Suspense Magazine July 2012

Suspense, Mystery, Horror and Thriller Fiction
August 2012
Catch up with
Karin Slaughter
Julie Kramer
D.P. Lyle
Rick Murcer
Meet Rising Talent
SBR Martin
As Always Movie &
Book Reviews
… & More Rules of
Fiction (Part III)
Peek Inside the
Cover With
Allison Leotta
Brian Andrews
Shobha Nihalani

FROM TWO-TIME RITA AWARD–WINNER
A determined daughter . . .
A skeptical detective . . .
A deadly secret . . .
The police say her father’s death was suicide. Kelly Warren
says it was murder—and she has new evidence to prove
it. Detective Cole Taylor doesn’t put much credence in
her claim, and nothing in his case review suggests foul
play. But when Kelly ends up in the ER with a lifethreatening
medical condition, Cole digs deeper—and
discovers a startling secret that links her to a long-ago
crime. Is history repeating itself And does someone
want Kelly silenced
“Hannon is a master at
character development.”
—Library Journal
DON’T MISS
www.IreneHannon.com
n
Available wherever books are sold.
Also available in ebook.

C r e d i t s
John Raab
President & Chairman
Shannon Raab
Creative Director
Romaine Reeves
CFO
Starr Gardinier Reina
Executive Editor
Terri Ann Armstrong
Executive Editor
J.S. Chancellor
Associate Editor
Jim Thomsen
Copy Editor
Contributors
Donald Allen Kirch
Mark P. Sadler
Susan Santangelo
DJ Weaver
CK Webb
Kiki Howell
Kaye George
Weldon Burge
Ashley Wintters
Scott Pearson
D.P. Lyle M.D.
Claudia Mosley
Christopher Nadeau
Kathleen Heady
Stephen Brayton
Brian Blocker
Andrew MacRae
Lisa McCourt Hollar
Val Conrad
Laura Alden
Melissa Dalton
Elliott Capon
J.M. LeDuc
Holly Price
Kari Wainwright
David Ingram
Bill Craig
Jodi Hanson
Amy Lignor
Susan May
J.S. McCormick
Kestrel T. Andersen
Lynne Levandowski
Cassandra McNeil
Jenny Hilborne
Tanya Contois
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SuspenseMagazine.com
What the hell is your book about
This is the focus of this letter from the editor.
The reason I ask that question is because too many
times we receive e-mails, queries, and requests
from authors and publicists to send synopses of
their books.
Here is the deal, coming from an editor. Don’t
tease us. We don’t like it. Let us know in your query
the beginning, middle, and end of your book. Let
the editor decide from that point whether or not we
want to read the book. This is the same for any type
of marketing you are doing to blog sites, radio shows, etc. Suspense Magazine receives
more than three thousand books each year, and thousands of short stories. We have to be
picky about who we review, because we simply can’t read all those books.
Here is an example of the type of e-mail I don’t want to receive: “I’m letting you know
about my book in which the killer goes around killing people and the main character has
a connection with the killer, but they don’t know each other until you reach the exciting
ending when everything will be revealed.” This is not a real e-mail I got from someone,
but you get the idea. Let the reviewer know how the book is going to end, etc. Reviewers
are not customers for your books. So don’t give us—them—the synopsis that would be
written on the back of the book.
Your query letter can be a page, but let us know what we will be getting into. Believe
me, I’ve heard it all before. When I normally get an e-mail that doesn’t break down the
main character, express some emotion, reveal the killer, etc., more than likely it will not
get a response and it certainly won’t be read. Reviewers are people that you need to help
sell your book, and most of them get so many books that they can’t possibly read them all.
Most review books for free. In fact, if you have to pay a fee for a review, run away! There
are way too many independent sites and readers out there that would love to read your
book and review it for free, so never pay for a review.
However, you need to know that reviewers are much like agents and publishers. If
you write a query letter that doesn’t explain your book from beginning to end to an agent
or publisher, you won’t get a nice letter back. Now you might ask, “What about another
author How would I approach them” Again, other authors are not your customers; they
are people that can help you sell books, so you need to treat them like a business partner
in your writing. Let them know what your book is about.
The important lesson to be learned is to know
whom you are writing to. If you are doing an interview,
tease the audience, but if you want a review, leave the
teasers off the page. The biggest question you need to
ask yourself is “What the hell is my book about” If
you can answer that question, put it on paper and get
yourself some people to review your book and start
selling more books.
Good luck and if you have questions or comments,
email editor@suspensemagazine.com. Now go…write!
John Raab
CEO/Publisher
Suspense Magazine
From the Editor
“Reviews within this magazine are the opinions of the individual reviewers and are provided solely to provide readers assistance
in determining another's thoughts on the book under discussion and shall not be interpreted as professional advice
or the opinion of any other than the individual reviewer. The following reviewers who may appear in this magazine are also
individual clients of Suspense Publishing, an imprint of Suspense Magazine: Mark P. Sadler, Starr Gardinier Reina, Ashley
Dawn (Wintters), DJ Weaver, CK Webb, Elliott Capon, J.M. LeDuc, and Terri Ann Armstrong.”
1

CONTENT
S u s p e n s e M a g a z i n e
Au g u s t 2 0 1 2 / Vo l . 0 3 7
America's Favorite Suspense Authors: Part III by Anthony Franze.. . . . . . . 3
A Dose of Reality by Laura Kathryn Rogers.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6
Unsolved: The Elderly Serial Killer by CK Webb.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11
Sneak Peek Excerpt of Discretion by Allison Leotta. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14
Rising Talent: SBR Martin: Just out to Write a Good Book.. . . . . . . . . . . . 17
What Goes Around, Comes Around by Arthur Carey. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20
Sneak Peek Excerpt of A Silent Monument by Shobha Nihalani .. . . . . . . . 28
Inside the Pages: Suspense Magazine Book Reviews.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31
Suspense Magazine Movie Reviews. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 41
Featured Artist: Jennifer Gelinas .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42
Cannonball Ojimbwe by Elliott Capon.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51
What's the Deal with the Silver Bullet by Thomas Scopel.. . . . . . . . . . . . 55
Stranger Than Fiction: Salem Witch Trials by Donald Allen Kirch.. . . . . 57
Sneak Peek Excerpt of The Calypso Directive by Brian Andrews.. . . . . . . . 64
Rubble by Casey McKenna. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68
Contributor's Corner: Jenny Hilborne . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73
VonBertruden’s Curse by Michael Infinito.. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 76
Just for Fun .. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79

America's Favorite
Suspense Authors
On the Rules of Fiction
Part III:
Robert Dugoni’s Seven Deadly Sins of Writing
By Anthony J. Franze
In this series, author Anthony Franze interviews other
suspense writers about their views on “the rules” of fiction.
This month, bestselling author Robert Dugoni discusses
common mistakes made by new suspense writers. Next
month, some of this year’s hottest debut authors give their
“lessons learned”—rules of fiction that helped them get
publishing deals.
In the movie Seven, a rookie cop played by Brad Pitt partners with
a veteran detective as they hunt a serial killer who commits gruesome
murders based on the Seven Deadly Sins. In the famous final scene,
Pitt finds the severed head of his pretty wife (Gwyneth Paltrow) in
a box. That prompts Pitt to gun down the killer, committing the
seventh deadly sin: wrath. (Spoiler apology for those who are two
decades behind with their movies).
For acclaimed legal thriller writer Robert Dugoni, there’s
a different set of deadly sins. Not greed, sloth, pride, lust, envy,
gluttony, or wrath, though many writers are no strangers to those.
Dugoni’s list of vices includes seven missteps new suspense writers
make in crafting their stories—mistakes that are apt to leave
manuscripts in the same sorry state as Gwyneth’s head, torn apart
and discarded in a box: an agent or publisher’s wastebasket.
Dugoni, who the Associated Press recently called “one of the
best thriller writers in the business,” knows of what he speaks. He’s
the author of seven critically acclaimed novels. His recent, “Murder
One,” is a finalist for the prestigious Harper Lee Award for legal fiction
SuspenseMagazine.com
3

and was voted by the Library Journal as one of its top five thrillers in 2011. And his June 2012 release, “The Conviction,” has
become an instant classic. I recently sat down with Dugoni and discussed his “seven deadly sins”:
Failing to Entertain.
Dugoni teaches writing and he often starts his class by asking, “What’s the primary function of a novelist” Dugoni said
the students typically “scratch their heads or make facial expressions like they’re solving a math problem” until he gives
the answer: “We’re entertainers. We entertain. If we’re not doing that, we’re not doing our jobs.” Dugoni’s first cardinal sin,
therefore, is failing to entertain. He focuses on things writers do that annoy, distract, or bore readers. Or, looking at it from a
writer’s perspective, things that get agents and publishers to reject their work.
Dugoni said the most common mistakes he sees, and the easiest to remedy, are those where the writer takes the reader
out of the story by providing too much information. A prime culprit is the “information dump.” Research shouldn’t bog
down a story, but Dugoni said many authors have conducted years of detailed research and “damn it, everyone’s gonna know
it.” Dugoni is not the only foe of the information dump. Last month, I noted one of David Baldacci’s core writing principles:
“Do all the research you can possibly do and then leave most of it out while integrating what you do leave in so that it does
not interrupt the story. We’re writing novels, not textbooks.”
Another common way writers fail to entertain is providing too much backstory, such as where the writer gives a threepage
biography every time a new character enters a room. “Less is more,” is a first principle for Dugoni, “and writers should
weave the relevant information into the story and let the readers fill in the gaps through their imaginations.”
Misuse of the Flashback.
“Many writers misuse the flashback,” Dugoni said. By their nature, flashbacks stop a story from moving forward, so
they should be used sparingly. For Dugoni, writers should use them “only when they can give insights on character that are
relevant to story or move the plot along.” The worst kind of flashback is where the writer has the character think back and
recall something that happened (“I remember when…”). The best are where the writer shows what happened and makes the
flashback its own scene. Bottom line: “If the flashback stops the story moving forward, it probably is a distraction and not
worth it.”
Beginning the Chapter Too Early, Ending Too Late.
Dugoni said that too often less experienced scribes “write their way into the scene” by spelling out each thing that
happened on the way to the action: “The alarm clock went off, he got up, took a shower, brushed his teeth, had breakfast, and
found his wife dead in the living room.” Dugoni said that the place to begin that scene is where the character found his dead
wife. “Anything that can be presumed, like the things we all do when we get out of bed, can be cut.”
Many writers end a scene too late, too. Dugoni said writers sometimes want to sum up what happened, perhaps out of
insecurity that the reader didn’t get it. A newer author might write: “My boss looked up at me and said, ‘you’re fired.’ I then
went to the office, packed my things in boxes, said goodbye to my co-workers, and went home.” The place to end was “you’re
fired.” Everything else is clutter and doesn’t take into account the sophistication and experiences of the reader. In short, the
writer “needs to begin and end with the action.”
Talking Your Way Into or Out of a Scene.
This is the ugly cousin of Sin #3 and occurs when the writer begins or ends a chapter with unnecessary dialogue rather
than writing to the middle of the scene. The newer author might write:
“Hi, how are you”
“Fine, how are you”
“Good.”
“Nice weather.”
“Yes it is.”
“Where are you going”
“I’m going to the store.”
“Why”
“I need bleach.”
“What for”
4 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

“To clean up blood.”
The scene should begin with “I need bleach.” This example may seem exaggerated, Dugoni said, but he sees this type of
extraneous dialogue often in the manuscripts he reviews.
All this is not to say that writers should always avoid their characters engaging in initial pleasantries. It may be worth
doing if relevant to developing a character or the plot. He gave an example of a scene in which a character is going to talk to a
bookie and notices the bookie has a picture of children on his desk: “You’ve got kids They’re great. I’ve got three kids.” That
may be effective if it has a purpose—showing the character trying to connect with the bookie. It can also show something
about the bookie if he replies, “I don’t give a damn if you have kids, I want my money.” So, talking into the scene can be
effective if it’s done with purpose. Otherwise, writers should do what we wish we could do in real life: cut out the small talk.
Failing to Adhere to Point-of-View.
Dugoni has noticed a more “relaxed” approach to point-of-view over the years. He said in some novels you see one
chapter in first person, another in third person. “I’m not a fan of that,” Dugoni said, “but some people can pull it off. That’s
not the problem.” The problem is where the writer changes the point-of-view in the scene. “It’s like a tennis match where the
reader is following the ball back and forth, jumping from head to head.” The reader must know who is telling the story and
the writer should not take readers into more than one character’s head at a time. Dugoni said the rule is simple: “one scene,
one point-of-view.”
The writer can still show what another character is thinking, Dugoni said. “You just achieve that through what the pointof-view
character observes.” For example, “John said, ‘I want a divorce.’ He watched his wife’s face go pale.” Don’t say “the
crowd was surprised,” Dugoni advised. Say, “David heard the crowd gasp.”
Excessive Narrative or Inner Monologue.
The next capital sin is where the writer provides too much narrative or inner monologue of the characters. “This is the
classic telling, not showing problem,” Dugoni said. Giving the character’s inner thoughts is rarely as interesting as the writer
thinks. “It’s much more interesting to see or hear the characters do something.” But if you do it, Dugoni said, keep it short.
And as with most rules of writing, there are exceptions: “In ‘The Catcher in the Rye’ we know Holden Caulfield’s every
thought. But there was a purpose for it—he’s an unreliable narrator.”
Excessive Setting Description or Character
Development.
Dugoni said that “a description of the setting needs to be relevant to the scene; if the scene involves the character hiking
the Pacific Coast Trail to reflect, it is okay to tell us the type of trees and rocks; but not so if the character is running away
from bad guys on the trail.” Again, it comes down to purpose—picking and choosing the right times to describe the setting
and trusting readers to fill in the gaps.
The same is true with character description. “There’s this tendency,” Dugoni said, “to have a character enter a room and
give a full physical description.” But that’s not what we do in real life. Rather, our impressions come slowly unless there’s
something really striking about the person. “If a guy is on a blind date, he might notice the date showing up in a skirt slit up
her leg or if a character has an out-of-the ordinary physical characteristic, but otherwise we rarely notice everything about a
person—and that’s how we should write the scene.”
So new writers perfecting your craft take heed. Though committing one of Dugoni’s deadly sins won’t land you in one of
the circles of the Inferno, ignoring the advice of this renowned storyteller could condemn you to a writer’s hell—the bad end
of the slush pile (okay, that’s enough metaphors for this month, you get the idea). If you want to learn by example, pick up a
copy of “The Conviction,” one of the best thrillers of 2012.
*Anthony J. Franze is a lawyer in the Appellate and Supreme Court practice of a large Washington, D.C. law firm, and author of
the debut legal thriller, “The Last Justice.” In addition to his writing and law practice, he is an adjunct professor of law, has been
a commentator for Bloomberg, the National Law Journal, and other news outlets, and is a contributing editor for the Big Thrill
magazine. Anthony lives in the D.C. area with his wife and three children.
Press Photo Credit: Robert Dugoni (www.robertdugoni.com), Tess Gerritsen (www.tessgerritsen.com), Steve Berry (Kelly Campbell), David Baldacci
(Alexander James), Gayle Lynds (www.gaylelynds.com), Brad Meltzer (Herman Estevez)
SuspenseMagazine.com
5

By Laura Kathryn Rogers
Today was a great day for hunting. I bagged four before breakfast. It gives me a great appetite.
Perhaps I should introduce myself to you, young man. The name given to me at birth, in June of 1965, was
Irving Robert Hawthorne. People called me “Irv.”
You are correct. That would put me in my late nineties. I don’t look it Thank you. That is because of the
magic of computer imagery.
I know you’ve heard of it. I helped create the advanced technology. The science meant to be for healing, growth. Instead,
it was perverted into a means of torture at the relocation centers for the elderly.
Where (you say) I should be
Should.
However, you said yourself that I do not look my age. Thirty, you say Thank you. I am often highly praised for my work.
Yet, you are the first to know about this. I’m wearing, ah, sort of a computerized suit. It makes me look any age I wish. I match
computer chips—depending on the age—that I insert to feed information into my brain so that I know the lingo, culture,
tastes, even the attitudes of whatever age I wish to project. Quite a success, I must say so, myself.
So, why am I telling you Young man, I have my reasons. You do not need a history lesson to know about the changes that
have happened in America in the last thirty years. Most of it happened in your lifetime. However, I am going to give you one.
A detailed one.
Just thirty years ago, the social security system defaulted. Taxes were raised to bail it out. This caused a growing tide of
resentment towards the older generation, some who were living into their eleventh or twelfth decade thanks to improved
healthcare. The younger generation of politicians voiced their concern about those who seemed to be selfishly using the
resources needed by younger others.
Ah, the young.
The young and their mindless parents who raised them to be narcissistic takers, users, one-celled organisms. The ‘middle
ones’ as the parents of this ungrateful horde were now called—in their loving denial—didn’t see the growing danger. They
did not see that once they outlived their usefulness, they would be the next marked for slaughter.
Yes, I said slaughter. You say that the relocation camps did not slaughter anyone. That many millions of elderly perished
was incidental. It was just their time to go.
Really Young man, did you ever visit the places, perhaps to see a grandparent No Then, you do not know.
Ten years ago, the new reform government came into power. You remember, you say. You were a teenager. You did not
vote it in, but you approved of most of what you heard. It made sense to you. The world had limited resources. The oldsters
were greedy, holding onto jobs, homes, assets, not caring about the rights of others. The younger generation had a right to
share the wealth. But, no, the oldsters were selfish; they would not get out of the way. Someone needed to move them.
Fred Ackerman, age thirty-five, was the man to do it.
Ackerman was charismatic, freckle-faced, and he looked ten years younger than what he was. He was a wunderkind who
used his great words to entice a willing second majority of the population into creating mayhem and destruction.
2012 Short Story Contest Submission
6 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

There was us: the over sixties, and them: the under forties. The first and last baby booms. The middle ones, products of
my generation’s wide use of birth control and abortion were a minority. Yet, they were prolific, creating this loud, populous
generation of whining entitlement.
You say I am bitter, young man Well, perhaps when I tell you more, you will see I have earned the right.
Everything my generation did to conserve and save was spent in half the time it took to produce. When it was all gone,
the younger majority pouted and demanded water from the proverbial rock. Yet, there was no saintly Moses to deliver them.
At least until Fred Ackerman came along. He was their hero, their rock star. He quickly became much more…to all of us.
Ackerman played on their fears, prejudices, and feelings of resentment. My own son, Jonas stopped speaking to
his mother and me, and became a devoted follower of the politician. Jonas no longer allowed us to see our young
grandchildren, telling us he feared we would ‘badly influence them.’
Akin to a modern “Mein Kampf,” Ackerman published “The Articles” which distorted facts and painted the elderly as
useless parasites. He proposed that anyone who dared live past sixty be forced to retire, their assets seized, and that they
be relocated to camps where they could be watched, lest they try to steal any more of the future of young America. The
book sold out, and was in a seventieth printing when Ackerman, at age thirty-six announced a run for president.
After his election America, as I knew it, as millions knew it, simply ceased to exist.
Everything he proposed in “The Articles” became law within six months. Millions of healthy senior citizens,
some the parents of the young followers of the Ackerman campaign found themselves forcibly retired. No pension,
no support. If you were sixty or older, you went to a relocation camp unless you were of some value to the ‘state.’
Homes, bank accounts, assets were seized. They were distributed to the younger generation who greedily watched as
millions were forcibly put on buses to relocation camps, not allowed to take anything beyond what they needed to wear,
medicines, and other ‘basics.’
Ackerman continued to warp the truth. The right to vote was taken away from anyone older than sixty. Those
who tried to vote anyway were turned away with guns. The slacker millions voted each new ‘reform’ into law. When
Ackerman was thirty-seven, he was named president for life. The next year the Bill of Rights and the Constitution was
amended to leave out anyone over the age of sixty unless they were, of course, Ackerman, or ‘approved servants of the
state.’
What this last part meant was that Ackerman knew he needed a few of the older folks, folks like me, the computer
folk, the engineers, those who knew things that the younger generation had yet or were resistant or slow in learning. I
was one of the ‘approved servants’ because of my work with computer imagery.
My beloved wife, Doris, however, was not on the approved list.
Off she went to a relocation camp, the nicest possible one of course, something of a resort, I was told. I was allowed to
inspect it. Everything looked okay; however, I wanted her home with me. No, I was told. It was for her own good. I would
be away teaching Ackerman’s staff how to use my computer programs. She would be lonely. Finally, they wore me down.
Doris kissed me goodbye and told me I was making the right decision. I walked away from my wife feeling somewhat less
than a man. Feeling deep in my gut that all of it was terribly wrong and was about to get much worse.
The ‘students’ were lazy, easily distracted, wanting to be paid, but not for doing anything. This was the life their parents, the
middle ones, taught them. They wanted to play with their new electronic gadgets, enjoy the new possessions the government
gave them from the loot seized from the elderly generation.
They didn’t have time to learn or to work. If I couldn’t make it easy for them, they became frustrated and refused to try,
or called in ‘sick.’ If a program had bugs, they didn’t want to solve it on their own, or even with help. I was called in, and told
“Just fix it old man, I haven’t got time.” Business fell off badly. The people who could have fixed it were locked behind huge
gates. The pretense of the camps being anything but prison quickly ended.
Ackerman somehow managed to turn the growing economic business downturn into more justification for the interment
of the elderly. They were the reason for this, he chanted. It was their fault. They should have seen it coming, he said, prepared
the younger generation. It was the oldsters fault. It should have been easier for the younger generation. We were public enemy
number one.
By 2060, you rarely saw an elderly person on the streets. If he or she did go out, they had to have identification papers.
Even then, young gangs roamed, and picked them off, like so much game for the killing. Ackerman made that our fault as
well. The young had been provoked, he stated. All the more reason for the camps. Even more reason for the elderly citizens to
do their duty and teach the young everything they needed to know, and then report to the camps themselves.
We saw the handwriting on the wall. Soon, I was only one of about seven men and women still considered important by
the Ackerman regime. Still, I was regularly stopped, pushed around, and treated rudely by twenty year olds armed with guns.
Men and women who had authority way out of proportion to their maturity and decency.
SuspenseMagazine.com
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I visited Doris whenever I could. I became more and more concerned. Her ‘resort’ no longer had activities or any attempt
to do anything other than crate the thousands of souls forced to stay there. The nursing staff was plagued by constant
turnover; instructions to the internees became curt demands. A program of work became mandatory for all but the most
infirm. This soon became little more than slave labor. People were forced to work the gardens that produced most of the food
for each camp, wash the laundry for the entire facility, clean the building. Those who refused were punished.
How By the very computer imagery that I meant for good. Some young genius learned how to make a chamber of sorts,
where a person could go into, and see images that were as real as I am to you. Yet, the images at the camps were not good
things. They consisted of the types of things of which one’s worst fears and nightmares were made. Things that could (and
did) make many fragile hearts stop beating. People, millions of people, were simply frightened to death.
By this time, I knew that genocide was happening. Worse than Hitler, Ze Dong, or Amin. Worse than any war. There
were over a hundred forty million older people in the camps by 2061, and daily, countless bodies were being pulled out the
chambers, and disposed of.
There were no longer cemeteries because Ackerman deemed such a thing wasteful. The bodies were dug up and summarily
broken down into ashes. All of it was being sent into outer space. Several trips a week. The land was needed, Ackerman said,
for homes, buildings, schools for the young. The young deserved it. His supporters loudly agreed.
Within six months countless dignitaries, including three former presidents went into the ‘reality chambers’ as they were
called, and came out corpses. Their remains were placed somewhere in the nether areas of space between the Moon and
Mars. As if none of the people had ever been.
Across the country, libraries were stripped of anything that referenced the elderly. Whole areas were designated for
Ackerman’s propaganda and authors who wrote like material condemning the elderly for the problems of humankind.
I knew that it was only a short time before I would no longer be deemed useful to the government. Some of the younger
computer experts were actually catching on to my ideas and starting to find them interesting. Especially when they saw
how efficiently the use of imagery could rid them of the excess oldster population. At night, exhausted, I worked on
other experiments that no one knew about. I finished the first prototype of the computerized suit and its accompanying
microchips. I learned a way to insert the chips so that it was virtually painless. After a few trials in the suits, I found that
I was accepted at whatever age I wanted to be.
I turned out to be just in time.
It was on a Saturday, last March. I had gone to visit Doris at her camp. Dear Doris, who had been a kindergarten
teacher, and who tried to reason gently with her captors, who would even gently scold them when they were rough with
her. However, they did not like this. They became even more bullying with my petite, frail wife. She had been put to
work in the kitchens, lugging things that were far too heavy for her. The heavy work and hours on her feet had made her
weaker and sickly. She was frightened, and her face showed it.
The last day she was alive, I brought her a modest gift from our home. It was a small blue bottle from her collection.
The idea was for her to conceal it, and when alone, take it out, and enjoy it. She could think of when she had her garden
and her collections at her fingertips.
The female guard however, who was watching our visit, saw me give Doris the bottle. The woman, a fat, pimply
faced adolescent looking character with hard tiny blue eyes, and a nervous habit of licking her chapped lips, trotted
over and snatched the bottle from my wife. She held it up in the air in delight.
“A pretty!” the guard exclaimed. “Have just the place for it at home.”
“No!” Doris cried, looking at me desperately. “Irv gave it to me. Irv”
The guard put her obese body between Doris and me and backed me into the courtyard, and before I could
respond, locked the gate. Still, I could see and hear everything.
“It’s an extra,” the guard said, licking away saliva from her lips. “You can’t have extras. It’s against the rules. I want
it. So, it’s mine.”
Doris, who had been a meek, non-violent soul in ninety years of life, turned into a spitfire.
She grabbed at the bottle, and when the woman resisted, slapped her.
“Be ashamed of yourself!” Doris said, using a voice that had made many a kindergarten student pay heed.
It was too late for this woman, however. I pulled at the gate, fear coursing through me.
Doris got the bottle, and the guard scuffled with her.
“You Oldsters!” The young woman squealed, “You want everything! Well it is our turn to have! Our turn to take!”
She grabbed at Doris’s hand, and the bottle fell, burst into pieces on the cement ground.
Rage and disappointment danced on the guards face. She drew back her hand and slapped Doris with all her might,
causing my wife to fall backwards on the hard ground.
8 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

Doris got to her feet, and tried to get away from her.
The guard wasn’t satisfied. “You evil old witch! If you can’t have it, no one will, eh I’ll show you what it is like to lose
something!”
To my horror, she grabbed Doris’ hand. I heard the sound of bones breaking. Doris screamed out, but still the woman
would not let her go. Foolishly, I pulled at the door with all my might, but the lock was steel, and held.
“Irv!! Irv!! Help me!” my wife cried.
I helped her. What else could I do
I had long carried a gun in my pocket in case one of the bands of bullies targeted me. This, had it been found
out, would have been considered a crime against the state, and carried the death penalty. However, I had been careful.
Without a second thought, I fired four shots into the ugly, drooling face of the guard. She let my wife go, and fell to the
ground, as dead as anyone ever was.
“Go, go!” Doris cried.
We both heard running footsteps.
“No...I...” I stammered, shocked by what I had just done.
“Irv, listen to me! You know what they’ll do…the chamber…they can make you do things to yourself there, horrible
things, make you wish to be dead long before you are…I’ve heard…GO!”
Doris had forgotten her crushed fingers, and true to her heart, was thinking only of me. The steps were closer,
closer. She pleaded once again, her face awash with tears of pain. I turned and obeyed.
That night, I got a compugram that had long since taken the place of telephones, email, the postal system, or
telegrams. The screen lit up and there was a young man, with a smirky look on his face, so real that I could have
touched him.
“Hawthorne” he asked rudely. I nodded. “I’m sorry to have to tell you. Your wife, Doris Hawthorne is dead.”
“Dead” I looked at the screen, unbelieving.
“She tried to start an uprising at her camp today. She killed a guard, a very valuable employee. We can’t find the
weapon, but she was injured in the attempt. We had to put her down.”
“You put an animal down,” I said, flatly, my heart beating so rapidly that I feared I might follow my wife. “Not a
human.”
“I understand your feelings at this difficult time, learning that your wife was a criminal of the state...” the young man,
seeming more self-satisfied than ever, said.
“You understand nothing! She was my wife! I killed that damn guard! I have the gun! Come get me if you think you’re
up to it!”
The smirk vanished. Coldness took its place. “You, Hawthorne, are one of the few productive oldsters left in America.
Why would you do that, sir We have allowed you freedom. You have your own house. Besides, no one saw you at the
camp today.”
“I was there!” I yelled at the screen, wanting to crush it, “Did you find a broken bottle A blue one I brought it to her.”
“That’s not possible, Hawthorne,” the young man sang out, as if talking to a toddler. “You know she is forbidden extras.
You wouldn’t do that.”
I had enough. I took a step towards the screen. The look on my face must have gotten through to the young man. Even
though he couldn’t be reached via cyberspace, he took a step back.
“Don’t you dare speak down to me, you arrogant young ingrate! I gave her the bottle. The guard tried to steal it. They
struggled. She hurt my wife. I killed her. I am not sorry. I would do it again! Moreover, it is Mister Hawthorne to you. If you
call me anything less, you will get the same the guard did. I will hunt you down and find you! Clear”
“Mister Hawthorne.” A menace entered the cold tone of the young messenger. “Let’s just say that what you say is true.
Which is the better way to punish a useful employee of the state Put him down and put our camps and government at a
disadvantage Or, should we take what is most precious from him Think about it, sir.”
His words tore through me.
“You!”
I wanted to crush him, destroy him, as he and his kind destroyed my wife.
“I see you understand, Mister Hawthorne. I see that you do. I trust the state will have no further problems with you.”
The screen went blank.
I sank to the floor, rocking, writhing, moaning rage, saying foul things, weeping, feeling totally impotent. They had
known I’d done the killing. They handled it. They’d taken the most beloved thing in my life away. My wife. What else could
they do to me
SuspenseMagazine.com
9

I drank most of the night. I did not sleep.
The following day’s hangover was not debilitating, however. Instead, it made things very clear. I finally knew what I had
to do.
Once, I had been a pacifist. I even thought the Second World War had been wrong. I thought there had to be a way to
stop Hitler that had not involved so much bloodshed. I had known nothing. My precious wife being taken in such a heartless
way changed me. The state, Ackerman, all of it had to be stopped. And, I had to try. Or, I would happily die trying.
I adjusted various formulas and the computer suits I was working on. I built a reality chamber of my own in the basement
that surpassed even my hopes. I worked from my home, for the most part, so no one thought to check on me. Before long, I
had over ten thousand suits, with matching chips, all in the age ranges of twenty to forty.
My own personal army.
Then, I went hunting.
I ingratiated myself with Ackerman and his staff. I was wearing a computer suit that made me appear to be twenty-five.
The microchip in my wrist insured that I made no faux pas that gave me away. Soon, I was put in charge of all the relocation
camps. At night, I busily made more suits. Some young, some very, very old.
By last month, no one imprisoned in the camps was older than forty. But they sure looked that way. And no one believed
them that a man kidnapped them and made them look old. Imprisoned them. Crazy oldsters, they thought.
Until it happened to them.
New guards arrived. Young looking ones. We would make eye contact and smile.
Times they were a changing.
You look so shocked, young man. However, you should never mistake a man’s capacity for genius or his desire for revenge.
So why do I tell you I guess you should know. I have a computerized list of those who have youth microchips. You are one
of the last ten youngsters not in the relocation camps. Ackerman He went in last week, screaming and begging for mercy.
You might have read of it.
Last weekend, he was caught escaping. The eighty-year-old with the delusion that he was President for life Ah, I see
that you read the story. Good.
After a trip to the chamber, he now sits and quietly drools. My generation is more humane than yours is. We decided
to let him live.
I see you look frightened, I am terribly sorry. I really mean you no harm. It’s just that your generation started it. I
hope I will not have to kill you. If you come quietly, I won’t have to. I’m a hunter, not a killer. I just like to bag ‘em and
send them to the camps. Like your generation did to so many of my kind.
Unkind I have to laugh at that one, young man. We are just reclaiming our rights. The children Oh, they won’t
go to the camps. They have no idea what has happened. Only that the parents that are raising them have suddenly
become a whole lot more humane in their views. And a lot more strict with them. Teaching them to have character and
responsibility.
I promise you, young man, no one under the age of fifteen will go to the camps unless they are proven to be spoiled
to the point of being incorrigible.
Next week, the constitution will be amended, giving us back all of our rights. Then, we will drop our suits and
again be free to be ourselves, teaching a young generation to have respect for the rights of all. Those in the camps who
can be rehabilitated, will be allowed to be free in time.
You seem like a reasonable sort, maybe you won’t have to stay long…oh, don’t run! I’m ninety-seven, there are
some things even computer programs can’t fix. Don’t make me shoot you!
Oh, there, see what you did
I am sorry, young man. That wound is bad. The chest shots are usually fatal. You say, as you gasp your last, that you
make my fifth victim. No, not exactly.
I said that I bagged four before breakfast. Which reminds me. Hunting makes me so very hungry. And I’ve not had
my bacon and eggs yet.
You, young man were the fourth.
I am very sorry you won’t see the new age for us seniors! How glorious it will be!
May you rest in peace.
Ah, my prunes and orange juice are calling me! And coffee. Strong, black coffee. Just right for a warrior.
After, I will go hunting again.
10 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

