Doctor Jante extracted a notebook computer from her briefcase and placed it on the table. Pivoting the screen upward, she pressed the power button and started it into its boot process as she spoke. “In all honesty, while we regularly conduct interviews with serial offenders, the primary reason we are so interested in Devereaux is her classification.”
“You don’t mind if we record this, do you?” Hanley interjected, waving a digital voice recorder as he spoke.
“That’s fine,” Felicity replied with a nod, then looked over at the Doctor and quipped, “So the FBI actually has a classification for serial bitch?”
Jante gave her a thin smile. “Actually, Miz O’Brien, we use something called the Kelleher Typology nine-point categorization in order to divide serial killers into different groups. Devereaux herself falls into the classification of sexual predator, and while that is not at all unusual for male offenders, for women it is incredibly rare. In fact, until now there has been only one other.”
“Aileen Wuornos,” I offered.
“Correct,” she replied. “Do you have an interest in serial killers, Mister Gant?”
“They aren’t a morbid hobby or anything,” I returned. “But circumstances seem to dictate that I end up dealing with them on a regular basis, so I’ve done a little homework to stay ahead of the curve.”
“Of course,” she replied. “We are certainly familiar with your work helping local law enforcement.”
“I pretty much assumed you would be.”
“Yes, I don’t doubt that.” Her tone was guarded, and it was obvious that I was still being sized up. She flashed a quick smile then continued, “It might interest you to know, however, that there are some who reject that classification for Wuornos, as the evidence suggests she had motivations for the murders other than sexual gratification. It really depends on how strict one interprets the typology.”
I nodded. “Actually, I’ve heard this before from one of your own. Right about the time Annalise’s second Saint Louis victim was discovered, in fact.”
“So exactly what is it you’re wanting from me then?” Felicity asked, interrupting before we could diverge any further.
Hanley replied, “Well, Miz O’Brien, as I was telling you earlier, it’s standard procedure to interview most anyone the offender has ever had contact with in order that we form a comprehensive model of the psychopathology relating to the crimes.”
“That sounds reasonable, but my contact was extremely limited and very recent,” my wife objected. “I didn’t even know she existed until a few months ago, much less that we were related. I don’t really see how I can help.”
“Well, that’s what we are hoping to find out today,” Doctor Jante replied. “For some reason Devereaux is extremely fixated on you.”
“No offense, but that isn’t exactly a news flash,” Felicity said with a shrug and an animated shake of her head. “She wanted me dead. One of your agents saved my life and almost lost hers in the process.”
“Special Agent Mandalay, yes, of course,” Jante replied. “We’ve seen the report. However, the issue at hand isn’t merely her fixation, which, to be honest, is actually somewhat of a mystery. And that is why we wanted to speak to you about it. You see, on the surface Devereaux appears to be suffering from Dissociative Identity Disorder. In lay terminology, you’ve probably heard it referred to as multiple personalities.
“In her case she seems to have two very similar but, at the same time, very distinct personalities. However, neither of these identities is childlike, which is disturbing because one of the hallmarks of a true dissociative disorder is the child persona. Still, both of her apparent personalities are unnaturally preoccupied with you, Miz O’Brien. The interesting thing about them, however, is that their obsessions run to diametrically opposed extremes.”
“Miz O’Brien,” Hanley spoke up. “As I said, we’ve reviewed the case reports and are familiar with the various, shall we say, incidents, which in part led to your implications in the crimes.”
“You mean my trip to the bondage club and motel,” my wife said in a flat voice.
He glanced at me then back to her. “I was trying to be tactful, but yes.”
She shook her head. “I prefer a straightforward approach. But either way, if you’ve seen the case reports, then obviously you also know I was cleared, so where exactly are you going with this?”
“Please don’t misunderstand, Miz O’Brien,” Doctor Jante rushed to clear up the perceived implication. “You aren’t being accused of anything. However, there are some pressing questions that do raise a few concerns in that regard. Specifically the fact that Devereaux’s secondary personality appears to have an extensive and very intimate familiarity with you and your husband, even though she herself has only a cursory knowledge. Such disparities certainly aren’t uncommon with identity disorders, but under the circumstances we feel it bears investigation.”
“Why is that?”
“The apparent connection,” Hanley answered. “According to the case files, the name used by her alternate personality is mentioned prominently in conjunction with you as well, Miz O’Brien. So given that she seems to know so much about you, we were hoping you could help shed some light on Miranda?”
CHAPTER 15:
Miranda.
Hanley spoke the three syllables with clinical sterility, as if they formed nothing more than a mere appellation. I suppose to him, and most everyone else for that matter, that is exactly what it was. But for Felicity and me, the name held a very different meaning. Because of the memories it conjured, I had been making a point of not saying it aloud whenever my wife was around. I seriously doubt my personal moratorium on the noun kept her from thinking about all that had happened to tear our lives apart in recent months, but I liked to believe that it helped, even if only a little.
