Dr. Ian West

I feel reborn. I’m the same man, but I’ve been picked up and dusted off. Buffed and shined. Baptized in the church of Porter.

Melodramatic? Maybe a little. But it’s not just the sex (which was mind-blowing, BTW); it’s having taken the next, frightening step, and not fallen on my ass in epic failure.

I’m a psychologist, if you recall, and I’m well aware that three years is an unhealthy length of time to be celibate after the loss of a partner. If you also recall, I dislike general psychology. Hence why you don’t see me in a big, comfy chair asking neurotics how they feel.

Given that the grieving process is different for everyone, I came to accept the long-er journey for myself. Fuck Kübler-Ross’ five stages. I did it my way! Sung in the Sid Vicious version (not Sinatra). Sarcasm and Netflix kept me company when I wasn’t consumed with work.

Work is an excellent way to avoid.

I’m at the sink in the men’s courthouse lavatory, admiring the healthy color of my skin, the way my gray suit hangs just right today. I wash my hands and smooth the top of my hair down before I leave.

I’m like a giddy kid on his first day of school, except it’s better. It’s the first day of court. A brand new case. Clean slate.

Sort of.

“I’m heading in,” I tell Mia. “Did you get the background check on juror number seven?”

“Charlie got it. Our history teacher doesn’t vote. No trail on him.”

“All right.” I’ll need to evaluate him in person, then. See if I can get a vibe. Juror number seven, Andrew Smith, is our question mark juror. His answers were what we wanted to hear during voir dire, but I’m not sure which way he’s swaying.

The mock jury was skewed because of this one juror. I can’t have that happen during the actual trial.

I push through the courtroom doors, a flutter in my stomach as I look to see where Porter is seated. She’s benched for another week at her firm, but this is a high-profile case. Her firm will still want her to follow it closely.

Only she hasn’t made it yet.

I take my usual seat in the middle of the fifth row and dig out my phone. I type out a short text to her, then stall, thumbs hovering over the screen. That brand new court smell isn’t the only thing working on my nerves.

I finish out the text, keeping it simple: Saved you a spot.

No mushy, lovey dovey shit. Porter knows me better than that. I don’t have to force it with her, just as we didn’t have to force our friendship. I can still be the same man, and that’s a relief.

Besides, Porter hates that crap. And thank fuck for that.

We didn’t discuss what happens next. We didn’t have the after sex relationship talk. We don’t have to. We took the step. We’re here. It just is. And it feels right.

The bailiff walks by my row and coughs. Loudly. I glance over to catch his narrowed gaze on my phone. I mouth a lame apology and shut the phone down.

“Someone is extra peppy and forgetful today,” Mia chimes in my ear. “So unlike you, Dr. West. What gives?”

The way she says it, as if she already suspects the answer, has me yanking my collar away from my neck. Someone just turned up the heat. “None of your business, Mia.” It has to be stated, because it’s useless to lie to an analyst when she’s worked for you long enough to know your tells down to a science. Behavioral science, that is.

“Porter looked beautiful last night,” she says, fishing, dangling the bait. “Don’t you think?”

See? There are no secrets in my company. “Yes, she did. That dress was very becoming on her. Now get back to work.”

Her giggle echos over the line. “Yes, sir.”

I’m smiling. I can’t help it. I’d forgotten what carefree felt like. How light it makes your head, as if you’re drugged. I go to check my phone for Porter’s reply and remember it’s off.

I glance at my watch, then the doors.

The bailiff declares court in session and announces the judge. O’Hare is the presiding judge, and I thank my lucky stars. “Judge O’Hare loves me,” I whisper to Mia.

Her pfft makes my statement a little less believable. “Remember when he threw you out of court?”

Right. That. “He’s like…a thousand years old. He can’t possibly remember that.”

Judge O’Hare squints in my direction, his mouth drawn in a thin line. Well damn.

“Let’s just focus on the jury,” I tell Mia. “They’re what matters.”

“I’ve updated their profiles. Ready to go,” she confirms.

I crack my knuckles.

The feel of being watched prickles my skin, and I look toward the defense table. Shaver is fixated on me, a shrewd glint in his eyes. No smile today. He’s focused, determined. A business man. His lips move, but I don’t catch what he’s saying. At his slight nod, I look away.

After Shaver delivers his plea, the trial commences, and Smigel doesn’t pussyfoot around. In his opening statement, he goes right for the insanity trifecta. Brain damage, psychotic state, and recovered memories.

The jury is reactive. That’s fine. They’re a sponge right now; fresh and primed to absorb information. Once this trial drags on, and they become weary of testimonies and scientific jargon, that’s when you hit them with the shock and awe. Revive them. Bring them back to life.

And nail Shaver where it hurts.

The truth.

I’ve heard Eddie’s opening statement twice now, and it still gives me chills. He hammers down the facts, what the prosecution is going to prove. That Shaver suffered no brain damage. That the notorious drug lord who has evaded arrest over the years is intelligent and manipulative—that he’s going to try to deceive the jury with his practiced mannerisms. But that Quentin Shaver is a psychopathic predator who deliberately and methodically stalked Devin Tillman, abducted her, then tortured and killed and mutilated his victim.

Eddie calls the first witness, Dr. Maxine Prentice. The medical examiner who examined Devin Tillman.

Yeah. We’re not pussyfooting around, either.

If Smigel wants to prove Shaver was in a temporary state of psychosis when he murdered Tillman, then he has to prove haste. The very word temporary denotes a hurried act. It’s true a delusion can last days, even months or years, but there’s no fugue state at play here. There’s a snapped defense, which claims Shaver was outside himself during this hastened episode where he killed the victim.

Dr. Prentice recites her credentials, then Eddie asks the ME to divulge her findings during the examination.

