LONDON
I adjust the video recorder, centering the frame on Grayson’s face. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
When he says nothing, I turn around and move out of the view. “We’re going to try something different,” I say. “I’m not going to ask questions. I just want you to talk about whatever’s on your mind.”
He runs his palms over the top of his head. His hair has started to grow out. I put in an order to the corrections officers not to shave his head until he’s released from therapy. I want to see if hiding his scars has any effect on his overall demeanor and reactions to me.
So far, he hasn’t revealed the source of his scars, or whether or not they appear anywhere else on his body. Judging by the long-sleeved thermals he chooses to wear beneath his jumpsuit despite the unseasonably warm spring weather, I think it’s a safe assumption that he’s concealing more.
There are many ways to hide scars; both physical and emotional ones. The physical scars are easy enough to disguise. I know this from experience. I’m not as interested in those, but rather his emotional wounds—the ones that likely led to his disorder.
“Do I get my official diagnosis today, doc?” Grayson’s accent is heavy this morning. He sounds weary.
After our first month, I bumped the sessions up to three times a week. The sooner I determine a treatment plan for Grayson, the sooner I can return to my other patients full time. I fear some may start to suffer from my neglect, but it’s best to focus my undivided attention on Grayson rather than risk their mental health while being sidetracked.
With less than two months left until the trial, there’s very little I can offer in way of a defense. I should end the sessions…but I’m greedy. A death row serial killer with media presence makes for an interesting case study, yes—but it’s more than that.
He has answers.
Before the discovery of the videotapes, he was able to blend seamlessly into society. He held a steady job. Fostered romantic relationships. Though none were serious, the guise was that of a normal, functioning male adult. He fed his sadistic needs and compulsions without taking a life. Not by his own hands; he forced his victims to kill for him.
He has answers, and he’s keeping them to himself.
I lace my arms across my chest. After a month of intensive interviews, I’m still reluctant to paste a label on him. “Would giving you a diagnosis make a difference during our sessions?”
He tsks with a shake of his head. “You asked a question.”
I hold my stern expression in place. Lately, I’ve been enjoying my work too much. A sort of ease has settled between us, where this comfortable banter started to develop.
Grayson’s charm is disarming. It’s a part of his ruse. The mecca of his personality. But it’s shallow; only the tip of the iceberg. I want to excavate below that surface. Even if I have to chisel away at the ice little by little.
“I won’t ask another. You can go ahead and start wherever you’d like.”
“What do you most want to know?”
A catch in my breath reveals how badly I want to ask him a particular question. His gaze drags over my body, slow and intense. If I hadn’t been studying him so closely, I might assume it’s a sexual perusal—but this is how Grayson reads people. He gives them a smidgen of what they desire in order to analyze their tells.
He does this so intuitively, I’m in a constant state of awareness trying to control my micro expressions. It’s like a ping pong match as I continually bounce his focus off of me and back onto him.
“How about you start with your career,” I suggest.
He looks disinterested in my choice of topic, but I only need him to relax into the conversation. This session’s purpose is about recording his facial expressions. I want a base comparison for his comfort level and emotional cues. As we dive deeper into his psyche, I’ll need to be able to read him as easily as he reads me.
His chains clatter against the hardwood floor as he eases into the chair. “I worked with my hands,” he states simply.
I have to restrain myself from asking him to elaborate on that point.
His lips quirk into a knowing grin. Grayson doesn’t smile; he leers. I’m sure in the outside world where his charm is a weapon, his smile can melt the panties right off a woman. I’ve seen a dimple pop along his cheek on the occasions I catch him off guard, and I can imagine what a full, hundred-watt smile from Grayson looks like. I believe panty-melting is the term most women use.
His eyes travel over my body again and, this time, I feel their intrusion. I meticulously selected a tight pencil skirt that accentuates my curves. My blouse is unbuttoned down to the swell of my breasts. I stood at the door to my closet for a long time, thinking about which outfit would distract Grayson.
