New Adventures of the Napoleon of Crime

So there I was, minding my own business when that dastardly evildoer’s name popped up on my security screen. Professor James Moriarty was up to his old habits, literally escaping the hangman’s noose in the first five minutes of a restored Lumière moving pictures Cinematograph. The case may have been part of the Moriarty Canon, but one and a quarter centuries later remains unmentioned In the official Holmes Canon.

Unfortunately, Holmes does not revert to his brilliant disguise as Jeremy Brett. Despite this, as a public service, we share with you this previously untold history titled Hands of a Murderer. If you prefer to watch this later during your own criminal pursuits, here is a link for your tablet or phone:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cDkkrdAsbd0

And now, Hands of a Murderer:

GUEST POST: Creating a Cohesive Collection

My friend Judy Penz Sheluk has twice been a guest columnist here at SleuthSayers--once in 2021 and once in 2023. Today, at our regular two-year interval, I'm pleased to have her here for another guest post, this one to celebrate the latest book in her Superior Shores Anthology series. Please join me in welcoming her once again.

--John Floyd

Creating a Cohesive Collection

by Judy Penz Sheluk

I've acquired a few skills during my corporate life as a credit manager (among other finance-related jobs) and as a magazine editor for multiple publications, but one of the most important was a good working knowledge of Excel, spreadsheets being a good way to number crunch and manage budgets. Even so, I never thought I'd use it as a tool to help me determine the order of the stories in my Superior Shores Anthologies. But that's exactly what I've done, each and every time.

Let's take my most recent multi-author anthology, Midnight Schemers & Daydream Believers: 22 Stories of Mystery & Suspense, released on June 18th. Admittedly, much of the heavy lifting lies in culling down the 80 submissions to a manageable number, but turning the selected stories into a cohesive collection isn't quite as simple as it might seem on the surface. That's where my handy-dandy spreadsheet comes in. Here's a step-by-step look at how it works:

1. Set up five columns: Order (1-22), author name, title, word count, and comments.

2. Select which story will be first and mark that as number 1 under the column titled 'Order.' I spend a lot of time deciding what story will be first, because that sets the stage for the rest of the collection. In the case of Midnight Schemers, I chose Charlie Kondek's 'Secretly Keith,' the tale of a cover band guitarist who decides the time is right to rob barroom bookie Big John Warmer. At just under 3,500 words, it's middle of the pack in length, and as you've probably guessed, things don't go according to plan for our scheming, daydreaming, and very misguided musician.

3. Mark 'A Foolproof Plan,' my story of a woman desperate for a new life, as number 22, the last entry--it just doesn't feel right to put my own story ahead of any of the other authors. At just over 1,800 words, it's the shortest in the collection, which brings me to...

4. Select #21: the lead-in to the final story. Preferably long, and completely different in every way. In this case, I selected C. W. Blackwell's 'Making Up for Lost Time,' which clocks in at about 5,000 words, a poignant tale of a down-on-his-luck divorced dad and his daughter.

5. Sort the remainder of the stories by word count. In this way, I can begin to vary the order by story length, i.e., long, medium, short, long, medium, short, and so on.

6. Of course, just sorting by length isn't enough. That's where my Comments column, a one-sentence reminder about the content, comes in. It wouldn't do, for example, to have Pam Barnsley's homeless man in 'The Underground,' compete with C.W. Blackwell's down-on-his-luck dad. That said, at roughly 2,500 words, it's not long enough to follow Charlie Kondek's mid-length opener. The balance? Inserting Susan Daly's 5,000 word 'A Talent for Fame' between the two.

7. The heavy lifting done, I tinker with the order until it's right. Sort, re-sort. Re-read the intro of each story until I'm finally satisfied it's as good as it's going to get. After all, even the most devoted tinkerers have to let go sometime.

READERS: Do you pay attention to the order of stories? Or do you read them based on author name recognition, story title, and/or length?

About Midnight Schemers & Daydream Believers: 22 Stories of Mystery & Suspense:

Desire or desperation, revenge or retribution--how far would you go to realize a dream? The twenty-two authors in this collection explore the possibilities, with predictably unpredictable results. 

