Crime Beat: Return of the Log Lady or Beaned by Pork and Beans

Woman charged in assault with a log

A woman has been charged with hitting her live in boyfriend in the head with a fireplace log and a can of pork and beans.

Cheri A. Hill, 42, was arraigned by Clare County District Judge Gary Allen on Wednesday on a charge of assault with intent to commit great bodily harm less than murder. Allen jailed Hill under a $20, 000 bond.

The judge will conduct a preliminary hearing to determine whether enough evidence exists to order Hill to stand trial in Circuit Court, The Saginaw News reported.

The boyfriend, Charles R. Lawler, 49, as listed in fair condition this morning at Saint Mary’s Hospital in Saginaw, a nursing supervisor said.

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programming note: last night I was channel surfing during a break in the Pistons game and was totally captured by the Frontline documentary Bush’s War. It showed that AT EVER CRUCIAL POINT Bush had good advice – on how to conduct the Afghan war so that we could actually capture Bin Laden, that there wasn’t any real evidence that Iraq had WMD’s or any link to terrorism, that invading Iraq would actually hurt the war on terror, but if we had to then we ought to prepare for life AFTER invasion – and how with the preternatural wrongheadedness he’s exhibited during his presidency he did the wrong thing EVERY SINGLE TIME! Bush likes to claim he just listens to the military commanders, but to hear a remarkably prescient general say that if we were to go in to Iraq because of the size of the country and the ethnic tensions we’d need several hundred thousand troops to keep order AFTER the war ands then see him totally ridiculed by an ass like Paul Wolfowitz is heartbreaking. I recommend you catch the second half tonight at 9 when things REALLY go in the crapper.

 

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The Mirror’s Edge by Steven Sidor

 

Don’t they kind of drive you crazy, those chapters from an author’s "coming soon" book that the publishers stick at the end of the latest paperback? It’s such a tease – if it’s any good it will suck you in and then bang you realize that, not only does the story not continue, but there’s no way to find out what will happen because the book’s not even out yet.

I experienced a painful case of narrative interruptus when I read the first part of Steven Sidor’s The Mirror’s Edge (then entitled Cloven Print) at the end of his excellent second novel Bone Factory. It was an amazing excerpt, a premise that pulled me right in, about an haunted journalist whose brother had been abducted and killed during his childhood and who is now obsessively pursuing a similar case in which a pair of twins have gone missing. The whole thing proved to be even more frustrating because the book, rather than being available in hardcover as claimed in November 2006 won’t actually appear until April 1, 2008.

Luckily, Steve sent me an advance reader’s copy, and I’m finally able to tell you that the book by and large lives up to that impressive tease. Told in the first person present tense by the very jittery and cynical narrator, Jase Deering, The Mirror’s Edge quickly cast a dark spell reminiscent in tone if not in language to that great underappreciated master of modern gloom Thomas Cook. The first half is brilliant – there’s very little hard evidence in the mystery of the missing twins, but a persistent vein of innuendo and gossip seems to point to Graham Morick, an apparently mild mannered children’s book author who happens to be the son of the late, infamous Aubrey Hart Morick, a Aleister Crowley/Anton LeVey type occultist and the leader of a cult of Satanists fixated on using twins in a immortality producing blood sacrifice. All that sounds pretty crazy to Jase too, and the immediacy of the prose allows the reader to share his uncertainty and growing tension as he wonders if he really is as gullible and paranoid as the police accuse him of being, or if there really is an unholy conspiracy at work.

Once the ambiguity is cleared up The Mirror’s Edge loses a little of its buzz. Since the days of Dennis Wheatley, the prolific writer of The Devil Rides Out and many other mid-century potboilers, it’s been hard to write about the perils of Satanism without at least a small helping of cheese, and after the first finger is eaten some readers may want to put the book down. That would be a mistake however, as the narrative quickly regains its mojo to produce a stunning closing sequence and ending. As I enjoyed it I realized that Sidor didn’t intend to write a traditional whodunit, but rather to mine the noir territory where siblings horror and mystery intersect. He wants to provide not only the satisfactions of successful detection but the frisson of the supernatural as well, and in The Mirror’s Edge he succeeds admirably.

