at an intersection , where a man on the corner in a pink tutu was dancing and shouting at the passersby.
“He killed twelve girls that we know of,” he said. “That’s the only reason he joined the police force. He liked the opportunity to find victims.”
“Don’t they screen for people like him?”
“They do, but some psychopaths, the ones who are high -functioning, can’t be detected. Most psychopaths are self-destructive. In my clinical internship, we had a patient who was considered a pure psychopath. She would try to break open her skull every day to pick at her brain. She had to be restrained most of the time. That’s a true psychopath. The manipulative sadist is a much more rare kind of psychopath, and we don’t understand them. You could live your whole life next to one and never know what they really are inside. You only see what they want you to see.”
“Or maybe what you want to see.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
He sped up a winding road to the affluent suburb of Cottonwood Hills and came to a stop at a large three-story home. It looked much like a well-manicured log cabin, with the exception of the yellowing lawn and the untrimmed bushes and flowers.
“I’d like to go in by myself.”
“I know,” she said.
“How do you know that?”
“I read that about you—that you’re solitary. It was in an article about Sherman.” She handed him the key. “I’ll be here.”
Stanton grabbed the Steed file from the backseat and got out. “I’ll be out soon.”
He walked up the driveway and stood on the porch, staring at the front door before inserting the key. He opened the door then stepped inside and shut it behind him. All the blinds had been shut, and the place smelled like dust. He slowly took to the stairs up to the living room, glancing at the plush white carpet decorated with a pattern of blue diamonds. At the top of the stairs, he could look into the kitchen, which was directly in front of him. The living room was to his right, along with the bedroom. He walked over to the sofa and sat down.
A massive projector hung from the ceiling , and the handcrafted furniture was chocolate-colored wood. A large portrait of Daniel Steed standing behind his wife, who was seated in front of him, took up half a wall. A few photos of them with friends and family sat on a side table. He didn’t see anyone who resembled Emily or Daniel enough to be their son. He scanned the photos then opened his file and found the photograph of Fredrick Steed. The young man wasn’t in any of the family photos. Stanton made a note of that in the file.
Stanton rose and walked around the house. He peeked into the bedroom, the kitchen, and the main bathroom. Mrs. Steed’s robe was hanging over the shower rod. Rather than giving the room a homey feel, it made it feel empty.
He walked back to the living room. He skimmed the discs in the entertainment center DVD rack. Two had blank spaces where the titles should’ve been, and he took them out of their cases. One was labeled Family Reunion, 1998. The other had no label. He found the remotes to the projector and the DVD player and fiddled with them until they turned on. He inserted the family reunion disc.
As it turned on, Stanton saw a bird’s -eye view of the massive casino showroom that had been rented to host the Steed reunion. Then the camera shifted, shut off, and turned back on. It was now held low, about shoulder height, and he knew a child was filming. He was going around to the different guests, asking them questions and grilling them about what they were wearing. He asked one guest in a hideous blue dress what it felt like to have the ugliest dress at the reunion. Tears welled up in the woman’s eyes, and she turned away from the camera and began to ignore the child. The boy behind the camera smelled the blood in the water and continued antagonizing her until her husband threatened him. Then he ran off, laughing.
Next the boy harassed a young waitress. When she
“He killed twelve girls that we know of,” he said. “That’s the only reason he joined the police force. He liked the opportunity to find victims.”
“Don’t they screen for people like him?”
“They do, but some psychopaths, the ones who are high -functioning, can’t be detected. Most psychopaths are self-destructive. In my clinical internship, we had a patient who was considered a pure psychopath. She would try to break open her skull every day to pick at her brain. She had to be restrained most of the time. That’s a true psychopath. The manipulative sadist is a much more rare kind of psychopath, and we don’t understand them. You could live your whole life next to one and never know what they really are inside. You only see what they want you to see.”
“Or maybe what you want to see.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
He sped up a winding road to the affluent suburb of Cottonwood Hills and came to a stop at a large three-story home. It looked much like a well-manicured log cabin, with the exception of the yellowing lawn and the untrimmed bushes and flowers.
“I’d like to go in by myself.”
“I know,” she said.
“How do you know that?”
“I read that about you—that you’re solitary. It was in an article about Sherman.” She handed him the key. “I’ll be here.”
Stanton grabbed the Steed file from the backseat and got out. “I’ll be out soon.”
He walked up the driveway and stood on the porch, staring at the front door before inserting the key. He opened the door then stepped inside and shut it behind him. All the blinds had been shut, and the place smelled like dust. He slowly took to the stairs up to the living room, glancing at the plush white carpet decorated with a pattern of blue diamonds. At the top of the stairs, he could look into the kitchen, which was directly in front of him. The living room was to his right, along with the bedroom. He walked over to the sofa and sat down.
A massive projector hung from the ceiling , and the handcrafted furniture was chocolate-colored wood. A large portrait of Daniel Steed standing behind his wife, who was seated in front of him, took up half a wall. A few photos of them with friends and family sat on a side table. He didn’t see anyone who resembled Emily or Daniel enough to be their son. He scanned the photos then opened his file and found the photograph of Fredrick Steed. The young man wasn’t in any of the family photos. Stanton made a note of that in the file.
Stanton rose and walked around the house. He peeked into the bedroom, the kitchen, and the main bathroom. Mrs. Steed’s robe was hanging over the shower rod. Rather than giving the room a homey feel, it made it feel empty.
He walked back to the living room. He skimmed the discs in the entertainment center DVD rack. Two had blank spaces where the titles should’ve been, and he took them out of their cases. One was labeled Family Reunion, 1998. The other had no label. He found the remotes to the projector and the DVD player and fiddled with them until they turned on. He inserted the family reunion disc.
As it turned on, Stanton saw a bird’s -eye view of the massive casino showroom that had been rented to host the Steed reunion. Then the camera shifted, shut off, and turned back on. It was now held low, about shoulder height, and he knew a child was filming. He was going around to the different guests, asking them questions and grilling them about what they were wearing. He asked one guest in a hideous blue dress what it felt like to have the ugliest dress at the reunion. Tears welled up in the woman’s eyes, and she turned away from the camera and began to ignore the child. The boy behind the camera smelled the blood in the water and continued antagonizing her until her husband threatened him. Then he ran off, laughing.
Next the boy harassed a young waitress. When she
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