"WHEN DOES A KILLER STOP KILLING?"
Jude stood at his apartment window, watching Gotham's lights flicker in the darkness below, still turning the Riddler's final question over in his mind like a Rubik's cube that refused to solve.
He'd been thinking about it for days. The question felt important—not just as a riddle, but as a key to understanding the Holiday Killer's psychology.
"Reverse it," he muttered, pulling out his notebook and writing. "When does a killer stop killing? Flip it. When does a killer kill?"
The answer emerged from the inversion like a photograph developing in solution.
"Hatred and profit."
Jude circled the words, then expanded on them:
Even super-criminals had reasons for their murders. The Joker was chaos incarnate, but even he operated on a twisted internal logic. He'd gone to Harvey's house specifically to eliminate the Holiday Killer, not because he was bored or killing randomly, but because the Holiday Killer was stepping on his territory, stealing his thunder, making Gotham's chaos less fun.
Every killer had motivations. Emotional or practical. Personal or professional.
"Whether it's the thrill of killing, a display of abilities, or simply desire—it's always a 'want,'" Jude wrote. "To make someone not want to kill means they have nothing to gain from it."
He thought about the alley scene. The Riddler pressed against the wall, bullets outlining his body in brick and terror. The Holiday Killer had every opportunity to execute Edward Nygma. Gun loaded. Target helpless. Perfect conditions.
But he didn't.
"The Riddler has no connection with the Holiday Killer," Jude reasoned aloud. "No hatred. No history. They've never met, never conflicted, never competed."
He wrote faster now, thoughts flowing.
"But Falcone asked the Riddler to identify the Holiday Killer—which would infringe on the killer's interests. Would create a threat. Would give Falcone a target."
So why didn't the Holiday Killer eliminate that threat?
"Because the Riddler deliberately avoided the Holiday Killer's true identity."
The realization hit like lightning.
The Riddler had proposed suspects but everything inverted. Those weren't accusations. They were eliminations.
The Riddler had figured out who the Holiday Killer wasn't. And by carefully not saying who he was, by proposing the Godfather himself as the final absurd theory, the Riddler had protected himself.
He'd avoided causing harm to the killer's interests.
"So the Holiday Killer followed the rules of April Fool's Day," Jude concluded, "and didn't kill him."
But there was more to it than just avoidance. The Riddler had performed in that alley. Demonstrated his understanding through his actions, not his words.
Don't shout. Don't beg for help. Lean against the wall and keep your body tense so bullets don't hit you due to involuntary movement. Keep your eyes on the gun's muzzle to watch for genuine killing intent and retain the strength to resist if necessary.
The Riddler might not know who the Holiday Killer was.
But he definitely knew who the Holiday Killer wasn't.
And by threading that needle—satisfying Falcone's demand for answers while simultaneously not actually revealing the truth—Edward Nygma had survived being double-teamed by Gotham's deadliest crime lord and its most methodical serial killer.
Jude closed his notebook, impressed despite himself.
The Riddler was insufferable, but he wasn't stupid.
Another thought had been nagging at Jude for days, this one less abstract and more immediately concerning.
"Batman is suspicious of Harvey."
He said it aloud to his empty apartment, as if hearing the words would make them less dangerous. It didn't work.
"This is not a good thing."
Jude paced, running through scenarios. If Batman focused his full attention on Harvey, if he started seriously investigating the District Attorney as a suspect, if he began connecting the timeline dots...
Harvey would be caught.
And everything Jude had done would be wasted.
"But fortunately," Jude said, stopping mid-pace, "I did something on Valentine's Day."
He pulled out his phone, scrolled through call history, found the entry from February 14th.
Jude had called Harvey right after the restaurant bombing.
"I'm his alibi," Jude breathed.
Alfred might not have checked his watch during Harvey and Bruce's conversation. But phone records didn't lie. Batman could verify the exact timestamp of Jude's call, cross-reference it with the bombing timeline and Gordon's arrival at the scene.
If Batman did the math, he'd realize Harvey couldn't have been at Maroni's restaurant during the attack. The timing didn't work.
It wasn't a perfect alibi—Harvey could have had an accomplice, could have set up a bomb with a timer, could have used any number of methods to create distance from the crime.
But it was enough to create reasonable doubt. Enough to make Batman hesitate before committing to Harvey as the primary suspect.
"Which means Harvey's safe," Jude muttered. "For now."
The question was: after eliminating all these suspects, who was left?
"Maybe," Jude said to his reflection in the window, "I should urge Batman to find the Riddler? Get another round of interrogation going?"
Time passed.
May arrived with rain and that particular Gotham smell of wet concrete and industrial runoff. The city limped forward, as it always did, carrying its wounds and preparing for fresh ones.
The Holiday Killer's indiscriminate attacks had created an uneasy peace between the Romans and the Maroni family. Both organizations had lost too many people. Both were focused on defense rather than offense. Both were waiting to see who would be targeted next.
Jude remained in his shelved state—suspended from both the Red Dragon restaurant and his Maroni infiltration job. Some members of the Falcone family were reportedly dissatisfied with keeping such a "disaster weapon" on retainer, especially one that couldn't be fired and didn't actually belong to the organization.
But nobody had officially terminated his employment.
The supervisor—Philip, the man who'd first recruited Jude into the complicated web of Gotham's criminal economy—hadn't said anything about canceling the $60,000 biweekly payment.
Jude checked his bank account balance on his phone, watching the numbers that represented months of survival, risk, and increasingly complicated moral compromises.
After deducting expenses, he had accumulated nearly $200,000 in actual cash.
