Between Good And Evil

Just released from Sunbury Press: Between Good And Evil

Buy it now:
Amazon    B&N    Sunbury Press

Praise for R. Michael Phillips: 

R. Michael Phillips excels at setting the stage for a good story. He beckons you inside with multilayered characters and artistic strokes of sensory details and then pulls you through dark hallways of motivation and revelation. An absorbing, riveting good read. 
D.A. Sarac, The Editing Pen

Small town suspense, big city crime.

June Lorraine Roberts, MurderInCommon.com

About the book:

      Years after the Willis Asylum closed, the secrets of its past lingered in its decaying halls as a reminder to the good people of Auburn Notch—when Evil closes a door, he also opens a window. Sheriff Promise Flynn was new to the town, and she was about to find out some windows should never be opened.

      Promise Flynn is an overly impulsive Metro Detective whose disregard for procedure finally resulted in her being shot and left for dead during an investigation. To repair her bruised ego and splintered confidence she abandons the callous dark alleys of Chicago to patrol the quiet, birch-lined streets of Auburn Notch—a favorite vacation spot of her youth. For two years everything was idyllic, until the body of a young girl found in the abandoned asylum outside of town awakens the insecurities she thought her new life would insulate her from. As the new Sheriff she begins her investigation refusing to accept the similarities between the young woman’s death and her own case, oblivious to being unexpectedly recognized and penciled in at the top of a clever murderer’s To-Do list. Her internal struggle intensifies when a discredited crime reporter from the past suspiciously arrives in town to resurrect his threadbare reputation, along with an FBI agent chasing down a lead in a cold case. Both men quickly become entangled in Flynn's investigation and her attempts to finally put her past to rest.

      Flynn reluctantly accepts the murder of the young girl might be the work of the two men responsible for her hasty departure from Chicago, but Agent MacGregor insists the evidence points to a man he’s been chasing. As the rising current of her past threatens to pull her under, Flynn finds herself unprepared for option three.

Meet mystery writer R. Michael Phillips at an event near you. Times and dates will be posted on Goodreads and at rmichaelphillips.com.


See you there!

Don't Just Delete The First Victim

Don’t just kill them, put a little thought behind it. There’s only a handful of basic ways to bring about the demise of your victim—shot, stabbed, poisoned, crushed, starved, tossed off a building—you get the picture. Doing it is something I’ll devote another blog post to, so for now I’m just going to talk a bit about after the fact. Let’s face it, if the opening murder is going to be the inciting incident, why not add a little something extra to the deed. Get those readers wondering what the hell is going on from the moment the body is found. Don’t just stumble over the badly decomposing corpse in a dark corner of the basement of the old abandoned house on the edge of town, have the red ember of a wooden match head draw your attention to a dark object bundled in the corner of the crumbling basement. Wait a minute. Did he say red ember? Was someone just there? Who was there? Are they still there? Adding subtle layers gets the reader’s mind churning. It’s a great foreshadowing mechanism, and it works just as well used as a red hearing if needed. 

As a rule, I’ll write the first draft pretty much straight forward. No bells, no whistles, no layers, just get the main thoughts down. The new book, Between Good And Evil, came in at 50k words for the first draft. In the second draft I added in all the color and substantiating details. It’s during the second draft when most of my plot twists and turns surfaced. It’s at that point I went in and added the little details like the red ember of the match head by the body, (the red ember is for example only and not a spoiler alert), revealing its importance in a later chapter. All those what-ifs come into play here. I’ve mentioned this before; if a what-if pops up and surprises me as I'm writing a scene I’m pretty sure it will do the same for the reader. Use them to your advantage. Not everything needs to be planned. Writing the book should be just as exciting as reading it, otherwise why do it? 

By the time the second draft was done I was up to 70k words. It’s off to the copy editor at this point. Once it came back I went over the edits, made changes, and adjusted plot points where needed. Once that was complete, I did the fine-tuning in the third draft. All went well and the story landed at 80k+ words. All the subtle layers are now neatly woven together into the story. The seemingly insignificant details standing alone in their respective chapters are ready for the reader to clump them all together, leading them to the Aha! moment near the end of the story once the murderer/s is revealed. 

Whoever said, “The devil is in the details,” must have been a mystery writer.

