I was restless. Squirly. Like I was running out of time. Worried that each wasted day brought me that much closer to the grave. Which, I guess, was literally the truth. After all, what did this all amount to? What have I actually accomplished in my life?

Spent most of my spare time hanging out in the underbelly. The other side of the city. The section where the invisible people lived. I had spent too much time between and behind buildings, where the darkness collects and the threat always looms of truly and finally losing myself, giving up, giving in to my primitive side. The side that lives in all of us.

The problem was that if I was honest with myself, I belong in those dark corners of the city. It was where I was most comfortable. I knew the rules of engagement. I knew how to deal with people. I knew my place.

I hadn't a real case in months. Not since Monica, my partner in crimefighting moved to Montreal, The Emerald City. She was the brains of the operation. And the muscle. I was just usually along for the ride.

All I had left was two-bit criminals who were even dumber than me. Men cheating on their wives. Wives cheating on their husbands. The kind of work that made me lose my edge. Threw me off my game.

It was five o'clock in the morning. Again. Again, sleep eluded me. Again, I found myself in the space between being awake and asleep, between reality and dreams. Where I saw spots at the edges of my eyes.

My phone pinged. Sue-Ellen. She was also an early riser. Or late to sleep. I had a close call with Sue-Ellen last week. She almost blew my cover. I was doing surveillance on one of my cheating husbands or cheating wives, whichever, maybe both. Ran into Sue-Ellen and she recognized me. I told people I was a writer, even put out a few books to throw off the scent. It was good cover for when I went underground for weeks at a time. I just said I was doing research, which, I guess, in a way, I was. I ignored Sue-Ellen's message.

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Stood up, paced my combination home office and stopped at the bookshelf. I took down the empty Wild Turkey bottle and held it in my hands like I did every morning at five o'clock. I wanted to make sure my hands were not shaking. I held my breath, watched the bottle, held still. No shaking for another day. The bottle was here as a reminder. A reminder of how I fell into this racket and all that had happened since. At times I felt it was completely accidental that I became a private detective. At other times, I felt like it was a part of some larger existential plan with an unknown goal that will be revealed at the least opportune time.

Next to the bottle was my bible: The World's Best 100 Detective Stories, Volume IV. I lived my life by the lessons in this thin book. Each story had a lesson, it was my rulebook on how to live as a detective. It had saved my life countless times. I had scoured every bookstore in the city trying to find the other volumes, nothing. From what I knew, this was the only copy still in print. I opened the book to the first story: The Case of Jane Cole, Spinster. The lesson from this story: Never, under any circumstances, make a case personal.

A knock at the door. A delivery man handed me a brown cardboard box. I shut the door in his face. The box was from The Nun.

A few years ago, I discovered that a distant relative of mine - my dad's mother's cousin's cousin - lived in a convent right outside the city. I went to visit her every few months as a way to cleanse myself, keep myself balanced, to keep the demons at bay. Each visit, we went next door to the church for mass. I repented. At the time, I still believed in a higher power because I somehow didn't get struck down by lighting whenever I walked into the church.

We just talked, The Nun and I. About family, the world. She held all the family secrets. She passed away a while back and this box was from her. Inside were some rosaries, a cross, a miniature bible. Buried beneath the items was an audio cassette. I put the tape into my Walkman, pressed play. The Nun, through a scratchy recording, spoke: "In the name of the father, the son, and the holy ghost..."

She went on and told the story of her friend, someone from long ago. She wanted me to share this story and hoped that I could finish it.

I looked up at the empty whiskey bottle and thought about the World's best 100 Detective Stories. Thought about Jane Cole, the spinster. What I heard on that audio cassette made me, for the first time in my career, break a rule. Perhaps the most important rule. Because, this time, it was personal.

Hear the rest of the story on the upcoming sixth season of the Storytime with Paul Dore Podcast. It will tell the serialized story of The Accidental Detective and the Case of the Nun Who Spoke from Beyond the Grave.

10.44 The Accidental Detective