I wiped the steam from my bathroom mirror to reveal my own reflection. My dark blonde hair had turned dark brown from the water and it hung around my face, framing it. I blinked my dark brown eyes and wrapped my towel tighter around my body. As I walked out of the bathroom, the sound of really old opera music came from the other side of my wall.
Sounded like Mrs. Kapelput was playing records again. She did this almost every day, blaring the scratchy and horrible music so that it went straight through her wall and into mine. The first few times this happened after I moved in, I had tried to ignore it because I hadn't wanted to pick a fight with a new neighbor. But after a few months of living here, it just got plain annoying.
I strode over to the wall where the music was coming from and banged my fist on it. The music seemed to get louder.
"Are you kidding me?" I asked myself. I quickly got dressed in casual clothes, sweat pants and a larger t-shirt. It was late enough already and I had to get to work early tomorrow to finish all of those files. I left my apartment and stalked over to my next door neighbor's. I knocked hard on her door and after a long pause in which the music was turned down a considerable amount, someone other than Mrs. Kapelput opened the door.
The man standing at the door had to be the son that Mrs. Kapelput never stopped talking about. He looked a lot like her: a beak-like nose and hair that stood up straight in the back. He was a few inches taller than me, despite the fact that he was standing up straight, as if he had a board strapped to his back. His icy blue eyes looked me and down, clearly taking me in and analyzing me. I did about the same thing, taking him in and noticing the very distinct look of his mother in him. They both looked a lot like birds. But while Mrs. Kapelput had the permanent look of a panicked bird, ready to fly away at a moment's notice, her son had a calm look to him.
"Can I help you?" He asked. I narrowed my eyes at his tone and locked eyes with him.
"Yes you can." I said. "I have work early in the morning and your mother's music is so loud I can barely think let alone sleep. Do you mind turning it down?"
His face broke into a polite smile and he blinked a few times before responding. "No, I don't mind. I am very sorry to hear that you were disturbed, miss...?" He trailed off, indicating that he wanted a name.
"Rook." I said, giving him my last name. "You are?"
"Oswald Cobblepot." He said, keeping that polite way of speaking. He stuck his hand out and I shook it. We shook hands once before we both dropped hands. I noticed that his hands were cold, but I didn't bother bringing it up. "I'll be sure to keep the music turned down for you, Miss Rook."
"Thanks for that." I said, nodding slightly. We held each other's gaze awkwardly for another moment or two before I turned away back to the my still open door.
"You should probably close that every time you leave." Oswald advised. "You never know who could sneak in."
I turned back towards him, eyes narrowed. "Is that a threat, Cobblepot?"
Oswald blinked before shaking his head. "No ma'am. Not at all. Just offering you some neighborly advice. Have a good night, Miss Rook." He ducked back inside his mom's apartment and closed the door with a snap. I snorted before going inside and locking my door behind me.
I could still hear the opera music, but it was much quieter and easier to ignore now.
The next morning, I left for work earlier than usual and caught the first train of the day back downtown to the police station. As I walked into the station, I counted a total of seven other people here this early. As I walked up the stairs towards the records office, I noticed the new detective sitting at his desk and pouring over some files.
I blinked and looked around the room once more. There weren't any other detectives here. They usually didn't come until they were supposed to clock in. The new guy must've sensed me staring at him because he looked up and we ended up locking eyes.
Giving myself a mental shake, I stepped forward and offered him my hand to shake. "Sydney Rook, I work in the records office. You must be the new guy."
He shook my hand firmly and gave me a smile, something that took me off guard. I hadn't been expecting a smile from him. "Nice to meet you, Sydney. My name's James Gordon."
Again, his name struck a familiar chord. I frowned slightly, trying and struggling to remember why it was so damn familiar. Gordon noticed immediately, and frowned right back at me. "Something wrong?"
"I don't think so." I said, shaking my head. "Your name is just familiar is all."
Gordon frowned slightly at this but didn't push the subject. "Well, I hope you figure it out, Sydney." We exchanged another friendly nod before I left his desk to continue down to the records office.
The office was empty; Kristin wouldn't show up for another hour and a half. I thought back to Gordon, why that name sounded so familiar. I frowned heavily as the thought sprang into my mind. No; that couldn't be...
I hurried to the side of the room where closed cases were filed. I ran my fingers along the sharp metal edges of the filing cabinets until I found the particular cabinet I needed. I opened it and found the file someone had marked Dessen, Jonathon.
I opened the file and stared at the black and white picture of Jonathon Dessen. His long and thin face looked tired in his mugshot, and his pale eyes looked almost completely white here. I swallowed and put the picture down in a hurry so that I could read the actual file.
Jonathon Dessen, charged with driving under the influence and involuntary manslaughter (see page 3). Dessen was arrested two days later, found on the corner of Fifth Street and Castle Avenue. Official report states that he was intoxicated. Dessen then attempted to shoot Officer Harvey Bullock, but was shot down and killed by Bullock and Officer Oliver Fuller.
My throat felt like it was tightening. There was a reason I never read my father's file. But still, I turned to page three to continue on.
The involuntary manslaughter occurred around eight twenty-nine p.m on Tuesday, July nineteenth. The victim was District Attorney Anthony Gordon. His son, James Gordon, had also been in the car, but had only suffered minor injuries.
The file was back in the cabinet before I could read any more. That's why the name Gordon had sprang out at me. Why had I forgotten? How could I have forgotten? My dad had killed his dad. And then my dad had been shot down by Gordon's new partner.
There was a reason I had taken my mother's maiden name when Jonathon Dessen was killed. Dessen was a shitty father, and I had hated his last name with a passion. So I switched it and used it for the rest of my life. I didn't think anyone here knew about Dessen being my dad, or what he had done.
I remembered the nights he'd come home drunk. My mom had always locked my bedroom room on those nights. Our doors had locked with a key that she kept on her person or hid, so that he couldn't get it and I couldn't get out.
Dessen had deserved dying the way he had. But Gordon's dad didn't have to die that way; hell, Gordon had been in the car too.
Gordon most likely didn't know. I looked nothing like Dessen, and we had different last names. There was no way Gordon-or anyone else for that matter-could link me to Dessen.
