What if Magic was Science?

Okay, kiddies.  One more time into the depths of Fantasy.  After this post I promise to write about something else.  But something struck me as important last night while I was thinking about what makes for good, or bad, writing in this genre.  Something I need to get off my chest.


In a previous post I mentioned how imagination and immersion are needed to capture the reader and make them a fan.  Imagination to see the plot, the characters, the settings with a clear eye; the immersion of that imagination so tightly woven the reader is cacooned into a world so vast and so complex they don't want to leave.


I also mentioned in a separate post talking about writing fantasy a writer should read.  Read everything they can grab hold of.  From a laundry ticket to Nineteenth Century Russian novelists (although on the last one, take a bottle of aspirins with you.  Russians describe and describe and describe and . . . well, you get the picture).  You never know what you will read which will suddenly 'flip the switch' and make your mind go off the deep end in pure speculation.  Here is an example:


In my Roland series, those who 'have the touch of magic in their blood' have the capacity to enter the Netherworld.  And the Netherworld is  . . . well, hard to explain.  It's the supernatural.  But more than that.  It is Hell.  But more than that.  It is an unending River of Time, with no beginning and no ending;  but in truth, it is far more than that.  It is a place where a magician or wizard can talk to himself.  Talk to himself from out of the Past, the Present, and the Future.  It is the residence of Hope.  And of Evil.


The idea of this concept came to me one day while reading an article about Brane Theory.  A physicist, name forgotten, came up with the idea that there or, at least, 15 dimensions.  He postulates each of these dimensions are like a sheet of stretched rubber membranes hanging vertically in space/time side-by-side.  They rarely touch.  But when the do . . . .


Heavy stuff there, Eunice.  Makes your head hurt, old girl.  But it got me day-dreaming.


What if you could had the power to step into a place and see 15 copies of You?  You from the Past (in fifteen different variations).  You from the Present (again, in fifteen different variations).  You from the Future (you see where I am going with this.)  If this was possible--what ramifications did these multiple variations have on such concepts like Fate and Destiny?  Was there  actually such things as Fate and Destiny in a multi-dimensional universe?


Ah!  What if . . . what if . . . Magic was actually Science carried into this dimension from a different dimension?  What if . . . . !


See what I mean?  A casual reading of something completely unrelated to writing fiction suddenly unfolds in your mind a realm of possibilities.  And THAT, kiddies, is what makes for good fantasy writing.

Don't do this

Someone asked me the other day, "You've discussed what good fantasy must contain.  How about telling us what we should not do in writing fantasy." 

Alright, me buckos!  Strap yourself in.  It could be a bumpy ride.

Almost any fantasy series you read today is, basically, a 'quest' story.  A group of misfits get together and they go off trawling through dangerous waters in search of some sacred stone/sword/orb/temple/book/ or recipe which is going to save--or destroy--all of mankind.  Year in, year out . . . fantasy boils down to a quest story.  You could say even the Harry Potter series was a quest story.  But with a difference.

The Potter tales disguised the quest tale (the quest being to first, figure out why Harry Potter survived his first encounter with Lord Voldermort--and secondly, finding a way to destroy the arch enemy)  by wrapping the tale up in the garments of a 'coming to age' story.  So that's my first 'don't'.

     1.  Don't make your quest tale so damned obvious.  Better yet; don't write a quest story at all!

A copy of of a copy of a copy, brother.  Ever pick up a novel and start reading and by the time you got to page six you'd swear you had read that story--and knew all the characters--like the back of your hand?  Writing a quest story is bad enough.  But writing one using the same kind of characters that just about every other fantasy writer have used is really getting to be a nuisance.  So here's rule number two:

    2.  Character development!  Throw a midget in the mix as maybe the main hero.  Or

         a rat.  Or a demented hair dresser!  Find someone else other than  the heroic figure

         to be 'the man.'

