I Call Me - Author Harrow

I Call Me - Harrow

Official Journal: File #---18. 

Call me Harrow. My parents did, almost. What they actually named me is of little consequence, since I ditched it shortly after they died.

From here, I could paint myself as a victim of fate, a brooding loner (who may or may not have an obsession with  bats,) or perhaps an inspiring portrayal of rising to greatness after smacking the odds down like a bug. A fat, ugly bug. I greatly enjoy manipulating people to my own ends, but as that seems unnecessary here, I’ll try not to deviate too far from the truth.

The truth is always more complicated than any caricature, and is often painfully dull without at least a few embellishments.

For example, when people think of detective work, they usually picture an absurdly attractive male in a deerstalker hat raking a bloodied room for details, a mustached Belgian in a closed room homicide, or, if they’re fabulous, a cookie grandma solving murder plots while knitting a scarf.

            In reality, detective work is often very unfulfilling.  Don’t get me wrong—I love justice. I am to justice as Jim Gaffigan is to bacon. Yay, justice! The problem is, the solution is either obvious (the ex), or else, the conclusion of a case so old, so obscure, or so ridiculously petty that it's hardly worth mulling over. Criminals are a dull and uncreative lot, and this makes my job unpleasantly easy. Intriguing cases, like glowing hounds and murders of VIPs, are frequently left for the field workers of the F.B.I.

            Why don’t I work for the F.B.I, you ask? Because a PhD in Abnormal Psychology backed up by a few liberal arts degrees is always displaced by a government or SI Major in terms of hiring priority. Also, the government doesn’t like hiring people who don’t trust the government. So… sucks to the F.B.I? We’ll go with that.

            Incidentally though, I think I am on a good case. In brief: there may potentially be an evil illusionist roaming the streets of Deinsport killing people with apparent paranormal acts. What possible motivation is there for a person to go for theatrics and not just get the homicide over with and wipe for fingerprints like a normal criminal? Abnormal Psychology all the way, baby.

            Of course, the independent agency I’m working with is convinced that it’s aliens or demons or something of that nature. Actually, the term Agent Bell used was “Departed.” More notes on this later.  Also, I’m in the process of writing up a diagnosis for Agent Aquila, who is clearly suffering from some issues, chief among which is a profound aversion to me.