watched the shackled man hobble between two guards with another acting as overwatch from the rear.
Eddie’s eyes snapped his direction. “Damn, that’s right, he damn near got you when you first started, didn’t he?”
“Yeah. He saw a newb, and he went after me.”
“Well, thank goodness he didn’t kill you. You’ve been doing good here, Doc.”
“For some.” He’d acknowledge he made a difference to those who weren’t so jaded that they wouldn’t ask for help. “I need to get back. I’ve got two one-on-one sessions before group. Tell Louisa I said hi and Eddie Jr. that I’m happy for him. Congrats on grandbaby number two!”
“Will do, and I’m too young to be a grandpa. I keep telling everyone that, but nobody listens.”
Jeremiah turned after the door to the nest shut and held his hand to his ear and said, “What? I can’t hear you?”
Eddie flipped him the bird before they both laughed. Jeremiah meandered back to his office, not really seeing the drab gray hallways, rather thinking of his one and only experience with Macmillan. A convicted serial killer with seventeen confirmed kills. The police believed Macmillan had killed many more and were constantly requesting time to question him about his crimes or others that were similar to his. The man was the clinical definition of ASPD, antisocial personality disorder. Macmillan ticked all the boxes. He was a textbook example of egocentrism as he acted to appease his own sense of self-gratification, not at all bothered with inconsequential things like the law or societal norms. The man lacked empathy or remorse, breathed hostility and deceitfulness, was manipulative and callous—and he was a psychopath. Not all people with ASPD were psychopaths, but Macmillan doubled down. Ted Bundy had nothing on this guy when it came to the charming department. Cyrus Macmillan had a captivating way of talking that was magnetic and engaging. Many people had underestimated the evil that thrived under that pleasant exterior. Jeremiah had, and it had almost cost him his life.
When he first took on the job here at the penitentiary, he’d accompanied two FBI agents to one of Cyrus’ interviews. He observed and took notes, completely enthralled by the way that Cyrus played with the agents. With regal aplomb, Cyrus ended the interview and stood up, shuffling toward the door where the guard waited. Only leaving wasn’t on his mind. Jeremiah, busy writing his notes, failed to see the man lunge. The pen in his hand became Cyrus’ weapon. He stabbed one agent in the chest and grabbed Jeremiah, using his shackles as the means to attempt to choke him to death.
The other FBI agent and the guard hauled Cyrus off him, but it was a close thing. Another fraction of a second and Macmillan would have killed him.
It took a week after that close call to build the nerve to come back to the penitentiary. He started bodybuilding and took self-defense classes, resolving to never be defenseless or intimidated by another human. Yet that caution—no, fear—had always stayed with him. Years later and he wasn’t sure he’d processed the event. Perhaps he never would, but today he knew how to protect himself, how to deal with inmates, and how not to put himself at a disadvantage.
His first one-on-one session was forty minutes of instruction on how to live inside the pen, although, being honest, Jeremiah knew the young man he was seeing shortly wouldn’t last in here. He was young, pretty, and stupid, a triple strike. He’d be someone’s bitch before long or join a gang hoping to prevent it from happening, only to be used by the inmates of the gang. The kid shouldn’t be here; hell, two out of ten of the people who walked through that door shouldn’t be here, but this young man killed a family of five on the interstate by driving the wrong way while stoned out of his mind.
The second session was one of his regulars. Chuck Dawson had robbed a store, and the shopkeeper had pulled out a shotgun. Chuck used the knife he was wielding and sliced the guy’s arm wide open. Caught as he was leaving, Chuck was doing time for robbery and attempted murder. The man was trying to pay for his wife’s cancer treatments. There was no insurance and no way to pay, so he’d tried to steal the money. His wife died a year ago, after three years in remission. Chuck admitted his crimes and was a model prisoner, but when his wife died,