BATMAN: THE LAST LAUGH #1 (OF 2)

Every television station across Gotham City had their signals hijacked by the same pirate signal at the exact same time. No matter what the masses were watching, their screens went blank, there was an ominous, static-filled pause and then a voice like that of a bombastic, 1950s style new announcer demanded, “Do not adjust your television sets!”

Suddenly, the picture started back up and a white-gloved hand held up a mangy, age-stained card with an image of a clown ornately drawn in the centre. Beneath the iconography a hastily scrawled note read: WE INTERRUPT YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED BRAIN DEAD MASS MEDIA REAL LIFE HORROR SHOW TO BRING YOU…

The card was dropped to the floor casually and the camera took a moment to focus in on the man now stood in front of it. When the image became clear, the hearts of Gotham’s men, women and children seized for a split second, a thought flashing across their collective heads-- we’re all going to die!

The alabaster white-stained skin. The emerald and juniper hair. The crazed, bloodshot eyes with the pinprick pupils. The crimson blood red lips-- and-- that-- damn-- smile…

The Joker cleared his throat huskily. “Hello-oo Gotham! It’s your ol’ pal Joker here with one last message before I exit stage left and slink back into the dark-- where I’ll wait, with my knife all shiny, sharp and bright, until our paths cross again!”

He laughed heartily, maniacally, that way only the Joker could.

“Oh, oh, you know I’m only playing with you! You have to know by now, after all these years, that I’m a simple man.”

His expression twisted so he looked hurt, saddened by the words coming out of his mouth.

“I know that people like to drag my good name through the mud but I’d hope that you, gentle viewer, can see past all the grim and the grit, all the muck that’s raked, and see that I’m just… a clown. I want to make you laugh! I want to make you smile! And when I’m this close--this close-- to getting a laugh out of you, naughty-naughty Commish-y Gordy and his tricky little police force kick down my door, or worse still, the big black bat smashes his way through a window and takes the wind out my punchline and the teeth out my smile. That’s just not fair, is it?”

He leaned back and ran a hand through his chemically green hair, smoothing out a stray that had come loose during his speech.

“So when I snuck out of good ol’ Arkham, I thought to myself, this is it! I’ll just pack my bags and go, maybe take a holiday to a beach somewhere, get a tan on this sun-denied skin of mine, and leave Gotham City behind. But you may have heard, my plans didn’t go to… plan.”

He patted himself down and stuck a hand into his inside pocket, withdrawing with a handful of polaroid photos that he slowly, one by one, held out to the camera. Men, women and children dead with twisted, chemically-induced smiles on their faces.

“So you’ve probably heard their side of the story, but before I go, I want you to hear mine. See, it’s not all black and white, and once you hear it from me, from my mouth to your ears, you might just forgive me my trespasses. Won’t know until we try! Let me set the scene for you: I’m riding down Novick and Giordano when I see that Gotham’s oldest cinema is presenting a retrospective of the Marx Brothers! And when the film on show that night is ‘A Night at the Opera’, who am I to turn my nose up to an opportunity like that?”

His eyes bulged out of his sockets and he held his hands out, as if begging to know the answer to the question. Without missing a beat, he shifted in his seat, and continued his story.

“I stroll in and I hear people laughing their heads off! Had the film already started, you ask? Was I, God forbid, late? I’ll get to that, kind viewer! The very kind person in the box office told me I had plenty of time to take a seat, so I buy myself a ticket and a tub of buttery popcorn, slip in to the theatre and find myself… alone. Nobody but me in the entire screen!”

His facial expression twisted into one of pure incredulity.

“But I heard that laughter, didn’t I? I heard the masses laughing their heads off! What is this cinematic masterpiece so far beyond the auteurs of comedy, the brothers Chico, Groucho and Harpo? I had to find out! I visited the projectionist, he kindly explained that it was the latest outing from the ‘Bat Pack’ of comedy! Wait, I said ‘Brat’, didn’t I? Yes? Good. Some pedestrian middle of the road romp with zero finesse! Zero style! And they flocked to it! I couldn’t let that stand. I explained my position to the assorted cinema-goers, and things got rowdy, and then, hey, they ended up agreeing with my point of view in the end, and they had smiles on their faces when I left! What’s wrong with--”

Behind him, a torrent of darkness exploded through the wall, moving toward him quicker than the camera could track--

The Joker spun around, gun in hand, and fired off shots but to no avail, the shadowy figure engulfed him.

While any normal person would have screamed, the sound of strained laughter filled the transmission, raspy grunts and gasps interspersed with chuckling.

“Sorry, Bats! I couldn’t help myself!”

The sound of blow after blow landing against the Joker’s face rang out and blood splattered the lens of the camera. While the people of Gotham City watched, the world turned red.

“Three-hundred and sixteen dead!”

The Joker’s hand came into view, dagger in hand, but the black shape abruptly grew a taloned hand, grabbed him at the wrist and twisted, breaking every bone possible in one sharp movement.

“Are you going to do me in, Batty? Is this the final stand of the man who laughed--”

The shadows continued to pummel the Joker until there was no more laughter, just the guttural, raspy sound that came from his lips as he strained to breath after the beating he’d taken.

Standing, the darkness noticed the camera and wrenched it out of its moorings, the broken body of the Joker coming into view for a split second as he breathed in with a rasp, albeit unconsciously. Finally, fully visible, the Batman turned off the transmission, leaving the people of Gotham City in the dark as to what happened next…


Commissioner Gordon frowned as the Batman emerged from the shadows of Gotham Central’s rooftop, his costume splattered with the blood of the Joker.

The Dark Knight spoke first. “Were there… any survivors?”

“No. Joker killed everybody. Electrocuted the ticket boy with an amped up hand buzzer, sprayed the popcorn seller with acid from his lapel flower. Even the projectionist received a Glasgow Smile. Drowned in his own blood.” He wearily took off his glasses and cleaned them with his tie. “Like a greatest hits compilation. Ended by pumping his laughing gas into the cinema. He came prepared.”

