by Radclyffe
Unperturbed, he continued, “At any rate, those kinds of open channels usually prevent file trading, so guys who want pics, and most serious pedophiles do, usually trade privately after they initially connect in a chat room. Until the last ten years, kiddie porn was pretty much limited to still pics and homemade videos. Distribution was via the good old U.S. mail, and it was geographically restricted to interstate distribution as opposed to international. Getting tapes through Customs is tricky, although a lot easier in Europe than here.”
“I thought we were expecting someone from Customs,” Rebecca commented quietly when he paused. The young officer, Mitchell, who was sitting to her right, was taking notes on one of a stack of pads that had been scattered over the wide stone surface. Sloan and McBride looked quietly intent, but she had a feeling that none of this was news to them. It shouldn’t be, if the Internet was their street and they were any good at what they did.
“I told them we’d keep them informed if it looked as if we were going to move into their territory,” Clark replied casually. “They’ve got their hands full with the terrorists.”
Politics, Rebecca thought, but she merely nodded.
“Anyhow,” the Justice agent went on, “with new digital technology, the game has changed. High-quality images can be uploaded and transmitted anywhere almost instantaneously. That’s the venue of the other form of trafficking in child pornography—image production and procurement. It’s a much more covert, highly organized, and sophisticated operation. There are bulletin boards that screen members, authenticate identities—or at least aliases, which most subjects use—and limit access to only those with passwords or electronic keys.” He paused a half-beat, expecting more questions from the rumpled cop, but got nothing but a stare.
“This is where most of the image exchange occurs. And this is where we’ll find a way to break into this network. The Internet is a superhighway running directly from one bedroom to the next.” He looked pointedly at Sloan. “Internet law enforcement is way behind the perps in terms of expertise. The private sector has a head start on us in terms of the ability to find and infiltrate these sites, but if anyone repeats that, I’ll deny I ever said it.”
Sloan, Rebecca noticed, smiled, but her blue eyes were dark with something unrequited. Old scores, still unsettled? She’d run a check on both the security consultant and her associate, McBride, the previous afternoon because she was certain that the Justice Department hadn’t hired them without cause. Interestingly, she’d drawn blanks on most of her inquiries. Not blanks, exactly. Gaps. Erasures. Missing data. Sloan Security Services had filed taxes for the last four years; Sloan and McBride were registered to vote; their credit records were clean; their driver licenses un-besmirched; and their pasts a complete cipher. They might have been born four years ago. And that had the smell of ex-Agency all over it. If she had to guess, she’d guess Justice. Because both of them looked like the type of whiz kids the government hired right out of college to do the kinds of things the old guard wasn’t equipped to do. Just like what they were doing now.
Rebecca was curious—because she was a cop, because she would be working with them, and because she needed to know who she could trust. Sloan had given her some intel the day before, and she hadn’t had to. That was a point for her, but it was too soon to tell how far that cooperation would extend. Traditionally, local and federal officers didn’t mesh well. And now Sloan was technically neither. Rebecca flicked her gaze back to Clark.
“Why involve us at this stage?” she asked. “It could take months before you get a solid lead.” Unless there’s something you’re not telling us. And there always is.
Clark nodded. “Because we want to cover every contingency. I don’t need to tell you that child prostitution and child pornography go hand in hand. Once someone has access to kids for sale, they usually take the next step toward photographing the sex and selling that, too. You busted up a couple of kiddie rackets not long ago, didn’t you?”
“Small-time houses—no big connections. At least none that we could find then.”
“We’re betting that they’re there. It’s another place to look. With those cases and the info from the watchdog groups that I’ll be giving to Sloan and McBride, we’ve already narrowed the search and cut out weeks of Web trolling. If you dig around in the background of the guys you busted, talk to your contacts—” He stopped suddenly and grinned disarmingly. “Sorry. You know what to do without me spelling it out.”
“Sure,” Rebecca replied dryly while across from her Watts huffed. She shot him another look.
“Let me wrap this up then,” Clark added smoothly, ignoring Watts. “A few big busts have been made in the last five years. Two international clubs—the Wonderland Club and the Orchid Club, each a network with members in the United States, Australia, Canada, and Europe—were infiltrated by members of various police agencies. There were several hundred arrests and thousands of images and videos confiscated. The problem with this approach is that it’s hit or miss, and even when you make an arrest, it’s only hitting the bottom of the food chain—pedophiles watching porn in the safety of their own homes. If it weren’t for the fact that the material featured kids, it probably wouldn’t even be illegal.”
His expression became starkly predatory, and for the first time, his charming mask slipped. “We’re not after the guy looking at dirty pictures in his bathroom. We’re after the businessmen who are sitting around a boardroom just like this one right now planning on how to make even more money off the sale of children. What we want to know is who’s behind it, how they’re getting the kids, and from where they’re broadcasting their real-time images.”
Businessmen. A nice word for organized crime, Rebecca thought. So why am I here and not someone from the OC division? This doesn’t add up. She knew better, however, than to voice her reservations. Like lawyers who never asked a question to which they didn’t already know the answer, cops learned early never to let on that there was something they didn’t know.
