Copyman

I’ll admit, I rolled my eyes at first when I saw *Copyman* billed as a ‘copycat killer thriller.’ We’ve all heard that pitch before. But Harvig flips the script by making the *idea* of copying the actual villain. This isn’t a whodunit—it’s a *why*-the-hell-dunit, and the answer is buried in Danish folklore, cold-case files, and the kind of institutional rot that only Scandinavian noir does well. The detective, Jens, isn’t just chasing a killer; he’s chasing the ghost of his own failed investigation, and Rønnelund’s performance sells that exhaustion. His voice cracks at just the right moments, like a man who’s one bad lead away from snapping. The pacing, though, is where opinions might split: Harvig lingers on procedural details (interrogation transcripts, forensic reports) in a way that feels deliberate but occasionally drags. It’s not *slow*—it’s *methodical*, and if you’re here for car chases, you’ll be disappointed. What you *will* get is a masterclass in psychological dread, especially in the audiobook’s final act, where the sound design subtly warps—phone calls echo unnaturally, footsteps seem to multiply—mirroring Jens’ unraveling grip on reality. My one critique? The female characters often feel like props in Jens’ tragedy, which is a shame given how sharply Harvig writes their dialogue. And while Rønnelund’s narration is mostly flawless, his delivery of the killer’s taunting letters occasionally veers into *too* theatrical territory, undercutting their chilling simplicity. But these are quibbles. *Copyman* sticks with you because it’s not about the crime—it’s about the copies we make of ourselves when we stare too long into the abyss. If you love your thrillers cerebral, atmospheric, and just a little bit haunted, this is your next listen.