“Protect the Children from Harm”: A Review of The Devil You Knew by Mike Cobb

 

 (MG Cobb Books LLC, 2022). ISBN: 978-0-578-37143-6

A few months ago, I reviewed Mike Cobb’s exquisite work of historical fiction, Dead Beckoning, set in 1895 in Atlanta, Georgia, during the Cotton States and International Exhibition. In my review, I said, with no exaggeration, that it easily holds its place on the bookshelf next to Caleb Carr’s Alienist novels.

When I learned that Cobb had also written a contemporary crime thriller (also with aspects of historical truth), and that another, connected novel, was due to be published in the next couple of months, I happily rearranged my schedule to read The Devil You Knew and write this review.

It did not disappoint. As a matter of fact, its being in many ways distinct from, yet equally (if not more) impactful and emotion provoking than Dead Beckoning, cements my opinion that Mike Cobb is a writer fans of this genre should be reading.

Taking place in 1963 before moving forward to 1980, The Devil You Knew centers on the abductions and murders or attempted murders of three teenage girls in Georgia and Alabama. Although these cases are not historically accurate as far as the presented cast of characters, they are chillingly familiar in this age of true crime documentary popularity, and Cobb no doubt drew on a number of real-life horrors to fashion this portion of his tale of teenage abduction, abuse, and murder.

The novel’s core narrative is delivered through the point of view of eleven-year-old Billy Tarwater, who is given the privilege of first-person narration in his self-titled chapters, while all of the other characters’ chapters are third-person with omniscient narration. This literary device adds much to the power of the story. We get to know the other characters through Billy’s (limited) eyes, as well as the narrator’s (who, of course, has much more insight into their lives, personalities, and secrets).

If Stand by Me was set in Atlanta in 1963, Billy and his friends could easily replace (or be friends with) Stephen King’s fellowship of teenage male adolescents. The Devil You Knew is equally coming of age and equally as poignant. One can almost hear Richard Dreyfuss voicing the adult Billy Tarwater in a cinematic version of The Devil You Knew, although I see Billy Crudup as Billy when the story moves to 1980, when Billy has become a husband, father, and investigative reporter. While the echoes and evils of 1963 continue to affect his life and marriage, a very real killing spree unfolds involving 24 children and young adults between the ages of 7 and 20 (which ceased after the arrest of 23-year-old Wayne Williams, who most likely did not commit all of the so-called Atlanta child murders). 

Billy’s life as a child and adult is deeply affected by tense race relations and crooked homicide detectives (something it has in common with Dead Beckoning; in this case, however, some of them are much more reminiscent of season 1 of HBO’s True Detective), as well as the role of religion in families and communities, including its weaponization. Other themes include marital dynamics, broken dreams, economic disparities, and, hanging like the sword of Damocles above it all, teenage sexuality (and myriad adult responses to it). These enduring themes bring the events of 60 and 40 years ago home to us as readers beyond the (tragic) familiarity we have with the history of serial killers in America.

One of the most effective aspects of The Devil You Knew is Cobb’s illumination of how Southern racial tropes are often more reflective of Whites than of Blacks. What goes on behind closed doors in the homes of some of the more affluent White people in the story (although most of them are working or barely middle class) is much more indicative of pervasive familial disease than what racists have long wanted us to believe about Black families.  

The Devil You Knew can be a difficult read, and I mean that as a compliment. There is deep injustice on many levels and, more than once, I found myself gripping the paperback and shouting at the perpetrators of myriad injustices as they preyed on the weak in unsuccessful attempts to cure what is broken inside them (or simply to feed their character flaws)—even if it meant murder and sending an innocent man to prison.

In this time of book banning, algorithmic censorship, and a focus on targeting hate speech and derogatory language, Cobb has added a Word of Caution to the front of the book (as he did in Dead Reckoning) explaining his rationale for using period- and culture-specific language that, taken out of context, might be misconstrued. As a creative writing teacher, developmental editor, and story analyst, I tell my students and clients that if language choices are authentic to the characters and the story, then they absolutely should employ them.

In the present case, the language adds to the outrage because words certainly do have power to control, to maim, and to kill.

Although Mike Cobb’s longtime residency in Atlanta makes the city as vivid and specific as one of his multidimensional characters, as it is in Dead Beckoning, you will find much that is familiar in the familial and educational dynamics of the time. I was growing up in a Roman Catholic Sicilian family in New Jersey in 1980. I was in middle school, having just transitioned out of Catholic school. On the surface, it seems like I would have little with which to relate in the Atlanta of the time, although Sunday dinners, family secrets, the relationship I had with each of my parents (vastly different, and neither easy), my siblings, and my friends were very close to those of Billy and his friends.

As he did in Dead Beckoning, Cobb adds details of the automobiles, popular brands, and styles of the time, which makes the narrative all the more authentic.

As with any crime thriller worthy of staking its claim to a well-regarded spot in this popular, competitive genre, The Devil You Knew gives us twists and turns and our somewhat plodding hero considerable obstacles and complications with which to deal. What the closing chapters reveal is a multilayered conglomerate of competing narratives and viewpoints. There are also secrets for the audience to carry to which even Billy Tarwater is not privy, and plenty of questions about humanity and its institutions over which to mull once the final chapter is read.

To say I am looking forward to Mike Cobb’s newest novel is an understatement. His subject matter is compelling, although it resides in the past, and his alchemist’s skills in turning research into page-turning, thought-provoking narrative are something from which all writers of historical fiction can learn.