Chapter 800: The Deadly Joke (24)

There was once a very famous film called "Rain Man," which actually depicted the daily lives of patients with this condition, though the movie exaggerated somewhat; those with such abilities are exceedingly rare, and many psychiatrists and psychologists never encounter one in their entire careers.

Bruce also knew another term: "born killer," not a psychological disorder but a criminological term referring to individuals who, from birth, feel no compassion for their kind, cannot comprehend social morality, and derive psychic pleasure from controlling and harming others.

From countless bloody lessons, criminal behaviorists concluded that such people are the most difficult criminals to handle, because they come infinitely close to having no motive for murder.

They do not kill for fame, for profit, nor even for pleasure; often, they kill as casually as a person deciding to eat beef for dinner—no special reason, just the urge to eat.

Their brains generate the thought of killing as naturally as a brain thinks of eating beef; when the thought arises, no human empathy or moral restraint triggers, and no compassion is activated.

Thus, they often create the most headaches for investigators: random killings with no pattern.

The victims may have no connection to them at all; everything is impulsive, and even after arrest, they are nearly impossible to rehabilitate—like a death's emissary wandering among humans, randomly selecting the lucky few to end their lives.

Bruce was not certain whether Schiller was such a person, but he noticed Schiller indeed lacked the most basic moral sense and compassion toward harming others, and the casualness with which he did so made Bruce suspect this might be an innate mental disorder, not caused by any postnatal grudge.

After observing him for so long, Bruce found that those whose antisocial behavior stemmed from postnatal grudges usually displayed intense emotions when acting—joy, excitement, fear, and so on.

But those born antisocial remain utterly calm when acting, as if they had done nothing at all; even the most sophisticated interrogation equipment struggles to determine whether they are lying.

Because from within, these people truly believe they have done nothing—they merely ate a bite of beef—and they find the entire process of interrogation, trial, and imprisonment utterly baffling, unable to understand why people make such a fuss over someone eating a bite of beef.

Having the chance to observe Schiller up close as an equal, Bruce realized he might have drawn the worst possible ticket: Schiller was a born killer, a high-IQ antisocial, ready at any moment to change his dinner to beef.

Schiller, sitting across from him, asked: "Are you planning to rent my apartment? If not, leave my house—I have important business to attend to."

Bruce opened his mouth, but he realized leaving now was not a wise choice; no one knew what Schiller might do without supervision.

He realized he had shot himself in the foot—he had originally intended to blend into ordinary life and observe the slum's ecosystem.

But now, he had indeed blended into ordinary life—only this ordinary person, on his first day in Gotham, had secured a two-bedroom, one-living-room apartment and a glass of water delivered by the crime syndicate ruling the entire district of Hell's Kitchen.

Bruce sighed and said: "Yes, I'll rent one of the rooms, but I can't pay rent right away—I need to find work before I have any cash flow…"

"Since you've been living here this long, you should be able to tell me what kinds of jobs are available," Schiller said.

"There are many jobs here, but none will suit your needs," Bruce said, placing his hands on the table. "By the docks, there's manual labor—loading and unloading, warehouse organization. Nearby restaurants need waiters or cooks. Inside Hell's Kitchen, there are water delivery jobs and clerks. Outside, there are truck drivers…"

"From your expression, I deduce your job search hasn't gone well these past few days," Schiller said, looking at him. "What jobs have you tried? What stopped you?"

Bruce clenched his lips and stayed silent. Schiller said: "You're even more stingy than I thought—you won't even give a newcomer a bit of advice…"

Bruce was about to speak when Schiller interrupted: "Fine—I'll try every job you mentioned. Tomorrow, I'll go to the docks and see if they need workers."

Bruce studied Schiller again, then shook his head.

From any angle, Schiller didn't look strong—he was tall, 187 centimeters, but slender overall, and due to his attire, no muscles were visible; he didn't look like someone suited for physical labor.

After these days of living here, Bruce knew dock recruiters had sharp eyes—they could instantly tell if you had experience, and their key indicator was your hands.

Anyone doing manual labor inevitably bears traces: calluses from friction, bruises from impacts, or sun- and wind-worn skin.

