Jim Gordon's Story

It was a dark, cold, rainy night in Gotham; nothing out of the ordinary. Regardless, nothing ever justified getting out of bed at such ungodly hours. Well, almost nothing. There had been reports of a murder on Park Row, a street that is more commonly known as Crime Alley, and with good reason: This was the very locale in which the Waynes were slain in cold blood, among many other horrendous crimes that are carried out on a daily basis. The scent of coffee filled the old Chevrolet, two fresh cups sitting in the holders in front of the console.

Driving along the street, Gordon saw several junkies along the sidewalks, curled up against the walls of second-rate apartment buildings not even they could afford to live in, cuddling under newspapers to try and keep warm. He saw at least three dealers hanging out in the shadows as he drove passed the alleys; as careful as they tried to appear, a sharp cop could always spot a dealer.

Riding in the car next to him was his partner, Arnold Flass. Jim hated Flass. He was crude, crooked, and altogether just unpleasant to be around. His jokes were always demeaning, being either racist, sexist (or both), or simply in bad taste. Altogether, Flass was just a walking, talking, oxygen-stealing sack of shit. "Hey Jimmy," he started, causing Jim to roll his eyes, "How many blacks' it take to change a tire?" Gordon wasn't going to dignify that with a response, and even if he were, he didn't have time to do so, having driven to the crime scene. He pressed the brakes just hard enough to send Flass jolting forward. Had he not caught himself with his hands, he would've hit his head on the dashboard, as he always neglected to wear his seatbelt. The thought alone made Jim smile.

"We're here," he said dryly.

Exiting the vehicle, the two detectives donned their parkas before stepping out into the dark alley of the crime scene. It was cold, and the pitter-patter of rainfall upon the plastic shielding drummed above their heads and on their persons. Standing next to the yellow crime scene tape barring the area from unauthorized personnel was one of the department's many beat cops; a younger man, probably in his late twenties. Poor guy had been standing here in the rain for a while, without a parka. The department-issued jackets were warm, but they still got soaked if one spent too much time in the rain. Jim walked up to the officer with a stern look across his jaded face.

"What do you have for me, son?" he asked. The officer turned to look into the dark alleyway behind him. "I found this guy while on patrol. Wouldn't have known he was here if I hadn't caught a bum takin' his shoes from 'im. Haven't even been able to take a good look at 'im myself, what with having to stave off the scavs." He spoke with a very particular Boston accent, one Flass would undoubtedly pick at later. Brushing the beat cop aside, Flass stepped under the yellow tape. "Let's have a look-see, Jimmy. Probably just some wino caught a bad break."

Gordon let out a sigh of exhaustion, following behind Flass as he entered the crime scene. The detectives' flashlights beamed toward the body in unison, illuminating the blood-and-rain-soaked ground. The victim was lying on his stomach, his hands outstretched as if trying to crawl away before he could bleed to death. Unfortunately, death won him over. He was wearing a brown tweed suit, a matching briefcase laying on the ground a few feet behind him. His blond hair was drenched, his own blood having been run through it as well.

"Well, he don't look like no wino, at least," Flass remarked with a chuckle. Gordon cast a sideways glance, his patience with Flass wearing thin. Gordon knelt down, producing a pair of latex gloves from his pockets and quickly pulling them on, snapping them onto his wrist to ensure they fit snugly. With his hands protected, he was able to flip the body and examine the man. His chest was riddled with stab wounds to the point of evisceration. His chest cavity was open, turned to mush by the multitude of inflictions. It was a gruesome sight indeed, and Gordon wouldn't wish it on anyone. Not even on-

"Oh my God..." he trailed off, a mixture of shock and a tiny hint of guilty relief lining his voice. "What is it Jimmy? What's goin'-" Flass stopped short too, his words failing him. He was unable to speak for a good few moments, which honestly satisfied Gordon. However, it was never easy to see the dead body of a fellow officer; Jacob Jules, one of Flass' friends. He, along with Flass and the rest of his cronies, were on Commissioner Loeb's special payroll. They were all crooked, doing deals with the mob on the regular, turning a blind eye to their efforts for a cut of the cash.

"Flass?" Jim said. It took a minute, but finally, Flass was able to vocalize his feelings. "We need to find out who did this, Jimmy! We need to find out who did it, and put a bullet in 'em!"
"We'll figure it out Flass. But we can't go out on a rampage and-"
"The shit we can't! We're the goddamn police, and no one does this to one of our own!"

Gordon dismissed Flass' outburst. He was well aware of what he could, possibly would, do. Loeb would definitely want answers, or at least a scapegoat. But all they could do now is give the department an update on the case. "Call it in, Flass. I'll look around some more." With that, Flass walked away, radioing the station about the new turn of events as he did so.



Across the street, on the rooftop of one of the derelict buildings, he remained crouched, blending in to the early morning darkness that enveloped him. He caught everything through his long-range microphone, his night-vision lenses granting him a clear picture of the scene below. One of Loeb's crooked cops, dead in the alley. He had made his way here after picking up the reports on the police scanner.

The Batman; an urban legend to most. However, a good number of criminals had felt his wrath in the two years he'd been active, and although some of the police would hate to admit it, he's helped put away a fair share of Gotham's scum. He'd fought drug dealers, rapists, murderers, robbers and mobsters. This would be another case, and he needed to be careful.

And whether they liked it or not, the Gotham City Police Department was going to be a big help to him in this investigation.

