When Fiction Turns Fatal

The Truth About Copyright Killers

Mark Twitchell sat in his garage-turned-film-studio, surrounded by plastic sheeting and props from his failed movie projects. On his laptop screen: Dexter Morgan, the fictional serial killer who murders other killers according to a strict moral code. In his mind: a fantasy where he, too, could become something more than an unemployed filmmaker living in his parents' garage.

fictional serial killer Dexter Morgan and convicted murderer Mark Twitchell

By October 2008, fantasy had turned to reality. Johnny Altinger lay dead on that plastic-covered floor, murdered not because he'd escaped justice for heinous crimes, but because he'd responded to a fake dating profile. Twitchell had become a killer, but not the kind he'd imagined. He was something far more common and infinitely more pathetic: a copycat who'd missed the entire point of his chosen hero.

This is the truth about copycat killers that Hollywood won't show you. They're not criminal masterminds inspired by media genius. They're inadequate individuals who fundamentally misunderstand the very characters they claim to emulate. And their failures—consistent, predictable, almost embarrassing in their simplicity—tell us more about criminal psychology than any fictional portrayal ever could.

The Copycat Phenomenon

According to criminologist Ray Surette's research, copycat crime is defined as a crime that "must have been inspired by an earlier, publicized crime — that is, there must be a pair of crimes linked by the media" (Surette, 2016). The phenomenon is more common than many realize. In a survey of 574 inmates, 22% admitted to having committed a copycat crime, with 20% viewing media as a valuable resource for learning how to commit crimes (Surette, 2016).

The history of copycat crimes stretches back decades. Following the release of films like A Clockwork Orange and Natural Born Killers, law enforcement documented spikes in similar crimes. But here's what's crucial: research consistently shows that the media doesn't create killers. As noted in multiple studies, "data shows most copycat killers already had a violent streak before they began killing" (Johnston, 2021).

Media doesn't create killers—it attracts them. These individuals obsessively study violent shows because they're shopping for a narrative that fits their existing fantasies. The distinction matters: the media gives form to their pre-existing violent impulses, providing a narrative framework that makes their desires feel justified, even noble.

Understanding the Copycat Killer

Dr. Jacqueline Helfgott, who has spent decades studying the phenomenon, notes that copycat crimes involve complex interactions between individual psychology and media influence (Helfgott, 2015). But who becomes a copycat killer?

Research indicates several key factors:

1. Prior Criminal Inclination: According to Surette's studies, individuals who commit copycat crimes typically have pre-existing violent tendencies or criminal histories. They're not blank slates corrupted by media—they're violent individuals seeking justification.

2. High Criminal Self-Efficacy: These individuals believe "they see their criminal goals as something obtainable" and think they possess the skills to avoid consequences (Psychologs.com, 2023). This overconfidence becomes their downfall.

3. Narcissistic Traits: Many copycat offenders display narcissistic characteristics, seeking attention and recognition through their crimes. They believe they're special, different, destined for infamy.

4. Social Isolation: Research indicates that individuals with lower societal status and less education are more susceptible to copycat behavior (Psychologs.com, 2023). Isolation creates echo chambers where violent fantasies go unchallenged.

What unites these factors is a fundamental inability to accurately assess oneself and one's place in the world. Copycat killers suffer from what we might call a reality perception disorder—not in the clinical sense of psychosis, but in their complete inability to see themselves as they truly are.

The Psychology of Susceptibility

Not everyone who watches violent media becomes violent. The difference lies in individual psychology and circumstances. According to research, several factors increase susceptibility to copycat behavior:

Temporal Proximity: Copycat crimes are "most likely to happen in the two weeks after a high-profile murder" (Johnston, 2021), suggesting that media coverage creates windows of heightened risk. This window represents a critical period during which vulnerable individuals transition from fantasy to planning to action.

Identity Seeking: Individuals who lack stable identities may be more likely to adopt fictional personas. As researchers note, "temporarily taking on a persona or character of someone else makes it easier to harm others; it allows him to act in a way in which he generally would not act otherwise" (Johnston, 2021). But this adoption is never temporary for copycat killers—they believe they've found their true selves.

Previous Exposure to Violence: Those with histories of violence or trauma may be more susceptible to identifying with violent fictional characters. They see their own pain reflected and justified in these characters' backstories.

The psychology of susceptibility involves a perfect storm of factors: personal inadequacy, violent fantasies, narcissistic traits, and exposure to media that seems to validate their darkest impulses. These individuals aren't randomly selected by media influence—they're primed for it by their own psychological makeup.

Parasocial Relationships and Fiction

A key psychological concept in understanding copycat killers is the parasocial relationship—the one-sided emotional connections viewers develop with media characters. First identified by Horton and Wohl (1956), parasocial interaction refers to the phenomenon where "viewers or listeners come to consider media personalities as friends, despite having no or limited interactions with them" (Horton & Wohl, 1956, p. 215).

Research has shown that these relationships can feel psychologically real and personally meaningful, despite being entirely imaginary (Cole & Leets, 1999; Derrick et al., 2008). For individuals with certain vulnerabilities—particularly those with insecure attachment styles or social isolation—these relationships may become more intense than real-world connections.

