Vigilare (7 page)

The officers turn toward the onlookers, their arms outstretched, backing them up away from the caution tape. “Nothing to see here. Back up people.”

“Get your hands off her,” the father orders, approaching Gina.

Tony gulps before grabbing the large man by his arm. “She’s only trying to help.”

The man jerks his arm away from Tony. “I didn’t see any of you
trying to help
three years ago.” He throws his arms out to his sides, a large reach. “You’re a joke. The whole system’s a joke!” He chuckles mirthlessly, quenching the urge to cry. “He raped my baby. My baby!” He pounds his chest with his fist. “I’m supposed to protect her.” He regroups, shaking off the emotion. “Lord knows the system won’t. Three years in jail with early probation on account of good behavior.” He shakes his head, disgusted. “We don’t want your kind of help.”

“You tell ’em!” a lady shouts from the crowd. “I’m sick and tired of all these scumbags roaming our neighborhood. I don’t even dare to let my children out of the house to play.”

“Our kids don’t stand a chance, between the drug dealers and the pedophiles. I looked online. Do you know we have more sex offenders per capita than any other neighborhood in the city,” a man joins the lady in her protest.

“‘Stick ’em over there on the Eastside,’” the lady continues mockingly. “You don’t want them in your communities. Well, we don’t want ’em, either!”

The crowd begins applauding the protestors. Random outbursts are interjected as the scene plays out. ‘Cops suck.’ ‘The whole damn system’s broke.’ ‘We’re not gonna take it anymore!’ ‘If you don’t stop it, we will.’

“Take it up with the city folks,” an officer persuades, as he attempts to quiet the crowd.

“Yep. Get a permit, then you can protest all day long,” Officer Marks chimes, herding people away.

The young woman’s father gently pulls her from Gina’s embrace, up off the ground. “It’s all over now, honey,” he coaxes. Eyeing Gina directly with disdain, he continues, “Justice has been done.”

Gina remains kneeling on the concrete in the alleyway beside the corpse of the rapist, her thoughts scattered. Tony walks to her extending his hand. “He’s right. You know he is,” she says, shame flooding her expression.

His hand outstretched, he nods at her, prompting her to pull it together. She shakes her head, taking his hand. He pulls her into standing position. “I know,” he admits, an afterthought, falling into cadence behind her. She has recovered. In full detective mode now, she heads in the direction of the man and his daughter, knowing she must insist they cooperate for questioning.

THAT AFTERNOON, DR. Patricia Ryan is in session with Randall Barnes, a registered sex offender with a persuasion toward young boys...and girls. Any minor, really. He has served two prison sentences, one for a year, and three years for the second count. Currently on his tenth month of a four-year probation, mandatory psychological counseling is added to his curriculum. The bill for such services, another strain on the local taxpayer, in addition to the thirty thousand dollars for every year he spent incarcerated. What’s another hundred dollars an hour for his psychological well-being?

Dr. Ryan’s room is dim, the shades pulled, an attempt to make her clients feel at ease. Light seems to cause them great discomfort. Dr. Ryan sits in her chair. Randall Barnes across from her, lying casually on the leather sofa, one leg kicked off onto the floor, his arms relaxed above his head.

“How are you doing with the temptations, Randall?” Dr. Ryan cuts right to the chase.

Without hesitation, he answers, “Not good.”

“Have you tried implementing the positive coping techniques we discussed last session? Diversionary tactics? Exercise as a means of exertion? Creativity for mental stimulation to override excessive physical desires?”

He sits up on the couch, rubbing his hands together, grinning. “If you consider jacking off while watching my girlfriend’s daughter sleep a positive coping technique, then yeah, I’ve tried it.”

Dr. Ryan shifts uneasily in her chair, while maintaining a controlled body language. “Last time you were here, you told me your girlfriend didn’t have any kids. Does she know you’re a registered sex offender?”

He stands from the couch, pacing around behind it. “Yeah, she knows. She trusts me, though.” He smirks, shaking his head. “It’s her fault you know, picking me over her kid. The same way my mom did with my stepfather. Stupid bitch.”

“How old is the child?”

“She’s fifteen.” He props himself up on the back of the sofa. “A ripe fifteen,” he continues, miming a full, voluptuous frame with his hands.

