Tag Archives: Susan Kelly

IT’S BEEN REAL

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Zachary Klein & Susan Kelly

For about five years Just sayin’ and Kelly & Klein have been pretty consistent with our weekly eclectic columns. For most of that time readership has held pretty steady, hanging with us as we tried to make our way through the arts, music, politics, and sundry other subjects. And it’s been fun.

But there something about overstaying a welcome that leaves a bad taste on everyone’s lips. Well, frankly, we’d rather pass on that given the warm welcome we’ve received throughout all these years.

Here’s the rub. We still enjoy writing but neither of us is interested in a weekly deadline—especially since that deadline has begun to feel like required writing rather than an act of pleasure. So, given the feedback we’ve received, Susan and I have decided to forgo the weekly column and will write when and if we feel like it. If either of us decides to write a column we’ll send out the usual notices to the usual places so folks, if they so choose, can drop in to see what’s on our minds.

To be sure, Susan will cast her humorous eye on the world around us and, no doubt, I’ll get pissed off enough to whack on someone or something—as well as continuing my INTERVIEWS WITH THE DEAD.

Since I’m not at all sure when I’ll be here next, I want to thank all the guest contributors who have helped maintain a diverse and interesting Monday. And of course I want to thank ALL our readers, especially those who have commented at various times about our column’s content.

For those of you who might be interested in our books, Susan’s can be found at http://www.susankellywriter.com and mine are here: http://zacharykleinonline.com/matt-jacob-ebooks/

These columns have been a joy for us to write and hopefully for you to read, so since “It’s so hard to say au revoir, let’s just say hors d’oeuvre.”

Kelly & Klein

 

Don’t Like Me on Face Book; Don’t Follow Me on Twitter

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Susan Kelly

Susan Kelly       …And, for Gawd’s sake, don’t expect me to post any photos on Instagram.

Yeah, yeah, I know. I should get with the zeitgeist. But for whatever reason, I just can’t. At least in terms of social media.

It’s not that I’m a Luddite. I love technology. I love the Internet. I love being able to take my cup of morning coffee to the computer, sit down, and read any newspaper in the world that has a website. (I lived in Scotland for four years while in graduate school, so anything going on in the U.K. is interesting to me personally beyond the regular attention I pay to world affairs.) I love being able to go to the Mayo Clinic or Massachusetts General Hospital online for medical advice. I love IMDB for movie reviews, goofy as some of them are. I love the website that told me that one of my ancestors, whose name I never knew before the site posted it, was injured at the Battle of Gettysburg, mustered out the following September, and then re-enlisted in the Union Army the following December, presumably having recovered from his wounds. (Either he was a true Union man, or he thought being shot at by the boys in gray was better than facing another Vermont winter. But no matter.) I love email. I’ve participated in some lively political, literary, and cultural online forums. There are many more things I love about the process of instant worldwide communications. It’s made my life so much richer.

But I just can’t get into social media. All writers are supposed to have Facebook pages, or sites, or whatever you call them. Publishers insist on it. In fact, I have one. It’s there for the sole purpose of advertising my books. I don’t think it sells many books. When I glance at it, which may be once every six months, if Facebook is lucky, the “news feed”—whatever the hell that is—is filled with messages from total strangers posting photos of baby animals, places they’ve been to, birthday parties they threw for their two-year-old kids, some fabulous bargain they got at T.J. Maxx, a review of some restaurant I’ll never go to because the cuisine sounds appalling, and painfully (as opposed to painstakingly) detailed instructions on how they trained their kitty-cats to use the litterbox. I don’t know these people. They don’t know me, but they insist on sharing the intimate details of their lives with me. I live in dread that the next time—maybe sometime in 2018—that I check my FB page, I’ll be treated to a graphic description of someone’s menopause, supplemented with captioned photos of clots. Or a home video of a prostatectomy.

I have been assured that there is a way to control who sees your Facebook page, and who posts there, and who doesn’t. But the point is, as an author with a product to sell, I’m supposed to keep the page open to all comers. Perhaps there’s a way to limit the comers to people who want to talk about books. But if there is, at this stage in my life, I’m too bored and busy to find out what it is.

I have a Twitter account. I have posted exactly one message on it, which instructs people to visit my website (www.susankellywriter.com). As far as I know, I have no followers. I also have a LinkedIn account. When I started it, I got bombarded immediately by people advertising their self-published self-help books. There would be—and I am not kidding—at least 40 messages apiece from the same three or four people, none of whom, of course, were known to me. The same message. Over and over and over again. I resented the fact that they were using my account to advertise their products. That put me off looking at my LinkedIn account for at least a year or two.

As with Facebook, there’s probably a way to control LinkedIn and Twitter. But again, as with Facebook, I’m too bored by the whole prospect to do whatever work is involved to find it. And, mind you, this is coming from someone who has been asked by others to fix their computers when there was some sort of glitch, who’s test-driven academic software, and who has the kind of psychotic patience required to read through an 800-page trial transcript and take notes on it.

