If signs pointed to a killer’s history of personal trauma, which they did . . .
Paranoid schizophrenia—PS—or dissociative identity disorder—DID—were the most likely culprits.
Paranoid schizophrenia was the most common mental disorder diagnosed among any criminal, but especially serial killers. David Berkowitz, Ed Gein, Richard Chase, Jared Lee Loughner . . . Randall Thompson could easily be joining their ranks. The disorder was characterized by delusions, and typically, in a case like this, voices or visions that dictated a person’s actions. An imaginary individual might be orchestrating and ordering the violent actions, and the killer’s true personality is the one caring for and comforting the patient in the aftermath. Or—and more likely—vice versa.
Dissociative identity disorder was commonly known as multiple personality disorder. If accurate, it would mean that the BH Killer was acting in separate personas. Maybe two, maybe more.
I’d had a client with DID before. It was one of psychology’s more complicated diagnoses, and every case was different. Often it was triggered by a severe emotional or physical trauma. Sometimes it could be “cured” by therapy; often it could not. In the more publicized cases, the secondary personalities could be quite violent.
As impossible as it probably was, I needed to talk to Scott Harden. His interactions with the killer would help me understand if it was a clear switch from one personality to another, or a mental communication with a delusion. There was a big difference, one that he should have been able to distinguish, especially after seven weeks as a prisoner.
While PS was practically a given, DID was a big criminological jump to take. If I was wrong, it’d be a huge blow to my credibility and reputation. And once the press caught word of it, the media coverage would flare like a California brush fire in September.
I tapped the pen against the page. Simply put, I didn’t have enough to go on and should keep all this to myself until I knew more.
My interview with Randall was set for Wednesday. In that first impression, I should get at least a general sense of the sort of individual I was dealing with. And Robert’s office had to have private investigators they could hire. DID-affected individuals left clues that an investigator could unearth. Missed appointments. Forgetfulness. Unexplained outbursts.
The elevator dinged, and I glanced through my open office door, my tension easing as a woman and a cleaning cart exited the car and rolled into the reception area.
Luke had been eerily quiet. The police had finally found him, questioned him, and gotten bubkes in answers. According to Luke, he hadn’t taken my wallet or keys. I reported all my cards stolen and wasted my entire Sunday afternoon ordering new IDs, club cards, and a replacement fob for my car. The police had nothing to charge Luke with, so he left. Since then, he hadn’t made any effort to contact me, which should have been reassuring, but it wasn’t. Instead, the silence felt like the pregnant pause in a horror movie, right before the chain saw–wielding villain springs out.
I closed the file and stood, leaning over and gathering each folder into place, then stacking them all in the middle of my desk. Moving my mouse, I disrupted the screen saver, then shut down my computer.
I needed to get home and, for the rest of the evening, try not to think about death.
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.