by Blake Pierce
“I guess I never thought of it that way, but yeah.”
“Forgive me for asking this,” Hernandez said, “but what does any of this have to do with Crutchfield?”
Jessie appreciated that he didn’t try to pursue any questions about the cabin and answered before he could change his mind.
“I heard about the Crutchfield case while I was in college and something about it sounded familiar to me. So I did some research and realized that he’d used many of the same techniques as my father. He kept his victims alive in the basement of his place. As you know, basements are rare out here. I learned that he’d had one built special after he bought the place. He also manacled them to the beams of the ceiling. He used the same brand of hunting knife to kill them.”
“Jesus, that’s right,” Hernandez exclaimed. “He did use a hunting knife.”
“There’s no reason anyone out here would make the connection,” Jessie noted. “The case was over a decade old at the time. It was halfway across the country. The perpetrator was never caught. But it obviously jumped out to me.”
“You never mentioned it to anyone?”
“Not to the authorities. I couldn’t risk having my identity revealed. And I wasn’t sure how some random guy in Los Angeles even knew about the Ozarks Executioner. So I did my own poking around. But there was only so much I could learn from the public record. So I set about trying to get access to Crutchfield directly.”
“What made some college student think she could get in to see a serial killer being held in a secure lockdown facility for deranged killers?” he asked incredulously.
“I have access to …resources I’m not at liberty to discuss.”
“Okay,” he replied slowly. “I’ll let that one go for now even though every part of me is screaming to pursue it. Let’s try this. You obviously got in to see him. Did he confirm your suspicions?”
“He did,” Jessie said. “Crutchfield told me he’d been an admirer of the Ozarks Executioner. He said he’d committed his crimes the same way, almost in homage. I’m still not sure how he learned of him, although I know he’s from Louisiana. Maybe it made the news down there. Regardless, he was eventually forthcoming, in his own circuitous way. He even helped me realize that Kyle was manipulating me. It was something he said that helped me start to unravel my husband’s plot.”
“Good guy then,” Hernandez replied drily.
“Anyway, he wasn’t surprised to see me,” Jessie said, pressing on despite the detective’s quip. “My father had told him that there might be a day when a woman would come to visit him asking about the connection between the two sets of murders. He wanted Crutchfield to give me a message.”
“What was the message?”
“It was: BE SEEING YOU, JUNEBUG.” No one else—at least no one else alive—knew he called me that. That’s how I was sure it was legitimate.”
“He’s looking for you,” Hernandez said quietly.
“He is,” Jessie confirmed. “That’s why I was in the FBI database; because I have to find him first.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
They sat there silently for the next few minutes. The server brought their food but neither ate. Jessie sipped at her coffee. Hernandez stared into space, lost in thought. Finally he spoke.
“Crutchfield knows your new identity,” he said urgently. “What if he tries to contact your father to tell him?”
“Thanks, Hernandez,” she replied sarcastically, trying to inject a little lightness into the atmosphere. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Sorry,” he said, chastened. “Of course you’ve considered all of this. But it’s new to me.”
“That’s okay. It’s a lot to take in. The truth is I’ve gotten friendly with the head of security at the hospital where he’s being held. Do you know Katherine Gentry?”
“I’ve met her,” Hernandez said, finally deciding to take a bite of his fries. “By the way, try these. They’re the best in the city.”
“Well, she’s one of the four—now five—people I’ve told the truth,” Jessie said, trying one. “And she’s working to ensure there’s no way for Crutchfield to reach out. They’ve been reevaluating their security protocol to plug any leaks. Beyond that, she says she doubts Crutchfield would even say anything.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“She thinks Crutchfield is fond of me, that he passed along the message as a warning.”
“Do you agree with her?”
“I think he likes playing with me, like a pet mouse. But I worry he’d happily feed me to a snake to see me get chomped if he thought it would be entertaining enough.”
Jessie snagged a few more fries and popped them in her mouth, despite the imagery she’d just evoked.
“These are good. So what’s your story, Hernandez?” she asked, attempting to move on to any other subject.
“I’m afraid I don’t have anything to share that could come close to that,” he admitted. “Somehow ‘nearly dying while helping catch a serial killer’ just doesn’t sound all that compelling after listening to you.”
“You’re right. That sounds totally boring. Still, I’m happy to hear from someone with even a smidge less life drama. Give me the mini-bio.”
“Okay, I grew up in East L.A. Started gang-banging in my early teens; met a teacher in high school who used to be a cop and convinced me to try a different path. I graduated, went to a couple of years of community college before applying to the police academy. Spent three years in uniform before the Crutchfield thing jump-started my career and I got on the detective track. I’ve been doing that for five years, the last two with HSS.”
“And when you’re not working?”
“Married for six years now. We live in the Mid-Wilshire district. I like to go hiking in the Santa Monica Mountains when time allows. I’m a decent cook.”
“Any kids?” Jessie asked, taking a sip of water to clear the catch in her throat.
“Not yet,” he answered, his voice getting suddenly tight. “That topic remains under discussion.”
