By Beth Terrell
A few years ago, four colleagues and I went on a business trip to New Jersey. This was an exceptionally good business trip, because not only were we all friends, we also had similar interests and travel styles. We spent our days doing enjoyable work with good people and our evenings discovering such treasures as The Chocolate Cottage and The Parrot Place and giggling at the unusual business names (Gimpy's Funeral Home), the high number of strip clubs in the vicinity of our hotel, and the apparent inability of New Jersey-ites (New Jerseyans?) to make a left-hand turn. Only one of us had ever heard of, much less seen, a "jug-handle," and the one time we had to make five right-hand turns in order to turn left left us giddy. We loved it, from the 50's-style diners to the treasure trove of magazines on "Weird New Jersey." (We picked up a whole set, on the theory that they were chock-full of story ideas. Hey, maybe I should have written them off on my taxes!) Every night, we went to a different restaurant, each with delicious food and appalling service. Good thing we liked each other; none of our meals was less than an hour and a half long, most of that spent waiting on the server.
All in all, it was a delightful trip. But the high point of it didn't take place in New Jersey. It was on the last day, when we had almost a full day to call our own, and Cindi suggested we spend it in Philadelphia at the Mutter Museum of Medical Oddities. (To say Cindi loves museums would be an understatement; she once refused to enter the Smithsonian's Museum of Natural History on the premise that she would never leave it and would have to live the rest of her life on food from the museum cafe.)
The rest of us were equally game, especially after hearing the rumor that the museum had Chang and Eng, history's most famous conjoined twins, in a jar. I have always been intrigued by conjoined twins, and while I realized there was probably something disrespectful about the public exhibition of their preserved body/bodies, if the museum really did have Chang and Eng in a jar, by George, I wanted to see it.
All I can say, is, if you've never been to the Mutter Museum, and if you are interested in the human condition (and what writer isn't?), then you should make it a point to put it on your list of must-sees. We got there early in the afternoon, and they practically had to push us out the door at closing time. This tiny museum was packed with stories, more than 20,000 artifacts, each one a glimpse into the web of life, death, and--if to be remembered is to live forever--immortality.
It is impossible to go through this exhibit without being forever changed by it. We are fearfully and wonderfully made; yet, there are so many ways the human body can go awry. Like the man whose 9-foot colon is one exhibit, looking, as one viewer phrased it, "like a sandworm from Dune." Looking at pictures of his distended belly, one can only imagine how it must have felt to go through life carrying this monstrous impaction.
There were wax models of flayed bodies, jars of miscarried infants at various stages of development and with a variety of medical conditions, a collection of objects (buttons, wedding rings, safety pins) taken from the windpipes of choking people, side-by-side plaster casts of a person with giantism and a person with dwarfism, a collection of medical instruments used throughout history, a collection of tumors and syphlitic organs, the brain of a murderer, and medical photographs taken to show the symptoms of a variety of medical conditions, including a wealth of information on conjoined twins.
Many of these exhibits are disturbing and haunting. The one that left the most lasting impression for me was a wall of skulls. Each was labeled with what was known about the person it had once belonged to. Most of them seemed so small. Some of the labels had only dates. Others had smidgens of personal information, like the thirteen-year-old boy who had killed himself over "a discovered theft" or the soldier found on a Roman battlefield. It struck me as terribly sad that this was all that was left of them. Then I realized that most people never even get this much. Here on this wall, there is some bond forged between me and a man who lived 2,000 years ago.
No, they didn't have Chang and Eng in a jar. They had a plaster cast of the twins and the preserved wedge of flesh, complete with attached livers, that had joined them. But after being immersed in so many stories, how could we have been disappointed?
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Masterful Illusions
What do you see in this photo? Look closely, for I’ll quiz you later. Here’s a hint – it’s in Paris.
Last week I walked from Le Meridien Hotel in MontParnasse to the Pont Alexander III Bridge, which overlooks the Seine. It was a beautiful day with partly cloudy skies and mild temperatures. On Monday mornings, tourists are few. A woman swept cigarette butts off the sidewalks. A bum quietly sat with his muzzled German Shepard.
I passed Les Invalides where its golden dome shields Napoleon, and flowers bloom between bullet-shaped hedges. Beyond it is the extravagant Pont Alexander III Bridge, which leads to the Grand Palais. To the southwest, Tour Eiffel stands as a sentry to the city. All three landmarks were originally built for the 1900 Universal Exhibition, and are must sees for tourists. And therein lies the problem.
