The Collectors (Karma Police Book 3)

by Sean Platt

  I tried to keep it a secret, at least until I was out of school, off at college, away from the family.

  But then THIS happened.

  That awful video. I’m so ashamed. And now the name calling in the halls — slut, dyke, bitch. And they weren’t even the worst part. It was the whispers, the judgmental looks. The wondering if the person I’m talking to, hell, the teacher I’m talking to, didn’t see that video — hadn’t seen me at my most vulnerable, most ashamed.

  I just couldn’t take it.

  I know you always looked up to me and thought I was so strong, and brave. And I hate that you now see the truth.

  I’m not strong.

  I’m not brave.

  And I can’t pretend any longer.

  I’m sorry to leave you like this. And I want you to know that none of this is your fault. There’s nothing you could’ve done differently.

  I know you love me unconditionally.

  But I just couldn’t take the shit any longer.

  I hope now that I’m gone, the fuckers will leave you in peace.

  I love you.

  Love,

  Chelsea

  P.S. Please take care of Pinky.

  I cried the entire time I read it. I’m sickened to think that anyone would end their life because of bullying, and this makes me want to hurt Rocco and the others even more than I already did.

  Chelsea didn’t want her parents to see this, but I have to overrule her. They need to see it. They need to know why their daughter tried to kill herself, and understand their culpability.

  I hear the front door open, the sound of Jack’s keys being dropped in the bowl.

  Billy’s parents enter the kitchen, surprised to see me sitting there.

  “What’s that?” Jack asks.

  I tell them. Everything.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 2

  I wake up to the ringing of my phone on the nightstand.

  Not my phone, Jack Caldwell’s.

  I grab the phone, see that it’s only six in the morning, and am hoping it’s not the hospital calling to tell me that Chelsea is dead.

  It’s not Chelsea; it’s Waylon, Jack’s agent.

  “You up?” Waylon says in a slight Southern drawl. He grew up in Louisiana, played some college ball, then got hurt and entered law school, specializing in entertainment. From there, he became an agent, landing some of the biggest names in reality TV. Jack was his first Christian author, but he’s proved himself in steering his client away from ministry-type work and toward life as a self-help guru, increasing Jack’s net worth tenfold in the first year alone.

  “Yeah, hold on,” I say, climbing out of bed, leaving Susan sleeping as I make my way out of the bedroom, downstairs, and into Jack’s study. I wait for his tired mind to fill me in on what happened — from Jack’s perspective — after Billy dropped the bomb last night.

  From Billy’s perspective, it was a scary moment. At first, his parents stared. Then came the tears — followed by anger.

  Jack was so pissed that he stormed out of the house, going God knew where for several hours. Jack’s memories tell me he went to a bar and got drunk — something he hasn’t done in nearly fifteen years.

  When I, as Billy, had asked why Dad was so mad, Susan said, “Because that teacher ruined our Chelsea. She made her gay.”

  I had argued otherwise, saying, “You can’t make someone gay. They either are or aren’t.”

  That didn’t sit well with Susan.

  “That’s just something the Devil and his followers say, to convince you that sin is okay. ‘Hey, it’s not my fault, I was born this way.’ Sorry, Billy, that’s not how it works. I know you have a homosexual friend, and while your father doesn’t care for it, I like Pete. But that doesn’t mean I condone his behavior … or Chelsea’s.”

  I wanted to argue more, but in my experience, you can’t change someone overnight, and I didn’t want to get Billy into trouble with his family. They had enough going on already, without a volatile religious argument added to the mix.

  I enter Jack’s office, close the door, and sit at his desk.

  “All right, shoot,” I say, remembering how Jack was talking in the car yesterday. I’m not sure exactly what Waylon called to say, but I figure it must be something worthwhile if he’s doing it this early.

  “Well, I looked into this teacher a bit. And as long as Chelsea consented to sex after she was eighteen there’s nothing we can do, legally.”

