by Steven James
“Well, it wasn’t on anyone’s radar screen. Wooford claimed they traded in child porn. Sort of a twenty-first-century incarnation of the Wonderland Club.”
Although I didn’t know all the details, I did know that the Wonderland Club was an online, closed community of pedophiles on Tor, or the Dark Web, as it was sometimes called. To get into the Wonderland Club, you needed to upload ten thousand images of child pornography to their server. That was the membership requirement.
At the time, back in the late nineties, it was the biggest international child pornography bust in history. Most of the people arrested when law enforcement moved in weren’t just distributing sexually explicit images of children but were also involved in child molestation, often involving their own children.
I wasn’t sure how many people were caught and convicted, but I did remember hearing that at least twelve suspects had committed suicide before their cases went to trial.
“You said the DOJ was considering cutting the deal.” I leaned forward. “What happened?”
“Wooford hanged himself the next day in his cell before he could give them any specific details regarding the group.”
“He hanged himself? With what?”
“Tore his pants into strips of cloth,” she said, “tied them together into a makeshift rope.”
“Tearing your pants up into strips isn’t easy.”
“And that’s a lot of work for someone who’s trying to cop a plea deal and possibly get probation.”
“Yes, it is.”
“And you’re gonna love this: guess what he had in his possession when he was arrested?”
“What’s that?”
“A key. A single key.”
“Just like our jumper.”
“Yes.”
“Interesting. And do we know if they match? If they’re the same cut?”
“Harrington is going to send the key up here, but I compared the digital photos and they sure look the same.”
“Good. So, besides the keys, did you find any other connection between Wooford and Stewart, or with the jumper last night?”
She shook her head. “That’s next on my list.”
We set to work.
She examined Wooford’s known associates, pulling up DMV photos from the Federal Digital Database to run facial recognition to try to match any of them to the man I’d encountered last evening.
I called Harrington to have him send me everything he had on the Final Territory. There were a few hoops to jump through, but he promised he’d get the information to me as soon as possible.
After a few minutes, I received an email from DeYoung asking me to meet him at one o’clock. I guessed it would be for a follow-up from my talk with Ms. Aguirre. By then, he would certainly have had time to read my report.
Well, at least I had a few hours to make some progress on this thing before getting my reprimand.
10
“How have you been doing this week, Francis?”
“Good.”
“The meds are helping, then?”
“I guess. The sessions help too.”
“I’m glad to hear that.”
Even though Francis had been here to see Dr. Perrior a dozen times, for some reason today he found himself wondering how long his psychologist had been in the business.
He looked like he was in his mid-sixties.
So maybe forty years, decades at least, if he got into this right out of college. That’s a long time to sit and listen to people share their—
“And work?” Dr. Perrior scribbled something on his notepad. “How has that been?”
“Well . . .” Of course work came up. It always came up. In truth, that was why he was here. “You know.”
“Tell me about it. About how things are going.”
“There’s some new software we’re using that’s supposed to make it easier to filter out more of the images.”
A brown dove settled onto the outside of the windowsill. It strutted back and forth for a moment, then cocked its head as if it were listening in on their conversation.
The air conditioner rattled in the window beside it, working far too hard for the amount of mildly cool air it was spitting out.
“How has that worked out?” Dr. Perrior asked.
Francis was distracted by the inquisitive bird. “I’m sorry?”
“The software. How’s that been going?”
“It doesn’t take out the human factor completely, but it does help sort pixel patterns and hash values, makes it so that you don’t have to keep seeing the same images over and over. So it’s better that way.” The dove shuffled to the side and fluttered off toward the roof of a nearby building, and Francis redirected his attention at his psychologist. “We still need to verify things.”
“You still need to look at the pictures.”
“And the videos. Yes.”
“And that’s been difficult?”
A pause. “I saw some bad things this week.”
“Pictures?”
“A video.”
“One that disturbed you.”
“I think it would have disturbed just about anyone.”
“Would you like to tell me about it?”
“I don’t think so. I don’t want it in my head anymore.”
“We’ve talked about this before, Francis. I know it’s hard, but keeping these things to yourself can be detrimental in the long run. Sometimes talking them through can serve as a pressure valve, a psychological escape hatch if you will, to let off some of the intense feelings involved in your job. It’s one of the reasons for these sessions.”
“I know.”
“What you do is important, Francis. It protects a lot of people. It helps a lot of children.”
Go ahead, tell him. It’ll help.
“The footage had a baby in it. A baby boy. About, maybe, six months old. They did things to him.”
“Did you report it?”
“Yes, right away, to the FBI. And I entered the hash values in to our database.”
