She Killed

Chapter 1 - Livia

My girlfriend hates it when I shake my leg. It's a nervous habit, lots of people do it. Awaiting my test scores, smack! Watching the game, smack! Intermissions at the theater, smack! She'd swat my leg and say, "Cut it out!"

So, here I sat, leg wobbling up and down, in the lobby of the psychiatric hospital at UNC-Chapel Hill where the most prolific female serial killer had just been transferred to. My leg started shaking so bad I had to put my briefcase in the seat next to me. I looked like I was on theme park ride, the way the briefcase rattled and jostled on my lap. My girlfriend was, thankfully, not there to swat my leg.

I needed to get the nervous energy out. I couldn't go into that interview room showing any fear. That would give her the upper hand. I needed to show that I was in control of these interviews. And I couldn't very well do that looking like I was about to piss myself.

This is what she does to people. Just the mere thought of her.

Several years ago, when police first released to the press they thought they had a serial killer on their hands, I shouted at my television, "No shit, Sherlock!"

I theorized it was a serial killer from the second murder. The killer had a clear modus operandi—

"Mr. Glass?" a short, portly man with a full beard, ruddy cheeks, and a severely receded hairline pulled me out of my thoughts.

I stood abruptly, scooting my chair backward. I scrambled to put it back in line with the others and fumbled for the handle on my briefcase. "Yes, that's me. Doctor...?"

"Fineman, nice to meet you," he extended his hand. I took it, suppressing my laugh that threatened to embarrass me. Why did a guy who looks like that have to have a name like that? The universe hates me today.

"Dr. Fineman, it's a pleasure." I shook his hand.

"This way, please," he motioned to the hallway next to the welcome desk. I followed and listened intently while he filled me in. "You will be set up in a private room. There will be no furniture aside from the table, which is bolted to the floor, and two chairs, that are attachments of the table. There's nothing in the room that can be picked up, kicked, moved, you get the idea. There will be one orderly in the room and two police officers outside the room. There—"

"I'm sorry," I interrupted, fear prickling my voice, "it will only be myself, her, and an orderly?"

Dr. Fineman chuckled, "Barry's an ex-cop, you have nothing to worry about." He paused and turned to me in the middle of the hallway, losing any mask of the humor he had a second ago. "She doesn't know he's an ex-cop. I wouldn't recommend telling her that."

"Yes, of course."

"As I was saying," Dr. Fineman resumed walking and I kept pace, "there are two cameras in the room: one in the upper right corner and a hidden camera in the door. You may bring in your cellphone to record your interviews, but you must leave your briefcase outside the room. You will be patted down each time you enter the room. Please, for your sake and ours, just don't bring anything into the room. No pens, pocketknives, hairclips (hairclips?), laces in your shoes..."

Dr. Fineman looked down at my feet. I was wearing black, slip-on Vans. He nodded and smiled in approval.

"And here we are," Dr. Fineman stopped in front of a door flanked by two large police officers.

I'm not a small man, by any means. I'm 6'2 and hit the gym five days a week, but these two. Damn. I made a mental note to ask them their workout regimen before I left for the day. I nodded a hello to each of them, trying not to make it obvious that I was inspecting their belts: gun, check, taser, check.