Unlike the rest of you, I cheerfully admit to my own
utter selfishness. I am self-made, self-absorbed,
self-serving, self-referential, even self-deprecating, in a
charming sort of way. In short, I am all the selfs except
selfless. Yet every so often, I run across a force of nature
that shakes my sublime self-centeredness to its very roots.
Something that tears through the landscape like a tornado,
leaving nothing but ruin and reexamination in its wake.
Something like Bob.
--Victor Carl
A beautiful young woman is dead, her husband convicted of
the murder. In seeking a new trial for the husband, defense
attorney Victor Carl must confront not only a determined
prosecutor and a police detective who might have set up his
client, but also a strange little busybody named Bob.
Bob has the aspiration, one could even say compulsion, to
help those around him. And it usually works out well for all
concerned, except when it ends in blood. But Victor doesn’t
know that . . . yet.
Thanks to Bob, Victor is suddenly dressing better, dating a
stunning woman, and both his economic prospects and his
teeth are gleaming. It’s all good, until Victor finds a
troubling connection between Bob and the murdered wife. Is
Bob a kind of saint or is this obsessive Good Samaritan, in
reality, a murderer?
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