Overlooking the Seine from the Pont Alexander Bridge is always a pleasure. Tour boats packed with waving people pass underneath as bridge people wave back. Most on the bridge are admiring the scenery, unaware of prowling illusionists. I was enjoying the scene when a woman in her late twenties approached and placed a men’s gold wedding band in my hand. First speaking in French, and promptly switching to English, she said she had found it in front of me, and insisted that I keep it as it would do her no good. Every time I tried handing it back, she closed it in my palm, insisting that it was good luck to find gold. She kept pointing things out on the ring to hold my interest, and as I felt the gold in my hand, I kept wondering who I could turn it over to. But the longer she spoke, the more I realized the ring wasn’t there until she showed up, and that’s when things started clicking. For a moment, she pretended to walk away, but then quickly returned saying she needed money for food. I don’t carry cash when I’m walking around, and I didn’t ask if she accepted Master Card. Of course, she wasn’t convinced that I was cash poor, so I emptied my pockets, coming up with my folding cheater glasses. She eventually left with her ring, leaving me to recapture my moment, but it never came. A quick glance at the opposite end of the bridge confirmed she was seeking another mark. I felt duped for having been drawn into her illusion.
On my way back to the hotel, my mind replayed the scene like an endless video loop. I wondered how many times the con artist would use her scam today, and how many would actually give her money. Ironically, the bum with the dog that I passed earlier was given food from an elderly lady for doing absolutely nothing. Maybe the girl should trade her ring for a dog.
Some may blame this incident on “the French”, but I assure you, we have plenty of con artists in the US. I chock this up as another credit from the school of hard knocks. At first, I believed the ring was real, just as you may believe the photo above is distorted. Actually, the photo is quite clear; just look at the sign post in front of it. But the French don’t believe in simple tarps while resurfacing buildings. Instead, they create masterful facades to mask their construction. Some are of sporting events, and in this case, it’s a distorted building. Feeling duped? Join the club! It just goes to show that no matter how street-wise you think you are, there will always be someone smarter. Hmm – sounds like there’s a story in there somewhere.
Last week I walked from Le Meridien Hotel in MontParnasse to the Pont Alexander III Bridge, which overlooks the Seine. It was a beautiful day with partly cloudy skies and mild temperatures. On Monday mornings, tourists are few. A woman swept cigarette butts off the sidewalks. A bum quietly sat with his muzzled German Shepard.
I passed Les Invalides where its golden dome shields Napoleon, and flowers bloom between bullet-shaped hedges. Beyond it is the extravagant Pont Alexander III Bridge, which leads to the Grand Palais. To the southwest, Tour Eiffel stands as a sentry to the city. All three landmarks were originally built for the 1900 Universal Exhibition, and are must sees for tourists. And therein lies the problem.
Overlooking the Seine from the Pont Alexander Bridge is always a pleasure. Tour boats packed with waving people pass underneath as bridge people wave back. Most on the bridge are admiring the scenery, unaware of prowling illusionists. I was enjoying the scene when a woman in her late twenties approached and placed a men’s gold wedding band in my hand. First speaking in French, and promptly switching to English, she said she had found it in front of me, and insisted that I keep it as it would do her no good. Every time I tried handing it back, she closed it in my palm, insisting that it was good luck to find gold. She kept pointing things out on the ring to hold my interest, and as I felt the gold in my hand, I kept wondering who I could turn it over to. But the longer she spoke, the more I realized the ring wasn’t there until she showed up, and that’s when things started clicking. For a moment, she pretended to walk away, but then quickly returned saying she needed money for food. I don’t carry cash when I’m walking around, and I didn’t ask if she accepted Master Card. Of course, she wasn’t convinced that I was cash poor, so I emptied my pockets, coming up with my folding cheater glasses. She eventually left with her ring, leaving me to recapture my moment, but it never came. A quick glance at the opposite end of the bridge confirmed she was seeking another mark. I felt duped for having been drawn into her illusion.
On my way back to the hotel, my mind replayed the scene like an endless video loop. I wondered how many times the con artist would use her scam today, and how many would actually give her money. Ironically, the bum with the dog that I passed earlier was given food from an elderly lady for doing absolutely nothing. Maybe the girl should trade her ring for a dog.
