Hidden Vices

by C. J. Carpenter

  She forced herself to watch the other videos. The violence varied from boy to boy. However, each boy’s face could easily be seen, especially the tears and the annihilation of their youth.

  Megan turned her computer off and sat numb until the walls of the room felt as though they were closing in, ready to crumble around her, pinning her down with the horrific scenes she’d just witnessed. She stood up, needing to steady herself for a moment before walking over to the sliding glass door. She didn’t care how hard the snow was coming down. She didn’t care how cold it was; she had to get out of the room, away from that computer and those videos. She fell to her knees on the cold deck, leaned forward, and sobbed until there was nothing left. During the last few months her tears were for different, more personal reasons. With what she’d just witnessed, after all her years on the force, not even her last case came close to this level of perversion.

  They’re so young, so innocent.

  Megan let out a deep breath.

  Not anymore they’re not.

  Megan took a long hot shower, a modest attempt to cleanse her mind of what she’d witnessed. Two Valiums and a glass of wine were needed to get even a minimal amount of sleep that night. As she double-checked the locks and the alarm on the lake house, she was pleased to see flashing lights at the judge’s home.

  “You’re welcome, asshole.”

  When she woke, she donned leather gloves, cleaned her finger prints off the DVDs and their boxes, and found a padded brown envelope. All the while she tried to figure out the best way to forward the DVDs to the detectives. She’d checked the morning newspaper wondering if anything had been written regarding suspects in the judge’s murder. Nothing, though there was still plenty commemorating the life of that sick bastard. Which, Megan thought, is probably good news for Vivian, for now. If they had arrested her, it would have received top headlines. She needed to get ready and find Callie, but her first mission was to rid Chez Mack of the grotesque sex tapes. She closed the brown envelope and addressed it to the Mount Arlington Town Police, Attention Detective Krause. She slapped on more than enough stamps to ensure it would arrive and threw the pouch on the passenger seat.

  Megan started to drive to Lake Mohawk. Working off little sleep and thinking of the boys in the videos, she couldn’t help but be distracted. She missed the turn she was supposed to take and found herself traveling toward Lake Hopatcong State Park. She was looking for a place to turn around when she saw the sign for the Lake Hopatcong Historical Museum. She wasn’t about to take a museum tour, but the symbol embossed on the sign made her pull over. She took out her cell phone and opened the pictures application. The symbol from the robes Megan had photographed was an exact match for the symbol of the Lake Hopatcong Museum.

  On the other hand, a quick tour might be a good idea.

  The museum was a rustic white building more similar to homes on the lake than a museum. An older woman greeted Megan from behind a desk when she entered. The woman seemed happy to have company. She had a warm smile and wore a button-down sweater that had two turkeys embroidered on each side of the chest. Her nametag read Hope.

  Megan was counting on the sentiment of her name. She was near to her last drop of hope, especially after viewing the videos.

  “Why, hello there.”

  Megan fumbled for words in the quiet environment. It’s not as if she were preparing herself for loud crowds; this was not going to be an hour at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. There wouldn’t be busloads of tourists being dropped off, clicking their cameras in every direction of the museum, or sightseers wearing black socks and Birkenstocks. She didn’t need to worry about vacationers displaying confused looks as to what direction they needed to walk, or asking for directions with the kindness of a Rottweiler attacking a toddler. There would be no Manhattanites zigzagging around tourists attempting to decipher streets, bus stops, and subway stations on the maps of the city. No vendors here offered to draw your caricature or sell you I ♥ New York City t-shirts, artwork, and the occasional piece of jewelry.

  Megan brought her voice down to a whisper. “I’m new to the area and just wanted to look around.”

  The museum guide stared at Megan strangely and looked around. “Why are you whispering, hon? We’re the only ones here. Feel free to walk around.”

  Megan went to reach for cash. “What’s the fee?”

