36.

A girl no more than eleven stares at you. Her blue eyes are wide, curious, inviting. There is an impish quality to them. She might relish mischief—that harmless sort small children enjoy, tying a gaudy ribbon around a cat’s neck or good-naturedly taunting a friend when he trips.

This little one is the picture of innocence, not that sentimental kind that views children as angels but that more Wordsworthian type: the child as premoral, neither good nor evil but ignorant of both, not yet thwarted by self-consciousness, still spontaneous in affection and anger, simply existing as she exists, in the moment, like a mockingbird or a wave.

The girl’s overall appearance is charmingly careless. The bangs of her black hair—cut just above her shoulders—are parted slightly in the middle. She is enigmatically grinning, Mona Lisa–style. She wears a pink blouse buttoned up to her neck, with a wide collar flaring over a soft, unbuttoned black sweater. Her green plaid skirt, knee-length and pleated, suggests the starched propriety of a school uniform; but this decorum is offset by her red socks, bunched up over her Mary Janes. The bare knees tell the story. They are bruised a little, scabbed, and a Band-Aid covers a small wound on the right leg. This is a girl who likes to play outdoors, forgetful of her body, keen on fun.

On a second look, though, we see that the knees are genuinely battered. Maybe there was a serious accident. And her white skin is a bit too pale; she looks sick.

She exists in a painting twenty-two by twenty-eight inches. She stands tall in the middle, the focal point, with her eyes first striking the attention. Surrounding her in the rectangular frame are pictures hinting not at innocence but horror. To the left of her head is a small scene of her strangling another girl. Below this image and a little to the left is a mother lying on a hospital bed, recoiling from a baby the nurse holds above her. To the left of this, a skeletal creature bears in its arms an infant of its own. The baby reaches desperately toward the sky while the grotesque parent gnaws one of the baby’s hands. Above this nightmare, in the upper left-hand corner, is a boy’s face, underneath which is a caption: “Kip Kinkel.”

Other scary images crowd the portrait, closing in on all sides of the girl, with written passages crammed among them. The overall effect is repulsive but also beautiful—a compelling blend of sweetness and monstrosity.

The painting is by Joe Coleman, a Brooklyn artist. It’s called And a Child Shall Lead Them, and it depicts, in image and word, the story of Mary Bell. She was born to a prostitute named Betty in 1957, in the British town of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. The father was unknown. Betty, whose specialty was sadomasochism, tried to kill her unwanted daughter on several occasions. She used strategies that would make the death look like an accident. Her primary scheme was to leave strong pills where her toddler could easily access them. One time, Mary ate so many iron tablets that she lost consciousness and had to have her stomach pumped. Eventually Betty put her child to use, forcing her, as early as the age of four, to perform sex acts with her johns, especially fellatio. The mother would push her daughter to her knees—this is why they are bloodied—and hold her head back. Grown men would force their penises into her mouth. She would gag on the semen and vomit. There were other terrors. Betty would punish Mary for wetting her bed by rubbing her daughter’s face in the urine. She would then hang the wet sheets out the window, adding public embarrassment to the physical mistreatment.

These forms of abuse contributed to what happened on May 25, 1968, the day before Mary’s eleventh birthday. Two weeks earlier, a three-year-old cousin of Mary’s, Martin Brown, had been discovered near some abandoned sheds, his head bleeding. Later Mary admitted she’d pushed the boy off a ledge. On her birthday, Mary took this violence further. She strangled Martin to death and left his corpse in an empty house.

A short time after, Mary brought a friend, Norma, to see what she had done. The girls then found Martin’s aunt (not, as far as I can tell, Betty’s sister, but a more distant relative to Mary) and told her that her nephew was lying dead. After the funeral, Mary and Norma continued to visit the aunt, repeatedly asking her how much she missed Martin. The girls also called on Martin’s mother, June. Mary asked if she could see Martin. When the grieving mother protested that her boy was dead, Mary said she wanted to see inside the coffin.

Mary engaged in yet other incriminating behaviors—it seems as though she wanted to be caught. One night, she broke into a nursery near her home. She trashed it, and left behind a note: “I murder so that I may come back.” Mary also sketched a picture of a boy lying in the same posture as the dead Martin.

These details came out to the police much later, in August, after Mary, never apprehended for Martin’s murder, killed again. This time, with Norma as an accomplice, Mary strangled Brian Howe, another three-year-old. The crime took place on July 31. When police found the corpse, they were shocked. Here was a dead toddler, partially covered with weeds. Beside him lay a pair of broken scissors. His genitals had been skinned, and his thighs were pocked with puncture wounds. Some of the hair on his head had been chopped off. His belly had also been lacerated, probably with a razor. The wound was shaped like an M.

Once more, Mary behaved as if she wanted to be apprehended. She and Norma suggested to Brian’s sister, Pat, that they knew where her missing brother was. Pat never found the body, but the police did, and they quickly gathered evidence pointing to Mary and Norma. When they questioned Mary, she didn’t admit to the killing but, while trying to attribute the crime to an eight-year-old, described the scissors perfectly. Since this part of the crime scene was then known only to authorities, Mary betrayed her connection to the killing. She gave herself fully away on the day of Brian’s funeral, August 7. As the coffin was being carried from the boy’s house, Mary was watching. She broke into laughter and rubbed her hands together in a sinister fashion.

The police arrested her and Norma, charging each with two counts of manslaughter. Norma was acquitted, but on December 17, 1968, Mary was convicted. She avoided the murder charge “due to diminished responsibility.” The jury agreed with the court psychiatrists—Mary had exhibited classically psychopathic behavior and thus should not be deemed fully accountable for her acts. During her imprisonment leading up to the trial, she had spoken as if she didn’t understand remorse. At one point, she said, “Brian Howe had no mother, so he won’t be missed.” Another time, she claimed, “Murder isn’t that bad, we all die sometime anyway.” She also stated, “If you’re dead, you’re dead, it doesn’t matter then.”