Charlie Yu, Private Investigator, And The Case Of The Missing UGA

Just about five o’clock, when my feet started to creep ‘round my desk towards the door to lock it, she walked in with the case. I have terrific luck. The name’s Charlie Yu, Private Investigator. I’m quick, discrete, and, meal plan permitting, inexpensive. You can pay extra for sober, but I can’t promise anything. Her name was Samea T.  Yurduni. The T was for trouble.

Between sobs, the dame laid it all out. I detest crying. I watched the Hop run out of kombucha in front of my own eyes, and didn’t shed a tear. The case was straightforward, more so than the client would have me believe. Missing person. In my line of work, there are only two outcomes to a missing person case: dead, corneas already on ice and heading for an unnamed literary and choral society, or he had a second family and tax troubles, and he’s at the Lodj, enjoying that Moosilauke fall. 

I normally don’t like dealing with frats or the DOC, but I wasn’t in a place to say no to a pushy ’24 with a vicious streak a mile wide, not with the Office of Financial Aid breathing down my neck over some creative accounting on my part. I took the job. 50 a day, plus expenses. I’m a few Keystone cans short of the five cent rebate myself, but expenses pile up: bourbon, bullets, and bribes. You don’t make it in the mean streets of McLaughlin without religion: the holy trinity. 

The unlucky fellow in question was a UGA, a ’23. Not the first UGA I’ve seen vanish in a haze of gunsmoke and cigar smoke, and God knows it won’t be the last. The name was- is, my client corrected me with all the optimism of a freshly fileted fish- Matan Nir. First stop of the night was the last known location of the dearly departed: Goldstein 2’s common room. Seems he had called a floor meeting week 3 of winter term with an attendance of five, which was better than my own birthday party, attended just by me and a couple of friends that burned like hell going down, and even worse coming back up. 

As I expected, the trail ran cold in the common room. Three months’ll wreck a crime scene like a game of monopoly in Collis. Call me a madman, but there was only one place left I could think to find the poor sap: his own dorm room. The door was locked, and she didn’t have a key, but I knew a guy. He works down in the McLaughlin Snack Bar, after hours. I’ll keep his name out of my mouth, and he’ll keep me in business. The whole snack bar was a front for the worst North Park House has got to offer. I decided it was high time to pay a visit and see what my black sheep cousins knew about our missing friend. Of course Samea Yurduni wanted to accompany me. 

At about eleven I stepped in and gave the dead-eyed cashier a stare to chill blood. It’s a skill I learned silencing shmobs on 4FB.

“I’m looking for Shin Black Ramen,” I told him. 

“We’re out of that,” he said, without looking up from GroupMe. 

“I was told there was a… special inventory.” 

“Nope,” he said. 

“What about for Spicy Black?” 

Those were the magic words. He hit a button under the table and the supply closet door swung open. I tossed the cashier a Green2Go clip, and we walked into that modern Gomorrah, her looking both ways like she was crossing Webster Ave, me with my eyes on front. 

“Don’t talk to anyone in here,” I told Samea. “Don’t look at anyone in here.”

“What can I do, breathe?” the dame snarked. I had half a mind to give her some complimentary orthodontistry, but by personal imperative I never touch a client. Too many bad memories. 

 “Don’t try that, either,” I replied, scanning for my man. My hand, as it always seems to in the McLaughlin Snack Bar, rested on an old friend. Mr. Smith N. Wesson is near and dear to my heart–down and to the right, in fact. When he talks, people listen, even if they aren’t the most profound of arguments, and even if he only has six of them. 

I found the man we were looking for wedged halfway between an Adderall pusher and the answers to the last ten years of CS 1 problem sets. “Beat it,” I said, nodding at the four-eyed weasel fresh out of the CECS building, and she scampered away. 

“What’s the gig, Chuck?” my contact asked me. “And who’s the ’24?” 

“I’m looking for a name,” I said. “Matan Nir. You heard of him?” 

“Not for free I haven’t.” These are my kind of people. 

“He’s my UGA,” put in Samea. “He’s been missing for the whole term.” 

“What did I say about talking?” I asked her, then looked back at the plug. “We need to get into his room. Locked. Goldstein 204.”

He whistled. “That’ll cost you.” Novack costs me. Dick’s House costs me. Drill costs me. This whole damn town costs me. 

“I can make it 50 DBA,” I advanced. 

“A hundred.” 

“Seventy, and she’ll cover,” I gestured at Samea. She glared at me. “All expenses paid,” I repeated as she made for her ID and swiped through. 

“She looks like bad news,” he said to me as he passed me my new key. 

“My DA$H account looks like bad news,” I said. “I don’t pay you for advice my ulcer gives me for free.”

The key was worth it, though, as we found our way back to Goldstein 2. His single door swung open like a freshman’s mouth in a Gov seminar. Samea closed it behind us. Just past the bed, the answer to our case was lying right in front of us. Unless a dog had grown five o’clock stubble and a J-Crew t-shirt, Matan was dead on the floor by the bed, looking like he’d gone through a cat and a half. I leaned over the body to look closely, and just as I did I heard a familiar click behind me. It was either what I thought it was, or a disposable film camera, and I hate having my photo taken. 

It all made sense then. The snake Samea had set me up. She wanted Matan Nir’s McLaughlin single for herself, and she had done him in. Then she contracted me to close the loose ends and unlock the door. Unless I acted quick, I was going to wind up like Nir– making it to second base with a moldy carpet. 

Luckily my feet were moving before my mind stopped thinking, an instinct that’s saved me before. I dove behind the late Matan Nir’s non-regulation minifridge just as I heard that old familiar staccato. The first round missed my head by a hair, and the second punctured the fridge door with a squeal. 

“I’m sorry Charlie.” Samea feigned pity. “Blame it on the housing crisis.” 

It was clear to me she wanted to dance, but she didn’t know how. When she paused to catch her nerve, I sent three lessons back in quick succession, pro bono. They weren’t terribly complicated, but I think I taught her the tango, the samba, and the mambo. For me, dancing is all about the kick. 

She slumped to the ground as the smoke cleared. I stepped over her spasming body and didn’t look back. “I should have asked for an advance,” I said to no one in particular, and set off for FoCo. I needed a warm cookie and a cold drink, and I knew where to find the former. 

—JR ’25