A Man of His Word
Chapter Two: One Abnormal Day
Doc situated herself uncomfortably in her chair—It was a wooden thing with unsettled legs and I had never known anybody who could be comfortable in a seat like that. I sat on my bed against the wall. I shrugged with a suggestion, "You can come sit on the bed, if you like. As I said, it is a very long story."
Doc smiled gratefully; she swiveled from the chair to the foot of my bed with grace. With that movement, I heard a knock on my door. Doc granted permission for them to enter; it was one of the orderlies, a boy who must have just turned eighteen, barely legal, and he seemed nervous. I didn't want him to be nervous. I attempted a small smile. The boy nodded to me and then turned quickly to Doc.
"Doctor, I brought you the things that you asked for."
"No need to be vague, young man," said Doc casually. She turned to me as the boy handed her two mugs, and as if to clarify a suspicion that I might have had (and I did), she said in a gentler, kind tone, "It's just coffee."
"That's nice," I replied and then to the boy, I gave him a small word of thanks.
Doc dismissed the orderly, then she nodded to me.
"From the beginning, Costlee. When you're ready." Doc then started the recorder and placed it closest to me on my lap, and she took out her notebook and pen, ready to start taking critical notes, to listen to my account of what happened.
My day had started like every day I lived in Gotham City. I was always anxious because living in the Narrows was as publicly known as a bad place as any 'hood' or 'ghetto' in any other city. It's what they called the slums because although the apartments were pretty cheap, there was a reason for it. And because I was anxious all the time, it seemed to put heavy stress on my nerves, so I frequently was on edge and it made for a very short temper. Even when I went to work, I was only calm at work because I knew that there were plenty of police officers working there, and that even if someone came in with a gun, the likelihood of any gunmen singling me out to be shot was 1 to 50.
But there were always procedures and protocols in order, and it had been a while before I started working at the Gotham National Bank that anyone had tried to hold up the bank. But it didn't mean that bad things were still going on in the inside, even if people weren't trying to come in from the outside.
My boss, Evan Yafrenzaded—I just called him Evan Y because any time he asked me to do something, it always sounded suspicious, or it was not part of a procedure; and I think that I stopped asking "Why?" a few weeks into the job because all Evan would tell me in response was "Just do it".
I was their archivist—I think that if a person was in the mob, they'd call me the legal book keeper. I kept track of the deposits to each of the accounts in the vaults. My job was to recognize unusual patterns in obscure withdrawal amounts and large sums of deposits. When I first noticed that there was a strange pattern in the numbers, Evan told me to ignore that certain pattern. The deposits came in thousands of dollars, and it was always in cash—and the records didn't show any documents of using debit or credit cards or checkbooks. It was fairly easy to see that this account in particular that I had noticed a few years ago was owned by the Mob; and my boss, was clearly holding laundered money for them.
I had a mind to tell the authorities, but Evan threatened one time that if I said anything, I wouldn't be the only one in trouble: "Anybody who steals from the mob loses their lives; do you want to be responsible for losing ours?" I didn't. So I said nothing. Evan said that if anyone ever asked me about the pattern, I was supposed to ask stupid. "It shouldn't be that hard for you to portray a dumb blonde."
I found out that if you wanted to survive in Gotham, it was better to fly under the radar. Any publicity was bad. Even vigilantes like Batman couldn't be spared from the eyes of public. But I flew so low under the radar because I didn't want anyone to know who I was. I was afraid, but I was more afraid to leave the city than I was to stay in it. The city grew on you like that; who would want to leave something so familiar to them? Even battered women had trouble leaving their abusive husbands, and why? Something new was terrifying. And something better?
If I had lived in a normal town, they'd think that I was a day away from meltdown. Have you ever seen anyone in a small, peaceful town jump at the slightest noise or from a stranger offering a hug? Or, when the fireworks go off on Independence Day, the first thought is a gunshot for me—but if I lived in a small town that was a retirement home than a party town, wouldn't you think that I would lose my shit every time someone lit up a bottle rocket?
So, that's why I never left.
When I went to work that day, I thought that it was going to be like the norm.
