Ryan accepts the explanation that I haven't any food in the house because I eat out. A lot. It's a light moment in what I expect to be a very dark afternoon. He settles himself into a chair and pulls a textbook, a battered notebook and a well-chewed pencil out of his backpack. In a moment, he's mercifully lost in his homework and I force myself to begin my own.
Ryan said the files were in reverse chronological order. I hit the button and the picture snaps into focus. They've been taken with a digital camera and the sound quality is not very good. But the pictures don't need sound.
Trish is on the bed. She's alone, dressed only in underpants. Plain white underpants that look painfully youthful and innocent against her pale skin. She's looking toward the end of the bed. Then, a man's voice directs her to "touch herself." Her face reddens, but she slips one hand between her legs, and her panties bunch around her hand. Her fingers move against the fabric, and her skin flushes. As she brings herself to a climax, her legs draw toward her chest and her breath becomes shallow and quick.
The man's voice again, "Oh-oh. Daddy's home. What did daddy say happens to little girls who touch themselves?"
Trish's eyes grow big. She's watching someone approach from the side of the bed. He lifts her, bends her over his knees, and lowers her panties. He applies the palm of his hand to her naked bottom. He spanks her until Trish is kicking her legs and sobbing. Then he stops.
The voice again. "Naughty girl. But now Daddy will kiss it and make it all better."
Trish is spread-eagled face down on the bed. A man's head appears and he licks her until she stops crying. Then she's rolled over and he uses his fingers to bring her to another climax. This time there are no panties in the way. Trish's face is red with humiliation. She can no more control her physical reaction to the sexual manipulation than she can control her breathing. But the guilt she feels is stamped on her tear-streaked face.
I don't realize I've been holding my breath until the picture fades into blackout. My hands are bunched into fists at my side. Ryan's voice makes me jump.
"It's pretty awful, isn't it?"
He's been watching me and I didn't realize it. I can't bring myself to look at him.
"It's worse than awful." I lower the screen on the laptop. "I'm not sure I can watch anymore."
He heaves a deep sigh. "That last one is the worst. It's the reason Trish decided she had to leave. That spanking stuff? It was the first time they did that. The guy hurt her. She knew it wasn't going to get better."
I press the palms of my hands against my eyes. "And Carolyn was there?"
He nods. "Trish said she laughed."
I nearly choke on the fury that's rising in my throat. What happened to Carolyn wasn't nearly bad enough. Ryan's calm, watchful eyes bring me back. He expects me to do something about this. I know I have to watch the video again. I was so drawn in by the horror of what was being done to Trish that I neglected to focus in on the monster who was doing it.
"I have to watch it again. To see if there is anything we can use to identify the guy who hurt Trish."
Ryan rolls his shoulders. "There won't be. I've looked at it a hundred times. He makes sure his face is always off camera."
I suspect he's right. But I reopen the laptop and let the video repeat. This time I concentrate on the scenes with the man. When he first appears to lift Trish off the bed, the camera is kept waist high. He's wearing jeans and a 't-shirt tucked into a leather belt. His hands are large, his arms tanned and well developed. No tattoos. No scars. He isn't wearing any jewelry, either, no rings or watch.
When he lays Trish back down on the bed, only the back of his head is visible. His hair is dark brown, long, almost shoulder length, hiding his neck and shoulders. It doesn't move naturally and it only takes an instant to recognize that it's a wig. It falls down around his face so that not even a profile is caught on the tape.
I let the video play out, and then I sink back on the couch.
The guy was smart. It would be nearly impossible to make any kind of identification from what I saw. His clothes, jeans, blue 't-shirt, leather belt. Nothing distinctive.
I feel Ryan looking at me again. "I was right, wasn't I?"
"You'd make a good detective. It's the same way in the others?"
"Yes. The guys take turns, though, so maybe you'd better watch one of the others. Just to make sure."
I'm not sure I have the stomach for it, but I know Ryan is right. I cue up the next most recent video and let it play out. This time Trish is dressed in a school uniform, short pleated skirt, white blouse, loafers. The voice directing her is younger, gruffer, and when the "teacher" enters the room, you see a white long-sleeved shirt tucked into unbelted slacks. Again, no jewelry is visible. The "teacher" directs Trish to sit down on the edge of the bed and lifts her skirt. She is naked underneath. He proceeds with the "lesson." But after he has finished with her, he unzips his pants, and Trish is directed to touch him. He tries, once, to get her to take him into her mouth, but she refuses and he doesn't press it. Instead, he folds his hands around hers and helps her stroke him to climax. The last frame is cum squirting over the front of Trish's uniform.
I'm physically ill.
I close the laptop and try to concentrate on something else until the nausea passes. I sort through what I know. The two videos I saw were twenty minutes long. There are ten of them. Trish ran away after they started to get rough. I found her on Tuesday.
"Ryan, what day did Trish run away?"
