The Ruptured Duck Lives!
If you’ve read any of my Cordell Logan mystery novels, you’ll know that Logan flies an old, cantankerous, four-seat Cessna 172 Skyhawk. Ditto in Logan’s latest adventure, Deep Fury, set for release Dec. 17. The plane, nicknamed the Ruptured Duck, has unreliable radios, hail-dimpled wings, and a faded orange, yellow and white color scheme that practically screams 1970’s, which makes sense, considering that’s when the Duck first took wing from Cessna’s factory in Wichita, Kansas. Readers will occasionally ask me, is the Duck modeled after a real airplane? It is. Loosely. My father-in-law, Don, a lifelong pilot and long-time owner of a pressurized Cessna 210 Centurion, acquired tail number N3566E, a 1978 Cessna 172, in a business deal several years ago. Both my brother-in-law, David, and sister-in-law, Barbara, learned to fly piloting 66-Echo, after which Dave became part-owner of a Cessna 182 Skylane and Barb decided being an active pilot wasn’t her cup of tea. In any case, Don telephoned me one day and said, “I have this 172 and no real use for it. Would you be interested in getting back into flying? All you’d have to do is pay for maintenance and gas.” I’d earned my private pilot’s certificate shortly after graduating from college, but hadn’t flown as pilot in command for several years. My career as a newspaper reporter, along with raising a family, had left little free time, let alone disposable income, for such pursuits. But by the time Don called me with his amazing proposition, I’d transitioned from daily newspapers to earning a healthy living writing movies, my kids were older, and we’d moved from Los Angeles to Santa Barbara. As it happens, this little coastal resort town is one of the most beautiful places in the world to live, let alone fly. So, when he asked if I was interested in having unlimited use of an airplane without needing to rent or buy one, I didn’t think twice before responding. “Absolutely.” I caught a commercial flight to Colorado Springs, where 66-Echo was based, and together Don and I flew the plane back to California. I was rusty. Piloting a plane is not like riding a bike. Some things you remember. Some things you don’t. Much practice is involved. After I got home, I logged about 10 hours in the air with my flight instructor, Terry Harris, before she deemed me safe to fly on my own. The first time I climbed into the right seat and took off alone in that little Cessna felt like I’d been reborn. Much as I loved flying 66-Echo, after two years and 140 hours of logged flight time, I decided it was time to stop taking advantage of my father-in-law’s generosity and buy my own airplane. Months of research and perusing the internet went by before I found the perfect bird for my budget and purposes, based at a small airfield outside Fort Worth, Texas: N8209W, a 1965 Piper Cherokee 180C. The airplane had been well-maintained and was equipped with the basic avionics I was looking for. More significantly, it met what I figured would be my useful load requirements. “Useful load” is an aviation term that conveys how much weight a given aircraft can carry in gas, oil, passengers and luggage. Many four-seat planes simply don’t have enough horsepower to carry full fuel and four reasonably sized human beings. I wanted a plane that could because, I figured, “Hey, who wouldn’t want to come fly with me?” Plenty of people, as it turned out. News flash: many folks are terrified of small airplanes. They hear about crashes on the news and decline, even after you try to explain to them that the only reason they hear about said crashes is because they’re so relatively rare. Regardless, far be it from me to begrudge people their phobias. We all have our apprehensions. Personally speaking, I’m not fond of alligators or most monkeys. They can’t be trusted. But I digress… Asking a person I don’t know especially well if they’d like to go flying can prove awkward. Some people openly admit their anxiety and politely decline. Others will say how fun it sounds—”I’m definitely interested in going!”–then find any number of excuses not to go. I make a rule to stop asking usually after the second invitation, not because I’m offended, but because I don’t want to make anyone feel forced into doing something they’re apprehensive about. Sadly, they don’t know what they’re missing. I flew that Piper Cherokee for more than 15 years before deciding it was time to find something a bit more modern. In 2022, I got a great deal on a first-generation Cirrus that was for sale in Ohio. Sleek and stylish, it doesn’t carry nearly as much weight as my old Cherokee, but it can get two adults (and their dog) where they want to go in comfort and a whole lot faster. As for N3566E, the Cessna 172 that inspired Cordell Logan’s Ruptured Duck, the last time I checked, it was living its best life with a new owner in rural San Diego County. I wish them both nothing but fair winds and blue skies.
