If you've read and liked "Psychopath", you will probably like this book - although, if you have read "Psychopath" you, essentially, know the story of "The Architect" already, so why bother reading it again? "The Architect" presents us with yet another psychopathic genius in search of Inner Truth and Beauty (no, not Clevenger - he is the alcohol-addicted genius in search of Inner Truth and Beauty), who is willing to kill to fulfill God's Plan - in this case while working as an architect, hence the title. Billy Bishop has problems with drugs and violence. Clevenger has problems with alcohol and Billy. Clevenger can't make the relationship with the woman he loves work (yes, it is still Whitney McCormick). Sounds familiar?
Ablow isn't the Shakespeare of psychological thrillers. He isn't even the Grisham of psychological thrillers. He writes mildly chilling and not overly ambitious books about strange murders and even stranger murderers which are perfect for commuter journeys, holidays or a cosy evening at home. But "The Architect", sadly, marks an all-time low, even by his standards.
What could be an entertaining, nicely thrilling read is spoiled, once again, by Ablows' slipshod writing. In fact, his carelessness is getting worse. Maybe he has too much on his plate nowadays to concentrate on his writing as well. "The Architect" contains many of the mistakes by now typical for all his books: Misspelled names of real-life people, misrepresented real-life crimes, characters who inexplicably change their names halfway through a book. And, of course, Billy Bishop's ever-changing life story: By now, Ablow's short recapturing of Billys history bears practically no resemblance whatsoever to the plot of "Compulsion". But then again, Ablow obviously assumes (or hopes) that his readers have a short memory, as he shamelessly copies his own sentences from "Compulsion" and uses them again in "The Architect". Can there be a more obvious sign of an author's arrogance and disrespect for his readers?
All this is even more annoying because Ablow probably could do better. But it seems that, by now, he is content with churning out roughly 300 pages roughly once a year, with no regard for his own writing, or for his readers. One can only hope that Mr Ablow will eventually return to the kind of writing that originally made him a bestselling author.