Ellroy was 10 years old when his mother was brutally raped and murdered; the perpetrator never came to light, and Ellroy could never recover from this trauma. Written from the perspective of a serial killer, “Killer on the Road” predates Ellroy’s truly great works (hello, “L. A. Confidential”) and Martin Plunkett’s early years bear a striking resemblance to the author’s own biography, from petty theft to serial breaking and entering. And as it’s well known, Ellroy didn’t have to venture far for a little panty sniffing – at least not once he had pinched said underwear from the neighbor’s place.
Ellroy’s trademark, the endlessly stripped-down, short sentences forming a monumental mass of text, doesn’t appear in this early book (1986); quite the opposite: the book’s style is incredibly loose, saturated with self-irony and cynicism, and it does read quite well. At least for a while. Plunkett, the protagonist of “Killer on the Road,” a brilliant and lonely outsider, is initially quite likable, although his many fantasies and dreams – as tends to be the case with others’ – are rather tiresome.
And although you know Martin is as mad as a hornet, you’re still rooting for him and hoping against hope that he’ll eventually turn things around, because someone as smart as him couldn’t possibly go down the wrong path. And those few sexual aberrations, my dear God, honestly, who doesn’t have them? You clap with joy when he meets a gorgeous and mischievous girl who seems to be just right for him. She’ll take care of him, you think, and from then on, everything will be fine. The sick motherfraker instead kills the woman without hesitation!
And from this point on, “Killer on the Road” isn’t quite as enjoyable to read, because fundamentally, it’s not enjoyable to read about a sick animal who kills for his own sexual gratification. From here on out, it’s the same story: killing, affectation, daydreaming. Then repeat. Then repeat again.
Boring and uninteresting? Yeah. And the psychology behind it? Well, it goes like this: these kinds of guys kill because it’s in their nature. And that’s that.
And if you weren’t already bored enough, you’re inundated with identical newspaper articles and police reports about the massacres, and then the author retells these same massacres from the protagonist’s perspective. Again. Here, even James Ellroy must have felt that it wasn’t enough; something new had to be thrown in, which is why he introduces ANOTHER serial killer into the story, who becomes good pals with Plunkett.
(A tip for those readers of the blog who flirt with serial killings: You should only befriend another serial killer if you ABSOLUTELY want to get caught!)
While the Plunketts are killing their way across America and the decades, the FBI establishes the Behavioral Science Unit to investigate serial killers, pam pam param, which is not very good news for Plunkett or his buddy, but only for the reader: because this way, “The Killer on the Road” turns into a slightly more normal crime novel by the very end, and this somewhat improves this murky book, which, alongside its repulsive theme, is damn boring too.
6,9/10
Killer on the Road by James Ellroy
272 pages, Paperback
Published in 1999 by William Morrow Paperbacks