As Bruce entered his room, he didn’t linger. His movements were swift and purposeful as he made his way down to the Batcave.

The familiar scent of ozone and metal filled the air as he activated the main computers, multiple screens flickering to life, illuminating the cavernous space. With a few rapid keystrokes, he pulled up everything available on his new house guest, the extensive files on Harleen Quinzel flashing across the displays.

He sat, poring over the data: psychological profiles, police reports, news articles detailing her most infamous acts, and notes from his dealings with her as Batman. His mind, usually so adept at categorizing and strategizing, now wrestled with a profound dilemma. He studied every detail, a deep frown etched into his brow, the conflict evident in his stillness.

Alfred descended the steps, a tray with two steaming cups of tea in hand. He set one down beside Bruce’s console.

“Quite an eventful night, Master Bruce,” he observed, his voice a quiet counterpoint to the hum of the machinery.

Bruce leaned back in his chair, running a hand over his face. “I don’t know what to do, Alfred. She’s a criminal, undeniably, but… also a victim.”

“She is,” Alfred affirmed, his gaze thoughtful as he sipped his tea.

Bruce leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice heavy with the weight of his dilemma. “Alfred, how can I get justice for the victims and help her at the same time?”

Alfred set his teacup down, his expression calm and steady. “Master Bruce, justice for the victims does not always have to be punitive. Sometimes, justice can be found in preventing further harm, in reclaiming what was lost, and in bringing about healing. Miss Quinzel, in her current state, is certainly a victim of grave manipulation and abuse. Were she to genuinely seek redemption, to apply her considerable intellect and skills to aiding those she once harmed, or indeed, to helping Gotham in a meaningful way… would that not, in its own profound sense, serve as a form of justice?”

He paused, allowing his words to settle in the vast silence of the Batcave. “It would certainly be a path less traveled, and fraught with immense difficulty. But the Wayne legacy has always been about more than just punishment. It has been about building, about healing, about offering hope. To guide her towards true atonement, to help her dismantle the very chaos she once helped create, could be a far more powerful act than merely delivering her to a cell. It asks the question: what kind of justice truly serves Gotham best in the long run?”

“Indeed,” Bruce whispered, the single word heavy with the weight of Alfred’s counsel and the challenging path ahead.

He rose from his chair and stared at the vast wall of Batcave monitors, his gaze sweeping over the countless blinking data points. “I doubt the public would be too sympathetic for Harley Quinn being reformed and rehabilitated. It would tear the very fabric of this city apart if she didn’t get thrown in prison.”

“Perhaps a more drastic measure is in order?” Alfred suggested, his voice carefully neutral as he observed Bruce’s troubled expression.

“Maybe, Alfred. But we’d have to do it right. If Gordon finds out, it would erase all the trust he’s put in Batman over the years.” Bruce’s voice was grim, the weight of that potential betrayal heavy in the Batcave’s silence.

The thought of undermining Jim Gordon’s faith, built painstakingly over countless nights, was almost as daunting as the ethical tightrope he was walking with Harleen. He ran a hand over his jaw, his gaze fixed on the complex web of all of her information, searching for a solution that honored both justice and compassion.

Bruce paced the cold floor of the Batcave, his mind went over an infinite list of possibilities and ethical quandaries. He stopped abruptly, a sudden spark igniting in his eyes, cutting through the heavy tension that had filled the space.

“I got it!” he declared, his voice firm, a note of conviction replacing his earlier uncertainty.

“Sir?” Alfred prompted, his eyebrow slightly raised, awaiting the revelation.

“Alfred,” Bruce began, turning back to face him, a resolute glint in his eye. “Tell me what you think: we fake Harley Quinn’s death. A suicide. We change Harleen’s look, give her a new identity, a new incontestable background, complete with supporting documents, online presence, research papers. The works.”

Alfred considered this, stroking his chin.

“A bold proposition, Master Bruce. Risky, but not without precedent in certain circles. Erasing a public figure of Miss Quinzel’s notoriety would be exceedingly difficult, but not, I dare say, impossible for our capabilities. The technology, the contacts, the sheer resources at our disposal… yes,” he concluded with a slow nod, his voice thoughtful. “It is indeed possible.”

“Here’s the plan, but I’ll need your help, Alfred. And the extreme discretion of a friend that owes Batman a favor.” Bruce’s voice was sharp, decisive, all traces of doubt gone. “We need a Jane Doe with a similar build and look as Harleen. We stage a ‘suicide’ complete with note. An anonymous call to Gotham PD. They find ‘Harley Quinn’ in that hotel she was staying at. Apparent suicide. The press runs with it. Boom! Odds are, Joker sees it and believes it. The public and police all buy it too.”

“What do you think, Alfred?” Bruce asked, his gaze fixed on his loyal butler, awaiting his assessment of the audacious plan.

Alfred was silent for a long moment, his eyes thoughtful, considering every angle.

“It is a drastic measure, Master Bruce, as I implied earlier,” he finally stated, his voice calm. “And it is certainly not without considerable risk. The Joker is… very perceptive in his own twisted way, and the public’s scrutiny will be intense. However, if executed with absolute precision, and with the complete cooperation of the ‘friend’ you intend to call upon, it offers the clearest path to achieving your dual objectives: providing Miss Quinzel with an unburdened future, and safeguarding the trust that Gotham has placed in the legend of Batman. It is audacious, Master Bruce, but I believe it is possible. And given the unique circumstances, perhaps the only viable solution.”

“I’ll make sure Batman makes an appearance at the scene to cement this in Gordon’s mind. I hate lying to him, but this is the only way.” Bruce’s voice was firm, laced with the burden of the decision.