Hearing it spoken by the federal agent now, however, the rolling syllables that would most likely sound pleasant to anyone else’s ear were no less than a dull knife twisting in my gut. Unfortunately, for us Miranda wasn’t a pretty name at all. Instead of “someone to be admired” as its Latin root suggested, it was just the opposite. Even worse, it had become a garish pseudonym for evil incarnate.
I took a deep breath and heard Felicity do the same. If nothing else, the direction this interview was taking served as a confirmation of the reason behind the persistent chill running the length of my spine. Not that such verification was needed, or even wanted. It simply was what it was.
“Miz O’Brien?” Doctor Jante prodded.
Felicity sighed then looked away and fixed her distant gaze on the opposite wall. After a moment she finally muttered an answer to the question. “ Grodag… Uathbheist… Fekking Ban-aibhistear. ”
The doctor wrinkled her forehead. “Gaelic again, I assume?”
My wife pursed her lips and looked over at her. Then with a frigid voice, she translated the string of foreign words into a simple summation, “You wanted to know about Miranda… There it is. She’s a monster… If Satan exists, she’s the fekking manifestation.”
“I take it you mean Devereaux’s secondary personality? Agent Hanley asked. “Or are you saying there is an actual Miranda?”
“Her personality if that’s what you want to call it then,” she spat. “You’ve been talking to her. She seems real enough, don’t you think?”
“Can you tell us about her?”
“I don’t know what I can possibly tell you that you don’t already know. Like I just said, you’ve been talking to her, not me.”
“Obviously you know something about Miranda, or you wouldn’t be having this type of reaction.”
Felicity’s voice turned hard. “Of course I do. I know what she did. I know I was accused of it. And, I know she made my life a living hell. Isn’t that enough to warrant my reaction?”
“In this case, I don’t think so,” he replied.
“Maybe you should think a bit harder then.”
“Allow me to explain my reas
oning, Miz O’Brien,” he continued calmly. “I think you know more than you are saying because according to the early police reports, you actually identified yourself as Miranda on at least one occasion.”
I straightened in my chair at the comment but remained closed-mouthed for the moment. However, I couldn’t say how long that would last. The earlier mistrust I had apparently been too quick to rule out was rearing its head once again. I felt the prickle of gooseflesh as the hair on the back of my neck stood at attention. In concert with the sensation, my brain sorted through the various directions this could go. Unfortunately, none of them seemed particularly appealing.
“That’s a different story,” Felicity told him.
“Different how?”
She shrugged. “Just…different.”
“Well, even you have to admit that it seems a bit coincidental,” he pressed.
“You said it yourself,” she replied. “Coincidence.”
“As I said, Miz O’Brien, we’ve read the case files.”
To my knowledge, with the exception of the handful of detectives and federal officers with whom I had closely worked, the name Miranda had been nothing more than an alias used by Annalise. Now, however, the harsh light of the BAU appeared as if it was being trained on a ghost, even if they didn’t realize it, and my wife was being caught in that beam as well.
In response to my wife’s silence, Agent Hanley made a capitulatory gesture with his hands as he raised his eyebrows. “Honestly, I think you’re hiding something. Why can’t you at least tell us why you chose to refer to yourself by that particular name?”
My comfort zone was already being severely stressed, and his latest comment served only to push it to the limit. Instead of allowing its walls to be breached I interrupted. “I think maybe we’re finished here.”
My tone carried a sharp edge that, judging from the looks I received, definitely appeared to annoy or at the very least surprise the two FBI agents. At this point, however, I really didn’t care. I wasn’t going to let Felicity be railroaded again, especially not like this.
“I was speaking to your wife, Mister Gant,” Hanley replied.
“I caught that, Agent Hanley,” I shot back coolly. “But, just so we avoid any misunderstanding, I was speaking to both of you.”
“I agree with Rowan, then,” Felicity announced. “This suddenly seems more like an interrogation than an interview.”
Doctor Jante spoke up. “Miz O’Brien, I understand how you must feel about this after everything you’ve been through, but you have nothing to worry about. No one is accusing you of anything.”
“That certainly isn’t the impression you’re giving me,” Felicity replied.
“I apologize for that,” Doctor Jante said, offering a smile. “To the both of you. That isn’t our intention at all. We’re simply trying to gather as much information as we can, and with our time limited as it is, sometimes the stress can creep through, even for us.” She glanced at her partner. “I’m afraid Agent Hanley was just a little overzealous.”
Hanley gave her a shallow nod of agreement then muttered a quick and blatantly insincere apology in our direction. Other than that he remained quiet, with a somewhat stoic expression on his face as he stared across the table at us.
In that moment the two of them had officially established their roles as good cop and bad cop. Any other time I probably would have pointed out to them that I was onto their game, but the obvious posturing seemed just exactly that- obvious. Their less than subtle attempt at manipulation bothered me enough that I had to wonder why they had been so transparent. I knew I should be listening to my instincts to cut and run, but there was just one small problem. My curiosity was taking over.
“We’d like to continue if you’re agreeable to that,” Jante said, directing herself to Felicity, although she did cast a quick glance in my direction as well.
