The Perfect Wife
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He stared at her impassively for a long moment before responding.
“According to the Department of State Hospitals, DSH-Atascadero up in San Luis Obispo handles those cases,” he replied stone-faced. “Metro deals with nonviolent offenders. So I’m not sure what you’re referencing.”
“Of course you are,” Jessie said more confidently than she’d expected. “It’s called the Non-Rehabilitative Division, or NRD for short. But that’s just the boring term they use for public consumption. Internally and within criminal justice circles, NRD is known as the ‘high-risk’ unit at DSH-Metro, which I happened to notice is the term you used to describe it in class.”
Hosta didn’t respond. Instead, he studied her inscrutably for several seconds before finally allowing his face to break into a slight grin. It was the first time she’d seen anything close to a smile from him.
“Walk with me,” he said, motioning for her to exit the room. “You win the special prize, Ms. Hunt. It’s been three semesters since a student last picked up on my little bit of verbal trickery there. Everyone is so turned off by the community standards bit that no one wonders what the reference to ‘high-risk’ is all about. But it’s clear that you were familiar with NRD long before entering class today. What do you know about it?”
“Well,” she began carefully, “I did the first several semesters of my study at USC and NRD is kind of an open secret there, what with them being so close.”
“Ms. Hunt, you are dissembling. It is not an open secret. Even within law enforcement and the psychiatric community, it is a tightly guarded one. I’d hazard that fewer than two hundred people in the region are aware of its existence. Less than half of them know the full nature of the facility. And yet, somehow, you do. Please explain yourself. And this time, let’s drop the careful coyness.”
Now it was Jessie’s turn to decide whether to be forthcoming.
You’ve come this far. May as well take that final leap.
“I did my thesis on it,” she said. “It almost got me kicked out of the program.”
Hosta stopped walking and looked briefly stunned before regaining his composure.
“So that was you?” he asked, sounding impressed as he started back down the hall. “That thesis is legendary among those who have read it. If I recall, the title was along the lines of ‘The Impact of Non-Rehabilitative Long-Term Incarceration on the Criminally Insane.’ But no one could figure out who the real author was. After all, there is no official record of ‘Jane Don’t.’”
“I have to admit I was pretty proud of that name. But using a fake one at all wasn’t my decision,” Jessie admitted.
“What do you mean?” Hosta asked, clearly intrigued.
Jessie wondered if she was skirting the edge of what she was allowed to discuss. But then she remembered the reason she was assigned to work with Hosta in the first place and decided there was no reason to be coy.
“My faculty adviser submitted the thesis to the dean,” she explained. “He promptly brought in several law enforcement and medical folks I’m not allowed to mention other than by the charming term ‘The Panel.’ I was questioned for nine straight hours before they determined that I was sincerely writing an academic paper and not secretly some reporter or worse.”
“That sounds exciting,” Hosta said. He seemed to mean it.
“It sounds it. But at the time, terrifying was a more appropriate word. Eventually they decided not to arrest me. After all, they had the off-book, secret psychiatric lockup, not me. The school agreed that I hadn’t done anything technically wrong and agreed not to dump me, although everything about the thesis was declared classified. The department determined that my interrogation by authorities could serve as my thesis defense. And I signed several documents promising not to discuss the matter with anyone, including my husband, or face potential prosecution, although for what charge they never said.”
“Then how is it, Ms. Hunt, that we are having this conversation?”
“I received a…let’s call it a special dispensation. I was permitted to continue to pursue my degree and set a specific condition. But in order to complete it, my new faculty adviser would have to be made at least superficially aware of what I’d written. The powers that be looked at the faculty at every university in Orange County and determined that you alone met their requirements. The school has a master’s program in Criminal Psychology, which you direct. You have a relationship with NRD and have done field work there. You even have it as a practicum option set up there in rare instances where a student expresses interest and shows promise. You’re my only option for fifty miles in any direction.”
“I suppose I should be flattered. And what if I decline to be your faculty adviser?” he asked.
“You should have received a visit from someone representing The Panel to address all this—how it would be in your best interest, etc. I’m surprised you haven’t. They’re usually pretty thorough.”
