St. Francis, The Shrink And The Shooter

A brittle court-ordered psychiatrist is assigned to diagnose a mass shooter. The killer is profoundly callous, self-centered, and shallow as only a teenager can be. The shrink is then forced to confront his own obsession with Charles Whitman who is the patron saint of all mass shooters. The shrink looks upon this new mass murderer with professional disdain. The shrink has to unearth the "why" of this killer's "why" as the shrink investigates why he has no more empathy. It is then that he begins to experience nightly visitations of Saint Francis. There he admits that he craves and prays for redemption.

He glares at me as if I were the one who shot the school children, and yet we both know that I am not the one who did that.? He did that, which is why we are here in this cinderblock interrogation room in this police facility here in Desolate, Texas.

Still I wonder what am I doing here?

I am a court ordered shrink who is asked to mine the evil and the humanity lurking in the twisted fissures of his frontal lobes.

We both say nothing for the moment, because, in all honesty that is the most appropriate and eloquent way to navigate this pause.

This is a rare situation.? Usually, he would be dead at this juncture in the investigation.? However in this freak situation, the SWAT team shot only at his arms and legs and not the usual targets: his head and torso.? Thus he is in a wheel chair with both his arms in slings; swaddled like chicken wings in twin hammocks.

Then I clear my throat in a proactive gesture.

Above in the clock tower, a distant pop, then the whistling air ringing pew, pew, pew, next a thump of the bullet slicing into the body, suddenly the flopping arms as the torso falls to the ground because at that point there is only gravity.? Life spilling on itself on the quad.

“Tell me,” I say.

His response is a glower, accompanied by: “You have no idea what is going on in my head.”

“No matter what you think, no matter how unique you think you are, at the end of the day, we all end up being just another statistic.? Even me.”

“I’m not one to talk much.”? He snickers.? His face then changes.? “I communicate by bullets.”

“And an AR 15 is the best way to do that?”

“Definitely.”? He snickers again isolated and secure in his smug shell.

I decide to take a conversational tact.? “What’s your favorite video game?”

He looks at me, even with both of his arms in slings.? He gives me the finger in duplicate.? “If I tell you, could we go to my Twitter account?”