David Halberstam's The Coldest Winter: America and the Korean War
Should you read any history of the Korean War it should be The Coldest Winter: AmericDavid Halberstam's The Coldest Winter: America and the Korean War
Should you read any history of the Korean War it should be The Coldest Winter: America and the Korean War by David Halberstam. It was Halberstam's last book. Shortly after publication, Halbertsam was killed in an automobile accident April 23, 2007. He was on his way to interview a subject for his next book.
Lest the reader pick up this volume thinking it is a history of the compete Korean War, it is not. It is a masterful treatment of the background of the War and its principal players. Here are careful portraits of the division of the Korean peninsula into North and South following the end of World War II, the respective leaders, Kim Il Sung, indoctrinated by the Soviets during World War II, and Synghman Rhee, considered friendly to the United States. Throw in detailed sketches of Dean Acheson and Averell Harriman, original Cold War warriors for the United States, and Harry Truman in his second term as President, the man under estimated by his political opponents. Most of all, General Douglas McArthur seems to tower over them all, the Supreme Commander in World War II's Pacific Theater, and America's ruler of Occupied Japan from his headquarters in the Dai Ichi.
But Korea was long ignored by the United States. McArthur considered the country to be the problem of the State Department, not an issue of his concern. He was wrong. As time passed he would realize how wrong he was, but he would not accept responsibility for his errors. Rather he would attack the Truman Administration for not having fulfilled his request for more support and permission to widen the war that began in June, 1950, with an attack by North Korean forces across the Thirty-Eighth Parallel that caught the South Korean government and United States by surprise.
North Korean forcess threatened to push American troops off the Korean Peninsula at Pusan. It was a war of strategic mistakes, divided commands, largely the responsibility of Ned Almond, a McArthur man. Almond primarily attempted to wage war by surveying maps rather than studying the actual terrain which favored North Korean forces. McArthur waged war from his headquarters in Japan. He never spent an entire day in Korea while in command. American casualties were horrific.
An American defeat was avoided by McArthur's last hurrah. An amphibious landing at Inchon, behind the North Korean forces who had cornered American troops far south in the area of Pusan. The North Korean Assault was halted. American commands pushed the North Koreans back beyond the Thirty-Eighth Parallel. McArthur planned an American drive all the way to the Yalu River on the Manchurian Border.
McArthur promised the war would be over by Christmas and American boys would be coming home. In Washington the Administration was worried about intervention by Mao's Communist Chinese. Intelligence reports indicated massive Chinese Divisions forming along the Yalu River.
But McArthur only believed in truth as he decided it should be. The Chinese would not intervene.
American forces continued to race North. McArthur's head of Intelligence, Charles Willoughby, suppressed information of the Chinese presence. Nor was Washington any the wiser of the presence of Chinese forces. If there is a villain of the Korean War, Willoughby is one. A colleague, knowing of Willoughby's deception said Willoughby should be in jail.
On October 25 and 26, 1950, Chinese forces actively intervened, carving up American Units. Many American troops fought in summer uniforms. They were equipped with bazookas incapable of piercing the armor of Soviet T-34 tanks. The treads of American Sherman tanks froze to the ground. Soldier's carbines and M-1 rifles locked in the cold. Willoughby continued to suppress information about Chinese intervention. Division Commanders on the ground insisted they knew a Chinese when they saw one. They were ignored.
The secret presence of Chinese troops could not be kept. Not by Willoughby or McArthur. No, the troops would not be home for Christmas. McArthur argued that a widened war was absolutely essential, proposing an invasion of China and the use of atomic weapons if necessary.
McArthur's political thrusts against the Truman Administration that his hands were tied by Democrats who wanted to fight a war of appeasement ultimately led to his recall by Truman. McArthur never seemed to grasp that America was no longer alone in the nuclear age. The Soviets had successfully exploded their first atomic device in 1949.
Some military histories can be remarkably dry. David Halberstam never wrote anything that was a turgid stream of facts. This is an exceptional book filled with the stories of men, heroes and cowards both. And as with any good history, it has its lessons. It leads us to the frightening conclusion that Kim Jong-Un is the grandson of the man who launched the surprise attack on South Korea in June, 1950. There will be no easy answers to today's problems on the Korean Peninsula.
Although written back in 1997, years before the plight faced by Syria's refugees, author Peter Robinson pInspector Banks Among the English for England
Although written back in 1997, years before the plight faced by Syria's refugees, author Peter Robinson penned a novel concerning national pride cloaked in vicious racism and intolerance. James Flood is found beaten to death in Banks' never peaceful Eastvale.