A Serial Killer In
Our Midst
By CK Webb
A small city in Northeast Mississippi on the Alabama state line,
Columbus is home to roughly thirty-five thousand people. Columbus has
grown threefold in the last twenty years and shows no signs of slowing
down. Some call it a sleepy little town, but I know for a fact that Columbus
never sleeps! It has an Air Force base with a runway that can accommodate a space
shuttle landing, a host of manufacturers that have brought a ton of jobs to the area,
enough shopping and dining to fill your days, and it’s centrally located between
Mississippi State University and the Mississippi University for Women. But Columbus
also has something that most cities do not have and do not want…
Its very own serial killer!
Let me introduce you to…
The Elderly Serial Killer of
Columbus, Mississippi
Originally, I planned to write an article on a different town, but an arrest in a fourteen-yearold
murder case has swayed my thinking a bit. There is a lot that goes into researching articles
like this one, but nothing is a better source of information than firsthand accounts from people
who actually lived in the area at the time of the murders. As it happens, Columbus is not only the
stomping grounds for a serial killer who preys on the elderly but it is also my hometown.
There are a million stories that I could share with you about the town where I grew up, the
people in it, and the shady dealings that were an intricate part of daily life. There were always
whispers, tales, and rumors that permeated the very fabric of the town itself; some true, some
lies, and some so disturbing you would turn the world upside down for one chance to ‘un-know’
them.
I have seen headlines that rocked the entire community, but nothing; I mean nothing had the
effect on the people of Columbus as the senseless and brutal string of murders that began in 1996.
Mack Fowler, seventy-eight, was found dead in his kitchen on July 8, 1996. Fowler had been
bound and stabbed to death in his home where he lived alone. At first, the authorities dismissed it as a
random act of violence until, a little over one year later, victim number two was found murdered in his
home. George Wilbanks, seventy-five, was found bound, gagged, and stabbed to death in his home on
November 2, 1997. Though the time span between the crimes was significant, it could not remove the
fear it instilled in the community. No one could deny the eerie similarities between the two murders
and the victims.
It would be almost a year before the killer would strike again.
In the months just prior to the resurgence of the murders, my grandfather, who suffered
from Alzheimer’s, walked away from his home and was never seen alive again. There was an
exhaustive search organized and friends, family, and neighbors turned out to help. There had
been little or no help from local authorities, so the family took the initiative to cover the costs of
SuspenseMagazine.com
11

helicopters and search supplies. We searched for days, but were unable to locate him at that time.
On October 13, 1998, Robert Hannah, sixty-one, was found bound, gagged, and strangled to death
in his home. The similarities were just too close to ignore and it was then that local authorities first
said the words “serial killer.”
With the town already reeling from the latest murder, panic would ensue when, on October
21, just one week after the murder of Mr. Hannah, Louise Randall, eighty, was found bound,
gagged, and strangled to death in her home.
Both of these recent murders followed the same modus operandi. The first two victims
lived alone, were over the age of sixty-one, lived in the community most or all of their lives,
and all were respected and easily recognized by most everyone in Columbus. But it would
ultimately be one particular similarity in the crimes that would convince almost everyone
that we did indeed have a serial killer in our midst. That little detail was the fact that all of
the victims lived within a two-mile radius of one another.
The murders were not only despicable and heinous in nature, but they sent every elderly
person in Columbus out to find a means of protecting themselves. Gun sales in the city’s
limits rose by nearly four hundred percent, and there wasn’t a hammer or baseball bat to be
found anywhere in town.
Every citizen was on edge and with the investigation going nowhere and no suspects being
questioned or detained, the elderly in Columbus began to carry weapons for menial tasks like
checking the mail or taking out the trash. Every door in town was being locked throughout the
days and nights and not a single person was willing to open their door to strangers.
It was around this time when my grandfather’s remains were found in an area that I myself
had walked several times with a dog during the search a few months prior. The discovery of my
grandfather’s skeletal remains during such a turbulent time in the city’s history left me with more
questions than answers. To this day, I am troubled by the circumstance surrounding his death.
The residents of Columbus, Mississippi were scared and just wanted the nightmare to be over. It
soon would be.
The final victim of the Elderly Serial Killer was discovered on November 17, 1998. Betty Everett, sixtyseven,
was found in her home. She too had been bound, gagged, and strangled to death. Immediately,
there was an outcry from the community asking police to bring the perpetrator to justice.
Local authorities eventually requested help from outside agencies and soon Columbus was crawling
with FBI agents, who concluded that there were too many similarities in the cases to ignore. They also
deduced from the evidence that the perpetrator of these heinous crimes was most likely a longtime
resident of the area and could possibly be a person in a position of authority. Their reason for this was
the victims’ willingness to simply open the door and let the killer in.
The case of the Elderly Killer in Columbus, Mississippi eventually went cold and when another
kidnapping/murder trial was set to begin, the elderly murders were quietly swept beneath the proverbial
rug. There was no more mention of the murders and soon, even the reward posters and fliers disappeared
from the landscape.
Though the local media coverage died
and faded, the story was not forgotten, and
in 2009 CBS’s hit TV show 48 Hours, rolled
into town to cover the story and do some
digging of their own. After the story aired,
there were more questions asked about those
in positions of authority as well as their
handling of the case. It wasn’t long before the
police chief (one of the people who played
a major role onscreen during the filming of
12 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

the show) was under investigation. He wasn’t alone, though; the District Attorney as well as the two Circuit Court judges
from Lowndes County (Forrest Allgood, Judge Kitchens, Judge Howard) all went beneath a microscope.
Only one of the community leaders would be charged with a crime. Donald Freshour, the police chief in Columbus at the
time of the murders, made national news himself when he was arrested for skimming the Crime Stoppers cash and handing
it over to his mistress. The other three who were under investigation are still being watched to this day, and though there
have been too many questionable incidents take place (unexplained deaths, questionable suicides, wrongful convictions, and
crime scene bungling) no charges have ever been filed against these men.
Freshour eventually pled guilty to embezzlement and was sentenced to eight months in prison. He served his time and
now works in construction.
Columbus, Mississippi is a beautiful little town with a lot to offer, but it also has more than its fair share of dirty little
secrets and skeletons in the closets.
City prosecutor Dennis Harmon had this to say about Columbus in his interview with CBS:
“Columbus has a long history of mysterious deaths. There are a lot of very interesting suicides in this town. There was
one young man with a hole in the back of his head when they found him in the water. The hole was ruled a crawfish hole
and that it somehow was a suicide in the water.” In my research, I discovered that Columbus has another string of murders
that could easily be ruled ‘serial’ in nature. All prostitutes and drug users killed in the same manner and all were found dead
within a half-mile radius of each other.
So, if you find yourself on Highway 82 or Highway 45 and see the Columbus sign, remember to keep your head on a
swivel and don’t let your guard down. The life you save could be your own.
Once again…
Someone, somewhere is always getting away with murder.
SuspenseMagazine.com
13

Special Preview from Allison Leotta
Discretion
By Allison Leotta
Press Photo: Tim Coburn
CHAPTER 1
Sunday
1
Even now, Caroline got nervous before every big job—
and this was bigger than most. She knew how to smile
past smirking hotel concierges and apartment-building
doormen who deliberately looked the other way. The
key was looking confident. But committing a crime in
the U.S. Capitol was a different experience altogether.
She tried to radiate authority as she strode up the marble steps to the Capitol’s Senate carriage entrance. It helped that she was
dolled up like a successful K Street lobbyist: ivory St. John suit, Manolo heels, hair painstakingly highlighted just the right
shade of blond. Two men coming out of the portico murmured hello to her, and she smiled as if she greeted congressional
staffers all the time. One staffer turned to watch her pass. His glance was appreciative but not shocked; she was young and
beautiful, but she looked like she belonged in this world of high-octane political deal-making. Good. She stepped out of the
muggy August twilight and into the air conditioned cool of the security vestibule. To calm herself, she concentrated on the
feeling of lace garters skimming her thighs. This was one of the riskiest moments, so she arranged her face into its brightest
smile. “Hello.” She greeted the two Capitol Police officers with cool professionalism. “I have an appointment with Congressman
Lionel.” Her heart beat like hummingbird wings as she handed her ID to the officer sitting behind the counter. The guard just
smiled as he cross-checked the ID against a paper on his clipboard. He scribbled something down and handed back her ID,
along with a rectangular sticker that said visitor in red. “Just stick that on your suit, ma’am. Your escort will be right down.”
Caroline pressed the sticker onto her jacket as the second guard sent her Fendi bag through the X‐ray machine. When she
was on the other side of the metal detector, she took her purse off the belt—and exhaled. She stood in the quiet entranceway,
sensing the officers checking out her legs. The hallway was 1800s chic: mosaic floor, arched ceiling, black iron candelabras
casting a golden glow on flesh-colored walls. She’d heard that the Capitol was one of the most haunted buildings in D.C., and
she imagined the ghost of John Quincy Adams swirling through the corridor. Was it always so empty This was a private back
entrance reserved for congressmen, staffers, and VIP visitors who’d been pre-cleared. And it was almost eight p.m. on a
Sunday. Most employees were home. Still, she wished it were busier. A gangly young man rounded the corner. He wore an ill
fitting suit and sneakers, along with a smudge of tinted Clearasil on his temple. An intern. “Ms. McBride” “Yes.” Inwardly,
she cringed at the sound of her real name, but she was an expert at keeping a serene face no matter what was in her head.
Besides, the kid was harmless, in the way that only a young man wearing his first suit can be. His sleeves were too short,
14 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

exposing two inches of pale, freckled wrists. He reminded Caroline of her little brother, whom she adored. “I’m Chester!
Congressman Lionel’s intern! I can take you up to his office!” “Thank you.” She walked with him down the corridor. “So what
are you here to see the Congressman about” “Constituent services.” She smoothly changed tacks. “What do you do for the
Congressman” Men—whatever their age—were always happy to talk about themselves. The intern enthusiastically described
the process for answering congressional correspondence. “We can send sixty different form letters, depending on what a
constituent asked about!” He stopped for a breath as they entered the most beautiful corridor Caroline had ever seen. The
hallway itself was a work of art. “These are the Brumidi Corridors,” Chester said in an excited stage whisper. “Originally
painted in the eighteen hundreds. Most tourists don’t get to see them.” Every inch of wall and arched ceiling was covered in
elaborate paintings of American history. Chester pointed to the figures of men sculpted into the railings of a bronze staircase.
“The Founding Fathers.” He waved at a lunette painting above a wooden door. “The Goddess of War.” Despite herself, Caroline
was impressed. The clack of her heels echoed off the walls as they walked into a circular chamber, as large and ornate as a
cathedral. She remembered coming here ten years ago, on a seventh-grade field trip. This was the Rotunda, the ceremonial
heart of the Capitol. She recognized some of the iconic canvases: the Declaration of Independence, the Landing of Columbus.
The domed ceiling, 180 feet above, was covered with The Apotheosis of Washington, a fresco painting of the first President
depicted as a god among angels. “Wow,” she whispered. For the first time that night, Caroline had a real sense of the history
of the place. It wasn’t some TV backdrop. So much had happened in this building, so many famous people had made world
changing decisions here. Who was she to be prancing through She was a fraud. Then she noticed the paintings of revolutionary
America. Among hundreds of soldiers, explorers, and men in white wigs . . . she saw only four women. Of those, two were
naked and on their knees. She felt better. Some things never changed. She wasn’t a fraud— she was a constant. Chester led
her past a sign that said no visitors beyond this point. They went up a series of curved staircases and down some empty white
corridors, then stopped in front of an unlabeled door tucked around a corner. “Here’s the Congressman’s hideaway!” She had
no idea what a hideaway was. “His personal office,” the intern whispered. “A little oasis. Where he can get away from the
hustle-bustle.” There didn’t seem to be much hustle-bustle at this hour, but Caroline understood the precaution. Her prior
appointments, at the Congressman’s regular office in the less glamorous Rayburn Office Building, had caused difficulties. She
was glad for the privacy this place afforded. Chester pushed the door open and gestured for Caroline to go in. He himself
stood outside, as if fearful of crossing the threshold. The door clicked shut behind her. The hideaway was quiet and unoccupied.
It looked more like a sitting room in a nice hotel than an office. The walls were deep maroon; the floors were covered in
Oriental rugs; a leather couch faced a white marble fireplace. Pictures of the Congressman in action crowded every horizontal
surface. An antique desk in the corner seemed less a place to work than a space for displaying more photos. A door at the
back was open to a wide marble balcony overlooking the National Mall. Caroline’s breath caught. The Washington Monument
and Lincoln Memorial were framed against a fiery sunset. It was a stunning view, better than a postcard. A man stood on the
balcony, his elbows resting on the railing, his back to her. The sunset threw his figure into dark silhouette. She smoothed her
skirt and ran a manicured hand through her hair. This was the part she liked best. She was good at it—great, to be honest. She
had a talent for it like nothing else she’d ever tried. It gave her incredible satisfaction. She smiled and walked out to meet him.
A woman’s scream pierced the stillness of the Capitol grounds. Officer Jeff Cook was on patrol on the Capitol steps. He’d been
a Capitol Police officer for twelve years, but he’d never heard a scream like that around here. He put a hand on his holster and
turned toward the sound. His eyes flicked over the scenery until they identified the source of the scream. There—up the
hill—the third floor balcony of the Capitol’s south wing. A man and woman locked in a jerky dance. Cook couldn’t make out
the people, but he knew the geography: That was Congressman Lionel’s hideaway. The couple lurched left, then right. The
woman shrieked again. Then the man shoved her over the edge. The woman seemed to fall in slow motion, emitting an
operatic wail the whole way down. Arms flailed in graceful circles, legs kicked in lazy swings, as she dropped past marble
flourishes and arched doorways. A thud. And silence. She’d landed on the marble terrace in front of the Capitol. Elegant for
walking on, it was a disastrous place to fall. What would that slab of rock do to flesh and bones traveling at the speed of
gravity Cook squinted back up at the balcony. The man was still up there; he peered over the balcony, then turned and
disappeared inside. Cook ran up the Capitol steps.
For twelve years, Allison Leotta was a federal prosecutor specializing in sex crimes and domestic violence in Washington, DC. She
is a graduate of Harvard Law School and Michigan State University. She lives with her husband, Michael, and their two sons in
Takoma Park, Maryland. “Law of Attraction” was her first novel and the sequel, “Discretion,” was released in July.
Allison also blogs about the TV show Law & Order: SVU—what it gets right and wrong, from her perspective as a real sex-crimes
prosecutor. The ABA has named her blog, The Prime-Time Crime Review, one of the best legal blogs in America. Check out her
website at www.allisonleotta.com.
SuspenseMagazine.com
15

AVAILABLE WHERE
DIGITAL BOOKS ARE SOLD
WWW.PAULKEMPRECOS.COM

Rising Talent
Just out to Write a Good Book
SBR Martin
Sarah Beth (Rem) Martin graduated from
the University of Pittsburgh with degrees
in psychology and law. One of her greatest
achievements in law school was graduating cum laude
and receiving semester honors for each and every
semester. Although this hometown girl had received
recognition for writing in these two subjects and was
lead managing editor of Pitt Law’s Journal of Law and
Commerce, neither degree naturally pointed to a career
as a writer, though listening to her discuss her novels you
definitely see that she draws deeply on her knowledge
base in these subjects.
She had her first professional work published
through AOL’s Patch Network, which led to a stint with
CBS Local Media Pittsburgh. However, it was her first
novel, “In Wake of Water,” published in November 2011,
that brought her the attention in the literary world. A
description of the novel almost sounds prophetic in light of recent events at that other Pennsylvania
school:“Enter a world of sex, deception, ignorance, and guilt. Malformed metaphysical ideas and corrupt
social mores intertwine against the backdrop of a small town where there are too many secrets and life is
anything but ideal.” Martin assured me she was not channeling Jerry Sandusky when she wrote that.
Now married and still living in Pittsburgh, Martin is the mother of two girls. One skill she is going to have to brush up
on however, is bike-riding. Martin has never mastered the skill. So not only are her children one up on her but whenever she
is told it’s as “easy as riding a bike” the analogy is completely lost on her.
She writes under the pen name SBR Martin. “In Wake of Water” was recently followed by her most recent novel “Pig.”
Both books are thematically dark but follow a natural path that many lives take. I recently caught up with her.
Mark P. Sadler (MPS): What’s with the Rem
Interview By Mark P. Sadler
Press Photo: PicChick Photography by Lizzy Bittner
Cover Art by Jenn Wertz, musician/artist of Rusted Root fame
Sarah Beth (Rem) Martin (SBRM): Rem is my maiden name. Considering that everyone in my immediate family is deceased, I
just couldn’t let go of my maiden name after I got married. It felt too much to me like I’d be letting Sarah Beth Rem die too, and
I certainly wasn’t ready for that! When I write, I write as “SBR Martin”—to honor the fact that there’s a little bit of Rem and a
little bit of Martin in everything I do, and to let my former family’s legacy live on a little longer.
MPS: Both your books seem to cover similar dark themes involving sex, death, abandonment, loss of family. Any particular
life experience influence your path to these ends
SBRM: Life is the life experience that has influenced me most. These dark themes are elements of everyone’s life. Shit happens
SuspenseMagazine.com
17

to all of us. So why not write about it As far
as my shit, there’s been a lot of death and loss
in my life. My mom passed in 1999, my sister in
2001, and my father in 2003. I was the sole caregiver
for my grandmother during her terminal bout with lung
cancer in 2006. Anyone who has experienced that much
loss in such a short period of time is going to have grief and
abandonment issues. I choose to address mine through
writing.
MPS: You wrote “In Wake of Water” after experiencing
some heart-wrenching losses, and its premise closely
resembles facts from your own life. It begs the question: Is
“In Wake of Water” your story
SBRM: Yes and no. When I sat down to write “In Wake of
Water,” I sat down to write fiction, not an autobiographical
account. I knew my personal losses
were compelling enough to make
for a good read, so I decided to use
them as the backbones for a tome
to be fleshed out with exaggerated
details, brow-raising side stories,
and shocking plot twists. By the end
of writing the book, I realized that
something else had also transpired.
I’d had a cathartic experience and
came face-to-face with my own
psyche. Looking at the work as a
whole, I saw that the female lead
represented my I.D., the male lead
represented my Superego, and I, as
author, served as the Ego. This is
what makes “In Wake of Water” my
story. It’s not the facts behind the
premise, but the effect it had on me
after it was written.
MPS: You mention cross-genre
novels. Did you deliberately weave
in these elements in order to attract a wider audience,
“suspense/thriller, contemporary fiction, and, according to
my publisher, erotica,” or is it just how you write
SBRM: The only thing I ever set out to write is a good book. The
genre into which I’d most like to see my writing categorized is
“literature,” but that one isn’t for me to decide. It’s the reception
of one’s work that casts it into that genre, not the perception of
the author. These days, it’s tough to categorize a book into just
one genre. There seems to be no uniform definition of what
constitutes what. Existing genres are shifting. New genres are
emerging. Categorization can be baffling, and I won’t allow it
to interfere with my storytelling. When I write, I don’t think so
much about genre as I do about making my story interesting.
And, for me, an interesting story contains elements of multiple
genres.
MPS: Who do you read Any one author you aspire to be
likened to As a new author I’m sure you have experienced
agents asking to which authors’ work is yours similar. How
do you answer them
SBRM: There are so many great authors out there. I don’t really
aspire to be likened to any one in particular. I’d rather be seen
as having my own unique style, one that stands apart from the
works of others. That said, I am reminded of a highly criticized
quote from my all-time favorite writer, John Gardner, author
of “Grendel.” Gardner once proclaimed that he was the greatest
writer since Chaucer. Alas, Gardner died in 1982, and most
of his books went out of print shortly thereafter, which should
caution any writer against exuding hubris. So, while I will say
that I am in a class all my own, I don’t want to ever say I’m
“better than” or “comparable to” any
other writer. I have been influenced
and inspired by every single
thing I’ve ever read, from classics
spanning Hawthorne to Faulkner to
contemporary geniuses like Chuck
Palahniuk and Anne Rice.
MPS: Give me the elevator pitch for
“Pig.”
SBRM: A troubled woman named
Lily sits alone on a couch in a
crowded funeral home, following
her husband’s “accident.” In her right
hand, she holds a scrap of paper she
refuses to reveal, and, in her heart,
she holds a lot of secrets, including
a big one she’s keeping from herself.
As the familiar faces of funeral
home patrons stir in her a lifetime
of memories, Lily’s secrets unravel
in a narrative of domestic abuse,
sexuality, motherhood, and loss.
MPS: “Pig” is published in e-book format only. What was the
reasoning behind this decision
SBRM: My first book, “In Wake of Water,” was published in
both traditional and electronic formats. Based on sales data
for that book, my publisher and I decided to release “Pig”
exclusively as an e-book at this time. Sales of hard copies of “In
Wake of Water” were far outnumbered by e-book sales, echoing
the general trend away from print and toward digital media.
We’re in the midst of the Technological Revolution, baby!
Digital format gives readers immediate access to books, multiplatform
accessibility, and, let’s face it, cheaper prices. That’s
not to say, however, that “Pig” will never come out in hard
18 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

copy. If customer demand and market trends suggest that print
is a good idea, there may be a tangible pig you can snuggle up
to one day.
MPS: Where do you write
SBRM: I mostly write at my dining room table. Boring, I know.
In consolation, here’s something more exciting: “Pig” was written
almost entirely on a tiny netbook that was missing the “S”
and “E” keys. They’d been clawed off by a rascally kitten named
Nugget, who we surrendered back to the shelter because I was
acutely allergic to her saliva. Try writing a seventy-five-thousand
word work without the “S” and “E” keys attached, just
tapping on the naked sensory buds! FYI, the letter “S” has the
second highest frequency of usage among consonants. And if
you want to know what the most frequently used letter in the
whole alphabet is, track down Nugget and ask her. I’m sure
she’d be pleased to rip it off of your computer for ya’.
MPS: What is one thing you have to have as you are writing
SBRM: I’d like to say peace and quiet, but I definitely don’t
have that when I’m writing. I have two daughters, ages two and
four. When you have kids that young, nothing is sacred, though
every day is blessed. Perhaps that sentence itself illustrates the
very thing I like to have most when writing: a well-rounded
perspective.
MPS: With the degrees you have, why are you writing novels
Did you ever work in either fields you studied or do you
plan to get advanced doctorate degrees You also wrote as a
freelance journalist. You spent all that time in school working
on something only to be working at something completely
different.
SBRM: Psychology appealed to me in my undergraduate
studies. I took an undergraduate legal writing class, and the
professor, James Flannery, was astounded by my work. He
asked me if I’d ever thought of becoming a lawyer. And, on his
own, he entered a piece I’d written for him in a university-wide
undergraduate writing contest, where it received an Honorable
Mention. Mind you, this was quite a triumph, given my work’s
departure from the types of writing typically submitted.
I decided to go to law school because I was fascinated with the
language of the law, with the complex sentence structure and
determinative diction. I wanted the words, the writing, and the
reading. But these things weren’t as pronounced in the world
beyond textbooks. My greatest achievement in law school, was
having my student note, “Reconstructing Texas’ Construction
Industry: A Note on Centex v. Buecher,” published in Pitt Law’s
Journal of Law & Commerce, and then later reprinted in Albert
Dibb’s treatise on construction law. It was my first publication,
and it tickled me to starry-eyed ambition. My writing was
recognized, albeit in a heavy academic arrangement. The eager
author had a tiny taste of the pie.
First and foremost, I am a writer. Whether I’m writing fiction,
reporting, or analyzing a legal text, I am always writing. That’s
what I do. Everything I encounter(ed) along the way is just
another experience to enrich my ability and talent. I fully
embrace how my past has become part of my present writing,
and I look forward to what I have to learn in the future.
“Pig” was bought to my attention as a Second Prize
Quarterfinalist in the 2012 Amazon Breakthrough Novel
Award Contest. We'd like to thank Sarah for spending time
with us.
Suspense Magazine Review of
“Pig” by SBR Martin
Lilith’s (Lily) plight in life was plotted out for her from
the day she was born. Her name alone, provided by her teen
mother’s lesbian partner, evoked in her the ability to be a nonconformist
in a man’s world. Whether by knowledge or nature,
Lily embraced her heritage and took from men just as men
took from women.
When Ben entered her life she learned too late what is
was that made him so different and by the time the discovery
was made, it was too late. Martin’s novel of life takes us down
the road of sex, death, and abandonment, through great dark
forests of abuse, lies, and sweet revenge.
“Pig” starts in a funeral home where we are introduced to
our protagonist Lily as she welcomes visitors as her husband lies
dead in the next room and she lets us, the reader, into the secret
that no one else suspects, the accident was not ‘accidental;’ she
murdered Joe. From a writer’s standpoint, the idea of a funeral
home is a great concept to introduce life as it was. The idea
of seeing people from the past and building the storyline that
leads them through to the present is masterfully presented by
Martin.
We don’t know at the moment how Joe died, but through
compelling side stories we learn what led to his untimely end.
Domestic abuse is a subject that constantly raises its ugly head
and Martin paints us a picture of how Lily’s life was again
plotted out for her, this time by her controlling husband and
reminds us, as do many police blotters, why so many women
stay in these types of relationships.
As the mourners at the funeral continue to flock into the
room, so the story unravels and the suspense builds. Evidently,
Lily is clutching in her hand the one piece of damning evidence
that will bring to the fore everything to show what really
happened on that final ill-fated night.
This is a passionate voice from an emerging young writer
that presents us with a thrilling novel of contemporary fiction
flavored with a little erotica and suspense that makes it hard to
peg this tome in one particular genre and makes a compelling
case for that cross-over genre style that is so pervasive in the
modern novel. The final chapter presents a jaw-dropping twist
that makes it all worthwhile.
Reviewed by Mark Sadler, author of “Blood on his Hands”
published by Suspense Publishing, an imprint of Suspense
Magazine
SuspenseMagazine.com
19

What Goes Around,
Comes Around
By Arthur Carey
When the Angel of Death appeared, Roselli ignored her. Lying in the shadows of the narrow walk, he was too busy
wrapping a pressure bandage around his shattered left leg. Blood the color of cherry juice blackened the sand.
The Angel of Death stood silently, glancing impatiently now and then at a diamond-encrusted Rolex watch. She wore a
black silk cocktail dress, translucent pearls, and high heels. A red AIDS pin added a splash of color to the dress, which was
sleek and sexy.
“How you doin’, bro” she asked when he finished tying off the bandage.
Roselli’s throat felt dry as the desert wash, and his eyes smarted from the smoke and fumes of burning gas and oil. He
leaned back and breathed heavily, bile rising in his throat.
“Hey, di’n’t you hear me” demanded the Angel of Death.
He shut his eyes and then reopened them. “I’m seeing things,” he mumbled, “there’s no one here. Get a grip, Roselli!” His
voice, shaky as it sounded, reassured him.
The Angel of Death shook her head, “Not that simple, bro. Let’s get with the program. Got a schedule to keep.”
Roselli licked his lips and tried to think. One minute he had been bouncing along a rutted desert road, half asleep, trying
to block out the engine’s roar and the gusts of wind buffeting the armored Humvee. Then it swerved and halted, steel flanks
buckling inward, air gushing out. Yellow light blossomed in the troop space. He recalled crawling through the shattered side
of the burning vehicle, which looked as if a malevolent giant had taken a can opener to a GI Joe toy.
“RPG Mortar IED”
He repeated the possibilities, recycling the words into a loop of sound bites.
“Bingo,” offered the Angel of Death. “Give that man a prize. One of them Infernal Exasperating Doodads. That’s what I
call ‘em.” She stretched and worked out a kink in her back. “Unlucky for you, of course, bro. Don’t make no mind what it was,
though. When the big hand meets the little hand at twelve, the game clock has run out.”
Struggling to focus, Roselli examined his visitor more closely. The Angel of Death had high, fashion model cheekbones,
coal-dark eyes, and was a cover girl Halle Berry. Only her mouth, a hard crimson slash, spoiled the image.
“Why are you calling me ‘bro’” Roselli snapped.
He flinched at a new message of pain from his left leg.
The Angel of Death frowned, “Sgt. Ahmad Jones, 2 nd Brigade, 1 st. Cav, right” A note of doubt crept into her voice.
Roselli closed his eyes. Bad enough to have hallucinations; worse to have one that mistook you for somebody else.
“No, Johnny Roselli, 24 th Marines.” He gestured to his right sleeve. “One stripe, see! I’m only a private.”
He leaned forward out of the shadows, and she glimpsed a shock of brown hair falling over blue eyes and a pale, sunburned
face drawn with pain.
The Angel of Death muttered and opened a slim purse. She took out an iPhone, punched some numbers, and squinted
at the glowing display.
“Shoot! My mistake. In the shadows there, I thought you were someone else. That’s the reason for the jive talk. I always
try to fit in. Got you now, Johnny. You were a later stop.”
“What…”
Roselli bit off the words, realizing he had been holding a conversation with someone who couldn’t be there. I must be
delirious. Concussion, maybe.
“You like the dress” the Angel of Death asked. “Cool threads, n’est pas Being from New York, I thought you’d appreciate
it. Black on black. My favorite fashion statement.” She frowned. “But maybe you’d like something different.” A swirling cloud
of green illuminated the wash, and the Angel of Death became a tousled blonde in white shorts, Save-the-Whales T-shirt,
blue Dodgers cap, and Nike running shoes. “Whaddaya think Better This is my Cameron Diaz look.”
A coughing spell wracked Rosselli, “Where are the others,” he whispered, “Jo-Jo…Buns…Sgt. Fargo”
“Gone, all gone,” replied the Angel of Death, disinterest in her voice. “Somebody else’s responsibility. I’ve been assigned
20 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

