The Good Lie by A.R. Torre

CHAPTER 31

Robert’s door was ajar, his attention on his monitor, and I rapped my knuckles lightly against the wood, then ventured a step in. “Hey.”

He looked up and raised his eyebrows, surprised. “Hey. Come on in. You could have just called me back.”

“I was in the area. My tailor is three blocks down.”

“Frank and Pat?”

I smiled. “Yeah. Best needles in Los Angeles.”

He gestured to the chairs before his desk. “Please, sit. I just wanted to talk about your profile.”

I took the left seat and glanced over at the goldfish. Still alive. “Sure.”

“It’s great work. Good stuff.”

I sighed. “But?”

He tented his hands before his face and studied me. “It feels like you’re holding something back. What is it?”

Damn attorneys. The good ones were way too good at reading between the lines and finding holes. I had barely had the chance for my new theories to solidify in my mind and wasn’t ready to present or defend them. Not yet, and not before talking to Randall Thompson. I cleared my throat and evaded the question. “I’m holding something back?” I countered. “What are you holding back?”

He ignored the response. “Tell me who this psychological profile fits.”

“I don’t know,” I said exasperatedly. “I haven’t interviewed Randall yet.”

“Fuck Randall.”

The harsh verb caused me to flinch.

“Who else?” He stared me down as if I were the one on the stand. “Does it fit any of your clients?”

“Is that why you hired me? For access to my clients?”

“Answer the question, Gwen.”

“No,” I sputtered. “This profile isn’t like any of my clients.” I said it without going through my roster, because SCREW HIM. It wouldn’t matter if one of my clients was an identical match to this profile. I paused. I couldn’t say in good faith that I wouldn’t tell someone, because I would. But I’d go to the police. I’d tell Detective Saxe, not this prick. “You know what?” I rose from my seat and snatched my purse off the floor. “I’m done here. I don’t have time to play games.”

“He killed my son.”

And just like that, with those four cracked words, my anger deflated. He was allowed to play games. He was allowed to get dirty. Someone had stolen his son, raped him of his innocence, dry drowned him, then dropped his body in a drainage ditch behind a recycling plant. Who was I to be mad at him for something, anything, that he did in an attempt to catch his son’s killer?

“What aren’t you telling me?” he asked tightly.

I turned back to face him. “It’s just a theory,” I managed.

“About the killer?”

I gripped the top of the leather chair. “Yes.”

“Tell me.”

I sighed. “It’s not confirmed, and needs some research. A private investigator would help. And I need to speak with Randall. Multiple times, if possible. I could share my ideas with you now, but it’ll only be a distraction. What’s in my report is more solid. Much more solid.”

I met his eyes, and the pain in them was raw and flaring. It’d only been nine months since he had buried his son. Too soon.

“It could be wrong,” I pointed out quietly.

“Just tell me,” he bit out.

“There are contrasting actions on the part of the killer. He hurts them and then puts salve on their wounds. Tortures them but feeds them well. His actions show dramatic swings in his compassion levels. Some actions are almost loving, then you have the barbaric act of removing their genitalia.”

I inhaled, prepared for ridicule the moment my next words came out. “It’s possible that the swings are consistent with someone with either paranoid schizophrenia or dissociative identity disorder.”

Robert looked down at the printed profile before him and let out a quiet snort. It wasn’t quite a laugh, but it wasn’t the intelligent reception of the idea that I was hoping for.

“Like I said,” I told him stiffly, “it’s not something I could stand by in court.”

“But you believe it. If your child was the one who had died, you would pursue this path of thinking?” He looked back up at me.

No. It was too risky. I swallowed. “I’d keep it in the back of my mind, but I wouldn’t commit to it.”

He held his stare on me for a long time, and it was the sort of look you put on a Where’s Waldo board. An intent focus, looking for the one piece that doesn’t match the rest. I shifted, uncomfortable under the scrutiny.

“What?” I finally asked.

“I’m just trying to figure out if you’re really smart or really dumb.”

“That’s funny,” I said dryly. “I spend most of my time trying to figure out if you’ve lost your mind or can somehow see the future.”

He chuckled. “Okay, let’s talk in arguable ideas for a moment.” He tapped the top of a stack of pages, and I glanced at it, recognizing the cover page of my profile. “You’ve given me a potential psychological picture of the killer.” He shook his head. “I’m going to ignore the possibility of a psychological disorder for now. Let’s assume he’s a single male, likely sexually abused or seduced by a popular teenage peer when he was young. Highly organized, control freak, intelligent, and analytical.”

“Yes.”

“So let’s go.” He scooped up a small ring of keys from his desk. “Let’s see if Randall fits the bill.”

I glanced at my watch. “Right now? I have an appointment on Wednesday to meet with him.” It seemed reckless to head to the jail without planning and emotional preparation, especially given my new potential diagnoses. This was big, the biggest moment of my career. What if I asked the wrong question? What if he said something historic and I wasn’t prepared?

“Why not? You can go Wednesday, also.” He held open his office door, his brows rising in question. “I thought talking to killers was what you did.”

“I thought he wasn’t a killer,” I countered.

A grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. “Well, let’s find out.”