EIGHT IN THE BOX

A debut about a serial killer who puts a literal spin on “blood bath.”

Stalking carefully selected professional women, the killer strikes lethally, then vanishes into the Boston shadows. Or that’s what law enforcement assumes, since there are never any corpses left behind to tell a tale. There are only blood-chilling, blood-filled bathtubs to underscore an m.o. and provide the outlines of a scenario. That there must be victims seems incontrovertible, but what does The Blood Bath Killer, as the media dubs the perp, want with their bodies? Though they investigate intensively, veteran homicide cop Mooney and his eager young disciple Alves remain without a lead. Connie Darget and his crew of self-involved ADA’s are equally clueless, if noticeably less focused because career-building ranks significantly higher on their agenda than reining in a monster. Meanwhile the score mounts remorselessly as the blood-letter plays a gory game of catch me if you can. Clearly the killer is a psychopath, but one who’s obviously clever, highly skilled in avoiding pitfalls and, to Mooney and Alves at least, very scary. Finally a piece of information changes the direction of the investigation sharply and leads to a stunning surprise for all concerned—except perhaps savvy readers schooled by Agatha Christie.

Attorney Yessayan does full justice to his courtroom scenes. It’s his characters that have to make do with a lick and a promise.