Stolen Lives : The Lives Trilogy Book 1 (16 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Jamie pulled out a chair and sat down, half facing the window.  Pete sat down on the other side of the table and waited.

“He was about eleven or twelve.  The man in the picture is Ernie Caturano.  He’s serving a forty year stretch in Waupun State Prison.  His partner, Mitch Lyons, is serving forty years in Omro.

“Randy had run away from his home in Marshfield the night before and hitched all the way to Milwaukee where they picked him up at a Burger King.”

“What made him run away?”

“Randy had known he was a twin and adopted.  Identical.  His adoptive father hated him for some reason God only knows and beat the shit out of him every chance he could.  His adoptive mother did nothing to prevent it.  Randy finally ran away, thinking that if he found his twin, he could live with him.” 

Pete gave him a dubious look.

Jamie shrugged and said, “What can I say . . . he’s a kid.”

Pete sat silently and looked at the two photos again and then turned them upside-down.

“Caturano and Lyons spotted him alone and vulnerable, bought him dinner and offered to help him find his twin.  They took him to Lyon’s apartment and raped him, sodomized him, whipped him, and burned the inside of his leg with a cigarette.  He escaped after Lyons and Caturano passed out from pot, pills or alcohol . . . who knows.  A couple of good Samaritans protected him and called us.

“Jeremy was looking to adopt and was on the list as a possible foster home as a way of moving up on the adoptive parent list.  Randy was placed with him after a week and a half stay in a hospital.  It was rocky at first.  Randy didn’t trust Jeremy.  He wanted to, but the years of abuse by the adoptive father made trusting too difficult.  But Jeremy worked his ass off to prove to Randy that he’d hang in there with him, and well,” Jamie shrugged.  “. . . you see how they are together.”

“Why wasn’t Randy sent back to his adoptive family?”

“Because of the abuse Randy suffered and because the father refused to take him back.  His mother didn’t put up much of a fight.”

“Fuck!” Pete said shaking his head.

“At the trial, Randy refused a video-taped deposition.  He wanted to face Caturano and Lyons in person.”

Pete looked up, puzzled and in disbelief.  “Really?”

“Yeah, I know . . . a twelve year old kid.  What you don’t know is how really remarkable he was that day . . .”

Randy stood in the witness box, raised his hand and swore to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.  He told his story almost entirely without prompting by the prosecuting attorney.  He never blinked, and he never wavered.  He stared directly at those two assholes, facing them down.

The defense attorney, a small, skinny, balding man complimented Randy on his bravery and then asked the first of three questions- the only three he would ask Randy that day.

“You ran away from home.  You hitch-hiked from Marshfield to Waukesha.  And these two gentlemen offered to help you find your twin brother.  Is that correct?”

“Yes, Sir, except they aren’t gentlemen.”

Stenzel chuckled at the joke while the rest of the courtroom laughed out loud, causing the judge to use his gavel.  However, the judge had trouble hiding the grin.

Stenzel went on to say, “They bought you a meal.  They took you to Mr. Lyon’s apartment.  You took a shower.  Mr. Lyons washed your clothes. Is that correct?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Now, Randy . . .” Stenzel dramatically turned to face the jury. “. . . there is a difference between consensual sex and rape.  Do you know the difference?”

“Objection.  The witness is a minor and too young to consent to having sex with an adult.”

“Objection sustained.  Counselor, you know better than to ask a question like that,” Judge Henry Catlett said.

“I’m sorry, Your Honor.  Let me rephrase the question.  Randy . . .”

“I’d like to answer that question, Your Honor.” Randy stared back at the man without blinking. “But I want to make sure I understand it.” 

“Fine,” Stenzel said with a smug smile, standing in the center of the courtroom with his hands behind his back.

“By consensual sex, do you mean those two guys . . . the defendants . . . shoving objects up my rectum so that I ended up with more than twelve stitches?”

The defense attorney opened his mouth to speak, but he only looked at the judge, then back at Randy.

