A MAGIC WORD

by James Lincoln Warren

At left, the Egyptian god Thoth, wearing a crown consisting of the disc of the sun and a crescent moon, representing his aspect as a bringer of light. At right, the astronomical and alchemical symbol for the planet and element Mercury, derived from the shape of the Greek god Hermes’ wand, with which he guided the souls of the dead to the underworld.

Ever wonder why an airtight jar is said to be hermetically sealed? The term hermetic is Greek, and is the adjectival form of the name of the Greek god Hermes, better known to us by his Roman name, Mercury. So you could be excused for assuming that the quality of airtightness, if there is such a word, is somehow associated with a god with wings on his sandals and hat who is the patron of merchants and thieves. Well, sort of.

Another meaning of hermetic is magical, specifically with regard to occult “science”, such as alchemy and astrology. The chemical element mercury had a special place in alchemy, first because it was the only liquid metal, and secondly because a red mineral known as cinnabar, when heated, seems to transform itself into quicksilver, and this was seen as evidence that other substances could be transmuted into gold, one of the aims of the so-called Great Work. So is that where the word comes from? Not exactly.

The oldest and longest-lived civilization in Western antiquity was Egypt. As a consequence, they had the oldest gods. One of these was named djhwty, pronunciation unknown but frequently rendered as Djehuty, which roughly translates as “like the ibis.” Ibises are long-legged wading water fowl with long curved beaks. The god “Like the Ibis” was usually depicted as a human male with the head of an ibis. The Greeks transliterated his name from the hieroglyphs, although how exactly is unclear, as Thoth.

Thoth began as a local moon god who through the ages evolved into the Egyptian god of wisdom. As such, he was credited with the invention of writing and of all the arts and sciences. The Greeks of the Neoplatonist school in the Third Century C.E. associated Thoth with their own god Hermes, because the functions the two gods served in their respective pantheons were very similar. Hermes was the god of living by your wits; Thoth the god of wise action. (The Greeks had a separate goddess of wisdom, Athena, and also a god of reason, Apollo, but any similarities with Thoth ended there.) Both were gods of writing and magic. One key job of both gods was to convey the souls of the dead to the underworld.

But to distinguish the Egyptian version from their own, the Neoplatonists added an epigram, Trismagistos, meaning “thrice (tris) great (magistos)”. Nobody knows for certain where the epigram came from, but my favorite theory is that at the temple of Thoth in Esna, an Egyptian city, the god is referred to by another, similar epithet, “the Great, the Great, the Great”, and the Neoplatonists simply shortened it. Orthodox pagans of the 3rd c. did not buy into the conflation of the two gods, however, and so Hermes Trismagistus (as the spelling was permanently Latinized) was usually considered a separate deity.

Thoth was credited with being the author of the oldest text in existence according to Egyptian tradition, the Book of the Dead, because he was the inventor of writing and the arts. This was a tract, or more accurately several tracts (there not being a definitive version), intended to instruct priests on performing funerary rites and mummification. As such, it included several magical spells. And so Hermes Trismagistus became associated with magic.

Somewhere along the line, probably in the middle ages after Paganism had died out, Hermes Trismagistus stopped being considered a god and started to be considered as a wizard, an actual man who had lived in legendary times, and the inventor of alchemy, and the author of the first treatises on magic. Alchemy, of course, is the direct ancestor of modern chemistry, which depends on sublimating and sealing discrete substances. Furthermore, the classical Greeks always placed a small statue of Hermes at the thresholds of the doors of their homes to protect them against thieves, Hermes being the patron god of thieves, thus affecting a sort of seal. And that, O my Best Beloved, is how we got the word hermetic relating to both airtight seals and occult practices, both senses originally being so applied in the 17th c.

(In case you’re wondering, the word magic is not related to magistus. Magic comes from magus, a member of the pre-Zoroastrian priestly caste in ancient Persia, whence we get the Three Wise Men identified as the Magi, and O. Henry’s famous Christmas story.)

So why have I shared this little word journey with the Gentle Reader?

Because the idea of writing has always been inextricably bound with the idea of magic, or at least with miraculous divine acts. It is therefore entirely appropriate that Thoth, the inventor of writing, should also be the patron of magic. The ancient Egyptians believed that the existence of the universe was not possible without writing. The ancient Hebrews had God creating the universe by uttering phrases: “And God said, let there be light, and there was light.” The Gospel According to Saint John opens with “In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God, and the word was God.”