to you.”
Artillery fire rumbled faintly in the distance, a metal thunderstorm without rain.
Roselli lay back and tried to collect his thoughts.
“Who are you What are you”
She favored him with a dazzling smile, “Why I’m an angel, honey.” His confused expression struck her as funny. “No, not
that kind of angel. The other kind. The dark kind. You can call me Angie if you like.”
A chill swept over him. “Devil,” he gasped. “You’re the devil!”
She laughed. “No, the main man doesn’t make pickups. He’s too busy being CEO.” Her smile vanished and her eyes grew
cold. “Besides, you don’t want to meet him. Take my word for it.” She shrugged. “No, I’m just a transportation gofer. I work
for No Lost Souls, a subcontractor of Hades, Inc., which is a subsidiary of…”
“Stop it! Stop it!” Angry now, he tried to shout, but wound up wheezing. “I’m not going to die! It’s only a lousy leg wound.
I stopped the bleeding.”
The Angel of Death frowned, “Not the leg, troop. It’s the pea-sized hunk of steel in the back of your head.”
Roselli reached behind and winced. When he withdrew his hand, red and wet, it blurred before his eyes. The headache
that had begun as a trickle of discomfort had become a tsunami of pain.
The Angel of Death glanced at her watch again, “Can we get on with it, sugar”
Her voice had an edge.
“Get on with what”
“Pay back time,” she said with exasperation. “Judgment Day! The prize behind door number two! The Big Sleep! We got
to get moving, Johnny!”
“You’re crazy,” he whispered.
An explosion shook the ground and sand cascaded down the slope of the depression onto the Angel of Death’s spotless
white shoes. She swore an oath that wouldn’t have come from Cameron Diaz.
A ringing sound hung in the dusty air. Twice. The Angel of Death reached in a pocket and removed her cell phone.
“Sorry,” she said apologetically, “gotta take a call.” She listened and then began arguing vehemently with whoever was
calling. “All right. All right. But I’ve got a pickup now and…” She fell silent, switched off the phone, and dropped it back in a
pocket, ruining the smooth line of the shorts.
“That was dispatch. Never a moment of peace since the devil invented cell phones.” She stood up. “Ready now” she asked
hopefully.
A spasm of coughing shook Roselli. “I’m not going anywhere with you,” he said defiantly. “I don’t have to. I’m not dead.”
The Angel of Death sneered. “It’s your call—for now. I’m just trying to speed things up. Like the TV commercial says,
‘you can pay me now or you can pay me later.’ Well, I’ll be back. Got handed another assignment. War is hell.”
She threw back her head and laughed, but the humor stopped short of her eyes. Brilliant light bathed the wash again,
blinding Roselli. When it faded, he was alone.
Dust hung in the air, a tan veil strangling the stars that should have been visible by now above the horizon. Roselli
listened for the sound of voices or engines or even small arms fire. Nothing. He tried to sit up, shifting his shattered leg, but
an arrow of pain in the back of his head stopped him. He fumbled for the canteen at his waist, unscrewed the top, and took
a long drink until he began choking. He poured the water over his burning face and dozed.
He awoke with a start, stiff and dry-mouthed, and checked the bandage on his leg. Pinpricks of blood oozed at the edges
of the saturated dressing. But the pain in the back of his head forced tears from his eyes whenever he moved. If I can hold on,
help will come. I know it will.
The green light blazed again. The Angel of Death had returned.
“Hi, Johnny. You lika” This time she appeared as a curvaceous redhead with shoulder-length hair, kiss-me-now lips, and
triangular gold earrings. Incongruously, she wore a thaub, a brown robe of cotton. Lacquered nails gleamed on toes projecting
from coolie boots, retread sandals with camel skin tops and rubber bottoms from auto tires. All in all, she reminded him of
Hollywood’s idea of a princess masquerading as a serving girl in a 1950s sword-and-sand epic.
“Desert chic,” she explained. “I call it my Lawrence of Arabia look. Not as cool as shorts, but more practical when you’re
dealing with sand fleas.” She slapped her left leg and settled back gingerly against a dirt wall. “That call was out of my territory.
One of those rocket thingies missed some insurgents and hit a school. What’s that you call it, collateral damage”
Roselli swallowed, “Beat it. Leave me alone. I’ve led a good life. I deserve a better end than this!”
The Angel of Death looked skeptical, “I thought so, too, honey, but look at me now. I had a nice thing going selling phony
insurance policies over the phone to old folks who couldn’t remember what they had for breakfast.” She sighed. “Face it, with
computers and data banks today, nobody gets away with anything. Why I could tell you…”
“I never hurt anyone,” Roselli protested. “I went to church on Christmas and Easter. I gave money to crippled kids during
those Labor Day telethons!”
“Yeah, there’s that, I suppose,” the Angel of Death reflected. “Not that I’d consider you a religious role model. I remember
SuspenseMagazine.com
21

a priest in your hometown, the Big Apple, pious to a fault–at least in public. Unfortunately, he liked altar boys a little too well
in private.”
She looked sad.
“It’s got nothing to do with me!” Roselli choked.
His head felt as if someone were stomping on it with combat boots.
“True,” the Angel of Death murmured, “but aren’t you forgetting little Mayra Sanchez”
“Mayra…I don’t know no Mayra whatever you call her,” Roselli blurted.
He noticed for the first time how the steep, crumbling walls of the wash resembled an unfilled grave. He shivered.
“Mayra,” the Angel of Death persisted. “You must remember her. Cute little kid Wore glasses Her picture was in the
paper In November, four years ago”
“I don’t remember! I hadn’t joined the Marines then. I was a kid myself!” he protested.
But he did remember. He always remembered. It had a big black circle around it on his mental calendar. Roselli closed
his eyes. The leg wound started seeping blood again, but he ignored it.
That November night had been cold, too. So cold the 29 th Street Warlords passed around a bottle of cheap brandy,
swallowing and coughing in the unused garage that served as their meeting place in the Bronx. Roselli stood on the outside
of the circle, a gangling, awkward wannabe with a bad complexion and no desire to go home. Newly arrived at a ghetto high
school and friendless, he watched his back and reluctantly went home each afternoon to the dump where family assistance
had stuck him and his mother.
His mother…stoned half the time on weed or Thunderbird, her only pleasure was watching talk shows on a small TV
with rabbit ears and a fuzzy picture. The ones she missed, she videotaped. They were on all the time, tears and anger and pain
bouncing off the walls. He hated it. The worst were the programs that featured families more screwed up than his, families in
which the confessions of sickos led to hair yanking, face gouging, punch ups, and chair throwing. How could anyone be part
of such destructive violence and betrayal He would die first!
When Roselli left the apartment that night to attend his first meeting of the Warlords, his mother lay slumped on the
couch in a drunken stupor, the TV blaring. On the screen, a fat woman in a flowered muumuu spat at a sullen, younger
version of herself in frayed shorts and T-shirt. Next to them, a man in too-tight Levi’s with tattooed arms and a ring in his
tongue sat glowering, ready to explode. Roselli swore that when he was grown up, he’d never own a television set.
Shivering in the unheated garage, Rosselli kept his mouth shut and listened.
“Disciples been slipping over to Bradley Avenue and hangin’ at that 7-11 on the corner—our turf,” said Big Longo.
He was the leader of the Warlords, a nineteen-year-old dropout with bulging biceps and refrigerator-cold eyes.
His words met grunts of disapproval. One of the Warlords took a swallow from a bottle of rye and passed it on.
“Maybe we should remind them whose turf it is,” suggested a dirty-haired kid in a leather jacket, black T-shirt, and pants.
The tongues of his expensive tennis shoes, laces loosened, curled up. He wore a blue bandana about his head.
“Maybe we should,” agreed Longo. He glanced at Roselli. “Shall we let the newbie tag along” Roselli’s heart almost
stopped, but he put on a tough face. “I’m up for it.”
Longo laughed. “Let’s go.” They piled into two cars. Roselli squeezed into Chi Chi’s, an aging, rust-gray Ford sanded to
bare metal for a paint job it would likely never see. He was jammed against a back window, rolled down despite the chill air.
They cruised slowly up 29 th Street, scanning the street on both sides for traces of red—hats, shirts, bandanas, anything. The
parking lot of the 7-11 was brightly lit but empty.
They were lifting off the crest of a roller coaster, plunging downward, and Roselli was part of it. He was in! He was
accepted! They were putting him down the way you do a buddy, pulling his chain, none of it malicious or mean.
“I know where one of them lives,” Chi Chi said.
His car was in the lead. He swung over to 37 th Street and continued up half a dozen blocks. Then he turned and eased
along a row of red brick row houses set back behind bare lawns and rusting metal fences, finally stopping at one. Curtains
covered the front window, but shadowy figures moved inside.
Something hard was thrust into Roselli’s hands. A pistol.
“Shoot out the window, newbie,” Chi Chi said. Roselli tried to give the gun back, but Chi Chi leaned over the front seat
and glared. “What’s the matter, no cojones We don’t want guys without cojones in the Warlords!”
Hands trembling, Roselli pointed the gun at the front window of the house and pulled the trigger. Glass exploded.
Chi Chi threw the Ford in gear and floored it. That night they toasted Roselli with bottles of tepid beer and renamed him
Hammer. He drank one beer before slipping outside where he disgorged a dinner of chilidogs, fries, and fear.
“Ah, you do remember.” The Angel of Death eyed him impassively. “Your shot missed the gang member that lived there,
but killed his nine-year-old sister. You saw her picture in the newspaper the next day. The police never found out who fired
the gun. Just another drive-by shooting. Collateral damage, like that IED that made your number come up.”
22 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

“It was an accident,” Roselli moaned. “I never meant to hurt anyone. I swear it.” His legs felt like blocks of wood.
“Of course, you didn’t. No one ever does.” She looked away. “Well, almost never.”
“But…” Roselli searched the eyes of the Angel of Death for a glimmer of light or life or hope. He felt cold all over now.
“It’s time.”
“No, no…” he protested weakly.
Angie, who had been buffing her nails, paused. “Well, there is one possibility, I suppose. You could go the extension
route.”
“Extension, what extension” he croaked, his voice soaked up by the dirt walls.
“I can offer you a temporary waiver if you agree to give up the right of appeal,” the Angel of Death continued. She shook
her head. “You can’t imagine how people complain when they find out that the elevator they’re riding in only goes down.”
She mimicked the protests in a sarcastic voice: “I wasn’t drunk when my car hit that school bus! How was I supposed to know
she was only 15 I don’t make people use drugs. I just sell them.” She stopped, exasperated. “Then we have to go through the
appeals process. Lawyers! Hell’s full of them. It takes forever.”
“I’m going to hell” Roselli sputtered.
“You killed a child,” she replied, her eyes dark, pitiless pools. “It’s not like cheating stockholders or stealing an election,
is it”
Her tone lightened. “Of course if you waive the right of appeal, I can get you a one-time only extension on life. Better still,
we’ve got a special this week. You can add wealth, fame, or happiness at no extra charge.”
Roselli’s head felt as if someone were pounding nails into it.
“How long could I get”
She whipped out a pocket calculator from under a fold in the thaub. “How old are you Will you still be living in the big
PX”
“Nineteen. Yes, the United States.”
The Angel of Death’s fingers danced on the keyboard. “You’ll live to be eighty-six,” she said at last. “The final out would
have come sooner, but they find a cure for cancer in 2019.”
“Okay,” he gasped. “I’ll waive the appeal and take the happiness option.”
She nodded approvingly, “An excellent choice. Fame is so ego-driven and nobody likes rich people. Happiness is one of
our most popular options.” She thrust an electronic notepad at him. “Sign here.” He scrawled his signature in crooked letters.
Angie’s teeth, daggers of white, flashed in a mocking smile. “Catch you later, Johnny.”
And then the Angel of Death was gone, vanishing in another explosion of green light.
Roselli passed out. He woke up on a stretcher being loaded into a helicopter. After several months in a hospital adjusting
to his new leg, a marvel of titanium and chromium-based alloy, he was discharged. Back in New York, he used the GI Bill
to attend City College, graduating with honors in English. He earned a Ph.D. in literature at a graduate diploma mill in the
Midwest and took a job teaching at a community college in California. After marrying a former UCLA cheerleader, he wrote
two scholarly books about Shakespearean imagery that received minor critical acclaim and were soon forgotten. He fathered
two children, a boy and a girl, who loved him, but never understood why he refused to have a television set in the house. And
then, on a stifling autumn evening when the hot, dry breath of Santa Ana winds raked Southern California, his heart stopped
beating. He died one day past his 86 th birthday.
“Wake up!” Roselli felt a hand shaking his shoulder. He looked up and saw Angie’s face. The Angel of Death wore a formfitting
red dress, cut low, and black boots. “You’re on in three minutes,” she warned and hurried out a door.
Roselli sat up. He was in a humid room whose walls were lined with banks of television sets, all tuned to the same
channel. They showed a velvet curtain emblazoned with the words “The Devil, You Say!” The curtain parted and Angie
appeared, cracking a whip. Hisses, catcalls, moans, and agonized screams from an audience invisible behind a seething ring
of flame greeted her.
“Welcome to ‘The Devil, You Say!’” she shouted. “Give it up for your host and moderator, the devotee of discord…the
delight of the damned’…Johnnnny ROSELLLLI!”
Confused, Roselli stood up. A highlight reel of images raced through his mind—the exploding Humvee…Angie in a
slinky black dress…the birth of his son…the quick, sharp pain when his heart failed. It wasn’t true that a person’s entire life
flashes before their eyes at death, he realized—it happens after death.
Roselli glanced at his reflection in a cracked mirror and flinched. Grave-dead eyes burned deeply in a suet face. Pinched,
bloodless lips froze in the rictus of a smile. Brushing ashes off the shoulders of his cheap tuxedo, he walked reluctantly on
stage. Microphone in hand, he joined an angry woman whose flesh overflowed a rose-splashed muumuu, her screaming
daughter, and a tattooed man clenching and unclenching his fists. It was show time, and Johnny Roselli was about to become
the unwilling ringmaster of a circus that would perform through eternity.
SuspenseMagazine.com
23

Five Hundred & Fifty Resumes Later…
Rick Murcer
Interview By Suspense Magazine
Rick Murcer, a man who lives in Michigan and graduated from Michigan
State University. According to Murcer’s website, he and his wife have been
married longer than his wife likes to admit. They have two wonderful children, three
amazing grandkids, and a blind black Lab, Max. Max is Murcer’s “writing” dog and
pushes him hard to get to his writing room every day just so Max can snore and his
master can do all the work!
How can you call what Murcer has accomplished work For someone who came
into writing rather late in life—only eight years ago, to be exact—he’s managed
to produce four novels (“Caribbean Moon”, “Deceitful Moon”, “Emerald Moon”,
and “Caribbean Rain”—his latest, plus “Capital Murder”—a sixty-page Sophie Lee
short story) and a book dedicated to short stories (“The Killing Sands”).
Murcer got the first story he ever wrote, Herb’s Home Run, published in Writer’s Journal. Since
then, he says he’s been hooked.
Having lost his “real” job two years ago, and sent out five hundred fifty resumes with no luck, Murcer decided he was
going to make it as a writer. And making it he is. “Caribbean Moon” (the first in his series) was a labor of love, and writing it
taught Murcer more about himself than he ever cared to know. (His wife thinks he should keep his mind a secret, he says.)
The plot of “Caribbean Rain”, his latest book in the Manny Williams series:
Lansing Detective Manny Williams, took the plunge. He accepted the FBI’s offer to join the elite Behavioral Analysis
Unit, much to the delight of Josh Corner, the unit’s supervisor. Two months later, he is joined by his old partner, Sophie
Lee, and Lansing’s top CSI, Alex Downs. With his nemesis, serial killer Fredrick Argyle, six feet under and Manny’s love life
making a comeback, it seems that life is finally back on the high road…until his first assignment.
A vicious killer is running amuck in El Yunque, Puerto Rico’s lush rainforest, and is taking no prisoners—only body
parts. Manny and the crew are called in, but they’re too late. One of their own has fallen victim to the maniac’s rampage…
and the killer isn’t finished. Not by a long shot!
Murcer says his family hasn’t made it all the way yet, but they’re determined to. He wants to be a living example that with
hard work and God’s blessings, a person can do anything.
Suspense Magazine is honored to bring you our exclusive interview with Rick Murcer.
24 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

Suspense Magazine (S. MAG.): You decided to start writing
when you lost your “real job.” What did you do
Rick Murcer (RM): I spent most of my professional life in the
credit/customer service business. I was the vice-president of a
mortgage service company when I left that world. It was just
after my dad passed away and I was struck with just how short
this life is. I needed to be a part of something else that mattered,
in my eyes.
S. MAG.: Is Manny Williams modeled after anyone you know
or is he a completely made up character
RM: That’s a great question. I spent a lot of time as a kid reading
comic books and other books about true-to-life heroes. They
were never perfect, but I loved the persona of a moral character
that stood for something greater than themselves. Many police
procedural/thriller books have characters that are severely
messed up, and that’s okay, but I wanted someone who would
be an antithesis of that. Manny loves his family and would die
for his friends without blinking. I get a lot of e-mails about that
part of him, so I guess that makes him a combination of all I
think a hero should be; real and fantasy.
S. MAG.: A blind, black Labrador. Do you ever think about
putting a blind dog in one of your stories that is pivotal in
helping the cops Max would be so proud!
RM: Lol…he would be proud. I think part of him already is.
He doesn’t settle down until we get to the writing room each
morning. I think he believes that means more snack money.
And yes, his time is coming. I did a little of that with Sampson,
Manny’s black Lab, in “Deceitful Moon.” But with two new
series on the horizon, Max will get his chance. And as a side
note, he is without doubt the brightest dog I’ve ever owned…
and I think he knows that, too.
S. MAG.: You take Manny, Sophie, and Alex out to eat and
then for a couple of drinks. What would you talk about
What would you want to know
Sophie. I’m almost afraid to talk to her about anything. She’s
without inhibition, so anything you say to her could be twisted
into something that never entered your mind. That being said,
I would like to know why she never made a play for Manny
after Louise died. But again, I’m not sure I want to hear what
she has to say about that.
S. MAG.: What is your idea of fun If given a choice to skip
work for a day, how would you spend the entire day
RM: There’s a little tingle in our stomachs we all get when we
wake up in the morning, anticipating the promise of some
exciting adventure we’d planned for that day. Something totally
out of the ordinary. I still get that when I think about writing.
I GET to do what I do and that is still amazing to me. Aside
from that, spending the morning playing golf with my buddies,
then going to a Detroit Tigers game with my entire family that
evening, would be just about as good as it gets.
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
RM: I would, and do, tell aspiring writers to totally ignore the
“rules” of writing and just tell the story. The rest will come. The
more I’d read about how to write, the crazier it seemed to get.
There are a million resources out there and most of them good,
but I found myself so paralyzed by what I should or shouldn’t
do, I couldn’t find my voice.
I was so wrapped up with how the first line should read, the
point of view, whether to say
“Manny said” or something
clever, that I couldn’t relax.
I’d read that my characters
shouldn’t dream, look
in the mirror, hate their
job, love their job, or
RM: You know, I think writers believe they
understand their characters as thoroughly as
themselves because we created them, sort of, but I’m
finding with each book, that’s not entirely true.
I’d like to talk to them about their favorite foods, their
taste in cars, and what would be the perfect profession
for each of them if they weren’t doing what they do.
Manny and I’d talk baseball, that’s what Tiger fans
do, and golf, and Ireland. Alex and I would talk new
gadgets, and how a guy like him landed a knockout like
his wife, Barbara.
SuspenseMagazine.com
25

whatever. Those things were clichés and could never be part of
a good read. But doesn’t everyone dream Look in the mirror
Doesn’t everyone desire the perfect job, if they don’t have it If
I’ve learned one thing in life, people’s situations are unique to
them, thus there is no such thing as a cliché, in my mind.
The other thing is to not be intimidated by where the story goes.
In my case, serial killer books aren’t exactly bedtime stories,
and I caught myself, a time or two, not wanting to tell it like my
mind saw it. Again, tell the story. It will be true if the author is.
S. MAG.: Do you allow your wife to read your work and
critique/edit it before sending it off or does she have to wait
until you get the edited galley
RM: I’m very fortunate here. Carrie is a proofreader/editor for
the State of Michigan, and has had a profound effect on this
journey. We’re pretty much partners. I write the draft, make
sure the rhythm is right, and then she takes over…and causes
me to bleed immensely as she softly kills my babies. I then go
over it again. After that, we discuss it some more, then she
reads it again, tells me that she wouldn’t do a couple of the
things the way I did them, I disagree, wait a couple of hours,
and then secretly change them to her way of thinking. Then we
send it to the editors and beta readers.
We’re a great match of creative and technical...but I’m always
right!
S. MAG.: “Caribbean Rain” is the fourth book in the Manny
Williams series. Looking back, which character has surprised
you the most, maybe having a bigger voice than you thought
they would when you started
RM: I think Josh Corner and Dean Mikus developed more
than I thought either would. Josh was to be the no-nonsense
personality that hard-charging folks often exhibit, but he found
himself hooked up with a truly gifted profiler that he actually
liked. Add Sophie’s politically incorrect banter to the mix and
Josh has had more reasons to smile than not. I think Manny
and Sophie have caused him to focus on important things, like
his family.
Oddly enough, I’ve gotten more e-mails about Dean Mikus
in the last book than any other character, other than Manny
and Sophie. That makes me smile. My wife’s brother died in
November of last year, at a young age. His name is Larry
Dean Mikus and to see him get some love is a nice aspect of
“Caribbean Rain” for Carrie and me.
S. MAG.: If you could solve one mystery for yourself, what
would it be
RM: That answer is twofold.
Firstly, I don’t understand why I eat a quarter pound of fudge
and I end up gaining two pounds. I’m still working on that one.
The other mystery I think about almost daily is the Jack the
Ripper murders. I’ve read almost everything I can get my hands
on regarding old Jack and I’m totally convinced no one really
truly knows who murdered those poor women. Part of me is
fascinated by the nature this killer exhibited. What went wrong
in his life that he pulled that kind of trigger It’s interesting
how some traumatic event can warp one person’s perspective
and the same set of events simply rolls off the back of another
person. It’s sad and scary.
The other thing regarding those tragic deaths is closure for the
victims and families. Thinking about what happened to them
still makes my heart hurt.
S. MAG.: What is your favorite word Your least favorite
RM: I love the word “epiphany.” Life is a constant series of
them…and it sounds really cool when you say it.
I hate the word “can’t.” What has happened in my life over the
last sixteen months wouldn’t have occurred if I’d listened to
that word a few more times. You have to have a little faith in
yourself and the gifts God has given you…then get to work.
There you have it, in Rick’s own words. We were pleased
to have this opportunity to speak to author Rick Murcer.
You can check him and his books out on his website at www.
rickmurcer.com.
26 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

Special Preview from Shobha Nihalani
The Silent Monument
By Shobha Nihalani
Prologue
Reporter Parag Saxena checked he was alone before tugging the
timber beams that blocked the corner of the small doorway on the
riverbank. No one visited the east side of the five-hundred-year old
monument by the river Yamuna or noticed its crumbling wall. The moon
was incomplete and its glow formed shadows on the recessed windows,
arches and slender minarets of the pearly white marble structure with its
gold-topped dome. Captivated by the impressive sight, Parag paused for
a bit. He stared in awe at the ancient mausoleum that had hidden secrets
for centuries and his pulse raced in anticipation. The Indian Institute of
Archaeology had turned a blind eye or was intentionally silent about
it. No effort had been made to dig deeper, below the surface, where the
murky truth lay, lost in the bosom of the ancient monument for centuries.
The worker involved in the reparations of the monument had
warned him about the consequences if he was caught. There were
“official people” watching, he had said, when Parag had bribed
him to reveal the entryway into one of the hidden rooms, one of
twenty-two. Finally, when the man was satisfied with the weight
of notes greasing his palm, he told Parag about the access to the
corner chamber. It was by the Yamuna, fewer chances of being
noticed, and the best part was that there were no security guards
at night.
The secret rooms in the basement of the burial site were
boarded up and hidden from public view. Parag, however, had
done his research and finally found someone from the Institute
ready to talk and reveal the true story. His informant had provided
him ten black and white grainy images of some very peculiar facts
that were shockingly obvious. Parag had what he wanted but now
he needed to see the truth for himself, and it had to be inside the monument.
Parag bent low and squeezed through the opening. He stepped into complete darkness. Kneeling down, he touched the
floor, it was smooth. Parag paused, listening, trying to figure out the echo of the scuttling sounds. Coarse fur grazed his hand,
he pulled away quickly. He stood up. Crap, he loathed rats.
Slivers of moonlight streamed in through the triangle, forming jagged white lines on the stone floor, interrupted by the
rodents scurrying around. It was suffocating inside, and a wet muddy smell filled his nostrils. He waited for his eyes to adjust
to the darkness before he switched on his flashlight.
Rooted to the spot, he stared wide-eyed.
“God!” he whispered, and his voice reverberated against the stone walls. He cast the beam in different directions; it
illumined dozens of idols, some huge, staring at him with large stone eyes and some tiny sculptures. Moving quickly, Parag
held the torch between his knees and worked his camera, his flash exploding repeatedly. The rats were all over the place,
racing around the statues, coming out from every nook and cranny. Parag shuddered; he could almost feel their cold clawlike
28 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

feet across his arm, over his neck and
down his back. He shook his shoulders
to get rid of the feeling.
As he scanned the chamber, their
beady eyes warned him to keep his
distance. “Don’t worry, I won’t bother
you, if you don’t bother me,” he said
with more confidence than he felt. He
peered ahead, only the area within the
circle of light was visible. He scanned -
idols, sculptures of warriors, maidens,
sentinels and animals, were scattered
around the chamber. Ancient works of
art.
Parag’s face was slick with sweat.
He wiped his face with his forearm.
Fear was a slow nagging pressure in the
pit of his stomach, but he ignored the
feeling. He picked up one of the statues
and studied it. The grey stone piece
was intricately carved, bold eyes, wide
forehead, and a small hole for a mouth.
He realised he was holding a piece of
history in his hand, probably as old as
five hundred years, maybe more. Then
he noticed the tiny black wormlike
creatures squirming out from the stone
mouth. Terrified, he dropped the piece.
What was this place
Parag scanned the area again; the
air was thick and no matter how much
he wiped, sweat continually trickled
down the sides of his face. His neck
and back were drenched. There were
countless statues, like bodies strewn on
a battlefield and all seemed to have tiny
snakes emerging out of their orifices.
Parag stepped back, blinking away the
ugly sight. He was not just scared, but
consumed by an overpowering sense
of panic that knotted his neck muscles.
The flashlight trembled in his hand
casting an eerie glow and the eyes of
the stone statues seemed to move,
focussing on him.
Parag knew these ancient objects
were not meant to be there. The fact
that they existed inside this monument
would become the biggest “breaking
news” of the century. It would rock
the very foundations of ancient Indian
history. And big news meant colossal
danger. He felt stupid coming here
alone in the dead of night.
Parag had to leave. He stepped
back slowly, afraid the rodents would
jump on him when he turned away
from the statues. He paused in front of
a particularly large idol in meditative
posture. In the mouldy darkness, the
outline of the stone man was imposing.
The statue seemed to watch him with
anger, with an energy that seemed to
demand his reason for coming. He
was trespassing inside sacred grounds,
but not quite. The chamber was eerily
incomplete. Neglected for centuries, it
was best left undisturbed.
Parag took another step back, lost
his balance and fell to the floor. He
scrambled to regain his composure but
dropped the torch. “Shit,” he muttered.
Moving quickly to avoid the rats
and the slimy creatures lurking inside
the statues, he searched frantically for
the torch. Then he saw the bones. It
was a hand clasping a metallic object.
He didn’t see the rest of the skeleton,
just the carpal wristbones with all the
five phalanges intact, encircling what
seemed to be a dull gold baton. The rest
of the skeleton wasn’t visible. The hand
must have belonged to an artisan, one
of many who sculpted this monument,
Parag surmised. In the old days, kings
chopped off hands of artistes so that
they would never recreate such beauty.
He shuddered at the very thought. The
bones lay hidden next to a jug-sized
brass bell. Parag knelt further. The
object must have been held in a death
grip. But he just had to tug gently and
the bones crumbled to pieces. He pulled
away as dozens of tiny black snakes
glided away into the darkness. Parag
picked up the long circular artifact and
brushed away the dirt and grime.
It looked like a short curtain rod
with thick knobs at both ends. The ends
were oval in shape and seemed like
gold, felt heavy too. The pipe-shaped
stem between the gold holders was solid
and had intricate floral designs, quite
similar to the motif on parts of the Taj.
There was also an engraved insignia.
His pulse raced. He had made a valuable
discovery, this looked like a royal relic,
he guessed from the Mughal era, or
even before that. Fervently, Parag tried
to open one end. Perspiration trickled
down his face as he fidgeted and twisted
hard. After some effort, it gave. He
removed the oval end and shone his
light inside the golden tube. His heart
thumped, it wasn’t empty. Parag turned
it upside down on the palm of his hand,
very carefully, he slid out the content. It
was a rolled up sheet of yellowish waxy
paper held together by a red string. A
scroll. He handled it delicately, turning
it over and noticed another insignia
stamped in the centre. It was the sun –
a symbol of royalty clan.
This was precious.
Definitely an ancient document,
Parag realised excitedly. He didn’t dare
unroll it, afraid it might disintegrate in
his hands. He returned the scroll in the
holder and reattached the top. This was
a piece of evidence of Mughal history,
and it seemed authentic. He clutched
the artifact, wrapped his hand around
it like the bones.
Parag’s heart boomed in his ears,
his hands were clammy. Despite the
excitement of the discovery, the fear
was back in full force. The only other
time he felt this nervous was when he
had covered the late prime minister
Rajiv Gandhi’s visit to Tamil Nadu;
the day the latter was assassinated by a
suicide bomber. The LTTE terrorist, a
woman, bent to touch Rajiv’s feet and
then detonated the bomb. Parag was
some distance away, but his colleague
had died in the blast. Why did the
memory of the incident enter his mind
He wondered.
Parag felt uneasy in the silent
tomb, watched by the statues with deep
secrets. He had hit the jackpot finding
this rolled-up document, thrown in
the corner of the chamber, attached to
the skeletal hand. He was impatient to
unravel its mystery, to read the fivehundred-year
old message. But not yet.
He had to get out of this godforsaken
place first. Afraid the ancient relic might
get damaged, he wrapped it carefully in
SuspenseMagazine.com
29

a kerchief. With trembling fingers, he
zipped it inside the long pocket of his
cargo pants.
It was then that he noticed the
shadow cutting the slivers of moonglow
in the chamber. The menacing dark
silhouette of the turbanned man was
as large as a demon from the ancient
scriptures.
Parag realised the enormity of the
risk he had undertaken. A deep sense
of terror clutched at his heart. He licked
his lips. His mouth felt dry. He had to
find a way out. Desperately, he pressed
against the back wall to check for any
exit. All he felt was cold slippery blocks
of stone. No partition or sign of secret
doorway. Parag leaned against the wall
and slid sideways.
“I saw the opening in the wall so I…
I, came inside….” Parag said in Hindi
hoping the intruder would let him pass.
He had to buy time, he switched off
his flashlight and removed the camera
slung around his neck and waited for the
man to leave or give way. He didn’t. The
man blocked the exit like an ominous
ghoul. Slowly, Parag moved towards an
oval stone structure, sliding his hand
across the smooth dome, stood behind
it. The intruder didn’t respond; instead
he clicked his torch and flooded the
room with white light aiming it directly
at Parag. A thousand scampering claws
scuttled into the shadows.
His light was blinding, Parag held
up his hands to block it. “I was just
taking pictures. I will leave now,” Parag
murmured, heading towards the exit
slowly. The camera hung from his left
wrist. He took two steps, when suddenly
the man came forward in giant strides.
“How dare you enter these sacred
grounds You think you can play with
fire and not get burned” the man’s
guttural voice echoed as he pulled
Parag by his collar. He grabbed him
in an elbow squeeze and tightened it
around his neck.
“Let me go, I have done nothing
wrong,” Parag croaked, as he struggled
against the vicelike grip. He couldn’t
breathe and his vision was becoming
fuzzy. Parag tried pulling at the man’s
arm but the assailant just pressed
harder.
“Your camera, give it to me. Are
you going to show the world these
pictures” The attacker pulled it off his
arm and let go with a shove. Parag fell
to the floor. He gasped, acrid air filled
his lungs, sputtering and heaving, Parag
breathed deeply. This was his chance,
with every ounce of strength, Parag
crawled towards the opening. Then
just as he thought he would escape, the
monster yanked him hard, turned him
around and rammed a tight fist on his
jaw. Parag felt the sharp effect of his
punch as he went sprawling to the floor
and banged his head against one of the
stone statues. He lay there stunned.
His head pounded, and he felt dizzy.
The back of his head was wet. Blood.
He could feel the throb where his skin
had split. He decided to reason with the
man, his only chance to get out. “I only
came to find the truth. You understand,
don’t you You see what lies beneath this
monument Such beautiful sculptures
and art, it’s all hidden. But it must be
revealed to the world”. Parag said, his
voice strong with passion.
The assailant paused and stared,
Parag could see a pulsating vein in his
forehead. The man’s eyes were wild and
blood shot. Parag realised he didn’t
have a hope in hell of getting out of
here. The crazy man wasn’t going to let
him go that easily. Death was breathing
down his neck, and as the thought
filled his brain, he broke out in cold
sweat. He thought of Manzil, his wife.
Countless times she had begged him to
stop taking risks. This was supposed to
be his last foray. He was going to settle
down and write columns.
Please give me a chance.
The madman ignored his
explanation and picked up a rat by its
tail. The rodent struggled, its red eyes
glowing in the darkness. Parag tried
moving further away. The man grunted.
“You like to take pictures of what is dead
and gone You like to show the world
what existed centuries ago Why”
Parag shifted uncomfortably.
“Answer me!”
Parag thought quickly and
responded. “Because...because...
these are historic facts and need to be
revealed to the public.”
In the attacker’s hand, the rat
continued to squeak helplessly. The
man gave him a cold smile, “Rats are
also trespassers, you know”
Parag shook his head. “No, no....”
he pleaded. The man was totally crazed.
Parag wished he was in another place,
as far away from here as possible. Away
from this horrible moment. The perfect
place was at home with his Manzil. The
thought of her facing a sickly situation
like this terrorised him. Her life would
be at risk now, especially with all the
other damning information he had
collected.
What had he done
The sadist was dangerously close,
he swayed the rat in front of Parag’s face.
He edged back slowly, but the monster
was getting closer. His head hurt like
a bitch, his swollen lips throbbed and
he tasted blood. He knelt and clasped
his hands together. “Please, I beg you,
let me go.” The man was towering over
him holding the struggling rat. Parag
begged, “I promise on my heart I won’t
breathe a word to anyone. I won’t tell
anyone I was in here.”
“Too late. You are like this rat,
crawling in places meant to be kept
silent.” The madman pinched the
rodent’s neck until it went limp. He
came close to Parag’s face until he could
see the sweat glistening on his forehead.
“Eat this!”
Shobha is a Hong Kong-based author
who writes fiction, especially stories that
involve murders and mysteries, mad
chases, and fiery personalities, all seasoned
with the spices of Indian culture. She
has worked as a freelance journalist,
copywriter, bookkeeper, English teacher,
and sales person. In her youth, she lived
in such culturally diverse cities as Kano,
Bangalore, Singapore, Mumbai, Antwerp,
and Rochester, Minnesota. Learn more at:
http://shobhanihalani.com.
30 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

