The Boy Who Killed
I was 11 years old the first time I saw him. It was the first day of school, a new school, in a new town, in a new state. My brother and I were the first to board the bus. He got on at the next stop, sauntering up the steps with a confidence I’d never felt in my life, and then to the very back of the bus where he slouched in his seat. I was certain he must be 6 feet tall, but that didn't make sense because I knew he couldn't be any older than I was.
As my brother and I slowly acclimated to the new situation in which we found ourselves, more and more students boarded the bus, and more and more laughter emanated from the back of the bus. Somehow, I could hear his voice above those of all the others. Like a king holding court, he seemed so much more worldly and confident than I. He was the classic “big man on campus” while I was “the new kid.” At last, when we arrived at school, he disappeared, clearly in a different class.
I don't remember so much the days that followed. However, there was this small, secret part of me that longed for him to notice me. Instead, every day he looked past me as if I did not exist. In time, it became a full-blown crush, though I was always too shy to even offer a smile.
To complicate matters, my mom had become friends with his mom. He had a younger brother the same age as my younger sister, and they played together while we were in school. To my chagrin, this never translated into an opportunity to speak to him myself.
With the beginning of the following school year, we moved on to junior high school. We were no longer on the same school bus, but I still caught glimpses of him at the school. I could see his house from my bedroom window. By now, I'm sure he was at least six feet tall, and he towered over most of the other students. However, his head was often down and he shuffled through the hallways as if attempting to go unnoticed. He had his group of friends, and it was different from my group of friends, and there was very little reason for us to interact. Furthermore, we did not share the same classes, so I really had no occasion to speak to him.
At some point during high school, I lost interest in him. It's not that I didn't care, but rather, I just didn't think about him anymore. It came to my attention that a girl with whom I had once been friends but now vehemently disliked was dating him. How strange, I thought. Knowing what a terrible person she was, I briefly thought, he could do better. But that was just me at the age of 17, holding on to an image of how I had pictured him at the age of 11. He was not that same boy, and perhaps never had been.
In February of 1983, during my senior year in high school, my small town was rocked by the news of a murder. It was unimaginable that something of this magnitude had occurred in our sleepy little town, and as more details came to light, it became even more unbelievable. It was a violent and brutal murder, involving a gunshot wound and 57 stab wounds, of one of the town’s known drug dealers. Apparently, this young man whom I had continued to hold in a very small part of my heart, might very well be the killer.
I made excuses. It couldn't be him. My friends and I became convinced that it was his girlfriend who had carried out the murder, and we were certain we were correct because we knew what a horrible person she was. We were sure that he was taking the fall for her. We waited for more of the story to develop, because surely, she would soon be taken into custody and he would be released.
But that's not what happened. In fact, were I to rely on my memory alone I would find very little information about what did occur. I was a senior in high school doing all the things that seniors in high school do, and gave very little thought to what had happened to him beyond the initial shock. 35 years later, I have news articles which tell me he was found guilty of murder and sentenced to 20 years in prison.
It’s difficult to be objective when someone you know, even if only peripherally, does something unexpected, something gruesome. It’s hard to reconcile the person you thought you knew with the person you now see, and perhaps that’s why the acquaintances of murderers always seem so surprised by the revelation, with comments about how quiet he was, how kind, how unsuspecting.
Shortly after the incident, had someone asked me what I thought, I’d have argued strenuously for his innocence. But what did I know of it, really? In truth, I barely knew him at all. I imagine even his family was shocked by it, and even more desperate to believe in his innocence. If we are to believe in the system of justice upon which we all rely, he was found guilty and surely that must mean that he committed this atrocious act. If it’s challenging to assimilate our impressions of someone with what has been shown to be true, perhaps it is necessary to alter our perceptions to more closely align with reality. Perhaps it’s not the information being presented to us which is the problem, but rather, it is our unwillingness to accept evidence that contradicts our false perceptions.
The boy I once thought I knew and on whom I had a secret crush was, in fact, a deranged killer. What does that say about me?
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