The rain had not stopped by morning. It fell in steady, gray sheets against the window of Apartment 3B, blurring the world outside into a watercolor smear of brick and asphalt. Victor Deverell had not slept. He sat on the floor where he had collapsed the night before, the photograph still clutched in his hands, its edges soft and damp from the sweat of his palms.
The grinning face of Martin Crowe stared up at him, unchanging, eternal.
You were always better at being me than I was.
The words looped through Victor's exhausted mind like a snatch of song he could not shake. What did it mean? How could anyone be better at being Martin Crowe? The man had murdered eleven people over the course of fourteen months, each killing more elaborate than the last, each crime scene staged with a theatrical flair that had earned him his grotesque nickname. He had been captured in August 1998, tried, convicted, and sentenced to life without parole at the Blackmoor Penitentiary. Two years into his sentence, he had been found dead in his cell, his throat opened with a shiv fashioned from a toothbrush handle. The case was closed. The Laughing Man was gone.
And yet, here was his handwriting on the back of a photograph of Victor.
The doorbell rang.
Victor flinched so violently that he banged his elbow against the wall. The photograph slipped from his fingers and fluttered to the floor, landing face-up. For a long moment, he simply stared at the door, his heart thudding. The doorbell rang again, followed by three sharp knocks.
He pushed himself to his feet. His legs had gone numb from hours on the floor, and he limped across the room like a wounded animal. When he opened the door, a woman stood in the hallway, her raincoat dripping onto the worn carpet. She was tall, with sharp cheekbones and dark hair cropped short in a practical, no-nonsense style. Her eyes were a pale shade of gray, almost silver, and they regarded Victor with the detached curiosity of a scientist examining a specimen.
"Mr. Deverell? I'm Dr. Elara Moss, from the Stonebridge Psychiatric Institute." She held up a laminated identification badge. "Judge Vance's office sent me. Your forensic evaluation has been expedited. May I come in?"
Victor blinked. "Expedited? I only had the hearing yesterday."
"Yes. The judge felt that your case warranted immediate attention." Dr. Moss's gaze flicked past him, scanning the dark interior of the apartment. "I did try calling, but your phone appears to be disconnected."
"I don't have a phone," Victor said. The lie came automatically, though he could not have explained why. There was a telephone on the kitchen counter, its cord neatly coiled, its service active and paid through the end of the month. But something in him recoiled at the thought of this woman entering his home, seeing the corkboard, finding the photograph.
Dr. Moss smiled. It was a careful smile, practiced and precise. "I understand this is unexpected, Mr. Deverell. But cooperation with the evaluation is in your best interest. As you were informed at the hearing, refusal to participate will almost certainly result in an unfavorable decision on your claim."
Victor hesitated. The photograph was still on the floor, visible to anyone who stepped inside. The corkboard loomed on the wall like an accusation.
"I'd prefer to meet somewhere else," he said. "A coffee shop, or your office—"
"I'm afraid the evaluation protocol requires me to observe you in your home environment." Dr. Moss tilted her head. "Is there a problem?"
The question hung in the air between them. Victor felt the weight of the photograph behind him, the dozens of clippings, the red-circled face of the unknown woman. If he refused to let her in, she would note his resistance in her report. Subject is uncooperative. Subject is hiding something. If he let her in, she would see the evidence of his obsession — an obsession he still could not remember developing.
"Fine," he said, stepping aside. "Please, come in."
Dr. Moss entered the apartment and immediately began a slow, methodical survey of the space. She did not attempt to hide her scrutiny. Her eyes moved from the peeling ceiling to the water-stained walls, from the threadbare armchair to the stacks of newspapers piled in the corners. She took in the kitchenette with its single plate drying in the rack, the bathroom door slightly ajar revealing a cracked mirror, the narrow hallway leading to a bedroom Victor rarely entered.
And then she saw the corkboard.
"Ah," she said softly. She approached it with the reverent step of a museum curator encountering an unexpected masterpiece. Her silver eyes traced the chronological arrangement of clippings, the glossy photograph at the center, the handwritten notes in their cramped, unfamiliar script. "This is quite something, Mr. Deverell."
