Chris Hutchins Commentary
It was just another story for the newspaper.
At least, that's what I thought.
It was last year when I shuffled into the newsroom that lazy Sunday afternoon and accepted the story assignment. I had no idea what I was in for.
"Chris, could you do me a BIG favor?"
It was Jennifer, my editor. "What's up?" I said, plopping into the nearest chair. "Story?"
I received the answer -- a professor at the University of Louisville was coming to Western to lecture about serial killers and their crimes.
Just attend the lecture and interview the professor, she said. A proverbial cakewalk.
Jennifer handed me a flyer about the event. I was pretty impressed with the man's credentials. The good doctor was a noted criminologist and author. He had worked for police departments around the country, appeared on "Donahue" and "Oprah," had written at least six books, toured the country speaking about his experiences, and had more doctorates and master's degrees than I can remember.
It sounded interesting, so I decided to cover the story.
The seminar, titled "Serial Killers," was a definite attention-grabber. When I arrived at the Garrett Auditorium, the place was filled almost to capacity. I managed to slip into one of the front rows and find an empty seat.
The professor, after dazzling introductions from members of the criminology club, stepped up to the microphone. I should have seen what was coming just listening to the first minutes of the program, but I didn't.
The lecture began with a twisted, perverted tale about a man obsessed with the "thrill of the hunt." The California resident would drive around the city looking for his victims -- 15- or 16-year-old girls.
According to the professor, the hunter had found a tasty prey this night -- a 15-year-old in a tight leather miniskirt had her arm extended toward the road, thumb pointed upwards. The hunter pulled over, let the girl into the car and merged back into traffic.
He took her to his home, beat her brains out, and raped and sodomized her corpse. For a sense of finality, the hunter beat and stabbed her body some more.
It was a true story, the professor told us. The auditorium was dead silent. Some people left at that moment. If I hadn't been obligated to stay, I would have left too.
After the story, the professor began telling us a little bit about himself. He couldn't sleep in his own bed at home, always opting to sleep in the hallway. He suffered from frequent nightmares. The victims were usually mutilated so badly he had gotten used to vomiting at crime scenes.
The professor then told us about some of the cases he had worked on. Like any lecturer, he showed us slides. Slides of crime scenes. Slides of murder weapons. Slides of corpses.
I had never seen anything so indescribably horrible, grim or vile. I was looking at the consequences of the darkest, filthiest depths of the human mind.
My eyes locked on a morgue photo of a woman in her 30s named Mandie, I think. Her face had been bashed in with a hammer. Her eyes were still open, her bloody mouth ajar in a silent, frozen scream. The image burned into my mind like hot wax poured on unsuspecting flesh.
Then we saw slides of another victim. And another. And another. And another.
I went home, trying to shake away images of stiff, beaten corpses lying on cold morgue tables. They wouldn't go away. Every time I closed my eyes, I could see Mandie's face staring blankly at the fluorescent lights above, her eyes eternally locked on her killer. After hours of laying in bed, tossing and turning, I finally fell into a restless slumber.
I had my first nightmare in years that night. In my dream, I was in a cold, tiled room. I walked over to one of the glimmering tables. I really wasn't surprised when I saw Mandie's battered face staring at the ceiling.
Then I heard something almost inaudible. It was the hollow sound of cracking knuckles. I looked down at Mandie's face -- it was the broken bones in her neck as her head turned to face me. As her eyes met mine, I saw the right corner of her mouth, once frozen in agony, smile ever so slightly. I woke up screaming.
That happened about a year ago, but I still can't shake the feeling I had when I woke up.
Maybe it's because I had the same dream last night.
Editor's Note: Chris Hutchins is a sophomore print journalism major from Louisville.
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