HALEN
You have no idea what’s within your power, sweetness.
Kallum’s words taunt me like his woodsy scent of clean sandalwood, like a secret confession, as if he deliberately baited me with a veiled implication of what he knows.
Which, admittedly, could be nothing at all, and he’s simply using me and my case to his advantage. Like a true sociopath, he’s mastered the art of manipulation.
Realistically, Devyn quoting Chaucer at the scene could be a coincidence. Which would give credence to Aubrey’s claim of my obsession with Kallum.
Maybe I’ve worked in this field too long, have seen too many cryptic things. The rational psychologist within me fights to be heard over the irrational sentiment that nothing is ever coincidence.
Just a guess, he said.
Men like Kallum don’t guess.
He saw something in those images. He knows more. I feel it in my bones the way I felt he was connected to the Cambridge murder, and I have to follow my instinct, even if it leads down a path of ruin.
I have to—because while working the Cambridge scene, I wasn’t at my best. I wasn’t sleeping. I was sidetracked with painful memories, furious that yet another piece of my past was being tainted. I made mistakes…I know I did…otherwise Kallum would be sitting in a prison rather than this cushy hospital.
This is my chance to rectify that.
Just six months ago, I knew of Kallum by reputation only. You don’t work in my field without stumbling across the major contributors to the hidden topics of the world. The fact Kallum was a highly regarded philosophy scholar hid him well within academia.
It wasn’t until Kallum was taken away to Briar that I really began to dig. I interviewed previous colleagues and contacted ex-romantic partners. One of Kallum’s assistant professors stated Kallum’s alchemic research bordered on obsessive, as evident in the runes and sigils tattooed on his body. A previous lover witnessed his fixation with the dark arts, his often “unsettling” research reaching as far as their bedroom.
I scoured the web for all mentions of him. I avoided active cases in pursuit of the truth, which nearly cost me my career, but what I unearthed was a disturbing history of violence and deviant behavior.
As Kallum touts, I may never uncover the physical evidence of the Cambridge murder. I’ve learned to accept this fact. That case is closed. If not for the personal nature of the murder, Kallum may have never been caught.
Initially, I was of the mindset that the Cambridge murder was a crime of passion that Kallum then attempted to disguise as a Harbinger copycat killing. At the time, the murders were all over the media. It was a sound theory.
However, once Kallum was locked away, a curious thing happened.
The Harbinger killings stopped.
Kallum Locke is far more sinister and unhinged than a one-time crime of passion killer, and I now have the chance to prove it—to comb through the dark chasm of his mind and uncover his connection to the killings.
The devil is in the details, and the details are inside that devil’s head.
And I’m about to throw the doors of hell wide open to let him roam free.
The literal door before me opens, and I straighten my shoulders. “Dr. Torres.” I address Briar’s head psychiatrist as he grants me entry to his office.
“Miss St. James. It’s a pleasure to have you. Please, be seated.”
The office of the man in charge of a ward for the criminally insane doesn’t look how I visualized: with textured gray walls, cherry oak furniture, and framed pictures of Freud. I even presumed there’d be a trace of cigar smoke in the air.
Dr. Torres has published three papers on the treatment and correction of dangerous offenders with mental disorders, he’s highly regarded in the medical community for his innovative methods, and his office is a wreck.
Pages are strewn across the desk and falling to the floor. Folders lie open and article clippings pepper every available surface. There’s even a half-eaten club sandwich hanging out in a parted Styrofoam container on a bookshelf.
He, himself, is not quite put together, either, with crooked wireframe glasses, a mop of messy, thinning gray hair, and a half untucked Polo button-down.
And the office smells like cheese.
I glance around for a seat, and he waves a hand apologetically before he clears clutter away from one of the leather chairs in front of his basic wood desk.
“Please excuse the mess,” he says, offering me a seat again. “I’d like to say this is rare, but I find I’m always occupied with a task and in a state of disarray.”
I smile. It really doesn’t bother me…for a short period, knowing I’ll soon leave. I grew up with an ADHD mother who sprinted from one hobby to the next, like she did with occupations, always leaving a chaotic mess in her wake. But her chaos was often the result of a selfless love, and that was the trade.
