Текст книги "An Evil Mind"

Автор книги: Chris (2) Carter

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The first thing she realized was how dizzy she felt, as if she were stuck in a hazy dream with no way of waking up. Her mouth was bone dry and her tongue felt like sandpaper. Then she noticed the smell – dirty, damp, moldy, old and sickening. She had no idea where she was, but it smelt as if the place had been neglected for years. In spite of the horrible stench, Susan’s lungs demanded that she took in a full breath of air, and as she did, she could almost taste the rancid quality of the room. One deep breath and it made her gag.

All of a sudden, between desperate coughs, sharp and excruciating pain came to her. It took her exhausted body a few seconds to finally home in on it. It was coming from her right arm.

Susan realized then that she was sitting down on some sort of hard and terribly uncomfortable chair. Her wrists were tied together behind the chair’s backrest, her ankles to the chair’s legs. She was soaking wet, drenched with sweat. She tried lifting her head, which was awkwardly slumped forward, and the movement sent waves of nausea rippling through her stomach.

She couldn’t identify the light source inside the room, maybe a corner lamp or an old light bulb hanging overhead, but whatever it was, it bathed the room in a weak yellowish glow. Her eyes finally moved right and tried to focus on her arm and the source of the pain. She still felt groggy, so it took a moment for her vision to steady itself and for the blurriness to dissipate. When it did, her heart was filled with terror.

‘Oh, my God.’ The words dribbled out of her lips.

An enormous chunk of skin was missing from her arm – from her shoulder all the way down to her elbow. In its place she saw raw, blood-soaked flesh. For an instant, it looked as if the wound were alive. Blood was cascading down her arm, over her hands, through her fingers, and onto the concrete floor, forming a large crimson pool at the feet of the chair.

Instantly, Susan jerked her head away and vomited all over her lap. The effort made her feel even weaker, even dizzier.

‘Sorry about that, Susan,’ she heard a familiar voice say. ‘You could never really stand the sight of blood, could you?’ Susan coughed a few more times and tried to spit the awful vomit taste from her mouth. Her eyes moved forward, finally focusing on the figure standing in front of her.

‘Lucien . . .’ she said in a feeble whisper.

Flash images of last night at the Rocker Club came back to her. Then she remembered sitting in Lucien’s car . . . the angry way he had looked at her. And then nothing.

‘What . . .’ She was unable to finish the sentence, her throat way too frail to produce the sounds. Instinctively, her eyes shot toward the raw flesh in her right arm once again and her whole body shivered.

‘Oh,’ Lucien said, unconcerned, reaching behind him. ‘Don’t worry about that. I don’t think you’ll miss this horrible thing, will you?’

He showed her a large glass jar filled with some pale pink liquid. Something was floating in it. Susan squinted, forcing her tired eyes, but still couldn’t tell what it was.

‘Oh, sorry,’ Lucien said, picking up on her confusion and reaching inside the jar with his gloved hand to collect the floating object. ‘Allow me to show you. The edges have curled in a little bit now.’ He uncurled them and stretched the wet piece of skin he had carved off her arm less than an hour ago. ‘This is a hideous tattoo, Susan. I have no idea why you’d think that this is cool in any way.’

Acid-tasting bile found its way back into Susan’s mouth, resulting in a new desperate gagging/coughing frenzy.

Amused, Lucien waited until it was over.

‘But I think that it will make a great token,’ he said, nodding a couple of times. ‘And do you know what? I do think that I will give the “token collector” thing a shot. See how it makes me feel. Test the theory behind it. What do you think?’

Susan’s head throbbed with the rhythm of her thudding heart. The rope that had been used to tie her wrists and ankles felt as if it had cut through to her bones. She wanted to speak, but fear seemed to have erased every word from her terrified mind. Her eyes, on the other hand, mirrored her fear and desperation.

Lucien returned the tattooed piece of skin to the jar.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘I’ve had that syringe hidden in my car for almost a year now. I thought about using it many times.’

Susan breathed in and the air seemed to travel into her nose in lumps.

‘But never on you,’ Lucien moved on. ‘I thought about picking up a prostitute many times. As I know you’ll remember from our criminology classes, they are easy targets – approachable, accessible and, most of the time, anonymous.’ He shrugged indifferently. ‘But unfortunately it didn’t quite work out that way. I never really felt ready for it before, but tonight I felt different. I guess I can say that tonight I felt my first real “killer’s” impulse.’

