“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.”
CHAPTER 32
“You don’t seem nervous.” Robert emptied out his pockets into a small bowl held out by the security guard.
“I’m not nervous. A little excited.”
He chuckled. “Excited . . . that’s an interesting emotion to have.”
We moved through the metal detectors, then waited for our items to pass through the conveyor belt. I looked down. “Cute socks.” They were a gray argyle with small flamingos printed across them.
He moved his toes in response. “Cute polish. Would you call that magenta?”
“I was thinking plum.”
He grabbed my heels off the belt and passed them to me. We sat in the metal folding chairs against the wall and put our shoes back on. I glanced at the security guards, who were laughing at something. “How often have you visited him?”
“Randall? Every other day.”
“Really?” I stood and waited for him to finish tying his shoes. “That seems like a lot. You have that much to talk about?”
“Not really. Most of them are more of a pep-talk visit.” He stood and retucked the back of his shirt in. “He’s not doing too well.”
“Does anyone do well in prison?” I asked.
His hand gently rested on the small of my back as he guided me to the left hall. “I’m worried about him. I’ll be curious what you think about his mental fortitude after talking to him.”
“He’s still maintaining his innocence?”
He sighed. “Yes.” He pressed an elevator call button, and we paused, waiting.
I glanced at a camera that pointed down at us. “You know it’s weird, right? That you’re defending a man who is on trial for murdering your son?”
We stepped into the elevator.
“I wouldn’t defend him if I thought he was guilty.”
“Have you defended guilty people before?”
“Sure.” He selected the third floor. “But I wouldn’t in this situation, for obvious reasons.”
“So, you’re willing to overlook morality, unless it involves your family.”
He let out an irritated huff. “I wouldn’t put it that way.” He turned his gaze to me. “But sure, my moral compass can be off at times. Same as yours.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “In what way is mine off?”
“Well, I defend the guilty. You protect them.” The elevator doors opened, and I waited for him to get out. He didn’t.
I followed his lead and stayed in place. “How do I protect the guilty?”
His face hardened. “Pop quiz, Dr. Gwen. What do you do when a patient confesses their secrets to you?”
I paused, and the elevator doors closed, isolating us in the small space. “Depends on the secret.”
He gave an unamused chuckle. “Ah, depends on the secret. Okay, I’ll play. Have you ever turned in one of your clients or reported anything that was told to you in a session?”
Something in the way he asked the question made it seem like it was wrong that I’d never broken a client’s confidence. “No,” I said carefully.
“Have any ever confessed to a crime?”
I hesitated. Yes, of course they had. That was why a lot of them were clients. To sort out guilt and regret and learn from their pasts and how to prevent future violence from occurring. “Yes,” I said flatly.
“Have any of them told you about a future crime they were planning?”
On this one, I stayed silent. I wasn’t the one on trial here. I didn’t have to answer to him. I had doctor-patient confidentiality on my side and—if you pretended that John Abbott didn’t exist—I had a spotless track record in deciding which confidences to keep.
A spotless track record, assuming your clients tell you everything, a little voice inside my head whispered, and it was the same one that kept me awake on the bad nights. The truth of the matter was, I didn’t know everything my clients did. I knew what they told me. They shared a lot, but they kept secrets from me, too. Did Louis really stop beating his wife? I wouldn’t know. Did Carlos still kill stray animals? Had he ever hurt a person?
All I knew was what they chose to tell me. That was it.
Robert rested his weight against the far wall, giving me plenty of room. “You got quiet all of a sudden, Doc.”
I reached out and pressed the “3” button, grateful when the doors immediately opened. Stepping out into the hall, I plowed forward, hoping I was heading in the right direction.
“It’s this direction,” Robert called out.
Of course it was. I pulled a tight 180 and forced a breezy smile. “Please, lead the way.”
He studied me for a moment, then started down the hall. Shaking his head, he mumbled something under his breath.
I didn’t ask him to speak up. Right then, I didn’t really want to know what he had to say.
Randall Thompson sat in a folding chair in the center of a glassed-in room. We were led to the adjacent room, and I frowned as the door was shut behind us. “Why aren’t we in with him?” I’d done this before, multiple times, and even with violent offenders, I was always in the same room as them.