A chill touches my skin, and I release the clip holding myhair, letting the strands fall loose around my neck. I’ve replayed the memory of my last session with Grayson too many times now, analyzing the details, dissecting every sensation, every emotion he stirred. The yearning he awakened within me.
And I’m afraid that, with each recollection, I’m altering what actually happened, distorting the moment into something else entirely.
Our minds are so powerful, capable of assigning connections and emotions to a single moment, transforming something insignificant into something meaningful and passionate. When from an outside perspective, a colleague might simply conclude that countertransference is clouding my judgment, interfering with my ability to maintain a professional relationship with my patient.
I gave in to Grayson’s desires, and you can never give your patient everything they want, even if those desires reflect your own. No, scratch that.Especiallywhen their desires reflect your own.
It’s not just unethical, it’s dangerous, to both patient and doctor.
Yet the feel of his rough hands on my skin…
I close my eyes, just for a moment, allowing the memory to claim me one final time before I bury it. Inhaling in a deep, cleansing breath of the garden air, I open my eyes and lift my gaze to and darkening evening sky, where thunderclouds gather.
The birds have gone silent. The sudden stillness of the aviary prickles my senses with awareness, and I realize I’m not alone.
I turn around. “Are you following me, officer…?”
Wearing a black trench coat over a cheap suit, the slightly overweight man is easy to mark as law enforcement. Being raised by the town sheriff has given me plenty of experience spotting cops.
The smirk tugging at his mouth confirms my suspicion. “Foster. Detective Foster,” he introduces himself. “Sorry if Istartled you, I was just enjoying the scenery here. Figured we could talk once we were alone.”
I vaguely recall Lacy mentioning a detective by that name. Wrapping my arms around my midsection, I glance behind him. “The aviary is closing soon,” I say as I start toward the exit. “We can talk at my office, during business hours.”
“I’ve tried, Dr. Noble. You’re a difficult woman to get in touch with.” As I try to pass him, he thrusts a manila folder toward me. “You need to see this.”
Despite my understanding of the mind’s tricks, curiosity remains a powerful tool. The detective clearly knows this.
I take the folder.
“You’re not the first shrink he’s abused,” he says.
I narrow my eyes at his word choice before parting the folder. As I glance down, the image inside steals my breath. I mask my features, not allowing my disgust to register on my face as I flip to the next page and scan the victim’s information.
“Dr. Mary Jenkins,” I say aloud, trying to place why that name sounds familiar.
“She was a neurologist at Hopkins,” Foster says. “She was also accused of unethical practices on her patients,” he continues, filling in the blanks for me, “but never prosecuted.”
My stomach pitches as I recall the details.Unethical practicesis far too weak of a term for the cruelties she inflicted on her patients; the neurologist who resurrected the barbaric practice of lobotomy.
The photographs inside the file capture the gruesomeness the procedure. Mary’s lifeless eyes stare off vacantly, clouded, pupils dilated. Puncture wounds dot the inner corner of her lids, the evidence she was a victim of her own morbid practice.
Lobotomized to death.
I look up at the detective as a thought occurs. “Where was the body recovered? This doesn’t look like a disposal site.”
Foster’s brow furrows. “I show you pictures of a tortured and murdered doctor and that’s what you want to know?”
I snap the folder closed. “I assume you’ve come a long way to show me this, so you’ve been anticipating my reaction. I’m sorry to disappoint you.” As there were no lobotomy victims found in connection to Grayson in Maine, the detective has to be here on a mission from the prosecution in Delaware. “Otherwise, you’d have just simply emailed me.” I hand him back the folder. “You’re here to convince me not to take the stand in New Castle.”
He squares his shoulders. “I’ve read up on you, Dr. Noble. I know how you work. I know that if you go before that jury and spew some psychobabble about trauma and other bullshit, then that monster could skate out of the death penalty.”
I arch an eyebrow from behind my glasses. I’m sure the detective is well aware that witness tampering is a crime. “I find it ironic how officers of the law tend to be the ones who most often disregard it.”
He grunts, a humorless sound. “To answer your question—” he digs out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket “—Sullivan didn’t always dispose of his victims. Dr. Jenkins was discovered at the scene. He’s obviously become more cautious, perfecting his methods since then.”
I angle my head away as he lights up and exhales a stream of smoke. “I would say that Mr. Sullivan stopped perfecting his methods a year ago when he was incarcerated. That is, if the actual perpetrator was indeed caught.” I hold up the file. “Do you have any evidence tying him to this murder?”
Grayson has admitted the killings to me. Though our sessions are confidential, I won’t go on trial declaring his innocence. I just enjoy watching the way the detective’s eye tics at the thought.
