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"Deep summer is when laziness finds respectability." —Sam Keen

Current Project

Certainty Betrayed: A Literary Thriller

Super-Secret Project: More details to come

Writing Update

Revision 1

The revision is currently at Chapter 22, It’s going OK, but I really need to focus on development editing on the next run-through.

I may need to re-write several chapters.

Current Revision Chapter: 22

This Week

The Super-Secret Project is in the interface coding phase. The engines that drive it are functional and seem to be bug free, but they still need some refinement.

Spent yesterday evening with a couple of buddies from high school. Cracked a bottle of Stag bourbon (IYKYK). Great evening and no regrets about not working on projects…

Learned this Week

Not everyone likes to read the same kinds of prose I like. To make my novel really publishable, I need to revise it into something more universal. That will start to happen on the next pass.

Unfortunately, the way my brain is wired, I don’t like remaking something I’ve already done. This will probably be grueling.

Reader Q&A

I didn’t get any questions this week. If you have a question, please reach out and I will use it here.

Until next week...

--AR

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This article is part of a series to help new writers become familiar with some of the terms or jargon used in the publishing industry. Please enjoy.

Reader Expectations

Genre is about helping a reader know what to expect. To do this, the industry has created several categories that identify what kind of reader might enjoy a particular story.

Libraries and bookstores use genre to group story types in a way that makes them easy to identify and locate.

The major recognized genres for novel and short story fiction are:

Mystery

Horror

Thriller

Romance

Fantasy

Science Fiction

Historical Fiction

Literary Fiction

Contemporary Fiction

Genres defined.

Mystery

The Mystery genre is about puzzles. The story presents the puzzle, then provides clues along the way, allowing the reader an opportunity to solve the puzzle before the final reveal at the end.

Examples of Mystery novels:

And Then There Were None
by Agatha Christie

The Hound of the Baskervilles (I love the Sherlock Holmes stories)
by Arthur Conan Doyle

The Hunter
by Tana French

Horror

Horror stories are intended to instill feelings of fear or dread in the reader. The story will intentionally terrorize the reader by subjecting characters to the supernatural, psychological terror, or threats to safety and welfare.

Examples of Horror novels:

Carrie
by Stephen King

Dracula (My favorite literary horror novel)
by Bram Stoker

Bat Eater and Other Names for Cora Zeng
by Kylie Lee Baker

Thriller

A Thriller provides the reader with feelings of suspense, danger, and urgency. Through the protagonist, the reader experiences an adventure of high stakes and uncertain outcomes. They are generally fast paced and exciting to read.

Examples of Thriller novels:

The Hunt for Red October (Clancy basically defines the genre)
by Tom Clancy

Defending Jacob
by William Landay

The Gray Man
by Mark Greaney

Romance

Romance novels and short stories are love stories. A romance will tell the story of a couple falling in love or saving a failing relationship. Stories in this genre always have happy endings.

Examples of Romance novels:

Funny Story
by Emily Henry

Seeking Persephone (My wife and I are watching the television series now!)
by Sarah M. Eden

Pride and Prejudice
by Jane Austen

Fantasy

Fantasy stories transport the reader to another place or time where the general rules and laws of science are radically different or non-existent. These stories often include magic and mythical creatures.

Examples of Fantasy novels:

The Hobbit
by J.R.R. Tolkien

The Will of the Many
by James Islington

A Game of Thrones (Will Martin ever finish this series?!)
by George R.R. Martin

Science Fiction/Speculative Fiction

Science fiction helps the reader ask “what if?” It takes the reader on an adventure exploring what science could accomplish in the future. It typically explores space travel, time travel, and advanced technologies.

Examples of Science Fiction novels:

Stranger in a Strange Land (I’m a HUGE Heinlein fan)
by Robert Heinlein

Jurassic Park
by Michael Crichton

When the Moon Hits Your Eye
by John Scalzi

Historical Fiction

Historical fiction tells fictitious stories in real historical settings. The characters can be real or fictitious, but the historical background is generally accurate.

Examples of Historical Fiction novels:

The Pillars of the Earth
by Ken Follett

The Book Thief
by Markus Zusak

Wolf Hall
by Hilary Mantel

Sub-Genres

Each genre can also be divided into sub-genres based on the environment or theme of the story. Often, a sub-genre is a secondary genre from the primary list we just discussed. Sub-genre is part of the reason Amazon has hundreds of categories to organize its selections.

Examples of sub-genres:

Mystery

• Cozy mystery

• Police procedural

• Amateur sleuth

Thriller

• Legal thriller

• Medical thriller

• Political thriller

• Psychological thriller (My WIP Certainty Betrayed falls into this sub-genre)

Fantasy

• Epic fantasy

• Urban fantasy

• Dark fantasy

Romance

• Historical romance

• Contemporary romance

• Romantic suspense

It’s important to know what genre, and possibly what sub-genre your story falls into. Genre will help publishers, retailers, and libraries know how to categorize your book, how to place it, how to market it, and even how to choose the cover art.

Until next time.

—AR

PS: Apparently, this reads as AI generated. It is not. I’m just reasonably good at writing educational stuff. I used to be a corporate educator for a medical device company. This ain’t my first rodeo.

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Non-Subscribers can read chapters 1-5 on my page:

Certainty Betrayed

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“ Expectation is the mother of all frustration.” - Antonio Banderas

Current Project

Certainty Betrayed: A Literary Thriller

Super-Secret Project: More details to come

Writing Update

Revision 1

The revision is currently at Chapter 16, and going reasonably well.
But based on some feedback on chapter 1, I think I will be re-writing that chapter completely in revision 2 or 3.

Current Revision Chapter: 16

This Week

I’m elbows deep in the Super-Secret Project. I’m not letting it interfere with my revision – in fact, it’s the development of a tool that significantly helps with revision. So revising and working on the project go hand-in-hand.

I don’t want to say what the project is yet, but I will tell you this much. I’m developing a tool, or set of tools that will help an author go from idea to completed manuscript successfully. Stay tuned. Once I have something ready for beta testing I will be more forthcoming.

On a personal note, I’m happy to say we finished the flooring project in the living room. Luxury vinyl replaced old smelly carpet. We love the new look.

Bunny, one of our cats had a UTI this week. She’s 15yo, so I was worried it would be something more serious. But fortunately, it looks like she’s OK.

Learned this Week

I’ve been teaching myself to use AI effectively for a variety of things.

By biggest lesson? AI ain’t as smart as people think. It’s frustrating to use. Kind of like herding cats. I’m learning how to structure prompts and commands to make it do what I want and not take liberties, doing whatever it wants. I swear the technology has ADHD…

Reader Q&A

Question:
A reader questioned the use of a schizophrenic patient as the protagonist, since he’s killing people.

Answer:

This reader is correct in that people with schizophrenia are generally not violent. In fact they are more likely to be the victims of violence or exploitation than the perpetrators.

But…

When experiencing psychosis, schizophrenics can and do use violence to “defend themselves” from perceived threats to themselves or others. I have personally been attacked on several occasions by patients deceived by their psychosis. One used an improvised weapon and sent me to the clinic…

In the story, James, the protagonist, is experiencing “Command Hallucinations.” A psychotic patient perceives these voices as authoritative. He will have difficulty ignoring them and will frequently do whatever the voices say.

I call James the protagonist because he is not the villain of the story. The disease is. Psychosis is the antagonist.

Also, there are several mental health patients represented in the story. All of them are portrayed as real people, not cliché props. This is intentional. Having a mental health disorder does not make a person less human, nor less valuable. I have strived to protect the dignity of every person in this story.

Until next week...

--AR

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There is a small minority of very loud people protesting any use of AI for writing.

They are on the wrong side of history.

AI is a tool. A potentially powerful tool, but still just a tool.

People protesting AI generally aren’t very familiar with the technology.

They imagine AI writes a novel while the author sits back, drinks coffee, and collects royalties.

That’s not how it works.

AI doesn’t create great literature.

It doesn’t replace imagination.

It doesn’t replace talent.

It doesn’t replace hard work.

It doesn’t replace great writing.

I wrote every word of my novel.

AI just helped make that novel a bit better.

Here’s how I use it.

Story Development

I collaborate with AI on story ideas.

Notice I didn’t say AI creates my story ideas.

It. does. not.

I use AI as a sounding board. We discuss ideas. We eliminate bad ones. We expose plot holes. We refine the ideas that survive.

AI doesn’t give me story ideas. It helps me reject the bad ideas.

Motivation

After a writing session, I upload what I wrote and ask for feedback.

No, I don’t blindly accept every suggestion.

But after spending several hours writing, hearing what worked gives me a nice dopamine boost. That little bit of encouragement makes me want to sit down and write again tomorrow.

Continuity

AI keeps track of my story.

Characters.

Relationships.

Timelines.

Locations.

After writing thousands of words, continuity mistakes happen.

AI catches many of them before my readers do.

Research

While writing my current novel, I had a detective interview a witness at a jail.

While writing that scene, I realized something.

I’ve never been to jail.

That’s a problem when you want the scene to be authentic.

AI helped me research jail security procedures so the scene was authentic instead of just going all Hollywood.

Editing

AI can be an excellent editorial assistant.

It catches grammar mistakes.

Punctuation errors.

Awkward phrasing.

Continuity problems.

Is it always right?

Not even close.

Sometimes it’s spectacularly wrong.

