talked to people who knew them, but they weren’t asking the right questions. I need to…talk to some of the same people.”
“Most of them lived with their parents,” Kurt said.
“And most of them went to school in the area,” Barb said. “I think it might be better ground to talk to people who knew them for a while but are less…disinterested than parents. I need to know who these guys really are, not what their parents want people to think they are. Were. Religious or atheist, subculture…”
“Teachers?” Kurt asked. “Fellow students?”
“Guidance counselors.”
Karen Gill was medium height with long, dark hair, a lined, tan face and bright black eyes. The guidance counselor’s office was small and cluttered, with the most notable feature being a large inspirational poster on the wall of a man standing on a mountaintop. The title was “Success,” and the inspirational quote was “Success means knowing who you are.”
Barb was not much given to cynicism, but she wondered if the counselor considered her life a success.
“Darren was not a natural student,” the guidance counselor said, sitting in her chair after ensuring her guests did not want drinks. “He struggled through his courses. I give him credit for his efforts in that regard.”
“Ms. Gill,” Barb said carefully. “Darren is currently in long-term psychiatric care for attempting to eat another person. He is but one of seven recent cases of similar problems. We are trying to prevent a reoccurrence and, if possible, find what happened to him so that doctors may be able to give him a normal life. I’m afraid we really do need something besides ‘He was a nice boy and not a natural student.’”
“I am an accredited psychological counselor,” Ms. Gill said, making a face. “Communications with my clients are privileged.”
“Can you tell us anything that is not from a counseling session?” Barb asked. “Was he counseled frequently?”
“As an alternative, we could come back with a court order,” Kurt said. “I’m not making a threat; I’m just saying if that would help…”
“No,” the counselor said, sighing. “The thing is…I’m trying to balance my professional distance with my… personal distaste.”
“Oh?” Barb said, raising her eyebrows. “For Darren?”
“Yes,” Ms. Gill admitted. “I did counsel Darren on a number of occasions but never with much success. I won’t delve into those discussions absent a court order, and I don’t think I need to. The truth is, I counseled his… victims far more often than he.”
“Victims?” Kurt said, pulling out a notebook.
“Not physical,” Ms. Gill said, then shrugged. “Well, in two cases physical. Darren…Darren was a bully. From what I’ve gleaned from talking to his earlier counselors, he had been since he was a child. He was always picking on other children and intimidating them. We try to keep physical violence to the minimum in school, but kids learn early that if you stand up to a bully they don’t always back down. In two cases, when he was a freshman here, he got into fights. He was suspended for both. The second one, he was very nearly charged with assault. I call them fights but what they were were massacres. In the second case he beat a sophomore boy to the point I felt he should be sent to the hospital to be checked. The principal…overruled me on that, so he was treated by the school nurse. Jacob’s parents didn’t press charges when Darren was suspended.
“He was somewhat larger than the majority of the freshmen, or even seniors, and very…well, he was just nasty. Mean as they come. Being more professional, Darren had anger management issues. But from the description of his actions on the news, his actions go so far beyond that, it is hard to believe.”
“But he wasn’t just some nice boy?” Barb asked. “That is certainly the indication I’ve had from his records. I’ve even looked at clips about him on the TV. That was sort of the theme. ‘He was a nice, normal kid.’”
“No,” Ms. Gill said, taking a sip of herbal tea. “He was not a nice boy. He was on the basketball team in freshman year and got benched for the last half of the season since he almost invariably fouled out. He was a decent football player, but only on defense. And even then he received frequent fouls for ‘unsportsmanlike conduct.’ He was popular only to the extent he was feared. In two cases I suspect him of date rape but was unable to get the girls involved to come forward to testify or even make charges. He was a brutal, nasty, brutish bully. All that being said, killing someone and then attempting to eat them is far beyond his normal unpleasantness. Is there any indication of what caused it?”
“Not so far,” Barb said, stroking her hair in thought. “But this has been helpful. Thank you.”
“So he got into fights,” Kurt said as they drove back towards downtown. “I got into fights in school. Big deal.”
“It’s more than that,” Barb said thoughtfully. For a wonder, she was driving sedately, but that was clearly because her mind was elsewhere. “He was filled with rage. Anger, rage, except in certain specific circumstances, is a sin against God.”
“I’ve got a short temper,” Kurt said. “Does that mean I’m going to go off the deep end?”
“You have a short temper and don’t handle frustration well,” Barb said. “That is a whole other thing than going around filled with rage all the time. There are various reasons that might have caused that. Physiologically, he might have had a testosterone imbalance or even over-production of adrenaline. Environmentally, he might have been in an abusive family. Mystically, he might have already have been possessed of a demon or even carried one that was attached to the family. I have seen one report that families that have a genetic flaw for adrenaline overproduction caused by an otherwise benign tumor on the adrenaline gland also tend to carry generational rage demons. The McCoys in the Hatfield and McCoy feud have the gene. Whether the demons cause the tumor or the affinity for rage makes it a good home for a demon is a chicken or egg question. The point is that this wasn’t just some nice kid who snapped. He already had the predisposition to hurt and kill.”
“Which means…what?”
“When I figure that out, I’ll let you know,” Barb said. “Do we have Janea’s notes?”
“Not that I’m aware of,” Kurt said. “She’s staying at the Fairfield Inn on Shallowford Village Drive. As far as I know, she hasn’t been checked out yet. If she stays in her current condition for another few days, the Bureau will probably clear out her room.”
“Can we get in her room?” Barb asked.
“Probably,” Kurt said. “Depends on how cooperative the hotel staff is when I flash my FBI credentials.”
“What is she wanted for?” the desk manager asked, wide-eyed. “I remember her. What is she, a bank robber or something?”
“No, actually,” Barb said. “She’s a consultant to the FBI. She was injured during an investigation and we need to see if there are any clues to how she was hurt.”
“I can open the room,” the desk clerk said, swiping a card. “But I’ll have to accompany you.”
“This is probably going to take some time,” Barb noted.
“I’ll get someone to cover for me.”
“I think somebody tossed this place,” Kurt said, going on guard. There were suitcases covering half the bed, all the other horizontal surfaces, and a good bit of the floor. Clothing was scattered everywhere up to and including hanging on the bedframe, the TV, chairs and even a light fixture.
“No, this is just Janea’s idea of housekeeping,” Barb replied. “It always looks this way. She throws random stuff into random suitcases, lots of them, and can never find what she wants, so she throws the stuff in every direction looking for her other shoe. And then complains when she can’t find what she’s thrown around. Sharing a room with her is beyond a pain.”
“Finding anything in here is going to be beyond a pain,” Kurt said. “But I suppose we have to look. How does she keep records?”
“You’re joking, right?”
“Here’s something interesting,” Barb said.
They’d been picking through the detritus of Janea’s life on the road for three hours. A notebook with some