Dr. Ryan clears her throat, reframing her initial urge to respond negatively to Randall’s probing. “Can you identify with the daughter? Empathize with her, the position she is in? The same position your mother put you in with your stepfather?”

“Sometimes. Other times, I want so bad to feel her insides.” He physically moans, causing Dr. Ryan’s skin to break out in goosebumps, instantly nauseated. “Maybe her innocence could replace the innocence I lost.” His eyes stare straight forward, momentarily reliving a moment in time.

“The innocence your stepfather took from you? You want to do that to another human being?”

“Sometimes.”

“You’ve already done that, Randall, twice,” she refers to his previous sentences. “Their innocence did not replace yours. What makes you think another victim will?”

He mocks her condescendingly, “Why, Randall? How does it make you feel, Randall? How are you coping, Randall?” He slaps his hand against the back of the couch as he starts in pacing again. “You ask too many questions, lady.”

She sits back, her arms resting casually on the arms of the chair attempting to maintain an open body language. “That’s my job, Randall. Without questions, you have nothing propelling you to explore your feelings and actions. The more understanding you have of the things you do, the better equipped you will be to control the negatives and nurture the positives.”

“I’m sick of this shit! I’ve served my time...paid my price. Now I gotta come in here and talk about my feelings with you. Screw this!” He walks toward the door.

“You’ve paid your price?” Dr. Ryan asks, annoyed, getting up out of her chair. “I was unaware you could put a price tag on a child’s innocence.”

Randall turns toward her, away from the door, his finger pointed accusingly in her direction. “You have been mindfucking me from the first session. You wanna fuck, Dr. Ryan?”

He moves threateningly close to her. She stands her ground, unwilling to be intimidated.

“I bet you have a price tag, don’t you
Patricia?
Or is it Patty?” He circles around behind her, uncomfortable with the eye contact she is maintaining. He runs his fingers through her hair and down the back of her neck. “Tell me, how much does it cost to get between your thighs?”

Dr. Ryan remains firm in both her stance and vocal presence, “Nice technique Randall. Attempting to assert your power to make me feel cheap and inferior.”

“Don’t try your quack shit on me. If you know me so well, you’d know better than to egg me on.” He grabs a handful of her hair, his face pressed against the side of her head, continuing menacingly into her ear, “If I was asserting my power, believe me, you’d know it. I’d have you pinned up against the wall with your skirt up around your neck...”

The office door swings open as Detective Gronkowski enters, a subpoena in hand, meant for Dr. Ryan, calling for a release of her records. Upon entering, the scene becomes quite apparent. Within milliseconds, Tony has Randall Barnes backed up against the wall by his shirt collar.

“Care to elaborate on what the hell I walked in on?” Tony probes Randall.

“Nothing, man, nothing. I...I was just talking with Dr. Ryan.”

Dr. Ryan approaches Tony, her hands rest encouragingly on his shoulders. “Really, it’s fine, Officer. Sometimes therapy sessions get a little heated.”

“Heated? Really.” Tony pulls Randall away from the wall, spinning toward the doorway. “I’m taking him down for prints.”

“No. That won’t be necessary,” Dr. Ryan says.

“I think it’s necessary.” Tony shoves against Randall. “Move!”

Dr. Ryan positions herself between them and the door. “He’s making good progress with therapy. The only thing another arrest would do is set him back even more. Let him go, Officer.”

“Detective,” Tony corrects her on her second reference to him as Officer. “Are you sure, lady?”

“Doctor,” she corrects him. Touché. Nodding her head, she extends her hand toward the door.

Tony heaves Randall’s frame out of Dr. Ryan’s office. Randall spins, a sinister grin forming on his mouth. He takes off running down the hallway.

Dr. Ryan sits down at her desk, resting her forehead on her hand momentarily.

“You okay?” Tony asks.

Aware of the vulnerability in her body language, she quickly recovers, sitting up straight as a pin, reorganizing the already militaristic formation of her desk. “Yes. I am fine. Detective?” She rises, extending her hand to him.

“Gronkowski. Tony Gronkowski.” He meets her handshake firmly. “You know,
Dr
. Ryan,” he accentuates Doctor, acknowledging her previous declaration. “You really shouldn’t be alone with these creeps. Why aren’t their sessions supervised?”

