Patrick Bowers 08 - Every Crooked Path

by Steven James

  “He’s not a registered sex offender. Since he’s never been arrested for anything, he’s free to buy a home wherever he wants.”

  “So a self-professed pedophile and advocate for removing age-of-consent laws gets to buy a house where he can watch children play all day across the street?”

  “Antidiscrimination ordinances,” she said. “What are you gonna do?”

  She knocked, and a few moments later a Caucasian man dressed in designer jeans and a pink Polo shirt appeared.

  “Dr. Madera?” she asked.

  “Yes?” It was both an answer and a question.

  “I’m Special Agent Fleming. This is Special Agent Descartes. We’re with the FBI.”

  She showed him her creds.

  He looked uneasy for a moment, but then quickly recovered. “Ah. A knock and talk. Well, come in. Feel free to confiscate my computer. God knows it won’t be the first time. But I don’t have any illegal content on there, I’m quite careful.”

  “I’m sure you are,” Jodie said.

  She entered.

  Descartes came in behind her.

  The walls of Madera’s home were filled with photos of children, all professionally framed and neatly arranged at eye level.

  “Were those taken with the parents’ permission?” Descartes asked.

  “They were all purchased from a photo-sharing site. I have the receipts. I can get them for you, if you desire.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Jodie looked around. Madera had his laptop resting open on the dining room table. A few crumpled bags of pretzels and cheese curls and a slew of empty beer bottles sat beside it.

  A Krazle chat window was open.

  “I understand you’re an online anthropologist?” she said.

  “Yes. I used to teach at CUNY—Baruch College. Now, mostly, I speak and write. Freelance. I’m an activist. Listen, I know you didn’t come here to look at the pictures on my walls or to review my curriculum vitae. Why are you here?”

  “You’re an advocate,” Descartes said.

  “Yes. For equal rights, now—”

  “And by that you mean the right of children to consent to having sex with adults.”

  “All we’re seeking is the empowerment of children.”

  “And the acceptance of pedophilia as an ‘alternative sexuality.’”

  “Fifty years ago there was a stigma in most of mainstream America toward being gay. Now look at how things have changed. Fifty years from now there won’t be any stigma to intergenerational romance. Liberation takes time. But we’re patient. One small victory at a time.”

  Jodie truly hoped he was wrong about that.

  “And that’s what your website is for.” Descartes was eyeing the photos on the wall.

  “I just try to provide a supportive community for like-minded people.”

  “As well as resources to promote your cause.”

  “As would anyone who has a cause he believes in.”

  “But if people were to follow the advice provided on your website, more children would be sexually assaulted.”

  “It’s not assault if it’s consensual and if someone is of the age of consent.”

  “And that’s why you want the laws changed.”

  “Yes.”

  Descartes narrowed his eyes. “And you call that empowerment?”

  “Yes. To learn to understand and appreciate their own bodies and what brings them pleasure. And to make their own decisions.”

  “And all this because of your sexual interest in children?”

  “You mean sexual orientation toward them,” Madera corrected him. “We’re born this way. It’s no different from someone being born straight or gay.”

  “Really?” Jodie said.

  “It’s not something to be cured or condemned. How could we fault someone for being who he was born to be?”

  “You mean a pedophile.”

  “A child lover, yes. Or gay. Or straight. Bi. Trans. Whatever.”

  “Even if pedophilia were a sexual orientation,” she replied, “you can’t excuse deviant behavior by saying that you were compelled to act that way, that you had no choice in the matter.”

  “You call it deviant. I call it perfectly normal.”

  “I read some of the articles on your website, Dr. Madera. I’m not here to debate morality with you.”

  He smirked as if her refusal to argue vindicated his reasoning. “I see.”

  Alright.

  He wanted to do this.

  She could do this.

  “The laws of any just society,” she told him, “should always err on the side of protecting the innocent. If there’s any question about whether a four-year-old or an eight-year-old or a thirteen-year-old should be protected from an experience that will likely, according to the most rigorous research, end up traumatizing them, perhaps for the rest of their lives, they should be protected from that experience. That’s called being responsible. That’s called being the adult in the room.”

  He just scoffed. “That’s the same argument antiabortionists make—that if there’s any chance fetuses are alive we shouldn’t abort them.”

  “Really?” she said. “You want to go there?”

  “What?” His disdain was clear. “Are you one of them?”

  “Them?”

  “An antiabortionist?”

  “Please, Dr. Madera, we both know it’s a baby.”

  “It’s a fetus.”

  “After a miscarriage no one walks around saying, ‘I lost my fetus.’ And during pregnancy visits the doctor never asks the woman, ‘Who’s the fetus’s producer?’ He says, ‘Who’s the baby’s father?’ So we, as a society, accept that it’s a baby—and there’s no question medically about whether or not the child is alive. The question is political—what rights, if any, should we extend to the unborn child, and what rights, if any, does the mother have to end the life of that child?”