After the battered corpse is identified by Forensics, young members of Eastvale's Pakastani residents are prime suspects. Flood had a run in with George Mahmood at a local pub. He didn't take kindly to being run into by a G..d....d Paki.
Banks may have racial tension on the rise. It won't do. It's just not PC, nor good for the town's image.
Worse, James Flood was the technical Guru for a Neo-Nazi crew, the Albion League, headed up by a smooth talking chief, Nevil Montcombe, who not only has the ways to attract the local disaffected young to his growing ranks, but the money to pay the best Solicitors and Barristers to protect his interests.
While Banks is dealing with sticky political wickets on the job, his personal life is on the skids. He and wife Sandra have split.
It's enough to put Banks deep into his bottles of Laphroaig Scotch. It's bloody Hell when Chief Superintendent Jimmy Riddell suspends Banks for not properly investigating the Flood case when Banks own subordinates find an easy solve to the murder. Case closed.
Or is it? Banks may be suspended, but he's not a man to leave loose ends hanging. Especially when his experience tells him the evidence doesn't add up.
Robinson continues to write at the top of his game. Banks continues to develop as an increasingly complex man, torn between duty and family.
Bank's ninth appearance is a cracking good read. Robinson writes another first rate police procedural. This series just grows stronger with each successive entry. Excellent. Read it....more
In short, this is Banks' best outing in the series I have encountered. Peter Robinson departs fInnocent Graves: Banks at the Bar
Full review to follow.
In short, this is Banks' best outing in the series I have encountered. Peter Robinson departs from his usual plot line. For in this novel, the murder of a sixteen year old girl in a country churchyard leads to the arrest and trial of a small college English teacher. The suspects abound. However, the presence of convincing forensic evidence leads to a fascinating trial of the hapless suspect. This one is not to be missed. Robinson has outdone himself in Innocent Graves....more
Mondays child is fair of face, Tuesdays child is full of grace, Wednesdays child is full of woe, Thursdays Wednesday's Child: Inspector Banks' Discomfort
Mondays child is fair of face, Tuesdays child is full of grace, Wednesdays child is full of woe, Thursdays child has far to go, Fridays child is loving and giving, Saturdays child works hard for his living, And the child that is born on the Sabbath day Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.
Little Gemma Scupham is seven, the portrait of a child of woe. Da is long gone, if she ever knew him. Mum is Brenda Scupham, who frankly finds Gemma a child not wanted. Brenda prefers her liquor and her men, being undisturbed by the presence of her daughter, who has come to look upon her mother and the men in her life with a sad, knowing , look that seems to question why do you allow us to live in this manner? At times, it's enough to give a parent the guilts.
So Mum is quite relieved on the particular afternoon the story begins in Wednesday's Child, when two well dressed people, a man and a woman, knock on her door identifying themselves as representatives of the Department of Human Services, investgating a report that Gemma may have been abused--that it will be necessary that they keep Gemma overnight for evaluation, and they will return Gemma the next morning.
Of course, Gemma is not returned. We reach the heart of the matter.
Once again, Peter Robinson weaves the intricate details of a meticulous police procedural into this novel. And, has become more interesting over the course of the cases of Inspector Alan Banks, we see what the state of his life is over the passage of time, his state of mind at the time he is at work on the current case.
Through the course of the Banks series, I have followed the good Inspector's taste in music. It varies from novel to novel. Inspector Banks has journeyed through Opera, Classic American Blues and Jazz. In this novel we find him in a nostalgic state of mind, listening to music popular in his younger years, a time of relevant innocence and pleasure. Let's say he's in a "Yesterday" frame of mind. You know, "Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away..."
Since Banks' first appearance, time has moved on. His children, daughter Tracy, and son Brian, have grown older. Brian is away at school. Tracy, now sixteen, is establishing her independence. With his children no longer needing his and doting wife's Sandra's close supervision, Sandra has sought more time following her interest in the sponsoring of Art events. To Banks, it seems his domestic life is unraveling a bit. Little time is spent with wife Sandra.
Gemma's mother, Brenda, is a contrasting foil to Banks, who in fact misses the company of his children. Gemma's disappearance greatly disturbs Banks because from experience he knows that abducted children, if not found within twenty-four hours, may never be found. After forty-eight hours, the chance that a child will be found alive is even less a possibility.
The abduction of Gemma Scupham, strikes Banks' supervisor, Chief Inspector Gristhorpe, with even greater force. In his youth, Gristhorpe was a junior constable part of the team investigating the Moor Murders, one of England's most infamous cases dealing with a pair of male and female serial killers who were responsible for a substantial number of child disappearances and murders. The real life pair of killers, Ian Brady and Myra Hindley terrorized the Manchester area of England between 1963 and 1965. The actual number of their child victims only increased as they began to confess to additional cases in the mid-1980s.
