Page 114 of Psychopath

“Could it be wrong?” Quinn asked Doctor Hart, staring dead ahead. “Could he have—”

“No. You can’t make parts of your brain react. It’s unconscious.”

“There’s no hint of damage and no areas that are muted or overactive?”

“I’d say, in my professional opinion, Zane Black has completely healthy brain function. There’s nothing in his scan that indicates past trauma, disease, underdevelopment or previous hypoxia, and the areas you highlighted for me to record are not showing any abnormalities.”

Quinn tensed at Doctor Hart’s eyes burning the side of his face.

“That’s not what you were hoping for, is it?”

Quinn squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t know anymore.”

“He didn’t react,” Doctor Hart remarked. “His facial expression, I mean. He stayed blank throughout.”

“Why is that significant?”

“He’s affected by the images you showed and the sounds you played, but he doesn’t want you or anyone else to think he is.” Doctor Hart frowned. “I don’t understand why someone would mask their responses to that degree. What does he get out of it?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Quinn exhaled.

“One more to go,” Doctor Hart said.

Quinn squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Yes. One more.”

Cleo and Simon led the way with Zane between them. Quinn kept his distance. Even the stoic and watchful police officers were closer to Zane than he was.

When they got to the van, Zane glanced back over his shoulder, trying to connect, but Quinn denied him and turned away.

Clint sat in the driver’s seat with his door open. He’d unbuttoned his shirt completely, and sweat stained his armpits.

“Virgil is desperate for a drink.”

Cleo nodded. “I got it,” she said, stepping into the van as Zane sat down in a cubicle.

“Can you at least uncuff me?” Zane asked.

Simon looked at him for a long time, then nodded as he slipped his keys from his pocket. He undid Zane’s cuffs, locked Zane’s door, then handed the cuffs over to Clint.

Sweat ran down Virgil’s forehead. He glared at Cleo. “Dogs are treated better than this.”

Cleo helped him with the bottle of water, and he drank the lot.

“We doing this or what?” Virgil growled, scrubbing his cuffed hands against his face.

Quinn nodded and led the way.

Doctor Hart gasped when he saw Virgil’s brain activity. It was a sharp, hitched sound that snapped Quinn’s head towards him. Doctor Hart had his mouth open. He leaned in closer to the screen, mesmerised by the light show of activity. Quinn hadn’t even begun any of the tests.

“It’s…chaotic, to say the least,” Doctor Hart said, before nodding the go-ahead to Quinn, who went on to describe the first test to Virgil.

The screen stayed just as chaotic. It reminded Quinn of a war zone, explosions that fizzled out and returned, bombarding the whole area.

“I’ve not seen anything like it,” Doctor Hart said. “Was he ill? As a child, was he ill?”

“He said he knew… He said he knew for as long as he can remember that he was a killer, knew it was only a matter of time.”

“How could he know as a child he would go on to kill?”

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