Star-Crossed Solvers and Other Detective Dysfunction

You’re not sure how long you’ve been asleep when the ringing telephone wrenches you awake. A glance at the clock tells you it’s 2:30 a.m. The fog of sleep slowly lifts as you answer the ringing phone. It is dispatch calling. “Good morning Detective,” the dispatcher says. “We’ve got a signal 7 for you. Are you ready to copy?” You grab the pad and pen you keep by the bed and start to take notes. It’s going to be another long day.

https://www.thebalancecareers.com/a-day-in-the-life-of-a-police-detective-974874

I’ve read a lot during this pandemic.

Maybe I haven’t always been literary. Although I have tried, at least every month, to read a serious book…books like How to Be an Anti-Racist, We Were Eight Years in Power, and Caste; books that inform and shock and push me way far out of my comfort zone. In the months since the March lockdown, I read Michelle Obama and Bill Bryson. I read fiction, too,–books like The Beekeeper of Aleppo, books that made me imagine cultures beside my own, made me think about the hardships of refugees, and made me ponder the sheer good luck and bad fortune of birth. I read fat historical novels, like Wolf Hall and Here Be Dragons, and I thought about the forces and personalities and chances that have led us to where we perch today.

I read those books because I needed to, and because I wanted to, and because, once I commit to a book, it’s really hard for me to walk away. But always, in the wings, I had a detective novel.

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Why do I like detective novels so much? I’m not at all into the horror genre; I really don’t like the action-adventure type work that’s laced with violence. Yet a murder mystery draws me in, calms and soothes me.

Hard to make sense of that, but I think it’s the detectives themselves.

If there are vile villains,–and sadly, we know there are people so warped and damaged that they now fit snugly into that category; they are people who do awful, despicable things—then it is nice to think that there are highly effective detectives. I think a person would have to be exceptional to pursue such a field, and I look up ‘detective’ online to see what qualities make for good ones.

I find a description of homicide detectives on Maryville University’s website, and it says this:

Tasked with investigating the circumstances that lead to and result in the loss of life, these highly skilled, well-trained professionals understand human behavior. Homicide detectives attempt to solve the worst crimes with logic, reason, organization, efficiency, and high ethical standards. [How to Become a Homicide Detective: Steps and Skills (maryville.edu)]

It’s true, I think; my favorite mystery authors know what–and whom—they’re writing about. The fictional detectives with whom I spend time are ethical, organized, and logical. They systematically pursue their killer, even while leaving space for the interplay of intuition and luck. They always, in the end, solve the crime, and they bring the criminal, one way or the other, to justice.

But it’s interesting that Maryville U’s website notes that detectives need to have a deep understanding of human behavior. The detectives I read about may apply that kind of understanding to their work, but their personal lives…well, quite often their personal lives are in shambles.

Take for instance.

Clare Fergusson is the lead character in Julia Spencer-Fleming’s The Rev. Clare Fergusson & Russ Van Alstyne Mysteries Series. She’s not a detective, Clare isn’t; she’s an Episcopalian priest who winds up at a church in a small town in Miller’s Kill New York, not so far away from Albany. A native of New York State myself, the setting drew me to the stories.

And then I got caught up in the characters; now, in between Serious Books, I am reading about Rev. Clare and Chief Russ.

Russ is that wonderful thing: an ethical, intelligent, dedicated cop. He’s a loyal son and a devoted husband.

And then Clare bursts on the scene. She’s a retired Army helicopter pilot; she’s southern; she drives a ridiculous little sports car in a climate more suited to all-wheel drive. But she’s driven by her vocation, her love of God, her desire to help the people of her parish, and all of that of course puts her in Russ Van Alstyne’s path.

They wind up working together, even above Russ’s objections, and they’re an effective team. More than that, though, they are drawn to each other by forces both physical and emotional. And both of them, people of high ethical caliber, know that a relationship can just never be.

They confine themselves to meeting once a week for lunch. That in itself, in a small New York town, sets local tongues wagging.

Each book in the series makes it clearer that these two are not just attracted; they are victims of a raging passion. And because they are who they are—Russ has a lovely wife, and neither of the pair has any interested in hurting or betraying her—they will never act on the passion.

