CONTRAPHOBIA

by James Lincoln Warren

The Gentle Reader may be forgiven for not being familiar with the word I have opted for my title. You won’t find it in the Oxford English Dictionary, nor in most other dictionaries. I learned it from my father, a psychiatrist (now retired), on the occasion of watching a foolish young woman at the end of a bungee cord jump off a high bridge.

To wit, the absence of fear in those situations where fear is a survival trait—or put another way, the irrational illusion of one’s own physical immortality against all evidence. Inter alia, this isn’t the same thing as counterphobia, which is either a mental condition where people specifically seek out what they fear most as a form of self-punishment, or a means to combat a clinical phobic neurosis. Counterphobia in the former sense may be crazy, but it’s comprehensible crazy, because it recognizes the existence of consequences. Contraphobia, on the other hand, is downright delusional.

A contraphobic is the sort of person who saunters across the interstate freeway without bothering to check the traffic—your basic fool. But it’s also the sort of person who is easily jaded by experience and requires ever increasing stimulus to operate, taking increasingly greater risks for the sake of feeling alive—your basic adrenalin junkie. (This was the premise of an old Avengers episode, “The Danger Makers”.) It isn’t unusual to have both types combined. Any contraphobic, though, is a threat to himself and to others.

I don’t think it can be denied that we live in a deeply pathological society. It has always been with us, but the manifestations aren’t always the same, and the vectors maybe not so virulent as they are now. In the 1920s, the social reaction against Victorian-Edwardian sexual and class repression led to a period of unrestrained license that eventually led to the Great Depression. Neither of these norms is what I’d call exactly healthy. Today, we have other indicia of how nuts we are as a society, which I find even more disturbing, e.g., the overt sexualization of children in advertising or the public fascination with dysfunctional celebrities. But to me, one of the biggest red flags is our epidemic of contraphobia.

In the last two weeks, three experienced sky-diving instructors in Southern California have plunged to their deaths in two discrete incidents; a fourth at last report was in critical condition at a local hospital. One of their colleagues speculated that the causes of the two accidents—in both cases the jumpers collided with one another in mid-air, tangling the lines of their parafoils—was probably complacence. Complacence is the absence of due consideration for one’s circumstances—the virtually criminal want of recognizing present danger.

It’s everywhere. I’ve already mentioned bungee jumping. Then there are the mountain climbers who traipse up Himalayan death traps without adequate equipment, the teenagers who sail solo around the world across the treacherous open sea in little sloops, weekend hikers who go up into the unmerciful wilderness in advance of major storms, people who stand gawking at the edge of raging flood waters, adults who play with loaded guns, young women dressed like tarts who attend fraternity keg parties, angry drivers in overpowered cars who scream down the highway red-lining their tachometers, and so on. “Fools rush in,” observed Alexander Pope, “where angels fear to tread.”

I don’t know that epidemiology has advanced to cultural trends, but I’m wary of simplistic explanantions for complex phenomena, and there’s nothing more complex than human behavior. Some of the explanations put forward for the expansion of misplaced fearlessness are:

• Arrested development. Children lack the experience to recognize how dangerous their actions are—“Look, ma! No hands!”—and the theory is that contraphobics may have their personalities frozen in an immature state for reasons undetermined. This isn’t hard for me to believe at all—it also explains why vulgar puerile humor has had such a renaissance—but it’s too pat.
• Cultural desensitization. In virtually every contemporary entertainment medium, but particularly in film and television, action and violence sequences are depicted with severely reduced negative consequences from what would occur in reality. The idea is that the media have influenced contraphobics to the point where they confuse fantasy with reality, i.e., the very definition of delusional thought. Some folks dismiss the influence that visual entertainment has upon the human psyche, to which I would only observe, how else to you explain the cost of commercial air time during the Super Bowl or a Presidential election? In my view, if it ain’t causal, at least it exacerbates matters. Not to mention the pervasively broadcasted adulation for bad behavior, which is desensitization squared. Never mind Evel Knievel, remember Steve Irwin? The “Crocodile Hunter” of television fame was a crazy person, and eventually his disregard for reality caught up with him—but the media made him out to be some kind of a hero for the insane risks he took, as they seem to do whenever anybody takes an insane risk.
• Behavioral addiction. It has been definitively established that on a neurological level, addiction is not confined to substance abuse, but to patterns of behavior as well. Sex, gambling, and gluttony have each been shown to stimulate the brain is a way virtually identical to addictive substances. Why not thrill-seeking? (Cf. my reference to “The Danger Makers” above.)

