El Jefe: The Stalking of Chapo Guzmán
By Alan Feuer

The crime:

For nearly thirty years Joaquín Archivaldo Guzmán Loera, commonly referred to by his nickname El Chapo (“shorty” or “stocky”), was one of the biggest drug traffickers in the world, being the leader of Mexico’s notorious Sinaloa cartel. After a long and colourful history of evading and escaping the law he was finally tracked down and apprehended by Mexican and American authorities in 2016, extradited to the U.S., and sentenced to life in prison.

The book:

I didn’t like this one much. It’s very limited in scope, telling the story of the pursuit of El Chapo from the perspective of American FBI and DEA agents. So don’t expect to find out much about the operation of Guzmán’s empire, or what was happening in Mexico. Also, Alan Feuer’s reporting deals primarily with the various ways agents tried to locate and track the boss through his communications network, which is something that either wasn’t explained all that well or was just over my head since I couldn’t follow any of the details. At no time did I fully understand how the monitoring of Guzmán’s messaging system actually worked.

As for the gangster lifestyle, for all of his money, influence, celebrity, and power it doesn’t seem like Guzmán enjoyed himself much. He was, of course, always on the run, and lived a fair amount of the time in very primitive conditions, even in caves. Then there was the constant threat of violence from other gangs and having to respond to ever-changing market conditions, or the more mundane work of a CEO. It all sounds like a grind to me, not to mention dangerous.

But the Hollywood image of a drug lord – think of Pacino’s Scarface in his trashy Florida mansion – looms large in the popular imagination. And I guess there’s some truth to the tales of excess. Pablo Escobar had his hacienda, stocked with hippos and other exotic creatures. And El Chapo had a gold-plated AK-47 and lots of mistresses. But mostly the life just seems, like Guzmán himself, nasty, brutish, and short.

Even so, Guzmán seems to have been aware of the Hollywood mythology, and sought to promote it. One of the more interesting sub-plots here involves the fact that he kept a screenwriter on staff and was planning on making a movie about himself (with the rather unoriginal working title of El Padrino, Spanish for The Godfather). One of the raids to grab him was even thrown for a loop when it was discovered that Sean Penn had scheduled a visit at the same time. Penn was interested in interviewing Guzmán for Rolling Stone while Guzmán and his team were hoping the Hollywood actor would want to get involved in their film project.

This conflict between Guzmán’s notoriety, or celebrity status and his need to stay anonymous and hidden is one of the more interesting parts of his story. As Feuer puts it, “The ‘paradox of visibility’ was paradoxical only in the sense that Guzmán never wanted to be invisible; he wanted to be seen.” But I don’t think this is quite right. Guzmán did want to be invisible some of the time. He just also wanted to be famous. This is typical of most celebrities: they want to be in complete control of their brand, enjoying all the perks of fame without any of the downsides. But that’s not the way it works. At least not yet.

This isn’t a book about Guzmán though, so we don’t get any deeper into his psychology on this matter. Instead, the main reflection I was left with had to do with Guzmán as folk hero. Not so much for being a provincial big shot, the hometown boy who made good and gave a boost to the local economy while showing up the federal government as corrupt and incompetent fools, as for his fighting against the ineluctable web of digital surveillance. The story here is of an incredibly complex and long-running police investigation that was basically driven by tech people and all their wonderful toys and software. Guzmán was alert to the dangers, and seems to have done a good job protecting himself, but if you want to communicate in the digital age you’re going to be vulnerable to hackers. As terrible a person as Guzmán was, this does make you almost want to root for his escape. Because if he couldn’t free himself from the web, who can?

Noted in passing:

As Guzmán expanded his drug trade into Canada we’re told by Feuer that “It hadn’t gone unnoticed that a kilo of cocaine sold for almost ten thousand dollars more in Montreal and Toronto than it did in Chicago or Los Angeles.” This surprised me a bit. Cocaine costs that much more in Canada? So I did some Internet sleuthing and found that prices for cocaine (this is mostly from the Global Drug Surveys that can be accessed online) vary widely not just between countries but different regions within countries. Overall though, it seems that Canada, which consumes a lot of cocaine, enjoys (if that’s the right word) low cocaine prices. The main rule seems to be that the further the distance from the source (Colombia, say), the higher the price. So cocaine costs a lot in Australia and Dubai. I don’t think Canada is a very difficult country to smuggle drugs into, but I’m guessing most of the cocaine we get comes through the U.S. first so crossing two international borders drives up the price. Still, the amount of mark-up that Feuer cites sounds high.

