How Monsters Hide in Plain Sight By Alexandrea Weis

©Vesuvian Media Group

Many who have watched documentaries on serial killers, rapists, and con artists often wonder how victims didn’t see them coming until it was too late. After all, the perpetrator’s abhorrent behavior is evident to everyone sitting at home safely tucked behind computer screens and televisions.

Unfortunately, countless people have had the misfortune of encountering psychopaths. They are narcissistic, manipulative, impulsive, and lack empathy. Psychopaths are usually charismatic and skilled at playing a role to get what they want. Like Bernie Madoff, who conned investors out of millions, they have no conscience, show no remorse for their actions, and are callous, unemotional, and morally depraved. These criminals pretend to care when it suits their needs and can present as adjusted, well-rounded individuals to hide their cruel or deviant behavior. Remember Ted Bundy and how he charmed his trial judge? Bundy and others like him are not considered legally insane because they know right from wrong. They just don’t think the law applies to them.

Rapists can also have psychopathic traits. I experienced this firsthand in high school. A friend, Lady L, was raped by a young man. He was handsome, popular, the son of wealthy parents, but known for his ego, love of flirting, and ability to worm his way out of trouble. When she was asked out by the boy who made every girl’s heart flutter, rumors began to swirl about his penchant for rape. After her date, everyone noticed a change in her. A girl who had once dressed well and took pride in her social calendar was seen in baggy clothes and withdrew from all activities. I remember noticing, but I never put the signs together because no one taught us what they meant. Thirty-five years later, Lady L finally told her family and friends what had happened. She’d lost her virginity to a man who drugged and raped her. He never paid for his crime, and his wife and children do not know what he did.

Through fiction, a reader can safely delve into the mind of such twisted people. River of Ashes is a cautionary tale about a guy who is perfect—until he isn’t. Sometimes evil hides behind a handsome face and killer smile. Beau Devereaux, the golden boy of St. Benedict, Louisiana, is the catch of the town. But behind his Prince Charming persona hides a monster. Beau’s victims never saw him coming, either. And even after he commits heinous acts, people keep quiet for the same reasons most young women do today—fear of reprisals, humiliation, peer pressure, and lack of trust in “the system.” Part of me wanted to write River of Ashes for my Lady L, to help open readers’ eyes to what can happen. People are rarely who they seem, which is even more evident with psychopaths. We all judge a book by its cover. We admire the packaging and, from that, develop a sense of trust. But until we urge people to question every Prince Charming that comes along, the suffering of women in our society will continue to be the focus of movies and novels.

Some readers wonder why Beau Devereaux is the way he is, but there is no clear explanation. The abuse excuse made famous in the Menendez brothers’ trial does not apply to most psychopaths. A few came from loving homes such as Dennis Radner, the BTK killer. And though there isn’t a psychopath gene, studies show psychopathy does run in families. Even if a parent doesn’t exhibit any traits, they may carry a genetic variant that increases their child’s chance of psychopathy. Troubling behaviours usually emerge during childhood and worsen over time. Puberty is when most develop dark fantasies they act out later in life. Such was the case with Jeffrey Dahmer and John Wayne Gacy. No one expects to come face to face with a psychopath, but some of us already have. So, look beneath the shiny veneer if anyone appears too good to be true. Educating young people today could spare many from becoming victims in the future. Acknowledging such horrific subjects isn’t easy, but it is necessary. We have an opportunity to raise awareness, even if we must tackle such an unsettling subject one book at a time.  

Rivers of Ashes by Alexandrea Weis and Lucas Astor (Vesuvian Books) Out Now

Along the banks of the Bogue Falaya River, sits the abandoned St. Francis Seminary. Beneath a canopy of oaks, blocked from prying eyes, the teens of St. Benedict High gather here on Fridays. The rest of the week belongs to school and family—but weekends belong to the river. And the river belongs to Beau Devereaux. The only child of a powerful family, Beau can do no wrong. Star quarterback. Handsome. Charming. The 'prince” of St Benedict is the ultimate catch. He is also a psychopath. A dirty family secret buried for years, Beau's eveil grows unchecked. In the shadows of the haunted abbey, he commits unspeakable acts on his victims and ensires their silence with threats and intimidation. Senior year, Beau sets his sights on his girlfriend's headstrong twin sister, Leslie who hates him. Everything he wants but canot have, she will be his ultimate prize. As the victim toll mounts, it becomes clear that someone must stop Beau Devereaux. And that someone will pay with their life.

