Ruined Books

The following post has been scrubbed of obvious spoilers just in case...

I'm a fan of a certain pulp fiction detective series. The protagonist is a homicide detective who works with the FBI on particularly crazy serial killings. This small nugget of information may have already given away the author and series. I've been reading these books off and on for a few years. I tend to save them for summer vacation. I've even bought books from the series at random sales and stashed them away for just such a purpose. However, I've hit a bit of a snag.

Today, I went ahead and started the next book. I had to take the car in for service and knew I would have an hour+ wait. Within 30 pages I knew I had a problem. I know who done it. I'm not saying I've guessed who done it based on an intimate knowledge of the writer's style or some cliche' of the genre. Nooooo! I'm saying I know the identity of the crazy guy.

It all started 2 summers ago on our one and only European vacation. At some point I needed an extra book for the return flight. I picked up a random book from later (much later) in the series. During on of the protagonist's classic moments of introspection he pondered the events of the very case I'm attempting to read about today. In a moment of frustrating clarity, I remembered that book, the scene playing out in my head. I then remembered how I got to page 150 somewhere over the Atlantic only to discover that the book was misprinted and the next 80 pages were reprints of pages 1-80. Did I mention that my seat's video-player was broken. About 30 minutes later, the attendant finally got it fixed for me. It was then I realized that it was the same exact line-up of videos from the trip over. There I was with 4 hours to go, a ruined book, a partly working monitor shows crap I'd already watched and I couldn't even look out the window from my inner-isle seat. ARRRGGGGHHHH!!! But I digress...

I know that there's fox in the hen house. I know a bunch about what he's going to do next. I know that it's not just the book I'm reading that's tainted, but the next book as well. It's not like re-watching a movie or reading some back-issue comics to learn how it all happened. The whole point of these stories for me is trying to figure out the clues and then be right. My victory has been stolen from me. There is nothing left.

My wife suggested that I would still enjoy the books. She's probably right. But, I also confess a love-hate relationship with them. See, the author really fucks over his hero's life. Every book someone he cares about dies, gets kidnapped, beaten, stalked... I like the hero. I love his family. I don't know I want to go through all that if I already know the killer is and a little about what he's going to do.

My advice to you is to never ever read a series of mysteries or detective novels out of order unless you are 100% certain that the events will have ZERO connection to the other books.

I guess I'm headed to the library on Saturday to get something else to read on vacation.