Remains to Be Seen

“Everybody is going to die.”

Barbara Gordon wasn’t sure if she was most shocked by the words themselves, who the speaker was or the setting in which they had been said

The “occasion” was the visitation for Tim Tyler. The fifty-year old scion of one of Gotham City’s oldest families had died unexpectedly a few days earlier. Many of the city’s most prominent persons had come to pay their respects.

The location was the opulent, incongruously-named Jolly Funeral Home. The open casket was at the far end of the largest room in the complex, with lavish wreaths and floral arrangements spread out on either side. Cushioned chairs were set in rows facing the casket, but most of the visitors circulated throughout other rooms.

Barbara had arrived with her father, Police Commissioner James Gordon. While he had hung up his ever-present hat, she had signed the register.

The head of the Gotham City Public Library had recognized many of the previous signatories. Looking up the list, she had seen the names of Katherine Kane, Mayor Linseed, Pete Savage, Harriet Cooper, Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Alfred Pennyworth and Chief O’Hara.

As Commissioner Gordon had signed his name, Barbara had picked up two service folders and memorial envelopes. She had noticed the family requested donations to be made to the American Lung Association.

One of the funeral home employees had approached the father and daughter. “Would you care to view the body?” he had asked politely, extending a hand toward a short line to the right of the casket. The Commissioner and Barbara had nodded solemnly and walked to the end of the queue.

Barbara had gazed down at the mortal remains of Tim Tyler. She had fought against the instinctive revulsion engendered by viewing a corpse. Although the mortician had done a fine job cosmetically, Tyler’s skin was pallid, with the unnatural tinge of embalming fluid.

The Commissioner’s daughter had flashed back to the memory of viewing her mother’s body. Cancer had claimed Mrs. Gordon years ago. Barbara had glanced at the man standing at her side.

‘Daddy’s almost seventy years old. I do wish he’d slow down.’

After viewing the body and paying their respects to the Tyler family, the Commissioner had wandered off to speak with the mayor. Barbara had been left alone with her thoughts, as she observed how the light coming through a stained-glass window played off the lush, tan, carpet.

She had noticed a strikingly beautiful woman and a white-haired man seated in an adjoining room, engaged in what appeared to be pleasant conversation. Barbara didn’t recognize the man, but had instantly known the identity of the woman.

All of Gotham City had come to know Angie Jolly. Not only was she the director of what the Gotham City Times called, “the most fashionable funeral home in the city,” she had been all over the news after the recent death of Governor Hataki. She had been quite vocal in her criticism of the fact that a funeral home owned by an out-of-state conglomerate had been chosen to conduct the state funeral.

Angie Jolly had been smiling when she noticed Barbara looking at her. She had excused herself, got up and walked over to Barbara.

Jolly had extended her right hand. Her arm was adorned with a wide, gold bracelet.

“I am Angie Jolly, director of the Jolly Funeral Home. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

They had shaken hands. “I’m Barbara Gordon.”

“Ah, yes, daughter of the Police Commissioner and the city’s chief librarian.”

“You’re remarkably well-informed,” Barbara had observed.

“That’s part of my job.” Jolly had given a thin smile through thick, pink lips and continued. “I noticed your look when you saw me a moment ago. I could tell you didn’t approve.”

‘The woman certainly comes right to the point!’ Barbara had thought. After a moment’s hesitation, she had said, “I was just wondering if it was appropriate to be grinning under these circumstances.”

“I’ve come to learn that different people deal with grief in different ways. Drawing upon my experience, I could tell I would do that fellow more good with a pleasant smile than with a grim expression.”

Jolly had paused, as if choosing her next words very carefully.

“Besides, Ms. Gordon . . .

“Everybody is going to die.”

Barbara was taken aback by what was obviously a true statement. As Batgirl, she had faced imminent death more times than she cared to recall. Intellectually, of course, Barbara knew she, like everyone else, was going to die someday, either at the hands of Batgirl’s adversaries or in a much more mundane manner. Still, to have it stated in such stark terms, by a funeral director, at a visitation no less, was . . . unsettling.

Eventually, Barbara replied, “That’s rather blunt.”

Jolly looked at Barbara, as if sizing her up. “You’re an intelligent woman and from your time of arrival and demeanor, I don’t believe you were all that close to the deceased.”