Sometimes editing with AI is extremely frustrating.

Learning to use AI well is a skill. I’m still learning that skill.

But in the end, all decisions are mine.

Organization

AI stores ideas for future stories.

Instead of losing them in notebooks or scraps of paper, I can organize them, expand on them, and revisit them months later.

Images

AI creates many of the images I use with my articles and stories.

Again, it’s just another tool.

AI Isn’t Magic

Here’s the part the critics rarely mention.

AI can be difficult to use.

It misunderstands instructions.

It loses context.

It confidently gives bad advice.

Sometimes it takes twenty minutes just to make it understand what you’re asking. Sometimes, it never understands and you just give up!

Using AI effectively requires judgment, patience, and a lot self education.

It doesn’t replace thinking.

It demands better thinking.

The Future

AI is here to stay.

You can reject it if you want. That’s your choice.

But don’t expect the rest of the world to stop using it because you don’t like it.

Anyone who refuses to learn AI risks becoming irrelevant.

They might as well sell their cars and modern appliances and go join an Amish community.

Technology doesn’t wait for permission. It moves forward.

Either move with it or get left behind.

*****

Disclosure:

I don’t normally use AI to influence my writing, but because of the subject matter, I did run this article through AI and allow it to suggest phrasing and structure before publishing.

If you run it through a check, it will probably tell you the article was heavily influenced by AI. Because it was. Intentionally.

Cheers!

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Chapters 9 & 10 are now available in the Subscriber’s DropBox.

Please message me if you need the link.

—AR

“”Here’s to the crazy ones, the misfits, the rebels... the ones who see things differently... The ones who are crazy enough to think that they can change the world, are the ones who do.”

–Steve Jobs”

Current Project

Certainty Betrayed: A Literary Thriller

Writing Update

I’m continuing to revise the completed draft manuscript. I have received feedback from several beta readers, mostly positive. I’m incorporating that feedback into the revisions. I like the results so far.

Revision 1: Current Chapter: 8

This Week

I was grumpy this week…

On Saturday, my wife and I spend the day moving furniture, ripping up carpet, removing staples, tack-board, and moulding, and prepping everything for new flooring in our living room.

Sunday, we got halfway through the laying of brand new luxury vinal flooring when I got an email. Delta had cancelled my flight to Los Angelos Monday morning (a trip I really didn’t want to make, but I needed to. A customer needed me). There was no good alternative flight. I had to book a connecting flight on Southwest and cancel the Delta direct flight. This meant I had to get up at 2:45am to make a 5am flight, change planes in Denver, rend a car in Santa Ana, then drive to La Mirada. After 5 hours of sleep and about 9 hours of travel, I got to start my day with the customer. It was grueling. To top it off, all the up and down movements of working on the floor left my poor old body sore and tired.

Like I said. I was grumpy. But I got through it.

I’ve started working on a project I think will help new writers like me. I don’t want to tell much about it yet. I’m in the alpha stage. But I will look for a couple of beta users when I’m ready.

What I’ve learned this week:

AI is a great tool, but it’s also incredibly frustrating. It tries to think when it should just follow orders. Sometimes programming it to do certain things is like herding cats.

AI won’t be replacing humans anytime soon…

Reader Q&A

Question:
A reader asked me about the wisdom of portraying a schizophrenic patient as a killer.

Answer:
This is a legitimate question. We don’t want to stigmatize people with this disease.
But James, the protagonist in my story, is not a villain. He’s consistently portrayed as mentally ill, responding to his illness. His disease is the antagonist of the novel, and James is the victim.
This is the prevailing tragedy of the story.

Everything that happens is clinically plausible. Admittedly, it’s unlikely, but good stories are always about the unlikely. No one wants to read about things that are likely…

For the record, schizophrenics are more likely to be exploited and victimized than they are to harm others. But any person experiencing acute psychosis has the potential of becoming unpredictable and dangerous. I have the bruises to prove it (or did; they’ve all healed by now).

For those who don’t know, I used to be a nursing house supervisor for a 200 bed psychiatric hospital.

Until next week...

--AR

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“No man needs a vacation so much as the man who has just had one.”

― Elbert Hubbard

Current Project

Certainty Betrayed: A Literary Thriller

Writing Update

While on vacation, I completed the climax chapter for Certainty Betrayed. That was an emotional experience! I can’t wait for readers to be able to read it. I hope it’s surprising, but even if you figure it all out, I think you’ll be as affected as I was. At least I hope so!

More emotion came along as I finished the novel Monday night. This novel has a strong emotional ending, so be prepared.

I’ve added 2 more beta readers this week. That takes me to 5. That should be enough. I’ll need their feedback soon. I’ve already started revising the manuscript. Chapter 1’s revision is done and posted for Paid Subscribers to access. I think this the revision is much improved over the first draft.

Current Chapter: 45 (And complete!)
Current draft Word Count: 69,213 (I wanted around 80K, but I expect to add about 10K on revision)

This Week

I spent last week on the shores of Lake Huron. I thought I’d write a bunch… Nope. I wrote less than half what I typically do. On the 4^th, I watched fireworks from the beach with my wife and my sister. My kids were all in town watching from a bar or the marina. While watching from the beach, we decided we had seen fireworks shows enough over the last 50 years or so. We went back early and practiced being boring old people. LOL.

My sister finished my manuscript. She really likes it. She wants me to turn it into a screenplay. I have no idea how to do that…

Went back to work Monday. Travelled to Jacksonville in July. Advice: Don’t do that. It’s hot. But on the plus side, I scored on my rental car. Got a BMW convertible at no extra charge!

Thought for the Week

Socrates once said we are foolish to fear death, since, for all we know, it might be the best thing that ever happens to us. Is he right? Do we fear something great just because it’s unknown?

Reader Q&A

Question: “Have you got any advice for me?”

Answer: Honestly, I’m at best just a step or two ahead of brand new Substack users. I’m learning fast, but certainly no expert.

I use AI as a tool to help me in my craft, careful to never let it write for me. If you don’t use AI, start learning. It’s here to stay and if you don’t learn it, you might as well start writing with parchment and a quill…

So I guess that’s my advice for any new writer. Embrace the tech. Learn it. But use it ethically and responsibly.

Until next week...

--AR

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I wrote this today in response to an article. Thought I’d share.

The Writing Conference

I walked to the bar and waited my turn to order a double of bourbon. Neat, of course. The bartender was an older gentleman with a sour look on his face while he was making drinks, but a friendly smile and engaging personality when talking to his patrons. I charged the drink to my room, added a hefty tip, and found an empty table by the window.

Sipping my whiskey, I looked around the room. Two young girls had a thirty-ish something woman in jeans and a sweater cornered as they seemed to assault her with an animated barrage of something I couldn’t hear. But I didn’t need to hear. They were pushing their novel. Or novels. Everyone here was a writer, a literary agent, or worked in publishing. New writers were everywhere, desperate to find someone, anyone, to validate their work and buy their manuscripts.

About a minute later, another woman, dressed in a smart business suit and sensible shoes, rescued the first woman and led her to the vacant table near me. The business suit woman left for the bar for drinks. The sweater woman looked my way. I nodded to her, sipped my bourbon, and turned to stare out the window. The conference was over for the day. She was probably an agent or something, but she deserved her downtime. Maybe she and I could talk at the conference tomorrow.

Suit lady came back with drinks and another woman in tow. They sat down and sipped drinks as they started to discuss the day’s event.

“Thank you for saving me, Susan. They wanted me to query a romantasy about elves, a princess, and a goat. It was like Fifty Shades meets Old McDonald. They wouldn’t take no for an answer.”

“You need to be more assertive, Brenda. You’ll drive yourself crazy being nice and polite all the time. Tell them no and walk away.”

“I can’t, Susan. It means so much to them. I don’t want to kill their dreams.”

“Susan’s right, Brenda,” said the third woman. “You’re too nice. Some of these writers are crazy. Especially the ones without any talent.”

“I know,” said Brenda. “But they’re just kids. One of them is only seventeen.”

“That doesn’t mean they can write. What was with the goat?”

“I don’t know. I was too afraid to ask. It’s not even my genre. I hate fantasy. Romance is OK, but I think they were into soft erotica or something.”

“With goats!” exclaimed Susan. All three women laughed. I took a sip of my drink to cover my own chuckle, trying not to make it obvious I could overhear their conversation.

The three ladies continued to talk about the conference. I took out my phone and checked my Substack account. I replied to a couple of messages, “liked” a few posts, and wrote a quick note, timing it to post at midnight.

“I really want a good thriller, but everything I read lately is generic garbage. I need something new.”

I looked over at the women. The third, unnamed woman, had spoken. The others agreed with her about how hard it was to find the next really good book in their preferred genre. I felt conflicted. I was querying agents for my debut thriller novel that I thought was fairly original and pretty good, but I didn’t want to be another desperate and obnoxious nut at a writer’s conference.

Screw it. If you don’t ask, the answer is already ‘NO.’

“Excuse me, Ladies,” I said in a voice loud enough to travel to the next table. The three women stopped talking and looked over. “I don’t want to be ‘that guy,’ but I have a thriller that might interest you. If you tell me where to find you tomorrow, I’d love to discuss it with you at the conference.”

Susan and Brenda looked at the third women. She had a look in her eye like a cornered badger, trying to decide whether to flee or attack.