Suspense Magazine Book Reviews
Widow's Might
By Sandra Brannan
Inside the Pages
This is a brand new
Liv Bergen mystery that
picks up right where
“Let’s Return to Sodom”
left off.
Readers find
themselves back in the
eerie world of the Black
Hills of South Dakota. Not only is
this a place that a killer could get lost
in, but it’s also steeped in history that
dates back to the time of the gold rush
and General George Custer.
The killer Liv is about to meet
up with is one who has been ‘off the
map’ for a while now. The ‘Crooked
Man’ disappeared long ago, but a
new crime is committed that directly
copies his MO. The body count
includes ranchers who were found
with the backs of their skulls bashed
in. Six have been killed thus far and the
newest one is an old man whose wife,
Helma, was also attacked while sitting
in a hospital dying of cancer.
FBI agent Streeter Pierce (Agent
Adonis) must now once again face this
villain—his nemesis from a decade
ago—and attempt to stop the Crooked
Man. Is he a serial killer Is he part of
a master plan that involves criminal
warfare The questions are neverending.
In an attempt to solve the
greatest mystery of his career, Pierce
recruits Liv and utilizes her exemplary
knowledge of the Black Hills area and
her skill with bloodhound, Beulah, to
find the answers, while at the same
time falling head over heels in love
with her. Not only does Liv want to
keep her family and the widow safe,
but she also finds herself involved in a
romantic entanglement that includes
Streeter, as well as a brilliant agent by
the name of Jack Linwood.
This is the perfect mesh of
suspense, thrills, and romance, but
fans should do themselves a favor
and pick up the first two books in this
series just to make sure they don’t miss
a step in this incredibly frightening
and fun journey!
Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author of
“Tallent & Lowery - 13” for Suspense
Magazine
Scorpion Winter
By Andrew Kaplan
It’s election time in Ukraine. And where there’s an election you know there’s
going to be problems. Andrew Kaplan sets his hero loose in the city, pairs him with
a beautiful woman, and piles on the bad guys. Top it all off with a winter’s chill and
a plethora of Ukrainian and Russian words and phrases and you have yourself a darn
entertaining thriller. There’s even a side trip to Chernobyl for some extra radioactive
adventure.
Scorpion: code name of a freelance spy who sometimes works for the CIA. His
latest mission takes him to Kiev to stop the assassination of a Ukrainian presidential candidate. In
his investigations, he gains an ally named Iryna, who is associated with the opposition party. When
their attempt to stop murder fails, Scorpion and Iryna are on the run from the police, the military
police, the mafia, and a group of thugs who were the victim’s guardian ‘persuaders.’ Worse, Scorpion
is cut off from his usual assortment of friendly contacts, including his immediate supervisor. Each
new clue brings more questions as to who is behind the assassination and the frame-up and it will
take all of Scorpion’s skills to survive.
I was ready for a thrill ride and I wasn’t disappointed. Kaplan delivers. Scorpion is no-nonsense,
intelligent, skilled, and even though his pockets are seemingly bottomless with all of the bribe
money he carries, nobody is going to pull off a successful mugging. Bullets fly, bombs explode, and
the body count rises whenever Scorpion is around. I definitely want more Kaplan.
Reviewed by Stephen L. Brayton, author of “Beta” for Suspense Magazine
FREAK
By Jennifer Hillier
This is Hillier’s second novel and as soon as this one came in, I begged for it. I
loved “Creep” and “Freak” was just as good.
“FREEABBYMADDOX” is carved into victims’ bodies after Abby Maddox
is arrested and jailed. Someone wants Maddox out just as much as she wants to be
released. She wants to be free to pursue her vengeance against the woman she believes
to be responsible for her boyfriend’s death and her incarceration—Sheila Tao.
Tao’s fiancé Morris is as protective as ever. Jerry, Morris’ friend and retired Detective turned
private investigator, and Detective Torrance are led in circles to find out who is killing the women,
who wants Maddox freed, and who is helping Maddox on the outside. Meanwhile Jerry is trying to
win his wife Marianne back, who left him months ago.
The clock is ticking for Morris and Jerry. Will they solve this before two more women are
killed Hillier leaves us with another cliffhanger and I cannot wait to read her next installment to
find out what happens.
You won’t need to read “Creep” to know what’s going on in this one. “Freak” is a 5 star thriller
and I recommend it. If you really want to understand how the main characters are involved, go back
and read “Creep.” Like I said, you don’t have to, but why not It’s a great book! So, my last question
is: when is the next one coming out, Hillier
Reviewed by Starr Gardinier Reina, author of “One Major Mistake,” published by Suspense
Publishing, an imprint of Suspense Magazine
The Conviction
By Robert Dugoni
David Sloan is the lawyer who ‘never loses.’ That may be true in the courtroom,
but he lost plenty when his wife was murdered and so did his stepson Jake who had to
watch the horrible scene unfold. Since the murder, Jake has gotten out of control and
is a very troubled teen.
In an effort to reach Jake, David takes him on a camping trip along with David’s
good friend, Detective Tom Molia and his son TJ. Before the trip is good and started, Jake has gotten
himself in trouble and dragged TJ along with him. The two fathers wake up to find that their sons
aren’t only in trouble but have already been tried and sentenced without them present!
As the fathers try to figure out what happened and exactly where their sons have ended up, the
two boys are getting ‘initiated’ into life at Fresh Start. When conventional means don’t work, how
far the two fathers will go to rescue their sons is the only question.
Riveting tale of how far parents will go for their children! This author knows how to keep you
glued to the pages!
Reviewed by Ashley Wintters for Suspense Magazine
SuspenseMagazine.com
31

Slugfest
By Rosemary Harris
Remember that old
adage, “No good deed goes
unpunished” I wouldn’t
blame Paula Holliday, the
likeable protagonist in
Rosemary Harris’ mystery,
“Slugfest” The Flower Show
Murders, if she allowed
that thought to fester in her
brain for a while. Paula runs
Dirty Business Garden
Solutions in Springfield,
Connecticut, and often
hangs out at a local eatery
called the Paradise Diner.
As does an eccentric
artist, Dunstan Primo
who fashions imaginative
garden sculptures out of
leftover lawn furniture,
auto parts, and other
assorted odds and ends.
When Primo is offered the
opportunity to exhibit his
“art” at the prestigious Big
Apple Flower Show, Paula
is enlisted to manage his
booth. It seemed like a
good idea at the time. Paula
could help out a friend, and
also make some contacts
for her own garden
business.
In no time at all, Paula
is up to her pretty neck in
a rash of vandalisms at the
show. Plus, she’s gotten
herself on the wrong side of
flower show security guard
Rolanda Knox, a large
woman whom Paula has
privately nicknamed Fort.
Then the body of another
security guard is found at
the show. Closely followed
by the body of a young man
Paula befriended before
the opening of the flower
show. What the heck is
going on Who knew that
horticulture could be so…
cutthroat
Rosemary Harris
has crafted a light, funny
mystery that’s well-plotted
and populated with a great
cast of characters. She
keeps readers guessing
until the very end of the
book. “Slugfest” may be a
Dirty Business Mystery, but
for me, it was good clean
fun!
Reviewed by Susan
Santangelo, author of
“Marriage Can Be Murder”
for Suspense Magazine
Broken Harbor
By Tana French
This is the fourth book in the Dublin Murder Squad series by Tana French and she gets better
all the time. Winner of the Edgar, Anthony, Macavity and Barry awards for best first novel, Tana
has firmly secured a place in the mystery and thriller genre and the accolades of her readers.
Promised the lifestyle of an upscale community, the Spains purchase a home in Brianstown,
Ireland, formerly known as Broken Harbor. Amidst the countries recession and loss of jobs, the
building comes to a screeching halt, leaving the community looking like a run-down ghost town.
This is where the bodies of the four members of the Spain family are found, father and two children murdered
with the mother in a coma fighting for her life. It’s a horrific crime and the Murder Squad is being pressured by
the press to bring the killer to justice.
Detective Mike “Scorcher” Kennedy and his rookie partner Ritchie Curran are assigned the high profile
case and immediately get to work. When they arrive at the Spain home to survey the crime scene, they find
strange things have been going on in the household. Holes in the walls and ceiling with numerous baby
monitors are out of character with the immaculate home, leaving the team wondering what it all means in
context to the murders.
Amidst Scorcher’s inner demons and a sister who requires constant attention, the detective along with his
rookie follow leads and a list of suspects that will bring them to the killer. What they find brings up a conflict
between what is right and what is stepping over the line.
This book is a fast-paced thriller. French works with a believable cast of characters, drawing her reader
headlong into the story. She peeks into the mind of her protagonist, developing further insight into the
detective from her previous book “Faithful Place.” French has honed her craft, creating the best book yet in her
Dublin Murder Squad series.
Reviewed by Jodi Ann Hanson (chaptersandchats.com) for Suspense Magazine
The Dead do not Improve
By Jay Caspian Kang
In “The Dead Do Not Improve,” protagonist Philip Kim inhabits the frightening, seedy underworld of San
Francisco, one the tourists never see. When his neighbor, who he calls the “child molester” for no good reason,
is murdered, and he unwittingly makes eye contact with a member of a notorious street gang, Kim holes up in
a shabby hotel.
At the same time, police offer Sid Keanu Finch, who is investigating the woman’s murder, encounters
troubles of his own. When he goes to interview Miles Hofspaur, an “entrepreneur” in the pornography industry,
Finch ends up passing out after ingesting a bee pollen smoothie at the Being Abundance Cafeteria.
Author Jay Caspian Kang writes in a cynical stream of consciousness style that is somewhat reminiscent
of Holden Caulfield, especially when main character Philip Kim remembers his drug-enhanced college days
on the East Coast in that dreamy way that college often invokes, as he throws in random and sometimes
obscure titles of books and movies. But he is definitely writing from a California perspective, even referring to
a Virginia/North Carolina Interstate highway as “the” 85, a pure southern California idiom.
As he carries the reader along with small bursts of text, Kang reveals Kim’s and Finch’s inner thoughts as
they both struggle to discover who has killed an innocent woman, and why Philip Kim is now a target.
Written in short bursts of prose that populate the chapters, Kang uses an energy and originality in his
writing to paint a picture of people and a city that seem to be just below the surface of reality.
Reviewed by Kathleen Heady, author of “The Gate House” for Suspense Magazine
Creole Belle
By James Lee Burke
When fans last saw Dave Robicheaux in Burke’s novel, “The Glass Rainbow,” the fate of him
and his cohort, Clete Purcel, was up in the air. Thankfully, these are hard men to kill.
Dave is recovering in an E.R. in New Orleans from the shootout that took place in his
neighborhood. He’s hooked up to a morphine drip, which is completely messing up his mind
and he’s not really sure what’s going on most of the time. Dave regales his friends and family with
a story of how he received a visit in the middle of the night from a singer, Tee Jolie Melton, who
gave him a gift of an iPod with some of her songs on it. Everyone thinks Dave has imagined this visit. Even
though the iPod is there, no one else can find the songs he says are on the machine. Dismissing the incident as
simply a side effect from the morphine, life goes on.
Soon Dave gets well and heads back to the job, once again serving as Sheriff of New Iberia Parish. The first
mystery that comes across his desk is a strange disappearance. It seems that a singer, Tee Jolie, has gone missing
along with her sister, Blue. When Dave and Clete discover that Blue has been found dead inside a block of ice
in the Gulf of Mexico, things get even odder. Blue was the apparent victim of a drug overdose, yet she is found
with a cryptic note that says her sister is still very much alive.
Characters and suspects come out of the woodwork with the author introducing everyone from members
of the mob to a concentration camp survivor to a new contract killer that Clete seems to think is his illegitimate
daughter. This makes for an extremely involved plot that covers an oil spill in the Gulf, art fraud, and the Nazis
you love to hate. If you can keep up with the characters and pace, this is one of the best reads of 2012. Enjoy!
Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author of “Tallent & Lowery – 13” for Suspense Magazine
32 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

Death of Kings
By Bernard Cornwell
The year is 899. The
Saxons and Danes are locked
in a centuries-old struggle for
the British Isles. King Alfred
the Great of Wessex is dying,
the Danes are on the move, and
in the middle of it all strides
Saxon Lord Uhtred.
The story opens with yet
another attempt on Uhtred’s
life. Who, he wonders as
he handily dispatches his
attackers, wants him dead
now The Danes whom Uhtred
has repeatedly defeated in
battle Another Saxon king
who knows Uhtred has sworn
allegiance to Alfred Another
unknown player in this deadly
chess game
Complicating things
is the pleasing presence of
Aetheflaed, King Alfred’s
willful daughter and the wife
of Lord Aethelred of Mercia.
She is Uhtred’s lover and the
only person in Britain brave
enough to disobey his orders,
something in which she takes
great delight in doing.
Assisting Uhtred are
Osferth, Alfred’s bastard son
and Finan, an Irish noble
who dreams of accumulating
enough funds from pillaging
to lead an army to take back
his ancestral home. Together
these men hack and stab their
way through one battle after
another.
This is the sixth novel in
Cornwell’s series about Lord
Uhtred. Readers may already
be familiar with this prolific
writer through his many
popular novels, and subsequent
television series featuring
Napoleonic Wars rifleman
Richard Sharpe.
The story takes us through
battles and marches, plots and
betrayals, with Lord Uhtred
relying on his sword, Serpent
Breath, and his even sharper
wits as he fights and connives
to preserve the throne of what
will one day become England.
Reviewed by Andrew MacRae,
author of “Murder Misdirected”
for Suspense Magazine
SuspenseMagazine.com
The Laughterhouse
By Paul Cleave
Spooky, empty, a shell of its former house, the slaughterhouse rendered its last victim
years ago until someone bought young Jessica here one last time. Cold, abandoned, and all
alone was no way for a young girl to spend her final moments, bleeding out on the floor of
the building that local jokesters christened the laughterhouse by removing the ‘s.’ In fact there
was nothing funny about it at all.
Theodore Tate was there to witness the depravity of this sad story, one of his first cases.
Fifteen years later, he finds himself back at the scene as a new killer stalks the streets of Christchurch. Four
more bodies lie on the slab at the morgue until the police figure out there is a link to Jessica’s death fifteen
years before. And the fifth victim—a psychiatrist who testified in the original trial—is missing, along with
his three young daughters.
Battling his own demons and injuries, Tate finds himself accepted back into the police ranks in order
to bring this new killer to justice, and time is running out. If he doesn’t find them soon, the doctor will
have to choose the order in which his young girls die. With the voyeuristic press hard on his heels, his
commanding officer suspended, and the city’s psychics all offering an opinion, Tate not only has to solve
the crime but do it all in time to get to the nursing home where his wife, who has been in a coma for three
years, has suddenly gained consciousness. With everything on the line, Tate will stop at nothing to find
salvation and sanity and put the bad guy away for good.
Paul Cleave has made a believer out of me. Christchurch is a city I never want to visit. This dark,
gripping thriller, the latest in the Tate saga, is as hard-boiled as it gets. The surprise ending suspends all
belief. Like a TV series that ends its season on a cliffhanger, you won’t want to wait until next year. This will
leave the reader clamoring for the next book in the series now!
Reviewed by Mark P. Sadler, author of “Blood on his Hands” published by Suspense Publishing, an imprint
of Suspense Magazine
Don't Say a Word
By Beverly Barton
Julia Cass is Chattanooga’s newest detective and K-9 handler. Her first impression of FBI
agent Will Brannock is that he is a womanizer and not someone she would ever spend time
with. When the call comes that a judge is murdered and she is the liaison between the police
and FBI, she realizes she and Brannock are going to spend a lot more time together than she’d
ever imagined.
The killer’s plan is simple. He has to right a wrong and take revenge for the justice that
wasn’t delivered. Those who are guilty must die…by his hand and in his time. He has waited and planned
for this day.
Julia and Will find a mutilated body at the first scene and know it is just the first of many to come. Now
they have to predict the next victim in order to have any chance of stopping the serial killer. Doing this,
they have put themselves in the killer’s sights and can only hope to survive.
The author masterfully weaves thrilling suspense and a touch of romance to create an amazing book!
Reviewed by Ashley Wintters for Suspense Magazine
Two Week's Notice
By Rachel Caine
From the author of the hit series, The Morganville Vampires, comes this new series that
begins with a novel called “Working Stiff ” and takes a new look at urban fantasy. Although it’s
true that anything with vampires, werewolves, and zombies is not exactly a ‘fresh’ idea in this
day and age, Ms. Caine proves yet again that she knows how to twist and turn these characters
into something new and exciting.
Bryn Davis is a zombie—a member of the large ‘undead’ community. In the first tale,
Bryn was killed at her job and revived with an experimental drug called Returne, which was discovered
in the lab known as Pharmadene. Because of this miracle, Bryn is now not only the owner of a mortuary
but also works for the government. As long as Bryn has her injection of Returne each day, she’s able to
function and live her life, or non-life, depending on how you look at it. Now that the government has taken
over Pharmadene, they’re adamant that no one discover the drug, and they have the power to ‘take care’ of
anyone who tries to blow the lid off their finding.
Bryn, surprisingly, has made a decent life for herself. Her business, Davis Funeral Home, is doing
well; and her significant other, Patrick McCallister, knows about her undead status and loves her anyway.
They actually run a support group for the Returne undead. Unfortunately, some of the group members are
coming up missing and Bryn suspects that the government is ‘helping’ them disappear.
Even if you’re not among the millions who are interested in zombies, you’ll have a type of ‘awakening’
with this series. While still offering the usual crime and punishment and thrills and chills, this is also the
first series that provides the undead with a new ‘face.’ Instead of just scaring people, they’re getting more
into the financial world that Gordon Gekko and his “Greed is Good” mentality once made famous. This
series will keep you up at night…not because you’re frightened, but because you’re intrigued.
Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author of “Tallent & Lowery - 13” for Suspense Magazine
33

12.21
By Dustin Thomason
It’s ironic that an apocalyptic novel, where the world is threatened by a disease causing
fatal insomnia, should have me up at 2 a.m. As well as creating sleepless nights, this book will
fascinate you with facts about fatal familial insomnia disease. Yes, it is real—you can die from
not sleeping.
“12.21” also delves into the sometimes bloodthirsty stories of Mayan history and
culture. Add this to a list of rich characters battling their own demons, fighting to save a
world sliding into oblivion, and you have the ingredients of a successful novel.
Bestselling novelist, Dustin Thomason has given us his version of “The Andromeda Strain” with all
the key elements that made Michael Crichton novels such an entertaining read. There’s science, drama,
well-drawn characters, and an unrelenting pace that builds to the last pages of frantic struggles.
In “12.21,” our journey begins in an undiscovered ancient Mayan temple in the jungles of South
America, where a codex filled with seemingly indecipherable hieroglyphics is discovered by a looter.
Traveling to the USA, he sells his valuable artifact on the black market.
The Codex falls into the hands of Chel Manu, Antiquities Curator of the Getty Museum, and world
authority on ancient Mayan inscriptions. Chel risks everything to not alert authorities to the illegal find,
as she is desperate to translate the Codex herself.
In an LA hospital in December 2012, a man muttering in an unknown language is admitted, suffering
from the incurable, ‘fatal insomnia disease.’ Dr. Gabriel Stanton, an expert on highly contagious diseases,
quickly realizes they have a deadly virus on their hands.
When Chel is brought in to translate the dying man’s utterings, she and Stanton find themselves
inextricably united in a frantic quest to discover the geographical origins of the disease through the
deciphering of the Codex.
“12.21” is a science thriller of the highest calibre, written with a flair that will certainly place it on the
bestseller lists. Warning: This book will create insomnia but once the last page is read, you will recover.
Reviewed by Susan May http://susanmaywordadventures.blogspot.com.au/ for Suspense Magazine
Nowhere to Run
By Nancy Bush
Olivia Dugan, or Liv as she is better known, is scared. On her sixth birthday, she found
her mother’s dead body and ever since, has felt as if someone has been watching her. Her
younger brother, Hague was home that night was well and has had his own issues as an adult.
At work, she receives a package from her long dead mother that has some startling
revelations. When an office shooting massacres everyone in her office except her, Liv believes
it is tied to the past. Thinking she is being followed, Liv carjacks a stranger who is more than
he appears.
After listening to her story, the man believes absolutely none of it. That is, until stuff starts happening.
Now they have to figure out what in Liv’s past is endangering her life in the present.
Fast-paced and thrilling! This book pulls you right along in a heart-pounding ride.
Reviewed by Ashley Wintters for Suspense Magazine
A Brew to a Kill
By Cleo Coyle
This is the eleventh book in the Coffeehouse Mystery series, and not only does it follow in
the others’ footsteps by offering a fun and entertaining mystery, but it provides more ‘killer’
recipes that every chef and pastry lover in the world wants to own.
Clare Cosi, manager of The Village Blend located in New York City, is busy watching her
new idea get off the ground. She and her employees have been working on launching their
coffee truck, which will extend their business by letting them drive their amazing coffee and treats across
the cityscape. The new truck is called Muffin Muse, and is all the rage.
One night however, a fatal hit-and-run accident occurs that very badly injures a coworker of Clare’s,
just as she was trying to send a coffee truck that was owned by a rival business away from an affair that she
was catering. Clare, whose ‘significant other’ is a police detective, gets to know the policemen that come
to investigate the accident and finds out that there’s a ‘new group’ in the NYPD that has already figured out
the scene of the crime down to the minute of impact.
While Clare is trying to help the police find the person who ran down her friend, her ex-husband and
partner, who is the coffee buyer for Village Blend, looks more and more like he is involved in the drug trade
because drugs are found in his coffee warehouse. He is immediately accused of smuggling by the FBI. In
order to clear this problem up, Clare gets involved with the Bureau and a drug lord, while trying to keep
her employees safe and out of even more trouble that seems to be coming from an unknown suspect.
As always with this series, this newest cozy is a definite fun, one-day read. First class writing and
characters, with recipes for scrumptious coffee cake and muffin treats that will make readers’ mouths
water, equals a definite ‘must-read’!
Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author of “Tallent & Lowery - 13” for Suspense Magazine
Devil's Wake
By Steven Barnes and
Tananarive Due
The novel “Devil’s Wake”
is the first in the new Devil’s
Wake series from husband
and wife writing team Steven
Barnes and Tananarive Due.
In this novel, they create a
world of horror so frightening
as to be almost unbelievable.
Set in contemporary United
States, the novel begins as
residents of Seattle become
aware of a strange epidemic
that is sweeping the city, and
ultimately the country and the
entire planet.
As victims are bitten by
other infected individuals,
they in turn attack others in a
“zombie-like” manner. But they
are more than zombies. They
are the products of an alien lifeform
with designs on control
of the earth through their
horrifying plot that pits humans
against each other in a life and
death struggle. No one is safe.
People unhesitatingly kill those
they once loved in order to
survive.
The novel moves at a
relentless pace that only
increases as the horror the
characters face builds, and
they give up life as they know
it only to have a chance to live.
The main characters—juvenile
offenders spending time at a
summer camp—must rely on
their own initiative to survive, as
well as learn to trust each other.
They must cross what once was
their country, evading human
and non-human dangers,
without losing their own sense
of humanity.
The book is an assault on
all the senses, and emphasizes a
fear that can barely be imagined,
when everything we depend
on for safety, from our closest
family members and friends to
all our modern technology, is
taken away.
Do not read this book
before you go to sleep at night,
unless you have a very strong
sense of reality. This story takes
you to the edge and holds you
there until the end.
Reviewed by Kathleen Heady,
author of “The Gate House” for
Suspense Magazine
34 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

Dead Man
Waltzing
By Ella Barrick
Dance company Graysin
Motion is a busy place run
by dancing champion Stacy
Graysin. Teaching Old Town
Alexandria, Virginians how
to cha-cha, tango, and waltz,
among other dances. Maurice
Goldberg, co-teacher and
former champion himself is
late for class. Turns out he was
lunching with Corinne Blakely
when she collapsed. He had to
bring her to the ER.
Enter Detective Lissy—
not Stacy’s favorite person—
who asks if she knows where
Maurice might be. Why
Because Corinne is dead and
he was the last person to see
her alive other than the ER
personnel.
Corinne Blakely was the
Grande Dame of the Ballroom,
a former champion, teacher,
judge, and competition
organizer. She is poisoned
and the dance community—
including Stacy—is left in
an utter chaos. Corinne was
penning a tell-all memoir and
pushing to have ballroom
dancing entered as an Olympic
event. But now her secrets
might well remain hidden,
perhaps just as the killer
intended.
The victim’s dance card
is chock full of suspects who
might have wanted her book to
go away. Perhaps even have her
silenced for good. But when
Maurice becomes the prime
suspect, Stacy has no choice
but to dance as fast as she can
to find out who the real culprit
is.
Clearing Maurice’s name
proves to be more difficult than
she thought it would be. But
the one thing Stacy is certain of
above all else, is that she’s not
about to allow a murderer get
away with killing Corinne and
let her friend Maurice take the
rap.
I loved this book. It was
fun and I honestly wished I had
been a character in it. Barrick’s
writing was superb and since it’s
the pseudo of Laura DiSilverio,
I expected nothing less. She is
fantastic!
Reviewed by Terri Ann
Armstrong, author of “How
to Plant a Body” published
by Suspense Publishing, an
imprint of Suspense Magazine
SuspenseMagazine.com
You Don't Want to Know
By Lisa Jackson
A mother’s worst nightmare has occurred…maybe.
Ava Garrison is still unable to remember exactly what happened the night her two-yearold
son Noah disappeared from their home in the Pacific Northwest. She spends her life
reliving that tragic day and desperately searching through her messed-up mind to find the
answers to where Noah has gone.
For two years now, Ava has been suffering; she can remember exactly what the boy was
wearing that night, but nothing about his whereabouts. In an attempt to find the solution, Ava stops taking
her medication, believing that the drugs are keeping her mind cloudy and unable to find the truth. As bits
and pieces slowly come to light, Ava hears Noah crying in his room; she also sees him walking near the
dock in his red shirt and rolled-up jeans. Now Noah has never been found, which leads Ava to not only
cling to the fact that he could very well still be alive, but also believe to her very core that her son is still out
there breathing, waiting for his mommy to come get him.
On top of everything else in Ava’s life, she is surrounded by relatives that are beyond eerie and also
believes that her husband is plotting with her therapist in order to lock her up and throw away the key. At
the end of her rope and not knowing who to trust, Ava seeks the help of the new stableman, Austin Dern,
who is hired by her husband. Austin soon becomes Ava’s knight in shining armor when he saves her from
plunging off the dock. Murders begin to occur in Ava’s bleak neck of the woods, and just as she’s about to
get her mind back into focus she becomes the prime suspect in the murders.
The most interesting character in this novel is Austin Dern; a red herring whose motives are very hard
to figure out. Although the novel begins as a definite page-turner it, unfortunately, does end up with an
‘expected’ conclusion.
Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author of “Tallent & Lowery - 13” for Suspense Magazine
Bloodman
By Robert Pobi
I’m not sure how long it’s been since a book grabbed a hold of me and did not
let go. I’m going to advise that people not read “Bloodman” unless prepared to find time to
complete it. This one will hook you, reel you in, make you squirm, and even after the last page,
you may not feel released. Pobi’s novel is a relentless, driving masterpiece.
Jake Cole has rooted out many human monsters in as a Special Agent for the FBI.
However, when he returns home to Long Island, he is soon pitted against one of the worst...
because it involves his family. Jake is home to assess the condition of his father, a famous
painter, who is suffering from mental instability, but is also haunted. Not home for even one day, Jake
is called to a gruesome murder scene. He has the ability to mentally recreate murders, but the ability
combined with past sufferings has left him at the point of burn out or maybe insanity. Investigating the
case, he discovers a cache of strange paintings in his father’s house and workshop. Could they be the clue
to the killer Jake is up against not only a horrifying link to his family’s past but a present day natural killer:
the worst hurricane in history.
Pobi creates very powerful characters out of everybody and everything in this book. Besides the
unforgettable Jake Cole and his father, there is Dylan, the hurricane, the house so artfully trashed. It has a
personality, Jake’s mother’s car, and a boat from 1969. Pobi creates striking pictures with words. This is not one
for the weak-hearted. It’s gruesome, enigmatic, sometimes surreal...and I’ll use the word again: haunted, but not
supernaturally. This goes beyond a sleuth solving a murder mystery. Nobody gets out of this without being
affected. Nobody...not even the reader.
Reviewed by Stephen L. Brayton, author of “Beta” for Suspense Magazine
15 Seconds
By Andrew Gross
At the very beginning of this ‘edge-of-your-seat’ thriller, Dr. Henry Steadman is stopped
for a traffic violation. This particular moment in his life is nothing more than a routine ‘painin-the-neck,’
but before he is sent on his way the officer who stops him is killed and the
murderer takes off. Fate and timing being what they are, Dr. Steadman is now not only the
one witness to the crime but he’s also the main suspect.
Steadman has just arrived in Fort Lauderdale in order to speak at a medical conference,
and was driving around trying to find his hotel when this horrific moment occurred. He ends his brutal
day by escaping the long arm of the law while he tries to figure out who could possibly hate him enough to
frame him for the cop killing. Thankfully, there is one person who seems to be halfway on his side: Carrie
Holmes, a community outreach specialist working for the police department.
When Henry turns to a friend of his for help with the situation, the friend ends up dead and his
daughter is abducted. Somebody up there just doesn’t like Henry, but he can’t figure out who.
This mystery/thriller offers nonstop action. (Sometimes even more than the reader can handle.) Dr.
Steadman is certainly a character that completely sums up the old saying, ‘in the wrong place at the wrong
time.’ And although he seems to be right in the middle of everything for no apparent reason, the reader will
have to wait until the very end to find out exactly what’s going on.
This is a terrific read that doesn’t slow down. From vigilante justice to frightening law enforcement to
incidents that everyone meets up with in life—this novel is an exciting mixture of thrills. Yet again, Mr.
Gross has done a fantastic job!
Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author of “Tallent & Lowery - 13” for Suspense Magazine
35

