by John Locke
In the end, Sophie and I have the entire conversation worked out, and it only took us fifteen minutes longer than it took for the events to transpire last night!
“So now you’re doing what?” she says.
“Same as always.”
“Looking for ManChild?”
“Well, he won’t be using that name.”
“If he’s smart enough not to use the name, he’s smart enough not to use the phrase.”
“The sickest ones are often smart. But when their demons take over, they fall back into familiar patterns of speech.”
“I know, but the chances are so slim—”
“It’s all I’ve got, Sofe!”
We’re both quiet a minute.
“I raised my voice to you,” I say.
“I know.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You had every right,” Sophie says. “What you’re working on is really important. I don’t know how you do it, given what you’ve been through.” She sighs. “I’m supposed to be your friend, supposed to be supportive. And I am, but sometimes my mouth gets in my way.”
“It’s alright.”
We’re quiet again, best friends trying to reconnect after an awkward exchange. I feel I should say something, but I’m struggling. Then it comes to me.
“What does the BFF Handbook call for at a time like this?”
“A change of subject.”
“Got anything?”
She thinks a minute. “I do. Read me some of the funny posts.”
I smile. Sophie’s good. She’s changing the subject, but keeping me on task. I’ll read a couple of perverted posts to her, we’ll laugh, hang up. Then I’ll dig into the more serious conversation threads that have posted over the last twenty-four hours.
“Ready?” I say.
“Hit me!”
I find one and say, “PillowLips says, I like anagrams. My new online bf said his name is Alan. Do you think that’s code for Anal?”
“She probably thinks Santa is code for Satan.”
“Maybe you can work that into a song.”
She laughs. “Read me another.”
I scan the Lunatic List of names I put together to follow on a regular basis. Most are guys, but I keep an eye on a few young ladies in case they turn up missing. The ones I follow are prime candidates.
Sofe says, “What’s FingerSniffer up to? Gotta love that name!”
“Let’s see. Nothing since he asked all underage girls to send him nekkid pix.”
“Did anyone do it?”
“Nope. Or he would’ve posted.”
“Too bad you don’t have Carter Teague’s photos.”
“She’s twice too old for these men to care.”
I read her a couple more, then we hang up.
Ten minutes later, I locate SeanInPain.
As expected, Sean’s post about his younger sister rallied the demons. He’s showing forty-six responses! I’m pleased to read that two young ladies are appalled he wants to drug his sister. Unfortunately, forty-four readers are not only encouraging him to do so, they’re actually giving him advice. Disturbing advice, including how to acquire date rape drugs, and what he should do to his sister while she’s unconscious. Sean is grateful. He promises to go through with it as soon as he can score some GHB, which I know to be one of three so-called date rape drugs. Legal with a prescription, GHB is used to treat narcolepsy. In its liquid form, GHB is odorless, colorless, and mixes in alcohol, which intensifies the effect dramatically. Sean is taking pre-payments for pictures of her, and I wonder who would trust him to deliver. He says he’ll send the four most graphic shots of his fifteen-year-old naked sister for only twenty-five bucks and promises they’ll be better than her shower pix.
Shower pix?
The little bastard has taken shower pictures?
I click on the link. And there it is:
Three shower pix of little sister, age 15, highest quality, only $10.00!
I try to remain detached, but the sisterhood gene kicks in and I want to kill him. Since that’s not an option, I want to at least warn the poor girl. I nearly sign up, thinking I might obtain a website or mail drop address I can trace back to Sean. But then I come to my senses and realize I can’t purchase nude photos of underage children! I could go to jail!
I scroll through my cell phone contact list till I come to Patrick Aub. Pat’s a policeman. In a moment of weakness (his, not mine) I talked him into giving me what he had on the guy who abducted Jaqui Moreland. It wasn’t much, since he wasn’t directly involved with the case, but he did know two things: the perp’s handle was ManChild, and the phrase about the cherrystones had posted on an underage chat site.
Pat answers the phone with, “Dani! Wow, I can’t believe you called. Please tell me you found our guy!”
“Not yet.”
“But you’re still working on it?”
“I’ll never stop.”
“You’re a saint.”
“And you’re a bullshit artist. And a flirt.”
Pat laughs. “Guilty as charged.”
