“A forensic investigator’s pursuit of the truth in the grave” concerns digging up famous corpses to investigate how they really died. Since I was a child, I’ve been graveyard-obsessed (but not in a Jeffrey Dahmer way, I swear), so this kind of book is like catnip. It is, however, the worst-written book in the world. Just awful. Starrs is by turns preening, obnoxious and vain. His prose displays an almost unbelievable capacity for cliché. When not indulging in cliché, he shares pointless side stories about such things as how smart his grandson is. Starrs is a lawyer. Why is it lawyers have become the worst writers in the world when they used to be among the best (Wallace Stevens comes to mind)? What is dismaying to find out is that Starrs doesn’t do anything with the investigations beyond the legal wrangling to open up the crypts. The scientists doing the actual “investigating” and the work they do are mentioned in a few sketchy paragraphs. Then it’s back to Starr’s contemptuous, cliché-ruddled accounts of encounters with uncooperative cemetery operators and skeptical family members and crappy politicians and how smart his grandson is. Despite all of this, there were moments of interesting (to me) information about how the Donner Party, Jesse James, etc. died. But what an unpleasant slog it takes to get there. It’s like sitting on a stool next to the most boring guy in the most boring bar in the world. The cheesy jocularity, the shameless boasting, the predictable, hackneyed string of words…