One of my favorite niche sub-genres is fiction - usually horror - written as though it is non-fiction - usually true-crime. When I pulled this book out of my Night Worms package and looked it over I was giddy with happiness. Books like this make me feel as though the author is out there writing just for me.
1970, San Francisco. The perfect time and place for this kind of book, because if you're a true crime aficionado, you already know all about this neck of the woods from Zodiac. A man is killed in the early morning hours. That it's a homicide isn't in question, but the nature of the homicide - his lungs were burned, though there was no evidence of smoke inhalation, and no fire in the house itself - presents a huge mystery.
One detective is sure there's a reasonable explanation for all this; the other, a staunch Catholic, sees evidence of Satan at work. The tension between a believer and a skeptic always works so well. Steensland excels at walking the tightrope - too much one way or the other and one of your protagonists looks like an idiot, ignoring what's obvious. Both Will's skepticism and Frank's belief make total sense, and I tended to agree with whoever's POV I was reading at any particular time.
The footnotes, the photo spread in the middle, the biographical introductions of the various characters - all the little parts that make up a true crime book are here, to the extent that yes, I did once Google to see if this was actually fiction or not.
What a fun way to end my year's reading!