AHMM, October 2006

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AHMM, October 2006 Page 13

by Dell Magazine Authors


  He knew they'd wait for him to pull up at the barricade, where he'd be sitting on the horse, a stationary target. The streambed might prove treacherous, water trickling over smooth stones, easily dislodged, footing slippery for the mare, and even money she'd break a leg. Which left the high ground to his right.

  She was a quick horse, if sometimes stubborn. She'd never failed him in a fight. Fifteen feet from the barricade, he laid her head over and slapped the reins across her withers, urging her up the slope. From a standing start, he could feel her long muscles begin to pull, her lungs swelling.

  There was a snap shot from the trees on the far side of the streambed that went wide.

  Placido Geist pushed the mare upslope, letting her take her head as he unlimbered the shotgun from the saddle horn.

  A man stood up twenty yards in front of him, a rifle in his hands. He was unprepared for this sudden rush.

  Placido Geist swung the horse's head aside and fired both barrels of the scattergun, taking the man off at the knees. He made a running dismount, pulling the heavy Sharps out from under the saddle skirt. He was above the rockslide now, looking down on a confused drygulcher on the other side. The man took the 400-grain bullet in his head, spraying bone fragments and brain.

  Placido Geist levered out the spent round and thumbed a fresh cartridge into the gun, settling himself behind a crevice in the rocks. The mare had stopped, panting, her reins dangling along the ground.

  "You the same three that hanged the kid?” he called out.

  There was no answer from the trees along the streambed.

  "You kill me, you don't have to tell Farragut Hagerty the truth. You miss your chance, you're dead either way. I were in your shoes, I'd hightail it for Oklahoma or Arkansas."

  The man stepped out of the trees. “You won't shoot me?” he asked, arms akimbo.

  Placido Geist had thought better of it. “You ride on,” he called down to the cowhand. “Whichever direction you go, you'll be looking over your shoulder the rest of your life."

  They went their separate ways.

  Placido Geist had separate thoughts, as well. We're all guilty of something, he'd already decided. We simply pay for it in our own currency.

  Copyright © 2006 David Edgerley Gates

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER by Willie Rose

  Each letter consistently represents another. The quotation is from a short mystery story. Arranging the answer letters in alphabetical order gives a clue to the title of the story.

  GP SYO PQKUGUD GUPE Y ZYC CYW IEK MRMKWZECW, YUC G IMBP PNM CQBB EBC UYDDGUD FQBB EI EPNMK FMEFBM'O PKEQZBM, BGTM Y PEEPNYANM WEQ AYU'P BMYRM YBEUM.

  —KEOO LYACEUYBC

  CIPHER ANSWER:

  Solution after AHMM Classic below.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  REEL CRIME by Steve Hockensmith

  Andy Breckman doesn't have a closet full of identical suits. He's not afraid of heights, crowds, germs, needles, snakes, mushrooms, children, or clowns. He's perfectly capable of using a public restroom, and he doesn't buy Lysol by the crate.

  But Breckman has at least one thing in common with Adrian Monk, the obsessive-compulsive-hypochondriac TV sleuth he helped create.

  "I don't like change,” says Breckman, who guides the quirky detective's adventures as executive producer of the popular USA Network series Monk. “It's always scary ... at least to me."

  Like it or not, though, Breckman had to accept that things wouldn't be quite the same when Monk kicked off its fifth season this July. For one thing, the series was back on Friday nights but at a new time: nine P.M. EST instead of ten P.M. And there'd be a new mystery series in Monk's old slot. (More on that later.) And USA announced that Monk would go into strip (i.e., daily) rotation on the network as of 2008.

  * * * *

  * * * *

  Andy Breckman. Photo courtesy USA Network

  * * * *

  Yet despite all that, Breckman vows that one thing will remain exactly the same: the show itself. Viewers who tune in for the fifth season will see the neurotic Monk (Tony Shalhoub) go to a class reunion, reunite with his father, and encounter a deranged actor (Stanley Tucci) who thinks he's Adrian Monk. What viewers won't see are melodramatic plot twists or silly sweeps-week stunts.

