Category Archives: Reviews

Fiction, Reviews

‘Shred of Doubt,’ by Darren Sugrue

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Storytelling is an art distinct from, but not incompatible with, literary quality. Sometimes you’ll find a book that contains a fair number of flaws, but it still pulls you in.

That was the case for me with Darren Sugrue’s Shred of Doubt. Lately I’d been afraid that increased viewing of YouTube videos (Jordan Peterson and others) was damaging my ability to enjoy fiction. But Shred of Doubt grabbed me and held on all the way.

Jimmy Quinn is an Irish marine biologist. He hasn’t been in Hyannis, Massachusetts in 25 years. Back then he was a student working in a diner, earning money for University back home. That year he fell in love with Chelsea Thomas, a local girl who also worked at the diner. Just before he was due to go home, Chelsea disappeared, never to be seen again. Evidence pointed to another worker at the diner, a fellow with an unrequited crush on Chelsea, and he went to prison for life.

But now Jimmy is back in Hyannis, attending a conference. He goes to the diner to see an old friend who still works there. The friend, hesitantly, gives him something he’s been holding on to. It’s Chelsea’s diary, which he found hidden in the locker room long after the case had been closed. Jimmy reads it through and discovers things he never knew about her. Suddenly he’s obsessed. He forgets the conference and his duties. He has to discover the truth about what really happened to Chelsea. Could she still be alive? Did an innocent man go to prison?

There were many points in this book where I thought the author was reaching a bit. Some of the plot points seemed forced. The psychology, I think, was more TV movie than real life. There were homophone errors.

Also, he talked about a safety on a Glock (they don’t have them. [Full disclosure, I made the same mistake in a manuscript myself once, but a friend corrected it for me.])

Nevertheless, the pure storytelling was masterful. I had a hard time putting Shred of Doubt down.

Cautions for language, adult situations, and fairly explicit sex.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Can’t Depend On Murder,’ by Jay Heavner

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I feel a little guilty reviewing Jay Heavner’s Can’t Depend On Murder. My impression is that the author is a good guy with the best intentions for telling an inspiring story. A Christian story. But like so many other Christian writers, he hasn’t figured out how to do that.

However, the thing is, the book is set in Brevard County, Florida in 1988. As it happens, I was living in Brevard County in 1988, and the little town where I was living even gets a mention here. So I read the thing. And now, because I need to post something tonight, I pretty much have to review the poor book.

Roger Pyles is a semi-hermit living in an old house trailer. He is apparently part of the police department in his little town in North Brevard County, but they pay him next to nothing and he doesn’t generally have any duties. He was once a college professor, but suffered a tragedy and fled to Florida. He lives with his dog and a stray donkey he rescued, but an ex-girlfriend and the son she bore him live nearby.

Then an old Indian called Shaman shows up to deliver a cryptic message about approaching danger. A tree accordingly falls on Roger’s trailer, just the start of a series of catastrophes. There’s some talk of Roger consulting on a serial killer investigation, but that gets solved before he has to move a muscle. Various dangers to himself and his loved ones are hinted at, but everything blows over in the end.

If that sounds like not much of a story, well, that’s what we’re dealing with here. Mysteries and perils are hinted at, but never come to anything. Instead there is dialogue – lots and lots of dialogue. Now I like good dialogue. It brings characters alive. But it’s got to be good dialogue. One element of good dialogue is efficiency. You don’t waste the reader’s time with every hello and goodbye. You know when to end a joke, and you don’t have to tell the reader that people laughed at it.

Most of all, you don’t preach. (I confess I’m hesitant to raise this point, since I fear I sin in this regard in my own books, but I’m the reviewer here, so it must be said.) The author incorporates repeated conversations, sometimes with an actual preacher character and often improbably motivated, about God and the meaning of life and the problem of evil. Our hero Roger is portrayed as a respectful agnostic, but the Christians score all the debating points.

I agree entirely with the points, but I don’t think they were very effectively dramatized.

Once you finish the book you realize there’s a larger context – greater powers than Roger and his friends are manipulating the world around them. That might have been an effective plot device in a better-written book. But it’s not effective here. It just left me scratching my head.

Also, Roger has a cell phone. How many people had cell phones in rural Florida in ’88?

