by Radclyffe
“Because I don’t want you to worry. I don’t want you to hate what I do,” Rebecca admitted. The foot of space between them felt like a hundred miles, and it hurt so much more now than she had hurt an hour ago. She was doing this all wrong, but she couldn’t think of the right way to do it. Desperately, she whispered, “Because I don’t know what else to do.”
“I’m sorry,” Catherine said softly, withdrawing her fingers from Rebecca’s grasp. “We can’t do this now. You need to rest.”
“Catherine—”
“Jim says your CAT scan looked good. It might be a while before they move you upstairs to a bed. You should try to sleep. I’ll come by tomorrow to see how you’re doing.”
“Okay.” Rebecca swallowed the plea for her to stay, a sinking feeling in her stomach. It was all coming apart.
Catherine turned to leave, then looked back over her shoulder. “Is there anyone you want me to call? Watts?”
“No. I’ll call him.”
“Sandy?”
“No. Catherine—”
“Get some sleep,” she said softly as she closed the door behind her.
Chapter Thirteen
“What do you mean you don’t have any record of her?” Catherine snapped into her cell phone’s wireless mic while she attempted to maneuver through early rush-hour traffic. “She should have been admitted last night. I don’t know—sometime after midnight. Are you spelling the last name correctly? That’s Frye—with an ‘e’ on the end.”
She listened for a few seconds, eyes searching the street for a parking place on the block with the address she had been given. Pulling to the curb, she said with uncharacteristic irritation, “Never mind. I don’t have time to wait. I’ll call back later.”
She clicked off the cell phone, cut the ignition, and sat for a few seconds behind the wheel, waiting for the last shards of frustration to ebb. I should have stayed at the hospital last night. It was ridiculous to think I could do this briefing now, not knowing how she is. If I were a patient, I’d say this is a very good example of self-delusion resulting from lousy conflict management and unresolved anger.
“Well, thank you, Doctor. That’s very helpful,” she said out loud in disgust. Glancing at her watch, she saw that she had five minutes to find the building. “And now you can just do what you came here to do.”
She locked the car and started north on Front Street, checking the building numbers as she walked. Fortunately, she had guessed right and had started searching in the appropriate direction. In less than a minute, she was standing on the steps of an unremarkable-looking warehouse, fumbling in her briefcase for her wallet and a photo ID. After the disembodied voice instructed her to enter and an electronic lock clicked open, she stepped through into the cavernous ground floor and proceeded toward the elevator as she had been directed.
As curious as she was about the place, her mind was only half on her surroundings. She had spent yet another restless night, finding it difficult to fall asleep after the adrenaline surge of emotions that had started when she had first gotten the call from Sandy and hadn’t begun to abate until she had been satisfied that Rebecca was out of danger. It had been excruciatingly hard to leave her, but the evening had brought up too many conflicting feelings—fear, anger, and unexpectedly, jealousy. The conversation had been deteriorating, and she doubted either of them was equipped to deal with the aftermath of an argument in the middle of the night. Nevertheless, when she had finally slid naked beneath the sheets, she had ached for her lover, body and soul.
The elevator stopped smoothly and opened with no more than a whisper, whereupon she found herself looking out into an enormous room filled with electronic equipment. It was time to set her personal life aside and do her job. As she stepped out into the hall that ran along one side of the building opposite the warren of computer stations, she glanced right and left looking for someone who might know the whereabouts of the meeting. Almost immediately, she saw a woman approaching in jeans and an open-collared navy shirt. At first glance, the startlingly attractive dark-haired stranger didn’t strike Catherine as being a law-enforcement officer of any type. Even discounting her decidedly informal appearance, she moved with a kind of casual confidence that suggested she rarely worried about protocol. There was none of the tight focus that Rebecca displayed when she was working or the self-important attitude of the typical bureaucrat. If she were asked to guess, Catherine would say this was the private consultant.
