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from the editor
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This month’s letter from the editor has been
especially difficult to write. Even I get writer’s
block. I just didn’t want to write another marketing
or publishing piece, so I decided to bring back the
Top 10 list. Many of you might know that I’m a
huge list person. I love to see lists no matter what
the topic is. I remember watching a few years back
when VH1 had the Top 100 best rock songs of all
time; I was glued to the TV. It didn’t take long for
me to yell at the screen, seeing who made it and
who didn’t.
I think lists do this well. They spark conversation and controversy. However, the
difficult thing is finding a good topic and then researching everything. After sifting
through the darkest parts of my brain—and believe me, that is the largest part—I picked
this topic to do a list about. Without any more suspense, I’m going to unveil the Top 10
list of the best killing scenes in movies. These are not the goriest scenes with the most
blood, but they will be the scenes that really scared people and made them look over
their shoulder when they left the movies. These scenes are classic and have stayed with
people forever:
10. Arachnophobia—Now any movie about spiders is just creepy, but when the doctor
and his wife are watching TV and you see the spider in the lamp, you know something
bad will happen. Makes you check your shoes from now on! 9. Christine—The music also helped with this, but when you see Buddy walking down
the street and then the headlights come on, you jump in your seat. 8. Alien—A classic scene when you first see the Alien coming out of the stomach.
7. ExorcistIII—I will say this movie was the best of the trilogy. I jumped out of my chair
when you see the nurse in the hospital leaving the patient's room and out of nowhere the
killer jumps from that doorway to attack her. 6. FatalAttraction—Finding the bunny on the stove. It doesn’t have to be a person to be
disturbing. That is the number one scene talked about from this movie.
5. Friday the 13th—Bet you didn’t know that Kevin Bacon was in this movie. Well he
was killed while lying on his bed. The hand came up from under the bed and an arrow
goes through his throat. It made me check under
my bed…twice.
4. WhenaStrangerCalls—At the beginning, when
the babysitter gets the phone call. You never saw the
killings, but the children upstairs had been killed.
3. Jaws—The first death, in the first scene. Starting
everyone thinking, is the ocean safe?
2. Halloween—When Michael Myers kills Annie in
her car. Aren’t you still scared when you get in your
car in the dark wondering if someone is hiding in
the back seat?
1. Psycho—The shower scene. Enough said!
Think you can do better, email me at editor@
suspensemagazine.com and let me know. I will post
the best ones on the blog site.
John Raab
CEO/Publisher, SuspenseMagazine
www.suspensemagazine.com 
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1
CONTENT
suspense MagaZine
J u n e 2 0 1 1 / Vo l . 0 2 3
11
Maggie Sefton
Born to Write
3
Things That Only Come out at Night: Zombies by CK Webb . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
Author Hall of Fame: J.R.R. Tolkien by Suspense Magazine . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9
Stranger Than Fiction: Death of George Reeves by Donald Allen Kirch . . 14
Juliet Blackwell
One Wicked Night by Stephen D. O'Quinn . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
Will Steal Your
On Location: Inside by Brenda Novak . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22
Attention
MaybeIt'sAllAboutHobbieswithDebutAuthorJanetBolin . . . . . . . . . . 25
Contributor's Corner: Weldon Burge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 27
They by John Clapier . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29
LivinguptoherPotential:AnInterviewwithMichelle Davidson Argyle . . . . . . 31
Signs by Michelle Davidson Argyle . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33
Five Story Fall By Stephen Jay Schwartz . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 34
Lorna Barrett
Welcome to
DYING FOR JUSTICE by L.J. Sellers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
Stoneham
Featured Artist Veronica & Viviana Gonzalez: Double the Talent . . . . . . 43
Inside the Pages: Suspense Magazine Book Reviews . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49
The Coroner’s Most Important Determinations: Part II by D.P. Lyle . . . . . 59
The Razor's Edge by Andrew Peterson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 63
Creating Character Quirks by Stephen L. Brayton. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72
Critiquing your Craft with Starr Gardinier Reina. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74
James Grippando
Just for Fun . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79
A Man With Many
Influences
THE LAST HUNTER: Pursuit by Jeremy Robinson . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
56
61
69
“The Last Hunter – Pursuit”
is the second book in a five
part series that was inspired
by some of my favorite
novels: “Journey to the
Center of the Earth”by Jules
Verne, “The Descent” by Jeff
Long and “Subterranean” by
James Rollins. The story takes
place in the world created for
my action-adventure novel,
“Antarktos Rising.” While the
two stories share some characters and the plots intersect in book
three, “The Last Hunter” follows Solomon Ull Vincent, the first and
only person born on Antarctica, as he’s kidnapped and brought to
a surreal subterranean world populated by an ancient civilization
beneath the frozen surface of Antarctica.
THE LAST
By Jeremy Robinson
hunter
Pursuit
Special Preview from
Jeremy Robinson
At the beginning of “Pursuit,” he is hiding deep underground in
a cavern that somehow supports a lush green jungle, and several
large species of extinct animals, including meat-eating dinosaurs
dubbed “cresties.” Human hunters seek him. Almost every living
thing in the underworld would like to eat him. And he’s been alone
for years, struggling to survive. In addition to the physical dangers,
the intelligent and compassionate Solomon wages an internal battle
with his more savage personality, Ull, who sometimes takes control
with bloody results.
I hope you enjoy this small taste of “The Last Hunter – Pursuit”
and give the first two books in the series a try. Out of all of my
books, these are my favorites. They have all the action, mythology,
history and strange creatures of my other books, but being in the
first person, they’re also intensely personal and character driven.
Both are available in trade paperback for $14.99, and in all e-book
formats for a whopping $2.99.
—JeremyRobinson
Chapter 2
A sudden wind kicks up just before I land, slowing my fall. Then I’m on the ground and
running. Staying still in this cavern, other than on my perch, invites trouble. My scent is
strong and easily tracked by the cresties, who have come to know it well. But they’ve just
eaten and are no doubt lounging with full bellies.
Except for Alice. She never seems to rest.
But even she can’t follow where I’m going.
Low hanging tree branches slap me as I pass. Brush clings to the leather clothing
I wear. The best phrase I can think of to describe it is a loin cloth, but I find the term
embarrassing, even in my own subconscious. If the kids at the high school I attended—
several years ahead of time—saw me now, their teasing would never end. Not that it ever
did, but it would be magnified to a scale I can’t even comprehend.
Would it? I wonder?
My body is strong now. Athletic. I can kill (and have killed) dinosaurs. What would
a few stupid jocks be to me?
Nothing! The voice of Ull shouts from inside me. Th
 eywouldbowbeforeme.
Images of football players strung up and filleted fill my mind’s eye. But these
thoughts are not from Ull. He would simply run them through. I fought with the dark
thoughts conjured by my imagination long before coming to Antarctica, but since
taking in the body of Nephil, they’ve reached a new level of depravity.
SuspenseMagazine.com
3
The graphic images cause me
to stumble for a moment. I pause,
sucking in a deep breath. I’m growing
accustomed to the images, and I’m
sometimes able to push them away with
thoughts of Mira, Aimee or my parents.
When all else fails, I look at the photo.
I pull the Polaroid photo out of
the watertight pouch I made for it
and look at the two smiling faces. The
first blond haired kid is me, sporting
an uncommonly genuine smile. The
second blond, with pouffy hair and dark
skin is Mira. She’s the first girl that took
an interest in me, and we came close to
kissing once, though it was accidental.
Still, the sight of her squeezes my chest
even after all this time.
The darkness fades and my
thoughts clear. I’m me, I remind myself.
Solomon. Not Ull. Not Nephil. I am in
control.
I secure the photo back in its pouch
and set out again, but I don’t have to
run for long. The lake is just ahead.
I normally come here to fish these
waters, but not today. Since arriving
in this underground sanctuary, I have
searched for a way out. The walls
here are as solid as they are vast, and
I have been unable to locate a single
tunnel leading out. The only obvious
exit is the one I came in through—the
waterfall pouring into the lake from
two hundred feet above. But even with
the wind at my beck and call, I haven’t
been able to leap high enough nor scale
the cavern’s polished walls. I believed
myself stuck in this place forever, until
this morning.
The waterfall pours a continuous
stream of water into the lake—
thousands upon thousands of gallons
every hour. But the water level never
rises. And the air in the cave is far from
humid. There is an exit beneath the
water. I’m sure of it.
I just need to find it.
Which is easier said than done
because the lake is nearly a mile long,
half as wide and deeper than fifty feet
(which is the deepest I’ve swum).
I plunge into the water and relax.
Other than my perch, this is the safest
Jeremy
4
place in the cavern. There are no large
predators in the water—only fish. A mix
of albino species I’ve never seen before
and some ocean dwelling species, like
Cod, that seem to have adapted to living
in fresh water far below the Earth’s
surface. I kick out into the lake, hoping
to feel the tug of a current. I never have
before, but I wasn’t paying attention
until now. In the middle of the lake, I
lay on my back and float, staring up at
the crystal covered ceiling.
And…nothing.
Other than the small waves created
by the water fall, my body is the only
thing stirring the waters. It must be
deep, I think. Maybe too deep.
I tread water again, laying out a
mental search grid. I’ll dive as deep as
I can again and again until I find it. I
wonder if I can use my abilities to aid
the search—maybe create an air bubble
around my head or propel myself
through the water like I do through the
air.
Twenty feet away, the surface of the
lake ripples. The movement catches my
full attention. The waterfall is far away.
And I am the only thing in this lake
that should be disturbing the surface.
None of the fish grow over ten pounds,
nor do they school. Which means
something else—something large—is
in the water with me. And I suddenly
feel vulnerable.
I am confident on land, against
cresties, Nephilim warriors and
unknown dangers. I can hold my own
with the best of them one on one. But
I’ve never had to fight in the water;
my movements will be slowed and my
coordination will be thrown off by the
need to stay afloat.
Don’t back down, Ull says to me.
Fight! And for once we agree. Fleeing
is rarely the right choice in this
underground realm. Turning your
back on an enemy means certain death.
My weapon of choice is called
Whipsnap. It’s a shaft of highly flexible
wood with a spear tip on one end and
a spiked mace ball on the other. The
original had a bone blade and a stone
mace, but it was upgraded when Ull—
when I—was accepted
into the Nephilim ranks.
Robinson I usually have it wrapped
around my waist and
clipped to my belt, ready to spring
into action. However, the blade tip and
mace make staying afloat a chore, so
I’ve left it back at the perch.
That leaves me with my climbing
claws. I made them myself, as well.
Inspired by Justin’s ninja magazines,
the claws have three triangular, sharklike, “egg-monster” teeth on the palmside that are great for climbing. On the
knuckle-side are three spiked teeth
that make convenient slashing and
puncture weapons. Whatever side of
my hand you get while I’m wearing
them is going to hurt. I pull them from
my hip-pack, slide them onto my hands
and cinch the leather tight.
The water ripples again, this
time just ten feet away. Whatever this
thing is, it’s showing no fear, which is
typically a very bad sign. It means it’s
never had a reason to be afraid before;
never known a reason to be wary.
Until now, Ull says.
Not now, I think back. Let me focus.
And he does, because in the heat
of battle, he often surfaces as the
dominant personality. Usually just for a
few moments, but he is part of me. The
part that hunts and kills—and takes
pleasure in it.
Weapons in place, I let out a breath
and slide beneath the surface.
The creature is large and only feet
away. For a moment, I’m filled with
dread. How can I fight something so
big with just climbing claws? Then I see
its black eyes and recognition slaps me
in the face. We surface together, eyes
locked.
He lets out a steamy breath that
smells of fish. His way of saying “hello,”
I suppose.
“How did you get here?” I ask,
not really expecting an answer. He is
a Weddell seal after all. The creature’s
brown skin pocked with gray spots
makes him nearly invisible under the
water’s surface. His ten foot length is
imposing, but his upturned mouth
makes him appear as though he’s
constantly smiling. But that’s not why
I let my guard down. I suspect this is
the same Weddell seal that saved my
life so long ago after I plunged over a
different waterfall into an even bigger
subterranean lake, bordering the
ancient ruins of a city the Nephilim
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
call New Jericho. My perfect memory
scans every nuance of the seal’s face
and confirms my suspicion. This is the
same seal!
The creature just stares, his
whiskers twitching.
I sense he recognizes the claws as
weapons, so I take them off and put
them away. He moves closer and some
part of me tenses. But I know this
creature. He is the first and only thing
I’ve met in this underground world that
I trust.
“You need a name,” I tell him,
running through a list of options. He’s a
male. I can tell from the broad head and
muzzle, which with seals, like with dogs,
helps in identifying the males without
getting personal. Dr. Clark would have
named him something ancient, but
given the number of ancient names
already littering the underworld, from
gods to cities, I scratch those options
off the list. I decide to stick with my
1980s pop-culture references. This
time I choose the Herculoids. “I’ll call
you Gloop.”
The seal sniffs me and my hair, his
whiskers tickling my skin and getting
a laugh out of me. Then he moves
back with three gentle twitches of his
flippers, sliding away from me.
“Gloop, wait,” I say. “Don’t go.”
And he doesn’t. Instead, he turns
to the side as the water all around us
comes to life. A second Weddell seal
surfaces. Then another and another.
They keep on coming until fifteen seals,
two of them pups, hover on the surface.
They dance around me, swirling
through the water, spinning their large
bodies in an act of play that is innocent
and makes me smile. After a moment of
watching, I join in, slipping through the
water, arcing around the seals’ bodies
as they slide by mine. It is an elaborate
dance with no leader, but when it ends I
realize it had meaning. We are bonded.
Like family. For some reason, these
benign creatures, perhaps the only
benign creatures in the underworld,
have chosen to accept me.
Which is strange.
After seeing or smelling my red
hair, most denizens of the underground
flee or attack. But these creatures seem
to see right past it, to my core, and
they know I’m no threat to them. Ull
SuspenseMagazine.com
would have been, but
he’s not in control right
now. He’s buried in my The Last Hunter Pursuit
subconscious, pouting
about not being able to
heading toward danger, but based on
kill anything.
the human shouts—belonging to just
With the dance done, all eyes are one human female—and the multiple
on me.
dinosaur shrieks, I think my enemies
My mother sometimes referred are preoccupied with each other for the
to strange moments or coincidences moment. It’s possible the hunters don’t
as being “cosmic.” I think she got even know I’m here.
that from the sixties. But for the first
They will eventually. I can’t
time in my life I feel the word makes mask my scent or the evidence of my
sense. Because this is cosmic. I can campfires after being here for so long.
feel these seals. Not just the pressure But if they don’t know I’m here, or how
their bodies exert on the water around to get out, I should be able to disappear
them—the water I’m bonded to—but long before they realize how close they
I can feel them in my mind. In my came to finding me.
soul. They’re not speaking to me. Not
I move silently through the cave’s
like the Nephilim Gatherers, who can jungle and reach the base of my perch
communicate directly mind-to-mind. moments later. Climbing the perch
But I sense them. Their feelings. Their might expose me. It’s thirty feet high.
desires. And I understand, somehow, But I need to risk it. Leaving Whipsnap
that they came here for me.
behind would be like severing a limb.
Why? I wonder. Then ask aloud, I scale the wall quickly and then lay
“Why?”
flat on top. I gather my few belongings,
A distant shriek replies and I including the telescope Ninnis gave me
understand. The cresties are hunting, for my last birthday, and take hold of
but they’ve only just recently eaten Whipsnap. My plan is to roll off the
which means—
perch and fall to the ground, but I
A shout echoes in the chamber, can’t help sneaking a peek at the action
feminine and angry.
as the sounds of battle get louder. I
I am not alone.
turn toward the noise and find the
The others have found me.
combatants on a treeless grassy hill.
The hunters are here.
I see only one hunter. A scout.
But there are fourteen cresties. Not
Chapter 3
even Ninnis, who is a master hunter
and killer, could face those odds and
I start for shore, but I’m blocked by survive. I might be able to escape such
several large bodies. The seals sense the a fight—I have escaped such a fight—
danger and they want to keep me from but I could never win. Strangely, this
it. But I can’t leave Whipsnap behind. hunter doesn’t back down.
While I’m dangerous without it, I’m
The telescope extends between
not at my best. If I don’t retrieve my my hands. I put it to my eye and feel
weapon I will regret it.
my gut tense. The hunter is a woman.
Gloop rises in front of me, pleading She’s dressed as I am, in minimal
with his black eyes. I reach out and put leathers to allow free movement
my hand on his wet forehead, which is through the sometimes tight confines
softer than I was expecting, and say, “I of the underground; her white skin
will be quick.”
glistens with a sheen of sweat. I blink,
I can see he’s not happy about taken aback by my response to her…
it, despite the perpetual smile, but femininity. I’d never been interested in
he slides beneath the surface and girls before. Mira was the first to stir
disappears. The others follow his lead anything in me. But just the sight of
and within seconds it’s like they were this one has me feeling nervous.
never there.
I’m older, I think. Then I groan.
I dig into the water, swimming Puberty. Great. At least the Weddell
for shore as fast as I can. I know I’m seals won’t comment if my voice cracks.
5
I put the telescope to my eye again.
The woman is fierce, fighting a younger,
ten foot crestie, and winning. She leaps
in the air and strikes the dinosaur on
the head with a large stone hammer.
I’ve seen the weapon before. Many
of the hunters, who are fully human
and subservient to the half human-half
demon Nephilim warriors, mimic their
masters by dressing the same (as I once
did) and by carrying a smaller version
of their master’s preferred weapon. In
this case, the stone hammer favored by
my former master’s father, Thor. The
woman’s name is Kainda. She’s Ninnis’s
daughter. And she has a serious
reputation. Worse, I offended her by
turning her down as my bride—not to
mention a few more insults I heaped
on top of that. She is a woman scorned
and she’s no doubt out for my blood
more than any other hunter. It’s not
surprising she tracked me down first.
The young cresty falls beneath the
hammer strike, its thick skull crushed.
Five other cresties move in for the kill,
but they’re stopped by Alice’s roar.
Kainda has killed one of the pack and
Alice wants revenge.
The pack parts and Alice pounds
forward, pausing for a moment to
sniff the air, maybe testing the scent of
Kainda’s red hair. Maybe searching for
my presence.
Kainda, to her credit, stands her
ground in the face of certain failure.
Even the Nephilim think twice before
taking on a fully grown cresty.
She wants to die fighting, I think. It
is the Nephilim way. The hunter’s way,
too.
Kainda raises the hammer and
charges.
Alice steps away, like she’s
surprised, but it’s a feint. And Kainda
falls for it.
The thick dinosaur tail whips
through the air and strikes Kainda in
the side, long before the woman has a
chance to strike. She will not survive.
Alice, who has been my enemy
for so long now, is about to help me
without even knowing it.
I watch as Kainda pulls herself
away, leaving a trail of grass matted
down in her wake. Alice steps toward
her, confident, but still wary. It will all
be over in a minute.
6
Now’s my chance. I slide the
telescope into its pouch on my belt and
leap from the ledge. The wind slows my
fall, as always, and I run.
Away from the lake.
At first I don’t even notice it, but
when I do, I can’t stop.
I’m headed toward the battle.
Toward thirteen meat-eating
dinosaurs.
And I’m going to save her. Kainda.
The woman who would love nothing
more than to set my head upon the tip
of a pike and roast me over an open
flame.
I struggle with my sense of
urgency. Could I really have feelings for
a woman like this? What about Mira?
My feelings for her have only magnified
during my time down here. How is it
possible that I’ve forgotten all of that?
It’s not.
That’s when I realize these feelings
don’t belong to me. Well, not to all of
me. They belong to Ull. In his eyes,
Kainda is no doubt the perfect woman.
The beautiful killer. Or do I just see
something there I haven’t yet realized?
How much do Ull and I really share
in common? It’s all so confusing, so I
decide to ignore the why and focus on
the how.
I can’t fight and kill all thirteen
cresties, and a rainstorm might not
frighten them off again.
Alice, I think. She’s the key. Without
her leadership the pack won’t know
what to do or whose lead to follow. I
need to kill Alice.
The jungle clears, and I run up a
knoll that leads to the battle. The high
pitched shrieking that punctuates the
climax of every hunt fills the air.
I reach the top of the knoll and leap.
I imagine the cavern’s air swooping up
behind me and a moment later, it does.
I’m carried high into the air, covering
the distance between the knoll and
Alice—nearly one hundred feet—in
the blink of an eye. As I arc through the
air, I see Alice opening her mouth to
consume Kainda and I let out a war cry.
This time when Alice stumbles
back, it’s not a ruse. She was not
expecting my approach, especially
not from above. I grip Whipsnap,
which is wrapped around my waist
and attached to the belt, and I give it a
yank. The weapon springs free, ready to
stab, slice or bludgeon. A gust of wind
bursts beneath me as I land in the grass
between Kainda and Alice. A ten foot
circle of grass bends away from my feet
like an impact crater.
“Ull?” I hear Kainda’s confused
voice ask from behind me. When she
realizes it’s me, she shouts with a voice
like some wrathful god, “Ull!”
She’d no doubt try to strangle me
to death while Alice chewed us both to
pieces, so I don’t step any closer. But I
shoot her a glance and say, “Kainda.”
“What are you doing?” Her voice is
filled with so much vitriol I think she’s
actually trying to kill me with it.
Alice’s anger matches Kainda’s. She
roars at my sudden appearance. The
sound shakes the air from my lungs and
makes my head spin. If Alice knew this,
she would have struck already. Luckily,
the beast isn’t that smart. She simply
stands her ground, instinct guiding her
as she sizes me up.
“What’s it look like?” I ask. “I’m
saving you.”
“Why?” This question is the first
that’s not tinged with hatred.
I answer by looking back at her
again. When our eyes meet, my stomach
twists, and she must see this, or feel it
too, because she looks shocked.
Before she can ask “why” again, a
question to which I have no answer,
Alice roars. I turn to face her, happy for
the thirty foot long, several ton dinosaur
that could devour the elephant in the
room had it been a real elephant and a
room instead of a giant cave.
Ull surfaces in that moment with
a roar. Alice matches it. We charge
to meet each other in combat, both
knowing that one of us will soon lie
dead. 
JEREMY ROBINSON is the author of
tenthrillersincluding"Pulse,""Instinct,"
and "Th
 reshold" the first three books
in his exciting Jack Sigler series from
Th
 omas Dunne Books. His novels have
been translated into nine languages.
He is the director of New Hampshire
AuthorFest, a non-profit organization
promoting literacy in New Hampshire,
where he lives with his wife and three
children. Connect with Robinson at:
www.jeremyrobinsononline.com.
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
Z
O
M
B
I
E
Things That Only Come out at
S
Ah, zombies. Those wonderful, adorable, mindless creatures with decaying skin, primitive
thinking and an insatiable appetite for living, human flesh. Where did they come from and
when did they cross over from folklore into fiction film and literature?
The concept of the zombie was born in the early Haitian voodoo culture. If you happened
to be the unlucky soul who angered or annoyed your family and friends enough, they would
simply call in a Bokor. A Bokor was a voodoo priest who would administer an oral powder
known as coup padre. The powder's primary ingredient was tetrodoxin, the deadly toxin
produced by the porcupine fish. The beauty of this ritual was, once someone was given
the coup padre, they would appear to die. Their heart rate would slow to a near-stop, their
breathing would almost cease and even their body temperature would drastically decrease.
In an unusual turn of events, the family and friends of the annoying individual would
then lay to rest, what appeared to be the dead body of the victim. Later on, the Bokor would
exhume the body of the person who was never actually dead in the first place. This person
would be mindless, having completely lost all memories and in a perpetual trance-like state
for the remainder of their days on earth. The Bokor would have complete control over that
person and their mind until the Bokor's death or the death of the zombi.
The origins of the zombie may be creepier than any book or film I have ever read or seen.
Zombies have seen more coverage in movies than in the literary world. However, a
ton of books have focused on this horrifying creature that comes out in the night. The first
such zombie tale in literature can be attributed to “One Thousand and One Nights.” In the
story “The History of Gherib and His Brother Agib,” the tale is told of an outcast prince
who encounters a horde of ravenous ghouls. Other famous writers in literary history would
also have zombie-like creatures within the pages of their books, but never see their books be
classified as zombie horror.
In 1818, Mary Shelley wrote “Frankenstein.” Although never billed as zombie horror,
the book has deep roots in European folklore and deals with the resurrection of the vengeful
dead. Later in the 19th century, Ambrose Bierce and Edgar Allen Poe introduced tales that
have a zombie feel and would later influence other writers to dive deeper into the subject.
In 1929, W.B. Seabrook published his book, “The Magic Island.” In it, he wrote a
fictionalized account of a man caught in the midst of the Haitian voodoo culture and their
NIGHT
Byy CK Webb
B
SuspenseMagazine.com
7
unusual rituals. Many believed that Seabrook's novel was the introduction of
the word, 'zombi' into U.S. speech.
As the 1920 and 1930s came around, H.P. Lovecraft was honing his skills
as an American horror writer. Lovecraft wrote a host of zombie related tales
and is even credited with writing the first, whose character is bitten by a
zombie. One of Lovecraft's most famous tales came in 1921s “Herbert WestReanimated.” Credited with helping to define zombies in popular culture, the
book featured Howard West, a bit of a mad scientist bent on reviving human
corpses, often with horrifying results.
A novel by H.G. Wells would be the backdrop for the 1936 film Things to
Come. In the movie, the world would be introduced to its very first taste of
zombies sprouting from an apocalyptic viral plague. The plague spread like
wildfire and gave zombies the ‘wondering’ characteristic they have become
famous for.
The 1954 publication of “I Am Legend” by author Richard Matheson
would further influence the zombie genre. His take on the tale centered on a
worldwide apocalypse and a lone survivor. The novel was a huge success and
has been adapted to film three times. The Last Man on Earth, from 1964, The
Omega Man from 1971 and 2007's I Am Legend were all based on the novel.









The quintessential zombie movie came in 1968, with George A. Romero’s
Night of the Living Dead. Not only is it credited with being the defining classic
of the genre, but is also responsible for influencing dozens of future authors
in the zombie horror genre.
Although zombies have always been portrayed as slow and cumbersome,
some films would step out of the norm with their portrayals of zombies as
fast moving and raging. 28 Days Later, 28 Weeks Later, Resident Evil and
House of the Dead may be criticized by zombie enthusiasts, but nevertheless,
they were well-received and fall easily into the genre. They are also several of
my favorites.







Zombies in literature would see a huge surge in 1990 with the publication
of “Book of the Dead” and its follow-up book, “Still Dead: Book of the Dead
II.” A host of popular authors, including Stephen King, would add their takes
on the zombie horror genre in these books of short stories.
More recently, the zombie horror genre has been graced by the likes of
Brian Keene, Stephen King, Max Brooks, Seth Grahame-Smith, Jonathan
Mayberry and David Wellington. With everything from zombie survival
guides to “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies,” these writers bring fresh new
voices and new takes on the classic horror tales.
Now another young writer is making a huge splash, not only in the
literary world, but also in the world of film with his brand-new idea about
zombies. “Warm Bodies” by Isaac Marion began as a short story on a blog and
quickly escalated to a novel and movie optioned by Summit Entertainment.
All this has happened before “Warm Bodies” even lands in a U.S. book store.
The concept is simple, and yet, brilliant...zombie-meets-girl, zombie-falls-inlove, zombie-vows-to-protect-girl-from-other-zombies.
From hoodoo to voodoo and from books, films, comics and even video
games like Dead Rising and Dead Space, zombies, though dead and decaying,
appear quite capable of outlasting the best of us. Stockpile your supplies,
gather your weapons, seal off the doors and windows and guard your body
and your brain with your life...zombies are on the loose and no one is safe. 
8


















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

J.R.R. TOLKIEN
We go a little fantasy this month with our June 2011 Hall of Fame author. J.R.R. Tolkien wrote, arguably, the greatest
fantasy series of all time starting with “The Hobbit” and then on to LordoftheRings series. Born in 1892 in England, one of
Tolkien’s closest friends was C.S. Lewis, author of the ChroniclesofNarniaseries. Tolkien was a veteran of World War I and
also earned the title “codebreaker” right before World War II.
Tolkien wrote many letters to his son that showed his political and religious beliefs. You can find excerpts of these letters
on various websites. Like many famous authors and stories, Tolkien had no idea that any of his works would be read. He
was encouraged to send in the manuscript for “The Hobbit” to a publisher. To his surprise, the book was popular with adults
along with children. This prompted the publisher to have Tolkien write a sequel to the book, which is where
we get the Lord of the Rings trilogy.
Tolkien and C.S. Lewis were members of the informal discussion group called Inklings. It was this
group that helped Tolkien with the Lord of the Rings trilogy over the ten years it took him to write the
books. When you write a series so popular, many people don’t realize that Tolkien had many other works
including, “The Children of Hurin,” “Mr. Bliss” and “The Legend of Sigurd and Gudrun.” While these
stories did not have the overwhelming success that “The Hobbit” and “Lord of the Rings” did, they are
fantastic stories and show Tolkien’s wonderful storytelling range. J.R.R.’s son, Christopher, finished writing
“The Simarillion,” which was the prequel and setup to the entire Middle Earth creation. We were also able
to interview Tolkien’s grandson, Simon, who is not writing fantasy, but instead penning great thriller novels with
his most recent “The King of Diamonds.”
J.R.R. Tolkien is considered the godfather of the fantasy trilogy and been an inspiration to many writers before and after
his death in 1973. Many fantasy and science fiction authors use the formula that Tolkien made famous, but have fallen short
with in storyline and character creation, areas in which J.R.R. Tolkien excelled in all his books. Peter Jackson directed all the
Th
 eLordoftheRings movies, Th
 eFellowshipoftheRing, Th
 eTwoTowers, and Th
 eReturnoftheKing. While all
three movies could have been considered movies of the year, only Th
 eReturnoftheKing won the top honor.
Jackson is in production now to bring Th
 eHobbit to the big screen.
Few authors, and really few people, can ever hope to leave a legacy like J.R.R. Tolkien was able to leave
behind. We are honored to have Mr. Tolkien as the June 2011 SuspenseMagazine Hall of Fame inductee. 
By SuspenseMagazine
SuspenseMagazine.com
9
“Badal takes international intrigue to a
whole new level.”
P 
J B
~ Steve Brewer, Author of “Baby Face”
“Badal serves up a rogue's gallery of sharply
drawn characters presented in lean, muscular prose that will always leave you wanting
more."
~Philip Reed, Author of ”e Marquis De
Fraud”
"Joseph Badal returns with another gripping page turner set against the backdrop
of the 2004 summer Olympics in Athens.
Filled with compelling characters and
inside military knowledge, Badal has written another timely story that is intriguing
and terrifying. You won't be able to put it
down."
~Sheldon Siegel, New York Times Bestselling Author of “Final Verdict
"Joe Badal takes us into a tangled puzzle
of intrigue and terrorism, giving readers
a tense well-told tale and a page-turning
mystery."
~Tony Hillerman, New York Times Bestselling Author
NOW AVAILABLE WHERE
EBOOKS ARE SOLD
JOSEPH BADAL
www.josephbadalbooks.com
Born
Born
Write
t
o
With Maggie Sefton
Interview by SuspenseMagazine
Maggie was born in Richmond, VA, but grew up close to
Washington, D.C. She received a bachelor’s degree in English
Literature and Journalism, married and started a family there.
Maggie says she’s always known she was born to be a writer.
Her childhood was spent with her nose stuck in a book and writing
was also something she enjoyed immensely. As she grew up, her life
got busier and she couldn’t find the time to write her stories, but the
characters kept coming to her mind. She ended up talking herself
out of the whole writing thing. Seemed like a good idea since she
was raising a family and attending business school in accounting to
become a CPA.
No matter how hard she tried to ignore them though, the
characters and their stories kept coming—trying to get her attention
whenever they could. As she told them she had no time, they’d
loudly proclaim what they wanted, causing her to write down
short stories on notepads and just tossing them into a folder.
Once she did that, she’d banish them back to the spot in her
imagination where the rest of her “friends” were waiting.
Finally, she had to start writing her stories because that
little spot was getting crowded and quite noisy. She adores
history, which allows her to indulge in her “secret passion”—
literary research. Maggie loves disappearing into stacks of
books surrounding her, digging in to see what she can find.
When her family moved to Colorado, she was able to
network with vibrant writers’ groups. That’s when she began
to apprentice in the craft—networking with the other writers,
SuspenseMagazine.com
11
attending conferences and seminars and joining critique groups, studying,
writing, critiquing and submitting. The focused effort paid off and her Western
historical, “Abilene Gamble,” was published by Berkley in August 1995.
