The Perfect Wife

by Blake Pierce

  “That’s not going to be nearly good enough. You only get what you give, a great philosopher once said. I think I need one of those squid pro shows.”

  “A quid pro quo?” Jessie asked, certain he knew the proper term.

  “One of those too,” he said. “Question for a question—like last time. It’s only fair.”

  “Can’t happen—violation of protocol,” Officer Gentry said from somewhere behind Jessie, speaking directly to Crutchfield for the first time during either of their visits. “Last time was a one-off.”

  Crutchfield glanced over at her and Jessie saw a nearly imperceptible hint of loathing in his eyes. It was gone almost immediately, though he made no effort to hide the nasty grin that came next.

  “Then I guess we’re plum out of luck,” he said, shrugging. “Seems like a waste all around. But it ain’t my call.”

  Jessie turned to Gentry, whose eyes were on Crutchfield.

  “Can we please make an exception?” she asked, putting out her most ingénue-ish vibe. “After all, I’m not even a professional. I’m a student. The rules don’t have to be so hardcore for me, do they?”

  She got the impression that Gentry was playing a role too, helping her by pretending to play hardball.

  “Yeah, Kitty Kat,” Crutchfield chimed in. “Help a sister out, why don’t you?”

  Gentry stared hard at Crutchfield before turning her gaze toward Jessie.

  “It’s a violation of protocol,” she repeated, before adding, “I might make an exception but not on those terms. Three questions of yours to every one of his. Take it or leave it.”

  Jessie turned back to the inmate.

  “How about it, Mr. Crutchfield?” Jessie asked.

  “A special dispensation!” Crutchfield cheered, his voice dripping with sarcasm and vitriol. “Courtesy of the heroic former Army Ranger. Miss Jessie, you may not be aware of this. But after her time abroad, she returned to protect people here at home, despite her personal scars, both internal and, you know, all over her face. How can I turn down such a generous offer from one who served and sacrificed in distant lands, all on our behalf? I’ll take it!”

  “Let’s begin then,” Jessie said quickly, not wanting to lose the momentum and hoping to move away from whatever personal animosity Crutchfield clearly had for Gentry. “Why don’t we start with victim selection—what was your method?”

  “You sure you want to make that one of your three questions, Miss Jessie?” he asked. “It seems kind of dry to me.”

  “I’m okay with dry,” she replied, deciding to save the questions she really wanted answered for a moment when he was less agitated.

  He shrugged and answered.

  “I don’t rightly know that I ever made a “selection.’ I’d see someone and without saying a word, they just spoke to me in some way. It was like a little spotlight was shining on them and I had to follow the spotlight. I reckon that’s part of why it took so long for the authorities to find me. I never really had a ‘type.’ White, black, man, woman, old, young. The light could shine on any of them equally.”

  As he spoke his voice was largely emotionless. He sounded more like he was reciting IKEA assembly instructions than his method for victim selection. It was as if he knew this wasn’t Jessie true area of interest and was, therefore, uninterested himself.

  When he was done, she moved immediately to a technical question about how he managed to avoid leaving any trace DNA or other incriminating personal details on the bodies. His answer was direct but equally uninspired and unenlightening.

  She finished with a question about how he found and prepped the place where he tortured his victims. He treated it as more of a real estate inquiry than a forensic psychology one and answered it with as much enthusiasm as one would expect. She got the distinct impression that if he could be sure that she alone was hearing his answers, Crutchfield would be much more forthcoming.

  As soon as he was done, she saw his eyes light up again. It was his turn. Of course, that was what she had hoped for—that once he got to ask his question, he’d more amenable to answering genuinely probing ones from her.

  “Do I get to ask my first one now? Have I been forthcoming enough for you?”

  “Go ahead,” Jessie said, her voice calm but her spine rigid in anticipation of what was to come.

  “All righty then. I was just wondering how the pregnancy’s treating you?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Jessie kept her expression stone-faced, even as she felt a chill run down her spine. He had asked the question almost giddily and couldn’t help but continue without waiting for her response.

  “I mean, I can tell you’re having trouble keeping stuff down,” he said. “I’m not asking about the physical stuff. I’m more curious about how you’re handling the prospect of being a parent, because I get the feeling you didn’t have much in the way of parental role models to fall back on.”

  Jessie relaxed her grip on the key fob for fear that her clenched fist might accidentally activate it. The she allowed herself a long, slow exhale before responding.

  “How do you know I’m pregnant?” she asked, faking nonchalance at his seeming awareness of her personal family history.

  “Now, now, Miss Jessie,” he chided playfully. “It’s my question time. Don’t try to go sneaking in an extra one. So tell me, how are you handling being a future mama when you don’t have anything positive to work with in the old memory toolbox?”

  Jessie ignored her fast-beating heart as she pretended not to be shaken by his words.

  “I’m reading a lot of books,” she answered, “and watching Family Ties reruns. Those Keatons really knew what they were doing.”

  “That’s not a real answer,” Crutchfield said. “But I’m gonna let it slide because I can tell it’s a painful subject. You go ahead and ask your next round of interrogatories. I’ll just keep my fingers crossed that you’ll put on your honesty cap next time it’s my turn.”

