One Awful Track Record (Jeremiah)

[jimgordon]

Only two or three lights shone over the entire third floor of the GCPD Headquarters; the night shift. Just about every cop in Gotham with an ounce of morality and work ethic was here, all two or three of them. Jim glanced up as he heard the flick of a switch. He could see through his office windows that one of the officers was on his way out, off to join the rest of them in the darkness. Jim put the files in his hand down and removed his reading glasses, staring towards the door in wait. Sure enough, a few seconds and footstep echos later a familiar bald head poked its way through his office's door.
"You okay commish?" the other officer asked with a warm smile, though he wasn't really concerned - it was a common site to see Jim still in work later than most.
"Yeah, just finishing up some Arkham files," the commissioner responded, placing his hand on top of the work in front of him. The officer held up his palm to submit, clearly wanting nothing to do with the asylum himself.
"I'll leave you to it," he said as both men shared a light laugh. "I'll leave the keys with Jack downstairs. Goodnight Jim."
"Goodnight Bradley," Jim replied, mostly to an empty space as his co-worker was well on his way out. The thought of leaving all the madness until tomorrow and getting a good night's sleep was appealing, but Jim soldiered on, confident that all of this hard work pays off in the end.

Jim returned to his work, bending his desk lamp lower down onto the wad of papers in the file marked 'ARKHAM INMATES: LEVEL 2'. Jim had to learn pretty early on in his GCPD career to not trust any security levels of inmates enclosed in Arkham Asylum. They were all maniacs of the highest order, capable of killing without a moments thought in most cases. Indeed, most of the inmates Jim was reading about as he put on his glasses once more were killers or rapists, or both. Seemingly the only thing keeping them down on the threat level pecking order was that they weren't obsessed with riddles or duality or something. Their victims were just as innocent, their motives just as nonsensical. Jim still wondered how on Earth he got through his early career in this city, how he hadn't lost his own mind when faced with so many who'd surrendered theirs to Gotham's dark and gruesome streets. Still, Jim knew that you had to study people like this in the hopes that you could prevent any of it happening again. Maybe it was a futile effort, maybe madness is in Gotham's DNA, but it was better than just succumbing to it all, isn't it?

Taking a silvery pen from his pot Jim set about marking three pages within the file, typical Gotham bad guys on each one. Probably 90% of what the average police officer has to do is bureaucracy, only 10% is what Jim wanted to do - stop crimes, help people, save the innocent. Still, he knew that if he wanted to go on doing what he loved, he'd have to do a bit of what he hated. With specific pages from the file pulled out and laid out on his desk for easy access Jim picked up his phone. The number was all too familiar to him as the commissioner would rarely go three days without some sort of contact with Arkham. Patient checks were by far the worst - whichever city official decided the police checking up on Arkham's progress would make the mad house any more capable at curing its patients was deluded. Of course, should Jim ever get the response that a murderer has officially been cured by the medical staff, it would make the commissioner's work all worthwhile.

Jim loosened his tie and leaned back in his chair, ready for a long and boring discussion with some self-proclaimed doctor of madness. The phone didn't ring for long, a clear sign that activity in Arkham's administrative section was just as quiet as Jim's current surroundings.
"Hello, Arkham Asylum. How may I help?" The voice sounded feminine, though it was all very quiet. Jim was really not in the mood to be polite, getting straight to the point.
"Commissioner James Gordon. I'm carrying out a patient check. Could you-" Jim stopped abruptly as the other end of the line went dead. He hoped he was being patched through to someone, even if it had been handled in a bit of a rude fashion. There was quite a long paude before a reply, but that was to be expected - officials were unlikely to be informed of the commissioner's phone call, they would probably be warned about it.

[Jeremiah Arkham - Black Mask]

“Any sign of the boogeyman yet?” Jeremiah wiggled a pen over a fluorescent, yellow file as he spoke to what seemed an empty room, lit only by the two desk lamps he had sitting on the corners of the dark, mahogany desk.

