Stolen Lives : The Lives Trilogy Book 1

by Joseph Lewis

  He shrugged. “Roz called and said all of us received one month’s notice and that we were encouraged to apply to Milwaukee or Madison, but there weren’t any openings at the moment.”

  Jamie and Pete exchanged a glance, Pete’s face screwed up in thought.

  “Let me make a phone call,” he said, lifting himself up from his chair.

  He knew he was tired but didn’t realize just how much until he had sat down.

  “Things’ll work out,” Jamie said as he smacked Skip on his arm.

  Skip didn’t respond.

  * * *

  Pete, Summer, Chet, Jamie, Skip and O’Brien sat around a table in the hospital drinking coffee or Coke, picking at pastry and talking about what they had accomplished that morning. The adrenaline rush had long since vanished. It had been a long, sleepless night. Brett was still in surgery and had been for the past hour, and the attending physician was instructed to call Skip when he was out, but he hadn’t yet.

  Fitz was out of surgery but in post-op and wouldn’t be allowed to have visitors until later that morning. Tim and Mike were about to be moved from post-op and would share a room together at Tim’s request. Everything went well with them, though both would be uncomfortable until the stitches dissolved.

  Johnny was comfortable and though the doctors hadn’t said it, they were worried.

  Cochrane and several of his agents from the Chicago office, along with Pete and Jamie interviewed each of the boys. Their reports would be compared to the reports obtained from Kansas City and Los Angeles. One story was as depressing and as disgusting as the next. The common theme was perversion at the hands of sick men. Worse, there was the constant theme of isolation.

  Another constant was the lack of food and water. The boys were given a bathroom break every hour or so, and were given water periodically, but inconsistently during the day.

  The agents found the stash of pills on the second floor of the building in Chicago, and it was determined that one pill was Viagra or a similar drug. The other pill was either a depressant or a stimulant. The idea was to keep the boys submissive, as well as dependent. The type varied, and there were at least three different kinds that were found, including Adderall, Ritalin, and Amytal. Because the boys had learned to fake taking the pill and just pretend, among all the other things that were wrong with them, addiction wouldn’t be one of them. Each boy had snorted cocaine, smoked marijuana, and drank alcohol, but not with any regularity that would cause addiction. Each Saturday, the boys were to cut their nails because they had to look their best for each ‘date’. Haircuts were perhaps once a month, which was why each boy’s hair was long.

  “It’s a wonder the boys survived this long,” Jamie said.

  The others at the table didn’t say anything, but their anger was a thick blanket wrapped around them.

  All three networks and CNN now carried the story, though a general, sanitized version was put forth. The FBI had pleasant looking PR people prepare and then read statements from all three sites. They also mentioned that 147 arrest warrants were issued across the country, including several prominent local, state and national politicians, judges, lawyers, sports figures, music and movie industry folks, teachers, coaches, priests, ministers- virtually every walk of life. The only common factor, and not surprising at all, was that all were male. The charges ranged from receiving or possessing pornography, sending pornography, to the much more serious rape, sodomy, and in several cases, murder.

  Most of the parents of the boys had been notified and were either on the way or making plans to get to their sons as soon as they could. Those who hadn’t been contacted would receive phone calls until they were. The Pruitts lived in West Bend, Wisconsin and were already in route, as were the Baileys and Ericksons, parents of Stephen Bailey and Mike Erickson, the boys taken the night before from Waukesha, Wisconsin. Jamie had also contacted Jeremy Evans to see if he and Randy could come and speak to the parents and perhaps the boys. Jeremy had agreed, as did Randy, and had at least an hour lead on the parents.

  Summer spotted Cochrane picking up a cup of coffee and made room for him at the table.

  “We finished the interviews.” After a sip, he added, “Pretty fucking grim.”

  “At least they’re alive,” she answered.

  “I wonder how damaged the kids are . . . I can’t imagine,” Chet said.

  “How can they not be damaged?” Jamie said. “Starved, locked in a fucking room, some of them over a year . . . and God knows what else. Jesus Christ . . .” he trailed off.

  “This Jeremy Evans . . . can he help them?” Cochrane asked.

