Sladism is an acquired taste. In my case, I acquired it back in 1995 when I stumbled across a copy of 'Ripper' at the library. I read it, loved it, and promptly forgot the title and who wrote it because I was in high school and had a billion other things to worry about.
Fast forward a few years, working at a bookstore, and I find a copy of 'Ripper' again. And then I realize, hey, there are more books written by this guy! So I set about scoring as many as I could, and decided to read them in order.
Here's the thing though: Slade books are awesome, but damn are they some of the densest thrillers you will ever read. Plowing through a Slade novel is like eating a gallon of delicious, zero-calorie pudding: slow going, but the rewards are well worth the effort. You will feel your head turn around, your brain wonder why it's upside down, your stomach clench at some truly wrenching scenes of brutal sexual violence. Even though Headhunter was penned in the 80s, and the technology described in the book is now woefully outdated, the story itself is not. Slade works because he (all right, "they"...he's a pseudonym for multiple authors working in conjunction--happy now, you pedants?) and his style were so ahead of the times.
Headhunter, the first book, is no exception. You get police procedural wrapped in a thriller and tied with a history lesson. Anywhere else, anybody else, and I'd dismiss this as boring. But you can't with Slade: stuff that seems devoid of merit or not worth considering always winds up being the clue that puts you, the reader, ahead of the rest of his characters, but only so long as you're paying attention.
You don't have to read Slade like a traditional Whodunnit. If mysteries aren't your thing, that's just fine. The resolution will smack you in the face and leave you wondering how the hell you were supposed to see that coming. Then you go back and start reading again and realize the little hints that were dropped, the turns of phrases you missed, the red herrings scattered around that you picked up on at the expense of the real clues. Hell, Slade flat out tells the reader, by way of a lecture to his fellow officers of the RCMP by main character Robert DeClercq, not to discount anything and not to read more into a situation than is absolutely necessary. Don't make assumptions based on incomplete information.
But we're all human, so we do it anyway, and then we get gut-punched by a conclusion that seems to come out of nowhere, and then double-gut-punched when DeClercq, far from figuring out the true story, actually forgets his own advice and comes to a completely incorrect conclusion about what actually happened and who was responsible. Slade's protagonists are far from superhuman or perfect, and their flaws will come back to haunt them again and again over the rest of the Special X series.
That's all I'll say about Headhunter. No spoilers. No coy nudges or winks to try and put you on the right track. No talk about how I beat Slade at his own game and figured out who was responsible--because I didn't. I had a few pieces of the puzzle worked out (and, in fact, going through it a second time I am utterly floored at one of the clues Slade drops which damn near gives away the whole game halfway through the book, the significance of which I failed to pick up on), but I wasn't anywhere close to solving the mystery before the final page.
Loved it, loved it, loved it. Now it's time to move on to Ghoul.