Hosta thought for a second.
“I have received several emails and a voice message recently from someone named Dr. Ranier,” he said. “But the name wasn’t familiar so I ignored them.”
“I recommend you return the message, Professor,” Jessie suggested. “It’s possible that it’s a pseudonym, maybe for someone you already know.”
“I’ll do that. In any case, I gather that I won’t have to jump through all the usual bureaucratic hoops to get you authorized to do your practicum at NRD?”
“Doing it there was the specific condition I mentioned earlier. It’s the reason I agreed without much fuss to their non-disclosure agreement,” Jessie told him, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice. “I’ve been waiting almost two years for this.”
“Two years?” Hosta said, surprised. “If you completed your thesis that long ago, shouldn’t you have your degree by now?”
“That’s a long story I’ll have to share some other time. But for now, can I assume I have your authorization do my practicum at DSH-Metro, specifically in NRD?”
“Assuming your story checks out, yes,” he said as they reached his office door. He unlocked it but didn’t invite her in. “But I have to pose the question I raise with any student who requests to do their field work there—are you sure you want to do this?”
“How can you ask me that, given everything I’ve told you?”
“Because it’s one thing to read about the people being held at that facility,” he answered. “It’s quite another to interact with them. It gets real very fast. I gather from the redactions in your thesis that you know about some of the inmates being housed there?”
“A few; I know that the serial rapist from Bakersfield, Delmond Stokes, is being held there. And the multiple child murderer who was captured last year by that retired lady cop is there as well. And I’m pretty sure Bolton Crutchfield is being held there too.”
Hosta stared at her, as if deciding whether or not to say what he was thinking. Finally he seemed to make a decision.
“That’s who you want to observe, isn’t it?”
“I have to admit, I’m curious,” Jessie said. “I’ve heard all kinds of stories about him. I’m not sure how many of them are true.”
“One story I can assure you is true is that he brutally murdered nineteen people over half a dozen years. Whatever else is truth or legend, that is a fact. Don’t ever lose sight of it.”
“Have you met him?” Jessie asked.
“I have. I interviewed him on two occasions.”
“And what was that like?”
“Ms. Hunt, that’s a long story I’ll have to share some other time,” he said, turning her own words back on her. “For now, I will reach out to this Dr. Ranier and check your bona fides. Assuming that goes without incident, I’ll contact you to set up your practicum. I know you’ll want to start soon.”
“I’d go tomorrow if I could.”
“Yes, well, it might take a bit longer than that. In the meantime, try not to bounce off the walls. Good day, Ms. Hunt.”
And with that he shut the door to his office, leaving Jessie in the hall. She turned to leave. Looking around the unfamiliar hallway, she realized she’d been so immersed in the conversation that she hadn’t paid attention to anything else. She had no idea where she was.
She stood there for a moment, imagining herself sitting face to face with Bolton Crutchfield. The thought both excited and terrified her. She had wanted—no, needed—to talk to him for a while now. The possibility that it might soon happen made her tingle with anticipation. She needed answers to questions no one even knew she had. And he was the only one who could provide them. But she wasn’t sure if he would. And even if he was willing, what might he demand in return?
CHAPTER FIVE
Jessie was so keyed up that she called Kyle on the way home from school, even though she knew he was always crazed during the day and almost never answered. This time was no different but she couldn’t help leaving a message anyway.
“Hey, babe,” she said after the beep. “Just wanted to let you know my first day of class went extremely well. The professor’s a character but I think I can work with him. And I’m hoping to start my practicum soon, maybe this week if everything pans out. I’m actually a little giddy. I hope your day is going well too. I thought I’d make a special dinner for us tonight, especially now that we actually found the boxes with all the pots and pans. Give me your ETA for tonight and I’ll prep something nice. We can open one of those bottles of wine we’ve been saving and maybe get started on expanding our little family unit. Okay, talk soon. I love you.”
She made a stop at Bristol Farms on the way home and splurged on a few branzino fish, which she planned to stuff and cook whole. She found some nice-looking broccolini and grabbed that too. As she was headed to the checkout she saw some fingerling potatoes and snagged them as well.