Tears welled up in Susan’s eyes. To her, the air inside the room became denser, even more polluted . . . almost unbreathable.

‘I felt this amazing drive to simply do it and not think of the consequences,’ Lucien said.

His eyes shone with a new purpose. Susan saw it, and that sent a new current of panic traveling through her body.

‘So I decided not to fight it,’ he proceeded, moving a step closer. ‘I decided to act on it. So I did. And here we are.’

Susan tried to calm her breathing, tried to think, but everything still felt like a horrible dream. But if it were, why wasn’t she waking up?

‘Lucien . . .’ she said, her voice rasping, catching on her swollen throat, ‘. . . I don’t kno—’

‘No, no, no,’ Lucien interrupted, shaking his left index finger at her. ‘There’s nothing you can say. Don’t you see, Susan? There’s no turning back now.’ He stretched his arms out to his sides, calling attention to the room. ‘We’re here now. The process has started. The floodgates are open, or any cliché sentence you’d care to come up with. But no matter what, this is happening.’

That was when Susan noticed the look in Lucien’s eyes – distant and ice cold, like a man without a soul. And it paralyzed her.

Her fear filled Lucien with excitement. He was expecting that excitement to conflict with something inside of him – maybe morals, or emotions . . . he wasn’t quite sure what, but something. That conflict never came. He felt nothing but exhilaration to be finally doing something he’d fantasized about for so long.

Susan wanted to speak, to scream, but her panic-frozen lips wouldn’t move. Instead, her eyes begged him for mercy . . . mercy that never came.

Without any warning, Lucien exploded forward, and in a flash his hands were on Susan’s neck.

Her eyes went wide with terror, her neck muscles tightened as her body tried to defend itself from the attack, her jaw dropped open, gasping for air, but her brain knew that the battle was already lost. Lucien’s thumbs were already compressing Susan’s airway, while his large palms were applying enough pressure to the carotid arteries and jugular veins to cause significant occlusion, and interfere with the flow of blood in her neck.

When Susan’s body started kicking and wriggling on the chair, Lucien placed most of his body weight on her lap to keep her steady. That was when he felt something collapse under his thumbs. He knew then he had just crushed her larynx and trachea. Susan would be dead in seconds, but Lucien never stopped squeezing, at least not then. He carried on until he had fractured the hyoid bone in her neck, all the while his mad and frantic-looking eyes locked on to Susan’s dying ones.

Forty-Five

Hunter sat in silence. Not once did he interrupt Lucien’s account of events, which was conveyed coldly and without sentiment, but all throughout it Hunter fought to keep his emotions in check.

Taylor had also listened to everything in silence, no interruptions, but she found herself shifting in her chair at least a couple of times. Every tiny nervy movement she made seemed to please and amuse Lucien more and more.

‘Before you ask,’ Lucien said, looking at Hunter, ‘there was no sexual gratification. I did not touch Susan in that way.’ He shrugged. ‘Truth be told, she was never supposed to be my first. She was never supposed to be a victim at all. She was never part of the thousands of fantasies I had before that day. It was just very unfortunate that it happened that way.’

‘Thousands?’ Taylor asked.

Lucien smiled. ‘Please don’t be so naive, Agent Taylor. Do you think that people like me just suddenly decide to start killing and that’s that? We’re ready to go out the next day and pick our first victim?’ He shook his head sarcastically. ‘People like me fantasize about hurting others for a long time, Agent Taylor. Some might start fantasizing when kids, some a lot later in life, but we all do, and we do it all the time. Me, I guess I can say that my fascination with death started very early. You see, my father was a great hunter. He used to take me hunting up on the mountains in Colorado, and there was something about waiting, stalking, and looking straight into the animal’s eyes just before pulling the trigger that captivated me.’

Lucien scratched his chin while regarding Hunter. Then he smiled.

‘Look at you, Robert. I can practically hear your brain working. The psychologist in you already starting to make theoretical connections between my early hunting days and the killer I became.’ He laughed. ‘Before you ask, I didn’t wet the bed when I was a kid, and I never liked setting fire to anything.’

Lucien was referring to the Macdonald triad: a psychology-based theory that suggests that a set of three behavioral individualities – animal cruelty, obsession with fire setting, and persistent bedwetting past the age of five – if all are present together while young, can be associated with violent tendencies later in life, particularly homicidal behavior. Though studies have shown that statistically no significant links between the triad and violent offenders have been found, if the triad is split, animal cruelty is by far the individuality that had been proven to manifest itself in the early lives of a great number of apprehended serial killers. Hunter was well aware of that.