“Good morning,” Catherine said as the woman drew near. “I’m Dr. Catherine Rawlings.”
“J. T. Sloan, Doctor.” Sloan extended her hand to the elegant, auburn-haired woman in the stylish beige suit. “We were just gathering in the conference room. I’ll take you there.”
“Thank you.”
As they walked, Sloan explained, “Unfortunately, the full team isn’t here at the moment. I know your schedule is very tight, so we’ll go with what we have for now. I’ll fill in the others later.”
Much later, Catherine thought to herself, but she merely nodded. She wondered, not for the first time that morning, if Rebecca would be pulled from the case. At this point, it should be evident to everyone at police headquarters that the detective wasn’t ready to go back to work. In some ways, it was fortunate that the episode had occurred when it did. If it had happened when Rebecca was in the middle of an altercation, or even if she had just been out on the street alone, the outcome could have been fatal. At any rate, she was out of danger for the moment, and Catherine gratefully cleared her mind to focus on the job at hand.
As she followed Sloan into a glass-enclosed conference room, several people stood and turned in her direction. One of them she already knew, but she kept any sign of recognition from her face.
“Dr. Rawlings,” Sloan gestured as she spoke, “this is my associate, Jason McBride…Agent Clark, there at the end of the table…and Officer Mitchell, who is with the Philadelphia Police Department.”
Catherine shook each individual’s hand in turn, saying merely, “Officer Mitchell,” in a neutral tone when she got to the young woman.
It wasn’t uncommon for her to run into patients in social or professional settings. And though she tried to anticipate when that might happen and discuss with the patient their feelings about the situation beforehand, it wasn’t always possible to do that. She had known Mitchell was involved in a task force that might have been this one, but she hadn’t really expected her to be at the briefing. As was usual when something unforeseen like this happened, they would have to deal with it later.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice, Doctor,” Clark said with an appreciative smile. Looking pointedly at Sloan, he added, “Our investigation is moving a little faster than we had anticipated. Since I know that time is short, and I expect that what Ms. Sloan and Mr. McBride have to discuss will be of most use to you, let me say a few brief words and then turn it over to them.”
Catherine listened while he gave her a capsule summary of the task force’s purpose and some background on the results of similar operations across the nation, but she was watching the people at the table as he spoke, trying to get a sense of how the individuals fit into the team. Clark, the federal representative, alone at one end of the table, was clearly the titular head, but she had the feeling that Sloan, an arm draped over the back of her chair in an utterly relaxed pose, was the real leader. The woman projected an incredible sense of self-assurance, and as she toyed with a pencil, her eyes fixed on a spot in the center of the table, she reminded Catherine of a great, sleek predator fixing on its prey. Her associate, the remarkably handsome man by her side, was completely expressionless, but his eyes glinted with intelligence. Mitchell sat stiffly to her right, and Catherine wasn’t certain if the rigid pose was due to her presence or just the young officer’s natural intensity.
Were Rebecca present, Catherine knew, she’d be sitting across from Sloan, the two of them perfectly matched in skill and drive. Rebecca, relentlessly single-minded when in
pursuit of a suspect, was every bit the hunter Sloan appeared to be. The thought of Rebecca brought a swift surge of longing, and Catherine brought her complete attention back to Clark before her mind could wander further down distracting avenues.
He was saying, “We have general information pertaining to perpetrator profiles that have been generated by other investigations. What we need, Doctor—actually, what our computers experts need—is a way to flag the contacts with the most potential to lead us into a real-life meeting. Any specific guidance you can provide would be welcome.”
“Before we talk about profiling,” Catherine said, turning her attention to Sloan and her colleague, “it would help if you explained how you’ve approached the problem. What I have to say may very well be redundant.”
“It wouldn’t be for me, ma’am,” Mitchell said from beside Catherine, meeting her gaze unwaveringly when Catherine glanced her way.