Doc raised her mug of coffee to her lips, nodded as I told my story. She looked like she wanted to say something. I stopped in the middle of my narrative, and cocked my head to the side.
"Questions, so far?" I offered.
"So your boss then, Evan." Doc said. "Does he still work at Gotham National Bank?"
"To my knowledge, yes. He's still the manager there." I said.
"So that fateful day never deterred him from working there?" Doc asked.
"I don't think that he thought much of me to stop going to work, Doc."
"Did he ever hurt you?"
"No." I answered with a shrug. "I mean, he threatened me the one time. But it was more like he was trying to protect himself, so. I didn't say anything to the police. Though, I think that if I mentioned it to Detective Gordon, he might have noticed the patterns. It was a very large bank, Doc."
Doc nodded, observed her notes, and looked up at me.
"Trauma can make a person easily startled."
"We're not going to talk about things that happened before Boss," I objected softly.
"All right," Doc submitted. "So tell me what happened that first day."
I walked into bank, and the guards were stationed, like usual, at either side of the door. I presented my name tag on my chest so that they knew that I was an employee there. They were always kind to me. They tipped the brow of their hats with their fingers along the brim, gave me smile, addressed me "Ma'am"—and allowed me to enter. Officers Gary and Mark were not friends of mine, but they were familiar faces. I don't think either of them had ever called in. I had always wondered if they made sure to be there strictly at nine o'clock in the morning to make sure that I would see them—if I didn't, it wouldn't be part of the routine. And I liked the routine.
I made my route from the entrance of the bank to the break room where I'd make the full pot of coffee for me and the rest of my colleagues. Around 9:30 in the morning, my colleagues came in and made themselves their own cup of coffee as usual. They said "Thanks" to me like usual. In my position at the bank, I walked to the vault, slid my name tag across the keypad, and it registered that it was me. The vault opened.
Two guards stationed themselves right outside the vault.
"Morning," they greeted me as usual.
"Morning," I returned.
I walked into the vault.
There are many lockboxes, each with their own keys. Most of my shift was absorbed through checking each and every lockbox with their respective keys. It would take me hours to go through the vault. For each hour of the vault, the guards would change shifts—I mean, I didn't expect the same two guards to stand there for nine hours. So each hour, the shift would change.
I was to leave Lock Box #151962 alone.
That was the Lock Box for the mob, and I was not to look at the contents, nor to tally any in-going or out-going funds. Evan Y had told me not ever to look into again. Plausible Deniablity, he said. If anyone asks, you can say that you don't know; that way, you're not lying. I mean, in theory it would work if I hadn't already known that that the box belonged to the mob. But clearly, that's the reason why he was a bank manager, not a lawyer.
I digress.
So while I was in the vault, the officers changed shifts.
It is important for me to let you know that—in no circumstances—was the vault ever closed shut with me in it. The only reason why it would be closed shut was if there was a chance that the bank would be robbed; in which case, the safest place for me to be was inside the vault and to protect everything in there. That was procedure.
It had only happened once in a drill. And even the drill itself is terrifying. I don't like enclosed spaces, or to be confined. I'm a bit claustrophobic; and although it's the safest place to be in the middle of an armed robbery, it's not comfortable knowing that I'm trapped inside a reinforced steel room with no way out.
"You're claustrophobic." Doc interrupted.
"Yes."
Doc indicated the room that we both were seated in.
"Not the same," I told her.
I placed my hand against the glass behind me.
"Windows," I muttered. "It is easier to deal with small spaces when I can see the outside through the large windows. It's not so bad." I glanced behind me to see the outskirts of Gotham. Fifth floor. Open view. I emitted a pleasant sigh. "Sometimes, the guards let me outside in the yard so I can get some fresh air."
Doc agreed, "Yes, they are nice. So when did your day take a turn for the worst?"
My back was turned to the entrance of the vault, trusting that the shift change was going as normal. I wrote down some notes on my tablet. I heard a small murmur that made the hairs on my neck stand up, and a creeping sensation swept over my body, covering my arms with goosebumps.
Something is wrong, I thought. I tried to silence that annoying voice in my head that always warned that there was danger lurking around the corner, but again, Turn around.
