by Paul Cody
I was also, like my father, fascinated by crime. I believe I read all of In Cold Blood in a single weekend when I was thirteen, and I was mesmerized. Not just that it was so vividly written, or that it took place in Kansas, far to the southwest, in Holcomb, but that it got so deeply into the lives and minds of the killers and the killed. Plus it featured the KBI, whom my father often consulted with and taught.
The ’70s and ’80s were really the golden age of serial killers, if you can call it that. Or more accurately, that’s when the public became aware on a grand scale that such people existed. There had been Richard Speck, who killed eight student nurses in 1966 in Chicago, but that was a mass murder, a very different thing from serial murder. Then Charlie Manson, of course, who’s hard to characterize—but I think it was Ted Bundy who really put the whole issue, the phenomenon, on the map. Blond, blue-eyed, handsome, articulate, a former law student who had even worked as a counselor on a crisis call line. And he seemed to kill beautiful college-age women with long, often blond, hair. And he was prolific.
Then there was the Zodiac Killer, the Night Stalker, Randy Kraft, the Green River Killer, and John Wayne Gacy, the Killer Clown, who preyed on teenage boys, killed at least thirty-three, and buried twenty-six of them in the crawl space under his house near Chicago. When he wasn’t killing, he dressed up in a clown outfit and visited sick children in hospitals.
They seemed to be everywhere, in nearly every state, and it wasn’t so much what they did that fascinated me, but why they did it. And the why went beyond the generally bad childhoods, the depravity, the homicidal need for control, all the way to what was going on with their brains. In the neurochemistry and wiring of their brains.
Many millions of people have unspeakably horrible childhoods. Very few become serial murderers.
I graduated second in my high school class, went to the University of Chicago, the place, they said, where fun goes to die. Not so for me. I had a blast. I double-majored in biology and chemistry, and did a minor in psychology, just to cover my tracks. I found the psychology, to be perfectly honest, a little bit squishy. A patient tells the shrink, I feel dumb and stupid and ugly. To which the shrink replies, How does that make you feel?
Duh?
I know. I know. Maybe it’s important for the patient to articulate his or her feelings, to explore those feelings, their origin, et cetera. But it didn’t exactly feel cutting-edge.
In chemistry and biology we were really getting in there. Helping the med students with autopsies, learning about brain chemistry—dopamine, norepinephrine, cortisol, serotonin, beta-blockers, and the extraordinary wiring, the synapses, the electricity of the brain.
I remember an anatomy professor holding up a human brain in his latex-gloved hand, and saying, This, ladies and gentlemen, is far and away the most fabulous, mysterious, complex, beautiful creation on earth and in human history. It has made the music of Bach and the horror of Auschwitz. It makes the most complex supercomputers in the world look like Lincoln Logs.
We had learned more about the brain in the last twenty years than we had in all of human history. About depression, autism and Asperger’s, and ADD, about bipolar disorders, and we were coming out of the dark ages. Just fifty years ago they were tapping what amounted to silver ice picks under the upper eyelids of the unmanageably mentally ill, into the frontal lobes of the brains, moving the pick around a little, and calling it therapy. These were prefrontal lobotomies, and tens of thousands of them had turned people into cognitive zombies.
Now we had CAT scans and PET scans and MRIs.
So when I graduated, summa, I went directly into the Ph.D. program at Chicago. And I began work on MAO-A and MAO-B, otherwise known as the Warrior Gene. It involves the usual feel-good chemicals the brain naturally produces—norepinephrine, epinephrine or adrenaline, serotonin, and dopamine. But it is inhibited in the brain by several other naturally occurring chemicals, notably clorgyline and befloxatone. And we began to find unusually high rates of the MAO-A factor in certain populations, particularly violent criminals. At one point the Warrior Gene was used as a defense in a murder trial. The man was convicted.
