Crisis of Identity

Menial small talk prevented awkward silence during the short drive to a suburban retail strip. Shops lined both sides of the street. Alfresco cafes were popular in the area.

We parked in the street—illegally of course, outside a busy café. The cop chose an outdoor table next to the road, shaded from the sun by an extended canopy. We slid into our chairs opposite each other. A manila folder he brought with him from the car, sat on the table beside him.

I glanced around at all the lunch time activity, contemplating what I was doing there, while the cop ordered our coffees from a table waitress.

He clasped his hands and leaned on his elbows. ‘So…Sarah, eh. Not a bad sort. She seems like a nice girl.’

His icebreaker small talk was obvious. I shrugged. ‘We only just met the other night.’ The cop regarded me, a little uncomfortably for mine. ‘Why am I here…?’ I asked. My bluntness was intentional.

‘I’ve been investigating the disappearance of Jayden Evans for twenty-five years. The last ten, or so, have been without any breakthroughs.’

‘And you think I’m your breakthrough…?’

‘I certainly haven’t discounted that yet...’

‘Frankly, Detective, I’m on holidays at the moment and the last thing I want is to be sitting here with you wasting all this sunshine, while you reminisce over your twenty-five year old case.’

‘See… That’s the thing. I think you do. I think you wanna know more about this missing kid. That’s why you went to the funeral. That’s why you agreed to this coffee…’

It was difficult to refute his argument. I was curious, although I had no intention of letting him know that.

He opened the folder and slipped out an A4 sized photo and slid it across the table. ‘That is the computer generated prediction of what we think Jayden would look like today.’

I lifted the page and examined the digital image. Granted, there was a similarity to me, but in reality, the manufactured image would also look like thousands of other people. The only reason none of them are sitting here is because they didn’t have the misfortune of crossing paths with a desperate detective, who for mine, was like a drowning man grabbing onto anything thrown his way.

‘Don’t you see it…?’ The cop said.

‘See what?’

‘The uncanny resemblance to you.’

‘Uncanny resemblance. No. No, I don’t. A little similar… Maybe.’

‘A little similar…?’ He said, collapsing back in his chair like he’d just received bad news. He pulled his cigarettes from his suit pocket while he regarded me. He lit us his durry and dropped the packet and lighter onto the table.

‘Look here…’ I said pointing to the image, ‘This chin is squarer than mine. The nose is different to mine and these eyes are green. Mine are blue. And don’t get me started on that hair style. What century is that from…?’

The waitress brought our coffees to the table while we argued the point over likeness.

His cigarette hung limp from his lips while he returned to the folder and slid out a photograph. He dragged in a lung full, then blew it sideways and said, ‘Do you have any photos of yourself when you were younger…?’ He said. He tapped the ash from his durry, into an ashtray.

‘What. Here...? Are you seriou— Do you carry around photos of a younger you in your wallet?’

‘Good point.’ He pushed a photo over to my side. ‘That’s Jayden when he was three… before he went missing.’

‘I saw these on the internet.’

‘See, there’s my point from earlier. You have even looked up this case on the Internet. Just like me, you wanna know more.’ He dragged in another lung full.

I shook a firm head. ‘Not “just like you”, at all,’ I reassured. ‘My only interest is because some people say I look like this kid, or his now deceased father. Nothing more. Do I think I’m him?’ I said with a flick of a hand at the photo on the table. ‘No. I definitely do not.’

‘We’ll agree to disagree,’ he said as he shaped the ash into a point on the edge of the ashtray.

‘Do you even begin to understand how frustrating and even offensive it is to have someone like you trying to tell me I am not the person I know I am…?’

‘I understand what you are saying.’

‘Do you, though…?’

‘I do understand… really.’ He flicked a finger at me. ‘I noticed you sugared your coffee and stirred it with your left hand…Are you left handed?’

I overtly checked my watch and sighed. He got my hint but chose to ignore it. ‘Yes…’ I said. ‘This is where you tell me this kid is also left handed…right?’