Lucien used his index finger to pick at something that was stuck between his two front teeth. ‘Well, knock yourself out, old buddy. Analyze what you like, but I’m sure I will surprise you.’

‘You already have.’

The edges of Lucien’s lips curved up smugly.

‘Despite my hunting days,’ he continued, ‘it was during my first year in high school that I started having dreams.’

Interest grew across Taylor’s face.

‘In these dreams I wasn’t hunting. I was hurting people. Sometimes people I knew, sometimes people I had never seen before . . . just random creations of my imagination. They were very violent, and supposedly scary dreams, but they filled me with excitement, they made me feel good, so good that I didn’t want to wake up. I didn’t want them to stop . . . and that was when I started fantasizing during the day, while wide-awake. The star role in these . . .’ Lucien searched the air around him for the right words: ‘. . . let’s say, “intense fantasies” of mine, usually belonged to people I disliked . . . teachers, school bullies, some family members . . . but not always.’ He paused and made a ‘whatever’ face. ‘Anyway, Susan was never one of them. She was never part of any of my violent fantasies or dreams. She just happened to fit the perfect profile that night.’

Lucien stood up, crossed over to the washbasin and refilled his cup with water.

‘That was the real reason I wanted to study psychology and criminal behavior,’ he continued, returning to the edge of the bed. ‘To try to understand what was going on in my head. Why I had these violent fantasies swimming around in here.’ He tapped his right temple with the tip of his index finger. ‘Why I enjoyed them so much, and if there was anything I could do to get rid of them.’ He chuckled. ‘But wouldn’t you know it? College had the adverse effect. The more I studied and the more theories I read about how psychologists believed the mind of a killer worked, the more intrigued I became.’ Lucien paused and had a sip of water. ‘I wanted to test them.’

‘Test them?’ Taylor asked. ‘Test who, or what?’

‘The theories,’ Hunter said, reading between the lines.

Taylor looked at him.

Lucien pointed at him and made a face as if saying, You got it in one, Robert. ‘I wanted to test the theories.’ He leaned forward a little. ‘Weren’t you intrigued, Robert? As a student with such an eager mind, didn’t you want to understand what really goes on inside a killer’s head? What really makes them tick? Didn’t you want to know if the theories we were taught were true, or just a pile of shit guesses put together by a bunch of nerd psychologists?’

Hunter continued studying Lucien in silence.

‘Well, I did,’ Lucien said. ‘The more theories I studied, the more I compared them to how my fantasies made me feel. And then, one of those theories finally proved true for me.’

Lucien looked at Taylor in a way that made her feel naked, vulnerable.

‘Care to take a guess at what theory that was, Agent Taylor?’

Taylor refused to be intimidated. ‘The theory that says you need to be a sick scumbag and fucked in the head to do what you did?’ Taylor replied, no anger or excitement in her voice.

It only made Lucien smile. ‘Robert?’ His gaze moved toward Hunter and his eyebrows arched.

Hunter wasn’t in the mood for games, but Lucien was still holding all the cards.

‘Fantasies may one day not be enough,’ he said.

Lucien’s smile widened before he addressed Taylor again. ‘He really is good, isn’t he? That’s right, Robert. I carried on fantasizing until one day I realized that the fantasies just weren’t enough. They weren’t making me feel as good as they used to. I realized that to get the same high, I needed to move it to the next level.’ His stare settled back on Hunter as if he owed him a debt of gratitude. ‘Then you said something that triggered everything, Robert.’

Forty-Six

If Lucien was expecting any sort of reaction from Hunter, he was disappointed. Hunter stayed perfectly still, matching Lucien’s stare. It was Taylor who showed surprise.

‘How do you mean?’ she asked, wiggling her body on her chair.

Lucien kept his eyes on Hunter a little longer, still looking for a reaction.

Nothing.

‘Robert and I used to have very long discussions about many of those theories,’ Lucien began. ‘It was only natural. Two young and hungry minds trying to make sense of the crazy world we lived in, trying to be the best students we could be. But it was during a debate in our second year at Stanford that Robert said something that really got my brain going.’

Taylor peeked at Hunter.

Hunter kept his attention on Lucien.

