Foreword
This is a story about a veteran of the Vietnam War, one of those boys who became men by spending a year fighting in an unpopular war in a tiny country thousands of miles from home. It was unlike any other war in that a lot of the "enemy" looked and acted just like the civilian population. It was hot, wet, and the battles were fought in seemingly impenetrable jungle. It was also unlike any other war in that there was no "front" and no territory won in battle was then occupied to prevent it from falling into enemy hands again. Those conditions made an indelible imprint on all who served there.
When those men did return home from Vietnam, there were no ticker-tape parades or speeches thanking them for their service. Instead, they were met by groups of protestors who called them "baby killers". Most tried to fade into a society that just wanted to forget. Unfortunately for them, they couldn't forget that twelve months in Hell.
It wasn't until five years after the last American soldier left Vietnam that a memorial to those who died there was erected, and it wasn't erected due to any act of Congress. It was accomplished by volunteers who worked to make the Vietnam Veterans Memorial a reality. The money was also raised by private donations and not by Congressional appropriation, though Congress did approve the site of the memorial.
On this Memorial Day, it's important to remember those young men, most of them boys really, who answered the call from their country and died serving a country that didn't officially offer to recognize their sacrifice until years later.
It's also important to remember those who came home but have now passed on as well as those still living. They're all heroes. As Billy Ray Cyrus sang, "All gave some, some gave all".
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When I was a kid, I went through the same stages most boys do, I suppose. I put on my six -guns and rode the range on my imaginary black mustang. After that came my fireman period, and after that, an infatuation with the science guy on TV. My senior year in high school during a chemistry class, I realized I didn't really like science all that much, so that pretty much left me without a career choice.
After graduation, mom and dad started hinting about me being on my own now and that I ought to be finding a job. I wanted glamour and excitement so I enlisted in the US Army. There wasn't much glamour, but there was excitement. Basic training wasn't all that exciting except for the rifle and grenade range. Advanced Infantry Training was more exciting since we learned all about machine guns, rocket launchers, and other things that went bang really loud and blew stuff up. Iraq was so exciting I pissed my pants a couple of times.
After four years with Uncle Sam, I decided I'd had enough glamour and excitement to last me a while. I came back home to Ft. Wayne, Indiana and started looking for a job.
The newspaper ad said, "Pick your own hours - ability to cope with conflict and rejection a must". It sounded like the job for me. I'd already been in some pretty hot conflicts, and when you're five eight and weigh only one forty, you learn to cope with rejection pretty fast, at least from the more exciting members of the female sex.
Bob Frawley was a crusty old PI who learned his profession by doing it. He didn't have much use for psychology and technology, and even less for the mundane aspects of the business. He was convinced that tact and an intellectual approach never worked, so he didn't waste his time attempting either.
Bob was more of a "go out and shake some people up" type of investigator, and the cases he handled tended to be for bail bondsmen and debt collectors. He would spend hours tracking down a "skip" in order to drag him back to court in handcuffs. He hired me to take care of the endless paper searches and phone calls that usually served to gather enough information to get paid for a job. It was pretty boring sometimes, but working with Bob was a lot more interesting, and he let me come along on most of his jobs.
Bob didn't have much off time. He wouldn't have known what to do with it anyway. The only relaxation I ever knew him to have was spending several hours in the evening getting intimate with his latest bottle of bourbon. I never figured out how he managed to get enough work to pay me and still have anything left for himself, but I guess when you drink most of your calories and live in your office, you don't really need much.
I was learning a lot from Bob, even if some of the knowledge was what not to do, but it was knowledge just the same. I learned where to find business, what business to keep, and more importantly, what business to turn down. I learned how much PI work was worth to various clients, and how to quote a price that was enough to pay for my time, but low enough not to turn the client away.
I learned the finer points of following a suspect, both in reality, and by following the trail of credit reports, phone numbers, and the other flotsam of daily life that we all leave behind. Sometimes the paper trail was easier and quicker to follow than the actual person. Bob was usually a little disappointed when it turned out that way.
Things were going very well, in my estimation anyway, when a year and a half after I started working for him, Bob had a heart attack and died. He surprised me by leaving the business to me. I was on cloud nine for a day, but Bob still had one last lesson to teach. Solvency is an integral part of investigative work. It seems that Bob was about two years behind in the rent, but the landlord liked him and probably couldn't have found anybody else to rent the place, so he let him stay.
Since the landlord really didn't want to go into the PI business, and I didn't have enough money to settle up accounts, I lost my newly found inheritance and my job at the same time. I walked away from the office that last day with Bob's.38 Police Special, his handcuffs, and the knowledge that this was what I wanted to do for the rest of my life.