Also, the character of the Shaman is just silly. He talks like Tonto.

I can’t recommend Can’t Depend On Murder.

Fiction, Reviews

‘In Cold Blood,’ by Jack Hunt

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Noah Sutherland is an investigator with New York’s Bureau of Criminal Investigation. He’s taking a much-needed vacation in Florida when he gets a visit from a colleague, who informs him that his twin brother, a sheriff’s deputy in their home community of High Peaks in the Adirondacks, has been killed in the line of duty. He was found shot to death next to his car on a deserted country road – and drugs from the evidence locker were found in his trunk.

So begins In Cold Blood, by Jack Hunt (not to be confused with Truman Capote’s book, and I’m fairly sure it won’t be). Noah doesn’t believe for a minute that his brother was into anything shady, but he knows it’s none of his business. He isn’t assigned to this part of the state, and they would never let him investigate his own brother’s death even if he were. Except that they do let him do it, due to a somewhat improbable concatenation of circumstances. Now he’ll have to navigate all kinds of old relationships and small town rivalries as he tries to discover what kind of shadowy local forces have conspired to destroy an honest cop. On top of all this there’s his difficult father, who’s never forgiven him for not joining the sheriff’s department himself, in the family tradition.

The story here wasn’t bad, though there were several improbabilities, notably Noah’s assignment to the case in the first place (as mentioned), and the fact that an officer shoots and kills someone without being placed on temporary desk duty. Also, the prose is rough – the author is prone to word confusions and sheer clunkiness of expression – “He crouched down and touched his finger against the smallest amount of glass.”

In the great bell curve of literature, there’s some that’s very good, some that’s very bad, and the vast majority is somewhere in the middle. One shouldn’t be too disappointed if a book possesses both strengths and weaknesses. I thought the characters and dialogue in In Cold Blood were good, but the writing was spotty (though I’ve seen worse). I did finish the book, and I got it for free, so I won’t trash it too much.

Fiction, Reviews

Tale of the Nine-Tailed: A Well-Written Fantasy TV Series

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Recently, a TV adaptation of a popular Marvel comics storyline ended its run by tripping over its feet and kissing the synthetic rubber track. Many superhero fans didn’t even watch, and many others hated their experience (not everyone, just many). The director said he was told not to read the source material and that he didn’t want to make a story that leaned into its own genre, so the show introduced story elements and tone only to set them on the shelf. I don’t know what the producers were expecting. It’s the latest installment of high value entertainment prospects that failed.

If you’d like to watch a fantasy series that is actually well-written and different to most Americans, look up Tale of the Nine-Tailed, a 16-episode Korean series starring Lee Dong Wook and Jo Bo Ah and directed by Kang Shin Hyo. The story focuses on mythological foxes (gumiho), who are traditionally wily and mischievous. The old stories say the nine-tailed fox is seeking to become human by some trial over a thousand years. The main fox of this story was once a mountain god who fell in love with a young woman. When that woman was murdered, he gave up his divine position in hopes of finding her reincarnation one day.

At the beginning of Tale of the Nine-Tailed, Lee Yeon, the fox, is hunting down lesser foxes who are posing as humans and killing them. I forget why he is hunting them, if it’s more than just defending humanity. TV producer Nam Ji Ah is building evidence for her version of X files when she notices Yeon’s distinctive umbrella. Somehow, she ropes him into accompanying her to a remote island village where she hopes to find a clue to her parents’ disappearance (her motive for researching paranormal accounts). In these 3-4 episodes, the show has a horror tone. Traditional Korean shamanism is displayed throughout the series, and you see some of the ugly practices in these episodes. It lightens up after this, leaning first into a romantic storyline and plunging into fantasy for the rest of it. Yeon is plagued by many things, primarily his murderous half-brother Rang, who resembles Loki in attitude and miscreant behavior. The tension between the brothers is compelling to watch.

I mention it here because the writing is strong throughout. Wikipedia credits Han Woo-ri for this. Bravo. Yeon is presented as crafty with great, but not unlimited, knowledge. Many mythological foes come after him, and they never lay a hand on him because he’s an idiot. He works the situation, turning the tables when he can. None of his victories feels forced or as if he has read the script. Once, the irritating trope of loving her so much he can’t tell the truth is used to bridge two episodes, but it’s short lived and nothing else stands out as clichéd.

