Matt hit the off button and flicked the indicator, taking the exit at junction five.
Danny struggled to make the sign out through the blizzard. “What's in Syracuse?”
Matt said quietly, “Claire, Lieutenant Pitman, and the one recurring theme in this whole sordid affair, slap bang in the middle of that damn circle of yours. The Quinlan Foundation.”
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“This really is most irregular, Lieutenant.”
“Homicide investigations are irregular, Miss Reynolds. What are all these rooms for?”
“I really can't see how that can have any bearing on matters.”
Pitman stopped outside a door at random. “As I said earlier, Miss Reynolds, we can do this informally, now, or we can do it later, properly. Every room so far has a security lock. Why is that?”
Reynolds produced a card and swiped an electronic lock in a show of annoyance. The bolts clicked and the door swung open.
“See for yourself, Lieutenant. I don't know what you think it is we're hiding, but you won't find it in there.”
Pitman smiled sweetly. “I'm sure I won't.”
As he stepped across the threshold a light clicked on automatically, illuminating shelf upon shelf of neatly stacked magazines and rows of DVDs.
“And this is?”
“Therapeutic stimulation resources.”
“In English?”
“Pornography, Lieutenant. Hard core pornography. We obtain it direct from police sources, through the federal government.” She saw Pitman's wince and took full advantage. “The Foundation is licensed and personally approved by the FBI director. He and Dr Quinlan are on first name terms.”
“No doubt.” Pitman picked up a magazine at random and flicked a few pages, hurriedly returning it to the shelf with an embarrassed smile. “Very... Not exactly top shelf in the local newsstands.”
“As I said, Lieutenant, direct from police sources, In order to successfully treat offenders we first need to establish exactly what it is that stimulates them, that drives them: Women, other men, children, animals. Whatever their particular predilection, we can only offer treatment by first recreating that desire in controlled conditions. It's all very straight-forward.”
“And in the case of a pedophile, for example, you would use child pornography?”
The two top shelves just there. Courtesy of the FBI. Would you like to see some?”
“That won't be necessary.”
As he led the way from the room the door automatically locked behind them.
“All fully secure, as you can see. Now, what's next on your little tour?” She gestured to a row of unmarked doors. “The kitchen? The toilet facilities?”
“Where you keep your patient records, please, Miss Reynolds.”
He followed her along one corridor and down another. “Big place, this. What on earth do you need so many rooms for?”
Reynolds ignored the question. She led him into a windowless office. “All our client records are kept in this one room, on disks.”
Pitman ran his eyes around the room with mild interest. Computers left him cold. “Exactly how secure is this room?”
“Totally. No windows, as you can see. Access can only be gained by security card.”
“And who holds these cards?”
“Myself and Dr Quinlan, of course. And Molly.”
“Molly?”
“Molly Hammett, our admin' secretary. She's been fully vetted, naturally.”
“No-one else?”
“No-one at all. Visitors are escorted at all times, just as you are now. An obvious precaution given all our guests are current or former criminals. Present company excepted, of course.”
“And these computers, could they be accessed from outside? What's the phrase, hacked into?”
“Out of the question, Lieutenant. Our internal computers are totally independent of the on-line access in Reception. The only way anyone could access information is by being in this room. And even then they'd need to know the computer security codes.”
“Which are known only to the three of you?”
“No, just Dr Quinlan and I. Molly's role is purely administrative. She has no knowledge of the codes.”
“And there's been no break-ins of any sort?”
“Lieutenant, I don't know where you're leading, but let me assure you right now the Quinlan Foundation is one hundred percent secure. Perhaps you'd like to see our security operations room next. I'm sure that will put your mind at rest.”
As they made their way to the security room Pitman said, “I'd like a list of all you clients before I leave.”
Reynolds stopped in her tracks. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me, Miss Reynolds. All your current and past clients. Say the last three years?”
“Quite impossible.”
“Because?”
“Client confidentiality, of course. Data protection. Privacy laws. There is no way on Earth I could release such information.”
“Believe me, Miss Reynolds, the Foundation will cooperate. We can get a Court order if necessary.”
“You do that, Lieutenant. Dr Quinlan is very well connected. He'll soon put a stop to your games.”
“This is no game, Miss Reynolds. As I said, this is a murder inquiry, and one of your patients is prime suspect.”
“Yes, Greg Randall. Nothing you've said so far has given me reason whatsoever to doubt his guilt.”
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Pitman asked, “I understand Randall was receiving aversion therapy?”
“That's not for me to say.”
“I'd like to see the place where this so-called therapy takes place, after I've seen the security set-up. Isn't it the case that you give your patients electric shocks while showing them obscene videos? A rather strange way to try and cure someone, if you ask me.”
“Nobody is asking you, Lieutenant. I don't presume to make judgments about police procedures and I'll thank you to extend the same courtesy to our work here at the Foundation. I've already said, we're a licensed operator, authorized by the federal government to conduct this type of therapy. It may not be to your personal taste, but someone has to do it. And frankly the world is a safer place for it.”
“Right. And I've got fairies in my back yard.”