I had learned a lot from Bob, at least in his more sober moments, about how to be a private investigator, but I needed some credentials to start out on my own. I found a "managerial" position in the food service industry that didn't pay a lot but I could eat for free, and enrolled in the Harrison School of Private Investigation - "Accredited in 45 states" - via the US Postal Service. For the next year I wrapped tacos at night and studied during the day, faithfully sending in my homework and waiting anxiously for the results to come back in the familiar beige envelopes. In January, I received my diploma, and was ready to launch my career.
Things seemed a bit slow in Ft. Wayne and it was knee deep in snow then and cold, so I started driving south. I figured the weather would at least be better. Nashville looked good, so I worked delivering express packages until I could save enough money to set up shop.
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Sanders Investigations was founded on two months office rent, enough money to hook up a phone, and a few connections from my package delivery days. I had delivered to all the attorneys and insurance offices in Nashville, and took the opportunity to get acquainted, especially with the secretaries, because secretaries keep the files on investigators used by those firms.
After I had a phone number, I splurged and had business cards printed. I then paid a visit to all my secretary friends and explained that I had started my own business. I also outlined my "preferred" jobs. I had learned while working with Bob that most law and insurance offices have working relationships with investigative firms of larger size and reputation. There are, however, some tasks that these firms aren't suited for, either because of cost or simply because they don't like the task. I was spreading the word that I would gladly take on this type of work.
That decision has proven to be the basis of a reasonably successful PI business. True, I live in my office, just like Bob, but at least my work commute takes only a couple of minutes, and I can make the trip in my shorts and socks without anyone caring.
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There was only one problem I faced when I started out and that problem was Jake Wilson. Jake was another private investigator in Nashville who did the same type of work I did. He didn't like having the competition and had gone out of his way to discredit my ability, take over my clients, and in general, force me to leave the private investigation field in search of another career. In his opinion, voiced more than once apparently, I was better suited for either flipping burgers or pumping septic tanks.
I didn't know Jake. We had never met. All I knew about him came from conversations with my secretary friends. They didn't like Jake at all, and only dealt with him when there was no other option. I was that other option, so I suppose I did take away some of his business.
I did my best to ignore him, and that seemed to enrage him even more, or at least that's what the secretaries told me. If they told him they'd given me a job, he'd swear at them and then storm out of the office. He died a year after I started operating, and I really wouldn't have known that had I not received a written invitation to his burial service. I'd have ignored that too if it hadn't been written in the flourishing hand of a woman.
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It seemed fitting, in a way, that the day was that icy, gray, drizzle that we frequently get during a Tennessee winter. The blustery, gusty wind blew another blast of chilling fog in my face and I wished I had stayed home. It was almost over, or at least, my limited experience in these matters indicated so. The rather large preacher was saying something about Jake's life, but I was shivering, and my teeth were chattering so much I could make out only bits and pieces here and there. My choice of jacket, although comfortable enough for what I usually did during the day, was not up to the wet cold that slashed through the faded denim.
I was not about to dress up for this occasion even though it was a burial service. Jake had been a bit like the gray-purple overcast that blocked the low sun and turned day almost into a black and white movie where one had to imagine the colors one knew must be present. He had been a sour, dark, and unpleasant soul in life, and had not been exactly a friend to anyone of which I was aware. I saw no reason to honor him with a suit and tie, even if I had owned them.
It surprised me that even three people in the world thought enough of him to stand in this wet dreary day to see him claim his ultimate resting place in the earth of Forrest Lawn. As I thought about this, I realized the overweight preacher was probably being paid and the other guy was his driver, so there was actually one mourner not including me.
I was not a mourner in the traditional sense of the word. I was just curious to see what woman would think enough of Jake to attend his burial. I still hadn't met her, but she had to be the woman behind the heavy, black veil who had just dropped a rose onto the bare coffin. The preacher in the plain black suit said the obligatory "ashes to ashes" thing, and shook hands with the woman while offering his condolences. He and the other guy quickly walked to a black Lincoln Towncar, got in and left with a hint of gravel spinning under the tires.
A curious car, and curious actions for a man who has dedicated his life to frugal service of the church, I thought. But then, I reflected, he probably wanted out of there as bad as I did, and as for the car, it would have been purchased by the congregation and probably was a symbol of their financial health and appreciation of the man's services. People always like to think they can pay their way out of the various misdeeds and improper thoughts to which we humans are prone, and like to show the world they can afford to do so.
The woman cloaked by the veil turned then and approached me. She extended a pale, slender hand from the sleeve of the simple wool coat, and when I took it, the grip was surprisingly tight. From somewhere behind the thick veil came, "You would be Mr. Jason Sanders, I hope".
"Yes, but you can drop the mister. Just call me Jason".
"All right, I will. Jason, my name is Shelly Parker and I'm Jake's niece. I need to speak with you at your earliest convenience. I have to take these flowers home, but I'm available this afternoon. Would that suit your schedule"?
The voice was crisp, but yet soft and feminine, and the low pitch was sort of erotic in a way. She also seemed polite. I couldn't figure out how she and Jake could have any shared genes at all.
