When this private investigator fields the inevitable question, she answers it gracefully — by thinking of the exchange as a dance.
Every time somebody asks me what I do for work, a kind of dance ensues: The person’s eyes widen, and then they ask a question — usually something like, “Is that a real job?”
In their waiting faces, I read a mix of trepidation and disbelief, and a sort of longing. Maybe they’re hoping my answer won’t disappoint them, or that life really will imitate art. I sense that they’re craving the stories of danger and intrigue they’ve come to expect in detective fiction.
The question amuses and bewilders me, but I generally say yes to the dance: I tell them the story of how I fell in love with this strange and wondrous profession — on my very first case.
Stepping In
My professional private investigations curriculum at the Université Panthéon-Assas in Paris required that students complete an internship during the second year, and on my very first day as an intern PI, I was assigned a case. My boss wanted to see what I could do, so it was clear that I was to be on my own unless I hit a serious wall and required his help.
My client was a woman who had decided to stop ignoring the unusual activity she’d noticed many years ago on the bank account she shared with her spouse.
Her husband had offered her an explanation for the financial activity: he was repaying a debt — an emotional one. Around thirty years ago, during the husband’s mandatory 3-year military service, a young man had drowned on his watch during a drill. As a result, he’d been forced out of the service.
Devastated by guilt, he felt that sending money to the victim’s family every month was the only way to ease his suffering. To back his claim, he’d offered the names of two friends who, in solidarity, had left the service as well.
My objective was to verify (or disprove) something that had supposedly happened more than thirty years ago at one of the most storied military bases in France. To add a further complication, my client’s husband was a public figure.
I had my own theory about his story, but I knew better than to begin an investigation by trying to prove my own hypothesis. I set to work with an open mind.
Juggling leads
From the start, I knew this investigation would require a lot of research and little to no field work. I didn’t mind the long hours. In fact, I was eager to try my hand at a tough puzzle like this that would demand all my creativity and persistence. I love feeling like I’m in over my head. So even though I was beginning this investigation with no idea of where to start, I felt incredibly overwhelmed and weirdly comfortable.
There were so many questions to answer: When did this event happen? Who are the other persons of interest, and what did they know that could prove useful to the case?
I decided to make the military service my main focus. That led to even more questions: How did this service work back then? What were the dates of his training and his discharge? Was the tragic event recorded anywhere? Who could corroborate his story?
As a “baby PI,” alone with my computer, not allowed to make any phone calls, I decided to imitate art and embrace my favorite noir private eyes — by pulling out the infamous cork board. The most relevant characters and elements would be pinned at the top, and I would pull the strings that led to advancements and discoveries.
Every element would find its place on the board and help me establish as precise a picture as possible of my subject’s history.
Finding Rhythm
Meanwhile, I was taking on other cases and finishing my degree. They say to be careful what you wish for. I wished to be overwhelmed — check. I wished to work multiple cases at the same time — check. I wished to do field work and research — check. I wished to write proposals, contracts and reports; I wished to barely sleep and get completely immersed into the job — check, check, check.
It took four weeks of research and digging through leads: scratching off the ones that went nowhere, having another look at elements that initially seemed insignificant but turned out to be essential, learning about the inner workings of military services thirty years ago, scouring the internet for potential classmates.
But I had finally managed to put together a solid timeline. I had identified which class my subject attended, as well as the years of his time there. OK, I was at least 97% sure I knew these things, but I decided that was a high enough percentage to move forward.
My findings were a good place to start, but as unbelievable as it seemed to me, they were only a small part of the puzzle.
As you may remember, my client’s husband had volunteered two names, one of which helped me confirm what I had suspected from the beginning.
Once I was convinced that my client’s husband had been less than truthful, I reversed the direction of my research, and obtained my final answer a couple of weeks later.
Falling for it
Throughout that incredible month, I didn’t worry about my daily step count, as I paced the floors constantly reviewing the questions I still had and their elusive answers.
I didn’t stop eating, but I stopped caring about what I ate. I apparently also forgot about combing my hair and washing my face. At one point, I opened my notes app to study for an exam and had zero recollection of the class or the professor’s face.
And I felt fantastic. I was on top of the world.
