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“Then.” Bruce adjusted the light in the interrogation room before sitting across from Jason. “Did you do it?”
“What? Kill the Joker?” Jason tilted his head. “Of course I did. Who else would’ve done it if not me?”
It was the answer Bruce wanted.
Just not the right one.
“You’re lying.” He slapped the folder onto the table, photographs of the Joker’s corpse spilling across its surface. “I know you didn’t do it.”
Jason snorted and crossed his arms. “Then why ask?”
Bruce dragged a hand down his face. The exhaustion of the past few weeks was catching up with him.
“Get out.”
Jason didn’t hesitate. He pushed himself to his feet. “Gladly.”
The door closed silently behind him.
Bruce still had an investigation to finish.
Tim stared at him impassively, fingers drumming against the table in a rhythm that wasn’t really a rhythm.
“Did I kill the Joker?” he asked with a half-smile. “Of course I did. I’m the smartest of all of them. I can do it without leaving a trace.”
Bruce tightened his grip on the folder.
He didn’t like the game his sons were playing.
“Why would you do it?”
Tim shrugged. “Because Jason was sad, and I don’t like seeing him that way.”
Bruce narrowed his eyes. “You don’t like Jason.”
Tim raised both hands, fluttering them in a mock display of jazz hands.
“Surprise. Now I do. And I kill people for him. Maybe he’ll bake a pastry for me or something.”
Bruce clicked his tongue.
“Get out.”
Tim didn’t bother looking at him as he left.
Dick set a cup of tea in front of Bruce before taking his own seat.
“I killed him,” he said, taking a sip.
“Why?”
Bruce almost wished he hadn’t asked.
None of his children had answered him honestly so far, and whoever they were covering for had to matter enough for all of them to sit here and lie straight to his face.
“Because Jason was feeling sad and—”
“Tim already said that,” Bruce cut in. “You didn’t coordinate your lies?”
Dick took another sip of tea and muttered something under his breath.
“I wanted to be the good, concerned big brother,” he finally said. “Let’s say I killed him, like I already did once.” He pointed at himself.
“That’s not enough.”
Dick raised an eyebrow. “And what would be enough for you, Bruce?”
He didn’t wait to be thrown out. Dick picked up his tea and walked out with his dignity intact.
Cass stared at him, barely blinking.
Bruce looked back at her. “Do I even have to ask?”
“Jason—”
“Dick and Tim already used that excuse.” The words came through clenched teeth as Bruce fought the urge to crumple the paper in his hands.
It was already wrinkled enough from being turned over between his fingers throughout the interrogations.
Cass paused.
“Barbara deserved justice.”
“You don’t kill,” he countered. “You told me how much you wanted to stay that way.”
She didn’t flinch. “There’s always an exception.”
Bruce let out a long breath. He was too tired for this.
“Please leave.”
Cass nodded and carefully closed the door behind her.
“Jason and Barbara are already being used as excuses,” Bruce said before Steph could even open her mouth.
She shook her head.
“Jason and Barbara can take care of themselves,” she said. “He just shouldn’t be free when there are people around who could get hurt because of him. That’s all.”
Bruce let out a disbelieving laugh. “That’s all?” He shook his head. “It’s not enough.”
“Maybe.” Steph reached across the table, took his hand, and squeezed. “But sometimes, that’s what’s necessary.”
Bruce stared at her, something uneasy stirring in his stomach.
“Call Damian when you leave.”
She smiled and nodded.
“We’re all outside waiting for you to join us for dinner,” she reminded him. “The case isn’t going anywhere.”
Then she slowly closed the door behind her.
Damian threw the door open, nearly sending it slamming into the wall.
“I didn’t do it,” he declared, stalking toward the chair. “Even if I had, you couldn’t prove it. I’m a very capable killer.”
Bruce restrained himself from reaching out. He didn’t want to provoke him, but the temptation to ruffle his hair and agree was strong.
