Chapter 1
ANIMAL
LONDON
“Dr. Noble, can you tell us what the defendant was thinking when he did this?” The prosecutor points to a projection screen along the courthouse wall. Magnified for the courtroom, the image displays the charred remains of a woman’s mutilated body.
I press my fingertips into my kneecap behind the witness stand. My nails snag my sheer stockings, and I mentally curse, craving the feel of my string. Turning toward the screen, I open my mouth.
“Objection, Your Honor. The witness can’t know what the defendant was thinking.”
My gaze flicks to Judge Gellar. “Your rebuttal, Mr. Alister,” she prompts the defendant’s attorney.
Armani suit as dark as his eyes, Alister smooths his tie down along his dress shirt. “Dr. Noble is an expert witness, Your Honor. She was called in because she’s an expert in her field, which is insight into the minds of criminal individuals.”
“Disturbed individuals,” the prosecutor says loud enough for the court to hear.
“Don’t make me slam my gavel, Mr. Hatcher.
” The judge raises her gavel in warning.
“Objection overruled. Dr. Noble was asked to provide testimony of her professional opinion of the defendant’s state of mind.
Since she’s come all this way—” Judge Gellar grants me a telling smile, her dark features more youthful when not fixed in a scowl “—I’d like to hear her thoughts. ”
The prosecutor clears his throat before taking a seat.
My nails sink into my kneecap as I again turn toward the screen.
I’m a forensic psychologist in the field of criminal psychology—not a public speaker.
No matter how many times I’ve taken the stand, it never gets easier.
I loathe public speaking just as much now as I did in college.
“After conducting a comprehensive evaluation of Charles Reker, it’s my professional opinion that he meets the criteria for schizophrenia.
In particular, he exhibits a delusional misidentification known as Capgras syndrome.
He believes his wife was replaced by an impostor, or as he describes it, a clone—”
“Objection—”
“Sit down and shut up, Mr. Hatcher, or I will hold you in contempt.”
The lawyer looks stricken. “On what grounds?” He quickly backpedals, “Your Honor.”
Judge Gellar circles her gavel threateningly. “On the grounds that interruptions annoy me. Let the witness finish her testimony.”
I press my palms against the chair seat and steady my voice. “At the time, Mr. Reker believed his wife had been cloned by a government entity as a means to spy on him. He believed that by torching the clone, he’d destroy this entity’s ability to control him.”
Alister walks around the table and places a hand on his client’s shoulder. “So you do not believe—in your professional opinion—that Mr. Reker intended to murder his wife of twenty-four years.”
“No, I do not,” I say, bolstering my voice an octave higher. “Mr. Reker was unable to distinguish reality from his delusion. His intent was to destroy a clone of his wife, not his wife. He felt threatened amid his delusional state.”
“Thank you, Dr. Noble. No more questions.”
A sinking feeling tugs at the back of my mind, but I suppress that weakness.
A brutal murder occurred, but the man sitting across from me at the defendant’s table—now medicated under my care—is no longer capable of the brutality he exhibited when he violently killed his wife. His eyes reflect remorse.
“Would you like to cross examine the witness, Mr. Hatcher?” the judge asks.
“Yes. Thank you, Your Honor.” As the lawyer stands from behind the prosecution’s table, I straighten my back.
This position threads every muscle along my spine with white-hot pain. I part my mouth and inhale a breath, then expel the ache, visualizing the pain as a physical thing I can eject from my body.
Hatcher strides to the computer on the roll cart and adjusts the image. We’re given a close-up of Margot Reker’s mutilation. Members of the jury physically react, some averting their eyes.
“Dr. Noble,” he begins with a vain toss of his head. I arch an eyebrow. “Since your expert opinion is so widely sought after, would you expound on why you believe Charles Reker sliced his wife up with a butcher knife after he set her on fire.”
“Objection,” the defense interjects. “Is there a question here, Your Honor? The witness has already provided testimony to her thoughts on the defendant’s state of mind.”
The judge looks at Hatcher expectantly.
“Dr. Noble provided a speculated reasoning as to the murder, but not the mutilation, Your Honor—”
“Careful, counselor,” the judge warns.
Hatcher offers a tight smile. “According to Dr. Noble, the defendant killed his wife to eliminate the threat of government conspiracy,” he revises, “I only aim to uncover why, then, the need for overkill.”
Judge Gellar considers this, then nods. “You may proceed, Mr. Hatcher.”
He again focuses his piercing eyes on me. “Do I need to repeat myself?”
Back pain can hit hard enough to bring the strongest person to their knees. Me?—I get temperamental when in the middle of a flare-up. “I was able to follow, thank you. What you see on the screen does appear to look like overkill. What can be interpreted as a crime of passion.”
“Exactly,” the lawyer says. “A crime of passion.” He turns and states this to the jury.
“However,” I continue, undeterred. “I carefully analyzed Mr. Reker for over a month before I was able to clearly decipher that it wasn’t overkill. He was looking for proof.”
Hatcher tilts his head. “What do you mean by proof?”
I adjust my position. “He was searching for the computer chip that transmitted his information to the government entity. During his…search, he was apprehended by the police.”
“His search?” Disdain laces his voice as he props a hand on his hip and marches to the screen.
Hatcher has apparently studied too many courtroom movies.