Some may blame this incident on “the French”, but I assure you, we have plenty of con artists in the US. I chock this up as another credit from the school of hard knocks. At first, I believed the ring was real, just as you may believe the photo above is distorted. Actually, the photo is quite clear; just look at the sign post in front of it. But the French don’t believe in simple tarps while resurfacing buildings. Instead, they create masterful facades to mask their construction. Some are of sporting events, and in this case, it’s a distorted building. Feeling duped? Join the club! It just goes to show that no matter how street-wise you think you are, there will always be someone smarter. Hmm – sounds like there’s a story in there somewhere.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
A Little History, a Little Mystery
By Chester Campbell
I’ve always been a bit of a history buff, which I suppose contributed to my love of research. The problem, as any conscientious researcher knows, is that you invariably come across some interesting tidbit that has no relation to the subject. However, it seems too intriguing to pass by, so you’re off on a tangent.
When that happens, I try to find some way to work it into the story.
Take, for instance, when I went to the small town of Hartsville, about forty miles northeast of Nashville, looking for good places to commit a few murders. I always consult AAA maps and Mapquest and Google maps before making such ventures. I had found a likely spot along a bend in the Cumberland River and decided to check it out.
To get there, I had to go through downtown Hartsville. You’d miss it if you blinked twice, but I stopped to admire the century-old Trousdale County Courthouse, which looks more like a very large red brick residence. Although it stands more than a mile from the river, it was deluged with several feet of water during the disastrous 1927 flood season. What I found most interesting was a tall granite obelisk in front bearing a tarnished metal plate that read:
THE BATTLE OF HARTSVILLE
HERE, DEC. 7TH 1862,
1500 CONFEDERATES UNDER
GEN. JOHN H. MORGAN
SWIMMING THE ICY CUMBERLAND
SURPRISED AND CAPTURED
A LARGE FEDERAL GARRISON.
Though not a Civil War buff, I had heard of the famous John Hunt Morgan and his cavalry raiders. But I put that aside as I took a major highway south from downtown (in this area that means a nice, paved two-lane road). Shortly before reaching the river, I spotted a sign pointing toward the Battle of Hartsville Park. I detoured over to take a look.
I learned that Morgan’s advance had worn Union blue uniforms to fool the enemy sentinels. In less than two hours of fighting, the Confederate party of 1,500 had surrounded the Federals and convinced them to surrender, taking 1,800 prisoners. Casualties, dead and wounded, included 1,855 Union soldiers and 149 Confederates. Checking the battlefield maps, I found Morgan had placed his artillery across the river at the exact spot I planned to leave a corpse.
This had to go in the book. I had my protag, Greg McKenzie, visit the park and comment on the Union soldiers suffering their own Pearl Harbor, seventy-nine years to the day before Dec. 7, 1941. When he visits the murder site, he muses:
“Realizing a party of tired, half-frozen Rebel soldiers had fired cannons in this area nearly a century and a half ago, I wondered if any Confederate ghosts had lingered about Monday night when someone fired three shots into (the victim). If so, they weren’t talking.”
It was an opportunity to provide a little local color and add to the realism of the story. The moral: research is hardly ever wasted. If we look around, we can probably find a use for it. If not, hey, chalk it up to education. We can all use more of that.
THE BATTLE OF HARTSVILLE
HERE, DEC. 7TH 1862,
1500 CONFEDERATES UNDER
GEN. JOHN H. MORGAN
SWIMMING THE ICY CUMBERLAND
SURPRISED AND CAPTURED
A LARGE FEDERAL GARRISON.
Though not a Civil War buff, I had heard of the famous John Hunt Morgan and his cavalry raiders. But I put that aside as I took a major highway south from downtown (in this area that means a nice, paved two-lane road). Shortly before reaching the river, I spotted a sign pointing toward the Battle of Hartsville Park. I detoured over to take a look.
I learned that Morgan’s advance had worn Union blue uniforms to fool the enemy sentinels. In less than two hours of fighting, the Confederate party of 1,500 had surrounded the Federals and convinced them to surrender, taking 1,800 prisoners. Casualties, dead and wounded, included 1,855 Union soldiers and 149 Confederates. Checking the battlefield maps, I found Morgan had placed his artillery across the river at the exact spot I planned to leave a corpse.
This had to go in the book. I had my protag, Greg McKenzie, visit the park and comment on the Union soldiers suffering their own Pearl Harbor, seventy-nine years to the day before Dec. 7, 1941. When he visits the murder site, he muses:
“Realizing a party of tired, half-frozen Rebel soldiers had fired cannons in this area nearly a century and a half ago, I wondered if any Confederate ghosts had lingered about Monday night when someone fired three shots into (the victim). If so, they weren’t talking.”
