In a Lonely Place, by Dorothy B. Hughes
The title IN A LONELY PLACE refers to the M.O. of the novel’s protagonist, a serial killer named Dickson Steele; he must lure women to a secluded spot to rape and strangle them. But it also refers to the murderer’s inevitable self-loathing. After the crime, “he has to live with himself. He’s caught there in that lonely place.”
“Loneliness” is a natural byproduct of the compulsion to kill, because Dix “can’t risk an accomplice.” But Dix can’t be happy on his own, either. He’s intellectually empty, a pretend writer who mails a pretend manuscript to a pretend publisher; he’s desperately bored when left on his own and needs other people to distract and entertain him.
That’s why he hooks up with his old army buddy, Brub Nicolais. Brub is now a detective assigned to “the strangler” case and Dix enjoys cat-and-mouse discussions about the killer’s motivation and technique, over drinks and lunches.
Hughes’ book is a remarkably sympathetic portrayal of a deeply flawed protagonist. Dix Steele is probably suffering some type of PTSD from his wartime experiences because trivial mechanical noises like electric razors, coffee percolators, and vacuums—as well as foggy weather conditions—seem to trigger his violence. The smoky clamor of war is evoked and Dix, desensitized to violence because of his service, kills innocent people in response to those prompts.
But Dix is more than a sad war-casualty, he is also a lazy, misogynistic, sociopath, insulated by his outrageous vanity. He refers to men as “yokels,” “peasants,” “oafs,” and “lugs.” Women are “cheats,” “liars,” “bags,” “slatterns,” and “whores.” When Dix thinks about killing people, he sounds like an exterminator at work, doing his best to purify the planet. He takes a dislike to one of the Nicolais’ friends and contemplates killing her: “He took a deep breath outside to expel the odor of Maude from his lungs. He’d like to meet her on a dark corner. It would be a service to humanity.” Dix is living in Mel Terriss's apartment, but isn’t swayed by the generosity: “Stupid, sodden, alcoholic Mel. The world was better off without Mel Terrisses in it.”
The act of killing is de-emphasized in this book (all the murders happen offstage, in time-gaps between chapters.) Hughes is interested in what a serial killer does when he isn’t in the act of strangling someone. In Dix’s case he spends a lot of time feeling sorry for himself. He thinks about obnoxious rich characters like his uncle Fergus, his friend Mel Terriss, or Laurel Grey's ex-husband St. Andrews. They hoard their money, refuse to share it, and aren’t even able to properly appreciate or enjoy the fine things they possess. Dix is enraged by the social injustice, and in a way, he’s got a point. Wealth is often random rather than meritorious.
But Dix isn’t especially deserving of wealth himself. He has a hard time dragging his ass out of bed before maid service arrives at 2pm. He’s a good-looking guy, and a snappy dresser, but he isn’t especially talented, ambitious, or creative. He just thinks it unfair that other people without talent, ambition or creativity are so much better off. Dix’s dream job would be to cultivate a parasitic relationship with a wealthy, successful person. But Dix isn’t even a good parasite. Ticks, mosquitos, and leeches can quietly feed off their hosts without killing them, but Dix had to murder his rich friend Mel Terriss. And Dix aggravated his uncle Fergus and Laurel Grey so much they swatted him away.
Some literary serial killers are split personalities, with one “self” completely unaware of what the other is up to. (Norman Bates in PSYCHO and Mort Rainey in SECRET WINDOW are popular examples.) Dix Steele isn't like that, he has a high degree of self awareness and takes pride in his success and notoriety. But Dix does manage to sublimate his responsibility for the murders. Partly it’s classic victim-blaming, but Dix also blames others because they haven’t made him sufficiently happy to control his insanity. “His hatred for Laurel throttled his brain. If she had come back to him, he would not be shut out, an outcast in a strange cold world. He would have been safe in the bright warmth of her.”
In the afterward to the 2017 re-release of the novel, Megan Abbott offers a feminist reading, pointing out that the female characters are emotionally stronger and cleverer than the men. That's true, but I’ll go farther. IN A LONELY PLACE reminds me of FRANKENSTEIN, in that a female author deliberately teases male vanity. Mary Shelly writes about the scientist Victor Frankenstein creating a new life, essentially giving birth, something women do millions of times a year, and making a hash of it. Hughes’ protagonist gets the urge to kill “about once a month,” but can’t figure out how to insert a psychological tampon.
Dix’s first murder was a woman named “Brucie” who loved him but resisted his advances because she was married to another young soldier. Memories of strangling Brucie are linked to the sound of nearby waves and “a voice hushed by fear, repeating over and over no. . .no. . .no.” Years later, Dix cruises Santa Monica roadways in his hunt for victims so he is within sound of the surf. And, presumably, the fear and refusal from his victims becomes part of a reenactment of that first crime. The scenario reminds me of a Stephen King short story “The Man who Loved Flowers,” where a serial killer buys a bouquet and presents it to a stranger, calling her “Norma.” When the stranger says “no” she isn’t Norma, the man beats her to death with a hammer. Clearly, King’s character is re-enacting the murder of a woman named Norma, a woman who rejected him.
