by Ann Benson
Two of the three remaining files showed up in my mailbox Monday morning. I wonder if I would have been so quick to give up control of something as these initiating detectives seemed to be. But careerwise it makes sense, because you hate to have too many unsolveds on the board. Taken individually, these cases were all going nowhere fast. Even with the recognition of their connectedness, I might not solve them. My closure rate would drop down to normal for the first time in my career.
I started calling the families of the victims to introduce myself. I explained the change in primaries as a matter of “workload readjustment.” Most of the people I spoke to were very understanding and eager to cooperate. I managed to make an appointment for an interview with the mother of another one of the victims for late in the afternoon, after I dropped Frannie off at dance class. Most of the calls went well, considering the circumstances, but there was one very strained conversation that left me feeling depressed. The alleged perpetrator, the father of the boy who’d disappeared, had gone into a complete funk after being questioned as a suspect. His own alibi was probably the shakiest of all—he’d been traveling by himself for work. A whole month passed before anyone figured out that he’d been videotaped by a toll-booth security camera, one that had just been installed to try to catch toll evaders. The mother told me that the detectives had been pretty aggressive in their pursuit of this guy, which is what we are supposed to be, especially when there is strong evidence—in this case, an extremely reliable eyewitness—pointing to him. He committed suicide about three months after the incident, leaving his wife not only widowed but also potentially childless, because the missing boy was their only offspring.
I wanted this monster so bad. So bad.
“Round up all the known sex offenders in the area before you do anything more,” Fred told me.
“Oh, come on, Fred, that’s not going to go anywhere. Talk about spinning wheels . . .”
“Cover your ass, Dunbar, because I’m your lieutenant and your ass is an extension of mine. If your perp—and I’m still not sure we’re talking about just one guy here—turns out to be one of the knowns after all, there’ll be some heavy-duty explaining to do when someone sees that you didn’t drag them in right away.”
He was right, of course; it was a professionally sound thing to do, and it gave us some political safety. But it seemed like such a waste of time; there are literally thousands of sex offenders in the Los Angeles area, and it would take forever to bring them all in for questioning.
“Can I at least try to narrow it down a little first?”
“How?”
I tried again. “How about a profiler?”
I should have known better.
“Stick with Erkinnen.”
This time he took me out to lunch, to a rather nice little restaurant in West L.A., on the south side of Melrose. “They can’t be reimbursing you,” he said. “I know these folks.”
“I took the first one out of petty cash,” I told him. “The second one was on me. But I don’t mind. You’ve been a tremendous help.”
“Well, then, this one and the next will be mine.”
We got settled; the place had a deliberate bistro atmosphere, complete with out-of-the-way corner booths. All it needed was a haze of cigarette smoke and we could have been in a forties black-and-white movie. It was a tony way to acquire privacy, but I didn’t mind—there was a purpose, and the company was very pleasant.
Until he started talking about perverts, which, I had to remind myself, I’d asked him to do.
“Statistics conclusively show that sex offenders repeat their crimes at a rate significantly higher than the recidivism rate found in all other major crime categories. There have been several well-structured, scientifically sound studies that confirm this notion. Beyond that, the results of two meta-studies—”
“English, Doc.”
“Sorry.”
Then there was a bit of a pause. “You know, I’d like it very much if you would call me Errol.”
I must have stared, because he added, “Please.”
“Of course. That would be nice.”
A truly stupid thing to say.
“So, Errol, a meta-study is . . .”
“Yes. Right. It’s a study where we take statistics from a bunch of smaller studies and combine them to see if they reveal anything different from the original results of the small ones.”
“Oh. Sounds like something you’d do if you had to get a paper done right away.”
“That’s how they come about sometimes—someone has to complete a Ph.D. and runs into a snag on the research. But they can be really useful because the samples are broader. Sometimes I think the little studies that get done are too narrowly designed. You have to understand that we are supposed to do original research when we get our grants, so we can’t just do a better job of something someone’s already done. The egg has to get sliced in a totally new way.”
I thought I understood. “So instead of just doing research on the sleep habits of coffee drinkers, you have to do a study on the sleep habits of coffee drinkers who exclusively use Styrofoam cups.”
“Very good, Detective.”
“You know, I think I’d like it if you’d call me Lany.”
“I’m sorry. Of course. I just didn’t want to be rude. Lany it is. Anyway, recidivism is studied quite regularly. Too regularly, a lot of us think. But hope is hard to kill.”
His tone was a bit too pedantic for my liking, and I wondered if he was one of those professionals who think cops are too stupid to live. “We always hope for the disturbing truth to change, or for some factor that ameliorates the established trend to emerge so we can reasonably discount the credibility of that trend.”
“Wait a minute there.” Maybe all those folks were right about cop stupidity. “You lost me.”
“We have treatments for this stuff. We want to be able to say they’re successful, not only as a matter of pride, but to justify what it costs to treat and study these guys. I know that I would like to believe that our efforts to rehabilitate sex offenders can have some appreciable benefit. But I’m not so sure. The sad truth is that no matter how you read the statistics, the outcome is always the same: The recidivism rate for perpetrators of sexual crimes against children is disturbingly high. One study recently had it as high as fifty percent.”
