The Obitist

By A.M. Mann

Since man began burying the dead, the recording of death was the privilege of the elite. With the advent of the printing press, the nature of the obituary changed allowing a commoner's life to be recorded for posterity. However, this created problems for survivors and ancestors who wanted the document to be the truth.

Sarason Seed had a murderous past he had conveniently hidden for forty years. His philanthropic work found him in Africa and the victim of an errant missile. His death set the wheels in motion and The Obitist was called in to make a historic determination. The Obitist needed to set the record straight.

What is portrayed as a workplace drama, this tale involves a number of investigative entities who need to find witnesses, get them to attest to the facts, and report that information to The Obitist. In the meantime, The Obitist must interview the deceased, who does not necessarily understand what has happened. While time is irrelevant, there is a brief window for this work to be done.

In the meantime, his wife is frantically looking for the downed plane. The is a story about love and loss, and the truths that keep those emotions viable.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A.M. Mann
• Release date: Dec 22, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005413507

A.M. Mann

I have been a professional writer for over twenty years. And although the lure of creating content for a nonfictional world (finance, business, etc.) remains an attractive alternative to my NEED to write, I no longer have the passion for that genre.Over the last several years, since walking away from that world in 2018, I have refocused my efforts on fiction. I have learned several things as I dabble in various styles of varying lengths. I prefer writing novels. However, a collection of short stories is being gathered. There is a seventh novel, which I have queried with little success. The release on this platform is now scheduled for May 1, 2023.I hope you enjoy my work. It is a bit dark, perhaps slightly misanthropic, or at least my main characters tend to be, but hopeful. Even when isolation is preferable, these tales allow well-meaning social interactions with supporting characters. Ironically, I do consider my novels to be love stories.I have lived in Portland, OR with my wife for almost four decades.

Book preview

A New Job

This introduction, my introduction of me to you, might be considered a prologue of sorts. What you are about to read is a tale of my first day on the job. And here's where the antidote becomes bogged down in the description of said work. You, without a doubt, have a clear idea of what a job is. 

Even without knowing the word's etymology, you have no doubt been doing some type of work for most of your life, be it for money, for some charitable pursuit, a familial obligation, or simply as a definition of who you are. It seems to be why you're alive.

When you do your job, in all likelihood, you adopt its title and fall into that profession's norms. You're a lawyer or a nurse, or sanitation worker or something else. Inevitably, at some point, a stranger might ask you what you do for a living. You'll tell them, proudly or otherwise, perhaps mentioning where you work instead of what you do. Some jobs are full-time or part-time, and some are all-time. All-timers might be moms, for instance, employed without pay in a job that they can't quit.

I have an all-time job, only go by a title, and can't quit. It's not wholly different from my previous terms of employment, but I liked that work. It was comfortable with few interruptions. I'd been doing it for a long while.

Now, I have a new job that I didn't want. Although, I am a bit presumptive in that conclusion. It's a new position, created from necessity, so I can't say for sure that I won't like it.

We were discussing jobs.

The word has been around since the seventeenth century, which was long after my boss came into existence. But I'll get to that in a bit.

Thomas Dangerfield did not invent jobs; he just used the word first, in writing. Dangerfield was not his real name, but if you had to choose a pseudonym for a counterfeiter of coins and a conspirator in the Popish Plot, I suppose you could have done worse. That Popish Plot got the poor man killed. In fact, that entanglement found Dangerfield standing trial in the courts of Charles II. There, he was deemed unsavoury, a notorious villain, and no longer credible as a witness in a proceeding he'd hoped would set the libelous record straight. It didn't. Although the murder story is exciting and indicative of the era he lived in, it is not the murder story I'll be telling you. 

Dangerfield thought very highly of himself, considering himself a rogue, much as the subject of my first assignment considered himself. He wrote a book titled Don Tomazo. On a side note, even if history suggests otherwise, I happen to know that he was indeed the author.

This brings me back to the word job. In his book, droll as it might have seemed to him, Dangerfield mentions the first published reference to the word. 'Twas an ill jobb for one Misfortune so soon to fall upon the neck of one another; but there was no avoiding these home-thrusts of Fate. Out of context, it doesn't have any meaning. 

