Tuesday December 14^th 7:53 A.M.

West 164^th and Broadway – Alleyway

Detective Kelli Storm ducked under the yellow crime scene tape as her partner, Bob Jenkins, held it up for her. She spotted the M.E., Jack Hastings, kneeling next to the body of a nun.

“So what do we have, Jack?”

The portly grey haired man spun his head and looked up at her. “Caucasian female, mid-forties. I noted ligature marks around her neck and petechial hemorrhaging. My preliminary COD is asphyxiation. She’s also missing her right hand.”

Kelli leaned in for a closer look. “Son of a bitch. What kind of sick shit would do that to a nun?” She stood back up, feeling a chill run down her spine.

Jack shook his head. “You got me, you’re the detective. From the looks of it, whoever did this is a pro,” he said, examining the arm. “No jagged edges, a clean cut.”

Kelli could swear she caught a hint of admiration in his voice. “Got a time of death?”

“Hard to say. It’s pretty cold, but judging by lividity, I’d put it somewhere around midnight. I’ll know more when I get her back to the morgue.” He motioned for two assistants who had been standing a few feet away.

Kelli watched as the two swooped in like vultures, a body bag unfolding as they closed on the corpse. She stepped back and bumped into Bob.

“Sorry,” she said, sidestepping.

“What’s wrong, Kelli? This isn’t your first crime scene.”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s just the way she died. The way this monster mutilated her. I mean a nun for Christ sake.”

“Yeah, it’s pretty sick. Are you going to be okay?”

She nodded. “Who found the body?”

Bob tilted his head toward the street. “The elderly woman over there. Name is Mrs. Kilpatrick.”

Kelli turned and spotted the woman standing next to a uniformed officer. “Let’s go and talk to her,” she said, and headed for the street.

Okay, let’s begin at the beginning.

1- I would make this opening chapter the second chapter. The two-line time and place slug that opens the book is no substitute for description that sets time, place and mood. Movie scripts open like this. Draw the reader in. Where is the texture? I want to be there. What does it smell like? What does it sound like? How many people are there? If you aren’t going to start off with action to pull in the reader, then put us at the place. It’s a flat opening and doesn’t say anything interesting, show any compelling action, set a mood, describe or or introduce characters effectively.

2- M.E.’s head spins and he looks up? What is this, The Exorcist?

3- Too much too soon. The nun is the punchline. I would withhold the fact that the victim is a nun until later in the scene. If she is wearing a habit nobody has to say that she is a nun. Until the word is used, she’s just another corpse, who becomes a strangled woman and her right hand missing.

4- The detective likely wouldn’t say, “What kind of sick shit would do this to a nun?” Obviously the same kind of sick shit who would do this to any other human being. Unless you are Catholic, nuns are just religious women wearing a monochromatic outfit. This makes Kelli look like a rookie, (or perhaps she is a failed nun who became a detective due to priest friskiness or something). A missing hand is nothing. New York City homicide detectives see hollowed out heads, tortured children, limbs torn off, people with crowbars sticking out of their chests.

5- How about some black humor in introducing the fact of the victim being a nun. Kelli might say, “Who would do this to a nun?” Her partner, Bob, might reply, “Looks like she wouldn’t give up the ruler.” Kelli might frown at the retort, since vic is a nun. I think this would be more upsetting to Kelli if the victim were a child, a pregnant woman, or a young mother.

6- Lividity would be one indicator of time of death, but that is only accurate (color and intensity wise) for the first six hours or so. It tells if a body has been moved. An M.E. would use a liver temp (The organ that holds heat the longest) weighed against outside temperature and rate of cooling to get an approximate time of death. He would also rigor and the stage of blood coagulation.

7- A body bag doesn’t unfold itself and I wouldn’t use “vultures” to describe their motion. Vultures circle and land carefully, alert to danger. These guys are professionals and move fluidly because they do this all the time.

8- What about a cleanly severed hand points to ta professional? Would that be a professional killer, butcher, biologist, doctor, or an upholsterer? With a sharp instrument, anybody can remove a hand cleanly. If organs have been removed surgically, or the corpse skinned, or tattooed, that might indicate involvement of a person with medical knowledge.

9- Confusing use of tense. “Kelly could swear” right after “Kelly leaned in”

10- How does Bob know the woman’s name who found the body? Reading this, I assumed Kelli and Bob got there around the same time since they are partners. He’s been behind her since they arrived, I thought.