The organization Francis worked for, the International Child Safety Consortium, focused its efforts on trying to stop child pornography, child molestation, and human trafficking across international borders.
Though the ICSC had support from dozens of governments and law enforcement agencies around the globe, it was a privately funded organization. Their annual child safety summit and donor development event was less than a week away, so things at work were crazy and even more stressful than usual, especially as they geared up to try to recruit more countries to join the consortium.
“So you’re doing your job,” Dr. Perrior said.
Francis found himself wringing his hands and laid them on his thighs. He stared at them for a moment, watching to see if he could make them be still, make them stop shaking.
You’re calm. You can be calm. It’s safe here. You can be honest.
An escape valve.
His hands weren’t moving anymore.
So that was good.
“Yes. I’m doing my job.”
Tell him about the chats.
No!
She’s too young.
No. She’s old enough. She told you she was.
But what if—
Dr. Perrior’s eyes flicked up to the clock that he kept prominently on the wall beside a fake Monet painting of a woman with a parasol, and Francis glanced up as well and noticed that they only had a few minutes left in the session.
Time had flown by and he hadn’t even brought up the most important thing yet.
You need to tell him.
I will, just be patient.
“And what about the other issue we talked about last week?” the psychologist asked. “Have you been engaging in any more chats?”
“Yes. But just with girls over eighteen. I’ve been careful.”
“You mean women?”
“Women?”
“Women over eighteen. Girls would be under eighteen.”
“Right. Women.”
Okay, say it.
“Dr. Perrior, there’s a line and it’s like I can see it there.”
“A line?”
“Right in front of me.”
“And it’s one that you don’t want to cross,” his doctor said.
“Right.”
Not even in my thoughts.
Tell him. Not even in your thoughts—
“Who put it there?”
Distracted. Too distracted.
“What?”
“The line—who drew it in front of you? Society? Your conscience?”
“It’s just wrong to look at girls that way.”
“In a sexual way.”
“Yes, but not if they’re over eighteen, right? I mean, then it’s okay, isn’t it?”
“Well, that is the age of consent. That’s when our society has determined that young women and men can legally engage in consensual sexual relationships.”
“But for other cultures it’s different, isn’t it? I mean, around the world, and throughout history? It used to be lower in the past—it used to be okay for men my age to be with teenagers—I read that. And what about teens under eighteen being together with other teens? That happens all the time, doesn’t it?”
Rather than address those questions directly, Dr. Perrior said, “You mentioned a line in front of you. What steps are you taking to keep yourself from crossing it?”
“I’m trying to get enough sleep, like you told me to. And I’m exercising—I started walking around my neighborhood every other day—and taking the meds, and I stopped drinking: you said drinking can make it worse.”
“It lowers a person’s inhibitions. Yes.”
“Right. And filtering software. I use it on my phone, my computer, everywhere.”
“And how close have you come to crossing over it? The line, I mean.”
Pretty close.
You crossed it already.
No! She said she’s eighteen.
But how can you be sure? You can never be sure.
Unless you were to meet her.
“Francis?”
Dr. Perrior looked concerned and Francis didn’t want him to think that there was something wrong with him, so he said, “I heard somebody on a news show say that people who think those things, who’re tempted that way, are sick. Then this one cop came on and he said they’re just bad people.”
“What things?”
“Being with girls—or boys—who aren’t eighteen yet. But it’s things I have to deal with in my job. I’ve never done anything though. So are those people sick or bad?”
“What do you think?”
I think I’m a bad person. And I think I’m weak.
Don’t tell him that!
Too weak to keep saying no. Too weak to—
“I don’t know,” Francis said.
“Do your chats ever become romantic or sexual in nature? The ones with the women?”
A pause. “Sometimes.”
“Have you ever tried to meet one of the people you’ve chatted with online?”
“No. I would never do that. I’m not a bad person.”
“Would that make you a bad person? If you met one of the women you chat with?”
I’m already a bad person just for thinking these things.
“Normal people aren’t tempted like this, though. I mean, you can’t look at the things I have to look at every day and then have it not affect you, right?”
“I’d be worried if it didn’t affect you. Francis, you need to know that everybody thinks things they’re not proud of sometimes. It’s part of human nature. No one is perfect. All of us are tempted by things we know are wrong. We all have dark desires. Part of being healthy—mentally healthy—is accepting that about yourself.”
“Accepting that I have dark desires.”
“Yes. As all of us do. But not acting on them.”
“Not crossing the line.”
“Correct.”
“Do you have dark desires too, Dr. Perrior?”
A slight laugh. “You didn’t come in here today so I could tell you about my problems. We’re here to help you work through the pressures of the job you have to do.”
