Southern Cross (Andy Brazil Series #2)

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Overview

Patricia Cornwell has a sixth sense about the men and women in blue. In Hornet's Nest, her page-turning novel about crime and police in Charlotte, North Carolina, Cornwell moved behind the badges of these real-life heroes to uncover flesh-and-blood characters who strode through her pages to reveal vulnerable, passionate, brave, sometimes doubting, always fascinating figures.

In Southern Cross, Cornwell takes us even closer to the personal and professional lives of big-city ...

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Overview

Patricia Cornwell has a sixth sense about the men and women in blue. In Hornet's Nest, her page-turning novel about crime and police in Charlotte, North Carolina, Cornwell moved behind the badges of these real-life heroes to uncover flesh-and-blood characters who strode through her pages to reveal vulnerable, passionate, brave, sometimes doubting, always fascinating figures.

In Southern Cross, Cornwell takes us even closer to the personal and professional lives of big-city police, in a story of corruption, scandal, and robberies that escalate to murder. This time, her setting is Richmond, Virginia, where Charlotte Police Chief Judy Hammer has been brought by an NIJ grant to clean up the police force. Reeling from the recent death of her husband, and resented by the police force, city manager, and mayor of Richmond, Hammer is joined by her deputy chief Virginia West and rookie Andy Brazil on the most difficult assignment of her career. In the face of overwhelming public scrutiny, the trio must bring truth, order, and sanity to a city in trouble.

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Editorial Reviews

From Barnes & Noble
The Barnes & Noble Review
Bestselling author Patricia Cornwell made her first foray into the tension-filled, fast-paced, and often irreverent world of police departments with Hornet's Nest. In the sequel, Southern Cross, Cornwell resurrects Police Chief Judy Hammer; Hammer's right-hand woman, Deputy Chief Virginia West; and West's much younger love interest, newspaper reporter turned police officer Andy Brazil. Only this time the trio has hauled their crime-fighting expertise and their weighty emotional baggage to a new location: Richmond, Virginia.

Still coming to terms with the death of her husband, Seth, and frustrated by her experiences with the Charlotte PD, Hammer has made a proposal to the National Institute of Justice to serve as a consultant to troubled police departments throughout the South. When she is hired by the city council to act as interim chief for a year to the much-beleaguered Richmond PD, she hauls West and Brazil along for the ride. Once there, they are greeted with as much enthusiasm as the second coming of the Civil War. But Hammer is nothing if not determined, and she makes a valiant effort to rally her force together with pep talks, motivational strategies, and COMSTAT -- a new computerized technology borrowed from the NYPD that monitors both crimes and the cops accountable for handling them.

Hammer's plans begin to unravel when she and West overhear part of a cell phone conversation between two men named Bubba and Smudge, who seem to be plotting a racially motivated, cold-blooded murder. Before Hammer has a chance to look into the ominous phone call, a number of other incidents focus her attention elsewhere. First, a hacker breaks into the COMSTAT system and renders it inoperable, leaving a fish-covered grid map of Richmond on the screen. Next, the city's populace grows restless over a string of increasingly daring ATM robberies, the most recent of which involves the execution-style murder of an innocent old woman. The final straw comes when a very talented graffiti artist sneaks into Hollywood Cemetery -- the much revered burial ground for Richmond's most famous and infamous -- and paints a statue of Civil War hero Jefferson Davis to look like a black basketball player. When the local press gets wind of what's going on, the pressure on Hammer and her colleagues increases.

As Hammer struggles to get both Richmond and her uncooperative police force under control, Brazil and West struggle with one another and the apparent death of their burgeoning love affair. Brazil's attention is diverted by the travails of 14-year-old Weed Gardener, a young man with a dark secret and an exceptional talent. Reeling from the tragic death of his beloved older brother and his mother's subsequent emotional withdrawal, Weed makes the tragic mistake of getting involved with a teenage sociopath named Smoke, the leader of a small but deadly gang known as the Pikes and the source of much of Hammer's troubles. As Smoke's thirst for mayhem and murder grows, it sets him on a collision course with Hammer and her crew, who find themselves in a race with death as they try to stop Smoke from committing mass murder.

Rounding out the cast of characters and adding to the fun by further hampering Hammer's every effort is a hapless redneck named Butner Fluck IV, or Bubba to his friends. Growing up with the name But Fluck has made Bubba overly sensitive, and when combined with his flair for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, Bubba's travails bring high hilarity to the story.

Cornwell's liberal use of real landmarks and her intricate knowledge of Richmond's eclectic and often eccentric residents offers a comical and, at times, scathingly satirical look at a city where some still believe the War of Northern Aggression never ended. Irreverence and fear walk hand-in-hand through the pages, toying with the reader's emotions in a delicious mix. There's even a little treat for sharp-eyed, die-hard Scarpetta fans.

With Southern Cross, Cornwell proves once again that she is a master storyteller who can balance a wicked sense of humor with chilling insight into the mind of the most frightening criminals. This book is a roller-coaster ride filled with terrifying plunges and spine-tingling fun. Watch out, Scarpetta. Hammer and her crew may just give you a run for your money.

--Beth Amos

People Magazine
...[P]uts laughs ahead of logic....Cornwell has done better. — Cynthia Sanz
Marilyn Stasio
[We] wonder what Cornwell might have done with the Bubbas of Richmond had she respected them enough to take them seriously.
The New York Times Book Review
Publishers Weekly - Publisher's Weekly
It's fortunate that Cornwell has a new Kay Scarpetta thriller (Black Notice) coming out in July, because this second novel featuring southern police chief Judy Hammer is as disappointing as last year's Hornet's Nest. The problem is elementary. Cornwell, who writes the Scarpetta novels in a first-person voice that blazes with passion and authenticity, lacks control over the third-person narration here. The tone is all over the place, veering from faux-Wambaugh low-jinks to hard-edged suspense, and the plotting is, too. Hammer and her team of deputy chief Virginia West and greenhorn cop Andy Brazil have moved via a federal grant to Richmond, Va., in order to set straight that city's policing. If only they could bring order to the narrative, which twists into an unwieldy welter of subplots. Early on, for instance, Hammer and West misconstrue as malevolent an overheard phone conversation between a local redneck, Butner (Bubba) Fluck IV, and a coon-hunting pal. From there Cornwell spins seriocomic descriptions of Bubba at work, Bubba on a hunting trip, Bubba arguing with a black cop. Among these events and those of other subplots (stymied love between West and Brazil; sabotage of the cops' Web site; the jailing of a police dispatcher; etc.) runs a more dominant plotline--the only one in the novel that exerts dramatic force--about a talented boy artist strong-armed into a gang by a sociopathic teen. There's a lot of broad, often slapstick, social commentary (mostly about class warfare) larded into all the goings-on. If Cornwell's intention is to reproduce with a snicker the chaos of a big southern city, she has succeeded all too well.
Library Journal
Cornwell (Point of Origin) leaves the recently morose and introspective Kay Scarpetta mysteries for her alternative series featuring the trio of Police Chief Judy Hammer, Deputy Chief Virginia West, and rookie Andy Brazil. They've moved to Richmond to reorganize that city's police force, stumbling into a series of miscommunications and computer glitches that threaten their attempts to increase police efficiency. Southern Cross is a looser, funnier, more satirical novel where Cornwell allows the minor characters to upstage the plot, even the family pets in the flavor of Rita Mae Brown's Mrs. Murphy series. The reader knows far more than the lead characters, but that is part of the fun as this is a more successfully realized novel than Hornet's Nest. Reader Cristine McMurdo-Wallis carries the story well, but the packaging is not library quality at all. Nonetheless, this is recommended, especially for those who've appreciated Cornwell in the past but have grown weary of her Scarpetta books.--Joyce Kessel, Villa Maria Coll., Buffalo, NY Copyright 1999 Cahners Business Information.
People Magazine
...[P]uts laughs ahead of logic....Cornwell has done better. -- Cynthia Sanz
Marilyn Stasio
[We] wonder what Cornwell might have done with the Bubbas of Richmond had she respected them enough to take them seriously. -- The New York Times Book Review
Cynthia Sanz
...[P]uts laughs ahead of logic....Cornwell has done better.
-- People Magazine
Beth Amos
January 1999

Patricia Cornwell's Southern Cross

Last year, bestselling author Patricia Cornwell made her first foray into the tension-filled, fast-paced, and often irreverent world of police departments with Hornet's Nest. Now, in the eagerly awaited sequel, Southern Cross, Cornwell resurrects Police Chief Judy Hammer; Hammer's right-hand woman, Deputy Chief Virginia West; and West's much younger love interest, newspaper reporter turned police officer Andy Brazil. Only this time the three have hauled their crime-fighting expertise and their weighty emotional baggage to a new location: Richmond, Virginia.

Still coming to terms with the death of her husband, Seth, and frustrated by her experiences with the Charlotte PD, Hammer has made a proposal to the National Institute of Justice to serve as a consultant to troubled police departments throughout the South. When she is hired by the city council to act as interim chief for a year for the much-beleaguered Richmond PD, she hauls West and Brazil along for the ride. Once there, they are greeted with as much enthusiasm as the second coming of the Civil War. But Hammer is nothing if not determined, and she makes a valiant effort to rally her force together with pep talks, motivational strategies, and COMSTAT, a new computer technology borrowed from the NYPD that monitors both crimes and the cops accountable for handling them.

Hammer's plans begin to unravel when she and West overhear part of a cell-phone conversation between two men, named Bubba and Smudge, who seem to be plotting a racially motivated, cold-blooded murder. Before Hammer has a chance to look into the ominous phone call, a number of other incidents focus her attention elsewhere. First a hacker breaks into the COMSTAT system and renders it inoperable, leaving a fish-covered grid map of Richmond on the screen. Next the city's populace grows restless over a string of increasingly daring ATM robberies, the most recent of which involves the execution-style murder of an innocent old woman. The final straw comes when a very talented graffiti artist sneaks into Hollywood Cemetery -- the much-revered burial ground of Richmond's most famous and infamous -- and paints a statue of Civil War hero Jefferson Davis to look like a black basketball player. When the local press gets wind of what's going on, the pressure on Hammer and her colleagues increases.

