Somebody's Daughter (37 page)

Stacey called and left a message for the former task force officer. Brad Sullivan did not know what Stacey wanted when he received the message. He was very busy building a case and collecting evidence, but he took the time to find a phone and call Stacey. That response was a result of a habit most of the task force investigators had developed. It did not matter that Sullivan and some of the other original task force members had been reassigned, they still felt a sense of responsibility toward the girls they had worked with in the battle against the pimps.

Sullivan knew Stacey could be volatile at times but he was shocked by the level of her anger and frustration. Stacey was in tears as she berated Sullivan for what she felt was his sudden change of heart. She wanted to know why he wasn't trying to solve the Halifax murder and would not accept the answer that it was not his jurisdiction. Stacey accused the former task force officer of abandoning the girls he had promised to help. She did not understand that by returning her call Sullivan had demonstrated a commitment to that promise. At the end of what turned out to be more of a lecture than a conversation, Stacey stated flatly that it was clear no one cared when a prostitute was murdered but if someone's daughter, a real person, was found dead the whole world had to stop until that case was solved. Not satisfied with the explanation given by Brad Sullivan, Stacey phoned Shane Kirk and went to meet with her former case worker. Kirk also tried to soothe Stacey and explain the differences presented by the two cases. In the end he realized Stacey was not looking for explanations, “the whole thing touched her a little too closely. It reminded her of how close she had come to being murdered that day in Toronto. Stacey thought that she would have been nothing more than a dead prostitute and it scared her, a lot.” Stacey wanted comforting and Kirk provided it, letting her cry through her frustration.

The reprimand from Stacey was frustrating for Brad Sullivan who, despite being reassigned, still worked the Kimberly McAndrew file. Sullivan had changed his mind about McAndrew being abducted into the world of prostitution by an aggressive pimp. The years working on the task force taught him that this rarely, if ever, happened. While at first the police believed many of the girls had been abducted, they learned through investigation the girls were usually conned by conniving pimps. Kidnapping was not their style. Sullivan still felt McAndrew had been picked up by a pimp who tried to work her, but who panicked when he realized she was a police officer's daughter. Brad Sullivan believed Kimberly McAndrew had been murdered and he refused to let the case die with her. In fairness to Halifax police the case was not dead. The investigators in Halifax had a very different theory about what had happened to McAndrew, and they continued to investigate the possibility that she had been killed by someone she knew, not a stranger or a pimp.

On a balmy evening in August 1995, Darrell Gaudet and Mitch Ginn were out in their unmarked car, cruising around Halifax-Dartmouth—a typical night's work for the last of Operation Hectic's original investigators. They were looking for a pimp who was back on the street after being imprisoned more than two years before. The man had earned early release after serving a small portion of his sentence for living on the avails of prostitution. The officers were particularly concerned that he had returned to The Game. That was because the two officers were also looking for a fourteen-year-old girl who had been reported missing by a social services case worker. She was a runaway from a group home, a prime pimping target. They were hoping the two had not found each other; they were hoping the confidence—and budgetary restraint—that had all but dismantled the task force had not been misplaced.

A visit to Hollis Street on any given night would be all that politicians or police executives needed to justify drastic cutbacks to the anti-pimping unit, which now had four members—Ginn, Gaudet, and two newer officers—plus a supervisor. Originally there had been twelve on the team, but that was clearly not necessary now, the visitors would say, noting the slow action on the stroll, where, on average, there were less than half as many prostitutes working than in 1992—and where a juvenile was a very rare sight. Ginn and Gaudet, like the others who had participated in Operation Hectic, were justifiably gratified by the drastic reduction in prostitution activity.

Ginn and Gaudet were also worried. They had heard all the stories from the girls they had befriended about how the task force had forced pimps to stop mistreating prostitutes. Their concern was, how long would that last in the absence of visible deterrence? They also wanted a chance to target the clients. Almost nothing had been done to crack down on the men who bought the service, men as responsible for victimization of girls and young women as the pimps were. Gaudet also longed for the chance to go after the people he first began investigating when he developed an interest in prostitution in the days before the task force: the escort services whose operators could hide the presence of underage prostitutes—and any violent behavior towards them.

