LONDON
Pig’s blood. According to a pathologist friend who was gracious enough to test a sample at the station, Margo Reker’s sister doused me in pig’s blood. I suppose to her, I’m as bad as a cop. Because that’s the only correlation I can conceive as to why she’d select the blood of a swine.
That, or she owns a pig farm…
Which isn’t bringing any good conclusions to mind, so I’m going with the cop theory and easy access to a butcher’s shop.
In the end, I didn’t press charges. No reason for that family to suffer any more than they already have. And by foregoing the lengthy process to press charges, I was able to salvage my afternoon sessions.
Two hours of showering and then soaking, and showering some more, and I still feel as if there’s a filmy layer of pig membranes coating my skin. No use trying to salvage my designer suit; it’s trashed, right along with my dignity. And I really loved that suit, too.
Even ten years later, the thought of how much money I spent on the brand-name label, only to toss it out, drops heavy in my stomach like a lead weight. Thud. The sinking, ill feeling is a testament to our roots—the way we view ourselves so deeply ingrained that no amount of money can change self-image.
Although I do a fine job of dressing the part, when I look in the mirror, I still see that same poor, small-town girl. Her washed out skin, her sullen, sunken eyes, and badly bleached hair.
I toss my rich dark locks over my shoulder now as I pull open the door of my building. I’ve spent years helping others rise above, to embrace a future free of their past, so you’d think this knowledge would benefit me. Yet, I still struggle with my own personal psychologist to move beyond that deprived girl from Hallows, Mississippi.
And being doused in pig’s blood sure as shit doesn’t help me forget.
On the elevator ride up, I use the few seconds I have alone to pin my hair and pop a muscle relaxer. The repeated showering didn’t help my flare-up. Hot water only serves to aggravate the inflammation. So much so that I turned the lever all the way to cold in a fit of anger.
It was a poor substitution for my morning routine of hot and cold therapy, which was already disrupted with the trial. What’s a little pig’s blood to top it all off? I’ll make sure to have Lacy schedule an appointment with my chiropractor.
The elevator doors open to the sixth floor. My floor. Reclaimed hardwood meets each step, my nine-hundred dollar pumps clacking against the refinished surface. The walls of my practice are a soothing gray. Decorative art hangs strategically at eye level to keep my high-paying clients from staring at the shackled criminals in the waiting room.
I should’ve remodeled after I leased the floor, designed a separate waiting room—one where the ward could stow the eyesores—but doing so would’ve felt like acceptance, enabling me to continue in a direction I no longer wish to pursue.
I shrug off the morning as I approach the reception desk. “God, are you all right?” Lacy asks in way of greeting. Obviously, gossip has already spread. “It was on the news,” she answers my unspoken question. “I’m so sorry, London. Why didn’t you take the day off?”
A forced smile pulls my features tight. I admit an early morning blood bath is an extreme way to greet the day, even for me—but I’ve dealt with worse. I’ve been spat on, choked, have been practically defecated on…so at least this time I didn’t need a penicillin shot. Still, I should probably play the role of insulted physician for others’ sake.
“I’m fine, thanks. Nothing I can’t handle. You need to remind the warden not to bring up inmates until their appointment.”
Lacy is intelligent. Top of her class at Yale. I’m not reprimanding her; she’s used to my sharp moods. She fidgets with her cell phone, flipping away notifications. “Believe me,” she says, gaze cast down, “I’ve reminded him. I don’t want them here any longer than you do.”
Besides being smart, Lacy is also gorgeous. Long blond hair and busty. The inmates have no shame in ogling her. I roll my shoulders back and adjust my glasses. “I’ll handle it.”
Warden Marks is a tall, lanky man with pointy features. He reminds me of the scarecrows back home, and he gives off a similar creepy vibe as the straw-stuffed fiends of my past.
He’s seated in the cushioned chair next to my office door, his black dress shoe tapping. Two convicts in orange are seated on either side of him, three corrections officers standing guard. The inmates might not be as noticeable if the warden would allow them to wear a less distinctive color. Although, the handcuffed wrists chained to their ankles might be more telling than the tacky orange jumpsuits.
One more year.
My commitment to Cotsworth Correctional Facility will be fulfilled in a year’s time. Although my work with convicted murderers is what launched my career—the general public’s morbid fascination with serial killers a giant springboard—I’m moving away from that field of study. I owe Marks and others like him a debt of gratitude, as my research and methods are now taught at nearly every criminal justice academy nationwide, but I’m officially through.
After seven years of intense study into the mind of the criminally insane, I have formed only one conclusion: serial offenders cannot be rehabilitated.
