Dr. Sarah Chen made her rounds through Arkham's most secure ward every night at the same time, a routine that had kept her safe for three years. The patients in maximum security were sedated, restrained, and monitored around the clock. Nothing ever happened during the night shift.
Until tonight.
Cell 7 housed Victor Zsasz, a serial killer who carved tally marks into his own flesh for every life he'd taken. When Dr. Chen looked through the observation window, she saw Zsasz hanging from a bedsheet noose tied to the cell's light fixture.
Cell 12 contained Professor Pyg, the surgeon who turned people into living dolls. He was hanging too, suspended from the same type of improvised rope.
Cell 15. Cell 18. Cell 23. All the same story.
By the time security arrived, they'd found eight bodies and no explanation for how it had happened. The cells were locked from the outside, the surveillance cameras showed nothing unusual, and there were no signs of struggle.
Commissioner Gordon arrived within an hour, but the crime scene yielded no clues. Whoever had done this had moved through Arkham's security like a ghost, eliminating some of Gotham's most dangerous criminals without leaving a trace.
"Inside job," Detective Vasquez said, examining the lock on Zsasz's cell. "Had to be. No other way to access these cells without triggering alarms."
Gordon nodded grimly. "Pull the personnel files. Everyone who had access to this wing in the last forty-eight hours."
"What about the Joker?" Vasquez asked. "His cell is at the end of this hall."
They walked to the maximum security isolation unit, where Gotham's most notorious criminal was kept in a cell designed to hold a man who'd escaped from every other prison in the state.
The Joker sat on his narrow bed, reading a book of poetry. He looked up as they approached the reinforced window, his pale face splitting into its trademark grin.
"Commissioner Gordon!" he called cheerfully. "And the lovely Detective Vasquez. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"Someone killed eight prisoners tonight," Gordon said. "Hanged them in their cells."
"How delightfully theatrical! I do admire good showmanship." The Joker closed his book. "Though I must say, hanging seems rather pedestrian. Where's the artistry? The style?"
"Did you see or hear anything unusual tonight?"
"Oh, Commissioner, every night in Arkham is unusual. Just last Tuesday, I had a lovely conversation with a guard about the philosophical implications of custard." The Joker's grin widened. "But if you're asking whether I witnessed any murders... well, that would be telling, wouldn't it?"
Gordon was about to respond when a guard approached. "Excuse me, Commissioner, but I need to give Mr. Joker his evening medication."
The guard was young, maybe mid-twenties, with the kind of earnest face that suggested he actually believed in rehabilitation. He unlocked a small slot in the door and passed through a paper cup filled with pills and another cup of coffee.
"Thank you, Franklin," the Joker said sweetly. "You're always so thoughtful."
The guard—Franklin—nodded nervously and stepped back as the Joker took the cups. But as he raised the coffee to his lips, his hand began to shake. The cup slipped from his fingers, falling to the floor with a crash that echoed through the corridor.
Coffee and ceramic fragments spread across the cell floor