  “Hell, I don’t know. He’s good, and the kids deserve a shot, but hell, who knows?” Pete said.

  “The Erickson kid hasn’t said a word since we found him,” Skip added. “Not even a grunt.”

  There was silence then. Sips of coffee or Coke. The pastry no longer tasty, pushed away from whoever had it sitting in front of them, losing their appetite, thinking about the demons the kids will be wrestling with for a long, long time.

  “Can I ask . . .” Cochrane started, “there are rumors that there was a leak.”

  Summer nodded. “Chet and Pete found it.”

  “Nah, you and Chet,” Pete said.

  “How?” Cochrane asked.

  “Someone was a step or two ahead of us, and we couldn’t figure out how,” Pete said.

  “When did you suspect?” Cochrane asked.

  “We were in Pembine, Wisconsin at the scene of a triple homicide. We got word that George Tokay’s family was murdered, and their home burnt,” Pete said. “It was just luck George was with us at the time.”

  “We had two possible theories,” Summer explained. “One was that the third man that had been seen in Arizona was tying up loose ends. We wanted to believe that one, but it didn’t seem likely because he wouldn’t have gone after George or his family the way he did.”

  Cochrane looked puzzled and pulled out his notebook searching for George Tokay’s name.

  Pete helped him out and said, “He’s a fourteen year old Navajo boy. Two of the victims in Pembine were ID’d by George in Arizona. We flew him to Wisconsin to positively ID the two men as the assholes he saw executing a kid . . .”

  “. . . Tyler Hart from Cincinnati,” Summer corrected.

  “. . . executing Tyler Hart,” Pete said. “We made a decision to have Doug Rawson investigate each of us to see where the leak might be.”

  “Why him?” Cochrane asked.

  “Because he’s black. He didn’t fit the typical profile of a serial rapist of white boys. We thought he wouldn’t be involved . . . guess we were wrong.”

  “He allegedly investigated and didn’t come up with anything on any of us,” Chet said. “That was odd. It had to be one of us.”

  “Then, Summer remembered having a conversation with Thatcher Davis and passed that on to Logan Musgrave, our boss, and Doug. Doug said he’d put Davis under twenty-four hour surveillance,” Pete said.

  “But Davis was on the lawyer side of the FBI. He didn’t have regular access to our work and wasn’t a part of our meetings,” Chet said. “So, that still left one of us, or either Doug Rawson or Logan Musgrave.”

  “So Chet had a buddy of his do some digging on the two of them and had him monitor their cell phones,” Pete said.

  “You monitored your boss’ cell phone?” Cochrane asked, eyebrows raised.

  “I got the okay from Tom Dandridge,” Pete answered.

  “Dandridge?” Cochrane asked.

  “You never mentioned that you reached out to Dandridge?” Summer said, a little annoyed that Pete had kept that from her.

  “My guardian angel. He and I go back years, and he’s a friend. I needed a consult,” Pete explained with a shrug. “Besides, kids were dying, two kids were just kidnapped, and a family was murdered. The gloves were off,” Pete said with another shrug.

  “You never told me that,” Summer said. “Why?”

  Pete shrugged. �
��I wanted your butt covered in case I screwed up. I didn’t want it to touch you.”

  She glared at him and then continued.

  “In Waukesha, Chet’s buddy intercepted a phone call from Rawson to Graham Porter giving him the location of George Tokay with a kill order. At the same time, Chet finds accounts for both Rawson and Davis with quite a bit of money in them.”

  “Almost a half-million apiece,” Chet said. “I found it easily. Rawson should have found it just as easily, but he claimed he couldn’t find anything on Davis. He’s not dumb enough to wave his account at us and say, ‘Here I am.’”

  “Chet matched deposits from what might have been withdrawals from Victor Bosch’s account,” Summer said. “Still, it wasn’t until the two of them showed up at the Sheraton that we were one hundred percent sure.”

  “But what I don’t understand and can’t figure out is why Bosch would risk letting us know there was a leak by going after George and his family,” Chet said.

