by Blake Pierce
She certainly didn’t want to think she had a “thing” for him.
It was just that she’d first studied with him back when she’d been a freshman. He hadn’t been a professor yet, just a graduate assistant. She’d thought even then he was a wonderful teacher—informative, enthusiastic, and sometimes entertaining.
Today, Dr. Hayman’s expression was serious as he put his briefcase on his desk and looked at the students. Riley realized that he was going to get right to the point.
He said, “Look, there’s an elephant in this room. We all know what it is. We need to clear the air. We need to discuss it openly.”
Riley held her breath. She felt sure she wasn’t going to like what was going to happen next.
Then Hayman said …
“Did anybody here know Rhea Thorson? Not just as an acquaintance, not just someone you’d sometimes run into on campus. Really well, I mean. As a friend.”
Riley cautiously put up her hand, and so did Trudy. Nobody else in the classroom did.
Hayman then asked, “What kinds of feelings have the two of you been going through since she was killed?”
Riley cringed a little.
It was, after all, the same question she had overheard those reporters asking Cassie and Gina on Friday. Riley had managed to avoid those reporters, but was she going to have to answer that question now?
She reminded herself that this was a psychology class. They were here to deal with these kinds of questions.
And yet Riley wondered …
Where do I even begin?
She was relieved when Trudy spoke up.
“Guilty. I could have stopped it from happening. I was with her at the Centaur’s Den before it happened. I didn’t even notice when she left. If only I’d just walked her home …”
Trudy’s voice trailed off. Riley gathered up the nerve to speak.
“I feel the same way,” she said. “I went off to sit by myself when we all got to the Den, and I didn’t pay any attention to Rhea. Maybe if I had …”
Riley paused, then added, “So I feel guilty too. And something else. Selfish, I think. Because I wanted to be alone.”
Dr. Hayman nodded. With a sympathetic smile he said, “So neither of you walked Rhea home.”
After a pause, he added, “A sin of omission.”
The phrase startled Riley a little.
It seemed oddly ill-suited to what Riley and Trudy had failed to do. It sounded too benign, not nearly dire enough, hardly a matter of life and death.
But of course, it was true—as far as it went.
Hayman looked around at the rest of the class.
“What about the rest of you? Have you ever done—or failed to do—the same sort of thing in a similar situation? Have you ever, shall we say, let a female friend walk somewhere alone at night when you really ought to have walked her home? Or maybe just neglected to do something that might have been important to someone else’s safety? Not taken away somebody’s car keys when they’d had a drink too many? Ignored a situation that might have resulted in injury or even death?”
A confused murmur passed among the students.
Riley realized—it was really a tough question.
After all, if Rhea hadn’t been killed, neither Riley nor Trudy would have given their “sin of omission” a moment’s thought.
They’d have forgotten all about it.
It was hardly any surprise that at least some of the students found it hard to remember one way or the other. And the truth was, Riley herself couldn’t remember for sure about herself. Had there been other times when she’d neglected to look out for someone’s safety?
Might she have been responsible for the deaths of others—if it weren’t for sheer dumb luck?
After a few moments, several reluctant hands went up.
Then Hayman said, “What about the rest of you? How many of you just can’t remember for sure?”
Almost all the rest of the students raised their hands.
Hayman nodded and said, “OK, then. Most of you may well have made the same mistake at one time or another. So how many people here feel guilty for the way you acted or the thing you probably should have done but didn’t do?”
There was more confused muttering and even a few gasps.
“What?” Hayman asked. “None of you? Why not?”
One girl raised her hand and stammered, “Well … it was different because … I suppose because … nobody got killed, I guess.”
There was a general murmur of agreement.
Riley noticed that another man had stepped into the classroom. It was Dr. Dexter Zimmerman, the chairman of the Psychology Department. Zimmerman seemed to have been standing just outside the door listening to the discussion.
She’d had one class with him the semester before last—Social Psychology. He was an older, rumpled, kindly-looking man. Riley knew that Dr. Hayman looked up to him as a mentor—almost idolized him, actually. A lot of students did too.
Riley’s own feelings about Professor Zimmerman were more mixed. He’d been an inspiring teacher, but somehow she didn’t relate to him the way most others did. She wasn’t sure exactly why.
Hayman explained to the class, “I asked Dr. Zimmerman to stop by and take part in today’s discussion. He should really be able to help us out. He’s just about the most insightful guy I’ve ever known in my life.”
Zimmerman blushed and chuckled a little.
Hayman asked him, “So what do you make of what you just heard from my students?”
Zimmerman tilted his head and thought for a moment.
Then he said, “Well, at least some of your students seem to think there’s some kind of moral difference at work here. If you neglect to help someone and they get hurt or killed, it’s wrong—but it’s all right if there don’t happen to be any bad consequences. But I don’t see the distinction. The behaviors are identical. Different consequences don’t really change whether they’re right or wrong.”
A hush fell over the classroom as Zimmerman’s point started to sink in.
