Patrick Bowers 08 - Every Crooked Path

by Steven James

  “My lawyers will be contacting your superiors,” Billy told me. “Elle will show you out.”

  “Ten!”

  He returned to the table, put on his headphones, and Elle and I went into the hall. The call screener counted the last five seconds down with her fingers as we watched through the glass.

  The neon sign flashed ON AIR again.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Ms. Lachman apologized. “I knew he was upset, but I didn’t know he was going to be, well, to say those things.”

  “He did just lose his brother. I would be upset too.”

  +++

  Outside the studio, I checked my phone and saw a text from Christie that she was on for the banquet tonight and that she had invited Tessa as well. “She declined,” Christie wrote. “I’m not sure a formal fundraising dinner is really her thing, anyway.”

  I didn’t really want Tessa to stay at home—especially not by herself. My plan had been to have them both there so I could keep an eye on them.

  “Give it another shot,” I texted back. “I really think she would enjoy hearing about the work of the ICSC.”

  Jodie phoned me from Stewart’s apartment, where she and Agent Descartes, who’d been working with her this morning, were. “Is there anything specific you want us to look for?”

  “Check the blood spatter one more time. See if it makes sense to you that Stewart could have fought off Randy McReynolds, like we were talking about the other day.”

  I told her that nothing had really come from visiting Billy, other than finding out he might be going after me in court for shooting his brother.

  “Okay.” I could tell there was something else on her mind. “Pat, there are a couple things you should know. I went to Ms. Aguirre, as you suggested, to get the task force members’ personnel files.”

  “How did that go?”

  “She’s considering my request. On another front, Descartes found out that Romanoff did hire a company to remodel his home eight years ago: Hearre Construction. So they might have taken out the fire-resistant insulation. We’re looking into it.”

  “The agent at Homeland’s Cyber Crimes Center told me that Wooford had worked for a construction company,” I said. “What other places did Hearre Construction renovate?”

  “They’re not in a very sharing mood. For that we’re going to need a warrant.”

  “Talk to DeYoung, see what you can do.”

  After the call, I checked my laptop and saw that I was still on the station’s Wi-Fi. I pulled up my email’s in-box and, ironically, found a message that DeYoung had sent me only a few minutes ago, informing me that Maria Aguirre would be attending the event tonight as well, that he had made all the arrangements with Mr. Gomez.

  What? Why would DeYoung want an OPR lawyer there?

  Maybe to keep an eye on you?

  Unsure what to make of that, I drove a couple of blocks and, deep in thought, swung into a Mexican restaurant just on the edge of the warehouse district to grab lunch.

  81

  12:00 p.m.

  9 hours left

  In the cafeteria, Tessa saw that her mom had texted her another invite to the thing tonight.

  Okay, so that was annoying.

  This time she’d included a hyperlink to the group putting on the dinner—something called the International Child Safety Consortium.

  Tessa clicked on the link.

  They helped stop human trafficking and child abuse and tried to catch people who molested kids. So, alright, that was pretty awesome.

  Free food was a plus—as long as they had veggie options.

  And who knows, maybe you can even score some champagne when Patrick and Mom aren’t looking.

  It wasn’t like she had anything else going on.

  Might be kinda cool.

  Alright, whatever.

  She replied that she would go.

  Then, for the rest of lunch, instead of studying for her last final, she started working on creating the logic puzzle, taking some inspiration from the algebra word problems she’d just tackled.

  +++

  While I waited for my burrito, Christie forwarded me a text from Tessa: an affirmative reply to the invitation about the dinner tonight.

  Good. I’d be able to protect them both.

  At least until nine.

  Well, then Tobin and Jodie could take over.

  My food came up and I slipped off to a corner of the restaurant to monitor the two phones.

  +++

  Francis watched the clock tick to ten minutes past noon.

  He knew only that Ivan and his people were going to send him the email this afternoon. He wished he had more specifics, but he still hadn’t decided what he was going to do when it did come in, so maybe it was good that it hadn’t arrived yet.

  Derek is in danger, I’ll have to open it.

  You can’t! It’s a virus! It’ll compromise the ICSC’s system. It might open it up for hackers to get in. Maybe that’s what they want, to hack in on the day of the fundraiser.

  But I could be saving Derek’s life.

  But it could be ruining lots of other kids’ lives. If their abusers can access this system and find out personal information about who’s been identified over the years, you might be endangering all of them.

  Maybe—but I don’t know that. Not for sure.

  Francis found it hard to concentrate, but reminded himself of his job: Screen. Identify. Catalog. Report.

  SICR.

  There was no one sicker than the people who were filming those things.

  And stopping them was what he was here to do.

  And that’s what he was going to do.

  That last one was the key.

  Report.

  But in this instance, if he couldn’t report it to the FBI or the NYPD, then who could he contact?

  +++

  I got a text message from Tobin that he might have something. “Call me when you get a chance.”

