In the unlikely event they make a movie of my life story, a good place for the opening scene would be the post office in Albuquerque, N.M., where my mother used to take me as a child. Scene one, act one would be me making a beeline to the bulletin board displaying the FBI’s 10 most wanted list. The future crime writer was transfixed.

“So that’s what a murderer looks like,” I always thought to myself, leaning in to the grainy black-and-white photos. I would peer deep into the eyes of the fugitive bank robber or kidnapper to try to find a clue as to what made these men turn so bad. (Back then, the list was all men) I admit it, I was a strange child.