Dr. Ian West

Know what’s worse than evaluating a psychopathic serial killer? Evaluating a psychopathic serial killer while nursing a hangover.

Or maybe that’s a trick question. There’s nothing worse, either way, and that’s precisely why I didn’t make it a full year at my starter career as a forensic psychologist before Melanie suggested I come at it from a different angle.

“This is a little outside your qualifications, isn’t it, Dr. West?”

I smile—nice and big—at Shaver’s new defense attorney. He went with a real douchebag this time in Steve Smigel. I mean, really. Smigel? That’s a few letters removed from The Lord of the Rings troll. Might as well call him Gollum. And I do, in my head.

“It was at your client’s request, Smigel.” Gollum. “Take it up with him.” Because there are many other places I’d rather be right now. Like in bed, covers piled over my head, avoiding Porter.

Or in bed with Porter.

I shake the thought away. Down boy.

Alcohol and nostalgia never mix well.

“I’m just saying,” the troll continues, “there’s no jury here. How long has it been since you actually did real psychology work instead of just jury consulting?”

Just jury consulting. As if what I do isn’t real. Amateur. “Trial science,” I correct him, and he raises a wiry eyebrow. “That’s the proper terminology. You know, just so you don’t sound uneducated, being that you’ve worked in the field of law for all of—?” I pretend to think.

“A year,” he provides.

“Ah, right. Do they still hand out lollipops to first years over at Marks and Vasier?”

His scowl gives me great satisfaction.

I crack open my briefcase on the table, fastening one eye closed as the resounding clack ricochets around my pounding head. Forty-five minutes of looking professional and then I can get out of here.

Smigel steps aside as a guard enters the room, and I hear the scraping clang of chains as another officer escorts Shaver inside. The second officer seats Shaver at the table across from me and fastens the handcuff chain to the manacle in the center of the table.

This is not the original table in the conference room. This table was transported from the nearby correctional facility just for Shaver. Rather than taking any risk transporting Shaver back and forth before his new trial date, the judge ordered to keep him here under heavy guard.

Shaver’s gaze doesn’t stray from me as the guard checks and rechecks his restraints. Then he moves to stand at the door. A motionless, fixed sentinel keeping watch.

I wait for the first guard to take Smigel out of the room before I relax into the chair. Since Shaver got special privileges, it was only fair that I get some of my own. I had Charlie drop off my office chair, and then it was this whole ordeal to get approval…but it was worth it. The superior cloud that always hovers around Shaver has been doused a fraction.

“Like my chair?” I give it a spin, planting my feet to stop when facing him again.

“It’s lovely, Dr. West,” he says, his irritating accent clipped in that haughty way of his.

“Sure beats your table,” I say. “Maybe next time they can bring you a leather reclining restraint bench, too. Then we’ll be equals. Do they make those?” I smile smugly.

He sits forward and clasps his hands together, as much as the handcuffs will allow. “That’s an interesting musing. Us as equals.”

I stop swiveling my chair. “You don’t think we are?”

“Is this question part of your evaluation?”

I smile. “Shaver, I started evaluating you the first day of the trial. Force of habit, being a psychologist and all. Hard to flip the switch.”

His eyes narrow, lips parted in a peculiar half-smile. “Flip the switch. I like that. Something that is so inherently ingrained in us is difficult to turn off.”

“That would be my meaning.”

“I wonder how difficult it is, then, to be around Ms. Lovell. All her little idiosyncrasies to dissect.”

I do not like his use of her name and “dissect” in the same sentence. To which he knows, as his smile widens.

Time to cook this bastard.

I flip a manila file open on the table and pick up a pen. I recite the date out loud, followed by my name and credentials. Then I look at Shaver. “This commences the start of your official evaluation, Quentin Shaver, as so ordered by The Superior Court of the District of Columbia.” I reach over and push Pause on the video recorder. “I’m here as agreed, but our deal is null and void should you mention Ms. Lovell again. Understood?”

“Understood, Dr. West.” He gives me his most intimidating, penetrating stare. “A man is only as good as his word. A broken agreement… Well, that’s inexcusable.”

Smug bastard. I get the message. Don’t cross him. “While we’re still in a time out, I have a question.”

“Go ahead.”

“Why change your plea mid trial? As far as I could tell, the trial was going your way.”

His expression—that is usually so calm—falters. A twitch of insecurity, then a flash of anger. A little snarl of the top lip. But we have to be careful not to read too much into these microexpressions with Shaver. He’s practiced in controlling his features. If I’m seeing his conveyed emotions, I have to wonder if it’s because he wants me to.

How’s that for a mind fuck?

God, I hate evaluating psychopaths.

“To date, how many cases have you lost for your clients?” he asks.

My turn to be smug. “None.”

Which is the truth. But to be fair, and to add a slice of humble pie to my ego, I don’t accept losing cases. I and my team evaluate every aspect before we agree to take on a client. Even Eddie has had cases rejected when I knew there was a chance for a loss.

It’s not that I fear a challenge. Every case presents its own challenges.

It’s the sage choice career wise. In DC, the heart of government, who wants to hire a trial consulting agency that loses? Never lost makes for damn good marketing.

