As most of you know, I write romantic suspense with a lot of police procedure, and one of my favorite research tools is a book written by Jennifer Dornbush: Forensic Speak: How to Write Realistic Crime Dramas. She and Debbie Burke are two of my favorite resources on villains…not that either is one. All that to say, I’ve invited her to do a guest post on the Killzone today.
Jennifer Dornbush is an author, screenwriter, and speaker. Here’s a bit about her in her own words:
The television or movie screen is the closest most people will ever come to witnessing the forensic world. But I actually lived it. As a daughter of a medical examiner whose office was in our home, I investigated my first fatality, an airplane crash, when I was 8 years old. Picking up pieces of skull and brain matter, my father simply saw this as a hands-on anatomy lesson. This would be the first of many coroner lessons I experienced over two decades.
Now for a look at how a villain thinks:
The body tells you what happened.
Behavior tells you why.
In crime fiction, readers may be drawn in by the mystery or the puzzle of who committed the crime. What keeps them turning pages is the psychology behind the act.
Readers want to understand how someone justifies crossing the line into violence. They want to see how the logic of the crime holds together from the inside, even when it appears monstrous from the outside.
This is where forensic psychology becomes essential.
One of its most important insights is this: most offenders do not see themselves as villains.
They see themselves as heroes.
That may sound surprising, but it is one of the most consistent patterns investigators observe. People rarely commit serious crimes while believing they are evil. Instead, they construct a narrative that reframes their actions as necessary or justified.
In other words, they tell themselves a story.
That story explains why they are right and the world is wrong. It allows them to bypass the moral barriers that normally prevent harm.
Psychologists call this rationalization or moral disengagement.
Understanding this mechanism matters in both investigation and storytelling. The most compelling antagonists are not chaotic villains. They operate within a belief system that makes sense from their own perspective.
When readers see the internal story driving the crime, the antagonist becomes far more believable—and far more disturbing.
To see how this works, we can look at three powerful examples from real life and storytelling.
The Unabomber: Violence in the Name of Salvation
Ted Kaczynski, known as the Unabomber, carried out a bombing campaign that lasted nearly two decades. His attacks killed three people and injured many others, targeting universities, airlines, and individuals connected to technological development.
From the outside, the crimes appeared senseless and cruel.
But from Kaczynski’s perspective, they were part of a moral crusade.
He believed modern technological society was destroying human freedom and trapping humanity inside systems that stripped life of autonomy and meaning. In 1995 he demanded that newspapers publish his manifesto, Industrial Society and Its Future, which argued that technological progress would ultimately erode human dignity.
Within that worldview, violence became a form of resistance.
Kaczynski believed he had recognized a truth others refused to see. His attacks were meant as warnings—attempts to force society to confront what he saw as an existential danger.
He did not see himself as the villain.
He believed he was trying to save humanity.
This kind of rationalization allowed him to commit violence while maintaining the conviction that he was morally justified.
Forensic psychologists study these belief systems because they reveal how offenders justify crossing moral boundaries.
Violence rarely begins with the thought I want to harm people.
It begins with a belief that harm is necessary in order to get people to pay attention and listen up.
Once that belief takes hold, destructive and violent behavior follows.
Walter White: The Hero of His Own Tragedy
Crime fiction often explores the same psychological dynamic. One of the most famous examples appears in the television series Breaking Bad through the character of Walter White.
At the beginning of the story, Walter appears sympathetic: a struggling high school chemistry teacher facing a devastating cancer diagnosis and the fear of leaving his family with nothing.
His decision to manufacture methamphetamine begins as an ultruistic attempt to secure financial stability for his wife and children. At first, the reasoning feels almost noble. Walter convinces himself he is sacrificing his morality to protect the people he loves.
But as the story unfolds, that justification begins to fracture.
Walter’s actions grow increasingly ruthless. He lies, manipulates partners, and orchestrates violence that destroys multiple lives. Yet he continues to insist he is acting out of necessity.
“I did it for my family.”
That phrase becomes the foundation of his self-image. As long as he believes this heroic mantra, he can continue crossing moral boundaries.
Over time, however, the audience sees what Walter cannot admit. What began as fear for his family becomes pride, ego, and the intoxicating pull of control. Yet abandoning the original story would mean confronting who he has become.