I used to blog on my website. But I got bored with that, too, because it seemed as if I was talking to myself, although I knew I wasn’t. And I am still very happy to respond to any questions or comments people post there. I ignore, of course, obvious raving lunatics; those who promise to tell me who the real Boston Strangler was if I meet them in a dark alley at midnight; and any person who asks me for a date that involves the deployment of squirt-can whipped cream and chainsaws.

Here’s the final irony about my Facebook site: People I actually know, personally, who’ve looked for it say they can’t find it.

So if you want to read me, follow me, like me–I’m here at Zach’s website, which seems to me more like a small magazine for a select readership, one to which I’m pleased to contribute.

And remember: No canned whipped cream, no chainsaws.

Why I Wrote The Boston Stranglers

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Susan KellyBy

Susan Kelly

Well, as the man said when they asked him why he climbed Mount Everest: “Because it was there.”

That answer might require some back story. Longer ago than I want to recall—oh, okay, it was 1981—I was embarking on my third attempt to write a mystery novel. (The less said about the first two attempts, the better, I assure you.) I wanted to know about investigative work as it is done by actual police detectives. So I made an appointment to talk to a lieutenant of detectives in the Cambridge Police Department. I remember the day itself well; it was one of those typical Massachusetts November afternoons when the sky looks like a dirty old mattress.

When I got to the station, I had to wait; the lieutenant was interviewing a witness to a crime. So I cooled my heels in the anteroom to the chief’s office. Sitting there with me were two detectives, socializing with the chief’s secretary, very genial white-haired men who introduced themselves to me as “the two Billies.” (Each had the first name of William.) They asked me what I was doing here in the police station. I explained that I was researching police procedure.

They told me that they’d been detectives for thirty years and had some great stories. I assured them that I was very, very eager to hear anything they wanted to tell me.

I added, then, that I was particularly interested in serial killers.

“Like Ted Bundy,” I said.

The two Billies looked at each other with odd little grins. Then one of them asked me, “Who do you think the Boston Strangler was?”

The question was a little startling, because I thought it had been long since settled. “Albert DeSalvo.”

Both Billies laughed.

“Albert DeSalvo was the Boston Strangler like my dog was the Boston Strangler,” one of them said.

Oh, my.

I asked them to tell me about it. And they did.

Well, the upshot of this conversation was that I kept on interviewing people involved, one way or another, in law enforcement: cops, district attorneys, defense lawyers, etc. And always, the subject of The Boston Strangler arose. And inevitably: Not one of these people thought DeSalvo was the guilty party.

It was one of the strangest disconnects I’ve ever experienced: A received truth was being roundly denied by those people in the best position to know the facts of the matter.

Well, anyway, I filed all this away, and went on to write novels, and my novels got published. But the Strangler story always stayed in the back of my mind. And so, in 1992, I decided to do something about it. I did the research, did the interviewing, and wrote the book. It was a lot of work, but it was a lot of fun.

(Maybe it wasn’t work. I love writing. It makes me feel really alive. Nothing involved in the process is tiresome to me.)

And…doing the book accorded me a rare privilege: that of revising a small piece of history. I read every single one of the case files regarding the murders that took place between June 1962 and January 1964, and my position on the case remains the same today. These murders were not serial killings, although a quite reasonable case can be made that the first four victims—older white women—might have been murdered by the same person.

Now I realize that some of you—with absolute justification—will point to the DNA testing done in the summer of 2013 on a blanket found in the apartment of Mary Sullivan, the final Strangler victim. It indicated that DeSalvo’s DNA had been found on the blanket. And I would understand perfectly if you concluded that this proved DeSalvo’s guilt of, at least, the Sullivan murder.

But…there were two samples of DNA found on Sullivan’s body—one in the pubic area–that did not match DeSalvo’s. One of them matched the DNA of the original prime suspect in her murder, who was not DeSalvo. The state declined to test these samples.

I should also add that DeSalvo’s DNA was not found on the blanket during any previous testing. I should further add that there were plenty of other reasons to assume that the prime suspect was guilty, such as the fact that he flunked two lie detector tests.

I believe that DNA is an incredibly useful tool in crime investigation. It is unique to an individual, and therefore irrefutable as a means of identification. If you find the DNA of a suspect in the vagina of a rape/murder victim, and under her fingernails from shreds of his skin that accumulated there as she tried to fight off her assailant, and on her face or anywhere else that his saliva or sweat or mucus or semen may have dripped…well, that’s very inculpatory. But the presence of DNA at a crime scene does not necessarily indicate guilt, particularly if it’s not on the victim. Let me tell you why.

