Private Investigators Theresa and Jack McSherry of Norcross say their work is "all high tech now" but they know the stereotype.
She was a dame on the make, an angel whose wings had taken her in the wrong direction. Her old man knew it, so he picked up the phone.
It jangled in the offices where Jack and Theresa McSherry hear tales of woe, intrigue and treachery. Their digs are in a Norcross condo, a sunny spot where shady doings are discussed. They answered.
A straying wife? Sure. They could help. The McSherry's got the usual information - her name and description, where she worked, her commuting times. They met with the aggrieved husband, a sad sack with a sadder story. They proffered the usual papers, and, with a few signatures, the husband-and-wife team of Innovative Investigations had a new client.
A few days later, in Midtown, where a high-rise can hid lowdown doings, the two sat and waited, their video camera ready. The moments were glaciers, taking forever to pass. They watched the trendy types go by, a parade of black Lycra. She finally showed.
__________________________________________"If I was to tell you who
most of our clients are,
they'd dry up." __________________________________________"She made us", said Jack McSherry, using private investigator talk to describe the fact they were discovered. A quick grimace flashed across his sun-reddened face - a momentary cloud dimming and ordinarily sunny disposition. He's a pleasant guy in his 50's quick with a smile.
"She walked right up to where we were sitting and looked in."
The dame looked but didn't see much. The shamuses were sitting in a car with tinted windows. But they were busted, no doubt, and the trip back to Norcross wasn't their happiest sojourn up the Big I.
That night, the McSherry's changed plans. If the lady was such and Einstein that she could spot them, they agreed, the detectives would have to do a Houdini and escape her gaze. They'd disguise Theresa.
A word about the female half of this duo. She's a blonde, with the sort of hair that makes a guy think of sunlight or butterscotch candy. She looks like a cheerleader who stands on the sidelines of some of life's tawdrier games.
She covered her tresses with a red wig, planted herself at a Midtown MARTA station and waited for the train to deposit on wayward passenger with a ticket to an illicit liaison. Her husband hid nearby. The detectives didn't have to wait long.
"This time, she walked right past me", said Theresa McSherry, looking younger than her age, in her 50's, sharp eyes glinting with a suppressed laugh.
The two fell in behind their strayed lamb, staying back far enough so that Jack McSherry's 6-foot-4 frame didn't loom over their suspect. They stopped outside an apartment building where a gate barred their entry.
Standing across the street, they watched as wifey and sweetheart walked to the balcony of their love pad. She reached for her amour; he reached back with greedy arms. Jack McSherry reached for his camera.
The client, sadder and wiser, has that tape. He also got a lawyer.
The McSherrys? They moved to the next case. In the PI business, one guy's wayward wife is somebody else's mortgage payment.
A NEW IMAGE -Couple employ high-tech tactics, tried-and-true
They find lost relatives, dig into people's past and investigate accidents. They screen job applicants for potential employers, debug telephones and track down deadbeat dads who have tuition bills to pay. They have a wide-angle camera that looks like a cell phone, infrared doodads that turn night into day.
When he's providing protection, McSherry brings a trio of pals: a Glock .40-caliber automatic, a Beretta 9 mm handgun and a shotgun - 12-guage, of course. It preaches the sort of message that can make an instant saint out of the worst sinner. He's licensed to carry them all.
Lady McSherry? She's also licensed, but more subtle. In her purse is a Colt .380, a daintier sort of handgun but still capable.
Both are state-licensed private investigators, two of a couple thousand individual investigators authorized through the Secretary of State's office to make inquiries. They're also members of the Georgia Association of Professional Private Investigators.
According to its web site, GAPPI exists to 'improve the public image of the private investigations profession." Founded eight years ago, the association, with chapters in Columbus and Atlanta, has its own governing body and code of ethics.
Friend, if you're looking for Sam Spade, the private operator who swilled rye while filling bad guys with lead, forget it. He exists only in the yellowing pages of Dashiell Hammett thrillers. If it's Bogart you want, rent the "Maltese Falcon."
Magnum, P.I."? He exists on late-night reruns. Ditto for "Hart to Hart, " MCMillan and Wife" and an array of other televised do-gooders who thwarted bad guys in 60 minutes every week.
If you want a real-life PI, pretend you're searching for shoes: Rummage around until you find one that fits the occasion.
"Each PI is a little bit different," said Vicky Bosma, a Norcross Investigator of GAPPI's Atlanta chapter. An investigator's expertise, she said, varies. "It depends on what strikes their fancy."
That's what brought together our shamuses. Each saw something the other fancied.
DESTINY ON A BIKE
Her name was Sweet, and it was apt. Jack McSherry looked at Theresa Sweet, sitting with her brother at a Gwinnett Mexican restaurant, and thought she looked better than anything on the menu.
He focused his blue eyes on her again, and she looked back, her gaze steady. McSherry then did what any guy with a burgundy '92 Harley-Davidson Springer Softtail parked outside would do.
"You want to go for a ride?" he asked. She said sure.
The big machine boomed, an explosion encased in iron, as McSherry started the motorcycle. As she sat behind him, something between them bloomed. By the time he brought her back to the restaurant, they knew. A partnership had been formed.
That was 1992. In 1996, each attended Gwinnett Tech, taking the school's private investigation course.
For McSherry, a fourth generation Atlantan, Marine Corps veteran, college dropout and erstwhile antiques dealer, it was a logical step. He had provided protection for nervous executives before, so getting a license would allow him to expand his services.
For Theresa Sweet, the move was a greater professional leap. A native of Louisville, Ky., she was a senior secretaryfor a metro Atlanta communications corporation. She decided to give up dictation for surveillance.
After finishing at Gwinnett Tech, they joined the late Bob Flynn, a former copa dn fulltime PI, where they worked for about two years ou of Lawrenceville. They also go married, a happy little affair that took place in a Key West condo in 1996.
In October 2000, they formed Innovative Investiations. It's a modern firm, as high-tech as a space shuttle launch, but its founders have an old fashioned understanding of the PI image. Their logo features the silhouette of a guy in a deerstalker had, a meerschaum pipe tucked in his teeth - Holmes, no doubt, taking his ease at his Baker Street offices. He's tapping away on a desktop computer.
TRAIPSING IN CYBERSPACE
"From Sidewalk to Cyberspace" boasts their brochure "It's not like the old gumshoes," Jack McSherry said. "It's all computers. It's all high-tech now."
Well, not entirely. Sure, a computer can turn up your Uncle Elmo in Sheboygan, but can it ride in a stretch limo, grasping a shotgun? Can it traipse through a house looking for listening devises in telephones or in light fixtures? Can it blend into a wedding party where sheiks and gas executives exchange stories and strike deals?
Can it waltz into a women's room, strike up a conversation with the subject of an investigation and get her life's story while checking eyeliner and lipstick?
Well, no. But the McSherrys, individually or together can - and have, at $70 per hour and .37 cents a mile. They say they're not getting rich, but Oh! The stories they could tell.
Well, how about some of those stories? The McSherrys don't say much about their clients. A secret, sweetheart, is a secret.
"If I was to tell you who most of our clients are," McSherry said, "they'd dry up."
Which brings us to the moral of this tale: If you want a secret kept, whisper it to a headstone.
If you want a mystery resolved, a relative found, a spouse found out…
Well, you might need a blonde in a red wig.