“God,” whispered the Batman. He looked at his bloodied hands and clenched them into fists. Another massacre at the hand of a monster he had every opportunity to put down, time and time again.

“DA Hull is going for the death penalty. Insanity plea be damned. Bullock and Sawyer are at Mercy General. It’s a damn circus… just the way that sick sonofabitch likes it.”

The Batman turned and loomed over the chasm between Gotham Central Police Plaza and the rest of the city. The wind whipped his cape up, but he stood, perfectly still, as he contemplated his world. “The Joker will weasel his way out of it with an insanity plea. He always does.”

“I’m not in a mood to argue,” said Gordon, turning away from the winter chill. “I just wish I had been there. Another missed opportunity to end his madness once and for all.”

“I can’t think like that. If I think like that, I’m no better than the rest of them.”

Gordon turned, but the Caped Crusader was gone. “No one would blame you if you did it just this once,” he said quietly. “No one at all.”


Commissioner Gordon stormed into District Attorney Hull’s office, ignoring the pleas of the latter’s secretary, Claire.

The Commissioner was seething, and Anthony Hull didn’t give a damn either way. He reclined in his chair, nonplussed by the display of aggression. Claire stood in the doorway, clutching papers, frazzled by the commotion.

“Hull, are you mad? Rushing the case through! Marching the Joker out in front of the courthouse like this, you’re practically asking for trouble!”

Hull leaned forward in his chair and stood, his fingers gripping the edge of his desk as he went. “Now, I’d usually insist you make an appointment through Claire here, but I feel like the red tape would drive you to tears, Gordon.”

“Stop making jokes, Hull. Now isn’t the time! You’re giving his people prime opportunity to break him out before he’s shipped off to Blackgate! A place that’s nowhere near capable or even designed to contain him!”

“And it’s your job to prevent that from happening, Commissioner. I won’t be scared into treating him like some ancient and expensive vase, something to coddle at every appearance. I want Gotham City to know that we got him. No tricks. No nothing. Your Batman took the glory from us one time, I won’t let the city take another hit like that on my watch!”

“Glory? You stupid god damn idiot, the only thing that matters--”

The DA raised his voice. “The only thing that matters,” he caught his raised voice, settled, rearranged his tie and leveled his dark eyes at Gordon.

Hull knew, in his heart, that the only thing that mattered was that he as going to be the District Attorney that finally got the Joker. Dent failed to do a silver dollar’s worth of good in this town, and ever since then there was a stink on the DA’s office. That was going to change in a big way.

With the Joker finally strapped to the chair, he could parlay that into one hell of a Mayoral run, and when he got the big seat, the police department would be under one hell of a microscope.

“The only thing that matters is that you don’t let that freak turn the court into a circus. Go out there and make me look good, Gordon.”

“Oh, I’ll do my damn job, Hull. But don’t be surprised when every precaution we put into place is torn to shreds by the insanity and the ego of the man you’re putting away. Don’t be surprised when you end up on his list.”

Gordon exited the office, swinging the door shut after him. The glass, with Hull’s name and title stuck on it in individual lettering, cracked into a web of fractures, and the DA couldn’t help but smile.

“I’ll send your department the bill for that, Gordon.”

Confident that the Commissioner was now gone, Claire reentered the office, and checked her lipstick. “He really hates you, doesn’t he?”

“Let him. That dinosaur can see his kind is about to become obsolete. Vigilantes. Monsters. This city is a freak show, and has been for far too long. We get the Joker, we nail him for this, then I can start clearing out Arkham once and for all. These costumed bastards aren’t mad, they know exactly what they’re doing, and by the time I’m done… well, they won’t be a problem anymore. Now, come over here,” he wheeled himself backwards and Claire nodded, smiling the same smile that’d led to the affair they’d shared since Hull was elected to his current position.

“Oh, yes sir,” purred Claire.

Hull flipped the framed photo of his wife and children face down on his desk, then leaned back as Claire went to work.


In the back of the prison transport, the Joker was enveloped in chains, something that would have made Harry Houdini swoon. Every foot step he had taken to get in there was a giggle-inducing shuffle for the man, tiny foot movements amusing him to no end.

The straitjacket kept his limbs tightly wrapped to his body, and his bruised and broken face cast a dark shadow over his previous pristine appearance. His teeth were chipped and broken in places, and his smile-- something sinister previously, had taken on a haunting new dimension.

“Do you think the show will go on without a hitch?” asked the Joker, his face covered with a transparent muzzle.

“Shurrup,” said the prison guard stood next to him.

“Oh, I can see why they chose you--” the Joker arched his neck to read the guard’s ID, “--Brandt. No brain cells for me to work my way in to. You’re a golem, a gargoyle, something impervious to my wiles.”

“An’ even if he weren’t,” said the second prison guard, holding up a sparking taser baton. His name tag labelled him Angle. “I got your wiles right here.”

“That doesn’t even make sense!” giggled the Joker. “Shall we, boys?”

The back of the transport opened and sunlight flooded in, temporarily blinding the Joker. A split second later, cameras began to flash as the Clown Prince of Crime disembarked, flanked by a contingent of guards.

And the madman was nothing but smiles.

Gotham City’s finest were assembled throughout the crowd of journalists and onlookers, the former to protect them, the latter hoping to get a look at the monster in his chains.

“I don’t like this, Commish,” said Bullock, stood near to the stairs to the courthouse. “Too exposed. He’s gonna’ have something planned.”

“Snipers are on the roofs, plainclothes in the crowd, Captain Bullock,” said Gordon, all business. “Did anyone try and visit while you and Sawyer were on protective detail?”

Bullock shook his head briskly. “Naw, that’s the thing. We know his gal Friday is still out there somewhere. Harley’s gonna’ be wanting to keep her boy out of the slammer, especially if they’re goin’ for the death penalty. His gang too, we don’t know who he has in his pocket.”

“Then let’s just pray that Hull’s showboating doesn’t lead to more deaths.” Gordon watched as armed SWAT officers moved in to assist in getting the Joker inside.