  When I phoned him he said, “The video that I was showing my team last Friday, the one about how to groom children for sex, I think we found the narrator.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I want Jodie and Angela on the line too.”

  “Angela?”

  “Angela Knight from the Bureau’s Cyber Division. I’d sent her the video to examine. She’s the one who found the narrator.”

  I’d heard of Angela, heard she was good. She was a bit famous—or infamous—for nicknaming her computer Lacey and referring to it as if it were an actual agent.

  It was somewhat idiosyncratic, but considering the recent strides in AI, voice recognition, and EAAs, or electronic audible assistants, it was becoming more and more common for people to refer to their machines using masculine or feminine pronouns. They already did it with their phones and GPS units. Maybe Angela was just ahead of the curve.

  To make sure I’d have enough privacy for this conversation, I took my meal to-go and sat in the car. Then, using the burner phone, we set up a four-way call.

  Or, well, five-way if you counted Lacey.

  I wasn’t sure exactly how that worked.

  “So,” Angela said, “as Tobin may have mentioned to you, I believe Lacey found the woman who recorded the voice-over for the video.”

  “How did she do that?” I asked, playing along that Lacey was real.

  “She was sweeping the web, doing a voice analysis on videos uploaded within the last year. Turns out the narrator is an actress named Gabrielle Livingston, does voice-over work, audiobooks, that sort of thing. She looks clean.”

  I could hardly believe that anyone who was just trying to pay the bills would have gotten involved in a project like that, narrating a how-to video aimed at helping potential abusers get away with child molestation, but it’s amazing what people wil
l justify when the paycheck is attractive enough.

  “Do we know where she lives?” Jodie asked.

  “She’s based out of L.A. but splits her time there with work in New York City. I’ll email you her contact information.”

  “I’ll go talk to her,” Tobin offered. “See if she can at least tell us who hired her. Maybe they have ties to the Final Territory.”

  “Good work, Angela,” I said.

  “Thank Lacey.”

  “Thank you, Lacey.”

  “She says you’re welcome.”

  Okay, this could get weird.

  Once Angela was off the line, I said to Tobin and Jodie, “You know what, let me go talk with Gabrielle.”

  “You’re on admin leave,” Tobin reminded me once again. It was his new hobby.

  “Yes, and that’s exactly why this makes sense.”

  “That, you’re going to have to explain to me.”

  “Despite what Angela said, it is possible that Gabrielle is involved with these people. If you go and speak with her, they could easily get spooked about tonight, about meeting with me.”

  “If they’re even the same people.”

  “True,” I acknowledged. “But if I meet with her, I can feel things out. If it seems like she’s involved, I’ll warn her that you’re onto her, that she needs to be more careful. That’ll make me seem dirty, cover for both of us.”

  The line was silent.

  “He does have a point,” Jodie told Tobin.

  The email from Angela containing Gabrielle Livingston’s address and phone number arrived.

  “Alright,” Tobin agreed. “Go ahead. Meanwhile, I did find one thing: when I was analyzing any connections between Stewart and Rockwell, I saw that Stewart bought his mailing list from someone—Dr. Evan Madera. I think we should speak with him.”

  “Do we know who he is?” I said.

  “I’ve run into him before. He’s an online anthropologist.”

  “Online anthropologist?”

  “He studies online culture, web-based communities, and the behavior of individuals on the Internet. Specializes in research on destructive and deviant behavior: how-to sites on self-harm, suicide, Ana and Mia, and pedophilia.”

  “What’s Ana and Mia?” Jodie asked.

  “Anorexia and bulimia.”

  “Wait—there are how-to sites?”

  “Yes. With tips on how to purge, hide your thinness, fool doctors, and so on. Their bloggers claim that doing it shows you’re self-controlled and that it’s proof of your willpower. They call it ‘thinspiration.’”

  “Girls slowly committing suicide, thinking it’s their pathway to empowerment?” Jodie’s voice was laced with both concern and anger. “That’s just plain wrong.”

  From working with her over the last couple of years, I knew she was a strong proponent of both women’s rights and freedom of expression, but in this case I could see things cutting both ways. When exactly do you curb freedom of speech for the common good?

  “Well,” Tobin said, “Dr. Madera, he’s a self-professed pedophile. Remember at last Thursday’s briefing when I mentioned the lawsuits to lower the age of consent to twelve years old? That was Madera’s brainchild. He’s careful to tell you that he’s a ‘nonoffending’ pedophile, though. That’s a big deal to him. He’s an advocate for removing age-of-consent laws.”

  “Unbelievable,” I said. “How did you meet up with this guy?”

  “Defense attorneys of accused pedophiles love to quote from his writings. I’ve had run-ins with him before. While you go talk to Gabrielle Livingston, maybe Jodie and I can speak with Madera.”

  “Where are you now?” Jodie asked him.

  “At headquarters.”

  “And Madera—where does he live?”

  “Long Island.”

  “I’m with Agent Descartes now. We’re a lot closer. How about the two of us go instead? Save some time?”

  “Good. That’ll give me a chance to look into some things here.”

