Shane Gericke's THE FURY

My friend, Shane Gericke, lost his best friend/wife of almost 40 years to cancer this week. His new book, THE FURY, comes out tomorrow.

He would normally be doing some serious promotion right about now, but life has a way of changing our plans without our permission.

I hope you'll consider buying his latest thriller from your favorite bookstore. If it's anything like his others, we're all in for a heck of a ride.

Another Five Star Review

WHIMSEY now has 21 five-star reviews!  The latest from thriller author Shane Gericke - "Kaye Barley's words leap off the page and wedge right there in your brain next to the comfort food and hot chocolate. I love her characters, and the fantasy sequences were an unexpected joy. Check out WHIMSEY, but only if you like vibrant writing and Southern-style fun."

If you were the editor, would you run this photograph?
 

 

 

 

By Shane Gericke

 

Would you do it?

 

Would you run this photo?

 

It’s the famous—or infamous, depending on your viewpoint—photograph published recently by the New York Post. In it, a man sees himself about to be crushed by a New York subway train. (He was pushed onto the tracks by a crazy guy, who was, fortunately, arrested.) Unfortunately, no one helped the man get off the tracks in time to avoid death—including the freelance photographer who took this photo. The Post made sure to drive a stake through the readers’ hearts by superimposing the word “DOOMED” in letters so big you could use them as signal flags.

 

The publication raised a stink with millions. They believe the newspaper should have had the sensitivity to not run a picture of a man about to die in such a horrid fashion, that it should have spared his family the public spectacle. They believe the photographer should have thrown down his camera and heaved the man onto the platform, saying that even newsmen are human first and news gatherers second.

 

The photographer, for his part, says he was too far away to rescue the poor guy. Instead, he ran his motor drive to set off his flash, in hopes of warning the subway driver. He says he didn’t know he’d captured such a gripping image—or any image at all, since he was running like a madman—and only afterwards realized he had a brilliant shot. (It is a brilliant photo, even if you despise the subject matter.)

 

As a freelancer, he survives on the sale of such photos, and the Post paid him a handsome amount and made his photo the entire front cover. Details: http://www.poynter.org/latest-news/mediawire/197176/ny-post-subway-photog-every-time-i-close-my-eyes-i-see-the-image-of-death/

 

So, what would you do?

 

My first instinct was to say I wouldn’t run it: profiting from this man’s death is obscene. If I were the editor in charge—and I was a newspaper editor for 25 years, before moving into crime fiction—I would have spiked that photo.

 

Then I thought some more.

 

How does this differ from the photographs we applaud, the photos we declare iconic, and in many cases award the Pulitzer Prize for photographic excellence?

 

Photos like these:

 

FALLING MAN: He jumped from the World Trade Center rather than burn to death after the September 11 attacks. Details: http://www.esquire.com/the-side/feature/the-falling-man-10-years-later-6406030

 

 

 

NAPALM GIRL: Her clothes were burned off by an American napalm strike during the Vietnam War, and her naked body was displayed worldwide. Details: http://usatoday30.usatoday.com/news/world/story/2012-06-02/napalm-girl-photo-vietnam/55347678/1

 

 

 

STARVING CHILD: She collapses crawling for a food pile during a famine in Sudan, the photographer does not help, and the vulture awaits his meal. Details: http://www.famouspictures.org/mag/index.php?title=Starving_Sudanese_girl

 

 

 

EXECUTION: And in perhaps the most famous photo of the Vietnam War, a South Korean police chief executes a Viet Cong guerrilla who’d killed a dozen people just before this photo was taken. Details: http://iconicphotos.wordpress.com/2009/04/22/the-execution-of-a-vietcong-guerilla/

 

Short answer: They don’t differ one bit. The subway photo is the Viet Cong execution brought to 2012.

 

There are scores of other photos in the “iconic” category, each as jarring and heartrending as the subway shot.  Would I have published them? Would I have run the ones I just showed you? Yes. They are brilliant composed, tell an important story, and grab the heart, as all great journalism must.

 

So why wouldn’t I run the subway photo?

 

After long reflection, I realize I would. It is a shattering image, tells the story of a man about to die, and thus deserves to make the light of day in print.

 

This is not as easy a decision as you might think. I’ve run into these kinds of situations twice: once as a photographer, once as an editor.

 

The first was a house fire. I was on a midnight-shift ride-along with my policeman father when he got the call of a fire in progress. I had my camera, hoping for some action that night. (I was a college newspaper reporter at the time.) We arrived, and the home was fully engulfed. Huge flames, lots of drama. I shot a roll of fire photos. (Yes, kids, we used film back then, not digital imagery.)

 

Then came the heartbreak. The man who owned the home returned from wherever he’d been. He stared at his loss—and then broke down crying.

 

I raised my camera. Perfect shot: sobbing homeowner in foreground, furiously burning house in back. This kind of emotion is rare in local news photos, and it would draw editor interest like bees to nectar.

 

But I couldn’t push the shutter.

 

My heart had gone out to the man. I remember thinking, “He’s going to have to live with his face in the papers. I won’t.” So I didn’t take the photo, and only turned in the lapping flames, which, happily, the local paper bought and gave me a front-page clip for my collection.

 

I was in college then. I had the luxury of making that ethical choice. Working photographers depending on the sale of pictures to pay their rent might not.  

 

The second incident came at my first newspaper job out of college. I was editor of the front page, and selected the photographs that would appear. That morning, a car had crashed, killing four area teenagers. It was a huge story, and our photographer had captured a stunner: wreck in the background, white-sheeted body in the foreground—and the hand of one of the dead teens sticking out of the sheet in the ultra foreground, fingers curled in death, but not the least bit bloody or burnt. It was a perfect, chilling, make-you-weep photograph.

 

I chose to run it.

 

My boss, the managing editor, vetoed my decision.

 

When I squawked and demanded to know why, he said, This tragedy greatly affects the community that reads our newspaper. I’m not going to destroy these families by running this kind of photo of their dead children. So he cut off the hand and the sheeted body and ran just the photo of the wrecked car. Neutering it completely.  

 

A decision that, being 23, I thought sucked.

 

But now, at 56, understand, and perhaps even agree with. A wise editor knows his or her audience.

 

Which the Post does, in spades, and with that knowledge, chose to run the subway photo.

 

As would I.

 

How about you?

 

 

About Shane Gericke

 

Bestselling author Shane Gericke has been held at knifepoint, hit by lightning, and shaken the cold sweaty hand of Liberace. He was born to write thriller novels! His latest, Torn Apart, was a finalist for the Thriller Award for Best Novel and a Book of the Year selection by Suspense Magazine. A national bestseller in print and No. 1 bestseller in Kindle, Shane, whose last name is improbably pronounced YER-kee, spent twenty-five years as a newspaper editor, most prominently at the Chicago Sun-Times, before jumping into fiction. An original member of International Thriller Writers, he was chairman of the ThrillerFest literary festival in New York and founding director of its agent-author matching program, AgentFest. He also belongs to Mystery Writers of America and the Society of Midland Authors. His novels—available in print and e-books—are in translation worldwide, and RT Book Reviews chose his debut, Blown Away, as the nation’s best first mystery in 2006. He lives in the Chicago suburb of Naperville, the home of world-famous detective Dick Tracy, with whom Shane shares no resemblance except steely jaw and manly visage. Check him out at http://www.shanegericke.com, and on Facebook and Twitter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Requiem for a Fallen Star by Shane Gericke

Shane Gericke has been held at knifepoint, hit by lightning, and shaken the cold sweaty hand of Liberace. He was born to write thriller novels! His latest is Torn Apart, a finalist for the Thriller Award for Best Novel, and a Book of the Year at Suspense Magazine. Shane, whose last name is improbably pronounced YER-kee, spent 25 years as a newspaper editor, most prominently at the Chicago Sun-Times, before jumping into fiction. An original member of International Thriller Writers, he was chairman of the ThrillerFest literary festival in New York City and founding director of its agent-author matching program, AgentFest. He also belongs to Mystery Writers of America and the Society of Midland Authors. His novels—available in print and e-books—are in translation worldwide, and his national bestselling debut, Blown Away, was named the best first mystery of 2006 at RT Book Reviews. He lives in the Chicago suburb of Naperville, the home of world-famous detective Dick Tracy, with whom Shane shares no resemblance except steely jaw and manly visage. Check him out at http://www.shanegericke.com, and on Facebook and Twitter.

