
PSYCHOPATCHIC
Haunted by a freak skydiving accident, blind psychiatrist, Faith Galloway, relives her darkest fears when a former patient and convicted stalker, Ronald Neyman, escapes from a mental health facility and embarks on a seemingly random killing spree. A prodigious savant with schizophrenic tendencies, Neyman’s connection to Faith emerges when special agents from the FBI’s Behavioral Science Unit search for the violent suspect and the motive for his sudden outrage. Tormented by a psychopathic killer she can’t see, Faith confronts the consequence of her own indiscretions while a stunning discovery about her past reveals harrowing truths.

What readers say...








Take a look...
PSYCHOPATCHIC
Chapter 1
January 30th, 2020
Dr. Faith Galloway rode the underground escalator during morning rush hour from the Blue Line Metro station to the familiar surface streets in Capitol Heights, Maryland. Shrouded in a black leather topcoat with matching boots, a cashmere scarf with tasseled ends, and tinted glasses dark enough to hide her eyes, she stepped off the moving escalator to confront the blustery winds driving the mercury into the teens.
Her gloved hand tapped a white cane on the cold concrete, controlling the tempo and force with her firm but malleable grip. She kept her weight on her back foot, tagging the sidewalk back and forth in a shoulder-wide arc as her right foot came forward in a synchronous, well-rehearsed motion. Despite the biting cold, she moved with swan-like elegance, focused on the sound of city traffic, the tactile crunch of sand and road salt underfoot—and the lingering sense of someone following her stride for stride to mask their own advance.
She stopped at the first crosswalk and heard vehicles traverse the busy intersection in front of her like missiles bound for mass destruction. She heard the sound of heavy machinery pounding frozen earth with teeth-jarring force while the smell of hot food and dry-cleaning solvents served landmark cues to confirm her exact location.
Hypersensitive to her surroundings, she felt a rush of air before a fast-moving figure brushed her arm and charged into the crosswalk, prompting a sequence of screeching tires and blaring horns. When the school of pedestrians surged around her en masse, she engaged the road with a steady cane tap, counting steps from one end of the street to the other. Her glasses dulled the glare from reflected sunlight, further distorting gray scale images of people and inanimate objects lurking silently at the boundaries of her fragmented peripheral vision governed by halos, floaters, and otherwise altered perceptions of her physical world.
Undeterred, she navigated the gauntlet of bus shelters, signposts, power poles, fire hydrants, lopsided manhole covers, and torn sections of chain link fence ensnarled in dead underbrush encroaching on the broken sidewalk. Recalling years of sighted memories stored and cataloged by significant events leading up to her accident, she continued three more blocks to a strip mall with vacant storefronts and a laundromat on the corner. She tapped the cane to probe the space between the sidewalk and the curb before she cautiously advanced toward the steady hum from a neon Cash for Gold sign behind a rebar-shielded window outside a local pawnshop.
She collapsed her folding cane into a short baton and stuffed the package and her gloves inside her jacket pocket. A loud buzzer granted access to the perennial establishment infused with the smell of old leather jackets, woodwind instruments, and light machine oil like the kind her foster father rubbed on his hunting rifle.
A blurry silhouette with fading contrast and no discernable features greeted her with a man’s raspy voice, the breath tainted by garlic and cigarettes. She tracked the sound of clanking metal on plate glass, employing short strides to minimize the chance of an inadvertent collision with another patron or a vertical support beam. When she reached the back of the store, she found a rectangular glass display and traced her fingers on the surface marred with tiny nicks and scratches.
“Can I help you?” the garlic breath voice engaged her.
Faith cleared her throat and turned her head to face the dark orb in front of her. “I’d like to buy a gun.”
“What kind of gun?” the pawn shop owner asked Faith from behind the counter, his flannel shirt unbuttoned far enough to expose a thick, gold rope necklace. His own reflection stared back at him from Faith’s polarized lenses.
“A revolver.”
The owner unhooked a keychain from his belt to unlock the assortment of fixed-blade knives and pawned handguns on display inside the glass cabinet. “Tell me if you see one you like.”
Faith turned her head when she heard the door buzzer signal the arrival of another customer. “The one in the middle.”
