Baby Come Back*

Authors have many reasons for ending a series that features a particular sleuth. Sometimes they find themselves losing interest in the sleuth. And talented authors don’t want to bore readers. So they end a series before that happens. Other times the series was intended from the beginning as a limited series. There are other reasons too that authors decide to bid adieu to their sleuths. But it doesn’t always stay that way. Authors take a big risk when they bring back a protagonist they’d thought was finished, but it can end up being the right decision.

One of the most famous examples of this of course is Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes. The star of 56 short stories and 4 novels, Holmes was supposed to take his last bow in The Adventure of the Final Problem. In that story he has a face-to-face conflict with his nemesis Professor Moriarty at Switzerland’s Reichenbach Falls. The fight ends with both men hurtling over the falls. But as Conan Doyle fans will know, the public outcry against the death of Holmes was so great that Conan Doyle was persuaded to resurrect him. This he did in The Adventure of the Empty House. In this case it was as much public opinion as anything else that led Conan Doyle to bring his protagonist back. It was risky in the sense that he had to come up with a credible way for Holmes to return. But it turned out to be most successful.

Ian Rankin’s Edinburgh Inspector John Rebus retires at the end of Exit Music. His last major case, the main focus of that novel, is the murder of Russian dissident poet Alexander Todorov. Todorov’s murder is set up to look like a mugging gone wrong, but Rebus soon suspects otherwise. There are several possible suspects too, including Rebus’ old nemesis Morris Gerald ‘Big Ger’ Cafferty. In the end Rebus and his team find out the truth about that murder and another death that occurs in the story. The novel also features the ‘goodbye’ celebration for Rebus, and thus the series ended. But Rankin has brought Rebus back in Standing in Another Man’s Grave. In that novel, Rebus has returned to work as a civilian for the Lothian and Borders Police’s Cold Case unit. That’s how he gets involved in the search for the truth about Sally Hazlitt’s disappearance. Sally disappeared in 1999 during a holiday trip to a chalet. Her body hasn’t been found, so her mother Nina hasn’t given up hope. Nina Hazlitt asks the Cold Case unit to look into the matter and Rebus gets interested and begins to investigate. He finds that there are two deaths that might be connected to Sally Hazlitt’s disappearance; if so, this could be much bigger than just one disappearance. Rebus’ return makes a lot of sense and is quite believable. First, he’s never been able to stay away from work. Second, he hasn’t died and miraculously returned. He retired, and not long ago. So it makes sense that he might be back. In this case the choice to bring Rebus back has worked out well.

Philip Kerr wrote the first novels featuring his PI Bernhard ‘Bernie’ Gunther beginning with 1989’s March Violets. In that novel, which takes place in Berlin just a few years before World War II, Gunher is hired to find a stolen diamond necklace. The case turns out to be much more complex than that though. Gunther starts getting notice from some very important people and is chosen to solve some difficult and dangerous cases in The Pale Criminal and A German Requiem. There the series ended in 1991. Or so it seemed. Fifteen years later Kerr brought Gunther back in 2006’s The One From the Other. Since that time there’ve been four other Bernie Gunther novels and a fifth is due in April of 2013. The recent novels have been extremely well-received and (in my opinion, so feel free to disagree if you do) justly so. In this case, the decision to bring a sleuth back was a wise one. It’s logical too considering the kind of character Gunther is and the fact that Kerr didn’t end the first trilogy of novels with Gunther’s death.

There’s also Ann Cleeves’ Jimmy Perez. He is the Shetland Islands police detective who features in Cleeves’ Shetland Quartet. In the final novel of the quartet Blue Lightning, Perez suffers a devastating tragedy when he investigates the murder of Angela Moore, whose body is found at the Fair Isle Bird Sanctuary. Given what happens in the novel it makes a lot of sense that he would question what he’s even doing on the police force. It’s entirely believable that the series would end based on what happens in it. And in fact, Cleeves has gone on to create the very well-regarded Vera Stanhope series. But (and I’m very glad of this personally) she’s decided to bring Jimmy Perez back. We’ll see him again in Dead Water, scheduled for release in January 2013.

Bringing back a sleuth is a big risk, especially if it’s been a while since that sleuth made an appearance. Besides the work that author has to do in terms of plot and so on, the author also has to decide what’s happened in the intervening time. Is the sleuth older? What has the sleuth been doing? If it’s not credible, readers won’t ‘buy it.’ But when it does work it can be a very wise decision.