That was true. Barbara had to admit, the gorgeous funeral director was a keen observer of human reactions.

“Look over there,” Jolly said, pointing discreetly. “That’s Katherine Kane.”

“Yes, I know her,” Barbara responded. “She’s the founder and C.E.O. of Networld.”

“She’s also one of the most beautiful women in Gotham City . . . as are you, Ms. Gordon . . .”

Barbara smiled demurely.

“. . . and as am I . . . but how much longer will that be the case? Five years? Ten? Fifteen?”

Barbara was puzzled. “I’m not sure I see your point.”

“Carpe diem, Ms. Gordon . . . seize the day. That’s what I bring to the services I conduct. Funerals are not for the dead, but for the living. None of us are going to live forever – at least not on this Earth. We should make the most of our short time here. Not a day should be wasted. We should try to feel, ‘the passion of life to its top.’”

The librarian recognized the quote. “Oliver Wendell Holmes.”

“Quite so, Ms. Gordon. Very good.” Jolly looked beyond Barbara, into the room with the casket. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I think the Tyler family needs me.”

“Certainly.” ‘What an interesting woman,’ Barbara thought as Jolly went to console the Tylers. Then she began to ponder their conversation.

Barbara found much with which to agree in Angie Jolly’s words. The funeral director had been diplomatic about existential matters, while her outlook on more Earthly concerns seemed optimistic. The brief encounter might have proven inspirational, suggesting something might be lacking in Barbara's life.

Most of Gotham City knew she had accompanied Bruce Wayne to the altar, but were unaware the journey had largely been a charade to gather evidence against Calamity Jan and Frontier Fanny. Since then, Batgirl had met Doctor Vince more than once and the two had become good friends.

At one time, a romance with Batman seemed possible. Now, however, their relationship had seemed to hit a dead end.

'I wonder if–'

“Are you all right, Barbara?” It was her father. She hadn’t noticed him approaching.

“Yes, Daddy. Did you speak to Mayor Linseed?”

“Yes, I did.” The Commissioner seemed thoughtful. “I may have to talk to you about the same subject . . . later.”

“Oh, how mysterious!” Barbara instantly regretted her light-hearted remark. It was just the sort of thing for which she had been silently chastising Angie Jolly . . .

Batgirl awoke to find herself in a most precarious position. She was more or less “seated” on a wooden board that ran under her upper legs. Her butt, however, was hanging in the air. The board was supported by a silver metal frame, attached to the floor. Her ankles were bound to the frame by circular metal loops, while a semi-oval metal bar, attached to a rod running behind her back, imprisoned her mid-section.

Her hands rested on wooden arms, protruding from the frame, and were bound at the wrists by metal arches. Worst of all, however, was another semi-oval metal bar that pressed against her throat and ran under her chin. Batgirl’s head was forced back, almost as far as it could go.

The Dominoed Daredoll could tell her utility belt had been removed. Although it was difficult to look around, she was able to identify the five women standing in a semi-circle about her.

In front of Batgirl and to her right, wearing a skin-tight, blue catsuit, was the tall woman known as Angelina. Next to Angelina was Doctor Sandahl Jones in a leather, high-cut, one-piece outfit with matching leather boots that ran halfway to the knees.

Looking straight up and back, Batgirl could make out the face of Evelina looming over her. The buxom Brit was clad in an outfit matching Angelina’s, except Evelina’s was red.

To Batgirl’s left was the aptly-named Vinyl. The ravishing, auburn-haired beauty was in a variation of her customary get-up. She was dressed in a dark blue, polyvinyl chloride catsuit, with five-inch, stiletto-heeled, ankle boots.

Standing to Batgirl’s left was the leader of the other women. Grinning down at Batgirl was the Dark Knight Damsel’s arch-nemesis:

Nora Clavicle.

Instead of her usual clothing, however, the deranged women’s rights activist was wearing a parody of Batgirl’s own costume. From her neck down to purple boots, the Lunatic Lesbian wore a skin-tight, purple, lurex costume.

image by The Mad Hatter

Nora struck Batgirl’s signature hands-on-hips pose. “Comfortable, Batgirl?”

