Mannix

Digital Footprints

By Lucky_Ladybug

Notes: The characters are not mine and the story is! This is a collection of short stories taking place prior to season 1, showing how Joe became friends with Lew Wickersham. As far as I can tell, in spite of what it says on IMDB, there has never been any concrete proof within the episodes as to when these two met. Even though their interaction is such that it certainly seems as though they must have known each other long before Joe joined Intertect, I decided to take up the challenge and see if it would be possible to have them form the same close friendship they share in the series if instead they only met shortly before Joe joined the agency. After all, we don't know how long Joe worked there. Joe got his license 11 years before the year the show began, I've heard, and during season 1 he claims he doesn't have a license independent of being an Intertect agent. The time period has been altered to the relative present day (around 18 years ago to start with), because I am convinced that Mannix does not need to be a period piece to be the same wonderful series we all love. Besides, I couldn't resist the fun of Lew being enthused about modern technology. You know he'd just love it!

Scene One

The young brunet carried mixed feelings as he drove to his favorite outdoor café for dinner and took a table far removed from the hustle and bustle of the nighttime crowd.

On the one hand, he was elated. Harry Forrest, his mentor, had informed him that he had passed along all the knowledge he could give. The rest was up to him to learn, out on the street. He would apply for his license and become a full-fledged private investigator!

On the other hand, it left him bittersweet and downcast to think that he would never be working with Harry anymore. He was out on his own, for good.

"You're a wild card, Joe," Harry had grumped more than once. "You don't play well with others."

"Come on, Harry. We get along okay, don't we?" Joe had retorted the last time Harry had brought it up.

"Sure, but you've sure caused me a crazy number of headaches," Harry had replied. "And the same will go for any poor sap who tries to work with you. You're a lone wolf, Joe. Get out on your own. Make your own agency. You and all of Los Angeles will be better for it."

So Joe was going to take Harry's advice. As soon as he got his license, he was going to hang out his shingle and work for himself.

The more he thought about it, the more the idea highly appealed to him. He had always wanted to be his own boss. And Harry was right that Joe's whims and independence and dogged determination drove him up the wall. Trying to conform to what Harry or other authority figures wanted in turn drove Joe up the wall. He not only wanted, but likely needed, to be on his own.

A movement at the next table caught his eye and he snapped back to attention. A man with thick glasses had settled there, looking over the newspaper instead of the menu. When the waitress came by, he ordered something offhand and she left, not even bothering to write it down.

Joe nodded to himself. He had seen that man dining at the café more than once of late. Apparently it was his favorite eatery too, and the waitress had memorized what he liked.

Joe still wasn't sure who he was. He also highly doubted that he wanted to know. The guy seemed like one of those stuck-up businessmen types that Joe couldn't stand. Oh, he was nice enough when he spoke, but he was formal, detached. And when he wasn't looking at the newspaper, he was always fooling around with a laptop or an Apple Newton (it was Apple, right? Not Fig?) or a PalmPilot, or whatever they were calling those things these days.

Joe wasn't opposed to using modern technology to help when it was needed. He recognized it could be important. But sometimes it seemed to him that these days, the entire world was running on such technology, even when it wasn't needed. For Joe, the tried and true methods of things—including private-eyeing—were still the best.

As he ordered and started to eat, he began to take notice of something else. He wasn't the only person studying the technology geek. Someone else had sat down at a nearby table and had been doing little else but watching him. And unlike Joe, the newcomer's interest did not seem benign.

Oh, there was no real proof of anything, of course—only his cold eyes—and Joe could hardly tap the geek on the shoulder and say, "Excuse me, but perhaps you should call the police. That man over there must have something sinister up his sleeve; his eyes clearly show the only logical possibility is that he means you harm."

Or could he? Since when had he ever been conventional? It was one of the things Harry was always bemoaning about him. Really, Joe had smiled once, it was part of his charm.

Anyway, Joe had long ago learned to never doubt his gut instinct. Right now, it was telling him that something was very wrong.