The development of parasocial relationships follows predictable patterns. Initial exposure creates interest, repeated exposure builds familiarity, and eventually viewers develop what feels like genuine intimacy with characters who don't even exist. For most people, these relationships are harmless—even beneficial, providing comfort and entertainment. But for a small subset with pre-existing violent tendencies and identity disturbances, these relationships can become dangerous fixations.

What transforms a normal parasocial relationship into a pathological one? The key lies in the viewer's ability to maintain the boundary between fiction and reality. Healthy viewers understand that Tony Soprano is James Gandolfini playing a role, that Dexter Morgan is a writer's creation brought to life by Michael C. Hall. They can admire the performance, analyze the character, even feel emotional connections, while never losing sight of the fundamental unreality.

Copycat killers lose this boundary. They don't see Michael C. Hall playing Dexter—they see Dexter as a real person, a kindred spirit, a role model. The parasocial relationship becomes their primary relationship, more real than their actual human connections. They study their chosen character obsessively, memorizing not just the dialogue but also mannerisms, philosophies, and methods. They begin to see the world through their character's eyes, interpreting their own life through the fictional narrative.

The Media Selection Process

How do potential copycat killers choose their role models? The process reveals much about their psychology:

1. Confirmation Bias: They select characters who seem to validate their existing violent fantasies. A lonely, angry man doesn't randomly choose Dexter—he chooses Dexter because Dexter makes killing look justified, controlled, even heroic.

2. Selective Interpretation: They focus only on aspects of characters that appeal to them, ignoring contradictory elements. They see Dexter's power and control, but miss his constant struggle with human connection. They see Patrick Bateman's lifestyle but miss the satire.

3. Narcissistic Identification: They see themselves in these characters, despite glaring differences. Mark Twitchell, an unemployed filmmaker, saw himself in Dexter, a successful forensic analyst. The identification is delusional from the start.

Research by Surette found that crimes portrayed as successful and requiring low skill levels have higher chances of being copied, while unsuccessful crimes have the least chance of imitation (Psychologs.com, 2023). This explains why copycat killers often choose Hollywood villains over real serial killers—fictional murders always succeed, always look easy, always have meaning. Reality is messier.

The selection process is essentially narcissistic projection. These individuals scan media landscapes not for entertainment but for mirrors—characters who reflect their idealized self-image back at them. When they find that character, the identification is immediate and total. They've seen not just a role model but an identity.

The Narcissistic Filter

Perhaps the most crucial element in understanding copycat killers is what researchers observe as their selective perception. These individuals don't truly see the characters they claim to admire—they see only reflections of their own desires.

Consider fictional antiheroes such as Dexter Morgan, Tyler Durden, or Patrick Bateman. These characters are written with deliberate complexity:

• Dexter Morgan: A man who kills according to a strict moral code, targeting only other killers. But more importantly, he's a character defined by what he lacks—genuine human emotion, the ability to connect, a sense of belonging. His violence isn't triumphant; it's compulsive, a need he wishes he could escape.

• Tyler Durden: Literally a delusion, a projection of everything wrong with hypermasculinity and consumer culture. The entire point of Fight Club is that Tyler must be rejected, overcome, and recognized as a destructive fantasy.

• Patrick Bateman: A savage satire of 1980s excess whose murders may not even be real. The ambiguity is the point—in a culture of surfaces, even murder becomes just another lifestyle choice.

Yet copycat killers consistently miss these critical elements. They see only what confirms their existing self-image:

• In Dexter, they see justified killing, not tortured existence.

• In Tyler, they see masculine power, not toxic delusion.

• In Bateman, they see a successful lifestyle, not empty satire.

This selective blindness serves a psychological purpose. By focusing only on the violence and power these characters display, copycat killers can avoid confronting their own inadequacies. They're not seeing Dexter or Tyler or Bateman—they're seeing idealized versions of themselves, versions where their violence has meaning, their existence has purpose, their inadequacies are transformed into strengths.

The narcissistic filter is so strong that it literally prevents them from processing information that contradicts their self-image. When Dexter struggles with his lack of humanity, copycats interpret this as a sign of depth. When Tyler Durden is revealed as a destructive delusion, they see only the revelation of truth. When Patrick Bateman's life is portrayed as meaningless despite his wealth, the focus is solely on the wealth.

Why Fiction Over Reality?

An intriguing aspect of the copycat phenomenon is the preference for fictional over real-life role models. While some criminals do imitate real serial killers, there's a marked tendency toward fictional characters. Several factors may explain this:

1. Narrative Control: Fictional characters have clear story arcs, characterized by beginnings, middles, and endings. Their violence is contextualized and often justified within their narratives. Real killers are messy, frequently caught quickly, and usually pathetic in their motivations.

2. Romanticization: Hollywood often presents even villains with attractive qualities—such as charisma, intelligence, and style. Real killers, when examined closely, are frequently mundane and repulsive. Ted Bundy might have been charming, but he also lived in his car and stole credit cards. Not very aspirational.

3. Psychological Distance: It may be easier to identify with a fictional character than to acknowledge alignment with a real killer. Admiring Dexter feels different than admiring Jeffrey Dahmer, even if the underlying impulse is the same.

