I had just enough time to register the pain as my head knocked against something, then everything went black.
“What doyou mean I can’t file a Missing Persons report?” I demanded from the officer sitting at the front desk. “My brother is missing. I need you to help find him. Why aren’t you doing anything?”
The officer sighed, not even looking up from her paperwork as she answered me.
“Mister Beckham. This is your third time here trying to file a report, and we’ve told you the same thing every time. For a Missing Persons report to be filed, the person has to be missing.”
My fist hit the desk hard enough to knock over a cup of pens. “My brother is missing. He’s been missing for months, and you’re not doing anything to find him.”
Very carefully, and with great precision, the officer picked up the cup and replaced each spilled pen one at a time, arranging them in a very specific order.
“Aaron Beckham is not missing. We’ve contacted him, and he’s assured us that he’s fine and doesn’t need anyone to look for him.”
“Contacted him how?” I asked as I watched her arrange all the black pens in a ring around the edge of the cup. “He disappeared without his phone. He’s not answering emails. I don’t even have an address I can send a letter to.”
After the black pens were precisely placed, the officer started forming a second row of blue pens inside the ring of black ones. “If your brother hasn’t left you a way to contact him, that is his choice. Nevertheless, we have checked on him, and he’s fine.”
I ground my teeth together so hard my jaw hurt, and gripped the edge of the table until my fingers turned white. I must have looked like a madman as I stared the officer down, and a few people who were also waiting to approach the front desk scurried away from me.
“He’s not fine,” I said after I managed to pry apart my jaw enough to speak. “He just walked away from everything in his life without a word. That’s not normal.” The officer started to speak, but I cut her off. “Listen. I don’t think you understand. My brother has stage four cancer. That’s not something a person can just walk away from. He didn’t even take his medication with him. He just disappeared. He’s probably dying out there somewhere. If you can’t file a Missing Persons report, then fine, but just help me get in contact with him so I can make sure he’s okay.”
Once the blue pens were in place, a new ring of red pens was started. There were only a few, but the officer took extra care to make sure that each red pen sat an equal distance from each other in the ring.
“As much as you may not like it, it’s not illegal for a person to walk away from their life. Even taking medication is a choice. What would you have us do? Arrest him? Strap him down and force him to take medication. We’ve contacted your brother, and he’s made it clear that he’s fine, everything he’s done or not done is his own choice, and he doesn’t wish to be bothered. We can’t waste any more resources looking for a man who isn’t missing.”
Talking to these people was like bashing my head against a wall, and I was about ready to start tearing my own hair out. Over the course of several months, I’d visited the police three times. I’d talked to three different officers and tried to argue my case in three different ways.
Each time, it ended up the same way. Being told I couldn’t do anything and to stop causing trouble.
Taking a deep breath, I grasped for the last shreds of patience I still possessed. “Aaron may think its his own choice, but its not. He’s sick and he’s not thinking clearly. He was talking to some questionable people online. I think he was recruited by some cult that’s got him convinced they can heal him. If he doesn’t take his medication, he’ll die. This cult is going to kill him. I’m just trying to save my brother’s life. Please. If you can’t give me his contact information, can you at least tell me where he is so I can check on him? Surely, that’s not too much to ask.”
The officer had moved on from the pens and was now organizing the individually unique writing instruments. A highlighter, a white-out pen, and a sharpie were already clustered together inthe center of the cup, pressed together by the limited remaining space. The officer paused with a bright green glitter pen in hand, the oversized pompom on the end sticking straight up in the air, and finally looked me in the eye for the first time.
“Mister Beckham. I know this may be hard to hear, but your brother has not given us permission to tell you where he is or give you any of his information. My advice to you would be to go home, take a good look at yourself, and consider if there is a reason for your brother to cut contact with you.”
The last glittery pen was placed securely in the cup, filling the last remaining gap and returning the officer’s desk back to its proper order.
I was too furious to even speak. No matter how I tried, no words would come out and I was left gaping at her like an angry fish.
With a wordless shout of frustration, I knocked over her cup and scattered the pens back into a chaotic mess, before storming out of the police station.
I stayed angry all the way back to my apartment. On the public bus, other passengers avoided me, but I hardly noticed as I leaned against the window grumbling under my breath.
How dare that officer imply that I was somehow at fault for my brother’s sudden disappearance?
All I’d ever done was support him through his illness. I’d sold my home and moved into this crappy little apartment so that I could help pay off his medical bills. I’d taken care of him when his chemo left him so weak he couldn’t get out of bed for days. I’d spent a year living off of mostly instant ramen noodles and tv dinners so that I could afford better quality food for him, cashed in all my vacation and sick days at work so that I could take himto doctor’s appointments, and reorganized my entire life around taking care of him.
And then he just walked out the door one day and disappeared.
It wasn’t fair. I’d done everything I could to take care of him, yet the officers at the police station looked at me like I was in the wrong. Imusthave done something to drive him away.
My anger persisted until I was back in the little apartment I shared with my brother, sitting on our couch and looking around at the furniture I’d bought for us. The couch was old and sagging, but still comfortable, and the coffee table placed in front of it was only a little slanted.
A pill bottle sat on the table, its bright orange plastic clashing harshly with the brown wood surface.
At the sight of that bottle, all the anger drained out of me and my head collapsed into my hands as I cried.
My brother was sick. He could be dead right now, and I would never know.