The Confession

by Tom Lowe

  Brian watched the car pass, its taillights growing dim in the distance. He blew out a breath and said, “I love you, Olivia. It’s gonna be all right.”

  Olivia stared at the vanishing lights. “I love you, too, but what if he comes back?”

  THREE

  Elizabeth Monroe stood in front of a whiteboard in her university classroom and began writing two words … Know thyself. She placed the cap back on the marker and turned to face her class of twenty students. Elizabeth stepped next to the lectern, her inquisitive eyes sweeping across the faces of her students, a slight smile working its way to the corners of her full mouth.

  “Two simple but powerful words,” Elizabeth said, motioning to the whiteboard. “These two words, know thyself, are the bedrock connected to the philosophy of Socrates. It’s an aphorism. He expounded on those two words and added this: An unexamined life is not worth living. This philosophy is where the cornerstone of forensic psychology is laid. What do you think I mean by that?”

  There were murmurs, students shifting in their seats, but no hands raised. After a few seconds, a female student, auburn hair in a ponytail, sitting near the front of the class, slowly lifted her hand.

  “Yes,” Elizabeth said, pointing to her.

  “You told us earlier that an aphorism is a short statement of truth. So, it’d seem that to know thyself means the more you know yourself, the better you’ll be going into a career in forensic psychology.”

  “Yes, that’s certainly a big part of the equation. But what do you think Socrates meant when he wrote that an unexamined life is not worth living?”

  The same girl pursed her lips, looking at the words on the whiteboard. “Is it like to be honest with yourself because, if you lie to yourself about who you really are, what good is that when you’re using psychology to help others. It’s being authentic.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “Absolutely. As a criminal psychologist, you may be tasked with the job of evaluating and determining if an accused murderer is mentally competent to stand trial. Also, you may be asked to listen to attorneys pick a jury. The last thing the defense wants is a jury member who might let his or her prejudices come into the jury room and become a silent but devastating thirteenth juror. It happens.”

  A large-boned student with shaggy blond hair leaned back in his chair and said, “You can be authentic all freakin’ day long, but people are prejudiced. They’re judgmental. It’s just the way it is and always will be.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “That’s one of the areas of the human psyche that makes forensic psychology so fascinating. Sure, we as a human race are judgmental. Let’s look at the root word—judgment. You make hundreds a day—whether to stop at the yellow caution light or run it, hoping you can beat the red light. You decide if you’ll eat one more doughnut, knowing you’ve had more than enough. Judgmental, though, has negative connotations, such as disparaging or disapproving.”

  “And prejudice takes it to the next level,” said the student, a wide grin on his pale face sprouted with blond stubble. “So, you’re saying that learning about ourselves first, before getting deeper into criminal behavior and the profiling and assessment areas, might give us better ways to identify and deal with prejudices? But it’s as much a part of people as their skin.”

  Elizabeth set the marker on the lectern. “Yes, it is. But, when we look at someone’s skin and it’s different from yours, when we hear them speak, and it sounds different from the way you speak … how do we teach ourselves to embrace differences and not allow prejudices to influence us to where the judgmental comparison begins to seep into our perception?”

  No one said anything. Elizabeth nodded. “The first step is what Socrates said, know thyself. You must do this when working with others in forensic psychology—particularly in dealing with really disturbing criminal behavior—because you will be tapped to the deepest and darkest places of the human heart. To better understand the criminal mind … you must know yourself first.”

  A black student wearing a University of Southern Mississippi T-shirt raised her hand. She said, “I work hard to know myself, that way I hope I’m less judgmental toward others. But I’ve had to deal with a few prejudicial people in my life. Not as much as my parents, but I’ve experienced people using the ‘N’ word toward me. It hurts. It’s something white people won’t ever truly know, at least that’s the way it’s been in Mississippi all my life.”

  Elizabeth smiled and said, “No doubt it’s difficult to walk in someone else’s shoes. But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try. Regina, let me ask you this … was the use of the ‘N’ word toward you confined to whites, or was it used against you by blacks as well.”

  The girl took a deep breath, glancing down at her painted, bright red fingernails. She looked up at Elizabeth. “It’s been both, and it hurts just as bad … maybe worse when blacks use the word because it feels more personal.”

  “Of course, it hurts. Hate knows no borders. It crosses the planet, in and out of ethnicities, cultures … even families. And hate is spawned, too often, by its wicked father, evil. This is where you will spend a lot of time in forensic psychology, because it is there where the hate crimes live. Murder. Rape. Incest. It’s a dark place where the worst of the worst produce unspeakable horror. And, unfortunately, in this business, it’s where you’ll have to visit to extract the truth. Therein lies the root of combating evil, finding the source, discovering patterns that most people won’t see, unveiling truth and unearthing reality so police investigators can better do their jobs and juries can better decide the fate of perpetrators.”

  A girl in the center of the class, blonde hair cut short, faded sweatshirt, raised her hand. “What if the bad guys are such good liars, you can’t find the truth?”

