by Blake Pierce
Gayle again nodded without speaking.
“Let me guess. You professed your love to her. She pulled back; said she wasn’t interested in a serious relationship. She was young and single and wanted to keep it that way. She didn’t love you.”
“She was more diplomatic than that,” Gayle said, crossing her legs again, this time more quickly. The swishing of the silk sounded like a snake scurrying through long grass. “But when it came down to it, yes, she dumped me.”
How did that make you feel?” Jessie asked in her best therapist voice.
“Not great, obviously.”
“It was a little more than that though, wasn’t it, Gayle? You couldn’t let it go. Those emails started up again, even though they put your secret at risk. I read them all. You pleaded with her; offered to set her up so she’d never have to work again. But she never even responded, did she?”
Gayle’s icy stare was answer enough. Jessie pressed on, knowing she was in the home stretch.
“And then she went and blackmailed Milton. But you knew it was directed as much at you as at him. You knew that was her unspoken way of hinting that he better pay up or else your secrets would come out too. It probably felt almost as if the blackmail of your husband was intended to deliberately hurt you more than him.”
“I didn’t feel that way,” Gayle corrected her. “It was that way.”
“So you went to see her one more time, at her place, feeling wounded and angry and betrayed—hoping to get her to reconsider. Not just the blackmail, but to reconsider the two of you as well. But she wasn’t having any of it. Maybe she was less diplomatic this time around. She probably had no idea what a wronged, gym-fit forty-something woman was capable of when pushed to the edge. She underestimated you, didn’t she, Gayle? She dismissed you. And that was one time too many. So you grabbed the only thing you had at that moment that could express the fury you felt—your keys.”
Gayle remained silent, staring back at her. Jessie studied the woman’s expression and was surprised that the best description of it was…appreciative. It was as if Gayle Martindale Jerebko was thankful that someone finally understood her.
“You jammed them in her throat, didn’t you, Gayle?” Jessie said, leading her where she knew the woman wanted to go. “You let her know you weren’t going to be ignored anymore. How did that feel?”
She went quiet, waiting for Gayle’s response. Next to his wife, Milton sat, limp and stunned. Finally Gayle opened her mouth.
“I felt free, maybe for the first time ever.”
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
“Gayle, shut up!” Milton shouted, suddenly snapping out of his daze. “She’s trying to get you to confess. Don’t say another word.”
“It’s too late, Milton,” Gayle said casually. “She obviously already knows everything. She has the emails. She’ll check everywhere I’ve been. There’s no point in pretending.”
“But knowing something and proving it are different things,” he protested. “Don’t make it easy. We’ll get you a good lawyer. There’s still hope.”
Gayle turned to him with an almost pitying look.
“Hope for what—our marriage? You’ve already destroyed that. Our kids are already ashamed that you’re their father. What’s a little more material for their therapy sessions? So she knows? It was worth it, if only to ruin you, you selfish bastard.”
Milton looked at her in uncomprehending horror. After a moment he blinked and stood up.
“I need a drink,” he said and shuffled off to the kitchen.
Jessie watched him go and turned back to his wife.
“Gayle, you did the right thing coming clean,” she said. “I recently had a case where the perpetrator was a woman not unlike you. I determined her guilt and asked her to give up. It was a crime of passion and she had young kids. If she had confessed, she might have gotten leniency. But she wasn’t capable of that.”
“What happened?” Gayle asked.
“She attacked me with a knife. Unlike her first crime, that was premeditated. What could have been a ten-year sentence ended up being life. I know it was hard. But being honest could cut years off your sentence.”
“I don’t even care about that. I just want Milton to suffer,” she seethed.
“You may feel differently in a few months,” Jessie said. In the distance, she thought she could hear the sirens she’d been dreading. Now she found the sound reassuring.
“What are you doing, Milton?” Gayle shouted suddenly.
Jessie spun around on the couch to see Milton Jerebko stomping into the room with a golf club in his hands. He was holding it like a bat.
“You think you can ruin me?” he yelled, his eyes wide and frenzied. “I’m going to end you!”
Jessie popped up, blocking his path to his wife, who screamed loudly.
“You don’t want to do this, Milton,” Jessie said forcefully, putting her hands up like a human stop sign. “You’ve been a jerk. But you haven’t committed a crime yet. If you put the club down, we can still come back from this. But if you don’t drop it now, I can’t help you.”
“You don’t give a crap about me,” he spat. “All you care about is solving your case. You’re like any other hunter who loves the chase. You stalked your prey. Now that you’ve bagged it, you don’t care about the consequences. You don’t care about the lives that will be destroyed.”
Somewhere in the dark recesses of Jessie’s mind, his words struck a chord. But she set them aside. Now wasn’t the time for personal introspection.
“You’re life hasn’t been destroyed yet, Milton,” she reminded him. “I know it seems that way. But you can come back from this. It will take time but it can be done. But not if you keep gripping that weapon. You hear those sirens getting louder? What do you think is going to happen when the police burst through the door and see you like that? They’re going to shoot you, Milton. Your kids’ mother is already going to prison. That’s hard enough. Do you want them to have to visit their father in a hole in the ground? For once in your life, think of someone other than yourself. Do the right thing for them. Drop the goddamn club.”
