Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets

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"The scene is Baltimore. Twice every three days another citizen is shot, stabbed, or bludgeoned to death. At the center of this hurricane of crime is the city's homicide unit, a small brotherhood of men confronted by the darkest of American visions." "David Simon was the first reporter ever to gain unlimited access to a homicide unit, and his remarkable book is both a compelling account of casework and an investigation into our culture of violence. The narrative follows Donald Worden, a veteran investigator nearing the end of his career; Harry
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Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets

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Overview

"The scene is Baltimore. Twice every three days another citizen is shot, stabbed, or bludgeoned to death. At the center of this hurricane of crime is the city's homicide unit, a small brotherhood of men confronted by the darkest of American visions." "David Simon was the first reporter ever to gain unlimited access to a homicide unit, and his remarkable book is both a compelling account of casework and an investigation into our culture of violence. The narrative follows Donald Worden, a veteran investigator nearing the end of his career; Harry Edgerton, an iconoclastic black detective in a mostly white unit; and Tom Pellegrini, an earnest rookie who takes on the year's most difficult case, the brutal rape and murder of an eleven-year-old girl." Originally published fifteen years ago, Homicide became the basis for the acclaimed television show of the same name. This new edition - which includes a foreword by Richard Price and a new afterword by David Simon - revives this essential, riveting tale about the men for whom murder is not an extraordinary act but the source of their calling.
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Editorial Reviews

Washington Post Book World
We seem to have an insatiable appetite for police stories....David Simon's entry is far and away the best, the most readable, reliable and relentless of them all....An eye for the scenes of slaughter and pursuit and an ear for the cadences of cop talk, both business and banter, lend Simon's account the fascination that truth often has....Fueled by coffee, cigarettes, and the drive to "put down" (i.e. close) cases, these heroes keep at it long after ordinary mortals would have lost heart.
Orlando Sentinel
Through wonderfully descriptive writing, Simon details the work of fifteen detectives, three sergeants and a lieutenant charged with investigating dozens of Baltimore's 234 murders that year....Simon takes readers inside the detectives' lives, describing the frustration of departmental red tape and politics, the bursts of energy and moments of despair....For a complete look at what it's like to investigate violence for a living, Homicide is well worth the time.
San Francisco Chronicle
A frank, insightful, and meticulously detailed look at detectives and their work.
Newsday
One of the most engrossing police procedural mystery books ever written, not only because the crimes and plots and personalities are real, but because Simon is a terrific writer.
Entertainment Weekly
Forget Ed McBain and Joseph Wambaugh, too. From the blood on the street to the repartee in the squad room, from autopsy etiquette to office politics, Simon gives us the homicide cop's beat—monstrous, draining, bleakly fascinating—as it's never been seen before.
San Diego Union
This may be the best true-crime book, the best naked look at murder and cops and crime and life on the killing streets of big-city America in the late 20th century....A rich, revealing look at the twisted lives of killers and their victims and at the men who are obsessed with solving the most heinous and baffling murders.
Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
Baltimore Sun reporter Simon spent a year tracking the homicide unit of his city's police, following the officers from crime scenes to interrogations to hospital emergency rooms. With empathy, psychological nuance, racy verbatim dialogue and razor-sharp prose, he offers a rare insider's look at the detective's tension-wracked world. Presiding over a score of sleuths is commander Gary D'Addario, "connoisseur of survival'' who grapples with political intrigue, massive red tape and "red balls'' (major, difficult cases). His detectives include Tom Pelligrini, obsessed with solving the rape-murder of an 11-year-old girl; Rich Garvey, whose "perfect year'' is upset by a murder case that collapses in court; and black, cosmopolitan Harry Edgerton, a lone wolf, son of a jazz pianist. This hectic daily log reveals the detective's beat on Baltimore's mean streets (234 murders in 1988) to be brutal, bureaucratic and, occasionally, mundane. (June)
Library Journal
The city of Baltimore saw 234 murders in 1988. Allowed unlimited access to a shift of the city's homicide unit, police reporter Simon chronicles that year. The sociopaths, the crackheads, and their crimes are horrifying, but equal horrors are found in the attitudes of jurors in a case of the shooting and blinding of a policeman and in statistics showing the ultimate legal fates of those apprehended by the unit. Immersing his readers in cases, procedures, politics, and the detectives' personalities, Simon risks being sabotaged by the sheer scope of his account. Still, for those with strong stomachs and the willingness to work to keep the characters and dramas straight, he has produced a riveting slice of urban life. Recommended.-- Jim Burns, Pompano Beach City Lib., Fla.
Library Journal
As Richard Price says in his new introduction, Simon "camped out" with the Baltimore PD's homicide unit for a year while researching this no-punches-pulled look at murders and the cops who solve them. The 1985 title was the basis of the award-winning NBC drama of the same name. Copyright 2006 Reed Business Information.
From the Publisher
"Simon does an extraordinary job of getting under the skin and into the minds of the police officers."—The New York Times Book Review

