This World is Not a Conclusion

Barbara stared down in disgust at the body lying at her feet. Poor girl. She’d been on her way home from some party, when she’d been grabbed from behind. She was raped, brutalized, tortured, and finally, killed, with a single knife-thrust to the heart. She was the fifth in a string of such murders, and the killer had already developed an obvious pattern. All the girls were redheads, between the ages of twenty and twenty-five. All were educated, physically fit, and from upper-middle class families. And every one had the word “WHORE” carved into her inner-thigh before she died.

Barbara sighed, and rubbed her eyes. Since this serial killer had arrived, her expertise had been in high demand. The problem was, this bastard left no evidence that could be used. He very audaciously did not use condoms when he raped, but a lot of good it did them: his DNA wasn’t in any database they could find.

Barbara looked around the body. The coroner had already been, and pronounced death, but the cops hadn’t moved it, as Barbara had told them the position of the body could be part of the signature. It was always the same. The girls were lain on their backs, their arms out like a cross. Their legs were always spread, so you could see what he’d written on them. It was horrific, and Barbara felt a wave of nausea hit. She took a few steps back, and took deep breaths. The smell wasn’t what got to her - it was the facts. Young women, who’d never hurt a fly, raped and slaughtered like animals.

Barbara heard footsteps from behind and turned. Harvey had just gotten out of a limo, and was walking towards her. “Another one?” he asked, pulling his coat around him, and rubbing his hands. It was below freezing in Gotham that night, but at least the body was preserved.

“Yeah,” Barbara sighed. “Same as the others. The guy makes no mistakes.”

“He will,” Harvey said, coming to stand next to her. “Every criminal escalates, and as he does, he’ll control, get careless.”

Barbara laughed humorlessly. “And how many more dead women will we have to see before he does?”

Harvey looked at her, his face full of concern. “I don’t like you being out here,” he said. “You know serials usually revisit the crime scene. You’re the spitting image of his victims; I don’t like the idea that he might see you here and decide you’re his next bit of fun.”

Barbara turned to Harvey. “Trust me, Dent, I can take care of myself. And I’m never really alone.” She saw his face darken, and he turned away. Barbara laughed to herself. He hated being reminded of her silent shadow, the reason for the scars she wore so proudly. She slid her fingers under the silk of her shirt, over her heart. There it was, the brand she’d been so happy to receive. A playing card, with a “J”. She hadn’t seen him in a few days. Maybe he’d be there tonight.

Barbara turned and headed back to her car. She felt her cell buzzing in her pocket, and planned on ignoring it. Something in her, however, told her not to. So, she took it out and flipped it open, not even glancing at the number. “Hello?” she said.

“Look at the body again,” came a voice she knew very well.

“What?” she asked, confused. She turned around, looking for him, but saw no one.

“Do as I say,” came the voice again. “Look at the body. You’re missing something.” There was a click as he hung up.

Barbara flipped the phone shut and looked at the corpse. -Missing something, am I?- she thought, a little offended. It wasn’t exactly her first time out.

However, she trusted Joker, so she moved in for a closer look. The girl’s skin was like marble, cold and white. But wait, it wasn’t *all* white. Barbara leaned forward. There was a smudge of rust color on her thigh where it met the ground. Barbara gingerly placed a hand on the leg, and lifted it up. There, written in blood, were the words, “HA HA HA.”

Barbara dropped the leg and moved away, her blood going cold. No, she said to herself, shaking her head, the bile rising in her throat. No, it can’t be, he would never -

But there it was for everyone to see.

And Barbara had to wonder, Is my Joker a killer?

And of course, the answer was a firm, Yes.