I still remember that day how I felt waking up to the news of the unfortunate suicide of the renowned writer Judith Loyal. Eight months ago she had published her first and only novel “The Lilly That Blooms at Night”. The novel became a bestseller and soon her unknown uneventful life became a hectic one. But what had landed me in a perplexed state was that only a month ago I had taken an exclusive interview of her. I had never met a person with so much positive spirit. When she had published her novel, she was already forty five and the exciting factor was that she had been working on the same for the past twenty years. I wonder perhaps she had perceived the story as a part of own being. Rejections, insults, discouragement, nothing had stopped her from pursuing her dream. After a lot of writings and rewritings, at last she gave us her masterpiece work. A lady with such high spirit and optimistic thoughts could never have committed suicide.
These thoughts were not just mine. Her only family, her daughter who is now married and happily settled had soon alleged it to be a murder. She stated that she had suspected no trace of depression when they had met hours before the incident.
I had spent almost a complete day to take that interview but our magazine published only half of the content which I had already submitted after strict filtering. However I had the voice recording with me and I had an instinct that this was going to solve the mystery. But I didn’t want to give that to the Police, neither have them asked me for it. So I decided to consult a private detective.
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A smoky room, long dark coat, perhaps a hat, I had all the default idea of a private detective. But when I visited Mr. Lee, he was playing with his bunnies in his garden. A man in mid thirties, average height and weight, Mr. Lee looked quite ordinary. He asked if I wanted to discuss the case at the garden or in his study room. I preferred some privacy, after all this includes a public figure. His room was quite rich with books, but it was very well lit unlike my imagination. I discussed the matter with him and gave the voice recording. He said he would let me know in two weeks.
Exactly after two weeks, the Police had given their final report. “It’s undoubtedly a suicide”, they concluded. I called Mr. Lee. He said he needed one more week. Another week was over. I called him again. He repeated the same “one more week”. Now it was clear. I knew it. He might have got some evidence. It might be a murder. When I shall write this, it is going to be a break through in my journalist career.
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Today is the day. He said he would come to my home with his report. I was eagerly waiting for him. He came.
“ It’s a murder, isn’t it? “, I asked.
“No! It’s a suicide.”
Anger, sorrow and disappointment flashed inside me. “Is this for this you kept me waiting? Police have already concluded this so.”
“ But I know the reason and I wanted time to re-examine it”, he said calmly.
That was a little consoling response. “Then tell me.”
“It’s you”
“ How on earth is it me?”
“ Listen, I want you to listen to my findings patiently. This may be hard for you, but this is what I have found. In your recording. You had asked her, ‘Don’t you feel a sense of loss when you are at last done with a story that has been living with you for a greater part of your life?’. The question seemed quite silly and it didn’t make into the final draft of your published interview. However, after this question, there was a sudden change in the tone of her answers. Previously she gladly informed you that her Publisher had already offered to publish her next novel, whatever it may be. But after this, when you asked towards the end when we could read her next novel, she had said that she couldn’t answer that now. I had checked all her tweets, posts and write ups, anything I could get access to. Everything that she had written in the last two weeks conveyed her self doubt on if she had got over her novel and if she could ever write another. For example, ‘The death of a foster child holds you back from having another' this was one of her last tweets. Since she randomly wrote about different fantasies, nobody doubted anything. You had injected in her the idea that she has lost something she had been carrying for the past twenty years and replacing that with another was not easy. Human psyche is really complicated. You can be either its master or slave. Since she was living alone after her daughter had moved with her husband, she had no other things that would distract her from her depressive thoughts. Besides, the Police report was crystal clear. There was no sign of attack. She had cut her own veins. Every evidence supported this.
These are my findings. I don’t doubt it. But you have every right to disapprove this and if you do so, you need not to pay me anything.”
I paid him and he left. He was right. Human psyche is really complicated. Only I know how scattered I felt when I heard it was not a murder. I, for a moment I felt I had lost my last chance to improve my prospects. The lack of purpose in life surely leads to depression; if we think about it. Obsession surely is another reason. She had been obsessively working on the novel for many years. Before I had pointed out this, she was living in the transient excitement of her success. But some realizations make us guilty and guilt is another reason to suicide. Don’t you think I feel it now. I had caused a poor soul to end her life. Perhaps, I should do the same. Dear reader, depression is real. No one wants to die alone.
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