It was an opportunity to provide a little local color and add to the realism of the story. The moral: research is hardly ever wasted. If we look around, we can probably find a use for it. If not, hey, chalk it up to education. We can all use more of that.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Stupid People Season
By Ben Small
It’s Stupid People Season in Arizona, particularly it seems, around Tucson. This time of year is also known as “Monsoon Season”, which the Fed wants to change to something like “Possibly Aggressive Sudden Storm Season”, I think because it gives the Fed a PASSS, but folks here are stubbornly insisting that our summer rains remain “Monsoon Season” even while they whisper under their breath it’s really Stupid People Season.
Why?
Because people do stupid things this time of year. And they die as a result of them.
Most people living in Arizona, it’s no secret, are from the Midwest. And Midwesterners are used to driving through water puddles. So they see a water puddle in the road out here, they attempt to drive through it.
Big mistake.
This water is moving. Six inches of rapidly moving water will send your car to Mexico, no roads required.
“Well, then,” you say, “I’ll just get out and walk to the side.”
Even dumber. This water is moving sludge. Concrete-like. Fast setting. You’ll be buried faster than you can say, “Ulp!” And there’s quicksand, so while your mouth is being filled with Ready-Mix, your feet are sinking deeper and deeper. Plus, there are rocks and trees in the water. Bonk. You’re dead.
Just last week, some college dude was drinking with his buds. It was raining outside. Time to go home. Ignoring his friends’ pleas to wait out the storm, the kid left in his rice-beater. On his way home, he tried to drive through a moving puddle in the road, and his beater was thrust downstream a half-mile into a wash. Washgazers, which is what tried-and-true Tucsonans become when the washes are running – no telling what you’ll see ― yelled at him to stay in his car. But being young and male (which often means stupid), he chose to exit.
That was five days ago. The young man hasn’t been seen since. Officials are estimating his body may have traveled as many as twenty miles, and they’re saying his remains may be buried under the sludge, never to be found.
This scenario plays out almost daily during Monsoon Season. People just don’t learn. And rescuers are put at great risk. In an attempt to educate (or intimidate - you choose which) the public and save rescuers ― some of them are lost each year too ― the state passed The Stupid Motorist Law a few years ago. Yes, that’s its title. The Stupid Motorist Law says that if you enter a street that’s blocked off due to running water and a rescue attempt must be made to save your sorry... um... circumstances, you must pay the cost of the rescue.
You’d think having a law like this on the books would help. But not so anyone can determine. Every time it rains and the washes run, some idiot tries to drive the puddle and either has to be rescued or loses his life. And the amazing thing is you can see the wheels turning in some drivers’ heads. They’ll come up to the flowing water, right up to the barricade, hesitate, then slip forward a bit, stop, inch ahead again, stop, and then make a decision: Go for it or not. And of course, often there’s some idiot-in-training behind them blowing his horn, anxious to see if they make it.
Too often, people don’t make it.
But there’s a bright side to all this tragedy. When it’s raining during Stupid People Season, the local news staffs put their people on overtime. So much good television out there just waiting for the camera. Who wants to watch Keeping Up With The Kardashians, when there’s gripping real-life suspense on Channel 4? And it’s balanced news coverage; they show both sides of the wash.
But it’s not just the washes that make people stupid this time of year. Yesterday, three folks were hit by lightning. Ever see lightning during an Arizona storm? Looks like Thor’s really mad at somebody; he’s firing tracer bullets left and right. So what better time than one of these storms to repair the metal roof on your trailer, right? Or maybe it’s a good time to point a golf club to the sky and show how high a wedge shot is going. Somehow, these three people survived. One of the golfers can’t remember his name, even though he remembers his score.
Stupid People Season. It happens every year.
It’s Stupid People Season in Arizona, particularly it seems, around Tucson. This time of year is also known as “Monsoon Season”, which the Fed wants to change to something like “Possibly Aggressive Sudden Storm Season”, I think because it gives the Fed a PASSS, but folks here are stubbornly insisting that our summer rains remain “Monsoon Season” even while they whisper under their breath it’s really Stupid People Season.
Why?
Because people do stupid things this time of year. And they die as a result of them.
Most people living in Arizona, it’s no secret, are from the Midwest. And Midwesterners are used to driving through water puddles. So they see a water puddle in the road out here, they attempt to drive through it.
Big mistake.
This water is moving. Six inches of rapidly moving water will send your car to Mexico, no roads required.
“Well, then,” you say, “I’ll just get out and walk to the side.”