Eventually, Maggie started thinking about mysteries. Soon afterward, new
characters appeared and elbowed their way to the front. Since she was starting
a new career in real estate at the time, it was no shock that the first amateur
detective was a real estate agent. She finished that novel, “Dying to Sell,” in
2002 and sent it off to her agent. It sold and published in October 2005.
In her KnittingMystery series, Berkley Prime Crime has released a trade
paperback edition of the first two KellyFlynnMysteries in one volume, entitled
“Double Knit Murders.” It was Bookscan’s #5 Bestselling Trade Paperback
Mystery after its release!
Her latest in the NewYorkTimesand Barnes & Noble Bestselling Knitting
Mysteries, “Skein of the Crime,” was Barnes & Noble’s #5 Bestselling Hardcover
Mystery after its release June 2010 and stayed on its Mystery Bestseller list for
five months.
Needless to say, Maggie Sefton is one very busy woman with lots of stories
to tell. We were thrilled to have this opportunity to speak to her. Enjoy!
SuspenseMagazine(S. MAG.): What book changed your life?
Maggie Sefton (MS): Hmm.Th
 erewasnoonenovelthatfitsthatdescription,
althoughIreadwidelyandeclectically.Buttherewasonenon-fictionbookthat
wasimportant:“Th
 eChoiceisAlwaysOurs.”It’sananthologythatcontained
excerptsfromavarietyofphilosophical,psychological,religiousandbiographical
sources.Oneofthoselittlegemsthatareeasilyoverlookedandprobablyoutofprintnow.
S. MAG.: Now that you are eight books into your KnittingMystery Series, do you pinch yourself
every day?
MS: Youbetcha.Actually,theninthintheserieswillbeoutthisJune,“Unraveled.”
Believeme,Icontinuetoexpressmygratitudetothereaderswhohavemadethe
KellyFlynnMysteriesthenationalbestsellerstheyare.Allweauthorscando
iswritethebestbookwecan,thenofferitupto“thegods.”Th
 ereadersarethe
gods.Th
 eymakeyouabestseller.
S. MAG.: What challenges do you face when writing a new book?
MS: With each new book in the series, I have several challenges. Th
 e first is
todiscoverwhothekillerandvictimareandlearnexactlywhatwentwrong
in their relationship. Amateur sleuth mysteries usually involve a killer and a
victimwhoknoweachotherandhavearelationship.Th
 en,somethinghappens.
Something goes wrong and one of them decides he/she has to kill the other.
Frankly,that’swhatconsistentlyfascinatesmeaboutamateursleuthmysteries.
It’speoplelikeyouandmewhodothekillingandgetkilled.Onepersondecides
tokillanother.We’renotforced.Wechoosetokill.
Other challenges involve setting, weaving in various craft elements into the
narrativesoitfeelsnatural,andalsocontinuingcharacterdevelopment.Since
there’salargecastofcharacters,thatcanbecometricky.Lotsofcharacterarcs
goingonthere.
S. MAG.: What mystery would you solve if you could pick one?
12
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
MS: Oh, no contest. I want to know which planet in which galaxy has the most highly evolved intelligent life and what forms of
interplanetary travel they’ve developed. Yes, I was a Trekkie and love all things sci-fi. One of the most fascinating movies I’ve seen
in the past two years was District 9.
S. MAG.: How has your main character Kelly Flynn evolved from the first book ‘til now?
MS: Kelly’s still evolving, as we all are. Abandonment issues have dogged her through several books and kept her from fully
committing to a relationship with her boyfriend, Steve. But she was finally able to take the risk. However—as in life—there are
no guarantees in fiction. We authors are an evil lot. And, as an old writing master once said, “Good news for the character is bad
news for the author.” S. MAG.: One book, one CD and one DVD—what would they be if could only take one of each on a deserted island?
MS: Deserted island, huh? Well, given my practical streak, I’d probably take a how-to book with instructions for building a
shelter, starting/maintaining campfires, poisonous/edible plants, how to survive in the wild, etc. There would be no one book of
fiction or non-fiction that I could choose above all others. I want them all. So, not having that, I’ll choose to stay alive. For the
CD, assuming I’ll have infinite battery life or some unnamed power source, I’d burn a CD of some of my favorite baroque and
classical pieces. Bach, Mozart, some Haydn and Brahms, of course. That will help me keep my sanity. As for DVD, I’d probably
try to load up episodes of Lost, Masterpiece Theatre and scenes from various action/adventure flics.
S. MAG.: Do you have a cross-over planned or have you thought about it for your Real Estate Mystery series and Knitting
Mystery series?
MS: No, not at all. “Dying to Sell” was never intended as a series. But—I do have another mystery/suspense series coming in
2012, which I’ll talk about in question #10.
S. MAG.: Do you have any superstitions when you write?
MS: None so far.  My, you have an evil mind.
S. MAG.: If you could meet Kelly Flynn in real life, what question would you ask her?
MS: Three questions: One, how are you doing? I mean, really doing? Two, are you happy? Three, what do you see yourself doing
in the next 10, 20, 30 years? Then, she can show me pix of her kid(s) if she has any. Hey…I’m a mom. I’m a good listener.
S. MAG.: What does the future hold for Maggie Sefton?
MS: Kelly Flynn’s readership continues to grow and that determines her longevity. The characters keep bringing me stories, so I’ll
keep writing as long as the readers/editors want me to.
However…I do have other characters and other stories. Look for my new mystery/suspense series set in Washington, D.C. “Killer
Politics,” in trade paperback from Midnight Ink in August 2012, is the first in the series. I grew up across the Potomac from that fascinating city and have never been able to stay away for long. The city keeps pulling
me back. This time, the main character is Molly Malone, who’s as “kick ass” as Kelly Flynn, but a little older. So, she’s got a few
more battle scars. Molly is out of money and out of options and is forced to return to the city that broke her heart—Washington,
DC—and face the ghosts and enemies from her past. Stay tuned.

Thanks, guys. It’s been great.  —Maggie
Suspense Magazine is proud to have had the opportunity to talk with Maggie. This is an author who has a lot to offer and
we hope you’ll take the time to check her and her stories out. To learn more about her, please check her out at http://www.
maggiesefton.com/. 
SuspenseMagazine.com
13
By Donald Allen Kirch
Faster Than a
SPEEDING
BULLET?
The Death and Haunting of George Reeves
A
sk any grandparent about their favorite and “most cherished”
childhood memory, and many would say it was watching the
classic series Th
 eAdventuresofSuperman. Every week, glued
to their television screens, children and adults alike would watch the
mysterious and sometimes fantastic adventures of a “strange visitor from
another planet” who saved humanity from itself. Superman was king of
the airwaves and no one personified the famous comic strip icon better
than actor George Reeves. With his hands confidently resting upon his
hips and flashing the camera a charitable smile, he projected everything
that was good about “truth, justice and the American way!”
Still, all was not as it appeared. In truth: George Reeves hated the role
of Superman and wanted to get out. And he chose an unfortunate way
out: On June 16, 1959, at 1:59 a.m., Superman died.
To the shock of television viewers everywhere, George Reeves was
found in his upstairs bedroom with a bullet wound to his head. The initial
coroner’s report listed Reeves’ death as an “indicated suicide.” After more
than five decades, his death still remains one of Hollywood’s greatest
“unsolved” mysteries. Could this be one of the main reasons his former
Benedict Canyon Drive home is still haunted?
14
Pictured from top left: 1)GeorgeReevesasSupermaninthe
U.S. government film Stamp Day for Superman 2) George
Reeves'firstactingjobwasonGoneWiththeWind(pictured
right)3)GeorgeReevesandToniMannix4)GeorgeReevesas
Superman
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
Born in Galesburg, Ill., George Reeves grew up as
George Besselo. When his mother, Helen, divorced her
husband, both moved to Pasadena, Calif. Years later, during
his stint in the Army during the Second World War, George
learned secrets about his mother that would keep them from
speaking through most of the 1940s. She lied to him about
his own birthday, his true father’s identity and the sad fact
that his stepfather committed suicide.
Reeves had been an accomplished athlete growing up and,
in 1932, he entered the Golden Gloves Boxing competition.
He did so well that he earned the honor of attending the
Olympics in Los Angeles! He hung up his boxing gloves,
however, and decided to try his hand at acting.
Luck seemed to be with the aspiring actor. His very first
“paying” job was as one of the red-headed twins in love with
Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind. He worked well and
became a favorite on the set. Later, his roles would become
larger in such classics as So Proudly We Hail, From Here to
Eternity, Blood and Sand and Samson and Delilah. Still, with
all this success, stardom was far from the man’s grasp.
Desperately struggling for work, George took up the
challenge of playing the lead role in a new television series,
Idea. However, the series failed to take off. Just two years
later, however, Kellogg’s decided to buy sponsorship in The
Adventures of Superman and George’s career went “Up, up
and away!”
The success was an awakening surprise to all involved.
As the success rose and the money came in, a new side
of George Reeves emerged. Reeves started to get a ladies’
man reputation. He loved to live large and he spent money
recklessly. Several times, the handsome actor would break
the hearts of those women who worked on the set, and those
closest to him stated that he was a womanizer. Rumor had
it that he was involved with several prominent, married
women—wives of film executives. Could it have been one of
these jealous husbands who had a hand in his death?
There were signs that “The Man of Steel” was being
targeted for a fall. Before his death, George Reeves had been
involved in three “unsolved” automobile accidents. Each
more violent than the other. Each more mysterious.
The first accident involved two trucks parked together on
a shoulder of a freeway near his home. He was almost crushed
to death. In the second, a speeding car almost killed him. If it
had not been for his quick reflexes, he certainly would have
died. In the third and most puzzling incident, Reeves was
driving his car down a twisting road and discovered that his
brakes had given out on him. He barely survived, walking
away with only minor injuries. It was later discovered, that
although the brake system was working, all of the hydraulic
fluid had been taken out of the car. For this last, the local
mechanic had no explanation—he personally serviced the
car earlier that week.
It was then when he started to receive the death threats
SuspenseMagazine.com
over his phone.
Like most stars, George
Reeves had an unlisted
telephone number. In less
than a month after the
“brake incident,” George
would receive up to twenty
calls a day. Some would
just hang up upon hearing
him speak. Others would
tell him that he would soon
be walking with the dead.
Some of the calls were so
graphic and violent that
he knew who they were
Reeves showing off his car.
coming from. He soon filed
a complaint with the Beverly Hills Police Department, and
went as far as to suggest a suspect: Toni Mannix.
Although the gossip columns had for years linked both
George and Toni Mannix in an affair, theirs was not a public
one. Toni was married to Eddie Mannix, the powerful vice
president of Loew’s Theaters, Inc. and one-time executive at
MGM. Toni’s husband had a reputation of being a disliked
and uncouth man. Most believed that it was not beyond
the realm of possibility that it was he who was threatening
Reeves.
Through all this drama, George Reeves’ career was on
a high note. Three days before his death, he was offered a
chance to return to the boxing ring, fighting heavyweight
champion, Archie Moore. The match would have been
played on television and, it would have made the actor a lot
of money. Who would not have wanted to watch a boxing
match where the heavyweight champion of the world would
fight Superman? George may have hated the role identified
with him, but he was no fool.
After this “television showdown,” he was to marry his
new fiancée, Lenore Lemmon, known throughout New York
City’s high society as a trouble-making barfly. Reeves planned
an extensive six-week trip that would end in Australia. The
Adventures of Superman just premiered there and was a
bigger hit than in the United States. He was to make a hell
of a lot of money on personal appearances and shows, filled
with eager children ready to see if a man could truly fly. What
actor, in any caliber of talent, could refuse, or not, at least, be
excited over such an opportunity?
The icing upon his already sweet cake, came in the
information of knowing he was to direct a feature film upon
his return from his honeymoon—a lifelong ambition of his!
Several more episodes of the Superman series were planned
and syndication was looking quite good.
With such lucrative roads of choices open to the man,
how could one possibly believe that George Reeves willingly
took his own life?
15
Still, as stated, it all came to an end on June 16, 1959.
At around 6 p.m., Lenore Lemmon prepared a huge
dinner for herself, Reeves, and a few guests. One of those
in attendance had been a writer for a local newspaper, and
Lemmon was hoping the man would write about George’s
bout in the ring with Archie Moore. Since money had been
tight, after dinner, all settled into the living room to watch
a little late night television until midnight. At that time
everyone went to bed.
Although Reeves’ Benedict Canyon home was known
to all serious partiers as a “fun” and “wet” house, George
had one unwritten rule: No one was to disturb him after he
went to bed at midnight. Everyone who knew the man knew
this “all-important” fact. Still, at around 1:30 a.m., friends of
Lenore’s came knocking upon their door wanting to party
with “the last son of Krypton.”
Reeves was not a gracious host. Upon discovering why
his sleep had been interrupted, he yelled at the intruders with
rage. Lenore finally calmed her soon-to-be-husband down
and Reeves found himself
apologizing. All were
allowed into the house.
A small party soon
started in the living room,
minus George Reeves.
GeorgeReevesandLenoreLemmon
Reeves was seen, for
the last time, pouring
himself
a
nightcap,
drinking it down suddenly
and silently heading back
up to his second story
bedroom. When asked
what was wrong with the
man, Lenore Lemmon was
heard saying,
“WELL, HE’S SULKING.
HE’LL PROBABLY GO
UP TO HIS ROOM AND
SHOOT HIMSELF.”
No truer words were ever spoken by a future bride.
No sooner had she uttered those fatal words, did the
silence in the house shatter with the sound of a gunshot.
Television’s “Man of Steel” was dead.
According to the report filed by the Beverly Hills Police
Department, George Reeves, without reason or cause, simply
left the company of his friends and went upstairs, impulsively
committing suicide.
16
There was an important fact missing from all of this
tragedy.
George Reeves loved to play practical jokes on those
who did not know him. Since he had been feeling somewhat
guilty about yelling at his guest before, it was theorized by
his friend, that George wished to play a rather “morbid”
game on everyone. George had a game, where he would take
a pistol, loaded with blanks and pretend to blow his brains
out. It was a well-known game of his and for a stranger, it was
a marvelous way for him to “break the ice.”
George was also a gun expert, making damn sure that
the barrel of the weapon was far enough away from his head,
not to cause a powder burn or damage from the weapon’s
exchange. Note: This could possibly explain why no powder
burns were associated with George’s entry wounds.
It has been theorized, by some, that Eddie Mannix knew
of this game and had the blanks in George’s gun replaced
with real bullets. Toni Mannix, George’s old girlfriend, had
been so enraged with his ending their relationship, that
anything could have been possible. Toni, having bought the
house George lived in for him, certainly would have had a
spare key to the place.
The more the scene of George Reeves’ death is
investigated, the more one questions suicide. In accordance
with the “suicide game” theory, as stated before, there were
no powder burns found upon George’s face or wounds. This
means that the weapon had to be a good foot and a half
away from him at the time of the weapon’s firing. Also, when
his body was discovered by police, he was resting upon his
back, and the bullet’s expended shell was found later under
his body. People who shoot themselves, generally, propel
forward and away from the bullet casing. Could his death
have been a game turned terribly bad?
All in all, the investigative powers of the police
department are in question. The case was so “open and shut”
to those involved, that no fingerprints were ever taken at the
scene, and no one even questioned the fact that not even
George Reeves’ fingerprints were on his own gun. Could the
police have been pressured to close the case fast?
In any case, the facts will never be known. In 1961,
George Reeves’ body was exhumed and cremated, destroying
any other official inquiries into this matter.
There is still one remaining fact about this mystery.
George Reeves home is haunted.
Since his death, many have reported strange sightings
and happenings at the former actor’s Benedict Canyon
home. Neighbors and owners alike have been victimized by
strange noises, the sound of screaming and gunshots, and
even the appearance of Reeves himself. Sometimes the ghost
is seen in regular clothes and at other times, George Reeves
is seen wearing the Superman costume that made him such a
television legend. It seems that even in death, George Reeves
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
cannot escape the power of the big “S.”
Realtors, for years, had problems selling the home. Upon
showing the place off, customers would be victims of tumbling
sounds coming from the upstairs room where Reeves died.
Investigating the scene, salesmen would discover that the room
was “gone through.” The bedding would be removed from the bed,
clothes would be scattered about the floor, and others reported
the telltale smell of gunpowder in the air. One unfortunate
owner stated that his dog would stand at the entrance to the
room, constantly barking, as if seeing something there his owner
could not.
There was even a reported case where two sheriff ’s deputies
took to staking out the house, when a late-night jogger had
spotted a “dark figure” standing upon the front lawn, with his
hands resting upon his hips. When asked what the intruder
looked like, the jogger stated, “All I saw was a black shape.
Couldn’t make anything else out.”
One couple, after buying the house, moved out the same
night, after spotting the figure of George Reeves standing at
the foot of their bed, looking
down at them in anger, wearing
his famous costume. No
explanation, other than the
sighting, was ever given as
to why they abandoned the
property.
Recently, the site of
Reeves’ home had been used
by a motion picture company
as the backdrop to a movie
made about the actor’s life.
Several reports from the
crew, cast and others on
the set stated they had all
seen the ghost of George
Reeves. Some stated he
appeared confused. Others
Los Angeles papers were shocked to tell stated the specter was
children everywhere that Superman killed angered, as if he were still
himself.
enacting his “do not bother
me after midnight” rule.
Was George Reeves murdered? Was he the victim of a
vicious love triangle? Was he the unwitting victim of a terrible
game gone wrong? Or, was it, as some believe, the sad story of
a “would-be” Hollywood star, suddenly realizing all his dreams,
hopes and life were nothing but a failed tragedy?
In the meantime, his ghost continues to walk the halls of his
mortal home.
Perhaps, one dark night, George Reeves will finally be able to
answer these questions himself. 
To learn more about this author and his work go to: www.
donaldallenkirch.com.
SuspenseMagazine.com
D
O
O
BL
S
I
H
ON
S
D
N
HA
Michael Renton’s life seemed to
end the moment he pulled the trigger sending his unfaithful wife
and her lover into oblivion.
On the lam, his journey takes
him from rural Oklahoma to the
glitz of Las Vegas. He had not however, anticipated the determined
tenacity of private investigator
Ian Walker, who tracks him down
to northern Georgia on to the Appalachian Trail just outside of the
sleepy hamlet of Helen.
Nine months later, however,
when human remains are discovered by a hiker just off the Appalachian Trail, will the White County
coroner’s office might the right
decision?
“A tale of biier choices and sweet
surrender, “Blood on His Hands” is a
ne examination of the human spirit
and soul...”
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AVAILABLE WHERE
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One
WICKEDNight
G
By Stephen D. O’Quinn
iven the state of the modern family, it is no wonder that kids are lashing out in more and more violent ways. This
night is no exception. Mercedes Jones has the scars of one foster home after another, complicated by physical and
mental abuses and a smoldering heart of darkness to fuel her actions on this, her twenty-first birthday.
It has taken six of those twenty-one years to locate her birth parents. Six long years of planning, being the good girl
and playing on the sympathies of those that stood in her way until they slipped in their self-righteous bullshit and gave her
what she wanted…what she needed. It seems that she has arrived at her parents' house on an evening in which they have
something else planned, a party perhaps. A line of a dozen cars stretch from the main road, up the inclined drive to the
waiting warmth of the amber glow of six porch lights. Is it strange to make a house call at such a late hour? Stranger still, is
the lack of illumination in the front windows of the house. Nomatter, Mercy thinks.
Everyone called Mercedes Mercy, and until now she has shown all those around her nothing but that
which the name implies. She reaches into her clutch purse tucked neatly under her left arm and traces
the outline of a revolver with her index finger. She smiles a wicked smile as her fingertip caresses the
cold steel. Suddenly, her muscles contract as the sound of a car latch and door opening breaks her
moment of glee. She turns to see her companions still in the car. For the past few years she has had
Debbie’s shoulder to cry on and Joe whose rejection of her showed the cruel reality of her condition. Joe
and Debbie began dating not long after he let Mercy down with that old line of an intimate relationship will
hurt our friendship. It doesn’t seem to be a problem for him and Debbie. No, Mercy is well aware that dating the
fat girl is like committing social suicide. So she tolerates the lies, the cuddles and the knowing looks, all to ensure that she
is simply not left alone.
“You okay?” Debbie calls out from the open car door.
Mercy looks back over her shoulder, “Just a few butterflies.”
“You want me to come with you?”
“No. I can do this,” Mercy replies turning back to the house with a wicked glare.
“We’re here if you need us.”
Debbie watches Mercy begin to ascend the honed rock stairs up the hill to the house. As she gets
closer, her legs look as if they will buckle under the weight of anxiety, but she continues on, ever
vigilant, step by step.
“She’ll be all right. She’s one of the toughest girls I know,” Joe rattles off absently as he looks
around the upscale neighborhood street they have found themselves perched on this evening.
The abundance of trees and a moonless night block out all but a few glistening beams of lamplight. The
shadows seem to creep ever closer as he peers into their blackness. He shakes it off stretching his arms and back over
the old sedans bench front seat, letting out a deep sigh as he does.
Debbie whips her head around, “This is important for her.”
“What? I didn’t say anything.”
Debbie just gives him a sharp look of disappointment and turns back to Mercy who has faded from sight.
“I hope she’ll be all right.”
“I’m happy for her, really. I’m just thinking we’ve got ten minutes to a couple of hours in this dark car
all by ourselves,” Joe says emphasizing all by ourselves with a lusty look in his eyes.
“I suppose you’re right,” Debbie replies, looking back at him with a smirk.
18
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
“Well all right.”
Debbie puts her finger to Joe’s lips as he starts to unbuckle his belt, “First, pull the car foreword a bit, so we’re not so
exposed, big boy.”
The edge of Joe’s mouth curls into a deprived leer and turns the ignition. 10:03 p.m., Debbie watches the house through
the car window; ever-so-often she wipes the fog off the glass with the arm of her blouse. Her unease is starting to show as
she subconsciously bites away at her thumbnail. She tries to take her mind off things by dialing through the radio stations.
The light from the display bathes the front seat of the car in faint streams of yellow and red. Despite her best efforts, the only
sound that comes in clear is the undulating static. Well, it’s better than listening to Joe snore, she thinks turning to look at the
back seat. Joe is stretched out from one door to the other, his feet curled out over the seats edge and his head propped up on
the armrest of the passenger side door.
“How can you sleep?” Debbie asks under her breath.
As if in response, Joe snorts a quick grunt and rolls over to face the seat back. Debbie jumps suddenly as a pop on the
hood startles her. With her hand firmly against her heart, a sense of dread crawls its way up from the small of her back to the
hairs standing on end at the base of her skull.
She looks around at the darkness that she has only now noticed closing in on the car, “Joe,” she says in a shaky voice,
“Wake up, Joe,” she continues more forcefully. “DamnitJoe, wakethehellup!”
Joe stirs to consciousness, “What? She back?”
“No.”
“Then why’d you wake me?”
“Something’s not right,” Debbie mutters under her breath, as if afraid some unseen form may overhear her.
“Give it a few more minutes, doll.”
“It’s been too long already,” Debbie says pulling the release on the passenger side door. “I’m going up to check on her.”
“You do that,” Joe replies through a wide yawn.
Debbie thumps him on the ear.
“Hey, what’s the big idea?” he exclaims, rising up from the seat.
“You’re coming with me.”
Joe grunts an irritated response, sighs a heavy sigh, opens the back door and crawls out of the car. The air has grown
cold and stale. The usual sounds that accompany the night are nowhere to be found, only the deafening silence of something
unnatural. Joe lumbers along half asleep as he and Debbie make their way up the driveway to the house.
“I think everybody’s still here,” Debbie says silently counting the cars as she passes by them.
“Must be one hell of a party.”
Joe’s sarcasm is not lost on his companion who simply shakes her head in response.
Once at the foot of the risers leading up onto the porch, Joe stops and allows Debbie to continue on to the front door. The
house is a standard two-story Colonial with a red brick facade and towering smooth columns that draw a solid footprint at
the edge of the porch on which they stand. It doesn’t seem as old as it should be given its dampening oppressive aura. Debbie
looks back at Joe who is busy fidgeting around, his hands in his pockets in an effort to stave off the chill of the night. Debbie
rolls her eyes and presses the doorbell button.
The sound reverberates through the interior, echoing back like the cold hollow of a tomb. As if choreographed two of the
six porch lights go out, then two more, leaving only the two on either side of the front door frame on.
“Somebody’s in serious need of an electrician.”
“Yeah. As if things need to get any more creepy,” Debbie replies.
The sense of dread once more slithers its way up her spine as the door slowly falls open. Within its frame stands an older
gentleman with a sleight build and heavily grayed hair. He wears an old-style, cranberry colored, velour smoking jacket and
charcoal colored slacks.
He tilts his head to see around Debbie.
Setting his gaze on Joe he arches a brow, “May I help you?”
“Our friend Mercy…I mean Mercedes is here,” Debbie replies in a mousy candor.
The man’s eyes shift back to Debbie, “We have no one here by that name, young lady.”
“She’s about five-foot seven, plump, with short blonde hair?” The man just shakes his head in response.
“She’s got to be here, I saw her come up the stairs and onto the driveway.”
“Did you see her enter the house?”
Debbie thinks for a moment, “No, not really.”
“Then perhaps she is somewhere else in the neighborhood.”
The man again looks past Debbie to Joe who is digging his toes into the loose gravel of the river rock driveway border.
“She was supposed to meet her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Humfrey,” Debbie says moving herself to block the man’s view of
Joe.
2011 Short Story Contest Submission
SuspenseMagazine.com
19
The man’s face falls into a disapproving grimace, “I am Mr. Humfrey and I assure you young lady I know nothing of a
daughter, or your friend.”
“Maybe one of your guests saw -”
“It is a private affair, and with that I bid you a good night.”
Mr. Humfrey then closed the door with a thud.
Debbie spins around on the balls of her feet, “How rude.”
“You said yourself you didn’t see her go into the house. Maybe she chickened out,” Joe says in a reassuring manner.
“So why didn’t she just come back to the car?”
Joe gives her a knowing look.
“Oh. Yeah.”
“Maybe we should drive around, she’s most likely sitting on a curb or just walking around the neighborhood and lost
track of time.”
Debbie nods and the two head back down the hill to their car. 11:53 p.m.
“I’m really starting to worry,” Debbie says with a strain in her voice.
“Yeah. You would think we’d have seen her by now,” Joe replies as he scans the dimly lit sidewalks and shadow filled areas
between homes.
“We should call the cops,” Debbie says biting her thumbnail, “Maybe she was abducted by a psycho rapist or something.”
“Someone has to be missing for twenty-four hours before they can file a report.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. Kinda sucks, but that’s the system for ya.”
Debbie bends down and cups her forehead in the palms of her hands, “I knew this was a bad idea. I just wanted her to
find some sort of closure.”
Joe stops the car.
“Hey,” placing his hand on her shoulder, “let’s go back to her parents' house, maybe she showed back up. If not, we can
use their phone to call the cops.”
“I thought you said they wouldn’t do anything for twenty-four hours?”
“Maybe that’s just on T.V.”
Joe smiles a warm smile and turns the car around. 12:12 p.m. As the old sedan ambles up to the same curb that it once
kept vigil, a flurry of dry leaves beat across its paint. The once still night now blossoms small whirlwinds of debris that
carry with them the sound of a banshee’s howl. The house that once held the thin warmth of at least two amber lights is
now shrouded in darkness. If it wasn’t for the pale white glow from the neighborhood lights behind it giving some sign of a
silhouette, one might never know that it was even there.
“You think they’re all in bed?”
Joe flashes his head lamps on the driveway. Not one of the vehicles has moved the entire night.
“If they are, that’s one hell of a sleepover.”
For an instant Debbie swears she sees someone at the far edge of the house, but the form vanishes into the darkness. She
doesn’t tell Joe, just opens the passenger side door and waits for him to join her before they make their way up the hill hand
in hand. Once at the top of the hill Joe raps an old flashlight against his left hand. It flickers for a moment then blares a beam
of white that cuts through the liquid black like a knife.
“Where’d you get that?”
“My mother stuck it in my glove compartment in case I was ever stranded on the road, in the middle of the night with a
flat or something.”
“Score one for mom.”
The two walk carefully up to the front door of the house. Yet, when the doorbell button is pushed this time, no echo is
heard from the interior as before. No sound whatsoever is heard from the inside of the home.
“Maybe there’s a power outage, the lights were acting a bit wonky before,” Joe says as his gaze follows the white beam
across the darkness.
Debbie begins to knock on the door, rapping her knuckles in a rhythmic pattern, which bleeds into a pounding with the
flat of her fist.
“Mr. Humfrey!” She continues in a louder register, “Mr. Humfrey! It’s Debbie and Joe from before. We can’t find our
friend and need to use your phone.”
No answer is heard.
“Let’s try around back,” Joe says stepping off the front porch risers.
As the duo make their way around the side of the house, Joe notices that the double-glass, garden doors are standing
open and motions to Debbie.
Debbie stands just within the threshold and calls out, “Hello? Is anybody here?”
Joe pushes forward into what looks like a formal dining room, the flashlight bobbing with every step.
“Mr. Humfrey? Anyone?”
20
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
“I don’t think anyone’s here,” Debbie says jerking her head from side to side trying to make out
forms as the glow of the flashlight passes by.
They continue into the bowels of the house. With each empty room, the implied sense of impending
darkness grows ever more vivid. With each stride it becomes harder and harder to go on, every step
seeming heavier and heavier. Finally, a sound like a sharp piece of glass snaps Debbie to attention. Adrenaline
burns through Joe as he makes a run for the source of the sound, Debbie hot on his heels. He bounds through the
door of the kitchen, then freezes just as suddenly.
Debbie slams into his back. He holds her at bay with his hand, “Don’t look,” he says - but it is too late.
His light falls on the dismembered body of what looks like a woman. The parts are strewn across the floor as if
ripped from their root with an inhuman force. The blood is localized in pools stemming from the wound ends.
Sinew still attached to some, stretched to the point of snapping held firm like a guitar string wound
too tight. Joe turns and raps his arms around Debbie.
“My God,” Debbie says, her voice muffled by his shoulder. “Is it Mercy?” She whispers, her eyes
fixed shut.
“I don’t think so.”
A flicker of light catches Joe’s attention, then a soft voice, “Down here,” it says.
He looks to the left to see an open door and stairs leading down. A soft yellow flicker illuminates the
landing at the bottom of the stairs.
“Down here,” the voice calls out again.
This time Joe starts to move toward the voice.
“Don’t go,” Debbie whispers, holding his arm with a tight grip.
“It may be Mercy; she may need help.”
“Let’s just call the police. Let them handle it.”
“She may be hurt. We can call the cops when we know what we’re up against.”
Debbie bites her lip with a wince, then nods.
Joe gives the flashlight to Debbie, “Stay close,” he says as he begins to descend into the depths of
the dimly lit stairwell.
Once at the bottom, they are met with the sight of another body, then another and another, more and
more, stacked in a pile of gore, save one. A single body lay apart from the rest, wearing a cranberry smoking
jacket and charcoal colored slacks.
Joe inches closer, “Mr. Humfrey,” he whispers.
For a moment Joe turns his gaze to his surroundings, realizing too late that he is standing in the middle of a pentagram
chalked onto the floor. Black candles flicker their last moments of illumination on the pitch colored walls, where
crimson symbols are painted pattern after pattern, esoteric symbols so fresh that they are still drawing trails to the floor.
Debbie forces down the bile that is creeping its way up her throat, for there, in the shadows is a twisted form with long, pencil
thin fingers, suckling on the tip of a bone, slurping every ounce of marrow with its rasping tongue. It looks up and bares its
teeth, still wet with the life giving blood of its last victim. It quickly throws the bone aside and leaps over the gory remains of
a limp, disjointed human form, but is caught mid bound by Joe.
“Get out of here!”
He screams. Debbie stumbles backward on the steps. It is only now, that she sees the little dough-eyed creatures that must
have been feasting inside Mr. Humfrey’s body as they rise up to greet her. Their teeth chatter with excitement. Joe is still
screaming at her to get out even as the creature lashes at him with its talon-like fingernails. Scrambling to her feet she bolts
to the open door at the top of the stairs.
She turns to see Joe running with hands and feet up the stairs behind her, “Go, go; I’m right behind you,” he yells.
As he gets to the top he grabs the door and slams it shut trapping him inside with those creatures. Debbie hysterically
tries to open the door, crying and screaming, pulling at the doorknob as the door jolts and bulges from the other side. The
screams that echo from behind that door vibrate through her nerves into the very meat of her bones. Then a wave of thick red
gloss seeps from beneath the door, pooling around her feet and a sick wet thud is heard on the other side. Then only silence.
Debbie holds her free hand to her mouth, fighting back a scream as she backs away from the door. A few steps more and
she steps on a dismembered limb. Freaking out she spins around, flashlight in hand.
