Night Sins

by Tami Hoag

  By evening most of the townspeople had been whipped into a frenzy by a tangled mix of truth and fiction. The only thing that kept them from marching to the city jail to demand the head of Leslie Olin Sewek was an inbred Minnesotan aversion to creating a spectacle and a windchill factor of sixty-two degrees below zero.

  The brutal cold had virtually brought the state to a standstill. The governor himself had ordered all schools and state offices closed. In Deer Lake, as in most towns around the state, every function, meeting, class, and gathering that could be canceled was canceled due to the dangerous conditions. Still, a group of nearly a hundred people made it to the volunteer center, where Paige Price and the crew from TV 7 News were doing a live special report on the case.

  7:00 P.M. -29° WINDCHILL FACTOR: -62°

  Tonight no police, no one from the sheriff's department.” Because Mitch Holt had forbidden any of his people to talk to her and Steiger had thought it best to lay low for a day or two. “Tonight we talk with the citizens of Deer Lake, the small town rocked by the abduction of eight-year-old Josh Kirkwood and by the discovery of a monster in its midst.”

  She moved between a computer desk and a long table stacked with bright yellow fliers. The people seated at the table in the Josh Kirkwood Volunteer Center gazed up at her. She had chosen slim dark slacks and a cashmere sweater set in a muted shade of violet that brought out her too-blue eyes. A look that was dressy enough to show respect, casual enough to make her seem almost one of the crowd. Her blond hair had been deliberately mussed and carefully sprayed into place, her makeup downplayed.

  “Tonight we will listen to the people of Deer Lake, to the volunteers who have given their time, their money, their hearts to the effort to find Josh Kirkwood and bring his kidnapper to justice. We'll speak with a psychologist about the impact this crime has had on the community and about the minds of men who prey on children. And we'll talk with Josh's father, Paul Kirkwood, and get his reaction to the arrest of Leslie Olin Sewek.”

  7:04 P.M. -29° WINDCHILL FACTOR: -62°

  It isn't bad enough that she blew the surveillance,” Megan said in disgust when the show broke for a lottery commercial featuring a hibernating cartoon bear. “By the time Paige and her cohorts are finished, there won't be an impartial juror left in the state.”

  They watched the broadcast on the small color TV that perched on an old oak credenza in the office of assistant county attorney Ellen North. Mitch sat with his back to the set, refusing to look at Paige in her hour of glory. The show was on at Ellen's request. Her boss, Rudy Stovich, may have been the one telling the press they would prosecute the case to the full extent of the law, but most of the work of that task would fall on Ellen's shoulders.

  Stovich was more politician than prosecutor. In Mitch's opinion, he was a bumbling idiot in the courtroom, something he could get away with in a rural county, where there wasn't much crime to speak of and not that many attorneys to pick from. The good ones were drawn to the Twin Cities, where there was more action, more money, and more courtrooms. The people of Park County were damn lucky to have Ellen North.

  She sat behind her desk, eating a turkey sandwich. Her blond hair was swept back neatly into a tortoiseshell clip. She was thirty-five, a transplant from the judicial system of Hennepin County—or, as Ellen sometimes referred to it, the Magnificent Minneapolis Maze of Justice—where she had a reputation as a tough prosecutor. Tired of the workload, the bureaucracy, the game-playing, and the increasing sense of futility as crime rates in the Cities soared, she had sought the relative peace and sanity of Deer Lake.

  “You can bet Sewek will ask for a change of venue,” she said, wiping her fingertips on a paper napkin. “And you can bet he'll get it—provided we come up with enough evidence to charge him. Has anything turned up in the search? Possessions of Josh's? Anything in the van—hair, fibers, blood?”

  “They sprayed the interior of the van with luminol and found some bloodstains in the carpet in the back,” Megan said. “But at this point we don't even know if the blood is human, let alone Josh Kirkwood's. Trace evidence findings won't be in for a couple of days. We found nothing in the house that can link Olie directly to this crime.

