The best police procedural novels from Next Chapter [March 2023]
The police procedural is a popular subgenre of crime fiction that focuses on the investigation of a crime by police officers. It typically follows the step-by-step process of solving a case, from the initial crime scene investigation to the arrest and trial of the perpetrator. This type of book is known for its attention to detail and emphasis on realism, drawing on the author's own experiences or extensive research to provide a believable depiction of police work.
In police procedural novels, the protagonist is often a detective or police officer who must navigate the complexities of the case while dealing with personal and professional challenges. The genre is known for its use of intricate plots, red herrings, and unexpected twists and turns that keep readers guessing until the very end. Many police procedurals also explore social issues and themes, such as corruption, racism, and the criminal justice system.
Some of the most well-known authors in the police procedural genre include Michael Connelly, Ian Rankin, and Patricia Cornwell. The popularity of these novels has led to their adaptation into television shows and movies, with series like Law & Order and CSI: Crime Scene Investigation becoming cultural phenomena. Whether you're a fan of police dramas or just enjoy a good mystery, the police procedural genre offers plenty of compelling stories and complex characters to keep you engaged.
Below, you’ll find some of our best police procedural novels as of March 2023. All of the books here are available in eBook, paperback, and some in audio as well. If you enjoy one of the stories below, please don’t forget to leave the author a review! Don’t agree with our choices? Please leave a comment and let us know your favorite :)
Books featured on this page
Chloe - Lost Girl (Carl Sant Murder Mysteries Book 1) by Dan Laughey
Gallows Walk (Inspector Yarrow Book 1) by Giles Ekins
Vengeance List (Foley & Rose Book 1) by Gary Gregor
A Measure of Trouble (Alex Warren Murder Mysteries Book 2) by Zach Abrams
You Choose (Falcone & Richards Thrillers Book 1) by Phillip Tomasso
The Quasimodo Killings (Vance And Shepherd Mysteries Book 1) by John Broughton
The Nemesis Cell by Brian L. Porter
“Welcome, ladies, I bid you welcome. My name is Doctor Charles DeVries, and it is my pleasure on behalf of all the doctors and staff here at the clinic to wish you all a happy stay in our facility and an even happier future upon leaving us. If you will all please give your first names to Angelique here at the desk, one at a time please, she will allocate your rooms to you and you will be shown to them directly. Remember, first names only, please, ladies. We like to preserve our clients’ privacy here at the clinic, even from one another, so we make it a condition of your stay here that you only use your first names when conversing with each other. No surnames here please, ladies, ever!”
This last was delivered with such force and conviction that some of the women assembled in the foyer of the clinic that day felt as though they’d just entered some kind of strange military boot camp and that they were being addressed by the sergeant major of the rookie platoon, rather than being checked into a fertility clinic on the outskirts of the beautiful city of Brussels by the otherwise charming and extremely handsome Dr. Charles DeVries.
Each of the six women present in the spacious, brightly lit reception area of the clinic had arrived that day, according to pre-arranged instructions from Dr. DeVries. Some had arrived in Belgium, one, two, or three days ago, but had arranged accommodation in various hotels until the time had come for them to report to the clinic. It was certain that every one of them had been impressed as their respective taxis had carried them from the small local station on the outskirts of the city to their destination, and they’d observed the broad sweeping lawns of the facility as they drove up the twisting gravelled drive, which crunched satisfyingly under the tyres of the cab. The gardens bordering the lawns were lush and beautifully landscaped, with a dazzling array of flowers of every imaginable hue set in the expansive borders, a true delight to behold.
Chloe - Lost Girl (Carl Sant Murder Mysteries Book 1) by Dan Laughey
Through a haze of floodlights and flash-photography, Sant ducked under the police cordon and cast his eye over a scene the like of which he’d never witnessed before. Not even in his dreams.
The vanishing point was the doors of the bus, jammed at right angles into the side of the wine shop. The stench of stale wine rose from red puddles strewn with broken glass. The first bobbies arriving on the scene decided to call in the fire brigade. As Sant attached a mask to cover his nose and mouth from the dust, he could just make out the golden sparks flying off a firefighter’s power-saw as it carved a colossal hole in the side of the bus.
His heart sank as he thought about what awaited him.
