Cabiling / Morbid Destitution Of Covenant /

MORBID DESTITUTION OF COVENANT

By Alaric Cabiling

“Car is in the driveway. Suspect broke in through the basement window, moved up the stairs toward the kitchen, snuck up on the husband, then slit his throat with a knife.”

“Carry on. Is this our perp?”

“Don’t know yet. Wait, there’s more.”

FBI Agent Frank Dellinger looked around to see if anyone could hear him. His forehead creased as he spoke into the phone.

“The other bodies were found in the living room—the wife and kids. They were propped up on the couch in front of the TV with their throats cut. The cuts go from ear to ear like the killer wants to see them smiling. Same deal with the eyes—the eyes were scooped out—like he doesn’t want them to see something. These bodies are older than the Yardley murder. That makes the Yardley victim the last in the timeline.”

FBI Director Rasmussen was quiet on the other line, hesitating to find the right words. He looked at the pictures on his desk—families, couples, the only deviation was the wife of a tailor in Owings Mills—all of them murdered with a gash to their throats, positioned in the living room areas. The woman being the exception: she was found in a pond at the back of the house she shared with her husband—the husband, now the subject of the investigation, the suspect of a crime spree with a body count rivaling the most prolific serial killers in history, was in custody, awaiting charges. His mental state (now the focus of scrutiny) withheld the skeleton key that would break the case. Investigators had linked him to the crimes, but the circumstantial evidence would require the intervention of clinicians to properly explain the motivations behind the killings for the prosecution to win the trial. Rasmussen told Dellinger to update him on the latest regarding the crime scene evidence. He sat at his desk, watching his secretary turn around to head back to her cubicle after leaving case files on his desk.

The suspect, Buck Yardley, looked like the culprit, being the common denominator linking all victims. He kept the logbook at his parish as a parishioner, where his wife and all other victims were also parishioners. Profilers didn’t quite know why Marie Yardley was dragged outside—specifically, why she was placed in the pond. Her eyes were also not extracted by the killer, unlike the others.

“We’re bringing in Dr. Joyner to evaluate Yardley,” he said to Dellinger. Rasmussen hung up.

* * *

Agent Dellinger sat in the waiting room of a doctor’s office at the Baltimore City Psychiatric Hospital.

Square-jawed, rough-skinned, eyes hardened, Dellinger stared at things in the waiting room like he used to when staking out criminals in bad parts of town, although he hated waiting in psychiatric wards.

“Agent Dellinger?”

“Dr. Joyner. Pleased to see you.” Dr. Joyner was slender but wasn’t tall. His brown oxford coat had dark patches on the elbows, and he wore black chinos and black casual loafers, looking like an ivy leaguer.

Dellinger got up from his seat. He shook hands with the good Doctor—none other than Alec Joyner, the forensic psychologist the state turned to for its worst cases.

“Come to my office, Agent Dellinger. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

The hallways leading to Joyner’s office were dark and musty. The building was an old one. Agent Dellinger couldn’t forget the familiar smell.

Joyner’s office had large windows that looked out into government offices and low-cost apartments. He had a lounge chair made of studded leather, a classic in psychotherapy practices. He had a reclining chair and a desk with a computer, printer, and audio equipment on top. His many drawers and shelves contained office equipment, albums, tapes, VHS tapes of interviews conducted during publicized cases.

Joyner was forty-two, his hair was brushed back, and he wore glasses. A devoted family man who loved helping others, Dr. Joyner and his wife had been married for twenty years and had two children. They lived in a suburban home in the West Oaks community in Columbia, Maryland. He loved his job and his daily commute to work. He grew up in the area. He was a Maryland Terrapin and a fan of the Ravens.

He prided himself in his steadfast dedication as the leading forensic psychologist for the state of Maryland. He was never particularly scared of acutely ill patients; he approached them with courtesy and put them at ease.

“We’ve got a case, I assume.”

“Yes, Doctor. A big one. Five crime scenes. Two families. Two couples. A wife. They appeared at random, but we managed to connect the dots.”

Joyner’s eyes widened. There hadn’t been a case in recent memory with as many victims.

“I’ll want a briefing. The suspect?”

“This man…”

Dellinger placed a case file on Joyner’s desk. “Dr. Schmidt’s patient—an outpatient. Schmidt’s been notified. The patient, I mean, the suspect, is in custody. He’s disturbed. We need you to piece together the puzzle, Doctor. Without it, the evidence won’t be enough to convict him. Charge him, yes. Put him away? The DA says, no.”

Joyner looked at the case file. He guessed psychopathology from the man’s facial expression, violence etched in razor-sharp cheekbones, bloodlust written on the edges of the man’s lips.

He shrugged off the initial impression. He didn’t draw conclusions from appearances.

The referral notes bore three measly words: cooperative, withdrawn, delusional. Joyner replaced them with three words of his own in his mind: what the fuck…

In the meantime, he focused on the suspect. His diagnosis was uncommon: disorganized schizophrenia. He was married. His wife, Marie, was the latest murder victim. Her throat was slit, and her body was found in the pond behind the house. No sexual assault. No assault of any kind. No DNA under her fingernails or her person. She knew the killer. She didn’t resist—one reason why her husband was the chief suspect.

“When do I expect to meet with the suspect?”

“Later this afternoon.”

Joyner leafed through the case file. He expected more.

“This can’t wait. We need a confession, or damning evidence, Dr. Joyner. We can’t let this guy walk free.”

Joyner glanced at the picture and briefly considered a strategy. He tapped his fingers on the file folder on the desk.

The DA needs a confession to get a conviction. That rarely happens.

“What’s linking these killings?” Joyner asked pensively.

Joyner watched Dellinger shift in his chair while preparing to answer the question. Dellinger was a veteran, fifty-two years old, and had no plans of retiring and forgetting about chasing violent criminals. Joyner expected a rocky road for Dellinger post-retirement. He expected Dellinger to wake up to nightmares of crime scenes and bodies in dumpsters while he spent more time at home, brooding. He pictured Dellinger getting out of shape with more than the usual amount of alcohol for his nightcap, moving to a small town in the middle of nowhere. Dellinger wasn’t likely to retire until he had no choice. It was his life.

“They all attend the same church,” Dellinger said.

* * *

A man emerged from the shadows. Mist spilled out onto the street from a nearby cemetery. The man gathered himself in his coat, knowing that he had little time to waste.

He crossed the wide six-lane road like black smoke moving over water, gliding almost invisibly with deft ease. It was not long before he reached a building downtown and took the elevator to the twentieth floor. Upon arrival, he opened the door of his practice, then shed his coat. He greeted the receptionist with a pronounced seriousness. There was something about his force of habit that seemed unusual, even for people bound by rote. The receptionist looked up from her computer screen as he made his way past, as though she noticed that something was wrong.

A magnificent statue of a bronze chimera chained along the neck greeted the doorway to his office. Black and white fixtures and frames, watercolor paintings hanging from the walls, and antique furniture greeted visitors. The paintings depicted rural, pastoral landscapes.

A painting of the devil submerging a crucifix in a pail of water hung in his office, with the message, And with joy shall ye draw water from the wells of damnation, inscribed below. The painting was done by a gifted young art student and was offered to the Doctor as a gift—another one of this Doctor’s prodigious patients.

The Doctor, Dr. Wolfgang Schmidt, entered his office. He sat in his chair and enjoyed a moment of silence, gathering himself before weathering the day’s onslaught of appointments. He imagined a rainbow of colors splashing across the distant horizon, the afternoon sun casting a radiant glow across the fleeting raindrops. He watched as the colors faded to grey, then faded to black. With his eyes closed, he began imagining his heart beating in the penumbra of that darkness—a thudding, pulsating rhythm growing louder with each listen—growing louder, and louder still…

…until it suddenly stopped.

He opened his eyes to another thumping: a clenched fist against the door of his office. A voice called out.

“Dr. Schmidt, your first patient is here,” the voice said.

“Yes. Thank you,” Schmidt said to his assistant. He glanced out the window to find the sun in hiding, dark clouds smothering the sun’s rays. There was much work to be done.

Besides his outpatient practice, Schmidt lorded over the Baltimore City Psychiatric Hospital as its medical director. He prodded into the minds of the mentally ill and examined their eccentricities. He scrutinized the fine lines that determined the dimensions of their diagnoses. “Sanity is a convention shared by the majority,” he would tell his psychiatry residents. “You have to visit the dark places in their minds to see what they see from their own unique perspectives. No two illnesses are alike.” After years of prominence in the career that he has come to find somewhat repetitive and monotonous, he has dared to enter new areas of research where most of his peers would dare not proceed. He was compiling material for a clinical trial, showcasing the state’s most brutal killers.

Schmidt was a world-renown expert in the treatment of acute mental illness. Together with Dr. Alec Joyner, Schmidt took on the seemingly impossible task of properly dissecting the many complex neuroses and psychopathological constructs that plagued criminally-insane patients, as well as the suspect charged in the most horrific serial murder spree to grip the state of Maryland—a man named, Buck Yardley.

* * *

Buck Yardley was forty-five years old and lived in Owings Mills. He worked at a specialty shop, altering men’s suits. He had frizzy, blonde hair, a prominent nose, and arresting eyes. His shoulders sagged, and his elbows jutted out. When the authorities profiled him as the suspect in the murders of his wife and several families and couples in the Baltimore area, veteran officers felt sure they had their guy.

Yardley volunteered at the St. Gertrude’s Catholic Church during services. Despite his diagnosis of disorganized schizophrenia—a type of schizophrenia distinct for disorganized thoughts and symptoms such as social withdrawal and avolition, preventing the patient from making coherent thought patterns and understanding and explaining complex ideas, Yardley was nonetheless respected by acquaintances for his steady employment record and politeness. His diagnosis wasn’t disclosed to the general public, but people knew; his family members knew; people speculated why he acted weird—why he was reclusive, or why he spoke the way he did. People talked, even if doctors didn’t. It was that simple.

As a long-tenured tailor, his reputed attention to detail struck doctors as extraordinary, considering how disorganized schizophrenia should have made it nearly impossible for him to be so precise and focused at his job.

But it was Yardley’s affiliation with St. Gertrude that alerted investigators. One of his roles as a volunteer who worked during Sunday Services was to keep the logbook for parishioners who signed up to volunteer. His wife, the slain Marie Yardley, was a parishioner but not a volunteer, while the other victims were. Parishioners expressed shock at Buck Yardley’s arrest and indictment. He was characterized as quiet, polite, humble.

