Read Online The Girls He Adored by Jonathan Nasaw - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jonathan Nasaw
Tags: United States, Fiction, General, thriller, Suspense, Psychological, adventure, Thrillers, Mystery & Detective, Horror, Travel, Modern fiction, Fiction - Psychological Suspense, Serial Murderers, Horror & Ghost Stories, oregon, pacific, Horror - General, West, American Horror Fiction, Women psychologists, Multiple personality - Fiction., Serial murderers - Fiction., Multiple personality, Women psychologists - Fiction.
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can, then let me play shadchen and fix you up with some guy who's not a patient, is not going to be behind bars for the rest of his life, and is hopefully not a psychopathic multiple either.”
“Where's the fun in that?” said Irene—but she did feel better. Somehow talking to Barbara always made her feel better.
When the sheriff's deputy showed Irene into the interview room via the visitor's door around eleven o'clock, the first thing she did was examine the desk. She was relieved to be reminded that it did indeed have a solid front, as she'd vaguely recalled—at least she wouldn't be spending the entire interview worrying about Max playing cloven-hoofed footsies with her under the desk.
A few minutes later the prisoner was led in through the inmate's door, and they exchanged perfunctory greetings. As soon as the deputy left the room, Irene took out the pack of Camels she'd bought for the prisoner, slit the cellophane with her manicuredthumbnail, shook one out, tamped the end expertly, placed it between his waiting lips, and fired it up with the jade-and-silver lighter Frank had given her for their last anniversary.
“Try one,” he urged her, his face wreathed in smoke as she placed a brown plastic battery-powered smoke-sucker ashtray in front of him. “See what a real cigarette tastes like.”
“Some other time. I have a few follow-up questions I wanted to ask you.”
“I thought you might.” Holding the Camel in one side of his mouth, he worked a shred of tobacco out of the other with the tip of his tongue, which was unusually pointed and, like his lips, a surprisingly dark shade of red.
“To begin with, how did you know my first name?”
“Educated guess. The monogram on your briefcase. How many women's names begin with the letter I?” Then, in an exaggerated brogue: “Especially colleens with the map of Oirland writ large across their loovly countenance.”
Irene thought back—it was true, he hadn't used her name until after she'd set the briefcase on the desk while packing up at the end of the session. And her heritage was Irish as Paddy's pig on both sides.
Feeling somewhat relieved, she took the Dictaphone out of her briefcase, set it on the desk, and turned it on. Rather than ask him outright if he had DID, she tried an indirect approach. “Next question: yesterday you told me about coming to in the car next to the young woman's body. Has this ever happened to you before?” Recurring fugue states and time loss were classic markers for DID.
Max cocked his head, amused. “No.”
A sociopath with an above-average ability to manipulate standardized psychological tests, then. Irene felt curiously disappointed. “I see.”
“That's no, I've never come to in a car next to a young woman's body. Good lord, Irene, you've had nearly twenty-four hours to frame that question, and that's the best you can do?”
The shred of tobacco still clung to the corner of his lips—when he stuck his tongue out to lick it off he accidentally pushed it farther onto his cheek, where he could no longer reach it. Irene found a tissue in her purse, reached across the desk (she was wearing a summerweight cotton turtleneck under a navy blue blazer today), and removed it for him. He thanked her with a winning grin; she made a mental note that along with his need to feel mentally superior,as exemplified by his last statement, he also seemed comfortable with being infantilized.
“I'll rephrase the question. Have you—”
“The answer is yes.”
“I see. Have you ever heard voices?”
The amused cock of the head again. “You mean other than, say, yours, now?”
“I'll rephrase: I mean voices that no one else can hear, originating from either inside or outside your head.”
“Yes—inside. But you know what's even scarier than hearing somebody else talking inside your head?” He'd been speaking out of one side of his mouth, squinting against the smoke; now he leaned forward and carefully placed the
“Where's the fun in that?” said Irene—but she did feel better. Somehow talking to Barbara always made her feel better.
When the sheriff's deputy showed Irene into the interview room via the visitor's door around eleven o'clock, the first thing she did was examine the desk. She was relieved to be reminded that it did indeed have a solid front, as she'd vaguely recalled—at least she wouldn't be spending the entire interview worrying about Max playing cloven-hoofed footsies with her under the desk.
A few minutes later the prisoner was led in through the inmate's door, and they exchanged perfunctory greetings. As soon as the deputy left the room, Irene took out the pack of Camels she'd bought for the prisoner, slit the cellophane with her manicuredthumbnail, shook one out, tamped the end expertly, placed it between his waiting lips, and fired it up with the jade-and-silver lighter Frank had given her for their last anniversary.
“Try one,” he urged her, his face wreathed in smoke as she placed a brown plastic battery-powered smoke-sucker ashtray in front of him. “See what a real cigarette tastes like.”
“Some other time. I have a few follow-up questions I wanted to ask you.”
“I thought you might.” Holding the Camel in one side of his mouth, he worked a shred of tobacco out of the other with the tip of his tongue, which was unusually pointed and, like his lips, a surprisingly dark shade of red.
“To begin with, how did you know my first name?”
“Educated guess. The monogram on your briefcase. How many women's names begin with the letter I?” Then, in an exaggerated brogue: “Especially colleens with the map of Oirland writ large across their loovly countenance.”
Irene thought back—it was true, he hadn't used her name until after she'd set the briefcase on the desk while packing up at the end of the session. And her heritage was Irish as Paddy's pig on both sides.
Feeling somewhat relieved, she took the Dictaphone out of her briefcase, set it on the desk, and turned it on. Rather than ask him outright if he had DID, she tried an indirect approach. “Next question: yesterday you told me about coming to in the car next to the young woman's body. Has this ever happened to you before?” Recurring fugue states and time loss were classic markers for DID.
Max cocked his head, amused. “No.”
A sociopath with an above-average ability to manipulate standardized psychological tests, then. Irene felt curiously disappointed. “I see.”
“That's no, I've never come to in a car next to a young woman's body. Good lord, Irene, you've had nearly twenty-four hours to frame that question, and that's the best you can do?”
The shred of tobacco still clung to the corner of his lips—when he stuck his tongue out to lick it off he accidentally pushed it farther onto his cheek, where he could no longer reach it. Irene found a tissue in her purse, reached across the desk (she was wearing a summerweight cotton turtleneck under a navy blue blazer today), and removed it for him. He thanked her with a winning grin; she made a mental note that along with his need to feel mentally superior,as exemplified by his last statement, he also seemed comfortable with being infantilized.
“I'll rephrase the question. Have you—”
“The answer is yes.”
“I see. Have you ever heard voices?”
The amused cock of the head again. “You mean other than, say, yours, now?”
“I'll rephrase: I mean voices that no one else can hear, originating from either inside or outside your head.”
“Yes—inside. But you know what's even scarier than hearing somebody else talking inside your head?” He'd been speaking out of one side of his mouth, squinting against the smoke; now he leaned forward and carefully placed the
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