Bill was one of the first people I ever photographed, and I took pictures of him during the last five or six years of his life. He was a regular at the courthouse, summer and winter. He didn’t bother anyone, liked to roll his own smokes, and lived at least part of the time in a room at the Lincoln Hotel on the courthouse square. Wanting to get a picture of Bill in his room, I packed up my gear and started up the stairs at the hotel. The girl at the desk asked me where I was going. I told her. She said I couldn’t go above the first floor. I told her I could if it was all right with Bill, which it was. She said she would call the owner. I told her to call him. She did. He told her to call the police. I said call whoever you want and went upstairs. I was in the middle of the shoot when the girl came to Bill’s room with the police. One of the policemen told the girl not to worry, that I was the prosecuting attorney. I think that’s about the time she began to worry because that hotel wasn’t anything to write home about. [page 125]