“Clearly, Lieutenant, you have no concept whatsoever of therapeutic methods, and I certainly have no intention of debating them with you. I really don't think you understand my position.”
“I understand perfectly, Miss Reynolds. I'm sure that Dr Quinlan will prove less obstructive.”
Reynolds stopped outside an unmarked door and swiped the card. Pitman was speechless. He'd seen high-tech security systems before, but this was impressive by any standard. On one of the many monitors he could see himself and Reynolds on screen. He swung round to see the camera, but saw nothing.
“Hidden lenses. All part of the Foundation's security. The only cameras you'll actually see are the external ones, for deterrent purposes, but the entire premises are covered. As I told you, Lieutenant, we take our security very seriously.”
On another screen he could see the secretary, Molly, at her desk. As he watched she got up and left the room. The monitor darkened and an adjacent screen lit up, showing Molly in the corridor, stopping outside another door. As she swiped a card and entered the monitor darkened and another monitor lit up to reveal Molly in a sparkling bathroom. He saw her reach for a button on the wall and the screen blanked. The words Privacy Requested appeared.
“Certain rooms have a privacy facility, for obvious reasons,” Reynolds explained. “But I can over-ride it if you wish?”
“I'll take your word for it.” Seeing Reynolds' secretary on the john was not high on his list of priorities.
“The audio is off at the moment, but we can hear every sound, when required.” She hit a button and Pitman listened to Molly humming as she flushed the toilet. Reynolds hit another button and Pitman saw himself at the front door, shivering in the cold. He watched on fast-forwa
rd as they whizzed through the building together. Another button and the monitors returned to normal. Molly was making her way back to Reception.
“I'm impressed.” Pitman pointed to an electronic blueprint of the building, with green and amber lights. “What's that?”
“Personnel monitoring. It's a back-up system, just in case the video surveillance fails, or a lens is obscured. It registers body heat. We can tell at a glance which rooms are occupied.”
There were two green lights on. Reception and security. “So we're the only people in the building,” Pitman surmised.
“Precisely, Lieutenant.”
“What are the amber lights?”
“Threshold monitors. They indicate whether a door is secure or not. Every door in the building is covered. As you see, most of them are locked.”
“And the ones that are not?”
“All internal doors. We're having some renovation done on the far side of the building. A pet project of Dr Quinlan's. No outside contractors, before you ask. Dr Quinlan and his son undertake all the work themselves.”
A buzzer sounded and Reynolds picked up the receiver. Pitman could see Molly on the screen, but only hear Reynolds' response.
“One moment, Molly, then put him through.” She turned to Pitman. “Lieutenant, I have to speak with a client, on a confidential matter. Would you mind waiting outside? Perhaps you'd like to go on ahead and inspect the Aversion Therapy Unit.”
“Alone?”
“No personal details or effects are there, and as I've made clear, none will be made available. But if you wish to go ahead I'll join you shortly and explain the broad principles.”
“And how will I get in without the magic card?”
Reynolds flicked a switch and an amber light appeared on the board. “There, it's unlocked ready for you. Turn right out of here, left at the end, take another left and it's the fourth door. You can't miss it. It's the only one that will be open. I'll join you as soon as I can.”
“I'll find it.” Pitman pulled the door shut behind him. Turn right, she said. He turned left and set off, pushing against every closed door as he went.
Reynolds watched his progress on the monitors. So predictable.
Something caught her eye on the forecourt monitor. She zoomed in on Pitman's car.
“Molly, I can't take that call after all. Be a dear and put me through to James.”
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The gnarled hand scraping snow from the windscreen scared her to death. Claire struggled to regain her composure as she recognized the fixed smile of Ruth Reynolds peering through the glass.
“You'd best come in, Claire. You'll catch your death of cold out here. The Lieutenant only just this second mentioned you or I would have come out sooner. Men. All they ever think of is themselves. Would you believe he's even now relaxing in our lounge with a mug of hot cocoa, while you're sat out here freezing?”
As they entered Reception, Reynolds turned to the secretary. “You may as well get off home, Molly. The snow can only get worse. I'll take care of the afternoon's business.”
Reynolds led Claire down a corridor. “The Lieutenant's in the lounge waiting for you.” As they entered, “Oh, he must be visiting the rest-room. Make yourself comfortable. I'll put the kettle on.”
The electronic bolts secured the room as she left.
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He guessed he was being watched, but didn't much care.
Reynolds would come chasing after him soon enough, which might be just as well. He had by now lost all sense of direction.
Pitman turned another corner and found himself in a new, broader corridor leading to double doors he could see were wedged open. A few tools and planks of wood were nearby.
In the security room Reynolds hit the button to secure the doors, but the wedge held firm. She slapped the control in frustration and shuffled out.
Pitman presumed the lights would automatically click on as he entered, but the room remained in darkness, only the light from the corridor providing a shadowy illumination.
An amber light warmed above him and someone began speaking.
Welcome to the Quinlan Museum of Sex Crime.
Startled, Pitman spun round before realizing the voice was a recording, activated by his entry.
