The hypnotist

Review by New York Times Review

Once women got tired of being cast as helpless victims in crime novels and began running their own investigative agencies, authors had to scramble for other marginalized groups requiring the services of a detective hero. For more than a decade, P. L. Gaus has been writing quietly spellbinding mysteries about one such group, the conservative Old Order Amish of Holmes County, Ohio. Returning to the region in the seventh installment of his series, HARMLESS AS DOVES (Ohio University, $24.95), Gaus offers a sensitive account of the impact on this community when outsiders (that is, the cops) descend to deal with an Amish youth who has confessed to the murder of his fiancée's older, richer and very persistent admirer. Gaus takes an evenhanded approach to the conflicting values of the otherworldly Plain People, who travel by horse and buggy and shun electricity on their farms, as well as intruders from "the modern world of gadgets." But he also writes with feeling about the dissension within the Amish community whenever unruly human passions threaten its members' pacifist principles. Holmes County is also the setting for Linda Castillo's more conventional procedural mysteries featuring Kate Burkholder, an Amish-born (but excommunicated) chief of police who feels torn between two cultures whenever her job takes her back to the old community. Kate's divided loyalties make her a sympathetic narrator in BREAKING SILENCE (Minotaur, $24.99) when three members of an Amish family are found dead in the manure pit of their pig farm, a tragedy she fears may be related to a recent rash of hate crimes. Kate seems a competent if sentimental cop, and for some reason her banal, clichéd interrogations don't incite the plain-spoken Amish to drive her off with pitchforks. David Loogan, the personable amateur sleuth in Harry Dolan's first crime novel, "Bad Things Happen," finds himself entangled in another literary murder case in VERY BAD MEN (Amy Einhorn/ Putnam, $25.95). As the editor of a mystery magazine called Gray Streets, Loogan is used to dealing with peculiar authors. But when a killer drops off a manuscript in which he confesses to one murder and thoughtfully provides the next name on his hit list, Loogan feels compelled to horn in on the investigation headed by his girlfriend, a detective on the police force in Ann Arbor, Mich. Although the dynamic of this relationship is fairly bland, the characterization of the killer is more inspired. Anthony Lark suffers from synesthesia, a rare condition that causes him to perceive written words as having color and movement. He can read most crime stories without difficulty because of their simple language, but ornate writing styles leave him queasy, and adverbs, which "swarmed like marching ants," make his skin crawl. If Lark could actually read this convoluted account of his mad mission to rectify the unjust outcome of a 17-year-old robbery, the killer might indeed be seeing red. That reaction would have less to do with Dolan's language, which is clean and crisp, than with his excessive use of plot twists, character reversals and irrelevant clues - devices that, like adverbs, should be used sparingly by writers who don't want to find themselves on some crazy reader's hit list. It's a fact of crime fiction that social misfits make the best amateur detectives. That's certainly true of the endearing sleuth of Colin Cotterill's first mystery series, Dr. Siri Paiboun, an aged pathologist who is amused and appalled to find himself one of the last surviving free-thinking intellectuals in 1970s Communist Laos. In KILLED AT THE WHIM OF A HAT (Minotaur, $24.99), Cotterill expands on his outsider theme with a beguiling new series set in contemporary Thailand. His scrappy young heroine, Jimm Juree, feels the sting of social alienation when her mother's impulsive decision to buy a shabby resort on the Gulf of Thailand forces a move south from Chiang Mai, dashing Jimm's dreams of becoming the local paper's first-string crime reporter. Stuck in this rural backwater, where southerners dislike northerners and northerners scorn southerners and everyone hates the Chinese, Jimm can identify with the lonely stand of evergreen trees she spies growing here in the tropics: "I wondered if they had dreams of snow." Luckily for her, two drifters from a bygone era suddenly surface when a workman digs up a 1972 Volkswagen camper with their skeletons inside. Now that's something you don't often see up north, a hint that Jimm's life in the south is going to be much more interesting than she thought. Don't believe the hype about THE HYPNOTIST (Sarah Crichton/ Ferrar, Straus & Giroux, $27), a calculating thriller by two Swedish authors writing as Lars Kepler. This lengthy story of a spree killer who wipes out three members of a family in a murderous rage and the discredited hypnotist who comes out of professional exile to help catch him does contain strokes of good writing ("Josef had a particular smell about him, a smell of rage, of burning chemicals," in Ann Long's blunt translation). And the maniac of the piece is certainly an eye-catching villain. But the dislocations in time, glib psychology and repetitious depiction of guts and gore create more discomfort than tension. For genuinely stylish sadism, stick to Stieg Larsson; for cruelty executed with true cunning, read Jo Nesbo; and if ponderous philosophizing is called for, no one can beat Henning Mankell. In two new crime novels, outsiders (that is, the cops) descend on the otherworldly Amish of rural Ohio.