A Well Deserved Thanks

Just back from a very successful book tour (virtual- the only way to go in this kind of weather) and I'm delighted over all the new readers I've met and the great reviews that were penned throughout the past 2 weeks for my new mystery, Passage Of Crime. This was my first engagement with this type of marketing and I kick myself for not looking into this when my first two books came out. Oh well, lesson learned. 

I want to extend a special thanks to Lori over at Great Escapes Book Tours for coordinating the events. There were interviews, blog spots, and reviews, all from different perspectives within the book world over a two week period. I can say, without reservation, I highly recommend this course of promotion for all authors looking to get their books noticed. This type of marketing is a must-do, especially if you have a new release coming up. 

January 2014 Book Tour

I'm excited about the Virtual Book Tour this month. A number of top, exciting bogglers and book reviewers have been kind enough to include me on their sites. There is even a signed, hardback giveaway of my new mystery, Passage Of Crime. Listed below are the dates followed by links to the sites.

January 14- Christa Reads and Writes

January 15- Psychotic State Book Reviews

January 16- Kelly P's Blog

January 17- Readalot Blog

January 18- A Blue Million Books

January 20- Thoughts in Progress

January 22- Books-n-Kisses

January 23- Musings and Ramblings

January 24- Escape With Dollycas Into A Good Book

January 25- Dru's Book Musing

I hope you take a few minutes and visit these sites. I'm sure once you do you will find them as interesting and informative as I do, and continue to follow them.

Passage Of Crime

Coming soon!

Passage Of Crime






I'm excited because the release is not too far off now.

About the book:

The most unpredictable character trait can be buried deep in the dark soul of the next generation. But be advised—Evil will eventually seek its own level, and then evolve. PASSAGE OF CRIME, a new twist on murder in the Ernie Bisquets Mystery Series.

London’s East End, once known for poor boroughs and a derelict rail yard, is enjoying an optimistic resurgence. It’s becoming an affordable option for middleclass residents looking to have their pounds go further. Despite this sweeping out of old rubbish, a cautious step is still advised when passing by a few remaining dark alleys. If only Mary Walsh had listened.

Prophet Brown, a disfigured, pathetic little man, called Detective Inspector Flannel after stumbling upon the body of a young woman in one such alley. Flannel quickly realizes she is not the random victim she appears.  Add to that, the crime scene is hauntingly reminiscent of an old unsolved case; a case that almost ended an otherwise brilliant career eight years ago.

     For the moment, Prophet Brown is the only solid link between the two cases. He has been in the employ of Lord Alfred Raventhorn, a charismatic and well-connected Member of Parliament for 17 years. Raventhorn is also the very man Flannel unsuccessfully accused of the murders in the previous case. It should be noted here, in the private conversations of those of impeccable character and devoid of a tendency toward exaggeration, remarks have been made regarding the MP's rumored ill treatment of Prophet.

Flannel finds himself navigating a very treacherous course. His superiors have warned him for the last time to tread cautiously around the MP, as the rising tide of the past threatens to pull him under. Reluctantly, Inspector Flannel turns to a most unlikely ally, a reformed pickpocket named Ernie Bisquets. Together they disentangle a mesh of old lies and current clues attempting to bring a ruthless murderer to justice–ignoring the dangerous notion of murder being a carefully disguised trait passed from one generation to the next.

PASSAGE OF CRIME is a traditional English mystery, complete at 75,500 words. Sure to appeal to Nancy Atherton and Bill Crider fans, Passage Of Crime brings together the unlikely combination of a dowdy old Scotland Yard Inspector and a plucky reformed pickpocket in this whodunit set in contemporary London.


Email me if you would like to be contacted when the book is released.

Oranges and Lemons - part 4

“By now you know the man in that trunk was not me, it was my half-brother. It was the day before you were to arrive. He came for his share from the sale of the company. He came with a cleaver–a threat to any refusal to his claim on the money. He was mad. He went on rambling about how I ruined his life. I thought he was going to kill me.”

The purging of his soul was taking a toll on Mr. Caldwell. His breaths became short, shallow wheezes. Despite the struggle needed to continue, he did so, slowly and with purpose.