This is strictly a psychological tactic; to beguile him in the hopes that he’ll reveal more during today’s session. And yet, it doesn’t stop the heat from gathering between my thighs as his gaze hungrily devours me.
He takes his time. When his gaze settles on my face, he says, “Welding. Off the coast. Hyperbaric welding, or underwater welding, as it’s more commonly known. I worked on ships and pipelines.”
I know this much. All the easily attainable information I’ve imprinted into my mind. I wait for him to continue, but I’m getting impatient. Why does a man with an IQ of 152 choose to work with his hands?
He releases a heavy breath. “Yes, I liked it,” he answers my unspoken question, and I allow a small smile to slip free.
I wait. Watch his tongue travel over his bottom lip. A grin hikes the corner of his mouth. “Look how tense you are,” he says. “The need to ask your little questions tightening every muscle in your body. Especially those thighs.” His gaze drops to my legs, and I slip behind my chair, removing my legs from his line of sight. “Go ahead. Ask.”
“Why welding?”
“You mean, why didn’t I go to college and pursue a career more befitting to my intelligence level?”
I lift my chin. “In fact, that’s exactly what I mean. Didn’t your parents encourage your education?” He’s refused to discuss his parents with me so far. I won’t stop pushing for the answers.
He rolls his shoulders. “My ‘parents’ encouraged me out as little as possible.”
I crane an eyebrow, anticipating more on the subject, but he looks away. “The ocean is quiet,” he says instead. “When you’re down there, not even your thoughts are loud. It all just fades into the background of this tranquil, marine scenery.”
I glance at the saltwater tank on impulse.
“I think you crave the same thing,” he says, drawing my attention to him.
I don’t confirm or deny his claim.
“Aren’t you going to ask, doctor?”
I shake my head slowly. “This isn’t about me. I’m not interested in what my thoughts are on the matter, only yours.”
“But aren’t you dying to know what I think you crave?”
Yes. The answer burns through me, scorching the back of my throat as I hold it there.
He hikes his pants up his thighs as he sits forward. “I bet you keep that fish tank in here because you crave that same moment of solitude.”
A light laugh escapes. “So you’re the doctor now?”
His expression opens, stealing my breath. “I’d love to ask you questions. I’d like that game a lot.”
If this is what will let his guard fall—even for a fraction of a second so I can capture it—then I’ll play. “All right, I accept.” I move into my chair and cross my legs at the ankle. “No, Grayson. I don’t crave solitude, because I take my alone time every day.” I raise my eyebrows challengingly.
“It’s not the same,” he counters. “Being lonely and solitude are two different things.”
I force my lungs to expand past the tightness. “Is that how you see me? Lonely?”
He shakes his head. “I’m the doctor today. I’m asking the questions. Are you lonely?”
I swipe my tongue over my teeth in an attempt to hide my reactive frown. “At times, yes. Everyone feels lonely every once in a while. That’s human nature.”
He becomes engrossed in the game, in his performance. “You think you handle it better then most, though. Don’t you? Why? Because you’re a psychologist?”
I bite back a laugh. “No, because I don’t like—” I stop myself short.
His head tilts. “You don’t like what? Relationships? Too complicated? Too intimate?”
“I don’t particularly like people,” I confess.
The corner of his mouth kicks up. “A psychologist that doesn’t like people. How do you manage that?”
I huff out a breath. “I’m interested in the study of people, not in what they can do or be in relation to me,” I clarify. “That’s the difference between the average self-indulgent person and one who’s self-aware. As a psychologist who’s had the benefit of years of education into the mind, I understand people on a level that most don’t. As a whole, people are selfish and tiresome. I simply prefer to analyze them rather than pursue an intimate relationship.”
He laces his hands together on his lap, his gaze hard on me. “That’s either the most truthful response, or the most evasive. Which, either way, reveals your fear.”
A cold splash against the back of my neck freezes all movement. “My fear. Are you going to diagnose me, Dr. Sullivan?”
He sits back, breaking eye contact. “Haven’t you already diagnosed yourself by now?”
