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The Poet: A Novel (Jack McEvoy Book 1) Kindle Edition
An electrifying standalone thriller that breaks all the rules! With an introduction by Stephen King.
Death is reporter Jack McEvoy's beat: his calling, his obsession. But this time, death brings McEvoy the story he never wanted to write--and the mystery he desperately needs to solve. A serial killer of unprecedented savagery and cunning is at large. His targets: homicide cops, each haunted by a murder case he couldn't crack. The killer's calling card: a quotation from the works of Edgar Allan Poe. His latest victim is McEvoy's own brother. And his last...may be McEvoy himself.
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherLittle, Brown and Company
- Publication dateApril 29, 2003
- File size1266 KB
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―-Kirkus Reviews
"TERRIFYINGLY REALISTIC....Connelly's plotting is near flawless....THE POET ranks with Thomas Harris's The Silence of the Lambs."
―-Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel
From the Inside Flap
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
The Poet
By Michael ConnellyWarner Books
Copyright © 1997 Hieronymous, Inc.All right reserved.
ISBN: 0-446-69045-7
Chapter One
Death is my beat. I make my living from it. I forge my professionalreputation on it. I treat it with the passion and precision of anundertaker-somber and sympathetic about it when I'm with thebereaved, a skilled craftsman with it when I'm alone. I've alwaysthought the secret of dealing with death was to keep it at arm'slength. That's the rule. Don't let it breathe in your face.But my rule didn't protect me. When the two detectives came for meand told me about Sean, a cold numbness quickly enveloped me. It waslike I was on the other side of the aquarium window. I moved as ifunderwater-back and forth, back and forth-and looked out at the restof the world through the glass. From the backseat of their car Icould see my eyes in the rearview mirror, flashing each time wepassed beneath a streetlight. I recognized the thousand-yard stare Ihad seen in the eyes of fresh widows I had interviewed over theyears.
I knew only one of the two detectives. Harold Wexler. I had met hima few months earlier when I stopped into the Pints Of for a drinkwith Sean. They worked CAPs together on the Denver PD. I rememberSean called him Wex. Cops always use nicknames for each other.Wexler's is Wex, Sean's, Mac. It's some kind of tribal bondingthing. Some of the names aren't complimentary but the cops don'tcomplain. I know one down in Colorado Springs named Scoto whom mostother cops call Scroto. Some even go all the way and call himScrotum, but my guess is that you have to be a close friend to getaway with that.
Wexler was built like a small bull, powerful but squat. A voiceslowly cured over the years by cigarette smoke and whiskey. Ahatchet face that always seemed red the times I saw him. I rememberhe drank Jim Beam over ice. I'm always interested in what copsdrink. It tells a lot about them. When they're taking it straightlike that, I always think that maybe they've seen too many thingstoo many times that most people never see even once. Sean wasdrinking Lite beer that night, but he was young. Even though he wasthe supe of the CAPs unit, he was at least ten years younger thanWexler. Maybe in ten years he would have been taking his medicinecold and straight like Wexler. But now I'll never know.
I spent most of the drive out from Denver thinking about that nightat the Pints Of. Not that anything important had happened. It wasjust drinks with my brother at the cop bar. And it was the last goodtime between us, before Theresa Lofton came up. That memory put meback in the aquarium.
But during the moments that reality was able to punch through theglass and into my heart, I was seized by a feeling of failure andgrief. It was the first real tearing of the soul I had experiencedin my thirty-four years. That included the death of my sister. I wastoo young then to properly grieve for Sarah or even to understandthe pain of a life unfulfilled. I grieved now because I had not evenknown Sean was so close to the edge. He was Lite beer while all theother cops I knew were whiskey on the rocks.
Of course, I also recognized how self-pitying this kind of griefwas. The truth was that for a long time we hadn't listened much toeach other. We had taken different paths. And each time Iacknowledged this truth the cycle of my grief would begin again.
* * *
My brother once told me the theory of the limit. He said everyhomicide cop had a limit but the limit was unknown until it wasreached. He was talking about dead bodies. Sean believed that therewere just so many that a cop could look at. It was a differentnumber for every person. Some hit it early. Some put in twenty inhomicide and never got close. But there was a number. And when itcame up, that was it. You transferred to records, you turned in yourbadge, you did something. Because you just couldn't look at anotherone. And if you did, if you exceeded your limit, well, then you werein trouble. You might end up sucking down a bullet. That's what Seansaid.
* * *
I realized that the other one, Ray St. Louis, had said something tome.
He turned around in his seat to look back at me. He was much largerthan Wexler. Even in the dim light of the car I could make out therough texture of his pockmarked face. I didn't know him but I'dheard him referred to by other cops and I knew they called him BigDog. I had thought that he and Wexler made the perfect Mutt and Jeffteam when I first saw them waiting for me in the lobby at the Rocky.It was like they had stepped out of a late-night movie. Long, darkovercoats, hats. The whole scene should have been in black andwhite.
