The Perfect Wife. Блейк Пирс

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      “According to the Department of State Hospitals, DSH-Atascadero up in San Luis Obispo handles those cases,” he replied stone-faced. “Metro deals with nonviolent offenders. So I’m not sure what you’re referencing.”

      “Of course you are,” Jessie said more confidently than she’d expected. “It’s called the Non-Rehabilitative Division, or NRD for short. But that’s just the boring term they use for public consumption. Internally and within criminal justice circles, NRD is known as the ‘high-risk’ unit at DSH-Metro, which I happened to notice is the term you used to describe it in class.”

      Hosta didn’t respond. Instead, he studied her inscrutably for several seconds before finally allowing his face to break into a slight grin. It was the first time she’d seen anything close to a smile from him.

      “Walk with me,” he said, motioning for her to exit the room. “You win the special prize, Ms. Hunt. It’s been three semesters since a student last picked up on my little bit of verbal trickery there. Everyone is so turned off by the community standards bit that no one wonders what the reference to ‘high-risk’ is all about. But it’s clear that you were familiar with NRD long before entering class today. What do you know about it?”

      “Well,” she began carefully, “I did the first several semesters of my study at USC and NRD is kind of an open secret there, what with them being so close.”

      “Ms. Hunt, you are dissembling. It is not an open secret. Even within law enforcement and the psychiatric community, it is a tightly guarded one. I’d hazard that fewer than two hundred people in the region are aware of its existence. Less than half of them know the full nature of the facility. And yet, somehow, you do. Please explain yourself. And this time, let’s drop the careful coyness.”

      Now it was Jessie’s turn to decide whether to be forthcoming.

      You’ve come this far. May as well take that final leap.

      “I did my thesis on it,” she said. “It almost got me kicked out of the program.”

      Hosta stopped walking and looked briefly stunned before regaining his composure.

      “So that was you?” he asked, sounding impressed as he started back down the hall. “That thesis is legendary among those who have read it. If I recall, the title was along the lines of ‘The Impact of Non-Rehabilitative Long-Term Incarceration on the Criminally Insane.’ But no one could figure out who the real author was. After all, there is no official record of ‘Jane Don’t.’”

      “I have to admit I was pretty proud of that name. But using a fake one at all wasn’t my decision,” Jessie admitted.

      “What do you mean?” Hosta asked, clearly intrigued.

      Jessie wondered if she was skirting the edge of what she was allowed to discuss. But then she remembered the reason she was assigned to work with Hosta in the first place and decided there was no reason to be coy.

      “My faculty adviser submitted the thesis to the dean,” she explained. “He promptly brought in several law enforcement and medical folks I’m not allowed to mention other than by the charming term ‘The Panel.’ I was questioned for nine straight hours before they determined that I was sincerely writing an academic paper and not secretly some reporter or worse.”

      “That sounds exciting,” Hosta said. He seemed to mean it.

      “It sounds it. But at the time, terrifying was a more appropriate word. Eventually they decided not to arrest me. After all, they had the off-book, secret psychiatric lockup, not me. The school agreed that I hadn’t done anything technically wrong and agreed not to dump me, although everything about the thesis was declared classified. The department determined that my interrogation by authorities could serve as my thesis defense. And I signed several documents promising not to discuss the matter with anyone, including my husband, or face potential prosecution, although for what charge they never said.”

      “Then how is it, Ms. Hunt, that we are having this conversation?”

      “I received a…let’s call it a special dispensation. I was permitted to continue to pursue my degree and set a specific condition. But in order to complete it, my new faculty adviser would have to be made at least superficially aware of what I’d written. The powers that be looked at the faculty at every university in Orange County and determined that you alone met their requirements. The school has a master’s program in Criminal Psychology, which you direct. You have a relationship with NRD and have done field work there. You even have it as a practicum option set up there in rare instances where a student expresses interest and shows promise. You’re my only option for fifty miles in any direction.”

      “I suppose I should be flattered. And what if I decline to be your faculty adviser?” he asked.

      “You should have received a visit from someone representing The Panel to address all this—how it would be in your best interest, etc. I’m surprised you haven’t. They’re usually pretty thorough.”

      Hosta thought for a second.

      “I have received several emails and a voice message recently from someone named Dr. Ranier,” he said. “But the name wasn’t familiar so I ignored them.”

      “I recommend you return the message, Professor,” Jessie suggested. “It’s possible that it’s a pseudonym, maybe for someone you already know.”

      “I’ll do that. In any case, I gather that I won’t have to jump through all the usual bureaucratic hoops to get you authorized to do your practicum at NRD?”

      “Doing it there was the specific condition I mentioned earlier. It’s the reason I agreed without much fuss to their non-disclosure agreement,” Jessie told him, unable to keep the excitement out of her voice. “I’ve been waiting almost two years for this.”

      “Two years?” Hosta said, surprised. “If you completed your thesis that long ago, shouldn’t you have your degree by now?”

      “That’s a long story I’ll have to share some other time. But for now, can I assume I have your authorization do my practicum at DSH-Metro, specifically in NRD?”

      “Assuming your story checks out, yes,” he said as they reached his office door. He unlocked it but didn’t invite her in. “But I have to pose the question I raise with any student who requests to do their field work there—are you sure you want to do this?”

      “How can you ask me that, given everything I’ve told you?”

      “Because it’s one thing to read about the people being held at that facility,” he answered. “It’s quite another to interact with them. It gets real very fast. I gather from the redactions in your thesis that you know about some of the inmates being housed there?”

      “A few; I know that the serial rapist from Bakersfield, Delmond Stokes, is being held there. And the multiple child murderer who was captured last year by that retired lady cop is there as well. And I’m pretty sure Bolton Crutchfield is being held there too.”

      Hosta stared at her, as if deciding whether or not to say what he was thinking. Finally he seemed to make a decision.

      “That’s who you want to observe, isn’t it?”

      “I have to admit, I’m curious,” Jessie said. “I’ve heard all kinds of stories about him. I’m not sure СКАЧАТЬ