by Nikki Sex
As none of this propaganda was actually true, the cost had been steep.
Legalizing marijuana was the thin edge of the wedge that would ultimately result in lessening his drug profits.
His other large income stream—trafficking children and child pornography to select clientele—was increasing nicely.
Sen. Robert Whitfield’s famous brother, the evangelical minister, traveled all over the country finding new customers for this secret industry. Only the most privileged and affluent could afford the services the Whitfield brothers provided.
Judges, bankers, businessmen, politicians… his brother had a nose for very wealthy men who knew the temptation of prepubescence. Isiah listened to their sins, talked to them of Jesus and quoted bible passages that justified their compulsive sexual interest in children. He had ample practice in keeping their business prospering for over two decades.
Isiah told them God wanted them to be happy. Then he sold them membership in his flourishing ‘Youth Clubs of America.’ His children’s services were in huge demand.
The senator smiled to himself at the irony. It was perfect. His little brother, the nationally well-loved minister, was a very forgiving, very understanding and very effective pimp. He provided services for those who suffered from an affliction society just wasn't ready to accept—as long as they were rich enough to afford it, of course.
The late, great Chester Wilkinson introduced Robert to the pleasures of corrupting the innocent all those years ago. He also showed him how easy it was to make a ton of money through child sex videos, photos and from providing various services. That had been an invaluable partnership.
When a five minute clip of sodomizing a child sells for over $1,000 per view on the darknet, who wouldn’t want a piece of that action?
Robert Whitfield had twenty-three mansions, set throughout the country. Each one was safely and remotely located on acreage. All were carefully run by loyal, well-paid staff. The children who fit into his system were trained and treated very, very well.
They were categorized by sex, age and various physical traits to fulfill the customers' specific demands. Chester Wilkinson had relied on amnesic drugs for compliance. He also considered any child fair game—a stupid and dangerous practice.
After his initial underage tryst, Robert Whitfield had begun his thriving business. He relied on a trusted few to abduct children of illegal immigrants as well as the offspring of single, drug and alcohol affected mothers who were often homeless—poor, white trash. Some parents were willing to sell their children.
The senator knew what to look for and how to get what he desired. His staff scouted out adoption agencies, gambling halls and blood banks. Targeting anywhere people went who might be desperate for money or who might want to unload themselves of unwanted offspring.
Whitfield also sought runaways and abused kids from neglected backgrounds. Abused children with carnal knowledge were perfect for what he wanted. Children who were starved for attention, affection and often a good meal were easy to train. They'd do anything to please grownups… and to eat.
No one looked twice when these kids disappeared. Their parents were rarely in the position to go to authorities for help. Illegal immigrants seldom reported, and who would believe an out of work slut or junkie? If his procurement agents were caught, the senator had people in senior positions who made sure no charges were brought to court.
Whitfield patted himself on the back, rationalizing he was actually improving the quality of life for these children. He was also providing useful employment to those who wouldn’t otherwise be able to obtain work.
In truth, he was delivering a much needed service for people of influence and means, who were misunderstood by a misguided society.
He was an entrepreneur with the prefect business plan. American was lucky to have him.
Chapter 41.
“Super-rich elitists, entitled and spoiled from birth are oh-so easy to deal with—as long as you remember to never tell them no.”
—André Chevalier
~~~
Senator Robert Whitfield
This is how it was done; the senator preferred to acquire children under the age of ten, and he provided the best of everything; quality clothes, a nutritious diet that included candy, cake and ice cream for rewards, as well as toys, TV, movies, music and video games. He had a standard of conduct for clients.
Ironically, Whitfield did not believe in cruelty, violence or physical abuse above the expected services that the children were required to provide. Such behavior made bad business sense.
Happier children looked better, were well-behaved and were more likely to do as asked simply for praise and rewards.
The key to success was to have children who grew to enjoy their new life. For these kids, the mansion was their home—a better home with more security than they’d ever had before.
The ‘mistakes’—those few who fought the system and who couldn’t be trained, were disposed of. Whitfield literally buried his mistakes.
The senator was too intelligent, rich, powerful and well-connected to allow himself to be caught, no matter what happened to his businesses. He would never be taken to task for his crimes. He’d separated himself from his entrepreneurial efforts years ago.
Besides, who would believe it?
No one would dare attempt to bring him to court.
The carrot for his powerful, important customers was as many children as they wanted. If that didn’t work for compliance, then came the stick—blackmail. This tactic never failed. Exposure would lead to their loss of privilege, status and reputation... as well as jail time.
Whitfield intimately understood the addictive, obsessive craving for the innocence of youthful flesh. He knew greed and need. In the play rooms of his mansions, he had discreet cameras installed. Key players in the media, judges and police would quash any sign of trouble in his paradise, simply due to the evidence he had on them.
It had been costly to buy himself into office, but the senator kept his personal record spotless. Whitfield’s connections to his financial interests were untraceable. With creative accounting and a paper trail as large as the library of congress, he had nothing to worry about. There was an entire network of people between him and his thriving businesses.
