The Detective D. D. Warren Series 5-Book Bundle

by Lisa Gardner

  What can I tell you? According to my parole officer, there are nearly six hundred thousand registered sex offenders in the United States. A few of them are bound to behave badly. And when they do, we all get punished, even a guy like me.

  I get up, I go to work, I attend my meetings, I keep my nose clean. I’m a regular success story. Yet, here it is, five P.M., I’m wrapping up at work, but mostly I’m waiting to get arrested by the police.

  By five-fifteen, when half a dozen squad cars still haven’t careened down the streets with lights flashing, I give it up and begin the walk home. I retrace the day in my mind, trying to control my growing anxiety. After spotting the canvassing officers this morning, I did the sensible thing and went to work. After all, the police will find me soon enough, and when they do, how I’ve spent the hours since Mrs. Jones went missing is going to be a key topic of discussion. As it stands, I was half an hour late from lunch, given my talk with Mr. Jones. This anomaly will stand out, but nothing I can do about it now. I had to talk to the guy. After all, my only hope is that they arrest him instead of me.

  Now, approaching my front steps, still not seeing signs of men in blue—or, more likely, SWAT team members in flak vests—I realize it’s Thursday night and if I don’t hustle, I’m gonna be late for my meeting. I can’t afford another deviation from my schedule, so I hustle, bursting into my bedroom for the five-minute shower-and-change, then I’m back out the door, hailing a cab for the local mental health institute; it’s not like eight registered sex offenders can hold their weekly support group meetings at the neighborhood library.

  I arrive at the front doors at 5:59 P.M. This is important. The signed contract states you cannot be even one minute late for meetings, and our group leader is a stickler on this point. Mrs. Brenda Jane is a licensed clinical social worker with the looks of a six-foot blonde cover girl and the personality of a prison guard. She doesn’t just run our meetings, she controls every facet of our life from what we do or do not drink to who we do or do not date. Half of us hate her. The other half are extremely grateful.

  Meetings are approximately two hours long, once a week. One of the first things you learn as a registered sex offender is how to do a lot of paperwork. I have an entire three-ring binder filled with such documents as my signed “Sex Offender Program Contract,” my customized “Safety Plan for Future Well-Being,” as well as half a dozen “Program Rules for Group Sessions,” “Program Rules for Dating/Relationships,” and “Program Rules for Offenses Within the Family Unit.” Tonight is no exception. Each of us begins by filling out the weekly status report.

  Question one: What feelings have you experienced this week?

  My first thought is guilt. My second thought is that I can’t write that down. There is no confidentiality when it comes to statements made in support group. Yet one more piece of paper we all had to read and sign. Whatever I say tonight, or any night, can be used against me in a court of law. Adding to the daily paradox that is any sex offender’s life. On the one hand, I need to work on improving my skills in the honesty department. On the other hand, I can be punished for doing so at any time.

  I write down the second answer that comes to me: fear. Police can’t deny me that, can they? A woman has gone missing. I’m the registered sex offender living on her block. Damn right I’m afraid.

  Question two: What five interventions did you use this week to avoid unhealthy situations?

  This question is easy. First day in group, you receive a list of approximately one hundred and forty “interventions” or ideas on how to break the abuse cycle. Most of us laugh at the list first time through. One hundred and forty ways not to re-offend? Including such winners as call the police, take a cold shower, or my personal favorite, jump in the ocean in the middle of winter.

  I go with the usual: Wasn’t alone with children, stayed out of bars, didn’t drive aimlessly, didn’t place high expectations on myself, and snapped a rubber band.

  Sometimes I include “avoided self-pity” as one of my five, but even I know I didn’t achieve that this week. The “didn’t place high expectations” makes a nice substitute. I haven’t had expectations in years.

  Question three: What five interventions did you use this week to promote a healthy lifestyle?

  Another rote answer: Worked full time, exercised, avoided drugs and alcohol, got plenty of rest, and stayed on an even keel. Well, maybe I didn’t stay on an even keel today, per se, but that is only one day out of seven, and the form is technically a weekly status report.

