It’s impossible to figure out who someone is going by one person’s descriptions alone.
Narration bias.
I may like someone, and paint them in positive light. The next person may hate them, and give their opinions accordingly.
What you get is a glimpse of who someone could be. But you never truly get the full picture.
That doesn’t necessarily mean one of us is wrong. But it doesn’t make either one of us right either.
Human beings are complex creatures. Our interactions with individuals are unique, depending on who they are, what our relationship is, what their character and personality is, how they treat us, what they want from us, what we want from them, what we share in common, and what our differences are.
Every person gets a unique treatment.
No parent loves their children all the same. There’s an apple of their eye. And there’s a pain in their bvtt. Since they’re both related to them, the pain cannot be completely neglected. It is, however, detested.
There are people in our lives that we choose to be with. Then there’s those that we are stuck with.
Every intelligent man, must be able to make that distinction. And if they can’t, then they’ll perish before their due date.
The description that I got from Mayte might as well have been of an angel.
She loved him. She thought she knew who he was.
To me, he was just a stranger; a subject to be dissected and analyzed, that’s all.
Highly intelligent people aren’t prone to k!lling themselves. Their instincts for self-preservation is very high, especially when coupled with a healthy dose of narcissism and ego.
Anyone who was smart enough to profile every individual they interacted with, and learn their weaknesses wouldn’t put themselves in a position to commit suicide.
Not unless they were pushed into a corner, with no way out.
She was right. Someone was after him. And they’d got to him before she could.
“How long have you known about the drive?” I asked Mayte.
“Just a few days,” she replied.
“Did you go through it?”
She nodded quietly.
“Did you search for your name on it?”
She nodded again.
“Find anything?”
She shook her head.
“Ever wondered why?”
She closed her eyes and sighed, “What’s your angle Roy? Are you trying to insinuate that I had something to do with this?”
“When’s the last time you spoke to him?”
“About 8 months ago? Maybe 9.”
“You know, for someone who hadn’t spoken to him in months, you’ve shown quite a lot of interest in him postmortem.”
“There were other women. He never spoke much about them. But I knew he was in a relationship with someone else. I couldn’t bear seeing him in love with someone else, so I distanced myself from him,” she said sadly.
“Did he know you were in love with him?”
“No, I was afraid he didn’t have the same feelings for me. So I never told him.”
“I’m sorry.”
She gazed into my eyes, “Is there a chance someone could’ve made his death look like suicide?”
"It’s possible,” I said thoughtfully, “Although it’s a little late for that theory, isn’t it? If you’d suspected foul play, you should’ve voiced your opinion on the day of.”
“I wasn’t made aware until he’d been buried,” she replied.
“When did that happen?”
“Two days after he died.”
“How convenient. So not much to go on there.”
“No,” she shook her head.
“What’s our objective here, again?” I asked.
“I need you to find out who would’ve wanted to hurt him, and why,” she replied.
“And then what?”
“If you found out someone wanted to hurt your loved one, what would you do?” she asked me.
I shrugged, “Don’t compare yourself to me Mayte. I’m not the one who fell in love with a player.”
Her eyes narrowed, “You don’t know him.”
“Of course not. But maybe I will,” I said thoughtfully.