As Hammer struggles to get both Richmond and her uncooperative police force under control, Brazil and West struggle with each other and the apparent death of their burgeoning love affair. Brazil's attention is diverted by the travails of 14-year-old Weed Gardener, a young man with a dark secret and an exceptional talent. Reeling from the tragic death of his beloved older brother and his mother's subsequent emotional withdrawal, Weed makes the tragic mistake of getting involved with a teenage sociopath named Smoke, the leader of a small but deadly gang known as the Pikes and the source of much of Hammer's troubles. As Smoke's thirst for mayhem and murder grows, it sets him on a collision course with Hammer and her crew, who find themselves in a race with death as they try to stop Smoke from committing mass murder.

Rounding out the cast of characters and adding to the fun by further hampering Hammer's every effort is a hapless redneck named Butner Fluck IV, or Bubba to his friends. Growing up with the name But Fluck has made Bubba overly sensitive, and when combined with his flair for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, Bubba's travails bring high hilarity to the story.

Cornwell's liberal use of real landmarks and her intricate knowledge of Richmond's eclectic and often eccentric residents offer a comical and, at times, scathingly satirical look at a city where some still believe the War of Northern Aggression never ended. Irreverence and fear walk hand in hand through the pages, toying with the reader's emotions in a delicious mix. There's even a little treat for sharp-eyed, die-hard Scarpetta fans.

With Southern Cross, Cornwell proves once again that she is a master storyteller who can balance a wicked sense of humor with chilling insight into the minds of the most frightening criminals. This book is a roller-coaster ride filled with terrifying plunges and spine-tingling fun. Watch out, Scarpetta. Hammer and her crew may just give you a run for your money.

--Beth Amos

Beth Amos is the author of several mainstream suspense thrillers, including Second Sight, Eyes of Night, and Cold White Fury. She lives in Richmond and is at work on her next novel.


Kirkus Reviews
Widowed of the pusillanimous husband who worshiped her from afar in her debut (Hornet's Nest, 1997), Charlotte (N.C.) Police Chief Judy Hammer, backed up by Charlotte transplants Virginia West and Andy Brazil, travels to more familiar Cornwell territory-Richmond, Virginia, home turf to Dr. Kay Scarpetta (Point of Origin, 1998, etc.)-to clean up a police force that needs a crusading woman's touch. (Literary Guild/Mystery Guild main selection) .
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780425172544
  • Publisher: Penguin Group (USA)
  • Publication date: 12/6/1999
  • Series: Andy Brazil Series , #2
  • Edition description: Reissue
  • Pages: 432
  • Sales rank: 294,010
  • Product dimensions: 4.42 (w) x 7.54 (h) x 0.96 (d)

Meet the Author

Patricia  Cornwell

Patricia Cornwell's most recent bestsellers include Red Mist, Port Mortuary, and Portrait of a Killer: Jack the Ripper-Case Closed. Her earlier works include Postmortem-the only novel to win five major crime awards in a single year-and Cruel and Unusual, which won Britain's prestigious Gold Dagger Award for the best crime novel of 1993. Dr. Kay Scarpetta herself won the 1999 Sherlock Award for the best detective created by an American author.

Biography

Patricia Cornwell writes crime fiction from an unusually informed point of view. While many writers are, as she says, conjuring up "fantasy" assumptions regarding what really goes into tracking criminals and examining crime scenes, Cornwell really does walk the walk, which is why her novels ring so true.

Before becoming one of the most widely recognized, respected, and read writers in contemporary crime fiction, she worked as a police reporter for The Charlotte Observer and as a computer analyst in the chief medical examiner's office in Virginia. During this period of her life, Cornwell observed literally hundreds of autopsies. While the vast majority of people would surely regard such work unsavory beyond belief, Cornwell was acquiring valuable information that would not only help her write the groundbreaking 2002 study Portrait of a Killer: Jack the Ripper -- Case Closed but would also enrich her fiction with uncommon authenticity.

"Most of these crime scene shows... are what I call ‘Harry Potter' policing," she said in a candid, heated interview. "They're absolutely fantasy. And the problem is the general public watches these, 60 million people a week or whatever, and they think what they're seeing is true." If Cornwell comes off as a bit vehement in her criticism of television shows meant to simply entertain, that's just because she takes her work so seriously.

Not that Cornwell's novels are ever anything short of entertaining, even if their grisly details may require extra-strong stomachs of her readers. She has created a tremendously well-defined and complex character in her favorite fictional crime solver Dr. Kay Scarpetta. Cornwell introduced medical examiner Scarpetta in her first novel, Postmortem in 1990. Today, Scarpetta is still cracking cases and cracking open cadavers. (She has even inspired a cook book called Food to Die For: Secrets from Kay Scarpetta's Kitchen.) In addition, Cornwell writes more lighthearted cop capers in her Andy Brazil & Judy Hammer series.

Good To Know

Cornwell knows what its like to shatter records. Her debut, Postmortem, was the only novel by a first-time author to ever win five major mystery awards in a single year.

Cornwell may be a former crime solver, but she shudders to think that her books could actually contribute to crime. In fact, she says she has received "thank you" notes from prisoners who claim they have gleaned information from her books that might help them cover their tracks while committing future crimes.

If parody is indeed the sincerest form of flattery, then Cornwell has a fan in Chris Elliott. The professional wisenheimer published a hilarious takeoff on her true crime book Portrait of a Killer called The Shroud of the Thwacker.

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    1. Also Known As:
      Patricia Daniels Cornwell (full name)
    2. Hometown:
      Boston, MA and New York, NY
    1. Date of Birth:
      June 9, 1956
    2. Place of Birth:
      Miami, Florida
    1. Education:
      B.A. in English, Davidson College, 1979; King College
    2. Website:

Read an Excerpt

THE LAST MONDAY morning of March began with promise

in the historic city of Richmond, Virginia, where

prominent family names had not changed since the war

that was not forgotten. Traffic was scant on downtown

streets and the Internet. Drug dealers were asleep, prostitutes

tired, drunk drivers sober, pedophiles returning to

work, burglar alarms silent, domestic fights on hold. Not

much was going on at the morgue.

Richmond, built on seven or eight hills, depending on

who counts, is a metropolitan center of unflagging pride

that traces its roots back to 1607, when a small band of

fortune-hunting English explorers got lost and laid claim

to the region by planting a cross in the name of King

James. The inevitable settlement at the fall line of the

James River, predictably called “The Falls,” suffered the

expected tribulations of trading posts and forts, and anti-

British sentiments, revolution, hardships, floggings,

scalpings, treaties that didn’t work and people dying

young.

Local Indians discovered firewater and hangovers, and

traded herbs, minerals and furs for hatchets, ammunition,

cloth, kettles and more firewater. Slaves were shipped in

2 Patricia Cornwell

from Africa. Thomas Jefferson designed Monticello, the

Capitol and the state penitentiary. He founded the University

of Virginia, drafted the Declaration of Independence

and was accused of fathering mulatto children. Railroads

were constructed. The tobacco industry flourished and

nobody sued.

All in all, life in the genteel city ambled along reasonably

well until 1861, when Virginia decided to secede

from the Union and the Union wouldn’t go along with it.

Richmond did not fare well in the Civil War. Afterward,

the former capital of the Confederacy went on as best it

could with no slaves and bad money. It remained fiercely

loyal to its defeated cause, still flaunting its battle flag, the

Southern Cross, as Richmonders marched into the next

century and survived other terrible wars that were not their

problem because they were fought elsewhere.

By the late twentieth century, things were going rather

poorly in the capital city. Its homicide rate had climbed as

high as second in the nation. Tourism was suffering. Children

were carrying guns and knives to school and fighting

on the bus. Residents and department stores had abandoned

downtown and fled to nearby counties. The tax base

was shrinking. City officials and city council members

didn’t get along. The governor’s antebellum mansion

needed new plumbing and wiring.

General Assembly delegates continued slamming desktops

and insulting one another when they came to town,

and the chairman of the House Transportation Committee

carried a concealed handgun onto the floor. Dishonest gypsies

began dropping by on their migrations north and

south, and Richmond became a home away from home for

drug dealers traveling along I-95.

The timing was right for a woman to come along and

clean house. Or perhaps it was simply that nobody was

looking when the city hired its first female police chief,

who this moment was out walking her dog. Daffodils and

crocuses were blooming, the morning’s first light spreading

across the horizon, the temperature an unseasonable

Southern Cross 3

seventy degrees. Birds were chatty from the branches of

budding trees, and Chief Judy Hammer was feeling

uplifted and momentarily soothed.

“Good girl, Popeye,” she encouraged her Boston terrier.

It wasn’t an especially kind name for a dog whose huge

eyes bulged and pointed at the walls. But when the SPCA

had shown the puppy on TV and Hammer had rushed to

the phone to adopt her, Popeye was already Popeye and

answered only to that name.

Hammer and Popeye kept a good pace through their

restored neighborhood of Church Hill, the city’s original

site, quite close to where the English planted their cross.

Owner and dog moved briskly past antebellum homes with

iron fences and porches, and slate and false mansard roofs,

and turrets, stone lintels, chased wood, stained glass,

scroll-sawn porches, gables, raised so-called English and

picturesque basements, and thick chimneys.

They followed East Grace Street to where it ended at an

overlook that was the most popular observation point in

the city. On one side of the precipice was the radio station

WRVA, and on the other was Hammer’s nineteenthcentury

Greek Revival house, built by a man in the tobacco

business about the time the Civil War ended. Hammer

loved the old brick, the bracketed cornices and flat roof,

and the granite porch. She craved places with a past and

always chose to live in the heart of the jurisdiction she

served.

