Quotes About Detective

'Scott and Bailey' was very much forensically interested in the ins and outs of the way they went about cracking a case from the point of something happening to how they managed to arrest someone.

I've never been a great fan of crime fiction. I read Agatha Christie in my youth, but that's all.

A locked-room problem lies at the heart of my new novel, 'In The Morning I'll Be Gone,' in which an RUC detective has to find out whether a publican's daughter who fell off a table in a bar that was locked from the inside was in fact murdered.

We, 'Psych,' saved America. That's the tag line.

I was a Nancy Drew girl. Also Grimms' fairy tales.

I look around the room for anything that might give me a clue to who might have done it. But who am I kidding? I'm not a real detective. Maybe if the killer dropped an eight-by-ten and their Social Security card I could figure things out, but the room looks just how I remember it, and Gentry's door was locked.

No wonder Sherlock Holmes did all that coke. Math is hard.

He has passed beyond the veil," I said. "He was shot in the head last night." This time I got a reaction. "Shot?" She caught herself and frowned at me. "What's your name? And just what do you want?" "Shell Scott. I'm a private detective, and I want to know all you can tell me about George Stone and Virginia Waring." "Out you go, boy.

You're a gay detective? I don't think I've ever met one before." "Of course you have," McWhirter put in emphatically. "You just didn't know they were gay. That's the whole point.

Belson came into the apartment with some crime-scene people and two homicide detectives. "This guy," Charlie said, and looked at his notebook, "Spenser. He was impersonating a police officer." Belson glanced at him. "We all thought that," Belson said, "when he was a cop.

from Arlington Street and onto the bridge. He had his hands in his coat pockets. "You Spenser?" he said. "Yes.

Spenser, he said. Thank God you called. I've got this murder took place in a locked room. It's got us all stumped and the chief said, Quirk, he said, only one man can solve this.

Hawk drifted around behind me in $5000 worth of clothes earning his $150 a day. We saw nothing interesting. We

That was still my meat—the true-detective yarn. I picked it up and started to read it over, wondering for the ten thousandth time why so many people are interested in crime and its solution.

I looked like an ad for Banana Republic. Maybe Banana Republic would give me a job. They could put my picture in their little catalog and under it they could say: Elvis Cole, famous detective, outfitted for his latest adventure in rugged inner-city climes!

Carly said, "What are you doing?" "Thinking. Impressive, isn't it?" "Is this what detective work looks like?" "Only when I'm showing off." "You're funny." "A national treasure.

She glanced at Pike again. "He doesn't look like a detective." Pike's head moved, just enough to acknowledge he heard her. His shades were so dark, they looked like twin doors to nowhere. He considered her, but said nothing. He turned back to the peephole. Amber grinned.

Behind him, McIntosh whispered. "What if it's people?" "It's not." "I know these are animal heads, but this could be human blood. These organs could be from people." "They aren't. Butchered people smell different." McIntosh studied Pike as if wondering how Pike knew that, then pointed out the wall behind the counter. "Check

Nope." I hung up, bought an iced tea from a sausage grill, then stared at the bay. The water was clean and blue, and Catalina was in sharp relief twenty-six miles away. A young woman in short-shorts and a metallic blue bikini top Rollerbladed past on the bicycle path. I followed her motion but did not see her. The detective in thoughtful mode. I

It was eighteen minutes after seven, and I was getting ready to take a shower when the phone rang. Adrienne. I said, "Hi, Adrienne." Elvis Cole, Too Hip Detective, pretends he can read minds.

Elvis Cole Detective Agency, two clues for the price of one. Discounts available.

But if you read Christie or Allingham or Sayers, the detective always got his man. And you'll notice that the detective always operated outside the system—the stories expressed a comforting belief in the validity of individual action.

If I see myself as an unwilling detective with a desire for justice, does that make her illness an unsolved crime? If so, who is the villain and who is the victim? Attempting to decipher her aches and pains, their triggers

She wears only black-rimmed glasses, and is holding a paperback titled Murder and Mayhem in Goose Pimple Junction. Her light