 

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Simulacra

 

In the half veil of refracted light
A curious gray not dawn not moonshine
Choking for breath still saying her name
Her name in the dark night of the Sabbath
Most terribly haunted the spell the glamour
Worship adore offer the cord of sacrifice
The simulacra of certain events the conditions
Under which constraints are likely to dissolve
Fishing beneath her dress in the back seat to
Take off her stockings and tuck up her skirts
The white velvet of her bounding into view
Silver dollar circles riches scarcely credible
And once again there it is twanging throbbing
Blood filled horn lord member of all species
Asking for release to stuff the overheated thing
Into the belle of the churchyard the ghost of
The assembly together the bridegroom and bride
Queer ancient unsanctified darkness undying
Initiating our own shadowed tradition
Some momentary piecing together beyond words
The ground falling violently away still closer
To the floss coming into view the cleft it hid
Carved in ivory transfigured wild unbearable

 

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if a tree almost falls on your house

you will hear it
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Rasputin: Neither Mad Nor Monk

As so often happens, it all started with something I found at the library sale. It was a movie from the sixties English horror schlockmeisters Hammer Studios called Rasputin: The Mad Monk. Of course, its historical accuracy can be gauged by the fact that Rasputin was neither a monk nor mad, but the frequent Dracula and fine actor Christopher Lee made a very compelling lead character. Shot using the sets and cast of the just completed Dracula: Prince of Darkness, the film basically uses the idea of Rasputin as Dracula minus only the blood sucking. There’s plenty of Lugosi like close ups of hypnotic eyes as Rasputin uses his power over women to further his ambitions for power and to have a little fun. It’s a pretty dumb but enjoyable flick, and it made me wonder what the straight scoop is about the guy.

Of course at a previous library sale I’d picked up a bio of him, The Life and Times of Grigorii Rasputin by Alex De Jonge and I was even able to find it amongst my piles of printed matter. It’s a good book, absorbing and well written, done with even handedness and an open mind, and the whole time I was reading it I thought what a great movie the real story would make, preferably starring Daniel Day Lewis. At first I felt a little guilty from straying from my present reading path, which is an exploration of Decadent/Symbolist/Modernist fiction writers who are influenced by the occult and esoteric, but after a few pages I realized that Rasputin fit right in, particularly with the Russian Symbolists I’d been reading.

I have a past entry about Valerie Briusov’s bitchin’ The Fiery Angel and learning more about its context made me realize once again that historical novels are usually more about when they are written than when they are set. The Russia of the early twentieth century was somewhat like America in the sixties, a seething mass of broken orthodoxy, of sexual, religious and social experimentation, of revolution, repression and violence. In fact, the figure that Rasputin brought to my mind was Charles Manson, not just in the Jesus gone wrong appearance, but in the confused manner of speaking, the babbling of semi-profound phrases, the sexual magnetism to his primarily female followers, the will to power and the lower class origins which were seen as more “authentic” to the upper classes.

There are differences too, and all of them in Rasputin’s favor. Manson was basically a crook and a con man, and the bodies he buried are still being uncovered. His followers, their reliability undermined by all the acid being eaten, report a few extraordinary feats by him, but his main talent seemed to be in controlling others. Although “evil” is a word often used in describing Rasputin, the most heinous thing he did was apparently forcing himself on women. Otherwise, his sordidness was in his drinking and womanizing, more of a public relations problem for the Czar’s administration than anything else. There is a certainly an element of the power hungry con man in him, but there are also feats of healing and clairvoyance that are conceded by even his harshest critics. To me he seems like a faith healer, a man coming out of the pre-Christian folk tradition, a peasant tradition running back to Shamanic days, Siberia, of course being one of the hotbeds of the old ways. His beliefs, such as they were, seem to be grounded in the Russian “sectarian” movement, which, although nominally Christian, trafficked in pantheistic, ancient mysto-erotic ideas about fertility and the spiritual power of intoxication, sex, dance and ecstacy.

 

When criticized for offending orthodox concepts of purity and probity, Rasputin would say that one had to sin to be forgiven. Told that his love of dancing was un-Christian he replied “But one prays to God as well in dancing as in a monastery. One praises Him in the joy that, in His goodness, He has created. David danced before the Ark of the Lord.” And of course, many aristocrats were doing far worse things behind closed doors, including Rasputin’s assassin, Prince Felix Yusupov, a bisexual cross dresser who darkly hinted of committing indecencies on Rasputin’s corpse. Much of Rasputin’s “sin” seems to consist of being a peasant who didn’t know his place. He certainly had healing talent and at the very least eased Tsarevich Alexi’s pain many times, not really by hypnotism, as is often claimed, but more by the use of laying on of hands, as is still used by psychic healers today. His influence on the Czar via the Czarina was mostly self-serving but not really malign, and in fact much of his advice, particularly that about World War One, showed a peasant horse sense absent from more refined counselors.