Line of Fire
By Stephen White
This truly gripping series is soon coming to an end. With the release of this novel,
readers find themselves only one book away from realizing the ultimate ending that the
amazing Stephen White has in mind for his much-beloved character, Alan Gregory.
Clinical Psychologist, Alan Gregory, is besieged by the weight of his world, and the ‘new
path’ he begins to walk down is completely unexpected. Wildfires are burning in the hills
of Boulder, Colorado where Alan calls home, and the eyes of all citizens are watching the
reports minute-by-minute to see if they’ll have to evacuate.
Alan not only has this issue and his family’s safety to worry about, but he’s also struggling with a
horrible secret that he and his friend, Police Detective Sam Purdy share. A secret that could end Sam’s
police career and cost Alan his reputation.
When it comes to his private life, Alan has also seen things crumble around him over the past few
years. From the death of his neighbor to his wife’s illness, things have been more than difficult. Now, with
the forest fires consuming everything around him, it seems to be a fitting image for Alan who feels his own
destruction nipping at his heels.
The path to destruction comes from all directions: one of Alan’s patients suffers an attack and dies;
his good friend Diane has come to a point in her life where she’s about to have a nervous breakdown. And
Alan has taken on a new patient who’s not only odd but shows Alan how incredibly vulnerable he is when
it comes to this patient’s agenda.
Suddenly, out of the blue, a witness comes forward and forces police to reopen an investigation into
the probable suicide of a woman who was a friend of Sam’s. Alan is frightened that this old case will make
all the things he loves—family, friends, and reputation—explode into a million pieces leaving him with
nothing.
Readers will watch—at times, completely mystified—as the careers of Alan and Sam begin to unravel.
This is truly a perfect lead-in to what is sure to be a ‘final act’ of epic proportions for Stephen White’s
popular cast of characters.
Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author of “Tallent & Lowery - 13” for Suspense Magazine
Before she Dies
By Mary Burton
Mary Burton has written a tense and gripping murder mystery in “Before she Dies.”
Charlotte Wellington, a defense attorney in Alexandria, Virginia has a secret past that she hides from
the others in her world. The secret is one that makes her ashamed and vulnerable. Charlotte is so private
that she has allowed no one, even her friends, into the truth about her life.
Daniel Rokov is a homicide detective who has too much work to do. He loves his family and he is
beginning to love Charlotte, despite their unorthodox relationship.
Plus, there is a serial killer loose in Alexandria, and he is murdering young women, and tattooing the
word “witch” on their foreheads.
A new body shows up with the tell-tale word on her forehead and Daniel is swept into a high-profile
investigation as the community demands closure. As Daniel works his case, Charlotte finds that somehow,
she is involved with the killer, and she can’t imagine how or why.
Love and trust grow between the two as they search for the answer in order to save any other potential
victim “Before she Dies.”
Reviewed by Holly Price, author of “At Death’s Door” (released soon) for Suspense Magazine
Last Will
By Liza Marklund
In Stockholm’s sacred hall where for a hundred years the Nobel Prizes have been
awarded, a contract killer coolly guns down the chairwoman of the Nobel Prize selection
committee. For tabloid reporter Annika Bengtzon, assigned to report on the glitzy event for
the celebrity and lifestyle section of her newspaper, the story becomes a quest for the truth,
driven by the look in the eyes of the dying woman, a look that now haunts her dreams.
Annika, the mother of two young children, is married to Thomas, a comfortably staid
career lawyer in the government. But change is inevitable and when Thomas is given an opportunity to
prove his worth by crafting new rules by which the police may detain and interrogate persons of suspicion,
he and Annika’s careers collide and crack open a fissure in a marriage that seemed so solid.
And what of The Kitten, the yellow-eyed, ponytailed professional assassin, who is so contemptuous
of amateurs in the art of killing Who hired her and why And what will happen when she discovers that
it was Annika who provided her description to the enigmatic Q, a police investigator with a partiality to
Hawaiian shirts and who seems to enjoy deadly cat-and-mouse games as much as does The Kitten.
Annika finds herself delving deeper and deeper into the murky world of the Nobel Prizes, where
careers can be made by chance or broken by malicious intent. More killings occur, some in a particularly
gruesome manner, certainly not in The Kitten’s usual style. Has another player entered the deadly game
Alfred Nobel dreamed of a world at peace and a world where the wonders of science are harnessed
and used to eradicate hunger, disease, and poverty. Poor Alfred. Little did he suspect the evil machinations
that would one day be brought to bear in pursuit of his prize. And poor Annika Bengtzon, for she is about
to find out.
Reviewed by Andrew MacRae, author of “Murder Misdirected” for Suspense Magazine
IN A Lonely Place
By Dorothy B. Hughes
Re-released by Feminist Press as
part of the Femmes Fatales series
A story that brings readers
back into the world of femme
fatales and men who wear
fedoras as they head out to work,
you will almost hear Bogie’s deep
growl in the background as you
clear your schedule and get lost
in this truly haunting thriller.
Dix Steele is in California,
surrounded by Hollywood stars,
sultry women, and pure and utter
sunshine every day of the week.
Unfortunately, Dix is carrying
something with him that makes
it impossible to find the ‘bright’
side of life, and that particular
thing is absolute insanity.
Dix came back from Europe
after the War with pain in his
heart and a truly masculine ego
that he built up ever since he was
a student at Princeton. He likes
to stalk lovely ladies in the misty
night as they walk off the bus
and head to the safety of their
houses. Small brunettes seem
to be Dix’s specialty, as he takes
on the job of stalking, strangling,
and scaring the Californians to
their very core.
One night, upset his prey
got away, he ends up in a bar and
phones an old friend. Brub was
not only his buddy in college but
he also served overseas. When
Brub came home however, he
went into law enforcement and is
now working on the case of this
hideous strangler who seems to
be taking out one woman per
month.
As Dix gets closer to his old
friend, he tells a story about how
he’s in L.A. writing a detective
novel and would love to see the
‘inside view’ of a real live case.
Living in the home of a ‘friend’
who apparently went to Rio on
vacation, Dix settles into his
game. However, when a woman
who lives in the same apartment
building by the name of Laurel
Gray crosses his path, the veneer
of the handsome, calm playboy
begins to fall allowing the psycho
to emerge.
This was an unforgettable
movie starring Bogie and Gloria
Grahame, and is as frightening
and ‘cool’ now as it was back
then. Enjoy!
Reviewed by Amy Lignor,
author of “Tallent & Lowery -
13” for Suspense Magazine
36 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

The Lost Ones
By Ace Atkins
The principal characters
in “The Lost Ones” are
soldiers returning from Iraq
and Afghanistan to rural
Mississippi, soldiers who have
not yet learned to put their guns
down. One of them, Sheriff
Quinn Colson, has become the
chief law enforcement officer
of Tebbehah County. Another,
Donnie Varner, runs a gun
shop and shooting range, and
is not averse to making a sale
to buyers on the wrong side of
the law, a dangerous business,
especially when he becomes
involved with members of a
Mexican drug cartel.
At the same time, Quinn
and his deputy, Lillie Virgil, are
on the trail of another group of
unsavory characters who are in
the business of selling Mexican
babies. Their crimes become
even more serious when one of
the babies dies, and the couple
last seen with the child have
disappeared along with several
other children. They have left
a filthy trailer, clear evidence
of the treatment the children
received, as well as abused dogs
penned outside in even worse
filth. The sheriff seems to just
miss this notorious group every
time they reach a new hideout.
The characters in “The
Lost Ones” are as real as
your next door neighbors.
They live in an economically
depressed region of the South,
where poverty and political
corruption are a way of life.
But a novel populated with as
many unsavory characters as
this one only becomes a great
novel when it is clear that even
the best characters have their
weaknesses, and the worst just
may have a “good” quality or
two.
Author Ace Atkins takes
the reader through many twists
and turns as the plot barrels to
its dramatic conclusion. “The
Lost Ones” will keep you up
until the last page is turned, and
leave you satisfied and waiting
for the next novel in the Quinn
Colson series.
Reviewed by Kathleen Heady
author of “The Gate House” for
Suspense Magazine
SuspenseMagazine.com
Going to the Bad
By Nora McFarland
Lilly Hawkins, every reader’s favorite determined and dedicated (not to mention,
hysterical) news photographer, is back. And this time around, the mystery she has to uncover
is extremely personal.
Working as a television news photographer in Bakersfield, California, Lilly is the best at
what she does. She’s seen it all, photographed it all, and works her proverbial behind off to
make sure she documents her hometown’s violent crimes for the world to see. Of course, it’s
not just grisly pictures she offers; Lilly also has a tendency to get deeply involved in the crimes that occur.
In this newest mystery, it is Christmas Eve and Lilly is working the assignments desk, since most of
the staff is off on their Holiday break. While listening to the police band radio, Lilly overhears a dispatcher
announce that there were gunshots fired at ‘173 Jefferson Street’ and immediately goes into shock. This is
Lilly’s home address where she and her boyfriend, Rod, reside.
Running to the crime scene, Lilly finds Rod healthy and well. Unfortunately, her Uncle Bud—the
owner of her house—has been shot. Taken to the hospital, Lilly heads out on the ‘case’ with all of her
familiar newspaper cohorts in tow, in order to find out who broke into her home and attempted to murder
her uncle.
While investigating, Lilly soon uncovers facts regarding her uncle and his long ago friendship with
millionaire, Leland Warner. Leland’s family soon ‘appears’ and wants nothing more than to keep the crime
quiet, sending people to watch over Lilly in order to make sure she doesn’t ‘guess’ the real truth buried in
her uncle’s past.
Taking place over a two-day period, Lilly’s new ‘case’ is as fast-paced and suspenseful as all the ones
that have come before. But what really allows Lilly to stand out is her beloved sarcasm that draws the
reader in and makes them follow the intrepid amateur sleuth wherever she goes.
Full of pure, unadulterated attitude, Lilly Hawkins is back with a vengeance!
Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author of “Tallent & Lowery - 13” for Suspense Magazine
The Inquisitor's Key
By Jefferson Bass
The writing team of Dr. Bill Bass and Jon Jefferson call on their individual experiences in forensic
anthropology and journalism to create the Body Farm series. In the latest in this series, “The Inquisitor’s
Key,” protagonist Dr. Bill Brockton is called to France to assist his protégé Miranda Lovelady in studying
an ancient skeleton found in a crypt beneath the Palace of the Popes in Avignon, France. The injuries
inflicted to the skeleton before death are consistent with those inflicted on Jesus Christ as he hung on the
cross. Could this be the remains of Christ
Although Brockton and Lovelady quickly determine that this could not be the case, there are several
unknown individuals who are willing to kill to prove that the remains are 2000 years old, and do not
merely date from the Middle Ages. But the motives are different, as an unscrupulous antiquities dealer, the
Vatican, and a fringe Christian group from the United States who want to bring about the Second Coming,
all vie for possession of the skeleton. The situation is compounded further when Brockton realizes there is
an eerie resemblance between the reconstructed face of the skeleton and the face on the Shroud of Turin.
Issues of faith compounded with scientific discovery clash as Brockton and Lovelady are pulled into a
dangerous world. The story alternates between present day events and events in Avignon in the fourteenth
century, when the Pope was in residence in Avignon, and the Church was engaged in stamping out heresy
wherever it might be found. A painter named Simone Martini surreptitiously painted the face of a man
who died after being tortured on the rack. Is the skeleton that of this unfortunate man And who is he
A novel that combines history and modern intrigue always appeals to me. The linking of past and
present, as well the way modern technology can answer questions that have long been unanswerable, are
themes that hold my interest. “The Inquisitor’s Key” does not disappoint. It maintains the suspense with
surprise twists in the plot from beginning to end.
Reviewed by Kathleen Heady, author of “The Gate House” for Suspense Magazine
The Paris Lawyer
By Sylvie Granotier
Catherine Monsigny is a young, up-and-coming Paris attorney. She works for a big firm
and also does some pro bono work on the side. When she gets a small win, she talks to the big
boss about a pro bono case she wants to take on. This is where she lands her first big case. In
the country village, a beautiful place where nothing bad happens, a black woman is accused
of poisoning her rich white husband.
Although she may not completely understand it, Catherine’s life has been shaped by an
event that unfolded in her very distant past. When her mother was murdered, her young life was drastically
altered in many ways including her father ‘erasing’ that part of her life. Her career choice, her careful
decisions, and even how she attacks a new case, all stem from that one event. Now with this new case, her
past is coming back at a dizzying pace.
She has more questions than answers. Catherine has to find answers both to the current murder case
and the past one that haunts her. She doesn’t know who to trust, but is determined to find the answers.
A beautifully twisted tale that will keep you guessing until the end! The author does an amazing job
joining the past and present into a suspenseful masterpiece.
Reviewed by Ashley Dawn, author of “Shadows of Pain,” published by Suspense Publishing, an imprint of
Suspense Magazine
37

Patient One
By Leonard Goldberg
I hope this medical thriller doesn’t deter someone from going to the emergency room
when they need to go. Believe me, the people in this book shouldn’t have.
A group of Chechen terrorists have planned it just right so that the poisoned President
of the United States and his family are sent to the specific hospital they can control. A group
of dignitaries, including the leader of Russia are having their state dinner at the Beverly Hills
Wilshire Hotel because the Russian leader’s wife is enamored with movie stars. Security
forces grumbled about having two hundred fifty people in an area they weren’t used to securing, but the
diplomats bowed to the opportunity to entertain the guests and perhaps sway their opinions. Up until the
guests started getting sick, the biggest concern of the visit has been a friendship pact, soon to be signed,
that would liberate America from OPEC control of the oil market.
Luckily, forty-five-year-old John Merrill, the youngest president since John F. Kennedy, is—everyone
thinks—in excellent health. He should be able to weather the effects of the poison like everyone else is
predicted to do. His gastric problems have been kept from the public, but he’s in danger of dying from the
poison.
Meanwhile, the terrorists have taken control of the hospital and are holding the first family and several
others hostage. It’s up to Dr. David Ballineau, the emergency room physician on call that night, and the
very capable nurse Carolyn. Neither of these two are quite what they seem.
Warning: I enjoyed the book very much, but this is not reading for the squeamish. The effects of the
poison are vividly and often portrayed using blood, orifices, and bodily functions.
Reviewed by Kaye George, author of “Smoke” for Suspense Magazine
The Reckoning
By Alma Katsu
For fans that fell in love with the thrilling story of Lanore, the immortal that was
presented in “The Taker,” this sequel will have you racing to the bookstore. And it should!
With “The Reckoning,” obsession is taken to a new level.
“The Taker” began in the small town of St. Andrew, Maine, where Dr. Luke Findlay met
a woman who was brought into the E.R. one cold winter’s night. Her name is Lanore, and
she’s accused of murdering a man. Lanore convinced Dr. Luke to be her hero by telling him
the fantastical story of her life, and how she was made immortal in the 1800s by a man named
Adair (AKA, The Taker).
Here, Luke and Lanore find themselves in London going through her possessions. With Luke’s help,
she donates them. Lanore is getting strange ‘vibes’ that Adair has been set free from a cell that he’s spent
the last two centuries in thanks to her, and Lanore knows she must keep more than one step ahead of him
in order to avoid a torturous end.
Adair is free, and hooks up with an old cohort, Jude. Here, the story gets a bit humorous as this
immortal tries to adapt to the new technologies of the 21 st century. Adair soon goes on the hunt, searching
for his book of magic formulas that he once used to make immortals, in order to gather up a few new
slaves. He’s looking for Lanore, and he hires a computer maven to track her through old bank accounts,
attempting to find her trail.
The characters in this trilogy are fascinating. Lanore still can’t seem to make up her mind who she
wants, and Adair is the perfect mix of villain and ‘hot guy.’ Not only is this a good sequel, but it’s a powerful
lead-in to what is sure to be the final, unforgettable chapter in Lanore’s amazing life.
Reviewed by Amy Lignor, author of “Tallent & Lowery - 13” for Suspense Magazine
The Age of Miracles
By Karen Thomas Walker
Since I first saw the 1971 apocalyptic film The Omega Man starring Charlton Heston,
I’ve been fascinated with the end of the world. How many times can you read about the
world ending and still find it interesting It’s endless because the books are never really
about the end of the world but about the characters and their struggles with their new lives.
In “The Age of Miracles,” first time author Karen Thomas Walker tells her apocalyptic
vision through the reminiscences of an adult. Julia who, as an introverted child of eleven,
experiences the events of the world, which became known as ‘The Slowing. With Little Warning,’ the
earth’s rotation slows causing, initially, only a few extra minutes in the day and some mild concern.
But as ‘The Slowing’ continues and the days and nights become increasingly longer, the entire
population begins to realize they will need to alter their lifestyle. Midnight can be in full sun, and dawn
doesn’t necessarily arrive early in the morning. Decisions must be made as to whether the population
sticks to clock time or lives according to the cycle of daylight and darkness.
The scientific facts and worsening health of the entire planet is a backdrop to the central story of Julia
coming of age. Julia’s parents seem to be growing as far apart as the day and night. Seth—a classmate for
whom Julia has increasingly strong feelings—doesn’t know she exists. Even her best friend has deserted
her and moved with her family to Colorado.
What is most interesting is the layering of the story with the politics of school life, the principles
of family, and the broader divide in society as each new day dawns a little different from the one before.
When uncertainty is certain, some will abandon their current lives and others will make a stand.
Susan Beth Pfeffer stole a weekend from me when I read her YA novel “Life as we Knew It” with a
similar premise and a young protagonist. So, too, now Walker steals another weekend. But there is no
better way to lose time than watching the world end in the hands of a stunning debut talent like Karen
Thomas Walker.
Reviewed by Susan May http://susanmaywordadventures.blogspot.com.au for Suspense Magazine
Miss Me When I'm
Gone
By Emily Arsenault
This is a novel that readers
must certainly pay attention to
as the drama unfolds.
Gretchen Waters is the lady
that this particular story wraps
around; a young author whose
book about female country
singers, Tammyland, has been
widely appreciated. One day,
after a book event has come to
a close, Gretchen is found dead
at the bottom of a set of stairs.
What’s first considered a tragic
accident, is soon rethought
by the police when they find
Gretchen’s purse missing from
the scene.
At the time of her demise,
Gretchen was actually in the
process of writing yet another
book about male singers.
Although this particular book
had a much deeper meaning.
In fact, it looked into a murder
that happened a long time ago
within her family.
When she is killed,
Gretchen’s best friend from
college Jamie, is asked by
Gretchen’s mother to look into
the new book she was working
on, as well as become the
literary executor of Gretchen’s
estate. However, when Jamie
takes on the job, she soon finds
out about the mission Gretchen
was on to find her real father
and uncover clues about a truly
hideous crime.
Jamie jumps into the
investigation with both feet,
even though she is very
pregnant (about seven months
along), and has a husband who
is beyond upset and objects to
all the trips she’s taking.
When the mystery is finally
solved and the book concludes
with a very interesting closing
chapter, the reader may just
walk away with a feeling of
distaste for the character of
Jamie. Yes…this is a plotline
that is confusing. The author
does utilize different typefaces
in order to show the writing
of Gretchen’s new book with
chapters that are titled with
songs from her first novel.
Whereas the numbered
chapters deal with Jamie’s
investigation and her point of
view regarding the death. But,
at times, most readers will find
themselves a bit lost in the
shuffle.
Reviewed by Amy Lignor,
author of “Tallent & Lowery -
13” for Suspense Magazine
38 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

Samurai Game
By Christine Feehan
This is the tenth book
in the famous GhostWalker
series, and fans will absolutely
love everything from the
slightly paranormal aspects
to the thrilling puzzle to the
beautiful love story. All three
facets are woven together
perfectly by Ms. Feehan, who
has certainly made a career
out of being able to produce a
riveting plot.
To begin, there are many
men in the government
who are customers of the
“Dungeon.” This is one of
those very private venues
where famous and infamous
men go to live out their
fantasies with the skilled
and talented “ladies of the
evening” that the “Dungeon”
provides. The women do this
particular work while gleaning
information from these highranking
officials. Paying them
off in ‘favors’ and cash is Dr.
Whitney, a little dictator who
is after any and all secrets he
can get from these men by
using the women as prizes.
Another plotline soon
begins when people start
coming up dead, and in the
aftermath of these deaths there
always seems to be a small
Asian woman seen nearby.
This woman, Azami Yoshiie,
finds that these accidents (or
are they accidents) may have
something to do with the
GhostWalkers. Along with the
GhostWalkers however, comes
a mystery someone who
wants to create a unique new
weapon that will take care of
all the country’s enemies.
Azami goes to the
GhostWalker Compound and
meets Sam Johnson. This is
where the romance begins. In
fact, the two fall in love during
a long siege of the Compound.
Add to this the fact that Dr.
Whitney has been doing
experiments on little girls to
change them into some kind
of Amazon race, and you have
Mission Impossible joining
with things that ‘go bump in
the night.’
This latest installment is
a fast-paced read with highly
driven characters that just
can’t, or won’t, quit. For fans
who have been awaiting a new
tale of the GhostWalkers, you
will be extremely pleased.
Reviewed by Amy Lignor,
author of “Tallent & Lowery -
13” for Suspense Magazine
SuspenseMagazine.com
One Was a Soldier
By Julia Spencer-Fleming
“One Was a Soldier” is the latest in Julia Spencer-Fleming’s series featuring Episcopalian priest Clare
Fergusson and Millers Kill police chief Russ Van Alstyne. In this novel, Clare has just returned from a tour
of duty in Iraq, where she served as a helicopter pilot with her National Guard unit. The story centers on her
adjustment to life at home, as well as the problems of several other returned veterans, who suffer with both
physical and mental difficulties.
The story begins with a therapy session in which a group of vets gather to begin to handle their
memories and readjustment to civilian life, but it is clear that the growing and moving forward that needs to
be done will only happen as they learn to deal once again with the demands of everyday life and their new
and old relationships. The therapist is merely there to help tie the group together.
As the story progresses, it becomes clear that there is more going on in Millers Kill than the usual small
town happenings, as both Clare and Russ struggle to define their own relationship, while dealing with the
complications of the pastoral duties of a priest and the role of a police chief. The trail soon leads to the reinvestigation
of an accident and a supposed suicide, and entanglements with the military police as a crime
involving a theft originating in Iraq threatens to tear apart this small New York town.
Ms. Spencer-Fleming has created characters dealing with the very real effects of serving in horrific battle
situations. She conveys the clear message that memories of horror never go away, and the healing is different
for everyone. Her description of the lack of scruples of both civilians and military who take advantage of
the situation and line their own pockets is both frightening and thought provoking. The themes of religion
and faith, as well as war and greed, create a counterpoint in the book that will leave you pondering for many
days to come.
Reviewed by Kathleen Heady, author of “The Gate House” for Suspense Magazine
Nemesis
By Jo Nesbo
Winner of the William Nygaard Bursary Award 2002, and shortlisted for the 2010 Edgar Award for
Best Novel and the 2010 Macavity Awards for Best Mystery Novel, with “Nemesis,” the fourth book of nine
in the Harry Hole series, Jo Nesbo has once again written a fast-paced mystery/thriller that takes the reader
from each electrically charged plot to the next.
Harry Hole comes back as damaged as ever. The hard drinking, chain-smoking inspector continues to
plod along through a war torn love life not quite able to pull a relationship off. Yet as another baffling case
lands in his lap, he hits the ground running to catch a murderer and clear his name at the same time.
When a robbery resulting in the cold-hearted murder of a bank cashier is caught on CCTV, Hole
realizes he has come up against a suspect that is incredibly intelligent with every base covered to avoid being
caught. Within days of the robbery Anna Behsen, beautiful, sexy gypsy and formerly Hole’s lover, is found
dead in her apartment by a gunshot, apparently the victim of suicide. Problem is, Hole was with her the
night before and had woken up with one hell of a headache and no memory of what happened.
With his partner, newly graduated detective Beate Lonn, Hole follows leads that take him to dead-ends
at every turn. When Hole starts receiving cryptic emails linking him to the murder of his ex-lover, he realizes
he needs to find the true killer before his fellow officers arrest him for the crime he didn’t commit. When
Hole and Lonn find themselves in Brazil looking for an infamous bank robber and the prime suspect in the
string of robberies in Oslo, his nemesis Tom Waaler is doing his best to find the proof that Hole committed
murder.
With complex plots and compelling characters, loyal fans and new readers alike will find themselves so
drawn into the thriller that they will find themselves up until the wee hours of the morning unable to put
the book down.
Reviewed by Jodi Ann Hanson (chaptersandchats.com) for Suspense Magazine
Discretion
By Allison Leotta
Former Federal Prosecutor Allison Leotta uses her personal experiences garnered over a twelve-year
period in the prosecution of sex crimes, domestic violence, and crimes against children to create a novel
that keeps her readers engaged throughout this fast-paced legal thriller. Her first novel “Law of Attraction,”
was given accolades by the top publications in America. Suspense Magazine named the book one of the best
legal thrillers in 2010.
When the beautiful escort Caroline McBride is thrown off a balcony to her death, Assistant U.S.
Attorney Anna Curtis takes her place alongside Samantha Randazzo, a no-nonsense FBI agent in the
investigation, to prove a man in high places is their killer.
The team finds themselves in the midst of a scandal that has the top politicians and many of D.C’s
powerful men who are clients of the high-end escort service Discretion. Someone wants to keep the
madam’s records suppressed and will do anything, even murder, to destroy the records before they become
public knowledge and destroy many careers and lives in the process.
Meanwhile, Anna’s relationship with Chief Homicide Prosecutor and her boss, Jack Bailey, may
work against her being accepted for her determination and results on this and future cases because she
may be tagged as a woman sleeping her way to the top. She needs to decide which is more important; the
relationship or her career.
Allison Leotta has crafted a thriller with a storyline that could easily be a headline in newspapers as a
real life case. The plot is well laid out with characters that are true to life. Readers can easily feel connected
to each of them, be it wanting to champion the underdog or slap the arrogant.
This book is one any fan of the thriller genre can sink their teeth into. “Discretion” is one of those
books that will have you up until the wee hours of the morning or sneaking a chapter in at lunch to see what
happens next. It is a must read!
Reviewed by Jodi Ann Hanson, (chaptersandchats.com) for Suspense Magazine
39

The Dark Knight Rises
2012
Genre – Action/Thriller (PG 13)
During the two hours and forty-four minutes of The Dark Knight Rises, in my head
I wrote three different reviews. The first began “Batman is beyond cool and Director
Christopher Nolan’s dark vision is a lesson in creating fascinating characters. And wow,
Anne Hathaway is a fabulous Cat Woman.”
Second review an hour in: “Move it along, enough already of miserable Bruce Wayne
wallowing in self-pity. What an overblown monster film that sinks in the middle.”
Third review over the last hour: “Finally the Dark Knight does indeed rise and
hits meteoric heights with a dramatic premise, a seemingly unstoppable villain and
exhilarating chase scenes.”
This final film of Nolan’s trilogy is set eight years later. D.A. Harvey Dent’s elevation
to idol after his death at Batman’s hands haunts Commissioner Gordon. Only he knows
that Dent died not as a hero but as the vengeful two-face—and that Batman disappeared
in the ultimate sacrifice for the greater good of Gotham City.
Bruce Wayne, now a reclusive, hobbling shadow of himself, has no interest in the outside world until he encounters
master thief Selina Kyle (Anne Hathaway)—better known as Cat Woman. His intrigue with her prompts his first steps back
to life outside Wayne Manor.
Meanwhile, it appears there is a new villain in the city, Bane (Tom Hardy). The personification of evil, he embarks on an
unclear master plan. One thing that is clear is that only Batman can save Gotham from him.
Batman is not alone in his fight. Miranda Tate (Marion Cotillard), a wealthy philanthropist and police officer John Blake
(Joseph Gordon-Levitt) join him as allies in thwarting the latest threat. Lucius Fox (Morgan Freeman) returns as the gadget
man and Michael Caine gives his usual perfect performance as Alfred.
It may be a little long, it may be a little too dark, and it may be we’ve learnt a little more about Batman than we care to
know, but there is enough greatness here to overcome the lag. In an age where blockbusters are manufactured to please rather
than provoke, most will forgive Nolan’s indulgences in this grandly imagined and passionately executed conclusion, which
appears to leave more than a few doors open for another series.
Reviewed by Susan May http://anadventureinfilm.blogspot.com.au/ for Suspense Magazine
Bernie
2011
Genre – Comedy/Crime (PG-13)
MOVIES
The title of the April 2012 article in the New York Times says it all, “How My Aunt Marge
Ended Up in the Deep Freeze.” The article written by Joe Rhodes, the nephew of Marjorie
Nugent, recounts the true-life story of much loved Bernie Tiede, assistant funeral director, and
affluent and mean spirited Marjorie in the tiny town of Carthage, Texas.
If you weren’t told it was true, you wouldn’t believe it. And even as the end credits of the
mockumentary film Bernie roll, you sit there still mesmerised by the attitudes of the townsfolk,
who just can’t believe that in 1996 their beloved Bernie turned murderer. Even if he was a
killer, the consensus of the townsfolk is he should be given a medal not life.
Directed by Richard Linklater, the film chronicles, in documentary style, Carthage’s
Bernie (Jack Black) befriending Marjorie Nugent (Shirley MacLaine), whom Linklater labours
to assure us is one of the nastiest human beings you would ever meet. A friendship develops
between the thirty-nine-year-old Bernie and the eighty-one-year-old millionaire Marjorie
and they spend the next few years traveling the world and living the high life on her dime.
Eventually, she even writes him into her will and signs over her power of attorney.
Marjorie, who blossomed during the friendship, increasingly turns more possessive and demanding with Bernie, until
one day he snaps, shooting her and disposing of her body in a freezer under the frozen vegetables and pot pies. For the
next nine months he then continues on normal with his life, creating ever-changing excuses as to her unavailability, whilst
ploughing through two million dollars of her money.
So popular is Bernie, that Danny Buck Davidson, (Matthew McConaughey), the district attorney, faces an uphill battle
to convict if the trial is held in Carthage, uttering one of the classic film lines during the trial, “Oh, he’s an angel, all right. An
angel of death!”
Like all black comedies, the comedy in Bernie is that this is something about which you should not be laughing. But when
you have real-life characters sprouting lines such as “There are people in town, honey, that woulda shot her for five dollars,”
you know you have permission to laugh at this tabloid story.
Reviewed by Susan May http://anadventureinfilm.blogspot.com.au/2012/08/bernie.html
SuspenseMagazine.com
41

Featured
Artist
Jennifer Gelinas
Inspired by Others
ONE OF US
42 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

Interview by Suspense Magazine
PRISONER
Jennifer Gelinas is from Ithaca, N.Y., where she graduated from high school in 1997. She
started college courses there, focusing on psychology and philosophy. Eventually, she
decided to forgo mainstream education to pursue her own studies in the metaphysical
and is now a certified Reiki practitioner, although she’s not currently practicing.
Gelinas has always been an artist in many forms, including—but not limited to—music. She
is proficient in both French horn and trumpet.
She has been interested in photomanipulation for a long time. Gelinas always admired
others’ work in that area, though it seemed like such a complicated process for her. However,
about seven months ago, she decided to give it a real shot and try to learn. Looking around the
Internet, Gelinas found some information and figured out what kind of program her needs
dictated.
She actually stumbled on to a few that had the tools she was looking for, but wasn’t very
happy with the interface. Then, she found Photoshop in late November. That’s when Gelinas ate, drank, and slept it (not much
sleep, actually). She poured her heart and soul into learning what she so admired in other artists’ work.
Finally, Gelinas reached a goal that she felt was completely unattainable. On April 4, her goal was truly realized when she
was honored with a Daily Deviation for her piece, Tree Of Life on DeviantART.
Gelinas now lives in Cortland, N.Y. with her boyfriend Dana, of eight years and their four-year-old daughter Abree.
Currently, she works with photographer Kevin Jairaj at KJImages Photography. They are currently collaborating on
various projects.
Suspense Magazine finds her work fascinating and we are thrilled to be bringing you the talent of Jennifer Gelinas in this
month’s issue. Enjoy!
SuspenseMagazine.com
43

QUEEN OF THE DAMNED
SOLITUDE
QUEEN OF THE DAMNED
44 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

Suspense Magazine (S. MAG.): What is a Reiki practitioner
Jennifer Gelinas (JG): Reiki is the practice of directing energy
or “life force” through the hands to another person focusing
mainly on the “Chakras,” the energy centers of the body, to
promote healing and relaxation through balancing these
areas.
S. MAG.: You have some beautiful pieces. Do you feel this
talent was always inside of you and that you just had to find
it Or do you feel finding Photoshop allowed you to become
talented with nothing but a passion for art
JG: Yes, I think it was always there waiting for an outlet
through the right medium which Photoshop provided.
Photomanipulation was something that I was determined to
learn and Photoshop (or a comparable program) was essential
to learning it.
S. MAG.: Do you have a favorite piece that you simply
cannot part with
JG: That’s a tough question; I have so many favorites. One
of them would definitely be One of Us, mainly because of
the time I have invested in it. I actually almost threw in the
towel on it at one point. It was a lot of trial and error getting
the details to flow correctly and it got pretty frustrating at
times. A few of my other favorites are Justice Revisited,
Society, Ignorance Is Bliss, Yasodhara, and 46+2.
HOLLOW WORDS
S. MAG.: In the artist world, who or what has been a
strong inspiration for you
JG: I’d have to say my biggest inspiration was
DeviantART and every artist on DeviantART whose
creation touched my heart in a way that drove me that
much closer to creating my own work.
S. MAG.: If you could give one piece of advice to
artists just starting out that you feel will help them
to stay focused and keep their passion, what would
it be
JG: Although I’m the probably the worst person to
give this advice, PATIENCE. It’s not exactly one of my
strong points, but I can see where it would have helped
me along the way. It turns out food and sleep are actually beneficial to the learning process (smiles).
TEMPTATION
S. MAG.: Other than your art, what do you think has stayed the same about you throughout your life
JG: Definitely my determination, although at times to a fault. When I have my mind set on doing something, I put everything I
have into it, at times, more than is healthy.
S. MAG.: Who is your favorite artist and why
SuspenseMagazine.com
45