Filling out paperwork was never the fun part of the job, but sometimes it was preferable to staring at dead bodies. They had called in the coroner to pick up Jules' body. The autopsy reports wouldn't be disclosed for quite some time. All Gordon could do until then was finish his report regarding the finding, and then try and make some phone calls. Murders weren't at all uncommon in Gotham, not by a long shot. But Jacob's body...Gordon had never seen anything like that. He had almost been reduced to gelatin with the wounds he'd sustained. It was sickening...

"Gordon! The commish' wants to see ya!" One of Loeb's thugs; a guy named Randall Fisk. He was a lowlife, like the rest of them. However, Gordon resigned to, much to his chagrin and with a heavy sigh, remove himself from his desk and pay a visit to the commissioner's office. The GCPD headquarters was quite spacious. Many desks filled the office, and the vaulted ceiling above was a stained-glass mural, highly decorative and very pleasing to the eye. The bronze busts adorning the columns that decorated the interior were polished to a shine, each of the some important figure of Gotham's past; men who lived long before Gotham was what it was today...

---

"What the hell do you mean you've got no trail?!" Loeb shouted. Gordon, taking a moment to wipe the fingerprints off the lenses of his glasses with his shirt, took in a deep breath and reiterated: "The killer is obviously either very good at cleaning up after himself, or cautious enough to not have to. We found nothing that could point us to a possible suspect." Donning his glasses once more, Gordon looked the police commissioner in the eye, as much as the action pained him.

Loeb let out a disgruntled chortle. "Look here, Gordon: Jules was one of the best officers in the department. The kinda man he was, he don't deserve what he got!" Loeb stated. 'I've no illusions as to the kind of man Jacob Jules was,' Gordon thought.
"Point is, Gordon, we've got a perp out there with the blood of one of the department's finest on their hands, and you're telling me you've got absolutely nothing to go on?"
Gordon didn't miss a beat. "Unless the autopsy shows us something we didn't know before, then no, Commissioner Loeb. We've got nothing. As I said, our killer was very thorough."

Loeb didn't appreciate this answer, and began eyeballing Flass, who was standing nearby. Suddenly, Loeb's face lifted into a mischievous smile, flashing disgusting yellow teeth. "Well Gordon, if you says there's nothing to go on, then I guess you must be right. I expect that report to be turned in posthaste." With that, the commissioner dismissed Gordon, who scowled as soon as his back was turned. He tried his damnedest not to slam the door.

Loeb's scowl returned, and he turned to look at Flass. "I want an arrest, Flass. If we can't get the guy responsible, then we'll just have to find an alternative. Understand?" Flass nodded, a sly smirk planted on his visage. "Good. Now get the hell out of my office."

---

Back at his desk, Gordon was a mess of anger, and he tried his best not to let everyone else see it. His pen presses were much harder, to the point where his pen tore through the paper. Slapping the writing utensil on the table, he looked around to see a multitude of faces around the department staring in his direction. He heaved an exasperated sigh, tossing the ruined report in the trash and printing off another form to start over with.

"Never gets any goddamn easier," he muttered.

"You know, you're going to give yourself high blood pressure? You'll be chasing down a perp and then a sudden heart attack." Officer Renee Montoya told Gordon, her right hand gripping the cuffs of a local pimp. "I heard it was a cop who got killed, is that true?" She asked.

"Good riddance. The only good cop is a dead cop." The pimp said, "Amen, brother." A rough looking biker said as he was being courted through towards the interrogation room. Renee smacked the pimp in the back of the head, her way of training him to keep quiet.

"Sorry about my girl, Jim. She doesn't know when to shut up." Renee joked, "Anyways, you got any leads? Any solid leads, I mean? It's not like Gotham isn't lacking in people who want to kill cops, have killed cops, or are planning to kill cops. Especially the ones who work for the fat man down the hall." Officer Montoya said.

Gordon looked up slowly to meet eyes with the source of welcomed dialogue. Renee Montoya was a good cop, and not just in the sense that she made arrests. She was good to people, understood them. She wasn't like one of Loeb's flunkies either that did what she wanted if it meant she got ahead. She was very much by the books, and a sight for sore eyes after the hell he'd been through today.

"Who's to say it already isn't?" he replied. Renee's appearance lifted his spirits quite a bit; especially her exchange with the pimp she now had in custody. Gordon suppressed a chuckle; it wouldn't be very professional for the lieutenant of the homicide division to be caught laughing at the "mistreatment" of suspects. It was always nice to have Montoya around.

Until, she asked about the early morning murder. Gordon sighed. "Yes, it's true. It was Jules, if you can believe it." There was a tinge of sarcasm in that statement, but only just enough that the pimp wouldn't get it. It was always to the benefit of the department if at least the illusion of cooperation and familial bonds was maintained. Otherwise, criminals all over Gotham would take advantage of the internal discourse; not them a select few of them didn't already, but they were ones Loeb was in bed with anyhow, so it hardly mattered.

"As far as leads go...nothing. Our killer was quite efficient at what he did. No hair or skin follicles, no prints, nothing. He either cleans up like a methhead in a disorganized bookstore, or just makes sure not to leave traces of himself behind. Either way-"

Gordon was cut off by the arrival of Flass, who strode over and leaned on Jim's desk. "We got another one, Jimmy. Same as Jules. Found the poor bastard in an apartment in Coventry." Flass took the opportunity to look Renee over. "How's it goin', Montoya?" he said, waggling his eyebrows. Jim stood up, donning his coat as he did so.

"Guess I can finish this report later, then. Come on Flass. And good to see you, Montoya." With that, the two detectives were off and out the door. "It's going to be a long day," Gordon said.

"You got that right, Jimmy. You got that damn right."