I’m certainly not nominating Rasputin for sainthood, but he is certainly far from the “mad monk” of popular conception, not to mention the baleful figure of the animated movie Anastasia who, to quote a Christian reviewer, “…is a Satan-worshipping, hateful, undead dweller of hell filled with a lust for death and a minion of vaporous green demons at his bidding!” (Actually I have to admit he was my son’s favorite character in the film, and he cried when he was killed. A lady behind us said It’s O.K. dear, the bad man is gone now but she didn’t know he was upset because the bad man was gone. I don’t know what it is about little boys and villain – my friend’s son’s favorite stuffed animal was the evil Scar from Lion King and I sure loved my Frankenstein and Dracula.) It’s also easy for us to think that no occult figure could get close to America’s ruling family, but remember all the advice Czarina Nancy Reagan’s took from her astrologer and Bush’s anti-rational beliefs about evolution.

Here’s some excerpts from De Jonge’s book that I found memorable:

Although the religious circles of St. Petersburg may not have been engaged in the pursuit of strange gods, they were certainly not adverse to the cultivation of strange saints.

Nevertheless sexuality is an element in certain forms of Russian sectarianism to which Rasputin had been exposed. It also seems to have played an essential part in the way he addressed himself to his followers, one reason perhaps why he behaved so outrageously with potential adherents.

He clearly managed to persuade his lovers that they could achieve grace and purification through orgasm, an arrangement that appears to have been satisfactory to all parties.

Yet once again Rasputin proved incapable of self-restraint. When he called on Iliodor’s disciples he could not resist kissing the younger and prettier girls with remarkable enthusiasm, while thrusting older women impatiently away. He never seems to have had much time for older women, and would frequently observe to them, “Mother, your love is pleasing, but the spirit of the Lord does not come down to me,” implying that the spirit descended via his sexual organs.

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Crime Beat: Family Values

 

Police: Man attacks mom, reads Bible to her as she dies

 

HOUTZDALE, Pa. — A Clearfield County man beat and slashed his mother because he feared she would have him arrested for taking her computer, then read the Bible to her as he watched her die, state police said.

Jesse James Campbell told friends that he wanted to kill his mother, Cindy Jo Coleman, because she demanded that he return a computer he stole from her by 8 a.m. yesterday, police said.

Campbell went to his mother’s home before the deadline, grabbed a five-pound plastic weight and hit Ms. Coleman repeatedly in the face with it, police said. He also choked his mother and then grabbed a steak knife and stabbed her, police said.

Mr. Campbell later told his girlfriend things "got messy" when he confronted his mother about the computer and that he read his mother the Bible as she lay dying, police said.

A friend of Mr. Campbell and his girlfriend told investigators that Mr. Campbell believed his mother "was going to send him back to prison and he said that he wanted to kill her," police said in an affidavit.

Mr. Campbell, 20, of Houtzdale, was being held in the Clearfield County Jail without bond on criminal homicide, aggravated assault and other charges.

Mr. Campbell was tried as an adult on theft and receiving stolen property charges in 2005 because a judge found Mr. Campbell "exhausted all attempts by the Juvenile Court System to rehabilitate him," according to online Pennsylvania court records.

He was sentenced to one to three years in state prison after pleading guilty to theft and receiving stolen property. It was not clear if Mr. Campbell was still on probation or parole related to that case.

 

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Petition

I’m asked by a young couple, members of the current smart set, to drop by their flat for drinks. It seems a little odd – I know and like them, but we don’t really socialize. I’m fairly certain they’re not going to assassinate me, but other than that I have no idea what they want, and, out of curiosity, accept.

They’re extremely pleasant and ply me with red wine and caviar until we’re all quite merry indeed. Finally the woman says I have a surprise for you. There’s someone upstairs who would very much like to see you. They look up expectantly, and down the spiral staircase, making a dramatic entrance as usual, comes Heather.

Heather! We kiss on both cheeks and drink a toast as now the vodka comes out. She’s older obviously, but still dresses like a young woman in tight clothes and a short skirt. There are uncomfortable bulges here and there to betray her, which are on one hand a little sad but on the other I find these small outbreaks of flesh somehow very erotic. My hosts, great friends of Heather’s, discretely excuse themselves and immediately I realize that I’ve been set up.

After a little reminiscing she begins her pitch – she’d like me to use my influence at court to make sure that her husband gets a contract to supply food to the army. He’s a blockhead, but no more so than his competitors, and marginally more honest than most. Usually when I’m petitioned I take whatever’s offered and then forget about the whole thing, but in this case I decide to actually try and help her and tell her candidly that I am fairly sure I can make it happen. I even consider being totally magnanimous and sparing her the necessity of sacrificing her honor, but she offers herself so willingly and, let’s face it, there are few of us that have much honor left anyway.

