Evil
The elusive nature of evil: part three
Here is the final part in the series of three. I posted these years ago but have rerun them and reworked part three extensively.
In the spring of 2004, the serial killer known as BTK shocked experts around the world by reappearing after what were thought to be 20 years of dormancy. Because serial killers are almost always unable to stop killing once they start, it had been assumed that BTK was either dead or in prison. As it turns out, Dennis Rader had apparently gotten too old for the physical rigors of murder. He was married and gainfully employed, living in a
The elusive nature of evil: part two
A disclaimer before I go on:
I am in no way an expert in any behavioral science. Nor have I made a disciplined and thorough, academic study of psychopathic behavior. I’ve read a lot, thought a lot, and engaged smart people in conversations. Here are my thoughts, for whatever they are worth.
*****
Serial killers have strange sounding names. Corrl, Chickatello, Fish, Dahmer, Gacy. Or maybe they have the power to ruin a name, to twist it somehow, so that it sounds off-key in our ears.
Bundy.
See what I mean?
Clearly serial killers have embedded themselves, almost mythically, into our cultural consciousness. We are afraid of them, and even mentioning their names gives some people the shivers.
“They’re psychopaths,” people say. And then, as if you didn’t get it the first time, they repeat the word. “PSYCHOpaths!”
Psychopaths are people who cannot feel for others. They don’t feel pity or compassion. They seem to be missing some precious human component that most of us take for granted. Psychopathy exists on a continuum, as does almost everything. Serial killers are on the far end of that continuum. There are many people in our world who have a hard time feeling compassion. That doesn’t make them bad people or likely to become serial killers. Most of them do the best they can. You have probably known people like this. These are people who seem rather cold and distant. They can be a little selfish or even narcissistic.
I’ve read about psychopathy, but I can’t understand it at a gut level. If the psychopath cannot imagine what it means to feel love or compassion, I can’t imagine what it would be like NOT to feel those things. What I’ve looked for is some explanation of what a psychopath experiences, what life is like for him or her. So far I’ve not found anything that describes the condition emotionally in ways that help me to understand it.
So, like any good writer, I simply made something up. After a number of years of trying to understand the mind of a psychopath, I’ve come up with a way of thinking about how their minds work. I offer this to you for your consideration and with the complete understanding that it is simply my best guess.
I will describe this imaginary person as a man, because almost all serial killers are men.
Imagine that you are in a room full of people. All of them are holding bricks. To your great surprise, these people seem very attached to these bricks. They dress them in little clothes, coo at them, and tell stories about them. They take turns holding each other’s bricks, and they pet the bricks gently with their hands. Everyone seems to be having such a good time with the bricks.
Suddenly, a brick is dropped and broken. The entire room is seized by a collective spasm of grief and horror. Some people run over and desperately try to put the brick back together. Others stand about crying and sobbing uncontrollably. All the while, you stand there, stony-faced, trying to figure out what is going on. You’re a smart person, so you obviously understand that everyone likes these bricks a lot. But you cannot muster any feelings for them, either positive or negative. They are just bricks. So what if one is broken?
People look strangely at you because you aren’t showing emotions. You solemnly nod and try to look sad and concerned because you want to fit it. But it is impossible to make yourself feel something that you do not feel. No one can do that. You can't make yourself feel compassion or sympathy for a brick.
Over time you begin to understand that there is something missing inside you. And you can tell it is something that is very important and wonderful. You pretend to care about other people because you need to get along and because you would like to be a part of the game of love that everyone else seems to be enjoying. You become rather sophisticated at this, saying and doing the right things at the right time.
You do feel something that you call love, but it is only a very selfish and primitive kind of love, though you have no way of knowing that. For you, love feels more like possessing someone, having them for your own. You also have a sex drive. You understand that need. You are fascinated by women and drawn to them sexually, though you aren’t able to care for them as individuals. This causes you a lot of difficulties as you repeatedly try and fail at one relationship after another. Having the sexual drive without the caring component means that all of your attempts at romance have been stilted, awkward, and unsatisfying. You have a few relationships, but certainly not with healthy women. Over time you develop some very unbalanced ideas about women, and your anger grows.
