Chapter 154

Victor stood before the window of Cobblepot's old mansion, tugging hard at the frame, then looked up to see a lock still hanging on the broken old window. Schiller pulled out a pistol and handed it to Victor, who glanced at him and said, "You actually brought a gun?"

Schiller looked back at him and said, "Why are you surprised I have a gun? This is Gotham."

Victor replied in astonishment, "But if you have a gun, why hand it to me? Can't you shoot?"

"My aim's terrible. You'll have to do it."

Victor took the gun and muttered, "We're both outsiders, so why do you act like you were born here?"

He raised the gun, aimed at the old lock, and fired—*bang*—sparks flew as the lock shattered. Victor pushed open the window and climbed inside; Schiller followed behind him.

Once inside, Victor pointed to the floor and said, "Master Detective, your turn."

Schiller shook his head. "It's obvious already. Mrs. Cobblepot was kidnapped."

As soon as he spoke, his gaze fell on a corner of the living room—a very old shoe cabinet beside the door, holding a pair of rain boots and several ordinary leather shoes. Beside the cabinet stood an umbrella.

Schiller walked over to the umbrella, lifted it by the handle, then slowly narrowed his eyes. Victor joined him, studying the umbrella, and asked, "What's wrong? What's the issue with this umbrella?"

Schiller pressed his lips shut, said nothing, and turned the umbrella upside down to examine the tip. A small circular mark, barely noticeable, resembled a signature. He gripped the tip and tapped the handle lightly against the floor.

Victor glanced around and asked, "What are you doing?"

"No… nothing." Schiller picked up the umbrella and returned to the center of the living room. He walked to the sofa and said, "It seems Mrs. Cobblepot was dragged from here."

Then he moved to the left of the coffee table. The Cobblepots' coffee table was glass, elegant, hinting at their former wealth.

On the glass table sat a tea set. Schiller lifted a cup, sniffed it. Victor came over, arms crossed, leaning down to study it. "I have no detective experience," he said, "but I can guess—this tea was drugged, right?"

"As expected," Schiller said. He found a stack of newspapers, wrapped the teacup, and handed it to Victor. "Take this back for testing." Then he knelt down and peered beneath the sofa.

A twenty-centimeter scratch marred the wooden leg of the sofa on the floor—clearly, the sofa had been dragged.

He crouched again, scanning the living room floor. Items lay scattered everywhere, as if a cabinet had been knocked over and its contents spilled.

A nearby table had been shoved aside. A chair lay overturned, one leg broken. It looked like a struggle had taken place here.

Schiller sighed. "I think we've seen enough. Let's go back. Whoever kidnapped Mrs. Cobblepot—we'll leave it to the police."

Meanwhile, Batman had made progress investigating the foreign gang bosses in Hell's Kitchen. A suited gang member lay slumped on the ground, trembling with fear as he stared at Batman. "Don't kill me, don't… I'll tell you everything I know!"

"About… about a few weeks ago—no! More like one to two weeks! One of the seven bosses here died. We called him Black Hand Kevin. He was the head of the North District, the biggest territory…"

"Did Black Hand Kevin have ties to Fish?"

The man hesitated. "Yes. Kevin was a negotiator. Before coming to Hell's Kitchen, his gang lost many men in a turf war. He didn't want more bloodshed, so he wanted to sit down with the boss of the Mooney gang…"

"But before they could negotiate, he died."

"How did he die?" Batman asked.

"I… I don't know. I only heard he was found dead outside Hell's Kitchen. You'd have to ask the police for details…"

Batman asked again: "What happened after Kevin died?"

"What happened?" The underling blinked, instinctively replying, "What do you mean? He died. Someone took his place…"

Batman frowned. "Who took his place?"

The underling strained to remember. "I can't recall his name. But this guy seemed smart—used to be a low-level supervisor in the water department. I heard he claimed he could make everyone rich, so he took Kevin's spot…"

Batman's brow deepened. He asked a few more questions, but the underling wasn't from Black Hand Kevin's gang and knew no specifics. Realizing he'd learned all he could, Batman knocked him unconscious.

Thinking of the water system, Batman recalled Fish's earlier madness.

Somehow, Fish had found the core system of Hell's Kitchen's water purifier. But because Batman patrolled the area frequently, he spotted her agents sneaking around the facility as soon as they began investigating. Batman knocked them out and installed a security system to stop her.

