The Good Lie

by Torre, A. R.

  As impossible as it probably was, I needed to talk to Scott Harden. His interactions with the killer would help me understand if it was a clear switch from one personality to another, or a mental communication with a delusion. There was a big difference, one that he should have been able to distinguish, especially after seven weeks as a prisoner.

  While PS was practically a given, DID was a big criminological jump to take. If I was wrong, it’d be a huge blow to my credibility and reputation. And once the press caught word of it, the media coverage would flare like a California brush fire in September.

  I tapped the pen against the page. Simply put, I didn’t have enough to go on and should keep all this to myself until I knew more.

  My interview with Randall was set for Wednesday. In that first impression, I should get at least a general sense of the sort of individual I was dealing with. And Robert’s office had to have private investigators they could hire. DID-affected individuals left clues that an investigator could unearth. Missed appointments. Forgetfulness. Unexplained outbursts.

  The elevator dinged, and I glanced through my open office door, my tension easing as a woman and a cleaning cart exited the car and rolled into the reception area.

  Luke had been eerily quiet. The police had finally found him, questioned him, and gotten bubkes in answers. According to Luke, he hadn’t taken my wallet or keys. I reported all my cards stolen and wasted my entire Sunday afternoon ordering new IDs, club cards, and a replacement fob for my car. The police had nothing to charge Luke with, so he left. Since then, he hadn’t made any effort to contact me, which should have been reassuring, but it wasn’t. Instead, the silence felt like the pregnant pause in a horror movie, right before the chain saw–wielding villain springs out.

  I closed the file and stood, leaning over and gathering each folder into place, then stacking them all in the middle of my desk. Moving my mouse, I disrupted the screen saver, then shut down my computer.

  I needed to get home and, for the rest of the evening, try not to think about death.

  CHAPTER 31

  Robert’s door was ajar, his attention on his monitor, and I rapped my knuckles lightly against the wood, then ventured a step in. “Hey.”

  He looked up and raised his eyebrows, surprised. “Hey. Come on in. You could have just called me back.”

  “I was in the area. My tailor is three blocks down.”

  “Frank and Pat?”

  I smiled. “Yeah. Best needles in Los Angeles.”

  He gestured to the chairs before his desk. “Please, sit. I just wanted to talk about your profile.”

  I took the left seat and glanced over at the goldfish. Still alive. “Sure.”

  “It’s great work. Good stuff.”

  I sighed. “But?”

  He tented his hands before his face and studied me. “It feels like you’re holding something back. What is it?”

  Damn attorneys. The good ones were way too good at reading between the lines and finding holes. I had barely had the chance for my new theories to solidify in my mind and wasn’t ready to present or defend them. Not yet, and not before talking to Randall Thompson. I cleared my throat and evaded the question. “I’m holding something back?” I countered. “What are you holding back?”

  He ignored the response. “Tell me who this psychological profile fits.”

  “I don’t know,” I said exasperatedly. “I haven’t interviewed Randall yet.”

  “Fuck Randall.”

  The harsh verb caused me to flinch.

  “Who else?” He stared me down as if I were the one on the stand. “Does it fit any of your clients?”

  “Is that why you hired me? For access to my clients?”

  “Answer the question, Gwen.”

  “No,” I sputtered. “This profile isn’t like any of my clients.” I said it without going through my roster, because SCREW HIM. It wouldn’t matter if one of my clients was an identical match to this profile. I paused. I couldn’t say in good faith that I wouldn’t tell someone, because I would. But I’d go to the police. I’d tell Detective Saxe, not this prick. “You know what?” I rose from my seat and snatched my purse off the floor. “I’m done here. I don’t have time to play games.”

  “He killed my son.”

  And just like that, with those four cracked words, my anger deflated. He was allowed to play games. He was allowed to get dirty. Someone had stolen his son, raped him of his innocence, dry drowned him, then dropped his body in a drainage ditch behind a recycling plant. Who was I to be mad at him for something, anything, that he did in an attempt to catch his son’s killer?

  “What aren’t you telling me?” he asked tightly.

  I turned back to face him. “It’s just a theory,” I managed.

  “About the killer?”

  I gripped the top of the leather chair. “Yes.”

  “Tell me.”

  I sighed. “It’s not confirmed, and needs some research. A private investigator would help. And I need to speak with Randall. Multiple times, if possible. I could share my ideas with you now, but it’ll only be a distraction. What’s in my report is more solid. Much more solid.”

  I met his eyes, and the pain in them was raw and flaring. It’d only been nine months since he had buried his son. Too soon.

  “It could be wrong,” I pointed out quietly.

  “Just tell me,” he bit out.

  “There are contrasting actions on the part of the killer. He hurts them and then puts salve on their wounds. Tortures them but feeds them well. His actions show dramatic swings in his compassion levels. Some actions are almost loving, then you have the barbaric act of removing their genitalia.”

  I inhaled, prepared for ridicule the moment my next words came out. “It’s possible that the swings are consistent with someone with either paranoid schizophrenia or dissociative identity disorder.”

  Robert looked down at the printed profile before him and let out a quiet snort. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but it wasn’t the intelligent reception of the idea that I was hoping for.