That feeling was soon replaced by something darker. Inside my bubble, where I was doggedly assembling a puzzle, I was loving the game for its own sake. But I forced myself to consider the world outside my bubble; I reminded myself that my findings, which gave me feelings of elation and triumph, would have a profound effect on the life of a real person — my client.
I had no experience navigating the emotional journey our clients endure when they hire us. A sense of dread overtook my pride. I was terribly nervous — hands-shaking-while-typing nervous.
Luckily, the exchange turned out to be positive, as my investigation only served to confirm something she had already made her peace with.
I could finally breathe. And at her request, I explained how I’d discovered the truth.
Triumph and Tribulation
It’s been said that useful secrets hide on Google Page 2. In this case, it had been Page 5. Or was it 8? I honestly can’t recall.
Once I’d reached 97% certainty about the class my subject attended, I needed concrete proof to get to 100%. Fortunately, he had offered his classmates’ names, in an attempt to give credibility to his story. That was my in.
I tracked down one of the classmates through social media and made contact with him. To my astonishment, he sent me copies of the booklet that the institution handed out to every student at the end of their training. It contained candid pictures of the participants on the grounds, as well as the graduation photograph. Most importantly, it included the names of every student from the class.
My subject and his two classmates were listed there. I was euphoric! I had my confirmation that my client’s husband had, in fact, completed his military service.
I found no reports of the drowning incident he described to his wife. There were reports of two other drownings in previous classes, which I presume may have given him the idea for the story he told his wife.
I returned to my cork board. Among the many media and blogger interviews I’d found online, one caught my eye. Years ago, a student had interviewed my subject for a class project and recorded it on a tiny, single-page blog.
During the interview, my subject had mentioned being married — and also that he was the father of a boy. That information struck me as odd, given that during their marriage, my client had given birth to only one child: a daughter.
Using one additional piece of information from my client, I filed paperwork which would confirm my suspicions a few days later: my client’s husband had a child with another woman not long after the couple’s daughter was born.
This woman and her son had been the recipient of the monthly wire transfers for all these years.
This was a real job, and I was ready to do it all over again.
My client had suspected as much all along: that additional piece of information that led me to the final piece of the puzzle was the name of the woman she believed had been involved with her husband. But she hadn’t mentioned the woman’s name until I was already fairly sure she (and her son) existed.
Using that name, I was able to obtain the birth certificate of the child she’d had with my subject.
My client was relieved and grateful to know the truth at last.
I fought the desire to express my own gratitude to her. How could I possibly tell her that thanks to the shameless lies of her husband throughout the thirty years of their union, I had the long-awaited opportunity to ride the emotional rollercoaster of my first investigation? That I had, thanks to her distress, the chance to feel the frustrations, despair and joys involved in the “archeological” work of the investigator?
I decided the better choice was to humbly accept her gratitude and wish her the best.
I heard from her again a few weeks later. As she was cleaning out her house, she found a congratulatory card from her husband’s former military institution, citing the name of his class and dates of his attendance.
As I hung up the phone, my eyes filled with tears, and I let out a rueful laugh.
This was a real job, and I was ready to do it all over again.
Epilogue
As strange as it may feel for us private investigators to be asked if our profession is a real job, I’ll admit that in a previous life, I often wondered the same thing myself. It took me years to take the leap and decide to make it real.
Sometimes I feel the need to say the words aloud to someone, Yes, it is a real job, to convince myself that it is, in fact, real.
I still come back from assignments, climb into bed, and cannot believe that I will wake up and start another day as a private investigator.
Maybe that’s why, when people ask me that predictable question — Is that a real job? — I don’t mind accepting their invitation to dance, because it reminds me that there was a time when I didn’t believe it myself.
I overcame my disbelief and made my dream come to life. So even though the question is rooted in ignorance, it’s also born of genuine curiosity — an instinct I want to encourage. So every time I’m asked, I resist the urge to roll my eyes, and I answer the question in earnest. I tell stories about the real job, gently sweeping aside the fiction tropes and sharing my enthusiasm for my calling.
I hope I never lose the will to dance with whomever asks.
About the author:
Anaïs De Castro is a musician turned private investigator. She holds a degree in “security of property and people with a background in legal activity, director of private investigations” (licence professionnelle sécurité des biens et des personnes, parcours activité juridique, directeur d’enquêtes privées) from the University Panthéon-Assas Paris and is the founder of Hudson Investigations.