“This letter should go to Kathy. She’s the hero.”
“Really? Tell me about that.”
“She dragged me away from the car — and her not even five feet tall!”
“Golly! You’re kidding!” said Jinnah, pulling out his notebook.
Robert Chan’s body froze as his friendly smile slowly melted.
“Are you a reporter?” he said weakly.
“Did I not mention I was from the Tribune?” said Jinnah, sounding surprised. “I apologize. Naturally, we are anxious to have your first-hand account —”
“I really don’t think I should be talking to you — no offence.”
“Oh, I understand,” said Jinnah, closing his notebook.
Chan was even more shocked by this than the news that Jinnah was a reporter.
“You do?” he said.
“Oh, absolutely, my friend,” said Jinnah, tucking his pen neatly into his shirt pocket. “The police will have warned you not to talk to the press, hmm?”
“Er, yeah. How did you —”
“Crime is my beat, Mister Chan. I am constantly up against the veil of police silence. Normally, I would give you my standard lecture about this not being a police state, but a democracy where freedom of speech is guaranteed.”
Jinnah stood up. Chan felt somehow disappointed as well as relieved.
“So I don’t deserve the lecture?” he asked.
“A hero deserves time to heal. And I am used to witnesses being reluctant to talk.”
“I guess you’ve had a few people hang up on you in your job.”
Jinnah looked at Chan with what he hoped was a noble expression.
“My friend, I have knocked on many doors of silence in my time.”
Chan was now somewhat confused. He didn’t like the idea of a reporter sneaking into his room and trying to con him into an interview. At the same time, being called a hero was quite gratifying. And the thought of having that in print to show to his friends and family — not to mention his wife — was tempting.
“You’ve had a few of those doors slammed in your face, I bet,” he said, hoping Jinnah would stay a while longer.
“Indeed, sir. I recall one particular case: a multiple-murder in East Vancouver. A whole family wiped out by an axe-murderer — all save the grandfather. It was my painful duty to ask him how he felt about it.”
“Jesus,” said Chan. “What happened?”
“The old bastard slapped me as hard as he could and asked me how that felt. Then he slammed the door in my face.”
“Did he break your nose?’
“No. But he very nearly fractured my foot.”
Chan laughed for a second, then grew suddenly serious.
“Why do you ask people how they feel about these things? Shouldn’t it be obvious?”
“In my experience, Mister Chan — and it is considerable, hmm? — most people need to talk about these things in order to get over them. It is very seldom that I don’t get a quote of some kind.”
“Did you quote the grandfather?”
Jinnah smiled a crooked smile, twisting his skinny, brown lips in amusement.
“I wrote that he was too overcome by grief to share his feelings with reporters.”
There was a pause. Jinnah was still standing, coat on, notebook tucked inside his pocket. This was the moment of truth. He was either shit out of luck or in like flint. He would know which in a second. Finally, Chan broke the silence.
“Funny. I sure didn’t feel better telling my story to the cops.”
Jinnah glowed inwardly. He was in. He put an exploratory knee back on the chair.
“Oh?” he said. “Why’s that, my friend?”
Chan hung his head down.
“They wouldn’t let me talk, really. Kept interrupting and asking questions. Hardly therapeutic.”
“The police have a job to do, Robert. You don’t mind if I sit down? Thanks. For them, exact times, dates, and distances are crucial. For me, what’s crucial is how you risked your life to save a complete stranger.”
“Kathy’s the one who saved me,” said Chan. “You should write a story about her.”
Jinnah took out his notebook.
“With your help, I could easily do so.”
Chan hesitated.
“Kathy’s not big on the media,” he said. “She says publicity means trouble.”
Jinnah arched an eyebrow.
“Trouble? What sort of trouble could you possibly get into?”
“I don’t know — crank calls, stalkers. There are a lot of nuts out there.”
“Let me tell you something, Robert,” said Jinnah, leaning over the back of the chair. “You’d be amazed how many decent, good people are out there. I am constantly astonished at the outpouring of affection and sympathy that follows a hero story —”
“Outpouring?” asked Chan.
“— the calls, the letters, the gifts —”
“Gifts?”
“— money donated to cover medical expenses, especially for young people without adequate medical benefits —”
“Yeah, well, that’s really great but as I said, Kathy is the hero here.”
Jinnah opened his notebook and took out his pen. He slowly took his jacket off. He looked at Chan with what he hoped was an overpowering intensity.
“Now, Robert — I believe you and your wife Kathy were out for a walk on the night in question, hmm?”
The story came out hesitantly at first, then gushing forth in great, excited torrents. Jinnah let Chan talk, confining his own interruptions to exclamations of amazement and admiration. He ran down the mental checklist of questions in his head when Chan digressed to unimportant matters. Nearly half an hour had elapsed before Jinnah decided it was time to clarify a few niggling points.
“You say this poor man had sunglasses on?” asked Jinnah. “Are you sure?”
“Well, no,” admitted Chan. “It might have been a trick of the light and shadows. I think I saw all sorts of things —”
Chan stopped dead and his dark eyes widened. Oh-ho, thought Jinnah.
“What is it, Robert?” he asked, oozing concern. “Something troubling?”
“I just remembered something,” said Chan, looking down. “I thought it was a shadow or something, but I just had a flash.”
“Was it a living something or a dead something?” Jinnah prompted.
“Living. A man. Running away towards the river …”
Jinnah’s heart-rate doubled, he started sweating and his breath was short — sure signs that his inherent instincts were tingling.
“Ah, Robert, you have told the police about this, yes?”
“Sort of,” said Robert. “I mentioned that I thought I saw someone, but wasn’t sure. Now, going over it again, I can see him clearly. It’s funny.”
Not funny, just usual,