Call me. Jenny was dead. She had been dead, in fact, for the past twenty-four hours, in her bed, in our apartment. My thoughts in those moments would later seem incongruous with the event itself, but at the time they were automatic, a cascading stream of impolitic ponderings. I hung up the phone and looked at my date, who was gripping my arm and staring. My date reacted as I expected.

My Roommate the Prostitute

Are you O. Of course I was O. Mostly I was just annoyed that her death was getting in the way of my evening plans. Jenny and I had lived together for four months, but I barely knew her. A friend? An overdose? An overdose of what? No, she need not worry about a thing. The police will take care of it all. I was out of town, I said — not a lie, although not entirely the truth either. My date gripped my arm tighter, as if the news of death created some erotic charge, at once frightening and gripping, and we went off together to her apartment a few blocks away.

In the morning I took the subway home, and remembered: My roommate was dead. It felt surreal, and I found myself ruminating on the nature of death, and youth, and the way we often know so little about the people living just several feet away from us. It appeared that someone had taken the cat. Later in the afternoon, my phone rang.

I felt momentarily caught off balance. She had seemed like a rootless child, unattached, unaffected.

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I knew she had parents, a little sister, extended family somewhere, but I knew so little about them they were almost unreal to me. Her entire life seemed confined to her room across the hallway, as if she mattered to no one but herself. I am so, so terribly sorry. This must be so devastating. I could hear him sniffling on the other end of the line.

My Roommate the Prostitute

A sad girl? There were the signs, of course. It was heroin, Steve told me. Her boyfriend, who was an addict, had introduced it to her. When I hung up, I felt guilty for feeling as unmoved as I did. Her father, at the same time, seemed to expect exactly that. As if he knew that someone like me would be affected only by the trouble of it all. Here were people reminiscing about her, friends writing about the time she helped someone with a college essay, or about high school adventures, or that time they got passed-out drunk and high on that crazy spring break trip.

Two days later, her aunt came. She packed some of her clothes into a few large trash bags. The bed that was ordered online just four months ago. The easy chair Jenny had brought from her childhood home in Westchester. A bunch of keys on a key ring, a bracelet of blue beads, a MetroCard, a bag of cosmetics. It looked just like it had before she moved in: bare, clean, uninhabited but inviting. I closed the door to look behind it, and noticed a taped-up card, from HashtagThePlanet. A lamp.

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Her easy chair. It made me sad, but I had little use for the rest, and ended up putting most of it out with the trash. The stuff sat on the edge of the sidewalk for a day or two, and through the window I watched as people passed, glancing at the items. Some stopped to pick through them, holding up items for inspection, taking what they pleased, until the pile was about half the original size. Then the trash collectors came and tossed it all into the monster-mouth of their truck, until nothing was left but a shattered light bulb that slipped out of one of the bags, now spread in tiny bits of glass among the fallen leaves of a nearby honeysuckle tree.

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Love this Narratively story? Sign up for our Newsletter. Send us a story tip. Follow us. Jay J. Armes is a legendary and controversial Texan investigator with hooks for hands and six decades chasing criminals. This was his most epic murder case ever. Chiang Mai is a large city in the northwestern part of the country, an energetic mix of markets, shops and packed thoroughfares, a place where people can easily disappear into the anonymity of bustling urbanity. It was early January , and Weber, at the time 30, had been in the country for about four months.

Weber had stayed at hostels, where he slipped the proprietors some cash to not record his real name, and he was now living with his girlfriend, a Thai college student named Tsom, and her little dog Lychee. She seemed to be waiting for something, and she perked up when she heard a knock at the door.

It had taken a bit of convincing for her to warm up to them, especially since one of the men had two shiny silver hooks in place of his hands, but they were friendly and she told them her boyfriend was expected back in a little while. Weber assessed his visitors.

One man, in his late 50s, was shorter than average, with sparkling eyes. He was wearing a somewhat out-of-fashion leisure suit, but Weber could tell his clothes were quite expensive.

At the end of each sleeve was a curved, articulated hook, capable of opening and closing like a pincer. Weber glanced back at his perplexed girlfriend and stepped out into the hallway, lightly closing the door behind him.

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The men deliberately crowded his space. Weber looked at the other man. He was taller, in his early 20s, and regarded Weber with a piercing look. The older man reached into his pocket and produced a card with his hook. It read:. He was a private detective and chief of the firm, he said, then introduced the younger man as his son, Jay III. He had pursued suspects all over the globe, and he looked at Weber with the kind of practiced calm that can only come with such experience.

Armes noticed that the door had been cracked open and Tsom was surreptitiously trying to listen. Armes suggested the Orchid Hotel, where he and his son were saying. It would probably be best to flee, but at the same time he was desperate to know what their appearance truly meant. A tough-looking Thai man grunted at them from behind the wheel and drove them to the hotel. There was another knock, and when she answered, the men apologized for the disturbance. Your boyfriend was involved with another girl and she disappeared. Nobody knows where she is.

Like Tsom herself, she was pretty, with an open and trusting expression. The men strongly suggested that Tsom not let Donald back into the apartment when he returned. In their experience, they said, there was no telling what a cornered man might do. T he car weaved through the sardine-dense street packed with cars, buses, motorcycles, and a seemingly unending amount of tuk-tuks, finally approaching the regal hotel where The Investigators were staying.

Armes opened the door for Weber and followed him inside. They grabbed a table in the restaurant, where they sat surrounded by tourists and locals alike. Weber sat down and looked at the detectives impassively. They asked if he wanted anything to eat, to which he tentatively said yes. He was softer-spoken than one might expect a private investigator to be, speaking in measured sentences in a voice on the higher end of the register.