All this is making me wonder about other sleuths we haven’t heard from that could conceivably come back. For instance there’s Michael Connelly’s Jack McEvoy. McEvoy is a successful journalist who has made his name researching and reporting on important crime cases. We last saw McEvoy in 2009’s The Scarecrow, in which he investigates the rape and murder of twenty-three-year-old Denise Babbit. Sixteen-year-old drug dealer Alonzo Winslow has allegedly confessed to the crime but McEvoy finds that his confession is not genuine and that he’s probably innocent. So McEvoy throws himself into this story to find out the truth. In the end he does, and it makes logical sense that he would end his career there. And so far, he has. Connelly himself has said that McEvoy is on the proverbial back burner. But I wonder whether we might see McEvoy feature in another novel. I hope so.

What do you think? Do you think it’s stretching credibility too far when a character whose series has ended is brought back? If you’re a writer, what are your thoughts about bringing back a protagonist?

 

 
 

*NOTE: :The title of this post is the title of a song by Player.

In The Spotlight: Philip Kerr’s March Violets

Hello, All,

Welcome to another edition of In The Spotlight. Philip Kerr’s Bernhard ‘Bernie’ Gunther series is among the most well-respected of historical mystery series, and justly so. Set mostly in Berlin during the years just before, during and just after World War II, the series effectively captures that frightening and memorable era. Perhaps this is just my opinion, but I say it’s more than about time I included one of Kerr’s novels in this feature so let’s do that today. Let’s turn the spotlight on March Violets, the first of Kerr’s Bernie Gunther novels.

The real action in March Violets begins when former police officer-turned private investigator Gunther is summoned late at night to the home of Hermann Six. Six is a very wealthy and successful businessman who wants to hire Gunther to track down a diamond necklace. He then tells Gunther the story behind the necklace’s disappearance. Not long ago, Six’s daughter Grete and her husband Paul Pfarr were murdered in their bed, and their safe was rifled. The necklace was in the safe and Six wants it back. He makes it clear, though, that he isn’t interested in having Gunther investigate the murders themselves; he says that the police are doing that. But he doesn’t want the necklace to fall into the authorities’ hands because, as he says,

 

‘I love my country. And there is nobody who gives more than I do. But I simply cannot stand the thought that the Reich is to be enriched even further at my expense.’ 

 

Gunther agrees to the arrangement and begins his search for answers. Through his various contacts, he narrows down the list of people who might possibly have the diamonds. And since the murders can’t really be separated from the theft, Gunther asks questions about them too. The trail leads him through all sorts of seedy areas, low-class nightclubs and so on.

As the investigation goes on, Gunther comes to the attention of some unpleasant members of Berlin’s criminal class, who have no wish for him to find out the truth. And as he continues, Gunther discovers that those people are very probably working with members of Germany’s new leadership class, who are not eager to have that connection come out. In the end, Gunther finds out the truth about the murders and the necklace. His trail leads him to the highest circles and uncovers some of the real ugliness of the Third Reich.

And that ugliness is one of the important elements in this novel. This is a noir story and lives up to the sub-genre’s reputation for bleakness, at least in terms of atmosphere. The story takes place in 1936, in the lead-up to the Berlin Olympic Games. The Nazi party is in control of the government and people are truly afraid of falling afoul of the Gestapo. Kerr doesn’t sugarcoat life at that time and in that place. For instance, one of Gunther’s cases involves a client who’s trying to trace her son, who’s become a ‘U-Boat’ – a Jew in hiding. There are also scenes in which people – mostly Jews – are desperately trying to sell their jewels and other goods to get enough money to leave or at least to eat. And all throughout the book, there are examples of the vicious anti-Semitism, racism, homophobia and sexim that permeated Nazi Germany. Even those who aren’t ardent Nazis themselves feel compelled to join in, and the effect is chilling.

This is a ‘hardboiled’ story too, so there is a measure of violence and quite a strong sense that no-one can be trusted. Readers who don’t like a lot of violence will be disappointed. That said though, the violence is not gratuitous, nor is it drawn out. It is ugly though, and unsettling.

