In Grahamstown in the late 1990s, Brin Hodgskiss found himself standing over the naked body of a dead schoolgirl, her throat cut from ear to ear. In that moment, he found his purpose.
He was part of an academic group from Rhodes University that was collaborating with the SA Police Service (SAPS) to profile serial rapists. “I wanted to make a difference by diving deeper into the study of repeat offenders. Initially, our research was centred on serial rapists,” says Hodgskiss. But when forensic psychologist and SA’s first profiler, Micki Pistorius, then head of the investigative psychology unit, “asked if anyone wanted to take on the challenge of studying serial murderers, I immediately volunteered. It was an unexpected opportunity that aligned with my mission and the next logical step in my journey.”
Hodgskiss has since become a respected research psychologist and has spent decades studying the minds of serial killers here and in the UK, and, more specifically, the personal narratives that shape human behaviour.
When true crime podcaster Nicole Engelbrecht came across his research online, the two connected and she convinced him to haul out his dusty collection of recorded interviews with SA’s most terrifying murderers. The result is Killer Stories: Conversations with South African Serial Murderers.
Dispelling myths
In the introduction to the book, Hodgskiss writes: “We humans are very good at shaping the reality around us to fit what we believe, yet at the same time being blind to what is driving our behaviour.”
Storytelling became a central theme in his research because of how the men he interviewed in the bowels of maximum-security prisons disclosed accounts of their lives. These narratives were key to understanding their actions, functioning as a framework that allowed them to rationalise their behaviours, both to themselves and those around them.
Michael, whom Hodgskiss interviewed multiple times, had developed a disturbing yet internally consistent logic: he claimed that because he had been abused as a child, he was saving other children by taking them away from the pain, by killing them.
“I take children to peace,” he explained to Hodgskiss. “I always said you mustn’t abuse a child because then I will take that child. Then I will hear, I want God to hear, how that child screams when the child is taken.”
To Michael, his reasoning made perfect sense. The stories he and others told weren’t excuses; they were their reality. It was a way to make sense of their actions and align them to their internal beliefs.
Then there’s Sisanda. His narrative was rooted in the belief that being a man meant dominating others and responding to rejection with violence. This belief system became his reality, leaving no room for other ways of thinking or acting. It justified his behaviour, but it also trapped him in a destructive cycle.
“This contradicts the traditional media and movie portrayals of serial killers as monstrous — almost mythical figures like Hannibal Lecter,’ says Hodgskiss. “The reality is much more nuanced. The stereotype of the evil genius or the malevolent mastermind simply didn’t fit with the men I sat across from. What I found instead were individuals who were broken, deeply scarred, and operating from a place of distorted logic.”
Stereotypes stem from our discomfort at acknowledging that those who commit horrific acts aren’t always purely evil, he says. Psychologically, it’s far easier to categorise them as “monsters”, creating a clear division between “us” and “them”.
“The harder truth — that these individuals might not be so different from us — is much more challenging to accept,” he says. “It forces us to confront unsettling questions like, ‘Could someone I know be capable of this? Could I, under the right conditions?’ That kind of moral ambiguity is something most people prefer to avoid.”
It’s this need for psychological distance that fuels the sensationalism of true crime stories. “Crime sells because it taps into our primal instincts: fear, danger and the macabre,” he says. “I experienced this first-hand while working as a storytelling consultant during the pandemic. Whenever I mentioned my research on serial murderers, people’s interest would spike. Cameras were turned on, and everyone leaned in. Crime stories have a magnetic pull.”
Hodgskiss says that during the interviews, he had to set aside personal judgment to build rapport and understanding. “I found myself empathising with killers, especially when hearing about their abusive or traumatic childhoods. But then, once I left the interview room, I had to switch back into a critical mindset to analyse what I’d heard.”
He hopes his approach may have potential in rehabilitation. “Changing an offender’s story about themselves — moving away from a victim mentality — can help shift their mindset. I’ve been speaking with psychologists in the US who use a similar approach to address the ‘criminal mindset’ and help offenders regain a sense of agency.”
Why rehabilitate serial killers who will remain in prison for life? Aside from contributing valuable insights to forensic research, the process helps researchers better understand the underlying causes of their actions, and aids in the prevention of future crimes. Encouraging offenders to take responsibility and express remorse can also provide some measure of closure for victims’ families.
Justify
Beyond criminal psychology, Hodgskiss’ research led him to a powerful observation: the narratives offenders create to justify their actions mirror regular human behaviour.
“The stories we tell ourselves shape how we see the world and what we believe we’re capable of. For most people, these stories won’t lead to violent behaviour, but they can still be incredibly destructive. Think about someone who constantly tells themselves, ‘I’m not good enough’ or ‘I’ll never succeed’. Those narratives create a psychological prison; they become self-fulfilling prophecies, limiting opportunities, preventing personal growth, and affecting mental health. For a long time, I told myself I couldn’t balance my work and personal life. That narrative held me back and had a potentially devastating effect on my life. Once I recognised it, I was able to rewrite it — and that’s when real change happened.”
Hodgskiss maintains that our secret self-making stories are shaped in dialogue with the world around us. “Our story, our reality, is constructed unconsciously from our upbringing, culture and past experiences. As we pay less attention to things that don’t fit with our narrative and more to the things that do, our stories become self-reinforcing. In Sisanda’s case, this led him deeper into violence and death.”
But these narratives aren’t fixed. “Listen to the stories you’re telling yourself. Often, we don’t realise we have these narratives running in the background because they’ve become so ingrained. But if you can bring them into the light, you gain the power to reshape them. Nature and nurture are fixed to a great extent, but narrative is where we have the most agency.”
Narrative is increasingly important in our divided, uncertain world because it shapes how we understand complex issues, connect with others and create meaning in an information-saturated environment. “Understanding the stories others tell themselves is vital for building empathy,” Hodgskiss says. “If we take the time to understand where someone is coming from — whether it’s a friend, a stranger or someone who has unspeakable acts — we can find common ground. That’s a message the world could use right now.”
For the many fans of the book, the good news is that he has an untapped collection of interviews that may lead to a second one. But right now, he’s using storytelling in the UK’s National Health Service (NHS) to advocate for change. A better understanding of patient experiences, he says, can drive meaningful improvements in healthcare systems.
As a gruesome yet gripping, harrowing but essential read, Killer Stories sheds light on truths we cannot afford to ignore. Reading the book and learning more about Hodgskiss’ fascinating research into the influence of narrative on individual and collective human behaviour, I was reminded about the forces that shaped early human life. Fire gave warmth, protection and a communal hub, while storytelling brought knowledge, culture and connection. Around the fire, humans shared lessons and myths, strengthening bonds and passing on survival strategies. Fire fuelled physical survival; storytelling forged social cohesion. As Hodgskiss writes, “The book is dedicated to preserving an idea — the idea that listening to one another’s stories can make life better.”
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