Another trend that I find disturbing is the proliferation of informal shrines of grief, particularly at fatal crime and accident scenes. Party balloons, candles, cards, testimonials in indelible marker at the curb. Grief should be deep and solemn, private and compassionate, not public and cheap and self-indulgent. To me, this displays a certain denial of the circumstances attending death—in its way, it’s also contraphobic.

As a citizen, I worry about the explosion of contraphobia and its effects on our civilization—soldiers who aren’t afraid of death are a tyrant’s dream—but as a writer of crime fiction, I worry about the disappearance of fear as a common human trait, one that might make my efforts to reach them on a meaningful emotional level not only futile, but completely trivial. Maybe I’m overreacting, but what I see of popular fiction these days suggests to me that I’m not. And when people do seem terribly afraid, it seems like they’re afraid of the wrong things, not the things that they know can seriously injure them, but things that they only imagine might harm them.

And I’m not afraid to say so.

PAGES of STORIES, Part II
A Locked Room Mystery

by Leigh Lundin with John M. Floyd

Fair warning: Leigh and I teamed up again this weekend for a two-part column honoring the electronic magazine Pages of Stories, which thus far features two Criminal Brief writers. At Leigh’s suggestion, my article Saturday contained a reprint of one of my mystery stories, “Weekend Getaway,” that appeared last summer in an early issue of PoS.

Darlene Poier

Pages of Stories is a publication without borders. The first anniversary issue contains tales from Canada, Britain, France, South Africa, and the US. To celebrate Pages of Stories’ first birthday, publisher Darlene Poier is giving away three subscriptions. One of those recipients could be YOU. Winners will be chosen from those who comment, so be sure we have your up-to-date eMail address.

And now, we turn to Leigh, who will tell us about a brilliant locked room mystery appearing in the latest issue of Pages of Stories. ‘Untenable’ will be the first story to be serialized in PoS over three issues. And now (drumroll…), here’s Leigh:

Untenable

by Leigh Lundin

The Locked Room

Classic conundrum: In an otherwise empty locked room, a man’s found hanged: no chair, no table, only a puddle of water on the floor. How did he die?^[1]

Many of us love clever locked-room mysteries, with emphasis on ‘clever’. Readers don’t want to feel cheated by impossible means, secret trap doors, ultra hi-tech dilithium, paranormal magic, or deus ex machina. We don’t mind being fooled, but fool us fairly.

Researching methods for this murder mystery took me far afield, ranging from security firms, to food service companies, to Russian submarines– you can’t get more of a locked room than an underwater steel tube. Unfortunately, friends declined the honor of testing the means of death, so I relied on other accounts to back up my story.

To truly make a locked room inaccessible, I placed my victim in a safe room. After all, they’re constructed to protect someone under attack and keep them, well, safe. More on that in a moment.

The Prosecutor, Andrew Dale

One of the characters in Untenable is a government lawyer named Andrew Dale who bears a striking similarity to Ellery Queen writer and government lawyer, Dale Andrews. That’s no accident because Dale contributed to the story in several ways, not the least being encouragement.

I keep extensive notes on topics that might contribute to stories. When I visited Dale in Washington, we drew from these notes and pieced together a pretty clever plot for a YA novel. The only problem is we need six months on a desert isle with someone handing us piña coladas and paying the bills. I’d still like to do that story some day. Hmm… uncovering a severed hand chained to a briefcase… But I digress.

So we talked about a short story project. I dug into my box of goodies again and came up with an unusual plot and motive and shared it with Dale. This time a different problem arose. Once motive and method juxtaposed in my brain, my little grey cells started writing the story faster than I could get it down on paper. Phoning Dale, I said this story’s in my head and I can’t stop writing it.

Dale understood. Hours later, I’d finished a draft. After deburring rough edges, I sent a version to him to critique.

He pointed out that in one passage, someone under stress is unlikely to write certain phrases. Rather than struggle to come up with realistic dying words, Dale proposed an elegant solution– turn it into an Ellery Queen clue. The story already contained a nod to Ellery Queen and Dale suggested it might be gracious to get the family’s permission. I fired off an eMail and waited… and waited.

As you’ll discover, the story’s motive is time sensitive and I chafed as weeks and then months dragged by without response. Finally Dale and I concurred: screw it. The mention of Ellery Queen was only a couple of sentences, nothing to fret about and certainly not worth the agony of losing our time frame.

With Dale having contributed to the spark and the spirit, I wanted him to be part of the story. That’s why the mentoring prosecutor bears an uncanny resemblance to award nominee and my friend, Dale Andrews.