"We seem to have an insatiable appetite for police stories . . . David Simon's entry is far and away the best, the most readable, reliable and relentless of them all."

The Washington Post Book World

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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780804109994
  • Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 1/28/1993
  • Format: Mass Market Paperback
  • Edition description: Reprint
  • Pages: 640
  • Product dimensions: 4.10 (w) x 6.90 (h) x 1.00 (d)

Meet the Author

David Simon's Homicide won an Edgar Award and became the basis for the NBC award-winning drama. Simon's second book, The Corner: A Year in the Life of an Inner-City Neighborhood, co-authored with Edward Burns, was made into an HBO miniseries. Simon is currently the executive producer and writer for HBO's Peabody Award-winning series The Wire. He lives in Baltimore.

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Read an Excerpt

Homicide

A Year on the Killing Streets
By Simon, David

Owl Books

Copyright © 2006 Simon, David
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0805080759

Chapter One
Tuesday, January 19

Pulling one hand from the warmth of a pocket, Jay Landsman squats down to grab the dead man's chin, pushing the head to one side until the wound becomes visible as a small, ovate hole, oozing red and white.

"Here's your problem," he said. "He's got a slow leak."

"A leak?" says Pellegrini, picking up on it.

"A slow one."

"You can fix those."

"Sure you can," Landsman agrees. "They got these home repair kits now . . ."

"Like with tires."

"Just like with tires," Landsman says. "Comes with a patch and everything else you need. Now a bigger wound, like from a thirty-eight, you're gonna have to get a new head. This one you could fix."

Landsman looks up, his face the very picture of earnest concern.

Sweet Jesus, thinks Tom Pellegrini, nothing like working murders with a mental case. One in the morning, heart of the ghetto, half a dozen uniforms watching their breath freeze over another dead man--what better time and place for some vintage Landsman, delivered in perfect deadpan until even the shift commander is laughing hard in the blue strobe of the emergency lights. Not that a Western District midnight shift is the world's toughest audience; you don'tride a radio car for any length of time in Sector 1 or 2 without cultivating a diseased sense of humor.

"Anyone know this guy?" asks Landsman. "Anyone get to talk to him?"

"Fuck no," says a uniform. "He was ten-seven when we got here."

Ten-seven. The police communication code for "out of service" artlessly applied to a human life. Beautiful. Pellegrini smiles, content in the knowledge that nothing in this world can come between a cop and his attitude.

"Anyone go through his pockets?" asks Landsman.

"Not yet."

"Where the fuck are his pockets?"

"He's wearing pants underneath the sweatsuit."

Pellegrini watches Landsman straddle the body, one foot on either side of the dead man's waist, and begin tugging violently at the sweatpants. The awkward effort jerks the body a few inches across the sidewalk, leaving a thin film of matted blood and brain matter where the head wound scrapes the pavement. Landsman forces a meaty hand inside a front pocket.

"Watch for needles," says a uniform.

"Hey," says Landsman. "Anyone in this crowd gets AIDS, no one's gonna believe it came from a fucking needle."

The sergeant pulls his hand from the dead man's right front pocket, causing perhaps a dollar in change to fall to the sidewalk.

"No wallet in front. I'm gonna wait and let the ME roll him. Somebody's called the ME, right?"

"Should be on the way," says a second uniform, taking notes for the top sheet of an incident report. "How many times is he hit?"

Landsman points to the head wound, then lifts a shoulder blade to reveal a ragged hole in the upper back of the dead man's leather jacket.

"Once in the head, once in the back." Landsman pauses, and Pellegrini watches him go deadpan once again. "It could be more."

The uniform puts pen to paper.

"There is a possibility," says Landsman, doing his best to look professorial, "a good possibility, he was shot twice through the same bullethole."

"No shit," says the uniform, believing.

