Page 2 of Faceless Threat

“Kind of hard to forget.” I cringe when I realize I left a wide opening for ridicule. Surprisingly, he doesn’t fall into it. Points.

“What happened next?”

“I ran.” I’m not ashamed of that. It was a natural response to seeing someone shot execution style. I knew there was nothing that could be done for him. He was gone but I still had a chance to live. Though the car that struck me – when I ran out in front of it – almost changed that.

Thankfully, I survived the impact. My memory, however, wasn’t so lucky.

I’d been taken to the emergency room when the driver of the vehicle that hit me called nine-one-one. I later learned he wasn’t cited or arrested as it had clearly been my fault, which I’d backed up when I’d come to and was coherent enough to speak to law enforcement. I’d then apologized profusely when that same person had come to visit me to see how I was doing. The two of us aren’t exactly headed toward being best friends, though we’ll probably share pleasantries here and there as we exchanged numbers.

“And that’s when you were hit by,” he glances at his notes, “Steven Johnson.”

“More or less.”

“You were treated by Dr. Kaminski at the ER.” Actually, I saw him once I’d been admitted, but that’s a technicality, so I let it go. “He claims,” anger begins to rise within me at that brush off, “that due to the concussion you acquired an incurable condition called,” another look at the paper he’s been scribbling on, “prosopagnosia.” I correct his pronunciation, something I struggled with myself when I did a deep dive on research once Dr. Kaminski delivered his theory. Testing – three of them, to be exact – was required to confirm it, and it did, prior to my release.

The Cambridge Face Memory Test, the Cambridge Face Perception Test, and one including the faces of famous people to see if I recognized any.

I’m not sure if it’s considered failing or passing in order to receive the official diagnosis, but whichever it takes, that’s what I did.

“Yes, and the recommended tests were given and they all backed him up.” Left unspoken is the ‘so there’ my words imply.

“I see.” I’m not sure that he does, but whatever. “This proso…” he stumbles over it and I finish it for him, “means you can’t remember faces.”

“The disease is often referred to as face blindness because of that.”

That earns me a, “Hmmm,” followed by a tapping of his fingers. Left to right, pinky to thumb, then in reverse. Officer Guinness picks up his cell and answers it. Now, I didn’t hear it ring, but he could have it on vibrate, so I think nothing of it. “Excuse me for a moment,” he says. Rising to his feet, he walks past me, heading toward the hall I twist to see, and disappears around a corner.

A few minutes pass before footsteps alert me that someone is coming, as does the voice saying, “Now, where were we?” Then I watch as a different man takes Officer Guinness’ seat and waits expectantly, as if ready to finish a conversation. One he and I were not having.

Is he for real?

“Where’s the officer I was just speaking to?”

“That would be me,” the imposter attempts to convince me.

I’ve been through a lot, and I’m including that awful blind date as the precursor to it. Instead of my night improving by ending the farce, as I’d hoped it would, it only got worse. On top of the shit sundae I’d been dealt – which is still a far cry better than what that poor man got – knowing that I’m being condescended to by a cop that vowed to protect and serve is more than I can take.

Gathering my purse, I get to my feet and pivot to leave. Needing to say my piece, I shift to look at him, finding it difficult to keep my emotions in, and tell him, “I don’t appreciate being mocked. Please thank Officer Guinness for his time. Have a good day.”

“I thought you couldn’t recognize faces?” Officer Guinness is now beside me, staring at me as if he caught me in a lie.

Praying this isn’t a sign of what I’ll have to deal with for the rest of my life, I dash away the one tear I allow to leak out and inform him, “Faces, no. Different types and colors of clothing? Different voices? Yes.” Another slips free, dang it. Appearing ashamed, and rightfully so, he quietly apologizes, then asks me to sit once more. “No,” I respond. “I’m done being the butt of your jokes.”

Honestly, with how his obvious ridicule makes me feel, I never want to see him again.

Hey! I just realized a perk of this illness. If I ever do, I won’t know who he is.

Chapter Two

Danny

November 7th...

“Devlin, get your ass in here.” I immediately stop what I’m doing, knowing Captain Shivers – or Shiver me timbers as we’ve nicknamed him – does not mean in ten minutes or even ten seconds. When he bellows, you hop to and risk getting cited for speeding with how hastily you get in front of him. I hurry to his office and make it there before he can give me another bellow, err warning.

“Sir,” I greet him, hands clasped behind my back as if I’m standing at attention. He may have left the military two decades ago, but it’s still very much a part of him in how he acts and thinks. Which is one of the many reasons he’s highly respected by myself and my coworkers, both as a man and an officer.

“Have a seat, Devlin.” His first rule. When we’re in the station, or outside of it actively working a case, he refers to us consistently by last names only. Otherwise, I’m Danny. “We’re waiting on a uniform.”

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