Victimless Crimes

By Bonnie Eckert

RICHTER, Gordon: a dark soul deeply frustrated no one recognizes or appreciates his obvious genius.

PORTER, Patrick: an investigative journalist exposing corporations that make money off of enslaved workers in their company supply chains.

OLIVER, Lydia: private fraud investigator balancing her clients' needs with those of her young family, while navigating her own life-threatening medical crisis.

PORTER, Meredith: a brilliant and insatiably curious analyst who partners with her brother when she discovers something is off at the company she works for.

SCOTT, Amy: a veteran paramedic struggling to maintain the high standards of her profession as financial stress devastates her and her family.

ELLIOT, Charles: the cold, unapproachable CEO of GEDREC, the international boutique engineering firm where Meredith Porter works.

MONTGOMERY, Marshall: wealthy retiree and former CEO of GEDREC, the engineering firm he founded and on whose board of directors he continues to sit.

Seven paths about to intersect in a rapidly escalating battle between truth and lies, integrity and greed. Together they are barreling toward suffocating destruction, but they will not all pay in equal measure. In the end, will any of them win?

 

A fast-paced psychological thriller that exposes the twisted world of international slavery, corruption, and injustice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bonnie Eckert
• Release date: May 10, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201398194

Book preview

— VICTIMLESS CRIMES —

BOOK ONE

By Bonnie Eckert

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

To my kids for teaching me to love fiercely. You were the first to believe in me. Brin, your quiet Lily-like encouragement and praise for every milestone I meet sustains my momentum. Tahneal, you make me feel like my craziest dreams are worth pursuing. Gavin, your clever use of the English language inspires me every day. My husband, Ron. Thank you for letting me be me for 27 years. Here’s to 27 more and then some. Crystal, my first reader. You made me feel like maybe I can do this. That my writing—horrible first draft no less—kept you reading encouraged me to keep going. To Alyssa Roat, my professional beta-reader and friend. Your feedback was fuel for my process, and I love your big brain and knowledge of apocalypse nerds. Bob Goff, you really do answer. Your ongoing encouragement is an answer to prayer. Philip Calvert of International Justice Mission, thank-you for bearing witness to the pain of those enslaved to brick kiln owners and for helping me accurately portray their plight. And Michelle. I shared my dream with you and you did not blink, flinch, yawn or groan. Thank you for inspiring confidence in me.

To the doctors at the Libin Cardiovascular Institute. I owe you my life and every pain-free step I take. Thank you from the bottom, top and every other part of my shocked, burned and beat up heart. I know my struggles originated with pregnancy complications, but I’m sure they were triggered by the stress of blowing the whistle on a boss who asked me to falsify records. On that note, a message to the board of directors I cried out to for help. You know who you are. I came to you confident you would do the right thing, convinced you were good, moral leaders with enough integrity to right an egregious wrong. But you weren’t and you didn’t. Even as back up servers were erased and files were shredded, you did not act. You left me behind to face that monster and then had the audacity to tell me not to resign. I dedicate this book to you in hopes you change your ways and do the right thing in future.

GUIDE TO MAJOR CHARACTERS

(in order of appearance)

Gordon Richter: Construction Foreman

Patrick Porter: Investigative Journalist, Meredith Porter’s Brother

Lydia Oliver: Fraud Investigator, Tuck, Lily and Finn’s Mother, Nick’s Wife

Meredith Porter: Analyst at GEDREC, Patrick Porter’s Sister, Alias: KELLY

Charles Elliot: CEO of GEDREC

Marshall Montgomery: Founder and Former CEO of GEDREC, Mark, Max and Maddy’s Father, Mavis’s husband

Amy Scott: Paramedic

Mark Montgomery: College Student, Marshall’s son

Naomi: Executive Assistant to Marshall’s friend Norman

Dr. Raymond Bing: Psychologist, Consultant to Corporations and their Boards

PROLOGUE

GORDON

Gordon Richter trudged across the rain-soaked construction site in the pre-dawn darkness, his boots sinking deeply into thick, wet clay. Ordinarily, a day like this would put him in a foul temper. Not today.

He knew everyone underestimated him. Bosses, the idiots he worked with, they all thought he was stupid. He wasn’t. Gordon didn't belong on a construction site. He was smart. A thinker. Smarter than his teachers in school, but they couldn’t see it and that made him mad. They should have accepted whatever he handed in instead of being picky and applying their bias.

He’d dropped out two months shy of graduation. What did he care?