Both he and the geek got done eating at the same time. When the geek collected his pocket computer and stood, the third man rose as if he were a reflection in a mirror.

Joe was all set to hurry over and warn the technology lover of the stalker. But as he took a step forward, he was surprised when the bespectacled man turned and looked right at the unfriendly character. "Haven't you had enough yet, Doyle?"

Joe rocked back. Perhaps he had misjudged this fellow. At least, he was certainly observant. He spoke with a strong New York accent; maybe he had picked up some street smarts back there before coming out here. But he didn't look like he was the type to get into fights. He still might need some help. Joe lingered.

Doyle's eyes burned. Now his face was one huge storm cloud. "Look, Wickersham. You know my boss doesn't like you poking around in his business dealings. And you know he had me warn you that if you didn't back off, he'd see to it that you'd regret it."

"I know." Wickersham didn't look or sound impressed. "But I don't think he'd like it if you decide to make a spectacle of yourself by beating me up out here. Why don't you just skulk back to your limousine? I don't scare easily."

"Maybe you should." A second man suddenly came up from behind him and stuck a loaded newspaper in his back.

Joe cursed himself. He had been so involved in the conversation that he had forgotten to keep taking notice of what else was going on around them.

Wickersham jumped when the gun poked against his spine. Apparently he hadn't observed that thug's approach, either. "So what do you want me to do now? Come along quietly to your car? What's to stop me from making a scene and announcing that you're here to abduct me?"

"Try it and it'll be your word against ours," the second thug growled.

Joe stepped forward. "Actually," he said smoothly, "it won't."

Wickersham glanced over his shoulder in slight surprise. Doyle glared daggers at the intruder. "So you've heard us," he sneered. "Who are you?"

"Your worst nightmare, if you really try to beat up this guy," Joe answered. He placed his hands on his hips, brushing his blazer aside just enough to reveal the gun strapped to his belt. It gleamed under the overhead lights.

The second thug wavered. "What is this? You brought one of your Intertect punks to watch over you?"

Joe couldn't help being startled in spite of himself. Intertect! He had heard of them. What self-respecting private eye in Los Angeles hadn't? It was a relative newcomer on the scene, but it was quickly becoming one of the largest and most well-known detective agencies in the city. Its claim to fame was its heavy usage of technology to solve cases.

And that meant this Wickersham was . . .

"Do you really want to stick around and find out?"

Joe started back to the present at Wickersham's reply to the gunman. Both of the goons looked displeased, but they were slowly backing off. "Don't think this is the last you'll hear from us," Doyle cautioned. "You know we won't let up."

"Neither will I," Wickersham answered crisply.

He and Joe watched as the thugs retreated into the shadows. When they were gone from sight, Wickersham turned to look at Joe with surprise and interest.

Joe spoke first. "Those are some pretty nasty grunts you've picked up. The only language their type understands is a good beating."

"Which I didn't want to get into here," Wickersham replied, adjusting his glasses. "As you can see, it wasn't necessary."

"Oh, they'll lie in wait and come after you the moment I leave your side and you leave this well-populated area," Joe scoffed.

"I'm perfectly capable of taking them on," Wickersham said. "I can't decide whether your sudden involvement was out of decency or out of a desire to fight."

Joe shrugged. "Fighting has to be done, sometimes. But I promise you, Mr. Wickersham, my 'sudden involvement' was more out of decency than anything else. You looked like you needed an extra hand right about then."

Wickersham nodded. "I appreciate it.

"I've seen you around here quite frequently. Who are you?"

Joe tossed him a lopsided smile. "The name is Mannix. Joe Mannix. I'm . . . going to be a private investigator."

"Going to be," Wickersham echoed. "Then you don't have your license yet?"

"I'll be getting it this week," Joe replied. "And I heard those thugs throwing the name Intertect around. You're that Mr. Wickersham?"

"Llewellyn Wickersham, founder and president of Intertect," was the answer. He held out a hand. "It's good to meet you, Mr. Mannix."

