“Safety,” Robert said.
The guard pulled aside a curtain, and we were exposed to the man through a large window of glass. The older man seemed half-asleep, his wrists and ankles both secured by handcuffs, the latter of which were linked through a ring on the floor. “I think we’ll be fine.”
“They aren’t worried about us.” He scratched the back of his neck. “They’re worried about me.”
“You?” It took a moment to process, then was absurdly obvious. Of course. There was no way they’d allow the parent of a victim in the same room with his alleged killer. “Oh.” I let out an awkward laugh. “Well, let me go in with him.”
“He can hear and see us,” Robert said. “You can just press the button, and it’ll open up the microphone so you can talk to him.”
“No.” I knocked on the glass window between us and the guard. “I want to be in the room with him.”
“But—” Robert’s comment was cut off by the guard, who opened the door.
“Everything okay?”
“I’d like to meet with Mr. Thompson in his meeting room.” I pulled out my credentials. “I’m on the approved list.”
The guard glanced from me to Robert. “Just you?”
“Yes.”
Robert stayed silent, but I could feel the irritation radiating from him.
The guard shrugged. “Okay.”
It took them five minutes to counsel me on the safety protocol, make sure I didn’t have any weapons or contraband on me, and do a rigorous pat-down. I verified and reverified that I would have privacy inside the room, then I was stepping into the bare area. Randall Thompson turned his head and looked at me.
“Who are you?” he asked warily.
“I’m Dr. Gwen Moore.” I walked to the center of the window and turned my back to it, aware that Robert and the guards were watching each move I took. “I’m a psychiatrist who specializes in clients with violent tendencies.”
“Let me guess. You’re here to decide if I’m crazy?”
“Actually . . .” I dragged a chair over from the corner, its feet shrieking against the floor in protest. “I’m here to see if Robert Kavin is crazy.”
It was an intentional move, one designed to pull the focus off him and lighten up the mood. An attention seeker would immediately react in a way that would yank the conversation back to him. Randall found the comment amusing. The change was visible, his shoulders losing some of their defeated slump, his spine stiffening back to life. “Are you serious?”
“Completely.” I sat down in the chair. “A grieving father defending his son’s killer?” I made a face. “Come on.”
“I’m not a killer.” His voice was quiet but firm. Resolute, with no attempt at eye contact and no fidgeting or change in his breathing. Either he was a good liar, or he was telling the truth.
Could he be telling the truth? I frowned, worried at the implications of that possibility, which would mean that the Bloody Heart Killer was still out there.
“Okay,” I said simply. “But how does Robert Kavin know that?”
He glanced at the window. “Is he out there?”
“Yes. But he can’t hear us. I’m a doctor, so you and I have our own form of confidentiality.”
He shifted in the chair, uncomfortable with the conversation. The chain between his ankles clanked against the floor hook and seemed to remind him of his position. He sobered, glancing at the floor restraint, then back at me. “I don’t know why he’s defending me, but he’s the only person who believes me. If you’re here for me to throw dirt on him, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
“I can respect that.” I leaned forward and rested my forearms on my knees. “Got any questions for me?”
This surprised him, and it was a method I used a lot with new clients. They were always so on guard, so used to defending and protecting themselves that they normally jumped on the chance to ask me something. And no matter what they asked, I was honest with them. You couldn’t earn trust without giving it.
“Is that why you’re really here? To ask me about him?” He nodded to the window, and Robert was probably beside himself trying to figure out what we were talking about.
I tucked a loose piece of hair back into my bun. “I was brought on your legal team to write a psychological profile. Not on you—but to give my impression of what type of person the Bloody Heart Killer is.”
His nails were bitten to the quick, dried blood around the outside of one cuticle. His beard was overgrown and unkempt, his eyebrows bushy instead of tamed. The overgrown beard could be a product of his time in prison, but the bitten nails were a sign of poor self-control. The eyebrows were indicative of long-term physical negligence. Neither matched the BH Killer, though poor personal hygiene was one of the symptoms of paranoid schizophrenia. So were slow movements, and if Randall Thompson moved less, he’d be asleep.
I cleared my throat. “I created a psychological profile and need to compare you to that profile and see if it’s a match. That’s why I’m here, and why I was hired by Robert. Who, by the way, seems convinced of your innocence.” I stared at him until he lifted his eyes and met mine. “How’d he end up as your attorney?”
“He showed up shortly after I was arrested and offered to represent me.” He cleared his throat. “I’m not exactly in a position to be choosy.”
No, he wasn’t. After sending my profile to Robert, I had caught up on the television reports and the news articles on Randall. The media had done an excellent job of dissecting and documenting his unimpressive life. He lived in a run-down home that had belonged to his parents, earned a menial wage from teaching, and was a strip-mall Santa each holiday season. He kept the beard and belly year-round and had the pallor of someone who rarely saw sunlight.
I didn’t like it. It didn’t feel right for the BH Killer. I switched tactics. “We know someone in common.” I clipped my pen into the top of my binder. “Luke Attens.” I watched him closely, waiting for a reaction to the mention.
He stared at me blankly, and unless this guy grew a personality when he drank coffee, I didn’t know how he’d ever earned a nomination for Teacher of the Year.
“Luke Attens,” I repeated. “He was a student of yours.”
“Oh.” He nodded, but there was nothing there. “Okay. How long ago?”
“I’m not sure exactly. Probably ten years ago.”
He lifted his shoulders in a half shrug. “Lots of kids come through my classroom. Two hundred a year. It’s hard to keep track of them all.”
I thought of Luke, of the raw rage trembling through his features, and how he would react if he knew that Randall Thompson didn’t remember him.
I took a risk and lied, filling in the blanks that Luke Attens had given me and hoping it would goad Randall Thompson into revealing something. “He says that you acted inappropriately toward him. Sexually.”
His features immediately shuttered, a door closing in my face. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Maybe you don’t remember it,” I suggested.
He looked me right in the eye, and it was the most energy he’d given me so far. “I’m not a fag,” he said emphatically, and the corner of his lip lifted in a sneer.