The day before yesterday’s date, July 2, 2025, will be a footnote in history if, God willing, we have a history. On this day, hip hop impresario Sean Diddy Combs skated on the most serious charges in his human trafficking and sex racketeering trial.

Mr. Combs was swatted with a conviction of transporting a person across state lines with the intent to commit prostitution, an oldie but a goodie similar to charges that finally nabbed the king of the syndicate, Lucky Luciano, the creator of rock-n-roll Chuck Berry and 1913 heavy weight champion boxer Jack Johnson, an African American who was essentially arrested for having sex with a white woman who also happened to be his fiancé. (In an interesting sidenote, President Trump pardoned Johnson posthumously in 2018, something that President Obama had refused to do because of charges that the boxer physically assaulted his wives.) But back in the day–yes, for Johnson, over a hundred years ago and for Luciano and Berry, we’ll say some eighty odd years, charges stuck–all of them served time as will Sean Combs, pundits say, though he will serve considerably less time than if he was convicted of the more serious crimes.

Apparently Sean Combs was grateful for the outcome because after the verdict was read he motioned to the jury by clasping his hands together as if in prayer. Then, reportedly, he knelt on the floor and put his head in his chair, his lisps moving, again, like he was praying.

But I’m not here to write about Sean Combs, although I’m not unhappy about his prognosis involving the federal penitentiary. In my mind there was no expectation of a slam dunk conviction on the most serious charges.

I’m here to write about the murderer who also had a court appearance on July 2 and finally pled guilty to the killing of Kaylee Goncalves, Ethan Chapin, Xana Kernodle and Madison Mogen. I use the qualifier finally because he had persisted in the formality of innocence in spite of overwhelming evidence of guilt. Apparently his persistence (or that of his lawyers) paid off because the prosecution took the death penalty off the table and negotiated a life with out appeal or parole sentence.

As is so often the case, the murderer–his name is Brian Kohberger– couldn’t stomach the thought of being executed, though he had no such qualms about dispatching his victims in a likewise cold, calculated and methodical manner.

Kohberger didn’t know the college students that he eviscerated with a K-Bar military knife bought months before he hatched the plot–though I don’t really believe that. This is a guy who thinks of murder pretty much 24/7, that and violent sex, which puts him on the garden variety sicko looser spectrum, a fleshed out doppelganger who can’t interact with women, much less sleep with them. Predictably, pathetically, he blames them for his inadequacies (such is the disconnect, it probably never occurs to him to blame himself) especially the young college age women he is sexually attracted to.

It is likely that Kohberger bought the K-Bar knife for the express purpose of killing a pretty girl who wouldn’t give him the time of day. At the very least, it was a tangible object used to soup up his fantasies.

And so this aberration, this former fat kid who was bullied and teased, takes his knife and moves to a new town, in a new state, where he hits the local hip vegan eatery. It is important to keep his newly svelte body in tip top condition. There he spies the young woman who becomes his target–and just like that, he tracks her down through social media, stalks her, impotently driving by her place of residence over twenty times.

This sicko is soo smart. He is studying to get his PhD in criminal justice; the irony of it stirs his delusions of grander. Ted Bundy is his hero.

In actuality he is unattractive. His bone structure mimics the contours of a gargoyle.

The young woman who has unknowingly become his prey has six roommates. They live in a party house, on a block of party houses–theirs with one too many room additions, though it is well maintained. The object of Kohberger’s evil intent marks her bedroom window with a giant first initial painted lilac and a decorative cowboy boot, likewise lilac.

One morning, about 4 am, two years ago, Kohberger slips through an unlocked sliding door and makes his way up the steps to the bedroom marked in lilac. He is surprised to find that the young woman he’s been stalking is not alone, she is sharing her bed with her best friend. He stabs them both to death.

Then, as he makes a beeline down the stairs he runs into another young woman who he drags into a bedroom where, as it happens, her boyfriend is sleeping; he stays there sporadically. He stabs them both to death.

Kohberger makes his way out of the house; jumps into his car which is captured on camera as he speeds off, almost crashing in the process. This is not his only mistake; he leaves the sheath of his knife behind with his DNA on it. (There are other mistakes as well…too many to go into.)

It turns out Kohberger is about as smart as he is handsome. Yet he has his fan club–young men who identify and empathize with his festering celibacy. Incels, they are called. Astonishingly, there are women in this club, too, who gush over his booking photographs.

“Oh! He looks so well rested and healthy!”

“Wow! He’s so suave and debonair!”

“He’s a hottie!”

The women of the club are more prone to advocate his innocence whereas the incels revel in his obvious guilt. This conundrum doesn’t bode well for the longevity of the fan club because a house divided cannot stand…and zombies eat each other.