In a metaphorical sense, they are all correct, because the only way we have of intellectually understanding the universe is through words. Likewise, we fictioneers are doing the most magical of all possible acts by creating worlds of the unreal.

Personally, I have very little patience with anything relating to the occult. I despise astrology and Rosicrucianism and tarot reading and related folderol. There is, however, a real kind of magic in the world, and that is the miracle of language. So crack open that hermetically sealed bottle of champagne and join me in a toast, sipping sweet froth to the honor of Thoth.

Thanks for the words, amigo.

CRIME NEWS

by Leigh Lundin

News time again and this month it’s potluck or potpourri, depending upon your definition. As usual, the terms ‘alleged’ and ‘accused’ apply and people aren’t guilty until proved otherwise, your mileage may vary.

Robbing a Cancer Hospital

New York, New York.  Marque Gumbs sounds like a French cartoon, but it’s the name of a guy who found a way to scam New York’s Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center, according to authorities. The hospital paid him to purchase and install toner cartridges. He made a bit of pin money by ordering nearly four million dollars in extra cartridges and selling them on the street. What a pathetic criminal.

TSA and the Blonde Bombshell

Oklahoma City, Oklahoma.  Tammy Banovac wasn’t packing… well, actually she was packing, but not that sort of explosive. Thinking she would avoid the TSA grope pat-down, she showed up for her security check in black bra and panties.

It’s unclear when patting becomes petting, but her first pat-down took an hour, so long that she missed her flight. She returned the next day again in lingerie, and TSA again decided she needed another extensive pat-down.

A Penny Urned …

Richmond, Indiana.  Angela Boyd asked a church if they could hold a funeral for her 15-year-old daughter who’d been raped and killed by her father. The woman arrived with a cremation urn and a plastic collection jar. After stirring eulogies, Angela Boyd’s brother showed up and announced the daughter and father were alive and well in another state, far away from crazy Angela, and his sister lied. Not nice.

Jersey Voter Fraud

Paterson, New Jersey.  Okay, big surprise (yawn), voter fraud in New Jersey, the state that votes for candidates in prison. Candidate Rigo Rodriguez won the election, then lost, then won it again, then lost the hard way and is going to jail with his wife, Lissette, and their campaign manager. In October, Superior Court Judge Thomas Brogan found no evidence of election impropriety (wink, wink), but Kenneth McDaniel appealed to the Attorney General who did. Rodriguez gives a whole new meaning to ‘councilman-at-large‘.

FLORIDA

Celebration

Celebration, Florida.  Disney designed and built the town of Celebration, between Orlando and Kissimmee. Until recently, the most notable crimes have been high prices and pink plastic flamingos appearing on lawns in the middle of the night– lawn decorations are forbidden by covenant. Unfortunately, Celebration’s experienced its first murder, in fact two deaths within days of each other. Sad, but perfect planning cannot account for human frailty.

Cracking Up

Port Charlotte, Florida.  Mother-of-the-month Robin Renee Broderick, took her 9-year-old son to a crack-cocaine deal, according to police reports. Really. Don’t ask me what she’s thinking– this is Florida.

Doping Granny

Paisley, Florida.  You may remember a year earlier Karen Fronek-Spencer allegedly gave her grandmother an Alice B Toklas ‘marijuana cookie’, sending granny on a trip– to the hospital. Don’t ask me what she’s thinking– this is Florida.

INTERNATIONAL

Junior Hit Man

Cuernavaca, Mexico.  Edgar, the 12-year-old American El Ponchis (‘The Cloak’) and his two sisters (las Chavalas, ‘The Girls’) were arrested on charges of being executioner and disposers for the Radilla drug cartel, executions that apparently included Degollar beheadings. In related news, Mexicans clamor to keep illegal ‘Merican immigrants out.

The Guy Who Hacked 100 US Government Computers

Edinburgh, Scotland, UK.  Gary McKinnon has Asperger’s syndrome, an autism spectrum disorder, combining limited mental capacity with OCD. Gary got a bee in his bonnet that the US was hiding files on secret free-power sources and UFOs. Unfortunately, he hacked into something like a hundred US Army, Navy, Air Force, Defense Department, and NASA computers searching for such information. As the military and NASA readily acknowledge, he didn’t vandalize and he may not have stolen anything. Nonetheless, our government is insistent he be brought to the US and prosecuted, where he could spend the rest of his life in prison.

