Killing People

As a mystery author, I think about death much more than the average person. At least I hope I do. I’d hate to think that the family who lives next door to me is always thinking about murder or deadly accidents.

As my books add up, so do the corpses. It’s actually quite disturbing, and sometimes it haunts me, especially as I’m getting older and some of my elderly friends and relatives kick the bucket. Now there’s a phrase that sounds innocuous but has a gruesome history. If you look up “kick the bucket,” you’ll find that the phrase originated with slaughtering pigs.

As a former private investigator, I have a hard time writing the cute cozy mystery about someone dying and thus presenting a fascinating puzzle to solve. I sometimes wish I could, because I have read a lot of cozies that I’ve truly enjoyed. Unfortunately, in real life, I’ve investigated a few cases of wrongful death, and I’ve never seen a deceased person that everyone was happy to have dead. There’s always a grieving family or friends left behind, and often a snarled mess of assets and bills to sort out.

I truly don’t like to kill off my characters, though, because I feel the need to make sure they are fully fleshed out individuals before I do them in (another innocuous-sounding phrase). The character I miss most is Alex Kazaki, a wonderful scuba-diving marine biologist, a husband and a father, with a great physique and playful sense of humor. In my novel Undercurrents, he died in the Galapagos Islands, and his death rippled outwards like a rock had been dropped overboard into the sea, affecting everyone he knew. His dive partner, my protagonist Sam Westin, was impacted by his sudden death, and she was even suspected of smoking him. (Note innocuous phrase number three.) I’m a scuba diver, too, so that hurt. Alex was a handsome, kind man; I still miss him.

But before Alex, I killed off Lisa Glass, a worker on a trail crew in Olympic National Park. She died in my novel called Bear Bait, along with a female game warden. Truthfully, I never knew the game warden, but I’m sure she was great. But Lisa was an innocent, and that wasn’t even her real name. She was young and desperate and just associating with the wrong people, as desperate young people too often do.

In my next novel, Backcountry, two of Sam’s close friends were murdered. How could I do that? Was I becoming inured to death by that fourth book in the series? I fear so, because in my fifth novel, Borderland, I killed another character I truly admired: Jade Silva, a Latina wildlife photographer. She was a gutsy gal who would do anything to save a wild animal. I’ll never forget her.

And then in the sixth novel, Cascade, I bumped off (innocuous phrase number four) a whole slew of characters in an avalanche. It was an act of nature; not really my fault, and I really didn’t know any of them, at least not until Sam met the families of two teens that died.

I’m apparently getting more dangerous with every book that I write. Several people have already died in the mystery I’m writing now, If Only. And I haven’t even counted up the dead characters from my Neema Mysteries or my Run for Your Life trilogy.

When I think about the total body count I’ve left behind, it concerns me, especially because I don’t kill off the bad guys, but only good, decent people. I don’t think I meet the criteria for a serial killer, though, because a fair percentage of my fictional victims died in accidents, and they are, after all, fictional. For my own mental health, though, I should probably switch to writing sweet romances for a while.