Requiem for a Fallen Star

By Shane Gericke

People ask why I write.

I respond with a variety of answers, all of which are true:

Satisfaction. Money. The nobility of honest work. The fact I’m happy when I write and I’m cranky when I don’t.

But there’s one big reason that dwarfs everything else:

I want the good guys to win.

That doesn’t always happen in the real world. In real life, evil triumphs and goodness gets its lights punched out. Not always, but often enough to discomfort and sadden. To make us reflect too often on the what-might-have-beens of decent lives snuffed too soon.

But in fiction, I rule. From a moon made of green cheese to bullets that bounce like sponge rubber to heroes that run seemingly forever, I can make anything happen.

And I do.

In my fictional world, heroes win and villains get what’s coming to them. That can be jail. More often, it’s death, usually painful, always creative. 

Because in real life, the good die too tragically and too young. Here is how it happens in real life, when you’re a cop in Chicago . . .

You’re born. You grow. Your family adores you. So do your friends. Likewise the neighborhood that shaped you, and you in turn helped shape.

When you’re old enough to know what’s what, you decide to join up, give a little back. Two tours in Iraq; Army green, hoo-ah! Breaking the bad guys, defending the good.

You survive the killing sands, move back into the ’hood. It’s changed. Once vibrant and free, it’s slouching toward Gomorrah, infected with killers and dopers, bangers and thieves. Good people run. More run scared.

You decide to join up again; this time the cops, Chicago blue, hoo-ah! Just like your Pop, retired now, but then, as now, a hell of a sergeant-man. He’s not scared like the other good folks. But he’s worried. And if he is . . .

You decide to double down.

You could live anywhere in Chicago: Downtown. Uptown. A safe-as-the-suburbs neighborhood of cops, firefighters and politicians: Mount Greenwood. Sauganash. Edgebrook. Beverly. But you chose the ’hood because you want to make it better, and only personal commitment counts. So you find a place, start working with the children, the ones that can still be swayed, still be saved. Become guardian of your neighborhood park, the one named after Nat King Cole.

You step up to community leader, then to president of the local advisory council. All the while you’re driving that CPD blue-and-white, a cop three years next month, working your snitches, warning the bangers, swinging a stick, keeping it real, hoo-ah! Telling anyone who’ll listen, and a bunch of knuckleheads who won’t, that your Chatham neighborhood’s gonna be great again, just you wait and see. 

You love the work and it loves you back. You become good at it. Become exceptional. The ’hood starts believing and begins to rally. Some long rows to hoe, no argument. But you’re 30, you’ve got the time, you can hack it. You’re son and soldier, cop and protector, and the good start breathing again. You’re happier than don’t know when . . .

It’s May 19, 2010. A nothing-special Wednesday, day floating by, plunging into night. You hop on your motorcycle. The shiny one you bought ’cause you’re young and you’re single and you survived and you can. 

You’ve pocketed the pictures you just snapped at a D.C. memorial service for fallen police, knowing Pop’ll like them. 

You roll over to your parents’ home. You park at the curb, admire the neat, meticulous brickwork laid by your grandfather. You’ve got your own place, sure. But home is where you grew up, where your ancestors’ spirits breathe, where Mom and Pop still live. 

You’re home.

You walk inside and have a chat. You can tell Pop’s proud. Of your shiny new ride. Of your decision to put on a uniform and fight for your country, then strap on a gun and fight for your city. Of going to the police memorial in your nation’s capital. Of bringing home the pictures.

Of you. Pop is proud of you.

Police Officer and Iraq combat veteran Thomas Worthham IV

You talk about everything; gas about nothing. Before you know it’s 11:25. Time to get gone ’fore night slides back to day. Smiling, you walk to the curb, swing your leg over your steed. Pop’s waving from a front window. You’re waving back . . .

Two young skinnies pop from nowhere, screw a gun in your ear: Gimme the motorcycle, fool! Pop sees ’em from the window, belts a holler: Leave my son alone!

Punk turns, busts a cap.

You might have waited this out. No choice now with bullets flying. Scream you’re Chicago Police. Pull your gun from under your shirt, open fire. Banger-man pulls his trigger. Metal craters your head. You tumble off the bike, blood showering asphalt. Your brain says you’re dying. Your body won’t accept it. Your fingers crawl toward your gun. But metal’s a wolf pack and brains are bleating lambs . . .

Your lights are winking out.

Pop charges from the house with his own cop gun. A red Nissan getaway screeches into the curb. Four skinnies now, two in the car, two in the street, their kill-gun hunting fresh meat. Pop fires. One’s dead. Pop fires. Second’s crippled. Pop’s going for the triple then the grand-slam . . . 

The two in the car roar off. They run you over. They drag you a quarter-block, over asphalt and garbage and glass. Finally you fall off, roll unceremoniously into the gutter.

Sirens shriek. Blue lights flash. Shots fired. Officer down. Sirens shriek. Blue lights flash. Shots fired. Officer down. Officer down. Officer down . . .

Pop races to your side, kneels on the cold unfeeling street . . . 

The officer's motorcycle and the sheet-covered body of one of the robbers—who was shot dead by Wortham’s father moments after his son was slain by four men trying to steal the motorcycle—are seen at center. (Chicago Sun-Times photo)

Your name is Thomas Wortham.
Your Pop is Thomas Wortham.
His Pop is Thomas Wortham,
and so is Grandpa’s dad.

Four generations,
from a Chatham once so lovely,
they’re gathering ’round an angel now,
blood dripping from his hands.

They’re praying for a miracle
they know will never find you,
’cause you’re gone now, dead and gone now,
’cause four killers didn’t care.

You’ve been dumped into a gutter
cold and lonely, garbage mounting,
and only God can mourn you,
’cause four killers didn’t care. 

Because that’s how it happens,
when you’re a cop in Chicago.
When murder’s in four shriveled hearts,
your blood drips on your hands . . .

On May 19, 2010, a Chicago Police officer named Thomas Wortham IV—an Iraq veteran who came home to police one of the toughest neighborhoods in Chicago, the South Side’s Chatham, because he loved the good people still living in the ’hood—was gunned down in front of his parents because four young robbers wanted his motorcycle. It was an outrageous symbol of a deadly year for American law enforcement: line-of-duty deaths leaped 37 percent from the previous year, according to the National Law Enforcement Officers Memorial Fund, to 160. Five of them were Chicago cops: Worthham, Thor Soderberg, Michael Flisk, Michael Bailey and Alan Haymaker.

I can’t keep them safe. I can’t keep anyone safe. I don’t have that power. Nobody does.