Gary has great sympathy within his own country, the computer community, and those who understand such disorders as Gary’s. The two British Prime Ministers and the British ambassador asked Ambassador Hillary Clinton to seek US forbearance. According to WikiLeaks, the White House is not in a forbearing mood, angry with Scotland’s release of convicted Lockerbie bomber, Ali Abdelbaset al-Megrahi, subsequently welcomed home by Libya. This may not be the best time to ask, but it appears nothing will be gained by locking McKinnon away in a US prison.

And Finally …

How Not to Play with a Loaded Pistol

Naperville, Illinois.  I don’t make the news; I just report it. You’re on your own with this story.

Real life sets a tough standard for fiction.

SIGNING BONUS

by John M. Floyd

As any writer can tell you, a book signing event is a unique experience. It always holds the possibility of being either a raging success or a dismal failure, and of course usually falls somewhere between those extremes. But beyond the effort and the salesmanship and the “mechanics” of book signings, which is interesting in itself, there’s another thing about them that never ceases to amaze me: the things people say to writers. Just when you think you’ve heard everything . . .

Both Rob Lopresti and I have already done CB columns on this subject over the past couple of years, but this honestly seems to be one of those parts of a writer’s life where new material surfaces all the time. Art Linkletter’s statement about kids saying the darnedest things applies to the book-shopping crowd as well.

For the past two months I’ve been doing a lot of out-of-town signings to promote my latest collection of mystery shorts, and here are some of the things potential customers have said to me as I stood (I seldom sit) behind or beside my signing table.

And no, I’m not making this up.

Man, I wish I wrote books. What a easy life.

Are you that writer who used to be a lawyer? Grishman?

I found myself in your second book. The beautician at the class reunion. That was me, right?

How much money do you make doing this?

No, don’t personalize it. I might change my mind before I check out.

Actually, I don’t buy book books — I have a Kindle.

You look older than your picture.

Where can I find the Twilight books?

I never heard of you. What’s your name again?

I’d buy one, but my wife has all my money.

You know, my niece is writing a book. It’s about this lady who meets a guy and then dumps him and then moves to Nashville to start a music career and . . . you mind if I sit down?

Will you help me find an agent?

You think this book’ll ever be worth anything?

What does the M. stand for?

Who do you get to fix all your punctuation and stuff?

Short stories? Why don’t you write a real book?

Aren’t you worried about what happened to Salman Rushdie?

You look younger than your picture.

I’ve written three books but they’re all in my head.

Sorry. My husband’s the reader in the family.

You were in the Air Force? I was Army for twenty years. I remember this one time at Fort Sill in ’58 . . .

You wrote a book? That sounds hard.

Your publisher would love my manuscript. Wait, it’s in my car — I’ll go get it.

Did you ever have a real job?

I might buy it for my brother — he doesn’t care what he reads.

What if they make a movie of something you wrote and they want to change it all up?

Is this really your picture?

The point here, if there is one, is that unless you’re famous you’re going to have to get out there and do signings and meet the public, and those of us who do that should look at it not as a chore but as a chance to meet some of the most interesting and wonderful (and confusing) people God put on this Earth. I never fail to make a few new friends in the process, and I often stay there at the store a lot longer than I’d planned to, and I always come away with a few characters I can include in future stories.

If that isn’t a bonus I don’t know what is.

REMEMBERING LEN

by Steven Steinbock

The mystery fan community lost a pioneer earlier this week. Len Moffatt, of Downey California, died early Tuesday morning at the age of 87. His wife, June, said that it was just a few days before their 44th anniversary.

If you recall, last week for my Criminal Brief column, I posted my son, Sam’s review of John D. MacDonald’s The Deep Blue Good-by. Remembering that Len was a huge John D. MacDonald fan (from 1965 to 1999 he and his wife June published JDM Bibliophile, a fanzine dedicated to MacDonald’s work), and recalling that the Moffatts met Sam when we went to dinner together at the 2004 Left Coast Crime Convention in Monterey, I dropped them an email. I few hours later I received word from June that Len was in the hospital, complaining about his liquid diet.

The above photo was taken by my son Nate, who was ten at the time, of Len and June Moffatt at the 2004 Left Coast. Note the unique kid’s-eye-view angle.