Now, all he did was sit back and make money on his investments. Just like Al Capone, at the worst, the IRS could put him in jail for billions in unpaid taxes—if they ever went looking for the money trail, and if they ever found it—both unlikely events that neared impossible.
The senator was physically attractive, highly intelligent, unscrupulous and narcissistic. He had a powerful influence over others, a natural charismatic ability that defied explanation. He shared the magnetism of Chester Wilkinson, although Robert was much more far-sighted than his late predecessor.
Raised in a life of ultra-excess and privilege, Whitfield still considered himself to be a ‘self-made’ man. Arrogant and elitist, with a superiority complex bigger than Texas, his home state, the senator genuinely believed he deserved his position of power and influence.
Robert Whitfield knew what was best for the country. Who better to govern the ignorant rabble than himself? With his wealth and connections, he could run for president. Only business interests and the economic elite made an impact on U.S. government policy, as it should be, after all.
For all of his hard work, he deserved his simple pleasures, such as the innocence of untouched children, unlimited privilege, power… and recreational cocaine.
He was already among the ranks of the richest 1% of Americans, but it wasn’t enough. As his daddy used to say, “I never knew a rich man who didn’t want to be richer!” There were no truer words to Whitfield’s mind.
His most driving goal in life was to be rich—not just rich, but ultra-super rich, Koch-brothers rich. Wipe your ass with thousand dollar bills rich. He wanted infinite income, enough so he could buy, bribe or blackmail anyone or anything.
The tho
ught made him feel like a god.
He considered buying himself into the presidency. Why not? He already had enough wealth to afford a small country. He was untouchable. No one had anything on him.
He frowned. The unpleasant events with Chester Wilkinson and his ancient computer's hard drive no longer seemed to present a problem.
All evidence was gone—amen, halleluiah and praise the Lord.
Robert, however, still couldn’t help feeling a bit nervous. Incriminating evidence against him had appeared out of nowhere, growing legs all too quickly. Who would've guessed Wilkinson had kept it after so much time?
It was over twenty years ago when Chester had first provided the senator a barely conscious child to fuck—for a very large fee, of course.
Ah, those were the days. Even now, he often thought back fondly of his earlier heady times of wicked, decadent pleasures.
Robert never had the patience to spend endless time grooming a child and seducing him into his bed. Chester provided a way around that tedious process, going straight for the fun part.
As was usual for him, Whitfield simply wanted what he wanted—and he wanted it now.
Since that pivotal day, Robert had countless orgasms by his own hand while watching the video of himself with that boy, over and over again. With grim conviction and wretched unhappiness, he finally gritted his teeth and destroyed the tape years later.
It had been the only way to be safe.
Luckily, the images remained safely in his mind. The Lord helps those who help themselves, and oh, God Almighty! He had helped himself to exquisite, erotic delights that day, yes, indeed!
For a moment Robert idly wondered where that Texan kid was. Of course, the boy would now be an adult. He doubted he had any memory of his rape. Yet, even if the man could recall every detail, he’d get nowhere legally.
Few criminal prosecutors would take on a sexual abuse case from twenty years earlier. No one would prosecute a powerful, well-respected senator with a spotless record.
In terms of civil law, the statute of limitations prevented prosecution. Most states have a ten year or less window to take legal action. What abused person can get it together enough to talk about their abuse, much less sue the perpetrator in that short amount of time?
Robert Whitfield and his like-minded friends (and many powerful organizations such as the Catholic Church) consistently voted against raising the statute of limitations for sexual crimes. The statute of limitations is intentionally small, one reason why it’s rare for a priest to spend time in jail.
Robert smiled. If abuse didn’t effectively silence a victim, the law certainly would. The law was on his side.
Nevertheless, if someone found a copy of that video, it would be another story—particularly if the sensitive footage found its way to the masses via the internet. In that case, nothing could save him. While individuals could be blackmailed, bought or manipulated, the countless numbers of people with internet access cannot.
Luckily, everything on Chester's drive had been wiped. The evidence was gone.
I’m safe, he thought, reassuring himself for the millionth time.
Yet, he’d still like to watch that video just one more time. Remembering that first boy made Robert’s groin begin to warm. He shifted uncomfortably, his pants tight from the memory.
Senator Robert Whitfield smiled. It’s true what they say, he realized with sudden, fond reminiscence. You never forget your first.
Chapter 42.
"Sometimes there are forces and events too big, too powerful… that you cannot do anything about them, no matter how evil or wrong they are and no matter how dedicated or sincere you are or how much evidence you have. This is simply one of the hard facts of life you have to face."
— Former CIA director William Colby (Re: 1979 Boy’s Town Child Abuse cover up)
~~~
Detective Roman Bronowski
“André Chevalier, as I live and breathe!” Roman said with a huge smile, pleased and surprised to see the man who did so much toward improving his marriage.
Roman’s life had changed completely after meeting him. Maybe it was due to the man, or maybe it was just the moment. Like ripe fruit falling from the tree, Roman had been ready for André’s words of wisdom. The Frenchman’s scolding reprimand had been the exact thing he needed at the time.