Alfred’s expression softened, a flicker of empathy in his eyes.

“Indeed, Master Bruce. A regrettable necessity, perhaps, but one undertaken for what you believe to be a greater good. I shall begin making the preliminary arrangements. The logistics will be considerable, but rest assured, it will be handled with the utmost discretion and efficiency.”

“I’ll start with the city coroner,” Bruce stated, his mind already shifting to the complex web of contacts and favors he would need to call in. “He’s the one who owes Batman a favor.”

***

It took a few weeks to coordinate the intricate deception and build a “new” person from scratch.

Each piece of the puzzle had to be meticulously placed, the timing flawless. Calls were made in encrypted bursts, discreet meetings held in the dead of night, and promises exchanged with the kind of trust only forged in Gotham’s shadows. The city coroner, Dr. Arvin Stephens, was one such key piece.

Bruce initiated the call to Dr. Stephens, a man whose life had been saved by Batman years ago during a robbery at Gotham Central Bank.

“Arvin,” Bruce’s voice was low, direct, cutting through the crackle of the phone line. “I need a Jane Doe. Recent, similar in build and looks to… well… Harley Quinn.”

A tense silence stretched, then Arvin’s voice, strained and laced with suspicion, came through.

“Batman? You’re asking for… that? You know what this means, don’t you? My career. My license. Everything.”

“I know,” Bruce replied, his voice unwavering. “And I give you my word. You’ll have plausible deniability. More than that: you help me with this, and I promise you, I will personally use every resource at my disposal to find out who this Jane Doe truly is, find her family, and ensure she gets a proper, dignified burial, with a headstone bearing her name. And you will be the coroner to conduct her autopsy, Arvin, confirming the cause of death as suicide for ‘Harley Quinn’ and when I find out who Jane Doe is, a second one confirming she was hit by a car. No expense spared, no stone unturned.”

Another pause, heavier this time, filled with the unspoken weight of what Bruce was asking.

“This isn’t about some ledger, is it, Batman?” Arvin’s voice was barely a whisper now, a tremor of fear mixed with a morbid curiosity. “This is for… Gotham?”

“It’s for Gotham,” Bruce confirmed, his voice iron-clad. “And it’s for justice. A different kind of justice. Once this is done, Arvin, I will personally see to the investigation of Jane Doe’s identity and fulfill my promise.”

“Alright,” Arvin finally conceded, the word a reluctant exhalation. “Just… make sure I never have to answer for this. The body will be ready. And you keep your word, Batman. For Jane Doe’s sake.”

“I always do,” Bruce responded, and the line went dead. The tension in the Batcave thickened, but the first critical piece of the elaborate deception was now in motion.

The meticulously chosen Jane Doe was delivered under the cloak of night to the seedy, nondescript hotel room Harleen had recently vacated. The room was just as she had left it, a scene of quiet desperation, needing no further staging. A few more pills, scattered strategically, completed the grim scene.

***

Everything was prepared. The anonymous call to Gotham PD was made, a clipped, untraceable voice relaying the tip about a potential suicide at the specified address.

By the time Batman arrived, a familiar, imposing shadow against the flashing blue and red lights, the news vans were already there, their satellite dishes extended like predatory antennae. Reporters, already sensing a major story, were clamoring at the police tape, their flashes illuminating the grim scene.

Batman landed silently beside Commissioner Gordon, who stood grim-faced amidst the chaos.

“What’s going on, Jim?” Batman’s voice was a low growl, perfectly masking the meticulous deception he had set in motion.

Gordon turned, his face etched with a weary resignation.

“It’s Harley Quinn, Batman. Apparent suicide. Anonymous call tipped us off. Her… her last note was addressed to the Joker. Full of vitriol. Looks like she finally snapped after all he put her through. Forensic’s already inside, and the coroner just arrived to confirm.” Gordon gestured towards the hotel entrance, where Dr. Stephens, looking pale but composed, was being ushered in by an officer. “Nasty business, but given who she was, not entirely surprising, I suppose.”

“It’s a sad thing, Jim. She had such promise when she first came to Gotham,” Batman rumbled, his voice laced with a carefully constructed sorrow. He paused, looking towards the hotel, allowing the weight of the moment to settle. “The Joker turned her.” His words carried a double meaning, a grim truth that only he, in his two identities, truly understood. He watched as the forensic team moved around the scene, a morbid ballet under the flashing lights, cementing the lie he’d meticulously crafted.

Gordon sighed, running a hand over his tired face. “Aye, he does that. Takes something pure and twists it until it’s unrecognizable. Arkham’s full of ‘em. Just… never thought she’d go this route. Always figured she’d either end up behind bars for good, or he’d finally finish what he started with her. Suicide… it’s a grim end for anyone, even for Harley Quinn. Makes you wonder what was going on in that head of hers, doesn’t it?” He shook his head, a mixture of professional weariness and a flicker of genuine sadness in his eyes. “Another tragic footnote in Gotham’s history.”

Batman just shook his head, a silent acknowledgment of the tragedy. “Well… at least she’s at rest and away from Joker.”

Gordon nodded slowly, a grim sort of agreement. “Yeah. Can’t argue with that. Might be the only peace she ever knew, with him around.”

He turned to say something else, to ask if Batman had any insights, but the dark figure was already gone. Just a faint swirl of disturbed air where he’d stood a moment before, leaving Gordon alone with the flashing lights, the news crews, and the grim reality of Gotham’s enduring sorrow.

© Copyright 2025 J.R. Geiger. All rights reserved.