In a way, I'm glad I moved out of Detroit before I read Lowell Cauffiel's true crime book, "Masquerade." I spent most of my career working, going to school, and socializing in and around Cass Corridor, which is where this book's characters spent their lives getting high, turning tricks, pimping, and oddly enough, practicing psychology.
Detroit's Cass Corridor is an urban slum, made up more of apartment buildings, pay-by-the-hour hotels, and deteriorating storefronts than free-standing houses. Of those who live there, 73 percent are black, 49 percent have graduated from high school and almost all -- 98 percent -- are renters. It encompasses Detroit's biggest drug houses, the most hookers, the best Chinese restaurant, the world's largest Masonic Temple (where we used to go see performances of the Metropolitan Opera on Tour), and a gaggle of Wayne State University students who want to live close to campus and are too poor to look elsewhere. If you stand out in the middle of Second Avenue, the street that runs right through the Corridor (careful, you might get solicited by a cruising john), and look north, you will see what one local radio station insists on calling the 'Golden Tower' of the Fisher Building.
This book is about a single murder in 1984 that stood out amongst Detroit's 600+ murders that year because of its brutality, and because of the odd character of the victim, who was a successful psychologist and marital counselor.
The murder itself is an anti-climax and occurs near the end of the book. There is no mystery about who is going to kill whom. The meat of "Masquerade" lies in the interactions between pimp, hooker, and sugar daddy. How did a psychologist with a thriving practice in the 'Golden Tower' of the Fisher Building and a six-bedroom, six-bathroom Tudor in Grosse Pointe Park become so involved with an ordinary streetwalker and her pimp, that he spent over $1,000/week on their drug habits? How did he manage to keep his life in Cass Corridor a secret for over a year from his psychologist-wife?
I can't remember the last time I read with such fascination about lethal relationships and the destruction they wrought on seemingly good marriages and friendships. Everyone involved ended up with nightmares, even the jurors.
Many chapters begin with an ironic quotation from the lectures and books of the murder victim or his psychologist-father. Even though it isn't a whodunit, you're likely to form an obsessive-compulsive relationship with "Masquerade" once you begin reading it.
The book does sag a bit as it inches toward the murder, and it is depressing as hell to read, but I've already searched the internet to see if I can get another fix from this author.