Blood Porn

by Ray Flynt

  “Did you send them to the school principal?” Brad asked.

  Ross glanced at Whiting before turning back to Brad. “No. Just our staff.”

  “That’s a mistake,” Whiting said sharply. “Before you leave for the day, e-mail Hank the images and ask for a response by mid-morning tomorrow.”

  Ross glowered at Whiting, clearly upset at the upbraiding in front of an outsider, but true to her nickname the ice queen didn’t react.

  Ross shifted to the edge of his seat, preparing to stand, when Brad said, “There’s been a significant development. When I spoke with you last week, I thought perhaps there was only one connection to Maple Grove in the porn videos. At the end of last week, we learned that Tim Shaw, the brother of one of your students—Tony Damico in Reflection cottage—was also involved in making videos. I sent you an e-mail about it.”

  Ross shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  “Tim Shaw was murdered last Friday night,” Brad said, “in what we fear is related to his porn involvement.”

  Carolyn Whiting gasped, and Ross said, “We received a request this morning from Bucks County Juvenile Probation for a home visit so that Tony could attend his brother’s funeral.” Turning to Whiting he quickly added, “I approved the request and copied you on the e-mail.”

  Whiting gave Ross a cold stare which Brad interpreted as meaning: In matters of life and death an e-mail isn’t good enough.

  “Because of Tim’s involvement, and his brother’s connection to Maple Grove,” Brad continued, “we shared the same photographic images with the Bucks County Juvenile Probation office. One of their PO’s thought he recognized one of the kids who had hung out with his client in Achievement cottage. I brought his picture with me.” Brad extracted the sheet of paper from his jacket pocket, handing it to Whiting. “The PO wasn’t 100% positive, but I figured the Achievement staff might be able to confirm.”

  “I don’t recognize him,” Whiting said, before shoving the paper at Ross. “Do you?” she snapped.

  Ross studied the image for a long time before shaking his head and handing it back to Brad.

  Whiting turned to Ross. Her voice seething, she said, “Call Alice and Brody, and ask if they looked at the pictures we sent. Come back when you have an answer.” As Ross exited the office, she added, “We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  “Ross said that part-time staff would also have been sent the images. What about the part-time staff at Achievement cottage?” Brad asked.

  Whiting sighed. “Unfortunately, the two people who used to provide relief in that cottage just left us two weeks ago. They were a husband and wife team hoping to get a permanent slot as cottage parents, but we had no openings, and none on the horizon.”

  Ross returned and stood in the doorway, not seeming anxious to enter the office. “Here’s the story. They got the e-mail, opened the first three images, and didn’t recognize any of them. When they tried to open the fourth, their computer hung up. Brody was afraid the downloads might put a virus on their computer and never looked at the remaining photographs.” Ross rolled his eyes, adding, “They aren’t the most technically proficient staff we have.”

  “Ross,” Whiting said, drawing his attention. “I’m worried that other cottage parents experienced the same thing. First thing tomorrow morning, print all of the photos Mr. Frame sent and hand distribute them to the cottages, asking for an immediate response.”

  “Since I’m already here, could I take this photograph to Alice and Brody this evening and see if they can ID it?”

  “Sure,” Whiting said, glancing at her watch. “I’d go with you, but I have to meet someone. Ross, please give Mr. Frame a map of the grounds with directions to Achievement cottage, and call the Elliotts back to let them know he’s coming.”

  “Thanks,” Brad said.

  She handed him a card with her cell number written on the back. “Let me know. And we’ll call you tomorrow if anyone else recognizes the photos.”

  It would remain light for another hour, and Brad had no trouble finding Achievement cottage using the map Ross gave him. The cottage looked like a mirror image of Reflection cottage with the main entry door on the right hand side of the building. He pulled next to the only other car on the parking pad, a Honda CRV. He ascended the front steps and rang the bell. A man his age answered the door, introducing himself as Brody Elliott, and Brad entered amidst the buzz of a dozen teenage boys clearing dishes off the table, chattering loudly in front of the TV, and the sound of a ping pong ball in rapid volley.

