Tag Archives: Fiction

WHY HARDBOILED DETECTIVE FICTION REMAINS SO POPULAR

The old-fashioned private detective with hardboiled ways has been around since the 1920s. He/she’s still here a hundred years later and shows no sign of going away. There are good reasons—many good reasons—for hardboiled detective fiction’s popularity, but one seems to stand above the rest. That’s escapism. You can safely escape into the fictional, fast-moving, danger-filled crime world and let your hardboiled detective kill your enemies for you.

This post is timely for me as a crime writer. I’ve recently taken the plunge onto the mean streets of hardboiled fiction writing after a coincidental brush with the film industry. I was going about my way putting out based-on-true-crime books in a planned 12-part series when I got an unsolicited call from a New York City film producer. It was about a historic serial murder case I’d worked on and published an article about.

Google being Google, the film producer found me and we had a nice long chat about the true crime case. He’d done his homework before our Zoom call and was somewhat familiar with my books. Being the diligent and always-on-the-look film producer that he is, he asked the 64,000-dollar question, “So what else you got going?”

What I had on the go—in the back of my mind for the last few years—was a concept for a hardboiled crime fiction series based on the 1920s style but set in the 2020s. I said, “Here’s the logline. A modern city in dystopian crisis surreptitiously enlists two private detectives from its utopian past to dispense street justice and restore social order.”

There was a long pause before he said, “Reeeeally… This is exactly what my colleague at (leading net-stream provider) is looking for. Can we set up a joint talk?”

Not being one to look the proverbial gift-horse in the mouth, I readily agreed. Now, I’m on a full-time mission to figure out how to do this and get something in place by the fall. Regardless if this ever gets “Green Lit” in film, I’m retaining the ebook, print, and audio rights to the series titled City Of Danger.

I’ve researched hardboiled detective fiction for the past three months. It’s utterly consumed me, and I’m completely hooked on a fascinating genre. I’ve always believed that the best way to learn something is by writing on it or, better yet, teaching it. With that in mind, a month ago I wrote a post on The Kill Zone about hardboiled crime fiction’s popularity. Now, I’ll steal back my own work and republish the piece here on DyingWords. Here goes:

—   —   —

Crime doesn’t pay, so they say. Well, whoever “they” are, they aren’t in touch with today’s entertainment market because crime—true and fiction—in books, audio, television, film, or net-streaming, is a highly popular commodity. One solid crime writing sub-genre, detective fiction, is hot as a Mexican’s lunch.

Detective fiction has been hot for a long, long time. Crime writing historians give Edgar Allan Poe credit for siring the first modern detective story. Back in 1841, Poe penned Murders In The Rue Morgue (set in Paris), and it was a smash hit in Graham’s Magazine. Poe’s detective, C. Auguste Dupin, used an investigation style called “ratiocination” which means a process of exact thinking.

Poe’s style brought on the cozy mysteries, aka The Golden Era of Crime Fiction of the 1920s. Detectives like Sherlock Holmes and Miss Marple solved locked-room crimes. They intrigued readers but spared them gruesome details like extreme violence, hardcore sex, and graphic killings.

The golden crime-fiction genre evolved into the hardboiled detective fiction movement, circa 1930s-1950s. Crime writers like Dashiell Hammett gave us the Continental Op and Sam Spade. Raymond Chandler brought Philip Marlowe to life. Carroll John Daly convincingly conceived Race Williams. And Mickey Spillane, bless his multi-million-selling soul, left Mike Hammer as his legacy.

The ’60s to 2000s gave more great detective fiction stories. Anyone heard of Elmore Leonard? How about Sarah Paretsky and Sue Grafton? Or, in current times, Michael Connelly, Megan Abbott, and a wildcard in the hardboiled and noir department, Christa Faust?

These storytellers broke ground that’s still being tilled by great fictional detectives. Television gave us Perry Mason, Ironside, Columbo, Jack Friday, Kojack, and Magnum. Murder She Wrote? How cool was mystery writer and amateur detective Jessica Fletcher? And let’s not even get into big screen and the now runaway net-stream stuff.

So why the unending popularity of detective fiction? I asked myself this question to understand and appreciate the detective fiction part of the crime story genre. I worked as a real detective for decades, and I know what it’s like to stare down a barrel and scrape up a cold one. But once I reinvented myself as a crime writer, I had to learn a new trade.

I’m on an even-newer venture right now, and that’s developing a net-streaming style series. It’s a different—but not too different—delve into hardboiled detective fiction, and the series is titled City Of Danger. To write this credibly, and with honor to heritage, I’ve plunged into a rabbit hole of research that’s becoming more like a badger den or a viper pit.

