Episode 1: Sylvia's dad
This is the first edition of Private Inquiry, a newsletter scouring the web for petty grievances, lost loves, and other unanswered wonderings. I’m Alice, your local investigative data journalist for stories that won’t make the news.
Today’s inquiry
I have a friend, let’s call her Sylvia, who wants to know where her father is living. I was given his full name and an anecdote about how he was one of the very first Peloton riders, a detail not necessarily important to our search.
I learn in a one-second Google that her dad is relatively online. He was recently appointed to a new position in a new city. It takes a bit more work to find out that, as of last fall, his new place is a modest one that advertises charm and convenience; just a 10 minute drive (22 minute bike!) to work.
He still owns the house she grew up in across the country, according to local tax records. I peruse around their floor plan and its doubling in property value since their purchase two decades ago.
I wonder if he isn’t quite settled in the new place yet, though it’s been over a year since. None of the sale transfer records since his job move indicate a home purchase, though his work requires a license that’s valid through at least 2024. A new woman’s name follows his addresses over the last few years.
At the heart of the inquiry was a desire to find out if he had a new permanence; a full and substantial new life. If it was one Sylvia wanted to opt back into.
It’s reading about his job that I realize her dad and my dad work on pretty much the same niche topic within the world of medical research. My dad has worked in the same job for the last 20-some years, ever since we moved to the States.
I take the time to read some of our dads’ abstracts. I’d say I understand maybe 30% of what’s going on, which is also to say my dad and I never talk about his work. We don’t really discuss much of anything.
Sylvia’s dad and her are separated by consequence of divorce. My parents are together, but language, time, and culture make a potent formula for distance. When my dad picks me up from the airport, we have a minute of niceties and 44 minutes of watching the highway. Both Sylvia and I are making a choice, I suppose.
Could it be that our dads might have more to say to each other, than we would have to say to either of them?
Both are associated with a yearly conference I’ve heard about here and there. They’ve both published multiple times in the same popular journal of medical research. I read two articles from said journal that study the same very specific treatment. It’s maybe the most I’ve learned about him in one afternoon.
I look up all their coauthors and their children. I dig up an unnecessary amount of obituaries and Division III scoreboards. Some are too young to have adult children; some live close by; some have families mysterious to the web.
Still, we get this map of the research fathers and their kids in many states, the dotted distance more or less tenuous in each case.
I remember when my parents first came here, we would go to the store to get an international calling card we could barely afford. How brittle it felt to touch. I forget how much of a privilege it is to be able to reach out for a friendly hello.
As for Sylvia, there is a lot of hurt from her father that a Google search won’t unveil. Nothing new we uncovered that can redeem the capricious and callous words that came from him before. So no, Sylvia won’t end up reaching out to her dad from this investigation — but maybe I should call mine.
Up next: a case of doppelgängers. Stay tuned!
What do you want to know?
Share your private inquiries with me to research at privateinquiry@substack.com! I’d love to hear about that one Hinge date who ghosted you, the missing second cousin once removed, the person who trolled you on Twitter, or whatever mysteries you come across. I will use only public data and keep you as anonymous as you want. Please no actual true crime.