Unlike previous cases, Gristhorpe who is nearing retirement age, and has been contemplating stepping down for Banks to move up into his position, decides he will be actively involved in the investigation of Gemma's disappearance. The toll of an Inspector or Superintendent's work on his life is beautifullly described as it concerns the aging Gristhorpe.
Gristhorpe reflects on his construction of a stone wall about his home, an activity which he has shared with Alan Banks as they have discussed previous cases.
“He had been working at the wall for too long. Why he bothered the Lord only knew. After all, it went nowhere and closed in nothing. His grandfather had been a master waller in the dale, but the skill had not been passed down the generations. He supposed he liked is for the same reason he liked fishing: mindless relaxation. In an age of totalitarian utilitarianism, Gristhorpe thought, a man needs as much purposeless activity as he can find.�
How I recognize this. The thoughtless, purposeless activities I engaged in to relieve my stress during my years as a career
Is that all there is? Is that all there is? If that's all there is my friends Then let's keep dancing Let's break o
The Stranger: Mersault in the Moment
Is that all there is? Is that all there is? If that's all there is my friends Then let's keep dancing Let's break out the booze and have a ball If that's all there is--Jerry Leiber, Mike Stoller
I hear the people singing, so it must be Christmas time
So you ask, why do you do this to yourself? You have a choice to read or not to read. It is absurd. Watch "It's a Wonderful Life." Watch "Miracle on 34th Street." Watch Benjy shoot his eyeglass lens out with his Red Ryder BB Gun.
I pour myself another Scotch. Light another cigarette. The smoke drifts up and slowly dissipates. Ah, smoking is not good for you, you say. I have news for you. None of us are getting out of this alive.
The attic fan is on. It sucks the smoke away. It is unduly warm. It does not feel like Christmas. There is no tree. There are no lights. Only the drone of the attic fan which not only brings a cooling breeze through the house, but also the coat of damp humidity that takes the crispness from the brown tops of the biscuits, uneaten, on the stove.
Talking to Mersault
Ah, Mersault. You miserable soul. Did you not see it coming? From the very beginning I knew this was going to end badly.
“Maman died today. Or maybe yesterday; I can't be sure.�
So you travel to the home where you have put your mother. The Director tells you to feel no guilt. Why should you? On your modest salary? Then not to want to see your mother. Not one last time? You sit vigil over her casket, but you smoke and drink coffee.
I understand a bit, Mersault. I saw my mother one last time. After a call from the hospital. Maman was dead. I went to see her. Of course, the nursing staff wanted the room cleared out. You expect to walk in and see your mother at rest. Reclining as if asleep. But they have not attended to her. Her jaw hangs slack and open. She couldn't breathe, you see. So, I forever think of her struggling for that last gasp of air. They want to know what I want to have done with "the body." I tell them the name of the crematorium. I do not remember whether I took her diamond earrings from her.
Perhaps it was a good idea not to open the casket. But you seem emotionless. You live in the moment. It is though you have no past, no future. You are indifferent.
Some would say you are entirely too honest. I don't think it is out of simple guilessness. No. At times, I myself have wondered what is the point to it all.
That you should seek out the comfort of a woman's companionship. That I understand. But after she has given herself to you, and asks if you love her. Well.
“She was wearing a pair of my pajamas with the sleeves rolled up. When she laughed I wanted her again. A minute later she asked me if I loved her. I told her it didn't mean anything but that I didn't think so. She looked sad. But as we were fixing lunch, and for no apparent reason, she laughed in such a way that I kissed her.�
You react to only the basic desires of a person. You appreciate them. However, you have, or if you have, any emotions, you keep them well hidden. All this will haunt you Mersault. You are a stranger. You are an outsider. And all your lack of emotion is unacceptable to the society that surrounds you. You will be a pariah.
Oh, yes. We, the members of society practice conventions that make us comfortable. We practice behaviors that make us predictable. There is so much safety in that.
But what if you are right. What if nothing has any meaning. How does that make you comfortable.
“Have you no hope at all? And do you really live with the thought that when you die, you die, and nothing remains?" "Yes," I said.�
What assurance to you gain by being so damned cocksure of such absurdity?
You murder a man. You offer no explanation other than it must have been the sun. Suddenly you seem to recognize there will be consequences.
“I knew that I had shattered the harmony of the day, the exceptional silence of a beach where I'd been happy. Then I fired four more times at the motionless body where the bullets lodged without leaving a trace. And it was like knocking four quick times on the door of unhappiness. �
Yes. It was like that. And you will face trial. Because you are a stranger who does not possess the emotions and expectations of those who judge you, they will hate you. They will condemn you because you do not follow the rules of the game they play.
