Autopsy of a Mind

Chapter 116: The Man in the White Shirt

"I have no idea whom you are talking about," I admitted. Carol looked at me, her lips pressed together into a thin line.

"He seemed to know you, though." Her scowl showed her confusion.

"Does he?" I asked with interest. "Can you tell me how he looks? Maybe I will remember him." It was a calculated sentence made to make her feel comfortable enough, to tell the truth. She thought about it a bit. 

"He has a warm smile and cold eyes. Empty but full of mischief." She smiled in memory. 

I looked at the psychiatrist and she took the cue immediately. 

"What was his hair like?" she asked quickly so that the strain of thought could not be disrupted. 

Carol looked at her dumbfounded. "I... I don't remember." Our jaws dropped. 

"You don't remember how he looks?" the psychiatrist asked. In her voice, I could hear the disbelief and suspicion that Carol was lying. I glanced at her and saw her appraising our expressions. I remained careful to conceal my emotions and gave her an encouraging smile. 

"Just tell us whatever you remember. When you looked at him, what was the first thing you thought?" By turning the question, I could make her think that she wasn't revealing his face, but get integral information on this man.

"Hard to read," she said without a doubt. That was an odd thing to say about someone.

"Why do you say that?" the psychiatrist asked. "You just said that he had empty eyes and a warm smile." My mind turned with possibilities.

"I don't know. I couldn't see his expression." She shrugged. I gave the psychiatrist a pointed look. 

"Do you have a hard time reading people's expressions and understanding what they mean?" Lack of empathy or inability to read expressions could be a big lead towards why she chose to do this.

"Yes. People don't like me because I don't understand why they react in certain ways, so I have to pretend that I understand sometimes. That's why I enjoy hurting them. I don't need to pretend when I do that. I feel something..." she stared at her hand with a longing. 

Something around the lines of anti-social personality disorder, it seemed. She could have been born with it or it may have been caused due to continued trauma, the reason would have to be found out.

"Is that so..." the psychiatrist trailed off. "And this man... do you know his name? The one who helped you feel and taught you that it was okay not to pretend?"

"He never said his name..." she frowned. "My mother would know. I have seen him a couple of times at home," she said with a lack of interest. "Why do you keep asking about him?" she looked almost offended. 

"Because you said he knows me. I'll have to ask him why he entrusted you to me, don't you think?" I patted her head. "That way I can take care of you. You trust his judgment, right?"

She smiled. Still, it was fake. This, I had come to realize. She had been faking all her emotions for the most part.

She nodded. It really was easy to fool her. "I really don't remember how he looked." 

"Was there anything particular about him that you remember? Something that differentiated him from other people?" the psychiatrist asked gently, trying to jog her memory.

"He always wore a white shirt," she said. She looked at me for confirmation. I had nothing to tell her. "I remember nothing else about him."

We tried a lot of things with her, changing questions to the point that they were vague inclinations, but she refused to say more. We understood some things from this. 

Carol had antisocial personality tendencies from her tendency. We would have to run further tests and psychological evaluations to be sure. 

She was abused and made to watch her mother engage in violent sexual activity from a young and it changed how she looked at sex or intimacy. She saw sexual activity and reproductive organs as a tool to exert power over another person, therefore the act of choking someone and mutilating their sexual organ became her signature. The act of exerting power over another person made her feel powerful like she was unable to feel in her own home. 

She felt alive when she was killing someone. This was what she kept referring to as feeling empty. The fantasy made her feel like other people, someone who didn't need to pretend like they feel in the same capacity as other people do. This is explicitly what she meant when she wrote that only through killing someone could she return. She was not only talking about returning in the sense that she would kill again, but that killing made her feel alive.

This man who had inspired her and taught her the ropes of killing had either asked her to keep silent about him or she actually didn't remember what he looked like. It was unlikely that it was the first. Carol had been tight-lipped about her mother when I interviewed her the first time, which meant she was fully capable of keeping secrets. If this mystery man had asked her to keep silent, Carol wouldn't say a word about him. He had probably instructed Carol to tell us that he existed and that he had lent a helping hand to a poor girl who needed to escape her prison. But if that was the case, then what was the motive of this man? 

