By the time Batman chased Mickey deep into the alley, his target had vanished.
In Gotham, there were no escape routes most of the time. But sometimes, there was a door leading down. Batman looked at the manhole cover beneath his feet—half-open, emitting a foul stench, leading to Gotham's sewer system.
He ignored the pungent smell, quickly opened the cover fully, and dropped into the darkness below.
"SOLOMON GRUNDY, BORN ON MONDAY!"
The monster's voice echoed through the empty, dark tunnel.
After the black bat landed lightly, he spotted the massive figure immediately. Then he saw Mickey lying on the ground nearby, unconscious or possibly dead. Batman was genuinely concerned the man might have been killed by a single punch from the ten-foot-tall creature.
"Don't get agitated, Grundy. I don't mean to disturb you. I'm just here to arrest the person who disturbed you."
Grundy's head tilted. His expression shifted to something almost thoughtful.
"My friend said. Black one. Pointy ears. Avoid him. Ignore him."
Strangely, after seeing Batman, Grundy simply muttered these words, turned his massive frame, and walked deeper into the sewer. He paid neither Batman nor Mickey any further attention.
"Unusual." Batman's hand relaxed from where it had been reaching toward his utility belt. The poor, ragged giant had suddenly become much calmer. In past encounters, meeting Grundy almost always ended in violence. Batman had prepared specialized weapons against him.
This time, completely unnecessary.
Who is he talking about? Who could possibly be friends with Solomon Grundy?
The question lingered as Batman confirmed Mickey was merely unconscious. He hauled the criminal back to the police station.
Present Time
"We know you did it, Mickey. But we also know you're just a small fish. And the only thing small fish are good for is catching big fish."
Commissioner Gordon stood beside the interrogation table in his white shirt, expression serious, carrying the authority of an experienced superintendent. "We want to know who hired you for this job. If you help us, maybe we can help you."
Mickey's face remained innocent. Gordon's frown deepened, stern anger flickering across his features.
"I don't want to be here. My wife made turkey and all the fixings at home—that's where an honest, upright person should be on Thanksgiving."
He leaned forward. "But justice doesn't take holidays, Mick. And if you don't tell us who paid you to kill Gotham City's district attorney, I'm going to miss Thanksgiving dinner."
The habitual criminal simply chuckled at this harmless threat. Now that he was safely in the police station, he'd shed his earlier anxiety and fear. Here, he was within the rules. His life was never in danger within the rules. He even fantasized he could escape charges by denying everything.
He scoffed in broken Irish-accented English: "I guess you're gonna miss your Thanksgiving, man. Because I don't know Carmine Falcone. Never even heard of—what'd you call him? 'The Roman'?"
Clearly, he'd never experienced Batman's interrogation methods before.
Batman's voice emerged from shadow. This time, he stepped forward with a small evidence bag containing a slightly twisted, charred nail.
"This nail was part of the bomb you constructed that destroyed Dent's home. Each nail has a serial number. We traced it back to the manufacturer, then to a hardware store two blocks from your apartment." Batman's voice was cold, relentless. "We also obtained the receipt."
He lowered his head, staring at Mickey with those white lenses. Sweat appeared on Mickey's forehead.
"You bought these nails."
Silence filled the room for several seconds. The evidence was irrefutable. Mickey finally sighed and abandoned his denials.
"Harvey Dent really asked for trouble. Even if it weren't me, plenty of other people around here would've been willing."
"You caught me. Yeah, I made the bomb. That's what you want me to confess, right? I'll write it all down for you, buddy."
"But make no mistake about one thing."
Mickey's expression shifted. Half-smile, half-something else. His face was partially hidden in the interrogation room's shadows.
"We all know where Mr. Dent has been. What he's done."
"What do you mean?" Gordon's face showed obvious anger. "What are you trying to say?"
"There's only one question you need to ask yourself." Mickey's voice carried strange certainty. "Who killed Johnny Vitti?"
This time, the atmosphere grew even more tense and stagnant.
"You have nothing more to say here. Get out, Mickey."
In the holding cells, the Irish Gang finally reunited.
"Brothers, you all know what to say, right?" Mickey, just sent to lockup, faced the light. The others couldn't see his blurred features or expression clearly. But from his out-of-tune, distorted accent, he seemed to have been interrogated quite harshly.
"Mickey, we already rehearsed the lines. Don't make us do it again." Donny shook his head.
"We've never been in danger like this before."
"Then let's do it like we always have—stick to the script!"
Everyone laughed knowingly. They were familiar with this routine.
"I was responsible for driving the car that day. Took the package to the location. I'll write it all down if you need it."
"I delivered the package to that woman—Harvey Dent's wife, Mrs. Dent, you know her. I'll write it all down, if you want."
"I followed Dent to his house. Yes, I did. Tailed him straight home. Write it all down if you need me to. I will."
"I pushed the damn detonator. And I'll write it all down if you want."
Five testimonies, including Mickey's. Cross-referenced. No contradictions.
Whatever Falcone paid them, he spent his money well, Batman thought from the shadows.
The officer on standby heard a low, hoarse voice: "Bring Mickey back."
Mickey was escorted from the cell again.
"Did you learn anything?"
"Nothing."
Mickey sighed. Reached up and peeled off the wretched, scarred face, revealing Harvey Dent's angular features beneath the prosthetic.
"My Irish accent was terrible, but fortunately those idiots couldn't tell." Harvey set the mask aside. "Now that it's come to this, I don't have to stay dead anymore."
Flashback: Before the Explosion
Harvey stood in his basement, phone to his ear.
"Mr. Harvey Dent. The Romans send their greetings."
The voice was electronically disguised—impossible to identify.
"For the next three minutes, there's no chance our conversation will be eavesdropped—unless someone installed a bug in your home. But as far as I know, you're not that careless. And he wouldn't allow you to be monitored."
"So I'll be direct. There's a bomb in the package upstairs, but it's a low-yield device that I've swapped with the original. It explodes impressively, but causes minimal damage."
Harvey listened, expression growing dark with controlled anger.
"Don't speak. Just listen. The combination for the package is 1942. Besides the bomb, there's also a cross necklace inside. Give it to your wife or wear it yourself. Believe it or not, this cross can keep you safe."
"The bomb will activate when you go upstairs. I've modified it for delayed detonation—you have ten extra seconds. Don't go upstairs until you've figured out your escape plan."
"Finally—don't simply dispose of the bomb. Someone has to claim Falcone's bounty. If you die, the Romans won't hunt you no more."
"Good luck, Prosecutor Harvey."