It had been a week since Charles Brennan confessed, and I was sitting in some gray federal building in downtown Manhattan, waiting for what the Bureau called my first “liaison meeting” with a serial killer. The lights above hummed, the coffee tasted like burnt water, and I kept asking myself why I hadn’t just chosen a normal job like teaching yoga or something.
Agent Martinez had gone over the rules with me three times. Maximum security setup. Monitored conversation. Marshals outside the door. Charles in shackles across from me. My role? Not friend. Not therapist. Just a civilian consultant, keeping him cooperative while prosecutors built their mountain of cases.
“Remember,” Martinez had said, “he’s an asset now. High-value asset.”
That’s the word they used. Not murderer. Not criminal.