Even dumber. This water is moving sludge. Concrete-like. Fast setting. You’ll be buried faster than you can say, “Ulp!” And there’s quicksand, so while your mouth is being filled with Ready-Mix, your feet are sinking deeper and deeper. Plus, there are rocks and trees in the water. Bonk. You’re dead.
Just last week, some college dude was drinking with his buds. It was raining outside. Time to go home. Ignoring his friends’ pleas to wait out the storm, the kid left in his rice-beater. On his way home, he tried to drive through a moving puddle in the road, and his beater was thrust downstream a half-mile into a wash. Washgazers, which is what tried-and-true Tucsonans become when the washes are running – no telling what you’ll see ― yelled at him to stay in his car. But being young and male (which often means stupid), he chose to exit.
That was five days ago. The young man hasn’t been seen since. Officials are estimating his body may have traveled as many as twenty miles, and they’re saying his remains may be buried under the sludge, never to be found.
This scenario plays out almost daily during Monsoon Season. People just don’t learn. And rescuers are put at great risk. In an attempt to educate (or intimidate - you choose which) the public and save rescuers ― some of them are lost each year too ― the state passed The Stupid Motorist Law a few years ago. Yes, that’s its title. The Stupid Motorist Law says that if you enter a street that’s blocked off due to running water and a rescue attempt must be made to save your sorry... um... circumstances, you must pay the cost of the rescue.
You’d think having a law like this on the books would help. But not so anyone can determine. Every time it rains and the washes run, some idiot tries to drive the puddle and either has to be rescued or loses his life. And the amazing thing is you can see the wheels turning in some drivers’ heads. They’ll come up to the flowing water, right up to the barricade, hesitate, then slip forward a bit, stop, inch ahead again, stop, and then make a decision: Go for it or not. And of course, often there’s some idiot-in-training behind them blowing his horn, anxious to see if they make it.
Too often, people don’t make it.
But there’s a bright side to all this tragedy. When it’s raining during Stupid People Season, the local news staffs put their people on overtime. So much good television out there just waiting for the camera. Who wants to watch Keeping Up With The Kardashians, when there’s gripping real-life suspense on Channel 4? And it’s balanced news coverage; they show both sides of the wash.
But it’s not just the washes that make people stupid this time of year. Yesterday, three folks were hit by lightning. Ever see lightning during an Arizona storm? Looks like Thor’s really mad at somebody; he’s firing tracer bullets left and right. So what better time than one of these storms to repair the metal roof on your trailer, right? Or maybe it’s a good time to point a golf club to the sky and show how high a wedge shot is going. Somehow, these three people survived. One of the golfers can’t remember his name, even though he remembers his score.
Stupid People Season. It happens every year.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Show Me the Paper
By Pat Browning
Here’s a news story that warms my heart.
Children’s librarian Judith Flint, who is 56 years old and 4-feet, 10-inches tall, faced down five Vermont state police detectives who wanted to seize the library’s public access computers.
According to an Associated Press story, Flint asked the lead detective for a warrant. He said he didn’t need any paper. Flint said, “Show me the paper.”
That librarian would make a great protagonist in a cozy mystery series.
A bench at Wal-Mart is an ideal place for doing character studies, but for story ideas you can’t beat a newspaper. Many writers keep a file of newspaper clippings. To riff on a famous quote attributed to bank robber Willie Sutton, that’s where the ideas are.
John Dunning is best known for his Bookman mysteries, but early in his career his clip file included a story about a circus fire and a little girl whose body was never identified. Dunning wove that into a novel titled DEADLINE. His protagonist is a journalist who pursues such a story, connecting it to the story of an Amish girl who leaves home to become a Rockette in New York City. DEADLINE was nominated for a 1982 Edgar Award (Best Paperback Original Mystery Novel).
The past week saw a glut of news stories that could start a crime writer mumbling, “What if?”
*In Los Angeles, a 100-year-old fig tree in downtown L.A. has been designated a historic-cultural monument. What if – a tornado pulls it right out of the ground and there’s a skeleton buried there?
*Remember the slogan “If guns are outlawed, only outlaws will have guns”? In Pittsburg, a convicted felon up on federal gun charges argues that the law allows him to keep loaded guns at home for self-defense. Police found seven pistols, three shotguns and five rifles in his private stash. One might ask: Is he expecting a home invasion or World War III?
