So I told Jake to wait in my office, and I went off to find Charlie.
He was sitting exactly where Jake told me he would be, in a corner on level three, right in that little cubby-hole under the back stairway. The light down there is harsh, so maybe he wasn't really in as bad shape as he looked. But he was just sitting there, his thumbs sliding wildly back and forth over the face of his phone. His tie was loose, his suit was smudged with dirt and grease, he looked like he hadn't shaved for a couple of days. And he was giggling all the time, which was really unnerving. And then every once in a while he would break out into a laugh that sounded like a cross between a wheeze and a cackle, which was even worse.
I said his name, firmly, but not loudly, because I didn't want to frighten him. He looked up at me and squinted like he wasn't sure who I was. He started to say something – and then the strangest thing, he looked back down and started playing with the phone again, like I hadn't said anything at all, or like I wasn't even there.
I told him to give me the phone – and that definitely got his attention. He rose to his feet, very stiffly, I had the impression that he had been sitting in that same spot in the garage for hours. He stared at me and blinked a couple of times. "I can't tell how many little squares there are in this big square," he said. "Thirty-two million people say there are twenty-five squares. But seventeen million people say there are twenty-six squares. And I get a different number every time I count." He sounded bewildered, as if the number of squares was one of the secrets of the universe.
"Give me the phone," I suggested. "I'll count them for you."
But he was swiping at the phone again. "Did you know," he said, his voice filled with wonder, "that this month has five Fridays, five Saturdays, and five Sundays? That only happens once every 823 years! I mean, what are the odds?" He glanced up at me for just a second, I got the feeling that he wasn't really trying to gauge my reaction, he was just making sure that he was still talking to somebody.
"That is amazing," I agreed, as I stretched a hand out toward him. "But I really think you should give me the phone."
"Why do they call Social Security an 'entitlement'?" he demanded, and suddenly he sounded angry. He pointed to something on the screen, but he didn't turn it toward me, so I had no idea what he was pointing at. "I've been paying for it my whole life!"
I was worried about the sudden change in his tone and his demeanor, he was visibly upset, he was spitting at me as he spoke. I remember thinking that this could get out of hand, it's been a dozen years since I've been a field agent, I'm more than a little out of shape. Maybe I should have let Jake come with me.
"Just give me the damn phone," I snapped. My thinking was that maybe he'd respond better to an order than he'd been responding to requests. In retrospect, perhaps I should have been a little more patient.
And then suddenly he thrust the phone out at me, and he screamed, "Look! HE CAN HAS CHEEZBURGER!"
I have absolutely no recollection of drawing my gun, I can only suppose that it was the reawakening of an old reflex, brought about by the sudden movement of the phone that Charlie pushed nearly into my face. I do have a vague recollection of pulling the trigger, I'm not sure but I think I was trying to shoot the damn cat that was suddenly just inches from my face, grinning his stupid grin.
According to the forensic reports, I did hit the cat, right between the eyes.
Unfortunately, Charlie was standing right behind the cat.
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