Authors: George Fong
Fragmented (5 page)
6
Tuesday –
As the
haze of a deep sleep faded, Jessica Baker looked for the clock on her nightstand or the moonlight shining through her bedroom window. She couldn’t see either. This wasn’t her room. There was no nightstand, no clock. Then she remembered the man and the prick of a needle.
She tried to sit up but couldn’t. Her hands or legs were tied down. She tugged harder but every attempt felt like razorblades dragging across her skin. Jessica tried to blink her eyes clear of the blackness. But they were covered. Heavy tape wrapped around her head and over her eyes, the tape yanking her hair every time she moved, sending a sharp stinging pain across her scalp. Adrenalin flooded the core of her body and Jessica felt a wave of panic overwhelm her. She struggled, pushing and pulling, but the ties held fast.
Her head was trapped in a fog, making it difficult to formulate words, let alone sentences. What words did spill from her lips sounded sloppy and drunk. But her body sensed it was vulnerable. Unable to see, unable to move, Jessica Baker was petrified.
She felt the touch of a person’s hand on her head, straightening the pillow that was positioned too high. The touch made her jerk. She gasped a short breath that was stuck tight in her chest. She couldn’t breathe fast enough; every nerve ending felt like it was on fire.
“That should make you more comfortable, Jessica,” a man’s voice said.
“Who are you? How do you know me?”
“Not now, we’ll talk later. You need your rest. You’re sick and need to get better.”
His calm words made Jessica shiver. Her heart thumped hard in her chest and throat.
The foul smell of her captor’s breath wafted past her cheek, his face next to hers. She pushed herself deep into the pillow, trying to retreat from his touch best she could. The metal posts of the bed frame squealed as she twisted her fastened arms. She felt the man leaning closer; the stench of sweat and pungent odor of his breath became stronger.
“Shh. Don’t bother screaming. There’s no one to hear you.”
Even through the stranger’s stink, she could smell stale dust, like a cabin after it’s been boarded up for the winter.
“Listen, Jessica, if you’re good, I’ll think about taking the tape off your eyes.”
Jessica shifted uncomfortably under her bindings. “Please, untie my hands. They hurt.”
The man mumbled something, then said, “No.”
“Please. You’re scaring me.”
“Sometimes, fear is what a parent needs to get a child to behave.”
The man touched her face, sliding his fingers down the side of her arm. It made her skin burn. “You remind me of someone I once knew.”
The words “once knew” sent electricity down her spine.
She heard rustling, a slight pause and then the clicking of something mechanical. “What are you doing?”
Another pause, then the man said, “I’m taking pictures.”
Jessica heard his walking, pacing around her. Her head swiveled from side to side, trying to track his movement. The floor creaked when he walked past. Then he stopped and she heard the clicking of the camera shutter snapping photo after photo.
“That’s good, Jessica, that’s good,” the man said, his tone trying to sound calming.
But Jessica was far from calm. Her body was breaking down into an uncontrollable shudder. With every click of the camera, Jessica’s face flinched. Tears welled up in her eyes, held back by the tape across her face.
“No, don’t cry,” the man said. “You’ll ruin the pictures.”
He reached out to stroke her arm. As he leaned closer, her whimpering turned into uncontrollable sobbing.
The man withdrew and walked away. She struggled to hear what he was doing. A zipping sound, like thick tape being pulled from a roll, a tear. The man scurried back to the bed and sat down beside her. His hands pressed against her face, her eyes. He was putting on more tape. The man pressed the edges down firm, making sure she couldn’t see anything. She didn’t want to see anything, especially him. She knew if she did, he would never let her go. Not alive.
The man backed away, his steps slowed and became distant. She heard the creak of a chair straining under his weight. Then silence.
Over the next ten minutes, Jessica remained still, hearing nothing but the occasional squeak of the chair, letting her know he was still there. The silence was numbing. Soon, her body surrendered to exhaustion. Her mouth gaped open, sucking in air as if she had just completed a marathon.
As she succumbed to fatigue, Jessica heard the camera whirl back to life. This time, Jessica Baker didn’t move, didn’t cry, didn’t beg. She just lay there, waiting for the man to finish.
7
Tuesday –
The outside
temperature hovered at 105 degrees as Jack stepped out of his Crown Vic. The air conditioner was running full blast and the contrast in temperatures caused a puff of cool to escape when the door pulled wide. A ball of dust exploded under his shoe as it landed on the edge of Highway 99, where he was instructed to meet the other agents. He stared out at the vast expanse of arid soil that surrounded him. The
Central Valley
was the world’s largest grower of fruits and vegetables, the land that feeds the world. To Jack, it was a large dirt clod. It was like standing on Mercury—only hotter.
The entry team met near the
Modesto
Airport
, in preparation of executing Marquez’s search warrant for Andre Burke’s home. Three agents stood beside a blacked-out Suburban, adjusting their ballistic vests. Their pistols were slung low on their leg, SWAT style. The rest stood ready but looked antsy. Marquez, on her radio, checked with dispatch to ensure a clear channel during the operation. A dark green Impala was parked under a tall oak tree on the edge of the lot. An agent sat on the driver’s side, door opened, his legs hanging outside of the car. He was checking his holster and yanking on his ballistic vest, trying to find a comfortable position. It was Tom Cannon, a new agent fresh out of
Quantico
. Cannon fumbled with his gear, looking nervous. He gazed toward the rest of the crowd, then at Jack. Even from a distance, Jack saw Cannon’s face was pale. Jack returned a nod, then pulled his gear from the trunk and got ready.