“By consensual sex, do you mean those two gentlemen taking photographs of me posing naked, making a movie of them raping me and then sending it over the internet to whomever they wanted and then forcing me to give them oral sex?”

“Your honor, I object . . .”

“Counselor, you asked the question,” Judge Henry Catlett said.  He turned and smiled at Randy and said, “I believe he has the right to try and understand your question, so objection overruled.”

Randy smiled back at the judge and then continued.

“By consensual sex, do you mean forcing me to drink shots of whiskey and smoke pot?  By consensual sex, do you mean that fat guy whipping me with a belt buckle so hard and so many times that I have scars on my back?  By consensual sex, do you mean that every time I said ‘no’ to them, they’d slap me?  And finally, by consensual sex, do you mean that skinny guy biting me so that I still have a scar, or the skinny one burning me with a cigarette on the inside of my leg?  Is that what you mean by consensual sex?” 

Randy sat silently watching the attorney’s mouth open and close without any words coming from it.

“Because if that’s what you mean, then I do understand the difference between consensual sex and rape.  And what those two guys did to me was rape.  I didn’t want to have any kind of sex with them that night or at any time since then, and I sure don’t want to have sex with them now, or for that matter, have sex with any man.”

The courtroom was silent.  No one spoke and it seemed that no one breathed. 

Stenzel stood in the middle of the courtroom, hands hanging at his sides, sweaty and pale, knowing he had lost his case and that it was too late to change pleas or ask for a deal.

“Counselor, do you have any more questions for the witness?” Judge Catlett asked.

“No, Your Honor.”

“Son, you may step down,” the judge said with a smile and a nod of his head.

“Your Honor, I would like to say one more thing if that’s okay,” Randy said.

“Yes, Son?”

“I want to make sure everyone knows I’m not gay.  And I want everyone to understand that what they did to me shouldn’t be done to anyone.  Sex shouldn’t be forced on anyone, and those two . . . the defendants . . . forced me to have sex with them.”

Randy stood up briefly but sat back down, staring first at the defendants, then at Stenzel.

“If you think I consented to what they did to me, than you’re as sick as they are.”

Then Randy stood and left the witness stand without waiting for the judge to dismiss him.

Jamie couldn’t help smiling at the memory.

“I’ll never forget that day as long as I live.  I swear to God it happened just the way I told it.  You can ask any cop in Waukesha, or I can give you Judge Catlett’s number and you can ask him yourself.”

Pete smiled and nodded.

“You know, I saw those pictures of Randy taken from Rodemaker’s computer, and I freaked,” Jamie said.  He made a fist, then relaxed and looked at Pete.  “Randy’s a remarkable kid.  If Jeremy wouldn’t have adopted him, Kelly and I would have.  I’d be proud if my son grew up to be the kind of boy Randy is.

*                                                        *                                                        *

Pete, Summer, Chet, Jamie and Jamie’s boss, Captain Jack O’Brien, sat around a metal table in one of the department’s conference rooms.  Everyone was pretty wasted because it had been a long day.  Rodemaker had been photographed, printed, booked and then taken to lockup. He had asked to be placed in solitary confinement, and he was accommodated for his own safety because of the crimes he had committed.

Jamie, Pete and Summer tag-teamed the update for Musgrave and Rawson who were present via conference call.  It was agreed beforehand to keep the IPhone, Desert Ranch Ponies and the fake name off the record and out of the report for the time being.

“We’ve gotten all we possibly can from Rodemaker and from the website.  He’s gotten updates routinely, including pictures and the latest picture was of the two boys kidnapped in Waukesha,” Chet said while rubbing his eyes.

“We need to move quickly but carefully to rescue those two boys as well as any other kids who might be there,” Summer said.

“Do you have a plan?” Logan asked.

The group around the table looked at one another, but it was Pete who spoke up.