Featuring stories by Pam Barnsley, Linda Bennett, Clark Boyd, C. W. Blackwell, Amanda Capper, Susan Daly, James Patrick Focarile, Rand Gaynor, Gina X. Grant, Julie Hastrup, Beth Irish, Charlie Kondek, Edward Lodi, Bethany Maines, Jim McDonald, donalee Moulton, Michael Penncavage, Judy Penz Sheluk, KM Rockwood, Peggy Rothschild, Debra Bliss Saenger, and Joseph S. Walker.

Find it at www.books2read.com/midnight-schemers

About Judy: The Past Chair of Crime Writers of Canada (CWC) and a former journalist and magazine editor, Judy Penz Sheluk (author/editor) is the multiple award-winning author of seven bestselling mystery novels, two books on publishing, and several short stories. She is also the editor/publisher of five Superior Shores Anthologies. In addition to CWC, Judy is a member of International Thriller Writers and the Short Mystery Fiction Society.

Find her at www.judypenzsheluk.com

 

An Anthology is Born

It started with one hula hoop, eight writers drinking S.J. Rozan-inspired martinis all basking in ShortCon’s afterglow…

Dan White & S.J. Rozan with her Signature Martini

There is something magical that happens when writers gather after a conference.

Maybe, it’s because of how we are wired. Maybe, it’s because of the creative energy that still lingers in the air—and we had plenty of it this year, thanks to the incredible presentations by S.J. Rozan, Jeffrey Marks, and Michael Bracken. Being together ignites our imaginations and fosters inspiration.

At Elaine’s Literary Salon that night was no different.

Conversations about the conference turned to hula hoops. I am still not sure what sponsored the now-infamous hula hoop-moment between Dan White and S.J. Rozan and the deep dive into iconic playground games and equipment that quickly followed.

Like so many similar moments when crime fiction writers are together, snippets of story ideas began bouncing around like a gaggle of kids on pogo sticks: hopscotch and chalk-lined bodies, Double-Dutch turned deadly, butt-burning metal slides, death-defying jumps from swings, and tether ball clashes. Some, reimagined the Tony Sopranos of the sandbox-world uttering,“What happens in the sandbox stays in the sandbox.” I can still hear the New Jersey-accent playing in my head.

We also discovered just like “regional words” exist for carbonated drinks (soda, pop, Coke), names for playground equipment vary, too: Seesaws or Teeter-Totters, Monkey bars or Horizontal Ladders, Spinners or Merry-Go-Rounds or Roundabouts, Spring Riders or Spring Rockers.

And the list goes on.

Others recounted playground politics and social hierarchies, what it felt like to be fearless, what it felt like to desperately want to be accepted—all of us reliving nostalgic and not so nostalgic moments from our childhood.

Less than an hour later, short story legend (aka Michael Bracken) roughed out a proposal for a crime fiction anthology where a piece of playground equipment or a playground game plays an important role. These had to exist on old-school playgrounds, where the playground was was made of asphalt and the equipment was made of metal, which likely meant these stories would be set in the past or in the present with flashbacks or in neighborhoods that had not upgraded to modern, safe playground equipment.

Michael Bracken
exhausted by the "Idea Fairy"

And just like that, Playground Noir: For the Kids Who Never Grew Up, was born.

Michael was surrounded by his list of contributors. He also had a publisher in mind.

As I write this post today, Michael has already pitched his proposal and awaits a response.

My key takeaways from that night at Elaine's:

Crime fiction writers are all a little twisted. Thank God, we have each other.

The best story ideas happen when writers gather to enjoy one another’s company.

It’s important to stick around after conferences and connect with fellow writers. You never know what is going to happen. You may become a contributor in an upcoming anthology.

***

Stacy Woodson with Dan White

Want to make space for your own hula-hoop moment?

ShortCon 2026 is just around the corner.

Hosted by Michael Bracken, the conference will be held at Elaine's Literary Salon in Alexandria, Virginia on June 6, 2026.

Gary Phillips will lead a three-hour writing workshop on “Blueprinting Criminal Behavior.”

Michele Slung will present “Every Moment is a Story,” a behind-the-scenes look at putting together annual best-of collections.

Art Taylor will discuss “Linked, Intertwined, or Seamless: The Curious Case of the Novel in Stories.”

I will also lead an end-of-day panel discussion with the presenters. Registration opens in July.

You can find it here: https://www.eastcoastcrime.com/#/.

Hope to see you there!

Kids These Days (and ALL Days!)