A police squad car sits in front of the home of Chicago Police Officer Thomas Wortham IV's parent's home, as residents do their morning walk at Cole Park. (Chicago Tribune photo)

But what I can do is create an alternate world for my readers to slip into when the real one overwhelms. A world where good guys win and bad guys don’t, where decency is rewarded and jerkdom slapped. Where tension and trauma and crazy and outrage and love and caring and hope reign just like the real world, but at the end, justice triumps.

For everyone.

And that, ultimately, is why I write crime fiction.

So the Thomas Worthams can live. 

Thomas Wortham III (center) salutes as the casket of his son, Chicago Police Officer Thomas Wortham IV, is brought out following funeral services at Trinity United Church of Christ in Chicago. Wortham was shot to death May 20, in a robbery attempt across from his parents' home in the Chatham neighborhood. (Chicago Tribune photo)

WONDER WOMAN LOSES HER CLEAVAGE by Shane Gericke

Shane Gericke is the national-bestselling author of the crime thriller TORN APART, which launches worldwide this week from Kensington Publishing. He starting writing for the local town weekly in high school, and liked it so much he never looked back. He spent 25 years in the newspaper business, most prominently as an editor at the Chicago Sun-Times, then left for the heady world of novels. 

His first, BLOWN AWAY, was named the nation's best mystery debut by RT Book Reviews (which will feature him on www.rtbookreviews.com starting July 6) and has been translated into German, Turkish, Slovakian, and two forms of Chinese: traditional and simplified. The series continued with CUT TO THE BONE, and now, TORN APART. 

Shane is chairman of ThrillerFest 2010, a founding member of International Thriller Writers, and a member of Mystery Writers of America.
 
He lives with Jerrle, his wife of 31 years, in the Chicago suburb of Naperville, where his series is set and is also home to noted crime-fighter Dick Tracy.

Shane invites you to visit him at www.shanegericke.com, where the words are hot and the drinks are cold. Albeit digital.

WONDER WOMAN LOSES HER CLEAVAGE

 by Shane Gericke

Thanks for inviting me into your digital home, Kaye. It's a privilege to be here. Because of the erudition and intelligence of the people who read you, I thought I'd begin my essay with a detailed analysis of the past pluperfect gerunds found in Tolstoy's grand romp through the absurdities of Czarist politics, SNOW JOB, DA. Then, if I had space, I thought we'd all diagram this sentence from James Joyce's ULYSSES:

"In ward wary the watcher hearing come that man mildhearted eft rising with swire ywimpled to him her gate wide undid. Lo, levin leaping lightens in eyeblink Ireland's westward welkin. Full she dread that God the Wreaker all mankind would fordo with water for his evil sins. Christ's rood made she on breastbone and him drew that he would rathe infare under her thatch. That man her will wotting worthful went in Horne's house."

Fun! Particularly the "Christ's rood on her thatch" part, which sounds deliciously naughty but is surely a literary allusion to the Bible or Stonehenge or something.

But then I thought, "Aw, #$%^&, who am I fooling? We wanna talk about Wonder Woman!"

And so . . .

Did you hear they've changed Wonder Woman's looks? It's true. In the latest edition of the long-running comic-book series (No. 600, for those keeping track), young huntress Diana Prince--aka, Wonder Woman, shazam!--loses her cannonball cleavage and butt-huggin' shorts. Instead, she's remade into Corporate Woman, kablam! Complete with long, black tights, a blue-black jacket, contrasting yellow accessories, and sensible navy shoes instead of the thigh-high red boots of old. No more red-white-and-blue lingerie for the world's most recognizable female crime-fighter!

Not only recognizable, but long-lasting. The DC Comics superheroine first appeared in December, 1941--right about the time Japan bombed Pearl Harbor--in All Star Comics No. 8. She's one of only three DC superheroes to be continuously published since DC began, the other two being Superman and Batman. (For a fuller discussion of her roots and symbolism, click on this Wikipedia entry.) She's worn the same outfit since the beginning, so the change was overdue.

But I sigh nonetheless. I loved Wonder Woman growing up, and not just for the (lack of) clothing. She was a feminist long before Helen Reddy sang "I Am Woman, Here Me Roar." She kicked bad-guy booty all over the world. She was strong and tough and powerful and had that golden lasso that forced people to tell the truth. She was smart and gutsy and rolled with the punches. She talked back to authority. She took crap from no one. Everything that women of the era were not allowed to do.

Yeah, her getup was sexist--in a 2006 interview about her work on the series, the novelist Jodi Picoult said: “One of the first things I did was ask if we could give her breast-reduction surgery, because as a woman, I know you wouldn’t fight crime in a bustier. But I was somehow shot down by DC.” Uh, yeah, no kidding. It's comic books, not Proust! Nothing about comics is PC. Superman had that big ol' bulge Down There. Batman lived with his, uh, "young ward" Robin--boy wonder indeed!  WW's attire grabbed millions of eyeballs, which sold lots of comics, which was the entire point of the drill. The great side benefit was that generations of children saw that girls could do great superhero-y things just like boys. And it was Good.

Bad lingerie included. Uber-feminist Gloria Steinem liked the getup so much--it symbolized Something Important, she said, though I don't recall what--that when DC tried to alter the costume back in the '80s, Steinem raised enough hell through her Ms. magazine that they changed it back to the Frederick's of Hollywood look we all worshipped.

But time marches on and sensibilities grow too urgent to deny. Thus, the makeover:

“She’s been locked into pretty much the exact same outfit since her debut in 1941,” J. Michael Straczynski, the new writer of the series, told the New York Times. He also altered her birth history, from Amazonian to something more modern. “If you’re going to make a statement about bringing Wonder Woman into the 21st century, you need to be bold and you need to make it visual. I wanted to toughen her up, and give her a modern sensibility.”

Exit, undies.

He's right, of course. This change is sensible, and good, and way overdue. We beat the Nazis and and Japan and the Commies so the red-white-blue scheme is a fossil (albeit sexy!) of Cold War muscle-flexing. And La Wonder will still kick bad-guy booty all over the universe. 

But the little Shane inside me still sighs for the bowling-ball chest and tighty-tights.

MY NEWEST THRILLER:    TORN APART
(and the gentlemen who were kind enough to blurb  about it - Jeffery Deaver and Lee Child; two of the nicest guys you could ever hope to meet).

The proprietress of this space has been very kind in telling folks on the Internet that that my new thriller, TORN APART, launches worldwide this week.

It's the third in my cops-vs.-psychos series starring tough cops Emily Thompson (my own little Wonder Woman, but in police blue, not red-white-and) and Martin Benedetti. I really liked how this story turned out. It's exciting as hell, and the romance between Em and Marty is balanced nicely by the crashing mayhem of the murders, explosions, car chases, kidnaps, aircraft crashes, bombs, bullets and knives. The bad guys are real bastards, and you'll enjoy how Emily and Marty deal with them. And, there's cop jokes! I put an excerpt on my website, www.shanegericke.com, and I invite y'all to come over and read. Buying links are there too, and I'd be pleased if you bought a copy at the recession-friendly price of $6.99. It's also available as an e-book: Kindle, Nook and more.

What Kaye didn't tell you because she's too modest is that I named a character after her. That's right, our own Kaye Barley is a crime-fightin' radio dispatcher. She appears in a number of important scenes, complete with that adorable haircut and those dangly-thingies she loves to put on her ears.

