CHAPTER TWO
Dr. Richard Langford leaned forward in his chair, arching his shoulders backward and pressing his elbows against the backrest to stretch his back.
He let out a welcome groan as he felt the discomfort that hadn’t been there when he was sitting with a straight back.
He knew he had been sitting too long and that his back would pay for it in the morning.
It was better to stretch a little now and ease the pain that would come.
Richard rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand and chuckled. He might be feeling his age, but he was still alive, and his aching bones and weary muscles were a welcome reminder that he was alive, his heart still beating.
He spread the documents out before him, ensuring there were no silly mistakes with the formatting or spelling.
They would be submitted to the court, and even the smallest mistake would give the defense fuel to fight with.
If a name was spelled wrong or a detail was not completely correct, all of the evidence he had compiled could be thrown out.
His psychiatric evaluation wasn’t the only evidence they had to show that the defendant should be jailed for his part in the assault of three young women.
His psyche evaluation was a large part of the case against Dominic Weaver, and from what he’s seen of the young, brutal man, he was sure of his guilt.
Still, that was not for him to decide. He could reach any conclusion he wanted about the people he assessed, but it was up to the jury, in conjunction with the other evidence and arguments presented in court, to decide whether the defendant was innocent or guilty.
Richard collated the documents and began stapling them together. There were assistants in the office who usually did that sort of thing, but they’d all left for the evening, and he’d wanted the documents separate to peruse on his desk before they were stapled.
It was already late, and he knew the night would go far later.
Richard stretched again, looking first toward the window, where darkness resided.
He was on the second floor and couldn’t see the street outside, but there were the upper floors of some buildings and the stars in the night sky.
He got up and moved to the open doorway leading from his office to the main law offices, which were now empty.
He spent a moment there, his body happy to be standing after sitting for so much of the day. Richard was almost sixty, not as young as he used to be, but he was still the last of them standing that day; literally and metaphorically.
Richard sighed and then went back into his office to work. He was not yet sure whether his written report would be enough or whether he would be called upon to give testimony in court. He didn't mind that, but the sooner he knew, the better he could prepare and move things around if he needed to.
He picked up the first stapled report and read. He was the one who had written it, but when preparing court documents, the information had to be formatted and set out in a specific way. He wanted to know the material inside out before it was sent off to the prosecutor.
Richard stopped reading and cocked his head to the side as his ears pricked.
There had been a sound in the main office, as if someone was still there, and he hadn’t noticed them when he had looked out.
He sat there for a while, listening for a second noise, but none came.
He thought about going back to the doorway and checking, but he had work to do.
Instead, he cleared his throat. If someone was out there, they would know he was still in his office, and it wouldn’t be awkward; they wouldn’t surprise each other.
Then, a knock on his open door that surprised him, and also confirmed that he hadn’t been hearing things. Richard placed the report on the desk and turned to face whoever was in the office. Except, it wasn’t someone working late but a visitor.
"Did I scare you, Dr. Langford?" the visitor asked.
"No, sorry, it’s fine," Richard said, not sure why he was the one apologizing. "I mean, yes, you did scare me, but only because I thought I was alone. Did you know I was here?"
The visitor smiled. "I suspected you would be. From those I’ve spoken to, I’m aware that you often work late. I guess that old habits die hard."
Rickard chuckled, then gestured toward the chair on the other side of his desk, directly below the window. "Please. I assume you’ve come to talk."
"No. Well, yes." The visitor entered the room and rounded the desk to sit opposite him.
The visitor obviously knew Richard, and Richard had a faint memory of the visitor, but couldn’t quite place them. The interaction up until that point had been brief, but it had gone on too long for Richard to ask for their name. So, he waited, hoping he would place the person.
"I wanted to talk to you about an old case," the visitor told him. "Do you know Vincent McMorrow?"
"I do," Richard said. "That is an old case. Vincent passed in prison."
"That’s right," the visitor said.
"He was diagnosed as being clinically insane," the visitor said. "He still went to prison instead of a medical facility. Why was that?"
"Well." Richard sat back in his chair and sighed.
"Things were a lot different back then. We didn't know as much about the human mind as we know now. We also didn’t have as much support or treatment available back then, and there was a lot of skepticism about insanity in general. People hear that word and expect a raving lunatic, but usually, we’re looking at someone who can blend into society.
If we only saw raving lunacy, it would be extremely easy to help these people when they need it, or to stop them from committing atrocities. "
"Quite," the visitor said.
Richard studied his guest, trying to place them. He had been waffling about insanity, but didn't know yet why this person was asking him about it. Nor why they had come so late.
"I’m sorry, I should have asked your name when you first entered," Richard said with a weak smile. "My mind is not what it used to be."
"Some people don't get the treatment they deserve, do they?" the guest asked, ignoring the question.
Richard paused for a moment. He searched the face before him for something to indicate who they were and why they were leading the direction of the conversation down a certain path. What were they really looking to have answered?
"We can’t always know what will help a person," Richard replied. "We don't always know what a person is going through. We can only try to understand."
"But you can’t," the visitor insisted. "You already said that. You don't understand what’s going on inside someone’s head, right?"
The visitor had gripped the edge of the desk and held on tight as if they might fall backward.
"To an extent, we can." Richard tried to remain calm, wanting to fight back against this unknown person in his office. "We have very robust methods that aid us in understanding people. That’s not to say we can understand everything, but… do you need help? I can see that you’re anxious about something or someone. "
"There are always mistakes, aren’t there?" the visitor asked. "No matter how good or robust your methods are, you always make mistakes."
Richard couldn’t be sure if the frustration was aimed at him or his field in general. He held up his hands.
"Yes. I fully admit that. I’ve made mistakes, and so have countless others. We’re only human, and it’s an undeniable human trait to try and do the best we can. I don't claim to be anything other than human."
"No," the visitor said. They took a deep breath in through their nose as they looked down at their hands gripping the table. Then, they let that breath out, and with it, their shoulders slumped as if there was more than only air leaving their body. Then they looked up at Richard.
Richard flinched, and his breath caught in his throat.
He’d seen that look in someone’s eyes before; he’d treated that look and what lay beneath it.
His eyes flicked from his visitor’s eyes, clouding over with darkness, to the phone on his desk.
As soon as he glanced at the phone, he knew it was a mistake.
He was only human, but the person before him was not.
They were wild animals, waiting for the slightest movement of provocation to strike.
Richard opened his mouth to say something, but it only dropped open in silence when the person sat opposite him leaped up onto the desk in a fury, a blade glinting in their hand.
And then strikes, vicious stabs downward with the knife.
Again and again and again.
His life didn't flash before his eyes as he was pinned to his chair.
Nothing flashed before his eyes. Nothing could replace what he saw with his dying breath.
No, not his dying breath, but the moment beyond when the breath left him, and his heart stopped beating, but his brain fired its last few neurons.
It was their face, covered in blood, the teeth bared, and the satisfied look of a hunter having finally captured its prey.