by Ray Flynt
“Carolyn Whiting,” we said at the same time.
Brad drove by the entrance of the Doylestown Home Depot and spotted Derek Young sitting on top of a wooden picnic table, his feet planted on the bench, as he scanned the parking lot. The table was situated between the entry and exit doors of the home improvement chain, and Brad circled the parking lot to find a convenient spot, then retrieved the plastic jewel case with the DVD from the front seat of his car.
Derek jumped down from the table when he saw Brad approach and brushed his hands against his jeans. “Here you go,” Brad said, handing him the video.
“Thanks,” Derek muttered, fluttering the case in the air. “I appreciate you bringing it over.”
Derek turned and walked briskly toward the parking lot.
“Not so fast,” Brad said, catching up to him in two long strides. “We need to talk.”
Derek stopped in his tracks, glanced at his watch, and said, “Ellen will wonder where I am.”
Brad pointed at the big orange and white sign on the front of the building. “Call and tell her you stopped at Home Depot.”
An SUV rumbled past in the parking lot, kicking up a light mist remaining on the pavement from the morning rain storm. Derek moved back toward the picnic table and pulled the cell phone from his pocket. Seconds later Brad heard him say, “Hi honey. I stopped at Home Depot. Anything you need while I’m here?” He nodded. “I won’t be too long.”
After he closed the phone, Derek slumped onto the picnic table bench at the opposite end from where Brad had taken a seat.
“What’s going on?” Brad asked. “Why the rush to get the DVD?”
Derek sat in silence, staring at the concrete on which the table sat.
“Look, Derek, if I’m going to help you, I need to know what’s happening.”
Derek shook his head. “You’ve already helped too much.”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow you,” Brad said.
“Forget it.” Derek fidgeted in his seat.
“You came to see me, remember?” Brad shouted, hoping to shock Derek out of his complacency, and drew a glare from a departing shopper.
“No. No,” Derek yelled, before softening his voice. “I went to see Oliver Reynolds, my brother’s probation officer. He dragged me to your place. I didn’t want to go. And now it’s screwing up my life.”
Brad couldn’t imagine how. “Help me understand.”
“For starters, you had to go see my mom. Yeah, yeah, I know,” he grumbled, “I told you how to get in touch with her. But you got her upset and now she’s calling me every day.” Derek sat shaking his head. “I don’t know why you had to tell her about the porn. She always took Jeremy’s side, and now she’s blaming me.”
“I don’t see why,” Brad said, trying to grasp the family dynamic based on his conversation with Susan Young.
Derek glowered at him. “Just forget it.”
Silence engulfed them.
Brad watched as Derek absentmindedly twirled the DVD’s jewel case between the fingers of his right hand, before waving it in Brad’s direction. “And my co-worker freaked out when I told him my younger brother was on this video. Manford got the DVD from his brother Ricky in Philadelphia, and then loaned it to me. Turns out his brother is on probation, and when Manford thought it might be kiddie porn he told me to get it back or he’d kill my ass. He doesn’t want his brother to get in any more trouble.”
“Did his brother make the video?”
“I don’t think so, but Manford must have thought he was involved, since he worried about him getting in deeper trouble.”
“What’s Manford’s last name?” Brad asked.
“Oh, no. Forget it.” Derek stood up, and bolted for the parking lot. Over his shoulder he called back, “You’re not contacting anybody else.”
Brad chased after him until he’d almost reached his car.
“Derek wait.” Brad put his hand on the driver’s door to stop him from opening it. “Things have gotten serious. We located a guy who’d been making porn for the same outfit as your brother. He was murdered last Friday night.”
“Oh shit,” Derek said, looking defeated.
“I need to know what you know, and I may have to chat with your co-worker.”
Derek hesitated.
Brad added, “I don’t want anyone else killed.”
Derek provided his co-worker’s last name. Brad promised him a heads-up if he had to make contact. Derek started to climb into his car.
“Hold on,” Brad said.
“I need to get going,” Derek said. “I have softball tonight. I have to change, and I’m in charge of picking up pizza before the game.”
“Before you head home,” Brad cautioned, “you better go inside and buy something, or your wife will ask more questions than I just did.”
Chapter Seventeen
Tuesday morning Brad had a minor revelation when he received an e-mail alerting him that his American Express bill was available for viewing online. He scanned the entries, part of his usual monthly habit, and spotted a recent charge for $29.95 at a company he didn’t recognize called xpressxvideos. Then he remembered that Sharon had told him she used his credit card information to register at the XRatedSugarX.com website. If he followed the money, perhaps he could come up with a contact name, address and phone number. He called American Express’s 800 number and after listening patiently to music for several minutes was connected to a customer service representative. “There’s a charge on my bill that I’m not sure about,” Brad explained.
“Are you disputing that you made the charge?” she asked.
“No. It was an Internet purchase, but I thought the cost was $19.95 and it appears on my bill as $29.95.” Best to keep the reason simple. “I couldn’t find their contact info on the Internet, and I thought if you could provide me an address and phone number that I’d give them a call.”
