Shadow Prey by John Sandford: A review

My considered opinion is that Minneapolis detective Lucas Davenport is a jerk. He's one of those guys who sees himself as a gift to women of all shapes, sizes, and kinds. He excuses his behavior as a Lothario by saying that he just LOVES women. And so he moves back and forth among a gaggle of women giving them the precious gift of himself and, quite often, his sperm.

He has a more or less steady girlfriend with whom he has a child, but when a NYPD lieutenant comes to Minneapolis to assist in the investigation of a series of killings that may be related to one that occurred in New York, he just can't help pursuing her and eventually falling into bed with her, in spite of the fact that she is married and has two teenage children.

He's supposed to be in the "intelligence" section of the Minneapolis police department and yet he drives around town in his Porsche in order to meet with his contacts. Not exactly the discrete behavior one might expect from one in such a position. His co-workers and superiors seem in awe of his abilities as a detective, but, frankly, I don't see much evidence of sharp detective work. He just seems to blunder around until information falls into his lap.

This is the second book in this series and, so far, they read like the fantasy of a man in mid-life crisis. It occurs to me that I just might not be the prime audience for whom these books are being written.

All that being said, this is an interesting story which explores the fraught relations between the Native American community of Minnesota - and, by extension, America - and the police and larger community.

Here we meet Sam and Aaron Crow, two aging Sioux radicals who have planned a terror campaign against government officials whom they deem enemies of Native American people by virtue of crimes they have committed against the People - crimes for which they have never been punished. The Crows aim to see that punishment is meted out before they die.

They have sent their followers out to various locations around the country to dispense justice with ceremonial stone knives which they wear around their necks. A slumlord in Minneapolis, a rising political star in Manhattan, a Federal judge in Oklahoma City, all fall to the knife. But then two Native Americans in Minneapolis, a drug-addled teenager and a social worker, also are killed in the same manner. Has the killer turned on his own people? How can all these murders be related?

One feels a great deal of empathy for the Crows. Their cause seems righteous on many levels. The men whom they sent their followers to kill had committed crimes, often heinous crimes, against Native Americans. But can such violence ever be justified? Maybe when there is no hope of receiving justice through the courts? At least within the pages of a book, we can cheer such retribution without any actual blood being spilled.

But what of the murder of the teenager and the social worker? Their killer is a psycho feeding off the energy of the Crows' campaign. And that may be a natural consequence of such violence.

So, all in all, a good story, but I just cannot like the main character. This is a very long-running series. This book was published in 1990 and it's still going. I wonder if Lucas Davenport ever grows up during all those years.

My rating: 3 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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