The Man Who Loved Books Too Much: The True Story of a Thief, a Detective, and a World of Literary Ob

“And?” I asked, still confused.

“See,” he said, “I took three dust jackets off classics, you know, to send to their authors for autographs.”

I was no longer confused.

“And a map,” he added. “I cut one out of a book.”

So much for not stealing from the library.

It was bound to happen. Imagine a jewel thief walking into Tiffany’s and having all but the most valuable diamonds, sapphires, and emeralds sitting on velvet-lined trays out in the open. So it must be for a book thief walking into a library, especially since first editions can still be found in the open stacks.

When Gilkey told me about taking a map and dust jackets from the library, it was the first time he had confessed recent thefts to me—the others he’d pulled off years before. I assumed the dust jackets were not valuable, but what if I was mistaken? And what about the map? I had read about a New England map expert who had been charged with slicing millions of dollars’ worth of ancient maps from libraries’ collections. I doubted that Gilkey’s nicked map was from a very valuable book, but again, what if I was wrong? Was this the kind of treasure I had been hoping to uncover? I wasn’t sure what to do with it. I hadn’t expected to take on the role of confessor, and I worried about the implications. Was I obligated to inform the police? What about the library? And which library? If I decided not to share this information yet, how would librarians and book dealers respond once they found out?

I consulted a couple of friends who are lawyers. After providing the caveat that they weren’t criminal attorneys, they told me they were fairly sure that I had no legal obligation to inform authorities unless the crimes had or would physically endanger someone. Later, my literary agent’s attorney echoed their opinions.

But what about ethical responsibility? The difference between the two was as blurry as my role, which had shifted from observer to participant in Gilkey’s story. Did I owe this information to dealers, who had been so helpful with my research? But if I notified them of these thefts, wouldn’t Gilkey keep all future and possibly more significant thefts from me? Furthermore, would he then never tell me where the misbegotten books were stashed? I found myself teetering between selfishness and benevolence: either reveal the secrets Gilkey had shared with me, probably losing access to him and possibly sending him to jail, or keep them to myself and be unjust to his victims. I tried to reassure myself that such consequences were not directly my responsibility.

Two months later, still undecided about what to do with this information, I called the FBI. I read that they had been involved in cases of rare book theft and I wanted to learn how many they pursued annually, which types of cases they took on, what sorts of trends they encountered, and so on. I was granted a telephone interview with Bonnie Magness-Gardiner, who heads the Art Crime Team responsible for rare book theft investigations. I explained what I was interested in and why. She was not able to provide me with statistics regarding the total number of rare book thefts in recent years, but said that the agency became interested in cases involving interstate transportation of stolen books worth over $5,000 that were uniquely identifiable.

“Then,” she said, “it could become a matter for the FBI,” adding, “but there’s a five-year statute of limitations.”

I remembered the $9,500 set of travel books Gilkey stole in New York and, crossing state lines, brought into California.

“You’d tell me,” said the FBI agent, “if the book thief had stolen anything, right?”

“Oh, yes,” I said, trying to sound convincing, “Of course.”

As soon as I got off the phone, I dug through my notes. When had Gilkey stolen the set? I couldn’t remember. And when had he told me? Had I waited too long to notify the police? Or now the FBI? Frantically, I flipped through thick binders of transcripts.

I dug and dug, and eventually I found it.

Gilkey had stolen the books in May of 2001, and had first informed me in September 2006, a little over five years after the fact. I was clear. But I was also stuck on the fact that Gilkey had told me of the theft just four months after the period of time in which he could have been prosecuted for it ended, even though we had been meeting for almost two years. Was he shrewd or, once again, just plain lucky?

14

The Devil’s Walk

During a trip to New York, I visited the Morgan Library and Museum. I had read about J. P. Morgan’s private collection and wanted to see it up close. I was also eager to see a new exhibit, Federico da Montefeltro and His Library. Formed in the fifteenth century, his was the richest Italian Renaissance library to be owned by a single private collector.¹ It usually resides in the Vatican, but several prized pieces from the collection were on loan to the Morgan. Montefeltro, the illegitimate son of a count, had soldiered and studied his way to the lofty position of duke. Judging from what I saw and read, he probably cherished his books, but without doubt he loved displaying them for others. He had housed the library near the entrance of his palace in Urbino, allowing his books to be admired by many, even if only a few had the privilege of actually reading them. He was also in the habit of showing off his two-volume Bible, which according to one scholar served to “proclaim his identity as a Christian humanist prince.”² Mere ownership as evidence of identity—Gilkey would, no doubt, agree. The exhibit was on display in a small gallery where the walls were hung with fine portraits, and where glass cases held six-hundred-year-old manuscripts and illuminations, but I found the most intriguing pieces to be the large digital reproductions of several wood panels the duke had ordered for his studiolo. Made of intricate inlay, these wooden trompe l’oeils were realistic depictions of cabinets with shelves full of books and musical and scientific objects: an astrolabe, a mechanical clock, an organ, a clavichord. Each was symbolic individually, and collectively they formed a tableau of the duke’s erudition and culture. While Montefeltro was an impressive man of means and power and Gilkey is not, standing in that small gallery, I couldn’t help wondering if either of them would have collected books if they hadn’t had an audience to appreciate them—or in Gilkey’s case, dreams of a future audience. In this and many other respects, I came to understand that Gilkey is typical of many book collectors. It is his crimes and his unwavering, narcissistic justification of them that sets him apart.

Gilkey had spent that summer in prison for violating parole (police finally caught up with him at his mother’s house), and in the fall of 2007, when he got out, we met a few more times. I wanted to ask him a question that had dogged me for months, a simple one to determine how knowledgeable and calculating, versus just plain lucky, he had been during his most active spree: Had he known that by stealing from different states, different counties, different police jurisdictions, he had made it more difficult for the court to convict him?

“It did?” he asked, puzzled. He considered the fact for a moment. “Oh yes, I did know.”

He was a lucky man.

When I asked if he’d been aware of the FBI’s five-year limit on pursuing stolen books, which meant that the crimes he committed could no longer be prosecuted, he was equally surprised.

Gilkey was lucky for yet another reason, although it took me some time to see it. As much as his passion wreaked havoc in his life, it gave shape and purpose to it. Often, when I told people his story, they would say, How sad. Here was a man who seemingly could not help himself from the very act that would put him in prison. I came to disagree. Such single-minded wanting is a lot like never-satisfied lust, a dream that won’t die, and working toward achieving it can give tremendous pleasure. While Gilkey had told me he was depressed in prison and said he would never want to go back, I began to see his “frequent flyer” status (as one prison official referred to it) as perhaps he saw it: the price he had to pay. Some pay for their success with soaring blood pressure or dissolved marriages. He paid with jail time. To me, Gilkey had come to seem a happy man with goals, ambition, and some measure of success. His only sacrifice was a series of forced pauses on the way to realizing his dream.

One of the last times we met, as if feeling the urgency of time running out, Gilkey offered another idea for his