Len was born in 1923. Throughout his life he loved all aspects of popular culture. It was through his involvement in the Science Fiction fan community that he met his wife, June. The two of them were always together, and seemed to share every area of interest. They were involved in Sherlockiana (through the Blustering Gales from the South-West), film (regular attendance of Cinecon), and more science fiction societies and clubs than I could list. I mentioned their work for more than 35 years on John D. MacDonald scholarship. I should add that June is the semi-official bibliographer of Edward Hoch’s writings. For many years she published and updated a comprehensive and cross-referenced list of every story Ed ever published. I got to know Len and June primarily through DAPA-EM, a small international group of mystery fans who shared fanzines for the past thirty-five years.

The Birth of Bouchercon

Anyone who has attended a Bouchercon knows how central the bar is to all the action. What most people don’t know is that Bouchercon was born in a bar. It was at a Science Fiction convention in Santa Monica, California in July 1969. Len and June were sitting at the bar with mystery writer/reviewer Anthony Boucher and fellow fan Bruce Pelz. Someone said, “I wonder if it’s time to put on a mystery convention.” Plans began to move forward, but Boucher died before the convention could be realized. Instead they named it after him.

There had never been a Mystery convention before. Science Fiction fans had been gathering for conventions since the late 1930s. But Most people in the know knew that Mystery people didn’t have the same enthusiasm as their SF counterparts, and a Mystery convention was unlikely to succeed. But the Moffatts and a few other faithful decided it was an experiment worthy of trying.

On Memorial Day weekend, 1970, according to mystery historian Marv Lachman, eighty-two fans gathered at the Royal Inn in Santa Monica. The Moffatts served as liaisons with Mystery Writers of America. They were extremely active behind the scenes. Bouchercon might not have been a success had it not been for Len and June.

Huevos Rancheros

A few years ago the Moffatts and I began talking about the Mexican egg dish known as Huevos Rancheros. They were on an ongoing quest for the perfect Huevos. I told them that I’d tasted my best Huevos when I lived in Los Angeles many years earlier. They informed me that they were surprised to find excellent Huevos Rancheros at their local IHOP. I checked the IHOP here in Maine, and it wasn’t even on the menu. (When I asked the waitress about it, she thought I was nuts). My guess is that it’s a specialty of the Downey, California IHOP and unique to restaurants in the southwest.

For almost a year prior to the 2010 Left Coast Crime Convention in L.A., the Moffatts and I planned an outing to seek out new Huevos Rancheros and to boldly go where no fan has gone before. The above photo was taken at the hotel restaurant which was as far as we got. (Len and June were both relying on walkers at the time, so we couldn’t boldly go too far).

My thoughts go to June, their children, and their grandchildren. I lost a friend with Len’s passing. But it’s no exaggeration to say that the mystery community lost a pioneer and a visionary.

HOLIDAYS MAKE FOR A MURDEROUSLY GOOD TIME FOR READING

by Deborah Elliott-Upton

Crime doesn’t take a holiday. In fact, many books have been written on this theme, including Holiday in Death by J.D. Robb and Nora Roberts (huh? Isn’t this the same person?), No Holiday for Crime by Dell Shannon and of course, the anthology Cat Crimes for the Holidays edited by Martin H. Greenberg, Edward Gorman and Larry Segriff. Okay, I admit I haven’t read any of these yet either, but it’s interesting to see that these selections made the top ten listings on Amazon with a search of “holiday crime books.”

Why are holiday crime stories so popular? Maybe it’s all the stress of shopping, trying to stay within a Christmas budget, and all those simply miserable people we see at the mall. They look like they are not just tired, but weary. I wouldn’t have to be psychic to figure out their feet ached, their patience had been tested once too many times, and they are wondering if any of this frenzied commercialism is worth the trouble.

At a time of the year where we should be feeling more spiritual or at peace, often our thoughts turn toward unholy thought. Besought with grumpy overworked sales clerks, misbehaving children (and their parents) and a waning economy shake the HO HO HO right out of December. Sometimes it seems as if Ebenezer Scrooge had the right idea at the beginning of A Christmas Carol with his Bah humbug! attitude.

I sometimes enjoy rooting for the bad guy to win. I don’t think this makes me – or any other readers – a bad person. We should admit to ourselves that How the Grinch Stole Christmas is more of a fun read because the Grinch was so bad. Isn’t there a moment when we want to hold our hands over our ears when another version of a “Jingle Bells” is repeated ad nauseum almost everywhere we go?