Throw in Harry Potter's Dumbledore and Lord of the Rings Gandolf (at least in the movies) and what do you get?  The exact same figure. Both magicians!  Both with long beards!  Both all-knowing!  They might as well be twins.  Hell, they may be!

Rule number three:

     3.  Does everyone have to stay in the same damp castle/swamp/cottage?  Or ride the same damn

          dragon?

We limit ourselves when we do not take the time to describe a scene properly.  And what is the proper way to describe a scene, you ask?  My answer;  describe something to give it three-dimensions.  Or a personality.  Or a quirkiness.  Be brief in your sentence structure.  Don't overlay it with all those adjectival clauses.  But don't skimp on description.   And make no mistakes, brother;  this is the hardest rule of all.  Deciding what is too much or not enough.  Only you will know.  But it'll take a hell of a lot of practice.

One could go on and on with rules.  So I'll be brief and jot down only one more rule.

    4.  Screw the rules!  Just write a damn good story that's full of color, life, and a sense of adventure!

Some of the greatest tales told broke just about ever rule written about how to write a good story.  If you got the talent, baby, don't limit yourself with a bladder full of useless rules!  Explore.  Imagine.  Be creative!  Become a story teller first--and then sit down and write.  Observe the world around you.  Read, for chrissakes!  Read everything.  Leave nothing out.  You'll be surprised at what might come along while you're reading about the sex life of a Tsetse Fly.

Great Fantasy

Okay, Eunice old girl.  Yesterday I wrote about what makes for a great police-procedural novel/series.  Today I want to take the same tack and talk about the making of a great fantasy.


(Yes, dear.  A fantasy!  No . . . . no . . . I'm not fantasizing about Angelina Jolie!  Books, you mad hatter!  Books!  Fantasy books!)


Anyway . . .


There's a huge audience for fantasy novels.  Huge.  And since the audience--and the money to buy them--is quite large, you can well image at least a google amount of writers (yes, google is a number) are chucking out fantasy novels as fast as they can write them.
The question is--what makes a good fantasy book something that sticks with the readers?  Readers who demand more and more for the author.  So devoted to their work readers actually treat a book--and the author--as, more or less, a part of the family.  How does this happen?


Ask J.K. Rowling.


If you don't know who J.K. Rowling is then you must have died about fifteen years ago and people forgot to tell you.  Maybe you'll recognize this name.  Harry Potter.  Yeah, that Harry Potter.  Seven books, fifty or sixty million books in print.  More actually  . . . I ran out of fingers and toes counting.  Millions of fans all over the world.  Films that created millions of more fans.

(No, Eunice!  They're not all red headed and they're not all my relatives!  Go back to sharpening your bayonets and reloading shotgun shells!)

Rowling created a fantasy series which is probably going to live forever.  So . . .the question is this:  what's the formula for success?  I think I might have an answer.  And it's just one word.

Immersion.

Great fantasy requires the reader to be pulled completely into the story.  To be immersed into a world from head to toe, from nerve ending to nerve ending.  So absorbed into this make-believe world the real world the reader lives in becomes temporarily suspended in time.  That's what happened with the Harry Potter series.  The more you read the books, the more you became immersed in a world so well developed, so nuanced, you found yourself reluctant to leave.  But here's the real kicker;  great fantasy is written by writers who were not thinking about writing a great fantasy.  All they had in mind was to just create a good story. A good, entertaining story.

That's great fantasy.

Immersion. 

To write great fantasy one has to win over, body and soul, the reader.  The large majority of fantasy writers don't do that.  They right formula.  Not fantasy.

Fantasy is big nowadays, Eunice.  Big name publishing houses and movie studios are climbing over the walls and looking into every crevice they can find in search of the next big fantasy series.  I write fantasy.  I try . . . diligently . . . to create a world so complete, so real, it immerses the reader into an alternate reality.  Will I be 'discovered' by a large, adoring crowd?  Will I have fans clamoring to bring the next book out as soon as possible?