Releasing
JG: Alex Grey, no question. His ability to create such spiritually powerful art is astounding. You don’t even have to understand
his work to be transformed by it, just to look at it. To say that admire his work would be an enormous understatement.
S. MAG.: What one attribute do you find unacceptable in others Yourself
JG: In others: dishonesty. That is one thing that was drilled into my psyche during my childhood that was completely unacceptable.
In myself: failure. I’m a horrible perfectionist. I’ve gotten better about it throughout the years, but I still have to work on not being
so hard on myself.
S. MAG.: In your career as an artist, how many times have you considered throwing in the towel
JG: In general Never. On certain pieces—lost count, (laughs).
S. MAG.: What is the biggest dream you have surrounding your art
JG: My dream is to touch others through my art in some way, ideally in a spiritual sense along the lines of the way Alex Grey
ultimately does through his work. I think if I could do that, I would really feel complete as far as my art goes.
Suspense Magazine has enjoyed getting to know Jennifer and bring her and her talent to you. If you’d like to see more
of her work, check out her page at DeviantART, http://browse.deviantart.com/qh=&section=&global=1&q=Dasha444.
View model/photographer credit at: http://browse.deviantart.com/qh=&section=&global=1&q=Dasha444
46 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

D.P. Lyle
Has Captured Audiences
Interview by Suspense Magazine
D.P. Lyle is back with “Run to Ground,” the next
book in his popular series starring Dub Walker, This is the third book
in the series, but D.P. doesn’t stop there, having authored several forensics
books as well that other authors use as a daily guide when writing their
thriller books.
D.P.’s fiction books have a fast-paced style and attention to detail that
has made him one of the foremost thriller writers today. Dub Walker can
first be seen in “Stress Fracture” and also in “Hot Lights, Cold Steel,” both
of which received rave reviews.
What is the story of “Run to Ground” From D.P.’s website: www.
dplylemd.com you’ll read: “What if a forensic evidence and criminal
behavior expert must track down a seemingly average, very religious
couple who murdered the killer of their only child, dumped their entire
lives, and disappeared What would you do if someone brutally murdered
your only child, got off on a technicality, serving only months for a minor
infraction, and continually taunted and threatened you from behind
bars Could you hide your growing rage from family and friends Could
you gun the killer down Could you change your ID and leave behind
your entire life—family, friends, jobs, home—and disappear For Tim
and Martha Foster the answer to each of these questions is yes. This is
the scenario that faces Dub Walker in “Run to Ground.” Skip tracing—
finding those who erase their identity and disappear—is as much art
as science. Locating someone who effectively creates a new identity
and cuts all ties with family and friends requires creativity, attention
to detail, an understanding of the criminal mind, and luck. Forensic
evidence and criminal behavior expert Dub Walker, along with best
friend and homicide investigator T-Tommy Tortelli and ex-wife and Channel
8 TV reporter Claire McBride, employs all his skills to ultimately locate the couple, now settling into a new life
hundreds of miles and two states away. Problem solved. Or maybe not!”
D.P. Lyle is an M.D. and Macavity Award-winning author and has worked with many authors and TV shows to help them
with forensics and give the audience the assurance that items included are authentic. D.P.’s e-mail inbox is always open to any
SuspenseMagazine.com
47

author when you want to know, “What would happen to a body if I killed the victim this way” It’s this type of detail in D.P.’s
books that separates him from other authors in the thriller genre. We are very pleased that D.P. Lyle is back with Suspense
Magazine in an exclusive interview.
Suspense Magazine (S. MAG.): What was the best part about writing “Run to Ground”
Doug Lyle (DL): Spending time with Dub, T-Tommy, and Claire. I love the three main characters of this series. The next book
will feature Claire as the main part of the story, but of course Dub and T-Tommy will help solve the case. Also, I love this story.
It moves from place to place, city to city, and has an interesting cast of supporting characters, and of course some fun forensic
science. It actually began as a short story, titled “Even Steven,” which appears in the new ITW anthology “Thriller 3: Love Is
Murder.” I sent the story to my older sister, a retired schoolteacher and pretty good storyteller herself, and she asked, ‘What
happens next’ “Run to Ground” is what happens next.
S. MAG.: With the subject matter in “Run to Ground”—a murdered child and the killer getting off on a technicality along
with the parents going rogue—being so emotional, was it difficult to write
DL: The child murder was in the backstory so, though dealt with in this story, it was not present in real time or in any detail.
It was the motivation for the parent’s actions but it was never rendered in a scene. That would have been difficult, and to me,
unnecessary.
S. MAG.: Which character in “Run to Ground” was a surprise, in terms of having a voice louder than you expected
DL: I’m not sure it was a surprise but the parents, Tim and Martha Foster, became very intriguing characters as the writing
progressed. I think that is fairly common. At least for me it is. You have a certain image of a character but as you spend more time
with them they evolve into something else—something deeper and with more soul. That’s just part of the process.
S. MAG.: What scares Doug Lyle
48 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

DL: You. Really, I don’t like sharks so I stay out of the ocean, I don’t like big angry dogs so I avoid them, and live burial is perhaps
the worst thing I could think of.
S. MAG.: What is the best way a writer can challenge themselves with each novel
DL: Stretch and learn. Try different genres. Write about things you don’t know and not what you do know. That makes you open
up new doors. One of the reasons I wrote the two Royal Pains Media tie-in novels was to try a different style of writing. If you read
those, they are totally different than my Dub Walker or Samantha Cody series. Different voice and different storytelling method.
It was a great learning experience.
S. MAG.: What is on your DVR right now
DL: Since I’ve been traveling the last two weeks I’m just now catching up, so the most recent episodes of Royal Pains, True Blood,
and Weeds, as well as a documentary on the Civil War.
S. MAG.: If Dub Walker was sitting in front you, what would you ask him
DL: Is it okay if I ask your ex-wife Claire out I love her. She’s a fun character and, as I said, will take center stage in the next
Dub Walker thriller.
S. MAG.: How do you overcome writers’ block
DL: No such thing. It simply means that the story
hasn’t percolated in your head long enough for you to
understand it yet. Daydream a bit and it will come.
S. MAG.: Do you secretly laugh when you receive
an e-mail from a fan that says: “Thanks for the book
Doug, it scared the hell out of me!”
DL: Isn’t that the goal I love it when someone says,
“I stayed up half the night because I couldn’t stop
reading.” Once someone told me that while reading
my Sam Cody story “Devil’s Playground,” she wouldn’t
go to sleep with the book in her house. She would stick
it under the front mat until morning. Got to love that.
S. MAG.: What sentence or scene in “Run to
Ground” do you think captures the essence of the
book, without giving away any spoilers
DL: The opening scene says a lot. It sets the story
question and introduces Tim and Martha Foster, the
driving forces behind the story.
We would like to thank D.P. Lyle for taking
the time from answering all the forensic questions
and joining Suspense Magazine for this wonderful
insight into his latest book, “Run to Ground.” If you
want to learn more about this gifted author and his
work available, check out his site at, www.dplylemd.
com.
Jodie Renner Editing
Fiction Editing and
Critiquing Services
www.JodieRennerEditing.com
Specializing in thrillers,
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Look for Jodie’s craft of iction articles on these blogs:
Crime Fiction Collective, Blood-Red Pencil, The Thrill
Begins, Writer’s Forensics, and Suspense Magazine.
“Jodie Renner worked with me to transform my thriller,
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SuspenseMagazine.com
49

DEEP IN THE REMOTE NORTHERN WILDERNESS,
A MURDERER IS POISED TO STRIKE...
IT’S UP TO DETECTIVE CORK O’CONNOR TO STOP HIM.
The latest installment of William Kent Krueger’s
bestselling series finds Cork O’Connor caught in
the crosshairs of a political assassin.
“Can a writer keep getting better and better Minnesotan William
Kent Krueger surely can.” —ST. PAUL PIONEER PRESS
Cork O’Connor must solve the murder of a young girl before a group of
brutal killers catches his own family in this New York Times bestseller.
NOW IN
PAPERBACK
“Krueger never writes the same book twice as each installment finds him
delving deeper into Cork’s psyche.” —PUBLISHERS WEEKLY (STARRED REVIEW)
ATRIA INTERNATIONAL BOOKS OF MYSTERY
YOUR PASSPORT TO A WORLD OF MURDER AND MAYHEM
Visit the Atria International Books of Mystery Site: www.atriainternationalmysteries.com
Facebook.com/AtriaBooks
Twitter.com/AtriaBooks

Cannonball
Ojimbwe
By Elliot Capon
When it came to drummers, Buddy Rich had hands that moved at the speed of light; Max Roach could make those
drums speak English; Art Blakey was like a human octopus. But no one played the drums like “Cannonball”
Ojimbwe. Music critics and jazz writers turned blue in the column trying to describe his style—“evocative”
was too impotent a word. Whether Cannonball was playing good old be-bop or modern acid/fusion/New Age, there was
something about his drumming that gave people memories—not feelings, but the sense of actual déjà vu memories—of dark
nights, long, long, long ago, sometime between the taming of fire and the birth of the Savior, when people beat drums to
talk to the gods and the spirits, and the gods and spirits answered back. While no one could even adequately describe his
drumming, no one could ever come within a wild fantasy of imitating him. There was one and only one Cannonball Ojimbwe.
At six-foot nine, he towered over his drum set and his musical partners the way his pulsating drums towered over each
piece they played. His skin was black—not brown, not dark brown, but black, and as he lorded over the stage, pounding his
ancient rhythms, people couldn’t help but imagine him as some high priest in some forgotten land, communing with a nature
that understood and answered him.
G Major was L.A.’s most prestigious club for serious jazz, and it was packed the night the Ojimbwe Seven made their last
appearance of an unprecedented three-week engagement. They were good that night. Ojimbwe’s drumming was exceptional—
to the chef ’s dismay, people forgot to eat and drink, mesmerized as they were by the brain-grabbing beat of Cannonball’s
drums.
After the show, a young woman found her way backstage, as many were wont to do at this club…at any jazz club. A scribe
writing thirty or forty years ago would have had the luxury of describing her skin as “coffee and cream.” She went right up to
Ojimbwe where he sat toweling his forehead. There was no seduction. She cooed the usual “biggest fan” line, but they knew
they were both actors in an oft-performed drama and that the second act was to follow. He invited her to his hotel room and
she practically led him there.
It wasn’t the best hotel in L.A.—it was the mid-priced kind traveling musicians stay in. He didn’t bother to turn on any
lights save for the nightlight in the hall he had left on…a nice, romantic kind of light for a one-sidedly anonymous one night
stand.
There was no need to be coy, no need for pretense. She turned away from him and began unbuttoning her blouse. She
was a collector of celebrity encounters, after all, and he was…well, he was a guy.
She dropped her blouse to the floor and the bra followed.
“Why do they call you Cannonball” she asked over her shoulder as she unbuttoned her pants. “Is it because your skin
is so dark”
“No,” he said, and even in that one word she could hear the West African accent in his English. She turned around to see
what his sartorial status was, and in the dim glow of the hall nightlight she saw him remove the tip of his drumstick, saw the
tiny, sharp blade catch and reflect a little bit of light.
“And it’s not ‘Cannonball,’” he said, stepping toward her with a smile. “It’s ‘Cannibal.’ ”
SuspenseMagazine.com
51

Truth is
Stranger Than
Fiction
with Julie Kramer
Interview by Suspense Magazine
Press Photo Credit: Garrett Young
Julie Kramer is a national bestselling author—
most recently with her book “Killing Kate”—and is back with
“Shunning Sarah,” which will be released Aug. 7.
Julie’s first release, “Stalking Susan,” came with wonderful
reviews from Publishers Weekly and People magazine, to name
a couple.
“Shunning Sarah,” the next book, is set in the world
of broadcast news. It’s something Julie knows a lot about,
having worked as a freelance producer NBC and CBS.
Growing up on the Minnesota-Iowa border, she is the fourth
generation of a long line of cattle and crop farmers. Being a
Minnesota Viking fan, Julie is used to
disappointment—just like the editor
of this magazine—and it is that drive
that keeps her going to bring the
thrills at the highest level, to never let
her readers feel the disappointment
of rooting for an NFL team that does
nothing right.
Her writing has received several
book award nominations, including
the Daphne du Maurier award and
the Minnesota Book Award. We are
pleased to bring you this interview
with Julie Kramer.
52 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

Suspense Magazine (S. MAG.): What attracted you
to Phyllis A. Whitney’s novels as a child Have you
revisited those stories in your adult years
Julie Kramer (JK): I grew up on a family farm along
the Minnesota-Iowa border and the bookmobile was
everything to me. Each week the librarian brought me a
Phyllis A. Whitney book. I reveled in the suspense of her
stories. As I was writing my first thriller, I came upon an
essay she had written about building tension in storytelling.
Her advice to give every character a secret still stands. After
I landed my first book deal I looked online and discovered
she was alive…one hundred and four years old. A few
days later, I summoned the courage to write to her and ask
for a blurb. But when I checked her website for an e-mail,
something changed. It read: “Phyllis A. Whitney September
9, 1903—February 8, 2008.” Then I found her obit in The
New York Times. I wish she could have known how much
she inspired me as a reader and a writer. Her books from my
childhood are probably in the corner of some closet on the farm
and I’m torn between wanting to read them again but worried
I won’t feel the same magic decades later.
S. MAG.: “Shunning Sarah” mixes the Bible, sex, money, and
the Amish. Do you fear backlash from people who feel it’s too
many taboos mixed together
JK: Definitely not. Politicians confront multiple taboos during campaigns
and still get elected. Dan Brown’s “Da Vinci Code” is plenty of proof that
taboos sell. I spent a career in television news, so controversy doesn’t scare me. I
think exploring taboos helps people discover things about themselves. My book pits two cultures against each other: flashy TV
news and the reclusive Amish. That combination guarantees conflict, and conflict ensures good storytelling. Because I’m highly
influenced by happenings around me as I write, my book incorporates topical events such as the rogue hair-cutting Amish in
Ohio. I think “Shunning Sarah” has the right balance of all these “taboo” elements to thrill readers.
S. MAG.: Growing up in Minnesota, which is your most cherished childhood memory How were you as a kid
JK: My childhood memories aren’t so much “cherished” as they are vivid. I remember being lost in the corn as a child and the
panic of running until I found open air. I remember being chased and clawed by a rogue rooster. I remember picking rocks out
of the fields with my sweaty siblings, and the pain of stepping on a rusty nail in a barn and seeing blood ooze from the bottom
of my foot. I’m fourth-generation of our farm family. Some good things happened also, like playing with baby farm animals and
winning Grand Champion Beef Steer at the Mower County Fair. For the most part, I was a quiet kid who liked to read.
S. MAG.: What made you go from journalism to novelist
JK: Often, when I’d write news, I’d find myself thinking “Darn the facts. If it wasn’t for the facts, boy could I tell a story.” But rules
are rules and in news, facts are paramount. I was an investigative journalist and my work life was quite chaotic and my children
were still young and I decided I needed to make a change. But when I sat down to try and write fiction, I expected it to be easier. I
found myself craving facts. Making things up felt like cheating. So I had issues to work through. But once I did, I found journalism
was an excellent preparation for fiction because it taught me that truth is stranger than fiction. Believing that idiom helps me
write unpredictable novels. Sometimes people ask, “Could that really” And I tell them, “There is nothing in my books as crazy
as what you’ll see on the news tonight.”
S. MAG.: What is it like to have your work recognized in journalism and as an author
SuspenseMagazine.com
53

JK: I’ve been lucky to succeed in two very different careers. In news, I was a producer in the field and in the
newsroom. Fairly invisible to the public. Now as an author, I’m out there front and center. That’s probably
the biggest difference. Since my transition, I’ve become an advocate of “reinventing” yourself.
S. MAG.: Riley Spartz has a mind of her own. Where did she come from What was your inspiration to create
such a character
JK: Certainly, there’s a little bit of me in my protagonist, but there’s also a little bit of former co-workers. They know
who they are. As for the rest of my characters, my books are works of fiction. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
As a reader, I tired of novels that portrayed TV reporters as annoying secondary characters to be killed off whenever
the plot started dragging. That’s why I decided to make my heroine a reporter. I know public esteem of that profession
has dropped since the days of Woodward and Bernstein. But I like a challenge.
S. MAG.: Have you ever had an instance in your career as a journalist that made its way into one of your books
If so, can you tell us about it
JK: This has happened numerous times. My debut, “Stalking Susan,” was inspired by some cold homicide cases
I covered. Two women, both named Susan, disappeared from a poor neighborhood on the same day two years
apart. Their strangled bodies were discovered in a rich neighborhood the following mornings. The murders
remain unsolved today, but police are closer than they’ve been in nearly thirty years because publication of my
book revived interest in the cases and investigators used new forensics on the old evidence and now have DNA
of the killers.
In “Missing Mark,” a neurological disorder known as face-blindness plays a role in plot and character. I first
learned about this disorder while covering it as a news assignment. I’m lucky that in many cases, I’ve gotten
to live my research whether it be gossip and wind turbines—two forms of hot air featured in “Silencing
Sam”—or a real life century-old Black Angel statue in “Killing Kate.” I regret I’m too busy writing crime
fiction to cover much news anymore, because there’s no shortage of material out there. “Shunning Sarah”
allowed me to combine two parts of my life: growing up near and Amish family and spending a career in
television news.
S. MAG.: If you could spend the afternoon interviewing Riley, what would you ask What do you feel
the public would want to know
JK: After all the angst my protagonist has been through, I’d probably ask her, “Why don’t you just leave
the news business for a cushy public relations job” The answer: She can’t. She thrives on chasing news and
truly believes a free objective press makes for a better society. As for my fans, the biggest question I get is, “When will Riley and
Nick Garnett get married” The answer: I don’t know. Every time it looks like it’s getting close, something bad happens to break
them up. Maybe that’s for the best, but maybe they will eventually find happiness together.
S. MAG.: What’s the one thing you’ve always wanted but still don’t have
JK: World peace.
S. MAG.: Is Riley going to continue or do we have a new character to look forward to stirring around in your
mind
JK: I’m working on book six—still untitled—of the series right now. Each of the books are self-contained, so
while they feature the same protagonist, they don’t have to be read in order. But writers always have other
characters and book ideas crowding their subconscious.
We would like to thank Julie for taking the time out of her busy schedule to conduct this
interview with Suspense Magazine. If you would like to know more about Julie, please visit her
website: www.juliekramerbooks.com and put “Shunning Sarah” on your list of books to get
this summer.
54 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

What’s the Deal With
the Silver Bullet
& Other Little Known Werewolf Facts
By Thomas Scopel
Growing up in my pre-teen years, I was an avid viewer of Chiller Theatre. It was those Saturday night double features that
I credit with learning much of my common knowledge concerning horror lore. And, although I was always entertained, it
did leave some lingering questions.
In film and book media, werewolves, with the exception of “Teen Wolf ” and a few others, are typically and correctly
portrayed as vicious and horrible. Employing superhuman strength, razor-sharp teeth and claws, and an aggressive
disposition, they are stealthy and can strike without notice. And their exceptional hearing and smelling senses ensure that
no hiding spot is safe.
Killing these terrible beasts isn’t easy. The standard weapons simply don’t apply and since werewolves heal almost
instantly, most efforts to harm them are in vain.
However, as with any good vs. evil scenario, there is a solution. In this case, it’s a silver bullet. But why a silver bullet
First, let’s understand the origins of the werewolf legend. The first reputed werewolf was in 1591 in Bedburg and Cologne,
Germany. His name was Peter Stubbe and the legend tells of sorcery, evil pacts, brutal acts, and an eventual execution.
Depending upon location and belief, primarily European in origin, there are various ways to become a werewolf. The
most common way is through a bite. A less common way is to make a pact with the devil to fulfill a desire or craving for
human flesh. Supposedly, the devil offered the ability of horrendous metamorphosis in exchange for one’s soul.
Being cursed is probably the second most common method. This curse can be either human- or God-related. When it
is God-related, it is usually as a punishment for invoking wrath. In Greek mythology, the werewolf originates when King
Lycaon attempts to feed and poison Zeus with human flesh. Zeus isn’t fooled and condemns Lycaon to a life as a wolf, thus,
the origin of the word lycan.
Other ways reputedly include: drinking the puddle of rain water lying in a werewolf ’s paw print, wearing a wolf-skin belt
while nude, and sleeping outdoors with the moon directly hitting a person’s face on certain Wednesdays and Fridays.
Is there a cure
There are three reputed methods for curing werewolfism. Using wolfsbane medicinally, surgical removal (which usually
kills the person in the process), or by exorcism.
In a 1963 study by Dr. Lee Illis entitled On Prophyria and the Aetiology of Werewolves, Dr. Lee argues that the medical
condition of rabies could very well be the actual origin of the werewolf legend since the common historical symptoms are
uncannily similar. And, since rabies is a highly contagious disease, it could explain why being bitten by the afflicted would
infect and potentially create a new werewolf. Of course other medical conditions have been debated in an attempt to explain,
too.
Where Hypertrichosis deals primarily with excessive hair growth, Porphyria is much worse. It causes pigment loss of
red blood cells and makes its sufferers painfully photosensitive. The later stages include thick hair growth, sores, skin and
cartilage change, with accompanying red colored nails and teeth. Usually, varying degrees of mental illness are prevalent in
those afflicted.
So, now that we’ve had a crash course on Werewolves 101, why does it have to be a silver bullet
The silver aspect made its way into the lore in the 19 th century when it was reputed that a silver bullet was used to kill
the “Beast of Gevaudan,” a red-haired, large-toothed, and foul smelling, man-eating wolf-like animal that roamed France’s
SuspenseMagazine.com
55

central-south Margeride Mountains between 1764 and 1767. More recently, it’s believed that animal was a large and nowextinct
hyena.
Since silver is reputed to have associations with both the human soul, as well as the moon, it is believed that this metal
has mystical properties. Properties that act much like the werewolf ’s natural allergy of wolfsbane and burn from the inside.
Psalm 12:6 even addresses this: The words of the Lord are pure words, like silver tried in of earth, purified seven times.
This purification is absolute and Satan cannot twist it. And, with a werewolf being reputed to have originally made a pact
with the dark lord himself, making them impervious to manmade weapons, an absolute purifier is needed and required to
successfully break the evil binding ties.
Silver is a metallic element that, in its pure form, has both the highest electrical and thermal conductivity of all metals.
So, considering the metal’s physical and divine properties, it does seem to be well suited for disposing of the werewolf.
But is simply killing the menacing beast enough
It is believed that if a werewolf ’s head is not separated from its body, it will arise much like a vampire does and begin
to hunt again. Legend holds that if the removed head is tossed into a brook, it will supposedly sink and remain under the
surface, held down by the weight of sin.
Okay then, why does it take shape only during a full moon
Leonie Calver, a clinical research toxicology nurse at Calvary Mater Newcastle Hospital in Sydney, Australia, has
researched this human-associated, full-moon phenomenon. In her study, documented in the Medical Journal of Australia,
she cites, “our findings support the premise that individuals with violent and acute behavioral disturbances are more likely to
present to the emergency department during the full moon.”
One theory that could lend some credence to the full-moon conception is that the moon controls the tide through
lunar gravitational pull. And, since the human brain is primarily made up of water, the full moon may have an effect on this
moisture too, causing ill feelings to come forth and creating a transformation, much like the proverbial lunatic, a moon or
lunar associated word.
Which reminds me…
Why do they call it the Witching Hour
56 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

By Donald Allen Kirch
The Salem Witch Trials:
A Study in Mob Justice
In 1692 and 1693, hysteria grabbed hold of the Royal
Colony of Massachusetts and almost did not let go. There
were no barriers to the madness. No lines of civility. Once
one was suspected, or a finger pointed, and an opinion
was formulated about someone, they were—more or
less—condemned. Innocent people, whose only crime was
prospering better than their neighbor, or who lived a little
different than most, were thrown upon a judicial system that
went totally to hell.
It is a cautionary tale we all know as the Salem Witch
Trials.
Like most horrific things in this world, the genesis of
the storm started out rather innocent. Nothing more than a
parlor game, made by one adult, so that some bored children
could pass a cold winter’s night.
Tituba, a slave, shared native stories with colonial girls,
in the basement of the Salem Village parsonage. Living in an
age where females had as much freedom and rights as those
born in some Middle Eastern nations today, their uneducated
imaginations went wild with the stories the old woman
shared. With the power of storytelling, the winter winds,
fire, and eggs dripping through water, the slave told tales that
would one day take away her life. Tituba was, possibly, the
most sorrowful victim of the witch trials, because, as a slave,
she had no rights to consider. Like a horse, or a piece of rope,
she had been seen by the “god-fearing” of Salem as nothing
more than property.
Others…were treated differently.
The first afflicted were a nine-year-old named Betty
Parris and her cousin Abigail Williams, who had just turned
eleven. Abigail was the daughter and niece (respectively)
of Reverend Parris. Both girls, without warning, were said
to go into almost epileptic-like fits of rage and torments,
sometimes arranging their bodies upon the floor in obscene
positions. They claimed to be victims of demons who were
poking them with needles, and screamed during odd hours
of both night and day.
Reverend Parris, concerned, approached the doctor of
the village, William Griggs. Nothing could be found to help
explain away the girls’ afflictions. Medicines of the time were
administered, and rest was prescribed. All was left to prayer
and God.
Later in the week, when both girls started shouting out
at devils during church services, pointing at demons no one
could see but them, the dark clouds of accusation crept up
on all.
Witchcraft!
Or that is what history would lead you to believe.
Investigations point elsewhere. Like today, those who do
not have used the words “justified,” “entitled,” “righteous,”
and “God” to their own ends. Were the Salem Witch Trials
nothing more than a seventeenth-century version of class
warfare
Once a death, sickness, or unexplained affliction had
been suffered by a member of a community, and that series of
events was connected with the accusation of witchcraft, the
accuser would have to enter a complaint against the alleged
with the local magistrates.
If the complaint were taken seriously, the accused was
taken to a public place of examination, where evidence
would be made against the witch; their body checked for the
Devil’s Mark, and the accused was pressed for a confession.
In the case of Salem, in 1692, the complaint was
considered well founded. The prisoners were handed over
to the authorities and set to appear in the superior court.
However in this case, the magistrates opted to wait for the
arrival of the new charter and governor, who would create a
Court of Oyer and Terminer to handle these cases. Monies
and family properties were suddenly brought to question.
The next step was to summon the witnesses.
Things were simple back then. A person could be
examined and questioned, convicted with having created
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57

a covenant with the Devil, and in some cases, sentenced to
death within the same course of the day. This proved true
with the first recorded conviction of Bridget Bishop on June
2, 1692. She would be hung on June 10.
One particular “death” by the court deserves notice:
The man was killed because he would not admit his guilt.
Giles Corey, an eighty-year-old farmer, came to trial in late
September. He owned a great deal of farmland, which would
have been given to his accuser if guilt could be proven. Corey
was a religious and stubborn fellow. He would not oblige.
The court took actions.
A unique form of punishment was administered called,
peine forte et dure, in which stones were piled upon his chest
until a confession of guilt was obtained. Corey died without
offering a plea, and his body was cast aside in a pauper’s ditch.
Some speculate that Corey refused to confess on the grounds
that if he remained silent, those who were trying to steal his
lands with false accusations would never be able to do so.
Corey pleaded “not guilty” when first arrested. When
faced with the knowledge of the jury being made up of family
members of his accused, he thought best to remain silent.
What would any one of us do, if faced with the option of
death or abolishment
Death, itself, was not the end of the victim’s shame.
Convicted witches, warlocks, and servants of the Devil were
instantly excommunicated from the church and none were
given a proper burial. As soon as they were cut down from
the local hanging tree, their bodies were allowed to roll
down a hill, landing within a shallow ditch, which was barely
covered with dirt. Many times, one would be able to spot a
hand, or foot, poking out of the earth—a feast for the local
wildlife. Even within the local Salem records there was insult:
none of those executed ever had their deaths recorded. It was
as if they never existed!
Most of the evidence, but certainly not all, was spectral
in nature. That is to say, the accused could be found guilty, if
only his spirit or vision were seen in action. If a victim came
forward and stated before the court that they saw the vision
of John Smith seek them out, John Smith could be arrested
Spectural evidence was most damaging to those who had no defense (“The witch
no. 1” Lithograph, February, 29, 1892)
for the charge of witchcraft. Mr. Smith was considered guilty
because an evil force used his likeness, and thus must be in
league with the Devil. Theologically, priest and judge alike
were at war on this subject, each trying to state their case.
Judges were concerned about hearsay. Priests—most honest
in their endeavors—held the importance of saving souls at
stake. The priests went as far to state that if the Devil were to
take on the spectral form of someone else, that person would
have to give him permission to do so. Judges stated that the
Devil, if he were indeed so powerful, could take on anyone’s
identity. After great debate, and several more hangings, it was
deemed unwise to base whole cases on the validity of spectral
evidence alone. Another, and quite logical reasoning for this
were twofold: one, most of those accusing others of spectral
evidence were poor, and owed a debt to those being hanged.
And two, one brave soul went as far as to state that she was
approached by the spectral image of the wife of the Royal
Governor!
The whole affair was getting out of hand.
Other forms of witch detection were used, including the
baking of a witch’s cake. A witch’s cake was performed by
creating an eatable dish made of rye meal and urine from
the afflicted victims. Of course, such a meal was never fed to
a human, but instead, a dog living on church property. Upon
eating the cake, it was believed that as the cake was devoured
and digested by the beast, the accused witch would cry out
in pain. An ancient document entitled “Doctrine of Effluvia”
stated that the witch, upon beaming evil powers through her
eyes at her intended victim, would be cursed to feel the pain
of digestion from the particles of her magic, left behind in the
urine of her victims. There are no results from these actions.
Reverend Paris condemned the action, getting one person
accused redeemed, by stating to those who accused her that
they “went to the devil for help against the devil.” In the end,
a show of hands within the records of the township saved the
woman from being hanged and she became redeemed within
the eyes of her fellows.
Perhaps Reverend Paris knew the hidden motivations
behind the accusations
When spectral evidence and other paranormal
conundrums were thrown out of court, most lawyers
and accusers returned to the original story of Tituba and
the winter of 1692. Tituba, who supposedly taught the
girls involved the powers of voodoo, held no legal rights,
and as stated was seen as nothing more than a piece of
property. Since property was at stake in these matters, it
seemed only logical to have a piece of “talking property”
have a say in court. In any other trial, such an act would
have been laughed out of the building. This however, was
God’s work they were doing.
Tituba had no choice.
Although there are no records to the contrary, some
speculated that Tituba was beaten during her stay at
prison. Wishing to end her torment, she started talking
in the ways she believed her masters wished her to speak.
She only made matters worse.
At trial, she stated for the record that “there were
58 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

creatures that inhabit the invisible world,” and “the dark
rituals which bind them together in service of Satan.” Upon
further suggestions, she implicated several in her guilt stating
that “many other people in the colony were engaged in the
devil’s conspiracy against the Bay.”
Those who were present at her hanging saw surprise
and amazement within her facial lines. Could she have been
lied to Could she have been a fool, used by those trying
to acquire other’s valuable land Remember, once a person
was found guilty of witchcraft, they forfeited all rights to
ownership and citizenry.
The Witch House as it stands today.
After the abolishment of spectral evidence came the
“touch test.” This was in the idea that if a witch, by evil cast
of their eye, sent forth a sickness into their victim she could,
by act of sympathy, cause the very ailment to leave the body
of the affirmed. The witches were blindfolded and sent into a
dark room, where the victim of witchcraft was said to be
having a fit. Once the witch’s hand touched the person in
their rage, and that rage were to stop, guilt was proven.
On the surface, this looked logical and practical to a
learned and religious man. But consider the one accused,
who owned the land that the poor farmer, the victim, had
always dreamed of owning. The accuser had a chance to
fulfill that dream. What would you do Would you throw
a fit and then claim a cure at the touch, if your dream
were upon the threshold
When the “touch test” became a carnival, other
forms of de facto evidence were introduced to the courts.
Physical examinations of those accused became a popular
form of entertainment. There were recorded cases of
young women being stripped of their clothing and
having every inch of their body checked for what were
called witch’s teats. These were either moles or freckles
upon the body that were sensitive or immune to pain.
Inspectors would poke these questionable areas with needles.
Some confessions, later in their own lives, had inspectors
stating that they used dull needles on these so-called witches,
claiming that there was no pain detected because Satan was
blocking it at the time of inquiry.
SuspenseMagazine.com
Once the court started knocking upon the door of the
Royal Governor, calling forth his own wife to testify for
the accusation of being a witch, the end was near. The last
trial was held in May 1693. The decades that followed pitted
family members against their neighbors, trying to reclaim
land that had been rewarded to those doing their sworn duty
for the community.
It is possible that the Puritans involved honestly believed
that they were fighting the Devil. We, in this modern age,
see their courts as a child proclaiming to all that there are
monsters in the world; that evil is real. Well, one look at the
local news would reinforce most of that claim.
Still, mob justice, however motivated is more evil
and deadlier than a thousand devils. The mob is mankind
without heart, without mind, and without order. That is
the most logical way to explain the horror of the Salem
Witch Trials.
Innocent people were hanged on hearsay.
If there is one shining legacy that came forth from
all of this horror it is this: after the Salem Witch Trials,
it became an American principle that all were innocent
until proven guilty. Once the Founding Fathers started
to reshape American values a century later, they made
this ideal the law of the land. No longer would a person
be held in prison just on hearsay alone. As John Adams
once said, “Facts are stubborn things, and whatever may
be our wishes, our inclinations, or the dictates of our
passion, they cannot alter the state of facts and evidence.”
No matter what the crime, each person within the
United States of America, is given their due course in court
and hold onto “their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred
honor” until the day factual evidence proves them guilty.
All that from the aftermath of Salem. Perhaps, the victims
would approve.
Monument in modern day Salem for those killed during the Witch Trials.
If you are interested in learning more about this author and his
work go to: www.donaldallenkirch.com. Remarks can be sent
to Storywriter1967@yahoo.com.
59

