Chapter 49: Interrogation

When Batman pursued his target deep into the alleyway, Mickey had already vanished.

In a cursed place like Gotham, escape routes upward were virtually nonexistent, but subterranean pathways often opened up. Batman gazed down at the displaced manhole cover at his feet, from which waves of foul stench billowed upward, leading directly into Gotham City's sewer system.

Paying no mind to the pungent odor, he quickly shoved the manhole cover aside, leaped down, and landed squarely at the bottom of the shaft.

"Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday!"

"Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday!"

The hollow, echoing voice of a monster resonated through the dark, cavernous sewers.

After a light, noiseless landing, the dark knight spotted the massive figure looming in the tunnels. He cast a quick glance at Mickey, who had been knocked flat and lay motionless, teetering on the edge of life and death, silently hoping the brute standing over three meters tall hadn't crushed the fellow to death with a single blow.

"Easy, Grundy. I'm not here to start trouble, just to take away the one who disturbed you."

"Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday."

"Friend said, black, pointy ears, stay away, leave him be..."

Strange as it seemed, upon seeing Batman, Grundy merely muttered to himself, turned around, and lumbered away into the deeper recesses of the sewer, ignoring both Batman and Mickey entirely.

"How unusual..." Batman watched Grundy depart without a backward glance, withdrawing his hand from the utility belt at his waist. The ragged, pitiful giant seemed uncharacteristically docile. Nearly every prior encounter with Grundy had ended in a violent brawl, for which Batman always kept specialized countermeasures prepared—yet none of them had been needed today.

"Who did he mean by a friend? Who could possibly befriend Solomon Grundy?"

Mulling over the question in silence, he confirmed that Mickey was merely unconscious, hoisted the man over his shoulder, and carried him straight back to the precinct.

From there, the timeline converged on the present moment.

"We know you did it, Mickey. But we also know you're just a small fish, and the only real use for a small fish... is catching a big one."

"A fish?"

Standing by the desk in a crisp white shirt, Captain Gordon wore a grave expression, his demeanor carrying the stern authority of a veteran lawman. "We want to know who hired you for this job, Mickey. Help us out, and perhaps we can help you."

Noticing Mickey's feigned look of innocence, Gordon furrowing his brow, a flash of harsh anger crossing his features. "I'd rather not be here right now. My wife has a turkey and all the trimmings waiting at home—that is where an honest, decent man belongs on a holiday."

"But justice doesn't take a holiday, Mickey. If you don't tell us who paid you to kill Gotham's District Attorney, I'm going to miss Thanksgiving dinner."

Faced with such a toothless threat, the career criminal merely let out a low chuckle. Now securely inside a police precinct, he no longer felt the jittery anxiety and dread of a rat trapped in a drainpipe. He knew he was operating within the framework of the rules, and within those rules, his life was not in danger—he even harbored fantasies of dodging the charges entirely through outright denial.

Using a clumsy, exaggerated Irish accent, he sneered, "Then I suppose you'll just have to miss your Thanksgiving, pal, because I don't know Carmine Falcone. Never even heard of him. What was it you called him? The 'Roman'?"

Clearly, prior to today, he had never truly experienced the methods of the bat.

***

At that moment, Batman's voice broke the silence. He emerged from the shadows, holding a small evidence bag containing a slightly bent, charred iron nail.

"The bomb you built destroyed Dent's home. This nail was part of it. Every nail has a serial number; we traced it back to the manufacturer, and then to a hardware store just two blocks from your apartment, complete with the receipt."

Lowering his head, Batman stared coldly down at the beads of sweat forming on Mickey's temples, delivering the final blow that shattered his psychological defenses.

"You bought these nails."

The atmosphere froze for several seconds. Confronted with ironclad proof, Mickey finally let out a heavy sigh, entirely abandoning any further pretense of denial.

"Harvey Dent... he was just asking for trouble. If I hadn't done it, plenty of others in this town would have jumped at the chance."

"You've got me. Fine, I built the bomb. Is that what you want me to confess, pal? I'll write the whole thing down for you."

"Just one thing, though—don't get it twisted."

At this, Mickey's expression shifted into something peculiar, a half-smile playing on his lips as his face remained half-hidden in the dim shadows of the interrogation room. "We all know where Mr. Dent has been, and what he's been up to."

"What are you talking about?" Gordon's face darkened with unmistakable anger. "What do you mean?"

"There's only one question worth asking here—who killed Johnny Viti?"

The tension in the room grew thicker and heavier than before.

"We're done here. Get him out of my sight, Mickey."

***

Inside the holding cells, the Irish gang had finally reunited.

"Alright, boys, you all know the script, right?" Brought back into the cell block, Mickey stood with his back to the light, obscuring his features and expression, though his slurred and distorted accent suggested he had been roughened up quite a bit during the questioning.

"Mickey, we've already gone over our alibis. I don't want to run through it again," Donnie grumbled, shaking his head.

"We've never been in a mess quite like this before."

"Then we'll do what we always do—sync our stories and beat the rap!"

At that, the group exchanged knowing, crooked grins. Crafting coordinated lies was a game they had mastered long ago.

***

"I was the one driving the getaway car that day. I'll write it all down, if you need it."

"I delivered the package to that woman—Mrs. Dent, Harvey Dent's wife, you know. I'll write it all down, if you need it."

"I followed Dent back to his house. Yes, I did it, tracked him all the way to his front door. I'll write it all down, if you need it."

"I pushed the damn detonator button. And I'll write the whole thing down, if you need it."

Five matching confessions, including Mickey's, perfectly aligned with no loose ends—however much the Roman had paid them, he had certainly gotten his money's worth.

So Batman silently mused to himself.

Hearing the low, gravelly voice echo from the darkness, the officer standing guard nearby complied immediately: "Bring Mickey back in."

And so, Mickey—one of the five—was escorted back into the interrogation room.

"Did you get anything out of him?"

"Not a word. None of them mentioned Falcone's name."

Mickey sighed, reached up, and peeled off the greasy, conniving mask to reveal the sharp, chiseled features of Harvey Dent. "My Irish accent is genuinely terrible, thank goodness those blockheads couldn't tell the difference—and since things have come to this, I suppose I don't need to keep playing the dead man anymore."

***

Flashing back to the moments before the explosion, down in the basement, Harvey had received a phone call.

"Mr. Harvey Dent, the Roman sends his regards..."

"For the next three minutes, our conversation will remain unintercepted—unless someone has planted a wire in your home, though to my knowledge, you aren't careless enough for that, and he wouldn't allow anyone to spy on you."

"So I'll get straight to the point. There is a bomb in the package upstairs, but I've swapped it out with a low-yield charge. It will put on quite a flashy display, but the destructive power is minimal."

As Harvey listened to the synthesized voice over the phone, his expression grew increasingly dark and furious.

"Do not speak, just listen. The passcode to the package is 1942. Inside, alongside the bomb, you will find a crucifix necklace. Give it to your wife, or wear it yourself. Believe it or not, that crucifix will ensure someone's survival."

"The bomb will be triggered the moment you walk upstairs. I've converted it into a delayed-action detonator, giving you an extra ten seconds. Do not go upstairs until you have figured out how to use those ten seconds to escape."

"Lastly—do not try to simply dispose of the bomb. Someone has to collect the Roman's bounty. Once you've 'died' once, the Roman won't hunt you down a second time."

"Good luck, District Attorney Dent."