In the Mind of Madness

Jim Gordon was tired.

Tired of The Joker running amuck in the town he was erroneously trying to protect, tired of ineffectually searching for who had taken over the mob, and definitely tired of the damn reporters. They were chasing him into the Gotham P.D. like they had every day since it had leaked that Archer had been in custody and was then taken again. Gordon held his hand up to prevent the blinding flashes of the cameras from reaching his eyes, walking as briskly as he could between the many people brandishing microphones.

He would give them something so he wouldn’t get quite so many frustrated calls from their respective bosses, though he would say it with as little enthusiasm as he could manage. That wasn’t hard to do, because his voice only seemed to come out on one frequency lately: exhausted.

“Commissioner Gordon! Commissioner, are the Gotham Police making any progress in the search for Kenna Archer?”

“How much money has Wayne donated to the cause? Why is he so interested in finding Dr. Archer?”

Gordon found it hard not to roll his eyes and sigh. “The search is ongoing. And yes, Mr. Wayne is still aiding the Gotham P.D. in whatever way he can. Dr. Archer and her family are personal friends of his.”

“Would you say Archer and Wayne became more than friends while she was under house arrest at Wayne Manor? Why was her discovery hidden from the public until after The Joker kidnapped her again? Commissioner Gordon!”

With that he flung open the old wooden door as little as possible, sidling inside and escaping the swarm. He let out a long breath, adjusting his glasses before walking towards his office. His shoulders sagged like a heavy weight sat on top of them. All of Gotham rested there.

“Throw any scraps to the vultures, Commissioner?” a veteran cop asked him as he passed.

Gordon mustered a weak smile. “Nothing left to give ‘em. They know more than we do.”

His office would be blessedly quiet, though he would still be able to hear the phones ringing and the footsteps and the chatter. The police station never really had a calm moment, especially not for the past few months. Certainly not since Maroni’s death and the subsequent takeover by some new guy. A guy who was very good at keeping his identity a secret from all the right people.

But Gordon was of the opinion that the press coverage was too good for criminals to pass up in Gotham, so he figured the new leader of the mafia was simply biding his time.

Just another file added to the mountain on his desk.

Opening the door, Gordon paused when he saw someone sitting in front of his desk. He recognized the man by the back of his head, sighing as he came in and shut the door behind him. “To what do I owe this surprise, Clyde?”

The man didn’t even turn around, lighting up a cigarette. As Gordon passed him he grabbed the thin white cylinder, stubbing it out on his desk and dropping it in his wastebasket, sitting down with a grunt. Clyde didn’t bother glaring, leaning back in the chair and clasping his hands over his stomach.

“I got the info you wanted me to.” said the greasy man invading Gordon’s only peaceful space, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his stained leather jacket. “And it wasn’t easy.”

Shrugging out of his coat, Gordon watched him suspiciously. “How did you get it, then?”

“I got ways.”

Gordon couldn’t help himself and snorted. “Yeah, I know. Only your ‘ways’ have never by any means benefited me in the past.”

“But you were desperate enough to come to me, weren’t you?” Clyde sneered, and Gordon felt a bit less smug.

Resting his elbows on his crowded desk, Gordon gestured with his hands for Clyde to go on. “So? Who is it?”

“I still don’t have the guy’s name.” when Gordon groaned exasperatedly his informant bent closer, lowering his voice slightly. “But I know you’ll be interested in who’s working for him.”

“Eighty percent of the criminals in Gotham are working for this guy.” Gordon took off his glasses, letting them clatter on his desk and he rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “And we got nothing.”

Clyde was making a rather excited ‘I know something you don’t know’ face. “Gordy, if ya’d just listen you’d know that this is big.”

“Fine. Tell me, Clyde. Dazzle me.” Already he was ready for this day to be over. To return home and slump onto the couch with his family, eating a home-cooked meal and falling asleep. He was getting better at leaving his work out on the streets where it belonged. Watching Harvey Dent threaten his son had put things in perspective.

Producing a dirty toothpick from his pocket, Clyde smirked and stuck it in his teeth. “I think you’ll remember an incident from about a year or so back, Commissioner, when a doctor at Arkham Asylum took part in a scheme to poison the whole city and very nearly succeeded.”

“Crane?” The commissioner put his glasses back on, squinting at the thug sitting in his office.

The last time Gordon had heard anything about the former psychiatrist he was selling his stuff to junkies on the street and the mob wasn’t too happy about him driving their customers insane. Now that he thought about it, Crane had more or less disappeared just a couple months earlier, and Gordon had just figured either the mob got him or he finally succumbed to his own product.

“Why do you mention Crane?”

