by Joseph Lewis
He looked up the user name Rodemaker gave him and discovered that it was indeed rigged to automatically run a disk erase utility to clean off the hard drive.
“Told you . . . he rigged it! He must have all sorts of crap on here he didn’t want us to see.”
“So he’s not cooperating.” Summer didn’t pose that as a question.
“In a word, no way.”
“That’s two words,” Summer said.
“But you get my point,” Chet said. “He’s trying to cover his tracks.”
Chet looked at the other user folders and found one called, ‘pizza_guy’. He then looked into the settings folder for the Firefox history and cache but didn’t find any user folders.
“Huh,” he said with a nod.
“What?” Summer asked.
“He’s trying to cover his tracks.”
“You said that already.”
He didn’t answer, but went to the BookMarks.html and found various links anyone might have: CNN, CBS Sports, ESPN. Then he found a link to a site called, ‘Desert Ranch Ponies’ and became curious because it didn’t fit an otherwise ordinary pattern.
“We went through his financials, and there was nothing in there about a ranch, farm or livestock, right?”
Summer opened a folder, ran a finger down pages notes and pages of bank records and then answered, “No, nothing. Why?”
“Not sure . . . I’ll tell you in a minute.”
Chet switched to his work computer and went to the Desert Ranch Ponies web site. Nothing special, except that the page was a beautiful picture of three ponies set against a red-orange sunset, with red hills and Joshua Trees in the background. He then switched back to Rodemaker’s computer and combed through the pizza_guy user settings looking for any additional traps, but found none. Then, he rebooted the computer using his Ophcrack Live CD.
“What are you doing now?” Summer asked with a yawn.
“I’m running a password cracking utility to find out what Rodemaker’s password is for his user name.” Before she had a chance to ask, Chet said, “His preferred user name is ‘pizza_guy’.”
It was just a matter of minutes before he found Rodemaker’s password, which was ‘love2loveboys’.
“Sick sonofabitch!” Chet said through clenched teeth.
Next, he logged in as pizza_guy with the love2loveboys password and looked at Rodemaker’s email, finding acknowledgements to email sent to a list serve. The list would have to be checked out in case these were addresses of perverts collecting and sending Kiddie porn as Chet suspected they would be. He printed out the list and asked Summer to fax it to Musgrave.
“How do you know they’re pervs?” Summer asked.
“Hunch,” Chet grunted.
He went to sent mail and opened up the email sent to the list serve and clicked on the first attachment. Chet and Summer found themselves staring at a frontal nude picture of an unsmiling Scott Carrigan, the boy they had found with Rodemaker earlier that evening. He clicked on the second and then a third attachment and found similar pictures, all pornographic.
“Sharing his own personal memories with a few of his closest pervert friends. Can I shoot the sonofabitch now?” Chet asked Summer through clenched teeth.
He clicked off the picture, turned to Summer and said, “I know I’ve not been doing this as long as you and Pete, but I don’t understand these sons of bitches. How can they do this to kids?”
Summer shook her head. She had given up trying to answer that one a long, long time ago.
In a little over twenty minutes, Chet had unearthed hundreds of pictures of nude boys in various poses in a folder simply titled ‘Boys’. Some of the pictures showed boys handcuffed to what looked like the inside of a van. Others were pornographic.
He uploaded all of the photos to the Center for Missing Children and then to Logan Musgrave in D.C. for cataloging. It wouldn’t take long to match the kids in the photos with the names of missing kids, unless the kids were local victims. Both Chet and Summer figured there would be many of those, given the number of videos taken in the search of Rodemaker’s home.
Chet knew from FBI statistics that by the time a pedophile is tried and convicted, he or she- mostly a he- would have, on average approximately 200 victims. That figure still staggered Chet’s imagination. At least with this pervert behind bars, kids would be safer. And, the names on the list serve might lead the team to members of the sex ring and perhaps, missing kids.
One could hope.
“Hmm,” Chet mumbled.