There is one feeling that you have and recognize. It is the wonderful feeling of having your own needs met. When you get something you want, you feel a surge of happiness. Every human experiences happiness, of course, but since you have fewer avenues to find happiness, you cling to this one kind of happiness with an obsessive need that is very dangerous. You will stop at almost nothing to get what you want, because other people don’t really matter, and getting what you want is the greatest feeling in the world.
I don’t know how close to reality this picture is, but I believe it is a better way to think about serial killers than simply calling them monsters or saying, derisively, “They don’t feel anything!” as though they have some control over that. The psychopath is dealing with a limitation that causes extraordinary problems living with other people, and we should recognize that no one ever chooses to be a psychopath.
The psychopathic personality is but one component in the volatile mix that ultimately produces a serial killer. There are at least three components, as far as I can tell.
First, there is the psychopathic person, who is created by a combination of genetic, biological, and environmental factors that are not clearly understood by experts. I'm not sure our experts are even close to understanding these factors.
Second, there is the present environment or situation in which a psychopath finds himself. In the right environment and with some help, perhaps this person finds ways of coping. In other environments, his condition worsens.
And finally, there is the most mysterious component of all – human choice. Most people in the worst circumstances still do not become serial killers. There is the matter of our freedom and our choosing. In all human behavior, one choice leads to another. Choices along a certain path become both easier and harder. It is easier to hurt someone the second time and easier still after that. And it is harder to say no to an addictive need the farther you go along the addictive journey. But at the beginning, somewhere, you had some choices.
At the end of many paths are extreme behaviors that seem insane to most people. There are people who weigh 900 pounds and cannot get out of bed. They are not the only people with eating disorders, and they did not fall into that situation easily. There are men whose entire lives revolve around the acquisition and consumption of hard-core pornography. The end-of-the-line stuff. Any reasonable assessment of the content of that pornography would reveal that it is not beautiful or sensuous in any common definition of those words. Those who crave it might not even enjoy experiencing the acts depicted. But they lust after their pornography with an intensity that is frightening. In most of these cases, there were combinations of emotional and/or mental illness AND personal choice all along the way.
So too, those who lack any recognizable ability to love and feel for others. Some of these find themselves in some unique or tragic environment that feeds their psychopathy. And some of these, in weakness, make a series of choices that lead them down an unthinkable path to the end of the line. By the time they reach the end, they have very little freedom of choice left, if any. But it is this critical choice element that means they are responsible for their actions. To take away their responsibility is another way of dehumanizing them.
Serial killers must be held responsible for hurting others, but our growing understanding of the complex nature of their personalities must guide us as we decide how to deal with them.
Coming next: What we should do with serial killers when they are caught, both from a cultural and a spiritual point of view.
rlp
The elusive nature of evil: part one
I'm reposting a three-part series on evil that I did a couple of years ago. The third part was published at the Christian Century website. I'm reworking parts 2 and 3 extensively for other purposes. Since they are taking up my writing time (That and an essay I'm working on for Christian Century) I'm going to post them here again. Most of you probably never read them the first time. Or if so, perhaps the reworked part 2 and 3 (most extensive reworking) will be interesting to you.
***
In interviews given while on death row, Ted Bundy seemed confused over the great concern about his crimes. He just didn’t get it. He couldn’t understand why so many people cared about a few missing girls. “After all,” he mused, “There are so many people.” *
This point of view, or perhaps I should say this lack of a point of view, is fascinating to me. I want to understand it. It seems important that I understand it.
I date my interest in serial killers to the summer of 1973 when my family moved from the desert climate of El Paso to the oppressive humidity of Houston. The weather change was like a slap in the face. I remember sitting on the curb with my brother and wondering how air could possibly feel like this. Wet was the word. Everything was wet, sticky, and green. The ground was squishy beneath the grass. The air was hot and heavy with moisture. It pressed itself upon you, squeezing your head until perspiration oozed from your scalp and collected on the ends of your hairs, binding them together in little clumps. Even the water in the pools was warm. It felt like diving into a bath.
I was eleven that summer and about to start junior high. Only two months earlier I had been kneeling on the ground of my school playground, one eye closed, shooting marbles into a big circle. I didn’t know it then, but that world was gone. Adolescence was about to roll over me with its smells, hair, and powerful feelings. Who can stand before the awesome power of puberty?
Your time in the garden is over, buddy. But while I have your attention, take a look at the incredible fruit hanging from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil. Looks good doesn’t it? Trust me on this; it IS good. Like girls and peaches.
