Chapter 3: The Obsession

With these experiences under his belt, Tyler grew bolder. Molestation no longer satisfied him; he decided to go further.

He started hanging out in the campus rec center, watching from a distance as students came and went. His confidence grew with each passing day, and he began planning something bigger.

He thought back on the details of his crimes and realized that being outdoors had too many unpredictable factors; it would be easier to act indoors.

He made notes on his phone, mapping out possible locations. Empty classrooms. Janitor closets. Any place the cameras couldn’t see.

So, Tyler started choosing victims from girls who attended evening study sessions. He specifically looked for classrooms near the restrooms, sitting in the back row and watching carefully.

He’d lurk in the hallways, headphones around his neck, pretending to be just another student cramming for finals. In reality, he was watching for his next victim.

To be honest, Tyler wasn’t satisfied with the first two molestations—he thought those girls were too “ugly,” and he felt he’d “lost out.”

He complained bitterly about their looks, as if they’d somehow failed him by not being beautiful enough. The entitlement in his words was staggering.

This time, Tyler decided to raise his standards and pick his prey carefully.

He became more selective, scrutinizing every girl who passed through his field of vision. He made mental notes, fixated on details that most people would never notice.

With his picky taste, he searched for a whole month before finding his ideal “lamb.”

He grew impatient, snapping at anyone who got in his way. His grades slipped, but he didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was finding the perfect target.

Her name was Natalie Pierce, a sophomore majoring in art.

The file said she lived in a cramped two-bedroom apartment on the west side. Her Instagram feed was full of sculpture sketches and pictures of her dog, Max.

Natalie came from a single-parent family. Her father was a metalworker, and under his influence, her biggest dream was to study in France and become a bronze sculptor.

She used to tag her dad in photos of her work, writing captions like, “One day I’ll make you proud, Dad.” You could tell how close they were from the way she talked about him.

Natalie was 5’9”, beautiful and graceful, but she never wore makeup, had no boyfriend, and rarely socialized with classmates.

Some people called her a loner. She spent most nights in the art studio, hunched over her work, earbuds in, shutting out the world.

On one hand, she needed to save money; on the other, she wanted to pass the French exam as soon as possible, hoping to get a study visa right after graduation.

She worked part-time at a coffee shop off campus, her tips saved in a glass jar marked “Paris.” She never bought new clothes, only what was absolutely necessary.

But misfortune found her first.

The world isn’t fair. Sometimes, it seems like tragedy seeks out the people who least deserve it.

The first time Tyler saw Natalie, he was captivated by her purity.

He described her in almost religious terms, as if she were some kind of angel he needed to corrupt. His obsession was instantaneous and total.

He asked Natalie for her contact information, and she politely refused. As always, Tyler thought Natalie looked down on him.

She turned him down gently, never raising her voice. But Tyler took her kindness as an insult, and it festered inside him.

So, he began to fantasize: “As long as I ruin Natalie, she’ll have no choice but to consider being with me.”

His fantasies turned darker by the day. He scrolled through her photos at night, imagining ways to break her spirit.

Tyler patiently waited for an opportunity. When Natalie got up to go to the restroom, he knew his chance had come. He picked up his backpack and quietly followed her.

The quad was empty, just the buzz of cicadas and the distant glow of the stadium lights. Every footstep echoed like a warning. The surveillance camera outside the classroom caught him trailing her down the hallway, eyes locked on her back.

“What was in the bag?”

I kept my voice steady, pen poised over my legal pad. I didn’t want to let on how sick his answer made me.

Tyler hesitated for a moment. “A mask, handcuffs, tape, and a dumbbell.”

He rattled off the list like it was nothing. My knuckles went white as I gripped my pen.

“Why did you bring a dumbbell?”

“Because I work out a lot.”

Liar.

I could tell from the way his eyes darted away. He hadn’t touched a weight in years. His gut bulged over the waistband of his orange pants.

But I didn’t call him out, letting him continue.

Sometimes, it’s better to let them talk. The more comfortable they feel, the more details they let slip.

Tyler followed Natalie into the women’s restroom. He locked the door, wedged a book in the gap to secure it, and quietly turned off the light.

He’d clearly planned this. The book in the door, the tape for her mouth, the mask. It was all so methodical—chilling in its precision.

Natalie, still in the stall, thought it was the cleaning lady and called out, “Ma’am, someone’s here! Please don’t turn off the light!”

Her voice echoed off the tile walls, high and nervous. She didn’t even know the danger yet.

She put on her skirt and was about to leave when she was attacked by Tyler.

He moved fast, blocking her path before she could even scream. The restrooms were always drafty, with leaky pipes and flickering lights. I imagined the terror she must have felt in that dark, claustrophobic space.

But Natalie did not submit. Even though she was a girl, she’d learned taekwondo, and with her height advantage, she kicked Tyler hard, making him cry out in pain.

She fought like hell. One of her shoes was found wedged under the sink, scuffed and streaked with blood. It was clear she wasn’t going down without a fight.

Natalie ran to the door, but it was stuck and she couldn’t get out.

She clawed at the door, splinters wedging under her nails, desperate for escape. The book jammed in the hinge held fast.

Once Tyler recovered, he chased after her, slammed her head against the wall, and knocked her out. Then he grabbed her hair and dragged her into the stall.

The forensics report described blood spatter on the tiles and a clump of hair tangled in the drain. I tried not to picture it, but the details clung to me.

“I took out the handcuffs, cuffed Natalie’s hands to the water pipe, and put the hood over her eyes…”

His voice was monotone, almost bored. I glanced at the clock on the wall, wishing I could end this interview.

“Did you cuff her facing you, or with her back to you?”

I leaned in, trying to catch any change in his expression.

“What?”

He looked confused, like he didn’t understand why it mattered.

“When Natalie was handcuffed, was she facing you or with her back to you?”

“Back… no, facing.”

He stumbled over the words, changing his story mid-sentence.

Lying again.

He’d lied about so many details, but this one stuck out. I jotted down a note in the margin of my pad.

The police report said: “The deceased was facing forward. During the struggle, the hood accidentally slipped off. The perpetrator, fearing his identity would be exposed, panicked and struck the victim’s head multiple times with a dumbbell, causing cranial deformation and instant death. It was a crime of impulse.”

The language was clinical, almost sterile. But the horror of what happened bled through the lines.

But the autopsy report said: “There are multiple wounds on both the inner and outer sides of the deceased’s wrists.”

I flipped through the photos, trying not to wince. The bruises were clear, ugly purple marks crisscrossing her arms.

If Natalie was facing forward with her hands cuffed behind her back, the injuries would be on the backs of her hands, not the palms.

It was a small detail, but it changed everything. The positioning didn’t add up.

So, Tyler must have had Natalie facing away from him when he assaulted her, and the injuries on her palms were likely caused during her struggle.

She’d tried to pull free, fingers raw from fighting the metal cuffs. The marks on her skin told the real story.

But if Natalie was facing away from Tyler, even if the hood slipped off, she shouldn’t have been able to see his face. Why would Tyler need to kill her, even smashing her head with a dumbbell?

I chewed the end of my pen, replaying the crime in my mind. Something didn’t fit. There was more to this than a simple panic attack.