“I apologize, ladies. That was out of line. Please excuse my rudeness. I’ll leave you to your drinks.” I stood up with my drink and started to walk to the bar.

“No, wait,” I heard from behind me. I stopped and turned around. The third woman had stood up and was walking toward me. “I’ll be at table 61 over on the left side of the main auditorium. Stop by tomorrow and tell me about your book.” She handed me a business card.

I took the card, studied it for a moment and shook her hand. “Thank you, Ms. Carmella. I’m Brad Gibbons.”

“It’s Sarah, Please.”

“Then please call me Brad. Thank you again, Sarah. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Sarah Carmella returned to her table, and I went up to the bar for another drink before returning to my room. I met with Sarah the next day. She heard my pitch and liked it. A week later, she signed me as her client. My book comes out next week.

I have completed the first draft and have begun the first revision.

A complete .pdf copy of the draft is in the Paid Subscriber DropBox:

Read more

I learned something about myself today.

I know absolutely noting about editing and revision.

So… I am taking the deep dive and learning fast.

I’ve learned about cadence and rhythm, pacing, POV, economy of prose, and how important it is to avoid distracting the reader if you want to achieve real immersion.

Applying these new ideas, I’ve started revising Chapter 1 of Certainty Betrayed. Here are the first two paragraphs to show the difference.

Old:

James opened his eyes as he felt the ambulance come to a stop. He watched as the paramedic unbuckled his seatbelt and moved toward the back doors of the rig. He lost focus for a few moments, looking around the back of the rig without really seeing the medical equipment stored in the various lockers. The medication he had received in the Emergency Room left him feeling detached and drowsy. His attention was drawn to the back as the medics opened the doors and prepared to remove the stretcher on which James was lying, belted down for his safety, with a blanket over top to keep him warm. He briefly noted the scratchy feeling of the coarse material against his skin.

“OK James,” said the first paramedic as he and his female partner prepared to remove the stretcher from the rig. “Just lie there and let us do all the work.”

New:

James felt the ambulance come to a stop and opened his eyes. Somewhere near his head, a paramedic unbuckled himself and moved to the back of the rig, opening the rear doors. James looked around, trying to figure out where he was. He felt restraints across his chest and legs. A thick blanket covered him. It was itchy, but warm. He remembered an emergency room. They had given him a shot. A B-52, someone had said. No wonder he felt so drowsy and detached.

Outside the doors, another medic joined the first. A short woman with dark hair. As the first medic grabbed the foot of the stretcher, he looked up at James, “OK, James. Just lie there and let us do all the work.”

The original draft got the story out, but it was clunky and distracting. The reader was led away from James, the protagonist, toward non-essential details about the environment. The revision keeps the focus on James. I think it flows better too.

I still have more to learn, and I need to practice. Just changing these two paragraphs took almost two hours of research and practice, trying to get it right.

But once I achieve this skill, my writing should improve overall, making future projects that much easier.

—AR

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This week’s quote

“You don’t have to see the whole staircase, just take the first step.”

— Martin Luther King, Jr.

Current Project

Certainty Betrayed: A Literary Thriller

Writing Update

I’m doing well on the daily word counts overall, but Sunday ended up being a day of rest (after writing daily for about two weeks.) Monday through Wednesday were all well below my average daily word count. But I’m on vacation, so…

A moment for complaining: I’m 58yo. When I type a lot, my fingers get sore. Mild arthritis, no big deal, but I needed a day off Sunday. The lighter days have also helped.

Aside from sore fingers, I was at a bit of a roadblock. I needed to solve a problem about getting certain characters to a certain place at a certain time. So, Monday, as I was driving to our property up north for a quick day trip, my brain just started working on it. And BOOM! I figured it out. So, I got a chapter in Monday and was back on track.

Current Chapter: 43
Current Word Count: 63,795

Happenings This Week

I’m writing this from the shores of Lake Huron.

My Father-in-Law has a cottage right on the shore. He gave it to us for the week. I can see the lake through the window as I write this. Something about this place is so peaceful – my blood pressure drops 10 points whenever we come here. I really love this place.

For the book project in general, I developed a webpage for Certainty Betrayed. It’s at certaintybetrayed.com if you’d like to see it.

I also developed some very short book-related videos and put them on TikTok and Instagram as marketing tools. I’ll let you know how they work.

Thought for the Week

In a world that has become binary and polarized, do you think people are still able to see shades of gray? Is compromise possible?

Reader Q&A

Question: How do you get a reader to feel compassion for someone they despise?

Answer: I believe the only way to do that is to help the reader see a person’s humanity, regardless of any atrocities they may have committed. But there’s more than that. You have to make the character show some kind of remorse. This gives the reader permission to forgive the character enough to not only see their humanity, but to feel for them as well.

Until next week...

--AR

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This article will be the first of a series to help new writers become familiar with some of the terms or jargon used in the publishing industry. Please enjoy.

Market Categories

The publishing industry has its own jargon for categorizing books. One of those categorizing tools is “Market Category.”

The marketing category, or market positioning, helps publishers, distributors, marketers, libraries, etc. know what kind of audience a book will appeal to. Genre tells what the story is about. Market category determines who is likely to buy it. It helps companies:

• Figure out what marketplace the book fits in (i.e. Youth Fiction vs Adult Non-Fiction)

• What editors and publishers might be interested.

• How a literary agent or editor should pitch the manuscript.

• Identify the prospective audience.

• What comps to use.

• What the cover should look like.

These are the most common market categories:

• Adult Fiction:

  • Commercial

  • Literary

  • Upmarket

• Children’s/Youth fiction:

  • Children’s books (picture books – middle school level writing)

  • Young Adult (12-18)

  • New Adult (18-30)

• Other:

  • Textbooks

  • Non-fiction

  • Memoirs

  • Biography

  • Reference

  • Self-help

  • Business

So, let’s focus on the Adult Fiction categories: Commercial, Literary, and Upmarket.

Commercial

Books categorized as commercial are written and published for the general market. They tend to be fast paced with easy-to-read language, simple plots, and strong hooks. These books are designed to entertain, provide escape, and to keep the reader turning pages.

• The DaVinci Code

• Jurassic Park

• The Notebook

• The Harry Potter series

• The Exorcist

Notice that these are all from separate genres. Fantasy, horror, mystery, it doesn’t matter. Market categorizing isn’t about the story type. It’s about what kind of reader will be interested, regardless of story type.

Literary

Literary books are works of art. These are the books with deep characters, beautiful prose, complex themes, ideas, and symbolism. The plot is secondary to the development of the characters and ideas. These are the kinds of books that become classics and win Pulitzer Prizes. Examples of literary novels:

• In the Woods

• The Secret History

• The English Patient

• The Buried Giant

• Beloved

Upmarket

Upmarket books fall somewhere between these two categories. They are less artistic than literary, but deeper and more complex than commercial books. Plot is important, but so is the prose and the character development.

Many successful novels fall into this category. The market loves it because it appeals to a very wide audience. Here are some examples of upmarket novels:

• The Lovely Bones

• Shutter Island

• Me Before You

• The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue

• Mexican Gothic.

Think about what category your own writing falls into. Next letter, we will consider the different genres.

Until next time.

--AR

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Chapter 5

Robert

Robert was startled by pounding on the bathroom door. “Hey Lock! Call your dad! He said it’s important!” How the hell would Racer know dad called? he wondered as he rinsed the shampoo from his hair. He thought about where he had left his cell phone. On the dresser, right? Was Racer messing with his phone? He wouldn’t put it past him.

He finished showering, dried off in the tub, then hung his towel on a hook above the toilet as he stepped onto the bare linoleum floor of the tiny bathroom. He threw on the pair of clean white briefs hanging from the door knob, grabbed the old pair from the floor, and opened the door.

As he came into the hall and headed for his bedroom, Racer yelled from the living room of the small apartment they both shared. “Did you hear me? Call your dad.”

Robert stopped at the opening to the living room. John Parker, called “Racer” by virtually everyone who knew him, was sitting on the edge of the couch playing Call of Duty on the giant 80-inch television that took up most of the opposite wall. It was the WWII version. “How do you know my dad called? Do you have my phone?”

“No. You didn’t answer so he called mine. He said it’s important.” Racer replied without pausing the game.

“Really? OK. Thanks.” Robert replied and turned back toward the bedroom. As he entered his room, he tossed the dirty underwear into a basket by the closet and walked over to the bedside table. His phone showed three missed calls from his father. He threw on a pair of basketball shorts and a tee shirt, sat at the side of the bed, and dialed his father.

Richard O’Loughlin answered on the second ring. “Robert?”

“Yeah dad. What’s up?”

“No easy way to tell you. James is in trouble.”

“Trouble... What’s going on?”

“A detective up in Michigan called me. James is missing. They say he broke out of a mental hospital. They say he killed some people.”

“James? No way. James doesn’t kill people.”

“That’s what I said too. I had trouble just getting him to go to Kick Boxing classes. He was always afraid he’d hurt someone. And he tried to drop wrestling after his first real match.”

“Yeah. This doesn’t make sense. Why do they think he’s involved?”

“They said they have video of him killing a nurse. I don’t know what to think. Someone needs to go up there. If they think he’s dangerous, they might shoot first and arrest later. Can you go? There’s no way I can.”