A few more minutes passed while she verified his account number, address, and asked for the date and reference code on the purchase. “You have a gold card, Mr. Frame,” she said. “So as you look at your statement online you’ll see a plus symbol that you can click and find all the detail on the vendor.”
Who knew?
Brad thanked her, clicked on the entry and found an address for the porn site in Los Angeles, CA and a phone number in the 267 area code.
The phone number made sense. If Tim Shaw had been making porn and remained in Southeast Pennsylvania, then that’s where the filmmakers were located. Area Code 267 was one of the relatively new ones added for the Philadelphia area, but most likely assigned to an untraceable tracfone. Brad decided to call the number and, as he suspected, was put into voice mail. The message said to leave a number and he’d receive a call within five business days. Great customer service. Maybe they were too busy cranking out porn to respond more quickly. Or to mail his inquiry to the Los Angeles address.
Perhaps they didn’t have that many unsatisfied customers.
Payments made to the credit card company would be directly deposited to a bank account, and American Express wouldn’t share that information without a court order. Brad figured the LA address must belong to a service that offers a convenient street address for business purposes, and would forward mail anywhere.
Sharon had informed Detective Nelson about the XRatedSugarX.com site, and if the police follow the money eventually they’d get a warrant for the bank information, but that wasn’t guaranteeing the safety of Jeremy Young or any of the other young men and women who’d been lured into sex for pay.
Carolyn Whiting finally returned Brad’s call and offered him a 5 p.m. meeting time that Tuesday afternoon, the exact same time that Sharon had set up a meeting with Bob Matthews and Jill Baker. “Divide and conquer,” Sharon quipped, so after comparing notes each headed to their separate appointments. On the forty-five minute drive, Brad thought about all the facts, suspicions, innuendo and gossip he’d heard about Maple Grove. One thing was certain; they’d have a liv
ely meeting.
But first he’d have to get past Whiting’s gate keeper, and remembered that Sharon had called him Ross, and that Karen Matthews referred to him as one of Whiting’s spies.
“Good afternoon, Ross,” Brad said, cheerfully, as he entered the administration’s headquarters.
“Welcome, Mr. Frame, Ms. Whiting is expecting you,” Ross said, with genial officiousness. “But she’s on a conference call right now. Have a seat, and I’ll let you know when she’s available.”
Brad slipped into a comfortable upholstered chair adjacent to Ross’ desk, and stared at the assistant, who looked back at him a couple of times but wouldn’t hold the gaze. Mid-thirties, Brad guessed, and wearing business casual attire, Ross busied himself organizing papers while the steady tick of a case clock in the stairway marked the passing time. He wore a silver wedding ring and reminded Brad of a teller at his bank in Bryn Mawr. From his vantage point Brad could see the monitor on Ross’s computer, where the Maple Grove website served as the homepage. A muffled voice resonated in the distance, and it was clear from office sounds and the number of cars in the parking area that everyone else had left for the day.
“You‘re working late,” Brad commented.
“My usual schedule,” Ross said. “I arrive at 9 and stay until Ms. Whiting leaves.”
“How long have you worked here?”
“Seven years.”
“Martha Amendola hired you?”
Ross flashed a look of surprise. “Yes, she did.”
Brad smiled and slyly said, “So you know where all the bodies are buried?”
Ross laughed nervously.
“Did Ms. Whiting show you the photographs that I e-mailed to her?”
“I think I better let her answer that question.” Ross turned toward his computer screen, as if to signal that he was busy and didn’t want to field any more questions, but Brad could see that he was just going through the motions.
“Have you stayed in touch with Martha?” Brad asked.
Ross glanced in the direction of the stairs. “Yes. She lives in Boyertown and so do I.” That was the closest town to the institution, Brad recalled, and a place where cottage parents had rented apartments so they could spend their days off with privacy.
Brad withdrew his notebook. “What’s your last name, Ross?”
Ross looked troubled, like he’d been asked to give up his Facebook password. “Uh, Gibson.”
“Thanks,” Brad said, and made sure Ross saw him writing the information in his notebook. If he’d managed to put him on edge, it might work to his advantage on follow-up calls to Whiting’s office.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” Brad heard Carolyn Whiting’s voice echo from the top of the stairway and saw her motioning for him to come up.
“Thanks for your help, Mr. Gibson,” Brad said, and headed for the stairs.
He found his way to the office where Whiting sat in the same grouping of comfortable chairs as when he and Sharon had visited with her a week earlier. She wore a beige blouse and teal skirt, and Brad noticed the matching jacket draped over the back of her desk chair. Turquoise earrings and a silver necklace complemented her outfit.
“I’ve been getting ready for our Board meeting tomorrow, and I was on a conference call with our attorneys, trying to resolve a personnel issue,” Whiting began.
“Does it involve Elias Porterfield?” Brad asked.
If she was surprised by his question, it didn’t show. He could see why the staff had dubbed her the ice queen. With an open-handed gesture, she said, “I see you’ve heard.”