Turns out his dad cared. He underestimated Gordon too, luring him onto his first construction site, giving him a choice between the promise of a pay cheque or a swift kick in the…

Gordon spent years working with his dad, but his dad never knew him. He was always cutting Gordon down about being a scrawny wimp, for taking after his mother’s side. It grated on him, so when his dad stroked out one day in the bathroom, Gordon wasn’t quick calling for help. His dad made it to the hospital but died the next day. His mom was glad she got to say goodbye. Gordon didn’t pretend to care.

It turned out Gordon’s dad didn’t have his affairs in order. He’d left his family with a company that appeared to do well but no one else knew how to operate. Gordon took over and ran the company into the ground within a year.

His mom, now bankrupt, moved in with her sister. Gordon, with no other experience on his resume, ended up taking a job at another company for wages he found insulting. He went through so many companies he had to leave the country, fabricate experiences on his resume, and forge letters of reference to get work. Eventually he landed work in the Philippines.

Gordon smirked.

That job was…entertaining.

Today he knew his new boss was going to beak at him for not getting concrete poured before the latest storm rolled through.

Gordon wouldn’t have it.

He’d been watching the operation, the corners being cut, the…collateral damage…of tearing down a rank-smelling barrio to make way for some massive infrastructure project. He’d seen the fancy guys who flew in on corporate jets to check the project out. He knew they saw what was going on, the people scattering like rats as bulldozers razed their shacks. He saw and knew they had blood on their hands.

He’d been planning a way to prosper from this info. Maybe now was the time.

Reaching the metal steps of the tin box they called a job-site office, Gordon wrenched his boots from the mud and, without stopping to clean them off, stepped inside, wrestling the metal door closed against grit accumulated in the frame.

Son of a…

He was better than this. He deserved to be in an office somewhere, warm, dry and clean with a gorgeous secretary bringing him whatever he wanted because he demanded it and kept her scared. He would look out the window onto the streets below while sipping expensive coffee and mocking any useless idiot who wished they were him.

Gordon!

His head snapped up as his puce-faced boss stepped from the office at the back of the trailer. He was already apoplectic.

Where’s ma concrete? He growled. If you’d stayed on schedule, you lazy… He advanced and the calm inside Gordon stepped aside like the gate sliding open on a lion’s enclosure.

Gordon planted his feet.

I’m done. I’m done with this life, done with this job, this boss, all of it.

Letting the man advance, Gordon’s resolve drowned out the shouting. He waited, slowly peeling off his soaking wet gloves.

The instant his boss was within reach, just as Gordon was about to stretch his hands toward the man’s neck, the phone in the back office rang, stopping both men mid-motion.

Muttering and shaking his fist, the boss retreated to the office, closing, but not latching, the door behind him.

Gordon stared at the door

I’m done, the voice inside his head repeated.

He glanced toward the grimy counter beside the door he’d just come through and his thoughts registered on the old toaster. It had been sparking for months but the boss was too cheap to replace it.

As an idea formed in his head, Gordon knew he’d have to be quick. He could hear his boss hollering at someone on the phone. He pictured the giant pudge of a man sitting behind his green metal desk piled high with papers.

Gordon knew there was no way to exit the boss’s office other than the door the man had just gone through to answer the phone. Gordon knew every window in the shack was barred for security purposes because he’d installed the bars himself. Removing them would take time, effort and tools.

He pictured that smoke-yellowed room crammed with piles of blueprints, invoices, all dry and loose like kindling.

This is going to work.

Gordon reached up and gave the smoke detector a quick twist, just enough to make the indicator light go out. Then he made for the toaster and plugged it in, taking two slices of stale bread out of a bag on the counter. Carefully wrapping each slice in paper towel, he shoved them into the toaster’s slots before setting the dials as high as they would go for toast as black as char.

Satisfied, he depressed the lever and watched the bread drop. The toaster grates began to glow red.

Gordon could still hear his boss hollering on the phone as he threw a crusty, unwashed hand towel between the toaster and the wall. The man continued his tirade as Gordon created a trail of paper towel leading from the now smoking toaster to the office door.

Just as Gordon predicted, the paper towel ignited. With a grin he pulled his hood over his head and ducked out the door, back into the pre-dawn darkness. It was just him and the boss on site this early. No witnesses to the tragedy about to unfold in the job shack.

Gordon worked his way through the mud toward his pick up truck, his footprints disappearing in the muck behind him. He would leave, make them believe he’d slept in that day, that he hadn’t even been on site.

But when he looked back at the job shack, he stopped. The small toaster fire was spreading fast. Soon he could see nothing but flames through the windows, and no sign of his boss from within. The door was closed the way he’d left it and there was no indication the man was scrambling to escape the growing inferno.

Could the thick deuce have had a heart attack?

