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The night in Gotham began with a drizzle again, but it wasn't as chillingly continuous as the rainy days of the past. Although the rainwater was somewhat cool, the moisture seeping through the window cracks carried a damp refreshment.
Half-asleep at the bedside, Professor Shearer hung up the phone and let out a soft sigh. Merkel brought in the hot tea and placed it in front of him saying, "Another murder case? Sir, should I prepare your coat?"
"Ah... Of course." Out of Merkel's sight, Shearer's eyes darted around, then he immediately subdued the lively expression on his face, turning into a look of grave seriousness.
He coughed lightly and said, "Prepare the suit, the ones I used to wear will do."
Merkel was somewhat surprised, remarking, "But you didn't let me near your wardrobe, have you forgotten? Oh, I see, perhaps you mean other…"
"I'm not, I have things to do, go prepare the clothes."
Without asking another question, Merkel turned and left. Shearer sighed, pulled out his phone, and fiddled with it—but in reality, he was Greed checking the call log of Arrogant before him.
He had to go to the murder scene but was really not familiar with the people in this cosmos. So the best approach was to disguise himself as Professor Shearer, whom they knew.
Greed sighed inwardly. Pretending to be Arrogant was truly difficult. If only he had some Broccoli now; just act out a sudden death on the spot, and everyone would believe it.
Merkel returned with the clothes. Shearer slightly frowned, lifting his eyes to Merkel and asked, "Where's my brooch?"
"Err, you want to wear a brooch? I'll go look for it." Merkel eyed Shearer dubiously, asking, "What style would you like?"
Shearer thought for a moment, recalling that it seemed only Morbid wore brooches among them. Arrogant was someone who favored simplicity and consistency, and he found fastening brooches to be too troublesome.
But the words were already out, and it was too late to take them back. So Shearer made an unfathomable face and said, "The swordfish brooch, the one with the longest spike."
Merkel was taken aback for a moment and then had an epiphany, said nothing more, and went downstairs to get the brooch. Shearer changed his clothes in the bedroom, or more accurately, he struggled with the terrible suit for 1 minute and 40 seconds before reluctantly putting it on.
As Shearer contemplated why Arrogant would wear so many straps under his suit, Merkel returned carrying a tray of brooches—not just the swordfish, but also many others with long, spiky designs.
Shearer actually favored a ship-shaped brooch for its sleek, silver, and shiny design, but he knew Arrogant would never pick it, so he ended up choosing the black swordfish brooch.
Black suit paired with a black brooch, Shearer himself wanted to laugh looking in the mirror, but he knew he couldn't linger any longer and strode out of the room just like Arrogant.
Merkel didn't suspect anything, but Shearer nearly forgot his umbrella. Luckily, he remembered it just in time as he passed the umbrella stand; otherwise, the whole act would have been in vain.
With the umbrella in hand, Shearer took the driver's seat of the car Merkel had pulled up to the door. Instinctively, he pressed hard on the accelerator, then remembered this was Gotham Manor, not his suburban sanitarium. If he stepped on the gas like that, there'd be a 17-car pile-up before he reached the next intersection.
He started off slowly and turned the corner at the slowest speed he had ever driven. Shearer felt the sigh he was holding in had more force than the old Bentley. What's the point of keeping such an old car around?
Then came the long traffic jam.
Of course, Shearer was not unaccustomed to traffic; after all, he had experienced it in the big city in his past life and had already been stuck for two lifetimes in Gotham and New York. He was used to it.
By the time he drove from the West District to the murder scene in the South District, it was nearly midnight. Shearer had thought his trip would have been in vain, stuck in traffic for almost two hours, and the case would have been closed by then.
Yet as soon as he turned the corner, he found that the police cars had just arrived, similarly stuck in traffic for two hours. Gordon was swearing as he got out of his car.
Shearer fought hard to hide a smile, opened the car door, and was about to step out when he suddenly saw a puddle on the ground. Great, this was one obstacle Arrogant couldn't overcome.
So he pulled his foot back in and sent Gordon a text from inside the car, "I've arrived."
As expected, within two minutes, Gordon appeared outside the car door carrying two cups of hot tea, his officers spreading a waterproof blanket on the ground. Shearer got out of the car, didn't take the tea from Gordon's hand, but pointed to the building and walked briskly in that direction.
Gordon sighed as he watched Shearer's retreating figure but said nothing and followed behind. Without waiting for Shearer to ask, Gordon took the initiative and said, "It's not that I wanted to call you so late, but I knew you wouldn't be asleep…"
Inwardly, Shearer thought, I had been asleep four hours ago; if it weren't for this call, I could have slept another four. He truly didn't understand why the Gothamites insisted on such active nocturnal activities in a city that rarely saw sunshine.
"It's quite peculiar." Gordon finally got to the case, adding, "It's something one of your kind would do."