“It’ll take a couple of days, but we’re setting up a small team for Chicago; four or five max.  We’ll do recon ahead of time, but because of the potential number of kids and the fact that we have no idea of the fire power inside the building, we think we’ll need recon for at least two, maybe three days.”

“Three
days
?” Musgrave barked. “Pete, who knows what will happen to those boys if we wait that long.  And, we still have the leak, and if it gets out we’re this close to shutting them down, we’ll never see those kids again.”

“And if we rush this, Logan, we potentially lose those two boys and every other kid,” Summer answered.  “Can you live with that?  I can’t!”

Jamie chimed in, “And, I’m not all that certain we know enough in the first place.  Rodemaker lied to us too many times tonight.  It could all be bullshit.”

There was silence on the other end of the line, and the team in the room could only hear snatches of conversation between Musgrave and Rawson.

“We got a federal warrant for tomorrow, but we’ll have it reissued given the circumstances,” Logan mentioned.  “I just don’t like the possibility of this leak getting out in the open.”

“We’ve been through these six different ways,” O’Brien said, looking from Pete to Summer to Jamie, “and there really is no other way.”

“None of us like the wait, but there’s no getting around it,” Pete said.

“Do you have your team picked?” Doug asked.

“Jamie, two guys from the local PD and me,” Pete said.

“Doug will be there sometime tomorrow.  In the meantime, keep me in the loop, and that means, every move by anyone associated with this case.”

“Do you need anything more from us?” Doug asked. “Anything we can help with?”

“A couple of prayers might help,” Summer said lightly.

“You’ve got that,” Doug said. “I’ll see you at some point tomorrow.  I’ll call ahead.”

“Pete, one last thing,” Logan said. “How’s the Indian boy . . . George?  Is he okay?”

“He’s fine, Logan.  He’s with a good man and his family . . . in good hands.”

“Good.  Glad to hear it,” Logan said.  “Okay, keep me in the loop.”

O’Brien punched off the phone and room was silent.  For good measure, Pete lifted the receiver off the cradle and listened for a dial tone.  The phone was off.  They sat and stared at each other for a moment and then Pete’s cell signaled an incoming text.  Pete opened up the phone, read the text and motioned for Chet to follow him.  In the other room, Pete showed him the text, and Chet wrote it down on a pad and then went to his computer.  As he began to type, Chet’s cell went off.

“Walker.”

“Your favorite pervert is on the move.”

“Chicago, right?”

“Yup,” Morgan answered.

“Okay, got a second number for you.  Ready?”

“Yup. I get off on chasing perverts, even late at night when it’s past my bedtime.”

“Thought you might,” Chet said.  “And since when do you have a bedtime?”

“Hey, Smart Ass, I have a nine to five job too, you know.”

“Yeah, sure,” Chet laughed.

“I’ll let you know what I get when I get it,” and Morgan clicked off.

Pete and Chet walked back into the conference room and sat down at the table.

“Think he bought it?” O’Brien asked.

“We have eyes on him and the other guy,” Pete said.  “Only time will tell.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

“We’ll need to move quickly to make sure we’re there before they move the kids,” Chet said.

“But not so quickly that we’re careless,” Summer cautioned.

“When was the last time we heard from Fitz, Kaupert, or Reilly?” O’Brien asked.

“They’ve been checking in at fifteen minute intervals,” Jamie answered. “All is quiet except for a steady stream of perverts entering and leaving the two buildings and the motel.  They’ve taken pictures of each scumbag, so we can match them to the serve list.  They’ve also given us quite a bit of detail on the entrances and exits and the set up in general.”

Given the fact that there were few options because of leaks, Jamie, Pete and Summer decided to go with local law enforcement hand-selected by Jamie and O’Brien.  There were a few outsiders brought in for help.  A road-weary, Skip Dahlke was flown in from Green Bay along with Marinette County Sheriff Deputy, Earl Coffey.  Dahlke would serve as the videographer and would handle forensics in Chicago.  Coffey was a gun and would be a part of the Kansas City team.  He was former military and Appleton SWAT, who had moved to northern Wisconsin because of a love of hunting and fishing, walks in the woods and the peace and quiet that only the forest can give.  He was proficient with virtually any weapon and had a solid, spotless record in both military and law enforcement.

