Claire struggled to look interested. It had been a long journey to get here. The last thing she wanted was a sociology lecture.
96
“Crime reflects this,” Large continued, evidently enjoying himself.
“Early crimes were for food. They teach kids at school that medieval laws were barbaric, but the laws of that time simply reflected the priorities of the day. You could get hung for poaching a salmon, but kill your neighbor and nobody cared. As the economy developed, crime became more money-orientated, but it was the same driving force behind it. The need for food and shelter. Who’d steal a lamb nowadays? Most people wouldn’t know how to kill it, let alone skin it and make a meal.”
Claire nodded her understanding.
Large went on, “So you stole money instead and bought the meat, or nowadays you’d shop-lift it direct from Wal-Mart. As society became more developed, violent crimes became largely domestic. Once the rape and pillage stage had passed, sex crime virtually disappears. Now there's several reasons for that, but mainly availability. No offence, Claire, but women were cheap then.”
Claire grimaced. She just wanted to know about Ceri's profile. Matt had warned her the professor was a lecturer in and out of the classroom.
“Seriously,” Large continued. “The rich had their slaves, the poor had their prostitutes. For a few pence a man could satisfy his desires. There was no such thing as working women, bar a few developing cottage industries. Prostitution was the only independent source of income a woman had.”
Claire raised a doubting eyebrow.
“You have to understand, Claire, attitudes towards sex were different then. The poor in the slums lived squashed into tiny apartments, sleeping on top of one another. Men, women and children together. Sex was quite open, with children looking on.” He paused to savor his meal. “Child sex among the poorer classes is not well documented but that doesn't mean it didn't occur. Certainly among the educated classes it was quite the norm.”
Claire shuddered as she thought of Bristow.
“Then came the repression of social attitudes as the so-called Victorian style took hold over here, driving sex and sexuality underground. Suddenly sex wasn't so readily available. Crime changed to reflect that. Sex criminals emerged.”
Large broke off to acknowledge a passing colleague, then resumed in full flow.
“London’s Jack the Ripper is the classic, of course. Though we have our own home-brewed version from the same era, Henry Howard Holmes, who was no angel. But after domestic crime, sex crime was a natural evolution. As women became more independent so prostitutes became more expensive, less available. Violently-inclined men who might have satiated their desires on a cheap woman suddenly found they couldn’t afford them. Prostitutes became a symbol of their inadequacies, and for some a means of hitting back, an easy target.”
“Easier than children?”
Large stabbed at some peas. “Good question. You see, sex crime isn't about sex.”
Claire looked surprised. “Then what?”
“It's about power. It comes back to Maslow's hierarchy of needs. Most killers have pretty stable lifestyles. A home, work, maybe even a successful career. I'm thinking John Gacy or Ted Bundy, for example. Bundy especially was a notorious womanizer. They'd met the first three needs, food, shelter, emotional stability.” He shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “But they lacked the self-esteem they wanted, for all their achievements. Self-esteem and power go hand in hand. The need to control. That's what drives men to rape and kill, not the act of sex itself. Controlling another person to the extent of coldly murdering them is the ultimate act of power. In the warped logic of the killer it’s the ultimate act of self-esteem.”
“You're saying Uncle Tom is just some power freak?”
Large considered the question.”Obviously children are easier for an adult to control, simply because of their diminutive size. But there's more to it than that.”
He broke a bagel in two and stuffed half into his mouth. “The problem is, profiling techniques that work well for sex attacks on adults tend to fall down when it comes to children. That's one of Colin Dunst's failings. He can't bring himself to accept that some people might actually find children sexually attractive in their own right.”
“Like Thomas Bristow?”
“Precisely.”
“But he was sick in the head, surely?”
Large shrugged. “Was he?”
97
“But the children... The little boys?”
Large topped up with another mouthful. “That goes to the very heart of the child abuse debate, Claire. I mean, obviously someone who gets his kicks out of physically hurting, or killing a child is seriously sick. No two ways about it. But the underlying attraction, that’s a different matter. Moral standpoints are easy to assume, but when it comes to hard and fast scientific evidence the debate is not so cut and dried.”
“Why not?”
“Ironically the very safeguards society uses to protect children from exploitation are the same ones that prevent serious research into what attracts adults to children, which might actually resolve the problem. I mean, when does affection become abusive? Is it alright for a mother to affectionately caress her child but not the father? If it's alright for the father, why not another man? Brother? Uncle? Stepfather? Are men more likely to abuse children? Statistically, yes, but statistics can argue any case you want. What's acceptable behavior between a woman and child is not always acceptable when it's a man doing the exact same thing. Classic example, a mother kissing the butt of her baby. They all do it. But if a man did the same thing...”
Claire nodded thoughtfully. “I see your point.”
