Admin_99

This January, the Collins Crime Club issued a new edition of Rudolph Fisher’s classic crime novel The Conjure-man Dies, originally published in 1932 and considered to be the first detective novel by an African-American author, as well as being steeped in the literary culture of the Harlem Renaissance. The Collins Crime Club, a historic British imprint, was relaunched a few years ago with the intention of bringing lost and little-known classics back into print, focusing on Golden Age writers. We asked David Brawn, the publishing director for the Collins Crime Club, a few questions about the imprint, its history, and its latest reissue, The Conjure-man Dies.

CrimeReads: Bringing a book back into print is obviously a labor of love. Can you talk about the process of reissuing a book?

David Brawn: In the age of the ebook and print-on-demand, it’s perhaps hard to imagine a time when books went out of print. But books were printed in factories by the thousand, and it was not economical for publishers to keep them in stock for the sake of a few extra sales a year, so titles would disappear and once-popular authors could be forgotten within a generation. But regardless of when a book was first published, it is still a brand new book when you read it for the first time. Like many of our reissues, The Conjure-Man Dies was recommended to me, but there was no ebook—I had to track down a 50-year-old reprint—and when I read it, I thought it was really distinctive, clever, authentic, and at times unsettling in what it was saying about 1930’s America, and I just felt that I knew a lot of people who would also enjoy it.

CR: How did the relaunched Collins Crime Club come to be, and how it compares to its namesake?

DB: Detective fiction rose to prominence after the First World War—before then most mysteries were in the form of short stories, like those of Sherlock Holmes—and by the 1920s people from all walks of life were reading howdunits and locked-room mysteries. Many publishers capitalized on this popularity by launching dedicated imprints, and Collins’ Crime Club became one of the most successful, running for 65 years. But different types of book go in and out of fashion, of course—Westerns, war stories and Cold War thrillers, for example, have at different times been the most popular reads, and the Crime Club list was finally wound up in 1994. When it became clear that classic detective fiction was enjoying a renaissance—in no small part thanks to the efforts of Martin Edwards and the British Library in reprinting some old classics like J.J. Farjeon’s Mystery in White, which was originally a Crime Club book—we decided to relaunch the imprint as a vehicle for bringing back into print some genuine classics of the Golden Age, as well as the occasional new book, too. We launched it in 2015 with Martin’s The Golden Age of Murder, probably the definitive book about the genesis of British detective fiction, and have published more than 100 titles over the last five years.

CR: The Conjure-Man Dies has drawn more attention as a classic of the Harlem Renaissance than as a classic of detective fiction, but that’s changing now. Can you fill us in on the background of The Conjure-Man Dies, and its place in the history of crime fiction?

DB: It was when working with John Curran on his book The Hooded Gunman, the official history of the Crime Club, that I was struck by the fact that, at its height between the wars, there didn’t appear to be any black writers contributing to the Golden Age. Writing and publishing then was very much a white privilege, with few exceptions. So my delight at discovering Rudolph Fisher, and my dismay in finding that he died after writing only two novels, were profound. I was reading a lot of vintage detective fiction to fuel the new imprint, and was struck by how lively and witty this book was compared to many of its contemporaries. It must have felt very modern in 1932, and very up to date, with Fisher using his knowledge as a doctor to bring in some (for the time) cutting-edge forensics about blood and fingerprints. And there’s a clever murder that takes place in plain sight—so all the ingredients are there. I read that he was inspired by reading Agatha Christie—she really was the benchmark, and his story.

CR: Rudolph Fisher, The Conjure-Man Dies’ promising young author, died young. What was his life like, and his journey through publishing?

Rudolph Fisher was born in Washington D.C. in 1897, son of a Baptist pastor. He graduated with honors from Classical High School in Providence, Rhode Island, going on to Brown University and subsequently the illustrious Howard University Medical School, specializing in research into early radiology. Also a writer and musician, Fisher was an active participant in the Harlem Renaissance, the arts revolution that swept New York in the 1920s, and a supporter of Pan-Africanism and the broader struggle for black labor privilege and women’s empowerment.

Fisher was said to be one of the wittiest writers of his generation, winning acclaim for several short stories including ‘High Yaller’, which won the literary prize of the black magazine The Crisis. In 1927 Fisher opened his own practice as a radiographer in New York City, and in 1928 published The Walls of Jericho, a brilliant satirical novel about a black man moving into a white neighborhood. As a writer, Fisher was at his most masterful when illustrating the day-to-day reality of ordinary people’s lives, and though this comes across in The Conjure-Man Dies, it doesn’t overwhelm his clever story, which is why it would have been so interesting to see how he might have developed as a crime writer. But Dr Fisher died in 1934 at the age of 37, seemingly as a result of exposure to his own X-ray machines, and one can only speculate about what he would have achieved had he lived longer.

What are some other works you’re looking forward to bringing out over the next year? 

We have a new book in April by the “Agathologist” Mark Aldridge, celebrating 100 years of Poirot—Agatha Christie’s Poirot: The Greatest Detective in the World, which has already been released in the UK to great acclaim among Christie fans. Also a brand new Sherlock Holmes novel, The Three Locks by Bonnie MacBird, who really seems to be carving a niche as a favourite among Sherlockians—this is her fourth, and the best yet. Apart from reissuing Fisher’s The Walls of Jericho in May, which isn’t a mystery book but does include some of the same characters as Conjure-Man, we also have The Chill Factor by Richard Falkirk, a Cold War murder mystery first published 50 years ago, set in Iceland when there was still an American naval base there, and a follow-up set in Israel during the Middle East conflict, The Twisted Wire—both are terrific reads. And in our Bodies from the Library series, there’s a fourth volume of uncollected and unpublished stories by the greats of the Golden Age, including John Dickson Carr and Edmund Crispin; plus The Wintringham Mystery, a full-length country house murder by Anthony Berkeley, the founder of the Detection Club (who also wrote as Francis Iles), which was published in such a small way that literally only about three copies form the 1920s are known to have survived. There’s a murder, a disappearing woman, a secret passage, a séance—perfect Christmas reading!

***

View the full article

1 hour ago, aawoods said:

Sounds similar a certain Star Wars movie that was notoriously ill-received....

For the record, I agree that some plotting is inevitable. Even so-called "pansters" must have the general arc in mind, or at least the preexisting twists for a satisfying story, right? How else would Martin have planned the *SPOILERS AHEAD* Hodor scene, or the reveals of various character heritages, or the end-goal of Dany's descent into madness? As much as Martin, like King, talks about eschewing plot for natural character development, in some ways those characters are still on tracks that stem from their backstories. Is that not plot?

 

Excellent points! You really nailed it though with the character backstory observation.

One last thing, if every early stage novel writer possessed the time-honed story instincts of Stephen King, a bit more pantsing might be in order, however, they do not. 

I still maintain the whole pantsing thing started with Jack Kerouac's publicity stunt for ON THE ROAD.

Dramatically speaking, you cannot have a protagonist or an antagonist without a plot, because outside of that context, they don't exist. You can't work from a high-concept premise without a plot. Plot evolves from the concept naturally OR IT'S NOT A STORY CONCEPT. The very basics of genre novel storytelling are PLOT BASED, naturally with a slew of characters interweaving and helping to define and push it forward. When you pitch, you don't pitch character traits, you pitch plot including the inciting incident and first plot point at a minimum.

King novels have PLOT, no question. So he throws characters in bowl and plays pantsing games with them for a few days (or so he says, though his MISERY reflection totally contradicts that) or whatever, then a story emerges, BUT that story has a plot! It's inevitable, or there is no story. Personally, I think he gets the bulk of his story ideas from various sources, as he did with MISERY, but I'm sure it's a mixed bag. Whatever suits him at the time. 

But he can't maintain with any degree of validity that authors can't acquire great story ideas ahead of time, by whatever means, and work from there to flesh out the plot to conclusion. He already admitted he did just that with MISERY.

Even novel writers with advance outlines, in one form or another, realize fluidity as the story moves forward due to the characters coming alive on the page. But a plot plan equals GOALS. Again, if the goal is to retake the mining station on Ceres, a side trip to the slave moons of Jupiter for no good reason (or that would be PLOT) just because X character decided it was a good idea, might not work so well for the story as a whole.

A writer must keep their vision on the overall premise and the time-tested best storytelling ways to get there. This will prevent arbitrary character coups on the page that throw the story out of kilter and lead to rejection slips.

The New Yorker editor reached Randy Wayne White at his historic waterfront home high atop a historic Indian mound on Pine Island on Florida’s Gulf Coast.

“We’d like you to write a story about the Everglades for us,” she told him over the phone.

Randy was in a foul mood. The Outside magazine columnist was also a fishing guide working out of Tarpon Bay Marina on Sanibel Island, just across the bay and salt flats from his home, and it was the height of fishing season.

“I’d been fishing something like 48 days straight,” he says. “So much has been written about the Everglades, I don’t know of anything else to write.” He told her thanks, but no thanks.

He went on with his business: by day guiding his fishing clients to the best underwater neighborhoods in the Gulf of Mexico, and in the early morning hours writing columns and feature stories that give you sunburn. The New Yorker editor did her equivalent: attending Manhattan literary parties, chumming for talent and telling editors: “Randy White’s pretty good, if you can get him.”

In economics there’s supply and demand. Where those two curves meet is your price point. Randy was the supply, and his demand curve—now driven by the mystique of the literary party circuit—had risen sharply. He was already making—and this was in the late 1980s—$13,000 a month for a 1,000-word column in Outside magazine. Thanks to word of mouth and the cache of Outside magazine, other magazines started calling.

But even with his experience as a back-country fishing guide, he was determined to never write a feature on fishing. “I didn’t want to become known as a fishing writer.” Randy had a thing for the written word as well as for managing his career, which lead him into the world of writing books, but not immediately.

“I fell in love with books at an early age,” he says. “I thought if I could write one, I could come upon the magic I found in books.”

But first, this Southwest Floridian had to make a living. One of his first jobs was as a telephone linesman climbing poles, which made it possible to call anywhere in nation for free while dangling 30 feet above the ground.

“I called the News-Press from a pole and it was cold.” He had no experience and no education in journalism, but the Fort Myers, Florida newspaper—which had just been purchased by Gannett and was expanding—hired him. There, he honed his craft, first as a reporter traveling to small towns to write features and then as a daily columnist.

He later became a fishing guide, but never gave up writing. He would rise at 4 a.m., write for a few hours, and then meet his clients at the marina for a day’s fishing on the Gulf of Mexico.

In 1977 he sent an unsolicited story to Outside magazine’s Editor Terry McDonell. The story was rejected but McDonell was so impressed by his writing he hired him as a freelancer, which later turned into his regular monthly column.

“When I started writing for them, it was harder to get a major assignment from Outside than it was to publish a book.” And as he would quickly learn, magazines also paid better.

In the early 1980s an editor with New American Library was looking for writers to contribute to a new thriller series and asked if he would be interested in writing books under contract. The protagonist had to be blond, work in Key West, be freakishly strong, well-hung and had to know Hemingway.

“I wrote the entire book on iced tea and Red Man chewing tobacco in nine days,” he says. “As I recollect there were some nice sentences in it, and I was excited when I got the first copy.”

The Key West Connection by Randy Striker was published in 1981.

“I think the other fishing guides were impressed.”

New American Library was so happy with his speed that the editor asked if Randy could do it again. When he said yes, the editor fired three other writers she’d hired to contribute to the series and left if solely in Randy’s hands.

He wrote six more novels under contract for $5,000 each, always using a pen name. “They were awful,” he says, “and riddled with clichés. But the writing has held up, apparently. All of them are still in print and selling remarkably well.”

“I should have been writing my own books. I felt such self-contempt, but it was a good learning experience.”

Randy is a big man with massive biceps and a shaved head, something that appears more appropriate for the World Wrestling Federation than the literary world. There is no bullshit about him. He’s straightforward and candid, especially about himself. He talks about those in the business who piss him off and is open about his own ego, strong will and work ethic. While it’s the perfect mix of self-awareness and discipline for a writer, it’s unusual to talk with someone so genuine speaking with a stranger.

“I’m driven. Actually driven,” he admits.

He is also beloved. We met at Doc Ford’s Run Bar and Grill, his restaurant named after his famed protagonist and located on Sanibel Island. It is one of four restaurants owned and operated by his partners (Randy owns the franchise.). He lives on the island in seclusion. He became so popular that his home on Pine Island, which he still owns, was overrun by tourists. During our two-hour conversation he is constantly interrupted by fans seeking his autograph. He graciously complies.

Randy is not the type to fall prey to his public image as a famous author, which brings up his experience with the late gonzo journalist Hunter S. Thompson. First, Randy makes clear they were acquaintances, not close friends.

He first met Thompson in 1970 when Thompson was running for sheriff of Pitkin County, Colorado and Randy was a contract phone installer and lineman. Years later, when he was a well-known author, Randy dropped by Thompson’s home in Woody Creek. Thompson’s first words on seeing Randy’s hulking presence after so many years was, “Jesus Christ, you’re even scarier looking than people say.” They spent the evening talking. From then until he committed suicide in 2005, Hunter would call Randy at home in the middle of the night, always with questions about Florida. They still have many mutual friends.

“He was a funny, delightful guy. Clearly brilliant,” Randy says. “Tragically, he just got involved in his own caricature.”

As a magazine writer Randy recalls, “One of the best gigs was Playboy. They’d call me if they had a ‘Playmate of the Year’ in Florida. I’d sit down with her and write the hand-written page and photo captions.” He also wrote feature stories for the magazine.

When his editor at Playboy was about to take the helm of Men’s Health magazine, Peter Moore wined and dined him and made him an exclusive financial offer that was even better than his monthly column at Outside. Seeing a promising opportunity, Randy reluctantly jumped ship and started writing a man’s-man column called “Guys Like Us” for Men’s Health. The editors were blown away by the positive reader response.

“We’ve never had a reaction like this. Keep doing what you’re doing,” they told him.

Unfortunately, he too soon was blown away—by their repeated meddling in his writing. His column became “a diluted, corporate-crafted mess.”

“I had a one-year contract. Peter Moore told me later, ‘I’m the one who drove you out of the magazine business—you should thank me,’” Randy says, “Peter was right, and I still like him a lot. The others involved were well-intended amateurs. A columnist can’t write by committee.”

Throughout his writing career, he says, the Men’s Health episode was “the only unpleasant writing experience I’ve had.” Elsewhere, he says, “I’ve had some incredible editors—particularly at Outside and Men’s Journal—who saved my ass more than once.”

As soon as his contract expired, he quit and walked away from an unhealthy, but substantial, part of his income.

And then the unthinkable happened. The federal government decided to close Tarpon Bay to powerboat traffic. Overnight, White was facing a future with no income and a family to feed.

With two young sons, he did the one thing he knew how to do—write. This time, he would try a novel under his own name. “It had to be good. I wanted the book to be lyrical, even literary, but appeal to the commercial market. Failure wasn’t an option.”

He’d traveled to Central and South America for various magazine stories and fishing outings. Using that knowledge and his background as a fishing guide, he created a realistic story with his protagonist Doc Ford, a marine biologist who lives—where else—on the water in a marina on a fictionalized Tarpon Bay (Dinkin’s Bay in Randy’s novels.)

“Much of it is accurate in terms or description and the plot line—and certainly one of the bad guys,” he says.

He worked day and night and completed Sanibel Flats in seven months. He mailed a paper copy to Robin Johnson, an aspiring agent in New York, who was the daughter of one of his charter clients. Within two weeks, she called back with an offer from St. Martin’s Press for a three-book deal at $5,000 a book.

“I told her I make more than that on magazine stories.” But he signed the contract anyway. He needed the money.

Sanibel Flats was published in 1990. Randy was 39 and finally, a book with his name on the cover was sitting on bookstore shelves and did nothing else.

“It got incredible reviews, but it didn’t sell worth a flip.” So, he found another gig as a fishing guide to shore up his income. Sadly, his next two books suffered the same fate as his first: great reviews, piddling sales.

Still, St. Martin’s offered him another three-book deal. But at about the same time, Neil Nyren, Editor-in-Chief at Putnam, called out of the blue after reading one of his novels and signed him to a three-book deal over the phone and guaranteed him $80,000 a book. Shortly after, he signed with mega-agent, Esther Newberg, vice president of ICM Partners.

“I thought I was rich. I had no clue I’d just caught a damn-near perfect wave.”

Since then he has been a regular on the New York Times bestseller list. In 2001 the Independent Mystery Booksellers Association named Sanibel Flats one of the “100 Favorite Mysteries of the 20th Century.”

Randy has also received the Conch Republic Prize for Literature and the John D. MacDonald Award for Literary Excellency.

His PBS documentary, “The Gift of the Game,” which he wrote and narrated about bringing baseball to Cuba, won the 2002 Woods Hole Film Festival “Best of Festival” award. A catcher since high school, Randy played senior league baseball in Florida on teams that included several ex-Major League players. “I’ve caught a lot of great pitchers,” he says, “including three Hall of Famers.”

During his career he has written dozens of novels and non-fiction books and is working on his third in his “Sharks Incorporated” series, which targets young adults. He’s written for National Geographic Adventure and is still an editor-at-large at Outside magazine.

“The wonderful thing about writing…editors don’t care if you went to college or not. (Randy didn’t.) Or if you’re a man or woman…You don’t apply for a job as novelist. You don’t do interviews. You don’t have to take a test. It’s a pure free market. It’s all about what the individual can do.”

He writes six hours a day, seven days a week. When he comes to the end of a manuscript, he has a long-standing tradition with his two sons, Lee and Rogan. Since they were children, he’s let them come up with the final two words of each manuscript and type them on his aging Underwood. At the end of each author’s note in his novels he thanks them for helping him finish the book. This is the one time he doesn’t mind someone meddling with his copy. It goes without saying, he likes these editors. Maybe they’ve saved his ass too.

