Mayor Hill made the formal introductions.
"Lieutenant James Gordon, this is Harvey Dent, an assistant district attorney on loan to us from Gotham County. He'll be acting as special prosecutor for the men involved in the incident last month."
Hill had a politician's gift for understatement. A few hundred people in the Narrows were dead, thousands displaced by fires, many still crazed and awaiting treatment, and the ranks of riot cops in Gotham were still half empty thanks to the casualties. Some 'incident.'
Dent released his hand, polite smile in place. "The mayor tells me you were instrumental in containing the chaos last month. I orchestrated this little detour on my tour of your precinct. I wanted to get a chance to shake your hand, Lieutenant."
This Dent guy knew how to shmooze, Gordon would give him that. But if Dent thought he liked being popular and being on TV, he had a few stacks of unanswered pink sticky-notes from Summer Gleason to show the new guy.
"Just doing my job," Gordon opted for diplomacy rather than sarcasm.
"As will I," Dent struck a pose, but his expression was sincere. "We've got a lot of work to do, and I'll be depending upon your help. You've got a reputation as an honest man, Lieutenant Gordon. I value that."
He looked to Commissioner Loeb to place that remark. "I was just updating them on the I.A.B. investigation. You got excellent marks, Gordon. I.A.B. hates giving good marks." If Loeb sounded bitter, he had a right. The past few weeks had seen the exact enumeration of the ranks of the corrupt cops that had prospered under his watch.
"Yes, sir, thank you."
"I'm proud of our police force." The mayor lifted his chin to show just how proud he was. "I know we've got a few bad apples, but they're finding out that their tenure has come to an end."
Gordon kept his face blank. He might dog Loeb here and there, but he wasn't about to embarrass the man in front of his boss. The Internal Affairs Bureau's purge was more a grand fairy tale for the press than a sweeping reform under the banner of justice; Commissioner Loeb clearly hadn't been keeping the mayor too closely informed on the proceedings. Half of I.A. was on the take, just like the rest of the boys in blue, only the I.A. guys thought they could save themselves by ousting fellow scumbags to keep their own jobs.
"I'll leave you three to get acquainted. You'll have much to do in the coming months if I'm re-elected," Hill plugged, excusing himself, "so let's get started on the right foot, hmm?" The mayor cast a pointed look at Dent, and Gordon shared a questioning one with the commissioner. What was that about? Loeb shook his head once--later.
Hill rejoined the staffers he'd left anxious and alone out in the hall. Gordon took his chair again, and the commissioner sat across from him. Dent remained on his feet, pacing, and Gordon's initial impression of shark grew even stronger. Dent was a predator, and the man was circling him.
Abruptly, Dent spoke. "I think I can guess what you're thinking, Gordon." He held his tongue, and Dent went on. "You're not convinced the threat is gone, are you?"
"Threat, Mr. Dent?"
"Dirty cops. Right now, they're scared straight because of what happened to Carmine Falcone and because of this bat-character in the tabloids. But they're still on the squad."
The commissioner was curiously silent, not jumping to defend his force. The past few weeks had been an unpleasant eye-opener for him, and he wasn't about to deny Dent's accusation. Gordon, as a matter of principle, kept his thoughts to himself.
Dent was keen, however. "You don't have to say anything, Lieutenant. I know the commissioner won't have told the mayor everything." Loeb glared at the attorney's back, but Dent pressed onwards, swept up by his own enthusiasm. "The stink goes so far up the ladder that the I.A. boys are probably just wringing the necks of fellow crooks."
Dent paused to check him for any sign he agreed, but he kept himself neutral. Years of pretending not to see had taught him how not to react.
"You won't give up any names. That's admirable, if stupid, Lieutenant. I intend to do my own research on the members of this force with whom I'll be working--especially those in a position to police other cops."
"I suppose I'm included in that number?" Loeb grunted.
Dent glanced over his shoulder at the commissioner. "My apologies, Commissioner. I know this isn't easy for you." The lawyer perched on the corner of Gordon's desk, his posture casual, his tone intent. "But now that I'm in town, mob rule is history."
"I thought you were here for the terrorist case," Gordon ventured, probing. There was something in Dent's tone, a possessed quality to his excitement that betrayed more under the surface; he had some stake in this, political or personal or both.
"I am," Dent said, slowly, stretching the short syllables, "but things change. I might be around for a while longer if Gotham City likes what I do with the bastards who took down the Narrows. I'm not convinced there isn't a connection to some of the bosses here in the city." Dent screwed up his face in disgust. "I don't like the mob, boys."
"Glad to hear it, counselor," Loeb chimed in. "Neither do we."