  Dr. Madera opened his mouth as if he were going to reply, then closed it again. “Look,” he said at last, “what is it you came here for?”

  Descartes said, “We want to know about a mailing list and a video.”

  “Go on.”

  “We believe that the list you sold Jamaal Stewart has been used by people who are abducting children.”

  A pause. “Abducting them?”

  “From what we can tell, this group is kidnapping children, keeping them captive for months on end, and then killing them. Have you ever heard of the Final Territory?”

  He was silent.

  “And there’s a video,” Descartes added. “It’s used for grooming pedophiles and hebephiles. We want to know if you wrote it.”

  “I don’t write any videos, but I might have heard of Flute, well, the Final Territory.”

  “You might have?” Jodie said.

  “Look, you may not agree with me, but I don’t want to see children harmed in any way. I want to change the laws, not break them. I want to free children, not destroy them.”

  It struck her that he was a true believer.

  He really buys in to this stuff. He believes his own propaganda.

  “Then help us,” she said. “We know of eighteen deaths in the last decade. Now three more children are missing. We’re hoping that they’re still alive and that if we move on this quickly, we might be able to save them.”

  “Let me get my files.”

  84

  2:00 p.m.

  7 hours left

  Francis had taken a taxi to Marcus Rockwell’s mansion. Now, as he approached the front gate, a security guard came to the window. “Yes?”

  “I have an envelope here for Mr. Rockwell,” Francis told him. “It’s from Claire Nolan at the ICSC.”

  “And what is it regarding?”

  “I think it has somet
hing to do with tonight’s donor banquet. It’s important.”

  “Wait here while I call up to the house.”

  +++

  I knocked at the door to the exam room, and a woman’s voice from the other side told me to come in.

  Inside the room, an NYPD officer was taking down the statement of a diminutive red-haired woman in her late twenties who was seated on the exam bed.

  “May I help you, sir?” When the officer asked me the question he made it sound more like a threat than an offer of assistance.

  “I called you on the phone,” I said to Gabrielle. “I’m Patrick Bowers.”

  “It’s okay,” she told the officer. “Can you give us a minute?”

  “I’ll be right outside, in the hall, if you need me.” He left the room and brusquely closed the door behind him.

  A deep bruise purpled one side of Gabrielle’s face. “Ms. Livingston,” I said. “May I ask what happened?”

  “First of all, I just record under the name Gabrielle Livingston. My real name is Skylar Shapiro. You can call me Skylar.”

  “Alright, Skylar.” With a great name like Skylar Shapiro, it surprised me she would choose to record under the name Gabrielle Livingston. “The bruise. Are you alright?”

  “A man I know did it, but right now that’s not what matters. You aren’t really here to speak with me about voice-over work, are you?”

  “There’s a video out there that’s targeted at people who . . . well, groom children for sexual interactions with adults.” I tried to phrase things in as generic and nonjudgmental a way as possible to fit the role I was here to play. “You did the voice-over for it. Do you know which one I mean?”

  She lowered her voice. “Did they send you?”

  “Did who send me?”

  “We both know who.”

  I evaluated how to respond. “What can you tell me about them?”

  She turned the bruised side of her face toward me. “Ivan did this to me.”

  “Romanoff.”

  “Yes. I was helping them, but I want out. I heard about you. You’re with the FBI. Can you help me?”

  I wasn’t sure if this was some kind of test. She certainly seemed to be telling the truth. “I know people who can protect you, people I trust. I need you to tell me where the children are.”

  She swallowed hard.

  “The three children that were taken, Skylar. Where are they?”

  She shook her head. “It’s too late.”

  “Too late for what? Are the children still alive?”

  “Randy was too close. That’s why they poisoned him.”

  “Who poisoned him?”

  “At the LeBange. Don’t let them know I told you. I’ve said too much already.” Then she called out to the officer in the hallway, “You can come back in! We’re done!”

  “Tell me about the children,” I said urgently. “Do you know who Shane is? Have you met the Piper?”

  “I shouldn’t have . . . I’ve seen the garage. You can’t tell them we spoke.”

  “I won’t. What garage? What else do you know about Randy?”

  But then the officer had returned. He informed me unequivocally that it was time for me to leave.

  “Stay with her,” I told him.

  “What?”

  “I’m with the FBI.” I hoped he wouldn’t ask for my creds. “Patrick Bowers. Call it in if you need to. Talk to Assistant Director DeYoung, but don’t let her out of your sight.”

  +++

  Jodie scanned the printout from Dr. Madera. There were more than ten thousand names and email addresses. This was going to take some time.

  She looked for Rockwell’s name, but it didn’t appear.

  “We’ll need the records of everyone you’ve bought lists from or sold them to.”

  “Anything I can do to help.”

  “When we first got here, you offered to let us inspect your computer. I think I’ll take you up on that.”

