The Perfect Wife

by Blake Pierce

  “Not necessarily,” Jessie argued. “It just means fewer caught psychos.”

  Cortez snorted and turned back to Gentry.

  “Who’s the Vogue chick slumming it with us today?” he asked.

  “This is Jessie Hunt. She’s doing her practicum through UC-Irvine. Assuming good behavior, she’ll be visiting us multiple times throughout the rest of the year. But I wouldn’t count on her lasting. It’s doubtful that she’ll be able to stick to procedure. She’s a little on the impulsive side.”

  “Mouthy too,” Cortez said. “Usually I like mouthy, but not in here. In here, mouthy can get you killed.”

  “Thanks for the pro tip, Cortez,” Jessie said, deciding that being pegged as just another academic wasn’t going to win her any friends in here. And if things went bad, she’d need friends. Might as well ingratiate herself right of the bat.

  “See,” Cortez said, smiling. “Mouthy. Maybe I buy you a drink after, Vogue chick. Whaddaya say?”

  “I say that you’re a real pleasure, Cortez. But I don’t think my husband would be too pleased.”

  “Married,” he replied shaking his head. “What a waste.”

  “Enough flirting,” Gentry interrupted curtly. “Let’s wake up De la Rosa so Ms. Hunt can meet him. He’s a real charmer—a good introduction to the joys of NRD.”

  “No,” Jessie said flatly. “I want Crutchfield.”

  The place went silent. The other three guards looked up from their tasks, their mouths open.

  “That,” Professor Hosta said, speaking for the first time since entering the room, “would be a mistake.”

  “Bolton Crutchfield is our most…challenging inmate,” Gentry said. “He’d bat you around like a cat toying with a mouse. You might want to ease in a bit.”

  “I’m well versed in his history. I’ve studied his crimes in detail and know about his…proclivities.” Jessie said. “I know what he’s capable of.”

  “We’re not talking about his crimes,” Cortez interjected. “We’re talking about the way he manipulates everyone he comes into contact with, even behind inch-thick glass in a secure room. He seems like a polite, unassuming country boy. But don’t be fooled. He gets into your head. It’s kind of his thing. Internationally renowned psychiatric professionals have come out of interviews with him shaken up.”

  “I understand,” Jessie said, matter-of-factly. “I want to see him.”

  She watched as Hosta and Gentry exchanged a look she couldn’t decipher. As she waited for a reply, she felt a tingling down her spine, the kind she often got when she sensed something was off. She couldn’t pinpoint it, but all this sound and fury about her seeing Crutchfield seemed…manufactured.

  “You’ll need to sign a release,” Gentry finally said, “indemnifying the hospital in case anything goes wrong. As professionals, we’re here to keep you safe physically. We can’t protect you from what he might do to you psychologically.”

  “That seems fair,” Jessie replied. “Where do I sign?”

  Five minutes later, after a final body search, she was led to the door of Crutchfield’s room.

  “This is where I get off,” Hosta said. “I’ll be observing from behind that two-way mirror you have such disdain for. Please remember, Ms. Hunt, you are here as a student. This is part of your assignment in your pursuit of a graduate degree. It is not an opportunity to turn into some kind of detective or FBI agent. You’re not there yet. Understood?”

  “Yes, Professor,” she said.

  He nodded skeptically and left for the observation room. She was now alone with Officer Gentry, who pushed a small contraption into her hand. It looked like car key fob remote.

  “What’s this?” Jessie asked.

  “It’s your security blanket,” Gentry said. “See the red button in the middle? If things ever get too intense and you need to bail, push the button. It’s discreet enough that he shouldn’t notice. I’ll be in the room with you and it will alert me silently that you want out. That way, I can pull you from the room without him realizing that it’s at your request. I can say the session time limit has ended or come up with some other excuse. Anything to get you out without Crutchfield knowing he’s gotten under your skin. You don’t want that.”

  “Okay. Are you sure it’s necessary?”

