Fic: "The Prince's Ghost", Chapter 3
Sorry it's been a while. Hopefully the following will go some way to making up for it.
Title: "The Prince's Ghost" (3/11)
Pairing/Characters: Bruce Wayne/Jim Gordon, John Blake, Lucius Fox, Gerard Stephens, Renee Montoya, Harvey Bullock, Mike Engel
Rating: R (overall)
Wordcount: 5,705
SPOILERS: The Dark Knight Rises
Summary: After the events of TDKR, things in Gotham go back to normal and Gordon is getting used to working with a new Batman - until a familiar face is spotted around the city.
Author's Notes: The more I read this, the more I am convinced there's something not right in this chapter, though at present I can't identify what it might be. (Once again constructive criticism is most welcome, and I apologise if there are any glaring mistakes - it is quite possible something will have escaped my attention.)
Previous Chapters:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
-------
Chapter 3:
The Things for Which Men, and Especially Princes, are Praised or Blamed
Nearly eight hours after Blake had chased his interloper from the grounds of Wayne Manor, across the city in the old naval district of South Hinkley Gordon let himself into his apartment. Ten minutes later he was out on the fire escape; both hands cupped around a cigarette and his lighter, a mug of strong black coffee balanced on the rail next to him.
Closing his eyes for a moment he inhaled deeply, drawing the smoke into his lungs, already beginning to feel it take the edge off his raw nerves. He’d quit years ago when Barbara first became pregnant with Jimmy and he had since stayed largely clean; but every once in a while something bad would come along on a case that would bring back the craving so hard it was like he was trying to quit all over again. On nights such as those Gordon felt he could be forgiven for lighting up, and tonight had been bad.
In Gotham ‘bad’ could take many forms. A flood of petty crime could be bad; too much going on with their forces spread too thinly, which was what Gordon called the ordinary sort of bad. A step up from that was the more unusual, such as the Joker incident and the Crisis; the former of which had been bad - nerve-shattering so - and the latter very bad indeed. Tonight was yet again a different sort of bad, but bad nonetheless; they’d found the body of Anna Sanchez, Johnny Franks’ girlfriend, dismembered and dumped round the back of a Thai restaurant four blocks away from where Franks had been left the night before. They were yet to conduct a detailed post mortem, but the initial examination showed indications of her having been alive - and conscious - as she was dismembered. One of the rookie patrolmen on the scene had vomited noisily into the gutter when they’d uncovered the head, and even now the memory of the expression on her face made Gordon give an involuntary shudder which had nothing to do with the cold. Sometimes he’d thought he’d seen it all, seen the worst Gotham could throw at them, then something like this would come along and he would be sharply reminded that there would always, always be something or somebody worse.
Leaning on the edge of the fire escape Gordon exhaled with a heavy sigh, watching the smoke curl away thick and white in the bitterly cold air. From where he was now he could see through the gaps in the alleyways across to Tricorner where the colossal Statue of Justice stood looking blindly out into the Bay, illuminated brightly against the dark cityscape. Post-Crisis the district of South Hinkley had undergone a ‘gentrification’ - at least that was what the developers and real estate brochures had called it - though thankfully it had gotten off quite lightly compared to Granton or the Sheal Docklands, which were a lot closer to Uptown. Friends and colleagues, particularly those at City Hall, kept on insisting that Gordon’s position as commissioner meant he could easily afford something better in Midtown or Endsbury, even after deducting maintenance from his salary; but Gordon resented the principle of moving simply for the sake of appearances. Besides, he liked Hinkley; it was here that he and Barbara had first set up house together as newlyweds, back in the days when it had been a cheap but semi-respectable neighbourhood. That house was long-gone now, and their last in West Harlow sold shortly after the divorce seven years ago, as living alone meant that he could afford to downsize - which was how Gordon had found himself back where he’d started in Gotham over two decades ago. The apartment had met his few requirements perfectly; it was in reasonable repair, not too modern in design, in a fairly quiet neighbourhood - and most importantly it was located on the first floor; not too high up as to be an exhausting climb after coming off shift, and not too far to drop from the fire escape should a hasty exit be required without using the front door. Anyone chasing him would lose valuable minutes getting back down to street level again.
Thinking about it, it was probably not a good sign that he had chosen a place to live with the thought of thwarting potential assassination attempts in mind, but Gordon reasoned that he would rather be paranoid and alive than careless and dead. Still, paranoid or not, the view if nothing else was an improvement from his last house. Lady Gotham, as she was more commonly known, had been commissioned during the tenure of Judge Solomon Wayne (Another damn Wayne. Was there any point in Gotham’s history that didn’t involve a Wayne?) and predated the Statue of Liberty by a good twenty years. Gordon didn’t know much history, but it was impossible to be a cop in Gotham and not know about Solomon Wayne; as the founder of the city’s first police force every cadet got the potted lecture on his or her first day at the Academy. Gordon liked Lady Gotham. Unlike most depictions of Justice she held her sword not simply as a decorative warning, but drawn back and ready to strike, and as such the commissioner had always felt that she summed up the character of the city perfectly; elegant, uncompromising and deadly. He sometimes wondered if those had been the sentiments old Solomon had dictated to the sculptor when commissioning the statue; and even if they weren't, they had certainly been embodied in his descendent.
And he was back to thinking about Bruce, wasn’t he?
Gordon took another drag from his cigarette. The night before Bruce’s funeral he, Lucius, Alfred and Blake had gathered for an impromptu wake in the manor’s kitchen where they had all, as Alfred quite eloquently put it, gotten ‘thoroughly disgraceful’. They had talked well into the early hours of the morning, each of them sharing stories about whichever facet of the man they had known, their shared experiences finally piecing together the real Bruce Wayne who in life had hidden so well behind the twin masks of Batman and Brucie. Gordon and Blake had sat listening slack-jawed as Alfred and Lucius talked about Bruce’s seven year absence after Joe Chill’s murder, his training with the League of Shadows, why he chose the Bat, the adoption of the playboy persona, Fox’s supposed coup of Wayne Enterprises, the seizure of Lau from his stronghold in Hong Kong, Rachel Dawes’ death - even the real reasons behind the burning down of Wayne Manor and the crash of the Lamborghini during the Joker incident. Blake in turn had spoken of Bruce’s last few days before his capture by Bane, and then Gordon had told them about the Batman; how on their first meeting he’d been held up by his own stapler, the instinctive bond of trust forged between them during the Narrows business, those meetings on his back porch and the roof of the MCU, how he had found a kindred spirit in his dark, silent friend... and how no one, not even he, had guessed that Gotham’s Dark Knight was in truth also its Prince.
Yet that night, miraculously retaining some shred of better judgement through the haze of drink, Gordon had not spoken of the sense of betrayal he had felt during those eight years of silence. Nothing. For eight years, nothing. All that time wondering where the Batman had gone, if he was even still alive; and then in the hospital he had woken to the feel of a warm, callused hand grasping his and a voice, deep and gentle, whispering his name. Though exhausted and half-blind without his glasses, Gordon had known instinctively it was his old friend.
We were in this together, and then you were gone.
