by D. A. Brown
“Why are you asking?” Stinson looked at Sophia over the top of his glasses.
“Well, this referral talks about furries and avatars and all sorts of crap that sounds like a foreign language.” She lowered her voice. “This one came in anonymously with a thirty minute post-report follow up call from an assistant chief.”
Stinson frowned.
“And it involves a five year-old austic girl.”
“That’d be a first for me. I’ve heard about these assholes but I’ve never caught a case on one of them.”
“Looks like the kid’s older brother found pictures of her on some website.” Sophia ran her finger along the text of the report. “On some site called New World. It’s not very detailed.” She laid the file down on her desk. “Of course, it sort of begs the question as to why the brother was on a website that contained child porn.”
Stinson had gone back to reading the paper.
Jimmy Paulson walked over and planted his crossed arms on one side of Sophia’s cubical. His blond crewcut was so tight, he looked bald. “New World isn’t a child porn site. It’s a virtual world.”
“You don’t say, Jimmy.” Stinson rolled his eyes.
“And how is it that you know about this New World place?” Sophia peered up at Jimmy. He was dressed in a dark Armani suit and crisp white shirt open at the collar.
“I used to dabble in the day.”
“Dabble?” Sophia started to laugh.
“Yeah, me and some friends used to play Dungeons and Dragons online in a gaming room on New World. Just innocent shit.”
“What other secrets do you have you want to share? How the hell did you pass the background?” Stinson folded his paper and dumped it in the trash can.
“I should see if my log on’s still good.” Jimmy walked back to his cubicle and scooted up to his computer.
“I wouldn’t do that that on a network computer.”
Jimmy stopped typing. “You’re probably right.”
Sophia leaned back in her chair and stretched. “I feel really old. I pretty much stopped being hip at Nintendo 64.”
Stinson snorted. “Hip isn’t a word I’d toss around too freely.”
“You probably shouldn’t give me any shit, old man.”
Sophia sat up, pushed aside the Halifax file and grabbed the in-custody alert packet on the edge of her desk along with a pile of court subpoenas and mail. Since the suspect was in jail, she had seventy-two hours to file charges or he’d go free. She scanned for the reporting officer’s name. Reggie Townsend was the report’s author. That was a good start. She and Reggie went to the academy together and he was as squared away as they came. At least she knew the investigation at the scene would be thorough. The report was pretty straight forward:
“On the above date and time, the suspect was observed by several witnesses on top of the victim on a city sidewalk. The victim was screaming and struggling against the suspect. Witness Jackson pulled the suspect off of the victim and noticed his penis was exposed and erect. The victim’s pants were around her ankles and her underwear was torn in two and laying next to the victim’s back pack. Both parties were extremely intoxicated. Victim Tilden stated that she had met the suspect at the Exterminate Homelessness feeding shelter under the freeway the day before and they had started hanging out. She stated that suspect Green, Walter A (DOB 01/23/62) made her feel safe and offered to accompany her to the Jungle where she had been sleeping recently. Victim stated that she and Green (whom she referred to as “Bug”) bought some beer from Pete’s Grocery when it opened. Witness Jackson stated that she was walking southbound on 12th Ave South approximately two blocks behind the suspect and victim, when Jackson observed the suspect push the victim to the ground and get on top of her. When Jackson reached the suspect and victim, she could see the victim was struggling against the suspect and that the act did not appear to be consensual. Jackson stated the victim said, “He’s trying to rape me.”
The phone rang. It was an outside number and Sophia hesitated as she always did when the caller ID didn’t look familiar.
“Sexual assault unit, Detective Benedetti speaking.” There was a pause on the line.
“Benedetti, it’s Reggie Townsend. Sorry, I lost your cell number.”
Sophia laughed. “Reggie Townsend. Why so formal?”
“Well, you being a detective and all, I thought that’s how I had to identify myself.” His voice was still smooth and dramatically low, like an after hours DJ.