Then the Commissioner’s phone rang. He turned away from Bullock, and saw the name of Sarah Essen, his wife and one of the Captains under his command back at Gotham Central, fill the screen. He answered quickly. It must have been important for her to call him now of all times. “What’s wrong?”

“We just received a delivery from our friends in black leather,” said Essen. There were muffled sounds in the background of the call, a thick New Jersey accent shrieking obscenities in every direction about her Puddin’. “Your day might go without a hitch after all.”

Gordon looked at Bullock and grinned. “I think luck might be on our side today, Harv.”

As if some cosmic power thought that now was the most opportune time to spite the Gotham City Police Department, a man broke from the crowd and made a beeline toward the Joker, hand shoved inside his jacket. But within seconds, the SWAT team flanking the prisoner intercepted the man and pushed him to down his knees. One officer wrenched the man’s hand out of his coat and a bouquet of flowers was spayed out across the concrete.

“I love him!” screamed the man, as he was dragged off in handcuffs. “I want him to know!”

The Joker remained silent, though the smile never left his face.

“Lunatics,” murmured Bullock.


Hull paced up and down the hall in front of the court doors, checking his watch as he grew increasingly impatient at their current predicament. They were running behind, the trial needed to start, and the officer in charge wasn’t letting him, or anybody else in. "Officer, tell me again why we’re still out here? I need to get this show on the road."

The officer shrugged. "The Bomb Squad need to do a sweep of the courtroom before we go in, sir. Thing is, they were called out this morning to the Gazette…"

Hull threw his arms up in the air. "What? They knew what today meant, they were informed yesterday--"

"Yeah, but they think the Riddler..."

Hull checked his watch again. "Good grief. Your guys cleared the room last night, you've been outside the doors all night. Hell, even the cleaner had an armed guard. The courtroom is clear."

"Sir..."

"We're already running behind. I won't let this case become even more of a farce than it is already. What’s your name, officer?”

“Pacquette, sir. Leonard Pacquette.”

“Well, Officer Pacquette. You're searching everyone as they come in and there are sniffer dogs are on site. I'm ordering you to let us get this show on the road now. Open the damn doors."

"Sir..."

“It can’t hurt if we wait a little bit longer, Tony.”

Hull turned and sighed when his ADA approached the doors. “You’re late, Spencer.”

Kate Spencer shook her head. "Streets are on lockdown. The GCPD are taking this very seriously. I didn’t think it was going to be as bad as this.”

“Yes, well, another reason we need to get the doors open now. Officer, I won’t say it again. If you don’t do as I tell you, I’ll see you working traffic.”

"All right, all right, I’ll open the doors, no problem. The Commissioner won't be happy..."

Hull shrugged. "Boo-hoo. I’ve had enough of this nonsense. You’re relieved of duty. Go home."

“I’m not--” started Pacquette.

“Go home, officer. Be glad you might still have a job come tomorrow. Get someone to cover your ass and get out.”

Then the day began in earnest. Metal detectors scanned every single person who entered the courthouse. They’d prepared the court room specifically for this trial. At Hull’s insistence, it was a public trial. No backroom dealings. No plea bargains. There was a plan of attack, and the Joker’s lawyers, the latest round of surviving ambulance chasers, knew that their best bet was, as ever, to go for the madness plea. Another taxi-ride to Arkham, and the Thin White Monster would be somebody else’s problem until he spilled out on the world again in a few months’ time.

Rinse. Repeat. The Joker was an incurable plague. Placated. Never satiated.

“Tony, I don’t like how this session is open to the public,” said ADA Kate Spencer, “I mean, the GCPD are vetting everybody who’s coming in, but it’s just… you sure this is a good idea?”

DA Anthony Hull smiled. “Complete transparency, Kate. C’mon. We’ve got the families of the victims here, the jury has been selected-- thanks to your tireless efforts, I may add-- and the Joker is finally on trial for murder. We have our work cut out for us, but we’ll prove this bastard isn’t mad, and we’ll get him the death penalty for his troubles. Finally, at long last.”

Spencer grimaced. The metal detectors went off and the police swarmed a couple, who were immediately disarmed of the numerous bladed weapons they’d attempted to conceal on their persons. The woman struggled with a police officer and her sleeve was torn off, revealing an intricate, stylized tattoo of the Joker’s face. They were carted off screaming, and the process continued.

“What are you doing?” asked Hull, dabbing the sweat from his brow.

Kate Spencer was standing, staring at the door, her fist clenched around a pen, her nails digging into her palm. She hadn’t realized she’d gone red in the face but she felt that old familiar fire burn in her chest, the one that used to burn when she wore the mask of the Manhunter over in Las Vegas. She dropped the pen she’d grabbed as a weapon and sat, shuffling papers as she regained her composure. “Nothing.”

Once the room was full, Judge Thacker emerged from his chambers and began to speak. He went through the motions. He wouldn’t accept any nonsense in his courtroom. No showmanship. No messing around. He addressed the jury, explained their duty, what was expected of them. He warned the DA, then warned the defense team. And then he leveled his glare on the Joker.

“You sir, are a murderer. The lowest of the low. There is no argument there from anybody.”

The lead on the defense went to say something, but the judge glowered, causing the attorney to wither. Where did these spineless, money-grabbing lawyers come from? And how did the Gotham lunatics keep getting their numbers?

During all this, the Joker hadn’t stopped smiling.

In the back of the court room, a young man, identified by his pass as ‘Sam Wood’ and apparently one of the mourning family members who lost someone close to them during one of Joker’s rampages, took a small plastic container from where he’d hidden it on his purpose and popped the lid open.

Judge Thacker continued. “You may be a murderer, but I believe in justice. I believe in the court. Therefore, you have your right to a fair trial, as does every human being under the red, white and blue. If you think, for one moment, I will allow your sadistic theatrics to pervert the sanctity of the court, then you are sadly mistaken.”