“No, not yet, but I still have an hour before I can consider myself in the clear.” Melina’s soft voice emanated from the speaker of his desktop phone. Jeremiah’s eyes rose from the paper to peer first at the phone and then across the room to the clock that hung on the wall. He gave a gruff sigh and his hand rose to rub at his forehead. “I’m sorry I’m not there,” he apologized softly, “I’d rather be anywhere than here right now. I’d rather be with you.” He wasn’t ashamed to admit to his wife that as of late, he was missing her more than usual, and in that moment he wanted nothing more than to clock out, climb in his car, and go home where he could spend the rest of the night with her in his arms. He cast the pen he was holding aside and brought his head down to remove his glasses while his other hand massaged his temples. Another sigh left his lips and was answered by his wife. “Jere, you sound exhausted. You sure you’ll be alright to make it home by yourself? I’m sure Nate’s still awake. He could swing by and pick you up…I could.” He replaced the frames to balance on his nose and over his ears and shook his head. She didn’t need to come, and he was just about to tell her that when she again spoke. “I wish you were here too.”

Dr. Arkham frowned. “I know,” he nodded, “but I promise I’ll be fine, just need another cup of coffee.” He picked up the mug that rested beside his elbow and peered into its stained, but empty bottom. Another cup wouldn’t hurt. “I’ll come home as soon as I can. Maybe you’ll still be awake.” He tried to smile, but even his voice sounded of false cheerfulness. The truth was that Jeremiah Arkham had never known the luxury of an early night. Sometimes it was of his own volition that he kept such graveyard hours, but just as often the job itself demanded he push himself to his very limit. He had to answer the call, else his asylum would go under, fall behind, and yet it still felt as if it did. Paperwork, reports, inventory…People would call in to speak to him, most of the time it was other psychologists and psychiatrists either from separate institutions or even the D.A.’s office that would phone him. He often felt as if he deal with all levels of Gotham’s legal system from the lowliest cop to the highest court. He could keep a straight face, seem strong, but he left the asylum all too often completely drained and when he didn’t adrenaline was all that sustained it and it ebbed quickly. He was thinking of taking a vacation, the Asylum could be transferred into capable hands until his return. He imagined Melina would enjoy the time off and Isaiah, their youngest at four had been asking about if they would be going on vacation like the rest of his friends.

“Jere, you are sure you’re alright? You’ve not seemed it since I got back from my mom’s.” His anxiety had started long before then, but who would have blamed him? One of his most dangerous inmates knew he had a family. He wanted to comfort himself and say the man only suspected his taunts had been right, but no, Jonathan Crane knew. The man was an expert at reading people and when he’d become a focus for him in particular, Jonathan Crane was probably amongst the few that could possibly read him, and it was not a comforting thought. And though, Jeremiah knew his wife was more than capable of handling herself, it was Isaiah he worried about. It was why he had asked her to stay up. Jeremiah wanted to be sure that the Boogeyman was simply the normal fear a four year-old experienced at being made to sleep in his own bed, normal nightmares, and something else. Something else like Jonathan Crane having discovered where he lived and tormenting his son as a result, for the child would be the easiest target. Yet he was not sure how to tell Melina about his run-in, and he was uncertain whether it was out of shame or love that he did it. “I’m fine, ‘Lina, I promise. Work has just taken a toll, I just need a good night’s sleep that’s all. But let’s talk about something else, have you spoken—” He cut off as he noticed the secretary’s line flashing. “Hang on a minute.” He switched over.

“Jacqueline?”

“Dr. Arkham, Commissioner Gordon’s on Line 2. He’s doing one of those checks.”

Jeremiah nodded, “Thank you, I’ll speak to him promptly.” He switched back to Melina’s call. “Lina, I’m going to have to go, the police are calling for one their checks. I’ll see you when I get home. Be safe and remember I love you.”

“You better stay safe, Jeremiah Arkham. I love you too.”

Jeremiah listened as the phone was hung up and he leaned back in his seat and took a deep breath for a moment, before pressing another button on the phone. “Commissioner Gordon, I must congratulate you. You have proven to be most thorough in your Patient Checks. I’m certain you remember from my voice, Dr. Jeremiah Arkham here.” He greeted brightly. “Shall we begin? I’d hate to waste your time anymore than it already has been while you’ve been on hold.”

