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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.
