JF Gonzalez - Fetish.wps (2 page)

showed me ... what was wrong ... and what had been wrong with her for a long time."

George told Alfonso the rest. Stacy had motioned for him to follow her into the den. He had hardly set foot in this part of the house when they'd been seeing each other, and the few times he had travelled back there he had marveled at the array of grown-up toys her parents had. A large screen television flanked one wall, the projection beam holding a VCR. A high-tech stereo system sat on a black oak entertainment center that took up the space of another wall, and the rest of the room was decorated with various plaques and awards from Stacy and her folks’ various achievements. Dad's plaque honoring him for something he had accomplished as a Sr. Technician at ITT. Mom's bowling trophy from JC. Stacy's plaque honoring her as Student Body President, sixth grade. Middle-of-the-road normalcy at its finest. Inserted among the mementos were videotapes with labels denoting feature films and the requisite family stuff. “Sequoia National Park—Summer, 1977". Another section contained albums and cassette tapes of everything from Beethoven's Seventh performed by the London Philharmonic to 70's bands like Fleetwood Mac's
Rumors
. Popular best selling novels sat binding to binding with literary classics. Maybe they were well rounded.

Stacy had told him to sit down. George had plopped his bare white ass obligingly on the red velvet sofa as she opened a cabinet door set in the entertainment center and began rummaging around inside. It was filled to the brim with more video cassette tapes.

She had extracted a tape and turned on the TV projector. Fuzz filled the screen as she plopped the videocassette in. She told him to watch.

She had sat down beside him as the screen went blank and the footage on the tape commenced.

The den they were seated in came into view on the screen in a wobbly image. It was filled with people milling around talking. There were children in the video. George initially thought it was a family get-together. He had shifted in his seat as Stacy took his hand and squeezed it.

As the tape unwound, George noticed the footage was off kilter. Something about the gathering just wasn't right. George shifted in his seat as a bolt of unease ran through his body. The people in the video, mainly couples, began to slowly kiss and stroke each other. Some of them began to do the same with the children. George's jaw had dropped.

“Watch.” Stacy's voice had been thick, trembling. The people on the screen began disrobing, then disrobing the children.

And in the midst of the frolicking figures engaged in sexual acts, a face stood out.

Young. Pig-tailed. Pretty, with the eagerness and sweetness of a child.

“When I saw a man on that videotape, a man old enough to be Stacy's grandfather, begin...” his voice trembled with the memory of it. Alfonso was listening, his features showing disgust and horror. “Begin ... you know ... I ... I literally got sick. I shot off that couch and stumbled into the living room and dry heaved. Stacy came after me, crying now. She said her parents had made her do it, that they had been making her do stuff like that for as long as she could remember."

Alfsonso said nothing as George stopped and drained the rest of his beer. He got up to get another one. Alfonso asked for another one, too. It was obvious that the story had gotten to him.

George continued after taking a deep drink. “Her parents had been sexually abusing her this way since she was born. They used to bring in other people, pedophiles of both sexes, to abuse her. They continued doing this to her, even up till the time we were seeing each other. She said her parents might seem like upstanding middle-class citizens, but they never gave a shit about her. They used her for their own sick fantasies.

She said that she wasn't the first child they did this to; they had been doing this to children for years before she came along, and that the only reason they had her was to use her and to sell her to other people like themselves.” George paused, looking at Alfonso, who listened as silence. “She told me that I was the first person she had been intimate with that she really loved. I didn't think about that till later. I was so sickened, so frightened by the vibes I felt from being in that house, where they had done those things to her, that all I was thinking about was getting out of that house. I was getting dressed as she was telling me this, crying her heart out as she went on. She went to bed with me because it was
her
choice, not her parents. She wanted to share the experience of being close to someone the way she knew she was meant to experience it. And I ... just didn't want to hear it."

“You were scared,” Alfonso said, softly.