‘I’ll clarify it for you, Agent Taylor,’ Lucien offered with a smirk. ‘We were studying brain physiology. The debate was whether science would one day find a way to identify a sector of our brain, no matter how small, that controlled our urges to doing something, anything, including becoming a killer.’

Lucien looked at Hunter. Even without any acknowledgment, he knew Hunter remembered that debate.

‘I hope you don’t mind if I use the same example as you did then, Robert,’ Lucien said. ‘I still remember it well.’ He didn’t wait for a reply from Hunter. ‘Two brothers,’ Lucien began, addressing Taylor, ‘identical twins. Grew up under identical circumstances and environment. Both were shown the same amount of love and affection by their parents. They went to the same schools, attended the same classes, and were taught the same moral values. Both very popular students. Both very good students.’ Lucien shrugged. ‘Attractive too. The point I’m trying to put across here, Agent Taylor, is that there was absolutely no difference in their upbringing.’

Taylor’s frown was minimal, but Lucien noticed it.

‘Stay with me,’ he said, ‘things will get clearer. Now, let’s say that these two brothers became avid music fans.’ Lucien winked at Hunter. ‘And they both liked the same style of music and the same music groups. They changed their looks and hairstyles to match the ones of their idols. They bought the albums.’ Lucien paused and smiled. ‘Well, that was back then, now they would just download the music, isn’t that right? Anyway, they had the T-shirts, the baseball hats, the posters, the badges . . . everything. They went to every concert that came to their town. But there was one difference. Brother “A” was content in just being a music fan. He was happy with just going to the gigs, listening to the songs back in his room, and dressing up like his idols. Brother “B”, on the other hand, wanted something more. Just being a fan, going to gigs, and listening to the music wasn’t enough for him. Something inside him told him that he needed to be part of the music circus. He needed to experience the real deal for himself. So brother “B” learns how to play an instrument, and he joins a band. And there we have it.’

Lucien allowed his words to float in the air, giving Taylor a moment to digest them before moving on.

‘It’s that little difference that makes all the difference, Agent Taylor. Why does brother “B”, after growing up in identical circumstances, wants something that little bit more than brother “A”? Why is one content with just being a fan, and the other isn’t?’

If Taylor was trying to think of an answer, Lucien didn’t wait.

‘That same theory can be easily transposed across to the desire to murder.’ This time his smirk was even more confident. ‘Some people with violent tendencies may be content with just fantasizing, with watching violent films, or reading violent books, or looking at violent pictures on the Internet, or punching a punch bag, or whatnot, but some . . .’ He shook his head slowly. ‘Some will feel the need to go that little bit further. To become brother “B”. And it’s this drive, the drive that makes us want something more than others, that Robert argued he didn’t think science will ever be able to pinpoint, at least not physically, because that drive is what makes us individuals. It’s what makes us all different from each other.’

Hunter kept on observing Lucien. He was getting excited with his own discourse, like a preacher in a church. Even more so because he could see that he’d made Taylor wonder.

‘Are you saying that Robert’s debate argument all those years ago is what tipped you into starting killing?’ Taylor said with a sarcastic lilt to her voice. ‘Are you looking for someone else to blame for everything you’ve done? Well, that’s typical.’

Lucien threw his head back and laughed animatedly. ‘Not at all, Agent Taylor. I’ve done what I’ve done because I wanted to.’ He pointed a finger at Hunter. ‘But physiology aside, that argument got me thinking, old friend, because that was when I realized that that was exactly what I needed to do. I needed to stop fantasizing. I needed to stop fighting the urge. I needed to move it to the next level . . . brother “B”. So I started planning. You see, one of the great things about studying criminology, Agent Taylor, is that we learn about some of the most infamous killers that have walked this earth. And believe me, I studied them in depth. I read and subscribed to specialized newspapers and magazines. I studied the writings of numerous prominent forensic psychiatrists. I learned about sex murderers, serial murderers, military murderers, mass murderers, and professional murderers. I studied massacres and murder conspiracies. I learned just about everything I could on the subject, but the one thing I paid particular attention to was . . . perpetrators’ mistakes. Especially the mistakes that led to their capture.’

Taylor decided to bite back. ‘Well, it looks like you didn’t pay that much attention after all, given your current predicament.’ She allowed her eyes to circle around his cell.

Lucien didn’t seem bothered by Taylor’s sharp comment.

