“Are you okay?” Tom asked. “Are you hurt, Jill?”
She was hyperventilating. Her hot tears wet his shirt. Mitchell was still groaning on the floor beside them.
“Slow your breathing. Are you hurt? Did he rape you?”
Jill shook her head. Tom let out a huge relieved breath.
“Can you walk out of here with me?”
“Yes... . Please ... take ... me ... home... .” Each word she spoke was punctuated by a fast breath that was also part cry.
They turned to leave.
But Roland Boyd was blocking the doorway. “What the hell is going on here!” Roland shouted.
Tom let go of Jill and rushed at Roland. Before Roland could even put his hands up in defense, Tom secured a grip around his neck and had him pinned against the door frame.
“You wouldn’t open the door! You wouldn’t check in on my daughter!”
“What ... what did Mitchell do?” Roland said. Roland’s face turned red from the constricted blood flow. His words came out weak because of the grip Tom held around his throat.
“By the looks of it, he assaulted her,” Tom said to him. “We’re leaving. Now.”
“You can’t just break into my home and attack my family,” Roland managed to say.
“I’m leaving with my daughter now, and you can’t stop me,” Tom shot back.
Mitchell was still writhing on the floor in pain. He was holding his neck and whimpering.
“You can go back to jail for this,” Roland said.
“Cool. Mitchell and I can become prison pals.”
Tom eased his grip around Roland’s neck. Roland slumped to the floor and began rubbing at the spot where Tom’s hand had been.
“Let’s be rational here,” Roland said, still breathing hard. Mitchell had managed to get himself onto his knees. He wasn’t going to be standing anytime soon.
“Okay, let’s,” Tom said. “I need five hundred dollars for my cab ride home.”
“Are you buying what I think you are?” said Roland.
Tom got low to the floor. He leaned in close to Roland so that Jill couldn’t overhear him. “I’m not buying my daughter’s silence, if that’s what you’re asking. If she wants to press charges against Mitchell, that’ll be her decision.”
Roland took out his wallet. He stayed slumped on the floor. He fished out five crisply pressed hundred-dollar bills.
“I hope it doesn’t come to that,” Roland said.
Tom plucked another hundred from the billfold. “For the tip,” he said.
Tom stood and took hold of Jill’s hand. They walked the length of the hallway together. He helped his daughter navigate the majestic staircase, because her footing was uncertain. They emerged into a star-drenched night, bathed by a warm southerly breeze, and followed the walkway to the driveway’s edge.
Tom signaled for the waiting cab. The driver kept his headlights turned off. He pulled over to pick them up. Tom eased Jill into the backseat of the cab. He came around the other side and slipped in beside her.
“Where to?” the driver asked.
“Home,” Tom said.
Jill rested her head on his shoulder as she wept.
Chapter 55
Tom eased Jill onto the sofa. Her skin was pale and clammy to the touch. Her breathing was shallow. He covered her with a thick fleece blanket and left the living room, to return holding a blood pressure cuff and gauge. Over the years coaching soccer, Tom had amassed enough medical equipment to open his own ambulatory service. To his relief, the blood pressure reading was normal, so while Jill exhibited some of the symptoms of shock, he didn’t need to rush her to a hospital.
Tom sat on the faded yellow armchair across from Jill. His head continued to pound. Adding to his discomfort, Tom’s knee had ballooned to the size of a youth soccer ball, and the IV puncture hole had begun to bleed.
Jill pointed to the red river of blood that snaked across the back of Tom’s hand and ended up as drips on the armchair.
“You’re bleeding, Dad,” she said. Those were the first words she’d spoken since the cab ride home. “I’ll get you a bandage.”
Jill came back with a Hello Kitty Band-Aid. The two shared a quick laugh after she secured it in place.
“Are you ready to talk?” Tom asked.
Jill retreated to the sofa and rested her head on a makeshift platform of her interlocking fingers. She kept her eyes fixed to a spot on the floor, and her expression remained grave.
“I’m not going to judge you, honey,” Tom added, “but I’d like to know the truth. What did Mitchell Boyd do to you?”
Jill stared up at her father through a glaze of tears. Her bottom lip trembled, and Tom knew it meant a flood was imminent. “I can’t tell you,” she sobbed into her hands.
Just thinking about Mitchell Boyd made him want to return to that house and inflict further misery on the boy.
“Jill, this is really important,” Tom said. “I need you to trust me. Did he hurt you? Did he touch you in a threatening way?”
Jill’s gaze again retreated to that spot on the floor, and she shook her head. It was a tentative no at best.
“Tell me exactly what he did that got you so scared,” he said.
“I guess I thought he was going to hurt me,” Jill responded. The timbre of her voice came at him weak and rueful. “I didn’t know who else to call,” she continued. “I’m sorry I caused so much trouble. Maybe ... I just overreacted.”
Tom stood up and plopped down on the sofa beside her. He pulled Jill close to him. Something inside of her must have let go when he did. Tom felt her whole body begin to relax. He brushed away a tear that lingered near her eye. Jill crinkled her nose and smiled at him after he smoothed it away.
“Jill,” Tom said in a more somber tone, “I need you to open up to me about Mitchell. I need to know everything.”