As their car descended the hill above the Nova Scotia Hospital, Gaudet glanced at an abandoned building on the grounds. Sullivan House, which once stood as a beacon for the terrorized and brutalized teenagers fleeing the kinds of horrors the officers feared would relapse if the preventive measures the task force provided were not restored. A smaller safe house had been set up in Halifax. The new house remained an integral part of the fight to protect young girls and keep them off the streets. The move was made because the larger facility was too expensive to run, and was not needed after the first year of Operation Hectic when the number of girls needing its services began to decline. The new smaller house in Halifax actually marked an increase in the role played by the community services counselors working with young prostitutes. Those workers had begun to take part in an active outreach program that targeted young girls at risk. To Gaudet though, the closure of Sullivan House just marked another step in the gradual dismantling of the police operation he believed was the most important work he had ever been involved in.

By the time the officers reached the Dartmouth stroll, in the city's north end, the orange glow was fading in the sky—the start of The Game's prime time, and another night of frustration for area residents. The stroll had been the subject of much media attention since spring, and a community group, intent on driving the street trade out of the neighborhood, was having its effect. Gaudet and Ginn saw no prostitutes on the stroll—not yet, anyway. The officers knew they would simply come out later, when most of the residents in the area had retired for the night. That way, there would be no angry calls from women who had been accosted by cruising clients. The players always adjusted when they saw the rules were changing, it was just a part of life on the street. At any rate, the officers agreed they wouldn't find their suspect here—or the girl he might be running. They'd been told he was renting an apartment in a nearby house, so they tried there. No luck, there was not even a car in the driveway. Mitch Ginn swore quietly as the officers returned to their car: seven teenagers were sitting on the doorstep of the house, four of them girls. “Another pied piper,” he said; the kids, he was sure, were waiting for that pimp.

Maybe they'd have better luck across the bridge; Ginn and Gaudet crossed over Halifax Harbour and drove to Gottingen Street, the main thoroughfare that marks the city's north-end crack stroll, where prostitutes take their dates into abandoned lots on a lonely side street, or wait on poorly lit corners for a client to come by in a car.

The officers turned off Gottingen and onto one of the side streets. “There you go—it's never too early on the crack stroll,” Ginn remarked, pointing to one of two prostitutes standing near a garage. “See her? She was still working at eight-thirty this morning, looking for one more high. Christ, look at her!” The emaciated woman had the unmistakable pallor of a crack addict; her hair was stringy and matted, her clothes soiled, her features a death-mask of sunken eyes, skeletal cheekbones, lips blue with cyanosis. As the car approached, she glanced eagerly inside, but when she recognized the men, she turned away and went on chatting with her companion. Ginn smiled and waved as he drove away.

“You know what really amazes me about this place?” Gaudet knew, but he also knew Ginn liked to talk, so he let him. “It's these stupid fucking dates,” his partner continued. “These guys come down here because they know some of these girls will let them have sex without a condom. They flash a little money, and these girls will do almost anything to get to that next high. Stupid bastards think they're the only ones doing it. I mean, look at these girls. That's some serious danger, man—stupid bastards.”

“Who's that?” Gaudet interrupted his partner as he noticed a new face working the next corner.

“Don't know, she looks young though.” The girl did not have the crack addicted pallor that marked the other girls working the area. She still carried a healthy body weight. She did not fit the description they were given of the missing teen but she warranted a second look. There was something in the young girls' eyes that both investigators noticed as they slowly rolled past, fear.

“Could be a first timer, lets circle back and see if we can talk to her.” Gaudet agreed and Ginn pulled the big car back up on Gottingen Street and drove up a block and headed back down to the stroll. There were a few people standing in front of the businesses on Gottingen, and they glanced at the car as it sped past and turned back down the side street. A few may have recognized the men for what they were, but most probably thought they were simply a couple of customers window shopping the stroll from their car.

“Hey look, she already broke.” Ginn said as they returned to the stroll. In three years of interviewing prostitutes Gaudet and Ginn had picked up the language of the streets. The officers also never used the term “John” because prostitutes preferred to call the men they serviced clients or dates. Ginn and Gaudet had long ago stopped calling the sex trade prostitution. It was The Game and everyone involved was a player.

