The Perfect Wife

by Blake Pierce

  This time it was Jessie who snickered, despite her best efforts to control herself. The other students all glared at her as if she’d spit on a priest.

  “Man,” Detective Hernandez said, shaking his head in disappointment. “I count fifteen people in this room and my first two jokes have landed with two of you. I’m thinking I may need to get my money back from that improv class.”

  “You should sue them,” Jessie said.

  Hernandez looked at her appreciatively.

  “I will take that under advisement, ma’am,” he said before addressing the entire class. “Seriously though, HSS stands for Homicide Special Section. That means we investigate cases that have high profiles or intense media scrutiny. We also investigate arsons, homicides involving multiple victims, and serial killer cases.”

  There was a collective murmur among the class but no one spoke up so he continued.

  “Before I blather on, I thought it might be interesting to do a little case study. This is an academic environment after all. Once we’re done and you all are a little less star-struck, we can have the Q&A you’re all dying for. Professor Hosta, can you dim the lights please?”

  While Hosta did as requested, Detective Hernandez opened his laptop and hit a key. A blank screen popped up on the whiteboard at the front of the room.

  “What I’m about to present to you is a real case, although actual names have been left off for the privacy of those involved. This is the ‘Smith’ family.”

  On the screen appeared a young boy of about five and then a girl who looked to be seven. Both were light-haired with blue eyes. After that an image of an attractive woman with flowing dirty-blonde hair and blue eyes in her mid-thirties popped up. And finally a man in his early forties appeared. He was bald, with a long scar running down the left side of his well-shaven face from his ear to his jaw. He had some kind of tattoo on his neck but it wasn’t clearly visible in the photo.

  “This family unit is fairly recent. One parent was widowed several years ago, then remarried recently. Unfortunately, there was a lapse in judgment as it turned out the new spouse had a history of insinuating into the lives of families who had just lost someone and sweeping everyone off their feet.

  “Then, when everything seemed like it was headed for happily ever after, the new spouse would murder the rest of the family, clean out bank accounts, steal any valuables, and disappear into the ether. That’s what happened in this case, about four years ago. It was the third incident we’re aware of. Luckily, the perpetrator was caught and is currently serving a life sentence so you can sleep easy tonight.”

  No one in the class felt especially comfortable at that news. Other than some awkward shifting in their seats, everyone remained silent. Hernandez continued.

  “I’m going to pass out a fact sheet with basic information about those involved. Then I’ll give you five minutes to see if anyone can guess how the perpetrator was caught. Sound fun?”

  As Jessie waited to get her fact sheet, she studied the faces on the screen. She felt an unexplainable itch in her brain, as if she should be picking up something that was hovering just at the edges of her consciousness. And yet, she couldn’t quite identify what it was.

  Someone handed her a fact sheet. There weren’t many facts. She’d been slightly off on the ages of the kids. The boy was four and the girl was six. The wife, thirty-eight, worked in child care and the husband, forty-two, was retired military who now worked security. At the time of the murders, they’d been married for about seven months after a year of dating.

  The parent had been killed first, throat slit and then stabbed multiple times in the chest. The children only had their throats slit. The bodies were discovered the next day when neither the children nor the deceased parent showed up for school and work. By then, the killer was long gone. That was all the information available.

  Jessie reread the notes and looked up at the family faces again. There was so little information to work with that she knew the solution had to be fairly straightforward, something that didn’t require poring over case files for hours. It was something that, once she figured it out, would make everything else obvious.

  She could hear other students whispering among themselves. The phrase “PTSD” was used more than once. Some guy in front of her mused that maybe the dad felt emasculated by going from G.I. Joe to Paul Blart, Mall Cop.

  “Two minutes,” Detective Hernandez called out.

  He was smiling broadly, looking like the cat that ate an entire family of canaries. It only reinforced her suspicion that the whole case was a trick.

  Jessie closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to push all of her assumptions out of her head. She returned to basics, but not the basics of the case—the basics of Detective Hernandez. He was the one trying to trick them and he was one the one who had total control over how the information had been presented to them. He was not, for the purposes of this case study, to be trusted. She doubted he would give them outright false information. That wouldn’t be playing fair. But he could shade the facts however he wanted.

  How might he do that?

  And then it hit her—what the detective had done—a move so casually sneaky as to be almost imperceptible. She glanced up at the screen again, reprocessing the information she’d been given in the light of her realization, and a theory began to percolate.

  “Time’s up,” Detective Hernandez said as Professor Hosta turned the lights back on. The faces on the whiteboard were harder to see now but Jessie could still make out their outlines. Looking at them from that new perspective only reinforced her quickly evolving hypothesis. She glanced back down at the fact sheet to check one more thing. It fit. She was almost certain she knew now what had happened, or at least how the class had been played.

  “No more discussion,” Professor Hosta instructed, chastising two chatty young women in the front corner of the room.

