The Devil Inside Me–snippet #3

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Photo by Nate on Pexels.com

When I asked a few weeks back what YOU would like to see on this blog, some kind souls requested more from my work-in-progress, The Devil Inside Me. Allow me to introduce you to one of my favorite suspects, Elyse Baxter. Enjoy!


    “And your name?” Davis, lost in thought, had barely looked up when the next person walked up to him.

    “Elyse Baxter.”

    He looked more closely once the silky voice hit his ears and saw a young woman with long, dark chestnut hair and fair skin, devoid of make-up, sitting down across from him. In Davis’ mind, she didn’t need the make-up. She didn’t need much of anything.

    “And Ms. Baxter, what is it you do at the museum?”

    “I’m a preparator. I’m the preparator for the Holmes’ exhibit.” Davis raised his head again when Ms. Baxter emphasized her “the.”

    “What does that entail?”

    “I handle and prepare all manner of artifacts for our exhibits. I coordinate with others to ensure proper and timely installation of our exhibits. And I was the lead preparator and project manager for this exhibit.”

    “So you’re responsible for this display?”

    “This exhibit,” she corrected. “Yes.”

    “Uh huh.” Davis made a few scratches on his notepad. The preparator smoothed her knee-length skirt and uncrossed, then re-crossed, her legs.

    “How long have you been working here?”

    “I’ve been with the museum for three years now. Prior to that I worked at the Boston Museum of Science.”

    “Are you from Boston?”

    “Not too far from it.”

    Davis looked up from his notes, waiting for her to explain. She didn’t.

    “Where?”

    “Pennsylvania.”

    Again, Davis paused, scratching at his two day scruff, allowing for further detail. She said nothing.

    “Can you be more specific?”

    Elyse Baxter sighed. “Philadelphia.”

    “So you’re responsible for this display–how so? Start to finish?”

    “While it is unusual, yes–I was responsible for the design and implementation for this–exhibit–from start to finish. I presented my concept drawing to Mr. Panetti two years ago, before the television hype and the movie deal. He sat on it for a year until he realized there was more than just a cult following.”

    “There’s a movie deal?”

    “Yes. Leonardo DiCaprio will be playing H. H. Holmes?” she asked with the same incredulity of Chapman.

    Davis continued scratching down notes.

    “So then what? He agreed?”

    “Yes. I had two other designers who worked with me to build the concept model, and–” She waved her hand with a flourish. “This is the result.”

    “And when did you last see the disp–exhibit?”

    “About thirty minutes ago, when the docent explained what was going on.”

    “Where were you prior to that?”

    “I was working in our creative space–it’s on the lower level, where my office is.”

    “And prior to that, when was the last time you saw the exhibit?”

    “This morning, at 6am. I was giving everything one more look.”

    “One more look?”

    “Today was the opening day for this exhibit. Surely you heard it advertised, Detective. It’s on the side of eight CTA buses. This is a central piece to our museum, to Chicago.”

    He nodded. She continued.

    “It’s also our first PG-13 rated exhibit. That generated even more of an interest from the public.”

    “So you were giving everything a once-over before it opened up?”

    “Yes. I was responsible for its execution, so I had to ensure everything was perfect.”

    Interesting choice of words, thought Davis.

    “I don’t mean to be cold and unfeeling, Detective, but do you have any idea how long this…scene…will keep my exhibit closed? So many people were looking forward to it.”

Good Book Alert!

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Good book alert! I recently finished Fiona Cummins’ book Rattle (The Bone Collector #1). I have been relatively lost in the world of H.H. Holmes, reading everything I can that’s within a certain time-frame to his life. I go to sleep dreaming about The Gangs of New York and wake up thinking about Alex Grecian’s The Yard. During the day, my mind wonders how Caleb Carr’s brain works. (Side note: If you haven’t read or watched The Alienist, what are you waiting for??)

I needed a break. Not from crime and mystery and the horrors of humanity, mind you, but from the 19th century. Enter Rattle. Set in modern-day England, it traces the story of missing children from various viewpoints–including the kidnapper, who is much more than a kidnapper. I didn’t read it in one sitting because I’m a teacher and need to be with-it during the day, but I did get it read in two nights. If you’re fascinated by the psychology behind why we do what we do, clear your schedule and pick up Rattle.

Here are two reviews that give a few more details…one from The Suspense is Thrilling Me (I gave them some props in February), and one from The Book Review Cafe.