“What’s the meaning of this?!” Batgirl demanded.

“That rather nasty contraption in which you’re sitting is the means of your destruction.”

“What, no human knot this time?”

“After returning from the past to which you exiled me–”

Batgirl shouted, “You did that to yourself!”

Clavicle ignored the interruption, “– I decided a more direct . . . and inescapable . . . approach was needed. Those bands will keep your legs and arms in place. You can’t see it, but a giant screw comes out of a motor on the floor and runs up into the bar attached to your neck brace. In addition, the entire frame telescopes vertically. When Evelina activates the motor, the screw will begin to turn – slowly, ever so slowly – pushing the top of the frame – and your head – up until . . .”

“You monster!” Batgirl screamed.

“Indeed.” Nora became contemplative. “I’m not sure which will happen first: Will your spinal cord snap or your neck break? Either way, though, I’m certain your end will be most . . . excruciating.”

Clavicle paused, savoring the moment. “Evelina, shall we begin?”

“Yes, boss.”

Batgirl heard a click, then the sound of a small motor engaging. At first, any movement of the bar was imperceptible. Soon, however, the metal was pressing harder into the bottom of her chin.

“Stretch, Batgirl!” cried Doctor Jones.

"Ewwww!" squealed Vinyl. “It looks like her head is gonna pop right off!”

Batgirl struggled to straighten her body. She gained a little relief by getting on her insteps, but the amount she could rise was limited to the length of her arms, since her hands were pinioned.

The World’s Greatest Female Escape Artist’s mind raced. She desperately tried to think of something she could say to dissuade Clavicle from carrying out her murder. Talking, though, was becoming difficult.

“If . . . you . . . ugh . . . kill me, Nora, you’ll . . . uh . . . never . . . have the fun . . . of . . . ahh . . . torturing me again!”

Clavicle smirked. “I don’t need you with whom to play anymore. I’m setting my sights on Batwoman and Flamebird.” She sighed, a rapturous expression on her face. “They look delicious!”

Batgirl could rise no higher. She was stretched as far as she could go. The motor whirred on, winding the screw – and pushing the bar – higher.

A scream caught in Batgirl’s throat–

Barbara awoke with a start, her body drenched with sweat.

She was in her apartment, safe in bed. She didn’t know if the trip to the funeral parlor . . . or perhaps something else, had triggered the nightmare.

‘Now, Nora’s even haunting my dreams!’ Barbara thought. ‘I’ve got to stop eating Stilton cheese before I go to sleep!’

The next morning, Barbara was working in her private office at the Gotham City Public Library when her chief assistant, Myrtle, knocked on the door.

“Yes?” Barbara called.

“Barbara, a Detective Renee Montoya is her to see you.”

Barbara had heard the lovely Mexican-American policewoman had finally made it back to the rank of Detective. Years ago, Detective Montoya had been embroiled in a scandal involving a uniformed policeman’s estranged wife. She was then demoted.

Her star had once again been on the rise, until she tried to kill Lieutenant Mooney while under the influence of mesmerist Ronald Blackwitch. Thanks to Batgirl, though, she had quickly been cleared of responsibility. Now, she was once again a Detective.

‘I don’t believe Barbara Gordon has ever been introduced to Detective Montoya,’ Barbara decided, thinking of herself in the third person to distinguish her civilian identity from Batgirl’s. ‘I wonder what she’s doing here?’

“Barbara?” Myrtle prodded.

“Yes, yes, of course, Myrtle, send in the Detective. Thank you.”

Myrtle ushered Renee Montoya into the room and then took her leave.

Detective Montoya was dressed quite casually. She wore a short-sleeve black t-shirt, tight jeans and sneakers. Wild, curly, brown hair cascading down behind her shoulders framed a somewhat squarish, but beautiful, face. Dark eyebrows arched above clear, hardened, brown eyes. A dark, but not too bright, shade of red lipstick adorned full Latin lips.

Montoya stuck out her right hand toward Barbara. Although the policewoman’s arms were muscular, her hands were elegant, with long thin fingers.

The detective’s grip was firm. Barbara felt herself blush as she looked at the other woman’s eyes. ‘It’s as if she’s mentally undressing me!’ Barbara thought.

“Detective Renee Montoya,” Montoya announced. The voice was cool, professional.