How the hell should I know?

(All right, Eunice!  I'll wash the dishes!  But remember to sew the thumb you just sliced off with that bayonet back on before you come to bed tonight.)

The Makings of a Great Police-Procedural

Let's talk about cops, Eunice.  (I know!  I know!  You've got a problem with cops.  Maybe it has something to do with you mooning them every time one drives by, you crazy woman!)

Maybe not talk about cops specifically, but maybe more about writing a classic police-procedural.  You know, the kind a guy by the name of Ed McBain wrote.  His famous 87th Precinct.  God knows there's a reading public out there for this genre.  The Old Man also knows there's six billion souls on this planet trying to scratch out a living--and about five billion of'em want to scratch out that living by being a mystery/detective writer.

And yeah, I confess:  I'm one of those five billion. (Eunice, for chrissakes!  Quit rolling on the floor laughing like a hyena on steroids.  You'll hurt the floor!).

I have a theory.  What makes a good police-procedural series is not the motions of cops working through their tried and true routines in investigating a crime.  Interesting to observe, yes; but essential?  No, I don't think so.  Nor is it the crime itself.  Although . . . again . . . interesting to read.  But not essential.   No, my theory is this;  a good police-procedural revolves around a specific chemistry.  Several ingredients are needed to formulate a good book.  But one ingredient IS absolutely essential.

Characters.

Characters in a police-procedural are more important here than in any other mystery/detective setting.  Even the venerable private detective becomes second fiddle as far as character-driven stories go.  It is the combination of characters, the investigative routine, and the crime itself, which makes for a great police procedural.  But emphasis CHARACTERS.  And I'm not talking about the character of the bad guys.  I'm talking about the lives of the cops.  Their strengths.  Their weaknesses.  Their quirks.  Their sense of humor.  The things that tick them off.  They way they work through their emotions, their fears, their desires WHILE they are working through a crime scene.

To make a good police-procedural book/series work, you need characters.  Characters with flaws as much as heroic qualities.  Made believable.  And oddly enough, make them either way;  either make them attractive so people can get to know them and like'em--or make'em just the opposite.  Mean and nasty.  With a bad attitude and surly temper.  (Eunice!  I know I called you a little bit on the heavy side in that thong you were wearing . . . but you don't have to get so mad!  Now Eunice . . . put down that dough-roller.  You know I get nervous whenever you pick up that dough-roller . . . )

Above is a facsimile of a character of mine.  A homicide cop by the name of Turner Hahn.  Yes, the photo is that of a young Clark Gable.  And Turner looks a lot like Gable.  But bigger.  More muscled.  Heavier in the shoulders.  And with a chip on his shoulder; he doesn't like to be compared to a dead movie actor.  And he has his other quirks. He's rich.  Filthy rich.  Acquire his fortune by accident.  A grandmother he though long dead left him an inheritance. And a grand father he never knew he had.  Turner grew up on a farm so poor they had to repair the bailing-wire that was used to repair the farm machinery.   He left the farm--never to return--when he was awarded a football scholarship.  A tragic auto accident took his parents away while he was in school. He became a loner.

Until a grand father and a fortune show up at the same time.  And the truth about why his grand parents never knew their grandson is revealed.  And other secrets as well.

At the same time he--along with his partner, Frank Morales--are working to solve two exceptionally difficult homicide cases.  And of course, there's Frank Morales.  A character.  Unique.  Odd.  A living, breathing, separate entity all to himself.  With his own quirks, humors, ticks, and eccentricities.  But even more interesting---his personality matched up with Turner's creates a symbiotic relationship that makes for one interesting jaunt through the dark recesses of the crime world.

Characters.

Soon Turner and Frank's next book,  A Taste for Old Revenge, is going to come out.  It'll be an ebook this time through the auspices of Untreed Reads.  It's the book that delves deep into the emotions and back history of both characters.  A book I'm thinking you might like.  When it comes out give it a try.  Let me know what you think. 