“I know, but I was just curious about it, if you did too. Have dark desires.”
He knew that Dr. Perrior worked with the NYPD sometimes, especially on crimes that involved children, but he didn’t know what the doctor was thinking in those times, if he’d ever had bad thoughts.
“As I said,” Dr. Perrior replied, “we all do and, as you pointed out, it’s only natural that someone in your position would have these sorts of questions and struggles. But it sounds like you’re doing what you need to in order to deal with them in a healthy way.” He checked the clock again, then closed his notebook. “I’m afraid it looks like our time is up for today. But I’ll see you next week, alright? And in the meantime, I’d like you to keep journaling your feelings.”
“That’s something I needed to tell you. This is the last session they’re paying for.”
“Your insurance company?”
“Yes.”
“And will the ICSC cover the visits?”
Francis shook his head. “They give us time off for the sessions. I mean, they pay us to come, but we need to cover the sessions ourselves. I guess since different doctors charge different amounts. They’re just trying to be fair.”
“Of course. So you’ll be handling the cost yourself, is that what you’re saying?”
“I can’t afford to. Not if I have to pay for them.”
“I’m afraid I’m not in a position to be able to see clients pro bono.”
“I was wondering if we could work something out. Or, I mean, maybe if I paid cash, you could . . . Maybe you could give me some sort of . . .”
“How about this, Francis: let me recommend a doctor to you who’s getting started. She’s looking for new clients. She has less overhead than I do and might have more flexibility in her fee structure. Why don’t you contact her? I’ll write you a referral and—”
“I really think it’d be better if I could keep seeing you.”
Dr. Perrior jotted a phone number down. “I’ll tell you what: try your insurance company one more time. Meanwhile, give Dr. Tignini a call. See how it works with her and if we need to, we can revisit things then.”
+++
As Francis left, he heard the voices in his head again.
You didn’t tell him everything, Francis.
I can’t tell him everything! If I did, he would think I’m dirty, that I’m a pervert, that I’m going to do something bad or hurt someone. But I’m not. I can say no. Dr. Perrior talked about self-control. I can control myself.
What about the chats? What about those?
They’re with a woman. She said she’s a woman.
You need help, Francis.
I’m getting help. There’s nothing else I can do.
Maybe you should quit your job.
No, I need the money and I’m good at what I do. I help a lot of people, just like Dr. Perrior said.
The questions twisted and tightened around themselves, making it so that he didn’t know what to do, like a net that was spread before him and there was no avoiding it.
A line he couldn’t cross.
And a net he couldn’t avoid.
He decided he would ask his supervisor, Claire Nolan, if the ICSC could cover the cost of the sessions. It wouldn’t hurt to ask.
And Dr. Perrior was right: he should try his insurance company one more time too. He could
at least give it a try. The worst thing they could do was say no.
But what then? What if they do say no?
We’ll see. We’ll just see.
He left for the International Child Safety Consortium’s offices.
Yes, he would talk with Claire. Things would work out.
And he would be able to see Dr. Perrior again next week. Just like he had for the last three months. It was all going to work out okay.
11
The DNA came back without a match. So, whoever our John Doe was, if he really was named Randy as the note in his pocket indicated, he wasn’t in the system. No one fitting his description had been reported missing. And despite the robust nationwide media attention, no one had shown up to claim his body.
Jodie wasn’t able to pin any DMV photos to him either.
Evidently, Wooford, Stewart, and Randy were somehow linked together, so I had Stewart’s key ring brought up from evidence to see if any of the keys matched the one I’d found on Randy’s body.
One of them did.
I wasn’t sure where that left us, but it was something to work with.
Three dead guys each who had the same type of key.
We just needed to figure out what those keys opened.
We’d put out word online, but so far no tattoo studios had come forward to identify anyone named Randy who’d gotten a shamrock tattoo. An officer was calling studios in the city to follow up.
I decided to release the contents of the note I’d found on the body to the press. Normally, I wasn’t excited about working with the media, but in this case it seemed like a logical step. Maybe Billy, whoever he was, would see it and come forward.
We knew how the man died—he fell twelve stories onto concrete—but we didn’t know what led him to jump. We also needed to find out if there were any drugs or alcohol in his system. So I verified that there was going to be an autopsy—it was scheduled for tomorrow morning.
We sent out some NYPD officers to interview Stewart’s friends, family members, work associates, and neighbors to see if they could identify our jumper.
Jodie and I worked through lunch—sandwiches from the cafeteria—and a few minutes before one o’clock, I left to meet with Assistant Director DeYoung.
+++
He was leaving his office as I approached it.