“My God, it’s you!”
Sitting cross-legged on the kitchen table is Mercy’s familiar face. She is covered from head to toe in blood, some of it still
dripping from under her chin.
Debbie goes to grab Mercy by the arm, “We’ve got to get out of here.”
Mercy pulls back, “Why would I want to do that; I’m home.”
Mercy lifts her arms to the ceiling; a twisted smile etched on her face, as three doe-eyed creatures peek out from behind
her. “I don’t believe you’ve met my brothers.” Debbie tries to scream, but can’t force the sound from her throat. The last thing
she hears before the blackness consumes her is the chatter of tiny teeth tearing at her flesh and snapping her bones. 
SuspenseMagazine.com
21
�
�
i
�
oca
L
�
O
By Brenda Novak
Photo Credit: CTF-Soledad and Brenda Novak
W
HAT WOULD HAPPEN IF A MAN WHO’D
BEEN WRONGFULLY IMPRISONED
FOR FOURTEEN YEARS WAS FINALLY
EXONERATED, BUT KNEW THE PRISON GANG HE
JOINED IN ORDER TO SURVIVE WOULD KILL HIS
SISTER AND HER KIDS UNLESS HE SUPPORTED
THEIR ILLEGAL ACTIVITIES? HOW WOULD HE EVER
REALLY “GET OUT”? AND WHAT WOULD HAPPEN
IF, IN EXCHANGE FOR HIS SISTER’S PROTECTION,
THIS MAN WAS WILLING TO GO BACK INSIDE A
DIFFERENT PRISON TO EXPOSE A NEW GANG
EVEN THOUGH THE FEMALE ASSISTANT DEPUTY
WARDEN WHO’D HAVE TO PROTECT HIM IS
COMPLETELY AGAINST IT?
Whatever came next would involve an unlikely romantic
pairing and plenty of danger. The danger part was a given.
The potential for such high-stakes conflict against this gritty
backdrop is what got me excited about writing “Inside.” But I
knew that if I was going to pull off this story the way I wanted,
I’d have to make the setting more believable than ever—and
that meant I had to go “inside” myself. I didn’t have any contacts at Pelican Bay, where the story
is set, but I drove the four hundred miles (mostly on narrow,
winding roads) from my home in Sacramento to “California’s
Siberia.” I explored the area, only twenty miles south of the
Oregon border, as well as Crescent City—the closest town—
which has an economy that’s almost completely dependent
on the prison. Then I did a lot of research on gangs and
learned some interesting terms. For instance, “blood
in, blood out” means you have to draw blood
(possibly even kill a man) to get into the gang and
they’ll spill your blood if you ever try to get out.
“In the hat” means you’re marked to be beaten
(this usually happens to pedophiles and others in
for sex crimes). “Bitch” or “punk”—that’s what
some of the stronger men turn the weaker ones
into when they force them to gratify their sexual
impulses. Determined to get firsthand experience
on how a prison is run, I contacted a friend in
corrections who could give me a tour of Soledad
in the Central Valley. Investigative Officer David
Doglietto, or “Dog,” as he’s called, took the better
part of a Saturday to show me through.
From the outside, Soledad is as stark and
imposing as a prison is meant to be. It actually
22
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
looks more daunting than Pelican Bay. Except for
three surrounding fences, the middle of which is
electrified, Pelican Bay resembles an industrial park,
and yet it’s the most notorious prison in California.
With its own fire department, water treatment
facility, boiler plants, electrical generators, full
medical department with hundreds of medical
personnel and an educational department with
teachers and even a school superintendent, it’s
almost a town in and of itself.
we reached the cells.
That’s true of Soledad, too, which sits in the
middle of acres and acres of farmland, its only
neighbor—another prison. At Soledad, security
was strict, but not like it is at Pelican Bay. And once
I got inside, I discovered a surprisingly casual
atmosphere. Maybe it was the mural-covered
hallway, but it felt more like a high school to me—until
Soledad houses Level 3 offenders, some of whom have committed serious crimes (as evidenced by the pictures we saw
of gang stabbings and the homemade implements used to create those injuries, made from such innocuous substances
as ballpoint pens, plastic spoons, Styrofoam cups, combs and even Ziploc bags that were melted down and sharpened).
Knowing that, I didn’t want to be left alone with any of the inmates. The pictures of the stabbings (or being “shanked” as
they call it in prison) were gruesome. But the inmates we encountered as we moved from R&R (Receiving and Release), the
dining hall, the various cellblocks, P.I. (prison industries) and the yard typically nodded a polite hello. Some even muttered
a greeting before striding past us with a much greater sense of purpose than I expected.
In the yard, they were playing basketball. I found it interesting that they had sporting equipment and learned they
typically behaved themselves quite well during sporting events. No one wanted to risk losing an enjoyable pastime. Despite all the things I’ve seen on TV, or perhaps because
of them, I didn’t realize just how difficult it would be to
spend year after year in such a place. The degree of difficulty
became clear to me when Dog asked two inmates to come out
of their cell and let me go in. I’d been in empty cells before,
at Alcatraz and elsewhere, but never one where inmates were
currently living. It was a completely different experience.
With two small TVs playing (each occupant had one rigged
above his bunk), personal items stacked wherever they’d fit,
laundry strung across the entrance (apparently they don’t
like to send their clothes to be laundered because they’re
afraid they won’t get the same ones back; they also barter
for these items), and my husband behind me, there was so
little space I could hardly turn around.
I have to admit, I felt a moment of panic when Dog
surprised me by closing the door—even though I knew I
wouldn’t have to stay. 
NewYorkTimesandUSATodayBestsellingAuthorBrendaNovakhasthreenovelscomingoutthissummer/
fall—“Inside,”“InSeconds,”and“InClose.”Shealsorunsanannualon-lineauctionfordiabetesresearcheveryMay
atwww.brendanovak.com.Todate,she’sraisedover$1.4million.Brendaconsidersherselfluckytobeamotherof
at
fiveandmarriedtotheloveofherlife.
SuspenseMagazine.com
23
A STORY THEY DARE NOT
PUBLISH IN BRITAIN
Tel ling of the bitter str ugg le of Prince C harles
and his cons or t , C ami l la, to �g ht o� a chal lenge
for the throne of Britain from a Stuar t
claimant , C ount Paolo S obiesk i, a des cendant
of a lost s on of B onnie Prince C harlie w ho
was, b aptiz e d in Rome in 1774 by C ardinal
the Du ke of York, his historic brother. ere
are do cuments to prove S obiesk i's claim. His
ar
Stuar t and C atholic c aus e is now b acke d by
an exp atriate Americ an me dia mogu l. Prince
C harles resp onds w ith an ad c amp aign prep are d
by a Ne w York City adver tising agenc y for
re as ons of s e curity and p aid for by the Saudi
Royal Fami ly. e y are attr acte d by C harles
e xpress e d w ish to b e defender "of faith" in
the abstr act r ather than the faith w hich cou ld
thus embr ace Islam. S obiesk i's app e al is now
c y nic al ly incre as e d by a publicity c amp aign
in w hich two contr asting women �g ht for his
hand in marriage: one a G erman C ountess, a
b e autifu l woman of the world and an Americ an
a ctress w ho, by contr ast , supp or ts b asic mor al
values. e sp arks �y and romance bloss oms.
e action moves �nal ly from Paris to Princess
Diana's favorite C aribb e an island, St . Kitts,
w here bizarre issues unfold to re ve al tr uths
pre v iously uns e en.
P ub l i s h e d o n t h e t hi r t i e t h anniv e r s ar y o f t h e e ng ag e m e nt o f P r i n c e C h ar l e s t o t h e l at e P r i n c e s s
D i an a , r o y alt i e s w i l l b e d i s t r ib ut e d t o h e r f av o r it e ch ar it i e s i n cl u d i ng t h e v i c t i m s o f l an d mi n e s
i n C amb o d i a f o r w hi ch s h e w o r k e d t i r e l e s s ly w it h t h e Am e r i c an R e d Cr o s s .
SPENCER
CARSTAIRS
Pseudonym of a British Royal Insider
Available Where
Digital Books are Sold
HOBBIES
Maybe it’s all about
with Debut Author Janet Bolin
Interview by SuspenseMagazine
Janet Bolin said it best. In fact, the very first line of her explanation of how she came to write
is the title for her interview since it fits so perfectly. We found her story of how her career began
so endearing, that we are sharing it verbatim and hope you enjoy it as much as we have:
“I was about seven, and for years (!), I’d been offering really helpful suggestions about the
clothes my mother designed and sewed. Now
I was going to make my own skirt.
“At the fabric shop, I ran my fingers
along each bolt of cloth, probably about
sixteen times. My mother didn’t mind. She was doing the same thing.
Finally, after much decision and heavy consultation, I chose a navy blue
cotton broadcloth with a red pinstripe.
“Back home, under my mother’s close supervision, I cut out a couple
of large rectangles and a strip for the waistband. Using my mother’s old
black Singer, I carefully stitched the rectangles into a tube, then gathered
the tube to the wasteband. I made a buttonhole and sewed on a big, red
button. We folded a deep hem, and my mother, whose ability to stitch a
straight line was far superior to mine, sewed the hem with her machine.
For the finishing touch, she showed me how to wind red embroidery
floss under one machine stitch and over the next.
“I had made my own skirt and embroidered it, too. I
was hooked.
“I also loved reading. I asked where books came from.
People wrote them? Wow! I knew what I wanted to
do when I grew up.
“Whether I grew up or not is debatable, but
now I’m writing books in which my main character
solves crimes. She also embroiders the way I do
now, with sewing and embroidery machines.
“What could be better?”
Suspense Magazine is honored to have this opportunity to speak
with such a talented author like Janet Bolin. Enjoy!
SuspenseMagazine.com
25
SuspenseMagazine (S. MAG.): What book changed your life?
missed.
Janet Bolin (JB): “Rebecca” by Daphne du Maurier. I was
aboutfourteen,supposedtobedoingschoolwork,andIcould
notputthatbookdown.Mymothercalledmetosetthetable(I
know,whydidsheneedtotellmetohelp?)andIwassolostin
“Rebecca”thatittookmeseveralsecondstocomprehendthatI
wasnotinamansioninCornwall.
S. MAG.: What TV show that is no longer playing would you
wish they would bring back with new episodes?
S. MAG.: What would you say your main character Willow
Vanderling’s foremost strength is?
S. MAG.: Do you have any superstitions when you write?
S. MAG.: The character or the story, which came first?
S. MAG.: What has been the most difficult thing for you to
do, now that you are published?
JB: Being a fiction writer, I can wish for things that can’t
happen(!)I’dlikemoreofILoveLucy,butwithayoungLucille
Ballstillplayingtheleadrole.
JB: Idon’tthinkso.ButI’mverybadatgivingmyselfexcuses.
JB: Shehasthisstrongsenseoffairplay.Whenanyonebreaks Th
 eworstoneistellingmyselfthatifIhavelessthananhour,
therules,shetriestosetthingsright,whichtendstoleadher it’s not enough time to concentrate, so I might as well check
intomoretrouble.
emailorgoforawalk.Wrong!
JB: Th
 echaractercomesfirst,thoughtheysortofhavetogrow
together. I created Willow and put her into a situation—in
this case the new life she made for herself is threatened by
someone who ends up dead—and then her natural reaction
helped create the next scene, which affected her personality.
Meanwhile,othercharactershavetheirownagendasandforce
each other to respond. I seldom have to worry about what
happensnext.Th
 echaractersdecide,andcomeupwithplot
twiststhatsurpriseme.
S. MAG.: How long of a journey was it for you to bring the
Th
 readville Mysteries to life?
JB: I feel like I should drop in to bookstores and textile arts
shopsandintroducemyself.Aaaack!WhatifIreceiveglassyeyedstares,orworse,amshownthedoor?Butgivemeawilling
audienceandIcouldbabbleforeveraboutwritingandabout
myseries.(Maybethat’swhyIfeartheglassy-eyedstares.)
S. MAG.: How did you celebrate the news that you were
being published?
JB: Ireceived“thecall”whenIwasdrivingtothe2009Malice
DomesticConference.First,Idancedaroundtheparkinglot
of a gas station in the Poconos, then I partied—in a dazed
way—duringtheentireconference.Imetmylongtimecritique
partners,KristaandAvery,plusotherInternetfriendsforthe
firsttimeatthatconference,anditwasonebigcelebration.For
me,Malicecontinuestofeelmagical.
S. MAG.: What does the future hold for Janet Bolin with her
writing? JB: Ibeganwritingmyfirstmysterynovelin1993.Icanproudly
sayIpaidmyduesinwriting,rewriting,queryingandbeing
rejected.Th
 readvillehappenedremarkablyquickly,however.I
beganwritingtheproposalinmid-February,2009,sentittoan
agent(BookEnds)amonthlater,andwasofferedthecontract
attheendofApril2009.Berkleygavemeayeartowritethe
firstbook,“DireTh
 reads,”andthentheediting,coverartand
everythingelseapublisherdoestookanotheryear.Th
 atyear JB: I’m finishing the second book in the series, which comes
flewbybecauseIimmersedmyselfinthesecondbookinthe out in June 2012 and I’m beginning to plot the third book,
series.
whichcomesoutinJune2013.Ilovewritingfiction.Making
upstories,tellinglies…
S. MAG.: When you were writing, how many times did you
June
have to stop and say, “What the heck was I thinking on that
Suspense Magazine was
11 - 12, 2011
page?”
thrilled to be able to speak to
CALIFORNIA
Janet. Combining two things
CRIME WRITERS
JB: Have you been looking over my shoulder? It happens all she loves makes perfect sense
CONFERENCE
thetime!I’vecuttensofthousandsofwords.SometimesIcan’t to her and us. We hope you
Pasadena, CA
www.ccwconference.org
evenfigureoutwhatIwastryingtosay.SometimesIknow,but take the time to check Janet
my critique partners, Krista Davis and Avery Aames, don’t, and her stories out at http://
soIhavetorevise.Andthenmyeditorcatcheseverythingwe threadvillemysteries.com/. 
26
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
Moving From
ANTHOLOGIES
to NOVELS
Weldon burge
B
Interview by SuspenseMagazine
eing best known for his gardening articles hasn’t stopped Weldon Burge
from trying all sorts of things, literary-wise. He does freelance writing for
several nonfiction and fiction publications. His nonfiction has appeared in
OrganicGardening, Horticulture, FineGardening, GardeningHow-To, Birds & Blooms,
Flower & Garden, NationalGardening, DelawareToday, CountryDiscoveries, Grit, Back
Home, Th
 eAlmanacforFarmers & CityFolk and other national magazines.
His fiction articles have been showcased in SuspenseMagazine, FuturesMysterious
Anthology Magazine, Grim Graffi
ti, Th
 e Edge: Tales of Suspense, Alienskin, Glassfire
Magazine and Out & About (a Delaware magazine). His stories have also been adapted
for podcast presentation by Drabblecase and have been accepted for the anthologies:
“Don’t Tread on Me: Tales of Revenge and Retribution,” “Pellucid Lunacy: An Anthology
of Psychological Horror,” “Ghosts and Demons” and “Something at the Door: A Haunted
Anthology.” Weldon had several projects brewing, including a police procedural novel
and an illustrated children’s book. He is also one of SuspenseMagazine’s book reviewers.
Currently, Weldon is a full-time editor for Independent School Management, which provides a wide range of products
and services for private schools. He’s been the editor of Ideas& Perspectives, the company’s flagship publication since 1993.
He created, posted and maintained ISM’s initial website starting in 1995 and is still involved in its development and content.
He is also highly involved in the production of the company’s other publications.
This month, we showcase our own Weldon Burge. He is always ready to do whatever we ask
and we are so honored to bring him to the forefront in SuspenseMagazine’s Contributor’s Corner
for the month of June. Enjoy!
SuspenseMagazine (S. MAG.): Fiction, non-fiction, blogging, full-time job and a family. How do
you juggle it all?
Weldon Burge (WB):Idomostofmywritingaround2a.m.onSaturdays.
Justkidding—butnotentirely.IwritewhereverandwheneverIcanfindthetime:duringmylunch
breakatwork,intheeveningsafterdinnerorevenat2a.m.onSaturdays.Ilivealifeofdeadlines
SuspenseMagazine.com
27
(I’mafull-timeeditor)andIlearnedlongagohowtoprioritizemy
time.Familycomesfirst.Everythingelseshakesoutfromthere.So,
Isetdeadlinesformyself,butoftenfindthatIcertainlycan’tfind
timeforeverythingandthat’swhenprioritizingcomesintoplay.
Th
 eprojectsIdeemthemostimportantaretheonesthatgetdone.
Ihaveanextensive,ever-growingto-dolist.
S. MAG.: You’re active in your local writing group. What is the
biggest personal benefit of that association?
WB: Th
 ewritinglifeisalonelyone.Iwelcomeanyopportunityto
collaboratewithotherdedicatedwriters,bothforthecamaraderie
andforthelearningexperienceandthosearethebiggestpersonal
benefits I get from the writing group. My group, the Written
Remains Guild, has been instrumental in helping me gain focus
onmyworkfromothermemberperspectives,asIinturnhelpthem
byprovidingmythoughtsontheirwork.Th
 ecritiquesessionsareilluminating
aswellasfun.
Being with the group has also given me the opportunity to perform my first
public reading of my own work, alongside four fellow members at a public
library.WhatIassumedwouldbeaterrifyingeventwasactuallyfunandgave
meachancetotalkwiththeaudiencemembersafterward.Itwasarewarding
event,oneIlookforwardtodoingagaininthefuture.
S. MAG.: What’s left on your creative “bucket list”?
WB:Novels!I’vewrittenmanyshortstoriesandhaveseenthempublishedinanthologies.Iloveanthologies,bytheway.AndI
writealotofnonfiction,particularlygardeningarticles.Butmydreamistopublishasmanysuspensenovelsaspossiblebefore
Ikickthatbucket.I’mcurrentlywritingapoliceproceduralsetinmyhomestateofDelaware.Itinvolvesvoodoo,drugrunning
andfreakyviolence.I’mhavinggreatfunwritingitandIhopeiteventuallybecomesaseries.Literaryagentsoutthere,please
takenote!
S. MAG.: What did you want to be when you “grew up”?
WB: Achemist,believeitornot…well,upuntilIactuallytookachemistryclassinhighschool.Ugh!WhenIwasaroundten
yearsold,Ilovedtheideaoftakingdifferentchemicalsandcombiningthemtocreateawhollydifferentproduct.Th
 ere’ssomething
magicalaboutthat.WhenIbeganwritingshortfictioninhighschool,Ifoundoutitwasmuchlikechemistry,takingrawand
oftendisparateideasandturningthemintoastory.Notmuchdifferencebetweengoodstorytellingandalchemy,isthere?
S. MAG.: If you could write a message to future aspiring authors and place it in a time capsule for them to read years from
now, what would you write?
WB: Startnow!
MyonlyregretisthatIdidn’ttakemywritingcareermoreseriouslyearlierinmylife.Myadvicetoaspiringwritersissimple:
don’tputthingsoff,justdoit,whateverittakes.Payyourdues.Churnoutwritingandmarketit.Alwayskeepyourworkon
themarket.Yougetarejection,fixthemanuscriptifyoumustandsenditoutagain.I’vealwaysbelievedthekeytosuccessful
freelancewriting(asidefromtalent,ofcourse)ismomentumandpersistence.Youjustkeepatit,evolveasawriterandsuccess
willbeyourreward.
Weldon Burge, always at the ready with great advice and an honest opinion of a book he’s just read. What more can you
ask for? SuspenseMagazine is proud and to have him on our team. Thanks, Weldon. Keep up the great work. If you’d like to
see more of what this very talented man is all about, check out his website at www.weldonburge.com. 
28
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
They
By John Clapier
The sheriff ’s deputy flashed his red and blue lights as he pulled up to the house.
“Please don’t, you’ll frighten my daughter,” the slender woman said from the back of the police car.
He grunted and turned off the lights. He got out of the car and together they walked to the door of the small house. Heads
appeared in doors and windows of the houses around them, summoned by the brief flash of light. The deputy pounded on
the door.
“It’s okay, I still have a key.”
The woman turned the knob, but it wasn’t locked. She walked in, closely followed by the deputy. There was a tiny living
room with one hallway leading deeper into the house.
She called out, “Roger? Are you here?”
“Mommy!” a little girl’s voice called out excitedly.
Anna followed the hallway to the kitchen where a five-year old girl slammed into her with a big hug. She picked her up
gratefully. She wasn’t going to let go for anything.
Roger sat at the table where a sparse meal was laid out. He was avoiding meeting her gaze. She looked him over, at the
unkempt hair and rumpled clothes. He needed a shave.
“I’ve come to get her, Roger.”
He stared at his spoon, “Why?”
“You turned off your phone, you haven’t left this house in weeks…you knew you were supposed to bring her to me three
days ago.”
He continued to stare at his spoon.
“Have you looked at yourself recently? You’re not well, Roger. I told you if you didn’t get help I wouldn’t let you keep
custody.”
Roger turned directly to her for the first time since she had come in. His eyes jumped to the deputy, first with suspicion
and then with a hopeless shrug of resignation.
“You can’t take her away,” he whispered.
“You know I can, Roger.” She turned to leave, noticing the cupboards were all fastened by locks, crudely screwed
to the wood. Her brows furrowed in puzzlement, “Why do you have locks on your cupboards?”
The little girl in her arms piped up, “Daddy doesn’t like them banging open.”
Anna stared at Roger in alarm.
“I know what this looks like,” he whispered again. “I can explain.”
She waited for a moment, but he slowly dropped his gaze and stared at the floor without speaking.
“Okay…” she waited for a moment. “I’m leaving.”
She turned and headed for the door.
He still kept a clean house, but she noticed it was devoid of decorations. No pictures on the smooth walls and
few furnishings. Roger used to have pictures everywhere. He must have gotten rid of them after the divorce.
Roger followed her down the hallway and out onto the porch. He was visibly trembling.
“Please don’t take her away. I can’t sleep when she’s gone,” he begged, tears welling in his hollow eyes.
“Roger, don’t. You’re frightening her.”
Anna wrapped her arms around her little girl tighter, and turned to leave the porch of the house, noticing a small,
curious crowd of onlookers gathered despite the chilly, winter night.
Roger grabbed her wrist, stopping her. The deputy stepped close with a growl, but she shook her head at him.
“You knew this was coming, Roger.” She examined his face. The fear she saw there shocked her. She hadn’t known
how poorly he was doing. “You need to see a doctor. You need help.”
He whispered through teeth clenched with horrible intensity, “You don’t understand. When she’s here I can sleep.”
She backed away slowly, but Roger refused to let go.
“You’re hurting me, Roger.”
The deputy barked, “Let her go, Mr. Thorsen. Your wife has a court order.”
SuspenseMagazine.com
29
“Have you been taking your medication?” Anna whispered sadly.
She knew how much Roger hated medicines, but he seemed better at first. Now he was getting worse again. She felt a
sudden pang of guilt. Was he driven to this by love for his daughter, the fear of losing her? Had she done this to him? Was
their daughter the only thing left to him? The reasons didn’t matter. She couldn’t let her daughter stay here another night.
“Mommy, why can’t I stay with Daddy?”
A small arm reached out to her anguished father.
Tears started down Anna’s face. She couldn’t bear the look in Roger’s eyes any longer. She pulled away from him and
stumbled down the stairs of the porch. Her little girl began to cry. Anna hugged her close, but stopped at the open door of the
police car. The deputy was standing by the driver’s door, waiting for her to get in. She tried not to look back but she couldn’t
stop herself. Roger stood numbly on the porch, only twenty feet away. She had to try once more.
“Roger, come with us. We can find someone to help you.”
He had the empty stare of a condemned man.
His voice cracked, “…they won’t let me leave.”
Anna’s heart skipped a beat, “Who are ‘they’, Roger?”
He glanced nervously over his shoulder at the dark windows of the house, “They…” he wiped his nose and mouth on his
sleeve. “They…I need her. When she’s here, they let me sleep.”
Anna nearly burst into tears, “Roger, you’re scaring me. I won’t leave her with you anymore.”
“No! They can’t harm a child,” he said quickly. “She’s protected. She’s innocent.”
“Roger, I’m afraid for her…from you.”
A shocked look crossed his face, “I would never let anything happen to her…” he said softly.
She shook her head, got in the car and the policeman drove away. Roger watched them go, his face blank. A single tear
traced its way down his cheek. Slowly he turned, stumbling through the door and down the hallway. Trailing his fingers on
the wall, he didn’t notice there were gouges in the plaster until he reached the kitchen. Cupboard doors hung open and ragged
scratches ran erratically from baseboard to ceiling. As he stared, he realized they weren’t erratic. They were letters; a message
written over and over. She is gone. 
30
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
Michelle Davidson Argyle
Living up to her Potential
Interview by J.S. Chancellor
“
I’ll be honest. Many times I’ve felt
excluded or looked down on because I’m
not with a Big Six publisher
M
“
ichelle is a stay-at-home mother, wife and
author. She lives in the Rocky Mountains
with her sword-wielding husband and
energetic daughter, writing contemporary
literary with fantasy fiction.
She graduated from Utah Valley University with a
BA in English/Creative Writing in 2002. To date, she
has completed five novels, including “Cinders” and “The
Literary Lab Presents: Genre Wars.” She has also published
several short stories. Her thriller, “Monarch,” will be
released by Rhemalda Publishing in September of 2011. We got to sit down with Michelle for a few minutes
and speak with Michelle about herself and her writing. Sit
back, relax and enjoy.
J.S. Chancellor (JSC): Since this is Suspense Magazine
we’re talking about here, and since I know you personally
dislike scary stuff, what do you fear the most…in life? As
an author?
Michelle Davidson Argyle (MDA): My biggest fear is that
I won’t live up to my potential. It’s pretty simple, really. I
know I’m capable of accomplishing so many great things. I
fear that I will one day look back and see that I did not do
everything I could to reach that potential.
JSC: I’ve got zombies on the brain, and since I do in fact
believe in the Inevitable Zombie Apocalypse, what would
you grab from your house if you had less than five minutes
to take whatever you could before escaping (child and
spouse aside as those are hopefully givens)?
MDA: I’m assuming I have shoes on my feet already, because
if I didn’t, that would be the first thing! If I already had shoes,
I’d grab my wedding ring (because I never wear it inside the
house), my Kindle, my netbook, my hard drive, and my
SuspenseMagazine.com
31
ZombieEscapeKitthathasfood,water,atent,firstaiditems,andaninjawhowould
makesureweallgetawaysafelywithoutbeingeatenbythezombies.Ihatezombies.
JSC: If money were no object, what elements would you incorporate into your Dream
Writer’s Retreat?
MDA: Th
 esun,abeach,andeveryclosewriterfriendIhave.Andlotsandlotsofsushi!
JSC: For the sake of conversation, let’s assume that one hundred years have passed
since your death. What do you want to be remembered for?
MDA: Mystories:fictionandnonfiction.Th
 isisoneofthemainreasonswhyIwriteand
wishtohavemyworkinprint.
JSC: What’s your weakness? Example: I can’t live without coffee.
MDA: I’maworrier.Iworryabouteverythingnomatterhowunimportantitmayseem.
Th
 ismeansImissoutonalotofthingsbecauseI’dratherbeahermitthanexperience
somethingnew.I’mgettingbetteratconqueringthis.
JSC: Do you have a certain sort of scene that you don’t like to write? Or avoid altogether?
MDA: Hmm,that’sinteresting.Ithinkthehardestscenesformearethoseinthelastthirdofthebook.Th
 at’swhereIstallandget
stuckeverysingletime.IthastodowithknowingthebookwillendandthatIhavetowrapeverythingup.
JSC: Religion is a big deal to most folks, agnostics aside. With that in mind, do you think your personal beliefs creep into your
fiction? Do you ever insert religious principles on purpose?
MDA: Yes,mypersonalbeliefscreepintomyfiction.Idon’tseehowanywritercankeepthatoutoftheirfiction.Still,somedoit
morethanothers.I’veneverbroughtreligionupinmystories,butIknowonedayIwill.FornowIfindmyselfwritingthemesin
whichIdeeplybelieve—subtleorovert.
JSC: What difficulties have you experienced being a small press author? Do you think friends and family would have received
your news differently had your offers been from, say, Random House or Kensington?
MDA: I’llbehonest.ManytimesI’vefeltexcludedorlookeddownonbecauseI’mnotwithaBigSixpublisher.Still,I’matthe
verytopoftheladderwithmysmallpublisherinsteadofsomewhereinthemiddleorthebottomwithabiggerpublisher.My
workgetsgreatdistribution,marketingandattention,andIhavealotofsayovereveryprocessduringpublication.Icouldn’t
askformore.Allthosebenefitsoutweighwhatsomepeoplemaythinkofmydecisiontogowithasmallpress.Likeonehundred
timesover.
JSC: You self-published your first novel “Cinders.” Has the process with a traditional
publisher on your second release “Monarch,” been any different? If so, how?
MDA: Yes,ithasbeendifferentinthefactthatsomeonebelievesenoughinmetofootthe
billforalotofthingsonthebook.Ihadaprofessionaleditorwith“Monarch,”andthat
madeahugedifferenceinthefinalpolishoftheproduct.Fornowinmycareer,I’drather
notbemyownpublisher.Itaddedalotofstresstomywork.
JSC: Do you have a favorite author? Can you tell us a little bit about how that author
has influenced you?
MDA: My favorite authors are F. Scott Fitzgerald, Annie Dillard, Dostoevsky, Tom
Clancy, John Grisham, Jhumpa Lahiri, and Truman Capote. If I had to choose one
favorite,I’dhavetosayAnnieDillardbecausesheistheauthorwhofirstinspiredmeto
gointhedirectionIdidwithmyfiction.Inawaysheopenedthedoortomyownvoice.
SuspenseMagazine was thrilled to have this opportunity to speak with Michelle.
If you want to learn more about her, you can check out her author site at: http://
michelledavidsonargyle.com. Be sure and check out Argyle’s story, Signs, after the
interview! 
32
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
Signs
By Michelle Davidson Argyle
Nobody tells you angels are dark. Think about the blackness at the bottom of a burned pot of soup, the twist
in your stomach, the spoiled meal.
I am in a hotel room that smells of stale smoke and cabbage. I light a cigarette to chase away the smell, take a
long, deep breath and fill my lungs. I remember how she looked bent over the river, her hands in the icy water as
she washed the blood away. She was an emptied vessel, a limp vegetable from a pot of boiling liquid. When she
saw me she blanched and took her hands out of the water.
“I didn’t mean to do it,” she stuttered. “I didn’t mean to.”
They came for her with metal cuffs and muddy footprints in the house. I didn’t say anything. She cried.
There is the smell of bacon from the café below and I finish my cigarette and head down for a sandwich. The
lettuce is crisp. Again, I think about her hands in the water, a thin line of red snaking through the ripples. I bite
into the sandwich. I see her in a hospital bed. I see her holding my son and the confusion on her face. I want to
name him Jake, I tell her.
“That’s real funny,” she says.
Shenevershowedsignsofthisbefore?
“No, never.”
I didn’t really know what they were talking about and looked up the signs after she was gone. The article said
silence and loss of appetite, curling up in the bathtub to cry. She stopped putting Jake’s mouth to her breast. She
handed me cold bottles and told me to fill them up to the line, right there.
Nobody tells you about the burned pot of soup, about walking into the forest behind your house where you
find a cat with its head missing. She never liked that cat.
I finish my sandwich and tell the waitress I’d like a cup of coffee.
“Anything else, Mr. Jacket?”
They know my name here. I’ve been here a long time.
“No thank you, just coffee.”
They don’t tell you that you’ll find the cat’s head next to the river where you asked her to marry you. They
don’t tell you the cat was a test for something worse.
Outside on the pier the water is slick, like oil and the air is sour from dead fish. The day is cold. It should
make me think of leaves changing color, but it doesn’t. I can only think of how Jake cried too much and how the
vein in her neck turned blue and tight whenever she held him.
You missed the signs and they make you sit in a small room and answer their questions. They look at you like
you’re five-years-old and explain that you can’t see her anymore, that she’s in a place to get better. You nod and
swallow and light a cigarette later in a hotel room.
I pass a cat on my way down the pier. It is a black cat and I think of angels. It looks up at me with wide,
imploring eyes and I know it has seen Jake and he is somewhere better than here. Its tale flicks back and forth as
it disappears down an alley.
At the end of a fishing dock I look into the water and see dead fish bones, Jake’s closed eyes, his body not even
a year old. If her insanity was contagious, I think it might be feeding into my system by now, coursing through
my veins, gnawing at my thoughts and I can start to understand her, but I don’t want to. I light another cigarette
and toss it into the water. The light extinguishes. 