(Eunice, dammit!  I know what you're thinking . . . and I'm tell'en you I haven't enough medical insurance to cover me for that.  So put down that dough-roller!)

Paul Brazill's INSANE concept!

An experiment, Eunice!  Crazed, insane writers!  The full moon!  Werewolves howling in the dark, swirling fog!   The unsuspecting prey being stalked as they walk huddeled over, coat collars up around their ears, through the swirling mists. Can you feel it, Euncie?  Can you feel the terror?

I can feel it.  Not terror, old girl.  Something better than that.  Excitement.  Excitement in two areas.  First, Paul D. Brazill is writing this new series for Trestle Press.  You know Paul, my luv.  He's that crazy mad Englishman who writes twisted, warped---down right creepy--stories that, when you get to the end of one, just knocks you for a psychic roller coaster ride in bizarro-land.  There's no one who can put a kick in his stories like Paul can.  (making me, frankly, pretty damn jealous by the way)

So now he's got this new series going.   A series featuring an ex-cop turned private eye who happens to be . . . hold onto your bonnet, old bat . . . a werewolf.  And it works!  He calls his character Roman Dalton.  The typical melancholic, hard drinking, forever self-analyzing kind of ex-cop we've all come to expect.  But then throw in the fangs, the blood lust, the twisty creepiness.  Talk about swift justice!

But it get's better, dear.  He's got this idea of making it a continuing series.  Roman Dalton lives on, and on, and on.  To do this he's asked other writers to take up the gauntlet and continue the series by writing their own basic interpretation of who and what Roman may or may not be.

And  are you ready for this, my little rolly-polly?  Paul's asked me to  contribute.  Me, and others like Paul Godwin, Katherine Tomalinson, and Frank Duffy.  I'm so psyched a night in a padded cell might just be the ticket!  Just to be asked by Paul to throw something together is a compliment.  But to be added to this pantheon of stellar writers makes me want to rumble in the jungle.  Swing with the Chimpanzees.  Do the bugaloo with Tarzan and Jane.

I'm looking forward to this.  Forward in reading the other's visions of Roman.  Looking forward in maybe creating something really, really spooky.  Whoever came up with this idea for the series should be complimented---or maybe committed to an institution.  I dunno.  

Either way, I hope what I contribute will at least mimic the quality of writing I know the others are going to submit.

Guest blogger; Maynard Solomon (aka Benjamin Sobieck)

Okay, boys and girls, today is guest-blogging day.   And today the guest spot light is aimed squarely on a guy by the name of Benjamin Sobieck.  Ben is, if I may use the term, a friend of mine of recent vintage.  But quickly enough, I discovered he is--like me--two patches cut from the same cloth.  We both like to write.  We both come to our writing with a kind of twisted mentality  (well, maybe I'm a little more twisted.  But, hey!  Who's judging?)

Ben has a book out called, Cleansing Eden.  (watch the trailer) A book that is, truly, a hard emotionally devastating elevator to step into and take to the top floor.  In this case, it would be to the bottom floor since the book is about people desperately needing a father-figure, and 'acceptance,' and malevolent charisma--and murder.  The book is doing well, I hear;  I'm hoping it'll launch his career straight up into the stratosphere.  (of course, if it does, I'll take all the claim that I 'discovered' him.  Yeah, right!)

Ben has a new character out named Maynard Solomon.  Maynard is .  . . shall we say . . . unique.  Yeah, let's go with unique 'cause I don't know what else you would call an old, dried up geezer who drives around in a dilapidated, spray painted Winnebago; an ex-cop who is retired but acting like a deranged private-investigator.  He's not your Magnum-styled handsome, suave character.  What's the absolute opposite of suave?

Maynard Solomon.

But you be the judge.  Here's Maynard speaking to you know (handing the mike to 'crusty' ole Maynard):

Unless you're one of the 10 punks who does know my name - probably from the time I busted you peddling crusty porno books out of your dump of a garage - allow me to introduce myself.