Hayman asked Zimmerman, “Does that mean that everybody here should be wracked with guilt right along with Riley and Trudy?”
Zimmerman shrugged.
“Maybe just the opposite. Does feeling guilty do anybody any good? Is it going to bring the young woman back? Maybe there are more appropriate things for all of us to be feeling right now.”
Zimmerman stepped in front of the desk and made eye contact with the students.
“Tell me, those of you who weren’t very close to Rhea. How are you feeling toward these two friends of hers right now—Riley and Trudy?”
The classroom was silent for a moment.
Then Riley was astonished to hear a few sobs break out in the classroom.
One girl said in a choked voice, “Oh, I just feel so awful for them.”
Another said, “Riley and Trudy, I wish you didn’t feel guilty. You shouldn’t. What happened to Rhea was terrible enough. I just can’t imagine the pain you’re feeling right now.”
Other students echoed their agreement.
Zimmerman gave the class an understanding smile.
He said, “I guess most of you know that my specialty is criminal pathology. My life’s work is about trying to understand a criminal’s mind. And for the last three days, I’ve been struggling to make sense of this crime. So far, I’m only really sure of one thing. This was personal. The killer knew Rhea and wanted her dead.”
Again, Riley struggled to comprehend the incomprehensible …
Someone hated Rhea enough to kill her?
Then Zimmerman added, “As awful as that sounds, I can assure you of one thing. He won’t kill again. Rhea was his target, no one else. And I’m confident the police will find him soon.”
He leaned against the edge of the desk and said, “I can tell you one other thing—wherever the killer is right now, whatever he’s doing, he’s not feeling what all of you seem to be feeling. He is incapable of sympat
hy for another person’s suffering—much less the actual empathy I sense in this room.”
He wrote down the words “sympathy” and “empathy” on the big whiteboard.
He asked, “Would anybody care to remind me of the difference between these two words?”
Riley was a bit surprised that Trudy raised her hand.
Trudy said, “Sympathy is when you care about what somebody else is feeling. Empathy is when you actually share somebody else’s feelings.”
Zimmerman nodded and jotted down Trudy’s definitions.
“Exactly,” he said. “So I suggest that all of us put aside our feelings of guilt. Focus instead on our capacity for empathy. It separates us from the world’s most terrible monsters. It’s precious—most of all at a time like now.”
Hayman seemed to be pleased with Zimmerman’s observations.
He said, “If it’s OK with everybody, I think we should cut today’s class short. It’s been pretty intense—but I hope it has been helpful. Just remember, you’re all processing some pretty powerful feelings right now—even those of you who weren’t very close to Rhea. Don’t expect the grief, shock, and horror to go away anytime soon. Let them run their course. They’re part of the healing process. And don’t be afraid to reach out to the school’s counselors for help. Or to each other. Or to me and Dr. Zimmerman.”
As the students got up from their desks to leave, Zimmerman called out …
“On your way out, give Riley and Trudy a hug. They could use it.”
For the first time during the class, Riley felt annoyed.
What makes him think I need a hug?
The truth was, hugs were the last things she wanted right now.
Suddenly she remembered—this was the thing that had turned her off about Dr. Zimmerman when she had taken a class with him. He was way too cuddly for her taste, and he was all touchy-feely about lots of things, and he liked to tell students to hug each other.
That seemed kind of weird for a psychologist who specialized in criminal pathology.
It also seemed odd for a man so big on empathy.
After all, how did he know whether she and Trudy wanted to be hugged or not? He hadn’t even bothered to ask.
How empathetic is that?
Riley couldn’t help think that the guy was a phony deep down.
Nevertheless, she stood there stoically while one student after another gave her a sympathetic hug. Some of them were crying. And she could see that Trudy didn’t mind this attention at all. Trudy kept smiling through her own tears with every hug.
Maybe it’s just me, Riley thought.
Was something wrong with her?
Maybe she didn’t have the same feelings as other people.
Soon all the hugging was over, and most of the students had left the room, including Trudy. So had Dr. Zimmerman.
Riley was glad to have a moment alone with Dr. Hayman. She walked up to him and said, “Thanks for the talk about guilt and responsibility. I really needed to hear that.”
He smiled at her and said, “Glad to be of help. I know this must be very hard for you.”
Riley lowered her head for a moment, gathering up her nerve to say something she really wanted to say.
Finally she said, “Dr. Hayman, you probably don’t remember, but I was in your Intro to Psych course back in my freshman year.”
“I remember,” he said.
Riley swallowed down her nervousness and said, “Well, I’ve always meant to tell you … you really inspired me to major in psychology.”
Hayman looked a bit startled now.
“Wow,” he said. “That’s really nice to hear. Thank you.”
They stood looking at each other for an awkward moment. Riley hoped she wasn’t making a fool of herself.
Finally Hayman said, “Look, I’ve been paying attention to you in class—the papers you write, the questions you ask, the ideas you share with everybody. You’ve got a good mind. And I’ve got a feeling … you’ve got questions about what happened to your friend that most of the other kids don’t think about—maybe don’t even want to think about.”