It feels more like a quickly written, rough first draft. The author’s notes in the margins might say:

*check out an alley in NYC for dimensions, lighting, etc…

*what would a female NYC detective wear? What is her rank? What precinct is she with? How does she carry her weapon? Does she wear sneakers or flat sole leather shoes?

*Check out steps M.E. would take and in what order. Would M.E. check lividity on the scene by undressing a nun? How would he figure time of death. Would the M.E. be there ahead of the detectives? Who rolls the body? What would the M.E. need to know in situ, and what would he do back at the morgue?

I think a large problem here is that there is nothing fresh, different or compelling here. It feels stale, and not well visualized or thought out.

Reading this, I didn’t get the feeling that the author knew as much as they should about what makes up this scene. I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that their knowledge of police procedure comes in large part from watching TV. You can tell when an author knows a subject whether it’s from doing their research or first hand knowledge. This chapter just doesn’t feel real to me. I think you can tell when an author knows more than he or she puts on the page.

I think the author should take a deep breath and start over.

Fair warning: This post wanders into the realm of political discourse, but I assure you that I’m coming from a very honest, confused place.

Earlier this week, Ron Schiller, National Public Radio’s (NPR’s) senior vice president for development (read: fundraising) accidentally went on the record stating that Republicans were ““radical, racist, Islamaphobic, Tea Party people . . . not just Islamaphobic, but really xenophobic, I mean basically they are, they believe in sort of white, middle-America gun-toting. I mean, it’s scary. They’re seriously racist, racist people.” He made this statement during an amateur sting engineered by filmmaker James O’Keefe, in which Mr. Schiller thought he was speaking to representatives of the Muslim Brotherhood, whom he believed would be donating funds to NPR.

Skirting the perceived truth or untruth of the statement, there’s no denying the leftward leaning political orientation of the speaker, whose parent company, the Corporation for Public Broadcasting, is supported by something north of $400 million in taxpayer funding. Mr. Schiller went on to say, “it is very clear that in the long run we would be better off without federal funding.” This at the very time that the newly-elected Republican majority in the House of Representatives is hunting for a reason to cut billions of dollars from the federal budget.

From a strictly business perspective, Mr. Schiller is a moron. There’s a time and a place for bigoted statements, and the moment when you’re under a microscope by people who are trying to shut you down is exactly the wrong time. He resigned, as did his boss (also name Schiller, but no relation), and that’s exactly as it should be, as far as I’m concerned.

All of this raises a larger question in my mind: Should taxpayers be compelled to pay for art?

I’m really on the fence on this one. On the one hand, I’m a big believer in the arts, and I fully subscribe to the notion that without art, there can be no civilization. On the other hand, I am as pure a capitalist as one could imagine, and I abhor the very thought of state-run media and state-rung propaganda campaigns. An independent media is our primary safeguard against totalitarianism.

There’s a huge part of me, as a resident of the Greater Washington Metropolitan Area, that loves the millions of dollars in subsidies that go to the John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts (The Kennedy Center). To the degree that Lincoln Center in New York, and the Buttscratch Community Center in Middle America get federal funding (thanks to recently-prohibited earmarks), part of me supports the introduction of “culture” into areas of the country that would otherwise not see it. There’s real value to federal grants that help artists find their voice.

On the other hand, we are a free-market economy—and economic model that I believe in 100%. Every dollar I’ve made in my lifetime has been paid for by customers who decided that the products and service I represented were better than those represented by our competitors. I’ve never received a penny in grant money (I’ve never applied). For me to succeed in the book business, I have to produce compelling stories that people want to read, and I need to convince them that spending money on my imagination is at least as rewarding and an identical investment in the works of my competitors. The marketplace will decide whether I am financially successful or not. If I crash and burn, there you go. A bitter part of me questions why I should subsidize with my hard-earned income on art that I will never see in a part of the country that I will never see.

What do you think, dear Killzoners?  Should the United States government be subsidizing art?

Stories ideas? Here is a story idea. And it’s drawn from real life.

I have a client and friend some years older than I am who among other things is a legend in the history of doo-wop music. He is in his seventies and has never owned a computer or had an e-mail address. I was visiting with him a couple of weeks ago when a question came up. I pulled out my phone and googled the subject matter. He was surprised I could do something like that; then he got quiet for a minute, and asked if I could use the internet to find people. You bet, I replied. I have both located and been located in such a manner. He then proceeded to tell me a story. When my friend was in his twenties, he was in the U.S. Army and stationed in France. During his tour of duty he became involved with a young woman who followed him to Germany and then back to France. Their relationship ended when he returned to the United States. Though their lives went in different directions he never forgot her. And now, over a half-century later, he wondered if I could find her.