Excerpt #2 from The Devil Inside Me

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Another excerpt from The Devil Inside Me! Meet Detective Davis Dunleavy, our protagonist, as he encounters the first crime scene. I’d love to hear your feedback via comments, and if you’d like to read more, sign up for my emailing list here!


Detective Davis Dunleavy slammed his car door shut and promptly pulled his coat collar up around his neck. Crime tape stretched across the revolving entry doors, where the Museum of Science and Industry placed a sign apologizing for the temporary closure. He flashed his badge at the rookie positioned at the door.

The cavernous lobby was eerily quiet. He saw a few patrons, witnesses detained by the museum’s security guard, sitting just outside of the gift shop, and a dozen or so museum employees hanging around the ticketing registers. A giant steam locomotive looked as if it were coming directly at him. He headed for the escalator.

“Supposed to be your day off, Davis?” The voice came from behind him. He turned to smile at Adele Murphy.

“How’d you know?”

“Wrinkled shirt.” She winked and jabbed him in the arm. “Just like college.”

He jabbed her back, careful to avoid her massive camera bag.

“I’m just a stand-in. Armstrong and Bucalo from Organized Crime are knee-deep investigating that bid-rigging business. The FBI has set up shop on the 7th floor. And, since my stalwart partner is out in Montana for bereavement leave, Bowers sent me.”

“That’s too bad about Jon’s mother,” Adele said. “Wait–you’re back-up for Organized Crime now?”

“I guess I am today. Any clue what this is about?”

“They didn’t tell you?” she said, incredulous.

Davis shook his head as he stepped off the escalator. They flashed their badges to another rookie and were waved to a corner of the first floor.

“Murder.”

A marvelous yet grotesque sight greeted them. This museum didn’t play: from three-story tornadoes to a full-size German u-boat, it was a place of learning and discovery for both children and adults, and it was enormous–one of the biggest in the world. The DNA and the Devil in the White City display alone was 3700 square feet in an octagonal space. Intended to be a supplement to the genetics exhibit (famous for its chicken hatchery), ten foot tall DNA helices stood on either side of the exhibit’s entrance, but the first thing visitors saw was H.H. Holmes’ now-familiar face gazing out from the wall furthest from the entrance–a full two-stories tall, eyes leering with the effect of watching a patron no matter where they stood. Along the bright white walls were explanations and hands-on activities relating to the collecting and extracting of DNA, and what genetic markers were and how they helped identify bodies and clear suspects. An infographic proclaimed, “Your genome is an instruction manual for how you grow throughout life. You get half your DNA from your father, and half from your mother. Did H.H. Holmes pass on a serial killing genome?” A replica of Holmes’ concrete-encased double-grave was at the center of it all.

Most of the police concentrated their attention along one of the side walls, titled “Identifying Murder Victims…and Their Murderers.” Davis nudged Adele and pointed.

“Fitting,” he said.

As they moved forward, a large, antique-looking steamer trunk at the foot of the display came into view, and in it was a body. At first glance, considering the macabre nature of the rest of the exhibit, it almost looked like it belonged–except it was freshly dead.

“Hey, Chapman.” Davis nodded in the direction of the officers standing guard. “Avery. You guys have been promoted from front door duty, I see?”

Avery grinned. “Yep. Only took six months.”

“How’s life, Dunleavy?” Chapman asked.

“Better than this poor soul’s.” Davis craned his neck at the crime scene as he pulled on latex gloves. Another infographic explained that DNA could have been collected from one of Holmes’ trunks to help identify both the victim and the killer if only the technology had been available–or if they still had one of the trunks because of trace DNA.

“Yeah, crazy, isn’t it? Never thought we’d get a call for a murder up here. Figured it’d be someone trying to steal something.”

“No kidding. What have you found so far? Fill me in.”

“Whatcha see is whatcha get,” Chapman said. “No one seems to know how this girl got here. And in the trunk no less.”

“M.E. on the way?” Davis asked.

“Yep.”

“Any guesses on the time of death?”

“Not ’til the M.E. gets here, but we know there was no body in the trunk as of 6am this morning,” Avery pointed out.

“Oh?” Davis replied, walking around the trunk. “How do you know that?”

Avery tossed his head across the room.

“The tall brunette over there. Says she was the last one in here–at least before the body arrived. That guy–” Avery nodded in the opposite direction. “He checked in on things at 8am and 8:45am, but only to make sure the lights were on. He couldn’t say if there was a body there or not.”

Davis raised an eyebrow. Avery spread his hands wide.

“I know. Said he was checking the lights.”

“Do they have security tapes?”

“Working on it.”

