Hate Crime

by William Bernhardt

  Until Agent Swift’s cell phone started playing the theme from Dragnet.

  “So what’s the story?” Mike asked, after she clamped her Nokia shut.

  “They’re offering to release the kid.”

  Mike’s eyebrow rose. He did not smile.

  “They want safe passage. An armored truck to get them to the airport, then a flight to New York that can refuel and continue on to the Netherlands.”

  “The Netherlands,” Mike repeated. “Child porn capital of the universe.”

  “They say they’ll leave Tommy somewhere safe and give us his location as soon as they’re out of the country.”

  Neither of them spoke for a long while.

  “You think they’ve already killed him?” Mike asked, finally.

  “Not yet. I talked to him, just for a moment. But it’s obvious they plan to. They can’t let him identify them, especially now that it’s a murder case. They’ll take him in the truck, slash his throat, and dump him somewhere he won’t be discovered until they’re safely in Amsterdam.”

  “What’d’you tell them?”

  “That we’d do it, of course. Assistant Director Blanchard was hovering over my shoulder the whole time. My orders are to comply with their demands in every respect. To take no aggressive action.”

  “Which means…”

  “Yeah. But the Bureau won’t be to blame. If we marched in all Waco-style and it went bad, the press would crucify us.”

  Mike let everything she was saying-and everything she was not saying-sink in. “So we’ve got?…”

  She was staring at her watch. “Twenty-eight minutes.”

  “Are you going to move in?”

  “Blanchard says no.”

  “If we let that kid get in the truck, he’s dead.”

  “I know that.”

  “Any chance your superiors would authorize a small incursion? Like maybe two people?”

  “None.”

  They looked at each other.

  “You got a plan?” he said finally.

  “Damn straight.”

  Mike checked the magazine in his gun. Fully loaded. “Let’s go.”

  Using the darkness to their advantage, Mike and Agent Swift crouched and ran to the apartment building, weaving a serpentine trail through the back alleys. They avoided the street lamps and stayed out of the view of the kidnappers’ sole window. Through the sniperscope, Mike had noticed there was a fire escape ladder that hung down the north wall of the complex. It was the only feasible approach. The kidnappers had decommissioned the elevators and were watching the stairs.

  “I don’t know how we get into the room without being seen,” Swift whispered, as she followed him up the ladder.

  “I was thinking we’d use you as a decoy. You are wearing Kevlar, right?”

  “But seriously.”

  Above them, Mike heard glass being shattered.

  “Duck!”

  All around them, shards of glass from a windowpane descended in a dangerous crystalline rainfall. But that was not the worst of their problems. A moment later, the glass was supplanted by bullets.

  Mike leapt off the ladder onto the fourth-story landing and pressed up against the wall.

  “Over here!” he shouted.

  Another flurry of gunfire rang out. Swift rolled to the edge of the landing and took cover under the eaves. They stood shoulder to shoulder, craning their necks to see where the shots were coming from. A few moments later, the section of the fire escape stretching from the fourth to the fifth floor descended with an ear-shattering clang.

  “Damnation,” Mike swore. “They removed the bolts.”

  “So quickly?”

  “Must’ve known we were coming. But how? It’s dark. We were quiet.”

  “They might have night-vision specs. Maybe there are more of them than we realized.” She examined the ladder, now barely stretching beyond the ceiling level of the fourth floor. “Think you can reattach it?”

  “From up there? Sure. From down here? No way.” Mike raised his hand and pointed. “See that window?”

  She followed his finger to a point about five feet above them and to the left. “Looks like a hallway.”

  “Whatever. It can’t be far from their room. We can crawl through the window, knock down the door, and find our kidnappers. And the boy.”

  “How do we get the window open?”

  “Since they’re onto us, I see no reason to be subtle.” He whipped out his trusty Sig Sauer and fired three rounds. The window shattered. “We’ve got to hurry.”