I almost didn’t sell my short story, “A Piece of Christmas” because the editor thought the main character shifted the blame on another guy (who wasn’t a good guy either, but he didn’t do this particular crime for which he was arrested). With some editing, the story was accepted, but I think the editor still wished I’d forced a come-uppance on the true thief. In life, the bad guys sometimes get away and some poor fool in the wrong place does a wronged time, too.

Fiction isn’t real. No one really dies. No one is really robbed. No one is really trotted off to jail. But if the story is well-written, the reader believes it to be true. If we’re caught up in the story, it seems real. For me to experience feelings of a fictional criminal lashing out at society is certainly better than my reacting to someone in a department store who is also as tired and grumpy and just wants to go home as I do. Reading about someone else being in a predicament much worse than mine is somehow nice. Does that make me a bad person?

Reading a crime story for me is like being a giant Etch-A-Sketch. Those hostile feelings are magically erased and I am ready to face the crowds again. Later. After I savor a piece of pumpkin pie and one more short story. Maybe a humorous one so I won’t be such a Grinch this holiday season.

STEP INTO MY OFFICE

by Rob Lopresti

Several of us have chosen to take you on a walk through our offices. There was Steve’s and John’s and let’s not forget this loony masterpiece by James. I am probably missing a couple. Seems like a good time for me to play, so here goes.

This is the computer desk in my office. The photo on the left you may have seen before. It shows my grandfather John Lopresti’s store in Plainfield New Jersey a long time ago. The screensaver on the computer is a different picture of the same shop, even older if I can judge by my grandfather’s hairline. The photo on the right wall is my great-grandfather Chamberlain’s grocery store, in a different part of Plainfield. That’s great-grandpa James in the wagon, if you can see it.

Last week I told you about the dinner plates which my family used to use for Thanksgiving, and which now belong to my sister Diane Chamberlain.

Diane is also the one who blew up these photos of the grocery stores and had them framed. When she moved to a different house she didn’t have wall space for them so I was the lucky recipient.

Turn around and you get the opposite view. Those are all paperback mysteries and a file cabinet filled with rejection slips (well, it feels like it some times). The illustration on the left wall is a blow-up of the cover of AHMM based on one of my short stories.

And what about the sign hanging from the ceiling? Well, I’m a government information librarian. At the last place I worked they changed the signage and were about to throw that one away. I happily towed it three thousand miles to my current home.

Step into my library

But wait! There’s more. Most of my writing gets done in the office, but I do a lot of editing across the hall in the room we call the library. Here you see the barcalounger which I wrote about years ago. I have spent many an hour there with my muse on my lap (her name is Chloe and she weighs six pounds).

Do you notice the elephants over the fireplace? They are ebony and ivory, heavy as heck, and were made in Ceylon (now Sri Lanka). The story, as I received it, is that my grandfather Thomas Chamberlain, son of the gentleman who owned the grocery store (see above) was a factory foreman at a newspaper machinery plant. He was in charge of buying a lot of stuff for the company. One year a salesman gave him the large elephant as a Christmas present. The next year it was the small one. If he wanted the rest he had to keep buying from that company.

I don’t know if that story is true but I grew up playing with those beasts in my parents’ living room. When my folks moved into an apartment they asked if there was anything from the house I wanted and I had an immediate answer. “They’ll cost a fortune to ship,” Dad said.

“Don’t care. Send me the bill.” We built the shelf special for them.

Turn around once more and you see why we call the room the library. The shelves above the teddy bears are mysteries. You can see my collected Mark Twain off to the left.”

Family matters

As you probably guessed, one reason I chose this week for the office tour is all the family connections. It is that time of year, isn’t it? So I don’t want to forget to wish a happy Chanukah to those families who start celebrating it tonight.

Now, my muse is calling me back to the barcalounger.

DYING IN HOLLYWOOD

by Melodie Johnson Howe

In Hollywood many famous murders go unsolved. In the land of make believe they can’t quite seem come to terms with the right ending so they end up with no ending or a very unsatisfactory one.

I don’t hold out much hope for finding the killer or killers of Ronni Chasen, but I would love to be proven wrong.

