The Preppie Murder airs on ABC-TV on September 24, 1989


From the desk of 
Patrick Bateman

Listen, let’s cut to the chase—September 24, 1989, was a night that pulsed with a certain kind of raw, primal energy, the kind that makes your blood hum and your pulse quicken, like the moment before you close a deal or snap a neck. ABC-TV aired The Preppie Murder, a made-for-TV movie that laid bare the sordid, intoxicating tale of Robert Chambers and the death of Jennifer Levin in Central Park. It’s the kind of film that demands a chilled martini in one hand and a copy of The Wall Street Journal in the other, because, let’s face it, it’s not just a murder—it’s a brand. A narrative polished to a glossy sheen, served up for the masses to devour while they’re ironing their Brooks Brothers shirts or flipping through Vogue.

I was in my apartment that night, of course, the one with the bone-white walls and the Eames chair that costs more than most people’s rent. The TV was on, a sleek Sony Trinitron, its glow reflecting off the glass coffee table like some kind of urban altar. I’d just finished a workout—1000 crunches, naturally—and I was feeling that perfect balance of control and chaos, my skin taut, my mind sharp. I poured a glass of Krug Clos du Mesnil, because a night like this deserves champagne with a pedigree. The movie started at 9:00 PM, prime time, and I settled in, my Armani suit jacket draped over the couch like a discarded skin.

The Preppie Murder—God, what a title. It’s got that cheap, sensationalist ring to it, like something you’d see on a tabloid at a bodega, but that’s what makes it so deliciously perfect. Robert Chambers, the so-called “Preppie Killer,” was one of us, you see—a clean-cut, privileged guy with a jawline that could cut glass and a wardrobe that screamed old money, even if his bank account didn’t quite match the vibe. He was 19, a Dalton School dropout, and he strangled Jennifer Levin, 18, in Central Park after what he claimed was “rough sex gone wrong.” The media ate it up, and so did I. The story was a perfect cocktail of sex, violence, and class—shaken, not stirred.

The movie itself? A masterpiece of its kind. William Baldwin as Chambers—those cheekbones, that smug little smirk—captured the essence of a man who could walk into Dorsia and get a table without a reservation. Lara Flynn Boyle as Jennifer Levin was tragic, luminous, a girl who didn’t know she was stepping into a narrative that would end with her face on every newsstand in Manhattan. The direction was competent, not flashy—ABC knew their audience didn’t need avant-garde camera angles; they wanted the story, the scandal, the blood. The film leaned hard into the contrast: Chambers’ polished exterior versus the animalistic violence of the act. It was like watching a Ralph Lauren ad morph into a crime scene photo.

I remember pausing to admire my reflection in the TV screen during a commercial break—my hair, slicked back with just the right amount of Paul Mitchell mousse, looked impeccable. The ads were for banal things: Diet Coke, AT&T, some hideous Buick that looked like it was designed by a committee of accountants. But then it was back to the main event, and I was riveted. The courtroom scenes were particularly exquisite—Chambers’ defense team spinning a tale of accidental death, painting Levin as some kind of sexual aggressor. The audacity of it! It’s the kind of move I’d admire in a boardroom, the sheer gall of rewriting reality to suit your needs.

What interested me from a sartorial standpoint was the portrayal of Chambers's lawyer, played by William Devane. Devane's slick and polished, but his suit wasn't exactly Brioni. More like a perfectly respectable but still, you know, off-the-rack Ralph Lauren. The subtle distinctions that separate the truly elite from the merely rich.

The broadcast pulled in big numbers—millions tuned in, and why wouldn’t they? This wasn’t just a murder; it was a cultural moment. A closed loop, a Möbius strip of consumption and spectacle. The late ‘80s were obsessed with the collision of privilege and depravity. You had Wall Street sharks like me, snorting lines off glass desks, and then this Chambers guy, strangling a girl in the park and still managing to look like he belonged at a yacht club. It was a reminder that the line between civilized and savage is thinner than a platinum Amex card. 

As the credits rolled, I felt a strange kinship with the whole affair. Not with Chambers himself—he was sloppy, emotional, a amateur—but with the idea of it all. The way the world lapped up the story, the way it packaged violence into something you could watch with a Lean Cuisine on your lap. I stood up, adjusted my tie (Charvet, naturally), and walked to the window, looking out at the city. New York in 1989 was electric, a place where you could be anyone, do anything, as long as you had the right suit and the right story. The Preppie Murder was just another chapter in that glittering, blood-soaked saga.

After the movie, I made a reservation for Dorsia. It's so difficult to get a table there, but I'm told a 10:30 on a Sunday is still somewhat achievable. The hostess sounded...dismissive. It's fine. A few phone calls, a few favors, and the matter will be resolved. It's all just another transaction, another deal closed.

Just like Chambers, I thought, as I slipped into my Versace pajamas. You negotiate the best terms you can, and you move on. The details are always so mundane, aren't they? It's all just about control.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a reservation at Arcadia I can’t miss. And I need to return some videotapes.
Location: New York, NY, USA

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