  “No charge, hon. It’s free admission.” She was so kind and had such a sweet temperament. Megan felt as though she was about to walk through another dungeon of secrets, but she was smart enough to know they were lies; this place appeared to be more of a shrine than a museum.

  “I can give you a brief tour, if you like?” Hope asked, clearly wanting to have something to fill the next few minutes with rather than sit and pretend she was busy.

  “That would be nice. I appreciate it. I do have a question or two,” Megan continued. “The symbol on the front of your sign, it’s unique. Is it the symbol of the town or something?”

  Hope adopted a somber tone. “Oh, well.” She crossed her arms. “I’m not sure how long you’ve been here, but there was a tragedy recently. A wonderful man in our community died suddenly.”

  Megan noticed Hope had looked away when the expression died was used. “Oh, I hadn’t known. And it has to do with the symbol, how?”

  “Well”—she pointed to a photo of a much younger Judge Campbell—“he paid for the whole museum, out of his own pocket. The only thing he asked was to place a family emblem on the museum’s signs. It wasn’t much of a request, when you think about it.”

  Family emblem, my ass. That’s his fucking calling card. Son of a bitch.

  Megan tolerated a few more minutes of history on the land, the lake, and local business, then she politely excused herself. But not without making a donation to the museum, for Hope’s sake.

  twenty-Three

  They had a translator for me while they searched my car. This fact didn’t make it less confusing or startling. I could tell by the look on Callie and Ms. McGinn’s face that something was wrong. The only thing I could think about was the man on the motorcycle, his hand around my mouth, unable to scream, and knowing I didn’t know how to scream, or even what a scream sounded like.

  I sat in the police station for a very long time. Mostly alone, but I knew I was being watched. I may be deaf, but there is closed captioning on television. I’ve seen the cop shows, which is why, even though I can’t speak, I still remained silent. Some people consider this to be my curse. Now silence was my savior.

  Megan parked in front of Krogh’s. Sparta was preparing for the holiday season. Local merchants were decorating their windows. Men on ladders attached holiday lights to the trees overlooking Lake Mohawk. She remembered a time when she loved the holidays. She, her brother Brendan, and their father would go to the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Her father would hoist her on his shoulders so she could see Santa when he waved to the crowd as he passed by. Afterward, there was a huge gathering for a Thanksgiving dinner with the McGinns and Murphys all together, but not this year. Three seats were empty at Thanksgiving and would be empty again at Christmas, and the reality of that gutted her.

  Megan noticed a mailbox on the corner near Krogh’s and dropped the package in. Good riddance. She couldn’t get the videos out of her possession soon enough. She knew the brutal images of the assaults, the pure savageness of them, would stay with her forever.

  Megan found Callie seated at the bar on his cell phone. He motioned for her to sit beside him and then waved down the bartender for drinks. He soon ended the call and gave Megan a kiss. “Thank you, and I’m sorry for what happened. Our argument.”

  She nodded, not wanting to say very much. “So, what’s going on?”

  “I found a lawyer, Phillip Thompson. He’s good. Very good.”

  “That means expensive,” Megan commented in a rather jaded tone, which didn’t go unn
oticed by Callie.

  “He’s a media whore. It’s pro bono. Are you okay?”

  “Where is Vivian now?”

  “Why are you ignoring my question?”

  Megan was anxious as well as exhausted and doing a poor job of masking her mood. “Is Vivian in custody?”

  “No, they released her a few hours ago. I took her back to the gatehouse. They impounded her car to do a more thorough search; at least, I think that’s why they did. Police were all over Campbell’s house when we got back. Do you know why?”

  Megan rubbed her forehead and thought aloud. “They didn’t arrest her. They know they don’t have enough evidence. What time did they release her?”

  “What does that matter?”

  “Callie, what time did they release her? Jesus Christ, just answer the fucking question!” she snapped at him. She didn’t mean to, but she was feeling too much, thinking too much. “Sorry. I had a long night.”