This time he’s happy to give them the last word.

___________________________________

Sanibel Flats

___________________________________

Start to Finish: Seven months                    

I want to be a writer: 11 years old           

Decided to write a novel: 1989    

Experience: Magazine columnist, feature writer, fishing guide, adventurer, contract novel writer             

Agents Contacted: One                                      

Agent Rejections: None            

Agent Submissions: One                   

Time to Sell Novel: 10 days                                              

First Novel Agent: Robin Johnson

First Novel Editor: Sally Richardson

First Novel Publisher: St Martin’s Press         

Age when published: 39         

Inspiration: Joseph Conrad                            

Website: RandyWayneWhite.com      

Advice to Writers: Be relentless. Be absolutely relentless. For me learning the craft was a very slow learning curve. Learn to be merciless as an editor.

___________________________________  

Like this? Read the chapters on Lee Child, Michael Connelly, Tess Gerritsen, Steve Berry, David Morrell, Gayle Lynds, Scott Turow, and Lawrence Block.

—From “My First Time,” an anthology in progress by Rick Pullen. rickpullen.com

View the full article

(This article contains spoilers for Psycho and Les Diaboliques. And The Sixth Sense.)

This year marks both the 60-year anniversary of Psycho and the 65-year anniversary of Les Diaboliques. Psycho, directed by Alfred Hitchcock, has become one of the most famous movies of all time. Its brutal murder in a shower and its jolting all-strings score by Bernard Herrmann have acquired the status of memes. Even people who haven’t seen the movie have mimed stabbing movements while emitting staccato screeches to evoke the idea of a psychopath.

Les Diaboliques, made 5 years before Psycho by French director Henri-Georges Clouzot, isn’t as well-known these days, though we might not have Psycho without it. In the early 1950s, Hitchcock was desperate for the rights to the novel on which Diaboliques was based, but Clouzot ultimately won. People have speculated that Psycho was Hitchcock’s attempt to outdo Clouzot. There are certainly parallels within the movies: both are set in creepy collective living spaces (a boarding school, a motel), both depict grisly murders in bathtubs, and both end with a mind-blowing plot twist that pulls the rug out from under us. It’s this last part I want to focus on.

At the time of their release, both movies worked hard to protect their twists. After announcing “The End,” Diaboliques sent viewers out into the world with a disclaimer:

The final disclaimer:

Don’t be DIABOLICAL!

Don’t destroy the interest your friends might take in this film.

Don’t tell them what you’ve seen.

Thank you on their behalf.

Five years later, movie theaters screening Psycho were instructed not to let anyone enter the movie late or leave in the middle, and in some (perhaps apocryphal) cases stationed ambulances outside to tend to viewers overwhelmed by the ending.

All this elaborate management of the audience’s experience seems to confirm the widespread assumption that plot twists are just one-shot disposable tricks. So then why do Diaboliques and Psycho still hold up more than half a century later? Why do they continue to astonish first-time viewers and delight returning fans? Whether you’ve watched one or both or neither of these movies, I want to persuade you that they’re both absolutely worth watching (again) now. Why? Because Diaboliques and Psycho both achieve something very rare: a perfect plot twist but an unspoilable movie.

A plot twist is a machine for sudden dizzying reinterpretation. Bruce Willis is really a ghost! With a lurch we realise that we knew so much less than we thought, but can now look back and see a string of clues hiding in plain sight. The metaphor of having the rug pulled out from under us captures the sense that what we thought was firm ground was in fact a ruse to wrong-foot us. A good plot twist blows our mind by playing on what we know, and what we only think we know. In this way, it transforms an audience’s ignorance and misunderstanding—hardly promising material—into a source of delight.

Diaboliques and Psycho‘s plot twists do this, but they also do more: they consistently invite us to feel an intense (but misplaced) knowingness. By knowingness I mean the way having knowledge makes us feel. Knowledge can make us feel smug and self-satisfied or serenely superior, or it can fill us with anxious dread or agonising anticipation. These movies let us in on massive secrets (murder! crime!) early on, so that we feel like insiders and watch scenes where other characters fail to uncover those secrets. But we fail to realise, until it’s too late, that the movie is keeping other, bigger secrets from us.

* * *

Diaboliques begins with a bad man flaunting what should be secrets. Michel (a slimy Paul Meurisse) is the bullying headmaster of a boarding school near Paris. He’s openly having an affair with Nicole (Simone Signoret looking like a proto-Hitchockian icy blonde), one of the schoolteachers, making no attempt to hide this from his wife Christina (played wide-eyed and shawl-clutchingly by Vera Clouzot, the director’s wife), also a teacher at the school. Even worse, Michel is physically violent and psychologically abusive towards both women. He gives Nicole a black eye and torments the fragile Christina, who suffers from a heart condition, making her eat rotten fish in front of the entire school. Michel’s abuses are publicly known, while the women must keep up appearances.

We experience events from Christina’s perspective, and once she and Nicole are alone together we discover they’re better at keeping secrets. Nicole proposes a secret plot to Christina that will end Michel’s abuses permanently: murder! The women lure Michel to an apartment in Nicole’s small home town, where he hits Christina and then angrily begins drinking the whiskey which the women have knowingly spiked with a sleeping tincture. Before long, Nicole is filling the bathtub with water and holding Michel’s drugged body under the water with remarkable sangfroid while the more sensitive Christina looks away in horror.

The next day they drive the waterlogged body back to the school, and at night roll Michel’s body, now with eyes grotesquely glazed, into the school’s swimming pool. Eventually the body will float to the surface, and it will seem like Michel drowned accidentally in the school’s pool while the women were hundreds of miles away.

But the body doesn’t resurface. The pupils and other school teachers begin to speculate about Michel’s absence, while we share the women’s dark knowledge of what really happened. Nicole fake-accidentally drops a set of keys into the pool, and when the janitor drains the pool Christina looks in and faints in horror—not at the sight of a decaying corpse but because the body isn’t there! Like Christina, our knowingness is first shaken and then shockingly undercut. The vanished body suggests there are further secrets of which the women were unaware. (In contrast to Christina and first-time viewers, returning viewers might be starting to full smugly knowing here.) Nonetheless, we’re still aware that we know more than the school pupils and teachers: we know why Christina has fainted, we’re in on her and Nicole’s secret at least.

Then, strange occurrences begin to pile up. The suit Michel was wearing that fateful night is delivered to the school by a local dry cleaner. A school photograph is taken and seems to have captured Michel’s face in the gloom of a window. A young schoolboy smashes a windowpane with his catapult, and obstinately insists Michel returned to punish him. Is Michel acting from beyond the grave? Did someone take the body in order to blackmail the women? Are their minds playing tricks on them?

“I saw him, I did, I know I saw him”

Still, for all these mysterious new questions, we’re still in on the secret of the women’s murder plot. Privately, though, they begin to unravel. Christina in particular seems to be crumbling under the guilt and anxiety, which in turns makes Nicole increasingly irritable. We share the women’s grim irony as they have to listen to patronizing mansplaining that isn’t even aware of how much it misses. A detective appears on the scene, and the discrepancies in knowledge start generating not only irony but tension: we watch anxiously along with Christina and Nicole as the detective paces around the school, asking questions and noting details that might reveal the women’s murderous plot.

Christina becomes increasingly unwell, and a doctor orders her to stay in bed due to her heart condition. That night, at the movie’s climax, Christina is drawn from her bed by strange noises and shadows. Lured into the bathroom, she turns to see Michel’s body once again submerged in a bathtub.

Christina falls to the ground gasping. As if in a nightmare, the body begins to move. It rises uncannily, dripping bathwater. The hideously glazed eyes of the drowned man turn towards Christina. She looks back with horror, emits a few groans, and then slumps down dead.

So Michel was seeking his revenge from beyond the grave!

But no—almost immediately the energy in the room changes. Michel pops out a set of white contact lenses, revealing his normal eyes underneath. Nicole enters, they check Christina is really dead—yes, the nightmarish spectacle has given her a long-threatened heart attack. Michel and Nicole embrace and rejoice at the small fortune they’ll inherit now Christina has died of natural causes. All along, we thought Christina and Nicole were in cahoots, when in fact Nicole and Michel were the real allies.

Looking back, we realize that because we saw the murder from Christina’s perspective we never actually saw the entire drowning—while Christina was looking away there was plenty of time for Nicole to let Michel come up for air. Our feeling of being insiders on the women’s secret plot kept us from considering that Nicole might have secrets of her own. If we’d given it any thought, we’d have assumed that the diaboliques—the devilish ones—were Christina and Nicole. Now we discover that the real devils are Nicole and Michel.

So here we have our big reveal—the secret that I’ve been trying to avoid spoiling until now. But the movie isn’t done with its twists yet. When I recently rewatched this movie, knowing this twist, I was disconcerted to find this wasn’t the movie’s last surprise. I rewatched it feeling pretty smug, and then discovered that even my knowledge as a returning viewer was misleading me.

The wicked couple gloat, and we’re briefly realigned with their sense of their own superior knowledge compared to Christina, before that too is undercut. The detective enters and arrests the couple. We feared he would discover the women’s murder plot. Instead he discovered the plot beneath the plot. The architects of the movie’s central plot twist now also experience one themselves.

In this series of dizzying reversals, the movie keeps provoking our knowingness only to undermine it. While the big reveal of any plot twist throws us from the illusion of knowledge into an intense ignorance that leads to a new, superior knowledge, the last few minutes of Diaboliques pitch us back and forth between feelings of ignorance and knowingness so that we’re left exhilarated but unsure what solid ground is even left.

* * *

While Diaboliques ends with twists upon twists, Psycho is a rare example of a story that contains two totally distinct plot twists, one near the start, one at the end, and it uses the knowingness generated by the first twist to set viewers up for the second.

In the first 25 minutes of the movie, we follow Marion Crane (Janet Leigh, seductive with a hint of sadness) as she lounges in bed with her married boyfriend, deals with a sexist boss at the bank where she works, impulsively steals $40,000 cash (around $350,000 in today’s money) and goes on the run. She’s in every scene, her goals propel the action. As she drives through the night to reunite with her boyfriend, she stops to sleep at the Bates Motel.

While checking in, she makes polite small talk with the manager Norman (Anthony Perkins, sweet and over-sincere), who overshares about being trapped at the motel with his mother. We share Marion’s condescension towards this sweet but feeble young man, henpecked by his disturbed mother but too attached to ever leave. And we feel superior because we know about Marion’s secret crime that the wide-eyed Norman couldn’t dream of.

“We’re all in our private traps”

In her room, Marion undresses to take a shower. Norman spies on her through a peephole. Shortly thereafter, the shadowy figure of Mrs Bates enters the bathroom to brutally put an end to a seduction Marion wasn’t even aware of inciting. The now infamous shower scene has begun.

The first twist: Marion isn’t the main character, she’s the story’s first victim.

The shower scene is so infamous that it’s hard for viewers today to experience the initial shock of this twist. But the movie in fact did a lot to set early audiences up for surprise. Like Diaboliques, Psycho invites audiences to misattribute the title to the wrong character. Marion acts recklessly, is visibly rattled and even hears voices as she drives, making her initially the movie’s obvious candidate for psycho status. Add to that the fact that Janet Leigh was the movie’s big star and featured front and center on the poster, and you’d expect to be with Marion for the long run.

(While Psycho‘s first twist may no longer surprise, this type of twist does seem to work afresh for every generation: for some it was Drew Barrymore getting bumped off 10 minutes into Scream, for others it was Sean Bean, the biggest name in Game of Thrones, losing his head before the end of the first season. The site TV Tropes even has a name for this: Dead Star Walking.)

Like Christina in Diaboliques, a character whose perspective we’ve shared is killed by something she never saw coming. Her secret turns out not to be the story’s most important secret. Marion’s secret turns out to be irrelevant, and so audiences being in on her secret is irrelevant too.

But we do have a new secret that drives the plot forward: we’ve seen Norman discovering Mother’s murder and covering it up. For most of the rest of the movie, we align with Norman’s knowledge, even though we don’t root for him: when Marion’s boyfriend and sister come investigating we know where they should be looking for clues, what questions they should be asking. When the local sheriff reveals that Mrs Bates is dead and buried, we know that there’s been some trickery as she’s alive and kicking (and stabbing) at the motel. Our knowingness kicks in once again, but this knowingness isn’t tinged with smugness so much as with frustrated impatience—no, don’t go in there! figure it out already! (And if you know what revelations are ahead, this investigation phase feels doubly frustrating.) Scene after scene, the knowledge we share with Norman feels agonizing.

Which brings us to…

The second twist: Mrs Bates really is dead, but the murderous Mother is a split personality in Norman’s mind.

There’s a deeper secret behind the secret we thought we knew, and that the characters needed to uncover. The real psycho is the sweet young man nobody would ever suspect (though he did have that weird interest in taxidermy…).

As with Diaboliques, we thought we were in on the secret of a murder and coverup, and were waiting to see if others would discover it. In fact the knowledge we shared with one of the characters bamboozled us, as it did them. In Diaboliques, Christina was the victim of a plot within a plot, her partner in crime secretly scheming against her. In Psycho the added complication is that Norman is keeping a secret from himself, one part of his mind is plotting against another. We thought knowing what he knew put us in a position of superior knowledge, when in fact it led us to misunderstand the situation as tragically as he did.

* * *

Both Psycho and Diaboliques manipulate feelings of knowingness throughout, culminating in the intense revelation of a whole series of misunderstandings at their denouements. Despite suddenly revealing audiences’ misunderstanding, plot twists usually leave us with a firm sense of certainty at the end. They eventually reveal all the truth, and give us a powerful new interpretive framework that perfectly makes sense of what came before. But that’s not quite how it works in these two movies. After the big reveal of the plot twist, both movies end with a brief flourish that isn’t a full-blown twist but does unsettle our knowingness one last time.

After the double reveal at the end of Diaboliques of Michel and Nicole terrorizing Christina to death, and the detective catching them in the act, we cut to the next morning. The young schoolboy with the catapult smashes another windowpane, and when a teacher asks how he got the catapult back the boy says Christina gave it back to him. The teacher admonishes him that Christina has died, to which the boy simply replies “she isn’t dead, because she came back”. The boy is sent to stand in the corner, as he obstinately repeats “I saw her, I did, I know I saw her”. Fade to black, “The End.”

“I saw her, I did, I know I saw her”

In the moment, it’s hard to know what to make of this final scene, because its significance depends on how we understood earlier scenes that have, just in the last few minutes, been cast in a totally new light. When the boy claimed earlier to have seen Michel, we (thought we) knew Michel was dead and so assumed the boy must either have been tricked or actually seen a ghost. Now we know that he really did see Michel alive. So does that mean he has really seen Christina too? Is she alive, despite what the teacher says? Is this yet another ruse? Is she the movie’s first and only real ghost? The movie doesn’t give us enough evidence—or time—to come to any conclusions.

And even that isn’t quite the end of Diaboliques. Remember that final disclaimer? “Don’t tell them what you’ve seen.” It might seem like a simple instruction, but placed alongside “I saw her, I know I saw her”, the movie reminds us one last time of what it’s repeatedly demonstrated: that seeing may be believing, but it’s not necessarily knowing.

Psycho too, after the big reveal, ends on a note of uncertainty. First a psychiatrist confidently explains Norman/Mother’s psychology in terms of repression and guilt, before we move into the jail cell and hear Norman/Mother’s crowing at having misled the psychiatrist. Each claims to know more than the other, and we have no way of knowing who’s right.

“Why, she wouldn’t even harm a fly…”

So yes, while it’s a spoiler to tell your friends that Nicole is secretly in cahoots with Michel against Christina or that Norman and Mother are the same person, in their final moments these movies raise new doubts about the solid ground we finally felt we’d reached.

I’m reminded of a moment from Friends in which dopey Joey is told not to reveal anything about a pileup of secrets, bluffs and double bluffs, and he responds “couldn’t if I wanted to”. The dizzying twists of Diaboliques and Psycho resolve into new mysteries that—even if we wanted to—we couldn’t spoil

Whereas most plot twists create a vast difference between the first and subsequent experiences, these two movies make viewers’ knowingness (generating it, undermining it) an integral part of every viewing experience. And whereas most plot twists leave us with the pleasing satisfaction of now, finally, perfectly knowing what’s what, these two deliver that deep satisfaction in their big reveals, and then gently tweak the rug one final time, just to remind us not to feel too knowing just yet.

View the full article

When Valora first stepped through the door of my office, the smell of cigarettes followed, along with a palpable physical tension. He was in his thirties but looked older, with a tight, tense frame, deep creases in his face, and bags under his eyes. His thin, sinewy arm muscles twitched under his skin, and his fingers beat a rhythm against each other as he fidgeted to find a comfortable position. He spoke in a staccato voice, interrupting himself when his train of thought outpaced his speech. He had a million questions for us. Who were we? What did we want to know? Where should he start? Did we know about his pending criminal case? He didn’t care if helping us helped him with that; he just didn’t want Dr. Li to get away with fraud or dangerous prescribing.

“Hold on,” we said, Joe and I both reaching toward him, arms outstretched. We had spoken to his attorney to understand the nature of Valora’s arrest and make sure it was okay to meet with him, but, we told him, we couldn’t talk to him about that case without his attorney present.

I pulled out a chair for Valora, picking the most stable one from my collection of discolored brown-upholstered seats in various states of disrepair. I explained that we had received his tip but needed more information to determine whether we could pursue a case. Valora told us his story. We listened, interrupting only to keep him on track; then we went back over every detail from the beginning and opened up countless lines of inquiry. What he told us launched a long and secret investigation, of which only the parts ultimately disclosed at trial ever may be known other than to the judges, attorneys, and prosecutors and, of course, the witnesses and Dr. Li.