“Thanks, Ave.” A bright flash lit up the already very white display as Adele began to photograph the scene. Chapman shielded his eyes.

“Man. Whoever created this show really went for the White City theme,” Chapman said.

“Like Burnham did,” Avery replied.

“Burnham?” Davis asked.

“He had all of the Exposition buildings whitewashed so they looked like they were glowing.” Chapman stepped aside to make room for Adele. “Plus they used streetlights on the Midway.”

“Exposition?” Davis asked again.

“The Columbian Exposition of 1893? The World’s Fair?” Surprise was in Avery’s tone.

“Ah. The World’s Fair,” Davis replied.

“You didn’t know that?” Chapman asked, eyes wide with doubt.

“Sounds vaguely familiar. Don’t know much about this–” Davis waved his hand around the exhibit.

“You live under a rock, Dunleavy? You almost can’t miss this stuff these days,” Chapman said. “I mean, no offense, but it’s everywhere.”

“No offense taken.”

“This sounds like one for you. Like the Petoskey case,” Avery said. “Who the hell would do this?”

“Not for me, boys. The Chief called up Organized Crime, but they’re busy with the Feds.”

“Organized Crime? Geez.” Chapman screwed up his face and hesitated. “Say, Ave, this doesn’t seem like Organized Crime to me. You?”

Avery was shaking his head. He turned to Davis. “I know we’re rookies and all, Dunleavy, but when’s the last time you saw any type of gangster put a body all nice and neat like in a trunk–and then put it in a museum for everyone to see?”

“Can’t say as I have, Avery.” He snapped off his gloves.

An Excerpt from The Devil Inside Me

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Photo credit: Scott Smith

In honor of the blog being around for two months, an April publication date for a short story, and finally beginning the last third of The Devil Inside Me, here’s an excerpt, introducing Ephraim Trueworthy Webster, our antagonist (though he doesn’t see himself that way). I’d love to hear your feedback via comments, and if you’d like to read more, sign up for my emailing list here!


He was a tall man who looked even taller, cloaked as he was in a long, black duster. He dug in his heels as he took the last two steps to the top of the hill. It was a relaxing view, overlooking the long-abandoned Jilst Saw Mill, headstones dotting the land. The trees along the Suncook River had lost their leaves, allowing the water to come into view. His eyes honed onto a centuries-old carved headstone. He stood in the cold, the mist suspended mid-air. He gazed longingly at the grave, cementing, in his own dark mind, his own dark lineage.

This was it. His life. His liberation. His legacy.

From his stance on the hill, Ephraim Trueworthy Webster surveyed his surroundings. The Gilmanton cemetery was a repository for generations of his family, some of whom likely died at the hands of a blood relative. He could feel that blood running through his veins. He could feel his blood running through his veins. His legacy. And Ephraim Trueworthy Webster was going to revive that legacy for all to see.

#

The subterranean lobby of Chicago’s Museum of Science and Industry was crowded on the free admission day in spite of the typical November weather: It was cold, it was damp, and a grey, overcast sky refused to belie the time of day. No, the weather was not the reason for the crowd. The Chicagoans had come out en masse for the opening day of the museum’s newest and edgiest exhibit: DNA and the Devil of the White City. Thanks to a recent docuseries, Dr. H.H. Holmes once again reigned supreme as Chicago’s favorite, and allegedly first, serial killer. Part science and part history–it was, after all, about the technology of DNA collection and examination–the exhibit was also part gruesomeness. The museum’s leadership had finally admitted that murder was fascinating to the public, and it was going to capitalize on this local media sensation by finally creating its first PG-13 exhibit, special ticketing and parent-permission required. Holmes’ mustachioed and unsmiling face stared down at patrons from one of the enormous posters (G-rated, of course) nearly the height of the lobby, with the words “Are you a descendant of this fiendish mastermind?” emblazoned upon it.

As the lobby clock ticked down the four minutes until the doors would open to the museum proper, a solitary man stood outside, pulled his duster closer around him, and leaned against one of the massive Ionic columns that had been architect Daniel Burnham’s legacy for Chicago during the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition. This, too, tightened the Museum’s connection to Holmes’ time: It was one of only two buildings from the Exposition that remained in the city, a building contemporary to the years Holmes made Chicago his hunting ground. The front facade with its enormous limestone steps was no longer used as a formal entrance, but the man remained. His coat collar stood turned up. A cigarette faltered between his fingertips. When the 9am clang of St. Thomas the Apostle’s bells rang out, he did not try to enter the museum. When he finally heard the screams, he still did not move, save to stamp out his cigarette.