The Quinlan Museum of Sex Crime is the most authentic exhibition of its kind in the world today. The museum is personally sponsored by Dr James T. Quinlan of the prestigious Quinlan Foundation, and incorporates his unique collection of exhibits and artifacts from the history of that most reviled of criminals, the sex offender.
The Quinlan Museum of Sex Crime spans the history of the genre from the earliest recorded sex offence to the most recent. To commence the exhibition, please step forward and press the green button. To stop, or leave, an exhibit, press the red button.
The recording stopped, leaving Pitman in silence under the amber light. Before him a velvet drape obscured the exhibit behind. As he pressed the green button the drape furled, revealing a life-size wax figure.
By its very nature, sex crime is as old as mankind itself. From the day stone-age man first took a unwilling partner, sex criminals have walked among us. But any act is illegal only when society deems it so.
The history of the world is a history of rape and pillage, of slavery and abuse, yet the sex criminal is very much the product of modern society. We need go back only to the eighteenth century to trace the origin of sex crime as we know it.
The year is 1791 and the world's first pornographic book has just been published. Its title: Justine, or the Misfortune of Virtue. Its author, Alphonse Donatien De Sade, known to all as the Marquis De Sade.
Of course, there were sadists before De Sade. From Tiberius Caesar to Vlad the Impaler, the history of sexual torture is the very history of mankind. What caused the Marquis De Sade's name to be immortalized in the term sadism was his willingness to embrace sex and pain not just as a means of cruelty, but as a philosophy. To elevate sado-masochistic eroticism in literature to an art form, typified most famously by his masterwork, The One Hundred And Twenty Days of Sodom. Yet De Sade died a pauper in a asylum in 1816, just as his works began to receive the recognition they so richly deserved.
Pitman hit the red button and the narrative stopped, the drape unfurling. The recorded voice said, To view the next exhibit please move to your right and press the green button.
Indifferent as he was to the De Sade exhibit, curiosity found Pitman moving along, the amber glow following him, leaving the first display in darkness. As his eyes adjusted to the light he realized he was in a large hall, wall to wall with draped exhibits. He stepped past the second screen and the light moved with him to the third. He moved on and the amber glow followed him like a stage spotlight. He stopped at random and hit the green button. The drapes unfurled to reveal an unrecognized wax figure in the act of strangling a child.
Henry Howard Holmes has the honor of being America's first serial killer. His crimes included the murder of three children and twenty four adults in 1880s Chicago. Real name Herman Webster Mudgett, Holmes led a life of -
Pitman hit the red button, remembering his business there. He passed a dozen more exhibits and selected a green button at random. The Manson Family appeared. This time a more comprehensive exhibit with newspaper cuttings and a video screen showing news footage. He moved from one exhibit to another, occasionally pausing to sate his curiosity. Some names were familiar, others less so. Albert Fish, Ed Kemper, Bundy, Dahmer, Nilsen. Gacy, Berkowitz, De Salvo. Ramirez. Black.
A shiver ran down his spine.
Pedro Alonso Lopez enjoys the reputation of the world's most prolific child-killer.
Pitman cursed beneath his breath. “Enjoys the reputation! Are you sick in the head too, Dr Quinlan?”
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He moved on quickly.
Gerald Stano, convicted of killing forty-one women.
Lorenzo Gilyard, murdered thirteen prostitutes in Kansas..
Genene Jones, killer of a doz
en infant children in her care.
Pitman saw the last exhibit ahead. Morbid curiosity drove him to the green button.
Dr Quinlan regrets this exhibit is currently under preparation. Please enquire at Reception to find out when this display will be operational.
Ahead of him loomed just dark, empty space where future criminals would one day assume their place. He turned back to the exhibit under preparation, wondering what sinister name would front the display, and instinctively knew the answer.
Cautiously he lifted the drape, letting the amber light fall on to the exhibit. His stomach churned as the scene became clear.
“The sick bastard.” He yanked the drape, exposing the exhibit fully, and his pipe dropped from his mouth.
The tabloid headlines announcing the discovery of the victims' bodies accompanied displays of clothing. He instantly recognized Rebecca's cycle helmet. Barely able to believe his eyes, he scanned the display, reading off the names long since etched into his mind.
He wanted to leave.
To accost Reynolds.
To be anywhere but there.
But morbid curiosity drew his hand to the video control. He expected news footage.
The stifled grunts of the child, gagged and tied, turned his knees to jelly.
He was moving, running, back down past the exhibits, the amber light struggling to keep up as he tripped each signal. He reached the end doors and pushed them wide, his eyes dazzled by the sudden brightness of the corridor. He stepped from the museum's shadows, his body shaking, nausea rising, trying to remember which way he had came.
The knife came from behind, sliding easily between the shoulder blades, splicing the spinal column before puncturing a lung.
Captain Weisman would later tell Pitman's wife, in all sincerity, that death must have been instantaneous.
Only the hunched figure standing over the writhing, jerking body would know otherwise.
This time the smile was genuine. As the lung slowly filled with blood Reynolds administered a sly kick to the convulsing body.
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