SuspenseMagazine.com
33
FIVE
STORY
FALL
By Stephen Jay Schwartz
(Previously Published on www.murderati.com)
It was Wednesday of this week, in
Santa Monica, at a new cafe across the
street from my usual cafe.
I went outside for a little break and
to make a phone call. I called my wife,
talked story points for the new novel.
It had been an exceptional day
filled with serendipitous moments. A
great meeting at Sony Studios with the
director of the film project I’m writing
and a great meeting with the guy who
will be revamping my alto saxophone,
enabling me to play music again after
a fifteen-year hiatus. And then a new
cafe, filled with the promise of new
cafes, where I know no one and can
focus on focused writing. It was a good
day.
I turned off the phone and seconds
later saw the decorative Christmas
lights, which hang year-round between
34
street signs, suddenly swing and shake
wildly. I thought we were having an
earthquake, which brought a strange
memory of telephone wires swinging
wildly a few years ago. I thought that
was an earthquake as well.
I asked a guy beside me what it was
and he said there had been a naked
woman dancing on the rooftop of the
building next to us. It dawned on me
that something might have hit those
Christmas lights to make them shake
so wildly.
I looked up the street aways and saw
a small crowd gathering. I walked up and
saw the woman’s body on the ground.
People hovered over her, passersby
compelled to stop. They touched her
shoulder tentatively. Someone found a
sheet and draped it over her. She was
breathing, an occasional, deep breath,
but no movement. Her head was
completely shaved. People were saying
she was a transient, that she was doing
drugs, that she was crazy.
The police cars came. A woman
said she was a nurse and a cop gave
her a pair of blue, rubber gloves. She
checked the woman’s pulse. A fire truck
appeared and eight paramedics leapt
into action. They did a quick visual
examination. I heard one of them say,
“Agonal breathing.”
Crime scene tape went up around
us quickly. The street filled with police
cars. Cops rushed into the building
where she jumped—there was word
someone had been up there with her,
maybe another jumper. I heard a cop
say they were treating it like a crime
scene. A forensics van pulled up.
The woman was put on a gurney
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
and rushed away. Cops began taking statements. Blood remained on the asphalt where she landed. It was a five-story fall.
I walked back to the cafe.
People were talking. It hit everyone differently. It hit everyone the same.
We were soothed by the fact that she was alive when they took her away, that she was breathing. I had seen her back rise
and fall from the breaths.
Everyone who came into the cafe asked the barista what happened. I sat at the counter, piping in when he fumbled for
words. I said she was breathing.
A man came in and asked the question. We told him and he nodded. He’d seen a lot of these, that he was a fireman. He
said it might have been agonal breathing. I said, yes, that’s what the paramedics said. The fireman frowned. She won’t make
it, he said. Agonal breathing is what the body does when there’s nothing left to do. It’s the body’s survival mechanism after
intense trauma. It meant she was circling the drain. This is what the fireman said.
I worry that I’ve disassociated. It frightens me that I can talk about the details I observed so closely the work of the police
and paramedics. I took it in as if it was research to be used in my never-ending quest to get things right, to make things real
in my writing. I wonder if I’m callous or if I’m simply in shock.
I remember that other day, a few short years ago when I saw the telephone wires swaying. If I had left work thirty seconds
earlier it might’ve happened to me. The wires were swaying because a telephone pole had been severed. This happened when
the tow truck— traveling sixty miles an hour—tore into it. This was after the truck plowed through a dozen people waiting
at the bus stop.
I drove into this scene, thirty seconds after it happened. A Hieronymus Bosch landscape. There were bodies in the street
and people rushing by, children from the school next door staring through a chain-link fence, tiny hands gripping metal and
a man running in his underwear with his arms waving.
It happened next to a police station, so the cops arrived quickly. I was told to stay in my car, drive on and clear the scene.
I drove on into the normalcy of the city streets beyond. I heard sirens and watched emergency vehicles pass going the other
direction.
And I thought to myself…did that happen?
I was in shock, although I didn’t know it. I would find out six months later in my doctor’s office when he told me I’d been
suffering from Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. This, after a five-month crusade to convince everyone I knew that the Bird
Flu was the new Armageddon, that the Bird Flu would destroy us all. I had reams of research to back me up. I bought the face
masks and emergency supplies and I was considering getting a shotgun to protect my family for when the “System” collapsed.
I was delivering my litany to a good friend when he asked the question, “Has anything strange happened to you recently?
Have you experienced anything traumatic?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I’ve been a bit stressed. This Bird Flu has really got me down. I haven’t been eating that well. There was
this crazy accident I drove through a few months back where I saw three dead bodies and one of them could’ve been me if I’d
been there a few seconds earlier and…”
“That’s it,” he said.
The doctor gave me some anxiety pills and I took one, hated it and didn’t take anymore, and gradually, during the
course of the next few weeks, got better. That heavy feeling in the back of my head began to lighten. I think it was just the
identification of the source of the trauma that set me straight.
As I sat at the counter of my new cafe, clinically replaying the images of the woman lying in the street, the cops arriving,
the blue rubber gloves, the paramedics set into action, the police taping off the scene, I wondered if this was shock.
The barista kept getting the question, with each arriving customer. Gradually his ability to explain what happened slipped.
Soon he had trouble saying anything. I stepped in to fill the blanks. Something in me fed on their moment of reaction. I
absorbed it, tried to process it, wondered why I didn’t react as they did. Was I desensitized?
The barista was quick to explain that he had not intended to see the body, that he had only been walking to the grocery
store for items for the cafe. Then, when he saw the body on the ground, it had taken a moment for him to understand what
it was. He was not the kind of person to go running to the scene, he insisted. It seemed very important that he communicate
this.
I was one of the people who went running to the scene. I was there thirty seconds after she landed. I was there seven
minutes before the police arrived. Thirteen minutes before the paramedics. I was aware that I could do nothing to help her. I
observed, only. I was there, perhaps, to watch her die.
We write about these events, in our fiction. We visit the morgue and the coroner’s office and occasionally go to crime
scenes. I’ve been to the morgue. I’ve seen autopsies. I’ve been in a room with three hundred bodies. They looked like empty
gloves.
To be where a life was, just moments, seconds after that life has been extinguished…this is another story. This is sadness.
SuspenseMagazine.com
35
I have been here a few times before. I’ve seen the bodies of two jumpers who leapt to their deaths from the clock tower of my
college campus. I’ve stared at the body of a college student attached to his motorcycle on the ground in a pool of thick red
blood as I hugged the shoulders of the friend who had driven the car that hit him. I passed the bodies of the men and women
who were standing at that bus stop…
These are the tragic moments, the ones we remember. We linger on them. The inherent message is that life is fleeting, that
at any moment the rug can be pulled out from under. In that instant, the bucket list comes out. What can I do with the time
I have left? How long do I have? Have I said everything I need to say to my mother/father/wife/children? Have I left them
enough to get by? (Money, guidance, wisdom, tools?)
I think this is why I run to the scene. It’s not to witness gratuitous violence. It’s not because I yearn excitement or that I
find things morbidly entertaining. I run to the scene because I want to live. I want everyone to live. I want to understand life,
and to understand life one must accept what is not-life and attempt to understand that as well.
I spoke with a friend of mine, later that night. She had seen this woman at the cafe the day before. She remembers staring
at her for no apparent reason. She remembers thinking, whatisitwiththatgirl? There was an energy, a something-something
about her that got my friend’s attention. Did my friend somehow know this woman would be leaping to her death the very
next day?
I remember the documentary I watched about the Russian theater attack in Moscow back in 2002. This was when
the Chechen terrorists stormed a theater, planting women wearing suicide bombs in the seats, holding eight hundred and
fifty theatergoers captive for two and a half days. The Russian police pumped a chemical agent into the theater ventilation
system to put everyone to sleep, but the gas was deadly and a hundred twenty-nine people were killed in the process. In the
documentary, theater patrons were interviewed and many said they saw something strange in the eyes of the people who
ultimately died. It was a distant look, something that suggested their lives were already over. As if they knew their time had
come.
Perhaps this was what my friend saw the day before the woman leapt.
Sometimes I wonder, when we write in our fiction that a man has been shot dead, do we know what we have written?
Have we considered what we’ve done for the sake of story? What does it mean when a woman jumps from the roof?
I run to the scene, to learn what to write. 
36
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
chapter 1
“I know this is difficult to process,
but the important thing is that you
survived. And now you’re awake.” The
Sunday,September5,8:05a.m.
Gina opened her eyes, taking in the doctor kept smiling.
A terrifying memory flooded Gina’s
white blanket and blue-scrub nurse.
Her first thought was: Th
 isisahospital. senses, making her heart pound. The
Her second thought was: Someonetried masked man had been in her dreams
tokillme. She wanted to speak but her sometimes, but this was different. Gina
throat was dry. “Water, please,” she practiced the words in her head first,
managed to say, sounding weak and then struggled to say, “He tried to kill
me.”
scratchy.
The group at her beside registered
The nurse jumped, eyes popping
open in surprise. She fumbled in her a collective look of surprise, followed
pocket for a cell phone and ran from by disbelief. Again, the doctor was the
the room. Gina wanted to call after her first to speak. “Your file says you took
but she had no strength. She’d been an overdose of Valium and Demerol.
half-awake off and on for what seemed Do you remember that?”
“No.” Gina shook her head. Her
like weeks, but this was the first time
someone was in the room when she had brain felt fuzzy, as if she were about to
the clarity and strength to speak. How drift off, but she desperately wanted
to say something. “I was attacked.”
longhadshebeeninthehospital?
The medical people looked at
The nurse returned after a few
minutes with more medical people—a each other, puzzled. The man in the
woman in a white doctor’s coat and a suit said, “There’s no record of that
man in a suit. The nurse offered Gina in your file.”
The nurse gently touched Gina’s
some water, and the woman in white
said, “I’m Dr. Ellison. Do you know arm. “Would you like me to call the
police?”
where you are?”
Gina would have laughed but she
“A hospital?”
“Not exactly.” The doctor smiled didn’t have the energy. Two years had
passed and the bastard would likely get
gently.
A wave of apprehension rolled over away with it. Was anything left of her
lifeoutthere?Despair washed over her
Gina.
and she fought back tears. “Yes. Call the
“This is a long-term care facility.”
Dread seeped into her fragile cops.”
“I’ll do it now.” The nurse left the
bones. “How long have I been here?”
room.
The doctor hesitated. “Two years.”
The man in the suit followed,
Two years? Gina closed her eyes.
No. This was just another strange saying, “Let’s keep this low-key.”
Gina fought to stay awake. She’d
dream. She’d had a lot of unpleasant
been asleep for so long. Yet a wave of fog
dreams lately.
rolled over her and she drifted. Before
“Gina, stay with us.”
The voice sounded real. The she went under again, a small piece of
blanket between her fingers felt soft, her life before this room bubbled to the
textured, and real. The feeding tube in surface. She’d been compiling evidence
her belly ached with real pain. Gina against her soon-to-be-ex-husband.
opened her eyes again. “Two years?” Whathadhappenedtohernotebook?
She remembered being forty-four. That
would make her forty-six now.
chapter 2
Sunday,September5,9:25a.m.
Detective Wade Jackson held the
envelope in the tips of his fingers while
the pit of his stomach went cold. The
postmark was labeled Oregon State
Penitentiary. The name below it: Hector
Vargas. How could a man’s name make
him tremble? Jackson dropped the
letter on the table, where it had been
buried in a pile of mail since yesterday.
Vargas was doing a life sentence for the
murder of Clark and Evelyn Jackson.
Eleven years earlier, his parents had
been shot for the money they kept in a
small cash box in their bedroom, their
thousand-dollar emergency fund.
Why was Vargas contacting him
now? To offer an apology as part of
his making-amends program? Jackson
didn’t want an apology or the burden
of forgiveness. He didn’t think about
Dying for Justice
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37
L.J. Sellers
Vargas often, but when he did, contempt
seemed appropriate. He felt entitled to a
single case of hatred.
“Who’s the letter from?” Katie
said, through a mouthful of scrambled
eggs. His fifteen-year-old daughter was
dieting again, eating a lot of protein and
few carbs, but he knew better than to
comment on food-weight issues.
Jackson hesitated. “A man in
prison.”
“That’s creepy.” Katie shook her
curly brown hair and reached for the
salsa. “Why is he writing to you?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Open it. I’m curious.”
“He murdered my parents.”
Her round little face fell. “Oh. That
man. This must be really strange for
you.” Katie had been a toddler when
her grandparents died and she didn’t
remember them.
“It’s strange, all right.” Jackson took
a sip of strong black coffee. “What are
you doing today?” His daughter would
start high school the next day and he
worried about her constantly.
“I’m going for a run, then hanging
out with Zoe.” Katie stood and studied
his face, then gestured at the letter. “Just
rip it open like you tear off a band aid.
Like you always say, pain is temporary.”
She kissed his forehead and left the
table.
Jackson fingered the envelope
again. Another load of emotional
bullshit was the last thing he needed
right now. Katie didn’t need it either.
Renee, his ex-wife and Katie’s poor
excuse of a mother, was drinking again
so Katie wasn’t spending time with
her. He’d also put their house on the
market to get out from under the joint
mortgage. It was the only home Katie
had ever known and she was not happy
about selling it. Now to top it all off, a
cold-blooded killer was forcing him to
think about how much he missed his
parents. About how vulnerable he’d felt
for years after their deaths, because his
backup was gone and the fountain of
unconditional love permanently shut
down.
Jackson mentally slapped himself
and tore open the envelope. The note
was handwritten in plain printed letters.
DearMr.Jackson,
MynameisHectorVargasandyou
know who I am. But you do not know
me. I am not a killer. I was a thief on
thatday,butnotakiller.NowIamsick
38
withcancer,andthe prison doctor says
I won’t live much longer. I want you to
knowIdidn’tkillyourparents.Iwantto
tellyouthewholestory.Pleasecometo
theprisonsoIcantellyouinperson.It’s
hardformetowriteitdown.Comesoon,
please.
—HectorVargas
Jackson read the letter again, then
let it fall. What the hell was this? It had
to be some kind of scam. The convict
was trying to manipulate him for some
gain he didn’t understand yet. Vargas
had confessed to the murders and
entered a plea bargain to avoid the
death penalty. His guilt was never in
question.
Jackson pushed up from the table
and took his coffee out to the back deck.
The sky was blue and warm, he had the
day off, and he’d planned to take his
gorgeous girlfriend on a long trike ride.
Life was good, he reminded himself. He
sipped his coffee and tried to remember
how he’d felt before he opened the stack
of mail. But his peace of mind had been
shattered.
Reluctantly, he went back in the
house and called the state prison. After
a short, tense conversation, the warden
agreed to let him visit that afternoon.
Jackson’s conversation with Kera was
longer and friendlier, and she made him
promise to come over for dinner later,
with Katie. Jackson was grateful for his
girlfriend’s patience with his job. Police
work could be a relationship killer.
An hour later, he was cruising along
I-5 on his newly built three-wheeled
motorcycle, deep in thought.
Jackson waited in a small
windowless room containing only a
wooden table and three chairs. The
metal chair was already bothering his
surgery site and he’d only been sitting
for twelve minutes. Still, it was better
than waiting in the main visitors’ area
with the beaten-down wives and surly
children. He felt sorry for the kids
whose fathers were locked up, but he
had less empathy for the women who
clung to a relationship long after the
man had proved his worthlessness.
Jackson’s law enforcement status
gave him a special pass to visit Hector
Vargas, so a deputy had escorted him
past the other visitors, through three
electronically controlled steel doors,
and down a maze of hallways to this
little closet room. He would be allowed
a private conversation with the inmate,
and Jackson was both grateful and
worried. He wasn’t sure he trusted
himself to be alone with the man
who’d murdered his parents. Jackson
didn’t know how he would react. So
many years had passed, and he wanted
to believe he could remain cool and
detached. Just another conversation
with another scumbag. He’d been
through so much lately—a stunning
health diagnosis and surgery, followed
by the shooting of a young suspect and
nearly quitting his job—so his emotions
felt close to the surface.
After another five minutes, an
overweight deputy with a nasal wheeze
escorted Vargas into the room. The
inmate had been a small man even
before the cancer consumed most of
his muscle, but now Vargas was as
emaciated as an anorexic teenage girl.
His mustache and knuckle tattoos
seemed out of place on his fragile body.
“I’m Deputy Hutchins,” the wheezer
said, as he pushed Vargas into a chair.
“How much time do you need?”
“Thirty minutes at most.” Jackson
didn’t expect to hear anything new or
truthful. He was annoyed with himself
for making the trip. Yet how could he
not come?
“Behave yourself, Vargas,” Hutchins
said with a nasty laugh.
The door slammed shut and
Jackson’s pulse quickened. He dreaded
the emotions that were about to
surface. “I’m going to document our
conversation,” he announced, setting
his digital recorder on the table. Vargas
didn’t object. “This is Detective Jackson
with the Eugene Police Department.
I’m in the Oregon State Penitentiary
in Salem at the request of an inmate.
Please state your name.”
“Hector Vargas. I make this
statement willingly.”
Jackson got right to the point. “You
confessed to killing Clark and Evelyn
Jackson, then entered a plea bargain.
Why should I believe anything you
say?”
“I have cancer and I’m dying. I have
no reason to lie.” Vargas’ dark eyes were
watery but they held no deceit. “I didn’t
kill your parents. They were good to
me, and I’m ashamed that I took their
money, but I never hurt them. Never!”
Vargas’ speech had a Hispanic accent,
and Jackson suspected English was not
his first language.
“Why did you confess to their
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
SuspenseMagazine.com
knew the money was just sitting there.
I planned to put it back when I could.”
He paused, but Jackson didn’t offer
any empathy, so Vargas continued.
“When they found the money in my
house, they called me a killer and
slammed my head into a wall. I was
shocked to hear the Jacksons were dead.
I told the police I didn’t do it, but they
wouldn’t listen. They said I had killed a
cop’s parents and I would pay, one way
or another.”
Guilt fueled Jackson’s anger and
he didn’t trust himself to speak. Vargas
had spent eleven years in prison for a
crime he didn’t commit. For the theft
alone, he would have been released in
less than a year. Finally Jackson said,
“Tell me about the day my parents died.
I want to know everything.”
Relief washed over Vargas’ face as
he sensed that Jackson believed him.
“I came to the house to finish building
the little rock wall in the front yard. I
had done a lot of jobs for your parents
and they liked my work. No one was
there when I arrived, but I thought they
would be home soon so I got started.”
Vargas winced in pain and held his
stomach.
Jackson waited him out. He still had
twinges of pain from his own surgery
that spring, but cancer was in a class by
itself. “Do they give you medication for
the pain?”
“Some,” Vargas said through
clenched teeth. In a moment, he
continued his story. “I had to use the
bathroom, so I went around to the back
of the house. Your mother always left
the back door open for me when I was
working so I could use the toilet by the
laundry room. I checked to see if it was
open and it was. She knew I would be
there that afternoon.”
Jackson’s heart ached with the
memory of his mother’s kindness. For
people who worked hard and lived
honestly, she would do almost anything.
His father had been kind as well, but
a little more cautious. Jackson could
imagine him disagreeing with his wife’s
decision to leave the back door open for
Vargas. “You went into the house?”
“I did. I regret that.” Another flash
of guilt, or maybe just cancer pain.
“When I left the bathroom, I heard a
radio playing in the back of the house. I
thought maybe someone was home, so
I called out. No one answered so I went
down the hall. Their bedroom door
was open and the room looked messy,
like someone had been searching for
something. It was odd. I had never
seen your parents’ house look like that.
Everything was always perfect.”
Oh yes, Jackson thought. Clean as
a whistle. He’d had his ears twisted as a
young boy for wearing muddy shoes in
the house.
“I saw the closet was open and the
locked grey box was sitting there. I
knew it had money so I grabbed it and
left. I went out the back like I came in,
then I got in my truck and drove home.
I broke the box with a sledge hammer
and found a thousand dollars in it.”
Vargas moved his cuffed hands from
his lap to the small table. “It was enough
money to take my family and leave
Eugene. I called my cousin in Redding
and told him we were coming. My wife
wasn’t happy with me, but she wanted
to leave Eugene too. We weren’t doing
that well here. We packed everything
and waited for the kids to come home
from school, but the police got there
first. I was stunned when they said your
parents were dead. I never saw them
that day.”
Jackson thought parts of his story
didn’t add up. “You said the cash box
was just sitting on the closet shelf in
plain sight?”
“It was on the floor, but yes, in plain
sight.”
Why would his parents get their
cash box out and leave the house with
the back door unlocked? And why had
their bedroom looked messy? “You
searched the room, looking for the
money, didn’t you?”
“No.”
“How did you know the box had
money in it?”
Vargas shrugged. “I knew your
parents. They were old and careful and
they always had cash.”
Oldandcareful. He had thought of
them that way too when he was a kid.
Yet they were also sweet. His father had
been stern at times, but he’d hugged
his boys every night before bed for as
long as they put up with it. Jackson
tried to fill the hole in his heart with
details from the case. He had to think
like an investigator, not a grieving
son. His parents had been found dead
in the living room. Both shot with
an unregistered gun that had never
been located. A coffee table had been
knocked on its side and his father’s
body had bruises that were consistent
with a fight.
39
Dying for Justice
murders?” This was the part that made
no sense.
Hector hunched forward, his voice
intense. “The police kept me in a little
room for three days. They screamed
and threatened my family. They held a
gun to my head. For three days, I had
little food and water. They left my hands
cuffed and wouldn’t let me use the
toilet.” Fear and bitterness transformed
the inmate’s face. “I wet myself and
became so hungry I was dizzy. If I fell
asleep they would wake me. At the end,
I didn’t know what I was saying. I just
wanted it to stop.”
Jackson didn’t want to believe it
could have happened in his department,
but much had changed in the last
decade. Eleven years earlier, he’d still
been a patrol officer but he’d heard
rumors. The sergeant who’d run the
violent crimes division back then was
old school and not exactly respectful
of anyone who wasn’t white and male.
“Why should I believe you?”
Vargas rolled up his sleeve to
display two small round purplish scars.
“Detective Bekker burned me with a
cigarette.”
Jackson stayed silent. He was
starting to believe Vargas, and rage
made his chest tighten. He hated officers
who abused their power and made the
rest of the department look bad. Even
more, he was outraged they had not
searched for and caught the real killer.
“What was the other detective’s name?”
“Santori. He seemed to be following
the older cop’s lead.”
Jackson wrote down the names,
but he would never forget them. Rick
Santori was now working in internal
affairs, and the irony of that was hard to
take. Gary Bekker had transferred out
of the detective unit a few years back for
a promotion to patrol sergeant. Jackson
knew both men, but not well enough
to say what they were capable of. “Why
did you wait so long to tell someone
about this? Why didn’t your family hire
a lawyer?”
“We had no money. My wife and
kids moved to New Mexico to stay
with her brother. And I knew God was
punishing me, so I accepted it.” Vargas
let out a small noise, like a man trying
to hide his pain. “I took your parents’
money and I’m ashamed of that.” He
hung his head for a moment, then
looked up with pleading eyes. “My
family was hungry and we were about
to be evicted. I was desperate and I
L.J. Sellers
“Did you tell any of your friends or
relatives that my parents kept money in
their house?”
“No.” Vargas was emphatic. “I
didn’t think about the money until that
day when I saw the cash box.”
“Did any of your acquaintances
own a handgun?”
“I hardly knew anyone in Eugene.
We’d only been there for a year. Their
deaths had nothing to do with me, I
swear.” Vargas made the sign of the
cross on his chest. “I will soon meet
God and I’m trying to make everything
right. I’m telling you this now so you
can find the real killer.”
Jackson believed him. “Did you see
or hear anything that seemed out of
place that day?”
“Not really.”
“You said you came to finish a brick
wall. Did you work the day before?”
“Yes, for about five hours. Why?”
“How did my parents seem that
week? Were they worried? Did they
argue about anything?” Vargas was
probably not the right person to ask,
but he had to start somewhere.
“Everything seemed fine.” Vargas
grimaced and held his stomach again.
“I have no idea who would hurt your
parents. They were very kind. The had
no enemies.
Except the bastard who shot them.
Despair washed over Jackson. His
chance of finding the killer—or killers—
after all this time seemed hopeless.
He had no crime scene to analyze, no
witnesses to interrogate. Even if the
same people still lived next door to his
parents’ house, what were the odds they
would remember anything useful after
eleven years?
He had to try, but he worried
he would make himself crazy in the
process. He tended to become obsessive
about working a case, even when the
dead were strangers to him. “What else
can you tell me about that day? Any
little detail could help.”
“I didn’t see Clark and Evelyn. They
weren’t home and the truck was gone.”
“The car was there and the truck
was gone?”
“That’s right.”
Jackson didn’t know how it could
be connected, but if they had taken the
truck, they expected to buy something
big or haul something dirty. He felt
jumpy now, anxious to get out of the
cramped windowless room. He stood.
“Thank you for telling me this.” He
40
wouldn’t apologize to Vargas for the
way the detectives had treated him.
Someone should, but it was not his
responsibility. If the handyman hadn’t
taken the money, he wouldn’t be here.
“Thank you for believing me.” A
strange look passed over Vargas’ face.
He started to say something, then
stopped.
“What is it?”
“Probably nothing.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“You asked about the day before.
Late in the afternoon, right before I
left, your brother Derrick came to see
your parents. He had a duffle bag and
a suitcase with him, like he planned to
stay for a while.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
Jackson didn’t think the information
was relevant. Derrick had moved in and
out of his parents’ house a few times.
“We didn’t talk. He rushed into the
house and I left soon after.”
“If you think of anything else,
please contact me.” Jackson pressed the
red buzzer to summon the guard.
On the drive home, he rehearsed
telling his boss, Sergeant Denise
Lammers, that he wanted to work an
old case that had been successfully
adjudicated. No matter how he
presented it, Lammers didn’t approve,
even in his visualized version.
She wouldn’t like that he was
personally connected to the case, and
she would hate hearing that two Eugene
law enforcement personnel had abused
a suspect until he confessed, even if it
had happened a decade ago. Typically, if
an officer violated department rules, the
case would be turned over to internal
affairs. But one of the accused, Santori,
was now working in IA, so what was the
protocol? The district attorney would
also have to be notified as the one to
files new charges…if Jackson found the
real perpetrator.
It was screwed up at least six ways.
Two young guys in a sports car
passed and gave him a thumbs-up.
His three-wheeled motorcycle often
affected people that way, and it gave
Jackson a jolt of pride every time. The
memory of building it from a pile of
VW and motorcycle parts helped him
clear his mind and enjoy the rush of
wind on his face. He didn’t get many
opportunities to experience the open
road.
By the time he reached Eugene, he’d
decided to keep the case to himself and
work it on his own for a while. He would
focus on finding a new suspect and not
bring up the abuse of Vargas just yet.
They were separate circumstances, and
bringing justice to his parents was more
important than punishing two cops
who’d thought they were doing Jackson
a favor at the time, however misguided
it was. He would not let the abuse go
forever though.
Jackson pulled into his driveway
on Harris Street, relieved to be home.
Before putting the trike in the garage, he
took a moment to gaze at the canopy of
trees over the cozy bungalow he’d lived
in for fourteen years. The ForSale sign
in the front yard disturbed him every
time he saw it. He didn’t really want
to move, but his ex-wife owned half of
the house, and she was pressuring him
for her equity. Other than sell, his only
option was to refinance on his own,
then take out another loan to buy out
the thirty grand she figured she had
coming. His banker had said he’d never
qualify for both.
After a long talk with Katie, Jackson
had put the house on the market and
they’d talked about moving in with
Kera—and her entourage—when it
sold. He was still trying to come to grips
with all the changes in store for him.
While he waited for Katie to come
home, Jackson sat at his kitchen table
and made a list of things he could do
to get the investigation rolling: 1) find
the old case file and read through the
paperwork, 2) talk to old neighbors, 3)
callDerrick.
The last entry would be the hardest.
He hadn’t spoken to his brother since
the month after their parents’ funeral.
They’d argued about what to do with
the house and personal items. Their
parents’ will had instructed that the
house be sold and the profits split.
Derrick, who had just moved back in,
wanted to stay in the home and buy out
Jackson’s half of the inheritance. Jackson
knew his brother would probably never
pay him, but in the end, he’d given in
rather than be an ass about it. Derrick
had made only two payments, but he
was still living in the house. After an
argument about the equity, ten years
of silence had followed. Jackson never
meant for the rift to go on that long, but
somehow it had.
He didn’t care about the money,
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
Later at Kera’s house, he rang the
doorbell but no one answered. They
heard voices and a baby crying.
“Let’s just go in,” Katie said. “Kera
told me to treat her house like my
home.” His daughter opened the door
and called out, “We’re here.” Jackson
followed her in.
Kera, her daughter-in-law Danette,
and little Micah were in her bright
spacious kitchen. Danette held the redfaced baby over her shoulder while
Kera tried to rub his gums. “Oh hi,” she
said, giving Jackson a kiss as he stepped
close. “Micah is teething.”
“Red licorice works wonders for
that,” Jackson teased.
Kera gave him an indulgent smile,
and Jackson felt happy for the first
time that day. Tall and muscular, with
long copper hair and wide cheekbones,
Kera was a striking woman who made
people of both genders stare. He’d met
SuspenseMagazine.com
her during a homicide case the year
before, and they’d started dating soon
after. At that point, she was living alone
in the house, still grieving for her son
who’d died in Iraq.
“If we get desperate, we’ll try the
licorice,” Kera responded. “For now, a
little of this numbing gel should work.”
“What are we having for dinner?”
Katie asked, peeking in the oven.
“Chicken enchiladas and corn
salad.”
“Yum. Can I hold Micah?” Katie
held out her arms. Jackson was
surprised by how bonded his daughter
had become to Kera’s grandchild.
“Sure.” Danette, who looked much
like Kera even though they weren’t
genetically related, handed Micah to
Katie and the baby squealed with joy.
The young mother had dated Kera’s
son before he shipped out to Iraq and
Kera had taken her in after the baby
was born. Jackson loved Kera for her
generosity, but Danette’s presence had
altered the course of their relationship.
During dinner, Kera asked both
young women about the classes they’d
signed up for. Danette would soon
start at Lane Community College to
take prerequisites for nursing school.
Jackson didn’t think she seemed like the
nurturing type, but he kept it to himself.
He listened to the women talk about
school, careers, and clothes—between
interruptions for feeding and wiping
the baby—and wondered what it would
be like to experience this every night.
Was he ready to move in here when his
house sold?
“You’re pretty quiet, Wade,” Kera
said later, as they cleaned up in the
kitchen.
“I keep thinking about my parents
and how to investigate their case.” He’d
called and told her about the letter
before visiting the prison.
“Is there a file from the original
investigation?”
“I’ll find out tomorrow.”
The concern on her beautiful face
made his heart swell. Jackson reached
for Kera, pressing his lips to hers in a
lingering kiss. “When are we going to
be alone next?”
“I’ll have to come to your place.
Danette never goes anywhere.” Kera
whispered and kissed his ear at the
same time. Jackson filled with lust and
had to step back. The kids could burst
in at any moment.
“I think Katie has plans to be out of
the house this Friday.”
Kera gave him a wicked smile. “I
hope I can wait that long.”
His daughter stepped in and
announced. “Micah won’t stop
hiccupping. What should I do?”
“Make him laugh,” Kera said. “If
that doesn’t work, bring him to me.”
When Katie left, his girlfriend
asked, “Have you had any buyers
interested in your house?”
“An older couple looked at it last
week, but I haven’t heard back from
them.” Jackson loaded dishes as they
talked. “My agent thinks I should lower
the price.”
“Are you going to?”
“It seems too soon.”
“It’s been on the market all summer.”
Jackson was quiet.
“Are you having second thoughts
about moving in here?”
He’d had second and third thoughts
by now. “I admit, it makes me a little
nervous, but nothing has changed. I
want to get out of my mortgage with
Renee and I want to wake up every day
with you.”
“Then let’s get your house sold.
Maybe you need a new agent.”
“We’ll drop the price a little first
and see what happens.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Just be patient with me. Especially
while I investigate my parents’ murders.”
“I’m worried that you’ll lose
yourself in this one.”
“Me too.” 
Dying for Justice
even though he needed it now more
than ever. It was the principle. Derrick
had caused his parents a lot of grief as a
young man. He’d been in one mess after
another. Even after he settled down
and found steady work, he never quite
paid his own way. Jackson resented the
burden Derrick had been to his parents
when they were alive, and he resented
Derrick’s presence in their real estate
now.