The surfacing memory weighs heavily on my chest.
“No worries at all.” I set my canvas bag on the only clear space on the floor. “All genius comes with a dash of madness, so they say.”
He chuckles as he seats himself in his desk chair, flipping his askew tie around. “Yes, so they say.”
“Hence why you’re the leading authority in the treatment of the criminally insane.”
He cocks his head, a suspicious gleam in his narrowed, faded-brown eyes. Dr. Torres might appear distracted and dull-witted, but he’s earned his reputation for a reason. He’s no fool, and apparently, ego-stroking won’t win him over.
“You came here to visit my patient, Kallum Locke,” he says, diving right in. “I typically require a psychiatric technician to be present when law officials want to conduct an interview with a patient—”
“I’m not a law official,” I say, clearing that right up.
“Which is the reason as to why I waved the rule…this time.” He makes sure to stress this last part.
My smile falls. “Which I appreciate, but I wasn’t conducting an interview.”
Dr. Torres regards me closely. “Then what can I help you with, Miss St. James?”
Straight to the point. “I work for a specialized department of investigation, and Kallum may be of use to us on an active case.”
My comment seems to amuse him, as he steeples his fingers together and flashes a smile. “Kallum won’t be of any use to you.”
“Why is that? Because of his mental state?”
“No, because you’re the reason he’s here, Miss. St. James.” He grabs a pen off his desk and shuffles to locate a leaf of paper. “In my opinion, it would be a stretch to trust Kallum would help anyone in authority, but especially you and your division. He may lead you on some entertaining tangent, but he has no desire to see justice served.”
I nod slowly, reevaluating my approach. I actually appreciate his frankness. But I also don’t have time to debate the ethics, which is one of the reasons I chose my career path over the medical field.
“I wouldn’t think you’d want to impede this investigation, Dr. Torres. Because, despite any vain professional desire to analyze a mind like Kallum’s to further your research, I’d assume you’d rather be helpful, and in doing so, get more acclaim.” I smile chastely. “Briar’s patient, under your direct care and supervision, helps authorities solve a crime.”
His features pinch in serious deliberation before he erupts in laughter. He rubs the creases along the corner of his eye. “Oh, I have no desire to impede your investigation, and I also have no desire to be a part of the media show, or the fallout.”
Maybe I took my bad-cop persona a bit too far. “Thank you, then?”
He sobers, readjusting his glasses. “As much as I want Kallum removed from my facility, I’m afraid that isn’t my call to make.”
“I understand,” I say. “Kallum should’ve been locked in a penitentiary and not a hospital.” Out of the two-hundred and fifty facilities nationwide, which are all overpopulated and understaffed, Briar is a retreat in comparison to a prison.
“Then you should have done your job better.”
Now I’m offended. “If you don’t think he belongs in your facility, then why is he still here? If he’s not actually mentally ill, that is.”
“Oh, he’s absolutely fucking insane.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is that your professional opinion?”
He makes a throaty sound of amusement, then jots a note on the page. “Miss St. James, there are many gray areas where the legal system is concerned. I’d dare say that, obtaining a judgement of not guilty by reason of insanity is the most difficult judgment to obtain. But if one is highly intelligent and knows the system, it’s also the easiest to manipulate.”
My head throbs at my temples, impatience raking my nerves. “Wait, I’m confused. Now you’re saying he’s not insane? Which one is it, Dr. Torres?”
He holds out the sheet of paper. “The mind is the most powerful force in the known universe,” he says. “This, at least, we can all agree on. If the mind believes a thing to be true, then the mind makes it true. And a brilliant mind can be the worst affliction.”
I open my mouth, but the words stall on my tongue. Instead, I accept the paper and glance at his scribbled writing.
Get this demon out of my hospital. Call Joseph Wheeler.
A phone number is listed below the name.
My heart rate climbs, reminiscent of the last day in court when I waited—breath bated—for the verdict on Kallum’s hearing. The man across from me has the same bated hope welling in his eyes many of the jurors had in that moment.
Honestly, I’m not sure how it happened, or why the judge allowed the verdict to be upheld. When I asked the jury to do their job and put Kallum away, this is not what I intended. The only logical explanation is that, with no physical evidence, the jury knew a guilty verdict could be appealed. By sentencing him to a hospital, he’s at least barred from the public, unable to harm anyone else.