The Joker, still muzzled, still bound well and truly to the gurney used to bring him to the courtroom, managed to pucker his lips and blow Thacker a kiss. Sam, meanwhile, took a handful of the thick, white substance in the container and readied himself.

“Now, to the jury. You will limit yourselves to the facts at hand. No matter what you know of this John Doe, more commonly known as ‘the Joker’, you must judge this case not by what stories you may have heard outside of this courtroom, but by the concrete facts presented by the District Attorney’s office.”

Hull cleared his throat and stood. His opening statement had been planned, rehearsed and vetted by his crack team back at Gotham’s District Attorney offices. Spencer had read the script, but not seen it ‘performed’. That’s what Hull referred to these things as. What did he always say? “Give them the ol’ razzle dazzle!”

When he was ready to go, he was laser focused and pure of intent, and that time was now. Just as he opened his mouth to begin his fine-tuned opening argument--

--The man known as Sam Wood smeared his face with the handful of white makeup and leaped onto his seat, then screamed at the top of his lungs, “Free the Joker! Free--”

“Oh, oops!”

Bruce Wayne stumbled into the young man’s chair and the two of them fell to the floor. The momentary distraction was enough and a half dozen numerous police officers wrenched Wood away and handcuffed him.

Wayne looked over at Gordon, went to shrug, but his eyes opened wide when, with everyone else distracted by the commotion at the back of the room, one man, the father of one of the Joker’s victims, stood up and, without a word, without warning, shot the Joker in the back of the head, sending blood, brain and bone flying across the desk in front of him as the force sent the gurney containing him straight forward, dead immediately.

Bruce’s shout came too late to make a difference. “Matthew--! No--!”

The Joker couldn’t even get a laugh out before he died.

The culprit dropped the gun immediately as the room stood in stunned silence. The Joker was sprawled over the defense’s table, the front of his forehead completely gone, blood sprayed across the wood and flood. The culprit dropped to his knees, put his hands behind his head, and Gordon was on him in seconds.

“What have you done? Mister Malone, what have you done?”

Matthew Malone, father of two beautiful young girls who just wanted to go see a film with their mother, looked up at James Gordon with eyes reddened and swollen. Gordon recognized the look.

“He took everything from me,” whispered Malone, the handcuffs slipped around his wrists. “It was only right.”

The Joker’s liquidized brain had emptied out the smoldering hole in his skull. He was dead before the gurney toppled over from the impact. He was dead before anyone could think to do anything about it.

And James Gordon felt, for the first time in a long time, a horrible sense of relief.


Captain Bullock stood in front of the day shift detectives, filling them in on what they already knew. There was nothing vague or hard to define about this. When Harvey had returned to Gotham Central, there was an impromptu party. He’d shut that down quickly, before Gordon got back in. Now wasn't the time for celebration. Now was the time for solid police work, and if their worst fears came true, damage control that came with the repercussions following the death of the Clown Prince of Crime.

“Our killer’s name is Matthew Malone. His daughter was one of the Joker’s cinema victims. The man worked at Wayne Enterprises since Thomas Wayne ran the damn place. Over thirty years of good service with no criminal record and no history of violence. He purchased the gun yesterday.”

Detective Chandler spoke up from the back of the room. “How did it get into the courtroom? The metal detectors--?”

Bullock nodded. “Good question, Romy. Unfortunately, the camera feed in the hallway was corrupted, because of course it was. That said, Crowe and Davies reviewed the security footage in the courtroom immediately, and plain as day, one of the goddamn cleaners taped it under Malone’s seat. He’s in Interview Two as we speak.”

Detective Takahata looked Chandler-- his partner-- then up at Bullock. “Why wasn’t the courtroom swept by the bomb squad? Surely they would have picked it up?

“We’re working on establishing that now. Listen. The Joker was a Grade-A monster and we’re better off without him alive. But he was a known quantity. Having him off the streets, and knowing how his mind worked, we could be in for a hell of a time in the next few weeks, months even. The Commish has authorized full overtime. We treat every Joker-related crime as top priority until it dies down. Any questions?”

There were rumbles throughout the squad room but no questions.

“Good. I got an old man to interview, and I expect you to be running down any and all leads that come in until you hear otherwise from me. Get to work, people.”

Not long after, Robert Boheim, the courthouse cleaner, sat in the interview room, across the table from Harvey. The GCPD had intended the suspected accessory to this crime to be a hard nut to crack, but he’d waved his rights and agreed to talk, so the brim and bluster that Harvey Bullock had revved up prior to the interview quickly evaporated.

Calmly, Bullock asked, “Tell me why you did it.”

“The man asked me to,” replied Boheim. Late-fifties, a long-time custodian of the courthouse. No criminal record, nary a blemish on his file. He had two daughters, a grandson, and his wife and he had been married for nearly forty years. He had a son once, too. “And I was happy to help.”

“The Joker…” started Bullock, but Boheim cut him off.

“The Joker killed my son. When he went on that killing spree ten plus years back. Killed all those rich folk at the Wayne Gala. Bruce Wayne’s fiancée was there, wasn’t she? Julia-something?”

Boheim’s fingers were latticed together and Bullock noted that he was bending them back, whiting his knuckles as he spoke.

“I had… we had to bury him, closed casket, because of that damn smile he left him with. They couldn’t… they…” He cleared his throat, unlinked his fingers, and spread them out on the table. “I didn’t accept any money. I didn’t want any. But when Matthew came to me, asked me to tape the pistol under his chair before the hearing…”

“I don’t need to hear anymore. You understand that you’re under arrest, Mr Boheim?”

“I do.”

“And…” Bullock looked around the room. “…I know that it’s not at rest. That that laughing freak gets all up in your head, parks himself there, refuses to move on. So… I would say…”

He glanced back at the two-way mirror behind him, where he knew Captain Essen and Commissioner Gordon were watching the proceedings. Who else from the homicide squad, his team of detectives, would review the tapes?

“…Call a lawyer, all right?”

“I stand by what I did. I’d do it again. I did what you couldn’t do for over twenty years.”

