Patricia Cornwell (Autor):
Portrait of a Killer: Jack the Ripper - Case Closed [Englisch] [Taschenbuch] - Taschenbuch
2003, ISBN: 9780425189658
[ED: Taschenbuch], [PU: Penguin Group (Usa) Inc.], Zustand: gut.
In this headline-making new work, Cornwell turns her trademark skills for meticulous research and scientific expertise on… Mehr…
[ED: Taschenbuch], [PU: Penguin Group (Usa) Inc.], Zustand: gut.
In this headline-making new work, Cornwell turns her trademark skills for meticulous research and scientific expertise on one of the most chilling cases of serial murder in the history of crime-the slayings of Jack the Ripper that terrorized 1880s London.
Biografie
1979, gleich nach Beendigung des Studiums, arbeitete Patricia Cornwell (*1956 in Miami) als Polizeireporterin beim "The Charlotte Observer". Für ihre Serie über Prostitution und Kriminalität im Zentrum von Charlotte gewann sie schon bald einen Preis für investigativen Journalismus. Später war Patricia Cornwell u. a. Leiterin einer forensischen Abteilung an der Universität von Tennessee. So hat sie die Welt des Verbrechens gleich von mehreren Seiten kennengelernt. All diese Perspektiven vereint sie in ihrem neuen "Job": dem der Krimiautorin. Patricia Cornwell gilt heute als eine der Besten des Genres. Mit ihren Geschichten um die Pathologin Kay Scarpetta hält sie weltweit Millionen Fans in Atem.
Few books receive the kind of pre-publicity that Portrait of a Killer: Jack the Ripper--Case Closed generated. Some of it was good, some of it not so good, but all was calculated to get reader interest running at fever pitch. In fact, Patricia Cornwell's actions in trying to solve the world's most famous serial-killer mystery (just who was Jack the Ripper?) have been highly controversial, but since when has controversy undercut interest in a book? And who better than a writer whose name is synonymous with the scientific solving of crime to tackle London's legendary mass murderer?
Using the methods of her character Kay Scarpetta, Cornwell's forensic investigation has pointed the bloody finger of guilt at a figure who has long figured prominently in the Ripper files. The investigation here is an intriguing mix of the personal and the professional: as well as orchestrating a Scarpetta-like search for the identity of the Ripper, Cornwell involves several very personal connections with the task she has set herself, and this is no dry thesis. Needless to say, the more gruesome aspects of this famously grisly case give no pause to a woman who has taken us into the grimmer aspects of forensics with her unsqueamish protagonist, and we are spared no details here (but who would purchase Portrait of a Killer if they had delicate sensibilities?). The arguments here are intelligently marshalled, and laid out with the precision and attention to detail of Cornwell's novels.
In order to prove her thesis, Cornwell purchased (and made tests on) some great works of art, but the tale of how she arrived at her highly contentious conclusions is quite as fascinating as one of the Scarpetta books. You may not agree with her, but you will not put this book down.
Pressestimmen
An excellent criminal case-study and a fine account of Victorian life. Big Issue She has brought so much circumstantial evidence to bear that only a genuine posthumous confession by someone else will now be enough to clear Sickert's name. Daily Mail The resultant book is absorbing ... Cornwell has written a great account of the Ripper era. Time Out Fascinating. Sunday Express
Synopsis
Using the firsthand expertise she has gained through writing the bestselling Dr Kay Scarpetta novels, Patricia Cornwell utilizes the demanding methods of modern forensic investigation to re-examine the evidence in the Jack the Ripper murders. These include state-of-the-art DNA testing on various materials, computer enhancement of watermarks and expert examinations of hand-writing, paper, inks and other relics. She also uses her knowledge of profiling on the possible suspects, as well as consulting experts in the field. On presenting her conclusions to a very senior Metropolitan Police officer she learns that had the investigators of the time been presented with the facts she has unearthed, her suspect would definitely have been arrested and would probably have faced trial. Naming the killer as the artist, Walter Sickert, Cornwell details the reasons and evidence for this conclusion.
Über den Autor und weitere Mitwirkende
Patricia Cornwell's first novel was published in 1990. Since then she and her creation, Kay Scarpetta, have become household names. She has helped to establish the Virginia Institute of Forensic Science and Medicine and serves as its Chairman of the Board.
Leseprobe. Abdruck erfolgt mit freundlicher Genehmigung der Rechteinhaber. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.
Monday, August 6, 1888, was a bank holiday in London. The city
was a carnival of wondrous things to do for as little as pennies
if one could spare a few.
The bells of Windsor’s Parish Church and St. George’s Chapel rang
throughout the day. Ships were dressed in flags, and royal salutes boomed
from cannons to celebrate the Duke of Edinburgh’s forty-fourth birthday.