4. Competence Illusion: Fictional killers never make stupid mistakes, never get caught through luck or laziness. They're always three steps ahead, always in control. Real killers get caught because they keep bodies in their freezer or use their victim's credit card at a gas station.

Fiction provides what reality cannot: meaning, structure, and the guarantee of significance. In movies and TV, violence is often used to serve the narrative. In fact, violence is usually pointless, ugly, and ends in a prison cell or morgue. Copycat killers choose fiction because fiction tells them what they want to hear—that their violence can make them special.

The Competence Gap

One of the most consistent patterns in copycat crimes is the vast gulf between intention and execution. Copycat killers invariably overestimate their abilities while underestimating the challenges of criminal behavior.

Consider the practical differences between fiction and reality:

Fictional Killers Have:

• Unlimited resources (Dexter's boat, kill rooms, specialized equipment)

• Plot armor (they don't get randomly pulled over while transporting a body)

• Scriptwriters who ensure their plans work.

• Edited scenes that skip the messy, difficult parts

• Victims who conveniently appear when needed

• Police who are always one step behind

Real Copycats Have:

• Limited money (Twitchell couldn't even afford his garage rental)

• Real-world physics (bodies are heavy, blood is messy, DNA exists)

• Their own inadequate planning

• To deal with every mundane detail

• To find victims without getting caught

• Modern forensic science is working against them.

This competence gap extends beyond practical matters. Copycat killers also lack the psychological complexity of their fictional inspirations. Where Dexter genuinely struggles with questions of morality and humanity, real copycats typically display only shallow narcissism and entitlement. They can't even successfully imitate the depth they claim to admire.

The gap between fantasy and execution is so vast that it becomes almost comical if it weren't so tragic. Twitchell built his kill room, but apparently never considered that plastic sheeting doesn't prevent blood from seeping into concrete, which is why Luminol revealed everything. Draper and Adamcik filmed themselves planning and confessing, apparently unaware that videotape is evidence. These aren't masterminds—they're inadequate individuals whose incompetence is revealed the moment they step from fantasy into reality.

Real Motivations Behind the Mask

Research into copycat crimes reveals that the stated admiration for fictional characters often masks more mundane motivations:

Power and Control: Many copycat killers come from positions of powerlessness in their daily lives. Twitchell was unemployed, dependent, and failing in his marriage. Magnotta was a sex worker with delusions of grandeur. Violence represents an attempt to seize control, to feel powerful for once in their inadequate lives.

Recognition Seeking: In our celebrity-obsessed culture, even negative fame can seem preferable to anonymity. These killers don't actually want to be Dexter or Patrick Bateman—they want to be famous like Dexter or Patrick Bateman. They mistake infamy for significance.

Sexual Inadequacy: Some copycat crimes, particularly those inspired by characters like Patrick Bateman, may stem from sexual frustration and feelings of inadequacy. The violence becomes a replacement for the genuine human connection they're incapable of forming.

Identity Crisis: For individuals with unstable self-concepts, adopting a fictional persona offers a ready-made identity. Instead of doing the hard work of developing a genuine self, they can put on a mask and pretend.

These motivations existed before exposure to media. The fictional characters provide a framework for pre-existing desires, a narrative that makes their pathology feel meaningful rather than pathetic. They're not killing because Dexter inspired them—they're killing because they want to kill, and Dexter gives them a story to tell themselves about why.

Red Flags: Warning Signs of Potential Copycat Behavior

Understanding the warning signs can help identify individuals at risk before they act:

Online Behavior Patterns:

• Excessive identification with violent fictional characters on social media

• Creating fan pages or profiles using character names (like Twitchell's Dexter Morgan Facebook)

• Writing detailed fantasies about recreating fictional crimes

• Seeking out communities that glorify fictional killers

• Posting quotes exclusively from violent antiheroes

• Arguing that fictional villains are actually heroes

Escalation Indicators:

• Moving from passive consumption to active roleplay

• Purchasing items associated with fictional killers (weapons, costumes, tools)

• Creating "kill lists" or detailed plans mimicking fictional methods

• Testing boundaries with smaller acts of violence or intimidation

• Practicing elements from fictional crimes (like building a "kill room")

• Increasing isolation combined with deeper character immersion

Psychological Red Flags:

• Expressing feelings that the fictional character "understands" them uniquely

• Inability to distinguish between character motivations and their own

• Justifying real violence using fictional narratives

• Social isolation combined with immersion in violent media

• Grandiose statements about their similarity to fictional killers

• Inability to acknowledge the fictional nature of their chosen character

What Family and Friends Might Notice:

• Dramatic personality changes after consuming certain media

• Adopting speech patterns or mannerisms of fictional killers

• Decorating living spaces with excessive character memorabilia

• Expressing admiration for the violence rather than the character's complexity

• Withdrawal from real relationships in favor of fictional ones

• Increasing anger when others don't share their character interpretation

Case Studies in Failure

Now let's examine how this psychology plays out in real life through cases that demonstrate the inevitable failure awaiting those who attempt to live out their dark Hollywood fantasies.

