Skin Puppet

by Jeffery Craig

  An hour and a half later, the door opened to let them out for air. “Shut the door behind you,” was Kelly’s only farewell.

  They started toward the hall, but Edmondson stopped them. “Hold on guys. I need a second.” Knowing he all but owned their asses until this was put to bed, they complied.

  “Hey, Nancy, I need to commandeer a conference room, and Chief Kelly says you can make that happen. I’m going to need a data line, a printer, and a couple of secure phone lines. Any idea how long that’ll take?”

  “I’ll take care of blocking out the room right now. It should already have a data port, as well as wireless. The printer will just take a few minutes, but the phone lines will take longer. It might be tomorrow morning before it’s done, but I’ll try to get them installed by this afternoon. There’s a whiteboard in there.” She opened her bottom desk drawer and pulled out a small box and handed it to him. “Here are some markers. Hide them someplace, because they disappear faster than coffee around here.”

  “Thanks. Speaking of coffee, any chance of getting a coffee pot in there?”

  “There’s a big one in the breakroom.”

  “Would you drink that crap? One thing I’ve learned—cop coffee sucks no matter where I go.”

  Mitchell watched as Edmondson’s innocent boy grin did its trick. Nancy blushed bright pink and agreed. “I’ll see what I can do. I can’t do anything about the coffee packets, though.”

  “No worries. I travel with my own. Agent Garfield has me well-trained. If she found out she had to drink the regular stuff, my ass would be grass. Now, I have one more question before I get out of your hair. Who was the woman who was in with the Chief when I got here?”

  “Well, I’m not sure…”

  “It’s okay. I’m just curious.” Edmondson turned on the laser smile again.

  Nancy succumbed. “That was Detective Reightman. I mean, former Detective Reightman.”

  “She’s not a detective anymore?”

  “No. She retired last fall.”

  “She looks kind of young to be retired.”

  “Well…”

  Mitchell was interested to see the smile seemed to have lost its mystical power. “I really can’t say anymore, Agent. I’m in enough trouble as it is.”

  “Understood. Thanks for your help.” He pulled a business card out of his wallet and handed it to her across the desk. “Call me if you run into any problems. My cell phone number’s there on the bottom. Now, I think it’s time to find some lunch.”

  He turned to the patiently waiting members of his local task force. “Gentleman, I’m hoping you feel like leading me to a decent burger. I’d hate to have to make it an order. The Federal Government might frown on my heavy-handed use of authority.”

  “No need for any strong-arm tactics, sir. There’s a place within walking distance. I hope you like bacon, though. They put it on everything.”

  “That sounds just like heaven. And drop the ‘sir.’ Edmondson or Agent will be fine unless you’ve pissed me off. You’ll know when that happens. My partner might insist on ma’am, though. She can be a real pain.”

  With a last wave to Nancy, Edmondson motioned for them to lead the way. “Either of you know this Detective Reightman?”

  “Mitchell here probably knows her better than anyone,” Thorton helpfully offered. “Started out his career as a Detective working under her. Course, he’s still a snot nose. Only got promoted last fall. Now that I think about it, wasn’t that about the same time Reightman retired, Mitchell?”

  Mitchell gritted his teeth and forced out a professional response. “Yes. About the same time.”

  “Was she a problem?” Edmondson asked.

  “Problem? I’m not sure what you mean, Agent.”

  “I mean, was she hard to get along with? Known to fly off the handle? That sort of thing.”

  “Sure was,” Thorton offered gleefully. “It was kind of a sport around here to get her going. She was something to see when she got riled up. Don’t take that the wrong way though. She was a good cop, and a damned fine detective.”

  “Would you agree with that assessment, Mitchell?”

  He didn’t have to give it much thought. “No, Agent. Not really. She could get mad—Chuck’s right about that—but I never saw her lose it without a pretty good reason.”

  “That’s interesting, but I was wondering more about her capabilities as a detective.”