On the off chance that I might have been just experiencing paranoia, I turned around slowly, casually, as it to recheck some of the lockboxes in case I made a mistake. But this was very wrong.
As I turned on my heels, I looked up to see two guards entering the vault. They always stood guard outside, not in here with me.
"I'm sorry," I attempted at polite objection, "but the police officers usually stand outside in front of the vault while I work."
Still, they strode inside without another word, then they took the large handle of the vault and pulled it in. I watched as the vault closed behind them, locking me in here with them. I felt my heart beat begin to pulse quickly, and my face flushed. Worst. Fear. Realized.
"Sorry, poppet," the guard on the left said as he withdrew his hat from the top of his head. "But this ain't gonna be a normal day for you." His voice was gravelly, as if he had smoked way too many cigarettes in the last forty years of his life.
"I can tell," I said, and I wished my voice hadn't been trembling when I spoke.
"You're quite pretty for an archivist. Pretty and quiet."
It always made me anxious when men called me pretty, especially when he began to approach me with this strange look on his face, and I didn't like the vibe that he gave off. I took a step back, but I felt the rough exterior of the wall of lockboxes against my back. Cornered with no way to go.
"You can just stay right there," I dismissed him, pointing at him a few feet away.
Outside of the vault, I heard a gunshot and the noise made my stomach lurch apprehensively. Screams outside, and the deadly silence inside made me realize that the reason why these two inside were because they needed to be. This was a robbery, and they had slid inside with knowledge of the procedure.
The first guard who did all the talking glanced behind him, and then smiled smugly at me.
"Look at that. It's a good thing that we are all safe in here. I can protect you, poppet."
"You can do that while standing over there," I said.
"Well, see, we need your help. I hear you've got an eidetic memory. You can remember some very handy things that my friend and I are looking for. But also, an eidetic memory is a very dangerous superpower to have. So that means that after we got what we come for, you should probably come with us."
"I..."
What could I say?
"I...I could simply forget that I saw your faces." I shrugged.
The man who called me 'poppet' stepped forward a few more inches, and I didn't want him to touch me. I wondered if the second guard was going to watch whatever this man was going to do to me, and I half-hoped he was much more a noble man than this fellow. I glanced at the second guard—Maybe I shouldn't have done that so I could forget his face—but it was too late. I would remember his face more than anything because—
"How about," the first guard said, "you show me the lockboxes of some of the most influential politicians of Gotham, then you and I have some fun later?"
I stared at him.
"You're here for politics?"
The answer was obvious. He wanted to steal from the rich, lucrative politicians in the city; and you know what, I was more than willing to do that. Money was money but I didn't want him to touch me.
"I can tell you what they are," I said softly. "But...don't..."
"Hurt you? I won't if you just do as you're asked."
The first guard carried a technical kit, which stored some tools that would be used to get inside the lockboxes had they not been so lucky for me to be here to unlock the boxes for them. He set that box on the table within the vault. I handed him the keys to the vault. But when he reached for the keys, he grabbed a hold of my hair in a fist and pulled my head back. I flinched the whole time.
"Stop..." I asked again.
The second guard sighed behind his buddy, as if his patience had run out. At first, I thought he was just going to coax his friend away from me, but he withdrew his revolver from his hip, cocked the gun, aimed it at the back of the first guard's head, and pulled the trigger.
A scream left my lips.
The fingers in my hair lost their grip, and the lifeless face of the Poppet fellow fell in a slump to the ground, holding the keys to the vault. Such a large amount of blood began to pool around my feet.
"Disgusting," said the second guard.
As I looked at him, I noticed that he was definitely not one of Gordon's men. Those eyes lacked compassion like Officers Gary and Mark had given me outside of the bank. And then there was his face. Deep scars stretched along his mouth that made his frown look so grave and depraved. He nudged the body of his dead friend with his foot, sliding the man across the floor, smearing the blood around. I lost feeling in my body after the gunshot, and just watched this rogue officer take one of his gloved hands, squatted to the floor casually, and start to draw on the chrome floor with the blood.
:)
He drew a smiley face.
