LONDON
Memories are deceptive.
The way the mind works when recalling the past distorts our reality. Our minds shape and mold a memory every time we look at it, changing subtle details, altering facts. No two people remember past events the same, whether they were both present at the moment or not.
Most people don’t know this, and it can be a frightening realization when they discover the truth.
A married couple continuously arguing the same points, night after night, both adamantly swearing the other is wrong, that they are mistaken.
They’re both right. Their memories are skewed to perceive the world around them in a way that structures and defines who they are and what they believe.
I wrote a paper on this once, back in my first year. Ripe right out of college, I was set on tackling the origins of a murderer’s mind. Was it the nurture—the upbringing and experiences—that created a murderer, or was it how his mind perceived those first impressionable, crucial years that fashioned the killer.
Most would argue that they’re one and the same. There’s no difference between how we recall our past and our actual past—that the outcome, either way, creates a monster.
This is chiefly true. It’s difficult to separate any fact from fiction. So why bother debating theories and nitpicking the particulars?
I was young, and in my youth I bent to the psychology of the masses. I never again thought of my thesis, or how it may pertain to my patients. It was irrelevant for my area of study as I furthered my career with serial killers and their rehabilitation.
And in order to move forward, it was imperative that I stop recalling my own memories of the past. How many times had I gone over the details? How many times had my mind warped those events? Were my memories even real anymore, or just fragments of the truth tangled with my nightmares? Like an old cassette tape being recorded over and over, my memories now play back a garbled, distorted song.
I stuff my hands into my coat pockets and follow the winding trail through the lush garden of the aviary. The birds sing along to the tune in my head, their high-pitched shrieks punctuating the peaks of my anxiety.
I hoped the stroll through one of my favorite places would calm my worries, as I’ve used this escape a lot over the years to quiet my thoughts. But swooping birds overhead grow louder, as if they’re aware of my secret, sharing it with one another in their twitter code.
I huff a soundless laugh at my paranoia. The birds don’t care about me or what I’ve done. I’m losing my mind.
A chill touches my skin, and I release the clip, letting my hair drop and giving my tresses a shake to cover my neck. I’ve recalled the memory of my last session with Grayson too many times now, analyzing it, dissecting it, recollecting the details. The sensations and emotions he evoked. The yearning… And I’m scared that every time I remember, I’m altering what actually occurred.
Our minds are so powerful, constructing connections and feelings to a single occurrence, turning something considerably insignificant into a meaningful moment. Full of passion and elation. When in truth, any colleague looking in would simply derive that countertransference is inhibiting my ability to assert my role as doctor over my patient.
I gave in to Grayson’s wants, and you can never give your patient everything they want—regardless if those desires reflect your own. No, scratch that. Especially when their desires reflect your own.
It’s more than dangerous; it’s unethical.
But the feel of his rough hands on my skin… I shut my eyes, just for a second, allowing the memory to claim me once more before I bury it. I inhale a deep breath full of the cleansing power of the garden, and the evening sky darkens, thunder clouds looming.
The sound of birds has vanished. The sudden stillness of the aviary consumes my senses, and I notice that I’m not alone.
I turn around. “Are you following me, detective…?”
Wearing a black trench coat over a cheap suit, the slightly overweight man is easy to identify as a cop. Being raised by the town sheriff, I have experience in this. His smirk confirms my theory. “Foster. Detective Foster,” he says. “I was just enjoying the scenery. Figured we could talk once we were alone.”
I vaguely recall Lacy mentioning a detective by that name. I wrap my arms around my middle and glance behind him. The aviary will be closing soon. I start toward the exit. “You can say whatever you need to at my office. During business hours.”
“I’ve tried, Dr. Noble. You’re a difficult woman to get in touch with.” As I try to pass, he thrusts a manila folder toward me. “You need to see this.”
Regardless of my understanding of the mind’s tricks, curiosity is still a powerful tool. This detective knows this, and he uses his skill set expertly. I take the folder.
“You’re not the first shrink he’s abused.”
I squint at his word choice, then flip the folder open. When I look down, my breath catches at the base of my throat. I school my features as I assess the image, not allowing the disgust to register on my face.
I flip to the next page and scan the victim’s profile.
“Doctor Mary Jenkins.”
I continue reading over the pages. Why does that name sound familiar?
“A neurologist at Hopkins. She was accused of unethical practices on her patients,” he continues, filling in the blanks. “But never prosecuted.”
