Detective

It's never the hot dames who go to PIs. Those foreign movies lie to you, and I found that the hard way. I used to be a policeman, but the hours were long and the pay crummy, so when I got to a certain age I decided I had had enough of petty thieves and accident reports. I got into the game of private investigating, and I gotta admit that the Hollywood movies played a big part in it. Maybe I couldn't be like Humphrey Bogart, but I thought I'd at least get close; I'd deal with femme fatales, ransoms, diabolical murders, that kind of thing. But it's never hot dames. Ninetyfive percent of my clients are old guys with young wives who think that their little trophy lady is cheating on them. I gotta stake out the dame, take pics and recon, and, you know what?, most of the time, she is cheating. I imagine the couples divorce after I do my job, or they don't, I never want to find out. Once the money is in my account, I find it hard to care.

So when this guy walked into my office, I thought it was just another one of those cases. He was middle-aged, Chinese, receding hairline and slicked back hair or whatever was left of them. He had thick glasses with a thick tortoiseshell rim, a short-sleeved polo, beige shorts, white socks up his calves, and a sour expression on his face. He looked like every other guy that comes to me with a case of cheating wife.

But this man (Theo Tan, fiftysix years old, used to work in construction, now in an admin position within the company; I looked him up real quick), didn't have a cheating wife. He was looking for a man. That is four percent of my other cases: missing people. Maybe it's a crazy uncle who got dementia and got lost, and they think that the police aren't being quick enough in finding him so they want him back before he can spend all their future inheritance money; maybe it's a son or daughter who ran out of the family after some fight and they haven't been in touch for years. Sometimes it's a feel-good story, sometimes they try to put on their nicest face but you just can tell that there is something rotten behind their tale. Again, I usually fail to care. After they give me money, I'm off to the next case and who gives a damn.

This man, I said, had a missing man. He said it was a friend, a long-lost friend, which is immediate bullshit. No one cares about their friends that much. Nowadays, if you wanna find out about a childhood friend or something, you log on to Facebook and search them yourself, then you find out that they had a perfectly reasonable life without you, and then you lose interest. I didn't tell him that, however, because I don't really care about motives. If he says that it's a long-lost friend, then that's good enough for me. Gets me paid alright.

He showed me an old photograph, faded and worn, of a young Chinese man, about early-to-mid twenties, it's kinda hard to tell. He's looking off-camera, and the pic is obviously cut out of a larger one, perhaps a yearbook or a school photo of some kind. He told me the name is Norman Sheen, and that it's been thirty years since he last saw him. He started to tell me some excuse as to why he wants me to find the guy, but I told him to stop before he could say anything too damning. The less I know about this sort of thing, the better I am if the situation goes criminal. I told him fee, my conditions, a bunch of legal mumbo-jumbo, and then I was off to the races.

I knew from the guy that they had attended school together, and a very quick search revealed that the school in question had closed many years earlier. There was little chance, I felt, of ever finding records from a long-gone school of a pre-digital age, so that lead already seemed like a dead end. But the guy had given me so little to work on that there wasn't really any better thing for me to do, so I went and checked the place. I was so out of luck that the building wasn't even there any more, just a bunch of HDBs and a hawker centre, but I went there anyway. I was hoping to find some old neighbourhood shop, maybe an auntie or two who'd been there a while and could tell me something, but nothing. The whole place was so brand new, even the old guys had just moved in. That was indeed a very dead end.

I put off the case for a couple of days, because I had no clues and I had other work to do. I had to tail this guy that was smart enough to go from Woodlands to Changi to cheat on his wife but not clever enough to leave the family car at home. I was sitting outside the block just waiting for him to come out so I could take another pic or two, and I was very bored on my phone. I thought, why not search for the guy again online? I had already done it, of course, but I had come up short. Most were homonymous guys in US and Canada, but there was one guy that had the name here in Singapore. It wasn't Chinese, though, so I had left it alone. Now, bored out of my skull, I had thought to give it a second go.

