by Blake Pierce
“Also, can you please keep half an eye on my car while I’m inside?” Jessie asked. “Last time I was here, my tires got knifed.”
“Of course,” he said. “I’ll keep watch for all the usual suspects.”
Something about the way Officer Tanner said it felt false but Jessie tried to let it go. They waited silently for a moment before the officer said what had clearly been eating at him.
“Nice to be here in Brentwood where you don’t have to deal with so many dark-skinned folks, huh, Ms. Hunt?” he said, smiling though his tone was cutting.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh nothing,” Tanner said. “I’m just looking forward to seeing my wife tonight and telling her about meeting you in person. She’s African-American, by the way. I know how you feel about the mixing of the races and all, but what are you gonna do, right?”
Before she could respond the door opened to reveal Ty Ferguson, who ushered her back to the living room where Brenda was waiting with a scowl on her face. A second officer named Kendrick was positioned in the corner of the room, where he stood silently.
“I almost told them not to let you in,” Brenda said harshly. “But Ty said I couldn’t let my personal disgust get in the way of my safety and I should hear what you have to say. So say it.”
“Brenda…” Jessie began.
“Maybe we should go back to Mrs. Ferguson.”
Jessie nodded and continued carefully.
“First, I didn’t write those things. My accounts were hacked by someone who is trying to undermine my credibility. But we don’t need to litigate that right now. I wanted to show you a few screen grabs of someone we think might be your abductor and see if you recognize him. Is that okay?”
Brenda nodded. Jessie walked over and sat down next to her on the couch. Her phone, which was on silent, began to buzz. She forced herself not to check who was calling and instead pulled up the screenshots from the hospital and held them in front of her. Brenda looked at each of them closely. Jessie could tell that something about them resonated. But she didn’t speak. Instead she just frowned.
“What is it, Mrs. Ferguson?” she asked.
Brenda looked up.
“I’m hesitant to say this because I’m not one hundred percent sure. But he kind of looks like my old marriage counselor.”
“You and Ty met with a counselor?”
“No,” Brenda said. “I mean from my first marriage. I was with him for about three years. Things started to fall apart and we tried to salvage them by meeting with a counselor. He was actually a really pleasant man who did everything he could for us. It was just too much.”
“What was?”
“Our issues. They were too much to overcome. I wasn’t completely faithful. We couldn’t move past it. But the counselor did his best.”
“What was his name?” Jessie asked.
“Warren Fischer. This looks like him a bit, the hair and the glasses at least. And the clothes he wore before he changed into scrubs. But I haven’t heard from him since the divorce and Warren never made me feel uncomfortable. Plus I know what his voice sounds like. This wasn’t the same.”
“Could he have altered it, knowing you’d recognize it?” Jessie asked.
Brenda looked over at her, clearly lost.
“I just don’t know. I wouldn’t have thought so. But I’m not sure of much of anything anymore.”
“Okay,” Jessie said, standing up. “That’s all I need for now. I’ll look into this. How do you feel having these officers around? Is it setting your mind at ease a little?”
“I guess. It’s hard to feel at ease knowing two women were killed in the last few days by the man who took me. But having them here helps a little.”
“Plus, you’ve got your panic room,” Jessie reminded her, smiling wryly.
“Believe me, I haven’t forgotten.”
“Well, I’ll let you get back to it. I’ll let you know if I learn anything worthwhile.”
“Thank you,” Brenda said. “I appreciate you coming over. And I really hope what you’re saying about being hacked turns out to be true. I don’t like disliking you, Ms. Hunt.”
“That’s nice of you to say,” Jessie replied. “And for the record, I’m still cool with you calling me Jessie, when you’re comfortable with it.”
She walked out without waiting for a response, passing Officer Kendrick, who looked at her like he wanted to hate her too but wasn’t sure what to believe anymore. When she got to the front door, she saw that her tires seemed to have been untouched.
“Thanks for keeping an eye out,” she said to Officer Tanner, who clearly hadn’t been.
“You have yourself a great day, Ms. Hunt,” he said with mock enthusiasm. “I hope everything turns out all white for you.”
Jessie didn’t reply. Rather, she pulled out her phone and texted Detective Trembley, asking him to get whatever he could on Warren Fischer. Then she checked the message she’d gotten while she was with Brenda. It was from Detective Ray Sands. Until this moment, she hadn’t consciously thought about the fact that Sands was black. Despite her apprehension at what he might have to say about the posts attributed to her, she listened to his voicemail.
To her surprise, he made no mention of them. But he did tell her that he’d convinced Jayne Castillo, the third woman abducted, to meet with her. He gave her Castillo’s address and wished her good luck. There wasn’t an ounce of irony in his voice. It was a small thing, but considering everything else going on, his professionalism and lack of rancor was a breath of fresh air.
She got back in the car and punched in the address for Jayne Castillo. It was in the Mid-Wilshire district, a solid half-hour drive away. Jessie made good time and tried to keep her head clear by listening to some music. But an uncomfortable thought, one she’d managed to dismiss until now, kept creeping in.
