The Detective Reichert Chronicles: An Excerpt
Chapter 1.
Detective Reichert: So tell me again, Mrs. Cunningham, when did these disturbances start?
Mrs. Cunningham: About two months ago, I think. Yes, it was in April.
Detective Reichert: And can you describe the first incident for me?
Mrs. Cunningham: It happened late on a Wednesday night. I was practicing my Spanish. Me and my husband will be celebrating our thirtieth anniversary in September and we’re planning a trip to Costa Rica. Frank received a—
Detective Reichert: Congratulations, Mrs. Cunningham. But can you get back to describing the incident, please?
Mrs. Cunningham: Oh yes, of course, I was up late practicing my Spanish when all of a sudden, I heard red. It was coming from the kitchen.
Detective Reichert: You heard red?
Mrs. Cunningham: Yes, and I ran to the kitchen to see what could be making all that racket. I was worried it might wake Frank up. When I got to the kitchen, I almost gagged when I smelled the circles.
Detective Reichert: I see. Mrs. Cunningham, have you ever heard of synesthesia? It’s not a common condition but—
Mrs. Cunningham: Oh, sinus amnesia? I know that. And if this was all that happened, I wouldn’t be in your office right now. But then things got even weirder.
Detective Reichert: Ok, so when did the next incident occur?
Mrs. Cunningham: The next morning. I woke up on the couch. I must have passed out, nauseous from the circles. I heard Frank cooking breakfast and talking to our son Arthur, who had stopped by in order to trick Frank into making repairs on that old piece of junk he drives. If he would just go back to school, he could surely get something better. Me and Frank have even offered to—
Detective Reichert: So what was so strange about that morning, Mrs. Cunningham?
Mrs. Cunningham: Well, I didn’t notice it at first, but after a while I realized the two of them were speaking funny.
Detective Reichert: Speaking funny? How?
Mrs. Cunningham: The two of them were rhyming, sometimes with themselves and sometimes with each other. There was also another, weirder pattern to their words. It’s hard to describe. Here, I actually took notes while they were talking. Let me get out my notebook.
Are you still dating that girl from Green Bay?
The one who bought a car but made you pay?
Detective Reichert: Let me see that…Mrs. Cunningham, this is written in iambic pentameter. Unbelievable. And they kept speaking like this?
Mrs. Cunningham: They wouldn’t shut up! Not even after I asked them very kindly to cut it out. They just looked at me like they didn’t know what I was talking about.
Detective Reichert: Exactly how long did this go on for?
Mrs. Cunningham: I’m not sure. By the time I got home from my shift at the bank, Frank was speaking normally again. Arthur was back at his apartment, probably playing one of those online video games. But that was when I noticed an even bigger problem. All of our alcohol was gone, and the bottles were just thrown in the backyard like the aftermath of some crazy teenage party.
Detective Reichert: And you’re sure it wasn’t…I mean, it sounds like your son…
Mrs. Cunningham: No, Arthur doesn’t drink like that. Play online video games until five in the morning when he could be trying to get back into college? Yes. But he isn’t a drunk.
Detective Reichert: Other than what you just described, are there any other disturbances over these last two months that stand out to you, Mrs. Cunningham?
Mrs. Cunningham: Well, there were definitely more of the ironic pentagrams you were talking about. Then the sinus amnesia got real bad there at the end of April. These days we can’t have a bottle in the house without it turning up emptied in the backyard in a couple of hours. And recently the metaphors started happening.
Detective Reichert: Metaphors?
Mrs. Cunningham: Yes. Just the other day my husband went outside to get the mail and when he came back, he tossed me a small package I’d ordered. As I was about to catch it, I couldn’t help but notice how it briefly resembled a bird. Well, right after that the package flew out the front door and I still haven’t received the book of crossword puzzles I ordered. I’ve seen bushes turn into dogs, coffee mugs turn into ballerinas; it’s too much, detective.
Detective Reichert: I understand, Mrs. Cunningham. That would be difficult for anyone to go through. But I think I know what is going on.
Mrs. Cunningham: Really!? What is it?
Detective Reichert: Well, my suspicions were raised when you showed me the iambic pentameter, but it was the empty bottles that confirmed it. Mrs. Cunningham, you have a poet in your house, hiding out. I can’t say how long they’ve been there. It could’ve been the first night you were afflicted with synesthesia. They could have snuck in long before, changing your reality in subtle ways you didn’t even notice. That’s how poetry works. Don’t worry though, you’re safe now. We’ll send a team to your home right away to extract the poet for rendition.
Benjamin Schmitt is the Elgin Award-nominated author of four books, most recently The Saints of Capitalism and Soundtrack to a Fleeting Masculinity. His poems have appeared in Sojourners, Antioch Review, The Good Men Project, Hobart, Columbia Review, Spillway, and elsewhere. A co-founder of Pacifica Writers’ Workshop, he has also written articles for The Seattle Times and At The Inkwell. He lives in Seattle with his wife and children.