“That’s a logical assumption.” And a wrong one. I’ve never analyzed myself. Not even in college, when every psych student was dissecting their own brain. Back then, I had a theory that before one is able to diagnose another, one has to first exercise their mental demons.
A very difficult task. I soon realized it was easier to co-exist with my demons rather than expel them. Once I accepted that, it was easy enough to move ahead, to succeed even. And I succeeded. Right to the top of my class.
“A logical assumption,” Grayson repeats. “Is it a logical assumption, then, that you’re a pathological liar?”
He wants to bait me. Get a reaction. I straighten my back, trying to ignore the pain in my lumbar. Grayson’s eyebrows draw together. Not enough to denote concern, but just slightly to reveal he notices my discomfort.
“Do you feel I’ve lied to you?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “I don’t think you lie to your patients. I think you lie to yourself. Especially about your fears.”
I keep my tone low and unemotional. “That’s a severe assessment. Even so, we all lie to ourselves to some extent. It’s the way our mind protects us. If we realized just how insignificant we are, well—” I laugh “—then we might lose the will to live.”
“Lose the will to live. That’s interesting.” He inches closer, staring at me as if he’s puzzling me out. He likes puzzles.
I press back farther into the chair. Touch my forehead, willing the sudden ache away. “Have you given much thought to the outcome of the trial?” I hedge.
“What are you trying to protect yourself from?”
“What?”
“You said lying to yourself is a defense mechanism. I want to know what you’re trying so hard to avoid. What do you need protection from?”
I grasp the arms of my chair and pull myself up to stand. “I’m not playing your head games, Grayson. Indulgent time is over.”
“Who hurt you?” He rises from his seat so quickly, I react, retreating as his chains snap taut.
My gaze goes to my desk, to where the hidden panic button is positioned beneath its edge. Grayson tracks my line of sight, then he looks at me. “Go ahead. Press it,” he dares.
I lift my chin, controlling my breathing. “If I do, then this will be our last session.”
Dejection fills his eyes before he’s able to mask his expression. I remind myself that it’s not true emotion; he’s a manipulator.
He proves this when he steps back and rubs his neck. “I would miss our time together, Dr. Noble. You are helping me.”
Want to know when you’re being lied to? Look for the manipulator’s tell: a tug of the ear, a touch of the hair. Rubbing the neck. Only with Grayson, I’m undecided if he’s lying about my helping him or whether he’ll miss us—miss me.
“You want me to believe that you didn’t just do that on purpose?”
He attempts a confused countenance, but he can’t hold it for long. His smile stretches wide, that dimple carving his cheek. My legs quiver under his spell. “Maybe I want you to question which part of all this is true.”
“Mission accomplished. If you purposely set out to manipulate these sessions, then I have to believe you wish to die. I ask you again, is this a game? Your last hurrah before your execution? Are you intentionally wasting my time because yours is up?”
His hands curl into fists. His physical restraint rattles the chains, his tensed muscles evident beneath his jumpsuit. I feel a tremor of anger rolling off him. It’s the first real reaction I’ve witnessed; a true emotion.
I threaten him.
“You are not a game,” he says through clenched teeth.
I suck in a fortifying breath. “I have deception training. You may be skilled in the art of deceit, but I’m skilled in detecting it, Grayson. I want the truth.”
“Lying to you wouldn’t benefit me. I want you to experience the truth.”
The way he says this…the phrasing—experience the truth, rather than simply wanting me to know it—it’s deliberate. My skin tingles.
“Did you enjoy making your victims suffer? Did you enjoy their torture, their deaths?” My words are just as selective. I need to understand if he’s a sadist or if it’s a facade. With his defenses lowered, I’ll get a clear read.
“I did,” he admits. “I enjoyed it. Not one bit of guilt.”
I free a tense breath. “You can’t feel guilt or regret if you derive pleasure from others’ suffering and pain. So is it pleasurable? Are you aroused when your victims suffer? Do you achieve sexual gratification and release?”