I'm So Excited once again we come to the end of the school year, and with the health “challenges” I’ve faced this year, I can’t think of a better way to end the school year than by doing a call-back to a post I did nine years ago, in the midst of a divisive presidential election-also an end of the school year post, one that reflected (and continues to reflect) my unshakeable faith in this country. And here we are, nearly-a-decade later, having come through on the other side of any number of traumatic experiences, and that faith remains strong.

Which is why I'm reposting this below.

*     *     *     *     *

So, about my day gig.

I teach ancient history to eighth graders.

And like I tell them all the time, when I say, "Ancient history," I'm not talking about the 1990s.

For thirteen/fourteen year-olds, mired hopelessly in the present by a relentless combination of societal trends and biochemistry, there's not much discernible difference between the two eras.

I wish!

It's a great job. But even great jobs have their stressors.

Like being assigned chaperone duty during the end-of-the-year dance.

Maybe you're familiar with what currently passes for "popular music" among fourteen year-olds these days. I gotta say, I don't much care for it. Then again, I'm fifty-one. And I can't imagine that most fifty-one year-olds in 1979 much cared for the stuff that I was listening to then.

And it's not as if I'm saying I had great taste in music as a fourteen year-old. If I were trying to make myself look good I'd try to sell you some line about how I only listened to jazz if it was Billie Holiday or Miles Davis, and thought the Police were smokin' and of course I bought Dire Straits' immortal Making Movies album, as well Zeppelin's In Through The Out Door when they both came out that year.

Well. No.

The sad reality.

In 1979 I owned a Village People vinyl album (Cruisin', with "YMCA" on it), and a number of ElvisPresley albums and 8-track tapes. I also listened to my dad's Eagles albums quite a bit. An uncle bought Supertramp's Breakfast in America for me, and I was hooked on a neighbor's copy of Freedom at Point Zero by Jefferson Starship, but really only because of the slammin' guitar solo Craig Chaquico played on its only hit single: "Jane." And I listened to a lot of yacht rock on the radio. I didn't know it was "yacht rock" back then. Would it have mattered?

But bear in mind we didn't have streaming music back then. And my allowance I spent mostly on comic books.

Ah, youth.

Anyway, my point is that someone my age back then may very well have cringed hard and long and as deeply if forced to listen to what I was listening to at eardrum-bursting decibels, and for the better part of two hours.

That was me on the second-to-the-last-day of school a week or so back.

Two hours.

Two hours of rapper after rapper (if it's not Eminem, Tupac, or the Beastie Boys, I must confess it all sounds the same to me) alternating with heavily autotuned "singing" by Rihanna, Katy Perry, Taylor Swift, etc.

Thank God we got some relief in the form of the occasional Bruno Mars song. Bruno, he brings it.

All Hail Bruno Mars - Savior of My Sanity

And through it all, the kids were out there on the floor. Mostly girls, and mostly dancing with each other.

Great album, great cover, great band.

One group of these kids in particular caught my attention. Three girls, all fourteen, all of whom I knew. All wearing what '80s pop-rock band Mr. Mister once referred to as the "Uniform of Youth."

Of course, the uniform continues to change, just as youth itself does.

But in embracing that change, does youth itself actually change? Bear with me while I quote someone a whole lot smarter than I on the matter:

"Kids today love luxury. They have terrible manners, contempt for authority; they show disrespect for elders and love to gab instead of getting off their butts and moving around."

The guy quoted (in translation) was Socrates, quoted by his pupil Plato, 2,400 years ago.

And some things never change.

Getting back to the three girls mentioned above, their "uniform of youth" was the one au courant in malls and school courtyards across the length and breadth of this country: too-tight jeans, short-sleeved or sleeveless t-shirts, tennis-shoes. They looked a whole lot like so many other girls their age, out there shaking it in ways that mothers the world over would not approve of.

In other words, they looked like thousands, hell, millions of American girls out there running around today, listening to watered down pablum foisted on them by a rapacious, corporate-bottom-line-dominated music industry as "good music", for which they pay entirely too much of their loving parents' money, and to which they will constantly shake way too much of what Nature gave them–even under the vigilant eyes of long-suffering school staff members.

Yep, American girls. From the soles of their sneakers to the hijabs covering their hair.

Oh, right. Did I mention that these girls were Muslims? Well, they are. One from Afghanistan. One from Turkmenistan, and one from Sudan. At least two of them are political refugees.