“Well, you don’t need to do it again, it’s done now. The Joker is dead. And. Yeah. Nothing more to it.”

Harvey turned to the digital recorder that stored the audio for the interview. The cameras were synched to it.

“Interview terminated at 10:38am.”

“What was that about?” Essen asked Gordon, as the husband-and-wife watched Bullock leave the interview room.

“Harvey was trying to think of a way to give him extenuating circumstances. Construct a way for Mr Boheim to get off easy, but he thought twice about it.”

“Poor bastard. Lost his son, and twenty years later helped killed the monster that…” Sarah placed a hand on her husband’s arm. “God, Jim. The Joker’s really dead.”

“We can only hope that’s the end of it. You know what this city is like… something very well may take his place. Something so much worse.”


Hull paced the floor of his office, his secretary ordered not to accept any calls. The Joker was dead and he’d been murdered on his watch as District Attorney. That wasn’t how this was supposed to go down. And it boiled down to one thing: He let the court open without the bomb squad doing their morning check, meaning that the gun, the weapon used to kill his prisoner, was there because of him.

All he knew was that he had to get ahead of this. If the truth got out, then he could lose his job. District Attorney corner cutting results in death of high profile prisoner. With the push of a button, his secretary entered his office. “Claire, I’m sorry you’ve been held up here all day. Before you go home tonight, I need Officer Leonard Pacquette’s home phone number and address. Don’t bother contacting GCPD for it, you know we have all that on file. And then first thing in the morning, please schedule a press conference for 10am downstairs.”

Claire smiled. “Of course, Tony. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Now that you mention it…”


There was a knock at the front door, and Kate checked her watch. It was nearly midnight, and she wasn’t expecting any visitors. At her insistence, Grace had taken Ramsey to Star City to stay with some old friends during the trial, but they’d be back in the morning. Maybe they flew in early? She stood, still dressed from the trial, and straightened her skirt. Why hadn’t she got changed? The vest she wore clung to her skin, and it made her nostalgic for the years spent in Las Vegas fighting crime as part of the New Outsiders, along with Batwoman, Black Canary, Huntress and the others.

When she reached the door, she checked the security camera footage that fed her a view from above the door to her home and saw Anthony standing there, shifting his weight from either foot.

“Can I help you, Anthony?”

“Sorry I’m here so late, Kate. I just wanted to catch up with you before tomorrow. After the chaos in the courtroom…”

“Hold on.” Kate unlocked the numerous mechanisms at her door and opened it, Hull slipping past her without saying a word. “Uh, come in, I guess.”

“Sorry. Today has been wild. Non-stop. Can I get a glass of water?”

Kate sighed, but acquiesced. She went into the kitchen while Hull looked at the mantle covered in photos of Grace and Ramsey. “You have a beautiful family.”

“Thanks.” She handed him a glass. “What did you want to discuss?”

“The press is going to have a field day with this.”

Kate shrugged. “The Joker is dead. Today is going to be a city-wide holiday for years to come.”

“No, but, he shouldn’t have died the way he did. There should have been… due process.”

“No offense, Tony, but you had the doors opened before the bomb squad could do their sweep. If you had let them do their job, the Joker would still be in a cell, giggling his head off.”

“No, but, see, see, we have an opportunity here. To finally sort out the GCPD. We know they’re corrupt. Always have been, no matter what Gordon tells IA. We can spin this.”

“Spin…?”

“I’ve already spoken to Officer Pacquette. We came to an agreement. He’s going to say that Gordon gave the order personally to open the doors before the bomb squad could make a sweep.”

“But he didn’t.”

“But if we say he did, then we can overhaul the police department. We can finally flush out the detritus that muddies the works, and get good cops in positions to make changes for the better.”

“Tony. Anthony. Listen. James Gordon is the best thing to happen to the Gotham City Police Department. Before he became Commissioner he pushed the likes of Loeb and Vale out, along with their lackeys, all bad cops. Other people have tried to get him out the job, but it never lasts. He’s the best cop Gotham’s ever seen.”

“The man utilizes vigilante support for a private war against crime that never ends. He plays it off like he’s using psychics or consultants but he’s using vigilantes. People claim the Batman is an urban legend but how many times has he been caught on camera? Hell, he’s addressed this city time and time again, but folks just shrug it off, like it was a collective hallucination.”

“No footage of those incidents is in existence, Tony…”

“Yeah, because all the tapes get wiped after the fact. Whatever. I can’t abide an illegal war on our streets. If Gordon had done his job on day one, outlawed the vigilantes, taken down the Batman before he could inspire all the lunatics we’re having to deal with today, then Gotham City would truly be a better place. But listen, I can spin this into a PR nightmare for him. I just need you to back this play.”

“I’m not going to lie for you. Especially not in an effort to frame Gordon for a mistake you made.”

“Spencer, Godammit, I hold your career in the palm of my hand. You need to fall in line, or I’ll make sure you never practice law in this city again.”

“Are you serious right now? You’re threatening me?”

“No! Not at all. I want you to secure the safety of this city. Gordon can’t cut it anymore. We need a stronger police force. One that doesn’t throw criminals in padded cells when they should see justice for their crimes. The Joker deserved the chair. You know that. I know that.”

“I’ll say it again: I’m not going to lie for you, Anthony. You--”

“For crying out loud…” Hull pulled the silenced pistol from behind his back before she could react, and he emptied the clip into her chest. She reeled back, couldn’t even scream in time, and collapsed onto the floor of her home. He leaned over, checked her pulse, then smiled.

Another loose end tied.


Sat behind his desk, cleaning his glasses with the end of his tie, Gordon was addressing Detectives Driver and Mackenzie, who had relayed the news. He was agitated, and understandably so.

Marcus Driver was a wiry man, thinning dark hair and circles under his eyes. He’d lost a partner some time ago to Mister Freeze and his disdain for the super freaks had taken him on a zealot streak that had nearly cost him his job way back when. Gordon went to bat for him, made sure IA didn’t bury him, and he owed the man-in charge big time for that.

