Home Page

Author Biography

Author Interview

Available Books

Online Orders

Author Events


Babylon Blues: A Detective John Bowers Mystery

It’s 1994, and veteran homicide detective John Bowers teams up with his partner Minola Raye to solve another grisly murder in Babylon—Portland, Oregon’s fringe district of losers and forgotten victims. Like hungry sharks, Babylon’s riffraff feed on the innocent and vulnerable, and only case-hardened cops like Bowers seek justice in a system that has no heart.

To purchase your copy, please choose one of the links below:

Powell's Books
Barnes and Noble-Hardcover
Barnes and Noble-Paperback

Alibris- Hardcover

The second book in the series leads the reader through the back streets and alley ways of Portland's seamier districts where the homicide cops are the only ones to mourn the murder of throw-a-way victims.

"Another page-turner with Detective Bowers and his partner Minnie Raye with all the gripping, romantic realism we've come to expect from author Bates." Jay Hammersfeld, Rose City Review

"Bloody murder, helpless victims, sex, romance, humor and right-on forensics amid the bureaucratic quagmire of real-life homicide cops -- a great read in a procedural series that nails it." Deputy Ron Saltz, Lincoln County Sheriff's Dept.


"He stank of tobacco, red wine and a week’s residue of plaque coated on his mismatched grinders like paste on wallboard. He hadn’t shaved in four days or scrubbed his hide since he’d soaked in the flophouse tub two weeks ago, drained a bottle of Mad Dog, fallen asleep and almost drowned in the scummy water. His sour stink clung to him like old long johns.

An El Camino roared back onto the highway. The glare of its headlights backlit his grizzled figure as he wrestled a five-gallon gas can in front of the window. He stood on it and boosted himself up over the sill. Tumbling onto the kitchen floor, he took a moment to accustom his eyes to the murk. He looked around. The hump-backed refrigerator grumbled a bass riff to accompany the sibilant whisper of highway traffic. The minute hand staggered to four minutes past two on the wall clock. The faucet dripped. There was a plate of Oreo cookies on the table. The intruder stuffed a few in his mouth and shoved more in his jacket pockets. His fingers curled around the plastic handle of a serrated steak knife as he moved toward the living room, stepped on a discarded newspaper by the oil heater and left a muddy print.

Ahead of him were two doors, one partially open – he saw a claw foot bathtub and pink towels hanging on a chrome rack. The other door was closed. He unzipped his pants. What he wanted was to take a crap, maybe even warm his feet in the tub if he had the chance. That’d take the chill off his bones and ease the pain in his worn-out joints.

He shuffled forward and then stopped, waiting for the echoing creak in the floor to wane. Taking one step across the bathroom threshold, he glanced toward the closed door to his right and paused. Then he hitched up his pants, turned around, opened the bedroom door and saw her.
She had fallen into a senseless dream, weakened by the endorphins paralyzing her muscles as she was pulled into slumber’s endless abyss. Her first waking sensation was the crushing weight falling on her chest as if some night-stalking bird of prey had swooped down from the ceiling and clutched her in its talons. The beast’s foul-smelling breath poisoned the air. With a startled chirp, she came to and stared straight into hell. He was on top of her, his match-head eyes scorching holes through the gloom. A grimy hand slammed over her mouth before she had a chance to scream.



Copyright© Gehla Knight 2006-2014 All Rights Reserved
Website By:
DandA Design