LONDON
A blank screen stares back at me, daring me to hit Play.
I catch my reflection in the darkened widescreen and turn to the side, analyzing my legs, the way my knee-length skirt hugs my thighs. A thought flits through my mind—one second of curiosity over how Grayson perceives me—then it’s safely snuffed out as I face the TV and push the button to play the disc.
An image of a rusted metal room brightens to life. A low hum buzzes at my ears. I click the volume higher, then halt when someone enters the view. A tall man with a pot belly and disheveled gray suit.
His tie is tugged away from his neck, like he’s been pulling at it. His dirty blond hair a disarrayed mess, as if it’s suffered the same harsh treatment as his necktie. He’s harried as he searches the dimly lit room. His hands feel over the tarnished walls, seeking tirelessly as a string of hushed curses fall from his mouth.
Breath bated, I watch him cover every inch of the room, and when he falls to his knees, clawing at his hair, that’s when I see it. Descending from above, just peeking onto the screen, are cables. Thick black cables. At the end of each a manacle. One large harness rests amid the dangling shackles.
I reach into my pocket and pull out the string I keep at the ready. I tighten the thread around my index finger as I watch. A garbled voice sounds out through the room.
“Brandon Harvey. You have a chance to free yourself from the prison in which you’ve created. You’re guilty of molesting children. Although you’ve beaten the system and you’re a free man in the eyes of the law, it’s now time to pay for your sins. The eyes of justice are not blind.”
“Fuck you!” the man shouts.
“Secure yourself into the harness. Then cuff your wrists and ankles into the shackles.”
The man flips off the room, and as he screams obscenities, a loud noise buzzes over the speaker system. One by one, panels along the walls flip over. The faces of children appear—young children—in a domino effect that covers the room.
Oh, God. I stumble backward, awkwardly finding my seat, my legs unable to hold my weight.
“The faces of your victims will be your reminder,” the voice says. “This is your only chance to redeem yourself. Choose. Redemption or death.”
I try to picture the man in my office from just hours ago as the concealed person behind the camera. The man I’ve been examining for the past week doesn’t appear to harbor sadistic tendencies, yet the proof before me is undeniable.
Grayson is a sadist.
What’s more, he’s an expert in deceit.
Before I become too involved, I reach for my journal and jot down my observations. A loud clang recaptures my attention and I’m forced to watch—I can’t look away from the screen.
The man in the suit does as instructed, cursing the whole time he shackles himself into the harness and cuffs. When he’s effectively restrained, the cables snap taut, lifting him off the ground. The hollow noise I heard before is revealed as the floor beneath him moves aside to expose an open panel. A stool rises into the room from below.
It’s not just a stool… I squint as I try to discern the pyramid-shaped seat, and all too soon, realization dawns. Some distant memory from history class resurfaces to give me the name of the torture device.
“A Judas Cradle,” I breathe.
A mediaeval torture device that has no place in this scene erects below the struggling man, its pointed tip aimed directly between his spread legs. I know what’s about to happen, but even as I realize this, I can’t stop watching.
The string around my finger cuts off my circulation, the throb pulsing in sync to my increasing heart rate. As the cables descend, the man is stretched and lowered, his limbs pulled at every angle. His struggle is useless as he’s slowly dropped onto the metal pyramid. His shouts turn into cries of pain as the pointed tip of the torture device makes contact with his rectum.
“Pass this test,” the garbled voice says, “and you’re free to go. You’ll have suffered the same excruciating pain you forced on your victims. Like you, they were bound against their will, unable to fight. All you have to do is last twelve hours—one hour for each of your victims—to be redeemed.”
My eyes close briefly. Twelve hours. I grab the CD case from the table and read over the label, noting the duration of the copied film. There’s six hours of recorded footage.
“I can’t take it!” the man shrieks. “Let me go! I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
A rope drops from the ceiling, dangling close to the man’s face. “You can stop the torture at any time,” the voice announces. “But to end your immediate suffering, you have to be willing to end your life.”
The humming grows louder, drowning out the screams. The cables rack his body as gravity takes hold, forcing him down onto the point. I’m transfixed by the scene. Wondering if Grayson watched the entirety of the torture.
Grayson is extremely intelligent. His file states genius. With an IQ of 152, he sees the world differently than the average person. He sees people differently. He sees me differently.
I hold the remote outstretched, ready to fast-forward to the end, but I change my mind. To know my subject—to get inside their head and understand them, learn their motivations—I have to endure what they borne.