Half an hour later he sucked in all the air he could muster before crawling through that hole. The exterior of the bus looked bad enough, its bodywork battered and scorched by flames not long since extinguished. But the inside had to be worse. Much worse. He’d encountered the whole gamut of deadly road accidents during his stint as a traffic cop – the image of a biker’s head severed from the neck still troubled him – but it was plain this was no accident.
Jagged steel bit into his palms, scraped his sides, as he slipped in. The shattered windows on both sides gave Sant the eerie feeling he was trapped in some kind of mechanical spider’s labyrinth. The illusion was soon broken. Positioned under canvas tents designed to protect evidence was a scattering of bodies. He gently lifted one of the tarpaulin sheets and stared down at a young man, probably still a teenager. All the blood had leaked out of his head, giving his battered face a blue hue. A gunshot wound was visible just above his left ear, chin pressed into his shoulder by neck vertebrae arching in the wrong direction.
Sant breathed out steadily and peered ahead of him. Another tent was at the front of the bus, presumably housing the dead driver. A scenes-of-crime officer guided him around the tents and up the stairs. The bus had come to a stop at an acute angle. The climb to the top deck was a challenge of coordination. He tried to avoid placing his hands anywhere where fingerprints might be traceable, then thought, how many dozens of people had coated this handrail with their arches and whorls?
He reached the top and threw a quick glance at the forensic team, grabbing air in front of him, shoe catching on a protruding rivet. The team was scouring every square inch around the front window and seating. Below their serious faces, Dryden’s inert form lay in the foetal position. Unlike the bodies downstairs, Dryden’s was uncovered and, very possibly, untouched. His eyes were wide open, their final gaze upwards to the heavens, the poor soul’s knowing nod to his destiny.
Gallows Walk (Inspector Yarrow Book 1) by Giles Ekins
Pilot Officer Christopher Yarrow spent many months in hospital recovering from his injuries. Both legs were so severely broken below the knee that surgeons considered amputation, but as a final resort before that drastic step, both legs were placed in a Thomas splint, elevated and then put in traction before the plaster casts could be applied.
He had also broken several ribs, which fortunately did not puncture his lungs, but made breathing extremely painful for several weeks.
Additionally he broke three fingers and his left wrist
The wound to his left leg proved not to be as serious as first feared, the bullet had passed through his calf but did not hit either the tibia or fibula. The wound therefore healed without complication, leaving only a bullet sized scar. The wound to his left hand also healed but there was damage to some of the nerves and he never recovered full feeling in the hand.
The most serious injury proved to be that to his left eye. The sliver of glass from his broken googles, probably smashed by a piece of metal from the shattered canopy, had entered his eye in the lower quadrant and sliced deep across his retina at the rear of his eyeball. shredding it virtually in two.
The eyeball had filled with blood, making it impossible to remove the sliver until the blood had been re-absorbed into his optical bloodstream, a process that took several months. Until the blood was absorbed and the eyeball had cleared, surgeons could not properly examine the eye and remove any glass fragments. Once the initial bandages had been removed from his face, all that Yarrow could see through the damaged eye was a brilliant orange and black kaleidoscope, like a fluorescent tiger, shimmering with the change in light, brilliant in bright daylight, a dull receding grey at night.
When the blood did eventually clear, and an eye surgeon could at last see into the eyeball and remove the glass sliver, it was apparent that nothing could be done to save the sight. From the day of the crash in his Hurricane, PO Yarrow had been permanently blind in his left eye.
When his broken legs had sufficiently healed, albeit still in plaster, Yarrow was transferred to Bellington Hall, some 4 miles from West Garside, there to continue his extensive recuperation.
The hall was the former residence of the Bellington family, who had made their fortune from the manufacture of sweets and chocolate. Sir Howard Bellington had turned the property over to the Government for the duration of the war for use as they thought fit and moved into his apartment in Belgrave Square in London and took an advisory position with the Ministry of Food. (After the war, to avoid crippling Death Duties, Sir Howard donated Bellington Hall to the National Trust)
Initially used as a training base for local regiments, Bellington Hall was now a hospital for recuperating wounded airmen. Most of the wounded men would return to active service, although there were those so severely injured that they could never return to active duties. It was here, whilst waiting for the blood to clear from his punctured eyeball and for his legs to regain their full strength that Christopher Yarrow met Marie-Hélène Fayolle, an orthopaedic nurse at the hospital.
