Sudden Death

by Peg Brantley

No, this isn't a plot point. It's a life point.

A friend of mine died suddenly on the night of March 10th. I think it was that night. I can't remember much about the phone call I received a morning (or maybe two) later, and I don't have any of the details.

I just know

she's gone.

in a blink.

Caron and I have had some pretty intense and deep conversations. Life issues (work, that drew us together to begin with; then an unfaithful spouse—hers not mine) followed by both religion and politics. Once we were no longer dependent financially, we were free to become connected spiritually. It would be a perfect world if every financial partnership included spiritual conversations, but ours did not. Once the financial pieces were behind us, a whole new world opened up. Complicated, but good.

It was liberating to have a relationship with someone where I could tell her she was way off base. Of course I always tried to do it diplomatically. From a place of love. And she responded back with the same love I threw at her.

Caron always excelled. If she wanted to be something—anything—she wanted to be the best. A musician? First chair in the orchestra. Loved animals? A vet. Sell real estate? Number one. Make money? Millions.

Then some tough lessons hit the fan. And because Caron was Caron, she had a really big fan.

One of the last conversations we had related to where she found herself at this point in her life. I think she finally got it when I told her she was in the perfect place. That everything that had happened had not been a mistake. Those things weren't against her, but for her. She fell completely apart and I knew she heard the words God was trying to send her through me.

Oh, God. I feel right now like I'm talking to her again. You know?  Right this minute. She's poked her lovely head in and I can hear her voice. She's sending me love vibes, the way only Caron could send them.

So here are my words to you. Take the time. Make the connections. Never walk away. Always be as honest and truthful as you can. Sometimes you have to throw off the detritus to get to the soul, but hey… we all have detritus. It's the soul that survives. It's the soul that understands and matters.

Caron/Karen Andrews/Richardson, child of God, you were perfect and beautiful. You are perfect and beautiful. You touched lives. You changed lives. I know you blessed mine. You were always exactly what I needed, even when I didn't think so.

(This was originally posted on Suspense Novelist and is being reposted here at this time because hopefully I'm way too busy at Left Coast Crime to be able to be fresh. However, this was important enough to me that I thought it might touch some of our readers as well. Thanks for bearing with me.)

Dead Stuff

By Andrew E. Kaufman

I’m in the process of finishing my new novel, a psychological thriller that centers on the case of a three-year-old boy who was kidnapped and murdered more than forty years ago.During that time, I really had to dig down deep in order to portray the depth of emotion parents feel when this kind of tragedy occurs. It hasn’t been easy.

And several times while doing this, I also found myself asking the same question: why do we find murder so entertaining when really, there’s nothing entertaining about it? An odd question from someone who makes a living writing about it, but I'd never really given it much thought—until now, that is.

One look at the primetime television lineup clearly illustrates the point. Shows like CSI and Criminal Minds are more popular than ever, as are books of the same genre. It seems serial killers—and killers in general—are the villains we love to hate.

But why? Why are we so fascinated with the thing that should horrify us the most? After much introspection, I came up with a few theories:

We love a good puzzle

And is there any bigger puzzle than a murder? Crime solving has always been fascinating business. Even more intriguing are the modern-day advances in forensic science. It never fails to amaze me how much they can determine from so little. For me, the best mysteries seem to be ones that appear the most confusing—that is, until the investigator cleverly pulls it all together in the end. It’s the aha moment that’s the payoff.

The “Good to Know that Somebody has it Worse than me” Theory

Death is the ultimate dose of bad luck. It really doesn't get much worse than that, and no matter how bad things are in our own lives, we can always look at the guy who got whacked and think, “Wow, and I thought I was having a bad day.” It’s a form of relief, something that helps us put things into the proper perspective. Also, I think, humans are for the most part a compassionate species, and many of us feel a certain degree of sympathy for the victim, thus drawing us in even more

Justice, Media-Style

We love to hate the bad guys, but we also love seeing them pay for their deeds, and quite often in the world, that simply doesn’t happen. It makes us angry. Seeing justice served on the screen or the pages in a book tends to fill that void. We know it’s not real but still get to sample that emotion on some level,which restores a sense of decency to our world.

Morbid Fascination

Having said all that, there is a dark side to all this. Simply put: we like morbid. I'm not sure why, but we do. We may cringe or cover our eyes (then peak between our fingers) but there seems to be something about the truly bizarre and grotesque that fascinates us. Maybe it's as simple as this: it's human nature to be curious, and the more disturbing something is, the more curious we seem to become. We don’t really want to know, but we sort of do. It's the reason people slow down to look at a car wreck on the side of the road.

