Hello friends! It is that time of year again and here in the detective’s office we clink our glasses to another anniversary. My Omaha Obsession is eight years old today. Quite the surprise, as it seems just a few years back that we first met and
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I went around to the Hotel Castle, registered my alias, paid my day’s rent and was taken up to room 333. I smoked and paced and clicked my nails on the burr side stand. I looked out the Venetian blinds now and again. Two hours passed before the
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This is the case of the quiet Tudor at 808 South 60th Street, perched on the eastern edge of Elmwood Park. I began trailing her history, spurred by a tip from a friend. The contents of my dossier shared today are an ode to her secret past.
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Contractor-builder, Max Fisher had already built a dozen homes in Omaha by the time he went tiptoeing around a historic, desirable neighborhood in Los Angeles looking for ideas. Through his “exhaustive” spying mission, Fisher
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We received a surprise notice from a friend named Julie in the ol’ P. I. office box the other day. It was riveting word from the street, succinct and pressing. It read: “One of my favorite houses at 80th and Woolworth, that has been empty
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Deeper and deeper into late summer, the nights on our porch are filled with quiet discussion, the smoke of Mr. Cassette’s new cigar passion, tinkling of ice cubes and the large numbers of cicadas circled together in their droning chorus. This is
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One of my biggest obsessions is the Franklin Credit Union scandal and anyone who knows me knows that I have depleted decades of midnight oil on the case. This passion got underway most probably because of my insatiable curiosity, our small town
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The big news of this weekend is that the southeast corner of 38th and Dodge is pink. 3737 Dodge Street to be exact. I wasn’t even snooping in this part of town, I promise you that much, but I came upon the scene and there she was. Covered
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I have been going through my old photo albums and finding Omaha pictures. Nothing special. No real artistry. Just buildings that caught my eye as a young person. In September of 1988, according to my ball point penned note, we were in town. On
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It happened like this. I rushed through the office and asked, “Where did the photograph from 9402 Pacific Street go to?” As I shuffled through a stack of manilla file folders, my coffee stained case notes and recently delivered mail, I pleaded