The Wolfman
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I had the great fortune of meeting Nicholas Pekearo two years before he died, and right off the bat, I knew I liked him. In the span of just a few minutes, we managed to find common ground. We both loved the horror films of the mid to late 1970s and the early 1980s. We both grew up reading comics. Hell, we even liked the same novelists. I was told he was a cop, but when I asked him about it, he sort of chuckled and went on to explain his role as a volunteer police officer with the Auxiliary NYPD. At first I really didn’t get it. I asked him silly, childish questions, like “Do you carry a gun?” and “Have you ever been fired at?” He laughed them off, explaining that as an Auxiliary police officer he did much the same stuff a paid cop would do, that he didn’t carry a gun and wasn’t assigned a bulletproof vest but had saved up for one on his own. It finally sunk in when he admitted that the police volunteer work served as a great inspiration for his writing. More important, he felt that he was doing something right with his service, that it filled some sort of void. He was giving back to the community that nurtured him.