The unceremonious end of Andrew Cunanan in a Miami Beach houseboat in which he was a squatter, fittingly brought the engines of the industry he spawned to a sputtering halt. Gianni Versace's killing brought the stars of the fashion world, the international jet-setters, the gay community, the FBI, tabloid media, the unsolved crime hounds, Miami Vice, and legitimate investigative reporting into perfect alignment. Unfortunately, the combined glare obscured how Cunanan should be remembered: as antisocial, possibly psychopathic, and a loser.
Pundits and investigative reporters treated us to a daily feast of imaginative intrigue, from Andrew Cunanan sightings in faraway places, to computer renderings of Andrew dressed as a woman, to rumors of other killings he was "responsible" for, to tales of his mesmerizing charm. When he left clues behind, it was because he wanted to. He was, after all, too smart to make these mistakes. Everywhere you looked, he was referred to as a genius, as brilliant; precisely what a book publisher would give a six-figure contract to a Vanity Fair author to write about.
Andrew Cunanan had no extended school success and no consistent employment record. He was able to survive in a community with a soft spot for superficiality and grandiosity by way of his skills of creative storytelling, wearing the right clothes and buying drinks for enough people. He sold pills; he sold himself, even to the end of sadomasochistic use. We have heard him described as smooth, grandiose, and self-involved. Ultimately, given the means and the urge, he killed in a spree, then killed a celebrity and perversely fulfilled his high school yearbook destiny: "least likely to be forgotten." This is psychopathy. And yes, that's all there is.
What was Cunanan's brilliance? That he read GQ, and The New York Times, and could hold an informed conversation about Philipine politics? The hunted murder suspect took a hotel room and did little to ensure his continued freedom, even as he lived quietly in the months following his flight from New Jersey. He pawned a coin under his real name. The guile, the seductiveness that gained him portrayal as a hunter with the calculation of Kasparov did not endow him with the foresight to plan an escape when his stolen truck was seen as he fled the Versace murder scene. Fantasies of the shrewd master of disguises yielded to the reality of his retreat to abandoned shelter.
Nowhere in our study of psychopathy have we found these individuals to be any smarter than other fairly intelligent people. Something in our psyche has decided those who have no conscience and can exploit others and walk away unaffected, must be intelligent. Sadly, many inspired by these beliefs include the alienated and once abused, who find genius in Ted Kaczynski's ability to mail crude bombs to complete strangers for many years before capture. Capture, of course, facilitated by Kaczynski's brother recognizing his thought-provoking manifesto as ideas Ted had already raised over twenty years ago! Is this prodigy?
The so-called brilliant psychopath is, in reality, a bogeyman for adults. We have been programmed by movies and television to equate brazenness with courage. For the spree and serial murderer, and those disturbingly intrigued with them, real power can only be experienced by disposing of another human being's life. Why else do we buy into the splendor of John Gotti (in prison), and the savagery of Sammy "The Bull" (how fitting) Gravano? The biggest difference between psychopaths and other criminals is that their physiological lack of conscience assists them in surviving in the ocean of failure, which includes drug abuse and no sense of selves. Even Gravano, now having lost his family and his identity, longs for the legitimate life in his self-serving autobiography, Underboss. Do sharp teeth make the predatory shark the king of the ocean? Bet on the dolphin.
Now that Cunanan's dead, and with decidedly no drama, the party's over. Overpriced clothing designers, financially dependent on the believability of the illusions they create, were able to advance the notion that Versace's killing placed other fashion figures at risk. Of course, that sells Versace, and that sells designer clothes. The international jet-setters, for whom Cunanan was a cabin boy, were able to milk the death of a mysteriously wealthy man to assert that they are actually relevant enough to warrant concern. The gay community, which clamors for attention from federal law enforcement, will not be shielded by a middle America mirage that homosexual gigolos are too soft to be murderers. The tabloid media, dreaming of a live interview of Andrew Cunanan in drag as he escapes from the scene of a murder on the set of Larry King Live, is rudely awakened. No, Miami Beach police chief Richard Barreto won't get that book deal. For maybe Cunanan just wasn't the genius we all thought he was—and we all wanted him to be.