  “In the history of my time here, only two people have ever managed to get through a session without pushing it, so yeah, I think it’s necessary.”

  “I assume it’s a waste of time for me to ask who didn’t need it?”

  “You assume right,” Gentry said. “If you start to get rattled, just push the button and stay calm. Try not to let it show. He gets bored easily and messing people up gets him off. If you can get out of there without that happening, consider it a successful visit. You ready?”

  “As ready as I’m going to be,” Jessie said.

  “Okay then. It’s showtime.”

  Gentry nodded at the camera above them. There was a buzz, after which she swiped her card and a second, different buzz sounded through the hall. Jessie heard a click. Gentry opened the door and stepped inside. Jessie followed.

  The room was softly lit, like a fancy restaurant in late evening, and it took a few moments for her eyes to adjust. Gentry must have known she’d have that issue because she guided her to a chair behind a small desk equipped with a dull pencil and legal pad. As Jessie’s eyes settled, she saw that she was facing a thick glass partition that divided the room.

  Gentry walked over to a panel on the wall next to the door and pushed a button. Slowly, the light in the room increased to the point that Jessie didn’t have to squint. She took in her surroundings. Beyond the partition was what essentially amounted to a prison cell.

  Attached to the back wall was a narrow bed frame suspended about three feet off the floor. It looked like the thin mattress on top was actually built into the bed and not removable. There was a small pillow made of what looked like a rubbery material.

  To Jessie’s right, there was a small desk and chair contraption, also built into the wall. It looked like the all-in-one desk and chair combinations she used in high school. In the left section of the cell, there was nothing but a small open space. Jessie suspected this was Crutchfield’s “exercise” area, where he could move about without fear of slamming into anything.

  The room was empty. Jessie was about to ask Gentry where the resident was when she heard a flush, followed by a male voice.

  “Door, please,” someone said in an unhurried drawl.

  In the back right corner of the cell, a small curved door that Jessie hadn’t previously noticed began to mechanically unfurl. A man stepped out and moved to the tiny metal sink, also built into the wall, where he washed his hands.

  His back was to Jessie so she took the opportunity to study him as much as possible without him doing the same to her. He was smaller in real life than she’d expected, probably five foot eight and maybe 150 pounds. The news footage didn’t give a sense of scale.

  He wore what amounted to hospital scrubs, not unlike what she had on, only hers were gray and his were a bright aqua color. His shoes looked like some kind of Crocs. His hair, which had been shaved tightly against his skull, was something approximating blond.

  He took his time washing his hands; so long, in fact, that Jessie began to suspect he knew she was there and was keeping her in suspense. Finally he turned off the water and dried his hands on his scrubs. Without turning around, he spoke.

  “What you expected, ma’am?”

  The drawl was even more pronounced now and Jessie remembered that Bolton Crutchfield was from the swampy bayous of southern Louisiana. He’d spoken so infrequently at his trial that it was easy to forget.

  “I thought you’d be bigger,” she admitted.

  He turned around, a crooked smile on his face. He was in serious need of some dental work as several teeth pointed in odd directions.

  “I get that a lot,” he said.

  Jessie got her first good look at hi
m. What struck her most was just how unimpressive he appeared. His face was pleasantly bland, not quite handsome but not objectionable either. He was thirty-five but looked a good five years younger. His soft chin and borderline chubby cheeks made him appear harmless enough. Only the unblinking sharpness of his brown eyes gave any hint that there was something more under the surface.

  “Is that how you got your victims off guard?” Jessie asked. “They underestimated you?”

  “We’re divin’ right in then?” Crutchfield asked, feigning mild offense. “No introductions? No agreeable small talk?”

  “I was led to believe I had limited time with you, Mr. Crutchfield. I didn’t want to waste it on chitchat.”

  “But I don’t even know your name, ma’am,” Crutchfield insisted as he moved over to his bed and sat down facing her. “How can we get down to conversing if I don’t know what to call you? It seems awful impolite.”

  “It’s Ms. Hunt,” Jessie told him, “although I’m fine with ma’am.”