You see, I teach in one of the most diverse school districts in the nation. One of the main reasons for this ethnic diversity is that there is a refugee center in my district. The center helps acclimate newcomers to the United States and then assists in resettling them; some in my district, some across the country.

So in this campaign season, when I hear some orange-skinned buffoon talking trash about Muslims, stirring up some of my fellow Americans with talk of the dangerous "foreign" *other*, it rarely squares with the reality I've witnessed first-hand getting to know Muslim families and the children they have sent to my school to get an education: something the kids tend to take for granted (because, you know, they're kids, and hey, kids don't change). Something for which their parents have sacrificed in ways that I, a native-born American descendant of a myriad of immigrant families, can scarcely imagine.

(And it ought to go without saying that this truth holds for the countless Latino families I've known over the years as well.)

I'm not saying they're saints. I'm saying they're people. And they're here out of choice. Whether we like that or whether we don't, they're raising their kids here. And guess what? These kids get more American every day. Regardless of where their birth certificate says they're from.

Just something to think about, as we kick into the final leg of this excruciating election season.

Oh, come on. You didn't think this piece was gonna be just me grousing about kids having lousy taste in music, did ya?

(And they do, but that's really beside the point.)

Seems an appropriate way to tie it all together.

You Have to Start Somewhere

Back in March I started a review of a short story at Little Big Crimes as follows:

What should the opening sentence of a short story do?  The only thing it must do is make you want to read the second sentence. But it can do so much more.  For instance:

* It can set the mood.

* It can tell you something about the plot.

* It can introduce one or more characters.

I then provided the first sentence of the story I was examining, "Come Forth and Be Glad in the Sun," by Mat Coward.

"Of all the people we have ever kidnapped, you are by far the rudest."

Lovely.  But thinking about what I wrote I remembered that way back in 2009 I and some of the other bloggers at Criminal Brief created lists of our favorite opening lines from our own short stories.  I decided to update it.  So here are some of my best opening gambits from 2010 on.

Stephen Shane's gun went off twice while he was cleaning it, accidentally killing his wife and her lover.

The best day of my life started when I got arrested.

What am I?

Dr. Rayford Mason Pantell, B.S., M.S., Ph.D., current holder of the Lorenzen Endowed Chair for Biology, stared down at the naked corpse of his graduate student, Natalie Corsuch.

I am often asked who is responsible for what the Fourth Estate refers to as my “career in crime.”

When Domici walked into the office , Coyle stepped out from behind the door and hit him with a sap.

The Encyclopedia of American Race Riots.

Sean was running late even before he ran into the corpse.

"What is it," Leopold Longshanks asked, "about women and bad boys?"

The drunk made a speech as he climbed on board the All Nighter bus, explaining at the top of his lungs that he was Patrick X. Sorley, multimillionaire hedge fund manager, and the first thing he was going to do bright and early the next day when he returned to his corner office high above Montgomery Street would be arrange for the firing of the bartender who had taken his car keys and then kicked him out after pouring only one more measly bourbon.

 When Randolph was six years old he discovered he could control gravity.

Tourists wandered down the Ramblas like sheep waiting to be fleeced. 

 Lorrimer didn't realize he was in a fight until the little man kicked him.

Leopold Longshanks blamed it on a terrorist plot.

"Here's the story," said the man who's name was probably not Richard.

 

Wipe Out

Michael, standing at the ShortCon 2025
registration table moments before
attendees arrived.

“Banzai Pipeline,” published May 23 by Kelp Journal, is one of the stories I used during my presentation at ShortCon 2025 as an example of writing a story for an anthology submission call, but finishing well past the deadline.

At the conference, I presented “Writing for Anthologies: How to Slip Between the Covers,” which was an overview of the various types of anthologies, how they are conceived and assembled, things writers can do to improve the odds of acceptance, and what to do with stories that didn’t make the cut.

And I veered a bit off-track when I briefly discussed “Banzai Pipeline,” a story that exists because of an anthology’s open call for submissions but was never submitted to that anthology.

A while back there was a call for crime fiction short stories inspired by musical one-hit wonders, and I wondered what song with the fewest number of words in its lyrics could inspire a story. The answer was:

Two. Two words.

I chose The Safari’s “Wipe Out.”

(The Champs’s “Tequila,” with a single word repeated three times, might be an even greater challenge.)

