FORREST, ANDREW (1976 - ) Matricide. The Andrew Forrest case remains something of a cause celebre. Readers with even the slightest interest in crime will be familiar with the basic story: Forrest, the morbid outsider with his poetry, experimental facial growth and inappropriate obsessions. Criminals of that type tend to attract an unmerited level of interest. Journalists of Nina's calibre like to trot out their ‘modern day Clyde Barrow' type stories. Not one of them, naturally, has the slightest inkling of what Clyde Barrow was actually like. The comparison is completely meaningless. If truth be told, Forrest probably had more in common with Lizzie Borden. We needn't dwell on the specifics of the case, though. My adventures have been extensively recorded elsewhere and, despite the level of interest that particular investigation continues to inspire, the details were pretty mundane. I'm not here to blow my trumpet. There are enough braggarts in the world. My purpose in life, at that time, was detection, so it ill-behoves me to expect praise for fulfilling it successfully. Suffice to say that my independent investigation was instrumental in securing Forrest's conviction. The Midlands police, sadly, refuse to acknowledge this. Few, if any, policemen will concede the fact that their role is largely janitorial. Their talents are adequate to the apprehension of muggers and wife-beaters and in this realm of what I refer to as basic criminality, their diligence is invaluable. In dealing with more complex issues, however, the average policeman, immaterial of how many courses he's been through, is hopelessly out of his depth. I've no intention, at this time, of further debating the potential role of gifted amateurs in detection. The facts speak for themselves. More often than not, entrusting a complicated investigation to a police officer is like putting a microwave in charge of a kitchen. He is functional, but lacks inspiration. Of course, since television writers encouraged policemen to construct images of themselves as mavericks, the issue has become even more confused. Fifteen years ago, a policeman could be identified by the combination of scowl and moustache. They were robotic but, by and large, competent. Now they've assumed artistic licence. They gel their hair, wear clothes their predecessors would have considered grounds for suspicion and openly discuss personal crises. They consider themselves creative, a terrible misconception that has undermined the quality of justice in this country to the extent that the very word elicits involuntary smirks.
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