“All right,” he said. “I believe you.”
Damian clicked his tongue and crossed his arms.
“This is a waste of time,” he stated. “No one cares whether he’s dead or who did it, so why do you?”
Bruce didn’t know.
Something had lodged itself stubbornly in his mind, a question he needed answered at any cost. Something about all of this felt wrong in a way he couldn’t understand.
He couldn’t tell his son that.
“I need to catch whoever did it,” he said instead. “That’s what we do. We find the guilty.”
Damian grimaced and looked away.
“Some mysteries shouldn’t be solved,” he muttered. “They aren’t worth it.”
There were no more words after that.
Neither of them moved.
The silence settled deep, leaving Bruce alone with his thoughts.
What—or who—was he looking for?
Duke wheeled Barbara into the room. Both of them had gone to the trouble of showing up even though Bruce had no reason—or evidence—to accuse either of them.
Barbara raised a hand. “I did it,” she declared. Then she pointed at Duke. “With him.”
Duke nodded solemnly. “While you weren’t looking, we slipped past the cameras—which, ironically enough, Barbara controls.” A grin spread across his face. “And then we killed him. Case closed.”
Bruce looked up, mildly offended on behalf of his investigation.
“It was three in the morning, in the southern woods,” he said. “And you’re both very capable, but Barbara wouldn’t be able to get the wheelchair up those rocks.”
Barbara looked deeply offended.
Duke did too, covering his mouth with a strangled gasp.
“You did not just say that,” they said in unison.
Barbara pointed at Duke. “He can carry me up those mountains, wheelchair and all.”
Duke took a step sideways. “I think that’s a bit much.” He raised his hands before an argument could start. “Didn’t the Joker die in the city?”
“No.” Bruce opened the folder and showed them the photographs—the copies he’d gotten from Jim. “He died in the highest clearing in the woods. It almost looked like a ritual.”
A shudder ran through him. He snapped the folder shut.
Barbara’s expression shifted. “Is that why you’re so worried?”
Bruce nodded. “Something else happened. I need to know what.”
Especially when every time he looked at those photographs, something else threatened to surface: fragments of memory that didn’t belong there, laying themselves over the images in the folder.
Bruce had no one left to interrogate, but the door opened again anyway. Selina stepped through carrying a tray of food, a soft smile on her face.
“When was the last time you ate?”
Bruce looked away, caught.
“I don’t remember.”
She clicked her tongue in disapproval.
“You need to eat.” She set the tray on the table and took the seat across from him. “There’s no point in pushing yourself this hard if you don’t have the strength to keep going.”
Bruce glanced down at the food. Steam curled from the soup, carrying its aroma through the room, and his stomach growled embarrassingly in response.
Selina laughed, low and soft, as she reached for the ladle and filled a bowl.
“You’re not going to solve it any faster if you don’t rest,” she said. “Let’s eat something and get some sleep. In a real bed, okay?”
Bruce drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“All right.” He accepted the bowl she offered him. “One night off.”
Their fingers brushed.
It was a simple touch. It shouldn’t have felt so warm, so intimate, but it did. Selina kept her eyes on the food as a faint flush spread across her cheeks.
Sometimes Bruce wished this could be all there was. Something simple and warm, with everything else left outside.
Maybe, with the Joker dead, he could have that.
He just needed to solve this first. Then he could go back to normal.
If there had ever been such a thing.
He hadn’t gone back to the interrogation room. There was no one left to interrogate.
The others had come during patrol: thugs and criminals who might have had their own reasons for killing the Joker. Even Harley had stared at him, head tilted and a dazzling smile on her face.
“I did it,” she said. “With Ivy’s help. We were going to use his corpse as compost for the plants, but they deserve something better.”
Bruce hadn’t believed her either.
Now he sat in his office, surrounded by everything the investigation had given him and nothing that resembled an answer.
The door stood open. His children had asked him to leave it that way. To keep him from shutting himself away in the darkness of his office. To let the air in.
