Wild Rage

by Tripp Ellis

  We made our way to the nurses’ station, and I flashed my badge. The charge nurse directed us to Dorothy's room. It was just a few steps away.

  I quietly pushed inside the private room. The flatscreen TV mounted on the wall was tuned to a news channel. Dorothy was awake. She had just finished breakfast. We had met previously on a few social occasions, but I wasn't sure she'd recognize us in her current state.

  Her weary eyes surveyed us as we stepped to her bed. The blinds had been drawn, and sunlight poured in, filling the otherwise dreary room.

  "Mrs. Perry, I'm Deputy Wild, and this is Deputy Donovan."

  "I know who you are. I may have taken a bunch of shrapnel, but my noggin is still intact."

  Dorothy Perry was in her early 60s with a round face and auburn hair that fell just below her jawline. She fought the battle against the gray with an outstanding dye job. Her left arm was wrapped with a colorful array of bracelets that contained her health information—patient ID, medical status, etc. A yellow band read: Fall Risk in bold black letters.

  An IV in her forearm administered fluids from a bag hanging on the stand beside the bed. The craggy peaks of her heartbeat blipped on the monitor, and she wore the standard-issue green gown with tiny patterns on it.

  "Has anyone spoken to you about the situation yet?" I asked in a delicate tone.

  A grim look washed over her face. Her eyes filled, and she gave a nod.

  "I'm so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Perry."

  She wiped away a tear that seeped from the corner of her eye. "I just don't understand who would do such a thing."

  "Rest assured, we're gonna find out who is responsible,” I said. "Is there anything you can tell me about the incident?"

  She took a deep breath and steadied herself. “Ed came home yesterday afternoon, and he mentioned something about seeing a package on the porch. I hadn't noticed. I had been in the backyard working in my rose garden. I heard him pull into the driveway, and I greeted him at the back door. He stepped inside the house, and I was telling him about a dinner party that we were invited to. I followed him into the foyer and he pulled open the front door. Ed bent over and grabbed the package. That's when it exploded," she could barely finish the sentence, her throat tight, her eyes watering.

  I handed her a box of tissues that was on a rolling tray beside the bed. She yanked one from the box and dabbed her eyes. Dorothy thought for a moment, sniffled, then pulled herself together. "I don't really remember anything after that. Not until I woke up here. I have fleeting glimpses of being in the ambulance and asking about Ed."

  She hung her head, and her eyes gazed a thousand yards away.

  JD and I stood quietly beside the bed until she felt like continuing.

  "There was nothing unusual about the package,” she said. “I just thought it was something I had ordered online and forgotten about or something Ed had ordered."

  "Do you remember if the bomb went off instantly?"

  "I'm not sure. I think Ed had gotten it a few inches off the ground when it exploded."

  "Had either of you received any threats prior?"

  "I don't think so," Dorothy said. "If Ed did, he didn't say anything to me. Which, knowing him, he wouldn't have. He wouldn't have wanted to alarm me. As far as I know, we hadn't received any unusual or threatening phone calls. It seems the only people that ever call the house are the damn telemarketers and political calls."

  “Would you mind if we looked through Ed's office and searched his computer?” I asked. “Perhaps he received a threat at the office or by email."

  "Do whatever you need to do. I want this person stopped before they have a chance to hurt anyone else."

  6

  It was a long shot, but it was worth looking. The judge's phone had been in his pocket at the time of the explosion, and the device was mangled beyond all recognition. With the approval of Mrs. Perry, Denise had acquired the cell phone records for Ed's phone. I asked her to cross-reference every number that had called in the last six months to see if there was anything unusual.

  Dorothy had given us the keys to her house and the judge's office, and we began peering into his private life.

  Dorothy wouldn’t like what we’d find.

