The Men Downstairs

A brutal serial killer stalks New York City prostitutes in a debut novel that unites cardboard characters, a formulaic plot line and clumsy writing. Dubbed El Diablo by the press, the killer likes to strangle his victims while raping them, and then carve a pitchfork symbol into their faces. But by day, El Diablo lives a life of wealth and fame; in between business deals and luncheon engagements, he plots his next killing. Across the ocean, expat Andie Montgomery reads the papers with horror: El Diablo, she's convinced, is either her estranged husband or son. Gittlin's otherwise routine plotting turns briefly intriguing as the cops try to figure out who and where Andie's son is (her murderous husband, they're told, was decapitated by a former friend), but the novel is deeply flawed: El Diablo is a cartoonish parody, the cops are generic and abrupt shifts in perspective and hackneyed prose obscure the virtues of the author's fast-paced narration. The identity of El Diablo is a mild eye-opener, but the final chapters of the novel are as predictable as the closing moments of an old TV detective show. Gittlin shows some talent here, but this is a shaky first effort.