I did this to honor one of the world's most avid and erudite lovers and bloggers of books, one who is so supportive of us everyday writers that it tickles me to be mentioned in the same space as her. So Wonder Woman, this character's for you! May you kick bad-guy booty wherever you go.

To the rest of you, thanks for reading this essay, and I hope you like my book.

Now get cracking on diagramming that James Joyce sentence. Call me when you're done . . .

Shane

P.S. To celebrate the launch of TORN APART, I've created a contest starring our very own writer of fine Irish crime fiction, Ken Bruen! He's a dear friend, and as supportive of fellow writers as anyone could possibly ask. This is my salute to Ken and his marvelous style of writing: Prose so tight and lean that it fairly drips with poetry.

Here's how the contest works: I wrote one entire chapter in Ken's dark, highly poetic style. You can't miss it; the style is very different from my norm. (But fits the mood of the chapter perfectly.) I'll award an Advance Reader Copy of TORN APART to the first reader who sends me the correct chapter number. Then, I'll draw four names  from everyone who sent in the correct chapter number, and send those four people ARCs too. It's a cool prize; only 100 of these full-color Advance Review Copies exist on Planet Earth. I had them printed special, for magazine reviewers whose long lead times require copies of the book months before my publisher hooks them on the printing press. When these ARCs are gone, there ain't no more nowhere except the ones in your hot little hands. So buy the book, find the chapter, send me the chapter number--it's right there on top of the chapter--and you could win something cool. I'll even sign to you personally.  Send your answer via my website, www.shanegericke.com; my contact page is right there on the home page. Here's hoping you win! 

Employees of Shane Gericke Worldwide are not eligible to enter. Which means, uh, me, since I'm the only one. Makes me sound important, though, that "Worldwide," doesn't it? 

Another Contest - Oh Boy! This one for thriller author Shane Gericke

To celebrate the upcoming launch of his new cop thriller, Torn Apart, author Shane Gericke is having his website cleaned, pressed, and buffed to a fine glow . . . and he'd like readers to choose the main photo for his Home Page.

To check out the choices--Shane Serious or Shane Friendly--and register your vote, go to www.ShaneGericke.com and send in your choice. Contest ends soon, so hurry!

'cause it's the season by Shane Gericke

National bestselling thriller writer Shane Gericke (pronounced YER-key) spent 25 years as a journalist, most prominently as a senior financial editor at the Chicago Sun-Times, before plunging into crime thrillers. Torn Apart, his new cops-vs.-psychos novel, will launch worldwide on July 6, 2010, from Pinnacle Fiction. It joins Blown Away—winner of the prestigious “Debut Mystery of the Year” from RT Book Reviews magazine—and Cut to the Bone in gathering accolades from such New York Times bestsellers as Jeffrey Deaver, Lee Child, Tess Gerritsen, Douglas Preston, Erica Spindler, John J. Nance, Gayle Lynds, Alex Kava and John Lutz, with one critic enthusiastically reporting, “Cross James Patterson with Joseph Wambaugh, and you get Shane Gericke.” Shane, whose books have been translated into German, Chinese, Slovakian and Turkish, lives in the Chicago suburb of Naperville, IL, where the series is set. He’s chairman of ThrillerFest in New York City, a founding member of International Thriller Writers, and a member of Mystery Writers of America. Visit him at www.shanegericke.com







'cause it's the season By Shane Gericke



War.



Pestilence.



Blizzards.



Tiger.



Needle boy.



Jon and Kate unmate.



Tis the season.



But the news isn’t all bad for the holidays. There’s plenty of hope and heroics. You just have to look in the back pages of the newspaper, not the front.



So in honor of Musings and Meanderings and its ever-cheerful proprietor, Kaye Barley, I’d like to share a few of the happy stories with you. Cause it’s the season for that, too.



NEVER OFF-DUTY: Chicago firefighter Jason Durbin was finishing his hot dog at The Weiner’s Circle when he noticed smoke pouring from the top of a nearly skyscraper. He wasn’t working that day, so could have called 911 and left the mess to his fellow fire-dogs. But real firefighters run toward the flames, not away, and that’s what Durbin did. He ran up the stairs to the 28th floor, only to be hit by a thick wall of smoke. Someone passing him said a woman was in trouble down the hall. He felt his way to her—remember, the hall was choked with inky smoke—and bumped into the curled-up woman. He dragged her to the stairwell, then carried her down the 28 flights of stairs. She wound up in serious condition with smoke inhalation and burns—but survived. If you don’t adore firefighters, you absolutely have no soul.



WE’RE CONNECTED: It wasn’t so long ago we stayed in touch only by letters or phone. Now we have the Internet and e-mail (developed in the 1970s, popularized in the ’90s), MySpace (2003), Facebook (2005), Twitter (2006) and hundreds of other social-connection media. That couldn’t have happened without broadband Internet, which really took off in the mid-2000s. The first iPod was introduced in 2001 (a music odyssey), followed by YouTube (2005). With all that at our fingertips, we now communicate in all sorts of fashion. Except for sitting down face to face, of course. Who has time for that?



JUST DUES: The University of California at Davis authorized special college degrees to all students who attended the school during World War II but were forced to leave when Americans of Japanese descent were forced into concentration camps for the duration of the war. It was a shameful episode in our history, I believe, and some may quibble with my calling them “concentration” camps, not the more officially pleasant “detainment.” But what would you call it if you were imprisoned in a camp ringed with barbed wire and armed guards, in barracks so shabby that cold winds howled through the walls, and toilets with no privacy? And not in, say, Palm Springs or San Francisco, but in the God-forsaken wildernesses of Utah and Wyoming? It was monstrous decision, throwing our own citizens into prison without benefit of a trial, but at least institutions like UC-Davis are trying to make it right.



LIFE GOES ON: Anne Marie Schlekeway of Chicago is dying of ALS, more popularly known as Lou Gehrig’s disease. But she’s determined to show the world she’s fighting it, one day after the next, and so has started a blog, www.KissMyALS.com. She talks frankly about the disease and her life, touching upon such sensitive topics as toileting—“To speed the process while on the pot, lift both arms over your head”—to sex: “Trouble breathing in the missionary position … what I thought was me getting fat was really weakened muscles in the diaphragm.” In my view, people like Schlekeway, who bare their souls that others might not suffer alone, are worth ten millions Tigers Wood.



HOUSTON, WE HAVE NO PROBLEM: Voters in Bible Belt Houston, Texas, elected their first openly gay mayor. She is Annise Parker, and she won by focusing on the brick-and-mortar realities of running the country’s fourth-largest city. Like ever other successful politician, she connected with voters with her willingness to roll up her sleeves, and those voters didn’t hold her sexual preference against her. It’s good to see us overcome our gay-hating culture, even if it’s one person at a time.



SHAVE AND A HAIRCUT, TWO BITS: Even better, free. Cristiano Cora runs a chi-chi hair-styling salon in New York’s Greenwich Village. He charges $300 for a haircut, and that doesn’t include color or highlights. His work is in demand, and he’s heavily booked. But … once a week he gives free cuts to the unemployed, as a way to lift their spirits. Just make an appointment and bring in something that proves you’re unemployed—pink slip, pay stub, whatever—and the cut is gratis. He says he’ll do it as long as the recession lasts. May he become a billionaire, one head at a time.



KINGLY GENEROSITY: The high priest of high scares, Stephen King, and his wife, Tabitha, donated $12,999 to an organization so 150 soldiers of the Army National Guard in Maine could travel from an Army training camp in Indiana to spend the holidays at home. Someone approached King about donating $13,000 to cover the travel expense. King, being King, said he’d love to, but make it $12,999—the number 13 is unlucky. Julie Eugley, one of King’s assistants, chipped in the extra buck, and the soldiers were on their way. King should be a bestseller for this alone. Fortunately, his momentous writing has already gotten him there.