Jessie sensed he didn’t want to elaborate and moved on quickly.
“So what do you do when all your leads on a case dry up, Hernandez?” she asked in a perky tone.
“I think we’ve worked together enough for you to call me Ryan,” he replied.
“Okay, Ryan, what do we do now?”
“We regroup and review what we have while we wait to see if the M.E. has anything interesting to share. We interview the maid when she gets back into town later today. We check the Missingers’ financials to see if there’s anyone they owe who might have decided to teach the husband a lesson. Basically, we circle the wagons until something pops.”
“It sounds like we’ve hit a dead end,” Jessie said skeptically. She took another glug of water to try to loosen the uncomfortable feeling in her throat.
“I prefer to call it a lull in the action,” Ryan replied.
“Well, do you think that I could take few hours off during the lull?” she asked, wheezing slightly. She was having a bit of trouble getting the words out. “I have something I need to take care of.”
“I think you’re good, as long as you don’t try to improperly access any more classified databases,” he said, smiling slightly.
“Speaking of, do you think you could maybe help me access them properly, now that you know what I’m looking for?”
She grabbed a napkin to dab at her suddenly watering eyes and found herself hacking into it.
“Let’s deal with the case at hand right now. Maybe we can work something out down the road,” he answered, a concerned look on his face. “Hey, are you okay?”
“I feel like I’m having an allergic reaction to something,” she croaked. “My throat is closing up.”
“Oh jeez,” Ryan said, looking stricken. “Are you allergic to peanuts?”
Jessie nodded between coughs. Her skin felt like it had been doused in poison ivy and every breath was now a challenge.
“The fries are cook
ed in peanut oil,” he said urgently, standing up and moving to her side of the table. “I didn’t even think about it.”
Jessie reached into her purse, unzipped the side pocket, and pulled out an inhaler. She took a huge puff, waited briefly, and then inhaled another one. Within about thirty seconds, she felt her constricted windpipe start to relax. She took a long, slow, deep breath. Ryan reluctantly sat back down.
“Is it working?” he asked. “Are you feeling better?”
Jessie nodded, still not quite ready to speak again.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “I should have asked.”
“It’s okay,” she rasped. “That’s what the inhaler is for. I even have an emergency inhaler in my jacket in case I don’t have my purse with me. It’s my backup plan.”
“That came on quick,” he said, still looking slightly unsettled. “What would have happened if you didn’t have your inhaler?”
“Nothing good,” Jessie said, taking another swig of water. She felt like she was finally returning to normal. She stood up and tossed her napkin on the table. “I assume you’ve got this?”
“Why do you assume that?” he asked.
“Because you almost killed me,” she teased. “Also I’m leaving now. And if you don’t pay, that means no one does. And I think that’s a crime or something.”
She turned and headed for the door, pleased at her snark. But leaving now also served two other purposes. First, she could hide just how scared she’d been only moments earlier. And second, she could conceal her certainty that she was getting back into that database at some point, whether she had permission or not.
*
Jessie was almost to her destination—the Non-Rehabilitative Division of the Department of State Hospitals in Norwalk, about a half-hour drive southeast of DTLA—when she finally stopped dithering and made the call. Her adoptive father, former agent Bruce Hunt, picked up on the second ring.
“Jessie? Is everything okay?” he asked, concerned.
“I’m fine, Pa,” she assured him, using the same name she’d chosen for him all those years ago when she first moved in. She couldn’t go with “Dad,” and “Father” seemed too formal. She’d considered “Bruce” briefly, but somehow that felt disrespectful.
“I just hadn’t heard from you since I was last out there visiting and I worried that you were calling because…something had gone wrong.”
“Something else you mean?” Jessie asked, regretting it immediately.
“I didn’t say that.”
“No, of course not,” she said quickly, trying to barrel through. “Everything’s fine. I’m still living with Lacy but I’m looking for my own place. How are you settling into yours?”
Just last month, Pa had finally consented to move out of the house he and his wife had shared for twenty-seven years. He’d recently gotten a hip replacement and having the bedroom on the second floor had become impractical, especially since the dining room had been converted into Ma’s bedroom years ago. Now they lived in a condo complex for seniors, many of whom were also retired law enforcement. It had an affiliated assisted living unit that Ma transferred to temporarily when she was really struggling.
“Not too bad,” he replied. “It’s nice having everything on one level. And everyone treks to the Coco’s down the block together for the early bird special.”
“I can’t tell if you’re serious or not,” Jessie said.
“I wish I was joking,” he said wryly. “That place gets pretty crowded around four thirty in the afternoon. So what’s up?”
“Does something have to be up for me to call you, Pa?”
“Usually,” he said.
“I just wanted to check in, make sure you were okay and thank you for helping me square everything away after what happened.”
“How’s your gut?” he asked, referring to her injury. For as long as Jessie had known the man, Bruce Hunt had never willingly taken a compliment or a thank-you.
“Pretty good,” she said, unable to hide the pride in her voice. “I’m actually working, doing some consultant work, profiling for the LAPD. I’m in the middle of a murder case right now.”
