When I was deciding what to write today, my mind kept wandering to something that happened earlier this week which had given me great satisfaction as a journalist and as a human being. I debated for several hours about whether or not I wanted to write about it; I finally decided to go forward with it.
One of the questions that I am most frequently asked is whether being a writer who covers crime on a daily basis – everything from child rape to missing persons – ever gets to me. The answer to that question is yes. I don't think you could call yourself a human being if that subject matter didn't bother you. However, a writer has to put all of that aside. In my case, I have a strong desire to make some sort of difference, especially in the cases involving missing persons. Sadly, of all the cases I have covered, I can think of maybe two that have had happy endings. Nonetheless, the few that do turn out well make it all worthwhile.
In the story I am about to relate to you, I am going to change the person's name and the dates on which the incidents mentioned in the newspapers occurred in order to protect her identity. In the end, those details are not as important as how the case turned out.
On Monday, I received an email from a young lady who I shall hereto refer to as Jane, who was trying to find her family. It was not the typical type of request that I receive, but it was interesting, nonetheless. Jane said that she had been adopted and had spent the last year trying to locate the family of her biological father.
"I was adopted, and just recently found my birth-mother, and she told me that my biological father was <redacted>. After almost a year of searching, I found out that he was murdered in 2000 … He never knew that I was born, let alone conceived because my mother never told him that she was pregnant."
Jane's mother told her that she did not know much about her father, and the police department that investigated her father's death would not share any of the details with her. All Jane had to go on was her father's name and the fact that he had two brothers. She had tried various methods and search engines to try to locate them, but to no avail.
I took the information that Jane gave me and I entered it into an online information database that is often used by the government and members of law enforcement. Within about ten minutes, I was able to uncover what had actually happened to Jane's father.
According to the police reports, the bodies of Jane's father and that of another man were found inside a house. The other man's body had been found in a bedroom, while Jane's father's body had been found in the basement of the house. I had expected to find this information; however, I did not expect what I read next. According to the police, the man in the bedroom had been dead for two days longer than Jane's father. When officers found the body of Jane's father, they discovered a handgun lying next to it. Jane's father, according to the police report, had murdered the other man and then later shot himself. The motive for the murder-suicide was unknown.
Uncovering the truth about Jane's father was not a very pleasurable experience. I thought about it for several minutes before coming to the conclusion that I had to tell her. I did not want her to somehow stumble upon it by herself and not have anyone there for her.
Jane answered the phone on the third or fourth ring and I then explained to her what I had uncovered. Rather than beat around the bush, I was straight-forward as I relayed the information to her. There was a brief pause on the line and, when she once again spoke, there was emptiness in her voice that hadn't been there before. I can't imagine how she must have been feeling. To learn that you had been adopted and then to find out your father is dead – a murder victim – is one thing, but then to find out that he had killed someone and that he then had taken his own life is another thing altogether. Nonetheless, Jane quickly pulled herself together and, shortly thereafter, our call ended.
