Castle: Wrapped Up In Death – A Review of the Police Procedure

A museum curator is killed by a fallen gargoyle, and it’s up to Beckett and team to solve the murder. Castle, being Castle, sneaks a peek at a mummy while visiting a museum with Beckett to inquire about the dead guy’s last moments. Well, it seems that Castle’s little looky-looing was a huge mistake, because inscribed on the burial chamber was, “All who gaze upon the face of the mummy are doomed.” Yep, Castle thinks he’s cursed. Me, I don’t think so. I think the curse bypassed Castle and zeroed in on the writers of this episode.

Sure, the Castle-ish humor was everywhere, but it’s becoming more and more slapsticky every week.

Even Beckett and her joined-at-the-hip partners produced some horrible attempts at fake laughter while Castle stumbled, fell, and was nearly killed by a malfunctioning coffeemaker, all supposed results of the mummy’s curse.

By far, the best thing about this episode was the absence of the FBI character we were forced to endure for the past two weeks. Good riddance. However, I see this as troubling because I’m beginning to find that the good things about what was once a pretty decent show are the things that aren’t in it. Anyway, the police/forensics stuff was better this week because there was very little if it. However, what was there was horrible.

And away we go…

The show opens with a gargoyle dropping from the roof of an apartment building onto the victim’s head. Obviously, it would take quite a while to assemble Beckett and her entourage—someone has to discover the body, call 911, patrol officers show up, a supervisor is called, someone calls the M.E.,  determine this is indeed a murder, and then call the detectives. You get the point, right? It takes a long time. Well, after all this time has passed by, the victim’s blood was still running down the side of the curb. Was this guy a hemophiliac?  Did he have a clotting disorder? And how about the amount of bright red blood at the scene? We only have approximately 5 liters of the red stuff in our entire body, unlike this poor guy who must’ve been filled with at least three or four gallons of the stuff. It was everywhere.

– A member of Team Beckett holds up a baggie containing the victim’s cell phone. There’s a huge amount of wet, red blood inside the bag. What, did someone scoop up a cup of blood and pour it into the bag when they placed the phone inside?  You really didn’t need to submerge the phone in liquid. After all, you’re not bringing a goldfish home to your kids. And why was the blood still liquid and still very red?

Lanie Parrish, M.E. was back in rare form last night, with her “discovery” of pollen on the gargoyle—pollen that could only have come from the lowlands of the Yacatan Peninsula. She also found the same substance on death threats mailed to the victim and the museum curator.

First of all, the M.E. doesn’t do this stuff. Scientists in the forensics labs would be the folks who’d make this sort of discovery, if it was even possible to do so. For starters, they’d have to have some idea what they were looking for in order to compare the unknown “substance” to it.

I sort of gave up at this point, because I knew what was coming. The show has become very, very predictable. It seems as if the writers, all of them, write to a certain point in the episode and then quit. Then they allow the M.E., or in the past two episodes, a magic board solve the crime with some earth shattering revelation.

This show cheats the viewer with those magical instant answers to all their problems. There’s no following the detective as she searches for clues. Either the M.E. spouts off some nonsensical babble, or we’re offered a magic board that solves the crime in mere seconds. Either way, the writers of this show must certainly think they’re writing for a group of tree stumps.

Sure, Castle is cool, and funny. And Alexis is precious, but she’s getting older—growing up. But how much longer can she be the “little girl?” And I have a new problem. Beckett doesn’t seem to be the same tough-as-nails cops anymore. Not after playing the submissive role to the FBI agent in the past two weeks. Those episodes nearly destroyed her character for me.

I’m quickly losing interest in this show. It’s luster is fading with every episode.

ABC photos

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Unlocking DNA In Your Own Home…Stir, Don’t Shake

 

When thinking of solving a convoluted murder case we often picture highly-trained, highly-skilled scientists releasing DNA from a bloody glove or sock. On TV we see experts hovering over steaming vials, boiling test tubes, and genetic analyzers. We read about the protagonist who magically locates key pieces of DNA in the most improbable locations. Sure, the science of DNA is pretty interesting. But did you know you can actually extract DVD in your own home using everyday household items?

Every living thing has its own unique DNA, including plants. In fact, the last time I was in a DNA lab we extracted DNA from a strawberry. For the purpose of this home experiment we’ll use an onion, because the smelly vegetable produces a really nice strand of DNA that’s easily seen with the naked eye.

 

First of all, you’ll need to collect the ingredients needed to unlock the DNA from the onion—approximately 100ml of finely chopped onion, a pinch of salt, meat tenderizer, rubbing alcohol, dish detergent, and 200ml of ice cold water.