  “Really?” I say, surprised.

  “Yeah, some politician in California tried to get a bill made into law to prohibit teacher-student relationships, arguing that a teacher could groom a student before they’re of age, but it went nowhere, and that’s further than it’s gone here.”

  “Wow,” I say, not knowing what to add. I’m not sure what Jack would say in this situation, and don’t want to light any unintended fireworks.

  Waylon clears his throat. “While we can’t do anything legally, we can make this bitch’s life a nightmare. She’s going to lose her job the minute this is reported, might never be able to teach again, maybe lose her benefits. But we can go further. I say we call the police and tell them you suspect the relationship may have started sooner.”

  “But Chelsea’s diary said it wasn’t until she was eighteen.”

  “Yeah, but it’s at least possible that she lied, right? Maybe to protect this teacher she’s in love with. Who’s to say that this woman didn’t see Chelsea a year ago and start grooming her then, maybe convinced her to take an art class? We don’t know the truth, right, so it could be anything is all I’m saying.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Good. Now for this video nastiness, I’ve got my guy on it — an ex-detective, half bulldog named Mike Arrinson. He’s gonna chase down some of these porn sites and say the video with Chelsea is blackmail porn, which is illegal in some states. Then he can add that it’s possible that Chelsea was underage when she did that video, which should scare most of the legit sites from serving it.”

  “Legit sites?”

  “Well, yeah, you can’t get it down from everywhere. There are always some pervs who will be sharing it on less-than-reputable sites. Maybe they’ll even upload it to image boards, who knows? I’m sorry to say there’s no way to get the genie back in the bottle. Chelsea’s video is out there. Assuming she comes out of this coma, this is going to haunt her forever.”

  I sigh. I want to make the person who did this pay.

  “Can we find out who blackmailed her?”

  “I can have Mike dig around. It’s gonna be tough because if we’re dealing with minors, we’re limited in what we can do, legally.”

  The way he keeps saying legally makes me wonder if he’s opening the door for Jack to suggest less-than-legal methods.

  I don’t bite.

  “And these kids at your school have rich, connected parents, making shit that much more difficult. Fortunately, I have a few connections at the police department, and I might be able to figure something out.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  “Now, one last thing, Jack. And this isn’t me as your agent, so much as me as your friend. Are you sure you want to go forward with this story?”

  “You mean go to the police?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Why wouldn’t we?”

  “Well, for one, we’ve got the suicide note that you didn’t mention to them. Right now, this is a case of accidental overdose, not a suicide attempt. Different story in the public eye.”

  Jack’s memories tell me that keeping the note secret was at Waylon’s strongly advised suggestion. “You’re the one who told me not to give them the note.”

  “And I stand by that decision. We can easily say that the note was in the diary. You’ll just need to get your family on board if that’s the story we’re going with. But we’ve also got to consider the elephant in the room.”

  “What elephant?”

  “That TV series you’re starting next m
onth. This is Big Time, Jack. The network gets a hint of your daughter being a lesbian, or this sex tape, or the affair with the teacher, you can kiss this deal goodbye.”

  I didn’t know Jack had signed a TV deal, meaning I don’t think he told his children yet. Jack’s memories confirm as much. He wanted to surprise the kids, take them to the pilot episode’s taping. The show had been a dream of his forever, and Waylon had helped Jack to make it reality — a daily syndicated self-help show that could make him a household name, not just among his fellow Christians, but among the mainstream — where the big money and endorsements are. This deal could be life-changing not just for Jack and his family, but for the world, the way Jack saw it. He could spread the Gospel in a less preachy way, through actions instead of only words. It had been his dream for years to give hope to the hopeless, and now he was poised to do exactly that. Waylon was right: If word got out about any of this, it would instantly crush his reputation. The TV deal would evaporate.

  His image forever tainted.

  And just like that, an empire on the verge of creation crumbles to dust.

