by Ray Flynt
We walked into the first bedroom, and I spotted a wallpaper border of wild strawberry vines.
“This is our guest bedroom,” Jill said, “and there’s an adjoining bath.”
I peered through the door and there sat an old-fashioned porcelain toilet. I gripped Jill’s arm. “You have a flush toilet, and you didn’t tell me?”
She laughed. “You get used to it. Bob really believes in saving the environment. He wants to get a high tech no flush system up here, but they cost at least $1,200.” Jill walked across the hall and announced, “Here’s the second bedroom, but we haven’t done any decorating yet.”
My adrenaline began pumping as soon as I saw plain walls, a swirled plaster ceiling, and an unmade double-bed with no headboard. But what really piqued my interest was the tripod sitting next to the window, the kind that might be used to mount a video camera. Outside, the sky glowed with the deep orange of a setting sun behind striated clouds. Would Jill be so brazen as to show me this room if she knew porn was being filmed under her own roof? I caught Jill gazing at the tripod. After all my questions about porn videos was she starting to make the connection?
“You’re probably wondering about the tripod,” she said matter-of-factly. “Bob’s an amateur astronomer. The top windows slide down, and he scans the night sky with his telescope, but he said one of the lenses is out of alignment, and it’s in the shop right now.”
I could check her story and didn’t want to set off any alarms, so I simply said, “You’ve got a lovely place.”
Jill escorted me to the front door, and as I was about to exit, Bob called out from the living room, “Hurry up, Jill. I found a re-run of CSI-New York.”
Chapter Twenty
Sharon beat Brad into the office on Wednesday morning, and he found her sitting at the desk, glancing between her computer screen and a sheet of paper in her left hand. In her right hand she held a magnifying glass.
“What are you doing?” Brad asked.
“Studying the finer points of pornography,” she said. “Come look.”
Brad walked around to her side of the desk where she held a photograph of a wooden door surrounded by stone and was comparing it to a freeze-frame from the opening scene of Cougar Dreams; the one where “Annabelle” stood in a similar doorway of what was supposed to be a Beverly Hills mansion.
“Where’d you get that picture?”
“At Bob Matthews and Jill Baker’s farmhouse.”
“Is it a match?”
Sharon sighed. “That’s why I got the magnifying glass out. I’ve been comparing stone for stone, and they’re similar but not a match.”
“There must be thousands of those old stone farmhouses or wooden ones with stone entryways in Pennsylvania,” Brad said. “When the Pennsylvania turnpike opened they even designed the rest areas to emulate that look.”
“Yeah, I got excited last evening when I first saw their house. I didn’t get back here until late, and had trouble sleeping, so I’ve been in the office since about six. I wrote a summary of my meeting,” Sharon said, pointing to a printout on his side of the desk. “I included a photo of Bob and Jill.”
“Thanks.” Brad settled into his side of the desk and opened his e-mail, before turning his attention to her report.
“Oh, and I read the Inquirer,” Sharon said, handing him the newspaper, “in case you wondered where it was.”
“You’ve been busy,” Brad said. “I’ll be playing catch up the rest of the day.”
Sharon dismissed his comment with a “Ha.” Then she shifted gears. “The Inquirer reports that J. Archibald Greer will represent the guy who killed his wife and the city councilman.”
Not surprising, Brad thought. “Archie’s the best criminal lawyer in the city, and he likes to be in front of a camera, of which there’ll be ample opportunity in that case.”
Sharon grunted her agreement, and Brad saw that her attention was drawn to her computer screen.
Brad studied the photograph of Bob Matthews and Jill Baker. Their youth struck him, as they appeared not too many years older than the charges they’d worked with at Maple Grove. He’d be interested to see what Jill’s first husband looked like when he got to the scheduled meeting with Kevin Baker that afternoon. He read Sharon’s thorough meeting summary and laughed at the description of her encounter with the composting toilet.
“Do you think Jill was telling the truth about the reason for the tripod?” Brad asked.