Gordon sighed, rubbing at his tired eyes. He seemed to be thinking a lot about Bruce lately. A year on from that night and things had steadily been improving; they’d rounded up all but a few of the escapees from Blackgate, the repairs to the city’s infrastructure were nearly complete, funds were flooding into the police department, Blake was going from strength to strength in his training... So why, when things were going so well, did Gordon know that now more than ever he would trade it all in a heartbeat if it meant he could bring Bruce back?
Picking up his mug he glanced at his watch. 2:37 am. He should go to bed, try and get some sleep before heading back to the MCU for the start of First Shift at 8:30, not be standing out here in the snow drinking more coffee. But in truth there was not much point in trying; he slept very little these days, usually surviving on a few hours each night - what sleep he did get irregular and never restful - and somewhere along the line he had fallen out of the habit of dreaming. Yet on the nights when Gordon was truly drained, typically after a particularly vicious killing or weeks of pushing himself on an unusually complex case, he would close his eyes and be haunted by images of dark streets hungry for blood, laughing men with chalk-white faces, the sharp crack of gunfire and sirens shattering the night; and the burning, vengeful eyes of a monstrous bat-winged creature spawned from the shadows itself. All in all, Gordon was grateful he hardly ever dreamed anymore.
In the past eight years the nightmare had changed to reflect the reality; the dark streets were still hungry but empty, and the nightmare scenario was now not the bat-creature itself, but the fact that it was no longer there. Years before when he had woken from his nightmares he’d always found Barbara holding him, whispering soothing nonsense to him in a weary, long-suffering manner; these days he slept alone, and with no one for him to come home to he was spending more and more time at the office. There was hardly any reason for him to, except to sleep or find a change of clothes; all the people he cared about were either at work, the other side of the country or… not here.
Gone. Not here. Why couldn’t he bring himself to use the word ‘dead’?
Thinking back to the time before the Joker incident, Gordon recalled those nights when the Batman would meet him not on the roof of the MCU, but out on the back porch of his house. They had still hardly exchanged more than a few sentences and never talked anything but shop, but during those eight years of silence Gordon had come to cling to the memory of those nights as something far more intimate - and there was his other reason for moving back to Hinkley, as it was amongst the trash cans not three blocks from here that the Batman had let Gordon see him for the first time. He’d picked out this apartment with its suitably secluded fire escape in the belief that he might once again receive a night time visitor, even though at the time the prospect had been becoming increasingly remote, and it was not often Gordon would allow himself to admit that he had dared to hope.
It had often been on a night like this, when things were bad, that the Batman had come to him. He’d always disapprove when he found Gordon smoking - muttering something about heart attacks and the inside of his lungs, that he had kids and he should know better - before going on to discuss the case in question. A night just like this. In his head Gordon could practically hear the disapproving growl rumbling out of the shadows. He would smile humourlessly, turn and find- But no, Bruce wasn’t there, and he never would be again. His Batman was gone, gone for good... and yet Jim could not understand why he was finding it so hard to remember that.
He looked down at the cigarette clutched between his fingers, of which he’d only smoked half, and it suddenly occurred to him that though he had always rebuked him for it, the Batman had never once stopped him from lighting up. Feeling a pang of guilt Gordon stubbed out what was left on the wall behind him, throwing the end into the trash, picked up his coffee and headed back inside.
That night he dreamed of the soft rustle of black silk against the window pane, and a pair of bright hazel eyes burning not with vengeance, but regret.
-------
Sometimes Bullock’s background in Vice had the habit of resurfacing at the worst moments, and as a result there were some conversations that took place in Major Crimes which Gordon promptly wished he had never walked into. Today was no exception.
“- really not interested, Harvey!” Chandler scolded as Jim stepped into the bullpen from the hallway, a copy of the morning’s Gotham Times in one hand and an americano in the other. Bullock shrugged, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“Sure, I get it,” he said. "But there’s no denying the Bat-Freak’s a masochist. It’s his kink.”
There was a beat of silence in which Gordon just knew that everyone in the room, himself included, was visualising the Batman tied up in various compromising positions and getting off on whips and chains. His suspicion was confirmed when each of the detectives gave a near simultaneous shudder of revulsion.
“I hate you, Bullock!” Renee whined, rubbing her forehead in an attempt to erase the image from her mind. Bullock smiled at her sweetly.
“Nah, you love me really, Montoya.”
“Boss?” Someone waved a hand in front of Gordon’s face. It was Davies. “Boss, you ok?”
“Sorry, what?” Gordon was brought back to the present, feeling more than a little stunned. Unlike the other detectives the mention of the Batman had immediately connected itself with Bruce in Gordon’s head, and had become a vision of Bruce Wayne - cuffed, naked and vulnerable - tied to a bed in a very compromising position indeed. Davies meanwhile scowled at Bullock.
“You idiot, Harvey, you’ve scarred him for life!”
“Sorry, boss.” Bullock looked suitably contrite now he was aware of the commissioner’s presence. “Didn’t see you come in.”
“Next time remind me to knock,” Gordon murmured, playing up apparent shell-shock, though he couldn’t deny that he’d found the image appealing; which immediately begged the question of since when had he found the prospect of fucking Bruce Wayne attractive? Bullock let out a bark of laughter, but Davis however still looked worried.
“Sure you’ll be ok, boss?” he asked, taking Jim by the shoulders and looking searchingly at his face, his brow creased with such genuine concern it had to be fake. “Do you need to sit down? I can get the trauma team here in two minutes. How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Three and a half,” Gordon said flatly, dropping all pretence at trauma. “Get out of the road, Davies.”
Davis grinned broadly, stepping to one side and holding up his hands placatingly.
“Okay, okay! But don’t blame me if you go into shock when no one’s watching.”
Gordon slammed his office door shut on him, depositing the coffee and paper with its headline ‘Dealer’s Girlfriend Found Dismembered In Dumpster’ emblazoned across the front page on his hopelessly cluttered desk, peeling off his snow-damp coat and crossing to the window where he leant his forehead against the cool glass. God, he needed to sleep! On the other hand, as last night had been bad enough without dreaming of the Batman (or, more accurately, the lack of a Batman) maybe the answer was not sleep; though Christ knew what it might be instead. He sighed as the intercom buzzed, and turning away from the window Gordon dug the office phone out from under the paperwork, pressing the button to pick up.
“Yes, Stacy?”
“Mike Engel from GCN’s here for that interview you scheduled.”
Gordon resisted the urge to swear. It seemed that there would be no respite this morning; but after the events of last night it was not like he had expected one. Engel had been on at him for weeks for an interview about his part in the Crisis and the city’s reconstruction to form part of a series of programs marking the anniversary of Gotham’s liberation. When Gordon had refused Engel had simply gone over his head to the mayor’s office, who had insisted that the commissioner toe the line. A pity, as Gordon had been able to forget about it for a while - and the press conference he would be giving in two hours' time about Anna Sanchez.
“Send him on in,” he said, then sat down at his desk and steeled himself for the worst. Approximately two seconds later there was a knock at the door and Mike Engel stepped into the room, dressed neatly in one of his trademark pale grey suits - but, surprisingly, no one else followed the newscaster in.