The guy kinda had that ang mo feel about him. He also looked like he was the right age to be the Norman Sheen of the photo, but as I said there was no resemblance. No plastic surgery in the whole world could make that kind of change, which is why I had dismissed the option. I went on the profile anyway, which was mostly private. I could get precious little info out of there, and most of it was photos of holiday stuff and another bullshit. As I sat, I thought, and as I thought, I got an idea. It would require some set-up, but it could be an interesting little thing.

Later I got my pics, and on my way to the office I stopped at the house of Theo Tan. It was dinnertime, and they were getting ready to eat. His family seemed to be there, his wife, an adult man who looked like him (possibly his brother), a few children of varying ages, and elderly lady (definitely a grandmother). A kid opened the door but my client was soon behind him. He sent the kid back inside and talked to me at the door.
“What are you doing here? Have you found the man?”
“Not quite,” I told him. I asked him for the yearbook the photo had been cut off from.
The man seemed quite perplexed by that request.
“How do you know it's from a yearbook?”
“I'm a good investigator,” I said, smirking. Perks of the job. Even though it only takes half a brain to figure that the photo was cut out of a larger one.
“Well, there is no yearbook,” he told me.
“Alright. I just need a list of students who attended the school with you and Norman Sheen. Can you do that for me?”
The man nodded, and then was forced back into the house.

I didn't hear from him for a few days, when he hand-delivered a list of names, about a dozen in total, ink on paper. “That's all I can do,” he said, before leaving. He wouldn't even let me ask questions about the names. But no matter; I could start doing a little bit more digging with those.

I looked them up on Facebook, and the majority appeared to have accounts. It was hard to tell exactly, but they all belonged to people who could have been at the school in question thirty years prior. I could have asked questions about this Norman Sheen, but I had a different plan in mind: I created an account using one of the names that wasn't online already, then I set up an alumni group page, and invited the others in. After a few conversations had already started, I invited also the guy with the Norman Sheen account.

Sometimes, you gotta bend the law a little in this line of work, like use a fake ID to get into places, or pretend you're someone you're not, and this was one of those occasions. For today, I was going to Robert Lim, former student of the defunct Tanglin Secondary School, and it seemed to work. It was easy to keep it vague enough to not arouse suspicion, and Norman Sheen did not question me for a second. I guess I was lucky enough to not have picked someone he remembered specifically, and after a few exchanges on the group I got him to accept a friendship request. I was in.

Not that it was much good for me: having access to his profile wasn’t the big break I was hoping for. I gathered that this Norman Sheen was the son of an Australian expat and a Singaporean Malay mother, was a former engineer and now was involved in a small software company, and was just about the most average guy you'll ever see. I combed through his photos holding close that one picture I had, and although there were a couple of guys that had a resemblance, they could have just been any random dude. After all, the photo was thirty years old or more, who knows what the guy looked like now. It was all very frustrating and confusing. Why was Norman Sheen a half-breed and not a Chinese guy like in the pic I had? Had he murdered him and stolen his identity? Or was something weirder going on? Against my better judgement, I wanted to know why my client Mr Tan needed to find this Norman Sheen.

I was hesitant at first, because getting involved in that sort of situation has a high chance of going wrong, real fast. I almost wanted to call him to tell him that I was dropping his case and refunding him, but eventually did the opposite and dropped by his apartment to find out more about the missing man.
It was a dinnertime, again, and a woman opened: his wife.
“Theo isn't home,” she told me. “But he'll be back soon. What did you want to discuss?”
“Just some company matters.”
“Well, do you want to stay here? We'll be having dinner. You can wait with us.”

I really ought to have said no, but I kinda wanted to talk with the guy, and who can refuse a free meal? I imagine it was a big shock for Mr Tan to come back from work and find me at the dinner table with his wife and kids. To his credit, he took it like a champ and didn't freak out. We had a perfectly reasonable meal, but that's when the trouble started.