O’Brien and Jamie picked members of the team that had raided Rodemaker’s home earlier that evening, including Gary Fitzpatrick, George ‘Charlie’ Chan, and Paul Gates, all from Waukesha PD, and from the Waukesha County Sheriff Department, Deputies Patrick O’Connor, Tom Albrecht, Ronnie Desotel and Paul Eiselmann. 

Each member of the team had been vetted by Chet.  Each team member knew what was expected of them and knew that they would have no backup from any local law enforcement.  They were on their own.

Summer had worked up a statement of notification that would be sent to each enforcement locality once the three teams made their move.  This was coordinated by Pete at the upper-most level of the FBI.  Regular channels couldn’t be used for obvious reasons.

The members of the three teams had been briefed by Jamie and Pete and had been given their assignments and deputized as federal agents.  Once the teams landed in their respective city, they’d be updated by the detective on site.

Before they left, O’Brien addressed the group with his hands on his hips.  He reminded Pete and Summer of Mr. Clean, like in the commercials.  He was completely bald, a chiseled and solid, two hundred ten pounds on a five foot-eleven inch frame.  He didn’t speak right away but held them at attention with his eyes.  Even Pete, Summer and Chet paid attention.

“I like happy endings,” was how he began.  “I want nothing less for this mission . . . each mission.  I expect everyone, including the kids, back home in one piece.”  He surveyed each person on the team.  “Do I make myself clear?”

Almost in unison, each man facing him said, “Yes, Sir!” including Chet and Skip.

Pete nodded and Summer said, “Yup!”

Detective Gary Fitzpatrick, a big red-head who had a passion for weight-lifting and guns, had driven to Chicago the minute Chet and Summer had an address.  He’d been undercover for almost two hours as a street person, panhandling for spare change under a street light on the corner of the alley across from the target building.  He’d call to the perverts asking for change, and when they turned around to see who had called or when they exited the building, he’d take their picture with a mini camera that had a three gig memory stick.

With his cell, he took pictures of the front of the building, the alley, the front door and a service entrance that had a steel roll-down door, much like the bay of a car service center.  He had limped along the wall of the building adjacent to the target building, using the gray brick wall as a support as he scouted the back of the building.  He urinated against the wall but also took a picture of an entrance that seemed to have been seldom, if ever used, judging by the amount of debris and overgrown weeds.

He ambled back to the front of the alley, resisting the urge to charge in and save those kids.  The urge wasn’t easy to suppress, but he did anyway knowing that by going in solo, he’d do more harm than good.

There were security cameras above each entrance that would somehow have to be avoided before entering, and then neutralized as soon as possible when a team member gained access.  Rodemaker said he saw at least three guards on duty at any one time, but there could be any number of men watching over the kids, more or less than the three he had seen on his visit.  If there were guards, there would be guns.  If there were guns, there would be a battle.  And if there was a battle, kids might get in the way and get hurt or worse, killed.  They’d have to work it out so that didn’t happen.

Detective Gavin Reilly, who considered himself a cowboy even though he lived in a city, flew to Los Angeles at just about the same time Fitz left for Chicago and mirrored what Fitz had done in Chicago.  Like Fitz, Reilly had posed as a homeless man and worked the corner across from a three story building in the warehouse district of west Los Angeles, near Long Beach.  The building had a similar look to the one in Chicago but seemed to serve more perverts judging by the foot traffic.  It had a dirty, gray color, and like the Chicago building, had three entrances, two of which were used, and one that was a vehicle entrance.