Joyner knew that the quietest people sometimes spoke the loudest. Never mind folks who made all sorts of racket. Joyner’s evaluations revealed that tortured minds more often hid ugly sores from view before they brandished them and ripped the scabs wide open.

Joyner needed to explain just what prompted Yardley to enact the crimes. What triggered him? How can a disorganized schizophrenic piece together a coherent puzzle such as a series of serial murders when that was highly improbable?

“To Buck, there was little rational point of view in the world that paralleled his own. Buck’s high degree of intelligence demonstrated his capacity at complex analyses, but his altered perception interferes with the formation of normal behavioral patterns.”

Joyner continued speaking into his tape recorder. He kept tapes containing notes concerning his worst cases—this particular case referring to Yardley.

The tape left Joyner with some distinct impressions. The courts had remanded Yardley to the Baltimore Psychiatric Hospital’s acute ward under a temporary detaining order. Yardley was to be evaluated and released after a given period, depending on any charges filed by the DA’s office. Yardley agreed to taped sessions with Joyner. The move caught everyone by surprise. Yardley told investigators that he didn’t have anything to hide.

He didn’t make a clear denial of the accusations, either. It was seen as a gambit—a move to test all law enforcement and clinicians involved in his case. He was telling everyone to play chase.

“Many clinicians would conclude that Buck’s cognitive abilities yield irrational points of view," Joyner said in his tape recorder. "And this is because his assertions are at best incoherent and are derivative on factors such as his psychosocial fixations and psychopathological constructs. If a person’s altered sense of reality exists outside of the common set of parameters, and one’s perception was not merely unique, this would imply that all perceptions varying from the norm would present similarly—thusly would similar personality profiles yield similar behavioral anomalies. This would mean that treatment for a particular diagnosis would depend largely on the interpretation of the patient’s symptomatic response and not on shifting paradigms such as temporary changes in their physical conditioning or their daily stressors. A successful treatment program would, therefore, identify psychopathological constructs and behavioral anomalies shaped from psychosocial fixations and arrestments that persist through to adulthood and manifest amid recurring life stressors."

“In cases where an altered sense of reality could prove to be the norm versus the aberrancy, would insanity be the rule and not the exception, given that it becomes completely understandable? In hindsight, the declaration of various fundamental truths and laws that serve as their basis is best mitigated by persuasive attempts at reinterpreting events and comparing them favorably with laws detailing similar outcomes. Buck molds his perception of reality no differently. While this may be obvious, it remains unclear how Buck had developed homicidal impulses typical for serial killers who exhibit violent behavior at early onset, when Buck, at forty-two, has had no history of violence to date.”

Joyner hit the pause button. He glanced at his wristwatch. Then, he continued.

“Since being medicated and being placed under duress in a facility for the acutely mentally ill, Buck has continued to reveal very little information relevant to treatment—specifically, details that serve as determining factors for the formation of his psychopathological constructs. I’ve turned to an alternative treatment method, allowing Buck to explore more pleasant discussion topics and redirect him to extract relevant information. I’ve found that Buck likes talking about his dreams sometimes and have found that his dreams can be informative.”

Joyner recorded the sessions and labeled the cassette’ rhapsodies.’ One such sequence of dreams revealed details regarding his wife, the slain Marie Yardley.

The sessions with Buck Yardley would start ubiquitously. Joyner would ritualistically turn the clock back to himself to start sessions, despite being aware of the time. He would later compare that time to his wristwatch, ensuring that the two are synchronized down to the second. He would return the clock to its previous position facing Yardley, then he would smile while crossing his legs and smooth his tie. He would end the ritual by resting his hands on his lap to formally begin the session. “How have you been, Buck?” he would start by asking.

By this time, Yardley would be well aware of the routine. “For the most part,” he would answer, “I’m fine.”

Joyner would wait. Then, Yardley would speak. On one rare occurrence, he spoke of his ex-wife.

“I remember our wedding day. I was standing at the altar, waiting for Marie to make her way down the aisle. She took longer than expected, so I grew nervous. Five minutes must have passed before the church organ played, and Marie began making her way down the aisle to greet me. The wedding veil obscured her face, and the train of her gown seemed to stretch forever. The white flowers, white candles, and white dresses and hats in the room contrasted with the tuxedos, the pews, and the marble tiles. The stained glass windows of the church refracted daylight into a litany of bright colors. Bright colors. Like fishes in an aquarium, you know?”

Dr. Joyner noted that Buck had done a good job narrating a story, except for the last part, where the statement regarding fishes in an aquarium didn’t suitably connect with the rest of the narrative. He did exceptionally well for a man with disorganized schizophrenia.

“Marie was careful not to trip and fall. My heart pounded. Sweat gathered along with my temples. My armpits grew damp. I was curious about what took her so long, though. I remembered her taking so long to shop for bread at a bakery. The loaves of bread must have looked enticing. Like the gospel had mentioned. A bakery filled with loaves of bread and fish in a fish market, both in abundance. Colorful fish even.”

Joyner continued to listen, noting the disjointedness of Yardley’s last statements. Joyner couldn’t find a smoking gun. He allowed Yardley to continue elaborating.

“When Marie came closer, I could tell that she wasn’t happy. There were signs of streaking eyeliner, smudges around her eyelids. Her eyes looked sad, not happy. Her pink cheeks lied, maybe. She didn’t smile when she faced me. I had the butterflies looking at her.”

Dr. Joyner’s ears were piqued. The tape recorder went on, and Joyner did his best to refrain from breaking off the monologue. He looked at Marie Yardley’s picture from the crime scene photos in the case file on his lap and found her face solemn and quaint.

He examined the gash around her throat and wondered whether Buck was capable.

Investigators weren’t so sure Marie Yardley fit in with the rest of the murders. Her throat was slit, but she was the only victim whose eyes weren’t extracted. She wasn’t bound, and her body was moved outside. The other victims were killed and left indoors.

What linked her with the other murders: her husband, Buck.

“The light from the stained-glass windows might have left a halo on her head like a crown. It was as if Jesus came down from heaven and given us his blessing.”

“Were you two happy, Buck?”

Dr. Joyner tried to redirect Buck and determine whether Buck would reveal more animosity towards his slain wife. He wanted to build the case for Buck’s motive.

“We were very happy, Doctor. Very happy.”

Buck’s smile didn’t certifiably express happiness, even in hindsight. There was a hint of sarcasm, but Joyner couldn’t be sure.

Marie Yardley was healthy, slightly chubby. She had worked in an office as a clerk. She had lived on her own in a small apartment before marrying. Her parents agreed with Buck Yardley’s parents to pair the two. Marie was shy and initially took well to Buck’s gentlemanly ways. Marie’s friends told the police after the murder that she had been scared to marry a schizophrenic. They confirmed that she had second thoughts before the wedding. A friend told investigators that she had a hard time saying no to him because he was nice.

“Do you think I killed Marie, Doctor?” Buck asked. His eyes threw darts at Dr. Joyner.

“We’re trying to find out. Did you, Buck? What about the other victims? They’re all volunteers at St. Gertrude’s, like you. What does that mean?”

“I don’t know what that means, Doc. It means someone is trying to frame me, perhaps. Did you ever think of that?”

“I can’t say. Who would do that, Buck? You told police that you didn’t have enemies.”

“True. But, there’s something I haven’t told you.”

Joyner braced himself. An outright confession was a win. He imagined TV appearances, interviews, maybe a book deal.

“I might have been next on the list,” Buck said. Joyner couldn’t believe it.

* * *

Buck Yardley was in isolation, in his room, preparing for activity time and lunch. The behavioral techs opened the door and let him out. Immediately, Buck heard the sound of other patients complaining, arguing wildly, ranting, raving, but Buck knew that most of them were doing it by themselves.

Buck looked calm and collected. His hair was disheveled. His eyelids were swollen, and there were black rings under his eyes. His cheeks were beginning to look gaunt, what with the hospital food. Buck’s hospital gowns hung loosely like he was a clothes hanger on a department store rack.

He walked to the water cooler, and another patient rudely stepped in front of him. Buck didn’t react, leaving the spasmodic patient spilling water from his water cup. He looked at the patient—a bald, overweight, and short man with folds around his neck. He looked away, and the old man raced to his room, hurrying for no reason.

Buck sat in the dayroom and took the scrabble from the mess of board games on the table. He emptied the contents and began piecing together words by himself. The behavioral techs were busy, and no one paid attention to Buck Yardley while other patients argued or fussed about medications. Buck watched an old woman across the room laughing while staring back at him, her mouth full of rotting, black teeth; her eyes empty like there was no one home.

A teen wildly pulled at her own hair as a tech intervened. She looked emaciated, and she had scars on her wrists and arms. The tech called additional staff to assist as the teen resisted. The staff members sedated the girl, put a straight jacket on her, and placed her in a rubber room so she couldn’t hurt herself.

Buck thought that he had seen the last of the rowdy patients until a big, burly white man blindsided him and nearly knocked him down. The techs restrained him in time. He was attempting to bite Buck Yardley’s bandaged hand. The techs cried out amongst themselves, ganging up to prevent the man from harming Buck. “He thinks there’s blood underneath the bandage!” one staff member said. “Put the mask on him now!” The nurses came and sedated him, injecting a drug in his exposed arm. One dose wasn’t enough; they needed to give him two shots. They fitted the mask so the patient couldn’t bite anyone. The techs forced down his arms and legs while one tech placed a knee on his back. Buck Yardley stood back while they held the patient, staring like he was watching something from National Geographic—like a wild animal on TV.

Peace prevailed over the ward, and Buck went back to scrabble. Buck linked words together on the table—mostly gibberish; they weren’t actual words. Techs took note of the consistency between his illness and his behavior in the day room. The final word in that jumbled-up set of words proved interesting to one particular tech. She watched Buck carefully put it together: M...U...R...

The tech saw the finished word and wrote it down in her notes. Buck had spelled out the word, ‘MURDER,’ at the very tail-end of the jumbled-up crossword puzzle. Buck examined his work but didn’t smile. Buck looked at the tech, then got up and went to the nurses’ station to get his meds.

* * *

A middle-aged woman named Myrna Falcon was preparing to leave her home located in a quiet Maryland suburb. She was driving downtown in Baltimore that afternoon. She started praying for sunny weather because the skies were darkening.