"You hear me, Jack. We'll break it to her. That's our job, but we'djust like you to be there to sort of help us out, maybe stay withher if it gets rough. You know, if she needs to be with somebody.Okay?"
"Okay."
"Good, Jack."
We were going to Sean's house. Not the apartment he split with fourother cops in Denver so in accordance with city regs he was a Denverresident. His house in Boulder where his wife, Riley, would answerour knock. I knew nobody was going to be breaking anything to her.She'd know what the news was the moment she opened the door and sawthe three of us standing there without Sean. Any cop's wife wouldknow. They spend their lives dreading and preparing for that day.Every time there's a knock on the door they expect it to be death'smessengers standing there when they open it. This time it would be.
"You know, she's going to know," I told them.
"Probably," Wexler said. "They always do."
I realized they were counting on Riley knowing the score as soon asshe opened the door. It would make their job easier.
I dropped my chin to my chest and brought my fingers up beneath myglasses to pinch the bridge of my nose. I realized I had become acharacter in one of my own stories-exhibiting the details of griefand loss I worked so hard to get so I could make a thirty-inchnewspaper story seem meaningful. Now I was one of the details inthis story.
A sense of shame descended on me as I thought of all the calls I hadmade to a widow or parent of a dead child. Or brother of a suicide.Yes, I had even made those. I don't think there was any kind ofdeath that I hadn't written about, that hadn't brought me around asthe intruder into somebody's pain.
How do you feel? Trusty words for a reporter. Always the firstquestion. If not so direct, then carefully camouflaged in wordsmeant to impart sympathy and understanding-feelings I didn'tactually have. I carried a reminder of this callousness. A thinwhite scar running along my left cheek just above the line of mybeard. It was from the diamond engagement ring of a woman whosefianc? had been killed in an avalanche near Breckenridge. I askedher the old standby and she responded with a backhand across myface. At the time I was new to the job and thought I had beenwronged. Now I wear the scar like a badge.
"You better pull over," I said. "I'm going to be sick."
Wexler jerked the car into the freeway's breakdown lane. We skiddeda little on the black ice but then he got control. Before the carhad completely stopped I tried desperately to open the door but thehandle wouldn't work. It was a detective car, I realized, and thepassengers who most often rode in the back were suspects andprisoners. The back doors had security locks controlled from thefront.
"The door," I managed to strangle out.
The car finally jerked to a stop as Wexler disengaged the securitylock. I opened the door, leaned out and vomited into the dirtyslush. Three great heaves from the gut. For a half a minute I didn'tmove, waiting for more, but that was it. I was empty. I thoughtabout the backseat of the car. For prisoners and suspects. And Iguessed that I was both now. Suspect as a brother. A prisoner of myown pride. The sentence, of course, would now be life.
Those thoughts quickly slipped away with the relief the physicalexorcism brought. I gingerly stepped out of the car and walked tothe edge of the asphalt where the light from the passing carsreflected in moving rainbows on the petroleum-exhaust glaze on theFebruary snow. It looked as if we had stopped alongside a grazingmeadow but I didn't know where. I hadn't been paying attention tohow far along to Boulder we were. I took off my gloves and glassesand put them in the pockets of my coat. Then I reached down and dugbeneath the spoiled surface to where the snow was white and pure. Itook up two handfuls of the cold, clean powder and pressed it to myface, rubbing my skin until it stung.
"You okay?" St. Louis asked.
He had come up behind me with his stupid question. It was up therewith How do you feel? I ignored it.
"Let's go," I said.
We got back in and Wexler wordlessly pulled the car back onto thefreeway. I saw a sign for the Broomfield exit and knew we were abouthalfway there. Growing up in Boulder, I had made the thirty-mile runbetween there and Denver a thousand times but the stretch seemedlike alien territory to me now.
For the first time I thought of my parents and how they would dealwith this. Stoicly, I decided. They handled everything that way.They never discussed it. They moved on. They'd done it with Sarah.Now they'd do it with Sean.
"Why'd he do it?" I asked after a few minutes.
Wexler and St. Louis said nothing.
"I'm his brother. We're twins, for Christ's sake."
"You're also a reporter," St. Louis said. "We picked you up becausewe want Riley to be with family if she needs it. You're the only-"
"My brother fucking killed himself!"
I said it too loud. It had a quality of hysteria to it that I knewnever worked with cops. You start yelling and they have a way ofshutting down, going cold. I continued in a subdued voice.
"I think I am entitled to know what happened and why. I'm notwriting a fucking story. Jesus, you guys are ..."
I shook my head and didn't finish. If I tried I thought I would loseit again. I gazed out the window and could see the lights of Bouldercoming up. So many more than when I was a kid.