Then to a lesser extent, there is that slight thing of believing in your clients. A piece of Mel I keep alive in the company.

“I want to be on the winning side,” Shaver says. “And that’s any side you’re on, Dr. West.”

Stroke my ego a bit more there, buddy. “You didn’t know about Rendell’s phone,” I surmise the truth.

He releases a lengthy sigh. I take it as a form of admission. “The weak are so easy to crack. I’d rather put my fate in your hands than hers.”

Duly noted. I hit Record and start the interview.

I get through the routine questions—home life, parents, family, upbringing—to which Shaver answers predictably. He must have studied the cliff notes to the insane serial killer’s handbook.

He denies any abuse. He refutes having harmed animals as a child. He projects empathy, displaying no psychopathic traits. I truly believe he can fool the system.

One last question: “Why did you kill and mutilate Devin Tillman?”

Now, the typical reply to a question like this by your average deranged murderer would be to supply one of the following: Denial, or brag.

Since Shaver has already arranged a new plea of innocent by way of insanity, he can’t very well deny the murder. So it stands to reason that he’d go into detail at this point, laminating on the particulars to relive the kill. Even admit to other murders, if he’s so bold.

Many killers have inflated the number of their victims. Once caught and incarcerated, number of kills gives them clout in prison. Also media attention. If you’re going to go down as a sadistic killer, might as well go down in history.

But here’s where it gets interesting.

Shaver’s response: “I don’t know.”

I look up from my notes. “What happened the evening leading up to the murder?” I will not downplay it by referring to it as the event. More so for the benefit of those who will evaluate the interview later rather than for Shaver.

“You won’t believe me,” he says.

“Try me.”

Eyes unblinking, stare intent, he says, “I was trying to save her.”

Ah. Now I get it. I’ve been waiting for the tee up, where Shaver would reveal what particular psychopathy he’s trying to adapt for his defense. You know I’m bored when I use a golf reference. “Please, continue.”

“The demons were eating her alive from the inside out,” he says. He’s so calm, so deliberate. I’m convinced that, while delivering this speech, he believes his own lies. He has to in order to convey this level of sincerity with a straight face. “The only way to save her was to set them free, to cut them out.”

For the laymen, just a bit of clarity: There’s a difference between psychopathy and psychosis. While psychopathy is any personality disorder of the antisocial variety, psychosis exhibits a loss of reality, either long or short term, such as with brief psychotic disorder. And usually has a major stressor to induce a sudden onset. Hallucinations, delusions, erratic behavior—all symptoms. Conveniently for Shaver.

See, psychopathy is incurable. But a state of psychosis—one not linked to a mental illness such as schizophrenia (though my money was on that)—can be treated, corrected. There’s a chance for rehabilitation with medication and therapy and…here’s the kicker… eventual release. Set back into the wild.

And how might one pull this off?

Trauma. Brain damage.

All I have to do is go along with it and not look for the source, and Shaver gets a reduced sentence and a nice stay in a mental ward, a couple of scripts, and early release when he’s declared sane.

But why would I do this? That’s the question, isn’t it? Porter has been removed from the case, and the only threat made to my person was a Tarot card on my dead fiancé’s grave. Sent by a psychopath behind bars who targets innocent women.

I’m not seeing it, asshole.

I reach into my inseam pocket, and the guard—who I honestly forgot was still in the room—makes a move forward. “Just a card,” I tell him, and hold it up so he can examine it. Then I lay it on the table. “Can you explain this to me, Shaver?”

Vague. Putting the ball in his court. How far does he want to take this?

I watch his face, looking for the flare of nostrils, widening of eyes in acknowledgement, the twitch of his lips as he tries to hide his pleasure in getting a response from me. Although having Melanie’s gravesite invaded did anger me, I’m playing up that anger for Shaver’s benefit. I want to crack him, discover his tell.

“It’s a Tarot card, Dr. West,” he answers simply.

“I see that.” I tap the card with two fingers. “What I want to know is what it means to you.”

He sits forward and reaches toward the card, chain scraping the table. His fingers skim the plastic covering reverently. “When I was a boy, there was this old gypsy lady who lived down the road. The kids made fun of her. Egged her house. Played doorbell ditch, I think is the American term? Anyway, the parents told us to stay away, to leave the poor lady alone.”

He turns the card so that it’s right-side up, the cloaked man facing me. “Even then,” he continues, “before I understood the world, I felt this presence about her. This old-world knowledge. She approached me one day and the kids ran away, but I stood my ground. She drew a card from her pocket and rested it against my forehead and said: ‘The man in the cloak will be your salvation.’”

I can feel my features crease as I just stare at him. I’m sure I’m giving my speculation away, as he’s studying me just as intently, yet I don’t care. I’m thoroughly confused as to whether this is an embellishment to further his claim of a delusional state, or if it’s the truth. Either way, I jot a quick note to check if this woman is still alive—and if not, when and how she died.

“How old were you?” I ask.

“Thirteen. The age of enlightenment.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“What did you think she meant by this?”

