John Connolly - Every Dead Thing

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“A truly harrowing murder plot… An ambitious foray…deep into Hannibal Lecter territory… The extravagantly gifted Connolly, living up to his title, is never too busy for another flashback to Bird’s violent past en route to his final confrontation with the Traveling Man.” – Kirkus Reviews
“For me, the best thing about an author’s first novel is its untarnished honesty. John Connolly’s EVERY DEAD THING has that reckless intensity. Set against the gritty canvas of a serial killer loose in New York City, John Connolly’s writing is as lilting and refreshing and as tempestuous as an Irish rainstorm. Warning: Don’t start this book unless you have time to finish it.” – Paul Lindsay, former FBI agent and author of Witness to the Truth
“Classic American crime fiction; it’s hard to believe that John Connolly was born and raised on the Emerald Isle.” – amazon.com
“[A] darkly ingenious debut novel… The New Orleanssequence of the novel sing[s]… The rural Virginia town is petty, bitter perfection: no mean feat for a native Dubliner. The prose rings of ’40s L.A. noir, à la Chandler and Hammett, but the grisly deaths, poetic cops, and psychic episodes set this tale apart.” – Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“An ambitious, moral, disturbing tale with a stunning climax… In many ways its terror quotient exceeds that of Thomas Harris’ great work.” – The Times (London)
“Connolly writes with confidence, a swaggering self-assurance that is almost breathtaking in a first novel.” – Dublin Evening Herald (Ireland)
“A debut novel of stunning complexity… The tension starts on the first page and continues right through the last, concluding in a dramatic and ambiguous way that could disturb readers’ thoughts for days. A work of fiction that stays with you long after the book is closed is a rare and beautiful thing. This one goes right up there on the year’s list of the best.” – St. Petersburg Times (FL)
“A nonstop, action-packed tale that also has a warm side where love and loyalty (not DNA) make a person human.” – Barnesandnoble.com
“Shades of The Silence of the Lambs here-but this debut book by Dubliner Connolly also has echoes of James Crumley, Patricia Cornwell, and Lawrence Block… A terrifying finale… Connolly manages to keep the tension simmering right to the very end.” – Express Star (UK)
“Absolutely spellbinding… This is not a book for the timid.” – Naples Daily News (FL)
“A big, meaty, often superbly written novel-astonishing, for a first-time author, in its scope and apparent veracity… A book of sudden, horrifying violence and no-holds-barred explicit scene-of-the-crime detail… A painstakingly researched crime novel, impressive both in terms of its driven central character [and] its scrupulously evoked geography… Impressive, too, is the superior, topflight prose and sheer momentum of the plot.” – Tangled Web (UK)
“[An] exciting, scary, and darkly humorous story that deserves to be a success.” – Irish News
“A highly intelligent and exciting novel, with almost enough action and story for two books. The grim and grisly events are emotionally balanced by the book’s dark humor and Bird’s vulnerability.” – Library Journal
“[A] stunning debut… Painstaking research, superb characterization, and an ability to tell a story that’s chilling and thought-provoking make this a terrific thriller.” – The Mirror (UK)
“Brilliant… While Thomas Harris’ Hannibal is the year’s most anticipated thriller, John Connolly’s EVERY DEAD THING might just be the best… A real adrenaline rush… Simply too good to be missed-or to put down.” – The Clarion-Ledger (Jackson, MS)

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“Yes, but you’re making one assumption,” said Wolfe. Walter looked puzzled.

“You’re assuming this is the first. I take it a VICAP has been done?”

VICAP, operational since 1985, is the FBI’s Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. Under VICAP, a report is completed on solved or unsolved homicides or attempted homicides, particularly those involving abductions or that are apparently random or motiveless or sexually oriented; on missing persons cases, when foul play is suspected; and on unidentified dead bodies, when the manner of death is known or suspected to be homicide. The report is then submitted to the National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime at the FBI’s academy in Quantico, in an effort to determine if similar pattern characteristics exist elsewhere in the VICAP system.

“It was submitted.”

“Have you requested a profile?”

“Yes, but no profile as yet. Unofficially, the MO doesn’t match. The removal of the faces marks it out.”

“Yeah, what about the faces?” It was Joiner again.

“I’m still trying to find out more,” said Wolfe. “Some killers take souvenirs from their victims. There may be some kind of pseudo-religious or sacrificial element to this case. I’m sorry, I’m really not sure yet.”

“You think he could have done something like this before?” said Walter.

Wolfe nodded. “He may have. If he has killed before, then he may have hidden the bodies, and these killings could represent an alteration in a previous pattern of behavior. Maybe, after killing quietly and unobtrusively, he wanted to bring himself to a more public arena. He may have wanted to draw attention to his work. The unsatisfactory nature of these killings, from his point of view, may now cause him to revert to his old pattern. Alternatively, he could recede into a period of dormancy; that’s another possibility.

