True Detectives by Jonathan Kellerman (2009)

The actual plot of True Detectives is convoluted but has something to do with a missing girl; a fat, gross, and crazy movie director who is completely obviously an amalgam of Michael Moore and Mel Gibson; a spiraling down young movie star; and whatever. Also there’s some Cain and Abel, or rather Moses and Aaron, stuff going on. Plots are not really what I read Kellerman for.

I’ve been reading Kellerman since his first novel, When the Bough Breaks, came out in 1985. Back then, he had a fresh idea: Alex Delaware, a child psychiatrist (retired and wealthy thanks to some good real-estate deals), is brought in to consult on cases involving traumatized children. Child abuse was a big topic back then, and Kellerman made good use of his own experience with medical pediatrics. He was probably the first mystery writer to use Munchausen’s Syndrome by Proxy as a plot device. And he was one of the first to feature a gay detective, Milo Sturgis, as a main character.

In the 25 years since, he’s not as fresh, and even expanding his mystery stories beyond Alex and Milo—and children—hasn’t much changed the usual way he unfolds his novels. A crime occurs in the Los Angeles area; his detectives go around asking lots of questions; too many leads, not enough connections; and slowly the pieces come together, no matter how scattered they first appear. Usually there’s a final confrontation, often at some remote hideaway of the villain’s. You might learn something about forensics, medicine, or science along the way. The usual.

What makes the novels still very enjoyable, to me anyway, is Kellerman’s snappy spot-on characterization and dialogue that sounds like the real thing. Here, Jack and Darius—two cops on a hot 1979 L.A. night—are cruising alleyways, and they’re bemoaning the cop car’s alleged air conditioning.

Jack Reed said, “Alleged, as in Jimmy Carter’s a commander in chief.”

“Now you’re getting unpleasantly political.”

“That’s a problem?”

“Night like this it is.”

He’s also able to write dialogue for all kinds of people: low-life criminals, the rich and famous, beat cops and detectives, and regular folks of all personalities and backgrounds. He also does a good job of rendering internal dialogue realistically.

As for characterization, Kellerman takes time to sketch even minor background people in a few descriptive phrases. He’s acutely aware of fashion and brands and what clothes say about the wearer. Some examples:

· [Mr. Dmitri] was a short, bald, stubby-limbed, bullnecked man in his late fifties with a pie-tin face blued by stubble . . . . [Although rich], he wasn’t spending it on wardrobe. Short-sleeved pale blue shirt, baggy gray pleated pants, gray New Balances.

· Tonight she’d gone for sultry but subdued: black V-neck sweater with a triangle of white cammie hiding some but not all of her cleaves, snug gray wool/Lycra slacks that hugged her like a lover.

· Dement had the same badass-hick getup he’d displayed in the family photo: plaid Pendleton, jeans, motorcycle boots. Sleeves rolled to the elbows exposed chunky, inked-up forearms. Greasy hair was tied back in a ponytail; a full, unruly beard framed a nose that looked as if it had assaulted someone’s fist.

One of his characters, a clotheshorse with a very elaborate closet, lets Kellerman give free rein to his love for describing beautiful clothes:

· Aaron met the poor fool wearing indigo Diesel jeans, a slate-colored, retro Egyptian cotton T-shirt from VagueLine, unstructured black linen jacket, perforated black Santoni driving shoes.

· What the well-dressed man dons when sitting on his ass for protracted periods of tedium came down to a loose brown linen shirt-jacket with four flap pockets, tailored to conceal his 9mm, beige cargo pants of the same carefully rumpled fabric that provided another quartet of compartments, cream silk socks, butter-soft pigskin Santoni driving shoes.

I guess you could say that the focus on appearance as characterization is shallow, but I really enjoy how adept Kellerman is at getting the nuances of clothing and self-presentation.