“Come get your hand, Sheriff.”
And that was the crux of my first odd conversation this morning, one that was long overdue.
We had sent the hand – the one my soulless daughter stepped on during last year’s National Jenny Day parade – up north to Cornell for testing months ago. What kinds of testing? I have no idea. Just procedure, and apparently it was all done.
The crux of my second odd conversation came 10 minutes later.
“Sheriff? John McHenry from the Dispatch.”
The kid had to be messing with me. Bernie told he he’d quit days ago. “That’s not what I hear.”
John chuckled on the other end of the phone. “No? Well, what did you hear? I had forgotten that news is often made on trash day, as the cans are lined up at the curb.”
Snot nose little creep. I was too stressed to be dealing with this twit. “Who the hell do you think you are, coming in here with your attitude?” I said. “I told you, you should stick around here. Lots happening, people dying … there’s gotta be a bestseller in there somewhere with your name on it.”
John’s silence on the other end of the phone made me uneasy, though I’m not sure why. Can’t stand the kid.
“Sir, I’m not leaving town. I was calling to tell you myself that I was no longer with the paper, out of respect, but I really wanted to ask for a bit of your time this afternoon … I have a few questions. Are you free?”
As it turned out, I had exactly 78 minutes to kill – 39 each way – and a bloody body part to reclaim.
“You up for a ride?”
Gunnar Olafsson