Stephen Koenig

Stephen J. Koenig

BOOKS BLOG & BLATHER

(Updated – December 16th)

SHORT STORIES ARE VIEWABLE BELOW

LINKS BELOW TO ALL BOOKS & FREE AUDIOBOOKS

“I WRITE MY STORIES IN A MINIMALIST STYLE, WITH SIMPLE PROSE IN CLEAR AND CONCISE CONTINUITY, LAYERED WITH BALANCED TENSION AND HUMBLE EMOTION… AT LEAST THAT IS MY GOAL.” —Steve Koenig

STEPHEN KOENIG BIO

steve.privateeye1@gmail.com

Steve Koenig worked as a private investigator for thirty plus years, and that work informed his writing. Growing up on a farm at the edge of the Nebraska Sandhills, attending a one-room country school, being an altar boy, married for 37 years, a father or two daughters, and a little dyslexic informed his writing as well. He has written the following books which are available at AMAZON.COM. Articles he has written on the private investigator profession are also noted below.

Member – Nebraska Writers Guild

Member – Private Eye Writers of America

FACEBLOG

http://www.FACEBOOK.com/steve.koenig.1422

WRITING NEWS & ACTIVITY

DISMAL RIVER MOON

Next Book – 2026

Three investigators and an injured CIA officer meet in the Little Bohemia section of Omaha. They attempt to locate a missing Native American nun and learn why a Catholic friar was found dead on the banks of the Dismal River near Halsey National Forest in the remote Nebraska Sandhills. They will thwart evil, stop the human trafficking of young girls, and help a friary protect a novice friar hiding from a Chinese Triad. All while traversing their own personal challenges.

NEBRASKA BOOK FAIR

SHAMUS AWARDS

Stephen Koenig was one of the judges for the 2025 Shamus Awards for Best Original Hardback P.I. Novel.

BOOK RECOMMENDATIONS

SMALL THINGS LIKE THESE
by Claire Keegan
The Irish novella and film explore themes of societal complicity, and the power of kindness.

ROAMING CROW – John Hunt

NEBRASKA OLD PICTURES

NEBRASKA COWBOY

James H. Cook. His Agate Springs Ranch in the Nebraska Panhandle is now home to Agate Fossil Beds National Monument.

NEBRASKA BIRDS

MOUNTIAN BLUEBIRD

https://birds.outdoornebraska.gov/browse-species/

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SODTOWN BOOKS

SANDHILLS SOJOURN

JOE BAUER TRILOGY

AMAZON RELEASE 2024

Paperback & eBook

FREE YouTube Audiobook

Joe Bauer spent his sixteenth summer in 1980 working at his uncle’s ranch near Flatwater, Nebraska. Joe’s sojourn included putting up hay, working cattle, riding horses, his first fistfight, airplanes, Vietnam vets, a wannabe cowboy, girls, beer parties, and a white wolfdog. Joe survived three life-threatening events during his time in the Sandhills.

MARY & FRED

A Christmas Story

AMAZON RELEASE 2024

FREE YouTube Audiobook

Mary goes on a Christmas sled ride with her new puppy Fred. They discover many people and places and find Baby Jesus lying on a bed of golden straw.

FLATWATER

Paperback & eBook available on Amazon.

FREE YouTube Audiobook

UNREMARKABLE

Private Eye Story

JOE BAUER TRILOGY

Paperback & eBook available on Amazon.

FREE YouTube Audiobook

Joe Bauer finally graduated college and started his career as a private investigator. But he is not the only investigator in the sleepy college town of Fort Kearney, Nebraska. It is the late 1980’s, and Joe is working for Herb Compton, a Nebraska sheriff turned insurance investigator. A Lakota private eye and a future exorcist are also working cases. And a Russian agent is tracking down stolen Fabergé Eggs. By the end of his first year, Joe begins to learn how to conduct covert surveillance. A skill he discovers that is part art and part luck. Joe learns that in the gray world of the private eye business the trick is not to be tricky. The trick is not to be invisible. The trick is to be unremarkable.

BARBED WIRE RUNS THROUGH IT

JOE BAUER TRILOGY

(Paperback, Large Print, eBook, Audible)

Amazon Reviews: 41 Global Ratings – 4.5 – 5.0 Stars

It was 1976, and Joe Bauer, a dyslexic, twelve-year-old boy was having an interesting year. Joe almost died twice, witnessed his range detective father investigate satanic activity, watched a tornado ravage his family’s ranch, saw a plane crash-land near his one-room country school, and he met a Nazi. Joe, the last student at his school in Holt County, Nebraska bore witness to the struggles of family affected by these events.