“Let's see where he takes her, Darrell.” In the time it had taken the two men to circle the block a car had pulled up to the curb beside the young girl. As Gaudet and Ginn drove past a second time, she was getting inside. The car was an older model Chrysler in need of some body-work; the man behind the wheel looked to be sixty five or older. Ginn parked his car on a side street just beyond the stroll and the two officers turned to look back. Within seconds the big Chrysler rolled past.

“She's taking him to one of the lots.” Ginn was certain he knew the destination. Prostitutes try to work in a specific area not far from their corner. They choose a parking lot or alley nearby and instruct all of their dates to take them there. There are several parking lots down near the waterfront. A few are used by the girls working the crack stroll. Ginn slowed the police car and let the Chrysler pull away. He didn't say anything but he already knew what he was going to do.

The Chrysler did not pull into one of the regular parking lots; it kept driving north along the harbor and beneath the newest of the two bridges that span Halifax Harbour. The officers had allowed the car to turn onto Barrington Street while they waited on a side street to give the man time to pull into the lot they believed the girl would select. They then pulled around the corner but when they looked into the gravel parking lot it was empty.

“Shit, she doesn't know where to take him.” Ginn had lost too much ground and the big car was gone. His knuckles whitened on the steering wheel as he took the car up over one hundred kilometers per hour. He sped beneath the bridge and headed down toward the container pier.

“Slow down there he is.” Gaudet could see the Chrysler headed back toward them. Ginn's anger began to build as he drove past the Chrysler. “Look at the silly old prick. He can't wait.” The driver of the Chrysler was leaning across the seat with his left hand still holding the steering wheel. His head was positioned just below the rear view mirror as he alternately glanced at the road and into the lap of the young girl beside him. His right arm was stretched down in that direction. The man was wearing a ball cap and he must have bumped it on the mirror as he leaned across the front seat of the big car. The hat was now twisted sideways with the peak pointing back toward the driver side window. The man was grinning wildly as he slowly cruised along the road looking for a place to park. Mitch Ginn hoped the man was married. If he was, Mitch would have some fun. The officers turned their car around and headed back south along Barrington Street where they saw the Chrysler pull into a small park on the harbor side of the road. Mitch turned the car around and then slowed to a stop at the side of the road.

“Shit, why'd she take him here.” Gaudet didn't like what he was seeing. Although it was already dark the park was not yet empty. A man and a young boy were walking up from the water's edge, headed back to their car. A young couple was also strolling in the park and a woman was walking with her dog.

“We better go in,” Gaudet said. Mitch drove to the corner of the lot where the man had parked his Chrysler. The driver had backed it into the corner and he looked out as the dark green car pulled up at an angle blocking him in. He didn't appear to realize who had found him. The two police officers stepped out of their car. They left the doors open behind them and walked toward him. The young girl knew what was happening and she hung her head.

“You talk to her, he's mine.” Mitch headed to the driver's side window. He pulled out his wallet and flipped it open to expose his badge. He pressed the shiny metal crest against the window and gestured with his free hand, instructing the driver to lower the glass. As Gaudet walked toward the passenger window he realized he had left his badge in the car. He reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out one of the task force business cards he carried. When he reached the car Gaudet gestured for the young girl to step out. He identified himself and asked if the girl knew about the task force. The young prostitute said she did, but Gaudet gave her the speech anyway because he had never dealt with her before. He told her the task force was designed to help young prostitutes, not prosecute them, but he could see the spiel would be useless. She wasn't even looking at him as she leaned against the car door, her arms crossed defensively. She did tell the officer she was nineteen years old, from Glace Bay, near Sydney, on Nova Scotia's Cape Breton Island, that she had just been released from prison after being convicted of breaking and entering, and that she was only working the streets to raise enough money for the trip home. After confirming her story, Gaudet let her go. Just in case, he handed her his task-force card, along with the best offer she'd probably ever had—although he doubted she would ever take him up on it: “If you ever need help, or you're being pressured by someone to keep working, call me.”