Or…maybe not, according to Dr. Torres’s note.
“To have a patient transported out on official FBI business,” he says, “you would need a court order, of course. Wheeler can make that happen.”
I lace my arms over my chest, suddenly more than suspicious. “And I’d assume the patient would need medical supervision, like from their doctor.”
We lock gazes, and after a moment of strained silence, Dr. Torres straightens his tie again. Apparently stalling, as he’s proven he’s not one to be concerned with his unkempt appearance.
“I could refer a psychiatrist to the case,” he says, adamant on his position.
I nod, even though I feel there is no one who can control that monster. “I’ll try for a court order through my own division first, then we’ll see what else can be done.”
“Try, Miss St. James, is unacceptable.” He grabs his shirt cuff and rolls the sleeve, thrusting the fabric the rest of the way up his forearm.
Second- and third-degree burns pock the skin of his arm in horrific, disfiguring patches. My stomach drops, and I stare, aghast, at the sight.
“How did that happen?” I ask, my voice having lost its edge.
He slides his sleeve down, not bothering to button the cuff. When his gaze settles on me, I see what Dr. Torres was trying to disguise beneath his apparent eccentric nature. The stench of his fear permeates the room.
“I’m a man of science,” he says, tactfully avoiding my question. “I’m a man of logic and rational thought. Yet, I’m not too obtuse in my vain, professional pursuits”—he tosses my slight back at me—“to admit when I’m out of my depth with a patient. There is something deeply disturbed in Kallum’s psyche, and I am not the doctor to help him.”
I feel for his plight, but he still hasn’t directly stated what torture Kallum has subjected on him. I have no doubt Kallum is wreaking havoc on this man, and Dr. Torres probably already weighed the ethical dilemma on how to be rid of him—but as a woman of science myself, I need the facts stated loud and clear.
This time, I need the evidence.
“Is there anything I should be aware of in the event Kallum is remanded to a doctor and released from your care?” I ask.
Collecting himself, he considers for a moment, then: “Late onset mental illness isn’t developed later in life. Most of the time, as I’m sure you know, the illness has simply gone unchecked until it worsens and becomes evident. Kallum was previously diagnosed with brief psychotic disorder in his youth. A diagnosis revealed during his trial.”
Which was curiously suspicious. Was that really a surprise reveal, or did Kallum’s lawyer leak the diagnosis in order to sway the jury toward an insanity defense without having to change the plea after my testimony?
Like Dr. Torres stated, Kallum is intelligent enough to work the system, but it just seems too much of a risk, even for him.
Proof of the diagnoses was presented, but the details around the violent moment in history were only provided to the judge and kept from the jury and witnesses. As the file is a juvenile record, it remains sealed and inaccessible. Even to me.
“As I’m sure you also know,” he continues, “recurring bouts of violent psychotic episodes tend to be triggered by obsessive thoughts. I have noted a high level of obsessive behavior with Kallum. I would be cautious, Miss St. James, seeing as you’re a likely focal point for his obsession.”
My gaze drops to his covered arm before I meet his eyes directly. “I appreciate your concern.” He nods solemnly in reply. “Do you actually agree with the diagnosis?”
His smile is forced. “You may have to decide this for yourself, Dr. St. James. You have the credentials, after all. I would even go as far as to suggest you as the doctor to oversee Kallum in the field.”
“Absolutely not,” I say, my walls erecting. “I appreciate your endorsement, but I don’t want that responsibility.”
“Yet, you’re willing to risk others in order to have his expertise on your case.”
“We should all be willing to risk something for the greater good,” I say as I stand, hoping Dr. Torres appreciates his own sacrifice in keeping Kallum away from the public.
“One last thing,” he says, halting me. “If you do happen to use Wheeler, all I ask in return is there be a stipulation placed that Kallum is remanded to a nicer facility upon his discharge from the case.”
I hold his gaze, understanding passing between us. “Of course,” I say.
“I hope you find what you’re searching for, Dr. St. James.”
“Thank you for your time.” I turn to see myself out.