Copyright (c) The New York Times Company [July 24, 2011]

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Review by Booklist Review

The Swedish invasion continues with the first novel translated into English from the author Swedes are calling the next Stieg Larsson. Unlike the more police-oriented work of Jo Nesbø and Henning Mankell, The Hypnotist, a best-seller throughout Europe, is a psychological thriller likely to appeal to fans of Larsson and the duo of Anders Roslund and Borge Hellstrom.When a critically injured boy is found at the scene of a horrific murder, former hypnotist and physician Erik Maria Bark is called in to help the cops talk to him. The theory is that only hypnotism will penetrate the distorting maze of drugs and pain to reach the boy's memories of what happened. What Erik learns sets off a terrifying chain of events that endangers his family, his marriage, and his job. Enigmatic genius investigator Joona Linna, who refuses to accept convenient scenarios for the crimes, leads the investigation. A cracking pace makes up for the rather-flat-seeming characters. Still, Kepler (husband-and-wife Alexander and Alexandra Ahndoril's team pseudonym) belongs on every international crime fan's reading list.--Moyer, Jessic. Copyright 2010 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

The brutal slaying of gambling addict Anders Ek, his wife, and his younger daughter propels this outstanding thriller debut from the pseudonymous Kepler (a Swedish literary couple), introducing Stockholm detective Joona Linna. Only Ek's 15-year-old son, Josef, left for dead at his parents' house, survives. Realizing that the vicious killer is likely to also target an older daughter no longer living at home, Linna asks Erik Maria Bark, a trauma physician who practiced hypnosis before being banned from using the technique 10 years earlier, to hypnotize the seriously injured Josef in the hospital. When Josef later escapes from the hospital and Bark's teenage son, Benjamin, is kidnapped, the ensuing frantic search raises the ante. Flashbacks to Bark's hypnosis therapy group reveal that one patient became suicidal in the course of revisiting her past. A well-integrated subplot involving a gang of terrifying boys and girls adds to the suspense. Readers will look forward to seeing more of Linna in what one hopes will be a long series. (July) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Library Journal Review

An internationally best-selling Swedish thriller, the first in a series; simultaneous release with the Farrar hc (100,000-copy first printing); Grover Gardner reads. (c) Copyright 2011. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

