The cold winter air cut through Dr. Greyson’s cheeks. Trying to cover as much of his exposed face as he could with his coat, he walked towards the police station with hurried steps.
As he passed through the glass doors, the guard greeted him.
“Good morning, Dr. Greyson.”
Dr. Greyson answered with a halfhearted smile. His visits to this place were always depressing. Everything about this building got on his nerve: the dusty red bricks, the dirty windows, the black metal bars distraught him and the fact that he was visiting either a psychopath or a psychotic did nothing to improve his mood.
Dr. Richard Greyson worked as a psychology consultant for the Department of Justice. To put simply, he was in charge of investigating the mental well-being of a convicted felon so that he or she may be put under trial or admitted to a mental facility accordingly. This was a gruesome task; why an average person like him worked as a consultant was a mystery to many of his colleagues. He was not the kind of person who thrilled at the pleasure of analyzing a criminal, nor was he an avid advocator of justice who wished to uphold the law with his own hands. One might take him for an accountant or a banker, but never a psychologist. Trying not to be intrusive, however, no one actually asked him; he must have his reasons, no doubt. And if he was good at spotting out frauds, who cared why he worked as a consultant?
Dr. Greyson took out the ID tag from his bag and hung it around his neck. He shuffled along the corridor which leads to the holding cells, flashing his ID at securities. Some of the guards were dozing in their posts; other men were busy munching down a frosted doughnut while reading a newspaper. Only one officer seemed to notice that he was passing by.
“Hey, Rick. Up for another round of foosball?”
It was Lauren from homicides. She and he had worked together on a case previously, and ever since then, she seemed to have taken a liking for him. They had gone out several times already, but their relationship never got past the point of beer, foosball, and bed.
Dr. Greyson couldn’t think of anything to say, so he could only reply by smiling awkwardly to her proposal.
“Friday, 7:00, at Tony’s! Don’t be late!” Lauren shouted across the hall. Some of the guards looked up, snickering.
With a reluctant sigh, feeling his energy drain away already, he opened the door of the holding cell number 6.
There, he saw the face of an angel.
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As he lied awake on the bed beside Lauren, looking up to the ceiling, Dr. Greyson could not help but wonder if there was such a thing as a supernatural being in this world. How else could one explain the existence of something so beautiful yet so deformed, unless it was the product of his irony? He could feel his destiny calling out to him, beckoning him to purify and heal this tainted and scarred soul. He voiced out a silent prayer, thanking his good fortune.
“Anna Skatesands,”
He mouthed the name of his true love.
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The girl sitting in the chair wore an orange convict suit. She seemed to be no older than 16. Dr. Greyson was lost for words. Her short black hair fell elegantly on her left cheek. Her sharp eyebrows accentuated her clear blue eyes. Her scarlet lips contrasting with her pale complexion made the perfect portrait. His heart seemed to skip a beat; his eyes seemed to water from staring at something so perfect and beautiful.
Feeling the blood in his body thumping, Dr. Greyson, with difficulty, tore his eyes away from the girl. He read the file in his hands.
“Anna Skatesands?” he asked.
She nodded in affirmation. Trying not to notice how the light seemed to bounce off her hair, he took on a professional voice with a slight cough and said,
“It says here that you…”
But he could not finish his sentence. He could not connect the girl in front of him with the heinous crime that was written in the case file. In the case file, it said that the girl with the porcelain features, the girl with the beautiful blue eyes had been convicted with murder.
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Anna stared down at her bloodstained knife. She frowned. She had expected to feel something. After all, she had just stabbed a person in the chest, right between the left 3rd and 4th rib, tearing through the pectoral muscles, and into the lung. Her victim was drowning in his own blood, gurgling out incoherent words while entering the first stage of hemorrhagic shock. He would die painfully and slowly, unable to move or even call for help within the hour. It was more than enough for her to discard the weapon and all evidence that could connect her to the crime and flee the scene to build a solid alibi. Since this man had no friends or family, it would take at least 2 days until his body started to stench for anyone to notice his absence.
She calmly wrapped up the knife with toilet paper and placed it in a plastic bag. Taking care not to step on the pool of blood forming on the carpet, she left the building.
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Dr. Greyson had never seen a case like this. She seemed to be perfectly healthy and mentally stable. He couldn’t detect any anomaly in her behavior except for her lack of guilt for what she had done. Even gang members had displayed more guilt than this 16 year old girl had. If anything could be said about her mental state, she was healthier than other modern day citizens of New York, where the majority suffered from depression, insecurity and solitude.
“So what do you think? She a nutcase, or a criminal?”
She was mentally in perfect condition. There was no doubt about that.
“Definitely a psychological disorder. I’ll take her off your hands.”
Dr. Greyson smiled reassuringly.
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