  Elizabeth nodded and moved next to the whiteboard. “Sometimes, it will be difficult to dig down into the depths of a sociopath or psychopath’s mind and discover the truth. Psychopaths, in particular, are really good at hiding it and covering their tracks. But there are signs, and I want to share them with you. A psychopath is incredibly good at manipulation and likes to dominate others. They enjoy scheming and thrive on power and control. And, since they lack a conscience, they’ll do anything to get the power and control to which they feel entitled. Fear means nothing to them because rules do not apply, and they are very adept at lying to your face. They easily—like a trained actor, can switch between extreme charm to intense threats. But they’re not acting. And, because they are exceptionally good at reading and mimicking people—remember, they lack feelings, lack empathy—they will know how to push your buttons.”

  The class was quiet, one girl in the front row hugged her arms as if she were suddenly cold. Elizabeth pointed to the whiteboard. “But you can deal with and stop psychopaths, and it begins by knowing yourself. There is no one you’ve spent more time with than you. So, how well do you really know yourself? When you learn to truly know yourself, to get to the foundation of who you are and are not, it’s easier to get to the center of others. By knowing yourself, I don’t mean things like your favorite meals, colors, music preferences, and so on. What I’m talking about are things of much greater consequence to you. Who are you at your core? Who are you really at your core?”

  A student with an unshaved face and sleepy, hound dog eyes said, “For most of us, we’re figuring that out.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “And you do that through life experiences, looking deep inside you. What matters most to you? What makes you thankful to be alive? What feeds your soul … what sucks your spirit dry? As you begin to ask the right questions of yourself, and I have a list of a dozen questions I will give you, it’s then you begin to deeply examine your personal values … your real passions … and your goals set in alignment by those passions. The only barriers you will see are the ones you impose upon yourself. I hope that, by the end of this semester, those personal impositions will be minimized, you’ll be on a much better path to knowing thyself, and it will be more difficult for others to
sway your focus and rock your boat. Any questions?”

  No one raised a hand for a few seconds. Elizabeth glanced up at a clock on the back wall. “We only have a few minutes left. Remember, your essay on criminal behavior and a perpetrator’s history is due next Monday. Always cite your source materials. If applicable, discuss the cause and effect of how the criminal mind is or is not affected and or molded by childhood events—good and bad.”

  There was a murmur in the classroom as students began closing computer screens and reaching for backpacks. A tall student, shouldering his backpack, said, “Is it okay to ask you a personal question?”

  Elizabeth looked over the top of her computer screen. “It depends on what you define as personal. If it’s related to the subject matter we’re discussing in class, I’ll try my best to answer it. What’s your question?”

  The student cleared his throat, his curious classmates watching. “I heard that your daughter was murdered a few years ago. I also heard they never caught the killer. In addition to teaching, you’ve helped police with some pretty deviate investigations.”

  “Yes, I have. I’ve been asked to do mental competency exams and called on as an expert witness in a few murder trials. That’s fairly common knowledge, Daniel. What specific question do you have?”

  “By doing these competency exams and things like that … how do you think you might react if some guy sitting across that table from you in a jail interview room was the killer … the one who murdered your daughter?”

  Elizabeth looked at the whiteboard and then to her students, her eyes shifting back to Daniel. She said, “Knowing myself, I wouldn’t allow a visible reaction. That’s what I mean when I said ‘difficult for others to sway your focus and rock your boat’ … sometimes, it’s not showing any reaction to someone trying to get to you or when a core nerve has been struck. Sure, at gut level, in my heart, I’m fearful of this. A mother’s instinct is to protect her child. I can’t protect Molly anymore. But I can protect the memories she made with me and others. More importantly, I can protect future potential victims. I do that by not giving the killer the satisfaction of seeing me wounded or affected. Because, hypothetically, I now know who he is, and I have the opportunity for retribution, to punish him for Molly’s death.”

  The female student asked, “What if a woman was the killer?”

  Elizabeth inhaled deeply. “I will teach you all a deeper layer of criminal profiling. I know it was a man who killed Molly. And, later in the semester, I will show you why.”

  FOUR

  Olivia Curtis, moonlight on her frightened face, sat in the dark car and made another call. “Angie, it’s me again. We do need somebody to help us with gas. I think we might have been followed. The car has odd-shaped headlights, kinda like the letter L. Call me as soon as you get this, okay?” She turned to Brian and said, “It’s been more than a half hour. Angie always gets back to me immediately.”

  Brian ran his fingers across the steering wheel as if he were playing a piano. He said, “My dad’s not returning my call either, so it looks like hoofing it is in the cards.”

  “Cards? What are you saying?”

  “We can walk it, Oliva. It’s not that far. Maybe a mile.”

  “What if they don’t have a can for the gas?”

  “Almost all of those places have one-gallon cans for sale.”

  Olivia looked around, dappled moonlight oozed through the tree limbs, the moss barely moving in the night air. Brian put his car window down. The hoot of an owl reverberated through the woods, the breeze delivering the scent of rotting wood and damp moss. Olivia shook her head. “I’m not walking on the side of this road a mile. Close the window, Brian.”

  “Come on, Olivia. It’ll be all right.”

  She stared at an approaching car. Her eyes opening wider. “No, it won’t be all right. That car’s back!”

