Never Tell (Detective D.D. Warren #10)(38)

“I particularly enjoy puzzles that haven’t been solved. True crime one-oh-one. You start with Jack the Ripper, then the Black Dahlia, and next thing you know, you’re reading everything about every notorious homicide, because the only way to get fresh insight into the unsolved murders is to learn from the killers who did get arrested. Why did they do what they did? And how can they be caught?”

“What’s the nature of evil?” I ask dryly.

He shrugs slightly. “Most people debate whether evil is born or made. Nature versus nurture. Based on my research, I think of it more as a spectrum. All of the above, but with some predators leaning more one way or another. For example, Ted Bundy—”

“By all means, Ted Bundy.”

That quick grin, proving he knows just how much he resembles one of the nation’s most feared super-predators. “I think he’s an example of evil that’s born. Bundy claimed that he was affected by his unconventional upbringing—being raised by his grandparents as his mother’s younger brother, versus being acknowledged as her illegitimate child. But I think we can all agree that as traumas go, that doesn’t quite rise to the level of spending your adult life hunting and killing young women—particularly given evidence he was playing with knives by the time he was three. Him, Dahmer, they were always going to be killers. Just a matter of when.”

I say nothing.

He clasps his hands, continues quickly. “Then you have Edmund Kemper the third. Raised by an abusive, alcoholic mother who was severely critical of him. Forced to live in the basement because she didn’t want him near his sisters. Then sent as a teenager to live with his grandparents, whom he hated.”

I can’t help myself: “He was sent to live with his grandparents because he’d already murdered the family cats.”

I earn a quick nod of approval. Whatever game we’re playing, I’m at least living up to expectations. Or was just stupid enough to take the bait.

“But here’s the deal with Kemper,” Keith says now, totally serious. “He shot and killed his grandparents when he was fifteen. That got him sent away to a facility for youthful offenders where he was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. So, sure, you could argue brain chemistry, born bad—”

“He shot his grandmother just to see what it felt like.”

“Exactly.” Another earnest nod. “And upon getting released, he murdered six young women, even liked to drive by police stations with their bodies stuffed in the trunk of his car. But this is what makes Kemper so fascinating: He was also incredibly intelligent and reflective. Smart enough, he realized one day that the person he really wanted to kill was his mother. So he did. He went to her house, murdered her—”

“Stuck her larynx down the garbage disposal so he’d never have to listen to her again.”

“And then he turned himself in. That was it. His mother had tormented him most of his life. He’d finally addressed the issue. Then he was done. Compare that to Bundy, who broke out of prison, what—two, three times? Swore each time he’d clean up his act, only to devolve into larger and more horrific crime sprees. Bundy was born evil. Kemper had some of the necessary starting ingredients, don’t get me wrong, but his upbringing at the hands of his mother was the deciding factor. So again, there’s not one answer to the question of what’s the nature of evil, just as there’s no one answer that defines anything about human behavior. Evil is a spectrum. And different predators fall in different places along the scale.”

“No one wants to be a monster,” I murmur.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You have questions,” he says abruptly. He’s not smiling anymore. His expression is serious. He steeples his hands, rests his fingertips against his chin. “You didn’t come to talk. If you were going to do that, you would’ve contacted me in advance, made arrangements to meet the group. Asked about the speaker’s fee.”

“Cashed the check?”

Another nod. “This isn’t about what you have to offer us. It’s about what we can offer you.”

I don’t answer right away. I study the glass of water. The way the condensation has beaded up, heated by the flames from the gas fireplace.

“Why don’t you have any personal photos in this room?”

“This isn’t just my home, it’s also a professional space. I don’t care to give that much away to clients.”

“Your reading has made you that paranoid?”

His turn to fall silent. I know then what I should’ve suspected from the beginning.

“How old were you?” I ask.

“Six. And it wasn’t me who was victimized, but my older cousin in New York. They never caught who killed him; it’s one of those open cases. But the details of his murder match four other unsolved homicides from the same time period. My aunt and uncle … They’ve never quite recovered. You grow up seeing the impact such a crime has on a person, a family, a community, it leaves a mark.”

“You work his case?”

“I have for the past twenty years. I’m no closer to solving it than the police are.”

“A string of related murders that simply ended?” I raise a brow.

“Exactly. Predators don’t stop on their own. But sometimes, they get arrested for other crimes. Or change jurisdiction. In this day and age of nationwide law enforcement databases, it’s harder for that trick to work. But international travel …”