Joe shook his hand. "I wouldn't expect the founder and president to still be out in the field," he remarked. "Founders and presidents usually hang out behind their desks and command everything from the safety of their offices."

Wickersham had to smirk. "Well then, maybe I still have some surprises in store.

"Thank you again for your help, Mr. Mannix. Maybe we'll run into each other again sometime."

"Probably, especially if you keep coming here to eat," Joe said.

He watched as Wickersham headed for the parking lot. He was sure that he was right about the thugs waiting for Mr. Intertect to show up by himself. And he wasn't sure that Wickersham could handle the two of them all by himself.

He sneaked through the shadows after his new acquaintance without another thought.

Sure enough, as Wickersham started towards his car, the two thugs leaped out at him at once. Not surprised, Wickersham immediately wrenched Doyle's arm up in the air, causing him to fire his gun harmlessly. When the second thug tried to lunge for him, Wickersham let go of Doyle and judo-flipped the other attacker.

Joe was admittedly impressed. But when Doyle came at him again, and a third lackey rose from behind the car, Joe was through with standing by and enjoying the show. He ran into the fray, delivering a harsh punch to the new guy. Wickersham, although registering surprise, had to promptly turn his attention to Doyle. A karate chop against his shoulder blades sent Doyle down.

Several minutes later, the three goons were sprawled all over the parking lot, dazed and groaning from their collective wounds. Wickersham leaned back against the trunk of his car, worn-out, his glasses askew. Breathing heavily, Joe slumped forward on the side of the trunk and reached up, idly brushing a streak of red away from his right eye.

"You don't listen very well, do you?" Wickersham gasped.

Joe shrugged. "You'd be laying there moaning yourself if I did."

Wickersham gave him a wry look. "You're awfully confident in your abilities while doubting mine. Still . . ." He surveyed the three thugs. "Three is a lot for one man to take on. I wasn't expecting that third man."

"Then you're grateful," Joe deduced. "You're welcome."

"I am grateful," Wickersham confirmed. "You have potential. But the way you fought reminds me of something out of a hardboiled detective novel from the 1940s."

"Good," Joe retorted. "That's what this world needs more of, Mr. Wickersham—detectives who can still walk the walk and not just talk the talk. People like Sam Spade and Philip Marlowe got along just fine without turning to a computer every time they had a question."

"Sam Spade and Philip Marlowe didn't have computers to turn to, whether they wanted them or not," Wickersham pointed out. "But I take it that you don't have a very high opinion of what Intertect does."

"I think Intertect could use more hardboiled detectives and less armchair detectives," Joe said. "If you rely on your computers for everything, you'll become more machine than man."

Wickersham straightened, pushing up his glasses and placing them on top of his head. "Relying on computers eliminates the human error," he answered. "That's what's wrong with so many businesses today—there's too much potential for stupid mistakes. Computers are far more efficient than people. They don't allow emotions to get in the way of doing their jobs."

"But they're not free of bugs, either," Joe said. "When's the last time your Windows 3.1 crashed?"

"I don't know; I haven't used Windows 3.1 in a long time," Wickersham said dryly.

"Well, whatever." Joe waved an impatient hand. "You know what I mean."

Wickersham regarded Joe in a bit of amusement. "Intertect is the future of detective work, Mr. Mannix. Your philosophy is a thing of the past."

Joe shrugged and smiled. "An oldie but a goodie."

Wickersham shook his head. "This discussion is getting us nowhere. I'm going to call the police. After we give our statements, you'll be free to leave. And I have to admit, I'm grateful you didn't listen to me earlier."

Joe stabbed the air with a finger, unable to resist one final barb. "You wouldn't have got that sort of helpful disregard from a computer. Computers only disregard people's orders when they want to break down and be most unhelpful."

Wickersham gave him a stern look. But as he turned away to take out his car phone, a smile was on his lips.

Joseph Mannix was a unique one.

And Llewellyn Wickersham rather liked him in spite of himself.