“Mr. Engel,” Gordon said, rising to shake his hand, indicating that he should pull up a chair. “Take a seat.”
“Commissioner,” Engel said, smiling thinly as he sat down. “Thank you to agreeing to see me at short notice, as I know you don’t ordinary like giving interviews. Mayor Andreas has explained the programme concept to you?”
“She has,” Gordon said neutrally, leaning back in his chair. Every journalist in Gotham and half of the Eastern Seaboard knew just how much he hated interviews. “Is your film crew on the way up?”
“This is more of a preliminary," Engel said smoothly. "Where we can discuss the material for the interview and how exactly we’re going to incorporate it.”
“I see.” But Gordon didn’t see. Though the commissioner usually shunned the media, he had done enough interviews and TV spots to know how it worked; and what Engel had described was not GCN’s way of operating at all. It cost time and money to send reporters and camera crew out of the studio, so why was Engel wasting time by coming here alone?
“You see, commissioner,” Engel continued, taking out his ballpoint and opening his notepad to a fresh page. “We are putting together a special report documenting the actions of the GCPD during the Crisis, which is where we'll be looking to include your section; but we're also planning a tribute to some of the unsung heroes of the occupation - civilians who kept the medical shelters going, kept the food supplies running, those who may have joined you in the resistance..." Here Gordon noted a slight faltering in Engel's otherwise perfect nonchalance. "I feel that you could offer some insight. And also, if I am honest -”
“You mean you weren’t completely honest with me before?” Gordon said, lifting his eyebrows delicately. Engel grimaced, the touch of sarcasm in the commissioner’s voice not escaping him.
“Yes and no. You see, I do want to talk to you about your part in the Crisis and this year just past; but I also want to talk to you about someone else.”
Gordon didn’t say anything, just waited in silence for Engel to continue. It didn’t take long.
“I want to talk to you about Bruce Wayne.”
And there it was. Gordon sat there stonily, staring down Engel, to make sure he was on the level. Engel fidgeted in his seat a little, but met the commissioner's gaze. It wasn't a wind-up. Shit.
"Why?" Gordon asked.
"I'm sorry?"
“I said; 'Why'? I believe I have already told you all that I know about the murder of Bruce Wayne. Shortly after his funeral, as I recall.”
“You gave me a statement, yes,” Engel said. “But you haven’t told me all you know; not by any means.”
Gordon narrowed his eyes.
“Are you calling me a liar, Mr. Engel?”
At this point any other journalist, perhaps with the exception of the formidable Lois Lane, would have taken the hint to back down and steered the interview onto a safer subject; Engel however furnished Gordon with a grim smile.
“I was sixteen years an investigative journalist at the Daily Planet before I was offered my current job at GCN, commissioner, and in that time Perry White taught me three things; One - always get the streaker’s name and address. Two - when it comes to politics never believe anything until it’s been officially denied. And Three - know when I’m being lied to.”
Engel leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone, his blue eyes alight with excitement.
“And you’re the best liar of them all, Gordon, because you don't even lie; all you do is simply forget to tell the truth. No one remembers seeing Wayne at all during the Crisis, save for those last two days when he was captured. How did he evade Bane all that time? Did he have help? What was he doing? What do you know, commissioner?"
"Mr. Engel -"
"It's to do with the Batman, isn't it?" Engel continued, as if Gordon hadn't spoken. "You've been keeping an awful lot of secrets for him, haven't you? Like Harvey Dent. You actively chose to preserve the reputation of the man who threatened to kill your wife and children, and for what? For eight years you sat there, watching your so-called 'partner' hounded by your forces on a false charge, and all the while staying silent while Gotham fell apart at the seams -"
"That's enough!" Gordon was on his feet, slamming his fists down on the desk. With Engel stunned into silence he dropped his voice to just above a whisper, his words carrying an edge of winter ice. "Mr. Engel, either you substantiate your ridiculous conjectures with some hard evidence, or you do the decent thing and show some respect for the dead. And now, if there is nothing else, you can get the hell out of my office; I have a murder to solve."
Engel hesitated, wavering between leaving and pressing home his question, but he had the sense to see that he would get no answers from Gordon; especially with the commissioner in such a dangerous mood. Engel stood, tucking his notebook and pen into his jacket pocket, straightening his tie with considerable dignity.
"Thank you for your time, commissioner. Doubtless I'll see you later at the press conference?"
Then not waiting for a reply he turned on his heel and walked out of the office, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. Alone, Gordon lost no time in fumbling for his cell phone in his coat pocket, thankful that the number he needed was programmed into his speed-dial; he didn't trust his hands to stop shaking long enough to type it in. After only a couple of rings the other end of the line picked up.
“Blake.”
“It’s Gordon,” Jim said, making an effort to bite down on his anger. Obviously he wasn’t quite successful, as Blake picked up that something was off immediately.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Gordon lied, then relented; it didn't sound convincing even to him. “Well, nothing drastic. There’s a chance you’ll be getting a call from Mike Engel at GCN asking for an interview about the Crisis. Don’t agree to it, whatever you do; it’s a ploy to try and get at Bruce.”
“I consider myself warned,” Blake said, sounding vaguely bemused. “Anything else I should know?”
“No. I’ll see you later tonight.”
“Ok. Later.”
Gordon snapped the phone shut, the call ending just as there was a knock on the door and Stephens stepped into the office. The detective took one look at Gordon and shut the door behind him.
“You okay, boss?”
“I’m fine, Gerry,” Gordon answered, replacing the phone in his pocket with deliberate calm.
“Right, like I’m buying that,” Stephens snorted, arms folded across his chest. “That sounded like an interview Press Relations would've been proud of."
Gordon grimaced. "You heard?"
"Only the last bit when you told that creep to go fuck himself - which I would back you in saying one hundred percent. Davies is hoping for a repeat performance at the press conference later."
"I'll try not to disappoint."
Stephens' expression, however, told Gordon that he was clearly not buying his bullshit. As if Stephens ever would.
"Something’s eatin’ you, Jim," he said quietly. "Takes a lot to get you that riled; I should know. What did Engel want?"
For a brief moment Gordon considered insisting that he was 'fine' again, but who was he kidding? He shrugged, running a hand through his greying hair.
“He wants to do an exposé on Bruce Wayne's death and the Batman."
"Jesus," Stephens breathed. "Doesn't that asshole ever stop with the bullshit?"
"He’s blowing smoke. He thinks there’s a story in all this and he’s trying to get it out of me.” Gordon rubbed the bridge of his nose under his glasses. He felt suddenly drained. “Problem is he’s right.”
“Say what?”
"There was more to Bruce Wayne's death than I've let people believe," Gordon said wearily. "But it was simpler to let them think he was executed like all the rest."
"I forget sometimes you got close right at the end," Stephens said, watching Gordon carefully. "What happened, Jim? You never talk about that day. You know, if you need to talk about it, you can tell me, right?”
Gordon studied Stephens warily, and the other detective immediately caught onto this hesitancy and sighed, rolling his eyes.
