The news tells me to be concerned and greatful that they finally may have caught him. A beast, as he’s known, a rapist, murderer finally found, sleeping right in our midst. Horrifying.

I wanted to make people care, though, get them good and upset. Make mothers on the bus and men in barbershops remember just what happened to those women, girls. I could paint this story to be as awful as it was, people will be relieved to see this man destroyed. No one would forget the terrible things the Bike Path Rapist did, I’d remind them at the last moment and make their loathing as strong as ever.

But that was impossible. I couldn’t build a story about the women he’d killed because I didn’t have any information on who they were. Their stories weren’t revealed any further than what they had been doing the days they were killed. The news hadn’t made their stories last more than a few days, a quick rundown and the necessary clues that we should be sad.

Of course we were sad, we were miserable, but on the news, those stories were scripted and formulaic, made for a paycheck. When a terrible tragedy occurs to a woman like Ms. Yalem, the news report will have crying, flowers, and a story that makes you terribly sad. But not the whole story, we get filler and obligation; a story which absolutely must be sold. Must be sold to the folks watching at home as quickly as possible, or they’ll change the station.

Finding the alleged Bike Path Rapist was hardly calming for anybody. It’s one of the most unsettling stories I’ve ever heard. On the news, it’s a story that can stick with you forever because you’ve never heard it before, never imagined something so dark as a killer who sleeps next to his wife every night. And I’m even more scared than I was before. We, as a community, had absolutely no idea who our enemy was.

Our enemy was a father and a husband, a coach and a neighbor. They say he has two personalities, and that really scares me too, because I feel bad for the one that wasn’t killing people. The one that was all of those nice things.

On Monday, big TV stations were already interviewing his neighbors and they asked “who was he” and “did you know,” like a school bus full of kids passing by a car on fire. They pressed their hands to the glass, almost feeling the heat again and then driving on, content to know they got closer than anybody else.

More than anything I thought that the heat would make me feel good. On the news he would scream curses and threats and he would be a cold, heartless bastard lunatic, all parts Manson, no parts father. No parts husband. No parts old man.

I keep staring at this cover, this awful photograph, and remembering that there is nothing to be glad about in this story. A man with a family, a respected member of the community, is that community’s own archenemy. He glares at the camera, and if you look at the mug shot long enough he’s biting his lip. His eyes are glassy and implore like a dog’s. I humanized this photo, and was disgusted with myself to see a frightened man staring back at me. This man deserves to be frightened, I thought.

Women and girls have been raped and murdered, two men lost their father, a woman lost her husband, and a city lost friends. There is no victory or happiness in that.

Some will sleep sounder with one more monster behind bars, but we’ve lost so much in the process. It’s complacency, maybe, not happiness or relief, that we’re really going to find.