Best-Selling Author
ROBERT
WHITLOW
“The Choice shows the struggles of unplanned pregnancy and the courageous act
of adoption in a way that I haven’t read before. . .” —Abby Brannam-Johnson,
former Planned Parenthood Director and author of Unplanned
Free Chapters and More, RobertWhitlow.com
/pages/Robert-Whitlow
@whitlowwriter

Karin Slaughter
Needs to Tell the Victim's Story
Interview by Suspense Magazine
Press Photo Credit: Alison Rosa
International bestselling author
Karin Slaughter is back with the seventh
installment of her Will Trent series, “Criminal.” About
the book from her website, Karin writes “1975: In the
blistering heat of an Atlanta summer, a killer prowls the
street, searching for the weak, the vulnerable and the
lost. Almost forty years later, a young woman is found
brutally murdered in a sordid high-rise apartment. The
specifics of her death are details and macabre, but for
Special Agent Will Trent they are startlingly familiar
and can only mean one thing. Desperate to deny this
might be happening to him, he is forced to return to the
home he grew up in, to the grimy crime-ridden street,
to a childhood he has spent the best part of his adult life
trying to avoid. As the tension on the inner-city streets
starts to simmer, Will becomes convinced that the clue
to the killings now, and in 1975, may lie in his own past;
a past that he hates yet feels responsible for. And that killer is much, much closer to him than anyone thought possible.”
Just as important as her writing is Karin’s work as the founder of the “Save the Library Project” http://www.savethelibraries.
com/. Like most authors that started reading at an early age, she thinks that saving them is a priority.
“Snatched” was the sixth book in the Will Trent series and came out in e-book form as a novella earlier this year. “Snatched”
is priced at $1.99 on Amazon and a perfect bridge to “Criminal.” Karin’s first series, about Grant County, started back in 2001
with “Blindsighted” and continued for six books, ending in 2007 with “Beyond Reach.”
It is always an honor to interview a thriller master and below is the exclusive interview we conducted with Karin.
SuspenseMagazine.com
61

Suspense Magazine (S. MAG.):
From your first Will Trent series book,
“Trip Tych” to the latest, “Criminal,” how has
Special Agent Will Trent changed
Karin Slaughter (KS): I was very conscious when I wrote that Will
would eventually meet Sara, so I had to straddle the line between
him being really messed up and still being the kind of guy Sara
would be interested in. So in both “Trip Tych” and “Fractured,”
you see him slowly evolving and extricating himself from some
bad habits. You also see how Faith changes him. If you’ve read
my books, you know that’s a recurring theme for me: how will this
person change if they work with this other person I like throwing
characters together to see what happens.
S. MAG.: In the video interview you did for “Trip Tych,”
which is on your site, you said that you like the title to give
the reader an idea about what’s inside the book. Do you feel
you’ve accomplished that thus far Have you ever rethought
your choice of titles
KS: I think the titles definitely play a big part in revealing the
story. “Fallen,” for instance, is about a fallen cop, about a fallen
woman and about two people falling in love. “Criminal” plays
out much the same way. A character even says, “Sometimes
it’s criminal what a woman has to do.” The next book I am
working on, “Unseen,” follows the same pattern. Will has to go
undercover, but that’s only part of it.
S. MAG.: Have you ever sat back and read a line of your work
after it’s published and thought, “Gee, I wrote that” Were you happy about it or did you wish you could go back and change
that one line
KS: I read an essay about me the other day that’s going to be part of a larger collection on crime fiction (which is a very big
honor!) and the author quoted a line about my character Lena Adams: “She would rather bleed to death than admit she’d been
cut.” I read that and thought, “Hey, that’s not bad!” But I rarely go back and read my books for fear I will pick things apart too
much, so this was a rare occasion. That’s one of the reasons authors don’t tend to like to read aloud at events. They are always
self-editing in their heads.
S. MAG.: In the synopsis for “Criminal” it says, “Will becomes convinced that the clue to the killings…may lie in his own
past….And that the killer is much, much closer to him than anyone thought possible.” Are these two pieces of the story
something you decided on from the beginning Or did that just come out as you wrote the story
KS: Absolutely. I have known a lot of secrets about Will for a really long time, and I knew this book was coming, so I was able
to pepper little clues throughout the five books that feature him. Though much of “Criminal” takes place in the 1970s, it really is
Will’s origin story. Lots of secrets about his past are revealed to the reader (many of them remain unknown by Will).
S. MAG.: If you could sit and talk to Will Trent, what would you talk about Is there something you’d like to know about him
that you don’t already know
KS: Since he’s my character, I know everything about him. What I feel when I am writing him in different books is a certain
comfort in knowing these things. So, it’s sort of like having a net when I put him in perilous situations; I know if he falls, he won’t
be damaged. I think if he were real, I would just want to go to a movie with him or something quiet and unexciting. He is a really
funny and charming guy, though people who don’t know him well tend to not see that side of him. So, I would want to spend some
time with him just being quiet and letting him get used to me!
62 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

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
KS: I would tell them what I tell them now: READ. It absolutely floors me when I hear authors say they don’t read much. We
all started doing this writing thing because we were inspired by novelists before us. To stop reading denies yourself of that gift of
inspiration. Also, it’s our job to read. You wouldn’t want to go to a doctor who got out of medical school and never read another
article or paper after that. It’s the same with writers. Even if you’re reading a bad book, you’re learning something from it.
S. MAG.: Do you ever worry that writing about such grisly acts will change you not as a writer, but as a person
KS: I don’t think I am any more grisly than the next author. Stieg Larsson, to my thinking, was much more graphic. I have always
been a reader who is drawn to darker books, so it’s natural that I would choose to write about that. I hope that knowing about
this stuff changes me as a person, because we as readers and writers have got to be mindful that the crimes in thrillers are real
crimes that happen to real people. That’s the reason I never take an exact crime and put it into a book, I take bits and pieces
and cobble them together. I would never want to feel like I am exploiting someone’s tragedy. I feel when I am writing that I owe
something to the victims. I need to tell their story. I also need to make sure the person who hurt them is punished (which doesn’t
always happen in real life).
S. MAG.: Have you ever written something that creeped you out or gave you a few nights without sleep
KS: Fear comes from the unknown, and I always know what is going to happen in my books, so I don’t really get scared when I
write. Now, with other authors, it’s different. Mo Hayder holds the record for freaking me out the most. She has a terrific writing
style and the ability to delve deeply into psychological darkness that some…most authors are too afraid to tackle.
S. MAG.: In your career as a writer, how many times have you considered throwing in the towel
KS: I’ve never wanted to quit. Writing is something that chooses you, not the other way around. Real writers can’t NOT write. It’s
just in our blood. And while tours can be brutal and sometimes I
think if I see one more airport, I am going to run back home and
hide in bed for a year, I know that I would take a pen and paper
with me because there’s no way I could ever stop writing. My dad
picked cotton for a living when he was a kid. There are people
out there standing on factory floors twelve hours a day. There are
people who can’t get jobs. Here I am making a living doing the
thing I have wanted to do all my life. There’s nothing to complain
about. I am one of the luckiest people in the world.
S. MAG.: Do you plan on continuing the Will Trent and Grant
County series What can we see next from Karin Slaughter
KS: Grant County is pretty much finished, though in “Unseen”
we go to Macon, which is an hour outside of Atlanta and where
Lena Adams has been working as a detective. I hate to say it,
but she’s been up to no good. Will is there, too—undercover, as
I mentioned. I don’t know how many more stories I have with
Will, but I can’t see them ending any time soon. He’s a fascinating
character, and I love writing about him, so I see no need for an
end!
We would like to thank Karin for taking the time out of her
busy schedule to have an interview with us. But we don’t stop
there, because you will be able to hear Karin live on Suspense
Radio Aug. 18. She will talk about “Criminal” and many other
things so don’t miss it!
Suspense Magazine Review of
“Criminal” by Karin Slaughter:
Amanda Wagner with the Georgia Bureau of Investigation
supervises Will Trent, but there are deeper ties there that
Amanda does her best to keep secret.
Slaughter pens the thriller throwing us knee-deep into a
situation that has its own connections to a case thirty years old,
one that rocked the female entrance into the man’s workplace.
While Will battles demons of his past and tries to break free
of his wife Angie, Sara—Will’s newest girlfriend—fights with
herself over whether or not Will is worth the agony of heartbreak
should Will leave her to go back to Angie.
Amanda brings the reader from the beginning, how the case
that made her career was affecting the same now. And how Will is
involved from the beginning, without even knowing it.
This is an absolute electrifying thriller that marks not only
Amanda’s fight with being a woman on the force but can be
compared to Slaughter fighting her way into a man’s ‘thrillerwriting’
world. Slaughter definitely won the battle just as her
character Amanda secured her position.
Suspenseful, terrifying, thrilling. A read you will be glad you
picked up. Ten out of ten stars.
Reviewed by Starr Gardinier Reina, author of “One Major
Mistake” published by Suspense Publishing, an imprint of
Suspense Magazine
SuspenseMagazine.com
63

The
Calypso
Directive
Special Preview from
Brian Andrews
By Brian Andrews
The hospital gown he wore was faded and weightless.
After hundreds of washings, it was more tissue paper than
cloth. Yellow bruises from daily blood draws blotted his
forearms like dried coffee stains on paper. Beneath his bare
feet, the cold gray linoleum greedily sipped the warmth from
his body. Goose flesh stood up on his skin. He ignored
all of this. Concerns of the body were not his priority
at the moment. He had a job to do, and they would be
coming for him soon.
He had sensed a progression of late. A subtle shift
in the daily rounds, an unfamiliar urgency in the air. He
knew his window of opportunity was closing. They were
getting close now, and it was imperative he act before it
was too late.
After five months in quarantine, he had not lost focus.
Patience was the only compass that could navigate him out of
these most impossible of circumstances. Even with his body
at its weakest, his spirit had won the hearts of those who
tended to him. One of the nurses had even taken to routinely
loosening the bindings meant to confine him to his bed each
night.
Alone in the darkened laboratory room, he stood in
front of a stainless steel refrigerator. He took a deep breath
and pulled open the door. A pale fluorescent light flickered
on, accompanied by a rush of cold air that made him shiver.
His six-foot frame cast a distorted, hulking shadow on the
wall behind him. Accompanying it was a motley cast of eerie
characters—chrome and steel monsters—that paraded as
innocuous laboratory equipment during the day.
He squinted, his eyes adjusting to the light, and began
to survey the contents of the refrigerator. On the middle
shelf were dozens of glass vials, some filled with blood, some
filled with exotic microbial cocktails, and others filled with
experimental biopharmaceuticals, all neatly arranged in
plastic trays. With mechanical precision, he searched the
inventory, lifting vial after vial, scanning each label and then
returning the container to its place.
P-10, P-12, P-36, P-47 . . .
P-65. Jackpot.
The row contained ten P-65 vials filled with blood. He
paused; it was twice the quantity he had anticipated. The
flimsy hospital pants he wore did not have pockets, and it
would be impossible to carry such a load. Still, he couldn’t
afford to leave anything behind.
He cringed. The other way would be safer. Disgusting,
but safer. After removing the rubber stopper, he raised the
first vial of purple-red liquid to his lips.
Bottoms up!
He gagged as the cold, viscous fluid coated his tongue and
throat. The taste was metallic, primal, terrible. Robotically, he
repeated the drill. After the sixth vial, his stomach protested
and sent a repugnant belch rolling up his esophagus. For an
instant, he was afraid he would not be able to finish, but then
he reminded himself of the price of failure and pressed on.
After gulping down sample number ten, he returned
his attention to the fridge. He needed information. Proof.
First, he located a vial of cloudy liquid labeled Yersinia pestis.
Whatever it was, he recognized it as the substance they had
injected him with five days ago. Carefully, he removed this
vial from the tray. He resumed scanning the shelves, until a
vial labeled AAV-564: P-65 Transgene Trial 12 caught his eye.
It sounded important, and it had his patient number on it.
He smiled and removed it from the rack. The rest he would
64 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

destroy.
The overhead lights flickered on.
“PATIENT-65—PUT DOWN THE SAMPLE,” a voice
blasted over a loudspeaker. “REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE.”
Wild-eyed, he turned to the door. No one was there. Then
he saw the tiny camera mounted in the far upper corner of
the room. It was pointed directly at him.
He cursed and grabbed a roll of gauze tape off a nearby
metal tray. Working quickly, he strapped the two glass vials
to the inside of his pant leg with two wraps of tape around his
thigh. Then, staring defiantly at the camera lens, he smashed
all the remaining vials of the refined product on the floor.
The megaphone voice exploded behind him, ahead of
him, everywhere.
“PATIENT-65, STOP. REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE.”
He ignored the command. All that mattered now was
executing the escape sequence. He bolted out the door. He
was in Corridor B, sprinting to reach the stairwell at the end
of Corridor C. He had conducted dry runs several times
during the last two weeks, always in the dark, and always in
less than the fourteen minutes that the night-watch rotation
afforded him. Forty-five minutes earlier, he had prepped the
stairwell without detection. Everything was in place.
“WARNING—CONTAINMENT BREACH ON LEVEL
FOUR. LOCK DOWN LEVEL FOUR. ALL PERSONNEL
DON BIOHAZARD SUITS,” the megaphone voice
commanded over loudspeakers throughout the building.
“IMMOBILIZE PATIENT-65.”
The combination of the freshly waxed corridor and his
bare feet afforded him superb traction for running—every
footstep connecting with a smack. As he fled, the building
began to close in on him. Like falling dominoes, magnetic
door locks engaged down the length of the corridor, lagging
his position by a mere half second. Without breaking stride,
he plowed into the double doors at the end of Corridor B. The
right door gave way easily, smashing loudly into its doorstop.
But the left door traveled only a few inches before abruptly
springing back with a thud. On the other side, a red-haired
man in a white lab coat collapsed into a heap, cupped his
hands over his bloody nose, and howled in pain. Patient-65
leapt over him and charged toward the stairwell at the end of
Corridor C.
Ahead of him, a lone orderly appeared. Crouched like
a wrestler at the ready, the young man took up a position
in the middle of the hall, blocking his way. He heard the
swinging doors crash open behind him, followed by another
yelp from the red-haired man. Multiple pairs of footsteps
now echoed in the corridor. He glanced over his shoulder,
sacrificing a stride. Two men wearing yellow biohazard suits
with ventilators were in pursuit.
Teeth clenched, he ran straight toward the crouching
orderly. The instant before the collision, he dropped his
right shoulder and drove it squarely into the man’s chest.
His momentum sent them both to the ground. He almost
managed to somersault free, but the orderly grabbed a fistful
of his hair with one hand, a fold of his gown with the other,
and pulled him back.
He straddled the orderly’s chest and grabbed the hand
clutching his gown. He peeled the fingers free and bent back
the wrist. The orderly groaned and responded by yanking
down on his hair. Hard. Fury erupted in him, and he forced
the other man’s arm backward past the shoulder. The orderly
shrieked in agony as his wrist and elbow gave way. Ligaments
popped. Bones cracked.
He jumped to his feet. The quicker of the two pursuing
yellow-suits was already upon him, lunging for his waist.
He felt his hospital gown pull taut against his chest, rip, and
then give way completely. The diving yellow-suit tumbled to
the ground, tripping his partner in the process. Without a
backward glance, he raced toward the stairwell, his shredded
hospital gown falling to the floor behind him.
A horde of footsteps echoed in Corridor C. It sounded
as though every employee in the building was converging on
his position. He smiled. Escaping from a place like this was a
game of one versus many—success would depend on timing,
confusion, and crowd control.
Despite their uniforms and short haircuts, the security
staff was decidedly nonmilitary. They were unpolished, like
hired hands, and Patient-65 had come to question their
proficiency and gumption. He predicted that a real crisis
would send everyone flying blindly toward the action, like
moths to a flame. He wanted them to converge—as many
guards as possible—right here, right now, to the third floor.
Because he was going to leave them all behind.
He burst through the door into the stairwell and breathed
a sigh of relief. They were still there: eight flat bedsheets,
taken from the laundry bin outside his room each night
between 23:04 and 23:09, while the beds were being stripped
in the two rooms adjacent to his own. The makeshift thirtyfoot
rope of knotted, folded cotton was exactly where he had
left it, coiled neatly on the landing with one end tied to the
metal railing.
He wrapped the free end of the sheet-rope around his
right arm, about his chest, under his armpit, and then around
the same arm yet again. He snugged it tight and took a deep
breath. Then, he jumped.
The door slammed open behind him. The leader of the
swarm of yellow suits lunged for his legs, but Patient-65 was
already airborne, catapulting over the handrail. One by one
they rushed to the edge, and peered down at the pale, halfnaked
form plummeting into the dark. Starched white bedsheets
ruffled and flapped as he made the otherwise silent
three-story plunge.
The fall was terrifying, idiotic. As flights of stairs rushed
past, thoughts of impending injury flooded his mind: His
shoulder would be dislocated, ripped from the socket most
likely. His neck would probably snap. He had not imagined
it happening this way. With half a second to spare, he
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65

eached up and grabbed the sheet above him, as if trying to
climb away from the fall. He drew his arms together, slightly
bent at the elbows, in preparation.
The force of the deceleration hit him like a Freightliner.
The section of sheet that was wrapped around his chest
absorbed most of the energy, compressing his ribs and
driving the air out of his lungs. His abdominal muscles tore.
The tendons in his shoulders burned like individual strands
of fire. He could taste fresh blood in his mouth. Still, the
fitted sheets had held, and the eight slipknot shock absorbers
had performed exactly as intended, popping like firecrackers
and averting multiple fractures and dislocations from the
one g-force fall.
Suspended in midair, dangling four feet above the
concrete floor, he gasped for air. He unraveled himself
from the sheet-rope and dropped to the ground in a heap.
Footsteps echoed in the stairwell as his pursuers renewed
their chase from three flights above. He smiled despite the
pain. The jump had won him a substantial lead, and in a
chase where seconds would determine success or failure, he
needed each and every one.
He looked up at the sign on the door in front of him.
GROUND LEVEL—CORRIDOR E. His injured stomach
muscles screamed in protest as he pushed open the heavy
metal door. Before it slammed shut, he could hear the
footsteps growing louder.
Corridor E was silent and empty. Thirty yards away,
freedom beckoned. He could just make out the words
“Emergency Exit—Alarm Will Sound” stenciled in large
white letters across the red fire escape door at the end of the
corridor. His legs responded grudgingly to yet another call
for action, and he managed to move toward the exit in a gait
feebly resembling a run. He spied a jacket, draped over an
open door, in a row of employee lockers along the wall of the
corridor. He snagged it midstride, gambling it might fit.
As he closed the gap, panic began to well up inside him.
The emergency exit was the only element of his plan he had
been unable to test. The truth was that he didn’t know what
would happen when he tried to go through that door. It
might be locked; that wouldn’t surprise him in this place. It
could lead to another corridor, or to a lobby full of security
personnel. It could even be bricked over on the other side.
In any case, he had no choice. There was no turning back
now.
He barreled into the red door.
It opened so easily that he lost his balance and went
tumbling to the concrete. After two awkward somersaults,
he came to an abrupt stop on his hands and knees, staring
down into a puddle of cold, muddy water. Behind him, the
Emergency Exit alarm shrieked, announcing his arrival like
a royal trumpeter, and then fell abruptly silent as the door
slammed shut. He struggled to his feet. He was standing in
the middle of a deserted sidewalk along an unfamiliar city
street. His pupils were still adjusting to the darkness of
night, and he could not make out the street signs or recognize
which avenue he was on. A stiff, cold breeze sent a crumpled
paper advert, with strange Cyrillic words, tumbling over
his foot. Bewildered, he surveyed his surroundings as he
shrugged on the jacket, covering his bare torso.
In all the months of planning, he had never considered
what he would do after he was out. His escape fantasies had
always ended at the red door.
His heart pounded; they would be on top of him in
seconds.
He started running.
Any direction would do.
As he pushed his battered body onward, the illuminated
rooflamp of a taxicab caught his attention. It was bright,
yellow, and beautiful. The taxi was stopped at a red traffic
light at the nearest intersection, some twenty meters away.
Panic erupted inside him. If the light changed to green
before he could close the gap…
The emergency exit alarm shrieked anew behind him.
They were coming.
He hurtled himself toward the cab.
Ten meters to go. Still red.
A car, traveling on the cross street, braked to a stop. The
light would change any second.
Three meters.
It flashed to green.
“Wait,” he yelled.
In a final adrenaline-charged burst, he flung himself
against the side of the taxi, just as it started to pull away. The
cab jerked to a stop, and he fell onto the street next to the
curb. From his knees, he opened the rear door, and hauled
himself into the passenger compartment of the beat-up
sedan.
The cab driver turned to greet his new fare. The jovial
smile he wore melted immediately to a frown at the sight of
the beggarly-looking man huffing in his back seat.
“Drive. Anywhere. Please, just go!” Patient-65 said as he
slammed the car door closed.
He looked frantically over his shoulder. Yellow-suits
were pouring out of the emergency exit like angry bees from
a rattled hive, and still the cab was not moving.
“Please. Help me. They’re coming.”
The cab driver looked into the other man’s pleading
eyes and saw fear. But that was not what moved his foot to
the accelerator. In Patient-65’s eyes he saw decency; he saw
goodness. It didn’t matter that he would sacrifice a fare.
It didn’t matter that he would probably lose his driving
permit—again. All that mattered was a kindred spirit needed
saving, and he was the only one in the world who could do it.
“We go! I save you,” the cabbie exclaimed as the turbodiesel
engine launched the sedan into motion.
With only one hand on the wheel, the cab driver whipped
the taxi through a squealing right turn onto the cross street.
After slamming the shifter into third gear, he turned up the
66 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

adio—almost as if to add a soundtrack to their getaway.
He shouted unintelligible expletives as he swerved around
a slower-moving car. As they sped away, Patient-65 turned
for a final glance out the rear window. He watched the angry
yellow-suits until they had completely faded from view.
For ten minutes, the cab driver piloted his sedan at
a lunatic pace, racing down avenues, squealing around
corners, and narrowly avoiding collisions with oncoming
traffic. When they eventually reached the outskirts of the
city, Patient-65 came to a startling realization. The skyline
before him was not one he recognized. Nor could he recall
passing any of the landmarks he knew so well.
It couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible.
He was not in New York.
In between lurches, he reached forward and patted the
driver on the shoulder.
“You can slow down now.”
Without a word, the cabbie swerved to the right and
brought the sedan to a screeching halt alongside the curb. He
gave the parking brake a yank, put the manual transmission
in neutral, and turned around. After a moment’s study, he
noticed his passenger was battered, his lips crusted with
dried blood.
“You are hurt! I take you to doctor, yes”
Patient-65 looked away and out the window.
“No, no. I’m okay,” he said. “No hospitals, please.”
SuspenseMagazine.com
The cabbie was silent, lost in speculation about the
curious American sitting in the backseat of his cab.
Patient-65 looked back at him. “Where are
we” he said, gesturing to the world outside.
The cabbie laughed loudly and then
threw his chest out like a prizefighter. “Praha,
of course. The greatest city in all of Europe.”
Speechless, Patient-65 stared at the smiling
middle-aged Czech.
Feeling the need to say something, the cabbie added,
“You are safe now, yes Then you tell me now—where you
want to go”
Raising his eyebrows, the cabbie waited for direction
from the most unusual tourist he had ever serviced. But
Patient-65, Will Foster, had no instructions.
Only questions.
What the hell am I doing in Prague
Midwest born and raised, Brian is a US Navy Veteran who
served as an officer aboard a 688 class nuclear submarine in
the Pacific. He graduated summa cum laude from Vanderbilt
University with a degree in psychology. He is a Park Leadership
Fellow and holds a Masters degree from Cornell University.
Brian lives in Tornado Alley with his wife and daughter. Learn
more about “The Calypso Directive” at www.calypsodirective.
com.
67

By Casey McKenna
Dean McCorken’s corpse had lain discarded amongst the junkyards’ vast sea of trash for three days before anyone
even noticed he was missing. It took another two days to find his body—or what was left of it—sitting inside a rusted
car of some indescribably ancient model. The discovery was a gut-wrenching experience for Officer Barkly. He’d only been on
the force three months and Dean’s was the first body he’d seen outside of a wake. Even by the standards of experienced cops,
the kid’s remains were in bad shape, much worse than the average shooting or stabbing victim.
Although it was October, rural Maine was having an Indian summer. During the day, the heat beat down in humid waves
of burning intensity. At night, violent thunderstorms and torrential rain could be counted on like clockwork. Dean’s body
hadn’t fared well in the extreme weather. The car’s once-convertible canvas hood was torn, leaving little protection from
the heat and the rain. Thus his skin was bloated and green. A coarse rope was still wrapped around his neck, betraying the
strangulation cause of death. His eyes were gone, as were great portions of him, truth be told. The dump’s rats, flies, and Godonly-knew-what-else,
followed the smell of decay and turned the boy’s rotting flesh into a banquet. When the police arrived
the flies still crawled upon the body, unwilling to surrender their tasty meal.
Chief Kingston strongly suspected the deceased was one of the unfortunate kids who lived around Hopper’s Barrens. The
entire area was known as a desperate zone of trailer parks, welfare cheats, drunks, and repeat criminal offenders. Kingston
was surprised more kids didn’t die around the area. He had no doubt there would be an abundance of suspects—as soon as
he found out exactly who the deceased was.
Word got out fast and ten minutes after the police sealed off the area, a crowd gathered, gossiping with each other, jeering
at the police, whispering, and speculating. None of them showed any hint of concern or remorse for whomever departed
among their ranks. From within the group, a middle aged woman, who appeared to be well over four-hundred pounds,
ambled up to the barricade and stared hard at the young deputy standing behind the yellow tape.
“You know who’s dead” she demanded.
“I’m sorry ma’am, but I can’t—”
“Yack, yack, yack, whatever! I’m just telling you that the McCorkens been missing a kid.”
And that’s how they got the ten-year-old victim’s ID.
* * *
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E
very cop in the area knew the McCorkens well. Out of all the trashy families roaming around, they were the worst:
a hooting, hollering, clan of psychopaths who were in jail more than out. They were criminals amongst criminal
classes. They trusted no one, thus it was no surprise to the officers that no one reported the little boy missing. Their kind
didn’t go to the police for any reason, unless they were taken to them in the back of a squad car.
Criminals or not, Dean’s mother did seem slightly distressed when she learned of her youngest child’s fate.
“This is gonna mess with my welfare!” she declared through sniffles.
Lynn Holson didn’t have much to do with her six kids or the six different men who sired them. The day Dean disappeared
she’d been at Ronson’s Road House, drinking and watching the sports highlights with her current boyfriend, Mel. Typically,
when her son was found, she was still at the road house. That was where the police interviewed her and Mel, too.
Kingston was used to dealing with mothers who would defend the devil himself if he had come from their womb, but
Dean’s mother was upfront about reality: her ten-year-old son was far from angelic. He ran away often and she usually didn’t
bother to look for him. Little kid or no little kid, he had a mean temper which she had no energy to confront. She claimed
to have no idea who killed him. No one in particular stood out, but admittedly, her kid was a little asshole and he pissed off
pretty much everyone at one time or another.
Mel listened to the situation half-heartedly while staring at the muted television. He was both uninterested and
unperturbed by the kid’s murder. He had an alibi and that was all that concerned him in the matter. Mel was a hard man: six
feet, two hundred pounds of biker who was employed at his family-run road house as a means of both bartender and security
guard. In a place like Ronson’s, which patronized every prison parolee in the state, Mel was just scary enough to keep sales
up and problems down. He himself had done time for theft and battery. His intimidating demeanor allowed him to fare well
on the inside and near-legendary stories of his maniacal temper ensured no one fucked around with him outside the system,
either.
Dean’s father was currently doing time. Needing cash to feed his PCB habit, he decided to steal a purse from a “grannytype”
outside Shop-Rite. Unfortunately, the old lady had gotten so scared she dropped dead of a heart attack right there in
the parking lot. Dodge McCorken had been inside since Dean was three-months-old and therefore was not a suspect in the
murder.
Although Dean never met his father, circumstances surrounding him directly affected Dean’s existence as a whole. Lynn
hated Dodge—who managed to impregnate three other women while Lynn herself was pregnant with Dean. Two of them
were strippers, and the third a fifteen-year-old girl. Lynn resented Dodge, and everything connected to him. She wanted to
party with Mel, watch TV, and ignore the spawn of the man who spurned her more than any of the others.
Hearing the family history, both Kingston and Barkly got the same inklings. Lynn didn’t like this kid to begin with and,
out of all her children, he was the one to create the most problems. Maybe she killed him in a fit of rage and then dumped
the body. That would explain why she hadn’t contacted the cops. Or, maybe Mel killed him. He admitted to disliking the kid
and suspected him of stealing the bar’s peanuts. The only hole in that theory was the cause of death. Mel was the sort of guy
to flip out and beat a kid to death, not strangle him.
Lynn said the last time she saw Dean was on her way to the road house around 1 p.m. last Tuesday. He was out in the back
of their shanty home, shooting cans with a sling shot. She didn’t say a word to him as she left, assuming he would be fine in
the care of her half-brother, Jeff, who was staying at the house. Jeff Higgins, a name the police knew all too well.
Jeff was weird. Not cute-weird, or eccentric-genius-weird—just plain creepy-weird. The whole neighborhood knew about
him and avoided him like a plague. Considering he resided in one of the most depraved areas in the state; that was something
notable. Jeff collected bugs in glass jars with no holes so he could watch them suffocate—sometimes he even timed how long
it took. He walked around muttering about conspiracy theories. Occasionally, he wandered into the good side of town and
spent hours lurking around shops, walking wild-eyed among the aisles. On several occasions the police were called to remove
him from the playground after he sat down in the sandbox and stared menacingly at the swings. He said ghosts used them.
Jeff was a frequent visitor to the psychiatric unit of the hospital, but since it was too expensive to keep him—and he never
actually did anything violent (unless insects were included, of course)—he always found his way home to the trailer park. He
bounced from one family member to another, relying on his elaborate web of kin woven by broken marriages, half siblings,
and kissing cousins. For the past five months he had been at Lynn’s broken-down home, with Dean.
When the police arrived to interview him, they discovered Jeff sitting outside, staring down at an ant farm in the dirt.
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69