“Ok, now what?”
“Why would Desert Ranch Ponies be a site with only one page?”
“How many pages should it be?’
Chet didn’t answer, but glared at the screen, willing it to give him an answer. He grabbed another Snickers, took a bite, but stopped chewing. He glanced at Summer and went to his keyboard.
In the web address bar, he typed /boys after the IP address of ‘www.desertranchponies.com’ and waited, staring at the screen.
A directory listing of files showed up on the monitor. He looked them over and then clicked on a file that said, ‘StartHere.html’ and then a graphic site opened up with three nude, unsmiling boys. Two of the boys were blond, one had light-brown hair, and each appeared to be about twelve years old.
The screen dissolved again like an animation in a PowerPoint, and the three boys appeared on the screen again, this time however, performing sex acts. The screen dissolved again . . . and again . . . and again. What looked like the final screen had menu options scripted over the boys who were caught in a close-up of the brown-haired boy.
The first menu said, ‘Chicago’. A second said, ‘Los Angeles’. A third said, ‘Coming To Your Area’. A fourth said, ‘Share Your Pictures and Stories’.
At first, Chet and Summer stared at each other. But there was a sudden charge of adrenaline that had nothing to do with the three Diet Cokes and four Snickers consumed by each of them in the last two hours.
Summer phoned Musgrave, gave him the IP address to Desert Ranch Ponies, and asked him to do some quiet digging. It was time to have heart to heart with Rodemaker.
CHAPTER THIRTY
Stephen sat on an unmade double bed in a simple room that had an ugly chair covered in green fabric that had more worn spots than actual fabric, and a cheap table someone might have purchased at a discount chain store, except this one had assorted nicks and chips. A cheap fake wood lamp sat on the table along with a box of wipes and box of Puffs. The shade on the lamp was dusty and dirty with some sort of stain on it. Stephen thought the color was tan, but because of the dust and dirt, he couldn’t tell for sure. The sheets on the bed and the pillowcase smelled and were of an indeterminate color. Perhaps tan, maybe some pastel, but who knew. Stephen didn’t.
The room had cheap, peeling, flowered wallpaper and a window that was sealed from the inside with plywood and steel bars. The floor was dirty green linoleum that was chipped and faded. There was a threadbare rug at the side of the bed. He had been taken directly to this room and locked in upon his arrival.
He only had a glimpse of the building he was brought to because it was dark and late at night. The van drove into a dark alley alongside a dirty red brick building on one side and an even dirtier gray brick building on the other. He could tell the colors because of the street lights on each corner. The buildings looked to be about three stories high. A roll-up metal garage door opened up and swallowed the van and when it entered, the door rolled back down.
He was alone, very alone, and had never been this frightened before in his life. He was particularly alarmed that his eyes refused to focus. He’d move his head to the right, and it felt like his eyes dragged slowly behind. He had to blink several times before his eyes caught up with his head. There was a general dizziness. He had a major headache and a stuffy nose.
Stephen didn’t like any of this; none of it. He wanted clothes to cover himself up with, something, anything to wear. Mostly, he wanted to go home, but
he knew that might not be possible, might not ever be possible, but each time that thought came up, he pushed it away because it was too terrible to think about. The possibility of never seeing his family or friends again terrified him.
Every now and then he had heard muffled screams and knew they had come from Mike, or at least he thought they had come from Mike. The last time Stephen had seen him, he was being dragged down to the far end of the hallway, still in handcuffs. Mike was still bleeding from his nose and mouth because the men used him, punched him, and slapped him when he tried to fight them off in the van. They had beaten him up pretty badly.
As time went on, Stephen had wondered if Mike was still alive, but after hearing his muffled screams, Stephen knew he was. He had tried covering his ears to keep out the screams, but it didn’t work. Whether the screams were real or just in his head, he wasn’t sure. He thought they were real. And at least if he believed they were real, Mike was alive, and Stephen wasn’t alone. That was his only happy thought.