AND FINALLY: Authorities have arrested the coal-souled bastard who shoved dozens of sewing needles into his own son’s body. Robert Magalhaes of Brazil confessed to pushing more than forty needles into his young son in order to spite his ex-wife, the boy’s mother. (Magalhaes did it on orders from his new wife, cops say he also said.) Emergency surgery to remove the needles closest to killing the boy was successful, and the boy is recovering. My holiday wish is that the father is quickly convicted, shoved into a Brazilian prison, and turned loose into a general population armed with sewing needles. Can you say, Pincushion?



Hey, I never said “happy” meant “Pollyanna.”



And to all, a shiny happy holiday, however you celebrate it.

Bouchercon 2008 - My First B'con

I was buzzing the second I got off the plane in Baltimore. As I started walking down the long concourse of BWI Airport I had fond memories of when it used to be Friendship Airport. A lovely, soft name that would in today’s culture be an oxymoron. Not that BWI isn’t a lovely airport, as airports go, but I miss the days when an airport could even conceivably be named something as gentle as “Friendship.”

 

I’m not from Baltimore, but I am originally from Maryland. I was born and raised in Cambridge, which is on the Eastern Shore, and is still “home of my heart.” Thankfully, Donald has come to love it as I do, so we get to visit fairly often. But he’s not on this trip to Baltimore with me. I’m on my own. Getting ready to toss myself into my very first big mystery con and have chosen a real biggie in which to toss myself. Whether I sink or swim is yet to be seen.

Bouchercon.

 

oh my.

 

My very first impression of the Sheraton is brisk efficiency as my bags are swept into the hotel before I’ve stepped out of the cab. My second impression is that its extremely well run by well trained professionals who care about that first impression, and about making their guests feel welcome. I was greeted with a smile and a “Good Morning” by every single staff member from curb to front desk, and there were a surprising number of them. There’s a message waiting for me at the desk – a welcome from a woman who works in the Executive Offices with whom I’ve been chatting regarding a box of books being sent to the hotel for me to distribute to some of the book sellers for my friend Peter Rennebohm. Its there, its safe and when would I like it delivered to my room? She just wants to say hi and welcome me. When I call her from my room she asks “How’s the room?” Me being me, had to respond that it was lovely ‘cept I was awfully sorry not to see a little mini-fridge or a microwave. its the Monday before the convention starts, and I have a couple days of free time to play and visit with old friends before the mystery world shows up. Monday through Sunday is a long time to think about buying every single meal out. Besides – I need my milk and cookies at night before turning in. And real milk in my coffee. A whole week without real milk at night while tucked in in my jammies reading my book does not appeal to me. No worries. Before my suitcase is unpacked there’s a knock on the door and a very cheerful woman has brought me a mini-fridge AND a microwave. This is a woman who understands about that glass of milk with your Oreos before turning in. Life is good.

 

The weather is much too beautiful to stay cooped up in the Sheraton, no matter how nice the hotel is. Its one of those perfect days you just pray for when you’re on vacation. The weather stayed perfect the entire week. Perfect for morning walks down to the harbor to sit with my coffee and just look out over the water. Having been raised in a small town on the water, this is what I need occasionally to restore my soul. That and a four hour shopping spree in Filene’s Basement. Coming home to Boone with the cutest little pink leather ballet flats with an ankle strap – lovely!! There’s for sure no Filene’s Basement in Boone, which is probably a very good thing. You can bet I’ll be the only gal in Boone with pink leather ballet flats with an ankle strap.

 

Wednesday arrives quickly and with its arrival I watch the hotel change from a brisk, but fairly quiet world to one of convention city hustle and bustle.

 

I’ve already bumped into BG Ritts on the elevator earlier in the week, and she’s already bustling about in what I came to recognize as her quietly efficient “getting it done” mode. BG and I had not met previously, but recognized one another instantly from pictures and hugged like old friends. She’s been working behind the scenes helping Ruth and Judy and the other volunteer elves put together what turned out to be a perfectly magical event. It was my first Bouchercon, and I knew I was impressed by it all. However, hearing from others who have attended many, it wasn’t long before I realized this truly was a very special Bouchercon.

 

The event on a whole just felt “right.” But slowing down long enough to start paying attention to little details, its easy to understand why. This has been not just a convention these women decided to put on. It was an outpouring of love for a community, and a family, they love and are embraced by in return. Ruth Jordan and Judy Bobalik had sent their family a love letter. It was, I think, received with an even greater measure of love with huge doses of respect and awe thrown in. Bumping into Ruth, who I had never met before, while waiting for our elevator one morning I had to tell her how impressed I was not only with how beautifully everything was going, but with her amazing confidence in even thinking she could pull this off, which by golly she had. She told me she credits her Aunt Marie with that. Aunt Marie didn’t understand why Ruth might have a shred of a doubt about putting this event together, and bless Aunt Marie – she had it just right. Her Ruth, is indeed, an amazing woman. Those who did not know it before, know it now. Although, I suspect, being pretty new to the mystery community, I’m one of the last to know it. I’m quite thankful for only being late to the party, and not missing it completely.

 

And speaking of that elevator. A few days into the convention, I noticed a woman who I had been in the elevator with earlier in the week. When I asked who she was you could have knocked me over with a feather. Heather Graham. I am an idiot. HOW could I have had a conversation with this incredible woman and not recognize her?!

After a walk to Lexington Market on Wednesday, I stepped into the registration area and collected my bag of goodies. And what a bag of goodies! Oh my. I put my badge around my neck and hardly took it off again for the next 5 days. BG, bless her heart, showed me that it really didn’t need to hang down to my waist – there is, after all, a way to fix that. (I truly am an idiot). So it hung comfortably at my chest, right where Del Tinsley assured me all eyes would be for the next few days as those of us new to all this, but knowing one another virtually through DorothyL and other cyberworld venues, would be peering as we were anxious to meet up and connect in the “for real” world. And connect we did.

 

While standing at that registration table with BG and only a couple of other people (which, by the way, turned out to be the last time the registration area was that serene), I looked up and spotted a sweet face I knew I recognized, but asked BG just to make sure. Another dear woman who had taken me under her wing years ago – Sandra Ruttan. Squealing like 6 year olds, hugging, wiping away a tear and then drifting into conversation as if we’d known one another forever, I think I was just beginning to understand that something very special was happening under the roof of the Sheraton Hotel. At least , for me.

 

Here’s my first Bouchercon “Oh. My. God. “ moment.

 

Who’s that standing next to me? Not even 2 feet away. Nuh uh, it cannot be. My mouth dropped open and I looked at Sandra and she just nodded. Knowing that this was not an opportunity I’d likely have again I bucked up my courage and with legs shaking, walked over and asked if I could introduce myself and when I did, Mr. Lee Child said, “Kaye Barley. Nice to meet you. Actually, I’ve heard your name.” And this was my first “Holy Shit” moment.

 

Little did I know how many more there were to come.