At the end of our meeting, Valora repeated that he didn’t care if helping us made a difference in his own case. After his last visit to Dr. Li, he had overdosed on Xanax. He just didn’t want anyone else to get hurt.

“Have you heard about any other overdoses?” Joe asked. It was a key question—one that he would end up asking many times, of many different people. Valora gave Joe just enough to keep him on the road pursuing leads for the next few weeks: a first name, a neighborhood, and a rumor. He also remembered a sign he’d seen in Dr. Li’s office—something about prices per prescription. Sounded too crazy to be true—no doctor would ever do that!

We asked Valora about his health. We had saved these questions until the end. Of course, this was necessary information if we were to understand Valora’s interaction with Dr.  Li, but there were other questions in the back of our minds: Was Valora strong enough to go forward? Would it be ethical to expose him to the type of scrutiny and pressure that might be involved in testifying about the case in an eventual trial? As Valora spoke about his illness, Joe and I took in its physical manifestations: foreshortened arm muscles; swollen and stiff hands; body mass reduced to the absolute minimum. Valora had been a body builder, so he was now left with a defined but atrophied body. He’d also struggled with addiction in the past and still denigrated himself for some of the choices he’d made. In body and spirit, he was a man under relentless attack by an unavoidable foe: himself.

Nevertheless, Valora assured us that he was determined to go forward. I explained what this meant: At some point, his identity and testimony would be a matter of public record. Should we ever go to trial, Valora would be cross-examined on the stand by Dr. Li’s defense attorney, including about his criminal record and credibility. We’re far from that now, I explained, and we’ll work with you to prepare if it happens, but it’s not easy. You’ll have to be up-front about all of it. Are you up for it? Yes, he answered. When I shook it, his hand was clammy and cold, but his grip solid.

Afterward, alone in my office, I wondered whether I was up for it—whatever “it” was. Where was this case going? At the time I couldn’t know. Valora’s story raised the possibility of criminal behavior, ranging from prescription sales to health-care fraud, but there also was the possibility that Dr. Li was just a bad physician, running an unprofessional and lax—but not criminal—practice. It would have felt irresponsible to just stop, without a proper resolution or answer, but the uncertainty made me anxious, especially now that Joe, too, was clocking so many hours on the case.

Valora also presented a particular challenge. He was an important fact witness but had vulnerabilities ranging from his criminal record to his health. If I wanted to preserve him as a witness, I’d have to strike a balance between warning him of the difficulties ahead and guiding him through with a steady and neutral hand. It was not my job to protect him—in fact, I had to be level-headed, transparent, and direct about the challenges he would face down the line. And I would have to subject him to the toughest questioning myself.

You would think that this comes naturally to prosecutors. To some, maybe it does. To others, like me, this kind of questioning is an acquired skill and a significant challenge. When you have grown up seeking to avoid conflict at all costs, it takes deliberate effort to speak awkward truths and accept discomfort. That is precisely why I wanted this job: I hoped and expected it would force me to counter my deep-rooted instincts to put everyone at ease and keep every situation conflict-free. Call it voluntary aversion therapy for a lifelong people pleaser. My old way of functioning would be unethical and unprofessional in the context of my work. I had to let it go. It certainly hadn’t served me well in my personal life, either. At tense moments throughout my workdays, as I realized that I was, yet again, trying to appease or avoid tense situations and emotions, scenes flashed through my mind, warning me away from the old trap.

I’d catch myself studying body language for signs of annoyance, frustration, tension, wondering if someone hated me or was angry at me—those fears and feelings then sent me into a spiral of anxiety and paranoia. For too long, I had learned to watch for danger signs, detect the signals, and ward off trouble by any means necessary.

___________________________________

Excerpted from BAD MEDICINE: Catching New York’s Deadliest Pill Pusher published by One Signal/Atria Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. Copyright © 2021 by Charlotte Bismuth.

View the full article

Draw a circle. The space inside the circle represents the positive space in the drawing. The negative space would be the shape made by the outside of the circle. It’s most noticeable in cut paper art or silhouettes or even those Nagel prints that were so popular in the 1980s. Positive and Negative Space exists within other forms of art as well: ceramics and sculpture, for example. Since writing is also an artform, the theory of Positive and Negative Space also applies to literature and, specifically in this case, world-building or setting.

Often, readers and new writers assume that world-building is what the author describes in detail—whether that’s the history of the fictional continent, the climate, the system of government, cultures, arts, typical foods, monetary system, and social norms. However, what isn’t said tells a story too. It’s in the clothes the characters wear and the materials they are made from. Wool, for example, means there are sheep or creatures like sheep which in turn means shepherds. The sheep are sheared and that wool is cleaned, carded, spun (either by hand or with a spinning wheel), and either knitted or woven. Next, there’s the color of the cloths. Dyes are made from plants, bugs, and sometimes even animal parts. All of these things must be gathered, processed, and applied. Often, as is the case with indigo, it requires a great deal of water. Lastly, are the clothes in question handmade? Or were they manufactured? In Science Fiction—particularly in Space Opera, there aren’t likely to be fields of cotton or herds of sheep available—particularly if the story is set on a generation star ship or living on the moon. That’s when other technologies, like 3D printers must step in. So much can be implied about a world in a simple castoff sentence about an item of clothing or food.

It might be easier to imagine world-building as an iceberg floating in the sea of plot. The reader only sees a small percentage of it. The rest is deep beneath the water and affects everything in the water—visibly and invisibly. That said, communicating with the empty spaces takes a deft hand because the border between too little and just right is quite thin. In addition, Americans in particular are often socially conditioned to say more and listen less. That’s why world building in the blank spaces is an advanced technique most often employed by authors with experience and skill.

A great deal of worldbuilding can happen with what is left unsaid.

Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

In Fahrenheit 451, Ray Bradbury does all the things writers are told not to do when it comes to setting. Much of the details are left for the reader to infer for themselves—effectively conveying a powerful sense of isolation and unease. The country in which the story is set isn’t named and neither is the date. Although, one can easily extrapolate that the characters live in some form of futuristic America. The details of the government aren’t filled in, and this heightens the sense that it’s a sinister force. It’s clear that this version of America is at war but why and with whom are also never explained. There seems to be no past—other than a time when books were legal—and no future. There is only the ever present now, now, now. That’s the point. Everything is surface because the characters are forced to live only in the present. Distractions are a way of life. Asking questions is dangerous. And so we learn that this America is ruled by an autocratic government without ever explicitly being told it is. Books aren’t the only things being destroyed. So is the ability to think.

Octavia Butler, Dawn

Octavia Butler also employs negative space in her novel Dawn. The novel opens with the main character trapped in a blank room and no memory of what happened or how she came to be there. The room in question is inside an alien spaceship. Its interior is made up of blank white walls and floors that can be shaped into whatever is needed. However, the power to do so is locked to alien DNA. At some point, the main character, Lilith, must agree to having that DNA implanted in order to operate the doors of her cell. This is, the reader discovers, a major part of the aliens’ culture and existence. In order to survive, they assimilate different parts of various beings as they travel across the universe. They discovered human beings just before they annihilated themselves. The aliens kidnapped/rescued the remaining population with the intent to repopulate the earth. Lilith has been chosen to lead humans on the path to their new future. The blank setting is in place for a large part of the novel until the humans enter an area that has been created to replicate the Amazon rain forest. Other details given to the reader have to do with alien reproduction, intimate relationships, and biology. The entire novel is stark, and its blankness imposes a creepy claustrophobic air.

Iain M. Banks, Culture Series

Iain M. Banks’s “Culture” novels are another great example. Throughout much of the series the reader is directly told very little about The Culture. Most of what is learned is demonstrated through the actions of its agents—themselves largely unreliable narrators. Pretty quickly we’re made aware that The Culture is vast, is run by artificial intelligences with far advanced technology, and considers itself a helpful influence among the lesser technologically inclined species and planets around them. The Culture interferes, but only in ways sanctioned by the main governmental group. At first, the reader might be inclined to believe The Culture is exactly as powerful and beneficent as is claimed, but over time the cumulative buildup of negative consequences begins to erode this view. One is left wondering if the differences in technological and cultural systems are just too enormous for any interactions or attempts at uplift to result in anything but a mixed bag. Ultimately, very little is said about The Culture, but the silence screams more loudly than if pages had been devoted to exposition.

Ursula K. LeGuin, The Left Hand of Darkness

Ursula K. Le Guin’s The Left Hand of Darkness stands out as one of Science Fiction’s greatest works. Genly Ai, a human from Terra, is sent by the Ekumen (a confederation of planets) as an ambassador to the planet Gethen. His objective is to convince the nations of Gethen to join the Ekumen. He starts his journey in the Kingdom of Karhide. Unfortunately, it turns out that Genly Ai knows very little about the beings with whom he’s been sent to negotiate. While the people of Gethen are humanoids, they have key differences in their biology. For a start, they are asexual and possess characteristics of all genders. However, during kemmer (mating season) their bodies transform and they develop sex organs. As a result, their society has certain social strictures surrounding gender. Genly Ai’s maleness creates barriers to communication. Another issue is that while Gethen has similarities to Earth, the world is in the midst of a glaciation period. The Kingdom of Karhide is facing a famine due to the extended winter.

The plot revolves around the relationship between Genly Ai and Estraven the Prime Minister of Karhide. During the course of the book, we’re given information about the planet of Gethen and the customs of multiple cultures native to it. However, readers are left to infer almost all information about Ekumen via the reactions of Genly Ai to the cultures found on Gethen. Not only does this make sense character development-wise—Genly Ai would be more focused on the uniqueness of Gethen’s cultures than he would be on information he already knows and understands—but this juxtaposition also emphasizes the rift between the cultures of Gethen and Ekumen. It makes Ekumen feels more alien than it would if it were expressly described. In addition, Genly Ai’s situation feels more perilous because the reader isn’t clear what else he doesn’t know about the cultures he’s been sent to interact with, building tension in a slow-paced plot.

***

View the full article

https://stephenking.com/works/novel/misery.html

In his own words: 

"The inspiration for Misery was a short story by Evelyn Waugh called "The Man Who Loved Dickens." It came to me as I dozed off while on a New York-to-London Concorde flight. Waugh's short story was about a man in South America held prisoner by a chief who falls in love with the stories of Charles Dickens and makes the man read them to him. I wondered what it would be like if Dickens himself was held captive."

This clearly demonstrates a plot line and characters planned in advance and executed according to that plan. MISERY was a huge book and movie deal for King. He now officially joins the club of authors who plot and plan their novels - at least to a certain degree, enough to create a best selling novel. This doesn't mean he didn't vary his approach with other novels, but it contradicts his later claims of never plotting. It's just not true and here is the proof. Realistically though, with a great story concept like this, why not do whatever maximizes the chances of writing a great novel. 

39 minutes ago, KaraBosshardt said:

I agree with what you say in terms of the context here-long career of being published vs. just starting out, etc. However Stephen King wouldn't be who he is today if he never allowed himself to write the way that he does. If he'd rigidly adhered to the rules of plot structure when he was first starting out then we may not even be talking about him in this post. Take an artist, for example. How do they know which medium works best for them until they allow themselves to try multiple kinds? Any writer cannot truly find their own unique and authentic voice and style of writing until they give themselves the opportunity to try different things.

Perhaps the middle ground here is a semi-loose plot outline that gives you points A, B and C then "pantsing" your way to each? Or, if people are curious but nervous to let their characters lead the way, then perhaps a short story would give them the ability to try it out without having to fully commit. A tasting, if you will.

I guess I should clarify that I'm not pro pantsing, nor am I pro-detailed outlining. I'm pro allowing yourself to try new things.

For writers trying to break in, they need to appease agents and editors reading the work. If they're missing an inciting incident and first major plot point, they're sunk, period. I know that for a fact after 15 years of pitch conference. So the issue becomes, how loose can the plotting be, so to speak, and still get over the line to be fitted for a brass ring? For those self-publishing, it's the wild west. For more literary authors, certainly more flexibility in some cases. For veteran authors with a good readership, also more room to try new things.

As for me, I know my last novel wasn't rigidly following a continuum of points in the same way a screenplay would, however, it didn't veer off into character-inspired tangents. There were tangents, but not spontaneous ones, rather controlled ones that still supported the main story. I wanted to hit that sweet spot between 85,000 to 95,000 and couldn't afford to get crazy. However, one could still spontaneously veer off now and then, but still more or less follow a coherent genre plotting scheme. It makes rising action development much more steady and sure.

It would be curious to do a study of King's early work and later work in the context of plot. However, I believe his scathing comment that linked plotting to bad writers was a deliberate knock and very petty. He didn't have to put it that way even if he did believe plotting to be a bad idea (which I don't believe he does since his novels are not plotless).

In summary, my many years of workshopping and editing have taught me that new writers are better off following the rules of good fiction writing, simply because 99.9% of them flounder in predictable ways--weak story being one of the ways. Later, perhaps, they can experiment.

But hey, if you get published, that's usually a pretty good sign you did something right... course, there are exceptions even to this.

___________________________________

The Life and Crimes of Marie Dean Arrington

___________________________________

Marie Dean Arrington had been taking matters into her own hands for her entire life. So when she found herself in a minimum security jail cell—well, what was she supposed to do? Just sit there?

Marie was thirty-five, and she’d been committing crimes for over a decade. At 23, while working at a motel as a maid, making 75 cents an hour for scrubbing floors, she suddenly realized that she could make a lot more money if she just robbed the motel instead. So she robbed her boss, and then she tied herself to a chair. When the police arrived, she said that she was a victim of the robbery. (She might have gotten away with it if it weren’t for her one weaknesses: cigarettes. The police noticed that there were cigarette butts all around the chair, and asked Marie how she managed to smoke since her hands were tied. At that, she confessed.)

Now she was in far more serious trouble. She was facing the electric chair. But she’d been put in a minimum security room in the prison hospital at Florida Correctional Institute for Women at Lowell, even though the man who prosecuted her had protested wildly, saying she was “dangerous and will kill again.” She looked around the room. She got to work.

“It’s like she flew out of here,” said the prison superintendent, the next day.

—

Marie was born in Leesburg, Florida on August 8, 1933. She was Black, and Leesburg was segregated at the time. She dropped out of school in sixth grade. And that’s about all we know of her childhood. Decades later, when she spoke to journalist Gary Corsair about her life, she refused to tell him anything about those early years. Her sister wouldn’t talk about their childhood, either. All Marie ever said about that time in her life was in an interview in 1973, where she declared, “I was never handed anything. Everything I ever got I had to fight like hell for.”

Marie certainly did fight like hell, though she was often fighting on the wrong side of the law. One of her high school classmates remembered her as a “peculiar person” and a “bad seed” who didn’t get very much parental supervision, which led to a lot of drinking and running around with a bad crowd. In her twenties, Marie committed a series of offenses, from petty to serious: forgery at age 22, assault at 23, larceny and robbery at 24, passing bad checks at 28, larceny and vehicle theft at 31. When it came to crime, she wasn’t picky about her victims. She forged her sister’s signature once, to steal money from her bank account, and her sister seemed almost impressed, saying, “Marie can imitate anybody. If she sees yours [your signature] one time, she will imitate yours.”

Most of the people who knew her, it seemed, knew that she wasn’t to be trusted. “No one said anything good about Marie,” her high school classmate remembers. “I knew she really did a lot of little terrible things, bad things, what not, like stealing, drinking, and staying out all time of the night with different guys. But I didn’t have no idea that she would murder anybody. No, I didn’t.”

—

For more about the life and crimes of Marie Dean Arrington, listen to episode 40 of Criminal Broads. 

Follow Criminal Broads on Instagram. 

View the full article

“Your father was working for the CIA,” said Bogdan, husband of my second cousin, a provocative person, especially after several bottles of local Slovenian wine. 

Nine of us were finishing a pleasant dinner in Ribić, a seafood restaurant on the Adriatic coast near Trieste in 2010. We were reminiscing about the years our American and Slovenian families had known each other, a relationship that began in 1951, when I was brought to Yugoslavia as a ten-month-old.  My parents were in London for a year on a Fulbright grant when my father decided to visit the Slovenia mountain village his parents left in 1911.

Bogdan’s claim stopped the conversation.  “Preposterous, out-of-the-question,” I laughed.

The accusation, unthinkable at the time, stayed with me. I knew the surface details of my father’s life—birthplace, college, Marine Corps, Harvard-educated New School professor—but he was secretive about his private life, and when I was a boy the whole of his work life seemed remote and mysterious.  I went off to college, started a career, had my own children, and there was never a good occasion to ask about his early life. My parents divorced in 1969 and his remarriage helped close the window onto his past with my mother. My parent’s lives in their twenties were a sort of pre-history, but with time I discovered new things about them. The secret affairs they kept from me—and from each other.

I remained curious about the Yugoslav trip, but the closest I got were grainy photographs taken during the three-week visit—my parents among smiling relatives in a country recovering from war.

Several years after Bogdan’s allegation, I looked into his claim. 

***

My parents—both passed away—never said much about the trip except to recount pleasant stories of being embraced by distant relatives who’d been partisans in the war. There were old photographs of me in the arms of a kindly Slovenian aunt who cared for my brother and me while my parents disappeared for several weeks. 

I turned to my father’s memoir, published the year he died. I had skimmed it, but my resentment about the divorce made it difficult for me to read without getting angry at how little he said about the family and how much about himself. He devoted one chapter to the 1951 trip.

The trip was financed by the Voice of America through an old college friend who worked as a propaganda analyst, and wanted a study on Yugoslav reactions to BBC, Radio Moscow, and VOA broadcasts. The VOA was based in New York, but funded and managed from Washington by the State Department. Official support for the trip was rejected by the State Department. George V. Allen, the American ambassador in Belgrade, was concerned that formal sponsorship, if it came to light, would affect fragile relations between the countries. Tito and Stalin had split in 1948, and the US was secretly looking for ways to pull Yugoslavia further from Soviet influence. Frank Wisner, head of the CIA’s covert arm, was secretly negotiating with the UDBA, Yugoslavia’s ministry of state security, to sell military equipment to help Tito resist a Soviet attack.