You see, it is dangerous to live in an indifferent world. You, with your unwavering honesty take away the comfort of those who sit in judgment of you. They want their lives to have purpose and certainty by following the rules.
They will kill you for that, you know. It is sad, but true. Hope that the guillotine works the first time. I know that requires you to become a co-conspirator in your own death. That is the only say you have in this game's outcome.
Perhaps you will find some comfort and open yourself "to the gentle indifference of the world."
Afterthoughts
Thirteen years after The Stranger was published, Albert Camus said,
"I summarized The Stranger a long time ago, with a remark I admit was highly paradoxical: 'In our society any man who does not weep at his mother's funeral runs the risk of being sentenced to death.' I only meant that the hero of my book is condemned because he does not play the game."Carroll, David. Albert Camus the Algerian: Colonialism, Terrorism, Justice. Columbia University Press. 2007
**spoiler alert** A Necessary End: Banks and the Inevitable Conclusion
This is my third outing with good man Inspector Alan Banks. I'm coming to rather**spoiler alert** A Necessary End: Banks and the Inevitable Conclusion
This is my third outing with good man Inspector Alan Banks. I'm coming to rather like him. I've followed Banks from the beginning in Gallows View, published in 1987. To date the series strikes me as a fine ,well written police procedural told from a more gentle perspective, in a more peaceful and bucolic setting. In Yorkshire. The fictional town of Eastvale, more specific.
For Banks, in his debut, had left his more high pressure job in London as a member of the Unsolved Crimes Unit, and transferred to Eastvale, hoping to find a quieter life. A better place to raise his two children. Spend more time with his doting wife Sandra. All's well. Until Banks discovers that no place is immune to crime, not even the idyllic Eastvale.
Banks is quick to involve himself in investigations. He has a knack for interrogation. Some might suspect him of being a bit soft. But that would be entirely a mistake. Banks is capable of coming down as hard as necessary to uncover a killer.
Music is a passion with which he relaxes himself. And I have rather humorously followed him from his opera phase to his current fascination with classic American Blues and Jazz. Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters, Billie Holliday. He's quite informed.
Banks dotes on his children. He misses his wife when she is away.
Contemporary readers, much younger than myself, might find A Necessary End quite dated. It is a novel revolving around a demonstration by Eastvale Villagers against a Nuclear Power Plant and also the presence of a new United States Airforce Base carrying nuclear weapons. You see, the Cold War is still quite real at the time of Robinson righting this case.
However, being a child of the late 1960s, I found no problem falling into the atmosphere of demonstrations, the exercise of civil disobedience. I who was a college student with a low lottery number was staring the possibility of heading to Vietnam with a forboding sense of my early demise. I attended my own share of demonstrations in my younger years. A member of the Student Mobilization Committee, allied with Vietnam Veterans against the war. Interesting thing about protest groups, how polarized they can be. And the bonds formed among folks for a common cause though of disparate personalities.
But enough of that. There is a Hell of a demonstration. A Bobby sent in from another district, Eddie Gill is killed. Stabbed. Over a hundred protestors are present. In otherwords, over a hundred suspects.
London sends out its own whiz kid from the Yard to quickly solve the copper killing. Consider him Banks opposite. Dirty Dick Burgess is an ultra right wing conservative. His immediate solution is that the dead Constable was killed by a terrorist. Possibly Communist, Possibly IRA, Possibly a Maoist. Never mind that Burgess has no proper head for politics and mixes contradictory philosophies at will, he sees conspiracies everywhere.
Alas. Banks has to face the problem in his beloved village without his wife or children who have gone away to aid Sandra's mother in the care of her ailing stepfather. So Banks finds himself with little excuse not to spend extra hours with the obnoxious Burgess.
There's a group of idealistic folk who live outside Eastvale at Maggie's Farm. The march to the beat of the different drum. The oldest are true children of the sixties. Mara, the perfect image of the earthmother. Her partner, Seth, a maker of fine furniture. Richard, a bitter man, an artist caring for his son Julian, while his wife is attempting to recover a life from drug addiction.
There are two younger among the crowd. Zoe, a modern day flower child who lives by giving Tarot reads, writing the local horoscope, and delving into the I Ching. She is an idealist of the New Age. Not really political, but happily at home in a new day form of communal living. And of course, there's Paul. The social outcast. The product of an abused home. Raised in foster care.
Mara, who was incapable of bearing children extends kindness to Paul. So, soon, does Seth, who takes Paul on as an apprentice in the fine art of carpentry and wood work.
