Ratcatcher (Gotham OC)

2: Don't Cross the Rat Mafia

Arnold's phone was found shortly after Jim drove away. It was grimy and cracked, discarded in the gutter, most likely in a weak attempt of hiding it.

For a moment, Harvey just examined it, holding it at arm's length like it was contagious. He jumped when it rang and it slipped from his hand, landing face down. When he picked it up, quick to answer, the screen was more cracked than before. Yikes. Good thing the man didn't need it any more, otherwise he'd be in for it.

The name on the screen was Sam, followed by a cheesy <3 symbol.

Harvey clicked accept.

"Arnie?" a woman's voice asked.

He took a deep breath. "This is Detective Harvey Bullock from the GCPD. I'm-"

"Oh, God. What's he done now?"

Huh?

Those words being the follow-up question to a detective answering the phone was definitely something to ask her about.

Though he'd taken a second to prepare for his first words, he did anything but avoid being blunt for the big reveal. Back when he first got the job he always approached it lightly, but he'd long stopped caring. Mean, but if he took the time to be gentle with every single case, it would all take twice as long.

"He's dead."

---

When Sam Mendez opened the door to her pristine little town house, her eyes were pinker than the colour itself, though her makeup appeared undamaged. She wore a white shirt and blue jeans, a fluffy pink cardigan pulled around her in a way she hoped would be comforting. Her blonde hair was pulled back tightly, and overall she looked perfect. Not in a sweet way, per se, but in an almost spooky way.

The inside of the house reflected Harvey's impression of her. The walls were too white, the rugs too clean, the vases too polished. They sat at a spotless table in the sitcom-like kitchen, Sam with a mug of milky coffee that she never once raised to her lips.

Just by sitting in the house with his creased clothes and untrimmed beard, the soles of his clumsy shoes caked in dry mud, Harvey felt like he was trashing the place. He glanced around as cautiously as he would if his eyes were shooting out clouds of dirt, wondering if the area was somehow home to clues.

His eyes landed on a large photo on the wall, bigger than any of the colourless paintings he saw on his way through the corridor. It was of two young people. One was Sam, and the other must have been what Arnold looked like when he still had a face. Sam wore an elaborate white dress and Arnold a black suit, both smiling wider than most were able to.

"You and him were married?" he asked. He already knew the answer, yet it seemed traditional to make comments like this.

"Last month," Sam whispered.

Her eyes became glazed with tears and her mouth trembled, and Harvey frowned somewhat sympathetically.

"Is there anything you can tell me about..." he began, but cut himself off. "Over the phone, you asked me what he'd done. You expected he was in some kinda trouble, probably not for the first time. Wanna elaborate on that?"

Sam shrugged. "Arnie's not a bad man," she insisted, perhaps a little too quickly. "He just... he's always in the wrong place at the wrong time. Gets in fights, gets involved with the wrong people."

"Wrong people?"

"He's... he sells drugs, alright? That's how we can keep affording this place."

Harvey nodded, thinking. "Do you know anyone who'd wanna hurt him?"