Another element in this novel is the city itself. As Gunther tries to trace the missing necklace and uncover the truth about the murders, he goes to all sorts of different places in Berlin, and the reader travels along:

 

‘It was late, gone one o’clock, when finally I drove back to my apartment in Trautenaustrasse, which is in Wilmersdorf, a modest neighbourhood, but still a lot better than Wedding, the district of Berlin in which I grew up. The street itself runs north-east from Güntzelstrasse past Nikolsburger Platz, where there is a scenic sort of fountain in the middle of the square. I lived, not uncomfortably, at the Prager Platz end.’

 

Throughout the novel, too, there’s a stark difference between the real Berlin and the Berlin that’s been cleaned up and made beautiful for the tourists who are attending the Olympics.

There is also a thread of dark sarcastic wit throughout the novel. It may not appeal to all readers, but it does give a wry perspective on life in Berlin. For example, at one point, Gunther is in search of a regular informant:

 

‘I didn’t expect to find Neumann at the dump where he lived…but I tried there anyway. Kottbusser Tor was the kind of area that had worn about as well as a music-hall poster, and Admiralstrasse, Number 43 was the kind of place where the rats wore ear-plugs and the cockroaches had nasty coughs.’

 

Later, Gunther tracks Neumann down. Here’s just a bit of their conversation.

 

‘‘Look, Herr Gunther, can we make this quick? I’m going over to Karlshorst this afternoon.’
‘Oh? Got a tip, have you?’
‘Well, as a matter of fact – ’
I laughed. ‘Neumann, I wouldn’t bet on a horse that you were going to back if it could out-pace the Hamburg Express.’’

 

Despite his frank dislike and distrust of Neumann, Gunther does find him useful.

This bit of conversation, and Gunther’s feelings about Neumann, also reveal a lot about Gunther’s character, which is another important element in this novel. Gunther is no fan of the Nazis, and he has nothing but contempt for their violent anti-Semitism and their thuggery. In fact one of the reasons he dislikes Neumann as heartily as he does is that Neumann is happy to betray Jews in hiding if he thinks it’ll get him some money. On the other hand, Gunther is well aware of the power of the Nazi party. He makes the obligatory salutes (albeit sardonically whenever he can), he listens to the required broadcasts and so on. And he doesn’t try to ‘play hero.’ He does his best to negotiate the very dangerous minefield that is 1936 Berlin without becoming a ‘March violet’ – a latecomer to the Nazi party – or being drawn into the betrayal and violence of the era. He tries to maintain his ethics in a place and at a time when it’s extremely difficult to do so.

March Violets is an uncompromising look at Berlin during the ascendance of the Nazis just before World War II. The mystery is believable and Kerr draws the various plot threads together in a credible way. The character of Bernie Gunther fits right into the time and place of the novel, and it’s not hard to be on his side as he searches for the answers. But what’s your view? Have you read March Violets? If you have, what elements do you see in it?

 

 
 

Coming Up On In The Spotlight:

 

Monday 10 December/Tuesday 11 December – Maisie Dobbs – Jacqueline Winspear

Monday 17 December/Tuesday 18 December – Project Nirvana – Stefan Tegenfalk

Monday 24 December/Tuesday 25 December – Betrayal – Karin Alvtegen

Don’t You Know That This Hand Washes That One Too*

In real life, things don’t always get done strictly ‘by the book. Lots of things get done more informally. So, many people find a network of friends and acquaintances to be extremely useful, especially when it comes to getting around ‘red tape.’ For example, you might have a friend who works for a technology company come over and fix your laptop. The next time your friend needs a ride to the airport or someone to mind her children while she goes to a meeting, you return the courtesy. Both of you have saved time and money and been spared annoyance. For real or fictional detectives, being ‘plugged in’ to a network of exchanging courtesies like that can be invaluable. That’s especially true if one’s a private investigator without the force of law to compel people to part with information. And that sort of network is particularly valuable in cases where it’s too dangerous, too expensive or too chaotic to go through ‘official’ channels to get things done. There are even situations where the only way to get anything done is to use one’s network. That’s certainly the case in real life, and we see it all through crime fiction, too.