“Yeah,” George said, running a hand through his hair. “Scared and sickened. I just wanted to be out of there. Stacy kept begging me to hold her, and I had to practically fight her to get out of that house. I feel so ashamed of myself for reacting that way, but.... I was so
scared
!"

They were silent for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts. They drank silently. Finally, Alfonso said, “So what are you going to do?"

“I don't know,” George said. He wasn't even feeling the affects of the alcohol, despite the fact that he had just downed two beers in less than ten minutes. “I ... I've thought of calling the police, but ... I don't know ... I'm just so fucking confused!"

“I think you should,” Alfonso said. He took a drink. “But I think the first thing you need to do is contact Stacy. She needs to know that she has a friend in all of this."

“I know.” George felt like shit for the way he had reacted.

“Are you sure you can prove all this?” Alfonso asked. “I mean, think before you call the police. I think you should call them because shit like what you saw has got to be illegal. But you've got to be sure that this isn't going to come back and bite you on the ass."

“If they're still molesting kids I can't let that happen,” George said. He took another swig of beer.

“Then call them. But first, call Stacy. Try to see her if you can. Tell her you love her, that you're her friend, and that you're standing beside her. She needs you now."

George sighed and nodded. Talking to Al about this made him feel better. “Yeah, I'll do that. I'll call her today."

“Good man."

George took another swig of beer. “Then I'll see what she thinks about me calling the police."

Alfonso shook his head. “No, you don't want to do that. Don't even tell her you're calling the cops. That might make her defensive. She might either deny anything happened, or she'll tip off her parents and they'll hide all that shit. Then you'll be fucked.

Don't tell her. Just call the cops."

“Yeah, you're right.” George said, nodding. Al was usually right about things like this.

Except in this case.

George called Stacy four hours later. He was still at Alfonso's, and he was completely fucked up now. Getting drunk was the only way he could summon the courage to make the call. Alfonso was sitting beside him in the living room, the windows open to let in the August summer afternoon. Al was well on his way to being sloshed, too.

Alfonso nodded encouragingly at George as he picked up the phone and dialed.

The phone was picked up on the fourth ring by Stacy's father. George asked for Stacy. “You just missed her,” Mr. Temple said, no hint of any sinister quality to his voice at all. “She left this morning for college."

“College?” George felt all the hope and enthusiasm deflating. He didn't know what to say. She hadn't said anything about leaving when they were together yesterday.

“I imagine she'll call us to let us know she arrived safely,” Stacy's father said. “It was such a split-second decision. Her mother and I knew she was contemplating several colleges, but—"

“You mean she's gone? She just picked up and left?” George still couldn't believe what was happening.

Mr. Temple suddenly sounded suspicious. “You a friend of hers?"

“Uh ... yeah,” George said, trying to think of what to say. This had really thrown him for a loop. “Um..."

“You might want to try back later,” Mr. Temple said, his voice strong and stern.

“I'm sure she'll call. Is there a message I can leave for her?"

“N-no,” George stammered. “Thanks.” He hung up.

Alfonso was waiting with bated breath. His eyes were wide with excitement.

“What happened?"

George told him. The two friends talked about it. Alfonso produced a bag of Thai Stick and tapped it into the bowl of a clay pipe. The two friends smoked, trading the pipe back and forth until they were both good and stoned. Alfonso put Black Sabbath's
Heaven
and Hell
album on the turntable. They contemplated what had happened in stoned silence.

Finally, George broke the silence. “I don't know what to do. I just don't know what to do."

“You still thinking of calling the cops?” Alfonso said.

George turned to him. “I don't know."

George never did call the police. And he never heard from, or saw, Stacy Temple ever again. He would talk to John Burke in the weeks ahead, and John would later tell him that Stacy had told him the molestation story, too. John had believed her as well.
Had
John seen the tape
? George would ask. John would nod that, yes, he had. And as the months went by and they started embarking upon their lives in that late fall of 1982 and the spring of 1983, attending college, working jobs, George would think about Stacy and the dark secrets she harbored. And whenever he was alone his thoughts would turn to her and he would beat himself up for not standing up and offering her the love and support she needed when she told him that her parents had used her as a sex toy. And as the months turned to years, other women came into George's life. And as the years went on, some of those women became faded memories.