The sound of a breaking surfboard, followed by a maniacal laugh and someone shouting, “Wipe Out,” provided both the setting and the inciting incident for my story.

Writing the opening proved easy enough. The surfer who wiped out dies, his girlfriend thinks he was murdered, and the private eye she hires to investigate knows nothing about surfing.

Then I wiped out. The wave of inspiration collapsed beneath me, I found myself floundering, and the file remained unfinished on my computer as I moved on to other projects.

One day, while falling into a research rabbit hole for another project, I discovered “Hawaii: Black Royalty in the Pacific,” and what I read upended everything I thought I knew about the ethnicity of our 50th state.

And I knew what my story was about, and knew it wasn’t just about investigating a possible murder.

I finished the story, changed the title from “Wipe Out” to “Banzai Pipeline” and submitted it to various publications until it found a home with Kelp Journal.

Michael, pontificating about
anthologies at ShortCon 2025.

NOT THE FIRST TIME

Something similar happened with “Denim Mining” (AHMM, May/June 2023).

I had already begun writing “Denim Mining” when the 2019 Bouchercon in Dallas announced that the theme of their anthology was denim and diamonds. Incorporating diamonds into the story I had already begun was no problem. Unfortunately, as with “Banzai Pipeline,” the wave of inspiration collapsed when I ran into a problem.

The solution, in this case, wasn’t diving down a research rabbit hole, but help from fellow SleuthSayer Leigh Lundin. He provided a few suggestions as well as information about gunpowder that gave me what I needed to finish the story.

LESSONS LEARNED

The lesson I intended to impart at ShortCon when I shared the story of “Banzai Pipeline” is to never give up on a good story even if the inspiring project’s submission window ends before you finish writing.

And if you do finish your story in time, and it gets rejected, keep it circulating. That’s what fellow SleuthSayer Joseph Walker did with “Give or Take a Quarter of an Inch,” rejected from the same Boucheron anthology to which I had intended to submit “Demin Mining.” He placed it with Tough, it was selected for inclusion in The Best Mystery Stories of the Year, and then it was reprinted in The Saturday Evening Post.

So, how about you? Have you missed a submission deadline and still sold the resulting story? Or has a story rejected by the editor of a themed anthology later appeared in a better market or received recognition?

“Yes I have them, them walkin’ blues.” Taj Mahal

            I like mysteries and thrillers where the good guys win and the bad guys lose.  I think this is true for most readers.  I know there’s a market for noir stories that end up ambiguously, or with evil overcoming earnest virtue, but I’m not interested in that stuff.  I find it depressing, or vaguely sociopathic.  And no fun whatsoever.

             That happy endings are far more common than stories with decent people being ground into dust suggests that most people are inherently good, because they want stories that reinforce their beliefs and hopes for humankind.

            This is my happy thought and I’m sticking with it.

            I know that evil exists in the world and that bad things happen to good people all the time.  I don’t need books I read as escapism to remind me of that.  I really don’t know the ultimate score card of good vs. evil – who’s had the upper hand, historically.  But since, despite our travails, the world has evolved mostly to the betterment of the human population, a reasonable guess is that the good guys have the edge. 

Movie critics seem to think there’s something intellectually deficient in a person who prefers happy endings.  This explains why so many Scandinavian movies are critically acclaimed.  As if dreary settings, low light, crystalline ice hanging off scruffy beards and babies frozen in the snow delivers some deeper understanding of the human condition.  If that’s so, they can have it. 

         I can imagine some thinking, “Life isn’t just a Disney movie.”  Have you seen Dumbo or Bambi lately?  Old Yeller? You want to talk about grim and depressing.  And Walt wasn’t even Scandinavian, as far as I know. 

            Moral ambiguity is another thing, though how it resolves decides the question for me.  In The Maltese Falcon, the most important modern detective novel, spawning the subsequent Bogart movie, we really don’t know where Sam Spade comes down on the probity scale until the end.  I and others have maintained forever that Hammet was richly influenced by Hemingway’s anti-heroes – cynical lads with robust vices who only reveal their essential morality when the drama starts to wrap up.  (The best movie version of this ethic is Casablanca, another film with Humphrey Bogart.)

