Anon : thanks for the review!
«Didn't we agree this was in Alvarez's hands?», Essen said, snatching the Ogre case files from Jim's desk.
The blond sighed and leaned back in his chair, nodding. It was not his case anymore. He knew that. Sarah had not exactly chewed him out on not having passed the torch to another detective as soon as Lennon had abducted Barbara - no cop would have been willing, anyway - but she had nevertheless mentioned he should have. For a few days, they had let it rest. The killer was dead and the case as good as closed. All that was left to do was identifying several of the Ogre's victims, and that task had been given to Alvarez.
Then Barbara had attempted to kill Leslie and confessed to her parents' murder.
The autopsy's finding were not sufficient to incriminate her, but they could not prove her innocence either. The forensics report was just as useless. That being said, Barbara had admitted to the murders to both her therapists and Alvarez, and there was little doubt left. Jim did not even try deluding himself. There was a tape of her confession in the Kean's evidence box, and a transcript to go with it.
«Don't bother reading it», Alvarez had warned Jim. «She changes her story every time she tells it. And stop visiting. It won't help.»
Jim had read the transcript.
He had thought he suspected, in the previous weeks. He had thought he knew, because he had seen the Ogre's torture room, and he could figure out what the stun sticks and blades and whips were for. He had seen the results of torture in fellow soldiers. He knew how insidious and sickening it could be psychologically, how the torturers would balance pain and relief, cruelty and false compassion. But, at the end of the day, Jim could not think like a monster, and when he tried to imagine what Barbara had gone through… It somehow did not register. He could patch together the worst stories he had heard during his training, and in the army, and random bits and parts of the worst cases the GCPD had to deal with, and even a few select scenes from movies in the vein of Saw and Seven. It had not occurred to him that someone could profess eternal love while electrocuting a woman out of consciousness, nor convince her that holding a knife to her throat as he raped her was a display of affection. But Lennon had done so and it had worked. Barbara did not have a word to say against him.
Alvarez was probably right when he insisted Jim should stop visiting, but the blond felt like he had to go all the same. No one else would.
«Where is Bullock?» Essen asked. «A new case just came in.»
«Personal call, I'll fetch him. What is the story?»
«A female body was found under Tricorner Bridge. No ID yet, from what I understand it is very damaged and has spent a few days underwater.»
Jim nodded. Corpses surfacing along the river were a common occurrence in Gotham. Criminals loved to fake suicides, or just to dispose of their victims in a fast and mostly secure way. If you didn't botch it, the bodies were never seen again. The river had not been dragged in two decades, and it had only be done because a mayor had drowned.
«I'm on my way», he announced, grabbing his coat and hurrying down the stairs.
Harvey was not in the locker room, but he found him easily enough, smoking in front of the precinct. He was on the phone - as most of the time lately - and followed Jim to the car with no complain, cutting his call short.
«New stiff?»
«Not so new, if Essen is to be believed. Just found a little late.»
«So where'we goin'?»
«Tricorner.»
«Can we stop for burritos on the way? It's lunch time», Harv' pointed out.
«I love how your lunch time extends from ten in the morning to four in the afternoon», Jim retorted, getting their car out of the parking spot.
«It's noon, jackass.»
Jim grinned.
«And you vanished for that call two hours ago», he pointed out as he drove out of the parking lot, «which mean you've been doing nothing for muuuuch longer than what your lunch time covered. And you haven't even eaten.»
«Well one of us has to be nice and keep in touch with his informants, or we'd get nowhere, ever, right?»
«Right.»
«And if you're gonna nag me about that, I'd like to point out you've been all doom and gloom and personal business all morning again. Don't think for a second I didn't hear you got the Kean's files from Miss Kringle. Again.»
Jim tensed and said nothing. His partner sighed.
«Please stop doing that to yourself. I've been lenient so far but it's got to stop.»
«I'm just making sure Alvarez is doing a good job.»