He shrugs. “Then, I couldn’t tell you. Just that I was special, and possibly that some dark figure in a cloak, though my young mind saw him as a super hero with a cape—” he chuckles “—was coming for me.” He sniffs hard and sits straighter. “Or maybe the Grim Reaper.”

And there’s your inflated sense of self, folks. His true psychopathy is finally slipping through.

“But he couldn’t be the Grim Reaper if he was meant to save me,” Shaver says. “I thought about it over the years, deciding it was metaphorical. You know how you have that one defining moment when you’re young? Something profound that always resurfaces?” I nod so he’ll move the fuck on. “The gypsy and her prophecy was it for me.”

“This is why you became invested in the Arcana,” I say, the question implied.

He shows his teeth—not quite a smile or sneer. “Yes. This moment in my life had a major impact. I learned to read the cards, to trust their insight.”

“And use the Tarot as your selection process.”

I’m skirting the safety line here, inferring a victim selection process. But Shaver is smart enough to run with it. He can give me a truthful answer while not incriminating himself simultaneously.

His gaze narrows. “I saw Devin in the cards,” he says, going along with it. “I saw her pain. Her suffering. So when she came to me, I couldn’t deny her. I gave her a reading, and that’s when the cards revealed the demon inside her. She clawed at her skin, begging for release. And I just…”

“Snapped?” I offer.

He nods slowly. “I saw myself…” He closes his eyes. “Cutting into her flesh, carving around the bone. Cracking the breastplate to get to her heart, because the heart is what needed to be set free. I felt it pumping in my hands as I held it, but it was as if I was watching from the outside, like a dream. The blood…so much of it…painted my hands. So red, just like the figure on her card. The release of red would free her, and I couldn’t stop myself. Her pain was infectious. I had to make it stop.”

Weaving truth into your fiction is an excellent way to create a believable lie. Tillman probably was clawing at her skin. With need for a fix. But Shaver’s “snapped” explanation will never sit well with a jury. Especially a jury that I help select.

“You said she had a card. Where is that card now?”

If he answers truthfully, this could give us a starting point to uncover the Tarot link in other cases. Unlike most serial killers that have a clear MO, Shaver’s is more difficult to deduce. Mutilation is a common compulsion, for varying reasons. If he removed the heart of every victim, that would be a common denominator, at least. But the search Charlie has been conducting using ViCAP and other law enforcement databases hasn’t pinged that MO.

If the Tarot shows Shaver his victims, then it’s a logical assumption that he has a predetermined, selective kill method for each. I make a note to have Charlie search for victims who are missing organs. Maybe cases overlooked to be serial in nature due to their black market appeal.

Shaver’s mask slips for a second, and I glimpse the calculated way he’s assessing me. It sends an uncomfortable chill up my spine. “The cards always return to the deck, Dr. West,” he finally answers.

I glance down at the bagged card on the table. This is a card from Shaver’s personal deck, and he’s telling me that—after he’s through with me—the card will be returned.

I pocket the card and close the folder before I turn off the camera. “I’ll order the MRI and CAT scan.” Then I stand.

“Are we done, Dr. West?”

“We’re done,” I say. “Once I get the test results, I’ll have my evaluation completed and delivered to your attorney.” I snap my briefcase shut. If there is trauma to the brain, I will eat my tie. How Shaver expects me to take the stand and boldface lie about a brain scan… Well, something is amiss here.

Mia’s comment about proceeding cautiously tickles my thoughts.

Shaver’s disappointment is evident in his wayward expression, a hint of defiance peering through. He needs to be in control of this interview and this process.

Not happening.

As I pause at the door, awaiting the guard to unlock it, Shaver gets in one last word. “Don’t you want to know your reading, Dr. West? What the Five of Cups has in store for you?”

Okay, so maybe it’s more than one word. But it all sounds like a string of nonsense to me. “No.” I exit the room.

Before the door closes, I hear Shaver say, “You will.”

Nice bit of foreboding there, right? Creepy fucker.

Outside the courthouse, I take out my phone to call Porter, to give her an update…then think better. The less she’s involved, the safer for her.

At least, this is the plausible excuse not to talk to her. The other half of me is just chicken shit after what she said the night before. Hangover curbed, I call Eddie instead. “You want the good or the bad?”

“Shit. Is there really any good?”

“No.”

He calls me a crude name, and I laugh. “Shaver is lining up a psychosis defense.” This psychobabble means nothing to him, so I explain. “He’ll get out in two years.”

“Dammit.” After a few tense seconds, he says, “What if we do what narcotics couldn’t?”

“I’m intrigued. What are you thinking?”

“Manslaughter might not carry the same weight as murder in the first, but it’s easier to prove. And with Shaver’s profession…”

“Gives credence to his sudden psychosis.” His snapped defense. “All you’d have to do is convince the jury a street drug could induce a state of psychosis.” Which given Shaver’s notorious reputation, may actually work.

It’s not how I’d like to take Shaver down, but sometimes you settle. For the greater good.

“All I’d have to do?” Eddie echos, a chuckle in his voice. “Sure thing, doc.”

“Come on, now. Spoiled rich kids always get their way.”

“Yeah. And sometimes, they get disbarred.”