“Unless of course it’s about the Bat. It is about the Bat, isn't it? You’re wearing your ‘I’m-worried-about-Batman-and-I-can’t-tell-anybody’ look.”
“I am?” Gordon blinked in surprise. This was news to him, and slightly worrying news at that. Was he really that easy to read? Barbara used to say she could always read him like a book, especially when he was lying.
“Been seeing it a lot lately,” Stephens said simply.
Apparently so. Gordon met Stephens' gaze steadily. He trusted the detective with his life - had done so on several occasions - but could he tell him this? He wanted to. God knew how much Gordon wanted to tell anyone - everyone - just how wrong they had been about Bruce Wayne, how much he had sacrificed for the city he loved and how he had paid the ultimate price for his devotion. But he couldn't tell the whole truth. The whole truth would reveal Bruce as the Batman and ultimately lead to Lucius, Alfred and Blake; and he had no energy left to lie. He shook his head.
“Now’s not the time,” he said. “I’ll tell you this, though; he was braver than anyone ever gave him credit for - hopefully one day I'll be able to say why.”
Stephens stood silently for a moment, then nodded his head in acknowledgement.
"You know, I always thought he was just another rich dickhead," Stephens said, perching on the edge of Gordon's desk, arms folded. "But you gotta figure, after the life he had, he was just another screwed-up kid. You'd think if anyone deserved to finally be left alone, it'd be him."
Gordon knew that Stephens was thinking of that night over thirty years ago when Thomas and Martha Wayne had been killed. They had both been rookies then; Gordon on the desk that night, Stephens one of the beat cops pulled in off the street to keep the seething mass of reporters at bay outside police headquarters. When Bruce had finally left they’d had to link arms to clear a path for him, as if they were facing down a union strike or something, and even then it had taken all their strength to keep the crowd from swallowing Gotham’s little prince whole. Gordon had hated Loeb for making the kid run that gauntlet. If Chill had got away Bruce would have been quietly smuggled out the back door, left to come to terms with his loss in peace; but Chill had been caught, and though the Waynes’ deaths were a tragedy Loeb was eager for the opportunity to show justice swiftly and efficiently served in Gotham. So Bruce Wayne had been taken out the front entrance, escorted down the steps and into a waiting Bentley whilst a coldly dignified Alfred Pennyworth had done his best to shield the terrified nine-year-old from the camera flashes.
Back in the present day Gordon indicated the slim manila folder Stephens had been brandishing on his way in, now tucked under the detective's arm. “What’s that you got there?”
“This? I was thinking about what the rookie said yesterday -” Stephens said, holding out the file for Gordon to inspect. “- ‘bout Malone turning up so conveniently with the gangs at each others’ throats. Thought I’d take a look at his file again; refresh my memory, so to speak, if we’re going to be dealing with him again.”
“Good chance we will,” Gordon said, taking the file and flicking through it. Joseph Malone, alias “Matches”; so called after his habit of walking around with a matchstick clenched between his teeth, ready to strike at a moments’ notice. Gordon remembered the gangster well from his few previous brushes with him. Malone was brash and annoying; not the sharpest knife in the drawer by any means, well in with all of the families but largely steering clear of the dirtier business deals - and, as far as they knew, he’d never ordered anyone killed. Still that had been nine years ago, and a lot could change in nine years. He should know.
"Also got me thinking about Johnny Franks," Stephens continued, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Franks was a contact for Malone whenever he was dealing meth. May not come to anything much, but I reckon there's a chance Malone might know something we don't - like why someone thought it'd be a good idea to put Johnny and his girlfriend out with the trash."
"Malone's no informer. If we do find something to bring him in on, chances are he won't talk to us."
Stephens gave him a significant look.
"I wasn't thinking it would be us asking the questions," he said with quiet emphasis.
All at once Gordon's gut started twisting itself in knots. Stephens was actually asking him to sic the Batman on Malone? True, it was highly unlikely that they would get anything out of Malone themselves, yet even so... And was Blake up to it? He'd come a long way in a year, but was he ready for something like this? There were times when he was still thinking like a cop - that perp getting free outside the library proved as much- And Gordon bit down aggressively on that train of thought, telling himself to stop it. If it had been Bruce he wouldn't have even been asking such questions; he'd have been up on that roof, switching on the signal and trusting in the Batman's ability to do what was needed without a second's hesitation. Blake didn't deserve any lesser treatment than he would have given Bruce.
“Do we have an address?” he asked, feeling ashamed of himself and trying to hide it by flicking back to the front of the rather slender file to study Malone’s mugshot.
“Not for Matches,” Stephens replied, apparently oblivious to his boss' intensely brief conflict of emotions. “He’s showing some smarts for once and lying low, but he kept a girl when he was last in Gotham; some two-bit hooker by the name of Sukie Jones, works the corner of Grove and Twenty-Third. If he’s looking up old friends there’s a chance he’s been to see her.”
“Send Bullock and Montoya round to talk to her. If she knows where he is there’s a chance...”
His voice dried up in his throat, however, as he looked over Malone’s photograph. It couldn’t be. He had to be imagining it.
“Jim?”
“I’m cracking up, Gerry," Gordon muttered. "It’s finally happening.”
“Why, what’s up?”
“Remind you of anyone?” Gordon detached the mugshot from the file and slid it over the desk to him. Stephens frowned, picking up the picture and looking it over.
“Tyrone Power?” he hazarded after about half a minute.
“Without the moustache.”
Stephens looked again, his brow creasing in concentration, and a moment later his eyes grew wide in astonishment.
“Holy fuck!”
“Oh good,” Gordon said flatly, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Glad I’m not the only one going crazy ‘round here.”
“You reckon that’s what this ‘ghost’ business is, then?” Stephens asked, tapping the photo. “People thinking they’ve seen Wayne when really it’s Malone?”
“Were it that simple,” Gordon sighed. “But the sightings have definitely been of Wayne, not some guy with a moustache who looks a lot like him in a bad light.”
“Yeah, that would be too simple,” Stephens agreed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully and glancing at the photo again. “’S funny; I never noticed before. Probably those stupid glasses of his.”
“Must be it,” Gordon muttered, and though his gut was insisting otherwise he pushed the feeling to one side; he had better and much more urgent things to worry about than an overgrown tabloid hoax. “Let Bullock and Montoya know they’re to pay Sukie a visit; you head on down to the mortuary to see what else they’ve been able to get on Anna Sanchez.”
Left alone once again Gordon sagged back in his chair and reached for his coffee, only to find it had gone cold. There would be no time to go out and get a fresh cup before his briefing for the press conference on Anna Sanchez, either. Perfect. Sighing audibly, Gordon got up and headed for the microwave, huddled in the bullpen's small kitchenette between the sink and the coffeemaker. As he tipped the contents of the paper cup into a mug and punched the keypad, the question he'd asked himself earlier that morning resurfaced unbidden in his mind: Since when had he started to find the idea of fucking Bruce Wayne attractive?
Yet the answer, when it came to him, was pathetically simple; ever since he had put a name to the face behind that cowl.