Dangerfield mentions fate, as many writers do. And since ill-fated and wrongly-fated play some role in this story, I'll also discuss it in the coming pages.

Since I mentioned pages, and since pages upon printed pages become a raison d'etre for my very existence, this might be an excellent place to tell you how I came to be. You see, the 'publication' of the book, any book, the ability to produce numerous copies of anything worth reading, created a need for me. You must understand why for us to proceed with this tale. Some centuries before Mr. Dangerfield coined the word and included it in his text, the printing press needed to be invented. There was possibly no way some monk would have transcribed a narrative as self-serving as Dangerfield's work on paper made from linen or hemp. He needed a press or the invention of a machine to mass-produce such a fiction. Or he might not have bothered at all. However, that problem met its demise quite heroically centuries before he was born.

We all know who Gutenberg is, what he did, and even why his name is in history books. He made words accessible to the masses. However, merely going from several hundred manuscripts a year in print to tens of thousands was bound to have unforeseen consequences. While this hastened the journey from illiterate to literacy, you could also say that I am a consequence.

The printing press allowed more and more words to be published, some truthful, some not so much. Stories both fictional and otherwise, like Mr. Dangerfield's, found a hungry readership. Pamphlets and newspapers followed. Now wars and politics, and events were journaled for all to read. Important people died, and those early reporters captured that in those sheets. It would take centuries before the average person realized that they, too, could be immortalized on the printed page. This cognizance led to the obituary's further democratization, a remembrance previously reserved for the very well-to-do. Only now, your Uncle Harry could have the news of his demise published for the world to review. And if he were morally repugnant but successful at hiding it, the obit would reflect this fiction.

Though, most of us could forgive the art form known as obituaries for lending itself so blindly to fictional inventions, reasoning that the false inventions were mostly for the family's sake. 

My group begs to differ. The truth is never more critical than with the recounting of a life lived. Famous folks have their stories chronicled in advance. These pre-stories are really known as advances, instead of dailies, which is what they are referred to when the pre-dead die.

All that fact-checking, research, pre-editing must take a toll on those tasked with writing these stories. I don't envy that job. James Boswell made a name for himself in the world of biographies and was famous enough to have the industrial mettle to insist the chronicler get-it-right. Obituary writers who succeed at this are known as Boswellian. 

Obituaries are important. Getting it right is essential. This is where I come in.

Now, about the work that I do, or did. In my previous position, I was a gatekeeper for the pass-thrus. There was never a need for this sort of employment before the printing press. This means, in your manner of telling when things happened, I popped onto the scene centuries ago. That also means, for centuries, I was helping shuffle millions of the newly dead along the right path. Think of a toll booth or a turnstile in a subway; only these deceased folks went one way if they were good, the other way if they were not. It wasn't up to us to pass judgment. By judgment, I am suggesting how you were remembered by the people you left behind. That consequence, righteous or wicked, was shouldered by the person who lived whatever life they lived. It was that simple; no in-betweens, no sort-ofs, no moral fence straddlers. 

It mostly fell to fame. The obituaries of people less famous were locally known and organically fact-checked by family and friends. Your obituary couldn't assign greatness to someone who everyone knew was a moron. The famous people had advances to keep them honest.

It was a tedious, secular job, but it needed to be done. This information might be a revelation for you, but it is the way it has always been done. Until recently, grey areas didn't matter. I can't pinpoint the exact moment when hiding who you once were became easy, but it did. I do think money helped.

At first, there was only one of us. It was just the Authoritarian. He helped guide those who wrote the history of the pre-dead and the newly deceased. It became a Sisyphean effort in a very short time. 

Then came the pass-thrus, which took an enormous workload and shifted to the mundane exercise of yay or nay. We were like death's traffic cops. Although I never met any of my cohorts, it was safe to assume that many of us were doing this work.

For a very long time, the Authoritarian used Dogsbody, a sort of influencer who would attempt to help some not-so-bad people atone for what they had done. While noble, this effort was only possible with the lesser-knowns, people who could be forgiven and immortalized for 'having changed their ways.' He used fallen priests mostly, some from centuries before, who had no idea what modern times had done to mankind. 

It was the Christian invention of purgatory, but with a workload. That is contrary to the waiting room vision most have of the situation. Truth be told, there is no in-between, no resting place while awaiting your fate.

