After a disastrous interview with a distraught businessman ends in tragedy, Detective Jules Bettinger is forced to transfer from sunny, western ArizonAfter a disastrous interview with a distraught businessman ends in tragedy, Detective Jules Bettinger is forced to transfer from sunny, western Arizona to a wintery, crime-ridden shithole in flyover country.
Exiled to the tiny police force in Victory, Missouri, where criminals outnumber policemen 700 to 1, Bettinger discovers a decaying community in desperate need of case closers. A place that feels more like Siberia than middle America, a place where police and pigeons(?) are endangered species.
Affixed to a pole on the right side of the road was a wooden plank that read WELCOME TO VICTORY. Human excrement had been smeared across the greeting.
“Classy.”
With such a shortage of detectives, it’s crucial to pick cases wisely, to prioritize where to devote his time to do the most good in the community. And boy, is Bettinger’s first case a real doozy—a grisly murder spree that devolved into multiple acts of necrophilia. But, after a couple of officers are slain in a brutal execution, he’s redirected onto that investigation.
Once he figures out that the act was retaliation for alleged misdeeds by his fellow officers, and merely the opening salvo in a much larger war, he doesn’t know who he to trust. And, when things get personal, he’s forced to set aside his moral code and engage in the same ruthless, homicidal tactics that are being deployed against him.
Much madness ensues.
. . .
This book got off to a rocky start for me. What with the author’s peculiar turn of phrase and strange phobia of names and straightforward description—often referring to his main character as simply “the detective” or “the man from Arizona” and his partner as “the big fella”—along with his annoying penchant for using twenty words when two would suffice. Like so:
❅The young officer who had received a vomit crown and matching epaulets had departed early, shaken by the experience while the lobotomized corpse was taken to a place that had steel doors, an astringent smell, and digital thermometers that displayed low temperatures in both Celsius and Fahrenheit scales.
❅“How’s that angry ex-wife of yours?” asked the thing that lived inside of Bettinger’s mouth.
❅“What’s weed?” Curvature appeared on the young woman’s chin.
❅Tires screeched, and the long, four-wheeled organism shot past the policemen.
Honestly, this showy, pretentious style seemed out of place for a rather straightforward crime novel. But, eventually, the worm turned and I was able to forgive the author for being a little too in love with his own voice when I came across a dialog-driven chapter about a twenty-year-old girl named Kimmy that was so well-written it had me weeping for humanity.
Then, as I rounded into the second act, things went pear-shaped so quickly and so dramatically that I began to tear through the pages like a madman. My heart was racing, I broke out into cold sweat, and nearly chewed my fingernails down to the quick. That part of the storyline was so compelling and intense that you couldn’t have pried the book outta my hand with a crowbar.
However, by the time the explosive third act arrived, and the story shifted to the fringes of the crumbling rustbelt city that seemed more like a nightmarish post-apocalyptic wasteland than anywhere in the continental U.S., I was anxious to escape from this mad world with some semblance of my sanity left intact.
In the end, it was a bit of an overwhelming experience—one that I won’t soon forget, but one that I was happy to finally be able to set aside.
Bottom line: If a gruesome, crude story, shot through with dark humor and violent individuals that come in only two forms: bad and worse, set in a nightmarish, wintery landscape, sounds like your idea of a good time, then you’ve come to the right place. After all, this is the same sick and twisted mind behind films like Bone Tomahawk and Brawl in Cell Block 99....more
I gotta admit, after seeing so many glowing reviews for this “dark and gritty” book, I was pretty jazzed to check it out for myself. Mainly because I I gotta admit, after seeing so many glowing reviews for this “dark and gritty” book, I was pretty jazzed to check it out for myself. Mainly because I still have fond memories of The Last Child—the only other John Hart novel I’ve read. Hell, I’ve even recommended The Last Child to a few friends, so I’d been meaning to get back to his catalog for a while now. Strangely though, once I finally got my grubby little hands on a copy, the darndest thing happened. At the proverbial last minute, I came down with a nasty strain of the Mitchell virus that must have infected my mind because . . . NOPE, not buying it, not any of it!
Seriously, what is this drivel? Surely it wasn’t penned by the same author because it’s complete rubbish!
Now, rather than waste your time with a lengthy, spite filled review, or point fingers at all of you that have once again led me astray, I’ll merely list a few of the countless problems I encountered while perusing this turkey, which ultimately prevented me from suspending my disbelief.
1. Hero, rogue cop willing to stand trial (even face the death penalty), for a crime she didn’t commit, to protect the victim. 2. Fellow officers so quick to turn on one of their own and believe the worst.¹ 3. Wrongfully accused man convicted with Matlock as his attorney.² 4. Years of torture weren’t enough to break a man.³ 5. An old inmate with a secret stash of buried treasure.⁴ ...more
HOLY MOLY! A giant asteroid is headed straight for Earth! But wait, it’s Batman to the rescue. Whew, thank heavens. Um, hold on a second . . . that’s HOLY MOLY! A giant asteroid is headed straight for Earth! But wait, it’s Batman to the rescue. Whew, thank heavens. Um, hold on a second . . . that’s not the Bat, it’s that other doofus.
Ugh. Sorry to build your hopes up, but, in my defense, their backstories were nearly identical. Sadly though, this yahoo’s not too concerned with saving the planet. Heck no. Not when there’s a curious MYSTERY afoot—an ugly death that appears to be staged suicide. A dead man that no one, other than our intrepid hero, gives a rat’s ass about.
Look, here comes the nimrod now in his rumpled suit and tie, he’s a 6 ft 4, gangly and socially awkward, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, rookie detective. Ooh and, check out his sweet little mustache, but darn it if it don’t itch him like the dickens.
Well, golly gee he better hop to it because, even though the end is nigh, the schlub’s over the moon to have finally caught a case. You see, being an ace detective is all he ever wanted in life, so dagnabbit you can bet your biffy he’s not gonna let some minor inconvenience like THE TOTAL ANNIHILATION OF THE HUMAN RACE get in the way of solving his silly homicide! Or was it a suicide? Ah, who gives a crap! It’s a mystery to unravel, that’s all that matters.
At a time when most folks would rather spend their last few precious days ditching work, goofing off, and getting high as satellites, detective dipstick is hot on the trail and there’s not a second to waste. No, sir! He’s got a job to do, so gosh darn you better believe he’s gonna give it his all!
----------------------------------------------- And now here are a few nagging questions that I’ve just been dying to ask our intrepid hero asshole detective:
How many innocent . . . well, maybe not innocent per se, but friendly people—DANG IT HANK, you’ve gotta admit that they were some nice folks!—had to die to satisfy your curiosity? How many lives were ruined in the process? How many, Hank? In hindsight, do you think solving your little mystery was even worth it? Don’t you think, with a world-killing asteroid impact nearing the horizon, there was some better use of your time?
Yeesh! Well, I hope your piece of mind was worth such a hefty price. DICK!...more
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