‘Oh, I paid more than enough attention, Agent Taylor. Unfortunately no one can foresee accidents. The only reason I’m sitting here right now is not because I made a mistake, or due to any merit of your own or the organization you work for, but because an unfortunate chain of chance events took place seven days ago. Events that were out of my control. Admit it, Agent Taylor, the FBI had no idea I existed. You weren’t investigating me, any of my aliases, or any of the acts I committed.’

‘We would have eventually got to you,’ Taylor said.

‘But of course you would.’ Lucien grinned confidently. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, I started planning. And the first thing on my list was to find an isolated and anonymous place. Somewhere where I wouldn’t be disturbed. A place where I could take my time.’

‘And you found such a place in La Honda,’ Hunter said.

‘I sure did,’ Lucien confirmed. ‘Just an old, abandoned little house in the middle of the woods. It was close enough to Stanford that it wouldn’t take me long to get there. And the best thing about it was that I could use remote back roads to reach it. No one would spot me.’

Lucien stood up and stretched his powerful frame.

‘The place is still there,’ he said. ‘I visited it not that long ago.’ He didn’t sit back down. ‘You know what? I’ve got a little bit of a headache and I’m getting hungry. So what do you say we all take a break?’ He pulled his sleeve up and looked at his wrist as if he had a watch. ‘Let’s start again in two hours, how does that sound?’

‘Not good, Lucien,’ Hunter said. ‘Susan’s remains, where are they?’

‘Another two hours before you find out won’t make a difference, Robert. It’s not like you have to rush to save her, is it now?’

Forty-Seven

Outside, the sun was shining bright in yet another cloudless sky. It was the kind of warm and joyful day that made most people smile for no apparent reason, but the magic of the day didn’t seem to reach as far as the BSU building.

Hunter had found an empty meeting room somewhere on the second floor. He was standing by the window, staring out at nothing at all, when Taylor stepped inside and softly closed the door behind her.

‘So there you are.’

Without turning, Hunter checked his watch. It had only been ten minutes since they’d left Lucien in his cell, but to him it felt like hours.

‘Are you all right?’ Taylor asked, stepping closer.

‘Yeah, I’m fine,’ Hunter replied, his voice firm and confident.

Taylor hesitated an instant. ‘Listen, I need to get out of here for a while.’

Hunter turned and looked at her.

‘I need to go outdoors for an hour or so, breathe some fresh air or something before I go back down into that basement.’

Hunter could easily sympathize with her argument.

‘I know a place not very far from here where on a day like this, they’ll have tables outside,’ Taylor added. ‘Their food is great, but if you’re not hungry, their coffee is even better. What do you say we get the hell out of here for a bit?’

She didn’t have to ask twice.

Forty-Eight

Despite them having had their last meal over four and a half hours earlier, neither Hunter nor Taylor felt like eating. Hunter ordered a simple black coffee, while Taylor went for a double espresso. They were sitting at one of the outside tables at a small Italian cantina-style restaurant in Garrisonville Road, less than fifteen minutes’ drive from the FBI Academy.

Taylor stirred her coffee and watched the thin layer of dark brown foam slowly disappear from the surface. She thought about telling Hunter how sorry she was for what had happened to his mother. She thought about maybe telling him about her own mother, but as she thought better of it she decided that neither subject would benefit anyone. She finished stirring her coffee and placed the spoon down on the saucer.

‘What did Lucien mean when he said that your friend Susan just happened to fit the perfect profile that night?’ she asked.

Hunter was waiting for his coffee to cool down a little. He’d never been one of those people like Carlos Garcia, his partner back at the LAPD, who could pretty much pour boiling hot coffee into a cup, give it five seconds, and then drink it down as if it were just lukewarm.

Hunter raised his eyes at Taylor.

‘Lucien and Susan, had both just graduated from Stanford,’ he said. ‘For Susan, her college days were over. She didn’t need to be in class anymore. She had no job, no boss, no boyfriend, no husband, no “punching the clock” anywhere, so to speak. Her family lived in Nevada. No one was expecting to hear from Susan again soon, especially because she had already let everyone know that after graduation, she had her mind set on traveling.’

‘So, if she disappeared,’ Taylor said, picking up on Hunter’s line of thought, ‘people would’ve just assumed that she’d really acted on her promise of traveling. No reason for anyone to get worried, at least not for a while.’

‘Exactly,’ Hunter agreed. ‘The circumstances of that particular moment in time made her the best possible kind of victim. The anonymous kind. The unmissed. And Lucien knew that very well.’