So, the Dogsbody proved to be inefficient; it only took centuries to figure that out. They were eventually retired or allowed to pass thru themselves. I always thought it cruel to employ them like that, dangling a carrot of sorts in front of them. 

The Dogsbody gave way to the Bridgemen, a sort of survivor interviewer. This change was a significant shift in the process and how my position was created. It's an exciting job and varied. But it too leaves little satisfaction. All employment deserves some kind of fulfillment, even if it is an all-time job.

The first part of this tale is about their work.

And then there is me, once just a lowly pass-thru approver who didn't mind the work. I didn't need satisfaction or fulfillment. I could have done the same thing for the next million years. But the Authoritarian, who later changed his name to The Diviner, for some reason he never really shared, thought I should be moved up the process, past the role of Bridgeman, right to Obitist. He said it was a promotion. He was mistaken.

I have just a couple of additional details for your consideration. One, the accounts herein will suggest we are males, or females, or even its. We're not anything you can pin a gender on, but it makes it easier for you to comprehend. Think of it as whatever works.

Secondly, that whole thing about time, calling it a construct, some social mechanism dictated by clocks, because clocks exist, an abstraction, is wholly on you. Believe what you must, embrace the ticking, the philosophical arguments, the space continuum, fate, predetermination, whatever you must, the living can't measure what we do in seconds, minutes, hours, or anything. 

And third, we do everything with significant gravity. The reason for this has to do with your concept of dying, the process. It's about those pre-written obituaries, the spiritual need to get the dead in the ground or an urn, to rend clothing, to have services and remembrances. It's about the closures, the odd rituals from feeding the body to the birds to pyres. It is also about the enormous number of people who die each day, which means the process needs to keep moving.

This won’t stop your loved ones from eulogizing a family member or close friend, or even reading what they wrote in advance. That kind of material is often riff with poetic diction that paints a picture of a life based on the view of the deceased. In my job, these words are meant to sooth, comfort, and help you with your grief but they are not historically true in most every instance. Those closet skeletons are real, and at some point, somewhere, it impacted a life, perhaps many. That’s what we do: we champion the impacted.

I am The Obitist. I get the tough cases. 

Sarason Seed is my first on my first day on the job.

Part One

Sarason Seed is Missing

Africa

I

When Jean Claude Nyungwe heard the sound, it came in low, from the east over the Nyabarongo wetlands. He checked his missile launcher. Even in the dim light of dusk, he could see that it was still ready to fire, red means dead, passing the same nervous inspection he had given it five minutes ago and five minutes before that.

The rest of his troop hid within an agroforest, beneath a canopy of trees planted by the Rwandan government. It was a vegetal rooftop that existed as an island on a sea of elephant grass. Jean Claude could smell the evening meal wafting in his direction on the breeze from a thousand yards away. His thirteen-year-old stomach grumbled almost audibly.

Jean Claude, or as his rebel countrymen knew him best, Tonton, was sitting at the edge of a scruffy growth of smaller indigenous trees. The commander had defined his role as simply as possible for the young soldier. He was 'the drum that beats when the enemy is near.' Tonton did not need to be told to remain vigilant; the nighttime rusting of the surrounding wilds would not allow him any stolen respite. It was an honor to serve his Batwa colonel in this capacity. He hoped that he would soon find a promotion, one day, to the officer's quarters, where the food was better. He looked forward to a larger share in the spoils of their war with whoever was in their path at the moment.

The sound of the plane was unmistakable. Tonton's instructions were simple. 'Observe and decide,' or, 'watch and report,' or even more specifically, 'do not shoot.'

The plane's speed and the engines' relative quiet suggested that the report part of his directions would be too late.

He did the best he could to line up the aircraft in his sights and pulled the FIM 42 Stinger trigger.

II

You're lucky, he said. I have never been much for sleeping on planes. Okay, he corrected himself, I've never been much on sleeping.

It took Nick Heath a moment to orient himself. His sleep had been so complete, waking up came as a surprise. It was as if he had not slept in that sort of absolute surrender for weeks. He had always woken completely awake, mind already racing towards its next project, even if that meant nothing more than making coffee. He was what his girlfriend called a sudden sleeper, out as soon as his head hit the pillow. His first reaction was confusion.