“I could probably have guessed that. We get the same perps all the time doing this stuff.”
“Yeah. It’s always the same sad story. But we’re always trying to make it look better. I read an article in a forensic psych journal recently that argued for a new definition of recidivism. The author contended that fifty percent is falsely inflated because it represents the repeat rate for offenders who have been out of prison for ten years or more. They prefer the five-year statistic—a thirty percent repeat rate, which somehow seems more palatable.”
I was trying, but failing, to understand how a thirty percent repeat rate could ever be acceptable.
“That’s kind of a big disparity in only five years.” It was all I could think to say. But Erkinnen was inspired.
“What it really says is that over time, the ability of the sexual offender to control his compulsion will eventually break down in more than half the cases, which in turn means that given enough years, the first-time offender is more likely than not to reoffend.”
He leaned closer, though the waiter had long since left us to our meals and there was no one anywhere near us. “In truth, it’s a lot sadder than that. The real unadjusted rate may be higher than fifty percent, because we are not taking into consideration those men who repeat their crimes but are not caught. The other thing you have to think about is something I touched on before—most of the studies are attempts to prove that treatment makes a difference in the reoffense rate of first-time offenders. Anyone who’d already repeated wouldn’t be included. So the stats won’t include their repeats. And it’s an unfortunate truth that not all victims are brave enough to come forward to repo
rt a molestation, so those incidents won’t be included.”
It was so depressing to hear these things, because I would go home and think about them. “Is there any good news?” I asked.
“Oh, some, for sure. There are indications that sex offenders who receive treatment while incarcerated do have a lower repeat rate. Maybe lower isn’t the right word. Slower is probably more accurate. Among those who do eventually repeat, which we already know is a lot, the interval between release after treatment and reoffense is longer.”
“Well, that’s a start,” I said, almost sarcastically. “Paces the workload.”
He chuckled quietly. “I suppose.” Then he went serious on me again. “I’ll tell you one thing, though, and I really believe this. We can throw all sorts of resources at these guys, and they’re still probably going to repeat. I think most of the leading psychologists specializing in sexual-offender research would agree that these criminals can’t ever really be cured of their compulsions. Sexual violence can be controlled to a reasonable degree with aggressive treatment and therapy, but the urge will always dwell within these men, and we can only hope to tamp it down. Sooner or later, though, it pops.”
“Sweet Jesus. Why?”
“We don’t have a clue. You’ve been reading that book, right?”
“Yeah.”
“It goes into great depth in explaining why these guys do this stuff. Nature vs. nurture, biological factors, all that.”
“Doesn’t help me much. It’s not like my perp might go active and I can stop him if I just know what to look for. He already has gone active, and now I’m just trying to play catch-up.”
“Well, we can draw up a generalized profile like the FBI would, but I’d rather just tell you informally.”
“I’d prefer that myself. And there’s no time like the present.”
“This won’t take long,” he said. “It’s a lot simpler than what most people believe. In a nutshell, they’re just wired wrong. Their souls are inside out.”
“Their souls.”
“Yeah. Or gone. Their souls have been stolen somewhere along the line.”
I was not accustomed to hearing that word in my work. “Well. That does complicate things.”
“Yes, it does. It would be easier if there was a structured, agreed-upon methodology for examining someone’s soul, but there isn’t. Not even for a sound, functional soul. And it appears that you’re dealing with someone whose soul is unfathomably out of sync with the rest of the world.”
“If you did manage to find out what was inside these guys, I’m guessing you wouldn’t like it much.”
“Probably not,” he said to me.
We went back to his office and worked up a rough profile. My abductor would be male, as we had previously established, and he would also probably be white.
“I don’t get that at all,” I said when he told me.
“Neither does anyone else. But it’s true that about ninety-five percent of serial pedophiles are white. There haven’t been too many studies done on that issue, though.”
“Gee. I wonder why.”
“There’s a lot of speculation, most of it understandably controversial. One prominent sociologist put out a theory that white males generally feel more empowered within our society than males of other races; I can see that there might be some validity to that point.”
“You guys hold all the tickets.”
“Don’t go getting feminist on me, Detective. Oh, sorry, I mean Lany. I was just beginning to like you.”
I was starting to like him too. We liked each other for a few embarrassing moments, then got back to the matter at hand.
“There is another theory that’s been offered to explain the racial imbalance in serial killers. One rather extreme social theorist thinks that males of color do not get the chance to develop patterns of repeated homicide because they are more avidly pursued than whites by law-enforcement agencies.”
“You mean to say that they don’t get to develop their serial nature because they get caught more often?”
“Precisely.”
“Oh, bullshit,” I said, forgetting all my manners. “I don’t know one cop of any color who would go after a white guy any less than a black guy if they thought he cut some kid’s head off. What a stupid, stupid notion.”
