A Moral Conundrum

I tap the front cover of the little black notebook. If the information inside is accurate, I know precisely where to find a bundle of money. Lord knows I need one right now. I have a greedy ex-wife, a needy teenage daughter, a piece-of-junk car, and a house trailer with a leaky roof. Twenty thousand dollars could eliminate three of those problems, or one if I spend it all on the ex, which would be worth never seeing her again.

Another part of me wishes I had never laid eyes on that notebook. I need the money. No one would know if I was patient and careful. This time, I don’t just tap the cover of the little black notebook. I caress it with my fingertips.

This is the kind of situation you can land in by being a private detective.

An old man named Hamilton, who lived on Social Security and a small pension, had handed me the notebook with instructions to find his daughter. She is his only living heir, and he is on a one-month waiting list to die of pancreatic cancer. The early-forty-something lady, to whom I am supposed to deliver the notebook and the money, has no clue either of those things exists. She has grown so distant from her father that she probably doesn’t know if he is still living. All I have to do is wait until the day the old man croaks, and the cash is all mine.

Could I live with myself when I woke up the next morning and remembered what I had done? I asked Hamilton one time why he trusted me. The old man told me I had good eyes. What the hell does that mean—good eyes?

Night and day, I search for the woman whose name is Shirley. One day while visiting old man Hamilton at his house, I find a photograph of her that must be a decade old. I caress the photo as I had the notebook. Pretty lady. I feel guilty again.

A few leads take me to tenement houses, homeless shelters, a Roman Catholic college dorm, and finally to a convent. Sister Shirley is at prayer when I arrive, so I wait in the narthex connected to the nave.

I’m not a religious man, but knowing that Shirley is a woman dedicated to God makes me even more uncomfortable about even the thought of keeping the money. I don’t believe God will send judgment down on me, but who knows for sure? While Shirley prays, I open the little black book. A piece of tape holds a small key to the inside of the back cover. Beneath it is the name of a local bank followed by what must be an account number. I touch the cold metal until it grows warm, then my imagination turns it hot. I jerk my finger away, glad I haven’t done anything stupid up to this point.

Shirley is walking in my direction. As she starts to pass by, I speak. “Sister Shirley?” I don’t know what else to call her. “My name is Tom Price. I’m a private investigator. Your father sent me to deliver a message to you.” I hand the little black book to her.

Shirley reads her father’s note about leaving her some money. He was sorry they had drifted so far apart and told her about his illness and impending death. She closes the notebook. No tear clouds her eyes, nor does her voice shake as she speaks. “Mr. Price, as a Roman Catholic sister, I have taken four vows. One of them is the vow of poverty. I imitate the Savior who, although he was rich, became poor for our sake.” She hands the notebook back to me. “Do with it as you see fit. It would only tempt me to become interested again in material things.” She tilts her head forward in humility and goes on her way. After a few steps, she turns and meets my eyes. “You call yourself a private investigator. Maybe you haven’t finished investigating.”

The following week is a blur in my mind. I go to the bank mentioned in the notebook. The key does indeed fit a safe deposit box located in the vault. I count the money, then count it again and again. I finally close the lid and slip the key into my pocket. I spend two days considering my situation that is now several times more complicated and tempting than before. And to add even more pressure are Shirley’s final words to me. Maybe you haven’t finished investigating.”

If I go back to talk to Shirley, she will no doubt stay true to her convictions. It might even be unfair to offer her the money again. What had she said, “Do with it as you see fit”? Was that permission for me to keep it?

I resent the situation in which Shirley and her father have placed me. When I first opened the safe deposit box, there had not been $20,000. The number was ten times that amount. Had it been a typographical error on Hamilton’s part? Had he done this on purpose? In the end, I set aside my apprehensions and lust and continue with the investigation.

For two more weeks, I dig and snoop like never before. Finally, while searching court files, I find something. Shirley has a criminal record. Nothing serious. When she was living on the streets, she had been busted shoplifting food. That isn’t what catches my eye, though. There is something more. It’s what Shirley had wanted me to find.

The rest of my plan for the money requires more hard work. I find an unmarried teenage girl with a child living solely on government assistance. It proves more difficult to find them than it did to find Shirley. The young mother and daughter will be living for the next four years in a two-bedroom apartment, including utilities, groceries, healthcare, and childcare. During this time, the mother will finish high school and attend the local community college. All of these good things will happen because of what I discovered in the court record. Shirley had a baby seventeen years ago. I had found her daughter and granddaughter.

Brandy is Shirley’s daughter. She insists I accept a bonus for the work I have done. My ex-wife will be thrilled about that. In the end, after the money's gone, I’ll still have a needy teenage daughter, a piece-of-junk car, and a mobile home with a leaky roof.

But there is one more thing. I feel pretty damned good about myself. Maybe that’s what Hamilton meant when he said I have good eyes.