This is a strange book. It starts as an interesting and readable account of the infamous Monster of Florence case, offering a chronology of the crimes, the investigations and the various suspects. However as it continues the author himself gradually begins to intrude further and further into the text. We hear about his charming family’s delightful extended sojourn in Florence, their search for appropriate accommodation, their difficulties with schooling and the humorous translation errors which so entertain them and their Italian friends, along with the plots of various novels the author either wrote or intended to write at the time and charming descriptions of his family’s life in Maine. This travelogue of a privileged US family sits badly with the grimy tales of murder and sexual abuse amongst Italian peasants (author’s term) which fill the rest of the book. The inclusion of the author’s feelings on the impact of the September 11th attacks on the Preston family and on the USA in general seems frankly out of place.

Meanwhile, Preston sets himself up as a privileged insider with an understanding of Italian culture whilst simultaneously insisting on comparing US and Italian culture in a manner which is glib and borderline offensive, as when he comments re: the Monster case “I had trouble, as an American, appreciating the climate of fear and intimidation in Italy surrounding the issue.”. I’m not sure it’s fair to imply that such a problem is exclusive to Italy, or that the US or any other state is comparably a bastion of free press morality. He insists on periodically setting himself and by extension the reader apart from the apparently stupid, corrupt and incompetent Italian state and people, as when he casually remarks: “While Americans might scoff at the very idea that a satanic sect was behind the killings, Italians did not find it unusual or unbelievable.” Anyone who remembers the infamous “satanic panic” in the US that led to the McMartin PreSchool Trial & the West Memphis 3 case would disagree. I personally was interested in the case from a human angle, not as a matter that sheds a particular and poor light on a specific group or nationality, and found this an odd angle to take.

Preston admits himself that “As an American, an author and journalist, I had always enjoyed a smug feeling of invulnerability”. This is somewhat tested in the second half of the book, which chiefly concerns Preston and his co-author Mario Spezi being accused of various crimes related to the case, from conspiracy and withholding information to complicity and even actual participation in the killings. Whilst far from an uninteresting story, this seems to drag the book somewhat off-topic. Preston becomes understandably emotionally involved and regrettably somewhat insulting, at one point casting doubts on whether Italy can be considered a civilised country. As the authors become participants in the case, suspects even, the book loses any shred of credibility as an unbiased work. The latter half thus infects the earlier sections and taints the apparent aloof investigatory style with possible self-interest. Ultimately the book ends a long way from where it started, changing from an independent assessment of a complicated case to a very personal denouncement of individuals involved and decisions made. Its tone is a strange combination of the involved and the observational, sometimes partisan, sometimes dispassionate, sometimes heartfelt, sometimes detached, and concluding with the strange epigram:

“Satan, in the end, had to be invoked.
After all, this is Italy.”