“I don’t know. I mean, we’re looking for a porn video-making site and the required equipment, then up pops a totally bare bedroom with a tripod in it. I left a message for Karen Matthews; she ought to know if her ex-husband was into astronomy.”
Brad nodded.
He filled Sharon in on his meeting with Carolyn Whiting, his encounter with her assistant, Ross Gibson, and the cottage parents who recognized Tanner Jankowski, another Maple Grove juvenile in the porn videos. Brad told her about his run-in with Wanda Shaw’s neighbor, and Jake’s recollection from the morning Tim Shaw was murdered.
“If what her neighbor said is true,” Sharon said, “there are three witnesses to Tim Shaw’s death.”
“Yes. I think you should call your new best friend, Detective Nelson and suggest he visit with Jake. I never got Jake’s last name, but he lives directly across the street from Wanda’s trailer. While you’re talking with him see if there’s any chance we could listen to the 9-1-1 call about Tim Shaw.”
Sharon made notes. “Will do.”
“You have anything scheduled tomorrow morning?” Brad asked.
“Not yet.”
“I think it’s time for a case review.”
“I agree,” Sharon said. “I’ll prepare a white board this afternoon and chart all the evidence we have so far.”
The desk phone rang, and Brad picked up. “This is Brad Frame.”
“You still working on that porn case?” Brad recognized Nick Argostino’s voice.
“Yep. Why?”
“I noticed something,” Nick said, “when I surfed that site.” Brad smiled. He suspected Nick would look at the porn. “Check out the video called Erotic Vision.”
“Okay,” Brad said, not sure where Nick was headed.
“The woman’s voice has been dubbed,” Nick said. “I doubt English is even her second language.”
“Let me pull it up.” Brad logged on to the XRatedSugarX.com site, used the password Sharon had given him, and clicked on the Erotic Vision video. He fast-forwarded past the opening to the point where the two performers were sitting at the foot of the bed. Sharon heard the sound of the video, looked up from her computer screen, and frowned.
Brad covered the receiver, and said, “It’s Nick. He called with a tip about one of the videos.”
The videos generally followed a similar format, and Brad knew that whatever dialogue there was would occur early in the scene, followed by grunts, groans and heavy breathing. He watched for about a minute and saw that the words the woman spoke didn’t match the movement of her lips.
“Maybe I should find a lip reader who knows Spanish,” Brad said, noting the woman’s dark hair and Latino features.
“I doubt she’s giving her name, address and telephone number,” Nick said. “The director probably told her to just say anything. For all I know she’s reciting the Hail Mary.”
“Thanks for the tip, Nick. Does Ruth know you’re watching porn?”
“Nah, she’s too busy shopping for clothes for that trip you gave us.” Nick chuckled. “I needed a hobby to occupy my time.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The Lancaster County Jail looked like a medieval fortress built of sandstone and anchored with huge circular towers, from the tops of which Brad could imagine men in plated armor positioned with crossbows. The main entrance only needed a moat and drawbridge to complete the illusion.
Brad had visited a few correctional facilities in his life, but none quite as imposing as the one on King Street in downtown Lancaster. Originally
built in 1851, it had been enlarged over the years, including a seven-story addition, and held 1,200 prisoners in over-crowded conditions.
Kevin Baker suggested they meet at 2:30 p.m. He had to work from 3 – 11 but agreed to come in early since once his shift started he’d be tied up with meetings and appointments. Kevin told Brad to call when he arrived at the jail, and that he’d sign him through security. By the time Brad reached the entry Kevin Baker was waiting for him.
They sized each other up, with Brad imagining that he was getting the same scrutiny as a new inmate. “Hold on,” Kevin said, “while I get you a visitor’s badge.”
Sharon had described Jill Baker as a brunette Barbie doll, and that image stuck in his head as Brad saw Kevin as her beach party counterpart, including spiked blond hair. He wore khakis, a brown polo shirt, and grinned with perfect white teeth that looked like they’d been capped. Kevin and Jill seemed a better physical match than pairing Jill with the Paul Bunyanesque Bob Matthews—complete with plaid flannel shirt—he’d seen in the photograph.
