These are some of the most depressing books I have ever read, but they are so well written that it is hard to leave them alone.
Nine years ago, a madman was wandering New York City stabbing women to death with an ice pick. Then suddenly the killings stop. Then through a fluke the killer is apprehended and cheerfully confesses to the killings, except the last one. That one he refuses to claim, and the records at Bellevue bear him out - he was locked in a secure psychiatric facility when the last victim died. Now her father wants to know why she died, since it wasn't just the inexplicable act of a madman.
Scudder takes it on, basically intending to do a little poking around and then tell the father that he was unable to discover anything that the police didn't cover at the time. But he does discover something. And in true Scudder style, although he provides closure for the woman's father, his digging has upset the fragile balance of her husband's new marriage and visited disaster on another group of people.
In his personal life, such as it is, one of the women that was connected with the victim seems to be a true kindred spirit for Scudder, who wanders from drink to drink through his every day. However, their relationship is short-lived when she decides that she has to kick the booze. Scudder isn't there yet, even though he has a couple of blackouts and is aware that he has made some mistakes that could have had devastating outcomes.
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