Back then, Batman hadn't thought much of it. Now, he realized—it wasn't the kind of plan a poorly educated gang boss could devise. Most Hell's Kitchen residents didn't even know the purifier existed.

Even if she'd thought of it, how did she act on it? How did she know the exact location of the purifier's core?

Batman had reviewed Fish's file at Gordon's office and surveilled her for a time. He was certain: this woman was semi-literate—the kind who misspelled long words. He couldn't believe she could trace complex pipes to locate the most critical purification equipment.

In fact, very few people in Hell's Kitchen had that knowledge. Batman deduced someone had been guiding Fish all along.

Black Hand Kevin's death. Fish's sabotage plan. The underling who rose after Kevin's death…

These events quickly linked together in Batman's mind.

The key coincidence: Fish had devised a plan too complex for her to conceive alone, and the man who replaced Kevin had once overseen the North District's water system. This wasn't mere coincidence—few in Hell's Kitchen understood the water infrastructure. The odds of these two roles overlapping were extremely high.

In Batman's deduction, this underling was either Fish's ally from the start, or a traitor who switched sides to join her.

He advised her; she helped him eliminate his boss, giving him power. Perhaps they'd soon work together—using his knowledge to strike at other gang leaders.

Had they been allies? Could Fish's death be tied to him? Batman fell into thought again, but he felt something deeper lurked beneath these events—far more complicated than this.

On the fourth floor of Arkham Asylum, Gordon and Victor stood outside the patient's room. Gordon said with pity, "This kid's had terrible luck. He survived a murder, developed a severe mental illness, and now his family's been kidnapped. Even in Gotham, few are this unlucky."

Victor sighed. "He's actually a sharp kid—learns fast. But I've seen how Gotham is…" He shrugged. "Talented people always run into trouble, then veer off course."

"I believe Professor Rodriguez can cure him. As he always says—he's no quack."

Victor's gaze drifted to the window on the door. Through it, Schiller circled the bed, moving from one side to the other. Cobblepot lay still, expressionless, eyes vacant, staring at the ceiling.

"How did you sleep last night, Mr. Cobblepot? Still feeling muscle control loss?" Schiller, in a white coat, stood beside the bed, flipping through the medical chart as he wrote.

Cobblepot gave no response. He lay like a stiff, pale puppet, motionless, unreactive to any sound.

"You're not doing well," Schiller said, standing still. "Most patients on excessive sedatives show dullness, but you're not one of them. Your mind should be clear now—the episode has passed."

"Why won't you answer me? Is it because your plans aren't going as intended?"

Cobblepot suddenly turned his head, fixing Schiller with eyes deeply sunken in their sockets. The gaze was terrifying—numb, cold. Schiller didn't flinch.

"Unfortunately, I can't perform magic like in the movies—no hypnotic trick to make you confess. In psychology or psychiatry, if the patient refuses to cooperate, hypnosis fails completely."

"Likewise, no amount of drugs will help if you refuse treatment. I'm a doctor, not God. If you refuse to answer, even God can't heal you."

Cobblepot's head shifted again. A rasping, saw-like sound emerged from his throat. "Cure… can it be cured?"

Schiller set down the chart, glanced at him oddly. "If it couldn't be cured, you'd already be in the crematorium."

Cobblepot's mouth slowly opened, as if to speak—but no words came. Schiller seemed to remember something. "Oh, I forgot—you're not even a college student."

He pressed his forehead, exasperated. "I know many people with low education call mental illness 'madness,' a terminal, incurable disease. But that's not true."

"Most don't understand mental illness, so they fear it like a monster—especially hereditary disorders. When they strike, they cause extreme agitation and violence, seen as terrifying madness."

"But it's merely one symptom of schizophrenia. Your prior diagnosis was catatonic schizophrenia—intermittent episodes, with catatonic states, then sudden violent outbursts, which usually subside after a few hours…"

Schiller explained patiently: "This type of schizophrenia has a relatively good prognosis. It can resolve on its own, and treatment works well. The challenge is managing the violent episodes—but as you see, sedatives help significantly…"

Cobblepot stared fixedly at Schiller. Schiller's expression didn't change—he spoke the truth.

It wasn't a rare or complex condition—even within schizophrenia, it was common. His tone remained calm. But this seemed to stir something in Cobblepot. He straightened his tilted neck, adjusted his lying posture, and asked, "... an it be cured… right?"

Schiller nodded. "I can't guarantee full recovery, but normal daily life is entirely possible."