For example, in Agatha Christie’s The Mystery of the Blue Train, we meet M. Demetrius Papopolous, a dealer in valuable gems who lives and works in Paris. There is little about the jewel trade that he doesn’t know or hasn’t heard. Hercule Poirot finds his acquaintance with Papopolous to be extremely useful when he investigates the murder of wealthy Ruth Van Aldin Kettering, who is murdered while she is aboard the famous Blue Train. The victim had with her a very valuable ruby necklace that included the famous ‘Heart of Fire’ ruby. The necklace has since been stolen and Poirot believes that if he can find out more about the necklace he’ll find out more about the murder. So he visits M. Papopolous, for whom he did a very important favour sixteen years earlier. When Papopolous is reminded of what he owes Poirot, he is willing to provide him with useful information about where the necklace came from, how it was acquired and what might have happened to it since it was stolen.

Lawrence Block’s Matthew Scudder often finds that quid pro quo is a very useful approach to take when he solves cases. He’s a former cop who still knows people on the force. And he still has connections that he made while he was a cop. Scudder has no problem calling on those relationships to get things done and get information. In fact, in the early Scudder novels especially, that’s how he thinks of his job as a PI. As he tells his client Cale Hanniford in The Sins of the Fathers,

 

‘Sometimes I do favors for people. They give me gifts.’ 

 

In that novel, Scudder agrees to find out about the life of Hanniford’s twenty-four-year-old daughter Wendy, who was recently murdered. The two had been estranged for some time and Hanniford wants to know what became of his daughter and what led up to her death. Scudder agrees and starts asking questions. Throughout this novel Scudder makes use of his network and of a few well-placed financial ‘inducements’ to get the job done.

That’s how Walter Mosley’s Ezekiel ‘Easy’ Rawlins works too. In the first novels that feature him, he’s not a licensed PI. Instead, he is given money informally. For instance, in Devil in a Blue Dress, Rawlins’ friend, a bar owner nicknamed Joppy, introduces him to DeWitt Albright. Albright wants to find Daphne Monet, who’s recently disappeared. He doesn’t want the police involved, but he does want her found. Rawlins needs the money desperately because he’s just been laid off from the aircraft manufacturing plant where he worked. So when Joppy introduces him to Albright, Rawlins is willing to listen to what Albright has to say. He takes the job and begins his search for the missing woman. He doesn’t know it at first, but his search will get him involved in blackmail, theft and murder. It also begins his unofficial career as PI. Throughout this and the other novels featuring him, Rawlins makes use of his network. He does things for people; they return the courtesy. He gets involved in cases through that network too.

And then there’s Philip Kerr’s Bernie Gunther, who lives and works in World War II and post-World War II Germany. In that atmosphere it’s very hard to get things done in the usual ‘official’ way. And even if one can, most people don’t want to call attention to themselves that way. So Gunther has found that using his network, plus a few well-placed ‘gratuities,’ is essential to finding answers. In March Violets for instance, he’s hired by Hermann Six to track down a missing diamond necklace. The necklace belonged to Six’s daughter Grete, who was recently shot along with her husband Paul. Their home was burned in an effort to disguise the murders, but Six knows that they were killed deliberately. Gunther takes the job and begins to ask questions about the disappearance of the necklace as well as the two deaths. But for a number of reasons, it’s hard to get the information he wants through the usual channels. He doesn’t want to run afoul of the Nazi authorities, of whom he is no fan. He also knows that because the two victims were wealthy and well-connected, people aren’t going to be likely to say much. Finally, the people who are most likely to know about the missing necklace are probably involved in illegal trading of gems. They’re not exactly likely to boast about that. So Gunther makes extensive use of his network to find out the truth. And where his network isn’t helpful, he uses financial incentives. It’s a very pragmatic and for Gunther, a very effective way to get things done.

Police investigators aren’t supposed to pay for information (although of course, that practice goes on). But they can and do develop all sorts of useful networks of relationships that help them cut through the ‘red tape’ and help them get the job done. For instance, Donna Leon’s Commissario Guido Brunetti often finds that a telephone call to a journalist acquaintance or to a family friend proves much more useful than official witness statements. And he often gets valuable help from Signorina Elettra Zorzi, his boss’ assistant. Signorina Elettra has a vast network of friends, acquaintances, former boyfriends and so on all over Venice and in other parts of Italy too. For her, finding out even the most confidential information is usually only a matter of a few telephone calls or a lunch date. Both she and Brunetti know that there’s so much ‘red tape’ and often corruption involved in going through ‘official’ channels that there isn’t much chance of getting the job done that way. So they depend on their networks.