Marie-Hélène had fled from France just days before the invading German army entered Paris where her family had lived for generations. With German forces drawing ever closer, her family decided that apart from Madame Fayolle, Marie Hélène’s mother who elected to remain in Paris to care for elderly and infirm parents, they would try to escape to England.
Vengeance List (Foley & Rose Book 1) by Gary Gregor
The police were playing their cards very close to their collective chests, releasing enough information to keep the daily gathering of media hounds at bay; at least for the time being.
The mass media machine had very few fools, and strung along by the police was nothing new. Around the fringes, however, signs of frustration began to appear.
Samuel Rose sympathised with them to a degree, and there was an irony in that emotion that did not escape him. He once enjoyed a love/hate relationship with most members of the media. Over the years, he learned how the media worked and became adept at manipulating them to his advantage. But, that was then, and this was now. The police media relations people were deliberately paying no more than lip service to the members of the press, and Sam knew this was, to put it mildly, pissing them off. Surprise, surprise! The police PR people were behaving just like them! He couldn’t blame the media for feeling affronted and deprived of the news keeping them in what he was sure they all considered to be honest employment. But then, Sam Rose had the advantage of knowing more about murder than the average person. He knew, for instance, in the majority of cases, it was imperative to the successful outcome of an investigation for the police not to disclose too much of what they had so far discovered.
Be that as it may, Rose was more than a little curious. Despite having spent twenty years in the police force, the last ten of those as a Detective Sergeant attached to the Criminal Investigation Branch, he felt vaguely suspicious, given the sketchy, limited amount of information released to the public.
Sam wasn’t a cop anymore and, as such, was no longer privy to the progress, or in this particular case the apparent lack of progress, of the official police investigations. He had tried, albeit in vain, to illicit any information about the recent murders merely to satisfy his curiosity; he still thought like a cop. He still had friends within the police department, but it soon became obvious the word had gone out. The shutters were down. Lips were sealed. Sufficient threat had obviously filtered down from on high to discourage casual chitchat in regards to the two murders that might pass between detectives over a cold beer at shift’s end. No one was talking. Not to the media, or to Sam Rose.
A Measure of Trouble (Alex Warren Murder Mysteries Book 2) by Zach Abrams
“Hi Doc, what have you got to tell me?” Alex enquired before the door had time to close.
“Alex, it’s good to see you, too. Okay, you’re in a hurry so I’ll forgive you skipping the pleasantries. Nothing certain yet, but I’ve conducted my initial checks and I’m ready to have the body shipped out. I’ll get the PM done this afternoon and should have a full report by tomorrow morning. My first impressions, if you want them, death caused by head’s impact with a blunt instrument. Something’s hit the side of his head with a lot of force. It looks like being murder as he couldn’t have done that to himself. I reckon death happened sometime after midnight last night, but I’ll know more later on, after the PM. There’s a circular indent on the side of his skull and there was some tiny glass fragments next to the wound.”
“What do you think caused it?”
“Hard to say at the moment.”
“What about the broken racks? Could it have been an accident? Could he have fallen into them and they collapsed around him, with some of the debris striking his head?”
“I don’t think that’s too likely. The type of wound and bruising are not consistent with it. My guess is he was hit and went down. Maybe he fell back into the racking, and it was weak, causing it to collapse. More likely he just went straight down then the attacker pulled the racking over in a crude attempt to cover up or to cloud the issue. The PM might tell us some more. So if there’s nothing else, I’ll get ahead and do it.”
Alex stood back and watched as the body was carefully loaded onto a stretcher and carried out.
Having already broken from his interviews, Alex took time and enquired about progress from Anne Dixon. Her team had completed their initial checks and samplings from the cask room and were now in the process of examining the adjacent shop. Alex looked around admiringly at the rows of shelves stacked with a variety of bottles. The area was clean and modern with bright, halogen lighting reflecting off the polished floor and glass and metal shelving.
“What are your plans? And when do you expect to have anything for me?”