“My office is this way,” Kevin said.
“This place looks like a castle,” Brad said, as they meandered their way through a labyrinth of concrete block walls.
Kevin nodded. “It was designed after one in England. A hundred years ago they used to hang condemned prisoners in here.” He said it with smugness in his voice, as if he might be in favor of resuming the practice. Brad had witnessed the modern day execution of one of the men responsible for the kidnapping and murder of his mother and sister. The process, though sanitized, still seemed barbaric. Several years later he didn’t feel any sense of closure. The murder and its consequences would haunt him for the rest of his life.
As they walked side by side down the corridor, Brad heard a muffled ring tone that sounded like the clang of the bell on a San Francisco cable car. Kevin pulled a smartphone out of his pocket—the kind with a slide out keyboard—and held it with both hands, his thumbs moving like pistons over the keys. Perhaps ‘Can you walk and text at the same time?’ had replaced the walk and chew gum multi-tasking threshold.
Kevin came to an abrupt halt in front of a door, where he inserted a key, unlocked it, pushed the door open and made a grand gesture with his right hand. “Here we are.”
Brad entered the tiny office and noted that there was a sidelight next to the door, which provided no office privacy, and a narrow slit of a window behind Kevin’s desk that allowed very little sunlight into the space. As he sat in a cushioned metal chair, Brad wondered about the advisability and safety of meeting with prisoners in such a confined space. Kevin must have read his mind since he said, “This is my work space to prepare reports, make confidential phone calls, et cetera. When I meet with one of the inmates it’s in an area supervised by the guards.”
Kevin’s phone jingled again. He took it out of his pocket, and said, “Hold on.” Once more his thumbs scuttled across the keyboard typing feverishly.
He laid the phone on his desk, and looked at Brad. “Sorry about that.”
“I understand you’re a counselor here?” Brad asked.
Kevin arched an eyebrow as if to say is that really why you wanted to see me, but then warmed to the question. “I guess you could call it that. There are two types of prisoners here, those awaiting trial and the ones who have had their day in court and have been sentenced to do time here in the county; usually less than two years. I counsel those on work release and also do pre-release planning.”
“Would work release be to a job they had before they were arrested?”
“In most cases. We monitor the work sites to make sure that the prisoner shows up and puts in their required time. One of the biggest areas of counseling is making sure they stay focused on their responsibilities. There is a lot of temptation to go out for a beer after work, or stop by the girlfriend’s house. I mean, if you just spent a day out in the real world, how easy would it be for you to walk back in here for confinement?”
Brad nodded that he understood.
“We try to keep them centered on success and help work through any problems they might be having at their job with the boss, or co-workers—including the few who want the guy to fail.”
“Why would anyone want that?”
“Lots of reasons. In tough economic times, a guy figures that if he can get the ‘inmate’ fired he improves his own job security, and maybe picks up overtime.”
Man’s inhumanity to man.
“As I told you over the phone,” Brad said, handing Kevin his business card, “during the course of trying to find Jeremy Young we’ve discovered his participation in adult videos and have reason to suspect that Maple Grove has become recruiting territory for, in some instances, child pornography. You knew Jeremy when you worked there.” Brad laid a picture of Tim Shaw on the desk, and said, “I’m wondering if you knew this young man?”
Kevin barely looked at the photo. “Jill told me what happened. I might have met Tony’s brother once.”
Damn. Jill Baker had deprived Brad of any element of surprise on the news of Tony Shaw’s death.
“You stay in touch with her?” Brad asked.
Kevin shrugged. “We’re still friends. She texts me.” He pointed at his phone. “I’m not sure how happy she is in eco-paradise. Of course, she never consulted me on her choice of lovers.”
“Let me show you a few other pictures and see if you recognize anyone.” Brad handed him the photos captured from the web videos.
Kevin worked his way through the stack. “Here’s Jeremy.” He set the photograph aside. “And that’s Tim,” he said, placing the picture on top of Jeremy’s. “It has to be,” he added, “since he looks like his brother Tony.”
