This show really was for all genders and ages, wasn’t it? Trisha thought, watching John shuffle into the room. Not quite as elderly as the good doctor, perhaps, though not far away either. At least in his sixties. Expensive suit, no obvious signs of wear; must be new or almost. Clearly he’s got money. Good for him. Something wrong with the way he sat down – yes, the way he supported himself. Awkward right hand, reduced mobility. Crippled? Awkward facial expression too, now that she thought about it. Maybe he feels like he’s in the wrong place. That she could understand. Interesting man, more to him than meets the eye.

Trisha eyed John as discretely as she could, pretending to be more focused on the doctor. It was only a moment before this one revealed the newcomer’s name: Dorman-Smith. That sent a lot of alarm bells going off in her head. The name carried weight and a lot of connotation. She was never personally involved in any investigation pertaining to the man or his family, but she was aware that he almost certainly had dirt on him. How much, and what kind, she did not know. Hopefully nothing worse than tax evasion or money laundering. Not that those things were right, but at least… at least they weren’t what she had to deal with. But how strange; their good doctor McCoy had enough of a reputation to attract not only average Janes like herself and the platinum-haired girl, but apparently Wall Street came to visit too. Things were getting more interesting by the minute. Maybe later tonight she would jot down some notes on each character she would meet at these sessions.

[i]Take it away, doctor,[/i] she thought to herself and keenly eyed him as he began to talk about, essentially, paranormal events. Typical fodder for conspiracy theories and nut jobs: ghosts, demons, aliens, the whole shebang. At least he was political in his choice of words, never implying that any of these things were real – or that he believed that they were real – but nonetheless leaving some room for personal interpretation and belief. As expected, he was a talker. Years of experience must have made him a master at twisting words just the right way. But words are not the only vector of communication. She could tell he was holding back. Not lying, but clearly he would have gone on at greater length if he were talking to somebody he could trust not to laugh at his wilder theories. Perhaps he really did think aliens were probing us. No, don’t focus on the aliens. The symbol on the whiteboard? Smelled occult. Demons, then? Perhaps he wasn’t quite the good Christian he was raised to be. Or perhaps too much. Didn’t make him a criminal, but it did set him up for harboring dangerous, risk-associated beliefs.

Something was wrong with his gaze also: he was not looking at any one of them and that was highly unusual. Most people, when addressing a group, would alternate between looking at various members of their audience at roughly equal intervals, to make sure nobody felt left out and to keep the group engaged. He, however, stared at something behind her. She could not turn around – it would be too obvious – but she took note and would look what was there on her way out. If only she’d paid more attention to the room when she came in, she could have recalled right away. Sloppy work; must be the fatigue.

Trisha did not make much of his coughing bout. She had seen enough smokers suffering from similar symptoms to believe him. The napkin box was almost empty, though; hopefully he did not have a second fit. That could get messy, she thought, looking at the blood stains on some of the discarded tissues. He brushed the event off with an attempt at humor, although both he and Trisha knew that the situation was not funny for either of them.

And then the moment came where he asked his ‘patients’, she guessed the term was, to share their stories. How dreadful. Neither of the other two seemed particularly forthcoming either and slowly but surely she felt the awkward tension of silence build up. She wanted to sigh but did not. As much as she did not want to do this, somebody had to start talking, and she would assume the role of a mature adult by doing just that. Old man was probably still catching his breath, and it was unfair to put the burden on a child.

Trisha cleared her throat to garner some attention and began: “My name is Trisha Hayes. I’m in my late thirties and I work as a police detective.” Technically, that was a lie; she lost her job, although in a way she still did exactly that. Better to put it this way than to admit that she was squatting at a friend’s, unemployed, and stalking a killer in her free time. If mama could see her now…

“I’m working on a very difficult case, and have been for a long time now. I’ll admit that it’s stressful. I guess that’s why I’m here.”

She spoke in as neutral a tone of voice as she could, doing her best to mask any feelings or thoughts. It was almost as if she was reading something off of a note. While speaking, she made sure to keep an eye on John Dorman-Smith, gauging his reaction when she dropped the word detective.