Everything around them faded to black and Emma turned, took Susan’s hand and said, “Now we travel to the lonely prison cell where Thelma met her death.” As the space surrounding them slowly lightened to reveal the cold stone walls of a county jail cell, Emma explained, “I am not showing you everything that has occurred since Thelma was taken into custody, some of it is completely irrelevant to us. I will tell you that shortly after being placed in this cell she slipped on a small puddle of water and hit her head on the wash stand. Although she momentarily lost consciousness, Thelma was not seriously injured.”

When the room had brightened completely, Thelma sat on a small cot, quietly crying into a dingy square of white cloth, her knees were drawn up to her chest and a bruise was forming over a large knot on the right side of her forehead. She had exchanged the blood stained nightgown she had worn to bed that night for an unflattering dress made of tattered gray wool. “Oh Frank,” she moaned, ending in a painful hiccup. “What am I going to do? What about little Frances, what will become of her?”

She buried her face into the coarse fabric covering her knees and began crying with such intensity that the entire cot shook. After a few more minutes of crying, she lay down and fell into the exhausted, dreamless sleep that only comes after long bouts of crying.

“You will see the next events as I see them,” Emma said, as Archibald semi-materialized standing over the cot.

Chuckling, Archibald leaned his face down next to Thelma’s and whispered, “Your tears have been wasted. You will be joining your ‘dear’ Frank sooner than you think.”

She shifted in her sleep, moving onto her back and stretching out fully on the thin cot. Acting as if this was his cue to act, he climbed up onto the cot and kneeled down on her chest. When Thelma began thrashing around under the restraining pressure, clawing at her invisible attacker and gasping for air, Archibald covered her nose and mouth with the palm of his hands. Effectively cutting off not only her air supply but also the mewling noises she was making.

Within a couple of minutes, Thelma’s struggles ceased, her eyes rolled back in her head, and her arms fell lifelessly to the mattress. His ghastly task completed, Archibald rose from his crouching position and faded away as he moved from the cell. When he had completely vanished from sight, the sparse cell disappeared and they were once again standing in the black intraspace.

Emma heaved a deep sigh and said, “Now I will show you an incident from Archibald’s youth. It will clarify why he leaves sketches for his victims.”

Suddenly they were standing in the middle of an impressive chamber, predominantly catering to manly comforts. The wainscoting on the walls, as well as the furniture were rich mahogany, while the walls above the wood were covered in lush burgundy velvet. Deep armchairs were upholstered in supple leather; the accepted gentlemanly vices of the time were addressed—crystal decanters of liquor stood on an ebony bar, fine cigars lay nestled securely in ornately carved wooden boxes, and positioned in the window corner was a billiard table made of golden oak and lined in deep hunter green felt. The room’s only occupant, a man in his early twenties, sat hunched over the highly polished desk, concentrating on the paper before him.