  What kind of Christian self-help guru could he possibly be if he couldn’t even see the darkness under his roof? A lesbian daughter sleeping with her teacher — who then tries to kill herself — isn’t the way to inspire confidence in the Jack Caldwell brand.

  And these days, everything is about the brand.

  After thinking about it for a moment, I say, “But won’t this get out anyway? Half of her school is already talking about the video. At least a few people know about her teacher. I don’t see how we can possibly keep this quiet.”

  “Maybe not forever, but we can bottle it long enough to capitalize on the pilot. Get some stories out there about how you’re gonna change the face of daytime television, how you’ll be a bright light in a deluge of despair. Shit would probably blow up before pilot season, and the show would never air, but then we’ve got a new story, maybe a pitch for another show — where you acknowledge your weaknesses, and how God has brought you and your family closer than ever in the aftermath of this tragedy.”

  I’m not sure if I should marvel at Waylon’s ability to spin disaster or be sickened by it.

  “And what if Chelsea dies? Or what if she comes out of the coma, but hates me for disapproving of her lifestyle? What then?”

  “Well, it might be a tough sell to the evangelicals, but we’ll find a way to make it work — whatever it is. Maybe we can have her deprogrammed. Or maybe you convert to a less-restrictive version of your faith. Christianity is big numbers and bigger money, but there are more and more disenfranchised every day, Jack. We could make a home for all those who feel abandoned by their faith. Hell, I can almost see a ministry being born out of this! Does your Jesus hate gays? Well, leave that old-school Jesus behind, and come to an all-loving God who will accept you just the way you are. Hell, why stop at gays? We can attract all the freaks who are tired of being judged. Into bestiality, kids? We’ve got ya covered here at Jack Caldwell’s Heavenly Outreach.”

  Waylon breaks down laughing.

  I’m not sure what to think of this man. He obviously has giant balls to insult Jack’s daughter’s sexuality and insinuate that his faith is merely for show. I wonder if he has precedent for this. Has Jack given Waylon a reason to doubt his faith, to make his agent think he’s nothing more than a charlatan out for money?

  I feel that Jack’s faith is real, but it’s hard to tell from the memories he’s provided so far. I ignore Waylon’s comments, and say, “Please, just do what you can to find out who did this to Chelsea.”

  “So, you wanna go to the police?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Okay, don’t call anyone yet. I’ll get started on a press release. Then I’ll head on over to your place so we can walk through this together. After that, you make the call.”

  I’m annoyed that I have to wait to call the police, but at the same time, Jack’s in the limelight, and it would be easy for me to screw this all up. I accept Waylon’s offer and hang up.

  **

  I’m sitting in the police station, waiting for Detective Kevin Wilson’s return. His partner, Lucy Jimenez, has just coached me through what I’ll need to say during a controlled phone call to Ms. Valencia, designed to get Chelsea’s teacher to admit her crime on record.

  I’m feeling uneasy about this, especially if the teacher hasn’t committed a crime. Chelsea’s journal says she was eighteen when this all started. While I’m sickened that a teacher would sleep with any student, seeing as it is a complete betrayal of custodianship, I don’t want to trick her into a confession that could land her behind bars if it isn’t against the law.

  The detectives spent most of the morning questioning our family, going over details of the journal, and the suicide note we claimed to have found just this morning. Additionally, they took Chelsea’s laptop and phone to see if they could find any evidence against the teacher and any clues as to who was blackmailing her.

  I sent Susan and Billy back to the house. Waylon is at the station with me; I suppose to make sure I don’t say anything stupid.

  After a while, Detective Wilson comes in. He escorts me and Waylon to another room with one phone hooked up to another, and a recording device. I sit in one of the two chairs, Waylon taking a spot beside me.

  Detective Jimenez is also there, standing in front of the table. “You remember everything we went over? Start off slow, and don’t use any words like rape or abuse, or mention legality. We don’t want to scare her off. You’re calling as Chelsea’s parent, concerned over what your daughter told you before she passed out.”