Nick's morning routine had specific, almost ritualistic steps. He would rise, often in advance of his alarm. He would drink a full glass of water that was on the night table. His girlfriend gifted this habit to him, the way everyone picked up small personal improvements of long-term practices. The glass of water was one, which in all the years before being with her, or anyone, he had never needed. Before meeting her for all of his life, he had never found having a glass of water bedside as necessary. Now it seemed to be critical. These affectations were the sort of habits the crept in the longer a person stayed with the same person. He did little to question it.

He'd stand, naked, and walk to the window. Before her, he never slept naked. The city street from their third-floor apartment below was often empty. But he looked, nonetheless. As he donned a robe, he inched his way around the darkened bedroom to her side. He would briefly tap his phone to illuminate the jumble of items that populated her nightstand: her water glass, tissues, some sort of moisturizer that smelled geriatric. He would turn on her noise-canceling machine, a throwback device that plugged into the wall. It offered the tinny sounds of rain (makes me want to pee, he'd tell her), crickets and frogs (definitely some hidden subliminal message in those repetitions), thunder (who sleeps in a thunderstorm), white noise (which he found aptly named) and the ocean (which they both preferred). She would stir, and he would lean in and kiss her, gently whispering to her.

This was nothing like that.

Once Nick realized he was on a plane, he felt his heart slow to a more reasonable pace. He waited a moment as his senses adjusted to the white noise. The cream-colored leather seat he was in was incredibly comfortable.

He felt the strap across his lap and almost unhooked it. His girlfriend had issued several cautionary commands before he boarded. One of which was to stay belted while seating. You never know Nick, she would say. In the back of his mind, he knew she was right. In the back of his mind, he avoided a conversation that began with her saying, I told you so.

He looked down the length of the plane. The man who had spoken was walking away from him toward the front of the aircraft. He seemed to be the only other passenger on what appeared to be a private jet.

It had been a long time since he had awoken this disoriented, not since childhood, in the back of a roving station wagon. He was not fond of those memories. He squinted hard and forced his eyes wider, hoping that whatever nocturnal cobweb he had wandered in to would clear.

Nick remembered two men in the cockpit, cousins, one of whom was picked up during refueling in Spain. Nick had never been to Spain and standing on some semi-abandoned tarmac was not enough to tell his girlfriend he had been. Sarason Seed, the voice that had greeted him, was now leaning into the cockpit.

And then the plane exploded.

Decisions

Elsa had no sooner settled into her cubicle than she had wished she had followed her internal cry for wellness. Her nose had been running most of the night. She was losing that battle, her upper lip now a scarlet-colored battlefield showing signs of forced surrender amidst heavy nasal artillery. The thought of sitting at a desk for an undetermined amount of time did not foster any joy in her flu-weakened body.

She picked up the phone and called Demetrius. Can you send me the last coordinates, De?

You sound like shit, girl. 

Aren't you the perceptive one? She cleared her throat, freeing the phlegm that seemed to be setting up a campsite. I'm sorry. I look like shit, too.

"Well, in that case, really don't come to visit me," he said in response to the all-too-audible sound of her illness. She could picture him making the sign of the cross with his index fingers.

She wanted to playfully tell him to go fuck himself but nixed the idea. De was good people. I can't afford to take any more time off, and no one is in the office today, so I am pretty sure I won't be passing this on to anyone. Unless, of course, you'd like to come over. We could make out. You would certainly remember a kiss from me for days. She coughed again. It came on so quickly she did not have time to pull the microphone on her headset away. 

Demetrius was sweet enough, but she had never met him. She had never face-timed him for security reasons. Elsa imagined him to be about twenty-five or so, African American, and beyond that, mostly embarrassed for thinking indelicate thoughts. It is impossible to attach a face to a disembodied voice; she had been wildly incorrect with that game in the past. 

The two worked opposite ends of the day, in different parts of the company. Neither of them was permitted to share personal information, and for security reasons, they resigned an interlaced network of NDAs every six months, reinforcing that standard. Pleasantries excluded; a vast expanse of the country geographically separated them. He was in London, and she was in the home office of S.A. Holdings in Portland, Oregon. Passing the baton digitally was a close as they would ever come. All internal information was the 'baton.'