“I agree, Doctor,” Sloan added, wanting to hear what the psychiatrist had to say. She’d had enough experience with Bureau profilers to know that they were often too rigid with their composites to be of any real use in dealing with individual cases. In all fairness, that probably resulted from the necessity of using probability models. Still, a practicing clinician like Rawlings, with real-life experience, might have a different take. From the brief rundown Clark had given her, this woman was supposed to be an excellent forensic consultant, even though it wasn’t her primary specialty.
“Let me tell you where we stand,” Sloan elaborated. “Thus far Jason has focused on establishing an Internet presence by adopting various personae that might be attractive to someone who is interested in preteens or adolescents. I’ve been working to localize areas of concentrated activity by targeting intersecting or overlapping patterns of transmission, site traffic, and financial expenditures. The theory being that eventually, between the two of us, we’ll have a list that can be cross-referenced using additional identifiers to produce a manageable number of individuals for actual investigation. Jason and I are close to narrowing down the search, and while we started with a broad net, we’ve found ourselves with more potential avenues of pursuit than we could possibly explore. Very shortly, we’re going to be in one-on-one situations, and there’s a real likelihood of scaring these guys away if we go about it incorrectly.”
Smiling, Catherine replied, “All right then. I’ll hit the highlights and then you tell me what else you need from me.”
“Excellent,” Sloan replied, liking the psychiatrist’s composed, noncompetitive attitude. There was no evidence of the turf struggles she’d previously experienced within the agency when different departments collaborated. And there was sincerity in the woman’s calm, ocean green eyes that instilled trust. Sloan caught herself short and almost grinned at her uncharacteristic reaction. She bet Catherine Rawlings was one hell of a psychiatrist. “Fire away, Doctor.”
“What we’re talking about here is typology,” Catherine began, “profiling, if you will. Despite popular conceptions, I’m sure all of you realize that this is not hard science. We can make general assumptions, but there are always exceptions, and it pays to be flexible when assessing prospective perpetrators.”
Mitchell, Catherine noticed, was taking notes. “Pedophiles are almost always men and may be heterosexual or homosexual. It’s difficult to determine the percentages, because so many instances are never reported. I assume this will have some bearing on how you focus your Internet search, and since I don’t know your starting point, my best advice would be to know the victims and begin there.”
“As far as we can ascertain,” Sloan said carefully, “the video productions we’re interested in tracking primarily depict adult men with adolescent girls. Jason is trying to make contacts both as a young girl and as an adult male.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Catherine responded. “The Internet provides a sense of anonymity, thus making many individuals more comfortable in revealing socially unacceptable preferences that they might otherwise keep hidden for fear of exposure and reprisal. On the other hand, that may make it easier for you to pick up on the truly serious pedophiles because they will have a false sense of security—believing that the Internet provides a blind behind which they can hide.”
“I’m sorry?” Mitchell asked abruptly. “Serious pedophiles as opposed to what?”
“Sorry. Poor choice of words. What we know is that many individuals, quite a large percentage, in fact, are content with graphic material and have no interest in instituting actual sexual contact. They will most likely never act on their fantasies.”
“Collectors,” Jason clarified. “The bulletin boards and newsgroups are filled with people who just want to trade image files. They look but don’t touch. Then there are the chatters, the ones who probably never take their interest behind the keyboard.”
“Precisely,” Catherine agreed. “These men rarely show any interest in exchanging files, but do spend hours on-line engaging in cybersex and occasionally escalating to phone sex. Both groups are on the bottom rung of the probability ladder in terms of the likelihood of seeking real-life sexual contact. Because the problem is so widespread, both geographically and in terms of numbers, it makes sense to focus on the theoretically more dangerous class of perpetrators. These would be the travelers—men who manipulate on-line relationships with children in an attempt to institute physical contact. They often set up meetings, pay for bus fare or plane tickets or hotel rooms in advance, and then coax kids into joining them.”
“How do we sort them out—or get them to expose themselves?” Sloan ignored Jason’s pointed groan at her unintended pun.