“You’re telling me that this—” he points to the charred, flayed flesh of the victim “—was also a part of his delusion? That Charles Reker sliced and stabbed his wife more than thirty times all for a chip?”
“Yes,” I say simply.
“Dr. Noble, I’m sorry, but to me, and likely everyone else in the courtroom, this looks like the violent, destructive crime of an enraged man. A man furious with his cheating wife.” He nods to the jury. “As we proved beforehand.”
“Objection,” the defense says. “Counsel is testifying, Your Honor.”
“Sustained. Ask a question, Mr. Hatcher, or wrap it up.”
Incensed, the lawyer approaches the witness stand. “Did you factor Mrs. Reker’s affair into your evaluation, Dr. Noble? How such a painful betrayal from a wife of over twenty years could push an already unhinged man over the edge?”
I stare into his eyes. “I did.”
His head jerks back, arms thrown wide. “Then care to share, doctor?”
“Are you afraid of your wife, Mr. Hatcher?”
My question knocks the smirk off his face. “Excuse me?”
“Your wife—” I nod to his left hand, where he wears a gold wedding band.
“Do you fear for your life when she discovers your ongoing affair with your paralegal?” I glance at the blonde seated at the prosecution’s table.
“Because, according to your provoking argument of Mr. Reker, you should be downright terrified.”
A collective murmur rolls through the courtroom.
Hatcher’s lips curl in irritation, but he does a fantastic job at schooling the rest of his features.
“Other than this being a blatant attempt to shift the focus of this trial, your assessment couldn’t be more off-base, Dr. Noble.
Which should prove your brand of psychology is hardly credible for this murder case. ”
“When you first entered the courtroom,” I say, lifting my chin, “you guided your paralegal to the table by the small of her back.” He starts to interrupt, and I hold up a finger.
“Which can be excused as simple old-school chivalry. Disturbing, but not damning. However, you don’t have to be a psychologist to detect your affair, as anyone in this courtroom can spot the obvious signs.
Your paralegal has a tan line where her wedding ring usually is.
You’ve been spinning yours during the trial.
Each time you spin the band, you then check your phone.
Which could be an anxious habit, but our subconscious has a tendency to tell on us, especially when we want to keep something hidden. ”
Hatcher looks to the judge. “Your Honor, you can’t allow this—”
“You opened the door, Mr. Hatcher.” Judge Gellar lifts her shoulders in an unapologetic shrug.
“Also,” I continue, “the whole time you’ve been questioning me, your paralegal has been occasionally checking your phone herself.
” He turns around to look. “I suspect that you’re both waiting for a reply from your wife.
A possible confirmation that you’ll be able to spend a prolonged period of time together. ”
The blonde flinches when Hatcher’s phone vibrates on the table.
Judge Gellar sighs. “Want to check that message, Mr. Hatcher?”
He pivots to face the judge, his narrowed eyes sweeping over me. “No, Your Honor. I don’t care to play into courtroom theatrics.” Then to me, he says, “I fail to see how trying to disgrace me proves your evaluation of Charles Reker holds any truth, Dr. Noble.”
I shift in my seat, attempting to alleviate the aching pressure at the base of my spine.
I’m officially tired of sitting here. “A crime of passion implies an act of immediacy,” I say.
“However, after careful examination and recovered evidence, Mr. Reker proved he was aware of his wife’s infidelity for over a year.
” I arch an eyebrow. “Just like you, Mr. Hatcher, Mrs. Reker wasn’t exactly subtle about her affair.
So all I’m saying is, if you truly believe an affair is motive enough for murder, then I’d be very wary of going through with your weekend plans. ”
At his intense silence, I add, “My evidentiary findings of this are documented in the reports I sent to your paralegal.” I nod to the mountain of files on the prosecution’s desk.
“If you’d have been as invested in case prep as you were with your extracurricular activities, you’d have read my reports, and not presented such a weak case for the prosecution. ”
A flash of anger stains his face before he takes measured steps toward his table. “No more questions, Your Honor. I’m through.”
Judge Gellar shakes her head. “I agree there, Mr. Hatcher.”
An hour after my testimony, the trial adjourns, and the jury is sequestered for deliberation. It’s difficult to keep high-profile cases out of the media and free of scrutiny, but Judge Gellar is doing what she can to give Charles a fair trial.
I’m confident I was able to help the jury see past the shocking grisliness of Charles’s crime to the unwell individual beneath. Also, I’m sure Mr. Hatcher won’t be calling me to the stand in the future, which I consider a double win.
The crisp scent of spring greets me as I exit the courthouse. Maine feels so fresh this time of year, as though everyone is given a clean slate. I inhale the jasmine in the air, letting it cleanse the trial from my system as I head down the stone steps, careful not to trigger another flare-up.
“Hey, Dr. Noble.”
I spin around just I’m doused with cold liquid—the shock of it stealing my breath. I drop my briefcase and frantically wipe at my face, knocking my glasses to the ground as I try to clear the thick substance away.
When I look at my hands, they’re covered in red.
“You got a murderer off—” a woman shouts, her weathered features creased in anger. She throws a metal bucket at me, striking my arm. “That devil killed my sister. He burned her alive and hacked her up. Her blood is on your hands, you disgusting animal.”
My mouth pops open, and is immediately filled with the metallic taste of blood. I gag and spit the vile taste from my mouth.
I’m only given a moment to process what’s happening before the woman flees down the steps at the sound of sirens.