you know what they do to guys like us in prison

outside the cell

I tap my fingers on the dark mahogany desk and frown at the screen of my laptop. The screen casts an unnaturally bright glow in the dingy, dark room, casting eerie shadows on my face. The blind is pulled half shut, causing stripes of dusty light to illuminate parts of the grey carpet. The walls in the room are a grim dark brown, filled with charts of brains and bullshit. I hate my office at the prison, but I'd been staying here for the past week, just in case Frank pulled another stupid stunt. I have three other patients, and I curl my hand around my cooling cup of coffee. I sigh as I update their files; Eliza was getting better, recovering from such severe depression it sent her into nothingness. Poor kid. At least she's starting to talk again. Then there's Ray, a burly man who'd lost his kid. Finally, my only other patient aside from Frank that was an inmate, Cain. He is a bore, really, compared to Frank. His crime disgusts me, and I hate being within vicinity of him. He killed a girl about 10 years ago, and disposed of her body in such a way I find grotesque. My mind wanders to Frank. Why does he think such things, and why would he kill? I know his background of course. It was perfectly standard, until that one murder of Lucy Jones. That's the starting point - the starting point for most, that is. But the reason death's row isn't Frank's fate is because I gave up working with a terrorist for him. And if I could figure out him, a simple case of a serial killer shouldn't be too much of a challenge. Already, I'd broken down the walls he'd built up, smashed them into pieces. He relied on me now.

I put my head in my hands and strands of fire-engine red hair fell over my hands. I picked the color because I knew it would draw me closer to Frank. Murderers like blood. Think, Way, think. I scroll through Frank's profile, all the notes of him, clinical and otherwise. I wince at the pictures of recent cuts, neatly labelled with cause and treatment. I scroll further down his medical file, leaning into the screen. I look at the list of tests, and illnesses. I don't tend to study this particular note, since most of the so called illness could be healed without me knowing the physical definition - whether it be in a gentle or harsher way, I've always instinctively known just how to treat people. Just the standard depression, anxiety, anorexia, and other words I didn't care to look up the definitions for. I spot a link to his family tree, and study the records. Something jumps out at me among the meaningless rubbish. After a few well worded searches, I know exactly what the problem with Frank Iero is. I am triumphant for a second, then grab a notebook and jot down the start of my plan. I glance at the clock, then at my mug. I am going to need a lot more coffee to get through this one.