CHAPTER FOURTEEN #2
The house was well-maintained, painted a deep blue with white trim and a wraparound porch that suggested someone with both money and aesthetic sensibility.
Pritchard's vehicle—a silver Subaru Outback, practical and unremarkable—sat in the driveway.
Through the front windows, Isla could see lights on inside.
"He's home," James said unnecessarily.
They approached the front door together, and Isla noted the security camera mounted discreetly near the porch light. Standard for this neighborhood, nothing unusual, but it meant Pritchard would see them coming. She pressed the doorbell, hearing chimes echo inside the house.
Footsteps approached, and then the door opened to reveal Dr. Samuel Pritchard in person.
He was tall—maybe six-one—but with a lean, almost fragile build that suggested age catching up with genetics.
His hair was more salt than pepper, trimmed short and professional, and he wore wire-rimmed glasses that magnified intelligent gray eyes.
He dressed like someone who worked from home—khakis and a button-down shirt, casual but put-together.
His shoulders had the slight stoop of someone who spent long hours at a computer, and his handshake when he gestured them inside was cool but not particularly strong.
Everything about his appearance suggested competence, rationality, the kind of person you'd trust to design monitoring systems for critical infrastructure—but not someone who looked capable of overpowering victims in dark tunnels.
"Dr. Pritchard?" Isla held up her FBI credentials. "Special Agent Isla Rivers, and this is Special Agent James Sullivan. We'd like to ask you a few questions about your consulting work with the city's personnel department."
Pritchard's expression shifted through surprise, concern, and then a kind of careful neutrality that made Isla's investigator instincts prickle. "Of course. Please, come in."
He stepped back, gesturing them into a foyer that opened onto a living room furnished with mid-century modern pieces and walls lined with bookshelves.
The space was immaculate, everything precisely arranged, the kind of home that reflected its owner's need for control and order.
Through an archway, Isla could see what looked like a home office, computer monitors glowing with data displays she couldn't read from this distance.
"Can I offer you coffee?" Pritchard asked, already moving toward what Isla assumed was the kitchen. "I just made a fresh pot."
"No, thank you," Isla said, though James accepted with the kind of casual friendliness that sometimes put interview subjects at ease.
They followed Pritchard into a kitchen that was as precisely organized as the rest of the house—granite countertops clean and clear, appliances spotless, everything in its designated place.
Pritchard poured coffee for James and himself, and they settled around a dining table positioned to catch morning light from a large window overlooking a carefully tended backyard.
Isla chose her seat strategically, positioning herself where she could see Pritchard's face clearly while James sat slightly to the side, the classic interrogation triangle.
As Pritchard lifted the coffee pot, Isla noticed the slight tremor in his hands—barely perceptible, but there.
Age, perhaps, or nerves. Either way, it reinforced her initial impression: this man seemed too physically frail to have wrestled David Langford into scalding steam or held Linda Graves underwater until she drowned.
"So," Pritchard said, wrapping his hands around his coffee mug in a gesture that looked practiced and controlled. "What can I help you with, Agent Rivers?"
"We're investigating two recent deaths in the city," Isla said, watching his face carefully. "Both victims were found in the steam tunnel system. David Langford and Linda Graves. We understand you had professional encounters with both of them."
Pritchard's expression didn't change, but Isla caught the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers tightened fractionally around the mug. "I heard about that on the news. David Langford, the city worker. Terrible thing. An accident, I assumed?"
"Not an accident," James said quietly. "Murder. And there's been a second victim—Linda Graves, a social worker with County Family Services."
This time, Pritchard's reaction was immediate and unmistakable. His face went carefully blank, but Isla saw his pupils dilate slightly, saw the subtle shift in his breathing that suggested genuine surprise or shock. He set down his coffee mug with deliberate care.
"Linda Graves is dead?" His voice was level, but there was something underneath it—an emotion Isla couldn't quite identify. "When did this happen?"
