Do all things go into the mouth at this age?
God, I wish you could see her. She's growing so damn fast.
(Originally posted: Dec. 26, 2006)
(Originally posted: Dec. 26, 2006)
Graveside
Most individuals greet Christmas Eve with anticipation and hopeful expectations for the future. Most choose to congregate in warm environments, both physically and emotionally. Cares are forgotten or momentarily placed aside. For a instant, albeit brief, there is peace in the stillness of the night.
On Christmas Eve, there is no such tranquility in the heart of Jim Gordon. He can still remember her lifeless body in his arms. The muffled sounds of his own grief still echoes in his mind. The maniacal laughter still rings in his ears. Encompassing it all is the weight of guilt. He tries not to dwell on the hypotheticals. As the sky darkens, his will weakens. What if they had left? Did his own stubbornness cost Sarah her life? What did he miss along the way? What if he'd gotten there sooner? How happy would they be now?
Rows of uniform headstones erupt from a blanket of snow eight inches deep. The weather has let up. As he makes the trek out to Sarah's grave, the air is clear. Delicate layers of white crunch and compress under his feet as he trudges along. The bottom of his coat drags along the top, soaking through. He doesn't care. He'd wade through hell and high water to be with her.
The top of her headstone has accumulated some snow as well. With a single wipe of his hand, he clears it away. He puts the flowers down to the side so that both hands are free. With only the gloves to protect against the cold, he begins to dig. He continues to dig until the full epitaph is in view. With an uncharacteristic amount of gentleness, he moves the flowers. They're all he can offer her now.
The lines around his eyes are hard. They betray none of the heartache that swells within.
Sarah Essen Gordon. Gone. But not forgotten.
"Merry Christmas, baby."
(Originally posted: Dec. 16, 2006)
On Christmas Eve, there is no such tranquility in the heart of Jim Gordon. He can still remember her lifeless body in his arms. The muffled sounds of his own grief still echoes in his mind. The maniacal laughter still rings in his ears. Encompassing it all is the weight of guilt. He tries not to dwell on the hypotheticals. As the sky darkens, his will weakens. What if they had left? Did his own stubbornness cost Sarah her life? What did he miss along the way? What if he'd gotten there sooner? How happy would they be now?
Rows of uniform headstones erupt from a blanket of snow eight inches deep. The weather has let up. As he makes the trek out to Sarah's grave, the air is clear. Delicate layers of white crunch and compress under his feet as he trudges along. The bottom of his coat drags along the top, soaking through. He doesn't care. He'd wade through hell and high water to be with her.
The top of her headstone has accumulated some snow as well. With a single wipe of his hand, he clears it away. He puts the flowers down to the side so that both hands are free. With only the gloves to protect against the cold, he begins to dig. He continues to dig until the full epitaph is in view. With an uncharacteristic amount of gentleness, he moves the flowers. They're all he can offer her now.
The lines around his eyes are hard. They betray none of the heartache that swells within.
Sarah Essen Gordon. Gone. But not forgotten.
"Merry Christmas, baby."
(Originally posted: Dec. 16, 2006)
The Devil's Playground
Barbara talked him into the damn thing. On a couple of occasions, he's cursed the choice. Isn't a desktop bad enough? It isn't natural for a man to be chained to a computer. Anymore than it is to be leashed by a cellphone. He remembers the days when it was a pager. Different devices. Same devil.
The laptop is sitting open on his desk though. Computer on one side, phone on the other. He has exactly two email accounts. Both are open. One browser. Two tabs. He's not cursing right this moment. He's waiting.
He glances up at the clock.
He's finished up grading. Lesson plans for the remainder of the quarter are in order. The filing cabinet has never been picked over like it has tonight. He told Barbara he'd be there until eight. It's six twenty-four.
"Come on Barbara," he mumbles to himself again. "Give an old man a break."
(Originally posted: Nov. 24, 2006)
The laptop is sitting open on his desk though. Computer on one side, phone on the other. He has exactly two email accounts. Both are open. One browser. Two tabs. He's not cursing right this moment. He's waiting.
He glances up at the clock.
He's finished up grading. Lesson plans for the remainder of the quarter are in order. The filing cabinet has never been picked over like it has tonight. He told Barbara he'd be there until eight. It's six twenty-four.
"Come on Barbara," he mumbles to himself again. "Give an old man a break."