  “Okay,” I say nodding.

  Detective Wilson hands me a piece of paper with Ms. Valencia’s number.

  I dial, my heart racing.

  After a few rings, she answers.

  “Hello?”

  “Ms. Valencia?”

  “Yes, who’s calling?”

  “This is Jack Caldwell, Chelsea’s father.”

  A moment of silence, followed by, “Oh, hello, Mr. Caldwell. I’m so sorry to hear about Chelsea. How is she doing?”

  “She’s still in the hospital, still in a coma.”

  I was instructed not to lie and say there was a good chance she might come out of the coma, as we don’t know if that would make the teacher more or less likely to say something.

  “I’m sorry,” Ms. Valencia says. Her voice sounds pleasant, caring, a slight Spanish accent. “How can I help you?”

  I look up at Detective Jimenez, listening on the other phone. She nods, giving me the courage to work the script.

  “I just wanted to call because I know how close you were to my daughter, to let you know that she left some art at the house she wanted me to give you. She left it in her note.”

  Another moment of silence. I can tell that Ms. Valencia is likely wondering if I know how close she was to Chelsea.

  “Her note?”

  “Yes, we haven’t made it public, but Chelsea tried to kill herself.”

  “Oh, God. I was afraid of this.”

  Detective Jimenez meets my eyes and nods, indicating that I’m doing well.

  “You know she was having problems?”

  “Well, yeah, she told me that some kids were bothering her.”

  “How so?” I ask.

  Another pause. “Well, you know how kids are. They say mean things to one another. Sometimes, they can get pretty ugly, single someone out, and make their life difficult.”

  I wonder if I should ask why she didn’t call me to let me know that Chelsea was having issues, but the detectives urged me to keep things friendly as long as possible. The minute I put her on the defense, it will become difficult to get her back to that comfortable level. They also coached me on tactics to use if things do get ugly, to insinuate that I know something I don’t, to accuse her, to see if she verifies it in any way. Get a verification, you get a hell of a better case.

  “What sorts of things did they
say?”

  She pauses again, maybe senses where this is going. I need to be careful.

  “Well, the usual things. They made fun of her for being a ‘pastor’s daughter’ … they called her a prude, and … some of them started rumors, saying she was a … slut.”

  The last word comes out bluntly, like she isn’t sure how to say it. I wonder if she’s afraid where that word will take this conversation, or merely doesn’t want to say something so awful about Jack’s daughter.

  “What kind of rumors?”

  A longer pause. “I don’t know the specifics, just hurtful things that kids tend to say about one another.”

  “Well, I want to thank you for being there for her. I know it can’t be easy for her to be my daughter, what with her homosexuality and all. It’s good that she had you to help her come to terms.”

  A very long pause now. I sense she might be about to go on the defensive. I decide to go all-in.

  “Listen, I know you were having an affair with my daughter. She told me everything. And while I wasn’t pleased, at first, she’s eighteen and can do whatever she wants. Truth is, her being in a coma has put this all in perspective for me. I just want her to get better. I want my little girl back.”

  Silence, at first, followed by her tears.

  “I’m not mad,” I say. “I was surprised, as I suppose any father might be. But love is love — we don’t control who we fall in love with. Right?”

  “No, we do not. I just want to say that I never intended to fall in love with your daughter, Mr. Caldwell. I know how awful this must appear. And nothing ever happened between us until after she’d turned eighteen.”

  “I know I’ve been hard on my daughter, have been a bit — okay, a lot — overprotective, but that’s only because I love Chelsea and want her to be happy. If that happiness happens to be with you, so be it.”

  “Wow,” Ms. Valencia says. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “There’s no need to say anything. As far as I’m concerned, you’re family.”

  “Wow. Um, thank you, Mr. Caldwell.”