“If you were to ask me how to target an individual type—a man whom you could actually track down and ultimately arrest,” Catherine said by way of summary, “I’d say you need to bond with him, instill trust. And the fastest way to do that is to express the behaviors that you expect him to display. Instead of trying to make direct contact, which might seem suspicious, let him see you doing what he does—talk about the same kind of lust object, vocalize a desire for obtaining digital images, or, better yet, boast about a fabricated conquest. He’ll come to you eventually, because he’s seeking validation through sharing experience with others like himself.”
“Perfect,” Sloan said, giving Catherine an appreciative glance. Yeah, she’s good all right. “Jason? Any thoughts?”
He looked pensive. “Makes sense. I can focus more on my interactions in the chat rooms and try to attract some attention.”
“Mitchell?” Sloan added. “We can set up computer models to screen the chat transcripts for identifiers.”
Mitchell’s face lit up. “Absolutely.”
Catherine turned to Avery Clark. “It seems to me that your team already has the plan well in hand. I’m not certain how I can help you.”
“Agent Clark, I’d be very interested in hearing your thoughts on that, too,” a voice said from the doorway.
Everyone in the room turned as Rebecca and Watts walked in.
“Sorry we’re late,” Rebecca said, carefully avoiding Catherine’s eyes. “Traffic.” She and Watts took seats at the table while everyone murmured greetings.
“Dr. Rawlings,” Clark said, “this is Detective Sergeant—”
“We’ve met, thank you.” Catherine stared at Rebecca, who had taken the seat next to her, her initial disbelief rapidly giving way to something between incredulity and outrage. The detective was wearing the same clothes in which Catherine had last seen her, and it was obvious that she had come directly from the hospital. From the nearly translucent pallor of her skin and the hollow shadows beneath her eyes, it was also apparent that that was precisely where she still should have been—in a hospital bed.
While Clark perfunctorily outlined his reasons for consulting the psychiatrist, Sloan watched the nonverbal communication between the two women curiously, aware that the temperature in the room had suddenly plummeted to below freezing. Frye, after a brief nod to the psychiatrist, stared
pointedly ahead and Rawlings, appearing startled for a second, then looked away as well. Still, Sloan could have sworn the air between them vibrated, rather like the tremor in the tracks when a freight train approached. Something very volatile going on here—professional differences, maybe? Cops rarely take to theoreticians.
At that thought, Sloan smiled inwardly, reminded of her own theoretician and how very quickly and inextricably she had taken to her. Thinking about Michael in the middle of a meeting was a bad idea, because Michael, in body or spirit, was the only person she had ever encountered who could distract her. And she couldn’t afford to be distracted—not with Clark already hinting that he’d picked up on how quickly she and Jason had developed a working list of suspects. She wanted to end the briefing as quickly as possible, before Clark could push her for the specifics of their investigation or ask just how they had managed to assemble a preliminary list of potentials in record time.
Clearing her throat, Sloan said into the obvious silence, “We have transcripts of dozens of on-line chats between Jason and persons who thought he was a thirteen-year-old girl. We also have a number of hits from guys using a private bulletin board who’ve made overt or veiled allusions to movie distribution. It would be great to nail them—all of them—but what we really want are the manufacturers. Those are the guys who have set up their computers as FTP servers and are broadcasting to a select group of subscribers. With a videocam hook-up, they can produce live feeds of child sex. And they have the kids.”
“Locations?” Rebecca asked sharply. She needed a lead to chase, a case to work—something to take her mind off the hollow feeling in her chest that hurt every time she breathed. The pain had built all night in that place left barren by Catherine’s absence, until finally she hadn’t been able to stand it any longer, and she’d called Watts. Catherine sat next to her now, and it felt as if they were strangers. The loneliness had been so much easier to bear before—before she had known what it was to be touched. “Anything solid?” She hoped she didn’t sound as desperate as she felt.