Elasticity of Death

The story combines a whodunit, a howdunit, and a whydunit. From research, I discovered my seemingly obscure motive isn’t statistically obscure at all. When circumstances provide for such an impetus to be brought into play, in English-speaking countries alone, up to 5% of ‘natural’ deaths may be, shall we say, ‘helped along’.

One in twenty could be a high figure, but even the most conservative studies suggest a minimum of 2%. That’s an astonishing number for a motive most people aren’t aware of, but I must not say more at the risk of spoiling the tale.

The Victim and the Locked Room

Demetrius Tantalous is a singularly unpleasant and unhappy man. Blindly jealous of his brother, he’s shocked when he inherits his brother’s estate, including a butler, a Maybach, and a Gramercy Park brownstone. Then, he learns, someone wants to kill him.

They start by sending him eMails that he’ll die at a given hour on a given date. Demetrius thinks they’re friggin’ lunatics and he’s frustrated police can’t find the nemesis. But Demetrius has a card up his sleeve:

Plan B. He knew one thing the lunatic hadn’t counted on. Hell, he’d lived here five months before he discovered it.

Off to one side of a fireplace nestled an executive washroom in antique brass and porcelain with an inset pocket door. For five months, Demetrius hadn’t bothered closing the door, but one afternoon as he sat on the toilet, he found himself pondering the decorative brass next to the jamb. The wall’s opposite side bore no matching brightwork, making the ornamentation seem out of place. When he stretched to press a rivet that appeared loose, to his amazement, the door slammed shut with a pneumatic swoosh followed by clangs as pins inset into the floor and lintel.

Demetrius rocked back as if it tried to bite him. Dropping his cigar in the sink, he studied the door’s machine-milled brass surface. His first thought was of a hidden vault, but after a few minutes consideration, Demetrius realized this must be a safe room doubling as a half bath. Friggin’ clever.

He hooked his suspenders and washed before pressing the button again. Pins retracted and the heavy door swooshed open. For the first time, Demetrius noticed a neoprene seal around the frame and threshold. The walls looked eight or nine inches thick and sounded solid when he rapped them. Demetrius bet they were constructed of concrete block and rebar. Airtight, too, judging from the seals, except for a small rectangular vent high against the ceiling on the side nearest the fireplace.

The safe room discovery explained another mystery, why the builder jammed the sink and toilet against the wall to the right of the entrance but left a larger area to the left open. Now he understood the reason the room contained several electrical outlets, a phone jack, and an Ethernet connection. Someone under siege could nap on cots or unfold a couple of chairs and a work table.

A man couldn’t be too safe and Demetrius liked comfort. He wrestled his La-Z-boy lounger through the door. As an afterthought, he stocked the room with a couple of bottles of his brother’s brandy.

A 9-11 attack could bring down the building, but terrorists couldn’t touch him here. Bring it on. His safe room could outmatch a friggin’ lunatic.

Or could it? Read the serial starting with the Spring 2011 First Anniversary issue of Pages of Stories.

¹ What happened? Suicide: He stood on a block of ice to pull the noose around his neck. He slowly strangled as the ice melted.

PAGES of STORIES, Part I
Weekend Giveaway

by John M. Floyd with Leigh Lundin

Last May, James wrote an article about a new short story publication called Pages of Stories. Yesterday they achieved their first anniversary, which is good news for any startup, but especially in this tight economy. This publication will interest readers for another reason– it features two Criminal Brief writers.

Darlene Poier

Besides Pages of Stories, John regularly appears in The Strand, Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, and is approaching his 37th story in Woman’s World’s April 18th issue, with yet another to appear shortly.

Issue two of Pages of Stories featured John Floyd’s Weekend Getaway. Darlene Poier, the charming editor of PoS has given us kind permission to reprint the story here on Criminal Brief.

Moreover, to celebrate Pages of Stories’ first birthday, Darlene is giving away three subscriptions. One of those recipients could be YOU. Winners will be chosen from those who comment Saturday and Sunday, so be sure we have your up-to-date eMail address. Say something clever, because Darlene’s hinted it might not be a random drawing. And now, John Floyd…

Weekend Getaway

by John M. Floyd, courtesy of Pages of Stories

At 8:40 on a clear Friday night in July, Jesse Pratt escaped from Building A at Crow Mountain State Penitentiary, stole a pickup from the staff parking lot, and promptly drove it into a lake some fifty yards away. The truck was located; Pratt was not. Workers were dragging the lake bed for his body when sheriff’s deputies Ed Moody and Jenny Weir arrived the following morning. 

Neither of them had ever been inside the facility before, and their uniforms and credentials weren’t as intimidating here as they were in the outside world. It took them twenty minutes to locate someone who could answer their questions.