Two years ago, Richard had suffered a stroke. The tough old man had worked hard to recover, but at seventy years old, there was only so much he could do. He was still weak on his left side and walked with a walker. Robert had noticed other changes following recovery. His father, always strong and forceful, had become softer and slower of thought. He’d allowed Nancy to take over many of the household responsibilities like paying bills and making appointments. He sometimes lost his train of thought or repeated himself. These behaviors were in sharp contrast to the highly disciplined and stoic man Robert had known most of his life.

“They said he broke out of the hospital, Robbie. They say he killed people! That’s just not possible!”

Robert could hear the suppressed stress in his father’s voice. He sat on the bed for a moment without responding. His mind was racing in a way that wouldn’t let him focus on a single thought.

“Robbie?”

His father’s voice brought him back to focus.

“I think I can go up there. We’ve only been back for a few weeks, and I have plenty of leave. I’ll need to call my CO. Let me see what I can do. Where’s mom?”

“She’s been in the bedroom for the last hour. She hasn’t stopped crying. She tried calling the group home, but they couldn’t tell her anything.”

“Have her call me when she’s feeling better. I’m going to call my CO.”

“OK. I wish I could go. I hate asking you.”

“He’s my brother, Dad. I’ll go. You take care of mom. I’ll call you back in a bit.”

“Thank you Robbie.”

“Love you Dad. Bye.” Robert tapped the phone to end the call.

“Trouble?” Robert looked up to see Racer standing in the doorway.

“Sounds like it. I need to go up to Detroit. My brother needs me.”

“Anything I can help with?”

“Probably not. Just don’t destroy this place while I’m gone.”

“No promises. And Lock?” he said, using Robert’s team nickname, short for O’Loughlin, “Call me. For anything.”

“Thanks Racer. I will.”

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“The captain has started his initial descent. Please fasten all seatbelts, place all seats in their upright positions, and close all seat trays. We will pass through the cabin one more time to collect any items you wish to discard. We thank you for trusting Delta for all your traveling needs.”

Robert watched out the window as the plane came in for landing at Detroit Metro Airport. He pulled his backpack from under the seat and stowed his ear buds and phone. He looked around and smiled to himself when the plane came to a stop at the gate and everyone stood up in the aisle. The plane’s door wasn’t even open yet. Where did they think they were going? This always amused him.

Several minutes later, as the passengers ahead of him began to file out, he moved to the aisle, grabbed a large duffle from the overhead bin, and walked off the plane. Once in the terminal, he saw that he was close to the exit. He made his way out and to the shuttles for rental cars.

Having been deployed in a combat zone for the last 16 months, Robert had accumulated a lot of money with no way to really spend it until he returned to the States three weeks ago. When reserving his rental car, he had decided to splurge and get a large SUV. At the Hertz desk, he found his name and the lot number for his car and headed to the parking lot. His assigned car was a white Dodge Durango. It had the RT package, was loaded, and had the 5.7 Hemi badge on the fender. “Yes!” He exclaimed, then laughed at himself for being excited about a rental car.

He loaded his belongings into the car, adjusted his mirrors and seat, connected his phone to the radio, and loaded his hotel address into Google Maps. Once everything was set, he headed to the gate, showed the attendant his ID, received his rental agreement, and followed the signs to the I-275 freeway.

On the 30 minute drive to his hotel, Robert reflected on the turmoil of the last 12 hours. His CO had immediately approved a fifteen day leave, but had admonished him to avoid involving himself in anything that would reflect poorly on the team. He had immediately booked the evening flight from Atlanta, then booked his usual hotel in Southfield. He always stayed at the Candlewood Suites when visiting the area. He liked having a kitchen and a living area, especially for a longer stay.

About half an hour later, his mother had finally called. Her voice sounded tired and raspy, probably from crying. They talked about James and reminisced about growing up in Troy, a middle-class community just north of Detroit. Richard had married later in life, after he had retired from the Navy. He had met Nancy at a small reception for new members after a Mass at St. Andrew’s. She was 26, he was 39, but they felt a connection immediately. They were married in the same church a year later. James came along exactly nine months after the honeymoon. Robert was born 11 months after that. The two Irish boys were true Irish twins.

They talked about how close Robert and James were growing up. How they spent their summers riding bicycles through the neighborhood, got into trouble together, double dated, and helped each other with homework. Throughout it all, Nancy had been their anchor at home, supplying them with an endless supply of support and love. Richard, their father, had given them their moral code, work ethic, organization skills, and the discipline to succeed in whatever goals they set.

And they talked about The Break. Jimmy’s life-changing admission for psychiatric care, his medications and subsequent admissions, the breakup with his girlfriend, his inability to return to college, and a few years later, his move to a group home in an attempt to gain a semblance of independence from his family.

Robert was feeling a bit overwhelmed by the time he reached the hotel. He parked the car, gathered his bags, and walked into the familiar building. Kenny, the desk clerk, greeted him by name, and processed his check-in quickly.

“It’s been a while, Mr. O’Loughlin. We’ve missed you.”

“Yeah. Been out of country for a few months. Finally got up here to see my brother.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Don’t know. Haven’t seen him yet!” Robert replied with a grin.

“Well I hope he’s doing well.” Kenny said, handing Robert his key card. “I’m here for a few more minutes if you need anything.”

“Thanks Kenny,” Robert said, taking the card. “Have a good evening.” He then picked up his bags and headed toward the stairs at the end of the hall.

Once in the room, Robert checked his G-Shock wristwatch for the time. It was nearly 11pm. He unpacked his belongings, brushed his teeth, stripped to underwear and a tee shirt, and sat on the couch. On his phone, he scanned through a few news sites looking for updates about his brother.

Local sites told him that the police were still looking for James, but they didn’t have any real leads. The press was sensationalizing the story in the usual way, trying to keep readers engaged to sell advertising. One editorial gave James’ mental health history, framed in a way that made him look like the next Charles Manson. Robert became increasingly agitated reading the article and finally tossed his phone on the coffee table in front of him. He vowed to avoid the news as much as possible going forward.

He sat for a moment and performed some deep breathing exercises he remembered from martial arts training as a kid. Once his heart slowed, he picked up the phone and called his dad. It was late, but he knew his father wouldn’t go to bed until he heard from him.

“Robbie?” Richard answered after a single ring.

“Hi Dad. I just got to my hotel and figured I’d give you a call before racking out.”

“Good. I’m guessing you haven’t tried finding your brother yet? It’s pretty late.”

“No. It’s almost 11. I’ll start in the morning. I checked the news. It’s pretty bad. They think James is a monster.”

“Yeah. I saw some of that too. It’s made the national news too. I’m keeping tabs in case they give us any clues on how to find him. Nothing so far.”

“I’ll start checking the usual haunts tomorrow. Did that detective call back?”

“No. I’ll let you know if he does.”

“See if you can get any information from him. But don’t tell him I’m here. He might not like me sniffing around.”

“Right. I’ll keep that quiet. But I won’t lie to him. If he asks, I’ll have to tell him the truth.”

“Oh yeah. For sure. But please don’t volunteer anything. If he makes me stop looking, I won’t be any use up here.”

“I’ll be discreet. You do the same.”

“Absolutely. How’s mom?”

“About the same. Not crying anymore, but still not really willing to talk about it. She’ll be OK once it’s all over. It’s the uncertainty keeping her down.”

“What if it goes bad, Dad?

“Let’s not worry about that now. Focus on what we can control and do the work. I’ll monitor news and do what I can with the detective. You focus on finding James and do what you can to protect him.”

“Right. Mission focus. Roger that.”

“Robert… Thank you. I mean that.”

“He’s my brother. I got this, Dad.”

“I love you son.”

“Ditto, Dad. Good night.”

Robert ended the call, plugged the phone into his charger, laid down on the bed, extinguished the bedside light, and was asleep 20 seconds later.

---------

Robert thanked the waitress as she warmed up his second cup of coffee. He glanced again at the yellow notepad beside his breakfast plate and took the last bite of his scrambled eggs. The pad showed a list of only six locations, places Robert intended to check in a disheartening attempt to organize his search for James. He picked up the last triangle of toast and smeared it with a healthy portion of Smucker’s orange marmalade. He slowly ate the toast as he tried to think of a better way to locate his brother.

After paying the waitress, Robert returned to the Durango and started driving to the first location on his list. It was an old tree fort the brothers had found in a small wood on the southwest side of their old neighborhood. The boys would ride their bikes along crude trails in the surrounding fields, jumping small hills, and splashing through giant puddles, trying to knock each other down, or daring each other to ride faster. They had found the abandoned fort deep inside a copse of trees and brush, invisible from the field’s edge. It was well made with a water-tight roof. They had quickly claimed it as their official hideout. They would sit inside for hours, playing with Pokémon cards, telling ever more outrageous stories or off-color jokes, or looking through a small pile of adult magazines whose racy photos caused them to feel both adolescent thrill and Catholic guilt. The old fort was a cache of treasured memories for both men. They referred to it frequently during Robert’s visits to Michigan, and always vowed to go back there sometime, but never had.

Robert parked the Durango at the side of the residential street and looked at the line of brand new cookie-cutter micro-mansions where the field used to be. The trails were gone, replaced by asphalt driveways and manicured lawns. He couldn’t see any trees behind the brick atrocities, just another row of houses and Costco playsets.

He sat in the car and stared out the window for a few minutes. Had it really been that long since he’d been back to the old neighborhood? Could so much have really changed?