  Question four: Describe all inappropriate or uncaring urges, fantasies, or sexual thoughts you had this week.

  I write: I fantasized about having sex with a bound-and-gagged adult female.

  Question five: Explain why you think each fantasy occurred.

  I write: Because I’m a twenty-three-year-old celibate male who is horny as hell.

  I think about it, then erase “horny as hell” and replace it with “in his sexual prime.” Mrs. Brenda Jane, the group leader, has rules about proper language for the meetings. Nobody in our group has cocks, pricks, or dicks. We have penises. Period.

  For question six, I get to describe my emotional state before masturbation, during masturbation, and after masturbation. Most guys describe feeling angry or anxious. So much pressure out there and it builds and builds and builds until they have to do something about it. Some guys report crying afterward. Feeling guilty, ashamed, intensely alone, all for whacking their willy.

  I don’t have anything like that to describe. I’m an auto mechanic and my masturbation these days has that same clinical feel. I’m not blowing off steam; I’m simply making sure all the parts remain in proper working order.

  Question seven: What mutual sexual activity did you experience this week?

  I have nothing to report.

  Question eight: What age-appropriate relationships (nonsexual) have you had or attempted this week?

  I have nothing to report.

  Question nine: For all child contact, please list child’s name and age, child’s relationship to you, kind of contact, and name of chaperone present.

  I have nothing to report.

  And so it goes. Another weekly report, another support group meeting.

  You know what we really do in these meetings? We rationalize. The father who slept with one daughter pretends he’s better than the priest who slept with fifteen altar boys. The guy who fondled pretends he’s better than the guy who penetrated. The predators who entice their victims with promises of candy, affection, or extra privileges argue they are better than the monsters who resort to violence, and the monsters who resort to violence argue they inflict less damage than the enticers who make their victims feel like they are an equal party to the crime. The state has lumped us all together, and like any organized group of people, we are desperate to differentiate.

  You know why these meetings work? Because no one can spot a liar like another liar. And face it, in this room, we’re all pros.

  We spend the first thirty minutes of the meeting running through the weekly status reports, then, for the first time in months, I finally have something to say.

  “I think I’m going to be arrested.”

  That halts conversation. Mrs. Brenda Jane clears her throat, adjusts her clipboard on her lap. “Aidan, it sounds like you have something to discuss.”

  “Yeah. A woman has gone missing on my street. I figure if they don’t find her soon, they’re gonna blame me.” The words come out angry. I’m a little surprised by that. Up until now, I have considered myself resigned to my fate. But maybe I do have some expectations after all. I find myself snapping the rubber band on my wrist, a sure sign of agitation. I force myself to stop.

  “You kill her?” Wendell asks. Wendell is an enormously fat white guy with neatly trimmed black facial hair. He’s well educated, quite wealthy, and has a voice that comes straight from a helium balloon. Wendell is also the reigning master of the rationalization game. He’s just a po
or, picked-on exhibitionist, all show, no touch. For him to be grouped with the likes of us proves just how inhumane the criminal justice system really is.

  I don’t know if Wendell is all show and no touch. In theory, as part of the intake process for the sex offender treatment program, he supplied a full autobiography of all crimes he ever committed, then was polygraphed against this history, at a cost of $150. (Which we pay ourselves, I might add, and must keep paying until we pass the polygraph test.)

  Personally, I think Wendell is a freaking psychopath. Poor, picked-on exhibitionist, my ass. Wendell always targeted a specific victim group. For example, he liked to visit old folks’ homes and flash three hundred pounds of white ass before the bedridden patients who barely had the strength to shield their eyes. Then he’d motor over to the teen health clinic, where he could wag his dingdong in front of the overwhelmed fourteen-year-old who’d just learned she was eight weeks pregnant. Mostly, however, he liked to operate outside rape crisis clinics, where he could spring a massive mountain of flesh upon already traumatized women.

  His final victim went home and hanged herself. But as Wendell will tell you, he’s not as bad as the rest of us.

