A Fatal Gamble
A cigarette burned between Dr. Ashmore's fingers.
He said, "You refuse to be my student, and you've heard my motive for murder."
He said, "Letting you walk away like this… would be quite troublesome."
He raised his thumb and slowly pressed down on the cigarette's lit end. The cigarette snapped in two.
A crushing pressure.
My mind grew flustered.
No—this had to be just the effect of psychological suggestion.
I recalled the way he spoke, those little mannerisms. That feigned eerie smile, snapping the cigarette…
He was only trying to breach my psychological defenses. He was far less confident than he appeared.
I forced myself to calm down.
I said, "Detective Vance will be here any minute. In that short a time, how exactly are you going to kill me?"
He said, "I never said anything about killing."
He glanced toward the door and said, "They'll just plant some seeds in you."
I stared into his eyes.
He was lying. His eyes made it clear—he wanted me dead.
Seeds, he said.
The moment I walked out that door, those five people would launch Six Degrees Murder against me.
Dr. Ashmore produced a black fountain pen and began writing on paper, stroke by stroke, as though practicing calligraphy.
Head bowed over his writing, he said, "The rain is still falling, Mr. Ashford. Let's chat a while longer."
Why was he so intent on keeping me here?
I tried to reorganize my thoughts.
He wanted to keep me here—the motive was unclear.
Walking out meant Six Degrees Murder.
Even if I did leave, I'd only walk away empty-handed. He could still head to the airport and escape to Sweden.
If I missed tonight, there would never be another chance.
Dr. Ashmore told me he wanted to conduct a test.
He said, "Have you ever wondered why Six Degrees Murder always requires six people?"
I said, "Makes it easier for you to evade responsibility."
He said, "That's only part of it. The other reason—in a one-on-one setting, a person's psychological guard is heightened. Getting someone to commit suicide through suggestion alone is nearly impossible. It takes the indirect pressure of six people working from different angles to guarantee success."
The fountain pen's nib glided across the paper.
He said, "I want to try. Face to face. Make you kill yourself."
He said, "Time is short. Before Detective Vance arrives."
I said, "What are the stakes?"
He said, "If I lose, I'll confess to the police."
I said, "You'd confess that easily?"
He said nothing, focused on his writing.
After a long silence, he looked up. "Shall we gamble?"
I nodded. "Let's gamble."
---
In the office, Dr. Ashmore and I sat across from each other.
He set down the pen and fell into a lengthy silence.
When he finally spoke, his first words were: "Would you like some red wine?"
He walked to the bookcase and gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Never mind—the water I poured you, you haven't touched a sip."
Lined with books, mostly on psychology, the bookcase held a bottle of red wine on the highest shelf. I looked up and vaguely noticed two photo frames behind it—one in color, one in black and white.
He took one down.
It was Serena's photograph.
A young Serena, holding a cat on a swing, smiling radiantly.
He ran his thumb across the glass and said, "She loved cats."
Yes, Serena loved cats. When we lived together, it was her idea to get one.
She'd even share with me which cute cats she encountered on her way to work.
My thoughts stuttered. She loved cats, but she'd never mentioned having one as a child.
He said, "The cat was her seventh birthday present. The very next day, it died in front of her."
I said, "You did that."
He nodded. "Whatever you love, you lose. Not just the cat—there was more. I thought psychological suggestion like that would stop her from loving anyone else. But she still fell for you—what kind of suggestion did you use?"
I gave a scornful laugh. "We just had a normal relationship."
He said, "Those subtle, unconscious interactions—isn't that suggestion too? Mr. Ashford, stop deceiving yourself. You're more of a ghost than I ever was. Possibly worse. You turned her from an angel into someone selfish. Someone who no longer cared about those children, who only wanted to survive for herself… You destroyed her completely."
Like an orator, he proclaimed that repulsive creed.
I said, "If you think this can drive me to suicide, you're wrong."
He halted his speech. "Then let's discuss something more practical."
He opened the frame and from behind it, pulled out a sheaf of crumpled papers.
They were all of Serena's miscarriage records.
He said, "Every time she conceived, she couldn't help but abort."
My nerves violently flared.
He said, "Isn't it laughable? She'd rather miscarry for me than bear your child."
I said, "Not having children was a mutual decision between her and me."
He said, "Was it?"
He said, "You should have seen her face after a miscarriage. In those moments, she truly saw herself as a mother."
I felt no despair—only something called anger boiling from the depths of my heart.
He said, "I remember once, she passed a fully formed fetus. That was the first time I saw her sob uncontrollably."
My fist hammered the desktop again.
He said, "I've always regretted not witnessing her death."
He said, "That scene should have belonged to me."
He said, "She must have been beautiful when she died."
He rambled on, describing the despair Serena had endured.
Imprisonment, humiliation.
Beatings, miscarriages.
My fist struck the desk again and again, the skin at the base of my thumb splitting without my noticing, blood splattering. Yet I felt no pain, only a roar inside my skull.
He had deceived me.
His goal was never to make me despair.
He was only making me furious.
So that from the very beginning, my defenses had been directed at the wrong thing.
Through gritted teeth, I said, "Why are you telling me this?"
He said, "I want you to hate me."
I said, "Why?"
He said, "Before I answer that—tell me what you want."
I stared him down. "To put you in prison."
He said, "With what?"
I said, "Your murder method, your motive, the timeline of the killings…"
He said, "Where?"
I froze.
He said, "Where is the evidence that can confirm my guilt?"
I instinctively touched my phone. Inside the recording—nothing but emptiness.
The hatred he'd manufactured in me had also made me abandon any attempt to secretly record him; I'd just been raging uselessly.
I tried to seize on a flaw in his words. I said, "You're very confident, yet you still arranged a scapegoat."
He said, "Time difference."
He said, "At that point, I assumed Detective Vance was already dead."
He said, "A police officer's death is still too dangerous for me… I'm a man with a risk-averse perfectionism."
I said, "Knowing that, you still went after her?"
He smiled. "Actually, you understand this better than I do. Sometimes, Detective Vance is very much like her."
He said, "If you can't put me in prison, sooner or later, I'll go after her again."
I clenched my fists, yet could only sit there, powerless,
Until I saw a glass of water placed in front of me.
It was the glass Dr. Ashmore had drunk from. He ran his finger along the rim several times.
Set beside the glass was a cigarette butt he'd smoked.
He came to stand beside me, holding the fountain pen he'd been writing with.
Something I'd never seen before surfaced in his eyes—sincerity.
He said, "You can obtain another piece of evidence."
He said, "At the airport, I have no boarding record."
He said, "On my way back, pedestrians saw me."
He said, "I drank water, smoked cigarettes in the office—left my DNA at the scene."
He said, "These constitute my proof of presence."
Without rushing, he pressed the cap of the fountain pen. A recording played from within—his voice and mine. From his line about the rain still falling, to the moment he placed this pen in front of me.
I had a creeping sense of what he was about to say next.
The terrifying thing was, I found myself looking forward to it.
He reached over and slid the paper toward me. I saw what was written: I am aware this conversation is being recorded and accept responsibility for its contents.
Signed with his name: Warren Ashmore.
He said, "The recording contains my motive for killing you. It's all laid out clearly."
He gestured for me to gather these pieces of evidence. He even slipped the fountain pen into my shirt pocket himself. After doing all this, he patted my shoulder.
He said, "From these pieces of evidence, the police will be able to reconstruct my method, proof of presence, and motive for murder."
He said, "The moment you die, the evidence takes effect."
He said, "So—have you made your decision?"