“But if I was to gamble, I’d say that he’s been planning his next move carefully. He made mistakes this time and I don’t think he achieved the effect he was looking for. The next time, he won’t make any mistakes. The next time, unless you catch him first, he’s really going to make an impact.”

The door of the interrogation room opened and Walter entered with two other men.

“This is Special Agent Ross, FBI, and Detective Barth from Robbery,” said Walter. “Barth was working the Watts case. Agent Ross here deals with organized crime.”

Close up, Ross’s linen suit looked expensive and tailored. Barth, in his JCPenney jacket, looked like a slob by comparison. The two men stood against opposite walls and nodded. When Walter sat, Barth sat as well. Ross remained standing against the wall.

“Anything you’re not telling us here?” Walter asked.

“No,” I said. “You know as much as I do.”

“Agent Ross believes that Sonny Ferrera was behind the killing of Watts and his girlfriend and that you know more than you’re saying.” Ross picked at something on the sleeve of his shirt and dropped it to the floor with a look of distaste. I think it was meant to represent me.

“There was no reason for Sonny to kill Ollie Watts,” I replied. “We’re talking stolen cars and fake license plates here. Ollie wasn’t in a position to scam anything worthwhile from Sonny and he didn’t know enough about Sonny’s activities to take up ten minutes of a jury’s time.”

Ross stirred and moved forward to sit on the edge of the table. “Strange that you should turn up after all this time- what is it? six, seven months?-and suddenly we’re knee deep in corpses,” he said, as if he hadn’t heard a word I’d said. He was forty, maybe forty-five, but he looked to be in good condition. His face was heavily lined with wrinkles that didn’t seem like they came from a life of laughter. I’d heard a little about him from Woolrich, after Woolrich left New York to become the feds’ assistant special agent in charge in the New Orleans field office.

There was silence then. Ross tried to stare me out, then looked away in boredom.

“Agent Ross here thinks that you’re holding out on us,” said Walter. “He’d like to sweat you for a while, just in case.” His expression was neutral, his eyes bland. Ross had returned to staring at me.

“Agent Ross is a scary guy. He tries to sweat me, there’s no telling what I’ll confess to.”

“This is not getting us anywhere,” said Ross. “Mr. Parker is obviously not cooperating in any way and I-”

Walter held up a hand, interrupting him. “Maybe you’d both leave us alone for a while, get some coffee or something,” he suggested. Barth shrugged and left. Ross remained seated on the table and looked like he was going to say more, then he stood up abruptly and quickly walked out, closing the door firmly behind him. Walter exhaled deeply, loosened his tie, and opened the top button of his shirt.

“Don’t dump on Ross. He’ll bring a ton of shit down on your head. And on mine.”

“I’ve told you all I know on this,” I said. “Benny Low may know more, but I doubt it.”

“We talked to Benny Low. The way Benny tells it, he didn’t know who the president was until we told him.” He twisted a pen in his hand. “ ‘Hey, it’s just bidness,’ that’s what he said.” It was a pretty fair imitation of one of Benny Low’s verbal quirks. I smiled thinly and the tension in the air dissipated slightly.

“How long you been back?”

“Couple of weeks.”

“What have you been doing?”

What could I tell him? That I wandered the streets, that I visited places where Jennifer, Susan, and I used to go together, that I stared out of the window of my apartment and thought about the man who had killed them and where he might be, that I had taken on the job for Benny Low because I was afraid that, if I did not find some outlet, I would eat the barrel of my gun?

“Not a lot. I plan to look up some old stoolies, see if there’s anything new.”

“There isn’t, not at this end. You got anything?”

“No.”

“I can’t ask you to let it go, but-”

“No, you can’t. Get to it, Walter.”

“This isn’t a good place for you to be right now. You know why.”

“Do I?”

Walter tossed the pen hard on the table. It bounced to the edge and then hung there briefly before dropping to the floor. For a moment I thought he was going to take a swing at me but then the anger went from his eyes.

“We’ll talk about this again.”

“Okay. You going to give me anything?” Among the papers on the table, I could see reports from Ballistics and Firearms. Five hours was a pretty short time in which to get a report. Agent Ross was obviously a man who got what he wanted.

I nodded at the report. “What did Ballistics say about the bullet that took out the shooter?”

“That’s not your concern.”

“Walter, I watched the kid die. The shooter took a pop at me and the bullet went clean through the wall. Someone’s got distinctive taste in weaponry.”

Walter stayed silent.

“No one picks up hardware like that without someone knowing,” I said. “You give me something to go on, maybe I might find out more than you can.”

Walter thought for a minute and then flicked through the papers for the Ballistics report. “We got submachine bullets, five-point-seven millimeters, weighing less than fifty grains.”

I whistled. “That’s a scaled-down rifle round, but fired from a handgun?”

“The bullet is mainly plastic but has a full-metal jacket, so it doesn’t deform on impact. When it hits something- like your shooter-it transfers most of its force. There’s almost no energy when it exits.”

“And the one that hit the wall?”

“Ballistics reckons a muzzle velocity of over two thousand feet per second.”

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