In Angela Savage’s Behind the Night Bazaar, PI Jayne Keeney, who lives and works in Bangkok, finds that a little informal networking is very helpful in her search for the murderer of her friend Didier ‘Didi’ de Montpasse and his partner Nou. The official explanation is that Did murdered Nou and was then killed himself during an armed standoff with police. But Keeney is sure that’s just a cover for what really happened. So she begins to ask questions about the murders. She finds that there’s a connection between the killings and the Thai sex trade and child trafficking trade. But the ‘players’ in this trade are wealthy and powerful, and they’re protected by local authorities. So there aren’t many people who are willing to help Keeney openly. But she finds that a few well-placed financial ‘gifts’ and the use of her network are very useful in finding the information she wants.

Those informal, sometimes cash-fueled networks can be key to solving a case. So smart sleuths know that it pays to be helpful and grant favours when they can, and get ‘plugged in’ to a solid informal network. The time will come when they’ll need that network.

 

 
 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from John Kander and Fred Ebb’s When You’re Good to Mama.

All The Stories Have Been Told of Kings and Days of Old*

An interesting post from Norman at Crime Scraps Review raises a very good set of questions about historical mysteries. His post has got me to thinking about how readers decide which historical eras they want to read about, and how authors choose which era will be their context. There’s also the question of how publishers choose which historical mysteries to accept and publish. Although I don’t have responsibly-collected data to support it, my guess is that there’s a constellation of factors that affects the choices of era that we see in historical mysteries.

Sometimes, those factors come together rather neatly. For instance, Agatha Christie’s Death Comes as the End, which takes place in Ancient Egypt, was published in 1944. This novel is her only historical mystery so far as I know (so please correct me if I’m mistaken about that). At the time of publication, the discovery of the tomb of King Tutankhamen was not quite twenty years old. The World War II North African campaign was still making headlines. So it makes sense that Egypt would be a very popular topic, and Ancient Egypt would have a particular allure. Add to that Christie’s already-established reputation as a crime novelist and it’s easy to see how the publisher would be interested in this title, and how readers would want to read the novel. Christie herself was interested in the topic because of her personal connection with archaeology. So it also makes a lot of sense that she would “stretch herself” as a writer in this way.

Ellis Peters, the pen name of Edith Pargeter, had already written a contemporary series about Inspector George Felse that had gotten quite a lot of critical praise when she first explored the idea of an historical mystery. She was doing some research into a possible story about the real-life Shrewsbury Abbey when the character of Brother Cadfael took shape. Her first Cadfael novel, A Morbid Taste for Bones, was published in 1977. It was well received, although not what you would call a runaway best-seller, and she continued the series. Oddly enough, though, a long series hadn’t been her intention. Then an interesting confluence of events happened. Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose, also a Medieval mystery, was published in 1983 to a great deal of popular and critical acclaim. Suddenly there was interest in Medieval mysteries, and the Cadfael series finally got the notice that it deserved. All in all Peters wrote 20 Cadfael mysteries. In this case, you could argue that Peters’ interest in the abbey and its history, combined with her reputation as an author and the commercial success of another Medieval mystery made for a ripe market for the Cadfael series.

Diana Norman, better known as Ariana Franklin, was a journalist who had a special interest in history, particularly women’s history. Her interest in history led to a special focus on the Middle Ages. She wrote well-received historical fiction, and then was persuaded to write a Medieval thriller. The result, Mistress of the Art of Death became an international success on many levels. The main character, Adelia Aguilar, struck a note with readers, and although the setting for the Adelia Aguilar novels is the 12^th Century, the themes are more universal. I don’t have data to support this, but I wonder whether the success of this series will bring back the interest in Medieval mysteries that we saw over twenty-five years ago when The Name of the Rose was published.

Many crime fiction readers find that they identify with characters and events in more recent history. So they prefer historical mysteries set in the less distant past. For instance, there are still people alive who remember the pre-World War II and World War II eras. That past is recent enough that the events and lifestyle of the day resonate with readers. And there were monumental events in that time, and not just those related to the war itself. So it makes sense that it would also be a time of interest to authors. Add to that the appeal (for an author) of a city like pre-war Berlin, and you can see why an author might set her or his novels there. That’s part of the reason that authors such as Philip Kerr and Rebecca Cantrell have made pre-war and World War II Berlin their contexts. It’s perhaps not fair to group these particular authors together, as they have different styles, different protagonists and write different sorts of novels. But both are highly talented authors who’ve used the hope, fear, decadence and vast social and political upheavals of the day as the backgrounds for their novels. Add to that the appeal that the era has for readers who either remember it or have known someone who did, and you can see how a constellation of factors would generate a lot of interest in mystery novels set at that time.