"We don't know why," Wexler finally said after a half minute. "Okay?All I can say is that it happens. Sometimes cops get tired of allthe shit that comes down the pipe. Mac might've gotten tired, that'sall. Who knows? But they're working on it. And when they know, I'llknow. And I'll tell you. That's a promise."
"Who's working on it?"
"The park services turned it over to our department. SIU is handlingit."
"What do you mean Special Investigations? They don't handle copsuicides."
"Normally, they don't. We do. CAPs. But this time it's just thatthey're not going to let us investigate our own. Conflict ofinterest, you know."
CAPs, I thought. Crimes Against Persons. Homicide, assault, rape,suicide. I wondered who would be listed in the reports as the personagainst whom this crime had been committed. Riley? Me? My parents?My brother?
"It was because of Theresa Lofton, wasn't it?" I asked, though itwasn't really a question. I didn't feel I needed their confirmationor denial. I was just saying out loud what I believed to be theobvious.
"We don't know, Jack," St. Louis said. "Let's leave it at that fornow."
* * *
The death of Theresa Lofton was the kind of murder that gave peoplepause. Not just in Denver, but everywhere. It made anybody who heardor read about it stop for at least a moment to consider the violentimages it conjured in the mind, the twist it caused in the gut.
Most homicides are little murders. That's what we call them in thenewspaper business. Their effect on others is limited, their graspon the imagination is short-lived. They get a few paragraphs on theinside pages. Buried in the paper the way the victims are buried inthe ground.
But when an attractive college student is found in two pieces in atheretofore peaceful place like Washington Park, there usually isn'tenough space in the paper for all the inches of copy it willgenerate. Theresa Lofton's was no little murder. It was a magnetthat pulled at reporters from across the country. Theresa Lofton wasthe girl in two pieces. That was the catchy thing about this one.And so they descended on Denver from places like New York andChicago and Los Angeles, television, tabloid and newspaper reportersalike. For a week, they stayed at hotels with good room service,roamed the city and the University of Denver campus, askedmeaningless questions and got meaningless answers. Some staked outthe day care center where Lofton had worked part-time or went up toButte, where she had come from. Wherever they went they learned thesame thing, that Theresa Lofton fit that most exclusive media imageof all, the All-American Girl.
The Theresa Lofton murder was inevitably compared to the BlackDahlia case of fifty years ago in Los Angeles. In that case, a notso All-American Girl was found severed at the midriff in an emptylot. A tabloid television show dubbed Theresa Lofton the WhiteDahlia, playing on the fact that she had been found on asnow-covered field near Denver's Lake Grassmere.
And so the story fed on itself. It burned as hot as a trashcan firefor almost two weeks. But nobody was arrested and there were othercrimes, other fires for the national media to warm itself by.Updates on the Lofton case dropped back into the inside pages of theColorado papers. They became briefs for the digest pages. AndTheresa Lofton finally took her spot among the little murders. Shewas buried.
All the while, the police in general, and my brother in particular,remained virtually mute, refusing even to confirm the detail thatthe victim had been found in two parts. That report had come only byaccident from a photographer at the Rocky named Iggy Gomez. He hadbeen in the park looking for wild art-the feature photos that fillthe pages on a slow news day-when he happened upon the crime sceneahead of any other reporters or photographers. The cops had made thecallouts to the coroner's and crime scene offices by landline sincethey knew the Rocky and the Post monitored their radio frequencies.Gomez took shots of two stretchers being used to remove two bodybags. He called the city desk and said the cops were working atwo-bagger and from the looks of the size of the bags the victimswere probably children.
Later, a cop shop reporter for the Rocky named Van Jackson got asource in the coroner's office to confirm the grim fact that avictim had come into the morgue in two parts. The next morning'sstory in the Rocky served as the siren call to the media across thecountry.
My brother and his CAPs team worked as if they felt no obligation totalk to the public at all. Each day, the Denver Police Departmentmedia office put out a scant few lines in a press release,announcing that the investigation was continuing and that there hadbeen no arrests.
Continues...
