first pair of jeans cut off into shorts, a first paper-clip
necklace. And traveling back in time: a first back scratcher, a first birthday
present, a first hole designated as the one to throw garbage in.
Once a good idea spreads, however, it's hard to believe
it didn't always exist.
Take detective stories. The first was written by Edgar
Allan Poe in 1841. (Spoiler alert: The monkey did it.) Over the next 163 years
Poe's innovation infected countless books, films, plays, and TV shows. And like
most rampant viruses, the detective character has mutated into every imaginable
form: little old ladies who solve crimes, medieval monks who solve crimes, cats
who solve crimes, even criminals who solve crimes.
My dad used to devour mystery novels (about
epidemiologists who solve crimes, I'm sure) until one day he read an interview
with a real homicide detective in Los Angeles. The guy had been on the force
for over forty years, and in all that time not a single major crime had ever
been solved by an amateur detective.
Not one.
With that in mind, we took Mandy 's phone to the cops.
************************************
"Relationship to the
missing person?"
"Uh, co-worker? I mean,
she gets me jobs."
"And where do you work,
Hunter?"
"Nowhere in particular. I'm a . . . consultant. A shoe
consultant. Mostly
shoes."
Detective Machal Johnson
looked me up and down.
"Shoe consultant? Good
money in that?"
"I mostly get paid in
shoes."
One eyebrow was slowly rising. "Okay. Shoe
consultant." The detective typed as he talked: sleepily. I could have
input the letters faster into my cell phone (if I'd had one).
Johnson's ancient computer looked equally slow. The screen was all one greenish
color—the glowing letters fireflies trapped in mint toothpaste. "So this
Mandy Jenkins is also a ... shoe
consultant?"
"Yeah, I guess that's
what you'd call her."
"And when do you guess
you last saw her?"
"Yesterday, about
five."
"Less than twenty-four
hours ago?"
Jen nudged me, and Detective Johnson looked like he was about to take his hands off the
keyboard, but I didn't let him. It had taken us an hour to get to this point,
past desk sergeants, metal detectors, and a wide variety of unimpressed
expressions.
"She was supposed to meet us this morning,"
I said. "At Lispenard and Church."
He sighed and typed, mouthing the street names. "Any
evidence of foul play?"
"Yes. We found her phone." I placed it on
the detective's desk.
He turned it over once in his hand. "That's all?
No purse? No wallet?"
"That's it."
"Where?"
"Where we were supposed to meet her. It was just
inside this abandoned building."
He put the phone down. "You were supposed to meet
her inside an abandoned building?"
"No, on the corner. But the phone was inside,
nearby. And there's a picture on it."
"A picture on the building?"
"No, on the phone. It's also a camera. That's the
picture on the screen."
Putting on half-lens glasses that seemed to suddenly
age him, the detective peered at the phone. "Huh. What do you know."
He took in the tiny lens next to the antenna, squinted at the screen, and gave
it a New York cop's version of the Nod. "And what exactly is that a
picture of?"
"A face in the dark. We saw that guy."
"What guy?"
"The guy in the picture."
"There's a guy in the picture?"
"You have to use wax paper to see it."
"He chased us," Jen said.
Detective Johnson looked at
her, then his eyes swept back and forth across the space between us a few
times, an alien watching a tennis ' match and trying to grasp the rules.
"Have you tried calling your friend?"
"We can't. That's her phone."
"At her office? At her
home?"
"Sure, her roommate too. But we just got
machines."
"Okay." Detective Johnson pushed his glasses
up higher onto his nose and settled back from the rigors of typing into the
creaky comfort of his office chair. "I know you're concerned about your
friend, but let me tell you this about missing people: Ninety-nine out
necklace. And traveling back in time: a first back scratcher, a first birthday
present, a first hole designated as the one to throw garbage in.
Once a good idea spreads, however, it's hard to believe
it didn't always exist.
Take detective stories. The first was written by Edgar
Allan Poe in 1841. (Spoiler alert: The monkey did it.) Over the next 163 years
Poe's innovation infected countless books, films, plays, and TV shows. And like
most rampant viruses, the detective character has mutated into every imaginable
form: little old ladies who solve crimes, medieval monks who solve crimes, cats
who solve crimes, even criminals who solve crimes.
My dad used to devour mystery novels (about
epidemiologists who solve crimes, I'm sure) until one day he read an interview
with a real homicide detective in Los Angeles. The guy had been on the force
for over forty years, and in all that time not a single major crime had ever
been solved by an amateur detective.
Not one.
With that in mind, we took Mandy 's phone to the cops.
************************************
"Relationship to the
missing person?"
"Uh, co-worker? I mean,
she gets me jobs."
"And where do you work,
Hunter?"
"Nowhere in particular. I'm a . . . consultant. A shoe
consultant. Mostly
shoes."
Detective Machal Johnson
looked me up and down.
"Shoe consultant? Good
money in that?"
"I mostly get paid in
shoes."
One eyebrow was slowly rising. "Okay. Shoe
consultant." The detective typed as he talked: sleepily. I could have
input the letters faster into my cell phone (if I'd had one).
Johnson's ancient computer looked equally slow. The screen was all one greenish
color—the glowing letters fireflies trapped in mint toothpaste. "So this
Mandy Jenkins is also a ... shoe
consultant?"
"Yeah, I guess that's
what you'd call her."
"And when do you guess
you last saw her?"
"Yesterday, about
five."
"Less than twenty-four
hours ago?"
Jen nudged me, and Detective Johnson looked like he was about to take his hands off the
keyboard, but I didn't let him. It had taken us an hour to get to this point,
past desk sergeants, metal detectors, and a wide variety of unimpressed
expressions.
"She was supposed to meet us this morning,"
I said. "At Lispenard and Church."
He sighed and typed, mouthing the street names. "Any
evidence of foul play?"
"Yes. We found her phone." I placed it on
the detective's desk.
He turned it over once in his hand. "That's all?
No purse? No wallet?"
"That's it."
"Where?"
"Where we were supposed to meet her. It was just
inside this abandoned building."
He put the phone down. "You were supposed to meet
her inside an abandoned building?"
"No, on the corner. But the phone was inside,
nearby. And there's a picture on it."
"A picture on the building?"
"No, on the phone. It's also a camera. That's the
picture on the screen."
Putting on half-lens glasses that seemed to suddenly
age him, the detective peered at the phone. "Huh. What do you know."
He took in the tiny lens next to the antenna, squinted at the screen, and gave
it a New York cop's version of the Nod. "And what exactly is that a
picture of?"
"A face in the dark. We saw that guy."
"What guy?"
"The guy in the picture."
"There's a guy in the picture?"
"You have to use wax paper to see it."
"He chased us," Jen said.
Detective Johnson looked at
her, then his eyes swept back and forth across the space between us a few
times, an alien watching a tennis ' match and trying to grasp the rules.
"Have you tried calling your friend?"
"We can't. That's her phone."
"At her office? At her
home?"
"Sure, her roommate too. But we just got
machines."
"Okay." Detective Johnson pushed his glasses
up higher onto his nose and settled back from the rigors of typing into the
creaky comfort of his office chair. "I know you're concerned about your
friend, but let me tell you this about missing people: Ninety-nine out
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