I reach the consulting room in a wing that connects to Alpha Twelve. Evan McKinley stands at the door. He greets me, and I peer inside. Donny Ray is seated and waiting at the table, wrists and ankles under restraint, body slumped forward, elbows jammed into his sides.
Holding the floor firm under his gaze.
I enter, then keep silent and still, not only to prevent my presence from feeding his apparent distress, but also as an opportunity to more closely scrutinize and process his overall presentation. The perspiration that soaks his collar. The disheveled hair. It’s safe to surmise that Donny Ray had a rough night. I can also deduce through these physical cues that he’s trying to make his body appear as small as possible, which would seem to indicate fear. But not just any fear—it’s powerful. So close to his skin I can almost smell it hanging on the air.
I take a few steps forward, and Donny Ray shoots his head up to look at me, then just as fast, he lowers it.
Whether those actions were reflexive or for my benefit, I don’t yet know. With a patient suspected of killing ten kids, anything can be possible. I move closer toward him, and he again acknowledges my presence—albeit only by pulling his feet in beneath the chair and latching them around the legs. Not exactly what I’d been hoping for, but from what I’ve seen so far, I’m already aware that getting him to warm up could take some time.
“It’s okay, Donny Ray,” I say, voice quiet yet assertive.
The corded tendons in his neck loosen and smooth. By no means is the response anything earth-shattering—however, if genuine, it’s perhaps a small opening. A start to the process of gaining trust.
“But I can’t help you,” I continue, “unless you give me your attention.”
Donny Ray slowly lifts his head again, vision still aimed at the floor.
“We’re just going to talk today,” I say, taking my seat across from him. “I’ll ask some questions, and you can answer them to the best of your ability. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
He nods but still won’t look at me.
“Donny Ray.” I raise my voice. “Your attention, please?”
He at last shows me his face. Despite all attempts to keep my emotions steady, his blue gaze rattles me.
This is driving me crazy. Where have I seen those eyes?
“Before we start, I was just wondering. Have you heard anything from your attorney lately?”
He lifts one shoulder, shakes his head.
I pause to deliberate on Donny Ray’s indifference. His attorney disappeared a week ago. Has nobody told him, or is he just stonewalling me?
“Let’s start off by backtracking a bit. Are you able to recall memories from your past at this time?”
Donny Ray offers no answer.
I allow the silence to linger.
“Backtracking . . . ,” he finally says. His thick southern drawl carries a new rasp that sounds like tension or exhaustion or maybe both.
“Yeah,” I say. “Like for instance, when you were younger. How did things go in school?”
A listless shrug. “Okay, I guess.”
“Okay, as in . . .”
“Nothing great.”
“Did you get along all right with other kids?”
“Yeah.”
“So then what did you mean by nothing great?”
“Just that I never fit in real good.”
“How about your friendships during that period? What were those like?”
His expression appears a little vacant, but I’m not sure why, so I press. “Did you have friends?”
“No, sir, not really,” he replies.
“Not really, meaning, not many or not any?”
He pulls his knees together, shifts his attention off to one side.
“Donny Ray?” I probe.
Then, through a weak sigh of surrender, “No, sir. I didn’t have any friends.”
The only expression he’ll find on my face is empathy. I want to avoid any physical cues that could indicate I’m passing judgment.
“You know, as a kid I didn’t have a lot of friends myself,” I say, “because my dad was sick, and I spent most of the time taking care of him. It was awful. Lonely. I can’t imagine how you must have felt not having any friends at all.”
Donny Ray levels his gaze on me as if trying to verify the authenticity of my story. Then, for the first time since we’ve met, his legs move out from under the chair. His shoulders fall ever so slightly. Like he’s releasing some of the tension—perhaps fear even—that he’s been clinging to for days.
An inlet. A start.
“What about pets? They can be a lot better company than most people.” I smile at him.
He fights back a smile of his own.
“Did you have any?”
He shakes his head rather adamantly. “No, sir. We didn’t.”
“How come?”
“Because of my dad.” Donny Ray lifts his hands a few inches from his lap, almost as if unsure where they should go. Discomfort, and I’m curious what’s causing it. “My dad always said that animals weren’t worth anything unless they were used for work.”
“And did you feel the same way?”
Donny Ray nods.
I ask if he can explain.
“Guess I never really thought about it. Maybe since we didn’t have any animals, it was hard to know what I was missing?”
I find his response curious. He refrains from saying pets, instead referring to them as animals. This, of course, could merely be a product of his rural upbringing. But what has my interest more is not just his answer, but rather what rode just beneath it. A note of detachment that, along with his social history, may give my previous questions about him new context: no friends, no affection for animals. No relationships, period. This is a common building block for a lack of compassion and love, a tenet in the development of a psychopathic mind. Am I sitting across from a man who grew up isolated and lonely, or is he simply modeling the effects of what those circumstances should look and sound like?