Page 24 of Corpse Roads

Hunter closes his briefcase, depositing it on the coffee table. “We’re good. Is the doc out yet? I’d like to wrap this up fast.”

“Not yet.”

Sighing, Hunter takes a seat, scrubbing a hand over his beard. I don’t think either of us slept last night. We lapse into silence and wait for the shrink to finish his assessment.

It takes another two hours before Doctor Richards emerges from the intensive care unit, pulling on an expensive wool coat to protect against the winter chill.

“Afternoon, gents.”

Surging to his feet, Hunter offers a hand for him to shake. “Thanks for coming in, doc. We appreciate it.”

We’ve worked with Lionel Richards for several years now, and he’s assisted on many of our high-profile cases. The fame granted to us after Blackwood sent his career into the stratosphere too.

“So?” Hunter prompts.

“You do like to give me a challenge.” Richards sighs, smoothing his wild bush of silver hair. “I’m not sure what to make of this one.”

“What the hell does that mean?” I snap tiredly.

He spares me an assessing glance. “When was the last time you got some sleep, Enzo? You look dead on your feet.”

“You’re not here to assess me, doc. Just fucking spit it out already. We have places to be.”

Raising his hands in surrender, he takes the seat opposite us. Richards is used to my attitude. He supported the entire team when we were on the verge of selling up.

We felt unable to go on after everything that happened back then, but with his help, we made our way through and rebuilt. Family and friends convinced us to keep working, despite our grief.

“Harlow is suffering from severe PTSD as a result of her imprisonment, extensive abuse and brutalisation.” Richards adjusts his spectacles. “She will need to see me every week for the foreseeable future.”

“How long was she held captive?” Hunter fires off.

“To her account, she has never seen the outside world. I am inclined to believe she is experiencing dissociative amnesia.”

“What does that mean?” I ask next.

“It’s a common response to very extreme cases of trauma. She can’t recall a lot of her time spent in imprisonment, only flashes here and there.”

Hunter swears under his breath. Harlow’s memories are our best shot at tracking down the killer. Our case now lives and dies by the testimony she will provide.

“Oddly enough, she presents with a reasonable level of understanding and social development for her age.” Richards shakes his head. “Only so much can be learned from others.”

“You don’t think she was held captive for her whole life?” Hunter guesses.

“I’d hesitate to speculate at this stage,” he replies. “We need to take this very slow. Push too soon, and she will close down. Her mind is a puzzle that needs to be pieced back together.”

“We don’t have time, doc.”

“Then interrogate her and watch that poor girl spiral. I don’t need to tell you how trauma can affect a person. Her risk of suicide is already significant.”

I shiver at his angered words. We’ve had enough experience with traumatised clients. Hunter deflates, taking a moment to reconsider.

“Is it the same perp?” I ask uneasily.

“I can’t answer that,” Richards responds. “She has been subjected to extreme psychological and physical torture, complete isolation, and emotional abuse.”

“So?”

“Your killer rapes and butchers young women. It’s not exactly the same kettle of fish. Serial killers don’t tend to hold their victims for long.”

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