Surfing Detective 04 - Hanging Ten in Paris

James Joyce lived here, and many other writers, artists, and philosophers . . . .

    Not a bad start. Next I located the domed Pantheon and remembered Serena saying Ryan and his fellow students lived nearby on Rue des Écoles. I found it and also the cross street she had mentioned as an afterthought: Rue Thénard. I drew a circle around the intersection.
    So I had it. The very spot where Ryan Song had died. Hoping to see the actual building, I slipped the disk Serena gave me into my DVD player. The program began with a brassy version of the French national anthem—same as the horn opening to the Beatles’ “All You Need is Love.” The major monuments and tourist attractions of Paris flashed by on the screen. And in case I might miss any of them, a sonorous voiceover identified each. Then the pitch began:

    Paradise College, International Studies Division, welcomes you to Paris. Imagine living and studying in this world famous city most people only dream of visiting. Paris, the city of lights. Paris, the city of love. That’s you atop the Eiffel Tower! That’s you admiring the Mona Lisa at the Louvre. That’s you in a sidewalk café watching the glamour of Parisian life stroll by. It’s a once-in- a-lifetime opportunity, and it can be yours!

    Sign me up—I was sold already. Soon the narrator got to student accommodations.

    You will live in an historic Eighteenth-Century town home, apportioned into single and double rooms expressly for Paradise College students, at the illustrious address: 44 Rue des Écoles . . . .

    I froze the image. It
was
an elegant building—six stories, by my count—with a Mansard roof, brick chimneys, tall windows, wrought iron balconies, and blooming planters. On the ground floor was a florist called
L’ile aux Fleur
that reminded me of the flower lei shop beneath my office. Only more chic.
    I pressed Play and the video continued with course options, excursions, and the school calendar, concluding with another round of Paris images. I kept waiting for the price tag. But it never came. The sonorous voice merely said, “A semester in Paris is more affordable than you might imagine . . .” And that was it.
    I ejected the DVD and turned to the police report. Paris Police had a more elegant way of saying a young man had hung himself than Honolulu Police did. The English translation, sprinkled with French phrases, said the American student had taken his own life as a result of feelings of dejection and despair over his spurned love for a beautiful young woman. And he had done so fittingly and symbolically on the evening of her birthday. The suicide note—Au revoir, Marie—and her photo seemed to provide evidence
irréfutable.
A summary of statements by Ryan’s professor and fellow students corroborated this. The fact that Ryan had apparently taken the rope
impulsivement
—impulsively, I guessed—from a maintenance room in the building further suggested his desperation. He was pronounced dead at the scene at four minutes after nine on Wednesday morning, March first. It was estimated that death occurred the night before, on February twenty-ninth, no later than ten o’clock. Considering the absence of other motives, and after interviews with persons who might shed light on the incident
regrettable
, the case was closed.

five

    The next morning I drove to the Kaka‘ako campus of Paradise College to interview Professor Russell Van, whose cramped office smelled of pipe tobacco and musty books. He extended a cool pink palm with the grip of a gummy bear, so unlike the warm firm hand of Ryan’s father. The professor pointed to a chair and I sat.
    “You’re here about Ryan?” he said with a hint of nervousness in his voice. His double chin and aloha shirt blousing around his belly revealed a plumpness I’d thought was no longer in fashion in the academy. But Professor Van was obviously an old-timer.
    I nodded. “I read the summary of your statement to the Paris police and hoped your wouldn’t mind telling me what happened in your own words.”
    “So his parents don’t think he did it?” the professor said. “Let me tell you, I saw him hanging there over the snapshot of her. How can there be any doubt?”
    I shrugged. “Did you talk with him before it happened?”
    “When Marie moved in with that French student, it bothered Ryan. He just wasn’t himself. I emailed Serena and she said to call him in.”
    “Did you?”
    “I did. Ryan said little. Just that he’d be okay.