Perfect - Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Adam Thomason

“Thomason is it true that you stopped all these criminals without backup?” said my boss, the chief, as he threw a stack of photos from a thick brown file on my desk.

“Yes.” My response was almost immediate.  I knew what he was going to say—not that I’m that good in predicting the future—but because this is the second time he’s said that this week…the sixty-ninth time this month…the three hundred and twenty-fifth time this year.

“What happened to your partner?”

“He couldn’t catch up.”  My eyes were cold…emotionless.  My partner, Diego, was probably from the lowest part of the food chain.  All I have ever seen him consume are doughnuts and that poison the companies laboured “carbonated drinks”.  It is to no surprise that he is as fat—and slow—as last year’s escargot. 

“He was trying?” suggested the chief. Diego was his nephew and he didn’t want to have to fire relatives.

“Yes, but he collapsed after his twenty-ninth step.” 

“What? Never mind, I want your report on my desk tomorrow.”

“It is already completed and lying on your desk bellow Steven’s report on the fifty-third car theft this week.”

The chief gave me a weird look—it would be classified something between confusion and surprise, and a tinge of anger.  When he composed himself, he walked out saying something about some donkey which had a dog as a mother being too smart a donkey. 

I looked at the mug shots of the people that I recently put behind bars.  Why do they need to commit crimes?  I knew from analysis that there were roughly four groups of criminals: they had no other choice, they wanted revenge, they were dared into doing it, they wanted easy money, or they just felt like it.  Out of the eighteen photos, I can only see that only one really needed money—Tony Long whom I caught just last night.  I caught up with him in an alley.  He had been fleeing the patrols by taking the narrowest paths.  He gave me more thrills than the rest.  He had stolen two point three thousand dollars worth of diamonds.  When he realized that he could not escape, he begged me to let him go, because his daughter was dying of cancer and he had already used up all the money he and his wife had saved on her chemotherapy.  I arrested him but allowed him to say one last goodbye to his wife and daughter.  I left a check in his house which was enough for his daughter’s treatment for two months.  His wife will find it in two hours and twenty-one minutes time when she returns from visiting him from the locker.

I put the photos away in my almost full file of solved crimes, grabbed my jacket and headed back home.  I plugged the headphones from my mp3 player into my ears and switched to the radio function.  The radio station was playing some new song named More than a Simple Life by Fantasies are Fake.  I listened to the rock beat and the catchy tune of the chorus.

It’s more than a simple life

For most of us at least.

We have to work hard,

Before we can even feast.

We got to earn a living

Before we can start life.

Not like many heiresses

Who’ve been to Paris,

And such,

And only had a simple life.

Besides the jibe at the celebrity, the song actually had meaning.  I thought about Tony Long who had a ‘more than a simple life’.  He was an honest worker, but always spoke what he believed in.  His bosses promoted him twice this a year, but still his wage was not enough.  He asked for bonuses and searched for other ways to get money legally.  He took loans and borrowed from friends, until finally resorting to theft.  There are so many people with more than enough money and so many with not enough.  All we have to do to make the world a better place is to get rid of all these poverty by making the rich poorer and the poor, richer.  Though luck.  No comfortable sane business man would give up his luxury of a mansion to live in a ‘lowly’ apartment.

“Simon, I’m home.” I announced as I opened my front door.  My Toby cat appeared at the door with his empty milk bowl in his mouth.  I went to the kitchen to fetch him his milk, poured it into his bowl before relaxing into my couch.  I switched on the TV and browsed the channels until I found the local news.

“Crime rates are dropping,” announced the anchor-woman, “All this due to Chief inspector Miles and his team.”

I should be angry that I wasn’t acknowledged, but what’s the point?  It’s useless.  I watched as they interviewed the chief on his strategy and I couldn’t help smiling.  The chief mentioned about equality in the department, and all that gibberish about how well he treats his staff.  I was shocked to hear that he did not mention anything about a dog’s son or a ‘whole donkey’.

I fell asleep during his speech—I could not help it: I hear his voice everyday—and had that same dream again.  I dreamt that I was in water—no, some sort of liquid that does not burn your eyes—and restricted.  I could see people in lab coats starring at me in disbelief.  Then I see total blackness.  In the same dream this process repeats itself like I was blacking out and coming back again and again.  I would not call it a nightmare, but it did make me feel strange. 

I woke up at five in the morning.  Instead of getting ready for work, I sat down on my coffee table and pondered over the dream.  It has been three weeks since I started dreaming about the same thing and every time the dream became clearer and clearer like a focus function on a camera had been activated—I could even make out the faces of some of them. 

 I did not sit and think for long.  I got ready and left for work at six-thirty.  Like a robot, I reached in my pocket and listened to my mp3 again.  I was in no mood to hear the morning crews of the radio stations joke about, so I switched to my songs and listened to my playlist.  The song: Mirrorman by the Magicians soon blasted through my earphones.

I woke up today

Feeling a little drowsy.

But I know that life could not wait

For me to be ready.

So I went to the bathroom

To freshen myself again

Than I looked into the mirror

And saw the…

Mirrorman, mirrorman,

What is it you see?

Mirrorman, mirrorman,

Why it is only me.

Mirrorman, mirrorman,

Who is to say I am he?

Mirrorman, mirrorman,

Well, you have to be somebody?

I turned on the shuffle function and changed the song—I was in no mood for thought-provoking songs and that album by the Magicians was entitled: Think About That.

A smooth melody soon sang through the phones.  It was the relaxing voice of Jane Benedict singing Chosen. 

From the beginning of time,

We were chosen by God

We are here for a reason,

Placed here by God.

To look after his creation,

Every rock, sand, or sod.

We are chosen by the Almighty

To care for our city.

We are created for a reason.

We are chosen for a cause.

We are created for this season

We are chosen for a cause…

I gave up and switched off my player.  The song did not help my mood—firstly, because I did not know where or when I began.  My earliest memories are of those five years ago when I was fished out of the sea in the beginning of winter—not with bullets in my body like the movie.  I suffered from hyperthermia and apparently that can lead to amnesia as well.  I did not know how I managed to communicate with the people in English, but I did.  I later discovered that I was the ninth in twenty bodies recovered in that week alone in the same river.  I was the only survivor.  All of us had a mark on our backs that read: A.D.A.M. followed by numbers—my number was thirteen.  Eventually I joined the police force hoping to uncover the truth about my origin, but until now, I have learnt close to nothingt.

With a face that could scare Simon, I stomped into the HQ.  No one talked to me the whole morning because of my face—not even the chief.