Sugar & Spice (US edition)

by Saffina Desforges

  She clipped the board tightly against the arms of the chair. “On no account try to reach beneath the board, Greg. We don't want any manual manipulation. That's very important. Okay, any final questions?”

  “When do the electric shocks start?”

  Reynolds beamed. “Next time. All we're doing today, Greg, is clinically identifying your preferred stimuli. The aversion therapy cannot begin until that's done. Now, are you ready?”

  The lights dimmed and soft music played in the background.

  Tchaikovsky.

  A ballet piece.

  Swan Lake?

  Sleeping Beauty?

  It came to him suddenly.

  The Nutcracker Suite.

  132

  “As I've stressed already, Colin, this is in no way a personal rebuke. No way at all. And by maintaining the media silence there is no possibility of our actions being interpreted otherwise by the public.” Commander Cedric Walker repeated his assurances for the third time as they awaited news. “It's a simple matter of covering our backs. The pattern is simply too much of a coincidence to ignore. Surely you accept that?”

  Captain Weisman was nodding his agreement.

  Dunst remained sullen. “I just think it's a sorry state of affairs when senior officers give credence to the ludicrous theories of some provincial hack who, by your own admission, is intimately involved with the mother of one of the victims.”

  Walker sighed. “It's not that straight-forward, Colin. We -”

  The Sergeant apprehensively put his head round the door. “Sir, we've just had a report from Schenectady County. An eleven year old girl hasn't turned up at school. Last seen getting into an unidentified vehicle near her home. No further details, but you asked to be informed immediately.”

  “It's not from a location on that damned list, is it?”

  “No Sir. In Schenectady itself. There's also a girl unaccounted for in Binghamton, but that's literally just this second in.”

  “Thanks Tony. Keep me updated.” He turned to Weisman. “Schenectady? Binghamton? Maybe Uncle Tom doesn't know his alphabet properly. What say you, Colin?”

  “I'd put money on it being nothing serious.”

  “Weisman scowled at his guest. “Any missing child is serious, Colin. If you'll excuse me gentleman, I ought to be getting back. Work to do.”

  He accosted Pitman in the Incident Room. “David, what's the situation?”

  “An eleven year old girl in Schenectady, Sahira Singh. Friends saw her getting into an unknown person's car. No sign of coercion. They told a teacher and he phoned the local force as a precaution. Obviously they are unaware of our specific concerns and locations, but Uncle Tom is on everyone's minds just now.”

  “And the other child? Binghamton?”

  “No further intelligence, Sir. Maybe the FBI know something we don’t?”

  “I’m sure they’d tell us. This is not a competition. Nothing from Burford's list, then?”

  “All quiet so far, Sir. How's our psycho-man taking it?”

  “He's mixing it with the Commander. Smarmy bastard. To think, I quite liked Dunst when I first met him.”

  “Appearances can be deceptive, Sir.”

  “I wouldn't mind, but he's acting all affronted because we're following up this lead. If it proves to be a false alarm I'll never hear the last of it. You could see the delight on his face when the missing girls weren’t from places starting with U and V.”

  “Maybe Uncle Tom doesn't know his alphabet.”

  “Don't you start, David. I just had that one from the Commander. He's giving Dunst the PR routine now, about the changing face of police work compared to what the FBI do. You know, community liaison, social integration. All that shit.”

  Pitman grinned. “Shit, Sir?”

  “Don't be obtuse, David. And don't keep calling me Sir, for God's sake.”

  “No, Sir.”

  133

  The screen illuminated and the first images appeared.

  Women in scanty clothing, smiling, beckoning provocatively to the camera.

  He found himself looking around the darkened room, trying to locate Reynolds, but she was out of sight. The monitors displayed gyrating lines like something out of a television hospital drama.

  “Watch the screen, please, Greg.” Behind him.

  The girls were stripping now. In different circumstances he might have found it erotic, but with Reynolds hiding in the darkness watching his every move there was no chance of that.

  From the corner of his eye he saw movement on the monitors.