“You sure he didn’t make it out?” Weir asked. The warden was away on vacation, but if he looked any tougher than the assistant warden—a scowling giant named Sid Braxton—Weir wasn’t sure she’d want to meet him anyway.

“Positive,” Braxton said. “We got it all on tape.” He studied the two deputies. “You the only folks coming?”

“The others’ll be along soon,” Moody said.

The tape was from a videocam mounted on the prison roof. Six cameras watched the grounds every night from dusk to dawn (8 p.m. to 6 a.m. this time of year), and the one aimed south had filmed the final moments of Jesse Pratt’s miserable life, from the time the stolen Ford Ranger exited the lot to the time it entered the lake. The assistant warden left Weir and Moody alone to fast-forward through the videotape, looking for any possibility that Pratt might have escaped the submerged vehicle.

“He’s a goner,” Moody agreed, after the third viewing. Throughout the tape, the entire lake was as still as a glass tabletop and well-lit by both the moon and surrounding lights. Nothing broke the surface and no one came ashore, in orange coveralls or otherwise—at least on this side. The far bank, where the employees’ families lived, was also illuminated, but was more than a hundred yards away.

“We’re goners too,” Weir said, in a low voice, “when the state cops show up.” No one had yet questioned the two deputies’ presence here—it was, after all, their county, and the sheriff was out with the flu—but that wouldn’t last long, even in this remote outpost. Jenny Weir’s unspoken hope was to uncover some telling evidence about this odd-sounding “escape attempt” before the state investigators swaggered in with their square jaws and crewcuts and sunglasses and pointed her and Moody to the door. Or assigned them to go fetch burgers and fries for the team.

Weir rewound the tape and watched it again while Ed Moody left to interview the guard Jesse Pratt had overpowered during his ill-fated bid for freedom. Weir also asked for access to the prison’s personnel files, and—surprisingly—received it without too much difficulty. She had finished reading Pratt’s record and was halfway through the staff bio sheets when Moody returned.

“Nothing new,” he said. “I think we’re done here, Jen.” He ran a beefy hand through his hair. “There’s a cafeteria down the hall. Want some lunch before we go?”

“Hold on,” Weir said. She put down her files and picked up the VCR remote.

“You’re not hungry? That’s a first.”

“Shut up and look at this.”

He leaned over her shoulder, which didn’t involve a lot of movement: the room was barely large enough for the two of them.

She paused the tape. “Those houses there, across the lake”—she pointed to the screen—“are used by the staff, right? Guards, office workers and such?” 

“That’s what Braxton said. His is the white one-story and Warden Zell’s is the bigger one with the boathouse. Why?”

“And the stolen truck belonged to the warden,” she said. “I suppose the keys were left in it?”

“Probably. Braxton said most folks here don’t even lock their houses. It’s a secure facility—they worry about break-outs, not break-ins.”

“That’s what bothers me.”

“What do you mean?”

She blew out a sigh. “This feels wrong, Ed. Why would somebody steal a vehicle inside prison gates, knowing he’d never get out?”

“Who knows how these people think?” Moody said. “And who cares? He didn’t make it to the gate.” He straightened up and cracked his knuckles. “Come on, let’s leave this for the big boys to handle.”

“And something else. Braxton told us Warden Zell hated Pratt.”

“So?”

“He also said Pratt was recently moved here from Dahlman Correctional. Said he was there two years, before coming here six months ago.” 

“I heard him. So?”

“The town of Smithfield’s in Dahlman County. Pratt grew up there.” She held up a file folder. “So did the warden.”

“What exactly are you saying, Jenny?”

“I’m saying that’s a pretty big coincidence, both of them from the same town.”

The little room fell silent as they studied each other. Outside, they heard men’s voices, echoing footsteps, the clang of a steel door. Prison sounds.

“How much longer did Pratt have?” Moody asked.

“On his sentence? Four more years.”

He looked at the clock on the wall. “Don’t tell me you want to ask these people more questions.”

“Just a few,” she said, pushing back her chair. “I won’t be long.”

“I hope not—the cafeteria closes at one.”

#

Smithfield, Jenny Weir discovered, was also the hometown of the warden’s wife. Cynthia Zell had not accompanied her husband on vacation; she’d stayed home this time, while he went scuba diving with friends in the Caribbean.  

“He loves the ocean,” she told Weir, in the elegantly furnished den of their house across the lake. It was almost noon, and they were sipping iced tea like old friends. “But I like it here. We have a cabin nearby—I’ve been driving up a couple times every Saturday, to paint the summer foliage. I’m an artist as well as a musician, you know.”

“A cabin?”