The Crystal Palace offered a dazzling spectrum of special programs:
organ recitals, military band concerts, a “monster display of fireworks,”
a grand fairy ballet, ventriloquists, and “world famous minstrel performances.”
Madame Tussaud’s featured a special wax model of Frederick
II lying in state and, of course, the ever-popular Chamber of Horrors.
Other delicious horrors awaited those who could afford theater tickets
and were in the mood for a morality play or just a good old-fashioned
fright. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was playing to sold-out houses. The famous
American actor Richard Mansfield was brilliant as Jekyll and Hyde
__
C H A P T E R O N E
M R . N O B O D Y
at Henry Irving’s Lyceum, and the Opera Comique had its version, too,
although poorly reviewed and in the midst of a scandal because the theater
had adapted Robert Louis Stevenson’s novel without permission.
On this bank holiday there were horse and cattle shows; special
“cheap rates” on trains; and the bazaars in Covent Garden overflowing
with Sheffield plates, gold, jewelry, used military uniforms. If one wanted
to pretend to be a soldier on this relaxed but rowdy day, he could do so
with little expense and no questions asked. Or one could impersonate a
copper by renting an authentic Metropolitan Police uniform from Angel’s
Theatrical Costumes in Camden Town, scarcely a two-mile stroll from
where the handsome Walter Richard Sickert lived.
Twenty-eight-year-old Sickert had given up his obscure acting career
for the higher calling of art. He was a painter, an etcher, a student of
James McNeill Whistler, and a disciple of Edgar Degas. Young Sickert
was himself a work of art: slender, with a strong upper body from swimming,
a perfectly angled nose and jaw, thick wavy blond hair, and blue
eyes that were as inscrutable and penetrating as his secret thoughts and
piercing mind. One might almost have called him pretty, except for his
mouth, which could narrow into a hard, cruel line. His precise height is
unknown, but a friend of his described him as a little above average. Photographs
and several items of clothing donated to the Tate Gallery
Archive in the 1980s suggest he was probably five foot eight or nine.
Sickert was fluent in German, English, French, and Italian. He knew
Latin well enough to teach it to friends, and he was well acquainted with
Danish and Greek and possibly knew a smattering of Spanish and Portuguese.
He was said to read the classics in their original languages, but
he didn’t always finish a book once he started it. It wasn’t uncommon to
find dozens of novels strewn about, opened to the last page that had
snagged his interest. Mostly, Sickert was addicted to newspapers,
tabloids, and journals.
Until his death in 1942, his studios and studies looked like a recycling
center for just about every bit of newsprint to roll off the European
P A T R I C I A C O R N W E L L
[ 2 ]
presses. One might ask how any hard-working person could find time to
go through four, five, six, ten newspapers a day, but Sickert had a
method. He didn’t bother with what didn’t interest him, whether it was
politics, economics, world affairs, wars, or people. Nothing mattered to
Sickert unless it somehow affected Sickert.
He usually preferred to read about the latest entertainment to come
to town, to scrutinize art critiques, to turn quickly to any story about
crime, and to search for his own name if there was any reason it might
be in print on a given day. He was fond of letters to the editor, especially
ones he wrote and signed with a pseudonym. Sickert relished knowing
what other people were doing, especially in the privacy of their own notalways-
so-tidy Victorian lives. “Write, write, write!” he would beg his
friends. “Tell me in detail all sorts of things, things that have amused you
and how and when and where, and all sorts of gossip about every one.”
Sickert despised the upper class, but he was a star stalker. He somehow
managed to hobnob with the major celebrities of the day: Henry Irving
and Ellen Terry, Aubrey Beardsley, Henry James, Max Beerbohm,
Oscar Wilde, Monet, Renoir, Pissarro, Rodin, André Gide, Édouard Dujardin,
Proust, Members of Parliament. But he did not necessarily know
many of them, and no one—famous or otherwise—ever really knew him.
Not even his first wife, Ellen, who would turn forty in less than two
weeks. Sickert may not have given much thought to his wife’s birthday
on this bank holiday, but it was extremely unlikely he had forgotten it.
He was much admired for his amazing memory. Throughout his life
he would amuse dinner guests by performing long passages of musicals
and plays, dressed for the parts, his recitations flawless. Sickert would
not have forgotten that Ellen’s birthday was August 18th and a very easy
occasion to ruin. Maybe he would “forget.” Maybe he would vanish into
one of his secret rented hovels that he called studios. Maybe he would
take Ellen to a romantic café in Soho and leave her alone at the table
while he dashed off to a music hall and then stayed out the rest of the
night. Ellen loved Sickert all her sad life, despite his cold heart, his patho-
P O R T R A I T O F A K I L L E R
[ 3 ]
logical lying, his self-centeredness, and his habit of disappearing for
days—even weeks—without warning or explanation.
