Thoughts on murder

I’ve had a morbid curiosity about murder lately. My mind gets lost in all the “why”s. Why do people do it? Why is it that some seem more capable of it than others? And why in the world am I thinking about it more than usual?

It’s not like I know anyone who was murdered recently (or ever, really). There haven’t been any in this area lately that I know of. The only one I’m remotely connected to personally is the killing of the older sister of an acquaintance some fifteen years ago that became a media spectacle for a while.

As best I can figure, it’s a combination of things: being stranded in the admittedly haunting Omaha, Nebraska, in the middle of the night alone; reading a few days later about a murder spree in the Omaha area that inspired Springsteen’s song “Nebraska” (the coincidental timing of the two was chilling); reading Nick Hornby’s description of the Suicide song “Frankie Teardrop” before listening to it; being reminded of the movie Capote and his own curiosity that inspired In Cold Blood (which my curiosity recently drove me to buy at a used book store); the melancholy darkness of the fall that affects me so deeply; the chill of a full moon at experienced alone at midnight. It could be any of these things, or a combination of all of them. I don’t know, nor will I ever.

I don’t mean to say I want to see a murder, or even the aftermath of one. I’d much rather live in a world where no man killed another man. I see no situation where killing one’s own kind is justifiable. And yet, when I hear of murder — especially senseless, premeditated or unjustified murder, murder outside the realm of “crimes of passion” — my mind spins wildly. The thought of a cold and lifeless body taken too soon, the way its image must haunt all who see it, the suspense of a killer in one’s midst.

Perhaps it’s only human to wonder about things that we will never do. It makes me wonder if those inclined to murder have a “morbid” curiosity about, I don’t know… making cupcakes, or living a life rich with love and emotional support given and received.

It also makes me wonder how it is that humans are so similar and different all at once. Relatively speaking, I suppose it’s no stranger that I like music more than others than it is that some are inclined to kill more than others. But what is it about human nature that allows for such wildly diverse moral and psychological states while still providing some sense that we are all the same?

I hope this curiosity doesn’t lead any to think I’m unstable; I think I’m more balanced, satisfied and happy with my life than ever before. I’m not any closer to wanting to commit such an act; in fact, I’m probably further from it than ever, not that I was anywhere close to begin with. I know I can’t be alone in my ability to wander into dark territory without feeling unstable, but I don’t know of too many others who would admit to such a curiosity.

Now that I think about it, the fact that books like In Cold Blood and songs like “Nebraska” are popular speaks to a thread in humanity similar to what I’m talking about. Maybe it’s just weird to talk about it. But then, when have I ever been normal?