  “Settle down boys,” a woman’s voice said. “We’ve got a visitor.” Approaching Brad, she said, “Hi. I’m Alice. Let’s step back into our apartment.” She looked around at the chaotic scene; without a hint of stress on her face, and Brad realized what he was witnessing was par for the course. “It’ll be a little quieter,” Alice said, “but we’ll keep the door open just in case any trouble breaks out.”

  Brad wondered how a couple nearing fifty could keep pace with a bunch of troubled teens testing all the limits that come with puberty’s hormonal changes.

  Their apartment consisted of a large bedroom with an adjacent seating area. On the wall beyond he saw doors leading to a bathroom, and what he suspected was a walk-in-closet. Brody gestured for Brad to sit in one of the two overstuffed chairs that faced a small flat-screen TV, while Alice sat in the other one, and her husband pulled up a straight-backed chair.

  “I won’t take up much of your time.” Brad reached into his pocket and produced the photograph that the Bucks County PO had identified as a boy he’d seen at Achievement cottage. “I’m wondering if you recognize him?” Brad handed the photo to Alice, and Brody leaned over from his seat to have a look.

  “That’s Tanner,” Brody said, looking to his wife for confirmation.

  “Yes. Tanner Jankowski,” Alice concurred.

  “He was a student here?”

  “Yes,” she said. “He was released in mid-July.” Brody’s head nodded in agreement.

  “Do you remember where he’s from?”

  “Bradford, PA in McKean County.” His father had once joked that’s where Brad had been conceived, explaining the origin of his name.

  Brad wrote this latest information in his notebook. He knew that the town was located in the northwest part of the state, near the New York state line, and Maple Grove was a long way from home. “His parents probably didn’t visit too often?”

  The couple looked at each other—as if using telepathy—before Alice answered. “We don’t recall ever meeting his parents.”

  “How old is Tanner?” Brad asked.

  “You’ll have to check with the administration,” Brody said. “We no longer have his records here.”

  “I remember.” Alice waved her hand. “We celebrated his seventeenth birthday on New Year’s Day.”

  No question that Tanner was a juvenile; in spite of the disclaimers on XRatedSugarX.com, not all of the actors featured in their videos were over eighteen. This also marked the third young man from the videos with a direct link to Maple Grove.

  Brad thanked them for their time, excused himself and after returning to the front seat of his car composed an e-mail on his smartphone to Carolyn Whiting regarding this newly discovered revelation.

  As he drove from the cottage to the main road that wound its way across the institution’s grounds, the sun was at his back and cast a beam of light on the road ahead. Brad stopped and yielded to a late-model SUV headed for the main gate. In the bright light he saw Carolyn Whiting at the wheel. A woman was seated next to her, but her face was turned away from him, so he couldn’t tell if he’d seen her before. He remembered what Karen Matthews told Sharon about Whiting being a lesbian who picked up her lover every night at the institution’s cafeteria. Whiting was entitled to her sexual orientation, of course, but Brad didn’t think it was wise for her to develop a relationship with a subordinate employee.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Before leaving the grounds of
Maple Grove, Brad pulled his car to the side of the road and called Sharon. “I had an idea,” he began, after Sharon answered. “I thought I’d pay a visit to Wanda Shaw’s trailer park.”

  “Uh, I think there’s a viewing for Tim this evening at Claiborne’s in Doylestown.”

  “I know, but I want to check out the neighborhood. Perhaps a neighbor saw or heard something last Friday night.”

  “Okay,” Sharon said, clearly unimpressed.

  “Can you talk?” Brad asked. “I hear traffic.”

  “Sure. I just stopped to fill up my tank and grab a sandwich.”

  “I’m using my GPS and wanted to verify Wanda’s street.”

  “Park Avenue Drive,” she said, “second trailer on the left. How was your meeting with Whiting?”

  “Interesting. How was yours?”

  “Fascinating.”

  Touché. “Well, I’ll look forward to catching up with you in the morning. Bottom line, we’ve identified another under-age porn star from Maple Grove, and there could be others.”

