her own home. Saturday night, and her parents had gone out to a benefit dinner for the local Republican candidate for the Senate race. The girl had opened the front door without a second thought as soon as she saw the Highway Patrol uniform. It had been laughably easy to knock her to the floor with a single blow to the face. Hog-tied, she’d spent the night in the trunk while he drove the interstate, fueled by adrenaline and nicotine.
By mid-morning, he’d been home. Surrounded by dense woodland, away from the possibility of prying eyes, he’d carried her indoors and gotten down to making her his slave. Shackled to a bench in his workroom, La Quinta had learned that pain takes many shapes and forms. The delayed sting of the razor cut. The blossoming of a burn from a smart to a roar of pain that spread inwards as the smell of barbecued flesh drifted outwards. The searing agony of flesh forced to accommodate more than it has room for. The sickening pain of a broken bone never allowed time to knit. The dull distress of a blow strategically aimed at the organs nestling beneath the skin. It took her days to die.
He’d enjoyed every waking moment.
Then he’d taken her back home. Not all the way home, of course. That would have been reckless. He drove her as far as the first bend over the county line on a quiet back road, then left her body sprawled across the blacktop for the next passing driver to crush beneath his unsuspecting wheels.
La Quinta had made them sit up and pay attention at last. He’d read enough to know what would have happened next. An urgent request to the Feebies, then a computerized search of the country to find matches. As soon as they realized he meant business, the machine would have kicked in. True to his prediction, the suits had arrived. And then, finally, she had flown in to face a flurry of cameras at the airport.
Now at last, the game was on.
Jay Schumann was in town. Dr Jay Schumann, the forensic psychologist who had turned her back on a lucrative private practice to become the FBI’s celebrity mindhunter. Jay Schumann, who had single-handedly restored the tarnished image of psychological profiling with a string of spectacular successes. Jay Schumann with those intense dark eyes that contrasted so sharply with her bright blonde hair, a photo opportunity who gave the suits a human face. Jay Schumann, whose glamor had persuaded her bosses that they should use her skills on the media as well as on the criminals.
In the twenty years since she’d so heedlessly and needlessly humiliated him on the night of the senior prom, they’d both traveled a long way from the small New England town. But he had never forgotten nor forgiven the whiplash of her scorn that had branded him and distorted his life forever.
The first five had been his apprenticeship. The next fifteen would perfect his art. One for every wasted year. And then, only then, would he allow Jay Schumann to come face to face with her personal and professional nemesis.
There was a long way to go before then. But now Jay Schumann was on the case. At last the revenge proper could begin.
Fiona gave a final glance at her notes then looked out across the half-empty lecture theatre. ‘To sum up. That dreadful old misogynist St Paul says, “When I was a child, I spake as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things.” As do most of us.
‘But the sociopath is different. Most of us come to comprehend that we are not the centre of the universe, and that other people can share centre stage in the narrative of our lives. The sociopathic personality never makes that adjustment. In his limited world view, others exist at a less than human level. Their only valuable function is to meet the needs and satisfy the desires of the sociopath himself.’ She gave a sly grin. ‘That’s why they make such good captains of industry.’ Depressingly few answering smiles, she thought ruefully. Probably because half of them had their hearts already set on such a career. So serious, the modern student.
‘So if we are to develop any sort of empathetic understanding of the criminal psychopath,’ Fiona continued, ‘we must learn to step back in time. I leave you with this thought, also from that fascinating psychological text, the Bible. “Except ye become as little children, ye shall not enter the kingdom of heaven.” Or, as we so often find in our line of work, the kingdom of hell.’ She gave a brief, courteous nod. ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Same time, next week.’
Head down, Fiona gathered her papers together as the students shuffled out, their muted mumblings drifting back towards her. She wondered how much she disappointed them. She was certain a significant proportion of them signed up for her courses on the Criminal Mind because their imaginations had been fired by The Silence of the Lambs. Expecting some Jodie Foster fuelled by instinct and intuition, instead they were confronted with seminars on statistics and required to produce essays driven by intellectual rigour. The dropout rate disturbed her departmental administrator, but not Fiona. She’d never been interested in woolly minds.
Some sixth sense made her look up and an unself-conscious smile spread across her face as she took in Kit’s burly frame strolling down the aisle between the ranks of seats. He returned her smile and leaned his forearms on the edge of the platform while she finished tidying her lecture notes into her briefcase. ‘Nice close,’ he said. ‘I like the image of the sociopathic killer as Peter Pan. The boy who never grew up.’
‘Now, that’s an interesting comparison. With a bit of work, I could make something of that. Captain Hook and the Lost Boys. Wendy as mother figure…Thanks, Kit, I think I’ll steal that. So, to what do I owe this pleasure?’ Fiona asked, descending to his level and brushing his cheek with a kiss.
‘I’ve been going like a train today, and I ran out of steam about an hour ago. And I remembered that there’s a launch party for Adam Chester’s new book at Crime in Store at six. I thought I’d swing by on the off-chance that you fancied joining me there.’ Kit fell into step beside her.
‘You haven’t forgotten we’re having dinner at Steve’s tonight?’ Fiona asked.
‘We’re not due there till eight. I thought we could swag a few glasses of publisher’s plonk on the way. Show my face and remind everybody that I’m still a contender. Up to you, love. If you’ve got too much on, I’ll meet you at Steve’s later.’ Kit put his arm round her waist and gave her a quick squeeze before they emerged in the atrium of the psychology faculty building.
Fiona considered for a moment. Nothing more pressing than marking essays should lie in store for her, and those could wait until morning. ‘Let me check my office, and if nothing urgent’s come up in the last hour, you’re on.’
The mystery bookshop was crowded with a mixture of authors, collectors and fans of Adam Chester’s complex and beautifully written 1950s police procedural novels. For this, the tenth in the series, his publishers had reprinted all his previous paperbacks with new jackets, the misty photographs evoking the dark and brooding ambience of the books. His editor and publicist stood proudly beside a display of the covers, flashing encouraging smiles at the potential buyers.
As soon as he walked in the door, Kit was immediately surrounded by an enthusiastic trio of women who turned up at every crime fiction event in the capital and who apparently adored him above all other writers. Fiona left him to it, edging through the crowd and helping herself to a glass of white wine. Kit was a professional; he’d give the women enough of his time to reinforce their view of him as approachable and amusing before disentangling himself and settling in for a good gossip
