A big brown envelope, absent a return address and directed to his attention, stuck out several inches from Terrance’s personal mail slot. He extricated the envelope from the slot along with several letters, as well as the ubiquitous inter-office memos that rained down upon the unlucky few that weren’t supervisors of something, and then practically skittered back to his cubicle. Once situated at his desk with the envelope before him, he paused for a moment, surprised at his excitement over discovering the response from the hired snoops in his box.
Well, what are you waiting for? There’s nothing in there that’s going to bite you. Open it. With all the anticipation of a child ripping open presents under a Christmas tree, Terrance began to investigate the contents of the envelope. In no time, a several pages thick, stack of letter-sized typed pieces of paper lay before him surrounded by pieces of the destroyed envelope. The first page said nothing but thanks for the work while the following pages contained the results of the investigation. He tossed the first page aside as he started to read.
“Joseph David Right, Born 4/12/52, Joplin, Mo., Died 10/23/61, Carthage, Mo., Cause of death, Pneumonia, Buried, Hanging Rock Cemetery, Alba, Mo., Mother and father, Molly May Right and John Riley Right, also deceased. No siblings. A single living relative by name of Charles Warton Right, uncle, age 87, confirmed death of child in 1961. No record exists of any other individuals with this name having resided in this area during this period.” That was it. He examined the copies of the death certificates of the deceased boy and his parents on the remaining pages.
Terrance stared at the pile of documents. “What’s going on here? What does this mean?” he asked. “Nothing makes sense. There must be some mix up or a mistake of some sort.” Mr. Joseph D. Right, born of the same date and of the same parents as referenced on the piece of paper he held in his hand, didn’t die as a nine year old in 1961, he died three days ago in Lawrence, Kansas, at the age of fifty-one. “Are these private investigators nuts along with all the old people? Is something going around? Won’t somebody I’m trying to work with start making some sense?”
An idea flashed across his mind. Call Missouri and ask those ‘so-called’ investigators what’s going on? Have them explain how they managed to come to such an obviously incorrect conclusion in this matter. That’s what I’ll do; I’ll call them right now.
The results of the call left him more befuddled than before. He’d gotten right through and after the investigator listened politely to his ranting reaffirmed the original findings. Joseph D. Right died at the age of nine in 1961. He was positive of the information. When asked to explain the existence of a fifty-one-year-old corpse with the name of Joseph D. Right cremated only this morning in Lawrence, Kansas, he suggested Terrance consider investigating the possibility of this being a case of stolen identity. The person cremated this morning couldn’t have been Joseph D. Right.
Utter confusion reigned. “What should I do now? Go to my boss and explain the entire crazy affair to him? What if I’m wrong? I will surely lose all credibility. He will assign me to do stories on street closings and shopping center openings, forever.”
“But, what if I’m not wrong? They will probably take the story away from me if this is all I have. One of the graybeards would get this baby, for sure. I will still end up writing about street closings and store openings, anyway. Either way I go, I lose. I need some time to figure out what to do.”
Terrance thought hard as an idea began to form. An idea precipitated by Mrs. Bidwell’s telling him to come back if he ever got to a point where things didn’t make sense—like right now. She must have known he would find out about the stolen identity. She offered to help if he needed it. Right now no one else knew about this or the private investigator’s report but him. To give himself some time, he could write the piece as if the private investigator report never existed. He could tell his boss he hadn’t found out anything from that end as of yet. His boss might scream some, but other, more urgent, matters would keep him too busy to dwell on it for long. He could then take his time and uncover the entire story. This might be his long-awaited big break.
The more Terrance thought about it, the more sense it made. He could pull this off. However, he needed to get back to the crazy old lady before making a final decision. He needed her assurance that she would cooperate with him.
Within minutes, Terrance’s trusty Cherokee slid to a stop in front of Mrs. Bidwell’s house. He jumped from the vehicle and started running towards her house before forcing himself to slow down so as not to appear excited. As his feet touched the wooden boards of the front porch, the front door opened to reveal Mrs. Bidwell standing there staring at him as if she expected to see him.
“What took you so long?” she said from behind a cold stare.
Bypassing the customary pleasantries, Terrance jerked the screen door open and entered into the foyer. “Mrs. Bidwell, what’s going on here? Who was that man cremated this morning? I have a suspicion you know something about this.”
“Could I offer you some refreshment?” countered Mrs. Bidwell, not to be put off by this young man’s rashness.
Not this time, he thought. “Mrs. Bidwell, I’m really on the spot here. I don’t know what I should do. Should I go ahead and report what little I know? Like the fact that, the person cremated this morning wasn’t the real Joseph D. Right or possibly try to delay the story until I can get all the facts and tell the whole story. What I need to know from you, Mrs. Bidwell, is will you help me to find out the whole story?”
Mrs. Bidwell turned and walked into the sitting room and sat down on the antique couch. Without commenting, Terrance followed behind awaiting her response.
“Mr. Butler,” she said with all the formality one could evince through a tone of voice, “you are, as I am sure you’re aware by now, at a point where should you choose to proceed pell-mell with the creation and publishing of this particular story, you run the certain risk of undermining a lifetime of good work by a very fine human being. I’m hoping you’ll choose not to do that.”
“I’ll admit to you there is an interesting story here, but it involves the lives of many people who stand to be greatly affected by whatever is eventually reported, it must be brought forth in a timely and accurate manner. I want to emphasize again my caveat regarding the number of individuals this has the potential to effect. These effects may be far reaching. You personally may live to regret going forward with your plan to publish what you learned about Joseph Right for the benefit of the insatiable curiosity of your readership.”
“Keeping that in mind, should you choose to continue with this joint venture of sorts, here is what you may expect from me: I will not sit here and feed you my version of this story so that you can simply run back to your paper and print it and be done with it. You must expect to invest yourself personally into discovering what happened here to cause things to turn out the way they have. I will provide you with information, any facts that I am aware of—and other clues along the way, so that you may discover the true story for yourself.”
Mrs. Bidwell halted for a moment as Terrance allowed the force of her comments to sink in.
“I now suggest that you take time to consider what I have proposed to you. It’s a very serious undertaking. Its ramifications go far beyond the mere inconvenience of your losing a job that I imagine you care little for anyway. Think about it tonight. I’ll know your answer when I read the paper in the morning. Have a nice evening.”
CHAPTER TWELVE