What I’m doing, as we “speak”, is learning this sub-genre of crime writing—hardboiled detective fiction—and I’ve learned two things. One, I found out I knew SFA almost nothing about this fascinating fictional world that’s entertained many millions of detective fiction fans for well over a hundred years. Two, detective fiction has far from gone away.

My take? Detective fiction—hardboiled, softboiled, over-easy, scrambled, or baked in a cake—is on the rise and will continue being a huge crime-paying moneymaker in coming years. There are reasons for that, why detective fiction remains so popular, and I think I’ve found some.

I stumbled on an interesting article at a site called Beemgee.com. Its title Why is Crime Fiction So Popular? caught my attention, so I copied and pasted it onto a Word.doc and dissected it. Here’s the nuts, bolts, and screws of what it says.

Crime fascinates people, and detectives (for the most part) work on solving crimes. But the crime genre popularity has little to do with the crime, per se. It has far more to do with the very essence of storytelling—people are hardwired to listen to stories, especially crime stories.

Detective fiction is premiere crime storytelling and clearly exhibits one of the fundamental rules of storytelling: cause and effect. In detective fiction, every scene must be justified—each plot event must have a raison d’etre within the story because the reader perceives every scene as the potential cause of a forthcoming effect.

Picture a Roman arch bridge. Every stone is held in place by its neighbor just like story archs with properly set scenes. Take away one scene that doesn’t support the story arch and the structure fails.

Well-written detective fiction has a bridge-like structure. Each scene in the storytelling trip has some sort of a cause that creates an effect. This subliminal action keeps readers turning pages.

The article drills into detective fiction cause and effect. It rightly says the universe has a law of cause and effect but we, as humans, can’t really see it in action. But we’re programmed to know it exists, so we naturally seek an agency—the active cause of any actions we perceive.

Detective fiction stories, like most storytelling types, provide a safety mechanism. A detective story is built around solving a crime by following clues. A cause. An effect. A cause. An effect. The story goes on until you find out whodunit and a well-told story leaves you with a satisfying end where you’ve picked up a take-away safety tip.

But detective fiction stories aren’t truly about whodunit. Sure, we want the crook caught and due justice served. However, we want to know something more. We want to know motive, and this is where the best detective fiction stories shine. They’re whydunnits.

Whydunnits are irresistible stories. They’re the search for truth, and in searching for truth in detective fiction storytelling—why this crime writing sub-genre remains so popular—I found another online article. Its title Why Is Detective Fiction So Popular? also caught my attention.

This short piece is on a blog by Swiss crime writer, Cristelle Comby. If you haven’t heard of Cristelle, I recommend you check her out. Her post has a quote that sums up why detective fiction is so popular, and it’s far more eloquent than anything I can write. Here’s a snippet:

“Detective novels do not demand emotional or intellectual involvement; they do not arouse one’s political opinions or exhaust one by its philosophical queries which may lead the reader towards self-analysis and exploration. They, at best, require a sense of vicarious participation and this is easy to give. Most readers identify themselves with the hero and share his adventures and sense of discovery.

Cristelle Comby

The concept of a hero in a detective story is different from that of a hero in any other kind of fictional work. A hero in a novel is the protagonist; things happen to him. His character grows or develops and it is his relationship to others which is important. In a detective story, there is no place for a hero of this kind. The person who is important is the detective and it is the way he fits the pieces of the puzzle together which arouses interest. Thus in a detective story it is the narration and the events which are overwhelmingly important, the growth of character is immaterial. What the detective story has to offer is suspense. It satisfies the most primitive element responsible for the development of story-telling, the element of curiosity, the desire to know why and how.

Detective stories offer suspense, a sense of vicarious satisfaction, and they also offer escape from the fears and worries and the stress and strain of everyday life. Many people who would rather stay away from intellectually ‘heavy’ books find it hard to resist these. Detective fiction is so popular because the story moves with speed.”

As a former detective, and now someone who writes this stuff, I think detective fiction is so popular because you can safely escape into a dark & dangerous world of wild causes and wild effects—full of fast-reading suspense—and you get powerful insight into what makes other people (like good guys and bad girls) tick. Yes, escapism. You can safely escape into the fictional, danger-filled crime world and let your hardboiled detective kill your enemies for you.

