Let me start this story by saying I live next door to the nicest couple. The wife and I have great conversations. The husband is very calm, soft-spoken, and all-around nice guy. They have four adorable little girls, God bless them. I raised three girls and count my blessings that I still have hair on my head and (so far) avoided a psych ward. Anyway, my office is upstairs in our house and has a balcony. When I sit out there, I can see into my neighbor’s backyard. There is a swing set, a trampoline, and various toys strewn about. There is also a rather large shed.
Now, my neighbor was spending a great deal of time in the shed—so much that I took note of the long days and nights he was in there. He always closed the door upon entering, and the girls were not allowed inside. Once I witnessed one of the girls trying to open the door only to be told—rather sternly—that she could not enter.
It was odd. Disconcerting, even.
The calm, even-keeled man actually raised his voice loud enough for me to hear as I sat on my balcony. To say that piqued my interest is an understatement. I am, after all, a crime thriller writer and pseudo-expert of murderers. There is not a crime show—foreign or domestic—that I have not watched. I do copious amounts of research on the subject. Attend conferences where my fellow crime writers and I learn how to properly excavate buried bodies, various types of gunshot wounds and what they do to a body. How to properly breach a dwelling.
I know a thing or two about murder. And kidnappers.
So, of course, I was able to determine my neighbor was a serial killer. My powers of observation have never failed me (that I know of) so there was really no doubt about it. Shite was about to get real. My life as a fiction writer was about to transition to true crime novelist.
When I told the above story to my fellow crime writer friends, we all agreed my neighbor was up to something heinous in his shed. Right under the nose of his wife and little girls. Most of my closest writer compadres, as well as readers of crime fiction and true crime novels are women. We tend to soak up a great mystery, and the more ghastly the crime scene, disturbing the killer, and twisty the plot, the more eager we are to roll up our sleeves, get in the muck, and discover whodunnit.
But why is that? Why are so many women drawn to serial killer thrillers, murder mysteries, and crime, in general? Well, I’m no expert, but I have actually thought about this and come up with a couple of answers.
First and foremost, women are problem-solvers. Give us a problem, and we will work out a solution. Getting a lipstick stain off a collar, tracking our teenager’s social media without them knowing. Determining if the neighbor is a serial killer. No matter the problem, we are game to find a solution. Spread out all the puzzle pieces and see how they fit together. The more impossible the mystery is to solve, the more we dive into the deep end of the evidence pool searching out plausible—and perhaps implausible--explanations.
Second—well, let’s face it, most violence seems to be directed at women. Sit down and watch a day of Discover ID or a few episodes of Dateline, and nearly every single episode is about some sort of violence against women. Stalker, jilted lover, husband wanting out of the marriage without paying child support, or a serial killer. They kidnap, rape, torture, and/or murder women. There is a kinship there.
We’ve all felt the hairs on the back of our necks stand on end when we feel someone looking at us. Watching. And we are never quite sure if it is a warning of something dangerous on the horizon. Or the fear of walking alone at night, always wondering when someone will jump out of the bushes, run up behind, or come around a corner and catch us off guard. Our imaginations can probably conjure the worst possible outcomes—assaulted, violated, shot, or stabbed and left for dead.
We have compassion for the victims. We feel their pain because—by the grace of God—we are not them. We want to solve these crimes along with the investigators, anxious for the families to find even a modicum of justice for their lost loved ones. We cheer for victims upon hearing their stories of survival. We are empathetic. Sympathetic.
And we take notes.
We learn from the mistakes of others: Trust that gut instinct. Be rude to the guy who wants to give you a ride home giving you the creeps. Say no. Say it again. Keep saying it as loud as you can. Fight back with everything you have. Never feel like you are just being paranoid. Call your dad to pick you up from the party you were forbidden to go to even though you have been drinking. Your life is precious. And it may depend on how you react in situations where there is a threat. Teach your daughters to do the same.
I love to write murder mysteries. I research. I conjure what I believe to be the unimaginable. And I want to believe that is true.
But there are some sick people out there doing abominable things to others.
So, back to my neighbor the serial killer. I was on the balcony again yesterday, watching the children play in the back yard when the father came out of the shed. He called for his wife and rounded up the four girls. When the door swung open, I could see inside. Fairy lights glowed. There was a small table with pint-sized chairs, a plastic tea set as a centerpiece. Each girl picked out their spot and laughter soon filled the late afternoon air.
Turns out my serial killer was simply an awesome dad who sacrificed part of his work shed to give his daughters’ a playhouse.
But—I’m still going to keep my eye on him.
After a short career in law, Leanne Kale Sparks is returning to her first love—writing about murder, mayhem, and crime. Currently, she is an author with Crooked Lane Books and is working on a new series featuring an FBI agent hunting down her best friend’s murderer. The backdrop is the Rocky Mountains of Colorado, the playground of her youth, and the place that will always be home. She currently resides in Texas with her husband and German Shepherd, Zoe.