There is, of course, the rare subject that finds his way to God or another divine being and transcends beyond his compulsions. But without the chance to be monitored in a civilized setting without maximum security to make sure those compulsions stay checked, one can never prove effective rehabilitation.
Rather, my methods simply make life inside prison more bearable for the wardens and guards and doctors who deal with these offenders on a daily basis. No, I do not believe rehabilitation is achievable. Especially for the Bundys and Dahmers of the world.
They are governed by their Id—and the Id is the ultimate monster.
“Warden,” I say as I approach my office. “I shouldn’t have to remind you that inmates cannot use the waiting room.”
Warden Marks stands and pulls his suit jacket closed. “Hello, London. I was sorry to see the unfortunate happening at the courthouse on the news. I hope this won’t effect your sessions today, but I do understand if you need—”
I hold up a hand. “Where’s Riley?”
Irritated by my interruption, he purses his thin lips. “Riley has transferred out. He wasn’t making any progress in the program.”
I dig out the key from my purse and turn toward the warden. I could make an argument on Riley’s behalf, claim we’d eventually see a breakthrough, but this morning left me drained and lethargic. Riley is a prime example of failed rehabilitation.
Considering this, I glance between the two inmates seated in my waiting room. One is gawking openly at Lacy, drool streaming from his mouth. The other simply stares at the hardwood floor.
I feel a sardonic laugh bubble up. “No,” I say. “I’m absolutely not taking on two new patients.”
The officers move to escort the convicts out, but Warden Marks glares at them. “London,” he starts, my name an irritating plea in his nasally, reprimanding tone. “Funding requires that you meet your quota. Now that Riley is gone…” he trails off, leaving the rest unsaid.
I press my fingers to my forehead, annoyed with the mounting ache at my temples. My paying clients are enough to keep my practice more than profitable. If funding is pulled before the year is up, I’ll accept my reprimand. “One,” I state, holding up a finger to drive my seriousness through his thick skull. “I’ll take on one patient. We can discuss an alternative resource for the other. I can’t take on any more clients and be within regulations.” This is true.
With a defeated sigh, the warden nods to the officer nearest the drooling convict. “Bring Billings in.”
“Wait.” I do another quick sweep over the two men. “Not him. Him.” I point to the dark-haired man who hasn’t looked up once during our conversation.
Marks chuckles. “I assure you, if your workload is that hectic, you don’t want Sullivan here. He’s a lost cause. Only here as a last resort before he’s transferred to a maximum security penitentiary in New Castle.” His gaze hardens on the inmate. “He’s being tried for capital punishment. Lethal injection.”
I glare at him. “And yet you were so eager to waste my time.”
He shrugs. “I have my own pushy caseworkers to answer to.”
As the corrections officer begins to lead Sullivan toward the elevator, I look at Lacy and decide a hopeless case is better than her being uncomfortable for the next several months.
“I do like my challenges.” I turn to unlock the door. “When is the trial date?”
The warden clears his throat. “Three months from now. You’ll be required to speak on his behalf. Are you sure you want to do this?”
“I’m required to give my honest testimony. Which I always do,” I say as I step inside my office. “Bring him in. I’ll start the paperwork.”
I flip the light switch on, and the room is lit with the warm glow of track lighting. A diffuser in the corner emits the scent of sandalwood, a calming fragrance to enhance the saltwater fish tank along the narrow hallway that adjoins my therapy room. The whole room is styled in soothing, cool colors, but is otherwise devoid of details.
I find it’s best to keep convicts as calm as possible during sessions, and the blank space is intentional, designed not to trigger any unwanted memories or episodes. Also, my other clients appreciate the ambiance, as well.
After I tuck my purse away in my desk drawer and lock it, I lead the men into the therapy room and eye the rug beneath the contemporary leather chair. The officer knows the drill. He pushes the chair aside and pulls up the small area rug, revealing a bolted manacle in the floorboard.
The custom installation wasn’t cheap, and it came out of my own pocket, but the solution to conceal a floor restraint was more appealing than having a restraint bench in the middle of my room.
Once I have the forms completed, Marks signs his name, and the officer has my newest patient shackled to the floor. He’s only given enough slack to stand or be seated. No roaming during sessions.
As an extra precaution, all pens and sharp objects are locked inside my desk.
A prisoner once made it out with a pencil that he promptly lodged in an officer’s neck during an attempted escape. With violent offenders, no amount of vigilance can be enough.
The warden heads toward the office. “I feel the need to warn you that Sullivan is a level three inmate.” His brow furrows as he watches for my reaction. “I’ll be leaving Michaels with you.”