A second season was released this summer on Amazon. I hope I can find a way to see it.

In other news —

Reviews: Bad reviews can be helpful. “Instead of specialties, we were known by our critical styles: We were the Shredder, the Beheader and the Fredder.”

Funny Stuff: “A sense of humour is just common sense, dancing. Those who lack humour are without judgment and should be trusted with nothing.”

Fiction, Reviews

‘Murder on the Farm,’ by Bruce Beckham

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One does not look for great variety in Bruce Beckham’s Inspector Skelgill novels, set in England’s Cumbria. Skelgill himself is a thoroughly eccentric country detective, not a linear thinker but intuitive, his instincts honed by time spent in nature. Nor do his subordinates surprise us much. DS Leyton, a London transplant, is stolid but loyal and dependable, the Watson of the team. DS Jones, an attractive young woman, is smart and can be expected to rise in the service. There’s also deep but private attraction between her and Skelgill.

In Murder on the Farm, their publicity-hungry superior agrees to lend Jones to a team of television documentarians who are re-examining an old unsolved murder. Back in the 1970s, a young man was murdered with a shotgun while making a delivery to a posh country estate. Later, two local criminals were arrested and convicted in the case. But their conviction has been overturned, based on police misconduct. There is another possible suspect, an unpleasant fellow who served ten years for a later, similar shotgun killing. The star of the documentary team, a celebrity criminologist, is certain this man is the true killer. He has a plan to unmask him in front of the cameras, producing amazement and high ratings.

Skelgill is concerned, first of all, that the criminologist has sexual designs on DS Jones. But more than that, he thinks the criminologist’s scenario is simplistic. He himself perceives deeper and more sinister possibilities and a wider range of suspects.

Murder on the Farm offers all the usual pleasures of this series: Skelgill’s disingenuous simplicity, political and departmental pressures, Cumbrian food and dialects, wheels within wheels. I enjoyed reading it. No bad words that I recall or gratuitous sex or violence.

Non-fiction, Reviews

‘Canute the Great and the Rise of Danish Imperialism during the Viking Age,’ by Laurence M. Larson

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Image of Knut the Great from Liber Vitae, written in 1031, during Canute’s lifetime.

Had a pretty good weekend at the Antique Power Show at the Little Log House Pioneer Village, near Hastings, Minn. This is the third year my Viking group has been there – though nobody’s quite sure why we’re even around at a steam engine and tractor event. It amuses me that we have no apparent connection to the event theme, but people still like to see us there. The weather was cooler than we’ve been experiencing lately, and we were in the shade, so we didn’t suffer much from the sun smiting us by day nor the moon by night. And my book sales were good. But as always when I sit long hours on my Viking chest with no back support, I came home creaky. That’s the price you pay for staying alive into old age. By the way, it’s my 100th birthday today. Approximately. In round, subjective numbers. Close enough for freelance writing.

My work on The Baldur Game, the epic final volume of my Erling saga, continues apace. I’ve come to the part where Erling meets King Knut the Great of Denmark/England, and I figured I’d better bone up on that fellow’s life (did you know he was at least half Polish?). Having a weekend of Viking reenactment to fill, I pulled up my old Kindle version of Laurence M. Larson’s  Canute the Great and the Rise of Danish Imperialism during the Viking Age. I’ve reviewed it here before, but it’s more interesting (in spite of its age) than the other Knut biography I own.

Knut (or Canute, as it’s spelled here) is a fascinating character in English history, despite the fact that his complete failure to provide an heir with survival skills doomed his accomplishments to be overshadowed by those of other kings. Still, he started out as a disfavored son of King Svein Forkbeard of Denmark (who conquered England first, then died, leaving Canute with all the weary work to do over again), knocked about as a pirate for a while, and finally fought his way up (Conan-like) to the throne of a great kingdom. His union of Denmark with England, Scotland, Norway and bits of what is now Poland could arguably be called the first British Empire.

