Our Lost Children

By Mark W. Danielson

A missing child does not always refer to the physical sense. In fact, too many parents have lost a child and never realized it until there is a suicide attempt. In some cases, kids take others down with them before taking their own lives. It’s a tough world out there, and it’s getting tougher. With 24/7 media bombardment, I’m not sure how any child copes these days. The “lost boys” in Peter Pan and Lord of the Flies were reflections of our children decades ago. Technology has merely amplified this problem.

I’m constantly amazed at how many parents suffer from family tragedies. During a recent discussion with some fellow authors, two were sharing stories about deaths in their families. At my age, death is not uncommon, but child or young adult deaths are never expected, and always have staggering effects on family members and friends. When I mentioned that one of my children became so emotionally detached and distraught that she needed professional help, one of the other authors piped in saying that she had twice attempted suicide. Sadly, many have shared the thought. Though mental detachment is often curable, there are far too many failures.

We all have ways of dealing with loss. Some turn to religion, others join support groups, authors turn to writing. Such was the case when I wrote Diablo’s Shadow, a missing child story where the child, caught in the middle of two estranged parents, runs ahead of her father and disappears in the woods. The child’s disappearance forces her parents to work together to find her. In many cases, children hide to bring their parents together, but sometimes they simply vanish. Writing Diablo’s Shadow was my coping mechanism for what I experienced during a very dark period. It’s the most difficult story I’ve ever written and will be the only mystery I ever write on this subject.

When I meet other writers, it’s clear that our stories are driven by personal events. Where else would our characters’ passion and conflict come from? How else do we create characters that readers care about? Readers connect through their own experiences. Empathy gives our stories heart.

I frequently hear people say, “I can’t read missing children stories because I have kids.” Trust me, I understand. But stories like Diablo’s Shadow can help heal and offer guidance. Chances are good that one of your friends is or has experienced difficulty or loss with one of their children, but most bury this information so deep you will never know. The truth is you’re not alone.

How to live fulfilled lives is the greatest mystery of all. Some figure it out better than others. Parents must watch out for their children’s emotions as much as they do their children’s physical health. Kids who are withdrawing from society are at a huge risk for abuse and suicide. Be alert and bring them back before it’s too late. There are plenty of available resources to assist. A good start may be: The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, 1-800-273-TALK (8255). www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org , and The National Center for Missing & Exploited Children, 1-800-THE-LOST (1-800-843-5678) http://www.missingkids.com/missingkids/servlet/PublicHomeServlet?LanguageCountry=en_US

Mystery Authors, What Real Life Mysteries Have Touched You?

So many of us write about missing people, murders, suicides, other mysteries, but how many of us have had any real mysteries in our lives?

Years ago, when hubby and I lived in a neighborhood filled with police officers and their famiiies we often partied with, we went to a poker party at the juvenile officer's house down the street. At the time, poker parties, even those in private homes were illegal. (How anyone could enforce that law, I do not know.) Except for hubby and me (hubby was a Chief in the Navy at the time) was a police officer or officer's wives. One man who came was from a neighboring city's department.

I'm sure I didn't play cards or bet as I don't play poker--though I don't really remember. There was lots of laughing, joking, eating and drinking.

While the officer from the neighboring city was playing cards, his wife was murdered in their home. Needless to say, he was the primary suspect despite his airtight alibi with a lot of witnesses.

The next day we were all questioned as to when he'd arrived, how long he'd been there, when did he leave.

Finally, the investigation proved that the killer was an escapee from a nearby mental hospital and the murder was random. Of course I used the incident (without the poker party)in one of my earliest Rocky Bluff P.D. crime novels, Bad Tidings.

We also had a suicide in the family, a cousin's husband. She was suspect for about five seconds until the investigating officers learned he recently received a cancer diagnosis.

Any of you out there have a real life mystery you lived through or touched your life?

Marilyn
http://fictionforyou.com

Steve McNair...a Classic Homicide by Chester Campbell

The past week in Nashville has been like a primer on police procedure for mystery writers. If you happened to glance away from all the Michael Jackson coverage for a bit, you may have seen where Steve McNair, the retired quarterback for the Tennessee Titans, a former NFL MVP, was murdered in an apartment near downtown in the wee hours on the 4th of July.

McNair had played for the Titans and its predecessor Houston Oilers his entire career, except for his last two seasons with the Baltimore Ravens. After retiring, he returned to live in Nashville with his wife and three children. He was a popular figure, constantly involved in working with kids and other charitable activities.

With such a high-profile figure, the Metro Nashville police went all out to investigate the case and bring it to a quick conclusion. A friend who rented the apartment with McNair found his body on a sofa early Saturday afternoon with two gunshots to the head and two to his chest. On the floor in front of him was a 20-year-old woman. She had been shot once in the head.

Homicide detectives, crime scene techs, a doctor from the Medical Examiner’s staff , and scores of cops converged on the scene. Crowds of fans who had been headed for a riverfront Independence Day celebration gathered behind the crime scene tape. Continuous live TV coverage showed evidence bags being brought out of the apartment.

At 3:30 p.m., Police Spokesman Don Aaron gave media the first official word that Steve McNair was dead, also a female not being identified until next of kin could be notified. When they moved her body, they found a semiautomatic pistol beneath her. Ballistic tests would be conducted at the Tennessee Bureau of Investigation crime lab.