As a nun who had devoted her life to God’s service, Myrna had worked tirelessly as a missionary, teaching prayer and Christian values to poor children. In her middle age, she would leave the convent and devote her time to foster care. She would care for orphans in a large home left to her by her family. She taught the kids to be meek and humble; she also taught them to value prayer and sacrifice to prepare them for a better life—one with a sense of purpose—a life devoted to peace and love in Christ’s example.

Falcon was driving downtown to see Joyner. She had insisted on seeing him about something important and wasn’t coming for therapy. She meant to warn him about Buck Yardley—the Church volunteer she had bumped into some months prior in downtown Inner Harbor when she took the kids there.

Myrna Falcon wasn’t even supposed to know which psychologist was treating Buck Yardley leading up to the trial. Still, Myrna used her connections with the church, already aware that she fit the profile of a potential victim in the murder spree, and the entire parish community was absolutely terrified. A senior church official and lay minister trusted Myrna enough to disclose the information during an exchange one afternoon when Myrna was stealthily fishing for the info under the guise of protecting her safety and the safety of the orphans under her care.

Myrna recounted the Inner Harbor incident when she had run into Buck Yardley.

One of her kids, Jimmy, an inquisitive ten-year-old with frosty hair and blue eyes, wandered off when a ten-dollar bill slipped from his grasp. The ten-dollar bill was picked up by a bystander not far away. The bystander wore a dark suit and thick, dark sunglasses that made him look like a mobster. He reached out and offered Jimmy the ten-dollar bill, smiling at him. As Jimmy inched closer, the man took his sunglasses off to examine Jimmy more closely. The whites of the man’s eyes clouded up like smoke was glazing over the tears. Jimmy briefly peered into them, and he thought he saw the pupils dilating, opening wide. Jimmy froze as the pupils dilated even wider...

Jimmy retracted, pulling the ten-dollar bill from the man’s outstretched hand and making a run for it. Unknown to Jimmy and the stranger, Myrna Falcon had begun to approach them after briefly finding Jimmy gone. Jimmy ran right into her.

“Jimmy," she said, startled. "Are you alright?"

Jimmy didn’t answer. He slowly turned to face the stranger, who was still standing there, grinning at Jimmy and his Aunt Myrna. The man said hello to them. Jimmy and Aunt Myrna froze.

Myrna caught a glance at the man’s face. Then, she locked eyes with him, seeing a door at the end of a long, dark hallway. There was a light shimmering along the edges of the door, attempting to barrel through. She remembered her time in the convent and the many years that light alluded to God and the beginning of all creation, and she thought that the light had to be good; that it had to be God. The door suddenly burst open, and there was a blinding light. She heard strange voices—crying and wailing. The voices pleaded with her; they begged forgiveness, mercy. She was overcome with pity.

“Please,” they said. “Please…”

Myrna believed that she had peered into the depths of hell. The doors in his eyes suddenly shut, and the pupils turned opaque. His eyes glistened like shiny, black orbs, like walls of darkness and nothing else—the sounds of wailing and pleading silenced.

She would discover the stranger’s name in the Church logbook after seeing him again in Mass as a volunteer. She had a bad feeling about him. She wondered if anyone would believe her.

She hoped that Joyner would.

* * *

The last patient came and went. It was time for Schmidt to do his rounds at the hospital. The waiting room was empty, and the front desk staff was finishing up. He had cleared his desk for the day. He had placed the patient charts on their allotted shelf for filing, and he had placed the pens in a drawer in his desk. In the copy room, he was about to take a facsimile from the machine when his secretary, Martha, poked her head in to say something.

“Dr. Schmidt, I’m afraid it’s urgent,” she said. “They need to speak to you about a patient. The Feds, I mean...”

Schmidt headed back to his office. “Transfer it to my phone, please…thanks,” he said to her.

“They’re here to see you personally. The FBI Agent is already in your office.”

Schmidt found the FBI Agent in his office staring at the painting above his desk. The sky outside revealed the setting sun, dipping into the vast horizon. Schmidt briefly caught sight of an employee getting in her car outside. I do need to get going, he thought to himself. He had to make a house call after going on rounds.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Schmidt,” he told the FBI Agent.

“Doctor, yes, my name is Frank Dellinger, and I’m with the FBI. I needed to ask you about a patient of yours…a certain Buck Yardley. Does the name sound familiar?”

“Should it, Agent Dellinger?” Schmidt answered. “I’m not authorized to speak about my patients.”

“You’ll get the subpoena soon, Doctor,” Dellinger said.

“Meanwhile, can I help you with something else?” Schmidt said.

Dellinger didn’t just come to test Wolfgang Schmidt.

“Dr. Schmidt, I realize that you’ve worked with Dr. Joyner on many celebrated cases. Dr. Joyner is assigned to the Buck Yardley case. We just need to paint a picture for the prosecution to win the case. If we don’t milk this guy for more evidence, Doctor, we’re screwed. Have you and Dr. Joyner ever worked on similar cases? Similar serial killer profiles? Yardley looks like our guy, but the case has holes. What about other cases you’ve done with Dr. Joyner? Anything ring a bell?”

“I hope that you don’t mean that my patient has to be a convenient scapegoat, whatever the case. Not without any concrete evidence linking him to the crimes.”

He continued. “In any case, I’m not allowed to reveal information about Yardley’s treatment. About similar cases, I’ve worked with Dr. Joyner, you could skirt around the issue with the technicality.”

Dellinger briefly wondered whether Schmidt had simply forgotten his own professional interests in the case. If a celebrated case like this fell apart, Schmidt’s track record would take a hit.

As prominent as Schmidt was to the psychiatric community in Baltimore and the rest of Maryland, talk made the rounds about Schmidt’s other projects—his advocacy for his most celebrated patients, ranging from artists, writers, poets, musicians—all budding virtuosos and, at one point in their lives, striding the fine line between sanity and madness. Questions were raised whether his advocacy of art therapy led to conflicts of interest, whether he’d see to his own agenda being an advocate and benefactor of a prodigious patient rather than mitigate the risks they posed to the safety of others.

“We will provide you access to that information, and we will update you on the status of our findings.”

“Please update me at once, then. You’ll have my cooperation.”

“Very well.”

“I’ll have my records manager dig up case files I’ve done with Alec. Meanwhile, I trust that I’ve satisfied your query?”

“For now,” Dellinger answered. He took a deep breath and looked around the office, precisely, at the painting. Dellinger squinted at it.

“By the way,” Schmidt said, stopping Dellinger before exiting the office. “What did you think about that painting?” he asked the detective.

“That strange painting? Interesting.”

“You like it, Detective?”

“Modern with neo-classical touches. Strong subject matter. Makes an impression—a crucifix in urine—based on that famous Pisschrist piece. A devil dressed as a priest. Swirling red colors in the background. A rocky hilltop like Calgary. Impeccably done, Doctor. That inscription is interesting.”

“Do you believe in God, Detective?”

“Perhaps. But, I’m not deeply religious. Are you, Dr. Schmidt?”

“I think we would do better by squabbling less on our religious differences and, instead, do a better job of understanding the intricacies that affect the way we think and act…”

“Because,” Schmidt continued. “If God and the devil were real, and God created a devil to serve as an adversarial entity who would tempt hordes of his beloved people to choose to stray from the path of righteousness, how would free will allow us to choose righteously when psychosocial factors more than account for our fair share of failures and tragedies? How would an impossible moral standard set forth by an institution comprised of centuries-old socio-political views and norms be feasible, and only justifiably unattainable under the influence of a so-called devil?”

Schmidt glanced outside his window at the parking lot.

Dellinger tried to unscramble his thoughts after Schmidt’s convoluted speech. He believed more than ever that Schmidt was as cuckoo as some of the crazies he treated. One thing was sure, though. Schmidt was no Buck Yardley by his estimate.

“It’s about time we take responsibility for our actions. There is no devil. There is no hell. There is only certain madness, which we find on earth, which means…”

“… we’re already living in hell, with no heaven above or hell below us.”

Dellinger found it all so creepy. The enigmatic Dr. Schmidt—weirdness made his genius legend in social circles.

Dellinger wondered what to say to Schmidt to quickly get out of his hair (a comeback, one would say). He remembered having to be somewhere.

“Dr. Schmidt, the best advice is sometimes not to listen to your Doctor’s advice. Good day,” Dellinger said to Schmidt, leaving Schmidt mysteriously smiling to himself.

* * *

Agent Dellinger had the green light to investigate without a partner—an anomaly and break in standard policy and procedure. The FBI allowed him leeway, knowing just how good he was without a leash, without a partner shadowing his superior intuition.

He was a recluse, and his job was his friend. His flat was a boarding house, and his head was his house unless it rained like the adage went. Agent Dellinger used to hit it off with women back in college. Training at the FBI changed that, but not much. When he started chasing some of the worst killers in the country’s history, his outlook changed. Now that he was a veteran hardwired to trace the killer’s steps, get into their heads and see their collective nightmares, he spent days downing cups of coffee and working at desks, investigating scenes and interviewing suspects and witnesses. He became a machine of redundancy, like some of the killers he pursued.

He bought a hotdog at a food truck after leaving Dr. Schmidt’s office. He had coffee with his hotdog and not a soda. He ate hurriedly, then messily wiped the edges of his mouth. He went back to his car to find out about the status of Dr. Joyner’s evaluation. He wasn’t too optimistic. Buck Yardley’s concession to the recording of treatment sessions proved surprising. It could potentially break the case wide open and get the prosecution a sure conviction, but Agent Dellinger didn’t think it added up. He knew killers were often all-too-proud of their crimes, and he fully expected Buck Yardley to plot a scheme to evade conviction. He didn’t anticipate a guilty suspect to willingly surrender himself when the case was on loose ground.

Agent Dellinger didn’t relish being in Dr. Joyner or Dr. Schmidt’s shoes, prying into the minds of psychiatrically ill individuals too broken to safely reintegrate into fearful communities. Buck Yardley, and killers like him took that a step further and needed to be put away forever. Yardley wasn’t like Dr. Schmidt’s disturbed but artistically-inclined patients, filling museums and galleries and bookstores and record stores with monuments to failure—works of art that found a basis in tragedy and insanity.

Dellinger decided to review case notes of the last crime scene involving Buck’s wife, Marie Yardley. Her killing revealed inconsistencies with the other murders, leading him and other investigators to theorize that Marie Yardley’s murder was not connected with the crime spree.

If he could connect the dots, Buck Yardley stood a good chance of never setting foot outside of prison again. Else, they would have to prove that he killed his wife, which didn’t really make much sense, to begin with.

