Disclaimer: Everything you recognize belongs to Paul Scheuring.

This is part of a series of stories entitled The Penitent, which includes Three Hours and 10 Million More, Flying Buttresses, and The Wrong Side. These four works-in-progress detail events which happen simultaneously, and feature a small amount of overlap.

I. Sizing Up

Dr. Marie Seward, aged 46, married mother of two, MD and PhD, had never in her life felt as thrilled and as anxious as she did today.

A week ago, she’d been handed his file—quite a file it was, too—and asked: “Can you handle this one?”

“Yes, absolutely,” she’d responded, even as a tingle of something resembling a mix of fear and anticipation spread to her fingertips.

Michael Scofield, sentenced to 18 years, parole in 12—lenient, considering his crimes—in Fox River State Penitentiary, mandatory sessions with a psychiatrist once a week for 1 year, closed custody, 24-hour surveillance.

She waited for him now in the small, cramped room filled with cheap furniture and brightened by a large window on the east side. His file laid spread out on the table, everything from academic transcripts, his psych evaluations from twenty years of ago, photographs, transcripts of his testimony… Marie had pored over the file to the point where she could almost see the blueprints that were supposedly embedded in the tattoo that covered his upper body. There had been a lot of pictures of those—what psychiatrist wouldn’t be intrigued by the angels and demons that used his skin as a battlefield?

She wasn’t sure what she expected to see when the door opened, but the sight of him—dressed in the muted grays and blues of the prison uniform, shackled in chains and handcuffs, somehow seemed anticlimactic.

The guard pushed him into the room and closed the door—even for an inmate in closed custody, psych sessions were off-limits to the COs.

Marie said nothing as Scofield managed to sit gracefully in the chair across the table despite his hindered movement. His eyes flicked over the file that comprised his life, but otherwise his face remained impassive as he looked at her.

“Mr. Scofield. I’m Dr. Seward,” said Marie, unnerved and feeling as though she’d been thrown back into her very first session with her very first patient. “We’re going to be meeting once a week.”

He nodded. “I remember.” His voice wasn’t what she had expected, either—she’d watched the tape that he and his brother had made, of course, but his voice then had seemed hard and determined. Now, he sounded like nothing if resigned and weary.

Marie motioned to his bonds. “Is it necessary for you to wear those?”

The corner of his mouth turned up in what seemed to be the ghost of a smile. “Escape risk,” he explained.

She nodded, and the fact that this man had managed to escape from two maximum-security prisons from which no one had ever escaped before suddenly intimidated her. She knew he was supposed to be some kind of genius—you only had to turn on CNN to hear the commentators say so—but to be face-to-face with him was undoubtedly daunting. According to his previous psych profiles, he’d been diagnosed with Low Latent Inhibition, a condition which was both rare and relatively obscure.

He watched her intently, a crease in his brow, and Marie suddenly felt as though she were the one being studied, not him—which, she had to admit, was probably the case.

She cleared her throat. “I understand that you’re living in Administrative Segregation housing at the moment, correct?”

His face remained impassive for a few more moments, his piercing eyes focusing intently on her face. Finally, he nodded. “Yes.”

“How do you feel about that?”

Michael’s eyes flicked to the sheet of paper on the far left of the table and his eyes narrowed. Marie flushed when she realized it was a report about the foster-care incident twenty years before. She’d been saddened—but only mildly surprised—to learn of Michael’s mistreatment as a child. Sure enough, Michael had realized what she was getting at the instant she asked the original question. “I’m fine.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” said Marie, making a small notation in her notebook. “Is Ad Seg uncomfortable?”

“Dr. Seward, I doubt you could find any inmate who finds Ad Seg comfortable. Particularly one who is also in closed custody,” said Michael lightly, lifting his wrists to remind her of his cuffs and chains thwarting his movement.

“I don’t care what other inmates think, Mr. Scofield. I care about what you think. My concern is your mental health, and based off of your traumatic experiences as a child, your placement in segregated housing seriously concerns me,” said Marie firmly. “I could submit a request for you to be returned to General Population. It is my understanding that you were originally in Gen Pop.”

“I appreciate your concern, but I’m prohibited from rejoining Gen Pop for another ten years,” said Michael coolly, threading his fingers together on the table and turning his gaze to the handcuffs that encircled his wrists.

A flush of embarrassment crept across her chest and Marie was annoyed with herself for not having remembered that little detail. So much for showing him she cared. Marie was relieved that he had looked away from her before her embarrassment had registered full-force—if she had learned one thing in all these years of criminal psych, it was to hold your cards tightly.

After a moment more of silence, she changed the subject. “Are you going to try to escape again?”

His smile was manufactured. “Of course not. Why would I?”

“I doubt you could find any inmate who finds prison comfortable, Mr. Scofield.” Marie was unable to resist the dig. She was rewarded by a small smile, though he didn’t make eye contact with her. It rejuvenated her, and she plowed ahead. “After all, considering your skill set—”

Michael’s demeanor changed instantly—enough so that Marie cut her words short. He inhaled sharply and turned his head away, looking towards the window and deliberately avoiding her gaze.

“There’s a reason a guy like you—with your skill set—was put in here, you know.”

“Mr. Scofield? I’m sorry, did I say something…?” to say Marie was bewildered would be an understatement, and she mentally berated herself for screwing up again.

In the quickest display of self-control she had ever seen, he controlled his breathing before turning back to her, face impassive. “No.” The rapid change was almost enough to make Marie uncomfortable, but she had dealt with too many serial killers to be thrown by Michael Scofield’s apparent fluctuating moods.

“What’s wrong?” Marie inquired gently, hoping to make some sort of emotional connection with him—a method tried and true.

“Nothing,” said Michael, almost harshly.

Marie decided to pull out the legal jargon—opening the can of worms about appeals and testimonies had encouraged many a con to talk. “Mr. Scofield, one of the reasons I am here is to form a psychological profile of you in the event of appeals and for the interest that the government has in your case. Should I find that you are not a danger to society—and mentally competent—I will testify on your behalf. However, I cannot do my job if you refuse to talk to me candidly,” said Marie.

Michael remained stone-faced, and it annoyed her. The realization was surprising—how had that happened? She hadn’t yet been in the room with the man for ten minutes, and he had gotten under her skin? Irritated, She forged ahead, trying a different tack. “Besides that, I do genuinely want to help you. You’re one of my patients now, Mr. Scofield.”

The man across from her said nothing, his gaze sharp. “What do you want to know? What the tattoos mean? How I feel about Fox River? Why I broke those other guys out?” His voice was hard and almost mocking and the fact that he predicted her very questions serves as yet another source of embarrassment. Damn it—she was only thirteen minutes in.

“If that’s what you would like to talk about, I’d be more than happy to listen.” The reply is rote and Marie knew that Michael knows that. She was flustered now and she hated it.

“Well, what would you like to hear, Dr. Seward?” This time, Michael’s hard voice had disappeared and had been replaced with the silky-smooth tones of a confidence man. The change was shocking, but Marie was glad it had happened—now she knew about at least two of Michael Scofield’s masks.

She thought a moment before replying. “Why don’t we talk about the events in Panama, Mr. Scofield,” she suggested, keeping her eyes locked on the man across from her.

His response to the proposal was physical. His pupils expanded and some of the hard lines of his face slackened—in fact, Marie noted, his entire body seemed to wilt. It was as though he diminished before her very eyes. A trembling rush of air left his lungs and he broke eye contact with her, casting his eyes to the floor.

And this, Marie realized, is the true Michael Scofield. She almost felt guilty for having taken away his masks.