by W.H. Harrod
“Could I possibly be involved in a more boring activity?” mumbled Terrance as he reviewed the paucity of information collected. He’d found little of note to write about apart from the several generic articles published over the years relating to the North Side Homeless Shelter and its publicity shy director, Mr. Joseph D. Right.
Mr. Right arrived in the community in late 1981 from no one knew where. He lived alone and none of the articles ever mentioned anything about a wife or family. He never owned a home, choosing to rent the upper floor of an older home owned and occupied by an elderly widow woman, for the entire time he lived in the community. He received a modest salary as director of the homeless shelter, and the ten-year-old Dodge van he owned and used without reimbursement in his many civic activities attested to his frugal lifestyle.
He’d never received a traffic ticket, had never been in jail or prison, and hadn’t been sued. He never registered to vote, never secured a gun permit, and always paid his personal property taxes on time. He didn’t smoke, drink alcohol, or associate with those who did and maintained a lifestyle consistent with the numerous youth programs he supported that promoted abstinence. No records existed that provided a previous work history, a military record, or any educational achievements. A published photograph of the guy did not exist. “How could anyone be involved in so many civic and public activities and not have had at least one photograph taken?” asked Terrance.
The information obtained from the death certificate provided by the State Health Department included his name, address, occupation, and date and cause of death. Terrance summarized the basic information at hand: Joseph D. Right, fifty-one years old at the time of death, born in Joplin, Missouri, on September 10, 1952, to John F. Right, and Nora M. Right. To write an article, based upon the scant information available at the present, he could only repeat the information previously alluded to in the earlier articles and include the date and cause of death. That’s all he had.
Terrance reconciled himself to the fact that a more determined effort must be made before he dare present a first draft to his editor. Not interesting or vital to the interest of the community mind you, merely acceptable. Well, okay then, what’s the plan? Asked the small voice from the skeptical part of his brain.
Terrance decided he needed to request deeper background information from Joplin, Missouri, relating to any known relatives or old friends. Meanwhile, he would talk to the landlady and the neighbors, as well as to the subject’s fellow workers at the shelter. What did they know about him? Somewhere a photograph of the guy must exist. “That should help me put some meat on these bones,” he mumbled as he finished the e-mail instructions to the paper’s contractor for securing background information through outside private detective agencies. He expected a response within twenty-four hours if things went as usual. By late tomorrow afternoon, Saturday, the day of the funeral, he planned to finish the article. This would be well before the Sunday deadline.
Terrance grabbed his tape recorder and notebook, stuffed them into his canvas backpack, and headed for the door to go talk to the landlady and the neighbors. Maybe this wouldn’t turn out to be such a loser assignment after all. It allowed him to spend time out and away from the newsroom with no one watching over him or observing him coming in late or leaving early. Gathering information for the remainder of today and most of tomorrow appealed to him much more than sitting in the office. They couldn’t say anything about his absence because he had to have the information.
The sudden sensation of cool early evening, mid-September air on his face revived him as he exited the building into the parking lot. Terrance took a deep breath, exalting at the prospect of being out and about on this beautiful fall evening. “At least, I’ll never end up like this poor loser,” he said to himself as he settled into the Cherokee for the short trip to Joseph Right’s former residence.
CHAPTER FIVE