-------
Chapter 4: Generosity and Parsimony
Title: "The Prince's Ghost" (3/11)
Pairing/Characters: Bruce Wayne/Jim Gordon, John Blake, Lucius Fox, Gerard Stephens, Renee Montoya, Harvey Bullock, Mike Engel
Rating: R (overall)
Wordcount: 5,705
SPOILERS: The Dark Knight Rises
Summary: After the events of TDKR, things in Gotham go back to normal and Gordon is getting used to working with a new Batman - until a familiar face is spotted around the city.
Author's Notes: The more I read this, the more I am convinced there's something not right in this chapter, though at present I can't identify what it might be. (Once again constructive criticism is most welcome, and I apologise if there are any glaring mistakes - it is quite possible something will have escaped my attention.)
Previous Chapters:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
-------
Chapter 3:
The Things for Which Men, and Especially Princes, are Praised or Blamed
Nearly eight hours after Blake had chased his interloper from the grounds of Wayne Manor, across the city in the old naval district of South Hinkley Gordon let himself into his apartment. Ten minutes later he was out on the fire escape; both hands cupped around a cigarette and his lighter, a mug of strong black coffee balanced on the rail next to him.
Closing his eyes for a moment he inhaled deeply, drawing the smoke into his lungs, already beginning to feel it take the edge off his raw nerves. He’d quit years ago when Barbara first became pregnant with Jimmy and he had since stayed largely clean; but every once in a while something bad would come along on a case that would bring back the craving so hard it was like he was trying to quit all over again. On nights such as those Gordon felt he could be forgiven for lighting up, and tonight had been bad.
In Gotham ‘bad’ could take many forms. A flood of petty crime could be bad; too much going on with their forces spread too thinly, which was what Gordon called the ordinary sort of bad. A step up from that was the more unusual, such as the Joker incident and the Crisis; the former of which had been bad - nerve-shattering so - and the latter very bad indeed. Tonight was yet again a different sort of bad, but bad nonetheless; they’d found the body of Anna Sanchez, Johnny Franks’ girlfriend, dismembered and dumped round the back of a Thai restaurant four blocks away from where Franks had been left the night before. They were yet to conduct a detailed post mortem, but the initial examination showed indications of her having been alive - and conscious - as she was dismembered. One of the rookie patrolmen on the scene had vomited noisily into the gutter when they’d uncovered the head, and even now the memory of the expression on her face made Gordon give an involuntary shudder which had nothing to do with the cold. Sometimes he’d thought he’d seen it all, seen the worst Gotham could throw at them, then something like this would come along and he would be sharply reminded that there would always, always be something or somebody worse.
Leaning on the edge of the fire escape Gordon exhaled with a heavy sigh, watching the smoke curl away thick and white in the bitterly cold air. From where he was now he could see through the gaps in the alleyways across to Tricorner where the colossal Statue of Justice stood looking blindly out into the Bay, illuminated brightly against the dark cityscape. Post-Crisis the district of South Hinkley had undergone a ‘gentrification’ - at least that was what the developers and real estate brochures had called it - though thankfully it had gotten off quite lightly compared to Granton or the Sheal Docklands, which were a lot closer to Uptown. Friends and colleagues, particularly those at City Hall, kept on insisting that Gordon’s position as commissioner meant he could easily afford something better in Midtown or Endsbury, even after deducting maintenance from his salary; but Gordon resented the principle of moving simply for the sake of appearances. Besides, he liked Hinkley; it was here that he and Barbara had first set up house together as newlyweds, back in the days when it had been a cheap but semi-respectable neighbourhood. That house was long-gone now, and their last in West Harlow sold shortly after the divorce seven years ago, as living alone meant that he could afford to downsize - which was how Gordon had found himself back where he’d started in Gotham over two decades ago. The apartment had met his few requirements perfectly; it was in reasonable repair, not too modern in design, in a fairly quiet neighbourhood - and most importantly it was located on the first floor; not too high up as to be an exhausting climb after coming off shift, and not too far to drop from the fire escape should a hasty exit be required without using the front door. Anyone chasing him would lose valuable minutes getting back down to street level again.
Thinking about it, it was probably not a good sign that he had chosen a place to live with the thought of thwarting potential assassination attempts in mind, but Gordon reasoned that he would rather be paranoid and alive than careless and dead. Still, paranoid or not, the view if nothing else was an improvement from his last house. Lady Gotham, as she was more commonly known, had been commissioned during the tenure of Judge Solomon Wayne (Another damn Wayne. Was there any point in Gotham’s history that didn’t involve a Wayne?) and predated the Statue of Liberty by a good twenty years. Gordon didn’t know much history, but it was impossible to be a cop in Gotham and not know about Solomon Wayne; as the founder of the city’s first police force every cadet got the potted lecture on his or her first day at the Academy. Gordon liked Lady Gotham. Unlike most depictions of Justice she held her sword not simply as a decorative warning, but drawn back and ready to strike, and as such the commissioner had always felt that she summed up the character of the city perfectly; elegant, uncompromising and deadly. He sometimes wondered if those had been the sentiments old Solomon had dictated to the sculptor when commissioning the statue; and even if they weren't, they had certainly been embodied in his descendent.
And he was back to thinking about Bruce, wasn’t he?
Gordon took another drag from his cigarette. The night before Bruce’s funeral he, Lucius, Alfred and Blake had gathered for an impromptu wake in the manor’s kitchen where they had all, as Alfred quite eloquently put it, gotten ‘thoroughly disgraceful’. They had talked well into the early hours of the morning, each of them sharing stories about whichever facet of the man they had known, their shared experiences finally piecing together the real Bruce Wayne who in life had hidden so well behind the twin masks of Batman and Brucie. Gordon and Blake had sat listening slack-jawed as Alfred and Lucius talked about Bruce’s seven year absence after Joe Chill’s murder, his training with the League of Shadows, why he chose the Bat, the adoption of the playboy persona, Fox’s supposed coup of Wayne Enterprises, the seizure of Lau from his stronghold in Hong Kong, Rachel Dawes’ death - even the real reasons behind the burning down of Wayne Manor and the crash of the Lamborghini during the Joker incident. Blake in turn had spoken of Bruce’s last few days before his capture by Bane, and then Gordon had told them about the Batman; how on their first meeting he’d been held up by his own stapler, the instinctive bond of trust forged between them during the Narrows business, those meetings on his back porch and the roof of the MCU, how he had found a kindred spirit in his dark, silent friend... and how no one, not even he, had guessed that Gotham’s Dark Knight was in truth also its Prince.
Yet that night, miraculously retaining some shred of better judgement through the haze of drink, Gordon had not spoken of the sense of betrayal he had felt during those eight years of silence. Nothing. For eight years, nothing. All that time wondering where the Batman had gone, if he was even still alive; and then in the hospital he had woken to the feel of a warm, callused hand grasping his and a voice, deep and gentle, whispering his name. Though exhausted and half-blind without his glasses, Gordon had known instinctively it was his old friend.
We were in this together, and then you were gone.
