knows the
reason for these things? Imagine something like they were friends
or met at a bar or something, or the murderer had some kind of
grudge against the guy for some reason in the first place, and he
came up with some way to lure him up there, like maybe for a joint
or something, or he promised him a hooker or whatever—who knows?
But it didn’t go well, and a fight broke out, and the only thing
the murderer had going for him, the element of surprise, well, that
was lost now and they were both even, both fighting for their
lives, literally, and the murderer won. Or at least we think so.
Who knows? The beat-in face, that’s anger, being pissed off at the
fact that his original plan was foiled. The marks there, on the
face, they show evidence of being both from fists and feet, his
shoes: the guy tried to beat and kick him to death. And then he
threw him off the cliff.”
This description, rendered in all its
professional and colloquial glory, leaves me cold. I don’t know
whether his assessment is accurate, but the fact that it is even a
feasible explanation makes me sad about the entire project of
humanity. Still, it’s a neatly detailed story, but personally I
have my doubts about its accuracy. My contact is indeed a
professional who has seen many more murders than this one, but the
modus operandi does not strike me as authentic. I base my
assessment partly on my own research so far, but also on common
sense, and it surprises me a bit that my friend has not arrived at
exactly the same conclusion. The scenario he describes is just much
too complicated, too replete with uncontrolled variables, to be the
chosen method of a skilled serial killer. Inviting the victim
somewhere, getting into a fight, pummelling the man—it’s all too
much of a spectacle to be real, and yet I don’t have any
alternative theory. I could imagine that the facts happened—fight
first and then thrown off the cliff—and maybe it is just the actual
storyline, the motivations, that I disagree with.
I visit the crime scene after it has
been cleaned up, after police have been there and removed what they
think they need and put it all in the same kind of resealable
plastic bags that their wives pack their sandwiches in. I don’t
really know what I am looking for: nothing, really. I just want to
get a sense of the place, to feel the contrast in “vibes,” as they
call them, between the simple rural, bucolic, natural, and the
grossly urban and human. I stand at the edge of that same ravine
and I can’t help but shudder at the thought of poor Rodney, no
matter what shape he was in when he was launched, tumbling over and
over and probably hoping against all hope that he might land
safely. The wind kicks up and I step back out of fear that Nature
or God may have mistaken me for the bad guy, and so contrived to
make a little tear in the fabric of pure free will by blowing me
off the edge.
I make my way sullenly back to the
car. The wind has stopped blowing altogether (victim escapes
clutches of Prime Mover) but I think I feel the hint of rain in the
air. I decide to take another route back home, and I realize as I
ascend and then descend my fifth hill that I am in the same part of
the outskirts of the city where the disgraced police chief lives. I
slow the car down while I contemplate taking a little detour. There
really is no hesitation though: I turn off onto the familiar side
road that leads to his cottage. I continue for a couple of minutes
and eventually spot the mailbox with his name on it in perfectly
aligned gold and black letters. The little flag is up.
I park on the road and for a brief
moment wonder what exactly I think I am doing here. The rain starts
coming down lightly and I pull the zipper of my jacket up (too far:
it pinches me under the chin), thrusting my hands deep into the
pockets as if to force-hug myself for protection. There is a very
pure silence, the kind I wish I had every night, and I can’t
imagine that there is any
reason for these things? Imagine something like they were friends
or met at a bar or something, or the murderer had some kind of
grudge against the guy for some reason in the first place, and he
came up with some way to lure him up there, like maybe for a joint
or something, or he promised him a hooker or whatever—who knows?
But it didn’t go well, and a fight broke out, and the only thing
the murderer had going for him, the element of surprise, well, that
was lost now and they were both even, both fighting for their
lives, literally, and the murderer won. Or at least we think so.
Who knows? The beat-in face, that’s anger, being pissed off at the
fact that his original plan was foiled. The marks there, on the
face, they show evidence of being both from fists and feet, his
shoes: the guy tried to beat and kick him to death. And then he
threw him off the cliff.”
This description, rendered in all its
professional and colloquial glory, leaves me cold. I don’t know
whether his assessment is accurate, but the fact that it is even a
feasible explanation makes me sad about the entire project of
humanity. Still, it’s a neatly detailed story, but personally I
have my doubts about its accuracy. My contact is indeed a
professional who has seen many more murders than this one, but the
modus operandi does not strike me as authentic. I base my
assessment partly on my own research so far, but also on common
sense, and it surprises me a bit that my friend has not arrived at
exactly the same conclusion. The scenario he describes is just much
too complicated, too replete with uncontrolled variables, to be the
chosen method of a skilled serial killer. Inviting the victim
somewhere, getting into a fight, pummelling the man—it’s all too
much of a spectacle to be real, and yet I don’t have any
alternative theory. I could imagine that the facts happened—fight
first and then thrown off the cliff—and maybe it is just the actual
storyline, the motivations, that I disagree with.
I visit the crime scene after it has
been cleaned up, after police have been there and removed what they
think they need and put it all in the same kind of resealable
plastic bags that their wives pack their sandwiches in. I don’t
really know what I am looking for: nothing, really. I just want to
get a sense of the place, to feel the contrast in “vibes,” as they
call them, between the simple rural, bucolic, natural, and the
grossly urban and human. I stand at the edge of that same ravine
and I can’t help but shudder at the thought of poor Rodney, no
matter what shape he was in when he was launched, tumbling over and
over and probably hoping against all hope that he might land
safely. The wind kicks up and I step back out of fear that Nature
or God may have mistaken me for the bad guy, and so contrived to
make a little tear in the fabric of pure free will by blowing me
off the edge.
I make my way sullenly back to the
car. The wind has stopped blowing altogether (victim escapes
clutches of Prime Mover) but I think I feel the hint of rain in the
air. I decide to take another route back home, and I realize as I
ascend and then descend my fifth hill that I am in the same part of
the outskirts of the city where the disgraced police chief lives. I
slow the car down while I contemplate taking a little detour. There
really is no hesitation though: I turn off onto the familiar side
road that leads to his cottage. I continue for a couple of minutes
and eventually spot the mailbox with his name on it in perfectly
aligned gold and black letters. The little flag is up.
I park on the road and for a brief
moment wonder what exactly I think I am doing here. The rain starts
coming down lightly and I pull the zipper of my jacket up (too far:
it pinches me under the chin), thrusting my hands deep into the
pockets as if to force-hug myself for protection. There is a very
pure silence, the kind I wish I had every night, and I can’t
imagine that there is any
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