My name is Maynard Soloman. Can you read? Then you can see that I stenciled "Maynard Soloman Investigation Services" in spray paint on the side of my Winnebago. It’s a one-man shop on wheels. I opened it up after the force booted me out of the Obscenities Division. Said this ol’ badger had dug his last hole. Said my health “problems” were a liability to the job. Said I should just retire.






I told ‘em to go to hell. Retirement is for chumps who want to die in their gardens. I don’t have a green thumb and I never will. I have a can opener and slow cooker.






They forced me into retirement anyway. Fine. But then the arthritic bean counters at the force stiff me on the medical bills. Some retirement.






So to keep gas in the ‘bago and the slow cooker full, I opened up my own shop. Pay off some of this debt, see the country in the ‘bago and try to outrun these health "problems."






By now you're probably saying to yourself, "Self, this Maynard Soloman guy is clearly smarter, more experienced and better looking than I." To which I say, "Get some gal-damn self-esteem, you fruit bat. Maybe if you'd have some goolies if you knew how to cuss like an ol' badger."






To help you, here's a list of words you'll want to start using:






1) "Gal-damn." Use whenever you can. Works wonderful in all social situations. "Pass the gal-damn kethcup." People know you're gal-damn serious about feeding time.






2) "Punk." This is a technical term. It stands for Person Underneath the King. The King isn’t me, mind you. It’s Elvis. Because, dammit, this is still America and we spent TWO wars kicking the Brits out. (Don’t think I’ll ever forget the War of 1812 – you gal-damn Canucks been lookin’ at your feet ever since.) We’ve got our own King, see. How do the bottoms of those suede shoes smell, punk? You’re just a Person Underneath the King.






3) "Fruit bat." That’s my new word. It defines a person who is not only fruity, but also bat-shit insane. It applies to most people nowadays. Therefore, most people should respond well when you use it. They'll thank you for reminding them why they need to change everything about their stupid lives.






4) "Gal-damn fruit bat punk." I've never used this unholy trio on anyone. It's simply too powerful. Did you know I'm prohibited from traveling to China? Something about my views on Commies. It doesn't matter, though. This phrase will blow a hole in The Great Wall.






5) "I take it you guys aren’t here to cut a swell, are you? Or did you gal-damn apes already get a mitten?" When your back is against the wall, confuse your enemy with some Old West jargon. In modern terms, this translates to, "Huh?"






6) "Ape." This requires observation to use effectively. If the subject cannot stop from dragging his knuckles, you can bet he's an ape.






7) "Cro-Magnon." Similar to "ape." Use it if you cannot confirm the height of the subject's knuckles.






8) "Blasphemous pillock." Kids, I don't even know what in the hell this means. For all I know, it's a shitty British entree.






9) "Pikey." If a cab driver stiffs you on the bill, by all means, use it. But I'm not responsible for what happens.






10) "Mudsill." You know how a window sill gets full of mud sometimes? It's like that. Except in your brain.
 
You'll find Maynard--and all of Ben's work--in any ebook store you are familiar with.  Trestle Press is the publisher.  A publisher who happens to bring a few of my characters to life as well I'm happy to say.
 
Try Maynard  Like a bad conscience, he kinda grows on you.

Experimental story telling

Here's an experiment I'm playing with.  Writing a short story AND inserting (in a way) the music which inspired the story into the story itself.

The story is a Turner Hahn/Frank Morales story I wrote sometime last year entitled, 'Burn Away.'  The music comes from a two-man group from out of the 90's who called themselves Bodyrockers.  Their song, Handle On Your Face, is a good'un, Eunice.

Makes you want to get up and move the body.  Music.  Story.  Combined.  What I want to do is figure out a way to click on the story and HEAR the music while you're reading it.  We'll just have to settle for finding the title of the song in the text and clicking it.