 

As I headed back through the lobby to go to my room so I could dig into my Charmed to Death goody bag to ooooh and ahhhhh over all these books I glanced to my right and saw a sight that made my heart soar. There stood Ken Bruen. Standing in the hotel lobby registering for his room like a meer mortal. I walked over, tapped him on the shoulder and said “hey. Its me, Kaye.” He swooped me up in a hug and gave me a resounding kissaroo smack on the lips, greeted me with a lovely, oh so gentle, smile and a “Kaye, a gra!” that sent my head spinning and my heart soaring. And then he introduced me to the woman of his heart, Lisa Dill, and it was my turn to swoop her into a hug. The two of them glowed with their joy in one another and I felt honored to be included in their circle of light.

 

This was when I escaped to my room to just sit in complete amazement of what I was in the middle of. After a bit of decompression time, decided magical things were happening downstairs and I did not need to be sitting in my room daydreaming about them when I might be able to witness them.

Getting off the elevator I spotted Ken and Lisa again and spoke to them as I passed. Except. I stopped dead in my tracks staring into the lovely face of Laura Lippman who was having a conversation with them. Now, I do know how very, VERY rude it is to interrupt a personal conversation. I had no intention of doing that. But I was struck dumb in my tracks while my mind was processing the fact that there stood Laura Lippman and Ken Bruen. Together. In the same space. Y’all, it was a moment I can’t begin to describe. I turned into a total half-wit. Just stood there and I could not have moved for love nor money. Laura Lippman (I love Laura Lippman) in her very quiet voice said “I’m so sorry, but I’m really running late for an appointment.” I don’t think I said a word, but I really don’t know. I think I just nodded as she touched me on the shoulder and smiled and moved on. When I finally surfaced from my zombie state and looked at Ken, I apologized and he asked why was I apologizing. Graciousness was in abundance in the Sheraton Hotel that day.

 

O.K., so once I was capable of moving my feet again, it was back to the registration area to see who I could see. Sandra Ruttan introduced me to Sean Chercover who is without a doubt glowing in quiet graciousness. I’m telling you, graciousness is a word I might seem to be over-using but there’s just not another word that sums up some of these people as well as it does. Sean Chercover is graciousness personified. And he introduced me to his adorable little boy who poked his head out from under the registration table which was, at that particular time, doubling as a rocket ship. For the rest of the convention, Sean Chercover never once failed to acknowledge me by name or with a hug, or a little kiss on the cheek whenever I bumped into him. Graciousness.

 

I went to bed Wednesday night after calling home to talk to Donald (and Harley!) feeling like a very tired, very star stuck little girl. and Bouchercon is only just beginning.

 

8:30 Thursday morning had me seated in one of the rooms for a panel session. Robin Burcell moderating Jim Born, Sean Chercover, Vinny O’Neil, and Julia Spencer-Fleming on the Rockin’ Robin panel. Robin, along with several others who were involved in 8:30 panels were voicing a little teeny bit of concern about maybe not a lot of folks would show up at an 8:30 a.m. panel. Now, I don’t know about other cons, but the 8:30 a.m. slot for panels at this particular con was not a problem. This one drew a full house, and it was terrific! Robin did a great job, and all the panelists were lively and interesting and I loved it.

 

For me, the panel sessions are actually where the problems begin. But. You just have to realize – this is a problem that’s actually just a small part of quite possibly being in heaven for a few short days. You start looking at the program and there you are – faced with making decisions. There are five panel sessions going on. Each one is going to have at least one person you want to see. OR its going to be on a topic that’s of great interest to you. What to do? I am the wrong person to answer that question. I usually ended up getting caught up in conversation and missed being where I was either A) wanting to be (I thought), or B) where I was supposed to be because I had told someone I’d be there. I screwed up more than once with the being where I was supposed to be thing. All I can do is humbly apologize one more time. And swear I’ll try to do better in Indianapolis.

The panels I did attend were all wonderful. Those that I missed, I’m just trying not to think about.

The next panel I attended was “I Can’t Stand Up for Falling Down.” Moderated by Ali Karim, who reminded us all several times that it was, after all, 5:00 in Europe as he had another drink. The panelists were Ken Bruen, Michelle Gagnon, Con Lehane, Jason Starr, and Liz Zelvin . This panel was WAY lively and I very much enjoyed it. Very much. And hearing Con Lehane muse time after time about just why it might be, exactly, that he was on this particular panel was a hoot. It was also the first place I ran into the stunningly handsome, sweet, funny and utterly charming Bob Fate. And if you think for a second I didn’t throw my arms around his neck and hug him from here to glory, well – you’re wrong. I did. Baby Shark’s daddy is a delight. If you haven’t read Baby Shark, you should. If you haven’t met Bob Fate yet, you should. By whatever it takes.

After each panel session, the authors were all scooted down to the end of the corridor and seated in the signing room. This, I thought, was brilliantly done. The room was, at times, a bit small feeling, but face it – you’re not going to find the perfect room in most hotels to perfectly accommodate and hold signing lines for both Lee Child and Ken Bruen at the exact same time. My advice here is to just chill out, strike up a conversation with the people around you who you know you share an interest with seeing as how you’re in the same line after all, and just soak in the moment. Its probably not a moment you’re liable to have a whole lot of. Enjoy it. Savor it.

In addition to signing my book and writing a lovely inscription, Mr. Bruen bowled me over with yet another kiss. I could learn to really like this guy, you know?

Then I scampered over to have Lee Child sign a book and I was the very last person in his line. Lovely!!!! It gave me an opportunity to visit for a few minutes and even ask to have a picture taken. Reed Farrel Coleman stepped right up to the plate and took a picture and made me laugh to boot by telling Lee he wasn’t the best looking one in this particular picture! HA! (He was though). Then Mr. Child offered to take a picture of me and Reed. And then, asked his assistant if she had yet given me an invitation to the Reacher’s Creature party. She did that and I thanked him and went to sit down alone in a corner to hyperventilate. The man is dreamy and dishey and gracious. And it was another moment of supreme joy.

Next panel was “Concrete Jungle” moderated by the wonderfully smooth Reed Farrel Coleman. I was over the moon in awe of him along with Thomas Cook, Steve Hamilton, David Hewson and Laura Lippman. I’m a huge fan of every single one of these people and this was the panel session I had to keep blinking my eyes so as not to give in to tears. This was, I think, another one of those OMG moments. You know? It just hits you like a quiet, private thunder bolt that you truly are in the midst of greatness. Now for those who have been doing these mystery conventions for awhile, it may be all kinda ho hum every day business as usual. But for this gal – it was very big, very heady stuff.

I scampered like a wild woman to get to the signing room again. Bumped into my buddy William from California yet again. William and I seemed to have the exact same taste in our reading and writers and had shared a lot of “standing in line time.” A regret I have is that I don’t recall his last name and didn’t ask for an email address to drop him a note to tell him how much I enjoyed his company and quiet humor.

As soon as I got to the front of Laura’s line, she apologized to me for having to wander off as soon as I saw she & Ken Bruen on Wed. morning. Can you imagine?! I then proceeded to fall all over myself apologizing and trying to explain how forces had struck me totally paralyzed and glued my feet to the floor and how I truly had not meant to intrude. And there it was again. Graciousness. She proceeded to write a lovely little personalized something in my book that made me cry. Again. Laws, I bubbled up a lot at this convention.

And lo and behold, who was sitting to Laura’s right, but Laurie King. Her signing line had just finished up and I had the opportunity to tell Ms. King how much I admire her work and that I had given no less than a dozen copies of her FOLLY to favorite girlfriends.

Thursday night I had dinner with Mary Jane Maffini and Shelley Costa Bloomfield. Love them both to pieces! It was fun and lively and past time for us to have finally met one another. I’ve admired their talents as writers, and now I just love ‘em to bits as terrific women who are huge fun to hang out with.