Now place the chopped onion, salt, and ice water into a blender. Blend for approximately fifteen seconds (this separates the onion cells). Repeat the blending for another 20 seconds, or until the mixture becomes foamy, like the beginnings of a meringue.

Pour the foamy mixture into a glass container and add 1/6th of dish washing liquid as there is mixture (yields two tablespoons).

Swirl soap through mixture and then pour into test tubes until each tube is about 1/3 full.

Sprinkle a pinch of meat tenderizer into each tube. The tenderizer acts as an enzyme that cleans proteins away from the DNA.

Tilt the test tubes to one side and slowly pour in rubbing alcohol until the tubes are 2/3 full. The alcohol forms a separate layer at the top of the tubes.

Insert small stick or glass rod into the alcohol layer (the DNA will rise to the alcohol layer) and slowly twist in one direction (either clockwise or counter-clockwise). DO NOT shake the test tubes.

 

The onion DNA wraps itself around the stick, or rod (the DNA slightly resembles a sperm cell).

Remove the DNA from the tubes.

There you have it, your own DNA lab in the comfort of your own home. No back logs and no cross contamination from other scientists and samples. The question is, “Did the onion do it?”

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Weekend Road Trip: Easter Egg Hunt at Young’s Dairy

Easter egg hunt at Young's dairy

 

Each year, workers at Young’s Dairy in Yellow Springs, Ohio clear the golf balls from their driving range in order to host the annual Easter egg hunt. The event is free, fun, and exciting for the kids who participate. After the hundreds of scattered eggs have been found, everyone can then enjoy homemade ice cream, the petting zoo, putt-putt golf, batting cages, or a quiet stroll around the grounds.

Enjoy the warm weather this weekend. And stay safe…

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Friday’s Heroes: Remembering The Fallen

Friday's Heroes - Remembering the fallen officers

The Graveyard Shift extends its condolences to the families of each of these brave police officers.

Officer Timothy Joseph Zurovet, 54

Forest Hill Texas Police Department

March 24, 2010 – Officer Timothy Zurovetz succumbed to injuries sustained in an automobile accident on June 12, 1981, while responding to an emergency call. Officer Zurovetz is survived by his daughter and mother.

Corporal Kevin Cusack, 45

South Carolina Highway Patrol

March 27, 2010 – Corporal Kevin Cusack was killed in a single vehicle accident when his patrol car left the highway. He is survived by his three children.

*Thanks to ODMP

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Hank Phillippi Ryan: Hiding In Plain Sight

Hank Phillippi Ryan: Hiding In Plain Sight

Award-winning investigative reporter Hank Phillippi Ryan is on the air at Boston’s NBC affiliate. Her work has resulted in new laws, people sent to prison, homes removed from foreclosure, and millions of dollars in restitution. Along with her 26 EMMYs, Hank’s won dozens of other journalism honors. She’s been a radio reporter, a legislative aide in the United States Senate and an editorial assistant at Rolling Stone Magazine working with Hunter S. Thompson.

Her first mystery, the best-selling PRIME TIME, won the Agatha for Best First Novel. It was also was a double RITA nominee for Best First Book and Best Romantic Suspense Novel, and a Reviewers’ Choice Award Winner. FACE TIME and AIR TIME are IMBA bestsellers, and AIR TIME was just nominated for the AGATHA Award for Best Novel of 2009. (Of AIR TIME, Sue Grafton says: “This is first-class entertainment.”) DRIVE TIME, February 2010 from MIRA Books, just earned a starred review from Library Journal.

Hank’s short story “On The House” is now an AGATHA nominee for Best Short Story of 2009.

She is on the national board of Mystery Writers of America.

Her website is www.HankPhillippiRyan.com

HIDING IN PLAIN SIGHT


When you’re undercover and carrying a hidden camera, there’s no room for error. And as an investigative reporter, I know the scoop: You never know when you’ll get caught.

I was wearing thick glasses instead of my usual contacts. My on-air hair had never looked so disheveled. Even my friends wouldn’t recognize me without my usual television makeup. I was undercover and in disguise. At least I thought so. But the doctor’s wandering eyes were making me nervous. No question, the renegade doctor was looking at my chest. And that presented a major problem.

A source had told us this guy was lying to patients about his history as an obstetrician. He’d been hammered with malpractice suits, and lost, time after time after time. And the state had suspended his license. But state laws at the time didn’t require him to tell that to potential patients. Back then, to find a doctor’s legal history, a patient would have to search court files, which in some cases were sealed. Our TV news story, tentatively titled Private Practices, would explore whether doctors’ legal histories should be easier to check. We thought the public had a right to know.