“Technically, any information that leads to an arrest needs to be documented and a chain of evidence recorded. The detectives should make out contact reports recording any intel from confidential informants, per usual. Officer Mitchell can take care of organizing that. In addition, a log of all Internet activity, any leads generated by that route, and any street follow-up instituted needs to be charted.”
Jason spoke up. “That’s not really possible.” And definitely not even desirable. “Some avenues of investigation are too…uh…fluid to document.”
Sloan smiled. Fluid. Only Jason could come up with that term to describe the fact that in a few hours they’d be hacking their brains out, breaking into anything and everything they could, including government databases and private systems.
“I’m sure you’ll give her the salient details,” Clark concluded easily.
Sure, Sloan thought. And we’ll take the heat for anything construed later as illegal. Which explains why Justice isn’t using their own people, even if they do have someone who could do the job. Surprise. So nice to know the Agency hasn’t changed. Disavow all knowledge…and on and on and on.
“Since this is a joint venture with the Philadelphia PD and our department, I’ll leave the day-to-day decisions up to Detective Sergeant Frye. Keep me informed of any major developments. We’ll brief every few days. More often if things start rolling.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got another appointment. Any questions?”
“Yeah,” Watts replied. “I missed the part you said about what you’ll be doing in this operation.”
“If the trail leads across state lines, it becomes federal, so it seemed prudent for us to be in on the investigation from the start.”
Rebecca met Watts’s gaze for the first time. His expression was blank but his eyes spoke for him. He knew as well as she did that Clark knew much more than he was revealing.
The five of them left at the table when Clark walked out remained in silence for a moment. Clark had implied that Rebecca
was in charge of the nuts-and-bolts aspects of the operation, yet there they all sat in the middle of Sloan’s territory. Rebecca and Sloan looked at one another across the expanse of smooth black stone. Watts and Jason watched them. Officer Mitchell stared straight ahead, her eyes fixed somewhere over the Delaware River.
“What’s your plan?” Rebecca asked finally. There was no point in drawing lines in the sand over false issues. She and Watts couldn’t do what Sloan and McBride could. Chances were they’d never even get to the point of arresting anyone. Clark was after something with this fishing expedition, she had no doubt of that, but there was more smoke in the room now than before the briefing.
“This kind of Internet surveillance op isn’t new,” Sloan said with a shrug. “And like Clark said, it usually involves a huge number of man-hours for something that often produces short-lived results.”
“Like busting hookers,” Watts remarked. “No percentage in it.”
“Exactly.”
“So why hasn’t he given you a dozen people to sit here and surf the Internet—flood the system and maximize his returns?” Rebecca persisted.
“Can’t say. It’s costly; there aren’t that many computer-savvy agents readily available; or…” She considered her words carefully, because she didn’t know the blond cop at all. She was bothered by that fact as well, had been since the first phone call had come from Washington asking her to head up the computer side of the investigation. “He wants to limit the number of people exposed to the operation.”
Rebecca nodded. That played with her sense that there was a hidden agenda beneath the stated objectives of the investigation. And there was nothing to do but do the job and keep her eyes open. “Did he give you anything specific to work with?”
“Actually, yes,” Sloan affirmed. “There are probably 100,000 sites that supply child sex images worldwide. Many of them link to credit card transactions and on-line billing sites that take Visa, MasterCard, and AmEx. When you trace them through their domain registry, they turn out to be in the Balkans or Bali or some other even more remote locale.”
“Untouchable,” Jason commented.
“Right,” Sloan agreed. “A more profitable place to search is the Web-hosting companies. Most porn sites are explicit about their content when they register with a server—you know, clever names like underagenymphos.net and lolitaland.com. Justice’s Child Exploitation and Obscenity Section has given us a prescreened list of potential U.S.-based companies that specialize in porn sites. I’ll start there, looking for intersecting references to anything in the Northeast corridor as points of origin. If there is a big supplier, particularly a live feed somewhere local, we’ll get a whiff of it eventually.”
“Sounds simple,” Watts commented dryly. “What’s the catch?”
“There’s an international network of Web resellers who buy and sell space on hosting frames. They can cloak the site content so it’s not so conspicuous to broad searches.”
“And that’s what we’re looking for, right?” Rebecca asked. “A central clearinghouse.”
Sloan nodded, an appreciative glint in her eye at Rebecca’s quick assessment. “Yes. That’s very high up on our list of desirable intel. While I do the broad sweeps, Jason will try for individual contacts.”
Watts regarded the only other man in the room sympathetically, feeling an instant kinship with him based on that fact alone. “Jeez, you’re gonna pretend to be a perv?” he asked.
“Sometimes,” Jason replied flatly. “The rest of the time I’m going to pretend to be a girl.”
“We’re going to go at this from every angle we can,” Sloan affirmed, shooting Jason an amused smile that no one else noticed. Somehow she didn’t think the time was right to explain to their new associates why that particular role would not be all that difficult for her friend.