That summer they began digging up bodies on the other side of town. Elmer Wayne Henley and Dean Corll had been killing teen-age boys for quite some time. They strapped them to homemade torture tables made of plywood and handcuffs. They did unspeakable things to them, unmoved by their pitiful cries for mercy, until finally the boys would die and then be buried under a boat shed. Every news channel in town was camped out at the burial site. Information and video came pouring out of our television sets and into our homes. Even the children could not be protected from it. What they didn’t see on TV, they heard from their friends.
These things happen in our world. They are horrible to consider, but particularly shattering when you are young and have no idea that anything like this is possible. I listened to the part about the plywood and the handcuffs. After that I couldn’t keep the images out of my mind. Laughing men sticking knives into naked boys and slowly peeling off their skin. It was unthinkable. A nightmare and a horror movie, but for real and right in my own hometown.
And then there were the television images of clay-colored bodies pulled one-by-one from the ground. Twenty-seven of them in all. Stiffened, body-shaped clumps of soil that came out of the earth with a sucking sound and were put into the backs of ambulances that came and went, shrieking, from the crime scene.
That wetness again. The wetness of the crime produced its own kind of horror. Tears and blood and sex and trembling flesh and Houston earth. The wet, sliding sound of a shovel plunged into clay. In all of its stages, life is wet work. The beginning of life and the ending of life and even the retrieving of bodies.
This horrible thing laid hold of my mind like my grandfather’s strong hands twisting the legs off cooked chickens. He would twist the leg until the flesh popped and the tendons broke free. Then he would hand you the greasy drumstick with little tubes and shreds of fat hanging from it and a white, knuckled bone sticking out the bottom. Tuck in.
I used to look away when my grandfather would seize a chicken leg and start twisting. But once you’ve seen a man twist the leg off a bird, you know what food is and what life and flesh are. You understand that it comes down to this. You’ve taken up this knowledge or had it thrust upon you, but there is no laying it down again. No going back to the garden.
And once you’ve seen wet bodies spaded from the earth and laid before weeping mothers, you know what life is and that sometimes it comes to this.
Here is the knowledge of good and evil, little boy. Tuck in.
What I’m trying to tell you is that there were some weeks in late July of 1973 when this knowledge came to me and would not leave. I swam in the wetness of Houston and death. I lived in a humid world of ugly knowledge, chunky, raw, and uncut.
I remember staring at the newspaper pictures of Elmer Wayne Henley and Dean Corll. I was both fascinated and repelled. Why would grown-ups do this to boys? And perhaps more disturbing, how could they have enjoyed it?
Mercifully, school started and the news coverage slowed and then stopped. Junior high gave me more than enough to occupy my mind. There was a girl I loved at church, another I kissed at school, and one I worshipped from afar. There were football and the locker room and whispers of sexual things. It’s strange, but now that I think about it, adolescence was wet too. Wet kisses I hungered for. The sweat under my arms that I suddenly noticed and became obsessed with. The spray of antiperspirants and the splash of my father’s Old Spice. The fights and the fears were wet. Love was wet. The longing and the sorrow and the desperation were wet.
Henley and Corll faded from my mind, and I thought no more of them. I lived in my body and in the present, as teen-agers tend to do. But the questions never left me. And they remain with me. I am still fascinated and repelled by serial killers. They are the bogey-men of the modern world. Because of them, we still fear the darkness. They are legendary and powerful in our minds, though in person they are weak and pathetic. And having entered the God business, so to speak, the existence of evil in our world has become something of a professional concern.
What is the deal with these guys? They hide in the shadows and prey upon us. The pain and suffering of others does not repel them or awaken in them any human compassion. No, pain and suffering excite them. They get erections when they stand in the presence of a tortured and suffering human being. Watching it helps them achieve orgasm. How is this possible?
rlp
* "Ted Bundy: Conversations With a Killer "
by Stephen G. Michaud and Hugh Aynesworth
Coming next: Some thoughts and observations after twenty years of trying to understand evil.
Story, Redemption, and Time
I have a friend who is 73 years old. He told me that his grandmother ran away from home when she was 16. She walked down a country lane in Tennessee. There was a black car, she later said. A man got out and raped her in the bushes by the side of the road. She stumbled home and told no one for fear that she would get in trouble. But months later her belly began to swell. She told the truth when she had to. Some people believed her. Others didn’t. Nine months later his father was born.