  “That's it, Greg. Just relax,” Reynolds' voice soothed.

  A cold bottle of Budweiser appeared beside him. He grabbed it thankfully.

  The gyrating lines slowed as he drank, then became active again as he turned his attention to the screen.

  “How do you feel, Greg?”

  “A bit of an idiot, sat here like this.”

  “Are the images appealing?”

  “Not especially. Not in these circumstances.”

  “You see, Greg, the brain can be very subjective. According to our instruments you found the images arousing.”

  He tried to reach down, to challenge the assertion, but the board across the chair arms prevented him.

  He concentrated, trying to sense any sign of arousal.

  Nothing.

  The images faded, replaced by another. The music faded and the sound came up to match the video, of two women stripping one another, engaging in a simulated lesbian love session. He slowly became less aware of his surroundings. More relaxed. Reynolds kept quiet and for a few moments he forgot she was there.

  Slowly the images faded.

  “That was just to help you relax, Greg. Just to get you in the mood. Next we're going to see a series of images on screen. There will be no further interruptions. All I want is for you to relax and look at them. Some you may find appealing, others not. Some you may even dislike. That's fine. Establishing what turns you off is just as important as what turns you on. Okay?”

  The screen illuminated. A series of still photographs appeared, each on show for a few seconds before being replaced.

  He recognized some from the images he's been shown on a previous visit and guessed the sequence that would follow. Clothed women, then scantily clad, then nude.

  Then men, the same.

  Then couples.

  Then adults engaged in foreplay, then actual sex.

  He studied each image, his eyes darting to the monitors to see what reaction was being recorded, quietly relieved to note the gyrations were negligible when only men were on the screen.

  Then the images changed. Children at play.

  He tensed.

  This was it.

  This was why he was there.

  He took a deep breath. Boys and girls together.

  Then just boys.

  Then just girls.

  Young girls in summer frocks in a play park, and suddenly he was aware of the lively gyrations on the monitor.

  The image changed.

  Naked children.

  The pictures he remembered Reynolds' describing as naturist photos. Except these were videos, not stills. Naked children playing on a beach.

  The images changed again.

  Nothing naturist here.

  Young girls deliberately dressed and posed provocatively.

  He was aware of the wild gyrations on the monitor and turned away from the screen, acutely aware of what it meant.

  He could feel the stirrings in his groin. No need for the electronic gadgetry to explain what was happening.

  “Just watch the screen, Greg, please.”

  He saw Reynolds' shadowy figure at his side, turning the monitor so he couldn't see the display.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Uncomfortable.”

  “Aroused?

  “Sort of.”

  “You are. Believe me. Don't be embarrassed, Greg. That's good.”

  “Good? Tha
t I've got a hard-on looking at little girls?”

  134

  “Good that we've formally confirmed the stimuli.” Reynolds’ voice remained neutral.

  “Now just relax. Keep watching. It's necessary we establish precisely where your interests lay.”

  “I thought we just had.”

  “We need to know how you respond to other scenarios. To breaking the body barrier. To actual contact with children. With young girls.”

  “I've told you, I'm not that far gone.”

  “That's what we're here to confirm, Greg. The plethysmograph does not lie. Don't be alarmed or embarrassed if you feel yourself being aroused in spite of your better judgment. Just relax, totally. Let your body respond naturally.”

  Moving images now. Some obviously amateur video, some very professional. All involving young girls.

  Early Super-8 flickering recordings were replaced by VHS quality, then crystal clear HD.

  He watched in morbid fascination as real children, little girls, some much younger than the Twins, took part in activities he had not dared conceive of in even his most perverted fantasies.

  Despite himself he could feel the arousal below the board.

  He tried to shut his eyes, to think of other things.

  He tried telling himself it wasn't enjoyable.

  That these children were being abused.

  Harmed.

  But he kept watching.

  Suddenly he felt a hand between his legs. “Just adjusting the plethysmograph. Ignore me. Watch the screen, Greg. You're doing fine.”