  Ed's office had an old-school feel with cherry wood-paneled walls and classic furniture. There was a Chesterfield couch and two matching chairs. A large oak desk was the centerpiece of the room, and the Florida state flag hung near an American flag against the wall behind the judge’s desk. There were ornately framed oil paintings of the founding fathers, and the bookshelves contained thick, leather-bound books of case law. A plaque on the judge’s desk read: Edward R. Perry.

  The desk was stacked with papers and manila folders. There were pens and sharpies in a container. Nearby, a tray with paper clips and rubber bands. There was a stapler a few inches away. A family photo of Ed, Dorothy, and his two daughters, Layla and Reese, sat atop the desk near the 20-inch flatscreen monitor. There was a computer tower underneath the desk.

  We rummaged through the papers and looked through a tray containing incoming mail. I hated to violate the man's privacy like this, but it was a necessary evil. Dorothy had given us a list of potential passwords for his computer. I sat behind the desk and booted up the PC. My fingers clattered against the keys as I typed in the first two passwords, both of which failed.

  The third, LawDawg, didn’t work either.

  I frowned and deflated in the chair. I knew our IT guys could gain access easily, but I was impatient. My fingers typed a number of common passwords—none of which worked. Then I used variations of the ones Dorothy had given me, adding birthdays, special occasions, etc.

  LawDawg57 gave me access.

  The security screen vanished, and the system launched. A snow-covered mountain scene filled the desktop, which was cluttered with folders and files. I guess Ed was dreaming of a winter getaway. We never saw snow in Coconut Key, and winter rarely averaged below the mid-60s in January.

  I launched his mail application and began sifting through his inbox. There were hundreds of unread messages. Most of them were SPAM. A few were court-related.

  I kept skimming the emails until I came across something of note—an email from Destiny Delight. It read: Looking forward to seeing you again soon, XOXO.

  I cringed slightly and exchanged a glance with JD.

  "Looks like Ed had himself a girlfriend," JD said.

  A quick search of the internet brought up Destiny's webpage. It was lined with provocative photos in lacy lingerie that left little to the imagination. The sultry brunette vixen had an alluring quality.

  “I’d certainly lower the gavel on that," JD said, looking over my shoulder.

  I read the email chain between Ed and Destiny. I surmised that he had acquired her services on more than one occasion.

  "What do we do about this?" JD asked.

  I shrugged. It was an unpleasant fact that Ed’s wife might not appreciate. "Dorothy will probably find out about it sooner or later."

  "I don't want to be the bearer of bad news," JD said.

  "I don't think it's relevant to our investigation. Maybe we should just leave it at that?”

  A quick search of the judge’s Internet browsing history revealed that he had visited numerous adult-oriented websites. Probably not the most appropriate use of county time.

  I did a keyword search of the computer looking for the words that might appear in a bomb threat—death, bomb, explosion, kill, murder, maim, destroy, etc.

  That's when I found the judge's secret stash. Several images came up in a folder labeled Legal Precedents.

  JD's eyes rounded when I clicked on a few of the images, and they expanded on the screen. They were hard-core pornographic photos depicting young women bound, gagged, and tortured. This went beyond your standard BDSM fair. These were gritty, grainy, Lo-Fi images that looked real, not staged. There was genuine fear and terror in the girls’ eyes. And in more than a few images, the girls were battered and bruised. I
t could have been makeup, but it looked real. There was one image of a girl forced to perform at knifepoint. The blade pressed tight against her delicate skin, drawing a trickle of blood.

  The images were disturbing.

  Much more so because we found them on Ed’s computer.

  The girls in the pictures mostly looked of age. Some barely. Some were... questionable.

  "Okay," JD sang in an uneasy tone. "I think at this point we just shut the computer off and walk out of the room. What do you say?"

  "I think we gotta tell Daniels about this," I said.

  "This is a man's personal stash. A dead man. We are here looking for clues to a bombing, not to dig up his dirty little secrets. The man's got a wife and kids, and they don't need this in the press."

  I was silent for a moment.

