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There’s a polite assumption in crime fiction that humor is garnish. The body is the meal. The detective’s one-liner is the parsley: a little color on the plate, a break in the grimness, comic relief, as if the laughter exists to let pressure out of the book. I’d like to formally object.
The Joke Is the Knife: Why Funny Is the Hardest Way to Kill Someone

Picture a strip mall in Van Nuys at eleven in the morning. A vape shop, a donut shop, a notary, a teriyaki place with a health grade that took some negotiating, and a nail salon whose signage promises, ambitiously, SERENITY. The light is doing that flat white thing the Valley does, where every surface looks like it’s been photographed for…
Sunshine Is Scarier Than Fog: In Praise of the Unglamorous Crime Scene
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In some form, yes. The itch was always there. I’ve spent thirty years in digital marketing, building campaigns and telling other people’s stories for…