Watching a moment longer—his excitement growing—Gordon became convinced. There were no signs of movement from within, no sounds other than the popping of metal and hiss of hot ash dropping onto cold, wet mud. There was definitely no sign of a man fighting his way toward the only exit, or trying to put the flames out from inside.

With a silent whoop, Gordon made a hasty change of plans. He decided he’d been near his truck when the job shack had gone up in flames, blazing from the inside out. He’d flogged through the mud and rain to get to it, but wasn’t fast enough. The heat was so intense, the metal turning molten. He didn’t even know if his boss was inside. He prayed he wasn’t, calling out his name in vain. Maybe he was somewhere else on the job site, unable to reach the fire quickly because of the mud. He’d show up. He had to.

Grabbing his extinguisher from the truck and clutching it to his chest, Gordon stared at the fire, his face a mask of shock and horror to match the story he would tell.

He was ready as bystanders, fire and police, drawn by the now-twenty foot flames, streamed onto the scene.

Gordon stared at the blaze, his hands working the cylinder and nozzle uselessly. They comforted him in his obvious distress, offered to take him away, buy him coffee. They wrapped him in a thick, starchy blanket that smelled of antiseptic.

It was perfect.

Gordon knew an investigation would take a while. Truth be told, this was not his first time playing with fire.

He was confident the results of the investigation would point to a faulty toaster. He knew this because when questioned, he would testify that it had been sparking for months. He would also mumble something about his boss perpetually forgetting to mind it and that he, Gordon, should have just went ahead and bought a new one with his own money. Then, his voice fading, head in his hands, he’d silently rock back and forth too wrecked to cry.

What all of this meant was Gordon didn’t have to hurry. He could stick around for a few days. He would kiss the boss’s widow at the funeral, hug each of his three kids—especially that knock out teenaged daughter of his—and then, citing pain too severe for him to bear, he would quit his job, pick up his last paycheque and just…disappear.

CHAPTER 1

PATRICK

Patrick Porter stepped from his guide’s ancient Mahindra SUV into a cloud of scorching, copper-coloured dust left hanging in the air by its wheels. Pressing his scarf to his nose, he nodded to Darshan and they set out, heads down, toward yet another brick kiln operated on the backs of bonded labourers.

As an investigative reporter, Patrick was in India to witness and document evidence of modern-day slavery. He would take pictures, interview whomever he could, and then look for connections to supply chains of foreign-owned multinationals not complying with United Nations’ anti-trafficking guidelines.

His end goal was to interview—with cameras rolling— representatives of the multinationals, to catch them off guard with photographic evidence of their complicity in crimes against humanity. But first he had one more kiln to get in and out of without drawing attention to his cameras.

Keeping pace with Darshan, Patrick heard the man mutter in broken English. Follow me, stay close, don’t speak.

Patrick nodded and did as he was told.

The two men rounded the corner of a brick pile, each keeping their eyes open for the owner. Once around the corner, Patrick blinked. This was his fourteenth kiln and still, what he saw today filled his throat with bile. Filming in high definition through a hole in the pocket of his cargo pants, Patrick took in all he could.

The air was blistering hot. Patrick was drenched in sweat, his shirt and pants sticking uncomfortably to his skin. He paid no heed.

Ahead of him, in a slightly depressed pit, people of all ages, including filthy children who looked as young as five, laboured. They were dressed in rags, some carrying bricks on their heads, loads as tall as their skinny arms could reach up to support. Others scuttled backward along a single layer of curing bricks, knees around their ears as they flipped bricks over one at a time to dry the undersides. The entire time Patrick watched, they did not stand or stretch.

He pressed his lips tight against the chemical-laden dust. The children were carrying loads that had to weigh more than they did. By double. The ones flipping bricks…how many hours did they spend shuffling along without straightening?

No matter how many locations he visited, it never got easier and the rage inside him grew.

Darshan was on the move and Patrick followed. His eyes and camera taking in the bleeding, raw wounds around the waist of a man using a makeshift carrier to support the weight of a hundred bricks on his back. His ankles were chained, forcing the man to shuffle from place to place. The man was so broken he didn’t even grimace. Patrick stared into his dust-caked face. It was expressionless. Empty.

Suddenly, coming from a stand of trees about a hundred yards from the kiln, there was a piercing yelp that stopped Patrick and Darshan in their tracks. Ducking behind tall stacks of finished bricks, Patrick watched through a small opening as two men stepped from the woods. They looked drunk and one carried a rough-looking machete. Something dark dripped from its rusted blade.

Patrick and Darshan stood stock still behind the bricks, a sick mix of apprehension and disgust threatening to overwhelm them. The two men were headed their way and, shrinking back, Patrick sent up an urgent prayer. The men wobbled a bit before veering off course and away from the hiding place.

