I Am Chosen

Click- click!

��Do you ever have nightmares about the Chosen killer? About that night?�� Doctor Faulkner clicked his pen again, looking over the top of his notepad at Kacey, who barely registered the question; her attention was directed at the small window nearby and the steady rainfall just outside.

��Detective Dean?��

��Yeah?�� she said, forcing her eyes back to the older man with the thin gray hair plastered to his pale skull; his glassy, bulging eyes gazing back expectantly.

Click-click!

I really, really want to shove that pen up his ass.

��I mean, ��no.�� No I do not have nightmares about Declan,�� she lied. ��Or about the night I shot him.��

Images flashed through her mind: of that night six weeks ago, of the old asylum, of Declan Crowe silhouetted against the window frame and the night sky, a gun in one hand and in the other��

What? What was it? What had she seen? Why couldn��t she remember?

��Did you attend the funeral?�� Faulkner asked, rousing her from her reverie.

��No, I thought that would be in poor taste.��

��You have an impressive record, detective. First in your class at the LAPD Police Academy, near-perfect scores on your exam and you made detective by age twenty five.��

Kacey raised her eyebrows. Where was the old coot going with this?

��And you left it all to come here,�� he continued. ��Do you want to talk about what happened in L.A.?��

��Actually I��d like to do that, but the opposite. I��d like to not talk about that. Ever.��

Click- click!

��Okay. Okay then���� Faulkner wrote something on the pad. Probably something like ��Patient continues to be a royal pain in my ass.�� Kacey��s eyes wandered the small office: certificates, diplomas, a bookshelf, lots of potted plants, soothing colors�� and between the two of them, a small glass-top coffee table. Everything situated just so; a carefully constructed scene to make patients feel comfortable�� which, for whatever reason, had the effect of making her feel particularly uncomfortable.

��So why transfer to Washington State?�� Faulkner asked.

Shifting in her oversized seat (whatever happened to shrinks using couches?) Kacey deadpanned: ��I came here for the sunshine.��

Faulkner smiled. ��Ha ha! Yes! The sunshine���� He let out an exaggerated ��ahhh���� then: ��Don��t you have family here?��

��Yeah, a brother. I grew up here.��

��I see. And how do you and your brother get along?��

��Famously.�� That was a lie. Her brother had avoided her ever since she arrived. The two of them had never gotten along very well, and after the death of their parents, after she had left��

��So you come here, to ��sunny�� Pleasant Hills, back to your roots�� and not six months later you have to deal with this�� Chosen situation.��

Yeah, and what a situation that was: Declan Crowe, a well-respected businessman�� a pillar of the community, some might say; and somehow it turns out he was able to convince seemingly random individuals to commit murder, each act beginning with the attacker speaking the words ��I am chosen.��

The press ate it up.

��I had the opportunity to speak to Amanda Bingham at Bellingham Hospital,�� Faulkner continued. ��It was a one-sided conversation, as she suffers from a complete and irreversible dissociative fugue following the incident����

��Incident,�� that��s cute. Amanda Bingham walked into the Freddie Jones real estate office on Pine Street with a pair of long-handled pruners, strode right past the receptionist to where Duncan Styles sat at his desk; she said ��I am chosen,�� opened the pruners, shoved them against Duncan��s throat, and sliced through his windpipe with one clean snip.

��The stupor which followed is the same in every case, I��m told,�� Faulkner continued. ��Fascinating.��

��If by ��fascinating�� you mean ��terrifying,�� then yeah.�� After each killing, the murderers became completely unresponsive. Basically vegetables.

Kacey checked the time on her phone. Almost free, thank God.

Faulkner turned over his notepad and leveled a somber glare on Kacey. ��I have to ask, Detective Dean: have you experienced any feelings of depression? Have you contemplated any acts of self-harm?��

Kacey smiled. ��Only in the last hour.��

Click- click!

��You��re quite skillful at deflecting. Please understand that I��m only doing my job. You fired your weapon in the line of duty; a man is dead. I��m here to help you, and to assess your mental fitness, so to speak. To gauge your readiness to go back on the job.��

Glancing once more at the phone, Kacey lit up. ��And we��re done! Passed with flying colors, I��m sure.��

Faulkner set his notepad on the coffee table. ��Not just yet. I should like to see you once more, at least. With any luck, I hope to earn a bit of your trust.�� Faulkner stood and grinned. Kacey allowed him a half smile as she headed for the door.

Click-click!

��Oh, one last thing,�� Faulkner spoke from behind her.

She looked over her shoulder. The old man��s features had gone slack. His bug eyes stared vacantly. Kacey��s heart leapt into her throat as she turned to face him. Something was very, very wrong about the old man; about his vapid stare and about the way he was holding that pen.

��I am chosen,�� Faulkner said.