James Lee Burke is a superior mystery writer. He writes in the tradition of high craftsmanship and sensitivity that characterizes the best Southern literature. I found The Tin Roof Blowdown brilliant and moving.

And I probably won’t read any more by him.

But first, a synopsis.

The setting for The Tin Roof Blowdown is New Orleans and its environs, during and immediately following Hurricane Katrina. The conflict is set off by a group of young black men who steal a motorboat (thus dooming a number of trapped people to drowning), break into a rich man’s house, and discover a treasure trove of drugs, cash and diamonds. That same night one of them is killed and another paralyzed by a bullet fired by someone in the neighborhood. Suspicion falls on a neighbor, whose daughter (by a strange coincidence) was recently gang-raped by some of these same young men.

Although investigation of his death is technically a federal matter (under 1960s laws dealing with deprivation of civil rights by murder), the bulk of the investigation is elbowed off (due to heavy case loads) to Dave Robicheaux, a sheriff’s deputy in New Iberia Parish and hero of a number of mysteries by Burke. He is unofficially assisted in his investigation by his friend Clete Purcel, a former cop and present skip tracer.

The writing is precise and evocative, the characters deeply imagined and (generally) sympathetic. This is the kind of book I love.

Except for the politics.

In my own novels, I try to bridge the gap between myself and readers who often don’t share my beliefs by doing my best to be realistic about the problems and struggles of faith. Easy answers and glib solutions don’t fly with me (or I hope they don’t). But, because I’m committed to orthodox Christianity, you can bet that I’ll always work my way around to straight Christian doctrine.

James Lee Burke does the same sort of thing from a liberal point of view. He faces hard questions and depicts the dark side. But in the end, he’s reliably orthodox.

A major character in the book is one of the young black men who committed the rape and stole the rescue boat. We see him struggling with guilt, wrestling with fear, and trying to work out a way to make things right, to take responsibility and be a better kind of man.

Yet the bottom line, as Burke sees it, is that the young man is a victim. And he isn’t the victim of a welfare system that destroyed black families and communities, leaving young men like him without fathers or social support—no, it’s solely the fault of white racists.

There’s only one born-again Christian in this novel (Catholics fare better), and surprise, surprise—he’s a criminal hypocrite.

All the blame for the failure of relief efforts following the hurricane is placed solely on the shoulders of President Bush. From reading this book, you’d never know that New Orleans had a mayor, or that Louisiana had a governor, or that, if so, they had any responsibility whatever for disaster response.

Robicheaux’s superior officer is not only a woman, but a woman rumored to be androgynous. The FBI agent with whom he works most is a woman. In fact, in the world of this book, a male cop appears to be an anomaly. The police dispatcher, though, is a man.

There are strong suggestions that killing evil people is always wrong, and that it’s condescending and an insult for a man to try to protect a woman.

You know, the more I think about it, the less I like this extremely excellent book.