Patrick concentrated. His head wanted to throb. In his role, he could take no action. He could not scream. He could utter no words.

He would bear witness. He would document the horror and get out. When he got home, he would map the supply chains back to entities he would out. That was the help he was to provide…

‘Go into the forest. Go. Now.’

Patrick knew God's whisper when he heard it and did not hesitate.

Taking a quick look around him, he bolted from behind the bricks, sprinting a hundred yards into the woods, and slipping into its dense shadows. Behind him, Darshan kept pace, surprising Patrick. Glancing at the man, he saw real fear in his eyes. This man was risking everything. Had he heard a whisper too?

They stopped running and listened, hearing something—someone—whimpering deep in the woods. Knees bent, they stepped quietly, hardly breathing, toward the sound. It came from a small clearing. It was a child. He lay in the dirt, curled up and clutching his blood covered arm to his chest.

His hand was gone.

Patrick took one look at the boy’s bleeding stump and whipped around to vomit. His guide, meanwhile, was wrestling. Patrick could tell he wanted to run but Patrick wouldn’t have it. Shutting out the warnings in his head, Patrick wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, stripped the scarf from around his neck, and knelt beside the boy.

He couldn’t be seven years old.

Darshan, to his credit, dropped to his knees beside Patrick as Patrick bound the boy’s stump tightly enough to staunch the bleeding. As the wide-eyed boy was about to scream, he passed out instead.

Thank you, God, Patrick thought.

Patrick scooped the tiny child into his arms and stood, balancing the boy easily in one arm while looking frantically for the hand.

Come on, come on. They wouldn’t have kept you. Where did you go.

There.

About twenty feet away was the tiny, ashen white hand. It looked like it had been lopped off a doll, its stump painted red, like a macabre Halloween decoration.

Patrick caught Darshan’s eye and nodded toward the hand. Darshan blanched.

Frowning, Patrick nodded again and Darshan finally went for the hand, scooping it up in his own scarf. He was clearly trying not to pass out.

Patrick looked at the guide and mouthed: Doctor? Darshan hesitated, looked at the boy, then back at Patrick before nodding.

Minutes later they were careening through the streets in search of help for the boy, who had since come to and was clutching at Patrick, terrified and whimpering. Patrick did everything he could to comfort the boy while holding on for dear life as the vehicle bounced over potholes and around wild turns.

Father God, help this little guy. Help us find a doctor.

It was already by the grace of God they had found the boy and gotten him away from the kiln without being spotted.

Suddenly Darshan hollered in triumph.

Hammering on the brakes, Patrick held the boy tightly as they came to an abrupt stop in front of a dilapidated building. There, beside an ugly, rust-coloured door, was a sign that brought tears to his eyes: Doctors for Humanity.

Jumping from the vehicle, Patrick carried the boy to the door and pushed his way in, Darshan at his heels. As soon as they entered, a nurse jumped up and ran to them, taking the boy from Patrick’s arms while calling out for others to help.

As the dauntless team assembled, Patrick, breathless and full of emotion, leaned against the door and let his body slide to the floor.

What had he done?

Back home in his apartment, Patrick sipped steaming black coffee and scrolled through his emails. He smiled when he spotted one from Dr. Bernadette Blankenship. Clicking on it, he leaned in to read her message.

Dear Patrick,

Thank you for bringing Aadesh to us for treatment. He is a sweet boy and I am pleased to report his hand continues to heal. I am left marvelling that on the day they were needed most, a plastic surgeon and his neurosurgeon wife were passing through and able to help. Even with our lack of resources they were able to create, with what we could find, a way to reattach the hand.

Not everyone here believes in God, but I do and He is good.

Aadesh is a delightful boy, full of giggles and cracking jokes. The wonder of the human spirit. He says he feels safe for the first time in his life but can’t wait to be with his mother, father and brothers again.

On that note, his family remains at the kiln. They are bond labourers. They don’t know their son is still alive. It is too risky for Aadesh to see them just yet. We are working with local law enforcement as well as another NGO to get a lawyer on their case. Without a debt release certificate they will never be free. Meantime, they believe Aadesh was taken away because he wouldn’t stop crying over his sister’s recent death from starvation. Can you imagine such cruelty? He mourns for her still, but differently, we suppose, since arriving here.

I hope we will be able to reunite Aadesh and his family soon. It is killing me to sustain their separation. At the same time, seeing his sunny face in the clinic every day turns my heart to light.

I will keep you apprised.

