Writing Fiction, or Non-fiction, Research is Key

By Patrick Kendrick

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I have been fortunate to have my books published for some sixteen years. Throughout my writing career I have learned that research is THE key to pulling in readers and adding authenticity to your work, even if it is fiction. If you’re doing non-fiction, research is even more paramount. 

With fiction, many writers believe they can write whatever comes to mind, creating strong characters, their environments, backgrounds and whatever plot they wish to follow. But if you’re writing historical fiction, it is a must that you follow, or get as close to, following what was happening at the specific time in history you are writing about. 

My newest book, Edison’s Last Breath, a historical mystery that involves several real-life characters, such as Henry Ford, Charles Lindbergh, Josephine Baker, and Ernest Heminway (once again from my first book, Papa’s Problem). My primary character, Emmet MacWain meets these people when there is a murder at Henry Ford’s winter home in Ft. Myers, Florida. I was inspired to write about Josephine Baker as it was revealed that she was not only the biggest entertainer of her time, but that she was also a spy for the French resistance. 

As with Papa’s Problem, in which Hemingway is a murder suspect, I found that I could not just write what I knew from lore. Libraries, particularly those that exist where the character lived—Hemingway in the earlier book, and Ford and Baker in the present book—are useful as they may house personal letters and documents from the real-life character. In Edison’s Last Breath, I had the opportunity to go to the Ford and Edison estates in Ft. Myers, Florida, where, to my astonishment, I found a corked test tube, with an accompanying note read, “This tube contains Thomas Edison’s Last Breath.” Hence the title of my book, Edison’s Last Breath.

Initially I thought it was some sort of hoax, but as I researched the odd item, I found out that, as he was dying, Edison, a close friend and mentor to Henry Ford, would try to save what he thought was his last breath for his friend, Ford. Charles Edison, the son of Thomas, stayed with his father while he was in his death bed. Each time he thought his father was exhaling his last breath, he would try to capture it. I did not make this up! 

I was bowled over by this fact, and my novel took a new direction that took us to many places, including Josphine Baker’s chateau in France, where I found out even more about this heroic woman who spied for the French. She was so good at entertaining people, that German officers who suspected she was a spy would go to her home with intent to find some evidence, for which they might arrest her. But Josphine was so clever and such a dynamic performer, she would charm the soldiers with wine, dinner and a personal show, and the Nazis would forget what they came for. Baker was one of the bravest spies ever.

That was the cool thing I found out. The not-so-cool thing I found out as well, was that both Ford and Lindbergh were antisemitic, Nazi supporters.  Lindbergh was gifted a plane by the furor himself and had several mistresses in Germany, while Ford had contracts with the Germans to make trucks for their Army during our country’s war with them. Lindbergh was awarded the Serve Cross of the Order of the German Eagle, while Ford was awarded the Grand Cross of the German Eagle.

Working on my previous book (for some 20 years) “American Ripper: The Enigma of America’s Serial Killer Cop,” I had to do much more, shall we say hazardous research, such as visiting the serial killer, Gerard Schaefer, in jail. Schaefer was convicted of two murders but was believed to have committed dozens more. He typically killed two girls at a time, often picking them up in his patrol car as they were hitch-hiking. 

I spent many years writing this story because of its true nature and because so many people had to be interviewed: police who worked with Schaefer and investigated his murders, the lawyers who prosecuted him as well as his public defender, surviving family members, the killer’s mother, and many police officers in numerous states, who I still hear from, when they find another body. Just last year, I was called by a police officer who was investigating cold cases. They had found a body, a teenage girl back 1972 in a mangrove-covered area where Schaefer used to take his victims. She was never identified until an officer from Palm Beach County Sheriff’s office took over the cold cases. 

The victim was found with wire tied in knots around her hands and feet. She was skeletonized but the wire knots were still intact. Many police officers know who I am from my research and my book, so he called me and asked if I has any pictures from Schaefer’s crime scenes. I had copies made years ago from the evidence files (though I chose not to use them in my book for the sake of the families who lost their children). The cold case cop sent me the pictures they took of the knotted wire, and they matched knots that Schaefer utilized on his victims. So now that had a connection between Schaefer and the victim, Karen Poole. We also found that Schaefer used to live just around the corner from the victim.

So, research—good, intense research—can add reality to your fiction novel, or the stark truth in a non-fiction book on true crime.

But It Really Happened

By DP Lyle

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But it really happened. I swear. 

This is the defense fiction writers offer when someone says their story isn’t believable. “That could never happen,” they say. But, it could. It did. Still, their disbelief lingers. 