Majority of the time, I’m limited in how close I can get to a patient. Grayson recording his “sessions” with his victims presents a unique opportunity to peel back the layers and study his impulses. This is what I tell myself as I sit through hours of footage, unable to take my eyes off the tortured pedophile.
Beneath my professional curiosity, I am human, and I cringe at the revolting act—but I feel little remorse for this man when I glance at the faces of the children around the room. Do I think a lifetime in prison is a suitable punishment for his crime? I’m not sure that I do. At least on a personal level. Is Grayson justified in his method to punish where the law failed? Simply, that’s a question for someone else. It doesn’t pertain to his diagnosis.
And there’s still the question of how Grayson knew of the man’s guilt. Did he stalk him? Catch him in the act? Or is it an invented reality? One that consists of a delusional state in which he perceives those he deems guilty as just that, regardless of the facts.
I rub my forehead at the point of pressure and then make a note to research the victim. The bodies were never discovered. How did he dispose of them? Why? A counter forensic tactic to protect himself, or does he destroy the victim’s remains to further insult them; preventing their loved ones from giving them a proper burial?
The length Grayson went to in order to study his victim, validate his purpose and devise an equally fitting punishment, then execute it…
Well, that takes conviction. Regardless of his mental state before, during, and after, Grayson’s belief system will be our biggest challenge.
Going deeper still, why does he have this desire to punish so ruthlessly? What drives his purpose? Where does it stem from, and when did he first act on the impulse?
An image of the scars crossing his scalp flits through my thoughts.
Torture. Self inflicted, or was he abused?
To learn the answers, I need access to vital information not provided in generic manila folders. His parents, his childhood environment, where he was raised—all these factors must come together to create a neat and acceptable profile for a psychopathy tailored to Grayson Pierce Sullivan.
Exploring from a professional distance, it’s simple enough to chart his criminal profile. But what about the man?
The accent I hear on occasion that hints to an Irish heritage.
Those piercing ice-blue eyes that stare down to my marrow.
His masculine scent that pervades our sessions.
His voice—the way the raspy gutturalness makes my thighs squeeze together to offset the ache.
My subliminal reaction to his sex appeal is disturbing in its own right, and yet I still have to factor it into my observations. It’s a part of his nature; charisma and determination work together to lure in his prey. He’s a hunter. Like he admitted during our session.
And if I’m being honest, I’ve never been more fascinated by a patient. Fascinated. I could laugh. My attraction goes deeper than fascination…to some part of myself that yearns for his cruelty. He’s free in a way that most people only dream—a dark and unforgiving dream where the rules don’t apply.
I shake my head, realizing I’ve been rubbing at the side of my palm. A subconscious habit, and the reason why I took up my string therapy in the first place. I’ve worn the makeup off, the tattooed key now visible. Beneath the faded black ink, a deep scar mars my flesh.
Layers of my youth—the ways in which I’ve tried to conceal my pain over the years. Each one as telling as the crime.
I push the thought away along with my string and reclaim the remote. Enough internal monologue for one day, I decide to skip ahead to the six-hour mark of the footage. Throughout the past four hours of grueling torture, Grayson has remained silent. He’s not giving me anything. Where is he? What is he doing?
The man on screen is drenched in sweat. His suit has split down his legs, and the blood leaking from his rectum is evident as it coats the gray fabric and Judas Cradle. He must decide that he’s suffered enough, or that he is deserving of death—or maybe he believes it’s a bluff—because he reaches for the rope.
I cringe.
One forceful yank on the cord sets the cables free. The man’s cry crackles through the speakers as the tip of the stool impales him. Another few seconds of torturous agony stretches out until I hear a sharp snap.
The man’s head disconnects from his body.
I hit Rewind and then pause the image. I move closer, squinting at the screen. A cable makes contact with his neck, and as I click the footage ahead, I can clearly see where it cuts through, severing his head from his body.
“Christ.”
I eject the disc and place it inside the case to be returned to the detective. I glance at the pile of cases on my desk, the recorded deaths of Grayson’s victims that Detective Lux leant me—none too willingly—to help further my research.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I stuff the cases in my bag. A while ago, I chose not to bring my work home with me. To try to have a life outside of my career.
Half-attempted hobbies clutter my apartment, abandoned.
I sprinkle fish food into the tank, then lock up my office. On my walk home, the images on the disc play on a loop, my eyes unseeing as a follow the memorized path to my apartment.
If the prosecution has similar footage of the killings in New Castle, then any testimony I may provide won’t matter. After watching such a torturous and gruesome death—no matter the victim’s crime—any jury would convict Grayson. His actions are premeditated.
He is a hopeless case.