Jaqui’s mom contacted me two days after the abduction, against the wishes of the local police and FBI. I worked sixty straight hours with no cooperation from law enforcement. The last eight of those hours were logged after the cops found Jaqui’s corpse.
I heard about it the same time you did. On TV.
I can understand Jaqui’s mom being too upset to call me. But the cops? That was just ugly. Now there’s a public rumor the cold case experts are getting involved. I’m thrilled, but I’m not holding my breath on that. If they help, fantastic. If not, I’ll keep plugging away. I don’t care who gets credit for catching ManChild, long as he’s put away for good.
Pat says, “Did the Morelands ever pay you for your time?”
“I never asked.”
“But they didn’t offer?”
“No.”
He sighs. “Civilians, right?” He’s silent a moment, then says, “Please tell me you and your husband have split!”
“It’s not your day, Pat.”
“Damn!”
“There’s a guy on an underage website, calls himself SeanInPain. He could be eighteen, more or less.”
“What about him?”
I tell him the story.
Pat says, “You were smart not to order the pictures.”
“Can you do something with this?”
“Maybe. It’s not my division, but I’ll pass the information to Cheryl Goodman. She might be able to authorize purchase of the shower pix and backtrack the transaction.”
“Can you put me in the loop?”
“Yeah, I can do that. But if Cheryl finds out…”
“Let’s don’t tell her.”
“Okay.”
After ending the call I start a new computer search for hard and firm as the erection in my pants.
While the computer loads the references, I stand to stretch my legs. The focal point of my tiny office is the large, single window, and you can’t walk more than six steps from any spot without reaching it. I’m standing there now, looking out onto a view of downtown Cincinnati. I’d love to have an office in one of the buildings a block away that overlooks the park square. It’s a small park, half a city block, but so much life happens in parks. Kids play, moms meet, lovers hold hands, sit together, kiss, and even propose marriage. The people-watching from my window is limited to sixty feet of street, a coffee shop, a Chinese restaurant, and a discount department store. Instead of seeing people at leisure, like the park view affords, I see people in motion. They’re heading east or west, or entering or leaving one of the stores across the street. What stands out for me is anyone who’s not in motion.
Like the guy directly across the street in front of the coffee shop.
He stands out.
Not only is he motionless, he’s looking straight at me. Sees me looking back, and pulls a cell phone from his pocket to make a call. At that very moment my cell phone buzzes on my d
esk. I let it buzz, content to watch the guy below me, watching me. He points to the phone at his ear.
I walk to the desk, pick up my phone, walk back to the window, and press the button to answer the call.
He says, “We need to talk.”
“I don’t think so, Roy.”
Below me, on the street, he takes the phone away from his ear and stares at it like it’s insulting him. Then he puts it back to his ear and says, “I’m coming up.”
I click the phone off, cross the room, lock the door.
Then I get my gun.
“I KNOW YOU’RE in there. Open up or I’ll make a scene!” Roy says, trying to keep his voice under control.
“If you make a scene someone will call the police.”
“I can talk to you here, or I can come to your home. Which works best for you?”
“Um…here.”
I unlock the door and take a few steps back, positioning my gun so it’s aimed chest high. Roy opens the door, sees the gun, gasps, and immediately turns sideways and covers up. When he realizes I haven’t shot him, he lowers his hands, straightens his stance, and says, “Are you nuts? Jeez!”
“I don’t like you.”
“Relax, will you?”
“I don’t like you.”
“So you said. Put the gun down, okay? We both know you’re not going to shoot me.”
“What do you want?”
“Would you put the freaking gun away? You’re making me nervous.”
I’m making me nervous, too. I’ve never shot anyone before, and don’t want to start now. But I’m highly agitated, and my shoulders are shaking. Soon it’ll be my hands.
“Sit on the couch,” I say, “but keep your hands where I can see them.”
He does, and I close the door while keeping the gun pointed at him.
“Dani,” he says.
“What?”
“The gun?”
“The gun stays where it is. You threatened to rape me.”
“We weren’t serious about that.”
“Says you.”
He sighs.
“Can you at least take your finger off the trigger?”
“Yeah, I can do that.”
I place my finger outside the trigger guard and sit behind my desk, facing him. I keep the gun pointed at his chest, but rest the base of the grip on the desk to steady it. Now if he comes at me, it’ll be impossible to miss him.
