The high arch of my eyebrows shuts down his pitch. That’s a convenience for him, not me, and he knows damn well that’s not happening.
My first year out of college, I spent every weekday locked inside a barred room with prisoners, and I still have nightmares. The clang of cell doors, the pound of feet and chains against concrete floors. The stench of urine and feces—sometimes being hurled at me. The catcalls. The riots.
Iron bars haunt me.
If Warden Marks wants to continue my contract with the facility, then sessions will continue to be conducted under my terms.
With a dismissive wave of his hand, Marks leaves. Officer Micheals gives me a curt nod before he and the other guard exit the therapy room behind the warden. A few seconds later, the sound of my office door latching closed echos around us. The hum of the tank fills the sudden, stark silence.
Without looking up, I open the file on my lap and scan the details. “Inmate number six-one-four. Grayson Pierce Sullivan. What do you like to go by?”
The silence stretches, forcing me to glance up. He’s no longer staring at the floor; his intense gaze is trained on me. In the faint lighting, I can’t tell if his eyes are blue or green, only that they’re vivid and framed by a thick fringe of lashes. His short-cropped hair is the standard cut for all inmates, and reveals several white scars along his scalp.
“I’ll need to refer to you by something,” I point out.
The man in front of me refuses to respond, so I use the silence to quickly read over his file. Normally, I’m given at least a week to familiarize myself with a new patient. I like to have a firm grasp of any prior diagnosis, their medical history, and a preliminary treatment plan before our first meeting. It helps the initial assessment go more smoothly.
“Fine.” I slap the file closed and set it on the armrest. “We don’t have to do introductions, but you should know my name is Doctor No?—”
“I know who you are.”
The low baritone of his voice resonates through the room, sending a tremble of frisson across my skin. He falls silent again, those intense eyes unblinking and staring through me with an unwavering confidence.
It’s been a long time since a patient unnerved me.
I adjust my glasses, cross my legs. “Then you’ve had the privilege to learn about me before I could you. This puts you at an advantage, Grayson.”
I choose to address him by his first name, setting myself apart from how the warden and guards refer to him. It doesn’t provoke much of a reaction, but a muscle tightens in his jaw.
“Your file says you’ve been convicted of five murders,” I continue, maintaining careful eye contact. “You’ve served a year of a life sentence.”
He doesn’t deny the murders. I suppose that’s a start, as half of the offenders who make their way to my office are still pleading their cases. Researching the law and harassing attorneys.
“There are no bodies,” Grayson says.
I nod slowly. “So you are holding out hope for an appeal.” Which doesn’t much matter for Maine, since Delaware is the state he should be concerned about.
“Only stating the facts, Dr. Noble.”
My name rolls off his tongue in a smooth cadence, markedby a faint accent. I’m trying to place it when his words register. Five murder convictions, no bodies. A recollection stirs, and I tilt my head.
“Corpus delicti,” I say. “Body of the crime.”
“That’s correct.”
“No victims were found at the scenes, but there was enough blood and evidence to prove the murders had occurred,” I say, recalling the details. “Then, during the investigation, videos were recovered, footage of the murders. The videos were leaked and went viral.”
That’s how one detective linked the evidence to the man who was eventually prosecuted. Camcorders—the older kind—have identifying marks on the videotape. This was used to track down the person who purchased the camera.
“The Angel of Maine killings,” I say, a hint of reverence in my voice.
His nostrils flare. “I thought monikers were frowned on.”
“They are, by law enforcement.” I uncross my legs and link my ankles, settling back into my chair. “But I’m not law enforcement. I think a moniker or nickname gives the public a way to connect to something they can’t understand or condone, yet find fascinating.”
Grayson’s steely gaze tapers. He studies me just as intently as I study him. If the Angel of Maine is really sitting in my therapy room right now, then I finally have the chance to analyze one of the most puzzling psychopathic minds.
His identity was kept hidden from the media during the trial, an attempt to prevent the press from turning him into a vigilante. I tried unsuccessfully for months to get an interview.