  Swift was peering overhead. “That must be five feet, up to that window landing.”

  Mike nodded. “I can make it.”

  “And about thirty feet down.”

  “And your point is?”

  “Don’t miss.”

  “Thanks, I won’t.” He sidestepped to the edge of the landing.

  She grabbed his arm. “What about the gunfire?”

  “I think I should try to avoid it.”

  She tugged at his shirt. “No, I’ll go.”

  “This was my crazy idea.”

  “I’m lighter. I’m much more likely to make it.”

  “There’s no way I’m letting-”

  “Back off, Morelli. I’m in charge here.” She crouched down, ready to spring. “Give me a boost.”

  “But I-”

  “That’s an order, Major!”

  There was no time to argue. Mike cupped his hands together. Swift inserted her right boot, grabbed the wall, and let him lift her up. She stepped onto his shoulders and jumped.

  Mike grimaced as he saw her hands slap down on the jagged edge of the window. That had to hurt, but to her credit, she wasn’t complaining. She pulled herself through, then reemerged headfirst.

  “No sign of them. Push up the ladder.”

  Mike did as instructed. Swift hooked the edges over the top rail, and a moment later, they were both on the fifth floor. Mike raced down the hallway and kicked in the front door. “Police! Freeze!”

  He crouched and swung into the room, gun extended, and did a quick sweep. He went off to the right toward the bedroom, while Swift moved into the kitchenette.

  No one was there.

  “All clear.”

  “What about in the back?”

  Together, they ran through the main living room and found another door in the rear. They could hear voices.

  “FBI!” Swift barked. “Hands up! Nobody move!”

  She kicked in the door and led the way. She took high left; he took low right.

  The voices they had heard were coming from the television. Cartoon Network, if Mike wasn’t mistaken. There was no one there.

  No one except Tommy Metzger.

  Agent Swift ran to the boy’s side. “Don’t worry, son. We’re the police. We’re here to take you home.”

  For the first time, the boy looked away from the television. He was holding a soda and a half-eaten Twinkie. “Go away!”

  Swift blinked. “Don’t be afraid, Tommy. You’re safe now. Where did the bad men go?”

  “They’re my friends! Leave them alone!”

  Mike sighed heavily. He was disappointed, but not surprised. It had been eight days. Stockholm Syndrome was a foreseeable consequence. “I’ll finish securing the apartment.” It didn’t take long, given the size of the place. There were lots of traces of people-empty pizza boxes, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, even a toothbrush. But no people.

  When he returned to the living room, Mike saw that Agent Swift had turned off the television, sending the boy into a rage. “You can’t tell me what to do! Where are my friends?”

  The worst of it was Mike knew the boy’s reaction increased the likelihood that he had been molested. Unlike rapists, who committed sexual crimes out of anger or sadism, pedophiles typically had genuine feelings for their victims. Rather than forcing themselves, they tried to seduce their victims with presents and favors and promises of love. A boy like Tommy, who probably felt neglected
by his own parents, was an easy mark. The pedophile had easily won his love and devotion, probably awakening erotic feelings in the boy for the first time. Tommy would be in therapy for a good long stretch, sorting out his confusion and guilt.

  “Please don’t make me go home! Please!”

  “I covered the apartment,” Mike said. “No sign of the kidnappers.”

  Swift pulled out her walkie-talkie. “Sierra One. Do you have the perps in sight?”

  “Negative. We have nothing.”

  She tried all the other sniper stations. No one had seen anything.

  “How can that be?” She gave the order to move in. Less than fifteen minutes later the FBI team had covered the entire building, most of which had already been evacuated. There were no traces of the criminals-or the ransom money. It was almost an hour before they located the inside door in the basement laundry room, which led to a subterranean passage from that basement to an adjacent one in the apartment complex on the opposite side of the block.

  “Damn!” Swift said, banging her fist against the wall. “I can’t believe I let them get away!”