Another Defense Against the Universe
Writing a mystery novel is not unlike piecing together a jigsaw puzzle. Each element must fit seamlessly to reveal the big picture. Introducing humor to this process while navigating tone and plot can be difficult, to say the least. Indeed, I’m often reminded of what actor Edmund Gwenn is purported to have remarked on his deathbed: “Dying is easy. Comedy is hard.” Drop the mic, Mr. Gwenn. It’s true. Trust me, learning to fly an airplane is not nearly as challenging as writing funny. The protagonist in my mystery novels is Cordell Logan, a sardonically wisecracking flight instructor and former government operator who sees humor in even the most macabre of circumstances. He’s rarely without a snidely amusing quip. Those quips, however, come much more readily to Logan than they do to me in real life. It’s why, I suppose, I’m not the fastest writer around. For me, being amusing on paper takes a ton of time and effort. Maintaining a balance between humor and suspense in a mystery novel can prove particularly tricky. Mysteries are built on dark deeds and the gradual revelation of secrets. Humor, meanwhile, typically relies on lightness, which can easily undermine the gravity of any serious situation. The key to blending these two seemingly disparate elements lies in transitioning smoothly between them, such that the intended humor enhances rather than undermines the mystery. In other words, the comedic elements must complement, not overshadow, the suspense. Character development adds another layer of complexity. Mystery novels typically feature detectives, both professional and amateur, who are focused on solving the case. Introducing humor into such personas without compromising their credibility or the story’s tension is a constant concern. The humor must be balanced in a way that feels natural and doesn’t undermine the character’s depth. Overemphasis on comedic traits risks reducing characters to mere caricatures, while stripping them of the believability that readers expect. The key is to integrate humor in a way that feels authentic to the character’s development and organic to the plot. Reader expectations play a crucial role in this dynamic. Fans rightfully anticipate a certain level of seriousness and tension in a mystery novel. Introducing levity can test those expectations. This presents both an opportunity and a hurdle for me as I consciously strive to bring something different to the page, something that perhaps stretches genre norms. My primary goal, dear reader, is to keep you guessing as you dive into any Logan mystery, including my latest, Deep Fury, but it’s also to keep you smiling. And it’s those smiles that represent the more difficult objective, if only because humor is so highly subjective. What you or I consider funny is based on cultural context and our respective life’s experiences. Given those potentially broad differences, I’m well aware that while some readers might find Logan’s words and actions hilarious, others may deem him off-putting or even offensive. Oh, well. As the old saying goes, “You can’t please all the people all the time,” but you can certainly seek to please the majority. And that’s what I try to do. With each line of dialogue or description I write, I ask myself, “Is this going to make the reader’s day a little better or a little worse?” If the answer is “better,” there’s a good chance the line stays. After publishing Flat Spin, my first Cordell Logan book, I was gratified that a majority of readers and critics appeared to have enjoyed what I wrote. They liked the character and were engaged by the story I’d crafted. Still, there were some who took me to task for trying to be too funny. They complained that the humor felt forced in places, and that not everything is worthy of a joke. In hindsight, I agreed. Thus, you’ll find that in subsequent titles, Logan still cracks wise when appropriate, but perhaps not quite as often as he did originally. Charles Dickens once said that nothing in the world is “so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good humor.” I find that pretty funny considering the undeniably depressing tone of Dickens’ most famous novels, including David Copperfield, Great Expectations, and Hard Times, but his point is well-taken. There’s much these days to lament in our screwed-up world. If my humble scribblings can afford you respite from those ills, however briefly, I will have achieved my objective. The great comedian and filmmaker Mel Brooks put it best. “Humor,” Brooks observed, “is just another defense against the universe.” I couldn’t agree more.
Writing What You Know
I don’t remember the moment I learned to float in a swimming pool, or to ride a bike without training wheels. The first time I tasted a fresh strawberry has been lost to antiquity. I do, however, remember like it was yesterday the first time I flew as pilot in command of an airplane. We’d practiced landings that clear August morning, my flight instructor, Bert J. Colter, and I. After six touch-and-go’s, Bert directed me to taxi back to what passed for a terminal building at our small, uncontrolled airfield in northern Colorado. “OK,” he said, “give me three more touch-and-go’s.” Then out of the airplane he climbed. No, “Good luck.” No, “Try not to kill yourself.” Bert was “The Right Stuff” kind of instructor. Understated. Unflappable. Out he went, and there I sat, alone for the first time in the cockpit of an airplane, about to depart the earth with no guiding hand to ensure my safe return. Pounding in my brain was a bit of advice Bert had offered early in my training, that a pilot must always “be ahead of the airplane”—meaning that a plane will kill you faster than anything if you’re not anticipating what it’s about to do next. Still, I don’t recall being nervous. More than anything, I was excited. I felt confident. After all, hadn’t I logged almost an entire 11 hours of instruction in the air? What could possibly go wrong? Back out I taxied. I ran up the RPM’s in the run-up area to make sure the engine and instruments were functioning normally, as I’d been trained to do. After that, I radioed my intentions on the Unicom frequency to remain in the landing pattern and rolled my rented, little two-seat Cessna 150 out onto the runway to take off…only to smash down on the toe brakes. About 150 feet down the runway, a coyote was sunning himself (or herself, but let’s forgo the issue pronouns for purposes of expediency). Casually, he looked over in my direction and yawned like he wasn’t planning to go anywhere anytime soon. I was flummoxed. My training hadn’t included how to deal with critters blocking the airstrip, but I knew enough not to force the issue. I could see the headlines the next day: “Student Pilot Wrecks Airplane, Coyote in Stable Condition.” So I waited, with the engine idling and the Hobbs meter turning. Every second was costing me money I didn’t have. A couple of minutes that felt like an eternity ticked by before the furry interloper finally got up, off his haunches and sauntered nonchalantly into an adjacent farm field. This was it. The moment of truth! The moment I would join the fraternity of aviators. Off we go into the Wild Blue Yonder and all that good stuff. I pushed the throttle to the firewall and the plane started rolling. I had just lifted off and was no more than a couple of hundred feet off the ground when I heard a loud, disconcerting, banging noise and the hellacious screaming of wind at high velocity. I glanced to my right and realized I’d forgotten to latch Bert’s door! With one hand on the control yoke and one eye on the attitude indicator, I leaned over and somehow managed to close it. The rest of my solo flight was a piece of cake. More than 1.200 flight hours later, I was recently reminded of that wonderful day as I filled out the last page of my most recent logbook and prepared to start a new one. Some people journal or keep diaries. Pilots make logbook entries, chronicling each of their adventures in the sky. Where they went. How many landings they made. What the weather conditions were like. I can’t recall what I ate for breakfast two days ago. But thumbing through my old logbooks, I can vividly remember the first time I took my wife-to-be flying, way back when Reagan was in the White House, and how she fell asleep soon after takeoff. I remember how the tower controller complimented my landing the first time I flew into Scottsdale, and that crosswind landing I muffed badly coming into Monterey. I remember the engine rapidly losing oil pressure one evening as I departed Santa Maria after enjoying a steak dinner with friends, and how it took me a couple of precious seconds before realizing I needed to execute a 180 and return immediately to the field—as close to declaring an emergency as I’ve ever come. I’m a big believer in writing about what you know. It’s a whole lot easier that having to make it all up. And the thing of it is, every one of those hundreds of flights I’ve logged since that day I soloed have factored directly or otherwise into the adventures of Cordell Logan. The two of us have flown many of the same missions or, at a minimum, been inspired by them, like the flying you’ll find depicted in Deep Fury, the latest Logan mystery, which debuts December 17. I looked up Bert the other day online. He went on to spend more that 25 years as a captain at Delta Air Lines. He no doubt taught hundreds of aspiring pilots like me to fly before that. I have no illusions that he would remember me in the slightest, let alone that special day in August. And that’s OK. It’s my memory after all, one that I will cherish forever.