  Thorton held the door open, and they walked out into the bright sunshine. “Chuck’s dead wrong about that, too. She wasn’t a good cop and a fine detective. She was one of the very best.”

  “How’d she get along with the Chief?”

  Mitchell decided to bite his tongue before he said something that might catch up with him later.

  “That’s answer enough, for now, anyway. What’s she doing these days?”

  “She’s gone private. Agent Edmondson, why are you asking about Melba?”

  “No reason. She was in Kelly’s office when I got here this morning. They were having a pretty loud discussion about something, and I was curious.”

  Thorton groaned in disappointment. “And I missed it? I’d have paid good money to see that. Like I said, she’s magnificent when she’s riled up.”

  “Hmmm.” Edmondson replied. “Mitchell, do you still keep in contact?”

  “Some. I got an invitation to a party for their grand opening, anyway. I’ll probably drop by for a few minutes to be polite and all. Those kinds of events aren’t really my thing. Still, I’d hate to disappoint her and Toby.”

  “Who’s Toby?”

  “He’s…her business partner. It’s kind of a long story, though.”

  “No worries. Is this the place, gentleman? I can already smell the bacon.”

  “This is it.” Thorton stopped to pull a couple of real estate flyers from the stands near the door. He stuffed them into his back pocket and gestured to the “C” rating posted on the front door. “Hope you’re not too picky about the health department rating. The food’s good, and nobody’s died yet.”

  “Doesn’t the ‘C’ mean commendable?” Edmondson joked. “All that matters to me right this minute is that they make the burgers rare, and don’t run out of bacon.”

  After they ordered and sat waiting on their food, Allen pulled out his phone and quickly typed in a few notes:

  Dect. Melba Reightman (sp?): Find out more. Party??? ck w/Amanda

  Toby??? Slow answer fr/Mitchell. Story there.

  He looked up as their waitress placed three bacon cheeseburger platters on the table. He shoved the phone back in his pocket, and cut into his burger to check how it was cooked. He grinned when he spotted the perfect red interior. “Gentleman, I think this may be my new favorite place in the whole world. In fact, I’m so happy, lunch is on me.”

  ***

  Nathan Fields opened a beer and took a seat on one of the barstools in the kitchen. He had about a half an hour before he had to pick Jessica up from school, and he had a few things to think through before then. A beer usually helped when there were decisions to be made.

  He chugged a cold, satisfying swallow and set the bottle down on the counter, replaying his last phone conversation in his mind while staring at the little beads of condensation forming on the brown glass. Seems there was a supply chain problem.

  The planned shipment was only ten days away, and they were still short on inventory. In addition, some of the merchandise was getting a little close to the ‘sell by’ date. They wanted him to help make up the difference. He took another slug of beer, and thought it over. On one hand, if he did as they asked, he’d probably get his pick of new merchandise. That was a plus. On the other hand, he might have to wait a couple of months, and he didn’t like being without for that long. It made him antsy, and that could lead to all kinds of trouble if he couldn’t keep his urges under control. Still, something new would be nice. After two years, his interest had waned. Of course, providing the goods meant he’d have to move. He’d
have to do something about the house, but a nice little fire would solve the problem and work to his advantage — if he could find a body to burn with it.

  “It’s workable,” he decided. “And I’ve been having an itch for a newer model.” Mind made up, he finished his beer and tossed the empty bottle in the recycle bin on his way to the car.

  “Hi, Daddy,” Jessica said a few minutes later, opening the door of the car and climbing up in the front seat. “Did you have a good day?”

  “Hello, Princess. I had a pretty good day. I just had a hard decision to make for work. How was your day?”

  “Pretty good. Math is hard, though. Can you help me with it later?”

  “I think I can manage that. We can do it first thing. Did you have anything special in mind for dinner? I thought I might order us some pizza.”

  “Really?” she squealed. “You never let me have pizza during the school week.”

  “It won’t hurt, just this once.”

  “You are the best daddy in the whole world!”

