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Authors: MK Alexander
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the rotary in Oldham onto a merge ramp and accelerated along a two-lane highway. “Sixteen,” I observed aloud. It’s a straight narrow road with a double orange line up the middle. The whole thing is a no passing zone and last year they put up plastic barriers, fall-away sticks to prevent you from taking any unnecessary risks, or drifting over into the oncoming lane accidentally. Though mostly straight, it did curve around the landscape in places, and undulated up and down for a good thirty miles. If you got stuck behind a slow truck or a tourist going under the limit, it was frustrating to say the least. All I can say is it’s lucky for them I don’t drive around with a shotgun in my car. The posted limit is fifty. I got my old Saab up to seventy-five and started to cruise.
Sometime later, I decelerated back down to sixty or so.
“Why are we slowing?” Fynn asked.
“Speed trap, or there could be... State cops. There are only four places they can hide and well, of course I know them all.” I glanced quickly to my left as we approached a small dirt road hidden in the dunes. “Nope. Not today.” I brought the old gal back up to seventy-five.
“I probably owe you an apology, Inspector Fynn.”
“An apology? For what reason?”
“At the meeting, all that stuff I said… the questions I asked.”
“Not at all. You were just doing your job.”
“That’s true, but sometimes I think in headlines— it’s a bad habit.” I glanced over at the inspector. “As for the questions, yeah well, another bad habit.”
“Think nothing of it, please. Questions are always important. Unfortunately I am far more accustomed to asking, rather than answering.”
We drove in silence for a while.
“Tell me Mr Jardel, you have a very good memory, yes?”
“I guess I do. It’s a blessing and a curse.”
“How so?”
“I’m sure there are a lot of things I’d rather forget.”
Inspector Fynn paused for a moment, as if recalling something he’d rather disremember. “I suppose you are correct on this. But you remember everything?”
“That’s kind of an odd question.”
“I am sorry. Perhaps you need to focus your attention on driving?”
“No, that’s not it. I guess I’m not used to questions either. The reporter in me. I’m more comfortable listening.”
“I see. And this is a skill you have?”
“Absolutely.”
“We share this particular talent then.”
“I’m sorry, what? What did you say?” I glanced over at Fynn to see his face, to see if he knew whether I was kidding or not. I wondered how he might react. This would tell me something about the man.
He smiled slightly then burst out laughing. It was a robust sort of laugh, infectious. “How little you’ve changed,” he commented.
“What?” I asked again, this time I wasn’t joking. I was confused but he completely ignored my question.
“I gain much more information from listening than talking, eh? There are many people I think who are incapable of truly listening. For them a conversation is all about talking; they listen only for the chance to speak again.” The inspector persisted, “But your memory?”
“I don’t have a good head for dates or names… but yeah, I remember a lot of weird stuff sometimes.”
“And do you consider yourself a curious person?”
“Curious? Everyone is curious. It’s part of being human.”
“Some are more curious than others.”
***
“Cold case or active files?” someone asked us.
At the Fairhaven Police Station, the chief inspector and I began what seemed to be a futile task. “No, those reports have been moved years ago. They’re not here anymore,” a rather hostile lieutenant informed us. He never even bothered to get up and greet us. Just sat at his desk converting actual paperwork into computer files. His jacket was slung on the back of a chair. His shirtsleeves were already rolled up and his tie undone. I asked him if the files had been computerized, but he
Sometime later, I decelerated back down to sixty or so.
“Why are we slowing?” Fynn asked.
“Speed trap, or there could be... State cops. There are only four places they can hide and well, of course I know them all.” I glanced quickly to my left as we approached a small dirt road hidden in the dunes. “Nope. Not today.” I brought the old gal back up to seventy-five.
“I probably owe you an apology, Inspector Fynn.”
“An apology? For what reason?”
“At the meeting, all that stuff I said… the questions I asked.”
“Not at all. You were just doing your job.”
“That’s true, but sometimes I think in headlines— it’s a bad habit.” I glanced over at the inspector. “As for the questions, yeah well, another bad habit.”
“Think nothing of it, please. Questions are always important. Unfortunately I am far more accustomed to asking, rather than answering.”
We drove in silence for a while.
“Tell me Mr Jardel, you have a very good memory, yes?”
“I guess I do. It’s a blessing and a curse.”
“How so?”
“I’m sure there are a lot of things I’d rather forget.”
Inspector Fynn paused for a moment, as if recalling something he’d rather disremember. “I suppose you are correct on this. But you remember everything?”
“That’s kind of an odd question.”
“I am sorry. Perhaps you need to focus your attention on driving?”
“No, that’s not it. I guess I’m not used to questions either. The reporter in me. I’m more comfortable listening.”
“I see. And this is a skill you have?”
“Absolutely.”
“We share this particular talent then.”
“I’m sorry, what? What did you say?” I glanced over at Fynn to see his face, to see if he knew whether I was kidding or not. I wondered how he might react. This would tell me something about the man.
He smiled slightly then burst out laughing. It was a robust sort of laugh, infectious. “How little you’ve changed,” he commented.
“What?” I asked again, this time I wasn’t joking. I was confused but he completely ignored my question.
“I gain much more information from listening than talking, eh? There are many people I think who are incapable of truly listening. For them a conversation is all about talking; they listen only for the chance to speak again.” The inspector persisted, “But your memory?”
“I don’t have a good head for dates or names… but yeah, I remember a lot of weird stuff sometimes.”
“And do you consider yourself a curious person?”
“Curious? Everyone is curious. It’s part of being human.”
“Some are more curious than others.”
***
“Cold case or active files?” someone asked us.
At the Fairhaven Police Station, the chief inspector and I began what seemed to be a futile task. “No, those reports have been moved years ago. They’re not here anymore,” a rather hostile lieutenant informed us. He never even bothered to get up and greet us. Just sat at his desk converting actual paperwork into computer files. His jacket was slung on the back of a chair. His shirtsleeves were already rolled up and his tie undone. I asked him if the files had been computerized, but he
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