My Ten Least Favorite Aviation-Themed Movies, Ranked from “You Must Be Kidding Me,” to “Well, Those are Two Hours of My Life I’ll Never Get Back”
Flight (2012) With a thunderstorm directly along his route of fight, alcoholic, coke-snorting airline Capt. William “Whip” Whitaker (Denzel Washington), doesn’t ask ATC for a different heading or new altitude, like any actual commercial pilot would. Instead, he accelerates straight into the storm “to get through it faster”. The jet subsequently suffers a major mechanical malfunction requiring Whitaker to fly upside down before making a crash landing and somehow, miraculously saving most everyone on board. He’s initially hailed as a hero, but an investigation soon proves otherwise. Denzel is a fine actor. As the old saying in Hollywood goes, I’d pay to watch him read the phone book (assuming we still had phone books), but Flight is so fraught with technical inaccuracies, improbabilities, and flat-out insults to the professionalism of air transport pilots, that it’s impossible to suspension disbelief. In real life, Whip Whitaker wouldn’t last five minutes at any major airline before being found out and fired because of his addictions. Top Gun Maverick (2022) The no-CGI flying scenes are absolutely fantastic. The rest of Top Gun Maverick, not so much. The magic of the original Top Gun, which I’ve watched repeatedly over the years, is in short supply in this sequel. After about 20 minutes, I found myself looking impatiently at my watch and shaking my head at its many contrivances, the preposterousness of the all-too-predictable story, and the flagrant theft of plot devices from other blockbuster movies, including the original Top Gun. I won’t catalogue my many grievances other than to point out what may be the most preposterous scene of all, in which the Navy’s top young F-18 aviators are drinking and playing pool at a popular pilot watering hole in San Diego. When Tom Cruise’s Pete “Maverick” Mitchell violates some silly bit of drinking establishment protocol, the cocky young pilots toss him out on his butt. In the first Top Gun, Maverick shot down three enemy MiGs—the first US pilot to do so since Vietnam. In real life, in any real Navy pilot hangout, even years later, he would be instantly recognized and feted as a hero. In Top Gun Maverick, he’s wearing his leather Navy flight jacket with a name patch that identifies who he is, and he’s still treated like some over-the-hill loser. Sorry, Tom Cruise, you had me at the need for speed in the original Top Gun, but I’ve lost that lovin’ feeling for this one. Executive Decision (1996) The best part of this movie, in which terrorists hijack a Boeing 747 in route from Athens to Washington, D.C., is that the US Special Forces commander tasked with stopping them, played by Steven Seagal, gets killed early on, mercifully sparing us from having to watch Seagal “act” for a full two hours. Every work of fiction is a house of cards constructed on a foundation of believability. Too many cards stacked haphazardly, and the whole thing starts to fall apart. Such is the case with Executive Decision. Things begin veering wildly toward the preposterous when the commandos sneak onto the commercial jetliner in mid-flight using the “Ramora,” a fictional variant of the top-secret F-117 stealth fighter designed to latch onto other airplanes, including a 747. We’re talking, silly special effects, over-the-top bad guys, and coincidences galore. Executive Decision is, at its core, a bad imitation of Air Force One. About the only thing it’s got going for it is the hero, Dr. David Grant (Kurt Russell). Grant’s an Army intelligence analyst. When we first meet him, he’s learning to fly and clearly not very good at it. By the end of the movie, he lands that 747—a fantasy among many single-engine, general aviation pilots, including me. On a Wing and a Prayer (2023) Based on a true story, this movie may well be the worst film Dennis Quaid movie has ever been in—which is saying a lot considering Quaid also appeared in Jaws 3D. The set-up: On a flight from Florida to Connecticut in a chartered, twin-engine Beech King Air with his wife and daughters, businessman Doug White (Quaid) must learn to fly and land the plane (with help from an air traffic controller) after the lone pilot on board suffers a fatal heart attack. There’s a whole lotta praying throughout On a Wing and a Prayer (hence the title) before White ultimately saves himself and his family. Much of the acting, dialogue, and special effects are so lame that I found myself laughing out loud during scenes that were intended to be nail-biters. Quaid is an avid pilot in real life. One can only wonder how much he got paid to appear in this low-budget clunker. Soul Plane (2004) It’s Soul Train meets Airplane! Marketed as an outrageous, laugh-out-loud spoof, there isn’t a single funny line in this entire movie. The airplane in question is an airborne disco flying from LA to New York that caters to an all-Black clientele. Sexual tropes and racial stereotypes abound. You know you’re in for a rough flight when Calvin Broadus, the rap artist and marijuana enthusiast otherwise known as Snoop Dog, is your pilot in command. The running joke in Soul Plane is that smoking onboard is always allowed. Trust me, you may well require something medicinal to sit through this cinematic calamity. Snakes on a Plane (2006) The title tells you all you need to know. The great Samuel L. Jackson plays an FBI agent escorting a government witness on a flight from Hawaii to Los Angeles. Everything’s going great until somebody on the plane unleashes a crateful of venomous snakes in an attempt to permanently silence said witness before he can testify at trial. Snakes on a Plane is so completely schlocky, it’s been elevated in some circles to a cult classic. Horror movie contrivances abound. It’s violent, it’s grotesque, and the plot is inarguably ridiculous. But, hey, it is what it is–the embodiment of truth in advertising. The only thing that makes this film