Later that evening, police identified the woman as Sahel Kazemi, originally from Jacksonville, FL, whose mother came from Iran. Police had swarmed her suburban apartment and questioned neighbors. Sunday morning’s newspaper said the 36-year-old former quarterback had been dating her for several months, that she drove a Cadillac Escalade registered in both their names.

On Sunday afternoon, Spokesman Aaron gave another news conference. Autopsies had been completed, and McNair’s death was ruled a homicide. He said Kazemi’s death would not be classified until completion of further investigation.

Police reported on Monday that ballistics tests showed two shots to McNair’s chest and one to his head were fired from three feet away. The other shot to his temple was a contact wound. With the assistance of the ATF, they determined that Kazemi, a waitress at Opry Mills Mall, had purchased the gun Thursday night in the parking lot from a private individual.

At a news conference on Wednesday, Police Chief Ronal Serpas confirmed that Kazemi had shot McNair, probably while he was asleep, and committed suicide. Though McNair had apparently co-signed to allow her to purchase the Escalade, she was responsible for the payments. Conversations with friends and co-workers showed she felt her life was unraveling. She didn’t know how she could pay her bills, and she thought McNair had another girlfriend.

"We do believe there was evidence that she was spinning out of control," said Serpas.

The newspaper gave widespread coverage of the crime and the investigation, including detailed drawings of the crime scene, showing where the bodies were found. It was a classic case of gumshoe work questioning everybody who might have known anything and forensic testing to determine everything about the gun and its firing.

Thousands of fans flocked to memorial services yesterday. Crime writers are tasked with showing the effects of homicide on those around the victim. In this case, those most directly impacted were McNair’s widow and three young children in Nashville, plus an older son living with family in his hometown of Mount Olive, MS. Mechelle (Mrs.) McNair has chosen to remain totally private and has made no statement regarding her husband’s death.

Ironically, Steve McNair had opened a new restaurant, Gridiron9 (his old jersey number), near the Tennessee State University campus two weeks ago.

Washed Ashore

My boyfriend and I have a morning routine on days I don't go to my day job. We walk up to George's Zoo, a little market/deli across from the San Francisco Zoo, getting hot drinks (coffee for me, chai tea latte for Dave) and walking on the beach for an hour or so. I'm a dedicated (okay, compulsive) beachcomber, with a house and garage full of shells, rocks, driftwood and beach glass as testimony to my obsession. I have restrained myself from hacking out teeth, skulls and other pieces parts from dead seals or sea birds. Too messy and smelly.

I am totally fascinated by the variety of stuff that washes ashore every day and how the terrain of the beach can change after one stormy night. There's a shipwreck, the King Philip, under the sands of Ocean Beach up by Noriega Street. It lies concealed most of the time, but once every decade or so the sands shift to reveal bits of it. Last year the ruined prow poked up, rusted metal bits clinging to the wood. It was fascinating and always made me wonder what else was under there.

A month or so ago we were out in the morning and saw police cordoning off a section of beach (also down near Noriega). There was a dead body lying on the sand, up out of the tide line, stiff and...well, dead. For someone as fascinated with horror movies, morbid ways to die and/or kill someone (I'm a mystery writer, so I figure it's normal enough. Right? RIGHT?!), I found the sight of this poor dead fellow very disturbing. It brought home issues of mortality I didn't realize I had. I mean, it's one thing to come across a dead seal with an obvious shark bite taken out of its body, but a fellow human being is a different matter. At least for me. Funny 'cause when I read a book or watch a movie, I'm always far more upset when an animal is hurt or killed than when a person gets kacked. Go figure.

This morning Dave and I went for our usual walk and saw a sailboat listing to one side in the sands down the beach a ways (near Noriega, to be exact. Gotta wonder if there's an ancient Indian burial ground or something else around there...) so we wandered down to check it out. The sails were gone, just the metal skeleton of the rigging remained.

A young woman was doing stretches in front of it, a small dog leashed up to the railing. We asked if it was her boat. It wasn't. Evidently it had run aground Christmas Day during a storm and the owner of the boat was found dead inside the cabin. He had been removed, but the boat was basically abandoned.

People had taken the sails and a few other items, but there were still sandwiches inside the cabin, books, DVDs, mail... I know this because Dave climbed up and poked around for a few minutes. I didn't. It seemed too much like desecrating a grave, a reaction I found surprising. I love poking around old historical sites, graveyards, ruins, you name it. But this...well, it was too new. Besides, I've seen far too many Japanese horror movies like GRUDGE with pissed off, vengeful spirits. I told Dave if he brought home a white faced ghost with lots of black hair or a spooky little kid, he was in deep shite.

Dave looked at the mail. There was a bill from a pathology lab and an alimony payment notice alongside a half empty bottle of wine. It made us both wonder what had happened out there on the ocean. Did this man decide to kill himself, perhaps riddled with some incurable cancer? If so, did he expect the boat to go down in the water or did he have visions of it sailing unmanned like a modern day Flying Dutchman? Something about the combination of the mail, the wine, and the fact he was out alone on the ocean during a storm at Christmas more than hints at premeditated suicide.

Poor guy.

There are those nasty thoughts of mortality creeping in again. They're definitely mixed up with a desire to use this in a book and a certain amount of guilt at using someone else's tragedy as creative inspiration.