Matthias Jordan was the golden boy of the New York Literary scene, when he started taking himself just a little too seriously, let his celebrity status go just a little to his head, and found his wife, fans and sobriety left him a lot alone. Ramming around his immense seas side monument to himself, he'd feel remorse and pity for his situation if he could only sober up long enough to do so. Just about the time he thinks his writer's block is terminal, he has a sort of epiphany. Not the sort Saints are made of, more like the ones people have shortly before they commit themselves to mental care or drive into a tree: His world of self doubt and pity is upset by someone in possibly worse shape than he is - and this person doesn't even have a body to speak of anymore - just the outline of one. It takes all the mental horsepower Matt Jordan has left, can borrow, or scrape out of his ear to follow the clues in this humorous artistic murder mystery through to the surprising end.
