Apparently Albert had never heard of the Framers, though he was positively giddy about the opportunity to learn more about them. He said he just wanted me to know that he was “on the case,” but I could tell he had really called out of curiosity-that he just had to know what I was up to this particular lap around the track. So I filled him in-with a good dose of my own commentary.
“Come on, Albert. Five billion years? Could something like that be for real?” I winked at the cop once more, and finally the fucker looked away. “I mean, who would fall for that kind of shit?”
A long cellphone ha-ha. “Look, Diss. The assumption is that there’s gotta be something wrong with cult members. You know. Stupid.. Weak-minded.. What have you. But the fact is, they tend to be better educated and have higher IQs than the general population-”
“Whatever,” I interrupted. “You still gotta be crazy to believe what these guy-”
“And why’s that? There’s bloody good reason why psychology and psychiary have such a hard time defining things like ‘irrational beliefs.’ Outside the realm ofpractical common sense, pretty much all human beliefis irrational. All of it! What we believe typically comes down to how the issue is framed and who gets to us first. ”
I already knew this in my peculiar way. One of the big bonuses of diehard cynicism is the ability to take heart in bad news.
“We believe things willy-nilly,” I said.
“Unto death, my friend. Unto death. ”
I hung up thinking about Dead Jennifer’s photo in my wallet. I found myself blinking at the desk sergeant, who of course had resumed his slack-faced reverie from behind the desk, staring at me like I was a stain in the wallpaper. I couldn’t resist.
“What? You run out of hay or oats or something?”
“Huh?”
That was when Chief Caleb Nolen came striding in. Rule one of private investigating is to kiss official ass-you know, Bugs Bunny-style: muh-muh-muh-muh- muh!-unless the official happens to be female, in which case you lick boots. Contrary to what you may believe, cops generally like private investigators. We make them feel superior, for one, the way I imagine a rock star feels talking to a roadie-as the “be” to their “wanna.” And some of us-especially the handsome, edgy ones like me-make them feel like they’re in a movie, which means they choose their roles accordingly. Who would you rather be in a flick, the wry veteran or the obstructionist asshole? If there’s one thing Hollywood is good at, it’s giving us roles to play. Everyone loves to pretend they’re in a movie, no matter where you go in the world. Good thing, too. If it wasn’t movies, then it would be some psychotic legend from the Middle Ages-or worse yet, Scripture.
Even so, Nolen had this sour look on his face as I took the seat opposite his desk, as if I were the druggie cousin who kept hitting Grandma up for money. That was when I realized I was wearing my I WOULD RATHER BE MASTURBATING T-shirt.
Fawk.
I glanced at my chest then looked up at him helplessly. “Um… Shit…”
No wonder the desk sergeant couldn’t stop staring. When you remember as much as I do, you end up overlooking more than a few crucial details.
“Pretty funny,” Nolen said, grinning. “Actually… ”
A wave of relief washed over me. Nolen was good people, I realized. Anyone who would rather be masturbating is good people. Self-reliance is what makes this country great.
First thing I thought when seeing Nolen was that he was the kind of cop you argued traffic tickets with-which made his position as chief something of a mystery. He was fit in a gay, long-distance-runner kind of way, with hair just shaggy enough to suggest that he liked to rock out with his iPod. He had one of those soft faces where all the features seem to crowd inward-eyes, nose, and mouth packed into a space no larger than my palm-huddling as if trying to conserve expressive warmth or something. He had to be at least thirty-five, and yet his blue eyes made him seem younger, much younger. Adolescent jumpy. Adolescent eager.
Nolen began by telling me how much he liked the Bonjours, and how “this horrible Jennifer deal” had “rocked him like nobody’s business.”
“You try to avoid it,” he said, “but you do this job long enough and you… you start sorting people, you know?”
I nodded because it seemed expected. Usually-for men anyway- phrases like “you know” are a kind of verbal bondo, just something they say. They really don’t give a fuck if you know or not. But this guy said it as if he meant it.
“My shrink,” Nolen continued, “she says it’s a kind of reflex mechanism, a thing people do to protect themselves. Terms like, er, you know, ‘decent folk,’ ah, ‘low-lifes,’ stuff like that…”
Fawk. A cop who spoke openly about his shrink to a complete stranger… The most I could do was lean back and nod. I’m not easily astonished, trust me.
“You know what I mean?” Nolen continued. “You have to crack heads in this line of work-there’s no way around it. So you… categorize… or so she says. Dehumanize… You know, to make it easier.”
Like most cynics, I have the bad, well-nigh-irresistible habit of thinking earnest people stupid. What I wanted to ask at this point was, Are you the mayor’s retarded nephew or something?
Instead I said, “Well… you know… my secretary, she called, said you wanted me to, ah, check in… ”
“Yeah. Yeah. So we could coordinate.” He leaned forward like an orphan angling for a bite of turkey dinner.
“Coordinate?”
I was afraid that the meeting would go sour. I tend to expect the worst when it comes to me and regular, decent folk, but I had no idea it would be this bad. There’s nothing quite so ripe-smelling as excessive eagerness in an adult.
“Coordinate,” he repeated. “Two heads are better than one, as they say. I just figured that a man with your expertise-”
“Expertise?”
“Expertise,” he repeated, like it was a boardroom buzzword. “I’ve only investigated four missing persons in my life. Four. You could say I’m in… well, way over my head. But I like to think I have other… you know, gifts, that compensate for my lack of experience. I’m a puzzle man. I’ve always been good with puzzles.”
Gifts? Puzzles? Was this guy for fucking real? One part of me wanted to tell him that the coach had lied, that it wasn’t cool to brandish a little dick in the change-room shower, but the other part was actually beginning to like this guy.
“This is great. Coordination. Expertise. All great. I’ll need a day or two to find my bearings on my own… you know. Then we can get down to business.”
“Sure. Sure.” He smiled with the daft credulity of a teenage Scout leader-or so it struck me. “Here,” he said, standing to hand me a small stack of folders. “I’ve gathered everything I could, you know, reports, statements-some photographs of the road she used to walk along-I’m not sure why they’re in there, but… “
I hefted the phone book-sized pile with a friendly scowl. Jennifer had been missing, what, three nights? If weight translated into thoroughness, this guy was nothing short of exhaustive. At the time I failed to realize the fear this amount of case-overkill implied.
“All great,” I said. “But would you mind if I ask you a couple of questions? I have this thing with… you know… talking stuff through.”
The Chief grinned, placed his hands on his knees in that elbows-out, getting-to-work way. “Awesome. Me too. Talking is so much better.”
Lonely, I realized. The guy was fucking lonely. He probably talked the coffee-shop regulars cross-eyed in his eagerness to brainstorm the case. Just like that I “got” Chief Caleb Nolen. He was one of those exuberant, earnest souls capable of feeling both horrified and celebratory at the same time. I had no doubt that Jennifer Bonjour’s disappearance outraged him down to his deepest moral kernel. And at the same time, I knew this was the most exhilarating event in his bureaucratic life.