Chapter 159: The Party and the Umbrella (6)

Batman was currently investigating the identity of the mysterious third party in the murder case, reviewing surveillance footage on his computer.

When renovating Arkham, Batman naturally slipped in his own additions—thousands of extra cameras installed throughout.

In a normal residential area, with Batman's resources and technical capability, he could have monitored every corner with zero blind spots.

But in Arkham, this was nearly impossible—the bizarre architecture and overcrowded population made surveillance equipment ineffective.

Elsewhere, cameras cover 80% visibility with 20% blind spots; in Arkham's building structures, cameras were mostly 80% blind spots with only 20% visible areas.

Moreover, the residents here had no concept of respecting public space—every nook and cranny suitable for hiding cameras was piled high with trash.

These people also had no qualms about damaging public property—upon seeing anything suspicious on the walls, their first instinct was to shoot it, causing thirty percent of Batman's hidden cameras to be destroyed within weeks, another thirty percent obstructed or blurred.

The remaining thirty percent were scattered randomly—by chance, none of the cameras near Fish's death scene in the surrounding corridors were functional, forcing Batman to search for clues from farther away.

With the area's dense population and constant flow of people, the surveillance footage alone recorded over a thousand individuals in nearby blocks; finding one person who knew both Fish and Cobblepot was like finding a needle in a haystack.

Even so, Batman remained patient, examining each frame of the footage.

Hard work paid off—soon, Batman spotted a familiar face in the footage: Sal Maroni.

The cameras captured only his profile, but his distinctive appearance and unique demeanor made him instantly recognizable to Batman.

After pulling up Maroni's file, Batman discovered Maroni was not a resident of Arkham and had virtually no ties to anyone there—making his presence there highly suspicious.

Batman decided to confront Maroni—even if he wasn't the killer, his appearance in Arkham at that time meant he knew something.

"Batman? What's he doing?" asked Schiller in the Arkham Asylum ward.

"I've observed this odd man for some time and noticed something strange—he doesn't kill."

"And not only that," Cobblepot said, incredulous: "He actually saves people. I saw him rescue a child who was being beaten…"

"How can such a person exist in Gotham?" Cobblepot said with absurd disbelief: "It's almost a waste not to use him…"

"So how did you use him?"

"As planned with Maroni, I lured Fish into a room, provoked her, and Maroni shot her from the side."

"But Maroni didn't know—I'd already set up a diversion beforehand. As we acted, I caused noise upstairs. I knew that odd man patrols this area regularly—he'd come running."

"When Maroni heard someone approaching, he panicked and fled. I volunteered to stay behind and clean up. Then, as Batman told you all…"

Cobblepot gave a chilling, sinister smile: "I collapsed there, feigning an episode, covered in signs of abuse. That odd man didn't kill me—he saved me. And so I ended up at the police station…"

"I understand the entire sequence. Now tell me the origin—now that things have reached this point, how do you plan to achieve your goal?"

"Maroni kidnapped my mother and forced a minor and a psychiatric patient into this murder. I heard him confess his plan to frame Little Falcone."

"I will step forward as the sole eyewitness to testify against Maroni, proving the heir is innocent—this was all Maroni's conspiracy."

"Do you think you can bargain with the Don using this?"

"No, I know it's impossible."

Cobblepot stared at the ceiling: "When the Don ordered me to kill Old Edward, I learned a truth—the truth that makes the Don the Don, a truth Little Falcone hasn't grasped yet…"

"When the Don acts, it is always justified, always reasonable."

"He has no reason to persecute a lowly, unnoticed nobody who worked diligently for him, was abused and coerced, suffered psychological trauma requiring hospitalization, and had even resolved problems for him before."

As Cobblepot finished speaking, Schiller looked at him—a shadow from the window frame fell across his face. Though still youthful, the contours of the future great schemer, the Penguin, were already visible.

Navigating between factions, maintaining delicate balance, executing a chain of intricate plans with near-perfect precision—it was hard to believe a teenager alone had orchestrated it all.

"Yet your perfect plan still encountered an unexpected twist."

At Schiller's question, Cobblepot instinctively turned his head away, avoiding the doctor's gaze—but Schiller continued: "The twist lies in your family's genetic illness. Your mother's outbreak consumed too much of your time calming her. Then, just as your plan was about to succeed, your feigned illness became real—you didn't expose Maroni at the police station. You came here instead."

