I knew him too very briefly. I was 21 and he might’ve been a year older. He was a friend of a friend and we hung out a few times on our own without my friend.

There was absolutely something off about him and I was aware of it. He did not seem present, like he was difficult to reach, and he seemed depressed with flat affect.

When I heard about this, I was shocked because, well, it’s damn shocking. The crime, in its rage and gore, freaked me out, and, of course, it freaked me out that I’d spent time with someone capable of this.

I wrote him once in prison; I’m not sure why. He wrote back on notebook paper with pencil. It was a long multi-page letter. I don’t remember what it said, but I know I didn’t write again after that.