Victor stood frozen near the door, his hands clasped behind his back to hide their trembling. "It's research," he said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. "I've been trying to understand my condition. The memory gaps. I thought if I studied something I had no connection to, something I couldn't possibly have been involved in, it might help me distinguish between real memories and… whatever else is in my head."
Dr. Moss turned to look at him. Her expression was unreadable. "You chose to study Martin Crowe."
"It was in the news. A famous case. I thought it would be… safe."
"Safe." She repeated the word as if tasting it. "You filled an entire wall with details of a serial killer's crimes because you thought it would be safe."
Victor said nothing. There was nothing he could say.
Dr. Moss returned her attention to the corkboard. She leaned in close, examining the handwritten notes. "This script is very distinctive. The loop on the lowercase 'g,' the way the 't' is crossed with a downward slash. It's quite unusual. Did you write these?"
"I don't know," Victor admitted. "I don't remember writing them. But I live alone. No one else has a key. So I must have."
"May I see a sample of your handwriting?"
Victor nodded reluctantly. He retrieved a notepad from the kitchen counter — a shopping list he had written weeks ago, the items half-crossed out — and handed it to her. Dr. Moss held it beside one of the notes on the corkboard, her eyes moving back and forth between them.
"Fascinating," she murmured. "The handwriting is similar, but not identical. The note on the corkboard has a distinct leftward slant. Your shopping list slants right. The pressure patterns are different as well." She looked up. "Do you know if you're ambidextrous, Mr. Deverell?"
"I'm right-handed."
"Have you ever attempted to write with your left hand?"
"No. Why would I?"
Dr. Moss did not answer. Instead, she reached into her satchel and withdrew a small digital recorder, which she placed on the coffee table and switched on. "I'm going to ask you some questions now. The recording will be transcribed and become part of your evaluation. Is that acceptable?"
"Yes."
"Good. Please, sit down."
Victor lowered himself into the armchair. Dr. Moss remained standing, her posture relaxed but alert, like a cat poised near a mouse hole.
"Let's begin with the hallucinations," she said. "You reported to Dr. Cross that you see a man who grins at you. A man you don't recognize. Is that still accurate?"
"Yes."
"And are you seeing him now?"
Victor's gaze flicked involuntarily to the corner of the room. The space behind the armchair was empty. Only shadows and peeling wallpaper. "No. He's not always there."
"When does he appear?"
"During moments of stress. Or when I'm tired. Sometimes when I'm not thinking about anything at all." He paused. "He's been more vivid lately. More detailed. I can see his face clearly now."
Dr. Moss made a note on a small pad. "Describe him."
"Tall. Thin. Dark hair, receding slightly at the temples. A scar above his left eyebrow. Small, crescent-shaped. His clothes are ordinary — a button-down shirt, dark trousers. He looks like anyone. But his grin…" Victor trailed off.
"Yes?"
"It's not a normal smile. It's too wide. Too knowing. As if he can see right through me, right into the back of my skull, and he finds whatever's there amusing."
Dr. Moss studied him for a long moment. Then she reached into her satchel again and withdrew a folder. From the folder, she extracted a photograph and held it up for Victor to see.
It was a mugshot of Martin Crowe.
"Is this the man you see?"
Victor's breath caught in his throat. The resemblance was unmistakable — the thin frame, the receding hairline, the crescent scar. But the man in the photograph was not grinning. His expression was flat, almost bored, as if the camera were an inconvenience he had chosen to tolerate.
"No," Victor said. "It looks like him, but the man I see is older. More worn. And he's always smiling."
Dr. Moss lowered the photograph. "Martin Crowe died in prison in the year 2000. If your hallucination is an older version of him, it suggests your mind has constructed an image of what Crowe might have looked like had he lived. That's not typical of a random hallucination. It suggests a deeper familiarity with the subject."
"I've been researching him. I must have seen his photograph somewhere."
"You said you had no memory of researching him. You said you didn't know the clipping Judge Vance showed you was in your possession."
"I don't. I didn't." Victor's voice cracked. "I'm telling you the truth. I don't remember any of it."
Dr. Moss was quiet for a moment. Then she gestured toward the corkboard. "May I examine the other room?"
"What other room?"
