The Writer and the Psychopath

For the past several years, I have been writing about a murderer, an occupation of mine that has led to many cocktail party conversations. These conversations all share a similar shape, which goes something like this: the cocktail party attendee (usually cradling a glass of wine or a gin and tonic) inquires what I do. Oh, I say, I’m a writer. And what do you write, the person asks. I’m working on a nonfiction book, I say. (Note the slight evasion, for I know very well that the person is asking for the story. We are story-seekers.) About what, she says. Well, I say, it’s a memoir, but it’s also about a murder. After this unspools a series of questions that I try to avoid answering, based on my belief that revelers at cocktail parties don’t actually wish to be informed of the graphic murder of a child. But usually my questioner persists in asking, and assuring me that she really does want to know over my demurrals, and eventually we get to the bare facts: the murderer is a pedophile, I say. He strangled a small boy, I say, and give a basic outline of the crime.