*In San Francisco, a brewer named Maytag is about to release another barrel of single-malt rye, 13-year-aged Old Potrero Traditional Pot Distilled Hotaling's Whiskey. It’s the only pot-distilled whiskey made in the U.S. and there are only five barrels left. There are so many what-ifs in that story I can’t count them on the fingers of one hand even when I’m sober.
*Here’s one that might have been dreamed up by a writer for “Boston Legal.” A bicycle thief rode the stolen bike onto the North Washington Street Bridge, jumped off the bridge into Boston Harbor, swam to shore, and ran down a harbor walkway before the cops caught him. I’d like to hear James Spader argue that case.
*Or how about the Wiccan in Indiana who ran a three-foot sword into her foot while performing a good luck ritual? The ceremony calls for candles, incense, a full moon and driving a sword into the ground. What if -- a love rival had been standing just a little too close when the sword came down?
*Now that airline service is so unpredictable, a business traveler has created the Mini-Motel for sleeping in airports. For $39.95 you get a little tent, air mattress, pillow, reading light and alarm clock. What a great way to make new friends. Didn’t Tom Hanks star in that movie?
*The story of the week, the month, the year, comes from Belgrade – the capture of
Radovan Karadzic, former Bosnian Serb leader wanted for war crimes but hiding in plain sight since 1998. Karadzic masqueraded as an expert in “human quantum energy,” gave lectures, appeared on TV, and wrote for an alternative medicine magazine. He walked around with a $5 million bounty on his head, but he had business cards and a Web site. He was arrested while waiting for a bus.
There’s a ready-made thriller for a writer like Daniel Silva and his protagonist, Gabriel Allon. And by the bye, MOSCOW RULES, Silva’s latest story of international intrigue, launched this week.
*One more airline story: American Airlines is installing a missile defense system on three of its passenger jets. CNN quotes “experts” who say 500,00 to 700,000 shoulder-fired missiles are abroad in the world, some selling for as little as $5,000. The JetEye defense system works by detecting a heat-seeking missile and firing a laser to divert it.
Makes you want to take the train, doesn’t it? Strangers on a Train, North by Northwest, Murder on the Orient Express …
Here’s a news story that warms my heart.
Children’s librarian Judith Flint, who is 56 years old and 4-feet, 10-inches tall, faced down five Vermont state police detectives who wanted to seize the library’s public access computers.
According to an Associated Press story, Flint asked the lead detective for a warrant. He said he didn’t need any paper. Flint said, “Show me the paper.”
That librarian would make a great protagonist in a cozy mystery series.
A bench at Wal-Mart is an ideal place for doing character studies, but for story ideas you can’t beat a newspaper. Many writers keep a file of newspaper clippings. To riff on a famous quote attributed to bank robber Willie Sutton, that’s where the ideas are.
John Dunning is best known for his Bookman mysteries, but early in his career his clip file included a story about a circus fire and a little girl whose body was never identified. Dunning wove that into a novel titled DEADLINE. His protagonist is a journalist who pursues such a story, connecting it to the story of an Amish girl who leaves home to become a Rockette in New York City. DEADLINE was nominated for a 1982 Edgar Award (Best Paperback Original Mystery Novel).
The past week saw a glut of news stories that could start a crime writer mumbling, “What if?”
*In Los Angeles, a 100-year-old fig tree in downtown L.A. has been designated a historic-cultural monument. What if – a tornado pulls it right out of the ground and there’s a skeleton buried there?
*Remember the slogan “If guns are outlawed, only outlaws will have guns”? In Pittsburg, a convicted felon up on federal gun charges argues that the law allows him to keep loaded guns at home for self-defense. Police found seven pistols, three shotguns and five rifles in his private stash. One might ask: Is he expecting a home invasion or World War III?
*In San Francisco, a brewer named Maytag is about to release another barrel of single-malt rye, 13-year-aged Old Potrero Traditional Pot Distilled Hotaling's Whiskey. It’s the only pot-distilled whiskey made in the U.S. and there are only five barrels left. There are so many what-ifs in that story I can’t count them on the fingers of one hand even when I’m sober.
*Here’s one that might have been dreamed up by a writer for “Boston Legal.” A bicycle thief rode the stolen bike onto the North Washington Street Bridge, jumped off the bridge into Boston Harbor, swam to shore, and ran down a harbor walkway before the cops caught him. I’d like to hear James Spader argue that case.
*Or how about the Wiccan in Indiana who ran a three-foot sword into her foot while performing a good luck ritual? The ceremony calls for candles, incense, a full moon and driving a sword into the ground. What if -- a love rival had been standing just a little too close when the sword came down?
