The Man Who Loved Books Too Much

by Allison Hoover Bartlett

  A year of freedom following arrest and the payment of bail. It was a formula for revenge. Even after having been caught, and perhaps because of it, Gilkey was confident he could now do whatever he wanted. The worst was behind him. He was sure that after the year was up, a judge wouldn’t sentence him to more than a few months in prison, and that was nothing, just a blip in his plans. For now, building the collection was what mattered.

  Less than a week after Sanders’s e-mail message, on April 1, Cynthia Davis Buffington of Philadelphia Rare Books and Manuscripts wrote to Sanders:

  Phone order today for $6500. American Express name: Isser Gottlieb. Conversation felt right, authorization came through. Caller said he wasn’t sure the Oakland shipping address was current card address. Said he’d just moved from Savannah and gave me address there also. Googled ship address: Hilton. Phone area code: san fran . . . I called American Express. They said fraud.

  Sanders had Buffington send a dummy package overnight to the address given by the caller. It was delivered to the Hilton Hotel the next morning, but no one showed up to pick it up. Gilkey hadn’t made a reservation under a phony name, either. Munson and his officers had waited outside the hotel from ten A.M. to four P.M.

  We’ll just have to wait for the next one, he wrote Sanders.

  A couple of weeks later, Sanders got word that Gilkey (who was not using an alias) was in Los Angeles, trying to sell a set of Winnie-the-Pooh books by A. A. Milne worth $9,500 for a price far below their value, first to William Dailey Rare Books, then to Heritage Book Shop. The books were: When We Were Very Young, 1925; Winnie-the-Pooh, 1926; Now We Are Six, 1927; and The House at Pooh Corner, 1928. Recognizing Gilkey’s name from Sanders’s e-mails, both stores contacted him. Dailey e-mailed that when Gilkey left his shop, he’d climbed into a Nissan with the license plate SHERBET. Sanders alerted the trade.

  Dailey forwarded the address Gilkey had given them on Gateview Court to Sanders. Anyone in San Francisco, please comment on address, e-mailed Sanders, even though he assumed it was bogus.

  Several people replied, and Sanders learned from Munson that the address was on Treasure Island, a man-made swath of land that sits in the middle of the bay between San Francisco and Oakland. A WPA project from the 1930s, the island was built with mud dredged from the Sacramento Delta, and its name was inspired by the gold that may have been buried in the soil. San Francisco’s first airport was on Treasure Island, as were a military base and the site of the 1939 Golden Gate International Exposition, but many of its buildings are now empty. Nowadays, much of the island seems like a ghost town surrounded by water and the silhouettes of San Francisco, Marin County, and the East Bay. Few people live there.

  That a book thief might be living—and possibly hiding his stash—on Treasure Island seemed storybook perfect, not only because it is the name of a famous, oft-collected book (exceptional first editions can go for over $30,000) but also because it’s so evocative of the treasure hunt that book collecting often is.

  Sanders thought it unlikely that Gilkey would have given anyone his correct address, but dutifully called Munson with it anyway.

  “I hate to waste your time,” he said. “I doubt this is any good.”

  Arnold Herr, a bookseller in L.A., was in fact reading Sanders’s latest alert concerning Gilkey’s attempts to sell the A. A. Milne books, when he looked up to see a man who resembled the photo of Gilkey. It was as if the bookseller had conjured the thief just by thinking about him. But there he was, approaching the counter. Herr steeled himself.3

  “Nice shop you have here,” said Gilkey. “I’ve got these four Winnie-the-Pooh books. Very nice condition. Any chance you’re interested in buying them?”

  Herr looked at the books, stalling for time. “Uh, I think I have a customer who may be interested,” he said. “Why don’t you call me in an hour or so, after I’ve had a chance to talk to her.”

  “Well,” said Gilkey, “I’m checking out of my hotel at one or two o’clock, so I really need to take care of this soon.”

  No sooner had Gilkey spoken those words than they were reported to Sanders.