Cynthia Zell smiled. “I know what you’re thinking. Tropical vacations, BMW in the driveway, a second house in the mountains—on a warden’s salary?”

“Not at all. I only meant—”

Mrs. Zell leaned forward, raised an eyebrow, and whispered, “My uncle’s the governor.”

“The state governor?”

“My mother’s brother.”

“Is that so.” 

Through the open window Weir could see the lake, the immaculate back lawn, and one corner of the boathouse. There were no shrubs anywhere, no hedges, no board fences. She thought of the cameras on the prison roof and decided the open spaces—the clear lines of sight—were probably intentional.

She cleared her throat and said, “This cabin—have you been there this morning? I mean, today is Saturday, right?”

“I have, yes. For the sunrise.” Mrs. Zell checked her watch. “I plan to go up again for lunch.”

“Don’t worry, this’ll only take another minute. I was just wondering—did your husband know the escapee who drowned last night? Jesse Pratt?”

“You mean they found the body?”

“Not yet,” Weir said. “Did he know Pratt? Personally, I mean?”

“I suppose he knows all the inmates.”

“I understood he especially disliked Mr. Pratt.”

“I wasn’t aware of that.”

Weir nodded, thinking. “And did you know him?”

“The prisoner?” Mrs. Zell blinked. “Certainly not. Why?”

Instead of answering, Weir made a point of concentrating on her notepad. Somewhere nearby, a crow cawed. 

“Are you aware that your quarters can be seen by the security cameras across the lake?”

“Of course. Everything can.” Mrs. Zell took the lemon slice from the rim of her glass and squeezed it into her tea. The musical rattle of ice seemed appropriate for the summer day. “I believe that’s the cameras’ purpose,” she added.

“Well, I watched what was taped, Mrs. Zell, in the hours following the accident last night. And I noticed you walking from your boathouse to your back door, around nine.”

Cynthia Zell looked amused. “You could tell it was me? From that far away?”

“Only by your blond hair. May I ask what you were doing out there so late?”

“I called my husband, on my cell phone. We talked an hour or more. Reception’s better out back, and there are chairs in the boathouse.”  

“Of course.” Weir turned again to the window. In the midday sun, the lake’s surface was as still as a painting. “One other thing. If your husband’s out of town, why was his truck—the one Pratt stole—parked in the staff lot last night?”

“It’s not his, it’s ours,” Mrs. Zell said, the amused expression still on her face. “I drove it over yesterday to loan a book to one of the guards. It was such a pretty day I walked back.”

“I see. So I guess you drove the BMW to your cabin this morning?”

“No, I took our minivan—it’s in the garage. Why?”

“No matter. Just wanted to check.” Weir drained her tea glass, set it down, smiled, and rose from the chair. “Well. I certainly appreciate your time.”

“My pleasure. No one better understands the demands on a law officer,” Mrs. Zell said, “than the spouse of a law officer. I suppose the saying’s true, isn’t it.”

“What saying?”

“The men in blue never rest.”

“Or the women,” Weir said.

#

Ten minutes later Jenny Weir stood beside an oak tree two houses away and watched Cynthia Zell steer a Dodge minivan down the street and out the prison gates. Then Weir phoned Moody on her cell. 

He told her they’d still not located the body. A strange thing, since it should’ve been found at or near the crash site.

Maybe not so strange, Weir thought. She updated him on her conversation with the warden’s wife. She could hear muted voices in the background.

“So what do you think?” Moody asked her. 

“I’ll tell you in half an hour.”

#

Actually, it took twenty minutes.  

“Moody?” she said, on the phone again. “Ask Braxton the location of the warden’s cabin, and come pick me up. You and I are taking a drive.”

“What do you mean?”

“Guess what I found in Mrs. Zell’s bedroom drawer.”

“A search warrant, I hope.”

“A blond wig. And—get this—romantic letters from our drowned escapee.” She took the phone from her ear long enough to ease out onto the porch and shut the unlocked front door behind her. “It wasn’t Cynthia Zell we saw crossing her yard. It was Jesse Pratt, in disguise.”

“What!?”

“She’s the governor’s niece, Ed. She and Pratt must’ve known each other, years ago. She got him transferred here, I’d bet my badge on it.”

“You might be doing just that,” Moody said. Then, after a long moment: “You sure hunger isn’t affecting your brain?”

“I found something else too. More hidden evidence.”

“Oh God.”

Weir couldn’t help grinning into the phone. “Remember I told you Mrs. Zell verified that she left her keys in the truck, in the parking lot? Well, that wasn’t all she left there.”

“You found something else in the truck?” he asked. “How? It’s still underwater.”

“What I found wasn’t in the truck anymore. It was in the boathouse.”  