Hope you enjoy the story and the music.  Let me know what you think.

Burn Away

It was two in the morning.


The streets were empty. Reflecting pools of light from the street lamps after a short summer rain. We–my partner and I–were in the Rousch 427 Mustang, the windows down, the 435 horses rumbling in a barely restrained symphony under the hood. Coming out of the stereo speakers were the strange, hypnotic vibes of a song called Handel on your Face by a two-singer male group called Bodyrockers.


I got a handle on your face./It’s in a stone-cold place./Why don’t you move it over here-ah/and let me burn away your fear.






The perfect theme song for murder.


It starts out with the classic notes of Handel’s Sarabanda and then turns into a melodic guilt-trip of lust, desire, and psychotic nightmares. Frank and me were in route to pick up our prime suspect. A crazy sonofabitch with a rap sheet about as long as I-70 from Denver to Kansas City. Assault. Robbery. Extortion. Attempted murder–just about everything a career criminal needed to make himself know to homicide detectives like us.


Now it was murder. Nothing attempted. Murder finalized. The body lay on the concrete pavement of his driveway with two 9 mm holes in his back and blood inching its way down the pavement toward the gutters. Inside the million dollar home the man’s wife was in hysterics. When we left the paramedics were giving her an injection to calm her nerves and make her sleep. She was sixty-eight years old with a heart condition. As we were leaving one of the paramedics looked at us, frowned, and shook his head.


In her condition it would be a miracle if she lived through the night. So our prime suspect wasn’t going to be charged with one murder. Two counts would be slapped on him if the woman died during the night.


Our suspect was named Raymond Russell. He’d just been released from a Federal prison a month earlier and was making himself at home down in the wharf district in a bar called Slim’s. His brother owned the place and Raymond was working there as a bartender/ bouncer. But rumor was he was doing other things on the side. Like fencing stolen goods. Muscling into the local drug business. Stealing cars.


Nice guy.


Turning on Vincent street, I worked the gearshift up through third to fourth and drove. Raymond was our suspect because the dead man’s daughter, a lovely little dark-eyed beauty about twenty-two or twenty-three by the name of Nancy told us her father and Raymond had had a series of bitter confrontations. Confrontations down in the wharf district not too far from where Raymond worked. Apparently Raymond wanted a piece of the old man’s business. Threatened the old man several times if he didn’t give in. Said his daughter might find herself in a terrible accident.


Like I said—Raymond was a nice guy.


I pulled the growling Mustang up to the curb about a half block away from the bar and cut the engine. In the darkness, Vine street is always black since no one in the street department feel’s safe enough to come down here and repair the busted street lights, the two of us sat back in the bucket seats and waited. Waited for the bar to close up and for Raymond to step out. In the darkness the black forms of warehouses and forgotten businesses lined both sides of the street like forgotten sentries. Only the soft colored neon lights of Slim’s broke the darkness.


An hour went by before the lights to the bar went out. As soon as they did Frank and I slid out of the Mustang and started walking silently down the street toward Raymond’s car. Frank–about as wide as a Mountain Gorilla on steroids and, with his stringy carrot top hair, about as ugly–reached inside his sport jacket and pulled out his 9 mm Glock. I pulled out the Kimber .45 caliber I preferred, cocked the hammer back with a thumb, and then reached for my leather case which held the gold detective badge inside.


He didn’t see us until we were about ten feet from him. But when he did, he dropped the money bag he had in one hand as he turned and stepped back.


“Who the hell are you guys?”


“Cops, Russell. Want to ask you some questions,” I said.


“Questions? About what? I haven’t done anything.”


“About a murder, Russell. A guy by the name Charles Connery,” Frank’s growl rumbled in the night.


“Charles Con . . . . why that crazy bitch! Listen, I’m not taking the fall for this. Whatever went down I wasn’t involved. There’s no way I’m going back to prison. No way!”


“Russell . . . Russell! Don’t do anything stupid,” I yelled.