“Whenever his safety and schedule permitted it,” Feuer writes, El Chapo “loved slipping off to havens like Los Cabos where he could eat well, drink among his friends and have his pick of the local professional talent.”

Is this use of “talent” widely understood? My own understanding is that what’s being referred to are escorts or prostitutes, but that’s mainly an inference from the word’s use in the porn industry, where “talent” refers to performers, with everybody else being business or tech support. I didn’t think “talent” meaning prostitutes was that common an expression, capable of being tossed off here in such a casual way. But I might just be out of the loop.

Takeaways:

Certain human beings have the power to hold a gaze. Without even asking for it, they command our attention, the most valuable commodity we have. . . . Guzmán had been right about one thing: the world had been watching him, much like it had always watched him, millions of people, across the planet, for nearly thirty years. The important questions – Why had it been watching? Did he deserve it? And what was the point of all that concentration? – never seemed to have occurred to him. Perhaps he took it for granted. Or perhaps he understood what we did not: that no matter what he did and no matter what he said – no matter what happened – all of us were going to look at him.

True Crime Files

Tangled Vines: Power, Privilege, and the Murdaugh Family Murders
By John Glatt

The crime:

Scion of a long line of powerful South Carolina lawyers, Alex Murdaugh killed his wife and youngest son in June 2021, just as he was about to be exposed for having stolen millions of dollars from clients in order to pay for his drug habit.

The book:

For reasons not worth getting into I had CNN on a lot in the background when this case exploded with wall-to-wall coverage. I didn’t pay much attention to it then, figuring a book was soon on its way, from which I would learn more. That book didn’t take long to arrive, though I can’t say I was keenly anticipating it. From what I could gather, it didn’t seem like a particularly remarkable crime. Why had it caught the public’s interest?

I think mainly because it fit a popular archetype: “a roller-coaster of murder plots, financial crimes, and drug addiction, straight out of a Southern Gothic novel.” The story of a powerful family’s decline into criminality, madness, and degeneracy may have had people thinking of Faulkner or even Poe, but I don’t think either of those authors is ever mentioned. Instead, Glatt goes further back and likens the fall of the house of Murdaugh to Greek tragedy. In fact, I think he makes that connection four times (and once, just for good measure, to Shakespeare). Is this a fair comparison?

The Murdaughs were big fish in the small pond of South Carolina’s Lowcountry, so I guess they qualify as being of tragic stature. Of Alex Murdaugh Glatt writes that “His greed and hubris were limitless,” which has an Aristotelian ring to it. But by the time of the main events recounted here the family was guttering out in a big way, to the point where it’s hard to see how Alex and his son Paul were functioning at all given the amounts of booze and drugs they were consuming. Alex was also more of a Shakespearean villain than a hero with a tragic flaw. In a final judgment that made me sit up and take notice Glatt concludes that “Whether or not Alex is a sociopath is not for me to say, but in all the true crime books I have written, I have never come across anyone as dark and totally devoid of conscience as he appears to be.”

That’s a bold claim – I believe this is Glatt’s twenty-fifth book – but it has some merit. The curious thing I found was that despite shooting his wife in the back with an AR-15 and then standing over her body and “firing again and again,” and then blasting a shotgun at his son’s head and chest at point-blank range, the murders seem not to have been crimes of passion. I didn’t even see where Murdaugh was particularly angry at either of them. They had just become inconveniences. That’s cold.

Was it the drugs Murdaugh was taking? There seems to have been little evidence that his mental or moral functioning was greatly impaired. To be sure he was an addict, but I don’t see where that changed his personality much. Where did all his rage come from? Or was it rage?

Nor was what was happening on the financial front easy to understand. This is usually a place where true crime books shine. My basic question was just why Murdaugh was in such financial distress, or, as described by Glatt, “drowning in debt.” He was presumably well remunerated as a partner in the large law firm his great-grandfather founded back in 1910. Then, by the nearest accounting we get here, he stole some $10 million from clients over a roughly ten-year period. Was it all going for drugs? I guess it’s possible. He claimed at the end to be spending up to $60,000 a week on pills, taking more than two thousand milligrams of oxycodone a day. That adds up, but I don’t think he could have been medicating that heavily for a decade. Glatt mentions how he was also involved in some kind of drug dealing operation, but if so it apparently wasn’t making him rich or else he was too busy getting high off his own supply.

