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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