Walter White never wakes up and decides to become a villain.
He simply continues believing he is the hero.
Thanos: The Logic of Catastrophe
Blockbuster films build compelling antagonists around this same psychological principle.
In the Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thanos believes the universe faces inevitable collapse. In his view, overpopulation will exhaust resources and lead to universal suffering.
His solution is catastrophic: eliminate half of all life.
To others, this goal is horrifying. But Thanos does not see himself as a monster. He believes he is the only one willing to make a difficult decision others refuse to consider.
In his mind, he is not committing genocide. He is saving the universe.
What makes the character compelling is the sincerity of that belief. Thanos does not act from cruelty. He believes he is preventing greater suffering and frames his actions as mercy.
The audience rejects his conclusion but understands the logic behind it.
A villain who believes he is evil is predictable and stock.
A villain who believes he is saving the world is far more dangerous and human.
Why This Psychological Pattern Matters
These examples illustrate one of the most powerful principles in forensic psychology: people behave in ways that align with their beliefs about themselves.
If someone believes they are protecting others, their behavior will reflect that narrative. If they believe they are correcting injustice, they will frame their actions as necessary. If they believe they are restoring balance to the world, violence and disruption may become part of that mission.
The key element is not the act itself.
It is the story behind the act.
Criminal rationalization often follows a familiar pattern. A grievance forms, and the offender begins to believe they have been wronged by society, by individuals, or by circumstance. That grievance expands into a broader explanation, identifying an enemy, a corrupt system, or a threat that must be addressed. Eventually, disruption and violence become framed as a solution for that problem.
Once that narrative is fixed in a villain’s mindset, they don’t see themselves as a perpetrator of harm but as hero correcting a grave wrong.
This does not excuse the behavior, but does it explain how humans are able to cross boundaries they normally never would.
Forensic psychology studies these disordered belief systems because they shape both motivation and behavior of criminals. Investigators examine writings, communications, victim selection, and crime scene behavior to understand the internal narrative driving the offender.
The same principle applies to storytelling. The most compelling antagonists are not chaotic forces of evil but individuals whose actions follow a distorted conscience, yet recognizable logic of justification.
Their worldview is warped. Their conclusions and actions are horrific. But their “why” makes sense within their disordered trails of logic.
When the Criminal’s Story Collapses
Every criminal narrative eventually faces the same challenge: reality, truth, order, and justice.
Evidence accumulates. Contradictions appear. The internal story the offender constructed begins to fracture under pressure of real consequences and failed logic.
Sometimes that fracture happens during interrogation. Sometimes it occurs in court. Sometimes it emerges slowly as investigators piece together the truth.
But eventually, the offender’s false narrative collides with the facts and natural law.
That collision is where crime stories reach their most powerful moments.
Because what is being dismantled is the belief system that justified the crime.
When the offender can no longer sustain the story they told themselves—when the hero they imagined themselves collapses under the weight of natural law, truth, and justice— that is when they lose the final battle.
And when they do, the result is the most unforgettable part of the story. Chaos is ordered. Truth wins. Justice is restored. The right and true hero emerges victorious.
The Heart of Crime Stories
Crime fiction is often described as a genre about puzzles, evidence, and the fight for justice. Those elements are certainly part of the appeal.
But at its core, the genre explores a deeper level: the stories bad people tell themselves about who they are and what they deserve… and what they think others deserve.
Forensic psychology helps us understand those stories.
It reveals how grievance and trauma warps a bad guy’s justification, how that justification turns into criminal action, and how action shapes their identity as heroes, not villians.
Offenders never see themselves as monsters.
They see themselves as misunderstood.
They see themselves as necessary.
They see themselves as right.
They see themselves as change-makers.
And most of all—
They see themselves as the hero of the story.
Jennifer Dornbush is an author, screenwriter, and forensic specialist who brings crime stories to life with authenticity and heart. With a background rooted in real-world forensics and a passion for crafting unforgettable mysteries, Jennifer offers readers and viewers a front-row seat to the intersection of science, justice, and human nature. Jennifer’s crime expertise has made her a sought-after speaker, consultant, and educator. Through her webinars and master courses, Jennifer guides writers in melding suspenseful storytelling with forensic realism to the screen and page. Meet her at www.jenniferdornbush.com