While he and his wife liked to live large (as an exercise in family branding she posted pics of their opulent lifestyle on Facebook “to burnish the Murdaugh image”) it just seems to me that with that kind of money in such a relative backwater he should have had more to show for it. I mean, his home property was a whopping 1,772 acres, complete with hunting lodge and dog kennels, but was put up for sale after his arrest for only $3.9 million. I know neighbourhoods near where I live where a decent-size detached home on a suburban lot will put you back close to that. My point being that with a million bucks you could have been a very rich man in the Lowcountry, and Murdaugh had a lot more than a million.

Overall I thought this was just a decent, quick look at the case, thankfully without too many of the howler typos that often mar such timely productions. I guess the end of Chapter 39, which tells us that “Prosecutors and the defense are now busily preparing for Alex’s upcoming murder trial,” was originally conceived as being the end of the book, as we do get an account of the trial immediately after this. And while there weren’t many typos, I did get a smile out of Murdaugh’s lawyers arguing that he should be “afforded a release on his own reconnaissance.” That’s great.

An interesting aside: In one of Glatt’s previous books – Love Her to Death – an estranged wife looking for a divorce is killed when her husband talks her into meeting him in person, something that she wanted to avoid. That’s what happens here as well, as Maggie, who was also considering a divorce, didn’t want to go see Alex alone but felt obliged. There’s a warning for you, ladies! If you’re nervous about meeting your soon-to-be ex on your own, listen to your gut.

The bigger point that’s illustrated though is that of the corrupting effect of privilege. At bottom, privilege means a freedom from consequences, and a little of it can let you get away with a lot. The Murdaughs had a lot of it, and the suspicion shared by many is that they may have even got away with murder. The deaths of Stephen Smith, Murdaugh housekeeper Gloria Satterfield, and Mallory Beach have all been connected to the family, and Glatt provides enough background on each case for readers to make up their own mind as to what, if any, culpability they may have had.

There is, however, always a point where you can’t take things any further. In the case of privilege that point is a long, long way down, but just as the Peter principle has it that you rise to the level of your incompetence, so the privilege principle holds that the only thing that can really erase one’s privilege is the total destruction of oneself or others. Insulated by his wealth and social position, Murdaugh got to live in a bubble that atrophied any sense he had of personal responsibility or morality. Power just isn’t good for people: not for the people who don’t have it and suffer at its hands, and not for the people who do have it and who are debased by it. But still everybody wants some.

Noted in passing:

When he was in prison Murdaugh made a lot of calls, to family members mainly, talking about financial matters and encouraging his remaining son to return to law school. These calls were recorded, as I suppose is usual. What I did not think was usual was that the recordings of these calls were considered to be in the public domain. Indeed, I was quite surprised to find out that reporters filed a Freedom of Information request for the recordings of these calls and it was approved. They were subsequently released.

Murdaugh’s lawyers then “filed a federal lawsuit in US District Court in South Carolina to prevent any further calls going public, citing the federal wiretapping statute. It stated that although inmates were made aware that every call would be monitored and recorded, they were not told it would go public.”

This sounds like a valid complaint. While an inmate has no expectation of privacy when it comes to prison calls, I wouldn’t have thought the calls were public information. But after a pause allowing for a judicial ruling, a higher court agreed to release more calls. In his notes, Glatt refers to these “highly revealing jailhouse phone calls to his family” as providing “a real insight into his true character.” Which I’m sure they did, but I’m still not sure it’s right. Unless the material in the call has some bearing on the case, or can be interpreted as relating to the planning of some further crime, it seems to me that the press has no business publishing what are private conversations, no matter how psychologically revealing they may be.

Takeaways:

On the subject of family fortunes there’s an old saying that the first generation makes the money, the second conserves it, and the third loses it. “Shirtsleeves to shirtsleeves in three generations,” is the adage. And like many an old bit of folk wisdom, there seems to be some truth to it. According to a couple of reports I found online from the 2010s, some 70% of wealthy families lose their wealth by the second generation, and 90% by the third.