The Dexter Illusion: When Mark Twitchell Met Reality

Dexter Morgan glides through Miami like a ghost. By day, he's a blood spatter analyst for the police. By night, he's a vigilante serial killer with a code, targeting those who've escaped justice. His kills are precise, clinical, almost artistic. He operates from a place of cold logic, never leaving evidence, never making mistakes. The show presents him as darkly charismatic, intelligent, even sympathetic—a monster, yes, but one with rules, reasons, and a strange moral compass.

However, what the show actually depicts is a man in constant turmoil, desperate to feel a human connection, tortured by his inability to experience genuine emotions. Dexter doesn't enjoy killing—it's a compulsion he wishes he could escape. The code isn't a justification; it's the only thing preventing him from becoming the monsters he hunts.

Mark Twitchell watched this and saw himself reflected back. Or rather, he saw what he wished he could be—controlled, purposeful, justified in his violence. The unemployed aspiring filmmaker from Edmonton had directed a Star Wars fan film that never saw proper release. He'd lost his job in spring 2008 and hadn't told his wife, maintaining a facade while his life crumbled. His marriage was failing—they were in counseling, sleeping in separate beds. He was living a lie long before he became a killer.

In October 2008, Twitchell decided to become Dexter. He'd been running a Facebook page under the name "Dexter Morgan," writing posts from the character's perspective. His posts revealed a fundamental misunderstanding of the character, where Dexter's internal monologue is filled with confusion and attempts to understand humanity. Twitchell's posts, in contrast, were grandiose, self-aggrandizing, and focused on power rather than pain.

The Forensic Trail: Police investigation revealed a damning digital footprint. Twitchell had created fake female profiles on dating sites, specifically "Jen" on Plenty of Fish. When police examined his laptop, they found a deleted document titled "SK Confessions"—"Serial Killer Confessions." Despite deletion attempts, forensic analyst Const. Michael Roszko fully recovered the 42-page manifesto.

The document began: "This story is based on true events. The names and events were altered slightly to protect the guilty. This is the story of my progression into becoming a serial killer."

But the most revealing aspect wasn't what Twitchell wrote—it was what he missed. His manifesto reads like bad fan fiction written by someone who watched Dexter but never truly understood it. Where Dexter's narrative is filled with attempts to understand human emotion, Twitchell's document is pure power fantasy. He described the killing as "an exhilarating new hobby," completely missing that Dexter finds no joy in killing.

The physical evidence was equally damning:

• Luminol tests revealed extensive blood evidence despite cleaning attempts.

• A table, floor, and walls showing blood spatter patterns

• Post-it notes with chilling to-do lists, including "kill room clean up"

• A hunting knife, he called the "kill knife"

• Garbage bags and a steel drum for body disposal

• A copy of a Dexter book in his car

His "kill room" was a rented garage draped in plastic sheeting, just like Dexter's. But unlike Dexter's meticulous crime scenes, Twitchell's was amateur hour. He chose victims through online dating sites—not because they were killers who'd escaped justice, but because they were lonely and trusting. Johnny Altinger, a 38-year-old pipeline worker, thought he was meeting "Jen" for a date. Instead, he met Twitchell, who attacked him with a pipe and then stabbed him to death.

The contrast with Dexter couldn't be starker:

Dexter's Code:

• Never kill an innocent

• Never get caught

• Blend in perfectly

• Only kill those who deserve it.

• Never make it personal.

• Maintain absolute control

Twitchell's Reality:

• Killed an innocent man looking for love

• Caught within weeks

• Drew attention to himself constantly

• Killed for the thrill

• Made it entirely about his ego

• Lost control immediately

Where Dexter meticulously disposes of bodies at sea, leaving no trace, Twitchell panicked. He first tried burning the remains in a barrel behind his parents' house in suburban Edmonton. When that failed, he dismembered the body and dumped the parts down a sewer. He kept Altinger's car, attempted to sell it, and sent emails from Altinger's account, claiming he'd gone to Costa Rica with a wealthy woman.

Every decision revealed his fundamental misunderstanding of the character he had chosen. Dexter blends in perfectly; Twitchell ran a Dexter Facebook page and shared his dark interests with people. Dexter never involves innocents; Twitchell created elaborate lies involving fake women. Dexter controls every variable; Twitchell left a trail of evidence so obvious it's insulting to investigators.

Detective Bill Clark, who worked the case, noted that Twitchell seemed to think being a fan of Dexter would somehow explain or justify his actions. During interrogation, Twitchell tried to claim self-defense, saying Altinger attacked him first. When that failed, he suggested it was an accident during a movie scene. Finally, he seemed to expect understanding because of his Dexter obsession, as if saying "I was trying to be like Dexter" would earn him points.

The jury took just five hours to convict him of first-degree murder. He's now serving a life sentence with no possibility of parole for 25 years—plenty of time to contemplate the difference between fiction and reality.

The Dexter Paradox is stark: Twitchell copied the methods but ignored everything that made Dexter a compelling character. Dexter struggles with his humanity, follows strict rules, and targets only those who deserve it. He finds no pleasure in killing—it's a burden, a curse passed down from his adoptive father. The code isn't an excuse to kill; it's the only thing that makes the killing bearable.

