? Psychopathic/sociopathic inferences
? Ability to detach, possible childhood or early trauma (see below) ? Interval between murders: indicative of emotional stressors prior to attack ? Killer: creative; will have link with visual art world – photography, sculpture, painting and or design ? Age: thirty–forty
? Attractive
? Ability to deceive and gain trust
? Capable of social integration
? A planner and a dreamer – will fantasise about murders in advance ? Manipulative/charming
? Capable of delusional thinking and distortion of information ? Seeks emotional fulfilment
? Attention-seeker
? Dangerous and volatile when provoked
? Uses sexual attraction to meet victims/partners
? Has the ability to compartmentalise killings
? Early trauma – damage during development of relationship between the id, the ego and the super-ego ? Ability to adjust to preferred sexual fetish – prior sexual grooming ? Will operate solely, or within a small group
? Lacks trust
? High level of hatred
? Emotionally damaged
? Violent attacks possible pleasure/release for the killer ? Creation of crime scene: reflective of visual awareness ? Takes pride in the end result
? Level of intelligence: HIGH
? Ability to avoid detection: HIGH
? Victims are chosen, and are potentially groomed
? Calmness of killer during aftermath of attack v. frenzied assault – further analysis required ? Risk of repeat killing: HIGH
? Time frame: subject to stressor/stressors
? Identification of stressor: unknown
I
THERE ARE TIMES when I feel lonely. People who keep secrets are often that way. Like others, I like to be held, to be kissed, and there are elements of previous love affairs from which I have taken pleasure.
Sex is different from kissing. My new lover is a good kisser. He says he loves my lips. I like the way he runs his long fingers through my hair, cupping the back of my head when he kisses me, before lowering his hands to my breasts, his fingertips warm to the touch, caressing each nipple, soft and teasing, and pleased when they become hard. Clawing at his skin with my nails, I can tell he enjoys the pain, feeling his arousal. Lately, he has started to cover my mouth with his hand when he is pushing in hard, my legs spread apart, as he shadows me like some beast. Afterwards, like the others, he tells me how much he needs me.
The last time we had sex, we didn’t speak, not a word. We sat side by side in the car as he drove home. Once inside the house, he opened the top button of my skirt, then tugged the zip down. The skirt fell to the floor. I stepped back, kicking it to the side, and stripped in front of him like a burlesque performer. He looked on, obviously pleased. His kisses were more violent then, biting hard. ‘Slow down,’ I murmured, not wanting it to end too soon. He liked my suggestion of the ropes. I knew he would.
He tied my hands one at a time to each of the bedposts, nice and tight. Opening my legs, he tied the ankles too, kissing my inner thighs. I pretended an effort to escape, and felt the ropes tear into my skin, the pain wolfing me, him wanting me more than ever. His pathetic wife would never let him do anything like this. She can’t or won’t give him the sense of power he desires. I understand power: you need to be deprived of it to grasp its full appeal.
The tightened ropes, like his hands, felt rough to the touch, and when his fingernails cut my skin, I longed for him to use the knife, even the smallest tear. He enjoyed mixing my pain with his pleasure. Afterwards, I mentioned the blade. He didn’t respond, but when he came inside me again, I arched my back, then turned to look at the gleam of the knife, and we both knew what would happen next.