Blood Porn

by Ray Flynt

Brad resumed playing the video. Over the next several scenes, the two performers alternated positions several times and engaged in a variety of inserting Tab A into Slot B permutations. Though not immediately apparent, Brad noticed that Jeremy wore a condom, so the action had been stopped so he could put it on. Once, while Annabelle was riding Conner, Brad spotted a butterfly tattoo on her right butt cheek, just below the tan line. He couldn’t help but notice the contrast between the professionally done tattoo in shades of blue, purple, yellow and green, and the amateur one on her fingers.

  As the action droned on, there were times when Brad missed the scintillating dialogue. Then came the final ejaculation shot, which Jeremy aimed perfectly between her breasts. Three points at a football game.

  Brad looked at his notes. He didn’t have as many clues as he’d hoped about where the video had been filmed or the people responsible. Jeremy looked like a willing participant. At his age, he might have done it just for the sex, but offers of money would make it worth his time. Brad knew of young people who’d been lured into less erotic endeavors, like magazine sales that offered rooms in tacky motels, food and the promise of a paycheck after thirty days. Then after three weeks the disreputable company would fire the poor soul and leave him stranded—a different kind of screwing. Given the inferior quality of this video versus others he’d seen, Brad wondered if this porn work had the same dynamic—and when would Jeremy be abandoned on the side of the road?

  Chapter Seven

  After I left the Shaw trailer, I drove with the windows open, hoping the fresh air would rid me of that awful cigarette smell. I kept thinking about Tim, Tony and Jeremy, and tried to diagram their relationship. As far as Brad and I were aware, Tim and Jeremy, from separate counties, didn’t know each other. Tony and Jeremy shared a cottage at Maple Grove and maybe Tim had visited his brother and the two of them had met?

  Twenty minutes later, not too far south of Doylestown, I entered the parking lot of a Wendy’s and aimed for the drive through.

  “Gimme a Quarter Pounder with cheese,” I barked into the microphone before realizing my mistake.

  “Would you like a single, cheese with everything?” the disembodied voice called back.

  “Ah, sure, thanks… oh, and a Sprite.”

  When I drove around to the pick-up window the clerk eyed me warily. Maybe he’d been a probationer and recognized me?

  I paid, collected my lunch, and pulled into a nearby parking spot to eat.

  A few minutes later my phone chirped. I figured it was Brad checking my 10-20.

  “Hello.”

  “Sharon, he’s back,” a gravelly voice announced.

  “Who’s this?”

  “Wanda.” I hadn’t recognized her voice. “Tim’s back,” she added.

  “Now? At your place?”

  “Yeah. I didn’t tell him I was calling,” she whispered. “He’s in the bathroom.”

  I threw the rest of my lunch back in the bag and shifted the car into reverse. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  I made it in fifteen.

  A yellow Jeep Wrangler with a black Sunrider top sat on the gravel spot next to Wanda’s trailer where I’d parked earlier. I pulled ahead, intending to park on the grass, but on first try the ground felt squishy and I kept the car on the narrow street and hoped nobody would hit it.

  I figured I’d been invited so I jumped out of my car, dashed up the steps, and opened the screen door.

  “Hi Wanda.”

  I spotted Tim sitting on the sofa next to his mother, wearing a fresh pair of jeans and a black T-shirt. His brown hair looked styled in a swept fringe. Tim had less baby fat than I remembered, and with a manicured scruff of stubble on his face and deep tan he qualified as having rugged good looks. With the sun at my back as I stood in the doorway, I doubt if he recognized me, but he turned on the same megawatt smile I’d seen him use hundreds of times. “Hi Tim,” I said.

  That I knew his name seemed to surprise him. In a syrupy voice, Tim said, “Howdy there Miss.” Is he hitting on me?

  I stepped away from the door so that he could see my face, and it took three beats before he IDd me. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Ms. Porter! What are you doing here?” Turning to his mom, he asked, “What’s she doing here?”

  “Relax.” I drew out the word so that he’d do anything but. Since his mom obviously hadn’t told him I was coming, he wouldn’t be aware that I was no longer with the probation staff. If I could use that to my advantage to get information, I would.