Twitchell was just an inadequate man who thought plastic sheeting and a pipe made him special. He wasn't wrestling with darkness—he was drowning in mediocrity and chose murder as his life raft. Where Dexter asks, "Am I human?" Twitchell asked, "Am I famous yet?" The answer to both questions was no.

Natural Born Copycats: When Privilege Meets Illusion

Oliver Stone's Natural Born Killers is a savage satire of American media culture, following Mickey and Mallory Knox on a killing spree born from severe childhood trauma. The film explicitly critiques how the media turns killers into celebrities, showing the grotesque consequences of this cultural obsession. Stone filled the movie with hallucinogenic imagery and cartoon violence specifically to make viewers uncomfortable with their own consumption of violent media.

The film shows Mickey and Mallory as products of horrific abuse—Mallory's father sexually abused her, her mother enabled it, and Mickey came from poverty and violence. Their killing spree begins with the murder of Mallory's parents, an act of liberation from years of torture. Even then, Stone doesn't glorify them. They're shown as damaged, delusional, ultimately doomed. The film's message is clear: violence begets violence, trauma creates killers, and media exploitation makes it all worse.

Sarah Edmondson and Benjamin Darras

On March 6, 1995, Sarah Edmondson and Benjamin Darras dropped acid and watched Natural Born Killers repeatedly in a cabin in Oklahoma. Sarah came from one of Louisiana's most prominent political families—her uncle was the attorney general, her father a respected judge. Ben was a middle-class teenager from a stable home. Unlike Mickey and Mallory, who killed abusive parents and authority figures as a response to horrific childhoods, Sarah and Ben had nothing to rebel against except their own boredom.

The contrast is almost absurd:

Mickey and Mallory's Background:

• Severe sexual abuse

• Physical violence

• Poverty and neglect

• No escape from trauma except violence

• Killing their abusers first

Sarah and Ben's Background:

• Political dynasty family

• Wealth and privilege

• Every opportunity available

• Loving, if concerned, parents

• Killing random innocents

After their drug-fueled viewing session, they decided to recreate the movie. They would later claim the film spoke directly to them, that Mickey and Mallory were their "true selves." But this identification reveals more about their narcissism than any actual similarity. What trauma were they escaping? What system were they rebelling against?

Sarah's parents later described her as falling in with "outcasts" and seeking "solace" in the wrong crowd. But even this description reveals the privileged perspective—she wasn't an outcast by circumstance but by choice. She had to seek out alienation because her life provided none.

Their first victim was Bill Savage, a Mississippi cotton gin manager who'd stopped to help what he thought was a stranded motorist. Sarah shot him twice in the head for no reason other than opportunity. They then drove to Louisiana, where Sarah walked into a convenience store and shot clerk Patsy Byers, leaving her paralyzed.

The surveillance footage is revealing in its banality. There's no dramatic confrontation, no symbolic statement—just a teenage girl from a prominent family shooting a woman working the late shift to support her family. Where Mickey and Mallory's violence in the film is hyperstylized and purposeful (however twisted that purpose might be), Sarah and Ben's real violence was mundane and meaningless.

During their trials, both tried to maintain their Mickey and Mallory personas. They spoke of destiny, of being meant for each other, of the kills being part of their love story. But in court, without the LSD and the movie soundtrack, they looked exactly like what they were: unremarkable teenagers who'd thrown their lives away for nothing.

The judge saw through the performance immediately. These weren't traumatized victims lashing out at an abusive world. They were bored, privileged kids who thought violence would make them interesting. Sarah is still serving life plus 25 years. Ben died in prison, having achieved none of the dark fame he sought.

The film they claimed inspired them was warning against exactly what they became: people who commit violence for attention, who mistake destruction for meaning. Stone's movie shows Mickey and Mallory as damaged products of genuine trauma. Sarah and Ben were just bored kids from good families who thought violence would give their empty lives significance. They missed the point so completely that it's almost impressive.

The Scream Queens Who Became the Joke

Wes Craven's Scream was a brilliant piece of meta-horror that deconstructed the slasher genre while simultaneously reviving it. The killers in Scream are revealed to be pathetic teenagers who use horror movie "rules" to justify their murders. Billy Loomis and Stu Macher aren't criminal masterminds—they're vapid fame-seekers hiding behind movie references. The film explicitly mocks the notion that movies create killers.

Randy, the film's horror expert, explains the "rules" for surviving a horror movie while the real killers use those same rules to plan murders. The irony is intentional; Craven was commenting on how killers use pop culture as an excuse for their own inadequacies. When Billy is revealed as the killer, his motive is pathetically mundane: his parents' divorce. He dressed it up with movie references, but at the core, he was just an angry kid who blamed everyone else for his problems.

Brian Draper and Torey Adamcik completely missed this point when they decided to recreate Scream in 2006. The 16-year-old high school students from Pocatello, Idaho, filmed themselves planning to kill their classmate, Cassie Jo Stoddart. Unlike the fictional Ghostface killers, who at least had the intelligence to hide their identities until the climax, Brian and Torey recorded everything.

Cassie Jo Stoddart was betrayed and murdered by Brian Draper (far left) and Torey Adamcik (far right)

The Digital Evidence: Their video recordings are chilling in their stupidity:

• They filmed themselves planning the murder in detail.