I thought Shula’s restaurants in the hotel did an outstanding job taking care of the mobs and mobs of people coming in and out of there from early in the morning for breakfast until 2 a.m. for drinks, or just a place to sit and visit. The waitstaff and the hosts and hostesses were unfailingly courteous and fun with ready humor and a welcoming smile. And I thought the food was delish. Hotel food is always expensive, of course. It can sometimes also be less than satisfactory for the money. I did not find that to be the case at Shula’s. ‘Course, I was one of those lucky ones with a fridge and microwave in her room to handle left overs . . .

Opening ceremonies were, I thought, quite wonderful. Awards were given and graciously accepted. Speeches were made – none of which lasted too long, all were enjoyable. Mark Billingham is without a doubt, the MOST brilliant Toastmaster. B’Con was now officially open and off with a bang.

Milling around after the ceremony with my friend Margaret Maron was, as it always is when spending time with Margaret Maron, a joy. It also took us approximately one hour to move from ballroom to bar as she was stopped by friends and fans. She is always unfailingly gracious, lovely, and lively and greets everyone with the exact same degree of delight. And how cool it is to be introduced to practically every person in the room by Margaret Maron. I could not wipe that grin off my face.

After spending a short time having a drink with Margaret & Joe, I said my goodnights and wandered upstairs to my milk and cookies and a little bit of time to muse and remember and ruminate over a perfect day. And my nightly call home to Boone. When Donald put the phone down low so I could speak to Harley he barked at me. Talk about hurt feelings!!!!

Having breakfast Friday morning with Margaret & Joe started things off just right. And how do you top having breakfast with Margaret & Joe Maron and being introduced to Caroline Todd and Charles Todd – the mother/son writing team of the Inspector Rutledge series. And ooops – lookie there – there’s that Bob Fate fella AGAIN!

Margaret and I wandered down to our Friday morning’s 8:30 panel - “Southern Accents” moderated by the always delightful Chris Roerden. Panelists included some of my very favorite writers in the mystery field. I am unapologetically partial to southern writing and you just don’t get much more southern than Vicki Lane, Mary Saums, J.D. Rhoades, and Cathy Pickens. These guys were terrific! This was my first exposure to Cathy Pickens, who immediately impressed me. Add another name to the list of “gotta tries.”

Next up was “Sweet Home Chicago” based solely on the fact that I wanted to meet Shane Gericke. Shane is the creator of Emily Thompson who, I think, is one of the coolest women in the thriller world. His work, along with a few other thriller writers I’ve recently discovered, has helped broaden my reading list to include writing a bit different from my usual traditional mysteries. My gain, for sure. And by golly - who knew I’d bump into Bob Fate and get to sit next to him during this panel?! Really. Who knew?! The man will never believe I wasn’t stalking him. This was yet another enjoyable panel with Michael Allen Dymmoch moderating Jack Frederickson, Shane Gericke, Sam Reaves, Steve Sidor and David Walker. Anyone, including myself, who thought some of the Chicago corruption tales might be exaggerated or over-blown left this panel believing differently. I found it to be fascinating. And meeting Shane was a highlight. The man is a charmer.

Having Bob Fate on one side of me and Shane Gericke on the other to have a picture taken was pretty cool stuff, for real.

Friday lunch was an event some of us planned weeks before the convention. These were women I very much looked forward to meeting and spending time with.

One of them, howver, ended up having her plans changed to meet with her editor – understandable, huh?! Another was working the silent auction and couldn’t be there, and another was in the hotel and didn’t know where to find us because I didn’t have my cell phone with me. A lot of you who know me know how much I hate cell phones. Well, this time I really should have tossed that personal prejudice aside because it kept me from meeting someone I admire, and enjoy corresponding with, and was never able to catch up with for the rest of the week. As someone I love reminded me recently – “We make plans. God laughs.” True, and not to be forgotten.

By this time I was overwhelmed and felt in need of a much needed “time out.” I highly recommend a bit of advice I received from Jon Jordan. Sneak off to your room for some alone time, kick off your shoes and prop your tired ol’ feet up. Just don’t get so carried away with it you forget to get back into the fray!

There’s always someone to see and visit with in the corridor. Or hanging around the registration desk. Or in the mega wonderful book room. Or the most perfect hospitality room I’ve ever been in – always well stocked with a wide array of goodies from fresh fruit and yogurt to some of the most devilishly delish cookies to Smith Island Cake to chips and pretzels, along with a never ending supply of bottled water, coffee, tea and soft drinks. Oh my. This little haven was a pure stroke of genius. Nice comfy chairs to sink into for quiet conversation, or some alone time without going all the way back to your room – especially if you were staying elsewhere. And you just never knew who you might bump into.

I loved the book room. I heard one disgruntled body say it wasn’t large enough. When IS a book room ever going to be large enough for a bunch of people who love books?? I bumped into Vicki Lane in the book room – one of my favorite women in the world who also happens to write one of my favorite series. A lovely fortuitous accident was walking in just as Louise Penny was sitting down to sign her newest. Oh my. That was truly a high point for me. The book room was a favorite place to be.

I caught up with Shane Gericke and wandered to the Authors without Borders cocktail party an easy walk across the skywalk. Bumped into some fun folks, including Robin Burcell and LJ Sellers and BG Ritts, where I promptly became “Camera Girl.”

By now it was getting easier to whip that camera out and snap snap snap. Which is a great thing ‘cause I have a terrific collection of pictures to share with you all at

http://flickr.com/photos/32117471@N06/

Back to the hotel and starving we popped into Shula’s for a bite and ended up at the table closest to the door. HA! Why lookie there – its Bob Fate! Swear to God. I’m now quite sure its him stalking me – not me stalking him. And that’s perfectly fine with me. He and the lovely Gwen, joined our table, along with Liz Zelvin, and Mary Saums. Donna Moore dropped by, as did a host of others. It was another B’Con perfect moment. The whole group seemed just comfortable, relaxed and quite content with the conversation and the getting to know you stuff and next thing we knew we were deciding we were much too comfy where we were to attend the Reacher’s Creatures party. This, Liz & I agreed, is what the B’Con bar scene is really all about. Its not about the drinking – seeing as half of us were drinking coffee – but about the camaraderie. And the bar just happens to be the place where it happens.

Saturday was quite a day. Bumped into Margaret again and was introduced to her friend Carolyn Hart. Oh my. And to Susan Dunlap, and Dorothy Cannell. Oh my. And re-introduced once more to Gillian Roberts and Marcia Talley. Oh my. And to Laura Lippman (who I tried to apologize to once again and realized I really really had embarrassed the both us by over apologizing and finally just shut my mouth). And Twist Phelan. I tell you – hanging out with Margaret Maron is a rush!!

My 8:30 Saturday morning panel was another total delight. Louise Ure moderating Dorothy Cannell, Susan Dunlap, Margaret Maron and Gillian Roberts in “Toys in the Attic.” This was another one of those panels where I had to keep blinking my eyes so as not to just break down and have an emotional hic-cup of major proportions. These women are remarkable. Louise said they would not let her use “legends,” when introducing them, but she did manage to say that they are the traditional mystery “Grand Dames.” That, I’m sure, is not even up for discussion. These women are obviously dear friends who have known one another a long time. The gentle barbs, teasing and loving insults were like watching poetry in motion. I loved this panel.