We drop our DNA, in a variety of ways, everywhere we go. You’ve just returned from a trip to the grocery store. Your DNA is on anything you touched there, including that head of Romaine you returned to the produce bin because it didn’t look quite fresh enough. It’s on that bottle of ketchup you put back on the shelf because you just remembered you have an unopened bottle of ketchup in the cupboard at home. It’s on the money or credit card you handed the cashier at the check-out counter. And your DNA is all over the cart you used.

In the course of the day, did you go to your dentist? Your doctor? Your lawyer? Your DNA is all over their waiting rooms, consultation rooms, or examination rooms. If you went to the public library, you left it in their stacks.

Okay. Suppose you visited a friend and had coffee or a drink with him or her. Your DNA would be on the cup or glass you used, on the chair or sofa where you sat, in the bathroom if you used the sink, toilet, tub, or shower…it would be on anything you touched. And so would your fingerprints, for that matter.

Now suppose—horrific thought—your friend is murdered shortly after you leave his or her house or apartment. Your DNA is all over the place. It may also be on your friend’s body, if you hugged or kissed or shook hands. Suppose you and your friend engaged in some form of sexual activity. You have left your DNA all over your partner’s body, and on the bed, if you used the bed. Does that mean you’re the murderer? Of course it doesn’t. Sure, you might be. But more is required to prove your guilt. And that is exactly as it should be.

Well, I am not going to try your patience with a long list of reasons why Albert DeSalvo probably didn’t kill Mary Sullivan, nor anyone else. If you like, you can read the book (The Boston Stranglers). Or the article I wrote and posted on my Amazon author page (amzn.to./18wHstx; just type that address into your browser exactly as I’ve written it). Get back to me with any questions.

The Strangler case is fascinating for a lot of reasons. It became a social and cultural phenomenon, generated in large part by press hysteria. Boston had more newspapers then than it does now, and they were all competing for the same audience. (Sample headline from the time: PHANTOM FIEND STRIKES AGAIN.) The case also became a political football, and an opportunity for various people to make names for themselves. It was the perfect venue for showboaters. And, as the late Robert B. Parker once observed, for psychics and dancing chickens as well. In all this, the victims became…just bodies. They deserved better than that.

I am not an apologist for Albert DeSalvo. He wasn’t a good guy; he was a serial sex offender. But he wasn’t a serial killer.

So here’s the thing: We are all innocent until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt.

House Hunters

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Susan Kelly

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Susan Kelly

Several years ago, whenever I was in need of a laugh, I’d tune into the madly popular HGTV show House Hunters. In case you’re not familiar with it, House Hunters is a reality show that purports to follow individuals, couples, or families on their quest to acquire the perfect accommodation. Although the program’s longest-running host, Suzanne Whang, is a stand-up comic, I’m not sure whether the show was intended to be funny. It sure turned out that way.

A lot of the humor of the show derives from the fact that it showcases the screaming bad taste of a certain segment of the American public, or at least that segment of the American public that enjoys exposing itself on reality shows. One episode I remember vividly featured a young couple searching for their dream house. The real estate agent showed them a perfectly preserved Victorian/Craftsman. This place was stunning. The woodwork was to die for: built-in bookshelves, built-in hutches and china cabinets, wainscoting, beautifully carved mantels on the fireplaces…you get the picture. I’d settle for the oak floors alone.

The wife looked around at the hutches and bookcases, made a face, and said, “All this old stuff has to go.”

I’m pretty sure I screamed.

Another of my favorite episodes was the one starring a family looking for a nice big house in the suburbs. Not an unreasonable choice. Certainly it’s a choice that millions of people have made, and lived happily ever after having made it. But this particular hunting party was obsessed with having a huge kitchen. I mean a kitchen the size of a basketball court. Every other consideration appeared to be secondary. Very secondary. I began to wonder if they were undercover location scouts for Iron Chef.

Well, no. It turned out they wanted a colossal kitchen so that all their relatives and friends could assemble in it with them while Mom and Dad were preparing whatever meal was to be served to the merrymakers.

(Wanting to have hordes of people underfoot while you’re trying to make dinner is, by the way, an ongoing obsession with a lot of House Hunter participants. Beats me why. I don’t know about you, but the absolute last thing I want when I’m trying to baste a turkey, whisk a sauce, sauté a veal scallop, broil salmon, or mash potatoes is twenty-six people breathing down the back of my neck.)

Well, anyway, the family did find and buy a house with a huge kitchen, cooing about all the entertaining they were going to do, and rhapsodizing about how Mom and Dad wouldn’t have to miss any of the fun because all the guests would be in the kitchen with them while Mom and Dad were cooking.

The final scene of every House Hunters episode I’ve seen shows the Hunters du jour happily ensconced in their new abode. This episode was no different. The camera panned over a party scene in the enormous kitchen, guests happily milling around the linoleum-laiden acreage. (No, basketball hoops hadn’t been erected at either end of the room. Nor hockey goals. Though there was a flat screen tv the size of Rhode Island.) Then the camera zoomed in on the food preparation area.

