No one understood his collection. Mother thought it was morbid. Ainsley wondered if it would put off friends and lovers. Even Malcolm couldn’t fully understand his compulsion to collect weapons. His serial killer father hadn’t used weapons. The Surgeon used medical equipment to do his work.

Whether or not anyone understood it, Malcolm loved his artfully arranged collection of bladed and blunt force weapons. Sometimes he took out his double barreled flintlock pistol from the eighteenth century, ran his fingers along the gold filigree and imagined being a pirate. He liked to think his collection helped his understanding of forensic psychology so he could do his job better.

In the end, did it matter? His collection brought him joy and what else mattered?