1. Where Did You Sleep Last Night?
My girl, my girl, don’t you lie to me
Tell me, where did you sleep last night (come on and tell me something ’bout it)
In the pines, in the pines, where the sun don’t ever shine
I would shiver the whole night through (shiver for me now)
What happend down there?
Where Did You Sleep Last Night - Lead Belly - 1946
Los Angeles - 1959
Breaking a story is a lot like having intimacy.
Physical- that is, with another person-although I suppose there is a chemical component of our brains regarding relationships of the sorts. I wouldn’t know personally...I was going steady with a doctor once and he prattled a lot about neurons, dopamine, and other things our bodies release. He was a wonderful explainer, for there was something fascinating about his perpetual web of thoughts, but I never received the sort of dopamine he described from him other than the day I left him.
Intimacy and published news stories yield a multitude of outcomes, but the most common are disappointment (for me, often), or the tiniest sense of gratification that it’s finally over.
But the best ones, oh the best ones...
You break a story and it’s like an incomparable high, an entity of ambition that possesses you to strive for more, to do it again and again, never to feel the numbing effort of mediocrity. It’s exactly how Gregory described dopamine, but this feels infinite and irreplaceable, although you know the feeling never truly stays and you always want more to feel the warmth and buzz of your insides craving something ephemeral.
It matches Gregory’s description of dopamine, yet feels limitless and irreplaceable, despite its fleeting nature and the constant desire for more of that internal warmth and excitement seeking something temporary. Is it the ephemeral nature of it that makes it valuable?
I lacked sufficient data to fully test this theory- as I was am an excellent writer, but the stories of electrifying sustenance as rare as decent men- or women, depending on your preference.
But this one... this single story would change everything.
Though the fighting has ended, fear and distrust linger. After all, the soldiers that returned home were pale shadows of their former selves, most disguising it the best they can now. Their deaths leave an indelible mark, etched onto their bones and seeping into our institutions and people, who quickly forget the war but still sense its lasting consequences. Our eyes on an enemy have merely transferred to Russia, yet there is a physical war yet to begin. There’s not much I can do on my end even as a writer-but like every other American we pretend it’s normal. Perhaps one day we won’t always feel like this...
To me, current narratives resemble conspiracy theories, not compelling news. It has proved difficult to sift through the piles of superstitions, not knowing who is a quack or if war-time terror clutches onto their soul.
Stories do not come cheap or easy, but when five people disappear from Los Angeles and police’s investigations run suspiciously short and obviously dry, there is an exploration that calls me. In a day or two some stories fade, lost to indifference or forgotten over drinks. It’s an everyday occurrence for people to vanish in one of this country’s largest cities...but never for the same reason.
I am not an investigator; I am simply a talented journalist that gathers what crumbs I can to create a full pie. My fondness for metaphors in my writing should be clear by now, for this I will never apologize for.
While many people are unaccounted for, a connecting thread emerged for these five: possession of the same flyer prior to their disappearance.
Writers know their audience, and so do American politicians and businesses.
Exploiting vulnerable people is simple, and this company, it seemed, had no moral compass preventing them from using these individuals in what appeared to be some strange experiment....
Investigations yielded no Murkoff-related concerns beyond typical grant and funding applications from American and German scientists, embodying common corporate practices.
The five missing individuals took their belongings to wherever they were summoned, leaving only this poster behind with their families.
Alice Greys- a widowed wife with little income from her laundry operations. Her sister reported her missing and found her nephew, Greys’ son, almost starved to death.
Jonathan Bors- a Tuskegee pilot from the war with little left to live for. His distant cousin mentioned the government didn’t fund Bors’ college education nor open flying positions commercially to him upon return, so where else could he go?
Nancy Willows - a wife with a debilitating addiction to medication of the whitest kind, if you catch my drift. Either she needed money, a kick, or a ride off of this addiction, nobody can say as this case is too hushed in the political sphere.
Johannes Opaz - a mechanic looking for another contract for some extra cash.
Lastly there is Barbara Lowell- a medical nurse hoping to find a career to help others, perhaps to be like the woman on the poster, a guiding angel to something better.
No matter their differences in reasons, they all needed the sustenance of life - whether that was cash or a reason to remain with these insufferable people we call humanity. Murkoff seemed to offer them all this, but none returned with a fulfilled promise. The longest missing is Opaz of five years with Nancy Willows the most recent and urgent, given she’s the white daughter of a prominent mayor up in New York.
I’ve kept tabs on this company since, although every path I’ve taken has proved fruitless. Despite the many dead ends, I’m driven to uncover the true meaning behind this poster and charity this company offers, knowing that there seems to be a darker mission lurking in the shadows.
I got permission from my editor E—— to gather what I could and come up with some feature of how and why they are all now dead and at peace, but I am a journalist and not a liar. While some believe they’re similar, laziness and lying are distinct; the latter being the true failing of many of my colleagues.
Truth is, I am just like those missing people, searching for something other than the fleeting thrill of a story or the monotonous mediocre recipes or the arms race against Russia. There’s been no promotion in sight, no high esteem other than rising sales and profits for the men, and there certainly is no family for me to go home to at night.
My father is present but leads an independent life, determined by his choices and some imposed by the state. Some nights he calls to jest about my brief flings with men - where did you sleep last night? It’s a silly question only because all my dalliances stay at my place. I’m too smart to be murdered in their home territory. Yet my father asks only because his life encompasses music and the ridiculous lyrics that come with them... all in which keep him sane after the war. I indulge him far too much to stop his questioning.
