I understand that it’s easy to dismiss Tyler Barriss as a monster who should never be granted a platform to tell his own story. He took pleasure in terrorizing strangers with his hoaxes, and his alleged actions—calling authorities in Wichita, Kansas, and pretending that he was holding a family hostage—led to an innocent man being shot dead[1] by police last December. Barriss' reaction to Andrew Finch’s death has betrayed a chilling lack of empathy.
But I’ve dedicated much of my career to listening to troubled souls like Barriss because I believe their experiences, however unsettling, force us to ponder fundamental questions about our obligations to one another. Only by peering into the abyss of human malice can we divine how best to help those struggling with their demons, how we can muster the strength to forgive even the truly lost, how we can grapple with our own dark impulses. And so when I began reporting my account of the fatal Wichita shooting last spring, I felt compelled to seek out Barriss so we could hear his voice.
In the first letter I sent to Barriss at the Sedgwick County Detention Facility in Wichita, I explained that I’d become interested in swatting—the term for tricking a SWAT team into storming a rival’s home—while working on a story about the Xbox Underground[2], an international hacking crew that was obsessed with Microsoft’s flagship gaming console. (Disputes over money between the group’s leaders and some affiliates had led to multiple swattings.)
In his initial reply, neatly written in pencil on ruled paper, Barriss said that he would remain silent until I provided him with proof of my identity—his time as a swatter, a pursuit that relies on deception, had made him cynical. My editor agreed