Thriller Guy is off at some undisclosed location doing God
knows what. I, in the meantime, have been rattling around in that particular
writer hell known as What’s Next? That’s when you’ve finished a major project,
in my case a memoir of my early years, and you don’t have any idea of what
you’re going to write next. This didn’t use to be a problem for me as I had a fiction
series I was writing and after finishing one I would just move onto the next.
After six of these books (you can find them on Amazon here) I am reluctant to
continue the series, mostly because publishers aren’t interested in buying a
new one nor are they interested in taking up the cause of the extensive
backlist. So unless there’s a groundswell of buyers, I’m going to stick with Johnson’s
famous sentiment about only fools writing if there is no money involved. Or at
least the possibility of money.
Many kind folks have asked that I extend my memoir, but many
of those who I would be writing about are still alive and, frankly, I don’t really
want to piss anyone off, which my writing about them surely would.
Those of you who read this blog know that I have spoken
about the What to Write problem before. My usual prescription is to settle down
with a bottle of gin and drink until I come up with an answer. That doesn’t
seem to be working this time, though I am valiantly soldiering on in this
direction.
Recently, by accident, I stumbled upon a Wikipedia site that
I believe might well spur a solid plotline. It’s an extensive collection of unsolved
murder cases in the United States, and it makes for fascinating reading,
falling in the I’ll-read-just-one-more catagory. Once you start, it’s tough to
stop. Here are a few edited-for-length, interesting examples.
On May 28, 1911, the body of Belle Walker, an African-American cook, was
found 25 yards from her home on Garibaldi Street in Atlanta. Her throat had
been cut by an unknown slayer, and the crime was reported in the Atlanta Constitution under the headline "Negro Woman
Killed; No Clue to Slayer." On June 15, another black woman, Addie Watts,
was found with her throat slashed, followed on June 27 by Lizzie Watkins. The
search for the serial killer, called "the Atlanta Ripper" by the
press, found six different suspects, but no convictions were ever made, nor was
the crime ever solved. By the end of 1911, fifteen women, all black or
dark-skinned, all in their early 20s, had been murdered in the same manner. The
"Ripper" may have had as many as 21 victims, but there is no
conclusive proof that the murders were carried out by one person.
6 to seven dead, 6-7 injured from 1912 to 1919
The Axeman was
not caught or identified, and his crime spree stopped as mysteriously as it
He was born Gaspar
Griswold Bacon, Jr. Born to a life of privilege and wealth, David Bacon
graduated from Harvard. He summered with his family at Woods Hole
on Cape Cod, where he became
involved during the early 1930s with the "University Players." There he met then unknown performers James Stewart and Henry Fonda, with whom he
later shared accommodations while he struggled to establish himself. He moved
to Los Angeles
where he met and married an Austrian
singer, Greta Keller.
In her later years, Keller disclosed that Bacon was homosexual, and that she
was lesbian, and that their lavender marriage partly
served as what she referred to as a "beard",
allowing both of them to maintain a respectable facade in Hollywood, where they
were both attempting to establish film careers.
In 1942, Howard Hughes met Bacon,
and signed him to an exclusive contract, with the intention of casting him in The Outlaw (1943) as Billy the Kid. Though
Hughes later decided not to use Bacon in The Outlaw, he kept Bacon to
the terms of his contract, casting him in several smaller roles. Hughes did lend
out Bacon for a role in the Republic serial The Masked Marvel (1943). The serial was produced with a low budget, and
marked a low point in Bacon's career, with Keller recalling that he was completely
humiliated. Today it remains his best-remembered work.
On September 13th 1943,
Bacon was seen driving a car erratically in Santa Monica before running off the road and into the curb. Several witnesses saw him climb
out of the car and stagger briefly before collapsing. As they approached he
asked them to help him, but he died before he could say anything more. A small
knife wound was found in his back – the blade had punctured his lung and caused
his death. Keller, in an advanced stage of pregnancy, collapsed when she heard
of her husband's death, and later her baby was stillborn.
When he died, Bacon was
wearing only a swimsuit, and a wallet and camera were found in his car. The film
from the camera was developed and found to contain only one image, that of
Bacon, nude and smiling on a beach. Police theorized that the photograph had
been taken shortly before his death by his killer. The case attracted publicity
for a time and remains unsolved.
These are just
three examples chosen at random from the extensive list. As a historical
novelist, these older examples appeal to me more than the current ones, though
they are interesting as well. I could imagine writing about 1911 Atlanta,
or the Axeman of New Orleans. Imagine the fun you could have writing that scene
where all of New Orleans played jazz one night to keep the Axeman from killing
again. Fabulous. And I am particularly drawn to the failed actor, circa
Hollywood, 1943, stumbling out of his car with a small knife wound in his back
as the air leaked out of his lungs while he begged for help. What a story.
Hmmmm. Maybe
I’m on to something here. Let me get my gin bottle. Time to do some heavy
thinking.