  "We're not going to kill off a major character or have Monk come out of the closet,” jokes Breckman, who started his career as a stand-up comic and later worked as a staff writer for Late Night with David Letterman and Saturday Night Live. “It's better not to get fancy with these gimmicks other shows do. I think it's harder to find a tight formula and stick to it, but that's what we do."

  Breckman's so committed to that formula, he's even nixed network requests for crossovers with shows like Las Vegas and Crossing Jordan, which air on USA corporate sibling NBC. And it's not just because he's stunt-phobic. He simply can't imagine his hero making sense anywhere but on Planet Monk.

  "Our show exists in a totally different world,” Breckman explains. “For example, we're a contemporary crime show, but the cops don't ever use computers or DNA or fiber evidence. And we don't use informers and we don't do sex crimes. We play by our own stodgy, retro rules."

  * * * *

  * * * *

  The cast of Monk. Photo by Andrew Eccles, courtesy of USA Network.

  * * * *

  Breckman even calls Monk “the anti-CSI.” Instead of emphasizing gruesome forensic procedures and flashy visuals, Monk relies on the kind of old-school clues Breckman grew to love when he was reading Sherlock Holmes stories (and Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine) as a kid.

  "We like to come up with stories that, in theory at least, Arthur Conan Doyle could have done,” Breckman says. “The quintessential Monk mystery for us was the episode where a guy kills a woman on a clock tower and lays her body on the minute hand. Then he goes downstairs and establishes an alibi. And the minute hand ticks down until her body finally slides off, so it looks like she jumped at eight twenty. That's the kind of stuff CSI does not do. To me, it's so elegant. It could have been written in 1904."

  Of course, twenty-first century audiences aren't usually wowed by “elegance.” It's razzle-dazzle they crave—or so the conventional wisdom goes. Yet Monk's old-fashioned puzzle mysteries have been embraced by millions of viewers, making the series one of the biggest hits on basic cable. Even the departure of co-star Bitty Schram (who played Monk's assistant Sharona through the first two and a half seasons) couldn't put a dent in the show's popularity. The series forged on with a new assistant for Monk (played by Traylor Howard), and the ratings actually went up.

  The show's been such a success, in fact, that USA pre-ordered a sixth season. Which means Adrian Monk will keep on catching killers (and exasperating everyone around him) through at least 2008.

  After that, however, Shalhoub's contract runs out—as does Breckman's. But don't worry, Monkies. Breckman promises that the dangling plot thread about Monk's murdered wife will be tied up in the show's final episode ... whenever it might come.

  "I've started kicking around ideas,” says Breckman (who also wrote the Monk pilot based on an idea by veteran producer David Hoberman). “Answers will be given."

  Arthur Conan Doyle wouldn't have had it any other way.

  * * * *

  Steve Franks likes CSI, but he's got one big problem with it: It's taken all the fun out of murder. “It seems like all the [crime] shows now are about death and dismemberment,” Franks says. “It never looks like anyone's having any fun. It's joyless. I like mysteries with a sense of fun to them."

  So there was only one thing Franks could do: create his own crime show. A fun one. And lo and behold, not only is it on the air, it's been paired with another mystery series in which yuks are more important than yucks—Monk.

  * * * *

  * * * *

  Corbin Bernsen, James Roday, and Dule Hill. Photo by Kwaku Alston, courtesy of USA Network.

  * * * *

 
Franks's USA Network series Psych premiered in July in Monk's old time slot. Like Monk, the show revolves around an eccentric genius who uses his gift for observation to solve mysteries. But Psych's hero, Shawn Spencer (a charmingly glib James Roday), is no anxiety-plagued neurotic. He's Adrian Monk's (bi)polar opposite—a happy-go-lucky slacker who's drawn to detective work because, well, just cuz it's cool. So cool, in fact, that Spencer's willing to fake his way into new cases by pretending to be a crime-solving psychic.

  "He's just like,'Wow—how awesome is this? We get to be Starsky and Hutch!'” says Franks, an exuberant thirty-eight-year-old who calls “the pursuit of fun” his own mission in life.

