Portland State Magazine Winter 2007

Curtis was in his element. Like other journalists of his era, Curtis was engaged in a competitive business. The papers strived to outdo each other, especially on popular court stories. And the public was ravenous for the details of this one. During the course of the trial and afterwards, vendors sold an estimated 1 million newspaper broadsheets. So many people crowded outside for a look into the court– room that a glass windowpane gave way under the pressure. And in the thick of it all was Curtis. As was his wont, he had walked from London to the trial. Along the way, he met other travelers and learned that the local fair was also under way. He wandered through the crowds there and began inter– viewing everyone who had ever known any of the principal figures in the murder. Curtis put in long hours in the courtroom and became so ingratiated with the defense team that a visiting sketch artist mistook him for the murderer. During his time in Polstead, Curtis stayed at the Cock Inn, sleeping in the very bed where Corder had spent his last night before being confined to jail. Through it all, Curtis was collecting detail. When the judge pronounced the sentence, Curtis was there. He was there with Corder through the murderer's last night alive. And he was there when the hangman dropped the trapdoor. When the deed was done, Curtis turned his hand to writing up a full account. And somehow he thought to write it in a strange new way. CRIME REPORTING OF the day, says Collins, was typically a dry transcript of the trial or a summary couched in moralistic bombast. Curtis opted instead to stitch together the transcript with his interviews of people in the village and the murderer himself. As Collins researched the author and his times, he realized he had found some– thing rare: Combining his interests and skills in interviewing and reporting, Curtis had written the first true-crime book. AND COLLINS LEARNED one final gruesome fact. It was not entirely unheard of for the judge to order the dissection of the hanged, as the judge did in Corder's case. The undertaker took the process one grisly step further. He skinned the dead man, tanned the epidermis, and used it to bind a copy of Curtis's book. ■ Melissa Steineger, a Portlandfreelance writer, wrote the article "Beyond Hyperspace" in the fall 2006Portland State Magazine. LITERARY DETECTIVE PAUL COLLINS, assistant professor of English, regularly writes books and magazine articles about figures whom history has forgotten . As a frequent guest speaker on the topic for National Publ ic Radio, he has earned the honorary title of "literary detective." It's an apt label. Collins grew up an avid reader of old books his parents picked up at estate sales, developing his lifelong interest in " then-famous figures who are now unknown ." His first book, Banvard's Folly: Thirteen Tales of People Who Didn't Change the World, celebrates a baker's dozen, including painter John Banvard. In the 1840s, Banvard painted large panoramas. Very large. His crowning achievement was 12 feet high and about a half-mile long . Dubbed a "moving panorama," the painting of the eastern bank of the Mississippi River was slow ly cranked between giant spools to give the admiring throngs the sensation of traveling along the Big Muddy. Banvard was said to be the first artist to earn $1 million, but he died destitute in 1891 after squandering his resources in an expensive attempt to open a museum. Col lins is also the author of four other books, including Not Even Wrong: Adventures in Autism, a memoir about raising his autistic son . At Portland State, Collins teaches writ– ing courses in personal essay and nonfic– tion profi les of overlooked or forgotten people-passing along to students his fascination with the characters who have fa llen into history's dustbin. ■ WINTER 2007 PORTLAND STATE MAGAZINE 13