Gordon sighed, rubbing at his tired eyes. He seemed to be thinking a lot about Bruce lately. A year on from that night and things had steadily been improving; they’d rounded up all but a few of the escapees from Blackgate, the repairs to the city’s infrastructure were nearly complete, funds were flooding into the police department, Blake was going from strength to strength in his training... So why, when things were going so well, did Gordon know that now more than ever he would trade it all in a heartbeat if it meant he could bring Bruce back?
Picking up his mug he glanced at his watch. 2:37 am. He should go to bed, try and get some sleep before heading back to the MCU for the start of First Shift at 8:30, not be standing out here in the snow drinking more coffee. But in truth there was not much point in trying; he slept very little these days, usually surviving on a few hours each night - what sleep he did get irregular and never restful - and somewhere along the line he had fallen out of the habit of dreaming. Yet on the nights when Gordon was truly drained, typically after a particularly vicious killing or weeks of pushing himself on an unusually complex case, he would close his eyes and be haunted by images of dark streets hungry for blood, laughing men with chalk-white faces, the sharp crack of gunfire and sirens shattering the night; and the burning, vengeful eyes of a monstrous bat-winged creature spawned from the shadows itself. All in all, Gordon was grateful he hardly ever dreamed anymore.
In the past eight years the nightmare had changed to reflect the reality; the dark streets were still hungry but empty, and the nightmare scenario was now not the bat-creature itself, but the fact that it was no longer there. Years before when he had woken from his nightmares he’d always found Barbara holding him, whispering soothing nonsense to him in a weary, long-suffering manner; these days he slept alone, and with no one for him to come home to he was spending more and more time at the office. There was hardly any reason for him to, except to sleep or find a change of clothes; all the people he cared about were either at work, the other side of the country or… not here.
Gone. Not here. Why couldn’t he bring himself to use the word ‘dead’?
Thinking back to the time before the Joker incident, Gordon recalled those nights when the Batman would meet him not on the roof of the MCU, but out on the back porch of his house. They had still hardly exchanged more than a few sentences and never talked anything but shop, but during those eight years of silence Gordon had come to cling to the memory of those nights as something far more intimate - and there was his other reason for moving back to Hinkley, as it was amongst the trash cans not three blocks from here that the Batman had let Gordon see him for the first time. He’d picked out this apartment with its suitably secluded fire escape in the belief that he might once again receive a night time visitor, even though at the time the prospect had been becoming increasingly remote, and it was not often Gordon would allow himself to admit that he had dared to hope.
It had often been on a night like this, when things were bad, that the Batman had come to him. He’d always disapprove when he found Gordon smoking - muttering something about heart attacks and the inside of his lungs, that he had kids and he should know better - before going on to discuss the case in question. A night just like this. In his head Gordon could practically hear the disapproving growl rumbling out of the shadows. He would smile humourlessly, turn and find- But no, Bruce wasn’t there, and he never would be again. His Batman was gone, gone for good... and yet Jim could not understand why he was finding it so hard to remember that.
He looked down at the cigarette clutched between his fingers, of which he’d only smoked half, and it suddenly occurred to him that though he had always rebuked him for it, the Batman had never once stopped him from lighting up. Feeling a pang of guilt Gordon stubbed out what was left on the wall behind him, throwing the end into the trash, picked up his coffee and headed back inside.
That night he dreamed of the soft rustle of black silk against the window pane, and a pair of bright hazel eyes burning not with vengeance, but regret.
-------
Sometimes Bullock’s background in Vice had the habit of resurfacing at the worst moments, and as a result there were some conversations that took place in Major Crimes which Gordon promptly wished he had never walked into. Today was no exception.
“- really not interested, Harvey!” Chandler scolded as Jim stepped into the bullpen from the hallway, a copy of the morning’s Gotham Times in one hand and an americano in the other. Bullock shrugged, holding up his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“Sure, I get it,” he said. "But there’s no denying the Bat-Freak’s a masochist. It’s his kink.”
There was a beat of silence in which Gordon just knew that everyone in the room, himself included, was visualising the Batman tied up in various compromising positions and getting off on whips and chains. His suspicion was confirmed when each of the detectives gave a near simultaneous shudder of revulsion.
“I hate you, Bullock!” Renee whined, rubbing her forehead in an attempt to erase the image from her mind. Bullock smiled at her sweetly.
“Nah, you love me really, Montoya.”
“Boss?” Someone waved a hand in front of Gordon’s face. It was Davies. “Boss, you ok?”
“Sorry, what?” Gordon was brought back to the present, feeling more than a little stunned. Unlike the other detectives the mention of the Batman had immediately connected itself with Bruce in Gordon’s head, and had become a vision of Bruce Wayne - cuffed, naked and vulnerable - tied to a bed in a very compromising position indeed. Davies meanwhile scowled at Bullock.
“You idiot, Harvey, you’ve scarred him for life!”
“Sorry, boss.” Bullock looked suitably contrite now he was aware of the commissioner’s presence. “Didn’t see you come in.”
“Next time remind me to knock,” Gordon murmured, playing up apparent shell-shock, though he couldn’t deny that he’d found the image appealing; which immediately begged the question of since when had he found the prospect of fucking Bruce Wayne attractive? Bullock let out a bark of laughter, but Davis however still looked worried.
“Sure you’ll be ok, boss?” he asked, taking Jim by the shoulders and looking searchingly at his face, his brow creased with such genuine concern it had to be fake. “Do you need to sit down? I can get the trauma team here in two minutes. How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Three and a half,” Gordon said flatly, dropping all pretence at trauma. “Get out of the road, Davies.”
Davis grinned broadly, stepping to one side and holding up his hands placatingly.
“Okay, okay! But don’t blame me if you go into shock when no one’s watching.”
Gordon slammed his office door shut on him, depositing the coffee and paper with its headline ‘Dealer’s Girlfriend Found Dismembered In Dumpster’ emblazoned across the front page on his hopelessly cluttered desk, peeling off his snow-damp coat and crossing to the window where he leant his forehead against the cool glass. God, he needed to sleep! On the other hand, as last night had been bad enough without dreaming of the Batman (or, more accurately, the lack of a Batman) maybe the answer was not sleep; though Christ knew what it might be instead. He sighed as the intercom buzzed, and turning away from the window Gordon dug the office phone out from under the paperwork, pressing the button to pick up.
“Yes, Stacy?”
“Mike Engel from GCN’s here for that interview you scheduled.”
Gordon resisted the urge to swear. It seemed that there would be no respite this morning; but after the events of last night it was not like he had expected one. Engel had been on at him for weeks for an interview about his part in the Crisis and the city’s reconstruction to form part of a series of programs marking the anniversary of Gotham’s liberation. When Gordon had refused Engel had simply gone over his head to the mayor’s office, who had insisted that the commissioner toe the line. A pity, as Gordon had been able to forget about it for a while - and the press conference he would be giving in two hours' time about Anna Sanchez.
“Send him on in,” he said, then sat down at his desk and steeled himself for the worst. Approximately two seconds later there was a knock at the door and Mike Engel stepped into the room, dressed neatly in one of his trademark pale grey suits - but, surprisingly, no one else followed the newscaster in.