*Now that airline service is so unpredictable, a business traveler has created the Mini-Motel for sleeping in airports. For $39.95 you get a little tent, air mattress, pillow, reading light and alarm clock. What a great way to make new friends. Didn’t Tom Hanks star in that movie?
*The story of the week, the month, the year, comes from Belgrade – the capture of
Radovan Karadzic, former Bosnian Serb leader wanted for war crimes but hiding in plain sight since 1998. Karadzic masqueraded as an expert in “human quantum energy,” gave lectures, appeared on TV, and wrote for an alternative medicine magazine. He walked around with a $5 million bounty on his head, but he had business cards and a Web site. He was arrested while waiting for a bus.
There’s a ready-made thriller for a writer like Daniel Silva and his protagonist, Gabriel Allon. And by the bye, MOSCOW RULES, Silva’s latest story of international intrigue, launched this week.
*One more airline story: American Airlines is installing a missile defense system on three of its passenger jets. CNN quotes “experts” who say 500,00 to 700,000 shoulder-fired missiles are abroad in the world, some selling for as little as $5,000. The JetEye defense system works by detecting a heat-seeking missile and firing a laser to divert it.
Makes you want to take the train, doesn’t it? Strangers on a Train, North by Northwest, Murder on the Orient Express …
Friday, July 25, 2008
A Daughter Murdered
By Jean Henry Mead
Recently losing my daughter to cancer was the worst experience of my life, but having a daughter murdered and subsequently suspected of the crime has to be off the endurance chart. I’m referring to the JonBenet Ramsey murder and the additional tragedy that followed.
Six-year-old JonBenet was found by her father in the basement of their Boulder, Colorado, home the afternoon following Christmas 1996. Her mother reported to police that she had found a note on the stairs demanding the unusual amount of $118,000. The note said the little girl would be returned the next day if the money were delivered. The Ramseys called police, who reportedly treated them as suspects from day one, although their voluntary handwriting samples bore no resemblance to that of the ransom note.
JonBenet’s parents took the two-and-a-half page note seriously and set out to raise the money, but the call they expected never came. Meanwhile, serious mistakes were made by local police. Investigators failed to seal off the area or make an effort to protect forensic crime scene evidence. They also neglected to conduct a thorough search of the house until later that afternoon when Detective Fleet White accompanied John Ramsey through the house to search for anything unusual. Starting in the basement, Ramsey found his daughter in a seldom used room, according to the London documentary, Who Killed JonBenet?
Because no footprints were found in the snow, police and local media assumed the murder was an inside job, although a basement window latch was broken and a portion of the Ramsey’s yard contained no snow. An intruder could have gained entry through the window and made his way up the carpeted stairs to JonBenet’s bedroom, one floor below that of her parents.
The Ramseys were under constant scrutiny and rumors were rampant they had killed their daughter. Even their nine-year-old son Burke was suspect. Because JonBenet was a beauty pageant contestant, her parents were accused of sexually exploiting her. Following her funeral in Atlanta, the Ramseys were aware of their sole suspect status, to which Ramsey replied, “The police weren’t there to help us, they were there to hang us.” However, all allegations against the Ramseys proved groundless. That didn’t stop the host of a major talk show from conducting a live murder trial, complete with judge and jury. The “jury” decided the Ramseys were "liable for the wrongful death of their daughter JonBenet."
There isn’t room here to discuss the entire case, but the point I want to make is that investigative blunders must have contributed to Patsy Ramsey’s unfortunate death. She announced to a group of friends at a Christmas party that she had overcome a recurrence of ovarian cancer, and that her husband John had been named “Boulder’s Businessman of the Year.” The couple’s happiness was short-lived when, three days later, their daughter was found murdered. The accusations and stress that followed undoubtedly contributed to Patsy Ramsey’s death.
John Ramsey not only lost members of his family, he suffered incredible pain. He took the news of his murder clearance by Boulder officials ten years after the fact with the grace of a true gentleman. My heart goes out to you, John. #
Recently losing my daughter to cancer was the worst experience of my life, but having a daughter murdered and subsequently suspected of the crime has to be off the endurance chart. I’m referring to the JonBenet Ramsey murder and the additional tragedy that followed.
Six-year-old JonBenet was found by her father in the basement of their Boulder, Colorado, home the afternoon following Christmas 1996. Her mother reported to police that she had found a note on the stairs demanding the unusual amount of $118,000. The note said the little girl would be returned the next day if the money were delivered. The Ramseys called police, who reportedly treated them as suspects from day one, although their voluntary handwriting samples bore no resemblance to that of the ransom note.