So that’s what went up on The Kill Zone blog. Now for a little bonus here at DyingWords. Here’s the City Of Danger series product description:

The City Of Danger is in peril. It’s in 2020s dystopian crisis with infrastructure crumbling, social systems collapsing, corruption infesting all civic layers, and crime overflowing from clogged gutters of every alley—gushing gangland and political blood onto its streets. The City Of Danger urgently needs help it can’t get from its mainstream. For salvation, it surreptitiously enlists two private detectives from its 1920s utopian past.

Susan Silverii and Al Monagham share a split-room office with frosted glass doors in the city’s low rent district. They’re ex-police officers who weren’t a good fit. It’s the Roaring Twenties, and they’ve struck out on their own. Al with his street justice vengeance. Susan with her social change agenda.

And they have a past, Susan and Al. A past of personal passion and poisoned positions. But when the City of Danger assigns, they put professionalism first and inter-conflict second as Susan Silverii and Al Monagham step from runnin’-wild, Charleston-dance speakeasies onto the mean streets in the ugly world of a modern city—an interconnected city sick with immoral chaos.

Dispense street justice. Restore social order. Treacherous tasks ordered by a desperate client— the City Of Danger.

Now for a double DyingWords bonus: Here’s a sneak peek at Scene One in the City Of Danger Pilot Episode:

CITY OF DANGER

Pilot Episode

Scene One

Monday, October 31 ­­- 7:50 a.m.

Setting:

Noir. Bleak. Dense urban. Icy drizzle has stopped. Civic lights are still on — what still work. Hard gusts blow wet leaves that stick to cracked brick, condemned structural glass, and corroded staircase metals. A failing foghorn on the waterfront echoes off battered buildings smothered by smog — its rhythm competes with sirens screeching hopelessly towards smoke, sickness, and sadness in the slums. Closing in — methane eerily seeps from open sewer grates. It nauseates. Yet, the taste is somehow sickly sweet — almost tolerable — and now expected; unapologetically not urbane, unlike those who fight entropy’s ultimatum in the City Of Danger.

Fade In:

Camera view:

Germanic Expressionist style. High-angle, downward capture. Sharp and dull shadows through contrasted lighting. Follows six feet back on quarter-rear sides as well as directly behind.

Narrator:

The City

Voice In:

A 2021 Beamer X3 SUV, deep-sea metallic blue, brakes to a halt behind a solid-black Tesla on Mean Street, a pock-marked route with water-filled potholes in the low rent district. A stunningly attractive and stylish high-status lady — exceptionally fit — a natural brunette, except for dyed umber highlights, showing dolphin-smooth skin — in her fifties with impeccable dark brows accenting mahogany eyes and classic red wine lipstick, steps out. Her Lululemon-clad legs hit hard on crumbling asphalt. Immediately, she clicks her fob and locks her doors then rapidly scans the streetscape. Her right hand subconsciously checks her shoulder-holstered .32 auto cloaked by her unzipped yellow & black Arc’teryx rain jacket, and she hurtfully limps into the claustrophobic narrows of Peril Alley.

On the lady’s left, angle-parked with one rear door propped open and its running engine spewing propane fumes, is a mid-2000s FedEx panel van parked beside a gold-trimmed 1999 Caddy Eldorado. A greaseball Latino takes a brown paper bag from the black F/X operator who glances at the lady with his one good eye. Twice and once more.

Further, on her right, the lady’s right, is an ‘85 Chevy Impala, a boring beige four-door with a flat front tire. A prune — a sun-wrinkled old olive-skinned guy with a faded white Masters golf cap and perpetually-down fly has it jacked-up. He curses the C-Word.

The lady pauses. She frowns. In Italian, she says, “Tua madre non ti ha insegnato le buone maniere”. He replies, “Ciao bella!” She blows a kiss at the ground, flips him the bird, and falters on. She quick-lefts a shoulder check then watches straight ahead, closing at the back end of a 1976 F150 Styleside, red and silver with a lichen-spattered canopy. A loosely attached, non-local plate catches her eye. Looks abandoned, she thinks. It’s at a chokepoint in the center of tightening Peril Alley. She stops. Slightly backs up. Sniffs. Nitrogen fertilizer with trigger device? No. Probably just organic sludge in the box of a stolen pickup dumped here as usual.

The lady squeezes past the Ford’s passenger side, avoiding its dented, dirt-dripping door and smashed mirror. She looks to her left at a late-60s muscle car, a puke-green Goat — a Pontiac GTO, idling with a leaded gas, throaty rumble. She can’t see the driver, but the Goat’s passenger is a mousey-haired hippy chick giving her a suggestive smile through a part-open window. The stink of shit-grade Sinsemilla scrunches the lady’s ideal nose.