“Mr. Engel,” Gordon said, rising to shake his hand, indicating that he should pull up a chair. “Take a seat.”
“Commissioner,” Engel said, smiling thinly as he sat down. “Thank you to agreeing to see me at short notice, as I know you don’t ordinary like giving interviews. Mayor Andreas has explained the programme concept to you?”
“She has,” Gordon said neutrally, leaning back in his chair. Every journalist in Gotham and half of the Eastern Seaboard knew just how much he hated interviews. “Is your film crew on the way up?”
“This is more of a preliminary," Engel said smoothly. "Where we can discuss the material for the interview and how exactly we’re going to incorporate it.”
“I see.” But Gordon didn’t see. Though the commissioner usually shunned the media, he had done enough interviews and TV spots to know how it worked; and what Engel had described was not GCN’s way of operating at all. It cost time and money to send reporters and camera crew out of the studio, so why was Engel wasting time by coming here alone?
“You see, commissioner,” Engel continued, taking out his ballpoint and opening his notepad to a fresh page. “We are putting together a special report documenting the actions of the GCPD during the Crisis, which is where we'll be looking to include your section; but we're also planning a tribute to some of the unsung heroes of the occupation - civilians who kept the medical shelters going, kept the food supplies running, those who may have joined you in the resistance..." Here Gordon noted a slight faltering in Engel's otherwise perfect nonchalance. "I feel that you could offer some insight. And also, if I am honest -”
“You mean you weren’t completely honest with me before?” Gordon said, lifting his eyebrows delicately. Engel grimaced, the touch of sarcasm in the commissioner’s voice not escaping him.
“Yes and no. You see, I do want to talk to you about your part in the Crisis and this year just past; but I also want to talk to you about someone else.”
Gordon didn’t say anything, just waited in silence for Engel to continue. It didn’t take long.
“I want to talk to you about Bruce Wayne.”
And there it was. Gordon sat there stonily, staring down Engel, to make sure he was on the level. Engel fidgeted in his seat a little, but met the commissioner's gaze. It wasn't a wind-up. Shit.
"Why?" Gordon asked.
"I'm sorry?"
“I said; 'Why'? I believe I have already told you all that I know about the murder of Bruce Wayne. Shortly after his funeral, as I recall.”
“You gave me a statement, yes,” Engel said. “But you haven’t told me all you know; not by any means.”
Gordon narrowed his eyes.
“Are you calling me a liar, Mr. Engel?”
At this point any other journalist, perhaps with the exception of the formidable Lois Lane, would have taken the hint to back down and steered the interview onto a safer subject; Engel however furnished Gordon with a grim smile.
“I was sixteen years an investigative journalist at the Daily Planet before I was offered my current job at GCN, commissioner, and in that time Perry White taught me three things; One - always get the streaker’s name and address. Two - when it comes to politics never believe anything until it’s been officially denied. And Three - know when I’m being lied to.”
Engel leaned forward, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial tone, his blue eyes alight with excitement.
“And you’re the best liar of them all, Gordon, because you don't even lie; all you do is simply forget to tell the truth. No one remembers seeing Wayne at all during the Crisis, save for those last two days when he was captured. How did he evade Bane all that time? Did he have help? What was he doing? What do you know, commissioner?"
"Mr. Engel -"
"It's to do with the Batman, isn't it?" Engel continued, as if Gordon hadn't spoken. "You've been keeping an awful lot of secrets for him, haven't you? Like Harvey Dent. You actively chose to preserve the reputation of the man who threatened to kill your wife and children, and for what? For eight years you sat there, watching your so-called 'partner' hounded by your forces on a false charge, and all the while staying silent while Gotham fell apart at the seams -"
"That's enough!" Gordon was on his feet, slamming his fists down on the desk. With Engel stunned into silence he dropped his voice to just above a whisper, his words carrying an edge of winter ice. "Mr. Engel, either you substantiate your ridiculous conjectures with some hard evidence, or you do the decent thing and show some respect for the dead. And now, if there is nothing else, you can get the hell out of my office; I have a murder to solve."
Engel hesitated, wavering between leaving and pressing home his question, but he had the sense to see that he would get no answers from Gordon; especially with the commissioner in such a dangerous mood. Engel stood, tucking his notebook and pen into his jacket pocket, straightening his tie with considerable dignity.
"Thank you for your time, commissioner. Doubtless I'll see you later at the press conference?"
Then not waiting for a reply he turned on his heel and walked out of the office, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. Alone, Gordon lost no time in fumbling for his cell phone in his coat pocket, thankful that the number he needed was programmed into his speed-dial; he didn't trust his hands to stop shaking long enough to type it in. After only a couple of rings the other end of the line picked up.
“Blake.”
“It’s Gordon,” Jim said, making an effort to bite down on his anger. Obviously he wasn’t quite successful, as Blake picked up that something was off immediately.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Gordon lied, then relented; it didn't sound convincing even to him. “Well, nothing drastic. There’s a chance you’ll be getting a call from Mike Engel at GCN asking for an interview about the Crisis. Don’t agree to it, whatever you do; it’s a ploy to try and get at Bruce.”
“I consider myself warned,” Blake said, sounding vaguely bemused. “Anything else I should know?”
“No. I’ll see you later tonight.”
“Ok. Later.”
Gordon snapped the phone shut, the call ending just as there was a knock on the door and Stephens stepped into the office. The detective took one look at Gordon and shut the door behind him.
“You okay, boss?”
“I’m fine, Gerry,” Gordon answered, replacing the phone in his pocket with deliberate calm.
“Right, like I’m buying that,” Stephens snorted, arms folded across his chest. “That sounded like an interview Press Relations would've been proud of."
Gordon grimaced. "You heard?"
"Only the last bit when you told that creep to go fuck himself - which I would back you in saying one hundred percent. Davies is hoping for a repeat performance at the press conference later."
"I'll try not to disappoint."
Stephens' expression, however, told Gordon that he was clearly not buying his bullshit. As if Stephens ever would.
"Something’s eatin’ you, Jim," he said quietly. "Takes a lot to get you that riled; I should know. What did Engel want?"
For a brief moment Gordon considered insisting that he was 'fine' again, but who was he kidding? He shrugged, running a hand through his greying hair.
“He wants to do an exposé on Bruce Wayne's death and the Batman."
"Jesus," Stephens breathed. "Doesn't that asshole ever stop with the bullshit?"
"He’s blowing smoke. He thinks there’s a story in all this and he’s trying to get it out of me.” Gordon rubbed the bridge of his nose under his glasses. He felt suddenly drained. “Problem is he’s right.”
“Say what?”
"There was more to Bruce Wayne's death than I've let people believe," Gordon said wearily. "But it was simpler to let them think he was executed like all the rest."
"I forget sometimes you got close right at the end," Stephens said, watching Gordon carefully. "What happened, Jim? You never talk about that day. You know, if you need to talk about it, you can tell me, right?”
Gordon studied Stephens warily, and the other detective immediately caught onto this hesitancy and sighed, rolling his eyes.