Surprisingly, Harvey did not push. Not immediately, anyway. He took the time to light a cigar and to smoke it, which brought them in sight of Tricorner Bridge.
«I know people told you already», he grumbled. «I know Lee told you. And Alvarez, and a few doctors, I'll bet. But I get what's going through your head, so I'm not going to tell you to stop going to see her.»
«You're not», Jim replied, midway between a question and an order.
«I'm not. What I'm going to tell you is that she's gone. Take it from the resident expert on crazy-ass exes. She's gone. Nothing you can do to bring her back.»
Jim stared at the road and drove a little slower, aware his focus was slipping.
Barbara's behavior was unnerving. It was off in small and subtle ways, and it was off in broad and brutal strokes at the same time. She acted more or less like herself, when she shouldn't have, and as a totally different person the rest of the time. She was never hostile, she was never unpleasant. She didn't get angry, which wasn't like her. Or maybe it was. She had smiled a lot at the beginning of their relationship. The bitterness and the cold anger had settled in much later, as their relationship degraded. Now, she was pleasant all the time, and elegant, and perfect. She barely interacted with the other inmates, and would occupy her time with books and art. She talked to the nurses and guards, in such a sane way that Jim sometimes wondered why Arkham kept her at all.
It became eerie if you took a step back, and a long hard look at her ladylike act, when the lunatics around her were ranting and screaming and speaking in tongues. The quiet acceptance of her surroundings. The serenity. The impeccable politeness. And the blank stare she would give if prompted on any sensitive topic.
«Are you a psychiatrist, now?»
«I was there when Leslie woke her up, Jimbo», Harvey reminded him.
He was talking of that long, dreadful night after Fish Mooney's ambush. Jim's brain had been on autopilot back then, after a day that had exhausted him into a state of blankness, up to the point he had not even been able to react to the sight of a passed out Barbara, and to Leslie telling him the blonde had just assaulted her. He had just tuned it out, making sure Barbara would be shackled to the guest room's bed when she woke up, so he could deal with it all later.
Leslie had taken a quarter of an hour to recover from the attack and gone to tend to Barbara's possible injuries. She had not warned Jim, but had ordered Harvey to supervise.
From what Gordon had been told, his ex-fiancée had been neither serene nor ladylike when she had returned to consciousness.
«It doesn't mean she can't get better.»
«I wouldn't keep my hopes up if I were you, but even then… You have to concedd that if someone can fix her, it isn't you. It can't be you. She's holding a grudge the size of Canada.»
Jim sighed, parked - as they were in sight of their crime scene - and got out of the car.
«She seems to be doing better», he lied.
«She's faking it. Remember when she went and tricked Leslie into nearly getting herself murdered?»
The younger man shook his head. He did.
«It doesn't mean there's…»
«Detective Gordon! Detective Bullock! This way», Nygma called them from afar.
He was standing next to the river, surrounded by a buzzing crowd of patrolmen and forensic investigators. Jim and Harvey joined him.
«Aren't you glad you didn't get that burrito?» Jim asked when they saw the corpse.
«Oh, for fuck's sake», his partner moaned.
The body had spent a good amount of time in the river and was bloated beyond recognition, the flesh cracking and falling apart in large chunks, under what had been a white summer dress. It was clear that not all of the damage could be blamed on the water. It lacked a jaw, the neck was torn to the bone, and the shoulders were ripped apart, shards of metal embedded deep within the flesh. Patches of long red hair and rotten skin were sliding away from the skull.
Edward did not fill them in on the cause of death. He did not even attempt a riddle. He had been withdrawn lately, and Jim idly wondered if he had been reprimanded again. Leslie ended up explaining the injuries.
«Initial exam of the wounds indicates that an explosive device was circling the victim's neck. As you can see, the trachea is exposed and lacerated, and the jawbone was torn apart. There's also extensive damage to the upper teeth and to the palate, with fragments of the device embedded in the flesh. There's clear evidence of lesser charges of the explosive detonating at the back of the head, but I'll tell you more once we get to the morgue. The state of the body makes it hard to check for other wounds, but I found no lacerations that were not caused by the bomb, and I see no bruising.»