The owner retrieved a snub-nose Ruger chambered in .357 and pushed the cylinder release with his thumb to inspect the empty weapon. A hand-written price tag dangled from a string on the trigger guard. He placed the unloaded gun on the counter with the muzzle pointed in a safe direction. “This is a nice piece. Easy to grip. Easy to point and shoot. Chambered for magnum rounds but you can shoot .38s for practice. Small enough to fit inside a small handbag. Big enough to punch holes where it counts.”
Faith looked down at the blurry image and felt the open cylinder. She curled her fingers around the rubber grip and contemplated the weight of the gun in her hand.
“Shoots single or double-action. The gun’s hardly been fired. Don’t get many in this condition. The ones we do, usually sell pretty fast.”
Faith handed the gun back. “It feels heavy.”
The owner swapped the Ruger for a .357 Smith & Wesson snub-nose Model 60 and spun the empty cylinder. “This one’s a little lighter.” He placed the open revolver on the counter, diverting his attention from the tall brunette in front of him to the towering stranger in a hoodie scoping out the power tools and a sword collection on display.
Faith squeezed the grip and cocked the textured hammer spur with her thumb.
“Watch where you point it,” the owner insisted, pushing the muzzle away from his direction.
Faith pulled the trigger and heard the hammer click. “Do you sell ammunition?”
“Full metal jacket or hollow point?”
“What’s the difference?”
“Hollow points expand. Little hole goes in. Big hole comes out.” The owner viewed the hooded stranger on the pawn shop monitor and signaled for his associate to assist.
Faith set the gun down and reached inside her jacket pocket for her wallet. She unzipped a side compartment to access her large bills, each bent at one corner to signify their hundred-dollar denomination. “How much?”
The owner grabbed a clipboard with the standard ATF paperwork. “First things first. I need you to fill out all of section A. I’ll also need to make a copy of your ID and your handgun qualification license.”
“I need the gun today.”
The owner shook his head. “No can do. Maryland requires a mandatory seven day waiting period. When your background check clears, the gun is yours.”
“I’m not a criminal.”
“Neither am I, but you still have to submit the paperwork.”
“I’ve never had a parking ticket.”
“I don’t make the laws.”
Faith removed her Maryland driver’s license and a faded handgun qualification card. “I’ll let you do the paperwork. I left my reading glasses at home.”
The owner clicked a ball point pen. He gave a disgruntled sigh and transferred the driver’s license information to the form. “Are you an NRA member?”
“Not currently.”
“Have you ever been convicted of a felony?”
“No.”
“Are you currently a fugitive from justice?”
“Do I look like one?”
The owner inspected the Maryland driver’s license and scrutinized the photo of the woman who appeared much younger in her picture than she did in person. “This license is expired.”
“My new one’s in the mail.”
“Ten years ago?”
“I move a lot.”
The owner scratched his nose. “I need to see some form of valid identification.”
Faith thumbed her Visa card from her wallet.
“With a picture…”
“I don’t have another ID with a picture.”
“I can’t accept an expired license. It’s the law.”
“Then make an exception.”
The pawn shop owner waved the license in front of Faith. “No exceptions.”
Faith shuffled her feet a little. “I want to speak with the manager.”
“I am the manager.” The man waved the license again. “Take your glasses off.”
“My eyes are sensitive to the light.”
“What color is my hair?”
“Brown,” Faith guessed.
“I’m bald,” the owner replied.
Faith removed her dark sunglasses to reveal a tightly focused pair of hazy blue eyes incapable of discerning between the nondescript stooge in front of her and a female mannequin half his size. She laid out a dozen hundred-dollar bills and put her glasses back on. “I’ll pay you triple what the gun is worth.”
The owner sighed in exasperation, then addressed her in a louder tone. “Are you nuts?”
“I’m blind, not mentally incompetent and deaf,” Faith replied sternly. “I have the right to own a gun in the state of Maryland.” She raked her fingers across the counter to collect her cash. “If you won’t sell me one, I’ll find someone else who will.”
“A gun can’t protect you if you don’t know where to point it.”
Faith pounded her fist on the display case hard enough to crack the glass. “I didn’t come here to be lectured.” Her voice trembled when she spoke. “He’s stalking me again. I can’t see him, but I can feel him. I can hear him. I can smell him. He nearly killed me once before, but I survived. If I don’t buy a gun today, I’m as good as dead.”
© , Jason Melby. All Rights Reserved.