Chapter Text
The auditorium smelled of ethanol and varnish – the kind of smell that lingers in rooms where generations of students have learned to fear and admire the same things. The yellowish ceiling lights cast hazy circles over the rows of chairs, and in the back seats, where the shadows swallowed their faces, some students were still whispering, their eyes fixed on the man – younger than they had imagined, given the number of doctorates he held – who was walking across the stage as he spoke.
“When you think of psychopathy, you think of a man with a vacant stare stabbing someone in an alley. Forget that now, because that image will get in the way of everything I’m going to say over the next eighty minutes. Psychopathy, in the clinical and criminological sense that concerns us here, isn’t about violence. It’s about architecture. The architecture of a mind that processes the social world without the foundations most of you don’t even know you have.” He walked slowly across the stage, gesturing as he spoke. “Hervey Cleckley, in 1941, listed six characteristics in a book called ‘The Mask of Sanity’ – and take note of the title, because it’s the most important thing I’m going to say today: mask. Not absence: mask. Psychopaths aren’t faceless monsters. They are people who have learned to draw a face so well that sometimes they even deceive themselves.”
He paused, his hands resting on the sides of the lectern, his long fingers flexing as he gripped the wood.
“Decades later, Robert Hare turned that into a scale: the PCL-R. Twenty items, scored from zero to forty. And here’s what nobody tells you in those streaming documentaries: most people in this room, if they were assessed, would score something. Two points here, three there. A bit of superficial charm, a lie told without guilt during adolescence, a moment of impulsivity you’d rather forget. Clinical psychopathy starts at twenty-five, thirty points – it’s not an on-off switch; it’s a spectrum.”
“What characterizes the core of the disorder,” he continued, his voice dropping a notch, “is not cruelty, but rather the absence of a certain kind of imagination. We call it empathy, but empathy is too big a word, full of competing meanings. What’s missing, specifically, is the automatic, preconscious ability to feel another person’s suffering as something that hurts you as well. When you see someone stumble and fall, you wince even before you decide to. It’s neurological. It’s the mirror neuron system working without asking permission,” he explained. “In a psychopathic brain, that reaction may not even be triggered at all – or may be so weak that it can easily be ignored. And what remains, in its place, is a purely cognitive processing of another’s suffering. They know you’re suffering. They just don’t feel anything when they know it.”
“And this is where things get interesting for the criminologists in the room: because what interests us isn’t curing them. It’s predicting them. A psychopath with high intelligence and low impulsivity – what we informally call a “successful psychopath” – rarely shows up in homicide statistics. Instead, they show up in statistics on corporate fraud, pyramid schemes, and marriages to seven women in three different states.” Reid pointed to the charts projected on the screen behind him. “Violence is what people resort to when they can’t devise anything better. Cold, patient manipulation is the hallmark of those who have succeeded. And it is precisely these individuals who are never caught, because they have never convinced anyone that they need to be watched.”
As soon as he finished speaking, a hand went up in the back row, catching his attention. It belonged to a woman in her thirties, with honey-blonde hair that cascaded down her shoulders. She had a notebook open on her lap and was twirling a pen in her free hand – perhaps a nervous tic; he wasn’t sure. In any case, he nodded in her direction. “Yes?”
“You described the absence of an automatic reaction to others’ suffering. I understood that,” she began, her voice sounding clear and deliberate, as if she were carefully choosing each word. “But when a psychopath loses someone he’s kept close for years – not through calculated manipulation, but because that person, in some strange way, became part of his routine, part of his comfort – what exactly does he lose? Because if there’s no attachment, in the sense we give to that word, then there can be no grief.” She gestured to emphasize her point. “But if there’s some kind of… internal balance, a functional void that he feels when that person disappears, then that void has another name. And I want to know what name you give to the longing for someone who has never loved anyone.”
Reid stared at her and, for the first time in a long while, found himself at a loss for words. “That…” he began, then stopped, seeming to reconsider whatever he was about to say. Then he started again. “That’s not a question I’m usually asked.” The words came out more slowly, as if he were buying time while reorganizing the information in his own head. The woman seemed to notice and didn’t rush him – a gesture for which he mentally thanked her.