“I’m not going to rush this,” Anne replied. “There’s a big area to cover. When the body was found the door was open between the cask room and the shop. The shop’s open-plan onto the café and the public toilets are beyond that. All of this but nothing else is contained in this building and I think we should check every part of it. I also want to go through Mathewson’s office with a fine tooth comb.”
“I didn’t realise that was still one of the tools you used, with all the modern technology you’ve got.”
With Wanton Disregard by Gwen Banta
Detective Dave Killackey picked up on the first ring.
“What's up, K'lack'?” Mulrooney kept his attention focused on the adjacent alley as he spoke. He couldn't make out the person with the binoculars who was still watching him from behind a dumpster. Mulrooney moved away from the edge of the balcony and automatically placed his hand on his weapon.
“I'm gathering that info for you on the Trenton, New Jersey, peep show homicides you picked up on the computer. I put in a call to the lead detective as you requested. And I'm checking one of the victim's Long Beach connections for you. I'll call when I've got something. In the meantime, I've also got good news.”
“I could use some. Lay it on me.”
“Clarke got two more witnesses that turned up about a half hour ago. He's talking to them over near the Connollys' house on Bay Shore right now, so he asked me to call you.”
“Thanks. Oh, and check on any local liquor stores who sold a bottle of Cristal in the last month. Get the times of all sales and find out if the champagne was chilled at the point of sale. Start with Morry's Liquor in Naples. It's the closest liquor store to the Connollys' house. It can't be an everyday sale. Tell them it had a torn label. I'm outta here,” Mulrooney said. As he hung up, he peered back down at the alley. His tail with the binoculars had disappeared.
* * *
Mulrooney drove down Division Street to Bay Shore and pulled up behind Clarke's car. He automatically grinned when he saw his partner. At 6'3“, Mulrooney towered over Clarke, but Clarke's smarts made up for his size. Clarke had an I.Q. higher than L.A.'s smog levels and a dependability quotient to match.
Clarke was sitting on the sea wall with two boys around the age of twelve. Both boys were holding skateboards and wearing the ubiquitous skaters' Rip-n-Dip tee shirts. They appeared to enjoy being the focus of attention of the beach crowd.
“This is Detective Mulrooney,” Clarke said to the boys as Mulrooney exited his car. “This is Eric Tierney and Steven Bush. I thought you'd want to ask them a few questions.” The boys looked excited at the prospect of being part of a criminal investigation.
Mulrooney shook each boy's hand. Steven, the taller of the two, grinned and glanced across the street at two women who were sitting on a porch at rapt attention. Mulrooney pulled the short boy, Eric, aside. He noticed how the kid's wedged haircut made his head resemble the front end of a Boeing aircraft. “Okay, Eric,” Mulrooney asked, scanning Clarke's notes, “how come we're just now hearing from you?”
Eric was obviously nervous. “Well, sir, I didn't know I saw anything important till I told my mom today. She's the one who called the cops.” He gestured to one of the women across the street.
“You were smart to tell her, Eric. I understand you saw something the night of the homicide?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you tell me what you saw?”
“Yes, sir. I saw a white car pull up in front of the house next to the Connolly's house.” He pointed in that direction.
“It was a new Beemer.”
“A sedan?” He was testing.
“No, sir, a convertible. Cool, huh?”
“Cool. Where were you at the time?”
“We were over there skating.” He pointed to the strip of asphalt that led from where they were standing to the tennis courts at the edge of the beach. “It was like, five minutes before twelve, sir. That other detective told me that part was important.”
You Choose (Falcone & Richards Thrillers Book 1) by Phillip Tomasso
AThe temperature had changed during the short time Falcone had been inside the precinct. Maybe Falcone just felt colder after having the newest assignment handed down. The sky, a blanket of grey clouds now, threatened rain. It didn’t mean it would rain, just the threat seemed a constant in late October. Soon the threat wouldn’t be for rain, though. If they were at all lucky there were still four or five weeks before the snow started. Rochester spent five to six months under layers of snow, long after Christmas snow was no longer welcomed in the city. Regardless, winter demanded more than its allotted four-month reign, and rarely relinquished its icy hold until mid-April; insistent on dominating the end of Fall and the beginning of Spring, as well.
