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Times Topic: Long Island Serial Killer
I MAKE my living writing about a serial killer. It’s a pretty good
living, and quite frankly, that surprises me. When I wrote my first
book, “Darkly Dreaming Dexter,” the story of a sympathetic killer, I
thought I was writing something creepy, repellent, perhaps a little
wicked. To balance that, I also made him vulnerable and funny, I gave
him a fondness for children, and I wrote in the first person — all
elements intended to bridge the gap between a homicidal psychopath and
readers, who I assumed would, nevertheless, be appalled.
They weren’t; they liked him. Before publication, a nice-looking yenta
from marketing took me aside and confessed, “I maybe shouldn’t say? But I
have such a crush on Dexter.” So did other readers. The book took off
like a dark little rocket. One of the early reviews even said it
“breathes new life into the genre,” which meant there was a serial
killer genre.
I found that amazing: I had done the darkest, least lovable thing I
could think of, and a whole genre was there ahead of me.
People, I realized, like to read about serial killers. And as I found
myself on the telephone with Hollywood, arranging for Dexter’s
translation into a series for Showtime, I began to think that was pretty
funny. “Lovable serial killer.” Ha ha ha.
And then bodies turn up in real life and it isn’t funny anymore.
This time, it’s along a beach on Long Island. Our shock blooms as
phrases pop out from the news coverage: “at least eight bodies” and
“three or even four killers.” We read more — we can’t help it. We’re
sickened and disgusted, but we need to know. And the more we know about
the scene, the more we really are horrified. The ghastly image of this
beach as a dumping ground for bodies is bad enough. But then four of the
bodies, wrapped in burlap, are thought to be the work of one person: a
serial killer.
There’s a special sense of dread that comes with that phrase, “serial
killer.” It represents an inhuman psychology that is beyond us, and
because of that, we can’t look away.
We can all conceive of killing someone in self-defense, or in combat.
But to kill repeatedly, because we want to, because we like to — that’s
so far outside ordinary human understanding that we can’t possibly have
an empathetic response. The word “evil” seems a bit quaint and biblical —
but what else can we call it?
I was brought up to believe that death and money are private, and I was
taught to have only contempt for people who slowed down to gawk at an
accident. I can’t help feeling that this is similar — but I watch, too.
Have I become what my mother called a rubbernecker and what my father,
more bluntly, called an idiot?
Maybe so, but I have lots of company. Not just Americans, either; the
Dexter series has been translated into 38 languages, and sensational
news of serial killers regularly floods in from Russia, China, all over
the world. People everywhere are willing voyeurs to mayhem. And when we
learn of serial murders like the recent case at Gilgo Beach, our “dark
watcher,” that small part of us that just can’t turn away, perks up and
pays attention.
This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. We don’t become evil because we
dwell on it. In fact, one reason we gawk is to reassure ourselves that
we could never do such a thing. When we stare at carnage we feel fear
and revulsion, and that tells us with certainty that creating this kind
of horror is beyond us.
And it is. Serial killers are psychopaths, and current research in brain
mapping indicates that psychopaths are born, not made. There is an
actual, physical, difference in their brains; you can’t become a serial
killer by reading about one, any more than you can get magical powers
from reading “Harry Potter.” You can watch “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre”
20 times and it will not inspire you to butcher the neighbors. We can
no more move from watcher to killer than we can breathe water.
But a homicidal psychopath — a serial killer — delights in killing. He
often taunts the rest of us in some way as part of his fun. The evil
creature that has been dumping bodies on Gilgo Beach has used his
victim’s cellphone to call her sister.
It’s inhuman cruelty, but the research I read to write my “Dexter” books
predicts that, when they catch him, he will probably look just like us.
He will be known as a charming and thoughtful co-worker, a nice man who
helps his ailing neighbor carry her groceries, and no one will have
suspected what he really is.
This is the theater of paranoia, and it grips us, too, because we need a
way to see the clues that must be there. Who among your friends and
colleagues might be staring at your back and sharpening a knife?
You can’t know; but by watching, you know it could never be you. I think
that’s good. We can’t deny that evil exists — but it’s not who we are.
And the existence of evil implies its opposite: there is good, too.
As ordinary human beings, we live somewhere in the middle, jerked back
and forth by circumstance, never quite reaching either extreme. And if
you never understand someone who lives at the evil pole, no matter how
much you rubberneck, that’s good.
It means you’re only human.
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