His parting statement feels oddly phrased, and it festers in the back of my mind as I exit the institution. The only thing I’m searching for are answers.
The greater good requires sacrifice, and I’m willing to risk making the biggest mistake of my career to get those answers.
The designated hotel for visitors sits adjacent from Briar. I stand at the window of my hotel room, watching the grounds as the sky darkens and the lights of the facility blink on to cast distorted shadows along the grass.
I placed a call to the Hollow’s Row Police Department and was put through to Devyn. She promised to keep the scene intact until this evening, and I had to make her aware I wouldn’t be returning in time.
“Thanks for trying to wait for me,” I said to her, “but I won’t be back today. Maybe tomorrow, and possibly, I’ll be bringing help along.”
“Another fed?” she asked. “Because, the suits descended today. I can’t see how this town can fit any more.”
“No. Not a fed,” I assure her. “A psychotic philosophy professor.”
She laughed, but when I didn’t join in, the line went silent.
“Oh, you’re serious,” she said. “Halen, are you helping, or are you bringing something worse to my town?”
I try not to lie to those I respect. “Honestly, I don’t know.”
After I ended the call, I contacted Special Agent Wren Alister, who’s been appointed lead on the Hollow’s Row task force. He’s the one I need to gain approval from in order to bring in an expert consultant on the case.
My division has a lot of sway, but I can’t push Kallum through as a consultant with my director. Aubrey made that clear when he reprimanded me about this trip.
I check my email on my phone. Still no confirmation from Agent Alister. I’ve already completed the pile of required paperwork. I’ve put everything in place. And I’m still not certain this is the right course of action.
Anxiety tightens my chest, and I glance at the slip of paper Dr. Torres handed me.
Peering out the window, I touch the pendant at my neck, seeking some semblance of comfort and maybe even guidance.
“I’m making a very bad mistake,” I whisper.
Dr. Torres’s words haunt me, and I’m not entirely sure of my purpose, or intent.
I accused him of using Kallum to further his career—but am I just as vain in my endeavor to prove Kallum is the Harbinger killer?
Who am I risking if this goes horribly wrong?
Then I picture the gruesome crime scene, the eyes staring vacantly, the tortured bodies of the victims still lost.
Bodies that may still be, in fact, alive.
It’s the one thing no one said at the crime scene, but it’s what the silence screamed.
It’s why the FBI has been called to Hollow’s Row.
If there’s a chance these victims can be found alive, and that chance rests in the ruthless inked hands of a killer…
I grab my phone and open the web browser. I type in he who sees with his eyes is blind and hit Search.
The quote pulls up right away, citing Socrates in Plato’s Allegory of the Cave. I click the link and dive in, immersing myself in the reading. My basic understanding of the interpretation is it’s a metaphorical play about the theoretical difference between intelligence and ignorance.
I rub my forehead, trying to stave off the forming headache. Philosophy—especially ancient Greek—was not my strength in college. I’m too rational, too grounded in practicality to ponder the meaning of the universe.
The further I delve into my research, the more I gather a dominant theme. For the most part, the dialogues allude to most people being happy without a muse, living without divine inspiration, as they have no access to higher perceptions of reality.
In simplified, cliché terms: Ignorance is bliss.
After clicking through links and reading definitions and interpretations of epistemology, I find myself on the back end of the Internet on some philosophy forum, where I’ve lost all track of time and reason, and I can’t even recall what I was originally searching for.
“Shit.” I blow out a frustrated breath.
I glance at the window, as if I can feel Kallum’s derision, his mockery of my attempt to piece together this lead. A lead or a tangent, like Dr. Torres warned? Either way, this is exactly what he wanted.
I’m questioning everything.
Risk, like philosophy, presents a danger outside of ourselves. The only way to mitigate the danger in risk is to have control over the variables.
Rationally speaking, I need to gain control over Kallum Locke.
I’ve put myself in the mind of many sociopaths and killers over the years. I know how they think, how they behave, respond to stimuli—and how they need to be the smartest, most powerful force in the room.
If a wilting rose is what Kallum desires, then I will show him my withered petals.
I click out of the sites and grab a bottled water from the mini-fridge. Then I make the call to Joseph Wheeler, the agency lawyer Dr. Torres referred, to make the deal.