He reached over to the passenger seat for the yellow notepad. He grabbed a pen from the center console and crossed off the first item on his list. James wasn’t here. Nothing was here. Everything that mattered had been replaced with ugly brick Pulte homes and screaming kids he didn’t know.

He looked again at the list. Only five more items. Would all of them be dead ends? Was he even going about this in the right way? He was a soldier, not a detective. What did he know about finding someone who didn’t want to be found? In the Rangers, they had teams of analysts who figured this stuff out. He and his brothers just went in the direction they were pointed and made things happen. Yeah, he could gather additional intel and make spot decisions, or surveil a building, but he wasn’t a trained investigator.

Robert reached up and rubbed the back of his neck, feeling the stored tension. He was starting to realize the incredible burden he had accepted by promising his father to find James. “I’m going to need help.” He said out loud, and began to consider people he might be able to reach out to.

He decided against the group home. He wanted to keep a low profile, and the group home would probably tell the police he had been asking questions. In fact, he was worried about telling anyone about his visit, for fear it would jeopardize his mission. He thought about calling his dad but decided against it. He needed someone in the area. Someone he could trust. Someone he could soundboard ideas off of and who could help him figure out a workable strategy.

He tried to think of any Batt Boys from the area. No one came to mind. He knew only three Rangers in his Regiment who were from the area, and they were all back at Benning. He wasn’t in touch with any of his childhood friends. James had been his best friend. The rest had faded into their own lives after Robert left for the Army. He began to realize how few roots had had left in the area where he had grown up. Except James.

His mind drifted to his time as an altar boy at St. Andrew’s. What about the other boys? No. He hadn’t talked to any of them in years. He did see Pete Moore once when he and James had attended Mass at Easter a few years back, but they had struggled to maintain a conversation. Pete was an accountant, married with four kids. Robert was a confirmed bachelor and professional soldier. They no longer had much in common. James had stood off to the side the entire time, avoiding the conversation.

Father Louis!

Robert sat up straight. He could trust Fr. Louis!

As young teens, both James and Robert often found themselves a bit outcast from their peers because of their sharp intellects, inquisitive minds, and tendencies to obsess upon complex ideas, especially morality, ethics, and religion. He remembered sitting for hours in the living room of the rectory, drinking iced Lipton, and solving the philosophical dilemmas of the ages with James and Fr. Louis. The kind old priest always showed tremendous patience as he used Socratic method to help the boys explore their thoughts. Robert and James had always felt safe exploring ideas with Fr. Louis, regardless of how offensive or blasphemous the ideas might appear to a more rigidly religious outsider who didn’t understand that the boys were simply exploring ideas without believing those ideas were correct.

Fr. Louis could be trusted. Robert decided to go look him up.

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As he parked the Durango in the lot outside the Rectory, Robert felt childhood memories come back with startling clarity. He and James had attended the attached school until the eighth grade. Their family had attended Sunday Mass routinely in the church sanctuary. In this building, both brothers had served as altar boys, gone to Confession, and received their first Communions. Both brothers were Confirmed with their eighth-grade classes before going on to high school. He could smell beeswax candles and hear the echoes of laughter from the vaulted ceilings as his father shushed the boys during worship, his stern look promising some kind of punishment when they got home. He remembered pouring wax from the votive candles into the small circular bases to make little wax pucks they would take home as prizes for their successful mischief. He remembered running when a teacher had almost caught them once. Sister Cordelia. Thank God they got away. The good sister was not one you wanted to cross.

Robert felt himself start to relax as he headed up the walkway to the side door of the building. He could smell the overgrown lilac bush nestled between the door and the corner of the house. The church gardener and Fr. Louis fought over that bush every year. The gardener wanted to cut it back, but Fr. Louis wanted it to grow as big as possible, filling the yard every year with an overpowering aroma of spring. The rest of the walkway was neatly trimmed and lined with geraniums in a chaotic array of red, orange, yellow, white, and purple. He walked to the door and rang the bell. Mrs. Brown, the rectory housekeeper, answered and recognized him immediately.

“Robbie!” The older woman exclaimed, giving Robert a tight hug. “It’s been years! How are you? Come in. Mind the shoes. Fr. Louis will be so happy to see you. He’s in the library. Will you stay for lunch? Can I get you something to drink? Won’t take a minute. I’m already making Tea for the Father.”

Robert, grinning profusely, agreed to a glass of lemonade and made his way down the familiar hallway to the “library.”

The library was really a large bedroom in the historic old farmhouse turned church rectory. The original owners had been wealthy horse breeders in the early 19^th century. This room had been the master bedroom, with six more bedrooms upstairs. The floor was wide finished planks of walnut, with additional walnut used for the wainscot and moldings. Above the door was a transom with a chain hanging down to a hook on the wall.

The walls were lined with bookshelves, and a large maple desk filled the center of the room with the desk’s chair positioned so the elderly priest could see out the bay window overlooking the garden. Father Louis looked up from a large book that lay open on the desk. From the beautiful illumination of gold and bold colors along the edges of the pages, Robert guessed it was a vintage Catholic Bible, possibly very old and very valuable.

“Robert?” Fr. Louis said, using his proper name. Fr. Louis never used nicknames.

“Hello Fr. Louis. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

“Oh no, not at all.” said the priest as he placed a silk bookmark on the page and closed the book and carefully set it to the side. Robert noticed it was written in Latin. He recognized the language but could no longer understand any of the text. He had never studied Latin but had picked up a bit helping James study. He had forgotten more than he remembered. “I assume you’re here because of James. Please, have a seat,” he said, gesturing to a wingback chair near the window across from the desk.

“You’ve heard?” asked Robert, settling into the chair. He was interrupted by a knock on the open door. Mrs. Brown, without waiting for a response, entered the room with a tray carrying Robert’s lemonade, as well as a teapot and cup for the priest. The men expressed their gratitude as she served them and quietly left the room.

“I’ve seen the news reports,” Fr. Louis continued the conversation, pouring tea into his cup and adding a squeeze from the lemon wedge Mrs. Brown had included atop the saucer, alongside the ornate teacup. “Have you heard from him?”

“No. I probably shouldn’t involve you, but I need to find him. My dad and I are afraid the police will kill him if they find him first. The press is making him out to be a monster.”

“I’ve noticed that. Their portrayal is very different from the James I know.”

“Me too. I can’t believe James did what they say. But my dad spoke with a detective. He says they have it on video. He says James killed that girl.”

Robert looked down and noticed his fists clenched tight against his knees. He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax, opening the fists and carefully placing his hands in his lap. He looked up and met Fr. Louis’ eyes. The old man waited patiently as Robert regained his composure.

“My specialty is ancient languages and scripture, not mental health. But I’ve read a bit on the subject.” Fr. Louis was well read on a multitude of subjects. “If James is delusional, he could easily engage in behaviors that are unusual to his personality or character. I’m afraid it’s not impossible that he has become dangerous and has actually hurt people. We need to come to terms with that if we are to help him.”

Robert continued to sit quietly as the priest watched him, a look of concern on his face. A lifetime of trusting this wise and caring man forced him to consider what he had just heard. He spent several minutes attempting to reframe his understanding of his brother in a way that would let him work with the reality, despite his own emotions and preconceptions. Finding objectivity required tremendous effort, but after a few moments, he began to take the first steps toward acceptance.

Fr. Louis noticed a slight shift in Robert’s posture and expression. “I think you are beginning to accept things as they are rather than how you wish them to be.”

“I don’t want to, Father. I don’t want any of this to be real. Where is God in all of this?”

“I’m not wise enough to know God’s will or His plan in everything that happens to us. But consider this. He is with us as we navigate difficult challenges. That’s much better than trying to meet those challenges alone. Like Saint Paul, I try not to ask God to take hardship out of my life but instead ask Him to help me overcome those hardships and do what’s right. Not much of a consolation in the current circumstance, I realize, but something to consider over the next few days.”

“You’re right. That doesn’t really help right now, but I’ll think about it. But metaphysics aside, I was hoping you might be able to help me find James.”

“I’m not sure how I can be of help. I’m not as mobile as I once was. And I certainly don’t have any detective skills.”

“Yeah, me either. The detective skills I mean.” He told the priest about his very short list of places to check and how ineffective the first stop had been. Fr. Louis asked to see the list and considered for a moment.

“I think we need to approach this differently. It’s not so much about where James has been, but more about where he might go. What would motivate him to choose a particular location? What would cause him to avoid others? If he is delusional, how would that affect his perceptions of safety, security, and need?”

Robert thought for a moment. “This might take some time. I don’t know how to think like that. I’ve never experienced delusion. At least not at that level. I guess we all suffer some delusions.” He finished with a smile.

“Absolutely true. I believe you and James were once under the delusion that Sister Cordelia would tolerate adolescent pranks.”

“Ouch!” Robert said with a wince, recalling a joke played on the strict teacher in the 7^th grade involving glitter and some significant consequences. “That cured me of those delusions for sure!”

“Delusions are tricky,” said the priest, assuming his lecture tone. “They don’t manifest for everyone the same. For James, I would guess they take the form of protection, for himself and for others. Although that doesn’t seem to agree with the harm he has caused these other people.”

“Unless he’s protecting himself from them. Or protecting someone else.”

“Do you know if these hospital employees may have abused him in some way?”

“I don’t know. If they did, no one has mentioned it.”

“OK. Let’s table that for now. What else could trigger a protective response?”