In other words, family decline is real. This is something borne out in the history of most dynasties, business and political. Even without their violent end the Murdaughs were locked on a familiar downward spiral, aided and abetted by Alex and Maggie’s staggering incompetence as parents. Paul’s death was tragic, but it’s hard from the evidence to see how he was going to turn things around.

The founder or patriarch of a family dynasty is usually at least a figure possessed of some qualities, though he may be an immoral scoundrel. The second generation are just inheritors. And by the time you get to the third generation – or, as in the case of the Murdaughs, the fourth and the fifth – you’re really scraping the bottom of the barrel with spoiled degenerates who were rotten with privilege, destructive of wealth, and not much good for anything.

True Crime Files

Knowing Right from Wrong: The Insanity Defense of Daniel McNaughtan
By Richard Moran

The crime:

In January 1843 a disgruntled Glaswegian named Daniel McNaughtan killed Edward Drummond, private secretary to Prime Minister Robert Peel, by shooting him in the back. Apparently McNaughtan mistook Drummond for Peel. At trial, McNaughtan was found not guilty by reason of insanity and sent to a mental hospital for the rest of his life. There was an outcry against the verdict, which resulted in the formulation of the long-lived McNaughtan Rule: that a defendant could only be found guilty if, at the time of his criminal act, he was suffering from such a disease of the mind that he could not appreciate the nature or quality of his act, or that if he did not know that what he was doing was right or wrong.

The book:

This is a short book, but it reads like a long one. I don’t mean that in a bad way, to suggest that it’s boring. It’s just very focused and dense. If you have an interest not only in legal history but in early Victorian issues like Chartism and the Anti-Corn Law League then you’ll enjoy all the detail, but these are complicated matters that I think assume some familiarity with the period on the part of the reader. And then there’s more background provided in the extensive appendixes, which even include a transcript of the House of Lords debate on McNaughtan. If you’re like me, you’ll be taking a lot of notes.

Mainly however the book provides a very full accounting of the case itself, and one that Richard Moran gives a significant revisionist spin to. Some indication of where things are heading comes with the dedication: “To the young Scotsman from Glasgow whose search for political and social justice brought him face to face with the ultimate question of right and wrong.” That young Scotsman (actually he was 30 years old, which I don’t think was young by Victorian standards) would be Daniel McNaughtan.

The first point Moran makes is that McNaughtan wasn’t crazy. Indeed, nobody thought he was crazy at the time. Even Queen Victoria (who was sensitive on the subject after having being recently targeted twice by assassins) thought the idea absurd, writing in her diary that McNaughtan was “clearly not in the least mad.” Of course, the understanding of what it meant to be mad was a little different in her day. The then current theory of mind had it that the brain had two compartments: one for intellect and the other for the “moral faculties.” Thus it could be argued that McNaughtan’s moral faculty, the ability to properly distinguish between right and wrong, was impaired while his intellect was still functioning. As for evidence of such impairment, at trial it was argued by his defence lawyer that his love for children and habit of feeding pigeons in the park were “early indicators of a ‘predisposition to insanity,’ portraying the former as a peculiar delight in the ‘innocent ways’ of children and the latter as an odd ‘humanity toward the brute creation.’” Also suspect was his “custom of bathing daily in the nearby river Clyde.” This was said to relieve “the torturing fever by which his brain was consumed.”

None of this strikes a twenty-first century ear as very persuasive, and it’s hard to disagree with Victoria’s common-sense understanding of the matter. But if McNaughtan wasn’t crazy, why was he trying to kill the prime minister?

For Moran it’s clear that McNaughtan’s actions were politically motivated. Which is in fact what McNaughtan claimed they were: a way of fighting back against the persecution he felt he had suffered at the hands of the ruling Tories. So why then did his case become the leading case for over a century on the issue of mental illness and criminal responsibility? Because the political administration wanted it that way. This is where the really revisionist part of Moran’s book comes in to play. “The time has come to challenge the conventional wisdom concerning the McNaughtan case. Far from representing an enlightened humanitarian view of criminal responsibility by a judge and jury concerned with the welfare of a mentally ill defendant, the verdict in the case was mainly the result of political considerations.”