  With Sharon’s “Oh, shit” echoing in his ear, Brad disconnected the call and input the street for Wanda Shaw’s trailer into his car’s navigation system, which calculated a one hour and twenty-two minute drive. Tuning satellite radio to a classical station he found Saint-Saëns’ Danse Macabre—appropriate for the occasion. Alone in his car he enjoyed playing the radio at full volume and immersing himself in the sounds. But on that night he softened the music into the background and thought about the case. Always captivated by what motivates human behavior, his recent social psychology course had turned an interest into a near obsession. Without a confession, solving crimes usually hinged on physical evidence, and while suspects left behind fingerprints, hairs, fibers, the detritus of human behavior, it was their own stories that served as guideposts pointing toward the evidence—or inconsistencies which made it that much more relevant.

  Carolyn Whiting fascinated him. He found her competent, focused, and decisive, qualities one would look for in a person to run a complex institution. After their first meeting he might have used unflappable to describe her, but stress had taken its toll. She seemed particularly annoyed with her assistant. Ross struck him as what they called—back in the day—a brownnoser. He wondered what the youth of today called it. Ross had managed to survive seven years in his position, through two administrators; not as assistant director, but assistant to the director, a position requiring a high degree of personal trust. If Brad were managing Maple Grove, he’d move Ross’s office closer to his own to keep better tabs on him.

  Twilight yielded to darkness, and Danse Macabre gave way to Haydn’s #94, the Surprise Symphony. Brad turned up the volume and relaxed to the sound.

  Brad remembered Sharon describing soft ground in the vicinity of Wanda Shaw’s trailer, so he parked at the end of the street and walked. He’d taken about twenty steps before returning to his car to get a compact LED flashlight out of the glove box. Although the full moon had occurred the previous evening, tonight’s moon hadn’t risen or was obscured by clouds on the horizon; the light-saber like beam from the flashlight helped him navigate his way.

  He had no trouble spotting Wanda’s trailer, with the yellow Jeep Wrangler parked in front. The police hadn’t towed the vehicle, perhaps because it was unconnected to the crime scene. He tried the driver’s door and found it locked, then aimed his flashlight into the front seat. He noticed an automatic transmission, and a foil wrapped condom in a cup holder on the center console. Is that what guys do these days to signal their intentions to any young lady foolish enough to accept a ride? Circling to the other side of the car he spotted a pair of flip flops on the floor in front of the passenger seat. There were no back seats on Tim’s model, and the cargo area appeared empty. He aimed the light inside one more time and saw a folded piece of paper tucked between the driver’s seat and the console. He wondered if that was the picture of the older woman—Annabelle—from the X-rated video that Sharon had showed Tim during her visit. In Sharon’s account, Tim had dashed out of the trailer and jumped into his car right after she handed him the photo. Perhaps it had spooked him. Brad ran his fingers across the Jeep’s soft top, thinking it might be easily removable, but realized the clips securing it were inside the locked doors.

  Brad heard the squeak of a screen door and the hairs on the back of his head stood up when a gruff voice said, “Put your hands on top of the car.”

  He complied and turned to see who was talking.

  “Don’t turn around. I’ve got a shotgun aimed at your back.”

  Brad still had the flashlight in his hand, and the beam of light now aimed at the metal siding of Wanda Shaw’s trailer. A diffuse glow lit up the neighborhood. He heard the screen door close on the trailer across the street followed by heavy steps. Military boots? Looking at the Jeep’s passenger side window he glimpsed the reflection of a man descending the stairs. Although he couldn’t determine the specifics, he could see that the man carried a weapon. Brad lost sight of the mirror image, but footsteps grew louder once the man’s shoes reached the gravel driveway. Then silence. No more movement.

  “Turn around. Hands where I can see them.”

  From the sound of the voice, Brad couldn’t tell if the man were six or twenty-feet away. If he were close, Brad could try temporarily blinding the man with the flashlight beam and disarming him, but in this situation he’d have to talk his way out.