“At one point he confessed to hiring the ruffian to rob and kill me. The very man your father saved me from. He had intended to take the business for himself. I was enraged. I grabbed the brass poker from the fireplace grate. The next thing I remember I was on the floor lying back against a bookcase, the blood-soaked poker still in my hand. Anderson was staring up at me from a pool of blood, his eyes vacant, his last breath expelled.”

“Why didn’t you step forward?” My course response was barely audible. I took him by the shoulders and shook him. “I’m to hang for your crime.”

He began to sob. “I know. I know. I never intended for this to happen. I thought for sure you would be released. You’ll not hang for ––”

His cough worsened, cutting off his last words. He reached down to the bench. Before I realized what was happening he was pulling my cup away from his moistened lips.

“No!” I shouted, batting the cup from his hand with mine.

Mr. Caldwell gasped. It was too late. The poison had taken its deathly hold on him. He reached out to me with one hand and grabbed at his throat with the other. Choking on his last breath he fell back against the stone wall, eventually sliding down, coming to rest in the very spot where he found me. He was gone.

In a split second I realized the opportunity before me. I quickly unlaced his boots, and just as quickly put them on and laced them up. His wool coat was next, completing the transformation with his scarf and hat. For all he had done to me I still felt embarrassed to be rifling the man’s pockets, but I had no choice. I found thirty pound sterling, a gold pocket watch and a paper with a series of numbers written on it.

I hastily scribbled a note, leaving the pen behind in his hand. It read thus:

I am guilty for the murder I committed. May God forgive me.

“Jailer!” I shouted out, straining to be heard. “Jailer, do you hear me? Come quick. This man has taken poison.”

I heard heavy footsteps in the passage. A grizzled face looked in through the barred opening in the thick oak door. The sound of a key in the lock was followed by the labored, high-pitched groan of the hinges. The door swung open. My heart raced. I felt certain the heavy pounding in my chest would give me away. I stepped to one side, tucking myself as far back into the darkness of the corner as my shaking frame would allow. The candle flickered for a moment, drawn out by the draft caused by the open door. Its brightness returned, illuminating the bench where the body lay slumped over.

Two turnkeys entered. The first was the face I saw peering in through the door. His large body and broad brimmed hat filled the cell, blocking out what little light dared creep in through the steel bars of the window cut into the wall behind him. He stood over the body holding what looked like a large canvas bag. He kicked the body twice then stepped back with a grunt. The other turnkey I’ll never forget. He was smaller with ferret-like features, remarkable to me for the shine on the expensive leather boots sticking out below his well-worn, ankle-high trousers. He knelt down close to the body.

“There’s nothing further you need here,” he grumbled, looking up over his shoulder. “And nothing you need remember.” He stared into the corner where I stood, his eyes burning through me to the stones beyond. It was all I could do to keep my trembling under control. “Leave!” he growled in a fierce tone.

With my hand cinching up the collar of the coat I rapidly shook my head and stepped through the doorway. I know not then nor now what caused the action, but I paused for just a moment and looked back. In that fleeting instant I saw the turnkey, the ferrety looking one in the boots, pick up the small glass vial I had left on the bench. With a nod to the other jailer he put it in his pocket.

At the far end of the passage another turnkey was walking toward me. At this point I was shaking uncontrollably. Suddenly I felt a heavy hand upon my shoulder.

“Get this bloke out of here,” the course voice behind me called out. “Take him out through the yard along Newgate. Off with you now.”

I followed close behind him through the maze of passages, almost tripping over his heels. The passageways and heavy iron gates seemed endless. He unlocked and locked each as we passed through, my heart stopping each time a gate slammed closed behind me. We walked through the large exercise yard along Newgate Street without so much as a single look from the prisoners walking in line, their heads down with one hand on the shoulder of the man in front. Not even a casual glance from the turnkeys who monitored the yard. I could hear noises from the street beyond the wall. We finally entered the small room where I was signed in as a prisoner, a room also used to sign in visitors. From here it was only a short walk through the Keeper’s house to freedom.

“You there,” a gruff voice called out. “Stop right there.”

I froze. His words sent a cold chill up my spine. I could see the main door ahead down the short, stone passage. I could do it. I only needed to make a run for it. Try as I might, I couldn’t move. A hand held tightly to the shoulder of the wool coat of deception I concealed myself in. It was the heavy hand of the turnkey I had followed out from my cell.