But he had to put all that
aside because he needed Derrick’s
cooperation. Some of their parents’
personal items were likely still in storage
in the house and Jackson wanted to
examine everything. He didn’t know
what he expected to find, but it was a
place to start. Someone had come to
the house and shot Clark and Evelyn
Jackson. Now that robbery was not the
motive, there had to be another reason.
The front door flew open and Katie
rushed in, finding him at the kitchen
table, his favorite place to think and
talk. “Hey, Dad. I discovered a great
band today. Have you ever heard of
Rebel Jar?”
“They’re local, right?”
“Yes, and they’re awesome.” She
dropped her backpack on the floor.
“What are you thinking about? You
look sad.”
“My brother Derrick.”
“Are you going to call him?”
“I plan to stop by and see him.”
“Woohoo!” Katie gave him a high
five. “About freaking time.”
An award-winning journalist, editor, and novelist based in Eugene, Oregon,L.J.Sellerswritesthehighlypraised
DetectiveJacksonseries:“Th
 eSexClub,”
“SecretstoDieFor,”“Th
 rilledtoDeath,”
and “Passions of the Dead.” She also
hastwostandalonethrillers,“Th
 eBaby
Th
 ief ” and “Th
 e Suicide Effect.” L.J.’s
booksareavailableinprintandonKindleandothere-readersfor$2.99.
Whennotplottingmurders,sheenjoys performing stand-up comedy, cycling, gardening, reading crime stories,
social networking, attending writers/
readers conferences, hanging out with
her family, and editing fiction manuscripts.Tolearnmoreaboutthistalented
author,gotowww.ljsellers.com.
41
PAGE-TURNING NEW SUMMER READS
THE WORST THING
Bryan Bennett is still plagued by memories of a
childhood abduction. When his boss asks him
to fly to Iceland to teach his corporate-level
kidnapping and extortion seminar, he reluctantly
agrees. While on this trip, Bryan’s taken hostage
again—and must face his fears full-on.
“A mind-bending, heart-pounding read.”
—RIDLEY PEARSON
YOU BELONG TO ME
Baltimore city Homicide Detective J.D. Fitzpatrick
has seen a lot of violence, but nothing like the
tortured bodies that are turning up throughout
the city. He’s starting to suspect that his medical
examiner, Dr. Lucy Trask, may be shielding a dark
secret that could connect her to these vicious
killings—and put her next on the killer’s hit list.
“A wicked good plot.”
—PUBLISHERS WEEKLY (starred review)
SHOOT TO THRILL
The FBI asks the ingenious Monkeewrench
crew to help them find the chilling link between
a dead bride found floating in the Mississippi
and a series of gruesome murder videos posted
anonymously on the Web—before the killer
claims his next victim.
“Chilling...The best in the series.”
—BOOKLIST
THE LIAR’S LULLABY
When a controversial female singer is murdered
during a concert, forensic psychiatrist Jo Beckett
fears the act was political. The pop star was also
the President’s ex-wife, with secrets to die for.
Now, Jo finds herself in a race to extinguish the
conspiracy rumor mill—before it incites a level
of violence that reaches America’s
highest corridors of power.
b
Members of Penguin Group (USA)
penguin.com
Also available as e-books
“Features not one or two but three
edge-of-your-seat suspense set pieces.”
—STEPHEN KING
Double the Talent
red
u
t
a
Fe tist
Ar
Veronica & Viviana
Gonzalez
Do you want...
Model: Darja Molotkova
http://catarina-stock.deviantart.com/
SuspenseMagazine.com
43
Interview by SuspenseMagazine
Suspense Magazine has a
first in the artist department
for the month of June and we
are rather proud of our find.
Veronica and Viviana are from
Mendoza, Argentina. They’re
twin sisters who began using
Photoshop two years ago,
doing banners and signatures
for some friends from a romantic novel forum as a hobby.
Never having gone to school to learn graphic design,
they have always been interested in the visual arts. So they
started to learn Photoshop from the free tutorials found on
the Internet and practiced their first photo manipulations.
Later, seeing pictures on the Internet, they found
DeviantART and created their art account to showcase their
work. Over time they began to receive criticism and get
more and more watchers in the gallery, motivating them to
continue working and trying to improve every day.
Spring
http://sitara-leotastock.deviantart.com/
They almost always work together, sometimes separately,
but always trying to learn new techniques and ideas. They
don’t like to work a single theme and vary their work across
styles from dark and gothic to romantic or supernatural.
For Veronica and Viviana, creating art is a journey into
a fantasy world, one they make for visual pleasure, always
inspired by their own sensations, feelings and dreams. Each
photo manipulation is a new challenge where they learn
about themselves, where they can express their feelings.
They believe art is a reflection of your soul. Sometimes it’s
dark; at other times, it’s filled with light.
Twilight Spring
http://hiddenyume-stock.deviantart.com/
As time goes on, they realize there is still much for them
to learn and experience, but when they compare their earlier
work with the newest, they can see the personal growth in
the visual arts and that gives them even more reason to
continue.
If they had to leave a message for those who love the
visual arts and don’t have the opportunity to learn in a
school, the message would be, “Do not be afraid to learn and
experience for yourself, always be authentic and provide the
best of who you are into each piece of art.”
With words of wisdom like that, we couldn’t wait to get
on to the interview. So sit back, relax and enjoy the artists
featured in this month’s SuspenseMagazine.
44
Where is my Happy Ending
Model: Jessica Truscott
http://faestock.deviantart.com/
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
Cat's Queen
Model: Clara Buchanan
http://valentinepsycho.deviantart.com/
SuspenseMagazine.com
45
The Guardian of Angels
Model: Jason Aaron Baca http://jasonaaronbaca.deviantart.com
Photo by Portia Shao: http://www.positivevista.comelcome.html
Model: Laura
Photo by Marcus Ranum: http://mjranum-stock.deviantart.com
Time Crows
http://lisajen-stock.deviantart.com/
46
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
Suspense Magazine (S. MAG.): Relatively new to the world of digital art, what was the best piece of advice that you’ve
received? The worst?
Veronica and Viviana Gonzalez (V&VG): Wehavereceivedmuchadviceandcriticismofourwatcherswhohavehelpedusto
improveourart.Also,weliketoreceivetheviewsofourfamily.Butthebestadvicehasbeentodiversifyourworkandtechniques
totrydifferentstyleswithoutlosingauthenticityandgivethebestofourselvesineachpieceofart.
Th
 eworst?Someoneoncetoldus,“Devoteyourselvestosomethingelse,becauseyouhavenotstudiedart,”wesaid,“Welovethis
andwillcontinuedoingit,wenevergiveup.”
S. MAG.: Creatively, what brings you joy? What about in your day-to-day life?
V&VG: Wereallyenjoyedtheprocessofcreatinganewpieceofartbecauseweputalittleofeachoneofusateverystep.Andof
course,weareveryhappywhenwefinishedourartworkandwecansharewithfamilyandfriends.
Wegototheuniversitytostudygeography,sowedonothavemuchfreetimeandourdaytodayisspentintheclassroom,the
library,studying.Th
 at’swhywelovewhenwecanspendsomefreetimetodevotetoart,usuallyatnightortheweekend.It’sour
timetorelax,whenweclearourmindsandletourimaginationandcreativitytakeflight.
S. MAG.: How long does it take to manipulate a new piece? Can you describe your process?
V&VG: Atfirstanewpiececouldtakeuptotwoweeks,butwithtimeandpractice,todaywecanbringapiecetogetherinaday
ortwo.
Webeginbydiscussingtheideawehaveinmindbetweenus,thenwechoosethestocksthatmightwork.Secondly,weselectthe
stocksthatseemmostappropriateandthengotoPhotoshop,whichstartedthejob.
Wesetourselvesthecompositionandthenbegintheworkofblending,whichisthehardestpartforus.Oncewearesatisfiedwith
theblending,thenweadddetailsthatgivethepieceaspecialtouchtodrawattentionandmakeitunique.
Finally,weusuallydonotpublishthepieceimmediately,butwaitafewdaysandreturntoreviseandamendthedetailswedid
notsettleon.Oncewearesatisfiedwithourcreation,weshareinourgalleryofDeviantArt.
S. MAG.: What inspires new ideas?
V&VG:Wehavealways,fromchildhood,beendreamingaboutdifferentthings.Andthevisualartsareawaytohelpusexpress
thosedreams.
Aschildren,ourgrandfathertoldusstoriesoffairiesandprincesseswholovedus.Wewerehisprincessesandwebelieveitwasa
greatinfluenceonourawakeningtoart.
Also,welovetoreadbook.Weespeciallylikereadingnovels:romance,suspenseorparanormalnovels.Somanytimesweare
inspiredbysomeofthosereadings.Andwelovelisteningtomusic,allkindsofmusic.Andamelodyorphraseofasongcan
enlightenourimagination.
Inshort,ourfeelingsinspireus.
S. MAG.: When you begin designing a new piece, does one sister lead the way?
V&VG: Sometimesyesandsometimesno.Th
 atis,wearguealotandeachonecontributesherpartandherpointofview.In
general,theoneinchargeiswhoeverfirsthadtheideaofthepiece.Also,sometimeseachworksinitsownseparatepiece,butwe
complementeachotherwithcriticismandtheopinionoftheother.
S. MAG.: Are there challenges to working with someone who knows you so well?
V&VG: Oh,yes…wefightalot.(Laughs).But,ontheotherhand,weknoweachothersowell,itmakesthefightsendquickly.
Th
 enweagreebecauseeachofuscangetbetterandfasterwhenweknowwhattheotherthinksandfeels.Th
 ereforeitisagood
thingweworktogether.Wecomplementeachotherverywell.
SuspenseMagazine.com
47
Noir
Model Janna
http://kuoma-stock.deviantart.com/
S. MAG.: Do either of you work a fulltime
job?
V&VG: Besides studying at university, we
work part time in our parents’ business.
It is small, but it is their own and we are
veryproudofourparentsfortheeffortand
dedicationtheyputintothebusiness.And
sowehelpaswecan.
S. MAG.: Creatively you’ve grown a lot
without the benefit of formal training.
Any plans to go to school for art?
V&VG: Yes,wewouldlovetostudyartonce
we finish our study of geography, but we
shouldmoveoutoftownandintothecity.
Th
 erearenoartschoolshere.
While we are very happy to have learned
much through our own efforts, we know
wecouldimprovealotmoreifwewereto
receiveformaltraining.
S. MAG.: What do you think are your
three best qualities? Worst?
V&VG: Our best qualities are, respect for
the opinion of each other, otherwise we
could not work together and the pieces
would remain unfinished. Also, a good
quality to have is humility, we know we
have not studied art, that we still have
much to learn and there are many great
artists who deserve our admiration. We
areperfectionists,wealwayswanttolearn
moreandbecomebettereveryday.
Andourworstqualities,well,we’realittle
impatient, anxious when we have an idea
we would like to see finished as soon as
possible.Wearealsoalittlehardwithour
ownself-criticismandoftenareextremelydemandingwithourselves,whichissomewhatstrenuous.
S. MAG.: Where do you see yourselves in five years? Ten?
VERONICA:I’dlovetotraveltheworldanddiscoverthesecretsofthoselittleplacesthatveryfewpeoplehavebeenknownto
see:smallruraltownsorinhospitableplacesinthemountainswherefewpeoplehavebeenabletogetto.Th
 atwouldsatisfymy
loveofgeographyandalsoforart,becauseitwouldbeaveryinspiringexperience.
VIVIANA:I’dliketobeagoodprofessional,bothinthefieldofgeographyandinart.I’dliketobeabletoenjoywithmyhusband
andmyfamilyjustbeingtogetherandlovingeachother,nomattertheplace.IwanttolookbackintimeandknowthatIdidmy
besttorealizemydreamsandenjoythosedreamsastheycometrue.
SuspenseMagazine was thrilled to have been able to speak to these twins and find out more about their work. You can
check all their art out at http://kalosys.deviantart.com/. Take the time to enjoy it. 
48
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
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PHANTOM EVIL
THE WHITE DEVIL
by Justin Evans
I dare you to read this book by candlelight
on a cold rainy night. I did. Well, not by
candlelight, but during the succeeding nights
I read, the temperature was cold and the skies
were rainy and I sat alone, nobody near. Was
I scared? I’ll be honest and say, no, but I did
feel a touch of eeriness throughout the book
because, “The White Devil” is full of details
and descriptions that take your imagination
on a trip to England’s past, bringing to ‘life’
a tortured soul, a controversial historical
character, and the haunts and spookiness
typically associated with Britain.
Andrew Taylor, seventeen, is a troubled
teen in his last year of high school. In an effort
to correct him of his rebel ways, his father
enrolls him into England’s Harrow school
for boys, the school, where Lord Byron once
attended. Almost immediately, Taylor is
seen to be the spitting image of Byron and
persuaded to audition for an end-of-year play
about the famed poet. However, just as quickly,
Taylor is visited by an emaciated, whitehaired boy who takes him back to the early
1800s to relive some haunting and confusing
(to Taylor) scenes. When a classmate dies,
Taylor, befriended by an alcoholic poet who’s
struggling with writing the Byron play, and
the library archivist, attempts to solve the
reason for the ghost’s presence before more
students die horrible deaths.
One of the praising quotes on the back
says this book is part ghost story, part murder
mystery, part coming-of-age tale and part
romance. Evans uses complex sentences, so
this is not something you can skim over and
still get a feel for the plot. He veils the story
with gray, rain, bleakness, and heartache, and
the characters who try to rise above them, allaspects seemingly necessary in a story about
ghosts in England. What really sets this book
apart from others is the fictionalizing of an
actual person, blending in truths so much you
want to believe Byron actually did experience
the scenes in which Taylor finds himself. Who
knows...maybe he did.
Reviewed by Stephen L.
Brayton, author of “Night
Shadows” and “Beta” for
Suspense Magazine 
SuspenseMagazine.com
by Heather Graham
After his last case, Jack Crow expects to get a desk job with mainly paperwork
pushing responsibilities. Instead, Adam Harrison gives him the task of heading a new
unit, with six unique members who are to solve the murder or suicide of a senator’s
wife. Jack is a skeptic and yet he has had several unexplainable experiences that have
saved him and others.
The senator is convinced his wife didn’t commit suicide as the police have determined,
though they recently suffered the loss of their young son. Since he is so well liked and connected,
his wife’s case is a task for Jack’s new unit. The unit members literally meet on the job, at the house
in New Orleans…a house that has supposedly been haunted for decades!
Angela Hawkins is one of Jack’s team, who has some special talents, and their attraction is
basically instantaneous. Angela is more than Jack’s love interest; she also helps him lead the team
through the paranormal and beyond.
This is the perfect example of how a paranormal romance should be! Graham takes you
through the whole book with just enough romance, suspense and ghosts to keep you up late into
the night!
Reviewed by Ashley Wintters for Suspense Magazine 
MISSING PERSONS
by Clare O'Donohue
O’Donohue puts her journalistic skills to work building her new character Kate
Conway, a Chicago television reporter and begins her second series with a rollicking
good start.
Conway produces one of those true crime, local cable shows and is used to
dealing with dead bodies and missing people, but when the dead body is her soon-to-be divorced
husband who just happens to die while she is starting up a fledgling new show on finding missing
people, local homicide detectives find cause to question her motives and alibi.
Throw into the mix the husband’s new fiancé, who all of a sudden wants to be Kat’s new
‘best friend’, an old high school jock friend and unhappy in-laws, Kate funds her personal life as
much as a juggling act as the new television show. When the body of the girl she is reporting on
as missing shows up and Kate starts to receive death threats of her own, she has to figure out if the
hidden danger is from the result of her reporting or from someone a little closer to her personal
life.
O’Donohue exhibits a masterful approach with her classic red-herrings and carefully placed
foreshadowing as she drags us through the muck-racking of yellow journalism and still finds a way
to keep as close as family when worrying about her protagonist. This novel kept me interested and
still left room for unexpected twist in the end. This will be a series worth collecting.
Reviewed by Mark P. Sadler, author of “Blood on His Hands” published by Suspense Publishing
an imprint of Suspense Magazine 
ROYAL PAINS: FIRST DO NO HARM
by D.P. Lyle, MD
Dr. Hank Lawson is a concierge doctor to the wealthy in the Hamptons. Not
his first choice, but after losing his position in a New York ER this is the path that is
offered to him and he takes it.
While administering to his patients, he becomes involved in a mystery concerning
a well respected diet guru whose patients love him but the vitamin supplements he prescribes
seem to be causing havoc with their bodies. After helping to save a young runner who almost lost
her life due to these supplements and a bride-to-be who is having fugue states (blackouts), Dr.
Hank, his PA, Divya and his brother Evan start looking into what is causing the illnesses.
“Royal Pains” was a very enjoyable, light mystery. It had enough action, twists to keep you
guessing and interested, and the characters are people you want to get to know better. For me,
getting immersed in the medical end was the best part. I love medical mysteries, especially those
written by doctors. The medical scenes are well written in plain English. You will be entertained
and learn some things you may not have known at the same time.
Reviewed by Kendall Gutierrez for Suspense Magazine 
49
GOOD NEIGHBORS
by Ryan David Jahn
Imagine being attacked in the wee hours of the morning, right in your own apartment
complex and knowing that your neighbors were watching and hoping that one of them will
step in to help you but they don’t! This is what happens to Kat the victim of a horrible attack.
Taking place over the span of two hours, “Good Neighbors” tells the story of numerous
characters and what they were doing before and during Kat’s attack. You will meet a shady policeman, a
young man who cares for his mother and is being drafted, a couple having marital problems and others.
I can’t give this book justice in a short review. It was one of the best books I have ever read. The author
takes you into the heads of the “witnesses” and that of Kat, the victim. It makes you really cringe and
question how you would act if you were put in a position like that.
“Good Neighbors” is based on real events that happened in the 1960s and while this is the author’s
debut novel, you would never know it. The writing is powerful, it takes hold of you from the first page and
that hold gets tighter and tighter until the heart wrenching ending. It was impossible to put down. “Good
Neighbors” is a book not to be missed. I will be first in line for more books by Mr. Jahn.
Reviewed by Kendall Gutierrez for Suspense Magazine 
MIND STORM
by K.M. Ruiz
Twenty years after the child prophet Aisling foresaw the future the human mutant psions,
Threnody Corwin and her partner Quinton Martinez are dispatched to what remains of Los
Angeles, now known as ‘The Slums of the Angels’ on a suicide mission for failing to obey
orders on Corwin’s last mission. The two are part of the Strykers Syndicate, enslaved soldiers contracted
out on the most dangerous missions.
Psions came in various classes and strengths, armed with telepathic strengths with the ability to
teleport at a moment’s notice. This time they were to hunt down and eliminate Lucas, the rogue son of
Nathan Serca, a high-level, gene-trash human who was posing as a genetically-registered human. Serca,
who was in charge of gathering the humans for a journey on the Arc to Mars. Earth was seriously depleted
of all its natural resources after The Border Wars. The World Court convened and decided who is worthy
to travel to the colony and Earth will be left to the mutants and unregistered masses.
Lucas has another plan in mind, rescuing those that deserve to be, those who will make this world
a better place. Once he can arrange to have the neurotrackers cut out of the necks of the four Strykers he
recruits, once he convinces them that his powers and skill levels are superior to theirs, they take on the
project of protecting the followers Lucas has gathered together.
Serca pulls out all stops to get the remaining Strykers to bring in the fallen four and a pitch battle over
human rights on Earth takes place during the twenty-fourth century. With the help of matron they raid
the Gene Bank and the Seed Bank in an effort to save humankind. Will the destiny that Ailing prophesized
come to pass or was it just the ramblings of mad child?
Reviewed by Mark P. Sadler, author of “Blood on His Hands” published by Suspense Publishing, an
imprint of Suspense Magazine 
THE TWO DEATHS OF DANIEL HAYES
by Marcus Sakey
Marcus Sakey takes the main-character-with-amnesia idea and runs with it, creating
interesting characters and plot twists aplenty to keep the reader engaged. The novel opens on a
cold ocean beach as a man crawls ashore, unaware of who or where he is…or why he was in the
ocean. He finds a BMW nearby and crawls in. Assuming that the car is his, he learns his name
is Daniel Hayes from the registration card. From there he starts back to civilization, facing the challenges
of having no ID or identity. Watching TV in a motel, he discovers a mysterious attraction to an actress and
is later approached by a police officer. Hayes panics, runs, and escapes in his car, fearing that he has done
something horrible to deserve being a fugitive.
Hayes heads to California, to the address on the registration card, and more of his back story is
revealed through the people who know him and his slowly returning memories. It’s a compelling story of
a man trying to find himself and his life, complicated by his seeming obsession with the TV character, a
murder mystery, and Hayes learning that he is the chief suspect.
Although overall a fun ride of a read, there are some bumps in the road. That night in the motel Hayes
first looks into a mirror, wondering if he would recognize himself, if it would bring back his memory. But
he’s driven there…surely he would have looked in the BMW’s rearview mirror right away while searching
the glove box and trying to figure out who he was and, if not, he would have had to glimpse himself while
driving.
Luckily, such lapses are rare, and although a twist (or two) too many by the end weaken the resolution,
the revelations keep the pages turning. It’s an entertaining story that makes good use of its Hollywood
connections as Hayes learns that much of his life—like the entertainment industry itself—is not as it
seems.
Reviewed by Scott Pearson, author of “Star Trek: Honor in the Night” for Suspense Magazine 
50
WARM BODIES
by Isaac Marion
“Warm Bodies” is
touted as a story about
zombie love but is not
about
zombies…well,
not really. Even though
the book tells the story of
a zombie boy, who finds
and protects a human girl from other
zombies in an apocalyptic world dying
from a plague, it is not, at all, a zombie
story. This book is about the human
condition, or the un-condition if you
will. It’s about hope and fear, life and
death and the consequences we could
all face if changes are not made.
It is about ‘R’, a zombie boy who
starts out as any other zombie, killing
humans and eating their brains. But
it progresses into a sweet story of a
‘once-human’ who is transforming
into a ‘once-again-human’. R saves
a girl named Julie from a hoard of
hungry zombies and takes her to his
home, a 747 jumbo jet sitting on a
tarmac in some random airport. He
does not know why, but suddenly,
he has this over-whelming urge to
protect her.
These two strange friends begin
to see things and do things they don’t
at first understand, but as time goes
on, their actions begin to make a
difference. They become a new hope
that spreads out around them and
changes everything.
Not in a very long time, have I
read a book that has so touched me
like “Warm Bodies.” Isaac Marion
has an ability to write and express his
story in a way that very few authors
have done before and I believe this
young writer will be a huge voice
in the future of story-telling. His
wonderful descriptions of characters
and situations are like nothing I’ve
read lately. His ability to understand
and translate the human condition is
uncanny and enlightening. What can
I say…this guy can write.
If you read no other book
this year, you must pick up “Warm
Bodies.” It will fool you in the
beginning, sadden you in the middle
and move you at the end. It will knock
your socks off and give you hope!
Reviewed
by
DJ
Weaver
(WebbWeaver Reviews), co-author
of “Cruelty to Innocents” published
by Suspense Publishing, an imprint of
Suspense Magazine 
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
TREASON AT LISSON GROVE
by Anne Perry
We’re treated to a new Charlotte and Thomas Pitt novel in this historical thriller. Lisson
Grove is the location of Pitt’s organization, always called Special Branch. In the bang-up
beginning, Pitt and Gower, another agent, pursue a man they witnessed standing over a newly
dead body. The chase takes them across the channel to St. Malo in France. There, a plot seems
to be gathering head, something boding of violence and a fundamental change that, once done, may not
be able to be undone.
Pitt is set adrift, cut off from his employer and his family, not knowing who he can trust.
Back home, Victor Narraway, Pitt’s superior is floundering, running into charges and accusations
that he can’t fight. When he informs Charlotte that Pitt has been suddenly called overseas, and when
she realizes what an awful situation Narraway is in, she feels she must help him—partly for his sake, but
also because Pitt’s job depends on Narraway’s continued employment. The roots of the present-day plot
seem intertwined with an old episode that took place during a thwarted Irish uprising. So Narraway and
Charlotte, posing as half-siblings, take off for Dublin where feelings still run deep against the English and
Narraway in particular. Now it’s Charlotte who doesn’t know who she can trust.
To complicate things even more, Charlotte’s housekeeper, whom the family doesn’t care for anyway,
quits suddenly and Charlotte must provide for someone to watch the children, Jemima and Daniel. A
charming new character, Minnie Maude, is introduced and saves the domestic day.
Narraway’s problems—it becomes evident—are becoming looming problems for Pitt as well.
Disaster piles atop disaster and the targets shift and remain unclear as Charlotte and Pitt separately, try to
save their country from a treacherous, treasonous plot. Perry is still at the top of her form.
Reviewed by Kaye George, author of “Choke” for Suspense Magazine 
ANGEL BURN
by L.A. Weatherly
The interesting thing about this book was the way the author used terminology, like angels
and angel killers, but seemingly reversed the good and bad guys leaving the reader to keep
turning the pages just to figure it all out—the discrepancy between their own preconceived
definitions of paranormal creatures and the actions of the paranormals in this book. Of course
I won’t give anything away, but I can say I was thrilled with it all by the end.
I did like the writing, very descriptive, tipping the scales at telling far beyond any showing. In fact, I felt,
and this is a personal opinion I’m making from the YA books I have read, that this author didn’t talk down
to the reader when explaining concepts in the story like I have felt other YA authors have done. Having
teens of my own, I found it refreshing to read a plot I felt would challenge the thoughts and imaginations
of its readers. There was a strong bit of created mythology, a complex world filled with unique characters.
And the book just kept getting better once you got past a lot of back story in the beginning, which
did keep me engaged because of the intensity of the action, and again, the challenge to my own ideas.
After that, you get more and more action, the violent type without the gore. Intermixed with this is a
lot of character interaction during a road trip, the apocalyptic threat edging on the suspense, as well as a
developing love story. This one is definitely something a parent wouldn’t mind reading right along with
their teen.
Reviewed by Kiki Howell for Suspense Magazine 
NIGHT ON FIRE
by Douglas Corleone
Another legal eagle hits the shelves, and this one’s a scorcher. Corleone’s novel, “Night
on Fire,” delivers the heat and the humor in this legal thriller. It leads you down a path strewn
with subtle strands of clues until the end where it twists you into a knot so fast you’ll have to
stop and catch your breath.
Kevin Corvelli, late of New York, spends his days in his Honolulu law firm with Jake Harper, his
world-weary, gruff partner, and his nights drinking and seducing lady tourists at a local outdoor bar near
a resort. On the fateful night, he and his companion observe an argument between newlyweds, and later,
their sleep is interrupted by a fire that kills not only the bridegroom, but several other guests. Corvelli is
soon hired by the widowed bride, who is almost immediately arrested for arson and murder, and he soon
finds his paradisiacal life going up in smoke.
Corleone gives us a memorable if standard array of characters associated with legal novels: the
sexy defendant with secrets, the partner with personal problems, a competent if not entirely intelligent
investigator, a publicity seeking prosecuting attorney, a lovable lawyerly mentor, a homicide detective
who’d rather throw Corvelli in jail, and lots of suspects with motives of their own. Throw in a young
innocent kid who bonds with Corvelli and a couple of murder attempts on our hero and you have a fastpaced enjoyable book. I will be looking forward to the next Corvelli adventure.
Reviewed by Stephen L. Brayton, author of “Night Shadows” and the forthcoming, “Beta” Suspense
Magazine 
SuspenseMagazine.com
THESE DARK THINGS
by Jan Merete Weiss
“These Dark Things” is the first
in a series involving Natalia Monte, a
captain in the Carabinieri in Naples.
As one of the first females to achieve
the rank of captain, she must prove
herself as an officer as well as solve the
murder of a young college student. A
“bone cleaner” working in the crypt
of an ancient church finds the body
of the young woman stabbed through
the heart.
The juxtaposition of the
centuries old religious ritual of
cleaning the bones of the deceased
and a modern police investigation
makes for an absorbing murder
mystery. Along with the murder,
Captain Monte must deal with the
mountains of uncollected garbage
piling up in the streets of Naples, the
Camorra, the criminal organization
of Naples whose internal rivalries are
responsible for the trash crowding
the streets, and who may have some
responsibility for the murdered
woman.
The author brings us into a
setting of violence and poverty,
where criminal elements create their
own laws and system of right and
wrong. As a native of Naples, Captain
Monte knows how the city works,
but her friendships are tested as she
struggles to do her job. She discovers
the fine line between tradition and
superstition and has just enough
belief in both to survive.
I found a few glitches in the
continuity of the story, but on the
whole, the novel is well-written and
presents us a picture of a city and its
people who are still trying to create a
balance between the old and the new.
Catholicism and the Camorra live
side by side, even intertwined. Weiss
even suggests a possible connection
between the traditional Catholic
shrines on the streets of Naples and
the ancient Egypt goddess Isis. I felt
teased by this allusion and wish there
had been more. Maybe there will be in
future books.
“These Dark Things” is a tense
mystery that gives us a look into a
modern day culture with strong ties to
the past. I look forward to more books
in the series.
Reviewed by Kathleen
Heady, author of “The
Gate House” for Suspense
Magazine 
51
ASCENSION
by Sable Grace
Kyana is the best at what she does, tracking. Her unique blood, Vamp and Lychen, allows
her to hold a scent longer than any of the other trackers and she uses it to her advantage. The
Fates have an assignment they have determined Kyana is perfect for—saving the human world.
Someone has opened the door to Tartarus, the Chosen are being killed along with all the other
people and there is a trail that needs followed. The only catch is, Ryker. He is a demigod, Aries’
son and his ‘snub’ ten years before still stings.
Ryker knows he and Kyana are meant for each other, but because of her mixed blood, he doesn’t believe
she can mate for life. Her ease with fellow Vamp, Geoff makes Ryker jealous as does the attention she shows
any male. Geoff is a necessary evil as far as Ryker is concerned. He is better connected than either he or
Kyana so to accomplish their goal, they need him.
Fighting Dark Breeds, searching for dead gods, trying to keep her focus off Ryker’s sexiness and meeting
a soulless race she never knew existed are just a few of Kyana’s adventures. Her personal life keeps interfering,
she can’t keep Ryker off her mind, her best friend, Haven potentially getting married is nerve-wracking and
she has more questions than answers. Kyana is literally in a race against time to save the world, her friends
and herself before Tartarus destroys it all!
A wonderfully thrilling, fast-paced story! It will sink its teeth into you and not let go!
Reviewed by Ashley Wintters for Suspense Magazine 
A QUESTION OF BELIEF
by Donna Leon
Ms. Leon’s work is not the in your face thrill-a-minute storyline I am accustomed to
reading, but a slow-burning, smoldering story that builds in intensity as the book progresses.
It comes at you like neighborhood gossip caught at wisps and gestures over the garden fence,
like returning for a cup of coffee to an old and trusted friend as little by little the whole story
emerges and you ask yourself, ‘of course why didn’t I see it coming.’
I actually started the book before I left on vacation to England, came back and picked up the book and
carried on without missing a beat. The slow moving police officers, hampered by the sweltering summer
in Venice, go about their business while looking for shade, or heaven forbid, actual air-conditioning while
laying out two stories for our enjoyment. Inspector Brunetti aides his fellow officer with concerns he has
over a charlatan of a palm reader, tarot waving soothsayer that his mother appears to be paying a rather
unsightly sum to and then the two of them become embroiled in what appears to be a scam in the making
involving a lady judge and her bailiff.
When the inspector’s vacation is interrupted to the point of him having to change trains on the way out
of town with his family to return to oversee what is the untimely murder of the afore mentioned bailiff does
the storyline suddenly take on overtones of menace. The sudden lull in crime in Venice is over-ridden with
blackmail, fraud and charges of indecency and Brunetti’s skills are brought to task as he ably puts our fears
to rest.
A most delightful tale told at the pace of the hot summer with enough sizzle to the action to keep one
intrigued to the last.
Reviewed by Mark P. Sadler, author of “Blood on His Hands” published by Suspense Publishing, an imprint
of Suspense Magazine 
DEATH AMID GEMS
by Meagan J. Meehan
A murder in the midst of the holiday season isn’t exactly what Detective Angelo Zenoni
has in mind when he and his partner, Wildow are lead investigators in a bludgeoning death of
Tiffany Kehl, gem seller ‘genius’ for the television station. Most people are shocked, but very
few truly saddened by her death and more people with motive than not! It seems the only
people who believe Tiffany to be kind at all are her devastated parents.
Zenoni and Wildow have their work cut out for them because the mix of people to be investigated
include her coworkers, protesters, neighbors, random men and even her sister! Tiffany’s attitude and
confrontational nature did nothing to endear her to the people around her and she wasn’t shy about telling
them how she felt. They have to look into arguments with her boss, her neighbor, someone egging her car
and a mysterious boyfriend who may better be characterized as a stalker.