  At Sanders’s suggestion, Herr then called Dailey, who said there was no way to prove that the books were stolen. Herr then reached Gilkey at the Hyatt in West Hollywood, and Gilkey assured him he was still eager to sell. Herr told him that the potential customer was out of town for the weekend, but that he could reach her Monday. Gilkey gave Herr his cell phone number.

  Twelve minutes later, Sanders received an e-mail from George Houle of Houle Books in L.A., saying that Gilkey had just left his shop with the Milne he had tried to sell. Gilkey had told Houle he was waiting for a taxi, but Houle watched him get into a dark car with no plates. Houle couldn’t see the driver. The car had been parked a block away, even though there was plenty of parking in front of the store.

  Sanders informed the ABAA of Gilkey’s recent activities, noting that he was described as wearing a blue Caesars Palace jacket and tan trousers. He then suggested that Southern California dealers set up a phone tree to alert those who didn’t have access to the ABAA e-mail list.

  Late that night, at nearly eleven, Malcolm Bell from Book-fellows Fine and Rare Books, a non-ABAA bookseller who had received an alert by phone, wrote to Sanders:

  Unfortunately, I got info too late. Gilkey was here 4:00 Saturday, offering four Pooh’s for $2000. I had no interest. His manner was pleasant and he was chatty. He appeared to me to be collector. He looked at our stock. Asked my wife to open science fiction case. He selected two: Shirley Jackson’s Raising Demons, first edition $100, and Robert E. Howard’s Conan the Barbarian first edition $200.

  He paid with check, presenting a passport and license number for ID . We will deposit check on Monday with little hope of it going through. He had a small rolling case and made mention of traveling by plane.

  The next morning, Bell e-mailed Sanders: We’ve applied for ABAA membership.

  A FEW DAYS LATER, on April 21, Detective Ken Munson struck gold. Search warrant in hand, he decided to investigate the Treasure Island address Gilkey had provided. Munson rang the bell, but no one answered. He used a key he had obtained from the apartment’s management office, and as soon as he opened the door, he knew he was in the right place. The address was indeed Gilkey’s, and every surface was covered in books. Moving through the dreary, government-subsidized three-bedroom apartment, Munson and his three accompanying officers found books in the kitchen, on the bookshelf, in the bedroom, on counters, on dining room chairs. Some of the oldest items were an illuminated leaf from a Book of Hours, circa 1480, encased in a plastic sleeve; a land deed from 1831; and a signature of Andrew Jackson. Along with the books were coin collections, stamps, documents, baseball cards, posters, and autographed photographs. There were also books, advertisements, and articles throughout the apartment related to these items and their value. The officers found what appeared to be shopping lists of book titles and authors. They also found receipts for hotels, and cards and papers with the names of auction houses and bookstores, several of which Munson recognized as having been victims of fraud within the past three years. Receipts for various hotels and travel documents were also among the goods. It appeared that both John Gilkey and his father, Walter Gilkey, were living in the apartment, and in John’s bedroom they found a manila envelope with Saks Fifth Avenue credit receipts and pieces of paper with credit card holders, credit card numbers, and expiration dates handwritten on them.4

  Munson took out his cell phone and, from John Gilkey’s living room, placed a call to Ken Sanders.

  Sanders couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He wanted to jump on a plane, but he got Munson to describe the scene inside Gilkey’s apartment.

  “Can’t you just box it all up, haul it off, and sort out the ownership later?” Sanders pleaded.

  Munson explained that nothing could be removed without information indicating it was indeed stolen. Standing in front of a bookcase filled with what looked like valuable
books, he asked Sanders for the names of any books he was sure were stolen.

  Sanders scrambled to his computer for the theft reports and worked as fast as he could. “Is there an On the Road by Jack Kerouac?” he asked.

  Munson said yes.

  “Grab it!” said Sanders. “What about a Mayor of Casterbridge ?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Lord Jim?”

  “Yes.”

  And so it went. With Sanders’s help, Munson was able to identify twenty-six stolen books in Gilkey’s apartment that day. Sanders felt especially happy that the “trilogy of Kens” was able to recover L.A. bookseller Malcolm Bell’s books, only three days after Gilkey had taken them. “That’s got to be a record,” said Sanders. But with no further proof of theft, the majority of the books were left behind.