Reid cleared his throat. “In the clinical literature, this is referred to as ‘instrumental attachment.’ A psychopath can develop a relationship of functional dependence with a specific person. Not love, in the sense you’re describing, but a kind of investment,” he explained. “That person becomes part of their system of comfort, predictability, and emotional utility – even if they can never put a name to it as affection.”
“That’s the textbook answer,” she said. “I asked what the void is called.”
“There’s no name for it in clinical terminology,” he admitted, and that admission seemed to cost him something, as if he were used to having a word ready for everything and now, for the first time in God knew how long, he didn’t. “Because the terminology was built on subjects observed from the outside. Interviewed prisoners, completed questionnaires, behavior measured in a lab. No one has ever…” he paused, choosing each word carefully. “No one has ever had access from the inside. And without that – without truly understanding the sensation – we don’t name the void. We just describe the hole it leaves when someone disappears.”
“And what shape does that ‘hole’ take?”
“‘Interrupted routine’ would be the best answer I have. It’s not pain in the sense that you feel pain. It’s… disorganization. A system suddenly forced to function with one fewer variable. And the body reacts to that. Except it reacts the way it reacts to any loss of stability – not the way it reacts to a loss of love.”
The blonde stared at him for a moment longer than was comfortable, the pen still twirling in her hand as she processed his answer.
“So, in your view…” she continued slowly, as if mentally weighing the significance of each word she was about to utter. “If someone feels this kind of disorganization – and nothing else – when they lose a person they theoretically loved… that person never truly loved them. They just lost a useful piece.”
“Statistically speaking, yes.”
“And if that same person, in addition to the disorganization, also feels something they can’t rationally explain – a heaviness that returns at random times, that serves no purpose, that doesn’t help with any practical reorganization of their routine –, what would that be called, in your opinion? Is it still just a ‘system adjustment’?”
Spencer stopped walking, mentally replaying the conversation. “That… is no longer psychopathy. In fact, it would be evidence against psychopathy.”
“On what basis?”
“The fact that the person cared enough to question whether they had felt anything at all,” he replied. “A true psychopath doesn’t waste time checking to see if they missed someone. They note the absence, adjust their routine, and move on. Doubt… doubt is the luxury of those who still have something inside them fighting to be felt.”
A few seconds passed, and she finally nodded. “Thank you for the clarification, Doctor.”
Spencer nodded back. The lecture ended twenty minutes later, amid the scraping of chairs and the usual buzz of conversation, and as he gathered up the notes he never consulted – buying himself some time – his eyes wandered to the back row more often than he’d care to admit to himself. She had already put her notebook in her purse and was talking to a classmate, but it wasn’t long before her classmate said goodbye and joined a group that was leaving.
He waited for the auditorium to empty almost completely before stepping down from the stage.
“Excuse me,” he said when she was already near the door, her purse slung over her shoulder. “The questions you asked…”
“You didn’t answer them all,” she said, turning toward him. “I noticed.”
“I was going to say the opposite – that you didn’t ask everything you wanted to ask.” He looked down at her hands, noticing the absence of bands on her ring fingers. “Miss…?”
“Ruskin. Anne Ruskin.”
“Dr. Spencer Reid.” He introduced himself as well, though she obviously already knew who he was. “Do you work in the field?”
“I’m a writer, actually. Novels, and mostly thrillers.” She adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder. “I studied psychology and literature before coming to criminology. I felt like something was missing in those other two fields… A piece I couldn’t quite put my finger on.”
“And did you find it?”
“Not yet, which is why I asked such questions.” She shrugged. “It wasn’t meant to be provocative, Doctor; I really wanted to know if you had a better answer than the one in the books.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“You haven’t.” She shook her head slightly, offering him a small smile. “It was very helpful, actually.”