On this day, he passed the info on the tracking system he had been monitoring all night. They were wonks, industry experts with technical insight that needed verbal accompaniment to their visual analysis. De delivered his updates in an elegant manner that required her rapt attention. She was an admitted sucker for the British accent. Today though, the conversation was not about business. They had both been assigned a 'side hustle' at the personal request of the CEO.

Let me know when you are logged on. I'm going to go warm my tea.

She took the info he sent over and logged on to FlightAware. The screen came alive with thousands of aircraft navigating the jet stream, winged birds with identical coloring, pale peach, the same color she had painted her apartment bathroom. She could see all of the planes aloft, mostly covering a to-and-from path to the populous parts of the planet. Few aircraft were heading towards Africa. 

Are you on?

What am I looking at, De? In her earbuds, it sounded like one nasal syllable.

She heard him sip, the familiar noise of sipping and inhaling to cool hot liquid. Her brothers did it, calling it the reverse inhale. She always choked or worried about gagging on whatever she was too impatient to allow to cool before ingesting it.

Elsa entered the coordinates De had given her. I got it. Did you burn your mouth? Her congestion garbled the comment, and he apologized.

I'm sorry, what?

She wanted to respond, Never mind, but didn't. I've got it.

The plane she was watching came into sharp focus. It was on its way to the Kigali Airport from refueling in Spain. And then it disappeared.

That happened about twenty minutes ago.

She refreshed her screen, and it was still not there. Elsa sat for a moment, considering the history of that Rwandan destination. She took a deep breath, the same sort of pause her umpire father had instructed her to do before making any critical call. A speed to judgment is impressive but wholly unnecessary, he would tell her. 

They were headed to Kigali. Do you think their equipment malfunctioned? Even as that small airport had recovered its reputation following years of civil strife, the world surrounding it remained mostly unpredictable. 

Do we have a protocol for this? she asked. She heard the rustling of papers on his end of the phone, the sound of something dropping, and then the requisite swear words as she assumed her colleague was looking for some sort of procedural manual. 

Before he could answer, she added, I'd be willing to wager we don't have anything. When we were on the conference call with Marley, I don't recall her asking us to do anything other than watch the plane.

Yeah, well, that's turned into something else, don't you think?

S.A. Holdings, the multi-billion-dollar hedge fund, and philanthropy group, had applied to the National Business Aviation Association to allow their small fleet of private jets to fly in international air space without the requisite tracking software required of commercial flights. This permission allowed the company's mysterious co-founder, Sarason Seed, to pursue his numerous endeavors without any agency's prying eyes on the ground. 

It also played into his legendary reclusiveness, which remained the best-kept secret in the investment world until recently. 

Despite all of the covert efforts he employed to ensure his privacy, the non-disclosure agreements signed and resigned, that secrecy unraveled unceremoniously with the words of a flirtatious pilot. In a moment of male weakness, the aviator had succumbed to the coquettishness of a young volunteer saving turtles. Who, the young girl had asked, would send a private jet to such a worthwhile cause, in the middle of a New England winter? Carmen Trias, the tragically handsome, middle-aged Spanish emigrant, took women very seriously. He became a pilot because of the added attractiveness of being able to fly added to his introductions. Jenae Easterhouse, still in the later throws of teenhood, her blemish-free face surrounded by faux fur, gave him a winning smile to accompany the question. Carmen never thought twice. The specially requested plane was fifteen minutes towards its Florida destination when social media began the cascade of events that followed. 

By midday, the news had called for a comment. Eventually, Sarason's wife, Marley Cornish, the company's de facto head, decided that there was only one best way to put out the rapidly growing viral fire. She had decided that he should go public.

I should do what? she heard him say.

You should go public, Sonny. You know, set the record straight, and stem what would only become an unrelenting waterfall of questions. She did not lay blame on Carmen. She was well-aware that no matter how many documents their employees signed, no matter the threat of what could happen if they violated the agreement, which few read end-to-end, people will talk. Liquor, drugs, and the promise of sex will be more blameworthy. 

This is on you.

Technically, Sarason had nothing to hide. But just as technically, he did, and Marley knew the public was hungry to know who he was and why he was hiding. So was she. Over forty years of marriage, blissful and amazingly sensuous, a relationship adrift on an ocean of calm, she grew comfortable with how little she knew about him. She was confident that one day he would reveal himself to her. The closest he ever got to that answer came from an innocent question.

