By Michael Connelly
The obvious suicide of his policeman brother units Denver crime reporter Jack McEvoy on part. shock on the situations of his brother's demise activates Jack to seem right into a entire sequence of police suicides, and places him at the path of a cop killer whose sufferers are chosen all too rigorously. not just that, yet all of them go away suicide notes drawn from the poems of author Edgar Allan Poe of their wake.
More scary nonetheless, the killer looks to understand that Jack is getting closer and closer. An research that appears just like the tale of an entire life may additionally be Jack's price tag to a lonely end.
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Extra info for Jack McEvoy 1 The Poet
Case closed. It doesn't matter what hooked him about Lofton. Besides, it's not known as fact that it had anything to do with what he did. It's collateral at best. " "Cut the crap. " Wexler's eyebrows raised a subliminal amount, I thought. "It's all there. Sean was fucked up over dus case. He was seeing a shrink, he was spending all of his time on it. " I interrupted. "What" "Kid. " Wexler looked confused. " Wexler raised his arms in a hands-off manner. "Why can't I see the file? " "I do. You're afraid of it, man.
You aren't going to clear it, are you? That's what this is all about. You don't want me digging around and writing about your failure. " "Jack, don't try the below-the-belt shit. " He was right. It never had. "Then what? " "Yeah, something like that. " In the car with Wexler and St. Louis I sat with my arms crossed. It was comforting. Almost as if I were holding myself together. The more I thought about my brother the more the whole thing made no sense to me. I knew the Lofton case had weighed on him but not to the point that he'd want to take his own life.
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's messengers standing there when they open it. This time it would be. 'You know, she's going to know," I told them. "Probably," Wexler said. " I realized they were counting on Riley knowing the score as soon as she opened the door. It would make their job easier. I dropped my chin to my chest and brought my fingers up beneath my glasses to pinch the bridge of my nose. I had become a character in one of my own storiesexhibiting the details of grief and loss I worked so hard to get so I could make a thirty-inch newspaper story seem meaningful.