Chris Mooney - The Killing House

Fletcher called M.

‘Meet me in the hotel parking lot,’ he said, and hung up.

Here she came. She did not run, even though she shivered in the cold wind. He found the car controls and turned up the heat.

M slid into the roomy passenger’s seat and kept her body pressed close to the door. Her eyes were cold, but not from anger.

He didn’t drive away. He turned slightly in his seat and said, ‘You left your sidearm on the bed, but not your knife.’

‘What knife?’

‘The one you carry with you at all times. The one tucked underneath your left-hand sleeve.’

She tilted her head. ‘How did you know?’

‘The fine scars on your palms and wrists. Give it to me handle-first please.’

‘No.’

‘Do you want to help Karim?’

‘What kind of question is that?’

‘Give me the knife and you’ll find out.’

M stared at him for a moment before dipping a hand inside her sleeve. She displayed no emotion at being found out.

She came back with a Smith amp; Wesson Special Operation Bowie knife with a black aluminium handle and a seven-inch black stainless-steel blade. She placed it handle-first against his waiting palm.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘How long have you been practising Bowie knife-fighting?’

‘Only a few months.’

‘Please lean forward and place your hands on the dashboard.’

‘I’m not wired.’

‘I need to be sure.’

‘No.’

‘Then you can’t help Karim. Goodbye.’

Fletcher opened his door, about to step out, when she said, ‘Wait.’

He shut the door. M did not lean forward. She pulled the sweatshirt over her head and dumped it on the floor. Then she slipped out of her sweatpants. Every inch of her body was exposed. No wire, just smooth skin and a slight puckered scar on her left shoulder.

She showed no sense of self-consciousness at being nude. Nor should she. M had worked exceptionally hard on her body.

‘Satisfied?’

‘Very much so,’ Fletcher said. ‘My apologies for having put you through this. You’ll understand my reasons momentarily.’

Fletcher divided his attention between the road and the SUV’s rearview and side mirrors. While he felt confident that they were safe, he needed to remain vigilant.

M had finished getting dressed. She sat with her palms flat on her thighs and stared out of the front window with that impenetrable glare that hid her emotions. Her mind, he knew, was very active.

‘Where are we going?’

Fletcher didn’t answer.

‘I don’t like surprises,’ she said.

Of course you don’t, Fletcher thought.

He needed to address it. Now.

‘Your rating,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

She cocked her head towards him.

‘During CARS testing, you were given a rating,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

Her face was a blank mask, but he’d caught the fury building in her eyes at having been found out.

‘Childhood Autism Rating Scale,’ he said. ‘The diagnostic tool measures — ’

‘I bloody well know what it is. What did Karim tell you?’

‘He didn’t. He would never betray a confidence.’

That seemed to relax something inside her. ‘Then who told you?’

‘You did.’

Fletcher didn’t elaborate, wanting her to ask the questions so she could control the flow of information, process and store it. The autistic mind demanded order.

‘How did — what gave me away?’

‘The way you kept your distance on the plane when you shook my hand,’ Fletcher said. ‘The way you’re keeping your distance from me right now by keeping your body pressed up against the car door. Like all autistics, you’re aggressively protective of your personal space. And you abhor physical contact — you undressed rather than allowing me to touch you.’

‘I don’t like being touched by people I don’t know.’

‘When I called and told you about what happened to Karim, your tone was calm and neutral in the way all autistics discuss emotional matters.’

‘I was focused on helping him — on helping you.’

‘You have a difficult time maintaining eye contact even though I’m wearing sunglasses. You walked to the car instead of running because you’re in a new setting and need time to absorb it so you don’t overload your senses. And there’s your insistence on knowing our exact destination.’

M was no longer looking at him. She was staring out of the window, her gaze darting over the houses and street signs.

‘There’s no reason to feel ashamed,’ he said.

‘I’m not. Are you ashamed of the way your eyes look, Mr Fletcher?’

‘I wish they were different. It would make my life much simpler, but there’s nothing I can do to change it.’

‘I don’t wish to change what I am, and I’m certainly not ashamed of who I am.’

‘I wasn’t suggesting you should be. You’re quite adept at handling emotional regulation. I suspect people don’t know you’re autistic.’

‘They don’t. People think I’m cold. Different. I choose to be private. And, regardless of what my tone says, I do care about Karim.’

‘Of that I have no doubt, Miss White.’

‘Don’t call me that. I’m not anyone’s “miss”.’

‘What’s Karim’s condition?’

‘He’s in a coma,’ she said. ‘His personal physician is there, in New Jersey. He wants to move Karim to Manhattan.’

‘When?’

‘Sometime later today. Possibly tomorrow. I have no intention of turning you in, if that’s what you’re wondering.’

‘I believe you.’

‘I would hope so.’

M kept studying the landscape, memorizing signs and routes. She kept squeezing her knees. A coping mechanism, Fletcher thought.

‘Forty-six point eight,’ she said. ‘That’s where I fell on the CARS scale.’

Her words carried a sharp edge, as though she’d never been able to dislodge herself completely from the diagnosis.

‘The number is complete bollocks,’ she said. ‘It says I’m incapable of functioning in social situations, incapable of forming or maintaining relationships. I have friends, I’ve had a number of satisfying sexual relationships, and I don’t shy away from social situations. I can hold a conversation. I’ve learned through reading textbooks and from experience to pick up nuances in speech and body language so I can mirror social situations. And I can speak about myself when I feel it’s appropriate, like now.’

But not without great effort, Fletcher thought. Even equipped with all her textbook knowledge and hard-learned experiences, each day she had to fight her way through an alien land plagued with people autistics called neurotypicals. He suspected she lived in a constant state of exhaustion.

Clearly M fell into the high-functioning category on the autism spectrum. Clearly what saved her from a life of complete isolation and loneliness was a high intelligence quotient.

‘I’ve answered your questions, and now I want you to answer mine,’ she said. ‘Is it true what they’re saying about you on the telly and in the papers?’

‘Which part?’

‘They said you killed three agents sent to arrest you.’

‘They weren’t federal agents.’

‘Who were they?’

‘CIA operatives skilled in wet work. They were dispatched to make me disappear.’

M turned in her seat and gave him her full attention. She was watching his face very closely now.

‘Tell me,’ she said. ‘Tell me everything.’

The unique psychodynamics and wiring of the autistic brain demanded structure and clarity. Fletcher took a moment to gather his thoughts.

‘When the Behavioral Analysis Unit was first established,’ he said, ‘we were working with a number of psychiatrists who specialized in violent crime. They were assisting us in developing our profiling methods. While interviewing incarcerated serial killers and mass murderers, we learned that, in addition to being overwhelmingly male, they all exhibited certain key traits during childhood.’