  Appropriately enough for someone who's all about fun and make-believe, Franks got his big break at Disneyland. Sort of. While working in the Magic Kingdom in the late nineties, he pounded out a spec script about an irresponsible guy who adopts a child just to impress his girlfriend.

  "I literally wrote it while I was supposed to be in the Tiki Room making sure the birds weren't catching on fire,” Franks recalls.

  What caught fire was Franks's career. The screenplay—Big Daddy—was snatched up by Columbia Pictures and became a huge hit for Adam Sandler.

  "After Big Daddy, the studio signed me to a blind deal, which means I go and pitch them five ideas, and if they want one they pay a set price for it,” Franks says. “So I pitch them all my ideas, and they're like, No. No. No. No. No. But one of my pitches was about a guy who's so good at talking his way out of trouble that he's able to convince the cops he's a psychic detective. So they hire him, and he solves the case. I put that in my back pocket and thought, I'll do it later."

  * * * *

  * * * *

  James Roday and Dule Hill in the pilot for Psych. Photo by Jeff Weddell, courtesy of USA Network.

  * * * *

  "Later” came after he grew frustrated with the grind of television's annual pilot season. Though each year he landed a new deal to write another sitcom pilot, none of the projects ever got off the ground. So eventually, Franks reached into his back pocket for Psych.

  "The half-hour [pilots] weren't that fun anyway. They were just setup—joke, setup—joke, setup—joke,” says Franks, who, like Breckman, toiled as a standup comic early in his career. “I always wanted to do Moonlighting or Magnum P.I. So I finally said, I don't care if no one will buy it. I'm going to try to do a one-hour show this year. And I took it to USA because Monk is one of my favorite shows, and this seemed like a really good fit."

  Obviously, USA agreed—though it's only ordered eleven episodes so far. After they've run ... well, even a slick-tongued pseudo-psychic like Shawn Spencer would think twice about predicting the decisions of an American television network.

  But whatever Psych's fate, Franks knows he'll have succeeded in at least one respect.

  "I feel like I'm creating a show that I would want to watch,” he says. “So if nothing else, I got the chance to create my own favorite show."

  Copyright © 2006 Steve Hockensmith

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  SURVIVING SPOUSE by Doug Allyn

  * * * *

  * * * *

  William R. Warren, Jr.

  * * * *

  Terminated. Canned. Pink-slipped. Donald Trump smirking on TV. “You're fired!"

  I stared blankly at the pages that were ending my life as I knew it.

  Professor Alex R. Creighton, MS, blah blah ... suspended, pending further ... blah blah. Not recommended for contract renewal at this time.

  Forget the academic camouflage. The final line was the only one that mattered. I was toast. That's what the words actually meant. Fired.

  Dr. DeLyle was looking at me. Waiting for an outburst. A tale to share in delicious whispers in the instructors’ lounge. Poor Creighton. Crumbled and wailed like a baby when he got the sack.

  I felt like wailing. Didn't though. Pretending to scan the contract, I desperately scrolled through my options. Beg and plead? No point. DeLyle couldn't change the board's decision. Maybe I should stonewall, deny everything, threaten to sue—

  As if reading my mind, DeLyle shook his head.

  "The girl came forward with a video, Cray. The two of you in her dorm room, en flagrante. Good Lord, man, what were you thinking? Ah. You didn't know she was filming, did you? They film everything, these kids. Use cell phones, mini cams. You'll be lucky if you don't end up all over the Internet. But it's not the end of the world. You're a young man, you made a mistake. Perhaps the board will reconsider next term."

  We both knew he was lying, but I didn't bother to call him on it. I was down to my final card.

  Ion's death. If I claimed I was emotionally disturbed, checked myself into a clinic ... No. Couldn't do that. There was a limit to how low I'd go. It wouldn't work anyway. A porn video of me with a coed would trump a temporary insanity defense. Why give them the satisfaction? Face it, my job at Hancock University was over. No tenure, no health plan. I'd be lucky to get temp work.