            It’s sort of a triangulation.  Good and evil can only be explicated in opposition to each other.  The third point in the diagram is how one feels about what’s being contested.  The pessimists who want to be affirmed by evil’s triumph, and their cousins who delight in destruction and despair, have plenty of stuff out there to enjoy.  Have at it.  It’s just not for me.  I reject the notion that this work represents the full extent of our experience on earth, that it reveals some regrettable, but inevitable reality.  Or that this sensibility conveys upon the believer some greater intellectual facility, suggesting people like me are too dim witted to appreciate the underlying certainty of a dark existence.

            Just for the record, I’m also not a fan of pure Pollyanna.  I find it treacly and nauseating.  Everyone but me and a small, surly coterie of old curmudgeons loved the Barbie movie.  Ick.  While I cleave to the belief that humanity tilts toward the positive, at least in our hopes and desires, unfettered optimism is delusional.  The facts on the ground say there are nuances, and lots more grey than black and white, and that every day is a contest that requires clear thinking and resolve. 

           

        As a musician for most of my life, I’ve had the privilege of playing a lot of the blues.  I think underlying these compositions is a way to navigate the teetering balance of suffering and joy.  Bad things happen, which you have to face up to, but then again, there are other things along the way that can lift your spirits, even in the midst of pain.  The texture of the music itself reflects the mood of this conflicted sentiment.  It’s soulful, but fun, inspiring sorrow and contentment in equal measure.    

            “If it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have no luck at all”, according to Albert King, who still managed to wink at us through the lament. 

 

Adding Insult to Injury

Ever since the first cavemen locked up one of their fellows pending trial, aggrieved prisoners have plotted how to get rid of witnesses. By now, an intelligent person might expect authorities will listening to jailhouse conversations. Unfortunately, some inmates haven’t gotten the memo. Picture a plexiglass panel and a pair of phones at visiting hour.

Jailhouse Chump

“You’re lookin’ good, boss.”

“Shut up, Bernie. Don’t give nobody in here any ideas. Listen, I need a favor, call it a clean-up on Aisle 7.”

“Uh, waddaya mean, boss?”

“A clean-up crew. Number 7 Isle Court, see?”

“Ain’t dat where Morris the Mouth lives?”

“Jeez, Bernie, why not take out an ad.”

“What you want it to say?”

“Bernie, watch my lips. I need ya to clean out Number 7, get it?”

“That’s real nice of you, boss, especially since the Mouth ratted on you.”

“Bernie, Bernie, I want you to remove him from these Earthly confines, demise him, shuffle him off this mortal coil, kick his galvanized bucket, punt his pail, polish him off, cut him down in his youthful prime…”

“How big you want this ad? Boss, you’re turning awfully red.”

“You fool. What do you not understand? Eliminate, eradicate, extirpate, terminate, you dolt, assassinate, annihilate, exterminate, decimate, punctuate, exsanguinate, ventilate, cremate, liquidate…”

“Nice rhyming them big words, boss, but here comes the warden. Oh look, he brought me a jump suit just like yours.”

Jailhouse Genius

Meet today’s crook, Demetric Deshawn Scott. He violently robbed Ramón Morales Reyes. Compounding the situation, Demetric Deshawn Scott is a US citizen. Ramón Morales Reyes is not. In fact, his U visa has been pending for ages and he’s at risk of deportation. Scott’s expectation that Latinos wouldn’t report the crime didn’t pan out.

So there’s Scott, sitting in jail, so unfair. If a good ol’ American citizen can’t assault and rob a Mex, where have our freedoms gone? What to do? What to do?

And then Demetric has a stroke of genius. Sometimes you can almost admire imaginative criminal cunning, flawed through it may be.

“Bernie, I had a stroke of genius. The White House ordered Immigration and Customs Enforcement to ship out 3000 immigrants per day, every day.”

“So what’s the geniousity?”

“We’re gonna report Reyes to ICE, see? We’ll get the FBI and US Marshals working for us, maybe the Secret Service.”

“That’s brilliant, boss. Er, how does that work exactly?”

“We report Reyes, the Feds pick him up and ship him out. He can’t testify if he ain’t here.”

“Yeah, but the arrests started with professors and students and small businessmen, and now they’re going for those high-paying minimum wage jobs, janitors and that ilk. They ain’t after the likes of you and me.”

“Here’s the ultra-smart part. We forge threatening letters to officials in Reyes’ name. I’ll get Mom to mail them for me. It’s the perfect plan.”

Days later, Bernie visits again.

“You was right, boss. The Feds arrested Reyes and are putting him through the grill.”