We were in the living room, while his kids went out and his wife washed the dishes. I tried to keep my patience with this man, but I was damned hard.
“What exactly ties you to this Norman Sheen?”
“Do I have to answer that?”
“It would help with my investigation, Mr Tan,” I told him. I kept my voice low and always had an eye on my surroundings, especially the wife. I know how these matters can be very sensitive. Unfortunately, the guy didn't necessarily understand how to do this whole ‘secret’ thing.
“You know, it's an old friend. I just wanna find out what happened to him. Is that a crime?” he asked, his voice too loud for my tastes. I could tell his wife had heard him. I wanted to tell him to perhaps take this conversation in a more private place, but if he wanted to blab about it, I guess it's his problem.
“It's no crime, Mr Tan, but it's not a lot to go on. Did you go to school with this man?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I did.”
“Alright, what do you know about him? Did you find out anything about his work, where he went, what he did? Did you meet him at any time in the last thirty years?”
“Uh, no, I haven't. After we left school I haven't heard from him.”
“At all?”
“At all.”
“So what can you tell me about this man?”
“I don't know.”
“Why do you want to find him?”
“He's a friend.”
“But you know nothing of him?”
“It's been a long time.”
I was getting pretty frustrated with my client. It's one thing to be stonewalled by a witness or some crook who doesn't want to collaborate, but to have that done to you by the guy paying your salary, that's something else altogether. He was so unhelpful it almost seemed like he didn't know the guy at all, or that he didn't even want me to find him.
“Well, I did some research and this man came up,” I told him showing the profile on my phone. “He's got the same name, but he doesn't look at all like he could be the man in the photo. He did go to the school, however.”
“Oh, yeah, I know.”
That took me by surprise, and, if I gotta be honest, made me kinda angry.
“You know?”
“Yeah, I looked him up. But he doesn't look anything like the photo. Like you said. So I came to you.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I didn't think it was important.”
I was shocked. I had been on a wild goose chase, faking profiles and impersonating people, all stuff that could've landed me in lots of trouble, and this guy could have avoided me all of it! I was so angry I had to get out of there before I socked him in the mouth. I mumbled something and promptly left.

Weirdly enough, I was stopped on my way to the car: his wife came running after me.
“Please forgive my husband,” she said, in-between gasping for air. “He's got his mind in a worry over stupid things.”
“That's ok ma'am.”
“I told him to let this Norman Sheen thing go, but he won't listen.”
“Do you know why he wants to find him?”
“No,” she told me. “It's some guy from his past. But I wish he would drop it. I don't think any good can come out of this.” There was true sadness and concern in her voice. It almost made me wish I was married and had someone to care about me like that. I took my leave and went to think about the situation for a while.

I let a few days pass before returning to the case. All the trails seemed dead. I had an old photo, no records, a man with the right name but who wasn't my target, and a client who didn't seem to know anything of value. I was out of ideas.

I wondered who this Norman Sheen really was. The guy I had found was so close to the real deal that I couldn't have been a coincidence. I decided to pay him a visit; through the fake profile I had, I found out where he worked. I managed to enter the office building thanks to lax security and looking like I knew where I was going, a skill given to me by years of police training. Hanging out in the lobby, I finally got to see the famed Norman Sheen in person, an average looking guy in an average job. I recognised him at once but I could only stalk him for so long before my actions got suspicious. The lone security guard had their eye on me and when Sheen stopped in the hallway I could feel the pressure on my back. I had to do something to justify my presence, so I approached the man with half an idea in my head.

