The Missing Persons

Have you ever walked into a supermarket and gone to the washroom and on your way to the washroom there was a bulletin board which was posted on the wall. But it was not your normal postings. It was a posting of missing people in the nation. You then scan all of the faces and cannot but help feel a horrifying sense of dread. The people that disappear come from all ages, races, genders and backgrounds. You wonder what happened to them and where they were. 

​I wondered all of these same things as I looked at the missing persons bulletin. I stared at the picture of an old man that vanished in 1988, he was 65 years old at the time and was last seen hiking in the Rocky Mountains with his dog. I did a quick calculation in my head and realize that he would now be 97 years old and if he was still alive we would have likely died from natural causes. 

What really happened to him? Did he fall off the trail and land in a ravine and maybe fifty years from now a couple of hikers would find his skeletal remains? Or was he abducted by a couple of thugs at gun point and forced into a car where he was tortured to death by a couple of sadistic creeps just for fun? Or maybe he simply lied to his wife about where he had gone, saying he went to hike with the dog but instead he decided to fly off to Europe with a young voluptuous vixen who was in her mid twenties and leave the drudgery behind of his old hag wife and all of her nagging and complaining; to be free from her and the dull monotony of the ball and chain of marriage. 

I kept looking at the picture of the 65 year old man named Lester Kincade and wondered what had happened to him. Then I wondered if maybe he was some type of criminal, possibly a murderer that committed a crime or series of brutal crimes. A man that believed the police were hot on his trail, closing the gap on him. So he believed that the only way out was to fake his disappearance. If this was what he did, it would have had to been meticulously planned. There would be no room for error because any error the police would exploit it and find him. I continued to look at his picture and thought about all of the possibilities that could have led to his disappearance.

I looked around me and then looked at my reflection in the glass encasing of the missing persons board. I then stared at the picture of the man named Lester Kincaid once again and smiled. 

It was 32 years later and I looked so much different than I did in 1988. Thirty-two years since I pulled the heist of vanishing in the mountains without a trace. But it wasn't the first time. I had to do in 1967 when the Israelis were on me in Argentina. The first time I did it was in 1945 to escape my war crimes in Nazi Germany.