“You’ll need to sign out, Mr. Havisham. I’ll need your mark. It’s the rule.”

I slowly turned around. The turnkey put a green cloth book down on the table in front of me. Looking down I noticed the last entry – Mr. J. M. Havisham – to see – John Prior.

I took a deep breath. Picking up a quill from the inkstand I quickly signed the name of Havisham. To this day I have no recollection of what final remark I made afterwards, but it was met with a gnarled smile and the nod of a head to indicate I could show myself down the passage and out. I was a block away and down Newgate Street when I finally exhaled.

***

I left John Prior behind that day. Within a year the Memoir of Ebenezer Caldwell was published, as told to J. M. Havisham.

Oranges And Lemons - Part 2

My parents were kind and decent people, giving without thought to the less fortunate, and instilling in me the patience to understand my fellow man. My mother was educated, a fortune of her being the daughter of a governess prior to her marriage, and set a formal schedule at home to educate me, as my father was insistent I attain an education and “clean” work with an annual salary.

My father worked a milling machine in a factory located on Cheapside, toward St. Paul’s. Mr. Ebenezer Caldwell owned it, having been bequeathed to him on the death of his father. He ran the business with his half-brother Anderson. Mr. Caldwell gave my father the job in gratitude for stopping what was certainly intended as a deadly assault. One evening at dusk, just prior to the glow of the gas lamps, a ruffian confronted Mr. Caldwell and his half-brother on their way home from the factory. When the man produced a revolver Anderson ran, leaving Mr. Caldwell to fend off the attacker alone. My father witnessed the confrontation and came to his aid, thwarting the attack. Anderson’s flight was regarded as an act of cowardice that was answered with his dismissal from the company. Mr. Caldwell never saw, nor spoke the name, of his half-brother again.

Those first years of employment for my father were a time of prosperity for my family. I went on to attend Harrow – Mr. Caldwell, I found out years later, facilitated my placement there. I thought the passing of my parents, due to an outbreak of cholera during my second year, would be the end of my formal education. Through Mr. Caldwell’s benevolence I continued, eventually attending Cambridge. I remember thinking through my university years how fortunate I was my father interceded on the attack of Mr. Caldwell. That quickly changed, driven with every ounce of malevolence I could dredge up from the bowels of Hades, to wishing my father had left him to die at the hands of his attacker.

You might think it shameful for me to speak of the dead in such a way as this. Shameful to condemn a man whose benevolence afforded my father a decent wage and myself a fine education. Perhaps you’re right. At the time I was so consumed with hatred for what he had done to remember the acts of kindness that actually defined his life.

The judge and jury listened patiently as the facts of my case were revealed, occasionally stopping the proceedings to quiet the assorted gawkers jammed into the gallery in the Old Bailey. They were told during the trial Mr. Caldwell was murdered in April of 1886, his body stuffed into a steamer trunk in the attic of his flat on Fleet Street. It was further asserted that I remained in the flat after killing the man, availing myself to his substantial wealth and property. The police and medical examiner gave detailed reports substantiating those claims; claims based largely on information supplied to them from the grocer who delivered our meat and produce, the stationer who sold me the steamer trunk and the banker who set up the account for John Martin Havisham.

My legal counsel, a man whose name I find no need to remember, a man scarcely my senior but mentally and judiciously most certainly my junior, was inept in his ability to dispute even the most subjective of claims by the prosecutor. His laziness placed my whole defense on my testimony, a testimony which brought laughter from the gallery after my insistence of Mr. Caldwell being very much alive up until the twenty-eighth day of October, the last day I spoke with him and six months after his confirmed death. These “delusions”, as the court referred to them, were dismissed as nothing more than a feeble attempt to substantiate a claim of mental incapacity in defense of my actions.

I pleaded with the court to hear me out, assuring the judge my defense would be simple and address each of the claims related to the prosecutor’s assertion of my guilt.

“If you still find my statements an insult to the integrity of the court,” I said, pounding my fist on the well-worn rail before me, “I’ll concede my guilt and waste no more of the courts time.”

