'For most of the repeat offenders we have come to know as serial killers, fantasy plays an enormous role. Often, their very identity represents a kind of fantasy: Ted Bundy, the concerned citizen, political activist, and loving friend; or John Wayne Gacy, the community organizer, Rotary member, and friendly clown who performed at children's parties. These were facades created to hide a darker personality the offender wishes to keep hidden from society.'
He paused to let this sink in and drank from a bottle of Evian water on his desk. Lee thought Nelson looked tired, the lines under his blue eyes deepened. He leaned against the desk again and crossed his arms.
'R. D. Laing said that the more identity is fantasy, the more intensely it is defended. Doesn't that make sense? If you know who you are, then there's no need to defend against an attack-real or imagined-because you're secure in your knowledge. But even though the subject knows on some level that his false self is unreal, the alternative is unthinkable: not just death, but complete annihilation.
'The subject can't see that maybe his false self could be replaced by a real, authentic one. His tragedy is that he can't see what lies beyond-to him it appears to be an endless void in which he wanders like a zombie, a creature ostracized from human society, doomed to walk the earth, empty eyes staring vacantly out of a face with no mind, a body with no soul.
'And so he defends this false identity with all the ferocity of a lioness fighting to save her cubs-because his instinct for self-preservation tells him to.'
Ms. Davenport raised her hand. 'So are you saying in effect that with these people, there's 'no there there'?'
Nelson smiled. 'Pithy as usual, Ms. Davenport.' He turned to the rest of the class. 'Ms. Davenport here has summed up my whole complex theory in a few words-but essentially, she has it. The shell the offender constructs for the outside world is no more 'real' than the fantasy life he lives in private.'
He leaned forward, and his face was very earnest, almost vulnerable. 'Most of us take our identities for granted. You, Ms. Davenport, for example. Let's say you're the first child, the smart one, the organizer, efficient and responsible. Your mother and your siblings could always count on you, and you knew that about yourself before you remember having language. Knowing this about yourself gave you a certain sense of security in the world.'
Ms. Davenport blushed, a deep purple that spread from the base of her neck to the thin blue veins on her forehead.
Nelson continued. 'I don't know anything about Ms. Davenport's family, of course. But let's just say she had a younger brother who was the family clown, the funny one, a little irresponsible maybe, but he could always make people laugh, and that gave him some security, a sense of who he was.
'My point is that we all take these things for granted-by the time we can verbalize who we are, we already have a sense of it from the way other people relate to us, and the way we relate to them.
'But for the person who goes on to become a serial offender, this is not the case. He is lacking a basic sense of who he is, and consequently has a sense at times of being nobody at all. He feels impotent and powerless. So he creates a fantasy world that is that exact reverse of what he perceives to be reality: a world in which he is omnipotent, is all powerful, and has total control over others. This control most often involves violent sexual fantasies-again, the exact reverse of what he perceives on another level as reality: total rejection of him by women (or men, if he is homosexual).
'Jeffrey Dahmer cut off his victims' heads and put them in his freezer so they wouldn't leave him. That level of desperation is directly related to the level of rage these criminals express against their victims-who are often substitutes for people in their lives who did in fact harm them. So, for example, a vicious killer of women could be acting out rage toward his emotionally abusive mother.'
Nelson looked out over the room of upturned faces. 'What's the difference between a killer's signature and his MO?' Nelson inquired, leaning back on his heels. 'Yes, Ms. Davenport?'
'The MO is short for modus operandi-the way a killer usually operates-but it can change. The signature refers to the repetitive ritualistic acts, often unnecessary for the commission of the crime, but which are necessary to the killer in order for him to receive emotional or sexual satisfaction from his crime.'
'What might constitute a signature, for example?'
The skinny blond boy with the raspy voice shot up a hand.
'Yes?'
'Things like postmortem mutilation or the way the body is posed-those could be signatures, for example.'
'Right again.' Nelson smiled. 'A signature is deeply significant to the killer-and to the criminal profiler-because it arises out of some unconscious drive or obsession, and does not change in its basic essence, though it may evolve.'
A dark-haired boy in the front row raised his hand. 'Evolve? What do you mean by that?'
'Well, for example, the posing of the body may become more elaborate, more detailed-the Boston Strangler's, the Green River Killer's, and Jack the Ripper's victims all had certain similarities, but in all these cases the rituals escalated and become more ornate as time went on. This represents the killer becoming more at ease with what he does-he feels freer to act out his fantasy in increasing detail. Or, in a mentally ill, disorganized killer, it can represent the increasing pressure of his mental illness.'
Nelson glanced at his watch. 'Okay, that's it. Don't forget to do the reading I've assigned for our next class.'
As the students filed out, Lee walked up the side aisle to where Nelson stood gathering his notes and slides. When Nelsen looked up and saw his friend, he smiled, but his smile faded when he saw Lee's expression.
'Oh no,' he said. 'There's been another one?'
'I'm afraid so. Chuck wanted me to ask-do you think you could-'
'He wants me to consult?' Nelson sounded as though he was trying to hide his pleasure at being asked to join the investigation.
'If you're not too busy.'
'Of course not.' He paused and studied Lee, his freckled face serious. 'How do you feel about my coming on board?'
'I'd be honored. And I have a feeling we're going to need all the help we can get.'
Chapter Twenty-five
Detective Leonard Butts looked around Chuck Morton's office as though he had found himself in the den of a small and rather dirty burrowing animal. He studied the chair nearest him as if calculating the number and severity of diseases he might contract by sitting in it, then lowered himself into it with an air of resignation. Lee glanced at Chuck to see if he noticed Butts's attitude, but if he did, he didn't react. Morton walked over to his desk and perched on the edge of it, his muscular arms folded. Nelson sat in a chair in the corner, a paper cup of coffee held between his freckled fingers. Detective Florette sat in the opposite corner, looking like he had stepped straight off the cover of GQ-blue striped Brooks Brothers shirt with French cuffs, black Givenchy loafers polished to a glossy sheen. They had all been waiting, somewhat uncomfortably, for Butts to appear.
'Well?' Nelson said. 'What have you got?'
Morton picked up a manila envelope from his desk and tossed it to Nelson, who caught it with his left hand.
'Brooklyn,' Morton said, rubbing his eyes. 'She was found Saturday. Same MO-strangulation, mutilation, left on the altar.'
Nelson raised his left eyebrow, which could signal anything from surprise to disgust. Nelson looked at the photos in the file and then turned to Lee.
'You went to the crime scene?'
'Yes. There was a difference this time: there was evidence of a struggle-a lot of it.'
Chuck rubbed his forehead wearily. 'This time the pathologist said the wounds were ante-mortem.'
Nelson raised an eyebrow. 'So now he's torturing them before he kills.'
'Yeah.'