The cop grinned as he removed a photo of the missing kid in happier times, painting on an easel. He slid it over to my side. I left it on the table while I glanced at it. ‘Paint brush in his left hand…’ the cop pointed out.

‘A lot of kids at that age are ambidextrous. They don’t know which hand they favour.’

He slid out another image. ‘That’s him in his high chair feeding himself. Spoon in his left hand.’ He slid out another photo and slid across the table. ‘And that’s him swinging a kid’s plastic golf club—left handed…’

‘OK… I get it. The kid was left handed…Not exactly ground breaking forensics, is it…?’

‘Here’s what I have…’ He pushed back a finger. ‘Jayden would be twenty-eight now, if he is alive today. You are twenty-eight.’ He pushed back another finger. ‘Jayden is left-handed. You are left handed.’ He pushed back a third finger. ’You bear a remarkable resemblance to the computer generated prediction of an older Jayden’s physical appearance. He slid out another photo. ‘And you also look like the recently deceased Graham Evans. He could easily have been your father,’ he said tapping the last photo.

‘I don’t know what to tell you, Detective.’ I pushed the photos back to him. ‘You left out that I was born and raised in WA.’

He gathered the photos and placed them in the folder. ‘I’d like to visit that further…Tell me about your parents…’

‘What, so you can expand your witch hunt to include them… I don’t think so.’

He raised a hand. ‘Fair enough. I’ll just focus on you, then. I know your Christian name… but what’s your surname?’

‘How is that relevant…? You know it’s not Evans.’

‘Just humour me…’

With a roll of my eyes, I gave in. ‘Miller.’

‘Kade Miller…’ he repeated, as if committing to memory. ‘Where were you born...? What hospital?’

‘I was a bit young to remember…’

He grinned at my non-committal response. ‘Where did you go to primary school?’

‘My primary school education was from my mum… She’s a qualified primary school teacher.’

‘Does that mean you were home schooled..?’

‘It does.’

‘Why was that? Religious reasons…?’

‘Shit no. Dad was an engineer working in the mines up near Karratha…We lived in the middle of nowhere in a small pop-up town for all the mine workers and their families…’

‘So…were you born up near Karratha…?’

‘Like I said… I was too young.’

He sucked his teeth as he lifted his disposable lighter and sparked up a flame. ‘I didn’t ask if you remember your birth…’ He said studying the flickering flame. He sparked another flame. ‘Have you discussed where you were born, with your parents…?’

‘Not really…’

‘Not really…? Not really–Yes, or not really–No.’ He dropped the lighter onto the cigarette packet.

‘No.’

‘But you knew you were home schooled…’

‘Of course… How else do you think I learned to read and write…?’

‘What work do you do…?’

‘Civil Engineer?’

‘Like your dad…’

‘Correct.’

‘Where did you get your degree?’

‘UWA.’

‘UWA… Is that… University of Western Australia…?’ I nodded. ‘Is that in Perth?’

‘It is.’

‘So, being from Karratha…. you lived on campus then…?’

‘No. Dad moved jobs when I was about twelve or thirteen…He accepted a job in Perth. So we moved to Cottesloe, closer to his new job…’ After a short pause I said, ‘St Xavier’s…’

‘Sorry… What’s that, the name of your dad’s new company?’

‘No… That’s the secondary school I went to. You were going to ask it, sooner or later…’

He found humour in my sarcasm. ‘St Xavier’s…Is that a private school?’

‘It is…’

‘That’s where you met your friend, Mitch…?’ he said as a question.

‘Good memory.’

‘Where do you currently work…?’

‘For an Engineering company in Perth. And the name of my employer is not important to you. I don’t want you stalking me, or contacting them.’ I checked my watch. ‘Look… Thanks for the coffee, Detective and the walk down memory lane… but I think you’ve got enough background from me to realize I am not your man. Regardless…I’m ready to go.’

‘OK. You’ve helped me more than you probably realize...’ He scooped up his cigarettes and folder. ‘I’ll fix up the coffees and run you back to your car.’