The court was reluctant to indulge me, finally conceding due to the overwhelming insistence from the gallery. It appeared their expectation was of a fanciful tale of my consorting with an apparition; a carefully spun tale to divert the jury from the greed and murder depicted by the prosecutor. The chamber went silent as I began.

I had nothing less than respect and gratitude for Mr. Caldwell. At the time of my graduation from Cambridge he had sold his factory for a substantial sum, resigning himself to a quiet life of travel and leisure. You’ll think it odd my having never met the man personally, knowing him only through his benevolence, but such was the case.

With my schooling complete I was excited over the prospect of becoming a journalist and eventually a novelist. The stipend for my education and living expenses, an account set up for me at the Bank of England by Mr. Caldwell, was closed out on my graduation from Cambridge. I took a small flat above a bakery on Bread Street and spent the next three years as an editor with the publishing house of Bascomb & Aldritch, a rather prestigious house with ties to Cambridge. It was there, on that blustery day in March of 1886, when a letter arrived from Mr. Caldwell.

His letter was my first direct contact with him since my parent’s death, now twelve years past. It requested I meet with him to discuss writing his memoirs. He wanted people to know the good he had done in this life. This entailed my leaving Bascomb & Aldritch. Without hesitation I agreed, soon finding myself sipping Earl Grey tea in the sitting room of his flat on Fleet Street.

Oranges And Lemons - A mystery most foul, part 1

I wanted to share my short story featured in Suspense Magazine, January 2011. I've serialized it in 4 parts, this being the first. Enjoy.

Oranges And Lemons

When will ye pay me,

Ring ye bells of Old Bailey.

When indeed. Surely I was going mad. I could reason out no other explanation why a child’s rhyme would occupy my thoughts on that cold morning before I was to face the hangman. The time was growing near when I, too, was to follow the path worn into the dismal stone passage beyond my cell door leading to the gallows. A path worn deep by all that were deemed wretched in this world, deserving or not, but condemned just the same to leave this world dangling lifeless from the taut end of a course length of hemp.

I heard the footsteps of the clerk from St. Sepulcher’s as he made his way down the passage, pausing at my cell door. His bell tolled, repeatedly and with long pauses between each ring, announcing to all in earshot the coming execution of the sentence afforded me by the court. A sentence justly appropriate for the guilty of such a heinous crime but never appropriate for the wrongly accused, as I so boisterously, and at times belligerently, addressed my accusers. At the end I was alone without voice nor hope to stay my execution. My face aged, my hair grayed from the thought of the gallows and the collar that awaited my neck. I was labeled mad by the prosecutor, so it’s mad I must be. Such was my fate; as was the fate of those wretched men before me whose shoulders wore smooth the cold section of stone I rested against.

As I looked up from the floor, my arm resting on a square wooden bench, which was as much a table as it was a chair, I was confronted with the dismal history of my cell. The dim light of a gray morning, reluctantly drifting in through the crossed steel bars covering my only glimpse of the life I would soon leave behind, drew out the last thoughts of those I was soon to walk amongst. Every inch of the grimy stone walls had been etched with the pathetic pleas for mercy or forgiveness for the sins that brought this refuse of society to their end. The writing was barely discernable, but the intent was obvious. Those petitions for mercy, those desperate attempts to leave behind some token of existence, appeared little more than a crude imitation of a patterned wall covering to my educated eye. Layer upon layer of incoherent scribbling ran together, blurred from the soot and grime deposited by the years that stood witness to the hundreds who came before, removing all hope of salvation. Those walls were cold and hard, a reflection of the verdicts delivered to the souls unfortunate enough to gaze upon them. I had no intention of leaving this life behind in such a fashion.

I made only one request of the Keeper. Whether for my youth of eight and twenty years or just a genuine kindness for my politeness in manner, I will be forever grateful for the paper and pen left for me. The inkwell was less than half full but it was more than adequate for my needs. My intent was to leave behind some small note of regret for my fate, fulfilling a personal desire to make one last claim of innocence. Afterwards, I reserved a small amount of water in my wooden cup to assist me in what was to be a final act of mercy on my soul.