Russell did something stupid. In the darkness we say the con reach with his left hand behind his back and pull out something dark and bulky looking. He lifted the left hand the bulky object up toward us in one swift motion. And that’s when we fired. My .45 and Frank’s 9 mm lit up the night at the same time. The blasts of the two pieces ripping the night apart with bright flames and a thundering roar.


Raymond Russell lay in the middle of the street in a pool of blood. Both of his shoulders were ripped to pieces from the slugs smacking into them. He was alive. He would live. Barely. But as we stood over him, and has Frank kicked the Colt .45 away from Raymond’s left hand, we stared down at the bleeding con and neither one of us were happy.


“Did you see that? See how he reached for his gun?”


“Yes,” I nodded, gripping the Kimber in my hand firmly. “His left hand. Drew with his left hand.”


“He’s right handed,” Frank said, nodding and using the Glock to point to Russell’s right hand. “Look at that.”


Raymond Russell’s right arm, from his elbow down to the tip of his fingers, was encased in a hard plaster cast. A fresh one. Pulling out a small flashlight I waved it around over the cast and noted how white it was.


“What did he mean about a crazy bitch?” I asked, frowning, eyeing the groaning man.


“Yeah,” Frank nodded, flipping open his cell phone and lifting it to his ear and speed dialing dispatch. “Sounds to me like he knows the Connerys. But maybe not the old man.”


“Knows Nancy Connery,” I said. “Sounds to me he knows her quite well.”


Frank spoke rapidly and calmly in the phone. Almost instantly we heard off in the distance sirens heading in our direction. Flipping the phone closed he dropped it back in his coat pocket and looked at me.


“Guess we should see just how crazy a bitch Nancy Connery is. If she is.”


Four hours later we knew exactly how crazy the daughter was. Driving over to the mansion just as the sun was beginning to light up the eastern sky we didn’t say a word. During the night Mrs. Connery died from a massive heart attack. The only Connery living now was the daughter. And she just inherited fifty million dollars. But last month–last month–Nancy Connery was thrown out of the family residence when word got back to her parents she had been seeing a slime ball by the name of Raymond Russell. Partying all night long. Getting drunk. Cavorting down at Slim’s like some cheap harlot. Words Charles Connery used to describe his daughter. He told her he was going to throw her, not only out of his house , but out of his will as well. If she wanted to run around with a lowlife like that, then run around with him without any money and see how long he stays with you.


Nancy Connery had a history of being in and out of mental institutions all her life. Self destructive the lass was. Hurt herself . . . and when she was in the mood, hurt others as well. Mostly her parents.


The night she was thrown out of her house she moved in with Raymond Russell. That lasted all of one week. Suddenly, the night before Charles Connery gets two slugs in the middle of his back, Nancy Connery moves back into the family mansion. The slugs came, interestingly enough, from the gun Raymond drew on us earlier in the night.


We climbed out of the Mustang and walked up to the front door of the house, the two of us noticing a light on in the living room as we stepped up to the double front doors. Reaching up I pressed the button for the doorbell and stepped back. Nancy Connors opened the door almost immediately.


“Detectives is . . . is he dead?”


“Whose dead, Miss Connors?” Frank asked.


“Why . . . .Raymond Russell. He is dead, isn’t he? He said he’d never go back to prison again. Said he’d kill himself first. So . . . so he must be dead. Right?”


“He’s alive, Miss Connors. Very much alive and telling his side of the story,” I said. “We need to take you downtown.”


She looked up us, her face a portrait of childish innocence, but her eyes . . . her large brown eyes . . . burning funeral pyres of insanity.


“I want a lawyer,” she whispered softly.


We nodded, each of us taking an arm and escorting her out of the house. As we walked to the patrol car that had followed us back to the house I could hear the lyrics from the song rattling along in my head.


I got a handle on your face./Its in a stone-cold place./ Why don’t you come over here-ah/and let me burn away your fear.