  “I dropped Vivian at the gatehouse about three or four this morning. Why?”

  Megan was hesitant, not wanting to relive what she’d witnessed on the videos. She leaned in close to Callie and barely whispered, “I searched through Campbell’s house.”

  “You broke into his house?” Callie was shocked. “I never asked you to break laws, Trouble; I just wanted your contacts, your influence. What in hell made you do that?”

  Megan shook her head. “Don’t. Don’t.” She held up her hand. “You don’t get a chance to lecture me or judge my actions. You haven’t been where I’ve been.” Megan knew she wasn’t talking about Campbell’s room when she made the statement; she meant the last six months of her life. “I found a room,” she said, signaling for a second drink. “It was a secret room.”

  “Like a panic room?” Callie asked.

  “Maybe for some.” She knew it was poor form to say that and shook her head. “It was a—a sex room. It was disgusting.”

  “How do you know?”

  Megan gave Callie a glare. “Callie, I’m not fucking stupid. Jesus, there were a bunch of sex toys and robes. Videos.”

  “What? Videos?” Callie finished his drink and ordered a second. “Megan, what are you telling me?”

  She was just going to say it, hard and honest. “Campbell and others raped young boys. It was some kind of sex cult.”

  Callie swallowed hard. “You know there were videos? Did you watch them? What … what happened?”

  “It’s brutal, and beyond disgusting. I took three out of his home.”

  “Oh my God. You stole things from a crime scene. What were you thinking?”

  “They’ve been returned.” Megan stared straight ahead when she answered. “And if you’re suggesting I broke a law, think about what that man”—Megan pointed down at the newspaper on the bar, Judge Campbell’s picture once again gracing the front page—“and his sick bastard friends did to those boys.” She needed to change the course of the conversation. “So, Vivian is back home, for now. That’s good. They didn’t have enough to charge her, but it also means she’s still in the line of fire, even with what the police have uncovered. When do you see this lawyer?”

  “We. In one hour at Vivian’s. We’ll take my car since yours is so recognizable.”

  Neither Megan nor Callie were very hungry, but they needed to kill some of the alcohol in their systems. They ordered lunch to share. Megan couldn’t help but state the obvious: “Callie, when all this comes out, this town is going to explode. You know that, right?”

  His stare was vacant. “Yeah. How many videos were there?”

  “What?” Megan was thrown by the question. “I don’t know, why?”

  “Do you think Vivian was in one?”

  “No. It seemed to be just boys, very scared boys.”

  “While we were at the police station, I remembered thinking about her car, Vivian’s car. She had it in the shop for service a few days ago. So someone else had access to it. What do you think?”

  “Anything is possible. I mean, someone could have done it right here, outside the restaurant, but, yes, it’s possible it happened at the garage.” She turned to Callie. “Wait, why do I have the feeling you want me to somehow look into this garage?”

  He squinted. “Didn’t you mention that your engine light keeps coming on?” He stared down into his beer, waiting for her to get his shameful suggestion.

  Megan ignored the coy attempt. “Where is the garage?”

  “Right near Vivian’s, around the corner. Actually it’s on the way to your place.”

  “Does a woman run the shop, she pumps gas?”

  “Yeah, her name is Lynn. She owns the place, and her son works in the shop.”

  “I stopped there when I first arrived.”

  “And you’ll be stopping by again.” He smiled, nudging her elbow. Then Callie noticed the time. “Let’s go to Vivian’s. I’m parked out back.”

  They walked through the kitchen and were nearly out the door when Megan glanced to her right and stopped dead. A burlap sack filled with vegetables was on the counter.

  “What’s the matter, Trouble, you’ve never seen vegetables before?”