More information about Alexandrea Weis can be found on her website. You can also follow her on Twtter @alexandreaweis and on Facebook and Instagram @alexandreaweis

Understanding Monsters, Surviving Monsters by Clea Simon

 

Nobody in our high school was completely surprised when Joel Rifkin turned out to be a serial killer.

Were we shocked? Sure. The quiet kind of nebbishy guy who took photos for our high school newspaper and yearbook, Joel never seemed like a threat. Was he awkward? Antisocial? Yeah, sure. But this was high school, when the best of us were only fronting. And those of us who spent our after-class hours on the Jet Gazette? Well, we were far from the coolest kids by any count. 

But were we surprised? Well, not really. Even discounting the bullying, which the press made so much of, we kind of knew something was wrong. There was a reason none of us wanted to get too close to Joel. Maybe we could sense the rage behind those thick glasses. Certainly, to the 17 young women he killed – sex workers who had fewer options when it came to avoiding intimacy – he was a monster.

My particular monster had a different face. A college classmate at an elite school, he was supposed to be a comrade. A colleague, if not a friend. At least that’s what I thought when he showed up at my door one night, maybe a month after we’d all moved in freshman year. He must’ve heard that I’ve been fighting with my boyfriend. I suspect the whole dorm heard us yelling, especially when R. stormed off and left me sobbing. And here he was with a pitcher of bullfrogs, a sweet lime drink offered in a spirit of camaraderie. Along with, that is, a shoulder to cry on until it turned into something more. An arm around my middle, pulling at me. Hands on my upper arms, holding me down.

For years I struggled with that disconnect. I was young. I had been stupid. Perhaps he had misread my signals. Maybe I had given some kind of consent, after all. Something that sounded like “yes” to a young man who might have been as drunk as I was, or so I told myself. But as I dealt with the aftermath – the unwanted pregnancy and its termination – I also had to acknowledge that there had been no further contact, no remorse and none of the awkward social outreach that one would expect from a comrade, a neighbour, and a classmate. 

Ultimately it was a letter from his roommate decades later that allowed me to see everything clearly. Ostensibly reaching out with an offer to answer any questions – once again, that shoulder to cry on – he was clearly seeking absolution. That I wasn’t ready to give, but I did take advantage of the offer and fired off questions. What I learned confirmed what I had come to suspect. No, I was not the only woman his roommate had targeted. In fact, he kept a bottle of over-proof rum purely to prey on vulnerable women. No, they hadn’t stayed in touch. Despite his complicity all those years before, my new correspondent claimed to actively dislike his roommate – and what he did. Would he call it rape? 

That’s where he drew the line. Instead, he talked about how his roommate would use alcohol to “try to have sex with women.” He was reaching out, he said, in the hope that I would be able to “let bygones be bygones.”

Was I shocked? Not really. I’ve lost that capacity, I think, at least in terms of certain forms of duplicity. More to the point, I realised then how far I had already moved on.

These days, I write crime fiction. It’s gratifying to set the world right, to see justice done. More important, with psychological suspense I can work through the impact of trauma and survival to allow my characters to achieve a full understanding of what happened and why. But even at my darkest, my books don’t deal with serial killers. What I write are the monsters I want to understand. The ones who live among us, with their smiling faces and social graces. The ones who know how to destroy us from the inside.

Hold Me Down by Clea Simon (Polis Books) out now

This riveting work of dark suspense from acclaimed author Clea Simon opens with Gal, a rock star for a hot minute twenty years earlier, back in Boston to play a memorial for her late drummer/best friend when she finds herself freezing on stage at the sight of a face in the crowd. The next day, the middle-aged musician learns that the man she saw has been killed – beaten to death behind the venue – and her friend’s widower charged in connection with his death. When the friend refuses to defend himself, Gal wonders why and, as the memories begin to flood back, she starts her own informal investigation. As she does so, she must reexamine her own wild life, her perception of the past, and an industry that monetizes dysfunction in a dark tale of love, music, and murder.

More information about Clea Simon can be found on her website. You can also find her on Facebook, follow her on Twitter @Clea_Simon and on Instagram.