Scholarship has advanced quite a lot since Larson wrote this book (1912), but in my opinion it’s sometimes advanced in the wrong direction. So I generally like Larson’s saga-friendly approach. It does skew the narrative a bit, I think, though, since the author spends a lot of time on Norway and St. Olaf, probably just because the sagas have described that business more completely than the English chroniclers recorded other aspects of Canute’s reign. As the drunk who hunted for his car keys under a street lamp said, “I lost them over there, but the light’s better here.”

My main complaint is the author’s uncritical acceptance of the traditional view that Olaf was somehow the “legitimate” king of Norway, and that his opponents (like Erling Skjalgsson) were rebels, bought by Canute’s treacherous “bribes.” In fact they were defenders of the land’s organic constitution, and Olaf was the usurper trying to overturn the ancient laws. And giving gifts to supporters was what overlords did in those days. Olaf did it himself, as I plan to point out in my book.

But other than that, I liked Canute the Great and the Rise of Danish Imperialism during the Viking Age, and found it useful. I recommend it. It’s out of copyright and cheap. Watch out for OCR typos.

Fiction, Reviews

‘The Poison Path,’ by Solomon Carter

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On the beach at Southend, England, a ragtag group of young “guerilla filmmakers” is shooting a movie, one they hope will lead to their big break. Their “star,” a washed-up, alcoholic TV actor, appears to be dozing by the pier. But he’s not dozing – he’s dead. It looks as if he fell asleep there the night before and froze to death. But the crime scene investigator notices suspicious signs. This brings in the police team – Inspector Joe Hogarth and his younger subordinates, Detectives Palmer and Simmons. Then, when Hogarth’s oldest, greatest enemy appears, a villain who’s now a member of Parliament (Tory, of course), Hogarth’s back is well and truly put up—for better or worse. So begins The Poison Path, by Solomon Carter.

I’ve read one Inspector Hogarth book before. I found it well-written but rather dreary; the hero is solitary, depressed, and has a drinking problem. This is a later book, and he seems to be doing a little better – there’s some subdued flirtation with his female subordinate, Palmer. Still, he remains driven, lonely, and obsessed. He’d fit in well in a Scandinavian Noir story, I think. One interesting and unusual element was that our hero is not always right, like so many fictional detectives. In fact, he’s wrong quite a lot of the time. Mostly, he lets his feelings run away with him.

So, all in all, The Poison Path wasn’t bad. Not my favorite kind of story, but I’ve got no real complaints.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Bull Rush,’ by David Chill

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The Burnside books by David Chill comprise a PI series I’d never heard of. Yet in many ways Bull Rush was exactly what I look for in a detective book.

Burnside (like Spenser he goes by his surname) is a private eye in Los Angeles. An old acquaintance comes to his office to ask him to look for his missing adult son. The young man was once a hot pro football prospect (Burnside himself is a former college player and sports culture permeates the story), but now he works for a slightly shady real estate operation. The young man has had trouble with drugs in the past, so it’s likely he’s passed out somewhere.


Burnside isn’t entirely happy with the job – the father was never someone he liked a whole lot. On top of that, Burnside knows he got the referral from another mutual “friend,” a crooked sports agent who’s always playing the angles. But it’s a legitimate job, and he isn’t in a position to turn it down.

Then, in the course of his search, Burnside stumbles on a murder victim. Now he’ll have to deal with the police. And soon, with politicians and the very wealthy.

What pleased me best about Bull Rush was its traditional qualities. Burnside doesn’t have an ideological agenda. He doesn’t have a kick-butt female partner. He’s not involved in deconstructing or normalizing anything. He’s just doing a human job among human beings. The main way he differs from your classic Golden Age gumshoe is in having a wife and a young son. Oh yes, and a psychotherapist he sees regularly.

The writing in Bull Rush was clean and professional, without either pyrotechnics or illiteracies. The characters were believable, the dialogue sharp. This is honest, meat-and-potatoes detective fiction. I recommend it highly.

Fiction, Reviews

‘After Death,’ by Dean Koontz

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Duty is based on something more profound than hope, on faith that what is too wrong to endure will be made right, rectified by a system of justice that underlies all of nature, far beneath the subatomic level, a system that may right a wrong in a day or through the passage of time or outside of time. The schedule isn’t ours to protest or endorse. His duty is to act with all the skill and wisdom he possesses, not with hope but with conviction.