Her right hand raises. Fingers pinch, then release, and her nostrils reopen after she’s passed — cautiously favoring her left side’s now-permanent short-step.

She hesitates. Stops. She looks up.

Chuck Berry’s hit Maybellene blasts from a transistor radio on a shaky fire escape landing. It’s thirty feet above her uncovered head, the same place invasive carrier pigeons roost and fecal-drop and terminally-diseased rats cunningly climb cone-shielded steel poles to steal mildewed barley seed scattered onto delaminating plywood.

The lady shivers. She keeps on.

On her right is an alley business, a family business she knows well, a WW2 era Chinese clothes cleaner and money launderer — Ho Lim’s — tucked into the set-back alcove of a used-brick façade with cast iron plumbing barely hanging from bolts set into breaking gray mortar. The lady moves to her left, avoiding intermittent blasts of perc solvent.

Peril Alley darkens. It cools even more. The buildings grow as she approaches dead end. Twenty stories and more overshadow brownstones and brownstones overshadow antiquated infrastructure of overloaded, overheated, overhead power poles draped with time-twisted lines strung through opaque glass insulators screwed into tired wood crossbars. On the ground — unpredictable ground — foundry-built catch basins guard root-filled, tiled storm drains that swirl-down rancid water mixed with more of the city’s rottenness.

Bang!

She spins left towards the sound. Lowers and goes sideways. Minimizes her silhouette exactly as she’s been tactically trained — intensely immersed during her now-discharged service — and hooks-out her handgun. But it’s the backfire from a red-as-raw-meat ’41 Packard 180 with a badly-floated carb. The owner, a flat-capper in elbow-patched tweed, laughs. She doesn’t. She reholsters. But leaves off her safety.

A bum, a Depression-era hobo with nothing more to her miserable life than a broken broom handle with a half-tied-on, once-gray pillowcase, rummages through an unlidded dumpster with her grease-crusted hands. The hag begs. The lady responds. She opens her overcoat, removes the Calabrian leather wallet handed down through her ‘Ndrangheta family, opens it, and gives the other a five.

Ahead — just before Peril’s dead-end — phonograph sounds of Charleston dance sing-out from inside a welded steel gate guarding a Prohibition speakeasy. It’s trailing off from last night’s steamy start, raucous non-stop laughter, and this morning’s explosive finish. The lady looks right. She smiles, slightly, at the flickering on-and-off red and orange and green and blue neon sign: Topper’s Grill & Bar.

The lady stands where she can go no more down Peril Alley. There’s a large door framed into a soot-stained, rough stucco wall Tommygunned with .45 holes. It’s flanked by a now-glassless window boarded-up after the latest kerosene-wicked, flame-thrown cocktail. The door is a heavy, metal-strapped oak door — not altruistic like her eyes and her soul — more fatalistic as a mix of splintered hardwood and oozing rust. Like her, risking to be shot once again.

Beside the door are two signs, business signs, in black & white Roaring Twenties font. One’s above the other. Al Monagham Private Detective Agency is on top. The other, below, is Susan Silverii Private Detective Agency.

The lady fishes a skeleton key from her outer garment — it’s now changed from her unzipped yellow & black Arc’teryx rain jacket to a peach Flapper coat (virgin wool, of course, and a color perfectly coordinating her stunningly attractive and stylish high-status Flapper headdress). She inserts the key with her right hand — her left hand and forearm so severely injured — they’re nearly impotent — and releases the lock.

She opens the door, and Susan Silverii struggles her step into temporary safety within her shared office workspace.

Fade Out.

BETWEEN THE BIKERS — NEW BASED-ON-TRUE-CRIME BOOK RELEASE

Between The Bikers is the new release in my based-on-true-crime series. It’s Book #6 in a 12-part project that takes real cases and brings you, the reader, right inside actual criminal investigations with real cops and real crooks. I start each story with a warning about graphic content including gory scenes, sensitive techniques, and profane language. But that’s the real world of true crime. Here’s the online book description followed by the first two chapters of Between The Bikers.

Who had the most to gain by murdering a bad-ass biker—especially the powerful president of a Hells Angels Motorcycle Club chapter? The answer lies in Between The Bikers—Book 6 in the Based-On-True-Crime-Series by retired homicide detective and coroner, Garry Rodgers.

Mark Mitchell, aka Zeke, disappears on a Saturday afternoon just before a full-patch ceremony held between the bikers at a Hells Angels clubhouse on Vancouver Island in British Columbia at Canada’s west coast. The bikers are furious and the police are frantic to control an escalating mess that could lead to an all-out war within the Angels’ criminal organization. All fear a deadly underworld rift is about to explode.