“Yes. When did you hear?”
“A State Police detective called me yesterday about the complaint. I put her off since I wanted to talk with Hank—our school’s principal—and our attorneys. But I’ve known about Elias’ situation since the first week I came here.”
It was Brad’s turn to be surprised; he found situation an odd euphemism for Elias’ second degree rape conviction. “It’s a serious allegation.”
“I agree,” she said, “but you might feel differently when you know the whole story.”
“Go ahead.” Brad wanted to add “try me” but decided to keep his cynicism hidden.
“Hank Torrance is the principal of our school and has been for twenty years. It’s a private school, part of this institution, but it also has a working relationship with Intermediate Unit #14. Elias is Hank’s nephew, his sister’s oldest. Elias grew up in Missouri and had just turned twenty-one when he developed a relationship with his sixteen-year-old next door neighbor Lori Webster. Lori’s mother knew about the relationship and encouraged it. Hank says it was because Elias was a boy with, in her words, ‘prospects.’ Her dad knew nothing of the relationship until Lori got pregnant, at which time her father reported Elias to the police, and he was charged with second degree rape—what some jurisdictions call statutory rape.”
Brad marveled at her awareness of the details, and concluded it was because she’d just covered the same information on the conference call with the attorneys.
“Second degree rape,” Whiting explained, “is when a person over the age of twenty-one has had sexual relations with a person under the age of seventeen. Elias pleaded no contest, received probation and his name was automatically entered on Missouri’s sex offender registry.”
Brad thought he heard the stairs creak and noticed Whiting take a quick look toward her office door.
When no one appeared, she continued, “By the time the baby was born, Lori’s father had relented and the two of them were married. Two years later they had a second child and a year after that moved to Pennsylvania. Elias only had an associate’s degree, but lots of experience working in his dad’s auto body shop. Hank wanted to hire him to start a new auto body training program, which he thought would give a very marketable skill to many of our students. A background check revealed his name on the sex offender registry, and my predecessor refused to approve the hiring, in spite of Hank’s explanation.”
“Let me guess,” Brad said, “when you arrived he renewed his request, and you agreed.”
Whiting looked at him with a slight smile. “At least give me credit for more managerial experience than that.
“After Martha quashed Elias’ hiring, Hank recognized that a motion would need to be filed with the court in Missouri to have Elias’ conviction overturned and the mandatory sex offender designation reversed. Hank worked with his sister’s family, they hired an attorney, and there was a hearing where Elias, Lori, and her parents testified, after which the judge agreed to vacate the conviction.”
Brad wondered why the problem still existed. “Don’t tell me. He had another rape conviction?”
“Nothing like that at all,” Whiting said. “Somebody dropped the ball. The attorney in the case should have prepared an order, but none was ever entered. A judge can say whatever he or she would like from the bench, but until signatures are on paperwork, it’s like it never happened.
“Hank told me about the court hearing in Missouri,” she continued, “he was there, and I trusted him and agreed to Elias’ hiring.”
Brad digested this information. Why then, on the heels of Maple Grove’s connection to a video porn ring would word of Elias’ sex offender status be called into the police? “When we met a week ago, and I told you about our investigation of a possible connection between Maple Grove and porn videos, you telegraphed a look suggesting you might suspect someone from the institution.”
She tilted her head. “I’m afraid I don’t recall that, but I could think of nothing else in the hours after you left. Lots of names went through my mind, and frankly, Elias was one of them, but I knew he wasn’t involved.”
“Did that opinion change after the State Police called you?”
She shook her head. “I called Hank and explained the situation. He spoke by phone with the clerk of courts in Wayne County, Missouri. Hank tells me they’re working to correct the record, but it will take a few days, at least.”
“What does Elias have to say about all this?”
“I haven’t spoken with him directly. But Hank told me that Elias and Lori split up a few months ago and are fighting over custody of the children. He thinks Lori, who obviously was aware of all the details, called the State Police to discredit Elias. She’s had her own problems with local law enforcement regarding a few bad checks and may have been trying to improve her position in the custody fight.”
Brad wished he knew the cast of characters so he could form his own judgment of their integrity. People were capable of acting bizarrely when they felt cornered, and perhaps Lori Porterfield had alerted the police. If Whiting’s assessment was correct, the issue of Elias’ sex offender status was a distraction from the missing porn star case.
Brad cleared his throat. “I want to ask you about the photos we captured from that porn site and sent to you. Has your staff recognized any of the pictures?”
“Hold on,” Whiting said, as she rose from her seat and walked behind the desk. She touched a button on her phone and an intercom crackled. “Yes, Ms. Whiting.”
“Ross, could you come up here.”
By the time she returned to her seat, Ross stood in the doorway. “Please, Ross, have a seat. You met Mr. Frame?”
“Yes,” Ross said curtly, as he plopped down in the upholstered chair.
“Mr. Frame e-mailed us photographs of young men and women from that porn site I told you about. Has anyone on our staff recognized the faces?”