Josie ‘Mac’ Mackenzie had a rep from her time in Missing Persons. She had a habit of finding what others couldn’t, and Gordon had pulled her into Major Crimes to see if they couldn’t use that talent of hers to track down the freaks that ran rampant at various points in Gotham.

The two detectives had been partnered for some time now, and since Crispus Allen was murdered and Renee Montoya quit the force under a cloud of controversy, they were two of Gordon’s most trusted detectives. The duo could get stuff done and the Commissioner valued that.

Marcus shuffled on the spot. “Sorry, Commissioner. Apparently an officer opened the doors early. The bomb squad were delayed…”

“…The Riddler hoax at the Gazette, sure, sure. But on whose order? Where’s Pacquette? I specifically told him--”

“Leonard Pacquette told Banner that Hull wanted him off the premises, then he called in sick this morning, Commish,” said Mac. She flipped through her notebook. “Bad stomach.”

Gordon shook his head. “I don’t like this. I’ve got a janitor as an accessory, the murderer in custody, but a missing cop? Josie, I need you to find him.”

“Kind of my speciality, Commish. We’ll get right on it.”

“Keep me appraised.”

The two detectives left his office, and Gordon couldn’t help but feel something creeping at the edges of the situation. His gut was telling him that something was coming, but with the Joker dead… he couldn’t tell exactly what.


“Ohhhhh, boy,” said Detective Driver.

Pacquette’s service weapon was on the floor in front of the officer, having being used to discharge one single bullet into his head, via his open mouth. It had fallen limply out of the dead man’s hand and was sat by his chair.

“Suicide?” offered Detective Mackenzie.

“I think you and I both know that’s bull, Josie,” replied Driver.

“Just putting it out there. I’ll call CSU down.”

Driver scratched the back of his head and tried to think it through. “Why would he kill himself?”

She tucked the phone between her shoulder and ear and pointed at a note left on Pacquette’s desk. “I found something.”

“Suicide note?”

“A very convenient one. Gordon shouldn’t have given the order to open the doors. Now they’ll blame me for Joker being dead and they’ll tear me apart. I should save them the trouble. Office First Class Leonard Pacquette 12071976.”

“What the hell?”

“I recognize his handwriting. But that’s odd…” started Mackenzie.

“What’s that?” asked Driver, as he looked over his partner’s shoulder.

“That’s not his badge number. Is that his birthday? And look, there’s emphasis on certain letters in the note…

Driver reread it while making notes in his pad as he went.. “Gordon shouldn’t have given the order to open the doors. Now they’ll blame me for Joker being dead and they’ll tear me apart. I should save them the trouble. Office First Class Leonard Pacquette..” He held up his pad. “Marlene?”

“I bet you that’s his mom’s name. And that's his birthday. You know what that sounds like to me?”

“A password.”

Mackenzie looked around and located Pacquette’s computer. She pressed the ‘Return’ key and a password screen popped up. It unlocked after she typed in the password and on his screen the two officers could see themselves from behind. Mac turned and tracked the feed, finding the wireless webcam lodged in the bookshelf, hidden behind a commendation he’d received for valor in the face of a Scarecrow terror attack.

“It’s still running.”

“Savvy bastard.” They located where the camera footage was saved and combed through the last few hours. Then they found what they were looking for. They watched as Leonard Pacquette was murdered, and they all recognized the man who did it.

Driver blinked. “Oh, boy.”


“You all right there, Harv? Can I get you a refill?”

Bullock looked up from his mug of coffee and smiled at Sharon Jones, owner of the diner he frequented every morning after a shift. He was in charge of the night shift, while Essen was in charge of the day, and he was pleased enough with the arrangement. Both teams were working the Joker incident into the ground, and he was confident they would have enough evidence to wrap this case into a neat bow and hand it over to the DA’s office.

And nothing felt right about that decision.

Harv held up his mug and took a sip, showing it to still be full. “I’m fine, Shar. Thanks.”

“You look rundown. This Joker thing causing you a headache?”

“Not at all, honestly. Everything’s cut and dry.”

“Gosh, what a terrible situation. That poor man’s daughter… it’s all over the news.”

Of course it was. The city knew everything about Matthew Malone within a few hours of the shooting, and they were playing the same package over and over. The man who killed the Joker.

Bullock took another sip, then raised a question that had been playing on him since the day before. “How’s folks taking it? The Joker being dead, I mean?”

Sharon considered the question. Pauli’s was open 24/7, and not only played host to the emergency services, but also every sort of man, woman and child Gotham City could claim as it’s own. The gossip she heard, the information she gleaned from walking up and down the stalls, was a veritable cornucopia.

“It’s difficult, I think. Half the people don’t think he’s dead. You remember what happened last time.”

“Yeah, sure do. And the other half?”

“Well, they’re split even further. Half are relieved, but half are terrified. You know what this city is like. It didn’t always use to be like this. Before the Joker, there was the gangs, and before that, well, you know. We don’t like to talk about it.”

Harvey looked up at the television set situated above his head. It buzzed mutely, showing the Joker’s first mugshot and the latest one from after the cinema. It was strange how the freak had changed over the years. Became more exaggerated. Back in the day, his smile was distorted, sure, but the last photo showed broken and chipped teeth nestled within curled lips that seemed to stretch farther than they’d ever done so before. His eyes were red and almost sunken into his skull. He’d become a monster. A ghoul. Gotham’s own monster.

“I saw the body myself. It’s his. It’s him. The Joker’s dead, Shar.”

“I just hope he stays that way for once,” mused Sharon.

Harvey raised his mug to that. “Yeah, me too.”


“The death of the John Doe otherwise known as the Joker has resulted in a dark day for Gotham City. Now, before you disagree, I would say that any time that the systematic failings of any institution in a city lead to a death is a horrific one. The Joker should have seen trial, and he should have seen the chair. Not just for the murders he committed last month, but for every single life he’s affected since his reign of ongoing terror began. It is my belief that previous District Attorneys went soft on the monsters of this city, preferring to lock them up in Arkham Asylum rather than dealing with their crimes the way they should have-- fairly. You commit a crime willingly, willfully, hell, gleefully, and you shouldn’t be rewarded by a padded cell. You need to be tried for your crimes. And thanks to Commissioner Gordon’s continued inability to police this city, we have seen a great miscarriage of justice take place.”