Ronni Chasen, a single 64-year-old woman, dedicated to her career as a publicist was on her way home from the premier of Burlesque starring Cher and Christina Aguilera. (How awful for that to be the last movie you’ll ever see.) Driving her brand new black Mercedes-Benz, she was shot to death on Sunset Boulevard as she turned left onto Whittier Drive. She was shot many times. At first it was thought to be a terrible example of road rage or maybe an unexplainable drive-by shooting. Slowly there was talk of the murder being a hit. This is the stuff Hollywood dreams are made of, to paraphrase Shakespeare and Sam Spade.

But why a hit? What secrets did she know? Who did she cross intentionally or unintentionally? Being a publicist, she had incredible access to important peoples’ background and information. Did she have a gambling problem? Or was her murder an awful case of mistaken identity? I can see this last option as becoming the final answer to her death. Especially since they can’t use suicide as reason.

In many unsolved Hollywood deaths, suicide seems to have been the fallback position. Paul Bern, the husband of Jean Harlow, the 1930s blonde bombshell, was found shot to death. The coroner ruled suicide. And there was convenient talk that Bern could not fulfill Harlow’s sexual needs. But Bern also had an ex-lover who may have been the killer. Hollywood closed ranks; better to imply it was the victim’s inadequacies and not get into the real messy stuff of betrayal and murder.

Another supposed suicide was the actress Thelma Todd. In December 1935 her body was discovered in her Lincoln Phaeton convertible in a garage next to the popular restaurants she owned on Pacific Coast Highway. The coroner ruled she died of carbon monoxide poisoning after turning on the ignition and striking her head on the steering wheel.

I see, she turned on the engine of her car in a closed garage, and then of her own volition slammed her head into the steering wheel . Of course it was suicide. Forget the abusive ex-husband or that she had thwarted Lucky Luciano by not letting him put a gambling casino on her property.

Hollywood is a mill town and the mill must keep turning. The last thing the studio heads want to do is turn off the audience with unflattering murders. That was especially true back in the thirties when movies were the most popular form of entertainment. You also didn’t want to get on the bad side of Lucky Luciano

My favorite unsolved Hollywood murder is that of the director William Desmond Taylor in 1922. He was found shot to death in his apartment. It is not the murder itself but what happened after that is . . . well, so Hollywood. This delicious piece of writing is from the Los Angeles Times.

“By the time officers arrived,” wrote Sidney Kirkpatrick in the Los Angles Times, “there appeared to be a party at Taylor’s bungalow. Paramount actors, actresses and executives rummaging through bedroom drawers and closets, a butler washing dishes and an unnamed extra walking out the front door with a case of bootleg gin.

“Everyone in the bungalow seemed to be looking for something, except the host, who was neatly laid out on the living room floor with a bullet in his back.

“Persons of interest abounded: an actress with a crush on Taylor; an actress’s mother with a crush on Taylor; an actress’s drug dealer; a thieving valet (who may have secretly been Taylor’s brother); a wife whom Taylor had deserted in the East; and a soldier from his wartime regiment whom Taylor had court-martialed for theft.”

No one was ever arrested in Taylor’s murder. The unnamed actress in this article was the silent screen star Mable Normand, Hollywood’s first “I-don’t-care-girl”.

The Black Dahlia murder was never solved. The 1947 case was named after a movie that Raymond Chandler worked on titled The Blue Dahlia. Elizabeth Short was surgically cut into pieces and dumped in vacant lot. Though she may have had dreams about Hollywood, she was not a part of it, but the luridness of her death made her as famous as any living star.

Every time I see the video of the young woman Natalie Holloway, who was murdered in Aruba, I think of the Black Dahlia. Whatever small dream of being desired led her to her death is now long forgotten, if ever known. Like Elizabeth Short, she is now celebrated for her grisly murder more than she could have ever hoped to be celebrated had she lived.

The people in Beverly Hills will add more security and higher gates to their properties. The Beverly Hills police, not noted for their detective work mainly because they don’t have that many homicides, will do the best they can. But I think Ronni Chasen will go the way of William Desmond Taylor and the other unsolved crimes. After all this is the city that couldn’t convict O. J. Simpson or the actor Robert Blake.

A powerful executive said to me during the O. J. Simpson trial, “He’s going to get off, Melodie. Then he’ll walk into a room there will be a ripple of applause and life will go on.” He was wrong about the ripple of applause, but Hollywood as a magical way of “getting over” murderous situations very quickly, if not quietly, so life in Hollywood can go on.