The news of my father’s death hit me like a blunt knife—more numb than pain. I had convinced myself that he was still out there, lost within the crowded streets of some neon lit city on the other side of the planet. I tried to get my hands on the police reports, but no cop in their right mind would give an eight-year-old anything, though even if I were able to obtain them, the foreign characters they were written in were like hieroglyphics which were as much of a mystery to me as my father’s disappearance.

My “investigation,” gradually turned into nothing more than the desperate imagination of a boy hanging on to the last slivers of hope. While other kids my age were helplessly distracted by their pubescent wet dreams, I was crafting stories in my head of vengeance and revenge, charging in head first to rescue my father. In my mind, I was Sherlock Holmes, Batman, and ...

But soon these dreams would be locked away. Locked away for years and replaced by nightmares. However, these nightmares were very real.

The Whodunit Diaries