(c) Copyright Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

A new star enters the firmament of Scandinavian thrillerdom, joining the likes of Larsson, Nesb and Mankell.Kepler, a pseudonym for what the publisher describes as "a literary couple who live in Sweden," continues in the Stygianor, better, Stiegiantradition of unveiling the dark rivers that swirl under the seemingly placid and pacific Nordic exterior. Scarcely has the novel opened when we find a scene of extreme mayhem: A schoolteacher and his librarian wife, pillars of their small Stockholm-area community, have been savagely butchered, and their young daughter, too, with a teenage son sliced to ribbons and left for dead. Enter Erik Maria Bark, a therapist and hypnotist called onto the scene by the supervising physician and a world-weary (naturally) police investigator, Joona Linna, who theorizes that the killer had waited for the father, a soccer referee in his off hours, hacked him into pieces, then headed to his house to dispatch the rest of the family, suggesting at least some acquaintance. "It happened in that order?" asks Bark, ever methodical, to which Linna responds, "In my opinion."Both men are guarded, for both have been wounded in the past, and both are fighting battles of their own in the present. Their psychic conflicts are nothing compared to those that rage through the scissors- and knife-wielding types they encounter in trying to get to the bottom of the crime, which takes them across miles and years. Kepler handles a complex plot assuredly, though the momentary switch from third- to first-person narration in midstream, as well as the shifts forward and backward in time, may induce whiplash. (They're for a good reason.) Linna and Bark make a great crime-solving pair precisely because they puzzle each other so thoroughlysays Bark, for instance, "The patient always speaks the truth under hypnosis. But it's only a matter of what he himself perceives as the truth." To which Linna responds, "What is it you're trying to say?" Indeed.What Bark is trying to say is that there are monsters hiding everywhere beneath the reasonable and rational, and Kepler's book makes for a satisfying and scary testimonial.]] Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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Erik Maria Bark is yanked reluctantly from his dream when the telephone rings. Before he is fully awake, he hears himself say with a smile, "Balloons and streamers."   His heart is pounding from the sudden awakening. Erik has no idea what he meant by these words. The dream is completely gone, as if he had never had it.   He fumbles to find the ringing phone, creeping out of the bedroom with it and closing the door behind him to avoid waking Simone. A detective named Joona Linna asks if he is sufficiently awake to absorb important information. His thoughts are still tumbling down into the dark empty space after his dream as he listens.   "I've heard you're very skilled in the treatment of acute trauma," says Linna.   "Yes," says Erik.   He swallows a painkiller as he listens. The detective explains that he needs to question a fifteen- year- old boy who has witnessed a double murder and been seriously injured himself. During the night he was moved from the neurological unit in Huddinge to the neurosurgical unit at Karolinska University Hospital in Solna.   "What's his condition?" Erik asks.   The detective rapidly summarizes the patient's status, concluding,   "He hasn't been stabilized. He's in circulatory shock and unconscious."   "Who's the doctor in charge?" asks Erik.   "Daniella Richards."   "She's extremely capable. I'm sure she can--"   "She was the one who asked me to call you. She needs your help. It's urgent."   When Erik returns to the bedroom to get his clothes, Simone is lying on her back, looking at him with a strange, empty expression. A strip of light from the streetlamp is shining in between the blinds.   "I didn't mean to wake you," he says softly.   "Who was that?" she asks.   "Police . . . a detective . . . I didn't catch his name."   "What's it about?"   "I have to go to the hospital," he replies. "They need some help with a boy."   "What time is it, anyway?" She looks at the alarm clock and closes her eyes. He notices the stripes on her freckled shoulders from the creased sheets.   "Sleep now, Sixan," he whispers, calling her by her nickname.   Carrying his clothes from the room, Erik dresses quickly in the hall. He catches the flash of a shining blade of steel behind him and turns to see that his son has hung his ice skates on the handle of the front door so he won't forget them. Despite his hurry, Erik finds the protectors in the closet and slides them over the sharp blades.   It's three o'clock in the morning when Erik gets into his car. Snow falls slowly from the black sky. There is not a breath of wind, and the heavy flakes settle sleepily on the empty street. He turns the key in the ignition, and the music pours in like a soft wave: Miles Davis, "Kind of Blue."   He drives the short distance through the sleeping city, out of Luntmakargatan, along Sveavägen to Norrtull. He catches a glimpse of the waters of Brunnsviken, a large, dark opening behind the snowfall. He slows as he enters the enormous medical complex, maneuvering between Astrid Lindgren's understaffed hospital and maternity unit, past the radiology and psychiatry departments, to park in his usual place outside the neurosurgical unit. There are only a few cars in the visitors' lot. The glow of the streetlamps is reflected in the windows of the tall buildings, and blackbirds rustle through the branches of the trees in the darkness. Usually you hear the roar of the superhighway from here, Erik thinks, but not at this time of night.   He inserts his pass card, keys in the six- digit code, enters the lobby, takes the elevator to the fifth floor, and walks down the hall. The blue vinyl floors shine like ice, and the corridor smells of antiseptic. Only now does he become aware of his fatigue, following the sudden surge of adrenaline brought on by the call. It had been such a good sleep, he still feels a pleasant aftertaste.   He thinks over what the detective told him on the telephone: a boy is admitted to the hospital, bleeding from cuts all over his body, sweating; he doesn't want to lie down, is restless and extremely thirsty. An attempt is made to question him, but his condition rapidly deteriorates. His level of consciousness declines while at the same time his heart begins to race, and Daniella Richards, the doctor in charge, makes the correct decision not to let the police speak to the patient.   Two uniformed cops are standing outside the door of ward N18; Erik senses a certain unease flit across their faces as he approaches. Maybe they're just tired, he thinks, as he stops in front of them and identifies himself. They glance at his ID, press a button, and the door swings open with a hum.   Daniella Richards is making notes on a chart when Erik walks in. As he greets her, he notices the tense lines around her mouth, the muted stress in her movements.   "Have some coffee," she says.   "Do we have time?" asks Erik.   "I've got the bleed in the liver under control," she replies.   A man of about forty- five, dressed in jeans and a black jacket, is thumping the coffee machine. He has tousled blond hair, and his lips are serious, clamped firmly together. Erik thinks maybe this is Daniella's husband, Magnus. He has never met him; he has only seen a photograph in her office.   "Is that your husband?" he asks, waving his hand in the direction of the man.   "What?" She looks both amused and surprised.   "I thought maybe Magnus had come with you."   "No," she says, with a laugh.    "I don't believe you," teases Erik, starting to walk toward the man.   "I'm going to ask him."   Daniella's cell phone rings and, still laughing, she flips it open, saying,   "Stop it, Erik," before answering, "Daniella Richards." She listens but hears nothing. "Hello?" She waits a few seconds, then shrugs. "Aloha!" she says ironically and flips the phone shut.   Erik has walked over to the blond man. The coffee machine is whirring and hissing. "Have some coffee," says the man, trying to hand Erik a mug.   "No, thanks."   The man smiles, revealing small dimples in his cheeks, and takes a sip himself. "Delicious," he says, trying once again to force a mug on Erik.   "I don't want any."   The man takes another sip, studying Erik. "Could I borrow your phone?" he asks suddenly. "If that's okay. I left mine in the car."   "And now you want to borrow mine?" Erik asks stiffly.   The blond man nods and looks at him with pale eyes as gray as polished granite.   "You can borrow mine again," says Daniella, who has come up behind Erik.   He takes the phone, looks at it, then glances up at her. "I promise you'll get it back," he says.   "You're the only one who's using it anyway," she jokes.   He laughs and moves away.   "He must be your husband," says Erik.   "Well, a girl can dream," she says with a smile, glancing back at the lanky fellow.   Suddenly she looks very tired. She's been rubbing her eyes; a smudge of silver- gray eyeliner smears her cheek.   "Shall I have a look at the patient?" asks Erik.   "Please." She nods.   "As I'm here anyway," he hastens to add. "Erik, I really do want your opinion, I'm not at all sure about this one." From the Hardcover edition. Excerpted from The Hypnotist by Lars Kepler All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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