A tall and young-looking waitress, with her long dark hair pulled back into a fishtail braid, stepped up to their table.

‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to have a look at the menu?’ she asked with a hint of an Italian accent. ‘I can recommend the gnocchi with the chef’s special cheese, tomato and basil sauce.’ She gave them a charming smile. ‘It’s so good you’ll want to lick the plate.’

Gnocchi was Hunter’s favorite Italian dish, but he still had no appetite.

‘Wow, that does sound very tempting,’ he said, matching her smile. ‘But I’m not very hungry today. Maybe another time.’ He nodded at Taylor.

‘Yeah, I’m not hungry either. Just the coffee for me today, thanks.’

‘No problem,’ the waitress said. She paused. Looked back at them. ‘I hope you guys work things out,’ she added kindly. ‘You look good together.’ She gave them one last sympathetic smile before moving over to take the order of a small group sitting just a few tables away.

‘Is that the vibe we’re giving out?’ Taylor asked once the waitress was out of earshot. ‘That we’re a couple trying to work things out?’

Hunter had an amused smile on his lips. He shrugged. ‘I guess.’

For an instant, Taylor almost looked embarrassed, but in a flash her game face was back on. ‘Do you really believe that Susan was never part of any of Lucien’s violent fantasies?’ she asked. ‘Do you believe she really was his first ever victim? And that he didn’t rape her?’

Hunter leaned back on his chair. ‘Why do you think he would lie about any of that?’

‘I’m not sure. I guess that what I’m trying to understand is – if Susan really was Lucien’s first ever victim, and he’d never had any “violent fantasies” about her, how come he went for her and not someone else . . . a stranger?’

Hunter frowned. ‘I thought we just covered that a minute ago.’

‘No, I’m not talking about that particular night, or even that week, Robert. What I’m talking about is that despite the circumstances back then, giving Susan the quality of “perfect victim”, unless it was all an act, she and Lucien were supposed to be “friends”. From what he said, he even had some romantic interest in her, which suggests some sort of emotional attachment.’

Hunter’s coffee had cooled down enough for him to have a healthy sip. ‘And you’re thinking, it’s got to be a lot harder for a perpetrator to kidnap, partially skin, and then kill someone he knew, someone who was supposedly a friend, someone who he had a crush on.’

‘Exactly.’ Taylor nodded. ‘Especially if that person is his

first ever victim. If Lucien hadn’t fantasized about killing Susan in particular, then why torture and kill a “friend”? He could’ve easily found another anonymous victim – a total stranger – someone he could’ve picked up in a bar or a club, a hooker, I don’t know, but someone who he had zero feelings for, someone he couldn’t care less about.’

‘And to Lucien, that was exactly who Susan was.’

Taylor frowned.

‘You’re trying to look at it with your own eyes, Courtney,’ Hunter said, putting his coffee cup back down on the table. ‘You’re trying to understand it with your own mind. And when you do that, your emotions get in the way. You have to try to look at it through Lucien’s eyes. His psychopathy isn’t victim-centered.’

Taylor held Hunter’s gaze for a long while. Every agent with the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit is aware that there are two major types of aggressive psychopaths. The first kind – victim-centered – are the ones to whom the victim is the most important part of the equation. The perpetrator fantasizes about a specific type of victim, so everyone he chooses has to match that type, fit the profile. And it usually boils down to physical type. With victim-centered psychopaths, the whole fantasy revolves around the way the victim looks. It’s the victim’s physical attributes that excites and ‘turns them on’. Most of the time because it reminds them of someone else. In those cases, there’s always some sort of strong emotional connection, and nine out of ten times their fantasies will involve some sort of sexual act. The victim being sexually assaulted either before or after being murdered is almost a certainty.

The second major type of aggressive psychopaths – violence-centered – are the ones to whom the victim is secondary. The most important part of the equation is the violence, not the victim. It’s the killing act that pleasures them. They don’t fantasize about a certain type of victim. They don’t fantasize about having sex with the victim, because sex will bring them little, or no pleasure at all. On the contrary, it’s a distraction from the violence. What they fantasize about is torture, about how to inflict pain, about the God-like power that it gives them. To those psychopaths, anyone can become a victim, even friends and family. There is no distinction. Because of that, they achieve a much higher level of emotional detachment than the victim-centered ones. They can easily kidnap, torture and kill a friend, a relative, a lover, a spouse . . . To them it doesn’t matter. Emotions simply have no relevance.