"Good," Dent swivelled his head around sharply to make eye contact with Commissioner Loeb for the first time since they'd entered Gordon's office. "Because I won't tolerate losing cases to them because of corrupt cops."
Loeb opened his mouth to form a retort, choked it off, and glanced away. Neither man looked at Gordon for a long minute, in which he drew a pretty clear picture of what wasn't being said in front of him. Obviously, the two had already discussed subject of police corruption--and where to assign the blame for it--at length.
And just like that, Dent turned back to him, all smiles again.
"I'll want your help, of course, detective."
"Mr. Dent--"
" 'Harvey' will do just fine."
He ignored this attempt to engender intimacy. There were fewer than ten men on the force with whom he felt comfortable being on a first-name basis. No way was some lawyer not five minutes in his acquaintance worth adding to that list.
"I'm going to do my job the way it should be done--"
"That's all I ask," Dent cut him off, leaning forward over his desk, voice dropping to a low mutter. "Keep this on the down-low: you're going to be captain of the homicide division within a year."
"What?" Him? Captain? After more than twenty years of service, and reaching no higher than sergeant, he was suddenly a lieutenant. Now he was destined to be captain less than twelve months later? He jerked his head to the side to see the commissioner around Dent. "Sir, what's this?"
Dent got in the way before Loeb could answer. "You're a good cop, Gordon. I don't bullshit around with good people. This department is going to need good cops, and we need the good cops we have to recruit more. When you make captain, you'll bring up more good cops with you."
"I would do that anyway. I don't have to wait until I'm captain to do it."
"That's the spirit," Dent beamed his great white smile.
"I meant that I don't need a bogus promotion to do my job," Gordon replied quickly, catching Loeb's suspicious glower from the corner of his eye. The last thing he needed to do was annoy the commissioner any further; he had to work with Loeb, and the man was still smarting from his last promotion as if it had been a personal insult.
"It's not bogus," Dent banged his fist on the desk. "You deserve it, detective. There's no one better qualified. You've been middling about in this department for too long. You're the kind man I'll want behind me when I'm D.A."
"D.A.?" Gordon felt like burying his face in his hands and muttering the sorts of profanities his wife would never allow in the house. "This is all a bit premature, isn't it, counselor?
"I agree," Loeb contributed, a rare point of concurrence between them.
"Not at all. The mayor's not here, so I can tell you straight out: I'll be D.A. in the next six months if Hill's re-elected. Hell, I could probably talk the job out of Fugate, if needs be."
"What about Miss Dawes?" Gordon felt a tad defensive of the acting district attorney. She might not have Dent's oily, bullish charm, but she had a set of brass stones on her. Moreover, he trusted her, which, despite their short interaction, was more than he could say for Dent thus far. He had looked forward to working with her again in a less stressful and more official capacity.
Dent appeared pained. "Miss Dawes is a great attorney, don't get me wrong. Out in the 'burbs, I admired what she and D.A. Finch did by bringing in Falcone." Dent shook his head, genuinely apologetic. "But she doesn't have the name recognition to stay as D.A. and won't have it after I take those terrorists to trial. My case will have national coverage, and I will get convictions. After I do, it won't be a competition. I'll run for D.A., and I'll get it."
"And when you're established, you're promoting Gordon to captain?" Loeb leaned his against one propped arm. "You sure you want to go throwing your weight about that way, Dent? You know what they say about power corrupting."
"Not me," Dent growled. "I've kept organized crime out of Gotham County for ten years now. I'm just taking on bigger fish in a bigger pond, not bestowing favors, Commissioner. I'm rectifying past wrongs."
"How? By messing with our department?"
"I'm not messing with it," Dent snapped, crossing his arms with an air of finality and turning back to Gordon. At least one of them remembered he was in the room. "Captain Lewis is getting old anyway."
Gordon almost gagged. "I'm forty-eight. Captain Lewis is only sixty," not to mention well below the mandatory retirement age of seventy-five.
"He's being retired," Dent elaborated, and comprehension socked Gordon hard in the gut. Captain Lewis? He had no idea it went that far. That burned.
Dent lowered his voice to a murmur. "This is all hush-hush, you understand. Gotham needs to trust its police force. We're retiring some cops and exposing others. That's the way to show that we're tough without losing too much face."
Gordon leaned back in his chair, mind reeling, mood sinking. "And who decides who gets an early going away party and who gets skunked?"
Dent waved off his hostility. "That's the commissioner's job. He'll talk to the ones who've been here longest, convince them to retire. Your partner is included in that number." This failed to surprise his audience, so Dent continued, "We're cleaning house. We'll start with the rookies and get rid of any who look shaky, threaten prosecution if necessary."