I scoot my chair up to the marked line four feet away from the shackled man in the room. “I appreciate the concern, and I am aware of the risk, but I don’t conduct sessions that way. Michaels can wait outside the office, as always.” I meet his squinted gaze. “I’m sure if Sullivan was too much risk, we’d be conducting this session in a cell rather than here. Correct?”
And he knows for damn certain that’s not happening. My first year out of college, I spent every weekday locked inside a cell with prisoners. I still have nightmares—the sound of a cell door clanging shut, the pound of feet and chains against concrete floors. The stench of urine and feces—sometimes being slung at me. The catcalls and riots.
Those iron bars that haunt me.
If the warden wants to continue my contract with the facility, then sessions will continue to be conducted under my terms.
With a dismissive wave of his hand, the warden leaves. The officer gives me a curt nod before he exits the therapy room. A few seconds later, the sound of my office door closing echoes around us. The hum of the fish tank fills the sudden, stark silence.
Without looking up, I open the file on my lap and scan the details. “Inmate number six-one-four. Grayson Pierce Sullivan. What do you like to go by?”
The silence stretches, forcing me to glance up. He’s no longer staring at the floor; his eyes are trained on my face. In this lighting, I can’t tell if they’re blue or green, but his bright, steely irises are surrounded by a thick fringe of lashes. His short-cropped hair is the standard cut for all inmates, and provides a glimpse at several white scars along his scalp.
“I’ll need to refer to you by something,” I prompt.
The man in front of me doesn’t respond. I use his lack of communication to quickly read over his file. I’m typically given a week to learn about my patients; I like to have a treatment plan in place before the introduction. But considering the circumstance, I’ll have to assess him first.
Fine. I close the file and set it on the armrest. “We don’t have to do introductions, but you should know my name is Dr. –”
“I know who you are.”
The deep bass of his voice hits my chest. He closes off again just as quickly, those unblinking eyes staring through me with uninhibited confidence. It’s been a long time since a patient unnerved me.
I clear my throat. “Then you’ve had the privilege of researching me before I could look into you. That puts me at a disadvantage, Grayson.”
I choose to call him by his first name, something other than what the warden and guards refer to him as. It’s not much of a reaction, but a muscle jumps along his jaw at my use of his given name.
“Your file says you’ve been convicted of five murders,” I continue, maintaining eye contact. “You’ve served a year of a life sentence.”
He doesn’t deny the murders. At least that’s a start. Half the convicts that make their way to my office are still pleading their cases. Researching the law and harassing lawyers.
“There were no bodies,” he says.
I nod. “So you are holding out hope for an appeal.” Which doesn’t much matter for Maine, since Delaware is the state he should be concerned about.
“Only stating the facts, Dr. Noble.”
My name rolls off his tongue in a smooth cadence, inflecting a slight accent. I’m trying to place it when what he said registers. Five murder convictions with no bodies. A recollection comes to mind, and I tilt my head. “Corpus delicti. Body of the crime.”
“That’s correct.”
“No victims found at the scenes, but there was enough blood and evidence to prove murders had occurred,” I say, recalling the details. “Then, during the investigation, videos were discovered. Footage of the murdered victims. The videos were leaked and went viral.”
That’s how one detective linked the evidence to the man who was eventually prosecuted. Video cameras, the older kind, have an identifying mark on the tape. It was traced to the person who purchased the camera.
“The Angel of Maine killings.”
His nostrils flare. “I thought monikers were frowned on.”
“They are. By law enforcement.” I cross my ankles, settling back into my chair. “I’m not law enforcement. I think a moniker or nickname gives the public a way to connect—for lack of a better word—with something they can’t understand, yet fascinates them.”
Grayson’s gaze narrows. He studies me just as intently as I study him. If it’s true, and the Angel of Maine really is the man sitting here now, then I have the chance to analyze one of the most confounding psychopathic minds.
His identity was hidden from the media during the trial. An attempt to keep the press from turning him into a vigilante. I tried unsuccessfully for months to get an interview.
A thrilled buzz spikes my blood. Heated and electrifying. It’s been an even longer time since a subject excited me.
I pull out my phone and text Lacy: Cancel the rest of my appointments for today.
“So tell me,” I officially begin our introduction, “why did you refuse to see me a year ago? And why are you here now?”
The stare off continues, but I don’t really need an answer. What Warden Marks revealed about his upcoming trial is enough for me to form an educated guess.
Grayson is about to be convicted in another state—one that has the death penalty.
He wants me to save his life.