The sirens were right outside now. Jessie felt confident that if Jerebko made an aggressive move, she could incapacitate him. He looked strong for his age but he didn’t carry himself like someone who was used to being in this kind of situation.
Still, her concern that this go south was real. Murph had almost certainly told the West Hollywood PD that her safety was paramount. If they saw a golf-club-wielding man feet from her, they could easily shoot first and ask questions later.
Milton Jerebko looked genuinely lost. His eyes seemed uncertain but his fingers still gripped the club tightly.
“There’s not much time,” Jessie implored him. “Drop it.”
From behind her, Gayle spoke.
“Milt, drop the club. Hate me all you want. But don’t punish our children. They need you. Put it down.”
There was a sudden pounding on the door.
“Police—open the door!”
“Milton,” Jessie said firmly. “You have about ten seconds to drop the club and get on your knees with your hands up. Otherwise those officers will shoot you. I guarantee it.”
“Milt, please!” Gayle begged.
“Open this door now or we will break it down!” came the shout from the front door.
Jerebko seemed to come out of the crazed state he’d been in. He looked down at his hands and then back at Jessie and Gayle.
“Now,” Jessie ordered.
Milton dropped the club.
“Good,” she said. “Now get on your knees with your hands above your head.”
He did as he was told just as the front door was smashed open by a battering ram, which echoed through the house.
“You too, Gayle,” Jessie instructed. “Hurry.”
Gayle slid to her knees.
Jessie nodded her approval, then yelled as loud as she could.
“We’re in here. Suspects a
re giving up. They are unarmed!”
Then she faced the living room entrance and raised her own hands above her head as a precaution. Seconds later, four uniformed officers burst into the room, all with weapons raised.
“I’m LAPD forensic profiler Jessie Hunt,” she announced to them all. “Both suspects on their knees are turning themselves in. Neither is armed.”
“Identification!” the officer closest to her demanded.
“Getting it now,” she said, slowly moving her right hand to her back pocket.
She had just pulled out her wallet and was preparing to show her ID when Murph walked in with Toomey right behind him. His gun wasn’t out but his hand was resting on his holster. A moment later, Dolan walked in behind them.
“That won’t be necessary,” Murph said emotionlessly. “She is who she says she is. Care to fill us in, Ms. Hunt?”
“Sure,” she said, pretending not to be surprised at the lack of anger in his voice. “This is Gayle Martindale Jerebko. She’s just confessed to the murder of Claire Stanton. That’s Milton Jerebko. He is guilty of…being an asshole. Will we be charging him with anything else today, Gayle?”
Gayle looked at her and then at Milton, who appeared to be crying silently to himself.
“No,” Gayle said slowly. “No, we won’t.”
Jessie nodded as she walked over and kicked the golf club out of Milton’s reach.
“Okay then,” she said. “I think you can take her into custody. She’ll be going to Central Station. Mr. Jerebko, you’ll need to travel to the station separately.”
“Ms. Hunt, may I have a word with you?” Murph said, his tone professional to anyone who wasn’t listening too closely. But she noticed the edge in it.
“Sure,” she said, following him into the kitchen. Toomey and Dolan trailed behind.
“I’m glad to see you’re okay,” Murph said when the four of them were alone in the room. “But as you can imagine, I’m a little disappointed in your lack of communication with the Service prior to your departure.”
Jessie looked at him, unsure what to make of his reaction. She thought for certain he’d be screaming at her by now.
“I’m sorry?” she asked more than said.
Dolan chuckled at her confusion.
“He was not this calm on the way over,” he said, speaking for the first time since his arrival. “I didn’t even know marshals were allowed to talk the way he did.”
Murph glared at him but said nothing.
“Listen,” Jessie said, knowing some kind of explanation was in order. “I know I shouldn’t have just left. But once I realized Gayle was our killer, I saw a way to get her come clean. But I knew she’d never do it if I had all of you around. I had to appeal to her sense of being wronged, of being ignored. I never could have gotten her to that place with all of you in the room.”
“We could have waited outside,” Dolan said unconvincingly.
Jessie raised her eyebrows.
“Right,” she said dismissively, “like you would have agreed to sit out an interview with a murder suspect because I asked politely. And there is no way the marshal over there would have consented to wait elsewhere while I questioned a person who had just stabbed someone in the throat with keys.”
“From what I could tell,” Murph said quietly, “it looked like you could have used a bit of backup with Mr. Jerebko. I’m assuming he wasn’t working on his stance with that driver at his feet.”
“I had it under control,” Jessie replied, not wanting to say too much about that particular moment.
“Obviously,” he said.
Jessie genuinely couldn’t tell if he was sincere or not.
“So are we cool?” she asked.
“That’s not how I would describe it,” Murph said slowly. “But if you can promise me that you won’t ever do something like that again, we can move past it. There are still two serial killers out there looking for you.”