  “I can only guess,” Summer said shrugging her shoulders. “Arrogance . . . the feeling that he can and will get away with it . . . that he was untouchable . . . and the fact that Porter was his nephew who shared the same perversions, and he needed to protect him from being identified by George. That’s all I can figure,” Summer said knowing that they’d never know for sure.

  “Why Rawson? Why did he get involved?” Cochrane asked.

  “Greed . . . old fashion money,” Summer answered. “We don’t think he ever took advantage of the boys . . . at least there’s no record or video of him in Chicago or Long Beach.”

  “Chet looked into the agents in Albuquerque and Phoenix and found someone in each office with almost as much money as Davis and Rawson. We think the pilot was clean and was coerced into taking the helicopter up. We suspect the agent out of Albuquerque of executing the helicopter pilot and the two guys who murdered George Tokay’s family,” Pete said. “You know, tying up loose ends. We’ll never know who pulled the trigger for sure.”

  “Why did you suspect someone in Albuquerque or Phoenix?” O’Brien asked.

  “George’s cousin, Leonard, is a deputy with the Navajo Tribal Police, and he had discovered the helicopter service was out of New Mexico. We knew Bosch’s ranch was outside of Phoenix in Chandler. We figured he had to have protection or at least eyes in both places,” Pete answered.

  “We also uncovered protection from local PD in Chicago, Long Beach and Los Angeles,” Chet said. “This whole thing was well organized with a lot of money that helped with the organization.”

  “And the rest . . . well, you know the rest,” Summer said.

  “Nice investigative work,” Cochrane said.

  Pete and Summer exchanged a smile, and Pete winked at Chet. He smiled for the first time in a long time.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Jamie and O’Brien left to check on Fitz, Skip left to check on Brett, and Cochrane left for his office. Pete had asked that Summer and Chet stay behind, so he could speak to them. They sat around the same table where they had been sitting, Pete on one side, with Summer and Chet facing him.

  “Guys, I’ve handed in my resignation. I’m too old for this.”

  “Come on, Pete,” Summer said. “You’re tired, that’s all.”

  “No,” he said shaking his head. “A boy hangs onto a gun and gets shot when I should have shoved his butt back with the other boys. Two assholes catch me off-guard, and I’m running up and down stairs out of breath and wondering what the fuck is happening. I can’t do this any longer.”

  “Oh bull!” Chet said.

  “I’ve already sent a message to Dandridge.”

  Deputy Director Thomas Dandridge was in charge of the wing that Logan Musgrave and others on that side reported to. His kingdom, as he liked to call it, ranged from computer crime, to auto theft, to crimes against children, including the Rapid Response Team that were the actual first responders in abduction cases. He and Pete had entered the FBI at the same time and had become friends and stayed friends, even though Dandridge had moved quickly and quietly up through the ranks, while Pete stayed with cop work. Pete had quietly kept him in the loop ever since he had received the phone call from George’s cousin while investigating the murder scene in Pembine.

  “Pete, we just closed a ring that ran across half the country, and we saved a bunch of kids. Probably more when you consider this ring could’ve kept going on and on for who knows how long. It was your hunch . . . your gut that closed it. Ask Dandridge to sit on it for a week or two, and then see what happens,” Summer pleaded.

  Pete looked down at the empty and chipped mug that held the last drops of coffee he drank earlier. He held onto it with both hands, and he didn’t respond, so the three of them sat there in silence, not sure what to say.

  * * *

  The nurse didn’t want to let them in at all, but the doctor overruled her, allowing them in the boy’s room for a moment to just have a quick word.

  Brett’s eyes blinked open, but he lay still, first staring at the ceiling, then out the window, and then the wall at the foot of his bed. He stared at his left arm that had an IV in it, and it seemed that he noticed that his left shoulder ached under the heavy bandage. He turned his head slowly to his right and spotted both Skip and Pete and he smiled weakly.

  “I’m not sure who you are, Kid,” Pete said. “I’m used to having you run around naked and calling me names.”

  He mouthed something, and Pete bent low so he could hear him.

  “Lift the sheet and take a peek, Fuck Head,” Brett said quietly with a smile.