  Jessie did just that, setting aside the odd hint of guilt she felt at shortchanging him. Still, she had a plan and she intended to stick with it. So she proceeded with three more procedural questions about the mechanics of his crimes. He responded to all of them fully but without any of his usual witticisms.

  “My turn again,” he said after finishing his third answer.

  “I’m waiting,” Jessie replied.

  “What’s got you so blue, Missy Miss—just the hormones acting up? Or is Mr. Jessie not living up to the image you had bouncing around in your head? Are you starting to doubt the constancy of your other half? That’s a dilly of a pickle, isn’t it? Not knowing if your man is standing by you?”

  “Is there a question in there, Mr. Crutchfield? I got a little lost in the roller coaster of words.”

  “My apologies, Miss Jessie,” he said, all traces of playful sing-songiness gone from his voice. “Let me be more straightforward. You seem sad. Is it because you think your hubby might be stepping out on you?”

  Jessie ignored the feeling that her chest was a bull’s-eye and he’d just hit it. He seemed to know all her most vulnerable spots. She forced a tight smile and shook her head as if she was amused but disappointed in him.

  “If you want me to actually answer your question, Mr. Crutchfield,” she said, sounding more composed than she felt,” you’re going to have to spend less time going for shock value and more asking something I might actually dignify with a response. I’ll give you a second swing, just to be polite.”

  “All righty. Since I think we both know I got my answer on that one, I’ll ask you this: does he know how unhappy you are, how restless you feel? Do you think he’s fearful he’s losing you because of it? You can answer that simple question, can’t you, Missy Miss?”

  Jessie sized him up and decided to give him a taste. She needed some goodwill for her next question, the one she’d been waiting to ask.

  “I’ve been instructed not to share anything personal with you, Mr. Crutchfield. But I will say th
is. Big life transitions are hard. Sometimes they make for difficult interpersonal stretches, even among loved ones. That doesn’t mean things can’t be fixed with open communication and mutual respect. I’m sure you had the same experience with your kinfolk before you moved in here.”

  She knew that last dig was risky, that taunting him might shut him down and put all her efforts to cultivate him at risk. But he seemed to enjoy her crack, smilingly impishly and revealing a set of crooked, yellowed teeth.

  “You’re just full of piss and vinegar, ain’t you, Miss Jessie? Well, go on, it’s your turn then.”

  “Tell me about your visitors,” she said plainly.

  His smile faded a fraction. His eyes bored into hers. She could tell he knew what she was after.

  “My goodness,” he replied, feigning a struggle to remember. “I’ve been locked up in here so long, I couldn’t possibly recall all the doctors who done come in and out over the years.”

  “I think you know what I mean, Mr. Crutchfield. I’m not talking about psychologists or law enforcement. I’m asking about honest-to-goodness visitors—people here without a professional obligation.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever had a regular visitor call on me just to chitchat, Miss Jessie.”

  Jessie stood up and started to gather her pen and notepad.

  “I answered you honestly,” she said. “I thought I could count on you to do the same. I thought you were a man of your word. But apparently you’d rather hide behind technicalities. So I guess we’re done.”

  She started for the door and began to really believe she might have to leave when he finally called her back.

  “Well, hold on there, darlin’. Give me a minute to review my recollections. I’m not as young as I used to be, after all.”

  Jessie turned and waited expectantly, still standing, making no effort to return to her seat.

  “Don’t play games. Either answer me or don’t. But don’t waste my time.”

  “Well, aren’t you just a steel magnolia?” he marveled. “Like in that movie with the gal who was that New York City mermaid. Now that I’m refreshing myself, I can call to mind one guest stopping by under false pretenses.”

  “What do you mean?” Jessie demanded.

  “A gentleman caller, if memory serves, who had the look of a medical professional, but as it turned out, was just pretending.”

  Officer Gentry stepped forward.

  “Are you saying someone got in here and talked to you while pretending to be a doctor?” she asked, her voice filled with urgency.

  “I only answer queries from Miss Jessie, G.I. Jane,” he answered curtly.

  Jessie looked back and forth between them, nearly choking on their shared animosity.

  “Are you saying someone got in here and talked to you while pretending to be a doctor?” Jessie repeated, as much for herself as for Gentry.

  “I am. A curious fellow, that one was.”

  “In what way?” Jessie asked.

  “Well, we’re way past your three questions, Miss Jessie. So I’m going to insist on asking one more of my own before I answer yours.”

  “Go ahead,” Jessie said, just wanting to get it over with so she could get back to her question.

  “No need to be rude, Miss Jessie. I was just wondering why you’re asking me a question you already know the answer to.”

  Jessie had an answer for that one.

  “Suspecting and knowing aren’t the same thing, Mr. Crutchfield,” she said. “I was hoping you could help me make the leap from one to the other.”

  “Indeed I might.”

  “So in what way was he curious, Mr. Crutchfield?”

  “It’s just that he made his visit a couple years ago, so his topic of discussion seems a little peculiar in retrospect.”

  “And what was that topic?”

