When I first thought to write about my experience with a serial killer, I believed that in addition to the gift of survival—for which I was and am most grateful—the encounter had been a gift of story. It was so full of irony, close calls, ridiculous mistakes, that I had only to hold the pen—figuratively—and a best seller would flow onto the page. I had been married to a policeman for twenty years. My ex-husband was a homicide detective. He had met the murderer. He had seen the televised feature on Robert Weeks. He was the arresting detective. Oh, rich stuff. I saved notes, letters, transcribed phone calls. I was ready.

But the book wouldn't work. It was absolute torture to write. There were twists and turns that weren't right or true no matter how accurate they were. Weeks was interesting because he had killed women, not because of any outstanding characteristics. Certainly, he seemed an absolute gentleman, well read, with old-world charm, intelligence, good education, and nice outward form. But he was also boring, and slick, with perspectives that a woman in an intimate situation may notice but not believe could possibly be dangerous. He didn't mention names, dates, places. His world was generic; his past was amorphous. He called me "Pretty Lady" even after repeated requests that he not do so. His pat phrases such "We'll have our time, our time will come," took on meaning only after I learned he was a murderer.

While our little community had been dealing with the surface Weeks, there was another one, the one watching, perhaps planning vengeance, perhaps not planning at all, just waiting. That was the one I wanted to write about and I couldn't do it. I only knew him as he had wanted to be known. In addition to their depraved wants, many serial killers , at least the ones who've been caught, want fame. Once he was in prison, Robert Weeks wanted me to help him write a book, or to help me succeed through him, which tainted even the thought of telling his story directly. I had to learn more and to let it settle inside me in a way that allowed a whole person to form. Through me, his legacy would not be to sensationalize and romanticize violent acts, making them worthy of remembrance, but rather to help explain the human condition, the paradox between the good neighbor and his evil acts.

Over the years, I've done that, and Arthur Blume, my character, took shape. There are many similarities between Weeks and Blume, as there are between many serial killers, but Blume is purely fictional and, ultimately, far more real to me, far more human, because I've filled in the gaps and I feel sorry for him. I've read about killers until I'm embarrassed to admit the details I know. There's a discontinuity in the aberrant mind, and if we want the truth we have to approach it slant (a twist on Dickinson), because that's how they tell it. The reporters who interviewed Ted Bundy had to talk to him about what the murderer might have done. They had to ask him to conjecture—and they believed his conjecturing. Weeks wouldn't—or couldn't— say he didn't do it. He talked in clues, round-about paths. "I believe you were going to kill me," I said. "No," Weeks said, drawing it out like a sigh. Dahmer killed and tortured animals as a young child; Ted Bundy watched his grandfather read pornography; Bundy came into his aunt's room holding a butcher knife. Arthur was abused. Arthur came from a depraved home. But Arthur believes he adores his mother. Weeks adored his mother, he said, but he never mentioned her name; he never mentioned her without discussing power.

Serial killers appear normal because in many ways they are. Only in hindsight do we recognize that little clues were monstrous signs. Arthur Blume's innuendoes, gaps, seeming passivity, inability to respond directly to certain types of questions, are common traits among serial killers. Throughout An Absolute Gentleman, Blume demonstrates the unusual reasoning that will take him through the trial, believing that he is truthful. His kindnesses and grace are genuine; he can care about someone and then kill them—like a white tiger in a magician's show, just with a bit more finesse.

I have always been fascinated by the animal kingdom and all of Blume's examples of aberrant behavior in the animal world are factual, drawn from nature shows, magazines such as Discover, Science or Nature, or books by writers such as Carl Sagan (his works on the similarities between chimpanzees and human society), Desmond Morris, Robert Arbrey, Lewis Thomas, Stephen J. Gould, and similar sources, but especially from documentaries. One documentary described a crazed female chimp that stole others' infants, ate them, and taught her daughter to do the same. When the mother died, the younger female stopped the behavior. Another documentary explored the ape that didn't know how to nurture. Nature versus nurture. Increasingly, our culture tries to understand humans by studying animals; so does Blume. We hope through understanding we can gain control, over ourselves, our environment, over our fears.

Even with the proliferation of popular crime dramas on television and America's obsession with reality shows, or perhaps because of them, truth seems stranger than fiction. We can lock our doors from strangers, we can avoid bad neighborhoods and dark alleys, but how do we protect ourselves and our loved ones from the charming co-worker, the timid schoolboy, or the church rector, from the Scott Petersons, Ted Bundys, and BTKs? Jack the Ripper has been memorialized for more than a century, and yet we continue to fall victim to his successors. We may watch our backs for a while, but we get drawn in like victims of a Tsunami, chasing the receding waters before the wave rather than running for higher ground.

After identifying Weeks from an episode of Unsolved Mysteries, and maintaining a relationship with him in prison at the suggestion of my ex-husband, I sought assurance of safety from a police psychiatrist. He advised me that one can't predict what a serial killer will do, and thus there is no way to guard against one, no way to be safe. The exact example given was that the psychotic may wake and decide today he will kill Helen Dogood from ten or fifteen years ago. He may not know why. But if he decides, he'll act on it. Something that gets in his way may deter him—that's not predictable either—but the sight on the victim may rise again. Blume suddenly becomes aware of the victim—through proximity, or through some innocuous reminder. His victims come to him—they are presented or suggested by something outside his control. He lives among us as friend, colleague, neighbor, nice guy, and surprises us—but not totally—by being, simultaneously, murderer.

R. M. Kinder