I write both fiction and nonfiction. When people inquire about the difference between creating the two, my response is, “They are exactly the same, only different.” With NF, the research comes first. It must be gathered, fact-checked, and organized. Then, the writing begins. With fiction, you must first know your characters, plot, and setting before researching the materials needed to create a story that rings true.  

Fiction writers often base their stories on a true crime. A look at best-selling books and iconic movies over the years underlines this fact. The horrific slaughter of the Clutter family in rural Kansas became Truman Capote’s masterpiece In Cold Blood—a book that sits somewhere between fiction and true crime. Serial killer Ed Gein fashioned furniture and clothing from human skin and inspired Hitchcock’s Norman Bates in Psycho and Buffalo Bill in Thomas Harris’s Silence of the Lambs.  

For fiction writers, a true crime book, a news story, maybe a blog post sparks the idea. For my third Samantha Cody book, Original Sin, I created a character who was a snake-handling preacher. My research led me to the National Book Award finalist Salvation on Sand Mountain by Dennis Covington. It chronicles the story of Glenn Summerford, pastor of the Church of Jesus with Signs Following, who employed a rattlesnake in the attempted murder of his wife.  You bet that little wrinkle appeared in Original Sin.  

Or Victor Borkov, the bad guy in my first Jake Longly story, Deep Six. His enemies often found themselves lashed to an iron ring and dropped into the Gulf of Mexico. Alive. This is based on the actions of Skylar Deleon. Look up sociopath. You’ll see his picture. Under the guise of buying their boat, Skylar and a thug friend convinced Jackie and Thomas Hawks to go for a test cruise. It ended with the Hawks bound to an anchor and dumped in the Pacific Ocean.  Alive. 

These true stories are unbelievable. Yet true. For fiction writers, the trick is to morph unbelievable fact into believable fiction. 

We fiction writers owe a great debt to true crime writers. They do the heavy lifting, the research, the telling of the crime, and we use that to inspire and create our stories. Ann Rule once told me that when she approached a true crime story, she looked for the person who was the heart of the story. Not the bad guy, often not the victim, but someone who was deeply affected by the crime. In fiction, we do the same, but have the added freedom of not being bound to the facts. 

The marriage between crime fiction and true crime is alive and well. 

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DP Lyle, Award-winning author, lecturer, story consultant 

www.dplylemd.com

Truth Meter for Murder: The Interview

By Stephanie Dickinson

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"In real-world situations, it's very difficult to know what the truth is.”

Israeli psychologist Gershon Ben-Shahar

At the heart of Razor Wire Wilderness, my soon-to-launch true crime memoir, stands Krystal Riordan, then a 20-year-old prostitute who witnessed a horrific murder, and now a 35-year-old inmate. In July 2006, at the end of a hot, steamy night, her 36-year-old pimp/boyfriend Draymond Coleman brought Jennifer Moore, a teenage girl stranded after a night of underage drinking, to the seedy Weehawken, New Jersey hotel room that the two shared. Krystal saw her boyfriend punch Jennifer when she refused his sexual advances, and then continued to watch the escalating violence, the beating, the strangling, and the rape. Was she a willing accomplice, or was she too a victim? Draymond Coleman pled guilty to first degree murder and received a 50-year sentence. His release date: January 23, 2049. Krystal pled guilty to kidnapping and hindering apprehension and received a 30-year sentence. Her release date: October 25, 2027. 

Now, almost 15 years later, the question remains unanswered. Perpetrator or victim? Was she a willing accomplice, or was she too a victim? Or was she both accomplice and victim? Perhaps it’s not the right question or series of questions. Draymond Coleman refuses to be interviewed, although he occasionally writes Krystal: You never turned your back on me. You’re where you are because of my stupidity. And then, most disconcerting: Even after our arrest, your letters were always–I love you, I love you, I love you… What truth lies behind those words? Or the following from Krystal: I froze. I thought I would be next. Does truth smell like sweat and Clorox? He snapped, and then he snapped back. The sweat of the murderer and the Clorox used to wipe DNA from the body. I froze. 

Finding the truth for the writer is ultimately not the same as the truth-seeking done by the police or by a prosecuting attorney; the writer is looking for a more nuanced truth, something that works toward explaining the inexplicable. Often, those who know the perpetrator, the character witnesses, are interviewed not to corroborate evidence but to shift the focus, to introduce us to the variegated person they know, to render a fuller, more intimate picture. Draymond babysat for my daughter. He was a big teddy bear. For more substantiation, the police reports are scrutinized. Police look for certainty in either the circumstantial evidence or a confession that will lead to a conviction. Writers want to know what lies behind the corroborated, adjudicated truth. The interior, the unadorned, the bone truth. 

