from my examination of a three-inch blood splatter.
“Wait a minute.” I was certain I had heard something incorrectly. “Did you say that his criminal tendencies were still ‘in formation’? If he tried to murder this woman—if he slashed her with a knife, set her room afire—then it is no credit to him that she survived. It sounds as though he did everything to kill her, and it is merely by the grace of God that she lived!”
I stood up to face him. “Surely in the mind of this man, there was no difference.”
Alistair was unfazed by my eruption. “Yes, I used to think so, as well. But what my colleagues and I have discovered is that there is a progression in the criminal’s mind that leads to the escalation of violent activity. I’m talking of course about premeditated stranger murder, you understand, not the kind of murder you would call a ‘crime of passion.’ ” He was careful to clarify the legal distinction, for he seemed to sense my next objection before I voiced it. “No murderer, even the most vicious, even that notorious Lew Burdick your police are so proud of having captured earlier this year, simply wakes up one day with the desire to kill. Rather, his desire develops over long periods of time, through tremendous imaginative effort.”
This sounded idiotic and I told him so plainly. “I don’t see Lew Burdick as having made much imaginative effort.” The man had been convicted of butchering his victims in their beds, even as their immediate family members lay listening in terror in nearby rooms.
“In the end, there is nothing imaginary.” Alistair corrected me. “By then, it is too late—there, you are right. But in the beginning, as we’ve discovered from our interviews with so many others, even a man like Burdick would have first started withnothing but a picture in his mind.” Alistair walked around the room, using his hands emphatically to help me visualize what he was saying.
“He must have liked the picture he imagined. He probably experienced sensations of power that were new to him, and these sensations proved intoxicating. But this imaginary stage I describe is still just that—an act of the imagination—and he would have no serious thoughts of killing anyone at this point.”
His tone suddenly became more somber. “What our interviews have shown, however, is that the more he mulls over this imagined violence, the more he creates his own need for it—and then he constructs this violent fantasy more and more often. One day, his imaginary victims will not satisfy him, so he will begin to imagine real people he has seen, even his acquaintances, in the role of the victim. It’s at
this
point he begins to consider real violence against real people. And from there, it is simply a matter of time until . . .”
He didn’t have to say it. All we had to do was look around us. Alistair, in fact, seemed to be registering the aftermath of yesterday’s violence for the first time.
His theory was an interesting one, but I still had difficulty understanding how it pertained to Michael Fromley.
“Even if you are right,” I said, challenging him, “what you describe with Catherine Smedley was not merely a fantasy. It was real, and it had terrible consequences.” I shook my head. “By your own theory, his would no longer be a criminal mind
in formation
. He had committed a criminal act.”
“Well, it’s true that Fromley had begun to cross from the imaginary realm into reality, in that he was dealing now with real victims,” Alistair said. “But he didn’t mean to kill the girl—not yet, anyway. He was still experimenting with how it might feel.”
“How can you know that?” I demanded.
“Because despite his many problems, Michael was always very candid with me. That’s what he claimed, and I believed him.” He paused. “He was, and
is
, a dangerous man. And I knew the imperative.” Alistair’s voice grew thick with emotion. “I knew that if we didn’t
“Wait a minute.” I was certain I had heard something incorrectly. “Did you say that his criminal tendencies were still ‘in formation’? If he tried to murder this woman—if he slashed her with a knife, set her room afire—then it is no credit to him that she survived. It sounds as though he did everything to kill her, and it is merely by the grace of God that she lived!”
I stood up to face him. “Surely in the mind of this man, there was no difference.”
Alistair was unfazed by my eruption. “Yes, I used to think so, as well. But what my colleagues and I have discovered is that there is a progression in the criminal’s mind that leads to the escalation of violent activity. I’m talking of course about premeditated stranger murder, you understand, not the kind of murder you would call a ‘crime of passion.’ ” He was careful to clarify the legal distinction, for he seemed to sense my next objection before I voiced it. “No murderer, even the most vicious, even that notorious Lew Burdick your police are so proud of having captured earlier this year, simply wakes up one day with the desire to kill. Rather, his desire develops over long periods of time, through tremendous imaginative effort.”
This sounded idiotic and I told him so plainly. “I don’t see Lew Burdick as having made much imaginative effort.” The man had been convicted of butchering his victims in their beds, even as their immediate family members lay listening in terror in nearby rooms.
“In the end, there is nothing imaginary.” Alistair corrected me. “By then, it is too late—there, you are right. But in the beginning, as we’ve discovered from our interviews with so many others, even a man like Burdick would have first started withnothing but a picture in his mind.” Alistair walked around the room, using his hands emphatically to help me visualize what he was saying.
“He must have liked the picture he imagined. He probably experienced sensations of power that were new to him, and these sensations proved intoxicating. But this imaginary stage I describe is still just that—an act of the imagination—and he would have no serious thoughts of killing anyone at this point.”
His tone suddenly became more somber. “What our interviews have shown, however, is that the more he mulls over this imagined violence, the more he creates his own need for it—and then he constructs this violent fantasy more and more often. One day, his imaginary victims will not satisfy him, so he will begin to imagine real people he has seen, even his acquaintances, in the role of the victim. It’s at
this
point he begins to consider real violence against real people. And from there, it is simply a matter of time until . . .”
He didn’t have to say it. All we had to do was look around us. Alistair, in fact, seemed to be registering the aftermath of yesterday’s violence for the first time.
His theory was an interesting one, but I still had difficulty understanding how it pertained to Michael Fromley.
“Even if you are right,” I said, challenging him, “what you describe with Catherine Smedley was not merely a fantasy. It was real, and it had terrible consequences.” I shook my head. “By your own theory, his would no longer be a criminal mind
in formation
. He had committed a criminal act.”
“Well, it’s true that Fromley had begun to cross from the imaginary realm into reality, in that he was dealing now with real victims,” Alistair said. “But he didn’t mean to kill the girl—not yet, anyway. He was still experimenting with how it might feel.”
“How can you know that?” I demanded.
“Because despite his many problems, Michael was always very candid with me. That’s what he claimed, and I believed him.” He paused. “He was, and
is
, a dangerous man. And I knew the imperative.” Alistair’s voice grew thick with emotion. “I knew that if we didn’t
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