* * *

Myrna Falcon parked her car outside a brick building with no signs. She surveyed the surrounding buildings and found no sign of movement. She crossed the parking lot and pulled her coat tighter as the winds picked up and thought that she detected the scent of fresh mulch. She tried guessing which vehicle on the lot belonged to Joyner and couldn’t find one that made sense. She frowned after seeing a white van used to transport the acute patients.

She went up the steps and entered the building. She saw the front desk in the lobby and found two guards watching the nearest set of elevators. She saw that the waiting room was almost empty, save for a few listless faces. A TV was on, but she couldn’t hear a thing. Doctors and staff members made their way to what she guessed was the cafeteria.

She asked the receptionist where Joyner’s office was located, and she was told that a volunteer would have to escort her up. She frowned at the receptionist before heading to the waiting area.

She got seated at the far end. It didn’t take long before a brusque male volunteer approached her, and she followed him up the elevator. Inside the elevator, she refrained from looking at him. Instead, she stared at a security camera and imagined security personnel chatting away at their desks. She twitched her nose after detecting the volunteer’s underarm odor underneath the scent of his cheap cologne. When the elevator door opened, she carefully navigated a short hallway towards a door with Joyner’s name written. She opened the door and found the waiting room empty. She looked around and was thankful for the sense of order, the scent of air freshener, the view of the parking lot from the window. She could still detect a tinge of mustiness, owing to the building’s age. It hadn’t been renovated in years. She frowned after seeing various flyers stressing religious diversity posted on the bulletin board.

She appreciated the receptionist’s very traditional, very conservative appearance. She approached her about her appointment. “I have an appointment with Dr. Alec Joyner. This isn’t for therapy,” she said, turning away self-consciously before smiling at the receptionist.

Joyner came out after a short wait. He led Falcon to his office.

Although she had never actually worked in an office in her whole life, Falcon wore a suit that day to look respectable. She knew better than expect too much.

Falcon had a seat in Joyner’s office. She narrated what took place in the Inner Harbor when she met Buck Yardley. After Falcon was done, she paused briefly and mentioned her time at the convent.

“May I make special mention that I was once a nun,” she told Joyner. Joyner listened carefully, not letting it look obvious that the last detail didn’t matter to him. When it became obvious that Buck Yardley had been the focus of her visit, all along, Joyner told Falcon that information regarding Yardley was confidential. “But, Dr. Joyner, his eyes!” she beseeched him. “I saw Gehenna in that man’s eyes!” she cried.

“Buck Yardley is the devil,” she told Joyner. “I encourage you to be careful.”

“I can assure you, Ma’am, that Buck Yardley is a troubled man, beset by problems you would not understand if I described to you simply. I can’t tell you anything more about him other than the fact that he is under my care, and he has not been convicted of any crimes…”

Joyner recalled having to make a house call at the day’s conclusion. He stopped for a second before proceeding.

“...But Buck Yardley is not the devil.”

“Yes, he is!”

“Ms. Falcon…”

“He drowned his wife and killed that family by slashing their throats. He even placed them on the couch like they were dolls! What sort of man would do that?”

“Ms. Falcon...”

Myrna Falcon spoke:

“If the body is the temple of God, then whensoever madness afflicts the mind and the heart is driven to the depths of deprivation, we will find that the absence of the highest morale is, in fact, at the root of such defilement of spirit. Then Doctor, what we have here is not God’s descent upon the sovereignty of body but the morbid destitution of his covenant.”

Joyner tried to look sympathetic. Then, he cleared his throat before attempting to break it to her nicely.

“Ms. Falcon, such concerns regarding faith are best reserved for personal reflection and lie outside the scope of my practice. Should you have difficulties that I can help you with, let me know. Any matters concerning my other clients are confidential, I’m afraid.”

Moments later, she left Joyner’s office and picked up the kids from a nearby daycare center. I’ve done my part, she thought. She could do no better than warn others. She could remember the pleading, the wailing of souls in the Armageddon the moment she saw doors open and close in Buck Yardley’s eyes. Behind the walls of the convent, there was a sense of security. The convent being holy ground, it was a sanctuary hallowed by God.

Madness doesn’t stay confined within the walls of a madhouse, she thought angrily on the drive down the freeway.

Cars switched lanes around Falcon’s minivan. She didn’t notice whether they used their turn signals before swerving. She couldn’t forget the light behind the door in Buck Yardley’s eyes. And what about the voices...what were they saying? Why did she feel like covering her ears? Were the voices souls ensnared by the Belial? Or was the devil speaking to her in tongues, beseeching her to do something?

* * *

The acute wards at the Baltimore City Psychiatric Hospital were full.

Strangely, Dr. Schmidt often went on his rounds by himself. It was considered a break in protocol, but his recovery rates proved persuasive. Perhaps, something about him warmed the marrow of listless psychopaths. Nurses would joke about Schmidt threatening the patients with torture, threatening short-term care patients with lengthy stays, and long-term care patients with life sentences if non-compliant.

Like patients in his care who suffered in silence, Schmidt might have heard them screaming silently. His smile might have proven misleading. A look deep into his eyes would have certainly proven harrowing to non-compliant patients, staff suggested. The voices might have actually grown louder, while horrific visions would have intensified with a look into his eyes.

Joyner, meanwhile, ruminated in his office with his eyes closed. He was getting ready to leave for the day; he had somewhere to go, but he felt inclined to put his feet up and recline the office chair, play some Rachmaninov on the turntable on his desk and relax. He couldn’t help from thinking about Buck Yardley. The prosecution could wrap up the trial once he offered his opinion that Yardley was guilty of the murders. Along with the tape, Rhapsodies, which would be played for the jury as Exhibit A for the prosecution, Yardley’s defense would prove futile. Joyner deliberated whether Yardley’s defense would argue that Yardley intended to lay claim for the killings—being a rather disturbed man with an irrational point of view. Joyner had to wonder for a moment whether he felt right about doubting his role in the indictment—being an employee of the state—when he doubted whether Yardley was truly guilty in the first place. Joyner didn’t think it added up. If Yardley allowed him to record conversations during psychotherapy, he would be consenting to a voluntary confession of the crimes. Joyner asked himself why he would do this. Yardley had yet to make an admission of guilt, and neither did he negotiate for a shorter sentence pending a trial, which wouldn’t have mattered, considering he would have been sentenced to several life sentences without the possibility of parole. It was a break in protocol, but he decided to speak to Yardley in solitary confinement to find out. He decided to swing for the fences; he had a plan. He would need more time and more input from Dr. Schmidt.

* * *

Shortly afterward, Joyner walked out of his office and patted his pockets, feeling the keys jingling, feeling his taser gun conveniently tucked into his suit jacket.

He headed for the elevators and punched the button. He took off his tie and slung it over his shoulder. When the elevator door opened, he nearly rushed inside before running into Wolfgang Schmidt himself.

Schmidt smiled and said hello to Joyner. Schmidt asked Joyner about his practice, his wife, kids. Joyner elaborated sparingly. He asked to speak to Schmidt upstairs.

“Cafeteria is closer unless you’re okay with the doctor’s lounge,” Schmidt said.

“Let’s do that, shall we?” Joyner answered. Schmidt led the way to the cafeteria past the lobby while Joyner made some small talk.

“Have we had attempts at escapes lately?”

“Patients always try to break free. Doesn’t happen. Especially not here. They end in isolation.”

“I know.” Joyner kept in pace with Schmidt, who walked briskly.

“One in particular?” Schmidt asked.

“Buck Yardley.”

Schmidt smiled.

“That one’s not going anywhere.”

“Why so sure?”

“Security, you mean? It’s air-tight.”

“I meant that he would have tried.”

“Not even.”

“I should know better.”

They entered the cafeteria. They took seats in the farthest corner of the room, where no one was sitting.

“Know what exactly?”

“That he wouldn’t try a daring stunt.”

Schmidt was perplexed.

“It’s not in him.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Yardley’s not ingenious enough, in my opinion.”

“I think he’s putting on a show.”

“You mean, he’s not guilty? Might you be the only one, Alec?”

“Wolfgang, he’s sick. But not like that.”

“I see the capacity for violence. Don’t you? Haven’t you interviewed him?”

“He’s baring teeth. Nothing more.”

“He intimidates some of the staff here. My residents are begging off even when he’s celebrated.”

“It’s what he wants, maybe. The reputation.”

“That reputation will land him in jail all his life. A copycat, you say?”

“He’s letting me record our sessions. Sure-fire confession.”

“But Alec, he knows he’s beaten.”

“Not what a true psychopath would do, Wolfgang. Why can’t you see that? He’d fight tooth and nail to win a trial to beat the system. There’s not enough circumstantial evidence. With the tape, the trial is a wrap. Killers like this don’t make these kinds of mistakes.”

Schmidt stared into Joyner’s eyes and didn’t smile at him. Joyner detected impatience. Schmidt looked away and sunk back into his chair.

“It’s your job if you lose his confession. All you have to do is hand the tape over. You’ll ruin your career if you don’t. You’re one of the best in the area. It all goes down the drain, Alec.”

Joyner briefly considered what was coming over him.

* * *

“You know the drill, don’t you, Alec?”

“I’ve done this a million times, Wolfgang. Care to orient me?”

Schmidt laughed.

“What you’re doing is madness. I don’t have to orient you on that.”

“I never fail.”

The double doors opened, and a behavioral technician escorted Alec Joyner down a long corridor. Schmidt stayed behind, watching from behind the door, waiting for it to close and for Joyner to disappear behind it before heading to the enclosed area to watch surveillance footage. Joyner sat down at a table positioned across an empty chair as the morgue-bright fluorescent light made him squint beneath his spectacles. Buck Yardley entered the room, escorted by two behavioral technicians.

“We meet under inauspicious circumstances, Doctor,” the voice said.

“Yes. How are you, Buck?”

“Managing.” Joyner noticed Yardley’s face. Buck was smiling. He looked at Joyner and Joyner saw just why he scared off residents and staffers.

Yardley wasn’t scared.

“Buck, I want to ask you something.”

“I’ve always obliged. I’m no Hannibal Lecter, Dr. Joyner.”

“No. Of course not, Buck.”

Buck Yardley stared blankly at Joyner. He squinted against the glare of the lights.

“Did you kill Marie, Buck? Did you kill your wife?”

“Aren’t we saving that for your tape? Where’s all the equipment?”

“Why not tell us if you know who did it, Buck? Did you...kill her?”

