Hardy Detective Agency featuring Hardy Boys Fan Fiction

Nancy Drew knocked surreptitiously on the office door that was discreetly labelled ‘Dr. H. Kirkpatrick, PhD’. After waiting a couple seconds, she opened the door quietly and entered the room.

Seated at his desk was Dr. H. Kirkpatrick, PhD, in the flesh.

“Good morning, Detective Drew,” he said, and invited her to be seated.

Unsure of how to start the conversation, Nancy sat rather self-consciously in the soft, well-worn brown leather seat opposite Dr. Hank Kirkpatrick, one of the police department psychologists. The windowless office was small but tidy, and painted in a light beige. Inexpensive, but nevertheless impressive watercolour prints of sailboats were tastefully positioned on the walls, prompting Nancy to think that perhaps Dr. Kirkpatrick liked sailing or fishing.

Eight days had passed since the incident at the practice range, and in that time Nancy had been completely unable to return. She called off her recertification indefinitely, knowing that unless she found some way to conquer her sudden inability to handle a gun or even be near live rounds, her career in law enforcement in an official capacity would be over. Not being able to return was a frightening possibility she did not even want to entertain.

Dr. Kirkpatrick was in his mid-forties with a slim build and narrow face. Everything about him reminded Nancy of a horse. His limbs, nose and neck were long. She also noted his slim, tapered fingers. He had thinning, tawny brown hair, brown eyes, a neatly-trimmed goatee and a prominently protruding Adam’s apple. The expression he projected was vaguely sympathetic as he tented those long fingers and leaned over, resting his elbows on his desk.

“So how are you feeling today?” Dr. Kirkpatrick asked, initiating the conversation. “It’s okay with you if I call you ‘Nancy’, is it?”

“Go ahead,” she responded noncommittally, “and I’ve been better. Things have been a little difficult after what I experienced at the firing range.”

“Why don’t you tell me what happened, Nancy?”

Guess he wants to get down to business right away, Nancy thought wryly. No beating around the bush with this guy.

“Well, as you know… I’ve got to re-certify with my weapons before I can go back on duty…so I was, um, at the range to practice…it’s been over a year since I’ve had to…handle a gun. ”

With increasing discomfort, Nancy heard the disjointedness of her words and the hollow ring in her voice; felt a sinking in her spirit. She thought she would be able to speak of the event with cool confidence; that there had been enough distance between the time it occurred and today’s meeting. Why did she feel so edgy instead?

Dr. Kirkpatrick nodded at her encouragingly, waiting for her to continue.

“Everything was fine - until a colleague fired off some rounds in the booth right next to me.”

Nancy was silent for several beats as she recalled the incident. She felt a prickling in her skin and her pulse quicken.

Dr. Kirkpatrick kept his attention fixed on Nancy and maintained his expectant silence.

“I just don’t know what happened!” she burst out in frustration, feeling the weight of his gaze. “I just started feeling so bad. I had to run for the bathroom because I was suddenly sick to my stomach. I think I was having a flashback or something…of the drive-by shooting last year. I’m at a loss as to what happened to me.”

“Nancy, that drive-by shooting was a significant event in your life,” Dr. Kirkpatrick stressed his words. “You don’t need me to tell you that it changed your life drastically. Life-altering events like what you’ve experienced leave their imprints on us whether we realise they do or not. You never received counselling, did you, while you were in hiding? Details of your time in the Witness Protection Program are sketchy at best.”

“No,” Nancy said, shaking her head, “no, I didn’t seek ‘professional help’ while I was in the program. Sure, I had some bad dreams, and I did carry a lot of guilt associated with what happened, because it wasn’t just me that was affected. My two best friends were shot that night, too. The FBI had to relocate me numerous times because we had a few close calls where my cover was blown…And God only knows the hell I put my father through, too.”

Nancy purposely omitted any further details, especially those regarding the extremely painful break-up she had had with long time boyfriend, Ned Nickerson, which had occurred upon her return. Now wasn’t the time to talk about her personal relationships.

“But always on my mind was one goal,” Nancy picked up where she left off, “and that was seeing that justice was done. That was my focus. That was one of the things that kept me going. But I certainly didn’t experience anything like this while I was on the run - whatever it was that happened.”

“You mentioned you’d had some bad dreams then…Do you still have them now that you’re back?”

“Yes, I do.” Nancy responded with a sigh and a slow nod. “They were pretty frequent when I was gone. When I got back home, they seemed to subside. But after what happened at the practice range, the nightmares have returned in full force. I’m almost afraid to close my eyes at night. They’re just more intense than they ever were.”

“Can you describe to me what happens in these dreams? Any patterns you can recognize? Recurring themes?”

Nancy balled her sweating hands into fists and flexed her fingers open and closed, then rubbed them on the knees of her slacks in a half-hearted attempt to dry them. She didn’t like having to recall those nocturnal terrors, even in the light of day.

“Uh…Okay…it usually starts out that I’m at Fatelli’s - the sidewalk café/restaurant I was at when the shooting actually happened. In a lot of the dreams, my friend, George, stands up, and then all of a sudden she’s flying forward. I can hear gunshots. The bullets are being fired from a car on the road. The shots are so loud…” Nancy shut her eyes for a length of time, as if trying to block out the imaginary sound. “Then, my other friend, Bess…she gets hit, too. I look over, and she’s down on the pavement…”

She was shocked and dismayed to realise tears were forming and slowly trickling down her cheeks. “I- I try to find a pulse, because George is there flat on the table, and I know she’s bleeding to death…and I can’t find a pulse.”

