Autopsy Of A Mind 9 Sociopath

I looked around, hoping no one had overheard.

"This conversation is not suitable for breakfast," I told him before turning to Lucas. "He interviewed me before, but please ignore everything we say after this."

He was a bit flabbergasted, but let it go.

"One: Everyone has seen a dead person once or twice in their lifetime, usually when an elder in the family pa.s.ses away. Anyone can distinguish a dead person from a live one. Two: It was really cold, so ideally the internal temperature of the body would be controlled enough to slow down decomposition drastically." I could see that he had something to say.

"You are wrong there. He was wearing extremely warm clothes. It would cause the opposite effect and negate the cold temperature." I shook my head at him. Though I was pleased that he wasn't treating me as a suspect any longer (probably because his superior had told him so) I was annoyed that he wasn't noticing the glaring discrepancy in the way the corpse was found.

"From the photos you showed me, there was a thin layer of frost on his clothing. Though the cold can do that to the skin of the body, it isn't the same for the thick jacket he was wearing. I think the man was wet by something and then when his body was transported the cold formed a thin layer of ice on his clothing." His eyes held a complex expression. "Yes, transported. You told me about going back to the scene of crime, but that isn't the case. The site of murder is different than where it was found."

"Because even though there was a gash on his head, there was no blood on the floor. External bleeding caused by a blunt force trauma was thought to be the cause of death, but apart from his hair, nothing had blood on it." He continued on his own.

"You aren't as bad as I thought," I told him with a smile. "I hope you don't suspect me any further," I warned him.

"You do seem like a sociopath, though. Your reactions and logic are not normal. Are you a student of criminology?" He asked, praying that he hadn't been bested by someone from another department. He was very easy to see through, too. "Then what?"

"School of Languages and Linguistics. Same university as you."

"How did you know?" He gasped.

"I just do."

I was done with my tea so I strapped my bag and got up.

"I'll take my leave. I have some work to turn in." With a wave, I left the two sitting beside each other; hopefully, they would bond over it and make new friends.

I wasn't going to be joining in on expeditions with that group anymore. I pulled out my cellphone and deleted Lucas' number from it.

Well, time to find a new hobby.

.

Picking up a new hobby when you are in your final semester of University is easier said than done. While I worked on my dissertation, I worked extra hard to save up enough money to last me a couple of months so that even if I had an emergency I could come up with the money to feed and shelter myself. I wouldn't get jobs from professors after that point because of the job I signed up for and the pay wasn't magnificent, as I had already known when I accepted the job, but it did involve a lot of traveling. Yes, I was joining a multinational tourism company which needed help with guiding groups of foreign people and going over transcripts from those countries. As I was placed in the headquarters, I was sure that the workload would be considerably high, but I was to join conveniently a month after graduation. Overall, I was done with my education and jumping into the materialistic world where everyone fought to make more money. I was starting out small, but I would apply to other places after I had some job experience.

I met Jameson from criminology one day when he sought me out by waiting outside one of my cla.s.ses. I wasn't pleased with his actions or the reception he received from the others in the department.

"You were right," he told me as soon as I reached him. "It was a serial killer. They have been searching for him for years and they finally got wind of who he might be." He seemed ecstatic about the news, but I was wondering why he would inform me of that.

"Isn't that confidential information? You could get sued for breaching your contract." He waved my comment off. I was about to enter cla.s.s when he blocked my path and then grabbed hold of my bag. I could have shaken him off but a lot of people were starting already.

"Don't worry. I don't work for Mr. Butler anymore. Also, the killer has been arrested and is being questioned as of now. They told me because I was helping with the case before." He ran his hand through his hair sheepishly.

"Years of college education and you get dismissed from an a.s.sistant position because of your lack of observation. Interesting." I shook my head in disgust. "I have no intention of following up on the case and I really don't want to see you after today. I hope you don't make a fuss, hm?"

With that, I turned and entered the cla.s.sroom. Thankfully, he never approached me after that.

.

I sometimes wonder why I was so hostile towards Jameson and the situation in general and I get scared of the implications. Despite being brought up learning about investigations I had never been so acutely aware of my surroundings before I was kidnapped. The defensive att.i.tude of mine and the insight into the criminal mind frightened me the most. Jameson was right, I did have psychopathic tendencies, the heightened symptom of which was my lack of empathy and understanding of the human situation… something that was built out of my need to suppress the memories, something that was not familiar in me. From the various series' that I had watched as a child, these were the signs of a budding killer. The prospect that a single horrific event in my life could damage me so permanently and turn me into the very monster that made my life unbearable was… unfathomable. It was my biggest fear… and truly, I would kill myself before inflicting the same pain on someone else's mind and body.

Statistics, I found, showed that most serial offenders were recounted to have parents with criminal records, I can't remember the exact number but it was pretty high. Lots of researchers since the nineteenth century concluded that criminality was hereditary… that is was pa.s.sed down through genes. I had a problem with that notion, it meant that I couldn't control myself and was bound by nature to act on dark thoughts that my parents had succ.u.mbed to, that the very human aspect of us, our ability to choose would be obsolete just because of a defect in our genetics. Though my parents were not criminals, the idea that something equally uncontrollable would be able to annihilate my sense of Justice and conscience, that I would become a slave to my… conditioning was something I could not accept at any cost. I have questions and a solid fear of being proven wrong: my questions will not be answered and my fears never articulated.