"Why not just suspend them?"
"It looks weak." Dent sniffed, sporting an affronted and angry sneer.
"Some guys just need a second chance."
"Not with me. I have the mayor's full support on this. The commissioner, too." He confirmed this with a begrudging nod from Loeb. "No dirty cops get second chances in Gotham. Not any more." Dent straightened, shifting his jacket so it sat rigidly perfect on his wide shoulders once more. "Thought you ought to know what's coming."
Right then, Gordon realized two things. One: Dent wanted to intimidate him. A suburban attorney new to Gotham City, he meant to make himself a reputation from the outset to save him the trouble of having to salvage one later. So, he brought out the merciless, pitiless tough act. Gordon had met tough--real tough. It didn't have to pretend, even if it did wear a mask.
Two: Dent had been trying purposefully to provoke him. The cop in Gordon understood the principle--baiting a suspect to draw out an incriminating word or deed. Dent was feeling him out, matching Gordon's reputation against his behavior. And now he knew, and Dent knew that he knew.
"This a test to see if I tell anyone what you're doing."
"Maybe," Dent grinned slyly. "I need to know who's on my team and who isn't, Gordon."
"I know what team I'm on." Gordon sank deeper into his chair, huffing. "How about I wait and see whether yours and mine are the same?"
"That's fine, Lieutenant. I think we understand each other." Dent slid off his desk, going to the door and opening it. "Commissioner, could you give us a couple of minutes, please?"
An aggrieved Commissioner Loeb rose and departed with no more than a grunt. Dent closed the door after him, his self-possessed assurance faltering as he economically selected choice words for maximum impact, a lawyering trick if ever there was one.
"Commissioner Loeb's turning a blind eye to your nightly activities, Gordon."
"Is that right," he didn't ask; already the double-talk tasted sour in his mouth. He was getting damned tired of Loeb and Mayor Hill politicking around the issue of the Batman. It left him holding the bag, and the press hadn't yet allowed him to forget it. He had no interest in getting more of the same from Harvey Dent.
"Whatever your arrangement with this bat-character, that's your business. I don't need to know. Just keep him in line so he doesn't foul up my cases, okay?"
"I'm not his keeper."
"Maybe not," Dent shrugged. "But he trusts you. Don't bother denying it. Use what leverage you have with him to get him to play ball with us."
Gordon opened his mouth to voice his exasperation--he had no control over Batman, why didn't people get that?--and the phone rang instead; Dent crossed the room in two steps to pick it up before Gordon even processed that he ought to be the one answering.
"Gordon's office." He watched Dent raise one eyebrow as he listened to the person on the other end. "No, he's unavailable at the moment."
Gordon mouthed 'who is it?' Dent ignored him, intent upon this call.
"This is Harvey Dent...yes, that Harvey Dent. Miss Gleason, was it?"
Gordon groaned. That woman never gave up. He detached her stack of post-its and handed them to Dent; the attorney leafed through them, amusement and irritation chasing across his features. He tipped the phone away, covering the receiver.
"How many times has she called about Batman?"
"Too many," Gordon grumbled, lifting his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose against a headache. Gleason called, and he got a migraine. He didn't exactly look fondly back on the all-too-recent bad old days, but he really, really hated being so popular.
Dent brought the receiver back to his mouth. "Miss Gleason, as of right now, Detective Gordon's number is off limits. If you want an official statement on this Batman person, you can contact me at the district attorney's office. Do not call back here." Dent dropped the phone back down on the cradle.
Awed, Gordon gaped at the other man. Why hadn't he thought of that?
"Will that work?" He didn't dare hope. Tragedy and promotion conspired to leave him buried in paperwork until his fiftieth birthday; if Dent lightened that load by a half-dozen post-its per day, he would be Gordon's new best friend.
"Who knows?" Dent waved as he headed for the door. "If not, I could always ask the mayor to revoke her press pass. That ought to keep her in line."
"Can he afford that?" There were only two weeks left until the election, after all.
"It won't do much for his image," Dent conceded, enigmatic grin firmly in place, "but her network won't suffer for it. It'll be a strictly personal insult that her colleagues can hold against her forever--and they will. Reporters can be sharks."
"They're not the only ones," Gordon wondered aloud, finding himself suddenly liking Dent a whole lot better when he had the good grace to laugh.
"I believe I resemble that remark, Lieutenant."
"Jim."
"Jim," Dent dipped his head, accepting the peace offering and opening the door.
"You get her off my back, you'll be my personal hero."
Dent stopped, turned in the doorway and nodded to him.
"Consider it done."