“Mr Sheen?” I asked him.
“Yes, who are you?” he said in response. He didn't appear to be particularly alarmed.
“Hi, I'm Officer Goh from Singapore Police.”
That was a real risky move, because I had no badge and no legal reason to say that. If he suspected me or asked me for identification, I could be in big trouble; but as with all these things, you need a little bit of luck to get by, and the brass balls to pull it off.
“What's wrong Officer?” he said, again with no suspicion.
“It's just a small matter, we're investigating a possible fraud case. Have you been contacted by a Mr Lim recently? Using this profile?” I showed him on the phone, enhancing the photo I had picked, a generic image of Singaporeans smiling for the camera.
“Yes, just the other day! He was an old school mate of mine.”
“We have reason to believe that it was fake profile, I'm afraid. Did he ask for money, or other services?”
“Oh! No, he did not, we just chatted.”
“Did he ask a lot of questions? Are you sure he was who he said he was?”
“Well, I didn't have reason to doubt him, but he did let me do most of the talking. And he did ask a lot of questions, yes.”
“Yeah, we believe that he's trying to gather information about the school, it's the defunct Tanglin Secondary School, isn't it, about the school alumni for fraud purposes.”
“Oh my!” he could only say.
“Do you have any documents at all relating to the school? A yearbook, old records?”
“I have an old class photo, somewhere.”
“That could help.”
“Do you want me to leave at the police station?”
“Don't you worry, I can come and pick it up at your place of residence later, if it's not an issue.”

It wasn't an issue, and in fact Norman Sheen was very compliant. If only everyone was this gullible and helpful! It would make my job a lot easier. A few hours later, I had the old class photo in my hand.

I found there, in the top row, far left, the same person with the same face and the same pose that had been cut down in a convenient square and handed to me. This meant that I had the original! I felt like I was finally getting somewhere with this investigation. Another look at the school photo revealed to me where the real Norman Sheen was, a scrawny kid in the front row: it was unmistakable. The question was then on how to identify the student in the square that had I had been given, if that was not my man Mr Sheen. Luckily the back of the photo had been printed with names, and it appeared that the kid was someone called Jack Cheng. But that’s sort of where my luck ran out.

There are a lot of Jack Cheng in Singapore, and with my limited resources I immediately realised that I would struggle to figure out exactly which one was the correct one. Social media has made my job easier in many ways, but there is a such a thing as too many leads. A single photo of a person taken thirty years prior, even when paired with a name, is not enough to go by. I had gone from one extreme to another, from a complete lack of leads to an overabundance of them.

Besides, I thought as I drove back home, I was actually skeptical that I would find the real Jack Cheng. The situation had been too convoluted and complicated from the get-go, and I doubted that it would just suddenly get straightforward. The simplest and perhaps most benign explanation was some kind of mistake, and maybe my client was just misremembering; but what if there was identity theft involved? Who was Jack Cheng? Why did my client identify him as Norman Sheen? And why did he want to find him?

I spent all evening scrolling through different profiles of people named Jack Cheng. There was quite a few, and some had public accounts. It was easy to discount those who were too young, but in many cases there was no way of knowing. The photo was a good starting point but by no means enough; I needed records, information about schools, that sort of stuff, which would all take time and effort. I just didn’t think that I could make progress fast enough. Once again, I felt like I needed more information.

I returned to my client’s block, but just as I was about to climb up and knock on his door again, I saw his wife walking under the shelter with the kids. It seemed like a cute little family moment, and all of a sudden I was reminded of what the lady had told me the other time. I didn’t want to give her any grief, at least not at this time. Instead, I simply sat in my car, waiting for a better time to talk to my client.

I was used to spending entire nights in my car. It’s a very expensive purchase here in Singapore, but absolutely vital in my line of work. I’ve used it as an impromptu sleeping place many a time; you never know how long a stakeout is going to last. I put my car in a corner, making sure that there was no CCTV trained directly on me, and making sure that I was sufficiently well hidden from the main roads. I made myself comfortable and prepared to wait.

I saw my client showing up late at night and going up the building. It was not the time to go to him yet, as his family would still be present. I decided to wait some longer, which turned out to be a bad mistake: bored and tired, I fell asleep and was waken up by the guardsman. The guy was shouting, threatening to call the police; not the first time a stakeout ended that way! I had to hightail it out of there quickly, and in my groggy haze, I thought I saw my client climb into a car across the parking lot. I convinced myself that he was leaving the block in the middle of the night, and immediately went to follow him, only to be halfway up the BKE before remembering that it was not his car and I was just wasting my time. Meekly, I went home and finally had my sleep.