“I discovered contusions located around the victim’s wrists and ankles that were already in the stages of healing. The abrading on the skin led me to believe she had been bound for hours before her death.”

Eddie looks at the jury as he asks, “Such as bound by rope?”

The ME nods. “Yes. Rope is the most likely cause for this type of abrading and bruising. The ligature marks on the victim’s wrists measured out to be comparable to most commonly used cotton rope. The victim also suffered from dehydration, as determined by her skin tissue and organs.”

Confirming the prosecution’s theory of stalking and torturing the victim is the DA’s office’s main goal. That can lead to a broader investigation into other missing persons to locate more potential victims of Shaver.

“What about the torture and murder itself? Can you tell us, in your professional opinion, how long the perpetrator tortured Devin Tillman before she was brutally stabbed to death?”

“Objection, Your Honor.” Smigel stands. “Speculation. Despite the expert’s credentials, she can’t definitively know the timeline.”

Judge O’Hare shrugs. “Well, I’d like to hear her answer, then decide if it’s credible. Overruled. Please answer the question, Dr. Prentice.”

Judge O’Hare wins the day. “I like him. Why did he throw me out again?” I ask Mia.

“You argued with him about one of his rulings.”

Oh. Well, that will do it.

The ME goes into detail about the science, which I fear is getting lost on the jury. We did well in selecting practical, intelligent jurors, but even my eyelids are starting to feel heavy.

Eddie presses the doctor to explain in layman’s terms. Good for him.

“If we look at time of death, we can count backward, using the layers of congealed blood like measures of time, like on the rings of a tree. The victim was bound and unable to defend herself. According to my blood analysis report, I deduced the victim was tortured for nine hours before she ultimately died due to hypoxia via exsanguination. The femoral artery was stabbed and severed.” She glances at the jury and amends. “She bled out.”

“So despite the mutilation to the torso, the fatal wound was not delivered to the victim’s heart, doctor?” Eddie clicks the remote in his hand, and an image of Tillman’s corpse discovered at the crime scene appears on the flatscreen.

The jury reacts. Five cover their mouths, two look away, and my question mark juror tilts his head. Appall rolls through them all in different stages. This is why Eddie chose this question, so he could show the image. It’s harsh, but so is the crime. The jury needs to experience what Shaver did to this woman.

I glance at the screen, even though I’ve stared at the crime scene photos too many times now. Before I look back at the jury, something nags at the back of my mind. The familiarity of the crime scene—but not because I’ve studied it. Tillman’s torso is bound with rope. A black blindfold covers her eyes.

Shit.

The severe mutilation of the body never allowed me to see past the gore. I admit, I chose not to practice in the medical field for a reason. I don’t do blood and death.

But I see it now.

“Mia,” I mutter. “Pull up the Eight of Swords Tarot card.”

“Okay…”

“What does it look like?”

“Eight swords surround a woman who’s bound with rope and blindfolded—” I hear it in her pause. Mia makes the connection.

“Eight stab wounds,” I say, putting it together. “Tillman’s card was the Eight of Swords. Find out everything you can about that card. It’s meaning, history. Everything. Get Charlie on investigating anything that card has to do between Tillman and Shaver.”

“On it, Dr. West.”

Got you, fucker. Shaver’s MO. He doesn’t just use the Tarot for victim selection; he stages the scene. It’s part of his ritual. He doesn’t have to leave a card behind, because the whole scene is a damn tarot card. If we have to search every card in the Arcana to compare it to every gory crime scene across every state… We’ll find his victims.

I tuned out, and now the ME is wrapping up her testimony.

“The victim was already dead when the perpetrator removed the heart. My blood analysis report also states this,” Dr. Prentice says.

Shaver’s lawyer will try to use this to further his client’s claim of a delusional state. I recall Shaver’s reference to holding Tillman’s still-beating heart in his hand. He’s planned this all out. Down to the ME’s report.

“Thank you, Dr. Prentice,” Eddie says. “I have no further questions for this witness, Your Honor.”

Smigel stands to start his cross examination, but the judge calls a recess. “We’ll resume after lunch.”

I give Eddie a nod of approval on his expert questioning, and then file into line. I have my phone in hand before I’m out of the courtroom. Once it’s powered on, I wait for the beep to alert me of Porter’s reply message.

I need her to know this. She might have more information—something we could use to help Eddie nail Shaver for good.

My damn phone remains silent.

I open the text app anyway. When I don’t see a text from her, I move farther down the hallway for privacy and call her number. It goes to voicemail.

Do you ever get those moments where your existence seems to suspend?

Where your heart slows but fires like a cannon. Sounds and movements blur and feel muted; the roar of the ocean in your head. Time just stops.

This moment seizes me now.

It’s the moment of confirmation that something is wrong—that something bad has happened. But you can’t accept it yet.

Phone in hand, I stare at the screen, my breathing coming too loudly in my ears. Mia’s voice sounds over the line, and I remove the earbud.

Then I hear Eddie trying to gain my attention.

I look up. “I have to go.”

He blinks, stunned. “Right now? We’re about to resume court.”

“You got this. You know what to do.” I pat his shoulder as I head around him.

“Dr. West…? Ian, wait—” He trails after me.

He never calls me that, and for this reason, I respond. “I can’t. I have to go. Just focus on the case.”

The desperate edge in my tone makes him halt at the end of the hallway. “You got it. Good luck.”

Luck. That damn Tarot card in my pocket suddenly comes to mind, because—I realize—that’s what Shaver mouthed in court today. That’s what I couldn’t make out.

Good luck.

I hurry through the metal detector and out to the courthouse steps.

I keep dialing Porter’s number as I race to her apartment.