“I cavalierly agreed to do this study on my own time and at my own risk,” my father wrote. “It did not occur to me that this might be regarded as a form of spying, or that I was an accomplice in Cold War propaganda operations. I was interested in the $500.”

I was startled to read how he thought he’d been engaged in a ‘form of spying.’ I requested a copy of his 115-page VOA report from the archives at The New School where he’d taught sociology for more than 40 years.

My parents’ trip went forward without official State Department clearance, but he was fortunate to get the assistance of the British Foreign Office. They lived at 10 Highgate West Hill in London on the first floor of an old mansion that have been converted to apartments. Peter Carey, their neighbor, befriended my parents, sharing his coal ration during the extremely cold winter of 1950-1951. 

Carey, I discovered, was a British military intelligence officer in WWII in Yugoslavia who spoke fluent Serbo-Croatian. He fought in the Balkans 1943-1945, living with partisans, harrying Germans, and interfering with their communications right up to D-Day. When the war ended Carey was temporarily assigned to the British embassy in Belgrade, and then he chose to return to Oxford where he completed a degree in classics. When Carey befriended my father, he was in the British Foreign Office, head of the Yugoslav desk.

Carey readily made himself helpful on the study. He translated Serbo-Croatian transcripts of VOA programs to help my father formulate questions, and he organized personal letters of introduction to high-placed Yugoslavs and British embassy staff. As my father recounts, letters were sent to Zinka Milanov, the world-renowned Croatian opera singer; Lawrence Durrell, the writer, then British Attaché in Belgrade, and a distinguished linguist at the University of Zagreb who was Tito’s English teacher.    

The trip started in June 1951. My father wrote: “Readied for the expedition with wife, two babies, and a bicycle, we boarded a train at Waterloo Station headed for Paris for a connection on the Simplon Orient Express to take us to Ljubljana. Even in third class, the accommodations were comfortable until we reached the Yugoslav border at Trieste where we were required to change from French to Yugoslav cars. The Yugoslav train was more like a cattle car outfitted with wooden benches.”

They entered Yugoslavian checkpoint just beyond Trieste, becoming among the first Americans to enter Slovenia by this route since the end of the war. They were interrogated by border guards. Two years earlier, Yugoslavia downed two US Air Force C-47s over Trieste, killing one crew, claiming the American planes had illegally entered Yugoslav air space.  But people on the train were cordial to the Americans. My father wrote that old Slovenian peasant women insisted on caring for my brother and me, and my parents were offered bread, wine, and slivovica, the local plum wine. Old and young alike wanted to engage the returning Slovenian in sign-language and broken-English conversations.     

My mother was aware of the dangers. Before leaving London, she wrote to a college friend: “Cross your fingers that war doesn’t start while we’re there.”

***

Cold War tensions were at a peak in 1951. The year before, North Korean troops streamed across the 38th Parallel, initiating the Korean War. There was fear in Washington and London that the Soviets would invade Yugoslavia to forcefully reclaim it. The CIA’s National Intelligence Estimate 29, written for Truman in March 1951, concluded there was a “serious possibility the Soviet Union or its satellites, Rumania or Hungary, would invade Yugoslavia.” The British Chiefs of Staff made a similar assessment.  Yugoslavia had a long land border with his hostile Communist neighbors and there was concern that Danubian plains north of Belgrade were vulnerable to armored attack.

American intelligence in Yugoslavia was a one-man operation in 1950. The CIA opened its station in Belgrade in 1948 and the first Chief of Station was a junior officer who operated under cover as an interpreter for Ambassador Allen. His principle qualification was that he knew Serbo-Croatian. He operated a translation service with the British embassy, sending Washington whatever intelligence he gleaned from English translations of Tito’s notoriously long speeches and whatever casual intelligence he picked up in bars and restaurants. His job, he explained, was “to go and just soak up Yugoslavia.”  But he was one man. The joint translation service with the British assured that whatever went to Washington also went to Peter Carey, head of the Foreign Office Yugoslav desk.

The CIA upgraded its station in January 1951, bringing in Louis Charles Beck, who had been an FBI agent undercover as a US Army captain liaison to Soviet military leadership in Moscow during WWII.  He joined the CIA upon its creation in 1948 and came to Belgrade with knowledge of Russian and familiarity with Soviet military thinking.  His directive was to “do everything they could to move Tito away from Stalin.” 

My parents arrived in Ljubljana at a risky time and they knew the dangers. Yugoslavia’s formidable secret police, the UDBA, had rounded up more than 100,000 Yugoslavs with Soviet sympathies and thousands had died in prison.

My father’s host in Ljubljana was Marjan Sadar, a cousin, and a textile factory manager. My grandparents had generously supported their Yugoslav relatives during the war and my father was embraced with great warmth and affection. He was introduced to uncles, aunts, and cousins, some of whom were look-alikes. Same nose, same blue eyes, same chin. He visited Kropa, the small mountain village his parents had left in 1911, and he was given access to many people who shared stories fighting Germans, and their views of Tito and Stalin. 

Sadar secured the use of a state-owned car (one of only a few cars in all of Slovenia), with a driver provided by the Slovenian Communist Party Chief, husband of another cousin. My older brother and I were left in the care of my father’s aunt, Lojzka, and her daughter, while my parents traveled to Ljubljana, Zagreb, Belgrade, and through the countryside. Of course, as a ten-month old, I have no memory of that time. It was only while researching the 1951 trip that I learned Lojzka survived Dachau and her unmarried daughter lived with the stigma of a wartime relationship with a Nazi officer.

My father conducted forty-two interviews, each several hours long, in homes, airport waiting rooms, cafes, farms, and offices—secretly typing up notes at night on a portable Smith Corona. The subject of radio propaganda was of intrinsic interest to Yugoslavs at the time. Yugoslavia was being bombarded with messages from the VOA, BBC, and Radio Moscow and there was little trust in the official news presented by state-controlled Yugoslav radio stations.

He talked with factory workers, party leaders, the old bourgeoisie, famers, plant managers, students, and relatives.  His interviews touched on radio listening preferences, but much of his questioning touched on highly sensitive political topics. The 115-page report addressed the consequences of Tito’s break with the USSR, opinions toward America, and gripes about Tito. Taken as a whole, the report is a snapshot assessment of popular opinions toward Cold War adversaries—the United States and the Soviet Union.   

He kept his work secret. He wrote: “When doing my interviews, I was unable to take notes for the obvious reason that the study did not officially exist. Keeping a record of the interviews was a problem…I had to remember as much of an interview as possible until I could record it. I kept a visual image of an interview’s setting and memorized key words and phrases in order to reconstruct the account. I recorded my notes whenever I could, usually late night in the privacy of my bedroom. Once recorded, I hid the notes in my baggage.” He thought of himself as an amateur spy, he wrote. And he had a good cover. “No one bothered to probe into the personal affairs of a father traveling with a wife and two children.”

One Slovenia relative wrote to me. “Your parents with chauffeur and interpreter came to Rijeka and left your brother with us (you were in Radovljica alone) and they went down the Dalmatian coast to Split.  The story is, your mother was partying with some students and spent a night in the police station. It would be interesting to see what the UDBA archives say about your parents. I am sure they were followed very closely.” 

Now, as I think about my parents, both twenty-nine years old at the time, conducting their research and feeling the danger, I do wonder: what were they thinking, leaving their two infant sons in the care of women who were almost strangers, aware the UDBA might be following them. Records of the UDBA, like those of the Stasi, have been made available to the public, and I asked the Slovenia Ministry of Culture to examine its microfiche and papers records for any mention of my parents. I received a reply that all archives were searched and no records were found, followed by a final comment: “The absence of UDBA records indeed seems to be a little surprising in relation to the nature of his work.”

The final 115-page typed report has cross-outs and one page is mysteriously stamped CONFIDENTIAL. The page caught my attention. I had found a copy of the report in my father’s papers in The New School’s archives. The report makes political assessments that would have been of great interest to American intelligence officials who lacked direct knowledge of Yugoslav public opinion.  One chapter describes how trusted, word-of-mouth reporting through informal channels occurs along train lines and boats that travel up and down the coast. Another chapter addresses the resentments of the disaffected bourgeoisie, factory workers, and farm laborers toward the Communist Party. The report goes beyond radio listening preferences; it provides a road map for influencing Yugoslav public opinion.   

He submitted the final report shortly after returning to the US. He wrote: “To my surprise, within a week I had a call summoning me to Washington for an interview and debriefing with a State Department functionary on the Yugoslav desk.” 

My older brother, who interviewed our father at the end of his life, said, “He did go to Washington DC to brief the State Department. That always struck me as an indication that his spying was considered important enough to merit a high-level cross-examination.”

Was my father working for the CIA? Or even MI6? In spite of my father’s claim that he was an ‘amateur spy,’ I am reasonably certain he used the phrase figuratively. The report went to the State Department in Washington and probably also to Carey in London. Given the cozy relationship between the State Department and the CIA in 1951, I suspect the report found its way to the CIA. 

I didn’t fully answer the question that I set out to explore, but in the process of looking into Bogdan’s claim I discovered things about my father—his first encounters with relatives with whom he maintained a life-long friendship, curiosity about his roots, the appeal of adventure in a dangerous place, and his willingness to put his family at risk. I thought I knew my father when he was alive. He’s been dead more than a decade, but not a year goes by that I don’t discover something about him that makes me realize that I hardly knew him at all.

*

View the full article

“It is impossible to drive anywhere in America today without encountering a patient, droop-shouldered chap who stands by the roadside and continuously jerks his thumb across his chest. He is the hitch-hiker, one of the strangest products of the auto age, and he is getting to be a prominent part of the American landscape. He is also getting to be an intense pain in the neck. Just why it should be considered proper for a man to stand by the roadside and beg free transportation from total strangers is a mystery….But the hitch-hiker is something more than a nuisance. There are times and places when the hitch-hiker is an actual menace to public safety….[M]urders of motorists by hitch-hikers have been recorded recently in Oregon, Virginia, Nebraska, New Mexico, and Oklahoma….It might also be remembered that when Pretty Boy Floyd was finally hunted down and killed in Ohio he was in the process of hitch-hiking across the country….As an individual, the hitch-hiker may be a likeable chap. As an institution, he is getting to be pretty trying. One wonders just how much longer the American motorist will put up with him.”

—“Hitch-Hiker is Menace and Nuisance,” Santa Rosa Republican (September 11, 1935)

___________________________________

On the afternoon of Monday, February 5, 1940, a handsome, narrow-faced, dark-eyed youth with a mane of black hair calmly walked into the police station at Las Vegas, Nevada, then a small city of some 8500 souls, placed a revolver on a table and quietly implored, “Lock me up. I’ve just killed a man.” Asked to explain himself, he added “I guess I’m just a smart hitchhiker. I killed him to get some money.” Upon examining the car which the darkly attractive young man had driven into the city, the police found blood spattered over the seat and floorboards and an empty gun cartridge on the floor. The self-described “smart hitchhiker,” who gave his name as George Emanuel, his native state as Indiana and his age as twenty-three, guided police some thirty miles southwest of Las Vegas, to the turnoff to the small town of Goodsprings. There by the side of the road the police found the body of a man who bore a fatal gunshot wound to the head and whose clothes had been riffled, presumably for cash.

George Emanuel

Earlier that day the murdered man, stocky, forty-two year old Floyd Monroe Brumbaugh, had picked up the hitchhiking George Emanuel in the town of Barstow, California, offering to take him to Las Vegas. According to George’s account, the two men had ridden peaceably from Barstow across the California-Nevada state line, “talking of this and that,” until, some thirty miles from Las Vegas, the younger man suddenly pulled a gun from his pocket and shot his benefactor point blank in the head, killing him instantly. “He never saw it coming,” George told the police. “He was looking straight ahead and never knew what hit him.” Brumbaugh, who had been driving at around fifty-five miles per hour when George fired the fatal shot, slumped down over the steering wheel, causing the car to swerve, but his frantic murderer was able to shove his bloody, brain-spattered corpse aside and gain control of the careening machine. After taking the turnoff to Goodsprings, George pulled over and dumped Brumbaugh’s body out by the side of the road, going through his pockets for cash and finding but a single penny. (In his haste he missed the $6.50—about $118 dollars today—which Brumbaugh had carried on his person.) Demoralized, George dazedly drove into Las Vegas, where he gave himself up to local authorities, insisting that robbery had been his sole motive for the shocking slaying. Soon sensation-hungry newspapers across the country were emblazoning news of Nevada’s ironic “one-cent hitchhiker slaying,” doubtlessly spurred on by the murderer’s dark good looks and spotless social standing.

A pulchritudinous scion of highly respectable small-town, white-bread Middle America, George Hawley Emanuel claimed among his distinguished forebears not only a prominent Indiana doctor and lawyer but his beloved paternal grandmother, Ida Virginia Emanuel, head librarian of Auburn, Indiana’s Eckhart Public Library until her death in 1923. George’s identically named late father, who died when young George was only sixteen, had been a Chicago journalist and publicity agent while his widowed mother, Irene, was employed as the executive secretary to the Family Welfare Association of Evansville, Indiana—the Emanuel family, which also included George’s younger brother and sister, John and Mary, having moved from Chicago to Evansville four years earlier.

Young George had graduated with honors from Evansville High School and attended Howell Military Academy when he married welfare worker Marjorie McKinnon, relocating with her to Indianapolis. The couple divorced in 1939 and a despondent George returned home to live with his mother, clerking in a bookstore and working around the house until October, when he resolved, like many another restless soul during the unsettled years of the Depression, to hitch his way to the Golden State of California. His avowed plan was to visit his brother John, a student at Stanford University, and a couple of aunts. Once in California he became a laborer with the North American Airplane Factory in Inglewood, near Los Angeles, where the advent of the Second World War had already started a boom in the munitions industry. However, during the first weekend of February 1940 George, having abruptly quit his factory job, started drinking heavily and lost a large sum of money at the racetrack at Santa Anita Park in the city of Arcadia. On Sunday he determined to pick up such meagre stakes as he had in the Golden State and hitchhike to New Orleans, first purloining and loading the gun owned by one of his roommates. In Los Angles a friendly man picked him up in his car and carried him some eighty miles, dropping him off near Victorville, where another obliging fellow spotted him and drove him an additional forty miles to Barstow, cite of his fatal encounter with Floyd Brumbaugh.

Floyd Brumbaugh and Willie Bell Brumbraugh

The late Floyd Brumbaugh was also originally a native of the Hoosier state, although he hailed from the far northern town of Goshen, located all the way across the state from George’s Evansville. An itinerant carpenter of substantially German descent, Brumbaugh in June 1939 had departed Goshen for California, stopping off for the time at the town of Tulare, located in the heart of the San Joaquin valley. Like George the ruddy-faced, barrel-chested, 5’7” Brumbaugh seems to have led a peripatetic life and had a history of erratic relationships with independent women prior to his death in the Nevada desert. During the First World War, when he like George was but a youth, he had served with the United States military at the U. S.-Mexican border town of Nogales, Arizona, site in 1918 of the so-called Battle of Ambos Nogales, a violent border clash between Americans and Mexicans. In 1919 he left the army and married Arizona schoolteacher Emma Casanega, a daughter of Thomas David Casanega, a former Arizona deputy sheriff, saloon keeper and cattleman originally born Tomo Vido Kazanegra in the European principality of Montenegro. With Emma Brumbaugh fathered two boys and a girl, but the couple divorced in 1930 and the children all remained with their mother. Brumbaugh moved five hundred miles away to Carlsbad, New Mexico, found work as a potash miner and wed double divorcee Willie Belle Nicholson, proprietress of the Crawford Beauty Clinic; yet, although the couple had remained married at Brumbaugh’s death, Brumbaugh was living with his parents in Goshen when he decided to make his fateful foray out to California in June 1939. It was believed that when he picked up George Emanuel in February 1940, Brumbaugh planned to return home to Goshen, after making a stop at Carlsbad to visit his wife, whom he had seen only once in three years. Both he and George were men at loose ends, but George’s loose ends were burning.

Although “one-cent slayer” George Emanuel damningly had confessed to Brumbaugh’s brutal murder and taken the Las Vegas police out to the exact spot where his victim’s body was located, he later recanted his confession and pled not guilty, presumably on account of Nevada courts at that time not allowing an insanity plea. However, at his trial in early April for first degree murder the handsome youth, as he was often sympathetically described in newspapers, broke down on the stand and confessed (yet again), sobbing “I don’t know why I killed him….I didn’t intend to rob him….It just seemed the thing to do at the time. I couldn’t help myself, I guess….I had hoped that it might be just a bad dream.” Some of the spectators in the packed Las Vegas courtroom were moved to tears by George’s testimony, and there were further displays of waterworks when George’s mother Irene testified. Irene Emanuel insisted that her boy had been “the most pacific sort of lad when he was small” and that he since had led an exemplary life, aside from his recent spot of murder. She speculated that some sort of mental derangement had set in after the failure of his brief marriage, tearfully avowing that she should have seen that he received psychiatric assistance at the time.

In his closing argument the prosecutor, Clark County district attorney Roland H. Wiley (best known today as the idiosyncratic creator of the Cathedral Canyon, a onetime popular shrine erected fifty miles outside of Las Vegas), mercifully allowed to the jury of ten men and two women that he would be satisfied with sentencing the youthful defendant to life in prison, rather than putting him to death in the gas chamber. “Extinction is not necessary,” he benevolently pronounced. “But redemption is possible.” The jury thereby followed suit, rendering a verdict of guilty but recommending a punishment of life imprisonment, which the presiding judge accepted, to the palpable relief of George’s attendant mother, brother and aunts. Newspapers made no mention of any of Brumbaugh’s kin having attended the trial. Astonishingly, Willie Belle Brumbaugh only received official confirmation of her husband’s February death a week after the murder trial had concluded in April.

