This weekend, author Patricia Cornwell spent $250,000 for full page newspaper ads to defend her recent $1 Million dollar donation to the Crime Scene Academy at John Jay College of Criminal Justice in New York.

Last week, Cornwell told reporters that she decided to donate the money to help teach law enforcement officers how to handle crime scenes after being disgusted by what she saw while following police:

“I’ve seen cops walk through blood. I’ve seen them leave their own fingerprints on a window. I’ve seen bloody clothing put in a plastic bag, instead of a paper bag, so it decomposes.”

In the ads, she says this:

“What has been publicized certainly does not accurately reflect my deep respect and admiration for these hardworking law enforcement professionals.”

And she adds that her comments were directed at the general public, not police.

“I’ve been riding with the police for 30 years. I care about these people and I’m not criticizing them. Any mistakes investigators make are not their fault. Too often they don’t have the training or resources they need, which is what the donation is meant to address.”

She then complained about television shows like CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, which she accuses of “misinforming people about police.” TV, she says, has led people to believe they’re helping police when they meddle with crime scenes. Of course, crime fiction in print would never do such a despicable thing, the author did not add.

I like ‘CSI,’ and I don’t recall seeing episodes that encourage people to tamper with evidence in any way. I’m pretty sure, in fact, that those people who stage evidence generally find themselves in legal hot water by episode’s end.

So if it’s really time that we “take control of our crime scenes again,” as Cornwell has stated, then maybe crime fiction of any kind should be banned universally. That way, no one would ever get a wrong idea.

Think she’d go for that?

She says TV has led people to think they’re helping when they meddle with crime scenes, and cites an instance in which robbery victims laid out index cards highlighting evidence for the police to find.

A sad update to an earlier post here at Patrick’s Place:

Local radio and television personality and published author Red Evans lost his battle with cancer this morning.

Red was diagnosed with terminal cancer earlier this year, the same year that he published his first novel, On Ice, at age 75, proving that it is never too late to see a dream through.

I spoke to Red’s son earlier this evening, who says that what’s important now is that Red is out of pain and in a better place.  In an email to members of the writing group Red spoke to just last month, his son said that his father “entered the Pearly Gates conjuring up thoughts for his first heavenly novel.”

Local author Dave Moulton recently wrote a piece about Red’s visit with the group.  You can view that post here.

Red will be greatly missed.

Patrick’s Place received some sad news that involves local television as well as the world of local writers in the Lowcountry:  author and former broadcaster Red Evans is fighting cancer and was placed in hospice care just before Christmas.

Originally known as “The Rockin’ Redhead” on local radio, and then as a local television journalist, Evans, 75, calls himself a three, possibly four-career guy:

“Thirty years in broadcasting, as The Rockin’ Redhead and then as a TV journalist. I’m a three-career guy, maybe even four. A radio personality when I was young, spinning Elvis, Fats, and the drifters. I was the Rockin’ Redhead, a wisecracking, adlibbing deejay with voice mimics and catch phrases. Alas, I outgrew all that and got serious, turning to news which occupied my focus for the next twenty years and eventually led to lobbying Congress in Washington, DC and public speaking. Fifteen years later, after I retired I began my fourth career, writing fiction and playing with my grandchldren in Charleston, SC where I reside with my wife of 50 years.”

That description of Red, written by Red, is found on his blog, which he just began back in November, after publishing his first novel, On Ice, an unusual road trip story about a corpse being kept literally on ice in a kiddie pool, a farm boy and a flatulent dog.

More on the novel can be found at the publisher’s site, incidentally.

Upon learning of his diagnosis, according to Evans’s son, Mike, Red didn’t abandon his sense of humor.   “He said his cancer now has cancer and that the tumors in his body are all trying to join up with each other.”

I’ve never met Red officially, though I know we were recently in the same building when he stopped by to talk about his novel during a guest segment.

Another local author, Dave Moulton, told me the other day that Red read a passage from his book during last month’s meeting of the local writers group I’ve been attending.  Unfortunately, I missed that session.

Please keep Red and his family in your thoughts and prayers.

Keep fighting, Red.

I’m on Dean Koontz’s mailing list because he’s my favorite author. A few times a year, I receive a newsletter from him that mentions his upcoming releases, like The Darkest Evening of the Year, which came out today.

As is often his custom, he includes photos of Trixie, his beloved Golden Retriever that he adopted years ago. Trixie was to have been a service dog, but had a joint problem that required surgery; once a dog has joint surgery, it is no longer eligible to be a service dog, so Trixie was “retired” from the service, and that’s how Dean and his wife, Gerda, were able to adopt her.

The cover of this latest newsletter had a collection of eight photos of Trixie in various poses. There was one with a big smile — the kind only an ever-happy Golden Retriever can give, Trixie in a Santa hat, Trixie wearing Easter bunny ears, and Trixie wearing Sunglasses and doing her best at looking glamorous.

At the top of the page in bold letters, it read, simply, “Trixie Koontz.” The first time I looked at it, my eyes immediately went to the photos of this beautiful dog. It took me a moment to notice the second line:

5 October 1995–30 June 2007

When it comes to animals, particularly those of the canine persuasion, I’m a sap. The biggest sap in the world, in fact. I suppose that not many people would admit that. So to say the least, that line didn’t exactly raise my spirits.

