Janus: Winter 2010

The Prepared I remember my father well; he appears in my mind every day. He was a military man with glittering stars on his broad chest. With his straight tall back, he towered above my childhood, directing it like a mighty god.

He would often say, “Son, there are two types of people in the world. Those who are prepared and those who are not. (He would never use contractions, not even when speaking. “It shows laziness and tiredness,” he said when I asked him about it, drawing himself up high. “A true man should be able to communicate without using the language of ruffians.” I was eight at the time and had no idea what “ruffian” meant, but I always envisioned it to be a great dumb dog until I had the sense to look up its meaning in the school dictionary.)

“Some people will succeed in the world and others will not. Who do you think will succeed in this cold world of ours, Joseph?”

Tiredly, for I had heard this speech before, I would say, “The prepared.”

“That is right, lad. The organized and prepared. I remember when I was in battle and my fellow soldier's rifle was jammed because ...” This speech would go on for about fifteen minutes and would always be repetitive, boring, and somehow related to a recent shortcoming of mine. Yet the message was engraved into my mind and has brought me to be what I am now, a chief officer at Scotland Yard. Now I have a silver badge in my pocket. Now I too talk sharply and swiftly, with a deep voice. Now I too am prepared.

Which brings me to my difficult task today. In front of me are four people in a line: a boy named Arthur, a girl named Bella, and a man and wife named Benjamin and Selma Markly. As I look them over, my mind subconsciously goes to my father. “Those who are prepared succeed.”

The young man Arthur is at ease, confident, his eyes full of humor and his smile framed by long blond hair.

This man is ready. I take a liking to him, with reservation, and give him a smile. He smiles and nods back. We are now acquainted.

The second is a little dark-haired girl who looks like she is about eight years of age. Bella her name is, I remember from the report. As I pass her by she trips and falls forward onto my leg. Clumsy girl. I stand her back up without much interest. She is too young and too naive to be here in this line of potential murderers. I will have the boys let her go on her way after the paperwork is filed.

The last two are man and wife, the Marklys, staring forward without remorse or care. The man is well-built but with ragged clothes that have been patched and customized to his peculiar fashion. He reminds me of a character from the book Oliver Twist, which I read as a child. Bill Sykes, the master thief. Same eyes. Same stance. Same contempt for the world around him. I mark him in my mind as my main suspect.