Marley had asked, Why did you come to Portland? 

Her husband's answer: I was afraid my life was becoming a Springsteen song.

Perhaps she thought the viral campaign to find out who he was would answer some of her questions. She doubted it. He was an expert with his elusiveness. Instead of all of the normal psychological reasons people hide, shame or fear, or even the feeling that somehow he doesn't deserve what he has, Sarason was atypical. 

You'll have to come clean; you know.

I don't know anything about coming clean. He let the newspaper he had been reading drape across his crossed legs. I have nothing to hide.

She nodded, her blonde cocktail curls framing a face that did not seem to age. 

We've come a long, long way together, Sonny. She alone used that childhood nickname. It should be easy for you to tell folks why you keep yourself tucked away from the public view. If you have nothing to hide. She allowed that last thought to dangle like a question.

I'm out there, he added, failing to mention his convenient hiding place behind a pseudonym whenever he ventures into the outside world on one of his philanthropy jaunts. 

We're getting older. It was an interesting observation that they seldom said aloud. They had been married almost four decades, and never had they acknowledged the passing of time. His silver ponytail told one story, but her countenance suggested another. 

I know I am feeling my age these days. I'm more inclined to say no more than I ever did. 

She answered him fully aware that he had no one to say 'no' to. And we both know that is a short bridge word to just saying fuck it. Besides...

Maybe I don't like people. He was looking at her when he realized that he was losing this discussion. She had already made up her mind. She knew she didn't have to ask him to do it for her; everything he did, he did for her. It was the most fantastic relationship. 

You're a good man Sarason Seed, and people need you.

I gave at the office. And he had. Part of his legacy was rooted in his willingness to disperse eighty percent of his profits to those less fortunate. Their twenty percent, what they kept after they paid all the expenses, bonused their employees, had amounted to almost twenty billion over the last four decades. 

Yes, you did. But you need to give the public something that will make them leave you alone.

And that would be? he asked, knowing she already had begun to formulate a plan.

Using a private satellite tracking system that was proprietary to their planes, they could pinpoint where the plane was last recorded but not what happened to the object they had been tracking. The same Carmen Trias that had 'outed' his boss had logged in after a brief stopover in Spain. 

So, we have them touching down in Spain.

There must've been a reason. That plane could have made it all the way to Kilgari without refueling.

Maybe they didn't want to run the risk of dealing with refueling on the ground.

True, De responded. And Kilgari might have been a decoy as well. There would have needed to be a flight plan. I'm pretty sure you can't just show up.

Elsa's head was beginning to throb. The weight of her cold, coupled with the illuminated screens in front of her, made her think of aneurysms.

Maybe they needed a guide. Even through the viral fog that had now encased most of her senses, the possibility was logical.

Carmen had told his boss that this was indeed needed. He had suggested one along with the guide's knowledge of a landing strip near the main airport. Kigali could handle the small plane, yet, in his fashion, Sarason had asked for a 'quieter' place to land. This change was a last-minute adjustment to the 'unfiled' flight plan that he had not been transmitted back to the office. It could be forgiven, though; her husband and his pilots were unaware that Marley had tracked these overseas jaunts for years.

One thing both Elsa and Demetrius knew for sure: The plane didn't land. Repeated attempts to contact the craft were coming up empty.

There is no protocol, De said, and I probably agree. That would be bad juju. 

So, and Elsa let the word hang hopefully.

So, you'll call Marley? 

Fuck Elsa muttered, holding back a sneeze.

The Enabler

Xavier Castedo Albiol was affectionately known as the Habilitador. While he never answered to the title, he was well aware of his place in society. His abilities to procure items of questionable legal province with great discreción made him a legend among large city elites in Madrid and Barcelona. Xavier was equally revered amongst the poorest Andalusian, skimming much-needed goods from clients who disdained poverty from their walled estates. They jokingly referred to him as Príncipe Juan, a Spanish Robin Hood.

With his slightly closed left eye twisting his face into a permanent smile, he managed a vast network of legal and illegal goods and services. On this particular day, his ability to lead the second leg of the journey to its eventual destination in Uganda also became a family reunion.

The pilot, Carmen Trias, had only recently discovered his