It opened whole new worlds of possibility, beyond “my brutal childhood,” in trying to understand violence and criminality. But we also found that fighter pilots and topflight surgeons—neurosurgeons, surgeons who operated on the hearts of one-pound premature babies—had some of these same qualities. A very high tolerance for stress, nerves, you might say, of steel.
I got pregnant in the middle of my last semester. But I was determined to raise the baby alone, and after the move to Ithaca, I taught that first semester, while the baby grew larger and larger in my uterus, and he was born in December. He was nearly nine pounds and twenty-two inches long. And he was very quiet.
He was not an especially cuddly baby. As I suppose, to be honest, I’m not the most cuddly woman. He allowed himself to be held, and he sometimes fell asleep on my chest, but I did not breast-feed him, because I was in my lab so much, though I didn’t teach that spring.
But it was his silence that surprised me. He slept through the night from the beginning. He slept long and deep, and he did not make what everyone calls those bright bubbles of sound. I read to him from the beginning—he was always bringing me books to read to him, but he rarely wanted to sit in my lap when we read. He sat next to me, his body pressed against mine, his head bent over, almost blocking the page.
He liked to play alone, or sometimes with one other child, if he could direct the construction of some Lego castle, or some structure made of blocks.
His pediatrician, a gentle Indian man who had been trained in Delhi, said not to worry about the talking, because his hearing was fine, his cognitive functions seemed fine. But the people at Cornell Day Care were all over it. They talked autism, Asperger’s, developmentally disabled, they wanted to test him for this and that and some other things too. I refused.
Then suddenly, shortly after his third birthday, in the kitchen, he said, Could I please have a glass of juice, Mother?
It was as though the cat had spoken.
You want that in a sippy cup? I asked.
A regular glass would be fine, he said.
And he began to read books on his own. And not just picture books. Maybe a few to begin with, but by five or six, I remember clearly, he was reading Harry Potter, the first volume, because he would ask me if magic was real or only make-believe.
Make-believe, but you go along with it for the sake of the story.
So Levon was not normal or average. But he was certainly not disabled.
Sixteen
Anna
By mid- to late October, Sam and I were hanging out a fair bit. It’s not like we were close-close. In some ways, I don’t think anybody got real close to Sam, maybe because of the year in the hospital, or whatever her disorder was, though as the years passed I was beginning to believe less and less in the so-called disorders of the kids at the Clock School. I mean, everybody at our age was a little depressed and pretty anxious and kind of Aspergery and a little ADD. It kind of sucked being a teenager, just as I heard my grandfather say it sucked getting old. Your bones ached, and you couldn’t pee straight or sleep very well, and it just came with the age. Being a teenager was like that. You just had to go through it.
But Sam and I would take off between classes and get a coffee at Gimme! She loved the double cappuccino where they made the beautiful leaf pattern on top, and I loved the double espresso, which felt like doing cocaine, even though I’d only tried cocaine once at a party and couldn’t stop sneezing.
Then we’d go over to Triangle Park, or sometimes drive to Stewart Park at the south end of Cayuga Lake. We’d grab a bench, or if it was warm, sit on the grass in the sun.
She’d ask how it was all going, ’cause I had this thing for Noah Law, a kid who was in my AP physics class, and I’d laugh and say, Real, real slow. I’d say, You got any suggestions?
She’d say, Me? That’s like asking th
e mouse how to catch the cat.
You don’t like boys?
She picked a blade of grass, blew it to the wind, then looked over the expanse of lake and hills.
Lemme put it this way. Between hospitals, and my crazy mother, and depression, I’ve had about a half dozen dates, and they were usually with half-drunk boys trying to grab my boobs, and it was all pretty limited. They had all the charm and conversation of a dog trying to sniff your crotch.
I started laughing.
Charming, I said.
Anyone here interest you? I asked.
Well, there is Levon, but Levon is kind of wonderful and impossible. You know that better than me.
I nodded. Yeah, I said. I don’t know him much, but he really does seem like the man of mystery and intrigue.
We were quiet.
How’s that project with him?
