I guess his glasses got a little lost in the shuffle, so I asked him for a service slip number and he gets all sweaty, and his eyes got real weird. So I went back, I asked the technicians, maybe they had seen them. And I guess they were in the tray right behind me but all the trays are marked with the customer's name on it. And he starts going: 'I have a name! I have a name!'
What if it was, James? Is bouncing the subject's head off the hood of the car going to do anything to change all the other murders that will occur today?
He hasn't killed our wives or our families and he's not going to. If you make every one of these personal, you'll go insane and that's from having been there, James.
I don't know, Catherine. Maybe it's because T.C.'s been taken out of my everyday life. Or... he's two now and he's becoming a person, you know? But I can't... these murderers... before they were a... fascinating, psychological, societal puzzle. Most I could even feel sympathy for them because of their horrible lives. But now... when I walk into a crime scene, all I see is my little boy's face superimposed on the victim. And... and these... killers can't be simply cases or psychological anomalies anymore. They're just... monsters. Just monsters.
Yeah. It's great to watch them, huh? They have no idea. Things we see... things we know are out there. I hope I'm not screwing him up... I never ever dreamed at that perfect moment that... my time with him would be regulated by petitions, attorney retainers, orders of the court... that mother, father and son would become nothing more than a case number... that as a father, I risk adding nothing to his life. I could become nothing but... face covered in gray tape.
When I read Dostoevsky there was a passage, something like: 'There's nothing more sad than a life that ends and no one knows or cares.' Hair today, gone tomorrow. The subject is angry that his life will go unnoticed... that he will have left nothing. The hatred of himself is directed toward the world which has held him back because it objectified him... reduced him, reduced us all to universal bar codes. We are animals in a caged shelter, controlled by dog catchers. The gray tape makes the victims look like how he feels -- faceless -- a dead letter lost at the post office. He's killed before... when he was young... most likely a female prostitute, after an early setback... a girlfriend, a job. He sought out a woman that wouldn't turn him away. The solicitation increased his feelings of nothingness and so he killed her before sex. My guess? He was never caught. He got away with it. Subject has felt guilt ever since, angered at a world that should have punished him but didn't. The murder, however, was the most significant event in his life. He's returned to this place, to the event. He wants nothing more than to be stopped. But he will do everything in his control to remain significant.