In Hughes’ novel, Dix is aware of that particular trigger. When Laurel says “No. No, I’m not,” Dix thinks to himself “he ought to tell her to stop saying that—no,no,no.” He doesn’t want to kill Laurel and be plunged into the loneliness of his own company.
Laurel realizes that Dix is dangerous. It might be insight based on the intimate time they spent together, but it’s hard to say because the story is told from Dix’s perspective (and the 1947 publication date didn’t allow for sexually explicit descriptions.) At any rate, Laurel knew Dix hadn’t innocently taken over Mel Terriss’s life. She knew Mel Terriss, knew that he wouldn’t suddenly leave L.A. for a foreign job and let a college friend wear his clothes, drive his car and use the gold lighter Laurel had given him as a gift.
Sylvia Nicolais, the detective’s wife, says she knew there was “something terribly wrong” with Dix the moment they met. That seems a little unlikely since Dix was such a successful sociopath. Perhaps Sylvia reverse-engineered her opinion after victim fingerprints and clothing fibers were recovered from Dix’s car, forensically establishing his guilt.
But perhaps she was especially insightful. The second meeting with Dix (a dinner at the Nicolais’ club) was certainly creepy and Sylvia seemed to register danger that was invisible to her husband. Brub had to return to the station and Dix offered to give Sylvia a ride home later. Brub thinks that’s a great idea, but Sylvia manipulates things so she isn’t left alone with him. Sure enough, Dix was considering killing her that evening: “Fifteen minutes at the outside and Brub would be gone. He could go there then . . .she’d let him in . . . she wouldn’t be afraid—at first.”
Come to think of it, female characters in Hughes’ novels are pretty good at sensing danger, simply because they have to be. THE SO BLUE MARBLE begins with the female protagonist conducting a safety survey as she walks to her New York City apartment: “Her keyring was tight in her black gloved hand, her black antelope purse tight under her arm. No reason to feel nervous at night. . . Nothing ever happened to her kind of people.” But when Griselda is overpowered by two menacing well-dressed twins, she realizes there is nothing she can do. She considers appealing to nearby taxi drivers, but “suppose they didn’t stop it. And suppose they just laughed too, or ignored her, thought she was crazy.”
Hughes' books are an early primer for the "Me Too" movement, but the author isn't on a soap box. She is more interested in the peripheral aspects of weirdness.
Serial killers are like NFL linemen or bass fishermen in that they are all defined by their activities, even though they spend a very small percentage of their total lives strangling women, grabbing jerseys, or hooking fish. If you want to understand those people, you need to study what they do during down-time.
And, for that, Hughes is a master.
“Loneliness” is a natural byproduct of the compulsion to kill, because Dix “can’t risk an accomplice.” But Dix can’t be happy on his own, either. He’s intellectually empty, a pretend writer who mails a pretend manuscript to a pretend publisher; he’s desperately bored when left on his own and needs other people to distract and entertain him.
That’s why he hooks up with his old army buddy, Brub Nicolais. Brub is now a detective assigned to “the strangler” case and Dix enjoys cat-and-mouse discussions about the killer’s motivation and technique, over drinks and lunches.
Hughes’ book is a remarkably sympathetic portrayal of a deeply flawed protagonist. Dix Steele is probably suffering some type of PTSD from his wartime experiences because trivial mechanical noises like electric razors, coffee percolators, and vacuums—as well as foggy weather conditions—seem to trigger his violence. The smoky clamor of war is evoked and Dix, desensitized to violence because of his service, kills innocent people in response to those prompts.
But Dix is more than a sad war-casualty, he is also a lazy, misogynistic, sociopath, insulated by his outrageous vanity. He refers to men as “yokels,” “peasants,” “oafs,” and “lugs.” Women are “cheats,” “liars,” “bags,” “slatterns,” and “whores.” When Dix thinks about killing people, he sounds like an exterminator at work, doing his best to purify the planet. He takes a dislike to one of the Nicolais’ friends and contemplates killing her: “He took a deep breath outside to expel the odor of Maude from his lungs. He’d like to meet her on a dark corner. It would be a service to humanity.” Dix is living in Mel Terriss's apartment, but isn’t swayed by the generosity: “Stupid, sodden, alcoholic Mel. The world was better off without Mel Terrisses in it.”
The act of killing is de-emphasized in this book (all the murders happen offstage, in time-gaps between chapters.) Hughes is interested in what a serial killer does when he isn’t in the act of strangling someone. In Dix’s case he spends a lot of time feeling sorry for himself. He thinks about obnoxious rich characters like his uncle Fergus, his friend Mel Terriss, or Laurel Grey's ex-husband St. Andrews. They hoard their money, refuse to share it, and aren’t even able to properly appreciate or enjoy the fine things they possess. Dix is enraged by the social injustice, and in a way, he’s got a point. Wealth is often random rather than meritorious.