  “Well, now we’re finally getting somewhere,” he said, flashing his toothy grin again. “Now that I know who you are, it’s nice to meet you. You can call me Bolton. Some folks shorten it to Bolt, but I’m not a fan. Too familiar, you know?”

  “Good to meet you as well, Mr. Crutchfield,” Jessie replied, ignoring his commentary. “I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”

  “It seems like you already started in on that with your ‘underestimating’ talk.”

  “Well, is that how you lulled your victims into complacency? With the southern drawl and the unimposing build?”

  “Are you taking a shot at my diminutive size, ma’am? Because that’s mighty hurtful. I’ll tell you what—I’ll trade you an answer for an answer. I’ll tell you something you want to know. Then you grace me with some information about yourself. I saw it done that way once in a movie. Does that seem like a fair trade?”

  “I was expressly advised not to share any personal details with you.” Jessie told him.

  “I have no doubt,” Crutchfield replied. “But you don’t strike me as exactly the rule-following sort. And it seems like a waste for you to come through all those doors, wipe off your pretty makeup, take off that fancy wedding ring, and not even get more than a howdy-do from me.”

  Jessie heard Gentry shift uneasily behind her and sensed it was a silent warning not to comply with the request. But Crutchfield was right. She wasn’t one to let rules get in her way. And there were questions she needed answered. After all, the practicum wasn’t the only reason she was here.

  “All right,” she said. “Answer my question honestly and I’ll answer one of yours.”

  She heard a soft sigh of frustration from Gentry and waited to be removed from the room. But nothing happened. She was surprised and thought she saw a monetary glimpse of something similar from Crutchfield too before he responded.

  “Here’s the thing, ma’am. If you’re planning to kill someone and they’re not expecting it, you don’t really need them underestimating you or getting lulled into false comfort. You could pull out a carving knife right in front of them and, if they don’t suspect that you’ve got ill intent, they ain’t gonna blink an eye. It’s only after you’ve done the deed, or at least started in on it, that they begin to realize that you meant them harm. But what can they do then? They’ve been—what’s the word—incapacitated. Even good old Cortez out there could be butchered if he wasn’t always on alert, you know? And he’s a big boy. Does that answer your question?”

  Jessie nodded and scribbled down a few notes on her pad, more to avoid making eye contact than to get it down on paper. Despite her best efforts, she was unsettled by his casual demeanor while describing his technique.

  “Now I believe it’s my turn, ma’am. May I ask my question?”

  “A deal’s a deal,” Jessie said.

  “I do appreciate your principled nature, ma’am. It’s rare these days. So why are you really here? I mean, I know you’re some kind of student, doing your field work study so you can get your diploma and then be a professional killer whisperer, telling cops what’s in the heads of fellas like me. But we both know that ain’t the real reason. You’re after something more than that. Otherwise you could go to any loony lockup. But you came here specifically to see me. And while I’m flattered as all get out, I can’t help but wonder: why are you here?”

  Jessie tried to think fast. If Hosta or the folks here thought she had some ulterior motive for wanting to interview Crutchfield beyond academic research, they might shut her down. But if she lied, or even shaded the truth, she got the sense that Crutchfield would know and end the interview based on bad faith on her part. She also got the odd feeling that he’d rambled through his question specifically to give her time to come up with an answer, knowing that providing the right one would be crucial.

  “Mr. Crutchfield,” she said, debating how far to go even as she began, “my authorized reason for being here is to, as you say, complete my work study so I can get my diploma. But it’s also true that I think you might have some particular insights into…unresolved matters that are of great interest to me.”

  She worried that her vagueness might make him feel he’d been short-changed. But Crutchfield simply gave a little half-smile and leaned back on his bed.

  “Your turn,” he said.

  Jessie sat silent for a moment, deciding how best to ask the next question. Phrasing it the wrong way could have major consequences. Finally she hit on something she thought would work.

  “Have you ever gotten any assistance? Or given any?”