Walter Sickert was an actor by nature more than by virtue of employment.
He lived on the center stage of his secret, fantasy-driven life
and was just as comfortable moving about unnoticed in the deep shadows
of isolated streets as he was in the midst of throbbing crowds. He
had a great range of voice and was a master of greasepaint and wardrobe.
So gifted at disguise was he that as a boy he often went about unrecognized
by his neighbors and family.
Throughout his long and celebrated life, he was notorious for constantly
changing his appearance with a variety of beards and mustaches,
for his bizarre dress that in some cases constituted costumes, for his hairstyles—
including shaving his head. He was, wrote French artist and
friend Jacques-Emile Blanche, a “Proteus.” Sickert’s “genius for camouflage
in dress, in the fashion of wearing his hair, and in his manner of
speaking rival Fregoli’s,” Blanche recalled. In a portrait Wilson Steer
painted of Sickert in 1890, Sickert sports a phony-looking mustache that
resembles a squirrel’s tail pasted above his mouth.
He also had a penchant for changing his name. His acting career,
paintings, etchings, drawings, and prolific letters to colleagues, friends,
and newspapers reveal many personas: Mr. Nemo (Latin for “Mr. Nobody”),
An Enthusiast, A Whistlerite, Your Art Critic, An Outsider, Walter
Sickert, Sickert, Walter R. Sickert, Richard Sickert, W. R. Sickert,
W.S., R.S., S., Dick, W. St., Rd. Sickert LL.D., R.St. A.R.A., and RDSt
A.R.A.
Sickert did not write his memoirs, keep a diary or calendar, or date
most of his letters or works of art, so it is difficult to know where he was
or what he was doing on or during any given day, week, month, or even
year. I could find no record of his whereabouts or activities on August 6,
1888, but there is no reason to..
Rezensionen:
Ich war begeistert. sehr spannend und mit vielen bildern, etc
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Dieses Buch ist absolut Überzeugend.Es ist faszinierend das eine solch erfolgreiche Autorin ihre Zeit damit verbringt diesen Fall zu lösen,den vor ihr niemand lösen konnte.
Das Buch ist allerdings nichts für schwache Nerven,da alles sehr detailiert beschrieben ist(so wie sie es auch in den Scarpetta-Romanen macht)!
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I don't know why some of the other reviewers here can't accept Cornwell's theory on Sickert. To me it makes perfect sense. I hope that she will eventually find something to prove it, because that's what is missing to date.
Through Cornwells narration we can vividly relive the fear that reigned at the time. She uses all her skills and modern crime investigation techniques to present the case. She also gives historical insights of the times of the murders. Moreover, the book contains plenty of photographs (of Sickert's works as a painter, of the vicitms (!), of Sickert himself, of the famous Ripper letters sent to the London police and of other facts related to the crimes).
The last part, however, seems to have been put together in a rush. Everything is superficial in the end. Cornwell no longer gives her own opinion, she only quotes others. She probably had to meet a deadline, which is a pity as the book started out just great.
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Ich habe mir dieses Buch gekauft, weil ich schon einige Bücher dieser Autorin gelesen habe und sie mich mit ihrem "Insider Wissen" beeindruckt hat. Deshalb war es für mich interessant zu lesen, was sie zu diesem Thema zu schreiben hat. An manchen Stellen ist das Buch etwas langatmig (vor allem für gerichtsmedizinischen Laien, wie mich) aber im Großen und Ganzen hat es meine Erwartungen erfüllt. Es gibt einen guten Einblick in das Leben im Londoner East End zum Ende des 19. Jahrhunderts. Die Argumente, die gebracht werden, sind wirklich überzeugend, von daher ist "case closed" im Titel des Buches durchaus angebracht. Für jemanden, der geschichtlich interessiert ist und auch von Gerichtsmedizin ein bisschen Ahnung hat, durchaus sehr lesenswert.
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Ein sehr spannendes Buch über die wahre Identität von Jack the Ripper. Die angeführten Beweise sind wirklich überzeugend, und deren Darstellung auch für Laien verständlich geschrieben. Manchmal ist die Beschreibung dann aber doch etwas sehr graphisch, und auch rechtsmedizinisch initiierten Leuten kann es etwas zu intensiv werden. Ausserdem ist der Schluss etwas langatmig. Die beigelegten Dokumentphotos sind sehr beeindruckend. Alles in allem, kein einfaches, aber ein sehr gut recherchiertes und intensives Buch.
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- das Leben im East End
- London im ausgehen, DE, [SC: 3.00], leichte Gebrauchsspuren, privates Angebot, 369, [GW: 450g], [PU: New York, Ny 10014], 10. Auflage, Banküberweisung, PayPal, Internationaler Versand, [CT: Englischsprachige Bücher / Krimi/Thriller (englisch)]<
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