Nancy paused to wipe her eyes, and Dr. Kirkpatrick passed her a box of tissues. Nancy gratefully accepted and pulled a few sheets to dab her face. She blew her nose softly before starting again in a voice that was halting and thick with emotion: “The car…it comes speeding back towards us - as if he’s going to mow us down. In my mind, I’m panicking now, because if I move George, I’d be doing irreparable damage…if she’s even still alive. I know I won’t be able to move both George and Bess out of the way in time…The headlights turn on as the car bears down on us, and I’m blinded. Then I usually wake up.

“In another version of the dream, it’s my ex-partner, Tom, who’s shooting at us. While I’m scrambling to try to help George and Bess, he’s all of a sudden right in front of me. Then the scene shifts and we’re both in Tom’s living room. He points his gun at me - right at my face - and I’m paralysed with fear and I can’t budge from my spot on his couch. He’s grinning at me, and all he says before he pulls the trigger is ‘Say hi to Deb for me, Nancy’. I hear the sound his gun makes when he shoots, and I always wake up with a start.”

“The ‘Deb’ this dream-Tom mentions, that would be his wife, Dr. Debra Gray, correct?”

“Yes…Tom plea-bargained his way to a less severe sentence for killing her in return for helping them convict Gus Marouelli…I don’t know, Dr. Kirkpatrick…maybe I have some secret fear that he’ll get out even sooner, and he’ll be looking for revenge. Does that sound irrational? ”

“Nancy, having these fears is an entirely normal reaction to the trauma you’ve been through. What we’ll do is have you work on some ways of dealing with these fears. Do you have trouble falling back to sleep when you have these dreams?”

“Yes. All the time,” she admitted.

“Do you think lack of sleep is going to affect your job performance?”

“Isn’t that what you’re supposed to assess?”

“You came to me of your own volition, Nancy. This is not an evaluation of your abilities to carry out your duties. This is for you to discuss issues you want to address.”

“I see…”

“I’d like you to keep tabs on how well you’re sleeping - or not, as the case may be. I may recommend you see your regular doctor for a prescription for something to help you sleep if this problem persists.”

Nancy felt an instant stab of alarm. Drugs?

“Do you really think that’s necessary? I just find the notion of having to take something a bit revolting.” The last thing I need is a dependency on something.

“Well, there are a variety of ways we can deal with the issue, Nancy. Prescription sleeping pills would be one way. Of course, I can’t force you to do something you find abhorrent. It was only a recommendation.”

To Nancy’s ears, he sounded mildly offended by her negative reaction to his suggestion, but realised she was probably imagining this. Dr. Kirkpatrick was a professional. Surely he met with even more stringent rejections and refusals from other…clients who came to him for help.

Nancy departed from Dr. Kirkpatrick’s office at the conclusion of the session feeling only slightly better than when she first went in. She reflected that it was most likely because there was now someone in whom she could confide, even if she didn’t find him particularly warm and personable. Weren’t psychologists supposed to be compassionate and caring? Oh, well. Dr. Kirkpatrick would do for now. Nancy only hoped they could build a good rapport during their upcoming sessions so that he could help her successfully navigate the turbulence that was presently rocking her world.

***

At approximately 2:45 a.m. the next morning in a suburb of Chicago, emergency crews smashed their way into a home that was already being consumed by a raging fire. Too late to be of any real use, they quickly pulled back due to the intensity of the flames, heat and smoke. Regrettably, crews knew if the owners or any occupants were sleeping in the house, there would be little to no chance they had survived the blaze.

Around 7:00 a.m., when the flames had burned themselves out and the lingering hot spots doused, it was finally safe to enter. It was at that time a terrible discovery was made in the master bedroom: The charred bodies of what was assumed to be the couple that owned the home were found, still in bed. Even more disheartening and infinitely sad was the little body that was found nestled between them.

Neighbours informed investigators, and investigators then confirmed with a quick check of property records that the house indeed belonged to a Marcus and Melanie Shorter, parents of a weeks-old daughter, Meghan.

The bodies of the couple, burned beyond recognition, were still positively identified via dental X-rays. The coroner, knowing that there would be no useful DNA to recover in such an awful burn case, had no qualms about identifying the remains of the infant as those belonging to Meghan Shorter. After all, he had no reason to believe otherwise.

The cause of death in all three fatalities was inconclusive, and the coroner initially surmised it could most likely be due to smoke inhalation, though this theory would change later on.

Fire investigators determined a gas leak coupled with a spark from the water heater pilot light was what originally ignited the deadly fire. Smoke detectors in the house had been of little use, as they were devoid of batteries. This prompted the local Fire Chief to issue the usual public safety bulletin advising everyone to routinely test their smoke detectors. Even so, it was finally thought that the Shorters’ deaths were due to the gas that had leaked and filled the house during the night instead of the noxious smoke caused by the fire. Neighbours had indeed reported being awaked by a terrible explosion when the gas flashed. It was a small mercy for the grieving family and friends of the deceased that death came in their sleep.

Investigators could not have known, however, that the tiny infant found with Marcus and Melanie Shorter had died earlier, and under entirely different circumstances.

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Disclaimer

The Hardy Boys belong to Simon and Schuster and the Stratemeyer Foundation. The Hardy Boys Fan Fiction authors of the Hardy Detective Agency have just borrowed them for an adventure or two. The authors promise to put the boys back when they are done with them. The authors do claim copyright to the original characters in this story. Please do not borrow original characters without express permission of the authors.