Caucasian. Pale skin. Blue eyes. Brown brush-like hair. Stubbled jaw. Lean figure.
Horn-rimmed glasses. Often a hoodie, jeans and worn sneakers. Occasional black wristband and/or bracelet consisting of brown beads, invariably on right wrist.
Lieutenant Sanders let out a grumpy sigh. He didn’t like the Detective’s tone, but what else was new?
“The guy ‘confounds the understanding and analysis’, Pete. That’s what the Psy-Op nerds told me an’ that’s what I’m telling you.”
Peter Griffith let out a snort.
“What is he, some kinda mystery man? Jesus Ned, we gotta have more intel than this…garbage.” He dropped onto the desk the thin, empty folder and single piece of A4 paper.
The Lieutenant put fingers to his throbbing temples; he really, really did not need this shit from subordinates.
“That’s ‘Jesus SIR’, Detective, and you’ll swallow all the garbage I can shove down your throat! You think our knowledge is a little light? Big fuckin’ whoop – get some more info on the prick. It’s only your goddamned JOB, after all!”
He stood up and came around from behind his desk, deciding to strike a more conciliatory tone; the men usually responded well to that.
“Listen Pete… He’s an oddball, no more no less. Been writing some kooky things and sticking his nose in some unwise and unhealthy places. Nothing we can prove, nothing we can stick in the file…” He gestured to the folder and paper with obvious disdain. “…but he’s got Psy-Ops worried. And when Psy-Ops worry, the Commish worries. And when the Commish worries, I worry. And when I worry, I get an ulcer. And when I get an ulcer, my wife hits me over the head with a rolling pin. Is that what you want?”
Griffith smiled uneasily, but his superior wasn’t joking.
“Don’t get me wrong, Detective; this freak ain’t worth your admiration. He’s just a confused complexity, scraping into many a hairy escapade or derring-do purely by virtue of kismet. This fella is a strange case.”
There was a bewildered pause while Peter did a little double-take at the Lieutenant’s sudden shift in vocabulary. He knew Sanders was a die-hard fan of Arthur Conan Doyle, but it still jarred whenever the archaic language of Victorian England sauntered into the station.
“Erm…okay boss. I’ll get on it. DeFreitas an’ I will check him out, see what we can come up with.”
Lieutenant Sanders nodded, obviously pleased.
“The game is afoot.”
Solidarity, brothers & sisters…✫