Chapter twenty

"WHAT DO YOU mean you don't have any record of her?" Catherine asked in the general direction of the hands-free microphone that was clipped to the visor above the steering wheel while she attempted to maneuver through early rush-hour traffic. "She should have been admitted last night--sometime after midnight. Are you spelling the last name right? 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 remnants of frustration to ebb. I should have stayed at the hospital last night. It was ridiculous to think I could do this 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. That's 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 a four story 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 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 which hadn't begun to abate until she had seen that Rebecca was stable. It had been excruciatingly hard to leave her, but the evening had brought up so many conflicting feelings that she doubted either of them were equipped to deal with the aftermath in the middle of the night. Nevertheless, when she had finally slid naked beneath the sheets, she had ached for her, 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. Stepping 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 where the meeting was. Almost immediately, she saw a woman in jeans and an open-collared navy shirt approaching. At first glance, the startlingly attractive woman 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 Doctor Catherine Rawlings."

"J. T. Sloan, Doctor." Sloan extended her hand to the elegant, auburn-haired woman and added, "We were just gathering in the conference room. I'll take you down."

"Thank you."

As they walked, Sloan explained, "Unfortunately, the full team isn't here at the moment, but I know your schedule is very tight so we'll go with what we have and 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 she 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 disastrous. 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.

"Doctor Rawlings,” Sloan began, “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 her. It wasn't uncommon for her to run into patients in social or professional settings, and although she tried to anticipate when that might happen and discuss with the patient their feelings about it, 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 like this happened, it was something they would have to deal with 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 Sloan and 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, trying to get a sense of how the individuals fit into the team. Clark, the federal representative, alone at one end of the table and the first to speak, was 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 that 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.

He was saying, "We have some information pertaining to perpetrator profiles that have been generated by other investigations. What we need, Doctor—actually, what Sloan and McBride need—is a way to flag the contacts with the most potential to lead us into a real life meeting. Any guidance you can provide would be welcome."

"Before we get into specifics," Catherine said, turning her attention to Sloan and her colleague, "I had planned to review a few broad characteristics of the subjects. That may be redundant, however, if you are all familiar with them."

"It wouldn't be for me, ma'am," Mitchell said from beside Catherine, meeting her gaze unwaveringly when Catherine glanced at her.

"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 individuals. In all fairness, that probably resulted from the necessity of using probability models, but maybe a clinician who had real life experience would 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. Thus far Jason has focused on establishing an Internet presence by adapting various persona that might be attractive to someone who is interested in preteens or adolescents. I've has been trying to localize areas of concentrated activity by targeting intersecting or overlapping patterns of transmission, site traffic, and financial expenditures. The theory being that eventually these two lists 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 been used to within the agency when different departments collaborated. And there was a 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 are primarily adult men depicted with adolescent girls. We have Jason trying to make contact 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 a large percentage of individuals are content with graphic material and have no interest in instituting true 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 tough. 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 online engaging in cybersex and occasionally escalating to phone sex. Both groups are on the bottom rung of the probability ladder in terms of likelihood of 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 online relationships with children in an attempt to institute real-life contact. They often set up meetings, paying for bus fare or plane tickets or hotel rooms in advance, and then coaxing kids into joining them."

“How do we sort them out—or get them to expose themselves,” Sloan asked, ignoring Jason’s pointed groan at her unintended pun.

"If you were to ask me how to target an individual type--men you could actually track down and ultimately arrest,” Catherine said by way of summary, “I’d say you need to bond with them, instill trust. And the fastest way to do that is to express the behaviors that you expect them to display. Instead of trying to make direct contact, which might seem suspicious, let them see you doing what they do—talk about the same kind of lust object, vocalize a desire for obtaining images, or boast about a fabricated conquest. They’ll come to you eventually, because they are seeking validation through others like themselves.”

"Perfect," Sloan said, giving Catherine an appreciative glance. Yeah, she's good all right. "Jason? Any thoughts?"

He looked pensive. "I can focus more on my interactions in the chat rooms and try to attract some attention."

"Mitchell?" Sloan added. "We can use one of the 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."

"I'd be 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.

Дата добавления: 2015-11-16