Why did he always forget to open the windows?
“Master Bruce,” Alfred called from the doorway. “Are you busy?”
Bruce looked at the seemingly endless stack of papers, then at the folder on the other side of his desk, covered in far too many Xs.
“No,” he said. “Never for a friend, Alfred.”
He gestured toward the armchair and pushed himself to his feet. A break would do him good. So would stretching his legs.
He was about to offer Alfred something to drink when he noticed the tea tray Cassandra had brought hours ago. The tea sat untouched, long since gone cold.
“Master Bruce.”
Bruce looked up, pulling his attention back to the older man.
“What is it?”
“Neglecting yourself like this is concerning. You know that. Your children know it too.” Alfred’s voice remained soft and calm, the reprimand no less pointed for it. “Why are you hurting yourself like this?”
Bruce’s shoulders sagged.
“Because I need to know.” He dragged a hand through his hair, fingers catching at the ends. “There’s something that doesn’t make sense.”
His gaze drifted back to the folder on his desk.
“I feel like I’ve seen that place before. Like I’ve been there. Like I lived it.” A humorless laugh escaped him. “I see it in my dreams, but they slip away when I wake up. The Joker’s lifeless body. My hands covered in blood.”
“And is that a bad thing?”
Bruce frowned. “I can’t kill,” he said. “If I did—”
“And what if you already have?” Alfred interrupted. “If you already did, but haven’t done it again, perhaps that means you were wrong.”
Bruce opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He closed it, then tried again.
“I…” His eyes narrowed. “What do you know, Alfred?”
“The same as you, sir,” Alfred said solemnly. “The green grass. The moon shining from the east. The city lights behind the Joker, making his figure—twisted with laughter—stand out all the more.”
Bruce stared at him.
Alfred continued.
“He was threatening your sons and daughters, Master Bruce.” He shook his head. “I wasn’t going to allow that.”
At last, Bruce found his voice and asked the question he least wanted answered.
“Did I do it?”
“No.” Alfred shook his head. “I did.”
A choked sound escaped Bruce, caught somewhere between a gasp and a wet laugh.
“But you’re not here.”
Alfred smiled, small and sad.
“Who else could have taken care of what was hurting you so much, if not me, Master Bruce?”
He raised a hand and left it suspended between them, never quite touching him.
He couldn’t have, anyway. “Let it go, son. For the sake of everyone you love. Bury that corpse along with the rest. Never look back.”
Bruce didn’t want to blink. He was afraid Alfred would disappear.
Perhaps he was only looking for an excuse for the tears gathering in his eyes.
“What if I do it again?” he whispered. “What if they threaten my children and I kill again?”
“You’ll have to trust that they will be stronger, and that they will fight against whatever comes for them.” Warmth and certainty filled Alfred’s voice, the quiet conviction of someone determined to make Bruce believe him. “The Joker was simply… a difficult piece to predict. Removing it was for the best.”
Bruce let out a watery laugh.
“I never expected to hear you say something like that.”
“Oh, Master Bruce.” Alfred leaned closer, as though confiding a secret. “I’ve used shotguns, and I’ve been in the army. Thinking I wouldn’t do it would be the first mistake of all.”
Bruce managed a faint smile. It was true. Alfred had protected him in countless ways throughout his life. This would have been no exception.
“Why would you do it?”
“Why else?” Alfred rested a hand on his shoulder, though Bruce could feel neither the contact nor the warmth that should have come with it. “For you. To protect you.”
A knot tightened in Bruce’s throat. Somehow, he knew his borrowed time was running out.
“It couldn’t have been you,” he murmured.
Alfred smiled, small and tired.
“It wasn’t you either, Master Bruce,” he assured him. “You don’t have to worry about it. No one else does. You’re safe now. They all are. Understand?”
Bruce nodded slowly, clinging to the words.
“We’re safe.”
Alfred nodded just as slowly.
“You all are.”