In a nutshell, McNaughtan claimed he had been harassed and persecuted by the Tory government, and there may have been some merit to the charge. But for the Victorians being anti-government was itself a form of madness. At least that’s the way it was seen in establishment circles. Only a few days after McNaughtan’s trial one John Dillon was arrested for threatening to shoot the chancellor of the Exchequer. Upon his arrest he declared that at his trial he would “not plead insanity, but injustice.” But as Moran notes, “The very act of threatening violence against a public official was sufficient for the Victorians to view Dillon as insane. Even the knowledge that his complaint was legitimate did not alter their opinion of his mental condition.” But there was an even stronger argument for proceeding against McNaughtan the way the Crown did:

Beyond serving the purpose of prolonged incarceration [there is no fixed sentence for those found criminally insane], the insanity verdict can function to deter potential political offenders. It was not necessary for the Tories to execute or imprison McNaughtan in order to discourage others from committing similar crimes. All that was necessary was to make him unattractive as a role model. The insanity verdict accomplished this in the most effective manner. By defining McNaughtan’s crime as outside the realm of human reality, the insanity verdict neutralized him as a model for others. While there was at least some disagreement over the desirability of assassinating the prime minister, there was virtual agreement that mental illness was undesirable. The insanity verdict robbed McNaughtan of his political credibility and negated the symbolic and instrumental aspects of his crime. In this sense it was a much greater penalty than death. The impossibility of having one’s political message properly understood must remain the most powerful deterrent to political murder.

The world would be made safe then through a process of judicial labeling. McNaughtan wouldn’t be a martyr to a cause but politically neutered by being locked away as a nut.

But Moran doesn’t stop there. He doesn’t leave it that McNaughtan was politically motivated and not insane. He goes a step further and argues that McNaughtan was, or at least might have been, justified. This is quite a radical step and it’s worth quoting Moran at length here:

Instead of searching for the pathological motivation in McNaughtan’s mind, we might ask how so many of his countrymen who shared his political perspective and proscriptive analysis stood by and watched as their families and friends suffered from the effects of political and economic exploitation. The important psychological dimension requiring explanation might well be the capacity of so many people to deny quietly the desperate political realities of early Victorian England.

The acknowledgment of assassination as a political weapon is a difficult notion for most people to accept. It violates our social and political norms, causing many of us to adopt the extreme position that political murder can never be justified. Still, when confronted with the specter of Adolf Hitler, most people concede that his assassination would have been a morally acceptable act and his assassin a person deserving of considerable praise. It is often said that in a democracy there are other ways to express dissent, that violence is not the way to influence the course of government, that political influence is exerted through elected officials. Regardless of the possible validity of this point of view, it must be recalled that early Victorian England was not a democracy but a constitutional monarchy. Much of Peel’s political life had been devoted to preventing England from embracing representative government. As a Chartist committed to universal suffrage, McNaughtan could not be expected unconditionally to honor the political rules laid down by an aristocratic government to ensure its hegemony. It makes little sense to suggest that McNaughtan should have continued his futile effort to vote Peel out of office, especially since Peel, a staunch defender of the corrupt boroughs, had repeatedly ridiculed the attempt by the working classes to petition Parliament for the right to vote.

What is at issue here, however, is not whether McNaughtan was justified in attempting to assassinate Peel, but whether the intention to do so was inherently irrational or illogical. A definite distinction must be made between the two. McNaughtan’s belief that Peel’s death would have a positive effect on Britain was not a “peculiar notion” he alone entertained.

From here, Moran argues for allowing defendants, in narrowly defined circumstances, to argue for the political or moral justification for what are admittedly criminal acts. This is not meant as a “get out of jail free” card for social justice warriors of whatever position on the political spectrum, but is instead put forward as an alternative to mislabeling as madness what are political acts; a mislabeling that is itself political.

Noted in passing:

Drummond didn’t die right away but took five days to expire, after the best doctors in England did what they could do hasten him along with excessive bloodletting through the application of leeches. Was there ever a more Victorian passing than this?

On Wednesday morning Edward Drummond was informed that he had less than an hour to live and that he must now put his trust in the Lord. Drummond’s reply was characteristically stoic: “The sooner the better – I don’t feel pain.” Turning to his sister, who was sobbing by his bedside, he said: “We have lived long and happy together, and my only regret is in parting with you.” With a faint smile he added: “That ugly French word malaise expressed most fully my burden.” After taking a sip of wine mixed with potassium water, Edward Drummond, a bachelor whose entire adult life had been devoted to public service, died in the arms of his maiden sister.

Takeaways:

You don’t have to be crazy to want to kill someone.

