Theresa Schwegel’s new police procedural Last Known Address contains few of the classic clichés we expect from a hard-boiled thriller. There’re no shootouts or car chases, no suspect beat downs, our protagonist doesn’t drink on the job – none of that shit noir fans have come to expect. Instead, what makes you plow through this shit is Schwegel’s seemingly authentic approach to the job, strong character and place, and dead-on descriptions and dialogue. In other words, it’s about storytelling, not plot, and that’s just peachy with the Nerd.
Last Known Address follows Sloane Pearson, a sex crimes detective in the Chicago PD, on the trail of what she believes to be a serial rapist. Somebody has been going around beating and raping yuppie beauties, each victim reporting that the rapist wanted them to fight back. As the investigation goes on we come to learn that Sloane has some strange issues to work out in her own fucked up relationship.
The cop shit in Last Known Address is akin to the agonizing grind you experience in The Wire. The way the system is set up for rape cops, it seems like it’s a miracle that any cases are ever prosecuted. There are a thousand bureaucratic hoops to jump through at every turn, from how the victims are interviewed to the handling of the rape kit to the wait for the DNA results – it’s all rigged for Sloane to fail. But Sloane’s personal life is so fucked up that she’s more than happy to work through the red tape day and night – with no overtime thanks to city budget cuts – just to have an excuse for not going home.
And if that knowing cop shit is what draws you in, Sloane is what makes you keep turning the pages. She’s smart and sexy but flawed and hypocritical. On the job she’s able to play it smart and confident, but when it comes to her dad and his girlfriend or her own boyfriend, she acts like a temperamental child. Her supporting cast is filled out by a partner who would rather eat and hide from the phone until quitting time, a boyfriend who is too self-involved to even notice he hasn’t seen her at home in a week, and a squad room full of guys who would get sensitivity training the moment they opened their mouths in any other workplace.
Then there’re all the assorted yuppies we meet in the novel, people who anybody who has spent any time in Chicago will recognize in a second. In fact, Schwegel lays out the Windy City with a precision that kicks the ass of any “literary” writer working today. From hipsters drinking negronis to which street vendor has the best tamales, Schwegel clearly knows her way around town. Along with Marcus Sakey and Sean Chercover, Schwegel is helping Chicago become one of the most insightfully documented cities in crime fiction today.
Toward the close of the book, shit gets a little more mystery-ish than I would have liked (for a while there the book is verging on Night Dogs–level cop realism), but that’s to be expected, I suppose. Besides, the mystery shit is played very low-key, the reveals and connections never get all that outlandish and twisty. Also, to make up for the mysteryness of the last act, the denouement (“Look at the big brain on Brad!”) is wonderfully sly yet emotionally powerful.
So if you’re looking for some cop procedural shit that’s more The Wire-authenticity than The Shield-badassery, Theresa Schwegel’s Last Known Address should shoot to the top of your TBR pile toot-fucking-sweet.
