Bruno Reidal: Confession of a Murderer

Raulhac, Cantal. September 1st, 1905.

I killed François Raulhac.

And I'm here to give myself up.

Reidal!

Follow me.

I want the hands stiff. Motionless.

Lean on the chair.

The photo will be blurry. You'll need to help him.

Bruno Reidal is presently a young man of 17,

5 feet 3 inches tall and weighing 7 stone 12 pounds.

Inhale.

Slowly.

Close your eyes.

His overall appearance is delicate.

The build is weak,

the chest narrow,

the muscles small,

and the body generally lean and scrawny.

That should do.

Look at the lens.

His gentle and worried expression

gives his physiognomy a certain melancholy.

To everyone he seems taciturn or shifty.

The facial expressions lack spontaneity,

one might even say candour ,

if he hadn't been the first to inform us

of his former habit of controlling and hiding his emotions.

"It is when I am tormented by my thoughts of murder," he tells us,

"that I am calmest and quietest."

You know why we are here, don't you?

You want to know whether I'm sick or not.

What is your opinion of the matter?

I am not crazy.

I don't want to be.

My classmates who call me crazy,

I could no longer tell them otherwise.

There is something I can't quite grasp.

During the first investigation, the experts' report was very clear.

I'll read it again.

"Bruno Reidal is abnormal

with regard to satisfying the sexual instinct.

"A bloodthirsty sadist,

"but sadism implies neither irresponsibility

nor madness."

So why challenge that report

since it affirms you are not mad?

They misrepresented what I said.

They made me sound like a hardened criminal.

If I understand properly,

you don't want to be considered

either insane

or criminal. Is that so?

Yet you're not here for no reason, are you?

You did kill

an innocent child.

By cutting off his head.

Have you nothing to say?

Bruno,

look at me.

We've been told you were an excellent student

and a very hard worker.

I'd like you to do a job for me.

A job I sometimes ask of those who seem sincere, honest, and intelligent.

I'd like you to write your life story. Your memoirs, so to speak.

If you could express in your own words what is in your head,

that would help us understand you.

What should I write?

Everything.

You'll have to tell us the whole truth.

We are not your judges, we must know everything.

Information about my family

I was born in Raulhac, in the Cantal,

on June 12, 1888.

I remember that during my early years

I lived with my parents, my grandparents,

and my brothers and sisters.

My parents married in 1871.

My father was 32 then, and my mother 25.

Six children were born to that marriage,

all living.

Marie, the eldest,

is now 34.

She has had four children.

The first one died in Raulhac, at our home, at the age of a few months.

Second child, Antoine:

lives in Paris and runs a restaurant.

In 1900 he had thoughts of suicide and persecution.

You may be seated.

The Lord Jesus

showed us God's love

for children and infants.

Forbid them not to come unto me...

Third child: Joseph.

Currently a soldier in a line infantry.

He would punch his classmates and beat animals.

Eugénie, 23.

She is unmarried and still lives with my mother in Raulhac.

She was anaemic.

She has had nervous episodes and serious illnesses.

The youngest, Jules, is 13.

Cheeky and sly,

for him, every means to success is good.

My mother, Marie Ramond,

born August 15, 1846,

was in her youth apparently strong-tempered.

She is quick to anger, very touchy and sensitive.

Give me your knife.

Look.

You think we can peel so thick?

She would beat us violently.

Rarely did she stroke or kiss us.

"You will do exactly" she would tell us,

"what you say you don't want to do.

"I learned early on to work and to suffer.

It will be the same for you."

Put it in the shade.

My father Jean-Marie, born in 1839,

was a man of medium build with a full beard.

Watch. Later, you'll do it yourself.

You're watching?

He was intelligent and had some schooling.

He had the reputation of a very good man and a fine peasant.

I cut off the knots.

So it's smooth.

And to finish, you make a little cove.

It's more comfortable.

He would go to the inn.

At home he often drank brandy.

Here, it's yours.

Go and try it.

I don't know what illnesses he had,

or what illness he died of.

He'd thrash us, but less violently than our mother.

- You like it? - Yes.

Good.

He was gentler,

and more loved by my siblings and me.

One day,

in very fine weather with a hot sun for the season,

I went to guard our cows in a field.

I had no cap with me

and I was bare-headed for quite a while.

After that sunstroke,

I was bedridden for a fortnight.

I don't know if I was delirious.

But I certainly was so ill

Any pain?

That my parents feared I would die.

It is certain that it was not a result of that illness

that I had my first thoughts of murder.

I'd already had them the winter before.

Our family,

like all of our neighbours,

killed a pig every year.

He'll calm down.

I was glad to see a pig killed.

Not to see it bleed, because when we bled it,

I'd run away when I heard it squeal.

I was glad because after bleeding it,

we'd burn it,

butcher it,

make sausages, and even have a party.

To the pig's health!

He was one good pig.

And fat, too.

We killed the pig by bleeding it,

and in my child's imagination,

killing meant bleeding.

Then one day,

I heard my parents say someone had killed a man.

And I thought to myself:

are men killed too?

Like pigs?

At night,

in bed,

before going to sleep,

I pictured myself hurting the boys my age

with whom I often found myself.

I thought I'd take great pleasure in striking them with a knife.

Not with the aim of killing them:

whether they died was irrelevant.

But I thought I would enjoy torturing them.

Average, as is your wont.

I fear you will linger there forever.

In second place our dear shaker, Reidal.

9 out of 10.

- Can you read that for me? - 11.

I couldn't.

With better penmanship you could be first.

Improve that, it's illegible.

First:

Deslauriers Emile. 10 out of 10.

Keep it up.

We will now do a dictation.

- Can I play? - There's enough of us.

When I was ten,

I lost my beloved father.

For a long time,

even while dreaming at night,

even now after seven years,