Note: By the time Ray Collins was cast as Perry Mason’s nemesis, he was a seasoned actor on the stage, screen and radio. Collins had one of those movie careers that wandered cheerfully from Citizen Kane to Ma & Pa Kettle.
Goodbye, Tragg: Hello, Procedure (Or, How the Fun Got Filed Away)
Ray Collins played Lieutenant Arthur Tragg, the gruff homicide detective on Perry Mason. He did it with the kind of lived-in authority as though he’d been on the scene for every murder in Los Angeles since Prohibition. He remained a comforting fixture on Perry Mason until emphysema forced him to retire in 1963 - an exit that felt less like a casting change and more like a frail uncle quietly leaving the family party early so that no one who liked him would worry he’d overdone it.
As a kid, I just accepted Tragg as a kind of prehistoric lawman - at least a generation older than Perry Mason, possibly older than the courthouse itself. He had that “I remember when the uniform’s finishing touch was a rubber hose” vibe. So imagine my adolescent shock - eager to take umbrage as teenagers are - when the novels reveal that Tragg and Mason are roughly the same age. Suddenly Tragg isn’t a veteran but a contemporary who seems to have aged an extra twenty-five years from presiding at crime scenes that would make EMTs blanch.
Ray Collins’ played Lieutenant Tragg in the spirit of the novels. Though adversaries, Tragg and Mason feel grudging admiration for the detective skills of the other. They respect each other, though Tragg would mockingly call Mason “Counselor ” and Mason would say tightly, “I feel I spend all my time introducing you…,” when Tragg would pop in unannounced during an office conference with the hapless scared client.
Tragg circled Mason like a seasoned chess adversary, occasionally smiling as if to say, “Well played – till next time.” In the first three seasons, the show breathed the smoky pulp air of radio suspense and film noir. Tragg’s authority rested in experience and force of personality, not in paperwork or protocols. He intuited, from seeing it scores of times before - how the pieces of evidence probably fit - not usually correctly, but with enough good faith that his thinking errors felt human, never lazy or malicious or stupid.
Enter Lieutenants Andy Anderson and Steve Drumm, played with a clean, almost antiseptic efficiency by Wesley Lau and Richard Anderson respectively. Suddenly the temperature drops. These dour dudes are not there to play; they are there to get the Freedom Deprivation Logistics humming. If Tragg embodied the instincts of the beat cop elevated by experience but eschewing the rough methods of yore, Andy and Drumm are the modern bureaucrats shaped by college degrees and workshops on Carceral Workflow Optimization.
Andy and Drumm do not wink. They never seem bemused. Della is not granted their courtly attention. One suspects they file reports in triplicate and torture subordinates over trifles. Where Tragg sparred with Mason, Andy and Drumm simply stand in opposition, bitterly assuming Mason is just a showboat trying to get the obviously guilty off for who knows what nefarious reasons.
The tonal shift is unmistakable, if understated. Without Tragg, the cases still unfold and Mason still prevails - but the journey ticks like an administrative metronome. The law, once personalized through Burger and Tragg’s relatable fallibility, becomes impersonal - an apparatus staffed by professionals who don’t have time to add respect to an adversarial relationship.
In replacing Tragg, the show traded passion for efficiency. The stories become cleaner, yes, but also colder. And in that chill, we glimpse Sixties television’s own evolution: from storytelling that invites audiences to play along to storytelling that expects them simply to watch - and to endure hearing, yet again, “You’ve got 24 hours to wrap this up.”
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