Buck Yardley laughed, at first, then broke down crying. He cried like a baby, lowering his head onto the table.

He continued to breathe unsteadily, audibly crying like a boy who’d lost his mother.

“I know it’s hard, Buck. Let me help,” Joyner said.

Buck Yardley was looking for something. Joyner was startled. He guessed that Buck was searching for cameras.

Suddenly, Buck stared right at Joyner. His eyes bled fear, not anger.

Joyner tried to calm him down.

“Buck, it’s okay. We’ll talk in my office downstairs, okay? The next time you’re scheduled...”

Buck Yardley’s eyes went glassy. Like he went into a trance. Then he rocked back and forth as he stared behind Joyner into the long corridor, no longer looking at Joyner.

Joyner glanced at Buck Yardley one more time before lowering his head and following the tech out to the Doctor’s lounge.

* * *

When Joyner entered the room, Schmidt had his arms crossed, waiting for him.

“What was that about, Alec? Couldn’t you have waited till you were scheduled?”

“I needed to find out.”

“Find out what, Alec? You could have easily interviewed him when it was convenient.”

“Wolfgang, he’s not guilty. He only talks when it’s recorded on tape.”

Schmidt stared into Joyner’s eyes with little sympathy.

“You bought his act, Alec? You’re one of the best forensic psychologists in the country. Don’t tell me that Buck Yardley is cracking you open.”

“I’m not mistaken. This whole thing smells like a rotten egg. Everything’s wrong. He’s never been violent. No domestic abuse in his history. No sexual abuse. He has no priors. He’s never been cited for cruelty to pets, even lizards, damn it!”

“Play the tape, Alec. Try the first session. Connect the dots. He’s not acting. He’s refracting.”

“Dissociative identity disorder? He’s a disorganized schizophrenia case.”

“That will explain some things, like motive for one. Think his wife’s murder being different from the Sussex County case. Same means of killing. Not the same personality.”

Joyner’s mouth dropped slightly. Everything he looked at inside the room, with surveillance footage focused on Buck Yardley’s room, to other patients’ cells in the ward, boiled down to the very last word that Schmidt said and the camera zooming in on Buck Yardley’s face, smiling at the camera.

Joyner considered the oversight. But, why did Buck Yardley want to go away to prison without even a fight, he asked himself. It was the million-dollar question. He saved it for his colleague. Schmidt relaxed as he waited for Joyner to settle himself.

“He doesn’t intend to. He hasn’t made an admission. He intends to appear too ill to stand trial, to plead not guilty by reason of insanity if need be. His challenge is to place himself before the legal system, the medical community, friends and family, and the community at large and escape conviction against the odds, having put himself within striking distance of a guilty verdict and escape the victor after the prosecution had him dead-to-rights.”

Joyner couldn’t say a word. He had the utmost respect for Schmidt, but any hint of suspicion he felt in his gut seemed to shift towards someone else at that moment.

Dissociative Identity Disorder? A new diagnosis? Where were the case notes? Did Dr. Schmidt plan to break the case wide open and not share the new findings with him until it was too late?

* * *

Joyner left the acute ward. He took the elevators down to his office. He sat in his chair and played the tape of his sessions with Buck Yardley—the tape called Rhapsodies.

“The first session...”

“Buck Yardley suffered from a combination of acute mental illnesses without certain symptoms distinguishing the most prominent conditions from latent ones, making the establishment of diagnosis and prognosis that much difficult. I can easily recall the first time I met Buck.”

The Tape crackled, but the sound quality smoothed out, and Dr. Joyner and Buck Yardley’s voices came clearly.

“Have you been keeping up with your treatment plan as ordered?”

“Yes, Dr. Joyner. Of course.”

Joyner remembered Yardley sitting in a chair in a dark portion of his office. Yardley had requested to leave the curtains drawn, remaining cossetted in darkness, the light from a lamp encumbered behind the Doctor.

“Buck, you’re charged with your wife’s murder. Tell me what you know. Help me help you, Buck. Before it’s too late,” Joyner asked Yardley.

Sitting in his chair, listening to the tape, Dr. Joyner pictured Buck Yardley’s face. Joyner noted a conspicuous absence of emotion in Yardley’s inflections and tone of voice. Joyner pictured Yardley’s lips and facial features moving to the sound of his voice. It made Joyner visualize a man moving underneath a blanket in bed in a cold, dark room, looking somehow like the skin on Buck Yardley’s face. Joyner sensed cold, calculating cruelty lurking behind the facade of affective flattening—the tightening sinews and sharply angled bones moving asymmetrically—like industrial beams, pulleys, gaping open into an urban abyss—like the scenes of the murders: homes in suburbs, apartments downtown. The geometrical angles turned obtuse and disorienting behind Joyner’s eyes. Odd angles were believed to inspire madness, Joyner reflected.

He concluded that Buck Yardley was hiding his emotions and toying with him.

“What do I have left to gain? I’m not sure. All that remains, I suppose.”

Joyner’s left eye narrowed imperceptibly, re-calibrating. He raised his chin to picture Buck Yardley’s face and closely examine his emotional response and watch for inconsistencies.

“All that remains of what? You mean there are other bodies?” Joyner had asked him.

Joyner remembered that Yardley’s initial consult came with a few notes on the referral sheet. The referring Doctor was none other than a Dr. Wolfgang Schmidt and the notes sent in place of the actual records described Yardley as “cooperative, withdrawn, and delusional.” He took those notes out of a folder right then and recalled how strange it was for Schmidt to provide so little input into a murder case.

Joyner’s thoughts raced as the tape played the rest of the conversation.

He reflected further. Yardley was mostly an enigma until he was suspected of murdering his ex-wife. After that, the Sussex County case and the subsequent murders would place him all over the headlines—like a modern-day Ted Bundy or Denis Rader.

“All that remains of what, Buck?” Joyner pressed further.

“All of what I am,” Yardley answered.

He continued: “I mourn what I never had, mourn all that I had lost, lost most of what I had.”

Joyner pictured Buck Yardley turning to face the window. He refrained from moving after that, letting the previous thought hang suspended. Yardley would face Joyner again after a bout of silence.

“If I truly did have nothing, but thought that I actually did, or that I simply lost what I thought I did and lost what I very well never had, what is now left of what was or what merely might have been and what could have happened to everything I might have lost and never gained?”

“What did you lose, and if so, what should you have left?”

Joyner recalled sounding confused. Joyner was aware that Yardley’s convoluted speech was like a chess match. “What is left of you is here. What you have is what is within you, what you see around you, and what part of you exists is the reality you seek to deny or control by ambiguating.”

Joyner also knew that Buck Yardley occasionally lapsed into disorganized thinking. He recalled thinking hard about the right techniques to divert his many confabulations.

There was a pause in the recording. Joyner remembered his intention of clarifying Yardley’s purpose of treatment when he remembered Yardley leaning forward and showing his face after purposely hiding in the dark. As Joyner sat in his chair, listening, he had a feeling he was right the first time he found Buck Yardley’s affective flattening liable to change without any preceding motive. He remembered what his colleague, Dr. Schmidt, had said about the possibility of a dissociative identity disorder co-morbidity diagnosis. He considered the possibility of a patient having two major acute mental illnesses present simultaneously. It was rare, but not impossible.

“I have nothing, doctor,” Buck Yardley muttered on tape. Dr. Joyner heard a beeping sound, signaling the end of the first recorded session.

* * *

Myrna Falcon lay in bed, tossing and turning in her sleep. Her hands grasped at the sheets. Her head pushed back against the pillows, side to side, as though a nightmare was haunting her. She kicked back the blankets, one foot first, then the other. Her right hand reached into her nightie, the knuckles showing underneath the smooth satin, clawing as though it longed to reach into her chest cavity and extricate her beating heart.

She remembered her childhood days, wearing bright dresses in the summers and colorful sweaters in the cold climate. She loved Christmas; it helped endear her to Christ. Her parents were kind, encouraging; they took her to Church on Sundays, and she enjoyed singing in the choir and volunteering as a teen. She wanted nothing else but to enter the convent. Those days, in suburban streets where she grew up, surrounded by loving family and friends, the nightmarish visions seemed so far away. The convent ushered in a new world to her: one in which the Book of Revelations proceeded to inspire otherworldly fear.

Then, she suddenly woke up. Her mouth open, her eyes thirsting for light in the dark room, she realized that she’d pushed the covers off, and her bare arms and legs were sheathed with a cold sweat. She felt cold. She pushed back tears. She was scared that she’d fall asleep again. She was tired. Instead of resting her head and staying in bed, she got up and anxiously fumbled for the light switch. She didn’t want the night lamp. She wanted the overhead lamps to wash the dark room with bright life-giving light—the face of God.

But she remembered at that instant that Satan had once been the light-bearer of heaven as Lucifer. It didn’t matter. She wanted nothing more than for light to extinguish the darkness—darkness incited fear, and fear was the devil’s tool.

She turned the lights on in the hallway, at the staircase, and in the kitchen. She opened the fridge and was relieved to see the light flooding out. She poured herself some cold water and drank.

She remembered her nightmare. She couldn’t fathom looking for the article, but she had to look. She found it folded up on the dining table. She read the headline on the front page:

Four families Now Found Dead—Serial Killer Grips The City Of Baltimore!

It was an old piece of paper. She looked at the pictures of the deceased and saw the faces in her dream. She watched them open their mouths slowly, blood leaking from the sides of their mouths as blood poured from gashes at their throats going from ear to ear.

The very last face she saw was a woman’s. She was begging for her life, shaking her head vigorously. She was crying. The next moment, the face dissolved, and, instead, Myrna saw her face in a mirror in the same room as the woman’s. She was in a kitchen. A cake sat on the table with a knife beside it. The woman reappeared; she was washing plates at the sink. She turned around, looking startled to see Myrna. She seemed to recognize Myrna; she even smiled like she was happy to see her. She went to fetch the kitchen towel, making small talk, before she started drying plates at the sink. Myrna watched herself take the knife from the table, then watched as the woman turned around to find Myrna holding the knife in her hand. Myrna watched herself inch closer to the woman, holding up the knife above her head. Then, she watched each murder victim appear in sequence: the family in Sussex County, a family of three in Catonsville, and others. She watched them, in basements, living rooms, bedrooms, their throats slit, propped up on chairs, their gashes smiling their sins bare. Then, she watched as the woman in the kitchen reappeared and placed a hand on her throat as blood sputtered in between her fingers. The woman began shaking violently; blood spattered violently across the room, coloring the walls and the icing on the cake. Myrna saw her face in the mirror in the kitchen, smiling like the devil had possessed her. That was when she woke up, sweating, her heart leaping in her chest. She concluded that God must have been sending her a message. She’d tried in vain to warn them. What else could she do? She considered whether Dr. Joyner’s techniques helping clients revisit painful memories would help her convince him that she was telling the truth somehow. But how? Describe her nightmares to him and help him find clues? Tell him that she had visions? That God worked in mysterious ways?

