Slob

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"Death likes to drive through darkened suburban streets — sightseeing, as you would take your loved ones to look at the Christmas lights on a chill and snowy December's eve..." He was a monster spawned from a childhood of vile corruption, nurtured in the putrefying hell of Vietnam. Six foot seven and five hundred pounds — a coagulated mountain of seething hate. But behind the soulless eyes lurked a burning intelligence — an animal cunning infinitely superior to anything on four legs. And the monster had come to Chicago. Homicide detective Jack Eichord had never known a psychopath like it. This was no run-of-the-mill killing machine. This was a butcher who believed in job satisfaction. A serial murderer so utterly depraved that he devoured the hearts of his victims. There wasn't a killer on earth who took life so efficiently, so sadistically — or so often. And if he gets his way, there won't be enough lives left for anyone else to try...