He heard the door unlock once again.
Stephen recognized the fat, sweaty man with long, greasy, black hair as one of the men who had used him over and over again. This time however, he led two boys into the room and then left, shutting and locking the door behind him. Stephen had not seen the boys before. In fact, up until they walked in, he had thought that he and Mike were the only boys in the building.
The two boys were dressed as he was: wearing nothing. At first, the two boys stared at him warily, but then the taller of the two, a lanky blond boy came over and sat down next to him, while the other one, a brown-haired boy a bit taller than Stephen stood in front of them at an odd angle.
“I’m Tim,” the blond whispered. “This is Brett. We don’t have much time, so you have to listen, okay?”
Stephen tried to nod, but it felt awkward because his eyes couldn’t focus, and nodding made him feel nauseous.
“The room has a camera. All the rooms have a camera. We think the rooms are bugged too . . . you know . . . so they can hear what we say, but we’re not sure. Brett is kind of blocking the camera, so we have to talk fast.”
“We’re supposed to make a movie . . . you know, do stuff with each other . . .” Brett said. “We don’t like it any more than you do, but while we do this, you have to listen. You have to remember what we tell you. Okay?”
Stephen remembered what had happened the last time he nodded, so he whispered, “Yes,” instead.
“It’s important to listen and remember what I tell you, okay?” Tim said.
Stephen began to cry. He was so scared, and he couldn’t believe what was happening to him.
“Shhh,” Tim whispered, putting his arm around him. “That doesn’t help,” but he let him cry nonetheless, holding him close.
“We have to get moving, so . . . you ready?” Brett said.
Stephen wiped away his tears and in a tiny voice said, “Yeah.”
“Nod or shake your head when I ask you a question,” Tim whispered. “We think we’re in Chicago . . .”
There were eleven boys. With Stephen and Mike, there were now thirteen. Stephen was the boy they had really wanted, while Mike was going to be used for a couple of days by the guards and then disposed of, probably in front of them to make sure the boys knew who was in charge. They meant to send a message: none of the boys would never, ever leave.
There were times when one of them was taken away in handcuffs never to be seen again. That had happened several times in the almost two years Tim and Brett had been there and as recently as that morning. With Stephen now among them, someone was surely going to go away again.
At some point in the morning, Stephen would be visited by the Dark Man. Tim had whispered this like it was a real name, and someone to be feared. The boys thought the Dark Man was the boss or owner because the guards treated him like he was a king or something. Behind his back however, they made fun of him or flipped him off.
The Dark Man always came the morning after a new boy arrived.
Stephen would find out on his own that the Dark Man liked to cause pain. Warning him ahead of time would only make it worse. The only man that liked to cause pain more than the Dark Man was the Cop. The boys thought he was a cop because one of them saw an identification tag and a nightstick, though it was only a glimpse, and there had been no time to read it. So the boys referred to him as the Cop.
There were at least three guards on duty at any one time. Butch, the fat, greasy man was the guy in charge, unless the Dark Man was present. The guards rotated every three or four days. Shawn, the red-haired man and Clay, the guy with the buzz cut were not guards. Those two guys along with a dude named Ace and another creep named Rick were only around long enough to bring boys to or from the building.
Usually it was two other guys, really bad guys, who brought boys to and from the building. A couple of the boys had overheard the guards talking that Frank and Ron weren’t going to be coming around anymore, but the boys didn’t know what that meant.
Each morning, the boys were fed fast food breakfast items along with two pills. One pill was either blue or yellow, and the boys thought this was Viagra or something. Stephen was told that he needed to take it because it would help him. It would give him a headache and stuffy nose, but in time, maybe he’d get used to it. Stephen was told only to pretend to take the other pill. The boys didn’t know what it was, but they were convinced that it did nothing but fuck up your head, so when the guard wasn’t looking, Stephen was told to spit it out and hide it somewhere but then pretend like he was high.
