When the news first broke about the four University of Idaho students who were stabbed to death in the middle of the night, the word evil was on everyone’s lips. I encountered it on Reddit boards and podcasts, in the tabloids, on daytime TV, and in mainstream news outlets. This was surely the work of a monster. And when Bryan Kohberger was arrested, the evidence only seemed to confirm the fact. This guy was taking classes with an expert on serial killers. He’d worn a black mask and disconnected his phone during the murders. His car had been thoroughly cleaned, and he was seen wearing surgical gloves and depositing trash in his neighbor’s bin. The verdict was in even before he entered court with what a body-language expert described as a “sociopathic stare”: This guy was immediately seen as the next Ted Bundy. The darker and more callow corners of the internet were even asking, Who’s hotter?
Now, nearly three years later, Kohberger has been sentenced to four consecutive life sentences with no possibility of parole. The families of Ethan Chapin, Madison Mogen, Xana Kernodle, and Kaylee Goncalves faced him in court during his sentencing and shared their grief. I was especially struck by something Goncalves’s mother, Kristi, said: “You’ve altered my every waking moment.”
Kohberger’s response? Nothing. No discernible remorse and, maybe even worse, no hint at a motive. Kohberger, even in pleading guilty, continues to inflict suffering on these families by refusing to provide a full confession, to explain why. And perhaps in direct response to these families, Judge Steven Hippler has urged everyone to stop focusing on that lingering question. “By continuing to focus on why, we continue to give Mr. Kohberger relevance. We give him agency. We give him power.” Hippler described the murders as an “unfathomable and senseless act of evil.” Pure and simple. End of story.
And maybe that is the end of the story. Which is to say that Kohberger was simply driven to kill, didn’t care about his victims, and committed murder because he wanted to. Would hearing that confession from Kohberger’s own lips change anything? Would it make these families, or any of us, feel differently?
Consider the case of the Texas tower sniper, Charles Whitman, who in 1966 fatally stabbed both his wife and his mother, then climbed a clock tower with a rifle, a shotgun, and several handguns, and fired at random people for 96 minutes, ultimately killing 16 people and injuring many more before police officers killed him. (A 17th victim would die from his injuries decades later.) Unlike Kohberger, Whitman did provide a full confession in his suicide note:
I don’t really understand myself these days. I am supposed to be an average reasonable and intelligent young man. However, lately (I can’t recall when it started) I have been a victim of many unusual and irrational thoughts.
He noted that he dearly loved his wife, but that he was overwhelmed by violent impulses. He also mentioned suffering from tremendous headaches, and requested that after his death, “an autopsy would be performed on me to see if there is any visible physical disorder.”
An autopsy was performed, and it found that a brain tumor in his hypothalamus was pressing on his amygdala, the region of the brain that helps regulate emotions such as fear, anxiety, and aggression. A commission of pathologists, psychiatrists, and other experts formed by the governor noted that “abnormal aggressive behavior may be a manifestation of organic brain disease.” They were not able to pinpoint a clear link between the tumor and Whitman’s actions, but they were operating under a 1966 level understanding of neurophysiology, and it remains plausible that the tumor contributed to his anguish.
I’ve yet to meet someone who hears that story and doesn’t feel a flicker of uncertainty, of reluctant sympathy. Would it change how we feel about Kohberger if they found a brain tumor pressing on his amygdala, or some psychopathy gene in his genome? Should it?
In a series of lectures on free will on the Waking Up app (where I am a contributor), the philosopher Sam Harris uses the Whitman case as a springboard into a broader argument: If we could truly understand the complexities of the human brain, we would think differently about how we understand human behavior too. Harris says:
A brain tumor is just a special case of our having insight into the fact that physical events give rise to thoughts and actions. If we fully understood the neurophysiology of any murderer’s brain, it would seem just as exculpatory as finding a tumor in it. If we could see how the wrong genes were being relentlessly transcribed, and how this person’s experiences in life had sculpted the microstructure of his brain in just such a way to produce states of mind which were guaranteed to make him violent, if we could see this causality clearly, the basis for placing blame on him in any deep sense would disappear.
To be clear, I am not arguing against consequences for those who commit murder. On the contrary. But what those consequences should be depends upon our view of how human behavior originates. This is why I believe it serves us to ask why Kohberger did what he did.
I’ve been haunted by that why question in my own life. Like Kohberger, Rudy Guede—the man who broke into my home and stabbed my roommate, Meredith Kercher, to death—never admitted to his crimes, much less offered an explanation. But fortunately (and unfortunately), in Guede’s case, his motives were banal and obvious: He was caught in the act of burglarizing our apartment, he raped Meredith because he had the opportunity to, and he murdered her because he cared more about his freedom than her life. (Guede has maintained that he is innocent, and continues to insist that my then-boyfriend, Raffaele Sollecito, and I carried out his crimes.)
The trajectory of Guede’s life and crimes are also easier to trace, and explain, than Kohberger’s: By his own admission, Guede’s father took him away from his mother when he was young, then went on to neglect him. He was often left to fend for himself, and originally took to breaking into other people’s homes for shelter. As he grew older, he got into drugs, couldn’t hold down a job, and burglarized to support his lifestyle. Sometimes he was arrested; more often he wasn’t. He always ended up back on the streets, feeling a little more emboldened and entitled. Until one day, he encountered Meredith.