  He winked at her as he turned onto the street where they lived, all the while wondering if she’d still think that after tonight. He’d let her pick the toppings and after dinner, maybe they’d play one of their special games. She could wear her new red dress and those little white socks with the lace around the edge. Those frilly socks did it for him every time. If she put her hair up in pigtails, he might be able to imagine it was two years ago, back when she was so young and fresh. “There’s just no way around it,” he thought as he pulled the car into the garage. “Kids just grow up so fast these days.”

  ***

  After burgerfest, Mitchell stopped by his desk to check his messages and grab a notebook before joining Edmondson in the conference room. The red light on his desk phone was blinking, so he picked up the receiver and dialed his voicemail. “What a coincidence,” he thought when Melba’s voice sounded in his ear.

  “Hey Mitchell. Reightman here...I mean Melba. First of all, did you get your invitation to the party? Hope to see you there. It’s plus one, so bring a date. Secondly, I wondered if I can talk with you off the record about the case you’re working on. I know, I know. You’re not supposed to discuss active cases with anyone outside the force, yada yada yada. But, Mitchell, this is important. We’re working on a problem of our own over here, and I have a bad feeling it might be related. Check the filed reports from yesterday, if it hasn’t landed on your desk already. It’s Moon’s daughter. Her name’s Diane, and she’s fourteen. She’s been missing since the middle of last week. If you think it fits with whatever else you’re working on…just…make the best decision you can under the circumstances.” There was a brief pause, then she said the one thing he hoped she wouldn’t say. “Mitchell, please. For old time’s sake, if nothing else. You’re about the only one I still trust around there. Call me. You have my number.”

  He replaced the receiver and reached for the pile of paper in his in-box. Sure enough, about halfway down the stack was the report. “Diane Jefferson Jones. Fourteen years old, African-American female. Father, Jefferson Jones, aka Moon.” He stared at the last piece of information until the letters blurred. Eventually, he realized exactly what it meant, and for some reason, he wasn’t surprised once his initial disbelief wore off. He unclipped the attached picture and studied it. “She looks like Moon,” he thought, mentally comparing facial features to his memories of the woman he’d come to know while guarding Toby.

  After returning the picture, he pulled out an empty file folder and made a new label before slipping the report and photo inside and sliding it under his notebook. The right thing to do was to bring the file to Edmondson’s attention and see if he felt it should be included. If it was a fit, it automatically fell under Federal jurisdiction. Melba would have a seizure if that happened. Or…maybe not…

  Undecided, he picked up the phone and replayed the message. “…just…make the best decision you can under the circumstances…”

  After mulling it over for a minute or two, he picked up the small stack and tucked it under one arm as he stood up. Edmondson seemed like a good guy. However, Mitchell had no doubt he could hit hard—really hard—if protocol wasn’t followed or his authority over the task force was questioned. He closed his eyes and remembered the two dead bodies resting in their stainless steel drawers down in the morgue. “…make the best decision you can…”

  Two hours later, he sweated it out while Edmondson studied the file and compared it to the others. Thorton was handling a rather delicate matter on another case, and Mitchell was the only task force member available to help build a profile. It was a fascinating process, but his head was spinning.

  “What do you think?” the agent finally asked.

  “What do I think?”

  “Yes. You think Diane Jefferson Jones fits?”

  Mitchell met the hazel eyes and knew this was a moment of judgement. The man across the table was going to evaluate his answer, probably on more levels than Mitchell could comprehend. “I think…it fits the very edge of the profile we just spent two hours refining. She’s right at the age limit being targeted.”

  “Agreed. What else?”

  “She’s the only African-American in the bunch. I mean the known bunch. There could be others missing that we don’t know about.”

  “Good catch. And?”

  “Other than that, she’s pretty. She appears to have vanished without a trace. That aligns with the others.”

  “Yes, it does.” Edmondson steepled his hands and leaned down to rest his chin on his fingers while he stared down at the photo. After a minute, he straightened and stretched. “What do you know about human trafficking, Mitchell?”

  “Not much, I guess. I mean, they touch on it at the academy, and there’s a mandatory continuing education class, but it’s pretty basic.”

