Definitive Therapy

Part One

ARKHAM ASYLUM

Maximum Security Ward for the Criminally Insane 

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 half way into the cheeks.  And the teeth – so big and white.  Bigger than Morton Downey'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 Harold 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 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."