After being apprehended for her murder, he falsely accused me and Raffaele —he cared more about his freedom than our lives as well—and, for reasons I have written about before, the police and prosecution were all too willing to selectively accept his obviously false testimony. In their efforts to demonstrate that they’d cracked the case, and in their rush to put two innocent people in prison for life, the authorities charged Guede only with sexual assault and “complicity in murder,” never holding him accountable for wielding the knife that took Meredith’s life. As a result, he got off with a light sentence. After serving only 13 years in prison, Guede ended up on the streets once more, feeling even more emboldened and entitled. The result? He is now on trial again for stalking and sexually assaulting another young woman. (Guede denies the allegations.)
This was not a surprise to any of us who, over the course of his original murder trial, became familiar with Guede’s history. Because, in a way, Guede was “understandable.” He never seemed to be a Ted Bundy–style psychopath, but rather a man driven by violent impulses and—after a crime he may not have planned to commit—a sense of self-preservation.
Is a man like Kohberger different? In the sense that his motives are more inscrutable, yes. But one might argue that whether it’s murder for self-preservation or murder by meticulous design, both arise from a willingness to commit violence paired with a complete lack of empathy. Kohberger and Guede both fit that description, and they both have been labeled evil.
To me, especially having been on the other side of that label, the word evil feels like a cop-out. It is an excuse to stop thinking, to ignore the evidence, to hate and punish someone law enforcement didn’t, or wouldn’t, understand.
Even though my innocence has long since been established, I worry that when people use terms like evil to define those who are demonstrably guilty of violent crimes, they are doing so not merely to convey the unfathomability of those crimes, but to wish harm upon the guilty, not as a means to rehabilitation or deterrence, but merely for harm’s sake.
My own family and friends found solace in the label when it was applied to my prosecutor. After all, he continued to persecute me after the police identified and captured the man who actually murdered my roommate; the man whose DNA was discovered on her body and throughout the crime scene; the man who had means, motive, opportunity, and precedent—and what do you call that but evil?
But as Sam Harris points out, our available decisions in life are a result of choices made by others that shape the world we find ourselves in. And even those predisposed to psychopathy have minds shaped by genes and environmental influences they did not choose.
Who knows: With Kohberger, the answer may turn out to be something like industrial poisoning—the author Caroline Fraser argues in her book Murderland that this was a hidden cause behind the rise of serial killers in the 1970s and ’80s. In that case, it wouldn’t make sense to inflict suffering on Kohberger as some sort of moral dessert, and it would make more sense to treat him as someone who is infected with a contagious and incurable disease—quarantined for his sake and ours. That is a serious consequence—being removed from society for life—but not one rooted in vengeance.
It’s more likely that we don’t yet have the technology or understanding of the human brain or genome to adequately make sense of Kohberger’s brokenness, in the same way that plague doctors didn’t have the means and understanding to save millions of people from a preventable death in the Middle Ages. Might we tomorrow? Ask yourself: If it were possible to give Kohberger gene therapy that turned him into a sane, empathetic, and loving person, would it make sense to lock him in prison for life because he “deserves” it?
If Kohberger’s brokenness is caused by factors beyond his control, then he is extremely unlucky. I can only imagine how awful it must be to move through the world as if people are mere objects to be manipulated and destroyed—a life entirely devoid of genuine human connection. I can only imagine the suffering his family is enduring—they didn’t choose to have a killer for a son, and, like the families of his victims, their lives will be forever scarred by what he did.
Acknowledging these realities can feel like a betrayal of the victims, but I don’t think it is. I believe that one way to honor the victims of horrific crimes is to closely study the roots of violence and challenge ourselves to see the horrible, banal truth: that under certain conditions, certain people can be broken, and all too often, due to our own limitations in understanding and treating, we cannot predict or prevent the terrible things that a broken person might do.
Perhaps Judge Hippler is right that we shouldn’t be looking for answers from Kohberger himself as to why the lives of Ethan Chapin, Madison Mogen, Xana Kernodle, and Kaylee Goncalves were so brutally and unjustly stolen. Not just because it continues to give Kohberger undeserved relevance, but because he very likely doesn’t have the answers.
But writing someone off as evil, as many people urged me to do with my prosecutor, is an excuse to ignore the causes of human dysfunction. It’s a wall we build to separate ourselves from those who commit the worst actions we can imagine. Ironically, it also grants permission for psychopathy in its own way. Let’s not forget: Crowds once cheered as criminals were drawn and quartered. What could be more psychopathic? We still execute people today in ways that are perhaps more muted, but just as ethically questionable. People talk about “closure” and “justice,” but we live in a society that encourages us to take pleasure in another’s pain and never ask ourselves why.
That’s why I keep trying, even though I sometimes fail, to feel a degree of genuine curiosity and compassion for those labeled “evil.” It’s not easy, and I certainly had to work my way up to forgiving the man who wrongly convicted me. I still find it nearly impossible to extend compassion to Rudy Guede.
Do I expect the parents of Ethan, Madison, Xana, and Kaylee to take on the challenge of viewing Kohberger with compassion? Not at all. Their rage and existential grief is justified, full stop. But for the rest of us, those who are not at the epicenter of this tragedy, have a choice: We can judge and label, or we can challenge ourselves to make sense of the senseless, in hopes that we might find a way to prevent the next tragedy from occurring.
The only thing I’ve found that has actually helped me heal from my own terrible experiences has been acceptance, and a desire to understand the flawed, complicated, and sometimes extremely dangerous humans around me.