Considering he was thirty-seven years old and looked fifty with his long graying hair and sunken eyes, the site was unnerving.
Kingston broke the news of his nephew’s death. Jeff stared. Kingston asked about his recent whereabouts. Jeff stared. Kingston
questioned if he knew anyone who might have wanted to hurt Dean.
Jeff blinked and pointed toward the ants, “He’s with them now,” he declared and then lowered his head, returning complete
concentration to the bugs.
Having no evidence to hold him, the officers left. Kingston made a mental note to have a social worker pay the haggard
man a visit. Kingston had serious doubts Jeff was capable of taking care of himself. His clothes were dirty, his hair unkempt,
and he smelled like he hadn’t showered in weeks.
“He could have done it,” Barkly speculated as soon as they got back to the car. “The kid was trouble, right Maybe he
started ragging on him and the guy just snapped. When he realized he was dead, he took him to the dump because he knew
he wouldn’t be found there. Guy like him probably figured he’d be able to watch the body rot out there and take mental notes
or something; just like he does with those bugs.”
Barkly was a small town cop with a big shot mind—Kingston reckoned he would rise up and take his job in twenty years
or so. Not only was Barkly’s theory possible, it was the most convincing storyline yet.
* * *
Arlene Frenkin, Dean’s teacher, wasn’t particularly shocked or saddened by news of her student’s death. “Sometimes
student” was how she described him since he only came to class once every week on average. She didn’t bother to
report his absences anymore. There was no use in fighting a battle when there was no way to win. Besides, the class was more
manageable when he wasn’t around. At first she tried to control him, but her attempts were futile. His mother was indifferent
and the principal was too spineless to take action against a kid whose family regularly made the local police roster. What’s
worse is, every time she complained about Dean something “unfortunate” happened to her. The air was let out of her car
tires, money went missing from her purse, and a brick had even been thrown through the window of her house. There was
no evidence to convict Dean of anything. Without proof there would be no blame so Mrs. Frenkin simply lived in fear of her
prepubescent pupil, as did most of the other kids in the class. His only friends were Billy Halloran and Denny Perkins.
“Most of the kids in my class don’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of,” she bluntly declared. “But some
do show a certain amount of promise. They can even learn manners if some extra time is taken to teach them. But Dean was
the sort of kid juvenile hall was made for and that Billy boy isn’t far behind him. Can’t figure out Denny though, he’s not as
bad. Could make something of himself, if he stayed away from the other two. For now though, all three of them are as thick
as the thieves they are. If anyone’s got information for you, it’s one of them.”
* * *
T
he police went to the Halloran’s trailer home dwelling first because they knew exactly how to get there. The kid’s
parents had a rocky marriage and were constantly reporting each other for spousal abuse. The Halloran’s were cut
from the same cloth as the McCorkens, but you’d never guess it from the way the two families despised each other. Bad blood
went back from when one of Dean’s mother’s cousins impregnated and abandoned Billy’s father’s youngest half-sister.
When the police arrived at the house, Billy’s mother, Rena, was watching daytime television and eating a pack of twinkies.
She didn’t seem very upset about news of Dean’s death.
“I heard about it from the lady next door,” she exclaimed. “I figured you lot would be around. I got nothing to say about
it. Ask the boy, he’s out back and he could know something. I told him to stay away from that little brat! Maybe a visit from
the police will convince him to listen to his mama next time he goes looking for a friend.”
As promised, Billy was outside kicking an empty beer can around in the mud. A lit cigarette hung from his young mouth.
When he saw the authorities approaching, his eyes darted from side to side, looking for an escape route. Running from the
police was his natural instinct. Kingston froze him by breaking news of Dean’s death. The boy was surprised. Clearly Rena
had not shared her knowledge with him. Although stunned by the news, he was calm. No denial or crying jags. Like everyone
else who knew Dean, the boy accepted his death without much grief.
“I dunno what happened to him, swear. We weren’t hanging out as much anymore. Dean was hard to get along with and
recently he’s been…weird.”
Barkly kept the kid talking by demanding to know where a guy his age got a nice full pack of cigarettes. Billy said he
found them on the street. Barkly didn’t buy it. Billy shifted his feet, refusing to reply. Then Kingston explained that a kid could
go to jail for possessing tobacco. It was a flat out lie, but it did the trick. The kid started talking and he gave them the answer
they wanted in the form of a name: Ed.
“I have no idea what his last name is,” the kid wailed, real fear lacing his voice. “We just call him Ed, “Idiotic Ed” behind

his back. He’s a wino. He hangs out in the back alley of the strip mall along Route 114. He’ll buy you anything you want—
cigarettes, beer, the whole works—as long as you’ve got cash.”
The police knew exactly who the boy was talking about. His legal name was Edward Motler, but everybody called him Ed.
He lived in homeless shelters and even though he was a nonsmoker, he somehow possessed an endless supply of cigarettes.
He’d sell packs to anyone—even little kids—as long as they gave him cash, food, or liquor. Ed was a frequent visitor to the
station’s drunk tank and he wasn’t hard to find. As usual, he was rooting through the trash behind the McDonald’s outside
the mall. When he spotted the cops he tried to run, but he didn’t get far in his beat up sneakers.
Once in custody, and secured in the backseat of the police cruiser, Ed started weeping and wailing for a second chance.
He swore he didn’t do anything and had just got out of jail three days ago. A quick check from the system confirmed he was
telling the truth. He’d gotten busted trying to steal money from a meter. He punched the cop who tried to fine him and ended
up in for assault. Ed had been on the inside for a week and a half, before and during the time Dean had been murdered. Ed
didn’t kill the kid, but he didn’t deny knowing who he was. Ed was a veteran when it came to police interrogations and he
knew lying to them didn’t end well. Thus, condemning or not, he told them everything he knew.
Dean and two other kids used to buy cigarettes off of him. They had money so he supplied, just like any business man.
Then the taller kid—the one called Billy—stopped coming around and it was only Dean and the short chubby kid, Denny.
The police asked Ed if he knew how a couple of poor white trash kids like them always had so much money. Ed shrugged.
“No idea. They probably stole it—robbing purses, picking pockets, all the timeless old tricks. It wasn’t none of my business
though, so I never asked. Usually it’s drugs that gives fellas like them fast cash, but they seemed a little young for that. ‘Course
they were already into smoking, and nicotine’s a drug, ain’t it Sort of thing’s happening younger and younger now. They
could be dealing.”
Ed was placed back under arrest for selling tobacco to minors. Then the police headed to the last possible lead—Denny’s
house. Like his friends, he lived in abject poverty on the outskirts of town. Yet, unlike his cronies homes, Denny’s was well
kept and his parents seemed like good people. Poor but hard-working, trying to etch out a living and succeeding when placed
in comparison to the less honorable who surrounded them.
Denny’s father owned a small mechanic shop which was on the property. He must have made moderate earnings from
it because Denny’s clothes and toys were noticeably nicer than Dean’s or Billy’s. He wasn’t a prince, but he sure as hell wasn’t
rubble like they were.
Denny’s parents were the first people to express sadness over Dean’s death. They hadn’t been fond of him, but he was only
a child and no child should have their life extinguished—especially in such a violent way. Their compassion stretched to their
son who they reassured they would not be angry at, no matter what he told the police, as long as it was the truth.
When the police first saw Denny, he was in his backyard playing with several new looking figurines. His eyes grew wide
when he saw the cops and he wouldn’t look at them when they told him about Dean’s death.
“I heard he was found in the dump,” Denny said, still not looking at them. “We used to go up there together sometimes.
It always had interesting stuff to look at, you know”
The police nodded, noting how the boy’s confession made his mother wince.
The police asked him what else he and Dean used to do or if he knew anyone who might have wanted to hurt Dean.
Denny shrugged.
“Dean was my friend, but he wasn’t nice. He and Billy used to meet up with this guy named Ed to buy cigarettes off of.
I used to go sometimes too, as a lookout. I don’t smoke like they do. It wasn’t anything bad, not at first. We’d be okay as long
as we knew how to weed out the whackos. But Dean’s been getting weird recently. Even Billy doesn’t want to be near him
anymore and Billy can be pretty wild.” Trembling, Denny looked up at the police. “I think Dean’s crazy, actually crazy.”
“I didn’t like Denny hanging around with that boy,” his mother suddenly added. “There was something wrong with that
kid. You know what his Uncle’s like and that sort of thing can travel in families.” She shivered, chilled by the thought.
Kingston and Barkly nodded in unspoken agreement. They believed the Perkins and left the house with no reservations.
As soon as they settled down into the police cruiser, Barkly let out a sigh.
“We’re not gonna solve this one,” he declared. “There are too many possibilities, but no proof. I’m still betting it was the
Uncle.”
Kingston nodded, “He’s the strongest suspect, but who knows. Hopper’s Barrens is right near the prison, the mental
asylum, and the bus depot—any number of lunatics could have made bail, or gotten out on good behavior, or just arrived here
and offed the kid. Maybe the mother hired someone. The kid’s own family didn’t care too much for him.”
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“Never had a chance,” Barkly mused.
“Aye uh,” Kingston replied and started the cruiser. As he drove back to the station he resigned himself to the bleak
knowledge that this was another case destined to go on the unsolved list. In all likelihood, Dean was another victim of a
disturbed mind with a vendetta against kids.
* * *
Denny stood in the backyard and watched the police leave. He didn’t relax until he heard them start their engine and
drive away. They were gone without suspicions extended.
Denny thought he’d done well under all that pressure—even in front of his folks. He loved them and he didn’t want them
to know he also smoked Ed’s cigarettes. His ma worried about his health. His parents believed his stories about getting the
fancy toys from charity stores on the good side of town and the police didn’t even ask about them. In truth, the toys were the
cause of the entire ugly mess.
Dean, Billy, and Denny stole toys from the big stores regularly. Two of them caused a distraction as the third stuffed
playthings into his pockets, unnoticed. They took the toys back to the poor side of town and sold them, at reduced prices, to
the other welfare cases that never would have been able to afford them otherwise. They used some of the money they got to
buy cigarettes off Ed. Dean had been smoking since he was eight and he’d quickly turned the other two onto the habit.
Often, the three boys kept some of the fancy toys for themselves. Action figurines were the easiest to steal—Denny
nabbed thirteen in one shot once. They kept three and then sold the other ten. It seemed perfect, but Dean was selfish and
liked to play rough. As soon as he busted his toy—which usually happened within the first three days—he demanded Billy’s
or Denny’s in compensation. Rarely did they have the nerve to refuse. Dean got violent quickly and recently his temper
was really flying off the handle. Billy reckoned he was going as crazy as his uncle and Denny didn’t doubt that observation.
Billy was able to bail out since he had other friends to run with. Yet Denny was quiet and shy and Dean was really the only
person who would spend time with him. Without Dean—who was universally feared throughout the local elementary school
circuits—he would have no friends, and worse, no protection. Thus he stayed by him, even though he knew he shouldn’t.
Everything came crashing down last Tuesday. They’d been in the dump, sitting inside the old car they dubbed their hangout,
messing around with their new cache of toys. Their prize was the most precious yet: an Action Man Mega Transformer
figurine, straight from the shelves. Out of all the toys they had taken, this one was the jackpot, so new and desired that even
rich kids had trouble getting their hands on it. They’d gotten away with nine and expected to make a fortune off the seven
they would sell.
But then Dean broke the arm off his action man and demanded Denny hand over his. He expected Denny to surrender
without a fight, but this toy was different. Denny had nearly gotten caught by security when taking it since Dean cut the
distraction tantrum short. Denny risked so much to get it and he didn’t want to surrender it just to watch it get torn to shreds.
He told Dean “no” and Dean hit him. Denny hit back. Dean lost his temper. There had been a struggle which Denny
barely remembered. Dean was bigger than he was and Denny had been so terrified, so sure he was going to get killed.
Miraculously, he reached his arm out and closed his hand around some twine. He pulled the rope against Dean’s neck. He
was not trying to hurt him, just restrain him like he’d seen his father do to the hound-dogs when they wouldn’t stop fussing.
He wasn’t sure Dean was calm until Dean got still and by that point he was dead.
At first Denny was horrified by what he’d done, but then, relief set in. Dean started to scare him, but he didn’t know
exactly how to walk away from him without severe retaliation. He’d seen what Dean did to the teacher when she crossed him.
If he acted like that toward adults what would he do to a pudgy kid four months his junior As terrible as it was, Denny was
glad Dean was gone.
Denny left the body in the car and carefully cleaned up the scene, leaving no trace of the toys. He expected to get caught
within forty-eight hours—that was when most bad guys were captured, according to the TV shows—and sent straight to
juvenile hall but, astonishingly, nothing happened for over a week.
Truthfully, within four hours after the murder, Denny started relaxing. The night of Dean’s killing, thunderstorms brought
torrential rain. The weather eased Denny’s mind that any evidence he left—like footprints or fingerprints—would be gone for
good. The dump turned into a mud-hole whenever it drizzled so a full on downpour like that would leave nothing to be seen.
Denny grinned as he lovingly looked down at his Action Man Mega Transformer which remained in pristine condition.
He had gotten away with it and freed himself of company he knew he had been in over his head with. His problems had been
eradicated. He’d been granted a second chance.
Smiling, Denny sat back down and resumed playing amid his backyard’s rubble.
72 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

Contributor's Corner
Jenny
Hilborne
Didn’t Cop-out!
Interview by Suspense Magazine
Jenny Hilborne is a native Brit currently living in Southern California.
She attended high school and advanced level education (college equivalent)
in her hometown of Swindon. The local recruitment office suggested a
career in the police force, said it was something to do with “attitude.” While
Jenny didn’t know what she wanted to do, she certainly knew what she didn’t want to do.
As she tried to figure it out, Jenny ventured into retail for a few years, followed by a move into real estate and relocation,
and then an overseas move to the U.S. Jenny now works in the world of finance and is also the author of two published San
Francisco-based thrillers.
Her journey into professional writing started in 2007 after an English professor at a local college read some of her work
and suggested she attempt to get it published. Two years of fear-induced procrastination followed before her first novel was
written and subsequently published by Echelon Press in 2010. “Madness and Murder” is about Jessica Croft, withdrawn,
vulnerable, and emotionally scarred, who moves from Sacramento to begin a new life
in San Francisco with her twin brother, Judd. Ninety
miles from the sinister, shameful secrets of her past,
and the madness that tore their family apart,
she hopes to find tranquillity, maybe even
love. However, her chance for happiness
is short-lived when she suddenly finds
herself the target of a relentless madman
with a deadly agenda.
In 2011, came her second novel, “No
Alibi.” It’s the story of Isabelle Kingsley,
a woman who didn’t think her husband
would ever cheat. Her husband didn’t think
she would ever find out. Now he is missing and
his girlfriend is dead. Suspected of killing her,
Isabelle turns to her best friend, only to discover
another betrayal. Is there no one she can trust
Her third thriller, also set in San Francisco,
was published in June.
Jenny is an enthusiastic reader and enjoys
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73

writing reviews on a regular basis for Suspense Magazine. She is now dividing her time more evenly
between the U.S. and the UK, and is working on her fourth mystery, this time set in Oxfordshire, England.
Jenny lives in Southern California and when she is not writing, enjoys a good movie, meeting up with
friends, attending book festivals, and the occasional trip to the beach.
Jenny is a regular attendee at the Southern California Writers’ Conference, learning new tips and tricks and sharing
experiences and stories with a network of authors.
It is Suspense Magazine’s pleasure to give our readers and her fans a little more insight into this month’s choice for
Contributor’s Corner.
Suspense Magazine (S. MAG.): What brought you to the United States
Jenny Hilborne (JH): A Boeing 747 (just kidding). I got married to an American citizen and moved to the U.S. in 1997.
S. MAG.: You typically read mysteries and thrillers. If you had to pick one author, one mystery, and one thriller who would
you say is your favorite and why
JH: I’ve found so many authors and thrillers I enjoy, so it’s a tough question. My favorite mystery is “11/22/63” by Stephen King.
I was immersed in the story for the entire eight hundred-plus pages and still buzzing when I finished reading the book. Stephen
King has the most incredible imagination; however, he is not my favorite author. My favorite author is Sidney Sheldon. I love the
twists and the international elements in all his works. My favorite thriller (of recent reads) is “The Scavenger’s Daughter” by Mike
McIntyre. The book is gripping and filled with tension. A most excellent read.
S. MAG.: Were Jessica or Isabelle fashioned from people you know or did you create them “from scratch”
JH: I created them from scratch. Other characters were based on real life people (myself included).
S. MAG.: It’s obvious you didn’t want to be a cop, so when the recruitment officer suggested the police academy, how hard
did you laugh
JH: I thought he was joking. When he wasn’t, I didn’t find it at all funny. He based his suggestion on my attitude. “What
attitude” I asked defiantly. “That attitude,” he said. I wondered how I’d get out of it. When I stood up to be measured, I was too
short. At the time, a woman needed to be five feet, four inches, and I didn’t quite make it. Phew.
S. MAG.: Considering how much you enjoy reading now, compared to when you were a child, has it changed or have you
always loved to read
JH: I’ve always loved to read. I’m a daydreamer and lose myself in the stories. With mysteries and thrillers, I’m addicted to
puzzles and riddles (and I like to be shocked a little).
S. MAG.: When did you know that writing chose you
JH: In 2005, an English professor read pieces of my work and suggested I try to write professionally. When I sat down two years
later to write my first manuscript—which was immediately after reading a Sidney Sheldon novel—I realized how much I enjoyed
creating stories. So, I guess 2007 was when I knew it was what I wanted to do.
S. MAG: If you could make a comfortable living at being an author, what’s the first thing you’d do/buy
JH: A ticket to a tropical paradise for a month-long vacation.
We here are Suspense Magazine are thrilled to have Jenny working with us. She is a talented woman who gives of
herself reviewing books for our publication. Without her and others like her, we wouldn’t be the magazine we are. Thank
you, Jenny. If you’d like to learn more about Jenny and her books, check out her website at http://JFHilborne.com and
http://jfhilborne.wordpress.com
74 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

SuspenseMagazine.com
75

VonBertruden’s
CurseBy Michael
From 1970 through the end of 1985, I considered
myself the world’s greatest authority on vampire
activity. Although few will ever admit to my expertise, I
personally encountered thousands upon thousands of the
blood thirsty bastards. But by 1986, my involvement with
the hellacious creatures came to an abrupt end. The entire
population of Satan’s spawn just disappeared without a trace.
I bet you’re all wondering why. Well, just put your feet up for
a few minutes and I’ll tell you what happened.
In the late 1600s, a man named Gort VonBertruden
took up residence in the German Alps, not far from the tiny
village of Hamlisch. VonBertruden was a known Satanist
who cast a shadow of fear over the town’s people. Tales of
cannibalistic rituals held at his castle, and the reported
sightings of shape-shifting demons ran amok throughout
the village. At one point the mayor wanted to form a lynch
mob to hunt down and hang VonBertruden, but he couldn’t
get anyone to volunteer. In the end, the people’s fear of Satan
kept them at bay.
One night in 1710, the light in VonBertruden’s castle
went out and it never came on again. Assuming that the evil
man probably died, the mayor of Hamlisch was finally able
to talk the townspeople into storming the castle. A mob was
formed, and one night, three weeks later, the riotous group
marched into the mountains and invaded the dark fortress.
What they found was shocking. The castle was empty. No
furnishings, no food, and most astonishing, not a trace of
Gort VonBertruden. The only item they discovered was
a leather-bound, handwritten book. Unfortunately, it was
written in an unknown language that couldn’t be deciphered
at that time.
For years after VonBertruden’s disappearance,
widespread tales of people being attacked by blood thirsty
humans were reported. By 1800, the stories had become so
numerous that a British scientist named Sebastian Claufield
decided to investigate the phenomenon. Claufield eventually
determined that a secret society of evil beings existed in the
world. He theorized that they were not a hundred percent
human, and that they needed to drink blood in order to
Infinito
survive. While stories about rogue vampires had been
around for thousands of years, this marked the first time that
an actual scientist had made such a claim. He was deemed
insane by the intellectual community.
Sebastian Claufield devoted his entire life to proving
his theories. In all of his countless hours of investigation,
the one name that constantly came up was that of Gort
VonBertruden. In 1822, Claufield received permission from
the German Historical Society to examine VonBertruden’s
mysterious book. For the next seven years, until his death,
the obsessed scientist attempted to decipher the unknown
text. He was unsuccessful.
In 1850, Carl Claufield, following in his father’s footsteps,
finally cracked the coded pages of VonBertruden’s journal.
According to the text, Gort VonBertruden claimed that he
was sent to earth by the forces of hell to create an army of
the dead. From his roots an evil family tree would develop,
nursing itself on the warm blood of innocent human beings.
In the end, when the number of the undead rivaled that
of the living, Satan would make his final stand against the
Kingdom of Heaven.
By 1860, Carl Claufield became so obsessed with
VonBertruden’s book that it drove him mad. He was
eventually committed to an asylum, where he died a few
years later with his family at his bedside.
Skipping ahead a few generations, I can now tell you
about myself. My name is Howard Claufield. Although I’m
not a scientist, I spent most of my life trying to prove to
the world that my relatives were not a bunch of lunatics. In
1969, I took a trip to Germany, determined to learn what had
become of Gort VonBertruden. Let’s just say I got more than
I bargained for on the journey.
The ruins of VonBertruden’s castle were only accessible
by foot, so I stuffed a backpack with supplies and I hoofed
it up the mountain. When I arrived there it was midday.
The walls of the castle had been desecrated by World War
Two bombings and brightly painted graffiti, which included
‘666’ markings and other satanic symbols. I explored the
ruins for hours, hoping to find some lost clue regarding the
2012 Short Story Contest Submission
76 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

disappearance of VonBertruden. I found nothing.
As the sun set, I decided to set up camp in the castle.
Walking down the mountain at night was not an option. I
unloaded my pack, and then I gathered up some dried wood
and built a small camp fire. I must tell you, when the sun
sank below the horizon, the old castle became quite an eerie
place. I huddled up to my fire, jumping at every little noise
that emanated from the darkness. Yes, I was terrified. By
midnight I was kicking myself in the ass for not having left
earlier that day.
Sometime around two in the morning I heard a shuffling
sound coming from the castle floor. It got louder and louder,
but all I could do was stare into the shadows and wait to see
what emerged. I had no idea what sort of wildlife inhabited
the German Alps. My instincts told me that within moments
I was going to be face-to-face with some species of bear.
Terrified, I slid my body around to the other side of the fire,
hoping to use the flames as a barrier between myself and
the unseen predator. At that moment, the creature emerged
from the darkness. It wasn’t a bear at all. It was a man. And
judging by the paintings that my family had been studying
for decades, I knew who it was right away.
“VonBertruden” I asked with a tremble in my voice.
“Why does your family search for me” he replied in a
deep tone, staring at me through the burning embers.
“Because you’re a mystery. It’s human nature to try and
solve history’s puzzles.” I couldn’t believe I was actually
talking to a man who had supposedly been dead for centuries.
VonBertruden was a tall man with dark black hair
and a thick German accent. The whites of his eyes glowed
orange, but I wasn’t sure if it was just the reflection of the
fire or something far more sinister. Needless to say, I was
intimidated by the man, or ghost, or whatever he was.
“Then I shall give you that which you desire.”
In the blink of an eye VonBertruden disappeared from
his side of the fire. I knew in that instant that he had taken
up a position behind me. I quickly turned around and looked
into his eyes. They were still glowing orange, but this time my
body was blocking the reflection of the flames. I wanted to
run away. I wanted to scream. I couldn’t do either. Whether it
was caused by my fear, or by VonBertruden’s devilish magic,
I found my legs to be paralyzed.
“For years your family has been looking for me. What
did you plan to do if you found me Were you going to kill
me” he asked.
I focused on the evil man’s teeth as he spoke. His jaw was
lined with razor sharp spikes, and saliva dripped from his
lips as he questioned me.
“I’m not sure…possibly.” For some reason I was
compelled to tell the truth. The thought of slaying him had
crossed my mind at one point.
“And how would you go about killing me”
“I’m not sure.” I reached into my backpack and pulled
out a silver crucifix and a plastic squirt gun, which I had filled
SuspenseMagazine.com
with holy water before embarking on my trip.
“Ha, ha, ha…you feeble minded fool!”
VonBertruden’s cackling laugh echoed through
the castle ruins.
Without even thinking, I held the cross out in front of
me and I doused him with a mist of holy water from my toy
luger. His laughter immediately stopped.
“There’s no way to kill me. Holy water, sunlight, stakes
through the heart…all silly myths. I cannot die by a human’s
hand.”
“Then why must you kill innocent people in order to
live” I asked bravely.
“I don’t kill people, I recruit them. I’m creating an army
for my Lord. Your relative, Carl, figured that out. Are you not
intelligent enough to learn from his work”
“Then you don’t need to drink human blood to survive”
“The body of Lucifer’s army needs the blood to flourish.
What I do is for the greater good. With every person I drain,
I create another soldier who, in turn, can spread my Lord’s
cause to even greater masses.”
“God will never let you win!” I suddenly blurt out.
VonBertruden grabbed me by the throat and picked
me up off of the ground. His strength was amazing, and his
fingernails dug into my neck flesh like an Eagle’s talons. His
orange eyes turned a deep shade of red.
“Jesus Christ will kneel at my master’s feet!” he growled
and then he dropped me on the cold stone floor. I fell into a
clump like a lifeless rag doll.
VonBertruden grabbed my hand and he turned my palm
so that it faced the sky. With a swipe of his pointed fingernail,
he tore a two inch gash into my flesh. Blood began to pool in
my open hand. Then he placed the wound up to his mouth
and took one lick of the warm, crimson fluid. To my surprise,
there was no pain.
“Please don’t turn me into one of you,” I begged him.
“I have other plans for you,” he smiled.
“I will never join your side.”
He seemed amused by my defiance.
“By tasting your blood, I have just given you everything
your family has been searching for all of these years. You and
I will be forever linked. Every time I take a soul, you will
see it in your mind’s eye. You will recognize the vampires
around you on sight, yet it will drive you mad to know that
you are helpless in defeating them. We cannot die, we cannot
be destroyed, and we shall prevail over mankind. You will
have the pleasure of witnessing the demise of Heaven from
the sidelines. That is your eternal punishment.”
“But…” Before I could respond, VonBertruden vanished.
Totally confused by what had taken place, I wrapped my
hand with a cloth and then I passed out next to the fire.
The next morning I woke up with a headache. I
immediately uncovered my hand to look at my wound.
There wasn’t a blemish on me. No bloodstains, no scabs…
nothing. I assumed it had all been a bad dream, so I packed
77

my belongings and trudged down the mountain. By the time
I reached my rental car, I decided that my quest to find Gort
VonBertruden was over. The bizarre dream was as far as I was
going to go. I returned home to New York City, determined
to start a new life.
By the time I made it home, the visions had already
started. Every night in my dreams, I would be transported
to some unknown location, at which time I would witness
Gort VonBertruden drain the power of God out of some
unsuspecting soul. To add to my misery, I started seeing
people for who they really were. Joe the bartender, little
Tommy the grocery boy, and even old Mrs. Maynard from
across the street had changed drastically in my eyes. I knew
they had become vampires, but I was the only one who could
see it. To everyone else they were as normal as apple pie. The
maddening part about it all was that I couldn’t fight them.
All I could do is sit and watch while more and more people
were turned.
My sad existence went on for over fourteen years.
Then one night, while waiting for the latest version of my
mental horror show to begin, I tried to keep myself awake by
watching a television documentary on insects. That’s when a
light bulb went off in my head. I realized that the only way to
destroy a colony of ants was to kill the queen. Knowing that
VonBertruden was the leader of the evil army, I wondered
if cutting him down would end Satan’s bid for power. All of
a sudden I knew what had to be done, but there were two
major problems with my plan. One was that I didn’t know
if there was a way to kill him, and secondly, I wasn’t sure if I
could even find him. Regardless of my doubts, I had to try. I
couldn’t live one more night with the images he was casting
into my brain.
Over the last months of 1985, I gathered up every
vampire fighting tool I could think of. My collection included:
garlic, holy water, crucifixes, wooden stakes, Bibles, priests’
garments, and even silver bullets. I knew the bullets were
supposedly effective on werewolves, but I had nothing to lose
by trying. My next step was to find the monster.
With every nightly vision, I tried to take in the
surroundings the best I could. Some places, like Paris and
London, seemed quite obvious to me, while other backwoods
locations didn’t resonate with me at all. VonBertruden was
all over the place. My odds of finding him seemed hopeless.
Then one night it all came together. I knew by the street
sign in my dream that he was in New York City, just a few
blocks from my apartment. With my heart pounding out
of my chest, I forced myself to wake up and I grabbed my
vampire killing kit. Within ten minutes I was face-to-face
with the demon in a dark alley. He was standing next to a
tall, skinny boy, who appeared to be under a spell.
“Leave him alone, Gort!” I shouted.
“Well, well, I see you got my invitation,” he laughed.
“Your invitation”
“You didn’t think I chose a victim so close by
accident, did you I thought you might like a firsthand look
at what I do.”
In a moment of unexplainable bravery, I reached for my
gun and pointed it at the devil man. VonBertruden’s eyes lit
up red, causing the pistol to disintegrate in my grip.
“I told you there is no way for you to kill me, fool. For
that your punishment will be severe.”
He lifted his hand and sent a wave of energy coursing
through my body. I flew backwards and became pinned up
against a dumpster. I was helpless. Satisfied that I was totally
subdued, VonBertruden turned his attention to the wafer
thin boy.
“Please don’t take him,” I begged. “Have some mercy on
the boy.”
“Mercy is for Jesus and fools,” he replied.
VonBertruden pulled the boy’s neck to the side and then
he sank his sharp fangs deep into the young man’s neck. I
could hear the pop of the flesh as the teeth penetrated.
The vampire drank for ten minutes, all the while keeping a
watchful eye on me. When he was done, he laid his victim
on the ground and then he faced me head on, blood dripping
from his lips.
“Now, in a short time he will rise and become one of us,”
VonBertruden boasted, “As for you…”
He started to walk toward me, but then, all of a sudden,
he stopped in his tracks. His body began to shake like he was
having a seizure. Then the disciple of hell doubled over and
fell to the ground. At that moment his hold on me ended.
I was free to run, but I did not. I needed to find out what
crippled the indestructible demon.
In the midst of his convulsions, VonBertruden turned
his head skyward and shouted to the heavens, “You son of a
bitch! You don’t fight fair!” he cried.
Those were the last words he ever uttered. I stood and
watched as his centuries old body dissolved into a puddle
of goo, eventually ending up a stain in a Manhattan alley.
Shocked by what had just taken place, I almost forgot about
the boy who had been attacked. I quickly ran to his side when
I heard him moaning.
“I think you’re going to be alright, son,” I said, extending
my hand to help him up.
“I don’t think so,” he replied.
“The vampire’s dead. His control over everyone has
vanished. You might take a few days to recover, but you’ll be
normal now.”
“I’ll never be normal, man. I have AIDS. My life is over.”
That’s when I understood everything. The Lord does
work in mysterious ways. The AIDS virus, scourge of the late
twentieth century, was responsible for the demise of Satan’s
army. I learned so many lessons in my life, but the one thing I
realized at that moment was that in any war there will always
be casualties on the battlefield. It made perfect sense. In
order to defeat the bloodsuckers, God had tainted the blood.
Genius.
78 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037

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1. Chelsea Cain, “Kill you Twice”
2. Karin Fossum, “The Caller”
3. Barbara Cleverly, “Not my Blood”
4. Hakan Nesser, “Munster’s Case”
5. Bill Crider, “Murder of a Beauty Shop
Queen”
6. A.A. Milne, “The Red House Mystery”
7. Jussi Adler-Olsen, “The Absent One”
8. Rita Mae Brown, “Sneaky Pie for President”
9. Paul Doiron, “Bad Little Falls”
10. Raymond Benson, “The Black Stiletto”
11. Tasha Alexander, “A Crimson Warning”
12. Glenn Meade, “The Romanov Conspiracy”
13. Anne Perry, “Acceptable Loss”
SuspenseMagazine.com
14. Lisa Jackson, “You
Don’t Want to Know”
15. Nora McFarland, “Going to the Bad”
16. David Baldacci, “Zero Day”
17. William Kent Krueger, “Trickster's Point”
18. Charles Cumming, “A Foreign Country”
19. Karen Robards, “The Last Victim”
20. Stephen White, “Line of Fire”
21. Ruth Rendell, “The St. Zita Society”
22. P. J. Tracy, “Off the Grid”
23. Gregg Hurwitz, “The Survivor”
24. Dustin Thomason, “12.21”
25. Kay Hooper, “Haven”
79

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80 Suspense Magazine August 2012/vol. 037