A mental case. They give him a gun, a badge and sergeant's stripes, and deal him out into the streets of Baltimore, a city with more than its share of violence, filth and despair. Then they surround him with a chorus of blue-jacketed straight men and let him play the role of the lone, wayward joker that somehow slipped into the deck. Jay Landsman, of the sidelong smile and pockmarked face, who tells the mothers of wanted men that all the commotion is nothing to be upset about, just a routine murder warrant. Landsman, who leaves empty liquor bottles in the other sergeants' desks and never fails to turn out the men's room light when a ranking officer is indisposed. Landsman, who rides a headquarters elevator with the police commissioner and leaves complaining that some sonofabitch stole his wallet. Jay Landsman, who as a Southwestern patrolman parked his radio car at Edmondson and Hilton, then used a Quaker Oatmeal box covered in aluminum foil as a radar gun.

"I'm just giving you a warning this time," he would tell grateful motorists. "Remember, only you can prevent forest fires."

And now, but for the fact that Landsman can no longer keep a straight face, there might well be an incident report tracked to Central Records in the departmental mail, complaint number 88-7A37548, indicating that said victim appeared to be shot once in the head and twice in the back through the same bullethole.

"No, hey, I'm joking," he says finally. "We won't know anything for sure until the autopsy tomorrow."

He looks at Pellegrini.

"Hey, Phyllis, I'm gonna let the ME roll him."

Pellegrini manages a half-smile. He's been Phyllis to his squad sergeant ever since that long afternoon at Rikers Island in New York, when a jail matron refused to honor a writ and release a female prisoner into the custody of two male detectives from Baltimore; the regulations required a policewoman for the escort. After a sufficient amount of debate, Landsman grabbed Tom Pellegrini, a thick-framed Italian born to Allegheny coal miner stock, and pushed him forward.

"Meet Phyllis Pellegrini," Landsman said, signing for the prisoner. "She's my partner."

"How do you do?" Pellegrini said with no hesitation.

"You're not a woman," said the matron.

"But I used to be."

With the blue strobe glancing off his pale face, Tom Pellegrini moves a step closer to take stock of what half an hour earlier had been a twenty-six-year-old street dealer. The dead man is sprawled on his back, legs in the gutter, arms partly extended, head facing north near the side door of a corner rowhouse. Dark brown eyes are fixed under half-lids in that expression of vague recognition so common to the newly and suddenly departed. It is not a look of horror, consternation, or even distress. More often than not, the last visage of a murdered man resembles that of a flustered schoolchild to whom the logic of a simple equation has just been revealed.

"If you're okay here," says Pellegrini, "I'm gonna go across the street."

"What's up?"

"Well . . ."

Landsman moves closer and Pellegrini lowers his voice, as if the spoken suggestion that there may be a witness to this murder would be an embarrassing display of optimism.

"There's a woman who went into a house across the street. Someone told one of the first officers she was outside when the shooting started."

"She saw it?"

"Well, supposedly she told people it was three black males in dark clothes. They ran north after the shots."

It isn't much, and Pellegrini can read his sergeant's mind: three yos wearing black, a description that narrows the list to about half the fucking city. Landsman nods vaguely and Pellegrini begins making his way across Gold Street, stepping carefully around the patches of ice that cover much of the intersection. It is early morning now, half past two, and the temperature is well below freezing. A bracing wind catches the detective in the center of the street, cutting through his overcoat. On the other side of Etting, the locals have gathered to mark the event, younger men and teenagers signifying, scoping the unexpected entertainment, each one straining to catch a glimpse of the dead man's face across the street. Jokes are exchanged and stories whispered, but even the youngest knows to avert his eyes and fall silent at a first question from a uniform. There is no good reason to do otherwise, because in a half hour the dead man will be laid out on a table for one at the ME's chop shop on Penn Street, the Western men will be stirring coffee at the Monroe Street 7-Eleven and the dealers will be selling blue-topped caps again at this godforsaken crossroads of Gold and Etting. Nothing said now is going to change any of that.

The crowd watches Pellegrini cross the street, eyefucking him in a way that only the west side corner boys can as he walks to a painted stone stoop and hits a wood door with a rapid, three-beat motion. Waiting for a response, the detective watches a battered Buick roll west on Gold, idling slowly toward and then past him. Brake lights flash for a moment as the car approaches the blue strobes on the other side of the street. Pellegrini turns to watch the Buick roll a few blocks farther west to the Brunt Street corners, where a small coterie of runners and touts have resumed work, selling heroin and cocaine a respectful distance from the murder scene. The Buick shows its taillights again, and a lone figure slips from one corner and leans into the driver's window. Business is business, and the Gold Street market waits for no man, certainly not the dead dealer across the street.

