Chapter 9
January 23
We’re back at the station the next day. For the first time in my life, I have won a battle against my parents. Maybe it was guilt for letting me starve last night, or maybe it was my compelling yet whiny Thanks-a-lot-for-the-minuscule-bone-structure argument. All I know is that I won, and I’m here. I am invincible.
The chief beckons us into his office, sitting stiffly behind his desk. We follow suit. The wooden chairs are hard and uncomfortable and I wish we were back on his plush sofa talking about cool police jobs and money and happy times.
The chief clears his throat. “Edmund, I’m going to be honest with you. There are people in this department who support your involvement, and there are skeptics.”
I’m not going to ask which category Detective Bovano falls into.
Where is the chief going with this? Did he change his mind? Is the deal off? Nerves twist my stomach.
“Money,” he continues, his voice rising. “It all comes down to money and budgets and who’s paying the bill. We’ve spent too much money on this case already. We’re chasing ghosts and time is running out. You’re our last chance to crack the case, our final solution before the powers-that-be pull the plug on the whole operation. No pressure, though.” He smiles as if to reassure me. I am not reassured.
“Here are my terms.” He places a piece of paper on the desk, a document that I assume is my contract. “Help us solve the case, and we’ll make an anonymous contribution to Senate Academy next year, with instructions that it’s to go toward your tuition. The operation must be kept very hush-hush. If word got out to the press . . .” His voice trails off, and then he clears his throat again. “It’s not illegal,” he reassures my dad, whose mustache is twitching like crazy, “although it is highly unusual.”
Stunned silence. Solve the case? This is not what I expected. I thought they were paying for Senate no matter what. My father shifts in his seat, itching to speak. But he stays quiet and lets me take the lead.
“And if . . . if I can’t help?” I say, dreading the answer.
Chief Williams shrugs. “We’ll pay you for your time. Minimum wage.” The unsaid words And no more Senate flash in neon letters.
I straighten my spine and shove my glasses up the bridge of my nose. I can do this. I can solve the crime, whatever it is. “All right,” I say. “I’m in.”
A shadow passes behind us. I turn to see Bovano lurking outside the door like a shark who enjoys feasting on the flesh of human boys. The chief nods to him. “Edmund, you go and get debriefed with Detective Bovano while I have your father sign some papers.”
Dad smiles at me as I stand on wobbly legs. Here we go.
Bovano barrels ahead to his office and I’m forced to jog. He eyes me with the same acidic expression from yesterday and plops himself down behind his desk, pointing for me to sit once again in the hot seat.
Our first official meeting about the case. I’m doing it, I’m really doing police work! I smother a smile and focus on what he’s saying.
“You will report to me only. You will listen to all of my instructions and follow them without hesitation. You will not ask questions. You will arrive on time . . .”
My excitement fades a bit as he drones on and on. This is not so much a “debriefing” as a massive lecture on rules. I can boil down everything he says into three basic commands:
Don’t speak.
Don’t think.
Churn out as many pictures as humanly possible. You are a camera. Nothing more.
“I want to know how it works,” he announces.
“How what works?” I say, surprised he has asked me a question after ten solid minutes of sermon. Not really a question. More like an order with an answer expected.
“Your photographic mind. I need to know what I’m dealing with. Doesn’t seem very normal to me.”
“My mind takes pictures. Snapshots of a moment. It’s not like I’m a freak or anything,” I mutter.
“But how does it work?” he presses. “Do you remember everything you see? Can you recall it at any time? Seems like your mind would be crammed with too much information.”
Does he think my brain will explode on the job?
“I remember things in a different way,” I explain. “I remember details that other people don’t notice . . . people’s shoes, their nametags. It’s just there in my mind. But I don’t store it away forever. I do forget things eventually. I remember better when I know that I need to, when I’m especially focused. Or in stressful situations . . . like that guy from the alley.”
Bovano grunts, unimpressed. “I remember details too. Part of being a detective. Doesn’t sound much different from my memory.”
I stifle a frustrated sigh and try again. “My memories are like a photograph in my mind. I can study the scene, analyze the details as if I’m holding the actual picture in my hand. I can tell you what kind of watch someone is wearing even if I didn’t specifically focus on the watch when I saw it. As long as it passes before my visual field, it’s in.”
“What if you aren’t focused and you miss the suspect walking by? How do I know you can remember everyone you see? You aren’t a machine, you aren’t perfect. What if you miss a key clue?”
I shrug. “I guess you’ll just have to trust me.”
I don’t think he’s very happy with my answer.
After another excruciating seven minutes and fifty-two seconds, we meet up with my dad in the hallway. Bovano walks us out to the elevator, still instructing along the way:
“You’ll receive your official assignment next week after a practice run. You will not tell anyone about this. No friends, no teachers, no relatives besides your parents. Absolute secrecy.”
I suspect he’s telling me this in front of my dad so that my parents will be extra watchful. And so my father doesn’t open his big mouth too.
Dad agrees and shakes his hand. Then we step into the elevator and turn back to face the detective. He puts his hand in the door, blocking it so it can’t close.
“We needed a code name for you, because you’re a minor and we need to protect your identity. I’ve decided to call you Eddie Red.”
He smiles like it’s a personal joke, and then lets the door go.
I open my mouth, proving once and for all why I am in a school for gifted kids:
“Huh?”
The door closes with a soft swoosh.