by Blake Pierce
“It looks like you’re heading out and I think I’m stuck here for a while,” he said. “But here’s my card. Please keep in touch. The department can always use good profilers, even raw ones. I’m sure we could find some way to put your talents to use.”
“Thanks very much. I’ll do that,” she said, feeling beads of sweat suddenly drip down her back. “But you’re right. I do have to be somewhere. Thanks again for coming. It was really…instructive.”
He opened his mouth to respond but she was out the door before he could get in another word. She waited until she was halfway across campus before entering a bathroom and wiping herself down. Even with deep breaths, it took another ten minutes for her shoulders to unclench and her heart rate to return to normal.
*
Jessie was halfway home when the divorce lawyer called her back. She let it go to voicemail and listened to the message asking her to call back at her convenience. When it was done, she deleted it and the record of the call. She wasn’t sure she wanted that anymore. And it didn’t really matter anyway.
There was no way she could pursue a divorce now. Kyle had been supportive of her in recent days. But she didn’t imagine that would continue if she served him with papers. What might he do in that situation? Could he conceivably reveal what she’d done? It didn’t seem like the ideal time to alienate him.
Shaking the thought from her head, she veered off in the direction of Balboa Harbor. She couldn’t say why but she felt the strong urge to see the water. She parked at the top of the hill and walked down the same steep steps she’d taken on that first visit to the club with the Carlisles as Daughton yelled “boom!” every few steps.
The weather had turned since that morning and what had been chilly was now downright cold. The ocean winds ripped through her and she zipped her coat up to the neck. When she reached the bottom, she stared out at the waves, as they slowly rolled in and lapped up against the dock.
The sight sent her thoughts back to another time when she stood over a body of water. She had been tempted to jump in that day too. But back then it had been to save herself. Today it might be to end herself.
How had this happened so quickly? Less than hour ago, she had been on top of the world, solving a mystery that left the rest of her class stumped. Now she was staring at her reflection in the water, contemplating a bruised marriage, the loss of her unborn child, and the fact that she had killed someone, a girl whose last name she didn’t even know.
Jessie knew it was her depression taking hold and that she needed to fight it off with reason and very soon, medication. But in this moment all she could do was stare into the blue and contemplate how freeing it would be to end all the anguish she felt.
“There a mermaid down there?” a familiar voice asked.
“What?” Jessie said, looking up to find Melanie Carlisle, in workout gear, staring curiously at her.
“You just seemed to be studying that water so closely. I thought maybe there was a magical creature just under the surface.”
“Nope,” Jessie said, trying to shake off the shroud of despair that had enveloped her. “Just seaweed. But you know, sometimes that can be cool too.”
“Uh-huh,” Mel said, unconvinced. “How are you doing, sweetie?”
Jessie knew she was talking about the miscarriage and decided it couldn’t hurt to allow herself to reveal a fraction of what she was feeling.
“I’m kind of struggling a bit,” she admitted, unwanted tears coming to her eyes.
“Of course you are,” Mel said, walking over. “I’m a little sweaty but you mind if I give you a hug?”
Jessie shook her head and wrapped her own arms around Mel first, squeezing her tight. They stayed like for that for a while and it was Jessie who released her grip first, feeling slightly embarrassed. Mel looked at her, smiled, and brushed a stray hair out of her eyes. Then she looked out at the water.
“Looks like they finally cleaned the place up,” she said, somehow sensing that Jessie wanted to change the subject.
“What do you mean?”
“You know, after the Bringing the Boats in Party, there was a huge mess on the docks and in the water. You wouldn’t believe some of the shocking stuff that washed up in the last day or so.”
Jessie’s whole body went cold and rigid. It took all of her self-control to not scream out the question in her head. Instead, she glanced out at the water with an expression of mild interest, then turned back and asked as casually as she could, “What kind of stuff?”
“Well, for one thing, a full-sized sex doll! The first person who saw it, some retired biddy, thought it was a human body and freaked out, started screaming, almost had a heart attack. I’d love to know the back story on how that got in there.”
“Yeah, me too,” Jessie agreed, relieved.
“All right, sweetie,” Mel said in a voice that suggested she was done talking. “If you think you’re okay, I’m going to continue my walk. It’s my workout for the day and I can already feel the sweat starting to dry in this cold. That’s not a good sign. Besides, I want to get back home. Teddy’s been a jangle of nerves lately and I’m worried he might accidentally burn the house down. Do you mind?”
“Of course not. Go,” Jessie insisted. “And Mel, thanks.”
Mel blew her a quick kiss and was off, walking briskly along the harbor path in the direction of the marina. Jessie ambled slowly after her until she found a spot where she could clearly see the rock outcropping where Kyle had dumped Natalia’s body. From this distance, it looked like an innocuous little bump in the ocean, not the final resting place for a girl who deserved better.
She could feel herself slipping again and tried to shake it off. Her phone rang and she answered it immediately, happy for the distraction. It was the nurse from her OB-GYN’s office. Her voice was peppy and it took Jessie a second to realize why. She didn’t know about the miscarriage. Apparently the Westport Beach ER doctor hadn’t yet reached out to hers and they had no idea what had happened.