  We ended the call and I phoned Gabrielle at the number Angela and Lacey had dug up.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “Ms. Livingston, my name is Patrick Bowers. I’m looking for someone to do a voice-over for a video. I’d like to speak to you about your work. Could we meet?”

  “Did you say you’re Patrick Bowers?”

  “Yes.”

  Silence.

  “Ms. Livingston?”

  “I’ll meet with you. We need to talk—but not on the phone.”

  “Okay. Where are you?”

  “I’m at the hospital.”

  She gave me the address. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I said.

  +++

  “Francis?”

  Startled, he looked up to see Claire beside him.

  He had no idea how long she’d been standing there.

  “Yes?” he answered.

  “Are you alright?”

  “Yes. Sorry. Fine. I’m fine.” It was twelve fifty-five. Still nothing from Ivan’s group. “I have a lot on my mind. I’m just excited about the donor banquet.”

  “Well, that’s what I came to talk with you about.” She laid a large manila envelope on his desk. “I need someone to deliver this to Marcus Rockwell. I’d like you to take it over there. He’ll be quite busy tonight, but this will give you the chance to meet him for yourself. He’s a legend in the computer technology industry and I know how much you value your work and . . . Well, I thought you’d enjoy meeting him in person.”

  “But I’m in the middle of a project here.”

  She looked at his clean desk, empty in-box, and clear home screen on his computer. “What project is that?”

  “Um . . . trying to get caught up.”

  She patted his shoulder in a warm and encouraging manner. “You’re a hard worker, Francis. I’m sure you’re caught up just fine. I’ve seen your reports. There’s nothing in your work queue that can’t wait.”

  From his invitation to the gala tonight, he knew where Mr. Rockwell lived, and it wasn’t nearby. “Even in a taxi, getting over there might take an hour.”

  “We need this delivered. It’s important.”

  He seesawed back and forth.

  You’ll be okay. There’ll still be time.

  I have to stay here at my desk, wait for the email!

  You should be back by three thirty or so. If it comes in before then, you can just deal with it when you get back. Maybe slipping away will be good for you, help you figure out what to do.

  “Francis?”

  “I’ll take it for you.” He picked up the envelope.

  “Thank you, Francis. You’re a very faithful employee. I appreciate that in you. I always have.”

  82

  1:00 p.m.

  8 hours left

  While Descartes drove, Special Agent Jodie Fleming read through Madera’s website where he rationalized pedophilia, blamed society for “victimizing” children by holding them back from “their instinctual curiosity about their bodies.” Madera argued that pedophilia was natural and was really a sexual orientation rather than simply a sexual interest.

  For Jodie, since she was a lesbian, this topic of sexual orientation was sensitive to her and hit close to home.

  Redefining pedophilia as a sexual orientation instead of a sexual interest would have devastating consequences by undermining the prosecution of those who molest children. Offenders would just claim that they couldn’t help it, that they were born that way. After all, who’s to say it was wrong for them to act on their natural instincts?

  Madera claimed that by forcing children to postpone happiness by the way they touch themselves and others, we teach them that their bodies are bad, and that by doing this we disrespect them, that it propagates the idea that adults have ownership
over them, and that the children don’t have ownership over their own bodies and their own choices.

  According to him, the emotional damage is done long before adolescence. As the René Guyon Society, an adult/child sex advocacy group, says, “Sex before eight, or else it’s too late.” They assert that if you waited until puberty, the children will be indoctrinated into society’s norms of shame and victimization and will never be free to be fully liberated or to truly understand their own bodies and the ways they wish to pursue pleasure.

  It was hard for her to read all this without feeling sick to her stomach.

  Jodie hadn’t been to church since she came out when she was in college, but she remembered people quoting a Bible verse to her at the time: “Woe unto them that call evil good, and good evil.”

  They’d shared it with her in regard to her homosexuality, but she’d never seen a clearer example of that principle than here on this website where one of the greatest evils imaginable—raping children—was portrayed as the greatest good—liberating them.

  All of Madera’s arguments ignored the fact that minors cannot meaningfully consent to sex, that there’s always a power differential between adults and children that allows the child to be taken advantage of.

  Also, his work turned a blind eye to the troves of research from sociology and psychology that showed that sexual contact with adults confuses children and often causes years, or even a lifetime, of shame, guilt, anxiety, and depression. Being molested as a child doesn’t lead to a healthy self-image, but exactly the opposite.

  Calling evil good.

  Calling good evil.

  “Did you watch that video that Tobin posted last week?” she asked Descartes.

  “Just what he showed us in his briefing. You?”

  “Yeah. It deals with the same issues as Madera’s website.”

  “You think Madera wrote it?”

  “Let’s ask him.”

  Descartes pulled around the corner and they arrived at a modest home across the street from an elementary school playground.

  83

  Jodie led Descartes up the driveway toward Madera’s front door.

  “How does a guy like this get a house across the street from a grade school?” Descartes asked her disgustedly.