What about you? As always, I'm interested in hearing any theories you may have on this. Comments?

My Visit with Death

By Andrew E. Kaufman

Of all the questions readers ask me, what seems to interest them most is my trip to the autopsy room during the research for my novel, While the Savage Sleeps.

“What was it like?” they’ll often ask.

Pretty gross, actually, but at the same time, illuminating because it confirmed my theory that one of the best ways to draw the reader into a story is to experience that which you describe. Googling a topic may be a good start but won't cut it if you're trying to create a solid and meaningful sense of setting.

A former television journalist, I know how to combine words and pictures to tell a story. However, writing fiction, I've discovered, is a completely different world. Unlike with TV, in novels there's no video to convey the tone and mood of a particular scene. Here, your words are your pictures, and if readers can't see them in their minds, you'll lose your audience in a heartbeat. With my autopsy chapter being one of the most critical in the book, I couldn't afford to do that, and despite a rather strong visceral resistance, I felt I simply had no choice.

You may find my reluctance a bit odd considering I'm often accused of writing some very gritty stuff in my novels. Besides that, I'm no stranger to blood and gore—I'd seen a fair share during my tenure in television news. Still, somehow, the autopsy room seemed different to me, like an intimate dance with death, a messy one, which I much preferred to sit out of. But as it often does, logic won, and like it or not I was off to experience my first—and hopefully last—autopsy (at least from a vertical point-of-view).

First stop, the freezer. This is where they keep the bodies before examination, a thirty by fifteen room with shelves lining three walls, stacked three high. At the time of my visit, every seat in the house appeared to be taken, standing room only. I walked in, gazed at the sea of body bags, then stopped in my tracks. I'm pretty sure this was the exact point where reality finally set in: I was surrounded by dead people, lots and lots of dead people. Guess it makes sense that with a city as large as San Diego, plenty of folks die each day, and they all have to go somewhere; I just don't think I had expected to be standing among all of them.

Next stop: the autopsy room. But first, a little advice before entering: I was shown the exits and told to use them if I began feeling ill.

Reassuring.

Once inside, besides an all out assault on the senses (no need for explicit detail here), I think what surprised me most was what a busy place the autopsy room was. Now, I'm going to show my age here, but as a member of the Quincy generation, my preconceived notions were far more simplistic than I had imagined. In my world, I expected to see a lone autopsy table center stage with the medical examiner standing over it and a sanitized view of what went on. All this and, of course, wrapped up in less than an hour.

So not the case.

The place was busier than any newsroom I'd ever worked in, except it wasn't the clicking of keyboards I heard—it was the buzzing and whining of saws; probably why they had me change into a white space-suit-looking getup with transparent facemask before entering. Yes, folks, cutting, sawing, and drilling human remains is messy business. Things do fly.

Ten stainless steel tables lined the wall, each with a faucet at the top, a drain at the bottom, and yes, each with a body laying on top—all in varying degrees of examination, and most of them clearly missing things that shouldn't have been. I have to say that the ones without heads were the most unnerving. As they say, parts is parts, but parts belong where they belong. Looking around at the people working here, I got an odd sense of extreme desensitization, that this was business as usual and walking past headless bodies was like a walk in the park.

Wish I could have felt the same.

As for the autopsy itself, after getting past the initial shock, it did become somewhat easier to watch. I’m not saying it was a piece of cake—it wasn’t—but one does adjust to their surroundings if they stick around long enough. Even in situations like this.

As an added bonus, the medical examiner not only described what he was doing as he removed the organs—he also handed each of them to me (luckily I was wearing gloves). Kind of gross, I know, but nevertheless a valuable experiences for a mystery writer. After all, you never know when you might need to introduce a disembodied organ or two into a story—a kidney here, a spleen there. Like I've said, I'm known for writing grisly scenes.

I could go on describing every detail, but at the risk of losing those of you who have made it this far, I'll stop and say this: Despite everything, my autopsy chapter never would have been the same had I not gone through this experience. Unpleasant as it was, the truth is that as writers, we sometimes need to get our hands dirty—in this case, very dirty—but it’s all for the sake of the craft. Simply put, sometimes you have to give until it hurts. I did—I'm pretty sure of it.

Did I achieve my intended goal? I hope so, but if you'd like to decide, here's a link to the chapter, along with a warning: It's a bit gruesome, but at the same time, depicts reality, and that's what we, as writers, should always strive to do.

Andrew E. Kaufman is the bestselling author of While the Savage Sleeps, a forensic paranormal thriller.