Well, I’m not allowed to divulge any secrets, but we’re supposed to be kind of writing our life histories. And maybe interviewing other people about ourselves, or having them write what they know of us, and stuff. And we’re writing our own memories and histories and such.
Some ducks moved by in the water, and a bunch of seagulls were squawking overhead. People walked and jogged on the Waterfront Trail, and now and then a car would pass slowly by on the road that snaked through the park.
That sounds pretty interesting. Pretty intense.
It is. Way more than I thought it would be. But Meg swore us to secrecy. Only Levon, Meg, and I can see what we write, and what’s written.
Damn.
And I’m not trying to be coy or proprietary or anything. It gets really personal, and kind of traumatic, and we just couldn’t do it if half the school knew what we were writing about.
No, I totally understand.
We each sipped, and I said, I wonder how Meg paired you two. Levon’s been here forever, and you were completely new.
I dunno. All she said when we met in the summer and she’d read this long file on me was that she thought we might work well together. She also said it could be a disaster, but she said if we both agreed, she thought it would have a good chance of working. She even said—and these are her words—it might be brilliant.
Is it?
I don’t know from brilliant, but so far so good.
When we were done with our coffee and were getting in Sam’s car, Sam suddenly asked, You hungry?
Kinda.
You wanna stop at my house for lunch? It’s just up the hill. Five minutes.
You sure?
Yeah. You’d be doing me a huge favor. I’ve never brought a friend home, and if my weird mom’s there, it would get her off my back. She’s always asking me if I’m making friends. You’d be my sacrificial lamb. And my dad could be there, and he’s a sweetie. It would be huge to me, and I’m so damn nervous about bringing someone home. We can grab food and eat in the garden. And that’s worth seeing. Some horticulture professor used to own the house. It’s a great garden.
Sure. Let’s do it. People always tell me I have good social skills.
You have excellent social skills. Very good manners. Like you balanced books on your head while walking at finishing school.
Yes, I said. In France, then Switzerland. And learned the proper way to serve tea and cucumber sandwiches.
We drove up the steep hill above I-High, then went on Cayuga Heights Road, which is pretty fancy. Big houses, set way back from the road. This was where the doctors and lawyers and emeritus professors lived. She took a right off Cayuga Heights Road, and three or four houses up, on this really sweet street, with very big old trees, she pulled into a driveway with a fairly big front yard that had an enormous beech tree, with that smooth silver bark and the almost purple leaves.
The house was like an oversize bungalow, I think they’re called. Kind of English and kind of Arts and Crafts, if I knew what I was talking about. My mom was interested in houses. It had these long overhanging eaves, and porches on the first and second floors, and it was dark green, so it kind of blended into the landscape, but it had orange shutters like Halloween. From the outside, at least, it looked kind of amazing. There was also a big garage at the back of the driveway, which looked like it must have been a carriage house. There were outside steps leading to the upper story, and curtains in the windows up there.
An Accord and a red Mini Cooper were parked in front of the garage.
We stopped, and Sam said, Thanks for this, and I said, C’mon, it’s nothing.
We went in a side door, and the place was nice. Really nice. Marble counters, and a checked tile floor in the kitchen, and Sam called, Mom, and this woman with blond hair came in, and she was a looker. She wore those round black glasses that schoolmarms wore in the 1930s, but had become cool again, and leather boots that came almost to her knees, and jeans, and this really nice black sweater that must have been cashmere.
This is Anna, Sam said. And this is my mom.
Vera, her mom said, and she stepped forward, and she smiled, and she shook my hand, then she gave me a hug, as though she was grateful Sam had a friend.
We came to get some lunch, Sam said, and I said, Nice to meet you.
I can make sandwiches, order in, anything, Vera said, and she looked suddenly nervous.
No, no. We’ll just grab a yogurt, a banana, an apple. Then maybe sit in the garden, Sam said.
Then there was a tall man in jeans and a fairly rumpled sweater behind Vera. One shirttail in front was untucked.
Hey, Dad. This is Anna. My friend from school.
