Sugar & Spice (US edition)

by Saffina Desforges

  “I’m beginning to realize that now.”

  “There are people out there who genuinely believe that sex with children is harmless fun and should be legalized.”

  “Legalized?”

  “You’ve heard of the Pedophile Information Exchange, surely?”

  “I came across it when I was researching my own problems. But that was British. And it’s defunct now, isn’t it?”

  “Officially, yes. It’s a legally proscribed organization, but banning something doesn’t make the problem go away. I can assure you its members are still out there. Not just here, but worldwide. Have you ever heard of the Rene Guyon Society?”

  “Never.”

  “Uncle Sam’s own. The original American Pie. They advocate the legalization of what they call trans-generational sex. Their motto might appeal to you, Greg.”

  Randall popped his head round the screen inquisitively. “What is it?”

  Reynolds smiled at him. “Sex before eight, or else it’s too late.”

  137

  For Old Sally it was just another cold winter’s day.

  The run-up to the Holidays meant late-night shoppers and drunken revelers disturbing her evening rest in the Main Street doorways, and colorful street lighting stopped her sleeping once the crowds finally vanished.

  The trash pile at the rear of the alley was a regular stop, a treasure trove for the homeless on the streets of White Plains.

  The blouse was a child’s, but almost new. She might be able to exchange it at a charity shop for something her size. She stuffed the garment in her bag and reached for the winter coat.

  As she pulled it from the skip the lifeless eyes staring back at her were too much for a heart weakened by hypothermia and cheap alcohol. Old Sally managed to reach the street corner before keeling over.

  The bag in the old crone’s hand aroused no particular interest from Officer Stephen Glover, taking copious notes from the one person who had bothered to stop. More rags to keep warm. As the ambulance drove slowly away, Glover dutifully walked back towards the trash pile to collect anything Old Sally might have dropped. It was the first time anyone had died on his beat.

  He picked up the white ankle sock indifferently.

  A second sock and his mind began to race. He thought of the child’s blouse in Old Sally’s bag.

  The pleated grey skirt had him almost running towards the skip, fearing the worst, but still daring to hope.

  This was the stuff police careers were made of.

  But nothing at police training college had prepared him for this.

  138

  Dr William Thewliss made his initial assessment from a distance, waiting patiently for the forensics photographer to finish.

  He could barely hide his excitement as he took control of the scene.

  It was a forensic pathologists’ dream.

  The yellow fingernails stood out like beacons, the unmistakable trademark of Uncle Tom. Thewliss took charge of the body with confident air. Crime scene investigators were arranging arc lamps at a safe distance as December’s early dusk encroached. A canvas tent shielded the scene from the crowd of on-lookers gathering at the police cordon.

  Satisfied, Thewliss announced his findings to a microphone while a cameraman took video footage.

  There was no sign of hypostasis, the settling of blood under gravity, indicating the death must be recent.

  He announced readings from the rectal thermometer, competent enough to calculate the result in his head, although he’d run it through his laptop for precision. Deduct the recorded temperature from the normal body temperature of thirty-seven Celsius. Divide by one and one half. Plot to a graph and allow an average cooling rate of two and a half degrees per hour. The computer could factor in air temperature and other considerations, but Thewliss already had an estimated time of death in mind.

  It was another hour before he was ready to have the body moved.

  There was nothing to indicate who the child might be and it was not until early-evening that her anxious parents, oblivious to the drama unfolding a few blocks away, finally stopped calling their daughters’ friends and called the police.

  The father identified the child as ten year old Victoria Gilham within the hour.

  By then his wife was already succumbing to the welcome fog of heavy sedation.

  Victoria was their only child.

  139

  By all accounts Victoria had been an independent young lady who often preferred her own company to that of her peers.

  She had attended school that morning, but wandered into town on her own at lunch time.

  Her teacher recorded her absent on the afternoon register but it was the last few weeks of term. The Christmas play was already behind schedule. It wasn’t even worth the effort to text her parents. There were more pressing matters to deal with than regular truants.

  It was a professional decision of the type teachers are forced to take every day.

  It was a decision that would haunt her for the rest of her life.

  140

  Forensics were making progress.

  The fingernail paint samples had been subjected to emission spectroscopy, placed between two carbon electrodes and an electric arc. The spectroscope broke the light emissions into constituent parts. It was the same paint as found on Uncle Tom’s previous victims.

  Fibers on the copper pipe suggested the killer had worn white cotton gloves when he applied the ligature.

  Hairs found on the girls’ cardigan were subjected to comparison microscopy and neutron activation analysis. Animal hairs were later matched to the child’s pet. A single one of the fifty-three human hairs removed from the cardigan was not from the child. A DNA analysis confirmed it matched the semen trace also found on the child. The killer had short brown hair.

  The soiled handkerchief was almost superfluous. A white cotton hanky, stained with the child’s blood, Group A. The mucus on the handkerchief was that of a secretor, blood group O. The DNA matched the hair and semen.

