Vicious Impulses (eBook)

1

Through the open window in Karl’s bedroom, a balmy breeze brought the faint odor of smoke from the smoldering remains of the Browns’ cottage a block away.

You might have thought that Karl would be curious—surely, he could hear the noise created by the crowd of onlookers and the men who had fought the fire—but through it all, he hadn’t shown the slightest interest. Was it that he already knew what had taken place?

Karl had spent the last hour in his room. This was nothing unusual; he had always seemed to prefer being alone. He had only a handful of what might be called friends—a younger boy, a boy his own age, and the nieces of David Brown. When these girls visited that aunt and uncle, he always enjoyed being invited to the Browns’ cottage to play games and to have lunch with the girls.

His head was supported by two pillows, and his legs were drawn up so that they could support The Saturday Evening Post—presumably what he was reading, but the wholesome magazine was only a cover for the pulp magazine, Daring Detective, that he was really relishing. He reveled in these types of stories, but he always made sure to cover what he was really reading, since he never knew when his parents might come into his room. They were very strict as to what he and his sister read.

As if prompted by this narrative, Karl’s father burst into the room and, in a rather agitated voice, demanded, “Did you start the fire at the Browns’ cottage?”

Appearing startled, Karl responded with, “What did you say?”

Infuriated, his father again asked the same question, but this time in an ear-piercing voice that could have been heard a block away.

“DID YOU START THE FIRE AT THE BROWNS’ COTTAGE?”

Karl sprung to his feet, tossed the closed Saturday Evening Post onto the bed, and threw his arms in the air. His manner portrayed submission and total innocence as he replied, “No! Why would you ask a question like that?”

Glaring at Karl, the elder Click said, “I wouldn’t be surprised if you are lying again, just like the other times.” After a frustrated silence, he heaved a disgusted sigh, shook his head, and left the room, slamming the door behind him.

After his father had gone, Karl lay back down on his bed and sat gazing at the ceiling for several minutes. Then, as if nothing had happened, he returned to reading his magazine. After a while, he put the magazine aside, thinking, Why does it seem that every time something happens around town, my father thinks I am involved? The probability of spending all my days being accused is ridiculous. No matter what he had been involved in, there was never any sign of guilt, which allowed him to get away with his irrational accounting of the facts and his ability to feign innocence.

This was not Karl’s first or last time using his ability to masquerade the truth. We are about to unfold the tragic psychiatric history of a young man whose misfortune was that he was never diagnosed as—and thereby, get helped for—having an antisocial personality disorder, not even during the time he spent at the Bismark Corrective School.

The patterns of Karl’s early behavior certainly should have alerted his parents, or at least any nearby physician, to the need for mental help. With his curriculum vitae of antisocial behavior, animal cruelty, arson, breaking into two different homes, and the stealing of a gun (which resulted in the shooting of a six-year-old boy), one would think someone would have realized that this young man needed help, even in the relatively repressed 1950s.

It has been presumed that Karl was a typical sociopath who was also a pathological liar. He was said to have particularly derived pleasure from manipulating people at the time of being questioned. He constantly evidenced this behavior after each serious offense he committed, never showing any signs of feeling culpability.

Karl’s story somewhat paralleled the behavior of two other young men about whom I have read; all three were persons who outwardly seemed to be normal, yet in reality were schizophrenic and may have had other types of psychotic conditions.

There was the case of the lazy teenager who, after days of questioning, that netted only defiant silence, finally admitted to the police that he had shot and killed a family because they nagged him about his chores. He explained how he had ambushed the family from an upstairs window of their home. He said he felt no regret over the killing.

In the other case, an eighteen-year-old boy admitted that he lured two girls, one aged seven and the other nine, to a lonely creek bank close to the city. He said that when he then exposed himself, they started to scream, so he beat the girls with his fist and kicked them. According to the coroner, both girls died from fractured skulls.

This same murderer was a boy who was released from an “industrial school” after an extensive psychiatric exam, where he had been placed after molesting a girl.

During his trial for the murders of the two little girls, this man showed no emotional response to the brutal killings.

Here are only two instances of persons that had been confined earlier for what could be called “foreshadowing crimes,” yet their assaulting behavior did not seem to have ever really been taken seriously. Although both had been in psychiatric hospitals for their past behavior, they had both been released and pronounced “mentally sound.”

Karl grew up in a small town and was well-liked by adults, although some did describe him as being a little unusual at times. As he grew into his teens, he became a good worker and a good student who played in the high school concert band. He was very quiet, keeping to himself most of the time and only counting Joel Pierce as a close friend.

Occasionally, Karl would break with his typical reticence and visit Mr. Baker, who lived in the same neighborhood. Karl’s visits with Mr. Baker were lengthy; they would talk about his life and his problems. Karl’s willingness to confide his special thoughts to Mr. Baker indicates that Karl saw him as something of a father figure.

Although you might not suspect it, Karl did have a sincere, sensitive side, which he showed in the poems he wrote. His mother was very proud of this talent and would share the poetry with her friend, Mrs. Baker, from time to time.

One summer day, when Karl was twelve years old, his psychological problems reared their sinister heads. Karl had been invited to lunch at his cousin Beth’s house, which was a block away from where he lived. Beth was fond of Karl, and, up to this time, she had issued several such invitations to him because he always seemed pleased to be there.

On this rather warm July day, the blue sky held white, billowy clouds, and the breathy breeze carried the sweet scent of honeysuckle through the neighborhood and into Beth’s kitchen, where she was preparing lunch. The weather, at the least, made for a very tranquil and pleasurable day.

Yes, it was a beautiful day, yet before it was over, a dark cloud would hide this beauty for several people as they unexpectedly beheld Karl’s psychotic nature for the first time.

While waiting for lunch, Karl played with his cousin’s kitten in the backyard. A neighbor watching from her kitchen window next door saw it all. She said later that Karl seemed to be enjoying himself, but then, all at once, his mood changed. He picked up the kitten and strangled it with his bare hands. Then he loosened his grip for a second before roughly digging his fingers into its neck. This, the neighbor reported, seemed to please him.

Without showing any outward emotion, Karl then threw the kitten to the ground and entered the house, where he explained to his cousin—without a trace of guilt in his tone—that the kitten had “just died” while he was “playing with it.”

This approach, Karl would find, was a very convincing way for him to cover up his demented actions in the future.

Beth did not know what to think about her presumably healthy kitten suddenly dropping dead, but at the time, she had no reason to suspect foul play from Karl.

After Karl had eaten lunch with Beth and gone home, Beth sat on her porch, enjoying the comforting summer breeze. Her placid mood, as well as her favorable impression of her cousin, were destined to be short-lived. Marge Jennings, the neighbor who had witnessed Karl’s cruelty, came bustling up the walkway, breathless.

Marge was a fifty-year-old widow who was widely known for being an excellent cook. She was also recognized as an authority on what went on in the neighborhood—after all, everyone must have a hobby. Some referred to Marge as “nosey,” but in reality, she did not pry; she was simply interested in what was going on in this quaint little town.

Marge’s breathless explanation of the harrowing scene she had witnessed betrayed her rattled nerves. Her speech was altered by her frenzied demeanor, making it difficult for Beth to make out her speech, which went something like this:

“I was looking out my kitchen window, watching Karl play with the kitten, and thinking how nice it was for him to be having fun since he never seems to have friends to play with. All at once, he seemed to change character, as if he temporarily went out of his head; he picked up the kitten, and he started strangling it.

“I was in a panic. It was all I could...