“Ha. My evil genius knew it. Our government at work. Snatched him right off the street, did they?”

“There’s one little problem. The letters to the President got too much attention. ICE ain’t shipped him out yet. They’re now investigating who really sent the notes.”

“Why? What’s the hangup?”

“Reyes don’t know English. And the handwriting don’t match. And he’s a nice family man. No one believes it. I’m telling you, they’re gonna let him go.”

Demetric Deshawn Scott and his very big brain were led away frothing at the mouth and screaming like Wile E Coyote, “Blasphemy! Impiety! Profanity! Imbecility. Foiled again!”

Who Almost Got the Part

In life, some doors open and some doors close. Some doors are forced open, and some are walked past with scarcely a nod. And some people expected someone else to walk through those doors. What follows is a look back at hugely popular crime series with hugely popular leads--who weren't Plan A for the part. 

Perry Mason (1957-1966)

Who they wanted: Ephrem Zimbalist, Jr. 

Who got the part: Raymond Burr. Burr read for the D.A. but angled for Mason. He had to lose weight in a hurry, but he wrangled the part.

Interesting Fact: William Hopper also read for Mason but didn't nail it (his mom had prior run-ins with some of the crew). They loved him as Paul Drake.

Columbo (1968, 1971-1977, 1989-2003)

Who they wanted: Bing Crosby. TV work didn't fit with his golf schedule. 

Who got the part: Peter Falk. His enthusiasm for the part won over the producers, who then got everyone onboard despite his being young for the role.

Interesting fact: Burt Freed (1960) and Thomas Mitchell (1962) played early versions of Columbo before Falk took over for the TV movies.

Miami Vice (1984-1990)

Who the network wanted for Crockett: Nick Nolte and Jeff Bridges were the pipe dreams. Larry Wilcox (CHiPS) was a serious option, but it didn't click.

Who got the part: Don Johnson. He would later get into a serious contract dispute and was nearly replaced by Mark Harmon.

Interesting fact: The lead casting issue lingered on for so long that it delayed production twice. 

Murder, She Wrote (1984-1996)

Who the network wanted: Jean Stapleton, a few years clear of All in the Family. 

Who got the part: Angela Lansbury. She read the script and saw a character she could bring to life.

Interesting fact: Lansbury proved her sleuth appeal in the Agatha Christie adaption The Mirror Crack'd (1980). The film wasn't a hit. Otherwise, Lansbury might've instead been forever known as Ms. Marple.

The X-Files (1993-2002, 2016-2017)

Who the network wanted for Scully: Pamela Anderson. Not a typo. Fox considered Anderson an affordable nod to Sharon Stone.

Who got the part: Gillian Anderson. Her cerebral and refined take wowed at auditions, and the showrunners sold her to Fox as the perfect Scully.

Interesting fact: David Duchovny also impressed in his audition. The showrunners thought he was too laconic and asked him act more like an FBI agent.

NCIS (2003-present)

Who the network wanted for Gibbs: Nobody and everybody. Scott Glenn and Andrew McCarthy both passed. Rumor has it that Don Johnson also turned down the role.

Who got the part: Mark Harmon.

Interesting fact: Some would call Harmon's 19 seasons a good run.

Breaking Bad (2008-2013)

Who the network wanted for Walter: John Cusack or Matthew Broderick. Both declined.

Who got the part: Bryan Cranston. He'd been the writer's choice from working with him on The X-Files. AMC kept seeing him on Malcolm in the Middle. 

Interesting fact: Aaron Paul (Jesse) and Dean Norris (Hank) also won their roles in part thanks to The X-Files guest spots.

Sherlock (2010-2017)

Who they wanted for Watson: They had no idea, but it had to click with Benedict Cumberbatch's Holmes. Matt Smith auditioned but was too comic. He took the producer's offer to play Dr. Who instead.

Who got the part: Martin Freeman. He proved the perfect grounding persona for the high-functioning sociopath Holmes. 

Interesting fact: Cumberbatch's real-life parents portray Holmes' parents.

True Detective (Season One, 2014)

Who they wanted for Marty Hart: Matthew McConaughey. He angled for and got the other cop partner, Rust Cohle.

Who got the part: Woody Harrelson. McConaughey pushed successfully to get Harrelson onboard. 

Interesting fact: The roles attracted established movie vets because it was a doable one-season anthology gig, not a multi-year commitment.