Basil Jenrette is not going to hurt him.

Unrestrained, he sits across the table fromBentoninside the small examination room, the door shut. Basil is quiet and polite in his chair. His outburst inside the magnet lasted maybe two minutes, and when he calmed down, Dr. Lane was already gone. He didn’t see her when he was escorted out, andBentonwill make sure he never does.

“You’re sure you’re not lightheaded or dizzy,”Bentonsays in his calm, understanding way.

“I feel great. The tests were cool. I’ve always loved tests. I knew I’d get everything right. Where are the pictures? You promised.”

“We never discussed anything like that, Basil.”

“I got everything right, straight A’s.”

“So you enjoyed the experience.”

“Next time show me the pictures like you promised.”

“I never promised you that, Basil. Did you find the experience exciting?”

“I guess I can’t smoke in here.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“What did my brain look like? Did it look good? Did you see anything? Can you tell how smart someone is by looking at their brain? If you showed me the pictures you’d see they match the ones I have in my brain.”

He is talking quietly and rapidly now, his eyes bright, almost glassy, as he goes on and on about what the scientists might expect to find in his brain, assuming they are able to decipher what is there, and there is definitely a there there, he keeps saying.

“A there there?”Bentoninquires. “Can you explain what you mean, Basil?”

“My memory. If you can see into it, see what’s in there, see my memories.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Really. I’ll bet all kinds of pictures came up when you were doing the beep-beep, bang-bang, knock-knock. Bet you saw the pictures and don’t want to tell me. There were ten of them, and you saw them. Saw their pictures, ten of them, not four. I always say ten-four as a joke, a real big ha-ha. You think it’s four and I know it’s ten, and you would know if you showed me the pictures, because you’d see they matched the pictures in my brain. You’d see my pictures when you’re inside my brain. Ten-four.”

“Tell me which pictures you mean, Basil.”

“I’m just messing with you,” he says with a wink. “I want my mail.”

“What pictures might we see inside your brain?”

“Those foolish women. They won’t give me my mail.”

“You’re saying you killed ten women?”Bentonasks this without shock or judgment. Basil smiles as if something has occurred to him.

“Oh. I can move my head now, can’t I. No more tape on my chin. Will they tape my chin down when they give me the needle?”

“You won’t be getting the needle, Basil. That’s part of the deal. Your sentence has been commuted to life. You remember us talking about that?”

“Because I’m crazy,” he says with a smile. “That’s why I’m here.”

“No. We’ll go over this again, because it is important you understand. You’re here because you’ve agreed to participate in our study, Basil. The governor ofFloridaallowed you to be transferred to our state hospital,Butler, butMassachusettswouldn’t agree to it unless he commuted your sentence to life. We don’t have the death penalty inMassachusetts.”

“I know you want to see the ten ladies. See them as I remember them. They’re in my brain.”

He knows it isn’t possible to scan someone and see his thoughts and memories. He is being his usual clever self. He wants the autopsy photographs so he can fuel his violent fantasies, and as is true of narcissistic sociopaths, he thinks he is quite entertaining.

“Is that the surprise, Basil?” he asks. “That you committed ten murders instead of the four you were charged with?”

He shakes his head and says, “There’s one you want to know about. That’s the surprise. Something special just for you because you’ve been so nice to me. But I want mail. That’s the deal.”

“I’m very interested in hearing about your surprise.”

“The lady in The Christmas Shop,” he says. “Remember that one?”

“Why don’t you tell me about it,”Bentonreplies, and he doesn’t know what Basil means. He isn’t familiar with a murder that occurred in a Christmas shop.

“What about my mail?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Cross your heart and hope to die?”

“I’ll look into it.”

“I can’t remember the exact date. Let me see.” He stares at the ceiling, his unrestrained hands restless in his lap. “About three years ago in Las Olas, I think it was around July. So maybe two and a half years ago. Why would anyone want to buy Christmas shit in July inSouth Florida? She sold little Santas and his elves and nutcrackers and baby Jesuses. I went in on this particular morning after staying up all night.”

“Do you remember her name?”

“I never knew her name. Well, I might have. But I forgot it. If you showed me the pictures, it might jog my memory, you might see her in my brain. Let me see if I can describe her. Let me see. Oh, yes. She was a white woman with long, dyed hair the color of Love Lucy. Sort of fat. Maybe thirty-five or forty. I went in and locked the door and pulled a knife on her. I raped her in the back, in the storage area, cut her throat from here to here in one cut.”

He makes a slicing motion across his neck.

“It was funny because there was one of those oscillating fans in there and I turned it on because it was hot and stuffy and it blew blood all the fuck over the place. Quite a mess to clean up. Then, let’s see”-he looks up at the ceiling again, the way he often does when he’s lying-“I wasn’t in my cop car that day, had taken my bike and parked it in a pay lot behind the Riverside Hotel.”

“Your motorcycle or a bicycle?”

“My Honda Shadow. Like I would ride a bicycle when I was going to kill someone.”

“So you planned on killing someone that morning?”

“It seemed like a good idea.”

“You planned on killing her or just planned on killing someone?”

“I remember there were all these ducks in the parking lot hanging out around the puddles because it had been raining for days. Mommy ducks and little baby ducks everywhere. That’s always bothered me. Poor little ducks. They get run over a lot. You see little babies squashed in the road and mommy walking round and around her dead little baby, looking so sad.”

“Did you ever run over the ducks, Basil?”

“I would never hurt an animal, Dr. Wesley.”

“You said you killed birds and rabbits when you were a child.”

“That was a long time ago. You know, boys and their BB guns. Anyway, to go on with my story, all I got was twenty-six dollars and ninety-one cents. You have to do something about my mail.”

“So you’ve said repeatedly, Basil. I told you I’ll do my best.”

“Sort of disappointing after all that. Twenty-six dollars and ninety-one cents.”

“From the cash drawer.”

“Ten-four.”

“You must have had a lot of blood on you, Basil.”

“She had a bathroom in the back of the shop.” He looks up at the ceiling again. “I poured Clorox on her, just now remembered it. To kill my DNA. Now you owe me. I want my fucking mail. Get me out of the suicide cell. I want a normal cell where they don’t spy on me.”

“We’re making sure you’re safe.”

“Get me a new cell and the pictures and my mail, and I’ll tell you more about The Christmas Shop,” he says and his eyes are very glassy now and he is very restless in the chair, clenching his fists, tapping his foot. “I deserve to be rewarded.”