(Originally posted: Nov. 24, 2006)
(no subject)
Students come and go in a lecture class as large as Criminology 101. It's still something Jim Gordon is getting used to. The higher level courses he's taught in the past at Gotham U capped out at 22. Most were highly motivated seniors ready to finish their degrees. This is a summer course full of freshmen and sophomores. From the size of the crowd today, he guesses he's lost about two dozen to the promise of fun and sun.
He calls on a raised hand half way up the auditorium.
"Should we trust a study like this? I mean... It was done over 30 years ago. Times change."
The auditorium doors part to his left. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees another individual slip into the room. He keeps his attention on the body of students at large.
"Good catch," he answers from the podium. "The study was conducted in 1967. There have been other studies since though that reinforce the findings. Creighton in 1978. Tobler in 1995. Violent crime offenders will without fail be disproportionately male."
All movement to his left stops. He feels the unmistakable sensation associated with scrutiny. Jim Gordon may be retired but a lifetime of training dies hard. He turns his head to get a better look. A dark haired woman leans up against the wall, her arms crossed casually. They make eye contact and after a moment of recognition, he returns her smile.
He turns back to the class. "Chapters 8 through 11 for Monday. And you're officially free to start your weekend. Class dismissed."
Once the room is empty, he walks over to greet his former colleague. He offers his hand. "Renee. This is a nice surprise."
"Sir." She takes it readily, genuinely pleased to see him.
He laughs. No longer her boss and still she calls him sir. He wonders if that will ever change. He gestures towards the door. "Let's grab some coffee and head back to the office. You can tell me what's brought you here on the way."
(Originally posted: June 21, 2006)
He calls on a raised hand half way up the auditorium.
"Should we trust a study like this? I mean... It was done over 30 years ago. Times change."
The auditorium doors part to his left. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees another individual slip into the room. He keeps his attention on the body of students at large.
"Good catch," he answers from the podium. "The study was conducted in 1967. There have been other studies since though that reinforce the findings. Creighton in 1978. Tobler in 1995. Violent crime offenders will without fail be disproportionately male."
All movement to his left stops. He feels the unmistakable sensation associated with scrutiny. Jim Gordon may be retired but a lifetime of training dies hard. He turns his head to get a better look. A dark haired woman leans up against the wall, her arms crossed casually. They make eye contact and after a moment of recognition, he returns her smile.
He turns back to the class. "Chapters 8 through 11 for Monday. And you're officially free to start your weekend. Class dismissed."
Once the room is empty, he walks over to greet his former colleague. He offers his hand. "Renee. This is a nice surprise."
"Sir." She takes it readily, genuinely pleased to see him.
He laughs. No longer her boss and still she calls him sir. He wonders if that will ever change. He gestures towards the door. "Let's grab some coffee and head back to the office. You can tell me what's brought you here on the way."
(Originally posted: June 21, 2006)
Resurgence
A wise man once wrote that the number one killer of old people is retirement.
He never should have left active duty. He never should have quit, no matter how much his wife's murder pained him. Today is proof: with the arrival of a box of cold case files from GCPD, Jim Gordon feels a resurgence of energy that teaching would never bring. He is a detective born and bred, and a lifetime committed to the investigation of crimes and pursuit of criminals cannot be squelched so easily. Not with him.
Alas, he has heard nothing from the Batman since his rescue from Slade Wilson, nor has he puzzled out why he was chosen as a pawn to lure his old friend into a nonlethal trap...and for a million dollars?
The Bat is on the case and, if he needs help, he'll call. It's happened before, albeit rarely.
Jim makes himself comfortable on the sofa at home, opens the box and peers inside. "Let's see what we have here..." And he smiles the smile of youth and enthusiasm. Barbara would be pleased.
(Originally posted: May 25, 2005)
He never should have left active duty. He never should have quit, no matter how much his wife's murder pained him. Today is proof: with the arrival of a box of cold case files from GCPD, Jim Gordon feels a resurgence of energy that teaching would never bring. He is a detective born and bred, and a lifetime committed to the investigation of crimes and pursuit of criminals cannot be squelched so easily. Not with him.
Alas, he has heard nothing from the Batman since his rescue from Slade Wilson, nor has he puzzled out why he was chosen as a pawn to lure his old friend into a nonlethal trap...and for a million dollars?