Jill shook her head. Her posture changed. She seemed more closed off again. “I don’t want to talk about what happened.”
Tom glanced over at the whiteboard, and that big, obtrusive square with the word trust in the center. Jill leaned over and gently kissed her father on the cheek.
“Will you come back home?” Tom said.
“I am home,” Jill said. She inhaled a sob, then let her own tears fall freely. She fell into her father’s open arms, and he wrapped her warmer than any fleece blanket ever could.
“Please trust me,” Tom said. “Please give me a chance. I told you my greatest secret. Please don’t burden yourself by keeping secrets from me.”
Jill nodded.
Tom stood up and walked over to the whiteboard. With the palm of his hand he erased the square blocking the goal. Tom turned around to look at Jill.
“What really happened at Mitchell’s?” asked Tom.
Jill took in a heavy breath and breathed it out slowly. “We were hanging out in his room. But we weren’t doing anything—”
“I know,” Tom said, nodding so that she could skip over the uncomfortable details. “Go on.”
“Well, he wanted to do things that I wasn’t comfortable doing. He started to push me into it, and I got scared. I didn’t know who else to call. So I called you.”
“Did he rape you, Jill?”
Jill shook her head. “No. I think maybe he might have if you hadn’t come. I don’t know.”
Tom bit his lip. The furious impulse to inflict permanent damage to Mitchell Boyd had returned. “Okay. Is that everything? Are you sure you’re telling me everything, Jill? No more secrets.”
Jill nodded emphatically. “That’s everything. I swear.”
Chapter 56
Rainy was back at work in Boston. She was getting ready to leave for the day. Her report on the James Mann investigation for the USAO was nearly complete. It was detailed and heinous, a report on the darkest of hearts. She would be glad to be done with it. But she had more reports like this to write, and more investigations to conclude.
This was the job in the cyber crimes squad.
It never got easier.
Rainy’s work in Shilo was basically over. She’d interviewed all ten girls from Shilo High School whose pictures were found on computers belonging to James Mann and Tom Hawkins. The four new girls she’d interviewed lied to her as well. They’d sent their pictures to somebody, but Rainy couldn’t prove it. From the subpoenaed phone records all Rainy could ascertain was that they didn’t text or call Tom Hawkins. Several had texted and called Tanner Farnsworth, as they had lots of different boys from Shilo High School.
Rainy even got three of the girls to agree to consent to searches of their phones. But she found nothing useful. The sent messages were mostly texts. The pictures attached were of friends and parties. Nothing lewd. Nothing lascivious.
Nothing illegal.
The girls had probably deleted those images long ago. Rainy had already put in preservation requests with their cell phone carriers. A search of those servers was a dead end, too. The girls had sent thousands of text messages since her request went into effect. They’d sent hundreds of pictures as well, but the only alarms in those images were underage drinking, some pot smoking, and lots of cigarettes. It was the business of their parents, not the FBI.
Tanner Farnsworth remained uncooperative throughout her investigation. Meanwhile, Tom Hawkins and James Mann were both going to be found guilty of crimes by a jury of their peers.
A small failed battery was enough to convince both Rainy and Carter that Hawkins was probably innocent. They’d brought their finding to the D.A. and Shilo PD, who had thanked them for the information. Rainy could tell they weren’t going to drop the charges against Hawkins. But at least Marvin Pressman had some new ammunition to use for Hawkins’s defense.
Rainy wished she could stop thinking about Tom Hawkins, but he’d wormed his way into her consciousness, where he seemed destined to remain.
“Any plans tonight, Miles?” Carter asked.
“Does attempting to revive my spider plants count as a plan?”
“A certain-to-fail one, but yes, it counts.”
Rainy’s desk phone rang. She answered it. “Hello. This is Agent Miles. How can I help you?”
“Rainy Miles, my name is James Mann. I believe you arrested me.”
Rainy cupped the phone’s receiver and mouthed the words “James Mann” to Carter. Carter naturally took interest.
Were your ears ringing? she thought.
“Mr. Mann,” Rainy said. “I can’t speak with you unless I have permission from your defense counsel. I’m afraid we have to end this communication immediately until that permission is granted.”
Rainy hung up the phone after Mann gave her a number where he could be reached. In State court, prosecuting attorneys were barred from speaking with a defendent without prior approval. The McDade Act subjected Rainy to the same professional standards.
Hours later, Rainy called James Mann.
“We’re able to speak freely,” Rainy said, having procured the necessary permissions. “So tell me, what can I do for you?”
“I’d like you to come over to my apartment,” Mann said.
“Why would you like me to do that?” asked Rainy.
“I have something I want to show you.”
“And what would that be?” Rainy asked.
“Evidence that’s going to prove I’m not guilty of any crimes.”
Chapter 57
Rainy made Carter go with her to Mann’s apartment. She carried a firearm and knew how to use it, but she wasn’t stupid, either. She’d be happy to look at the evidence James Mann claimed to have, but only with armed backup at her side.
