Megan's Bath-- Chapter 2 (cont'd)

(Note: This story begins with the post dated October 13, 2009.)

The desk officer peered up from his form at Maria with incredulous eyes. "Excuse me?"

"Twenty-three years," Maria repeated. "I know, it's a long time."

"I'll say." He tapped his pen on the countertop. "What took you so long?"

"He's my ex-husband. I threw him out."

"But now you want to find him?"

Maria nodded. "Or at least find out what happened to him."

"Well, ma'am, I can take a report," said the officer wearily. "But honestly, after all this time, I doubt we'd be able to do anything. I'll fill out this form and put it in the system, but then that's probably it. This is probably more of a job for a private investigator."

"Honestly, I doubt he's still alive."

The officer gave the pen a final tap on the counter, spun it around in his hand and poised it at the next line on the form. "Well, it's worth a shot. How old is he now?"

Maria had to think for a moment. "I would say maybe...mid-fifties?"

"You don't know how old your husband is?"

"He didn't know how old he was," Maria said, then hastened to explain. "He wasn't born in this country."

"I see," said the officer, but she could tell from his expression that she was losing him. "I know, it makes no sense. It doesn't make sense to me either."

"Why would you think he wasn't still alive?"

"Because he was an addict. Drugs."

"What kind of drugs?"

"I'm not sure, he never used them around me. Heroin, I think. Track marks." She pointed at her arms.

"You may be right, then." The officer shook his head. "Can you describe him? What did he look like?"

Maria had stuffed the memory of his face into a closet in her mind years ago, but it took her only seconds for her to find it again. His pleading eyes, sunken with dark rings beneath them; his face with the dry patches of eczema that turned his caramel skin an angry red; his thick dark hair; his whole being untouched by age after nearly ten years only to be (probably) destroyed by drugs. She suppressed a shuddering sob and spoke.

"Dark hair-- brown eyes-- dark skin. Tan," she clarified. "He was Arab." Was he?

"How tall?"

She pointed to a spot in the air about a foot and a half over her head.

"Heavy? Thin?"

Towards the end..."Thin." But not always.

"Name?"

"Ali Hassan."

The officer finished scrawling the name and set down the pen. "Last seen where?"

"Tarpon Beach."

"Locally...good. That'll help." He picked up the form. "Like I said, I'll put this in and see what happens. But I wouldn't expect a lot from it."

Maria nodded curtly. "Thank you." Then she had an idea. "Wait...what about DNA?"

"What about it?"

"I see it on the TV. Some kind of...database?"

The officer laughed. "Well, yeah, we have DNA databases, but unless Mr. Hassan here had a criminal record and somebody took a sample, he wouldn't be in there." He frowned. "He might be if he's a John Doe, though."

"John Doe?"

"Unknown corpse," said the officer grimly.

Maria winced.

"Would you have anything we could match him with? Old hairbrush, anything like that?"

Maria shook her head. "No...but I have some names of matches."

"Like relatives?"

Maria nodded.

"Would they be in the system anywhere?"

"Not as criminals, no," replied Maria.

She remembered the geneticist on the TV documentary: "I've never seen anything like it."


Meanwhile, Maria's letter arrived on Monday afternoon. Helen rummaged through the mail, saw the shaky handwriting, and rolled her eyes; they occasionally got these kinds of letters from people who saw the documentary, offering up all kinds of crackpot theories and cures for Megan's condition, usually for a price. Helen had quit bothering opening them a long time ago and usually pitched them directly into the trash. This letter nearly met the same fate, but then Helen's eye caught the return address:

2558 Osceola Street #4
Tarpon Beach, Florida 32675

Helen's eyes flew wide and her heart froze for a moment. Slowly, as if the contents might bite her, she worked the seal loose on the envelope flap and extracted the letter. She looked at the little slip of notepaper for a long time before she finally unfolded it and read:

I know what is wrong with your daughter. If you would like my help, please write to me at the return address.

--Mami