  "Besides, we don't know if any of that's real,” JD continued. “It's probably all staged, and the girls are consenting actresses of age.”

  The folder was filled with thousands of pictures and videos depicting similar scenarios.

  "I think we’ve gotta turn this over to the computer forensics division or the FBI,” I said. “Maybe they can identify the source of the files, determine if these are, in fact, performers and if everything is legit.”

  "And if it's not, what good is it going to do?” JD asked. “We have no reason to believe there's anything illegal about these pictures and videos."

  My chest felt tight. It was an uncomfortable position to be in.

  JD frowned. "I'm just saying, this is not what Dorothy needs right now."

  There was no doubt this kind of thing would destroy Judge Perry's otherwise stellar reputation. The press would have a field day with it. But if there was something criminal about these images, we needed to find out.

  7

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line when I told Daniels what we found. He grumbled for a moment, then said, "Bring it in. Let the computer forensics guys take a look at it.”

  “Will do.”

  I ended the call, then disconnected the computer from the monitor and unplugged it. We finished up in the office, took the evidence to the station, and handed it off to the nerd herd.

  A disturbed frown tensed Sheriff Daniels's face. “Let’s talk in my office.”

  We followed him down the corridor and across the main office. Phones rang, and keyboards clacked. Sunlight slashed through the blinds, and the smell of stale coffee filled the air. I waved to Denise at her desk. She wiggled her manicured fingers and smiled.

  The sheriff pulled the door shut behind us as we stepped into his private domain. "I hope to God there's nothing unlawful on Ed’s computer. That would be a difficult conversation with Dorothy."

  "I'm sure Ed wouldn’t do anything criminal," JD said optimistically.

  Concern filled the sheriff’s eyes. “How bad is it?”

  JD and I shrugged and exchanged an uncertain glance.

  “That bad, huh?” Daniels hadn’t seen the images yet.

  “It’s not great,” JD admitted. “I mean, look, we could be overreacting.”

  The sheriff sighed again. “I don’t give a shit what Ed did in his personal life. He could stick feathers up his butt and screw cantaloupes for all I care. But if he's got videos and pictures of exploited children on his computer, we need to find out where those images came from and notify the FBI. Nobody is above the law. Not even Ed Perry." His stern voice boomed, filling the room. “How old are these girls?”

  “That’s the thing,” I said. “It’s hard to say. They all could be of age. But some looked... young.”

  “How young? I mean, we’re not talking pre-teens, are we?” He winced, the mere thought causing him pain.

  “No.”

  The sheriff seemed somewhat relieved.

  The FBI’s Child Exploitation and Human Trafficking Task Force specialized in this kind of thing. Hidden on a server somewhere, with access limited to investigative personnel only, were petabytes of data containing all the known child sexual abuse material (CSAM) that had been collected by law enforcement. Facial recognition and reverse image searches allowed automated programs to scour the web for prohibited content. Exploited persons were identified. EXIF metadata within the image files oftentimes allowed law enforcement to determine the date and location of creation. The database was cross-referenced with missing persons. It would take some doing, but the task force could evaluate the images and make a determination about the nature of the content and whether they contained anything unlawful.

  I couldn’t imagine doing that job. Moderating that kind of content on a daily basis would cause you to lose faith in humanity quickly.

  “I'll tell you one thing," Sheriff Daniels said, "if somebody forced my daughter to do videos and photos like that, I sure as hell would be inclined to send a package with a pipe bomb to the man who created it. I want you to follow wherever this leads. Leave no stone unturned."

  "I doubt Ed was involved directly in the creation of this material. I'm sure he downloaded it online," JD said. “This could all be a big nothing burger. These girls could be legal and the performances consensual.”

  None of us really wanted to believe the judge was hoarding abusive material. It just seemed counter to everything we knew about him.

  "Either way, I want a definitive answer," Daniels said.

  “We’ll get to the bottom of it,” I said.

