by Blake Pierce
The conversation went on for a good ten minutes before a guard came in and said something, apparently an order to wrap it up.
“There was no guard in the room for their conversation?” Jessie noted.
“Prior security regime,” Kate reminded her. “Another change I instituted.”
“So there’s no one I can interview to see what they remember?”
“I replaced most of the staff. The only ones I kept were Berenson and Cortez. Nobody else took the job all that seriously. To be honest, this place is lucky there weren’t more incidents.”
Jessie had heard about the two major episodes since NRD had been established seven years prior. In one, an inmate had jumped a guard and beat his head against a wall eight times before he was subdued. The guard died after a week in a coma.
In the other one, a resident was being transferred from one cell to another when he managed to grab a pair of scissors from the security station. He had stabbed two guards to death before Cortez and another guard got him on the ground. Even then, he continued to swipe with the scissors, slicing the neck of the third guard. Cortez eventually got him in a choke hold and strangled him into unconsciousness. The inmate apparently lost too much oxygen and was declared brain dead after two days, at which point he was removed from a ventilator. As Jessie returned her attention to the monitor, she realized why Kat had kept Cortez on.
At the point in the video where the guard ended the visit, her father stood up, said one last thing to Crutchfield that seemed to make the prisoner go stiff, turned to look directly into the camera, and smiled.
Jessie was glad she was seated because she felt her knees buckle and her mouth go dry. Despite two decades, he looked much as she remembered. Yes, the wrinkle lines were deeper and the cheeks were gaunter. But the eyes—the cold, calculating eyes, the same shade of green as her own—were just as she remembered.
He seemed to be looking directly at the future her, knowing that she would one day see this footage and look at him with horror and fear. And he seemed to revel in it. Just before he walked out of the frame, he winked.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Jessie was about to enter Crutchfield’s cell, to sit in the same spot, maybe even the same chair her father had occupied two years previous. She tried to ignore the dull sense of nausea she felt and focus on what she was about to do.
“You all right?” Kat asked her, handing over the red-button emergency remote as they stood outside the cell door.
“I think so,” Jessie replied. “I’m trying to shut everything out so he doesn’t work me too much.”
“What did Detective Hernandez say?” Kat asked, referencing Jessie’s call with him a few minutes ago.
“Apparently Dr. Bertrand Roy hasn’t been seen in person in well over two years, since mid-October 2016. He’s a professor at Cal State-Northridge who works in the field of deviant psychology. That’s why his name was familiar to me. He wrote a textbook I used in an undergrad class. So it wouldn’t have been that unusual for him to want to visit Crutchfield.”
“But he’s missing?” Kat asked.
“Kind of. Hernandez says that Dr. Roy made a written request to go on sabbatical two years ago, with no warning, in the middle of the school year. Then he just left.”
“No one got suspicious about that?” Kat asked skeptically.
“He’s supposedly been sending emails intermittently,” Jessie said, equally doubtful. “He said he’s doing work studying how isolated indigenous communities in South America handle violent behavior within their tribes. His colleagues say it was odd but not totally crazy. He’d taken sabbaticals before with little notice. He’s not married and has no children. He’s not really tied to the community beyond his work.”
“So exactly the kind of guy a serial killer could murder, assume the identity of, and convince people he’s gone on walkabout for two years?”
“It’s not inconceivable,” Jessie said. “His work brought a lot of money into the university. So they weren’t inclined to push him too hard as long as he maintained some kind of contact.”
“Are they pushing now?”
“Hernandez asked detectives up there to liaise with the university police to check around. They’re on their way now. Hopefully we’ll know more by the time I’m done with Crutchfield.”
“Are you going to tell him what you know?” Kat asked.
“We’ll see how it goes but I’m inclined to hold back. It’s pretty rare that I have any cards to play when I go in there. I’m not going to show them right off the bat.”
“Smart move,” Kat agreed as she started to open the door. “Just remember, he’s probably holding back some cards too.”
*
Bolton Crutchfield seemed to have been expecting her.
When Jessie stepped into the cell, he was sitting on the edge of his metal bed, staring at her. He was not smiling.
“Why so blue, Mr. Crutchfield?” she asked as she took a seat and Kat moved to her standard spot standing in the corner.
“I’m not sad, Miss Jessie,” he said, though his voice was tinged with mournfulness. “I’m just disappointed.”
“Disappointed about what?”
“Disappointed that you felt the need to test me, Miss Jessie. Why you felt the need to deliberately disregard the request of a man who littered this city with broken human carcasses is beyond me.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked, though she knew she wasn’t fooling him.
“Shall I spell it out for you?” he asked with an edge she had only occasionally heard in his typically genteel voice. “You intentionally waited until after four p.m. to visit the address I gave you. You could easily have made it in time but you chose not to. That is something more than rude.”
Jessie fought the urge to ask him how he knew that. The point was he knew and he was pissed. She’d deal with the emotional fallout that came from realizing an incarcerated serial killer seemed to know her daily movements later. Right now she had to get back on his good side.