  “I met your brother Tony the other day,” I said. “He’s worried about you.

  Tim flexed his shoulder in a half-shrug.

  “He was asking me where you’d been for the last two months.” I paused, hoping he might respond.

  I aimed a thumb over my shoulder. “That’s a nice ride out there in the driveway, Tim. Is that yours?”

  Wanda spoke. “I asked him the same thing.”

  I edged toward the chair where I’d sat earlier, moved it closer to Tim’s end of the sofa and sat down. “Tell me about the Jeep?” With his limited prospects the vehicle had stolen all over it.

  “What about it?” he said.

  I’d played his games before when he was a client. Most kids who are caught red-handed lie. It had taken time, but Tim and I had developed rapport five years earlier and moved beyond the games. Unfortunately, I couldn’t accelerate the process in a few minutes in his living room.

  I leaned back, folded my arms across my chest, and waited. Silence bugs the hell out of teens—not their silence—adult silence.

  “Come on, Tim, tell her where you got the car,” Wanda said. The silence must’ve made her uncomfortable too, which spoke to her maturity. I noticed that the playpen was empty, and figured Sammy was in his crib for an afternoon nap.

  I stood. “I think I’ll just go have a closer look at the car.”

  Tim propelled himself out of the sofa. “It’s my car.” The way he said it, I believed him.

  “Let’s have a look,” I said. “You can give me the tour.”

  “Shit, I don’t need this.” Tim brushed past his mother, who stared back at me helpless. He strode toward the bedroom and emerged seconds later with a blue backpack. It looked full, so whatever he was looking for was already inside, since he hadn’t had time to pack. Tim aimed for the front door.

  “There’s something I’d like to show you,” I said.

  Tim slowed, but there was no guarantee that I’d be able to stop him once he reached the screen door. I reached into my purse and grabbed the photo of the woman from the porn movie that I’d shown to Wanda. I shoved it in his face as he passed me. “Do you know her?”

  Tim stopped in his tracks. He grabbed the photo, glanced at it, then at me. His Adam’s apple bobbed, and he said, “No.” A lie. Evidently he’d forgotten that I had a history of observing him in multiple lies. If Tim had gotten involved in the porn trade that explained a lot—his disappearance, the Jeep, and fancy hair style.

  He folded the photo and shoved it in his pocket, then flung the backpack over his shoulder so that I had to step back. Tim pushed his way through the screen door, and it slammed shut.

  I heard him crank up the Jeep.

  “I’ll be back,” I shouted to Wanda Shaw, and walked out to the front stoop in time to see Tim make a three point turn. I had an idea and reached into my purse to retrieve my cell phone, intending to capture a picture of the Jeep’s license plate. I flipped open the phone, aimed at the vehicle as Tim tore off down the street in a haze of dust, and clicked just as Wanda shoved the screen door into my arm.

  Ouch!

  “Are you calling the police?” Wanda asked.

  Ten… nine… eight… seven… That’s why she called me back to her place, hoping to keep the police out of it. She guessed that he’d stolen the car and that I could pull his nuts—figuratively—out of the fire. But she couldn’t stand the thought that I might be calling the police.

  “Tim says the car is
his. I was hoping to get a picture of the license plate so we can figure out where he’s living.”

  Wanda wore a vacant stare. What an idiot!

  I grabbed my right arm, which was already swelling. I looked at the cell screen long enough to see a blurry image of a black spare tire on a yellow Jeep; a sure winner in an expressionistic photographic exhibit, but good for little else.

  Not even the CIA had the equipment that could decipher the numbers on that license plate photo.

  Chapter Eight

  Amidst the clang of rolling scaffolding, Brad descended the curved staircase to the foyer of his Bryn Mawr mansion and found Rebecca Hope-Clarke conferring with a design assistant who stood impatiently holding several drapery fabric books. Philadelphia Magazine had dubbed Rebecca the “Candice Olsen of the Philadelphia region,” comparing her to the famed HGTV designer.