***

Three-and-a-half years after Nevada’s infamous “one-cent hitchhiker slaying,” authors Richard “Rickie” Wilson Webb and Hugh Callingham Wheeler, who wrote popular crime fiction together as Q. Patrick, Jonathan Stagge and Patrick Quentin, were out of the Army and back in each other’s company again, spinning writing ideas and otherwise killing time at the Riverside Hotel in Reno while awaiting the six-week statutory period for the granting of Webb’s divorce, after six tumultuous months of a most ill-advised marriage, from his wife Frances Winwar, a successful author whose recent books included biographies of Oscar Wilde and Walt Whitman. Quite possibly old accounts of George Emanuel’s Las Vegas murder trial with their hints, to those so inclined to hear it, of homosexual innuendo, and the prominently displayed newspaper snapshot of the photogenic young killer, who resembled nothing more than a dazzling movie star gangster, caught the authors’ eyes, just as the Leopold-Loeb case had fascinated Rickie Webb years earlier, inspiring him to write his highly regarded 1935 Q. Patrick detective novel The Grindle Nightmare.

Rickie Webb’s and Hugh Wheeler’s fifth Patrick Quentin novel, Puzzle for Fiends, published three years after the authors’ ’43 Reno sojourn, opens with a brief prologue wherein their series characters Peter and Iris Duluth are sadly saying goodbye to each other at the Hollywood Burbank Airport. Peter finally has been discharged from naval service in the Pacific and has returned home for good—only to find that his glamorous actress wife Iris is patriotically heading out to the Pacific on a three-month USO tour. Iris is forlorn at having to part ways yet again with Peter, but the now ex-seaman puts on a show of conversational bravado, telling her to “think of the Occupation Army panting to see its favorite Hollywood cookie in the flesh.” After retorting “I don’t want to be seen in the flesh except by you,” Iris bids him to be careful on his drive down to Naval Base San Diego, for his “last fling” with the boys from the boat. “All that champagne we drank at the hotel,” she worries. “You know what champagne does to you.” Shrugging off such wifely concerns, the lonely Peter heads back to his car. As he opens the door, he feels a hand on his arm and turns around to see a “boy with a thin, narrow face, close-set eyes and an untidy mane of black hair.” It seems this “boy” wants to hitch a ride to San Diego and Peter, the champagne having made him “expansive,” readily assents, as he catches a glimpse of Iris’ plane zooming down the runway. End prologue.

Many bizarre and horrific events follow over the course of this crime novel, which is highly recommended, but what is of further pertinence to us here is its epilogue. Therein Peter Duluth, suffering from amnesia and having barely escaped with his life a week earlier from the nefarious clutches of some exceedingly fiendish individuals, is now residing at a “cheap little Los Angeles hotel,” still unable to remember who he really is, his future looking “as blank and featureless as a drowned man’s face.” He glumly sits down “in one of the lobby’s worn leather chairs,” and looks at the front page of a newspaper:

The photograph of a man at the head of a column of print caught my eye. Wasn’t there something dimly familiar about that young, narrow face with the close-set eyes and the flopping mane of black hair?

Indeed there is. The dark young man in the newspaper photo is none other than Peter’s bold hitcher, one Louis Crivelli:

[Crivelli] had been arrested in San Diego for a car holdup and, under police questioning, had admitted to having bummed a ride from a certain Peter Duluth, slugged him and stolen his car one month before….The police were going to take Crivelli to the spot where he claimed to have abandoned Mr. Duluth and were going to start a new search from there. It was believed now that Mr. Duluth was suffering amnesia caused by a blow on the head struck by Crivelli.

Turning to the continuation of the article on page three, Peter finds himself staring at a picture of “Peter Duluth,” whom he realizes is none other than himself. Everything comes back and he goes over to the phone booth “in a dreary corner of the lobby” and calls his ministering angel Iris, who on having heard of his having gone missing rushed back home from Japan….Aside from the Italianization of the hitching villain’s name from George Emanuel to Louis Crivelli (“Emanuel” often is associated with Jews, but it also is a Welsh protestant surname) and the fact that Peter mercifully is sapped by Crivelli rather than shot, the similarity between the real life crime on the road to Las Vegas and the fictional one on the way to San Diego seems sufficiently clear.

If Rickie Webb and Hugh Wheeler followed other Nevada news as well, they would have found that violent sudden death seemed to plague that far southern section of the state like it was an arid but no less unhealthful version of the Bermuda Triangle. On the evening of January 16, 1942 a Burbank bound plane carrying a real life Hollywood actress, Carole Lombard (who was returning to LA from a patriotic war bond rally in her home state of Indiana), along with twenty-one other people, including Lombard’s mother and press agent, three crew members and fifteen U. S. Army Air Corps personnel, slammed into Potosi Mountain, a dozen miles from Goodsprings, instantly killing everyone on board. At the Pioneer Saloon in Goodsprings Lombard’s husband, actor Clark Gable, for three days futilely waited for hopeful news of his wife’s fate. Not for him the happy fictional reunion of Peter Duluth with his beloved actress spouse.

Rickie Webb

Sixteen years later, on April 21, 1958, there occurred another Nevada air disaster, the worst in the state’s history, when southwest of Las Vegas, not far from the spot where George Emanuel had dumped Floyd Brumbaugh’s body, a Douglas DC-7 transport aircraft carrying forty-two passengers and five crew collided with a U. S. Air Force fighter jet crewed by two pilots. Both planes fell nearly vertically to the ground and exploded on impact, leaving no survivors. Among the dead passengers of the Douglas DC-7 was a forty-year-old Douglas Aircraft executive from the Los Angeles area named John Barrett Emanuel—the younger brother of George Emanuel, who had been in attendance in Las Vegas on that April day eighteen years earlier when, due the beneficent indulgence of the jury, judge and prosecutor, his murderer brother had avoided being put to death in the gas chamber for the commission of first degree murder. Less than a month later, the Emanuel boys’ ailing mother Irene died at the age of seventy in Sacramento, California, where she lived with her daughter. Irene Emanuel had departed from Evansville, Indiana two years after her elder son’s trial to become an executive secretary with the California Red Cross. The civic-minded widow was also active in the California League of Women Voters.

Also civic minded, in his later years, was George Emanuel. When he died in 1995 from a heart attack at Ventura, California at the age of seventy-nine, he was lauded as a longtime supporter of youth baseball. Back in 1958, the year of his brother’s and mother’s death, George, then a free forty-one year old sheet metal worker, had started a Little League baseball team in Inglewood, the city he had so hastily exited with a loaded gun in 1940, so that his young son could play the sport. Besides his son—who at his father’s death lived in Victorville, where George had once infamously hitched a ride—the dead man left a widow, two daughters, eight grandchildren and eleven great-grandchildren. Seemingly life ended pacifically for elderly family man George Emanuel. Before his own death, however, was George ever plagued by thoughts of his wanton crime from long ago? Had he ever come genuinely to understand why he even committed it? Was robbery really his motive or had some other reason which he could never bring himself to name—a desire to make a Leopold-Loeb style thrill kill or an attack of so-called “gay panic”—prompted the killing? I would have given more than a penny—inflation adjusted, of course—for the one-cent slayer’s thoughts.

View the full article

My recent novel, Blood Will Have Blood, was driven in part by my fascination with protagonists who find themselves in dire exigent circumstances, facing predicaments where recourse to conventional protocols and laws simply fails. Sometimes dialing 911 isn’t an option. One of my favorite movie examples is Cape Fear (the original, with the inimitably noble Gregory Peck). Here is an officer of the court, an upstanding man of laws, stalked by Robert Mitchum’s vengeful ex-con, whose mayhem cuts through any notion that societal restraints can keep the order of things. How starkly this reality eventually strips Peck of his norms, leading this good citizen down a decidedly dark path when, at his wit’s end and fearing for his family, he conspires to have his predator beaten by thugs (unsuccessfully, it turns out). A choice has been made—an acknowledgement, if you will—and it comes as no surprise that their final showdown between the two men occurs in the wilds of nature.

Below are examples of five films with similar themes. At some critical point, each protagonist makes an existential choice—much like Peck’s character. Of course, not all of these protagonists have the moral authority of Gregory Peck (few do!). Nonetheless, each works with what they have when facing intractable scenarios.

High Noon

Cary Cooper’s sheriff in this iconic film is the embodiment of man standing alone. In this instance, it’s not the laws of society that have abandoned him, it’s the society itself—no one in this betraying town will stand with the very man who kept them safe, and he’s left alone in his high noon stand-off with the lawless gang out to kill him. Not to do a bait-and-switch, but I’m actually more fascinated by the choice a supporting character makes: the sheriff’s wife (Grace Kelly). Her love for her husband may not be in doubt, but neither is her unbending pacifism, her deep commitment to her Quaker faith. Her solution is as clear as her ultimatum: leave the town before they arrive, or she will leave on the noon train without him. But when she hears shots fired, she leaps from the station to come to her husband’s aid. Not only that, she shoots dead one of the gang members!

Fresh

Fresh is a brilliantly stark tale of the harsh realities faced by an inner-city youth, Michael (aka “Fresh”) as he maneuvers to survive his dystopic world. The twelve-year-old runs heroin for Esteban, a local dealer, and stashes his accumulating money to fund his plans for a better life—for him and his sister, an addict who Esteban has in his sights. His absentee father (Samuel L. Jackson) hustles chess games in the park, and Fresh culls important lessons on strategy from him. The chess metaphors throughout the film are brilliantly weaved. When his friend is killed, and Esteban’s hold on his sister gets tighter, he makes his choice and sets the game in motion, setting up Esteban to take a fall so he can acquire police protection and a rescue his sister from her downward spiral.

Collateral

Max (Jamie Foxx) is a taxi driver who dreams of a better life running his own limousine business, but his routine remains unchanged, and he satisfies himself by perusing brochures of top line vehicles between fares. When Vincent (Tom Cruise), hops in his cab at LAX, a nightmare odyssey commences, as the assassin forces him to ferry him from hit to hit. Ironically, it is the evil force of Vincent that slowly coaxes Max into action, to making choices that propel him out of his passive state. But the crucial choice is actually made before Vincent crosses his path. Early in the plot, Max strikes up a conversation with Annie Farrell, a federal prosecutor who, it is later revealed, is on Vincent’s hit list. If Max had not stepped out of his passive nature—had not, at the last moment, asked Annie for her phone number—this discovery would never have served as the catalyst for Max’s climactic actions, when he transforms into the action hero who will save her and kill the villain.

Prisoners

In this harrowing film that unflinchingly examines ethical boundaries, two girls are abducted, a suspect (who appears mentally deficient) is arrested and released, and the clock is ticking on locating the children. Keller, the father (Hugh Jackman) of one of the missing girls, is deeply convinced of the suspect’s guilt, who, during a scuffle, has whispered to him: “They didn’t cry until I left them.” Unable to convince the police to act and powerless to turn to other options, he makes a fateful choice to abduct the suspect and torture him. Keller is depicted as a moral, even devout, man who, in facing an evil, risks becoming that which he combats. I don’t want to give spoilers to those who have yet to see this unrelenting film, but the revelations and, at times, literal descent into darkness lay bare the consequences of the stark choice.

Sophie’s Choice

At its very core, the film presents an impossible choice. So much so, that the title has become parlance for the situation forced on Sophie, played with heartbreaking perfection by Meryl Streep. Rounded up by Nazis in Warsaw, pleading to a sadistic officer for release, she faced with an option that is meant to kill her soul: pick one child to live, or both will die. More so than any of the other film examples, these are not mere exigent circumstances. It is a living hell with no humanity, one in which no outcome can provide a possibility of escape. When Sophie makes her choice and cries out “Take my little girl!” each word tumbles from her like birds falling from the sky, leaving an empty horizon.

***

View the full article

The CrimeReads editors select the month’s best debut novels in crime, mystery, and thrillers.

*

Ashley Audrain, The Push
(Pamela Dorman)

In Ashley Audrain’s slow-burn suspense thriller about motherhood, Blythe Connor doesn’t have much of an idea about how things are supposed to go–after all, her own mother left when she was a young child. She’s determined to be the perfect mother she never had, but she can’t ignore the worries caused by her eldest’s many outbursts. Something seems…off, about the child, something that she’s never felt about her darling youngest. As her checked-out husband reassures her that everything is fine, Blythe becomes increasingly certain that things are far from okay. –Molly Odintz, CrimeReads Senior Editor

Chris Harding Thornton, Pickard County Atlas
(MCD)

In the midst of a heat wave in 1978, the residents of Pickard County, Nebraska, are finding it hard to keep a cool head. When the family of a long-missing child decides to finally erect a headstone, it provides not comfort but a catalyst to the townspeople, as long-simmering rivalries and resentments spark into full-size wars. Chris Harding Thornton has crafted a lyrical ode to a harsh landscape that deserves its place in the canon of rural noir. –MO

Una Mannion, A Crooked Tree
(Harper)

Mannion’s debut is a powerful coming of age story wrapped inside a slow-burn thriller. Libby, a teenager in 1980s Pennsylvania, is still dealing with her father’s death when a new tragedy strikes the family, an impulsive moment with a long ripple of trauma and mystery. Mannion writes assured, poignant prose that captures the nuances of a family’s terrible reckoning and a young woman’s struggle to cope and grow. –Dwyer Murphy, CrimeReads Editor-in-Chief

Rachel Ryan, The Woman Outside My Door
(Gallery)

Ryan’s debut is a chilling story about motherhood and grief, centered on a mother whose young child, coping with the death of a grandmother, seems to invent a new imaginary friend in her place. Except that maybe the friend isn’t imaginary. Expect a few chills to run down your spine as you work your way through this sharp debut. –DM

Allie Reynolds, Shiver
(Putnam)

Reynolds, a former snowboarder turned author, delivers with this locked-room mystery that calls to mind a Golden Age tradition of disparate characters summoned to isolated locales to reckon with their sins. In Shiver, a group of snowboarders is invited to a French mountain resort. They’re expecting a reunion, but then the cable cars go out and the resort seems to be abandoned. Soon they’ll realize that some among them have crimes to answer for. –DM

Eliza Jane Brazier, If I Disappear
(Berkley)

Sera works a dead-end job, has few friends, and spends her spare time obsessively listening to her favorite true crime podcast. When the host, Rachel, goes missing, Sera sets off to find her, and in the process, to shed her old self. She heads to the isolated California ranch that served as homestead and recording studio for the missing investigator, and gets hired on by Rachel’s creepy family to help out for the summer. Soon enough, Sera finds herself out of her depth as she begins to understand the dark secrets behind her bucolic new crash pad. –MO

Rachel Hawkins, The Wife Upstairs
(St Martins)

A dog walker meets a brooding recent widower and gets involved in a tumultuous relationship, quickly becoming the subject of the town’s gossip, where the wife’s disappearance is also frequently discussed, along with the disappearance of her best friend, both lost in a nearby lake. What are those thumps she’s hearing from somewhere in the house? And what really happened to her new beau’s former lover? The ending was genuinely surprising, and I don’t say that a lot. –MO

Victoria Gosling, Before the Ruins
(Henry Holt)

Gosling’s atmospheric thriller is centered on a fabulous, abandoned estate, where four strangers on the cusp of adulthood once spent a magical summer exploring, bonding, and playing increasingly dangerous games. Decades later, one is missing, and the others must reopen old wounds in order to track down their errant friend. Gosling uses her richly ruinous setting as a jumping-off point to examine class, innocence, morality, and loss. –MO

Ellery Lloyd, People Like Her
(Harper)

Not since reading Gone Girl have I found such a satisfyingly furious speech tucked in the midst of a thriller. Ellery Lloyd is the pen name for married couple Collette Lyons and Paul Vlitos, and something about knowing this book was written by a loving couple makes the gleeful cynicism of People Like Her that much more delightful. In this snarky take on the influencer era, a mommy blogger is being stalked by an angry fan, but People Like Her is much more than a tale of obsession—it also lays bare the contrast between curated screen lives and the messy truth underneath. –MO

Fiona King Foster, The Captive
(Ecco) 

In this intense literary thriller, a family ekes out a precarious but peaceful living on a remote farm in a dystopian future. As is often the case in thrillers, an interloper arrives to disturb the careful balance in the household—in this case, it is an escaped prisoner whose chaotic presence will most likely cause all sorts of revelations to come to the fore. –MO

View the full article

On 1/24/2021 at 8:21 AM, KaraBosshardt said:

With #3 “Go where the story leads you," I find it intriguing how much he releases control over to his characters time and time again. It obviously has worked out for him. There’s certainly nothing wrong with taking the risk at least once to see what it feels like. I think, as writers, we tend to be a bit overcontrolling, which often puts us in the pickle of over-editing our work and stressing over fine details that may not even matter in the end.

All good points. And you're right, it does work out for him. IMO don't you think we need to look at King's work in the context of a long career writing horror and becoming popular as a result? So many popular authors can engage in flights of fancy, just the kind a breakout author would be disallowed from attempting.

The word count sweet spot for most adult novels is 85,000 to 95,000. This requires a reasonably tight and coherent plot line with limited sub-plot tangents and viewpoints. This is what agents and publishing house editors are looking for. Some "release of control" but in the context of the bigger picture. I know what King says in the context of his own work, but this context would not be repeated by anyone else. In the hands of an inexpert writer, it could mean sag or a loss of momentum. If Sarah and Conner are racing to Jupiter, a diversion to the casino planet for three chapters worth of  blackjack might not work (this actually happened in a screenplay collaboration).

