The Further Adventures of The Joker (6 page)

DICTATED BY:
Harold Lewis, M.D.
  SIGNATURE:
Harold Lewis

SESSION ONE

He was painfully thin, and taller than I’d expected.

I remained standing as the guards led the gaunt, manacled figure into the interview cell.

The Joker’s appearance is positively shocking at close range. I’d seen his face before. Who hasn’t? But to find myself standing across a small table from the man, to have his eyes scan me from a distance of only three feet as if I were some kind of insect, was a jolt. The smile . . . that was what did it. We’ve all seen that soulless, mirthless grin countless times, shining at us in black and white from the front page of the
Gotham Gazette
or in never-quite-true color from the TV screen during the evening news, but nothing in the media prepares you for the original. The smile . . . the corners of the mouth are drawn up and back, fully halfway into the cheeks. And the teeth—so big and white. Bigger than Morton Downey Jr.’s. But they’re not as white as his skin. So pale. Not so much in the bleached, albino sense; more like a white stain. I could not help feeling that with a little cold cream on a cloth I could wipe it off. But I knew that had been tried many times. The seaweed green of his hair and fingernails were the garnish on this bizarre human concoction.

During my five years of psychiatric residency in New York’s Downstate Medical Center, and in various maximum security facilities about the country, I have encountered mental illness in its most violent manifestations. But I could not remember actually
feeling
madness as I did in my first seconds in the room with the Joker. Nothing in the media prepared me for the power of the man. In fact, the never-ending stream of stories about him in the press only serves to trivialize him. We’ve become used to the Joker; we’ve become almost comfortable with him. We all know that he is a career criminal and a multiple murderer, to boot, yet his face is so familiar that he has become part of the background noise of Gotham. His latest outrage does not stir us to as much anger as it would had it been perpetrated by a stranger. Better the devil you know . . .

My task was to get to know this devil.

With two armed guards watching closely, I thrust my hand across the table.

“I’m Doctor Lewis, Mister Joker. I’ll be—”

“Call me ‘Joker,’ ” he said in a surprisingly soft voice as he stared at me, ignoring my hand. The contrast between his grave tone and his grinning face was disconcerting.

“But that’s not your real name. I’d prefer to address you by that.”

“That name is gone. Call me the Joker if you wish to have any meaningful communication with me.”

I was reluctant to do that. The patient’s Joker persona appeared to be the axis upon which his criminal career turned. I did not want to reinforce that persona. Yet I had to communicate with him. I had little choice but to acquiesce.

“Very well, Mister Joker. I—”

“Just
. . . ‘Joker’ ”

I thrust out my hand again.

“Joker, I’m Doctor Lewis. I’ll be handling your therapy.”

He ignored my hand and appeared suddenly agitated.

“When did you arrive? I’ve never seen you before. Where is Doctor Hills? Why isn’t he treating me?”

“Doctor Hills sent me. I’m new to the staff since your last . . . escape.”

I could read fury in his eyes, but the grin never wavered.

“I want the head man. I
always
get the head man. I deserve it! I’m not just another petty crook, you know. I’m the Joker. I’m the king of crime in this burg and I want Doctor Hills!”

Grandiosity and entitlement.
I considered adding Narcissistic Personality Disorder (301.81) to my list of diagnoses.

I shrugged and tried to be disarming.

“Sorry, Joker. He sent me in his place. Looks like we’re stuck with each other.”

Suddenly he relaxed.

“Okay.”

Emotional lability
.

For the third time, I stuck out my hand. This time, to the accompaniment of small clinks from the chains on his manacles, he took it. As we shook, I heard a buzz and felt a sting in my palm. I cried out in surprise and snatched my hand away. The Joker began to laugh.

That laugh. His speaking voice had been so soft, almost soothing. But the laugh—a broken, high-pitched keen that makes the small hairs rise.

The guards leaped forward and thrust him into the chair. He laughed maniacally as they ripped something from one of his fingers. The older of the two guards handed it to me, then they searched him for anything else he might be carrying.

I stared at the object in my hand. A joy buzzer. A simple, corny, old-time practical joke.

