Angel of Darkness by Katy Munger Page B

photos, and whether or not he believed that Parker was innocent, he looked old enough to have been around the block a few times. Surely, he still had doubts, even if Parker had been spending months, maybe even years, trying to convince him otherwise?
    â€˜Let’s talk about those groupies,’ the psychiatrist said, reaching for his notebook again. ‘How do they make you feel?’
    â€˜What do you mean?’ Parker asked, leaning back and stretching his legs out so that his pants stretched tight against his groin.
    Of the two of them, only one was good at reading people – and it sure as hell wasn’t the shrink.
    â€˜How does the thought of being close to another person make you feel?’ the psychiatrist asked primly. ‘How do you feel when you think about being close to them, emotionally or physically?’
    â€˜How do I feel?’ Parker repeated, his trademark grin returning. ‘I feel like slowly unbuttoning their blouses and ripping off their bras and running my hands up and down that firm sweet flesh above their ribs until I reach their breasts and then . . .’ He began to recite a pornographic list of things he would happily do to the women who wrote to him if he ever had the chance.
    His lust sounded real, but I was more inclined to believe the guard who had said Otis Parker didn’t care about the women who sent him money, or what they could do for him physically. He just took their money and asked for more.
    The psychiatrist listened carefully and made frequent notations, as if Parker’s monologue was fascinating. But I thought it sounded like a late-night Cinemax re-run and I could see no value in this line of questioning other than to titillate them both.
    The truth was that the shrink was no safer in Parker’s presence than any of his prior victims had been. He was a fool to believe a word out of Parker’s mouth.

ELEVEN
    H ow Holloway feels often depends on the time of day. It can be a frightening place at night when the air is heavy with restless dreams and private realizations that life’s opportunities have been squandered. In the mornings, there is a palpable air of release that the darkness is gone, tinged with the skepticism that the day ahead will bring anything but the same. By mid-morning, the mood has often changed again. Especially in the spring time, when many of the residents cannot help but notice that the sun is high in the sky and the air is fresh and the birds bounce along the brick walkways and perch on the statues that decorate the courtyard with resolute devotion. This benign mood can often last until dinner time, when the encroaching evening casts a pall over everyone’s optimism. That’s when this sort of jittery, wait-and-see attitude comes over everyone, patients and staff alike.
    I prefer the daylight hours, when it is still possible to believe that not everyone who enters Holloway is doomed to remain inside its walls.
    Especially when it comes to Olivia. I found her that afternoon in her usual spot, watching the fountain. She seemed unable to take her eyes away from the water and did not notice me. The little girl, Lily, had discovered an anthill on the great lawn. Under the watchful eye of a nurse’s aide, who knew all too well that Lily’s smaller stature in no way rendered her harmless, she was busy poking a stick down into the anthill and watching the tiny creatures scurry away in panic. Harold had more ambitious plans for the day. He was once again wearing his newsboy cap and had trundled over to the double fence marking the maximum security and was sending a steady stream of babbling nonsense toward the inmates playing basketball on the courts inside. His words gushed out in staccato bursts, making sense only to him. It seemed to be a mix between childhood memories and the plot of an insipid sitcom I had seen him watching a few nights before. As often happens with Harold’s monologues, it