"Art in the blood," he said with reminisce, "is liable to take the strangest forms."
I didn't know what to say to that. I didn't what to say at all. All I could do was stand there like a limp noodle and watch this man stoop beside his friend of whom he had shot in point-blank range, draw with his blood—
"What are you doing?" was the question that sounded the right thing to ask.
"Why do you sound so scared?" he asked with his back turned to me.
"I mean..." What kind of question is that?! "You...you killed him."
"I did," said he. "Wasn't part of the job..."
He rose to his feet suddenly, and it made me twitch with such a sudden movement, that I stepped back; my feet caught the dead man's arm and I slipped in the blood. The stranger lunged after me, caught me by my waist, and we stood as if he dipped me in the middle of a subtle dance.
What's happening?
"You should be more careful," he said. "Don't want to have to carry you out of here with a concussion."
"I..."
"He was right. You are awfully quiet."
"I...'m not sure if I should thank you or not."
"You can. Probably should. No doubt this lunatic would've raped you."
"Uhh..."
But are you?
As if he read my mind, the not-so-security guard shook his head.
"No, I'm not going to do that to you. That would be rude."
"Rude?" I was stunned. "I'm not sure what to call you, but—but—you killed him."
"Not part of the plan."
"What's the plan?"
"Don't have one. But you do have an eidetic memory, so—"
"Who told you that I do?" I asked the real questions. "Who told you about me? How did you know how to get in—Wait, the guards who are supposed to be here—? No, but the lockboxes?"
"Now you're talking too much."
He placed a gloved finger against my lips, and I was happy that he didn't choose the one that was soaked in his insubordinate friend. Seriously, the man gave me some extreme whiplash. I wasn't sure if he was actually the safest man in the world, but he did interrupt a supposed attempted rape. A bit extreme, but he did me a solid. And here we were, stuck in the vault with a dead body.
He released me entirely, brushed his hands against his uniform to straighten it all out.
"I'm not answering your questions right now, no comment; but you are going to come with me because I don't want Gotham to know me just yet. So unfortunately, for the time being, you're gonna have to play dead."
"What?"
"Either you play dead or I haul you and those keys out in a body bag. Those are your choices."
"I don't feel like I have a choice."
"Sure ya do." He took the keys from his friend. "But only one of those choices help you stay alive, so."
He gestured to me. Was he really waiting for a reply?
"I'll play along." I agreed to his terms.
"Good idea, let's do it your way."
I was thunderstruck. But...But...it wasn't even my idea, though. Was it my idea? No, it wasn't. It might have been the shock over the last few minutes of what had just happened, but it seemed to best thing to do was to play dead and have this man carry me out of the vault. I saw no options other than to comply.
"What do I call you?" I ask.
"What do you call me? I'm a human being. I have a name."
"What is it?"
"Oh, no, no, no, no, we're not doing that, Costlee." He stepped forward and tapped my name tag with his finger. "I know your name though. Interestingly, your name is 'Costly' and you work at a bank. It's cute, actually. Anyway, enough small talk. Let's go."
He held out his arms. I stared at him. When I didn't move, he sighed impatiently, wiggled his fingers with a pointed attitude. Oh, are you serious?
I had the worst urge to roll my eyes. But instead, I did what he wanted.
I pretended to fall dead, to which he caught me in his arms by both my shoulders and under my knees. He hoisted me up. From this angle, I peeked up at him. He had a very strong jaw line. From the way he effortlessly carried me, he was quite strong. He held my body up close to the keypad where I could take my nametag across the keypad. I did so then let my nametag fall to the floor.
"Good girl."
When I heard the vault click and begin to open, I heard an echo of screams and threats, more gunshots—I flinched, and I heard my kidnapper tell me, "Oh, oh, it's okay, I got you now". He sounded comforting, but...
We began to cross the floor.
"Make one sound, one call for help, I will kill you."
I didn't move. I didn't scream. I didn't do anything but to pretend that he was carrying a dead woman out of the building. I heard someone call my name, Evan Y, but that was the end of that as he strode me out of the building and shoved me into the back of a van.
And then we were gone.