Robert and Fr. Louis sat in silence, thinking of possible triggers or fears that could compel James to respond with violence.

“Does James fear his medications?” asked Fr. Louis.

“I don’t think so. When he’s stable, he’s really good about taking them. But, unfortunately, the meds have stopped working a few times. He’s been admitted several times over the years to get things adjusted.”

“OK. Maybe that’s a bad lead. Hmmm…” Both men returned to silent contemplation.

“I’m not thinking of anything.” Robert finally exclaimed in frustration.

“No, I’m afraid I’m also at a loss. We need to give it some time. We are not accustomed to James’ world. You are closest to him. Keep trying over the next few days. You might be surprised what your subconscious mind comes up with.

Oh. And don’t forget to pray. It’s easy to overlook that at times. But prayer often helps when effort and determination fail.”

“I’ll remember, Father.” Robert promised, feeling a moment of guilt for needing the reminder. God had played a much more important role in his life as a teenager. Robert couldn’t remember that last time he’d even been to Mass. He considered asking Fr. Louis to take his confession, but decided against it. Maybe Sunday.

The two men allowed the conversation to drift toward happier subjects, spending the remainder of the morning and early afternoon reminiscing, engaging in friendly discourse, and exploring deep subjects of philosophy and religion. Mrs. Brown joined their discussion briefly during lunch, adding her own pragmatic perspective to a discussion on poverty and the proper way to help the poor. But eventually, Robert forced himself to return to his mission to find James, excused himself to leave.

“Will you bless me, Father?” He had asked as the two men walked to the door.

“Of course, Robert.” The priest replied, placing his left hand on Robert’s head. He made the sign of the cross, said a brief benediction, and took Robert’s right hand in both of his. “Trust in God, son. Things might not make sense sometimes but trust Him anyway. Come back if you think I can help.”

“Yes Father. Thank you.”

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Robert looked around for police cars, and seeing none, picked up his phone. He scanned through his “favorites” list and clicked on his father’s number. Richard answered after the first ring.

“Robbie?”

“Hi Dad.”

“Did you find him?”

“Not yet, Dad.”

“Hold on, I’m putting you on speaker.”

“Robbie?” Robert heard his mother’s voice.

“Hi Mom. I’m sorry. I haven’t found him yet.”

“Oh my gosh. OK. Let us know right away if you find anything out.”

“He will Nancy. He’s doing what he can.” Interrupted Richard.

“I know, Dick. But I’m worried.”

“We all are, Honey. Robert will find him.”

“Dad, I’m not sure how to find him. I went by the old neighborhood today. It’s changed. A lot. No way James went there. It’s nothing like what it was.”

“What’s different? Is our house gone?”

No. But the woods are gone and there are a lot of new houses. Just driving down our street feels different. Not like home. I felt like an outsider. James would too. I don’t think he’s there. But I don’t know where to look next.

“I stopped by St. Andrew’s and saw Fr. Louis.”

“Oh. Did you tell him about James?”

“He already knew. It’s all over the news up here.”

“What did he say?” Richard’s voice sounded guarded.

“Don’t worry Dad. He was his usual gracious self. He tried to help me think of ways to find James.”

“What did he come up with?”

“Nothing really. He did help me think of a different way to approach it though. I need to play with that and let you know if I come up with anything.”

“Robert, that detective called again. He asked about you.”

“What did you tell him?”

“The truth. He knows you’re up there and wants to talk to you. You need to call him.”

“Crap. I really didn’t want to get involved with the police.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want you getting into trouble too. Please call him. I’ll text you the number.”

“OK. I will.”

“Please do it now. And call me after.”

“Yes sir.”

“I love you son.”

“Love you Robbie,” Nancy said over the speaker.

“I love you both,” he replied. “I’ll call back in a few.”

Robert hung up the phone.

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Chapter 4

James

James walked into the kitchen and turned on the water at the tap. He let the water run to clear any contaminants while he placed a paper liner in the basket of the coffee maker. He opened the can of Folgers and frowned as he poured the grains into the filter. He preferred Maxwell House. He walked back to the sink, filled the carafe and turned off the faucet, poured the water into the back of the machine, and started the brew.

He wandered back into the living room to wait for the coffee. As he sat down on the ugly flowered fabric of an outdated couch, he carefully avoided looking at the two bodies crumpled in the corner between the overstuffed chair and the large potted Ficus near the front door. He reached for the remote on the coffee table in front of him and turned on the old tube TV sitting on a table across the room.

What did they do to her? Where is she?

Scanning the channels, James stopped at a local news report and set the remote down. He half listened as he shifted through a stack of magazines on the coffee table and selected an issue of Motor Trend that was only a few months old and checked the content’s list. He then turned to the correct page and began reading about the new Porsche 718 Cayman. James preferred the convertible Boxster, but the Cayman was OK. He had always been a fan of Porsche sports cars.

His attention was drawn back to the television.

“…murder of a patient and two staff members, including a nurse.” said a middle aged Asian woman on the screen. “We have Carla Miller on scene.” The scene switched to another woman holding a microphone.

“Thank you Mina. I’m here at the State Psychiatric Hospital with the hospital’s Risk Manager, Dave LaPierre.” The reporter turned to Dave, “Mr. LaPierre, it’s reported that a dangerous patient has escaped your facility and is on the run, can you tell me what happened?”

“I can only give general details, but yes, a patient has escaped the facility. The State police are in charge of finding him.”

“And I understand there were three people killed, including another patient, is that correct?”

“I can confirm that there were three people killed during the escape, but I cannot give you any details on the victims or the circumstances surrounding their deaths. This is an active police investigation. All information of that kind will need to come from the investigators covering the case.”

“Did the escaped patient do the killings?”

“I’m sorry, but I cannot answer that question at this time.”

The camera moved Dave out of the frame and focused on the reporter.

“So we have confirmation of three deaths here at the state hospital and an escaped psychiatric patient at large. I spoke with police just prior to this report. They are also not providing us with much detail yet, but they did confirm that the escaped patient is unmedicated and should be considered dangerous. They are asking the public to be on the watch for this man…”

The image on the screen changed to a portrait picture of James he recalled being taken by his group home about a year ago.

“…and to notify State or local police with any information. We are told the suspect fled in a blue Honda Civic and went West on Civic Center as he left the hospital grounds. I’m afraid that’s all the information we have at this time. Back to you Mina.”

They know. They will come.

James stood up as the image on the TV screen changed back to the studio reporter. He stopped listening and walked back into the kitchen. He could see the front end of Charlie’s Honda parked at the top of the driveway just in front of the detached one-car garage. He grabbed the keys off the counter and stepped out the side door into the driveway. He sat down in the driver seat of the Honda and moved it into the back yard alongside the garage.

Opening the garage door, James found an old silver Buick Century that appeared to be in good condition. He searched along the wall and found an old canvas tarp. He pulled it outside to the Honda and covered it, weighing the corners of the tarp with some cinder blocks he found among the overgrown weeds behind the garage. He closed the garage and headed back into the house.

Once back in the kitchen, James grabbed a coffee cup from a wooden dowel tree sitting on the counter next to the coffee machine. The cup read “Best Grandpa” with a heart in the background. He filled the cup from the pot, which had only completed three quarters of its brew, then went back to the living room at the front of the house.

As he sat down, he noticed the bodies again by the front door. He forced away the images of the elderly man collapsing from a blow to the head, and the woman falling as she scrambled away whimpering in fear.

What did they do to her?

James managed to push the voices away as well as the images. He reached for the remote and turned off the TV. He picked up the copy of Motor Trend and sipped his coffee as he finished the article about the Porsche Cayman.

James continued to read the magazine, only stopping to fill his coffee cup a couple more times. The coffee was OK, but he wished it was Maxwell House. Once finished, he set the magazine on the table and took his cup with him as he headed upstairs.

At the top of the stairs, he found the home’s only bathroom and two bedrooms. One obviously belonged to the couple downstairs. He avoided that one. He instead went into the guest room and placed his cup on the bedside table. He went across the hall and used the bathroom. Searching through the vanity drawers, he found a toothbrush still in its packaging. He removed it and brushed his teeth with water before returning to the bedroom and lying down on the bed.

Get out.

James ignored the voices and closed his eyes. In a few moments, he was sound asleep.

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Chapter 3

Frank

Frank met the hospital’s House Supervisor at the secured door off the main lobby. He showed her his credentials and followed her down a long corridor and through another set of secured doors.

The hospital unit was filled with uniformed state police and the local medical examiner’s team. A photographer was taking pictures with a digital SLR camera.

“Have all the patients been moved off the unit?” he asked the supervisor.

“Yes. They were moved to three different units until you are done with the investigation.”

“I’ll need to speak to them.”

“Which ones?”

“All of them. And any staff that has worked with the suspect since he got here.”

“I will let administration know. They can get you names. But one of the patients was discharged today.”

“I will need his contact information.”

“I’ll ask Social Work to get that for you.”

“How is the staff holding up?”

“I guess about as well as you’d expect. Two co-workers and a patient were killed. Everyone’s scared and pretty upset. Four people called in sick today, and once of our techs quit.”

“Did that tech work on this unit?

“No. But she knew one of the people killed. She was really upset.”

“OK. I probably won’t need to talk to her, but make sure I have her contact information.”

“Of course.”

Frank walked over to the medical examiner.

“Hi Roger. What have you found?”

