Ellroy

Killer on the road by James Ellroy (1986)

This is a fictional autobiography of a serial killer. Martin Plunkett writes his memoirs while serving out four life sentences for murder but is suspected of at least fifty more across the United States.

James Ellroy, the actual author of this novel originally entitled Silent Killer, is a noted writer of noir and crime thrillers. One of his best-known works is LA Confidential. Killer on the Road begins by detailing the early family life of the narrator. Because of a prologue that reveals that Plunkett was tried and convicted of murder, there is already a bleak atmosphere to this section. The killer’s childhood unfolds methodically to explain how he evolved. A whole third of the book goes by before the first killings even begin. After this, the sinister mood already felt by the reader becomes tangible and the story’s pacing changes.

Because this book is supposed to have been written by the fictional main character and killer, the reader gets a front row seat into the mind of an extremely intelligent, cold-blooded, socio-psychopath. We are shown his motivations for the murders but few explanations. Much of the time they happen just because. Plunkett recalls the killings in brutal, cringing detail and his physical reactions to them. I winced more than once.

Periodically, the narrative is interrupted by the insertion of newspaper and journal articles about the killings and police or FBI investigations. This is a neat device that accomplishes two things. First, it breaks up the plot. It releases us from Plunkett’s mind for a while. In these moments, we return to normalcy, just everyday consumers of the news and current events. They provide breathing room. Secondly, they move the timeline along. When Plunkett is narrating, time slows way down. He details his travels and deeds extensively, sometimes taking pages for the set-up and execution of a murder. In-book, Plunkett uses these news inserts to aid his memory. In our reality, they keep the story from bogging down into the philosophical musings of a demonic mind. Plunkett’s monologues are important, however. They help the reader realize that the narrator is no raving lunatic. He is perfectly sane and, to me, it makes him scarier.

By writing his autobiography, Plunkett indulges his arrogance. “I deserve awe,” he writes, “and you will give it to me.” He has no remorse or regret. He is a pure, stone-cold killer and the book is him bragging about his crimes. He knows the horror and revulsion his deeds will invoke in the public and he drinks it in. According to Plunkett, the reader volunteered for the ride through his mind simply by reading this book, and our curiosity and eventual revulsion gives him the same feelings as the actual killings did. In writing the book, he gets to kill his victims all over again and by reading it we give him the fear and horror he craves. In the end, he wins.