“I’m stubborn,” she said, coming as close to an apology as she could allow herself.
“Yes, I’m aware,” he said, maybe slightly mollified. His voice was still firmer than usual, but the bite was gone. “Had you gone when I suggested, perhaps you would not have run into Mr. Burress, who is not usually in that area at four. Live and learn, I guess.”
“I guess so,” Jessie agreed noncommittally, letting him direct where the conversation went next.
“I understand you had a break-in last night,” he said in a clipped tone, changing subjects without warning.
Jessie nodded, pretending not to be troubled by his awareness of it, unsure where he was going with the topic.
“Lucky you weren’t home,” he continued. “It could have been much worse if you were, I’d imagine. Something could have happened to your…lady’s friend.”
Crutchfield knows where I live. He knows about Lacy.
His odd “lady’s friend” phrasing even suggested he knew Lacy was gay. More than that, Jessie got the distinct impression that Crutchfield had somehow ordered the break-in; that he was punishing her as retribution for not following his instructions.
Jessie could sense Kat tighten up in the corner of the cell, preparing to take charge of the situation if it was required. It would not be.
Jessie allowed her jaw to go slack and her eyes to grow dull. She took a slow, shallow, hopefully imperceptible breath and eased up her tight grip on the emergency remote in her hand. Crutchfield had shown his cards. He had revealed that the break-in was his doing. He was hoping to rattle her, to teach her who was boss. He wanted to see her anxious, fearful.
She would give him none of that.
“Such a control freak, Mr. Crutchfield,” she said mildly as if it were merely an observation and not an insult. “Someone doesn’t follow your demands to the letter and you get petty? What kind of man orders an apartment break-in just because he didn’t get his way?”
Cru
tchfield’s eyes narrowed and he seemed to be telling himself to a take a beat before responding. She could feel the self-righteous fury emanating from him.
“The same kind of man who wants to make sure his interviewer understands that she is vulnerable, that she can be reached, that there is no place she cannot be found. It would behoove a person in this situation to do what that petty control freak wishes, if only for her own self-preservation. Don’t you agree, Miss Jessie?”
They stared at each for a long time, neither wanting to concede a thing. But of course, he had the advantage right now. And Jessie, as furious as she was, didn’t see much upside in poking him any further.
“What is it you wish from me, Mr. Crutchfield?” she asked, giving in without saying so.
At those words, the intensity drained from him and his southern courtliness returned.
“Nothing…for now. Just to help you in your endeavors is enough for me. Although I may make a request of you at some future date, if you’d be so accommodating.”
Jessie offered a saccharine sweet smile in return.
“Normally, I would take you up on your offer of help,” she said, “but how do I know I can have confidence in what you’d tell me?”
“What would possibly make you think you couldn’t?” he asked.
Well, it’s hard to know if you have my best interests at heart, Mr. Crutchfield,” she said, preparing to drop the hammer. “I mean, it’s hard to know where your loyalties lie, especially after seeing your unvarnished ardor when you met my dad. You were like a fanboy.”
Jessie held her breath, waiting to see how he’d respond.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Crutchfield allowed himself a small half-smile.
“And there it is,” he said, with something close to pride in his voice. “You’ve seen the video of Daddy’s visit. I wondered if you’d tease that out. I was beginning to fear my confidence in you was misplaced. I should have known better.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Jessie pressed, refusing to be swayed by his attempt at flattery. “Where do your loyalties lie—with me or my father?”
Crutchfield leaned back on his bed so that his back was resting against the wall behind him.
“I’m going to tell you the God’s honest truth, Miss Jessie,” he said quietly. “I genuinely don’t know.”
“You can see why that gives me pause,” Jessie said, in an equally soft voice.
“I can,” he admitted. “It gives me pause as well. I have such affection for you both. Your father is a hero of mine. I’ve modeled much of my adult life on his accomplishments. And he was as impressive in person as he’d been in my dreams.”
Jessie looked down and gulped, hoping Crutchfield didn’t notice her almost gag at his words. He seemed oblivious, not missing a beat.
“And yet, when I met you,” he continued, “I was smitten—in a chaste, admiring sort of way, of course. You have such a fiery inquisitiveness. Your talents are still messy and unformed. You invariably let your feelings interfere with your reasoning, as you did with your former husband. Affection clouded your judgment in that case. But that’s a function of your youth and inexperience, not your aptitude. I suspect that after you’ve learned a few more hard lessons, you’ll make a fine criminal profiler. Sometimes I think it’s my job to expedite those lessons in order to better prepare you for what’s to come.”
“What is to come, Mr. Crutchfield?” Jessie asked, though she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer.
“Well, I assume you’re planning to go after your father, to follow your lead about the doctor whose identity he borrowed. But you have to remember that Xander Thurman is not some rapacious social-climbing Orange County husband or a poison enthusiast from Hancock Park. You saw it up close so I doubt you’ve forgotten—he’s a killer without equal. He is merciless. He is relentless. And he is after you. For what purpose I don’t know. But I doubt it’s to invite you to a family reunion and picnic in some local park.”