  “Any ideas on what happened?” Detective Hernandez asked. “Feel free to shout them out. We work collaboratively at HSS. Brainstorming is a big part of what we do. No reason it can’t be here either.”

  “The dad snapped,” the guy in front of Jessie said eagerly. “You didn’t say how long ago he left the military on the fact sheet. I’m guessing he was unemployed for a while after he left, and had to get what he considered demeaning security work to help support the family. It was too much for his ego to bear and one day he just lost it. Maybe the wife said something to set him off. That’s why he stabbed her a lot. He didn’t have the same anger toward the kids so he just slit their throats.”

  “That doesn’t explain the serial nature of the crime,” one of the chatty girls up front pointed out. “Detective Hernandez said this was at least the third time this had happened. So I doubt he just snapped. The fact sheet didn’t say how he left the military. I bet he was dishonorably discharged, bouncing from town to town, puffing up his soldier bona fides. That would be very comforting to a widowed single mom. She might dismiss the scar on his face, an obvious sign that he was troubled and probably got in lots of altercations, if it meant she had someone to lean on. Unfortunately, it looks like at least three women put their trust in the wrong guy.”

  It went on like this for quite a while longer—people throwing out theories and Detective Hernandez writing abbreviated versions of them on the whiteboard. Jessie noticed that he made sure not to write on the faces of the family members. Some might have thought it was out of respect but she suspected there was another reason.

  “We’re almost out of room on the board,” he said. “Anyone want to throw out a last-minute theory before I say if someone got it right?”

  Jessie looked around the room. Everyone seemed either stumped or satisfied that they’d already given the proper answer.

  She raised her hand.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

  Hernandez was about to speak, but seeing Jessie’s arm in the air, stopped himself.

  “Yes?” he said, nodding at her.

  “I
think they caught the killer by sending out digitally altered photos of the suspect to potential places of business in other cities.”

  “What, to the security offices of other malls?” the guy in front her asked derisively. “Or do you think FBI agents went from town to town posting ‘wanted’ posters in local food courts?”

  Jessie smiled sweetly at him, convinced that his overabundance of cockiness was about to be deflated. Up until then, she’d been hesitant to say too much, for fear of being shot down. But now that someone had tried, she felt even more sure of herself and decided there was no reason to hide it.

  “I doubt it was the FBI,” she said, “more likely Interpol. And I don’t see the point of going to malls. A better bet would be preschools, daycares, and even better, private nanny referral services.”

  “You think it was the wife?” the girl up front with the dishonorable discharge theory demanded, incredulous. “You think that little thing overpowered that big guy?”

  She actually snorted at the prospect. Jessie glanced down at Detective Hernandez, who had conspicuously not snorted, and who was looking up at her expectantly with the hint of smile on his lips. That was all she needed.

  “I don’t think she had to overpower him, because she’d slit his throat already. But she wasn’t prepared for how much of a fighter he was. She probably should have been. After all, he had that tattoo right there on his neck, which looks like it might be some kind of Special Forces insignia. That, along with the scar on his face, suggests he’d been through at least one serious scrape. That’s likely why she had to stab him multiple times in the chest, because the throat slash alone didn’t put him down right away.”

  The classroom was silent. Jessie, emboldened, went on.

  “Of course, that wasn’t necessary with the kids. They trusted her implicitly. After all, she’d been their nanny for almost two years. That’s probably how she wormed her way into the heart of the grieving widower father. He saw how good she was with the kids and for the first time imagined himself with someone new.”

  “How could a mall cop afford a private nanny?” the jerk in front of her wanted to know.

  Jessie tried to keep herself from letting her disdain for this punk slip into her tone.

  “You assumed he worked in a mall,” she noted calmly. “That wasn’t in the fact sheet or anything Detective Hernandez said. And there’s no reason to think he was. He was former military, likely in a highly trained unit. He’s clean cut and professional looking in the photo. My guess is he worked private security, maybe corporate. And I’m guessing he had some life insurance money after the death of his wife. It’s not crazy to think he could afford a nanny.”

  “Why did you say Interpol would be doing the investigation?” another student asked.

  Jessie had forgotten to explain that earlier but was happy to now.

  “If there was a serial family murderer, especially a woman, who had been caught and given life in prison, I think someone in here might have heard about it. It would have been all over the news. That is, unless it happened overseas. And Detective Hernandez said she got a life sentence. If it had happened here, she’d likely be on death row. But most European countries don’t have the death penalty.”

  “Anything else?” the jerk asked, obviously irked that his theory hadn’t panned out.

  “Yeah, her hair is clearly dyed blonde. And it looks pretty thin and wiry. Like she’s dyed it often and amateurishly, almost like she had to do it quickly for disguise purposes. That’s why authorities would send out various pictures, to take into account a likely change in appearance.”

  Everyone turned to the front of the room.

  “Is she right?” the jerk asked.

