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Interesting.
“Sheisn’t my victim,” I parrot, lifting my eyebrows mockingly at him. “I can be accounted for for the entire night. If she was just murdered, you can check to see that I haven’t had any visitors since your good friend Gabriel stopped by. Unless you want to count that accidental run-in in the hallway with Joelle?”
Sterling growls at the reminder, continuing to glare my way. I swivel my head and hold his gaze, leaving us in a contest to see who will look away first. He glares back, and as the seconds tick on I realize he might actually ignore what I said altogether.
He purses his lips. “It’s the same person, Alastair. Your copycat.”
Hmm.Alastair. He’s trying to be empathetic now and appeal to my more human side. Unfortunately that never seems to work. “My copycat, as you call him, is doing a damn good job making you look like a fool then. I haven’t spoken to anyone recently enough for you to pick out and question. Why would I want Candace to die, anyway? She was kind to the prisoners, kind to me. Hell, Sterling, in your own words, she wassweet.”
“It’s your pattern,” Jensen interjects, and I’m beginning to think that’s all they have to go on. Fifteen years and there still isn’t a soul in Citrus Grove who seems to know how to handle these things. “Did you… brag to someone here?”
“No,” I reply evenly. “I don’t like to share my exploits with those who think I'm mad. I’ve already got a reputation around here, friend. No reason to add it.”
“First Lisanna Estrada and now Candace Swan,” Sterling snaps. “No immediate connections between them other than the fact that they lived in Citrus Grove.”
The hairs on the back of my neck raise. So the Copycat isn’t committed to replicating things like before, which could make it hard to predict what might happen next. Instead of commenting, I sweep my hand out in front of me and look between them again. “Do you have a picture?”
“So you can fantasize?” Sterling snarls.
“So I can see what I think of the murder,” I reply with a shrug. The Feds have a real issue with showing me crime photos despite wanting answers from me, but I’m very much a visual person. I need to see the details to comment on them, and at this point the Citrus Grove Copycat Killer is up to two victims. If my Copycat reaches three kills this will be officially classified as a serial, and the FBI won’t like that.
Morbid as it may be, I’m intrigued. I want to know if the patterns are the same, if the attention to detail and the violence match the first copycat kill, or any of my fifteen. Listening to the details isn’t as good for me as seeing them up close.
“Talk to the other prisoners here,” I suggest in their silence, and I can nearly see the storm cloud brewing over Sterling’s head. I don’t know why this case seems to be so profoundly important to him since I’m wasting time on Death Row, but he seems deeply focused on the details of the case.
Maybe he wants to follow in his father’s legacy closer than anyone expected. Edwin Gideon locked up the infamous Citrus Grove Slayer, and if Sterling can catch the copycat he’ll be included in that legacy.
“He’s not going to give us anything,” Jensen says after a moment, shaking his head. “I sincerely doubt you didn’t know something was up, but you also don’t seem to know exactly what’s going on either. We checked with the staff, and Nurse Swan worked with you often. You had no inkling that some tragic fate would befall her soon?”
I snort. “When did I become psychic, Jensen?”
With a groan Sterling drags his hand through the scruff on his face. That beard is going to fill in nicely if he waits to shave it, and I imagine it feels nice along someone’s skin. “You’re going to get questioned again because of the death. More agents will be in here if this continues. We don’t want three deaths, Alastair.”
I draw an invisible circle in the air and roll my eyes at that idea. “Yippee. Maybe actually try investigating her murder instead of asking me recycled questions.”
Sterling starts to say something before focusing behind me, and I know exactly what he’s looking at as the words trail off. Jensen’s eyes drifted there a moment ago when the heated conversation began to cool, and this is the kind of madness that the news stations would run away with. The agents haven’t visited my room yet. The Warden originally wanted to keep their presence to the visitation areas from what I’ve heard, and I’m really surprised that they pulled some strings and managed to get back here without an issue. I’m sure these two are cataloging what they see to analyze later.
I spent my time at the Supermax in solitary, drawing with any medium that I could. Dirt, dust,blood. Giving life to the gory images in my head helps to curb the madness lingering below the surface.
Turning, I study the wall too. The pictures I’ve created since joining the penitentiary aren’t as gory as the ones I made in the first prison, and that’s a fine line to walk in a Supermax. I already had the reputation of being the Citrus Grove Slayer and people have a lot of strong opinions about serial killers no matter where you go.
But serial killers who sketch the scenes, the gore, the darkness swirling inside their heads?
I have scars that didn’t exist until I went to prison. They chipped away at the body I was once proud of, the one that Jo and Vinny intimately knew. Now I feel like a different person entirely. Sinewy muscles define my frame, and I have a couple of badly done prison tattoos; one was inflicted on me, another done freehand by me when I needed something more than one monotonous day after another. The one burned into my arm draws a lot of attention from newcomers when they get the chance to see it, but it’s high enough the sleeve of my prison uniform usually hides it.
Here at the penitentiary, I don’t have to tear into my skin for art. I don’t have to tear intoanyone’sskin. I can draw, usually with markers or chalk, and the damn therapists that siphon through here love to try and do a deep dive into my artwork. I’d prefer different mediums to use, but those two are the only elements I’m permitted to keep in my cell.
Unfortunately, I’m not interested in sharing my madness outside of the artwork itself. How people interpret it is entirely up to them.
So it’s not that surprising that once he noticed them, Sterling couldn't look away from the pictures.
The wall is covered in everything from freehand sketches of orange trees to images of the sunset on the ocean. Then it shifts to more horrific images of crime scenes, how some of the faces of my victims looked in death. They are perfect replicas, even though they’re replicas of replicas because the therapists kept taking them to turn over to the cops to add to my file. They have everything on those faces now, so these images are just for me.
Sometimes they get torn down. That’s the nature of art that scares people; someone wants to censor it. I’ve had enough therapists tell me it’s indecent to draw the dead faces of my victims, but I can’t stop myself. Those are the final images I have of each individual, and they are the ones that play back in my mind the most.
Sterling comes up beside me, studying the wall intently. This is the second time now that he’s stood in such close proximity to me and not given a damn about my lack of restraints. For fuck’s sake, I’m wearing the uniform nightclothes the institution provides. I tried sleeping in penitentiary-provided boxers only at first, once a full-scale prison was a figment of the past and I had a shred more freedom. But the beds here are icy, and it was just easier to fall into line and follow protocol. People pay less attention to every little thing I do if I pretend to play along with whatever rules they want to instill.
Even if I told Sterling the truth right now there’s no way he would believe me. As far as everyone knows, I’m too chaotic for that, and the proof is laid out against me. I accepted the role a long time ago.