While Zenoni is investigating the murder, he also has his personal life to contend with. His wife wants
the Christmas decorations so she can decorate the house, now! His nephew can’t seem to stay out of trouble.
All this has to be put to the back of his mind while he tries to figure out who murdered Tiffany.
This is a well written, engrossing mystery. You will be hooked from the start!
Reviewed by Ashley Wintters for Suspense Magazine 
52
THE GLASS DEMON
by Helen Grant
When the first
thing that happens
to you upon moving
to a new town is
discovering a corpse,
perhaps that should
be taken as a sign of things to come!
When you are a teenage girl moving
to Germany from England, at the
behest of your father the professor,
and he doesn’t want to call the
police to report the finding of the
body so he won’t get delayed, it
becomes the worst thing that has
ever happened to you.
In this young adult novel, Lin,
a teenage girl and her family move
to a small burg in Germany so that
her father, the Professor of Medieval
Studies, could be the next Indiana
Jones, at least in his mind. Never
mind it meant uprooting his two
teen daughters, their step-mum and
the new baby while he chased the
myth of Bonschiarant—the Glass
Demon. The town of Baumgarten
was part of German folk-lore that
linked the Allerheheilgen Abbey
to
the
five-hundred-year-old
masterpiece of stained glass that to
a Medievalist was a kind of Holy
Grail.
Intent on discovery, the
family settles in to their new rural
surroundings while accidents
happen around them, including the
death of a local historian, a brush
with death for her half-brother and
the murder of her sister. With the
help of a local boy, Michel, who
lived on the farm up the road, and
who’s developed a crush on Lin, the
teenagers do what the parents can’t,
discover the glass and discover the
deaths in the area are all depicted
in scenes on the stained glass. With
both their lives in jeopardy, the
two move quickly to solve the real
mystery behind the demon in the
glass in order to bring some sense
to the tragedy it caused in both their
families.
Reviewed by Mark P. Sadler, author
of “Blood on His Hands” published
by Suspense Publishing, an imprint
of Suspense Magazine 
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
FORMULA FOR
MURDER
by Diana Orgain
“Formula
for
Murder” is the latest in
the Maternal Instincts
Mystery series from
Diana Orgain. She hooks
the reader in right away with her clever
chapter headings. Well, not chapter
headings, exactly. Each chapter
begins with a “To Do” list, like some
of us begin our day. And as the life of
first-time mom Kate Connolly—the
likeable protagonist—becomes more
and more complicated, so does the
“To Do” list. Just like in the real world.
Kate has found what she thinks is
the perfect work-from-home mommy
job: private investigator. The hours
are flexible, she can bring baby Laurie
along on stakeouts, and if you’re
going to be up all night anyway, why
not solve a few crimes in between
feedings? Kate and Laurie are on their
way to accomplish a top priority on
the “To Do” list, getting Laurie’s first
holiday photo taken, when they are
victims of a hit and run. A witness
identifies the car’s French diplomatic
license plates. Sacre bleu! Do we have
the beginnings of an international
incident? When Kate and her
husband Jim try to get some answers
at the consulate, they’re given le brush
off, but not before they notice a pair of
local, television reporters leaving the
consulate.
A few days later, one of the
reporters is found dead in Golden
Gate Park. Kate the Private
Investigator, suspects there’s a
connection to the consulate, and she’s
hired by the dead reporter’s husband
to get some answers. Then, another
dead body turns up: the driver of the
car that rear-ended Kate and Laurie.
Ooh la la! What’s going on?
This is a fun, fast read as Kate tries
to juggle her new mommy status with
her equally new private investigator
status. I can’t wait for the next one in
this series!
Reviewed by Susan Santangelo,
author of “Moving Can Be Murder”
for Suspense Magazine 
SuspenseMagazine.com
THE STRAIN
by Guillermo del Toro and Chuck Hogan
Dr. Ephraim Goodweather is head of a rapid response team investigating biological
threats to the U.S. When a Boeing 777 arrives in New York’s JFK airport after a scheduled
and uneventful flight from Berlin, it dies on the runway and EPH is called in. The plane sits in
darkness, blinds drawn, emitting no sign of life. At the same moment, in a tatty pawn broker’s
in Spanish Harlem, aged Holocaust survivor Abraham Setrakian senses that an old foe has come to wage
war.
“The Strain” is off at break neck speed from page one and begins with the mysterious childhood
experiences of young Setrakian before switching to the runway at JFK in the present day. The back story
is seamlessly woven into the thrilling plot, never slowing the relentless pace. Even Ground Zero is used to
startling effect, its relevance to the story clearly presented. Goodweather’s unwanted separation from his
wife and the ongoing custody battle over his son add a human element which is skillfully played out to the
last. Setrakian is a likeable accomplice, a believable modern day Van Helsing.
“The Strain” is a collaboration between brilliant film maker and storyteller Guillermo del
Toro and writer Chuck Hogan. Between them, they have produced a horror thriller which delivers
tension, revulsion and pace as good as any ever written…and it leaves us in fear for our lives.
Reviewed by Steve Emmett (http://chukkienator.blogspot.com/) for Suspense Magazine 
LOST AND FONDUE
by Avery Aames
The newest installment to Aames’ enjoyable Cheese Shop Mysteries should definitely carry
a disclaimer. Do not read on an empty stomach. In addition to the feisty cast of characters and
light murder mystery, you’ll find yourself being led down a path of culinary delight making
you want to run, not walk to the nearest cheese shop for a tasty bite.
Charlotte Bessette, Fromagerie Bessette’s owner is always ready to lend a helping hand and when
Meredith, Charlotte’s best friend asks her to cater a small fundraiser, she’s game. Only the party seems
monumental when the menu is changed a day in advance, the guests exceed fifty and the folklore that
billows around the site begins to course rapidly through town.
The old and abandoned Ziegler Winery does not have a pleasant past, but it could have a bright future
if Meredith has anything to say about it. One major hurdle—other than the building’s illustrious past and
the rumor of buried pirate booty hidden somewhere on the grounds—screeches everyone and everything
to an immediate halt when the body of a young artist is found in the dilapidated wine cellar. In life, this
former stud had a raging temper and a serious jealous streak, but no obvious suspects stand out.
Ever helpful, opinionated Charlotte can’t refrain from adding her amateur sleuthing skills into the
mix. If truth be told, she’s technically forced into it when the Sheriff heads in an investigatory direction that
many disagree with.
Readers can always tell when an author loves what they do and it’s clearly the case with Avery Aames.
The town of Providence and its charming cast is a place worth visiting.
Reviewed by Shannon Raab for Suspense Magazine 
THE WORST THING
by Aaron Elkins
If you decide pick up the latest effort by Aaron Elkins, don’t panic, it won’t be the worst
thing you’ll read. Far from it. For an easy going conversational-type narrative, combined with
suspenseful and quick action, with an added touch of the inner workings of a terrified mind,
“The Worst Thing” is the one to choose.
Bryan Bennett, a former kidnap victim, is now a writer of training manuals on preventing kidnappings
and how to behave if kidnapped. He is hired by GlobalSeas, an international seafood marketer based in
Iceland, to give a seminar to the company’s management. When the CEO, who narrowly escaped a recent
kidnap attempt, is subsequently taken by three members of an eco-terrorist group, Bennett assumes a
former role, that of hostage negotiator. However, when he finds his wife has also been kidnapped, Bennett
trades himself for her, and forced to face an old enemy, is plunged into a nightmare he thought he would
never again suffer.
This novel is filled with definitive characters and a delving into the mental disorder of panic attacks.
Supporting characters aren’t studied in depth, but Elkins provides enough details to make them unique
and interesting. The language is easy to comprehend without a lot of medical jargon through which
readers must wade. Bennett is both clinical and emotional in his thinking and his actions. He weighs the
options and remembers not only his training, but his past before making decisions which will affect his life.
Research was critical for this novel, and readers will find some interesting education just in case ‘the worst
thing’ happens. With this novel, you’ll find yourself skimming along on a fast ride, rooting for the good
guys and even enjoying a surprise ending.
Reviewed by Stephen L. Brayton, author of “Night Shadows” and “Beta” for Suspense Magazine 
53
LAST SEEN IN MASSILIA
by Steven Saylor
Steven Saylor pulls us right
into the ancient world of Gaul in
the days of the Roman Empire,
as Massilia (now Marseilles) is
under siege by Julius Caesar’s
forces. The engineering and
military genius of the Romans
allows the citizens of Massilia no chance to
resist, even as they offer a “scapegoat” to the
gods. The scapegoat, a man who lives in luxury
while the citizens starve, is believed to absorb
the people’s sins and save them.
Gordiano the Finder and his son-in-law
Davus risk their lives to enter Massilia where
they are in search of Gordiano’s son Meto, who
is reported to by a spy or a traitor, depending
on whose information you believe. As Romans
they are trusted by no one, but are welcomed
by Hieronymous, the scapegoat, an outsider
just like they are.
Even though the culture and history of
the city-state of Massilia was totally new to
me, the timeless story of a father in search of
his son impels the reader to care about these
fictional characters in a setting over 2,000 years
ago. Gordianus’ conflicting feelings about
his family and the politics of his country are
as authentic as those of any modern man or
woman.
“Last Seen in Massilia” is the ninth in
Saylor’s Roma Sub Rosa series. As a “finder,”
or investigator, Gordianus’ escapades show us
a “secret Rome,” the one outside the history
books. This is a historical mystery at its best.
It is a seamless plot, believable yet with twists
and turns that are totally unexpected. Saylor’s
combination of solid historical research and
entertaining writing style allow the reader no
time to come up for breath.
Reviewed by Kathleen Heady, author of “The
Gate House” for Suspense Magazine 
SEALED WITH A KILL
by Lucy Lawrence
“Sealed With a Kill” is the third in Lucy Lawrence’s Decoupage mysteries. Normally, I’m not
drawn to “craft” mysteries, but when I saw the book was set in New England—my home base—I
decided to give it a try. And I’m so glad I did.
Likeable heroine Brenna Miller is a whiz at all sorts of craft projects, like creating a special
decoupage pumpkin for Halloween or a decoupage tray decorated with the autumn leaves that
are falling all over her home town of Morse Point. That’s why she loves her job at Vintage Papers,
owned by her very best friend, Tenley Morse. Yup…the town is named after Tenley’s illustrious
family. When Brenna gets stuck as the tour guide for a group of leaf peeper tourists, she tries to
make the best of it. But it’s hard to stay enthusiastic when their jaunt in the local woods to gather
leaves for a craft project leads the group straight to a dead body. It turns out the victim was the
business partner of Tenley’s autocratic father, and rumors begin to fly that there was no love lost
between the two. Tenley turns to Brenna for help in clearing her dad, despite the fact that, well,
let’s just say the Morse family isn’t exactly a close one.
As if this isn’t enough for Brenna to deal with, she also finds herself attracted to two completely
different men at the same time. Sheesh. What’s a girl to do?
Morse Point is populated with a slew of likeable characters. Among my favorites are elderly
sisters Ella and Marie Porter, who constantly compete with each other to see who can turn up the
juiciest piece of gossip.
I’m looking forward to my next visit to Morse Point. Check out this book, and you will be
too!
Reviewed by Susan Santangelo, author of ” Moving Can Be Murder” for Suspense Magazine 
THE AMATEURS
by Marcus Sakey
A financial trader, a travel agent, a hotel doorman, and a bartender walk into a
Chicago restaurant to steal some money. Sounds like a joke, right? In Marcus Sakey’s
“The Amateurs,” there are no laughs when a ‘game’ turns serious and deadly.
Ian, cocaine user and gambler in serious debt. Jenn, the woman wanting a little
adventure in her boring life. Mitch, feeling ignored by everyone. Alex, who has an
ex ready to move away to Phoenix with his daughter. Four friends, each with their own quirks
and personal problems, meet a couple times per week for drinks or brunch. During their time
together, they play a variety of ‘games’, such as “If you suddenly came into a half million dollars,
what would you do with the money?” When they learn Alex’s boss—a former drug dealer and still
a shady businessman—has a load of cash stored in the restaurant’s safe, they slowly come around
to the idea of stealing it. The operation goes awry and soon the friends find their lives thrown into
a chaos they never expected.
The characters are a well blended mix of personalities. Sakey does a fine job of providing
a balance on allowing the reader insight into everyone’s lives without over emphasizing one or
ignoring another. Add in the obligatory ruthless bad guys and you have a smooth flowing story
that is definitely not amateurish.
Reviewed by Stephen L. Brayton, author of “Night Shadows” and “Beta” for Suspense Magazine

KILLER ROUTINE
by Alan Orloff
“Killer Routine,” the second mystery by Alan Orloff, certainly has a provocative
title. The first in Orloff ’s Last Laff Mystery series, I wasn’t sure if there was a serial killer
lurking among its pages. What a relief to find out that he was writing about comedy
routines instead of mass murder and mayhem.
But comedy, I discovered in this book, is a serious business. In fact, many of the
people trying so desperately to make a name for themselves in the field of stand-up
comedy are really troubled souls. This is especially true of “Killer Routine’s” leading
character, Channing Hayes. Hayes has survived a tragic auto accident that claimed the
life of his fiancée, Lauren. Physically and emotionally scarred—he lost several fingers
in the accident—he’s put his own promising comedic career on an indefinite hold and
becomes co-owner of The Last Laff Comedy Club.
One of the most promising up-and-coming comics at the club that Hayes
mentors is his dead fiancée’s sister, Heather. Then Heather disappears right before she’s
scheduled to make her comedy debut and Hayes, fearing he pushed her too far too fast,
begins a search to find her. When Heather’s ex-lovers start to turn up dead, well, as I
said before, comedy is serious business.
In Alan Orloff ’s first mystery, “Diamonds for the Dead,” Orloff ’s protagonist
goes on a journey and discovers things about a close family member that he never
knew. In his second mystery, Orloff ’s protagonist goes on a similar journey, but this
time discovers things about himself. Well plotted, great characters, and a promising
beginning to a new series.
Reviewed by Susan Santangelo, author of “Moving Can Be Murder” for Suspense
Magazine 
54
KILLER LISTING
by Vicki Doudera
Kyle Cameron has it all, or at least that is how it seems
to most people. She sells real estate and is great at it, she is
buying into a smaller business, but bringing along some big
clients, she is in good shape, but none of that stopped her
from being the victim of a murderer. Darby has come to
Florida to sell her portion of Near and Farr Realty, but all
that falls through when Kyle is murdered at an open house.
Detective Biggs is quick to blame Kyle’s murder on the
“Kondo Killer,” but Darby isn’t so sure. Darby realizes there
is a long list of people who may have wanted Kyle out of
the picture. These people include her suicidal husband, her
ex-lover, a millionaire and her ex-lover’s wife. She just can’t
resist doing a little investigation of her own, but doing that
may be the last thing she does!
Darby has some personal issues along the way,
including missing her job in California, her very able
assistant needing monetary help and taking in all the
southern manners and hospitality! All this doesn’t distract
her or the murderer from Darby’s investigation.
This is a good, southern mystery! Colorful characters
abound and mysteries keep you guessing!
Reviewed by Ashley Wintters for Suspense Magazine 
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
Ne w f rom New York Times Be sT s e l l i Ng Au Thor
RobeR
Robe
R
Rt
t Dugoni
“A must read for fans of courtroom drama from
Grisham to Turow to Erle Stanley Gardner.” —Booklist
Attorney David Sloane faces the
most difficult legal battle of his
life—defending the woman he
loves against a charge of murder.
“Dugoni has done it again! Taut
courtroom scenes, stunning twists and
deceptively dangerous men…and women.
Be prepared for a helluva ride from a
master of courtroom suspense!”
—Lisa Gardner, #1 New York Times
bestselling author of Alone
““The
The verdict’s in on Murder One—Robert
Dugoni has written another first-class legal
thriller. It’s smart, taut, suspenseful
and exquisitely plotted.”
—Linda Fairstein, New York Times
bestselling author of Silent Mercy
www.robertdugoni.com
www.simonandschuster.com
Also available
as an eBook.
Juliet Blackwell
Will Steal Your
Attention
N
Interview by SuspenseMagazine
Press Photo Credit: Lois Tema
ational bestselling author Juliet Blackwell (a.k.a. Julie
Goodson-Lawes and Hailey Lind) started out life in Palo
Alto, California. Her family soon moved to the sticks
of Cupertino, an hour south of San Francisco. Walking to and from
kindergarten every day she would coddle her earliest larcenous
activity: stealing walnuts and apricots from neighboring orchards.
By the time she graduated junior high, the orchards were
disappearing and the valley at the southern tip of the San
Francisco Bay had become the cradle of the silicon semiconductor. Juliet’s father advised his daughters to enter
the lucrative and soon-to-flourish field of computers.
Juliet wanted none of that, as she went on to major
in Latin American Studies at the University of
California, Santa Cruz. Rather than making scads
of money in computers, she read, painted and
learned Spanish, a little French and Vietnamese.
She also traveled the globe, living in Spain
and traveling through Europe, Mexico and
Central America.
She also pursued graduate degrees in
anthropology and social work at the State
University of New York at Albany, where
she published several non-fiction articles
on immigration as well as one book-length
translation. Fascinated with other cultural
systems, she studied the religions, folklore
and medical beliefs around the world.
After having a son, moving back to California and abandoning
her half-written dissertation in cultural anthropology, Juliet started
painting murals and portraits for a living. She has run her own
mural/faux finish design studio in Oakland for more than a decade,
specializing in the aesthetic renovation of historic homes.
Juliet eventually turned to writing. Under the pseudonym of Hailey
Lind, she penned the ArtLover’sMystery series with her sister Carolyn. It’s
about an ex-art forger trying to go straight by working as a muralist and faux
finisher in San Francisco. The first of these, “Feint of Art,” was nominated for
an Agatha Award. “Shooting Gallery” and “Brush With Death” were both IMBA bestsellers, and “Arsenic
and Old Paint” was released in 2010.
Juliet’s WitchcraftMystery series, about a witch who finally finds a place to fit in when she opens a vintage
clothes shop on Haight Street in San Francisco, allows Juliet to indulge yet another interest—the world of
56
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
witchcraft and the supernatural. Ever since her favorite aunt taught her about reading cards and
tea leaves, she has been enthralled with seers and conjurers from many different cultures.
When not writing, painting or lecturing her funny but cynical teenaged son, Juliet spends a
lot of time fixing up her happily haunted house and gardening with Oscar the cat, who supposedly
belongs to the neighbors, but won’t leave her alone. He stated hanging around when Juliet started
writing about witches…funny happenstance.
We are honored to have a little bit of time with Juliet to see what we can learn about this wellrounded lady. She does it all. Enjoy!
SuspenseMagazine (S. MAG.): What book changed your life?
Juliet Blackwell (JB): “MakeWayforDucklings”wasprettyinfluentialformeanddon’tevenget
mestartedon“GreenEggsandHam!”Butseriously,BarbaraMichael’s“Ammie,ComeHome”
comestomindasaveryearlyinfluence.First,itwasmyintroductiontotheworldofgrown-up
mystery; second, I loved the subtle, spooky themes woven throughout two stories: one past,
onepresent.Ire-readitrecentlyandwassurprisedhowstilteditfeltinsomeareas.Itwas
publishedinthesixtiesandwritingstyleshavechangedalotsincethen.ButwhenIfirstread
it—IthinkIwastwelveyearsold—Ifounditspookyandtitillatingandthemysteryenthralled
me.Th
 isisthebookthatcomestomindwhenpeopleclaimthatparanormalthemesarea
“recentfad.”AsfarasIcantell,thatfadbeganbackwithBramStoker’s“Dracula”orMary
Shelley’s“Frankenstein”—bothgreatbooks,bytheway—anditcontinuestogostrongbecause
thereisanaturalhumancuriosityastowhatmayexistbeyondourunderstanding.
S. MAG.: What prompted you to start a new series?
JB: Iworkedinthehistorichomerenovationfieldforyears,andeverytimeIfoundmyselfon
a construction site at three in the morning, imagining I was hearing things, I thought about
whatafunsettingitwouldmakeforaseries.Ihaveatruepassionforoldhomesanditreallyis
amazingallthemysteriesonefindswithintheirwalls.Asageneralcontractor,theprotagonistof
myHauntedHomeRenovationseries,MelTurner,getstotraipseinandoutoffabulousoldhomes
inSanFrancisco,pokingintoallthecracksandcrevicesandfiguringoutnotonlyhowtorestorethe
homes,butalsodiscoveringmysteriesfromthepastandpresent.Asawriter,Ireallyenjoythedifferent
themesIcanexplorewithtwodistinctseries:LilyIvory,awitchwithavintageclothingstoreinthe
WitchcraftMysteryseries,iscompletelycomfortablewiththeoccultandallthepossibilitiesitpresents,
whereasMelTurnerisanewbie,figuringoutthespiritworldbytheseatofherpants.
S. MAG.: Is it difficult to take what people think is a “dark” subject in witchcraft and take a lighter
spin on it with great mysteries?
JB: Th
 erearetimeswhenit’sachallenge,yes.ButwhenIsetouttowritetheWitchcraftMysteryseries,Iwasdetermined
nottowriteaBewitched–inspired,funnyandsweetwitch.Ihaveabackgroundinanthropologyandhavestudiedthehistory
ofwitchcraft,whichmostdefinitelytendstowardthedark.Butbykeepingthestorywithinthelinesofsomethingevencozy
readersarecomfortablewith—nographicviolence—Icanexploresomeofthedarkerthemeswithin
thecontextofeverydaylife,thedevelopmentoffriendshipsandthefunworldofvintageclothingand
shopkeepinginSanFrancisco’squirkyHaight-Ashburyneighborhood.Th
 athelpstokeepthebalance.
S. MAG.: The story or the character, which one comes first for you?
JB: Character,nodoubtaboutit.Th
 erearecrucialstoryelements,ofcourse,butthosemostlyarise
outofthecharacter:amisfitwitchwhocanreadsensationsfromclothing,abuilderwhoissuddenly
plaguedbyghosts.Asareader,IwilldevourseriesbecauseIwanttovisitwiththecharactersandwatch
theirdevelopment.Whilethemysteryplotkeepsmeinterested,it’sreallythecharactersthatIremember
andtowhomIreturn,bookafterbook.IwanttowritewhatIlovetoread,soformeit’sthedevelopment,
conflictsandjourneyofthecharactersthatcomesfirst.
S. MAG.: How did you celebrate your first book contract?
SuspenseMagazine.com
57
JB: Ihadasingle-maltscotchwithagoodfriend—scotchseemedsowriterly,somehow!Th
 efriendisanon-writerwhoreadmy
manuscriptatanearlystageandassuredmesheenvisionedapenguinonthespine.WhenthebookswerepickedupbyPenguin,
itseemedanoccasionworthyofmarking!Andthen,ofcourse,Iwasfetedbyawholegroupofotheronlookers…actually,I’mstill
celebratingthatfirstcontract!
S. MAG.: From book to book, what is the one thing that you struggle with?
 eending.Iknowalotofwritersfeelasthoughthelastpartoftheirbookswritesthemselves,butthat’snotthecaseforme.
JB: Th
Inpart,mytroublesstemfrommyowninternaleditor.Asareader,I’mhighlycriticalofauthorswhospingreatstories,butlet
medownwithtrite,uninteresting,orunconvincingendings.StephenKingisagreatexample:hesetsthingsuplikethemasterhe
is,reelsyouinwithsettingandcharacterandplot,thenoccasionallywimpsoutwithagiantspiderorsomethingequallyprosaic
attheend.Ihaveagreatfearofthat,soendingsloomlargeinmyimagination,andtypicallyIcan’twritethemuntilI’mforced
tobyanimpendingdeadline.
S. MAG.: If you could interview one person, alive or dead, who would it be?
JB: IsupposeIshouldchoosesomeonereallynoble,likeMartinLutherKingorMahatmaGandhi.Butinrealitymychoicewould
changeeveryweek—oreveryday—accordingtowhatresearchI’mdoingatthetime.Rightnow,IwouldlovetointerviewHelen
Duncan,thelastwomantobeconvictedandimprisonedforthepracticeofwitchcraftinEngland.Shewasconvictedin1944
underthe1735WitchcraftAct,accusedofusingsorcerytospeakwithdeadsoldiers.Shewasalsofamousforconducting
séancesandproducingproofofthebeyondintheformofectoplasm.Howgreatwouldthatinterviewbe?Messy,maybe,
butfascinating.
S. MAG.: When you got your first review, how did you react?
JB: Th
 esamewayIreactedwhenIfirstsawmybookonashelfinabookstore:withgleeandamazement
thatIhadbecomeanactualauthor,likethoseIhadreadandadmiredforsolong.Happilyforme,the
firstreviewwaspositive.Buteventhenegativeonesremindmethatasanauthormybooksarepublic
commodities,outtheretobecriticizedaswellaspraised.Th
 ere’sasayingthatyourememberallyour
negativereviews,butnoneofthepositiveones,soasmuchasitwarmsmetobepraisedandhurtsto
becriticized,Itrytokeepperspective,keepmyheaddownandkeepwriting.
S. MAG.: What challenges do you see for writers in the future, since publishing is changing
everyday?
JB: Keepingthefocusonwriting.Everyauthorget-together,everyouting,everyconferenceis
filledwithteeth-gnashingandworryingandgripingasweanxiouslytrytoforecastthefuture:
What will e-sales mean? How can I increase my platform? Which social media are most
effectiveandimportant?Andasaresultoftheseconcerns,it’seasytogetcaughtupinthe
full-timejobofpublicityandnetworkingandforgettoactuallywrite!I’veseenithappento
alotofwonderfulauthorsandit’sashameforthem,andfortheirreaders.SonowIcounsel
fellowwriters,andmyselfaswell,todowhatwecantogetthewordoutaboutourbooks…
buttoremembertoputthewritingfirst.Sincenoneofuseverhasenoughtimeandenergyto
doeverythingwe’dlike,prioritizingisessential.
S. MAG.: What does the future hold for Juliet Blackwell?
JB: Intheimmediatefuture,I’mlookingforwardtothereleaseof“HexesandHemlines,”thethird
bookintheWitchcraftMysteryseries.AndinDecember,thesecondHauntedHomeRenovation
bookwillbereleased,entitled“DeadBolt.”AndI’vejustsignedonformorebooksinbothseries,so
I’malreadyhardatworkonthenextbooks,aswellasworkingonananthology,judginginvarious
writers’contests,teachingworkshops,socialnetworking…youknow,justbeingafull-timeauthor.
This lady has done it all and continues to add to her vast repertoire. SuspenseMagazine is extremely
honored to have had the opportunity to sit down with Juliet. If you’d like to learn more about this very
busy, fascinating author, please check her out at http://www.julietblackwell.net/. 
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Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
In the first part of this series, I discussed the critical determination of the Causeand
MannerofDeath. Now let’s look into the all-important TimeofDeath.
tiMe of death
One of the most important determinations made by the medical examiner is the time
of death. This alone can exonerate a suspect, or focus suspicion on one. It can substantiate
or refute witness and suspect statements. It can literally make or break the case.
The timing of death is both an art and a science. It requires that the ME use several
techniques and observations to make an estimate. The sooner after death the body is
examined, the more accurate this estimate will be. The changes that a body undergoes
after death occur in widely variable ways and with unpredictable time frames. There is
no single factor that will accurately indicate the time of death. It is always a bestguess.
To help with his estimation, the ME employs various observations and tests. These
include:
Body Temperature
Rigor Mortis
Livor Mortis (Lividity)
Degree of Putrefaction
Stomach Contents
Corneal Cloudiness
Vitreous Potassium Level
Insect Activity
Scene Markers
Let’s look at each of the techniques.
body temperature: Normal body temperature is 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit. After
death, the body loses or gains heat progressively until it equilibrates with that of the
surrounding medium. Under normal circumstances, a corpse will lose body heat at a
rate of approximately 1.5 degree/hour. This means that a corpse with a core temperature
of ninety-two degrees has been dead about four or five hours. Sounds simple enough.
Unfortunately, it’s not quite that straightforward. The 1.5-degree-per-hour factor varies,
depending upon the environment surrounding the body, the size of the corpse, clothing,
and other factors. For example, a body in a temperate room will lose heat much more
slowly than will one in an icy, flowing stream. A body in a hot environment such as
an enclosed garage in Phoenix in August where the ambient temperature could be one
hundred twenty-five degrees or more will actually gain heat. The key is that the corpse
SuspenseMagazine.com
Determinations
By D.P. Lyle, M.D.
the Coroner's most important
A Three Part Series:
Part II
59
New From CK Webb & DJ Weaver
Cruelty to Innocents
The First Novel in the 911 Abducton Series
What if you were in your car alone with your small child and you came upon
an emergency scene? Would you stop to help? What if, while you are trying
to assist a victim of an accident or mugging, you lee your young child alone
in the car, thinking he or she would be safe. What if, instead of help, the call
to 911 brought a terrifying, sinister result?
“Explosive...ratchets up the adrenaline and forces you to turn the pages faster
and faster as you hope for the best, while fearing the worst.”
—John Locke, New York Times bestselling author of SAVING RACHEL
will lose or gain heat until it reaches equilibrium with its environment. Once the body reaches ambient temperature, this
factor is no longer useful.
Rigor Mortis: Rigor mortis is the stiffening of a corpse after death and is due to chemical reactions that take place within
the muscle cells after death. This chemical reaction is the loss of adenosine triphosphate (ATP) from the muscles. ATP serves
as energy for muscular activity and without it our muscles could not contract. The presence and stability of ATP depends
upon a steady supply of oxygen and nutrients, which are lost with the cessation of cardiac activity that occurs at death. When
the ATP levels fall, the muscles contract and stiffen, producing the rigidity of rigor.
This rigidity is first detectable in the small muscles of the face, neck and hands, and then progresses to the larger muscles.
The rigor begins in about two hours and the entire process takes about twelve hours at which time the body is completely stiff.
This is called the rigid stage and tends to remain so for another twelve hours. The process then reverses itself with rigidity
being lost in the same fashion, beginning with the small muscles and progressing to the larger ones. This process requires
another twelve or so hours. The muscles are now flaccid (relaxed) and this is termed the flaccid stage of rigor mortis.
A good general rule is twelve-twelve-twelve. Under normal conditions, rigor begins in about two hours, maximizes at
about twelve hours, remains unchanged for twelve hours (rigor stage) and resolves over the next twelve hours (flaccid stage).
So, rigor is only useful in the first thirty-six hours or so after death.
This rule assumes “normal” circumstances. If the death was associated with violent activity such as drowning of the
victim or fighting or running for his life then the ATP can be consumed during these activities and rigor can appear much
more quickly. Sometimes almost instantly at death—a condition often termed cadaveric spasm. In a drowning the rigor
might be universal, while in the fleeing victim it might be confined to the legs, the body part doing the work and depleting
its ATP supply prior to death.
Also, cold conditions might delay rigor while warmer ones can hasten it. See? It’s not that simple.
Livor Mortis: Lividity is a purplish hue of the tissues and is caused by the stagnation of blood in the vessels that occurs
after the heart stops beating. Gravity then causes the stagnant blood to settle into the dependent (lower) areas of the body.
This means that a supine corpse will develop lividity along the back and buttocks. It typically appears between thirty minutes
and two hours after death and reaches its maximum by eight to twelve hours. Initially, this discoloration can be shifted by
rolling the body to a different position, but by six to eight hours, it becomes fixed. This means that rolling the body to another
position will not result in a shifting of the discoloration. The reason is that after about six to eight hours the blood vessels
in the area begin to breakdown and the blood seeps from the vessels and stains the surrounding tissues. As opposed to the
blood that remains within the vascular system, this blood in the tissue is fixed in position. The ME can use shifting and fixed
lividity to estimate time of death and to determine if the body has been moved or repositioned, something the dead do not
do without assistance.
As with rigor, the onset and the fixing of lividity is often slowed in a cold environment and quickened in a warmer one.
Next time, we will look at the other factors the ME uses to estimate the time of death.
You can check out D.P. Lyle, MD on his own site at http://www.dyplylemd.com. 
60
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
Welcome to
STONEHAM
An Interview with Lorna Barrett
Interview by SuspenseMagazine
Press Photo Credit: Frank Solomon
was published in November 2005. “Dead in
Red” followed in June 2008, and “Cheated
by Death” debuted in June 2010. “A Crafty
Killing” is the first book in the Victoria
Square Mysteries.
Lorraine also writes the Agathanominated, New York Times bestselling
BooktownMysteries as Lorna Barrett.
Lorna’s done it all, from drilling holes for
NASA to typing scripts in Hollywood. She
lives in western New York.