  “That’s two questions,” Crutchfield noted.

  Jessie didn’t respond. This was what she wanted to ask and she wasn’t going to give him a chance to weasel out of it. She stared at him, waiting. He looked back at her, seemingly amused at her impudence.

  “Oh, all right,” he finally said. “I’ll give you two, just this once, because I like your spunk. The answers would be ‘yes’ and ‘yes.’ But that’s all I can say on those matters.”

  For now, it was all she needed. Before she could fully process his response, he had started speaking again.

  “My turn. And I’ll keep this brief since I can see from Officer Gentry’s restlessness that we’re about to close up shop here. You ready to be straight with me, ma’am?”

  “Yes,” Jessie replied, not sure where this was headed.

  Crutchfield sat up straight and then leaned in toward the glass partition, as if he was going to whisper. The lopsided smile was gone. His expression was sober as his eyes locked on hers.

  “Does he know you’re here, Jessie?”

  As she stared back at Crutchfield’s gray eyes, the room began to swirl slightly. He knew her first name. And he knew much more than that.

  She was vaguely aware that she was pressing the red button hidden in her hand but couldn’t actually feel it. Her whole body felt weak and limp. She seemed unable to move.

  “We’re done here,” she heard Gentry say from what sounded like far away as the officer grabbed her by the shoulders and began to pull her from the room. Crutchfield’s eyes never left hers and his expression remained expectant. He was still waiting for an answer.

  Just before she was dragged from the room, Jessie managed to yank herself free and turn back to face him. With an unexpected sturdiness in her voice, she responded loudly and clearly.

  “No,” she said and then she was hauled from the room.

  *

  “You weren’t honest with me!” Hosta hissed angrily as they walked through the hospital parking lot back to their cars. “This is obviously more than just an academic exercise for you. What aren’t you telling me, Ms. Hunt?”

  “Nothing,” she lied. “I just said what I thought he wanted to hear. He obviously thought I had some ulterior motive, so I let him think he was right.”

  “I don’t believe that for a second. You clearly do have an ulterior motive; and the man knew your name!”

  Jessie felt
the conversation slipping out of control and decided she had to redirect it.

  “I don’t think you’re in any position to call me out on honesty, Professor Hosta,” she said indignantly.

  “What are you talking about?” he demanded, taken aback.

  “I mean, there’s no way I could have gotten in there to interview to Bolton Crutchfield on my first visit. Not unless it was preapproved at the highest levels.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” Hosta said defensively. But Jessie could tell she’d hit a nerve. She pressed it.

  “You could have insisted I be prevented from talking to him. But you didn’t. And Officer Gentry clearly had the authority to shut down the request. But she didn’t. Both of you made a bit of a stink, but in the end you allowed an inexperienced master’s candidate to question a calculating serial killer her first time there. Doesn’t that strike you as peculiar?”

  “What are you suggesting?” Hosta asked, notably not answering her question.

  “I’m suggesting someone wanted me in that room and wanted to see how Crutchfield would react to me. Talk about ulterior motives!”

  Professor Hosta continued walking, not saying anything else. It wasn’t until they reached their cars that he finally turned back to her.

  “It goes without saying that your time here is not to be disclosed,” he said, apparently moving on from the prior discussion. “You signed waivers to that effect but I thought a reminder might be in order. You may not discuss it with anyone not already authorized. Is that clear?”

  “Of course.”

  “And I’m not sure if I’ll be able to get you back in here. You violated multiple protocols. It’s possible we may have to reassign you to another hospital. You should be prepared for that.”

  “Noted,” Jessie said, though she didn’t believe it for a second. Someone wanted her in that hospital, in that room even. And she bet the chances were good she’d get back in eventually.

  “Enjoy the rest of your day,” Professor Hosta said frostily. “I’ll see you in class.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he got in his car and peeled out, leaving her in a cloud of dust. Coughing, she hurried to her own car and got in. When the air cleared enough for her to see, she pulled out herself and headed back to Orange County.