Once I touch her, of course, there’s no question…

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Crime Beat: For Religious Reasons

I’d like to meet the Sherlock who can piece together these clues!

Police probe death of woman in dry ice

NEWPORT BEACH, CALIF. – A man who was found with a woman’s body packed in dry ice in his hotel room told a newspaper that her death may have been in some way connected to religion.

"Everything that happened was for religious reasons," Stephen David Royds told The Orange County Register on Sunday.

Royds spoke to the newspaper in a brief interview from jail.

Detectives found the body of Monique Felicia Trepp, 33, fully clothed inside a large Rubbermaid container late Thursday after arresting Royds at the Fairmont Newport Beach for investigation of selling and possessing cocaine, police Sgt. Evan Sailor said.

An autopsy of Trepp was inconclusive but her death did not appear to be a homicide. Authorities were awaiting a toxicology report to determine the cause of death.

Along with Trepp’s body, police found porch swings, toy night-vision goggles and large sake bottles with lamp sockets stuffed into their spouts in the room of Stephen David Royds.

Royds, 46, was booked Saturday afternoon at Orange County Jail in Santa Ana, where he was denied bail because of a possible probation violation, authorities said.

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Mitch the Bitch: Decoding Albom

I guess everybody knows who Mitch Albom is. People around here, however, still remember him as a sportswriter for the Free Press, and in fact he still acts in that capacity from times to time, as well as contributing an occasional column on general subjects. Over time I’ve learned the secret to understanding a Mitch Albom piece – it’s really rather easy – no matter what the nominal topic, the real subject is Mitch Albom.

Take his thoughts on this year’s Oscars. Basically he bewailed the glut of gloomy, pessimistic films about unpleasant people, like No Country For Old Men and There Will Be Blood. Why, he wonders, does the wrongheaded Academy and those silly critics gush over such things instead of supporting a life affirming movie like, say, The Bucket List. THE BUCKET LIST! Is Mitch really proposing that that universally panned, commercially disappointing piece of drivel receive the industry’s highest honor for artistic achievement? Does he really want to go back to the sixties when shallow acting performances like Julie Andrews’s in Mary Poppins and Rex Harrison’s in My Fair Lady could win Oscars in the same year? When a piece of unwatchable, rancid cornpone like Oliver! could win best picture and 2001: A Space Odyssey not even be nominated? No, Bucket List is just a stalking horse for Mitch, and a rather unridable nag at that. To decipher the real meaning of his argument, one merely needs to remember that Mitch himself has achieved fame and fortune by being the purveyor of similar shamelessly sentimental claptrap, and the plaintive whine of what about me? can be clearly heard. His mega-bestseller Tuesdays With Morrie became a television movie called Oprah Winfrey Presents: Tuesdays With Morrie, and subsequent tomes yielded The Five People You Meet in Heaven and Oprah Winfrey Presents: Mitch Albom’s For One More Day. Clearly Mitch is a little perturbed that the cinema adapted from his work hasn’t broken out of the made for T.V. ghetto and, even if it did, would be shark bait for the critics. Why should Cormac McCarthy have all the fun? But in a world where The Bucket List can win an Oscar, Mitch could easily cop a lifetime achievement award just for the dreck he’s already come up with. In reality Bucket List really has nothing to do with it – it’s all about Mitch not getting the attention he thinks he deserves.

Then there’s this Sunday’s column. To those without the key it’s a real head scratcher. Mitch takes the You Tube culture to task, condemning people for being judged by brief film clips, you know, like the one of a soldier throwing a dog off a cliff or a woman repeatedly squirting and verbally abusing her daughter at a car wash. Why, he asks, do people make such a big deal out of these tiny snippets when they’re out of context, just a tiny part of someone’s larger life? This is an extremely tenuous argument. I don’t care if you’re Mother Teresa, throwing dogs off cliffs and tormenting your daughter are still wrong, and not too many people would disagree. Does Mitch really think that under certain circumstances child abuse and recreational killing of dogs is O.K.? He fulminates against the brevity of the clips, the rush to judgement, the lack of background, as if the fact that they were being filmed was really to blame. The acts themselves are clear, however, and no amount of explanation can excuse them.