[jimgordon]

Waiting around was probably Jim's least favourite activity, a hatred that was only exemplified at such a late hour. Though he didn't really see it himself, it's because it made the committed father and husband think about commitments other than his job. Every time there was a pause in his life and routine he'd find himself pondering over how his dangerous career was affecting the lives of his family back at home. Even when Jim was partaking in the more ordinary work of a commissioner as opposed to recklessly leading armed assaults on famed mobsters, he could tell it wasn't doing him or Barbara any good. It was doing Gotham good, of that there was no doubt. Crime figures continued to fall, albeit as gradually as ever, making every day safer for his wife and, in particular, his daughter. But, was that what they wanted, or needed? Keeping Barbara Jr. safe was fantastic, but not nearly as rewarding as helping her with her homework, or tucking her in once every now and again when she wasn't feeling too hip and cool to disallow it. Holding his wife lovingly in his arms as she drifted off to sleep was the sort of beautiful moment that Jim was beginning to forget; he wasn't even sure if he knew what it felt like anymore. It always seemed the more of a hero he became for Gotham the more of a crook Jim became with his family. Well, he definitely felt like a criminal waking up most mornings to a still sleeping household and leaving for work. It's no way to live, no way to behave. It's necessary though, isn't it? If Jim were to give up his good fight he'd just be replaced by some slimy character funding or even being funded by the mobs and gangs. So necessary, yes. But worthwhile? That was a question of two Barbaras, and the answer seemed obvious as Jim rested his head on his hand trying to squeeze the thoughts out of his forehead. The seconds ticked away but the commissioner's head ached all the same.

Eventually Jim was spared the trouble of having to rid himself of such difficult thoughts by a voice on the other end of the phone. It took him completely by surprise, so much so that he missed the initial greeting. Jim fidgeted about on his desk, quickly making it unorganised once more as he'd forgotten that he'd prepared himself just moments ago. He sighed, annoyed that he'd even have to spend a moment extra going through this official procedure over the phone. Jim stopped and let himself be soothed by the bright tone of the man on the other end of the line, who clearly seemed in a better mood to be awake on near enough midnight than the commissioner. Jim raised an eyebrow, certain he knew the voice, but he couldn't put his finger on it until Dr. Arkham gave his name. It was strange that the two men didn't have an awful lot of contact, but Jim really did his best to not deal with Arkham Asylum's affairs if it could be left to somebody more able to cope with its horrors. One of Jim's few psychological weaknesses perhaps. Talking with Arkham's staff would often inevitably lead to discussing something he'd find difficult, be it alleged 'progress' being made with serial killers, or even Harvey. Of all the things with which Jim was disgusted in Gotham City, it would often be his own actions concerning his partnership with Harvey Dent that weakened his stomach the most. If he'd have just left it to himself and Batman, and not concerned the innocent Harvey with their crime-fighting affairs, perhaps the poor soul never would have lost his mind. Perhaps a few of Two-Face's victims would still be alive today. Just, perhaps.

Really in no mood to hang around, as Jeremiah had suggested, Jim responded with haste.
"Yes, I'd hate to waste my time too," Jim began, in a much more stern and official voice than he intended. He didn't like to be hostile towards Arkham's staff, at least not when they were on relatively happy terms, but sometimes he just couldn't help it. Their previous incompetence had made him prejudiced towards their supposed 'efforts', and he doubted that he could ever trust anybody working there again.
"These patient checks have to be carried out consistently thoroughly to make sure the murderous lunatics holed up in your asylum don't take or ruin any more lives, doctor." Jim didn't have to justify himself, but it was a nice way to ensure Jeremiah knew that these checks would not be few and far between or easy to avoid. "I suppose it's better going through this with yourself, Dr. Arkham, so that at least we can be efficient about it. Sometimes I wonder whether those nurses of yours even know what a patient actually is from my discussions with them over the years." Jim's voice became more jovial, but the non-joke about Arkham's staff was intended to provide a little insight into the doctor's view on their performance. Everybody knew the GCPD was corrupt, and Jim would admit it. Everybody knew Arkham was just as corrupt, but would Jeremiah admit it? There was every reason to believe that he was just as involved, but perhaps if Jim kept poking around they'd buck their ideas up. It was a better option than having a full-fledged legal scandal at least. Jim needed another one of those like another Joker. Jim waited for his reply as he signed the first form and readied the first patient filed for inspection
Here we go again...[/color] he thought, ready for the same old song and dance.