“Yeah, that’s me all right. Little miss formal.” Sophia looked over her shoulder at Tommy. He was deep in a conversation on his cell phone, his hand rubbing the back of his neck.
“How are you?”
“Good. You know, things were a little strained for a while but now they’re cool.”
Reggie had recently come out, much to the surprise of just about everyone who knew him, especially his wife of fifteen years. Sophia hadn’t talked to him since the gossip had made the rounds.
“I’m glad to hear it. And Brenda? How’s that going?”
“She’s still pretty pissed.” The sound of the patrol radio droned in the background. “I mean, I can’t blame her. We’re just trying to get through the financial stuff with the divorce lawyers. She’s going to take me to the cleaners. I’m going to be working until I fuckin’ fall over.” He paused to acknowledge a radio request. “Thank god we didn’t have any kids.” Reggie exhaled. “Did you catch the rape from last night?”
“I did.” Sophia flipped open a steno pad and grabbed a pen.
“Maybe it’ll get a decent look. I just ran past the shelter and your victim is sitting outside with a couple of other ladies. Do you want me to contact her?”
“No, just stay near and if she tries to leave, hold her there. We’re just a couple of blocks away.” She gestured to Stinson and hung up. “Let’s go. The vic on this rush file is down the street. I want to see if she’ll talk.”
“She won’t.” He straightened his tie and grabbed his jacket.
“You’re probably right, but we have to take a stab at it.” Sophia grabbed her gun from her desk drawer and slipped the holster on over the top of her dress pants, to the right of her badge.
In the car, Stinson was uncharacteristically quiet. His right hand rested lightly on the bottom of the steering wheel.
“What’s up with you?” She glanced at him and then looked away.
“The wife’s on my nerves. She thinks I’m having an affair.”
“Well, you are,” Sophia laughed.
Stinson’s face flushed. “She can’t prove a thing.”
“That’s not the point, asshole.” Sophia looked out the window. “And if you’re going to keep screwing what’s-her-name, Ashly, or Tiffany or Brittney…”
“It’s Bethany.”
“Ok, Bethany. Whatever. Evelyn is going to take you to the cleaners in a divorce. And over what? Some twenty something skank who can put her ankles behind her ears? That’s going to be worth it? Do you want to be one of those guys who flags at a construction site until he has a heart attack because he’s paying off ex-wives? Like you’re going to marry her, right?”
Stinson took a deep breath and gripped the wheel.
“I don’t know.” He busted a red light. “And she’s not a skank.”
“Right.”
Traffic was light and dominated by Metro buses jockeying for access to the curb where they could release their rush of passengers. Tommy navigated around the block to approach the shelter from the west, heading up Marion. Mary’s Place provided a safe space to more than a few rape and domestic violence victims. Homeless women were especially vulnerable to attack if they didn’t bed down at a shelter for the night. Sophia had spent many an hour camping out by the front door, waiting for a victim to come out and talk to her or catch one trying to avoid her. And because mental illness, alcohol and drug abuse were rampant for so many who lived on the streets, her efforts often led to dead ends.
“There’s Reggie’s car. And one
of those two must be the victim.” The two women sitting on a low concrete wall adjacent to the shelter, started to fidget. Sophia opened the door and jumped out of the passenger seat before the car had stopped.
“Jesus Benedetti, no wonder you’ve broken your leg twice.” Stinson slammed the car into park.
Sophia walked over to Reggie’s patrol car. He was tapping something into his MDC, a mobile computer allowing officers to communicate, run names and vehicle plates, and retrieve calls directly from dispatch.
Reggie nodded in the direction of the two women. “She’s the one on the left. They started to walk off but I told them they had to wait for you.”
Reggie stepped out of the cruiser. Sophia gave him a quick hug. “You look handsome as ever.”
“Girl, stop it.”
He leaned closer toSophia, “Just so you know, she’s on to other things. Acted like she didn’t even know what I was talking about.“ He looked over at Stinson, who remained by the driver’s door. “Still like working with him?”
“He’s fine. Just kind of making a mess of his personal life at the moment but other than that, he’s a good guy. And a good cop.”
