Yes, that's right: Biker lawyer Roger Coskins, ambulance-chasing Warren Richardson, restaurant-botulism defender Bill Burke, and Lawrence Benton, the anti-fast-food litigator ("Mr. Coffee"), are only the first casualties in an all-out war on Southland attorneys. Noting the gruesome similarities between each counsel's means of exit and the way he plied his trade, Det. Joanna Davis, LAPD Robbery-Homicide, can't find any other common grounds among them thicker than their diplomas, or any physical clues, witnesses, or suspects worth pursuing. As she makes the rounds asking routine questions of surviving relatives—including a healthy dose of the trophy widows Cannon (Guns and Roses,
2000, etc.) does so well—the body count, boosted by false leads and copycat killings, heads toward the boiling point. But things never boil over because the snappy descriptions and dialogue are stuck with a pokey plot in which the only big events are the discoveries of more stiffening officers of the court. By the time the killer, who calls himself Ace when he's not using one of a half-dozen aliases, decides to take a personal interest in the lady cop about to trace him to a quiet Iowa town whose citizens just can't believe that boy could have done such awful things, all hope of originality has fled faster than a billable hour.
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