  Twenty-Four

  Megan was quiet as they drove to Vivian’s to meet with the pro bono lawyer. Seeing the burlap bag in Callie’s restaurant forced her to recall the incident on the dock. The memory ran in snapshot mode through her mind as she tried to piece together the event with the clarity she had when working a case. What was the most overpowering were the smells. The pungent smell of the sack, which she was now sure had most likely been filled with onions at some point. The smell of smoke. The cigarettes had dark tips, but there wasn’t enough time to see the brand. There wasn’t time for anything, except to survive the moment. Survive the moment, as she hoped the boys she witnessed in the sex videos had, though her experiences on the force made her think and know differently. Her gut, as it slowly returned to being the honed tracking device she relied on in her life, didn’t leave much hope for those victims. Still, there’s a chance, she thought to herself.

  It was obvious the lawyer had already arrived, given the sleek black Porsche parked in Vivian’s driveway. For every pro bono

  defense Phillip Thompson worked, he surely defended some very rich clients.

  “I should have stayed in pre-law,” Callie said with an air of jealousy.

  “Is it too late for me to marry rich?” Megan asked, giving Callie a gentle elbow jab.

  Callie smiled. “I’d marry this guy, are you kidding me?”

  They rang the doorbell. The lights flickered. Vivian answered the door immediately, signing with Callie.

  Phillip Thompson stood up from the couch in the living room. He was not at all what Megan expected. She presumed he’d be tall, cocky. Pitbull lawyers have a way of handling themselves. Megan had seen enough of them in the courtroom. She’d dared even to call some of them menacing—not in regard to their looks but their courthouse style. Phillip Thompson was on the short side, with dark hair and glasses. His eyes were close together with arched eyebrows. His countenance, to Megan, was very jackal-esque. Smart, with laser-sharp attention and ready to pounce on any weakness. In any other circumstance, Megan would have hated him. In this situation, she knew that if anything were to happen to Vivian, this was the kind of lawyer that would be needed.

  “I’m Phillip Thompson. No need for your introduction, obviously,” he directed toward Megan.

  Fucking Oompa-Loompa, Megan thought. She disguised her reaction by biting her lip so hard she was going to morph into Angelina Jolie.

  Callie looked Megan’s way and mouthed, “Please, don’t.”

  Phillip continued with his introductory speech. “Here is what we have so far, Callie. Would you please translate while I speak?” Phillip didn’t wait for a response. “The good news is if they had any hard evidence on Vivian, she would have been arre
sted on the spot. Now, it doesn’t mean they don’t have anything. They could be holding on to information as they gather more evidence. I don’t need to tell you that finding a knife in the trunk of her car goes against her.”

  “We think it was planted. A setup,” Callie said.

  “Vivian had her car in the shop for over twenty-four hours this week. Anyone could have had access to it to place the knife,” Megan said in a monotone.

  Phillip nodded. “I’ll need the information on that, name of the garage, who worked on the car, how long it was there.”

  Vivian was signing back as fast as Callie was translating.

  “She says she has all the paperwork of the work done on the car, but it’s in the glove box of the car and the car is in the police impound lot. Is there a way to get to it?” Callie asked.

  “The garage, I’m sure, has a copy of everything. I’d rather go that route than deal with the red tape to get into the car while in police custody. Small towns have a way of putting up roadblocks, especially in a case involving this particular victim.”

  It didn’t take a cast-iron skillet to hit Megan over the head (though many perps she’d locked up over the years would have enjoyed the moment) to make it obvious there had been bad blood between Phillip Thompson and Judge Monty Campbell.

  “I’m curious, Mr. Thompson.” She noted he didn’t ask her to refer to him as Phillip. “Why take on this case? How did Campbell cross you?”

  He offered a respectful nod and an ominous smile. “Let’s say Judge Campbell impeded certain employment opportunities I was overtly qualified for, and leave it at that.”

  Megan possessed many attributes—some conflicting and dark, some clear as a crystal vase—but being wrong was usually not one of them. She smiled, gaining another inch in the direction of reclaiming a piece of her broken self.

  Broken, not shattered, she reminded herself.

  Vivian’s signing became faster, so fast Callie had a hard time keeping up with her.