“Er, yes, I know. I mean, my name is Barbara Gordon.” Barbara felt flustered and more than a little silly. ‘Of course she knows who I am!’ she chided herself.

The confident, composed Renee Montoya was nothing like the woman Batgirl had met in Lieutenant Diana Mooney’s office. This woman was a force with whom to be reckoned.

Montoya’s expression softened into something short of a smile, as if trying to put Barbara a little at ease, but not too much. “I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind, Detective. Please, go ahead.” Barbara wondered why her father hadn’t told her about the detective’s impending visit.

“I asked your father not to tell you I was coming. You see, I even had to question him.”

‘It’s as if she can read my mind!’ Barbara thought. “Really?” Now Barbara’s curiosity was really piqued. “Tell me, Detective, what’s this all about?”

“We have reason to believe the death of Tim Tyler may not have been from natural causes. I’ve been giving the assignment of interviewing everyone who came to the visitation. It’s just routine. I’m working my way up the funeral home register.” With some difficulty, Montoya retrieved a small notebook and pen from her right rear pants pocket. “Did you know Mr. Tyler well?”

“Not really. As I’m sure you’re aware, he knew my father, from that affair years back with Egghead, Chief Screaming Chicken and the Mohicans’ lease with Gotham City. I met him socially at a party thrown by Bruce Wayne.”

“Ah, yes, the millionaire playboy,” Detective Montoya said while taking notes. “I’ll be talking to him later. He was once your fiancé, isn’t that correct?”

“Yes, about four years ago.” ‘Has it really been that long?’

Montoya looked Barbara up and down. “Are you still seeing him?”

“Really, Detective, I don’t know what that has to do with–”

“You’re right, Ms. Gordon. I apologize.” She closed her notebook. “Sometimes my curiosity just gets the better of me. I’m sure you had nothing to do with Mr. Tyler’s death.”

Montoya pulled a slightly bent business card from her notebook, before jamming the book back into her pocket. “Here’s my card. If you should happen to think of anything that might be helpful, please give me a call.”

“Of course, Detective.” Barbara took the card. “May I ask, who are you going to talk to next?”

“Why?” Montoya asked suspiciously.

“Oh,” Barbara gave her most winning smile, “just curious.”

“Katherine Kane.” Detective Montoya got a faraway look in her eyes. “I’m quite eager to interview her.”

Barbara considered the implication of the lesbian police detective’s statement. ‘I’ve never seen Katherine Kane linked to anyone in the gossip columns . . .’

Montoya interrupted Barbara’s silent speculation. “Goodbye, Ms. Gordon. If I can ever be of any help to you, please don’t hesitate to call.”

Late that evening, it was Barbara who got a telephone call at her apartment.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Pumpkin.”

“Ah, every girl’s dream,” Barbara teased, “to be compared to a large, orange fruit!” She then decided to kid her father some more. “Daddy! I know why you didn’t tell me Detective Montoya was coming to see me, but still–”

“She’s really something, isn’t she?”

“Yes, she is,” Barbara agreed. Her voice then filled with concern. “Daddy, are you still at the office?!” Barbara looked at her watch. It was almost ten o’clock.

“I’m getting ready to leave now, but I’d like to stop by and see you on my way home.”

“Of course, Daddy. Anytime . . . but I do appreciate you asking and not just dropping in.”

Twenty minutes later, Commissioner Gordon was on one end of his daughter’s couch, a cup of herbal tea in his hand. Barbara, facing him, could tell something was wrong.

“Yesterday you said you might need to talk to me about something,” Barbara prompted, “something you discussed with Mayor Linseed?”

“Yes, Barbara.” He looked quite uncomfortable. “I feel strange discussing police business with you, but . . .”

Barbara tried to be helpful. “Would it be easier if I changed into Batgirl?”

The Commissioner looked into his tea. “No, that’s not necessary . . . but thanks for offering.” He looked up at his daughter and dove ahead. “Tim Tyler’s is not the first suspicious death we’ve had in Gotham City recently. Social activist Colleen Donnelly and renowned educator Xavier Rhodes both died unexpectedly within the last two months.”

“Do you think there’s a connection?”