“That was in the year 19 and 8,” he said.
I thought about this for a few moments and felt pretty overwhelmed by the revelation. His life, it seemed, was held together by a ragged thread of evil wound through a series of long shots. Like rolling snake eyes 6 times in a row. Why did she choose that day to leave? Why that hour? Why that lane and not another?
“If she hadn’t run away from home and had that happen, you wouldn’t have been born.”
He snapped his chin down to his chest and bounced it quickly up again. It’s a gesture I’ve seen old men make when something is said that is surely true.
“That’s right,” he said. “That’s exactly right. Not me, not my children, not my 12 grandchildren, nor the 5 great-grand-babies.”
“So...” I left a long pause to soften the question that was coming. “Would you say that you’re glad it happened? I mean, surely you’re glad to be alive.”
“I don’t rightly think it’s a fair question,” he said. “The past is dead and gone and all that pain with it. A pile of manure might be lucky enough to have a flower grow out of it, but that doesn’t change its basic nature.”
I ran the tops of two fingers underneath my chin against the grain of my whiskers. I felt the stubble grab at my skin and heard the rasping sound. It’s something I do when I’m thinking.
Our Ancient Foe
Shortly after reading “Memories, Dreams, Reflections,” by C.G. Jung, I tried a free association fantasy exercise. I found a comfortable place to sit and breathed carefully until I was fully relaxed. Then I let my mind follow whatever images and thoughts came to me. I imagined that I dove off a high cliff into the ocean. I could see easily under water and had no trouble breathing. Using an overhand stroke I began to claw my way toward the ocean floor which was covered in a very thick forest of kelp. When I reached the kelp, there was room between the strands for me to make my way toward the bottom, though the going was hard. I don’t know why I wanted to go to the bottom, but I had a great desire to see it. After a few moments of fighting with the kelp and making some progress, a loud, angry voice said, “NO!”
Have you ever been on the edge of sleep when suddenly a voice startled you awake? At first you can’t be sure if you heard it or thought it. This voice was like that. The intensity of it frightened me. I opened my eyes and the daydream was gone.
What is this voice? Whose voice is it? I’m certainly aware of the names people have given to it. Some say it is the devil. Others would say it was only my lively imagination. Still others claim that we have a secondary consciousness, a part of the mind that works like a production company, creating dreams and casting them with characters and images from our lives that have symbolic meaning for us.
If that last scenario is true, I suppose I was about to see something that my production company wasn’t ready to release in my dream theater. My intrusion on the set obviously pissed someone off, and they had security throw me out.
In case you’re wondering, I lean toward the idea of the subconscious mind, but I will humbly admit that I don’t know where the voice comes from or whose voice it is.
Sam Todd taught me this particular kind of humility.
If Only For This I Need God
Now and then I become aware that some child has suffered an unspeakable horror. Most of the time I cannot bear this truth. I quickly turn my mind elsewhere, because I’m too busy or too tired to deal with the reality of evil. My shadow self files this knowledge away in a secret drawer while the conscious part of me sings, “La, la, la, la, la; I can’t hear you.”
But sometimes I allow myself to hold the knowledge of terrible evil in my mind. I can feel the raging, voracious appetite of evil, the consuming black hatred in it. Evil puts its snarling face right before my own, a leather-clad drill sergeant from hell who spews black flecks of spit all over my face. His breath smells like gas bursting from a swollen carcass.
Usually this is as much as I can handle. I can stand before evil for a few moments with my eyes screwed shut and my face turned away. My mind searches frantically for anything else to think about. Anything else. I mumble panicked baby prayers. “Dear Jesus, sweet Jesus, make it go away!”
But evil is also like a deep, sore place inside my tongue. I cannot leave evil alone. Something keeps me gnawing at it, discovering over and over again that yes, this sore spot still hurts like hell.
In these moments of extreme masochism, I manage to push past the drill sergeant and move deeper into the domain of evil. I allow myself to imagine that this horrible thing was done to my middle daughter, my Shelby, my Sharmy, my Sobee, my Tubby Lumpkin. She of the tender heart and loving ways, the one whose brown eyes are as cautious and tender as a woman’s palm.
I can see the fear in Shelby’s eyes and her panicked thrashing. Sometimes I can hear her scream for me. “Daddy,” she cries, but I am not there for her.
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