But it’s hard. And they struggle. They refuse to see each other. They suffer. Their personal lives, even as they effectively solve nasty murders, are a mess.

Is that, maybe, part of the comfort of reading murder mysteries? That these effective detectives are a little defective when it comes to life and love?

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There are true reasons why detectives would be tough long-lasting romantic partners. In real-life, the numbers of people becoming detectives are dwindling, according to The Conversation, and here are some reasons, they say, why:

Detectives tend to work irregular hours. Detectives become invested in their cases, from start to finish, mainly because the option to hand them over to someone else is rare. And the dynamic nature of crime investigation means they often work long hours.

Complex investigations can be laborious as they require painstaking analysis and attention to detail. Detectives need to plan ahead and manage their time well while constantly trying to avoid being overwhelmed by the workload and paperwork.

Over time the sheer volume and unrelenting nature of the work can take its toll. It can be debilitating and have a detrimental impact on personal relationships, physical and mental health. (https://theconversation.com/why-the-dwindling-numbers-of-trained-detectives-is-a-national-crisis-145722)

Imagine trying to have a solid relationship with someone who is rarely home, and then, on the odd occasion that they have a night off, the phone rings, and phffft! They’re gone again. They can’t go to your cousin’s wedding, or the boy’s piano recital or the wee girlie’s soccer game. And when you do see them, they’re obsessed with The Case, which wakes them sweating from a sound sleep.

And how can you object? What they’re dealing with, quite literally, is life and death stuff.

The tide rolls in and it pulls out an awful lot of the sand such a partnering was trying to rest on. Easy to see why detectives might have trouble maintaining sturdy relationships.

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In other favorite mystery series, this rule holds very true.

Ruth Galloway, created by Elly Griffiths, is not only in love with Detective Harry Nelson. She’s raising his child. But Harry is married to a beautiful woman; they have two grown daughters, but his wife also had a baby, a son twenty years younger and more than his sisters.

There was doubt, at first, that the baby was Harry’s, but he is, our Harry, a man of honor. He re-commits himself to the marriage. And Ruth opens herself to another love, but in reality, those two—they really, passionately love each other.

What a mess.

And Jackson Brodie! What about Kate Atkinson’s loveably irascible detective? His first marriage shattered; he loves his daughter but often has to miss his time with her…or he exasperates the re-married ex by taking the little one to inappropriate places. He meets a woman, a lovely woman, who could be his soul mate. She’s even in the same business, so she’d understand the hours, the distraction, the difficulties this would entail. And what does he do?

He willfully blows it, of course.

Ann Cleeves’ Vera and her Jimmie from Shetland…personal lives in sorry states.

Susan Hill’s Simon Serailler…work, outstanding; emotional life, a mess.

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Maybe this is part of it: every successfully concluded murder mystery involves a kind of redemption. And so, reading each book in the series is a kind of exercise in hope. I have faith that the heroes will see the challenge through to the end, will solve the crime, will see justice done. And I have faith—or at least I hope—that they will do the same in their lives: untangle the messes, open up to their real feelings, and somehow, while maintaining their lofty integrity, wind up with their one true love.

In the meantime, I relate to their struggles, I admire their successes, and I cringe at their lost chances. And I eagerly await the next volume in the series.

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I should note that there are two detective series I really enjoy in which the lead characters have secure, loving relationships. There is Louise Penny’s Armand Gamache, whose marriage to Reine-Marie is a dynamic, responsive, beautiful thing. And Donna Leon’s Commisario Guido Brunetti is wholeheartedly devoted to his Paola.

Their kids though—in both cases, the kids are likeable and lovable and potentially problematic.

But the real dysfunction in those stories involves the corrupt systems within which the honorable detectives work.

It’s like there’s an obligatory balance in murder mysteries: work life good/home life bad. Home life rock solid/work life earthquake shaky.

Maybe there’s a murder mystery saga where both work and home are wonderful, and the books are joyous reads. I’ll keep exploring detective series to find out.

And it you know of any, please let me know.