“My policeman’s instinct tells me there is, but so far we haven’t been able to find one that’s significant. I’m hoping Montoya might come up with something, but, in the meantime, I thought maybe you . . .” His voice trailed off.

Commissioner Gordon was delighted with the zeal with which Detective Montoya had carried out the order he had given her. Though her thoroughness in interviewing everyone connected with the case, including him, was surprising.

“Yes, Daddy?”

His demeanor suddenly turned agitated. “Darn it, Barbara, I’m no good at all with those things!” He jerked his thumb at Barbara’s high-powered, personal computer. “I have good people on the force, but, fatherly pride aside, I know you’re the best.”

Barbara slipped into her Batgirl voice. “Say no more, Commissioner. I’m on it.”

James Gordon looked at his daughter in shock. Although he had known for almost a year that Barbara was Batgirl, he had never before heard the crimefighter’s voice come out of his child’s mouth. It was disconcerting, to say the least.

As she sat down at her keyboard, Barbara’s voice returned to normal, but she wasn’t quite done teasing her father yet. “I’m surprised, though, that you didn’t just ask Batman to use the Batcomputer.”

“With no real evidence of a crime being committed, I didn’t want to call upon Batman and Robin,” the Commissioner said, as he got up to peer over his daughter’s shoulder. “Besides, I want to keep this quiet.”

Barbara looked back at her father. “Despite your high regard for my computer wizardry, this may take a while.”

“Can I stay while you work? I don’t have anywhere else to go,” he said, a bit plaintively.

“Sure.” Barbara smiled. “You can even watch TV, if you use the headphones.”

For the next hour and a half, Barbara worked methodically, but quickly. It didn’t take long for her to find some obvious connections, such as the three all having been registered voters, but she doubted that was important.

She continued her search. ‘No autopsies were conducted on any of them.’ Her fingers continued to race over the keyboard. “Now, that’s interesting,”

Then a piece of information flashed on Barbara’s monitor that caused her to exclaim:

“Oh my God.”

This similarity was unexpected, if not downright disturbing. Barbara got up and looked at her father.

The Commissioner had fallen asleep while watching the news.

Barbara carefully removed the headphones. “Daddy.” She gently shook her father. He shifted, but remained asleep.

Barbara decided to use her Batgirl voice. “Commissioner!”

James Gordon immediately snapped to attention. “Hmm?! What?! Oh . . . Barbara.” He regained his bearings. “Did you find something?”

“Maybe,” Barbara began. “Did you know that the Jolly Funeral Home handled the arrangements for Donnelly and Rhodes, as well as for Tim Tyler?”

“No,” the Commissioner admitted. “Do you think that’s noteworthy?”

“By itself, no,” Barbara explained, “but when you consider all three had established pre-paid funeral trusts through the Jolly Funeral Home, and factoring in just how many funeral homes there are in Gotham City . . .”

“Then it is quite a coincidence,” the Commissioner agreed, “but hardly enough to justify an accusation.”

“Commissioner,” Barbara felt uncomfortable calling him “Daddy,” even while she was merely thinking as Batgirl, “with a name like ‘Jolly,’ do you suppose the Joker might be involved?”

Some of the color drained out of the Commissioner’s face. “Let me call Warden Crichton right now!”

As her father went to the telephone, Barbara remembered something that led her to believe they might be on the right track. ‘In some English decks of playing cards, the Joker is called the Jolly!’

The Commissioner engaged in a short conversation, then hung up the phone. “The Warden says that as of tonight’s lights out, the Joker was safely tucked away in his cell. Now, he could be running an operation from behind bars–”

“. . . but there’s only one way to make sure,” Barbara declared. “This very night, Batgirl will pay a visit to the Jolly Funeral Home.”

“Let me come with you,” the Commissioner offered, “or at least send a squad car.”

Barbara held up her right hand. “Daddy, that’s one of the advantages Batgirl has over the police.” Barbara caught herself. ‘Now I’m talking about myself in the third person! Oh, well.’

“I may be a duly-deputized officer of the law, but Batgirl still doesn’t have to get a warrant to conduct a search. All we have is a suspicion, a hunch. I doubt any judge would grant a search warrant to the police on the evidence we have.”

James Gordon sighed. He knew his daughter was right. “All right, Barbara, but please, please be careful.”

