I’m happy to be a guest on The Little Blog of Murder. It gives me a chance to spout off about the so-called ‘importance of realism’ in crime fiction. I hear digs elsewhere about the cozier side of the amateur sleuth world. PI and police procedurals are far more realistic according to some. Noir is Nirvana. I’m not suggesting we get all Cabot Covish, but are they kidding? Face it folks: reality bites. It’s nasty, brutish, and often not short enough. Taking a break from the real world is why many of us enjoy the non-professional protagonist.

The sneers are aimed at the league of fictional busybodies who stumble across corpses and outdistance the police in the investigation. Unlikely, you say? Check out your local police force’s clearance rate for violent crime and report back. Unlike police, amateur sleuths solve murders speedily and leave no loose ends. There are good reasons for this: mainly they don’t have to wait for forensic results, and they have no paperwork. Real cops are over-loaded with administrivia. They must keep accurate records. They may find themselves reading from their notes in Court, in the unlikely event their case ever gets there. There’s so much pressure, I’ve seen officers working on their computers while driving.

So, are ordinary people content with the real world of crime? Hardly. Case in point: when the body of a young man was found by city workers in a wooded area at the tip of our neighborhood, the workers were traumatized by this disturbing slice of reality. Police were on the site quickly, squad cars and morgue wagon parked, white tent erected realistically.

That day I was drinking coffee and talking to my dogs when my phone began to trill. I received five calls asking for Camilla MacPhee (one of my pushy and entirely fictional amateur sleuths) to get the hell over there and investigate. I’m not making this up. Naturally, being a mystery writer, I had already strolled by the site. I’d seen the junior police officer keeping curious citizens away. Seems there’s something off-putting but still compelling about a killing in the neighborhood. People were understandably worried. “Are people being killed in our neighborhood? Who is it? Do you know –?”
“Keep moving, sir,” he said to one agitated fellow. “Everything is under control.”
To me he said, “Keep moving, ma’am. Everything is under control.”
Without turning his head, he told the next person, “Keep moving, sir. Everything is under control.”
I muttered, “You have a dead body in the middle of a residential neighborhood. Exactly how under control is that?” Of course, Camilla MacPhee would have said it out loud. She wouldn’t care if they frogmarched her to the station in response. That would have made a good scene. I took satisfaction in noting that his real words could have used an edit for variety.

Two years later this death is still unsolved. The victim had a loving family, a few brushes with the law, a dabbling in drug sales. With time and luck, some criminal may trade information for a reduced sentence. More likely, the killers will never be brought to justice. Reality? Bah.

Real murders are nasty and vicious: domestic violence, robberies gone wrong, or a settling of scores in the drug underbelly. In reality the guilty often go free and there are plenty of innocent people rotting in prison. Rare are the splendid villains disguised as the kindergarten teacher, the local police chief, or the kid who cuts the grass. But readers in the land of cozy fiction would never tolerate such unsatisfying outcomes. Therein lies the opportunity for the middle-aged, justice-seeking, coffee-loving, dog-walking would-be sleuth to have an impact on the world.

I assure you my failed romance writer, my professional organizer and my victims’ advocate would never leave you mourning for justice and longing for a satisfying outcome. Nor would the scores of cozy writers (from antiques dealers to angel advocates) who’ve kept me entertained for years. And now if you’ll pour the coffee, I’ll call the dogs. We’ll pick up a mystery and listen for the phone.