I woke up and it was nearly midday. I felt dumb and stupid and out of ideas. I felt around on the nightstand and tried to pick up my phone, but instead grabbed something else I had dumped there: the school photo, given to me by the real Norman Sheen. I looked at his teenage self, then at the young Jack Cheng. Their fresh-faced, 80s selves didn’t seem to know how many problems they were giving me. I kept looking back and forth, trying to see if there was something I had missed. At the fifth read through of the names on the back, I realised that there had been something I had overlooked.

The aha moment was followed by a wave of shame for not having thought about it earlier, and for all the time I had spent following useless leads; but it was worth it, because now I was filled with a new will to work.

It turns out, I didn’t have to put in all that much effort. Compared with the pointless sifting of Jack Cheng profiles and dangerous impersonating of policemen, all I had to do now was sit in a car and take a few photos. The records I needed were much more readily available, and soon I had what I thought was the full picture. I called my client into my office, and told him the whole story.

“You didn’t go to school with Norman Sheen, did you?” was my opener after he had taken a seat. Not even the time to get comfortable, and I started strong, bold. You’ll forgive me a little theatre, but the profession is naturally predisposed to it.
“No, I did,” he tried to stammer, but his unease confirmed my theory.
“You didn’t even know who he was.” I produced the photo he had given me. “Because this,” I said tapping the picture, “this is not Norman Sheen.”
A squint in his eye told me that it was news to him. He looked at the face with skepticism. “Who is it then?” he asked breathlessly.
“A man by the name of Jack Cheng,” I told him. If I had had a cigarette I would have puffed on it at that moment, but anti-smoking regulations seemed to have been made to disrupt drama.
“And have you found him?”
“No. It would be very hard, there’s lots of people by that name and not enough information to go by. Of course, I could ask someone who knew him better…”
Bullseye. He squirmed in his seat, and I knew I had gotten it right.
“Someone like your wife.”
He didn’t say anything for a moment.
“How did you know?”
“This picture,” I told him, pulling out the class photo. “The real Norman Sheen got it for me. I spent days looking at it, wondering if there was something missing, but I eventually found it.” I flipped the photo to reveal the back. “In the names, behind, you are not amongst them. You said you went to school with the man, and yet you aren’t here? I took a second look and found a familiar name… Your wife’s maiden name. This is her,” I said, pointing at a smiling girl in the second row. My client didn’t have to look to know I was right.
“Now, my question then would be, why is this man looking for an old classmate of his wife? I find that in most cases, it’s because of an affair.”
“She cheated on me,” he blurted out suddenly. I wonder whether he felt lighter or heavier having finally confessed that with someone. “I found out… The kids aren’t mine. I just wanted to find their real father.”
“She still cheats on you, I’m afraid.”
The man’s jaw clenched so hard I could hear it.
“Yeah, she told you a name from her youth and gave you the picture of a different man, hoping that you’d never get to the real one. She didn’t think someone would be able to piece it all together. And she still cheats on you.” I pulled out my final wad of pictures. “If you wanna find out the father of your children, I suggest you start with your brother.” I mercilessly fanned out the pictures, showing his wife and his brother together in car and walking to an apartment. “I saw him coming out late at night from your apartment, and I started following them. I have enough material here to suggest a pretty long-standing affair. If I were you, I’d find myself a lawyer.”

And with that, I was done. The rest was merely phrases of circumstance, legal stuff and a curt goodbye. I got my payment, as stipulated, shortly thereafter, and never heard from him again. I imagine he divorced her, or he forgave her, or maybe he went mad and killed his own brother.

To be honest, I don’t really care. It was just a case for me, a tough case but still a case. I moved on to the next one, to the next lover to find or theft to prove. There’s plenty of sordid stuff to go through in this city.

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