And I did. It took a bit of doing, but I found her picture, and then, with much more effort, found her e-mail address. I just sent off a message to her, which I hope she will receive in the spirit in which it is sent. I asked my friend what he was going to do if she responded. He just laughed.

Like I said, it’s a story. It’s not a mystery or suspense or a thriller but it’s…a romance? Maybe. I’ll let you know what happens. Maybe. But with a little imagination you could turn it into anything you wanted to. She receives the e-mail and bodies start dropping, in both the United States and France. Or someone tries to kill the guy who sent the e-mail. Or the long-separated couple makes arrangements to meet in say, Montreal, where someone shoots at her when she is but steps away from his embrace. You want stories? You want ideas? They are all around you, like piles of bricks. It’s the mortar that’s hard to fill in. But the bricks? They are around you by the yardful.

by John Gilstrap

Hand to God: If 11-year-old John Fretz had not been hit by a car and critically injured in 1979, my son would never have been born in 1986, and I would be nothing like the man I am today.

From 1976-1979, I was a summer camp counselor for over-privileged rich kids in Falls Church, Virginia.  That’s how I earned my annual $800 in spending money that got me through cheap college dates.  On my last day of that last year of extended childhood, young John Fretz, who had been a staple of my group since he was seven, chased a ball into Sleepy Hollow Road and got nailed by a car doing 35-40 miles per hour.

I heard the bang and the screams of the witnesses.  When I got there, I was the first adult(ish), other than the hysterical driver.  John’s leg was bent at a 100-degree angle at mid-thigh.  He was unconscious, and a color of pale that to this day brings tears to my eyes.  By the time all the diagnoses were complete, the list of internal and external injuries was a page long, but what I remember most about sitting in the emergency room was the look on his father’s face.  Rick Fretz was a widower, and John was his only son.  If prayer can take a physical form, Rick was it.

Within a year, John was fully recovered.  I was a part of that, but only on the sidelines.  On one of my visits to the hospital within a week or two of the accident, Rick offered me a challenge:  “It’s easy to visit in week one or week two,” he said.  “But week ten and week twelve are when he’ll really need the company.”  It was that kind of recovery, and I was a regular for over a year.

I’ve lost touch with them now, but last I heard, everyone was thriving, and there was even a wife and a baby or two in the mix.  Congregation say “Amen” and tip a glass to the new generation.

So, how does this create my son?

John Fretz’s accident is the single reason why I enrolled in an EMT class at my local community college.  I was never again going to be caught feeling that helpless.  EMT class led to 15 years in the fire service.  The fire service led to a degree in safety engineering, which got me a job at an explosives manufacturer, where my boss’s boss was dating the sister of a woman named Joy, who’d recently gone through a bad break-up.  Said grand-boss arranged a blind date that resulted in love at first sight (literally), which led to the marriage that created Chris.  Really, it’s that much of a straight-line connection.

As a lifelong Catholic, I can’t say that I buy into predestination; but I can tell you from the heart that I don’t believe in coincidence, either.  Stuff happens for a reason.  If the first 27 agents I queried hadn’t rejected my first novel, I’m certain that I’d have fallen short of a couple of mega-buck deals.  If I hadn’t fallen out eventually with my first agent, I never would have found my current agent, who, along with the team she’s introduced me to, have become the architects of a whole new career.  If my career hadn’t taken a disappointing turn a few years ago, I never would have pursued the alternative routes that have opened doors that I never dreamed of.

If you’ve been in this writing game for more than a few years, you inevitably encounter the terminally-frustrated, burned-out artist who is on the verge of self-destruction.  Tastes have changed, and suddenly his market has dried up.  Or, maybe, after too many second-callbacks without ever making the final cut, he’s ready to throw in the towel.  It happens, and in a creative endeavor, I think rejection stings more than usual.

There’s a lot of Pollyanna in me.  I believe that it’s hubris for any one of us to proclaim in real time what is and is not “bad” fortune.  Certainly, there are events in life that are so dark that light cannot be imagined, but those tragedies are blessedly few.  On any given day, rank-and-file disappointments are really opportunities for forging new paths.

You just never know where that uncharted fork in the road is going to take you.

What about you, friends and Killzoners?  Have you found surprising good fortune buried in a stinking mound of disappointment?  Tell us about it.