“Can any of you explain how one controls people? How do you get into someone’s mind?”
Professor Kriegel’s lecturing. He’s a short, bald, overweight eccentric man wearing gray sweatpants and a T-shirt. Right now, he’s pacing on the stage under a projected image of Charles Manson, who’s sticking his tongue out at us under the tattooed swastika on his forehead. Kriegel’s the main reason I chose this elective. Not because of him, but because of his slides. His slides, I tell you, are legendary.
“We talked of Bundy. He murdered for sex, engaging in necrophilia. But he did it looking professional.” The slide changes to show Ted Bundy wearing a suit. That’s more boring. “He’s a similar serial killer to Jeffrey Dahmer, only Dahmer ate his victims.” The next slide shows meat and sinew strewn over a table at a crime scene. There are groans from the crowd. This is what I’m talking about. Don’t you love it?
He paces under the slaughterhouse.
“Charles Manson manipulated people, but his perversions involved making others do his work. His cult murdered, not him. That was the difference. He was able to get into people’s minds and control them.”
My professor stands right in front of me, on stage, looking out at the crowd. The lecture hall is packed, and I’m in the front row. The slide changes to a more pleasant picture: a hippie commune. People are sitting around a guy with long hair playing an acoustic guitar on the grass.
I’m having difficulty focusing. I don’t know what the hell happened last night. For all I know, I could have been drugged and raped. I was trudging through the doldrums of my loneliness, in my first semester at Hawthorne, thinking of Alondra. Seeing my “crush” was helping me get through my days here. Not anymore. Not after seeing her naked leading a psycho-goth cult.
A picture of a woman unconscious with a plastic bag over her head flashes above. Okay, that’s a bit too much. My classmates think so too. Many students groan. He flashes the slide quickly, as if it was never there, to another crime scene.
“But I posit all of our serial killers murdered for control.”
Like Alondra? Maybe that’s what her hypnotic eyes are all about? Maybe she’s a psychopathic killer, like all these serial killers? Maybe the blood last night wasn’t animal blood after all?
On cue, a girl wearing a black-checkered skirt with black leggings hurries down the dimly lit aisle. Her red sweater says “Hawthorne,” and she’s wearing sunglasses. At first, I take little notice, but then she tips down her shades, revealing bright green eyes. She’s not in her usual black makeup, but it’s Alondra for sure. She smiles and nods at me. I turn away. In my periphery, I catch her quietly sitting down in the only open spot, on the other side of the guy to my right. She puts a stack of books on her desk and takes out a notepad and pen. From the corner of my eye, I watch her carefully preparing for class. I love that. I love watching her obsessively arrange her desk with all her stuff. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s just because it’s her.
The image on the screen changes to another grotesque scene: a bloody body on a white tile floor.
The student to my right, irritatingly, hands me a note.
We need to talk.
In my periphery, I see Alondra leaning forward, nodding, and looking at me. I crumple the note and lean my chin on my hand, completely ignoring her.
“Being a sociopath,” the professor continues, “it didn’t take much for Manson to learn how to use his grandiosity to impress others. He moved his family from San Francisco to Los Angeles, creating a cult of prostitution and drugs.”
Liam, I’m sorry, reads a second note. You need to let me explain.
I crumple the second note.
“Manson was a white supremacist preaching that Armageddon was nigh and that a leader, himself, was needed to prevail against the Black Americans before they took over the world. It was with this cult that he used satanic symbols. And much of the satanic panic in the eighties grew out of the acts committed by his commune on August eighth, 1969.”
The guy to my right practically throws a CD on my desk. He’s pissed about having to pass yet another thing from her. The CD has a cover portraying two girls, one with white wings. It’s the new album cover of a grunge band we like. She knows this means something to me. I asked her if I could borrow it during our study group last week. Attached to the plastic case is a yellow sticky note: You can keep it.
For a moment I relish looking at her handwriting. If she weren’t staring at me, I could do something really stupid like sniff it to smell her perfume.
You love-sick idiot. You’re so dumb, Liam.
Well, when I’m hooked, I’m hooked. Even when the girl happens to enjoy standing naked in a druid’s cloak, in the middle of the night, raising her hands before a satanic pentagram.
The guy to my right’s had enough. He stands up in the aisle gesturing for me to take a seat closer to Alondra. I hesitate but nod and switch seats, because the whole class is literally watching him standing behind me.
Alondra smiles as I sit beside her. She touches my arm and nods. And, fuck me, I can’t help but enjoy the smell of her lavender- and vanilla-scented perfume.
