Last weekend I grabbed this cheery volume: Heartless: The True Story of Neil Entwistle and the Cold Blooded Murder of his Wife and Child. I was familiar with the case but couldn’t remember how it ended, so I figured it would provide a few hours of wholesome entertainment.
The true crime genre is wildly uneven. Some of it’s great, like Vincent Bugliosi’s Helter Skelter —and some of it’s awful, like Steve Ference’s hilariously bad book about the Porco case, November Memories.
Anyway, here I am with about 30 pages to go and I see this headline from the Boston Herald: Entwistle Defense Rests Without Calling a Single Witness. What?! No wonder I couldn’t remember how the story ended: the story hadn’t ended yet! WTF?! I bought a book with no ending!
Remarkably, publisher St. Martin’s put crime reporter Michele McPhee’s book out without waiting for the case to conclude, as it did this week with Entwistle’s conviction. I didn’t bother with the last 30 pages.
It’s easy to hear this story and and call the publisher stupid, but they did manage to get $6.99 out of my pocket, didn’t they?