My Short-Lived Life as A Detective
Last January, I wrote a story about a town official who was killed, execution style, by 2 or 3 gunmen. At that time, the motive for his death was unclear. Like all other deaths in this unfortunate country, he became a statistic, a footnote in his neighborhood.
Last week, The Editor sent me an email from a 20 year old guy in Ohio, who had something to say about the murder story. The Guy said he was looking for his father who left him and his mother when he was a toddler. Apparently, his father's name is the same as The Village Captain's name. He was also of the same age. The Guy has been looking for traces of his father and that newsbrief was his first break. I told him that his father and The Village Captain's name is pretty common in here and that there are probably dozens of men who carry that name.
I once read something about a linguist who was into endangered languages. He trekked to a remote community in the middle of nowhere to interview the last surviving speaker of this endangered Native American language. When he got there, he was met by weeping natives. Just hours before he arrived, the old man he was supposed to interview and document died. I imagined that The Guy, while he was reading the news I wrote, was feeling something akin to what the linguist felt when he heard about his subject’s death and I thought I should give The Guy a break. (See, my heart is not entirely made of heavy-duty Plexiglass. To quote Camera Obscura, I’m softer than my face would suggest.) Helping The Guy find something, anything about his father - dead or alive - would be my biggest act of charity this year. After this, I can go on sinning and become the crankiest person without feeling guilty.
So I made some calls today. The inspector who handled the case wasn't in the office, but the desk officer gave me the number of the village hall. The Woman who answered the phone was quite helpful. She knew a lot of things about the murdered man, who was their town's village captain for decades. Well, after the conversation with the Woman, there's a good chance that he's dad's alive. Missing, but probably living somewhere and doesn't want to be found.
My only information from The Guy were his father's middle name and the possible month of his birth. They may have the same name, but these details were different. According to the Woman, The Village Captain's middle is a 2-syllable Chinese sounding name, quite unlike the Castillian name The Guy gave me. Also, the Guy said his father was born in Dec; The Village Captain, had he been alive, would have been 55 last April 22, just two days ago.
I haven’t told The Guy yet the results of my inquiries. I really don’t know how to tell someone this kind of news: “Mr. The Guy, the man you thought was your father wasn’t your father. Keep on looking.” Is there a nice way to say that? I’m open to suggestions.
I concede that sometimes real life is better than fiction; there are just some stories that couldn't be made up.