A Private Investigator

Yesterday I was looking for clues and signs to someone's whereabouts. I was reluctant to go into places and ask for her because I figured it'd be like the hospital, where everything's confidential. "We can't give out that information." The person's laying there dying. "How's she doing?" "We can't say." OK, but that last Code Blue siren at least gave me a clue.

So I have two (what I would call) objective places to go. The last known place where she said she was going to get a job. And the last known place where she was staying, a motel. The job place I figured would be a toughie. I showed up and met the boss, who I was figuring would chase me from the place. But I explained myself and seemed genuinely interested in what they do there (I was genuinely interested), and recalled for him some funny incidences in my life where I had a similar job. We got on the same page and he was happy to go look her up in the computer for me to see if she worked there or had applied. She had applied but didn't work there.

I'm thinking when I hit the parking lot, hey, I'm like a private investigator. I don't have ultimate confidence in my abilities but I schmoozed that guy OK.

Next to the motel. I nodded to the guy taking out the trash. He might be a good contact later, need to establish sincere rapport. That must be his wife behind the counter. I tapped the counter like I was there to help you and you're there to help me. I explained that I'd visited with so and so a couple weeks ago and was hoping she was still here. She was in room so and so, I said. The lady remembered the guest but said she was only here that one week. She thought she said she was moving to such and such a town. I was like Oh, Glad Reunion, thank you.

I was about to phone some places in that other town -- like the great P.I. -- when the phone book didn't have numbers from there, so I would have to postpone that part of my work till I got home and to a decent internet connection. When I thought, how about her ex-roommate? It's a matter of going to the last known apartment, where naturally there weren't any names on the mailboxes. Three floors of apartments, shady characters, dangerous characters, people who might very well kill me if they thought I was a pizza delivery guy or something. I put on a confident face.

Fortunately for me there was a contact, a guy from my basic socioeconomic caste, a maintenance guy for the apartment manager, maybe below my station in life but not by much. At least our race matched. That put us on the same page as far as being able to shake our heads and wonder about these other people, which we didn't do, but it would have been a natural tact. When you're a private investigator you keep access to every button. Nothing is too politically correct. He was happy to give me information about which apartment she was in. I definitely sounded like a friend of a friend, with information only a friend of a friend would have.

To the apartment, and to success. They'd been in contact ... and in fact the phone rang while I was there, and guess who. We spoke and were reunited.