Blues in the Night

One It was the nightgown that hooked me: Sunday, July 13. 1:46 a.m. Near Lookout Mountain and Laurel Canyon. An unidentified woman in her mid- to late-twenties, wearing a nightgown, was the victim of a hit-and-run accident that left her unconscious and seriously injured. There were no witnesses. That's how my copy would read in next Tuesday's edition of the Crime Sheet. We're not talking Chandler or Hammettjust the facts, ma'am. There would be no speculation about the nightgown mentioned in the police report, or about the woman wearing it. Had she been in distress? I wondered. Desperate, maybe, her hair flying behind her like a banner as she dashed across the serpentine road, oblivious of the oncoming car? Had she been running for help, or away from something or someone? Had she been looking behind her in that final moment before the car slammed into her, several tons of metal crushing muscle and delicate bone, or paralyzed by the headlights, feral eyes gleaming menace in the dark, moonless night? My editor, who constantly carps about lack of space, would probably cut the nightgown. People don't care what she was wearing, Molly, he'd argue. For me, the nightgown was key. And in my opinion, it's details like this that give the Crime Sheet its quirky flavor. I'm a freelance reporter and I collect data from the Los Angeles Police Department for a section in the local independent throwaways that people read to find out what crimes are taking place in their neighborhoods and fig- ure out how nervous they should be. I also write books about true crime under the pseudonym Morgan Blake. I've always been inquisitive ("Excellent grades marred by interrupting class with too many questions"), and ever since I can remember, I've been drawn to crime stories, true and fictional. So with an English degree from UCLA and extension courses in journalism, I set about channeling my curiosity into a career. As to my love of crime fiction, I inherited that from my maternal grandmother, Bubbie G (the G is for Genendel, a name Bubbie has forbidden any of us to mention although I think it's cute). Bubbie, who immigrated to Los Angeles from Europe with my late grandfather in 1951, taught herself English and cut her teeth on Erle Stanley Gardner. Soon she was devouring four or five mysteries a weekcozies, hardboiled, Agatha Christie to Elmore Leonardand whenever she babysat us kids, she'd read to us from Dr. Seuss and a few chapters from the latest mystery she'd picked up from the book sale table at the library. Of course, she skipped some of the choice words, something I didn't discover until I became addicted myself. None of my siblings (there are seven kids in the Blume mishpacha; I'm number three) share Bubbie G's love of mystery, which gives Bubbie and me a special bond. The mystery gene skipped over my mom, Celia, who, aside from teaching high school English, has published one romance novel under the pen name of Charlotte D'Anjou, my father's favorite pear. (Bartlett came in second.) I suppose it's funny that we both use pseudonyms, though our motives are different, and there's nothing funny about mine. My mom does it because it fits her romantic sensibilities, and I suspect she's not ready to test the reactions of her students and principal. I do it to protect myself from the criminals I write about, people for whom I have a healthy fear and from whom I'd like to keep my identity and address secret. Because mystery fiction is different from true crime. There are experiences Bubbie won't talk about, ever. There are events I choose not to remember that worm their way into my consciousness despite my effKrich, Rochelle Majer is the author of 'Blues in the Night' with ISBN 9780449007266 and ISBN 044900726X.