True Crime Files

The Beautiful Cigar Girl: Mary Rogers, Edgar Allan Poe, and the Invention of Murder
By Daniel Stashower

The crime:

Mary Rogers was a 20-year-old woman, famous for her good looks, who worked in a tobacco store in New York City. Known as the “Beautiful Cigar Girl,” she disappeared on July 25, 1841 and her body was found floating in the Hudson River three days later. Autopsy results indicated she might have been strangled. Various explanations for her death were put forward, including a slightly fictionalized version by Edgar Allan Poe in his story “The Mystery of Marie Rogêt.” The case, however, remains unsolved.

The book:

The murder of Mary Rogers is famous in the annals of true crime, though I don’t think that’s because of Poe’s story, which isn’t very good. There are two types of unsolved crimes that fascinate us, the ones that everyone has a theory about (Jack the Ripper, JonBenét Ramsey) and the ones that seem to frustrate every theory. The Mary Rogers case falls into the latter category. It’s a conundrum.

The chief explanations that have been put forward fall into the following three categories, and it’s worth noting not just how unlikely they all seem but how different they are from one another. That gives some idea of how much uncertainty there is.

In the first place there is the theory that Rogers was killed by a gang of ruffians. This is the scenario that Poe derides, and it seems unlikely for many of the reasons he gives. Just for starters, when you’re dealing with a group of criminals it’s far harder to cover all of your tracks.

The second theory has it that her fiancé Daniel Payne was the killer. This was reinforced by Payne’s suicide a couple of months later, and the ambiguous note he left behind: “To the World – here I am on the very spot. [His body was found near the spot where Rogers was thought to have been murdered.] May God forgive me for my misspent life.” Unfortunately, Payne had an alibi for the day Rogers was murdered, and he had no clear motive.

The final theory is that Rogers had sought an abortion that had gone wrong somehow, and her body had to be disposed of. There are variations on this, but again while there have been some interesting bits of evidence pointing in this direction it’s a stretch to make it fit with what we know and seems mostly to be an idea driven by a moralistic “wages of sin” political agenda.

I don’t think any of these theories are very good. The murder of Mary Rogers is just one of those cases that throws up roadblocks at every turn. Even the two suspects who were brought in for interrogation (a young sailor named William Kiekuck and the philandering operator of an engraving shop named Joseph Morse) ended up both being conclusively cleared. My own sense is that Rogers was probably killed by someone she knew, on a date that went bad. When she’d left her house the morning of the day she died she’d said she was going to visit her aunt, which she was not. But beyond that I’ve got nothing.

The book is subtitled “the invention of murder,” which was also the title of a book I reviewed back in 2011 by Judith Flanders. Now obviously people had been murdered long before 1841, but what I think Stashower is getting at (and it’s not a point he specifically addresses) is that this was a time when violent crimes were becoming media events, what we can now look back on as the invention of true crime as a genre. To be sure there has always been a lot of public interest in crime. Crime and execution broadsides were wildly popular in England in the 18^th century, to go back just a bit. But in the mid-19^th century things were really taking off. Indeed, as a headline the murder of Mary Rogers would be supplanted quickly by John C. Colt’s murder of Samuel Adams, an even more sensational crime and one that had legs given its well-publicized trial.

Keeping with the period detail, Stashower does a good job evoking a world before the advent of modern policing and the creation of an effective criminal justice system. Until the passage of the Police Reform Act in 1845 (some of whose provisions were made in response to the Rogers case) New York City’s policing could almost be described as medieval. Or, in Stashower’s accounting, law enforcement

had not progressed much beyond the seventeenth-century “rattle watch,” the brigade of uniformed men who patrolled the streets with noisemakers, calling out the hour and the latest weather report. At the time of the Mary Rogers murder, New York did not have a centralized, full-time professional police force. Instead, a pair of constables was assigned to each neighbourhood, together with roundsmen and marshals who cobbled together a living out of court fees and private rewards. Their efforts were supplemented by a patchwork corps of watchmen, made up of moonlighting day laborers and retired servicemen, who patrolled the streets and stood guard outside sentry boxes.

Poorly paid, some officers looked to pick up rewards for the return of stolen property, “which in turn led to charges of collusion between criminals and police over the spoils.” I’m sure something like this was going on, as it probably still is.