She unlocked the front door, turned off the alarm system,

freed Popeye from the leash and put her through a

quick circuit of sitting, sitting pretty and getting down, in

exchange for treats. Hammer walked into the kitchen for

coffee, her ritual every morning the same. After her walk

and Popeye’s continuing behavioral modification, Hammer

would sit in her living room, scan the paper and look

out long windows at the vista of tall office buildings, the

Capitol, the Medical College of Virginia and acres of Virginia

Commonwealth University’s Biotechnology

Research Park. It was said that Richmond was becoming

4 Patricia Cornwell

the “City of Science,” a place of enlightenment and thriving

health.

But as its top law enforcer surveyed edifices and downtown

streets, she was all too aware of crumbling brick

smokestacks, rusting railroad tracks and viaducts, and

abandoned factories and tobacco warehouses with windows

painted over and boarded up. She knew that bordering

downtown and not so far from where she lived were

five federal housing projects, with two more on Southside.

If one told the politically incorrect truth, all were breeding

grounds for social chaos and violence and were clear evidence

that the Civil War continued to be lost by the South.

Hammer gazed out at a city that had invited her to solve

its seemingly hopeless problems. The morning was lighting

up and she worried there would be one cruel cold snap

left over from winter. Wouldn’t that be just like everything

else these days, the final petty act, the eradication of what

little beauty was left in her horrendously stressful life?

Doubts crowded her thoughts.

When she had forged the destiny that had brought her to

Richmond, she had refused to entertain the possibility that

she had become a fugitive from her own life. Her two sons

were grown and had distanced themselves from her long

before their father, Seth, had gotten ill and died last spring.

Judy Hammer had bravely gone on, gathering her life’s

mission around her like a crusader’s cape.

She resigned from the Charlotte P.D., where she had

been resisted and celebrated for the miracles she wrought

as its chief. She decided it was her calling to move on to

other southern cities and occupy and raze and reconstruct.

She made a proposal to the National Institute of Justice

that would allow her to pick beleaguered police departments

across the South, spend a year in each, and bring all

of them into a union of one-for-all and all-for-one.

Hammer’s philosophy was simple. She did not believe

in cops’ rights. She knew for a fact that when officers, the

brass, precincts and even chiefs seceded from the department

to do their own thing, the result was catastrophic.

Crime rates went up. Clearance rates went down. Nobody

Southern Cross 5

got along. The citizens that law enforcement was there to

protect and serve locked their doors, loaded their guns,

cared not for their neighbors, gave cops the finger and

blamed everything on them. Hammer’s blueprint for

enlightenment and change was the New York Crime Control

Model of policing known as COMSTAT, or computerdriven

statistics.

The acronym was an easy way to define a concept far

more complicated than the notion of using technology to

map crime patterns and hot spots in the city. COMSTAT

held every cop accountable for everything. No longer

could the rank and file and their leaders pass the buck, look

the other way, not care, not know the answer, say they

couldn’t help it, were about to get around to it, hadn’t been

told, forgot, meant to, didn’t feel well or were on the phone

or off duty at the time, because on Mondays and Fridays

Chief Hammer assembled representatives from all

precincts and divisions and gave them hell.

Clearly, Hammer’s battle plan was a northern one, but

as fate would have it, when she presented her proposal to

Richmond’s city council, it was preoccupied with infighting,

mutiny and usurpations. At the time, it didn’t seem

like such a bad thing to let someone else solve the city’s

problems. So it was that Hammer was hired as interim

chief for a year and allowed to bring along two talents she

had worked with in Charlotte.

Hammer began her occupation of Richmond. Soon

enough stubbornness set in. Hatred followed. The city

patriarchs wanted Hammer and her NIJ team to go home.

There was not a thing the city needed to learn from New

York, and Richmonders would be damned before they followed

any example set by the turncoat, carpetbagging city

of Charlotte, which had a habit of stealing Richmond’s

banks and Fortune 500 companies.

Deputy Chief Virginia West complained bitterly through

painful expressions and exasperated huffs as she jogged

around the University of Richmond track. The slate roofs

of handsome collegiate Gothic buildings were just begin6

Patricia Cornwell

ning to materialize as the sun thought about getting up, and

students had yet to venture out except for two young

women who were running sprints.

“I can’t go much farther,” West blurted out to Officer

Andy Brazil.

Brazil glanced at his watch. “Seven more minutes,” he

said. “Then you can walk.”

It was the only time she took orders from him. Virginia

West had been a deputy chief in Charlotte when Brazil was

still going through the police academy and writing articles

for the Charlotte Observer. Then Hammer had brought

them with her to Richmond so West could head investigations

and Brazil could do research, handle public information

and start a website.

Although one might argue that, in actuality, West and

Brazil were peers on Hammer’s NIJ team, in West’s mind

she outranked Brazil and always would. She was more

powerful. He would never have her experience. She was

better on the firing range and in fights. She had killed a

suspect once, although she wasn’t proud of it. Her love

affair with Brazil back in their Charlotte days had been due

to the very normal intensity of mentoring. So he’d had a

crush and she had gone along with it before he got over it.

So what.

“You notice anybody else killing himself out here?

Except those two girls, who are either on the track team or

have an eating disorder,” West continued to complain in

gasps. “No! And guess why! Because this is stupid as shit!

I should be drinking coffee, reading the paper right now.”

“If you’d quit talking, you could get into a rhythm,” said

Brazil, who ran without effort in navy Charlotte P.D.

sweats and Saucony shoes that whispered when they

touched the red rubberized track.

“You really ought to quit wearing Charlotte shit,” she

went on talking anyway. “It’s bad enough as is. Why make

the cops here hate us more?”

“I don’t think they hate us.” Brazil tried to be positive

about how unfriendly and unappreciative Richmond cops

had been.

Southern Cross 7

“Yes they do.”

“Nobody likes change,” Brazil reminded her.

“You seem to,” she said.

It was a veiled reference to the rumor West had heard

barely a week after they had moved here. Brazil had something

going on with his landlady, a wealthy single woman

who lived in Church Hill. West had asked for no further

information. She had checked out nothing. She did not

want to know. She had refused to drive past Brazil’s house,

much less drop by for a visit.

“I guess I like change when it’s good,” Brazil was saying.

“Exactly.”

“Do you wish you’d stayed in Charlotte?”

“Absolutely.”

Brazil picked up his pace just enough to give her his

back. She would never forgive him for saying how much

he wanted her to come with him to Richmond, for talking

her into something yet one more time because he could,

because he used words with clarity and conviction. He had

carried her away on the rhythm of feelings he clearly no

longer had. He had crafted his love into poetry and then

fucking read it to someone else.

“There’s nothing for me here,” said West, who put

words together the way she hung doors and shutters and

built fences. “I mean let’s be honest about it.” She wasn’t

about to paint over anything without stripping it first. “It

sucks.” She sawed away. “Thank God it’s only for a year.”

She pounded her point.

He replied by picking up his pace.

“Like we’re some kind of MASH unit for police departments,”

she added. “Who were we kidding? What a waste

of time. I don’t remember when I’ve wasted so much

time.”

Brazil glanced at his watch. He didn’t seem to be listening

to her, and she wished she could get past his broad

shoulders and handsome profile. The early sun rubbed gold

into his hair. The two college women sprinted past, sweaty

and fat-free, their muscular legs pumping as they showed

8 Patricia Cornwell

off to Brazil. West felt depressed. She felt old. She halted

and bent over, hands on her knees.

“That’s it!” she exclaimed, heaving.

“Forty-six more seconds.” Brazil ran in place like he

was treading water, looking back at her.

“Go on.”

“You sure?”

“Fly like the wind.” She rudely waved him on. “Damn

it,” she bitched as her flip phone vibrated on the waistband

of her running shorts.

She moved off the track, over to the bleachers, out of

the way of hard-bodied people who made her insecure.

“West,” she answered.

“Virginia? It’s . . .” Hammer’s voice pushed through

static.

“Chief Hammer?” West loudly said. “Hello?”

“Virginia . . . You there?” Hammer’s voice scattered

more.

West pressed a hand over her other ear, trying to hear.

“. . . That’s bullshit . . .” a male voice suddenly broke in.

West started walking, trying to get into a better cell.

“Virginia . . .? ” Hammer’s voice barely crackled

through.

“. . . can do it anytime . . . usual rules apply . . .” The

male voice was back.

He had a southern drawl and was obviously a redneck.

West felt instant hostility.

“. . . time to . . . kill . . . Got to . . . or score . . .” The redneck

spoke in distorted blurts.

“. . . an ugly dog not worth . . . lead to shoot it . . .” A

second redneck suddenly answered the first redneck. “How

much . . .? ”

“Depends on . . . Maybe a couple hundred . . .”

“. . . Just between us . . .”

“. . . If . . . body . . . finds . . .”

“. . . not invited . . .”

“What?” Hammer’s voice surfaced and was gone.

“. . . Use a . . . cold nose . . . Not your piece . . . shit . . . !

Blue . . .”

Southern Cross 9

“Chief Hammer . . .” West started to say more, then

caught herself, realizing the rednecks might be able to hear

them, too.

“. . . coons . . .” The first redneck came back. “. . . not

one born too smart for . . . Dismal Swamp . . .”

“. . . Got that right, Bubba . . . We covered . . . a blanket

. . .”

“Okay, Smudge . . . buddy . . . early morning?”

West was silently shocked as she listened to two men

plan a homicide that clearly was racially motivated, a hate

crime, a score to settle that involved robbery. It sounded as

if the murder would go down early in the morning. She

wondered if a cold nose was slang for a snub-nosed

revolver and if blue referred to a gun that was blue steel

versus stainless steel or nickel-plated. Clearly, the psychos

planned to wrap the body in a blanket and dump it in the

Dismal Swamp.

Static.

“. . . Loraine . . .” Bubba’s fractured voice was back.

“. . . At old pumps . . . cut engine . . . headlights off so

don’t wake . . .”

Static, and the cell cleared.