“We got the blood work back for the gender test you asked for,” the nurse said. “You’re having a boy!”
“Thank you,” Jessie said, hanging up without another word.
CHAPTER TWENTY SIX
Jessie sensed herself sliding back into the dark place. Desperately trying to cling to the lip of the emotional chasm, she searched her mind for anything to shift her focus, to distract her from the awful knowledge that she would never get to meet the little man who could have been her pride and joy. Her knees buckled and she grabbed onto the dock railing for support.
She stood there, trying to fight off the hyperventilating she felt overtaking her, when she heard her phone ping. She grabbed for it, happy to have anything but herself to focus on.
It was a short text from Professor Hosta: “Reminder-last Crutchfield interview.”
That was enough to calm her down. She had her final meeting with Bolton Crutchfield tomorrow.
“You need to prepare,” she said out loud.
So for the rest of the walk back to the car, the drive to the house, and the remainder of the afternoon until Kyle got home, she maintained her equilibrium by focusing on Crutchfield and the lingering question she still had for him, the one she had to find some way to ask. At one point, she even half-chuckled at the notion that she was being saved from misery by thoughts of an upcoming meeting with a serial killer.
When Kyle arrived, she felt half-normal again. She had made dinner and even baked a pie. Kyle thanked her but barely seemed to notice. He still asked her all the standard questions—how did she feel? Did she need anything?
But he seemed distracted, like his focus was elsewhere. He absentmindedly played with the “$” money clip Teddy had given him, turning it over repeatedly with his fingers. Apparently one day back at work was all it took for him to return to his old workaholic self. It was almost as if the whole thing—killing Natalia, the miscarriage—had never happened.
*
The next day Je
ssie sat in the viewing section of Bolton Crutchfield’s cell, nervously waiting for him to return. He’d been taken for his obligatory weekly shower. With all the required security precautions, the process took an hour. Officer Gentry had offered to let her wait in her office until he returned but Jessie thought it might give her an advantage to already be waiting in his space when he returned.
When Crutchfield walked in, he didn’t seem surprised to find her there even though Gentry had told her the visit would be unannounced. He ambled over to the bed as if he didn’t have a care in the world and casually sat down.
“So nice to see you again, Miss Jessie,” he drawled, lingering on the “ee” in her name. “Where were we?”
“Unfortunately, this will be our last visit, Mr. Crutchfield. My practicum is nearly complete and I don’t think I’m authorized to come beyond today. So we’ll have to make the most of our remaining time.”
“What a shame,” he replied. “And just when we were finally getting to know each other.”
“You feel you know me?” she asked, sensing a chance to get in a question before the whole “three for one” procedure had been reestablished. She sensed Gentry, standing near the door, stir and knew she had picked up on the attempt as well.
“Why certainly,” Crutchfield said. “For example, I can tell that right now, you’re carrying a mighty burden, though not a physical one anymore.”
He chuckled to himself at the line. Jessie, realizing what he was referencing, stared coldly back at him, refusing to let him see the shock and hurt he’d ignited. He continued, either unaware or unconcerned.
“At first I surmised that it was losing the little one growing in your belly that had you low,” he said, looking up at Officer Gentry and clearly taking pleasure in the reaction he was able to get from her, if not from Jessie. “But then I realized it was something else eating at you.”
“Pray tell,” Jessie said without emotion.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he replied, his piercing brown eyes boring into her mercilessly. “You’re carrying a weight, some sort of guilt at something you’ve done, or at least think you’ve done.”
“How can you be so sure?” she asked.
“Not feeling much in the way of guilt myself, I have a gift for seeing it plain in others. It kind of pulsates, you know? It’s like, if you don’t have an itch yourself, it’s real easy to see everyone else scratching. And you’re scratching somethin’ fierce, Miss Jessie.”
“Why is that?” she asked, ignoring the creeping fear that he was going to accuse her of killing someone right in that room based simply on her body language.
“Your head’s telling you that you’ve done something abominable. But your gut is screaming something else. And you don’t know which to trust. It’s got you all twisted up inside. Well, here’s my advice. And you know that I’m not in the advising business, so this must be good. Trust your gut, Miss Jessie. Trust your instincts. Maybe you ain’t the one who should be twistin’.”
Jessie stared at him, trying to determine if what he was saying was genuinely intended to help her or just another perverse game. He was a serial killer, after all, she reminded herself, not a therapist. He simply stared back, lips pursed slightly in amusement, offering nothing.
Before she could draw any conclusions, a deafening siren went off, the room darkened, and a red light began flashing. Jessie, who half-jumped out of her seat, couldn’t help but notice that Crutchfield didn’t react at all to the chaos. He gave her a quick wink, but otherwise remained still. She turned to look back at Officer Gentry, who was already on her radio.
“Sitrep!” she demanded.
“Jackson’s going crazy,” Cortez shouted back urgently. “He’s slamming his head against his bed frame and chomping at his wrists with his teeth. Blood is spurting everywhere.”
“I’ll be right there,” Gentry said, then pointed at Jessie. “You come with me!”
