The Perfect Wife. Блейк Пирс

Jessie had completed and defended hers while at USC, so she didn’t pay much attention to that discussion. Instead, her mind returned to the odd brunch at the yacht club and how, despite everyone’s warmth and generosity, she’d felt unsettled by it.

      It was only when talk returned to the practicums that she really focused back in. Students were asking logistical and academic questions. Jessie had one of her own but decided to wait until after class. She didn’t want to share it with the group.

      Most of her classmates clearly wanted to work at one of the prisons. The mention of a community ban on violent offenders at the Norwalk hospital seemed to limit its popularity.

      Eventually Professor Hosta signaled the end of class and folks started to file out of the room. Jessie took her time returning her notebook to her backpack while a few students asked Hosta questions. It was only when they were all gone and the professor himself was starting to walk out that she approached him.

      “Sorry again for the late arrival, Professor Hosta,” she said, trying not to sound too obsequious. Over the course of just one class, she’d gotten the strong sense that Hosta despised spineless groveling. He seemed to prefer inquisitiveness, even if it bordered on rudeness, to deference.

      “You don’t sound very apologetic, Ms.…” he noted with a raised eyebrow.

      “Hunt, Jessie Hunt. And I’m not really,” she admitted, deciding in that moment that she’d have more success with this guy if she was straightforward. “I just figured I needed to be polite in order get an answer to my real question.”

      “Which is…?” he asked, his eyebrows raised in intrigued surprise.

      She had his attention.

      “I noticed you said that DSH-Metro doesn’t accept patients with a history of violence.”

      “That’s correct,” he said. “It’s their policy. I was basically quoting from their website.”

      “But Professor, we both know that’s not entirely accurate. The Norwalk hospital does have a small section cordoned off to treat patients who have committed some horrifically violent crimes, including serial murder, rape, and assorted transgressions against children.”

      He stared at her impassively for a long moment before responding.

      “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