[Jeremiah Arkham - Black Mask]

If there was a person who could understand Jim’s frustrations, it was Jeremiah. It mattered not that Gordon believed him corrupt—even the corrupt could have families and compassion somewhere. The same was true for many of the inmates housed in Arkham Asylum as well. He had plenty inmates, all of whom were convicted of some violent crime or another, who had faced judges and juries, stone-faced and unsympathetic, but the moment they saw their wives or children on visiting days, they would burst in genuine smiles and seem no different than the average Gotham citizen. Arkham, who had a wife of going on ten years and two sons—the other twenty-four and just back from receiving his Masters in Psychology from an outside university—could sympathize with Commissioner Gordon. Oversight, vanity, ignorance, and perhaps all three, but he had begun to question just how much he was missing of his youngest’s childhood. He also missed the ease and honeymoon period of his marriage where he was fine staying in bed all day with his wife. When did he get so old? It was a thought he could grin at, but it was true. He was two years from reaching that grand age of fifty. Perhaps it was time he began cutting back his involvement in the Asylum, hung up his late night lab coat, and focus on being there more for Isaiah. Perhaps the extra sleep would do him wonders too. It could even spice up his marriage. He had offered Gotham and Arkham Asylum blood, sweat, tears, and possibly a majority of his sanity, and he could retire soon. Maybe he should start that process, get the ball rolling.

Funny how a syringe to the throat had brought his life into perspective, made him wonder if he’d done enough. Funny how one night had him questioning everything.

Maybe it was time to shut the door on his obsessions, take the key, and seal the lock. Nathaniel was old enough to have the Asylum thrust into his hands more. The boy could continue his schooling and take responsibilities in the place while Jeremiah gradually made his exit. Even the dark and deceitful had to stop eventually; no one could do anything forever. Time always struck a man down—the unbeatable warrior who bowed all in its wake: man, beast, machine, and structure. Yet his time had not come yet, and for now all these thoughts of pull back were just that: thoughts. He had Jim Gordon to deal with at the moment.

He didn’t hear the man startle at his greeting, but he heard the sigh. He knew it directed not at him, for it was not an exhale aimed at a person, but at circumstance. He had sighed enough in that same sentiment and treated enough patients to be able to differentiate. So he took no offense to it, not yet, and besides he shared the sentiment of wanting to get this ordeal over with. No matter how necessary the mayor may have thought the order, Dr. Arkham, hated people prying into his asylum, his business. It was bad enough he fought the legal system during the day with their questions on a patient’s mental competence. All the lawyers thought themselves psychologists and all their “psychologists” loved to parrot psychology texts. Where did they come from, a school where they were never taught to think for themselves? But he pushed his own frustrations aside; he wasn’t in the mood at the moment to pick a fight with police. He wanted done with his night too, so Commissioner Gordon could count himself lucky for that.

With a look once again at the stained bottom of his coffee cup, Arkham pushed it to the side. He did not feel chipper as he sounded, but did not change his tone to fit the actual fatigue he felt. “Nor would I wish mine wasted either.” His voice was now all-business. He may not have enjoyed the stern tone he had been dealt by the Police Commissioner, but it gave the head of Arkham Asylum insight into his previous treatment by the others of his staff. He adjusted his glasses. He was fully aware of how suspicious Gordon was of not only the staff, but of him as well.

He should have been. It was a correct inkling for the police commissioner to have.

“You have no need to justify your procedures to me, commissioner. I understand your reasons and completely agree with you. These men and women…I shudder to imagine them stalking the streets again. I want them to remain here, locked away, being treated safe from society and society safe from them.” Jeremiah informed him. Perhaps he sounded stern then, but he was not frustrated that Gordon was justifying himself, but that Dr. Arkham felt he was being assumed to not understand the motivation behind it. He understood and he’d have appreciated that being acknowledged. He felt bad, though, when Gordon’s voice attempted to match his previous cheer. “If I sounded resentful, forgive me, Commissioner. It was not a slight on you. Simply, yes, you hit the nail on the head. My staff is quite trying at times and I sometimes have cause to wonder if they lose the knowledge I hired them because of overnight. I honestly have no idea why you have just been transferred to me for this duty. I would think, if you’ll allow me, that both our jobs would progress faster if you and I were in more contact.” He pulled a pack of his cigarettes from his coat and began to shake one loose.

“I don’t understand what goes on in the minds of my staff. If they don’t know the answer to your question, you should be transferred to someone more capable or informed of who to contact when. It is inexcusable.” He barked as he stuck the butt in his mouth and searched his person for his lighter.

“But I digress, do begin, I’m interested to see just why my staff despises these ‘checks’ so passionately.” He grinned around the cigarette, able to as well talk unhindered by the object that rested between his lips as he found his lighter.