  But initial jubilation was short-lived.

  The inquiry quickly began to falter as leads turned to dead ends and the flood of information from a well-meaning public began to ebb.

  On December tenth, following an anonymous tip-off, the bodies of the missing girls were dragged from the Cayuga-Seneca Canal near Seneca Falls.

  The next day, following a state-wide televised appeal, came a new lead.

  Weisman took the call personally and assigned Pitman to follow through.

  A case conference was being held by Oswego County Department of Social Services at noon, to which the police were invited.

  Social workers following up a routine child protection concern believed they may have stumbled across the identity of Uncle Tom.

  141

  The four caseworkers sat down one side of the long table in the Case Conference Room. The guest speaker had rung through to say she was running late. Pitman, sitting alone on the far side, cursed Weisman beneath his breath. This was a job for a rookie officer not a seasoned old-timer.

  Attempts at conversation with the caseworkers had proved pointless.

  They were on a different planet.

  The guest arrived drenched, giving Pitman some mild satisfaction. He made a point of looking at his watch, but everyone else seemed quite unconcerned at the time wasted. Further time passed while the guest was provided with a pot of tea. Pitman looked on aghast. He didn’t want any, but it would have been nice to have been offered.

  “Thank you all for coming today,” one of them finally began. “As we have some new faces here I’ll briefly introduce you all. For the Department, I’m Vera Kidger, Senior Social Worker. My colleagues are Corinne Moon and John Pratt, both case workers now assigned to the children, and Michael O’Shea, a fellow Senior Social Worker. Across the table I’m pleased to welcome Dr Ruth Reynolds. Ruth is a psychotherapist at the prestigious Quinlan Foundation in Syracuse.” He paused to give her fellow workers a chance to dwell on the
esteemed presence before them. Then, almost as an afterthought, “And also present is Sergeant Pitman of the Rochester Police Department.”

  “Lieutenant,” Pitman corrected. He wondered if Weisman had deliberately misinformed her.

  “Lieutenant Pitman.” Kidger affected a charmless smile. “Now, this meeting has been called specifically to deal with the sexual abuse of two young girls. The abuser, as is so very often the case, is their biological father. We need to consider whether there might be grounds for intervention at some level.”

  “Surely if the children are being abused that’s a foregone conclusion,” Pitman ventured.

  Kidger glared at him. “Really, Sergeant... Social workers labor under countless guidelines and procedures which have to be followed. We have predetermined service goals and strategies. We cannot barge in and rescue a child just because they are being abused.”

  Pitman raised an eyebrow. “It’s lieutenant. And if you care to hand your evidence to any police officer we’ll do it for you. Sexual abuse of children is a criminal offence, in case you hadn’t heard.”

  Kidger dismissed him with a wave of the hand. “We haven’t got the evidence yet, Sergeant. That’s what Dr Reynolds is here today to reveal to us.”

  All eyes turned to Reynolds, who basked in the attention. Kidger continued, “Dr Reynolds, Ruth, has been treating the father for some time, and through her work has uncovered clear evidence of the most appalling sexual abuse. Ruth specifically requested a representative of the police be present today, so serious are her concerns.”

  There were sharp intakes of breath from the case-workers. Reynolds was preening in the build-up, smiling in turn at each awed face that peered towards her. Pitman felt nauseous. Self-righteous Do-Gooders. He tapped his fingers impatiently.

  “Without further ado, then, I’ll hand over to Ruth.”

  Reynolds sat to attention, engaging her audience. Pitman studied his fingernails.

  “It is with the utmost misgivings that my purpose here today is to betray the confidence of a client, of a patient, for the greater good.”

  142

  Reynolds paused for effect, taking a sip of tea, basking in the earnest gaze of the social workers.

  “Earlier this year we were approached by a thirty-one year old Caucasian male, Gregory Alan Randall, who presented us with a challenging case study of multiple paraphilic inclinations, including a history of sexual interest in young girls.”

  “Miss Reynolds, I understand there is a connection with –”

  “Sergeant, please!” It was Kidger, sporting an expression of affronted indignation. “I’m sure I don’t know how guests are treated at your Police Station, but here we believe it polite to let a speaker make her representation without interruption.”

  “But I –”

  “There will be an opportunity to question Ruth once she has finished.” Kidger’s glaring eyes dared him to challenge her authority.

  “Thank you, Vera,” Ruth said, looking at Pitman. “Now, Randall came to us in July of this year, a few weeks after the tragic incident with the little girl abducted from the Rochester area.”

  “Rebecca Meadows,” Pitman said.

  Kidger appeared to approve this brief contribution.

  “Rebecca, that’s right. Such a sweet child. My heart goes out to her parents. It must have been terrible for them.”

  “Terrible,” the Do-Gooders murmured as one.

  “Of course, it’s quite common for establishments such as ours to receive increased interest from the public after high-profile sexual-assault cases.”

  The social workers were nodding like donkeys, led by Kidger, who Pitman mentally nick-named Senior Nodder.