Outside Maggie's Farm there is a true activist named Ozmend. Not at all foreign to organizing demonstrations. And Ozmend clearly has a past showing him capable of violent behavior. A younger couple are also in the Ban the Bomb/Ban Nuclear Power movement. However, they appear to be pure idealistic hangers on.
The point of all this? Thanks to Burgess who will have his agitator's guts for garters and ballocks for sport, the above named parties are his sole suspects. That and any other agitator he can manage to create.
But, Banks, always the thorough careful one wonders if there might have been a personal motive for Eddie Gills murder. He launches his own investigation, kept from his supervising officer. Gill was not a good clean cop. He loved to volunteer for Demonstration Control. He was a head banger of long standing. Any number might have their motive. Of course, the problem is the most likely suspects are those whom Dirty Dick harries for purely political motives.
All things must come to an end. Unfortunately, an end must be necessary. However, it is an end that may solve a crime and at the same time offer a deeply human reason for taking another person's life. Unfortunate. But, I must say, I've had my dealings with enough victims to reach the conclusion they deserved killin' as we might say in the South. Problem is, the law allows no one the right to do that.
On an interesting side note, I'm discovering that our Inspector Banks is all to0 human. He's exhibiting a distinct attraction to Dr. Jenny Fuller, who first appeared in Gallows View. And that attraction appears to be returned to Banks.
So, without doubt, I will continue with Inspector Banks' Investigations. No Sturm und Drang series. Not at this point. However, Peter Robinson has a distinct knack for realistic dialogue, the establishment of place in Yorkshire, and deeply introspective abilities to portray men and women at their best and worst.
You can't find a thing wrong with that. And you younger, folks. Don't be deterred that this title isn't hot off the racks. It remains as relevant today as the issue of brutality by police remains a front burner topic. And, beware. Not all nuclear weapons have been destroyed. You might find yourself wanting to "Ban the Bomb," too.
“Job, actually. I read it once a long time ago. It seems more frightening now though. The man who
Knots and Crosses: John Rebus and the Book of Job
“Job, actually. I read it once a long time ago. It seems more frightening now though. The man who begins to doubt, who shouts out against his God, looking for a response, and who gets one. ‘God gave the world to the wicked,� he says at one point, and ‘Why should I bother?� at another.�
“It sounds interesting. But he goes on bothering?�
“Yes, that’s the incredible thing.�
Conversation between Detective Sergeant John Rebus and Detective Inspector Gill Templer
, . Damned if I haven't met myself coming and going in Knots and Crosses, the first John Rebus novel by Ian Rankin. After sharing a quote from the novel, a friend from the UK responded it seemed I was identifying with John Rebus. An adept observation. However, I felt it more a matter of staring at myself in the mirror reading through this debut of a rather complex character. Considering some of the reviewers' opinions of John Rebus, he's either loved, hated, or merely shrugged off. Fancy that. Aren't we all? In spite of whatever opinion we may have of our own self.
While not a policeman, I was a career prosecuting attorney. I worked closely with law enforcement of all ranks. I was a go to Assistant District Attorney. Give it to Mikey. Mikey likes it. Well, I didn't like it. How do you like dead bodies in situ? The stench of voided bladders and sphincters. Floaters. Bodies undiscovered for days of temperatures in excess of 100 degrees Farenheit.
Cases involving children are the worst. I have mentioned it in other reviews. I will not repeat the detail here. However, I will say, having attended the exhumation of a child for a re-autopsy, whom I originally saw dead on a hospital gurney, and was present for the original autopsy, I recommend cremation if given the choice. Especially if the burial plot is beneath the water table. I have flashbacks to that case to this day.
Detective Sergeant John Rebus is involved in the investigation of a serial killer in Edinburgh, Scotland. All the victims are children between the ages of eight to twelve. He is only one of many. Really on the outskirts of the investigation. Assigned to the Incidents room scouring over reports looking for possible leads in the investigation. Tracking down reports involving a particular model of car following the report of a citizen having seen such a vehicle in connection with the abduction of one of the victims.
When you are a John Rebus, you realize most people go through life as tourists, just as the tourists who visit Edinburgh. They see the statue of Greyfriar's Bobby in the Kirkyard, the towering buildings, the usual sights, and take the usual photographs. Most people do live a Disney life, untouched by violence, safe in the knowledge that such things always happen to other people. That most of the time, whoever ends up dead did something they should have known better than to do, and all cases are solved within sixty minutes on the telly.
Rebus knows otherwise. So do I. That's why Rebus, the thinking man, isn't above having a go at the God of Job.
