Chapter One

“Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.” Seneca.

“Miller Rixey?” The ICU nurse called my name.

“Yes.” I put down my newspaper and rushed to the counter, anticipating the worst.

“You may see Mr. Bishop now,” she said with a smile.

“Is he okay? Is he going to make it?”

The nurse’s smile quickly left her face. The bullet has been removed and he is still in critical condition…but he is awake.”

I rushed through the doors and was escorted to Bishop’s ICU room. I saw him there, hooked up to all the wires, and my heart sank. The beeping from his various machines did not help my mood any. His eyes were closed and his face was bruised and swollen. I walked to his bedside. “Willard?”

The nurse said, “He may not be very coherent at this point.”

Willard opened his eyes and focused on my face. “Hey kid, good to see you.” He groaned and sat up in his bed. He looked a little unsteady, in his condition who wouldn’t look that way?

“Glad you are still with us,” I said, choking back my emotions.

Willard Bishop had been my friend, my boss, and my mentor for the past sixteen years. I always thought he was invincible. He was one of the best Private Investigators I’d ever known and he had taught me so much.

“You cannot get rid of me that easy kid, Bishop said in a raspy voice and began a coughing fit. The commotion brought a couple of ICU nurses into the room. “Kid, come here…” Bishop said, struggling against the nurses attempts to lay him down. “I’m fine, leave me alone,” he rasped.

I went up to his bed as he held out his hand. He dropped a set of keys, along with a piece of paper into my hand. “The Agency’s yours now. I’m getting too old for this shit.”

I started to say something to him, but I thought better of it and remained silent. No one ever won an argument with Willard Bishop. I took the keys and nodded as the nurses pushed me out of the room. At the door, other nurses and a doctor rushed in.

~ * ~

I held the keys and the piece of paper in my hand and walked back to the waiting area. I flopped down on a couch. My head was spinning. I knew I had to collect myself. I was soon lost in my thoughts. Memories of my first meeting with Bishop came to mind. Sixteen years ago, I was attending Illinois State University where I majored in Criminal Justice. I had always been a big fan of detective stories and had no desire to teach, become a cop or a correctional officer. My degree in Criminal Justice would mean I would only have to apprentice for one year instead of the usual three years to get my license. I began sending resumes and cover letters to well over one hundred detective agencies. I thought would get lots of offers. After all, I had great grades and solid recommendations. I was wrong. I got one offer. It was from The Bishop Agency. It was an offer for paid summer internship worth five thousand dollars if I passed the interview and he decided to hire me. My initial excitement at the interview faded when I saw the Agency was located in Carbondale, Illinois. It was hardly the bustling metropolis I envisioned working in when I sent out my resumes. I thought to myself, well you aren’t exactly flush with offers, why not check it out?

I decided to interview for the job and that moment changed my life forever. I wasn’t sure what to expect when I arrived in Carbondale. I wondered what working in a small town could offer me. I knew from the letter that the Agency was located in a section of town the locals called ‘The Strip’. I walked up and down the strip finally locating a non-descript building that had ‘The Bishop Agency’ proudly emblazoned on the door. I had been to Carbondale plenty of times before to visit friends. I guess I even walked past the building quite a few times and never noticed it. I later found out this was not by accident, it was by design. I pushed the door open and walked in. I shivered as I felt the cold blast from the air conditioning. I heard a bell tinkle.

The reception area seemed rather bleak. A manual typewriter rested on a cheap fabricated wooden desk. There was what looked like a very old and battered landline sat on the desk. I saw five old file cabinets that had seen better days. Five folding chairs completed what I would call the ‘Early Depression’ look. I noticed four what appeared to be office doors behind the desk. I wondered to myself if I made a mistake even coming to Carbondale since I’d driven about four hours for the appointment.

An attractive red headed woman sat at the front desk. Her nameplate read ‘Ms. Nickels’. She appeared to be a forty something in terms of age. She looked up and smiled briefly at me. I doffed my fedora as I introduced myself and showed her the letter I received from Mr. Bishop. She nodded as she quickly read the letter and pointed to a door that said ‘Mr. Bishop Private’, telling me to go in, I was expected. Out of habit, I knocked and when I heard “Come,” from the booming voice behind the door, I entered.

In the large, well-lighted office, a man in his fifties sat behind a wooden desk. He motioned me to a seat as he was talking on the phone. I looked for a place to put my fedora and saw a hat rack. I flipped it toward the hat rack and to my pleasure and surprise, it landed right where I tossed it. I sat in the chair in front of the desk. It was unexpectedly comfortable. I looked around the room to pass time as I waited for Mr. Bishop to get finished with his phone call. Maybe the way his office was set up would give me some insight into the man I was about to interview with? I hoped so.

Bishop’s office was in sharp contrast to the reception area. It was well lit. He had two laptops sitting on his desk as well as two monitors. There was also a state of the art desk top sitting on a smaller desk behind him. The office was certainly lavishly furnished. The forestry class I had took during my Freshman year in college told me the desk was made of teak or some other precious hardwood. The walls were lined with cedar. I looked around the walls of the office and saw three oil paintings. It looked like Bishop had a rather eclectic taste in art. Were these really a Pollock, a Picasso, and a Warhol I was seeing hanging on the walls? I thought, perhaps a better time for that question later. I saw three pieces of statuary I could not immediately place, but they did look familiar.