Sophia motioned to Stinson. “Let’s go get this over with.”
“I’m going to take off unless you need me here,” Reggie said.
“No, we’re good. Thanks again, Reg. I owe you one.”
Reggie smiled and folded himself into the car. Between the mobile digital computer, the radio, lights and camera, his huge frame barely fit. A kit bag sat on the passenger seat, exposing a jumble of papers, a dented metal ticket book cover and a myriad of gear stuffed in every pocket of the bag.
“See you around, Beni.” He didn’t acknowledge Stinson.
“What’s the deal between you two?” Sophia asked as she and Stinson walked toward the shelter.
“It’s his problem, not mine.” He lit a cigarette and stood back to let Sophia take the lead. Stinson’s interview technique tended toward the unsympathetic until he was convinced the subject wasn’t a criminal or a con.
The women sat quietly, eyes downcast. Victoria Tilden, the one identified by Reggie as the victim, wore a heavy, soiled coat. The hem of her pants hung on the ground covering her shoes, making her look as though she had no feet. Her hair was full of mats. As Sophia and Stinson got closer, the odor of unwashed bodies hit them.
“Ms. Tilden, I’m Detective Benedetti. This is my partner Detective Stinson. We’re here to talk to you about what happened yesterday. Can we speak to you for a moment?” Sophia held out her hand.
Victoria kept her eyes on the sidewalk. Sophia struggled to maintain her close proximity as the stench began to linger in the space between her and the two women.
“Your friend can stay here if that would make you more comfortable.” Sophia put her hand down and stepped back. The woman sitting next to Victoria stood up.
“I got nothing to say to no cops, V. See you later.”
“I’ve got nothing to say either.” Victoria Tilden pronounced ‘either’ as if she’d just come from tea with the Queen.
Sophia looked over at Stinson.
“Where are you from, Victoria? You have an English accent.”
“So do you, Detective.”
Stinson chuckled and pulled out another cigarette.
Victoria looked up for the first time. “May I have one of those?”
“Jesus,” Stinson muttered as he tapped the top of the pack and pulled out a smoke. Victoria took the cigarette and gracefully let it dangle from her lips, waiting for Stinson to retrieve his lighter. She cupped her hands around his as he lit the cigarette.
“We need to ask you some questions about what happened yesterday.” Sophia sat down next to Victoria, careful to avoid the greasy stain left behind by another occupant.
“I don’t know what you are talking about. I was having a grand time with a gentleman friend until some idiot interrupted us and now I fear I will not get a second date.”
“So you had a ‘date’ on the sidewalk in the middle of the day with some piece of shit you met in the Jungle?” Stinson took a long draw on his smoke and shook his head.
Sophia looked at Stinson. She’d been down this road before with homeless women and every encounter ended the same way. This wouldn’t even qualify as a domestic violence incident since the two had just met. At least then, she could have held Victoria’s feet to the fire. And any woman who stepped foot into the Jungle, a stretch along I-5 with undergrowth so thick, a small village could camp out, was going to be victimized one way or another.
“Look, I know you don’t want to cooperate with us. I understand but—“
“You understand nothing, my dear.” Victoria stood, took a deep pull from her cigarette and flicked it at Stinson’s feet. “I have nothing more to discuss.”
Sophia pulled out two business cards, handing one to Victoria and stuffing the second one into the pocket of the woman’s wool coat.
“Call me if you change your mind.” She motioned to Stinson. “He doesn’t have to be around for the conversation if you’d rather…”
“Oh, I quite like scoundrels like him.” She smiled at Stinson and turned to walk away. Halfway down the block, she reached into her pocket and threw Sophia’s card into the street.
“Should write her a fucking littering ticket,” Stinson said, getting behind the wheel. “Ungrateful bitch.”
“Jesus, Stinson. She’s a crazy, homeless woman who’s probably going to get raped a half a dozen times in her life. Give her a break.”