  “To cut a long story short, I undertook the preliminary interviews with Randall, on behalf of Dr Quinlan. What emerged was a pedophile with a clear and developing sexual attraction towards pre-pubescent females. Randall is married, and the father of twins. Two six year old girls.”

  There were further intakes of breath as the Do-Gooders put two and two together. Reynolds acknowledged their train of thought.

  “Precisely. Nonetheless, Randall was able to assure us, convincingly at first, that his pedophile interest in young girls did not extend to his own daughters. He admitted to finding girls most attractive at about eight or nine, and for this reason, fearing what he might do in the future, and spurred on by the publicity about Uncle Tom, he came to us for help.”

  She paused for tea, pleased to see Pitman scribbling notes. “On completion of our assessment we advised Randall we were concerned he might in the future become a danger to his own or other people’s children, and that some form of prophylactic therapy should be undertaken at the earliest opportunity. You will appreciate we can only make judgments based on what our clients reveal to us. There was no way, at this time, we could have realized Randall was in fact using the Foundation to further his own vile and sordid agenda.”

  Kidger brought her hands together as if in prayer, shaking her head in disbelief. There were stifled gasps from the Do-Gooders as they realized where Reynolds was heading. Pitman listened intently, unimpressed by Reynolds’ supposed ethical dilemma, anxious for the details.

  “Dr Quinlan and I began a course of aversion therapy with Randall, in good faith, believing we were in some way helping this poor man. As you may be aware, aversion therapy in the first instance involves the viewing of images designed to stimulate, in order later to deter, dysfunctional desire. In this case Randall’s pedophile fantasies. To that end we have access, through the federal government, to material such as child pornography, the like of which I can assure you would churn the stomach of every man and woman in this room.” She paused to inspect her audience, defying anyone not to have their stomach churned.

  “The US Government gives you child porn to show your patients?” Pitman looked incredulous. Had he misheard?

  Reynolds smiled smugly. “The Quinlan Foundation is one of the few establishments in the country licensed by Washington to treat persistent and violent criminals. The materials we use are part of the immense stock of child pornography seized every year by the police, the FBI and other crime prevention agencies.”

  “Let me get this straight. You show child-porn images to pedophiles?”

  “That’s perfectly correct, Lieutenant. Now, may I continue?”

  Pitman let out a deep sigh. At least she had managed to address him by his correct rank.

  “Of course, it is only with hindsight we realized Randall was in fact using our facilities to live out his own sadistic fantasies which, we now realize, have led him to kill again.”

  “You mean...” Kidger’s face was a picture. “You mean Randall is... Uncle Tom?”

  The other social workers were looking on in shock.

  Reynolds’ face was a study in sincerity. “Precisely so, Vera, which is why I asked you to invite the police here today.”

  The donkeys were nodding again. Pitman felt himself nodding too and quickly rested his chin on his hand.

  “Last month, when it appeared our therapy was having no significant impact, Dr Quinlan arranged for Randall to obtain a second opinion from an independent analyst. We at the Foundation are not so arrogant as to believe we have all the answers. Sometimes a case like this can benefit from a fresh perspective.”

  “How does this link Randall to Uncle Tom?”

  “I’m about to come to that, Lieutenant, given the chance. Dr Quinlan arranged for Randall to visit one of our colleagues at a private clinic. Due to a mix-up, Randall arrived at the clinic but was turned away.”

  Pitman shrugged. “And?”

  “The clinic in question was in White Plains, on the morning the girl was murdered...”

  143

  There were gasps of horror from the social workers.

  “Of course, when we realized the truth we faced the agonizing decision of whether to breach client confidentiality.”

  Kidger sat forward. “Oh Ruth, we all feel for you. What a d
ilemma to have to face.”

  “Why didn’t you come to the police right away?” Pitman demanded.

  Reynolds smiled condescendingly. “Randall has two daughters, Natalie and Tamara. Now that his calculated manipulation of the Foundation’s services has become apparent, it is equally obvious this man has been abusing these girls for untold years, probably since they were born.”

  “Those poor children,” Kidger fawned. “They’ll be permanently damaged. But we’ll do everything we can for them, of course.”

  The other social workers were nodding in unison, anxious to stress their willingness to do everything they could.

  “Of course, with hindsight the clues were so very obvious,” Reynolds said. “For example, Randall has a nickname for the children. He calls them The Dynamite Twins.” She ran her eyes around the room.

  “The subtle sexual connotation is really self-explanatory. The imagery of a stick of dynamite as a penis is clear. The explosion of the dynamite represents ejaculation, of course. When Randall refers to the girls as The Dynamite Twin he is, quite simply, fantasizing about raping his own daughters. That’s assuming he hasn’t done so already.”

  The social workers gasped loudly on cue. Pitman looked back and forth between them and Reynolds, wondering how much longer he could keep a straight face. The Do-Gooders were simply lapping up Reynolds’ psychotherapy claptrap.