How are we to interview an inmate about the crime they were sentenced for? Must they exonerate themselves to themselves? Are they running through a mental checklist of what and who they have revealed the truth to? It matters less how we interview the subject, whether in person or via video/audio or email, than providing a safe emotional space that puts our subject at ease. Krystal, my subject, is an eyewitness as well as a perpetrator. She underwent 14 hours of initial interrogation. Eyewitness testimony often leads not to truth but to misidentification and falsehood. The Innocence Project points out that inaccurate eyewitness testimony is the leading cause of false convictions. We are running up against the notorious tricks of memory. Perhaps the telling and re-telling opens the door to creating false memories. 

“Can we believe that she was remorseful? Not after viewing the video. She left the room at will numerous times.” 

–Candida Moore, Victim Impact Statement

The grainy hotel video captures Krystal leaving the murder room on numerous occasions. I always did what he told me to do. I was weak-minded. No one who witnessed the crime is independent. The video camera turns out to be the most credible witness, free of bias and emotion. The truth meter grapples with I saw it with own eyes. Human memory is porous, the holes plugged with filler. Experts tell us we can’t possibly take in all the minutia around us, so the brain fills in the details. 

Trauma degrades the clarity of memory. I was mugged inside my building, and afterward, I rode with the police through the neighborhood, looking for the perpetrators. I had described two men, the taller one wearing a red sweatshirt. On the police radio, we learned that two men had been apprehended after another mugging, minutes after mine had occurred, and were being held on Greenwich Avenue by the arresting officers. The taller man stood under the streetlights, and I saw he wore a brown jacket, not a red sweatshirt. Instead, he had on red sweatpants. The chrome handgun tossed into the bushes linked the men to a series of muggings, including mine. Why had I been so sure of the red sweatshirt? The men had pushed me down in the stairwell, and I was at eye level with the red sweatpants. I saw red. But what if someone’s future depended wholly on the accuracy of that red sweatshirt?

The interview, including the self-interview, has always fascinated me in its many hybrid forms. I conducted a fictional interview with a noir actress from the 1960s in my book Heat: An Interview with Jean Seberg. (New Michigan Press). Seemingly chronological, the questions evolved into something more circular, i.e., the actress interrogating herself and colliding with the existential question of whether or not you can even know your own truth. My friend Andrew Kaufman’s poetry collection The Rwanda Poems will soon appear, and since he had conducted extensive face-to-face interviews in Rwanda with a number of genocide survivors, rape victims, perpetrators falsely accused, and perpetrators convicted of horrifically murderous acts, I asked him about his technique. Considering he spoke to both victims and perpetrators, was the testimony itself the sought-after truth? The speech? Did his approach differ when it came to perpetrators? He approached both initially the same in a kind of getting-acquainted approach, asking about the subject’s childhood, family, life experiences, school, work, and favorite activities. Then, in the case of perpetrators, the questions would narrow, becoming more pointed and specific. 

Perhaps we should all try interviewing exercises, a self-interview, we become our own mock lie detectors. We can look at memory not as something fixed but a fluidity, often a matter of perception. 

In reviewing my first letters to Krystal, I discovered that my technique and Andrew’s initially followed a similar path. Tell me about yourself: What is your favorite color? Do you like animals? What kind of music do you listen to? What are your favorite foods? I then told her all my favorites. 

Later, I could ask:

Q: I know you and Draymond have a child together. Do you have any contact with the child? 

Q: Did having a child with him make it difficult for you to testify against him?

Much later:

Q:  Could Jennifer have left the room alive if she had stopped resisting Draymond?

A:  Jennifer was no match for Draymond.

Q: Did Jennifer walk into the room willingly, or did Draymond carry her in?

A: Jennifer was doing cocaine.

I questioned the validity of both answers. In Jennifer’s last cell phone call to her boyfriend, she states, “A man keeps following me, and he’s offering me drugs.” What I don’t question in Krystal’s answers are the deeper truths about her inner world that her few words reveal. In the beginning, I could not fathom how a young woman who had the ability to leave the murder room would not run for help. Now I understand I do not condone or excuse, and it is not my place to forgive. Through interviews, I know Krystal both as perpetrator and victim. Never did she consider testifying against her ex-boyfriend, the now-convicted murderer. Although Draymond Coleman has promised on numerous occasions to give his statement to exonerate Krystal, he never has.