But Dix isn’t especially deserving of wealth himself. He has a hard time dragging his ass out of bed before maid service arrives at 2pm. He’s a good-looking guy, and a snappy dresser, but he isn’t especially talented, ambitious, or creative. He just thinks it unfair that other people without talent, ambition or creativity are so much better off. Dix’s dream job would be to cultivate a parasitic relationship with a wealthy, successful person. But Dix isn’t even a good parasite. Ticks, mosquitos, and leeches can quietly feed off their hosts without killing them, but Dix had to murder his rich friend Mel Terriss. And Dix aggravated his uncle Fergus and Laurel Grey so much they swatted him away.
Some literary serial killers are split personalities, with one “self” completely unaware of what the other is up to. (Norman Bates in PSYCHO and Mort Rainey in SECRET WINDOW are popular examples.) Dix Steele isn't like that, he has a high degree of self awareness and takes pride in his success and notoriety. But Dix does manage to sublimate his responsibility for the murders. Partly it’s classic victim-blaming, but Dix also blames others because they haven’t made him sufficiently happy to control his insanity. “His hatred for Laurel throttled his brain. If she had come back to him, he would not be shut out, an outcast in a strange cold world. He would have been safe in the bright warmth of her.”
In the afterward to the 2017 re-release of the novel, Megan Abbott offers a feminist reading, pointing out that the female characters are emotionally stronger and cleverer than the men. That's true, but I’ll go farther. IN A LONELY PLACE reminds me of FRANKENSTEIN, in that a female author deliberately teases male vanity. Mary Shelly writes about the scientist Victor Frankenstein creating a new life, essentially giving birth, something women do millions of times a year, and making a hash of it. Hughes’ protagonist gets the urge to kill “about once a month,” but can’t figure out how to insert a psychological tampon.
Dix’s first murder was a woman named “Brucie” who loved him but resisted his advances because she was married to another young soldier. Memories of strangling Brucie are linked to the sound of nearby waves and “a voice hushed by fear, repeating over and over no. . .no. . .no.” Years later, Dix cruises Santa Monica roadways in his hunt for victims so he is within sound of the surf. And, presumably, the fear and refusal from his victims becomes part of a reenactment of that first crime. The scenario reminds me of a Stephen King short story “The Man who Loved Flowers,” where a serial killer buys a bouquet and presents it to a stranger, calling her “Norma.” When the stranger says “no” she isn’t Norma, the man beats her to death with a hammer. Clearly, King’s character is re-enacting the murder of a woman named Norma, a woman who rejected him.
In Hughes’ novel, Dix is aware of that particular trigger. When Laurel says “No. No, I’m not,” Dix thinks to himself “he ought to tell her to stop saying that—no,no,no.” He doesn’t want to kill Laurel and be plunged into the loneliness of his own company.
Laurel realizes that Dix is dangerous. It might be insight based on the intimate time they spent together, but it’s hard to say because the story is told from Dix’s perspective (and the 1947 publication date didn’t allow for sexually explicit descriptions.) At any rate, Laurel knew Dix hadn’t innocently taken over Mel Terriss’s life. She knew Mel Terriss, knew that he wouldn’t suddenly leave L.A. for a foreign job and let a college friend wear his clothes, drive his car and use the gold lighter Laurel had given him as a gift.
Sylvia Nicolais, the detective’s wife, says she knew there was “something terribly wrong” with Dix the moment they met. That seems a little unlikely since Dix was such a successful sociopath. Perhaps Sylvia reverse-engineered her opinion after victim fingerprints and clothing fibers were recovered from Dix’s car, forensically establishing his guilt.
But perhaps she was especially insightful. The second meeting with Dix (a dinner at the Nicolais’ club) was certainly creepy and Sylvia seemed to register danger that was invisible to her husband. Brub had to return to the station and Dix offered to give Sylvia a ride home later. Brub thinks that’s a great idea, but Sylvia manipulates things so she isn’t left alone with him. Sure enough, Dix was considering killing her that evening: “Fifteen minutes at the outside and Brub would be gone. He could go there then . . .she’d let him in . . . she wouldn’t be afraid—at first.”
Come to think of it, female characters in Hughes’ novels are pretty good at sensing danger, simply because they have to be. THE SO BLUE MARBLE begins with the female protagonist conducting a safety survey as she walks to her New York City apartment: “Her keyring was tight in her black gloved hand, her black antelope purse tight under her arm. No reason to feel nervous at night. . . Nothing ever happened to her kind of people.” But when Griselda is overpowered by two menacing well-dressed twins, she realizes there is nothing she can do. She considers appealing to nearby taxi drivers, but “suppose they didn’t stop it. And suppose they just laughed too, or ignored her, thought she was crazy.”
Hughes' books are an early primer for the "Me Too" movement, but the author isn't on a soap box. She is more interested in the peripheral aspects of weirdness.
Serial killers are like NFL linemen or bass fishermen in that they are all defined by their activities, even though they spend a very small percentage of their total lives strangling women, grabbing jerseys, or hooking fish. If you want to understand those people, you need to study what they do during down-time.
And, for that, Hughes is a master.
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