What is relevant is whether Grayson knew of his victim’s guilt. Did he stalk this man, waiting to catch him in the act. Or was it a delusional state, one in which he determines certain individuals as guilty regardless of the facts.
I rub my forehead at the point of pressure and make a note to research the victim. As the body was never recovered, I wonder how Grayson disposed of him and why. Was it a counter forensic measure to protect himself, or does he destroy all his victims’ remains to further insult them, preventing their loved ones from giving them a proper burial.
The lengths Grayson went to by studding his victim, justifying his purpose, and devising a fitting punishment and then executing it—that takes conviction.
Regardless of his mental state, Grayson’s belief system will be our biggest challenge.
Diving deeper still, why does Grayson harbor this desire to punish so ruthlessly? What drives his purpose? Where does it originate from, and when did he first act on the impulse?
A visual of the scars crossing his scalp flits through my mind.
Torture.
Self-inflicted, or did he suffer some abuse.
I need more than what these generic manila folders provide. Details about his parents, his upbringing, the environment that shaped him. Each factor is crucial for building a clinically precise profile of the psychopathy behind Grayson Pierce Sullivan.
When exploring from a professional distance, it’s straightforward enough to chart his criminal profile, but what about the man beneath?
The accent I catch on occasion that hints to an Irish heritage.
Those piercing, ice-blue eyes that bore down to my marrow.
His distinct, masculine scent that pervades our sessions.
His voice—the way his low, guttural tone makes my thighs squeeze together to offset the ache.
My involuntary reaction to his sex appeal is disturbing in its own right, and yet I still have to factor it into my observations. It’s part of his nature, a combination of his charisma and determination that lures in his prey. He’s a hunter, just as he confessed during our session.
If I’m being honest, I’ve never been more fascinated by a patient.Fascinated. I could laugh. My attraction runs deeper than mere fascination or curiosity, touching on some dark part of myself that yearns for his mercilessness. He’s free in a way that most people only dream—a dark, unforgiving dream where the rules don’t apply.
I look down, 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 concealer off, the tattoo 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 and my string aside and reclaim the remote. Enough for one day, I skip ahead to the six-hour mark of the footage. For four straight hours of brutal torture, Grayson hasn’t said a word. He’s giving me nothing. Where is he—what is he doing while his disturbing punishment plays out?
The man on screen is drenched in sweat. His suit is torn down his legs, stained with blood and other bodily fluids. He has no way to tell time, another cruel torment of its own, and he must either decide that it’s a bluff or death is his only escape—because he reaches for the rope.
I recoil and cover my mouth.
One forceful yank on the rope sets the cables free. The man’s cry crackles through the speakers as he’s impaled on the stool.Another few seconds of excruciating torture stretches out until I hear a sharpsnap.
His head is severed from his body.
“Oh, god…” I hit Rewind and 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 slices through, dismembering his head from his body.
“Christ.”
I eject the disc and place it inside the case to be returned to the case detective. Then I glance at the pile of cases on my desk, all the recorded deaths of Grayson’s victims that Detective Lux sent 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 decided not to bring my work home with me, to try to have a life outside of my career.
Abandoned hobbies now clutter my apartment.
Before I head out, I sprinkle fish food into the tank, then lock up my office. On my walk home, the gruesome scene plays on a loop in my head, my eyes unseeing as I follow the path to my townhouse.
If the New Castle prosecution has similar footage of the killings there, then any testimony I offer won’t matter. After witnessing such a brutal, torturous death—regardless of the victim’s crime—any jury will convict Grayson. His actions are clearly premeditated.