On the counter were…four gallons of jug wine and six pizza boxes.

Maybe this is what “cooking for family and friends” means in the new millennium: ordering take-out to feed the multitudes. There’s something almost New Testament about it.

But I did learn something from watching House Hunters. This is the abiding lesson:

It is impossible to live decently in a house or condo lacking a) an open floor plan, b) a kitchen the size of Madison Square Garden, c) a “spa tub” in the bathroom of the “master suite,” d) double sinks in the bathroom of the “master suite,” e) a walk-in closet in the “master suite,” f) granite countertops, and g) stainless steel appliances. No self-respecting House Hunter insists on anything less.

I wonder how many of these folks really want those things, or want them only because they’ve been told by advertisers that they want them. The latter, I suspect.

I could go the cheap and easy route and blame this situation on Madison Avenue and modern American culture. But I would be remiss in so doing. There were advertising men (and women) practicing their craft in ancient Rome, and apparently quite effectively. The ruins of Pompeii are notable for graffiti promoting garam, a stew composed principally of decayed fish. (It occurs to me that this is the ideal dish to prepare if you wish to keep your friends and relatives out of the kitchen while you’re cooking.) Prostitutes touted their services. The four preoccupations of advertisers, back then, were money, sex, politics, and food.

Tell me what’s changed since.

So let us now imagine Roman House Hunters—or, I suppose, villa hunters—Episode XVII. Octavius, a newly elected senator, and his lovely and talented wife Flavia are seeking a starter villa in an upscale neighborhood off the Appian Way, rural in character, but convenient to shops, temples, usurers, slave auctions, gladiatorial combat venues, baths, and soothsayers. It’s been a tough slog, but Octavius and Flavia have finally found the perfect place.

The vomitorium has granite countertops.

DANCING IN THE (CAMBRIDGE) STREETS

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SUSAN KELLY

Susan Kelly One of the most memorable community events I ever witnessed in Cambridge was when Martha and the Vandellas came to town. There was no particular occasion being celebrated, as far as I can recall. Somebody just decided that it would be nice if…Martha and the Vandellas came to town.

The event was held outside the Cambridgeside Galleria, a multi-story shopping mall on First Street near the west bank of the Charles River. Before the north entrance to the Galleria was a sort of plaza. In the center was a pool connected by a canal to the Charles. The pool had a fountain that shot water fifty feet into the air and, on windy days, showered everyone on the plaza with a spray of fetid brown droplets. (Remember that song about the Charles River by the Standells: Dirty Water? They killed it with that number.)

That evening—it was in late summer—the fountain had been turned off for the event. In the middle of the pool floated a little boat like one of the excursion craft that plowed up and down the Charles. A ramp had been placed from the edge of the fountain to the boat.

The concert was to begin at seven, but people started gathering for it at five. The ages represented ranged pretty much from Pampers to Depends. Four generations of family groups showed up with coolers, picnic baskets, and lawn furniture. A few cops appeared to maintain crowd control. I saw one I knew and said hello to him. “I remember when Martha and the Vandellas were a new group,” he said.

A little after seven I was perched on a railing surrounding the pool, watching some grubby-looking ducks paddle around in the opaque water. I heard a stir behind me, and the crowd broke into a ripple of applause that became a wave. I turned. Three women in iridescent cocktail dresses and baroquely curlicued wigs scampered daintily down the ramp to the boat. They were Martha and the Vandellas, of course, still looking very good.

They did some of their own numbers—Nowhere to Run and Heat Wave—and covered some Supremes and Temptations hits. A few people rose and bopped to the music. As the concert progressed, the energy in the audience seemed to transform itself into a kind of driving expectation. People began leaning forward in their seats with anticipation. I knew what they were waiting for; I was waiting for it myself.

The singers vamped around for a bit before they did it. Then the notes of the signature saxophone introduction echoed around the plaza. The crowd roared in response. (There’s no other word to describe the sound it made.) En masse, several hundred people rose from their lawn chairs and began…Dancing in the Street.

Grandmothers in their mid-seventies capered with their teenaged grandchildren. Toddlers cavorted. Those who were adolescents when the song was Number One on the charts danced the dances of 1965. The cop I knew looked as if he was mightily restraining himself from joining them.

I looked more closely at the faces nearest me. Each one was effulgent with something. Joy? Exuberance? Plain old happiness? All I could think of was the William Butler Yeats line about the dancer and the dance.

The moment lasted longer than the song. Martha and the Vandellas took their bows. Something stronger than the setting sun cast a communal glow over the audience as its members began folding up lawn chairs, re-packing picnic baskets, and collecting their children.

It was the night everyone in East Cambridge smiled.