My Top Ten Aviation-Themed Movies, Ranked in Order from Liked to Loved
10. The Great Santini (1979) Robert Duvall plays Marine Lt. Col. “Bull” Meechum, a hard-charging F-4 Phantom pilot caught between wars in 1962. With no enemy to dogfight, Meechum takes out his aggressions on his family, and especially his emotionally sensitive, teen-age son, played by Timothy Hutton. Blythe Danner poignantly plays his wife and the mother struggling to keep her family intact amid Bull’s at-times frightening, alcohol-fueled irascibility. Based on the novel of the same title by Pat Conroy, The Great Santini is a family drama with a few flying scenes thrown in, but it’s a damn fine, well-acted story from start to finish. Duvall has never been better. 9. 633 Squadron (1964) The plot of this movie bears many similarities to Top Gun Maverick. The Germans have constructed a plant in Norway during World War II to fuel their deadly V-2 rockets. Pilots of the Royal Air Force’s fictitious 633 Squadron, led by Wing Commander Roy Grant (Cliff Robertson) must destroy the plant in their twin-engine Mosquito fighter-bombers before the rockets can become operational. Issues of predictability and campy special effects aside (the movie was, after all, made more than 50 years ago), this is still a good, solid World War II flick bound to satisfy anyone who enjoys watching Nazis get thumped. Also, the movie’s soaring theme music rates right up there with Star Wars. Adapted from the novel of the same name by Frederick E. Smith, a former RAF officer. 8. Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo (1944) This movie is based on a daring, top-secret mission in April 1942, when 16, land-based, B-25 Mitchell bombers led by Lt. Colonel Jimmy Doolittle took off from the aircraft carrier, USS Hornet, to strike the Japanese home islands. The raid came less than six months after the Japanese Imperial Navy’s sneak attack on Pearl Harbor and helped lift American morale in the dark early days of World War II, when things weren’t going so well for the Allies. Spencer Tracy does a fine job portraying the iconic Doolittle, whom I had the honor of interviewing 34 years later as a young newspaper reporter. The man earned the Medal of Honor for his heroics that day in 1942 and was widely regarded among America’s greatest aviation pioneers. I’ll admit I was starstruck, yet he couldn’t have been more gracious. For that reason alone, Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo makes my Top Ten list. Based on the book of the same title, written by Army Air Corps Capt. Ted W. Lawson, who was one of the pilots who flew with Doolittle. 7. The Great Waldo Pepper (1975) Robert Redford is Waldo Pepper, a dashing barnstormer haunted by his having missed out on fighting the Germans in World War I. Pepper flies around rural America in his yellow Curtiss JN Jenny biplane, giving rides to farmers and having various adventures. Eventually he ends up dogfighting a famous German ace in their two unarmed aircraft. The finale requires considerable suspension of disbelief but, hey, has there ever been a better-looking movie star in a leather helmet, riding boots, and silk scarf? The aerial photography is first-rate and there are no studio takes. Virtually all of the flying scenes are real. 6. Airplane! (1980) I’m a sucker for cornball comedies, and Airplane! delivers plenty of it. The plot: a neurotic taxi driver and ex-fighter pilot named Ted Striker (actor Robert Hays), whose wartime exploits left him terrified of flying, must land a commercial jetliner after the flight crew comes down with food poisoning from eating bad fish. This classic parody of a disaster film has virtually nothing to do with actual aviation and everything to do with cracking rapid-fire jokes, which is fine by me. The autopilot scene featuring flight attendant Elaine Dickinson (Julie Hagerty) nearly gives me a hernia from laughing every time I see it. 5. Air Force One (1997) President James Marshall (Harrison Ford) must swing into action and save the day after terrorists take over Air Force One in mid-flight. The terrorists are totally over the top and the plot takes a decidedly preposterous turn when President deftly orchestrates his entire staff parachuting to safety from a rear ramp on Air Force One (no such ramp in real life), after which he battles the bad guys single-handedly. These, however, are minor blemishes in an otherwise exciting action-thriller. If you liked Die Hard, you’ll enjoy this iteration of Die Hard at 37,000 feet. 4. The Bridges at Toko Ri (1954) Based on the novel by Pulitzer Prize-winning author James Michener, this powerful, all-but-forgotten masterpiece, with its subtle, anti-war message, venerates Navy aircraft carrier pilots tasked with destroying a series of heavily-defended river bridges during the Korean War. William Holden turns in an unforgettable performance as a brooding Lt. Harry Brubaker, who realizes the mission is virtually suicidal, but carries out his duty regardless. The movie offers fine bits of casting in Grace Kelly as Brubaker’s wife, and the diminutive Mickey Rooney, portraying a helicopter rescue pilot who tries to save Brubaker after the lieutenant is shot down behind enemy lines. The Bridges at Toko Ri features some terrific scenes of the Grumman F9F Panther in action, the Navy’s first carrier-based jet fighter. 