“District Attorney, are you blaming the GCPD for this?” barked one of the reporters from the Gotham Gazette.

“It was on his order that the doors opened early. My office is reaching out to the officer responsible for keeping them shut until the bomb squad--”

“That’s a lie.”

The crowd of journalists parted as Commissioner Gordon approached from behind their masses.

“Well, I’m sorry, Jim, but you would say that. My office is ready to begin an investigation into your--”

“I really hate to keep interrupting you, but I’m here to serve a warrant for your arrest.”

Hull laughed. “Are you serious?”

“What are the charges, Commissioner?” asked another journalist.

“One count of first degree murder, and one count of attempted murder.”

A voice hissed behind the DA. “You’re a lousy shot, Hull.”

Anthony turned and was clocked in the jaw by Kate Spencer, who clasped her side with her other hand after he fell to his knees. She was pale, sweating, but alive. Hull didn’t know how it was possible.

“Oh, no, no,” whispered Hull.

“I always knew you were a zealot, but I didn’t think you were a crazy bastard too,” said Kate. Before she could throw another punch in front of the reporters whose cameras kept flashing as they recorded the scene, she was held back by Mackenzie and Driver, while Gordon hauled Hull up to slap cuffs on him.

“We have you on camera murdering a police officer, Hull. You’re a lousy DA and you’re not as smart as you think you are. You’re going to see the chair for this.”

“What? What? You can’t! I’m being framed!”

Kate leaned forward and growled in his ear, “Your secretary cut a deal with me an hour ago. She’s ratted you out. That, in addition to the camera footage of you murdering Hull-- yes, he recorded you killing him-- and what you said to me before you tried to fill me with lead, I’d say it’s a robust case. What do you think?”

Hull shook his head. “How are you alive? How?”

Kate tapped her chest. “I was wearing a vest, you stupid bastard. I wasn’t walking into that god damn court without one, and I was too lazy to take it off when I got home.”

What she didn’t say was that it wasn’t a simple bulletproof vest, but the chest piece of the Manhunter costume she’d worn during her times as a vigilante. The kinetic impact of the bullet was distributed across her torso. Cracked ribs and some bruising, but nothing that some RnR wouldn’t solve. Like she was going to walk into Gotham City’s biggest trial without protection. Thankfully Hull hadn’t gone for a head shot, and thank god for the pulse modulator that made it appear that she was dead on impact. The lack of blood was another thing, but Hull was a moron and didn’t stick around to see that it didn’t gush out of her.

“Read him his rights, Detectives,” said Gordon. “By the book. You’re going to see the chair for this, Anthony.”

The Commissioner, alongside Spencer walked back through the bustling crowd of journalists as Driver and Mackenzie dragged Hull toward their squad car, the District Attorney raving all the while.


“How’re you feeling?”

Gordon was sat opposite Spencer, as the two reflected on the day’s events. Her ribs were wrapped and the nurse who checked her over was amazed there wasn’t more damage done. There were questions asked about the vest used, but thanks to a handy bit of functionality available in it, for all intents and purposes the Manhunter vest appeared to be a normal, albeit lightweight, piece of Wayne Enterprises tech.

“Bruised,” replied Spencer.

Gordon took a sip from his coffee mug. “You’re lucky.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry about Pacquette.”

With a nod, he agreed. “He was a good cop. Smart. Would have made detective within the year. Hell, he helped solve his own murder. That said, I would never have imagined Hull would be so sloppy in any action he undertook.”

Spencer sighed. “This city, Commissioner. It brings out the worst in people. I never would have thought Hull was capable of what he did.”

“I don’t entirely agree with that. Sure, we see the monsters in men, but I think it also brings out the best in others. You’ve done great work in the DA’s office since you transferred from Las Vegas.”

“Hopefully I can keep that up. We’ll be going for the maximum sentence.”

“Death penalty. It’s cut and dry,” said Gordon.

“It was easy enough to lean on the secretary. Their affair was one of the worst kept secrets in the DA’s office but she didn’t want to be party to murder. Like you said. Cut and dry. I’ve never seen so much evidence so helpfully parceled up for us. But what is it about District Attorneys in this city going mad? Hull was a bastard but I didn’t think he was capable of sinking to these depths. I mean, I’ve got plenty of time to turn heel on you. But Hull bet everything on this case. The media attention alone, and it was his call that led to the death of the Joker? Trying to spin that…”

“Sometimes those of us who are supposed to be the strongest crack under the weight of that expectation. We lost a cop, we nearly lost you, and the DA is going to see the chair. But the Joker is dead. Some might say that was a fair trade. I wouldn’t.”

“You know what I want to know?”

“Hmm?”

Kate held her fingers up behind her ears. “I want to know what he thinks about all this.”


Matthew Malone sat alone in the secluded private interview room off the protected wing of the prison. He wore his prison oranges without a care. He committed a heinous crime, albeit one he felt completely justified in. He would willingly do the time.

The heavy metal door to the room clanked and shuddered as someone unlocked it from the outside.

Bruce Wayne entered, a solemn expression on his face, and took a seat opposite Malone.

“Hello, Matthew.”

Malone was confused. “Mister Wayne, what are you doing here?”

Bruce considered the question. “You’ve been a part of the Wayne Enterprises’ family for nearly thirty years. You knew my dad. My mom. I’ve always enjoyed talking to you, because… well, there are so few people here who are willing to talk about my parents other than in grand, broad statements. You knew them as… as they were.”

“I’m sorry if this has--”

Bruce held up his hands. “No, no, stop. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for your when Laurie… when… I’m just sorry, Matthew. But… I never thought you’d… you’d be the kind of person to do what you did.”

