“He could never tell her secret because it was his secret too,” Jocelyn mused. “He pulled the trigger. She could never tell on him because he’d tell about her involvement and the affair. Her sleeping with a student would have been career suicide.”
“Assured mutual destruction,” Whitman agreed.
Jocelyn bit her lower lip. Then she said, “I can’t see Francine cowing to a boy or anyone for that matter. She’d simply deny her involvement and the affair. Who wouldn’t believe her? You should have seen this woman, Whitman. The face she presented to the world—warm, sweet, wholesome. I felt badly for her. Put her next to a delinquent with a history of bad behavior and no one would believe a troubled kid over her.”
“I suspect that was part of the fun for Francine. So you think there is something else in play here?”
Jocelyn nodded. “Maybe a sex tape? Although I can’t see her consenting to one. I don’t know. Something that would be undeniable and damaging. I think he has something on her that he can prove. Otherwise, he’d never be able to keep her at a distance.”
Whitman smiled. “Sounds like you’ve got some work to do.”
“Yes, it’s a direction to go in at least. One last thing, how does a person that manipulative fly under the radar for that long, even from her own husband?”
“How did she fly under your radar, Detective?”
“I’m not a detective anymore,” Jocelyn reminded him.
“Sure you are, you just haven’t got a badge anymore. So tell me, how does she do it? You already know.”
It didn’t take long for Jocelyn to figure it out. She rubbed her palms over her face. “Oh my God,” she moaned. “I felt badly for her. That’s how she did it. People would feel so badly for her that they never looked past that. No one ever looked more deeply into her behavior because they were too busy feeling sorry for her.”
“Precisely,” Whitman said. “One of the things psychopaths do best is evoke pity from the rest of us, those of us with a conscience. It is one of the most useful tools in their arsenal.”
“And if there was nothing going on to pity her for, she would manufacture something.”
“Yes. Think of her husband. He surely wanted to leave, but you cannot in good conscience leave a rape victim or a woman who’s just lost a baby. Confessing to Sydney Adams’ murder was probably the most liberating thing he’s ever done. It finally gets him out of her sphere of control. Plus, the whole world feels sorry for her—poor clueless Francine, the loyal, loving wife who finds out her husband is a cheating murderer.”
Jocelyn bit her bottom lip. “Or Francine the hero who turned her husband in when she found out. Jesus.” A shiver worked its way through her body. When she’d said those things to Francine, she was just trying to break the case, not give the woman ideas.
“Exactly,” Whitman said. His smile had taken on a more natural quality, one of genuine enjoyment. He liked what he did, and he was good at it. He was in the zone, in his own personal state of flow.
She couldn’t bring herself to thank him, even putting aside their “past associations” and trying to view him as nothing more than a criminal psychologist consulting on a case. She simply couldn’t do it. She noticed his eyes flick to her lap and back. She was stroking her scar again. It was becoming a nervous habit. She stilled her hands, busied them smoothing her hair back behind her ears. Whitman said nothing.
She stood and straightened her jacket. “Well, I should get going,” she said. “You’ve been—” even the word helpful stuck in her throat. Finally, she said, “Of use.”
Whitman stood and saw her to the door, his less creepy smile still in place, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly. “Thank you,” he said.
Chapter 46
November 20, 2014
“How’d it go with Whitman?” Anita asked.
Jocelyn plopped into one of the guest chairs in their reception area and threw her feet up on the coffee table. “It was . . . interesting.”
Anita clucked her tongue. She peered at Jocelyn from the doorway to her office. “I bet. Is he going to do what Camille wants?”
“Yeah, he says he will.”
“You feel better?”
“After talking to Whitman? I feel like I need a shower, but yes, I’m glad for Camille. It’s important to her.”
“I talked to Jynx. She’s planning the funeral.”
“From the hospital?” The morning after Knox’s death, Jynx had gone into labor.
“She’s home. Apparently Knox’s daughter wants nothing to do with any of it. Jynx said probably next week. They’re going to try for before Thanksgiving.”
Jocelyn nodded. She knew all about fractured families. She hadn’t gone to her own parents’ funeral, although what her parents had done seemed significantly worse than ruining a wedding or even being a semi-absent parent during the teen years. But who was she to judge? She had no idea what Bianca Knox had gone through, not really.
“You said Jynx is home?”
Jynx lived in a twin home in the Wynnefield Heights section of the city. Jocelyn and Anita arrived bearing a gift bag filled with clothes and toys for her newborn daughter. Jynx greeted them with a smile, though her eyes were red-rimmed. It was remarkable the way her body had snapped back to a much smaller shape after birth. Although Jocelyn had raised Olivia from one week old, she had no frame of reference for pregnancy or giving birth.
“Myron’s upstairs with the baby,” Jynx said as she led them into her kitchen. It was small and dated but decorated cheerily in a coffee theme, with steaming coffee mug decals on the cream-colored walls, towels and placemats featuring mugs that said “latte” or “mocha” beneath them, and a distressed sign hanging above the kitchen table that said This Home Runs on Love and Coffee. It had a cozy, modern feel to it. The table was retro style Formica with a white-speckled top. They took seats around it.
“I couldn’t find Sydney’s yearbook, so I called Lonnie. He should be here any minute,” Jynx said.
They chatted about Jynx’s new baby until Lonnie arrived, carrying a small box of souvenirs from his time at Franklin West. They sat around Jynx’s kitchen table, drinking hot tea—Jocelyn still couldn’t drink coffee, and Jynx wasn’t having any since she was nursing—while Jocelyn delivered the news that she didn’t believe that Cash’s confession was real. With great discomfort, she relayed all that Francine had revealed in the final minutes of her life. She told the story like a cop, detached, formal, like it had happened to someone else. But beneath the table, Anita reached into her lap and squeezed her hand. Talking about Knox’s demise still brought tears to her eyes. Everything about the situation, the case, that night, was still raw and emotional for her.
Both Jynx and Lonnie’s mouths hung open. Jynx looked at Lonnie and then back to Jocelyn. “Trent told us Knox passed. He didn’t say how. I thought . . . I just thought it was his medical issues. I . . .” she drifted off as tears spilled down her cheeks. She wiped them away.