Autopsy Of A Mind 11 Temperamental Boss

He showed me the spot and asked me to follow him.

Different sizes, I observed. Placing the shoes in, I cautiously followed him inside.

"Take a seat. I will hand you a file with a doc.u.ment that you have to translate so that I can evaluate you." I nodded and waited patiently for him to retrieve the file.

I looked around the room and tried to evaluate the personality of the person who lived here.

Likes to brew tea.

Stores no fictional texts in shelves.

Style of furnis.h.i.+ng matches the person that opened the door.

Particularly neat.

Lives with someone else as confirmed by the presence of shoes in different sizes and stray magazine on the countertop.

Then who am I talking to?

.

I couldn't hear the sound of his footsteps so I knew he would not be back so soon. Probably talking to Mr. Butler.

What I then needed to figure out was why they are acting so strangely.

I had not seen Mr. Butler before, even during the interview with Jameson and I was sure that he probably didn't know that I was the same girl… if he remembered me at all.

Then, why the suspense?

A couple of minutes later I saw him come down the stairs with a black folder in his hands. Handing it to me, he diverted towards the countertop to take the magazine before finding seating on the farthest end of the sofa. I a.s.sumed that he was trying not to distract me.

Satisfied with my observation and the sound of the turning of the magazine paper, I looked down at the folder and opened it. To my surprise pictures that he been kept unattached inside the file spilled out and fell to the floor.

"Oops. I forgot to take those out," he said with an apologetic smile on his face, but he seemed surprised.

Another little trick to test me.

Why?

I gave him a polite smile before fetching out the sheets of blank paper kept inside the file and a pen from my bag.

"You just have to translate the first two pages," he informed me belatedly. I nodded and immediately went to work.

While I had no problems understanding most of the content of the lecture, I was having difficulty with the technical terms used. The curious thing about translation is that it must uphold the essence of the text and instill in it the very soul that the author of the original text had produced. With lectures like these, finding the right terms for criminal activities and a.n.a.lysis took a lot away from the emotion behind the speech, and moreover, it was hard for a layman to be able to put those words in context.

Perplexed, I looked up and cleared my throat to catch his attention.

"Do you have a dictionary around here?" I asked. He looked at the shelf for a bit before nodding and getting up to fetch it for me.

"Here you go," he said handing it over. "Are you finding it difficult?" He asked, peering at the still blank page.

"Nothing I can't handle," I stated before regaining silence and locating the words that I needed.

"You're fast," he suddenly spoke up as I was revising the translation. Unsure of how to react I gave an awkward bow and closed the file.

"There you go," I said, handing it over.

"Done already?" I nodded.

"How about this? Stay for a bit and I will make some tea for you." I accepted his proposal and reached into my bag to fetch out my cellphone.

My aunt was calling me over for dinner and said that she would have friends over.

Putting it down, I saw him fiddle around with the jars on the countertop in an effort to make fancy tea.

Has never brewed tea.

Lacks eye to detail and muscle memory during the process of opening and closing the lids. Doesn't realize that he is exchanging lids of containers.

He smiled as he brought the cups over and placed one in my hands.

Acrylic nails that are longer than the nail bed.

"I will look over the contents and let you know if you are hired. If that is the case I will send over a contract. Is that okay?" I stared at his hands for a bit longer before smiling and sipping on my tea again.

Definitely not familiar with tea brewing.

"I can a.s.sure you that you got the job, though," he chuckled lightly.

It was too amusing for me to hold back and I broke into laughter.

"Shouldn't you ask Mr. Butler before a.s.suring me?" The responding shock was gratifying, to say the least. Pleased with myself, I stopped pretending and kept the cup of tea back on the coaster on the table.

"I'm sorry?" he asked, still fl.u.s.tered. I glanced over my shoulder towards the second floor.

"He should be on that floor, right?" There was a moment of silence.

"What gave me away?" he leaned forward, not even trying to cover his interest.

"Everything," I chuckled. He motioned at me to continue. "I knew there was someone else living here because of the shoes in the rack but didn't linger on it for long until I entered the room. The shelves consist of non-fiction books, mainly about psychology, law, crime, and social theory, but there was a magazine on the countertop with the pots of tea, which you later started reading. You can definitely not brew tea and have little effort towards detailed work as you kept mixing up the process and the lids. Moreover, the file you handed me was definitely not yours because you had no clue that the pictures were inside. You were just relaying what Mr. Butler had asked you to. Also, from the file, I can understand that Mr. Butler personally visits the crime scene. So, he would have to have clipped nails so that the gloves don't tear, but you have longer nails that would definitely be a problem."

Silence.

Then a round of clapping.

"You're observant!" He was obviously delighted. "My name is Alec Masen, I am a friend of the eccentric Sebastian Butler and somewhat of a nanny, if you see it that way."

Ah, so that's what is happening here. He's temperamental and dislikes meeting new people.

"You know who I am not. Now… can you tell me what I do, then?"

I was dumbfounded. This was surely not part of the interview, but I felt pressured to get the answers right. I gave him a once over and started to say my thoughts out loud as I processed it.

"You have a creative streak, but you run a business." Choice of furniture. Economic magazine. "You use the computer a lot. So you run a business that needs creativity and innovation. I can't pinpoint the exact job, though." That was the best I could do. I was a little upset, though. It was easier to prove you were not something (by deducting options) than it was to decidedly say what one is.

"Wait… how do you know I use the computer for work?" So I had guessed right so far.

I shrugged.

"People who type on computers and laptops usually have harder darkened skin on the underside of the wrist where the skin rests against the surface of the desk or laptop. You have those. The intensity of the darkness and roughness of the spot is a testament to how much work on the computer you do every day and if it is for professional purposes."

He turned his wrist from side to side as if to examine if what I said was true.

"I have some, too because I type most translations on my laptop." I showed him the spot. He was impressed and gus.h.i.+ng about how valuable I was the whole time I was there.

As I was leaving I saw a shadow on the staircase, clearly from someone standing on top of the stairs watching me without revealing himself.

Temperamental, indeed.

'It is going to be interesting working here.'