Rules of Prey by John Sandford: A review

Rules of Prey was the first in what has become a very long-running series featuring Minneapolis police detective Lucas Davenport. It was first published in 1989.

The series was recently recommended to me by someone very familiar with my addiction to reading mystery series. Recommendations by this person usually work out well for me so I decided to give it a try.

In the beginning, I had my doubts about this particular suggestion. Lucas Davenport seemed like a bit of a jerk, and I wasn't at all sure I could warm up to him. Plus, the story involved a torturer/rapist/serial murderer of women - not really what I prefer to read about. But as I kept reading, gradually, I became rather engrossed by the plot and interested to see how the writer was going to bring it all together. By the end, I still thought Lucas Davenport was a jerk and I was bothered by some of the writing, but, on the whole, the story overcame those objections.

The serial killer is known as the maddog (one word) and he has the Twin Cities in a state of suspense, wondering where he will strike next. Each of his kills follows a distinctive method, and, after a while, it emerges that each of his victims is a particular type - dark hair, same body type, etc. He is careful to leave no clues and no possibility of DNA at the scenes of the murders, but, with each body, he leaves a note, a note that lists one of his "rules." For example: "Never have a motive"; "Never carry a weapon after it has been used"; "Never follow a discernible pattern." He seems quite mad but intelligent.

(Parenthetically, this was one of the writer's tics that really started to annoy me. He reminded us at every instance of our meeting his maddog that he was intelligent. Moreover, he lays it on pretty thick about Lucas Davenport's intelligence at every opportunity. AND, he assures us that, although Davenport sleeps around quite a bit, he's really only interested in "intelligent" women! In fact, intelligent seems to be one of Sandford's favorite words. Maybe he needs a thesaurus.)

Anyway, enter Lucas Davenport. He's independently wealthy, thanks to the fact that he designs very successful games in his spare time. He wears expensive Italian suits and drives a Porsche. He's a former hockey player who loves Emily Dickinson's poetry. He's a gambler and he's willing to bend the rules if it will help him achieve his idea of justice. He has killed five men in the line of duty as a cop.

While the rest of the police force follows a plan in trying to track down the serial killer, Davenport is special. He's given the leniency to follow his own rules as long as they bring results, and nobody seems to ask any embarrassing questions about just how he achieves his aims.

This book is adeptly plotted and, once it gets going, it moves along at fast pace. My only real criticisms of it are the aforementioned writer's tics, plus the unrelieved dark and violent nature of the story. I don't know if all the books in the series are like this, but if they are, I probably won't last long in reading them. But I'm prepared to give it another chance. First books in a series are not always indicative of what is to come. This one I would give three-and-a-half stars. Oh, what the heck - I'll be generous and give it four.

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters! Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...

The Nature of Things

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