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POEMS & VERY SHORT STORIES

EXTRATERRESTRIAL ALIENS

by Stephen Koenig

The Bible talks about the sun, moon, stars, animals, oceans, a man, a woman, love, illness, poverty, war, wealth, power, humility, arrogance, food, wine, temples, demons, prejudice, floods, drought, slaves, priests, kings, murder, thieves, shepherds, generosity, fish, donkeys, taxes, gold, plagues, sex, serpents, death, prayer, disciples, martyrs, sin, a tree of the knowledge of good and evil, a burning bush, a Cross, Judas, Joseph, Mary and Jesus.

It is the greatest story ever told…

But it says nothing about an alien species from outer space.

Nothing.

Hence, I have determined that there are no space aliens.

THE END

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FISHING
A Life Lesson

My father taught my brothers and me to fish in Nebraska ponds with a cane pole, a red-and-white bobber, a hook, and a garden worm. Like long chariot poles, they were tied with twine to our car’s door handles and side-view mirror. My father spoke of the importance of patience. To wait until the bobber is under the water before you “set the hook.” My mother would add, “Patience is a virtue.” These would be lifelong lessons. I was not a good fisherman. My life moved along…

On my twelfth birthday, I received a Zebco rod and reel and a book about fishing. The book did not help. My father still preached about patience. Others preached about how the apostles were fishermen. I caught few fish. I read stories about sleuths and spies and remained a bad fisherman. My life moved along…

I continued to fish haphazardly. I made no grand catches. I had incidents of fishing distress… including sunburn, skunks, poison ivy, tornadoes, hooked body parts, lost boat propellers, and permit issues. I married my best friend. And entered a profession where patience was an art. I covertly watched others and documented their activity. My professional skills progressed, but I still made no catches of fish worthy of pictures or mounting. I remained a bad fisherman. My life moved along…

On a winter’s night, I impulsively purchased a fly rod and fishing creel at Cabela’s in Sidney, Nebraska. I was there working on a case. My wife and I moved to Loveland, Colorado, and I strived to improve at my profession, which seemed part art and part luck, much like fishing. My parents’ words on patience still rang like a bell in my mind. We had two girls who were baptized with holy water. I took a class on fly fishing. I bought and read the novella, A River Runs Through It. I waded in and fly fished the swift currents of the Cache La Poudre and Big Thompson Canyon rivers. Their rocky beds were slick like ice. Rocky Mountain winds thwarted my efforts to catch trout as long as my arm. I remained a bad fisherman. My life moved along…

I returned home to Nebraska with my family. I vowed to continue fly fishing… I fished the interstate lakes with popper flies that would attract panfish, like blue gill, whose spawning beds I dive-bombed. I continued to hone and broaden my skills as a factfinder of information. I used the patient bobber analogy to carefully “set the hook” during my investigative pursuits. However, I remained a bad fisherman. My life moved along…

One day, a friend stopped by. We went to War Axe on a soft spring evening. The Interstate 80 traffic droned by like insects. My friend had his rod and reel, and I had my Cabela’s fly rod. After some time, I tied on a fly that I took no note of. I cast my line, leader, and fly onto the calm water. Luck took hold, and I got a bite.

I pulled in a type of fish I had never caught before. My friend, Galen, proclaimed it was a rock bass, adding, “I think it’s a good one.” It was just shy of Master Angler size.

My life moved along… My daughters grew up, and life whizzed by like cars on the interstate. My father passed away, but not his words. My wife has stayed by my side, and the girls now live in a big city. I sit, hobbled by health, as my case files with their carefully worded reports sit stacked like dusty skeletons in my basement, awaiting the burn pile.

I remain a bad fisherman to this day. But I am better for all it taught me. My bobber is not yet under the water. And I am not yet ready for Him to set the hook. My life moves along…