Riley gulped again. He was right, of course—almost uncannily right.
Now this is empathy, she thought.
She flashed back to the night of the murder, when she’d stood outside Rhea’s room wishing she could go inside, feeling as if she’d learn something important if she could only walk through that door at that very moment.
But that moment was gone. When Riley had finally been able to go inside, the room was all cleaned up, looking as if nothing had ever happened there.
She said slowly …
“I really want to understand … why. I really want to know …”
Her voice faded. Did she dare say tell Hayman—or anybody else—the truth?
That she wanted to understand the mind of the man who had murdered her friend?
That she almost wanted to empathize with him?
She was relieved when Hayman nodded, seeming to understand.
“I know just how you feel,” he said. “I used to feel the same way.”
He opened a desk drawer and took out a book and handed it to her.
“You can borrow this,” he said. “It’s a great place to start.”
The title of the book was Dark Minds: The Homicidal Personality Revealed.
Riley was startled to see that the author was Dr. Dexter Zimmerman himself.
Hayman said, “The man is a genius. You can’t begin to imagine the insights he reveals in this book. You’ve simply got to read it. It might change your life. It sure changed mine.”
Riley felt overwhelmed by Hayman’s gesture.
“Thank you,” she said meekly.
“Don’t mention it,” Hayman said with a smile.
Riley left the classroom and broke into a trot as she headed out of the building toward the library, eager to sit down with the book.
At the same time, she felt a twinge of apprehension.
“It might change your life,” Hayman had told her.
Would that be for the better, or for the worse?
CHAPTER SEVEN
In the university library, Riley sat down at a desk that was in a little enclosure. She put the book on the desk and sat staring at the title—Dark Minds: The Homicidal Personality Revealed, by Dr. Dexter Zimmerman.
She wasn’t sure why, but she was glad she had chosen to start reading the book here rather than in her dorm room. Perhaps she simply didn’t want to be interrupted or be asked what she was reading and why.
Or maybe it was something else.
She touched the cover and felt a strange tingling …
Fear?
No, that couldn’t be it.
Why would she be frightened of a book?
Nevertheless, she felt apprehensive, as if she was about to do something forbidden.
She opened the book and her eyes fell on the first sentence …
Long before committing a murder, the killer has the potential to commit that murder.
As she read the author’s explanations for that statement, she felt herself slipping into a dark and terrible world—an unfamiliar world, but one that she felt mysteriously fated to explore and try to understand.
Turning the pages, she was introduced to one murderous monster after another.
She met Ted Kaczynski, nicknamed the “Unabomber,” who used explosives to kill three people and injure twenty-three others.
And then there was John Wayne Gacy, who loved to dress as a clown and entertain children at parties and charitable events. He was liked and respected in his community, even while he secretly went about sexually assaulting and murdering thirty-three boys and young men, many of whose bodies he hid in the crawl space of his house.
Riley was especially fascinated with Ted Bundy, who eventually confessed to thirty murders—although there might have been many more. Handsome and charismatic, he had approached his female victims in public places and easily won their trust. He
described himself as “the most cold-hearted son of a bitch you’ll ever meet.” But the women he killed had never recognized his cruelty until it was too late.
The book was full of information about such killers. Bundy and Gacy had been remarkably intelligent, and Kaczynski had been a child prodigy. Both Bundy and Gacy had been raised by cruel, violent men, and they had suffered brutal sexual abuse when they’d been young.
But Riley wondered—what had turned them into killers? Plenty of people were traumatized in childhood without turning to murder.
She pored over Dr. Zimmerman’s text looking for answers.
According to his assessment, homicidal criminals knew right from wrong, and they were also aware of the possible consequences for their actions. But they were uniquely able to shut off that awareness in order to commit their crimes.
Zimmerman also wrote what he had said in class—that killers lacked any capacity for empathy. But they were excellent imposters who could feign empathy and other ordinary feelings, making them hard to spot—and often likeable and charming.
Nevertheless, there were sometimes visible warning signs. For example, a psychopath was often someone who loved power and control. He expected to be able to attain grandiose, unrealistic goals without much effort, as though success was simply his due. He’d use any means to achieve those goals—nothing was out of bounds, however criminal and cruel. He typically blamed other people for his failures, and he lied easily and frequently …
Riley’s mind boggled at Zimmerman’s wealth of information and insights.
But as she read, she kept thinking about the first sentence in the book …
Long before committing a murder, the killer has the potential to commit that murder.
Although murderers were different in many ways, Zimmerman seemed to be saying that there was a certain kind of person who was destined to kill.
Riley wondered—why weren’t such people spotted and stopped before they could even get started?
Riley was anxious to keep reading and find out whether Zimmerman had any answers to that question. But she glanced at her watch and realized that a lot of time had passed since she’d fallen under the book’s spell. She had to go right now, or she’d be late for her next class.