Farrah Richards drove. Falcone knew the reason. Back a few months when they first met, she’d smelled booze on his breath. He knew he wreaked. It was one of those mornings where he should have stayed home and called in sick but didn’t. She never said anything about it, but just took the keys from him, and gave him one of her looks. He hadn’t known her well at the time, but he understood the glare. The look dared him to complain about her taking the keys. He knew better, and kept his mouth shut.
Maybe it had been more than one time when booze was on his breath. The last few months were somewhat cloudy. Maybe he had smelled so bad the one particular morning she finally took steps to block, or stop, him from killing them on the roads?
Whatever. She wasn’t wrong for reacting the way she had, and he hadn’t protested. What leg did he have to stand on? The answer was simple. None. She drove from that day on. He was okay with her driving, but knew he needed to get his shit together. Someone will only tolerate a drunk partner for so long. Contrary to popular belief, cops often turned each other in for such reckless violations. The job was about going home safely at the end of the night. No one could be expected to put such a goal in jeopardy day in and day out. No one should have to, and Falcone understood her position perfectly. He just wasn’t sure he could do much about it at the moment.
She knew his history. There wasn’t an officer in the department who didn’t. Drinking might be a problem, but he did his best to limit its negative effect on the job. It was harder still when he was home with his wife, and son. At times he felt as if he needed to set aside periods of time where he could act irresponsibly. It sucked his calendar didn’t have space to allow room for binge drinking. Overloaded at work, and busy with the family when not on the clock ate up nearly every precious minute. Eventually, he figured he’d pencil in time for a nervous breakdown. It was coming, he could feel it. Falcone just couldn’t afford having one now.
The best he could tell, Farrah and he hit it off. He liked having Richards as his partner, but whether she appreciated the pairing, he couldn’t say for sure. It was new, the two of them. They were placed together about three months ago. At the time she worked first platoon, covering midnight to zero-eight-hundred hours. She swore the overnights were better; days at the office were ruled by politics. Richards hated politics. He wasn’t much of a fan, either. The overnights, when he worked them, clearly took years off his life. So had working sixteen hundred to midnight. In fact, the day shift wasn’t much better, either. The idea of an early grave didn’t scare him much, he just didn’t think there was space on his calendar enough for death. Not with so much still to get done.
The Quasimodo Killings (Vance And Shepherd Mysteries Book 1) by John Broughton
Book excerpt
New Scotland Yard, London
Ridgeway drummed his fingers on the desk, leant back in his leather chair, tilted back his head on its comfortable rest and stared at the ceiling. At certain times of the day the sunlight spotlighted the one small area that the decorator had missed when passing his roller over the surface. Small things like this no more than two-inch aberration irritated Mal beyond belief. Not that he would ever take steps to remedy the slight defect that nobody else would ever notice. Pragmatically, he preferred an excuse for irritation from a non-human source to doing anything about it except sighing whenever he focused on it.
The reason for his bad mood and boredom could be summed up in two words—unnecessary pressure. There was no point in the commissioner pressing him for a breakthrough, and on what basis? he asked himself. Why should a crank letter have an experienced professional policewoman so agitated? On reflection, the first days in a job of such enormous responsibility would test anyone’s nerves, he reasoned. More so if that person had to overcome the scepticism and prejudices that he had come so close to expressing. The more he thought about his attitude to Aalia Phadkar, the more he was ashamed of himself. Political correctness? I’m not a male chauvinist, nor am I racist. My Rachel would tear me apart if I confessed any doubts about Aalia. He glanced back up at the ceiling where, thankfully, the sun had moved a little to the right, no longer highlighting his fixation. Besides, she’s proved herself an exceptional detective. Not everyone would have pinned sufficient damning proof on the Talarico clan to dismantle it and break its stranglehold on the narcotics trade in London. She’s a damned good copper.
A knock on his door snapped him out of his trance.
“Come!”
Another woman he admired slipped into the room. Dr Sabrina Markham, head of forensic science, whose competence was second to none.
“Good morning, Mal. I thought I’d bring this myself since I’m the bearer of bad news.”
She probably was because he could detect her Manchester accent, only perceptible when tense or shocked.
There you have it - the best police procedural novels from Next Chapter in 03/2023. We hope you enjoy the stories - and if you do, please leave a comment below, or a review in Goodreads or your favorite store. It would mean a lot to us!
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