Given how amateur policing was, it’s no surprise that a general public not raised on CSI and Law and Order had a more relaxed attitude toward the importance of securing a crime scene. This helps explain the shocking – to a modern understanding – behaviour of the three men (Henry Mallin, James Boulard, and H. G. Luther) who discovered Rogers’ body floating in the Hudson:

Reluctant to touch the corpse, Mallin and Boulard snatched up a wooden plank from the bottom of the boat and attempted to use it as a hook to tow the body back to shore. After several attempts they managed only to strike a series of flailing blows, tearing at the white fabric of the dead woman’s dress. Tossing the plank aside, they managed at last to fix a length of rope under the corpse’s chin. The two men then rowed back to shore, trailing the body behind the boat. Unwilling to risk contact with the rotting flesh, they declined to drag their cargo out of the water. Instead they fastened their towrope to a heavy boulder and anchored the body to the shore, so it would not float back out into the river. This done, the pair spent several moments watching the battered corpse bob up and down at the end of its tether. After half an hour or so, Mallin and Boulard decided that there was nothing more to be done. Leaving the body anchored to the boulder, they rejoined their friends and wandered off along the water’s edge.

After a “large crowd” gathered along the shoreline to gawk at the floating corpse “a pair of stouthearted bystanders screwed up their courage and waded into the water to pull the body onto land.” But that wasn’t to be the end of things, as one reporter on the scene observed:

On shore, the body suffered further indignities as a long line of morbidly curious bystanders filed past. Some of them prodded the corpse with their feet while others poked at it with sticks. One “rude youth” went so far as to reach down and lift one of the legs, offering “unfeeling remarks” to his companions.

The local coroner appeared on the scene within an hour, but because he had to wait for the arrival of a justice of the peace before he could do anything with the body, it could only be removed from the water and placed in the hot sun, where it rotted away at an accelerated pace until after 7 o’clock that night. All things considered, it seems as though the coroner did a pretty good job with what he had to work with.

Stashower does a good job too with telling the story. Normally I’d be a little wary of the literary crossover; it turned out well in Margalit Fox’s Conan Doyle for the Defense but was made a hash of in Casey Sherman’s Hell Town. It mostly works here because Poe took such an interest in the case and it’s interesting to see what he made of it. Poe was a genuinely odd fellow, and that’s probably putting it far too mildly, but I never thought his detective Dupin’s method of ratiocination amounted to much and it doesn’t seem to have worked here. Basically Dupin just reads the same newspaper reports that Poe himself was reading, so what he came up with was a bit of armchair sleuthing and a set of conclusions that had to constantly be revised in the light of further evidence.

Poe is widely credited with having invented the detective story, and one of the curious things Stashower points out is that contemporary reviewers complained “that there could be no great skill in presenting a solution to a mystery of the author’s own devising.” What’s even more surprising is that Poe took this criticism to heart, and thought such stories only led, in his words, to the reader confounding “the ingenuity of the suppositious Dupin with that of the writer of the story.” This is one of the things that inspired him to have a go at the Rogers case. Of course, nobody thinks like that today, and the only ingenuity that a reader will attribute to a writer of detective fiction is their ability to create a clever and complicated plot.

Noted in passing:

When Poe attended the University of Viriginia in 1826 he “had to contend with the hardships of the university’s ongoing construction, including crowded, unheated buildings and questionable sanitation. There were, however, numerous compensations. Thomas Jefferson, then eighty-three, was very much in evidence as the university’s first rector. Poe would have dined with him on several occasions, and would have been among the mourners when the former president died on July 4 of that year.”

I’m no big fan of today’s resort-style university campuses, but I really don’t see how having an elderly celebrity like Jefferson hanging around on campus for part of the school year offers much in the way of compensation for the other shortcomings mentioned. How big a plus was it to get to mourn at Jefferson’s funeral, if Poe indeed did? And did Poe ever actually dine “with him,” or was he just sometimes in the dining hall at the same time?

It’s not entirely clear whether Payne was a suicide or if he mistakenly overdosed on laudanum. Or even if the laudanum he took was the exact cause of his death. The jury at the inquest delivered a verdict that was a true masterpiece of saying everything and nothing, declaring that death had occurred owing to “congestion of the brain, supposed to be brought about by exposure and irregularity of living, incident to aberration of mind.”

Takeaways:

Was C. Auguste Dupin not just the first detective (a word that might not have been in use before this time), but also the first fan of true crime writing? Poe was imagining his audience into being.

True Crime Files