by Trisha Wolfe
Her hand inches toward her pocket, but then she rests it on the armrest, instead. “Do you see yourself as a god? Granting your victims redemption?”
She can do better than this. She is better than this tired psychobabble. “No, I see myself as a hunter. They’re not victims; they’re predators stalking the woods in search of prey. If they fall into the hunter’s trap, then they were in a place they never should have been.”
She wets her lips. Her tongue peeks out to tease me. One of her sins: seduction.
“This room is designed like a trap,” I continue. “You lure the mentally ill in with promises of recovery and freedom. Maybe not physical freedom, but freedom from their demons. Once they’re shackled—” I tug at my restraint “—you feast on their horror stories in the name of psychology. You feed off them, sating your own twisted curiosities. And then you publish your papers on the poor damned souls that never had a chance. You reap glory off the murderers and from the victims themselves.”
Her sigh is heavy and breathy. It slides over my skin, making the distance between us unbearable. “Have you always been this judgmental?”
This line of questioning is getting us nowhere. “No, but I’ve always liked puzzles.”
“Puzzles,” she repeats. “Why is that?”
A memory from my childhood flickers across my vision, unbidden. I tamp it down. “I like the mechanics, the way each piece has a purpose, a place. The way it simply belongs.”
London uncrosses her legs and straightens her back, sitting taller in the chair. She’s so petite, she could curl up in it. “Where do you feel you belong, Grayson?”
Oh, if she only knew how loaded that question is. But it’s not my purpose for why I’m here; this isn’t about my story. This is about her. Where she fits into the puzzle. It’s time we start peeling back her layers.
I hold her gaze, unblinking. “With you, Dr. Noble. I belong right here with you.”
A tense battle of wills arcs between us, where neither one is willing to be the first to look away.
If I come on too strong, if she becomes too aware, then she could request my transfer. I decide it’s better not to chance it by provoking her and avert my eyes to the chain resting against my leg.
“I refused your interview a year ago,” I say, finally giving her the answer to her question during our first session, “because I didn’t trust you.” I look up.
Her dark eyebrows arch. “And you trust me now?”
Dr. London Noble has a reputation of getting convicted murderers a lighter or reduced sentence. She humanizes monsters. She tames the untamable. She’s the answer to every serial killer on death row—their angel of mercy.
But beneath that façade, a devil lurks.
It’s taken me months to accept that she was put in my path for a reason. At first, I refused any connection to her. We couldn’t be farther apart on the spectrum—and yet, her name kept coming to me, a chant my own damned soul recognized as kindred.
I lean forward, getting as close to her as my restraints allow. “I trust in the inevitable.”
My response unnerves her. The delicate column of her throat jumps as she maintains an unaffected expression. “At some point, all your victims’ fates were inevitable to you. Do you view me as a victim? Have I committed some sin that I’m unaware of?”
Her twisty words bring a real smile to my face. Is she aware? Or is the ruse a part of her seduction? I don’t have the answer. Not yet. I need all the pieces of her puzzle first.
All I know for sure is that we have a story.
Ours is not a love story—we’re too volatile, too explosive for monotony. No, our story comes with a warning.
Beware.
“You’re twisting things,” I say. “But you’re not wrong. All sinners are first victims. Everyone who lashes out to harm, has suffered harm themselves.” I run my hands over my thighs, staring at the gleaming metal of my cuffs. “It’s a simple yin yang; dark and light feeding each side and devouring. A snake eating it’s own tail. A vicious cycle.”
London doesn’t use a notepad to write down our sessions. She records them, watches them played back to her. She’s a watcher. A voyeur. She uses the here and now to process my words. Silence builds between us as she takes her time sorting my voiced thoughts.
“You feel you’re powerless against the cycle?”
My gaze snaps to hers. My hands itch to tear those glasses from her face so I can stare into her eyes unobstructed. “None of us are powerless. Choice is the most powerful thing in this world. Everyone has a choice.”
She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, that small action igniting my skin. I curl my hands into fists as I await her next question.
“That’s a powerful statement in itself,” she says, surprising me. “Yet if you render your victims helpless, forced to make only the choices you provide them, then they’re not truly free to choose, are they?”
I unclench my hands. My fingers splay across my lap. I’ve wiggled an inch beneath her skin. I can see it in the way she touches her finger, anxious for her little string. “Much like our sessions,” I say.
Her eyebrows knit together. “How do you mean?”
I lift my arms and rattle the chains. “If we were on even ground, able to voice our thoughts truthfully, then my answers might be different.” I eye her closely. “And your questions, I bet, would be much different.”
She’s so still, if I blink, I could miss the slight tremor of her hands. I keep my gaze trained on her face. We are each other’s inevitability—a certainty that no amount of chains and bars and guards will prevent.
She breaks the connection first this time and looks at the wall clock. “That’s enough for today.”
Disappointment pulls at my shoulders. Where is the combative psychologist? Where is her determination to make me see the world her way? Doctor Noble is a narcissist. I’ve spent the past year studying her and devising my strategy for a woman I have yet to meet.
I release the mounting anger with a forceful exhale. Tomorrow.
We have an infinity of tomorrows.
4
Insight
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 speak
er 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 f
rom 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.
5
Psychopathy
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.