#

The wind was so severe he could see miniature white caps forming on Lake Michigan from his eleventh-floor room at the Congress Plaza Hotel. Ephraim loved the Congress Plaza. Its views of Grant Park and the Buckingham Fountain only amplified the architectural detail inside and out, and, when restorations were done to the 1893 landmark, they were truly that: restorations. The Congress Plaza might change out its lobby chairs and bar stools now and then, but even when they did, the velvety ambiance evoked was still that of the early 1900s. Turning pages in an old leather-bound album at the tiger oak desk, his reverie was broken by the harsh sound of a nasally reporter on the television.

“The man who charmed his way into the lives of women he’d murder and money-lenders he’d cheat couldn’t charm his way out of death in 1896. And now that we know the monstrous H.H. Holmes is indeed lying in his grave–surrounded by cement, but lying in his grave–and without even a remnant of his Murder Castle left to be turned into a ghastly tourist attraction, Chicago’s first serial killer is likely to fall back into the quiet infamy from which he came.”

He rolled his eyes upward toward the crown molding, shaking his head. It wasn’t right. There was no “infamy” about H.H. Holmes: he was a mastermind of a murderer. Was it politically correct to say so? No. But that didn’t mean that credit wasn’t due. Caesar, Napoleon, Hitler–they were all ruthless despots, but no one could say that they weren’t brilliant and cunning strategists. The same went for Holmes. Why was it so hard for these television reporters to laud him for that? He continued listening, head shaking slightly in disagreement, but his mind was shifting. He was catching only pieces of sentences, then pieces of words, as his mind drifted toward a recent memory, and he could no longer register anything: the reporter’s mouth moved from words and sounds to shapes and silence. He no longer saw the reporter. His mind was firmly elsewhere–on a hill, in Gilmanton, New Hampshire.

The Devil Inside Me

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Love mysteries? Crime novels? Whodunnits? Read on. If you like history as a basis for fiction, even better. AND if you like the psychology behind why people kill, especially serial killers, The Devil Inside Me is right up your alley. I’ve dedicated my posts thus far to my writing journey and advice for writers, but this one is for the readers!

What’s it about? 

A purported descendant of Dr. H. H. Holmes resurrects his family legacy. Gruesome discoveries litter Chicago, and the murderer has no desire to hide these deeds like his (or her?) serial-killing ancestor. Instead, the modus operandi is all about bringing back the fame and glory of Holmes to the Windy City–and to the family name.

Detective Davis Dunleavy has his own family legacy: his father, grandfather, and great-grandfather all bled blue for the Chicago Police Department. Dunleavy is called in to make sense of the crime scene peculiarities, but unlikely suspects and scant evidence mean he doesn’t make the Holmes connection fast enough for the murderer’s timetable. When the killing spree collides with his past, Dunleavy must determine what his own legacy will be. 

Frequently touted as “Chicago’s First Serial Killer,” if you don’t know who Dr. H. H. Holmes is, just Google. Essentially the good doctor was a scam artist and murderer who lured women to their deaths in his murder castle–yes, murder castle–with his charming personality. (Check out Holly Carden’s super cool rendition of the murder castle.)

Last year, my book club chose to read Erik Larsen’s Devil in the White City. I wasn’t thrilled with the choice. It’s non-fiction. I’d rather read, well, just about anything than non-fiction. But I began, and holy heck. Erik Larsen’s work does not read like a dry textbook–it reads like fiction and alternates between the intersecting histories of Holmes and the 1893 World’s Columbian Exposition–also known as the World’s Fair–in Chicago. I had to kept reading the preface to ensure that it was indeed not fictional.

Reading Devil in the White City gave me dozens of ideas for writing about Holmes. Then the book club arranged a trip to Chicago for–yep, you guessed it–The Devil in the White City tour. Led by a charismatic tour guide who knew his stuff, the bus tour stopped at assorted locations that had some sort of connection to Holmes.

My interest piqued further.

THEN, the History channel’s American Ripper show arrived. Jeff Mudgett, H. H. Holmes’ great-great-grandson was the driving force behind the show, wanting to know if his murdering gramps might also be Jack the Ripper. (Mudgett has also written his own non-fiction, Bloodstains, about his family’s past.) I watched, then re-watched and took notes. At this point, my husband was questioning my sanity–and maybe his safety. I still wasn’t sure what my novel would look like, but I knew I had to write something about the man–not to glorify him or his actions, but to explore the whys behind it. (Disclaimer: Jeff Mudgett is not my inspiration for this murderous descendant of Holmes. He seems like a perfectly nice guy.)

