Every pressing question is met with a nearly identical answer.
I don't know.
I can't remember.
I'm sorry, Your Honor, I really don't have the answer.
The only expert witness I've been afforded is Dr. Sad-Eyes, whose real name is Dr. Dean Prentiss. He explains my symptoms, my injury that led to the coma and memory loss, the extreme injuries that nearly killed me.
He tells them my agitation, panic, and other actions since waking up are consistent with TBI-induced amnesia.
His professional opinion is that I need to be institutionalized for my own safety, and thanks to the public scrutiny of the case, not imprisoned. But as far as I'm concerned, those are the exact same fucking thing.
"Exhibit 34B," the opposing counsel props up a chart, with some lines and dots that make no sense to me, but apparently do to the forensics expert sitting in the hot seat right now. "What can you tell us from this chart?"
The woman smooths her harsh bun back, leaning into the microphone and pointing at the top half of the chart, "The top line shows the DNA extracted from a hair on the scene of victim number nine. The bottom line is from the suspect, taken by cheek swab during investigation."
"And, in your expert opinion, are these two samples from the same person?" the lawyer asks.
None of us needs her to answer that, they're fucking identical even to my eyes.
A sinking feeling settles in my stomach.
Before this moment, I could convince myself that I wasn't capable of these things, that all they had on me was unfortunate coincidental timing.
But this... there's no denying what's right in front of me in black and white.
I did these things to these people. I killed them, horrifically and symbolically, leaving a trail of their blood and their crimes for the world to find.
I'm a murderer. And even if I can't remember doing it, that changes nothing. The person who did those things is hidden inside me somewhere, possibly just waiting for the next victim that requires my attention.
"Yes. The pattern is consistent, and I'm sure if you were to find DNA from the other crime scenes, they would match as well," the expert finally answers, repeating what I already knew. But out of seventeen crime scenes, onlyonehad a semblance of actual evidence? I don't know much about serial killers, but that seems pretty fucking impressive to me.
I must have been having an off day on murder number nine.
A small, amused smile pulls at my lips, and I have to hide it lest anyone in this room see it and take it for what it is.
"Objection," Clyde mutters. "Irrelevant. There is no DNA found at other crime scenes, and implying there is is misleading."
"Sustained."
I have to admit, for being such a squirrelly little man, Clyde has been impressive. He seems completely unassuming in his poorly-fitting suits and secondhand shoes, but maybe that's part of his strategy. He makes people believe he's feckless and small only to step on their toes at every turn.
"The prosecution has no further questions at this time," the other lawyer announces.
Now that it's Clyde's turn to speak to the forensic expert, all I can do is look down at my fucking hands for the hundredth time, examining the tattoo more closely as if it hasn't been plaguing me for months now.
These tattoos are the only things I see daily besides my fucking doctors and the police. They follow me everywhere, even into my fucking dreams. A kraken on my thigh that tries to drown me. The medusa spanning across the back of my hand, her snakes that traverse down each of my fingers come to life and strike me with their venom in my nightmares.
The worst is the bat, attacking not only me but everyone I remember loving from before this happened.
I can't even imagine how my nieces must look now. They'd be eight and twelve, I think. I wonder when the last time I got to see them was. If it was just before my attack, or if I'd disappeared from their lives for years before the world discovered my extracurriculars.
I try to shake away the guilt creeping in at how I've probably devastated the few people I ever loved, distracting myself with the now instead of what I might have left behind.
Due to my good behavior, I've been allowed the privilege of clothes and being released from my confines for a few hours every day, just long enough to walk through the halls with police escort and work to gain back a tiny bit of my strength at the insistence of Dr. Dean, now that I've graduated from physical therapy.
I almost look like a human being again, no longer the willowy stick of a man who might blow over in a strong breeze.