“Chief Hammer?” West said. “Chief Hammer? Are you

still there?”

“Bubba . . .” the second stranger crackled again. “Somebody’s

on . . .”

Static, scratch, blare, blip.

“Goddamn it,” West muttered when her phone went

dead.

Bubba’s real name was Butner Fluck IV. Unlike so many

fearless men devoted to pickup trucks, guns, topless bars

and the Southern Cross, he had not been born into the tribe

of Bubbas, but rather had grown up the son of a theologian

in the Northside neighborhood of Ginter Park, where old

mansions were in disrepair and Civil War cannonballs on

porches were popular. Butner came from a long line of

Butners who always went by the nickname “But,” and it

was lost on his erudite father, Dr. But Fluck III, that calling

10 Patricia Cornwell

his son But in this day and age set the child up for problems.

By the time little But had entered the first grade, the

slurs, the slander and the derision were on every tongue.

They were whispered in class, shouted on buses and playing

fields, and drawn on sheets of notebook paper slipped

from desk to desk or left inside little But’s locker. When he

wrote his name it was But Fluck. In the teacher’s grade

books he was Fluck, But.

Any way he looked at it, he was screwed, really, and of

course his peers came up with any number of other renditions.

Mother-But-Flucker, Butter-Flucker, But-Flucking-

Boy, Buttock-Fluck, and so on. When he retreated into his

studies and went to the head of the class, new pet names

were added to the list. But-Head, Fluck-Head, Mother-

Flucking-But-Head, Head-But-Head, et al.

For But’s ninth birthday he requested camouflage and

several toy guns. He became a compulsive eater. He spent

a lot of time in the woods hunting imaginary prey. He

immersed himself in a growing stash of magazines featuring

mercenary soldiers, anarchists, trucks, assault

weapons, Civil War battlefields and women in swimsuits.

He collected manuals on simple car care and repair, automotive

tools and wiring, wilderness survival, fishing, and

hiking in bear country. He sneaked cigarettes and was

rude. His tenth year he changed his name to Bubba and

was feared by all.

This early Monday morning Bubba was driving home

from third shift at Philip Morris, his CB and two-way

radios turned on, his portable phone plugged into the cigarette

lighter, Eric Clapton on the CD player. His stainless

steel Colt Anaconda .44 with its eight-inch barrel and

Bushnell Holo sight on a B-Square base was tucked under

his seat within quick reach.

Multiple antennas bobbed on his red 1990 Jeep Cherokee,

which Bubba did not realize had been listed in the

Used Car Buying Guide as a used car to avoid, or that it

had been wrecked and had a hundred thousand more miles

on it than the odometer showed. Bubba had no reason to

Southern Cross 11

doubt his good buddy, Joe “Smudge” Bruffy, who last year

had sold the Jeep to Bubba for only three thousand dollars

more than the Blue Book value.

In fact, it was Smudge who Bubba had been talking to

on the portable phone moments earlier when two other

voices broke in. Bubba hadn’t been able to make out what

the two women were saying, but the name “Chief Hammer”

had been unmistakable. He knew it meant something.

Bubba had been raised in a Presbyterian atmosphere of

predestination, God’s will, inclusive language, exegesis

and colorful stoles. He had rebelled. In college he had

studied Far Eastern religions to spite his father, but none of

Bubba’s acting out had eradicated the essence of his early

indoctrination. Bubba believed there was purpose. Despite

all setbacks and personal flaws, he had faith that if he accumulated

enough good karma, or perhaps if yin and yang

ever got along, he would discover the reason for his existence.

So when he heard Chief Hammer’s name over the cell

phone, he experienced a sudden release of gloominess and

menacing persecution, a buoyant happiness and surge of

power. He was transformed into the warrior on a mission

he had always been destined to become as he followed

Midlothian Turnpike to Muskrat’s Auto Rescue, this time

for another windshield leak. Bubba snapped up the mike of

his two-way Kenwood radio and switched over to the

security channel.

“Unit 1 to Unit 2.” He tried to raise Honey, his wife, as

he followed the four-lane artery of Southside out of

Chesterfield County and into the city limits.

No answer. Bubba’s eyes scanned his mirrors. A Richmond

police cruiser pulled in behind him. Bubba slowed

down.

“Unit 1 to Unit 2,” Bubba tried again.

No answer. Some shithead kid in a white Ford Explorer

was trying to cut in front of Bubba. Bubba sped up.

“Unit 1 to Unit 2!” Bubba hated it when his wife didn’t

respond to him immediately.

The cop remained on Bubba’s tail, dark Oakleys staring

12 Patricia Cornwell

straight into Bubba’s rearview mirror. Bubba slowed

again. The punk in the Explorer tried to ease in front of

Bubba, right turn signal flashing. Bubba sped up. He deliberated

over what form of communication to use next, and

picked up his portable phone. He changed his mind. He

thought about trying his wife again on the two-way and

decided not to bother. She should have gotten back to him

the first and second times. The hell with her. He snapped

up the mike to his CB, eyeing the cop in his mirrors and

keeping a check on the Explorer.

“Yo, Smudge,” Bubba hailed his buddy over the CB.

“You on track come back to yack.”

“Unit 2,” his wife’s out-of-breath voice came over the

two-way.

Bubba’s portable phone rang.

“Sorry . . . oh my . . .” Honey sweetly said as she

gasped. “I was . . . oh dear . . . let me catch my breath . . .

whew . . . was chasing Half Shell . . . she wouldn’t

come . . . That dog.”

Bubba ignored her. He answered the phone.

“Bubba?” said Gig Dan, Bubba’s supervisor at Philip

Morris.

“Trackin’ and yackin’, buddy,” Smudge came back

over the CB.

“Unit 2 to Unit 1?” Honey anxiously persisted over the

two-way.

“Yo, Gig,” Bubba said into the portable phone. “What’s

goin’ on?”

“Need ya to come in and work the second half of second

shift,” Gig told him. “Tiller called in sick.”

Shit, Bubba thought. Today of all days when there was

so much to do and so little time. It depressed the hell out of

him to think about showing up at eight o’clock tonight and

working twelve straight hours.

“Ten-4,” Bubba replied to Gig.

“When you wanna shine on yellow eyes?” Smudge

hadn’t given up.

Bubba didn’t really like coon hunting all that much. His

coon dog Half Shell had her problems, and Bubba worried

Southern Cross 13

about snakes. Besides, Smudge always got a higher score.

It seemed all Bubba did was lose money to him.

“Before slithers wake up, I guess.” Bubba tried to sound

sure of himself. “So go ahead and shake out a plan.”

“Ten-fo, good buddy,” Smudge came back. “Gotcha

covered like a blanket.”

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Table of Contents

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First Chapter

Chapter One


the last Monday morning of March began with promise in the historic city of Richmond, Virginia, where prominent family names had not changed since the war that was not forgotten. Traffic was scant on downtown streets and the Internet. Drug dealers were asleep, prostitutes tired, drunk drivers sober, pedophiles returning to work, burglar alarms silent, domestic fights on hold. Not much was going on at the morgue.

    Richmond, built on seven or eight hills, depending on who counts, is a metropolitan center of unflagging pride that traces its roots back to 1607, when a small band of fortune-hunting English explorers got lost and laid claim to the region by planting a cross in the name of King James. The inevitable settlement at the fall line of the James River, predictably called "The Fails," suffered the expected tribulations of trading posts and forts, and anti-British sentiments, revolution, hardships, floggings, scalpings, treaties that didn't work and people dying young.

    Local Indians discovered firewater and hangovers, and traded herbs, minerals and furs for hatchets, ammunition, cloth, kettles and more firewater. Slaves were shipped in from Africa. Thomas Jefferson designed Monticello, the Capitol and the state penitentiary. He founded the University of Virginia, drafted the Declaration of Independence and was accused of fathering mulatto children. Railroads were constructed. The tobacco industry flourished and nobody sued.

    All in all, life in the genteel city ambled along reasonably well until 1861, when Virginia decided to secede from the Union and the Union wouldn't go along with it. Richmond did not fare well in the Civil War. Afterward, the former capital of the Confederacy went on as best it could with no slaves and bad money. It remained fiercely loyal to its defeated cause, still flaunting its battle flag, the Southern Cross, as Richmonders marched into the next century and survived other terrible wars that were not their problem because they were fought elsewhere.

    By the late twentieth century, things were going rather poorly in the capital city. Its homicide rate had climbed as high as second in the nation. Tourism was suffering. Children were carrying guns and knives to school and fighting on the bus. Residents and department stores had abandoned downtown and fled to nearby counties. The tax base was shrinking. City officials and city council members didn't get along. The governor's antebellum mansion needed new plumbing and wiring.

    General Assembly delegates continued slamming desktops and insulting one another when they came to town, and the chairman of the House Transportation Committee carried a concealed handgun onto the floor. Dishonest gypsies began dropping by on their migrations north and south, and Richmond became a home away from home for drug dealers traveling along I-95.

    The timing was right for a woman to come along and clean house. Or perhaps it was simply that nobody was looking when the city hired its first female police chief, who this moment was out walking her dog. Daffodils and crocuses were blooming, the morning's first light spreading across the horizon, the temperature an unseasonable seventy degrees. Birds were chatty from the branches of budding trees, and Chief Judy Hammer was feeling uplifted and momentarily soothed.

    "Good girl, Popeye," she encouraged her Boston terrier.

    It wasn't an especially kind name for a dog whose huge eyes bulged and pointed at the walls. But when the SPCA had shown the puppy on TV and Hammer had rushed to the phone to adopt her, Popeye was already Popeye and answered only to that name.

    Hammer and Popeye kept a good pace through their restored neighborhood of Church Hill, the city's original site, quite close to where the English planted their cross. Owner and dog moved briskly past antebellum homes with iron fences and porches, and slate and false mansard roofs, and turrets, stone lintels, chased wood, stained glass, scroll-sawn porches, gables, raised so-called English and picturesque basements, and thick chimneys.

