Forensic University of St. Louis
Sisters In Crime Event
"50 Ways to Catch a Killer"

November 1 - 4, 2007

This Month's Featured Stories...

The Short Story   by Burl Barer    I teach writing classes. Anyone can write. NOT everyone can understand how to write well. And in some cases, there is the stress of parental expectation making it even harder. You know... Mom is anxious that you finish that story!

“The essential problem with your story, David,” explained Mr. Goldberg politely, “is simply that you set your sights too high for a first effort.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“You’re trying to run before you walk, pardon the cliché,” said the instructor. “Your title, `A Perfect Murder’ is a bit grandiose—in real life, a murderer can’t drag a dead body all over L.A in public without someone getting wind of it, so to speak. Write what you know, David. Perhaps something such as `How I Feed the Dog’ would be more appropriate.”

David stared at Goldberg quizzically. “I don’t have no dog.”

Assortment of Bullies   by Clair Dickson.   Life is like a box of chocolates... you never know when some bully's gonna knock it outta your hand and laugh at you. 

I studied our reflections in the chrome of the elevator doors. My image was short, and fat. Beside me, my boss, was tall, thin, and gorgeous. I quickly tired of the side-by-side images.

The elevator dinged, the doors slid open, and I followed her out of the elevator. I've only been working with Bo Fexler about three months. She's teaching me about the PI business. I don't know much about it, or anything, really. Bo found the appropriate hospital room. Entering, she asked, "Kyle?" This word, like every other she spoke is distorted by her speech impairment. Now that, I don't envy.

Every Mother's Son   by Dwight Krause   Moms.  Aren't they great?  I love mine. And she probably wouldn't admit that I'd done something wrong, even if I had her help me do it! That's just the way Moms are.

Emily watched the shadows reconnoiter the rug, flanking and driving the light to full retreat. Day routs night, night routs day, with dusk and dawn the troops. Inevitable and merciless. The overthrowing of things. She should turn on a light, scare the hell out of dusk, but she liked being shrouded. Invisibility was a good thing. To be in the dark was to be unknown, diffuse, no longer a target. Cowardly, maybe, but it presented advantages. You could observe while not being observed. You could learn things. Hadn't she learned of her father’s affair that way, sitting quietly in the darkened living room while he phoned his lover?

She frowned. Sometimes what you learned wasn’t all that good.

Crime Bake New England 2007
Dedham, MA

November 9 - 11, 2007

The Road to Olathe   by  Allan Leverone    Ah, the famous ones: Bonnie and Clyde, Pretty Boy Floyd, Dillinger, Baby Face Nelson, Creepy Karpis... all part of the great midwestern crime wave of the early 1930s.  The conditions in the Dust Bowl made many people desperate and the Depression pushed a lot of people who were right on the edge of dishonesty, completely over into the abyss. But often they had a code they lived by that was as compassionate as anyone's. 

This here’s a story I’ve never told anyone, mostly on account of I didn’t really think anybody’d believe it. Hell, I was married to my beautiful Mae, my little Mae-Flower, for fifty-seven years, and I never told her this. Why? Because I knew just how unlikely it would sound.

The thing is, though, I’ve been on this here earth for eighty-seven years now and I’ve discovered that the older you get, the less attention people pay to anything you say anyway. So maybe I chose now to tell my story simply because I’m longing for a little attention, but whatever the reason, I swear on my Mae-Flower’s grave that every word is true and accurate.

The Great Manhattan* Mystery Conclave!
September 28 - 30, 2007

(*That's Manhattan, Kansas, folks!)

What the Mailman Knows   by Charles E. Schwarz   There are some people in our lives who are basically invisible. No, not through chemistry or magic cloaks; rather, because we just take them for granted.  Store clerks.  Postal workers.  Janitors.  Sanitation workers.  And they can learn things about us beyond what we might realize.

Just as I was finishing my mail route a squad car drove up right next to me. Two police officers emerged and insisted I accompany them to the police station.

At a gun-metal gray conference table, in my idiotic mailman's uniform, I sat staring at two detectives, one white and one black. They introduced themselves as Ed McCoppin (the white cop) and Reggie Frazee (the black cop). The small interrogation room had a one-way window, and I flattered  myself thinking that several high-ranking officials were peering in at me.

Given the fatigue of spending eight hours delivering stupid Christmas cards, I tried an opening gambit of self-deprecation, telling the detectives, "Man, I'm just a mailman. I know nothing. Hell, if I knew something, if I had the brains to bless myself, would I be working as a stupid mailman, going from house to house dropping off junk mail no one reads?" I was trying to pick out the good cop.

Saved by Miss Bell  Episode 3   by Donna Nowak.   The final episode of our neo-Golden-Age mystery by Donna Nowak.  Just who IS that dead woman, anyway? 

“Murder? At Judge Hawthorne’s house? Oh, my God. I thought I was doing that child a good turn.”

“What do you mean?”

“That… er, young lady came banging into me as I was coming out of my offices this morning—the offices of the Briar Ridge Historical Society on the first floor. I’m President. She asked if she could wait somewhere private—wanted to surprise an old friend arriving later and didn’t want to be spotted. How was I to know? Naturally I didn’t want her to wait in the offices where I had some work to do, so I advised she wait in the empty servants’ quarters.”

“About what time was this?”

“Around eleven. I went outside to show the gardens and forgot all about her.” He grimaced.

Miss Bell’s eyebrows pinched together. “What I don’t understand is how anyone had access to the display case. That’s where the body was found, Vaughn. Aren’t those displays always kept locked?”

Don't forget the Members' Hall of Fame!

If you are a subscriber to this ezine and have written a crime, mystery or suspense novel, or have been part of a published anthology of such stories, or if you have written a book on the craft of writing, we want to know about it!  Send your information, including your name, book title and ISBN.  We'll give you some free exposure in the Members' Hall of Fame!