I was told from other prisoners I met in the quadrangle that a vial of arsenic could be obtained for a price from the turnkeys. If caught bargaining such a deal, a turnkey could find himself on the other side of a cell door, but the fruition of the transaction left no fear of accusation. I had no money, nor a means to acquire any. What I did have was an exceptionally well-made pair of leather boots. I kept them buffed to a high shine, having torn a pocket from my trousers for use as a polishing cloth. They hadn’t gone unnoticed by the turnkeys, having twice broken up attacks on my person by other prisoners wanting to acquire the footwear for themselves. The deal was struck, the exchange made under cover of night to protect the turnkey. By the time I was moved to my cell in the ward where the condemned await their fate I stood content in my stocking feet, knowing I would at least cheat the hangman.

I had but a few hours left before the warrant for my execution arrived. I pulled from my pocket the small glass vial, pulling out the stopper and pouring the deadly liquid into the remains of my water. There was no comfort to be found on the cold, damp floor of a Newgate cell. My solace came from warm memories of a life with loving parents. Putting thoughts together for a final note I reflected back over the facts leading to the desperate situation I then found myself in. When finished, and with a mind at peace and in acceptance of what I had resigned to do next, I would take a final sip of this life.

To be continued...

Every Character Has A Story To Tell

Characters Part III- Every Character Has A Story To Tell

It's always good to remember your characters have a past. What that past consists of is for the writer to decide. That past is important. It's what helps develop not only the character, but also the story line. Look at a character’s past as the weft to the plot’s warp. Together they create the fabric of the book.

I mentioned in an earlier post that all characters need to be dimensional, but I should also mention they need to be individuals. Too often we see a group of characters that share a similar feel. This tends to paint them into the background, or worse, it leaves them open to be mistaken for another, thus confusing the reader.

I believe characters should be a story unto themselves. Whether hero or villain, they should carry their past in the words and phrases they use within the story. There are subtleties of character that should be established early. The reader in solving the mystery can leverage these subtleties later. I enjoy reading a mystery and having something completely off the wall casually thrown in about one of the characters. It makes me think a bit more about the character, wondering at what point it will become relevant to the story, if at all. It also goes a long way to explain how and why characters interact the way they do.

A character’s background or personal traits can be very effective in planting clues along the way. It’s also a wonderful tool for misdirection. Done right, it will draw the reader into the scene you have set and keep them turning the pages.

My mysteries take place in London, but one of the main characters is an American, Lily Jean Corbitt. She provides a wonderful contrast to the other two characters– a reformed pickpocket and a stuffy archeologist. Lily has a different point of view on life and is not bashful about making it known to the others. She adds the spice where needed to a proper English mystery. I want readers to wonder as much about her as they do about the story itself. How did this American end up in London? What is her relationship with the others? Is this strictly business, or is there romance off in the distance? All this takes place in parallel with the story. Some answers become evident along the way, and others remain unanswered for the time being. There should be more to a mystery than just the mystery.

Writing a series affords a wonderful opportunity to develop endearing characters. Not only the main characters, but also the supporting cast as well. Keep the idea of the fabric in mind when you are creating them. A great story, like a strong fabric, is one that endures the wear of time.

Photo courtesy Photos8.com

A Tip Of The Hat From Sherlock Holmes

Some of my earliest memories of reading center on the excitement I found in the pages of the Sherlock Holmes stories. I was just a lad, so I was forever looking up those huge words Sir Athur Conan Doyle used in his narratives with Holmes and Watson. I couldn't pronounce most of them, and I was quite sure they would never come up in conversations with my school mates, but I was determined to understand every aspect of the stories. Doyle made quite an impression on me, and that excitement has stayed through these many years. It is the foundation for my love of mysteries and probably the driving force behind why I began writing mysteries. So you can imagine my excitement when Mysterious Reviews published their review for my new mystery "Along Came A Fifer" and mentioned the "Holmesian" feel of the story and characters. It was as if Holmes himself, peering down from a window in his flat on Baker Street, tipped his hat with approval as I strolled by. I could never compare my work to such a great writer as Doyle, but I'm thrilled I could convey through my story a tribute to the lasting impression his work has inspired in me.

I'm much older now, but on a crisp winter's night, when objects along the road cast long ominous shadows across the side yard, and the wind resonates through the trees like a faint cry in the distance, I pull out that old volume and once again follow Holmes and Watson through the streets of Victorian London.