  He seemed less enthusiastic now about the prospect of handing it over than he had when he flippantly offered it to them when they first arrived, but in the end he did.

  Outside by the car, Descartes asked her, “So, what now?”

  “We cross-reference the mailing list with names from the case and get this computer over to the lab to see if they can pull anything off it.”

  “I’ll take care of it. I know you need to head to that dinner tonight.”

  “Thanks. Let’s get it to headquarters and move on from there.”

  +++

  The guard opened the gate and waved Francis and the taxi driver through.

  “This is some layout,” the cabbie said to Francis as they wound up the long circuitous drive that led to the front of the house. “Who is this guy?”

  “Someone who’s doing a lot of good for a lot of people.”

  “It seems like he’s doing pretty well for himself too.”

  A servant greeted him outside the front door.

  “I have something for Marcus Rockwell,” Francis told him.

  “You’re the one with the envelope?”

  “Yes.”

  “Please, follow me.”

  He led Francis into the mansion.

  The place was stunning, with crystal chandeliers, inlaid marble floors, and sweeping spiral staircases leading up to the second floor, where a balcony overlooked the ballroom on one side and the perfectly manicured grounds on the other.

  Out back, through the open French doors, Francis noticed servers setting up tables on the lawn. A cellist was practicing nearby.

  Francis was taking it all in when he heard someone behind him say, “I understand you have something for me?”

  He turned.

  Marcus Rockwell strode toward him, smile wide. He wore flip-flops, jeans, and a torn T-shirt. Francis had never met a billionaire before, but he didn’t anticipate that this was the way most of them would’ve dressed.

  Mr. Rockwell extended his hand. When Francis held out the envelope to him, he laughed lightly. “I was just hoping to shake your hand.”

  “Oh.”

  Francis shook his hand.

  “You’re Mr. Edlemore?”

  “Yes.”

  “Alejandro has wonderful things to say about you and your team. Thank you for the work you do.”

  Just the thought that you could be on familiar enough terms with Mr. Gomez to call him by his first name was impressive to Francis.

  “Thank you for supporting us,” Francis said.

  “Of course. Now, Claire said you were sending me the paperwork?”

  “Here.” Francis handed over the manila folder.

  “Thank you. I’d show you around, but I need to take care of a few things, get ready for tonight. However, I can have someone give you a tour of the grounds, if you like.”

  “I need to go. I have to get ready too.”

  “Of course. My people have paid the tab on your taxi. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

  He’s one of the richest and most powerful people in the world. If anyone can help you, it’s him. Tell him what’s going on.

  No! If I do anything they’ll hurt Derek!

  “No, thank you. Sir.”

  Mr. Rockwell rebuked Francis lightly, “‘Sir’ is a term reserved for my dad. I’m just Marcus, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “So, I’ll see you tonight?”

  “Certainly. Yes. I’ll be here.”

  +++

  I phoned Jodie from the hospital lobby, but even before I could tell her about Skylar, she launched into a summary of her visit with Dr. Madera. “We’re on our way to headquarters to have his laptop checked out,” she explained. “He seemed pretty confident that there was nothing incriminating on there, but it’s worth a look. He also g
ave us his mailing list, but it’s going to be a bit of work analyzing it. Did you learn anything from Gabrielle Livingston?”

  “First off, her real name is Skylar Shapiro. She told me she was involved in this, but that she wanted out. I think she can help us. I want a protective detail over here to watch her.”

  “I’ll call it in right away.”

  “She knew about Randy being poisoned, said he got too close and that’s why they went after him. She mentioned a garage and the LeBange. I looked it up a minute ago—the LeBange is a restaurant. We need to have someone review their security camera footage on the night Randy died, see if we can identify him entering it. I don’t know what the garage was about—she wouldn’t elaborate. I asked the officer to stay with her. Hopefully, she’ll feel ready to tell us more.”

  “Okay, I’ll have someone contact the restaurant. I should tell you, I heard from Maria. She gave me limited access to the task force members’ personnel files, but I haven’t had the chance to review them yet.”

  “Alright. I think that since Blake was able to get into the Federal Digital Database and Wooford was killed while in custody, we should check if any task force members had the day off when Wooford died. I want to know if anyone had time to travel down to D.C. to visit him.”

  “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  “I didn’t bring any black-tie-event clothes over to Christie’s, so I’m going to swing by my place to change.”

  “I might see you there,” she replied. “I need to change as well.”

  85

  3:00 p.m.

  6 hours left

  Before she left school, Tessa turned in her textbooks.

  There.

  One thing taken care of.

  Now just get home, change, and then finish up the logic problem on the ride to the banquet so she could save a few innocent animals from Patrick’s murderous, carnivorous appetite over the next six weeks.

  Hopefully, she and her mom would still be around here in New York City when those weeks came to an end.

  But that wasn’t guaranteed.

  With this job offer in Nebraska, it didn’t even seem likely.

  +++

  Out in the taxi again, Francis checked the time.