Page 13 of Brainwashed

I wrote it eight years ago, just out of Johns Hopkins and doing a lot of behavioral and criminal psych research, expanding on my morbid curiosities into things that haven’t been accepted in the medical community in decades. I published it independently and used the pen nameDr. Melvin Strange, a nonsensical idiom I made up.

Basically, I didn’t write the book for any sort of fame or attention. Rather, I just wanted to get my thoughts out there, without having to tie them to Lemuel Love, PhD.

It’s been years since I’ve even thought about the book… Until now. Until this stranger just brought it up to me, claiming that he’s abig fanof it.

And because of that book, he thinks I would want to take some job at this facility he operates?

It’s all just so strange.

That said, I can’t deny my intrigue. And after the interesting session with Trevel today, I can’t help but admire the timing of the call…

Behavioral studies of killers is my primary interest. And over the years, with my practice and the pressures of my parents and colleagues, I’ve sort of veered away from it. Yes, I still deal with complex patients, but Trevel is the only one who’s actually killed someone.Multiple someones.

When I first readMindhunter, I remember thinking,yes. This is what I want to do.I want to speak directly with people who have taken lives, and not by accident. I mean human beings who havewillfullymurdered their fellow humans and lived to tell the tale.

Just thinking about it now sheets my skin with chills and twists my stomach into a knot.

Remembering my shower, I wander back to the bathroom, popping out the AirPods and stripping the rest of the way. But before I step inside, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror.

The slightly discolored skin on my throat… Faded over time, but still visible. In my eyes, it still looks just like it did all those years ago.

And I see myself as I was back then…

A boy, on the cusp of becoming a man. Younger, weaker. Both physically and mentally.

Easy prey.

And prey he did. But he didn’t get me.

Because circumstance will only take you so far…

The rest is up to impulse.

Ithink I’m dying.

That would be rich, wouldn’t it? After everything I’ve done, and I end up meeting my maker from starvation and dehydration in a cement hole in the middle of the ocean…

Maybe it’s fitting.Maybe this is what I deserve.

In fact, I’m sure it is. But even now… Even rotting in the dark, dank cell of solitary confinement where I’ve been for five weeks now, give or take, I can’t locate any of that illustrious remorse inside of myself.

It’s just not there… That sensation like Bigfoot, I’ve been hunting since Emmanuel… Everyone tells me it’s one of the most human of emotions. But I don’t have it.

I’m not so sure I even want it. I think I’d rather live the rest of my likely brief existence blissfully unaware. Isn’t that what they always say? I’d rather be stupid and happy than hold the knowledge of the world and its misery.

Well, I don’t think I’m veryhappyright now either.

Curling up on the rickety cot in the corner of my cell, I hug myself, trying to keep warm. It’s freezing down here in the dungeon. I believe it’s almost spring outside right now, but I have to rely on my memories of the season, since I’ve been locked up and without a window for months.

Closing my eyes, I drift back to the day I was ripped out of my regular cell and dumped down here in solitary…

Today’s the day.

Ivan Wilkerson is going to die.

I’d grappled with it, for all of five seconds. After all, I begged and pleaded for some human contact. Isn’t killing him sort of defeating the purpose?

But I just can’t help it…