    They followed East Grace Street to where it ended at an overlook that was the most popular observation point in the city. On one side of the precipice was the radio station WRVA, and on the other was Hammer's nineteenth-century Greek Revival house, built by a man in the tobacco business about the time the Civil War ended. Hammer loved the old brick, the bracketed cornices and flat roof, and the granite porch. She craved places with a past and always chose to live in the heart of the jurisdiction she served.

    She unlocked the front door, turned off the alarm system, freed Popeye from the leash and put her through a quick circuit of sitting, sitting pretty and getting down, in exchange for treats. Hammer walked into the kitchen for coffee, her ritual every morning the same. After her walk and Popeye's continuing behavioral modification, Hammer would sit in her living room, scan the paper and look out long windows at the vista of tall office buildings, the Capitol, the Medical College of Virginia and acres of Virginia Commonwealth University's Biotechnology Research Park. It was said that Richmond was becoming the "City of Science," a place of enlightenment and thriving health.

    But as its top law enforcer surveyed edifices and downtown streets, she was all too aware of crumbling brick smokestacks, rusting railroad tracks and viaducts, and abandoned factories and tobacco warehouses with windows painted over and boarded up. She knew that bordering downtown and not so far from where she lived were five federal housing projects, with two more on Southside. If one told the politically incorrect truth, all were breeding grounds for social chaos and violence and were clear evidence that the Civil War continued to be lost by the South.

    Hammer gazed out at a city that had invited her to solve its seemingly hopeless problems. The morning was lighting up and she worried there would be one cruel cold snap left over from winter. Wouldn't that be just like everything else these days, the final petty act, the eradication of what little beauty was left in her horrendously stressful life? Doubts crowded her thoughts.

    When she had forged the destiny that had brought her to Richmond, she had refused to entertain the possibility that she had become a fugitive from her own life. Her two sons were grown and had distanced themselves from her long before their father, Seth, had gotten ill and died last spring. Judy Hammer had bravely gone on, gathering her life's mission around her like a crusader's cape.

    She resigned from the Charlotte P.D., where she had been resisted and celebrated for the miracles she wrought as its chief. She decided it was her calling to move on to other southern cities and occupy and raze and reconstruct. She made a proposal to the National Institute of Justice that would allow her to pick beleaguered police departments across the South, spend a year in each, and bring all of them into a union of one-for-all and all-for-one.

    Hammer's philosophy was simple. She did not believe in cops' rights. She knew for a fact that when officers, the brass, precincts and even chiefs seceded from the department to do their own thing, the result was catastrophic. Crime rates went up. Clearance rates went down. Nobody got along. The citizens that law enforcement was there to protect and serve locked their doors, loaded their guns, cared not for their neighbors, gave cops the finger and blamed everything on them. Hammer's blueprint for enlightenment and change was the New York Crime Control Model of policing known as COMSTAT, or computer-driven statistics.

    The acronym was an easy way to define a concept far more complicated than the notion of using technology to map crime patterns and hot spots in the city. COMSTAT held every cop accountable for everything. No longer could the rank and file and their leaders pass the buck, look the other way, not care, not know the answer, say they couldn't help it, were about to get around to it, hadn't been told, forgot, meant to, didn't feel well or were on the phone or off duty at the time, because on Mondays and Fridays Chief Hammer assembled representatives from all precincts and divisions and gave them hell.

    Clearly, Hammer's battle plan was a northern one, but as fate would have it, when she presented her proposal to Richmond's city council, it was preoccupied with infighting, mutiny and usurpations. At the time, it didn't seem like such a bad thing to let someone else solve the city's problems. So it was that Hammer was hired as interim chief for a year and allowed to bring along two talents she had worked with in Charlotte.

Hammer began her occupation of Richmond. Soon enough stubbornness set in. Hatred followed. The city patriarchs wanted Hammer and her NIJ team to go home. There was not a thing the city needed to learn from New York, and Richmonders would be damned before they followed any example set by the turncoat, carpetbagging city of Charlotte, which had a habit of stealing Richmond's banks and Fortune 500 companies.


    deputy Chief Virginia West complained bitterly through painful expressions and exasperated huffs as she jogged around the University of Richmond track. The slate roofs of handsome collegiate Gothic buildings were just beginning to materialize as the sun thought about getting up, and students had yet to venture out except for two young women who were running sprints.

    "I can't go much farther," West blurted out to Officer Andy Brazil.

    Brazil glanced at his watch. "Seven more minutes," he said. "Then you can walk."

    It was the only time she took orders from him. Virginia West had been a deputy chief in Charlotte when Brazil was still going through the police academy and writing articles for the Charlotte Observer. Then Hammer had brought them with her to Richmond so West could head investigations and Brazil could do research, handle public information and start a website.

    Although one might argue that, in actuality, West and Brazil were peers on Hammer's NIJ team, in West's mind she outranked Brazil and always would. She was more powerful. He would never have her experience. She was better on the firing range and in fights. She had killed a suspect once, although she wasn't proud of it. Her love affair with Brazil back in their Charlotte days had been due to the very normal intensity of mentoring. So he'd had a crush and she had gone along with it before he got over it. So what.

    "You notice anybody else killing himself out here? Except those two girls, who are either on the track team or have an eating disorder," West continued to complain in gasps. "No! And guess why! Because this is stupid as shit! I should be drinking coffee, reading the paper right now."

    "If you'd quit talking, you could get into a rhythm," said Brazil, who ran without effort in navy Charlotte P.D. sweats and Saucony shoes that whispered when they touched the red rubberized track.

    "You really ought to quit wearing Charlotte shit," she went on talking anyway. "It's bad enough as is. Why make the cops here hate us more?"

    "I don't think they hate us." Brazil tried to be positive about how unfriendly and unappreciative Richmond cops had been.

    "Yes they do."

    "Nobody likes change," Brazil reminded her.

    "You seem to," she said.

    It was a veiled reference to the rumor West had heard barely a week after they had moved here. Brazil had something going on with his landlady, a wealthy single woman who lived in Church Hill. West had asked for no further information. She had checked out nothing. She did not want to know. She had refused to drive past Brazil's house, much less drop by for a visit.

    "I guess I like change when it's good," Brazil was saying.

    "Exactly."

    "Do you wish you'd stayed in Charlotte?"

    "Absolutely."

    Brazil picked up his pace just enough to give her his back. She would never forgive him for saying how much he wanted her to come with him to Richmond, for talking her into something yet one more time because he could, because he used words with clarity and conviction. He had carried her away on the rhythm of feelings he clearly no longer had. He had crafted his love into poetry and then fucking read it to someone else.

    "There's nothing for me here," said West, who put words together the way she hung doors and shutters and built fences. "I mean let's be honest about it." She wasn't about to paint over anything without stripping it first. "It sucks." She sawed away. "Thank God it's only for a year." She pounded her point.

    He replied by picking up his pace.

    "Like we're some kind of MASH unit for police departments," she added. "Who were we kidding? What a waste of time. I don't remember when I've wasted so much time."

    Brazil glanced at his watch. He didn't seem to be listening to her, and she wished she could get past his broad shoulders and handsome profile. The early sun rubbed gold into his hair. The two college women sprinted past, sweaty and fat-free, their muscular legs pumping as they showed off to Brazil. West felt depressed. She felt old. She halted and bent over, hands on her knees.

    "That's it!" she exclaimed, heaving.

    "Forty-six more seconds." Brazil ran in place like he was treading water, looking back at her.

    "Go on."

    "You sure?"

    "Fly like the wind." She rudely waved him on. "Damn it," she bitched as her flip phone vibrated on the waistband of her running shorts.

    She moved off the track, over to the bleachers, out of the way of hard-bodied people who made her insecure.

    "West," she answered.

    "Virginia? It's ..." Hammer's voice pushed through static.

    "Chief Hammer?" West loudly said. "Hello?"

    "Virginia ... You there?" Hammer's voice scattered more.

    West pressed a hand over her other ear, trying to hear.

    "... That's bullshit ..." a male voice suddenly broke in.

    West started walking, trying to get into a better cell.

    "Virginia ...?" Hammer's voice barely crackled through.

    "... can do it anytime ... usual rules apply ..." The male voice was back.

    He had a southern drawl and was obviously a redneck. West felt instant hostility.

    "... time to ... kill ... Got to ... or score ..." The redneck spoke in distorted blurts.

    "... an ugly dog not worth ... lead to shoot it ..." A second redneck suddenly answered the first redneck. "How much ...?"

    "Depends on ... Maybe a couple hundred ..."

    "... Just between us ..."

    "... If ... body ... finds ..."

    "... not invited ..."

    "What?" Hammer's voice surfaced and was gone.

    "... Use a ... cold nose ... Not your piece ... shit ... ! Blue ..."

    "Chief Hammer ..." West started to say more, then caught herself, realizing the rednecks might be able to hear them, too.

    "... coons ..." The first redneck came back. "... not one born too smart for ... Dismal Swamp ..."

    "... Got that right, Bubba ... We covered ... a blanket ..."

    "Okay, Smudge ... buddy ... early morning?"

    West was silently shocked as she listened to two men plan a homicide that clearly was racially motivated, a hate crime, a score to settle that involved robbery. It sounded as if the murder would go down early in the morning. She wondered if a cold nose was slang for a snub-nosed revolver and if blue referred to a gun that was blue steel versus stainless steel or nickel-plated. Clearly, the psychos planned to wrap the body in a blanket and dump it in the Dismal Swamp.

    Static.

    "... Loraine ..." Bubba's fractured voice was back. "... At old pumps ... cut engine ... headlights off so don't wake ..."

    Static, and the cell cleared.

    "Chief Hammer?" West said. "Chief Hammer? Are you still there?"

    "Bubba ..." the second stranger crackled again. "Somebody's on ..."

    Static, scratch, blare, blip.

