The mystery world lost one of its most towering and beloved figures on July 4 when Evan Hunter, better known to millions as Ed McBain, passed away. He had been suffering from cancer for more than three years.

Born Salvatore Lombino in New York City in 1926, he served in the U.S. Navy from 1944 to 1946. He legally changed his name to Evan Hunter when he graduated from Hunter College. He worked in various jobs, including as a reader at a literary agency and a teacher. This gave him the background for his first great success, “The Blackboard Jungle” (1954), the controversial best seller that became a shocking movie, starring Glenn Ford and Sidney Poitier, in his big-screen debut.

Hunter wrote numerous other novels under various pseudonyms and under his own name, including “Strangers When We Meet,” for which he also wrote the screenplay and which was filmed with Kirk Douglas and Kim Novak. He also wrote the screenplay for Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds.”

But he will be remembered for many generations for the novels he wrote as Ed McBain, most famously and importantly the adventures of the 87th Precinct. He, and he alone, made the police procedural a successful subgenre of the mystery. In doing so he inspired many imitators, both in the literary form and in other media, including such television series as “Hill Street Blues” and “NYPD Blue.”

The novels are filled with intelligence, wit, and a clarity of prose that is the envy (or should be) of most of his contemporaries. His main characters seem to live as vividly as our own family members, and, like them, we’re generally happy to see them. Even his minor characters are more than walk-ons. Like Ross Thomas and Elmore Leonard, Hunter gave even bit players memorable personalities.

Only a handful of distinguished writers wrote dialogue that could touch Hunter’s for humor and profundity. A cliche used on every cop show of the past 20 years appeared for the first time in “Heat” (1981): “If you can’t do the time, don’t do the crime.”

Although Hunter repeatedly insisted that the setting of the 87th Precinct was in the fictional Isola, it was obvious this was a slightly skewed New York. His perfectly valid reason for creating a fictional locale was that there are changes in the law every year, some so arcane that even judges need to research them, and he didn’t want to either deal with that or get it wrong.

This way, if someone pointed out a legal confusion, he could simply say “but that’s the law in Isola.” The same applied to the rules and regulations of the police department, with orders and internal memos outlining what is permissible and what isn’t. Bureaucracies being what they are, these things change as often as the French change their underwear (once a year or so).

The first 87th Precinct novel was “Cop Hater” (1956). It was followed by more than 50 additional tales. The plan was for the station house to be the conglomerate hero of the series, with different members of the squad coming front-and-center in various books. As some cops died, left the job, or were transferred, new ones would fill their places, and the series would continue without interruption.

As it happened, however, Steve Carella, against the author’s wishes, became a little more equal than his colleagues. In the third book in the series, “The Pusher,” he was shot. In the original manuscript, the final scene took place in the hospital, where Carella lay in critical condition. Lieutenant Byrnes comes to visit him, and Teddy, Carella’s young wife, a beautiful brunette who is deaf and dumb, heads down the hallway to where Byrnes is waiting.

At first she was only a small figure at the end of the corridor, and then she walked closer and he watched her. Her hands were wrung together at her waist, and her head was bent, and Byrnes watched her and felt a new dread, a dread that attacked his stomach and his mind. There was defeat in the curve of her body, defeat in the droop of her head.

Carella, he thought. Oh, God, Steve, no …

He rushed to her, and she looked up at him, and her face was streaked with tears, and when he saw the tears on the face of Steve Carella’s wife, he was suddenly barren inside, barren and cold, and he wanted to break from her and run down the corridor, break from her and escape the pain in her eyes.

Outside the hospital, the church bells tolled.

It was Christmas day, and all was right with the world.

But Steve Carella was dead.

It was realistic and true to the vision of the series, but it was horrific. Hunter immediately got a call from his editor, who told him he couldn’t kill the hero of the series. But he’s not the hero of the series, the author explained, the 87th Precinct is the hero of the series. Right. He can’t die. Period. So Hunter cut the last line, and added three new paragraphs. Carella was saved, and he went on to help solve scores of cases over the next half-century.

I wish someone could make a call to say that Evan Hunter can’t die. He was my friend for nearly 30 years, and oh, how I wish someone could have edited the script to save his life, even for just a little while longer.

Mr. Penzler is the proprietor of the Mysterious Bookshop in Manhattan and the series editor of the annual “Best American Mystery Stories.” He can be reached at openzler@nysun.com.