* * *

Joyner waited in his office for personnel to escort Buck Yardley to his office. He wasn’t a prisoner or a convict. He was being detained with the aid of a court order remanding him to treatment, but he was still a patient. Should he be convicted, he would be transported to a maximum-security prison to spend his days. Joyner considered Schmidt’s theory, and then Schmidt himself.

The illustrious Dr. Wolfgang Schmidt. His favorite nightcap was brandy. He filled up his flask with rum and brought it along to flavor punch since punch was often served to faculty at the hospital. He liked to joke that punch never had enough of its namesake for his tastes. He bragged about his cellar at home—his cellar stocked with fine wine, brandy, and bourbon, the latter being another favorite. He added bourbon to coffee in place of caramel syrup and mixed his hot apple cider with rum. He drank lemon-lime juice with gin. With Schmidt’s detached, solitary lifestyle, it was said that alcohol was his only companion. He reputedly never got drunk. Other doctors joked that Schmidt never came close to crossing his threshold. Others said that he held his liquor like a pro.

Schmidt loved art. His favorite patients were talented artists. One was a painter living in a poorer district who loved religious scenes where he depicted torment, persecution, and Armageddon. Another esteemed patient was a renaissance man who wrote dark ambient music and poetry. He was a Pushcart Prize winner for two short tales focusing on young teens coming of age amid lingering trauma, poverty, and violence in the community. Joyner arrived at the impression that Schmidt loved cultivating artistic inclinations in his most introverted, maladjusted young patients.

Joyner loved doing the same. But all of Schmidt’s artist-types were dark artists. He imagined Buck Yardley doing lithe colored sketches of men and women in his cell with their throats cut open while Schmidt looked on, pleased.

He imagined the paintings selling at a gallery show somewhere.

Was Dr. Schmidt somehow the beneficiary?

* * *

The lights came on, and the gray walls shone iridescent in the morgue light. In a cell at the end of a hallway, Buck Yardley sat with his head in his hands. Schmidt marched down the short hallway and peered into the glass door. He pushed the door open and sat opposite the empty chair in the room. Buck Yardley didn’t look up from the floor where he sat. The behavioral techs waited by the door in case Schmidt would need them.

“I suppose that you haven’t been getting enough sleep, Mr. Yardley. Could you be upset for some reason? Would you mind enlightening me?”

Buck Yardley didn’t react. His bed was unmade. His food remained untouched. Dr. Schmidt noticed the relative squalor of Yardley’s physical presentation. He had yet to shave, bathe, or groom his hair. The techs had to take platefuls of leftovers before they attracted rodents and other pests.

Buck Yardley looked up. His eyes looked haggardly; his cheeks looked sunken, his jaws stood out sharper than before. He was gaunt, emaciated. Techs claimed he stunk of excrement, underarm odor. His beard had significantly thickened.

“I sleep, Doctor. It’s all you can do here. See, there’s a bed. No stationary on a desk. No computer or TV. Pills, darkness, nightmares, and madness.”

Schmidt didn’t flinch. He stared into Yardley’s eyes like they were pinwheels. He wasn’t hypnotized. He liked the swirling black and white sections in his eyes opening like doors into an inner world—there may have been a family propped up on a chair, gagging from gashes to the throat—there may have been couples tied up on living room floors, sitting pat on blood-stained carpets.

Was Schmidt sure that Yardley was the killer? What did Schmidt particularly want from Yardley outside of his work with him as his psychiatrist? Did Yardley’s life look good in books? Was Yardley amenable to a biography, portraying him as one of America’s most enigmatic serial killers—a disorganized schizophrenic with enough powers of discernment to construct a scheme that killers with his illness realistically couldn’t? Did that mean that Buck Yardley wasn’t even guilty, and he was taking a fall, somehow? Why then?

Death followed the inimitable Doctor—bad seeds in the entire state of Maryland were housed here, so were mass murderers and individuals who were criminally and religiously insane.

Yardley might have been here for just a lifetime, but Schmidt’s wards housed an assortment of monsters.

* * *

“Hello, Buck.”

Buck Yardley was escorted into Dr. Joyner’s office by security personnel. He was restrained to his chair, so Joyner could sit across the room and conduct the session with peace of mind. This time, Yardley had taken a shower, trimmed his beard, and had brushed his hair back, already looking like a convicted criminal. His eyes stared blankly, dazed by nights of insomnia and feverish visions—the type that Joyner anticipated would prove riveting for future scientific journals.

Joyner sat down and smiled at Buck. He performed his daily ritual to start sessions, then smiled at Buck Yardley even though he didn’t look the least interested in talking.

“Buck,” Joyner began. “You look like you’ve slept little. It says in your chart that you’re taking injectible antipsychotics that should knock you out most of the day. “How has your sleep been?”

“Miserable, doctor,” Buck Yardley answered. “I assume that it’s highly irregular to be sleeping less than ten hours a day on the stuff, but it’s the nightmares that are keeping me up. How can the other patients handle it?

“The conditions? The acute ward is no hotel. But that’s not why you’re in the hospital, Buck.”

“Dr. Schmidt is who I mean. How can they handle that?”

Dr. Joyner was caught by surprise.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

Joyner quietly knew what Yardley was referring to, though. A celebrated case and years of requests for media exposure and biographers would have been hard for Schmidt to turn down.

Joyner tried to be sympathetic.

“I’ve read the case notes, and it’s clear that you haven’t been divulging enough information. You need to cooperate with Dr. Schmidt or me. Let us help you.”

Yardley suddenly smiled. His eyes lit up like cotton candy like the Baltimore Serial Murder Spree was much too tame for his standards.

“You don’t have a case without that tape.”

Yardley’s last remark sucked the air out of the room. After thinking that Buck Yardley might have simply been copping for the murders, Dr. Joyner realized that he wasn’t sure about anything.

“Buck, you told me when we first talked that you were probably next in line in the murder spree. Marie was killed. Those other church volunteers were killed. On the other hand, you’re alive, and you kept the logbook. You look guilty. We have enough circumstantial evidence to get a conviction. Do you know who the killer might be? Help me help you, Buck.”

Buck Yardley twiddled his thumbs. He looked up at the ceiling and shifted in his seat. Then, he looked straight at Dr. Joyner and gave his best guess.

“There’s a woman, a middle-aged woman. She looked suspicious to me. I never saw her go up to my wife. In fact, she doesn’t speak to parishioners, volunteers. Only ministers and clergy. Something about her. I’ve seen her elsewhere...”

Yardley paused to scan the room, seeing blank walls, muttering without any words becoming audible.

“I didn’t kill Marie, Doctor. I didn’t know those people. I saw them in church. Nothing more. Why would I kill Marie? Someone like me with my disability would have a hard time finding a wife.”

Alec Joyner listened, aware that Buck Yardley had yet to even remonstrate as to his innocence, let alone make a categorical denial of the charges. He realized that he needed a chat with Agent Dellinger. Did investigators pin the murders on Yardley out of convenience, failing to consider that someone else out there might have framed him cleverly? Who was this middle-aged woman Yardley spoke of?

His heart nearly skipped when the thought registered. He remembered Myrna Falcon.

* * *

Dellinger made a surprise visit at Dr. Joyner’s office before Joyner left for the day. Joyner called him inside, and both men promptly got seated.

Joyner did a shortened version of his pre-therapy ritual, smoothing his tie and crossing his legs before asking Dellinger what was urgent.

“Agent Dellinger, what can I assist with? I was getting ready to leave for the day when you walked in. I had every intention of updating you regarding my findings, actually. Something’s come up.”

“Dr. Joyner, FBI Director Rasmussen, and the DA need to know if we’ve gained ground on the case. Forensics haven’t found evidence tying Buck Yardley to the crime scenes. We’re on thin ice. Do we know if it’s him?”

Joyner squinted, then adjusted his glasses. He swallowed hard, realizing that the State wasn’t going to be thrilled with the notion that he was on the fence. He wanted to tell him that he felt in his gut that Buck Yardley had to be the killer, but Yardley’s earlier confession left the case hanging. Joyner knew that Dellinger would have to investigate Yardley’s lead in the case, particularly when the case against Yardley was not a slam dunk. Joyner had doubts whether Myrna Falcon could look like a suitable suspect; she didn’t fit the profile. Joyner felt that Buck Yardley was baiting them to eventually let him off the hook in the end. It was a wild goose chase.

“I’m not certain just yet,” Joyner said to Dellinger’s surprise.

“He’s offering to record the sessions on tape. That tape is going to get us that conviction. What exactly are you saying, Doc?”

“I’m saying that whoever the killer is, is mightily disturbed...but Buck Yardley may either prove to be worse than what we first thought, or he can actually turn out to be innocent."

Dellinger looked at Joyner like he had lost his mind.

“Worse, Doc?” he said, jaw slightly dropped.

“I’m not certain,” Dr. Joyner said, almost whispering.

“Here’s a lead, Agent Dellinger. A woman came by here today, claiming to know Buck Yardley. She says she ran into him at Inner Harbor. She’s not a church volunteer, but she’s a parishioner. She appears a bit delusional, Agent Dellinger. She thinks Yardley’s the devil, but that’s explainable in some cases where a nun might insist on her religious mania over common sense.”

Agent Dellinger intently listened, eyes narrowing after hearing the words, religious mania.

“Her name is Myrna Falcon. I had my receptionist pull her registration details. This is her address. Check her out and see if she fits the bill.”

“We’ll end up ruling this one out, I’m sure,” Dellinger said dismissively.

“It can’t come from me or my office, Agent Dellinger. Look up church records to see how she ties into the case. Yardley says she knows the lay ministers, the clergy. She’s a nun. The soonest we rule her out, the better. We can focus on Yardley. I believe this may be his gambit.”

“I understand, Dr. Joyner. Thank you for the lead.”

