Three years ago, Erik Larson’s THE DEVIL IN THE WHITE CITY was all the rage, winning awards and racking up sales. Being about the most pleasurable kind of non-fiction you could ever hope to read, it deserved every bit of its success. In the book, Larson expertly weaved two true tales of an architect and a serial killer whose paths crossed at the 1893 World’s Fair in Chicago.

In his latest, THUNDERSTRUCK, Larson gives another double-jointed historical account of a man of imagination and a murderer. Can lightning strike twice? Indeed.

Guglielmo Marconi is recognized today as the inventor of radio. And though once a wealthy doctor, Hawley Harvey Crippen is remembered as a man who killed his wife and buried her remains in his basement. While Marconi spent the early years of the 20th century toiling to establish stations for his revolutionary wireless communication system, Crippen spent his miserably, married to a bitchy shrew of a woman who loved his money, and arguably was unfaithful. It couldn’t help that he resembled an emaciated Teddy Roosevelt.

As Marconi struggled with bad weather and jealous scientists, Crippen became happier than ever following his wife’s unexpected death (or so he said), having fallen head over heels for a younger woman who returned his affections. Once the truth comes out, Crippen embarked on a most unusual flight from justice – one in which Marconi played an unknowing but ultimately huge part.

For the longest time, I couldn’t fathom how these two were going to cross paths. Then I realized they weren’t, and that’s part of the story’s brilliance. Larson’s strength is in creating suspense out of two completely different stories that eventually converge in a climax rivaling the best of fiction.

Unlike DEVIL, however, I’d argue that the dueling narratives aren’t as evenly balanced this time out – in terms of dramatic heft, not page count; clearly, Marconi battling high winds to raise an antenna just doesn’t have the delirious pull as investigators being overcome by the smell of decomposed flesh in Crippen’s basement. You find yourself wanting to gloss over Marconi, especially when his troubles tend to be stuck in repeat mode, and get back to the Crippen.

It doesn’t hamper one’s enjoyment, however. When real life is this compelling, we’re hooked all the same, craning our necks for a perverse, fleeting glance as we pass the smash-up on the interstate. –Rod Lott

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