The Drowning Child

62

Ren’s heart started to pound.

‘It was an unusual find,’ said Bob. ‘Boxes of photos and videos in a dumpster beside a strip mall toy store called the Toy Box in Redding, California on Friday. That’s just off I-5, which is obviously a route out of Salem. We’re still scanning them. By my estimates, so far, though, they look like they’re from the seventies/eighties/nineties.’

‘So, before Caleb Veir was born,’ said Gary.

‘Yes – so far,’ said Bob. ‘The kids look to be anywhere between four and eleven – boys and girls.’

‘What kind of abuse are you seeing?’ said Gary.

‘It’s almost exclusively near-drowning,’ said Bob.

Ren’s stomach lurched. ‘And is there sexual abuse?’

‘In some cases, yes,’ said Bob. ‘I’m aware of your drowning deaths in Tate. Is that the route you’re going down?’

‘Yes.’ The log flume to hell.

‘It looks like the same abuser throughout,’ said Bob. ‘You’re likely looking at someone who’s minimum mid-sixties now.’

‘Definitely?’ said Ren. ‘Could it be John Veir, the father? Have you seen a photo of him? He’s fifty-seven.’

‘Can I say definitely sixties?’ said Bob. ‘Well, no – but thereabouts. I can say, though, that it’s definitely not John Veir. I saw him on the news. This man has darker skin and very dark hair, lots of it. We can really only see an arm, a knee, and...’

We all know where the camera is aimed in those videos.

‘I’m presuming the sleeping bag wasn’t with the porn,’ said Ren.

‘No.’

‘How often is the garbage collected at the store?’ said Ren.

‘Those boxes could have been dumped there any time from the Thursday before,’ said Bob.

‘No CCTV, I presume...’

‘No,’ said Bob. ‘We’ll keep inputting the images, and I’ll send everything on as I get it.’

‘We can’t presume whoever dumped them shopped at the store,’ said Ren, ‘but what pedophile could resist a toy store?’

That was grim.

‘Yup,’ said Bob, ‘they go where their needs are met. And I’ve got one hundred and fifty-five million unique images to prove it.’

Jesus. Christ.

‘And these guys are getting more and more tech-savvy,’ said Bob. ‘They’re editing out anything identifiable that might be in the background, anything that we can pick up on our system.’

Imagine sitting at your desk, using editing software for that. It’s beyond depressing.

‘Well, thanks for the call,’ said Ruddock.

‘What the fuck?’ said Ren. She put a call into the Toy Box to email her their video files for the previous week, and a list of all the purchases made.

‘And we can at least get a list of men in that age group from around Tate,’ said Ruddock. ‘Not that the abuser necessarily has to be from the town, but it’s a start.’

‘Really looking forward to Bob’s email,’ said Ren. Ugh.

Like a juggernaut, the images and videos from the fetish sites moved in.

Ugh.

Jesus.

Ren’s heart rate accelerated.

‘People go where their needs are likely to be met.’

‘You won’t find a pedophile hanging around a retirement home.’

Oh my God... the suicide at the retirement home. Wasn’t that guy a swim coach? He taught kids for years. He killed himself last Friday. That was the day it got out that Aaron Fuller had been drowned.

She looked reflexively at Ruddock. This will crush him.

‘Ruddock, maybe you could check with the Veirs about that sleeping bag – find out where it came from and how long they had it,’ said Ren. ‘If there are images from the seventies, and it’s an older man... who could that be? A sibling? Uncle? Family friend?’

Ruddock nodded. ‘OK – I’ll do that.’

She waited for him to leave, then opened up a legacy.com page for Roger Lyle. ‘Pillar of the community alert,’ she said, pointing to the screen.

Gary and Paul looked at her.

‘Did you know that a local swim coach committed suicide last Friday at the retirement home?’ said Ren.

‘A couple of the guys in the command center were talking about it,’ said Paul.

‘Did they say anything else about him?’ said Ren. ‘Any weird vibe?’