Was there any chance that Ryan’s concerns were legitimate? Could she have manufactured all these suspicious events herself because her brain needed to create imaginary crises when real ones didn’t exist? Could she have blacked out and knifed her own tires? Could she have written those posts while in some kind of fugue state? Could she have wiped out a memory of abusing Hannah, verbally or otherwise? Might Dr. Lemmon have prescribed her some kind of medication that she forgot she was taking?
The idea was patently absurd. She had no lost time, at least that she was aware of. She’d been in close proximity to both Hannah and Ryan without either of them saying a word of concern prior to this week. And as for creating drama when her life was going well, that didn’t jibe.
Despite her traumatic childhood and the recurring nightmares it provoked for decades afterward, she had led a fairly normal life from when she was adopted at the age of seven until her husband started gaslighting her at the end of their marriage, when he tried to make her think she’d killed his mistress. At no point during that two-decade-plus stretch did she ever have a psychotic break. And she doubted she was having one now.
All the same, she gave Dr. Lemmon a call. She wasn’t in but Jessie left what she suspected would be the therapist’s weirdest message of the day, even by Lemmon’s standards.
“Hi, Dr. Lemmon. It’s Jessie Hunt. This might seem like a strange question but I’m going to ask it anyway. Is there any chance that I’ve had some kind of breakdown recently that I don’t recall, maybe one for which you prescribed hardcore anti-psychotic mediation? I’ve had a series of unfortunate events in the last few days that make me think someone is seriously messing with me. But it’s been suggested that I might be making it all up and not aware of it. I tend to think that’s a load of crap. But I wanted a second opinion. So if you could get back to me when you have a chance, I’d appreciate it. Sorry for the weird message. Hope you’re having a nice day.”
After she hung up, it occurred to her that even if Dr. Lemmon didn’t think she was bananas before, that message just might change her mind.
CHAPTER TWENTY NINE
Jessie caught a break.
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It seemed that Jayne Castillo didn’t watch the local news religiously. So she apparently hadn’t heard anything about the posts that had recently made Jessie infamous. After the officers guarding her small but charming 1950s-built home let her inside, Castillo led her back to the breakfast nook, where she offered coffee.
“I’m good, thanks,” Jessie assured her. “I don’t intend to take up too much of your time. I’ve read your statement about the abduction and don’t need you to revisit it. I was actually hoping to show you some video images and get your opinion on them.”
Castillo sighed. Though Jessie had never met her before, she could tell that recent weeks had been hard on her. Compared to the photo in her case file, the woman, who was thirty-three, looked to have aged over a decade in less than fifteen days. Her hair, jet black in the photo, was now at least half gray. Her eyes were droopy and red, with dark bags underneath. Her movements were sloth-like.
“I was hoping to just put this all behind me,” she said tiredly. “But it turns out that being held captive in a dumpster for three days isn’t something you move past that easily. And Detective Sands convinced me I couldn’t ever truly do it until this man was apprehended. He said you might be my best shot at making that happen. That’s why I’m talking to you, even though I really would rather not.”
“I appreciate it, Ms. Castillo,” Jessie said. “And as I said, I’ll be brief. Can you look at the man in these images and tell me if he looks familiar at all?”
She pulled up the same images she’d shown Brenda Ferguson and watched the woman closely as she scrolled through them. Her expression remained blank.
“He doesn’t look familiar to me,” Castillo said.
Jessie tried a different tack.
“You’re married, right?” she asked.
“Yes, for two years.”
“Did you and your husband ever get counseling, either before or afterward?”
“No,” Castillo said, with a look that showed she considered the question extremely odd. “I don’t think we’ve ever had an issue serious enough to require counseling.”
Jessie nodded, trying to hide her frustration. She was just starting to get up when Jayne Castillo continued.
“Not like in my first marriage.”
Jessie sat back down.
“You were married before?”
“Yeah,” Castillo said. “I thought everything was in my file.”
“I guess I missed it,” Jessie said.
“It didn’t last long, less than six months. I’m not proud of this, but I never stopped seeing my previous boyfriend, even after I started dating my ex-husband. We got engaged and married. But I kept sneaking off to see my old boyfriend. My husband found out. We briefly tried to work it out but the wounds were too deep. Eventually we got divorced. A few months later I married the original boyfriend. We’ve been together ever since.”
Something about the comment jogged a memory for Jessie. The Beverly Hills detective named Oxford had mentioned that Caroline Gidley had been cheating on her fiancé too. She made a mental note to follow up and see if that was more than a coincidence.
“How are things with your ex?” she asked
“Non-existent,” Castillo said. “We didn’t have kids so there was no reason to keep in touch. We had a small dispute in the divorce about who would pay for the failed therapy. But ultimately I paid just to have a clean break.”
Jessie nodded again.
“Can I ask what your therapist’s name was?”
The woman scrunched up her face, trying to recall.
“I’m not sure,” she said. “I think it might have been Walter something.”
“Could it have been Warren?”
“Yes! That’s it. Warren Fischer. Why?”
Jessie showed her the screen grabs again.
“Does this look like Warren Fischer to you?”
