Voice of a murderer

First of all, a mea culpa. Two posts back, I stated erroneously that I was the only descendant named David in my family, but I inadvertently overlooked my little grandnephew, David Stewart.

I'm sorry, little David! Truth is, I had a funny feeling I was wrong even as I wrote that, but I couldn't quite connect up the dots. Because I also said I was the only one to carry both of my grandfathers' names, i.e., David Alexander, I had to quickly inventory my memory of all my nieces and nephews and cousins and their kids.

Actually, I don't think I've ever known all the names of my various cousins' kids, let alone those of their kids' kids. But I do know young David Stewart, who is much closer to me, my niece Cara's youngest son, growing up in Michigan, not all that far from where my grandfather David Weir had his farm at London, Ontario. Shame on me!

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One of the hardest tasks facing a memoir-writer is how to tell the truth. Or, how much of the truth to tell. This is not only due to the abstract difficulty of determining what the truth is, since there often are many truths, not just one. But memoir writers have to grapple with whether or how to reveal uncomfortable truths.

Fiction presents an easier road to truth telling, under the guise of invented characters living imagined plots. What we think of as "real life" is the stuff of memoir; thus when writing one we have to be attentive to which details of our past stories can be independently verified, and try to stick to those.

Like most people who like story telling, I have not always let the facts get in my way. Sometimes, a detail here or there creates just the flourish I am looking for. But I would never dream of creating a memory out of whole cloth, and BTW, what the hell is whole cloth? I think there is a type of quilt called wholecloth but I don't think that is what the cliché is based on. If anybody can enlighten me, I'd be appreciative.

A more subtle but pervasive aspect of memoirs is what the authors choose not to say. There are so many memories we are ashamed of, or too timid still to reveal, or that might harm to others or ourselves. Many people also carry around secrets that if they revealed them now, even many years later, might expose them to legal consequences.

Recently, I've been reading the memoir of an man who purports to be telling the truth about his criminal past, and to a certain extent I'm sure he is, but I'm more interested in what he doesn't choose to reveal.

He admits trying to kill somebody, and he refers to having participated in many violent episodes. In several places in his book, he says he had no qualms about "blowing away" someone perceived to be an enemy of his gang. But he is careful not to reveal any actual murders he committed, because he is smart and knows the statute never runs out on murder.

The trouble is there is plenty of circumstantial that he indeed did commit murders that to this day remain unsolved. So, he has written a book, for which certain people are willing to honor him and invite him to campuses and other venues to speak about his past, and in this way he is profiting from what he did to others decades ago.

This man has eyes that are dead: the telltale sign of a killer. He may have cleaned up his life, finished his education, and gotten a respectable job. He may be a pillar of his community. He may have published a book, and the book may receive favorable reviews.

All of this, and more, can happen, but he has not told the truth. Had he revealed some of the heinous crimes he committed, his book would not be so well received, except in law enforcement circles, which might welcome the chance to close some old cold cases. His dilemma, as a writer obviously struggling to present his life in a favorable light, is that he shows no remorse or compassion for those he harmed during his violent years.

When confronted by the daughter of a woman killed during that era, under circumstances that suggest he may well have been involved, he avoided answering any questions about that case. Later, after the bookstore reading where this confrontation occurred, he averted his eyes when he saw the woman walking nearby.

None of this body language is that of an innocent man. It fascinated me to witness this whole scene that day. He may not admit his part in this crime, but there is nothing preventing others or me from exposing the evidence we have of his involvement.

Sure, he could sue for libel, but then he would be open to discovery. And a man with the kind of bloody secrets he carries around would be well advised to avoid the discovery process. So, the point of all this is memoir writing can be a dangerous game of hide-and-seek. If there are things you are afraid to reveal even in the supposed true story of your life, then what you do write is a lie.

And lies tend to out. He can try to hide from the consequences of killing people, but their ghosts will haunt him, one way or another. Many Native Americans believe that the bodies of murder victims do not rest peacefully until their killers are revealed. Memoir writing is dangerous -- it is a channel for truth to emerge. And the brain works in strange ways, once you start to dredge up old memories.

Just ask O.J. Simpson, author of the ludicrous faux-memoir of what would have happened had he been the killer of his estranged wife and a man at her house. From excerpts I read, his pretense of fiction fell away easily into a confession, barely disguised as make-believe.

Killers may think they have gotten away with murder, but the ghosts of those they killed will haunt them until they finally wise up, come clean, and accept the consequences. Without this, they can never know peace.

I will have more to say about this man and his book once I've finished reading it.

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