While Jude was working his third Halloween job, District Attorney Harvey Dent had already returned home.
Tonight had turned out differently than expected. The warehouse fire was serious but not urgent. He hadn't needed to stay at the scene. No immediate work required his presence. He could simply turn around and go home.
As for Johnny Vitti's murder, that was Commissioner Gordon's problem. Harvey had made plans with Gilda to hand out candy to the neighbourhood children. If he came home late, she'd be disappointed.
And he'd disappointed her enough already.
Harvey drove back while the evening was still young. He opened the door with genuine happiness.
"Harvey! You're home on time tonight?"
"Made a promise, Mrs. Dent. Couldn't break it."
The doorbell rang.
"Guess who's here?" Gilda smiled, turning toward the door.
"How should I know? Wait, let me—"
A spike of alertness shot through Harvey's chest. Not premonition. Just professional paranoia. If someone wanted to attack on Halloween, this would be the perfect opportunity. Pay off a kid to deliver a carefully packaged bomb as a Halloween surprise. Nobody would expect it until too late.
But before he could finish his sentence, Gilda had already opened the door.
"Trick or treat!"
Several small "ghosts" jumped out, shouting and laughing. No bombs. No attacks. No gang retaliation. Just a peaceful, happy Halloween.
Harvey exhaled tension he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
Why would Falcone bother with a small-time prosecutor anyway? Harvey had gone to the parking lot of the nephew's party to check license plates and gotten beaten for it. That kind of humiliation meant Falcone saw him as barely worth noticing. No motivation to escalate.
He laughed at his own paranoia and joined his wife at the door, handing out candy to eager children.
"Happy Halloween, little ones."
"Happy Halloween, Mr. Harvey!"
"Happy Halloween, Mrs. Dent!"
At the Gotham City Police Department in central Gotham, Gordon flipped through mountains of files. He glanced at his watch. Past midnight. He stubbed out his cigarette in the Halloween-themed ashtray on his desk.
"Happy Halloween, Batman. And thank you for the gift."
A voice emerged from the shadows by the window. "Happy Halloween, Commissioner Gordon. Go home to your family."
When Gordon looked up, the window was empty.
Halloween in Gotham had passed. Aside from one bizarre murder, the night had been as peaceful as a dream.
But for some people, what happened in Gotham tonight would soon become a nightmare.
Morning arrived peaceful and ordinary. Jude piloted his beloved modified wheelchair to work as usual.
He was in an excellent mood. Three jobs completed in one night. The rewards had been substantial. Even ignoring the adorable demon-repelling pumpkin lantern, he'd earned twenty thousand dollars in asset points, gained Intermediate Culinary Mastery, and befriended Solomon Grundy. All three rewards felt worthwhile.
When Jude had left the sewers, Grundy had even shaken his hand in friendship.
"Pumpkin Man. Scary. Good guy."
"Pumpkin Man. Friend. Burger. Delicious."
Jude had decided to bring Grundy food regularly. The zombie wouldn't starve without it, but he'd remember friendship. Maybe someday, if Jude encountered serious trouble—supervillains, assassins, whatever—he could yell "Grundy, save me!" at a sewer entrance and watch the big guy tear through the manhole cover to help.
Of course, ideally that scenario would never happen.
"Good morning, Santos, Rick, Castro!" Jude rolled into the staff area with a grin. "How was everyone's night?"
He greeted his colleagues cheerfully. Strangely, the three men who usually bantered and joked didn't respond immediately. Instead, they stared at him with expressions Jude couldn't quite read.
"What's wrong? You all look weird."
"Ah? Oh, good morning, Jude."
"Morning. You, uh, you worked those side jobs last night?"
"Yeah, did some odd jobs. Why?"
"You weren't home?"
"Can't work from home, Castro." Jude studied the three of them with growing confusion. Their usual easy banter had vanished. They seemed hesitant. Almost nervous. "What's going on with you guys?"
"I need to confirm something." Santos's voice carried uncharacteristic caution. "You're new to Gotham, right? You've never been in a gang?"
"What? God, no. Of course I've never been in a gang. You can see that, can't you? I can't even shoot straight. I'm still practicing at that range Philip recommended." Jude's frown deepened. "Something's wrong with you today. What happened?"
"Have you seen today's Gotham Daily?"
"Haven't bought it yet. Why?"
"What about this morning's news? Did you watch it?"
"What are you talking about?" Jude's stomach twisted. A strange, ominous premonition crept up his spine. "What happened with the news?"
"See for yourself."
Santos handed over a newspaper. Jude took it, scanning the front page casually.
The headline made his pupils dilate.
"JOHNNY VITTI ASSASSINATED - KILLER LEAVES UGLY PUMPKIN"
Last night on Halloween, Johnny Vitti, nephew of Gotham City crime boss Carmine Falcone, was found dead in the bathtub of his Diamond District villa. According to forensic examination, Vitti suffered two fatal gunshot wounds to the head.
The murderer left the weapon at the scene: a .22 caliber pistol with the serial number filed off. No fingerprints were recovered from the gun. Also left at the scene were two items: a makeshift suppressor fashioned from a baby pacifier, and a jack-o'-lantern.
No cash was missing from the villa. Police believe this was a targeted killing. Commissioner Gordon stated that the key clue lies in the uniquely shaped pumpkin lantern left at the crime scene.
Hands trembling, Jude turned the page.
On the back of the newspaper was printed a photograph of the pumpkin lantern recovered from the murder scene.
The twisted, agonized expression seemed to evoke a strange artistic atmosphere. Elements of Millet's classicism, Monet's impressionism, Matisse's Fauvism, Munch's expressionism, Balla's futurism, Picasso's cubism, Dali's surrealism—all compressed into one small, hideous gourd.
His pumpkin.
His ugly, abstract, one-of-a-kind carved pumpkin.
At a murder scene.
"Haha," Jude said to nobody in particular, his voice slightly strangled. "It's over!"