"Jude Sharp, twenty-four years old and unemployed."
Jude lowered his head, staring at the harsh fluorescent light reflecting off the interrogation room table. He pulled out a pocky stick from a cigarette box—he'd started carrying them as a visual prop for moments like this—and put it in his mouth with theatrical melancholy.
Commissioner Gordon sat across from him, lit an actual cigarette, and smoked in silence.
Two men. Facing each other. Smoke curling between them in the stale air. All that was missing was a few bottles of beer and maybe some sad country music.
Chichi—BANG! BANG! BANG!
Outside the Gotham Police Department, brilliant holiday fireworks exploded across the sky. Through the small window, they could hear the parade on the street—laughter, music, the joyful chaos of people actually enjoying themselves.
Both men turned their heads in tacit understanding to glance out the window.
Then turned back, feeling even more depressed.
The contrast was almost physically painful. Outside: celebration, freedom, fireworks. Inside: police station, interrogation room, pocky sticks substituting for cigarettes because Jude didn't actually smoke and needed something to do with his hands.
Seeing Commissioner Gordon chain-smoking like the world was ending, Jude attempted to lighten the mood.
"Well," he said, forcing cheer into his voice. "It's so lively outside the police station! Haha! It's like a holiday or something."
Gordon took an even deeper drag from his cigarette. Smoke poured from his nostrils like an angry dragon.
"That's a very good point," he said flatly. "Don't say it again next time."
Jude lowered his head and ate his pocky in silence.
Outside, fireworks continued. Inside, two men contemplated their choices.
After approximately three to five minutes of mutual brooding, Commissioner Gordon finally adjusted his emotional state enough to proceed with actual police work. He raised his head and asked the question that had been bothering him.
"How many times have you been in here?"
Jude counted mentally. "This is the third time."
"Do you know what kind of people in Gotham City end up in the police station at this rate?"
"Habitual criminals?" Jude guessed. "Gang members who are used to being arrested?"
"Exactly." Gordon gestured with his cigarette. "Those are the only categories. You're the first private citizen I've ever encountered who's given three separate statements at this station. Three times. In less than a year."
He leaned forward, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion.
"I originally thought you were just unlucky," Gordon said. "Bad timing. Wrong place, wrong time, statistical anomaly. But now..." He paused. "Are you sure you didn't go near the bank on purpose?"
"I deposited money there, sir," Jude said reasonably.
"Then there's no need to go there every day. The bank isn't going anywhere. It's not going to run away."
"But without Batman," Jude pointed out, "the money in the vault almost grew legs and ran away tonight."
"Don't give me that." Gordon stubbed out his cigarette and immediately lit another. "Why were you really going there? Every single day for a week. What were you doing?"
Jude sighed.
Going to the bank daily had indeed left evidence. And Commissioner Gordon wasn't stupid—after the Christmas incident, after saving Jason, after multiple friendly interactions, Gordon had become something approaching a friend to both of them.
If Jude refused to answer, he'd definitely be allowed to leave. Gordon wouldn't hold him. But it would also damage their relationship, create suspicion, turn a friend into someone watching him carefully.
To be fair, both Jude and Jason genuinely liked this righteous Commissioner.
Better to give him something. A partial truth. Enough to satisfy without revealing everything.
"Well, Commissioner Gordon," Jude began carefully, "you should know I used to be a waiter at the Red Dragon Restaurant. And later, I worked for the Falcone family as an event waiter."
Gordon nodded. "I'm aware."
"Then you know why I didn't continue in either position?"
"Because they got you involved in gang warfare?" Gordon guessed.
"No," Jude said. "Because they didn't dare let me continue."
He took a breath.
"The Red Dragon fired me. Made me help out in the kitchen at Maroni's restaurant for Valentine's Day instead."
Gordon's attention sharpened immediately at the mention of that specific holiday. "Valentine's Day?" he asked casually, tone carefully neutral.
"Yeah. They said I was..." Jude searched for the right phrasing. "A disaster. Red Dragon got raided by Batman once. Falcone's cruise party—where I was working—got attacked by the Holiday Killer. Then I went back to Red Dragon and some thugs showed up and burned the entire restaurant down."
He spread his hands helplessly.
"So the Falcone family decided they might as well weaponize it. Send me to cause trouble for Maroni instead."
Gordon's expression shifted. "On Valentine's Day," he said slowly, "the Holiday Killer attacked Maroni's restaurant the exact day you started working there."
"Yeah." Jude sighed. "Car bomb. Four guards dead. Restaurant significantly damaged. After that incident, the Falcone family was too afraid to let me work at all. They just gave me money to stay home. Paid leave. Indefinite."
Commissioner Gordon listened to this timeline with growing astonishment.