"Two days after David Langford," Isla said, leaning forward slightly. "You knew her?"
"Years ago." Pritchard's fingers drummed once against the table before he caught himself and stilled them. "She evaluated me for a foster care application. It didn't work out."
The understatement was striking. Isla pulled out her phone, pretending to consult notes she'd already memorized. "According to the records, she recommended against your application. Cited concerns about your 'ideological rigidity' and 'clinical approach to human relationships.'"
"That's correct." Pritchard's voice had cooled by several degrees.
"Her assessment was... reductive. She spent perhaps three hours total in my home and declared herself qualified to judge my capacity for nurturing children.
I found her evaluation process to be superficial and biased toward conventional presentations of warmth rather than genuine capability to provide stable, intelligent guidance. "
There it was—the resentment, carefully controlled but unmistakable. Linda Graves had blocked him from something he'd wanted, and he'd perceived her methods as flawed and unfair. Isla filed the reaction away, maintaining her professional neutrality.
"And David Langford?" she asked. "According to city records, you had a complaint filed against you by him about fourteen months ago. Something about interference during his maintenance work?"
Pritchard's expression soured. "Langford was incompetent and hostile.
I was conducting a mandated psychological evaluation—standard procedure after multiple workplace complaints—and he treated the entire session as a personal attack.
He refused to engage meaningfully with any of the assessment protocols, made dismissive comments about psychology being 'pseudoscience,' and seemed to view the evaluation as beneath him. "
"Did you have other interactions with him?"
"Just that one evaluation session. But it was more than enough.
" Pritchard's clinical detachment had cracked slightly, revealing genuine distaste.
"He treated me with open contempt from the moment he walked into my office.
Made it clear he thought the entire process was a waste of his time, that he was being persecuted for 'just doing his job.
' He had no capacity for self-reflection, no willingness to consider that his behavior might be problematic.
The man was fundamentally resistant to any form of psychological insight. "
Isla absorbed this, noting how Pritchard's language shifted when discussing the victims. With Graves, his criticism focused on her methods and conclusions.
With Langford, it became more personal—attacking his character, his competence, his fundamental approach to his job.
Both assessments suggested someone who'd thought deeply about these people, who'd cataloged their flaws and judged them wanting.
"Your research," Isla said, changing direction. "I've read some of your published papers. Particularly the ones about detecting psychological traits through physiological measurements."
Pritchard's demeanor changed immediately, the resentment and distaste replaced by something that looked almost like excitement. His gray eyes brightened behind his glasses, and he leaned forward with the enthusiasm of someone discussing their life's work.
"You're familiar with my autonomic response research?" He sounded pleased, almost eager. "Most law enforcement personnel I've spoken with dismiss it as pseudoscience without understanding the underlying methodology."
"I'm trying to understand it," Isla said carefully. "You argue that certain people have fundamental neurological differences that make them incapable of genuine empathy or prosocial behavior."
"Not incapable—limited." Pritchard was warming to the topic now, his hands moving in small, precise gestures.
"The research shows that approximately three to five percent of the population has measurable deficits in the neural architecture responsible for emotional processing and moral reasoning.
These aren't just personality differences or learned behaviors—they're structural variations in brain function that predispose certain individuals toward selfish, callous, and ultimately harmful actions. "
"And you believe you can detect these individuals through your monitoring equipment," James said, his tone carefully neutral.
"I've demonstrated it repeatedly in controlled settings.
" Pritchard stood, moving toward the archway that led to his office.
Isla watched him walk—his gait was steady but without particular strength or athleticism.
He moved like someone who spent most of his time at a desk, not someone who regularly navigated dark, dangerous tunnel systems or had the physical capability to subdue unwilling victims.
He returned carrying a tablet, which he set on the table between them. The screen showed complex graphs and data visualizations that meant little to Isla without more context, but Pritchard navigated through them with practiced ease.