“Well, yes. I would agree with that. And just remember, on April fifteenth, that the development of this theory was probably funded by a federal grant.”
“It’s total crap, Doc. There are limits to protecting your own, even among the brotherhood.”
“I always believed that, but I’m glad to hear you confirm it. That theory always seemed specious to me, even inflammatory.”
“Well, if the guy wants someone to get inflamed, he succeeded with me,” I said. “So I’m looking for a white male. How old?”
“Eighteen to forty,” he said, “but the typical age of serial pedophiles is late twenties to early thirties.”
“Not exactly dirty old men.”
“You usually catch them by the time they get that old.”
“We try.”
“Now, another thing to remember is that your guy will be something of a loner. He’ll keep to himself. He wants to remain anonymous because the limelight bothers him.”
“But this abductor is making his grabs in broad daylight, right in front of witnesses.”
Erkinnen pressed his point with a smile. “But he’s not doing it as himself. Which fits,” he said, “because these guys are all big time into fantasies.”
“The book talked about that. A lot.”
“Rightly. Every serial abductor or killer who’s been deeply studied says he started out in fantasies and then progressed on to the real thing when the fantasies didn’t do it for him anymore. When he finally does the act, it’s usually triggered by some kind of event.”
“Such as . . .”
“A loss, an accident, a move, sickness . . . anything that might be traumatic to the individual. Rejection and desertion are big on that list. And these guys are mostly smart—maybe not book smart, but very clever.”
My head was beginning to spin. Smaller doses would be better for this type of information. And I was looking forward, rather consciously, to another visit with him. An excuse would make it easier. I stood up. “I have to get going, Errol. But thanks, both for the lunch and for the information. It’s incredibly helpful.”
“Oh, you’re welcome. I’m enjoying this case. It’s a real pleasure working on it with you.”
Then there was one last moment of uneasy silence between us. “There was one other thing I wanted to say, though,” he added.
Instead of the hoped-for dinner invitation, he issued a caveat. “The guy you’re looking for hasn’t been caught at this before. At least not around here.”
I guess even shrinks don’t know how to toss off a good closing line.
“How can he say that?” Fred asked me. “How can he know if this guy has been caught or not?”
“He can’t, but he’s making that guess based on what I’ve told him, what the evidence bears out.”
“You don’t have any evidence.”
“I have patterns.”
“They don’t mean diddly-squat in court, you know that.”
“It’s a much better use of my time to try to find out who it is rather than who it’s not. Erkinnen gave me some guidelines.”
“Great. I can’t wait to hear them.”
“Well, for one thing, this guy is probably smart. But clever. Maybe not the kind of student a teacher would remember, but survivor-type smart.”
“You’d think if they’re so smart,” Fred said, “they’d figure out that we usually get them in the end.”
“Yeah, but some of them really crave that attention. Bundy’s a good example of that. He didn’t achieve that spectacular notice in his normal life. He got close, but he never could quite grab the ring.”
“Well, his brains must have lost out to his ego. Imagine trying to be
your own defense attorney in a state like Florida. They love a good barbecue down there. And anyway, Bundy killed close to forty women, they say. We’re not talking about that kind of numbers.”
“Bundy was originally thought to have killed sixteen or seventeen. Those gaps in my perp’s time line could be unreporteds.”
“With all due respect, Lany, your guy is not going after throwaways. The kids he’s taking are the kind who get reported.”
“How many fourteen-year-olds run away every year?”
“Too many to count, but—”
“I think it’s a safe bet that some of the ones who aren’t reported are blond and angelic-looking. Practice, maybe, for the ones who would be missed.”
Fred didn’t have anything to say to that. I plunged ahead.
“Erkinnen says that this guy will be a big-time fantasizer. And that’s why he impersonates the intimates—he’s fantasizing about intimacy. He’s creating an illusion of being someone else.”
Vuska just sat there with steam rising off his head. Finally he said, “So? How are you going to round up all the fantasizers?”
“He has to have some skills to pull this off, right? He’s creating illusions. That’s where we need to start.”
What a zoo the division room was—it was lousy with crazy white men who either made money at appearing to be something they weren’t or wanted to make money that way. It probably goes without saying that there were varying degrees of success and effectiveness from one to the next. Some of them were pathetically bad—but the good ones could really make you smile.
We hauled in every known impersonator and magician in the Los Angeles area, at least those that weren’t out on the road performing. A few I’d actually heard of or seen before, one on The Tonight Show. He was borderline famous, probably too high-profile to be my pervert. Someone with that much visibility would be too well scrutinized to pull off elaborate crimes without being noticed.
Or so I thought at the time.
It took three days to round everyone up and complete the interviews; the beat cops who actually had to hunt these guys down were talking about it nonstop. By the time it was all over, I was pretty much the laughingstock of the whole division. I came in on the third day and found a sign on my chair that said COMEDY CENTRAL. I couldn’t argue that it was all very amusing. What didn’t amuse anyone, myself especially, was the undeniable fact that in the long run it hadn’t gone anywhere.