“What happened with the FBI Academy?” he asked gruffly, almost as if he hadn’t heard her. “Is that still happening?”
“I put it on hold for now” she replied, trying not to take offense. “I can still go for the next cycle if I want. I just couldn’t pass up this opportunity, you know?”
“You have to do what you think is best,” he said, his tone indicating that he doubted she was doing so.
“Right, thanks, Pa,” she said as she pulled into the hospital parking lot. “I actually need to run. I have to conduct an interview now. But I’ll check back again in a few days, all right?”
“Whatever you like.”
“Okay,” Jessie said, doing her best not to let his brusqueness get to her. “Talk to you later, then.”
The phone went dead and she realized he’d hung up.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Jessie parked the car and sat quietly for a minute, trying to push the interaction from her mind so she could focus on what lay in front of her. Somehow her talk with Ryan Hernandez had spurred her to take the reins on multiple troubled relationships in her life.
First, she had initiated a conversation with her adoptive father, a rarity in its own right. Now, she was about to confront the serial killer who’d alerted her to the fact that her serial killer birth dad was seeking her out. At this rate, she’d be heading to Orange County tonight to chat up her murdering soon-to-be-ex-husband.
Jessie couldn’t help but chuckle as she got out of the car and made her way to the facility’s perimeter security gate entrance. She pushed the button on the gate and waited for whoever was manning the security camera above to buzz her in. They were familiar with her here now and the head of security, Katherine Gentry, had authorized her visit.
She entered the small courtyard and walked to the dual doors that served as the entry point to the unit. As the metal gate clanged shut behind her, she felt her mood change. Remembering the kind of people who were held here and what they’d done to fellow human beings, she felt any sense of lightness drain from her.
The NRD unit was a stand-alone annex to Norwalk’s Department State Hospital-Metropolitan. The main facility housed other mentally disordered offenders deemed unfit to serve their time in a traditional prison. But none of the felons kept there—all men—had been convicted of sex crimes or murder. That’s what NRD was for.
The Non-Rehabilitative Division was a special unit. A closely guarded secret, the facility was unknown to the general public and most of the Southern California mental health and law enforcement community. That was because it held the most extreme offenders—also only men so far—who were each serial murderers or rapists.
The facility had been built on the Norwalk hospital campus exclusively to house the worst of the worst in a maximum security environment that met state requirements for housing disordered offenders. There was enough space to hold ten inmates but there were currently only five residents, including Bolton Crutchfield.
Once admitted, Jessie passed through the outer door of the facility into a small vestibule. When that door closed, the inner door opened, allowing her entry into NRD’s small main lobby, where she handed over her belongings to a guard and passed through an airport-style millimeter wave scanner. Once she cleared that, she found Officer Gentry waiting for her.
“Hi, Jessie,” she said warmly. It was a far different reaction from how the NRD head of security had greeted Jessie the first time she’d visited the facility. Back then, it was all skepticism, bordering on suspicion.
At the time, Kat couldn’t understand how or why a graduate student had gotten into her facility to interview a notorious killer. She still wasn’t privy to the “how” but now that she knew the “why,” she was much more sympathetic. Even though that first meeting had only been four months back, it felt like a lifetime ago.
�
��Hey, Kat,” Jessie said. “Thanks for letting me come on such short notice.”
“No problem. Let’s get you changed.”
They entered a room formally titled “Transitional Prep” with Kat in the lead. Jessie once again noted how imposing her new friend was. It wasn’t so much her size. Kat was of average height, about five-foot-seven. But her body was powerfully built, 140 pounds of chiseled muscle. Even without flexing, the muscles in her arms bulged.
She was attractive in a casual “I don’t give a crap” way. That was reinforced by her lack of makeup and the hurried bun she’d tied her hair in. It was slightly undercut by multiple facial burn marks and the long scar that ran vertically down her left cheek from just below her eye. Jessie knew these were the remnants of her time as an Army Ranger but how exactly Kat had gotten them hadn’t ever come up.
Even if she hadn’t been wearing a uniform, Katherine Gentry had the bearing of an authority figure, one not to be messed with. She walked quickly and purposefully. She spoke directly. And her haunted gray eyes were seemingly always on alert. Apparently two tours in Afghanistan left more than just physical marks.
Once inside, Jessie, who knew the drill well after multiple visits, changed into gray hospital-style scrubs. Having already removed all her jewelry and left it in the car, she quickly wiped what little makeup she was wearing off her face. Anything that might excessively stimulate the patients was prohibited.
“Let’s go to my office,” Kat said after Jessie had finished prepping. “You can fill me in on what’s going on before we go visit your not-so-secret admirer.”
“Has he actually mentioned me?” Jessie asked as they started down the hall. “I would have thought he’d consider it a sign of weakness.”
“Not to me,” Kat said, as they passed into the darkened hallway with several small offices and seemingly countless security cameras. “You know he never speaks to me. But Cortez says he’s mentioned you a few times during supervised shower time.”
“He mentioned me while he was naked? I’m not sure how I feel about that.”