“Murder the Joker?”

Bruce seemed to flinch. “You didn’t--”

“I murdered him in cold blood. Some might claim extenuating circumstances, sure, temporary madness, maybe, but that's bull. I shot him in the head.” Malone turned away from Bruce. “I’d never shot a gun before…”

“The Joker was under arrest. They were--”

“Let me… let me just stop you there, Bruce. That lunatic killed my daughter, so I killed him. An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind? Well, I don’t care. He killed Laurie. On a whim. For fun. For a joke. And I just think… what if the cops had taken care of him when he first arrived on the scene? How many killing sprees would have been averted?”

“That’s not how the law works…”

“Of course. Then if the police didn’t, what about the Batman? Why didn’t the Batman break the Joker’s neck when he had all those opportunities to?”

“That’s not the Batman’s decision to make. The justice system has to be followed.”

“He’s a vigilante. The rules don’t apply to him.”

“Matthew, please--”

Malone scoffed. “You’re the CEO of Batman, Incorporated, Bruce. I don’t expect you to understand. You suffered a horrible personal loss when you were a child, and your coping mechanism is to fund a vigilante. That’s… morally and legally objectionable. Me? Before Laurie was murdered? I didn't condone vigilante action, but I was well aware that this city did. It lets men and women-- boys and girls-- dress up in masks and capes run around and fight the monsters this place spits out.”

“I don’t think that’s fair.”

“My daughter is dead, Bruce! I don’t care about what’s fair or unfair, I care about the fact that my daughter is dead when she should be headed off to college next month, or, or, starting a family in a few years, or being happy and loved, because that’s what she deserved, not being poisoned by that monster! I didn't shoot the Joker to make a point about the finer points of taking the law into your own hands. I shot him because he took my daughter away from me and no one else was willing to take responsibility for it. Now no more fathers lose their daughters. No more dead children.”

“Matthew…”

“Please leave, Bruce. I’ll take whatever comes my way. But I just think… nothing will bring her back. So what’s left for me?”

Bruce opened his mouth, but what was there left for him to say to this man?


The Batman stood atop the headquarters of the Gotham City Police Department, his cape fluttering silently in the cold winter wind as stars tried their damnedest to poke their light through the smog stained skies. The signal wasn’t one, but there he stood, completely still, watching the city continue to turn after the events of the last few days.

No one had summoned him. No one had asked him here.

“I always thought that I had to stand for something bigger than myself. I couldn’t kill because the line I walk is such a fine one. If I kill, I’m no better than the criminals I hunt down. I always thought… if I did kill, there’d be no turning back. How can I be trusted to do the things I do, fight crime while operating apart from the police department, if I take such severe liberties with the law that the police themselves are not allowed to take? I’m not judge, jury and executioner. There has to be due process. There has to be the law. But I wonder… what if I had killed him? What if I’d broken his neck at the reservoir, that first night, before he could take another life, all those years ago? I could have done it. Easily. Just one twist. He’s committed atrocities since, so what if I’d nipped it in the bud before it escalated? Before the war between us became personal? How many lives would have been spared?”

The Dark Knight sighed, his breath visible as he shook his head.

“I always thought Gotham would create something worse. That under the city, there was this great, horrible machine that made monsters. It made the Joker. It broke Harvey Dent. Hell, it didn’t wait long to twist Hull into a lunatic. It attracts terrors from across the globe like a magnet, and we’re the only ones standing between it and the city. I always thought that if I killed the Joker, then Gotham would let the cogs turn, and something ten times worse would be spat out. What if it still does? What if this isn’t the end?”

He pinched the bridge of his nose. He was suddenly so tired.

“But what if I killed the Joker all those years ago and it was the right decision to make?”

The door to the stairwell opened with that familiar grinding sound, and out walked the Commissioner, immediately surprised by the fact that the Batman was stood on the edge of the building, with his back to the signal.

“I didn’t realize you were up here,” he said, playing with the packet of cigarettes he promised Sarah he wouldn't smoke. He looked at them, at the packaging and the warning that came with them, then stuffed them back into his pocket. He’d throw them in the garbage when he got back downstairs, but until then, he would share the roof with the vigilante who’d helped saved more lives in this city than the GCPD combined.

“Batman, are you all right? You haven’t said anything.”

The Batman didn’t look back at the Commissioner. He hadn’t uttered a word the entire time he’d been on the roof, but he had wanted to. There was so much to say, but was there any value in saying it?

After a long, lingering moment, he simply said, “Make sure you burn the body,” and dove off the edge of the building.

When Gordon looked down into the abyss, the Dark Knight was gone.


Seven years into her tenure as Gotham City’s District Attorney, Kate Spencer looked at the release papers on her desk. The question of whether or not she’d object to the prisoner’s release was on everybody’s lips. No one particularly wanted to keep the man behind bars, but he was a murderer, so the decision weighed on her like none before.

The media remembered how she got the job and what happened to her predecessor, but to be fair, so did she. This was the big one. No one wanted to see the killer of the Joker behind bars and she knew full well that sometimes the only action left in the pursuit of a morally right conclusion was an illegal one.

The photo on her desk-- of her son, Ramsey, her daughter Sandra, and her wife, Grace-- reminded her of all the good that could come from one bad thing. That her time as the Manhunter, a somewhat questionable vigilante operating out of Las Vegas over ten years ago now, led her to the happiest place she’d been in a long time.

She considered Matthew Malone’s sentence as time served. There’d be no pushback from the DA’s office, but what about the criminal element they’d tried so hard to remove from the streets of Gotham? She unlocked a drawer in her desk with the key she kept on a chain around her neck and took out the red phone. She had a very important phone call to make…


NEXT ISSUE: When the Joker’s killer is released from prison early after serving only seven years of his sentence, the criminal element that worship the legend of the Clown Prince of Crime declare war! Now it’s up to the city’s protectors-- led by a brand new Batman!-- to not only nip this anarchic insurrection in the bud, but also protect a convicted killer from those that would see him dead for his crime!