While the bikers witch-hunt within their ranks and outside the law to ferret Zeke’s killers, the police urgently use every tactic and technique to solve the crime and contain the volatile gangsters. Wiretaps, surreptitious surveillance, clandestine operations, and highly-placed secret informants work through an unheard-of alliance between the bikers and their sworn enemies—the cops.

What happened to Zeke, and why, shocks both sides. The truth behind Mark Mitchell’s murder is something unmatched between the bikers who show the feared death head logo on their backs below the red-on-white words “Hells Angels”. It’s a truth known only by those with the most to gain—a truth that lies between the bikers.

——

Between The Bikers comes with a warning: This book is based on a true crime story. Explicit descriptions of crime scenes, factual dialogue, real forensic procedures, highly-sensitive sources and actual police investigation, interview, and interrogation techniques are portrayed. Some names, times, and locations have been changed for privacy concerns and commercial purposes.

This is the sixth story in the Based-On-True-Crime Series by Garry Rodgers. Other titles include In The Attic, Under The Ground, From The Shadows, Beside The Road, and On The Floor. Reviewers describe Rodgers’ story-telling style as a 21st century Joseph Wambaugh using Elmore Leonard dialogue with plot, pacing, and characterization in the flare of Fiona Barton and Paula Hawkins.

*   *   *

BETWEEN THE BIKERS

Chapter One — Monday, April 27th – 8:20 a.m.

“Zeke’s missing.” Harry clomped into our Serious Crimes Section. She plopped herself down in her desk chair. “Word is he’s been done in.”
“Well, if he’s been whacked…” I rolled back from my cubicle and smiled at my detective partner, Harry. “It’ll be between the bikers.”
“Yup.” Harry took a slurp from her stainless Starbucks mug. “I took a spin by the Hells Angels clubhouse. They’re swarming like ants on a fucking hill.”
“Your word… how good is it?” Harry had my full attention.
“Like, my word?” She smiled back. “Impeccable. Obviously, you know that.”
“No, shithead. Not your word. I meant, who’d you hear this from?”
Harry took another pull from her cup. She subconsciously looked from side to side. “Don Ransom at Drug Squad. His wiretaps and cameras are lit up like Times Square.”
“Okay.” I nodded and leaned in. “Something’s going on. Someone’s stuck a honey-coated stick in the ant pile.”
“I stopped by Drugs this morning about something else.” Harry lowered her voice. “The guys are working flat-out, interpreting audio intercepts and video surveillance. Looks like the HAs are preparing for all-out war with whoever hit Zeke. Don’s pretty sure Zeke’s dead and you know what that means.”
“Yeah.” I moved back. “We’re going to inherit Zeke’s fuckin’ mess.”
By “we”, I meant the detectives at Nanaimo Serious Crimes Section. And by “Zeke”, I meant Mark Mitchell, who was the president of the Nanaimo Hells Angels Motorcycle Club chapter. Zeke was Mark Mitchell’s nickname, and he was well known—very well known—to our police department.

Nanaimo is a small seaside city of a hundred thousand, set on the southeast side of Vancouver Island. It’s right across from the City of Vancouver in British Columbia, Canada which is one of the most exotic, erotic, and expensive places in the world.
Although Nanaimo is cut off by water from the B.C. mainland, it takes on the same crime characteristics as a large metropolis. Nanaimo has its share of serious stuff like murders, rapes, robberies, extortions, arsons, loansharking, and money laundering. There are homeless and junkies begging on the street, and well-paid prostitutes doing their thing with high-profile clients behind closed doors.
Nanaimo has graft in the civic circles and grief at the street scene. Most grief is caused by addicts and mental cases that have no hope for treatment, never mind a chance at recovery. There are losers on welfare and gambling fanatics, thieves and tag-artists, as well as pot-growers and meth-cookers. And there’s a subculture that profits from bottom-feeders and contributes to nothing but trouble and tragedy—the bikers.

The Nanaimo Hells Angels chapter, or charter as the outlaw motorcycle club is sometimes called, had a regular complement of about thirteen guys. That was give or take a few that may have quit, got fired, been jailed, or suddenly disappeared, like what had happened to Zeke. And what happened to Zeke was unlike anything anyone in our Serious Crimes Section ever experienced.
Serious Crimes in Nanaimo was part of the police department’s support services that assisted the rank-and-file General Duty or Patrol division. Harry and I were a team of two assigned to investigate complicated and time-consuming files that patrol officers couldn’t stick with. There were other two-person teams as well as an overall detective boss, Staff Sergeant Leaky Lewis. Leaky also supervised Drug Squad, Forensics, Property Crimes, Street Crew, Sex Crimes, Commercial Crimes, and one poor prick plagued with mitigating frauds and bad plastic.
Harry, by the way, was not my partner’s real name. She was Sheryl Henderson, a large lady with large hair and an even larger personality. We called Sheryl “Harry” after the bigfoot or sasquatch in the movie Harry and The Hendersons.