3. Twelve O’Clock High (1949) There’s surprisingly little flying in this compelling, highly accurate drama set in England during 1943, when the U.S. Eighth Air Force struggled to prove the effectiveness of daylight precision bombing. The story, drawn from the bestseller novel of the same name by Sy Bartlett and Beirne Lay, Jr., centers on hard-as-nails, do-or-die Brigadier General Frank Savage (Gregory Peck), who must whip the combat-weary B-17 crews of the fictitious 918th Bomb Group into an effective fighting force. Twelve O’Clock High has always held special personal meaning for me given that my cousin, a B-17 copilot with the 96th Bomb Group, was killed along with the rest of his crew when their Flying Fortress was shot down over France shortly
Risotto and Murder Mysteries
The first time my wife and I visited Italy, we went to Florence and Tuscany. To say it was among the best vacations we ever took would be like saying espresso is mildly stimulating. There was so much to see and appreciate. The Uffizi Galleries. Michelangelo’s 17-foot marble statue of The David. The Leaning Tower of Pisa. The Ponte Vecchio. The food. The wine. The Italian people, so warm and welcoming. Every day was a feast for the senses and the soul—and none more so than in the realization that Florence was where the Renaissance was born, propelling humanity from the dark depths of the Late Middle Ages into the bright light of progressive thought. To walk the same narrow, cobblestone streets where Michelangelo, DaVinci, and Galileo once strolled was to be profoundly moved. And so, last summer, we decided to go back to Italy. This time, it was to the lake region of northern Italy, in the foothills of the Alps. Many Americans who vacation in that part of the world tend to gravitate toward swanky Lake Como, where many celebrities own or have owned villas, from George Clooney and Madonna, to Richard Branson and Sylvester Stallone. We, however, were looking for something less glitzy and quieter, more relaxing. I’m pleased to say we found it. After spending a few spectacular days in Milan, where I nearly ate my weight in risotto (I love risotto, and I don’t even really know what it’s made from!), we rented a car and hit the road. Several hours later, having barely survived tailgating Italian motorists and approximately three thousand roundabouts (those of you who’ve driven in Italy will know what I’m talking about), we arrived at Lake Orta and the exquisitely charming village of Orta San Giulio. Which brings me to the subject of murder mysteries. When I sit down to write a new Cordell Logan mystery, it’s with the aspiration that readers will suspend their disbelief, that they’ll happily escape the challenges of their own lives and ride along with Logan as he goes after the bad guys in the Ruptured Duck, his beloved, aging Cessna 172. To achieve that objective, I’m obligated to craft in my prose a fictional world that resonates so credibly, it becomes all but impossible for the reader to distinguish what is fact-based and that which I’ve conjured from thin air. For me, anyway, it’s a lot easier to spin believable fiction that’s based, however loosely, on what I’ve seen or experienced first-hand. I suspect the same is true for most writers. You can spend months in a library or online, researching what it’s like, for example, to work for the CIA, but chances are you’ll never achieve the kind of persuasive believability that an experienced case officer might in telling a similar story. This is one of the fundamental lessons I strive to impart upon my students in the creative writing courses I teach at Harvard University’s Extension School: Write from a position of authority to help maintain the reader’s suspension of disbelief. Everyone has an expertise in something. Write what you know. Which brings me back to Orta San Giulio. Rarely have I visited anywhere so beautiful–and so beautifully suited for a murder mystery. Honestly, I found it all but impossible to remain in tourist mode as we ate (more risotto!), drank, and shopped our way through the village, hiked the lushly wooded hills above it, or simply sat on the balcony of our B&B with a bottle of chianti, gazing out at the spectacular lakeside view. Call me crazy, but it was the tranquility of the place that screamed mayhem. We were there five glorious days. By the time we headed home, I’d already laid out the fundamental plot for a new Logan who-done-it. I am now in the process of editing a second draft of that book. I’m calling it The Impossible Turn—an entedre that will covey a particular significance for my fellow pilots. Revisions aplenty still remain, but the manuscript is definitely coming along. And you can be assured that when it is finally finished, Orta San Giulio will be a big part of it. Meanwhile, things are moving full speed ahead on the release of the seventh installment in the Logan series—Deep Fury. It’s available for pre-order on Amazon in various formats including Audible Audiobook (with the great Ray Porter narrating), and debuts Dec. 17th. I hope you’ll mark your calendars.