I suspected that following this story would prevent my father from ever questioning me again... and yet I truly wonder where it is Opaz, Lowell, Willows, Bors and Greys sleep, and if I too can find that peace or whichever dream they yearned for.
This story might demonstrate the worth of his war injury, which ended his band’s career, and yet enabled him to fund his daughter’s college amidst my friends’ weddings and the beginning of birthing children. I know if I called him now at this moment, his gentle voice might soothe me, but then I’d hear his ludicrous witticisms concerning music or he’d sing some tune stuck in his head, and I know that nothing in my life would change if I do not do this.
I have nothing to lose, and everything to gain.
More research showed this charity was active in LA’s minority communities, confirming my suspicions about their targeting of vulnerable populations. A contact got me their time and date in Chinatown, February 8th. The bright decorations and paper lanterns of Chinatown’s New Year festival clashed with the busy atmosphere, making me feel out of place among the weekend revelers. For once, the absence of a jukebox delighted me; the music of the crowd was more prominent despite the gongs and refined Chinese instruments. It was only eight o’clock when I found their table, towards the back of a bar that, surprisingly, was only half dead. The patrons were drunk and aged, unable to hold the liquor of their youth as they slumped against the counters. The bartender, although busy with patrons, spoke Chinese to those awake as his eyes regarded my direction to the table. He did not delay my mission, although I noticed as I passed him I could hear his breath quicken and heart race over the celebration outside. His fear briefly affected me, but I overcame my apprehension, even though I wanted to stop and tap the bar for a quick drink. No one here seemed to mind a woman drinking, much less selling her soul to a corporation.
The table bore a man sitting behind it with an officer to his right, leaning against the back of the wall. His dark eyes met mine, assessing a relatively young and attractive woman, but maybe my serious disposition was not alluring enough. That never deterred eighty percent of my work office, however. The man sitting at the table never looked up from his clipboard, hearing the lightness of my black heels approach across the unkempt wooden floor. The air in the bar grew colder, as it was a peculiarly bleak February in Los Angeles this year. I remember the chill on the back of my shoulders carrying down to my end of my biceps, goosebumps hopefully invisible to these two men before me.
I waited patiently without a word, for I never initiated for anything- not because of any particular gender expectations but because I held a secret joy in testing the patience of others. The man sitting wiped the sweat from his brow, adjusting his hand to hide his glance to see if I still stood there before humming under his breath in exhaustion. His white wrinkled face returned to the papers before him, his grey hat and coat furthering to pale his complexion. I glanced at the officer next to see who would budge first. The officer’s face was mostly concealed by a dark covering, revealing only his nose, eyes, and a bit of his forehead. Such a strange and expensive looking ski mask...
I examined quickly to spy any LAPD insignia or branding of organization attached to this man, in which he spied my interrogation curiously. I, of course, played it off with a flirtatious smile and batting eyes, turning to look at the similar and pamphlets all screaming the same thing: “you reek of desperation as much as we do.” The pamphlets were more inviting than the people here, but obviously their poor manners didn’t deter anyone who sought them out.
I knew it was more that they really needed us...whatever we got from these experiments may be something we never come back from. But I had to know, I was too far in to let it all go.
It’s possible these men signaled their disapproval in silence, implying I should leave with no regrets before it’s too late.
“Name?” the grey attired man asked without peering up.
“Carmen Tea,” I responded, my voice too exuberant for someone selling away their life for this unexplained experiment. How many others stood here with the same encouragement- mine of course, professionally forced- to have a chance in this world for extra cash or some meaning? How many also lied about their name- probably none but me?
“Age?”
“22.”
“What does your mother do?” he asked.
“She’s dead,” I said plainly. “War bombing shortly after I was born.”
A sound, half grunt and huff, escaped him, as he acted that hearing something relatively negative exhausted him. I didn’t care about lying to these men, although it was true she died- I also did not care for the lack of a mother, despite what other women my age thought regarding my mannerisms and eagerness to work.
“Your father?” he interrogated further.
“Ex-military and musician,” I stated, almost proudly. The guard adjusted his stance, as if to relax at the comparative attribute of military life- which was easy to come by in America. He playfully folded his arms, as if this were just another ordinary night at a busy bar with a pleasant woman to talk to.
“Nobody is ex-military, it stays with you,” he grinned, reciting the stupid thing militia say to comprehend their dying need to be attached to patriotism and the justified killing of others. It was obvious to decipher his association with armed brothers and the ego that emanated from his pearly white, straight teeth.
“Oh believe me,” I chuckled, “my father witnessed more than enough to know he no longer wanted to be a part of it. He also lost his arm before shortly being a prisoner of war... you might forgive him if he wants to drop that title out of his resume.”
This tragedy was the only factual information I gave these men, and it most certainly was the one that dampened their spirits. The men had their days of glory; I wanted what was rightfully mine- a story that broke the dreams of Americans, made the nightmares of war and death a child’s sweet dream...to show that our country and everything it stood for was rotting to its core.
Following some inconsequential questions, our meeting concluded. Sign a dotted line with a swirl of my fake last name, and for once the man in grey finally smiled. It was not a pleasant smile at all, death cowering in the glimmer of his eyes and his pale complexion alight with something mischievous and eager.
“Welcome to Murkoff, Miss Carmen- We’ve been expecting you,” he cheered.
