Truth be told, we didn't concern ourselves with ordinary crime—the garden-variety misdemeanors that kept the Triangle's finest police officers occupied. No, we specialized in the fringe elements that often slipped through the cracks of conventional law enforcement, the cases that raised eyebrows and occasionally defied explanation.
Walter was a joyful and genuinely friendly man, and the world's number one supporter of his beloved alma mater, Clemson University. A retired FBI agent with a treasure trove of stories—each one more hilarious than the last, not just because of their bizarre subject matter but because of Walter's unmatched gift for storytelling—he had me in stitches daily.
After wiping away tears of laughter one morning, I suggested we formalize our coffee meetups into something more official. Thus was born the Bell Detective Agency, with Walter as our senior investigator and me serving as the computer forensic specialist (which meant I knew how to Google answers that Walter couldn't get from Siri).
We decided to focus exclusively on crimes that slipped through society's proper, polite cracks—offenses as unique and diverse as the Triangle's eclectic population. The cases that came our way would have made streaming television writers throw their scripts in the trash for being "too unrealistic."
Take, for instance, the Duke Healthcare System's renowned weight-loss program. The program is so effective it's barely advertised, surviving purely on whispered recommendations that keep it perpetually at the fire marshal's occupancy limits.
We decided to focus exclusively on crimes that slipped through society's proper, polite cracks—offenses as unique and diverse as the Triangle's eclectic population. The cases that came our way would have made streaming television writers throw their scripts in the trash for being "too unrealistic."
Take, for instance, the Duke Healthcare System's renowned weight-loss program. The program is so effective it's barely advertised, surviving purely on whispered recommendations that keep it perpetually at the fire marshal's occupancy limits.
With such a large group sharing the same lifestyle came an inevitable subculture, and where culture blooms, crime inevitably follows. In this case, it primarily involved black market protein shakes and scalping tickets to movies in the city's extra-wide seat theaters.
Then there's Durham's reputation as an extraordinarily gay-friendly city. LGBTQ+ individuals flock here from around the country, drawn by the radical notion of being treated like everyone else. This openness created another vibrant subculture, accompanied by its own brand of criminal activity, mostly involving glitter theft and the occasional drag competition scandal.
The third subculture stretching across the Triangle, from Chapel Hill to Raleigh, involved divergent religious practices. The rebellious spirits of students from Duke, UNC, and NC State attracted a dazzling array of spiritual practices. You could encounter faiths in the Triangle that existed nowhere else: Reformed Santeria, college-dorm Voodoo, and what Walter called "Convenience Store Wicca" (practiced primarily near the beer and chips aisles).
In short, as Walter would deadpan with perfect comedic timing, the Triangle was essentially a hotspot for "fat, gay, zombie criminal activity." A phrase he delivered with such earnest professionalism that it took me three weeks to realize he was joking.
Our routine was sacred: meet at SoDu Cafe each morning to assess criminal activity and prioritize our day's investigations. We came ostensibly for their unbeatable flat whites—truly the best in the Triangle—but we were equally there for underground intelligence gathering (and the occasional cheese danish).
Our primary informant was a barista named Amy Normal, the self-anointed "Emergency Backup Mistress of the Greater SoDu Night." To clarify, she filled in when the official Mistress was detained elsewhere. It was a stressful position, as Walter would say with exaggerated gravity. Her real name was Awet, though we suspected even that was an alias (Walter had a complex theory involving witness protection and social media avatars).
Awet and the mysterious primary Mistress reportedly used their "mystical wiles" to keep otherworldly criminals in check. During our tenure, the biggest problem appeared to be vampire cats—yes, you read that correctly. A cat named Chet had apparently been the emotional support animal to a bipolar vampire with severe anxiety. While I understand anxiety struggles all too well, I doubt my midnight panic attacks compare to those of a centuries-old bloodsucker with vitamin D deficiency.
Walter and I would diligently collect intelligence from Awet and formulate our daily plans with MI6 precision. Our operations involved surprisingly little action—neither of us particularly enjoyed being out after dark (Walter needed his eight hours, and I preferred to avoid both mosquitoes and the undead). Nevertheless, we reasoned the feral vampire colony knew we were tracking them, which theoretically dampened their nefarious activities.
The Bell Detective Agency operated for about two years until Walter relocated to Charlotte to live with his son. I missed him terribly—still do. Walter resides with the angels now, where I'm certain he keeps heaven in stitches with his outlandish stories of fighting crime from the Kansas City FBI office.
Then there's Durham's reputation as an extraordinarily gay-friendly city. LGBTQ+ individuals flock here from around the country, drawn by the radical notion of being treated like everyone else. This openness created another vibrant subculture, accompanied by its own brand of criminal activity, mostly involving glitter theft and the occasional drag competition scandal.
The third subculture stretching across the Triangle, from Chapel Hill to Raleigh, involved divergent religious practices. The rebellious spirits of students from Duke, UNC, and NC State attracted a dazzling array of spiritual practices. You could encounter faiths in the Triangle that existed nowhere else: Reformed Santeria, college-dorm Voodoo, and what Walter called "Convenience Store Wicca" (practiced primarily near the beer and chips aisles).
In short, as Walter would deadpan with perfect comedic timing, the Triangle was essentially a hotspot for "fat, gay, zombie criminal activity." A phrase he delivered with such earnest professionalism that it took me three weeks to realize he was joking.
Our routine was sacred: meet at SoDu Cafe each morning to assess criminal activity and prioritize our day's investigations. We came ostensibly for their unbeatable flat whites—truly the best in the Triangle—but we were equally there for underground intelligence gathering (and the occasional cheese danish).
Our primary informant was a barista named Amy Normal, the self-anointed "Emergency Backup Mistress of the Greater SoDu Night." To clarify, she filled in when the official Mistress was detained elsewhere. It was a stressful position, as Walter would say with exaggerated gravity. Her real name was Awet, though we suspected even that was an alias (Walter had a complex theory involving witness protection and social media avatars).
Awet and the mysterious primary Mistress reportedly used their "mystical wiles" to keep otherworldly criminals in check. During our tenure, the biggest problem appeared to be vampire cats—yes, you read that correctly. A cat named Chet had apparently been the emotional support animal to a bipolar vampire with severe anxiety. While I understand anxiety struggles all too well, I doubt my midnight panic attacks compare to those of a centuries-old bloodsucker with vitamin D deficiency.
Walter and I would diligently collect intelligence from Awet and formulate our daily plans with MI6 precision. Our operations involved surprisingly little action—neither of us particularly enjoyed being out after dark (Walter needed his eight hours, and I preferred to avoid both mosquitoes and the undead). Nevertheless, we reasoned the feral vampire colony knew we were tracking them, which theoretically dampened their nefarious activities.
The Bell Detective Agency operated for about two years until Walter relocated to Charlotte to live with his son. I missed him terribly—still do. Walter resides with the angels now, where I'm certain he keeps heaven in stitches with his outlandish stories of fighting crime from the Kansas City FBI office.
I haven't heard his voice in some time, but I can still hear his distinctive laughter in my mind. And I know with absolute certainty that on college football game days, he can be heard throughout the celestial realm, shouting with characteristic enthusiasm, "Go Tigers!"
The world is quieter and even a little boring without Walter Bell in it, but somewhere out there in the afterlife, a group of angels is wiping away tears of laughter as Walter regales them with tales of our vampire cat investigations. And that thought makes me smile every time I think of it.
The world is quieter and even a little boring without Walter Bell in it, but somewhere out there in the afterlife, a group of angels is wiping away tears of laughter as Walter regales them with tales of our vampire cat investigations. And that thought makes me smile every time I think of it.