Watching

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 sympathy 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.

She left the library and headed across campus, clutching Dr. Zimmerman’s book as she walked along. About halfway to her class, she couldn’t resist the pull of the book, and she flipped it open and skimmed parts of the text as she walked.

Then she heard a male voice say …

“Hey, watch out!”

Riley stopped in her tracks and looked up from her book.

Ryan Paige was standing on the sidewalk right in front of her, grinning at her.

He seemed highly amused by Riley’s distracted state of mind.

He said, “Wow, that must be some book you’re reading. You almost plowed right into me there. Could I have a look?”

Thoroughly embarrassed now, Riley handed him the book.

“I’m impressed,” Ryan said, thumbing through a few pages. “Dexter Zimmerman is a flat-out genius. Criminal law isn’t my focus, but I took a couple of classes with him as an undergrad, he really blew me away. I’ve read some of his books, but not this one. Is it as good as I figure it must be?”

Riley simply nodded.

Ryan’s smile faded.

He said, “Terrible thing, what happened to that girl Thursday night. Did you happen to know her?”

Riley nodded again and said, “Rhea and I were in the same dorm—Gettier Hall.”

Ryan looked shocked.

“Wow, I’m so sorry. It must have been awful for you.”

For a moment Riley flashed back to the scream that woke her up on that horrible night, the sight of Heather collapsed and sick in the hall, the blood on the dorm room floor, Rhea’s wide open eyes and slashed throat …

She shuddered and thought …

He’s got no idea.

Ryan shook his head and said, “The whole campus is on edge—has been ever since it happened. The cops even came by my place that night, woke me up, asked me all kinds of questions. Can you believe it?”

Riley cringed a little.

Of course she could believe it. After all, she was the one who gave Ryan’s name to the police.

Should she admit it? Should she apologize?

While she was trying to decide, Ryan shrugged and said, “Well, I guess they must have talked to lots of guys. I hear she was at the Centaur’s Den that night, and of course I was too. They were doing their job. I understand. And I sure hope they catch the bastard who did this. Anyway, what happened to me is no big deal—not compared to how this must be for you. Like I said, I’m really, really sorry.”

“Thanks,” Riley said, looking at her watch.

She hated to be rude. In fact, she’d been hoping to run into this handsome guy again. But right now she was going to be late for class—and besides, she somehow wasn’t in the state of mind to enjoy even Ryan’s company.

Ryan handed the book back to her, as if he understood. Then he tore a small piece of paper out of a notebook and jotted something down.

A bit shyly, he said, “Look, I hope this doesn’t seem to be out of line, but … I just thought I’d give you my phone number. Maybe you’d just like to talk sometime. Or not. It’s up to you.”

He handed her the bit of paper and added, “I wrote my name down too—in case you’d forgotten.”

“Ryan Paige,” Riley said. “I hadn’t forgotten.”

She recited her own phone number for him. She worried that it must seem brusque of her to tell him her number instead of writing it down for him. The truth was, she was glad to think she might see him again. She was just having trouble acting all friendly to anybody new right now.

“Thanks,” she said, putting the paper in her pocket. “I’ll see you later.”

Riley brushed right past Ryan and headed toward her class.

She heard Ryan call out behind her, “I hope so.”

*

As the rest of the school day passed, Riley read snatches of Zimmerman’s book whenever she got a chance. All day long she couldn’t help wondering—might Rhea’s killer be like Ted Bundy, a charming man who had managed to engage Rhea’s trust?

She remembered what Dr. Zimmerman had said in class that morning …

“The killer knew Rhea and wanted her dead.”

And unlike Bundy, Rhea’s killer was finished. He would seek no other victims.

At least according to Dr. Zimmerman.

He seemed so positive, Riley thought.

She wondered how he could be so certain.

Later that evening, Riley and Trudy were in their dorm room studying quietly together. Little by little, Riley started feeling restless and impatient. She wasn’t sure why.

Finally she got up from her desk, put on her jacket, and headed for the door.

Trudy looked up from her homework and asked, “Where are you going?”

“I don’t know,” Riley said. “Just out for a little while.”

“Alone?” Trudy asked.

“Yeah.”

Trudy shut her book and looked at Riley anxiously.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” she asked. “Maybe I should come along. Or maybe you should call the campus escort service.”