“The boathouse?” A long silence. “Don’t tell me. A written confession?”

“Almost as good.”

Another pause. “I give up—what’d you find in the boathouse?”

“An orange jumpsuit,” she said. “And scuba tanks.”

#

The cabin was twelve miles south, at the end of a middle-of-nowhere dirt road. The two deputies interrupted a cozy lunch between Cynthia Zell and Jesse Pratt himself, freshly shaven and dressed in a dry set of clothes.

“Too bad it’s not a women’s prison, Mrs. Zell,” Weir said, while she held her revolver  on them and Moody clapped them in handcuffs. “You’d only have to move across the lake.”

She and Moody delivered them bound and cursing to the assistant warden at about the same time the caravan of state authorities was arriving to begin its investigation. Jaws dropped; reports were filed; bitter confessions were taken. The governor, sheriff, warden, and media were notified. Commendations were promised.

For Weir and Moody, lunch was indeed late—a pair of Big Macs in the car that afternoon, on their way back to the office.

A meal never tasted so good.

THE END

Tommorow: Pages of Stories (sur)prizes!

Need a gift? Subscribe to Pages of Stories in .pdf, .epub, and on-line. See you tomorrow for more from Pages of Stories.

CONTINUITY

by Steven Steinbock

Continuity (noun) con·ti·nu·i·ty. 1. logical sequence, cohesion, or connection; 2. a continuous or connected whole; 3. an uninterrupted succession or flow; a coherent whole.

Last week I was reading selections from volume one of The Grand Game: A Celebration of Sherlockian Scholarship (available from The Baker Street Irregulars). It’s a fantastic book, a collection of sixty-six essays and articles of critical analysis of the Sherlock Holmes stories, covering a half-century of scholarship.

The cornerstone of the book (the table of contents even labels it as such) is an 1912 essay by Ronald Knox, the same man who gave us The Decalogue of Detective Fiction. What struck me as I read Father Knox’s piece was how early – during the lifetime of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle – readers were concerned with the continuity of the stories.

Did Sherlock Holmes spend only two years at college? Did he study at Oxford or Cambridge? Was detection a hobby – a game – for Holmes, or was it his livelihood? If his knowledge of literature is nil, why does he sometimes quote the classics? Were there, in fact, two Watsons? These are some of the questions that Knox and subsequent scholars ask. There have been voluminous studies done of which stories occur in which order.

Father Knox was a very clever and witty man, and had a well-tuned sense of humor. His concerns were voiced with his tongue inserted in his cheek. (The “scholars” to whom he refers are all nonsense names). But one wonders if his tongue was inserted only partway. Readers of fiction – series fiction in particular – are often concerned with chronology and continuity. The Baring-Gould Annotated Sherlock Holmes (1967) even reordered the entire canon in what the editor decided was the correct chronology. (Les Klinger’s recent three-volume set put the Canon back in the order that the stories first came out in book form).

Continuity didn’t matter to readers of “The Hardy Boys” or before that, the Dime Novels about Dick and Frank Merriwell. People may read the “Nero Wolfe” novels in the order that Stout wrote them, but not because the characters changed. Perry Mason might have been a little more devious in the early novels, but aside from that, you could probably shuffle a stack of Erle Stanley Gardner novels and read then in any order one wishes without concern for continuity.

Gross discontinuity is a sin in the world of fiction. No question about it. But sometimes I think the modern urge to establish continuity smacks of OCD. In the case of great bodies of literature – be it the Bible, the Sherlock Holmes canon, or the universe of DC comic book superheroes – fundamentalists insist on putting everything in order and rationalizing away any seeming inconsistency. Each day of the six days of Creation was actually eons long. Hal Jordan and Alan Scott were both superheroes called “Green Lantern,” but in alternate parallel universes. The Holmes stories that contain inconsistencies were written by a Deutero-Watson.

Part of me wants to throw up my hands and yell, “They’re stories!” But another part of me is just as guilty.

It’s sloppy editing when a character in a book has blue eyes in one chapter and green eyes later in the book. I discovered a flaw in my own book (work in progress) when a character commented about something that she didn’t learn until later in the same chapter. On film and television, it’s sloppy when a character walks into a shop wearing a striped necktie, but the interior scenes have him with polka dots, or has a bruise or cut in one scene that has miraculously healed in the next.

I don’t know if there are many other “Fringe” viewers among the Criminal Brief readership. I happen to like the show. But they made a horrible blunder when a certain character appeared in the eleventh episode of Season Two even though he died at the beginning of the same season. I, and many other viewers, thought it was the beginning of a bizarrely twisted storyline (which was the case later that year). It was eventually explained that the episode was a “filler” piece left over from the previous year.