“I’m done giving people breaks.” He pulled into traffic, cutting off a Metro bus and bike messenger. Both the driver and the biker answered with a one-fingered salute.
As they drove past Victoria Tilden, the woman gave Sophia and Tommy her best royal wave with an extended middle finger.
Eldon Loveschild finished off the last bits of a week-old Mexican casserole and leaned over, placing the plate in front of his mangy cat.
“Who needs a dishwasher, right Pyewacket? Finish it.”
Pyewacket started at the edge and worked his way to the center of the plate.
Eldon picked up the plate and nudged the cat away with his foot. He finished the last of the can of Olde English and cheerfully snapped open another. His landlady, Shirley, was restless tonight. The sound of her shuffling slippers, followed by the drone of the wheels of her oxygen tank taunted him from upstairs. Seventy-six years old and dying from an advanced case of emphysema, she was a nuisance. With no family and very few friends, she’d taken him in like a son, renting him a daylight apartment in the basement of her home for five hundred bucks a month, including utilities. He had access to her car and her banking records, having hacked into her checking account and helping himself to amounts of money small enough to go unnoticed.
Shirley’s home sat at the back of a small cul-de-sac in north Seattle. Flanked by a rare in-city creek and greenbelt, it was a little too dark for Eldon’s taste, but it afforded him privacy. His living quarters consisted of a small sitting room and windowless bedroom. Most of his apartment was jammed with spare computer parts, old Linux manuals, and an assortment of old school porn. His couch was bordered by a wood and glass coffee table that stood on wrought iron legs welded to look like entwined tree trunks. On top of the table sat his desktop, two monitors and a hard wired back-up large enough to support a small city. Dust, cat hair and cigarette ashes littered every uncovered inch of the table’s surface, rendering it no longer translucent.
A bathroom, barely large enough for the shower and toilet, bumped up against the laundry room. Technically, it was in the laundry room, separated only by a Shoji screen. This particular setup provided Eldon with endless hours of amusement. Whenever Shirley came downstairs to do her laundry, he’d manage to magically appear from his shower, his flab extending over his semi-flaccid cock.
“Eldon, be more careful!” Poor Shirley, oxygen tank on one side and dirty clothes basket on the other would rattle up the stairs, sla
mming the basement door behind her.
I should just crimp that fucking tank tube and drop her in the creek.
By ten o’clock, the shuffling from upstairs had ceased. Cracking open his laptop, he double clicked on an encrypted folder and entered his password. The screen filled with light, and the image of a woman clad only in a black cape and leather leggings, breathlessly spoke.
“Welcome back, Gregor.”
Eldon pressed a hot key and navigated through the gates of New World. He maneuvered through several screens, a safeguard he’d installed to make it harder for ‘civilians’ to stumble upon the more ‘progressive’ areas of New World, a virtual society predicated upon a crassly libertarian view of a truly free and limitless existence. It was a very exclusive club populated mostly by Internet outliers interested in socializing with those who believed, as they did, that free persons needed no rules.
He suspected Gwendolyn Majestic and her real life husband El Ray, were the admins for the night. That meant he had to tread carefully. New World was under scrutiny by the FBI. Worlders chatted nervously in the forums about the high likelihood that Feds were posing as pedos trying to ferret out the weak and lazy. It wouldn’t be hard for Eldon to spot a cop. They logged in with brand new accounts and photoshopped avatars. They struck up conversations in chat rooms that set off alarms even for newbies, who quickly scrambled off the site and scrubbed their browser histories.
And it helped that he worked for the City, often servicing computers at the police department. He had unfettered access to share drives and the network. He knew cops; how they strutted around, treating the civilian employees like servants.
Sometimes the undercovers lurked, careful to stay away from contact with other Worlders. Eldon could see everyone who logged on. If they didn’t make any attempt to contact players or admins, or if they hung back and jumped from room to room without interacting with others, he’d call them out. Then it was easy to pull their ISP’s off the site and use his contacts with service providers to trace them back to cold computers purchased in government bundles. It was so easy, sometimes it wasn’t even worth the effort.