by Helga Zeiner
Chapter 42
Harding and Macintosh had been snowed under with the South Vancouver case and a few other loose ends. However, about mid November one of their busy workdays ended with an unexpected bonus. The South Vancouver shooter placed himself into custody, probably fearing repercussions from the rival gang if he stayed out in the streets. His confession cut a lot of red tape, and they suddenly had a free moment and remembered with a pang of guilty conscience that they had let the Princess case slip. Hadn’t they planned to pay Tiara’s mother another visit?
While Macintosh dialed to make the appointment with Melissa Brown, Harding did a final check on his emails before closing shop.
Macintosh glanced up, saw the color drain out of his partner’s face, and hung up.
“Something wrong?”
Harding pointed to the screen.
It was a video clip of a young girl, no more than nine, being undressed. She was facing the camera without registering her surroundings. Her eyes were clouded over, with heavy lids. She seemed to be sleepy.
“Josh sent me this.” Harding whispered. “It’s Tiara.”
The person undressing her was expertly avoiding the camera. To begin with, the detectives could only see hands, stuck in black gloves. They held their breath. Slowly one garment after another fell on the floor. Tiara stood motionless, letting herself be handled like a lifeless mannequin. When she was fully undressed, the black gloved person moved behind her, again not exposing any details that would make identification possible. One could only see a wide dark purple cape flowing all the way down like a curtain. Underneath the folds of the cape was the shape of a fairly large stomach. Tiara’s upper body was then pressed against this bulbous shape, with one black leather hand cupping her chin and lifting her head up so the camera could focus on her face. Her eyes were now closed.
For a brief moment the head of the handler became visible. Macintosh gasped. The face was covered with a black mask with narrow eye slits only. It made the action they were watching even more sinister, like a scene for the dark ages. The head disappeared again, the camera zoomed in on Tiara until only her body was exposed. The other hand stroked over her lower body.
Tiara’s face twisted, she wriggled around and moaned without opening her eyes, as if in trance. It looked like she was trying to fight a nightmare, but the black gloved hands held her tightly in position.
“Jesus,” Macintosh said. “Stop it.”
Harding hit the stop button. “Shit! Shit! Shit!”
He kept hitting the keyboard, closing down his computer. A few seconds later, he started it up again.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” Macintosh sounded bitter. “You’re on your own if you play that again.”
His partner didn’t sound much better. “Don’t be daft. I’m not watching it again. I’m forwarding it to the Sexual Offense Squad. This is proof our suspect has a history of abuse which goes way beyond participation in beauty contests or semi-pornographic modelling.”
Macintosh sat down again. “We should send it to the shrink as well. He should know too.”
“Yeah, right.”
Macintosh was already digging for Dr. Eaton’s card. He found it and gave it to Harding.
“And we should show it to the mother,” he said. “I’d love to see her reaction. The crazy lying bitch must have known all along. She must have. She sold her own daughter to those black leather handlers.”
Harding typed Dr. Eaton’s email address in and forwarded the link. Before he handed the card back to Macintosh, he dialed the phone number and got connected to Dr. Eaton’s office. This time they wouldn’t wait for a call back. He told the secretary that it was an emergency, and was asked to hold.
“I don’t see why we shouldn’t surprise Melissa Brown with this,” he said, covering the mouth piece with his hand. “She’s in deep shit now.”
Dr. Eaton came on the phone and Harding cleared his throat.
“Dr. Eaton, good of you to talk to me. I just sent you an email link of a pornographic video clip featuring Tiara Rodriguez-Brown. Our Texas connection has discovered it and just mailed it to us. Thought you should see it… Yes, unfortunately I was informed there are more of a similar nature… No, I’ll have them forwarded directly to the Sexual Offense Squad. I can’t stomach more of those. And anyway, we are homicide. But it does give motive, if we ever find out who the f… excuse me, who the victim is… Yes, we assume she must be connected to Tiara’s past. We had thought we had identified her already, a woman called Graciella Rodriguez… that’s right, her aunt… yes, but it can’t be her. She’s dead, died in a fire a few years ago, can you believe this? ... Sure, you look at the video and judge for yourself… Okay, I’ll keep you in the loop, no worries. And if you ever… I mean, I know your conversations with her are privileged… what did you say? ... What’s his name?” He scribbled something on his pad. “Yeah, great, thanks, we’ll check into that.”
Harding hung up, a smile flitting over his somber expression.
Macintosh took the pad and read the name Harding had written down out loud. “Tony Alvares. Who’s he?”
“The shrink said Melissa mentioned a guy called Tony Alvares, and whatever she tells him is not privileged, so he can tell us anything she said. Apparently that Tony guy was the choreographer employed by the mother to teach Tiara the moves for her stage appearances. Now what does that tell you? The moves! He was involved in training her for those degrading competitions. God knows what else he made her do.”
As much as viewing the video had affected their mood, they felt a little better now. Finally they had a name. It was their first real lead in the case after the victim’s identity had gone cold. Harding sent off another email to Josh, thanking him for his help and giving him the name of the person they suspected to be involved in Tiara’s sexual exploitation. Tony Alvares. A dance teacher.
