I never intended to become a crime fiction writer.
I hadn’t read much in the genre since graduate school at UC Berkeley, and then only as an end-of-quarter reach toward the rough ground from the frictionless, ethereal world of political philosophy. The novels I chose were known as realistic and I read them because I wanted to learn something from people who had thought about the world of crime and wrote with skill and insight.
When I returned to them after decades as an investigator, both public and private, I began to wonder what was meant by realism, for ...
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