And Louise, who I adore even more now than I did a week ago, allowed me the honor of escorting the ladies to the book signing room. I think Louise realized she was stuck with me, so allowed me to do something just to get me out of her hair. Bless her. On the walk down to the book signing room I was treated to more banter. I suggested they take this act on the road and immediately applied for the position of “roadie.” Discussion and disagreement about what exactly a roadie does was just a hoot. Another treasured B’con moment.

Now I really needed to get a box down the street to Office Depot to be shipped home UPS. Not only had I accumulated a lot of books, but that shopping spree at Filene’s Basement wasn’t too smart for packing lightly either. I’d already taken one box the day before, using dirty undies and jeans as “packing material.” It worked well, so we did it again.

Who knew going to Office Depot could be such fun?! It was here that I met Bobbye Johnson and her husband. Bobbye is a DorothyL lurker and recognized my name. We had some giggles and shared a hug. People in the mystery community LOVE to hug! I love that. And another fortuitous accident occurred with Bobbye. Walking back to the hotel she mentioned how much she really enjoyed Robin Burcell’s books, and as we walked into the lobby, Voila!, there stood Robin. I took tremendous pleasure in introducing them. Too fun!

Bobbye was not the only DorothyL lurker who introduced herself. Sarah from Australia spotted me downstairs outside the Karaoke rooms after enjoying Don Bruns’ guitar concert. She is a doll! And once I met Anita we seemed to bump into one another everywhere we went.

That’s the thing of it. You find yourself bumping into folks all over the place and those quick hi’s and hugs are lovely. Julia Hyzy and I never did get to have a real conversation, but we did get to exchange a few hugs. Hank Phillippi Ryan and I did get to chat a little, although not as much as I would have liked. LJ Sellers and I were able to visit a little and she gave me a copy of her book, which I’m excited about reading, and not bothered a whit by the title. I got to meet a lot of DorothyL folks and that was one of the very nicest things about the week. Caryn is as cute and perky in person as she is in her posts. If I had not gotten to meet Linda Gerber I would have been beyond disappointed. And even got a hug from Neil Plakcy! And my friend Becky Swets seemed to turn up whenever I had a need for a hug and/or giggle. Aubrey Nye Hamilton will always be my convention partner - even if she's not around, she will live in my mind and in my heart as a partner in crime. There were many, though, that I missed. There’s just not enough time in a day to seek out or be able to find everyone you want to. So. Indianapolis? You bet!

Walking down the corridor and seeing a line approximately 44 miles long to have Lawrence Block sign a book? Oh my.

See the VERY tall Harlan Coben wander the halls? Oh my.

Walking back from the harbor on Saturday afternoon, bumping into three women – one of whom I recognized immediately. I had met Marcia Talley a few years back at Cape Fear Crime Fest in Wilmington, NC and its always a joy to read her newest. To bump into her was a treat. But then came a major “Fan Girl” moment when I realized the women with her were Deborah Crombie and Kate Charles. My mouth was opening and closing, but there weren’t any words. My half-wit persona yet again. Big sigh.

Another Saturday panel I attended was William Kent Krueger moderating Judy Clemens, Mary Jane Maffini, Kit Sloane, and Persia Walker on “Otherside: Keeping it Plausible” Loved this one too (why, of course), and was blown away by Ms. Persia Walker who I was not familiar with. I found this young woman to be major impressive and am quite excited about discovering this bright talent.

Being invited to join the Murderati group Saturday evening? Wow. I love that group. Unfortunately, I didn’t get to chat with them all. So. Indianapolis? You bet!

Sunday morning’s interview with Laura Lippman was priceless. I have no words to fully say all I’d like to about her, so just know she is quite wonderful. I know that’s inadequate, but I cannot begin to do her justice. Being able to sit down right next to the incomparable Meg Chittenden to see Laura's interview was pretty darn cool too.

And the brunch. Oh my. I’m going to admit being a bit disappointed that the traditional Sat. night banquet was being replaced by a Sunday brunch. Shows what I know. It was another stroke of genius. The hotel was quite accommodating about changing check-out times, and no one was surprised at that. By now, the Sheraton had proved itself to be a class act. I have a ton of stories about this wonderful hotel. Within 24 hours of arriving on Monday, most of them knew me by name. Asking for extra coffee at the front desk became so routine that just by walking by would elicit a “Mrs. Barley?? Need some coffee?” The bartender in Shula’s was a doll about letting me borrow real mugs to take to my room ‘cause I don’t like drinking my coffee from a paper cup. The evening I needed a safety pin, front desk staff scampered until they found me one. Dressed up a little more than usual in anticipation of going to the Reacher Creature party, one of the young women behind the desk made a point of telling me I looked pretty. The hostess at Shula’s never once lost her big smile and greeted me by name and a hug. When I went downstairs Saturday evening to print out my boarding pass, I had so many people helping me I forgot why I was there. And when I left on Sunday I collected hugs not only from Marcus Sakey, but quite a few of the hotel staff. I felt just like Eloise.

But I got off on a tangent. The brunch.

The brunch was just wonderful. The food was beautifully presented, bountiful and delish. And the opportunity to wander around for final hugs and goodbyes was wonderful.

Getting a final big ol’ smackeroo kiss from Ken Bruen was wonderful. Being able to share a table with a lively and lovely group was wonderful.

The awards were given and received. Speeches were made. Tears were shed. A “Thank You, Larry” video for Lawrence Block was brilliant. And then there was Mark Billingham. Genius. Pure unadulterated genius. I loved everything about the brunch and am so glad I decided to stay - which I almost did not.

It was hard walking out the door of the Sheraton that afternoon, knowing it meant that was the end of Bouchercon 2008.

Shane Gericke and I shared a car to the airport, and as luck would have it – Baltimore held one final delight.

Mr. Darryl Wainwright, our driver, was typical of the kindness and grace I had basked in since arriving in Baltimore. We had a wonderful chat about the days when citizens of Baltimore were world famous for scrubbing down the marble steps to their brownstones. When Baltimore culture included window screens painted by local screen painters with murals. Mr. Wainwright is a gentleman, a husband and a dad who has raised five children in the City of Baltimore, and is now the proud grandparent of one grandson in college. He was gracious and humorous and gladdened when we voiced our appreciation to his fine city for a few days that will live in my heart forever.

Being able to share a cup of coffee and some B’con stories with Shane before heading in different directions in the airport, and then flying off in different directions, was a lovely way to end Bouchercon 2008. I thought. Little did I know it really wasn’t over yet. The blogs are still full of stories. The pictures are just beginning to pop up. And people have popped up in DorothyL saying such lovely things about someone named Kaye Barley, I fear she may have died! Louise Ure wrote beautiful words at Murderati and made me cry. Even if my name were not included in this piece, I still would have cried. As it is, my name was included and I am humbled by it. Louise Ure is a tremendous talent with the heart and soul of a poet – very much like her friend Ken Bruen. If you attended B’con, it will touch you. If you didn’t, it will still touch you. We all need a touch of grace in our lives, and Louise gives it to us.

http://murderati.typepad.com/murderati/2008/10/moments-of-epip.html

Ken Bruen left a message on my Facebook wall that made me wail out loud, and in a moment of EXTREME Blatant Self Promotion, which I refuse to apologize for, I share it with you:

HANDS DOWN
You were voted most wondrous, warm, amazing person at B'con
Your marvellous accent alone would have won it for you and your initials didn't hurt either
But God must have loved me real well on Wednesday that the very first person we met was you, it was never equalled and never will
You are the sheer light of the Mystery world and any other world
What a true Grace to be counted as your friend
xxxxxxxxx
Ken