  Her hands were gentle. There was no hint of condemnation in her voice. For the first time he trusted her.

  In spite of himself he relaxed back into the chair, allowing himself to savor the images, even to relish the physical contact happening down below.

  His pulse quickened, arousal total.

  Despite himself he was enjoying what he was seeing.

  Feeling.

  For a few seconds images and reality mixed.

  Reynolds was forgotten, sight and touch the only senses that mattered.

  Then it happened.

  There was nothing he could do.

  The euphoria of the moment gave way to intense embarrassment as he felt Reynolds' hand on his groin, wiping him clean.

  His body sagged into the chair, the screen images forgotten, grateful for the darkness to hide in. He prayed the lights would stay off.

  He could see Reynolds’ shadowy form before him, moving out of sight in silence. He wished she would speak.

  Say something.

  Anything.

  Tell him it hadn’t happened.

  That it didn’t matter.

  That he’d dreamt the whole thing.

  But there was just silence.

  Silence and the flickering screen.

  135

  Everyone was agreed that Uncle Tom had eyes only for little girls.

  The two boys reported missing that day were noted with only passing concern. The late arrival at school of the Schenectady girl warranted a sigh of relief across the station.

  The eight year old missing from Binghamton remained a worry, but as Weisman kept reminding his lieutenant, Binghamton was not on Burford’s list.

  The report of a second child unaccounted for from Union Centre, close to Binghamton, had Pitman and Weisman colluding in the Incident Room.

  “Twelve years old. Taylor Merickson. A regular runaway. It’s a place beginning with U, otherwise we’d have dismissed it as just another school dodger.”

  “Who’s in charge down there?”

  “Agent Zweik is coordinating things for the FBI.”

  Weisman was put through in less than a minute. “Captain John Weisman, RPD. The two missing girls. Anything new since you spoke to my lieutenant last?”

  “Not a lot, Captain. To be honest, the older girl will probably turn up after lunch. That’s a favorite trick of hers, apparently. It’s the younger child that concerns us. She was with her father, on a golf course. He hit a ball into the rough. She went to retrieve it. Not seen since. We’re bringing in extra agents as I speak.”

  “Keep me posted. Anything at all.”

  “It could be coincidence, Sir.” Pitman sounded unconvinced, but he rehearsed the argument anyway. “Only one of the locations could conceivably match the list. And the Union Center girl is a recidivist truant...”

  “That’s presuming the damn list has any relevance at all.” Weisman was vacillating between the two competing theories. “No question about the Binghamton child. Why the hell wasn’t she at school anyway?”

  Pitman shrugged. “It doesn’t sound promising for her.”

  “It’s the timing that bothers me, David. Even the FBI agreed we’re looking at some kind of monthly cycle. I’m going to speak to Dunst again.”

  “With respect, Sir, the last thing we need is more bullshit about kids not being breast-fed as babies and growing up into knife-wielding maniacs.”

  “That’s hardly fair, David. I admit we seem to be getting nowhere with Colin’s profile just now, but he has a proven record in the field.”

  “The problem is, when we place too much emphasis on this profiling lark the lads start taking it too seriously. They start to shut off other avenues of investigation because they don’t conform to the criteria.”

  Weisman sighed. The sooner Pitman got it off his chest, the better. “And?”

  “At first I was inclined to compare profilers to the psychic mediums of old days. Before your time, Sir, of course. But now... Now I actually think they’re worse than that. Time was, a cop went to a medium as a last resort, when all else had drawn a blank. He did it discreetly, behind the scenes. But nowadays you only have to have two crimes on the trot with a similar MO and the cry goes up, Serial killer, serial rapist, serial shop-lifter and in come the experts with their university degrees in business management and voodoo spiritualism, never having met a real criminal in their lives, and we’re expecting to dance to their every whim, looking for a suspect with a disturbed family background, that suffered childhood trauma and grew up to wear a double-breasted waist-coast and...” His voice trailed as he exhausted his supply of profiling stereotypes.

