FOLLIES
January 19, 1966
Jerry let his gaze sweep his uncle's tiny office. It was nothing like his father's immaculate home office. Piles of papers were strewn about, there were coffee stains on the desk, dust and gravel gathered on the floor. The factory's fortunes had fallen in the last few years, and the only thing that
reminded of the glory days was the ostentatious name plate that read 'Leopold Pabe, CEO'.
Jerry didn't mind. He'd taken to spending an afternoon every two weeks at the factory. He could tell that his uncle was indifferent to his presence, but that was better than Virgil's scorn and hatred and Gertrude's passive obliviousness.
He picked up a piece of electrical cord, the factory's pride and joy, off the ground, and placed it on the table. Sometimes it was impossible to escape the love of order Virgil had instilled in him.
He tried, once again, to focus on his homework. He found it boring. Not because the materials didn't interest him, but because they were so very easy. He could have skipped a year and gone on to study more challenging subjects, but he'd chosen not to. Most of his bullies were a year ahead of him.
He heard some footsteps shuffling towards the office, and he perked up. Maybe Uncle Leopold was returning with the sandwich he'd promised to procur for his nephew some twenty minutes ago.
The footsteps were joined by another set from the opposite direction. Someone wanted to have a word with their boss. Jerry prepared to gather his things and head out of the office when he heard voices.
"Boss, bad news. Douglas won't be coming to work tomorrow," an unknown voice intoned.
"Why the hell not?" Leopold demanded.
"Injured on a hunting trip. Poor sucker shot one of his toes when he was cleaning his rifle."
Jerry's uncle cursed colourfully, thereby covering the sound of Jerry's own snicker. His interest in the story waned, and as he pictured the sight of a hapless man shooting his own toe off, he thought of something.
An arch smile graced his features for a while. He settled back in his chair and set about plotting, his homework now quite forgotten.
Present day
Jerry fondled his new photos of Sam. He'd lucked out that night at the crime scene in Buckhead. He'd managed to take a photo of her in one of his stray shots over the brick wall. It was a little crooked, but he didn't care. As luck would have it, it just meant that Malone had been cropped out by the angle.
He gulped down the last of his champagne, but he didn't feel drunk. He was toasting their last conversation from a year ago. So much had happened since. They'd both made errors in judgment, but they would soon be in the past, water under the bridges.
He eyed the article he'd cut out from the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. It made mention of the task force and of her specifically, and that was why he'd chosen it.
Jerry wanted to reach out to her on this special day. She would get it a few days later, but he knew she'd know why and when he'd sent it.
He imagined her reaction when she would hold his letter to her in her hands.
Oh, what a shame that he would miss it.
But, some things couldn't be helped. Yet.
He bent down to inscribe his message to her.
I forgive you for your folly.