  “I didn’t touch her,” I answer now, ignoring Wendell’s knowing grin. “I didn’t even know her. But it doesn’t matter. The police will check the database and my name will come up. They’ll arrest me just on principle, and it’s not like I can make bail. They get me, I’m done.” I’m snapping the band again. I can see Mrs. Brenda Jane watching me, and once again force myself to stop.

  I can already tell what she’s thinking: And how does this make you feel, Aidan Brewster?

  Trapped, I want to scream. Very, very trapped.

  “A woman disappeared? In Southie? When did this happen?” Another group member, Gary Provost, speaks up. Gary is a thirty-seven-year-old alcoholic investment manager, who was caught inappropriately touching his friend’s eleven-year-old daughter. His wife left him, taking with her their two sons. His extended family is still not speaking to him. Yet of all of us, he probably has the most hope. For one thing, he still looks like a respected professional, versus a convicted pervert. For another, he seems genuinely remorseful and very dedicated to his recently achieved sobriety. Gary’s a serious one. Quiet but intelligent. Of everyone in the room, I almost like him.

  “The woman disappeared last night.”

  “I haven’t heard anything on the news.”

  “Dunno.” I shrug.

  “How old is she?” Wendell asks, cutting to the heart of the matter.

  I shrug again. “She’s a mom, so mid-twenties, something like that.”

  “That’ll cut you some slack,” Jim offers, “that she’s an adult and all. Plus, you don’t have a history of violence.”

  Jim smiles as he says this. Jim is the only Level III sex offender in our group, meaning of all of us, he’s the one the state fears the most. An exhibitionist such as Wendell might have the highest rate of recidivism, but a hard-core pedophile such as Jim is the true monster under the bed. By Jim’s own admission, he’s attracted solely to eight-year-old boys and has probably had inappropriate relationships with thirty-five kids in a span of nearly forty years. He started when he was a fourteen-year-old babysitter. Now, at the age of fifty-five, his own flagging testosterone is finally slowing him down. Plus, the docs got him on a heavy regimen of antidepressants, the side effects of which repress the libido.

  As we get to discuss in our weekly meetings, however, it’s very difficult to change sexuality. You can try to teach someone to desire adults, but it’s difficult to “remove” an object from someone’s sexual orientation, or, in other words, teach that same person not to desire kids.

  Jim has a tendency to dress in Mister Rogers sweaters and suck on hard butterscotches. From that alone, I’m guessing he still fantasizes mostly about prepubescent boys.

  “I don’t know if that will matter,” I say now. “A registered offender is a registered offender. I think they’ll arrest first, ask questions later.”

  “No,” Gary the investment manager interjects. “They’ll visit your parole officer first. That’s how it works.”

  My parole officer. I blink in surprise. I have totally forgotten about her. I’ve been on parole two years now, and while I am required to check in each month, my own behavior has been so constant I’ve stopped noticing the meetings. Just another bout of paperwork and dutifully signed forms. Guy like me, the whole thing is over and done in about eight minutes. I copy my pay stubs, hand over a letter from my treatment counselor, prove I’ve paid my weekly fees for counseling, etc., and we’re good to go for another thirty days.

  “What d’you think your PO will say?” Wendell asks now, eyes narrowing.

  “Not much to report.”

  “You went to work today?” Mrs. Brenda Jane inquires.

  “Yes.”

  “No drinking, no drugs, no Internet?”

  “I work. I walk. I’m keeping my nose clean.”

  “Then you should be fine. Of course, you have the right to a lawyer, so if you start to feel uncomfortable, you should ask for one.”

  “I think the husband did it,” I hear myself say. No good reason. Just that whole rationalization thing again. See, I’m not the monster. He is.

  My group goes to bat for me, nodding their heads. “Yep, yep,” several reply. “Ain’t it always the husband?”

  Wendell still has that smirk on his face. “It’s not like she’s fourteen—” he starts.

  “Wendell,” Mrs. Brenda Jane interrupts.