• Discussed how they were going to be "like Scream"

• Created a "death list" of other intended victims

• Recorded their purchase of knives and masks

• Filmed a "practice run" at the murder location

• Recorded themselves immediately after the murder

In one video, they sit in a car, casually discussing murder like they're planning a school project: "We're gonna be just like Scream... except real life terms." They seem genuinely excited, as if they're about to perform in a school play rather than commit murder. The casualness is what's most disturbing—they had completely divorced the act from its reality.

On September 22, 2006, they put their plan into action. Cassie was house-sitting for relatives when Brian and Torey, who were supposed to be her friends, visited her. They left, then returned wearing masks to cut the power. In the dark, they attacked her, stabbing her approximately 30 times.

But here's where their Scream fantasy fell apart entirely: They filmed themselves after the murder, practically confessing on camera. "Just killed Cassie!" Torey announced to their camera. "We just left her house. This is not a fucking joke." They seemed to expect... what? Applause? Fame?

They hid the tape, along with the knives and masks, in what they thought was a clever hiding spot—a hole in a rock at the local Black Rock Canyon. Police found everything within days. Their "perfect crime" unraveled faster than a Scream sequel plot.

In Scream, the revelation of the killers' identities is a shocking twist that recontextualizes the entire film. In reality, Brian and Torey were caught immediately because they were stupid teenagers who thought copying a movie about stupid teenagers who copy movies would somehow make them infamous. They became exactly what Scream was mocking—and they were too dense to realize it.

During sentencing, they showed no genuine remorse, only regret at being caught. The judge noted their complete disconnect from reality, their inability to see Cassie as a human being rather than a prop in their movie fantasy. Both received life sentences, later amended to life with the possibility of parole after 30 years.

Their victim was an honor student with her whole life ahead of her. Her only mistake was trusting her "friends." In trying to recreate fictional horror, Brian and Torey created absolute horror for Cassie's family. They wanted to be famous killers. Instead, they're just prisoner numbers, footnotes in articles about how stupid teenagers can be.

American Psycho, Canadian Failure

Luka Magnotta never understood that American Psycho was satire. Bret Easton Ellis's novel and Mary Harron's film adaptation present Patrick Bateman as the ultimate critique of 1980s consumer culture—a hollow narcissist whose potential murders may be as fictional as his personality. The ambiguity is the point: in a culture that values surface over substance, even murder becomes just another lifestyle choice to brag about at restaurants you can't get reservations for.

The genius of American Psycho is that it's unclear whether Bateman kills anyone at all. His confessions are ignored or misunderstood. Bodies don't stay where he leaves them. His lawyer claims to have had lunch with a supposedly dead colleague. The murders might be as fake as Bateman's personality, as empty as his supposed achievements. He's not a serial killer—he's a symbol of masculine inadequacy dressed in Armani.

But for Magnotta, a failed model and escort working in Montreal, Bateman represented something to aspire to. Born Eric Clinton Kirk Newman, he legally changed his name multiple times, constantly reinventing himself in search of fame. He auditioned for reality shows, created fake fan sites about himself, and planted false rumors about dating serial killers. When none of that worked, he escalated the issue.

Like Bateman, Magnotta was obsessed with his appearance and status. Unlike Bateman, who at least had the Wall Street job and Upper West Side apartment to back up his pretensions, Magnotta was a sex worker living in a dingy apartment, funding his lifestyle through escort ads. Where Bateman's violence (real or imagined) erupts from the emptiness of having everything, Magnotta's violence came from the rage of having nothing.

The parallels Magnotta saw were delusional:

Patrick Bateman:

• Wealthy investment banker

• Harvard educated

• Manhattan apartment

• Obsessed with business cards

• Possibly doesn't even kill

Luka Magnotta:

• Failed model/escort

• High school dropout

• Dingy Montreal apartment

• Obsessed with Google results

• Definitely killed

In May 2012, Magnotta murdered Jun Lin, a Chinese international student, in his Montreal apartment. He filmed the killing and dismemberment, posting the video online as "1 Lunatic, 1 Ice Pick." Where Bateman's violence is ambiguous, possibly imaginary, Magnotta made sure his was documented, undeniable, viral.

He mailed body parts to political parties and schools, desperately seeking the attention that had eluded him his entire life. He sent a foot to the Conservative Party headquarters, a hand to the Liberal Party. He wanted Canada to know his name, so it would be impossible for them to ignore him. Where Bateman can't get anyone to acknowledge his confessions, Magnotta forced the world to witness his crime.

He adopted numerous aliases during his escape attempt, including "Kirk Tramell," a reference to the femme fatale from the film Basic Instinct. Even in flight, he was performing, playing a role, living in a movie that existed only in his head. He fled to Europe, where he was caught in a Berlin internet café reading articles about himself—the most pathetic possible ending for someone who killed for fame.

At trial, Magnotta's lawyers argued he was not criminally responsible due to mental illness, claiming he believed he was being forced to kill by an abusive client named "Manny." The jury didn't buy it. They saw what the evidence showed: a narcissist who killed an innocent student for online notoriety, who filmed it for the views, who mailed body parts for headlines.