Spencer felt a peculiar tingling in his chest – one he knew well, born of the instinct of someone who had spent more than a decade cataloging human patterns and suddenly came across someone who didn’t fit into any category.
“May I ask you a question?”
“You just did.”
“Then may I ask you another one? Although technically that was my second, so the next one would be my third–”
“I get it, Doctor,” she interrupted with a low chuckle. “Go ahead.”
He took a deep breath to compose himself and looked at her cautiously. “Why did you specifically want to know about longing?”
The blonde blinked as she looked at him, clearly not having expected to be questioned about her earlier curiosity. She remained silent long enough for the silence to feel unnatural, seeming to try to choose the best words to explain herself.
“Because it’s the only feeling you can’t really fake,” she said at last. “Anyone can fake anger. Even love – with a little practice – you can fake it well enough to fool most people. But real longing has a specific texture. It… shows up at the wrong time, and it doesn’t really serve any purpose; on the contrary, it becomes a hindrance. If someone can fake that too…” She shrugged, a gesture almost too light for the weight of the statement. “Then there isn’t much left that we can use to tell the difference between those who truly feel and those who just play the part of feeling very well.”
Spencer nodded, hazel eyes fixed on the young woman’s blue ones as the pieces began to fall into place in his own mind. “You talk as if you’ve already thought a lot about this.”
“...Maybe I have.” The words came out more quietly than she’d liked.
A brief silence followed. Anne shifted her weight from one foot to the other, unsure of how she should proceed after the pseudo-confession she’d just made.
“I have some time today. I came in just for this lecture – a favor I owe the criminology department here.” Fortunately, Reid spoke up again. “I don’t have any other plans for now, but I’m hungry, so maybe we could continue this discussion over lunch? I’ll admit I still have quite a few questions I’d like to ask you, too…”
She cocked an eyebrow as she looked at him, mentally weighing his proposal. Finally, she smiled.
“An FBI agent inviting me to lunch after asking about a psychopath’s ability to feel longing… Is that standard procedure for you guys, or did I manage to pique your interest enough to make an exception?” Despite her playful tone, there was genuine curiosity in her gaze.
“An exception,” he admitted. “I give between fifteen and twenty lectures a year – at universities, police academies, seminars of one kind or another. I’ve heard most of the questions in so many different ways that I can predict the second sentence before the person finishes the first.” He shrugged. “You didn’t do that. And I have a bad professional habit of not being able to leave an anomaly unexplained.”
“So this is just work? That hurts my feelings, Doctor.”
“Curiosity first. Work, maybe later, if curiosity warrants it.” He looked at her frankly. “Is there a place nearby that serves something decent?”
“Hmm…” The blonde tilted her head to the side, thinking for a moment. “There’s a bistro three blocks from here. The food is great.”
“Lead the way, then.”
With that, they stepped out into the hallway together, walking in the opposite direction from the buzz of students still crowding near the main door.
The bistro was small, with tables covered in understated white tablecloths and waiters who chatted with every customer they recognized. Anne waved to the girl behind the cash register and made her way to the table in the corner, her expression turning puzzled when she noticed the agent pulling out one of the chairs and gesturing toward her.
“Um… Although I appreciate the gesture, Dr. Reid, I’d prefer to sit facing the entrance.” Seeing him raise an eyebrow, she quickly added, with a mischievous smile, “Just common sense. You FBI people aren’t the only ones who prefer a clear view of the room.”
Spencer just smiled and nodded before sitting down in the chair he’d pulled out, and he even found it amusing to realize that, for the first time in a while, he had ended up sitting with his back to the exit.
“Any other questions you’d like to ask?” he asked as he picked up one of the menus.
“Maybe,” she said, looking him in the eye. “Will you answer them?”
“Maybe.”
That made her let out a brief laugh as she picked up the other menu and scanned the options, even though she knew she’d probably order the same dish as always.
“Can a person lose the ability to feel guilt without losing the ability to love?” she asked, her eyes still fixed on the menu, and she felt his gaze upon her.
