Chapter 49: Interrogation

By the time Batman chased him into the depths of the alley, Mickey had vanished.

In a hellhole like Gotham, there is often no path to heaven, yet sometimes there is a gate to the earth; Batman looked at the manhole cover beneath his feet, half-lifted and emitting waves of stench, leading directly into Gotham City's sewers.

Ignoring that heart-piercing stench, he swiftly pried open the manhole cover, leaped down, and landed directly at the bottom of the shaft.

"Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday!"

"Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday!"

In the empty, dark sewer, a monster's voice echoed.

After the black bat landed lightly, he saw the hulk in the sewer; glancing next at Mickey, who lay knocked to the ground, alive or dead unknown, he worried deeply that this fellow had been punched to death outright by the three-meter-tall hulk before him.

"Don't get agitated, Grundy; I mean no disturbance, only to catch the one who disturbed you."

"Solomon Grundy, born on a Monday."

"Friend said: black, pointy ears, dodge, ignore him."

Strangely, upon seeing Batman, Grundy merely muttered, turned his head, and walked into the depths of the sewer, paying no further attention to him or Mickey.

"Rare indeed," Batman said, watching Grundy leave directly; he withdrew his hand from the weapon belt at his waist, noting that this ragged, pitiful hulk seemed suddenly much quieter, for in past encounters, nearly every meeting ended in a fight, so he had prepared specialized weapons against him—but this time, they were not needed at all.

"Who is the friend he mentioned? Who could be friends with Solomon Grundy?"

Pondering this question silently, and confirming that Mickey was merely unconscious, he took him directly back to the police station.

And then, time arrived at the present.

"We know you did it, Mickey, but we also know you are just a small fish, and the only use of a small fish—is to catch a big fish."

"Fish?"

Commissioner Gordon, wearing a white shirt, stood by the table, his expression serious, his demeanor carrying the authority of an old police superintendent: "We want to know who hired you for this job, Mickey; if you help us, perhaps we can help you."

Seeing Mickey's face full of innocence, Gordon's brows knitted together, and a stern anger appeared on his face: "I don't want to be here; my wife has made turkey and other delicacies at home—that is where an honest and upright person should be today."

"But justice has no holidays, Mickey; if you don't tell us who paid you to kill the Gotham City District Attorney, I am going to miss Thanksgiving dinner."

To such harmless threats, the habitual offender Mickey only chuckled; having confirmed he was inside the police station, he no longer felt the unease and fear of a sewer rat, for he knew this place operated within the rules, and within the rules, his life was never in danger—he even fantasized that he could escape guilt simply by denying everything.

With broken English thick with an Irish accent, he mocked: "Then I guess you really are going to miss your Thanksgiving, buddy, because I don't know Carmine Falcone, never even heard of him—what did you call him? 'The Roman'?"

Clearly, before today, he had never witnessed Batman's methods.

At this moment, Batman's voice sounded again; this time, he stepped out from the shadows, holding a small evidence bag containing a slightly warped, charred iron nail.

"The bomb you made destroyed Dent's home; this nail was part of the bomb. Every nail has a serial number; we traced it to the manufacturer, then to a hardware store only two streets from your apartment, and we obtained the receipt."

Batman lowered his head, staring coldly at Mickey, whose forehead was beaded with sweat, and crushed his psychological defenses with a final conclusion.

"You bought these nails."

The atmosphere stagnated for a few seconds; with ironclad evidence mounting like a mountain, Mickey finally sighed, completely abandoning any attempt to argue over this matter.

"Harvey Dent. He brought this trouble on himself. Even if it weren't me, there would still be plenty of others in this area willing to do the deed."

"You caught me, that's right; I made the bomb. You want me to confess like this, don't you? Buddy, I'll write all of this down for you."

"But don't get one thing wrong."

Speaking thus, Mickey's expression suddenly became somewhat bizarre; a smile that was not quite a smile played on his face, his features half-hidden in the interrogation room's shadows: "We all know where Mr. Dent has been and what he has done."

"What do you mean?" Hearing this, obvious anger appeared on Gordon's face: "What are you trying to say?"

"Only this question you must ask yourself—who killed Johnny Viti?"

This time, the atmosphere was even more stagnant and tense than before.

"You're done here; get out, Mickey."

Inside the prison, the Irish gang finally reunited.

"Brothers, you all know what to say, right?" Mickey, just sent into prison, stood with his back to the light; the crowd could not see his blurred features nor his expression, but from his off-key, distorted accent, he had indeed been interrogated severely just now.

"Mickey, we've rehearsed our lines; I don't want to go through it again," Tang Ni said, shaking his head.

"We've never been in such danger before."

"Then we'll do as we always have—concoct a story to fool them!"

At these words, everyone exchanged knowing, sinister smiles; such matters were old hat to them.

"I was responsible for driving the getaway that day. I will write it all down, if you need."

"I delivered the package to that woman, Harvey Dent's wife, Lady Dent, as you know. I will write it all down, if you need."

"I followed Dent to his home; yes, I did it, followed him right to his doorstep. If you need, I will write it all down."

"I pressed that damn remote control button. And I will write it all down, if you need."

Five testimonies, including Mickey's, all rehearsed with no loopholes—no matter how much the Roman paid them, he had gotten his money's worth.

Batman thought silently to himself.

A police officer standing by heard a low, hoarse voice come from the darkness: "Bring Mickey back."

Thus, Mickey, one of the five, was brought back again.

"Did you learn anything?"

"Nothing at all; not a single person mentioned Falcone's name."

Mickey sighed, reached up, and tore off that lewd mask of a face, revealing Harvey Dent's angular features: "My Irish accent is truly terrible, fortunately those idiots couldn't tell—since things have come to this, I no longer need to play dead."

Time rewound to before the explosion occurred; in the basement, Harvey received a phone call.

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

"For three minutes, our call will temporarily be free from eavesdropping—unless someone has installed a bug in your home, but as far as I know, you are not so careless, and that person would not allow you to be monitored."

"So I will get straight to the point: there is a bomb in the package upstairs, but it is a low-yield bomb I swapped in; it will explode brilliantly, but its lethality is not great."

Listening to the voice on the phone, Harvey's face gradually grew gloomy and angry.

"Do not speak; just keep listening. The code for the package is 1942; inside, besides the bomb, there is a cross necklace. Give it to your wife, or wear it yourself; believe it or not is up to you, but this cross necklace can guarantee one person's safety."

"The bomb will be activated when you go upstairs; I modified it for delayed detonation, so you have an extra ten seconds. Before you figure out how to use those ten seconds to escape, do not go upstairs."

"Lastly—do not dispose of the bomb directly. Someone must claim Falcone's bounty; having 'died' once, the Romans will not hunt you down a second time."

"Good luck, Prosecutor Harvey."

(End of this chapter)