“He’s clean, Doc,” the older guard said as they finished their search.

I stared at the buzzer.

“He was supposed to be ‘clean’ when you brought him in here.”

They said nothing but took up new positions, closer now, flanking him on each side.

I held up the buzzer.

“How did you get this?”

“I had it sent in.”

“You can’t just have things ‘sent in.’ Inpatients are severely restricted as to possessions.”

“You mean
other
inpatients,” he said. “I’m the Joker. What I want, I get. Security here is a joke.” His eyes lit. “Get it? A joke!”

The guards looked uncomfortable as he laughed. And they deserved to. He should never have arrived at this interview carrying something like that. What if the prong had been poisoned?

He seemed to read my mind.

“All in good, clean, harmless fun, Doctor Lewis. I’m as harmless as a pussycat.”

I gave him a level stare.

“I believe Colin Whittier might take exception to that . . . if he could.”

The Joker snorted and waved a hand in dismissal.

“Whittier! A fraud! A charlatan posing as an artist. He left his mark on the art world—like acne. I put a finishing touch to his work—a match. Get it?”

He began to laugh.

“You murdered him!”

“No loss. He deserved to die. A destroyer of true art. The world is far better off without him.”

Complete lack of remorse or guilt.

I remembered his latest atrocity so well. I’d joined the staff shortly after the Joker’s last escape and it wasn’t too long thereafter that he raided an art gallery that was showing the work of an immensely talented young artist named Colin Whittier. The Joker pulled all of Whittier’s work from the walls and burned the canvases in the center of the gallery floor. Then he replaced them with a collection of dark abstracts, each signed,
The Joker.

The next morning, Whittier flew into a justifiable rage. He yanked all the Joker’s paintings and ripped them to shreds. An eye for an eye. And that should have been that. But it wasn’t. Whittier was found in the gallery two days later, dead. Murdered. But not by any means so simple as a bullet or a knife. No, his mouth and nose had been poured full of thick green paint, asphyxiating him. And then he was nailed to the gallery wall within a large, ornate gilt frame. On the wall next to the corpse was written:

Colin Whittier
RIP
An artist who really threw
himself into his work

The casual brutality of the crime still blew an icy wind through my soul whenever I thought of it. And the perpetrator was sitting not three feet away from me. Grinning.

Grinning . . .

I’d quietly admired Whittier’s work for years. His paintings spoke to me. I’d even bid on one or two of his early works a few years ago when they were still within reach, but lost out to deeper pockets. Now they were permanently out of reach. Well, at least there were posters. But when I thought of all the paintings he would never do, I felt a rage seep through to my very soul—

Stop!

This was no good. I was becoming emotional. I couldn’t allow that. I had to help this man, and I couldn’t do it if I remained angry. I terminated the first session then and there.

SESSION TWO

“He’s clean this time, Doc,” said the older guard as he sat the Joker in front of me.

“You’re sure of that?” I said.

“Yeah. Pretty much.”

I did not offer to shake hands with the patient.

“Good morning, Joker,” I said, cheerily addressing him by the name he preferred.

The Joker stared at me, his eyes twinkling as I took my place on the far side of the table.

“I’ve decided to accept you as my physician for this stay, Doctor Lewis.”

“Be still, my heart.”

“I was getting tired of Doctor Hills, anyway. Such an egotist—an I-sore. Always letting off esteem. Get it?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“But seriously, folks, if I am to cooperate in therapy, we must have privacy.” He glanced at the two guards who flanked him. “I can’t have a couple of screws eavesdropping on the intimate details of my life.”

He had a point, of course. But I wasn’t about to take any chances. I had the guards manacle his wrists and ankles to the arms and legs of his chair, then had them wait outside the closed door.

“Your credentials are impressive,” the Joker said when we were alone.

Concern began to nibble at the back of my neck.

“You know nothing of my credentials.”

“Au contraire,
Doctor Lewis. I have a complete dossier on you.”

He then proceeded to recite my
curriculum vitae,
ticking off one by one the schools I’d attended, the awards I’d received, my class rank in medical school, my appointment as chief resident on Downstate’s psychiatric service, even my starting salary here at Arkham.

