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He is a hopeless case.
5
Psychopathy
London
I adjust the video recorder, centering the frame on Grayson’s face. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
When he says nothing, I turn around and move out of the view. “We’re going to try something different,” I say. “I’m not going to ask questions. I just want you to talk about whatever’s on your mind.”
He runs his palms over the top of his head. His hair has started to grow out. I put in an order to the corrections officers not to shave his head until he’s released from therapy. I want to see if hiding his scars has any effect on his overall demeanor and reactions to me.
So far, he hasn’t revealed the source of his scars, or whether or not they appear anywhere else on his body. Judging by the long-sleeved thermals he chooses to wear beneath his jumpsuit despite the unseasonably warm spring weather, I think it’s a safe assumption that he’s concealing more.
There are many ways to hide scars; both physical and emotional ones. The physical scars are easy enough to disguise. I know this from experience. I’m not as interested in those, but rather his emotional wounds—the ones that likely led to his disorder.
“Do I get my official diagnosis today, doc?” Grayson’s accent is heavy this morning. He sounds weary.
After our first month, I bumped the sessions up to three times a week. The sooner I determine a treatment plan for Grayson, the sooner I can return to my other patients full time. I fear some may start to suffer from my neglect, but it’s best to focus my undivided attention on Grayson rather than risk their mental health while being sidetracked.
With less than two months left until the trial, there’s very little I can offer in way of a defense. I should end the sessions…but I’m greedy. A death row serial killer with media presence makes for an interesting case study, yes—but it’s more than that.
He has answers.
Before the discovery of the videotapes, he was able to blend seamlessly into society. He held a steady job. Fostered romantic relationships. Though none were serious, the guise was that of a normal, functioning male adult. He fed his sadistic needs and compulsions without taking a life. Not by his own hands; he forced his victims to kill for him.
He has answers, and he’s keeping them to himself.
I lace my arms across my chest. After a month of intensive interviews, I’m still reluctant to paste a label on him. “Would giving you a diagnosis make a difference during our sessions?”
He tsks with a shake of his head. “You asked a question.”
I hold my stern expression in place. Lately, I’ve been enjoying my work too much. A sort of ease has settled between us, where this comfortable banter started to develop.
Grayson’s charm is disarming. It’s a part of his ruse. The mecca of his personality. But it’s shallow; only the tip of the iceberg. I want to excavate below that surface. Even if I have to chisel away at the ice little by little.
“I won’t ask another. You can go ahead and start wherever you’d like.”
“What do you most want to know?”
A catch in my breath reveals how badly I want to ask him a particular question. His gaze drags over my body, slow and intense. If I hadn’t been studying him so closely, I might assume it’s a sexual perusal—but this is how Grayson reads people. He gives them a smidgen of what they desire in order to analyze their tells.
He does this so intuitively, I’m in a constant state of awareness trying to control my micro expressions. It’s like a ping pong match as I continually bounce his focus off of me and back onto him.
“How about you start with your career,” I suggest.
He looks disinterested in my choice of topic, but I only need him to relax into the conversation. This session’s purpose is about recording his facial expressions. I want a base comparison for his comfort level and emotional cues. As we dive deeper into his psyche, I’ll need to be able to read him as easily as he reads me.
His chains clatter against the hardwood floor as he eases into the chair. “I worked with my hands,” he states simply.
I have to restrain myself from asking him to elaborate on that point.
His lips quirk into a knowing grin. Grayson doesn’t smile; he leers. I’m sure in the outside world where his charm is a weapon, his smile can melt the panties right off a woman. I’ve seen a dimple pop along his cheek on the occasions I catch him off guard, and I can imagine what a full, hundred-watt smile from Grayson looks like. I believe panty-melting is the term most women use.
His eyes travel over my body again and, this time, I feel their intrusion. I meticulously selected a tight pencil skirt that accentuates my curves. My blouse is unbuttoned down to the swell of my breasts. I stood at the door to my closet for a long time, thinking about which outfit would distract Grayson.
This is strictly a psychological tactic; to beguile him in the hopes that he’ll reveal more during today’s session. And yet, it doesn’t stop the heat from gathering between my thighs as his gaze hungrily devours me.