Personally, I wasn’t excited about the situation, but the nagging wonder in the back of my head was getting the better of me. I wanted to know just exactly what they were after and why. I turned toward my wife and wrestled with the momentary indecision.
After a heartbeat or two I abandoned the struggle and chose a different path. I would allow Felicity to be the barometer. As curious as I was, I knew she would be pragmatic. She always was. If she wanted to leave now, we would. If she wanted to hear them out, then I would just be sure to pay even closer attention to my gut. If my inklings grew any stronger, I figured I could just pull the plug then and there. At least, that’s what I hoped.
I shrugged. “I’ll leave it up to you unless you want me to decide. Just say the word.”
She looked at me and gave a shallow nod then absently chewed at her lower lip. A thick quiet filled the room, underscored by the low whirr of the cooling fan on Doctor Jante’s notebook computer as it kicked on for a moment.
“Maybe I can help with your decision,” the doctor finally said, breaking the silence and taking advantage of the fact that my wife had not yet said no. “May I show you something, Miz O’Brien?”
“What?” Felicity asked.
“It’s a short clip from a video recording of an interview with Devereaux.”
“Why do you want me to see it?”
“I think that after you do, you’ll have a better understanding of why we are so interested in your apparent connection with Miranda.”
Felicity looked over at me again then back to Doctor Jante. She closed her eyes and sighed, then gave a quick nod to the affirmative as her eyelids fluttered open. “Okay. I’ll watch it.”
Jante skillfully fingered the computer keyboard then twisted the whole unit so that it was aimed in our direction.
“This particular clip is from an interview conducted last week,” she told us as a simple introduction then reached around and tapped the touch pad to start it playing.
As the image opened on the screen, I experienced an excruciating moment of deja vu. Annalise Devereaux was almost a dead ringer for Felicity. There were differences to be sure, but they were subtle enough that even I had to do a double take. What made this worse for me, though, was the fact that the woman in the video was clad in a prison issue orange jumpsuit and wearing handcuffs. When my wife had been arrested and accused of the murders, I had visited her at the Justice Center where she had been held. The image before me now was almost like a snapshot taken directly from my memory, and it brought a phantom wave of the emotional pain flooding back without warning.
I watched as the video doppelganger settled back in her chair, regarding the person seated across the table from her with a curious expression. While the camera was primarily focused on Annalise, I could make out enough of the interviewer’s profile to reasonably assume that it was Doctor Jante herself. As the clip moved forward, audio began to stream from the computer.
“Actually, she reminds me of how Annalise was in the beginning,” Devereaux said, her voice a sweet Southern drawl even through the tinniness of the small speakers. “But, better. Much better.”
Judging from the third person reference, it was apparent that Miranda was in control.
“Miz O’Brien, you mean?” the half image of Doctor Jante on the screen asked.
“Felicity, yes,” Miranda replied.
“How is it that you know her?”
“Serendipity.”
“Would you like to explain?”
“No.”
“I see. So, what is it that makes her better than Annalise?”
“Her spirit, of course,” she said, shaking her head and smiling. The tone of her voice made her reply sound as if the answer was so obvious that the question itself was wholly unnecessary. “She fights her desires, and that just makes them all the sweeter when they are realized. For the both of us.”
“And those desires would be?”
“To accept their love completely and without hesitation.”
“Love?”
“Yes.”
“By ‘accept their love’ exactly what and who d
o you mean?”
“Accepting their love by giving them what they want.”
“‘They’ being men?”
“Of course.”
“So what you really mean is torturing and killing men for your own sexual gratification?”
“No.” Miranda shook her head. “I mean exactly what I said. Loving them.”
“I’m not sure I comprehend how what you do to them equates to love.”
Miranda flashed her wicked smile. “Of course you don’t. You don’t have the capacity to understand.”
“Perhaps if you explained it to me.”
“That would be like trying to explain algebra to a flea, now wouldn’t it?”
“I don’t know. I’m a little smarter than your average flea. Why don’t you give it a try and we’ll see?”
Miranda leaned forward and adopted a serious visage. “Do you have children, Ellie?”
“Do you?” the doctor countered without missing a beat.
Miranda smiled and leaned back. “Of course you don’t. You’re far too wrapped up in yourself to have had time for a partner, much less children.”
“That’s an interesting observation.”
“No it isn’t.” She shook her head. “I’m merely stating the obvious.”
“I see.”
Miranda looked her over then leaned back in the chair once again. “Or maybe you’re a lesbian. Is that it? Do you prefer the company of women, Ellie?”
“I really expected better from you,” the onscreen Doctor Jante replied, her voice even and unfazed. “That’s exactly what Virgil Leroy Belton asked when I interviewed him. I even wrote about it, so I would have to assume you’ve read my book.”
“Actually, that isn’t exactly what he said. Belton asked if you were a ‘pussy licking dyke.’ I’m not that crude.”
“Yes, you are correct. So obviously you did read it.”
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