Неизвестный - 3. In Pursuit Of Justice
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.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
“SORRY WE’RE LATE,” Rebecca said, carefully avoiding Catherine’s eyes. “Traffic.” She and Watts took seats at the table while everyone murmured greetings.
Clark said, “Dr. Rawlings, this is Detective Sergeant…”
“We’ve met, thank you.” Catherine stared at Rebecca, her initial disbelief having given way to something between incredulity and outrage. The detective was wearing the same clothes that Catherine had last seen her in, 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 looked like that’s precisely where she still should be—in a hospital bed.
Sloan watched the two of them curiously, aware that the temperature in the room had plummeted to below freezing, but she wasn’t quite certain the cause. Frye had taken a seat across from her to the left of Rawlings, and after a brief nod to the psychiatrist, the detective stared pointedly ahead. 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 there—professional differences, maybe? Cops rarely take to theoreticians.
Then, Sloan smiled inwardly, thinking 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 thing she had ever encountered that 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, she said into the obvious silence, “We have transcripts of dozens of online chats between Jason and personalities who thought he was a 13-year-old girl. We also have a number of hits from men in a private bulletin board who have 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 empty place where Catherine had once dwelled, until finally she hadn’t been able to stand it any longer and she’d called Watts. Catherine sat next to her now, and she felt like 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 asked, hoping she didn’t sound as desperate as she felt.
“Nothing specific, not yet,” Sloan admitted. “But we’re pretty sure they’re regional, if not local.” She glanced at Catherine. “It would be very helpful if you could go through these with us, and give us your take on the most likely possibles, and perhaps lend some insight as to how Jason can more effectively manipulate them into committing themselves.”
“And then?” Catherine asked with genuine interest, even as she listened with relief to the sound of Rebecca breathing beside her. Respirations steady, unlabored. Stable. For now.
Sloan grinned, a happy, hungry grin. “As soon as we narrow it down to a manageable number, I can launch digger programs which will follow the sender back to his ISP address, among other things. Then we’ll cross-reference to the credit card clearing houses, track the business sources. Get us some names.”
“Yeah, and once you get us a name, we can start knocking on doors,” Watts said with evident satisfaction. “Real police work.”
Sloan managed not to snarl.
“Anything from your street sources, Detective?” Clark asked, looking at Rebecca.
“Not yet.” She had no intention of sharing anything with Clark at this point, and she certainly didn’t want to discuss the details of the case with Catherine in the room. Jesus, everyone was acting like Catherine was an official part of the team.
“My schedule is pretty full,” Catherine stated, “but I should be able to spare an hour or two in the evenings—or even during the day if you absolutely need me.”
Avery Clark stood, signaling the end of the meeting. “We’ll try to give you as much advance notice as we can, Doctor. Any time you can spare would be greatly appreciated. I’ll leave the details to you and Sloan to work out.”
“Certainly,” Catherine replied, standing as well and gathering her things.
“Sloan, may I see you outside?” Clark murmured softly as he passed behind her.
“Sure.” Sloan responded, rising and following.
Jason and Mitchell left as well, leaving Catherine staring at Rebecca while Watts fidgeted in the doorway, looking as if he wasn’t certain whether to go or stay.
“What in God’s name are you doing here?” Catherine demanded.
“I knew the meeting wouldn’t be long. I wanted to make it.”
“How did you get discharged so quickly?”
Rebecca held Catherine’s gaze. “I was never admitted.”
“Jim would never have released you, not in the shape you were in last night. You signed out AMA, didn’t you?” she accused furiously. She wanted to touch her. It felt like days since she had. But she was so angry, the last thing she wanted was contact. Her mind was reeling from the barrage of dissident emotions.
“Not exactly against medical advice. We made a deal.” She said it reasonably, trying to sound confident, but Catherine’s fury was so potent it was like a blow. Her hands trembled and she stuffed them in her pockets.
“Doctors don’t make deals,” the psychiatrist snapped.
“All right,” Rebecca admitted. “But I agreed to go back for a chest x-ray this morning.”
“And if your lung drops right now?”
“He left a catheter in my chest. In an emergency, he said I’d be able to aspirate the air out. That I’d have plenty of time to get back to the emergency room.”
Catherine slammed both palms down on the tabletop and leaned forward, her eyes blazing. “What is the matter with you? Don’t you know you almost died last night? What could be so important about this meeting?”
“It’s not the meeting,” Rebecca said quietly, but the fear was thundering through her now. She had to stay calm. If she explained it clearly, Catherine would have to understand. “If I let them admit me, if I didn’t show up here—if I can’t work—they won’t just take me off the case. They’ll put me on medical disability. I won’t even have light-duty.”
“You shouldn’t have any kind of duty! You should be home or in the hospital.” Catherine whirled in Watts’ direction so quickly that he jumped. “Did you have a hand in this? After all the nights we sat by her bedside, waiting for her to live or die? After that, you could help her do this?” She ran a hand over her eyes and then slowly turned from one to the other. In a voice that was deadly calm, she said, “I do not understand what is important to you. All I know is that whatever it is, it’s more important to you than your life. And I can’t live with knowing that.”
For a moment, it seemed as if no one even breathed. Then, Catherine quietly lifted her briefcase and walked from the room.
Rebecca stood rigidly, the fingertips of her right hand pressed against the granite table top, white to the bone. She hadn’t realized that her eyes were closed until they snapped open at the sound of Watts’ voice. She blinked in the bright sunlight coming through the windows.
“Sarge?”
“I want to talk to Mitchell and you—alone. We need to assess where we are in this case. Five minutes, in our conference room.”
“She’s just steamed, Sarge. She’ll get over it.”
No, she won’t. Christ, what do I do now?
“You just gotta give her ti—”
“Let it go, Watts.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Goddamn it,” she shouted, her fist connecting with stone as she pounded her hand onto the table. “Go find Mitchell and shut the—”
