Curious, Jesse opened the letter:
Nice playing! You’re getting really good, especially at baseball. That’s my favorite game. Is it your favorite, too?
I play every day. I use the computers in the Boston Public Library after school. I see you are a Red Sox fan. Does that mean you live in Boston, too?
You should come some time. We can play together. I’ll show you some tricks for hitting the curveball. No big.
If you feel like hanging out, come to the library. I’m easy to find: look for the Pink Poodle. Whatever.
C U on-line.
Pinky Poo
Jesse frowned. He read the letter again, then again. Some words he struggled with, but he thought he got it. Pink Poodle liked him. Pink Poodle lived in Boston. Pink Poodle could show him some tips if he came to the Boston Public Library.
Jesse sat down in front of the computer. His heart was beating hard again, though he wasn’t sure why. He rubbed his palms unconsciously on the worn legs of his pajamas. He studied the bright, cheerful e-mail again.
Stranger danger. His mother talked about that. Both in real life and on computers. If someone sent him an instant message, he was never to reply, but fetch his mother immediately. If someone sent him an attached file, he was never to open it. It might have a virus, which would destroy their already sickly computer. Worse, it might be something bad, not suitable for kids.
Scary? he’d asked his mom, because while he’d never admit this to his fellow second graders, Jesse didn’t like scary movies. They gave him nightmares.
Something like that, his mother had said.
So he wasn’t to “talk” to strangers online, or open attached files. But Helmet Hippo and Pink Poodle weren’t strangers. They were other kids on AthleteAnimalz. And they weren’t sending him scary videos. They were teaching him skills so he could win more points.
Jesse liked winning points. He could use more skills.
And he was allowed to go to the Boston Public Library, he reminded himself. He and his mother went often, a couple times a month. Libraries were good. His mother approved of them. If he asked to go after school, she’d let him. You were never to get into a stranger’s car, or follow a stranger into his house. That he understood. But meeting another kid at the public library…that didn’t sound so bad.
Jesse read the note again.
Pinky Poo. A girl. But a girl who was really good at baseball. Best hitter Jesse had seen. Even better than Helmet Hippo. And wouldn’t Helmet Hippo like that, when Jesse logged on later and could rack up even more points for his team…
Jesse made up his mind. Using his index finger, he began to laboriously type out his response, using Pink Poodle’s letter to help him with spelling.
Baseball is my favorite game, too. I will come. After school. No big, he added, because he liked the way it sounded. Older, confident. Like maybe a sixth grader.
He sat back. Reviewed his reply one last time.
Public place, he assured himself. The library.
Besides, stranger danger applied to creepy men. Pink Poodle was a girl. Jesse wasn’t afraid of a girl.
Jesse nodded to himself. He touched his carefully crafted e-mail on the computer screen. Admired his own typing, proper use of punctuation. Just like a sixth grader, he decided.
Jesse hit send.
While on the other side of the thin apartment wall, his mother’s morning alarm chimed to life.
Chapter 17
HELLO. My name is Abigail.
Have we met yet?
Don’t worry. We will.
Hello. My name is Abigail.
Chapter 18
D.D. WENT TO THE DARK SIDE. And fell in love all over again.
Coffee. Hot. Rich. Black. She cradled her cup tenderly, feeling the warmth spread from the beverage to the palm of her hands to the pulse points at her wrists. That first slow inhale. Savoring. Taking her time. Welcoming a long lost friend.
“Oh for fuck’s sake, just drink it!” Phil ordered from across the conference table.
She eyed him mildly. Detective O sat next to him, Neil on the other side. This morning, O was wearing a formfitting deep red sweater, which made her appear less city detective and more Victoria’s Secret model. Neil, on the other hand, looked like he’d spent the night in the morgue, as a corpse.
“You almost never swear,” D.D. said to Phil, still clutching her mug, feeling the aromatic steam waft across her senses.
“You almost never look like a Folgers commercial. O and I have been here all night. Neil’s been here half the night. We want to debrief, then get some rest.”
That made her feel bad. D.D. eyed her exhausted case team, their over-fluoresced faces, deeply bruised eyes. She didn’t look any better than they did, having pulled an all-nighter herself. Only her taskmaster was smaller and more persistent.
“All right,” she agreed with Phil. “Let’s get this party started. You go first.”
At which point, she took the first sip. Immediately, her heart quickened. She both tasted and heard the caffeine hit her bloodstream, a powerful jolt that made her want to sigh and inhale and start the whole process all over again. So she did.
“For the love of God!” Phil exclaimed.
“Want a cup?”
“Yes!”
Phil stormed out of the room in search of fresh java. O shook her head. Neil folded both arms on the table and collapsed his head into them.
Just another day in paradise, D.D. thought, and sipped her wonderful, lovely, how-had-she-ever-lived-without-it cup of joe.
Phil returned with his own cup, and the party finally got started.
“We found a chat room,” O announced.
“We found a transcript of a chat room,” Phil interjected, eyeing his computer partner. “As for the chat room itself, it’s probably encrypted or encoded eight ways to Sunday.”
“Have to be invited to join,” O added.
“Worldwide membership from what we can tell-makes it very difficult to trace the servers involved,” Phil said.
“But it’s definitely a training site,” O emphasized.
“Training for what?” D.D. asked with a frown, cradling her coffee more defensively now. Geek in stereo was no easier to follow than geek in mono.
“For pedophiles,” O clarified. “You know, a place to hang out, compare notes, and feel accepted for your perversions.”
D.D. set down her coffee. “What?”
“We’ve been noticing this trend for the past few years,” O announced dismissively, her findings obviously old news to her, if not to them. “More and more crimes against children are being committed by younger and younger perpetrators. We figured it had something to do with the use of chat rooms within the sex offender community and this transcript proves it.”
Neil raised his head from his arms. He stared at the dark-haired sex crimes detective. “Start over,” he said. “Speak slowly.”
O rolled her eyes, but complied. “Okay. Society has norms. Those norms include not regarding children as sex objects. Of course, a pedophile views children in exactly that manner-a deviant sexual fantasy. Generally speaking, a child molester will spend at least a few years fighting that fantasy. Recognizing it as inappropriate and trying to resist the urge. Maybe some do, but obviously others don’t, eventually acting out on that impulse and beginning a life of crime.
“Given this cycle, most sex predators are mid-twenties to mid-thirties when they offend. As criminals go, that’s a relatively mature perpetrator pool. There are some exceptions-teenage babysitters targeting their young charges, but that’s more an example of impulse meeting opportunity. The attacks are rarely planned or sophisticated in nature. So again, the ‘classic’ profile of a pedophile is an older male. Except lately, we’re seeing a spike in crimes that are nearly children against children-relatively young pedophiles engaging in the kind of sophisticated targeting and grooming behavior that until now, we’ve always associated with older predators.”