“They open up more when it’s one on one,” she dismisses. “Gronkowski? You wouldn’t happen to be Detective DeLuca’s partner, would you?” She eyes him suspiciously.

He smiles, handing her the subpoena for release of her records. “I happen to be such a partner.”

She stands, her arms folded one over the other across her chest, refusing to take the paperwork.

Tony winks, dropping the forms to her desk. “Guess I should see myself out.”

IN THE MEANTIME, Detective DeLuca sits at her desk, covered in files. The phone rests on her shoulder. She’s got one on the line and one on hold. She sees Detective Gronkowski approaching, something mischievous and satisfied in his manner. Officer Marks waits for her on line two. She clicks over.

“DeLuca, you got company. A Father Trahern,” he informs.

“Father?” she questions, her wheels spinning. “Alright, send him back.”

“DeLuca, put one right here,” Tony says, bending at her desk offering up his cheek for a kiss.

Gina shrugs away from him, forcefully patting the side of his face. “Pull yourself together Gronkowski. Can’t you see I’m covered up here.”

“I’d like to cover you up,” he smirks. “Seriously, you are going to want to slip me the tongue. I just delivered Dr. Ryan a subpoena for release of all her records.”

“Hold it together,
Frenchy
,” she pipes back, referring to his aforementioned form of kissing. “We already have her records.”

“Now, they’ll be legal. Completely admissible in court.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you have it in for her,” Gina huffs, filing her paperwork.”

“A hunch, DeLuca. Got a feeling.” He inspects her eye, the bruise at the corner darkening. “Geez. You need to ice that thing again.”

She swats his hand away. “It’s fine.” Looking up, she notices a priest walking toward them. “And I got a feeling, you better move. I don’t need any lightning striking my desk.”

Tony turns in the direction of her eyeline. “Ah, Christ,” Tony says nervously.

“That would be the man he works for.” Gina smiles as she stands beside him.

Tony fidgets, further tucking his department-issued black fatigue sweater into his black BDU’s. He turns to Gina, breathing into her face. “I had a few more drinks last night after I left your place. Can you smell anything?”

“You’re fine Gronkowski.” She grins. “Although a breath mint wouldn’t hurt.”

Tony holds his hand to his lips, breathing into it.

“Will you relax,” Gina mutters out the side of her mouth, elbowing him.

A short, yet stately man approaches, wearing black dress pants and a black button-down shirt with a white clerical collar inserted behind the top button. Gina extends her hand. Tony awkwardly puts his hands together palm to palm, bowing his head. Gina chokes back a giggle, as the priest takes her hand in his. “Gina DeLuca.”

“Father Trahern. St. Francis Catholic Church,” he introduces himself.

“This is my partner, Tony Gronkowski.” Gina pats Tony’s hands down from their prayer position. Motioning toward a chair across from her desk, she says, “Please. Make yourself comfortable.”

They all sit.

“Where is St. Francis?” Tony asks cordially.

“401 East Hampton Boulevard.”

“Huh?” Tony expels. “You keep some rough company over there,” he refers to the numerous pawnshops and its infamous reputation as
Prostitution Central
.

Father Trahern nods.

“So, ah. What brings you in?” Gina kicks things off.

“I find myself in a bit of a dilemma.” He sits forward in his chair, his body language displaying his internal discomfort. “As a priest, I am restricted in discussing confessions. However, when someone is in danger or poses a threat, I feel obliged to speak out.”

Tony lights up. “Did someone confess a murder or something?”

“Not exactly,” Father Trahern quickly interjects.

Gina eyeballs Tony, willing him mute. “Go on, Father.”

“Yesterday evening a man came in. He was asking questions about taking justice into his own hands. An eye for an eye, things of that persuasion. He wanted to know if people were forgiven if they took care of wrongdoers themselves.” Father Trahern clears his throat. “Pardon me for insinuating such, but he made mention that when the
system
fails, civilians are left with few alternatives.”

“Vigilante justice,” Tony declares.

Father Trahern nods. “I didn’t think much about it until I heard what happened over on MLK Boulevard this morning.”

Tony picks up the phone, speaking into the receiver. “Marks, get me everything you got on William Truly,” Tony refers to the father of the young woman they met on scene in the alleyway of MLK.

Father Trahern watches Tony intently. Gina comforts him. “Standard operating procedure.”