Her first sales were to the confession
magazine market. In all, she’s sold nine short
stories, including one on Amazon Shorts. She
is also a great supporter of indie bookstores.
As you can see, Lorna has a lot to offer in the
way of her talent and characters. So sit back
and enjoy this one-on-one interview Suspense
Magazine was lucky enough to get. Enjoy!
Lorna barrett
is the noM
de pLuMe of
author Lorraine
bartLett.
Lorraine
Bartlett
perfected
her
characterization and plotting skills as a writer
for romance magazines. Her manuscript,
“Murder in Morton Mills,” was a finalist in
the St. Martin’s/Malice Domestic contest. Her
short story, ColdCase, featuring Jeff Resnick,
appeared in “Mystery in Mind: A Collection
of Mysteries of the Paranormal,” an anthology
published in spring 2003. Her first novel,
“Murder on the Mind,” written under the
name L.L. Bartlett, and featuring Jeff Resnick,
SuspenseMagazine.com
Suspense Magazine (S. MAG.): When you
started did you think that you would be on
book five of the Booktown series?
Lorna Barrett (LB): Yes!IfiguredImightget
towritesixofthem.I’mpleasedtosaythatI’ve
signed a new contract for books seven, eight
andnineintheseries.(Nowtowritethem!)
S. MAG.: What book changed your life?
LB:“BookmarkedforDeath.”IthittheNewYork
Times extended bestsellers list. Th
 at changed
mylife.I’mpleasedtosaythesubsequentbooks
hitthemainlistandI’mcrossingmyfingersto
hitthelistagaininthefuture,too.(Iowethat
tothefaithofmyagent,myeditorandallmy
readers.)
61
S. MAG.: What challenges do you face when writing a new
book?
S. MAG.: What mystery would you like to know the answer
to? And why?
LB: Gettingbeyondthefirstfortythousandwords.Itisn’tthe
sameasphysicallabor,butitcanbejustasgrueling.OnceI
hitfortythousand,I’mcaughtupinthebookandtherealfun
starts. 
LB: Th
 e Double Initials Murders that took place in my
hometown of Rochester, N.Y. in the early 1970s. Th
 ere have
beenalotoftheoriesaboutwhokilledthreeyounggirls,and
there’s speculation that the killer has been dead a long time,
but there’s been no closure for the families of these children.
Mystery writers like to give that closure to their readers and
assure them that a murderer will be punished for his/her
crime(s).Th
 atdoesn’talwayshappeninreallife.
S. MAG.: When you started writing or thinking that this is
something you wanted to do, what was your personal goal?
LB: To earn a living. I’m pleased to say that goal has come
true—butIalsoknowthatnothingispermanentinawriting
career.Myjobistomakesuremyreadersareentertainedby
myworkandwillkeepcomingbackforthenextbookinall
threeofmyseries,andtocheckoutmyself-publishede-short
storiesandbooks.ImustsayIlikeworkingasawriterbetter
thananyotherjobI’veheldinmylife.Itwouldbeniceifthe
incomewasalwayssteady.
S. MAG.: What is on your iPod right now?
LB:Alas,IhavenoiPod.ButIdohaveanMP3player.Ihaven’t
haditlong,soonlyhavetwoalbumsonit.Th
 eBeatles’Love
andCelticWoman’sANewJourney.(Ineedtoputsomething
elseonit.I’mgettingfedupofthesamesongs.AndIneedto
learnhowtoworkthething.Ican’tgetitoff“shuffl
e.”)
S. MAG.: Why do you write under other names?
S. MAG.: What can we expect from you in the future?
LB: Mythirdagentthoughtitbesttohidebehindinitialsfor
myJeffResnickbooks.Shefeltthebookswouldstandabetter
chanceofbeingpickedupbymalereadersiftheybelieveitwas
writtenby aman.AtthetimetheBooktownmysteries were
offeredtome,itseemedbesttowriteunderapseudonym.Th
 e
Resnick books are considerably darker than a cozy mystery.
But I wanted the Victoria Square books to go out under my
ownname.I’mproudofthemandwanteveryonetoknowI
wrotethem.I’mproudofallmybooks,whichiswhyImakeit
nosecretthatLL/LorraineandLornaareoneandthesame.
LB: Morebooksinallthreeofmyseries.I’mcurrentlywriting
Victoria Square #3 and will start Booktown #7 this fall.
(#6—“MurderonTh
 eHalfShelf ”—willdebutinJune2012.)
I need to carve out time for the next Jeff Resnick mystery—
tentatively titled “A Leap of Faith.” I’ve got a couple of short
storiesinthepipeline,too.
Th
 ank you for the
interview!
S u s p e n s e
Magazine
thanks
you, Lorna. It was
our honor getting
LB: Whenshewasachild,shebithertoenails.Angelicastill to know you a little
teasesheraboutit.(Okay,Ijustmadethatup.Hey,Itelllies better. If you’d like
(fiction)foraliving.Diditgetalaugh?)
to learn more about
his talented writer,
S. MAG.: Have you thought of taking one of your characters check out her sites
and give them their own series?
at
http://www.
lornabarrett.com/.
LB:Notsofar.Butit’salwaysanoption.

S. MAG.: What is one thing your fans would be shocked to
know about Tricia Miles, your main character?
MORE TITLES BY LORRAINE BARTLETT
62
Suspense Magazine Review of
“Sentenced to Death" by Lorna
Barrett:
Tricia Mills, the owner of Haven’tGot
a Clue mystery bookstore in Stoneham,
New Hampshire is excited along with the
rest of the small New England town for
the big Founder’s Day Celebration. But,
as Tricia watches on, her good friend
Deborah Black is struck by a small plane
as it crashes into the gazebo where she is
speaking and kills her and the pilot. Tricia and everyone else in town is stunned!
The Sheriff ’s Department is convinced it
is an accident. Deborah’s husband’s behavior is more than unusual and Tricia is sure
there is more to this mystery, and what she
finds is far worse than she ever could have
thought.
My favorite aspect of Lorna Barrett’s
writing is that she is so descriptive. Her
character’s come to life and I could picture
both the townspeople and Tricia vividly.
And even though this is the fifth book
in the series—it was my introduction to
Barrett’s Booktown series—I did not feel
lost and the book’s plot was fantastic. I will
definitely be reading up on her other cozy
mysteries! Reviewed by Catherine Peterson for
SuspenseMagazine
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
the
rAZor’S
eDge
By Andrew Peterson
I SLEEP WELL AT NIGHT
BECAUSE OTHERS DON’T.
I
f I knew I was going to raid a gang-infested
neighborhood, complete with sentry posts,
armed guards, vicious dogs, and fortified
houses, I might have a hard time falling asleep the
night before. I’d probably be lying there thinking this
could be it, tomorrow could be my last day–I hope
I’ve tied up all my loose ends.
Welcome to the ATF’s world. The most dangerous
jobs aren’t necessarily overseas in Iraq and Afghanistan
fighting Al-Qaeda and the Taliban. Many of them are
right here, within our own borders. Try to imagine
being undercover inside a violent motorcycle gang,
or infiltrating a firearms trafficking ring, or raiding a
warehouse full of drugs and guns. The life of an ATF
special agent is one of near constant stress. So why do
it? Why subject themselves to it? Is it the adrenaline
rush? The excitement of working on the razor’s edge
between life and death? I think it’s both of these
things and something more. It’s a deep-rooted respect
of America and everything it stands for.
It’s easy to take our everyday luxuries for granted—and I’m as guilty as the next person. If we want food, we open our
refrigerators, visit a fast-food drive-thru, or enjoy a nice sit-down restaurant with friends and family. If we want fuel (albeit
expensive right now) we pull into a gas station. We enjoy the same conveniences with other basics. Clothes. Electronics.
Entertainment. You name it, it’s available. We need to remember that most people in the world don’t live like us. What’s the
point of saying all this? Our freedom isn’t free. Yes, we’ve all heard this before, but maybe not enough.
So what’s the life of an ATF special agent like? It’s a question you’ve probably never considered. Of all the federal law
enforcement agencies, the ATF is the probably the most misunderstood. It’s a good bet that people have a better mental
picture of acronyms like FBI and DEA. So what is the ATF and what is its role in America? Simply stated, the ATF is a federal
SuspenseMagazine.com
63
law enforcement agency responsible for the prevention
and investigation of federal crimes involving the illegal
use, manufacture, trafficking, and possession of alcohol,
tobacco, firearms and explosives. It also regulates–through
licensing–the sale, storage, and transportation of firearms,
ammunition, and explosives. Think about mining companies
and the thousands of tons of explosives they use in their dayto-day operations. How about all those wonderful fireworks
shows? Fireworks are essentially mortar rounds, similar in
principle to military weapons. The ATF also investigates
bombings and arsons and operates a sophisticated fire
research laboratory in Beltsville, Maryland, where full-scale
mock-ups of criminal arsons can be reconstructed.
Tobacco? How big a problem could tobacco be? In a
word, huge. It’s not my intent to pick on “Big Tobacco” or
pass judgment on smokers—the world is what it is. I’m only
hinting at the scope and depth of the counterfeit cigarette
industry. Fake cigarettes are everywhere and look genuine.
Although only a trained eye can spot them, most people
can taste the difference. In the United States alone, there are
45,000,000 smokers. Worldwide, the number skyrockets to
1.2 billion. It’s estimated that one in ten cigarettes consumed
could be fake. So where do they come from? You guessed it.
China is by far the largest supplier of counterfeit cigarettes
in the world. I can’t dive too deeply into this subject—it’s
an entire article in itself—but here are the numbers. In the
U.S., the average price of a pack of cigarettes costs about
$6, depending on where you buy them. Every state in the
union taxes the sale of cigarettes, some quite heavily. A
pack in New York City—the highest price in the nation—
costs an additional $4.35 in city and state taxes, driving the
average price to $11 or more. So if we use the $6 figure, and
assume the average American smokes about a pack a day,
the daily gross sales of cigarettes in America is… Are you
sitting down? $270 million. Multiply that by 365 and you get
over $100 billion. If only one in ten cigarettes is fake, we’re
at 10 billion dollars. Since the U.S. only represents around
3.75% of the world’s smokers, worldwide, the gross sales of
counterfeits is hundreds of billions of dollars. Clearly, there’s
huge money to be made in counterfeit cigarettes and as long
as the price of cigarettes continues to spiral upward, the
demand for cheaper (counterfeit) alternatives will thrive. A
40-foot cargo container can hold 10 million cigarettes with a
street value of $3 million.
The same illegal activity exists with alcohol. How hard
is it to slap a fake label onto a bottle, or fill an empty brandname bottle with counterfeit product? In China, there’s a
massive black market for empty wine bottles for just that
purpose.
History has proven that eliminating the supply doesn’t
work. As long as people want to drink and smoke, the
product to fill that demand will exist. The ATF’s roots can be
traced back to the passing of the Eighteenth Amendment—
sometimes referred to as The Noble Experiment—but more
64
commonly known as Prohibition. The early
1920s saw an exponential growth of organized
crime due to Prohibition. Huge profits were
made in the moonshine business. Three years
later, the Twenty-first Amendment ended Prohibition, but
the roots of organized crime were already widespread and
deep. Organized crime survived by changing direction to
gambling, prostitution, and other drugs of the era, such as
opium and morphine.
What does all of this mean and how does it translate to
modern times? Money. Everything boils down to money.
There are astronomical profits associated with the illegal
manufacturing and trafficking of alcohol, tobacco, firearms,
and explosives. Granted, this is a lot to absorb, but what’s
bottom line? The ATF isn’t just some thing. It’s not some
intangible entity without form. It’s made of people and not
all ATF employees are special agents working in the field.
Thousands work behind the scenes conducting the massive
job of regulating the things mentioned above. By the end of
this article, I hope you’ll have a clearer understanding of this
amazing federal agency and why I believe hosting the ATF at
writer’s conferences is a worthwhile effort.
One of the functions
of a conference like
ThrillerFest,
RT,
or
Bouchercon, is to teach
attendees—authors and readers alike—
ColtM4
interesting and useful things they can
use in their everyday lives. In 2006, at the debut ThrillerFest
conference in Phoenix, author James O. Born thought it
would be interesting to do a demonstration where conferees
could see firsthand how law enforcement personnel deal with
various situations, and then ask questions and handle the
actual weapons and firearms used. Although Jim’s demo was
a big hit, ThrillerFest II didn’t host a second law enforcement
demo, so I got together with Liz Berry, ThrillerFest’s
director, and offered to coordinate a comprehensive event
for ThrillerFest III. I chose the ATF because quite frankly,
its personnel responded quickly. I’d initially approached the
PR department of the NYPD, but after numerous attempts
to get a return phone call, I had to move on. I’d repeatedly
told Liz I could “get this done.” But time was running out.
In three months, ThrillerFest III’s schedule would need
to be finalized. On a whim, I called the New York Field
Division of the ATF and got through immediately. Within
thirty seconds I was talking to Public Information Officer
Special Agent Joseph G. Green. I explained who I was, what
I wanted to do, and how I envisioned the event happening.
Special Agent Green thought it was a great idea, but needed
to clear it through the chain of
command. A few days later we
were in business. It took a lot
of planning and coordination,
but the panel came together.
I spent a lot of phone-time
TaserX26
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
with Special Agent Steve Donini, New York Field Division’s
Firearms Instructor Coordinator, arranging all the personnel
and equipment for the presentation. By the time ThrillerFest
III arrived, we had an explosives K-9 and handler lined up,
an armored assault vehicle used in raids and takedowns, over
twenty different types of firearms, five ATF special agents,
three apprentices, and the Assistant Special Agent in Charge
of the entire New York Field Division, Rory O’Connor,
planning to attend. Things were looking good, but this
would be my first experience moderating a panel. Since I’d
never done anything like this before, I figured it would be
best to wing it, and not have a prewritten script or list of
questions. Some of the things Special Agent Donini said were
spontaneously funny. Someone from the audience asked a
Taser question. She wanted to know if the ATF ever delivered
less than the maximum five-second jolt of electricity to an
unruly combatant. In a perfectly calm voice, SA Donini said,
“Absolutely not. We wouldn’t want to deprive anyone of the
full, enriching experience.” As part of their Special Response
Team training, agents who carry Tasers are required to get
zapped themselves. During the 500,000-volt juicing, SA
Donini recalled thinking to himself, Man,thisreallysucks.”
Fortunately, his fellow agents were there to catch him.
Although we concentrated mostly
on the weapons that the ATF uses in
its day-to-day operations, we spent
some time talking about the explosives
detection canine team. The hour went
by quickly. After the panel concluded,
everyone congregated out in the foyer
to meet the federal agents, handle the
firearms, and pose for pictures. Kathleen
Antrim’s photo took top honors. Wearing
an ATF cap, she posed with a “grease
gun” one hand, and a silenced Mac-10 in the other. Her
expression? Priceless.
The following year, I moderated a second panel for
ThrillerFest IV. In addition to the explosives K-9 team, The
New York Field Division added an SRT tactical K-9 unit.
I didn’t know it at the time, but “Baron” and his handler,
Special Agent Mark Murray, had special plans for me. We
also brought in a former undercover special agent who’d
infiltrated an outlaw motorcycle gang for over a year. People
found his story harrowing, to say the least. Metaphorically, I
asked him what was it like to wake up every day with a gun in
your face? His answer was two words: Itsucked. The pressure
on undercover agents is unimaginable. If they’re ever busted,
it's a certain bet they won’t die well.
I thought it would be interesting to host a similar panel
at the Romantic Times Booklovers Convention, but I wasn’t
sure how it would be received. After all, the convention is
90% women who love to read romance and erotica, so I
ran the concept by RT Convention Director Jo Carol Jones.
She immediately liked the idea and said she’d touch base
SuspenseMagazine.com
with Carol Stacy, RT’s Publisher. Carol Stacy’s reaction was
positive, so I was off and running again. I emailed ASAC
Rory O’Connor and asked him to place a call to the Los
Angeles Field Division on my behalf. Again, the result was
positive. The following day I introduced myself to John A.
Torres, Special Agent in Charge of the entire field division.
I immediately liked SAC Torres. He was cordial and wellspoken. We spent a few minutes discussing the logistics of
the presentation, then to my surprise, SAC Torres invited me
to attend a unique program he’d created in 2006. To date, Los
Angeles is the only field division within the ATF to offer a
Citizen’s Academy. After SAC Torres described the program,
I was definitely interested. Each class hosts approximately
thirty students.
The goal of the Citizen’s Academy is to create a greater
understanding of ATF’s role in the community through
education and open discussion. It’s a unique opportunity for
local residents, religious, business and civic leaders to learn
what ATF does on a daily basis to make our neighborhoods
safer places to live. Academy students learn some of the
ATF’s regulatory and technical capabilities in the reduction
of violent crime affecting federal firearms,
explosive, arson, and tobacco laws.
There was only one problem. I lived
five hours north of Glendale, Calif.,
where the academy was being held. In
order to attend the seven-week program,
I’d have to log 70 hours of driving time
and shell out some serious gas and hotel
money. But I had a personal invitation
from the Special Agent in Charge of
the entire Los Angeles Field Division.
TommyGunwiththeATF Despite where I lived, saying no wasn’t
an option. I was attending. Period. In
hindsight, I’m glad I did. On firearms day, we all met at the
Angeles Shooting Range in the foothills north of Los Angeles
and operated all kinds of fully automatic machine guns.
All the famous guns were present: AK-47s, M-16s, M4s, a
Thompson submachine gun (commonly known as a Tommy
Gun,) a Heckler & Koch .223 caliber, and all kinds of assault
shotguns, pistols, and revolvers. By the end of the day, we’d
fired over 15,000 rounds of ammo. The ground was yellow
with expended brass. By far, the AK-47 was the most difficult
to handle because it tended to climb off the target.
During surveillance night, we drove to a local mall.
Wearing radios and lapel mikes, we attempted to tail a
couple of “suspects.” It probably took all the self-control our
ATF instructors had not to laugh. We were atrocious! When
the suspect looks right at you as you’re speaking into your
lapel mike, it’s a good bet you’re busted. Needless to say, we
spent the entire evening getting “busted.” But all of us came
away with a better understanding of how difficult it is to tail
someone, especially if he thinks he’s being watched. It’s not
like the movies.
65
In November of 2010, I became a graduate of Citizen’s
Academy Class #7.
By the end of the year, the RT Los Angeles convention
was only four months distant and the ATF had some big
operations planned for that same time period. Special Agent
Christian Hoffman, the public information officer for the
Los Angeles Field Division, made it clear that there were no
guarantees the panel would actually take place until the last
day. The ATF is always on call, 24/7, and if a local, state, or
national emergency occurred, the panel would have to be
cancelled.
Over the next few months, I continued to coordinate
the workshop with SA Hoffman, stressing the importance
of having the canine teams attend. But it wasn’t that simple.
SA Hoffman explained that tactical canine units are valuable
assets in day-to-day operations and the ATF couldn’t just
postpone a raid or takedown to make a presentation at a
writer’s conference. I understood that, and asked him to do
the best he could.
The morning of the presentation, I got up at 5:30 am,
turned on the TV, and started surfing the cable news networks.
It seemed like an uneventful day, nothing big was happening
on a national level. I breathed a sigh of relief, but couldn’t
check the local news for another hour. I could’ve texted SA
Hoffman and asked if were good to go, but at 0530, it seemed
like a bad idea. A few cups of coffee later, my answer arrived.
SA Hoffman texted me with two words: We’reon.
The sunrise broke bright and clear, a typical Southern
California spring day. I employed the small coffee maker
again, and went to survey the conference room. Everything
looked good. The elevated platform/stage wasn’t setup yet,
but I wasn’t worried. We still had plenty of time. I felt ready,
but something kept gnawing at me–the tactical K-9 demo. In
about ten hours, I was going to be attacked by a dog. Twice.
At 11am, I met SA Hoffman at the South Figueroa
entrance to the Westin Bonaventure Hotel, but he’d already
reconnoitered the area. He liked what he saw and gave SAC
Torres a positive report. Transporting the guns from the
vehicles parked on South Figueroa up to the conference
room wouldn’t be a logistical problem. In fact, it would be
relatively easy. We parted company and agreed to meet an
hour before the panel. I grabbed a bite and tried to relax.
Four hours to go.
By 2pm, all the special agents had arrived except the
tactical K-9 team. It was good to see SAC Torres again. The
next hour rolled by quickly. Some of the hotel’s guests were
curious as to why an entire squad of ATF agents and an
explosives detection canine team were in the hotel, but no
one bolted for the doors. Special Agent Silva was more than
happy to show off Marianne to anyone who approached.
She’s an outstanding federal employee who quite literally
works for food.
It was time. To my surprise, we had a pretty good crowd
in the room, including the lovely and gracious Heather
Graham, a New York Times bestselling author. And sitting
in the front row were my friends, Stephen J. Schwartz and
Joshua Corin, two of the thriller genre’s most promising stars.
By this time, the tactical K-9 team had arrived. Special
Agent Decker and “Titus” didn’t have a lot of time to spare,
so I needed to get the attack dog demo going. I introduced
my guests, read their bios, and felt that pang of unease grab
me again. There was no turning back now. How would that
look? Although Steve Schwartz had offered to take my place
and wear the sleeve, it was my responsibility. I’d feel terrible
if Steve ended up going to hospital instead of me. On second
thought… I’d be okay with it.
SA Decker needed to brief me on the dog attack
procedures, so I handed the microphone to SA Hoffman and
left the room. Out in the hall, I met “Titus,” a huge German
Shepard who, despite his beautiful form, looked all business.
Once I picked up the sleeve, the dog immediately focused on
me and wouldn’t look away. Ohman,whatthehellamIabout
todohere?
After Titus bit the sleeve, SA Decker instructed me to
struggle and cry out as though Titus was really hurting me,
or he might re-bite me somewhere other than the protective
sleeve. I looked down at my other (unprotected) forearm
and envisioned torn flesh, open arteries, and snapped bones.
Titus was more than capable of doing all that, and more.
Everything boiled down to trust. Trust in the SA Decker,
trust in Titus, and trust in their training. Once SA Decker
turned Titus loose, there were two probable outcomes. One:
the dog bites the protective sleeve and I put on the act of my
life. Or two: Titus bites me somewhere else and I go to the
hospital.
The canine team entered the room and SA Decker spent
about ten minutes talking about his job and addressing
some questions from the audience. SA Hoffman looked
my direction and nodded. When I donned the sleeve, Titus
refocused on me. I began a phony tirade and started acting
in a challenging manner.
SA Decker told me in a forceful voice to stay back and
not come any closer. I ignored him and kept advancing.
Apparently I got too close and he whispered for me to back
away. Titus would be much more
effective with a running start. I
complied and moved back about
ten yards.
He reLeASeD
tHe Dog.
I cLeNcHeD MY
teetH.
Titus
66
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
The animal covered the distance in less than two seconds.
The moment of truth arrived in a snarling, seventy-five
pound mass of solid muscle, sharp teeth, and unwavering
determination. As it turns out, I didn’t have to act like I was
terrified, because I was terrified. In the back of my mind, I
knew it wasn’t real and it didn’t hurt, but I played the part.
For ten seconds, I fought back physically and vocally. I
spun, twisted, and yelled in a futile effort to dislodge the dog
from the sleeve, but nothing short of lethal action would’ve
worked. I heard SA Decker yell something, and to this day,
I can’t remember the command word he used. Whatever it
was, it worked. Titus let go and returned to SA Decker’s side
where he re-secured the restraint harness.
The room fell silent.
SA Hoffman said something lighthearted and everyone
let out a collective laugh, me included. So far so good, but it
wasn’t over yet. We still had the running take-down to do.
The next phase involved me sprinting across the room
with Titus attacking me from behind. Keep in mind, I wasn’t
wearing a protective suit, all I had between me and Titus
was the sleeve. I tried not to think about it. In hindsight, it
probably hadn’t been wise to Google “attack dog photos” last
light. A slide show started in my head.
SA Decker Nodded.
I started Running.
Through the corner of my eye, I saw the audience stand
for a better look. I can tell you from firsthand experience, it’s
far worse being attacked from behind. Although I couldn’t
see Titus coming, I sure heard his low growl as he launched.
And yes, I was quite relieved when Titus bit the sleeve. Again,
I fought back and pretended to be in pain. SA Decker let the
attack go on longer this time; I think I “resisted arrest” for a
good fifteen seconds or so. After Titus had been re-secured,
SA Hoffman handed me the mike. I was out of breath and
could barely talk. I hadn’t realized how much energy I’d
expended fighting the attack.
So what is it like being attacked by a tactical canine? It’s
a combination of anxiety and awe. Being attacked by a dog
is well outside of my comfort zone. It’s probably fair to say
most all of us think of dogs as beloved family pets, curled up
at our feet in front of the fireplace. We like to picture dogs as
protectors, not attackers. Perhaps that’s the reason dogs are
so effective during raids and takedowns.
For a change of pace, we brought the explosive detection
canine team to the front of the room. Marianne and her
handler, Special Agent David Silva, did a bomb-sniffing
demo before fielding all kinds of questions from the audience.
Marianne’s demo was quite tame compared to Titus’, but her
skills are equally valuable, perhaps more so. Four metal cans
SuspenseMagazine.com
were mounted on rotating boards, similar to a small carnival
game. The cans are then spun to change their positions. SA
Silva walks Marianne around the boards until she “hits”
on the can containing the odor. Her trained response is to
immediately sit down and look up at her handler. Someone
from the audience asked why Marianne is trained to sit down
after hitting on a scent. SA Silva’s answer made perfect sense:
if Marianne detects a bomb, it’s best if she doesn’t disturb it.
Marianne has been imprinted to over 25,000 different
odors and can detect traces of explosives or accelerants
long after they’ve been removed from a room. After a raid,
she once detected the odor of ammunition in a nightstand
drawer several days after the boxes had been removed.
Marianne’s temperament is completely different. She loves
to be touched and enjoys meeting new people. Titus is all
business when working, but when he goes home with SA
Decker, he transforms into the family dog.
Before concluding the presentation, a firearms instructor
coordinator, Special Agent Ken Tomlinson, spent a few
minutes describing each of the firearms present. After the
workshop concluded, people came forward to the tables,
handled the firearms, and asked lots of questions. Many
photos were taken, but as I warned at the beginning of
the presentation, I told everyone to be absolutely certain
they don’t take any photos of the special agents without
their permission. Some of them may be called upon to do
undercover work and they don’t want their photos circulating
through the Internet.
Bottom line? Our domestic law enforcement officers
work in a dangerous and fast-paced environment, and we
owe them the same level of gratitude and respect as our
military troops serving overseas. I’m working on a second
workshop for RT next year, so with a little luck and a lot of
planning, you’ll get the opportunity to see another canine
demo and thank an ATF special agent in person. 
Andrew Peterson’s debut
thriller, “First to Kill,” is being
optioned for a major motion
picture, and is the first in
a series featuring Nathan
McBride, a former marine
sniper and CIA operations
officer. The second novel in
the Nathan McBride series,
“Forced to Kill,” is currently
available as an exclusive
audiobook from Audible.com. Andrew holds the classification
of Master in the NRA’s High Power Rifle ranking system and
has won numerous competitions throughout the Southwestern
United States. When he’s not writing, Andrew enjoys scuba
diving, target shooting, flying helicopters, hiking and camping,
and an occasional round of golf. Andrew and his wife, Carla,
live just north of Paso Robles, California.
67
JAMES
GRIPPANDO
A Man
With Many
Influences
Interview by SuspenseMagazine
Press Photo Credit: Monica Hopkins
J
ames Grippando was a trial lawyer for twelve years before the writing bug got a good
hold on him. People who know him tend to divide his life into two periods: his past as
a full-time lawyer, which is known as “when Jimmy had a job,” and his life now as a writer.
He started at the University of Illinois during his college years, but after the first year,
transferred to the University of Florida in Gainesville when his family moved. Having
graduated second in his undergraduate class, he was selected to Phi Beta Kappa and chosen
the outstanding graduate for leadership. While in law school, he served as executive editor of
the University of Florida Law Review and selected to the Order of the Coif. He wasn’t just a
serious student. He was also the general chairman of the homecoming festivities.
James boasts many influences in his life, starting with his mother, who raised her family,
had a nursing job at night once their father came home from his job at the printing company,
and she even went through courses to get her doctorate in education. Her dissertation was
published and went on to become one of the top textbooks in the country for nursing students.
More than twenty-five years later, it’s still going strong in its sixth edition.
He also had a magnificent English teacher, James Corrigain. He taught James that to be a
good writer, one must be an insatiable reader. He also gave James one of the most unforgettable
SuspenseMagazine.com
69
books he’s ever read, the Pulitzer Prize-winning play, “A Man for All Seasons.” He
still has that book.
Other influences were Sid Homan, head of the English Department at the
University of Florida, who taught James to read his sentences out loud before
putting them in print; The Honorable Judge Thomas A. Clark, who served on
the U.S. Court of Appeals for the Eleventh Circuit in Atlanta, who gave James his
first job out of law school, a federal clerkship. It’s his experience in that court that
helped him shape his ideas for this first novel, “The Pardon.”
As a lawyer, he actually made history when he and a bunch of chicken farmers
took on the largest privately held corporation in the world. The case lasted seven
years. The Wall Street Journal called the case “the catalyst for change in the $15
billion a year poultry industry.” In James’ own words, “Not bad for a bunch of farmers up
to their ankles in…well, I’m sure you get the picture.”
SuspenseMagazine was thrilled to get a few minutes of James’ time to see what he
thinks and what he’s got coming up. Enjoy!
SuspenseMagazine (S. MAG.): What book changed your life and why?
James Grippando (JG): It’snottechnicallyabook,butIreadthePulitzerPrize-winningplay
“AManforAllSeasons”inhighschool,andit’sunforgettable.It’sthestoryofSirTh
 omas
More,whowastriedfortreasonandbeheadedafterherefusedonprincipletosignanoathapprovingthemarriageofKing
HenryVIIItoAnneBoleyn.Itstuckwithmethroughoutmycareerasalawyer,especiallyearlyon,whenIwasyoungand
naïveandappalledtodiscoverhowmanywitnessesliedunderoath.Peoplecomplainthatlawyersarealwaystryingtotrip
themupwiththeircleverquestions,butinmyexperiencewitnessestoooftenhadtobetrickedintotellingthetruth.Inmy
mostcynicalmomentsasatriallawyer,I’dgobacktoSirTh
 omasMoreandthesanctityofanoath.
S. MAG.: “Afraid of the Dark” is the ninth book in the Jack Swyteck series. Did you see this coming?
 ePardon”(1994).Funnythingis,Iwroteitwithnointentionofcreatingaseries.I
JG: Jackwasfirstintroducedin“Th
steppedawayfrom“Th
 ePardon”foryearsandwrotefivestandalonethrillersbeforeIfinallyreturnedtoJackwith“Beyond
Suspicion”in2002.Istartedgettingemailsfromreaderswhowantedtoknow“whateverhappenedtoJack?”Now,ninedeep
intotheserieswith“AfraidoftheDark,”Ikeepgettingemailsaskingwhathappensnext!
S. MAG.: What challenges do you face every day when writing?
JG: Th
 erefrigerator,whichisabouttenfeetfrommyhomeoffi
ce.Th
 at’showIstartedwriting
outdoors.
S. MAG.: How many times do you have to say to yourself, “What was I thinking writing that,”
and starting over?
JG: Th
 atusedtohappenALOTearlyinmycareer,butnotsomuchanymore.Myoutliningskills
haveimproved,andmyinstinctsaremuchsharper.Iknowwhetherastoryisworking
longbeforeI’vewastedtoomuchtimeandink.
S. MAG.: If you could ask Jack Swyteck a question, what would it be?
 eoKnight(Jack’ssidekick)saidwhenaskedwhathewould
JG: IwillparrotwhatTh
ask God if he had just one question. His response: “What are YOU drinking?”
Granted,Th
 eo’sperspectiveisthatofabartender,buthemaynotbefarfromthe
markinnotingthatsomeofthebestconversationshavestartedwiththatquestion.
70
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
S. MAG.: What scares James Grippando?
JG: Peoplewhoaskwhatscaresme.Andit’ssnakes.Read“Th
 eInformant”andthesceneaboutthevisitto
“ExoticPetsofQueens”andyou’llseewhatImean.
S. MAG.: Do you think the rapid-changing technology today makes it easier or more difficult to
create stories?
JG: Ithinkitmakesithardertocreateenduringstories.Ithoughtaboutthisrecently.HarperCollins
(mypublisher)acquiredtheglobalrightstopublishAgathaChristie,andIwashonoredtoprovide
thisblurbaboutHerculePoirot,whichIthinkdemonstratesthepointI’mmakinghere:
Agatha Christie hooked me in high school, and Hercule Poroit is
one of those rare fictional characters who came to shape my
thinking as both a lawyer and a crime novelist: “How do you
expect to know anything if you do not ask the proper questions?”
