Born, Darkly (Darkly, Madly 1)

A forced smile pulls my features tight. I admit an early morning blood bath is an extreme way to greet the day, even for me—but I’ve dealt with worse. I’ve been spat on, choked, have been practically defecated on…so at least this time I didn’t need a penicillin shot. Still, I should probably play the role of insulted physician for others’ sake.

“I’m fine, thanks. Nothing I can’t handle. You need to remind the warden not to bring up inmates until their appointment.”

Lacy is intelligent. Top of her class at Yale. I’m not reprimanding her; she’s used to my sharp moods. She fidgets with her cell phone, flipping away notifications. “Believe me,” she says, gaze cast down, “I’ve reminded him. I don’t want them here any longer than you do.”

Besides being smart, Lacy is also gorgeous. Long blond hair and busty. The inmates have no shame in ogling her. I roll my shoulders back and adjust my glasses. “I’ll handle it.”

Warden Marks is a tall, lanky man with pointy features. He reminds me of the scarecrows back home, and he gives off a similar creepy vibe as the straw-stuffed fiends of my past.

He’s seated in the cushioned chair next to my office door, his black dress shoe tapping. Two convicts in orange are seated on either side of him, three corrections officers standing guard. The inmates might not be as noticeable if the warden would allow them to wear a less distinctive color. Although, the handcuffed wrists chained to their ankles might be more telling than the tacky orange jumpsuits.

One more year.

My commitment to Cotsworth Correctional Facility will be fulfilled in a year’s time. Although my work with convicted murderers is what launched my career—the general public’s morbid fascination with serial killers a giant springboard—I’m moving away from that field of study. I owe Marks and others like him a debt of gratitude, as my research and methods are now taught at nearly every criminal justice academy nationwide, but I’m officially through.

After seven years of intense study into the mind of the criminally insane, I have formed only one conclusion: serial offenders cannot be rehabilitated.

There is, of course, the rare subject that finds his way to God or another divine being and transcends beyond his compulsions. But without the chance to be monitored in a civilized setting without maximum security to make sure those compulsions stay checked, one can never prove effective rehabilitation.

Rather, my methods simply make life inside prison more bearable for the wardens and guards and doctors who deal with these offenders on a daily basis. No, I do not believe rehabilitation is achievable. Especially for the Bundys and Dahmers of the world.

They are governed by their Id—and the Id is the ultimate monster.

“Warden,” I say as I approach my office. “I shouldn’t have to remind you that inmates cannot use the waiting room.”

Warden Marks stands and pulls his suit jacket closed. “Hello, London. I was sorry to see the unfortunate happening at the courthouse on the news. I hope this won’t effect your sessions today, but I do understand if you need—”

I hold up a hand. “Where’s Riley?”

Irritated by my interruption, he purses his thin lips. “Riley has transferred out. He wasn’t making any progress in the program.”

I dig out the key from my purse and turn toward the warden. I could make an argument on Riley’s behalf, claim we’d eventually see a breakthrough, but this morning left me drained and lethargic. Riley is a prime example of failed rehabilitation.

Considering this, I glance between the two inmates seated in my waiting room. One is gawking openly at Lacy, drool streaming from his mouth. The other simply stares at the hardwood floor.

I feel a sardonic laugh bubble up. “No,” I say. “I’m absolutely not taking on two new patients.”

The officers move to escort the convicts out, but Warden Marks glares at them. “London,” he starts, my name an irritating plea in his nasally, reprimanding tone. “Funding requires that you meet your quota. Now that Riley is gone…” he trails off, leaving the rest unsaid.

I press my fingers to my forehead, annoyed with the mounting ache at my temples. My paying clients are enough to keep my practice more than profitable. If funding is pulled before the year is up, I’ll accept my reprimand. “One,” I state, holding up a finger to drive my seriousness through his thick skull. “I’ll take on one patient. We can discuss an alternative resource for the other. I can’t take on any more clients and be within regulations.” This is true.

With a defeated sigh, the warden nods to the officer nearest the drooling convict. “Bring Billings in.”

“Wait.” I do another quick sweep over the two men. “Not him. Him.” I point to the dark-haired man who hasn’t looked up once during our conversation.

Marks chuckles. “I assure you, if your workload is that hectic, you don’t want Sullivan here. He’s a lost cause. Only here as a last resort before he’s transferred to a maximum security penitentiary in New Castle.” His gaze hardens on the inmate. “He’s being tried for capital punishment. Lethal injection.”

I glare at him. “And yet you were so eager to waste my time.”

He shrugs. “I have my own pushy caseworkers to answer to.”

As the corrections officer begins to lead Sullivan toward the elevator, I look at Lacy and decide a hopeless case is better than her being uncomfortable for the next several months.

“I do like my challenges.” I turn to unlock the door. “When is the trial date?”

The warden clears his throat. “Three months from now. You’ll be required to speak on his behalf. Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I’m required to give my honest testimony. Which I always do,” I say as I step inside my office. “Bring him in. I’ll start the paperwork.”