Spokane, Washington: a bustling city split by hurtling white-water falls. During a routine drug bust, Detective Caroline Mabry finds herself on a narrow bridge over the falls, face-to-face with a brutal murderer named Lenny Ryan. Within hours, the body of a young prostitute is found nearby, dumped along the riverbank. Then another. And another. Soon Caroline and her cynical mentor Alan Dupree are thrown headlong into the search for a serial murderer police have nicknamed the Southbank Strangler. But while Caroline hunts a killer, he may also be hunting her.
This is the perfect book for someone that has read a ton of police procedurals and gripes that they’re too “same-y”. Walter starts down that road but by the halfway point he’s subverting some tropes and dissecting others, exposing them to the light. I haven’t read enough murder mysteries to do it justice in this review, but I’ll try.
Caroline Mabry is a new-ish detective that finds herself in the middle of a serial murder case. Along with her philosophical mentor and a technologically savvy greenhorn, they hunt down a killer who is offing prostitutes and hiding their bodies after rubber banding some money to their hand.
When the body count starts to rise Mabry is sent to consult with Blanton, an expert profiler of legend. He reminded me in some ways of Robert Ressler in that he’s known for getting into the minds of men who commit these heinous acts over and over again.
Blanton is not too happy that a woman has been sent, as:
I’ve never met a woman who contributed much to these kinds of cases. Fortunately for them, they don’t have the capacity for understanding this type of killer, for understanding the fantasy.
In other words, something about raping and killing people is inherently male, a fantasy that every guy harbors in some part of his (hopefully subconscious) brain.
Maybe there were no monsters. Maybe every man who looked at a Penthouse was essentially embarking on the same path that ended with some guy beating a woman to death and violating her with a lug wrench. No wonder Blanton was dubious of Caroline’s role in the investigation. If she couldn’t imagine the violent fantasy, what could she imagine? The victim. The fear. And what good were those?
Blanton continues in this vein, echoing stuff that I’ve read in nonfic about profilers and remaining very disturbing. By framing the book from a female detective’s perspective the unease settles in our bones, and I may never look at serial killer cases the same way again.
It bothers Mabry that the victims are seen as a collection of clues and not people – the number dead matters more than who they were. She concentrates on those killed in stead of blindly following the profilers on her way to solving the case.
Walter made me think about serial killer literature in a new way. If you’re well read in the genre I’m sure you’ll find more flipped and subverted tropes than I did. On top of that the writing is a cut above and Spokane, or more accurately its waterways, is a character itself.
Eventually, the water prevails, even in cities of the dead. Eventually, the water comes for us all, washes over the statues and through the crypts, topples the headstones and tumbles the graves.
Plotty with well-characterized protagonists and much to mull over, Over Tumbled Graves is a heckuva book and is perfect for my Serial Killer Summer. I’m looking forward to returning to it once I have more murder mysteries under my literary belt.