Reviewed by Andrew S. Balfour
There’s a lot that modern fiction tends to get wrong when it comes to psychopaths. The charming and sophisticated killer is a popular image — think Hannibal Lecter — but rare is the author who recognizes that the characteristic lack of empathy is only part of the package. For D.B. Carew, the realities of mental illness are nothing new. A social worker in the field of forensic psychiatry, he has chosen to write what he knows with his first novel, The Killer Trail. Set primarily within the walls of a psychiatric hospital in Vancouver, the book aims to paint a realistic picture of the grey area where mental health and criminal justice meet.
Carew’s protagonist, Chris Ryder, not only shares the author’s line of work, but also his self-professed love of running. Ryder stumbles on the body of James Carrier on an isolated jogging trail, and finds a cell phone that brings him to the attention of the killer, Ray Owens. Owens, it turns out, was once a patient at the Institute of Forensic Psychiatry, where Ryder just happened to be his social worker. Owens holds a grudge for his perceived mistreatment at the IFP, and seizes the opportunity to indulge in his favourite pastime: revenge.
For the first few chapters, I thought the story would be confined to the trail, a tense cat-and-mouse game in a wooded park. In reality, the plot doesn’t start rolling until after Owens fails to kill Ryder. Hospitalized after barely surviving the attack, Ryder must cope not only with post-traumatic stress, but the knowledge that Owens will be waiting for him when he returns to work. Claiming to suffer from schizophrenic delusions, Owens has been sent to the IFP for assessment, where he hopes to continue his twisted game with Ryder.
The secondary plot revolves around the cell phone, the disappearance of James Carrier’s daughter Elizabeth, and Owens’ boss, the mysterious “C.L.”. C.L. wants the phone because it could tie him to Owens’ crime, and Elizabeth’s abduction is part of his plan to retrieve it. Only Ryder knows the phone’s location, hidden along the trail where he first discovered it. C.L. believes he can use Elizabeth’s life as a bargaining chip to ensure Ryder’s cooperation.
This all sounds like the setup to a tense psychological thriller, and that’s certainly what I was expecting. Instead I found myself reading haphazardly paced personal drama sandwiched between brief interludes of thriller-lite action. The premise is clever, but the execution is hobbled by awkward prose, mechanical dialogue, and dimensionless characters.
It didn’t take long to notice problems with the narrative. Carew’s writing style is heavy on description, and very repetitive. On one page, while pondering the kidnapping, we’re told that Ryder “figured all along that Ray was in charge.” Less than a page later, Carew adds that “Chris had assumed all along that Ray Owens was the mastermind.” This represents a pattern throughout the book, not just of repetition, but of the author’s need to remind the reader of every detail. Case in point: Elizabeth Carrier’s full name is given every time she appears, despite being the only Elizabeth in the book.
The problem is compounded by the structure of the story. Everything is delivered in short chapters, often only a page or two, and the padded descriptions are contrasted with incredibly brief action. The book’s climax revolves around the cell phone, C.L., and Elizabeth, but that whole plotline takes up fewer than fifty of the book’s two hundred and eighty pages. There’s no room to explore Elizabeth’s terror, or the menace of the mystery villain. Any lingering tension is deflated when the author casually gives away C.L.’s identity halfway through the book.
The personal drama of Chris Ryder gets more breathing room, but still manages to rush through important moments. We spend page after page inside Ryder’s head, but he walks into a bar and gets falling-down drunk in two or three paragraphs, while having a conversation that should only take five minutes. The romantic subplot suffers worst of all, getting so little attention that I wonder why the author bothered to include it. That’s a question I found myself asking more than once with the supporting cast.
Outside of Ryder and Owens, none of the characters in the book have any depth to speak of. Most are only there to give Ryder someone to talk to, and their personalities don’t extend past a few lines of dialogue. Even Elizabeth and C.L., who are clearly very important to the story, get so little attention that they never grow beyond their most basic traits. Elizabeth is a damsel-shaped cardboard cutout whose personality traits consist of crying and praying, and C.L. is an angry fat man who makes phone calls and yells at people.
The worst examples have to be Florence, the IFP’s director, and the obligatory love interest, Stephanie. Neither character appears for more than a few pages, and I got the impression that they were included to fill the “angry boss” and “girlfriend” boxes on Carew’s writing checklist. Florence’s job is to yell at Ryder, coldly chastising him for being the victim of a violent assault. Stephanie is there to question Ryder’s judgment and give him someone besides his ex-wife and daughter to worry about.