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Stephanie Dickinson, raised on an Iowa farm, now lives in New York City with the poet Rob Cook and their senior citizen feline, Vallejo. Her novels “Half Girl” and “Lust Series” are published by Spuyten Duyvil, as is her feminist noir “Love Highway.” Other books include “Heat: An Interview with Jean Seberg” (New Michigan Press); “Flashlight Girls Run” (New Meridian Arts Press); “The Emily Fables” (ELJ Press); and “Big-Headed Anna Imagines Herself” (Alien Buddha). She has published poetry and prose in literary journals including Cherry Tree, The Bitter Oleander, Mudfish, Another Chicago Magazine, Lit, The Chattahoochee Review, The Columbia Review, Orca and Gargoyle, among others. Her stories have been reprinted in New Stories from the South, New Stories from the Midwest, and Best American Nonrequired Reading. She received distinguished story citations in Best American Short Stories, Best American Essays and numerous Pushcart anthology citations. In 2020, she won the Bitter Oleander Poetry Book Prize with her “Blue Swan/Black Swan: The Trakl Diaries.” To support the holy flow, she has long labored as a word processor for a Fifth Avenue accounting firm.

Fact to Fiction: Turning Real Crime into Story

By Anne Da Vigo

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Almost everyone has some memory of a real crime that has stuck with them.

Maybe you saw TV news about a strange disappearance. Or a great-uncle spun a tale of a brazen heist. When you worked for a former employer, you heard whispers of evil deeds.

For mystery writers, that’s how novels are born: an earworm of an idea sparked by real crime that won’t shut up until it’s transformed into fiction.

I started on the road from fact to fiction in the late 1970s. I was working as a journalist back then, in the agricultural and oil industry town of Bakersfield, California.

My editor sent me to cover a murder trial. The jury found the accused not guilty of stabbing and beating to death a local businessman. I wrote the story and within months had moved on to a bigger newspaper. 

But I was haunted by trial testimony about a thirteen-year-old boy abused by the victim.

Three years later, the boy murdered another of his abusers, a top county government official.

The victim was part of a secretive group of powerful men in business, law enforcement, and the district attorney’s office who abused vulnerable teens. These and other murders involving the circle were dubbed the Lords of Bakersfield cases. 

I spent years thinking about the Lords, and eventually began writing what would become my thriller, Bakersfield Boys Club.

As I sat down at the computer, I faced decisions many crime writers face: how to craft actual events into fiction.

First, I needed a unifying character to knit the story of the murder series together, someone with a passionate commitment to uncovering the truth.

My solution? Creating a struggling widow whose teenage son was ensnared by a circle of dissolute men. She wasn’t a real person, which gave me the freedom to delve into her innermost thoughts and feelings and share them with the reader.

Her harrowing journey from disbelief to relentless outrage also formed the essential character arc for the story.

Next, I wanted to include several characters in the thriller that were loosely inspired by real people, but I wasn’t certain how to protect myself against an accusation of defamation.

I found several internet sites that helped address my concerns. You can find a list on my web page, www.annedavigoauthor.com.

Basic advice for authors: mask characters by changing their names and physical characteristics.

Another aspect of defamation law was helpful as I wrote the thriller. Most of the prominent players in the Lords cases had died by the time I began writing; only a living person can file a claim for damages to their character or reputation.

Truth, of course, is the basic defense against allegations of defamation.

In my case, the local newspaper had written a series about the Lords of Bakersfield, winning a major journalism prize. I felt confident about using events that had been vetted by their lawyers and disseminated widely in the press.

Pacing was another issue that had to be dealt with in morphing the story from fact to fiction. Because the actual events occurred over a period of nearly twenty-five years, I was finding it difficult to build suspense.

Several drafts and thousands of words later, I decided to compress the murder series into a two-year time frame. That way, the frantic mother was working against an escalating threat to save her son.

I chalked up my strategy as a success when several readers said they stayed up late to turn the last page.

Finally, the facts, incidents, and characters that formed the factual story needed to be woven into a theme for the fictional mystery.

The theme wasn’t clear in my mind when I began writing, although my outrage at the abuse experienced by young people had been brewing for years.

As I wrote, the theme began to emerge: those who exploit the weakest among us must be punished, no matter what the obstacles.

My commitment to the theme of Bakersfield Boys Club led me to write a conclusion I’d never considered when I began the mystery.

Now I’m at work on another thriller, this one sparked by a mysterious tale I heard at my husband’s college reunion.

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Anne Da Vigo is a former journalist and public relations professional who lives in Northern California. Her thriller, Bakersfield Boys Club, is available from Amazon or on order from your bookseller.