Brad noted that was exactly Jill’s reaction, as Sharon had summarized in her report.
Kevin picked up the pace as he rifled through the stack, and Brad wondered if he was giving them enough attention since he’d already heard from Jill regarding the ones he would recognize.
Kevin stopped when he reached the photograph of “Annabelle,” the woman with the butterfly tattoo who’d been in the Cougar Dreams video with Jeremy. He furrowed his brow and pursed his lips, opened his mouth to speak, then swiftly shut it.
“What is it?”
Kevin rubbed his forehead. “I’ve seen her. I just can’t remember where.”
“I’m not in any rush,” Brad said. “Take your time.”
Kevin glanced at his watch. “Unfortunately, I’ve only got about fifteen minutes till I have to head to a meeting.” Kevin glanced between Brad and the photo. “Nothing’s coming to me.”
Brad thought if he changed the subject, Kevin’s subconscious might recall where he’d seen the woman. “Did you know Ross Gibson at Maple Grove?”
Kevin laughed. “The power behind the throne.”
“Say more,” Brad prompted.
Kevin swiped the air. “He’s a turd. Never did anything for me. Jill tried to appeal to him when Whiting wanted to fire all of us and got nowhere. I guess you’ll be dealing with him more now.”
Brad looked at him quizzically. “What do you mean?”
“Carolyn Whiting is out at Maple Grove. They named Martha Amendola as Acting Director.”
“Where’d you hear this?”
“That’s what I was texting about. It just happened during their Board meeting this morning.”
Brad couldn’t believe this development. “She’s fired?”
“They said ‘suspended pending an investigation,’ but I wouldn’t count on her getting her job back anytime soon. Oh, and when I referred earlier to Ross being the power behind the throne, I meant Martha Amendola’s throne. I’d bet he had everything to do with Whiting being pushed out.”
Brad digested this new information, which felt like a setback to his own investigation. Though Carolyn Whiting hadn’t been as forthcoming as he would have liked, Ross Gibson wasn’t any more cooperative, and if what Kevin said was true, would stand in his way of getting an audience with
the new administrator.
Kevin’s eyes widened, and he grabbed his phone and said, “Hold on.” This appeared to be his favorite phrase.
Kevin punched numbers into the phone and held it to his ear. “Dede, could you come over to my office?”
After a pause, he said, “Like now. Yeah, somebody’s here.”
With the phone still in his hands Kevin used the keyboard to send another text message. “Sorry about that.” He placed the smartphone on the desk in front of him.
A tap sounded on his door, and Kevin called out, “Come in.”
A woman in her mid-thirties with a short Afro dyed red came through the door. Brad stood. Dede was dressed similarly to Kevin, but wore a white North Face Denali jacket over a purple polo shirt. There was barely enough air in the room for three people, and only two chairs.
“Dede, this is Brad Frame, a private investigator,” Kevin said.
She cautiously extended her hand saying, “Dede Watkins.”
“Dede works as a counselor with our female inmates,” Kevin explained, while Brad tried to offer her his chair, which she declined. Kevin handed “Annabelle’s” picture to Dede. “Does this lady look familiar?”
Her audible intake of air signaled that she recognized the photo.
“Is that Christa?” Kevin asked.
Dede nodded, then growled, “Where’d you get this? What’s going on?”
“It seems Christa’s been making porn with juveniles.” Kevin dropped that news as casually as announcing that it might rain in another hour.
Brad looked at the two of them before asking, “Is she a prisoner here?”
“She was,” Dede said. “Christa was one of our work release clients but failed to return from her work site a couple months ago, ah… maybe the end of June.”
That would fit with the woman’s visit to Susan Young’s home, and Jeremy’s subsequent disappearance from Maple Grove.
“Dede and I tried having a co-ed support group for work release inmates back in the spring. We were hoping to deal with issues of sexual tension in the workplace, but the idea fizzled. We only had, what, two meetings?”