THE END

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HERE I COME

Today, I’m sixty-one

I hope to make sixty-two

The doctor never calls it by its name

But I have an illness known by a bunch of you

It started one day when I died

And people saved me from my death

This malady robs your energy

And you strive to catch a breath

My best friend will be there, it will be a dream

We’ll have a birthday meal at home

Which may include a small glass of whiskey

And a big scoop of ice cream

Today, I’m sixty-one

I hope to make sixty-two

I hope this year to write a book

And listen to family and friends and good music, too

I think a lot about Jesus

And meeting him one day

I’ve confessed my sins and prepared myself

To help clear the way

It’s funny how my heart is what’s sick

As my heart has never been so true

My heart has never felt so full

For my love of all of you

I’ve had time to think about my life

Of things that happened along the way

Regrets, I do have some

But I’m thankful for so many a day

Today, I’m sixty-one

The one thing I have to do

It is to keep on going, so stand back

Here I come, sixty-two

THE END

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STRANG & ONG
A Love Story

Once upon a time, a red-haired, stout young lad named Roscoe MacGregor was surveying the plains of Nebraska. It was a lonesome job. One day while standing on the hilly grassland in what would become Fillmore County he shot his bow; and the arrow carried on the soft spring breeze out of sight. A few days later he found the same arrow many miles away. That night Roscoe became very ill. On his deathbed he told a pretty young nurse named Agata, who held his hand, that his final wish before dying was that they would name the location where he last shot his bow, STRANG. And the spot where the arrow landed, ONG. Noting that he had marked each site with a surveyor’s stob. Agata’s warm smile and spirited stories filled Roscoe’s lonely heart for three days. He handed her the special arrow before he passed on. A local land baron liked the Strang and Ong names but did not want the traveling surveyor to receive the credit, so he saw that the real story would stay hidden. The pretty young nurse, with blue eyes and blonde Polish hair braids, passed her sole love story down to her family. And a future relative, a stout young man, with pale red hair, relayed that story to me. And now, I am relaying it to you…

(This story is a work of fiction… most likely.)

THE END

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HALLOWEEN STORY 2024

A very short Halloween story I wrote today…

BOO!!!

Okay, kids… Sit on the floor; this is a Halloween spooky story… And I warn you, it will be very, very scary. It’s very short… so you better hold hands cause it’s going to be very, very scary… I’ll tell you a secret: this story does NOT have ghosts or goblins or witches or boogie woogie men… it does NOT have those things, but it is very scary. Very, very scary. So get really close and keep holding hands. Wait… what was that???? Never mind, It’s okay. Don’t be scared, even though it is dark outside, and Halloween, don’t be scared. So I’ll tell you another secret: this story has no scary Jack-o-lanterns, creaking doors, or loud screams. It does NOT have those things, so just relax… It is a very short story. So short, there are NOT even any flying bats or scarecrows that walk or full moons… It’s okay… Snuggle tight. Here we go. Here is a very short and very scary story…

Once upon a time… BOO!!!

THE END

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ISHMAEL

I gathered my fly rod and canvass creel and walked to the water’s edge. Life had left me feeling hollow, feverish.

Nearby, a young girl dug in the sand. Her parents stood watch from camp chairs near an Airstream trailer.

I caught spawning bluegills and tossed them back. They blooped and swam off, and the little girl giggled and clapped.

Dark clouds gathered, and she raced to the trailer.

I was about to haul gear when I saw a white swirl in the water. “What the hell?”

I tied on a dragonfly.

The wind met my casts, and the line died upon itself. Clouds darkened, and lightning flashed. “One last cast.” The wind inhaled, and my cast of line, leader, and fly – fell into the white swirl.

One breath later, the fly was jerked under the water. Thunder clapped, and the wind blew; the fight was on.

The hooked fish careened beneath the water’s surface as the cottonwoods danced like hula girls. My fevered mind strained for answers to impossible questions, leaving me taut and frayed. The rainless storm crested, and dry lightning streaked across a bedeviled sky. In my mind, a wire snapped as the fight from the white fish faded.

It slid to me across the sand. It was translucent with neon blue, green, and yellow lines. A huge albino bluegill. A state record.

The little girl ran to my side. Her mouth wide, she stared down at the fish. Hands on her knees, she spoke. “What is his name?”

“His name? I don’t know…I guess I will call him…Ishmael,” I said, releasing the hook and fly.

“Ishmael,” she breathed, “I like that name.” She beamed a smile of the innocent.

I recalled fishing with my daughters and regretted not doing more. I looked to the Airstream as the parents waved.

I turned back to see her, frog-walking barefoot, to the shoreline and gently release Ishmael into the water. My state record, albino bluegill, was gone.

She smiled, clapped, and said, “I gotta go.” She skipped back to her parents.

The storm passed, and my fever was gone. I went home.

THE END

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PRIVATE EYE MAGAZINE & NEWSPAPER ARTICLES

PURSUIT MAGAZINE

Steve Koenig has written several articles for Pursuit Magazine on being a private investigator. The articles can be found at PursuitMag.com – via the link. pursuitmag.com/author/steve-koenig/

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THE CASE OF THE DISAPPEARING DASHBOARD LIGHTS