He puts his book down and rejoins me on the couch. "She left on Sunday. She wanted to be gone before her mother came home from work early Monday. The men always came on Monday afternoon, after school."
"They came once a week?"
He nods.
So Trish has had to endure this for almost three months. "Ryan, do you know how Trish came to know about me? She mentioned that she overheard her mother talking about me. Do you know who she was talking to? Was it the guys who made the video?"
Ryan shrugs. "I'm not sure."
"Well, did Trish ever mention how her mother came to know them? Did she meet them at the hospital?"
Again, the shoulders roll, and his brow wrinkles with concentration. "I don't know. Maybe. I know it started not too long after Carolyn's last boyfriend left. Her mother was having trouble at work. I think she was worried she would lose her job. But after Trish started doing those - things - her mother didn't seem so worried anymore. And she didn't have to work as much. She only went in two or three times a week."
A knock at the front door startles us both. I glance over at Ryan and he's watching me, a look of concern on his face.
I motion toward the laptop. "Take your things into the bedroom. I'll see who it is."
He gathers up the computer, his books and backpack and disappears through the door without a word. I look through the peephole and see two familiar faces. With a frown, I pull open the door.
"Well, Agents Bradley and Donovan. What a surprise."
Bradley is eyeing the unpainted front door. "What happened to your door?"
I don't answer so he does it for me. "You have a little trouble? Throw someone through it maybe? I can't figure out how you pulled that stunt with us at Frey's, but I'm working on it."
I flex my right arm. "I'm stronger than I look."
He snickers and he and Donovan push past me.
"I don't remember inviting you in," I say.
Bradley smoothes his tie with the palm of his hand. "Really? Cause I could have sworn I heard you say come in. Eric, you heard it too, didn't you?"
Donovan smiles and hitches up his pants. "Yep. I heard it plain as day."
Bradley looks around the apartment. "Not much here. You a minimalist, Ms. Strong?"
My back teeth grind together in aggravation, but I manage to smile. "Why are you here? Can't be to get decorating tips. Anybody who dresses as spiffy as you two wouldn't need them."
They both force grins and again, with no invitation from me, lower themselves onto the couch.
"Sure," I snap. "Have a seat, why don't you?"
I, however, refuse to give them the impression that I expect their stay to be anything but short. I cross my arms and peer down at them. "What do you want?"
Bradley crosses one leg over the other and leans back. "Your boyfriend seems to have pulled a disappearing act. He hasn't gone back to his condo and he's not at school." He glances around the apartment. "He's not here, is he?"
"Boyfriend?"
He raises an eyebrow. "Daniel Frey."
"Oh."
Donovan takes up the refrain. "Well, is he here?"
"No."
"So, if I was to take a stroll into your bedroom, I wouldn't find him. Is that what you're telling me?"
"I'm telling you that if you were to take a stroll into my bedroom, I'd bring charges against you for unlawful search. Then I'd sue both your asses for harassment."
Bradley's posture stiffens, the playful mannerisms drop. "You are not helping yourself, Ms. Strong."
"I didn't know I needed help, Mr. Bradley."
The two exchange the same kind of meaningful look they exchanged in Williams's office a few hours ago. Donovan gives his head a shake and turns to look up at me.
"Do you have any idea what he's involved in?"
When I don't respond, he continues. "Do you know how many kids are victims of sexual exploitation every year? How many are raped, sodomized, forced into prostitution, beaten, strangled, and shot? We find their bodies in garbage cans and alleyways, on the bottoms of lakes and rivers, and in the middle of nowhere. Like the place they found Barbara Franco. Daniel Frey is a monster. And he has access to children everyday. He has to be stopped. Your mother is a school principal, for god's sake. I can't believe you wouldn't want to help us bring him to justice."
I think of what I just saw on Ryan's computer. No one wants to get the men who did that to Trish more than I do. And if they are also responsible for Barbara's death, I want them to pay for that, too.
But Daniel Frey is not the monster. I look into Donovan's face and know there is nothing I can say to convince him or his partner. The only way I will ever do that is to find those responsible myself.
The silence lengthens between the three of us, broken finally when Bradley hauls himself to his feet. "We haven't made an impression on you, have we, Ms. Strong?"
Donovan rises, too, but pauses for a parting shot. His curt tone rakes me with contempt. "If we find out that you harbor the slightest suspicion that we are right about Frey and you don't help us, we'll arrest you as an accessory. And just so I'm clear, that is an accessory to child endangerment, aggravated assault, pimping a child, and murder." He watches as his partner starts for the door.
"Better think about that." He takes a business card out of the pocket of his jacket and flips it onto the coffee table in front of the couch. "By the time you get out of jail, you'll be an old lady."
Well, not quite.
I watch the two of them let themselves out the same way they let themselves in. If I thought for one minute telling them about Carolyn or giving them the videos would change their minds about Frey, I'd call them back. But the videos don't prove a thing. They have it in their heads that Frey is behind the ring and the only way I'm going to fix that is to produce the ones who are.