Mann’s new residence was a far cry from his former home. Rainy knew that Mann and his wife had separated, and that Mann had spent a week or so at a Motel 6 after he posted bail. Other than that, she didn’t know much about his life after his arrest. She didn’t know he had found this place to live. Mann’s apartment building was in deplorable condition and was located in a rather sketchy section of Brighton, a neighborhood of Boston.
Rainy pushed her finger against the apartment’s grimy buzzer. The door unlocked, and they entered a dark foyer. They climbed two flights of paint-chipped wooden stairs.
James Mann opened his apartment door when they reached the second landing. Mann looked tired. His skin color looked gray; his eyes were sunken and marred by dark rings. Rainy gave Mann and his rail-thin body three months to survive in prison. Four at the outside.
The floor to Mann’s dingy apartment was littered with file folders stuffed with papers. She saw pictures of his wife and kids scattered about the room, in dull or dusty frames. It looked like a haphazard attempt to restore order to a disordered life.
Furniture in the poorly lit studio apartment was bleak at best. Mann had laid a mattress askew on the varnished wood floor. A patchwork fabric couch and orange velvet armchair took up one corner of the room. The armchair had enough holes to make it look spotted. The whole apartment smelled like an animal.
“Thanks for coming over,” Mann said. He gestured over to the couch, inviting Rainy and Carter to sit.
“We’re fine to stand,” Rainy said. “Let’s get to the point. What evidence did you want to show us?”
Mann walked over to his laptop computer and took out a flash drive. He handed the storage key to Rainy.
“I used to be a real person,” Mann said. “With a wife I loved. Children I cherished. A job I was a passionate about—”
“You were arrested for a crime against children, Mr. Mann,” said Carter.
“Let me finish,” Mann said. “I have a rather extensive network of people I’ve met along the way. People from my career who still believe in me. Who believe, despite my current situation.”
“And what’s your point?” Carter asked.
“I’ve spent every minute since I posted bail trying to figure out how I can prove to you that I didn’t do this.”
Carter just scoffed. “And ...”
“I’ve got a lot of enemies. I climbed the ladder. I’m sure I stepped on plenty of toes along the way. A friend of mine, somebody I’d rather not name, encouraged me to take a different approach.”
“What approach would that be?” Rainy asked. She had to admit that he’d managed to get her interest. She could hear the conviction in his voice. She understood now that his apparent disregard for himself was the result of an intense and focused effort. This was a man who was possessed with getting to the truth. A man who reminded her, in some ways, of Tom Hawkins.
“He told me to try to clear my name the same way you were going to try and prove my guilt. I took his advice to heart. I learned all about your methods. I know about the Child Victim Identification Program. The clearinghouse, if you will, for child pornography cases, like mine.”
“Okay. Good for you.” Carter looked and sounded frustrated. Rainy touched his arm to urge him to stay patient.
“CVIP analysts use the Child Recognition and Identification System to help them identify children and then coordinate a response. Rescue efforts. Evidence for trials.”
“You’ve done your homework,” Rainy said.
“I know that the software generates a digital fingerprint for each image—a hash value, I believe it’s called. It’s that identifier which helps to match images to a known series, or if there is no digital fingerprint match, then it is used to designate a new one.”
“Where is this going?” asked Rainy. “What’s on the flash drive?”
“My friend gave me some names to look up. Girls whose images I supposedly bought from someone. The plan was simple. By figuring out where I could buy the real images, I’d be able to find the real source. Hopefully, I’d be able to get us both out of trouble.”
“You did what?” Rainy said.
“Yeah, I have no idea how to procure that type of garbage. But I took the money I could have used for a nicer apartment and paid a computer professional to help me figure it out.”
“What did you reel in?” asked Carter.
; “A lot of pictures.”
“So you re-created our case against you? And you’re confessing to another crime in the process. Do you know that?” said Rainy.
“I was in a learning mode,” Mann said. “I wanted to know who distributes these images. Who buys them. Who sells them. How they do it. How they keep from getting caught.”
“So?” Now it was Rainy’s turn to sound frustrated.
“When I say I wanted to learn about it, I mean I treated it like a job. I found out how these predators hide in a web of virtual servers. I learned the questions they ask to get the police to reveal themselves. I know how money gets secretly exchanged. My computer guy made me a database of everything he found and where he found it.”
“You want to give us a bunch of new sources of child pornography in exchange for our dropping the case against you?” Rainy asked.
“No. I’ll give you that, anyway,” said Mann. “But in the process we found something unusual that I thought you should know about.”
“And that would be?” Rainy inquired.
“My own Lisbeth Salander generated digital fingerprints, those hash values, for all the images he found, just like you guys do. He did it to keep all the images organized. We could tell by looking at the digital fingerprint of each image how many different sources were distributing the identical image.”
“We’re not hiring, if that’s what you’re after,” Carter said.
Mann returned a weak smile. “There are images on this flash drive, dozens of them, that look to be the exact same to me. Same composition. Same background. Same subject. But these here are not like the other duplicates we found,” Mann said.
“And why is that?” asked Rainy.
“Even though these images appear to be exact duplicates of one another, their digital fingerprints, the hash values each image generated, were all different. All the other duplicates my guy sourced generated identical hash values. These didn’t.”
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