*You Might Be a Pilot If…
Every detail about that glorious day you soloed is burned into your memory like the day your kids were born. Every time you hear an aircraft overhead you automatically look up, wishing that was you. You forget all the greasers you made this month and stew over that one really not-so-good landing. You pat your plane like a trusty steed after safely arriving at your destination. You try not to think ill of those among your friends and relatives too freaked out by small planes to come flying with you. You’ve watched “Top Gun” and “The Right Stuff” at least a dozen times. You think Chuck Yaeger was as close to godliness as it gets. Irritability sets in if you don’t fly often enough. You enjoy reading listings online of aircraft for sale, even the aircraft you know you’ll never be able to afford in a million years. Pre-flighting a plane in the early morning of a beautiful VFR day, when the winds are light and the skies are clear, makes you wish you could live and fly forever. You’ve ever been on the phone with a customer service rep in India or the Philippines, trying to resolve a dispute over a bill, and resorted to spelling out words to make yourself understood using the international phonetic alphabet. You don’t think twice about dropping a hundred bucks on a hamburger if it means getting to fly somewhere new—or even if the destination isn’t new. You always read aviation accident reports. Checking the weather at your local airport has become an obsession, even on days when you’re not flying. You think it would be awesome if someone using marshalling wands and wearing an orange vest guided you into your garage at night. You wish there was more room in the “comments” section of your logbook so that years from now you could remember every detail of every flight. Climbing up through a solid overcast on an IFR flight plan and into brilliant blue skies, with a batten of solid white stretching to infinity below you, is about the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. Descending out of the clouds on a precision approach to find the runway right where it’s supposed to be also is about the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, and among the most satisfying thing you’ve ever done. You’d rather spend an afternoon de-greasing the belly of your plane than doing laundry or mowing the lawn. Only another pilot would understand the vanity plate on your car. Before starting the car, you roll down the window and yell, “Clear!” Your Instagram feed is mostly all airplane videos. You feel an irresistible tug to divert whenever you drive past an aviation museum. On commercial air carrier flights, you fire up ForeFlight on your cell phone so you can follow along. You’d rather go flying than sit at your desk and write. *With apologies to comedian Jeff “You May be a Redneck” Foxworthy
What’s in a Name
What’s in a name? Plenty, if you’re a storyteller and you aspire to set your book’s protagonist apart in the world of crime fiction. Myriad considerations factor into how a writer goes about assigning their hero a name. Sometimes it’s a simple function of the way the name sounds, how it rolls off the tongue. Michael Connolly, with whom I had the pleasure of sharing several bylines when we covered law enforcement together as reporters at the Los Angeles Times, certainly had musicality in mind when he named his LAPD detective Harry Bosch. Michael also chose Bosch’s name in tribute to the Dutch painter Hieronymus Bosch, whose work Michael admired for its complexity and depth, much like Michael’s and Bosch’s own work. A writer often will come up with a name that subtly telegraphs to the reader something relevant regarding the character’s psychological makeup or motivation. Consider Lee Child’s Jack Reacher, an ex-military policeman always on the move, always searching, always reaching for the next mystery to solve. Dashiell Hammett’s tough guy PI Sam Spade is an appropriately named digger with a wit as sharp as a shovel blade and a moral code to match. The name that author Janet Evanovich assigned to her bounty hunter protagonist, Stephanie Plum, conveys Stephanie’s bouncy disposition and the occasional comedic conundrums in which she finds herself. Some names afford the reader clues about the protagonist’s ethnic or cultural heritage (Sara Paretsky’s V.I. Warshawski; Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot). Other names are crafted purposely to remain mysterious, like Spencer, Robert B. Parker’s iconic ex-Boston cop-turned-private eye. Over 40 Spencer novels, beginning in 1973, with the release of Parker’s “The Godwulf Manuscript,” to the debut in 2011 of his “Sixkill,” not once did Parker reveal Spencer’s first name. The deliberate omission added to Spencer’s enigmatic nature and encouraged readers to connect the dots as to what made Spencer tick beyond his hard-boiled persona. And then, alas, there are authors like me who, truth be told, don’t put a ton of deep thought into deciding what to call our heroes. My protagonist for those of you unfamiliar with him is Cordell Logan, a wisecracking civilian flight instructor and would-be Buddhist who struggles to come to terms with his violent past. Logan used to fly Air Force A-10 Warthogs. That was before he was grounded by an old college football injury and transferred to a since-disbanded, Tier One Ultra counterterrorist team code-named “Alpha,”where he went around the world killing bad guys who, in the name of national security, needed killing. I will admit to having employed some fairly obscure reasons in cooking up his name. Back in the early 1990’s, the University of Colorado football team had a quarterback named Kordell Stewart. The man was a total baller. He could throw and he could run and I seriously hated him, mainly because in his first start as a sophomore, he passed for 409 yards and scored four touchdowns to embarrass my alma mater, Colorado State University, in our big, annual, in-state rivalry game. Regardless, I still thought Kordell’s first name was unusual and straight-up cool. And so, one night, probably after enjoying a glass of wine or two, I changed the K to a C and stole it. As for the Logan part of Cordell Logan, I found inspiration in Bill Logan, a legendary, long-time sports columnist who worked at the now-defunct Rocky Mountain News in Denver, where I spent three years as a reporter early in my journalism career. Bill’s desk sat opposite mine in the city room, though he was rarely there. His beat was the great outdoors add he got paid–if you can believe it–to drive all over the Rocky Mountain West in a station wagon packed with firearms and fly-fishing gear. Then he would write about all the many trout he caught and various animals he shot. As the legend goes, Bill had been a total stud in World War II, wounded at Omaha Beach on D-Day. “Wild Bill,” is what the other old-timers at the paper, all vets themselves, called him in admiration. I don’t recall him ever not having a lighted cigarette clenched in his always-grinning, sun-weather face. He was always quick with a witty quip and utterly unflappable. Nothing ever seemed to ruffle the man. If you survived the horrors of D-Day, I suppose everything else after that is gravy. Anyway, I was into duck hunting back then (one of my big regrets; I quit long ago), and Bill Logan offered to sell me one of his shotguns. We walked out of the newspaper office and down to his station wagon, from which he assembled a pump-action, 12-gauge Remington. Mind you, this was on a sunny weekday morning across from the US Mint and directly around the corner from Denver police headquarters. Neither of us, however, was thinking about that. After he handed it to me, I checked to make sure the gun wasn’t loaded, pressed the stock to my cheek, racked a simulated round, sighted down the barrel, and dry-fired the weapon. The asking price, however, was a bit steep. I told Logan I’d think about it. “No problem,” he said, with that grin and ever-present cigarette between his teeth. But when he went to break down the shotgun before returning it to the back of his station wagon, the barrel, which would normally twist free from the receiver, somehow became stuck. He twisted and tugged, but the damn thing wouldn’t budge. Then I tried. No luck. “You get on one end and I’ll get on the other,” Logan commanded me like he was directing troops on the beach. “If we both pull, it should come loose.” “Yessir.” So there were, in the middle of busy downtown Denver, with Logan tugging on the business end of a 12-gauge shotgun and me tugging on the other end, when, suddenly, an unmarked cop car came thundering the wrong way down one-way
Artificial Intelligence: Not Ready for Prime Time?