Jessie glanced back at Crutchfield, whose face was still impassive. But he seemed to be willing her to understand something with his eyes. In that moment, she made a choice. She grabbed her notepad and stood up. As she turned for the door, she feigned tripping and fell to the ground, ripping a sheet of paper as she dropped.
“Move now!” Gentry ordered, pulling her to her feet. Jessie let herself be yanked up, quickly crumpling the paper into a tight ball as the officer pulled her from the room. As they got to the door, Jessie stumbled again and “accidentally” slammed into the doorjamb. As she used her left hand to brace herself, she shoved the paper wad into the lock jamb. Once in the hall, Jessie forced herself to focus her attention on Gentry and not the door closing behind her.
“Go to the security station,” Gentry ordered. “Stay there until this is resolved. Got it?”
“Got it,” Jessie said, nodding.
She started in that direction as Gentry rushed off the opposite way. Only when she was sure the other woman was out of sight did she turn back around and return to Crutchfield’s door. Without pausing to think, she grabbed the handle and tugged. It opened without a fight.
To her surprise, Crutchfield was no longer sitting at the edge of his bed but standing close to the glass partition with an expectant look on his face. He didn’t speak, rather motioning with a single finger for her to approach him. Pretending like getting within inches of a serial killer was no big deal, she hurried over to the glass, gulping despite her best efforts.
“We don’t have long,” Crutchfield said in a hushed voice, still twangy but without any of the deliberately lazy drawl from before. “Jackson can only keep them busy for so long. My instructions were for him to delay them for at least two minutes but there are no guarantees. So ask me the question you’ve been gathering the courage to pose for weeks now.”
Jessie didn’t need any further prodding.
“All your kills are copycats,” she said in hurried whisper. “But the man you’re copying covered up his murders by burning the bodies afterward. The authorities never revealed the methods he used—they weren’t even aware of all of them. Yet you are. How is that possible?”
“I think you already know the answer to that question, Miss Jessie. That visitor I had a while back wasn’t just someone looking for a friendly chat. He was—what’s the word folks use these days—my mentor. And he wanted to check up on me.”
“But how did you find each other?” she demanded. “How did you first meet up?”
“I was an admirer of his work,” Crutchfield said.
“I get that. But how did you first learn how he committed his crimes? You didn’t bump into each other in a coffee shop.”
“I think you know the answer to that too, Miss Jessie. But I’ll humor you. I got my hands on the statement from the only surviving witness to his crimes, a little girl named Jessica Thurman. She was only a wee thing at the time, about six years old. And the things she described were so awful that the cops thought she was spinning nightmares because of what she’d been through. They thought she’d gone and created a boogeyman to explain away what she couldn’t rightly understand. They wrote it all down but they didn’t really believe her. It was too crazy. But I believed her. And I went looking for the artist whose work she’d illustrated with so much vivid clarity. And I found him, Miss Jessie. I found your boogeyman and he taught me his craft. Maybe not all his tricks, but most of them—the real good ones at least.”
“So he’s alive?” Jessie said, more to herself than Crutchfield. “After all these years, he’s still alive?”
“Alive and kicking, as the song says.”
“And he knew I’d come to see you eventually?” she pressed. “That I’d see the similarities between your crimes and his?”
“That he did, Miss Jessie. He knew that someday you’d recognize his handiwork. He knew you’d find a way to reach out to me. He left me a message for you. You want it?”
Jessica nodded. But just then, the door burst open behind her. She turned to see Gentry and Cortez barreling toward her. Q
uickly she turned back to Crutchfield.
“Tell me,” she demanded.
But before he could respond she felt herself being slammed hard from behind. Her face smushed up against the glass as she felt her hands being cuffed behind her back. Crutchfield bent down and, for a brief moment, she thought he might whisper the message. But instead, he leaned over and kissed the glass where her cheek was pressed against it, then stepped back.
“Tell me!” she screamed as she was pulled back forcibly. But all he did was watch solemnly as she was dragged from the room.
CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
“I could have you arrested!”
Jessie was sitting in a chair in Gentry’s office, her left hand handcuffed to a pipe near the wall. The officer had reviewed the video of Jessie’s exchange with Crutchfield multiple times. But because of the sirens and how close they were to each other, the audio was useless. Clearly frustrated, she was now resorting to threats.
Jessie understood her frustration and tried not to exacerbate it. Instead, for what had to be the fourth time, she apologized.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was a violation to go back in there. The door was unlocked and I thought I heard him calling for help.”
“Just stop!” Gentry yelled. “You’re just making things worse for yourself. You were explicitly told the rules about interaction with inmates each and every time you went in there. The door wasn’t open. We found the wad of paper in the doorjamb lock. You put it there. He never called for help. He knew you’d be coming back in. He was waiting for you. And you talked calmly for nearly a full minute before I came back in. Why shouldn’t I bust you for aiding and abetting a prisoner? How do I know you weren’t trying to help him escape?”
Jessie looked at the woman in front of her, who was so obviously furious. And yet, Gentry hadn’t actually called the cops. She hadn’t done anything other than read her the riot act. And this was hardly the first time Jessie had broken protocol. It was a regular occurrence. So why was Gentry holding back? Why was she giving her a chance to explain, even at this late date?
