
One of the nice things about writing on a blog is the freedom to write about whatever you want. After all, there's really no money in this so when I recommend a book to my regular readers, you know it's because I like it.
Writer David Simon spent the entire year of 1988 with the Homicide squads of the Baltimore police department. As a crime reporter with the
Baltimore Sun, Simon was familiar with crime in the city.
As police procedurals go, this is the best. Anyone who has ever enjoyed a true crime novel needs to read this book. This is the antithesis of every formulaic murder mystery you have ever read. People kill one another over money, drugs, dirty looks or for no reason at all. The book drives home the stark reality of knowing these 36 detectives will not have a shortage of work. During the year in question, 234 people were murdered in the city. David Simon manages to sort through these victims as he follows the detectives and show you the murders that matter. Every one does of course, every body that falls will be worked as hard as possible to change the names on the tally board from red to black. However, even within this select group of victims, there are murders that matter. These are the Red Balls.
It is the illusion of tears and nothing more, the rainwater that
collects in small beads and runs to the hollows of her face. The dark
brown eyes are fixed wide, staring across wet pavement; jet black
braids of hair surround the deep brown skin, high cheekbones and a
pert, upturned nose. The lips are parted and curled in a slight, vague
frown. She is beautiful, even now....
Her upper body is partially wrapped in a red vinyl raincoat. Her
pants are a yellow print, but they are dirty and smudged. The front of
her blouse and the nylon jacket beneath the raincoat are both ripped,
both blotted red where the life ran out of her. A single ligature
mark--the deep impression of a rope or cord--travels the entire
circumference of her neck, crisscrossing just below the base of the
skull. Above her right arm is a blue cloth satchel, set upright on the
pavement and crammed with library books, some papers, a cheap camera
and a cosmetic case containing makeup in bright reds, blues and
purples--exaggerated, girlish colors that suggest amusement more than
allure.
She is eleven years old. (Simon 59)Simon manages to capture how even men hardened by their constant exposure to violence and death are galvanized to action by the murder of 11 year old Latonya Wallace. His writing draws you into the frustration felt by lead detective Tom Pelligrini as he leads an investigation that grinds on in an endless quest for the killer. The book ebbs and flows around his crusade. Other cases are worked, other suspects in other murders arrested and still this one dogs the new guy on the shift. The reader's heart breaks with Pelligrini's as the case wears him down.
What will draw you in and keep you interested is the gritty realism of the book. In places, the dialogue is so truthful, so raw, that you would swear someone like Elmore Leonard is writing it. The humor is black but necessary to what these men do. Surprisingly, you catch yourself being drawn back by the realization that this isn't fiction; this is real. The murders are real, the detectives are real, and most importantly the work they do is real.
Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets is probably as close as a layman can get to understanding what it is to be a police officer. David Simon succeeds by immersing the reader in this closed world and giving you just the barest sense of what it means to speak for the dead. Go find a copy and read it.