Then he entered the same name into VPD’s own search engine, just to make sure.
Macintosh was thinking back to one of his hunting expeditions up north. He always did that when he needed to sort his brain, conjuring wilderness visions of magical quality, where the prey and the hunter became one. They had to think alike if they wanted to succeed, be it life or death. Many times the prey had been able to get away because it was more clever and faster than him, and just as often he had won because he had been able to think like his prey.
“If I were Melissa and were confronted with this video, I’d deny everything. There’s nothing that ties her to the crime,” Macintosh said.
“Except being the mother.”
“Right, but being her, I made sure I’m not visible in any of the pictures or video clips. I’d know that I mustn’t be connected to them.”
“What?” Harding asked, shaking his head in disbelieve. “You think her own mother was stuck underneath that purple cloak?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“And she covered herself to make sure Tiara wouldn’t recognize her?”
“Not just Tiara. Nobody should. Whoever is stuck under that cloak had a good reason to hide. We can’t identify her, we got nothing. If I’m her, I’d know that. I was careful all those years. I don’t leave a trace.”
“Do you really think Melissa is that smart?”
“She’s a lot smarter than we gave her credit for. What bugs me most is the incident with the fire. When exactly was that?”
Harding looked at his notes. “Same month she and her daughter came to Vancouver.”
“See. I’m Melissa. Something happened that made it necessary for me to leave the country fast. I pack up my daughter. Before I go, I burn the place where I lived to the ground. Destroy all possible evidence. Or I got somebody do it for me. The aunt is still in the house. I might not know this and might not even be aware that Graciella Rodriguez is dead.”
“That means they have cut off all ties, otherwise she’d know.”
“Right again. But if I do know, I’ve willingly accepted her death. I probably m
ade sure she was in the house and incapable of leaving when I burnt it down. Again, I’m trying to get rid of anything or anybody that might implicate me in the future. The aunt was part of the whole pedophilic operation. Wasn’t she the one who had signed Tiara up for the pageants? Didn’t she register the girl as Tia Rodriguez? Graciella was a major player and I, Melissa, will now shift all the blame onto her. I know nothing and I’ve done nothing wrong. I’ll be shocked when I see the video, and there isn’t a goddamn thing anybody can do about it.”
“Unless we have proof.”
Macintosh nodded. “We have to tread real careful there. Just as well I didn’t make the call yet. We have to get a lot more than this video before we confront her with it. How high would this clip rank on the Copine Scale?”
“I do murder, I don’t deal in pedophile pornography.”
Harding, being Harding, did type ‘Copine’ into the search engine and pulled up the information. Together, the detectives skimmed the ranks of the scale compiled by the London Metropolitan Police in 1990 in an effort to categorize child abuse images. Although revised many times since then, the ten level typology still provided a guideline for research and law enforcement all over the world.
There were ten levels, least to worst. The ninth, gross assault, was defined as “grossly obscene pictures of sexual assault, involving penetrative sex, masturbation or oral sex, involving an adult.”
“Gross Assault. That does it,” Macintosh said. “We need to inform the Sergeant. It has to be added to our Princess file. Her lawyer must be made aware of this, he can argue her case better if the extent of her abuse is documented. And as far as we’re concerned, let’s figure out how we can expose the mother bitch.”
“But if we don’t confront her with the video, what do you suggest we do?”
“We have to put pressure on her, see if she makes a mistake. And if my instincts aren’t totally off the mark, I believe there is one person who has power over her. Louise, the grandmother. Let’s hassle her first, she might manipulate her daughter until she breaks under the stress.”
Chapter 43
How long to my next birthday?
It is the end of November. Nine months to go before I’ll be sixteen.
My sweet psycho-doc tells me my psycho-social, which involves interviewing essentially everybody who dealt with me—medical, school, friends, you name it—is completed, for lack of anybody else to contact. As I myself am also unable to provide further insight, he will finalize his assessment shortly. He has even given me a little hint as to what his verdict will be.
“In my opinion, you’re not delusional. You’re also not aggressive. You may not be consciously aware of what triggered the attack, but your subconscious knows. I’m confident that you will eventually uncover the underlying issues influencing your behavior. Unfortunately, I can’t expect the court to wait for it, it may take too long.”
The problem is that treatment is very dependent on awareness, he continues his lecture. If I’m not aware of what has triggered me, I can’t anticipate or locate the stress that may lead to it again, and that makes me difficult to treat. Being hard or impossible to treat will increase the level of my guilt. The judge may feel the need to protect society from me, and if he assumes that I have acted aggressively without any provocation but for the sheer joy of it, he might even consider adult sentencing.
“If you don’t want to be tried as an adult,” Stanley says with an earnest face that is supposed to impress me, “you need to be more cooperative. The only way to avoid adult sentencing is to open up to people who usually work on an assessment.”
“Like who?”
“Your case manager, your lawyer, a social worker, the police. You need to give each one of them everything they require to figure out the reasons for your actions.”
“Like what? I don’t know why I did it.”
“It would help if you at least agree to see the intern psychologist.”
“Why? I’ve already agreed to talk to you.”
“I’m a psychiatrist.”