What I hoped the “doctor” didn’t know: that tiny cigarette burn hole on the front pocket of my rumpled denim work shirt was actually the opening for a tiny camera lens. (We call it button-cam.) A thin wire snaked down from behind it, under my shirt, and tucked under my belt. Attached to that, and zipped into my goofy-looking fanny pack, was the guts of the hidden camera. I hoped the lens was pointed at his face. I hoped the tape was rolling in my pack. And I sure hoped Doctor X didn’t realize it.

I silently chanted my mantra. Rule number one of undercover shooting: The target doesn’t know. The target doesn’t know.

The last thing this guy figured was that the middle-aged couple sitting in his low-rent office were actually a television reporter and producer posing as husband and wife. But even though what we were doing was perfectly legal, and for the benefit of the public, and on the side of the good guys-when you’re on the reporter side of the camera, there’s never a moment when you feel certain it will work. Every moment is stomach-twistingly tense.

But in television, if it’s not on video, it didn’t happen. And we had to get the video.

He kept looking at my chest. I ignored it. We finished the interview. Bingo. He kept his secret past a secret. And we got outta there. The next time he saw me was on TV.

Years ago, when I started going undercover, the equipment wasn’t as snazzy as it is now. And by snazzy, I mean small.

So back then, I’d have to cut a quarter-sized hole in the side of an old purse, and tuck a regular Hi-8 camera inside, using black electrician’s tape to hold the lens against the hole. Then I tied a flowery silk scarf over the strap of the purse. When the scarf was down, the lens was covered. And with the camera rolling, I’d only have pictures of the scarf. When I moved the scarf aside, the lens would show, and I could get pictures. Of course, at that point, the lens was also pretty visible. But that was as good as it was going to get.

So, with a fake ponytail sticking out from under a Red Sox cap, big glasses, no makeup, wearing a dowdy dress, and carrying that clunky scarf-covered camera, I went in posing as a potential victim at what a source had divulged was a recruitment meeting for a cult organization. A shady group was luring vulnerable young women into handing over their money in return for some “salvation.”

Out in the parking lot, I pushed the camera’s record button. I adjusted the scarf (and my phony persona), and walked through the door, pretending I was just another guest.
Standing in the back of the room, I assessed the situation, then moved the scarf aside. Rolling with video.

Smiling and soft-spoken girls, looking just out of college, circulated quietly, offering lemonade. One caught my eye from across the room, and I saw her decide to approach me. Closer. Closer. Too close. The scarf went over the lens.

I took the lemonade. I didn’t drink it. I was trying to look like someone who might be vulnerable to being brainwashed, but not too vulnerable. I was a little apprehensive about at the lemonade.

The music was loud. The lights were bright. A woman stepped to a podium at the front of the room. I knew my camera was still rolling. I knew the tape inside was only thirty minutes long. Thirty minutes of scarf was not going to cut it.

I moved the scarf aside.

And then–I felt a tap in my shoulder.

I turned. A man in a suit looked at me through narrowed eyes.

“What’s in your purse?” he asked.

In television, you’re only as good as your last story. And, I remember, I briefly wondered if this would be the last story I ever did.

But rule number two of undercover shooting: The best defense is a good offense.

Scarf down. “You’re making me uncomfortable,” I said, making my voice edgier. “Are you supposed to be asking women that?”

He turned on his heel. Outta there. And then I high-tailed it for the door. Outta there.

The story was a blockbuster. And the cult church is no more. And now in Massachusetts, doctors must list their malpractice cases on state-mandated public profiles.

The high stakes and the high-stress. The decisions and the deadlines. And hoping to change the world a bit. After more than thirty years in television, I want the fictional reporter Charlotte McNally to show readers the authentic inside scoop on reporting. The good news. And the bad news.

AIR TIME, the third of the Charlotte McNally Mystery series and just nominated for the AGATHA for Best Mystery of 2009, goes behind the scenes of big-city airports, where Charlie discovers a scheme so timely and workable you’ll wonder why someone hasn’t tried it. And I promise you, you’ll never look at air travel the same way.

In AIR TIME, Charlie (using a method you’ll now recognize) begins her undercover investigation into murder and an international smuggling ring by carrying a hidden camera into-well, I won’t give that away.

In DRIVE TIME, Charlie uses another undercover technique: hiding in plain sight. But that’s a blog for another day.

But let’s just say: Been there. Done that.

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