His expression morphs into one of pure ecstasy as his eyes glaze over, like he’s recalling his memories. And when he finds me past the haze, those vivid blue eyes zeroing in on me, I feel it in my core—his intensity a pulsing ache that forces my thighs together. “It’s unfair that you know my secrets,” he says, “and I don’t have any of yours.”
“Is that an admission?” I force the subject.
He nods once, a confirmation. “I was born this way. I’ve spent years trying to figure out the why. Then I got bored, and then I was tired. What matters now is how I choose to channel my…sadistic nature. If that’s what you want to label it.”
I lift my head, jaw set. “I do label it as that. You’re also delusional if you believe you’re channeling your sadism for the better. That you’re a hero, using your disorder to punish the guilty. That’s not how it works, Grayson. You do not get to be the judge, jury, and executioner.”
“And yet I am,” he says, sinking down into the chair. “It’s just a simple choice to accept who we are. You can relate. You channel your sickness through your patients.”
An arctic splash of fear snatches the air from my lungs.
“It’s why I’m here,” he continues. “Why you chose me over the drooler in the waiting room. You made a choice. One that benefits you. Just admit it. Admit that you were born as free as me so we can move past this meaninglessness and find out what we’re really capable of.”
I step back, putting more distance between us so I can take a breath not laced with his scent. “What do you want?” A simple question, but the answer will determine everything.
His steely gaze latches on to me. “I want to live. And I want you.”
Time suspends. It’s the honesty I read in his eyes that keeps me locked in this torturous moment. I’m aware that I’m becoming a part of his disorder; I’m the only outside source he has to form a connection—but I refuse to shut it down. I can use it. Ethical? No. Not at all. But there’s no one else like Grayson. I won’t get this opportunity again.
I toss my hair, clearing my vision of my bangs, and pull my glasses off. “In your circumstance, you can only have one pursuit. Since you value choices so much, I suggest you choose wisely.” I break the connection further by turning toward the writing desk and grabbing my notebook. “Symphorophilia. Do you know this term?”
“Paraphilia is sexual deviation.” He smirks, his stare expectant. “I did my homework before our first meeting. Labeling me a deviant is nothing new.”
I cock an eyebrow. “But your particular deviation is,” I counter. “There’s no empirical research on the topic of symphorophilia.” Which is partly why I won’t stop the sessions. A documentation on a confirmed subject would be a first of its kind, and the only research to feature a serial killer. My other reasons are my own personal motivation.
“I can feel your excitement,” Grayson says, smile stretching. “Or is that arousal?” He sniffs the air, making me flush.
I lick my lips and flip my notebook open. “The broad definition is simple: you experience sexual gratification from staging disasters. That is too simple, however. Your particular psychopathy is sadistic symphorophilia. We’re going to delve deeper, discover why you turned to psychodrama theatrics instead of setting fires or staging traffic wrecks. And your victimology… Your victim selection process is key.”
Most psychopaths are relieved when they finally have an explanation, some measure of understanding as to why they are the way they are, even if they revolt against reform.
Not Grayson. The downturned edges of his mouth and drawn eyebrows denote his dissatisfaction.
“You don’t agree with my diagnosis?”
His even breaths are audible in the quiet space between us. “Every lock has a key.”
I frown. “It was figurative.”
His mouth presses into a firm line. Giving nothing away. I decide that’s acceptance enough, and end the session by crossing the room and opening the door to prompt the officer.
I hover by the hallway as Grayson is unshackled from the floor restraint and secured to be transferred back to Cotsworth. It’s a tedious and loud process that grates my nerves every time the chains clatter and locks click.
When he’s ready, the corrections officer escorts him forward to meet the other armed officers in the waiting room. As Grayson passes, his hand grazes mine. Just a light brush that could be perceived as an accident, but the directness of the touch, the point of contact, heats my skin. The stroke of his finger along the side of my palm is powerful enough to seize all my senses.
It was no accident.
I shut the door and cup my hand over the spot he touched.
