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- Joined
- Dec 14, 2012
- Location
- Australia
Dr Ashelin Leann.
So, the sign plate read.
Jarrod Cross arrived at the Psychotherapists offices, and unknotted the mauve and white neck-tie he wore with his pale blue silk shirt, and two-thousand dollar grey Armani suit. It had only been a short walk for the thirty-three year old man with shortish light brown hair, sparkling green eyes, and athletic body of one who regularly played tennis and squash, from the downtown office where he ran a one-man stock consulting business, and kept his own hours. He'd whistled the entire way. For a man who was supposedly depressed, Jarrod was in a good mood, however he deliberately changed his apparent demeanour by curling his lips down into a scowl, rubbing his eyes with his palms to redden the irises, and roughly mussing the hair on his scalp until each strand stood up straight, before he pushed through the entrance door.
"Thanks." Jarrod mumbled to the secretary after she'd taken his name, pointed out Dr Leann's office, and told him to go right on in. It might have been unusual for patients, but he was looking forward to this appointment, and meeting the shrink face-to-face. Attractive, which was a must, intelligent and experienced enough to assist with his issues, from the references he'd reviewed. Or, at least a woman he could engage in conversation, without fear of arrest or reprisal. You see, it wasn't as if Jarrod suffered a condition that he was looking to be cured, or required psychological intervention, just some additional excitement. A woman couldn't be raped every week.
Five victims in the past year; each a young woman attacked in her own home, none of them shown a shred of remorse or empathy, some of the attacks having gone on for hours. Each new crime had gained further space, and larger screaming headlines on the front pages of the newspapers, and led the evening news bulletins for weeks. However, despite the media attention and a massive manhunt, the authorities had yet to make an arrest. Damn it, Jarrod hadn't even been questioned! Not that he'd expected to be; he had no record, nor prints on file, and had never come to the notice of authorities, but still!
After the fourth, the man had considered leaving some clues to taunt them with, but quickly rejected the idea. Although the Police were stupid, and it'd probably take them another year to catch on, they eventually would, and prison held no attraction; he'd prefer to be a rapist than a rapee. That's when the idea occurred to him.
A psychologist, bound to the ethics of her profession, and unable to reveal to the authorities any information in regards to past criminal activity. Someone he could return to again and again. Jarrod had to keep from grinning as he pushed open the door, and shuffled into the office. His eyes, which were cast to the floor, slowly lifted, and he forced a smile at the woman who occupied it, and looked exactly like the one in the photographs he'd downloaded. "I'm Jarrod Cross, and I hope you can help me."
He spoke as he averted his gaze from her to survey the room, wondering if there was a sofa he should lay on.
So, the sign plate read.
Jarrod Cross arrived at the Psychotherapists offices, and unknotted the mauve and white neck-tie he wore with his pale blue silk shirt, and two-thousand dollar grey Armani suit. It had only been a short walk for the thirty-three year old man with shortish light brown hair, sparkling green eyes, and athletic body of one who regularly played tennis and squash, from the downtown office where he ran a one-man stock consulting business, and kept his own hours. He'd whistled the entire way. For a man who was supposedly depressed, Jarrod was in a good mood, however he deliberately changed his apparent demeanour by curling his lips down into a scowl, rubbing his eyes with his palms to redden the irises, and roughly mussing the hair on his scalp until each strand stood up straight, before he pushed through the entrance door.
"Thanks." Jarrod mumbled to the secretary after she'd taken his name, pointed out Dr Leann's office, and told him to go right on in. It might have been unusual for patients, but he was looking forward to this appointment, and meeting the shrink face-to-face. Attractive, which was a must, intelligent and experienced enough to assist with his issues, from the references he'd reviewed. Or, at least a woman he could engage in conversation, without fear of arrest or reprisal. You see, it wasn't as if Jarrod suffered a condition that he was looking to be cured, or required psychological intervention, just some additional excitement. A woman couldn't be raped every week.
Five victims in the past year; each a young woman attacked in her own home, none of them shown a shred of remorse or empathy, some of the attacks having gone on for hours. Each new crime had gained further space, and larger screaming headlines on the front pages of the newspapers, and led the evening news bulletins for weeks. However, despite the media attention and a massive manhunt, the authorities had yet to make an arrest. Damn it, Jarrod hadn't even been questioned! Not that he'd expected to be; he had no record, nor prints on file, and had never come to the notice of authorities, but still!
After the fourth, the man had considered leaving some clues to taunt them with, but quickly rejected the idea. Although the Police were stupid, and it'd probably take them another year to catch on, they eventually would, and prison held no attraction; he'd prefer to be a rapist than a rapee. That's when the idea occurred to him.
A psychologist, bound to the ethics of her profession, and unable to reveal to the authorities any information in regards to past criminal activity. Someone he could return to again and again. Jarrod had to keep from grinning as he pushed open the door, and shuffled into the office. His eyes, which were cast to the floor, slowly lifted, and he forced a smile at the woman who occupied it, and looked exactly like the one in the photographs he'd downloaded. "I'm Jarrod Cross, and I hope you can help me."
He spoke as he averted his gaze from her to survey the room, wondering if there was a sofa he should lay on.
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