  “This lime and persimmon stripe might work,” the young man said, adding, “The colors will serve as a nice accent to the neutral upholstery you’ve chosen.”

  Brad must have missed class the day persimmon was taught as a color.

  Ms. Hope-Clarke acknowledged Brad’s presence with a nod. “What happened to that herringbone in these same colors?” she asked, which sent the man rifling through an untidy pile of fabric samples on a nearby table. Moments later he produced the pattern she was looking for. “Yes, I like this one better. It has a more masculine feel, and will complement our drapery choices in the living room. Take the measurements and place the order—with a rush.”

  Rebecca turned to Brad. “Good morning!”

  “How are things?”

  “We’re making progress. Let me show you.” She led him through the archway that separated the foyer from the living room, where the smell of fresh cut wood mingled with the odor of drywall dust. Rebecca stooped and lifted the protective paper covering the new oak floor, which replaced a parquet floor there since the house was built.

  “Very nice,” Brad said. Workmen atop two rolling scaffolds were installing a coffered ceiling, while at the far end of the room masons were laying tumbled travertine as a stacked-stone fireplace.

  Rebecca pointed toward the ceiling. “The moldings are primed white, but we’ll finish them with a butter cream semi-gloss to soften the look.”

  “Sounds good enough to eat.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Your new furniture has been ordered, and that chair you wanted to keep is being reupholstered. Electricians have a few more lighting fixtures to install. We should be ready for the reveal in less than two weeks.”

  “Great!” It was time to refurbish the living room. His Aunt Harriet goaded him every time she visited by saying it looked like “Lady Bird and Lyndon had just moved out.” He could hold the memories of his parents while relinquishing their long-time surroundings. But he couldn’t part with the high-backed wing chair and ottoman in the corner, and where almost every Saturday morning his dad could be found next to the fireplace reading a new novel from the latest edition of Reader’s Digest Condensed Books.

  Rebecca Hope-Clarke had convinced him that the entry hall should also be incorporated into her makeover because of the large archway between the two spaces.

  “Pardon me, Rebecca,” her assistant said, cell phone held tightly to his ear. “Will you want gold tassels with those drapes?”

  “No.” She shuddered.

  Turning back to Brad, Rebecca said, “He gets over-eager at times.”

  “His name isn’t Enriqué by any chance?”

  By the time Brad arrived at the office, Sharon was already hard at work on her side of the partners’ desk, hunched toward the computer monitor and furiously rolling the mouse.

  “What’s happening?” Brad eased himself into his chair opposite her.

  Sharon glanced at her watch. “I’m waiting until after nine to make a few calls. I want to follow-up on a lead Natalie gave me regarding Karen Matthews. She’s a former Maple Grove cottage parent who now works with the Bucks County juvenile probation office. And I plan to call County Child Welfare to report Wanda Shaw.”

  “Will it do any good?” Brad asked, recalling Sharon’s diatribe the previous afternoon about the neglect of baby Sammy by Ms. Shaw.

  “Sammy deserves better. Wanda’s had three children. Tim managed to slide by on probation, Tony had to be placed at Maple Grove, and God knows what path Sammy will be on without intervention. Children need structure,” Sharon explained, “and Wanda needs structure as much—if not more—than her children. Assigning a caseworker so that Wanda knows she’s being watched might be all that’s required to ensure a better start for Sammy.”

  Sharon made sense. Brad was a child of privilege, but his parents had been strict, and he turned out okay, even if he had strayed off the reservation during his twenties.

  Brad pointed at her computer. “Did you find something interesting?”

  “I’m on XRatedSugarX.com where Cougar Dreams originated,” Sharon said. “I’m convinced Tim Shaw is making porn—it’s the most likely explanation for him having that Jeep, unless he stole it—and Tim could be our connection to finding Jeremy Young.”

  When Brad raised his eyebrows in surprise, she said, “Just looking at faces right now. I found another video featuring Jeremy and that same woman, and I’ve seen two other guys and a different woman and didn’t recognize any of them.”

  “So you haven’t seen Tim’s image?”