Castillo looked at them, actually tilting her head sideways at one point.
“I guess it could be. Warren had bushy black hair and glasses like that. But I never would have made the connection on my own. His face, at least what I can see of it, doesn’t really look the same. Do you think he could have done this?”
“We’re looking into it,” Jessie said. “Does that surprise you?”
“Yes. Warren was a sweetie. I always felt like he was genuinely trying to help me. He didn’t seem to have an angry bone in his body. I remember he even offered to waive the cost of our final session if it was causing upset in our divorce settlement. I refused, of course, but that’s the kind of person he was. I just can’t fathom that he’s responsible for what happened to me.”
Jayne Castillo seemed convinced but Jessie could fathom lots of things most people couldn’t.
“Okay, thanks so much for your help,” she said, getting up. “I know it wasn’t easy.”
“It’s just nice to know that someone’s still trying to solve this.”
“Of course,” Jessie said. “And please, follow the instructions of the officers here. Don’t take any unnecessary risks. We’re making every effort to catch this guy. But in the interim, your priority is to stay safe.”
Castillo nodded and walked her to the door. Jessie was worried about her. The woman looked like she might pass out at any moment. More than Brenda Ferguson, who seemed more angry than fearful, Castillo had a fragility that made Jessie worry that the sheer anxiety of the situation might get her before the killer did.
She returned to her car and headed to her next destination, the office of family and marriage counselor Warren Fischer. She considered calling Ryan, if only for backup. But she was still too pissed at him. Besides, she had gotten combat and self-defense training from FBI instructors. She had a weapon. She could handle this on her own.
*
The True Avenger sat at his desk, reviewing his plan for that night.
He knew this would be his last, best opportunity to mete out justice. Everything had to go just right. If he didn’t time everything properly, then the last two Reckonings wouldn’t succeed.
If they didn’t, then one or both of the remaining sinners would surely be placed in protective custody. That wouldn’t make them untouchable. But getting to them would be much harder. So it was important that tonight’s Reckoning was triumphant.
He re-checked his annotations. In his day job, he was expected to take meticulous notes and it had become second nature. According to his information, both women were now holed up in their homes, afraid to leave. Both had police security.
That part made him smile slightly. It gave him a slight rush to know that these adulteresses were operating under a false sense of security. It would make their eventual retribution all the more satisfying.
The True Avenger could not make up for all the men he knew of who’d been wronged by their treacherous partners. He hadn’t even been able to do that for himself. But he could at least do it for these four victims.
He still regretted waiting so long to take action in his own life. After he got home early from work one day to find his wife, Sasha, in bed with one of her co-workers, he’d responded in a manner that seemed alien to him now.
He’d yelled, of course. And the man—he’d later learn his name was Derrick—left quickly, though not with the level of appropriate shame. After Derrick was gone, the True Avenger actually cried, pleading with his wife not to ever let such a thing happen again.
In retrospect, it wasn’t a good look. It might have been that pitiable moment of weakness on his part, more than the affair itself, which made reconciliation impossible. He saw the mix of disappointment and disgust in her eyes through his own tear-stained ones and knew he’d lost her for good.
She left that night and moved in with Derrick. Within months, mere days after the divorce was official, Sasha married Derrick. The True Avenger spent most of the time leading up to that date drowning his sorrows in alcohol and porn.
But on the day of Sasha’s wedding, something changed. He woke up that morning wit
h a bad hangover, but forced himself to get dressed in a nice suit. He knew there was no way he could just walk in and attend Sasha’s wedding. So he went to the church very early and hid in a back office.
Once the service was underway, he snuck out and watched from the back, where he went unnoticed. He considered shouting something when the minister asked if anyone had objections, but remained silent. The couple exchanged vows and kissed. By the time they were declared husband and wife, the True Avenger had left the church.
He devised his plan that very day. It was intricate, involving the abduction, torture, and eventual murder of Sasha. He also planned to frame Derrick for the crime. Within weeks, he had everything squared away—the location where Sasha would be held, how he would eventually kill her, the alibi he’d prepared for himself. The arrangements were complete.
But something held him back. For nearly a year after that he dawdled, making excuses for the delay. He was still noodling around the edges of the plan, needlessly tweaking at perfection, when he got the news.
Sasha and Derrick had died when a tire blew out on their car while they were driving back from wine country on a winding coastal road. The car had plunged over two hundred feet to the rocks below. Because of the fire that consumed the vehicle, dental records were required to identify the bodies.
The True Avenger was left with a feeling of emptiness. He basked briefly in the belief that their last moments were filled with fear and horror. But that wasn’t enough. Even if it was true, their suffering would have been brief, nothing like what he’d had in store for them.
He came to realize that it was his own procrastination and deficit of righteous, insistent zeal that was as much at fault as that blown tire. He’d been given an opportunity to right the wrong done to him and squandered it. He would not make that mistake again.
So he came up with a new plan. Through his work, he had access to the intimate details of marital relationships and the indiscretions that undid them. He was able to discern the worst offenders, the most objectionable degenerates, and select them for sentencing.