“So what else did you find out at Drug Squad?” I’d stopped smiling. It quickly sunk in that, although Zeke’s loss would be the community’s gain, there would be hell to pay in fallout. Intrinsically, I knew—or thought I knew—that whatever happened to Mark Mitchell, aka Zeke, would be an issue between the bikers, and I knew that the biker mentality would not take this lying down.
Harry took another sip from her Starbucks cup, which was as tarnished and dented as a few parts of her career. “So, what Don Ransom tells me is that Zeke was last seen on Saturday afternoon. He’d been over to Vancouver to pick up some rings for a patch-over ceremony that was supposed to happen on Saturday night. He fell off the radar and hasn’t flown since.”
“Rings?”
“Yeah.” Harry examined her cup and picked at something caked on it. “Biker rings. You know those gold death head things that full-patches wear?”
“Oh, yeah. Biker rings.”
“They’re clunky and gaudy if you want my opinion.” Harry kept picking. “Anyway, they’re an initiation gift for someone who is accepted full-time into the club. So Zeke got the rings but hasn’t been heard from since.”
“Hey. Wait a minute.” I smiled again. “You mean he was last seen in Vancouver? He disappeared in Vancouver? Then it’s not our problem.”
Harry did the time-out sign. “No. Not so lucky there, Louie. Zeke made it back from Vancouver. His truck was found abandoned here. Beside the Harewood Arms pub. Locked. Keys gone. Zeke gone.”
“Fuuuck—”
Harry waved her finger. “You know the last-seen rule. He was last seen here in Nanaimo so that does make it our fucking problem. Wish it weren’t so, but it is so. We’re stuck with finding out what’s happened to Zeke.”
I wished it weren’t so, too. The last thing I needed as an old cop ready to retire was refereeing a ferocious fight between the bikers.

Chapter Two — Monday, April 27th – 8:50 a.m.

Leaky Lewis called Harry and me into his office. He closed the door and nudged us towards two wooden chairs in front of his solid oak desk. His blinds were shut tight, but his lights were on bright, giving the room sort of an unnerving feel.
That was far from the case when dealing with Leaky. As a boss, it was hard to find anyone fairer and, as a person, you couldn’t find anyone more approachable. I’d known Leaky since he was a new-hire in the Nanaimo police department. He’d quickly climbed the ladder and was now officially ranked as a Detective Staff Sergeant, making him my direct supervisor.
Almost all cops get nicknames. They’re usually earned from a play-on-words, or some career-haunting mishap. Leaky was Jim Lewis. He got the moniker because he suffered a chronic case of post-urinary drip.