“Manson instilled fear of the apocalypse,” continues the professor. Alondra is scribbling another note. It’s not about the lecture, I’m sure. I roll my eyes. “His victims were runaway teens, porn stars, prostitutes—people who would have looked up to him and followed his psychopathology. Folks, Manson is great for our study of sociopaths.” Dr. Kriegel stops right in front of me again. “He used his megalomania not to lure victims, but to control his cult to do it for him. But isn’t that the same as Bundy or Gacy?”
This note is kinda long. It reads:
Apologizing for last night is trite. I need to talk to you. Can you meet tonight at my place? If for some reason you can’t, call me. I left my phone number on the back. But I think we need to talk about this in person. We’ll be alone.
Then she hands me another note:
My friend Jane will be the only other one at the house. She’ll let you in.
Liam, I’ll tell you everything. I promise. If it helps, I’m sorry.
After I finish reading, she flashes me that irresistible sweet smile that she loves wearing. She tears off another piece of paper and quickly writes and passes it over. CD’s yours. Then she nods with her same big grin. For a moment, I tell you, I’m lost in those damn mesmerizing green eyes.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I say, putting the CD back on her desk. Alondra furrows her brow but then opens her green jewels wide, turning and gazing up at the stage. Dr. Kriegel is glaring down at us.
“Since you’re so chatty,” my professor says, with his voice sounding through the speakers throughout the auditorium, “Ms. Billington, what do you think about my theory?”
Who the hell’s Ms. Billington? I know the Billington Frat House. That’s the most popular building in Hawthorne. They throw a huge Halloween party every year.
“Happy to see you in the front row for once,” the professor adds, before she can respond. “Do you think Manson’s sociopathic charm was the same sociopathic megalomania of all the other serial killers?”
Neither of us says anything. I think I hear Alondra swallow hard. No, that’s me.
“He shot Bernard Crowe in the stomach, professor,” answers Alondra, shaking her head. She speaks loudly enough so the whole auditorium can hear her. “Who’s to say that Manson was any different? Maybe he would have preferred killing if his hippie commune wasn’t at his disposal? Yeah, I agree with you. I think he’s the same as all the others.”
There’s no hesitation in her voice. It’s like she’s been transformed. And she seems so confident, even though everyone in the auditorium is staring at her.
Then my mouth feels dry when he glances down at me.
Please, Jesus, please don’t have him ask me.
“What do you think?”
“I… Uh—”
“That’s what he and I were just talking about,” Alondra interjects. “We were agreeing with you. He would have been a killer whether he got others to do it or not.”
There’s silence and Dr. Kriegel lifts an eyebrow.
“What of his own assertion, in interviews, that he did nothing different from our government in Vietnam?” Dr. Kriegel asks. “Isn’t war killing?”
“Lyndon Johnson didn’t go to war with Vietnam in order to control the American population,” Alondra retorts. “He went to war to protect it. Or to protect US power and hegemony.”
“But I’m asserting that,” Dr. Kriegel continues, “as Manson excused his own actions, perhaps, psychologically, the charisma of a leader is the same as that of a psychopath. Such power might be used for satanism or for good.”
“No, I don’t think that’s the same,” Alondra says, shaking her head.
He looks at me and I stupidly just shake my head too. Because I’m not about to dare say a damn thing.
“But I find it offensive and ignorant to assume satanism is simply bad,” continues Alondra. I stare at her. “Satanism is primarily anti-Christian. And, anyway, drawing the word “PIG” in blood on a refrigerator is not representative of satanism. That’s Hollywood showmanship.”
“Isn’t satanism evil by the Judeo-Christian definition?”
“If you believe those religions. But that’s just not the issue, Professor.” Alondra laughs. She brushes her long black hair back from her face. “Really, whether he is anti-Christian is not relevant. What he did is what’s important. He confused everyone by pushing a satanic panic. Just as he’s confusing you now by excusing his acts of murder by saying they’re no different from governing a nation at war.”
To this, the whole auditorium gets really loud with scoffs and laughter. Then they break out in applause.
“I wasn’t saying it,” the professor says with a smirk. “I was asking you.”
“Then my answer’s no. But he wasn’t satanic. He did not properly study rites or perform sabbaths. He used symbols to spread fear over his imagined race war. Honestly, I’m more disturbed by the swastika on his forehead.”
There’s more applause. I’m wondering if Alondra intends to go on. She’s squinting up at Dr. Kriegel, with those green eyes intensely challenging him.
