The Girls He Adored

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“I'll save you some time,” said the prisoner, shuffling into the interview room in his orange jumpsuit, fettered and manacled, wrists cuffed to a padlocked belt around his waist, and a scowling sheriff's deputy at his elbow. “I'm oriented times three, my thought processes are clear, and my mood and affect are appropriate to my circumstances.”

“I see you're familiar with the drill.” The psychiatrist, a slender blond woman in her early forties, looked up from behind a metal desk bare except for a Dictaphone, a notepad, and a manila folder. “Have a seat.”

“Any chance of getting these things off?” The prisoner rattled his fetters dramatically. Slight, an inch or so below medium height, he appeared to be in his late twenties.

The psychiatrist glanced up at the deputy, who shook his head. “Not if you want me to leave you alone with him.”

“I do, for now,” said the psychiatrist. “He may need a hand free later for some of the standardized tests.”

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