Recent studies have found that most people Google themselves. Indeed, a survey in May 2021 of nearly 9,400 adults* found that nearly one in ten people look up their name online every day using one or more search engines. “Ego surfing,” it’s called. Vanity and curiosity aside, internet searches are a good way to research the history of a prospective dinner date, or the background of the kid you’re your kid is planning to go to the prom with. Such searches also are a good way to monitor one’s reputation, especially if you’re looking for a new job. The last thing you want is to walk into an interview and be blindsided by some unfounded allegation your new prospective employer dug up in their own online search of your personal history. Most authors I know Google themselves periodically. I include myself among them. We want to know what reviewers are saying about our books and us. I’ve found that most readers who graciously take the time to comment about my work, for better or worse, get their facts straight. The same unfortunately cannot be said for that robotic new kid on the block. I’m speaking, of course, of artificial intelligence. Recently, I decided I might be enlightening to find out what A.I. knew about me. Utilizing the free search engine on chatgpt.com, I typed in, “Who is author David Freed?” The response was undeniably flattering: “David Freed is an American author known for his mystery and thriller novels. He gained recognition for his Cordell Logan series, featuring a former government operative turned flight instructor and freelance aviator. Freed’s writing is often praised for its wit, humor, and intricate plots. Some of his notable works include “Flat Spin,” “Fangs Out,” “Voodoo Ridge,” and “Hot Start.” His novels often blend elements of crime, espionage, and aviation, providing readers with engaging and fast-paced stories.” So far, so good! I decided to test artificial intelligence further. For those unfamiliar with my books, Logan lives in a converted, two-car garage with the world’s dumbest cat in Rancho Bonita, a sunny, seaside enclose on California’s Central Coast. Some readers have astutely deduced that Rancho Bonita bears an uncanny resemblance to Santa Barbara, where I happen to live. So I typed in, “Where is Rancho Bonita?” ChatGPT responded: “Rancho Bonita is a fictional location created by author Ross Macdonald. It serves as the setting for several of his mystery novels, particularly those featuring the private detective Lew Archer. Rancho Bonita is described as a wealthy and picturesque area in Southern California, often portrayed as a place of affluence and privilege, but also hiding dark secrets and scandals beneath its seemingly idyllic surface. “Ross Macdonald’s novels, including those set in Rancho Bonita, are known for their intricate plots, complex characters, and exploration of social issues. While Rancho Bonita itself is fictional, it’s inspired by the real-life affluent communities and landscapes of Southern California.” Uhh, not quite. I wrote back, “Are you sure it’s Ross McDonald?” ChatGPT responded: “My apologies for the oversight. Rancho Bonita is indeed associated with the works of author T. Jefferson Parker, particularly in his crime fiction novels. Parker’s novels often feature Southern California settings, and Rancho Bonita is a recurring fictional location in some of his works. It’s depicted as a wealthy and sometimes troubled community, providing a backdrop for various mysteries and dramas. Thank you for catching that mistake!” Me: Are you sure it’s T. Jefferson Parker? ChatGPT: “You’re correct, and I appreciate your patience. Rancho Bonita is actually associated with the works of mystery author Elmore Leonard, not T. Jefferson Parker or Ross Macdonald. Leonard’s novel “Out of Sight,” published in 1996, features the character of Karen Sisco, a U.S. Marshal, who pursues an escaped convict named Jack Foley. Rancho Bonita is mentioned in this novel as a fictional location in Florida. Leonard’s portrayal of Rancho Bonita often reflects the charm and contradictions of Florida’s coastal communities. Thank you for prompting me to double-check!” Me: Are you sure it’s Elmore Leonard? ChatGPT: “My apologies for the confusion. Rancho Bonita is actually a fictional location associated with the works of author Christopher Moore. It appears in his novel “The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove,” published in 1999. Rancho Bonita is a quirky and eccentric coastal town located in California, known for its colorful inhabitants and unusual occurrences. Moore’s depiction of Rancho Bonita is characterized by its offbeat humor and surreal elements, making it a memorable setting in his novel. Thank you for your patience as we sorted that out!” By this point in the conversation, I was starting to feel a little sorry for ChatGPT. It was like talking to a know-in-all who knows virtually nothing. Plus, my dog was nudging me on the leg with his nose because it was ten minutes past his 6 p.m. dinner time and I was still sitting obliviously at my desk, not filling his dish with food. So, I decided to set the record straight: “Rancho Bonita,” I responded, “is the fictional home of Cordell Logan, created by author David Freed.” Chat GPT seemed almost chagrined, as if artificial intelligence is yet capable of such emotions. Immediately it wrote back, “You’re absolutely correct. My apologies for the oversight. Rancho Bonita is indeed the fictional home of Cordell Logan, a character created by author David Freed. Cordell Logan is a former military pilot turned amateur sleuth, and the Rancho Bonita series of novels follows his adventures as he navigates through various mysteries and intrigues. Thank you for clarifying!” You’re welcome, AI. Experts all agree that in the not-too-distant future, artificial intelligence will transform virtually every aspect of our lives. For now, though, when I want to know what the world thinks of me and the fictional world I’ve created in my books, I’m planning to stick with real intelligence, the flesh-and-blood people who bother to read what I write and