Sometimes a man might make him do lines of coke, smoke a joint, or drink beer or whiskey, and Stephen would have no choice but to comply. He wouldn’t like it, but maybe he’d get used to that too. The guards were forbidden to use the boys like the other men who visited them. The boys were off limits. Stephen paused and looked up at him with a puzzled look on his face, but didn’t say anything.
“I said they aren’t supposed to do anything with us. I didn’t say they wouldn’t,” Tim said seeing the question on Stephen’s face as he looked up from what he was doing to Tim.
They were all pigs and assholes, not to be trusted. The boys only had one another. The boys were called ‘ponies’, and they hated that name. Each new boy, or ‘pony’, in this case Stephen, was responsible to memorize the names and faces of the other boys in case he outlived them all. That way, their families would know about them. It was a system Tim had made up. For as long as Tim had been there, Stephen was the tenth new boy. Each morning, the boys would be lined up one behind the other to take a shower.
“In the morning, we’ll make sure we line up in alphabetical order . . . or try to. I’ll stand behind you and whisper names. Each of the guys will make an excuse to turn around, so you can see them. It’s important,” Tim said urgently, but in a whisper. “You’ve got to memorize our names and faces. Okay?”
Stephen nodded.
They were to obey without question, and if any boy refused, he’d be severely punished. Punishment, Tim explained, was to be dragged to the end of the hallway, handcuffed to chains that hung from the ceiling and whipped in front of the other boys, so that all of them could watch. The message was simple: obey or else.
If one of the boys tried to escape, that boy would be dragged down the hallway, handcuffed to the chains, whipped, and then branded with an upside down cross on his ankle. Stephen was warned not to try to escape, but he didn’t need the warning. He would obey because he didn’t want to get whipped or branded.
Brett looked up from between Stephen’s legs and said, “You can’t give up. Never, no matter how bad it gets or how long you stay here. You can’t give up, because the rest of us depend on you.” Brett stared intently at Stephen and said, “You got that?”
Stephen nodded slightly.
“And remember this . . . this is really important, you can’t ever, ever like this shit. No matter how long you stay here. You can pretend . . . you can act, but you can’t like it.” Br
ett paused and then asked, “You understand?”
Stephen stopped what he was doing and said quickly, “No fucking way!”
“Good,” Brett answered. “Last thing . . . don’t trust any of ‘em. No one. Just us, especially me and Tim. Maybe Johnny, but we think he might be the next one to go away. He’s sick and not getting any better.”
The boys finished, and a short time later, the door was unlocked and the two boys were led away. And, Stephen was alone.
* * *
Chet and Summer knew they had something big, really big. Chet got up from the table and walked in rapid laps around the room with both hands on the back of his head. His eyes weren’t focused on anything in particular. Summer watched him while talking on her phone to Musgrave.
“It’s bigger than we thought, Logan.”
Musgrave was silent on the other end of the phone and then said, “We’ve matched pictures of the twelve dead boys on our board with pictures from Rodemaker’s computer. We’re assuming the pictures were sent from the Desert Ranch Ponies website. We’re getting information on all the addresses on Rodemaker’s list serve. We were able to quietly obtain warrants to find out the names and locations of all of the men from the various dot coms and dot nets.
“We need Chet to find out who set up this website. We find who’s behind the website, we shut down this ring.”
“Chet’s working on that now, but he thinks a warrant might slow us down. He’s worried about those two boys.”
“Put Chet on.”
Summer caught Chet making his third trip around the table, placed a hand on his arm to stop him and then handed him the phone.
“Walker,” was all he said.
“How can I help you find who set this website up?” Logan asked.
Chet didn’t answer him directly, but instead seemed to think out loud.
“We know the picture of the original website . . . the one with the ponies and the Joshua Tree was taken in the southwestern part of the US. We also know there is no Desert Ranch listed anywhere in the Four Corners area of the United States. It doesn’t exist. But I believe, given the area, we’re looking at a remote location, probably a real, legitimate ranch of some sort.”