  Later that day, Gilkey returned to his apartment. As he approached the building, he noticed that the lid of one of his garbage cans had been removed and that the contents were strewn over the sidewalk. He had a hunch the police had been there. When he entered the apartment, he knew. He had given in to the temptation of keeping his books around him, indulging in their presence rather than hiding them in a storage facility he rented, and it was now his undoing.

  The next day, Sanders e-mailed the trade.

  It’s with great pleasure to report that the San Jose high tech crimes unit raided Gilkey’s apartment on Treasure Island. . . . I urgently need anyone who’s lost a book from Gilkey or one of his aliases to contact me immediately!

  The apt is a treasure trove of allegedly stolen books the detectives are packing up right now. Also autographs, coins, movie posters . . . Gilkey is still at large, expected to be arrested in near future.

  Sanders closed the e-mail with his usual warning: Govern Yourselves Accordingly.

  Over the next two days, Sanders’s e-mail inbox was flooded with titles of stolen books and their identifying marks (torn pages, inscriptions, stains, etc.) from dealers around the country. There were also more e-mails from appreciative dealers. Florence Shay, of Chicago, wrote to the long-bearded Sanders: You’re the equal of Poirot, even though the facial hair is arranged differently.

  On April 24, Gilkey arrived in court for another hearing. When the judge heard from police what he had been up to in Los Angeles and San Francisco, his bail was raised to $200,000.

  The question of Gilkey’s partner, or partners, continued to goad the Kens. There was the driver of the car with the SHERBET license plates, and the older man who had been seen during several pickups. Gilkey usually said his father or brother or uncle or nephew would pick up the books, but how many of them were there? Were they really family members, or were they simply partners in crime? Sanders wrote to the ABAA members: Munson’s doing a photo lineup with Crichton.

  That day, Munson checked the registration for the SHERBET car that Gilkey had been seen in. It belonged to Janet Colman, a woman in the movie poster business who owned Hollywood Poster Exchange. Not long after, through further investigating, Munson determined that the Ice Cream Lady, as Sanders called her, was innocent. Gilkey had sold a poster to her, and she had offered to drive him around. There was no connection between her and the thefts.

  There was plenty of evidence to support the case against Gilkey, however. Munson found that every credit card holder whose number was used by Gilkey had been a customer at Saks, and that the phone numbers he gave various dealers matched the hotels where he had stayed or had the books delivered. At the Radisson Hotel in Brisbane, his telephone charges included calls to Lion Heart Autographs, Butterfield & Butterfield Auctioneers, R&R Enterprises (an auction house), and University Stamp Company (another auction house).

  On April 30, Sanders wrote to Lopez that Gilkey was set to go to court the next week to be assigned a public defender— that is, if he couldn’t make bail or afford his own attorney. Munson hoped he would have a public defender, because there was a greater chance Gilkey would accept a plea bargain of three years. If not, he would be headed to a jury trial.

  The next day, Munson and another officer went to Brick Row in San Francisco and showed owner Crichton six photos, one at a time. Gilkey’s father, Walter, was Photo 2 (his driver’s license photo). Crichton looked at each and said he believed that Walter was one of the first three photos, and when Munson showed him the photos again, he wasn’t sure but narrowed it down to Photo 2 or Photo 3. On the last viewing, Crichton correctly identified the man who had picked up The Mayor of Casterbridge as Photo 2. Munson now had another positive ID. In his police reports, he added Gilkey’s father’s name. Walter had previously been charged only with possession of stolen property, but was now charged with his son’s alleged crimes as well: “(S) John Gilkey and (S) Walter Gilkey should be charged with 182 PC—Conspiracy, 487 PC—Grand Theft, 530.5 PC—Identity Theft, 484 (g) PC—Theft of Access Card and 496 PC—Possession of Stolen Property.”