“Unless of course it’s about the Bat. It is about the Bat, isn't it? You’re wearing your ‘I’m-worried-about-Batman-and-I-can’t-tell-anybody’ look.”
“I am?” Gordon blinked in surprise. This was news to him, and slightly worrying news at that. Was he really that easy to read? Barbara used to say she could always read him like a book, especially when he was lying.
“Been seeing it a lot lately,” Stephens said simply.
Apparently so. Gordon met Stephens' gaze steadily. He trusted the detective with his life - had done so on several occasions - but could he tell him this? He wanted to. God knew how much Gordon wanted to tell anyone - everyone - just how wrong they had been about Bruce Wayne, how much he had sacrificed for the city he loved and how he had paid the ultimate price for his devotion. But he couldn't tell the whole truth. The whole truth would reveal Bruce as the Batman and ultimately lead to Lucius, Alfred and Blake; and he had no energy left to lie. He shook his head.
“Now’s not the time,” he said. “I’ll tell you this, though; he was braver than anyone ever gave him credit for - hopefully one day I'll be able to say why.”
Stephens stood silently for a moment, then nodded his head in acknowledgement.
"You know, I always thought he was just another rich dickhead," Stephens said, perching on the edge of Gordon's desk, arms folded. "But you gotta figure, after the life he had, he was just another screwed-up kid. You'd think if anyone deserved to finally be left alone, it'd be him."
Gordon knew that Stephens was thinking of that night over thirty years ago when Thomas and Martha Wayne had been killed. They had both been rookies then; Gordon on the desk that night, Stephens one of the beat cops pulled in off the street to keep the seething mass of reporters at bay outside police headquarters. When Bruce had finally left they’d had to link arms to clear a path for him, as if they were facing down a union strike or something, and even then it had taken all their strength to keep the crowd from swallowing Gotham’s little prince whole. Gordon had hated Loeb for making the kid run that gauntlet. If Chill had got away Bruce would have been quietly smuggled out the back door, left to come to terms with his loss in peace; but Chill had been caught, and though the Waynes’ deaths were a tragedy Loeb was eager for the opportunity to show justice swiftly and efficiently served in Gotham. So Bruce Wayne had been taken out the front entrance, escorted down the steps and into a waiting Bentley whilst a coldly dignified Alfred Pennyworth had done his best to shield the terrified nine-year-old from the camera flashes.
Back in the present day Gordon indicated the slim manila folder Stephens had been brandishing on his way in, now tucked under the detective's arm. “What’s that you got there?”
“This? I was thinking about what the rookie said yesterday -” Stephens said, holding out the file for Gordon to inspect. “- ‘bout Malone turning up so conveniently with the gangs at each others’ throats. Thought I’d take a look at his file again; refresh my memory, so to speak, if we’re going to be dealing with him again.”
“Good chance we will,” Gordon said, taking the file and flicking through it. Joseph Malone, alias “Matches”; so called after his habit of walking around with a matchstick clenched between his teeth, ready to strike at a moments’ notice. Gordon remembered the gangster well from his few previous brushes with him. Malone was brash and annoying; not the sharpest knife in the drawer by any means, well in with all of the families but largely steering clear of the dirtier business deals - and, as far as they knew, he’d never ordered anyone killed. Still that had been nine years ago, and a lot could change in nine years. He should know.
"Also got me thinking about Johnny Franks," Stephens continued, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Franks was a contact for Malone whenever he was dealing meth. May not come to anything much, but I reckon there's a chance Malone might know something we don't - like why someone thought it'd be a good idea to put Johnny and his girlfriend out with the trash."
"Malone's no informer. If we do find something to bring him in on, chances are he won't talk to us."
Stephens gave him a significant look.
"I wasn't thinking it would be us asking the questions," he said with quiet emphasis.
All at once Gordon's gut started twisting itself in knots. Stephens was actually asking him to sic the Batman on Malone? True, it was highly unlikely that they would get anything out of Malone themselves, yet even so... And was Blake up to it? He'd come a long way in a year, but was he ready for something like this? There were times when he was still thinking like a cop - that perp getting free outside the library proved as much- And Gordon bit down aggressively on that train of thought, telling himself to stop it. If it had been Bruce he wouldn't have even been asking such questions; he'd have been up on that roof, switching on the signal and trusting in the Batman's ability to do what was needed without a second's hesitation. Blake didn't deserve any lesser treatment than he would have given Bruce.
“Do we have an address?” he asked, feeling ashamed of himself and trying to hide it by flicking back to the front of the rather slender file to study Malone’s mugshot.
“Not for Matches,” Stephens replied, apparently oblivious to his boss' intensely brief conflict of emotions. “He’s showing some smarts for once and lying low, but he kept a girl when he was last in Gotham; some two-bit hooker by the name of Sukie Jones, works the corner of Grove and Twenty-Third. If he’s looking up old friends there’s a chance he’s been to see her.”
“Send Bullock and Montoya round to talk to her. If she knows where he is there’s a chance...”
His voice dried up in his throat, however, as he looked over Malone’s photograph. It couldn’t be. He had to be imagining it.
“Jim?”
“I’m cracking up, Gerry," Gordon muttered. "It’s finally happening.”
“Why, what’s up?”
“Remind you of anyone?” Gordon detached the mugshot from the file and slid it over the desk to him. Stephens frowned, picking up the picture and looking it over.
“Tyrone Power?” he hazarded after about half a minute.
“Without the moustache.”
Stephens looked again, his brow creasing in concentration, and a moment later his eyes grew wide in astonishment.
“Holy fuck!”
“Oh good,” Gordon said flatly, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Glad I’m not the only one going crazy ‘round here.”
“You reckon that’s what this ‘ghost’ business is, then?” Stephens asked, tapping the photo. “People thinking they’ve seen Wayne when really it’s Malone?”
“Were it that simple,” Gordon sighed. “But the sightings have definitely been of Wayne, not some guy with a moustache who looks a lot like him in a bad light.”
“Yeah, that would be too simple,” Stephens agreed, rubbing his chin thoughtfully and glancing at the photo again. “’S funny; I never noticed before. Probably those stupid glasses of his.”
“Must be it,” Gordon muttered, and though his gut was insisting otherwise he pushed the feeling to one side; he had better and much more urgent things to worry about than an overgrown tabloid hoax. “Let Bullock and Montoya know they’re to pay Sukie a visit; you head on down to the mortuary to see what else they’ve been able to get on Anna Sanchez.”
Left alone once again Gordon sagged back in his chair and reached for his coffee, only to find it had gone cold. There would be no time to go out and get a fresh cup before his briefing for the press conference on Anna Sanchez, either. Perfect. Sighing audibly, Gordon got up and headed for the microwave, huddled in the bullpen's small kitchenette between the sink and the coffeemaker. As he tipped the contents of the paper cup into a mug and punched the keypad, the question he'd asked himself earlier that morning resurfaced unbidden in his mind: Since when had he started to find the idea of fucking Bruce Wayne attractive?
Yet the answer, when it came to him, was pathetically simple; ever since he had put a name to the face behind that cowl.
-------
Chapter 4: Generosity and Parsimony