Polymath

Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

The back room of the police station was quiet, but I wasn't sitting alone. Freddie was sitting beside me at the table, tapping his index fingers on the edge like drum sticks. He was in the middle of a serious cymbal solo when Sgt. Greene walked in. He was a large, burly man with a stubbly blonde chin and dirty blonde hair.

He sat in front of me, shuffling through my files and almost ignoring me as much as the psychologist was which was quite irritating. Greene looked up at me, and back down at my file. Up, back down. Up, back down.

"Okay," he finally said, spreading my files out onto the table and folding his hands under his chin. "It says here you have your degree in criminology and sent an application here last year?"

"Yes, sir," I said, Freddie's drum and cymbal show in the corner of my eye was in full swing. "I got my degree two years ago, actually."

Greene nodded largely and glanced towards Freddie. To him, though, it was just an empty chair. "You're more than qualified to join us; you just have to pass gun training. You noted you could shoot four different types of guns?"

I nodded. "I can shoot a pistol, a revolver, a bolt action, and a semiautomatic. But, I could learn to shoot whatever you all use."

"We use Glock pistols."

"I can do that, sir."

Greene slapped his palm on the table, but seemed to be amused. "You are the first girl to be up to this. You may be the only girl to make the team, by the looks of it."

"That's okay, sir," I replied excitedly.

"Alright," Greene said, standing up and extending his hand towards me. I stood up and shook his hand. "Can you come tomorrow afternoon at three?"

"Yes, sir. Here?"

"We'll be out in the front parking lot. Pleasure to have you join us."

I smiled. "Thank you, sir."

"Call me Greene."

Freddie sat in my passenger seat, continuing his drum solo on the dashboard. I'm just glad I couldn't hear his fingers hit the plastic. It would have been irritating. He couldn't talk to me without paper, but a quick occasional Freddie migraine would come and go like the wind.

The only problem with my whole situation was I had absolutely no idea how to hold, to shoot, or where to obtain my own Glock. Did he want me to have a subcompact G26 or a G21? Or maybe a 9mm? I didn't get any information from him about my gun, so I didn't have any reason to worry.

Yet, I was.

I almost pulled onto interstate twenty-seven, but jerkily and with great uncoordinated skill, I continued straight. A Freddie migraine spilled through my skull and tapped on all the corners and the file cabinet of my mind.

"I'm sorry," I murmured as the migraine dwindled. The radio turned itself on and Freddie was turning the knob by moving his finger, almost like he had telekinesis. He stopped it on the alternative station. "How did you remember?"

Alternative was the only music I listened to in high school. I looked over at Freddie. He tapped his temple and smiled. He really did have a good memory. I sang so loud I gave Freddie a headache, or I would have, if ghosts could get headaches. I could tell Freddie wanted to sing, so I allowed it, a little static behind the file cabinet.

My ears were throbbing and my throat was hoarse when I pulled into the driveway. The Volkswagen groaned and shuttered, and I was pleading for the engine not to die like it had on interstate twenty-seven. Freddie pulled the key from the ignition as I pulled the car into park and mashed the emergency break.