Thread: Mind games [GoodGirlGrace/Mr Quixotic]

'Dr Heather MacMillan, Psychotherapist.' Jarrod Cross arrived at her offices, and unknotted the mauve and white neck-tie he wore with a pale blue silk shirt, and a three 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 on the seventeenth floor after she'd taken his name, pointed out Dr MacMillian'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 caring from the references he'd reviewed, and experienced enough to assist with his issues. Or, at least a woman he could share his proclivities with, without fear of arrest. 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. He couldn't rape and kill every week. Five victims in the past year each a young woman brutally attacked in her own home, before she was killed. The horrors they endured were performed without remorse or empathy, and it appeared as if the attacker got off on the woman's prolonged sexual degradation. Every 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 the focus on the suffering of the victims and their families, rather than how intelligent, cunning and sly their attacker was, had pissed him off. Why the fuck should it be all about them? 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 Jarrod highly preferred to be the rapist rather than the rapee. Prison held no attraction, but what else could he do to receive the credit and attention he deserved? 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 his past crimes. Someone to talk to, and, unlike his deceased victims, that he could return to again and again. Jarrod had to keep from grinning as he pushed open the door, and shuffled into the Psychologist's 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 photograph's he'd downloaded. I'm Jarrod Cross, and I hope you can help me. He spoke as his gaze averted from her, and wandered the room, wondering if there was a sofa he should lay down on.