Pellegrini knocks again and steps close to the door, listening for movement inside. From upstairs comes a muffled sound. The detective exhales slowly and raps again, bringing a young girl to a second-floor window in the next rowhouse.

"Hey there," Pellegrini says, "police department."

"Uh-huh."

"Do you know if Katherine Thompson lives next door?"

"Yeah, she do."

"Is she home now?"

"Guess so."

Heavy pounding on the door is answered at last by a light from upstairs, where a frame window is suddenly and violently wrenched upward. A heavyset, middle-aged woman--fully dressed, the detective notes--pushes head and shoulders across the sill and stares down at Pellegrini.

"Who the hell is knocking on my door this late?"

"Mrs. Thompson?"

"Yeah."

"Police."

"Poh-leece?"

Jesus Christ, Pellegrini thinks, what else would a white man in a trenchcoat be doing on Gold Street after midnight? He pulls the shield and holds it toward the window.

"Could I talk to you for a moment?"

"No, you can't," she says, expelling the words in a singsong, slow enough and loud enough to reach the crowd across the street. "I got nothing to say to you. People be trying to sleep and you knocking on my door this late."

"You were asleep?"

"I ain't got to say what I was."

"I need to talk with you about the shooting."

"Well, I ain't got a damn thing to say to you."

"Someone died . . ."

"I know it."

"We're investigating it."

"So?"

Tom Pellegrini suppresses an almost overwhelming desire to see this woman dragged into a police wagon and bounced over every pothole between here and headquarters. Instead, he looks hard at the woman's face and speaks his last words in a laconic tone that betrays only weariness.

"I can come back with a grand jury summons."

"Then come on back with your damn summons. You come here this time a night telling me I got to talk to you when I don't want to."

Pellegrini steps back from the front stoop and looks at the blue glow from the emergency lights. The morgue wagon, a Dodge van with blacked-out windows, has pulled to the curb, but every kid on every corner is now gazing across the street, watching this woman make it perfectly clear to a police detective that under no circumstances is she a living witness to a drug murder.

"It's your neighborhood."

"Yeah, it is," she says, slamming the window.

Pellegrini shakes his head gently, then walks back across the street, arriving in time to watch the crew of the morgue wagon roll the body. From a jacket pocket comes a wristwatch and keys. From a rear pants pocket comes an identification card. Newsome, Rudolph Michael, male, black, date of birth 3/5/61, address 2900 Allendale.

Landsman pulls the white rubber gloves from his hands, drops them in the gutter and looks at his detective.

"Anything?" he asks.

"No," says Pellegrini.

Landsman shrugs. "I'm glad it's you that got this one."

Pellegrini's chiseled face creases into a small, brief smile, accepting his sergeant's declaration of faith for the consolation prize it is. With less than two years in homicide, Tom Pellegrini is generally regarded to be the hardest worker in Sergeant Jay Landsman's squad of five detectives. And that matters now, because both men know that Baltimore's thirteenth homicide of 1988, handed to them on the second leg of a midnight shift at the corner of Gold and Etting, is an exceptionally weak sister: a drug killing with no known witnesses, no specific motive and no suspects. Perhaps the only person in Baltimore who might have managed some real interest in the case is at this moment being shoveled onto a body litter. Rudy Newsome's brother will make the identification later that morning outside a freezer door across from the autopsy room, but after that the boy's family will offer little else. The morning newspaper will print not a line about the killing. The neighborhood, or whatever is left around Gold and Etting that resembles a neighborhood, will move on. West Baltimore, home of the misdemeanor homicide.

All of which is not to say that any man in Landsman's squad wouldn't give Rudy Newsome's murder a shake or two. A police department is fueled by its own stats, and a homicide clearance--any clearance--will always earn a detective some court time and a few attaboys. But Pellegrini is playing the game for more than that: He's a detective still in the process of proving things to himself, hungry for more experience and fresh to the daily grind. Landsman has watched him build cases on murders about which nothing should have been learned. The Green case from the Lafayette Court projects. Or that shooting outside Odell's up on North Avenue, the one where Pellegrini walked up and down a bombed-out alley, kicking trash until he found a spent .38 slug that put the case down. To Landsman, the amazing thing is that Tom Pellegrini, a ten-year veteran of the force, came to homicide straight from the City Hall security detail only weeks after the mayor became the odds-on favorite for governor in a Democratic primary landslide. It was a political appointment, plain and simple, handed down from the deputy commissioner for services as if the governor himself had poured the oil on Pellegrini's head. Everyone in homicide assumed that the new man would need about three months to prove himself an absolute hump.

