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Summary
Summary
Broken Prey
Author Notes
John Sandford was born John Roswell Camp on February 23, 1944 in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. Before entering the U.S. Army and serving in Korea, he received a bachelor's degree in American history from the University of Iowa in 1966. After leaving the service, he received a master's degree in journalism from the University of Iowa.
During the 1970s, he worked at The Miami Herald, and the St. Paul Pioneer Press. In 1985, he began researching the lives of a farm family caught in the midst of the crisis of American farming. The article, Life on the Land: An American Farm Family, won the Pulitzer Prize for Feature Writing and the American Society of Newspaper Editors Award for Non-Deadline Feature Writing.
After winning the Pulitzer Prize, he began writing fiction. His works include the Prey series, the Virgil Flowers series, and The Singular Menace series. He has also written nonfiction works on plastic surgery and art.
Sandford's Young Adult novels, Uncaged and Outrage, Books 1 and 2 of The Singular Menace Series co-written with Michelle Cook, made the New York Times Bestseller list in July 2016.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (4)
Publisher's Weekly Review
Sandford sends series hero Lucas Davenport's family off to London to ensure that domestic concerns never slow the action in this sexy, bloody thriller. Davenport, a Minnesota State Bureau of Criminal Apprehension investigator, had lately been doing political fix-it jobs for the governor, but this time he's got a psychopathic serial killer on his hands. ("All major metro areas had them, sometimes two and three at a time. The public had the impression that they were rare. They weren't.") The first victim, a young woman, was "scourged" with a wire whip; number two, a young man, had his penis cut off. Evidence first points to recently released sex offender Charlie Pope. Though Charlie is pretty dumb and the killer is extremely smart, it takes Davenport and his series partner, Detective Sloan, a while to realize they're chasing the wrong guy. Sandford introduces some lighter moments, the most entertaining about Davenport's new iPod and his quest to compile a list of the 100 best rock songs ever recorded, which every cop on the force gives him suggestions for. These moments allow readers to catch their breath amid the otherwise nonstop tension as the killer taunts the authorities while snaring more victims, and the cops race around the countryside always just a few minutes too late. For those who thought Davenport (and Sandford) were slowing down and showing signs of age and prosperity, this superlative entry will dispel all such notions. This is tough, unstoppable, white-knuckle fiction. Agent, Esther Newberg. 500,000 first printing; main selections of the Literary Guild, Doubleday Book Club, Mystery Guild and BOMC. (May) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved
Booklist Review
The first victim is a young woman, probably flayed alive and raped. Lucas Davenport, head of Minnesota's Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, is assigned to the case by his boss, the governor, who fears political fallout if a serial killer is on the loose. A tip puts Davenport and his team on the trail of a recently paroled sexual offender. Charley Pope never killed anyone, but conventional wisdom indicates his rage may escalate. But the planning that went into the crimes seems to exceed Charley's capabilities. Lucas also entertains the possibility that Charley was a "robot" for three Hannibal Lector types in the asylum's high-security section for the criminally insane. The seventeenth Prey thriller is a cut above recent entries in the series. For one, it's a real whodunit, with the killer not revealed until the last couple chapters. Second, it contains supersized servings of all the elements readers have come to treasure in the series: Davenport's quirky, self-deprecating, and ironic worldview; plenty of graveyard humor; and a dynamic sense of place, from the Minnesota countryside to bustling Minneapolis to the foreboding gothic architecture of the asylum. An extra treat is Davenport's ongoing mental gyrations as he compiles a list of rock's 100 greatest tunes for his new I-pod. His musical critiques are pure rock fan, and the final list is a hoot. Byzantine plot, memorable characters, and a subliminal soundtrack of classic rock 'n' roll. What's not to like? --Wes Lukowsky Copyright 2005 Booklist
Kirkus Review
Now that Lucas Davenport's gone up against a Russian spy ring (Hidden Prey, 2004), it's almost anticlimactic to ask him to catch a mere serial killer. But that's the only anticlimax here. What are the odds that the M.O. behind Angela Larson's murder--she was bound, scourged with a wire whip, and repeatedly raped before her throat was cut and her body laid out in a ritualistic display--would be repeated with a male victim? But Adam Rice, an old acquaintance of Blue Earth County sheriff Gene Nordwall's, presents the same grisly picture. Was their killer gay or bisexual? How did he find his victims? And what do they have in common? Lucas, who runs the Office of Regional Research for the Minnesota's Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, is all over the case, amassing evidence against Charlie Pope, a sex offender just released from St. John's Security Hospital with a few months to run on his sentence but his attitude still intact. Charlie has celebrated his freedom by sawing off his ankle monitor and vanishing--except for the trace evidence he's left at the crime scenes and the phone calls he makes, first to ambitious Star-Tribune reporter Ruffe Ignace, then to Lucas himself. The only trouble is that Charlie's clearly not smart enough to be the murderer. He must be getting help from somebody--maybe from one of the habitual Big Three offenders he spent time with at St. John's. Wondering whether anybody not named Hannibal Lecter can be issuing murderous instructions from inside a prison, Lucas and Co. hunker down to take a long hard look at the hospital just as things start to get really interesting. A tale so fast-moving you won't even notice the unobtrusively expert detective work till the second time around. Copyright ©Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.