  Fired. Sweet Jesus. One helluva year. A dead boy, a wrecked career.

  Rising on rubber knees, I thanked DeLyle for his courtesy.

  "I'm terribly sorry about this, Creighton,” DeLyle said, offering his hand. “You're a brilliant systems engineer with a bright future. Put this behind you, my boy. Move on."

  "Thank you, Doctor. Don't worry, I'll be fine."

  But I wasn't fine. My guts were churning as I hurried through DeLyle's outer office. Stumbling into the nearest men's room stall, I dropped to my knees and retched up everything but my spleen.

  Huddled there awhile, shivering, hugging the porcelain, drooling into the bowl, tring to gag down the nausea.

  Fired. My God, Thelma's going to kill me.

  At the time I thought it was a figure of speech.

  * * * *

  The duplex was dark when I pulled in the drive. Rumanian music playing on the stereo. Before Ion arrived, Thelma spent weeks tracking down Rumanian folk songs online to make our adopted son feel at home.

  It meant nothing to Ion, of course. He'd never heard the music before. The rattletrap orphanage at Cluj didn't have hot water, to say nothing of a sound system.

  Still, Thelma insisted on nurturing Ion's cultural heritage, though the last thing the kid wanted was reminders of Rumania. He adored everything American, from Big Macs to SpongeBob SquarePants. A brilliant boy. Even picked up the variance between Thelma's Georgia drawl and my Indiana twang. Conversed with us in our respective accents, as if we spoke separate languages. Which isn't so far off.

  I walked through the darkened duplex to the small deck out back. Thelma was in her bathrobe in the dusk, alone at the picnic table, face swollen, tear stained. Her normal look these past months.

  Bottle of Jack Daniel's on the table, half gone. Her service revolver beside it.

  Sweet Jesus. She already knows. And she really is going to kill me.

  But when she looked up, her eyes barely registered my presence, as if her thoughts were in a far country. I started to sit down but she waved me off.

  "Go away, Cray."

  "Thel—"

  "Leave me be!” I froze as her hand brushed the revolver, then moved on to the bottle. “I can't take this, Cray. Not one more day."

  "That gun's no answer."

  "There aren't no answers for a thing like this."

  Reflex. I nearly corrected her English. And for a moment, because I'd just read it, the surviving spouse clause in my instructor's insurance package flashed into my mind. Death by misadventure. Payout, half a million. If I actually did as she asked, turned and walked away...

  Bile surged up at the back of my throat, gagging me. “Calm down, Thel. That's the whiskey talking."

  "No, it's your lil’ ole mush-mouth wahf talkin'. Only as usual, you don't hear me. Look, we might as well face up to it, our gettin’ married was a big mistake. Bangin’ a campus cop with your roommates gigglin’ outside in the hall had to be a great college-boy fantasy. If you hadn't knocked me
up—but we lost that baby, and now we've lost Ion. I embarrass you at faculty parties—"

  "No you don't."

  "Yes I damn well do, but I don't care anymore! Those people bore the hell out of me, Cray. All they talk about are folks who wrote books about other folks who wrote books. Claim to be free thinkers and every last one's a Jane Fonda Democrat, couldn't change a goddamn tire if their lives depended on it. I don't belong here, and I can't take it anymore. I have to go."

  "Where?"

  "What?"

  "If you leave,” I said reasonably, “where will you go?"

  Thelma blinked, trying to refocus.

  "I—don't know. My mom moved down to Taos with her new husband. Maybe I can go there, stay with them. Or maybe Florida. As far from here as I can get."

  "And as far from me?"

  "I don't hate you, Cray. I don't even blame you. I just feel godawful sorry for the both of us, and that's a lousy way to feel about a marriage."

  "How will you get there?"

  "I don't know! A bus. We came here on a bus."

  "Look, Thel, I've had a really tough day. Can we sleep on this? Talk it through in the morning?"

  "I won't feel any different."

  "Then it won't matter, will it? C'mon, you look exhausted."

  "Thanks for sharing that. And you're sleeping in the den."

  I started to object but didn't. Something in her eyes told me not to.

 

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