In Kansas City, Kansas, Nathan Kaupert, a Detective with the Waukesha County Sheriff Department who was known for stale donuts, stale coffee and stale jokes followed the same game plan as Reilly and Fitzpatrick had.  This was trickier, however, because the site was a low rent, run down motel adjacent to a truck stop.  Kaupert dressed in a red flannel shirt and jeans and baseball cap.  He wore boots and shoved a pair of gloves into his back pocket, playing the part of a trucker.

According to the Desert Ranch Ponies website, four boys would be “available for your every pleasure” for the next five days.  Judging by the foot traffic of men going to and from the motel, Kaupert guessed that there was one boy in each of four rooms.  There were no back doors, only a front door on each unit that opened to a side of the hotel, perpendicular to a courtyard.  There were no security cameras.  The four rooms were visible from the motel office but were otherwise blocked from site by the rest of the motel.  Kaupert reported to Jamie that a team of five would be needed: one officer for two rooms each, with the other three covering the guards.

Kaupert spotted three of them.

Chet’s cell chirped.

“Walker.”

“Sears is at a Sheraton in downtown Chicago.  I know this because he was called by one of the numbers you had asked me to watch.”

“You’re positive,” Chet said more as a statement than a question.

“Yup.  More importantly, you’ve got a problem,” Morgan said.

“Pete, Jamie . . . you better listen,” Chet said.  “I’m going to put you on speaker.”

“I don’t think you should.  Make sure you’re secure.”

Puzzled, Chet motioned to Summer, Pete and Jamie to follow him into the conference room.

“Okay, we’re secure,” Chet said putting the cell on speaker.

“Who’s we?” Morgan asked.

The three of them looked at each other, then back to the cell.

“This is FBI Agent Storm,” Summer said.  “With me is my partner, Pete Kelliher, Detective Jamie Graff of the Waukesha Police Department, and Chet Walker, who you already know.  What’s going on?”

“Chet gave me three numbers to monitor.  The first, Gary Sears, who we think is running the kiddie porn website from his IPhone is now in downtown Chicago staying at a Sheraton.  He received a phone call from the second number you gave me to monitor.  The call was made approximately ten minutes ago, but if you like, I can give you the exact time and the duration of the phone call.”

Summer frowned at the cell, then at Chet.  She shrugged to say, ‘Okay, what’s the big deal?’

“You said we had a problem,” Chet said.

“A call was made by Sears to the third number you wanted me to monitor, belonging to another FBI agent, who I believe you already know.  This guy is also in Chicago, at the same Sheraton. 

“The problem is that this FBI agent contacted still another mobile number,” Morgan said. “This call was made approximately two minutes after the first call ended.”

“And?” Pete said, beginning to get annoyed.

“And . . . the guy who received the call is in Waukesha, Wisconsin.  That’s where you are, correct?”

“Who received the call?” Jamie said, bending down over the cell.

“Working on that . . . should have a name for you in about fifteen minutes or so.”

“Can you pinpoint where the call was received?” Summer said.

“I followed the cell towers.  The receiver is headed west from the downtown area.  The next tower that picked up was a Verizon tower on Sunset, but the call continued north.  I’m figuring the guy is in a car moving at approximately twenty-five miles an hour, a city speed limit.  The call switched to a Verizon tower just east of Highway 57, which is when the call ended.  It lasted approximately nine minutes.”

“You said you were looking for a third man . . . from the Arizona shooting wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses,” Jamie said.  “Any chance this could be the guy?”

Pete, Summer and Chet looked at Jamie.  Then, Summer turned back to Pete showing the alarm in her expression.  A slow realization spread across Pete’s face.

She said, “Pete, what is the possibility the guy who shot those two assholes in Pembine is still in Wisconsin?”

“Possible.  Why?”

Jamie answered for her.  “Because someone had George’s family killed, and this same someone had intended to kill George.  George is still in Wisconsin . . . Waukesha to be exact.  And according to Chet’s contact, he might be headed to find George.”

Pete and Jamie left the conference room on the run, with Jamie pulling out his cell.