  “Early word on the photographs dug up last night is that they're more than five years old. They came from a Kodak instant camera Kodak had to stop making film for in the mid-eighties due to the verdict of a lawsuit brought against them by Polaroid. Which would mean Olie probably brought them with him when he moved here. So far no one has found anything in his books. No one has been able to access the files in his computers; he has all kinds of traps set up in the programming to prevent it.”

  “And he's not talking.” Ellen looked to Mitch. “Can your witness ID the van?”

  He shook his head. “Not absolutely.”

  “Which is as good as nothing.” She sipped a can of raspberry-flavored seltzer and shook her head. “We have to hope the lab boys come up with something fast. The public may be ready to convict him, but we don't even have enough to charge him. Unless Paige Price is the judge, we're nowhere with this.”

  At the mention of Paige's name, Mitch scowled. “Where do we stand in bringing obstruction charges for that stunt she pulled last night?”

  Ellen made a face that discouraged hope. “It's been tried once or twice in recent years, but it would be almost impossible to make it stick in this case. We would have to prove absolutely that harm came to Josh as a result of the interference. Media people can wrap themselves in the First Amendment and get away with almost anything. If you could prove collusion between Paige and Steiger, you'd have something, but that's almost impossible unless one of them was stupid enough to tape the conversation or hold it in front of a witness.”

  “So we've got nothing,” Mitch said. The injustice ate at him.

  “And Paige Price has the scoop of the week. Again.”

  7:16 P.M. -29° WINDCHILL FACTOR: -62°

  Paige slid into a chair beside a heavyset woman with an unsmiling, unpainted mouth and brown hair that had been smashed flat by a stocking cap.

  “Mrs. Favre, you told me you had suspicions about the man you knew as Olie Swain long ago. How did you feel when this information about his prior record surfaced?”

  “I was furious,” the woman said loudly, grabbing hold of the mike and pulling it toward her as if she meant to devour it. “You bet I was. I told the police there was something wrong with him. My boy come home from hockey more than once and told me how Olie was weird and all and acted strange around them boys. And the police didn't do nothing. I talked to Mitch Holt myself and he didn't do nothing. He wouldn't listen to me and now look what's happened. It makes me sick.”

  Paige took the microphone back and turned to face the camera. “Deer Lake police deny having any prior knowledge of Olie Swain's past life as pedophile Leslie Olin Sewek. City personnel in charge of the Gordie Knutson Memorial Arena also deny any knowledge of Mr. Swain's past. They did not check into Olie Swain's background for a criminal record before hiring him to work as a maintenance man at the ice rink where Deer Lake's children play hockey and practice figure skating.”

  She rose and walked away from the table, past a computer desk where a Harris College student sat before a color terminal filled with Josh's image. The camera zoomed in on the computer screen, then backed off and swung back to Paige.

  “It is important that we make it clear Leslie Olin Sewek has not been formally charged with the abduction of Josh Kirkwood. He is being held in the Deer Lake community jail because of a warrant issued on parole violations in the state of Washington. As of late this afternoon the only evidence gathered implicating Sewek in any crime at all was a packet of sexually explicit photographs involving young boys. Photographs he allegedly brought with him when he came to Minnesota after leaving a Washington State correctional facility.

  “Authorities in Columbia County, Washington, are all too familiar with Leslie Sewek. As is the case with the majority of child molesters, Leslie Sewek'
s record is a long one that began when he himself was little more than a boy. Here with us tonight to talk about the mind of the child predator is Dr. Garrett Wright, head of the psychology department at Harris College.” She slid into the vacant chair beside Wright and regarded him with grave interest. “Dr. Wright, what can you tell us about the pattern of behavior in men like Leslie Sewek?”

  Garrett Wright didn't look convinced this was a good idea. “First of all, Ms. Price, I want to make it clear that criminal behavior is not my area of expertise. I have, however, studied deviant behavior, and if I can shed some light on the situation and in any way help people deal with it, I will.”

  “You're a resident of Deer Lake, aren't you, Doctor?”