It turns out that Trixie had developed an agressive form of cancer, and facing a painful death as the illness progressed, the Koontzes decided to put her down.  At his website, he describes how Trixie loved to have her head held in his hands while he rubbed her cheeks; Dean and Gerda were holding her when she passed.  And that’s when they learned firsthand how devastating the loss of a dog can be:

“That Saturday was the hardest day of our lives. The pain is more intense than any we have known before. The house seems empty without her, and we feel lost.”

Koontz had made Trixie one of his most popular marketers.  She would write messages to her master’s readers that would be crafted in a style that a dog might use, if a dog could actually write:

“Is big week for me because I am dog. Every week is big when you’re a dog. Every week is full of joy, kibble, plush toys, tennis balls, cookies, tummy rubs, wriggling in grass, and more, when you are dog. Dad doesn’t get kibble or plush toys (don’t know why, except maybe he hasn’t been good boy, good), and he is too embarrassed to wriggle on back in grass, so only fun he gets is having new book in stores.”

He has written a new message from Trixie in which she talks about waiting for her human parents at  Rainbow Bridge.  (If you’ve never heard of it, follow that link at your own risk; I can never get through it without tearing up.)

One of my uncles had owned dogs for years.  But they were outside dogs.  And while he fed them and took care of them, they didn’t spend much time indoors, and there wasn’t a great deal of one-on-one contact.  That changed years ago when he got a poodle mix that he named Petey.  Petey was an inside dog who followed my uncle everywhere.  My uncle suddenly realized that there’s something special about dogs.  Unfortunately, Petey was hit by a car and killed.  When the accident happened, my uncle grabbed him and sat in his living room cradling the dog in a daze.  His son called my parents and asked them to come over quickly, thinking that my uncle might actually die from the shock of the loss.

If you can’t imagine experiencing a loss like this, I genuinely feel sorry for you, because it must mean that you have never allowed yourself to get close to a dog.  Man’s relationship with these wonderful creatures dates all the way back to the caveman days according to early cave drawings.  Though cavemen never had dictionaries, encyclopedias or the internet, they were at least smart enough to recognize that these four-legged mammals were indeed friends.  And all these centuries later, there”s still nothing quite like a good dog.

Comedian George Carlin once said that every cute little puppy should come with a sign that reads, “Warning: This will end badly.”

And yet those of us who love dogs keep walking into that situation, because we’d rather have those precious years with our pets than live without them.  Dogs like Trixie ask for so little, and give so much.

That’s what makes them so special.

One of the attractions in downtown Richmond that I’d so far missed was the Old Stone House. It has two claims to fame.

First, it is the oldest standing building in the city of Richmond, dating back to about 1737. That one distinction alone makes it very attractive to history buffs. But to the literary fans of the area, it has a second appeal: it now houses the Poe Museum, a shrine to Edgar Allan Poe.

Scattered throughout the house, which Poe would have passed daily on his way to school, are memorabilia from the writer himself and his loved ones. In neighboring buildings visitors can find some rare first editions of Poe’s work, including an original printing of The Raven. There is also a scale model of Richmond as it appeared in Poe’s day. One can admire a white silk vest he wore and a lock of his hair. Handwritten letters and a few early drafts of his writing are also on display.

This weekend, the Poe Museum celebrated what would have been the 197th birthday of the mysterious writer, complete with cake and refreshments, so I thought this would be a good time to explore.

Poe was born on January 19, 1809, and lived in Richmond a few times over the course of his relatively short life. Though the buildings he actually lived and worked in are long gone, the people of the Poe Museum have done an impressive job of gathering artifacts and recreating the modest living quarters that Poe actually would have used.

The master of the macabre’s greatest mystery was that of his own death, of unknown causes. Much has been speculated about what really happened during several “missing” days during which he couldn’t be accounted for, and Baltimore’s Edgar Allen Poe Society has a well-compiled narrative of what is and isn’t known, here.

I couldn’t resist buying a few t-shirts and a coffee mug with Poe’s distinctive signature. I figure it’s helping a good cause. I don’t think I’ll be able to resist pulling my Poe collection off the shelf and reading soon, either.

Novelist Evan Hunter died last week at the age of 78. If the name doesn’t ring a bell, you might know him by his penname, Ed McBain, under which of the 87th Precinct detective series. Hunter was credited with pioneering the police procedural.

I’ve never read an Ed McBain novel. At least, not yet. I knew his name for a different reason: it was Hunter who was hired by Alfred Hitchcock to turn Daphne du Maurier’s “The Birds” into the 1963 horror movie of the same title.

In his memior, “Me & Hitch,” Hunter talks about what it was like to work with the screen legend. “Tell me the story so far,” were the words Hunter would hear from Hitch each morning when he reported to work on the screenplay.

Isn’t that what all writers want to have someone ask them? And continue to ask them, story after story?

The author’s webpage will continue, and it includes a forum. Last October, Hunter wrote this about writing the second chapter of a manuscript:

Having just started outlining BECCA IN JEOPARDY, it occurs to me that the first chapter isn’t the most difficult one, it’s the second chapter. With the first one, you have the thrill of jumping off that diving board into crystal clear waters. After that, it gets hard. But don’t despair. Just keep typing away. It’s a noble calling. And remember… if you don’t write something today, there’ll be no check in the mail six months from today.

“Just keep typing away.” That’s another quote I need to post right above my computer.