Sincerely,

Dette

Patrick read the message again and tapped out a quick response. Smiling, he leaned back in his chair to drain the last of his coffee before going back to the video footage that awaited him. He’d seen a lot as a journalist but still had to steal himself against the horrors that filled his screen.

As he watched, a woman entered the frame. She looked to be at least eight months pregnant and on the brink of collapsing under the weight of bricks piled high in a makeshift carrier on her back. Its straps were of thin, rough hewn rope that was cutting deeper and deeper into her already bleeding flesh. Patrick pressed his eyes shut and uttered a prayer that felt so impotent, yet he knew better. He knew the power of prayer. He had witnessed its power on so many occasions, like with Aadesh.

God what are your plans for that kid?

Focusing on the screen again, he looked specifically for any connection he could find to a business or organization. Logos, trademarks, particular bits of equipment. His eyes were starting to sting but he blinked and kept scanning.

After forty-five minutes, he spotted it. Zooming in on the lettering, Patrick leaned into his screen.

There you are, he muttered.

Stencilled on the side of pallets loaded with freshly made bricks, was the name of a company. Or maybe a project? He could make out the words, jotting them down in his notebook: Steinenbachen Rogue 106. Leaning back he whispered the words out loud several times then started his search. For the next several minutes, Patrick searched for anyone and anything connected to Steinenbachen Rogue 106.

Bingo.

Steinenbachen Rogue 106 was a giant infrastructure and development project in Delhi. According to promotional materials meant for investors, the project included an entire housing development with each home made of brick.

Zooming in, Patrick smiled. Sure enough, some of the bricks bore markings that were a perfect match to those of the brick kiln that nearly cost Aadesh his life.

Legs bouncing, Patrick felt a surge of energy.

Searching deep into promotional material, he found a helpful list of organizations proudly associated with the project. As Patrick’s eyes scanned the names he stopped abruptly on the one he was always on the lookout for.

Global Economic Development Resource Engineering Corporation. His sister’s very own GEDREC.

Meredith is going to faint.

CHAPTER 2

LYDIA

Lydia Oliver stirred, the distant sound of her alarm clock growing louder as it interrupted her dreams. What had she been dreaming about? Lily. She had been dreaming of Lily, her sweet middle child.

Lily had been diagnosed with Celiac disease not long ago. In Lydia’s dream, she was with her brothers in an ice cream parlour. Everyone got a treat except Lily. She couldn’t have anything because the ice cream had been cross-contaminated by waffle cone crumbs. Lily looked sad but resolute. Her brothers were feeling bad for her…

Reaching over to her nightstand, Lydia hit the snooze button.

Poor kiddo.Glad that was only a dream.

Lydia changed channels in her brain to try and remember what day it was. As the fog cleared, she sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

What a bizarre sensation, she thought, pressing her hand to her chest.

Lydia felt as though the centre of her upper body, right behind her sternum, had been inflated. In that airy space, she felt the flopping and rolling sensation of what could not possibly be a bird but yet felt a lot like one. It was horrible and she moved this way and that trying to make it go away.

Standing to her feet, she stepped toward the ensuite bath she shared with her husband. This bit of movement didn’t seem to rile The Bird too badly and her brain was finally waking to a host of distractions.

It was a school day. She had a meeting with the principal about her son Tuck, and Lily was doing a presentation second block. Later she would find a nice coffee shop close to the school where she could caffeinate and review summary documents from her last file. She had not yet received her next assignment and that was fine with her. She knew the value of a few days to breathe while she had them.

Sounds like a perfect day.

Searching her phone for an online sermon, she found one called Anxious for Nothing and turned it up loud enough to hear while she got ready. The pastor was one of her favourites. Half an hour later, Lydia was in her kitchen chugging lukewarm coffee as she whipped lunches together, filled backpacks and hollered at her kids for status updates.

Why don’t we do this the night before? She thought as she hustled through their suboptimal routine.

With one eye on the time and the other on lunch prep, she considered the littlest of her three. Finn was a fire cracker and, while he had insisted on a fruit cup in his lunch every day so far, she knew there would be no rhyme, reason or advanced warning if he suddenly changed his mind.

At least he’s mature enough to not throw it across the room anymore.

Lydia half chucked, half shuddered as Tuck, her firstborn, entered the kitchen. He pecked her on the cheek and thanked her for making his lunch before jumping in to help her finish up. A few minutes later Lily wandered in looking decidedly less awake.

Morning, Miss Lily. Lydia gave her daughter a quick squeeze as she made her way to the fridge to put away the milk she’d forgotten to return on her previous two trips across the room.

Morning, Mama.

Prep complete, Lydia sighed as she took in the post-chaos state of her kitchen.