“Hi Frank. It’s pretty disturbing. Three dead. One appears to have been strangled, another has trauma to the neck, but I can’t tell cause of death yet. The third, the girl, seems to have died from blunt trauma to the head.”

“And the suspect is a patient?”

“That’s your department, my friend. I just figure out cause of death. I’ll have more information after the autopsies.”

Frank turned to one of the uniformed troopers. “Show me the bodies.”

The trooper led him to the ambulance bay and pulled back the drape covering Parker’s body. Frank squatted down and examined the pretty young victim. He noted discoloration to the right side of her face, contrasted by the paleness of her left side. Her eyes were open and the pupils fixed. She was lying semi-propped by the wall with her legs folded under and her left arm resting behind her back. He noted a small amount of blood on the wall below the girl’s head. There was another stain of blood on the shoulder of her white scrub top. Everything he saw concurred with Roger’s assumption of blunt force head trauma. He saw something sticking out from under the victim’s blue scrub bottoms. Frank reached into his pocket for a pen and used it to move the object into the open. It was an ID badge with a photo of the girl smiling in her nurse uniform. He sighed.

Frank stood up with a suppressed groan. His knees weren’t quite as mobile as they were twenty years ago. Carrying an extra 25 pounds or so didn’t help.

“Where are the others,” Frank asked the trooper.

“Down here,” said the trooper, taking the lead down the other hall.

As Frank entered room 109, he couldn’t help thinking of prison cells he had visited. There were no bars, but the institutional feel of the room was so similar to the low security cells upstate. He walked over to the corpse of the victim on the floor.

“Charlie Malinsky. He was a tech here. Kind of like a nurse aid, but for psych patients,” offered the trooper. “The one on the bed is Jeff Brown. He was a patient. The suspect’s roommate.”

Frank examined the victim on the floor. The man’s neck was oddly indented right below the chin. There were no other signs of trauma. The body lay on the floor with arms at the sides and legs straight. There didn’t seem to be signs of struggle.

Moving to the victim on the bed, Frank found the other body in a similar state. There was bruising on the neck, but no other obvious signs of struggle. He looked around the room for weapons, but there were none. The pillow cases were still on the pillows of both beds. The sheets were disarranged, but appropriate for the beds having been slept in.

He walked over to the window. Outside the room was a recreation courtyard with a basketball hoop. It was empty. The sun was just cresting the roof of the building. It looked like it was going to be a nice day outside.

He turned around and surveyed the room. He noted the desks and closet, the bathroom, and the buzzing fluorescent lights. There was a faint chemical smell in the room. Probably some kind of bug spray.

“He killed the roommate first. Apparently no weapon. Maybe used his hands. Same with the one on the floor. We’ll have to wait on the autopsy report.”

He walked over to the door. “Probably jumped the tech from behind the door. I wonder if he could have used a belt.”

“They take belts away,” said the trooper. “Suicide prevention. Just like in the prisons.”

“Makes sense,” Frank replied.

Frank walked back into the hall. “Did anyone see anything?” he asked.

“We’ve interviewed the midnight staff and the patients on the unit. No one seems to have heard or seen anything. The bodies were found at 4am. The patients were all asleep according to staff.”

“I’ll need to talk to the staff that found the bodies.”

“They are in a conference room up front. It’s the midnight house supervisor and a tech.”

“Is anyone pulling video on those?” Frank asked, pointing to a couple of cameras on the ceiling of the corridor.

“Yes. The Risk Manager is getting that ready for you. No cameras in the bedrooms. But there are some at the nursing station and in the ambulance bay.”

“Good. Take me to the conference room.”

The interview with the staff didn’t result in any additional information beyond what Frank had already assessed on his own. The supervisor and tech had been rounding on the units to check on staff when they found the victims at about five minutes after four. Frank ended the interview quickly, understanding that both employees would be traumatized for several days after discovering their co-workers dead. He gathered their contact information and sent them Home.

The Trooper next led him to an administrative hallway with carpeted floors and artwork on the walls. They walked past several doors until the trooper stopped and knocked on a partially open door. A voice on the other side welcomed them to come in. The trooper nodded to Frank, then headed back to the crime scene.

As Frank walked into the room, a fit middle aged man stood up to greet him. “Good morning Detective. Well, I guess maybe not so good. But morning anyway.”

“Good morning,” Frank replied, shaking the man’s hand. “I’m Detective Sergeant Frank Brunson with the State Police. I’m leading the investigation. I assume you’re the Risk Manager for the hospital?”

“Yes. Dave LaPierre. Been doing this for about two years, ever since I retired from the Auburn Hills Police Department. I was a detective myself. Miss it sometimes.”

“Excellent. I’m guessing you’ve started investigating things yourself?”

“Yes. Got here about an hour ago. I haven’t been on the scene myself, but I talked to the staff and reviewed the video. Do you want to see it?”

“Please.”

Dave pulled another chair around to his side of the L-shaped desk and sat down in front of his computer, inviting Frank to take it. He sat in his own chair, opened a screen of video thumbnails, and selected one.

“We have cameras throughout the common areas of the hospital. There are no cameras in the patient rooms, physician offices, or the office areas behind the nursing stations. There are windows in the offices though, so we can see in from the hall cameras. The cameras are video only. No sound. There are cameras at each end of the halls looking in both directions. There are additional cameras in the patient common room and at the nursing station.

“This video is from the camera at the hall intersection looking down the hall toward room 109.” Dave clicked “play” and the video started.

Frank watched as the tech Charlie, a clipboard in hand, entered room 108, was out of camera for a few moments, then came back into the hall. He crossed the hall into 109. Frank glanced at the time stamp at the top of the screen. It was exactly 3:23.

“So the second murder happened at 3:23?”

“It appears so. The first murder would have been within 15 minutes prior to that.”

“How do you know that?”

“Nursing staff rounds on patients every 15 minutes. It’s a form of suicide prevention. They observe every patient, documenting what they’re doing and verifying some sign of life.”

“Do you have that documentation?”

“No. I haven’t had any interaction with the crime scene. It’s either still with the victim or one of your guys has it. When I spoke with the House Supervisor, she said she hadn’t touched it and didn’t remember seeing it. But she was pretty shook up.”

“Understood. One second.”

Frank removed his cell phone from his left front pocket and pulled up a number from his contacts list. He dialed the number and held the phone to his ear. “Cranston? Hey. It’s Brunson. There should have been a clipboard and some papers near the body of the tech in room 109. Could you please locate that and bring it to the Risk Manager’s office? Thanks. Please make it quick.

“We’ll have that in a few minutes.”

“Good. Want to see more video?” Frank nodded and Dave clicked the screen. The video continued with no action for another five minutes. Then Frank watched as a tall, medium build white man with dark curly hair, wearing sweat pants, a gray tee shirt, and white sneakers exited room 109. The made a quick scan of the hallway, then crossed from the room to the nearby closet. He used a key to open the closet, moved something inside, then removed a medium sized plastic bag. He re-locked the closet then returned to the patient room.

“That looks like a locked door, right? Where did he get a key?”

“I’m guessing it’s Charlie’s key. Did you see how quick he was? He knew exactly what he was doing.”

“Hmmm… There’s more?”

“Yes.” Dave pulled up a video from another angle. “This is the camera right outside the room looking up the hall. You can only see part of the doorway to 109, but it lets you see the hall from the other direction.”

As Frank watched, he saw movement coming from the partial doorway. The tall white man exited room 109 and headed up the hall. The time stamp showed 3:29.

The figure crossed the hall and stayed to the right side, moving quickly with an economy of movement.

“Look at him move,” said Frank. Does this guy have a military background?

“It’s not in his records if he does. He’s been a psych patient for about 15 years. He was 18 when he was diagnosed. I doubt he ever served.”

“Diagnosed with what?”

Dave pulled out a file thick with loose papers. He shuffled through, finally finding the page he wanted. “Schizophrenia, Paranoid Type,” he read from the page, “Appears groomed and unusually well organized for the condition. Patient reports auditory hallucinations and exhibits significant paranoia and hypervigilance. Patient is highly intelligent and displays an unusual ability to mask his delusions and control disease related behaviors.”

“Schizophrenia. That’s like when you have a bunch of personalities, right?”

“No. That’s Hollywood. The doc can explain it better, but schizophrenics just live in their own world. They sometimes have delusions of people being out to get them. They hear voices or see things. They get so distracted by the disease that can’t function in society. But they don’t have multiple personalities.”

“OK. Never really studied mental health.”

“I hadn’t either until I came here.”

“What’s next?”

Dave clicked another video. “This is the camera over the nursing station. You can see Parker in the upper right sitting at the desk.”

As the video played, frank watched the suspect enter the frame from the lower right, cross to the office door which he noted was wide open. “Why is the door open?” he asked.

Dave paused the video. “That’s normal. We don’t take known violent patients on this unit.”

“Sitting with her back to an open door. Doesn’t seem very secure.”

“Yeah. I’ve pointed that out before. But nursing ignored the advice.”

“I’m guessing they’ll make some changes now.”

“You’d think. But I wouldn’t bet on it, unfortunately.” Frank stared at Dave who simply shrugged. “We’ll see.”

Dave continued the video. The suspect moved up quickly behind his victim and placed his right hand at her neck while slapping his left over her mouth. They watched as he spoke to the victim, then walked her to the ambulance bay door. Frank noted the plastic bag from the closet dangling from the suspect’s right wrist.