But Stacy Temple would always remain in his mind.

He always wished he had been man enough to take her in his arms that day and tell her he loved her.

He never forgot her.

And whenever he thought about her, he thought about that day when she had shown him her secret.

And the one thing that George never forgot, the one thing that still stood out in his mind, was the way her voice had changed when she had tried to rape him. How deep it got.

And the expression on her face ... her body language.

As if she were a different person.

Chapter 1

September 10, 1996, 11:33 p.m.

Los Angeles, CA

When Detective Daryl Garcia and his partner Detective Steve Howe entered the shabbily furnished apartment in East Los Angeles off Briar Avenue, he knew that they would find what they were looking for. And find it they did.

The man who opened the door for them was Rudy “Psycho” Montego, a nineteen-year-old member of the Los Compadres Mafia street gang, one of the most feared and notorious gangs in East Los Angeles. Rudy stood at the door shirtless, clad only in a pair of long baggy shorts, a pair of tennis shoes and white tube socks that went up to his knees. If you're going to wear socks all the way to your knees while wearing a pair of shorts that go down to your shins, what was the fucking point?

Rudy nodded as he opened the door. He had called “who is it?” at the sound of their knocks and opened the door immediately after Daryl and Steve identified themselves. Rudy knew better. He may be a gang member, but he wasn't entirely stupid.

“Was’ up, homes?” He asked, assuming a stance of normality. Daryl and Steve had known Rudy for the last three years; the last time they had busted him was for public intoxication and carrying a concealed weapon. Rudy stepped aside as Daryl and Steve walked into the apartment and noticed that he wasn't alone.

Another male gang member was lounging on the worn, tattered sofa in the tiny living room. This gang member was small in stature and physically resembled Rudy; slight build, shaved head, tan skin, wearing nothing but baggy shorts and tennis shoes.

Both men sported numerous tattoos on their arms, chest, and back. The man on the sofa looked younger, probably no older than sixteen. It didn't matter though; at sixteen the kid was already a lost cause.

Steve closed the door behind them and Daryl faced the two men. Rudy had retreated back toward the sofa but hadn't taken a seat. His friend remained seated, a bored look on his face. Daryl nodded at the younger gang member. “What's your name?"

“Flaco,” he answered.

“What's your real name?"

The kid grinned. “Frankie."

“Frankie, I want you to get off the sofa slowly and get on your knees and face the sofa with your hands behind your head."

Frankie threw his hands up in an exasperated manner. “Aw man, what I do now?

Jesus Christ!"

Daryl had his hand on the butt of his gun and he was tense. He felt Steve beside him, just as tense. It was just the two of them in this apartment and they didn't know if there were any other homeboys hiding in the back bedroom. They had to get these two in custody as soon as possible. “It's just for our safety while we talk. Come on now."

Frankie looked at Rudy, as if getting confirmation to comply. Steve motioned at Rudy. “You too, Rudy,” Steve said. “Hands behind your head and on your knees please."

“Man, you can talk to us like this,” Rudy said, arms out at his side, trying to reason with the two officers.

“Rudy...” Daryl warned, putting an inflection of menace in his voice. His hand was on the butt of the gun now, ready to pull his weapon.

The four men stood there, a Mexican standoff. Finally Rudy threw his hands up, placed them behind his head and turned around, getting on his knees. Frankie did the same. Daryl and Steve moved forward, Daryl cuffing Rudy while Steve cuffed Frankie.

Steve helped Frankie up and walked him over to Rudy, motioning for him to get on his knees beside the older gang member. When both gang members were handcuffed and on the floor, Daryl motioned for Steve to check the rear of the apartment. Gun drawn, Steve inched down the short hallway to the rear of the apartment while Daryl covered him and kept an eye on the gang members. A moment later Steve came back. “Clear,” he said.