But as you note, the risk, not being overly controlling... I agree, and I'm not saying that characters cannot voice their concerns and take the story in new directions (in the context of the primary high-concept premise which should remain immutable), I'm saying that caution is advised. This circumstance can happen limitless times. Does the writer allow the rail jumping every time?

Thoughts?

I'm glad you pointed out the "pickle" of over-editing. That is worth a full topic discussion.

"PLOT IS THE LAST RESORT OF BAD WRITERS." 

  - Stephen King

Can I now scrape my jaw off the floor? Amazing statement especially considering plots are a strength of his stories, as well as the films, obviously. So let me get this straight. The last resort plots in MISERY and THE SHINING were just that? Were the plot points and reversals whispered to him by Jack Nicholson's character when the screenplay was being written? And are King novels now consider plotless by the author himself all these many years later? The last time I read a plotless novel was in a post-modern daze of Beckett and his contemporaries like Donald Barthelme. 

The statement is utterly absurd, even by King's standards. But I don't have to be a therapist to ascertain his motive.

It's telling that rather than voice his objection to plotting in the context of novel writing alone, he bombasted it forth like the voice of God in an auditorium full of people and cameras, and in the context of it being defined as "the last resort of bad writers." You don't have to be a genius to see this was a choice, not an accident. He was swiping maliciously at rival authors who have stated the polar opposite about plot, namely J.K. Rowling. In fact, it almost feels like a dig at her. He's narcissistically letting everyone know that he is beyond such artifice due to his superior and innate artistic ability. Only "bad writers" consider plotting. Don't we all know that? 

Regardless, this is horrible advice for new writers. I've never heard worse. Sure, pen your SFF or thriller novel then pitch it as all character-driven while quoting King's bogus maxim above and see how far that gets you with an agent or publishing house editor. Agents and editors want strong plot, no question. Twenty years of workshops and pitch sessions have taught me that over and over and over. How many poor openings and saggy middles have I seen? Countless. How many times have I read rejections based on inexpert plotting?

King is also dead wrong about his uncertainty over writing being teachable. The very nature of good writer workshops and classes contradict him. Great books on novel writing contradict him. Common sense contradicts him. Writers can be taught an enormous number of basics and advanced nuances, from complex sentence structure to denouement wrap up. All beginners don't even know what they don't know. Instruction is indispensable. I've never witnessed a writer who was able to write a competitive commercial or literary novel simply by reading a lot of books. Not once, not even close.

Below is part of an interview with R.L. Stine, one of the bestselling authors of all time, who refutes King's assertions about plotting and pantsing.

People say you should never meet your heroes. When, in 2011, I sat next to David Cornwell (aka John le Carré) I was more worried for my hero meeting me. As the bright-eyed 81-year old leapt, smiling, to his feet, a kink of snow-white hair kicking up over the collar of his dinner jacket I made a pact with myself: Under no circumstances should I bring up the crime novel I am struggling to plot.

Crime novels (including spy novels) are best known for their plots. Almost all reviews of successful crime novels will talk about plot before they mention character. Grisham’s plots are “intricate”, Agatha Christie’s are “ingenious”, Ruth Rendell’s are “twisting”. But le Carre, this ex-spy and son of a confidence trickster, had pulled off the greatest literary trick of all: his plots were knotty and thrilling, but his characters were uncompromised by them. On the contrary, they always drove the story. How was I, a writer more interested in character than plot, but also intent on writing the kind of story you couldn’t put down, to take a leaf out of his book? 

Heist movies, to my mind, epitomise the problem. They are well known for their plots—think The Thomas Crown Affair, The Italian Job, The Sting. The heist is brilliantly suited to the screen: the sleights of hand, the optical illusions, not to mention the car chases, all contribute to the thrilling ride of a clever story. But take a close look at the characters in them and you’ll see that, despite great acting, they rarely pass E.M. Forster’s test for “rounded characters”—rounded characters grow or change substantially during a story, flat characters do not. Perhaps this is why there are so few great “heist” novels. The book I was trying to write was not a heist, but its crime relied on several twists and tricks of the light. The problem was that they were bending my characters all out of shape.

“So when are going to ask me about your novel?” said David, twiddling his fork with a small smile. The creator of the great, flawed British spy George Smiley and of Karla, the silently watchful Soviet spymaster, had not been fooled by my prevarications around the journalism I had recently given up. I asked too many good questions, he told me dryly, to be a journalist.

So I confessed. I was working on a novel with a crime in it, but I had hit a wall. The characters had been living inside me for years now, and I had a premise, a good one I thought—but I was struggling to weave the kind of intriguing plot I admired in his writing without reducing the characters to pawns on a chessboard. Whenever I think of story, I lose the characters, I told him. And whenever I think of character, I lose my story.

“You need to remember this. The cat sat on the mat,” said David. “That’s not a story. But the cat sat on a dog’s mat. Now that’s a story.”

The following day I drew a small pen and ink line drawing and stuck it above my desk. Then I got to work. I started putting cats on mats. I pushed the crime into the wings and fleshed out the characters’ backstories. I thought about unsatisfied cats and reflected on dogs left out in the cold. I scribbled and wrote. When I stepped back the characters had tangled themselves into a cat’s cradle of a plot, born not just from story, but from what drove them.

In 2018, just after my novel was published in the UK, I heard that David Cornwell was very unwell. I wrote to him, telling him how I was sorry to hear that he was ill. I enclosed the sketch that had sat above my desk —a cat sitting on a mat that was labelled “DOG”. Thank you for your help, I told him. It took me some time, but I ended up finishing that novel. You were right: it was all about cats, sitting on dogs’ mats.

David wrote back by return of post. “Your picture made me chuckle”, he said, “I’m sure your novel will win many prizes.” And then a line at the end, that made my eyes prick. “The writing is a great palliative…”

Now I’m constructing my second novel and I’ve put the risk-taking cat back up on the wall. Screen-writers would say the essence of drama is conflict, and in a sense that was the simple lesson that David gave that night. But it inspired me to think about something else too, something that permeates all the novels I love most, that note that le Carré hit, time and again. That he cared about knowing Karla, just as much as Smiley. That transcends politics and even morality. What, he asks, really drives people to do what they do?

I suspect John le Carré wrote every novel, every character, to get closer to this answer. I know that it’s a question I’ll ask that cat every time I sit down to write. And like David, I hope I will never quite answer it.

*

View the full article

One thing I’ve noticed about cozy mysteries is that—for those unfamiliar with this charming genre—they seem to have a bit of a reputation. Basically, older women snooping into crimes, possibly a knitting group, definitely a cat. But this isn’t always the case. Well, except for the cat. Although really it can be any cute animal companion.

This misunderstanding makes sense. I mean, famed characters like Miss Marple and Jessica Fletcher arguably defined the genre. But it’s grown from their foundation, branching out to encompass so much more in terms of characters, themes, narration, and mystery elements.

First, you might be asking, what exactly is a cozy mystery?

A puzzling whodunit that generally features a hook—something like a crafting store, restaurant, bed and breakfast, or, in my case, a winery—and tends to be lighthearted in tone, with any violence and hot-and-heavy romance happening offscreen. The protagonists can be anyone, although they’re usually, for whatever reason, underestimated.

And something I’ve learned about the cozy world is that it’s important to adhere to these genre expectations in order to satisfy readers. But even within these guidelines, there’s room for experimentation—to include slang, cutting edge technology, cultural phenomena, or other tidbits to make the stories feel fresh.

As a millennial and cozy fangirl, I’m always on the lookout for new series that might appeal to a younger audience. This desire has only increased since I started penning cozies, gleaning inspiration from the sort of books I wanted to—and eventually did—write. And I’m pleased to report there are plenty that fit the bill.

Whether they star a younger amateur sleuth, take place somewhere wholly unique, showcase an unforgettable voice, or push the envelope in a different way, here are a few cozy mysteries that millennials will consume faster than avocado toast at brunch. (And now I want avocado toast).

Noodle Shop Mysteries by Vivien Chien

The voice immediately captured me in Death by Dumpling. Lana Lee is spunky, unapologetic, humorous, and someone I’d love to be friends with. Toss in an intriguing mystery, complex family dynamic, and food descriptions that will make you drool, this series is a must-read.

Lady Emily Series by Tasha Alexander

There’s so much to love about these historical mysteries. A main character who’s independent and unconventional, a love interest who encourages her to pursue her interests even if it means—gasp!—a woman studying antiquities, foreign settings from London to Paris to Constantinople, and mysteries that continually up the stakes.

Headlines in High Heels Mysteries by LynDee Walker

This edgy series stars a main character with a hip voice, keen investigative skills, and an enviable shoe collection. One thing I especially appreciate is how naturally Nichelle Clarke is drawn into each mystery with her job as a crime reporter, and the agency she has to solve them, contending with both deadlines and danger.

Chief Inspector Armand Gamache Series by Louise Penny

If you’re on the fence about trying a cozy, this is the perfect gateway series. While it sways toward traditional, it has many elements of a good cozy—a quaint town, quirky cast of characters, food descriptions galore (seriously, I always crave brioche after a sojourn in Three Pines!), and thought-provoking mysteries. Not to mention the underlying series arcs, which add extra richness to each installment.

Detective by Day Mysteries by Kellye Garrett

Come for the humorous voice and stay for the twisty mysteries, solid writing, and cool L.A. setting. In basically the pinnacle of modern cozies, actress-turned-PI Dayna, AKA Day, is a main character you can’t help but root for as she discovers her passion and knack for investigating while traversing Hollywood in search of the truth.

Flavia de Luce Series by Alan Bradley

These witty novels are phenomenal because the sleuth is a precocious 11-year-old girl with an affinity for chemistry. Underestimated to the extreme, Flavia proves to be bright—and sneaky—enough to fight crime (and thoroughly annoy her two older sisters). The British mansion backdrop and 1950s time period add a touch of whimsy to this delightful series.

Book Retreat Mysteries by Ellery Adams

Taking place at a book-themed resort and featuring a secret faction of knights charged with protecting an invaluable literary treasure, really, what’s not to love? With an entertaining cast of characters, town I wish I could visit IRL, dash of romance, and cornucopia of bookish Easter eggs, these enthralling mysteries are as charming as they are comforting.

And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie

This list wouldn’t be complete with at least one mystery by the celebrated Dame herself, and this one is superb. A group of seemingly disconnected strangers are cryptically invited to a remote island for a weekend, only to be offed one by one…guaranteed to keep you guessing until the end. Bonus, there’s a new film adaptation in the works that promises to be fantastic!

***

View the full article

Ever since my husband died, I had been drawn to true crime as a way to process trauma. Hearing dark, tragic stories made me feel less alone. I started with Dateline, watching episode after episode, sometimes for hours, alone in my flat in London. Then I heard about True Crime podcasts. There was something so intimate about these—smart, funny women journeying into the world’s darkest places to make order out of chaos. I became addicted, listening to every episode, attending live events where I met incredibly kind, open people. I became immersed in the True Crime fandom.

In my novel, If I Disappear, my protagonist Sera is obsessed with true crime podcasts. It gives her a sense of control in a world that sometimes makes her feel invisible. Much of her obsession is focused on one person in particular: podcast host Rachel Bard. Rachel is everything Sera wants to be. She is brave, intelligent, impossible to ignore. Sera feels connected to her and to the person she wants to become. So, when Rachel goes missing, Sera does what Rachel would do: she plays detective. Her journey leads her to an isolated town in Northern California—a place where people go to disappear. Sera wants to find Rachel, but if she’s not careful, she will lose herself.

If I Disappear is part of a growing body of books featuring True Crime Fandom. Like Sera, I became a (book) detective, putting together a list of guilty novels. Below are my findings: evidence of true crime in fiction.

Good Girl, Bad Blood (A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder, #2), Holly Jackson

Citizen Detective: Pip Fitz-Amobi, a detective turned true crime podcaster and her partner in (stopping) crime, Ravi Singh.

Crime: The disappearance of Pip’s friend Jamie Reynolds. When the police refuse to investigate, Pip and Ravi take matters into their own hands.

Fandom: “A Good Girl’s Guide to Murder” Podcast. Pip and Ravi release a true crime podcast about the murder they solved in Book 1, but soon update it with news about Jamie’s disappearance. Can they find their friend before it’s too late?

Dark Places, Gillian Flynn

Citizen Detective: Libby Day, the embittered survivor of a well-known massacre.

Crime: The Day Family Massacre. Libby’s mother and two sisters were brutally murdered. Libby’s evidence led to the arrest and conviction of her brother Ben.

Fandom: The Kill Club. This creepy True Crime fan club encourages survivor Libby Day to take a second look at her family’s deaths. Did she put the wrong person in jail?

The Family Plot, Megan Collins

Citizen Detective: Dahlia Lighthouse. The daughter of two true crime obsessives, Dahlia was raised in an isolated mansion where things were certainly a bit…different.

Crime: The disappearance of Dahlia’s twin brother Andy when they were sixteen. Ten years later, the family returns home following their father’s death and finds Andy’s body already buried in the family plot.

Fandom: The entire Lighthouse family are obsessed with true crime. So much so that they have named their children after famous cases: Dahlia, Tate, Charlie. One brother creates a museum dedicated to their true crime research, a sister specializes in true crime dioramas and a mother organizes true crime re-enactments. But now Dahlia has her own true crime to solve, and Andy’s body might not be the only secret this family has kept buried…

Truly Devious, Maureen Johnson 

Citizen Detective: Stevie Bell, a true crime superfan who enrolls in the mysterious Ellingham Academy intent on solving a notorious cold case.

Crime: The kidnapping of the wife and daughter of Ellingham Academy’s founder, Albert Ellingham. Ellingham was a notorious tycoon who wanted to build a school “where learning is a game.” So, he packed it with riddles, twists and garden mazes.

Fandom: True Crime fan Stevie uses her knowledge to track the cold case when one of her housemates is murdered. This cold case just turned hot! Can Stevie solve the crime and keep her head above water at the mysterious academy, where even murder feels like a game?

After the Silence, Louise O’Neill

Citizen Detective: Noah Wilson, a documentary maker who leads his crew onto Inisrún, an isolated island off the coast of Ireland.

Crime: The decade-old murder of Nessa Crowley, which happened on Inisrún during a violent storm where no one could have escaped the island, yet no one was ever charged.

Fandom: The true crime documentary filmmakers become increasingly invested as they discover things are not what they seem on Inisrún. What happened to Nessa Crowley, and how has the truth of her fate stayed buried for so long?

Truth Be Told, Kathleen Barber

Citizen Detective: Poppy Parnell, an investigate reporter with a hit podcast.

Crime: The murder of Chuck Buhrman, the father of twin girls.

Fandom: The ‘Reconsidered’ Podcast. Podcast Host Poppy Parnell re-investigates the cold case murder of Chuck Buhrman, and we follow the fallout for daughter Josie Buhrman and family. Is the wrong person behind bars?

The Southern Book Club’s Guide to Slaying Vampires, Grady Hendrix

Citizen Detective: Patricia Campbell, a dissatisfied matriarch who finds friendship and excitement in a local true crime book club.

Crime: Local children are going missing, citizens are out for blood, is it the work of a serial killer or something slightly more, er, unique?

Fandom: “The Southern Book Club,” a book club focused on true crime classics. When an enigmatic stranger’s appearance seems to correlate with a spate of disappearances, Patricia starts her own investigation. But is this newcomer more Ted Bundy or Lestat?

Girl, 11, Amy Suiter-Clarke

Citizen Detective: Elle Castillo, a social worker turned True Crime podcast host who focuses on cold cases.

Crime: The ritualistic murders of the ‘Countdown Killer,’ who kills three girls in a week, each girl one year younger than the last.

Fandom: The ‘Justice Delayed’ Podcast. After two seasons of successful crime solving, podcast host Elle Castillo decides to tackler her ‘white whale’: The Countdown Killer. When she stumbles on a dead body, she realizes this cold case just got hot. Can she stop TCK before they kill again?

Sadie, Courtney Summers 

Citizen Detective: West McCray, a radio personality who is enlisted by a missing girl’s surrogate grandmother to find her and subsequently starts a Serial-like podcast that uncovers her secrets.

Crime: The murder of teen Mattie Southern, little sister of missing teen Sadie Hunter.

Fandom: ‘The Girls’ podcast. West McCray’s podcast is interwoven with Sadie’s own narration, as the missing girl tracks her sister’s killer, intent on revenge. Will someone find Sadie before it’s too late?

I Know You Know, Gilly MacMillan

Citizen Detective: Cody Swift, a filmmaker haunted by his own ‘Hometown’ mystery.

Crime: The murder of eleven-year-olds Charlie Paige and Scott Ashby, Cody Swift’s childhood friends.

Fandom: “It’s Time to Tell” Podcast. Cody and his girlfriend Maya produce a podcast to reinvestigate the murder, just as another body turns up. Is the wrong person in jail? Can they ID the killer before it’s too late?

***

View the full article

There is no going back now. The taxi glides away from the house, down the street towards South End Green, retreating effortlessly from my family home, away from the expensive brickwork and tended gardens I will never see again.

The sound of the indicator clicks out a steady rhythm. My body quietly shaking, I turn my head so that my driver will not look at   me and see what I have done, I watch my life streak past through  the window, the bumping motion of the car, the low hum of conver- sation from the radio.

The girls hadn’t lifted an eye as the horn beeped from the road. Why should they? To them, today is just another day. How long will it be until they learn the truth? How long until the illusion of our lives together comes crashing down, destroying everything I have created, everything that I hold dear?

‘Why couldn’t he get out and ring the bloody doorbell?’ These were David’s parting words.

I have called a different cab service from my usual. My face is automatically drawn to the locks on the car door as the motor flicks silently to life, the wheels rolling between the parade of five-storey terrace houses, into the unknown.