In Memory of Nicole and Ron
On that day in June 1994, when Los Angeles police officers brought in O.J. Simpson for questioning in the murders of his ex-wife, Nicole, and her friend, Ron Goldman, I was 800 miles in Durango, Colorado, working on a cheeseburger, nursing a cold beer, and watching the media frenzy play out on a wall-mounted TV in the bar where I was having lunch. The sky over downtown LA was thick with news helicopters, while reporters and photographers on the ground jockeyed for position as the grim-faced former football star emerged from LAPD headquarters after being questioned by investigators. “Thank God I’m no longer a news guy,” I remember telling my wife, “because I’d be thrown right into the middle of that mess.” I’d recently quit my job as a staff writer for The Los Angeles Times with ambitions of writing movies in Hollywood. The last thing I wanted to do was get involved in the media circus and what soon would be dubbed “The Trial of the Century.” But then, one morning, shortly after I returned to LA (where I was still living at the time), my phone rang. It was the Los Angeles bureau chief of CBS News. “You don’t know me,” she said, “but we know you. You covered the LAPD. We don’t have any sources in local law enforcement. Would you be willing to help us out, covering the Simpson case?” I told her I appreciated the offer, but that I was no longer a journalist. I was a screenwriter. “That’s unfortunate,” she replied, “because here’s how much we’d be willing to pay you.” “I can start tomorrow,” I said. As it turned out, I was on a first-name basis with the lead investigator for Simpson’s newly formed defense team. He was a former LAPD detective who’d gotten into some kind of internal beef with the police department a few years earlier, the details of which I can no longer remember. What I do recall is that he’d apparently appreciated the even-handed way in which I had reported his side of that beef. And so, when I called to tell him that I was now working for CBS News and that I was hoping to get up to speed on Simpson, he invited me over to house. We sat in his living room that night until well after midnight. He showed me uncensored crime scene photos of Nicole and Ron sprawled dead in the courtyard outside her condo in Brentwood, both stabbed repeatedly, blood everywhere. He also shared with me a three-ring binder detailing bits of potentially exculpable evidence and likely alibis upon which Simpson’s attorneys planned to build their case to acquit—everything but the infamous glove LAPD Detective Mark Fuhrman supposedly planted to frame O.J. That crucial part of Simpson’s defense wouldn’t surface until it was reported in the press weeks later. I drove home that night, typed up a 16-page memo outlining everything I’d learned in my meeting with the former detective, grabbed a couple hours’ sleep, and handed in the memo that morning to my new bosses at CBS. They were thrilled. Then they proceeded to sit for days and sometimes weeks on virtually every nugget of information I’d provided. This, I was to discover, was how network news operated, at least back then, seemingly unwilling to break big scoops of their own, waiting instead for the major newspapers to validate them first. In any case, I was soon partnered at CBS with another new hire, a salty, retired detective named Fred McKnight who’d made his bones in the LAPD working undercover narcotics investigations, busting major dealers. Freddie and I drove all over LA, digging up dirt on the accused, of which there was plenty, believe me. Not long after that, I sold a screenplay at auction to 20th Century Fox for a six-figure payday. I promptly decamped CBS, left Los Angeles and moved my family up the coast to the oasis of Santa Barbara, but not before being convinced far beyond a reasonable doubt that O.J. Simpson, his abundant outward charm to the contrary, was nothing more and nothing less than a cold-blooded butcher. It wasn’t the first time I’d crossed paths with the Juice, in a manner of speaking. As a college sophomore while visiting relatives on the East Coast over Christmas break in 1973, I’d ventured one freezing Sunday to Shea Stadium with two of my cousins to watch O.J., then a star running back for the Buffalo Bills, break 2,000 yards rushing against the hapless New York Jets. After the game, one of my cousins snuck onto the field and stole a bag of towels from the Buffalo bench. He then sold them as souvenirs to our fellow passengers on the train ride home to Long Island, claiming O.J. had wiped his face on each towel. All of these memories came flooding back when word broke the other day that Simpson had died of cancer in Las Vegas at age 76. Three decades after the murders of Nicole and Ron, some people remain convinced that O.J. was innocent, a high-profile Black man framed by racist cops. Were there racists within the ranks of the LAPD back then? No question. It would be naïve to think there aren’t today, or that racism doesn’t continue to infect virtually every institution of modern American life. But facts are facts, evidence is evidence, and a wolf is still a wolf, no matter how winning his smile may be or how well he ran a football. It’s a good lesson to keep in mind when writing murder mysteries like DEEP FURY, which debuts in December.