The Perfect Alibi (A Jessie Hunt Psychological Suspense Thriller—Book Eight)

by Blake Pierce

  He established a four-part system—Collection, Purification, Unraveling, and Reckoning—that would take each violator through a cleansing that would ultimately end in her final Deliverance. It was beautiful in its simplicity. And unlike his dawdling with Sasha, he’d gone from inspiration to implementation in less than three months.

  Tonight would be the culmination of all those efforts. There was no more prep to be done. Everything from this point forward would occur as designed as long as he kept his wits about him and didn’t allow his fury to overcome his sense of righteousness.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a beep from his computer calendar. He glanced at it and saw that he had a meeting in five minutes. Very carefully, he packed up his plans for the evening and slid them into the hidden section of his desk drawer. Then he stood up to stretch before re-engaging with the world.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Jessie knew better than to just walk in without preparation.

  The last time she’d gone into the office of a medical professional, she’d been far too blasé about it. Even with Ryan at her side, they’d been taken by surprise and barely escaped with their lives.

  That time, they were interviewing Dr. Richard Kallas, the plastic surgeon who they ultimately learned had killed porn actress Michaela “Missy Mack” Penn. They hadn’t expected him to turn off the lights and come at them with a large surgical knife.

  It was that unexpected ferocity that had temporarily put Kallas on the list of suspects in the attempt to undermine Jessie’s reputation. And it was the memory of Kallas’s fierceness that had Jessie on guard now as she entered Warren Fischer’s counseling office.

  She’d checked both her regulation sidearm and the extra one in her ankle holster before arriving. She also had Mace in one jacket pocket and a Taser in the other. Finally, she’d called Captain Decker on the way over to let him know what she was doing. She couldn’t bring herself to reach out to Ryan but she wasn’t so obstinate as to walk in without any potential backup.

  Fischer’s office wasn’t too far from Jayne Castillo’s place. It was located in a nice but unassuming office building on the Miracle Mile stretch of Wilshire Boulevard. She rode up the elevator to the sixth floor and walked down the thickly carpeted hallway. The door was unlocked. He didn’t have a receptionist, just a small waiting room. She pushed the buzzer on the wall and waited. It only took a few seconds for him to pop his head out.

  She saw immediately why Brenda Ferguson thought the man in the screen grabs might be Fischer. The counselor had a thick shock of bushy hair that seemed to defeat any attempt to control it. He wore gold wire-rimmed glasses. The shape of his jaw line didn’t seem quite like a match for the man in the images. But because the hospital footage never provided a clear shot of his face, there was no way to draw any definitive conclusions.

  “Jessie Hunt?” he asked hopefully.

  “Yes,” she said. “Thanks for fitting me in on such short notice.”

  “Not a problem,” he assured her. “It worked out perfectly because I had a late cancellation. Come on back.”

  He held the door open for her but she didn’t step forward.

  “You lead the way,” she said.

  “Okay,” he replied, pushing the heavy door open and starting down the short hallway to his open office.

  Jessie tried to match his gait to the man in the video. But it was impossible to be sure. The killer had moved quickly and purposefully. Warren Fischer had a relaxed, languorous walking style. Either of those could have been tweaked by design. Fischer also seemed pudgier than the man in the video. But the quality of the hospital footage wasn’t great and it was all shot from above, making certainty unattainable. Fischer looked back at her and continued.

  “I should warn you that if you think this is going to run longer than about forty-five minutes, we may have to schedule a second meeting. I don’t have any more appointments this afternoon but I am supposed to speak at a symposium later today.”

  “I don’t think it will take that long,” Jessie said as she warily crossed the threshold into the office. “You mind if we leave the door open? I tend to get claustrophobic.”

  “Of course not,” he said, chuckling. “It’s not my area but I could recommend someone if you’d like to talk about that issue.”

  The room was warm and welcoming. The walls were a mix of nature scene photos and paintings of seventeenth-century rustic life, including log cabins and women in bonnets milking cows. The furniture, including a desk at the far end of the room, was all dark brown, which contrasted gently with the beige walls. Everything about the office was designed to exude comfort.

  He sat down in a high-backed leather chair and motioned for Jessie to take a seat on either the matching one or the adjoining loveseat. She chose the chair, which created more distance between them.

  “So,” Fischer said once they’d both settled in. “You mentioned on the phone that this was a pressing matter concerning some of my former patients. I assume it’s related to the recent abductions and murders?”

  “What makes you say that?” Jessie asked.

  He smiled gently as if to suggest he understood she had to play this game but he would not.

  “Several things, Ms. Hunt,” he replied. “First, I’ve never had a criminal profiler call me for any reason before today. Second, I counseled three of the abducted women and one of the ones that were killed.”

  “You knew three of them?” Jessie repeated, trying to hide her shock at the fact and his casual revelation of it. “Who?”

  “Brenda Ferguson, Morgan Remar, and Jayne Castillo. The only one I didn’t know was the last one taken, Ms. Gidley. Frankly, I’m surprised that you’re surprised. I told all this to the police already.”

  “You reported this to the police?” Jessie asked, surprised.

  “Yes.”