After the warehouse fire, Bruce lost his job and tried returning to the docks as a laborer—but initially, he was hired only because the recruiter needed a sucker to accompany Crocodile Man.

Crocodile Man had been injured and could no longer work, so when Bruce reapplied, he was outright rejected.

He no longer looked strong; his hands were too well-kept—clearly those of an inexperienced rookie. Recruiters disliked such men—they might damage cargo. So Bruce still had no new job.

Hearing Schiller planned to try his luck at the docks tomorrow, Bruce had no hope—they both clearly failed the recruiters' standards.

The next day, Schiller and Bruce arrived near the docks, but Schiller didn't head toward the recruiter's tent; instead, he walked the entire perimeter of the warehouse district, pausing at each warehouse entrance, then went to the unloading area and watched the process for about two hours.

Afterward, he went to the recruiter's tent—but didn't mention applying; instead, he chatted amiably with the recruiter. The entire morning passed with no progress in job hunting, but Schiller now knew the dock warehouse terrain inside and out.

At lunchtime, Bruce looked at Schiller and asked: "What exactly are you doing? Why aren't you looking for work?"

Schiller placed a hand above his eyes, shielding nonexistent sunlight, and gazed at the sea: "You don't just apply for a job—you scout first… I mean, you learn the lay of the land first, don't you?"

Bruce narrowed his eyes. Since Schiller arrived, he'd been in a state of constant high alert; under this extreme mental tension, the laughter in his ear had grown quieter.

By noon, Bruce was starving. He wanted to find something to eat, but Schiller showed no sign of leaving. Fortunately, there were many street vendors nearby. Bruce chose the one with the best view, sat down, ate, and kept watch on Schiller.

Seeing Schiller enter a narrow alley, Bruce frowned—but quickly noticed a sign: Public Restroom.

Gotham had upgraded many basic facilities; most high-traffic areas now had public restrooms, greatly aiding the workers.

Realizing Schiller had merely gone to the restroom, Bruce exhaled in relief. He was truly hungry, so for the next half-hour, he focused entirely on his lunch.

In fact, the prolonged lack of nutrition had already slowed his thinking—but since Batman was naturally a genius, his mental speed was several times that of an average person, so the slowdown was slight and hard to detect.

Still, it did cause slightly delayed decision-making. After finishing his meal, Schiller walked over and said: "I found a job—warehouse inventory clerk."

Bruce froze, fork in hand. "How did you find it???"

"Oh, just now, when I went to the restroom, I ran into the recruiter I was chatting with earlier. He told me the inventory clerk for the urgent warehouse just broke his leg—but a batch of urgent goods is due to leave this afternoon, and this job isn't for just anyone—it requires someone who can count, like me."

Bruce slowly set down his fork and stared into Schiller's eyes: "One employee just happened to break his leg—exactly the inventory clerk for an urgent warehouse—and exactly today, a batch of urgent goods is arriving, and you just happened to meet the recruiter in the restroom…"

"Opportunities favor the prepared," Schiller shrugged. "Though we're no longer teacher and student, I still feel compelled to remind you: always prepare thoroughly before acting. Look—this morning wasn't wasted…"

Bruce stared into his eyes: "Where did you put that inventory clerk?"

"He fell from the second floor of the warehouse and broke his leg—he's probably at the hospital by now," Schiller said, wiping his hands with a tissue, expression unchanged.

Seeing Bruce's darkening face, he added: "Happiness must be created with your own hands—and so must opportunity… Wait, didn't you just say you're unemployed too? Want me to secure an opportunity for you? Ten dollars…"

"No thanks," Bruce said immediately. If Schiller kept creating opportunities like this, Gotham's hospitals would overflow.

"Really? I just heard the recruiter say the afternoon shipment is extremely urgent—needs at least ten or more workers—but they're still short half the staff. He even asked me to help recruit more people at the docks…"

Bruce froze again, fork in hand. He looked at Schiller: "You're sure this position didn't require… creation?"

"Of course. Why would I lie to you? Go ask at the recruiter's tent yourself—I heard the pay might even be negotiable…"

Watching Bruce rise and walk away, Schiller turned to the food vendor: "Another ten-dollar meal, please—charge it to him."