Agent Dellinger got up and headed out. Dr. Joyner looked out the window into the mess of buildings, the bleak sky. God’s green earth, he thought, was a killing field. He wondered whether he was right to assume that Yardley was the killer. Was he presuming guilt like everyone else was? After being the State’s best forensic psychologist for years, was he finally slipping?

* * *

Dr. Joyner was alone again. Buck Yardley was back in isolation, and Joyner contemplated his next steps. He took out his tape recorder. He hesitated, then pressed record.

“Dr. Schmidt’s preliminary diagnosis of dissociative identity disorder as a secondary prominent acute mental illness with co-morbid symptoms appears inconclusive as of yet. My findings would lean on disorganized schizophrenia alone as a diagnosis, and I have yet to find sufficient reason to suspect the possibility of Dr. Schmidt’s diagnosis being valid. That said, it is also not discounted since Buck has shown multiple abrupt changes in demeanor and candor, showing indifference in one instance and laughing or smiling without reason the next. However, there appear to be no clear disparate or dissociative personalities present during such states. He responds to the same name despite the violent change in moods. He only attests to the presence of disturbed emotions stemming from the killings, which would actually dispute any suspicion of guilt. Theoretically, a truly disturbed psychopath could act out as a calm, collected individual not capable of crime should the need to evade conviction arise. Buck Yardley presents as a possible candidate for this latter aspect. Still, his abruptly changing crying and laughing episodes give rise to the theory that Dr. Schmidt’s diagnosis of dissociative identity disorder is only beginning to manifest in early onset.”

Joyner put down the tape recorder and sat in the quiet. He needed the daily activity notes from Buck’s chart. The notes would indicate what techs observed from Buck’s behavior in the dayroom. It would give some indication whether Dr. Schmidt’s theory was baseless.

* * *

Buck Yardley took the paper cup full of pills. He took the pills and gulped down some soda from his breakfast tray. The nurse checked to see whether his mouth was empty before Buck was free to head to the dayroom to watch TV.

A patient sat on the couch in front of the TV. Buck decided to sit at a table further off. He pulled the chair and got seated, watching The Price Is Right on TV. The patient in front of the TV suddenly turned the TV off, then left the dayroom, so Buck was free to watch by himself.

He turned the TV back on and flicked stations. He found the movie channel and realized it was a comedy. He went through the stack of DVDs and found dramas, comedies, but no horror movies, or slasher movies. Predictable, he thought vainly. It was a psychiatric hospital, and they probably didn’t want patients seeing any kind of violence. Images flashed through Buck’s mind: Marie, lying in the pond at the back of their house, the water dark and red, the gash along her throat opening up the folds in her neck, flooding water into her chest cavity, her stomach, her lungs. Buck sat there, staring at the TV without watching, engulfed in memories, unsure what to feel, a scream somehow trapped in his throat as he pictured his wife dead in the tarn. Perhaps, he thought, whoever had murdered his wife had known her comparatively well to the other victims. Perhaps, he, himself, had thought to tell her all those years that he wanted out of a marriage devoid of true happiness. Perhaps, he didn’t remember just what might have taken place that night she was found murdered. It might have been latent somewhere in his brain—another personality forming beneath the dominant one—the dominant one being Buck Yardley, the husband, tailor, Christian, parishioner, volunteer. Perhaps, this other personality—a more violent one—was lying dormant in the whorls of his brain. Was Dr. Schmidt right to guess at that, or was Buck in the crosshairs of a conspiracy, a shakedown, and he was being framed by a very deceptive, ingenious killer.

* * *

Agent Dellinger sped off in the direction of St. Gertrude’s Church. He called his contacts at the police precinct to run a background check on Myrna Falcon. His thoughts raced as he struggled to connect the dots. What looked obvious to him was that Yardley was buying time until his temporary detaining order expired. He called Director Rasmussen immediately.

“Director Rasmussen, it’s Agent Dellinger. We need the judge to extend the TDO on Buck Yardley. He’s sending us on a wild goose chase. We’re investigating a lead on a woman at his church that he says looked suspicious. It’s bullshit. She’s a nun, I think. She makes for a perfect serial killer. Like she’s Joan of Arc ridding the world of sinners. I’m on the way to the church to investigate. I’ll let you know.”

Director Rasmussen deferred. He nodded in his office, seated in his chair, facing the window. “I’ll put in the request for the Judge, Agent Dellinger. Just so you know, the DA still wants more evidence to book this guy. He thinks the defense is on solid ground. No murder weapon on his person. No DNA on him, his home, or his car. No witnesses. The wife’s biggest draw here. Her killing bears differences. A trophy wasn’t taken from her person while the others had eyes scooped out. That could be the crux there. He couldn’t bear taking a trophy from her, let alone leaving her dead indoors.

As you know, she was dragged out of the house, but Yardley was reportedly at work when the incident took place. Yardley was at work, but he was alone at the alterations shop, and no one saw him leave. He had no customers at the time. He could easily walk, Agent Dellinger. No matter what everyone thinks.”

Agent Dellinger thought for a moment that Marie Yardley’s killing might have been staged to look different to throw off investigators. The killer might have been toying with them. The killer might have still been out there, and Yardley was innocent.

“Alright, Director Rasmussen. I’m at St. Gertrude’s. I’ll see what I can dig up.”

Agent Dellinger got out of his car and stared up at the church from the parking lot. The killer lurked in this area. Whether they had their man or whether the real killer was getting ready to kill again was anybody’s guess.

* * *

Dr. Wolfgang Schmidt was doing rounds again. It was quite odd; actually, the nurses thought. Schmidt had already done rounds when he doubled back to see Buck Yardley, last minute before the day ended. Then again, anything was likely to happen when it came to the enigmatic Wolfgang Schmidt.

Schmidt entered Yardley’s room, flanked by two techs. Buck Yardley sat in his bed, looking at the Doctor. Schmidt stood over Yardley from a short distance, short enough for Buck Yardley to lunge at Dr. Schmidt and injure him badly.

The two techs knew the drill. Wolfgang Schmidt was, perhaps, the bravest psychiatrist to make the rounds of the hospital’s worst acute wards. There was something about his genius with mentally-ill patients that made for an indispensable prerequisite to success—a certain prerequisite madness, an appreciation of the men and women most people found too violent and unstable to deal with comfortably.

“Buck, how are you doing? My staff is treating you well, I hope,” he started by saying. Buck had the impression Schmidt was just getting warmed up.

“I read the case notes, Buck. You look like a sure conviction to me. Regardless of no one seeing you, no weapons found in your home, no DNA evidence. Why not come clean? You obviously have a story to tell. That was why you murdered them, am I right?”

Buck scoffed. He smiled like a man with a million years to spare. Several lifetime sentences in a row didn’t do him justice.

Buck thought that the case might have been hanging from a spindle. Dr. Schmidt was throwing himself into the fire to come out the winner.

“I didn’t kill my wife...and I barely knew those people, Dr. Schmidt. You have no motive, and you haven’t put together a decent story that explains why I would have killed innocent people. My diagnosis makes me a scapegoat.”

Schmidt raised his chin, almost admiring his latest captive predator. But was Yardley the killer?

“I think the eyes were extracted because you thought those people couldn’t see the truth about something...perhaps, about you, Buck? You’re not scared or disfigured, but you are stigmatized, aren’t you? No one likes inviting schizos for Christmas or Thanksgiving. Not when you might say things that might send people off the rails. Right, Buck?”

Buck scoffed again.

“The gashes on the throats done to kill the victims also symbolized smiles on their faces. The victims were placed in front of TVs, propped on couches, made to look normal, happy. You weren’t normal or happy, were you, Buck? Tell me if this theory might move a jury to deliberate within minutes instead of hours.”

“I’m well-liked, Doctor. Ask around.”

“...”

“Ask Dr. Joyner.”

It was Dr. Schmidt’s turn to balk.

“Alec thinks you’re guilty as sin, Buck. Does that sound about right? You go to church, Buck. You met all your victims there. You couldn’t stand their judgment. Christians have no empathy for mental illness. Mental illness is almost a sin. The devil makes a perfect scapegoat. Your diagnosis is his pulpit, his false testimony.”

Buck Yardley looked at him defiantly. He was ready to waste away in prison if need be. He wasn’t admitting to the murders. Whether he truly was guilty didn’t matter to him.

Perhaps, it didn’t matter to Wolfgang Schmidt, either.

* * *

Buck Yardley remembered the woman—the middle-aged woman he met at Inner Harbor and saw at church. What did he think of her? She had a stern look, particularly when looking at him. He remembered seeing her eyes glisten. Like the eyes of lions in Africa after seeing wildebeests. He didn’t see God in those eyes. Not the way he saw kindness in his parish priest’s eyes. Not the way Marie’s eyes looked shy and gentle, or the way Marie often looked away when the conversation grew tense. Buck remembered the woman’s flat shoes and old woman’s clothes, remembering seeing her walk by at church without saying hi, smiling, saying this like, this is the day the Lord has made, brother. Let us go forth and rejoice...

Like he felt a good Christian would. He remembered the way she had stared at him in Inner Harbor the day he ran into her. He had watched her face twist in horror and anger even as he had merely returned the ten-dollar bill to the little boy she was with. Some gratitude, he had thought. He thought that maybe she was cuckoo, even...

Those eyes of hers said that, didn’t they? They stamped into his memories, like portals into dark hallways, like dark rooms filled with a harrowing void.

He remembered Marie. He didn’t love Marie. Not truly. Yes, she was his wife. Yes, he wept at the crime scene. They were arranged to marry, really. Her parents knew that he had a small inheritance waiting, and he would have a hard time finding someone.

Meanwhile, she was serviceable, obedient, and reserved. His parents didn’t object to the pairing. In fact, they warmed up to it quickly after disagreeing at first. It was a marriage of convenience. There was no disputing that.

But why would he kill her? Why did the authorities think so? Buck reconsidered Dr. Schmidt’s analogy of mental illness and evil and thought that if he was guilty—truly guilty—he wouldn’t have needed a reason at all. Especially since his disability sometimes impaired complex logic. It didn’t seem plausible given that serial killings involved planning and structure. It didn’t matter that he was more coherent than others who had his condition. There had to be more reasons to explain just how or why...

And yet, everyone was still scrambling to find those reasons.

* * *

Agent Dellinger entered the church doors and was greeted with music, singing. There was choir practice. Lay ministers were having a meeting, it said on a bulletin board in the foyer. It said, come right in.