She was tempted to find something decadent for dessert but knew Kyle had been working out aggressively and wouldn’t have any of it. Besides, they had some Italian ice in the freezer that would work just fine. By the time she checked out, she had the whole menu mapped out in her head.
*Jessie stared at the untouched plates of food on the dining room table, then checked her phone for the third time in the last five minutes. It was 7:13 and still nothing from Kyle.
He had texted her soon after she left the voicemail, saying the dinner plan sounded great and he anticipated being home by 6:30 that night. But almost forty-five minutes had passed and he still wasn’t here. Worse, he hadn’t reached out to her at all.
She had set everything up so that dinner would be hot and on the table waiting for him at 6:45, just in case he ran a little late. But he hadn’t shown up. She’d texted him twice and left a voicemail in the intervening time. And still, she’d heard nothing from Kyle since that first text. Now the fish lay on the table, mostly cold, staring back at her with unsympathetic eyes.
Finally, at 7:21, he called. From the noise in the background, she knew even before he spoke that he was at a bar.
“Hey, Jess,” he shouted to be heard over the music. “Sorry for the late call. How are you doing?”
“I was worried about you,” she said, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice.
“Oh, sorry,” he said, sounding only mildly remorseful. “I didn’t mean to worry you. Something came up last minute. Teddy called around six and said he had some more potential clients for me. He asked if I could meet him and these guys at a bar called Sharkie’s in the marina. I figured I can’t really pass up these kinds of opportunities when I’m the new guy in the office, you know?”
“You couldn’t have called to let me know?”
“My bad,” he yelled. “Everything was so rushed that it slipped through the cracks. I was only able to sneak away to call you now.”
“I made a big dinner, Kyle. We were going to celebrate tonight, remember? I opened a hundred-dollar bottle of wine. It was supposed to be a romantic evening.”
“I know,” he said. “But I can’t bail on this. I think I can lock down both of Teddy’s friends as clients. And we can still try a little baby-making when I get home.”
Jessie sighed deeply so that she could keep her voice calm when she responded.
“It’ll be late when you get back,” she said. “I’ll be tired and you’ll be half-drunk. It’s not how I envisioned this going.”
“Listen, Jessie. I’m sorry that I didn’t call. But do you want me to just bail on an opportunity like this? I’m not just doing shots here. I’m conducting business and trying to make a few new friends while I’m at it. Are you going to hold that against me?”
“I guess I’m learning what your priorities are,” she replied.
“Jessica, you are always my top priority,” Kyle insisted. “I’m just trying to balance everything. I guess I screwed up. I promise I’ll be home by nine, all right? Does that fit into your schedule?”
He had sounded sincere until that last line, which dripped with sarcasm and resentment. The emotional wall Jessie had erected between them was slowly crumbling until she heard those words.
“Do whatever you want,” she replied brusquely before hanging up.
She stood up and caught a glimpse of herself in the dining room mirror. She was wearing a blue satin evening gown with a plunging neckline and a long slit down the right side that started at her upper thigh. Her hair was up in a casual bun that she had hoped to undo as part of a post-dinner seduction. The heels she wore pushed her from her normal five feet ten inches to well over six feet tall.
Suddenly it all felt so ridiculous. She was playing some sad game of dress-up. But when it came down to it she was just another pathetic housewife waiting for her man to come home and give her life meaning.
She grabbed the plates and walked to the kitchen, where she dumped both meals into the trash, whole fish and all. She changed out of the dress and switched to sweats. After that, she came back down to the dining room, grabbed the open bottle of Shiraz, poured a glass full to the brim, and took a gulp as she made her way into the living room.
She plopped down on the couch, turned on the TV, and settled in for what appeared to be a marathon of Life Below Zero, a reality series about people who voluntarily lived in remote sections of Alaska. She justified it by telling herself this would help her appreciate that there were people who had it far worse than she did in her fancy house in Southern California with her expensive wine and her seventy-inch flat-screen television.
Somewhere around the third episode and a half empty bottle she drifted off.
*She was awakened by Kyle gently shaking her shoulder. Looking up through blurry eyes, she could tell that he was half-loaded.
“What time is it?” she mumbled.
