Jed Rubenfeld takes his place in literary entertainment with grand eloquence in his first novel, The Interpretation of Murder, published by Henry Holt. This dandy psychological murder mystery is chockfull of history, biography, and geography. This would overwhelm a lesser writer, but Rubenfeld’s mastery of the subject matter, pacing, and sheer storytelling verve propels the reader into New York 1909, and puts the reader into the chase for a vicious, sadistic killer.

The novel begins as Dr. Sigmund Freud arrives in New York to deliver a series of lectures on the – at that point – very controversial subject. Dr. Stratham Younger, an American psychoanalyst, is appointed by the university to act as liaison officer for Dr. Freud. Several key members of Freud’s group of therapists are with him, including Carl Jung, the father of psychoanalysis’s most ambitious student, who ultimately tries to overtake his mentor’s glory.

Soon after Dr. Freud’s arrival, Dr. Younger is summoned to a case involving an attack on 17-year-old Nora Acton, daughter to two influential people in the city’s high society circles. The victim of a sadist, Nora was choked, whipped, and cut with a knife. The experience has left her with amnesia and bereft of voice. Dr. Freud offers the opinion that her case would be an excellent choice for Dr. Younger.

As he pursues therapy with the young woman, Dr. Younger finds himself entranced with Nora’s beauty and vulnerability. However, Nora’s returning memory proves false when she accuses the mayor’s friend, George Banwell with attacking her. Banwell is a married man and a rejected suitor of Nora’s who – she says – won’t take no for an answer. However, the night Nora was attacked, Banwell has the perfect alibi: he was with the mayor.

The mystery continues getting richer and deeper as Littlemore proceeds on a parallel course that turns up other clues. As it turns out, Nora wasn’t the only woman attacked, tied up, strangled, and whipped in such a manner. At least one other woman was, and she’s now dead. However, her body has gone missing from the morgue. Littlemore doesn’t know if the corpse was sold to the medical schools or if its disappearance is part of a cover-up.

Rubenfeld sets each scene with deft assurance. While reading the novel, I easily could imagine the city. I stood on the docks and awaited Dr. Freud’s ship, and could even smell the man’s harsh cigar smoke. As the story progressed from the luxury hotels and high society events to the narrow, twisting alleys, and to houses of prostitution and police holding cells, those scenes filled without thousands of extras came alive.