  Brian watched the driver come closer. “Maybe it’s a different car.”

  The driver pulled off the road, parking directly in front of their BMW, the lights glaring. There was no movement. Brian started to open his door. “I’m gonna see what the hell is going on.”

  “No! Don’t go out there. I’m calling 9-1-1.”

  A man stepped from the car, his body in silhouette. He walked to Brian’s side of the car, motioning for him to lower the window. Brian whispered, “He’s not carrying a gun. Maybe he just wants to help.” Before Olivia could say something, Brian lowered his window.

  The man spoke in a low voice. “You folks need some help?”

  Brian grinned. “Thank you. We ran out of gas. First time it’s ever happened.”

  “Want a ride to the gas station?”

  Brian nodded. “That’ll be great. We’ll need to pick up a gas can.”

  “I have a spare in my car.”

  Olivia pushed back in her seat. She tried to get a look at the man’s face. She smiled and said, “I’m so glad you’re in the one percent.”

  He said nothing for a moment. Olivia felt he was staring at her breasts in the low-cut tank shirt. She folded her arms, uncomfortable.

  He leaned closer, his face still in the dark. “One percent?”

  “It’s nothing. Just some data in one of my psychology classes—about how most people aren’t prepared for shit because they think it’ll never happen to them. Like less than one percent carry a spare gas can in their vehicle.”

  He made a subtle move, as if he was reaching for something under his sports coat. “Does your data indicate the number of people carrying spare guns?” He pushed the Beretta barrel onto Brian’s temple. “Stare at my headlights!”

  Brian’s eyes darted from the man to the burning headlights. Olivia hit the record button on her phone. Brian stammered, “What do you want? We don’t have money!”

  “I don’t want your money. I want you to settle a score for me.”

  “What? What do you mean … score?”

  He said nothing for a moment. “One that will expose the evil.’

  Olivia shouted. “Stop! Leave him alone!”

  “Et roborabitur fortitudo eius in hora mortis.” The man paused. “Do you have any idea what I just said?”

  Brian shook his head. “Please … just let us go.” A tear rolled down one cheek.

  Bright white light erupted in the car. The blast was deafening. The bullet traveled through Brian’s skull, blood and brain matter raking across Olivia’s face. She screamed—a primal cry. Akin to the long bleating plea of a lamb being slaughtered. Her phone dropped to the floorboard, the sound of horror captured.

  FIVE

  The next morning, Elizabeth entered an indoor gun range as three men prepared to shoot. The range smelled of burnt gunpowder, smoke, and tarnished brass. She walked by the men, taking her place at the far side of the range. She wore her dark hair pinned up. Elizabeth was the only woman in the range. She unpacked her 9mm Smith & Wesson.

  The men, all middle-aged, had spent no time at the gym. Two of the three unshaven. One man, fleshy, wearing a hunter’s camouflage cap on backwards, aimed his .38, firing three rounds into the paper target fifteen yards away. He studied his accuracy, shaking his head, firing another three rounds, most failing to strike the kill zone.

  The taller of the three, Hispanic, grinned and said, “Reggie, maybe you need to see an eye doctor.”

  The man named Reggie fired back, “Bite me.”

  Elizabeth put on her ear and eye protection. She aimed at the target—stance bent and slightly forward, arms unlocked at the elbows. She fired nine rounds in rapid succession. She removed her plastic glasses and hit the retrieve button, the black paper target—the silhouette of a man, coming to her on the trolley line. The closer it got, the more astonished the men were. They exchanged glances, one man shrugging his shoulders.

  Elizabeth unclamped the target and examined the paper—all nine shots squarely in the area where a human heart would be—one dead center. She reloaded, pausing to read a text message on her phone. Liz – got a bad one. C
all me as soon as you get this –

  The gun range manager, late fifties, with the rugged look of a man who worked outdoors most of his life, walked over to Elizabeth. He smiled, wiping his big hands on a white towel, and said, “I was cleaning a customer’s .12-gauge, but I became a little distracted when I looked through the binoculars as you were firing. I thought you shot a perfect circle with one in the center. Now I see it.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “How have you been, Charlie?”

  “Good. After my years in construction, this day job keeps me outta the sun and doing something I actually like. How are things at the university?”

  “I have excellent classes this semester. All my students really enjoy learning about forensic and criminal psychology. None of them seem entitled, and some, I believe, will go into law enforcement. Engaged students make teaching fun.”

  Charlie nodded. He lifted her target, holding it up to one of the bright lights. “Did you really shoot a perfect circle with the ninth-round dead center, or was it by sheer luck?”

  “I’ll never tell.”

  “Anytime you want to instruct here, I bet Matt would jump at the chance.”

  “Thanks … but teaching three college courses in a semester is enough instructing.” She looked at the target. “Although I learned how to shoot when I was a teen, I never really picked up or carried a gun until my daughter was murdered. I don’t particularly like guns, but I do like how they level the playing field.” She eyed her phone screen. “Speaking of law enforcement, one of my friends on the force just sent a text. I should call him.”

  Charlie set the target down. “Let’s hope it’s nothing that gets you outta your classroom for too long. I better finish oiling the shotgun.” He turned to leave.