Plus C'est la Meme Chose, Plus ca Change

By Beth Terrell

In John Knowles's A Separate Peace, the narrator, Gene, says, "Plus c'est la meme chose, plus ca change." It means, "The more things remain the same, the more they change." I interpret this to mean that our own changing perceptions make even the most familiar things unfamiliar. I love that saying, but I always get it backwards. I mean to get it right, but instead I say, "The more things change, the more they remain the same." These days I think both versions are true.

Our world has gone through a lot of changes in the past century or so. Messages that once took months to deliver can now be "instant messaged" in the blink of an eye. When I think about the fact that my Honda Accord can take me across the Kentucky line in less than an hour, it boggles my mind to realize that my grandmother personally knew a woman who had gone west in a covered wagon and survived being scalped by Indians. The more things change...

We've been talking about our personal brushes with crime lately, and sometimes it seems that the world is getting more and more brutal. Sometimes it seems there's a Ted Bundy or a BTK killer under every rock. It's easy to think of serial and spree killers as thoroughly modern inventions. But a few days ago as I was tooling around on the internet (I like to call this "research"), I came across an unsolved homicide in a Nashville community called Paradise Ridge. This coldest of cold cases dates from 1897, more than a century ago. ...The more they stay the same.

The article reminded me of the Clutter family murders Truman Capote wrote about in In Cold Blood, but in this case, the killer or killers torched the house after committing their crimes. It was ten o'clock at night on March 23 when a neighbor, Justice Simpson, came outside to get a drink of water and noticed that the nearby Ade house was ablaze. He rode the half mile to the house, which was already collapsing. The fire had been burning for about an hour and a half, and had spread to the smokehouse and several other small outbuildings. Simpson called out for the family to help him douse the flames. When there was no answer, he apparently went into the burning house and found five bodies.

The victims were 60-year-old Jacob Ade, his 50-year-old wife, Pauline, their two children (Lizze, 20, and Henry, 13), and a 10-year-old girl, Rosa Moirer. Rosa was the daughter of a neighbor, and I was unable to find out why she was at the Ade house that night. It was the wounds found on Rosa's body, which was less badly burned than the rest, that convinced investigators that the family had been murdered. Although there was no way to be certain, investigators pieced together the crime. It looked like the entire family had been in the parlor when the murderer entered the house and killed Mr. Ade. The others attempted to escape through the windows but were either struck down before they could escape or forced back by an accomplice. Because of the condition and position of little Rosa's body, investigators surmised that she had escaped the initial attack, then been caught and killed and her body thrown into the already burning house.

The motive? Surely a murder so brutal must have been prompted by personal animosity. But no. The Ades were well-liked and well-respected in their community. John had once accused a neighbor of stealing hogs, but that issue had been resolved, and besides, the neighbor had an alibi. Robbery, perhaps? Maybe. John Ade had recently withdrawn $300 from a bank in Nashville. He'd planned to lend the money to a friend. If the killer(s) had known about the withdrawal, might they have gone to the Ade home to take it by force? If so, they were frustrated in the attempt, because the money was later found in an oyster can in what remained of the bedroom closet.

But the killers did not go away empty-handed. John was said to have been storing a large quantity of meat, which was never found. I don't know what a large quantity of meat would have been, but surely there is no amount of meat that would have been worth the lives of five human beings. Surely nothing would have been worth that.

The killers were never apprehended. The fire and a rainstorm destroyed any evidence investigators may have found. The murderers will never be brought to justice--not in this life anyway, not in the courts of men. They, like their victims, are long dead. I wonder if they were haunted by the memory of what they'd done, or if they simply moved from Paradise Ridge to some other small town, some other easy mark. With no FBI databases, no national media, and no internet, how would anyone ever have known?

The more things change, the more they remain the same. There have always been monsters among us. I hold out the hope that one day this will no longer be true.

In the meantime...I'd like to thank those real-life heroes--the police officers, detectives, and special agents--who stand between us and the monsters. We don't say it enough, but we're glad you're out there, doing what you do.

The Villain! Who, Me?

By Beth Terrell

I've been thinking about villains today, and one thing that really stands out to me is this: hardly anyone thinks he is one. Take Darth Vader. He's not out there thinking, "This is me, being the villain." He's thinking, "This is me, helping build an empire while getting even with all those jerks who didn't appreciate me back when I was a Jedi."