Some authors write about historical eras that they remember. Those memories resonate with readers and give the books added appeal. For instance, James W. Fuerst’s novel Huge takes place in 1980’s New Jersey. It’s the story of Eugene “Huge” Smalls, who wants to be a detective just like Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlowe. He gets his chance when his grandmother hires him for ten dollars to find out who defaced the sign at the retirement home where she lives. Fuerst himself was born in Red Bank, New Jersey and came of age during that era. So although the novel isn’t autobiographical, it does evoke a time he remembers and place he knows. For many readers, even readers who’ve never been to New Jersey, it’s a look back at another time in their own lives, too. Readers who remember the 1980’s can identify strongly with the time.

Sometimes readers choose historical mysteries because they have a special interest in a particular event or era, and they enjoy reading mysteries that focus on that context. So readers with a particular interest in the Victorian Era might enjoy Deanna Raybourn’s Lady Julia Grey series. Readers interested in the U.S. Civil War might enjoy Owen Parry’s Civil-War era series that features Federal Agent Abel Jones, a Welsh émigré to the United States who works for the Union cause. There are many, many other examples, too.

In the end, it’s hard to say that just one factor (reader interest, publishers’ choices, author interest, popular choice) determines which kinds of historical novels get a lot of notice and which don’t. It’s more likely that a constellation of factors work together. What do you think? If you like historical mysteries, what is it that pulls you towards one or another series (besides, of course, author talent). Is it a particular event or era? Is it the era’s popularity? If you write historical mysteries, what made you choose the context you chose?

 

 

 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from the Kinks’ Living on a Thin Line.

No Longer Riding on the Merry-Go-Round*

As any real-life detective could tell you, being a police detective is hard, dirty, stressful and dangerous. It’s not a particularly well-paid occupation, either. So it’s little wonder that police work is consistently ranked among the most stressful of occupations. It’s not surprising really that many, many police detectives leave the profession; the stress level, the danger and the difficulty of maintaining any kind of family life are only a few of the reasons they do so. That’s certainly true in real life, and we see a lot of it in crime fiction, too. What’s interesting, though, is that even though plenty of fictional detectives leave the police force, they often don’t leave behind their interest in solving cases and their detective skills.

Take Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot for instance. When we first meet him in The Mysterious Affair at Styles we learn that he is a former member of the Belgian police force. Forced by war conditions to relocate to England, Poirot doesn’t become officially associated with Scotland Yard or with any other police department. In fact, in more than one novel, Poirot reflects on the fact that he finds no appeal in the violence and brutality of most crimes. So he settles down to what he thinks will be retirement in The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. His plan is to live quietly in the village of King’s Abbott and grow vegetable marrows. He’s no sooner moved in to his new home though when he is once again drawn into crime. Retired manufacturing tycoon Roger Ackroyd is stabbed in his study one evening, and all of the members of his household come under suspicion. The most likely suspect is Ackroyd’s adopted son Captain Ralph Paton, who was desperate for money and in fact, had quarreled with Ackroyd on that very topic just before the murder. It doesn’t help matters that Paton disappeared after the death and hasn’t been seen since. But his fiancée Flora Ackroyd is convinced that Paton is innocent, and persuades Poirot to return to investigation. He no longer has the day-to-day stress and difficulty of the police detective, but he does keep his hand in, so to speak, when it comes to unravelling difficult cases.

In James Yaffe’s “Mom” series, we meet Bronx police officer Dave, who’s been on the force for a number of years. In A Nice Murder For Mom, Dave is reeling from the loss of his beloved wife Shirley. And life as an N.Y.P.D. doesn’t have the appeal that it once did. Fed up with the stress of the job, and with no great desire to remain in New York (there are too many memories of Shirley there), Dave knows he has to make a change. So he accepts a job working for the Public Defender’s Office of Mesa Grande, Colorado. Dave’s concerned about leaving his widowed mother in the city, but she’s got friends and a strong social network. Besides, she can see that he’s “burned out” and grieving. So Dave takes up his new job; after all, how much violent crime is there likely to be in small-town Mesa Grande? He soon gets put to work when Stuart Bellamy, a member of the Department of English at Mesa Grande College, is killed by a blow to the head. Mike Russo, a colleague of Bellamy’s and a friend of Dave’s, is the most likely suspect. Russo can’t account for his time during the murder, and his car was seen near the victim’s house. He has a motive, too, since he was passed over for tenure in favour of Bellamy. When Russo is arrested for the murder, he claims he’s innocent. So Dave begins to look into the case and finds that Russo was by no means the only viable suspect. In the middle of the investigation, Dave’s mother comes for a visit and in her own inimitable way, helps point Dave in the right direction as he finds out who killed Stuart Bellamy and why.

