compose myself, reassess the space. Front door behind me. Most likely patio doors straight back. An open-bannister staircase to the left. A door at the base of the stairs. Coat closet, most likely. Another door directly across from that. Downstairs powder room.
Otherwise, a very open, expansive space, decorated like a page out of a West Elm catalogue. But in my second survey I catch what I missed the first time around. No photos. No wall art. Nothing of any personal nature at all.
According to Keith Edgar, he not only owns this house, but also works out of it. And yet this space might as well be a showroom. Perfectly appointed and completely devoid of personality.
We all wear masks. And the more we have to hide, the more accomplished the veneer.
Keith returns with a tall glass of water. I take it from him carefully, not standing too close, making sure our fingers don’t touch. Then I do take a seat. My inventory has restored my sense of paranoia. I have all my survivor’s instincts kicking in now.
Meaning I’m relaxed for the first time since I knocked on the door.
“Why true crime?” I ask him. I hold my water glass but don’t sip it. I notice the glass coffee table has a perfectly clear top. Not a single spec of dust or water ring. I wonder if he cleans it obsessively, or pays someone to do it for him.
“I’ve always been fascinated by puzzles.” He takes the orange chair across from me, leaving the table between us, as if he understands I need the barrier. He leans slightly forward, arms resting loosely on each leg. He’s still smiling, clearly delighted by my unexpected presence in his house. I decide then and there that if he takes a selfie, I will kick him in the balls.
“Doesn’t explain true crime.”
“I particularly enjoy puzzles that haven’t been solved. True crime one-oh-one. You start with Jack the Ripper, then the Black Dahlia, and next thing you know, you’re reading everything about every notorious homicide, because the only way to get fresh insight into the unsolved murders is to learn from the killers who did get arrested. Why did they do what they did? And how can they be caught?”
“What’s the nature of evil?” I ask dryly.
He shrugs slightly. “Most people debate whether evil is born or made. Nature versus nurture. Based on my research, I think of it more as a spectrum. All of the above, but with some predators leaning more one way or another. For example, Ted Bundy—”
“By all means, Ted Bundy.”
That quick grin, proving he knows just how much he resembles one of the nation’s most feared super-predators. “I think he’s an example of evil that’s born. Bundy claimed that he was affected by his unconventional upbringing—being raised by his grandparents as his mother’s younger brother, versus being acknowledged as her illegitimate child. But I think we can all agree that as traumas go, that doesn’t quite rise to the level of spending your adult life hunting and killing young women—particularly given evidence he was playing with knives by the time he was three. Him, Dahmer, they were always going to be killers. Just a matter of when.”
I say nothing.
He clasps his hands, continues quickly. “Then you have Edmund Kemper the third. Raised by an abusive, alcoholic mother who was severely critical of him. Forced to live in the basement because she didn’t want him near his sisters. Then sent as a teenager to live with his grandparents, whom he hated.”
I can’t help myself: “He was sent to live with his grandparents because he’d already murdered the family cats.”
I earn a quick nod of approval. Whatever game we’re playing, I’m at least living up to expectations. Or was just stupid enough to take the bait.
“But here’s the deal with Kemper,” Keith says now, totally serious. “He shot and killed his grandparents when he was fifteen. That got him sent away to a facility for youthful offenders where he was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. So, sure, you could argue brain chemistry, born bad—”
“He shot his grandmother just to see what it felt like.”
“Exactly.” Another earnest nod. “And upon getting released, he murdered six young women, even liked to drive by police stations with their bodies stuffed in the trunk of his car. But this is what makes Kemper so fascinating: He was also incredibly intelligent and reflective. Smart enough, he realized one day that the person he really wanted to kill was his mother.