  "What about the hooker Ed was seeing?"

  "I don't think there's a connection," I said. "Unless she's got a jealous boyfriend who didn't like the judge. That seems like a stretch to me."

  “Possibilities, gentlemen. Explore all the possibilities."

  Denise knocked on the door, then twisted the handle and pushed it open. She poked her pretty face inside and said, "I hate to interrupt, but I've got something I think you should see."

  We all gazed at the gorgeous deputy with curious eyes. She wore a pair of nitrile gloves and held a piece of paper in one hand and a cardboard express envelope in the other.

  "What is it?" Daniels asked.

  "It's another person claiming responsibility," Denise said.

  Daniels rolled his eyes.

  "I think you should pay attention to this one." Denise stepped to his desk.

  Daniels pulled a pair of gloves from a desk drawer, snapped them on, then took the piece of paper from Denise. The fresh scent of her fruity shampoo filled the room. It smelled nice.

  Daniels read over the letter, and his face tensed. When he was finished, he handed the piece of paper back to Denise. "Get that to the lab. Check it for prints and genetic material. Find out what kind of printer was used. I want to know what kind of ink and where that paper was manufactured and sold."

  "You got it," Denise said.

  I put on a pair of gloves, and she handed the letter to me. I read it, and JD leaned over my shoulder, following along.

  I am the real pipe bomber. Ignore these other idiots trying to take credit. I'm writing this letter to let you know that there will be more bombings. You will all suffer for the injustices you have perpetrated upon the community. The false arrests, the wrongful imprisonments, and the innocent people who are being deprived of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. So you know that I am for real, I will tell you details that only the bomb maker would know. The bomb was spray-painted red. It was powered by a 9V transistor battery. A mercury switch detonated the device when the package was tilted at more than a 45° angle. I could tell you the brand of gunpowder used in the bomb, but you'll figure that out soon enough. It's a common smokeless brand available both online and in local gun shops. You won't find any genetic material among the remains of the bomb or on this letter. I'm smart, capable, and deadly. I have no demands. This is not a terrorist act. This is retribution.

  Yours truly,

  Bomby McBomberson.

  "Well, he seems full of himself," JD said.

  "Did you expect anything less?" I replied. “He’s a narcissist, and he’s dispensin
g his own brand of justice."

  "How do you know it's a he?" Denise asked in a sassy tone.

  “I don’t.”

  “A woman was caught with a few dozen pipe bombs just last year.”

  “Well, that’s certainly something to aspire to,” I snarked. “I promise we will keep female suspects in mind. Speaking of, where were you at the time of the explosion?”

  Her eyes narrowed at me. “Right here, working my tail off.”

  JD lifted his brow and ogled her shapely backside. “It’s still all there.”

  Denise scowled at him playfully. “Sheriff, are you going to allow this kind of harassment?”

  His face tensed, and his annoyed eyes blazed into us. “Knock it off.”

  A triumphant smirk curled on Denise’s plump lips.

  “I’m inclined to mandate you two take a workplace etiquette seminar, but I’m afraid the instructor would quit and need counseling afterward,” Daniels grumbled.

  “Don’t worry, Sheriff,” Denise said. “I can handle these two.”

  I handed the letter back to her.

  “How did that letter arrive?” Daniels asked.

  “Bicycle messenger dropped it off,” Denise said.

  “Is there a tracking number on that envelope?” I asked.

  Denise examined both sides of the envelope from Speedy Shores Express. There was a shipping label in a clear plastic pouch on the side of the envelope. It had been filled out by hand. The sender’s name was Benjamin Dover.

  “Ben Dover?” JD scoffed. “This guy is messing with us.”

  “Who received the letter?” Daniels asked.

  “Deputy Hendrix, at the front desk.”

  “Let’s talk to her and review the security footage,” Daniels said, a sparkle of hope in his eyes. “I don’t think it will do much good, but run the sender’s address and see what turns up.”