Obviously defending these people is a very weird position for a champion of sappy goo like Mitch to take. It takes a little bit of inside information to figure out how this one is really about Mitch, too. The theme of Tuesdays With Morrie was how Mitch, a self-absorbed, career driven jerk, was transformed by his encounter with the saintly, dying Morrie into becoming a sensitive mench who learned to stop and smell the roses and cherish mankind. Morrie may have been all that, but people who know Mitch, or have even seen him in action know that he remains an extremely ambitious ego maniac, a man who, once the microphone is off, transforms into a screaming prima donna who regularly abuses those that he works with or has any power over. Imagine what would happen to his gentle, wise, ultra decent persona if scenes, which more than one person I know have been witness to, of Mitch extremely profanely bitching someone out were to hit the internet? I’m sure he saw that clip of ESPN’s Chris Berman going off on the underlings and blanched, and he has a lot more to lose than Boomer. Mitch’s facade of spirituality, even his friendship with Oprah would be at stake, not to mention the literary franchise he’s developed around sentimentally exploiting dead people. In this light it’s clear the column is a preemptive strike against such material emerging. When he says Is the world a better place when the worst of us can be viewed on a regular basis? he doesn’t really mean "us." As usual, in Albom land it’s all about Mitch.

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History of Mystery: Gallows Literature

 

People like to argue as to when crime fiction first started. To me the mystery is not a fairly recent off shoot of "real" literature, but a mighty redwood in and of itself, and one whose roots anchor it at the very beginning of the popular literature and the English novel. Public executions were very popular and frequent in early modern England, and one of the first viable commercial uses for the printing press was the publication of broadsides now known as gallows literature, which were sensational eyewitness accounts of the hanging and the confession the criminal made on the scaffold. As early as 1563 these single sheets were being printed and distributed either at or soon after the execution.

Obviously timeliness was a factor – with so many executions, the hot villain of today could quickly become passe. It wasn’t always so easy to get a criminal’s confession either, so, naturally enough, printers began to fabricate them. This could cause some problems, as in the case of one Mrs. Windsor, a "baby farmer" accused of the barbarous murder of Mary Jane Harris’s child. A baby farmer was a woman who would look after another’s infant, in many cases an illegitimate one, so that the mother could continue earning her livelihood, often as a prostitute or maid. As the broadside says, Mrs. Windsor had a stern means of foreclosure when the payment stopped coming in:

Those children belong to some poor girl

That had been led astray

Mrs. Windsor would take them to nurse

As long as they would pay.

She would murder them – yes, strangle them

For this paltry gain,

By putting them between beds

Or pressing the jugular vein.

In its description of the execution itself the broadside goes on to say that "when culprit and hangman stood side by side a fearful yell rose from the assembled crowd, and the excitement only ceased when the culprit, who struggled but little, ceased to exist." The only problem with this graphic account is that Mrs. Windsor was granted mercy and sentenced to penal servitude, which makes it clear that a very powerful fictive imagination was at work here.

Another way crime fiction masquerading as fact was promulgate was in the chapbook, bound, folded sheets which allowed the account to be somewhat more extensive, as in the eight page one entitled The History of John Gregg and his Family of Robbers and murderers. As Ian Maxted describes it, the book:

…reports how the Gregg family took up their abode in a cave near Clovelly on the north coast of Devon where they lived twenty-five years without visiting any town or city. During this time they robbed above one thousand persons, and ate the corpses of all those whom they robbed. They were eventually discovered and the king himself came with 400 men to hunt them out. Their cave was discovered containing "such a multitude of arms, legs, thighs, hands and feet, of men, women and children hung up in rows, like dry’d beef and a great many lying in pickle." John’s charming family, consisting of his wife, eight sons, six daughters, eighteen grand-sons and fourteen grand-daughters begotten by incest were taken to Exeter and next day conducted under a strong guard to Plymouth where they were executed without trial.

It this weren’t self evidently a complete fabrication, it’s also suspiciously similar to another chapbook called The Legend of Sawney Beane: A General, True History of the Lives and Actions of the Most Famous Highwayman by Captain Charles Johnson. It certainly strengthens my argument as to the deep roots of crime fiction to disclose that Captain Charles Johnson was a pseudonym for Daniel Defoe, the author of Robinson Crusoe, a man generally considered the first English novelist. One his most notable (and enjoyable) works is Moll Flanders, the alleged confessions of a woman of the demimonde who lived by her wits in the early eighteenth century. Henry Fielding, the first English novelist who admitted he wrote fiction also produced a faux confession called The Life and Death of Jonathan Wild, the Great Infamous Highwayman.

Kind of makes you laugh when you hear the swells say that crime fiction is a new genre that has nothing to do with the "real literature," don’t it?

YR PAL,

UBU

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