Would he ever forget what André had said? ‘You are a man who takes good care of your possessions—such as the car—but you do not put the same time and effort into your wife and your marriage! You service your car, as you wish it to run smoothly—yet do you show such thoughtfulness, care and consideration of your wife? Non!!’
The truth of that statement had rocked Roman like a heavyweight boxer’s punch to the jaw. André’s later observation, “Your wife? She is learning to live her life and to be happy without you.” That had been the knockout blow.
“Thanks, Janice,” Roman said to the blushing older woman who escorted the Frenchman to the detective’s desk.
“Merci, madame, for your most expert guidance,” André said, offering her a small regal bow. It was an archaic gesture, yet it didn’t seem in the least out of place.
Bemused, Roman watched their interaction. Chevalier’s words were polite, even ordinary, so why did they somehow sound so…erotic?
“You’re very welcome,” Janice said. With the pink in her cheeks, she seemed a much younger woman. Awkward in her movements, as if uncertain what to do with her hands—or her feet, for that matter, she turned on her heel and fled from the room.
Roman stood up, walked around his desk and shook André’s hand. An experienced administrator, Janice was level-headed, competent and capable. In all of the years they had worked together, he’d never seen her blush.
“What on earth did you do to Janice?” he asked.
“Me?” He shrugged innocently. With an undercurrent of mischief in his dark gaze, he adjusted one of his cuffs. “I did nothing. She was most gracious and agreeable.”
André Chevalier is like catnip to women, he realized.
Grinning, Roman wondered what the man’s appeal really was. The lean, muscular physique of a fighter didn’t hurt. Nor did the fact the Frenchman had that sexy accent and was impeccably dressed at all times. Roman took in his crisp, perfect suit and figured his tailor must be sought after.
André wasn’t classically handsome, not with those scars. Yet the fine scars on his face from acne or perhaps chicken pox when he was younger, didn’t detract. If anything, his physical imperfection inexplicably added to his magnetic charm.
Roman decided it was the man’s eyes. They were filled with confidence, humor and understanding. As if he’d seen all manner of things and managed to keep a balance. He wouldn’t hide from evil—he’d fight it, yet André still had an optimistic personality that would always be grateful. As though he saw the good in everything.
André tilted his head and looked Roman up and down with those dark, intelligent eyes, making no attempt to hide his scrutiny.
“You seem very well, my friend.” He cocked one dark eyebrow. “Does this mean Mrs. Bronowski is also very well?”
“You bet your sweet ass she is,” Roman said, still grinning. “I owe you, Chevalier. You sure know what you’re talking about when it comes to relationships. I can’t thank you enough for your help.”
The Frenchman waved a hand in the air, dismissing the compliment. “It is nothing.”
When André beamed a devilish grin at him, Bronowski blinked with surprise. Maybe that was what women fell for, that striking, boyish smile. If Roman went for men, André Chevalier would make the top of his list.
“I am most happy,” André said. “Of a certainty, it pleases me to know Mrs. Bronowski now enjoys the attention she deserves.”
Roman nodded, his eyes narrowed. “Why are you here?”
André reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a large envelope. “I wished to visit friends in Dallas, so I chose to hand-deliver the records your judge s
ubpoenaed concerning my client, Mr. Wilkinson. Take care, mon ami, for it is most confidential.”
Roman nodded, took the envelope and locked it in his desk drawer. “Please, have a seat, Mr. Chevalier.”
“Je suis désolé, I am so sorry, but I cannot stay. Would you perhaps walk me to my car? We can share our thoughts in the open air.”
“Sure.”
Roman guided André back through the maze of office desks, down the stairs and out the front entrance. They walked four blocks away, to where André had parked his metallic silver, Audi R8 V10 Spyder rental car.
“Nice ride,” Bronowski said, impressed.
André’s eyes lit with satisfaction. “Eh bien. It pleases me to drive a well-made car.” He looked around discreetly, then pulled out a burner phone from his pocket. Pretending as though he were merely shaking the detective’s hand, he thrust the small device into Roman's palm, catching the detective by surprise.
“What’s this?”
“Something you must immediately hide.”
Roman slipped the phone into the front pocket of his trousers.
André’s expression was grim. “My friend, there are many eyes watching, many ears listening. I wish to speak to you in confidence.” He hesitated then added, “concerning the papers I gave you. May I call you tonight?” His gaze rested meaningfully on the pocket where Roman had hidden his phone.
“Of course.”
On one level, André's caution didn't surprise the detective. Roman knew there were prying eyes and ears around the precinct. That much had been painfully apparent after the death of Edgar Gates.
However, the fact André was aware they were under close surveillance was unexpected and unsettling. Bronowski's curiosity was piqued. He wondered how the man could be privy to such knowledge.
“Expect my call at 8 p.m. That is when you are in the shower—with the water running, oui?”
“Er… yes.” Whoa. Does he think my house is bugged?