The contrast with American Psycho is total. Ellis and Harron created Bateman to critique empty consumer culture, to show how capitalism creates hollow men capable of anything and nothing. Magnotta missed every layer of satire, seeing only the surface—a good-looking man gets attention. He couldn't understand that Bateman is the joke, not the hero.

Magnotta is serving a life sentence with no possibility of parole for 25 years. Prison reports suggest he still doesn't understand why his "art" wasn't appreciated. He remains convinced he's special, important, misunderstood—everything Patrick Bateman satirizes about murderous narcissism. The difference is that Ellis and Harron were in on the joke. Magnotta never realized he was the punchline.

When Delusions and Dark Media Collide

Beyond these high-profile cases, other copycat crimes reveal similar patterns:

The Vampire Clan Murders (1996)

Unlike most copycat killers, Rod Ferrell's case is complicated by genuine mental illness. Ferrell, believing himself a 500-year-old vampire named "Vesago," led a group of teenagers in murdering Richard Wendorf and Naoma Ruth Queen, the parents of fellow "clan" member Heather Wendorf.

Court documents reveal Ferrell was diagnosed with schizotypal personality disorder and Asperger syndrome. He claimed to see "angels and demons" and reported childhood sexual abuse. His mother, Sondra Gibson, had reportedly engaged in "vampirism" herself, writing disturbing letters to teenagers about eternal vampire brides.

While Ferrell was obsessed with role-playing games like Vampire: The Masquerade, his case appears to involve genuine delusions rather than the calculated adoption of a persona. The judge noted, "I think you are a very disturbed man. I think your family failed you." This differs from our other cases where killers consciously chose to emulate fictional characters while understanding reality.

The Matrix Defense Cases

Several killers have claimed they believed they were living in the Matrix, using the film's reality-questioning premise to justify their crimes:

Tonda Lynn Ansley (2002): Shot her landlady, Sherry Lee Corbett, in the head in broad daylight. She told police: "They commit a lot of crimes in The Matrix. That's where you go to sleep at night, and they drug you and take you somewhere else." Three psychologists found her mentally ill, and she was found not guilty by reason of insanity.

Vadim Mieseges (2000): Killed and dismembered his landlady in San Francisco, later claiming he feared being "sucked into the Matrix." Also found not guilty by reason of insanity.

These cases differ from traditional copycats—rather than trying to emulate characters, they used the film's philosophical premise to support existing delusions. The success of the insanity defense in these cases highlights the distinction between those experiencing genuine mental illness versus those making calculated choices to copy fictional violence.

The Consistency of Failure

What makes these cases so instructive isn't just that these killers failed—it's how consistently they failed in the same ways. Research on copycat crime shows that individuals who commit these crimes typically have high criminal self-efficacy, meaning "they see their criminal goals as something obtainable" (Psychologs.com, 2023). Each thought they possessed qualities they demonstrably lacked:

• Twitchell thought he understood Dexter's code while violating its most basic principle.

• Darras and Edmondson thought they were rebels while embodying the privilege they claimed to reject

• Draper and Adamcik thought they were clever while recording their own confessions.

• Magnotta thought he was sophisticated while desperately refreshing his Google results.

As Jacqueline Helfgott notes in her research, "temporarily taking on a persona or character of someone else makes it easier to harm others; it allows him to act in a way in which he generally would not act otherwise" (Johnston, 2021). But taking on a persona requires understanding it, and these killers understood nothing about their chosen characters except the violence.

They couldn't see that:

• Dexter's humanity comes from his struggle against his nature.

• Mickey and Mallory are victims before they're victimizers.

• Scream's killers are the movie's joke, not its heroes.

• Patrick Bateman is a warning, not a role model.

This is perhaps the most damning evidence against the "media made me do it" defense: these killers couldn't even understand the media they claimed inspired them. They weren't sophisticated enough to grasp satire, subtext, or social commentary. They saw only what they wanted to see—violence that might make them special—and missed everything else.

The consistency of their failure points to a fundamental truth: copycat killers don't fail because they're unlucky or because police are particularly clever. They fail because their entire premise is flawed. They're trying to recreate something that was never real, to become characters who were written to be compelling, not realistic. They're playing roles in movies that don't exist, following scripts they've misread, expecting applause from an audience that sees only horror.

The Real Victims

While we dissect the failures of these killers, we must never forget who paid the real price:

• Johnny Altinger, 38, who just wanted companionship after his divorce

• Bill Savage, who stopped to help what he thought was a stranded motorist

• Patsy Byers, who survived but remains paralyzed, has had her life forever changed.

• Cassie Jo Stoddart, 16, who trusted her friends

• Jun Lin, 33, who came to Canada to study computer science

• Their daughter's friends murdered Richard Wendorf and Naoma Ruth Queen.

• Sherry Lee Corbett was killed by someone she'd shown kindness to as a landlord.

These weren't characters in a story. They were real people with families, dreams, and futures that were stolen by individuals who thought fiction gave them permission to kill. Johnny Altinger loved motorcycles and was excited about his date. Cassie Jo Stoddart was planning for college. Jun Lin was building a future far from home.