Moving through South End Green, I am bemused by the familiar bustle of London life – the sound of discarded cans rattling against the gutter, the boys in bloomers and long socks stuffed into the back of shiny 4x4s, an old woman with an empty buggy pushing uphill against the wind – the world still rolling on as if nothing has changed. The traffic is heavy. When the car turns off, unexpectedly, at

Finchley Road, my hand grips the door handle. ‘Short cut.’

The voice in the front seat senses my fear but it does little to allay my nerves.

As the car turns, my eyes are distracted by the sudden movements of the trees, the light sweeping over the rear-view mirror. When it levels out again, I see the driver’s eyes trained on mine for a fraction of a second, in the reflection, the rest of his face obscured.

It is an effort to keep my legs steady as I step out of the car at the airport, every stride pressing against the desire to break into a run.

The terminal is a wash of blurred faces and television screens. Slumped bodies, caps tilted over eyes, neon signs, metal archways. My body endlessly moves against the tide, my eyes flicking left and right beneath my sunglasses. There is a sudden pressure on my shoulder and I spin around but it is just a rucksack, protruding from a stranger’s back.

There is something satisfying about flying, I find: the routine of  it, the rhythm; answering questions, nodding in the right place, yes, shaking your head, no. I am grateful for it now – for the process, a welcome distraction from what will come.

Nevertheless, my mind won’t settle. All I can do is run through  the plan once more. There will be hours of waiting at the airport before my flight to Skiathos. My time there will be brief, a night at the most, and from there I will travel on using the ticket I will buy  in person at the airport, a day later, in my new name – the one emblazoned in the pages of the passport Harry had couriered to the office days earlier.

By the time I reach security, the urge to get to the other side is almost as strong as the desire to stay.

The queues this morning are sprawling. Breathing in through the nose, out through the mouth, as the doctors taught me, I remain composed, even when confronted by an abnormally cheerful security officer.

‘Going somewhere nice?’

For a moment, my mind flips back to this morning. From this vantage point, I watch what happens as if I am a witness – soldered to the sidelines, my tongue cut out. Unable to intervene, I watch myself leaning forward to kiss my daughters on their foreheads, lingering a second longer than usual. Neither had moved, barely raising their eyes from the iPad, which David had propped up against a box of cereal, a cartoon dog tap-dancing on the screen.

I watch the corners of their mouths twitch in unison, their spoons suspended in front of their faces, engrossed in their own private world. Behind them, the glass doors leading out to the garden that     I would never see again.

‘I love you.’ Had I said it aloud? I had tried to catch my daugh- ters’ eyes for a final time, my fingers curled tightly around the edge of the breakfast table. But they were lost in their own arguments by then, oblivious to what was happening before them.

Startled, I blink, lifting my eyes once again so that I am now focusing on her face.

‘Sorry, I . . .’ Breathing in, I remind myself to stay calm. There is no reason for her to question any of this.

‘Thessaloniki. It’s for work, I’m a writer. There’s an art fair, I’m interviewing one of the curators.’ It is an unnecessary detail and for  a moment I curse myself, but the security officer has moved on, no longer interested.

It is a balance; truth versus lie. The tiny details are the ones that guide me through. Things can be processed in small parts, after all. But too much truth and the whole thing comes unstuck.

It is true that the magazine is intending to cover the Thessaloniki event, and I am lined up to write the piece. That way, if on the unlikely off-chance David had ever bumped into one of my colleagues and mentioned it, I would be covered. What David does not know   is that the show is not due to start for another three days, and by then, I will be long gone.

Once I am on the other side, I quickly check for my original pass- port, which I will dispose of once I reach Greece. I head to WHSmith to buy a paper. I can’t concentrate but I need something that will help me blend in, distract my eyes.

Scanning the neatly compartmentalised shelves, my attention is drawn to the luxury interiors title of which I am editor. Was.

I remember how the office building seemed to swell up from the pavement, the first time I saw it. Entering the revolving doors off Goswell Road, turning left as instructed, the palm of my hand nervously pressing at the sides of my coat. Acutely aware of how young and unsophisticated I must have seemed, I had forced my spine to straighten, my consonants to harden.

The office, a wash of soft grey carpet and low-hanging pendant lights, a wall of magazine covers, was a picture of good taste, framed on either side by views of the city.

At first I had felt like an intruder, following the immaculately presented editorial assistant through the warren of desks scattered with leather notepads and colour-coded books. But then there was    a wave of pride, too, that I might finally feel part of something.

It had been a struggle not to fall apart when Meg told me, with     a blush of shame, that she had been offered the chance to stay on     at the paper, while I was thanked for my time and moved along.    We  had been having drinks with David at the pub near her flat   when she announced it, before brushing it off as if it were no big deal.

I managed to hold it together just long enough to hug her before slipping away to the bathroom and weeping hot, angry tears into my sleeve. It would have been impossible for the two of them not to notice the red stains around my eyes when I emerged five minutes later, claiming to have had an allergic reaction to my make-up.

By the time I reached the Tube platform, later that evening, I was numb, unable to feel the tears dropping from my eyes. Would Meg have asked me to move in if she had not been feeling guilty about the job? I would question it later, just as I would question everything else. Back then, though, I was in no doubt – she was as committed  to me as I was to her.

When David rang the day after Meg’s announcement about her new job on the news desk, I ignored his call before turning my phone     to silent. It was a Saturday and the only noise from the street outside my parents’ house came from the neighbours herding their children, laughing, into the back of a black hearse-like car. Aside from the occasional movement on the stairs, inside the house stung with silence.

When he rang again, an hour or so later, his name flashing on the screen like a hand reaching in from another world, I pressed decline, too bereft to speak, and just like that he was gone. I was halfway to the bakery, to ask for my old job back, when I heard a ping alerting me to a new message.

Pulling out the phone, annoyed that he wouldn’t leave me alone with my misery, I read his words and stopped in my tracks.

‘She’s an old family friend.’ His voice rose above the swish of traffic when I called back a few minutes later, moving slowly along the grey paving slabs of Guildford town centre. ‘I hadn’t  seen her   in years but she is married to one of the bosses at my firm and we bumped into one another. I told her you had done a degree  in English and about your internship at the paper, and . .  . She wants  to meet you.’

David’s voice was soft, listening intently at the end of the phone for my reply.

The interview had been arranged for the following week. Clarissa, I discovered, was exactly the kind of woman one would imagine to run a high-end magazine, exuding money and confidence and an overpowering smell of petunia. But she was kind, too, and generous. ‘Any friend of David’s . . .’ she had beamed, radiating warmth.

The memory of her words sends a pang of sadness through me. Picking up a magazine at random, I use the self-service checkout before making my way to the boarding gate.

I find my seat in Business Class, store my neat black suitcase overhead, and wait for the comforting purr of the engine. As the rest of the passengers fiddle with their seats, I draw out the phone from my bag and compose a message to Harry.

On my way. 

‘Cabin crew, prepare for take-off.’

I raise my drink to my lips, the clatter of the ice vibrating against my glass. Gratefully, I absorb the captain’s words, their familiarity grounding me in my seat, creating a rhythm against which my breath rises and falls, in desperate chunks.

They are the same words I have heard on countless flights with David and the girls over the years. Maldives. Bali. The South of France. Of all the places we have been together, it is Provence that I think of now. Maria steadily marching the girls up and down the plane, her monotonous hush-hush enveloping me in a blanket of calm.

I close my eyes but the memory follows me. The girls’ faces trailing the cloudless sky through the car window during the drive from the airport to yet another of David’s father’s houses. This one is cushioned by lavender fields, the smell clinging to the air. The gravel crunched underfoot as we made our way from the cool air of the Mercedes towards the chateau, through a web of heat. My father-in-law was waiting under the arch of the doorway.

I watched him, my skin prickling as he swaggered out to meet us, the underarms of his crisp white shirt drenched in sweat. ‘My dear Anna!’

‘Clive.’ Had his name stumbled on my lips?

The panama tipped forward on his head, jarring against my cheek as he leaned in to kiss me.

‘Two times, darling, we like to play native around here . . .’ His voice was booming. ‘And where are my girls? Oh, let me have a good look at them.’

Clive blew an ostentatious kiss to Maria, and I worked hard to repress my jealousy at the thread that ran between them, the years their families had been connected in a way that would somehow always trump what David and I had. Maria, carrying one of my girls in the car seat, moving so comfortably alongside my husband, our other daughter asleep in his arms.

Clive took his son by the wrist, and as if reading my need for inclusion, said, ‘Well, I’m glad to see they still have their mother’s looks . . .’

Steadily, I let myself picture my daughters. Stella, all cheekbones and arch features, strident from the inside out. Her fall to earth padded by the arrival of her sister, a minute earlier.

Stella would be fine. Stella was always fine, always the one to take the best from a situation, and make it hers. But Rose. My eyes prickled.

There was something about Rose that demanded you take care of her, from that first day at the hospital. Even when it was Stella who had needed me. Even though it was Stella who had been the one to give everyone the fright, it was Rose whose cries, when they came, small and unsure, unnerved me. Everything about her was milder, from the delicate features to the way she hung back, always letting her sister wade in ahead, gung-ho. The truth is, I see more than just my own face in Rose, and that is what scares me most.

‘Can I interest you in any duty free?’ The flight attendant flashes a fuchsia smile, beside the trolley.

I am grateful for the interruption.

‘Thank you, I’ll take a packet of Marlboro.’

My fingers are shaking as I hand my card to the outstretched hand before me. Taking the cigarettes, I feel the weight of them in my hands.

SMOKING SERIOUSLY HARMS YOU AND THOSE AROUND YOU.

The warning on the cigarette carton goads me. Toxic. Just like you.

I hesitate. Not me, I remind myself. This is not my doing.

I imagine Clive, the outline of his face filling my mind as a jet of stale air seeps through the vents above my head, the thought of him powering me on. A few moments later, I lean my head back, allowing my thoughts, once more, to drift to the girls. It is like that story Maria used to read to them when they couldn’t sleep.

We can’t go over it. We can’t go under it . . . We’ve got to go through it. I think of the three of them, she and the girls, perched on their bed along the hallway from mine. Sometimes, in those early days when I could still hardly bear to look at my daughters, I would lower myself into the nook of the doorway, listening to her sing or read to them. Closing my eyes, I would imagine their little faces staring up at me instead of her, their tiny fingers resting on mine.

‘Anything else?’ The flight attendant’s eyes are fixed on me. Briefly, I imagine myself lurching forward to grab her by the starched collar of her shirt, my voice curdling in my throat as I scream so close to the woman’s face that she can smell the fear on my breath. I can almost hear the words I might say: Turn back, I’ve left my children and I don’t know whether they’re safe.

But my voice, when it comes, is clipped and courteous, the strains of Queen’s English I’ve assimilated over years of working under Clarissa providing the perfect camouflage for the cracks in my confidence.

‘That’s all, thank you.’

As she turns, I feel tears prick behind the folds of my eyelids, and this time I let them come.

Closing my eyes, I picture the girls seated next to me on this very flight as they have been so many times before. Their ears immediately clamped shut with padded headphones. The sound of cartoons seeping out from the side. David, as ever, oblivious to the sound.

I feel my throat close. Letting the tears roll, I turn my face to the window of the plane, giving myself a minute before I wipe my cheeks with the sleeves of my shirt, pushing my back straight upright and forcing the tears to stop.

Open the box, place the thought into the box. Close the box. Just in time.

I open my eyes again just as the roar of the engines kicks in. ‘Madam, would you mind putting your seat forward for landing?’ I manage a congenial smile, and swallow.

‘Of course.’

__________________________________

From Part of the Family by Charlotte Philby. Used with the permission of the publisher, Borough Press. Copyright © 2020 by Charlotte Philby.

View the full article

Today the Mystery Writers of America announced the nominations for the 2021 Edgar Awards, one of the mystery world’s premier honors. The winners will be announced on April 29, 2021. This year marks the 75th annual presentation of the awards. For more on the nominees and special award winners, check in with the Mystery Writers of America throughout the season.

___________________________________

BEST NOVEL

___________________________________

Djinn Patrol on the Purple Line by Deepa Anappara (Penguin Random House – Random House)
Before She Was Helen by Caroline B. Cooney (Poisoned Pen Press)
Thursday Murder Club by Richard Osman (Penguin Random House – Pamela Dorman Books)
These Women by Ivy Pochoda (HarperCollins Publishers – Ecco)
The Missing American by Kwei Quartey (Soho Press – Soho Crime)
The Distant Dead by Heather Young (HarperCollins Publishers – William Morrow)

***

Kwei Quartey on the role of the spiritual in African crime fiction

Richard Osman on why all British people are potential murderers

Ivy Pochoda on the books that will make your child a future crime writer

Heather Young on the town that inspired her novel and writing dual narrative mysteries

___________________________________

BEST FIRST NOVEL BY AN AMERICAN AUTHOR

___________________________________

Murder in Old Bombay by Nev March (Minotaur Books)
Please See Us by Caitlin Mullen (Simon & Schuster – Gallery Books)
Catherine House by Elisabeth Thomas (HarperCollins Publishers – William Morrow)
Winter Counts by David Heska Wanbli Weiden (HarperCollins Publishers – Ecco)
Darling Rose Gold by Stephanie Wrobel (Penguin Random House – Berkley)

***

Nev March on a family friend and a notorious murder

Caitlin Mullen on the rise and fall of a resort town reimagined as a gambling den

Elisabeth Thomas on the literature of long, eerie summer days

David Heska Wanbli Weiden on why indigenous crime fiction matters

Stephanie Wrobel on how to write perfect twist endings

___________________________________

BEST PAPERBACK ORIGINAL

___________________________________

When No One is Watching by Alyssa Cole (HarperCollins Publishers – William Morrow)
The Deep, Deep Snow by Brian Freeman (Blackstone Publishing)
Unspeakable Things by Jess Lourey (Amazon Publishing – Thomas & Mercer)
The Keeper by Jessica Moor (Penguin Random House – Penguin Books)
East of Hounslow by Khurrum Rahman (HarperCollins Publishers – Harper 360)

***

Alyssa Cole on social justice in crime fiction

Jess Lourey on the year’s newly launched crime and mystery series

Jessica Moor on the crime obsessed who refuse to deal with the reality of domestic violence

Khurrum Rahman on making his West London youth into a spy novel

___________________________________

BEST FACT CRIME

___________________________________

Blood Runs Coal: The Yablonski Murders and the Battle for the United Mine Workers of America by Mark A. Bradley (W.W. Norton & Company)

The Third Rainbow Girl: The Long Life of a Double Murder in Appalachia by Emma Copley Eisenberg (Hachette Book Group – Hachette Books)

Death in Mud Lick: A Coal Country Fight Against the Drug Companies that Delivered the Opioid Epidemic by Eric Eyre (Simon & Schuster – Scribner)

Yellow Bird: Oil, Murder, and a Woman’s Search for Justice in Indian Country by Sierra Crane Murdoch (Penguin Random House – Random House)

Veritas: A Harvard Professor, a Con Man, and the Gospel of Jesus’s Wife by Ariel Sabar (Penguin Random House – Doubleday)

___________________________________

BEST CRITICAL/BIOGRAPHICAL

___________________________________

Howdunit: A Masterclass in Crime Writing by Members of the Detection Club edited by Martin Edwards (HarperCollins Publishers – Harper360/Collins Crime Club)

Phantom Lady: Hollywood Producer Joan Harrison, the Forgotten Woman Behind Hitchcock by Christina Lane (Chicago Review Press)

Ian Rankin: A Companion to the Mystery & Fiction by Erin E. MacDonald (McFarland)

Guilt Rules All:  Irish Mystery, Detective, and Crime Fiction by Elizabeth Mannion & Brian Cliff (Syracuse University Press)

This Time Next Year We’ll be Laughing by Jacqueline Winspear (Soho Press)

***

Christina Lane on the women behind Hitchcock’s ‘Rebecca’

Jacqueline Winspear on helping her father steal a Christmas tree

___________________________________

BEST SHORT STORY

___________________________________

“The Summer Uncle Cat Came to Stay,” Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine by Leslie Elman (Dell Magazines)
“Dust, Ash, Flight,” Addis Ababa Noir by Maaza Mengiste (Akashic Books)
“Fearless,” California Schemin’ by Walter Mosley (Wildside Press)
“Etta at the End of the World,” Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine by Joseph S. Walker  (Dell Magazines)
“The Twenty-Five Year Engagement,” In League with Sherlock Holmes by James W. Ziskin (Pegasus Books – Pegasus Crime

___________________________________

BEST JUVENILE

___________________________________

Premeditated Myrtle by Elizabeth C. Bunce (Workman Publishing – Algonquin Young Readers)
Me and Banksy by Tanya Lloyd Kyi (Penguin Random House Canada – Puffin Canada)
From the Desk of Zoe Washington by Janae Marks (HarperCollins Children’s Books – Katherine Tegen Books)
Ikenga by Nnedi Okorafor (Penguin Young Readers – Viking BFYR)
Nessie Quest by Melissa Savage (Random House Children’s Books – Crown BFYR)
Coop Knows the Scoop by Taryn Souders (Sourcebooks Young Readers)

___________________________________

BEST YOUNG ADULT

___________________________________

The Companion by Katie Alender (Penguin Young Readers – G.P. Putnam’s Sons BFYR)
The Inheritance Games by Jennifer Lynn Barnes (Hachette Book Group – Little, Brown BFYR)
They Went Left by Monica Hesse (Hachette Book Group – Little, Brown BFYR)
Silence of Bones by June Hur (Macmillan Children’s Books – Feiwel & Friends)
The Cousins by Karen M. McManus (Penguin Random House – Delacorte Press)

___________________________________

BEST TELEVISION EPISODE TELEPLAY

___________________________________

“Episode 1, The Stranger” – Harlan Coben’s The Stranger, Written by Danny Brocklehurst (Netflix)
“Episode 1, Open Water” – The Sounds, Written by Sarah-Kate Lynch (Acorn TV)
“Episode 1, Photochemistry” – Dead Still, Written by John Morton (Acorn TV)
“Episode 1” – Des, Written by Luke Neal (Sundance Now)
“What I Know” – The Boys, Written by Rebecca Sonnenshine, based on the comic by Garth Ennis and Darick Robertson (Amazon)

___________________________________

ROBERT L. FISH MEMORIAL AWARD

___________________________________

“The Bite,” Tampa Bay Noir by Colette Bancroft (Akashic Books)

___________________________________

THE SIMON & SCHUSTER MARY HIGGINS CLARK AWARD

___________________________________

Death of an American Beauty by Mariah Fredericks (Minotaur Books)
The Cabinets of Barnaby Mayne by Elsa Hart (Minotaur Books)
The Lucky One by Lori Rader-Day (HarperCollins Publishers – William Morrow)
The First to Lie by Hank Phillippi Ryan (Forge Books)
Cold Wind by Paige Shelton (Minotaur Books)

___________________________________

THE G.P. PUTNAM’S SONS SUE GRAFTON MEMORIAL AWARD

___________________________________

The Burn by Kathleen Kent (Hachette Book Group – Mulholland Books)
Riviera Gold by Laurie R. King (Penguin Random House – Ballantine Books)
Vera Kelly Is Not a Mystery by Rosalie Knecht (Tin House Books)
Dead Land by Sara Paretsky (HarperCollins Publishers – William Morrow)
The Sleeping Nymph by Ilaria Tuti (Soho Press – Soho Crime)
Turn to Stone by James W. Ziskin (Start Publishing – Seventh Street Books)

___________________________________

GRAND MASTER

___________________________________

Jeffery Deaver

Charlaine Harris

___________________________________

RAVEN AWARD

___________________________________

Malice Domestic

___________________________________

ELLERY QUEEN AWARD

___________________________________

Reagan Arthur, Publisher – Alfred A. Knopf

View the full article

Another week, another batch of books for your TBR pile. Happy reading, folks.