"Well," says Pellegrini, squeezing behind the wheel of an unmarked Chevy Cavalier, "so far so good."

Landsman laughs. "This one will go down, Tom."

Pellegrini shoots back a look that Landsman ignores. The Cavalier slips past block after block of rowhouse ghetto, rolling down Druid Hill Avenue until it crosses Martin Luther King Boulevard and the Western District gives way to the early morning emptiness of downtown. The chill is keeping them in; even the drunks are gone from the Howard Street benches. Pellegrini slows before running every light until he catches the red signal at Lexington and Calvert, a few blocks from headquarters, where a lone whore, unmistakably a transvestite, gestures furtively at the car from the doorway of a corner office. Landsman laughs. Pellegrini wonders how any prostitute in this city could fail to understand the significance of a Chevy Cavalier with a six-inch antenna on its ass.

"Look at this pretty motherfucker," says Landsman. "Let's pull over and fuck with him."

The car eases through the intersection and pulls to the curb. Landsman rolls down the passenger window. The whore's face is hard, a man's face.

"Hey, sir."

The whore looks away in cold rage.

"Hey, mister," yells Landsman.

"I ain't no mister," the whore says, walking back to the corner.

"Sir, would you have the time?"

"Go fuck yourself."

Landsman laughs malevolently. One of these days, Pellegrini knows, his sergeant will say something bizarre to someone who matters and half the squad will be writing reports for a week.

"I think you hurt his feelings."

"Well," says Landsman, still laughing, "I didn't mean to."

A few minutes later, the two men are backed into a parking space on the second tier of the headquarters garage. On the bottom of the same page recording the particulars of Rudy Newsome's death, Pellegrini writes the number of the parking space and the mileage on the odometer, then circles the two figures. Murders come and go in this town, but God forbid you should forget to write the correct mileage on your activity sheet or, worse yet, forget to note the parking space so that the next man out spends fifteen minutes walking up and down the headquarters garage, trying to figure out which Cavalier matches the ignition key in his hand.

Pellegrini follows Landsman across the garage and through a metal bulkhead door to the second-floor hallway. Landsman punches the elevator button.

"I wonder what Fahlteich got from Gatehouse Drive."

"Was that a murder?" asks Pellegrini.

"Yeah. It sounded like it on the radio."

The elevator slowly ascends, opening on another, similar corridor with waxed linoleum and hospital blue walls, and Pellegrini follows his sergeant down the long hall. From inside the aquarium--the soundproof room of metal and plate glass where witnesses sit before being interviewed--comes the sound of young girls laughing softly.

Hail Mary. Here be witnesses from Fahlteich's shooting at the city's other end--living, breathing witnesses brought forth by the gods from the scene of the new year's fourteenth homicide. What the hell, thinks Pellegrini, at least somebody in the squad had a little luck tonight.

The voices in the aquarium slip away as the two men move down the hall. Just before turning the corner into the squadroom, Pellegrini looks into the darkened aquarium's side door and glimpses the orange glow of a cigarette and the outline of the woman seated closest to the door. He sees a hard face, the deep brown features fixed like granite, the eyes offering only seasoned contempt. Helluva body, too: nice chest, good legs, yellow miniskirt. Someone probably would have said something by now if she wasn't all attitude.

Mistaking this casual assessment for genuine opportunity, the girl saunters from the aquarium to the edge of the office, then knocks lightly on the metal frame.

"Can I make a call?"

"Who do you want to talk to?"

"My ride."

"No, not now. After you're interviewed."

"What about my ride?"

"One of the uniformed officers will take you home."

"I've been here an hour," she says, crossing her legs in the doorway. The woman has the face of a teamster, but she's giving this her best shot. Pellegrini is unimpressed. He can see Landsman smiling at him wickedly from the other side of the office.

"We'll get to you as fast as we can."

Abandoning any thought of seduction, the woman walks back to join her girlfriend on the fishbowl's green vinyl couch, crosses her legs again and lights another cigarette.