Rejoice! We have a new Dean Koontz book. He just keeps rolling them out – always good, sometimes exceptional. After Death is somewhat reminiscent of Koontz’ recent series of novellas about a character called Nameless. But it handles similar concepts in a different way.

Michael Mace was dead, and is alive again. It wasn’t a miracle in the religious sense, but it still may change the world. Michael was head of security at Beautification Research, a company that was ostensibly a cosmetics business but actually did top-secret genetic and nanotech research. When an accidental leak kills everyone in the building, Michael dies with all the rest. But then he wakes up. And now he’s changed. He has new powers that give him mental access to all the information on the internet. No firewall can stop him.

The first item on his agenda is to help a single mother named Nina Dozier and her son John. Michael’s best friend and co-worker Shelby was very fond of them, and probably would have courted her if he’d lived. They’re in danger from John’s natural father, a gang lord who’s decided it’s time to claim his son and make him his successor. Nina will have to be taught a lesson too, for dissing him.

But there’s a larger danger than that. It comes from the Internal Security Agency, the corrupt law enforcement body that supports the corrupt bureaucracy now running the country. Their chief agent is a psychopath named Duran Calaphas, an efficient killer but increasingly delusional. He takes Michael’s appearance as a personal sign for him, giving him a worthy foe he must destroy in order to achieve his grandiose personal destiny. Without loyalty to anyone or anything but himself, Calaphas will stop at nothing, destroy anything, to kill Michael Mace. And his companions.

Koontz hits every note precisely, manipulates the reader with the deft hand of a master. It’s beautiful to behold. Especially delightful (for me) was one amazing plot twist unlike anything I’d ever read before (it involves storytelling). A delightful moment.

My only quibble (spoiler alert) was that I thought the ending might have been too good to be true. But that’s no great failing in a book. No failing at all, actually. We’re allowed a happy ending from time to time.

Highly recommended.

Fiction, Reviews

‘Up Close and Fatal,’ by Fergus McNeill

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‘More and more, people tend to confuse “understanding” with “agreement”,’ he said, leaning forward in his chair, and resting his elbows on his knees. ‘If you say you understand something bad… like a racist or sexist comment, for example… then people accuse you of being racist or sexist. They deliberately confuse understanding with agreement….”

Two “gripping” novels in a row that were actually gripping. I’m on a roll, I guess. Up Close and Fatal, by Fergus McNeill, was a fascinating, sometimes creepy ride.

Tom Pritchard is an Englishman living in New York City. Once a successful journalist, his career is on the skids now. He’s divorced and guilty about neglecting his young son.

One day he gets an envelope in the mail. Inside the envelope is a numbered list. There are names next to some of the numbers, next to others are blank lines. There’s also a driver’s license belonging to a woman, one of the people named on the list. A quick web search shows that the woman is the victim of an unsolved murder. In fact, all the people named have been murdered, but in widely separated locations, and nobody seems to have guessed at a link.

Tom calls a police detective friend to tell him about it. The friend is intrigued, but says this material by itself isn’t enough to take to his superiors.

Soon Tom gets a phone call from the sender. This man, who call himself J, tells Tom he’s been killing these people, because the world is a better place without them. He’s read Tom’s work and was impressed by it. He wants to tell Tom his story, so he can write it the right way.

This gets Tom a meeting with the police, and they agree to give him protection and a tracking chip so he can be bait in their trap. But when he arrives at the rendezvous point, a remote spot upstate, J never appears. However, when Tom gets home he’s attacked, tazed, and dumped in a car trunk.

J still wants Tom to write his story. But he wants him to understand it from up close – through accompanying him on his pilgrimage of murder as he completes his list. And if Tom interferes, J has arranged for his son to be murdered.

It gets worse when they encounter an innocent witness. What will Tom do to prevent J killing her to shut her mouth?

Up Close and Fatal was a well-written book (American location, English orthography) that kept the dramatic tension dialed all the way up. The social awkwardness of enforced socialization with someone you despise, who can nevertheless be charming or even thoughtful at times, compelled my interest. Also, there was a great twist at the end. I was highly impressed.

The only oddity was when Tom and J are riding around in a big SUV and the author keeps talking about its trunk. What’s with that?