At times Rebus questions his own faith. �...trapped in limbo, believing in a lack of belief, but not necessarily lacking the belief to believe.�
As the investigation drags on and the number of victims increases, “Rebus reminded himself to stop praying. Perhaps if he stopped praying, God would take the hint and stop being such a bastard to one of his few believers on this near-godforsaken planet.�
Perhaps Rebus thinks Job's God is having the mickey off the innocent. I often thought so. I teetered on and off the road of faith for years. I've now reconciled myself to being what I call an "Orthodox Heretic," or perhaps a hopeful agnostic. Taking Pascal's Wager might be a safe bet.
It is far from a Disney World.
“Ah, but it was not a nice world this, not a nice world at all. It was an Old Testament land that he found himself in, a land of barbarity and retribution.�
Through the investigation of the abductions and murders of the young girls of Edinburgh, Rebus reviews his life as a policemen. Not unlike many of his comrades.
“Fifteen years, and all he had to show were an amount of self-pity and a busted marriage with an innocent daughter hanging between them. It was more disgusting than sad.�
Alarmingly, Rebus' daughter, Samantha, is twelve. It's hard not to have a chill run up the spine.
Once more I look into the mirror. For me, it was a marriage of twenty years, two children. Busted. I have grandchildren I've never met. I'm one up on Rebus. My second marriage is on the downhill run. It's never clear what exactly led to Rebus and his wife divorcing. I think it had to do with the work. The hours. The time away. I remember being told "You care about other people's children more than your own." The fact was, I knew mine were safe. I saw to that. But the work was relentless.
Rebus tells us.
“No sooner had he finished with a case than another two or three appeared in its place. What was the name of that creature? The Hydra, was it? That was what he was fighting. Every time he cut off a head, more popped into his in-tray. Coming back from a holiday was a nightmare. And now they were giving him rocks to push up hills as well.�
Ian Rankin makes Rebus a literate man. The allusions to Greeks and Roman mythology are most satisfying. The multiplying cases akin to the monstrous Hydra, one of the labors of Hercules. And pushing rocks up hills. Poor Sisyphus, doomed to roll a boulder up a hill without ever reaching the summit before it rolled back downhill.
Yes. The filing cabinets filled. They were crammed. Up to a thousand cases at a time. My word for the job was "relentless."
The plot of the novel is slow to build. Carefully built. As young girls are kidnapped and murdered, Rebus is receiving cryptic letters. Each contains a knotted piece of string. A note saying the clues are everywhere. As the cases mount, the letters include little crosses tied with knotted string. Knots and Crosses. Rebus does not connect the letters to the investigation.
But he will. When the killer assaults his ex-wife and kidnaps his own daughter, Samantha. All the letters to Rebus have been a taunt.
The initial letters of the previous victims' name spell out Samantha. Suddenly the case is intensely personal. And the killer has murdered each child by strangulation. A nasty death. Strangulation with a garotte. There are the knots. The crosses signify the killer intends to crucify Rebus.
No slow pace now. But a careful race against the clock to the finish. When the killer calls to say Samantha will die tonight.
What secret lies hidden in John Rebus' past that does not allow him to connect the dots to realize who the killer is?
This is a fine series debut. It far exceeds the ordinary police procedural. And it's good to know that the Rebus novels have extended to twenty-four volumes. I have some fine reading ahead of me. I wonder if Rebus will continue to have me staring in the mirror.
The Monkey's Raincoat: The P.I. Who Didn't Want to Grow Up
� ‘Prove yourself brave, truthful, and unselfish, and someday you will be a real boy
The Monkey's Raincoat: The P.I. Who Didn't Want to Grow Up
� ‘Prove yourself brave, truthful, and unselfish, and someday you will be a real boy.� The Blue Fairy said that. In Pinocchio.�- Elvis Cole Licensed Investigator, State of California
A dream is a wish your heart makes...
Mr. Cole, this looks like the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Yeah, with you and the big guy, Joe Pike. Don't tell him I said so. I don't want him to jump to the wrong conclusion. But, after all, he said you taught him good things. Says a lot about you. Seems Joe can take things pretty literal. Know what I mean?
Don't get me wrong. I was a little skeptical about you to begin with. What kind of self respecting PI has a Mickey Mouse phone, a Pinnochio Clock, and Jiminy Cricket figurines spread around his office? Any client walking into the place might wonder if they stepped into the wrong office. Underestimate you. But that's part of that self effacing act of yours, isn't it?
I get it. I used to wear a Mickey Mouse watch in the courtroom. Me? Oh, yeah. I'm Sullivan. ADA, retired. I tried guys that hurt kids. So, the Mickey Mouse watch. You and I would get along. Yeah, call me Mike. I'm retired now. Thank God.