THE SIGN OF THREE

I’m reading another non-fiction book about Sherlock Holmes. This one, edited by Umberto Eco and Thomas A. Sebeok, looks at the Great Detective through the lens of the philosophy of C.S. Peirce and vice versa. It’s good, but it’s slow-going. I’ll report more when I’m further along.

WHY IS THIS NIGHT. . . ?

Speaking of continuity, a few days from now I’ll be standing at the metaphoric shores of the Red Sea with Moses and Miriam and the rest of the mixed multitude as we cross the sea and come out dry and free and eating Matzah for eight days. See you on the other side of the sea.

FAMOUS LAST WORDS

I almost forgot to mention. If our gentle readers care to be gentle listeners, stop by the EQMM/AHMM Podcast Page where you can find short stories out of your favorite magazines being read by your favorite writers.

The newest story is Doug Allyn’s “Famous Last Words” being read by me. Please keep in mind that I’m not a professional voice-artist or narrator. It’s the first time I’ve done anything like it. My son, Sam, after listening to the first three minutes, said, “Dad, you should leave it to the professionals.”

What makes this particular podcast unique is not my reading, but Doug’s singing! Doug Allyn wrote and performed the music that introduces the story.

APRIL BABY SHOWERS

by Deborah Elliott-Upton

Just for fun I decided to see if there was a writer born today, on April 14th. Sure enough, Arnold Joseph Toynbee was born on this date in 1889. He was a British historian who authored A Study of History, “a 12 volume analysis of the rise and fall of civilizations.”

At FamousWhy, I discovered a short paragraph concerning an American journalist, Robert Scheer, born on April 14 in 1936. The information was sketchy but mentioned three things about Scheer: 1. His most important articles were from Vietnam and the Iraq War. 2. He collaborated with the New York Times and 3. He dated Jane Fonda.

This birth date is also shared by Julie Christie, Sarah Michelle Gellar, Rod Steiger, Pete Rose, Anne Sullivan, Brad Garrett and the lone fiction writer in the group: Scott Turow.

I am curious as to which date or even month has given birth to the most mystery writers, but I’m not sure where to begin that search. Google didn’t know (which is always a surprise!). Obviously, Aries is not such a mysterious sign.

Does it matter which month we’re born or under which stars in the heaven? Probably not any more than which animal on the Chinese Calendar Year is associated with the year we’re born . . . and yet, we’re always looking for an answer as to what makes us tick. What makes us, “us.”

In developing a character, I have yet to decide what horoscope sign he is born under, but rather which personality he likely shares the closest temperaments.

If my character were a writer by trade, would he be born mid-April? Maybe, but I’d be more likely to conceive a tax man, an accountant or someone working with numbers—or perhaps running a numbers racket.

So, I’m wondering, if I did divulge a birth chart for my characters, which month would they be blowing out candles? Do heroes share a particular birth month any more than villains do? Does one particular month bring forth more criminals than another? I have heard heat makes people cranky and more likely to spur crimes of passion, and that during the winter holidays there are more thefts. But is that due to people purchasing more gifts, or because the cold brings out the cold-heartedness in thieves?

Whatever this date brings, I wish it to be April showers. It’s been entirely too dry in my area (although I realize some folks up north are facing flooding). Let’s share the wealth and all of us be a bit happier with what we have weather-wise. Until then, I’m hoping someone has a baby this month that turns out to be one heck of a mystery writer. Hmm, maybe it’ll even happen to my family.

SEPARATED AT BIRTH

by Rob Lopresti

So, it’s your first day at the studio as a casting director. Congratulations!

The Producer’s secretary invites you into the great man’s office. He smiles vaguely at you, waiting for the secretary to whisper in his ear some hint of who you are and why he has sent for you. She does.

Ah! With enthusiasm he tells you about his plans to create a movie based on one of the great characters in mystery fiction. He tells you who he has in mind and you are champing at the bit. “Who are you thinking of for the starring role?” you ask.

“Don’t know yet. Give me some ideas. You know the type I’m looking for. Someone like George C. Scott, but younger of course.”

“George C. Scott, got it.” You rack your brains for a current actor with Scott’s chops.

“Or Martin Lawrence,” the producer burbles.

“Martin—” While he burbles you boggle, trying to picture those two as a type.

“Or — Get this! — Robert Redford. Or Paul Le Mat!”

You aren’t even sure you know who Paul Le Mat is. “Now, wait just a—”

“Or — I’ve got it!” He leans forward, ready to reveal his secret. “Christopher Lambert!”