Not that I would ever let any other soul searcher but my dove-doc infiltrate my psyche, but still, I ask: “What’s the difference?”
“A psychiatrist has a medical degree and can practice medicine,” he explains. “Psychologists have training that has more emphasis on doing research and by definition testing. To simplify it, psychologists use talk therapy.”
“Isn’t that what you are doing with me? All that digging into my past?”
“True. Our sessions are therapeutic.”
“So why change then? Are you saying a psychologist has more clout in court than you?”
“Well, psychologists do trump psychiatrists in court when it comes to psychological tests, but as a psychiatrist I can query the interpretation of the test results.”
“Which ultimately puts you in charge when the judge is undecided?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll stick with you then.”
“Once I hand in my report, no further consultation with you will be scheduled. As bail is out of the question, you’ll be locked up in here until your case goes to trial. You should use this time wisely. If there is anything that comes to your mind that might explain your actions, it would really be helpful. You can call me any time you feel the need to talk.”
Reality slowly sinks in. No more protective shield to hide behind. How will I cope without his visits?
He watches me getting a little scared of the future.
“Your mother has asked to see you. Should you agree, I would highly recommend you let me be present as an observer.”
I cross my arms. “I don’t want to see or speak to her.”
“Good.”
My presentiment of the coming months in the Center have been founded. Within a few days of the dove-docs last visit, four more girls are put into the eight-cell octagon I had entirely to myself until now. My Living Unit, as every other separately controlled unit in this juvenile jail, is arranged like a honeycomb with the community area in its center. The eight cells have an odd shape as well, there is no rectangle in the whole complex. Weird shapes for weird inmates. I guess somebody has given this some thought. We are residents, not inmates, and our cells are not square but are organic Living Units. Whatever.
Fact is, I now have to share my Living Unit with four other residents-inmates, something I immensely dislike. They are hanging out in my so far very private community area! I’m expected to live with four total strangers! They all wear purple sweat suits!
There is no getting out of this unwanted company. I considered a screaming match or slapping one of the girls, but the rule book states solitary is only good for 2 to maximum 72 hours. I’ll only jeopardize Stanley’s statement of my fragile but non-criminal mental health. It’s becoming somewhat important to prove my sanity. I don’t like being confined. I don’t like being in close proximity to strange purple girls. They automatically assume I’m one of them and ask me what I’ve done, where I’m from, how long I’ll be here…God only knows what else, if I wouldn’t cut them short.
One of them had the temerity to walk up to me while I was hiding behind a book and introduce herself to me.
“Hi there, I’m Allison,” she said, extending her hand.
I ignored her, but she was persistent.
“I’m fifteen,”—aren’t we all?—“and I’m only in here for three months. It’s quite okay in here. I should know, I’ve been in and out since I was thirteen.”
I turned my whole body away from her and hoped she gets the message. What it boils down to is that there is no way for me to withdraw into a corner, literally. The cell doors are locked for the hours we are supposed to communicate and participate in the mandatory school lessons and in all the voluntary programs which are supposed to educate us and help us integrate into society better when the time comes.
I don’t want to participate in anything, but now that I don’t have the privilege of Stanley’s visits any more, I guess very so
on they’ll make me attend and I’ll have even less opportunities to withdraw into myself.
Only the nights are for me. I’m locked in my cell and ignore the hourly flashlight check by security, making sure I have not escaped or hung myself on the window bars with a ripped bed sheet.
I need to get out of here. I don’t belong.
The nights are too long. It gets dark so early, it gives my nightmares a whole new quality. The dream that tortured me last night was drawn out painfully long, reaching way into my semi-awake state. That happens when you are locked-up in a small cell for twelve hours at a time. Your brain goes in relentless overdrive to compensate for lack of stimulation.
The dream started with me falling into an unprotected water drain on the roadside somewhere. I got stuck halfway down, but nobody up there looked into the hole. The rain pelted down so hard it muffled my screaming, and soon enough I felt like drowning whenever I opened my mouth. My yelling turned into suffocating coughs. I couldn’t breathe. I willed myself to wake up, but it didn’t work.
It was like those times after a session when Gracie had drugged me with that juice. It took me only a few weeks after we had come to Canada to figure this one out. Suddenly I was never drowsy any more. She had always forced me to drink the sweet concoction when we were on the way to the studio, just before we arrived, and sometimes afterwards, when I became fidgety and whiny in the car. It made me lethargic very quickly, but I’ve always hated the feeling of being incapable. Then, and even more so now, drugs are not for me.
Connie gave me a joint once and I took a deep drag because she said it would take off some of the burden I carried with me. It didn’t. It immediately threw me back to those days. As soon as Connie realized my panic, she made me drink lots of water, and after I had snapped out of it she made me promise to never ever again take any drugs. Easiest promise in the world. Why should I want to feel like useless garbage?
So, in my dream, I’m stuck in the wet hole, fighting the drowsiness I hate so much, willing me into a more alert state. Scenes come and go, with languishing clarity or annoying fogginess, never there long enough for me to grab one and shake it into reality. I drift in and out, lose focus and want to slip into oblivion. It’s a nightmare alright.