The one place where Carew shines is in the character of Ray Owens, who comes across as a textbook psychopath. He is not the effortlessly superior manipulator he clearly thinks he is, and his inability to accept responsibility for his actions combines well with his growing resentment of Ryder. I wish the author had done more with their story. As it is, the main conflict of the book consists of a few childish taunts and a single act of violence against yet another background character, and ends with an apparently shocking revelation that left me rolling my eyes.
I haven’t said much about Ryder’s characterization, because there isn’t much to say. He’s not much more than the author’s surrogate, and spends most of the book bouncing between weary resignation and uncontrolled emotional outbursts. The latter is a product of post-traumatic stress disorder, and is a perfectly realistic response to what Ryder has been through. Unfortunately, that’s all there is to him; he’s a dedicated social worker, likes to run, and is a volatile wreck. It’s not the most compelling package.
I can’t end this review without discussing dialogue. It’s hard to make shallow characters shine without compelling dialogue, and what Carew delivers is lifeless at the best of times. I lost count of the number of times the friendly police sergeant ended a sentence with the word “buddy.” And when Ryder’s longtime colleague responds to bad news with “Ouch. That can’t be good, my friend,” I asked myself who addresses their friends that way in casual conversation. It just doesn’t sound authentic.
If the author had taken the time to read the characters’ conversations aloud, he might have realized how robotic they tend to sound. It gets worse when he decides to lecture the reader on the subject of mental health care, using Ryder or one of his colleagues as a mouthpiece. Coupled with the heavy, redundant narration, it made character interactions harder to read than any other part of the book.
This could have been a really good story. Carew has excellent ideas, and his insider’s perspective on mental illness would be a great asset in the hands of a more practised writer. Ultimately, practice is what he seems to need. The flaws on display in this book are exactly what I would expect from a first-time writer, the sort of problems that could be fixed with another draft or two. I’d like to see Carew try again. He’s got great potential as a storyteller, but judging by The Killer Trail, he’s not quite there yet.
NeWest | 282 pages | $15.95 | paper | ISBN # 978-1927063521
‘The Killer Trail’ by D.B. Carew
Book Reviews
There’s a lot that modern fiction tends to get wrong when it comes to psychopaths. The charming and sophisticated killer is a popular image — think Hannibal Lecter — but rare is the author who recognizes that the characteristic lack of empathy is only part of the package. For D.B. Carew, the realities of mental illness are nothing new. A social worker in the field of forensic psychiatry, he has chosen to write what he knows with his first novel, The Killer Trail. Set primarily within the walls of a psychiatric hospital in Vancouver, the book aims to paint a realistic picture of the grey area where mental health and criminal justice meet.
Carew’s protagonist, Chris Ryder, not only shares the author’s line of work, but also his self-professed love of running. Ryder stumbles on the body of James Carrier on an isolated jogging trail, and finds a cell phone that brings him to the attention of the killer, Ray Owens. Owens, it turns out, was once a patient at the Institute of Forensic Psychiatry, where Ryder just happened to be his social worker. Owens holds a grudge for his perceived mistreatment at the IFP, and seizes the opportunity to indulge in his favourite pastime: revenge.
For the first few chapters, I thought the story would be confined to the trail, a tense cat-and-mouse game in a wooded park. In reality, the plot doesn’t start rolling until after Owens fails to kill Ryder. Hospitalized after barely surviving the attack, Ryder must cope not only with post-traumatic stress, but the knowledge that Owens will be waiting for him when he returns to work. Claiming to suffer from schizophrenic delusions, Owens has been sent to the IFP for assessment, where he hopes to continue his twisted game with Ryder.
The secondary plot revolves around the cell phone, the disappearance of James Carrier’s daughter Elizabeth, and Owens’ boss, the mysterious “C.L.”. C.L. wants the phone because it could tie him to Owens’ crime, and Elizabeth’s abduction is part of his plan to retrieve it. Only Ryder knows the phone’s location, hidden along the trail where he first discovered it. C.L. believes he can use Elizabeth’s life as a bargaining chip to ensure Ryder’s cooperation.
This all sounds like the setup to a tense psychological thriller, and that’s certainly what I was expecting. Instead I found myself reading haphazardly paced personal drama sandwiched between brief interludes of thriller-lite action. The premise is clever, but the execution is hobbled by awkward prose, mechanical dialogue, and dimensionless characters.
