Autopsy of a Mind

Chapter 39: Be His Assistant

"How do you know that?" I asked, interested in his explanation.

"She cleaned the kitchen, but not the rest of the house. She didn't think she needed to hide the murder. The kitchen was clean, probably because she does it every time she cooks. It is an occupational hazard."

"And how does that say that she went to her husband?"

"She has a picture of him on her bedside. She sometimes regrets leaving him. She wants him back. Such positioning of objects show the associations people have with things, and this shows her regret and hidden love for her husband."

"Are you sure you are not reading gossip magazines?" I asked, smiling at his conviction.

"I don't read gossip," he said proudly.

"I am sure you are already tracking the killer but get the address and number of her husband." The two nodded and led us out.

"Why are you sure it was her?" I asked. "It could have been someone else."

He turned to me silently. "Do you think it was someone else?" I shook my head. "Good, sometimes your gut will get you the answer faster than any knowledge from the book. Your gut is your biggest asset."

We walked down the stairs and saw the men still surrounding the older lady.

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"Should I try to talk to her?" I asked.

Did we need to get the statement right now?

"I think she requires some reassurance, but do it after the killer is found. She is a neighbour, so she must be distraught over it. We will also need the story."

I nodded and walked down. I felt terrible for the confused older woman but also knew that this was something non-English speaking individuals faced when speaking to the police. There were records of misinterpreted words and coerced statements from people who were framed or misled to attest to something or take the blame on themselves so that the cops didn't have to do further work. It was a sad state of affair.

We were in the portable monitoring room in no time. I could see Sebastian's car from where I was, but we were farther away from it. A crush of people was surrounding the periphery of the building, trying to understand what was going on inside and why there were so many policemen. There were also a lot of policemen attempting to hold the crowd back.

This was where all the rich people lived, so the paparazzi was not far away. It was distressing how they had gotten the scent of news and travelled this far.

Sebastian had taken a backseat as the lead investigator came in and spoke to him. It made me wonder why we were still standing here.

And I went ahead and asked him that.

"Didn't you say catching the criminal was not your job? Then why are we here still?" I asked. There were so many questions that I wanted answers to when it came to Sebastian Butler and the elusive world of criminal psychology. It filled me with a feverish need to know. It was a feeling I had tried to curb for a long time, but my upbringing had always made me a curious cat.

Maybe Sebastian wasn't wrong in assuming that I was a cat.

Only, I hoped that it wouldn't get me killed.

"This will be the only time you will be able to see the process followed to catch a criminal. I want you to know that the system works and that you will be safe in their hands." Those words made me shudder. I had little faith in the system that had failed to find me for seven months and resorted to finally catching the murderer because I had somehow escaped the hell hole.

"I don't need to know this." I was firm in my belief.

"Just because it failed you once doesn't mean that it is incapable. You can trust me. Just watch. You will discover the true world of criminology and how the criminal thinks. You are invaluable in your skill-set. I also want to show you how worth the time it is."

I would have said I was tired of his trials at getting me into his field, but it only held excitement for me. It was like I was finally learning that I was worth something, that my pain would not turn me into a monster but could also help me protect others from their miseries. I could understand others' pains through myself. It was only natural that I have to compare. We can't know the significance of an event if we don't place ourselves in someone else's shoes.

I succumbed to his persuasion and sat back as another case was solved.

.

There was an epic chase on the street like the ones we see in movies. No one knew where she was headed until she went to a nearby food chain and ordered food. Someone posted a selfie with her. They tracked down her location and her car number, something they were previously unable to find.

The husband was informed, too. He had been stoic at the face of crisis and waited for her patiently. He told them to let her come to him and confess what she had done. It would be easier for the police to convict her, then. I didn't know what exactly happened in those few hours, but the cops kept chasing her down the streets and blocked off all exits. After a talk with her husband, a distraught looking Dorothy Mitchell was escorted out of her own house, the one she shared with her husband.

The footage from the police cars was all over the news, and people were horrified that the innocent and harmless looking chef could commit such a crime. In the end, Sebastian was left in the room with her, a recorder recording their conversation. And I stared in awe as he interviewed her.

He indeed was a sight to behold.

All my dreams were rushing back to me, urging me to choose the path I had always promised to take, to use my education and do the service necessary for victims to get justice.

I was convinced.

I would be his assistant.

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