Charlie got the crazy ones, his supervising officer knew. Why these cases went to him first, to him alone, his supervisor didn’t know. Demonstrated talent for the job, of course, may have played its part. Once upon a time, a fugitive, who was slippery in the not-amusing-to-children sense, had eluded other teams of local lawmen; Charlie followed clues only he seemed to understand, knocked on a door, and had his cuffs, in a matter of seconds, on the suspect’s wrists.
The supervisor observed: “You must be some kind of bloodhound, Lévesque,” as they watched a police wagon drive off, the ex-fugitive…