  “Like I said,” I told him stiffly, “it’s not something I could stand by in court.”

  “But you believe it. If your child was the one who had died, you would pursue this path of thinking?” He looked back up at me.

  No. It was too risky. I swallowed. “I’d keep it in the back of my mind, but I wouldn’t commit to it.”

  He held his stare on me for a long time, and it was the sort of look you put on a Where’s Waldo board. An intent focus, looking for the one piece that doesn’t match the rest. I shifted, uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

  “What?” I finally asked.

  “I’m just trying to figure out if you’re really smart or really dumb.”

  “That’s funny,” I said dryly. “I spend most of my time trying to figure out if you’ve lost your mind or can somehow see the future.”

  He chuckled. “Okay, let’s talk in arguable ideas for a moment.” He tapped the top of a stack of pages, and I glanced at it, recognizing the cover page of my profile. “You’ve given me a potential psychological picture of the killer.” He shook his head. “I’m going to ignore the possibility of a psychological disorder for now. Let’s assume he’s a single male, likely sexually abused or seduced by a popular teenage peer when he was young. Highly organized, control freak, intelligent, and analytical.”

  “Yes.”

  “So let’s go.” He scooped up a small ring of keys from his desk. “Let’s see if Randall fits the bill.”

  I glanced at my watch. “Right now? I have an appointment on Wednesday to meet with him.” It seemed reckless to head to the jail without planning and emotional preparation, especially given my new potential diagnoses. This was big, the biggest moment of my career. What if I asked the wrong question? What if he said something historic and I wasn’t prepared?

  “Why not? You can go Wednesday, also.” He held open his office door, his brows rising in question. “I thought talking to killers
was what you did.”

  “I thought he wasn’t a killer,” I countered.

  A grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Well, let’s find out.”

  CHAPTER 32

  “You don’t seem nervous.” Robert emptied out his pockets into a small bowl held out by the security guard.

  “I’m not nervous. A little excited.”

  He chuckled. “Excited . . . that’s an interesting emotion to have.”

  We moved through the metal detectors, then waited for our items to pass through the conveyor belt. I looked down. “Cute socks.” They were a gray argyle with small flamingos printed across them.

  He moved his toes in response. “Cute polish. Would you call that magenta?”

  “I was thinking plum.”

  He grabbed my heels off the belt and passed them to me. We sat in the metal folding chairs against the wall and put our shoes back on. I glanced at the security guards, who were laughing at something. “How often have you visited him?”

  “Randall? Every other day.”

  “Really?” I stood and waited for him to finish tying his shoes. “That seems like a lot. You have that much to talk about?”

  “Not really. Most of them are more of a pep-talk visit.” He stood and retucked the back of his shirt in. “He’s not doing too well.”

  “Does anyone do well in prison?” I asked.

  His hand gently rested on the small of my back as he guided me to the left hall. “I’m worried about him. I’ll be curious what you think about his mental fortitude after talking to him.”

  “He’s still maintaining his innocence?”

  He sighed. “Yes.” He pressed an elevator call button, and we paused, waiting.

  I glanced at a camera that pointed down at us. “You know it’s weird, right? That you’re defending a man who is on trial for murdering your son?”

  We stepped into the elevator.

  “I wouldn’t defend him if I thought he was guilty.”

  “Have you defended guilty people before?”

  “Sure.” He selected the third floor. “But I wouldn’t in this situation, for obvious reasons.”

  “So, you’re willing to overlook morality, unless it involves your family.”

  He let out an irritated huff. “I wouldn’t put it that way.” He turned his gaze to me. “But sure, my moral compass can be off at times. Same as yours.”

  I folded my arms across my chest. “In what way is mine off?”

  “Well, I defend the guilty. You protect them.” The elevator doors opened, and I waited for him to get out. He didn’t.

  I followed his lead and stayed in place. “How do I protect the guilty?”

  His face hardened. “Pop quiz, Dr. Gwen. What do you do when a patient confesses their secrets to you?”

  I paused, and the elevator doors closed, isolating us in the small space. “Depends on the secret.”

  He gave an unamused chuckle. “Ah, depends on the secret. Okay, I’ll play. Have you ever turned in one of your clients or reported anything that was told to you in a session?”

  Something in the way he asked the question made it seem like it was wrong that I’d never broken a client’s confidence. “No,” I said carefully.

  “Have any ever confessed to a crime?”

  I hesitated. Yes, of course they had. That was why a lot of them were clients. To sort out guilt and regret and learn from their pasts and how to prevent future violence from occurring. “Yes,” I said flatly.

  “Have any of them told you about a future crime they were planning?”

  On this one, I stayed silent. I wasn’t the one on trial here. I didn’t have to answer to him. I had doctor-patient confidentiality on my side and—if you pretended that John Abbott didn’t exist—I had a spotless track record in deciding which confidences to keep.

  A spotless track record, assuming your clients tell you everything, a little voice inside my head whispered, and it was the same one that kept me awake on the bad nights. The truth of the matter was, I didn’t know everything my clients did. I knew what they told me. They shared a lot, but they kept secrets from me, too. Did Louis really stop beating his wife? I wouldn’t know. Did Carlos still kill stray animals? Had he ever hurt a person?

