My mom read crime novels. She was really more into the funny ones, and the ones with characters like the cats who solve the mysteries; but there still had to be a mystery to solve, right? She read Agatha Christie, and the romantic mistresses of literature, while I was more into the gore and guts if you will. I found myself watching Perry Mason and later Quincy; in order to find out all I could about the when, where, why, how, and who done it! I wanted to know the details. Mom was more or less swept away by the costumes, the fancy, and the gallant events spoken and written about. She liked the glitter. I liked the bloody trail.
As time went on, I pretended quite openly, that Della Street was my real mom, and Perry Mason (though they were never married) was my real dad. Paul Drake somehow became my famous uncle and I was in heaven inside my wee little brain, as I helped my parents solve the latest murder that had taken place in my neighborhood under the watchful eyes of the corner lamppost and the shrubs and bushes in everyone's front yard (or back) where I would hide and read novels. I think I was seven when I decided I was their baby. I know I snuck the "adult" books home when Mom would take me to the library. I couldn't check them out, but she would. She knew they were a bit racy I think, but she also knew I had no idea what "those" words may mean, so I was good to read whatever whenever wherever I wanted to. Heck, I was reading!
I never misplaced a book. I "lost" a few that never made it back to the library and Mom had to replace them. I didn't really lose anything. I kept them. I had a big drawer crafted into the bed my dad made me, and I hid the paperbacks there. I had quite the collection by the time I was in high school and realized just how much money I had cost my mom in Library fees. I think I may have even attempted to pay her back. Not sure. I think I did. If I didn't, I made her a red-headed grandbaby, so it's all good. We're even.
As a kid growing up one would have thought that I would have wanted to become a medical examiner or a detective due to the way I consumed all things forensic. I was into it. I mean I was INTO IT. I watched what I could, I read what I could, I went out of my way to find evidence about this or that and make the puzzle pieces fit. If someone told me a lie I scouted it out to the nth degree until I had fully proven it, and that really didn't win me too many friends, not in high school! When I graduated (a year early) I went to Hollywood and yes, I worked in the movies and on sets. I was there, in the middle of it, and no, it was NOT the same in production as it is when you watch it, let me just tell you that right now. I preferred the books and films to the 12-16 hour days of hurry-up-and-wait while someone set up shots and fifteen others told me what to do. It wasn't really all that fun.
Later, as I got older and now, as I'm older, I have scoured the internet and every forensic show there has ever been made both in the U.S. and in the U.K. for all things murder. I say that I don't like funny ones really. I want the real details, I want to hear the disposal stories. I want to try to figure out what the hell that person was thinking when they thought they could get away with it - - C'mon! I get it, in the 1800s maybe, even in the 1900s, but when you step into the 21st Century, thinking you can murder and get away with it - you have not seen as many shows as I have! I know that. The U.K. with their CCTV is enough to scare anyone straight. You can't sneeze without being seen on one of more of the public cameras!
Becoming an author was a natural step for me. Writing about murder was and is the best escape for me. I don't do it as often as I think it. I am always looking for a good place to murder someone, and even more so, I'm looking for a better way to dispose of the body. Anyone can murder someone. That's just an act. Disposal is a FEAT! Putting the puzzle pieces together and dismantling them over and over again so that I know what I'll pen or keystroke into existence can be tricky too. I have a t-shirt that reads "Careful, you could end up in my next novel" and I mean that. Some people (I won't say who) have become frequent flyers off of cliffs, in my mind. I play the scene over and again, and I wonder out loud often if I'll allow his crumpled bloody body to be found, rescued, or just pissed on by a Jack Russell Terrier three days after the "accident". Sometimes it really is an accident. Sometimes I push hard.
My bestie and I both watch too many murder shows. She's into Dateline. I'm into British shows like "Killer in my Village". We text extremely inappropriate things to each other regarding the idiot moves of killers and would-be murderers. I may text her at 2:16 p.m. in the middle of the day on a Tuesday and say "Don't throw the damn knife in the river" to which she would say "I know, right, bury it, but do it in the country where no one will see you." I come back with "CCTV sees you." She'll respond with "Damn, I know!" We cringe sometimes when the woman goes back into an abusive relationship and thinks it will be different this time...dead. Or when the man calls emergency services and wails like an alleycat for the recording, we're like "He did it." I think we're a little jaded at this point, but that only makes me a better writer. I know what to write, and what not to write. Keep it real, drop the drama to a realistic dull roar. Sometimes truth trumps fiction by spades! Sometimes spades are found stuck inside people's heads.
Whatever it is or has been that keeps me returning to the world of the villain and his or her actions, I am happy and also a bit too content to write it out, draw it out, revamp it and redo it to the point that I think maybe I need to ask myself if I want people to really think I know what I'm talking about? Maybe that's not a good thing. I think it was 1977 when I first read about the William Desmond Taylor murder, and the fact that it has never been solved. When I went to Hollywood I met several, many people who were still alive who had been part of the 1922 murder plot and cover-up. The papers were sensational with it. It was just a mess! A glorious and disastrous mess, that still continues today. Of course, I know who did it. Isn't it obvious? LOL....you'll have to read all I've read, watch all I've watched, and make up your own mind. It wasn't the butler. I'll say that. Not this time.
Murder? Mayhem? Yes...for entertainment, but no, not in reality. That's never the answer. Just so we're clear.
William Desmond Taylor: Actor/Producer Murdered Feb. 1, 1922.
Photo Credit: nacion.com
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