My quest turned to reading whatever I could on this charmer. Adam Selzer, a Chicago native with a penchant for truth-telling, wrote H. H. Holmes: The True Story of the Devil in the White City. He was also a recognized expert on the American Ripper show, and he shares his vast knowledge and research on his website and in his Chicago walking tour about Holmes–totally different from the other, just as interesting and informative.

Somewhere in between American Ripper and going back to Chicago for Selzer’s tour (on a very brisk November day…brrrrr…), my plot bunny officially made its nest in my brain:

Our antagonist’s family made it their tradition to hide their salacious past. I mean, who wants to be known as the grandkid of a serial killer? But within the family, it was also tradition to pass on the stories of their ancestors: stories of power and might forged by being the first settlers of a small town in New Hampshire in the 1600s. 

He has decided to eschew his name and live life as he feels his family should have been all along, by showcasing their talents to bring them power. His version of that? Murder, just like Holmes. Repeatedly, until everyone notices.

Detective Davis Dunleavy gets saddled with first one murder, then another. With crime scenes as clean as a bottle of Clorox, and no apparent connections among any of the murder victims, he is at a loss for leads. The only connection he can find: they’re all taking place in locations that have something to do with the World’s Fair, and they’re all taking place in a manner consistent with Holmes’ modus operandi. The problem? Everyone around him thinks he’s crazy for even thinking so.

Dunleavy struggles to get a break in the case until the killer decides to lend him a hand–just figuratively speaking–but with it comes a threat that could end Dunleavy’s flawless career. He must tread carefully to uncover the killer–because this killer has no problem continuing his spree for as long as it takes.

Whatcha think? Sounds good? Needs a different twist? Want to read a snippet from chapter one? Sign up for my emailing list here!

 

Murder Your Darlings

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Earlier this week, I focused on the argument of editing while writing versus writing without stopping. Part of that struggle includes editing out pieces that you love but just don’t fit.

I first stumbled across that concept in Stephen King’s book On Writing: “Kill your darlings, kill your darlings, even when it breaks your egocentric little scribbler’s heart, kill your darlings.”

That phrase has been attributed to numerous writers over the years, from Eudora Welty to William Faulkner and, of course, Stephen King, but the true credit goes to one Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, an editor and writer, who presented a series of lectures in 1913-1914 at Cambridge University about writing (which Bartleby has lovingly preserved here). He said, “To begin with, let me plead that you have been told of one or two things which Style is not; which have little or nothing to do with Style, though sometimes vulgarly mistaken for it. Style, for example, is not—can never be—extraneous Ornament.”

In other words, just because something sounds fancy does not mean it’s good writing (or good reading). He continued with this snarky gem: “Whenever you feel an impulse to perpetrate a piece of exceptionally fine writing, obey it—whole-heartedly—and delete it before sending your manuscript to press. Murder your darlings.”

I’d heard the concept, but I really hadn’t been forced to put it into practice until I signed up for a writing bootcamp. One of the comments from a published author and reputed agent on my writing:? “Too dense.” Dense as in too thick with those $5 words and crafted phrases. My darlings. I was immediately transported back to my sophomore year in college when my novels professor gave me my first (but not last) B on an essay. One word sat in red ink next to the offensive letter: “Wordy.” I had never received that kind of feedback, and the sting was palpable. My bootcamp mentor and novel prof were effectively saying what Mr. Quiller-Couch had: Write it how you want to write it, but then murder those darlings. Or, as legend Elmore Leonard put it, “If it sounds like writing, rewrite it.”

Don’t despair! You can always resurrect those murdered darlings. Cut and paste them all into one place so that, if you find you wished you hadn’t murdered one after all, you can bring it to life again. Mine now reside in a folder punnily named The Dead Files. That file made it so much easier to let go–because I wasn’t really letting go. Resurrection is right around the corner thanks to technology. (Doesn’t that just beg for a post about Battlestar Galactica?) 

Need some help on how to do away with those darlings? Ruthanne Reid shares lovely advice on The Write Practice.  (You should also read her post about Neil Gaiman’s rules of writing.)

Writers, is this your process too, or do you do something altogether different with those darlings when you cut swaths of your work? Comment and let me know!

Readers, have you ever wondered if a piece was cut from your favorite novel? Would you want to read those cut pieces? I’m toying with the idea of releasing some of mine here on the blog. Please comment if that’s something you’d like to see!

To get a free sneak-preview of my work-in-progress, The Devil Inside Me, please sign up for my mailing list here. Email subscribers will receive extras along the way!