“Of course,” snapped Lisa, as if her roommate had just called her an idiot. “No bodies chopped up and found in his refrigerator—at least as far as I can tell.” She leaned forward. “I can’t even imagine working with these monsters year after year. If I’ve become paranoid, I can only imagine what this has done to you. I mean, how can you trust anyone? Is that why you don’t have a guy?”

Erin had just torn a large bite from her gyro and motioned for her friend to give her a few seconds to finish chewing and swallowing. She did, set her gyro back down on the plate, and said, “Okay, I’ll admit trust isn’t my strong suit. But I’ve been in relationships before. Really.”

“When was the last time you were in one?” challenged Lisa, taking a sip from the Coke she had ordered.

“Two years ago.”

“So … what? You’ve been doing one-night stands since then?”

Erin rolled her eyes. “Oh yeah, one-night stands are ideal if you aren’t the trusting type. Nothing like going home with a total stranger.” She shook her head. “I’m not a one-night stand kind of girl.”

Lisa’s eyes widened as she hurriedly swallowed the bite she had just taken. “So you haven’t been laid in two years? Are you kidding me? No wonder you seem a little stressed out most of the time. I’m amazed you don’t explode. Just spontaneously erupt into a ball of repressed sexuality. We have to find you a guy.”

“Two years isn’t that long,” said Erin.

Lisa just ignored her. “We have to find you a guy,” she repeated.

“Uh … thanks,” said Erin. “I know you mean well. But I can take care of that myself when the time is right. Let’s get back to Derrick.”

“Wow, that was the least subtle attempt to change the subject I’ve ever seen. I’m not giving up on this. You’re a workaholic, we’ve established that. And I like you far too much not to want to help you. I can’t even imagine how depressing it must be to work with murderers and rapists in prison all the time. I’m taking it upon myself to counteract the gloom of that place. Just think of me as the self-appointed ray of sunshine in your life.”

“And you’re doing a great job,” said Erin. “In fact, I just might start calling you Ray.” She paused. “So now can we change the subject?”

“Okay,” said Lisa. “But I’m making this my mission. I’m warning you.”

“Warning received. Now let’s get back to Derrick.”

“Okay. Why not? He is my favorite subject, after all.” She stared at her roommate. “So give me some advice. There has to be some way to spot a psycho.”

“Psychopath,” corrected Erin.

“Yeah, I get it. People use psycho to refer to crazy. You told me. But whenever I say it, just know I’m referring to the people you study, okay? The evil but sane people. Anyway, how do you spot them?”

“I could tell you a possible way, but you aren’t an expert. You’d probably misdiagnose most of the time.”

“You’re probably right, but tell me anyway. Now you’ve piqued my curiosity.”

“Okay. You know how people use their hands when they talk? Humans are wired that way. Even when we’re on the phone and the other person can’t see us, we do it—although we don’t ever think about it or realize we are. This gesturing increases when we’re trying to get across a difficult concept. Next time someone you’re talking with is searching for the right word and it’s on the tip of their tongue, watch their hands. They’ll be more active than ever—as if these movements will help them find the memory or convey the meaning. Am I making sense?”

“Perfect sense.”

“Good. And if you’re using a second language that you aren’t as comfortable with as your first, your hand movements increase in amount. Probably for the same reason. Well, emotions are a second language to a psychopath. They don’t really have them. They know the words but they can’t hear the music. Hook an EEG up to a normal and their brains respond differently to a word like chair, and an emotionally charged word like torture. Not a psychopath. Their brains react to these words in the exact same way. They’re like color-blind people who teach themselves to fake seeing color. So when they’re trying to voice something emotional they move their hands more than normals would.” She paused and raised her eyebrows. “Like I said, emotions are a second language to them.”

“Fascinating,” said Lisa. “And scary as hell. But you’re right. This doesn’t help. I have no idea how much an average person uses their hands. I mean, I’ll start paying attention now, but I’d hate to kick Derrick in the balls because he spoke with his hands.”

Erin laughed. “I’m sure Derrick would hate that also.”

“I know what we can do,” continued Lisa. “If Derrick and I start getting really serious, you can put him in your MRI machine and scan his brain. Then we’d know for sure.”

“Haven’t you already told him what I study?”

Lisa frowned. “Yeah. You did come up. The mystery roommate. So you’re saying he’d probably figure out that’s what we were doing. That he might not appreciate it that his girlfriend thinks he might be a psycho.”

Erin opened her mouth to respond when her phone vibrated in her pocket. She pulled it out and read the caller ID. “Sorry, it’s my boss. I need to take this.”

The phone conversation lasted less than a minute, but all the sunshine that this discussion with Lisa had let into Erin’s life quickly vanished.

“Erin?” said Lisa worriedly, not having to be an expert in body language to know that something was very wrong.

“Sorry, but I have to go,” said Erin, shoving the last of her sandwich into her mouth and chasing it down with a long drink of water.

“What is it?”

“Seems the dean of my department wants to see me and my advisor in his office,” she replied. “Immediately. If not sooner.”

“What about?”

“I have no idea,” replied Erin. She frowned deeply and then added, “But, apparently, he isn’t a happy camper.”

4

ERIN AND HER thesis advisor sat before the desk of Dean Richard Borland in two brown leather chairs that looked stately, well padded, and exceedingly comfortable, which only went to show that you couldn’t judge a chair by its appearance. Whoever had designed the chairs must have been the world’s leading expert on the human body to be able to design one this unsuited to the human posture.

Erin watched the dean’s glowering face and wondered if he had bought these chairs on purpose to unsettle his visitors. Not that he wasn’t fully capable of making visitors squirm and become miserably uncomfortable all by himself.

The dean handed her a section of the Wall Street Journal once she was fully locked into the torture chair, doing so with such contempt that he threw it on her lap more than handed it to her. She glanced down. It was one of the weekend sections of the paper that boasted the highest circulation of any in the country. The lead story, which took up the entire front page of the section, top and bottom, and continued onto the next page was entitled, “The Psychopaths Among Us.”

Erin handed the paper to Apgar beside her, having learned on her way here that he didn’t have any better idea than she did as to why the dean had demanded an audience, and why the man seemed so unhappy. Apgar scanned the title as well.

“Have you seen this?” demanded the dean.

Erin and her advisor both shook their heads no.

“Really?” said the dean to Erin pointedly. “I find that hard to believe.” He leaned toward her with a scowl. “Since you’re quoted in it.”

Erin blanched. “What are you talking about?”

“Don’t tell me you didn’t know.”

“I didn’t know. I don’t read this paper. And there has to be some mistake. If I had spoken with a reporter from the Wall Street Journal, believe me, I’d remember it.”

“Can you give us a few minutes to read this, Richard?” said Apgar.