voice rising and falling, there was no affect on his face. John tried not to get too personally engaged or curious. He was a hired gun; his job was to find legal solutions to legal problems. His client had as many rights in that area as anyone.
“I have a broken mind,” Greg continued, “It’s not my fault I couldn’t stop thinking of having sex with those girls, couldn’t force myself to stop imagining—Dr. Beckwith knows that. I can’t choose what to have on my mind…the thoughts just came.”
“I know,” John said, his gaze falling on the thicker file in his briefcase, the transcript where Greg confessed to his murders and revealed the locations of the bodies.
“He understands that Depo-Provera helps, that I don’t get the thoughts anymore…I’m not stupid, I’m not dumb—I just have a mental illness. Dr. Beckwith agrees that I’m a genius, that Darla and I are both members of Mensa.”
“He knows,” John said, still staring at the file. “Darla” was Darla Beal, Greg’s girlfriend, one of the many women who had contacted him in prison. The phenomenon amazed John.
Searching the file, he found himself recalling the locations where the bodies had been found: Exeter, Hawthorne, Stonington…then he ran through a list of places Greg had mentioned off the record, where he had stalked or assaulted women and not gotten caught.
Kate Harris had kept John awake last night. No doubt about it. Not just the story of her marriage—the pain John understood very well—but her suspicions regarding her sister’s disappearance. Unable to push the thoughts away, he’d finally thrown off the covers and gone downstairs to page through Merrill’s file.
By three a.m. , he had satisfied himself that there was no mention of Willa Harris, no discussion of anyone fitting her description in any of the locales Kate had mentioned: Newport, Providence, the Connecticut shoreline.
And then, turning one last page, John had found it: Fairhaven .
The place where Kate’s sister’s Texaco card had last been used. Fairhaven, Massachusetts. A small town just east of New Bedford, filled with boatyards and fishing boats, of prim houses surrounded by rose gardens and white picket fences.
Fairhaven : Greg Merrill had admitted, only to his lawyer, to having stood in the backyard of a Fairhaven house, having climbed onto an overturned dinghy to peer at a thirteen-year-old girl in her bedroom, one hand down his pants as he tried to raise her window with the other.
“Dr. Beckwith thinks there might be a new category for me, doesn’t he?” Greg said, suddenly full of life, leaning all the way across the table, knocking his Bible aside.
“I’m not sure,” John said carefully. “I just know he wants to examine you again.”
“An important man like him,” Greg said, eyes glittering. “With all his credentials…Director of the Center for Sexual Disorders at Maystone University; a member of the committee for the definitions in the DSM-IV…that’s it, right?”
“What, Greg?”
“He wants to use me for a new definition…I’m a magna cum laude graduate of UConn, but I have—what did he say? ‘An extremely primitive personality structure’?” Greg’s eyes flashed. “A zombie-maker…I leave my victims alive, just barely, in breakwaters on the incoming tide…so they’ll have time to know what’s going to happen. And then there was that girl who survived all those days…He thinks I did that on purpose…”
John looked up, with some alarm. This was new. Neither he nor Philip Beckwith was getting into this kind of diagnostic discussion with their client yet, and Merrill had seemed content to leave it that way.
“At the same time,” Greg continued, “I’m power-bestowing. I give them a last chance. I give them hope: Because until the tide rises up to their mouths and noses, they’re not at all sure they’re going to die. That girl who lived…she had hope
“I have a broken mind,” Greg continued, “It’s not my fault I couldn’t stop thinking of having sex with those girls, couldn’t force myself to stop imagining—Dr. Beckwith knows that. I can’t choose what to have on my mind…the thoughts just came.”
“I know,” John said, his gaze falling on the thicker file in his briefcase, the transcript where Greg confessed to his murders and revealed the locations of the bodies.
“He understands that Depo-Provera helps, that I don’t get the thoughts anymore…I’m not stupid, I’m not dumb—I just have a mental illness. Dr. Beckwith agrees that I’m a genius, that Darla and I are both members of Mensa.”
“He knows,” John said, still staring at the file. “Darla” was Darla Beal, Greg’s girlfriend, one of the many women who had contacted him in prison. The phenomenon amazed John.
Searching the file, he found himself recalling the locations where the bodies had been found: Exeter, Hawthorne, Stonington…then he ran through a list of places Greg had mentioned off the record, where he had stalked or assaulted women and not gotten caught.
Kate Harris had kept John awake last night. No doubt about it. Not just the story of her marriage—the pain John understood very well—but her suspicions regarding her sister’s disappearance. Unable to push the thoughts away, he’d finally thrown off the covers and gone downstairs to page through Merrill’s file.
By three a.m. , he had satisfied himself that there was no mention of Willa Harris, no discussion of anyone fitting her description in any of the locales Kate had mentioned: Newport, Providence, the Connecticut shoreline.
And then, turning one last page, John had found it: Fairhaven .
The place where Kate’s sister’s Texaco card had last been used. Fairhaven, Massachusetts. A small town just east of New Bedford, filled with boatyards and fishing boats, of prim houses surrounded by rose gardens and white picket fences.
Fairhaven : Greg Merrill had admitted, only to his lawyer, to having stood in the backyard of a Fairhaven house, having climbed onto an overturned dinghy to peer at a thirteen-year-old girl in her bedroom, one hand down his pants as he tried to raise her window with the other.
“Dr. Beckwith thinks there might be a new category for me, doesn’t he?” Greg said, suddenly full of life, leaning all the way across the table, knocking his Bible aside.
“I’m not sure,” John said carefully. “I just know he wants to examine you again.”
“An important man like him,” Greg said, eyes glittering. “With all his credentials…Director of the Center for Sexual Disorders at Maystone University; a member of the committee for the definitions in the DSM-IV…that’s it, right?”
“What, Greg?”
“He wants to use me for a new definition…I’m a magna cum laude graduate of UConn, but I have—what did he say? ‘An extremely primitive personality structure’?” Greg’s eyes flashed. “A zombie-maker…I leave my victims alive, just barely, in breakwaters on the incoming tide…so they’ll have time to know what’s going to happen. And then there was that girl who survived all those days…He thinks I did that on purpose…”
John looked up, with some alarm. This was new. Neither he nor Philip Beckwith was getting into this kind of diagnostic discussion with their client yet, and Merrill had seemed content to leave it that way.
“At the same time,” Greg continued, “I’m power-bestowing. I give them a last chance. I give them hope: Because until the tide rises up to their mouths and noses, they’re not at all sure they’re going to die. That girl who lived…she had hope
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