  Weisman managed a smile. “I trust you didn’t have anyone particular in mind with your dig about degrees in business management?”

  Pitman shuffled uncomfortably. “Sir?”

  “Look, David, I know how some of the men feel about me. But the Force is changing. We have to adapt to it. For better or worse.”

  “Just a figure of speech, Sir.”

  Weisman wandered over to the whiteboard. “We’ve five child homicides here, David. Now there’s unanimity among the men, whatever their educational background, that four of the five were killed by the same man. For you and Burford to be vindicated we require two more attacks in towns beginning with U and V. I don’t think Binghamton qualifies, David. Do you?”

  “I’m reserving judgment, Sir.”

  Weisman tutted loudly. “It’s like Dunst said. The location sequence is pure coincidence. Face it, David, Uncle Tom is some mindless cretin who probably can’t even spell, let alone plan abductions to order.”

  136

  “I... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. It just happened.”

  Reynolds’ voice came from the bathroom. He could hear the tap running.

  “There’s no need to apologize, Greg. That was excellent. Just excellent. It was necessary to have you achieve orgasm so we could record the peak of your arousal, to establish a benchmark for once therapy begins properly. I’m sorry I couldn’t warn you, but that would have altered the way you reacted. It wouldn’t have been a true reading.”

  “Those children... I’ve never seen anything like that before. It was just so... I couldn’t help myself. I knew it was wrong, but it was so...”

  “Erotic?”

  Embarrassment and shame mingled in his mind. He felt dirty. “What happens now?”

  Reynolds came back int
o the room. He prayed she wouldn’t turn up the lights.

  “The aversion therapy cannot begin until you’re fresh. There’s nothing more we can do today. If you’ll just sit tight while I remove the plethysmograph, then you can shower and dress.”

  “That’s it? I can go?”

  “Next time we’ll begin the therapy proper, once we’ve analyzed the results. Molly will arrange another date for you as you leave. Don’t worry, she hasn’t a clue what you’ve been doing.”

  He made his way to the bathroom, savoring the flush of the hot shower. Soaping himself over and over while trying to bring order to the turmoil in his mind.

  Through the screen Reynolds asked, “How do you feel, Greg?”

  “Embarrassed. Ashamed. Dirty. Perverted.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  “To see abuse actually happening, on film, right there in front of me... Where on Earth do you get stuff like that?”

  “For our part, we obtain it discreetly through the federal government. It’s material seized by the FBI.”

  “But before that?” He needed to talk, to delay his inevitable face-to-face with Reynolds with the lights back on. “Where does it come from in the first place?”

  “Scandinavia originally, although the internet has made it a world-wide phenomena. You’ve bought porn magazines in the past, haven’t you?”

  “Adult stuff, yes. Not child porn.”

  “Have you ever seen the Rodox and Color Climax series?”

  He had but wasn’t about to admit it. “No.”

  “You surprise me. They were all the rage for many years, mainly in licensed sex shops. It was genuine pornography, not the glamour magazines you get on your local newsstands. Rodox was formed back in the sixties by Peter Theander. Hard to believe now, but back then some Scandinavian countries legalized pornography. All pornography, including child porn. The scenes you were watching were from the Lolita series.”

  “Lolita? I’ve seen the film. Jeremy Irons. But it wasn’t...”

  “Not Nabokov. The real thing. The Lolita magazine series was the first large scale, commercial child-porn operation in the world, legally sanctioned by the Danish government. The company is still going, although not children now, of course. But at the time it sired a host of copy-cat series, like Lolitots. That was in Denmark too, but run by an Englishman, Eric Cross. Lolitots was the biggest, but there were others. Sweet Patti and Sweet Linda. When the Scandinavian authorities finally called a halt it was all driven underground. Child porn became almost impossible to find. But the internet means that’s all changed. Now anyone can have child abuse images in their living room at the click of a mouse. As I explained when you first came to us, Greg, you’re not the only one with these fantasies. Not by any stretch of the imagination.”