The French seem to possess a uniquely close relationship with death—probably because they eat unpasteurized cheeses. A serial killer from their ranks would be armed with a vast foreknowledge of la grande mort. It would probably make him, or her, a better murderer than some lazy American. And yet we seem to produce the largest amount of them.
The Killer of Little Shepherds: A True Crime Story and the Birth of Forensic Science concerns a real-life Franco serial killer named Joseph Vacher, a rather unfriendly guy who terrorized the countryside by stalking, murdering and generally looking creepy. Vacher apparently had a penchant for rabbit-fur hats. He was also a rather prolific writer. Go figure.
Before the modern era, shooting your date because she didn’t want a second one was considered a “crime of passion,” one that would be dealt with lightly. That’s where we find Vacher, shooting his date and then himself. They both survive, though he becomes horribly disfigured. He’s carted off to a mental institution. A doctor caring for Vacher actually believes that his patient is depressed because his fiancée left him. I fail to see how one date followed by months of stalking and multiple gunshots makes you betrothed, but maybe that’s just me.
This is basically a true crime book, but with better writing. Most books of this genre appear to have been written by a disembodied hand who dropped out of barber college.
The Killer of Little Shepherds is engaging, if occasionally too grim. It’s like reading an an autopsy report, the multiple injuries found on victims laid out like items on a shopping list. I guess it’s important in the grand scheme of things to enumerate the myriad ways in which to desecrate a body, but taking it down a notch might have been beneficial. Having said that, some of the more gory details make for the most compelling historical facts Starr presents. I refer the reader back to the paragraph about autopsies and kitchen tables.
This is basically a true crime book, but with better writing. Most books of this genre appear to have been written by a disembodied hand who dropped out of barber college. Starr shows he can write a sentence, and we thank him for it. Still, the dust jacket has a large fake blood stain on it, so I’d hardly call this an academic work.