He knows it, I know it.
“Where’s your wife?”
He shakes his head. “Carter’s not my wife.”
“Your girlfriend?”
“Not any more.”
“What did you want to talk about, Roy?”
“How did you erase the photos? They aren’t even on the memory stick.”
“Memory stick?”
“SIM card. Whatever.”
“I’m afraid that’s a trade secret. Was there anything else?”
“Yeah.”
“Go ahead.”
‘I came here to warn you,” he says
“You warned me last night.”
“Huh?”
“‘This isn’t over,’ you said. ‘Not by a long shot.’”
“That wasn’t me. That was the bourbon.”
“Uh huh. But now you’ve got a different warning for me?”
“That’s right. I’m going to make you famous. Would you like that?”
“You want to be my publicist?”
He smiles. “Let’s talk about you and Benny.”
“What about us?”
“Ever wonder how your paths crossed?”
“What do you know about our paths?”
“I never put it together till now.”
I frown. “Roy, look at me. According to Ben you’re some sort of business mogul. Is that true? Are you in fact a successful businessman?”
“Of course! I’m worth millions.”
“Then will you do me the honor of talking in complete sentences? You sound like that old cop show on TV, where everyone talks in staccato.”
“Which one?”
“What difference does it make? Just tell me, all at once, what you came here to say.”
“Dragnet.”
“What?”
“The TV show you’re talking about. Dragnet. ‘Just the facts, ma’am.’ I’m right, right?”
“I don’t know. I’m twenty-four years old. I saw it on some show where comedians were making fun of old TV shows.”
“Dragnet was a classic. They had these two detectives—”
“Roy!”
“Huh?”
“Enough about the TV show.”
He shrugs his shoulders and says, “You’re the one brought it up.”
I speak to him slowly, as if talking to a small child. “Roy. For the love of God. Will you please tell me what you came here to say?”
“I think you might be the little girl they pulled out of that crazy guy’s basement a few years back.”
I wasn’t expecting that bombshell, and he can tell I wasn’t. I have to regroup, and fast. I force myself to look puzzled instead of shocked. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Mindy Renee Whittaker.”
“Wait. You think I’m her?”
“That’s right.”
I shake my head and laugh, but it doesn’t sound convincing, even to me. So I add, “That’s ridiculous!”
“You sure about that?”
“Quite.”
“Where are you from, originally?”
“Pittsburgh.”
He frowns. “Pittsburgh?”
“Roy?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re doing that Dragnet thing again.”
“Maybe so, but I think you’re her.”
I sigh. “The girl you’re talking about is from Portland, not Pittsburgh. And they didn’t drag her out of a basement, she broke free and walked into a precinct house. From what I’ve seen on TV, the media wouldn’t leave her alone. The police feared for her safety, so they put her and her mother in witness protection and relocated her somewhere.”
“Cincinnati’s somewhere.”
“Oh. Well, you’ve got me there, Roy,” I say with great sarcasm. “Yes, you’re absolutely correct. Cincinnati is somewhere.”
“You get all your information from TV?” he says.
“Pretty much. But just for the sake of argument, what led you to draw this absurd conclusion?”
“Your husband, Benny.”
“What about him?”
“He was fascinated with her. No, fascinated isn’t the right word. He was obsessed.”
“What are you talking about?”
He sweeps his hand indicating a wide area and says, “It was all over the news. For weeks. Biggest search party ever.”
“So?”
“Around the time all that was going on I called Benny, to tell him what I was up to. You know, all my business and personal conquests.” He winks. Then says, “During that call he said he was going to meet that little girl and marry her someday. I called him a pedophile, and he hung up on me.”
I try to keep my expression neutral, but it’s hard to do with ice crystals forming in my veins. Also, my stomach is acting funny.
I swallow.
When I’m able to speak with a steady voice, I say, “Pedophilia refers to adults attracted to prepubescent children, not fifteen-year-olds. In any case, Ben didn’t marry Mindy Renee, he married me.”
He stares at my face as if trying to memorize it for a quiz.
“Maybe,” he says. “But he did manage to meet her when she was seventeen. He even got a job tutoring her.”
“He told you that?”
“You’re pretending you don’t know any of this?”
“I’m not pretending,” I say. “The whole idea’s insane.”