    "Goddamn it," West muttered when her phone went dead.


    bubba's real name was Butner Fluck IV. Unlike so many fearless men devoted to pickup trucks, guns, topless bars and the Southern Cross, he had not been born into the tribe of Bubbas, but rather had grown up the son of a theologian in the Northside neighborhood of Ginter Park, where old mansions were in disrepair and Civil War cannonballs on porches were popular. Butner came from a long line of Butners who always went by the nickname "But," and it was lost on his erudite father, Dr. But Fluck III, that calling his son But in this day and age set the child up for problems.

    By the time little But had entered the first grade, the slurs, the slander and the derision were on every tongue. They were whispered in class, shouted on buses and playing fields, and drawn on sheets of notebook paper slipped from desk to desk or left inside little But's locker. When he wrote his name it was But Fluck. In the teacher's grade books he was Fluck, But.

    Any way he looked at it, he was screwed, really, and of course his peers came up with any number of other renditions. Mother-But-Flucker, Butter-Flucker, But-Flucking-Boy, Buttock-Fluck, and so on. When he retreated into his studies and went to the head of the class, new pet names were added to the list. But-Head, Fluck-Head, Mother-Flucking-But-Head, Head-But-Head, et al.

    For But's ninth birthday he requested camouflage and several toy guns. He became a compulsive eater. He spent a lot of time in the woods hunting imaginary prey. He immersed himself in a growing stash of magazines featuring mercenary soldiers, anarchists, trucks, assault weapons, Civil War battlefields and women in swimsuits. He collected manuals on simple car care and repair, automotive tools and wiring, wilderness survival, fishing, and hiking in bear country. He sneaked cigarettes and was rude. His tenth year he changed his name to Bubba and was feared by all.

    This early Monday morning Bubba was driving home from third shift at Philip Morris, his CB and two-way radios turned on, his portable phone plugged into the cigarette lighter, Eric Clapton on the CD player. His stainless steel Colt Anaconda .44 with its eight-inch barrel and Bushnell Holo sight on a B-Square base was tucked under his seat within quick reach.

    Multiple antennas bobbed on his red 1990 Jeep Cherokee, which Bubba did not realize had been listed in the Used Car Buying Guide as a used car to avoid, or that it had been wrecked and had a hundred thousand more miles on it than the odometer showed. Bubba had no reason to doubt his good buddy, Joe "Smudge" Bruffy, who last year had sold the Jeep to Bubba for only three thousand dollars more than the Blue Book value.

    In fact, it was Smudge who Bubba had been talking to on the portable phone moments earlier when two other voices broke in. Bubba hadn't been able to make out what the two women were saying, but the name "Chief Hammer" had been unmistakable. He knew it meant something.

    Bubba had been raised in a Presbyterian atmosphere of predestination, God's will, inclusive language, exegesis and colorful stoles. He had rebelled. In college he had studied Far Eastern religions to spite his father, but none of Bubba's acting out had eradicated the essence of his early indoctrination. Bubba believed there was purpose. Despite all setbacks and personal flaws, he had faith that if he accumulated enough good karma, or perhaps if yin and yang ever got along, he would discover the reason for his existence.

    So when he heard Chief Hammer's name over the cell phone, he experienced a sudden release of gloominess and menacing persecution, a buoyant happiness and surge of power. He was transformed into the warrior on a mission he had always been destined to become as he followed Midlothian Turnpike to Muskrat's Auto Rescue, this time for another windshield leak. Bubba snapped up the mike of his two-way Kenwood radio and switched over to the security channel.

    "Unit 1 to Unit 2." He tried to raise Honey, his wife, as he followed the four-lane artery of Southside out of Chesterfield County and into the city limits.

    No answer. Bubba's eyes scanned his mirrors. A Richmond police cruiser pulled in behind him. Bubba slowed down.

    "Unit 1 to Unit 2," Bubba tried again.

    No answer. Some shithead kid in a white Ford Explorer was trying to cut in front of Bubba. Bubba sped up.

    "Unit 1 to Unit 2!" Bubba hated it when his wife didn't respond to him immediately.

    The cop remained on Bubba's tail, dark Oakleys staring straight into Bubba's rearview mirror. Bubba slowed again. The punk in the Explorer tried to ease in front of Bubba, right turn signal flashing. Bubba sped up. He deliberated over what form of communication to use next, and picked up his portable phone. He changed his mind. He thought about trying his wife again on the two-way and decided not to bother. She should have gotten back to him the first and second times. The hell with her. He snapped up the mike to his CB, eyeing the cop in his mirrors and keeping a check on the Explorer.

    "Yo, Smudge," Bubba hailed his buddy over the CB. "You on track come back to yack."

    "Unit 2," his wife's out-of-breath voice came over the two-way.

    Bubba's portable phone rang.

    "Sorry ... oh my ..." Honey sweetly said as she gasped. "I was ... oh dear ... let me catch my breath ... whew ... was chasing Half Shell ... she wouldn't come ... That dog."

    Bubba ignored her. He answered the phone.

    "Bubba?" said Gig Dan, Bubba's supervisor at Philip Morris.

    "Trackin' and yackin', buddy," Smudge came back over the CB.

    "Unit 2 to Unit 1?" Honey anxiously persisted over the two-way.

    "Yo, Gig," Bubba said into the portable phone. "What's goin' on?"

    "Need ya to come in and work the second half of second shift," Gig told him. "Tiller called in sick."

    Shit, Bubba thought. Today of all days when there was so much to do and so little time. It depressed the hell out of him to think about showing up at eight o'clock tonight and working twelve straight hours.

    "Ten-4," Bubba replied to Gig.

    "When you wanna shine on yellow eyes?" Smudge hadn't given up.

    Bubba didn't really like coon hunting all that much. His coon dog Half Shell had her problems, and Bubba worried about snakes. Besides, Smudge always got a higher score. It seemed all Bubba did was lose money to him.

    "Before slithers wake up, I guess." Bubba tried to sound sure of himself. "So go ahead and shake out a plan."

    "Ten-fo, good buddy," Smudge came back. "Gotcha covered like a blanket."

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Interviews & Essays

On Monday, January 18th, barnesandnoble.com welcomed Patricia Cornwell to discuss SOUTHERN CROSS.


Moderator: Welcome, Patricia Cornwell! Thank you for taking the time to join us online this evening. How are you doing tonight?

Patricia Cornwell: I am doing very well, and thank you for your interest. It is a delight to be here.


Emily Brown from Scotch Plains, NJ: Greetings, Patricia. Once again, with SOUTHERN CROSS, I am wowed by the authenticity of detail. Can you tell us any anecdotes about research ventures for which you either had difficulty getting permission to pursue, or that caused you to rethink a point of view or change the direction of the plot?

Patricia Cornwell: I think having to go coon hunting was probably the most challenging of my research trips. There are a lot of people all over the country for whom this is huge sports event. So I had to go and research with a miner's helmet in swamps with these good old guys and their coon dogs. But I would have never understood the importance of the sport and the value of it if not for the research. It was a magnificent experience -- I really enjoyed it.


Marco Aurelio from Fortaleza, Brazil: Hello, there, dear Patricia Cornwell! I'm so pleased to be able to ask you a question, since I'm a huge Brazilian fan of yours. I'd like to say, I loved all your books, and I can't wait to read SOUTHERN CROSS. I've got a question: You have a character called Andy Brazil. Does he have any inspiration by the country? Why did you give this surname to him? Any special reason? Thank you.

Patricia Cornwell: He has not been to Brazil, but we know he must go there. As a matter of fact, I will be coming to Brazil in April on book tour. I am not sure where I will be, but look for me.


Earlene from Seattle, WA: I love your books! How old were you when you first knew you wanted to be an author?

Patricia Cornwell: I am not sure how old I was, but I have been writing since I was old enough to hold a crayon. Probably in college I started thinking about publishing books, because I had to choose a career, and when I thought about what I would like to be doing the rest of my life, I knew it was writing books.


Jay from Knoxville, TN: Ms. Cornwell, did you visit Philip Morris? Your knowledge of the factory was astonishing!

Patricia Cornwell: Thank you for asking that. As a matter of fact, I went over there two or three times. They were incredibly gracious, and I have never seen such an amazing production line in all my life. So the way I describe it is pretty much the way it is. And as a matter of fact, I am a reformed smoker, but if I spent one more day there, I think I would have lit up again.


Pac87@aol.com from xx: Are the portions in the novel about COMSTAT realistic? Did you research this extensively?

Patricia Cornwell: Yes, I did. I went to New York City and sat in on a COMSTAT meeting, so the way I describe it is accurate. COMSTAT is actually an excellent idea, and I hope it spreads to other parts of the country.


Rina from Malaysia: Ms. Cornwell, it's great being able to meet my fave author on this chat. I simply love your books, and I want to thank you for writing them. I have yet to read SOUTHERN CROSS -- I have not seen it in the bookstores here yet -- but I understand that you have moved Chief Hammer and Co. to Virginia. Is there a possibility that Chief Hammer and Dr. Scarpetta would meet in any of your future books?

Patricia Cornwell: Great question. I have a very subtle allusion to Scarpetta as a medical examiner. But I don't think these books will get interwoven unless I get really senile.


Jay from Knoxville, TN: Ms. Cornwell, what happened with the television show "A.T.F."? I was so looking forward to your excellence in another field!

Patricia Cornwell: You are very well informed. The movie was made, it was very good, then ABC decided to put it in the can because the network felt it would be too expensive to start a series. So they spent $6 million on nothing (that is what it cost to make). One can only hope that one day it will be resurrected.


Marvin from NY: I know it is tough or impossible to predict, but what type of future direction do you see for some of those old-fashioned cities deeply rooted in their racist old traditions?

Patricia Cornwell: I think the future for a lot of them is not very good. I truly think there are some people that are too rooted to ever move on to a brighter future. And I think that is a true shame. We should look forward, not back.


Frank from Pennsylvania: New York City is too intimidating and distant! Richmond is just too distant! Have you in the past, or do you plan in the near future, to do a book signing in Pennsylvania? PS: I just love your books. I have a collection of nine, even though my local library has them also.