I quickly turned my attention to his desk. I saw what I knew to be an expensive humidor. Three signed baseballs from Ty Cobb, Honus Wagner, and Babe Ruth resided in plastic cubes with their certificates of authenticity prominently displayed. I also saw a pen holder on the desk and as I love using fountain pens immediately recognized two Mont Blanc’s, a very nice Cross fountain pen and a Waterman fountain pen. I wasn’t sure what to make of what I saw, but my interest had been piqued. There was no doubt Mr. Bishop was a very interesting man.

Bishop finished his call and cleared his throat to let me know the interview had begun. He opened a drawer and pulled out a file that was a couple of inches thick. I saw my name on it. I hadn’t realized I had been alive long enough to have merited a file that size. I wondered what type of person would have the resources and contacts to build a file that size on me? I shrugged, well I was here, let’s see what happens.

“Miller, may I call you Miller?” Bishop began.

“Yes, Mr. Bishop.” I looked him over and decided I was having a hard time placing this guy. He could have been anywhere from forty to sixty. He had a full head of gray hair and it looked like three days’ growth. He seemed to be in pretty good shape.

He smiled at me and picked up a pair of reading glasses. He opened the file and began, “Before we get too far along, I wish to give you an option.” I saw him slide a check toward me. It was made out to me in the amount of five thousand dollars. “If you choose to, you may take this check, head back to Normal and there will be no hard feelings. Believe me, I know being a private detective isn’t for everyone.”

I frowned and said slowly, “Well, your offer is generous to be sure. Don’t get me wrong, it would be great to have five thousand in my pocket so I could goof off this summer. I decided I wanted to be a private detective, and yours was the only firm that even sent me a positive reply. You must have seen something in me the other agencies didn’t. Let’s continue with the interview and see where it leads.” I shifted uneasily in my chair and looked Mr. Bishop in the eye. “How does that sound to you?” I asked.

Mr. Bishop broke out in a smile. “Excellent. I like your attitude, young man. You can call me Willard.”

“Thank you, Willard.”

“I see you have excellent grades in college, but shall we say your grades and ACT score in high school left something to be desired. Care to elaborate on this?” Willard asked.

I looked back at Willard, “I hated high school and did not take enough classes to do well on my ACT. The school counselor told my parents I was bored and did not feel challenged. I shrugged. “She could have been right. Anyway, my parents are both alums from Illinois State and pulled some strings and got me in.” I laughed. “I’m sure you had all of this in your file.”

“Yes. You are quite right, but I put a huge premium on talking to people. You know what I mean, gives me a better feel for them rather than simply reading about their records in black and white.”

I nodded and adjusted my position in the chair as I awaited his next question.

He thumbed through my file and making sort of a raspy laugh, continued, “I see you have a Carry Conceal Permit. That’s a good start. It shows me you know a little something about basic weapon safety. What is your weapon of choice?” he asked.

“I carry a Ruger LCR .38 special.”

“Somehow, I would have been surprised if you carried a semi-automatic. It wouldn’t fit your personality,” Willard replied.

I looked at him, somewhat confused.

He pointed to my fedora on the rack and the fountain pen in my pocket. “You seem like kind of a retro guy. I have the feeling you would have been more at home in the fifties.”

Willard thumbed through my file, “You seem like a good kid. Your teachers speak highly of you. You sure you wouldn’t be happier in law school or perhaps working on a Ph.D.? I can probably get you into any school you would want. Teaching and the law are honorable professions.”

I winced at the ‘kid’ remark. I wondered who this guy was saying he could get me into any school I wanted. “Thanks, appreciate your offer, but I want to give being a private detective a try. It may not turn out to be what I wanted, but trying it is the only way I will ever find out,” I replied.

Willard stood up and walked over to where I had been sitting. He reached into his desk and pulled out a sheaf of paperwork. “Please fill out these forms before you leave. They are pretty standard. The most important is the confidentiality agreement. I’m guessing you want to get college credit for your work this summer. Fill out the enrollment form for Illinois State and submit that form along with the letter Ms. Nickels has waiting for you when you leave my office. You will be getting four hours’ credit for your internship. That should about cover everything.” He shook my hand. “Welcome to The Bishop Agency. We will see you back in two weeks. Do you have any questions?” he asked with a broad smile on his face.

“None that I can think of.”

Willard concluded, “You are certainly free to tell your friends and your parents that my agency has agreed to hire you for the summer. The only thing I ask is that you refrain from discussing with them about what you have seen in my office and your theories of what is going on here. Fair enough? I try not to impose too many restrictions on young interns such as yourself. I find that it sometimes inhibits them, which gives me a harder time trying to evaluate them.”

I laughed. “Fair enough, Willard. I don’t know enough to form any type of theories as to what is going on here. All I know is this is a detective agency and you hired me to work for you as an intern for the summer.”

“Good boy,” he beamed.

~ * ~

I felt a gentle nudge that broke me out of my reverie. I looked around wildly to get my bearings. I was still at the hospital. That had been one interesting dream.

A concerned looking, motherly type nurse looked down at me. “Young man, there is nothing you can do for your friend here. I can appreciate your concerns. Don’t worry, we have the best doctors looking out for him. Go home and get some rest, we will keep you informed.”

I nodded and thanked her. She was right, there was nothing I could do for Bishop here. I decided my time would be better spent at the office. Since Willard now put me in charge of it, I was sure I had a lot of catching up to do. Being in the office and reviewing Willard’s files might give me some insight into why he had been attacked. While maybe the local police were all too anxious to write the attack off as a simple mugging, I was having my doubts. I got up and rode the elevator down to the ground floor. I barely noticed the hum of the electric door swinging open as I left the hospital. I spotted my SUV in the parking lot and headed toward it.