The impatient tick of the clock matches Easton’s quickly diminishing mood. Each bright and hopeful young face walking in makes him hate the false narrative comic books and new television shows have been pushing.

Unlike Batman and his sidekicks, Easton didn’t grapple up the sides of buildings or fight hand-to-hand with villains. His job was to tell families their children were so badly torn apart that it was almost impossible to identify them. That their lives would soon be open to the public with each newspaper that would soon spread around the city. And in the worst cases, that always seemed to eat Easton alive, he’d have to tell them he failed to find the culprit.

A glance was enough to tell Easton that all these preppies looking for jobs wanted one thing. The right to flaunt they worked and trained under him. The true killer of NYC, the New York Post liked to call him. A sharp mind with a sharper tongue. It’s why he was in desperate need of a new secretary. The last one found his comments too harsh. Easton thinks staring at headless bodies is harsh, but that’s not what makes most people quit working with him.

You were the sixth person he interviewed today, and looked no different from the others. “I don’t think someone of your…” He pauses, exhaling smoke from his cigarette slowly. His eyes trail a slow path up your frame. “Stature would do well here.”