She nodded without a word, deciding now wasn’t the ideal time to mention that Bolton Crutchfield had been waiting for her at the house.
The officers were escorting Gayle out of the house and into the back of a black-and-white. Jessie and the others followed. Out front, she saw the unmarked vehicle she’d used to get here.
“Don’t sweat that,” Dolan said, reading her mind. “Decker’s sending someone to pick up the car. There’s no way he’s letting you drive yourself back. You’re back to sharing the backseat in the marshal car with me.”
They all walked over to get in. As she opened the door, Jessie glanced back in the direction where she’d seen Crutchfield earlier. The last vestiges of dusky light were almost gone and the tree he’d been standing next to was barely visible.
Some of the leafy branches blew gently in the evening breeze and for a second she thought she saw movement from something else, something human. But it was only a shadow caused by a cloud moving through the moonlight.
Is this my life now—jumping at every shifting shadow I see?
She feared that it just might be.
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE
“I’m sorry.”
Jessie turned to Dolan, not certain that she’d really heard the words come out of his mouth.
“Excuse me?” she said, staring at him. “Sorry for what?”
“For what I said before, about you being like your dad. I didn’t mean it.”
“I didn’t think you even remembered saying it, Double Bourbon,” she said, trying to keep it light.
“I don’t get drunk as fast as I used to,” he said. “So my head was still pretty clear at that point.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said, then after a long moment, added, “Have you talked to anyone about what happened, to your family, I mean?”
“I’ve talked to lots of people, Hunt. It was Bureau-mandated. I’ve been through more therapists than pairs of shoes in the last few years.”
“Of course,” she said. “And I don’t mean to butt my head in where it doesn’t belong. But I think I’ve got some expertise in this area. As someone who was strapped down to a chair and forced to watch my mother murdered by my father when I was six, who had to assume a new identity as a child, whose husband tried to kill me and whose adoptive parents were also butchered by my birth father, I think I’m qualified to say this, You need help, man. You are drowning in cynicism. And no amount of bourbon is going to wipe that away.”
She waited for him to tell her to mind her business. But he didn’t.
“What do you suggest?” he asked, uncharacteristically quiet.
“I see someone semi-regularly who really helps me. Her name is Dr. Janice Lemmon. She’s not just a shrink. She’s a behavioral therapy specialist. And she used to work as a consultant for the LAPD, among others. She knows her stuff and she doesn’t take any crap. I’m about forty percent less messed up than I would be if I didn’t see her. I could give you her number.”
“Let me think about it,” he said.
“I’m giving you the number. You can call her or not. But at least you have it if you need it.”
“Thanks, Hunt. You’re not as terrible as I thought you’d be.”
“Wish I could say the same,” Jessie said, smiling.
*
Despite her best efforts, Jessie couldn’t stop hearing the words.
“You’re like any other hunter who loves the chase,” Milton Jerebko had told her. “You stalked your prey. Now that you’ve bagged it, you don’t care about the consequences. You don’t care about the lives that will be destroyed.”
And though Agent Dolan had tried to retract what he’d said about her similarity to her father, the memory of his comments lingered too.
“You both use stealthy techniques to achieve your goals until you determine that a full-on frontal assault is more effective. And you both have terrible impulse control.”
There was no point in denying it anymore. Jessie could see the truth now. They were both right. She had inherited her father’s relentle
ss love of the hunt. She would use whatever method, no matter how deceptive or morally dubious, to achieve the outcome she wanted.
It mattered that she used that instinct for good and not evil. It mattered a lot. But the impulse to go for the jugular, no matter the consequences, wasn’t something she seemed capable of turning off. Truthfully, she didn’t really want to.
How much of a push would it require for that impulse to be turned in a darker direction? How much self-control would she have if put in a situation more ambiguous than simply catching the bad guy? What if she turned her ruthlessness against those who had wronged her and not just the system? She couldn’t deny that she’d had the urge. Until now, she managed to keep it in check by adhering to a strict personal code. But personal codes can change when put to the test. Could she be sure hers wouldn’t?
They were just pulling into the station when the text came through, pulling her out of her reverie. Jessie and Dolan got it at the same time. It was from Decker.
Body found outside Hernandez’s hospital. Early indications suggest Xander Thurman. ME confirming.
Jessie gasped involuntarily before reminding herself not to jump to conclusions.
“What is it?” Murph asked from the front seat, sensing there was news.
“They think they found my father,” she said evenly.
“Where?”
“The hospital,” she said. “I need you to take me there.”
Murph shook his head.
“Not until we know it’s legit. This could be another trick.”
“It could be. That’s why I need to go. If anyone can identify the body, it’s me. Besides, I’ll have you and your buddies there with me. Are you telling me that even with all your resources, you can’t protect me in an inherently secure facility like a hospital?”
“I can’t be sure it’s secure,” he countered.
“We’ll know it’s secure if I can identify the body,” Jessie pressed.
Murph didn’t respond. From the driver’s seat, Toomey looked over. They were almost to the entrance to the police station garage. He clearly wasn’t sure if they would be going in.