  “When?”

  “After Morgan Remar was kidnapped,” he said, looking troubled that she didn’t seem to already know this information. “I heard about Brenda Ferguson, of course. I thought it was terrible and I was so happy when she got away. But it wasn’t until I heard about Morgan that I thought ‘this is truly strange.’ So I called the hotline and told them about the connection.”

  “And no one ever got back to you?” Jessie pressed.

  “No. It was a recording so I left a message but I never heard back. I tried again after Jayne Castillo was taken because I thought it was simply impossible that this could all be a coincidence—still nothing. I assumed they must have it all in hand or they surely would have gotten back to me. But then, after Morgan died, I tried again. That time, I was vociferous in my message. I assumed that you were here because someone had finally listened to them.”

  “No,” Jessie replied. “I never heard about them. You never tried to reach a live person?”

  “Of course I did, multiple times. I got stuck in endless phone trees. I even went down to the Mid-Wilshire station—it’s not too far from here—and submitted a statement. I explicitly told the desk clerk about the odd connection and asked to speak to a detective. To be honest, he blew me off, said someone would be in touch. But I could tell he wasn’t impressed. I walked out of there pretty frustrated. Is that standard—to just dismiss leads out of hand?”

  “No,” Jessie assured him. “I don’t know what happened there. I’m sure there were hundreds, maybe even thousands of hotline tips. But between that and your station visit, you should have heard back.”

  Fischer shook his head in exasperation.

  “I even considered calling Brenda or Jayne directly. I thought maybe someone would listen if it came straight from them. But I knew they’d suffered such trauma and I didn’t want to insert myself into their lives, so I held off. I was actually reconsidering that decision today when I got your call.”

  Jessie studied the man closely. His entire demeanor conveyed mild-mannered empathy. He wore a rumpled sport jacket over a shirt and vest, along with wrinkled beige Dockers and brown loafers. His v
oice was soothing but direct and he was diligent about making eye contact. There was no overt deception coming from him, which suggested one of two things. Either he was being honest or he was a master at concealing his deception.

  Jessie determined that she wasn’t going to glean anything revelatory about the man if she let him continue to dictate the terms of the conversation. So she decided to try to shake him out of his comfort zone a bit.

  “You said you didn’t know Caroline Gidley?”

  “No,” he said. “She was the one who was taken last and just died, correct?”

  Jessie nodded.

  “That’s right. Never heard of her?”

  “No,” he said confidently. “In fact, after I learned of her abduction, I went back and checked my files. I was actually surprised there was no connection, considering that I knew the first three women. Of course, I’ve had hundreds of couples visit me over the years and many of the women have changed names, so I thought it could just be me forgetting. But my files didn’t turn up anything and when I saw her photo on the news, she didn’t look familiar.”

  Jessie hedged, debating whether to be aggressive or hold off a little longer. She decided to wait.

  “Was there anything similar about the three women you knew, something that connected them beyond simply coming to you for couples’ therapy?”

  Fischer smiled, clearly pleased that he’d get to address this issue.

  “I wondered the same thing. I went back through my files and did a little amateur detective work. Obviously each relationship is different but I did find that they all had one thing in common.”

  Jessie waited but he didn’t continue so she prompted him.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  “Normally, confidentiality would prevent me from sharing this. The only reason I feel comfortable telling you this is because I went back to review the paperwork when the divorce papers were filed with the courts. What I’m about to tell you is in the public record so I don’t consider it an ethical violation.”

  “I appreciate your professionalism,” Jessie said, trying not to sound impatient. “What did you find?”

  “All three women had engaged in extramarital affairs. It wasn’t the only reason for the breakup in every case. Their files are thick. But it was a factor in each. All three of them eventually married the man they were cheating with. Other than smaller things—all were college-educated, all were at least middle class—that was the one thing that jumped out at me.”

  Jessie tried not to visibly react. But internally, she sensed the pieces clicking into place. Fischer’s words reinforced the growing suspicion she’d had while talking to Jayne Castillo earlier.

  “How did you feel about their cheating?” she asked, posing a personal question for the first time.

  Again, he gave her his gentle smile, the one that indicated he knew what she was doing and wouldn’t be baited by it.

  “I didn’t feel anything, Ms. Hunt,” he said calmly. “That’s not my job. I was there to help these couples work through how they felt about what happened and see if they could find a path forward together. Other than abuse, I don’t insert myself into the moral quagmire of the relationships. I’ve found it’s not very constructive.”

  “You never got offended on behalf of the wronged party?” she pushed.

  He paused for a long time before replying.

  “Thank you,” he finally said.

  “For what?”

  “For taking all this seriously,” he told her. “I was initially worried that my concerns were being dismissed when I never heard back from anyone. And then I feared that you might just be doing this interview out of obligation. But the fact that you’re poking at me tells me there’s at least one person taking this seriously, who thinks the man who counseled three of the abducted women might be worth at least looking into.”

  “That’s very flattering, Mr. Fischer,” she said. “But I noticed you didn’t answer my question.”