You are sweating now, hoping this is a first—day hoax. Or maybe a nightmare. How could all these actors be the type to play the same character?

Good question

And yet all of them starred in movies based on Donald E.Westlake’s novels about luckless thief Joh Archibald Dortmunder. (And most of those flicks could have been served on Thanksgiving with cornbread stuffing if you know what I mean.)

This brings us to today’s quiz. Below you will find ten pairs of actors. Each pair played the same mystery—related character in movies, television, or radio, although the character’s name may have changed. I’ll start with easy ones (I think) and get harder. Answers at the bottom. Good luck!

1. Warner Oland and Peter Ustinov.

2. William Conrad and Sydney Greenstreet.

3. Margaret Rutherford and Helen Hayes

4. Albert Finney and Tony Randall

5. Humphrey Bogart and Elliot Gould.

6. Paul Newman and Brian Keith

7. Charlton Heston and Peter Cook

8. Lee Marvin and Anna Karina

9. Frank Sinatra and Bruce Willis

10. Jack Lemmon and Rosalind Russell

Here are the answers… no peeking!

1. Earl Derr Biggers’ Charlie Chan. Warner Oland in many movies, Peter Ustinov in Charlie Chan and the Curse of the Dragon Queen.

2. Rex Stout’s Nero Wolfe. William Conrad in the TV series and Sydney Greenstreet on the radio..

3. Agatha Christie’s Miss Jane Marple. Margaret Rutherford in Murder, She Said and three other movies, and Helen Hayes in two TV movies starting with A Caribbean Mystery.

4. Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot. Albert Finney in Murder on the Orient Express and Tony Randall in The Alphabet Murders.

5. Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe. Humphrey Bogart in The Big Sleep and Elliott Gould in The Long Goodbye..

6. Ross MacDonald’s Lew Archer. Paul Newman in Harper and Brian Keith in the TV series Archer.

7. Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes. Charlton Heston in Crucifer of Blood and Peter Cook in The Hound of the Baskervilles

8. Richard Stark’s Parker. Lee Marvin in Point Blank and Anna Karina in Made in USA.

9. Roderick Thorp’s Joe Leland. Frank Sinatra in The Detective and Bruce Willis in Die Hard.

10. Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur’s Hildy Johnson. Jack Lemmon in The Front Page and Rosalind Russell in His Girl Friday.

THE X FILES

by Melodie Johnson Howe

I have files and files of ideas for short stories on my computer. I knew I should organize them, say, like my closet. So I decided to sit down and go through them and clean out what I don’t need and keep what I do.

I discovered there is no file that contains a list of ideas per se. Each file is a title and the rest is blank. My titles are my ideas. If I write out an idea it immediately seems trite to me and I lose the sense of urgency to write the story The title is heading an empty page waiting for me to begin. A list is something I never get around too.

Other files contain complete short stories with their working titles, which are not the ones they were published under. Since I also have those files, I should delete these old ones. But I can’t. Because they show me how important a good title is. “A Right to Privacy” became “A Hollywood Ending,” which was nominated for a Barry last year. As much as I liked the irony in the original title, it sounded more like an essay or a polemic.

“Not Love” (yuck) ended up being “The Talking Dead.” There is no way I would have started with that title because it came from a character midway through the story. When he spoke those words I knew I had a great title.

I came across a file called “Silver Mink.” What is that? I opened it and a short story I wrote for a Malice Domestic Anthology years ago filled my screen. It ended up being called “Acting Tips.” I remembered that it wasn’t until I framed the story by having the mink-clad narrator give acting tips while she goes about committing a murder that the title was changed.

“Sweet Sixteen” became “The Good Daughter.” The new title was sadder, more ironic and captured the theme of the story better than the original, which was too gooey for me. I decided not to delete these old files. Leaving them the way they were reminds me of the journey I have taken as a writer.

I discovered there were some journeys I didn’t complete. When I clicked on “Please Hold For . . . ” I found a great opening paragraph and then nothing more. I don’t know who was on hold or whom they were holding for, but I’ll eventually find out. When I opened “Poor Horse” (a terrible title) I was stunned to discover a completed short story. It needs a good rewrite, but it’s all there. Why did I abandon it? Maybe I grew to hate it because I couldn’t make it work. But something stirred inside of me when I began to read it again. I know I’ll finish this story and give it a better title.

“The Petrified Blonde” file turns out be another good opening and that’s all. Good openings do not always mean you have a story. Obviously they’re a start, but they don’t guarantee that you have a grasp of what you want to write. At least not yet.

As with my closet, I ended up not deleting anything. I could organize my files better, but I don’t have the time. I have unfinished short stories to complete.