“ VERY CLOSE, MR. DENT, but I think you got me a little turned around. ” Rising from his seat, Norman stuck out his hand and felt it disappear like a flushed guppy into something roughly the size and shape of a catcher’s mitt. Glancing down, he discovered it was a handshake. “ Norman Jayden. I’m here to help you catch your killers, sir. ”
He had a feeling he wouldn’t be glancing down again for some time.
Nearly seven feet tall and built like a double-wide refrigerator, Gotham’s much-lauded D.A. looked more like something he’d expect to see barreling down the twenty yard line than signing papers at an oak-wood desk. Strong as an ox and prominently featured, with a winning air of latent athleticism and a working man’s jocular major-league charm, Norman figured him at well over two-hundred pounds – and every ounce of him, larger than life. His poor little desk seemed to cower. His broad PR-ready smile was chiseled dauntlessly above a monumental jaw, and the impressive girth of his shoulders put Norman squarely in mind of a marble fireplace.
Photographers must have loved him. Harvey Dent’s was a face for the front page.
When his hand was released from its grip, he stood by his chair with laced fingers, attentively upright. Privately, he agreed with the D.A.’s prognosis – the Gotham problem had either been mismanaged, delayed, or downright neglected for far too long. And over the course of his career, Norman had learned first hand the unavoidable aggravation of occasional bureaucratic oversight. No institution was spotless; no machine without its flaws. Still, he felt a brief defensive stab.
“ None taken. ” He reminded himself he’d prefer an adamant straight-shooter to a complacent yes-man, and that like all men and women, D.A.’s ran the gambit from combative to obsequious. He tried to think of it as candidly refreshing to be shaken firmly by the hand and told, with a bright eyed smile, that it took him long enough. At least it cut out the small talk. Norman hated small-talk. “ Guess we’ll just have to make up for lost time. It’s my duty and my privilege, sir, to lend a hand. Gotham’s an admirable city, and I’d like to help you give it a proper cleanin’. I’m prepared to help in any way I can. ”
This, albeit somewhat rehearsed, was not untrue. Despite his own reticence, there was a quality about Harvey – an energy, a kinesis, a drive – that spoke to him of fortitude and strength, and reminded him of certain oldschool ethics. Tireless, active, take-charge. A man unafraid to take devil by the horns and wrestle him back to his homeland – without fear of falling in after him.
Gotham could use a man like that.
He cut to the chase. “ I’ve reviewed the files forwarded by your office. I also understand that in the brief time since our last communication, a few additional incidents have occurred. The way I see it, Mr. Dent, the most immediate challenge facing your office is, frankly, a matter of bulk. The sheer amount of cases set on your desk each day. As I said before, Gotham’s an impressive city, but it seems to have attracted more than just your average workin’ class American. So many new cases, so many new crimes – your detectives don’t always have time to cross-reference and confer with other officials. They got enough on their plates, as is. But that makes it harder to connect the dots. ”
Pacing, he glimpsed the periphery of a framed photograph – Harvey, cum laude. “ That’s where I come in, Mr. Dent. I believe I can help you connect the dots. If we can identify similar patterns in multiple cases, open and closed, we can narrow down your search-radius and help streamline the investigative process; maybe give your officers a cheat-sheet of red-flags to look out for; cull the herd. It’s possible that even much of Gotham’s ‘ random crime ’ is in some way interconnected.
“ I’d like to help you bust it apart. ”
“Ah, my mistake.” A quiet chuckle bubbled from deep in his chest at Norman’s answer, his greeting smile notching into something more wry. “It’s nice to have you, Mr. Jayden.”
That infectious drive of his had him already forgetting the chair he had been aiming for ( he liked to try and sit in meetings, if just for the sake of the necks of whomever he was speaking to. ) and wandering inch-by-inch, closer to the tack board, as he listened.
Without even looking at the agent, Harvey was distinctly aware of his presence--despite being, in many aspects, average and nondescript, ( really, he was the secret poster boy of the FBI; the real face behind the glorified, all-American justice the media often affixed to the organization. ) Norman had a certain affect to him that made him stick out like a sore thumb. Harvey was reminded of a ghost; anachronistic like an old photograph, all gray and white and black and clear-cut professionalism, out of his environment among the animated, vibrant crowds that differed from the white-collar world of D.C.
“It’s nice to finally hear someone besides Jim say that.” He had taken up an idle lean against the board, though his attention hadn’t strayed from his guest for a second. His inflection had traveled from ardor to a taut, edged emphasis, airy with some breathless, mirthless near-laugh, and momentarily Norman got a peek at the strain Gotham put on someone in Harvey’s position.
As quick as it came it was gone, the crack smoothed over, and his eyes moved back to the other, focused and intent. He flashed another smile. Even with the rehearsed air of Norman’s little speech, there was genuine feeling in the generic words-- Harvey already appreciated the agent’s disposition immensely. Lord forbid he have to deal with another toothless spaniel, complete with a silk collar and all the loud, useless barking to match.
Gotham could do without another man like that.
Harvey dragged his heavy frame into a straighter stance, arms moving habitually to cross over each other. “I’ve been thinking of something like a ’ cheat-sheet ‘ for a while, now. There’s things I’ve started to try and put together; connections I know exist.. but I just don’t have the time. The ‘Big Three’ like to keep me busy.” He glanced back at the overlapping trails of string, crisscrossing over faces and news cut-outs and case files, all pinned up haphazardly into a collage of dry legalities and frustrating loopholes. A distinct disdain entered into his words-- it was a harsh thing, not feeling like it belonged in a voice such as his. “..I’m sure the files you received already got you familiarized with them.”
The faces of Sal Maroni, Rupert Thorne, and Carmine Falcone stuck out on the board like capital cities on a map. From them radiated lines of string like the sun radiated light. Harvey’s face tightened as he looked at them; the mere pictures were enough to make him angry, to have his countenance twist and show off the creases around his brows and his mouth that belied stress, rather than age.
“Those three run this city. And Jim and I just... can’t touch’em. They’ve got us chasing so many trails at the same time.. It’s runnin’ us ragged.” Finally he tore his gaze away, eyes moving to Norman instead. His expression softened-- fortunately. God have mercy on anybody that invoked that glare upon them. “But now you’re here, I know we can tip the scales. We can finally push the offense, instead of just trying to keep up.”
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