Barbara smiled at her father. “I will, Daddy.”

The Commissioner hesitated. “Err, Barbara, I don’t know how to tell you this . . .” he began.

“Tell me what?”

“I’ve pre-paid for my funeral there!”

“Oh, Daddy!” Barbara gasped. For many years, she had been caught up in hiding her identity from her father. She hadn’t thought very much about the day he no longer would be here for her.

They looked at each other for a long moment. Finally, Barbara took a deep breath and said, “"Don't worry. I'll get to the bottom of this.

"Now . . . shoo! I’m not going to change until you’re gone.”

Resignedly, Gotham City’s Police Commissioner picked up his hat, gave his daughter a peck on the cheek and left.

Once he had departed, Barbara made her way to her bedroom and activated the revolving wall that revealed her Batgirl costume. Although her father now knew she was Batgirl, he didn’t know all her secrets.

After she had donned her red wig and costume, she rode the revolving wall into her Batgirl nook. Inside, she gave a satisfied look at herself in the mirror, touched another switch and then ducked through the opening iris that led to the long-forgotten freight elevator that contained the Batgirlcycle. In less than a minute, she was astride her motorbike; the elevator descended the eight stories to street level; the false brick wall dropped and she was through the alley and onto the street.

The Jolly Funeral Home, imposing during the day, was positively foreboding at night. Ten foot globular lights illuminated the parking lot and the long driveway, but the home itself appeared to be dark.

Batgirl wasn’t exactly sure for what she was looking. ‘To paraphrase Justice Stewart, “I’ll know it when I see it.”’

The alarm on the side door, while not obvious, was discernable to her trained eye. In less than fifteen seconds she disabled it and, after only seven more, the door itself opened.

The door she had entered was used during the transportation of the casket to the hearse. Batgirl quickly orientated herself, deciding not to waste time in the rooms in which Barbara had been the previous day.

The purple-clad heroine located a door that had been closed during the visitation. ‘I guess this is as good a place as any to start.’ The door was unlocked, so she silently slipped through.

Her tiny flashlight played around the room. Batgirl suppressed an involuntary shudder.

‘Nice,’ she thought ironically.

She had entered the home’s “showroom.” Caskets were displayed throughout, some open, some closed. Dignified placards extolled the virtues of each piece of hardware, but the price tags were notably absent.

Batgirl noticed a door at the far end of the room. ‘Maybe that leads to somewhere more helpful.’

The Dominoed Daredoll was about halfway to her target when she felt a prick on her neck. Immediately, she fell on the floor, unconscious. There was no drifting off to sleep. It was as instantaneous as turning off a light.

Some two hours later, Batgirl began to drift in and out of consciousness. She was far from alert, but felt as if she was floating along in a pleasant, dreamlike state.

There was something about her body’s position, though, that was annoying. Before she could focus sufficiently to analyze her situation, a small bottle of something foul-smelling was shoved under her nose.

“Come on, Batgirl. Wake up! It’s almost two in the morning.”

The smelling salts brought Batgirl to her senses. She immediately became aware of the fact she was laying on her back on some sort of steel table, at almost a twenty degree angle, with her feet higher than her head. She was tightly bound, with leather straps on her ankles, thighs, wrists, abdomen, collarbones, chin and forehead.

Once the fumes from the smelling salts had cleared her nostrils, Batgirl became aware of something else: a sickening sweet odor that permeated the room.

Batgirl then realized she had recognized the voice that had spoken to her. Standing above the heroine was . . .

. . . Angie Jolly.

The beauteous funeral director wore a dark top that looped around her neck, covering her breasts, but leaving her shoulders bare. A matching mini-skirt and high heels were complimented with large diamond earrings.

Jolly looked down at the trapped crimefighter. “I’ve studied chemistry, anesthesiology, pharmacology and toxicology. How did you like my combination of Demerol and Versed?”

The captive ignored the question. “What’s the meaning of this?!” Batgirl was able to talk, although it was difficult. The Caped Crimefightress also instantly realized she had used a line from her previous night’s dream. She found the thought unnerving.

The attractive undertaker gave a small smile. “Maybe I just captured an intruder and subdued her until the police arrive.”