Excerpted from The Poetby Michael Connelly Copyright ©1997 by Hieronymous, Inc.. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Product details
- ASIN : B000FC1MMI
- Publisher : Little, Brown and Company; 1st edition (April 29, 2003)
- Publication date : April 29, 2003
- Language : English
- File size : 1266 KB
- Text-to-Speech : Enabled
- Screen Reader : Supported
- Enhanced typesetting : Enabled
- X-Ray : Enabled
- Word Wise : Enabled
- Sticky notes : On Kindle Scribe
- Print length : 528 pages
- Page numbers source ISBN : 1538718669
- Best Sellers Rank: #21,121 in Kindle Store (See Top 100 in Kindle Store)
- #167 in Legal Thrillers (Kindle Store)
- #241 in Amateur Sleuth Mysteries (Kindle Store)
- #378 in Amateur Sleuths
- Customer Reviews:
About the author
Michael Connelly is the bestselling author of more than thirty novels and one work of nonfiction. With over eighty-five million copies of his books sold worldwide and translated into forty-five foreign languages, he is one of the most successful writers working today. A former newspaper reporter who worked the crime beat at the Los Angeles Times and the Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel, Connelly has won numerous awards for his journalism and his fiction. His very first novel, The Black Echo, won the prestigious Mystery Writers of America Edgar Award for Best First Novel in 1992. In 2002, Clint Eastwood directed and starred in the movie adaptation of Connelly's 1998 novel, Blood Work. In March 2011, the movie adaptation of his #1 bestselling novel, The Lincoln Lawyer, hit theaters worldwide starring Matthew McConaughey as Mickey Haller. His most recent New York Times bestsellers include Desert Star (2022), The Dark Hours (2021), The Law Of Innocence (2020), Fair Warning (2020), and The Night Fire (2019). Michael is the executive producer of Bosch and Bosch: Legacy, Amazon Studios original drama series based on his bestselling character Harry Bosch, starring Titus Welliver and streaming on Amazon Prime/Amazon Freevee. He is the executive producer of The Lincoln Lawyer, streaming on Netflix, starring Manuel Garcia-Rulfo. He is also the executive producer of the documentary films, "Sound Of Redemption: The Frank Morgan Story' and 'Tales Of the American.' He spends his time in California and Florida.
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The opening lines, from the mouth, (or mind), of protagonist Jack McEvoy, are knock-outs. And the quality of prose only gets better. "Death is my beat. I make my living from it. I forge my professional reputation on it. I treat it with the passion and precision of an undertaker - somber and sympathetic about it when I'm with the bereaved, a skilled craftsman with it when I am alone. I've always thought the secret of dealing with death was to keep it at arm's length. That's the rule." McEvoy is the Denver Rocky Mountain News' crime reporter. Author Connelly was a crime reporter himself, and his obvious expertise when describing the investigation, along with his knowledge of police procedures and the newspaper business, lends enormous credibility to his narrative.
When Jack is informed of the suicide of his twin brother, Sean, a homicide detective who was obsessed with a particularly heinous murder case, he has serious doubts that his brother was capable of taking his own life. Jack breaks his own rule. How can he keep his twin's death at arm's length? He begins to investigate the circumstances surrounding the death on his own, and discovers that Sean was murdered - a murder ingeniously disguised as a suicide. His research also brings to light several similar "apparent" suicides by homicide detectives, in various US cities. All of the dead cops were deeply disturbed by exceptionally grisly cases they were working on. Also common to all the deaths are brief and cryptic suicide notes, quoting lines from some of the more obscure writings of Edgar Allen Poe. Cases in Chicago, Baltimore, Dallas, New Mexico and Florida are eventually reopened. Jack continues to follow his leads, and to protect his sources, until the FBI discovers what he has uncovered and puts an end to his detecting. Obviously, they want to take over - these are federal crimes, after all, and Jack is a journalist. McEvoy threatens to print the story, which is his right - but would give the killer a heads-up. However an agreement is struck that Jack will temporarily sit on the scoop if the feds allow him to sit-in on the case. Thus, an unlikely team is forged. Several members of the FBI's Behavioral Science Section, and one Denver reporter, race against the clock to track the killer(s) and prevent the next murder(s).
This is one scary, chilling thriller. Add Poe's writing to this unnerving mix, and I'd advise you to read during daylight hours, or keep all the lights on in the evening. If you are squeamish, this may not be the book for you, as it deals with mutilation, child molestation and pedophilia.
Connelly is an excellent writer and his characters are every bit as compelling, complex and convincing as his narrative. The psychological aspects behind the motivations of many of these personages are just plain fascinating. To me Thomas Harris' "Silence of the Lambs" and "Red Dragon" are the best books I have every read in this particular category/genre. I have yet to read anything which induces the terror evoked by these two novels. This one comes close.
JANA
While this case is referenced in early Harry Bosch stories, Harry doesn't make an appearance here. But, it's important to get the background on the case origins before Harry does get involved so that's why it is part of the Harry Bosch Universe.
The time period is the mid-‘90s, and I giggled at dial-up internet connections, faxes, pagers, landline phones, and new-fangled digital cameras. Seems forever ago and just yesterday. So there are times I was like just make a call but this is before everyone had a cellphone. It makes you wonder, if we did get rid of phone booths we might capture more criminals. Lol.
I enjoyed this twisting and turning, around-the-bend-and-back case. There are a few red herrings. I must admit to being a bit shocked at the ending, even though I had growing suspicions.
Recommended for fans of the Harry Bosch universe and fans of crime beat reporters.
Highly recommended.