  All I knew was what they chose to tell me. That was it.

  Robert rested his weight against the far wall, giving me plenty of room. “You got quiet all of a sudden, Doc.”

  I reached out and pressed the “3” button, grateful when the doors immediately opened. Stepping out into the hall, I plowed forward, hoping I was heading in the right direction.

  “It’s this direction,” Robert called out.

  Of course it was. I pulled a tight 180 and forced a breezy smile. “Please, lead the way.”

  He studied me for a moment, then started down the hall. Shaking his head, he mumbled something under his breath.

  I didn’t ask him to speak up. Right then, I didn’t really want to know what he had to say.

  Randall Thompson sat in a folding chair in the center of a glassed-in room. We were led to the adjacent room, and I frowned as the door was shut behind us. “Why aren’t we in with him?” I’d done this before, multiple times, and even with violent offenders, I was always in the same room as them.

  “Safety,” Robert said.

  The guard pulled aside a curtain, and we were exposed to the man through a large window of glass. The older man seemed half-asleep, his wrists and ankles both secured by handcuffs, the latter of which were linked through a ring on the floor. “I think we’ll be fine.”

  “They aren’t worried about us.” He scratched the back of his neck. “They’re worried about me.”

  “You?” It took a moment to process, then was absurdly obvious. Of course. There was no way they’d allow the parent of a victim in the same room with his alleged killer. “Oh.” I let out an awkward laugh. “Well, let me go in with him.”

  “He can hear and see us,” Robert said. “You can just press the button, and it’ll open up the microphone so you can talk to him.”

  “No.” I knocked on the glass window between us and the guard. “I want to be in the room with him.”

  “But—” Robert’s comment was cut off by the guard, who opened the door.

  “Everything okay?”

  “I’d like to meet with Mr. Thompson in his meeting room.” I pulled out my credentials. “I’m on the approved list.”

  The guard glanced from me to Robert. “Just you?”

  “Yes.”

  Robert stayed silent, but I could feel the irritation radiating from him.

  The guard shrugged. “Okay.”

  It took them five minutes to counsel me on the safety protocol, make sure I didn’t have any weapons or contraband on me, and do a rigorous pat-down. I verified and reverified that I would have privacy inside the room, then I was stepping into the bare area. Randall Thompson turned his head and looked at me.

  “Who are you?” he asked warily.

  “I’m Dr. Gwen Moore.” I walked to the center of the window and turned my back to it, aware that Robert and the guards were watching each move I took. “I’m a psychiatrist who specializes in clients with violent tendencies.”

  “Let me guess. You’re here to decide if I’m crazy?”

  “Actually . . .” I dragged a chair over from the corner, its feet shrieking against the floor in protest. “I’m here to see if Robert Kavin is crazy.”

  It was an intentional move, one designed to pull the focus off him and lighten up the mood. An attention seeker would immediately react in a way that would yank the conversation back to him. Randall found the comment amusing. The change was visible, his shoulders losing some of their defeated slump, his spine stiffening back to life. “Are you serious?”

  “Completely.” I sat down in the chair. “A grieving father defending his son’s killer?” I made a face. “Come on.”

  “I’m not a killer.” His voice was quiet but firm. Resolute, with no attempt at
eye contact and no fidgeting or change in his breathing. Either he was a good liar, or he was telling the truth.

  Could he be telling the truth? I frowned, worried at the implications of that possibility, which would mean that the Bloody Heart Killer was still out there.

  “Okay,” I said simply. “But how does Robert Kavin know that?”

  He glanced at the window. “Is he out there?”

  “Yes. But he can’t hear us. I’m a doctor, so you and I have our own form of confidentiality.”

  He shifted in the chair, uncomfortable with the conversation. The chain between his ankles clanked against the floor hook and seemed to remind him of his position. He sobered, glancing at the floor restraint, then back at me. “I don’t know why he’s defending me, but he’s the only person who believes me. If you’re here for me to throw dirt on him, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “I can respect that.” I leaned forward and rested my forearms on my knees. “Got any questions for me?”

  This surprised him, and it was a method I used a lot with new clients. They were always so on guard, so used to defending and protecting themselves that they normally jumped on the chance to ask me something. And no matter what they asked, I was honest with them. You couldn’t earn trust without giving it.

  “Is that why you’re really here? To ask me about him?” He nodded to the window, and Robert was probably beside himself trying to figure out what we were talking about.

  I tucked a loose piece of hair back into my bun. “I was brought on your legal team to write a psychological profile. Not on you—but to give my impression of what type of person the Bloody Heart Killer is.”

  His nails were bitten to the quick, dried blood around the outside of one cuticle. His beard was overgrown and unkempt, his eyebrows bushy instead of tamed. The overgrown beard could be a product of his time in prison, but the bitten nails were a sign of poor self-control. The eyebrows were indicative of long-term physical negligence. Neither matched the BH Killer, though poor personal hygiene was one of the symptoms of paranoid schizophrenia. So were slow movements, and if Randall Thompson moved less, he’d be asleep.