  “About the hair dye?” Detective Hernandez mused. “I don’t know. But in general, yes. This woman was captured in Belgium after committing one family murder in Switzerland and two in France. Most of the other details were correct, although the husband was not Special Forces. That tattoo was for his bomb squad unit, which is how he got the scar. He was given a medal for bravery after he lost his left hand defusing one. That’s why he left the service. Pretty good work there.”

  “Thank you,” Jessie said, her face turning red.

  “May I ask what tipped you off?”

  “Sure. I wish I could say it was facts from the case but it was actually more you. I did notice that both kids had the father’s nose and mouth but that was only after I had started to think he was the victim. One hint was that you put up the kids’ pictures first, then the stepmom and finally the dad, which gave the impression that he was newest member of the family, even though you never said that.”

  “Oh yeah,” the jerk said, as if it was his discovery.

  Jessie ignored him and continued.

  “Then I started to think back to how you described them. You never said the gender of the victim or perpetrator. Initially, I thought you were just being formal. But in retrospect, that struck me as so odd that it had to be intentional. The fact sheet was equally non-specific. And then I remembered that you said the killer had been caught and convicted. So it didn’t make sense that you couldn’t use their names. There was no need to protect anyone’s privacy. The case was in the public record. So there had to be another reason you were being so cagey about it. After I made the leap that she was the killer, everything else started to fall into place.”

  “Well, I have to say, ma’am…”

  “Jessie,” she corrected.

  “I have to say, Jessie, that in the three years I’ve been presenting this case study, you are only the second student ever to arrive at the correct conclusion. Kudos.”

  “Thanks,” she said, blushing a second time.

  “It also goes without saying,” he said, now addressing the whole class, “that this case is instructive in regard to something that we as law enforcement officers always have to stay on guard against—making assumptions. We all enter these situations with preconceptions about the people involved. But it’s our job, and it will be your job, to set those aside so you can focus more clearly and see what’s going on. Thanks for your time.”

  The class applauded as he turned to Professor Hosta and gave him the floor.

  “Thank you, Detective. And well done, Ms. Hunt,” Professor Hosta added. “I’d like to use what time we have left to let you all ask Detective Hernandez all the questions you’ve been holding in until now. Would that be all right, Ryan?”

  Hernandez nodded and was almost immediately pummeled with a series of questions, which he answered in rapid succession. He’d grown up in East LA and had actually been in a gang through much of his teen years. He had joined the police academy after his younger brother was murdered on a street corner and the killer was never found. Apparently the investigation was perfunctory at best, which motivated him to pursue justice for his community.

  He’d been a beat cop for three years when he was working the scene of a murder and discovered some clues detectives had missed. Those clues helped tie the murder to a serial killer who had been operating in the city for years. He was assigned to the team investigating the case and played a role in apprehending the killer, a man named Bolton Crutchfield, who was currently being held in a psychiatric hospital.

  He was promoted to detective and then assigned to HSS, where he’d served ever since. In answer to one of the chatty girls up front, he revealed that he was married but had no children, although he hoped that would change someday.

  “That’s all the time we have today,” Hosta said stepping forward.

  Jessie looked at the clock. The class was over. It had flown by. Students started filing out, though many stopped to talk to Hernandez. Part of Jessie wanted to stick around too. She had lots of questions about his work.

  But she also remembered that only four days ago, she had killed an innocent woman in a drunken incident she couldn’t even recall. Maybe chatting up a homicide detective wasn’t the best move at this moment.

  So, sore from sitting so
long after what she’d been through, she gingerly made her way down the steps and started for the door. She was almost there when Professor Hosta stopped her.

  “Well done, Ms. Hunt. I have to admit that I would have been quite disappointed if you hadn’t solved that mystery. For a while there I had my doubts.”

  “So did I, Professor,” she admitted, hoping to short-circuit the conversation and exit quickly.

  “Are you excited for your final meeting with our friend in Norwalk?” he asked. “I understand he’s been surprisingly responsive when conversing with you.”

  Jessie bit her lip. She didn’t know why she’d been allowed to interview Crutchfield. But it was clearly a decision of The Panel. And despite his pretensions of obliviousness, Jessie was increasingly suspicious that Hosta might himself be a member. Whatever was going on, she didn’t want to reveal just how much she suspected. So she played up the image of the enthused, but naïve, grad student.

  “I am looking forward to it, Professor. I’ve learned a lot so far. Thank you for going out on a limb for me.”

  “It was my distinct pleasure,” he said, clearly flattered.

  Jessie felt a gentle tap on her shoulder and turned to face Detective Hernandez, who was beaming at her.

  “I just wanted to say well done. It was nice to listen to how you slid all the puzzle pieces into place. I think you may have picked the right line of work.”

  “Thank you,” she replied, half-thrilled, even as her stomach lurched nervously, recognizing that she was staring into the eyes of a man whose job was to catch people involved in crimes—people like her. She wondered how much her body language was giving away at that very moment. Luckily, there were several students, including the chatty gals, waiting impatiently to speak with him.