“That question assumes that guilt and love come from the same place,” he said slowly, as if examining a piece of evidence before deciding whether it supports the theory or will shatter the entire theory. “Most of the literature treats the two as if they were products of the same system. The classic hypothesis is that both depend on the same social attachment circuit. Guilt is what happens when you hurt someone who matters. Love is the reason that person matters, first and foremost. Remove the attachment, and both should fall away together.”
“They should, but there are case studies where that doesn’t hold true,” she countered. “There are subjects who score high on traits of emotional insensitivity – an almost total inability to feel remorse, even in the face of real and acknowledged harm – and who nevertheless maintain what researchers call a ‘persistent selective bond.’ They form a real, measurable attachment to a specific person. They experience genuine jealousy when that person pulls away or becomes close to someone else…” She looked him in the eye. “Protective behavior, sometimes even self-sacrifice, to a degree that can’t be explained solely by instrumental utility.” She paused immediately afterward, as one of the waiters had approached to take their orders. As soon as the waiter left, she concluded: “…so the answer is yes.”
“The answer is that no one can explain why, and that bothers a lot of people in my field.” He crossed his arms on the table, his gaze fixed on her now with an intensity that hadn’t been there minutes earlier. “Because if a person can love without feeling guilty, that means love isn’t a reward from one’s conscience. It’s something else – perhaps more like a possessive instinct than morality. You love the person, but you don’t feel you owe them anything. You don’t hesitate to hurt them if the situation calls for it, and yet you’d genuinely miss them afterward – without that feeling serving as any impediment when it comes time to act.”
The blonde’s rosy lips pursed into a slight pout as she processed the response she’d received, her slender fingers drumming on the cotton tablecloth.
“That’s not love, then,” she said softly. “It’s a sense of possession.”
“Maybe so,” he shrugged, a gesture too small for the weight of what he’d just said. “Or maybe it’s proof that we’ve been using the wrong word all this time to describe things that, in fact, have no necessary connection to each other. Guilt teaches you not to repeat the harm. Love just tells you that someone matters. No one has ever proven that the second thing needs the first to exist.”
She nodded, and soon the food was brought to the table. Lunch went more smoothly than he’d expected. She asked questions and listened attentively about his past cases, and he tried to get more information about her career as an author, but, like any good writer, she had a knack for stringing together beautiful words while revealing nothing he could use.
When the waiter brought the check, she already had her credit card in hand before he could even reach for his wallet.
“I’ll pay,” she insisted, in a tone that left little room for negotiation.
“No need. I’m the one who invited you.”
“And I’m the one who took up an hour of your free time with questions about pathological longing,” she retorted as she handed the card to the waiter. “Consider it a consulting fee.”
He chuckled softly, genuinely surprised. “All right. Next time, I’ll pay.”
She nodded with a small smile.
His cell phone vibrated on the table before either of them could say anything else. He glanced at the screen, and something in his demeanor shifted – not much, just enough for her to notice.
“Work,” he said, already standing up and straightening his coat. “I have to go.”
“I was surprised you didn’t fake an emergency to escape my crazy questions earlier.”
“To be honest, those are the questions I prefer. They make me think about things from angles I normally wouldn’t have considered.” He stopped beside the table, and for a second, it seemed as though he was going to say something else but decided against it. Instead, he pulled a business card from his pocket and wrote his number on the back. “Feel free to text me if you have any more questions,” he said, smiling and handing her the card. “I enjoyed having lunch with you, Ms. Ruskin.”
She stood up as well, nodding gently as she took the card, and offered her hand for a handshake. “Likewise, Dr. Reid.”
“Spencer,” he corrected, holding her hand a moment longer than a customary handshake required. “You… may call me Spencer.”
She looked at him for a moment, and something flashed across her face – not exactly hesitation, but the kind of quick, silent calculation that he had already learned, in just a few hours, to recognize as part of her repertoire.
“In that case, you may call me Anne.”
“Anne,” he repeated, testing how the name sounded in his own voice. “See you next time, then, Anne.”
“See you next time, Spencer.”