It was the most money he'd ever had in either of his lives.
As for things that were not fortunate:
The Riddler was really, genuinely, impressively good at hiding.
When Edward Nygma wasn't actively committing crimes, wasn't leaving puzzles and taunting messages, wasn't driven by his compulsion to prove his intelligence—when he just wanted to survive—he vanished like smoke.
Batman had been searching for weeks. Following leads, checking known associates, monitoring locations the Riddler had used in the past. Nothing. The man had gone to ground so thoroughly that even Gotham's greatest detective couldn't flush him out.
Part of the problem was that Batman's attention was divided.
His main focus was on Harvey Dent.
"Vernon does have connections with Maroni. He can't be trusted."
Commissioner Gordon's voice carried frustration and warning in equal measure. He stood in an alley near the old courthouse, rain dripping off his coat, looking at the man beside him with something between concern and reproach.
"But the dossier is genuine, Gordon."
Harvey Dent held a manila folder, its contents protected from the rain by a plastic sleeve. His expression was hard, certain, the look of a prosecutor who'd made up his mind about guilt.
Batman stood in the shadows nearby, silent as stone, watching the exchange with growing unease.
Gordon shook his head. "Are you sure you want to keep doing this?"
"Doing what?"
"Investigating Bruce Wayne." Gordon's tone made it clear what he thought of that idea. "Arrest one of Gotham City's most famous citizens? The man who funds half the city's charitable organizations? The Wayne heir?"
Harvey's jaw clenched. "No. I'm not going to arrest him. Not yet. Not without ironclad evidence."
He looked at the folder again, then at Gordon.
"But if Bruce Wayne is truly helping the Roman Empire, then whatever is about to happen is what he deserves."
Batman felt something cold settle in his chest.
He'd come to this meeting to provide Gordon with evidence about Valentine's Day. He hadn't expected to walk into this.
"Bruce Wayne has kept his distance from the Romans for years," Batman said, his voice flat, forcing himself to sound objective. "Without him, Gotham Bank would have already partnered with the Romans. He's been actively blocking their attempts at legitimization."
"But now," Harvey countered, "the bank still passed the cooperation resolution. Gotham National Bank is working with shell companies we've traced back to Falcone. And Wayne Enterprises stock transactions show suspicious timing that correlates with major Falcone operations."
He tapped the folder.
"I used to think Bruce was a good person. A symbol of what Gotham could be. But now..."
He trailed off, but the implication was clear.
Batman felt numb.
He couldn't tell them about Poison Ivy.
Because he hadn't sent Ivy back to Arkham.
Her control abilities were too dangerous, too difficult to contain in a standard cell. So Batman had built a private prison for her—a specially designed containment facility with air filtration and biological safeguards that Arkham simply didn't have.
He was planning to add similar cells to Arkham eventually, to upgrade their systems, to make it official.
But right now? Right now it was just illegal imprisonment. No due process. No oversight. No legal framework whatsoever.
If he told Harvey and Gordon about the private prison, he'd be admitting to kidnapping, even if it was for public safety. He'd undermine everything they were trying to build together.
The three of them had discussed private prisons multiple times over the past months. They could never reach consensus. Gordon worried about abuse. Harvey worried about constitutional violations. Batman worried about Arkham's inadequacy and the body count that resulted from its failures.
They'd argued in circles, never finding common ground.
I have to find time to talk to Harvey, Batman thought. As Bruce. Clear this up before it gets worse.
At least he hadn't missed tonight's meeting. At least he knew what Harvey was thinking now, could plan accordingly, could maybe redirect the investigation before it gained too much momentum.
Small mercies.
Arkham Asylum. Maximum security wing. A cell with walls of reinforced concrete and doors of bulletproof glass three inches thick.
Inside: Julian Day. Calendar Man.
Outside: Batman.
They stared at each other through the transparent barrier—one man in shadows and armor, one man in an orange jumpsuit with calendar dates tattooed across every visible inch of skin.
"You know a lot," Batman said, his voice carrying through the intercom speaker. "Tell me everything you know."
Calendar Man smiled. It was the expression of someone holding cards they knew were valuable, waiting to see what the other player would bid.
"Let me out," he said simply. "Let me go, and I'll stop him from killing."
His smile widened.
"It's Mother's Day."
The words hung in the air between them.
"Every son has a mother," Calendar Man continued, his tone almost gentle. "Even you."
Batman's jaw clenched beneath the cowl.
"Do you want blood on your hands on Mother's Day?"
It was emotional manipulation—crude, obvious, designed to exploit whatever lingering humanity Batman carried. But it was also effective, because Calendar Man knew his audience.
Batman didn't negotiate with terrorists. Didn't make deals with serial killers. Didn't free prisoners in exchange for information.
But he also really, genuinely didn't want anyone to die on Mother's Day if he could prevent it.
Jude watched through the system screen, popcorn in hand, waiting to see which principle would win.
The standoff held for three seconds.
Then something crashed in the distance.
"Batman!"
A guard stumbled into view, his face sheet-white with terror. He fell to his knees, panting, words coming out in gasps between labored breaths.
"Help—escaped—fourth floor—"
He didn't finish. His body curled up in a fetal position, trembling violently, eyes wide and unfocused with pure, primal fear.
Only one person could do that.
Only one inmate reduced people to shivering wrecks with a single exposure.
Batman moved instantly, cape swirling as he vanished into the darkness with that uncanny speed that made you question if he'd ever really been there at all.
When he reappeared—seconds later, impossibly fast—he stood on the fourth floor in front of a half-open cell door.
The nameplate beside it read: JONATHAN CRANE
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