“And at the heart of the matter is the all-too taboo subject of childhood sexuality. Are children sexual beings? Do they have sexual feelings? A sex drive? The fact is, we simply don't know. It's not socially acceptable to gather data on childhood attitudes to sex, so we can't possibly know. When does innocent child’s play, say doctors and nurses, become sexual abuse? There are any number of cases where twelve year old girls have become impregnated by their same-age boyfriends. You don’t just suddenly have a sex-drive one day out of the blue. If these kids were engaged in full intercourse at twelve, at what age did they first start having sexual feelings? Eleven? Ten? Younger?”
Claire was thankful it was a rhetorical question.
Large scooped up a pile of peas on his fork. “Now pedophiles will argue children are capable of a sexual response. Abusers always try to minimize their actions, by claiming they were encouraged by the victim. Yes, they would say that, of course, but does that make it untrue?”
He slurped back his second coffee. “That's where I think Ceri has the edge over Dunst. She's trying to understand Uncle Tom from his viewpoint, not her own.”
She thought, At last! She said, “Tell me about Ceri.”
Large stuffed the other half of the bagel into his mouth. He seemed happiest talking with his mouth full. “What's there to say? Second year student, fancies herself as the next Clarice Starling.” He sighed. “Don't they all? A keen mind, but unwilling to use it. Very untidy worker. Uneasy with a keyboard. Prefers to write by hand. Not a move designed to get her good grades. And she's from LA,” he added, as if this covered a multitude of sins.
“Los Angeles? I thought she came from Red Hook.”
“Her family live in New York state now, sure, but Ceri still likes to pretend she’s still a West Coast girl.”
“But you think she’s on to something, obviously.”
Large nodded. “I've been following the case in the papers, of course. Professional interest.”
“And?”
“To be honest, Claire, when the Dunst profile was leaked it was a revelation. I got the impression it was more for public consumption than a basis for a serious scientific investigation.”
“Meaning..?”
“To put it bluntly, that it was deliberately passed to the media to give the impression th
e cops and FBI know what they're doing.”
“You don't think they do?”
“Believe me, Claire, they haven't a clue.”
98
It took Jeff three long, tormented days to pluck up the courage. Even then it was down to his mother.
Four of them knew about the car. They talked about nothing else when they got together, in hushed, whispered voices.
They were scared.
Very scared.
Friends and family suspected and speculated. They knew the lad was involved somehow, but it was too painful even to consider. After a while they stopped thinking about it and went about their business, pretending nothing had changed.
Jeff's mother didn't give up so easily. The way he watched the local news programs and hovered by the radio made it all too obvious his interest. His involvement.
She wanted to ask him outright, but wasn't sure she could cope with the answer.
She knew her sons were car thieves. Petty villains. Everybody knew it. With one doing time and the other out to all hours of a night it could hardly be otherwise.
But this was different.
This was so terribly different.
She found herself in his room, a steaming mug of coffee the excuse for her intrusion.
He barely acknowledged her presence as she put the cup down on the bedside cabinet. The radio was on low, tuned to the local station. It stayed on day and night now. She sat on the end of the bed, unable to look him in the eye. The words came slowly, the voice fraught with emotion.
“You'll always be my son, Jeffrey, you know that, don't you.”
He hated being called Jeffrey. He rolled over to face the wall and groaned. “Go away.”
“You'll always be special to me, no matter what. I just want you to know that.”
He propped himself up as the words registered in his distant mind. Listening, barely comprehending.
“Your brother being in prison doesn't mean I love him less for it. He's still my son. You both are. Whatever he did, I still love him. Whatever you've done, I'll still love you.”
She knew. There were no secrets from Mom.
The words came hesitantly. “We only took it for a laugh. That's all. It was just a laugh.”
His mother took his hand, like she hadn't in more than ten years. “You just stole the car, didn't you. Just the car.”
It was a statement, not a question.
She didn't want a different answer.
She willed there not to be a different answer.
His words came in frightened whispers. “How was I to know there was a kid in the trunk?” There were tears in his eyes. He fought them back, but it was a losing battle. “I didn't know. Honestly I didn't.”
“Who else was there?”
“William. Teggs. Des. But none of us knew about her. Not until the next day. Until we heard it on the news.” Tears were running down his face. He was crying on his mother's shoulder, but felt no shame, only relief.
It was out.
At last.
She hugged him, sharing in his tears, and for a minute they sat quietly, sobbing together. Then, “Jeffrey, I think you know what you have to do.”
He didn't move. He just lay against his mother, trying to stem the tears.
“Mom,” he said at last.
“Yes, darling?”
“I love you.”
99
“You read in the papers about how dreadful it is that kids stay indoors playing computer games and watching TV all day,” Large said. “But most parents are too scared to let them out beyond the yard. Children today don't have the experience of recreation we had. Of creating their own entertainment. Of exploring their own environment. Because one way or another it's too dangerous for them. If it's not lunatics like Uncle Tom then it's road safety, or discarded needles.”
Claire sipped her coffee, listening quietly.
“Things will never be the same again. Children today will never enjoy that most precious freedom of all: to mix with other adults without distrust. Without having your or their motives questioned.”