  “Yes. In fact, Hannah and Paul are neighbors of mine. Like most of the people in town, my wife and I are eager to help any way we can. Community support and involvement are very important to all concerned. . . .”

  Paige listened with one ear, impatient to get to the juicier stuff, the questions that would keep viewers glued to their sets. Wright might be visually interesting—almost as pretty as she was, and very scholarly in a button-down shirt and blue blazer—but talk of community support was not what she'd had in mind when she had personally coerced him into appearing on the show. She could almost hear the viewing public yawning.

  Worse, she could picture the network people yawning. When the news of Leslie Sewek's past record had hit the wires, the networks and tabloid shows had scrambled to get people to Deer Lake. Josh Kirkwood's case was made for television news. And if Paige could pull it off, it was a case that would catapult her to bigger and better things.

  “Obviously,” Garrett Wright went on, “it helps the victims to cope, but it also helps the rest of us to cope, to feel as if we're taking proactive measures against what is essentially an alien threat to our community—crime.”

  “And about the crime,” Paige interjected smoothly. “There is a fairly consistent story behind men who become child molesters, like Leslie Sewek, isn't there, Doctor?”

  “Yes, there seems to be. First of all, pedophiles tend to come from abusive home situations themselves and have strong unmet needs for personal warmth.”

  “Are you saying we should feel sorry for someone like Leslie Sewek?” Paige asked with perfect indignity. Inwardly, she smiled as the crowd behind her grumbled angrily.

  Garrett Wright held up a hand to ward off rebuttal. “I'm merely stating facts, Ms. Price. This is the common background among child molesters; it isn't an excuse to break the laws of society. Nor am I saying this is Leslie Sewek's background. I know nothing about the man. And as you pointed out, we don't know that Leslie Sewek has broken any laws here. We can't say with any certainty that the person who kidnapped Josh Kirkwood is a pedophile. We could be dealing with a very different sort of mind altogether, and frankly, one far more dangerous than the quote average unquote pedophile,” he argued. The camera zoomed in on his expression of profound concern.

  Paige's inward smile stretched wider. “Such as, Dr. Wright?”

  Garrett Wright's disapproval was almost a tangible thing. He gave her a long, cool look. “You're playing a dangerous game, Ms. Price. I didn't come here to play Name That Psycho. That kind of conjecture on my part would be inappropriate, to say nothing of ghoulish—”

  “I didn't mean to suggest such a thing,” Paige interrupted, the internal smile going brittle. Damn. “Perhaps you could give us a better understanding of that quote average unquote pedophile?”

  Wright relaxed marginally. “Pedophiles often relate better to children than to adults and in most cases they seek to control the child rather than to harm the child,” he went on before Paige could jump in with another inflammatory question. “They may truly believe they love children and will often seek employment that will put them in contact with or proximity to children.”

  “A fact that brings us directly back to Deer Lake and the case of Leslie Olin Sewek,” Paige said, abandoning Garrett Wright for her special guest star. “With the shadow of Josh Kirkwood's abduction hanging over this town, the discovery of a convicted child predator at the very ice arena from which Josh disappeared has frightened and outraged the citizens of this quiet community. Certainly no one in Deer Lake has more reason to feel anger at this revelation than Paul Kirkwood, Josh Kirkwood's father.”

  Paul sat in one of two director's chairs at the front of the room. His brown hair was perfectly combed, the knot of a silk tie perfectly centered above the crew neck of a navy wool sweater he wore over his pinpoint oxford shirt. His deep-set eyes had naturally dark sockets that were emphasized by the camera, intensifying his haunted, angry expression. A great face for television.

  Paige slid into the other director's chair. “Paul,” she said softly, reaching out to touch his arm. “Again, all our hearts go out to you and your wife, Dr. Hannah Garrison. I understand Hannah is too distraught to join us tonight.”

  Paul frowned. Hannah had refused to come to the center despite her repeated complaints of not being able to help in the search effort. She found the idea of this program repulsive, exploitative, and mercenary, in no way useful in finding Josh.