«That's just messed up. Explosive device around the neck, you mean a necklace or something?» Harvey asked.
«Exactly. There's a very clear pattern of burning and shrapnel.»
Jim took a closer look.
«Could it be a suicide bomber?»
«I doubt it. The range of the explosion would have been very short, or you would see damage much lower on the abdomen.»
«And here I was telling myself we only had nice cases this month», Bullock muttered.
###
You grew used to Victor's presence. It was unsettling at first, much like being observed by a large spider, but you quickly realized the man had the wit and forward-thinking of the average slug. He hovered around Oswald as he had hovered around Don Falcone: like a stray dog waiting for scraps. As much as he teased and bargained on the subject of Giulia Maroni's assassination, he was happy enough to take care of every other contract Oswald threw his way. This mobster, that snitch, and whomever came to Cobblepot's mind when he felt the hitman was growing impatient.
«Are you bored?» he once asked, annoyed by the freak's fidgeting. «Just bring me the head of some hobo. Any hobo, there's hardly a shortage of them. I'll pay you fifty cents.»
Zsasz had chuckled at that, and did as asked, which had prompted a discussion on the meaning of «being literal» and «using figures of speech». What was Oswald to do with the lice-ridden head of some crack addict?
Save for those little hiccups, Cobblepot found the man's presence practical. You couldn't ask for a better bodyguard, and he was unlikely to spy or cheat. He was a simple creature with simple needs. You had to keep him away from Gilzean, who still collapsed into a sniveling mess in his torturer's presence, but that was easily accomplished by keeping the lowly henchman at the club.
Most of the time, it was a fine arrangement.
Every now and then, Zsasz would display a sliver of will. It tended to happen when Jim Gordon's name was mentioned. Oswald had noticed it from the very start - that start being the day the hitman had first been sent after the cop - and thus did not miss the monster's intent look the first time he overheard a phone call to the detective.
«What I am saying, Jim, is that I find it downright disgraceful that you would arrest my employee on blatantly trumped-up charges», Oswald explained to his interlocutor as he observed Victor's reaction, «when I have been nothing but a friend to you. I'm starting to wonder if you are indeed the good and honest man I believed you were.»
He barely paid attention to Jim's answer to that. He was growing tired of the cop's disrespect and temper. Once upon a time, he had hoped for a mutually beneficial relationship (the scales heavily tipped in his favor, obviously), but it was evident that Gordon was unable to cooperate. He was an imbecile, which was a point in his favor and a wonderful string to pull, but his constant tantrums made him a very tedious pawn to move around.
Cobblepot still paused on a particular line.
«Your 'not working with criminals' argument does hardly hold water. I seem to recall you recently volunteered to be Carmine Falcone's bodyguard. It may have escaped your notice, but he is a bad, bad person. Need I put it more bluntly, or in simpler terms? Has your memory grown short? Should I remind you of the day he ordered you to slaughter me?»
Zsasz was smiling and tilting his head towards the desk, blatantly eavesdropping. He licked his lips, and Oswald frowned. This wouldn't do. He nearly hung up on Jim, but the detective beat him to the punch. Cobblepot sent the phone flying.
«Need any help with Jim?» Victor asked.
«No, thank you very much.»
«He's treating you… Very, very badly», the creep pointed out with a smile (not that Oswald needed his input to be aware of the fact).
«And I will punish him for it, but not by letting you cut him to pieces as you are bound to do. I'm not about to let his potential go to waste. No, I will teach him how to behave, but I will do it my way.»
The killer's face twitched in displeasure.
«He's a liability. I kept telling Don Falcone.»
«Well, that 'liability' helped Carmine get out of town, so clearly your advise was as moronic as it was out of line.»
Victor took a long breath, jaw clenched, and Oswald though he had maybe gone too far. He reached for the gun attached under his desk.