The Bat is on the case and, if he needs help, he'll call. It's happened before, albeit rarely.
Jim makes himself comfortable on the sofa at home, opens the box and peers inside. "Let's see what we have here..." And he smiles the smile of youth and enthusiasm. Barbara would be pleased.
(Originally posted: May 25, 2005)
Interlude
The flowers arrived as ordered and now rest against the headstone in Gotham Cemetery. Roses, two dozen and blood red. He should have brought them himself. Not the first mistake he has made with her, probably not the last, even in death.
Her death.
Crouching down in the gathering twilight of a waning Saturday, he lifts one rose, studies it, returns it to the other twenty-three. Two dozen roses to mark...what? Mother's Day? They never had children, though he knows she had cared for his daughter. So why the flowers, why today?
Guilt. Always, ever the guilt. He knows she would be alive if she had remained only another police officer, only a face in the crowd. If she had been anything other than his wife. She died for no reason other than to give him pain. He knows this; he was shown it plain as day by her killer, the madman clown bent on hurting him.
He squeezes his eyes closed, willing away any tears. Because the madman did give him pain with his wife and daughter, pain worse than any physical wound, pain that only death would end. And here, only here, would he allow himself to feel two emotions too powerful for the common day: grief for the murder of his wife and the pain suffered by his daughter; and regret that his code, his honor, allowed their assailant to live.
Standing, he places his hand on the tombstone that reads SARAH ESSEN GORDON and then walks into the night. Into the shadows, which he has come to understand.
Maybe that's why he and the Batman remain allies to this day.
(Originally posted: May 7, 2005)
Her death.
Crouching down in the gathering twilight of a waning Saturday, he lifts one rose, studies it, returns it to the other twenty-three. Two dozen roses to mark...what? Mother's Day? They never had children, though he knows she had cared for his daughter. So why the flowers, why today?
Guilt. Always, ever the guilt. He knows she would be alive if she had remained only another police officer, only a face in the crowd. If she had been anything other than his wife. She died for no reason other than to give him pain. He knows this; he was shown it plain as day by her killer, the madman clown bent on hurting him.
He squeezes his eyes closed, willing away any tears. Because the madman did give him pain with his wife and daughter, pain worse than any physical wound, pain that only death would end. And here, only here, would he allow himself to feel two emotions too powerful for the common day: grief for the murder of his wife and the pain suffered by his daughter; and regret that his code, his honor, allowed their assailant to live.
Standing, he places his hand on the tombstone that reads SARAH ESSEN GORDON and then walks into the night. Into the shadows, which he has come to understand.
Maybe that's why he and the Batman remain allies to this day.
(Originally posted: May 7, 2005)
Idle Time
Lectures were over, exams were given and graded. A few weeks now remain between commencement and the start of summer sessions.
Idle time. God, how he hates idle times.
Removing his glasses, the retired police commissioner of Gotham City sits back in his leather chair, strokes his mustache - a long-term habit - and thinks. Surely something can gain his attention, surely somewhere outside of a lecture hall he remains useful. On his lap the newspaper rests half-read, with garish details about recent murders and lurid suggestions of recent sightings of Batman.
The more outrageous allegations still bemuse him.
Fingers drum on the paper and gaze eventually falls on the folded periodical. Even without his glasses he can read a banner headline for Mother's Day flowers...and he thinks of his late wife. He thinks, too, of his daughter, and he picks up the phone to order two deliveries of flowers: one for delivery to the Grayson residence in Bludhaven, one for delivery to the Gotham City Cemetery.
(Originally posted: May 4, 2005)
Idle time. God, how he hates idle times.
Removing his glasses, the retired police commissioner of Gotham City sits back in his leather chair, strokes his mustache - a long-term habit - and thinks. Surely something can gain his attention, surely somewhere outside of a lecture hall he remains useful. On his lap the newspaper rests half-read, with garish details about recent murders and lurid suggestions of recent sightings of Batman.
The more outrageous allegations still bemuse him.
Fingers drum on the paper and gaze eventually falls on the folded periodical. Even without his glasses he can read a banner headline for Mother's Day flowers...and he thinks of his late wife. He thinks, too, of his daughter, and he picks up the phone to order two deliveries of flowers: one for delivery to the Grayson residence in Bludhaven, one for delivery to the Gotham City Cemetery.
(Originally posted: May 4, 2005)