It didn’t take long to notice problems with the narrative. Carew’s writing style is heavy on description, and very repetitive. On one page, while pondering the kidnapping, we’re told that Ryder “figured all along that Ray was in charge.” Less than a page later, Carew adds that “Chris had assumed all along that Ray Owens was the mastermind.” This represents a pattern throughout the book, not just of repetition, but of the author’s need to remind the reader of every detail. Case in point: Elizabeth Carrier’s full name is given every time she appears, despite being the only Elizabeth in the book.
The problem is compounded by the structure of the story. Everything is delivered in short chapters, often only a page or two, and the padded descriptions are contrasted with incredibly brief action. The book’s climax revolves around the cell phone, C.L., and Elizabeth, but that whole plotline takes up fewer than fifty of the book’s two hundred and eighty pages. There’s no room to explore Elizabeth’s terror, or the menace of the mystery villain. Any lingering tension is deflated when the author casually gives away C.L.’s identity halfway through the book.
The personal drama of Chris Ryder gets more breathing room, but still manages to rush through important moments. We spend page after page inside Ryder’s head, but he walks into a bar and gets falling-down drunk in two or three paragraphs, while having a conversation that should only take five minutes. The romantic subplot suffers worst of all, getting so little attention that I wonder why the author bothered to include it. That’s a question I found myself asking more than once with the supporting cast.
Outside of Ryder and Owens, none of the characters in the book have any depth to speak of. Most are only there to give Ryder someone to talk to, and their personalities don’t extend past a few lines of dialogue. Even Elizabeth and C.L., who are clearly very important to the story, get so little attention that they never grow beyond their most basic traits. Elizabeth is a damsel-shaped cardboard cutout whose personality traits consist of crying and praying, and C.L. is an angry fat man who makes phone calls and yells at people.
The worst examples have to be Florence, the IFP’s director, and the obligatory love interest, Stephanie. Neither character appears for more than a few pages, and I got the impression that they were included to fill the “angry boss” and “girlfriend” boxes on Carew’s writing checklist. Florence’s job is to yell at Ryder, coldly chastising him for being the victim of a violent assault. Stephanie is there to question Ryder’s judgment and give him someone besides his ex-wife and daughter to worry about.
The one place where Carew shines is in the character of Ray Owens, who comes across as a textbook psychopath. He is not the effortlessly superior manipulator he clearly thinks he is, and his inability to accept responsibility for his actions combines well with his growing resentment of Ryder. I wish the author had done more with their story. As it is, the main conflict of the book consists of a few childish taunts and a single act of violence against yet another background character, and ends with an apparently shocking revelation that left me rolling my eyes.
I haven’t said much about Ryder’s characterization, because there isn’t much to say. He’s not much more than the author’s surrogate, and spends most of the book bouncing between weary resignation and uncontrolled emotional outbursts. The latter is a product of post-traumatic stress disorder, and is a perfectly realistic response to what Ryder has been through. Unfortunately, that’s all there is to him; he’s a dedicated social worker, likes to run, and is a volatile wreck. It’s not the most compelling package.
I can’t end this review without discussing dialogue. It’s hard to make shallow characters shine without compelling dialogue, and what Carew delivers is lifeless at the best of times. I lost count of the number of times the friendly police sergeant ended a sentence with the word “buddy.” And when Ryder’s longtime colleague responds to bad news with “Ouch. That can’t be good, my friend,” I asked myself who addresses their friends that way in casual conversation. It just doesn’t sound authentic.
If the author had taken the time to read the characters’ conversations aloud, he might have realized how robotic they tend to sound. It gets worse when he decides to lecture the reader on the subject of mental health care, using Ryder or one of his colleagues as a mouthpiece. Coupled with the heavy, redundant narration, it made character interactions harder to read than any other part of the book.
This could have been a really good story. Carew has excellent ideas, and his insider’s perspective on mental illness would be a great asset in the hands of a more practised writer. Ultimately, practice is what he seems to need. The flaws on display in this book are exactly what I would expect from a first-time writer, the sort of problems that could be fixed with another draft or two. I’d like to see Carew try again. He’s got great potential as a storyteller, but judging by The Killer Trail, he’s not quite there yet.
NeWest | 282 pages | $15.95 | paper | ISBN # 978-1927063521