It was almost two by the time the team crowded into the Suburbans and drove up to the side of the apartment. They bailed out and formed a straight line, six deep. Marquez moved forward. She had the team stack up along the apartment building wall. With a wave of her arm, Marquez commanded the team to advance. Jack fell in close behind the lead agent, who was carrying a ballistic shield. Jack unholstered his 40-caliber Glock, trigger finger resting on the side of the frame, muzzle down. An agent trailed closely behind toting a mono-shock battering ram with the words
Knock Knock
painted on the side in white letters. As the three stood by the front door, the rest of the crew circled around and surrounded the perimeter. With a green and go signal from Marquez, Jack walked around the shield and pounded an authoritative fist on the front door. He waited a few seconds, listening for any sound coming from within. Hearing nothing but the rubbing of Velcro and click of agent firing pin safeties being released, Jack shouted out into the afternoon air, “Andre Burke! FBI, we have a search warrant for the premise. Open the door, now.” Jack listened for a response. Nothing. He checked his watch. Knowing the Supreme Court’s latest decision on the issue of knock and announce, he counted. “Ten, nine, eight . . . screw it . . . two, one. Break it down!
”
An agent stepped forward and, in a single motion, slammed the heavy metal ram into the door handle. The frame splintered and the lock shattered as if made of glass. The door flailed loosely on its broken hinges and the team poured into the apartment, guided by the muzzles of their MP-5s, searching for threats. Jack rolled in and to the right, lighting up the area with his compact Surefire flashlight. The drapes were pulled closed, making the room as black as night. A crash came from the back bedroom and someone shuffled out trying to find his way in the dark. Jack focused his light on a young man wearing boxer shorts with skinny legs, stumbling in the darkened hallway. He held a pasty, white arm over his eyes, protecting them from the glaring searchlights. His hair was long and stringy, tussled from being rousted from a deep sleep. The suspect was pencil thin with colorless skin, like Play-Doh over bone. He matched the driver’s license description of Andre Burke.
As if still in a fog, he began babbling, the words stumbling over his tongue. “What’s going on? Who are you guys?”
Before Burke could get an answer, Jack and another agent grabbed him by his neck and took him to the ground. They had him pinned in the prone position, his hands being securely fastened together with a pair of flex-cuffs.
“Hey, man, take the drugs, just don’t hurt me!”
Jack grunted as he pulled Burke up into a sitting position. “Relax, Romeo. We’re not here to rip off your drugs. We’re here to search your place.”
“For what, man? I ain’t got nothing.”
“Didn’t you just say you had drugs in the house?”
Burke gave a deer-in-the-headlights look, pausing quietly for a second, before letting out an exasperated sigh. “Oh, right.”
It took Marquez fifteen minutes to explain to Burke the reason for the unexpected visit. She provided him with a copy of the warrant, tossing it onto a dusty coffee table. As a goodwill gesture, Marquez had removed the flex-cuffs from behind Burke’s back and refastened a new set in front. Burke sat quietly, listening to Marquez’s spiel, unable to comprehend why the FBI was interested in searching his computer for pictures of pornography.
“That’s illegal?” Burke asked, his head cocked to one side like a dog hearing a silent whistle.
“Yes, Andre, it’s illegal. Can get you five to ten in federal prison.”
“Shit, that’s serious time, right?”
Marquez rolled her eyes.
Two FBI examiners from the Computer Analysis and Response Team, CART, began to unpack their specialized gear that would mirror the hard-drive of Burke’s computer. With the use of EnCase forensic software, the information stored on the hard-drive could be searched and reviewed without damage or destruction. Jack knew purveyors of child porn often set destruction codes on their systems if accessed incorrectly to wipe out any evidence in event of a raid. Jack looked over at Burke and studied him for a beat. He concluded Burke did not possess enough brain cells to devise such a proactive plan.
Within fifteen minutes, the examiners had the computer disassembled, and it wasn’t much longer before the drive was mirrored, with a detailed search of the system flashing on the portable monitor. They scanned rows of commercially manufactured porn in search of anything resembling pictures of minors.
“Hey, Jack,” one of the examiners called out. “I think you better take a look at this.”
As Jack walked toward the kitchen table covered in electronic search equipment, Burke shouted, “Hey, man, maybe I want my lawyer.”
“Shut up, Burke!” Marquez said, continuing to fill out paperwork for the items she planned on taking.
Jack stared at the monitor. Burke’s computer case was opened with colorful bands of cable streaming out and into the Bureau’s hardware, the data in Burke’s computer pumped like water through a hose into the FBI’s storage space. The computer monitor flashed snapshots from Burke’s hard drive. Mostly commercial grade porn, the stuff Jack had seen floating around for years.
“What have you got?” Jack asked.
“Mostly Eastern European crap,” replied the CART examiner. “We peeked at a couple of files and came across some unusual ones. Take a look at these.” The examiner tapped on the keyboard, moving through a maze of files and sub-files before going into Burke’s trash can. He clicked on it and a series of pictures materialized.
“What the hell is this?” Jack whispered.
“Pretty disturbing,” replied the CART examiner.
The first picture was a grainy color shot of a young girl, tape covering her eyes, lying on a bare mattress. The room was dark but Jack could make out cardboard boxes and several pieces of broken furniture scattered randomly around the room. A single overhead lamp was the only source of light, harshly illuminating the unknown girl. Sharp lines and stark features. The girl in the picture wore pajamas, bunched and disheveled. Jack studied the image and a rush of dread filled his body. Jack spoke, his words soft and careful: “This isn’t porn, boys.”
The CART examiner nodded. “I think you’re right.”
The picture was clearly not intended for pornography. She was not erotically dressed; she performed no sexual acts, showed no seductive poses. As much as those types of pictorials sickened Jack, this photo was worse.
Marquez stood from the sofa, left Burke alone and walked over to Jack’s side.
Jack’s tapped a finger on the screen. “Lucy, that’s not a picture of smut.”