In Search Of Answers

I used to think of myself as an answer to the problems of the people that came to me, but I was wrong. They were answers that walked through my door to clue me in on things I was puzzled about. I was puzzled about a lot, and I used to think that made me stupid – but here’s the thing, those guys who don’t puzzle about nothing don’t have the smarts to see that there is anything they don’t know about.

I got the nickname Early because I am always late. They used to think I did that shit by accident, but it isn’t always a bad thing to be bringing up the rear – especially if your eyes are open. You see things others miss because they rush in.

Some people have templates. Some people have painted a picture before they ever see a face. He hated that kind of shit – the people who a brought lie to drape over a body, rather than asking the body what was going on; rather than looking at the lay of the land and seeing the song it was singing.

I thought Serene was a girlfriend, and I thought her going missing was a break up. I thought Brent was a cuckold until he became the prime suspect, and then a second corpse in the whole mess.

I have my journal that I write down all my cases in, and I have this thing where I think upon how what I have witnessed has affected me, because I need to understand myself as much as I understand those that I am hunting. The less I understand of myself, the less I am capable of understanding about them.

Late to my own party. I discover that my personal life is as much a crime scene as the disasters that I am forced to explore by my job. It is easy to turn a blind eye to the whole game of your life, and not realise a drama is playing out there as much as anything that is drenched in blood. And what do I find? That I know little of who I am, even though I might claim that I know what I am. The map is incomplete. There are answers still be dug from the undisturbed earth.

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