  “It’s not your fault,” Mike said.

  “The worst of it is, my perimeter snipers might’ve seen them leave an hour ago. But before we made our move, I pulled everyone in tight so they’d be sure to be caught after we flushed them out.”

  “You did the best you could,” Mike said, trying to console her, when in truth he was just as disappointed as she was, if not more. He didn’t like to see anyone escape-but child snatchers? It made him sick to his stomach.

  The parents had rushed to their boy, but Tommy didn’t want to be with them, and the Feds insisted on immediately beginning the painful process of debriefing him, trying to find out what little he remembered about his abductors and learning all the grisly details about his week in captivity. So far, Tommy was saying no physical abuse had occurred, but Mike knew the kid could just be keeping it all locked up inside. It might take several days, even weeks, before they learned the truth.

  “Thanks for your help, Morelli,” Swift said, as she started toward her car. “Sorry it didn’t work out better.”

  “It isn’t over yet,” he replied, and he meant it. He was not going to let these people roam free. Not in his town-not anywhere. He would not stop searching. He would hunt them relentlessly. He would follow every lead, every possibility. He would catch those miserable perverts no matter what it took.

  2

  THREE MONTHS EARLIER

  Evanston, Illinois,

  near the Phillips College campus

  Fourteen miles north of Chicago

  “Which one do you think is the cop?” Shelly asked.

  Tony surveyed the entire bar-stools, tables, dance floor, TV monitors, pool tables. “Hard to say. What do you think?”

  Shelly tilted her head. “See the guy at Table Two? I think it’s him.”

  “Why him? I see several new faces in the bar tonight. The woman with the black leather fixation. The two nerds dancing the Batusi.”

  She shook her head. “Nope. Table Two.”

  “Because he’s wearing a tie?”

  “Because he has food stains on his tie. Also, check out the socks. They don’t match.”

  “And that makes him a cop?”

  “Who else would have such poor personal habits?”

  “Oh, anyone single. Which would be everyone in this bar.”

  “People coming to a singles bar hoping to hook up with someone are going to doll themselves up. Including guys. Only someone working undercover would wear those socks. I mean, one of them is argyle, for God’s sake. The other is a sweat sock. They’re not even close.”

  Tony relented. Shelly was an astute judge of humanity; that was why he put her behind the bar. “Maybe you’re right. But I’ve got my eyes on one of the guys next to the dance floor. Table Ten.”

  “Which one?”

  “The blonde.”

  “You’re saying he’s the cop? Or you’re just saying you have your eye on him?”

  Tony smiled. “How well you know me.”

  Shelly was, as Tony’s mother was fond of saying, cute as a bug. Barely five feet tall-she had to stand on a box to reach the glasses hanging over the bar. She had a pert, trim figure, and an effervescent personality that patrons loved. It was more than just her personal adorableness-even Tony loved to watched her work as she darted from one station to the next, working three mixed drinks simultaneously and getting them all exactly right. He loved it when she pumped the Bass Ale spigot; it made a pneumatic hissing noise that reminded him of the elevator brakes in the Sears Tower. Shelly was good, and he wasn’t the only one who knew it. Some of the regulars dropped by Remote Control just to see her. One of his very first actions when he became manager was making her head bartender for the after-work shift. Drink sales rose dramatically.

  Decisions like that were what put Tony where he was today. Not that managing a near-campus singles bar was going to rival Supreme Court justice as one of the country’s most desirable jobs. But given where he had come from, what he’d had to overcome to get to this point, he felt pretty good about it. The bar was thriving, and he liked to think he’d played some small part in that success, since the whole place was his idea.

  He’d spent the whole evening trying to keep a smile on his face, but the truth was all these rumors about undercover narcs were worrying him. Even if there was nothing to it, the gossip alone could put a serious dent in their business. And that caused him considerable concern.