Library Journal Review
Recently released sex criminal Charlie Pope is the main suspect in the gruesome murder that opens this novel. Lucas Davenport seeks help from psychologist Sister Mary Joseph, who insists Charlie isn't smart enough to be the killer. Two weeks later, there's another victim, this time a man. The clinicians, staff, and residents of St. John's mental hospital are interviewed, and the detectives surmise that a trio of homicidal sex maniacs are masterminding Charlie's murder spree. Clever misdirection, an exciting firefight, and an assortment of interesting characters intermix with Lucas's iPod compilation of the "100 Best Songs of the Rock Era" (a Beatles-less list!). Richard Ferrone's narration enhances the overall atmosphere and successfully depicts Lucas's gruff persona. Detailed descriptions of the crimes and violence may make some listeners uncomfortable, but such fare may be expected from police crime mysteries. Recommended.-Denise A. Garofalo, Astor Home for Children, Rhinebeck, NY (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
1 CHARLIE POPE TRUDGED down the alley with the empty garbage can on his back, soaked in the stench of rancid meat and rotten bananas and curdled blood and God knew what else, a man whose life had collapsed into a trash pit--and still he could feel the eyes falling on him. The secret glances and veiled gazes spattered him like sleet from a winter thunderstorm. Everyone in town knew Charlie Pope, and they all watched him. He'd been on the front page of the newspaper a half dozen times, his worried pig-eyed face peering out from the drop boxes and the shelves of the supermarkets. They got him when he registered as a sex offender, they got him outside his trailer, they got him carrying his can. Pervert Among Us , the papers said, Sex Maniac Stalks Our Daughters, How Long Will He Contain Himself Before Something Goes Terribly Wrong? Well--they didn't really say that, but that's exactly what they meant. Charlie tossed the empty garbage can to the side, stooped over the next one, lifted, staggered, and headed for the street. Heavy motherfucker. What'd they put in there, fuckin' typewriters? How can they expect a white man to keep up with these fuckin' Mexicans? All the other garbagemen were Mexicans, small guys from some obscure village down in the mountains. They worked incessantly, chattering in Spanish to isolate him, curling their lips at the American pervert who was made to work among them. CHARLIE WAS A LARGE MAN, more fat than muscle, with a football-shaped head, sloping shoulders, and short, thick legs. He was bald, but his ears were hairy; he had a diminutive chin, tiny lips, and deep-set, dime-sized eyes that glistened with fluid. Noticeable and not attractive. He looked like a maniac, a newspaper columnist said. He was a maniac. The electronic bracelet on his ankle testified to the fact. The cops had busted him and put him away for rape and aggravated assault, and suspected him in three other assaults and two murders. He'd done them, all right, and had gotten away with it, all but the one rape and ag assault. For that, they'd sent him to the hospital for eight years. Hospital. The thought made his lips crook up in a cynical smile. St. John's was to hospitals what a meat hook was to a hog. CHARLIE PUSHED BACK the thought of St. John's and wiped the sweat out of his eyebrows, wrestled the garbage cans out to the truck, lifting, throwing, then dragging and sometimes kicking the cans back to the customers' doors. He could smell himself in the sunshine: he smelled like sweat and spoiled cheese and rotten pork, like sour milk and curdled fat, like life gone bad. He'd thought he'd get used to it, but he never had. He smelled garbage every morning when he got to work, smelled it on himself all day, smelled it in his sweat, smelled it on his pillow in that hot, miserable trailer. Hot and miserable, but better than St. John's. EARLY MORNING. Charlie was across the park from the famous Sullivan Bank when the chick in the raspberry-colored pants went by. The last straw? The straw that broke the camel's back? Her brown eyes struck Charlie as cold raindrops, then flicked away when he turned at the impact; he was left with the impression of soft brown eyebrows, fine skin, and raspberry lipstick. She had a heart-shaped ass. She was wearing a cream-colored silk blouse, hip-clinging slacks, and low heels that lengthened her legs and tightened her ass at the same. She walked with that long busy confident stride seen on young businesswomen, full of themselves and still strangers to hard decision and failure. And honest to God, her ass was heart shaped. Charlie felt a catch of desire in his throat. Her hips twitched sideways with each of her steps: like two bobcats fighting in a gunny sack, somebody had once said, one of the other perverts at St. John's, trying to be funny. But it wasn't like that at all. It was a soft move, it was the motion of the world, right there in the raspberry slacks, with the slender back tapering down to her waist, her heels clicking on the sidewalk, her shoulder-length hair swinging in a backbeat to the rhythm of her legs. Jesus God, he needed one. He'd been eight and a half years without real sex. Charlie's tongue flicked out like a lizard's as he looked after her, and he could taste the garbage on his lips, could feel--even if they weren't there at this minute, he could feel them--the flies buzzing around his head. Charlie Pope, thirty-four, a maniac, smelling like old banana peels and spoiled coffee grounds, standing on the street in Owatonna, passing eyes like icy raindrops, looking at a girl with a heart-shaped ass in raspberry slacks, and telling himself, "I gotta get me some of that. I just gotta..." Excerpted from Broken Prey by John Sandford All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
