The Man in the Rockefeller Suit: The Astonishing Rise and Spectacular Fall of a Serial Impostor
“Forget fiction. Pop this jaw-dropper in your beach bag.” —USA Today
This shocking expose goes behind the headlines to uncover the true story of Clark Rockefeller, wealthy scion of a great American family, who kidnapped his own daughter and vanished. The police and FBI were baffled. Tips poured in, but every lead was a dead end … because “Clark Rockefeller” did not exist. In a gripping work of investigative journalism, Mark Seal reveals how German native Christian Gerhartsreiter came to the United States, where he stepped in and out of identities for decades, eventually posing as a Rockefeller for twelve years, married to a wealthy woman who had no idea who he really was. Fast-paced, hypnotic, and now updated with more stunning details, The Man in the Rockefeller Suit chillingly reveals the audacity and cunning of a shape-shifting con man.
S. N. Phelps was even stranger than his presence there. That, however, was still several years away. At the time, he merely picked up his personal things, draped his Burberry trench coat over his shoulders, and walked out. Two years after he left, an interesting item on his job application came to light. In the space provided for his social security number, Crowe had written what would turn out to be a curious number. When it was finally run through the system, it came back as the social
of a scene in which police detectives enter the guesthouse behind Didi’s house. They spray the cement floor with a chemical called luminol, which, Stack explains, “will emit a distinctive glow when it comes into contact with blood, even when the stains were wiped away years before.” There was more about the luminol test in the documents I had pertaining to the case: the elderly woman who lived in the Sohus guesthouse before Christopher Chichester had sewn ticking—a decorative strip of
aesthetics of art than most artists I meet. He was extremely well versed and schooled in art history and had very strong viewpoints on certain painters and artists. I was both complimented and excited about the romanticized, historic affiliation of being courted by a Rockefeller. Obviously, the family owned some of the greatest artists of the twentieth century. After seeing the collection I never doubted his identity. He took me to extravagant social clubs, where everyone referred to him as Mr.
Rockefeller by Ron Chernow. From the library, they would retire to the club’s dining room, where Clark would usually order the same things, which Quigley sensed were touchstones of his youth. “Oh, let’s have the oysters Rockefeller!” he would exclaim as the waiters hovered and the eyes of the members were directed his way. It quickly became a tradition: oysters Rockefeller with a Rockefeller. “Quigley, do you know why they call them oysters Rockefeller?” Clark asked on one occasion, after the
the moment I said his name. “Everything he did was to aggrandize his position,” she began. “It was to be bigger and better. He was not a very big guy if you looked at him. So everything he did was to puff himself up, just like the cock of the walk. Wearing his boat shoes in the middle of winter without socks, his yachting pants, his blue blazer, his white shirt. His chauffeur! He didn’t have a license, and every now and then he would be driving himself and I would remind him, ‘You don’t have a