The woman is here because she had the misfortune to be inside a garden apartment in the Purnell Village complex on Gatehouse Drive, where a Jamaican drug dealer named Carrington Brown played host to another Jake by the name of Roy Johnson. There was some preliminary talk, a few accusations delivered in a lilting West Indian accent, and then a considerable amount of gunfire.

...

Copyright © 1991, 2006 by David Simon

Continues...

Excerpted from Homicide by Simon, David Copyright © 2006 by Simon, David. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 36 Customer Reviews
  • Posted June 11, 2011

    more from this reviewer

    I Also Recommend:

    Homicide: A Year on the Killing Streets

    First off, I'm a huge fan of both The Wire and it's creator David Simon, who wrote this book. This is a non-fiction book, and one of the best ones that I have read at that. Simon is such an amazing reporter and his observations into the regular life of a "Bawlmore Murder Police" is uncanny. Homicide is a masterpiece of journalism and I would recommend it to anyone who is interested in the criminal justice system. This, and anything else that Simon does, is anti-Law and Order/CSI, two shows that should be taken as an accurate portrayal. And as a fan of either of these shows may rebut, they may just be viewed as mere entertainment, but Simon writes about the real police in a fashion that is incredibly more entertaining and real.

    4 out of 4 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted January 20, 2014

    more from this reviewer

    Timeless

    This is a must read for any new or experienced cop alike. Accurate description of station house life and of the way witnesses and victims and other cops act. Great read

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 17, 2013

    I was really excited about this book because I am obsessed with

    I was really excited about this book because I am obsessed with the HBO show The Wire. It was a good book but I expected more I suppose. I got bored several times while reading it and its pace was just slow I felt. Was good, but could have been better.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted June 19, 2011

    Great read

    Recommended to anyone who enjoys the true crime genre. Well written and compelling storytelling.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted July 2, 2009

    I Also Recommend:

    Tremendous!

    I read this book after watching the last 2 seasons of the Wire (which this book is the source material for). It gave me a lot more understanding of how the "murder police" think and operate. It was then a real treat to watch the entire Wire series from episode 1 and then to watch the old series Homicide: Life on the Street (which again is derived from this book). Mr. Simon clearly did a tremendous amount of research and has a great way of conferring real stories and situations. As a stand alone, this book is pretty hard core, but quite entertaining, educational, and just fun. I highly recommend it for anyone interested in real crime stories.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted May 14, 2002

    Worthwhile

    Original, straightforward, fascinating account of writer who shadows a homicide squad and their cases. Well done.

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 13, 2001

    Never loses its touch

    I picked up this book because I was a fan of the TV series, but Simon's book is a whole universe of its own. It draws you under the skin of the city and its detectives with a cold, clinical approach that lets you make the judgements. Once I started reading I couldn't put it down. And even though I have read this book over and over, every time it still has immense emotional impact and punch. You learn something new every time. Even if you've just read the book minutes before, it's as if you're reading it for the first time. Classic crime writing!

    2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Posted June 25, 2012

    Exceptional writing

    Forget CSI...this is how solving murders really works. This book is rough and gritty, and brilliantly depicts the work of the Homicide Unit. Simon is an exceptional writer. Throughout the book, his hard, tough, at times sarcastic tone brilliantly portrays the inner thoughts and feelings of the detectives, even as they interrogate suspects or follow leads. Besides its length, the book's most obvious downside is the constantly changing point of view, as Simon follows numerous detectives and cases. It's definitely possible to track this changing point of view, but it requires some work. This issue is partially resolved when Simon introduces the focal point of the book, the case of a missing girl, about halfway through the book. This helps readers to prioritize which cases they pay attention to and which they don't--cleverly, the deluge of cases Simon hurls at the reader hints at the crowded workload of the detectives. Overall, this book embodies an exceptional piece of writing and research, but I would caution readers who have weak stomachs. The violence depicted in these pages is graphic and real.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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    Posted August 12, 2010

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    Posted June 28, 2011

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    Posted March 6, 2012

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    Posted April 6, 2012

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    Posted March 31, 2011

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    Posted August 9, 2010

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    Posted May 29, 2009

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    Posted May 24, 2013

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    Posted September 7, 2011

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    Posted June 10, 2011

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    Posted November 8, 2010

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    Posted October 10, 2011

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 36 Customer Reviews

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