You know, I got what you meant about wanting to be Peter Pan, never wanting to grow up. I worked with a lot of guys that went to the Nam. Yeah, some of them came back different, real different. Effed up. So you saying you decided you didn't want to grow up when your were eighteen in a rice paddy In Country. I get that. You didn't say so, but I bet you saw a bunch of shit you wish you hadn't.
Like I say, we'll get along fine. I had days I wished I hadn't grown up. People don't get me sometimes. I've seen as much as you have. It's the eyes of dead kids get me. Sometimes they look surprised. Others...they don't. Look surprised. It's like they knew it was coming. Some almost looked like they were glad it was over.
That Mickey Mouse watch. It made the living kids smile. I liked that. It pissed off the lawyers who represented the beaters, the rapers, the killers. I liked that, too. It's good when you can get under the other guy's skin. Yeah, you know that, too.
I started figuring you out when Ellen Lang and that barracuda friend of hers came into your office. Ellen's husband Mort is missing. And her nine year old boy, Perry. Ellen, that little hausfrau from Kansas, who didn't even know how to write a check. And that girl friend of hers, riding her to get on with it. Hire you. Get rid of the shit husband. You took that case for less than it was worth. I liked that about you.
Then I got to thinking about that Haiku by Basho at the beginning of your story.
Winter downpour-- even the monkey needs a raincoat.
Matsuo Basho, 1644-1694, Osaka Prefecture, Japan
That's the way your mind clicks. You are the raincoat, Mr. Cole. Aren't you? And your client is the monkey. When times get bad you protect your client. Whatever it takes. Joe Pike is your extra muscle. He was in the Nam, too. A Marine. And a cop. Maybe a little zealous. Maybe that's why he's not on the force, but with you.
You're a lot deeper than you let on, Mr. Cole. The records in your house, the music you listen to again and again. The shelf of books you read again and again. The books that fit your life, the way you live it, the way you work it. No wonder some folks don't see you coming, take you for granted. Like a man wearing a Mickey Mouse watch.
Nothing's ever simple as it looks, is it? Yeah, we all knew Hubby Mort was a shit. Had girls on the side. The little hausfrau at home probably knew about them, but wouldn't say a word. When Mort turns up with a bullet in his brain pan, neither you nor I were surprised.
But where's Perry? I wasn't surprised you tore up that fee check Ellen wrote you. All part of being that monkey's raincoat. Isn't it?
There's a real cute phrase the cool people. Wait a minute. The people who think they're cool, say today: "Not my circus, not my monkey." Ain't that a scream? No, I didn't think you would think so. But that's the way most folks are these days. You aren't. Yeah, I like that.
Let me just say, I like your style. And, Joe Pike? I wouldn't want him mad at me. Well, I wouldn't want you mad at me either, Mr. Cole. But I'd be glad for y'all to have my back.
Anybody reads this, I'll just tell them they will have to read this for themselves. I wouldn't want to spoil it for them. Let's just say the good guys win. That's not a bad thing.
Mr. Cole, I'll be back. Say, looks like you could use a good Mickey Mouse watch for your collection. Here. No, I won't miss it. I'm retired. You aren't. Besides, I'll be back to see it from time to time. I'll drop by with a bottle of Glenlivet like you like. Or I may try to talk you into some Glenmorangie Single Malt 18 Years Old. It's good. Like this story.
The people Jesus loved were shopping at the Star Market yesterday. An old lead-colored man standing next to me at the checkout breathed so heavily I had to step back a few steps. Even after his bags were packed he still stood, breathing hard and hawking into his hand. The feeble, the lame, I could hardly look at them: shuffling through the aisles, they smelled of decay, as if the Star Market had declared a day off for the able-bodied, and I had wandered in with the rest of them—sour milk, bad meat� looking for cereal and spring water. Jesus must have been a saint, I said to myself, looking for my lost car in the parking lot later, stumbling among the people who would have been lowered into rooms by ropes, who would have crept out of caves or crawled from the corners of public baths on their hands and knees begging for mercy. If I touch only the hem of his garment, one woman thought, could I bear the look on his face when he wheels around?
Face it, we pass by others almost daily without giving them a second look. Because they don't look like us. They have no where to go. They make us uncomfortable. They make us fear becoming like them. By their very appearance. And, in our neighborhood, seeing one of those different from us, makes us think they do not belong there. They must be up to something. Lock the doors. Bring it up at the next neighborhood association meeting. Perhaps report the offender to the Neighborhood Crime Watch Program.
Cassie Dandridge Selleck has written a thoughtful tale of one of those "others" in The Pecan Man. It is a simple tale, almost fable like. And I enjoyed it, up to a point.