(Th
 e Clocks) Poirot lived by those words, and that’s why Agatha
Christie and her thinking detective will continue to fascinate
readers long after the next generation of scientific gadgets comes
alongandrenderstoday’scleverCSItechniqueslaughable.
S. MAG.: In “Afraid of the Dark,” which one line or scene can you pull out of the book and say to readers,
“This is what Jack Swyteck is all about.”
JG: Jackisaboutdiscoveringwhoheis.In“HearNoEvil,”hetravelstoCubatolearnabouttheCubanmotherwhodiedin
childbirth,whomheneverknew.In“AfraidoftheDark,”hemakesanotherpilgrimagetodiscoverhisAngloroots.Idon’twant
togiveanythingaway,butthatfinalscenewhereJackisspreadingashesisprobablyoneofthosedefiningmomentsforJack.
S. MAG.: What was your personal goal when you started writing and have you changed it now that you are so successful?
JG: Gettingpublishedwasneverthegoal.Itwasmoreofadream.Somyfirstgoalwaswhat
everyunpublishedwriter’sgoalshouldbe:finishthenovel.Goalnumbertwowastohave
thegutstotakethescriptoutfromthedresserdrawerwhereIkeptithidden(alongwithmy
dream)andactuallyletsomeonereaditandgivehonestfeedback.Aftereighteennovels,my
goalsarestillprettysimple:1)KeepdoingthisaslongasI’mable-minded,and2)Keepitfun.
S. MAG.: What can we expect to see from James Grippando in the future?
JG: OneofthemostpopularnovelsI’veeverwrittenwas“MoneytoBurn,”aWallStreet
thriller.Ispendseveralmonthsinthefinancialdistrictlastyeardoingresearchfora
returntoWallStreet.Itwon’tbeasequel,butgreedandbigmoneyreturninJanuary
2012withmy19thnovel,whichIjustfinished.
There you have it, James Grippando in all his glory. SuspenseMagazinewould
like to thank James for giving his time to us. And if you’ve ever loved a pet, check
out the article James wrote for the MiamiHerald about his co-author for the past
eleven novels—Sam, his golden retriever (http://www.jamesgrippando.com/about/
article2.html). Or check out his website at http://www.jamesgrippando.com/. 
SuspenseMagazine.com
71
reating
haracter
Quirks
By Stephen L. Brayton
When you hear the name Sherlock Holmes, what are some of the first things you imagine? The distinctive deerstalker
hat? The curved pipe, maybe the magnifying glass? It’s a classic image, somewhat created by those who portrayed Holmes on
stage. Maybe some remember Holmes playing the violin during periods when a case particularly perplexed him. Or storing
his tobacco in a stocking. Possibly, true fans will remember his use of cocaine.
Nero Wolfe brings to mind a large man with an aversion to women’s tears, his collection of beer bottle caps, his enjoyment
of fine food, a slight tilting of his head in acknowledgment or emphasis, often saying “Pfui!” when refuting some absurd
point, his fondness for yellow pajamas, and of course, orchids.
An affinity for tweed, knitting and gardening—besides solving crimes—are quirks associated with Jane Marple.
Many other series characters are remembered because each has one or a series of aspects about them that make them
different from anybody else, their own personal ‘quirks’.
In some ways, the creation of characters is easy. You have a private detective who solves crimes. This person has brown
hair and brown eyes, and usually wears jeans and a T-shirt. See? Easy. However, this person is pretty bland and not at all
memorable. It’s up to the author to add ‘spice’ and ‘life’ to the character. For instance, the detective stands only four feet tall,
drives a motor scooter, owns a St. Bernard, likes Chopin and has an addiction to Snickers. Or maybe the woman has only one
hand, is constantly haunted by nightmares of an abusive mother, owns a crossbow and paints her apartment green.
As long as the author is able to bring the character to life and stay ‘true’ to his/her creation, then maybe people would be
interested in reading about this person. It’s up to the author to give a character something to make him/her different from
everybody else.
Think about the character envisioned by Andy Breckman and David Hoberman and given life by Tony Shaloub. They
created a detective with over-the-top obsessive disorders. Adrian Monk feared milk, wind, sausages, tossed salads, and went
so far as to dispose of a single tissue by sealing it in a plastic baggie, then sealing that baggie in another baggie. Somehow, it
worked and the television character became one of the most loved.
Sometimes, characters are defined by other characters. This is especially true with Stephanie Plum. Yes, she has some
quirky aspects to her, but a lot of the humor and ‘character’ comes from Lulu, Maretti, Grandma Mazer and Ranger.
Authors need to dig deep to find the unique pieces and parts for a character, whether they want the person to be funny
or strictly serious. When writing a story, the characters will often times ‘speak’ and let the author know how to form their
personality. Other authors may want to do an intense character outline to define a particular figure in the story. There are
many books about developing character, and some may find them useful. What each author must remember, though, is not to
be bound and limited by those books. Each must find his or her own path and find whatever works for developing characters.
Who knows? Maybe today somebody is creating another memorable character to stand beside Sam Spade, Elvis Cole,
Ellery Queen, Perry Mason, and Pronzini’s ‘no name’ detective. 
StephenL.Braytonistheauthorof“NightShadows,”andthesoontobepublished“Beta,”bothfromEchelonPress.
72
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
Critiquing Your Craft
74
Previous issues of SuspenseMagazine gave readers, writers and fans something very unique and special from one of the editors at ARR Editing Services. Starr Gardinier Reina is offering her services
free of charge to any writer who’d like an edit and critique of their work. This is a very extraordinary
opportunity to take advantage of and no one that we’re aware of does this. There’s no pressure to use
ARR’s services. All that is offered is her opinion as a writer, editor and even a reader as to how she
perceives your work. Starr has been quoted as saying, “I know how difficult it is to allow someone to
go over your manuscript and tell you what it’s missing, but I’ll do more than that. I’ll give you my honest opinion of what works too.” Criticism comes in all forms, but Starr will only offer the constructive
kind.
This month we have another brave person willing to let their work be put on display—which
is part of the deal—hoping every writer out there can see what works and what doesn’t
or perhaps even pick out common mistakes they see in their own work that they can
be more aware of with future books.
alex dent
The Train
I have always enjoyed the adventurous side of a
train journey and since I was a childI had (this ‘had’
is unnecessary. Because you are saying ‘since I was
a child…and ‘learned’, which I suggest you change
from ‘learnt’, the past tense is already noted.) learnt
to recognise the unique sound that each individual
carriage and the speed of the train manages to
produce. Unfortunately (You have a transitional
word – ‘Unfortunately’ and most times, a comma
is called for after the transitional word. This is one
of those times.) not everybody shares the same
feeling as I do. In fact even though they recognise
its charm (Here, a comma belongs after the word
‘charm’. My suggestion is to read the sentence aloud
with it and without it, using the comma as a slight
pause, in order to determine whether or not you
need a comma.) some consider it monotonous and
others even think that it’s unbearable and fastidious
just like a dripping water tap. However, as far as I’m
concerned, (I do not believe you need a comma after
‘concerned’ here.) I’ve never shared this point of
view. Irritation caused by a repetitive sound to me is
something other than torture. It wasn’t long before
the inevitable happened and a disastrous accident
swept the 16.37 regional train away. The loving way
at which I had (Again, ‘had’ really is unnecessary
here. Your next word – ‘looked’ – notes your desire
for past tense. I will just indicate within the rest
of this document that you should check the word
‘had’. I suggest you check this globally.) looked at the
most fantastic wonder of technical engineering until
then gave way to dismay and terror. (If you read this
sentence aloud, you may see that it is not a complete
one. Perhaps it is the use of your word ‘until’. If you
delete the word ‘until’, it makes more sense. But I
do not want to assume that is your meaning. Please
check this.) Hundreds of people died in that accident.
Without any possibility of escaping, bodies (Bodies
cannot escape. ‘Bodies’ connote dead people. As a
suggestion only, how about: “The passengers had no
possibility of escape and the bodies were…”. Either
that or you mean: ‘Hundreds of people died in that
accident without any possibility of escape. Bodies
were torn apart…’ Do you see the difference and the
importance of placing punctuation in the proper
place? I can’t assume which you mean. It is up to you
as the writer to decide.) were torn apart as in (My
suggestion is to change ‘as in’ to ‘and in’ then place a
comma after ‘instant’) an instant the carriages were
transformed into the worse possible place (Here
you have an issue with pluralisation. ‘Carriages’
are plural. You talk about them being a ‘place’. If
‘carriages’ are plural and you are transforming
them, then it must be ‘places’.) to meet death. I heard
the news from the Head Stationmaster during my
usual detour going backhome from school as I was
bewilderedby it not being on time and I couldn’t see
it approaching as usual. (This sentence does not flow
well and I would suggest segregating them into two.
My suggestion is you do so after ‘…from school.’
And begin your new sentence with ‘I was…’.) (Also,
a new paragraph should be started with ‘I heard the
news…’ Also, please indent all new paragraphs. I
won’t continue indicating, but carefully review your
document and assess where new paragraphs should
begin. As a rule of thumb, if you are changing a
thought, for instance, a new paragraph should be
started.) The passengers seemed to share the same
uneasiness, understandably more than my own, and
I could see that they were just as puzzled as I was
as they glanced at the clock. I usually watched the
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
spectacle from the fence that marked
the boundary of the station just beyond
platform two. A place in which the fortyfive degree view allowed you (You use
the word ‘you’ here. You are switching
from first person (I) to second person
(you). You may consider changing ‘you’
to ‘a person’.) to fully enjoy watching each
individual carriage as soon as the train
approached the bend. It had always been
like that. But not on that day. No sound
announced the arrival of my faithful
friend, which in all those years had
(check your usage of ‘had’ here) never
missed our appointment. When I asked
the Stationmaster why the train was
late (Check the need for a comma after
‘late’.) my young eyes didn’t understand
immediately. I only perceived a weak
attempt to reassure me. A tone of voice
similar to my father’s when he wanted
me to understand something important
and profound. In those never-ending
minutes Alvin, the Head Stationmaster,
(when you first introduce the Head
Stationmaster above, name him at that
time then just use his name from there on
out instead of Head Stationmaster) tried
to find the appropriate words to explain
to me what had (Check your usage of
‘had’ here.) happened and managed to
say: “ Don’t (You have an extra space
between your opening quote and the
word ‘Don’t’. I’m sure it was an oversight,
one that happens to all of us!) worry, lad,
the train will arrive”. (Dialogue needs to
be moved to a new paragraph away from
narration.) However (Here you have
another transitional word that needs a
comma after it.) it was an answer which
didn’t comfort me. In reality he was only
gaining time. Then, finally, I understood
what had (Check your usage of ‘had’
here.) happened.
(New paragraphs should be indented.
I won’t continue to say so, just check
globally.) But the impact of the accident
and all the relative details were clear
only afterwards when, years later, we
remembered the accident together with
some friends. At the junction that should
have directed the train northbound
towards our town, Capsdale, the
train had (Check your usage of ‘had’
SuspenseMagazine.com
here.) continued westbound and it
(The word ‘it’ here is not necessary. I
suggest you read it aloud both ways to
determine.) was derailed. Coming off
the track, it precipitated (‘Fell’ instead
of ‘precipitated’?) into the gorge below
the bridge which (Most times, using
‘which’ requires a comma after the word
preceding it. However, in this instance
I feel the word ‘that’ would be a better
fit.) would have enabled the train to
cross. The cause, without doubt a tragic
human error, had terrible repercussions
on the lives of many people close to my
family. Often being at home, I shared
the stories (I believe an oversight,
but you have an extra space between
‘the’ and ‘stories’ and it turns italics at
that extra space.) reminiscent of that
day with my parents and the tears of
those who had lost a dear one in that
accident. The consequences of that
accident were particularly significant
also from a bureaucratic and economic
point of view because the company in
charge of that part of the track had to
pay exorbitant amounts of money to
the victims’ families. Negotiating petty
amounts that couldn’t compensate the
priceless value of a human life. Sums of
money that couldn’t give serenity back
to those who cried and suffered for a
husband, a son or a friend. Moreover,
the inquiries and subsequent surveys
prevented the re-opening (No dash is
needed. ‘Reopening’ is one word.) of
that line within a certain time. Days and
months passed by until the company
went bankrupt paying compensation to
the victims’ relatives and the Capsdale
- Howthorn (You do not need extra
space before and after the dash.) line
was closed. The (I would start a new
paragraph with ‘The disappointment…’.)
disappointment was hard to accept
and I felt betrayed as if it were my best
friend. I walked along the path which
ran parallel to the railway track. I hoped
and prayed. Hope is always the last to die
after all. The disappointment, however,
(It used to be common to use a comma
before and after the word ‘however’. As
we all know, rules change all the time.
At present, it is acceptable to write: ‘The
disappointment however,…’.) changed
into certainty: no train would ever
cross Capsdale again. The unmistakable
whistle, the “choo choo” sound of the
pistons, the screeching of the tracks
turned into silence. (This preceding
sentence is descriptive. Very well done.
The way you have written it makes the
reader feel sad that they will no longer
here those sounds. Great job.) My (I
would start a new paragraph with ‘My
father’s…’.) father’s decision to move
away for his job made it worse. My father
never contradicted this impression but I
must confess that the decision to move
was also partly because of the sadness
surrounding our town. Capsdale was
left to die. Just like a mother who has
lost her son loses (You have an underline
after the word son.) the will to live. They
say that (check your usage of ‘that’ here)
a town breathes and dies together with
its inhabitants and that whether or not it
survives a disaster depends on the inner
strength of those who have contributed
to building it.
Capsdale drew (You have an extra space
before ‘drew’. I won’t continue pointing
this out, just please check globally.) its
last breath slowly. A long and unrelenting
agony where solitude was its last
companion. Only (I don’t believe you
need the word ‘Only’ here. Please read it
aloud both ways to determine. I don’t
want to assume your meaning. Also, (I
would start a new paragraph with ‘Only
ten…’ or ‘Ten…’, whichever you choose
to start the sentence with.) ten years later
I had the chance to go back to that
godforsaken place again. I believe it was
the last year of college when my father
asked me to go to Capsdale. My Aunt
Mary had (check your usage of ‘had’
here) left us her property in her will.
(The preceding sentence and the
following sentence, I would combine.
Such as: ‘…property in her will—
property unknown to us…’.) Property
unknown to us, situated in the
abandoned town. The solicitor told us of
the unforeseen inheritance in a
professional way, informing us of a piece
of uncultivated land of about 4 (The
number should be spelled out.) acres.
75
The house was in (I believe the word ‘a’
should replace the word ‘in’, but read it
aloud to determine.) Victorian style and
there I used to spend most of my free
time in July. Long (Insert ‘I spent’ before
‘long’?) mornings and afternoons
chasing out lizards (I suggest you change
the order of ‘out lizards’ to ‘lizards out’
for better flow) from under the stones
which decorated Aunt Mary’s blooming
garden. Plants, (Insert ‘There were’
before ‘plants’?) flowerbeds and flowers
(‘Flowerbeds’ and ‘flowers’ connote the
same thing. I suggest deleting one of
them and then insert a comma after the
word you do keep before the following
word ‘which’.) which she personally took
care of and which (You use the word
‘which’ twice in this sentence and it’s
repetitive. I would consider changing
one of them.) were often damaged by my
impetuous behaviour. I wasn’t happy
about (with?) my father’s request (insert
comma after ‘request’.) but I didn’t go
against his will. He had a trump card in
the deck to persuade me: a trip to Europe
that (Check your use of ‘that’ here. It is
necessary? Read it aloud both with the
word and without it to determine.) I had
dreamt (‘I dreamed of ’ instead of ‘I had
dreamt of ”? That is just my suggestion.)
of for some time. He played that card in
front of the cautious look of my mother.
He promised me that we would talk
about it on my return. Persuaded by this
proposition (insert comma after
‘proposition’? Check this.) I gave in. My
parents (New paragraph starting with
‘My parents’) and I spent the rest of the
evening in high spirits imagining the
route we would have taken travelling
around the Old Continent. Even the
following morning while I was driving
towards Capsdale (insert comma after
‘Capsdale’.) I couldn’t stop thinking of
anything else but the trip. I thought of
the Eiffel Tower, of the massive centuriesold Coliseum. Full of excitement (insert
comma after ‘excitement’.) I drove nonstop for seventy kilometres. I arrived at
my destination without realizing it. The
sight of those ruins made me feel a
mixture of melancholy and discomfort. I
got out of the car and contemplated what
76
was left of Capsdale. The memories came
back to me as if I had never left the town.
I closed my eyes and once again heard
the shuffling of people coming and
going. (I would delete the period after
the word ‘going’ and insert the word
‘and’ before ‘the sound’ then lowercase
the word ‘the’ immediately following
this comment. This will join the two
sentences allowing a better flow.) The
sound of the bell at the entrance of Mrs.
Peppers’ grocery next to the old petrol
pump. Old Vince, a grumpy old man,
waiting (insert ‘sat’ before ‘waiting’?
Please read sentence aloud to determine.)
hopefully for the few cars in circulation
to fill up with a few gallons of petrol. I
thought that if I had concentrated
enough, I could have smelt (Change
‘have smelt’ to ‘smell’. Because you are
using the words ‘had’ prior and then
‘could’, it is not necessary to use ‘have
smelt’.) the grease and motor oil on his
dirty hands. But they were memories.
When I opened my eyes I understood all
that I felt and heard was only (insert ‘the’
after ‘only’) fruit of my imagination. The
sun coming out from behind a lonely
cloud brought me back to reality. The
grocery sign was completely ruined with
time and Vince’s garage was just a pile of
rubble. Dispirited, (New paragraph with
‘Dispirited’. Also, great use of the comma
after the transitional word ‘Dispirited’.) I
decided to head for my dead Aunt’s
house. My watch showed it was already
midday. I went back to my car which was
idling softly in the warmth that had
(check you usage of ‘had’ here) previously
brought me back to the reality of the
empty town. I carried on driving along
the road (insert comma after ‘road’.) not
caring about how uneven it was and
hoped and prayed that the tyres would
resist. I arrived in front of the house
about ten minutes later. The (Begin new
paragraph here with ‘The planks’.) planks
of wood creaked as I went up the steps
leading to the porch. My steps were even
more uncertain at that sinister sound. I
was relieved when I reached the door. I
went inside. The house was completely
empty but (I suggest you change the
word ‘but’ to ‘and’ here) just as I
remembered it, although it (extra space
before ‘it’.) had (check your usage of
‘had’ here.) now lost its noble charm
forever. The wall paint was encrusted by
time and the bad weather, penetrating
with all nature’s force, had destroyed
most of the roof. Instead, (The use of the
word ‘instead’ here does not seem to fit.
I would consider deleting it.) the
windows without glass panes looked
onto a now unrecognisable landscape. I
said to myself that the only thing to do
was to inspect the uncultivated land. I
hoped it would have made some money
if my parents ever decided to sell it. The
house was of no use. The (Extra space
before the word ‘The’ and I would start a
new paragraph here.) property extended
parallel to my left ending with a gentle
slope. An (I believe you mean to use ‘a’
instead of ‘an’. Also, I would connect the
preceding sentence with this one.) bare
hill close to the house. The climb wasn’t
difficult and (consider changing the
word ‘and’ to ‘but’ and if you do, insert a
comma after the word ‘difficult’.) I
managed to walk quite easily. The soil
was irregular and ran along the slope
which was a comforting discovery. Part
of that inclining (extra space after ‘that’.)
wall was an enormous amount of earth
and gravel. Ideal for anyone who wanted
to take advantage of its potential.
(Consider combining the two preceding
sentences.) I knew for certain that that
(consider changing the second ‘that’ to
‘the’ as it is not necessary for the reader
to understand nor for grammatical
accuracy.) material could be used for the
foundation of a house. Calculating the
distance of the built up area nearest
Capsdale, the possibility of finding a
buyer didn’t seem at all difficult to me. I
(I suggest you begin a new paragraph
here) was still weighing up (the use of
the word ‘up’ here is unnecessary.) my
discovery when something familiar
reached my ears. A familiar (consider
changing this word ‘familiar’ as you just
used it and it’s repetitive.) sound yet
strange at the same time. It was
impossible that that (consider changing
the second ‘that’ to ‘the’.) unmistakable
whistle was a friend who I had (check
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
your usage of ‘had’ here) once loved and
defended with all my strength. I jerked
with fear, certain that it couldn’t have
been him. Not in that place sadly. (I’m
not certain what it is you mean by using
the adverb ‘sadly’ here. If you mean it’s a
sad place, perhaps you could put the
word ‘sad’ before the word ‘place’.) I
strained my ears but, just as I expected,
the familiar sound wasn’t repeated. I
thought that I had (As a suggestion, try:
‘I thought I imagined it’. You really don’t
need the words ‘that’ and ‘had’.) imagined
it and blamed the hallucination on the
suggestive setting and to the fact that I
had forgotten to eat something. It was 3
pm. (numbers should be spelled out and
‘pm’ should be ‘p.m.’.) My empty stomach
grumbled like a boiling pot. I spent the
following hour eating and enjoying the
sun.
I decided I would start off again once I
had (check your usage of ‘had’ here)
rested well and then get back home
before dark. The last thing I wanted to
do was to be welcomed by the dark and
find myself again in (Incorrect word.
Change ‘in’ to ‘on’. You cannot be ‘in’
land, you are ‘on’ land.) that isolated
land. Against all expectations I even
managed to rest. However (check
comma usage after the word ‘However’.)
my sleep was interrupted again by the
whistle that previously I had (check your
usage of ‘had’ here.) thought I had
imagined. I opened my eyes, stunned,
unable to think rationally. I heard it
again, clear, echoing in the air. What was
happening wasn't a dream. The horror
came from my limbs like a fire of an
enormous bonfire (Consider change ‘a
fire of an enormous bonfire’ to ‘flames of
an enormous bonfire’.) and for a long
moment I couldn't move. A long
moment of panic left me motionless
there (do you need the word ‘there’?)
where I was lying. They say that
sometimes words aren't enough to
describe certain moods. This was one of
those moments. My hair stood on end
behind the back of my neck. (Perhaps I
am over analyzing here, but hair cannot
be ‘behind the back of the neck’. Perhaps
try: ‘…stood up at the back of my neck’.)
SuspenseMagazine.com
No, this really wasn't happening. I kept
on (do you need the word ‘on’ here?)
telling myself this repeatedly. Then I
instinctively looked at the clock; it was
4.30. (is this 4:30 a.m. or p.m.?) At (I
would begin a new paragraph here) the
sight of the time I jumped up like a cat
spotting a dog and with a jerk I stood up.
I began to run. I don't know how long it
took me to reach the station and not
even how I found the road. All I know is
that my legs showed a strength and
resistance that I was unaware of. They
guided me, turning after turning, (turn
after turn?) always in the right direction.
I ran each mile feverishly. And instead of
slowing down from tiredness (while
‘tiredness’ is not incorrect, I believe the
word ‘exhaustion’ flows better) I got
faster and faster. I ran round (around)
every obstacle in my way: holes,
branches, ditches. I jerked to the left and
to the right. I seemed to be the best
running back player that a football team
could ever wish for. My trainer would
have been surprised. Evidently, training
sessions with the college team were
paying off. Never had I run like that in
my early sports career. My heart
thumped like a boiler working at full
capacity. My blood pumped from the
atria to the ventricles and from there
again towards the thirsty muscles that
seemed like a swollen river. Little drops
of perspiration beaded my forehead,
others covered my eyes, some went
down my back. (You do a nice job
showing the urgency of the need to get
to your destination here. Well done.) The
nearer (closer) I got the easier I could
hear it. I heard the wheels on the tracks,
I felt them jump at every joint. Then I
saw him. My faithful friend of always.
Where I had (check your usage of ‘had’
here) always waited for him. The friend
that (When speaking of a person, you
use the word ‘who’, not ‘that’.) years
before had (check your usage of ‘had’
here) missed the 16.37 appointment. I
stopped behind the fence now reduced
to a few pillars, worn by the bad weather.
Train in station· (I’m not sure what
happened here, but you seem to have a
dot in the middle of the sentence and
again an odd character in place of the
‘T’.) as old Alvin used to say. (Because
you are quoting Alvin, you need to let
the reader know you are doing so. Try
using quotes around his words.) The
thrill which (that?) hit me was
indescribable; (I would change the
preceding semicolon to a period and
begin a new sentence with ‘It was’.) it was
exactly as I remembered: ten passenger
carriages and the gold- bronze (you have
an extra space before ‘bronze’) coloured
engine which shone with light like an
imminent sunset. It was punctual as
always, just as it had been before the
accident. I looked at it. I said to myself
that (check your usage of ‘that’ here) it
was impossible that it was there. The
track had been closed and no train had
stopped at or crossed Capsdale for years.
The more I stared at it the more I thought
I was dreaming. But I wasn't dreaming. I
was awake. I was perspiring and my
muscles went into spasms because of the
force they has (have?) been put under. I
(new paragraph) don't know how many
seconds passed when I realised that the
strange events hadn't ended. The sound
of the vents from which the air came out
was a deaf sound. Deprived of a vital
gasp that I had (check your usage of ‘had’
here) always attributed to it. But there
was more. The screeching of the brakes
was unnatural. It wasn't the classic
screech of steel against steel. It seemed to
be a scream of terror. The scream of
hundreds of people in unison in the
desperate attempt to escape an atrocious
and inevitable destiny. This thought
made me instinctively tighten my lips
and for a few seconds I couldn't form
any coherent thoughts. Nothing could
justify what I had (was seeing?) in front
of me. But the surprises hadn't finished
yet. Passengers started to alight the train.
I asked myself if I was going mad. Or
rather I came to the conclusion that I
was already mad. My first reaction was
to close my eyes and pray that (check
your usage of ‘that’ here) the hallucination
would disappear. It didn't happen and as
much as I wanted to close my eyes (insert
comma after ‘eyes’) a dark force wouldn't
allow me. The only thing I managed to
77
do was to hide behind a bush a few
metres away from where I had been. I
crouched down so I wouldn't be seen.
My leg muscles were hurting (insert
comma after ‘hurting’) but I put up with
the pain by biting my tongue. Hoping
that I wouldn't be seen (insert comma
after ‘seen’) I continued to watch the
scene in front of me incredulously. I
dismissed the idea of having lost my
mind and kept on watching it as if I was
hypnotized. Supernatural or not, I was
there and I had to see it through and get
to the bottom of it all. I (new paragraph)
found my courage again, concentrating
on every single detail. The first thing I
noticed was that the people had a more
ethereal look, contrary to the train. I
could see through their bodies. In short,
those people seemed to have no human
consistence. Their bodies weren't
material, they weren't of flesh and bones.
Pure spirits. The colour of their clothes
was old and outdated. Their dull glazed
glances were lost towards the horizon
staring at the sun, now an orange ball.
Some of the people gathered in small
groups. A macabre ballet that froze my
blood. Adults and children, young and
old, all took their place (you are speaking
of adults and children, which is plural
and therefore, ‘place’ needs also to be
plural) on the platform in front of the
old waiting room where there was a
clock. The hand that had (check your
usage of ‘had’ here) stopped until that
moment started to move. The tick
echoed in the silence of the station. The
pistons of the train became silent.
Everything stopped except for the
mechanical sound of marked time.The
(insert space between the period and
‘The’) souls who had expressionless faces
listened in silence without looking away.
Then something happened. The rigid
marble-like faces changed expression. I
even saw that some seemed to show
signs of sadness and melancholy. Others
bowed their heads towards the benches.
Some seemed to start crying. Strange
(insert comma after ‘strange’) bright
shiny drops fell from their eyes. What
was happening ? (you have an extra
space before the question mark) Was it
78
possible that through that (change ‘that’
to ‘the’) clock the town and souls had
spoken ? (you have an extra space before
the question mark) In that case, what
had they said to each other ? (you have
an extra space before the question mark)
My (new paragraph) head was filled with
questions. Then, as if the answer was at
hand, I understood. The town had (check
your usage of ‘had’ here) apologised to
its old inhabitants for not having waited
for them. It had (check your usage of
‘had’ here) apologised for not having
resisted time, leaving it to die. It had
(check your usage of ‘had’ here)
apologised to its children. It had (check
your usage of ‘had’ here) apologised to
the people who had (check your usage of
‘had’ here) lost their lives in that last
train journey in the terrible grip of the
crumpled carriages. While I reflected on
this latest revelation another event took
place (insert comma after ‘place’) leaving
me breathless. Their faces began to
brighten with an intense light. Now
there was understanding in their
expressions. Yes, they had (check your
usage of ‘had’ here) understood and
weak smiles that were previously
invisible parted from (delete ‘from’) their
lips. They looked at the clock for the last
time. First the tick slowed down and
then it stopped. The train started to chug
as if it had awakened from a deep sleep.
Everyone got back onto the train, just as
they had (check your usage of ‘had’ here)
alighted. (I suggest changing the period
to a colon and lower case the ‘in’
immediately following this comment,
combining the two sentences) In no
hurry. Aware that time no longer meant
anything to the souls of Capsdale. Slowly
and gradually getting faster (insert
comma after ‘faster’) the train chugged
decisively along the railroad. The
landscape swallowed it turning it into a
single dot and finally it vanished beyond
the hills. (This is a well-written,
descriptive sentence. Well done.) I (new
paragraph) went back to my car slowly,
reflecting on that strange experience.
Now dark, there was only the sound of
my breathing to keep me company on
the road back home. I thought about the
train, the engine, the carriages and the
tormented souls that (‘who’ not ‘that’)
sat inside. Those souls who had (check
your usage of ‘had’ here) tried to ask for,
and had (check your usage of ‘had’ here)
finally received, (delete comma after
‘received’) their last embrace from
Capsdale. Instead, I said farewell to a
friend.
CRITIQUE: You have the beginnings of
a very interesting story here and I’d love
to know the ending! Be careful of your
over usage of the words ‘had’ and ‘that’.
It is common for writers to fall into that
same trap, myself included. Also be sure
your sentences are complete. There are
times incomplete sentences are allowable
and actually, times they work well, but
using them too much cause choppy, illflowing paragraphs. When this happens,
the flow is thrown off and the reader
may put the book down. I suggest you
carefully go through you work and check
your punctuation. Commas are very
tricky and rules regarding them seem to
change all the time. Transitional words
used at the beginning of a sentence
almost always require commas. Also,
segregate your paragraphs. I encourage
you to review your work for grammar
and punctuation and suggest the book
“Elements of Style” by William Strunk,
Jr. and E.B. White. This is a very useful
book and should be in every author’s
toolbox. It’s been around for years (since
approximately 1918, I believe) and is
continually updated. You use some very
well-written, descriptive sentences. As
I indicated, you have a great start to a
fascinating story and I look forward to
reading one day, your finished work.
~ Reviewed, edited and critiqued by
Starr Gardinier Reina, editor for ARR
Editing Services (www.arrediting.com)
and author of “Deadly Decisions" (www.
queenwriter.com) 
June
3 - 5, 2011
BLOODY WORDS
Victoria, BC CANADA
www.bloodywords2011.
com
Suspense Magazine June 2011 / Vol. 023
J
U
S
T
F
O
R
F
U
N
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
Robert B. Parker, “Sixkill,” (Spencer Mystery)
Iris Johansen, “Eve”
Mary Higgins Clark, “I’ll Walk Alone: A Novel”
David Baldacci, “The Sixth Man”
Henning Mankell, “The Troubled Man”
J.D. Robb, “Indulgence in Death”
Harlan Coben, “Live Wire”
Charlaine Harris, “Dead Reckoning”
Stuart Woods, “Bel-Air Dead”
James Patterson, “The 9th. Judgment”
Lisa Scottoline, “Save Me”
Jonathan Kellerman, “Mystery”
John Sandford, “Storm Prey”
Anne Perry, “Treason at Lisson Grove”
Jacqueline Winspear, “A Lesson in Secrets”
SuspenseMagazine.com
16.
17.
18.
19.
20.
21.
22.
23.
24.
25.
Jessica Beck, “Evil Eclairs”
Taylor Stevens, “The Informationist”
Lisa Gardner, “Love You More”
Susan Wittig Albert, “Mourning Gloria”
Cynthia Riggs, “The Bee Balm Murders”
Douglas Preston & Lincoln Child, “Fever Dream”
Jeffrey Deaver, “The Burning Wire”
Carolyn Hart, “Dead by Midnight”
Casey Daniels, “A Hard Day’s Fright”
Laura Childs, “The Teaberry Strangler”
For Extra Credit:
26. Jessica Fletcher, Donald Bain, “Murder She Wrote:
Skating on Thin Ice”
79
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