  He tried to shrug it off, but there was a heaviness settling in, fogging his brain, that he couldn’t quite shake loose. It was nothing tangible or rational-but it was there, just the same. Like a shadow hovering over his shoulder. A pervasive uneasiness he couldn’t talk himself out of, since he didn’t know what was causing it. He’d had black patches before; they were always there, always lurking, the enemy within. He had tried to conquer them, without success. He thought he’d mastered the situation, but even that seemed in doubt, what with everything going on at the bar, at school. With Roger.

  He knew it was foolish to take everything that happened here so personally. Mario owned the place, not him. But he was its creator. He couldn’t help having some paternal feelings, weird as that was. To him, this job was one long party. And he needed that party. Needed it to remind himself that he was happy. No matter what happened. Happy, happy, happy.

  Remote Control was particularly crowded tonight. All the bar stools were filled and there was a half-hour wait for a table. All for the good. The bar was more fun when it was packed, more alive. The rich dark oak fixtures gave the place an Old World feel-in direct conflict with the ambience suggested by all the high-tech gadgetry. The decor was full of contradictions, and Tony embraced them all. He loved it here.

  “I’ve got two Coronas headed to your blond boytoy’s table,” Shelly said, sliding the tray toward him. “I know you executive types don’t normally perform manual labor, but-”

  “I’ll take it.”

  Tony checked himself in the mirror behind the bar. Sandy blond locks, bangs dangling over one eye the way he liked them. Could you tell he’d been working out? I mean, he could tell, but could anyone else? Like the blond guy at Table Ten?

  “Two Coronas for the gentlemen,” Tony announced as he lowered the tray. “As ordered.”

  The two men, one fair, the other darker in complexion, sat at opposite ends of the table. They were both young-probably college students. Not Phillips, though-more likely Northwestern. Perhaps even University of Chicago. They were doing their best to act earthy, but it wasn’t convincing. Like Bertie and Jeeves trying to do American Pie. Their perfectly creased chinos and perfectly unscuffed Doc Martens told the true tale. It was part of the John D. Rockfeller legacy to the University of Chicago -in addition to the pseudo-Oxfordian architecture that never quite worked. Phillips students were just townies by comparison.

  “Somethin’ goin’ on tonight?” the darker of
the two asked.

  Tony flashed his brightest smile. “There’s always something going on in Evanston, gentlemen. Beaches, boutiques, art galleries-just depends on what you’re looking for.”

  The blond guy smiled. “Ain’t that the truth.” What teeth. What a smile. What a way with words. Tony’s heart did flip-flops just looking at him.

  “Thought I saw you lookin’ around,” his companion said. “You and the chick behind the bar.”

  “There’s a rumor goin’ around that an undercover cop is haunting some of the local bars. Probably a crock, but we were trying to guess who the cop might be.”

  “So that’s all it was?”

  “Yeah. Why?”

  His blond friend grinned. “Brett thought you was givin’ him the eye.”

  They both looked at him. All at once, Tony felt like an amoeba in a science experiment. Were these guys gay, too? Was that why they were asking, because they were interested? Or just the opposite? He knew better than to assume gayness just because two guys hung out together. Especially when the frats were on the prowl. But it was so hard to know, even now when he was well out of the closet. Some of his gay buddies said they could always tell if another guy was gay, like they had some kind of biological radar. Tony didn’t believe it. In any case, even if that did exist somewhere, the radar fairy hadn’t brought him any. He never knew, and had learned to play it cool until he was certain.

  “Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. Just trying to spot the cop.”

  The blond man laughed. “Well, that’s good. Brett here thought maybe you were a faggot.”

  Tony felt his blood turn to ice. “Here’s the tab. If you need anything more, just wave at one of the waitresses.”

  The darker man was still staring at him. Even as Tony turned and walked away, he could feel those eyes bearing down on him. He positioned himself behind the bar, not so much to help Shelly as for the sense of security it offered. Putting a big block of oak between himself and Table Ten.