It is 1976 in the small southern town of Mayville. The residents there embrace their town as a reflection of Macomb, Alabama, of To Kill a Mockingbird. One jokes, "That May sure gets around." It is an indication that not many things have changed since the 1930s. But they have. Mayville seems unaffected by The Voting Rights Acr of 1965. Yet, the Civil Rights Movement was still active in the 1970s. These were the years of school desegregation. The times are changing.
Ora Lee Beckworth, a recent widow, narrates the story.
“The events of that year were the real driving force behind the mass exodus from the neighborhood. It was the year of the Pecan Man. None of us knew how much impact one skinny old colored man could have in our lives, but we found out soon enough.�
“When you're as old as I am, it takes a while to make a point. The Pecan Man had a name - Eldred Mims. I called him Eddie. The people of Mayville didn’t know his name at all, until he was arrested and charged with the murder of a sixteen year old boy named Skipper Kornegay.�
Ora Lee, through this short novel, must acknowlege she has looked the other way. In the process she learns a great deal of truth about herself. She surprises us by telling that after twenty-five years, she has decided to tell the truth about the Pecan Man no matter what the cost. Twenty years after Eldred Mims was tried and convicted for the murder of Skipper Kornegay, who just happened to be the son of the County Sheriff.
“Once a lie is told, you have to keep on telling it. You not only have to repeat it time and time again, you have to embellish it, layer upon layer until you don‘t even remember the truth.�
Ora Lee is not without her faults. She is a flawed character, which she comes to realize. In her 1970s world, Ora Lee hires Eldred Mims to cut her grass. She has a maid Branch Lowery, whom she requires to wear a uniform. They are servants to her.
But through the course of the story, Blanche, her children, Grace, Patrice, ReNetta, and the Pecan Man become intimately known to her. Ora Lee learns that family does not mean only blood kin. Each of these former servants and the children become an integral part of her life. In sharing Thanksgiving and Christmas with them, she is transformed into a much more loving and caring woman.
Why was Skipper Kornegay killed? Why was the Pecan Man arrested? Why did Ora Lee Beckwith withold the truth for twenty-five years before deciding to tell the truth?
These are the questions that form the central themes of Selleck's novel. To disclose the answers would spoil this nice story for future readers. I won't do that.
As the reader discovers the answers to those questions, a quandary arises. The individual reader must decide whether they find themselves comfortable with Ora Lee's tale, or whether the Truth of the matter makes them squirm with what to me were uncomfortable answers. Perhaps, reader, you find this remark cryptic. Accept it. Each reader must determine their reaction to this story.
Without doubt, this is a poignant story that has the possibility of touching the reader in more ways than one. None of us is perfect. Being human, we make mistakes we regret and wonder whether we or deserving of forgiveness or the hope of redemption. In some ways, each of us owes a debt for each of our mistakes. Eldred Mims sums it up:
“I reckon I'm the bes' judge of that. Sometimes the debt you pay ain't exactly the one you owe, but it works out jus' the same anyway. Lord knows I done caused my share of heartache in this life.�
Hasn't everyone? The heart of every fable is the moral of it. Each reader must determine the moral of this one. You may find some truth about yourself when you do. Perhaps, go shopping down at the Star Market.
This is the first of a planned two volume history of Europe during the Twentieth Century by Kershaw. It was earlier released in the UK and hit American shelves on November 17, 2015.
Kershaw was the ideal author for this history. He is perhaps the pre-eminent historian regarding Germany, World War Two, and the author of the highly lauded two volume biography of Adolph Hitler.
It should come as no surprise that Germany occupies the central role in this history. Kershaw places the blame for both the First and Second World Wars at Germany's feet. All of the facts are impeccably documented. Kershaw's point to this thoughtful work is a question. Why?
This is not a military history. Nor do the personalities of the key players take center stage. Consider this a work of analytical history. Kershaw's analysis works from start to finish.
This is an astute portrait of nationalism, class struggle, and racial intolerance. Kershaw depicts the effects of the rise of Bolshevism resulting in the development of a movement to right wing politics and the development of fascism.
Kershaw also paints a portrait of a desperate Britain, France, and Soviet Union, all playing for time, delaying the onset of war with Hitler. The policy of Appeasement is painted with absolute clarity. Kershaw's treatment of Stalin's Non-Aggression Pact with Hitler seems a bit mild in light of Soviet atrocities committed during the invasion of Poland.
What is missing from this thorough history is the human touch. The result is a work that would be more at home in the University lecture hall. Kershaw's history would make an excellent textbook. This is one for those who take their history neat. ...more
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