Patricia Cornwell: I am sure I will. There is a web site that is unauthorized that Jim Juno does. People can access [tour information] through him. But I have no doubt that I will be back to Pennsylvania.


Sandi McCraw from North Carolina: Hi, Patricia. I really enjoyed HORNET'S NEST, and I'm looking forward to reading SOUTHERN CROSS. What made you choose Charlotte as the setting for HORNET'S NEST? Is it also the setting of SOUTHERN CROSS? (PS: I miss Kay! Hope to see her soon!)

Patricia Cornwell: I chose Charlotte because I went there for college, then I worked for The Charlotte Observer, and the city has grown so much -- particularly with the notorious bank building -- that I thought it would be a lot of fun. SOUTHERN CROSS is set in Richmond.


Paul Feldhuhn from Palm Bay, Florida: You are my favorite author, and Dr. Kay is a great character. In regards to SOUTHERN CROSS: Did you have any trouble juxtaposing the very real problem of gang violence, and specifically the horror and cruelty perpetrated by Smoke and his real-life counterparts, with "wacky" humor, albeit "black" wacky humor? I know I am struggling with this as I'm reading. Thanks, and looking forward to BLACK NOTICE.

Patricia Cornwell: Excellent question. The wacky part is a lot of fun, but it also has a serious side and dark humor; but the real violence that I choose is to shock people that this really isn't funny and the violence is real, so the juxtaposition of violence and satire is very deliberate.


Sylvia Troxel from Dallas: Many people have offered vague proposals regarding parental involvement in regards to juvenile crime. From your perspective, how does parental accountability/responsibility fit into the juvenile-crime reform equation?

Patricia Cornwell: I think parental responsibility is very important, and when parents are not responsible, they should be held accountable. Certainly there are exceptions to this, but it is a travesty how many juveniles fill up the court and their parents aren't even there.


Margaret McCrary from Albany, GA: Patricia, I do enjoy the way your mind works through the relationships of your characters and story plots. My two questions are: In the Dr. Scarpetta books, how did you happen to choose for Temple Gault to come from Albany, GA? I wondered if you had friends or family here. I pass Pippin Pecan and the orchards every day taking my daughter to school out on Old Petoria Road, here in Albany. Also, how could I order first-edition books signed by you? I only have one at this time, and it is POINT OF ORIGIN, which I happened to come across at barnesandnoble.com. Thanks for sharing your talents with us!

Patricia Cornwell: Albany was chosen because I wanted his family to come from an old Southern plantation to have the paradox of the old gentile South with a modern psychopath. The best way to get a book signed is at a book signing, and if you look at the web site, you can find where the closest one will be.


Michelle from Eugene, Oregon: Thank you so much for being here! I sincerely enjoy reading your books. I have all hardback editions because I cannot wait long enough for the paperbacks. I would like to know if you will have any say in the casting of actors for the movie of FROM POTTER'S FIELD?

Patricia Cornwell: I most certainly will. The director, Beeban Kidron, and I are working very closely in a joint effort on our part. I have already read the script and liked it very much, and I hope Universal will be filming it in the not-too-distant future.


Jay from Knoxville, TN: Ms. Cornwell, I read somewhere that in HORNET'S NEST, Andy Brazil's character was originally a female. If so, what made you change your mind?

Patricia Cornwell: The many details people find out.... The genesis of HORNET'S NEST was a screenplay I wrote, and originally Andy was a female, but because there were already two strong females, my publisher and agent suggested I might change her to a male, which has worked wonderfully. He is the brother I wish I had.


Brenda B. from Jacksonville, FL: Will there be a new love interest for Scarpetta? I am so sorry about the demise of Benton. Love all your books.

Patricia Cornwell: I have no doubt there will be; in fact, I am just this very moment working on the new book, called BLACK NOTICE. I can already sense trouble around the corner. And I don't mean crime.


Margaret from Belfast: Greetings from the Emerald Isle just after midnight. Ms. Cornwell, please put your mailing list "friends" out of our misery. In POINT OF ORIGIN, specifically Carrie's letter, what do the letters GKSFWFY mean? "Gretham kills Scarpetta, fire waits for you" was a popular guess. Or random character initials?

Patricia Cornwell: The personal ad? At this very moment, I don't remember what it means -- I have too many books in my head to remember everything.


Lisa from Virginia: Hi! I adore both the Hammer books -- a nice divergence from the Scarpetta ones (these, of course, are tops!). Will the next Hammer book (if you know already) be moving the trio to another city for another NIJ "takeover"?

Patricia Cornwell: I am not sure. However, I think that the characters will stay in this area for at least another book. After all, if you read SOUTHERN CROSS, Hammer had only about a week to get herself out of trouble; I think we need to give her a little more time.


Gillian from Bradford, England: Greetings from freezing England! Do you find writing easier as you go on, or do you find it more difficult with every novel?

Patricia Cornwell: I find every novel more challenging than the last, because my goal in life is to get better with each one. However, I find the art of writing gets a little easier the more I do it.


George from Chicago: Are you anything like any of your characters? If so, which one? And are you going to be doing any book signings in the Chicago area in the future? Thanks.

Patricia Cornwell: I say all the characters are my children and share my genetic code, whether it is Scarpetta, Hammer, or even Marino, because I really could be a slob. And I have no doubt that I will be doing a signing in Chicago, I am just not sure right now.


Suzanne from Tallahassee, FL: Ms. Cornwell, I've really enjoyed your books. How did you come up with the names of the characters in SOUTHERN CROSS, and do you really know people like them?

Patricia Cornwell: One very easy way to come up with names is to flip through a phone book and look in a newspaper; in other words, I came across a detective whose last name was Fluck, and I thought, How in the world would this affect the man's life? And a lot of the names I just make up. It is a satire, and I have fun with names in this way. But if you really take a look, you would be amazed at some of the names people have. In Richmond there was a Doctor Fry who used to proclaim executed prisoners dead after they were electrocuted.


Sam from Virginia: Dear Ms. Cornwell, I love your books and greatly admire you and your writing. My question is, I have heard about your new Scarpetta book, BLACK NOTICE, and was wondering if you could give us any information about it.

Patricia Cornwell: I have been doing research with Interpol in Lyon, France, and the book begins with an unidentified body that ends up in a port in Richmond. Basically, a "black notice" is an Interpol term for an unidentified dead body that may have international connections, so if you are in a computer but flagged as a black notice, you are dead, but they don't know who you are. The rest you have to read about later.


Linda Brossette from New Orleans: In reading SOUTHERN CROSS, I was wondering if you were influenced by Faulkner or Walker Percy.

Patricia Cornwell: No, but I have to say, A CONFEDERACY OF DUNCES is one of the funniest books I have read, and I probably relate to that more than the others.


Kelly Rae from Lincoln, Michigan: Hi, Patricia! I am glad that I finally get to chat with my favorite author. I have not yet bought a copy of your latest work, and I do plan on it, but would you answer a question for me? Will Kay ever get a peaceful night's sleep? Thanks so much!

Patricia Cornwell: Now and then she will get one, I hope. But you have to remember, just like paperwork, people are not interested in seeing her doing paperwork or buying pencils or sleeping well. She actually has a better life then we think she does. And I will add that I published a book in November called SCARPETTA'S WINTER TABLE, where you will see the gentler, peaceful side of her. The biggest crime in the book is a kid throwing a snowball at Marino's window.


Sylvia from Dallas: Ms. Cornwell, on "The Rosie O'Donnell Show," you mentioned you had a director, Tim Willocks, lined up for the film rendition of FROM POTTER'S FIELD. What other films has Mr. Willocks directed?

Patricia Cornwell: Actually, the director is Beeban Kidron, a British director who has done many movies, including "To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar." Tim Willocks is the screenwriter, who also wrote a very good book, GREEN RIVER RISING. He is the screenwriter.


Tammy from Chicago: You depict the characters in your novels so vividly. Are they just designed around people you have met or currently know in your career? By the way, you are an incredible author. I wish you could write a book a week. I could read them that quickly.

Patricia Cornwell: My agent wishes the same thing. Thanks for the compliment, but no, none of my characters are based on real people. I am not sure where they come from -- I just see them in my head, and I can hear them speak.


Paula from Indy: Ms. Cornwell, which authors in your particular genre do you most admire, and why? Sorry, I've not had the privilege of reading SOUTHERN CROSS yet, but I've read everything else of yours!

Patricia Cornwell: I am sorry to tell you that I really am not a big fiction reader. My favorite things to read are biographies. But in terms of admiring current crime novelists, I think David Baldacci is very good, and Linda A. Fairstein, if you are interested in thrillers that are technically accurate.


Cooper from Chattanooga, TN: You have done many things to make your stories so very realistic. Any hints for what is lurking in your plans? I know you have just given us a new book.... Sorry to seem as though all we want is more, more, more, but let's face it, we love your creations.

Patricia Cornwell: There is nothing you can say to me that makes me feel better then to hear "more, more, more." I am not 100 percent sure what the future holds, but I see the Hammer and Scarpetta series going a long time. I suspect that the 11th Scarpetta book may deal with terrorism. That may not be a whole lot of fun to research.


Robin from Charlotte, NC: You've probably been asked this a million times, but why, oh, why did Benton have to die? Was it that the relationship was going nowhere and Kay needed a fresh perspective?

Patricia Cornwell: When I started POINT OF ORIGIN, I had no idea this was going to happen; it wasn't until a third of the way through the book that I began to get a premonition of what may lay ahead. I am very true to my characters -- you may say this is strange to hear, but his death upset me as much as it upset you. In fact, I am having to deal with it in every page of BLACK NOTICE, and sometimes I cry.


Lisa Terry from Lynchburg, Virginia: I'm very excited to be chatting with you, after seeing you at our book signing here in Virginia and having my book signed. My question is, When you are writing on a certain subject, do you always research it to the point of actually participating in that particular subject? Such as, I understand you took up flying for the part of the helicopter in POINT OF ORIGIN. Do you go so far as to do that in everything -- scuba diving, and so on?

