My Detective by Jeffrey Fleishman

Author:Jeffrey Fleishman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Blackstone Publishing
Published: 2019-03-18T15:27:50+00:00

Chapter 17

I’m not angry.

No rant, no screed.

I marvel at my restraint. How I hold it together. That bitch. Oops. A slip. Sorry. I’ll be good. But why, Sam? Why? Why the distraction? No, I didn’t see what you did last night. But you wrote two lines about her in your laptop. “Susan and I danced. She calls me Carver.” Cursory, yes, nothing explicit, but I can tell. Nobody just dances. I’m sure you’ll write more when you have time. But there’s no future there. I’m the one for you. I don’t blame you, though. You don’t know I exist. But, Sam (if she can call you Carver, I can call you Sam), you must feel an inkling of me. I am the one you seek. The doer, the perp. The woman in raincoat and fedora, your fantasy. Or so I thought.

I’ve been known to expect too much, to bore in. I know, it’s annoying; I can be too focused. But, Sam, really, this girl, this child, this new-breed Martha Gellhorn. Is that what you want? A scribe? I understand, though, I do. She’s been after you. I knew all along, and, in a way I don’t like to admit, I admire her. A clever, patient one. Writing that story about you, pretending to have ethics, appearing saintlike. Clever designs, that girl. Men. Why do they fall so? I wish I had her, let’s call it charm, the way she lingers after she’s gone. Susan. The name floats alone on the screen. Susan. Five letters that carry the weight of a book. That, my detective, is dangerous. Write a poem and be done with it; smile for a few days; enjoy the postdance glow. But, Sam, really, let’s get back to the game.

You’re looking for Stephen Jensen. Where, oh, where could he be?

I know.

I am clever too. Cleverer than she. You’ll see. But there’s the question. What to do with Jensen? That has been the dilemma from the beginning. Gallagher and Jamieson. No problemas. Verdicts handed down, sentences carried out. But Jensen—he’s the crooked line, the slanted portico. He’s nudged us into the muted grays of moral quandary. Vengeance or forgiveness. Venom or antidote. Which is stronger? I had thought the tender part of me was gone, but it is there, deep, like a voice in a well. I’ve been reading about complicity. I’m quite the reader these days. Insatiable, looking for parables like mine. The Nazis and the Khmer Rouge thrived on those too pitiful to speak out or resist—all those Germans and Cambodians who looked the other way, went on, pretended not to see the stained horizon. Are the weak blameless? They took part. They went through the actions. Some froze, yes, but even inaction is a kind of terrorism. Can the spineless be absolved? What capacity for forgiveness must the injured possess toward the guilty?

A sin lasts long after its commission. It marks all that follows. But it will fade if we let it. Should we? I don’t think I’m being too grandiose to suggest these are the real questions for humankind.

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