Chapter 52
Lunch was not a social occasion, which was fine with Gurney, who was about as far from being a social animal as a man could be and still be married. Instead of gravitating to the cafeteria, everyone scattered for the allotted half hour to commune with BlackBerrys and laptops.
He might have been happier, however, with thirty minutes of macho camaraderie than he was sitting alone on a chilly bench outside the state police fortress, absorbing the latest text message he found on his phone-evidently a response to his “Tell me more” request.
It said, YOU’RE SUCH AN INTERESTING MAN, I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN MY DAUGHTERS WOULD ADORE YOU. IT WAS SO GOOD OF YOU TO COME TO THE CITY. NEXT TIME THEY WILL COME TO YOU. WHEN? WHO CAN SAY? THEY WANT IT TO BE A SURPRISE.
Gurney stared at the words, even as they slammed his mind back to the unsettling smiles of those young women, back to the pale Montrachet lifted in a toast, back to the looming black wall of his amnesia.
He toyed with the idea of sending a message that began, “Dear Saul…” But he decided to keep his knowledge of the identity of Jykynstyl’s impersonator to himself, at least for now. He didn’t know how much that card might be worth, and he didn’t want to play it before he understood the game. Besides, holding on to it gave him, in a minuscule way, a feeling of power. Like carrying a penknife in a bad neighborhood.
By the time he reentered the conference room, he was desperate to get his mind back on the Perry case. Kline, Rodriguez, and Wigg were already seated. Anderson was approaching the table, focused fiercely on a coffee cup so full that it made walking a challenge. Blatt was at the urn, tilting it forward to extract a final black trickle. Hardwick was missing.
Rodriguez looked at his watch. “It’s time, people. Some of us are here, some of us aren’t, but that’s their problem. Time for a status report on the family interviews. Bill, you’re up.”
Anderson set his coffee on the table with the concentration of a man defusing a bomb. “Okay,” he said. He sat, opened a file folder, and began examining and rearranging its contents. “Okay. Here’s where we are. We started with a master list of all graduates for all twenty years Mapleshade has been in operation, and then we narrowed that to a list of graduates from the past five years. Five years ago is when the focus of the place changed from a general adolescent population with behavioral problems to female adolescent sex abusers.”
“Convicted offenders?” asked Kline.
“No. All private interventions through family members, therapists, doctors. Mapleshade’s population is basically warped sicko kids whose families are trying to keep them out of the juvie court system or just get them the hell out of town, out of the house, before they get caught doing what they’re doing. The parents send them to Mapleshade, pay the tuition, and hope that Ashton solves the problem.”
“And does he?”
“Hard to say. The families won’t talk about it, so all we have to go by is a cross-check of graduate names against the national sex-offender database to see if any of them got tangled up with the legal system as adults since leaving Mapleshade. So far that isn’t turning up much. A couple from the graduating classes of four and five years ago, none from the past three years. Hard to say what that means.”
Kline shrugged. “Could mean that Ashton knows what he’s doing. Or it could just reflect the fact that abuse perpetrated by females is grossly underreported to the police and tends not to be prosecuted.”
“How grossly?” asked Blatt.
“Excuse me?”
“How grossly underreported and underprosecuted do you think it is?”
Kline leaned back in his chair, looking annoyed at what he obviously considered a distraction. His tone was stiff, academic, impatient. “Some data suggests that approximately twenty percent of all women and ten percent of all men were sexually abused as children, and that the perpetrator was female in about ten percent of the total cases. Bottom line, we’re talking about millions of instances of sexual abuse and hundreds of thousands of instances in which the perp was female. But you know as well as I do, there’s always been a double standard-a reluctance by families to report mothers, sisters, and baby-sitters to the police, a reluctance by law enforcement to take abuse accusations against young women seriously, a reluctance by courts to convict them. Society can’t quite seem to accept the reality of female sexual predators like we accept the reality of male predators. But some studies suggest that a lot of men convicted of rape were sexually abused by females when they were children.” Kline shook his head, hesitated. “Jesus, I could tell you stories from right here in this county-cases that come into family court through social services. You know about this stuff-mothers pimping out their own kids, selling porno videos of them having sex with each other. Jesus. And what finally works its way into the legal system is just a fraction of what’s going on. But you get my point. Enough said, okay? We should get back to the agenda.”
Blatt shrugged.
Rodriguez nodded in agreement. “Okay, Bill, let’s move on with the phone-call report.”
Anderson shuffled once more through his papers, which were spreading out over a larger area of the table. “The addresses, phone numbers, and other contact information we used were the most recent on file. The number of graduates within the five-year target period is a hundred and fifty-two. Average is about thirty per year. Of the hundred and fifty-two, we think we have currently valid contact information for a hundred and twenty-six. Initial calls have been placed to all hundred and twenty-six. Of those calls, forty resulted in immediate contact, with either the graduate herself or a family member. Of the remaining eighty-six for whom we left messages, twelve had gotten back to us as of nine forty-five this morning.”
“That makes fifty-two live contacts,” said Kline quickly. “What’s the bottom line?”
“Hard to say.” Anderson sounded like everything in his life was hard.
“Jesus, Lieutenant…”
“What I mean is, the results are mixed.” He fished another sheet of paper out of his pile. “Out of the fifty-two, we spoke directly to the graduate herself in eleven instances. No problem there, right? I mean, if we spoke to them, they’re not missing.”
“How about the other forty-one?”
“In twenty-nine instances, the individual we spoke to-parent, spouse, sibling, roommate, significant other-claimed to know the location of the graduate and to be in contact with her.”
Kline was keeping a running tally on a pad. “And the other twelve?”
“One told us her daughter had died in an automobile accident. One was extremely vague, probably high on something, didn’t seem to know much of anything. One other claimed to know the exact whereabouts of the subject but refused to provide any further information.”
Kline scribbled something on his pad. “And the other nine?”
“The other nine-all parents or stepparents-said they had no idea where their daughter was.”
There was a speculative silence in the room, broken by Gurney. “How many of those disappearances began with an argument about a car?”
Anderson consulted his notes, frowning at them as though they were the cause of his weariness. “Six.”
“Wow,” said Kline with a soft little whistle. “And that’s in addition to the ones Ashton and the Liston girl already told Gurney about?”
“Right.”
“Jesus. So the total is close to a dozen. And there are still a hell of a lot of families we haven’t spoken to yet. Wow. Anyone want to comment on this?”
“I think we owe a thank-you to Dave Gurney!” said Hardwick, who had slipped into the room unnoticed. He glanced at Rodriguez. “If he hadn’t nudged us in this direction…”
“Nice you could find time to join us,” said the captain.