  “That’s the Brett we know,” Pete said to Skip with a laugh. “Had us fooled, didn’t he?”

  Brett reached out his right hand, and Pete took it and held it, and then Brett shut his eyes still smiling.

  After a short time, he opened them, focused on Skip and said softly, “Sorry for not sticking with the plan.”

  “It worked out okay,” Skip said.

  “I could’ve gotten everybody killed.” Tears filled his eyes.

  “Kid, you saved everyone’s life. Everyone’s life,” Pete said. “Don’t forget that.”

  Brett looked at Skip and said, “Sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry for, Kid. You’re one of the bravest guys I know,” Skip said. And then with a laugh added, “Probably one of the most stubborn too.”

  Brett smiled, turned his head and fell asleep. Skip’s cell vibrated and he got up, looked at the number but didn’t recognize it, so he stepped into the hall to take it. Nurses moved up and down the hall. The overhead intercom asked for this doctor to call that number. Orderlies pushed patients in wheelchairs or on gurneys this direction or that direction. Lots of hustle and bustle, all purposeful and orderly.

  The phone vibrated again and he opened it up and said, “James Dahlke.”

  “Please hold for Deputy Director Dandridge,” a women’s voice said.

  He had heard about him just that morning but was puzzled as to what this was about. Probably Pete called this guy in order to have him running off again to look at a crime scene. He guessed that would be okay, since he didn’t have much to do at the moment. After a pause, he heard someone pick up and then a man cleared his voice.

  “Skip Dahlke?”

  “Yes, this is James Dahlke.”

  “My name is Tom Dandridge. I’m a Deputy Director with the FBI, and I’d like you to work for us. You’ve come highly recommended, and I’ve seen some of the results of your work.”

  Skip guessed who it was that had contacted him. He glanced through the window into Brett’s room. Brett was asleep, and Pete sat in the chair with his head in his hands. He looked like he was dozing.

  “Oh and I also want you to give a message to Kelliher for me,” Dandridge continued. “Tell him to take his resignation and shove it up his ass. Tell him I’m not accepting it. Got that?”

  “Um . . . yes, Sir.”

  * * *

  While Randy made the rounds talking to each
of the boys, mostly listening, sometimes sharing tears, Jeremy met with the Pruitts, the Baileys and the Ericksons. Understandably, the parents didn’t want to meet with him but instead wanted to be with their sons. Yet, they listened respectfully, asked questions, and sought advice.

  He repeated what he had shared with the Forstadts the night before, after their son had phoned Randy and told him that a pizza owner, Jim Rodemaker, might have had Stephen Bailey and Mike Erickson. That conversation seemed so long ago, days ago and not just a few hours ago.

  They sat around a dark oak or mahogany table in soft leather chairs in a comfortable conference room used by the hospital for telling loved ones about imminent death or required surgery or surgical complications. Fortunately, there would be none of that at this meeting.

  “Your boys will be anxious to see you, but at the same time, nervous and ashamed.”

  “Nervous?” Jennifer Erickson asked, not in anger, but in confusion. “We’re their parents.”

  “Yes,” he said nodding, “But nervous and ashamed because of what these boys had to endure, go through . . . do. These boys had to survive any way they could. They obeyed. To not obey meant severe beatings or even death. Stephen and Mike didn’t witness this, but the others did.”

  He paused and started again.

  “All kids want to please their parents . . . make them proud. Your sons want no less. Because of what they were forced to do, they might feel you’ll be disappointed in them . . . they might feel they let you down.”

  “But we aren’t disappointed in them. They’re our kids.” Mark Erickson said.

  “Exactly” Jeremy said. “But remember, it isn’t what you’re feeling, it’s what the boys are feeling. They’re confused. They’re tired. They’re angry.”

  Jeremy paused and said, “They had a good-sized chunk of their lives stolen from them, and they won’t get it back. Ever. The best they can do . . . with your help, with your love and with your support is to go on from here.”

  The parents looked at one another not quite sure what to make of Jeremy or what exactly had happened to their kids. They were also pretty sure they didn’t want to know what had happened to their kids.