My stomach pitches. Unethical practices is blanket terminology that doesn’t convey the accused cruelties levied against her. The details come back to me of a Maryland neuroscientist who resurrected the barbaric practice of lobotomy.
The images of the deceased Dr. Jenkins capture the gruesomeness of the procedure. Puncture wounds dotting above her eyelids denote that she was a victim of her own morbid methods. Her dead eyes stare into the camera, blank and vacant. I wonder whether the pictures were taken peri- or postmortem, as they depict a casualty of lobotomy quite accurately.
Then a thought occurs. “Where did the images come from? Were they taken at the scene?”
Detective Foster’s brow furrows. “I show you pictures of a tortured and murdered doctor and that’s what you want to know?”
I close the folder. “I assume you’ve come a long way to show me these, so you’ve been anticipating my reaction. I’m sorry to disappoint you.” As there were no lobotomy victims found in connection to Grayson in Maine, the detective has to be here on a mission from the prosecution in Delaware. “Otherwise, you’d have just simply emailed this to me.” I hand him back the folder. “You’re here to convince me not to take the stand in New Castle.”
He squares his shoulders. “I’ve read up on you, Dr. Noble. I know how you work. I know that if you stand before that jury and spiel some psychobabble about Sullivan’s abused childhood, then that monster could skate out of the death penalty.”
I crane an eyebrow. The detective is well aware that witness tampering is a crime. But in my experience, officers of the law are typically the ones to break the rules most often.
“But to answer your question—” he digs out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket “—Sullivan didn’t always dispose of the bodies. This one was discovered at the scene. He’s perfecting his methods.”
I angle my head away as he blazes up and releases a smoky exhale. Fitting, that he’s for capital punishment and chooses a habit that gets him closer to his grave each puff. “I would say that he stopped perfecting his methods a year ago. That is, if the perpetrator was indeed caught.” I glance at the folder in his hand. “Do you have evidence tying him to the murder?”
Grayson has admitted the killings to me. I won’t go on trial declaring his innocence. I just enjoy watching the way the detective’s eye tics at the thought.
“You’re welcome to any and all evidence, Dr. Noble. I’ll have it forwarded to you.”
“Thank you.” I start to leave, feeling this is a proper place to end the discussion, but he snags the arm of my coat to halt me.
“It’s my hope that once you’ve reviewed the evidence, you’ll know the right thing to do.”
I pull away from him and cross my arms. “The right thing to do, detective, is my job. And no amount of coercion from you or any other police official from New Castle will deter me from that.”
He holds up his hands in defense. “No one’s threatening you, doctor. We’re all on the same side, aren’t we? The side that wants justice for the victims?” He tosses his cigarette down and stubs it out with the toe of his boot.
I huff an empty laugh. “Wanting justice for the victims doesn’t give us a license to kill, detective. Now please contact my office for any further inquiries.”
I leave then. He waits until I make it around the bend in the trail to call out. “He drove an icepick through her skull. But she didn’t die from that.”
My steps slow, but I don’t stop.
“She bled to death,” he shouts.
The exit is in sight. I push through the latticed door and hit the sidewalk, where I find a private alcove between buildings. I press my back to the brick and drag in a breath. An ache lodges in my head, pain radiating from the back of my neck.
I’m not easily shaken. I’ve dealt with far pushier police officials when combatting the prosecution on cases. I was caught off guard, I tell myself. Moments before his intrusion, I’d been feeling vulnerable.
Only I’m not so convincing. Dr. Jenkins and her icepick feel foreboding as I conjure the image from memory. Death due to brain injury is a slow and especially cruel way to die. You don’t essentially bleed to death—not like how Detective Foster portrayed. Rather, swelling inside the skull crushes the brain, severing the function of vital organs.
And yet, I can see the genius of her death, her demise designed to match her crime. There’s no doubt in my mind that Grayson devised a trap to murder the doctor, but it doesn’t frighten me. Not in the way the detective had hoped.
My connection to Grayson goes deeper than simple transference.
When I look into his eyes, I see myself. Not a reflection of the woman—but the hollow echo of my blood-stained soul.
If he’s evil, then am I in danger of falling for the devil, or am I the devil herself?
I snap my head back against the brick, just hard enough to knock the thought from my head. Then I start toward home.
I’m still in control of my mind and emotions, despite my fears. And I refuse to admit I’m falling for a patient. I refuse to fall for a killer.
