Fresh off reading a "real" book of genuine artistic merit, I felt the need to once again wallow in more crap. When I knew I was going to be having a sleepless night staying overnight at a clinic, I knew I needed some kind of page-turner nonsense that might keep me reasonably engaged, but that would also not really suffer if sleep deprivation caused me to forget a few plot threads or tangential characters. Boy did this book deliver on that promise.
Published in the mid-90s as part of a general post-Silence of the Lambs boom for so-called "psychological thrillers," this book captures a lot of what is ridiculous and absurd about these mysteries, in which the killer is investigated not by a classic detective, but by a detective of the mind--a profiler or other psychologist. This book is written by a psychiatrist of small fame and, as a result, contains a fairly refreshing amount of grounded commentary on trauma, drug addiction, childhood abuse etc...but also then takes those observations and injects them into this trashy and overheated work of misogynistic ultraviolence. What a bizarre book.
Our flawed protagonist is Frank Clevenger, an almost comic caricature of a "dark" anti-hero detective. He's got issues, man! Frank is scarred by his traumatic childhood and, despite being a wealthy and good-looking example of male wish fulfillment (a character tells him, at a blood-soaked murder scene, that he could have been a model), is constantly telling us how fucked up and in pain he is. He submerges those feelings through a heroic intake of cocaine and almost comically graphic sexual encounters (An actual line, voiced by the inner monologue of Frank after he is asked by a stripper he has just given a facial whether he enjoyed the act: "I thought of telling her not to flatter herself, that I had ejaculated on better-looking faces, which happened to be true.).
Despite apparently failing in private practice, we are led to believe that Frank's job taking appointments in criminal cases is sufficient for him to afford a giant mansion and a Range Rover (the Rover is basically another character in this thing). Frank's got a kinky and equally damaged lover named Kathy; when we meet both these characters for the first time, it is during a cringeworthy description of a blowjob.
Anyway! Setting aside that this professional man with a family put his name to this porny book, the real action gets going when Frank gets a call about one of those crazy killings that only happen in books from this era, as they all raced to do outdo each other with clever descriptions of innovative mutilation. A woman is found raped and killed; she's also had her breasts hacked off. Fodder for lots of black humor from the gritty cops in this book I can tell you that! Frank gets involved because he's been hired to evaluate whether the suspect--a cliched mentally ill Vietnam veteran--is competent to give a confession. (This is a big deal, because, if he isn't...then what? The criminal procedure here seems to be only tangentially connected to reality, but that's neither here nor there in this book). Frank, being a brilliant bastard, of course believes there's more to it than one crazy bum.
When more bodies start piling up--all while Frank's life spirals down the drain--his suspicions are confirmed. More improbable events occur before Frank, of course, figures out the real killer. Along the way, we get lots of debauchery, a lot of sermonizing about trauma, some rather shocking references to child sexual abuse, all intercut with scenes of either graphic sex or violence.
So how do I rate this thing? I have to admit, despite the cliches and many groan-worthy parts (such as Frank improbably being given a chance to catch the bastard by the chief of police because, damn it, you're our only hope), the book has an efficient, airport thriller feel to it that makes it hum along. It is over the top and very stupid, sure, but it's also kind of compulsively readable and ridiculous. Not to mention that the central mystery--while retrospectively obvious--is actually kind of well-done.
Anyway, I'm not sure this book deserves to be revisited out of its cultural moment. It's gross and ridiculous at many points, sure, but if you like spicing your reading list up with a little trash, this is a great one. I didn't even get into the guy driving around with a dead stripper's clit ring dangling from his rearview mirror, or the disturbing references to rough anal sex! I did love flipping to the author's photo to see his grinning face just to be like...what did you coworkers think? Anyway, screw it, three stars for being such a wild read.