  He feigns innocence. “I’m just saying it’s not like she’s a beautiful jail-bait blonde.”

  “Mr. Harrington—”

  Wendell puts up a meaty hand, finally acknowledging defeat. But then, at the last minute, he turns back to me and finally has something useful to say.

  “Hey, kid, you’re still working at the neighborhood chop shop, right? Hope for your sake the missing woman didn’t get her car serviced there.”

  In that instant, I can picture Sandra Jones perfectly, standing in front of the industrial gray counter, long blonde hair tucked behind her ears, smiling as she hands over her keys to Vito: “Sure, we can pick it up at five.…”

  I realize for the second time in my life that I will not be going home again.

  | CHAPTER EIGHT |

  What makes a family?

  It is a question I have pondered most of my life. I grew up in the typical Southern clan. I had a stay-at-home mom, famous for her meticulously groomed appearance and award-winning rose garden. I had the highly respected father who’d founded his own law firm and worked hard to provide for his two “lovely ladies.” I had two dozen cousins, a passel of aunts and uncles. Enough relatives that the annual family reunions, hosted at my parents’ sprawling home with its acres of green lawn and its wraparound front porch, were less a summer barbecue, and more a three-ring circus.

  I spent the first fifteen years of my life smiling obediently as fat aunts pinched my cheeks and told me how much I resembled my mother. I turned in my homework on time so teachers could pat my head and tell me how I made my father proud. I went to church, I babysat my neighbors’ children, I worked after school at the local store, and I smiled and smiled and smiled until my cheeks hurt.

  Then I went home, collected the empty gin bottles off the hardwood floors, and pretended I didn’t hear my mama’s drunken taunt from down the hall, “I know something you don’t know. I know something you don’t know.…”

  When I was two years old, my mama made me eat a lightbulb so she could take me to the doctor and tell him what a naughty girl I was. When I was four, she made me put my thumb in a doorjamb and hold it there while she slammed the door shut, so she could show the doctor how reckless I was. When I was six, she fed me bleach so the doctors could understand just how terrible it was to be my mother.

  My mama hurt me, time and time again, and no one ever stopped her. Did that make us family?

  My father
suspected, but never asked, even as his drunken wife chased him around the house with knives. Did that make us family?

  I knew my mama was actively hurting me and hoping to hurt my father, but I never told. Did that make us family?

  My father loved her. Even at a young age, I got that. No matter what Mama did, Papa stood beside her. That was marriage, he told me. And she wasn’t always like this, he would add. As if once my mama had been sane, and having been sane once, maybe she could be sane again.

  So we would go about our routine, starting each evening with my mother laying out a properly prepared dinner, and ending each meal with her hurling fried chicken, or heaven help us, a leaded crystal glass, at one or both of our heads. Eventually, my father would lead her back to the bedroom, tucking her in with another gin-laced sweet tea.

  “You know how she is,” he’d tell me quietly, half excuse, half apology. We would spend the rest of the night reading together in the front parlor, both of us pretending not to hear Mama’s drunken warble floating down the hall: “I know something you don’t know. I know something you don’t know.…”

  When my mother died, I stopped asking so many questions. I thought the war was finally over. My father and I were free. Now came the happily ever after.

  One week after the funeral, I tore up my mother’s prized rosebushes. I ran them through the wood chipper, and my father cried harder over those damn flowers than he’d ever cried over me.

  I started to understand a few things then, about the true nature of families.

  Looking back now, I think it was inevitable that I wound up pregnant, married to a stranger, and living in a state where everyone dropped their R’s. I had never been alone one single day in my life. So of course, the instant I was on my own, I immediately re-created the one thing I knew: a family.

  Going into labor scared the bejesus out of me. Nine months later, I still wasn’t ready. The ink was barely dry on my marriage certificate. We were still settling into our new home, a teeny tiny little bungalow that would’ve fit inside my parents’ front parlor. I couldn’t be a mom yet. I hadn’t set up the crib. I hadn’t even finished reading the parenting book.