Or take Voldemort, the over-arching villain in J.K. Rowling's best-selling series about Harry Potter. Voldemort doesn't believe he's evil. Heck, he doesn't even believe in evil. He believes he's entitled, superior, and above all, wronged. He's just taking what's rightfully his. The Harry Potter books are chock full of villains who don't believe they're villains. Lucius Malfoy thinks he's preserving the purity of the pure-blood mages from the coarse Mud-Bloods. Toad-faced Dolores Umbridge (in my opinion, one of the most horrifying villains ever written) doesn't see herself in the black-hat role. She's standing up for order and tradition, defending the Ministry of Magic against the forces of anarchy. And you can bet that Harry Potter is not the hero of their stories. In Voldemort's mind, he's the hero. In Dolores Umbridge's mind, she is.

Of course, technically, the main character is the protagonist, who may or may not really be a hero. And the antagonist is anyone who stands between the protagonist and his or her goal, regardless of his morality. He may be a perfectly nice guy who wants to drain the marshland for perfectly good reasons. But in a mystery, the villain is usually a true villain, meaning his or her motive is generally a selfish one. I don't mean he or she has no redeeming qualities, only that the murderer in a mystery very rarely acts for altruistic or noble purposes - except maybe in his or her own mind.

So how do you make an effective villain? It's no good to make a Snidely Whiplash-style villain who twirls his curly moustache and thinks of wicked ways to kidnap the girl and foil the hero. This type of two-dimensional (or even one-dimensional) evil is rarely effective. Nor does it help much to show Snidely patting a stray dog on the head on his way to foreclose on a house he doesn't even need. Such tacked-on "good qualities" are rarely convincing, because they don't seem like part of the character.

On the other hand, Thomas Harris did a magnificent job of making the serial killer, Francis Dolarhyde, both terrifying and sympathetic. We feel for the child he was and are horrified by the monster he became, and Harris made us believe that one could easily have become the other. How? By showing us how the boy was tormented by his schoolmates because of his cleft palate, and later, how he was physically and emotionally abused by his grandmother. Harris made these scenes real, and later, when we see Francis's tenderness toward a blind woman, we understand why he takes comfort in her company, why he needs what she has to offer, and why he inevitably misunderstands her motives. None of this excuses Francis's actions. He's a villain, but he doesn't see himself that way. There are perfectly logical reasons (to him) for everything he does, even though any sane person could clearly see that his actions are evil. But because his actions grow out of his own perceptions, he is a believable villain.

That, I think, is the key. No matter how evil your villain, no matter how horrific his acts, he believes in what he is doing, and that makes us perceive him as rounded and real.

Fascinated With Murder

By Ben Small

C’mon, admit it: you – like me – are a murder junkie. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here. C’mon, it’s not so hard to admit. Say after me: “I AM A MURDER JUNKIE.”

But let’s be clear: not just any murder. Spree killing doesn’t do much for me. Nor does routine domestic violence, or gang violence, or run-o-the-mill drug violence. For me, it’s gotta be intelligent murder, or unique murder, or clever murder, or tantalizing murder, or serial killer twisted murder, or murder for sport, or puzzle murder, or longtime festering grudge murder -- you know, stuff that titillates (Can I say that word?)

Okay, so whip me a wallop with a willow. I like that stuff.

Headshrinkers could and have written volumes on why so many of us are murder junkies. And what’s that solved? I still read ‘em; I still write ‘em, murder stories, that is. And so do you.

Pound sand, Doctor Freud.

But I cringe at CSI and House, won’t watch movie or television gore in general, and have no use for violent video games. I have a rule: If my flinch factor starts looking like a facial tic, I’m gone.

I think I understand why I enjoy murders. Freud may not “get” it, but I know what works for me. I like thrills and the abuse of power. I like the planning, the calculation of risk, the sick urges. There’s surprise, and yes, realization in the victim’s eyes. The murderer screws up, it’s over, he does not pass Go. Toast. The killer knows this, but he murders anyway. Oh goodie, goodie! Yeah, baby!

And look what comes next: The hunt. Righteousness. Everybody wants to be righteous, right? [Head nod required] More good stuff.

So bring it on. Shock me, titillate (Am I in more trouble?) me, make me say, “Oh!” And then let me chase you and bring you down. Let me get my justice and rub your face in it. Face it, folks, this is adult play time, a form of Hide And Seek.

Do I want people hurt? Not real people. No, of course not. This is fantasy world I’m talking about. I can make it as dark as I want and nobody gets hurt.

Just entertained.