Patricia Cornwell: Yes. But I stop short of putting myself in real danger; although some things I do have risks, I am not stupid or reckless. For example, I can fly a helicopter -- in fact, I just bought one -- but I will probably never fly it alone. I have a National Guard pilot who flies with me always. As much as possible, I try to do the things I tell you about, not only because of realism, but I feel so privileged that you read my books that I want to work very hard for you.


Sue from Toronto: Thank you for your wonderful books. Will Lucy develop a more lasting relationship than she has had in past books? Thanks, Sue.

Patricia Cornwell: I suspect she will. But again, it is so hard for me to say, because I don't have a master plan for my characters any more than I do for my friends and loved ones. I only have ideas.


Emily Brown from Scotch Plains, NJ: In SOUTHERN CROSS, you write that Andy became a cop "so he could write stories about crime that would change the way people thought." Is this at least in part your personal mission statement, too?

Patricia Cornwell: Yes, it is. One of the reasons I still go to the morgue a number of times in the year and ride with police is because I want to show you the reality of violence. The best case scenario is that if some day you sit on a jury, violence will turn from an abstraction to a reality, from something you may have read from my book, and that is a very exciting idea.


Moderator: It's always a pleasure to chat with you, Patricia Cornwell, and we, along with your legions of fans who signed on tonight, hope you'll come back soon. Any parting words for the online audience?

Patricia Cornwell: When I began to write novels, all I hoped for in life was that somebody would want to read them. I want all of you to know how important you are to me, and your kind words and interest are overwhelming and very moving. Sometimes you almost choke me up. Goodnight.


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Customer Reviews

Average Rating 2.5
( 49 )
Rating Distribution

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(5)

4 Star

(8)

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(9)

2 Star

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(24)

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See All Sort by: Showing 1 – 20 of 49 Customer Reviews
  • Anonymous

    Posted December 27, 1999

    Never again!

    This was my first AND LAST purchase of a Cornwell novel. I struggled to get through it and am sorry I wasted the time. The words 'dumb,' 'stupid,' and 'boring' come to mind. Character names Bubba, Weed, Smoke, Smudge, Divinity are so unimaginative and unbelievable. Give it up Patricia...

    2 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 2, 2004

    Still loving the change of pace.

    While I liked Hornet's Nest a little more, I still found myself interested in this book. Patricia can do anything, and she adroitly handles a brand new genre: the police procedural. The dialogue is great, like it always is in PC's books, and the cast of characters is colorful and refreshing. Recommended!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 5, 2003

    Southern Cross Review

    Patricia Cornwell addicts the reader from the first word to the very last in the excellent book called Southern Cross. This novel contains fictitious people, but very real places. It involves a gang with weird names such as Brazil, Butner Fluck IV also known as Bubba, Joe ¿Smudge¿ Bruffy, Smoke, Weed, and many others such characters. These gangs have been known to cause mischief for many years. Even their great ancestors were part of gangs that had killed many black people during the Civil War times. During a mission to severely injure somebody, they were ambushed in an alley and two of the gang members were murdered. Weed, who was a very good student making good grades, was caught by a cop, who was on his COMSTAT sweep, because he was running down the middle of the road drunk in the middle of the night. COMSTAT stands for computer-driven statistics because the police force is on alert because many cars¿ airbags are being stolen and sold back to the original owner for more than its worth and this is an illegal motion. These kids are bringing weapons to school without the teachers knowing. Although people say that Patricia Cornwell writes books for women and men would hate, this book would be for them because it involves conflicts and death, if they like it. Because this book involves severe conflicts and death, I wouldn¿t recommend that little children read this. These conflicts in the story would probably occur in the ¿ghetto¿ because murder and smoking take place. I believe this book would be a page-turner if people that like gang-related stories would read it. It will make you think that this would really happen. Could it really?

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted September 7, 2002

    The keen edge is missed

    This impossible dumb dialogue drips throughout the book like acid. Characters dull and plastic. I find myself being angry with Ms.Cornwell for allowing her formidable talent to be used in this type of "literature". If this had been her first book, I would never have bought another. So your tired of Kay? OK, just keep the keenness of the scalple and forget about trying police procedurals. A McBain your not. You can do it Patricia--we miss your talent.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 17, 2002

    Missing Kay!

    After reading Southern Cross and Hornets Nest I enjoyed the read, but missed 'Kay' Last night I finished 'Isle of Dogs' This was the worst yet. Patricia Cornwell is loosing her touch. Richmond is home for me and while I was away I counted on her descriptions and connection. While she remains true to Richmond areas, leaving 'Kay' out is a big mistake. I am not sure I read her next release.

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 11, 2002

    who wrote this book?

    was i reading patricia cornwell or carl haiisen?

    1 out of 3 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 7, 2001

    One more kick while she's down

    There's no point repeating the comments of everyone who hated this book. I just want to add that the three main cops in this book are unbelievably stupid. The chief was correct when said she had fouled up everything and should resign. Does Cornwall really believe this trio of idiots deserve to return?

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 29, 2001

    SOUTHERN CROSS IS A LOSS!!!!!

    This is very differnet from the 'Scarpetta' books by Cornwell. I did not like it nearly as well as those. I read the fly page and thought the book was about cleaning up a bad police force. Did not see much of that. It was about a small time hood named Smoke, and his very young gang. Smoke was into doing minor crimes until he kills an older lady. The last few pages of the book then tell how he is caught. I stayed confused a big part of the time and never did understand how the story was about the corrupt police force. Would not recommend you spend you money for this one.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 15, 2001

    I want my money back

    boring, confused, horrible muddled plot. Cromwell can do better.

    1 out of 2 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 20, 2000

    Come back, Kay!!

    I have read the majority of Patricia Cornwell's books, and enjoyed every one. That is until I read Southern Cross. It is so unlike her earlier books. I gave her the benefit of the doubt that it would get better and I read the entire book. It was not worth it. This book was a sorry follow-up to Hornet's Nest, which I did enjoy. I think she should stick to the Kay Scarpetta books.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted November 10, 2000

    Is this the same author?

    I've read all of Patricia Cornwell's books, and I have to honestly say this has to be the worst book I've ever read. It drags on and on, with no plot. I can usually breeze through a book in a lofty 2 week period...but this one is so slow and boring it's taken me over a month.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted October 8, 2000

    uproariously funny

    This is a nice change from the Kay Scarpetti stories.It is so-oo southern;light hearted & easy reading.I found it to be a pleasant change.Hopefully,there are more creative ideas working so we can re-visit these characters.I found myself laughing out loud several times in this book.More , please!!!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 18, 2000

    Black Humor

    From some of the other reviews it seems that some people just don't have a sense of humor. The book is not her usually writting, instead of a serious serial killer story, expect a dark comedy. She takes a pot shot at everybody and hits the nail on the head every time. The most important lesson to be learned from this book is that there are too many people out there hearing things that haven't been said and others who do not pay attention at all. The narrative gets a little disjointed at times. But the cast of characters are tied together in the end. On the serious side, there is a teenage gang leader and the kids he scares into the gang. One note: though very cute, I usually only like talking animals in fantasy novels.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted August 8, 2000

    Major Disappointment

    I started reading this book(I've read all of the others) and would have thrown it away, but thought, no it will pick up. Well, it didn't, at all. It vacilated back & forth & was very boring. The last 45 pages were adequate but the highlight of the book. Had this been the first book she had ever written, I would never read another. & I am an avid reader. ( i usually read one of cornwell's books in one night.) this one took 4... sorry, but go back to your old style, this is not even in the same league as Hornet's Nest.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted July 31, 2000

    complete waste of time

    I kept wondering what Cornwell is trying to achieve while I was struggling to finish the book. The style is a total mess, the plot totally boring. It's irritating the the story line jumps back and forth - it's like reading a movie script or somthing. And what's with the cruel-wannabe-funny character names? i just don't see the humor. Don't waste your time in this series Cornwell - I think most of us want Kay back!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 25, 2000

    Great Disappointment

    I don't know what I can say that hasn't already been said. It is the worst book she has ever written. If I had read the reviews first I would't have purchased the book. It was a complete waste of time.I would never recommend it to any one. I think she should continue to write about Dr Scarpetta.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted April 20, 2000

    Different is NOT bad!

    Although I did like the Scarpetta novels more than this one, it was an enjoyable read. YES, it was not the same as Scarpetta, but, isn't that the point? When read without expectations of a 'Scarpetta clone', it is a good, (but not great) novel. I commend Patricia for having the courage to try something different from what she (and her readers) already know works. I hope she keeps Scarpetta, (of course!), but continues to experiment with other efforts.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 28, 2000

    Terrible! FOUL Language! Very Juvenile plot. Not up to Corwall's ability..hard to believe she is the actual author! Complete waste of $$$

    HOW MANY WAYS CAN I SAY 'TERRIBLE'?? THIS WAS HER WORST AND HARD TO BELIEVE SHE ACTUALLY WROTE IT. DEFINITELY NOT A KAY SCARPETTA MYSTERY!! JUVENILE,FOUL LANGUAGE THROUGHOUT !!! IF IT HAD BEEN POSSIBLE, I WOULD HAVE GIVEN SOUTHERN CROSS A(MINUS 3 STARS)!!!

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 15, 2000

    BORING

    I am an avid reader of Patricia Cornwell and this book does not come anywhere near any of the others. The characters are dull and lifeless. I wanted to put it down after the first three chapters but because I am a fan I finished it. I have not and will not recommend it to others.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 7, 2000

    Great Reading

    I like all of Patricia Cornwell's books and although I know I am in the minority, my favorite two have been Hornet's Nest and Southern Cross. The style of writing in these two books is better and the plot isn't the same old same old! Good Job, Patricia. Hope we get more like this.

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