«I have a plan for Gordon», he added.
The smile climbed back on Zsasz's face, in twitches and spasms.
«You have a 'plan'», the monster railed.
«I have a plan for everything», Oswald snapped back, his fear replaced by mere annoyance.
He always had a plan.
Victor had a point, however. He was being entirely too forgiving of Gordon's antics.
###
Sabrina woke up every morning and checked the screen (The Screen, really) to see when and where she was to meet David. They had a date every day, and it usually used up to four hours of her evening, but she had nothing else to do.
Her jailor didn't want her bored stiff. Her «home» came with a television, a magnetoscope, and a collection of video tapes. She could occupy herself by watching «Kate and Leopold», or «Pretty woman», or «Sleepless in Seattle», and of course «When Harry met Sally». If she didn't feel in the mood for movies, she had been provided with a collection of books, such as «Pride and Prejudice», «Bridget Jone's diary», «Lord of scoundrels», and a metric fuckton of variations of «The Whatever-Titled English Nobleman and Some Girl».
The artificial lights of The Street reminded her too much of her captivity, she rarely went out before David collected her, but she had wandered around the other houses. Only David's seemed occupied. Number 1 and number 2's doors were locked, and the blinds closed. She had asked David about them, making sure to remain in character, but his answer has been very vague.
«Newlyweds used to live there», he had replied, pointing at the first house. «I think they moved. I didn't keep in touch. As for number two, that's Sophie and Nate's house. You have met her. She works at the restaurant. As for Nate, he travels a lot.»
The terrified waitress served them during most of their dates, yet Sabrina had never seen her leave her «workplace», and she had yet to cross path with Nate.
«Have you lived here for long?»
«About six weeks. Shall we have a picnic today?»
Food would appear in their homes as they slept, or while they were on dates. David's suits vanished and came back dry-cleaned. Fishstick «found» some cat toys.
Sabrina had never been more terrified. There was no escape from the cameras, either: they were everywhere, in every room of her house, in the street, in the little corner shop stocked with three magazines and four food cans, and in the restaurant. Her necklace would beep as soon as her face betrayed her fear, however, so the young woman smiled most of the time, except in absolute darkness. She found some relief in David's company. He was a good man, or at least he acted the part. He was nice, and his tenderness and worry seemed genuine, but he would slip every now and then. Sabrina would see the cold fury simmering just beneath the surface, and feel chilled.
He had tried to communicate without words, drawing letters in her palm as they lounged on a bench in the plastic garden.
«I A-M S-O-R-R-Y», he had written, excruciatingly slowly. «I C-A-N O-N-L-Y S-O-F-T-E-N T-H-E B-L-O-W-S.»
He was a much better actor than she was, and he always calmed her when her necklace started warning her.
She had lost track of the time since her abduction when The Screen ordered David to «stay for coffee» after a date. They read the message at the same time and stared at each other. He quickly erased the shock from his face. She failed, and heard beeping. Maybe it's just coffee, she told herself. She let him in.
David being David, he was wonderfully warm and caring as they drank and discussed. And he was nice enough to try to leave as the clock hit midnight.
His necklace started beeping. Slowly, but David never had to be warned, or very rarely. He stopped, closed the door, and turned to Sabrina. The girl felt her stomach turn to stone and her knees to jelly, as the terror sank in. She couldn't do that. She couldn't. She had only ever slept with two boys, one of them being her fiancé. Kissing David was bad enough, and they had to, but she couldn't do it all. Not with the cameras everywhere, even in her bedroom. Even without the cameras.
She shook her head and moved away, swallowing a sob. She didn't manage to hold the second in. Her necklace beeped, over and over again.
«I can't», she whispered, taking another step back.
David's mask slipped. The concern and warmth turned to exasperation. The pity vanished. A moment passed. He breathed in, and put on such a loving, sincere smile that Tom Hanks and Hugh Jackman could have learned from his acting skills. Then, he joined Sabrina and grabbed her hands, and made sure they survived.
###