Their deaths gained no meaning from their killers' delusions. A mother working the late shift to support her family wasn't a symbol of oppression. A man responding to a dating profile wasn't a plot device. A teenager house-sitting wasn't a horror movie victim. They were human beings whose lives mattered, whose deaths created real grief that no fictional narrative can justify.

Every time we discuss these cases, we must center the victims. Their killers sought fame through violence, but it's the victims who deserve to be remembered. They deserve more than being footnotes in their killers' pathetic attempts at significance.

Breaking the Cycle

Understanding these failures matters because the media isn't going away. If anything, the digital age has intensified parasocial relationships with fictional characters. The next Mark Twitchell is probably online right now, misunderstanding Dexter or whatever new antihero captures the cultural imagination.

But research suggests that copycat crimes are most likely to occur "in the two weeks after a high-profile murder" (Johnston, 2021), indicating that responsible media coverage and public understanding of these failures might help prevent future tragedies. When we strip away the mystique and show these killers for what they really are—inadequate individuals who failed at fiction as badly as they failed at life—we rob future copycats of their illusions.

Prevention requires multiple approaches:

For Media Creators: Continue creating complex, challenging characters, but consider the responsibility that comes with depicting violence. The best violent antiheroes already contain their own critique—Dexter's emptiness, Tyler's revelation as delusion, Bateman's possible nonexistence. These aren't flaws in the writing; they're features that reveal the poverty of violent solutions.

For Law Enforcement: Recognize the patterns. Copycats announce themselves through their obsessions, their online personas, their purchase patterns. They're not subtle because they don't want to be—they want to be noticed, to be seen as dangerous. Use their narcissism against them.

For Communities: Take online threats seriously, especially when tied to fictional characters. The person posting Joker quotes and talking about "society" might be edgy, or they might be planning. The difference matters less than the intervention.

For Families: Parasocial relationships are a normal and even healthy part of life. But when someone stops distinguishing between fiction and reality, when they start seeing themselves in violent characters, when they begin planning rather than just watching—that's when professional help is needed.

The Truth About Copycat Killers

Here's what decades of failure teach us: copycat killers don't become their fictional heroes. They reveal themselves as people too inadequate to create their own identities, too lost in illusion to understand the characters they claim to admire, and too narcissistic to see the gap between fantasy and reality.

They're not Dexter or Mickey and Mallory or Ghostface or Patrick Bateman. They're not even interesting enough to be proper villains. They're just murderers with a movie ticket, leaving behind real victims and real grief while chasing fictional fame.

Ultimately, that's the most important truth about copycat killers: they're not fascinating. They're not complex. They're not antiheroes. They're criminals who killed innocent people for the stupidest possible reason—because they thought a fictional character made it cool.

We study them not because they're interesting, but because understanding their failures might prevent future tragedies. We remember their victims not as plot devices in someone else's delusional narrative, but as real people whose lives were cut short by individuals too inadequate to distinguish between fiction and reality.

Every copycat killer thinks they're the protagonist of their own movie. They imagine dramatic soundtracks, meaningful close-ups, sympathetic audiences. They see themselves through the lens of fiction, where violence has meaning and killers have style. But reality doesn't work that way. In reality, they're just inadequate individuals committing senseless murders, creating real pain for imaginary significance.

They're not Hannibal Lecter, brilliant and cultured. They're not even Buffalo Bill, twisted but purposeful. They're more like the nameless victim in the opening scene; forgettable, disposable, existing only to demonstrate the real monster's power. Except there is no real monster, no brilliant antagonist. Just them, alone with their failure, facing life in a cell that looks nothing like the movies.

And that's the real tragedy—innocent people died for nothing more than some inadequate individuals' Hollywood fantasies. They deserve justice. They deserve remembrance. They deserve better than becoming footnotes in their killers' failed auditions for infamy.

It's not entertainment. It's not art. It's not even interesting.

It's just pathetic. And pathetic doesn't sell tickets.

References

Cole, T., & Leets, L. (1999). Attachment styles and intimate television viewing: Insecurely forming relationships in a parasocial way. Journal of Social and Personal Relationships, 16(4), 495-511.

Derrick, J. L., Gabriel, S., & Hugenberg, K. (2008). Social surrogacy: How favored television programs provide the experience of belonging. Journal of Experimental Social Psychology, 45(2), 352-362.

Helfgott, J. B. (2015). Criminal behavior and the copycat effect: Literature review and theoretical framework for empirical investigation. Aggression and Violent Behavior, 22, 46-64.

Helfgott, J. B. (2023). Copycat crime: How media, technology, and digital culture inspire criminal behavior and violence. Bloomsbury Academic.

Horton, D., & Wohl, R. (1956). Mass communication and para-social interaction: Observations on intimacy at a distance. Psychiatry, 19(3), 215-229. https://doi.org/10.1080/00332747.1956.11023049

Johnston, J. E. (2021, July 13). The psychology of "copycat killers." Psychology Today. https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/the-human-equation/202107/the-psychology-copycat-killers

Psychologs.com. (2023, December 14). Psychology behind copycat crimes. https://www.psychologs.com/the-psychology-behind-copy-cat-crimes/

Surette, R. (2016). Measuring copycat crime. Crime, Media, Culture: An International Journal, 12(1), 37-64.

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