VICTIM NUMBER THIRTEEN "have you heard of Frederick Hunt?"
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i. (james gordon)
MONDAY MORNING, half-past nine a.m. and time for the third coffee of the day —black, no sugar.
Wayne's secretary —a long legged blonde girl with an operated nose— had told him that Mr. Wayne and Miss Laughterfield would arrive soon but that had been twenty-six minutes ago.
There had been seventeen victims, Miss Laughterfield was number thirteen —unlucky number— and she was the last one he would question about the Scarecrow and the experiments he practiced on them. Out of the seventeen, only fourteen were still alive —two had died because of the fear toxin and another had committed suicide after those events— and all of them went regularly to therapy, were planning on moving out of town or purchased a new security systems for their houses out of fear. All of them except Miss Laughterfield, victim number thirteen.
He knew the protocol, he would shake hands with her and tell her the GCPD was doing everything they could to sent Scarecrow back to Arkham where he wouldn't be able to hurt them ever again. He knew the protocol —and yet he forgot it when he saw her.
She was laughing.
The elevator door opened and Wayne seemed to be explaining a funny story about his time in Europe and Laughterfield was laughing. All the other victims were terrified when he spoke to them but to Sara Laughterfield —the pretty face— it seemed as if nothing memorable had happened two weeks ago.
"Ah, Commissioner Gordon. I see you're already here." said Bruce with a cocky smile, his suit was probably more expensive than Gordon's house.
Sara offered him a polite smile —not kind, just polite— which Gordon mentally added to the list of important things to know about victim number thirteen. "Good morning."
"Oh, don't bother. Sara here is a firm believer that no Monday morning is ever a good morning." He said to which Sara chuckled softly, then he added "I don't understand why you complain so much about Mondays."
"Well, that- dear Bruce, is because -unlike me- you don't have a real job." She finally spoke, her voice was like velvet and there was a smile threating to appear on her lips.
She was wearing high heels and a blue shirt, expensive. The operated blonde brought a black coffee to Bruce and a latte macchiato to Sara —she had memorized their orders. "Isn't she funny?"