Rebecca stood. “Is there someplace here where Mitchell can set up shop for us?” She didn’t add that she wanted a place where she could discuss the street side of things with Watts privately, but she didn’t imagine she needed to. Sloan was too sharp not to know that no one shares everything, ever.
“I’ll show you,” Jason offered. “There’s another meeting room like this at the other end of this floor you can have. It’s smaller, but the coffee machine works.”
“It’ll be fine,” Rebecca acknowledged. “Thanks.” She glanced at Sloan. “The first time you get a hint of anything that even vaguely connects to here, let me know.”
“No problem.”
*
When Jason left the three cops in a conference room that made anything at the one-eight look like a slum, Rebecca said, “Mitchell, take ten. We’ll discuss your assignment when you get back.”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ll be back in ten. Bring you anything?”
“No, thanks. How many open cases do you have?” Rebecca asked Watts when the uniform left. “Because officially, you aren’t even on this case.”
“Nothing pressing. A few follow-up interviews, two coming to trial, and those cold files I’ve been slugging through.” He hiked a hip up onto the corner of another sleek tabletop, the fabric of his shiny brown suit stretching over his ample middle. “I thought we…uh…you were just supposed to be the contact person when these eggheads find something. If they find something.”
“That’s what Henry said,” Rebecca agreed. “For my dime, I think we’re all going fishing for Avery Clark, and I don’t like that too much. Let’s poke around and see if we can find out what he really wants us to catch.”
“You think it could be Zamora?” Watts asked flatly, watching her carefully. Gregor Zamora was the head of the local organized crime syndicate, and he had been amazingly successful at avoiding prosecution. So successful that most cops believed he had friends in high places.
“I don’t think anything,” Rebecca replied steadily.
“Wouldn’t it be a bite in the ass if Zamora goes down for selling dirty pictures after all the times we’ve tried to nail him for drugs and racketeering? Justice is a funny thing sometimes.” His expression was one of happy expectation.
“Don’t jump to conclusions, and don’t talk this up at the squad,” she warned sharply. I don’t want another…partner…winding up dead.
“Wouldn’t think of it,” he replied. “Especially if chasing around for you keeps me from hunting down weenie waggers in the park. Can you get me some slack with the cap?”
She considered her options, and they were slim. Officially, this was a desk job for her. Talking to the feds, coordinating with the computer cops, and sitting on her ass until something happened. Which might be never. “I could probably justify some time for you on this by telling him I need you to run down the guys Jeff and I put away in that kiddie prostitution bust last spring. Find out if any of them are out of jail yet. Shake them down for some names. Go through the paperwork—you might even dig something up that would give us a lead.”
“Good enough for me,” Watts said. “I don’t suppose whatever we’re about to be doing is going into the rookie’s log book.”
She just looked at him.
“Right. I’m ready,” he said more seriously. “Just give me the word.”
“Go ahead and start on it,” she said as a discreet cough from the doorway to the conference room announced the uniform’s return. “I’ll call you later.”
“What’re you gonna be doing?” he asked as he ambled toward the door.
She didn’t answer. He hadn’t expected her to. It would be a long time—maybe never—before she confided in him. Some cops never accepted another partner after one was killed. Didn’t want to take the risk of losing another, or as was most likely in her case, they could only form that kind of attachment once in a lifetime. He put his hands in his pockets, walked to the elevator, and tried not to be bothered by her secrets.
*
“Come in, Mitchell,” Rebecca said as she slid open a drawer under the counter that held an automatic coffee machine and discovered prepackaged coffee
packets of a better than average brand. She didn’t speak again until she had poured water into the coffeepot from the cooler in the corner of the room. Then she turned to face the officer who was standing just inside the room, shoulders back, hands straight down at her sides. It was a posture that most young officers assumed when dealing with superiors, but on her it looked a lot more natural.
“What did you do before you were a cop?” Rebecca asked, walking to the windows and glancing at the view. Breathtaking. For an instant she thought of Catherine and wondered what she was doing at that moment. She looked away from the pristine sky and glistening water.
“I was in the Army, ma’am.”
“Enlisted?”
“No, ma’am. Second Lieutenant.”
“West Point?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Serve long?”
A tightening of the muscles along her jaw that might have gone unnoticed, but Rebecca was looking for it. “No, ma’am. Just over a year.”
Rebecca studied her, noting the faint bruise on her left cheek that was more obvious in the sunlight coming through the windows than it had been previously. Another untold story.
“How long have you been on the force?”
“Eight months.”
Allowing for her time in the Academy, she was probably in her mid-twenties, which was about how old she looked. Rebecca poured herself a cup of coffee. “Have some coffee, Mitchell.”
Mitchell glanced at her, surprised. “Thank you, ma—”
“And you can relax. Save the sirs and all that for the brass. They like it. The rest of us are just cops, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“So. Want to tell me what your situation is?” She could find out, and eventually she’d take a look at the kid’s file, but she wanted to hear it from her. You could tell a lot about a person by the way they explained their problems.
“I’ve been taken off street duty while the review board investigates a complaint against me,” Mitchell answered immediately.
