Jack Batten’s final Whodunit column — and his last crime fiction review

Jack Batten’s first Whodunit column in the Toronto Star ran on March 7, 1999. It wasn’t the first time he’d written reviews for the paper — a quick search in our archives shows his byline dating back to 1985, and his own crime fiction books were reviewed plenty of times, too — he’s written seven in all (as well as dozens of non-fiction books). All those mysteries are still in print and one made the shortlist for the Crime Writers of Canada’s Arthur Ellis Award for Best Crime Novel in 1990 — his Crang mystery “Straight No Chaser.” Since then, he has written hundreds of columns, keeping readers up-to-date with the latest in one of the most popular book genres going. Today, he says good-bye after almost 24 years of Whodunit.

When I began reviewing crime novels for The Star almost 24 years ago, Michael Connelly had just published “Angels Flight.” It featured the iconoclastic LAPD detective, Harry Bosch, and it was a brilliant book. In succeeding years, regular as clockwork, Connelly produced a new and equally brilliant crime novel every late autumn. It was a pleasure to review such accomplished work, and Michael Connelly became just about my favourite crime novelist ever. His most recent Bosch novel, titled “Desert Star,” appeared last month, but for a reason I’ll come to, it presented me with an entirely different reading experience.

One problem with reviewing crime novels is that many books I received over the years made doubtful candidates for a review — they simply didn’t measure up in plotting, characterization and scene-setting. That was the bad news. On the other hand, I encountered such an extraordinary number of first-class crime novels that it was like working through an extended golden age in the genre.

A large part of the explanation for this glorious situation lay in the emergence into crime writing of large schools of dazzling authors from non-English-speaking countries. Scandinavian authors offered a glowing example. At first, the pace was set by Sweden, especially with Henning Mankell’s consummately humane books in the Kurt Wallander series — you’ll get a sense of my excitement when I wrote about a surprise appearance after Mankell seemed to get rid of his sleuth in 2014: “readers will be forgiven for collapsing in gratitude to hold in our hands one last Mankell novella featuring our man Wallander.” After Mankell died in 2015, an unexpected nation from the frigid north, namely Iceland, took up the slack. To my taste, the most winning of the Icelandic series was written by Arnaldur Indridason with his central police character, the enigmatic Inspector Erlender.

To be sure, the bulk of the best crime novels still originated in the U.S.A. and the U.K. While the quality of these has run unevenly, the great stuff easily outdistanced the dreck. Among the authors whose books arrived at my house in steady numbers were the vivid American writers Robert B. Parker, Donald E. Westlake, Ed McBain, Sue Grafton and Dennis Lehane. And from the British Isles: Reginald Hill, P.D. James, Denise Mina, Val McDermid and Ian Rankin.

In Canada at the time I stepped into the reviewing job, the first generation of home-grown crime novelists — who were actually making careers out of their specialty — remained in full flight. They included such splendid writers as Howard Engel, Eric Wright, L.R. (for Laurali Rose) Wright (no relation) and Peter Robinson. It was my particular thrill to write about these hugely gifted fellow citizens, but that generation closed out this past Oct. 4 when Robinson, the last of the four listed above still living, passed on. For my money, Robinson was the most prolific and arguably the most accomplished of all Canadian crime writers.

Still, Canadian crime writing remains in strong hands with the work of authors ranging from such phenomenal bestsellers as Louise Penny to more under-the-radar wonders as the adroit and funny British Columbia writer Deryn Collier.

Which brings us back to the magnificent Michael Connelly. His new “Desert Star” is as brilliant as the rest of the books in his Bosch series, but what you are reading here is not a formal review of “Desert Star.” That’s because, effective with today’s column, I’m stepping aside from my almost 24 years of reviewing crime novels in these pages. For that reason, I found myself in a curious physical and psychological state in reading the new Connelly book. Physically, I didn’t need to hold a pen in my hand to make notes for a written review. I wasn’t called on to pass judgment on the book or to consider where the novel stacked up in the Bosch canon.

I loved “Desert Star,” but turning its pages, I was like a kid who had been let out of school early. With this small judgment, it’s time to say farewell to my fellow crime fiction readers out there and to thank you all — and my terrific Star editors — for allowing me the pleasure of recommending to you so many great books in our favourite genre.

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