  From early July through September, Munson kept Sanders abreast of Gilkey’s case. Gilkey did not opt for a public defender, and for the first several weeks, he repeatedly hired new attorneys, then fired them, delaying the process.5 Finally, the deputy attorney general said he would listen to anything Gilkey had to say, but that he still had to plead guilty and accept a sentence of three years. If he did not accept this arrangement, the court would file the additional ten to twelve felonies, including those involving his father. Remembering that two years earlier his attorney had suggested he might benefit from a psychiatric evaluation, Gilkey tried that tack again, but the judge wasn’t going for it, so he pleaded guilty. He also told the judge he wanted to appeal the decision, a tactic he thought would enable him to stay even longer in county jail, which was much more comfortable than state prison. The judge would hear nothing of it. She sent him to San Quentin.

  Almost exactly a year after the sting, on February 24, 2004, Munson e-mailed Sanders to notify him that Gilkey had been shipped to state prison. So while he appeals, wrote Munson, he can do it from somewhere not as pleasant as the county jail.

  So it was in San Quentin State Prison that Gilkey lived twenty-three hours a day in a cell,6 imagining ways to win an appeal. Even if he were to lose it, he knew he would probably serve only half of his three-year sentence. Still, eighteen months seemed, as he put it, “an awfully long time to be behind bars for liking books.” He spent those months sleeping most of the day so that he wouldn’t have to deal with his fellow inmates, and lying awake at night, thinking about how unjust the world was and how deserving he was of a better life and more rare books. It was the point in a repeating cycle he’d lived through many times, yet it was no less powerful for its frequency. If anything, its repetition fomented a deep desire, once again, for getting even.

  9

  Brick Row

  A couple of months after Gilkey’s 2005 release from prison, I met him in front of 49 Geary Street, a building that houses several art galleries and rare book stores in San Francisco. It was a September morning and he wore a bright white sweatshirt, pleated khakis, his beige leather sneakers, and the PGA baseball cap. He held a folder, on top of which lay a handwritten, numbered list, his to-do list for the day.

  “So, how do you want to do this?” he asked.

  The week before, he had agreed to let me tag along with him on one of his scouting trips, to learn how he selects books. I had suggested going to Goodwill, a frequent haunt of his now that he was persona non grata in most San Francisco rare book shops. Gilkey, though, wanted to take me to Brick Row, from which he stole The Mayor of Casterbridge. I tried to mask my disbelief and hoped he would think of another place.

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “Wouldn’t Goodwill work? Or, if not that, aren’t there any other stores you can think of?”

  Probably sensing my unease, he hesitated. “Maybe they’ll recognize me,” he said, but then he reconsidered. “On second thought, it won’t be a problem.”

  At home, I e-mailed Sanders for his opinion: Would the owner, John Crichton, whom I had not yet met, be upset
or angry that I’d knowingly accompanied a rare book thief into his store? I didn’t relish dealing with the wrath of one of Gilkey’s victims, however peripherally.

  “Crichton’s a good guy,” Sanders assured me and gave me the impression that, as Gilkey had said, it wouldn’t be a problem.

  I was still wary, but too curious to walk away from an opportunity to see Gilkey in his element. What sort of person returns to the scene of his crime? So far, I had come to know Gilkey only through our private conversations. I still had no idea how he behaved out in the world, especially his idealized rare book world. He shared many characteristics of other collectors, but his thieving set him apart in ways that still confounded me: Was he amoral or mentally ill? How are such lines drawn, anyway? Accompanying Gilkey to Brick Row was an irresistible chance to be an eyewitness. Also, I had heard that the shop was well regarded among rare book collectors, and I wanted to see it firsthand. I had arranged to write a story about Gilkey and Sanders for San Francisco Magazine, so with the assignment in hand, I headed off to observe Gilkey as I had never seen him before.

  Standing on the sidewalk in front of Brick Row, Gilkey said he would show me what he typically looks for and how he goes about it.

  He did not appear to be apprehensive. I, on the other hand, was all nerves. I had no idea what Crichton might do when we walked in. This, at the very least, was going to be awkward.

  We took the elevator to the second floor. The sign outside the elevator indicated that Brick Row Books was to the left, down the hall, but Gilkey headed to the right. I pointed to the sign, and he said that they must have moved. Later he noted with some satisfaction that Brick Row must not be doing very well these days because their old location, at the other end of the hall, was bigger.