Claire nodded her understanding. She had had similar discussions with Matt.
“Watch an old black and white film and the streets are full of kids playing. Nowadays you don't even see kids on the sidewalk. There are more rec areas than ever, but parents are too scared to let their kids go to them. Outside of school they have nothing. Is it any wonder they turn to petty crime when society denies them imaginative recreation.”
Claire was listening intently. How many times had she told herself that it had been right to have let Rebecca go off on her own that fateful evening? That what happened was a freak event no-one could have predicted?
Large was speaking again. “Of course, child protection became meaningless sound-bites for politicians wanting to be seen to be tough, and now we have sex offender registers and god knows what else, but it’s all re-active, not pro-active. No-one was willing to stop and think it through. To ask the questions we prefer not to have answered.”
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“But how does all this connect with Dunst and his profile?”
More biscuits. “Ah yes, our friend Colin Dunst. Where do I start? Calls himself a professor, but he probably bought that off the internet. No, that’s not fair. He’s for real. We studied together. Well, same college, but he was a year behind me. And he’s had his share of successes, fair play. It’s just...”
“It’s just?”
Large smiled. “The thing is, Colin Dunst is a hard-line Freudian. There's no middle ground. Sigmund is a god to him. No, I'll re-phrase that. Not a god. The god. You know how we used to have Che Guevara posters on our walls when we were students? Dunst had a poster of Freud above his bed. Can you believe that? Every problem, every conceivable crime, boils down to sex with Dunst. Not just sex, but specifically having being abused as a child. Committed a burglary? Abused as a child. Grand theft auto? Abused as a child. The more sex-orientated the crime, the more the criminal was abused when young.”
“I gather you disagree.” Claire pushed her half-empty plate to one side. Large leaned across and stabbed at the partly eaten potato with his fork.
“Don't mind me. Starved. My wife left me a while back. Haven't quite got the hang of cooking yet. So I get it while I can.”
He stuffed the potato into his mouth. “The trouble with Freud is that the whole thing has been blown out of all proportion by crass psychotherapy. That's not psychology. It's about making money. You know what they say about the psychiatric business? Neurotics build castles in the sky. Psychotics live in them. Psychotherapists collect the rent. More coffee?”
He ordered fresh drinks and scanned the dessert menu. “Rocky road with mallows, twice, please.”
Claire put her hands up. “I don't want any, thanks.”
Large looked at her accusingly. “They're for me. Heavy on the cream. The thing is, Freud is ninety percent bullshit. Excuse my French. The thought of Dunst trying to profile a child killer is just laughable. He's out to prove Uncle Tom was abused as a child and takes it out on other children through some kind of soul-cleansing process. What was it he said? Youngest brother to five sisters? What utter crap. But you’ve got to admire his balls.”
“Do you think he's insane?”
“Colin Dunst? I'd swear it!” He laughed at his joke but found an unappreciative audience. “Sorry. Insane? You mean does Uncle Tom kill because he's driven by forces beyond his control? Maybe. Genuine psychopaths don't have any control over their actions. They go out, kill or whatever it is they have to do, then go back to their normal lives, sometimes with no conscious memory of it. But just because their actions seem crazy to us, doesn't make them insane.”
“It does in my book.”
“It's not that simple, Claire. Take Jeffrey Dahmer. Classic case. Killed young men. Seventeen, I think. Made love to their corpses. Cooked and ate their bodies, bit by bit. Love this dessert. Are you sure you won't try some? But insane? No. He knew e
xactly what he was doing. That's why he got away with it for so long. He wasn’t a psychopath. He wasn't insane. Not even mentally ill. That's not to say people like that don't have a problem with their brain, but that's not how we define insanity anymore. It could be anything from a simple calcium growth to a congenital deformity. Organic defects, we call them. We won't know for sure till they're dead. Even then there's no way of proving that it was the cause of their, how shall we say, unusual behavior.”
“You're saying he could have a brain defect but still not be insane?”
“How's your biology?”
“I know what side my heart's on.”
“Glad to hear it. You're familiar with genes?”
“X and Y chromosomes?”
“The very same. You know that we have twenty-three pairs. Two X produces females, an X and a Y produce a male. Remember in Jurassic Park, how all the dinosaurs were female? Same with humans. All fetuses start off female. Some become male later. It's a risky business. If the transformation doesn't quite work out, all manner of defects may occur. Defects in the very structure of the brain. Defects that affect not so much what sex we are, as what our sexuality is. What turns us on. Or off.”
Large glanced at his watch. “Look at the time. I’ve got classes to attend shortly, Claire. Sorry. Anyway, it’s time you met the amazing Miss Jones. I’ll show you over to her place, but then I’m booked up right through ’til late evening. Oh, and Claire.”
Claire looked up.
“Don’t get too carried away with her. I’m intrigued by her little profile, of course, but as I said to Matt, bottom line is she’s just a second rate student in one of my piss-poor classes.”
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