“Well, uh, about a week ago a couple guys I know decided they weren’t gonna put up with this new guy’s bullshit. They said they were gonna shake down some of his guys on the street, show everybody that this shmuck isn’t actually running things.”

Gordon rested his chin on one hand, glaring at Clyde. He had a tendency to get carried away telling whatever story he had to Gordon, milking it for all it was worth. “Get to the point.”

“Okay.” Clyde sighed, appearing disappointed. “The short version is: they only got to one of his men, and then a day later a bum found ‘em tied together hanging from a street lamp, mumblin’ about monsters tearing ‘em to pieces and shit.”

That didn’t sound good. That sounded like Crane’s work. But that wasn’t right. “I don’t see how Crane could be working for the mob. They had a hit on him for a little while, didn’t they?”

“Yeah, but Gordon I don’t think you get it.” Clyde punctuated his words by jabbing his right fist against his left palm. “This new guy – The Irishman – he ain’t working with any of the old guys. He killed pretty much every boss that didn’t flee the fuckin’ country. An’ I heard someone – a reliable source – say that he thought Crane would come in handy while he’s still earning respect around the Narrows.”

Again, that sounded very bad. Before Crane got gassed with his own toxin he’d worked for the mob, putting countless men that should have been in jail in a cushy padded cell in Arkham or breaking the minds of men who would reveal any of the mob’s secrets. If he was working for this Irishman character it would certainly make things more difficult.

Gordon stared thoughtfully out his window at the lifeless scenery he saw every day, thinking that maybe it wouldn’t be quite so bad. The Irishman clearly didn’t know just what he was dealing with. Crane was unstable, and his drug was incredibly powerful. Maybe the decision to use him as a weapon would come back to bite The Irishman in the ass. Or maybe Clyde was full of shit and Crane was dead like Gordon had thought. The Commissioner wouldn’t make a decision yet.

“Is that all you have, Clyde?” Gordon said after a moment, keeping his face impassive. Letting the man know he’d given useful information was never a good idea, because he always expected something in return.

Looking a little disappointed by Gordon’s lack of enthusiasm, the mole straightened his jacket and sniffed. “Yeah, actually I do, and I bet you’ll find this little tidbit quite interesting.”

“Don’t put any money on that.”

Clyde scowled. “So you wouldn’t care to know that The Joker and the Irish guy haven’t been getting along? Or that I heard from another trustworthy source that The Joker kidnapped his son?”

That was interesting. If it was true. Clyde hadn’t fed Gordon any bad info since the early days of their arrangement, but whether or not his sources were actually reliable was another story. But if The Joker did have The Irishman’s son, that would likely cause some friction in Gotham’s underbelly in the coming weeks.

It also meant The Joker had two hostages, and that was definitely not ideal.

“Alright, you can go.”

Clyde shook his head as he stood up. “You’re an ungrateful bastard, Gordy. I give you all this great shit and that’s all you got to say to me?”

“Shut the door on your way out. And don’t call me Gordy.”

When he was alone Gordon allowed himself a moment to rest his eyes, then picked up his phone and called Alan King. He’d been trying to call the man every couple days, but it was hard to make himself do it when he had nothing new to tell him. He felt like he should check in since it had been three days since he did so last. The phone only rang one and a half times before King picked up.

“Jim?”

Gordon hung his head a little at how expectant Alan sounded. “I don’t have anything new for you, Al. I’m just calling to see how you’re doing.”

“Ah.” King sounded just as tired as him, and maybe even more desperate. “We’re doing the same, Jim.”

The same wasn’t good, Gordon knew that. “How’s Trina since her boyfriend had to go back to Oregon?”

A short silence followed Gordon’s question, and he regretted asking it. The last time he saw Trina Archer she looked like she’d been crying and she had responded to conversation with a faraway look. It was killing Gordon to keep coming up empty handed, and he knew he’d feel the same if it was his child in the hands of a homicidal lunatic.

“The same.”

Gordon nodded to himself, knowing King couldn’t see it. “I’m sorry I have nothing for you. I…”

“You’re doing your best. That’s all I can ask for.” but Gordon could hear that King needed more.

“We’re getting too old for this, huh?” Gordon chuckled halfheartedly.

King didn’t even attempt a laugh in return, just sighing heavily. “Yes, we are.” Then there was a slightly uncomfortable pause. “I don’t want to be rude, Jim, but I have a lot of work to do this morning.”

“No, no, I understand.” Gordon tried not to sound as unhappy as he felt. The tension in the air was thick; suffocating after so much time spent trying to recover Kenna with nothing to show for it. “Just…call me if you…”

There was nothing else to say, and King cleared his throat. “Thanks, Jim. Bye.”

Gordon placed his phone down on the hook and frowned, reaching for the nearest folder and beginning another day of work that the felons on t he streets would undo in a matter of moments.