Riley felt a surprising burst of impatience.

“Trudy, that’s ridiculous,” she said. “All I want to do is take a little walk. We can’t live like this—always afraid something awful might happen. Life has to go on.”

Riley was startled by the sharpness of her own words. And she could see by Trudy’s expression that her feelings were hurt.

Trying to speak more gently, Riley said, “Anyway, it’s not very late. And I won’t stay out long. I’ll be safe. I promise.”

Trudy didn’t reply. She silently opened her book and started reading again.

Riley sighed and walked out into the hallway. She stood there for a few moments wondering …

Where do I want to go?

What do I want to do?

Slowly came a vague realization …

I want to go back.

She wanted to know how Rhea’s death had happened.

CHAPTER EIGHT

With relentless questions about Rhea’s death dogging her mind, Riley stood still and looked up and down the dorm hallway.

This was where it started, she thought.

She found herself picturing the place on Thursday night, the moment after she reluctantly agreed to go to the Centaur’s Den with her friends.

She had just put on her denim jacket over a flattering crop top and stepped out into the hallway. Trudy and Rhea had been rounding up the other girls for their outing—Cassie, Gina, and Heather.

Riley remembered the bustle of immature excitement in the air—the promise of drinking, dancing, and maybe some guys.

She also remembered how disconnected she’d felt from all that.

She retraced the group’s steps down the hall and continued on outside.

It was already dark out—not as dark as it had been that night, but the lamps along the pathways were on, so it was easy for Riley to visualize how things had looked at the time.

As she walked the way they had all taken, Riley remembered lagging behind the others, tempted to head back to her room to resume her studies. Cassie, Gina, and Heather had clustered together, chattering and giggling. Rhea and Trudy had walked side by side, playfully punching each other in the arm over some joke that Riley hadn’t been able to hear.

Riley kept visualizing all that had happened as she followed their route off campus and into the surrounding streets. Soon she arrived at the entrance to the Centaur’s Den, as they had that night. She remembered being pushed ahead into the smoky, noisy bar.

As she walked on inside now, the place was markedly less crowded than it had been that night. It was also quieter. Alanis Morissette’s “Uninvited” was playing on the jukebox, softly enough for Riley to be able to hear the nearby cracking of billiard balls. And there were no moving light beams or sparkles flashing over the empty dance floor.

But Riley could vividly remember the din and chaos of that night—how “Whiskey in the Jar” had blared so loudly that the whole place vibrated, and how Heather, Cassie, and Gina had headed straight toward the bar, and how Trudy had grabbed both Riley and Rhea by the hands and yelled over the music …

“Come on, let’s dance, the three of us!”

As she stood looking at the now-empty dance floor, Riley remembered shaking her head and pulling her hand away, and how Trudy had looked hurt and then stuck out her tongue at her and then went right on dancing with Rhea.

Had that been the last time Riley had seen Rhea—at least alive?

She remembered heading downstairs to be by herself. The next time she’d seen her friends was when they’d come stumbling drunkenly down the stairs and Trudy had been wielding a full pitcher of beer.

Riley had asked Trudy …

“Where’s Rhea?”

Trudy hadn’t known, but one of the other girls—Heather, Riley thought—had said that Rhea had already gone back to the dorm.

Riley swallowed hard at the realization—yes, the last time she had ever seen Rhea alive was right here on this dance floor.

She felt a renewed rush of guilt, and the awfulness of that word if …

If maybe I’d just stayed and danced with them …

But she reminded herself of what Dr. Zimmerman had said about guilt—that it wasn’t going to bring Rhea back …

“Focus instead on our capacity for empathy.”

Riley wondered—was that what she was trying to do right now, by reliving what she and her friends had gone through that night?

Was she trying to empathize?

If so, with whom?

She had no idea.

All she knew was that her curiosity was growing by the moment.

She simply wanted to know—without really having any idea what she expected to find out.

Riley turned away from the dance floor and noticed a couple of guys playing pool. One of them was Harry Rampling, the football player who had approached her downstairs that night.

Riley watched as Harry took a pool shot that didn’t put any balls in any pockets. Riley thought it was a dumb shot. She was a pretty good pool player herself.

Then Harry made eye contact with her and sneered a little.

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