“A little after eleven.”
“What happened to being home by nine?” she asked.
“I got held up,” he said sheepishly. “Listen, babe. I know I should have called earlier. That wasn’t cool. I really am sorry.
“Okay,” she said. Her mouth was fuzzy and her head hurt.
He ran a finger along her arm.
“I’d like to make it up to you,” he offered suggestively.
“Not tonight, Kyle,” she said, shrugging his hand away as she got up. “I’m not in the mood. Not even a little bit. Maybe next time you can try not to make me feel like sloppy seconds. I’m going to bed.”
She walked up the stairs and, despite the urge to glance back to see his reaction, kept going without another word. Kyle said nothing. She crawled into bed without even turning off the light. Despite the headache and the cottonmouth, she was asleep in less than a minute.
*Jessie felt a prickly branch scratch her face as she ran through the dark woods. It was winter and she knew that even barefoot, her footsteps, clomping on the fallen, dried leaves covering the snow were loud; that he would likely hear them. But she had no choice. Her only hope was to keep moving and hope he couldn’t find her.
But she didn’t know the woods well and he did. She was running blindly, completely lost and looking for any familiar landmark. Her little legs were too short. She knew he was catching up. She could hear his heavy footsteps and his even heavier breathing. There was no place to hide.
CHAPTER SIX
Jessie sat bolt upright in bed, waking just in time to hear her own scream. It took a moment to orient herself and realize she was in her own bed in Westport Beach, wearing the clothes she’d drunkenly fallen asleep in last night.
Her whole body was covered in sweat and her breathing was shallow. She thought she could actually hear the blood rushing through her veins. She reached her hand up to her left cheek. The scar from the branch was still there. It had faded and could be mostly hidden with makeup, unlike the longer one along her right collarbone. But she could still feel where it protruded from the rest of her skin. She could almost feel the sharp sting even now.
She glanced over to her left and saw that the bed was empty. She could tell Kyle had slept there because of the indentation on his pillow and the jumble of sheets. But he was nowhere to be found. She listened for the sound of the shower but the house was silent. Glancing at her bedside clock, she saw that it was 7:45 a.m. He would have already left for work by now.
She eased out of the bed, trying to ignore her throbbing head as she shuffled to the bathroom. After a fifteen-minute shower, half of it spent just sitting on the chilly tile, she felt ready to face getting dressed and going downstairs. In the kitchen, she saw a note propped up on the breakfast table. It read “Sorry again about last night. Would love a rain check when you’re willing. I love you.”
Jessie set it aside and made herself some coffee and oatmeal, the only thing she felt capable of keeping down right now. She managed to finish half a bowl, tossed the rest in the trash, and made her way to the front sitting room, where a dozen unopened boxes waited for her.
She settled into the love seat with a pair of scissors, rested her coffee on the end table, and pulled a box toward her. As she absentmindedly went through the boxes, crossing off items as she located them, her minded drifted to her NRD thesis.
Had it not been for their fight, Jessie would have almost certainly told Kyle about not just her impending practicum at the facility, but about the aftermath of her original thesis as well, including her interrogation. That would have been a violation of her NDA.
He obviously knew the broad strokes, as she’d discussed the project with him as she’d researched it. But The Panel had sworn her to secrecy about it afterward, even from her husband.
It had felt weird hiding such a huge part of her life from her partner. But she’d been assured that it was necessary. And other than some general questions about how the whole thing had gone, he didn’t really press her on the subject. A few vague answers left him satisfied, which had been a relief at the time.
But yesterday, with her enthusiasm for what she’d be doing—visiting a mental hospital for killers—at an all-time high, she was prepared to finally loop him in, despite the prohibition and its consequences. If their fight had one positive outcome, it was that it stopped her from telling him and putting both their futures at risk.
But what kind of future is it if I can’t share my secrets with my own husband? And if he seems oblivious to me keeping them?
A slight ripple of melancholy washed over her at the thought. She tried to push it out of her head but couldn’t quite sweep it away.
She was startled by the ring of the doorbell. Glancing at her watch, she realized that she’d been sitting in the same spot, lost in her glumness, hands resting on an unopened packing box, for the last ten minutes.