Hi, Anna from school, he said, and smiled. He seemed way more relaxed. His hair was kind of wavy and had little streaks of gray, and wasn’t combed.
Honey, Vera said, you look like you just rolled out of bed.
But I am rolling, he said, and patted her hip.
Can I see the house? I said. If that isn’t rude. It’s so beautiful.
Sure, her dad said. And please call me Nathan.
He had rimless glasses, and he led the way. The floors were polished hardwood, and the windows were leaded, and it was bigger inside than it looked from the outside. The furniture in the dining room was new, Swedish or something, and older in the big living room, which had a fireplace, and couches, and nooks with chairs, and a big bay window that looked out onto the garden, which was amazing. There was a window seat, and a den that was all windows and had tons of books and CDs, and a telescope in one window.
There were flowers in vases and art on the walls, and the light fell on Persian rugs that looked like they came from Persia. Rich scarlet and gold and blue patterns that were just beautiful.
We can skip the second floor, Nathan said, but maybe Sam can show you her aerie.
The two of us hustled up the stairs, which were gleaming, came to a big landing, then up another set of stairs to the third floor. There were three doors, and the floors were beautiful. There was one small bedroom, a bathroom, and then a big bedroom under the eaves with slanted ceilings, three leaded windows at the end, a queen-size bed, a couch, two big chairs, a desk, two closets, and all the usual girl stuff. It felt beautiful and private.
God, I said. This is all yours.
Sam nodded.
Lucky girl. This is seriously cool. But there’s nothing on the walls.
She nodded again.
How come?
I haven’t quite moved in yet.
I nodded. There was a certain sadness when she said that.
You will, I said.
Hope so.
I bounced on the bed.
I wish my mom wouldn’t wear those boots, she said. She thinks it makes her look twenty-two.
Oh, they’re okay, I said.
Sam shook her head.
My mom can be so lame, can try so hard to be cool, when that’s the last thing she is.
I was surprised at her sudden vehemence.
Well, anyway. Shall we get something to eat? she asked.
Sure.
Downstairs, Vera had put yogurt
s and bananas and apples and cloth napkins on a tray for us. She had also set out brownies and glasses of milk.
You might want to eat in the garden, she said, and Sam said, Thanks, Mom.
So we sat outside, at this glass table, on these really comfortable chairs, and the garden, even in the fall, was something. These curves, and terraces, and a scarlet maple, and fall flowers, and you felt you were in a little piece of Eden.
I didn’t exactly grow up in a trailer, but you could feel the money here. Not showy, but these people had it. And I wondered how that changed a person. If it made you entitled or guilty or more secure.
This is beautiful, I said.
I like this house, Sam said. In Boston, we lived in this three-million-dollar museum place with a cook and nanny. It was disgusting. I swear. It ate your soul. It really fucked us up.
Well, welcome to the regular world.
We ate a yogurt, I had a banana, she ate an apple. We sipped milk, and then we thought we should get rolling.
We brought the tray in, thanked Vera and Nathan, and Vera said, Please come again. It was so nice to see you.
In the car, Sam said, almost crying, You don’t realize what a favor you just did me.
Sweetie, I said. It was fun. I enjoyed it.
Really, she said, and by then she was shaking, she was trembling. You’re the first friend to come to my house in … like … six, seven years.
Pull over, I said.
She did, and I said, Come here. I hugged her, and she held on, and I could feel her shaking. And we must have stayed like that for three or four minutes. I said, I don’t know anyone who’s not mortified by their parents.
Okay, she said. I survived. You still like me?
A ton, I said. More than ever.
Seventeen
Carrie
I was the social worker at Fall Creek School for fourteen years, after my husband and kids and I moved here from Ann Arbor, Michigan, nearly twenty-two years ago. He set up practice in urology, and our three were in middle and high schools then, and I didn’t want to stay home watching Oprah and doing craft projects. Not that there was anything wrong with that, if that lit you up, but I liked schools and kids, and making my tiny, nearly invisible mark in the world.