‘No,’ said Paul. ‘Nothing.’

‘Ren – want to swing by, check it out?’ said Gary.

‘Sure,’ said Ren. She googled it, then typed the owner’s name into her phone.

Ren took the ten-minute drive to the Harvest Road Retirement Home, and went up to the front desk.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘I’m looking for Nadine Jacobs.’ She showed her creds.

‘Just one moment,’ said the receptionist.

Nadine Jacobs came down to Ren, with the look of someone who had not been sleeping well. Her eyes were puffy, her hair in need of a brush.

Suicide is not exactly great for business.

‘Hello, Ms Jacobs – I’m Ren Bryce, I’m with the FBI – could we talk somewhere privately? It’s about Roger Lyle.’

Nadine frowned, but nodded. ‘Sure, absolutely – come with me.’

They walked a hallway that was painted a dismal shade of gray and hung with wall art that was angular and aggressive. The lighting was cold and bright and the heating was high.

What sensory fuckery is this?

No wonder Roger Lyle didn’t want to hang around.

Oh...

I could do this all day.

‘Here we are,’ said Nadine, pushing her office door open, letting Ren walk in ahead of her.

‘Take a seat.’

‘Can you tell me a little about Mr Lyle?’ said Ren, settling in a chair.

‘About what happened on Friday?’ said Nadine.

‘Well... if you want to start with that. Or you could just talk to me about him as a person.’

‘OK,’ said Nadine. ‘Well, he was the swim coach here in Tate for many years. He taught most of the kids coming up, did extra classes, took them on trips...’

Ding. Ding. Ding. ‘Was he a popular man?’ said Ren.

Nadine gave a one-shoulder shrug. ‘Depends on who you ask,’ she said. ‘He got results. The kids did well, but they didn’t like his discipline. Obviously, a lot of the parents did – the stricter ones. The more laid-back ones thought he needed to lighten up – not that they would say that to his face.’

‘Are you from here?’ said Ren. ‘Did he teach you?’

‘Oh, no,’ said Nadine. ‘I’m terrified of the water.’

Me too now.

‘Have you cleaned out Roger’s room yet?’ said Ren.

‘No,’ said Nadine. ‘We were going to wait until his son came by to pick up his personal effects. He asked that the room be left as is. And, he’s paid up until the end of the month, anyway.’

‘Did he have a wife?’ said Ren. ‘Are there any other family members?’

‘There’s just Jimmy,’ said Nadine. ‘He’s on his way here for the memorial. Roger’s wife – Jimmy’s mother – left him years ago. From what I can gather, it broke Roger’s heart. He threw himself into his work. It became all about the kids after that.’

I bet it did.

This could all be a coincidence. ‘Could I take a look at his room, please?’ said Ren.

‘Sure,’ said Nadine. As they walked the next hallway, this one a dirty shade of blue, Nadine turned to Ren. ‘May I ask, Agent, what your interest in Roger Lyle is?’

Yes, you may. And I may feel free to lie in response. Can’t think of anything. ‘I’m afraid I’m not in a position to discuss that.’

They arrived at Roger’s room. Nadine unlocked the door and pushed it open. It looked like a hurricane had swept through it. It was small, with a single bed, a closet, a chair and a table. There was a newspaper on the table, folded back to a completed crossword. Ren unfolded it to the front page. It was Tuesday’s edition of the Marion County Gazette, leading with Caleb’s disappearance.

She turned to Nadine. ‘Could I trouble you for a glass of water, please?’

‘No problem,’ said Nadine. ‘There’s a cooler at the end of the hallway. I’ll just be a minute.’

Ren bent down as soon as Nadine left, put on her gloves, and grabbed the wastebasket, tilting it toward her to get a look inside. There was a balled-up piece of paper. Ren opened it, flattened it out, read what was on it.

What.

The.

Fuck?

There were two dates handwritten on it: the date Aaron Fuller died, and the date that Caleb Veir disappeared.