"Your bedroom. The hallway leads to a bedroom, does it not?"
"Yes, but there's nothing in there. I sleep in the armchair most nights."
"Most nights. But not all nights." Dr. Moss was already walking toward the hallway. Her footsteps were soft on the threadbare carpet. Victor scrambled to follow her, a cold dread coiling in his stomach.
The bedroom door was closed. He never closed it. He was certain of that.
Dr. Moss pushed it open.
The room beyond was not a bedroom. It had been a bedroom once, perhaps, but now it was something else entirely. The walls were covered floor to ceiling with more corkboards, more clippings, more photographs. A large table dominated the center of the space, its surface cluttered with notebooks, manila folders, and a vintage microfiche reader that Victor had no memory of purchasing. A map of Grayhaven was pinned to one wall, dotted with red pushpins that traced a pattern he could not quite decipher. And in the corner, seated in a wooden chair, was a mannequin dressed in a woman's clothing — a floral print dress, faded and old-fashioned, the kind of dress someone's grandmother might have worn.
Victor stopped in the doorway. His legs refused to carry him any farther.
"I don't understand," he whispered. "I've never been in this room. I don't remember this room."
Dr. Moss walked slowly around the table, her silver eyes taking in every detail. She picked up one of the notebooks and flipped through its pages. Her expression remained carefully neutral, but Victor saw her jaw tighten.
"Mr. Deverell," she said quietly, "this notebook contains detailed descriptions of the Laughing Man murders. Not the kind of descriptions that were published in newspapers. These include details that were never released to the public. Details that only the killer or someone with access to the original case files would know."
"That's impossible."
"Is it?" She closed the notebook and set it down. "You claim to have no memory of collecting these materials, no memory of converting your bedroom into a shrine to a serial killer, no memory of writing notes that contain privileged information. And yet here it all is, in your apartment, in your handwriting — or a variation of it. What do you expect me to conclude, Mr. Deverell?"
Victor's mind raced. He felt as though he were standing at the edge of a great chasm, the ground crumbling beneath his feet. "Someone must have planted this. Someone broke in and—"
"You told me you live alone. No one else has a key."
"Then I did it. I must have done it. But I don't remember. That's my condition. That's why I filed for disability. My memory is broken."
Dr. Moss regarded him for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then she reached into her satchel and withdrew a small glass vial and a sterile swab.
"I'm going to take a DNA sample," she said. "It's standard procedure for forensic evaluations. The Board requires it in cases involving potential criminal activity."
"Criminal activity?" Victor's voice rose. "I haven't done anything. I'm the one who's scared. I'm the one who sees things that aren't there."
"Then you have nothing to worry about." Dr. Moss swabbed the inside of his cheek with practiced efficiency and sealed the sample in the vial. "I'll submit this to the Board's laboratory along with my preliminary report. In the meantime, I would strongly advise you not to leave Grayhaven. The judge may wish to speak with you again."
She packed her satchel and walked toward the front door. Victor followed her, his thoughts a chaotic whirl. As she stepped into the hallway, she paused and turned back to face him.
"One more thing, Mr. Deverell. The photograph that Judge Vance showed you yesterday — the one of the Laughing Man's fifth victim. Did you know her?"
"No. I've never seen her before."
"The woman in the photograph was named Lillian Thorne. She was twenty-six years old. She worked as a records clerk for the Breckwith Archival Services Company."
The name hit Victor like a physical blow. Breckwith. The company he had supposedly worked for during his missing decade. The coincidence was too precise, too terrible to be random.
"I don't remember her," he said, but his voice was barely a whisper.
Dr. Moss's silver eyes held his for a long moment. Then she nodded once and walked away, her footsteps echoing in the empty stairwell.
Victor closed the door and pressed his forehead against the cold wood. His breath came in ragged gasps. The room behind him — the impossible room with its maps and mannequins and notebooks full of secrets — seemed to press against his back like a living thing.
In the corner of the living room, just at the edge of his vision, the hallucination of Martin Crowe tilted its head and smiled its terrible, knowing smile.
And for the first time, Victor thought he heard it speak.
Keep digging, the voice whispered, dry as dead leaves. You're almost there.
No comments yet. Be the first to comment!