Kate Atkinson’s Jackson Brodie is also a former police officer. Brodie was a member of the Cambridgeshire Constabulary for twelve years, and has also had experience in the military police. But as we learn in Case Histories, his marriage to his wife Josie has disintegrated, and life on the police force has worn thin. As Brodie sees it,

 

“…his job was to help people be good, rather than to punish them for being bad.”

 

To Brodie, that philosophy isn’t consistent with what he has to do as a cop, so he sets up as a private investigator. In that capacity, he gets drawn into people’s personal tragedies and dramas in a way that it’s hard to do as a cop.

And then there’s Philip Kerr’s Bernie Gunther. In Berlin Noir, we learn that Gunther is a former police officer who has seen the way the proverbial wind is blowing in pre-World War II Germany. As National Socialism gains more and more power, the police force falls more and more under Nazi control. As Gunther himself puts it,

 

“Five years had elapsed since the day in June 1933 when, no longer able to tolerate Goering’s police purges, I had resigned my rank of Kriminalinspektor in order to become the house detective at the Adlon Hotel. Another few months and they would have probably fired me anyway.”

 

Of course, becoming a private investigator during the rise of National Socialism and the desperate days just before World War II means that Gunther has not left intrigue and violence behind…

There are a lot of other fictional former cops who’ve turned to private detection. For instance, Sue Grafton’s Kinsey Millhone was a cop for a couple of years until she realised that being a police officer means having to abide by a lot of policies – what her friend Homicide detective Con Dolan calls, “working with a leash around your neck.”  I’ll bet you can think of other examples, too – more than I could. But not all cops get off the proverbial merry-go-round by leaving the force. Sometimes, they do so by leaving the police force of a large city or a dangerous neighbourhood for that of a smaller, quieter town.

For instance, Peter Robinson’s Alan Banks was a London cop for quite a while. In Gallows View, we learn that his job there was stressful and difficult and took a toll on his marriage and his relationships with his children. So the family has relocated to the Yorkshire town of Eastvale, where it’s hoped the slower pace of life will be good for Banks’ health and good for his family, too. And at first, it is. But as Banks soon learns, crime – even serious crime – can happen just about anywhere. Shortly after the family’s move to Eastvale, a peeper begins to make life increasingly intolerable for the women of the town. There’s also been a recent rash of break-ins that has the residents concerned. And then there’s a murder. So in one sense, Banks leaves behind the high stress and burnout of his London job. But he certainly doesn’t leave violent crime behind.

In Tim Comstock’s Reunion at Carmel, Will Kempton thinks he’s left behind the worst parts of being a cop. He’s a former homicide investigator who spent years on the Jersey City, New Jersey police force. After the tragic death of his wife Debbie, Kempton knows he needs a change in scene and a change in his lifestyle. Not only is he grief-stricken, but he’s gotten burned out by what he’s seen as a homicide cop in a tough city. And Kempton’s two children need a change of lifestyle, too. So he accepts the job of Chief of Police of Carmel, California, a small, quiet beachside town with a lucrative tourist trade. At first, all goes well; Kempton’s family is slowly starting to heal, and the lower stress level is good for Kempton himself. Then, the body of eighteen-year-old Brady Carson is found on the beach. Kempton puts together an investigation team and they begin to look into the case. Then there’s another brutal murder. And another. Now it looks as though Carmel is being targeted by a serial killer. In the end, though Will Kempton discovers that he himself is the target, and that if he and his team don’t find the killer soon, he and his family will be the next victims.

It’s not easy to be a police officer, especially in a large city. So it’s no wonder that a lot of cops get off the proverbial merry-go-round and find other work. It often seems though that they don’t leave crime far behind…
 
 

 

*NOTE: The title of this post is a line from John Lennon’s Watching the Wheels.