I would need to interview Grace to get to know her customers. She probably wouldn't be able to identify this mystery man from the white shirt and warm smile that Carol described, but it was worth a try.

When we came out of the staff room, I had already wrapped up the camera and tucked it under my arm. Grace was sitting outside, waiting for her daughter nervously. She must not have known what was happening yet, because she seemed too nervous about her little business becoming known. She had no clue what her daughter had done. A police officer stood beside her, keeping guard and ensuring she doesn't run. I let the psychiatrist and the social security officer take Carol away and gave a pointed glare towards the mother.

"What did the brat say?" Grace asked after me. I stopped mid-step and looked over my shoulder. 

"Is that what bothers you?" I asked incredulously. 

"What does that mean? Just know that the girl lies a lot. Whatever she told you was a lie," she demanded. I sighed. 

"Please take her to Interrogation Room 2, I'll be there shortly," I told the officer. He nodded and bowed before grabbing Grace and taking her towards the room.

"I can walk myself!" she protested, shaking the officer away.

I shook my head as I made my way to Nash and Sebastian's office. I knocked before entering. "Come in!" I heard from inside. When they saw me, they ushered me in and sat me down. 

"Did it go well?" Nash asked. 

"As well as it could go on a primary psychiatrist sitting. You'll get a psychiatrist evaluation in a day or so, but we will need two more psychiatrists to take to Carol. I think it's antisocial personality disorder. She can't empathize or read expressions. She told us that she was pretending to be normal like other people and the only time she feels like she is like others is when she hurts someone else."

Sebastian nodded. "What was the trigger?" he asked. 

"She had a sleepover at her house with some of her bully friends and they were wrestling. She tried to choke someone and took it too far. Almost. She realized that she liked it when she saw the raw fear and life leaving someone's body." Both raised their brows.

"That's not all." They waited with bated breaths. "Someone stopped her from doing it. A client of the mother. He took her aside and inspired her to kill properly. He taught her that choking slowly doesn't leave marks and demonstrated on Carol's mother." 

Nash looked flabbergasted. "There is an accomplice?" he squeaked. I shook my head. 

"Not an accomplice. Someone who provided her with the tools to kill. This guy had empty eyes but a warm smile, apparently," I reiterated. "But Carol isn't good at understanding expressions." I hung my head. "This guy... she claims that she doesn't remember his face: just his eyes and smile. Oh, and that he wore a white shirt."

"A white shirt, teaching someone how to kill discreetly... we have a psychopath with a god complex on our hands," Nash concluded. 

"No, not just that," Sebastian interjected. "This man knows how to choke someone to leave no evidence. He knows criminal procedure or reads about it."

"No, he knows the criminal procedure," I claimed. "Carol knew exactly what was going to happen to her after she admitted to killing those people. She knew what was going to happen to her mother, too."

"This sounds like someone we have encountered before," Sebastian said plainly. 

"What does that mean? Who?" Nash looked confused. 

"The guy from earlier," I said. Sebastian gave me a smile. 

"Point for Evie. It is the same guy who supplied the files on the victims in the Magician case," he said.

"Okay, let's not jump to conclusions," Nash protested. "We don't have enough evidence for that."

"Actually, we do. There was a reason why Carol kept staring at me. The guy in white told her that when the police took her away, someone like her and the guy would take care of her. Carol thought the man was talking about me but I think he was talking about Sebastian."

"And why so?" Nash asked, now concerned. 

"The guy said that this person would understand. That they wouldn't need to pretend any longer." Everyone fell into thoughtfulness. 

"Sebastian..." Nash trailed off. 

"It seems I will be the one interrogating the mother, then." Sebastian stood up and shoved his hand into his pocket. "Nash, you don't mind if I steal the case from you, do you?"

"Well, now that there is a target placed on your back, I think you should have a go. Just thirty minutes. After that I will take over!" Nash claimed. Sebastian glared at him. 

"You never give up a case, do you?" Sebastian chuckled and walked out. 

"Interrogation Room 2," I called after him and he waved in acknowledgment. "I'll go. Here are the tapes." I handed over the equipment and was about to leave. 

"Evie," Nash stopped me. "Just be careful, okay?" I smiled. 

It felt nice to have people worry about you. "I will." With that, I went out. 

Now, it was time to give hell to the child abuser.

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