He pauses, continuing to stare down at her. It’s tense and the entire auditorium is quiet. “Come up to the front row more often, Ms. Billington,” he says finally. Then he’s back to pacing.
I take a deep breath.
As confident as my new friend acted, she becomes quiet after her performance. Then she flutters her eyelids and breathes hard. She can’t fool me. She was scared.
She turns to me and gives me her classic sweet smile. But her quick change in countenance, this sudden sweet grin—even though, I admit, it turns me on—seems evil. And then I’m thinking, she might claim Charlie Manson isn’t satanic, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t.
At the end of class, we gather our books and I rush out of the lecture hall. She tugs at my arm and I ignore her, moving up the aisle.
Outside, it’s gloomy and drizzling. I don’t have an umbrella, so I hope it doesn’t rain hard.
Alondra is on my tail as I walk under an aluminum awning.
“Nice job showing him his place, Allie,” says a short blond girl passing by her. “Are we going to meet tonight?”
I cock my head and see Alondra gesturing at me. “I’ll tell you later, Jane.”
Alondra pulls my arm again and I finally stop. Then she furrows her brow and searches deeply into my eyes. She’s chewing gum. Spearmint—by the smell. She even digs into a pocket and offers me some. I’m glaring at her.
“What time is it?” she asks, breaking her gaze and redistributing her books to her other arm. She glances at the watch on her wrist. It’s silver and looks expensive.
“What do you want?” I ask.
She frowns. “Lee, you weren’t supposed to be there.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“No. I’d love to explain to you what happened. That’s what I wrote in class.”
“You were worshipping the devil?”
“I can’t talk about it here.” She looks around.
I resume walking. Neither of us says we’re gonna walk together, but we do. And neither of us knows where we’re going—at least, I don’t—so we just sort of meander under the metal awning with other students.
“You don’t have that album?” she asks. “Have you heard all of it yet? It’s awesome.”
“I’ve heard most of the songs on the radio. Was I drugged last night?”
“No. But I don’t want to talk about it here.”
I stop by a tree, away from the crowd, and turn from her. Maybe I’m trying to avoid her eyes? “How does Dr. Kriegel know you so well?” I ask. “And why does he call you Ms. Billington?”
“Cause my last name is Billington, silly. And aside from my family owning this whole boring town, believe it or not, Liam, outside of extracurricular activities, I’m a bit into my books like you. And, apparently, I’ve visited during his office hours too much.”
“Who says I’m into books?”
She just lifts her brow.
Before I can ask any more, she digs through the pile of stuff in her arm and brings out the CD. She pushes it against my chest.
“For god sakes, enjoy it. It’s fucking great.”
We’re no longer under an awning, and the drizzle is turning to light rain. But neither of us goes back under shelter. And I hate to tell you this but, even though I don’t want to be, I’m really into this girl. Maybe it’s because she’s so weird? Or maybe it’s because she’s so pretty. I really don’t know. She’s probably just really hot.
I think she’s into me.
“Here, Lee. Take it.” She pushes the CD against my chest again. “It’s cool that we’re into the same music. Just take it. And meet with me tonight. I’ll explain to you about what was going on at the cliff. I owe you. We’ll eat dinner at my place.”
I had a girlfriend in high school. Her name was Sandra. Sandra was a straight-A student, pretty but nerdy. It was platonic. This girl’s not nerdy, she seems wild.
Is she actually asking me out on a date?
No, stupid, she’s trying to cover up her sex cult.
Maybe she’s planning on killing me, like Charlie Manson? Or perhaps brainwash one of her goth friends to do it? God, she’s got the eyes for it.
Speaking of that, why isn’t she wearing her black makeup? Why is she wearing a preppy “Hawthorne” sweater, looking almost like a sorority girl? It’s the first time I’ve seen her look “normal” on campus.
“Lee, I didn’t attack you, if you remember.”
Oh, that’s supposed to make me feel better.
“All right,” she says, shaking her head. “Look, it’s up to you. I’m inviting you to give me a chance to explain. But I can’t talk about it here. I’ve got to go.”
“Was I roofied?”
“I told you, you weren’t drugged,” she snaps.
“Then how did I get knocked out? Did those girls… have sex with me?”
“No, ah-ight? Look, come to my house. Or…” She turns from me, looking impatient. “Please, Liam. Just come over tonight to my place and let me explain.” She looks down. Not just down at the ground—down, like depressed.
“All right.”
She glances up and flashes that winning smile. But it looks a little wicked. To be honest, I like it. I told you. I’m hooked.
You’re a moron, Liam.