  “I expect you already know, Miss Jessie, that the topic under discussion was you.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Gentry waited until they had left Crutchfield’s room, gone past the security station, and rushed down the long hallway and into her small office next to the changing room to speak.

  “Do you want to tell me what the hell is going on?” she demanded as she shut the door.

  “What do you mean?” Jessie asked, surprised by the intensity Gentry displayed.

  “You’re clearly not just here to do a master’s practicum. What is this really about?”

  Jessie felt a flush of angry resentment well up inside her and gulped hard to contain it.

  “How about I answer that when you start being honest with me?” she said forcefully.

  “Me? I’ve been trying to help you,” Gentry said. “I’m not the one who has some secret conversation going on with a guy I’ve never met.”

  “No,” Jessie spat back. “But you definitely have some secrets of your own. And maybe I’ll start trusting you once you tell me why an inexperienced grad student like me is being allowed to interrogate a serial killer. Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad to be here. But we both know that this is way outside of standard practice. And I can tell that you are seriously uncomfortable with it. But you keep letting me in there. Why?”

  Gentry stared at her for several seconds, her eyes filled with a mix of surprise and frustration.

  “That’s something you’ll have to address with your professor friend,” she finally answered. “He’s the one who ensured your authorization.”

  “But you’re in charge of security for the unit,” Jessie countered. “You could overrule him if you thought my visits were a security risk. And yet you haven’t done that.”

  “Are you suggesting that your visits are a security risk, Ms. Hunt?” Gentry asked accusingly.

  “I know that my visits rile him up and that you don’t love that. But for some reason, you’ve decided that’s a risk worth taking. What’s the reason?”

  Gentry stood there silently for a moment. She seemed to be weighing just how much she should, or even could, say. For a second, Jessie thought she was about to come clean. But then her expression changed and she knew that the security chief had decided to play it safe.

  “Talk to Hosta,” Gentry said reluctantly.

  Jessie tried to keep her irritation in check, but couldn’t help tossing out one last barb as she barreled out of the office.

  “Way to follow orders, Kitty Kat.”

  *

  The next day, Professor Hosta asked her to stay after class.

  “I understand your interview subject was especially chatty yesterday,” he said, looking excited as they walked down the hallway toward his office.

  Jessie had spent most of a sleepless night and all of her drive to school today debating how best to challenge Hosta about what was going on. But something about his tone made her stop.

  She couldn’t place exactly why, but she suddenly felt that calling him out would be a mistake. Revealing that she knew her permission to visit Crutchfield was part of some grand plan—possibly set in motion by The Panel—would put her at a disadvantage in whatever larger game was being played. So she bit her tongue.

  “Yeah,” she said as mildly as she could. “He seems to be warming up to me, which is both rewarding and terrifying.”

  “Well, good for you, Ms. Hunt,” he replied. “You’re well on your way in terms of your practicum. Barring anything unforeseen, I’d say your degree is almost a formality at this point.”

  Jessie let the “barring anything unforeseen” comment go, unsure whether it was innocuous or a subtle warning to stay in line. Clearly he still had a bit of residual resentment from their argument in the hospital parking lot all those weeks ago.

  “Then I guess I can bail on classroom work for the rest of the semester?” she asked jokingly.

  “That would hurt my feelings immensely,” he said, playing along. “Besides, I think you’ll definitely want to attend next session. I’ll share a little secret I kept from the rest of the class.”

  “What’s that?” />
  “We’re having a guest speaker. He’s actually from your neck of the woods; Detective Ryan Hernandez of LAPD, downtown bureau.”

  “Oh cool,” Jessie said. “What will he be discussing?”

  “I don’t want to spoil too much. But I will say that he’s in their Robbery Homicide Division. I think you’ll find his perspective very illuminating. He was actually a patrol officer when your friend Crutchfield was apprehended. He played an instrumental role, although I’ll let him share the details. Suffice to say, I wouldn’t skip out.”

  Jessie nodded pleasantly and left. The whole walk to her car, she fought the urge to turn around, go back, and confront Hosta about whatever secrets he was keeping.

  It was only when she pulled into her driveway that the feeling subsided. And that was because Kyle’s car was in the driveway. He was home early.

  She parked on the street and entered quietly though the front door. She slid off her shoes before going up the stairs. As she approached their bedroom, she thought she heard a distant squeaking coming from the direction of the future nursery. Part of her desperately wanted to go check it out. But reassuring herself that it was just typical house settling, she forced the urge from her mind and continued down the hall.

  Opening the bedroom door, she could hear the shower running. Thankfully, the sound blocked out the now-distant squeak. She walked over silently to the half-closed bathroom door, listening for any unusual sound. Hearing none, she called in.

  “Home early?”

  She heard a gasp and a thump.

  “Jeez, Jess, you scared the hell out of me.”

  “Sorry about that,” she said. “Everything okay? I heard a noise.”

  “I dropped the soap.”

  “Don’t slip on it,” she said. “To what do I owe the honor of your early arrival?”

  “The club is sponsoring an event at a Westport wine bar,” he shouted over the water. “I thought it might be fun to go. You up for it?”

  “It’s not at the actual club?” Jessie asked, unable to contain her surprise.