  “I imagine it is. You see, no one wants to admit we have a problem, even the police forces at the local level. That’s downright shocking when you consider it’s both the second largest crime world-wide and the fastest growing. One hundred and fifty billion dollars. That’s the profit, annually. This girl, Diane, is technically a runaway. Over a million and a half children run away from home each year. One in three are either picked up or recruited by a predator within forty-eight hours of leaving home.”

  “That’s sounds really bad.”

  “That’s one way of putting it. Did you know a well-organized, well-connected trafficker can make six hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year off of as few as four children? Guess how most of that money is made. The average age of entry into the commercial sex industry is twelve years of age. It’s big business. You know where one of the biggest hubs for trafficking is, Mitchell? Come on, take a guess.”

  “New York?”

  “No. It’s Atlanta, Mitchell. According to a pretty thorough report done by a major news agency not too long ago, Atlanta, Georgia is a major hub. A single pimp there can make about thirty-two thousand dollars a week running about three girls. Most of the victims are girls—eighty percent or so. But in some markets, there’s a premium on prepubescent boys. It’s all a matter of supply and demand. Ship the blondes to Asia or South America. Send the exotic merchandise to the Middle East. Northern and Eastern Europe clients sometimes like the really dark-skinned children. Once the local clientele weary of the current merchandise, there’s always someone willing to trade. The product produces for a long time, unless it gets out of control. Then, it’s destroyed. There are even clients willing to pay good money for that privilege. Mark ‘em, brand ‘em, ink ‘em. Keep inventory ledgers, and keep the supply flowing. Manage the demand. Make a killing. Like the saying goes, ‘you can only sell an ounce of heroin once, but you can sell a child a thousand times.’ You can even grow your own; although why go to all that trouble when they’re available for the taking?”

  Edmondson looked back down at the file folder and flipped it closed. He pushed it across the table. “What’s your gut say, Mitchell?”
<
br />   Trails of moisture ran down his back and under his arms. He felt sick, and there was a terrible, cold anger building inside. He closed his eyes and saw Beth’s face, and Lauren’s, with her lips pinned closed. “My gut says there’s no sure way of knowing if Diane Jefferson Jones fits the profile. But, it doesn’t matter.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because, Agent Edmondson, if there’s the slightest chance she’s been taken, we’re obligated to find her and stop the sons of bitches doing this.”

  Edmondson shook his head sadly. “But Mitchell, there’s only four of us–if you count my soon-to-be-arriving partner. How are we going to make the time?”

  “Sleep is highly over-rated. And we can get more help.”

  “I don’t have an empty warehouse of trained agents sitting around anywhere, at least, none I recall. This department appears to be tapped out as it is. Where could we possibly find some good, trained people to help us with this horrible, awful case? Even if I could finagle a nice little consulting fee—which I can, just so you know—most decent people would be appalled at the situation and wouldn’t have the stomach to see it through. Where, oh where, Detective Anthony Mitchell, former partner of Detective Melba Reightman, now retired, would I—”

  “With all due respect, sir,” Mitchell held up a hand as he interrupted. “You’re troweling it on a little too thick. I get the hint, already.”

  “Are you telling me to just shut the fuck up because you already had something in mind when you said we could get more help?”

  “Pretty much. Agent.”

  Edmondson grinned and, once again, Mitchell knew why people were suckered in by his smile. Good thing the Special Agent was on the side of the angels, or there’d be hell to pay. Literally.

  “Then, what took you so long, Mitchell? I was about to run out of breath trying to give you clues.”

  Mitchell ignored him and pulled out his phone and found the number he needed. He rolled eyes at the man standing a few feet away and punched the call button harder than strictly necessary. “Melba, this is Mitchell,” he said when she answered. “If you have time this afternoon, can I drop by?...I...I mean we, have a proposition for you….Oh, Special Agent Allen Edmondson...Yeah, FBI…Yes, that’s what I decided….Thanks. See you in about thirty minutes.”