It started like any other typical day of work. I got called in three hours before my shift officially started and someone had already been dragged into the morgue by the time I had raced my way through the seemingly endless snake of traffic; a darker sea of gloom than the malevolent fog that eternally hangs just above the city skyline. What happened next though wasn't the usual. We generally always get there too late. We almost always take on the role of undertakers but this time we got caught up in the midst of the chase. We were plunged into the depths of the adrenaline.

A call. It all began with a call. Well, it always does, but by some miracle, amongst the hoard of all the other calls that brighten up our midnight shift, the call came through. The call that brought us all to this point.

I remember it as if it were only a few hours ago (probably because it was only a few hours ago - four to be exact) and I remember reaching out for one of the many cable phones littered across my desk alongside the mountain of empty coffee cups and doughnut trays. Like always, I cleared my throat with a heavy sigh ready to repeat the one and only set phrase that never seems to expire before bringing the warm plastic to the side of my head. Putting on my best customer service voice I repeat the line which I swear would one day be etched onto my grave.

"Good evening, welcome to the CIA. How may we be of assistance today? Please note we aren't the police, ambulance or fire department so if you require their services I would be glad to redirect your call."

At first, there is no response and I pinch the creases between my eyebrows. Ever since the rumour that if you prank call the CIA they show up at your house went viral we've been getting prank calls one after the other and with those mixed in with the calls of confused citizens my shift is literally a circus of rings, buzzes and slams. After a few seconds of silence, I decided to put down the phone but then came an ear-splitting scream and a gruff shout from the other end.

"Move a muscle and I'll be sure to sever the sinews that bind them together."

What followed was a manic laugh and I could feel my heart race within my chest. I didn't have time to revel in the adrenaline and with my coworkers all tuning in as if sensing the importance, I gulped, hoping the training I received all those years ago hadn't been washed away by the flood of all the crap I have to deal with on a regular basis. Luckily, I remained calm under pressure, bringing the phone as close to my face as possible. I could hear the frightened breathing on one end and lowered my voice and spoke in a gentle yet clear manner.

"If you can hear me, tap once."

*TAP*

I lick my lips as a thin bead of sweat trickles down my chin. "If you are the only victim tap once, if not tap twice."

*TAP*TAP*

"I'm now going to trace your coordinates. Please do not switch off your phone."

Plugging the landline into my computer, I booted up the system ready to bring up the GPS. With a few quick hand signals everyone was raring to go and although I had been looking forward to this moment for the last few years I hoped that everything would turn out alright. Being cooped up in an office had made me rusty and wracking my head over the 'Clown Case' as they liked to call it has peppered my hair with more than a few strands of grey.

Within a minute I had the location printed out and we were speeding down the nearest highway. To onlookers, we appeared as nothing more than mad drivers but that's the point. We can't let them know we're coming. We have to keep the element of surprise. The whole time I kept a transportable landline glued to my ear, listening for the slightest hint of trouble. Nothing though. Just the occasional mad chuckle and the erratic breathing of the victim.

Before I knew it, we arrived at the crime scene but we were too late. From the landline, the sounds continued and I feared we were at the wrong location but that's when I noticed the phone attached to a recorder.

I hear a colleague curse under his breath and I purse my lips to prevent my own obscenity from escaping as I pick up the recorder - the first piece of evidence. I lost one thing today - a culprit, a suspect, a murderer - and I won't lose anything else. Not today, not again. Part of the job is keeping your cool even in the direst of situations and I've lost too many good men over the years who fell prey to emotions.

I shake my head in disbelief. If I hadn't been on this case for weeks, months and years I wouldn't have known any better myself. With a quick glance, it's clear that everyone else has been fooled. A hit and run. That's what they'll call it. The job's too sloppy; the work of an amateur... or at least that's what they want you to believe. It may just be the paranoia but where others see holes, I see perfection. The reason it looks like a petty crime isn't because it is one, it's because that's what they want you to believe. It's just a setup. When I file in my report they'll say I've read too much into it, that I'm in need of a well-deserved rest. But I can't. Not when I'm so close.

It always ends up like this. They make small crimes. Crimes not dealt with in my department. Often and erratic. It creates unrest but nothing else. Well, that's where the twists comes in. I've been at this job longer than all the rookies combined and I know how this works. They start off small, confuse you, lower your standards but then they strike. They strike big, as they did many years ago, and then they vanish from the face of the earth. They then wait for a moment like this. As soon as you forget. As soon as you lose the plot. As soon as you grasp onto the wrong straw. When that happens, it's already too late.

But I won't let it.

A villain always comes back to the scene of the crime.

Why?

It's simple really. It's the thrill of being caught and I'm only one step away from catching them. There's always a telltale sign - a clue, but it's always been yesterday's news by the time it reached my office. This time it's different though. This time the lead is still fresh.

I wipe my fingers, smearing The insignia scrawled hurriedly at the scene of the crime. The lead is still fresh. The blood is still wet.

The mark of The Joker.