He began to chuckle quietly to himself.
“What’s so funny?” Jessie asked.
“I’m just imagining you and your father sitting at a picnic table in a park, balloons tied to the table. I’m picturing you eating hot dogs and potato salad and sipping sweet tea together. Oh, how I wish I could be there at the Thurman family reunion. Would you make me an honorary member, Miss Jessie? I feel so close to you both.”
“I’ll think about it,” she replied evenly. “I have to say I’d be more inclined to invite you if you followed through on your offer.”
“What offer was that?” he asked, still basking in the image of a picnic in the park with Jessie and her serial killer father.
“To help me in my endeavors,” she reminded him. “Maybe Xander’s current mailing address, for example.”
“Oh, I don’t know that. And even if I did, sharing it would spoil all the fun. I have so little to look forward to in here. Don’t deny me the thrill of anticipating what happens next. But I did promise to help and it would be ungentlemanly of me not to meet that obligation. How would you like a clue that relates to both your father and your current case? A twofer, as the kids say.”
“The kids don’t say that. But I’m happy to hear what you’ve got.”
“Very well. You haven’t forgotten what I said about your Hancock Park perpetrator’s unhappiness with their lot in life, have you?”
“No, though that could apply to pretty much every person over the age of two in L.A. County. Couldn’t you just be straightforward and say the butler did it?”
She didn’t mention that the Missingers didn’t have a butler.
“I could say that,” he answered. “But as I don’t know who your killer is, it seems kind of silly. As I said before, I only know what kind of person did this. One would think that might narrow the field.”
“Okay, what’s your new clue?”
“Ah yes, here it is: you need to keep your focus on the never-ending battle for truth and lady justice.”
“That’s it?” Jessie asked incredulously. “Another vague riddle? That’s supposed to help me solve this case and find my father?”
“You have the resources of the entire Los Angeles Police Department at your disposal, Miss Jessie. That’s a lot of power. Based on what I’ve told you, you should be able to make serious inroads on both fronts. However…”
He trailed off. Jessie knew he was milking the moment and despised having to kowtow to him, but she was already in too deep to back out now.
“However what, Mr. Crutchfield?” she dutifully asked, doing her best to hide her annoyance.
“However, with great power comes great responsibility.”
“That’s what you’re giving me?” Jessie exploded, unable to mask her frustration any longer. “Is that a line from a fortune cookie? You’re just making this up as you go along, aren’t you?”
“Perhaps I am just making it all up,” he replied calmly, clearly enjoying her loss of control. “But perhaps you should look beyond that, Miss Jessie. Maybe it’s not the games I play but what I do that defines me. Maybe you should ask yourself, was I making it up when I told you to go to that address?”
Jessie forced herself to stop talking before she went too far. He was right, after all. His cryptic comment about the address had led her directly to the video of her father. Crutchfield had delivered on his promise that time, in his own infuriating way.
More importantly, she reminded herself that this relationship, however messed up, was valuable. Crutchfield had given her useful information on more than one occasion. Maybe this would somehow pan out.
And as he was so fond of reminding her, he somehow had the ability to communicate with the outside world, including if he so chose, her father. All it would take was one misstep from her for him to decide to give up her identity and location. He seemed to enjoy their banter, even when it was acrimonious. But it probably wasn’t wise to push him too far.
“Thanks for your assistance, Mr. Crutchfi
eld,” she said, having regained some semblance of composure. “I’ll look into the leads you offered.”
“I hope they serve you well, Miss Jessie,” he said, standing and bowing slightly as she got out of her chair. “Please don’t be a stranger.”
“I’ll try not to be,” Jessie said as she turned for the door. She was halfway out of the cell when she turned and added, “And if you would be so kind, please refrain from having your minions engage in any more home invasions. It makes it very hard to concentrate.”
She turned and left the room before he could reply.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
“His office was empty?” Jessie asked, repeating what Ryan Hernandez had just told her.
She was driving back from NRD to the city as he updated her on what was happening in the investigation of Dr. Bertrand Roy.
“Not empty, exactly,” Ryan corrected. “They just didn’t find anything suspicious. A basic search history on his computer showed that he did buy a ticket to La Paz, Bolivia, in October of 2016. A team is trying to track down if he ever got on the plane. But it’s been over two years so it might take a while. They’re also thinking of bringing in the FBI to compare the emails he supposedly sent from South America to his writing style in other correspondence. But so far, nothing overtly unusual has jumped out.”
“That’ll be a dead end,” Jessie said dispiritedly. “My father would have been careful to make sure he wrote like Bertrand. And if none of his co-workers noticed anything odd initially, it’s unlikely that the feds will find any smoking gun now. Do they know about my dad?”
“No,” Ryan assured her. “They’re treating it seriously enough as just a standard missing person investigation. As to your father, I figured the fewer people that were aware of his potential involvement, the better. We don’t need to tip him off that we know he’s connected. That’s not good for the case, or for you.”