JonBenet’s parents took the two-and-a-half page note seriously and set out to raise the money, but the call they expected never came. Meanwhile, serious mistakes were made by local police. Investigators failed to seal off the area or make an effort to protect forensic crime scene evidence. They also neglected to conduct a thorough search of the house until later that afternoon when Detective Fleet White accompanied John Ramsey through the house to search for anything unusual. Starting in the basement, Ramsey found his daughter in a seldom used room, according to the London documentary, Who Killed JonBenet?
Because no footprints were found in the snow, police and local media assumed the murder was an inside job, although a basement window latch was broken and a portion of the Ramsey’s yard contained no snow. An intruder could have gained entry through the window and made his way up the carpeted stairs to JonBenet’s bedroom, one floor below that of her parents.
The Ramseys were under constant scrutiny and rumors were rampant they had killed their daughter. Even their nine-year-old son Burke was suspect. Because JonBenet was a beauty pageant contestant, her parents were accused of sexually exploiting her. Following her funeral in Atlanta, the Ramseys were aware of their sole suspect status, to which Ramsey replied, “The police weren’t there to help us, they were there to hang us.” However, all allegations against the Ramseys proved groundless. That didn’t stop the host of a major talk show from conducting a live murder trial, complete with judge and jury. The “jury” decided the Ramseys were "liable for the wrongful death of their daughter JonBenet."
There isn’t room here to discuss the entire case, but the point I want to make is that investigative blunders must have contributed to Patsy Ramsey’s unfortunate death. She announced to a group of friends at a Christmas party that she had overcome a recurrence of ovarian cancer, and that her husband John had been named “Boulder’s Businessman of the Year.” The couple’s happiness was short-lived when, three days later, their daughter was found murdered. The accusations and stress that followed undoubtedly contributed to Patsy Ramsey’s death.
John Ramsey not only lost members of his family, he suffered incredible pain. He took the news of his murder clearance by Boulder officials ten years after the fact with the grace of a true gentleman. My heart goes out to you, John. #
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Mumbai, India
Recently, while awaiting take-off clearance in Mumbai, I gazed upon the shanties that butt up to the airport. My aircraft is close enough to where a well-placed rock can damage it. From the other side of the boundary wall, people watch airplanes from grass-covered landfills or the nearby mosque. Busses pick up laborers whose weekly salary won’t buy a pack of US cigarettes. But in spite of these hardships, a man a wingspan away smiles and waves at me with the enthusiasm of a ten year old. I smile and wave back, humbled, wishing everyone could see the world as I do.
Yes, there is poverty in our own country, but nothing like this. Shanty residents know nothing about cell phones, iPods, or video games. Owning a car is beyond a squatter’s comprehension. Millions of young men will leave their villages with the hope of finding work in Mumbai, and subsequently land in these fetid, squatter camps. At best, employment is sporadic, and what they do find usually entails the worst jobs. They eat whatever they can scrounge, bathe in filth, and yet they are basically happy people with strong ties to their cultural values and beliefs. In most instances, their education comes from whatever their elders pass on, and it is rare that they acquire any consistent, formal education. The children they raise will have no concept of entitlement, but instead realize that they will never ride in the airplanes they so envy.
Interestingly, while these communities are packed with people, crime is not tolerated. Why? Because squatters tend to look out for each other. Mess with your own people and you’re cast aside. Being alone in Shanty City is a fate worse than death.
Every day is a struggle for these people. They know nothing about a switch giving light, a flushing toilet, or purified water pouring from a tap. Refrigerators aren’t necessary, for they have no source of reliable electricity, and there is little money for food. To the children, discarded trash is a gift. Their knowledge of new products comes from newspapers or magazines blown their way. But when the sun sets, these families all gather together, grateful they made it through another day.
Interestingly, while these communities are packed with people, crime is not tolerated. Why? Because squatters tend to look out for each other. Mess with your own people and you’re cast aside. Being alone in Shanty City is a fate worse than death.
Every day is a struggle for these people. They know nothing about a switch giving light, a flushing toilet, or purified water pouring from a tap. Refrigerators aren’t necessary, for they have no source of reliable electricity, and there is little money for food. To the children, discarded trash is a gift. Their knowledge of new products comes from newspapers or magazines blown their way. But when the sun sets, these families all gather together, grateful they made it through another day.
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