  Brad turned slowly, hands raised, with the flashlight pointed toward the sky. Without the light from the flashlight bouncing off the side of the trailer it grew darker. He could make out a shadowy figure standing across the street, about twenty feet from him. The man appeared to be wearing desert camouflage and combat boots, along with a cap on his head.

  “Wanda told me to keep an eye on her place,” the man said. “What are you doin’ here.”

  “I’m a private investigator,” Brad said.

  “Investigating who?”

  Brad nodded his head toward Wanda’s trailer. “Her son was just killed.”

  “I know that, asshole. The police was here Friday night and Saturday, so why would you be here?”

  As his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting conditions, Brad noticed that the man had gray stubble on his cheeks and squinted. “Because Wanda’s son knew a missing person I’m trying to find,” Brad said, adding, “I think they worked together.”

  “Don’t bullshit me. I worked Army intelligence for twenty years.”

  And probably retired when Jimmy Carter was president.

  A car turned into the street and headed their way. The man lowered his shotgun as the car approached, then it slowed and stopped directly between them. The driver glanced at Brad, but mostly directed his attention to the neighbor. He heard a woman’s voice from the passenger side of the car say matter-of-factly, “Everything okay, Jake?” Apparently ‘Jake’ dressed in camouflage and toting his shotgun was a common sight.

  “Everything’s fine,” Jake said. “You back from the wake?”

  Brad heard the woman say, “Yeah. Not many people there. Wanda’s taking it real bad.”

  No more words were exchanged, and the car headed further down the street. If Jake had wanted the police notified that would have been his chance.

  “I’m not armed,” Brad said. “You can search me. I’ll be happy to discuss Tim’s connection to our missing person, but I can’t do it here.”

  Jake looked each way on the street and motioned for Brad to come toward him. “You go in first,” Jake said, pointing toward his trailers’ steps. Raising the shotgun slightly, he said with a leer, “I got your back.”

  Once inside the trailer Jake pointed to a kitchen chair and told Brad to have a seat. He tossed the gun on a nearby sofa, and before sitting at the opposite end of the kitchen table said, “Coffee?”

  Coffee was the last thing on Brad’s mind. “No, thanks. I’ll get straight to the point.” If Jake had served in Army Intelligence, he’d be both intrigued and repul
sed by what Brad was about to tell him. “Wanda’s son was making porn videos.”

  Jake’s eyes widened, and it was time for Brad to use the ’C’ word. “Tim is nineteen, but there are a couple of underage kids in the videos, so what we’re talking about here is child pornography.”

  Jake’s reaction surprised him. “I wondered who he was screwing to afford that new Jeep. Never known him to do an honest day’s work in his life. Does Wanda know?”

  “No.”

  Jake finally met his gaze before saying, “Probably best.” After a few beats he added, “Why you telling me this?”

  Should he remind Jake that it had only been a few minutes since he’d had a gun pointed at him? “When you mentioned your career, I figured you were the observant type. Thought maybe you might have noticed something last Friday. Tim was killed up at Lake Nockamixon. Wanda reported that he stayed at her place Thursday night, and since the Jeep is still here, he probably got a ride to the lake. Maybe you saw who picked him up?”

  Jake swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Maybe.”

  Brad heard a car on the street and wondered if Wanda might be returning from the funeral home. Jake gazed toward the window, obviously thinking the same thing, then looked at his watch and said, “It’s too early.” The car rolled past. “I’ll tell you what I saw, but I don’t want you thinking that I sit around here spying on my neighbors.”

  “I’m sure you’ve got better things to do, Jake.”

  “Damn right. If I’d have known somebody was gonna get killed, I would’ve copied down license numbers and taken photographs.”

  “I understand,” Brad said.

  “Last Friday morning a black SUV pulled up in front of Wanda’s house,” Jake explained. “It was already heading west when I saw it, which means it had driven down the street and turned around. I noticed the Ford logo. Expedition, I think, but don’t quote me. Recent vintage, nobody who lives here has a vehicle like that.”