“That’s an insult,” he said, shaking his head in disdain at the last item. “You’re worth far more than that.”

I knew my jaw was hanging open and slack.

“Where did you—?”

My expression must have been hilarious, for the Joker burst out laughing.

“I told you—I’m the Joker, the Clown Prince of Crime! Nothing goes on in this city without my knowledge.”

Persistent grandiose delusions.
But how did he . . . ?

I shook off my shock and forced myself to focus on the matter at hand. Namely, interviewing my patient. He was uncooperative, giving nonsense answers to my questions about his childhood, and purposely bizarre responses to the Rorschach blots I showed him.

I tried probing his past history again.

“Ever been in love, Joker?”

“Always. I’m girl crazy—girls won’t go out with me, and it makes me crazy! Get it?”

I pressed on: “Ever been married?”

“Doctor Jekyll, I believe you’re getting under my hide.”

“Answer the question, please.”

“Married? Me? No. I prefer to stay single and unaltared. Get it?”

For the second time, amid wild laughter, I terminated the session early.

CONFERENCE

Later that day I had a clinical conference with Dr. Hills, the chief of psychiatry at Arkham. We discussed my two disturbing encounters with the Joker.

“Be extremely wary, Hal,” Dr. Hills told me. “He’s a diabolical creature.”

I’d never heard Dr. Hills talk like this. It was so unclinical, so . . . unscientific.

“I know he’s an incorrigible, but—”

“He’s worse than that. He’s a master manipulator. He makes it extremely difficult, almost impossible, to stay in command of your therapy session. He turns everything around on you. If you’re not careful, he’ll reverse the therapy process. Instead of you treating him. he will be influencing you, making you question yourself, your values, everything you believe in . . .” Dr. Hills’s voice trailed off and a far-away look seeped into his eyes. “Everything.”

I didn’t know about that. What I did know was that he would not be manipulating me—although he had managed to unsettle me. That would not happen again.

“What I would like to know,” I said, “is how he manages to have such easy access to outside sources from which he should be completely cut off.”

“I know, I know. We don’t know how he does it. But don’t let that distract you. Stay on course. This is your trial by fire for Arkham Asylum. If you can weather the Joker, you can handle anything.”

“You make him sound like the devil himself.”

Dr. Hills looked away.

“Sometimes I wonder . . .”

SESSION FIVE

I tried to hide my agitation as the session began, tried to pretend that nothing untoward had happened. The Joker, for his part, was less cooperative than usual. Despite the fact that we were alone, he said not a word. Just sat there staring at me. Grinning.

Finally, I turned off the tape recorder, ready to terminate the session.

Then
he spoke.

“Don’t you like your new car?”

I bit down on the insides of my cheeks to keep from shouting out my anger. I couldn’t let him see how shaken I was, how he’d gotten to me.

It had happened that morning. I’d been running late and so it was especially frustrating when I couldn’t find my car in the Gotham Gardens parking lot. At first I’d thought I’d simply forgotten where I’d parked it, for there was a Mercedes in the spot I usually used. Soon it became clear that my car was gone. But who would steal that old junker?

Agitated now, I walked over to my usual spot and checked out the Mercedes. It was new. A brand-new 560 SEL. Royal blue. My favorite color. I thought about how I was going to own one of those someday and I wondered which tenant in a low-rent apartment complex like Gotham Gardens could afford such a beast.

Then I saw the keys in the door lock.

I peered through the driver’s window. There was an envelope on the front seat. With my name on it. I yanked open the car door and tore open the envelope. Inside was the registration card—in my name—and a sheet of purple stationery.

For the exclusive use
of Dr. Harold Lewis
.

A playing card was attached. A Joker.

“Well?” the Joker said now from the other side of the table. “Aren’t you even going to say thank you?”

No. I wasn’t going to say thank you.

“How’d it drive?”

I’d been running late already and had no choice but to drive the Mercedes to work. How’d it drive? Like piloting a cloud. But I’d been too angry, too unsettled by this arrogant intrusion into my life to enjoy it.