From Publishers Weekly
A smalltown West Texas sheriff is the antihero of Cullin's quietly chilling short novel in verse. Pacing the desolate, burnt-out ruins of his boyhood home 22 miles from town, Sheriff Branches (a minor character in Cullin's previous novel, Whompyjawed), catalogues his misdeeds and probes his conscience. On the surface, he is a solid family man, devoted to his wife, Mary, and looking forward to a cozy evening at home eating beef burritos and watching America's Funniest Home Videos. But as Cullin reveals almost immediately, Branches has killed his stepson, Danny, pushing the teenager down a well on the deserted property and emptying his Colt Trooper MK III after him. At the bottom of the well, the decaying corpses of two Mexicans already bear witness to Branches's homicidal instincts. Danny, a budding neo-Nazi, may have committed a crime of sorts. But Branches's other victims--and their numbers multiply--are guilty of little more than crossing the sheriff's path. Nevertheless, Branches remains a remarkably sympathetic character, the balladlike strains of his narration counteracting the grisliness of his actions. Cullin is adept at blending the affable and the sinister, and while this hybrid effort is just a simple song in a minor key, as such it succeeds admirably. Film rights to William Finnegan. (Mar.)
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From Booklist
The novel-in-verse boomlet continues with this short-lined monologue that is rather a hybrid of Stephen King and Jim Thompson. Cullin's Sheriff Branches resembles King's Delores Claiborne in that, like her, he tells his own story, and he has shoved a family member, ornery teenaged stepson Danny, into a deep, abandoned well (a fate Danny doesn't deserve). Branches also recalls Thompson's Sheriff Lou Ford in
The Killer Inside Me (1952), for under the cover of his badge, he has committed a few more indelicacies--murders and rapes, that would be--that he imparts to us in the course of his spiel. Verse rather than prose seems an ideal solution to the belief-suspension problem inherent in the book's confessional mode, especially since Cullin is a less sensational writer than King or Thompson, capable of making his creepy protagonist resemble a Browning monologist--that is, if Browning would ever have chosen to limn the psychology of a King-Thompson lowlife. Eerie, smeary photos by Ryuzo Kikushima illustrate appropriately.
Ray Olson