Shearer couldn't help but turn to look at Gordon, thinking, Does the detective hear himself? You call me over in the middle of the night to play detective, then you say it's our kind who did this? Are you playing process of elimination to find the killer?
By then, they had reached the lobby, where Shearer's steps suddenly came to a halt.
In the center of the hall lay a naked male corpse, its head and limbs hacked off, the abdomen hollowed out. The skull was placed in the middle, and the limbs were arranged around it like the petals of a flower stretching in four directions, turning the entire body into a macabre sculpture.
Propping up this sculpture was a brass disk, and below that, a common exhibition podium you'd find in a gallery.
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Shiller then remembered that they hadn't walked into an ordinary civilian building. He turned to look at Gordon, who nodded and said, "Gotham History Museum, Mrs. Feynman, who is in charge of managing the hall, was about to lock up and leave for the day when she discovered this."
Shiller put on a look of understanding, but in fact, he understood nothing. He neither knew the history of the Gotham History Museum, nor who Mrs. Feynman was, nor what time the place closed, nor even who this unlucky person was.
But Gordon acted as if Shiller knew everything, his eyes seeming to hope that Shiller would stand there and explain the cause and effect in roughly two minutes.
Greed had not been unheard of in DC before, but those were all things of the distant past.
What on earth had happened over the years? Bruce had become like the Joker, Arrogant had turned into Batman.
What kind of unrealistic expectations did these people have of him? How was he supposed to know who the killer was, and why did he need to know who the killer was? Anyway, these ordinary cops certainly couldn't catch someone capable of doing such a thing, so why waste the time?
Shiller took out his cell phone and after dialing said, "Come over."
With a clatter, the phone fell to the ground.
Hearing the sound, Amanda rushed out of the bathroom, Bruce's fingernails still not completely void of bloodstains, yet he looked up at Amanda and said, "He knows."
With a shocked gasp, Amanda's mouth hung open, then a trace of panic appeared on her face. Looking at the mess on the floor, she said, "What do we do?"
Bruce took a deep breath; he was clearly nervous, but not about the same thing as Amanda. He also glanced around, mainly at the pile of entrails wrapped in plastic sheeting in the center of the small washroom.
"No time to find a shredder now, break it down and flush it away," Bruce said, holding up his reddened hands.
"What about the tools?"
"Put them back in the utility room; nobody will notice," said Bruce as he walked to the window and looked down. A row of police cars were driving toward the end of the block, right where the crime scene was.
"Shiller shouldn't have come so soon!" Amanda screamed.
"I don't know what happened," Bruce said. "My calculations were precise. From the time we started to the time the body was discovered should have been one hour. The police were supposed to arrive three hours later, and Shiller was expected to come one hour after that. He prefers to let the regular cops gather all the obvious clues so that he can directly verify his theories with them."
"Could it be that Gordon was in a hurry?" Amanda asked, frowning tightly. "I told you not to make such a big scene; Gordon must be furious, that's why he pushed Shiller to come quickly."
"Gordon can't rush Shiller," Bruce said as he bent down to clean up the plastic sheet. "I'm wondering if the Professor knew in advance that we were going to do it?"
"How could that be? How could he possibly foresee?"
"He knows me very well," Bruce said as he gathered the four corners of the plastic sheet in his hands, squatting on the ground and looking down. "He knows that one day I'd realize what was missing from my PhD application."
Amanda was initially stunned, then her expression turned to despair. Looking at Bruce, her face seemed to say, "You've got to be kidding me."
Then she began to unravel, yelling at Bruce, "Don't tell me the final piece for your PhD application was the work of a serial killer! Do you even remember who you are?"
"We did this together."
Amanda's retort was stifled as she took a deep breath and said, "But it was you who suggested it..."
"He died in your hands, I'm sure of it. And all I did after that was play with the corpse. Immoral, yes, but not illegal," Bruce claimed.
Amanda realized she had been manipulated again. She felt like slapping Bruce but knew now was not the time to argue about it.
Looking at the bloodstains on her hands, arms, and body, she cursed as she walked toward the bathroom, "Anyone who deals with you teacher-student pair ends up bad, you two damn lunatics! Psychopaths! Serial killers!"
"You'd better calm down," Bruce said while cleaning up. "He's called me to come over. You have to handle these last bits. You know, with him there, any slight slip, and we're finished."
Angry screams came from the bathroom.
Bruce, meanwhile, began to prepare in his mind; he knew the war had just begun, and every word he said next would determine whether he could pursue his PhD or not.
Shiller put down the phone and said to Gordon, "Bruce will be here soon."
"Does this have something to do with him?"
"Of course, it's a big deal," Shiller replied.
In his mind, Shiller silently added, if Batman, the all-capable, doesn't show up and you don't pay, am I supposed to figure out who the killer is myself?