“Is he holding her throat?” Frank asked?

“I can’t tell,” Dave replied.

A knock on the door surprised both men. Dave paused the video as Trooper Cranston came in holding the requested clipboard. “Here you go Frank. Do you need anything else right now?”

“Not at the moment, but thanks. Anything new from the scene?”

“I don’t think so. We’re just wrapping up. The ME is moving the bodies.”

“Hey Trooper?” said Dave. “Do you think you could locate the suspect’s chart on the unit? His name is James O’Loughlin.”

The trooper looked over to Frank, who nodded his consent. “Yeah. Just give me a few.” The trooper left the room, closing the door behind him.

“Do you mind cracking that door a bit?” Dave asked Frank? “It gets really hot in here with the door closed.

Frank walked around the desk and cracked the door open a few inches before returning to watch the videos.

The two men watched the suspect remove something from his pocket and hold it to the door frame, then open the door.

“Badge reader?”

“Yes.” Dave switched to a different video. “This is inside the anteroom.”

The suspect pushed his victim through the doorway and into the anteroom. They crossed the room and the suspect pulled something from the front of the woman’s shirt. He waved the object over the keypad at the exit door, then said something to the woman. The woman reached up and typed numbers into the keypad. The suspect opened the door and blocked it with his foot. In a sudden movement, the suspect placed his hand against left side of the woman’s head and violently slammed it against the cinder block wall. The woman slumped to the floor and the suspect moved through the door. Once in the ambulance bay, he used one of the badges to open the side door and continued into the parking lot.

Dave switched videos again, to one overlooking the parking lot. They watched as the suspect located an older model light blue compact sedan, entered the car, and began to drive. The car made a right turn out of the parking lot and continued out of view.

“What do you think?” Dave asked, leaning back in his chair and looking toward the other man.

“I think I’ve seen too many movies.” Frank replied. “This guy doesn’t act like a Hollywood psycho-killer. He’s efficient, methodical, and skilled. No unnecessary movements. The kills all appear to be quick and effective. He obviously planned the escape in detail and executed the plan without any significant error. Is this normal for a psych patient?”

“Not really. Or at least not in my experience. I’m guessing the doc can explain that better. But usually, they’re disorganized and withdrawn. They keep to themselves and only get violent when they feel threatened.”

“Are you sure he’s schizophrenic?”

“Again, a question for the doc. But he has a history of the disease and was admitted for the same symptoms he’s had in the past. At least according to the intake paperwork. We’ll have to check the chart when that trooper comes back. Or ask the doc.”

“When will the doc be here?”

“He’s at another hospital right now. We expect him later this morning.”

“Ok. What are your thoughts?”

“I don’t know. He’s not behaving like a typical schizophrenic. But the old charts say he’s really smart and disciplined. I just can’t figure out how he learned to move that way. Or to kill so efficiently. I agree he looks military trained, but there’s no record of it.”

They were interrupted by another knock at the door. Trooper Cranston entered without waiting for a reply. “Here’s that chart.” he said, placing the requested binder on the desk. “We’re done collecting evidence and about the leave the scene. We’re leaving it taped off and have instructed the House supervisor to keep people out until we give them the all-clear.”

“Thanks Cranston. I’ll stick around until a have a chance to talk to the suspect’s doctor. But I don’t think I need anything else from the scene right now.”

“Ok. Just give a call if you need anything else. I’m going to head back to the Post and start my report.

“Sounds good. I should be all set.”

“See you later then.”

“Take care Cranston. Say hi to Ashleigh and the kids for me.”

“Will do.”

“Good guy.” Frank said to Dave as the trooper left the room. Been with us for about three years. He’s a gun guy. Really good on the range. Down to earth too. No ego. Just a really good cop. He and I go to the same church.

“My kind of guy.” said Dave.

With Dave as his guide, Frank toured the hospital, learning the layout and the hospital routine. He spoke with Social Work, Dietary, and various staff in an attempt to create a profile of the suspect. All agreed that James O’Loughlin was a quiet but polite and cooperative man in his early thirties. He had shown no signs of violence during his stay. One tech had worked with the suspect at another facility during two previous admissions. He said James had always been calm and polite, even when extremely delusional. He couldn’t believe the man had become violent. It was out of character.

Several staff reported the suspect had been hypervigilant during his stay, but that this was common with paranoid schizophrenia. The chart had noted several times that James had been observed watching doors and cameras, also not uncommon with schizophrenia.

At a little after 9:00, Dr. Thomas Nguyen arrived to the hospital. Dave led to Frank meet him in the hospital conference room.

“Good morning Dr. Nguyen.” Said Dave as he entered the room and introduced him to the detective. “Detective Brunson, I’ll hand it over to you.” Dave sat in one of the chairs across from the doctor and Frank chose the chair next to him.

“Thanks Dave. Dr Nguyen, could you please tell me about your patient James O’Loughlin?”

“Certainly, Detective.

“I’ve cared for James for almost 15 years. I first met him when he was 18 years old. He was admitted to my care at a different facility for a psychotic break probably triggered by his use of marijuana at a party.”

“Does marijuana cause schizophrenia?” asked Frank.

“No, but if someone is at risk, it’s been observed that the use of marijuana is sometimes associated with the onset of psychotic symptoms. The paranoia people experience with marijuana is a type of delusion seen in schizophrenia. Studies support the suspicion that the drug triggers earlier onset and increased symptoms.”

“Does James still smoke Marijuana?”

“Not that I’m aware of. He denies it when asked. James is very intelligent and understands his diagnosis very well. He is a bit unusual in that he tends to be compliant with treatment and avoids anything that will exacerbate his symptoms. This is his seventh admission for acute psychosis. Each of the previous episodes have been due to the decreased effectiveness of his medication regimen. Med changes have been highly effective. He lives with his parents and works with a local charity as a volunteer. Of all my schizophrenic patients, he’s among the ones I have always worried about the least.”

“Then what happened today?”

“I’m not sure. This event is completely out of character. James is highly disciplined and controls his schizophrenia extremely well. Even during an intense episode of psychosis, he can control the delusions well enough that most people wouldn’t notice he was struggling. When I met with him yesterday, I could tell he was experiencing symptoms, but only because I’ve known him for years and knew what to look for.”

“Some of the staff said he was watching doors and cameras.”
“Yes. He can’t control it all the time. But when he’s being assessed or interacting with others, he fakes it well enough to fool most people.”

“Did you adjust his medications?”

“Not yet. During a psychotic episode, schizophrenics often refuse meds. We have to get a court order to force them to resume treatment. James was scheduled for court this afternoon.”

“I wonder why he didn’t try to escape on the way to court.”

“Court is done by video in one of the offices here at the hospital.”

“I see. And James knew he would be forced to take medications after this hearing?”

“Yes. He’s familiar with the process.”

“If the meds have worked in the past, why would he have refused? And why would he be afraid of a cour order?”

“This is common. During a psychotic episode, patients are less capable of making rational decisions. They develop delusions of paranoia and persecution. In James’ case, he becomes convinced that the people around him aren’t really people. They are some form of evil incarnate faking kindness and generosity. He also experiences clear auditory hallucinations that validate these fears.”

“Clear voices?”

“Yes. Some patients only hear vague noises, kind of like the mumbled sounds of a crowd in another room. James hears clear, distinct voices that direct his perceptions and behaviors. He’s usually good at ignoring them, but it looks like his disease process has advanced to a level that he can no longer do that.”

“In your opinion, is he someone who is prone to violence or aggressive behavior?”

“No. Quite the opposite. His father was former military and raised James and his brother to be prepared for violence. He enrolled them in Karate as children and encouraged them both to join the wrestling team in school. According to James, his brother liked it, but James did not. He participated for a few years but dropped them both before he finished high school.

“So he’s never been in the military?”

“No. He went to college right after high school but dropped out in his first semester because of his initial psychotic break.”

“I understand. Do you have any opinion on why he would become violent now?”

“Without assessing him, I can’t know for sure, but I suspect his psychosis has advanced. After two days without medication, it’s possible the paranoia had increased to the point that he can’t distinguish it from reality. He’s probably hearing voices again as well. The voices will encourage him to act on the paranoia.”

“You’re painting a very different picture of what I expected. It sounds like this is a normally decent young man who’s fighting against something and losing.”

“That’s about it. What you’ve seen here is not really James. It’s the disease.”

Frank sat and pondered what he had just been told. He was having trouble reconciling the decent, kind man described by the doctor with the violent suspect he had watched beat a young woman to death in the security video.

“Do you think he’ll kill again?

“Possibly. But please understand. I don’t believe James wants to hurt people. I think he’s responding to the delusions. He will do anything necessary to protect himself from perceived threats. And right now everything is a threat. He may also hurt people if he sees them as obstacles when trying to flee a threat. He’s dangerous, for sure. But he’s not malicious.”

“I’m not sure that matters to his victims.” Frank responded.

After the interview, Frank followed Dave back to his office.

“I think I’m done here for now. Please leave the crime scene intact until you hear from us. Also, I’m going to need authentic copies of all of the patient records for O’Loughlin and the patient he killed.”

“I’m already having those copies made.” Said Dave. “They should be ready this afternoon.”

“Good. I’ll send a trooper over to pick them up. Just call when they’re ready.”

Frank handed Dave his business card, shook his hand, and headed back to the Post.

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