Cobblepot clenched his lips, as if unwilling to admit it, then said: "You said this illness can be cured…"

"It can—but you must cooperate."

Schiller stood up, nodded, and said seriously: "If so, I admit—you haven't falsified any academic claims in your criminal planning. The setup, preparation, execution, and cleanup all match the same level of precision as your murder of Old Edward."

"Though some steps were unnecessarily elaborate, the plan was still meticulous. Had this accident not occurred, everything would have proceeded exactly as you intended."

"And your grasp of the Don's psychology was precise—in this situation, he truly wouldn't hold a grudge."

"Now, let's analyze this accident."

Schiller walked to the other side of the room, pushed forward a whiteboard, wrote a series of terms, and pointed: "Tension-type schizophrenia. To understand this illness, we must begin with schizophrenia as a broader category…"

Immediately, Cobblepot, lying in bed, was forced to endure Schiller's lecture on psychiatric science.

Even with his genius mind, after an hour and more, he was dizzy and overwhelmed—too many medical terms he'd never heard, accompanied by case analyses.

During Schiller's water break, Cobblepot said: "I feel much better. Let me return to the police station—I have things to do."

"Don't rush. There's still one final point—the most crucial part: why did you have this episode at that exact time?"

"First, dusk to nightfall is the peak period for schizophrenia episodes—light changes trigger psychiatric patients."

"You likely began preparing at dusk and acted at night. If I'm correct, the room you chose had a window facing the setting sun, with blinding light—this would intensely agitate an unstable mind. Next time, pick a windowless room."

"And earlier, you were abused by Fish, then injured while subduing your mother."

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"These are all classic external stimuli."

Schiller spun his pen: "You thought you silently endured Fish's beatings and helplessly suffered your mother's attacks—but your subconscious remembered the pain far more deeply than your conscious mind."

"You believed you left no psychological scars—but you were wrong."

"Adolescent minds are inherently unstable. Had you not had this episode, you'd have developed PTSD within a month—persistent anxiety, nightmares, insomnia."

"People always overestimate their own strength—especially those with high IQs and strong rationality."

"But human psychology is far more fragile than imagined. The absence of visible trauma doesn't mean trauma doesn't exist."

Cobblepot turned his head away, refusing to think about these things: "I must complete my plan. It's late, but still possible."

"No rush…" Schiller walked to his desk, flipped through files, pulled out one, and began reading: "Ten days ago, a murder occurred on Green Street near Arkham. The investigating officer was Harvey Bullock. His report stated…"

"Do you want to hear this story from another perspective?"

Schiller opened the file, his tone flat: "Kevin Brown, a mob boss, was found dead in the alley at the end of Green Street, shot three times. The second bullet pierced his lung—fatal. Police arrived to find him dead on the scene. After investigation, they ruled it a gang shootout."

"You're familiar with this case—you mentioned it yourself."

"But I'm not talking about this case. I'm talking about the other case attached to it."

"In the Vigen Umbrella Shop at the end of Green Street, an umbrella maker was found dead at the shop's entrance—shot with a handgun, killed instantly. Police concluded he was caught in the gang crossfire…"

"Ultimately, police determined: a gang shootout on Green Street's alley resulted in two deaths."

Cobblepot watched Schiller lean against the windowsill, backlit. As he set the file down, light reflected off his glasses, obscuring his eyes—but Cobblepot felt a bad premonition.

"I know—you'll say such cases aren't rare and have nothing to do with you."

"But it's caused me a serious problem."

Schiller said calmly: "It's been raining a lot lately. I use my umbrella constantly—it broke."

"When I went to the umbrella maker to get it repaired, I found he was dead."

"Fish Mooney killed the only handcrafted umbrella maker in Gotham."

"Afterward, I spoke with her. Overwhelmed by guilt, she became unhinged and went mad."

Afterward, I went to speak with her; consumed by guilt, she lost her appetite and sleep, and eventually went mad.

Cobblepot's back grew cold. He struggled to shift away from Schiller's gaze, but one hand remained bound to the bed rail—immobile.

Schiller retrieved an umbrella from behind the desk, walked slowly to the foot of the bed, and pressed the tip of the umbrella directly between Cobblepot's eyes.

"Can you explain to me where this umbrella—bearing the Vigen umbrella maker's emblem—came from?"

Can you explain to me where you got this umbrella with the Ving Umbrella Master emblem?

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