Dellinger scanned the premises, hearing his footsteps echo back at him. He stared up at the crucifix above the altar and stood there for a while. He remembered being raised Catholic as a child. He remembered rebelling as a teen and worshipping rock music and chasing girls. Then, he remembered joining the FBI and losing his old faith after chasing the sort of monsters that made you forget in a God.

Dellinger heard someone come up from behind. He turned around to catch Father O’Rourke, who was smiling at him. He said hello.

Father O’Rourke responded in kind. “Agent Dellinger, I see you’re back. Come to my office. Let’s talk.”

Father O’Rourke was old, Irish, clean-faced, and skinny. He looked like the nicest guy—fitting for a man with his vocation. Agent Dellinger agreed. He trusted priests, despite going after pedophile priests in the past. He couldn’t shake that part of his upbringing. The two pedophile cases rocked him, but they made him cautious instead of outright pessimistic.

Agent Dellinger didn’t reminisce about being Catholic to Father O’Rourke. “I’m here to ask about a lead, Father,” he said. “Do you know a nun named Myrna Falcon?”

“Former nun, you mean,” Father O’Rourke replied. “She’s a foster parent now. She’s got eight kids under her care. Quite a devoted Catholic.”

Agent Dellinger didn’t stop there. He needed to do due diligence, even for a dead-end lead.

“When does she come, Father? Services on Sundays?”

“Not anymore. She comes for Penance. She’s busy on Sundays. The kids are home with her. Penance is on Wednesday. I see her at the confessional booth. Even a nun must value the sacrament of Penance..."

“Are volunteers scheduled on Wednesdays?”

“No. Some come more often than others. But Buck doesn’t volunteer on Wednesday.”

Agent Dellinger had a light bulb moment.

“Thank you, Father. I’ll be back in case I need something.”

“My pleasure, Frank. Take care.”

Agent Dellinger headed out of the church quickly and heard his phone ring. He picked up the call.

“Agent Dellinger, this is Detective Mosley at Baltimore PD. I have something for you.”

“I’m all ears, Detective,” Dellinger answered quickly.

“The victims in the murder spree came to Penance on Wednesdays. They also volunteered on Sundays.”

Agent Dellinger cussed under his breath. “Shit!” he muttered again. He looked away from the church tower and got in his car.

Agent Dellinger went back inside the church and looked for Father O’Rourke.

“Father, the victim, the suspect’s wife, Marie Yardley...did she do Penance on Wednesdays? She’s not a volunteer.”

“I can’t say, Agent Dellinger. I mean...”

“You don’t have to tell me what she said, father. That’s understood. I just need to know if she did Penance like the others.”

“Yes, she did, Agent Dellinger. I remember it quite well.”

Dellinger thanked Father O’Rourke. He headed back out and drove out of the lot in a hurry.

* * *

Agent Dellinger answered the call from Director Rasmussen. He was on the road, and the road noise forced him to raise his windows. The quiet cabin of his Chevy Malibu felt weird, however. He decided to slow down and swerve to the right lane while listening to Rasmussen speak. Dusk was looming over Inner Harbor, and a gray curtain of clouds blanketed the distant horizon. Dellinger watched a flock of seagulls fly over the docks.

“Does Joyner have anything on him yet?"

“Tape is inconclusive. Yardley hardly looks innocent, but it doesn’t mean that the prosecution has a slam dunk case. No confession, he walks, Sir. DA says circumstantial evidence won’t be enough.”

“The Temporary Detaining Order expires soon. What does Schmidt say?”

“Schmidt’s not giving him the VIP treatment. Probably sees himself becoming a celebrity at the American Psychiatric Association all over again if the conviction goes through. He’ll get to toast to his old pals. But he ain’t got nothing on Yardley either.”

“What does Joyner hope to do to seal the deal and get Yardley to confess?”

“Joyner’s on the fence about helping a conviction. The first time a patient’s gotten Dr. Joyner on eggshells.”

There was a pause in the conversation. Dellinger found a dead duck by the side of the road and found a drifter talking to himself along the sidewalk.

“This marks a first. If Joyner doesn’t close the deal, we’ll bring in someone else before Yardley gets a chance to walk.”

Dellinger took out a large family picture and took turns looking at it and the road ahead.

“Sir, I have a lead in the investigation. Someone’s turned up as a possible witness...or get this, a suspect. I’m headed there now,” Dellinger said. He put the photo away.

“This is big, Agent Dellinger. Who is it?” Rasmussen inquired.

“Myrna Falcon, a former nun who goes to St. Gertrude’s on Wednesdays for Penance. I’m interviewing her. To see what she knows.”

“Give me an update,” Rasmussen said, then hung up.

* * *

Dr. Wolfgang Schmidt was on the road waiting for the train to cross the tracks. He looked both ways and waited for the light to turn green. Then, he stepped on the gas pedal, and the car steadily built speed as he drove through some iffy neighborhoods to make a house call.

He thought of familiar streets in Owings Mills, Catonsville, and downtown where the crimes occurred. It was easy to find those addresses, but no one came looking anymore.

His thoughts dispersed as the car reached speeds of sixty in the forty-five-mile-per-hour zone. He didn’t think of slowing down, though. He pictured Buck Yardley holding a knife to someone’s throat; he pictured Yardley sliding it across, gashing the skin and cutting through flesh. He pictured a mouth struggling to breathe, blood coursing out of the gash to the throat. He watched the neck and shoulders tremble, lightly at first, then violently. Then, he returned to his senses and noticed the light turn yellow far away. He floored the brake so his car wouldn’t stop in the middle of the intersection. He barely stopped in time.

He seemed to be in a hurry. Schmidt’s link to every case that went to trial: he knew the killer; he was their Doctor. How could anyone be certain? Was anyone checking the records? Schmidt’s patients...killers? Of course—there were the convictions. But what about when the killings stopped after his patients were put away? Was it because they were guilty and safely behind bars? Was it a coincidence that another killer would find their way to Baltimore City Psychiatric Hospital in no short amount of time? Just a matter of time...until Dr. Schmidt would end up the toast of the town again?

What if Dr. Wolfgang Schmidt was the killer?

He was Buck Yardley’s doctor, too. Could Dr. Schmidt have been a modern-day Hannibal Lecter—a killer psychiatrist who swept the dirt under the carpet?

Where was he headed? And why was he going so fast?

* * *

Dr. Joyner walked out to his car. He got inside and turned the ignition. The car came alive as two bright halo lights lit the bleak parking lot. It was drizzling, and a mist had moved in from the Inner Harbor, sweeping the city like a wet blanket. Joyner adjusted his tie and shirt collar to breathe easier.

The drive out to the hospital wouldn’t take long. Joyner took it easy on the road, watching cars hurtle by through low visibility close to the Inner Harbor while crossing downtown. He pulled his tie free and unbuttoned his collar. He adjusted his glasses and pictured his wife standing in their kitchen, a gash forming along her throat as she presented him a cake. He blinked hard to refocus his attention on the misty road ahead. A car nearly swerved into his lane.

Joyner didn’t believe in demonic possession. He believed in science. Scientific method backed theory and hypothesis in a way that led him to believe intuition was baseless.

But something bubbled to the surface. Listening to Buck Yardley play a chess match or listening to Myrna Falcon ramble on about religious mania made him think about the almighty glass of scotch. Science failed him for the precious few seconds he struggled to recall other clients more deeply troubled. Years of expertise, ongoing training, and research didn’t always blanket his consciousness like his mind didn’t rest fully exposed behind his incisive powers of cognition—his deeply-set eyes serving as gateways to dimensions of thought. What was he seeking? Justice for the families of the Baltimore serial murder spree? Or justice for Buck Yardley? He wasn’t certain anymore.

He drove faster, getting in the fast lane. He hurried to catch the lights turning green and put down his phone. Where was he going? What was so urgent?

* * *

Aunt Myrna and the kids would return home by seven. There was plenty of jubilant noise in the kitchen as the kids helped her prepare supper. They were having pot roast and steamed vegetables, and the kids were excited. Myrna’s orphans were thankful for her. They didn’t mind eating the vegetables, and they didn’t need to be bribed with dessert afterward. Myrna asked Jimmy to wash his hands and help one of the girls set the table, and Jimmy responded by excitedly taking off for the dining room to assist. The laughter persisted throughout the house. Myrna forgot about the day’s turn of events.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang.

The laughter ceased in a heartbeat because they weren’t expecting it. Myrna set her apron on a chair and told the kids to wait for her. She wiped her wet hands on her duster and left to answer the front door. Jimmy quietly sneaked out of the dining room and followed her.

She opened the door and found a middle-aged man in a dark suit. A car stood waiting in the driveway. She felt Jimmy tug at her skirt behind her. She gathered him quickly and held him close to her.

“Good evening, Myrna. I’m visiting because a friend of yours, the next-door neighbor, told me that you’ve been acting rather erratically lately,” the man said.

“Did she?” she retorted, wondering what her next-door neighbor could have been saying. But it was too late.

She looked into the man’s eyes and saw herself in a hallway with a doorway at the end, a bright light breaking through the edges of the door. She heard laughter, impassioned cries, and pleas for mercy. Myrna watched the door burst open and light break through, but instead of the light engulfing her, the light quickly turned to black. Memories of her time at the convent flashed before her eyes. Who was Buck Yardley, and what did she see in his eyes? She could hardly remember. She realized that she suddenly forgot everything about him. She forgot seeing him in St. Gertrude’s on Sundays a long time ago, going to confession with the other murder victims every Tuesday of the week—the time the sacrament of Penance was given. She forgot seeing Buck Yardley at the Inner Harbor, shielding his eyes from her gaze before letting her see right through them—windows showing a maze of corridors leading into spiraling madness. Oblivion was a shadow that quickly swept across her frail mind, and soon after, she felt like someone was pulling the covers above her eyes. She wrestled under the blankets in terror; she saw faces indented on those sheets, eye sockets open and enlarging, gaping mouths screaming—like the victims in the recent crime spree. Myrna found herself out of breath, in a stupor, paralyzed on that bed, trapped in a room deep inside of her somehow. Suddenly, the sheets flew off, and she discovered that she was alone. The bed quickly dissolved away; so did the room, and so did the doorway. The doubts further assailed her—perhaps, she had imagined it all? Perhaps, she didn’t realize that Buck Yardley was in custody, and she had nothing to fear. Perhaps, the nightmares were real and violent thoughts were about to assail her. Or perhaps, she was simply mad, and this man at the door could help her.

“I am confident that I will be able to help you; you will find," the man said.

THE END