“So something’s happened to Zeke, I hear.” Leaky looked at Harry and me with a neutral expression. “Where are we going to go with this?”
Harry and I hesitated to answer.
“This isn’t a trick question.” Leaky grinned. “Seriously. I want some input on how we’re going to handle this, ah, situation.”
“I’d like to say we do fuck-all.” I grinned back. “But… we all know that if someone’s offed Zeke, then someone’s going to pay for it and someone else is going to pay for that and we’re going to be into a full-on biker war. And I don’t want no part of that at this stage of my game.”
Leaky nodded and looked at Harry. “Your take?”
One thing about Harry, she wasn’t afraid to speak her mind.
“We got to get on this right away. I have no doubt he’s right.” Harry thumbed at me. “This could be a fucking blood bath if we don’t go right out and get in their faces.”
“Don Ransom told me he’s never heard the Angels talk so openly on their phones.” Leaky shuffled in his chair. “Don’s had them wired up for a long time… off and on… and he knows their pattern. He says they sound rattled. Confused. Trying to make sense of what’s going on. Don thinks the Nanaimo chapter really doesn’t know what’s happened. They’re scrambling for clues.”
Harry continued. “From what Don told me an hour ago, and what I saw when I drove past the clubhouse, I think the HA full-patches are going to start grabbing people here, there, and all over and muscle them for information. This thing will escalate real fast unless we show a lot of force, and right away. They have to know we’re not going to let them run the fucking show around here.”
Leaky nodded again. “Show of force? How do you see doing that?”
Harry already had a plan in her mind. “A big drive-by back and forth at the clubhouse. Setting up the command center mobile at the edge of their property. Leaving the cameras on twenty-four seven. Even hovering Air One on top of their fucking room. Let them know we’re not going to let a biker war start or we’ll bug-squash them.”
Leaky didn’t nod. “I’m not so sure… It might just agitate them even more. I think we should watch all right. But, I think we should rely on intel with sources already in place. Some intel is just starting to come in. Don called me just before you guys sat down and says he’s going to come here and talk in person. Let’s wait for what he has. What about the basics… like opening a file and deciding who’s going to coordinate this. After all, we don’t even have an official complaint.”
Harry shrugged. “The paperwork can wait. I say we get right out there and fly the flag before they decide to run away with biker law.”
Leaky stood up. It wasn’t like he was mad or upset, but more like he was starting to feel uncomfortable. “I’m also thinking of opening a communication channel. Like going right to the leader and simply asking him what’s going on.”
“Their leader is missing.” Harry made a good point. “Zeke is, was, whatever, the president. He has, or had, been for a long time.”
Leaky nodded again. “Fred Wallacott is the past-president. He’s been with the club since they were the 101 Knights and the Satan’s Angels. I’ve known Fred since college. Not that we were ever friends or buddies or anything. But I think I can talk to him.”
I spoke up. “I have a reasonable rapport with Fred Wallacott. Big Wally as they call him. It might be best if I talk to him in private… away from the club scene.”
Harry gave me a quizzical eye. “I didn’t know that. What’s your connection to Fred Wallacott?”
“I don’t go around advertising it, but we’ve gotten to know each other semi-socially over the years.”
Harry laughed. “You? Partying with the fucking Hells Angels?”
“No. Not partying. Our kids traveled in the same circles. Fred’s daughter and my daughter went to Highland dance classes and gymnastic classes together. Fred’s son and my son went to kickboxing lessons together. So I’d regularly run into Fred—two dads dropping off and picking up kids—and then I’d see him at events like graduations, competitions, and demonstrations.”
Harry stopped laughing. “You think you can actually talk to a fucking biker like one-on-one?”
“I know I can.”
“You’re serious about this?”
“Yeah. I know he’s big and intimidating and has this tough-guy biker persona. Deep down, Fred’s a reasonable guy. Actually—very well-read and informed. Tell you a funny story about Fred. He has a bunch of rental properties around town. Once, he had to serve an eviction notice and didn’t want to get into a violent situation where the guy could press charges against him. So, Fred came into the police station and asked for a plainclothes officer to stand by to keep the peace while he hangs paper on the tenant. We go over to Fred’s block. He knocks on the door. Guy opens it and refuses to take the notice so Fred takes out his Buck knife and jams it into the door, face-pinning the paper, and says, ‘Here. You’re fucking served’. Then we just left.”
Leaky and Harry laughed.
Leaky brought us back to the business at hand. “I know you’re rammy, Harry, and you want to show them our colors. And, you might be right about that. We can use that as plan B, but first I want to get as much info on this as possible. Looking at this objectively, we don’t even know if Zeke is dead. He might be abducted and held for some biker reason. For that matter, he might have even fucked off and faked his own disappearance.”
I agreed with Leaky. “Let’s take this a step at a time. Like, we don’t even have an official missing person complaint to start sticking our noses into. Let’s get our source intel and then do a back-channel move. After that, we can show all the muscle we want.”

There was a rap at the door. It opened. In came Don Ransom with breaking biker news.

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MERRY CHRISTMAS & WHATSUP FOR 2019 WITH GARRY RODGERS’ WRITING

First off, a very Merry Christmas to each and every one of you. And if you’re offended by the “C” word, I’m not sorry. I’m actually offended by the politically and culturally correct crowd who can’t say Christmas. Having worked in different levels of government, I’ve experienced these onion skins. I don’t know what makes these twits tick, but how anyone gets upset by hearing “Christmas” seriously baffles me. For example, some idiot city councilor in Victoria, British Columbia near my home recently got his knickers knotted because somebody gave him a potted poinsettia and he made a big deal because that was too close to Christianity for him. “F” him, I say.

Enough of that rant. So, 2018 was a busy writing year for me, though you wouldn’t know it by the sheer number of books I didn’t publish. This was a swing time where I did an enormous amount of research for forthcoming projects. I also wrote a pile of commercial website content pieces for my daughter’s writing agency. And, from time to time, I managed to pen a few blog posts. But most of this year was prepping for whatsup in 2019. Here’s what’s about to happen with Garry Rodgers and the DyingWords brand in the coming year.