  The Sunday papers had been splashed with color photographs of her collapsing in the volunteer-center booth and being escorted away by Father Tom McCoy. They painted her a heroine—valiant and courageous, trying to be strong in the face of incredible adversity. The brave, compassionate Dr. Garrison, who had helped so many people. They made little mention of the fact that this whole situation was her fault, that her career had destroyed their marriage, torn their family apart, and driven him into the arms of another woman. Instead, they said that Josh had been abducted while Dr. Garrison was fighting to save the life of an accident victim, turning it all around to make her the object of admiration and pity.

  “She's home with our daughter,” he said flatly.

  Paige looked directly into the camera. “Dr. Garrison, our prayers are with you.”

  7:30 P.M. -29° WINDCHILL FACTOR: -62°

  The television in the family room was on. Hannah could hear it—mumbled voices, changes in pitch, tone, and volume—but she couldn't make out what anyone was saying. She didn't want to. She hated that TV 7 News was running the interview, hated that her neighbors and friends would watch it, hated that people she didn't even know would be asked to voice their feelings about the terrible act that was tearing her life apart. She hated that Paul had agreed to be a part of it. That he could so callously discount her feelings was further evidence of the widening rift between them.

  There had been a time when he would have found the program as invasive and self-serving as she did. Tonight he had fussed over what to wear and spent an hour in the bathroom getting ready. The thought that she didn't know him anymore whispered through her mind at regular intervals.

  She stood in the center of Josh's room because she was too wired to sit. Olie Swain had been arrested but not charged. No official word had come of a confession or clues to Josh's fate. Nothing. Silence. She felt poised on the brink of a high precipice, every muscle, every fiber of her being held taut as she waited to fall one way or the other. The anticipation had built and built until she was certain she would explode from the pressure. But there was no explosion, there was no relief.

  She paced the room, her arms wrapped around herself. Even with the thick sweater and turtleneck she wore she felt thin. She was losing weight and, as a doctor, she knew that wasn't good. That professional, practical, intelligent part of her mind told her to eat, to sleep, to get some exercise, but that part seemed to be disconnected from the rest. Emotion ruled. Erratic, irrational emotion.

  She tried to think of what it had been like—what she had been like—when she had been the calm, rational head of the ER. Cool under fire. A leader. The person everyone looked to in a time of crisis. She tried to remember the afternoon before Josh had been taken. The patients she had treated. The people she had offered comfort and explanations. The precision of the trauma team
as she had orchestrated the attempt to save the life of Ida Bergen.

  A week had passed. It seemed a lifetime ago.

  Squeals of delight came from the living room, where Lily had charmed the BCA agent on duty into playing with her. Hannah swung the bedroom door shut. Here, in Josh's room, she wanted to hear nothing but the silence that waited for his voice. She breathed in the waxy scent of crayons and felt as if one had been driven through her heart. On the small desk lay the photo album she had brought in one of the first days, as if having Josh's picture in there might help conjure him up. She stood over it and looked down at the photographs, each one raising a memory.

  The three of them at the beach on the Carolina shore the summer they had gone to visit her parents. The year before Lily was born. Josh riding on his father's shoulders, his arms banded across Paul's forehead, Paul's baseball cap drooping sideways on Josh's head. Josh standing beside a sand castle in a white T-shirt and baggy shorts, his arms spread wide, a bright grin displaying gaps where baby teeth had fallen out. His hair was a tangle of sandy-brown curls, tossed by the same wind that bent the slender stems of spartina and panic grass on the dunes. The ocean was a belt of blue trimmed in lacy white.

  The three of them standing together on a jetty. All of them laughing. Hannah wore a filmy summer dress in blue and white. The long skirt whirled around her legs like a matador's cape. Josh was standing on a piling. Paul was hugging him tightly from behind with one arm; his other arm was draped around Hannah's shoulders. Holding them all together. A family. So close, so happy. So distant from here. So far removed from what they had become.