Nigel Nelson and the Artist | #Wattys2019

Nigel Nelson and the Artist - Chapter 1

Nigel Nelson and the Artist

Chapter 1     

It was the beginning of the week. It began as every Monday did. I lay in bed, warm and cozy. I had wakened up before my alarm went off. The sun shone through my window blinds. My clock had a big 6:59 flashing in the green numbers.     

It had been three years since my fiancé had gone missing. I missed her every day. I had never lost hope, but I had to move on, or so my mentor had said. My psychological mind had never been the same since I had shot a man while on the Scotland Yard Police force. I had been shot and was near death.     

My body was stiff. I rolled out of bed popping my back before doing my morning routine. My coffee maker had already brewed. I had finished my shower when I began smelling fresh coffee.

I dressed for my day in my brown slacks, Champaign shirt half rolled sleeves, with a brown vest over top. I kept a pen and pad of paper in my vest pocket. I normally put a trench coat on over that if it was cold. The city of Linbridge was always cool due to it being right on the ocean. The final accessory that made myself complete was a brown derby on my head.     

My name as you might have guessed is Nigel Nelson. I am English with soft blue eyes, a bigger than average nose, and brown hair. I am a Private Investigator for the Linbridge Police Department.

I sat down to my cup of coffee and read the newspaper. I saw a title, "Woman Victim to Attacker." I was most likely going to be called onto the case. Just then my cell phone rang. It was Captain John Hilt calling me.     

"Hello?" I said.         

"Nelson, did you see the paper?"          

"I sure did, an attempted murder?"         

"We think so, forensics is doing a thorough search for blood or DNA. The victim, Jane Plenty, was the victim of a supposed, "'Murder,' attack on her life."         

"It sounds pretty serious," I said reading the background of the story.         

"Come as soon as you can. It is on North Booker Street."         

"I will grab a cup of coffee and be right there," I said sipping my coffee.         

"See you in a few."            

I hung up the phone, and I instantly thought about a case I had worked on when I was with Scotland Yard. The case was about a person with the last name of Plenty. It couldn't be of relation to this person? We were in a large city in California...Linbridge...on the coast.

My partner, Hammond Royale, an African American buddy of mine since five years ago when I arrived to take up the role of investigator, would be glad to hear that we had a case.         

He was my friend, someone that I talked to about the deepest thoughts I had, and he was someone that kept my head straight after the tragic shooting. I gathered my coat and headed out the front door of my city apartment.

I got in my car, an elite, royal purple, Chevy Nova 1972, big block, raked, with a cam. It wasn't exactly an investigator's car, but it was my fiancé's car, and her father wanted me to have it.         

I fired up the fine running machine. Backing out of my driveway, I drove through the few cars making my way to North Booker Street.

There was a woman sitting on the back of an ambulance with a sling on her right arm and cuts down the other one. She had bruises on her face. She looked traumatized. I saw that she had a broken collar bone, possibly a broken jaw bone, and cuts up and down her arm. Hammond greeted me with our normal handshake.