*

Camilla Bruce, In the Garden of Spite
(Berkley)

“Bruce uses a framework of fact to create fiction that horrifies…[a] grisly historical thriller.”
–Booklist

Eliza Jane Brazier, If I Disappear
(Berkley)

“Blending the true crime compulsion of Michelle McNamara’s I’ll Be Gone in the Dark with the immersive creepy-craziness of Gillian Flynn’s Sharp Objects, Brazier creates a heady, pitch-dark cocktail all her own.”
–Publishers Weekly

Joanna Shaffhausen, Every Waking Hour
(Minotaur)

“Tight plotting and sophisticated surprises fuel the rich storytelling. Schaffhausen layers much emotion into each tension-filled twist as she deepens Ellery and Reed’s characters. Readers will eagerly await their further adventures.”
–Publishers Weekly

Ace Atkins, Robert B. Parker’s Someone to Watch Over Me
(Putnam)

“In this latest in his continuation of Robert B. Parker’s beloved Spenser series, Atkins continues to do the late author proud….The talented Atkins delivers another engrossing thriller.”
–Booklist

Charlotte Philby, Part of the Family
(Borough Press)

”'[An] intriguing exploration of deceit and duplicity”
–The Guardian

Gregg Hurwitz, Prodigal Son
(Minotaur)

“The pacing is breathtakingly brisk throughout, and the action is relentless… This series continues to impress.”
–Publishers Weekly

Emily Brightwell, Mrs. Jeffries Demands Justice
(Berkley)

“Memorable characters resonate amid the unusual scenario of an unsympathetic prime suspect. Both longtime fans and readers new to the series will have a grand time.”
–Publishers Weekly

Clea Simon, A Cat on the Case
(Polis Books)

“Simon’s pleasing third Witch Cats of Cambridge mystery (after 2020’s An Incantation of Cats) finds Becca Colwin working at Charm and Cherish, a New Age shop in Cambridge, Mass. It’s the perfect place for the aspiring witch detective…”
–Publishers Weekly

Bill Pronzini, The Paradise Affair
(Forge Books)

“San Francisco PIs Sabina Carpenter and John Quincannon (after 2020’s The Stolen Gold Affair)…to Hawaii in pursuit of Jackson “Lonesome Jack” Vereen and E.B. Nagle (aka Nevada Ned), who duped an Oakland, Calif., businessman into investing thousands in a nonexistent silver mine.”
–Publishers Weekly

David P. Wagner, Cold Tuscan Stone
(Poisoned Pen Press)

“Wagner hits all the right notes in this debut. His likable protagonist engages, plus the Italian angle is always appealing. Perfect for readers who enjoy a complex puzzle, a bit of humor, and a fairly gentle procedural. Don’t miss this one.”
–Library Journal

View the full article

At first glance Poland’s major city Warsaw can seem like one of the grittier of Eastern Europe’s capitals—not with quite perhaps having the charm or romance of a Budapest or a Prague, or maybe even a Bucharest. Thanks to Hitler wanting to wipe the city off the map the old town is pretty much gone (except for a newly built ersatz ‘new/old’ town). Then in the Cold War the Stalinist architects got a go and stubbornly, but predictably, refused to build anything with a human dimension. Now there’s new money, European Union membership, and skyscrapers are popping up. But you can’t keep a good old city down—Polish hipsters are opening up all manner of cafés, restaurants and boutiques, there are enough museums to keep you busy for months, and it’s definitely one of Europe’s major cities of culture—art, film and, of course, literature. And within Warsaw’s literary tradition is a fair amount of crime.

Warsaw-born Zygmunt Miloszewski is a good place to start—a journalist turned full time author. Entanglement (2007) won that year’s High Calibre Prize for the Best Polish Crime Novel award, the first in a series featuring the world-weary Warsaw prosecutor Teodor Szacki. After a group therapy session Henry Talek is found dead, a roasting spit stuck in his eye. Szacki discovers that the murder links back to another killing that took place 20 years ago—before the fall of Communism. And the Polish secret police are taking an interest. Teodor Szacki returns in A Grain of Truth (2011), which also won Poland’s major crime writing award, High Calibre Prize. Though Szacki’s no longer a prosecutor and has temporarily moved to a small town outside Warsaw, there’s no escape—a murder and the possibility that a Jewish madman is on the loose, or does someone want people to think the killer’s Jewish? Szacki returns once more in Rage (2012), where a skeleton discovered at a construction site calls the detective to the idyllic Polish city of Olsztyn.

Jakub Zulczyk has been dubbed Warsaw’s James Ellroy and Poland’s Jo Nesbo—quite the accolades. Like Miloszewski, Zulczyk is another journalist turned novelist and screenwriter whose novel Blinded by the Lights (2014) features Kuba, a Warsaw cocaine dealer whose client base are the city’s top lawyers, doctors, and TV personalities. It’s a glamorous life till something goes wrong and Kuba finds out how dark Warsaw’s gritty underbelly can get. Zulczyk has written more novels that await English translations. Hopefully more Zulczyk will follow as Blinded by the Lights has been made into an eight-part HBO Europe series.

A few more Warsaw set novels….

• Mariusz Czubaj’s 21:37 (2013) features Rudolf Heinz, Poland’s troubled, but best, criminal profiler. Heinz’s search for a killer becomes a journey into his own past.
• The Day of the Lie (2012) is the fourth book in the Father Anselm series from William Brodrick. For those who don’t know Father Anselm Duffy has given up the life of a barrister to become ordained (unlike William Brodrick who gave up his own life as a friar to train as a barrister). An old friend comes to see Father Anselm with a tale of betrayal and murder in an underground resistance group in Communist Poland. Fifty years later Anselm looks for the killer.
• Alan Furst is probably the preeminent historical spy writer around these days and one of his best books is Spies of Warsaw (2009), which is also, by the way, had been the subject of an excellent two-part adaptation for television by the BBC. On the verge of war in Europe and the Nazi invasion of Poland Colonel Jean-Francois Mercier of the French embassy in Warsaw is faced with abduction, betrayal and intrigue in the diplomatic salons and back alleys of Warsaw.
• And, talking of Warsaw back just before the Second World War, Szczepan Twardoch is a popular newspaper columnist and novelist in Poland. His novel The King of Warsaw (2016) is set (like Spies of Warsaw) in 1937 and follows Jakub Szapiro, Warsaw’s top Jewish boxer who’s also an enforcer for a powerful crime lord. Hitler, fascists, smugglers taking people to Palestine…Jakub becomes embroiled in Warsaw’s underworld as the drums of fascism and antisemitism beat ever louder.
• Richard Zimler’s The Warsaw Anagrams (2011) is set in 1940 after the Nazis have sealed 400,000 Jews into the Warsaw Ghetto. An elderly psychiatrist Erik Cohen’s body is discovered tangled in the barbed wire, strangely mutilated. Then another dead body, this time a young girl.

Not strictly Warsaw but Anya Lipska’s Kiszka and Kershaw mystery Where the Devil Can’t Go (2013) is well worth a mention. Janusz Kiszka is an unofficial ‘fixer’ for East London’s Polish community, a community that has grown significantly since Poland’s accession to the European Union. There’s London Olympics-related corruption, a missing waitress and his girlfriend Kasia, a Soho stripper. Then London cop Natalie Kershaw accuses him of murder and Janusz must go with her back to Poland. Kiszka and Kershaw return in Death Can’t Take a Joke (2014) which, once again, switches between London and Poland. The trilogy rounds out with A Devil Under the Skin (2015) with Janusz needing Natalie’s help to track down who has kidnapped his girlfriend, Kasia, and to sort out a bunch of murders among the gangland milieu of London’s East End.

And finally Andrzej Stasiuk’s Nine (2008) which is a super noiry, rather existential trawl through the underworld of post-communist Warsaw. Smoky apartments, dirty buses, a city morally adrift and a violent drug dealing underbelly. This is no tourist’s Warsaw but rather a cold, grimy, East European city haunted by the ghosts of its past.

Just before we leave Poland perhaps we should tell the story of Krystian Bala. I’m not sure what it says about Polish crime writing or Polish crime writers, but it is extraordinary. Bala was a successful crime writer from Wroclaw, a town about 350kms from the capital. In 2007 he went on trial for a murder that had taken place seven years previously, and the country was gripped. Bala was accused of having murdered a local businessman, Dariusz Janiszewski, in a crime of passion after he became convinced the man was sleeping with his ex-wife. It was a nasty murder. Bala’s ex-wife had been tortured before being dumped in a river. The local police had no hard suspects until Commissar Jacek Wroblewski, leading the investigation, read Bala’s 2003 novel Amok, a gory tale about a bunch of bored sadists, with the narrator, Chris, recounting the murder of a young woman. The details of the murder matched those of Janiszewski almost exactly. Bala was convicted and sentenced to 25 years in jail where he is said to be writing another novel.

Like I said at the start Poland can get gritty! 

View the full article

On a dreary April morning in 1893, John Marshall, a Portuguese immigrant and successful farmer on Sumas Prairie in British Columbia, was found lying sprawled across the veranda of his farmhouse, his body cold and lifeless, his nose smashed in a dried blood covering his forehead. An autopsy, coroner’s inquest and murder investigation followed. Two days later, a local handyman named Albert Stroebel was arrested. The community of Sumas was shocked, unable to believe that the harmless young man, physically handicapped and orphaned, was capable of killing anyone, particularly Marshall, who had treated him like family. Two lengthy trials followed——the first ending in a hung jury, the second in a guilty verdict. At the time, a murder conviction brought an automatic death sentence and the trial judge set a date for the execution.

Along with the fascinating human stories involved, the murder of John Marshall and trials of Albert Stroebel held a mirror up to the workings of justice during the last days of the frontier in BC’s Sumas valley. What can be seen is just how rudimentary and, to our eyes, flawed much of this system was. Most immediately, there was no police presence anywhere near the valley. The man who discovered Marshall’s body ran the two miles to the Huntingdon train depot, where at around 6:30 am, the stationmaster sent a telegraph to William Moresby in New Westminster. Moresby was the warden of the provincial jail there, but also served as the acting superintendent of the provincial police on the mainland. Moresby did not arrive on Sumas prairie until 2 p.m. He immediately made his way to the scene of the crime, but was shocked to find dozens of men milling about inside and out of Marshall’s house. The soggy ground around the house was criss-crossed with these men’s tracks, and the veranda itself——where Marshall’s body lay——was wet and muddy from countless boots clumping around the body. Other than someone throwing a blanket over Marshall’s corpse, no effort had been made to seal-off the crime scene.

Moresby had nobody to help him in the ensuing investigation, so he enlisted the aid of David Lucas, a former marshall of Sumas City (in Washington) who had already spent a few hours at the scene of the crime. As important as Lucas’s police experience, though, was the fact that he could cross bring the investigation south of the border to Sumas City where Albert Strobel lived. Stroebel had already emerged as the prime suspect in the case, and Lucas wasted no time approaching him. The day after the murder, Lucas struck up a casual conversation with Stroebel in front of the latter’s boarding house. The former lawman told Stroebel what he knew to be a lie, that the coroner had found that Marshall had been killed by a .44 caliber gun. Stroebel responded cheerfully that he owned a .38 revolver and, at the urging of Lucas, retrieved the gun to show Lucas. The latter pocketed the gun and walked away.

The following day, Lucas scurried about Sumas City in search of more clues. He did a thorough——and wholly unauthorized——search of Stroebel’s room, finding two unfired .38 caliber cartridges in the young man’s bedding. He also conveniently found two spent cartridge shells under Stroebel’s window, lying clean and upright atop a pool of mud after two days of rain. Lucas kept the gun and cartridges for two weeks in a locked trunk in his living room before handing them over to Moresby.

Finally, Lucas tricked Stroebel again when he lured him north of the line so that Moresby could arrest him. Stroebel spent the next half-year in provincial jail before his first trial opened in New Westminster (bail was automatically denied defedants charged with murder). That trial ended in a hung jury, due mainly to the Crown’s weak strategy. The second trial opened in Victoria a few weeks later, and this time Attorney General Theodore Davie pressed a more compelling case.

He did so in two ways not yet seen in BC courts. First, he was able to convince the jury that the slug pulled out of John Marshall’s head matched the revolver Stroebel had given David Lucas. Gunsmiths were routinely used as ballistics experts in trials, but they mostly limited themselves to identifying the caliber of gun and bullets. Davie pushed his experts to go further. Gunsmiths were well aware that the rifling in a gun’s barrel left marks on the bullets fired from that gun, but experts were decades away from the discovery that the pattern of twists and grooves produced was unique to each barrel. In the meantime, Victorian experts used the build-up of rust in a gun’s barrel in their efforts to link a particular bullet to a particular firearm. The rusted barrel left marks on a bullet used in a crime; if the same or similar marks were made on a test bullet fired by the gunsmith from the same gun, it was claimed, then the first, offending bullet most likely came from the barrel of that gun. Davie’s two gunsmith experts swore under oath that the bullet that killed Marshall came from Stroebel’s gun. We can see that the experts’ confidence was unwarranted, but the jury believed them in the end.

Davie’s second piece of novel achievement in the courtroom was his lethal cross-examination of Albert Stroebel. Until just a few months earlier——before the new Criminal Code of Canada came into effect——the accused in Canadian trials were not allowed to testify in their own defense, a prohibition inherited from British law. The prohibition had shielded a defendant from incriminating themselves under oath, to be sure, but the stronger reasoning behind it was that the penalty for perjury paled in comparison to more serious crimes such as murder, so the defendant had no reason not to lie. When Stroebel took the stand, though, no one knew what should and should not be allowed in examining and cross-examining him. To start, Judge George Walkem pushed aside Stroebel’s defense counsel to question the defendant directly, so Stroebel was never given an unimpeded change to present his own version of events. When Davie took over on cross-examination, the Attorney General spent six hours grilling the defendant, quoting the latter’s first trial testimony to point our contradictions and relentlessly hammering away until Stroebel’s testimony fell apart.

When it came time to instruct the jury, Judge Walkem argued that the single most damning piece of evidence was the match made between Stroebel’s revolver and the slug taken from the neck of John Marshall. As suggested, it was the first case in BC jurisprudence where such weight was placed on the ability to match one bullet to one gun. Yet if Stroebel had not handed his revolver to Lucas, after being tricked by the marshal, no such match could have been made and the defendant might have walked away free. Today, no Canadian court would have accepted the revolver as evidence. It was obtained under false pretense, on foreign soil, by someone without any clear legal authority. The same could be said for the loaded cartridges and empty shells belonging to the defendant.

Yet, despite how important the gun and bullets proved to be it is debatable whether the physical evidence along would have convinced all twelve jurors that no doubt existed as to Stroebel’s guilt. If in his nine hours of testimony Stroebel had given a convincing account of his actions during the evening and night of April 19, the defendant might have avoided a death sentence. But Attorney General Davie’s six hours of relentless cross-examination, which followed after Judge Walkem’s take-over of defense questioning, eventually wore the defendant down and gaping holes emerged in his testimony.

To finish things off, Walkem continued his active, adversarial role in the trial by making it clear in his instructions to the jury that a guilty verdict was the only one supported by the evidence. Today, if a judge were to be as active and one-sided as Walkem was in gaining a conviction, that conviction would easily be thrown out on appeal. Moreover, with more than a century of increasing protections for the accused testifying in their own defense, a defendant such as Stroebel would not have to face such hostile questioning from both the prosecutor and the bench.

In the end, the murder of John Marshall and trials of Albert Stroebel revealed a flawed legal system in a state of change. Some aspects of the case pointed to the future, such as the use of ballistics and testimony from the defendant, while other aspects pointed to the past——the lack of basic procedures such as crime scene control and chain of evidence, and the aggressive, prejudicial role judges often played in the courtroom.

***

View the full article