I like Mark Dapin's writing a lot, but this book felt like him struggling with how to wrangle the titular Carnage into a coherent and meaningful narrative, and ultimately failing. I feel like there was self-awareness about this failing, as the writing contained an unusual amount of reflection on the nature of his profession and the tawdry unpleasant details of 40 year old atrocities that he was raking over.
Dapin walks us through his unplanned investigation, when he was told to meet Jack Karlson, the infamous 'succulent Chinese meal' bloke, for his last book, the solid Prison Break. The problem was the book was already finished, so he met Karlson for a chat and to gauge the possibility of a new story. Unsurprisingly, Karlson has a million stories, all of them murky and muddled and somewhat dubious. As you would expect, Karlson's patchwork backstory is quite interesting, particularly his dabbling as a somewhat reformed arist.
However, there is an elephant in Karlson's past - a horrific murder in a chain of several in and and around 1970s St Kilda, because he spent time in Pentridge, lived in St Kilda for a while, and so was basically 2 degrees of separation from all the most notorious crims of the era. In teasing these details out, half the book is spent jumping across a cast of thousands - Barry Quinn, Robin Wright, Paul Haigh, Chopper, Roger Rogerson, Chris Flannery, Ron Feeney, Gangitano, etc, etc. Keeping track of which exact lowlife and which exact woman they're abusing in this evidentiary chain, for me at least, got exhausting, along the constant references to gruesome crime scene details, sexual assaults and literal excrement.
To Dapin's credit, he explicitly talks about not trying to sensationalise crime and in this capacity he has succeeded. He emphasises the squalidity of it, the immaturity, the pointlessness of it all. However, this may be a factor in not being able to tie a narrative together for this book. Karlson was a small(ish) fish circling the big sharks and he and his family got hurt by it in appallingly cruel fashion. There is no lesson to be learnt about them, no conclusion drawn. Just bad things done by bad people, often to even worse people for wrongheaded reasons.
Karlson's photo is there to sell the book, and for me the best material was the stuff about his life, which was sold on his natural and odd charisma (undercut a bit by his disquieting enthusiasm for Nazi affectation). That could have probably occupied a lenghty feature article. The resultant book however uses Karlson's story as the wrapping for a shagging dogs story about the malevolent, cruel and petty dead heads who traditionally squat in true crime pages. The two halves are not really reconciled. There is little comfort the reader who is contemplating giving up, because often the author seems to be expressing the same thoughts.