“I doubt it,” Batgirl declared. She decided to get her suspicions right out into the open. “Are you working for the Joker?”

Jolly looked genuinely surprised. “The Joker? Heaven’s no! Whatever gave you that idea? My name?”

Batgirl took a deep breath. ‘Should I come right out and accuse her?’ “All right, then, what’s this all about?”

The pretty woman played it coy. “I’ll ask you the same question. You’re the one who was sneaking around my place of business in the middle of the night.”

The Dark Angel of Gotham decided to play one card. She began cautiously, “Okay, I’m here investigating the death of Tim Tyler.”

Angie Jolly seemed startled, then pleased. “My, my, my . . . you are the World’s Greatest Detective. I didn’t think you or Batman would be on my trail already.”

‘Like so many criminals, it seems she can’t resist gloating,’ Batgirl thought. “So, you admit murdering Tim Tyler, Colleen Donnelly and Xavier Rhodes?”

“Are those the only ones you know about, Batgirl? I’m disappointed.”

Now it was Batgirl’s turn to be surprised. “There are more?”

“Several.”

It was just beginning to dawn on Batgirl that she was at the mercy of, perhaps, the most evil and bloodthirsty adversary she had ever faced. “But why? How?”

“Part of the reason ‘why’ is obvious – money. It take a lot of it for a lone, privately-owned funeral home to compete against those big corporations, especially if one wishes to serve the upper crust of society.”

Jolly seemed glad to finally be able to tell her story to someone. “The ‘how,’ though, is much more interesting.

“When clients come in to purchase – in advance – a funeral service above a certain price for themselves, I expose them to a rare chemical – a chemical retained in the body for years and, while harmless in itself, is deadly when combined with another uncommon formula.

“Then, at a time of my choosing, I send to them a statement of the earnings on their pre-need funeral trust . . . and in the envelope I include the second chemical. Even if a secretary opens their mail, it is more than likely that, eventually, the contaminated statement will find its way into their hands.

“Obviously, I can’t have my clients continually falling over, clutching pre-paid funeral trust statements, so the poison is slow acting,” Jolly’s wide lips smiled broadly, “and not only is the poison virtually undetectable, but all my customers with pre-planned funerals explicitly forbid autopsies. It’s so hard to make a body look its best after a coroner or medical examiner gets done with it.”

Batgirl digested the enormity of the woman’s scheme. “Your plan is demented and monstrous, but, I have to admit, brilliant. Why, though, don’t you just take the money out of their pre-paid funeral trusts?”

Jolly looked down at Batgirl in horror. “Why, that would be stealing!”

Batgirl rolled her eyes.

“What?” Jolly demanded. “What is it?”

"You’re blithely killing people because you want their money now, as opposed to waiting until they die naturally. So, you justify your actions, telling yourself stealing would be wrong?”

“You approve of stealing?”

“Of course not, but I approve even less of murder!”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk.” The beautiful mortician looked let down. “Don’t you understand, Batgirl? If the world’s great religions are correct, I’m sending my customers to a much better place, at the cost of my own immortal soul! Why, I’m a martyr . . . a heroine far beyond your petty aspirations!”

Batgirl tried to clear her mind. ‘All the blood rushing to my head must be starting to effect me. I almost believe she’s making sense!’ She decided to ask a question. “What if there’s no heaven?”

Jolly first stiffened as she took in a short breath. Then her large lips broke into a sly smile.

“Well, then I’m ending their pain, while getting rich and famous at the same time. It seems fair.”

Batgirl looked up her own supine, angled body. “Well, I don’t see any profit for you in murdering me.”

“Are you kidding, Batgirl?!” Jolly exclaimed. “To get to embalm one of Gotham City’s Fantastic Five? To design the final resting place for one-third of the Terrific Trio? Not only will I become immortal, but customers will beat down my door. In fact, you could say people will be dying to become my clients.”

Batgirl moaned. “That’s so old, it creaks!”

“Be that as it may, this is a wonderful opportunity. Here, let me explain exactly what will happen to you.

“First, you will be exsanguinated through your jugular vein.” Jolly pointed beyond Batgirl’s head. “Your life’s blood will flow into that drain. Meanwhile, embalming fluid will be introduced via your femoral artery.” Jolly indicated a device on a stand above and to the left of Batgirl’s left boot.

