Body Count

"Seventy three dead," hissed the Constable furiously. "Seventy three, Munro! What kind of screwed up teenager can pull that off?"

"I don't know, Lynch. I don't know." Munro was sitting at his desk, slumped over with his face in his hand. Every shuddering breath he took caused him great effort. He shook his blond head and sighed. "Why on my watch, Constable? Why did I have to take the late shift tonight, of all nights?"

Constable Steve Lynch shrugged angrily, banging his fist on the table. "Most of them were kids, Commissioner!" he continued, disregarding the other mans' last remarks. "I saw 'em in there! One of them was barely out of diapers!"

"It makes me sick," Munro choked. "To think that children in our generation are capable of a massacre like this." He took a deep breath, rising to his feet. A shabby brown overcoat drooped over his thin frame, fluttering behind him weakly as he shuffled around the room, distressed. "How are we supposed to explain this to the public?" he added. "Don't worry, we have her locked up nice and tight. No, we couldn't stop her murdering seventy-odd people before we could get a team in there. How are we going to look? Like fools, Steve! Like bloody, moronic fools!"

"Forget about the publicity, Mark," Lynch replied. "Start thinking about what we're going to do with this pint-sized psychopath we've got on our hands."

"Throw her in a padded cell, that's what we're going to do!" Munro roared, flinging his arms out wide. "Throw her in there and burn the key in acid! I'm never letting her out; no, not on my watch!"

Lynch nodded, running a work-blackened hand through his unkempt brown locks. He covered his mouth loosely with the other hand, staring at the surface of the desk, apparently deep in thought. "What movie was that, anyway?" he pondered quietly, tracing patterns in the wood grain.

"The Dark Knight," Munro spat, kicking a waste paper basket. "She was dressed as him, you know. I bet she planned it all. From the disguise to the murders."

"She was dressed as the Batman?" Lynch asked, distracted.

"No, you idiot! She was all dolled up as the Joker. Her and a few of her friends." he snarled.

"The friends, the friends ..." muttered Steve, squinting through his horn rimmed glasses. "Were they the survivors? The four?"

Munro nodded, sinking back down into his leather swivel chair. "All painted like psychotic clowns."

"Were they in on it?" asked the Constable eagerly, leaning forward.

Munro hesitated. "I don't think so," he said slowly, staring at his white knuckles. "The other girl was in a bad way when we got there. Crying, screaming, clawing at everybody that tried to pull her out of the carnage. The other three were boys. They sort of just dozed around, hardly ever blinked, whimpering sometimes. They all swore under oath that they had no idea that she had meant to kill anybody."

"Did you interrogate her?" Lynch inquired darkly.

"Yes ..." Munro murmured, closing his eyes. "She admitted it. She told us the whole gory tale, from the first twisted thoughts running through her mind to the last heart she plunged a knife into."

"She had a knife?" Steve interrupted, outraged. "What fool let her in with a God damned knife?"

"You think security had time to check everybody going in there, Lynch? No, no, she was perfectly safe from the long arm of the law in that respect."

"Who brings a knife to a movie?" grumbled Steve.

"You've seen the Dark Knight, Steve, haven't you?" wondered Mark.

"Yeah, with my wife and son. Why?"

"The Joker always had a knife on him, Constable. I'd bet my car that she brought it to complete the outfit."

"And not to, oh, stab seventy three innocent citizens, perhaps?" he retaliated.

Commissioner Mark Munro had, seemingly, been waiting to say this for a while now. "I don't think she planned it," he said quietly. "Hear me out," Steve stopped mid-outburst. "The way she told it - the way she described the situation to me last night - she really was there just to see the movie. Because she wanted to see the performance. Not because she wanted to massacre all those people. But ..." he sighed heavily. "But they struck something in her. Rubbed her the wrong way. She didn't think they were worthy, Steve. Worthy of seeing a stinking movie. So ..." He came to a withering stop.

"She's insane!" Lynch raged. "We should have her sent straight to an asylum. Maximum security. If this girl can fight off that many people and manage to kill them all, she can certainly fight off a few guards in a low security prison block. We need her in a padded cell with no way out."

"We'll put her away, don't you worry. We just need to wait for her friends to calm down enough to talk to us properly."

Steve grunted. After a short pause, he said, "Did you find anything else on her? A gun, an ID? Anything?"

The Commissioner shook his head in a confused sort of way. "No," he said, now staring out the window panes in his door. "Her clothes were all specially made, probably for seeing the movie. No tags. And she wasn't carrying any ID - not even a school card. Nothing but the knife we found in her pant leg, covered in blood red paint."

"That's it?" Steve pressed, leaning forward. "Not even a thread from other clothes? Nothing as to who she is?"

Mark Munro frowned deeply, staring into Steve's eyes desperately. "Follow me, if you want to know." he said quietly.

And he rose to his feet, striding quickly out of the room.

Lynch followed, tripping over his own over-excited feet. They were zig-zagging their way through the police station, passing forlorn looking water coolers and the lined faces of their colleagues. Finally, they reached a small, dimly lit holding cell. Inside, a figure sat on the bed, perfectly still. Her green hair was lank about her face, the white and red and black paint cracking along her cheeks and forehead. She tapped her fingers together from time to time.

Steve Lynch stepped toward the bars, peering more closely at her. She was wearing a faded white shirt, which was undone at the top two buttons. These were missing, seemingly ripped off during the previous nights' fray. A black tie was hanging around her neck, untied. A pair of drain pipe slacks, torn at the knees, clung to her legs. She was staring at the ground, breathing evenly.

"There!" shouted Lynch suddenly. Commissioner Munro jumped. "Those pockets, did you check those pockets in her vest?"

Munro paced over, glancing at the shining green garment. "Yes. Nothing in her pockets, Steve. Nothing in her pockets but ... but ..."

"Knives and lint!" Shane cackled, looking up at them. They recoiled automatically at the sight of her manic, grinning face.

The two men walked away, pushing each other backwards, trying to get away from the sound of that long, high laugh.