He'd expected gang warfare. Turf disputes. Maybe some minor criminal involvement.
Instead, Jude was describing what amounted to supernatural gang warfare tactics. Using cursed employees as weapons against rival families.
Are they praying to gods here? Is this organized crime or ritualistic magic?
"To summarize," Jude continued, shrugging, "after being fired from actual work, I became unemployed. A few days ago, I went to Gotham Bank to deposit some of my savings. But to be honest, I didn't feel very secure about it."
He met Gordon's eyes.
"Because if I'm really that unlucky—if the curse or coincidence or whatever it is follows me—then money I deposit at Gotham Bank might not be safe. So out of genuine concern, I started going there every day. No ulterior motives. I just wanted to make sure the bank was okay."
Gordon lit yet another cigarette. His hand shook slightly.
Jesus Christ. Was Gotham City always this weird? Or is it getting worse?
But hearing Jude story, Gordon feel if he let Jude stay any longer than the GCPD might also get the same curse.
He stood abruptly, grabbing the minimal paperwork he'd started.
"Your statement is done," Gordon declared. "Let's go."
"???" Jude blinked. "But I haven't said anything yet. You haven't asked any actual questions—"
"No need." Gordon was already heading for the door. "The criminals have been caught. Batman handled it. And there are fireworks going off outside. You should go watch them. There's no need to waste your Independence Day sitting in a police station. I approve this decision immediately."
Gordon opened the door and shouted into the hallway. "Duke! Duke! What are you standing there for? Get this innocent passerby out of here! Hurry!"
Officer Duke appeared, looking confused but obedient.
"But sir, we haven't taken his statement—"
"Statement is complete!" Gordon barked. "Escort him out! Now!"
On the other side of the city, in a secure interrogation room, Batman completed his questioning of Mad Hatter and Scarecrow.
He was very glad that Scarecrow's will to resist had been strong tonight.
It had given him ample justification to use enhanced interrogation techniques. Which was a polite way of saying he'd gotten to hurt Scarecrow quite a bit while extracting information.
The last time they'd tangled—Mother's Day, the fear gas trap, the nightmares that had plagued Bruce for days afterward—Batman hadn't had a good time. The psychological warfare had been effective. Humiliating. Personal.
Tonight was payback.
Batman tried not to mix personal feelings into interrogations. He had protocols. Standards. A code of conduct that separated him from the criminals he fought.
But Scarecrow's screams had definitely offset most of the lingering anger in his system.
And honestly? After what Crane had put him through, Batman felt zero guilt about it.
Beyond the satisfying violence, there was practical work to be done. He'd needed to falsify the crime scene to support Jude's cover story—make it look like Batman had defeated both villains personally, without any mysterious pumpkin-headed assistance.
It would be very dangerous if Jude's vigilante activities became public knowledge. The man wasn't trained. Wasn't prepared for the consequences. Would become a target for every revenge-seeking criminal in Gotham.
Better to keep him protected behind multiple layers of identity obfuscation.
Fortunately, Jude had been smart about disguises.
When facing the Joker: full Santa Claus suit, complete with fake eyebrows and a beard covering half his face.
When facing Scarecrow and Mad Hatter: pumpkin head, full concealment.
When operating as the Wheelchair Stripper: black robes, LED lights, mask.
Three completely different appearances. Three different operational styles. Hard to connect as the same person unless you had Batman's resources and paranoia.
In all of Gotham City, only Batman knew Jude's true identity. And he intended to keep it that way.
Commissioner Gordon hadn't asked many questions about the crime scene. He was accustomed to Batman's methods by now. Would have been stranger if the criminals Batman caught didn't have a few broken bones and impressive bruising.
Everything had settled down according to plan.
Commissioner Gordon got Scarecrow and Mad Hatter in custody, plus overtime work for Independence Day, plus mounting concern about statistical improbabilities and possibly supernatural curses.
Batman got more information about Jude's capabilities, wrote extensive notes in his files, and gained useful intelligence about Falcone's recent activities.
Everyone had a bright future.
In fact, the last member of Gotham's golden triangle had some special gains that night as well.
In his basement, Harvey Dent sat in front of monitoring equipment, headphones on, listening to the audio feed from Maroni's prison cell.
The conversation had been quiet for hours. Maroni sleeping, or pretending to sleep, or just sitting in the dark contemplating his upcoming testimony against Falcone.
Then, footsteps in the corridor.
"Knock, knock, knock."
A guard's voice, professional and neutral: "Mr. Maroni, someone wants to see you."
Harvey's eyes lit up when he heard the exchange coming through the phone line, crystal clear courtesy of Jude's hacking setup.
He leaned forward, hand poised over the recording controls.
"Are there any fish on the hook?" he murmured to the empty basement.