Batgirl looked up at what looked like a bell jar with a spigot, on top of the base of a blender. The jar was full of a liquid with a slightly pinkish tinge.

“That embalming fluid contains a dye to match the color of the skin,” Jolly explained. “The human body contains five to six quarts of blood. I use about sixteen quarts of fluid to completely infuse the body.

“One of my instructors at mortuary school likened the process to flushing out the radiator of a car. It will take about two hours, but I’m sure you’ll be dead long before that.

“I truly hope you don’t suffer too much–”

“How considerate,” Batgirl said drily.

“ . . . but, naturally, I’ve never had occasion to embalm someone while they’re still alive before. I’m hoping this leads to you being kept in an unprecedented state of preservation. For a time, your heart will help distribute the embalming fluid throughout your body, much more thoroughly, I suspect, than has ever been achieved previously.

“Once that’s done, I’ll remove your internal organs. Then I’m going to use a new process I’ve discovered to encase your body in plexiglass, like an insect in amber. Your beauty will literally last forever!”

“You’ll never get away with this!” Batgirl claimed. “How will you explain how I ended up here?”

“Simplicity itself! If anyone asks, I’ll just say you came in years ago to pre-plan your funeral, to preserve your secret identity – which, by the way, I promise I will do.

"After all, who’s to say you didn’t pre-plan your funeral with me? It sounds quite practical!

“As to how your body got here, I imagine your Batgirlcycle is hidden somewhere on the grounds. Evidently, your last act was to ride here while dying. How heroic! You were already cold by the time I found you.”

“You think they’ll believe that?” Batgirl asked.

“Making people believe things is part of my business. I’m very good at it.”

Based on her conversation with her father, Batgirl doubted Jolly would get away with her murder. Such a thought, however, was small consolation.

“You may be interested to know,” Jolly continued, “that I’ve already designed your final resting place. Your tomb, Batgirl, will far surpass Lenin’s Mausoleum in Red Square – in every way! Your body will be on permanent display. Your solid plexiglass coffin will be encased in tons of concrete. Any attempt to access your corpse would destroy your remains, so no one will ever try.”

Jolly looked at the clock. It read 2:18.

“Look at the time! We really do need to get started. I want to be finished with the first stages long before any of my employees get here.”

The mad embalmer began by putting on an apron, a shirt-type of garment, slit up the back. It had long sleeves with elastic bands around the wrists and ties in the back. Next, she put shoe covers over her high heels. Then she slipped on goggles, followed by a hair cover and a helmet with a face shield. Finally, she put on latex gloves.

Jolly picked up a flesh-colored length of tubing and attached it to the spigot of the jar holding the embalming fluid. The tube hung limply as the spigot remained turned off. She then fetched another length of tubing that looked like an IV. While she worked, she talked to Batgirl, almost conversationally.

Behind the face shield, her voice was muffled. She sounded other-worldly . . . inhuman.

“While the primary component of most embalming fluid is formaldehyde, I’ve developed my own special blend, just for you. I’m after a combination of looks and long-term preservation. The plexiglass will help tremendously with the latter.

“It’s unusual for a funeral director at a home this size to be directly involved in the embalming, but I’ve always liked to keep my, how should I say, ‘hand in.’ Of course, this procedure will vary from my usual technique due to the fact that, for the moment, you are still alive.”

Jolly hovered over Batgirl’s head. The helpless heroine could see a razor-sharp needle in the funeral director’s right hand, to which was attached the second tube.

The owner of the Jolly Funeral Home bent over, the needle poised over the left side of Batgirl’s neck. “Now I’m going to insert this into your jugular vein. I imagine you’ll feel a sharp pain, then slowly drift into unconsciousness. Once your blood starts draining, I’ll be too busy to talk, as I’ll want to start the introduction of the embalming fluid as soon as possible.

“Anything you want to say?”

Batgirl could only move her eyes to stare at the woman standing over her. “Just that you are crazy – absolutely crazy!”

The comely undertaker shrugged. “Not particularly memorable as last words go, but don’t worry. No one else will ever hear them.”

Jolly began to push the needle into her victim’s neck. “Welcome to eternity, Batgirl.”