She stood up and walked to the door, trying to shake the gloom out of her system with each step. When she opened the door, Kimberly from across the street stood before her with a cheery smile on her face. Jessie tried to match it.
“Hello, neighbor,” Kimberly said enthusiastically. “How goes the unpacking?”
“Slowly,” Jessie admitted. “But thanks for asking. How are you?”
“I’m good. I actually have a few ladies from the neighborhood at my place right now for mid-morning coffee and wondered if you wanted to join us.”
“Sure,” Jessie replied, happy for an excuse to get out of the house for a few minutes.
She grabbed her keys, locked up, and walked over with Kimberly. When they arrived, four heads turned in their direction. None of the faces looked familiar. Kimberly introduced everyone and led Jessie over to the coffee station.
“They don’t expect you to remember their names,” she whispered as she poured them cups. “So don’t feel any pressure. They’ve all been where you are now.”
“That’s a load off,” Jessie confessed. “I have so much bouncing around in my head these days, I can barely remember my own name.”
“Totally understandable,” Kimberly said. “But I should warn you, I mentioned the whole FBI profiler thing so you may get a few questions about it.”
“Oh, I don’t work for the FBI. I haven’t even gotten my degree yet.”
“Trust me—that doesn’t matter. They all think you’re a real-life Clarice Starling. My over/under on serial killer references is three.”
Kimberly had underestimated.
“Do you sit in the same room as these guys?” asked a woman named Caroline with hair so long that some strands reached her backside.
“It depends on the rules of the facility,” Jessie answered. “But I’ve never interviewed one without an experienced profiler or investigator with me, taking lead.”
“Are serial killers all as smart as they seem in the movies?” a mousy woman named Josette asked hesitantly.
“I haven’t interviewed enough to say definitively,” Jessie told her. “But based on the literature, as well as my personal experience, I’d say no. Most of these men—and they are almost always men—are no smarter than you or me. Some get away with it for a long time because of sloppy investigating. Some manage to evade capture because they choose victims no one cares about—prostitutes, the homeless. It takes a while for people to notice those folks are missing. And sometimes they’re just lucky. Once I graduate, my job will be to change their luck.”
The women politely pummeled her with questions, seemingly uninterested in the fact that she had not even graduated, much less formally taken on a profiling case.
“So you’ve never actually solved a case?” asked one particularly inquisitive woman named Joanne.
“Not yet. Technically, I’m just a student. The pros handle the live cases. Speaking of professionals, what do you do?” she asked in the hopes of redirecting her.
“I used to be in marketing,” Joanne said. “But that was before Troy was born. He keeps me pretty busy these days. It’s a full-time job all on its own.”
“I’ll bet. Is he somewhere napping now?” Jessie asked, looking around.
“Probably,” Joanne said, glancing at her watch. “But he’ll be up soon for snack. He’s at daycare.”
“Oh,” Jessie said, before broaching her next question as delicately as possible. “I thought most kids in daycare had working moms.”
“Yes,” Joanne said, apparently not offended. “But they’re so good over there that I couldn’t not enroll him. He doesn’t go every day. But Wednesdays are a challenge, so I usually take him then. Hump days are hard, right?”
Before Jessie could respond, the door from the garage opened and a burly thirty-something guy with a shock of unruly red hair burst into the room.
“Morgan!” Kimberly exclaimed happily. “What are you doing home?”
“I left my report in the study,” he replied. “My presentation is in twenty minutes so I have to get back fast.”
Morgan, apparently Kimberly’s husband, didn’t look at all surprised to see half a dozen women in his living room. He barreled through them, offering general greetings to the group. Joanne leaned over to Jessie.
“He’s some kind of engineer,” she said quietly, as if it was some kind of secret.
“For whom? One of the defense contractors?” Jessie asked.
“No, for some real estate outfit.”
Jessie didn’t understand why that merited such discretion but decided not to pursue it. Moments later, Morgan blasted back into the living room with a thick ream of paper in his hand.
“Nice to see you, ladies,” he said. “Sorry I can’t stick around. Kim, remember I’ve got that thing at the club tonight so I’ll be back late.”