The biggest news—by far—is that Adam Croft is taking me on as a personal understudy. If you don’t know who Adam is, he’s one of the world’s top-selling crime & psychological thriller writers. At one point in 2018, Adam Croft held the #1 best-selling spot on all of Amazon, right ahead of JK Rowling. Adam will work with me on all parts of my indie writing business from craft to marketing. This will take my writing career to an entirely new level, and I am absolutely honored to be one of five select students Adam will tutor.

Another interesting venture is entering the CBC Books 2019 Short Story Competition. My piece is The Old Stone Butter Church. It’s inspired by an epiphany experienced inside an abandoned 140-year-old stone church on southern Vancouver Island. The first prize is 6-grand in cash plus a 2-week writing residency at the prestigious Banff Center for Fine Arts. Wish me luck. The coin will help offset Adam’s fee for tolerating me.

The Lindsay Buziak murder is one of Canada’s highest-profile unsolved homicides. It’s also one of the most solvable, given the circumstances. Someone knows something and they’ll eventually talk – as long as the suspect tree shakes. Eleven years ago, Lindsay was a vibrant 24-year-old Victoria, B.C. real estate agent stabbed to death while showing a vacant high-end house. There is no doubt Lindsay Buziak’s death was a planned killing and the case is as murky as a pail of used engine oil. The suspect list reaches from her beefcake boyfriend at the scene, his mother, one of Lindsay’s closest friends, into an international organized crime cartel, and upward to the highest levels of a corrupt government scandal. This year I’m helping to shake the suspect tree with a proposed book on the case facts called Someone Knows Something – The Shocking Story of Lindsay Buziak’s Unsolved Murder.

I’m almost finished the manuscript for Sun Dance – Why Custer Really Lost the Battle of the Little Bighorn. This started 2 years ago with a root cause analysis for a blog post. I found an angle to one of the most researched and written-about North American historical events that no one seems to have dug into. That’s the psychological impact Chief Sitting Bull’s sun dance ceremony had on psyching his warriors to annihilate the U.S. 7th Cavalry in 1876. It covers the events leading to, during, and the fallout after this famous event. I’m out of the rabbit hole now and will shop Sun Dance to traditional publishers.

Continuing on my based-on-true crime books like In The Attic and Under The Ground, I’m 2/3 of the way through the manuscript for From The Shadows. It’s about a family of 6 — 3 generations — who were savagely murdered with their bodies concealed. It resulted in one of Canada’s most-encompassing homicide investigations. From The Shadows should be ready for indie publishing in the spring of 2019. If anyone’s interested in a free advanced reading copy (ARC) in digital form, give me a shout.

Next up for 2019 are two more based-on-true crime books where I was involved in the investigations. One is On The Floor which is about the most cold-blooded execution murders I ever saw. The husband and wife owners of a gun store were robbed of a horde of assault weapons and handguns, then laid on the floor and shot in the back of their heads. On The Floor follows the investigation through the biker world and the Asian drug triads before ending in an extraordinary gunfight with the perpetrators. Watch for On The Floor in the summer of 2019.

Beside The Road is next in line. It should be ready in 2019’s fall. Carrying on in the based-on-true crime theme, this story captures a bizarre case where we found a decomposing body down a bank beside a road. This case ticked off all the forensic investigative aid boxes before identifying who it was and the one-in-a-million cause of death. Beside The Road is the weirdest homicide I ever experienced.

If there’s time left, I have a bunch of working titles on the list. There’s no material shortage out there and it makes for great based-on-true crime stories like By The Book, At The Cottage, Behind The Badge, Off The Grid, and Through The Ice. Realistically, these are 2020 or 2021 undertakings because of another previous project taking shape from a 2018 effort.

This year I developed an outline for a screenplay. It’s suitable for a 10-part series, and it’s based on an emotion-evoking true crime investigation I headed. The working title is The Battered Woman. It follows the path of a battered wife’s fight against “the system” after she repeatedly shot her passed-out husband and evoked the battered woman syndrome defense. We’ll see where this goes.

That’s a wrap on an ambitious agenda. I still plan on doing a blog post every second Saturday morning and will keep experimenting with topics. It seems my pieces on analyzing high-profile events are the most popular. However, I have a few interesting guests in the lineup for interviews. Stay tuned to find out who.

Merry Christmas, everyone! May you have more Christmas eats and drinks than humanly healthy. May you have good Christmas times with great friends around you. And may my books make you sleep with one eye open—at 3 am on Christmas morning—when Billy Ray slips down from your attic with his ax.

~Garry