was a matter for Commissioner Gordon to worry about. As for himself, he had promised Gilda that he would go hand out candy to the neighborhood kids. If he returned too late, she would surely be disappointed again.

Harvey drove home. It was still quite early, so he opened his front door with a cheerful heart.

"Hey, Harvey, you're home so punctually today?"

"Ha, I already promised you, Mrs. Dent."

Just then, the doorbell rang.

"Guess who's here?" Gilda said, turning to head toward the front door.

"How would I know... wait, let me open—"

A sense of alarm suddenly rose in Harvey’s mind. It wasn’t because of some strange premonition, but rather the realization that if someone wanted to carry out an attack on Halloween, this was the perfect opportunity. One would only need to bribe a child to deliver a carefully wrapped bomb as a Halloween surprise; almost no one would be on guard against that.

But before he could finish his sentence, Gilda had already opened the door.

"Trick or treat!"

Several "little monsters" jumped out, shattering his wild imagination. There were no bombs, no attacks, no gang retaliation—just a safe and happy Halloween. After all, what reason would Falcone have to seek revenge on such a lowly prosecutor like him? He had been beaten up just for checking license plates in the parking lot of his nephew’s party; a man of that stature had no motive to target him personally.

He laughed at himself, feeling he had been overly anxious. He walked to the doorway and began handing out candy to the children with his wife.

"Happy Halloween, little ones."

"Happy Halloween, Mr. Dent!"

"Happy Halloween, Mrs. Dent."

Meanwhile, at the Gotham City Police Department in the heart of Gotham City, Gordon flipped through a mountain of files and glanced at his watch. It was late into the night. He casually stubbed out his cigarette in a Halloween-themed ashtray sitting on his desk.

"Happy Halloween, Batman. Thanks for the gift."

"Happy Halloween, Commissioner Gordon—go home early to be with your family."

Halloween in Gotham had passed. Aside from one bizarre murder, the night had been as peaceful as a beautiful dream. But for some, what happened in Gotham that night was like a nightmare.

***

It was a peaceful morning. Ma Zhaodi was heading to work in his beloved little wheelchair as usual.

He was in a great mood. All three jobs had been completed in one night, bringing him quite a harvest. Even setting aside the small jack-o'-lantern, the twenty thousand dollars in assets, the intermediate culinary mastery, and the friendship of Solomon Grundy made it all feel incredibly worthwhile. When he left, Grundy had even shaken his hand in a friendly manner.

"Pumpkin man, scary, good man."

"Pumpkin man, friend, burger, tasty."

For this reason, Ma Zhaodi decided to bring Grundy delicious food every day. Although Grundy wouldn't starve, he would certainly remember his friend. Perhaps one day, if Ma Zhaodi ran into some supervillain or assassin organization, he could shout "Grundy, save me!" toward a sewer grate and watch the giant squeeze through and climb up to help him. Of course, if possible, Ma Zhaodi hoped that such a situation would never happen.

"Morning, Santos, Rick, Castro. How was your night?"

He greeted his colleagues cheerfully, but strangely, the three men, who were usually chatty and full of laughter, did not respond. Instead, they looked at him with eerie expressions.

"What's wrong? You guys don't look so good."

"Huh? Oh, morning, Ma Zhaodi."

"Morning."

"Morning, Ma Zhaodi. Did you go out for a side job last night?"

"Hm? Yeah, I went to do some gig work."

"Oh, I see. So you weren't at home?"

"You can't do gig work while staying at home, Castro," Ma Zhaodi said, looking at the three of them with some confusion. Their speech today lacked its usual crispness; instead, they seemed to be stammering.

"Look... I just want to be sure. You just arrived in Gotham recently, right? You haven't joined any gangs, have you?"

"Good heavens, what are you talking about? Of course I haven't joined any gangs! Can't you see? I barely know how to use a gun; I'm still training every day at the range the supervisor recommended—wait, you guys are really acting strange today. Did something happen?"

"Uh... have you read today's Gotham Gazette?"

"Haven't bought it yet—why?"

"What about the Gotham morning news? Haven't seen that either?"

"What are you talking about?" Ma Zhaodi frowned. Seeing his colleagues' hesitant behavior, a strange, ominous premonition welled up in his heart. "What about the news?"

"You... see for yourself."

Santos handed him a newspaper. Ma Zhaodi took it and glanced at it casually. The headline that met his eyes made his pupils dilate.

"Johnny Vitti Assassinated, 'Joker Pumpkin' Left at the Scene!"

"Last night on Halloween, Johnny Vitti, nephew of Gotham City godfather Falcone, was found dead in his villa's bathtub. According to the coroner, the fatal wounds were two shots to the center of the head."

"The killer left the murder weapon, a .22 caliber Clipper pistol with the serial number filed off, at the scene. There were no fingerprints on the gun. Also left at the scene were two other items: a makeshift silencer made from a baby pacifier and a jack-o'-lantern."

"No cash was missing from the villa. According to police speculation, this case was likely a revenge killing. Commissioner Gordon stated that the key clue to the case lies in the uniquely crafted jack-o'-lantern left at the scene."

Stunned, Ma Zhaodi used trembling hands to flip the page. On the back of the newspaper was a photograph of the jack-o'-lantern left at the crime scene. The twisted, painful expression seemed to blend a unique artistic flair—there were hints of Millet’s classicism, touches of Monet’s impressionism, Matisse’s fauvism, Munch’s expressionism, Balla’s futurism, Picasso’s cubism, and Dalí’s surrealism, all seemingly embodied in this tiny pumpkin. In a word—

"Haha, I'm doomed!"