  “Not yet,” Sharon said. “They’ve only posted a dozen videos, and there’s a few I haven’t reviewed yet. The site allows free one-minute previews; I figure if he’s in one of these his face will pop up in the preview.” She added, “If you want to see more you have to purchase and download. I’ll let you know what I find, and you can scan the details. After watching the first preview I had to log on in order to see additional previews.” As an afterthought, Sharon said, “Oh, I registered using your e-mail address. I’ll give you the password.”

  “Thanks,” Brad said, not sure that he meant it. “I’ll scan any new faces we find and send them to Carolyn Whiting at Maple Grove.”

  “Good idea. Have you heard from her?”

  Brad shook his head. “She’s holding back. I’ll give her another day or two, and if I haven’t heard anything, I’ll ask for another meeting.”

  What’s on your agenda today?” Sharon asked, while clicking the mouse and focusing on her computer screen.

  “I’m meeting with Jeremy’s mother. Derek wasn’t thrilled with the idea of me contacting her, but I don’t have much choice. Not sure how I’ll finesse telling her that her son’s a porn star.”

  “Yeah, good luck with that.” Sharon took in a sharp breath, and pointed at her computer screen. “Wait. I found Tim.”

  Brad got up from his chair and walked around to Sharon’s side of the desk. He gazed at the image Sharon had frozen on the screen of a naked Tim Shaw sprawled next to an equally attractive brunette. “He’s a good looking young man. Do you recognize the woman?”

  Sharon shook her head, and made notes on a tablet next to the computer. “The video’s title is Cumming Nightmare.” She scowled. “It’s spelled C-U-M—“”

  “I get it,” Brad said, and returned to his side of the desk. First a video with dreams in the title and then one with nightmare; just a coincidence or a theme?

  Sharon’s phone chirped and she picked it up. “Hello.”

  Brad busied himself searching for Derek Young’s mother’s address on Google maps, while at the same time aware of Sharon’s conversation.

  “Yes, Brad and I were just discussing the case.” After a pause, she added, “I visited our old stomping grounds in Bucks County yesterday and talked with Natalie. You should see her. She’s lost a hundred and sixty-five pounds.”

  Sharon was obviously chatting with Oliver Reynolds.

  “There have been a couple of new developments,” Sharon began, and then recounted their visit to Maple Grove, the information about Tim Shaw, and his porn career. “Brad’s planning to talk
with Jeremy’s mother today. Did you want to speak with him?”

  Brad prepared to take Sharon’s phone, when suddenly her eyes widened in distress. Her side of the conversation shifted from her typically expansive responses to short ones.

  “Friday?

  “Oh.” Sharon ran her fingers through her hair

  “My car?

  “I understand.

  “Hmm… hold on.” Sharon pursed her lips, dangled the phone between her fingers, and peered toward the window. After half a minute, she returned the phone to her ear and said, “Okay. What time?”

  Sharon disconnected the call, dropped the phone in her purse, and stared at Brad. It was obvious she had something to say, but was waiting for him to ask.

  Brad peered over the top of his computer monitor. “What?”

  “That was Oliver Reynolds,” she said.

  “I gathered that. I’m a detective, remember?”

  She stuck her tongue out. “He asked me on a date.”

  Normally Brad might have responded with, that’s great! But Sharon’s unease was palpable, and he thought subtle reverse psychology might be called for. He put worry lines between his eyebrows and muttered, “Oh.”

  “What’s wrong?” she asked.

  “It’s… nothing really.”

  “Oh, come on. What are you thinking?”

  “It’s just…”

  Sharon folded her arms in front of her. “Spit it out.”

  “Well, I shouldn’t mention it, but since you asked. I’m thinking how much older you are than Oliver.”

  “It’s only six years,” she snapped.

  “I guess he’s into cougars,” Brad muttered to himself, loud enough that Sharon could hear.

  She glanced around as though hunting for a hard object to throw.

  “Where are you going for your date?” Brad asked.

  “Dinner, followed by a Blood Feathers concert at a club in West Chester,” she said, flatly. “It’s a blues-ish rock group I like… not sure how he knew that.”

  “You don’t sound excited.”