  “Of course. Sorry to get sidetracked. The answer is that I don’t get offended on behalf of either party. And viewing one or the other as ‘wronged’ doesn’t help them repair the relationship. I do try to put myself in the shoes of both people so that I get a sense of their perspective. But I don’t view anyone as wrong so much as self-interested. We all do what we can to make ourselves happy. Sometimes we misjudge what that is. Sometimes we neglect others’ needs in the service of our own. But I don’t think most people do these things out of malice as much as out of selfishness.”

  “That hasn’t been my experience,” Jessie countered.

  “Are you speaking professionally or personally, Ms. Hunt?”

  “Are you trying to practice a little off-the-books therapy right now, Mr. Fischer?” she shot back.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, smiling sheepishly. “Occupational hazard, I suppose. I’m always on duty. But I sense that you’re not just talking about the people you profile when you reference your experience. Am I right?”

  Jessie relented slightly, admittedly only partly because she thought revealing something personal might make him vulnerable.

  “In my work, I find that malice is actually a pretty powerful motivator.”

  “And in your personal life?” he asked.

  Jessie thought about the man she’d been with for a decade, who tried to kill her and who might imminently be out of prison.

  “There too,” she said, glancing down at her feet.

  “Should we be scheduling a session?” he asked, only half-joking.

  Jessie decided now was the moment to pounce. She looked him in the eyes again.

  “Where were you yesterday mid-afternoon?”

  He looked appropriately startled.

  “I believe I was here all day,” he said after a moment.

  “Conducting sessions?”

  “I don’t recall. I can check my schedule.”

  “That’d be great,” she said, before moving on quickly. “What about the night before, Tuesday, around eleven p.m.?”

  “I think I was at home,” he said, increasingly flustered. “I’d have to check on that too.”

  “Are you married? Is there anyone who can confirm your location?”

  For the first time, he looked a genuinely apprehensive.

  “I live alone. I’m divorced.”

  “You’re divorced? A couples’ therapist? What broke you up—selfishness?”

  “There was that,” he admitted. “It took the form of infidelity.”

  “On whose part?” she demanded.

  Fischer found his soft smile again. When he spoke it was with resignation.

  “My wife cheated on me, Ms. Hunt. Does that make me look bad?”

  She was quiet for a moment before replying.

  “It doesn’t help,” she conceded. “I’d like to make a proposal, Mr. Fischer.”

  “Why do I have a pit in my stomach all of a sudden?” he asked.

  “I couldn’t answer that,” she said, sliding her hand into the jacket pocket with the Taser. “Would you be willing to come back to my station to resolve some of the confusion regarding your alibi? Maybe you’d consent to let us review the files of the women in question? I’d like to rule you out as a suspect and the more accommodating you are, the faster we can do that. What do you say?”

  He sat silently in his high-backed chair, his own forearms resting on the chair’s arms. His long-sleeved shirt extended past his wrists, making it impossible to see if he had a bandage on underneath the right sleeve. He seemed to be doing some quick metal deliberations. Jessie gripped the Taser tightly.

  “I’m amenable to that,” he said reluctantly. “Do I need to bring an attorney?”

  “We’re just trying to clear a few things up,” Jessie answered indirectly. “But that’s entirely up to you.”

  “I guess I can come in on my own. Should I stop by after my symposium?”

  “Actually, I was thinking more like right now.”

  “And miss my t
alk entirely?” he asked incredulously.

  “Two women are dead, Mr. Fischer,” she reminded him. “But you do what you feel is right.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  Jessie stared at Warren Fischer through the interrogation room mirror.

  He had followed her back to the station and willingly handed off his files before walking into the interrogation room, where he’d been sitting patiently for a half hour. Captain Decker had insisted Jessie wait for Ryan to arrive back from helping the Beverly Hills detectives question Gregg Dozier, Caroline Gidley’s aggrieved ex-fiancé. Not wanting to hint at any conflict between them, she agreed.

  In the interim, she reviewed the files Fischer had given her. It was clear that despite his claims to the contrary, he did take a dim view of each woman’s infidelity, though it was couched in therapy-speak. To be fair, he was also critical of their husbands’ refusal to move past the indiscretions. Still, she couldn’t tell whether he added those latter comments sincerely or out of professional obligation.

  Her phone buzzed and she looked down to see a text message from Dr. Lemmon. It had only three words: “Load of crap.”

  It took her a few seconds to comprehend what that meant. Then she remembered that her rambling voicemail to her therapist had included the question of whether she was possibly in the middle of a mental breakdown or if that notion was a load of crap. This seemed to be the doctor’s professional opinion on the matter. Jessie couldn’t help but smile.

  Just then, Ryan stepped into the observation room. He looked at her anxiously.

  “How’s it going?” he asked, keeping the question open-ended.

  “Okay. We’ve got a possible suspect there,” she said, pointing at Fischer. “How’d it go with Dozier?”

  “Not great,” Ryan said. “It turns out that while Caroline Gidley was being murdered he was in a two-hour meeting. The whole thing was recorded. I watched him closely to see if he was antsy, maybe wondering if some guy he’d hired was getting the job done at that moment. But there was nothing like that. In fact, at one point it looked like he nodded off for a few seconds.”