The smiling lunatic. (Two)

Part two of my Batman series.

Detective Gordon never minded blood, especially after years of desensitization from being on the force. But the sight in front of him made his stomach curdle.
"Jesus Christ..." He said over and over like it was his mantra. In front of him lied the remains of John Dudd, a local journalist buddy of his.

"Right in his own house..." He managed to say, breaking his jaw dropped speech pattern. John had both arms chained to a low riding pipe that ran along his basement wall. The b*****d waited in his house for him to get off work, Gordon inquired from Dudd's blood soaked white collared shirt -though it's color was now more of a very faded brown.

"I hate that wretched smile," thought the detective. "Who dies with a smile on their face? And what a smile! I haven't seen him smile like that since we surprised him with that stripper at his bachelor party. God, Barbara would kill me if she knew about that. I really should've kept in better contact with Dudd..." Gordon awoke from his mental stupor and called over one of the officers investigating the perimeter.

"Yes Detective?" Asked the young man enthusiastically. That's what Gordon hated about rookies, no god-damn respect for the dead.

"Do we have a time of death?" Asked Gordon, hiding a small scowl.

"Yessir, we do. It was estimated to be around one-thirty this morning."

"One-thirty in the morning? But Dudd always got off work at eight and was back by eight-twenty. God, what did this psycho do to him for all that time?" Gordon temporarily retreated back into himself, snapping out of it right at the last word of his thought.
"Okay," was all he could manage to say.

The rookie walked away, smile on his face almost as disturbing as John's own permanent expression of demented joy. Gordon finally was able to speak up once he was out of his sight.

"Okay!" He yelled, getting everyone's attention. "Outline the body and send it over for an autopsy, try to see what did Johnny in!" Gordon didn't look like much, about 5'4", short brown hair, mustache, and his glasses that looked almost too big for his face to support. He looked like your best-friend's dad or any ordinary pencil-pushing cop you might see, dunking his donut into his coffee, finishing up some paper-work after a late night at the office. No, it wasn't his presence that demanded the respect of his officers and ultimately anyone he might run into. It was a mixture of his authoritative voice and the circulating stories of him, which have become a form of legend back at the station.

"You hear O'l Gordon single-handedly took out a Green Berret?"

"Goofy-Gordon? The detective? No way! You're screwin' wit' me!"

"Nah, man, he really did! Even said it himself once!"

"S**t..." "S**t" was the usual response to most stories that were told about him.

Gordon walked up the stairs to the mail floor of this home-turned-crime seen. Dudd's grieving, pregnant widow sat on a kitchen chair. She wasn't allowed to be downstairs as she might disturb the officers trying to work. She didn't mind, one look at that smile was enough to last a life-time even for the bravest of souls.

"I'm so sorry, Betty." He offered sympathetically. She wasn't her usual chatty self. She just looked up at him with blank, shocked eyes, face pale as the moon-light which reached through the kitchen window and caressed her cheeks. He didn't mind her silence, he just wanted to get home to his wife and one-year old daughter.

- - - -

Bruce Wayne, Gotham's favorite son, sat in an unlit room of his mansion. He leaned forward to dress some wounds he received on his back. Just punk thieves who were lucky enough to have one member with a switch-blade who happened to be at the right place in the right time. "D****t, Bruce, you've been at this a year now and you're still making rookie mistakes!" He thought to himself while dabbing his cut with a damp cloth.

He was going to have to go back out soon, as soon as this cut was stitched.
"Just a flesh-wound, Bruce!" He told himself. He hated the thought of putting on that suit again. He was getting tired of dressing as a bat at night. Halloween is only fun once a year. As much as he hated it, he was too determined to give up. Not until criminals were too afraid to walk the streets.

Reviews

[CHRIS ANDES]

this is a good story
but somehow you may use brief words in order to express simple ideas
thanks for the share :)