There is an idea of a Patrick Bateman; some kind of abstraction. But there is no real me: only an entity, something illusory. And though I can hide my cold gaze, and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable… I simply am not there.
I researched James Holmes for two months in preparation for a comic book I was writing. I read his college transcripts, I watched his school presentation, I watched multiple re-enactments of the crimes he committed in a Colorado movie theater in 2012. Read hundreds of articles, tracked down photos from his camp counseling days, and more.
But to back up: I was diligently collecting news stories about so-called “Joker-related” crimes for several years before that; the first one taking place maybe a week or two after The Dark Knight came out, the worst being two mass murders.
A question I repeatedly asked myself through this entire process was: