by Ray Flynt
“That’s Sammy,” she said, without elaborating. “Sit down.” Wanda pointed toward an overstuffed easy chair, as she plopped onto the slip-covered sofa.
One of the first lessons I learned as a PO was to resist offers to sit in upholstered chairs. My colleagues taught me that they could be home to undesirable “critters,” and if I didn’t want to spend a week after a home visit scratching myself, I should grab a less comfortable wood or metal chair. I pulled a straight-backed wooden one from the kitchen table and sat facing her.
“Thanks for seeing me. Do you still go by Mrs. Shaw?”
She nodded, and for a split-second I almost missed the days when she would launch into a diatribe about how her son, Tim, was being mistreated by me and the county court.
“I wasn’t sure. They said Tony’s last name was Damico, so I didn’t make the connection at first.”
Wanda fanned the air in a never mind gesture, and muttered, “He’s gone.” She said it like Mr. Damico was out of her life, rather than planted in a cemetery.
I took a deep breath, which my nose immediately regretted. “As I explained to you on the phone, Mrs. Shaw, I was visiting Maple Grove yesterday, and I got a chance to meet your son Tony. When I first saw him, he reminded me of Tim.”
This brought a smile to Wanda’s face, and the crevices around her mouth deepened. Only three years older than me, she was seventeen when Tim had been born, had three kids by three different fathers, and could easily pass for fifty.
“Tony told me that Tim was missing, and that you and he were worried.”
Wanda stared back with eyes like a gathering storm. “Of course I’m worried,” she said. “I know you don’t think I care, but I do.”
If I was going to help, I had to gain her trust. “Mrs. Shaw. I don’t work for the probation department anymore.” She looked puzzled. “I work with a private detective. We have a case involving another young man who is missing.” She kept listening, and I kept talking. “He ran away from Maple Grove back in July, which is why I was visiting there, and met Tony who told me about Tim. I doubt that the cases are related, but if we could help locate your son we’d like to.”
“Dammit, I can’t afford no private detective.”
“I understand. But you can afford my boss. He won’t charge you anything.”
She beamed like a lady who’d just shouted Bingo at the Legion hall on Thursday night.
Brad’s generous impulses drove me crazy at times. He had enough wealth that he didn’t need the detective business to live on. But in this instance, our client was Jeremy Young by way of the probation office and Jeremy’s brother.
“Tell me about Tim. What’s he been up to?” I left it open-ended hoping to encourage her to talk.
“He’s good.” But the pride was missing from her voice. I smiled, hoping she’d keep talking or I’d have a very short visit.
“At least he was before he left. The police haven’t stopped here… about him,” she clarified, “for at least four years.” There’s a bullet point to add to his resume.
Wanda flicked a cigarette ash into a glass tray in front of her, next to which was a cell phone and a pack of Marlboros. “Tim had a job stocking at the Safeway. Night shift. Better ‘n nothing. And he’d give me a little bit of money to help out with groceries. My assistance check don’t go that far. But that damn car ate up most of his money… that and what he spent on girlfriends.”
From the playpen, Sammy began to fuss, and Wanda shushed him.
“What kind of car?”
“An old Dodge. ’92, I think.” She shook her head.
“I didn’t see a car outside, so he must’ve taken the car with him when he left.”
“Oh he took it all right,” she scoffed. “I don’t know how he expects me to get around. You can only ask neighbors for so much.”
Just then I spotted her flip-flops, and the fact that her toenails were painted the same color as her T-shirt!
“Do you know why he left?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Not a clue.”
“Did he have a fight with a girlfriend? Get fired from his job? Or did the two of you have a fight?”
“No,” she rasped, and took a deep drag on her cigarette before butting it out in the ashtray. Baby Sammy, now on his back with chubby arms and legs thrashing, began to cry. “Shut up,” she yelled in his direction.
My maternal instincts kicked in. A stuffed armadillo lay on the floor outside of the playpen. I picked it up and placed in within Sammy’s reach. Dirty diaper smells began to mingle with the other repulsive odors, and I knew why Sammy was crying.
“Do you remember when he left?” I asked, as I resumed my seat, and tried not to breathe through my nose.
“At least two months ago. Fourth of July weekend… that was it… I woke up on a Saturday morning, and didn’t see Tim. I figured he must have gotten in late the night before and I’d let him sleep. A neighbor had invited us for a picnic lunch… that’s how I remember about the Fourth… so when Tim wasn’t up by 11:30 I knocked on his door. When he didn’t answer I went in; he’d never slept in his bed.”
Gloria and Al, Maple Grove cottage parents, reported that there’d been a change in Jeremy’s demeanor after a Fourth of July home visit.
“Did you call anyone?”
She shook her head. “I figured he stayed at a friend’s house.” The way Wanda paused before saying friend made it clear she meant a girlfriend. “His boss dropped by here on Monday morning when Tim didn’t show up for work Sunday night. He said that if Tim didn’t show up for work that night, he wouldn’t have a job.”
“He never showed?”
Wanda nodded.
“Does Tim have a cell phone?”
“Oh yeah, he always had that glued to his ear.”
“You tried to call him?”
She shook her head. “I didn’t have the number.”
Glancing at the cell phone on the table, I asked, “And he never called you?”
Wanda braced her chin with her right hand and shook her head side to side.
Didn’t she know the new axiom that the family that texts together, remains together?
I reached into my purse and withdrew the photo of the woman from the porn movie. Handing it to Wanda, I asked, “Have you ever seen this woman?”
Her eyes narrowed and a scowl came to her lips as she studied the picture, and finally said, “She looks old enough to be Tim’s mother.” Since I was there to talk about Tim, it wasn’t surprising that she’d associate the woman’s picture with her son. If her protectiveness over Tim’s female companions had extended to the rest of his life, he might have had fewer strikes against him.
“So, do you know her?”
“No,” she said, with disgust.
I stood and thanked Wanda for her time. “If you ever see that woman, I’d appreciate it if you’d call me.” I handed her my Frame Detective Agency business card. “And if you hear from Tim, please call.” She bobbed her head, but I figured I’d heard the last from her.
Sammy let out a wail, and she gave a sharp glance in his direction.
“I’ll let myself out,” I said.
Wanda remained seated and reached for another cigarette. She’d already put our meeting behind her. And Sammy’s diaper was going to have to wait.
Chapter Six
Brad ejected the DVD then shoved it back in his computer. He’d never figured out how to restart a video from the beginning, but reinserting it always worked. Once again the image materialized—a Cuatro Tres Segundo Production—and he clicked so that the video filled the entire screen, then hit pause. Superimposed on the bottom right hand side of the screen was a web address. The movie had been downloaded from the Internet and burned onto a disk; eventually, they’d have to visit the source material. Sharon will love that.
On the desk next to him were a pen and notebook on which he could make his observations. He planned to freeze the video as often as necessary. If he spotted a clue, he’d back up and re-watch a s
cene; it might take an hour and a half to study the half-hour film. While mildly curious about the sex scenes, he wasn’t nearly as obsessed with them as Sharon suspected.
Brad still remembered the time he’d seen his first porn film. The summer after he turned sixteen, while playing Atari games with his best friend Blake, they plotted how they were going to see Debbie Does Dallas at a local drive-in movie theatre. Brad owned a car, but only had a provisional license and couldn’t drive after a certain time unless accompanied by a person over eighteen, so they brought Blake’s older brother Garrett into their conspiracy and he agreed to accompany them. They’d never pass the ID requirement to actually get into the drive-in, but the weekend before they scoped out a hill behind a strip mall that had an unobstructed view of the big screen.
Like so many endeavors in life, the anticipation of seeing the most talked about X-rated movie of the year would be hard to top. It kept them chatting throughout the week, reviewing every detail of their plans, and envisioning what it would be like to see images they’d only seen in magazines come to life. Even the star’s name—Bambi—made for hours of erotic fantasy.
The porn flick would be the second feature, which meant it wouldn’t start until about 11 p.m. They each told their parents they’d be staying overnight at the other friend’s house, and arrived at the strip mall around 10 p.m., enjoyed a calzone and soda at the pizza shop, and climbed the hill just as the end credits rolled on the first feature. The scene was exactly as they imagined as they sat two football field lengths from the screen. They’d brought binoculars, to bring the action closer. Once the movie started they got quiet and breathed heavily with gaping mouths as the action unfolded. Brad had never seen anything like it, and kept his eyes glued to the binoculars. But Blake and Garrett squabbled over who would get to use their binoculars, passing it back and forth every thirty seconds, with the other yelling, “Time’s up.” Eventually, they put their heads together—literally—and compromised with each peering through one of the lenses. But the damage had been done. Five minutes later a police cruiser pulled behind the strip mall, aimed a spotlight at the three of them, and hit the siren. They ran.
In what might have been his first case of detection, Brad pieced together that the manager of the pizza shop, on a smoke break, had witnessed the two brothers fighting over the binoculars and called the cops.
Brad smiled as he relived the experience, and then clicked the play button on the computer.
The video’s opening featured a distant shot of a mansion worthy of Jed Clampett. After a few seconds, the black and white image turned to color. Brad knew the trees surrounding the mansion weren’t native to Pennsylvania, and the longer he stared at the screen and saw no rustling of the leaves, it was apparent that it wasn’t filmed but rather a stock photo. If he searched Google images, he bet he could find it. The title, Cougar Dreams, appeared in a bright red san serif font. Brad thought about a college professor who once reduced the left brain/right brain distinction to the adage “There are two kinds of people in this world—serif and san serif.” The title dissolved to Directed by Enriqué.
So far, Enriqué’s work wouldn’t jeopardize Steven Spielberg’s career.
Brad liked movies, and hardly saw himself as an authority on fancy camera angles, dissolves, and cuts. But he felt like he knew as much about the basics as this video’s director. For one thing, he’d underscore with a soothing Brahms concerto rather than a thumping synthesized Rock beat.
Suddenly, a picture of a bare-breasted woman appeared on the screen—the same one whose picture
he’d given to Sharon. She ran her fingers through her hair and puckered her mouth trying to look seductive, but succeeded only in looking sick to her stomach. Then, in front of her boobs, the words Starring Annabelle appeared. Guess the director figured out where everyone would be looking. Brad wondered if that was her real name, and pegged her age as late-30’s to early-40’s; old enough that her pairing with Jeremy reeked of robbing the cradle.
After that teaser, Jeremy’s image popped on the screen. He looked so young, with his eyes focused on the camera and a slight smile. The resemblance between Jeremy and Derek was uncanny, even though they were nearly ten years apart. The director must have spoken to him, since Jeremy diverted his gaze and peeled off his shirt to reveal a smooth chest and well-defined pectorals. The screen went black, and an Introducing Conner Fox graphic materialized. They were using a pseudonym for Jeremy, and probably the woman as well.
A ding signaled an arriving e-mail. Brad paused the video and minimized the screen, before maximizing his e-mail program. He recognized Carolyn Whiting’s e-mail address on the incoming message, and clicked to read:
Mr. Frame:
It was a pleasure to meet you and your associate Sharon Porter yesterday.
I did not recognize the woman in the photo you sent to me. As you suggested, I’ve asked my assistant to circulate the photo to all of our senior staff, including the cottage parents. This process may take several days, but I will contact you if anyone knows the person in the picture.
Please do not hesitate to contact me if we can be helpful in any other ways.
Carolyn L. Whiting, ACSW
Director
Maple Grove Youth Center
The Maple Grove logo appeared below her signature line—grey silhouettes of three trees, with burgundy-colored letters M and G between the trunks. The ACSW affirmed her social work credentials; all very businesslike, with an aura of cooperation. Most interesting was Whiting’s suggestion that showing the photo around the institution might take several days. If anyone recognized the woman, would they take several days to get back to him or use the time to cover any connection she might have to their institution? Brad hated being that cynical, but suspected Sharon would react the same way.
Brad scribbled a few notes before returning to the video. In an age when a thirty-second TV commercial might have a dozen segments of no more than 2 - 3 seconds in length, the fact that a minute and a half had been devoted to opening credits surprised him. He pictured men all over America fast-forwarding to the “good parts.”
The annoying music stopped.
The mansion re-materialized on screen, followed by a tight shot of Jeremy/Conner, standing next to the side door of a black car, evidently staring toward the mansion. The director might have wanted to bring to mind the idea of him getting out of a limo, but it looked more like the door of a Ford Taurus. A line of trees visible over the top of the car seemed to be indigenous to Pennsylvania, and Brad could hear birds chirping.
The video shifted to a woman, scantily clad and holding an elaborate mask—gold sequins, feathers, colored glitter—over her face, standing in the doorway of… the mansion? No way. Just as with the “limo” in the earlier scene, the doorway looked more like one from an old Pennsylvania farmhouse with carved stone surrounding the frame. Looking into the lens of the camera she motioned for the young man—and the viewer—to join her, and the camera moved closer.
Abruptly, the scene shifted to an unadorned bedroom, which wouldn’t even be found in an out building of that Beverly Hills mansion they’d shown. The empty double bed, covered in beige sheets with two pillows, didn’t have a headboard. No pictures hung on the white painted walls, no mirror, and no moldings where the walls met the ceiling. A swirled plaster design on the ceiling suggested an older home, versus the plain ceilings found in newer construction.
Annabelle, wearing a black lace negligée and still holding the mask over her face, entered from the left side of the screen and sat cross-legged on the bed. With her index finger, she once more beckoned the unseen man to join her. Was that the only gesture she knew? Conner appeared, stood by the side of the bed, as Annabelle tossed her mask aside and began taking off the young man’s shirt. Brad noticed that the film had cut to a secondary view, filmed from a hand-held camera.
“We have to hurry,” Annabelle said. They should let the director know, Brad thought. Based on adult films he’d seen, this
one moved at a glacial pace.
“When will he be back?” Conner’s voice cracked as he said it, probably from nervousness, but it also sounded like he might still be in puberty. No time for retakes in this low-budget effort.
“Oh, he’s in Paris,” she said, “but I have a tennis match at four.” Okay, then. Brad concluded that the script writer had either been fired from the staff of a soap opera, or was an unemployed friend of the director; most likely the later.
Annabelle stripped off her sparse nighty and arched her back, thrusting her large breasts at the “innocent” young man. The angle shifted, probably to a stationary camera mounted on a tri-pod at the foot of the bed. On cue, Conner dove for his target. Brad noted that he’d had a fresh haircut, and unlike the introductory scene, wore a thin gold chain around his neck. There’d been at least two days of filming.
From the side of the bed, the camera operator closed in on the young man’s face as he suckled her right breast. As Conner/Jeremy came up for air, Brad saw that the chain around his neck had a small cross attached. Brad thought about the crucifix he’d seen in Reflection cottage, where Jeremy had stayed. Or maybe Enriqué asked him to wear it as a subtle commentary on the missionary position.
In a close-up, Annabelle performed oral sex. It didn’t take long to bring the seventeen-going-on-eighteen-year-old to a full erection. Moans grew in intensity as the action increased. She grasped his hips as she worked, and Brad noticed indigo-colored letters tattooed between the second and third knuckles on her left hand—L O V E, except that the “O” was in the shape of a heart and colored red. The tattoo looked home-made, and there was no ring on her hand. Brad froze the image, captured it, and then opened another program to crop and save a close up of her hand. He then opened his e-mail program, and sent a message to Nick Argostino, “Recognize the woman? Thoughts on the tattoo? I’ll explain when I see you Thursday.” He attached Annabelle’s face pic along with the one of the finger tattoos.