Trading Innocence

By James A Ardaiz

This third book in the Matt Jamison series gives a terrifying glimpse into the underbelly of international sex trafficking that will draw the reader into an investigation of murder, greed and a fight to save two young victims from men who will stop at nothing to feed the perversion of those who prey on ch

• Language: English
• Publisher: James A. Ardaiz
• Release date: Jun 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985761818

Book preview

Prologue

In winter, a damp chill falls over the Great Central Valley of California, settling on the ground, belying the intense dry heat of summer. The countless acres of vines have dropped most of their leaves, the few missed remnants of summer’s crop shriveled and clinging to the bare canes. The trees share the fate of the vines, bare branches extending into the gray sky, both vine and tree waiting for the pruning that will clip them back, preparing them to bear the heavy fruit of summer and their cloak of green leaves.

California is a land of three worlds, the northern part dominated by the inhabitants of San Francisco, the southern part dominated by the inhabitants of Los Angeles and the world of the central valley of the San Joaquin. They are nothing alike. The people of San Francisco say, Thank God they aren’t like the people of Southern and Central California. The people of Los Angeles say, Thank God they aren’t like the people of Northern or Central California, but the people of the Central Valley just say, Thank God we live here.

The reality is that other than their politics, all three worlds are much alike when it comes to the things they want out of life for themselves and their children. Crime remains an abstract concept except when it personally touches any of them. But crime still stalks the innocent, and the battle for the safety of the communities rages on as the crimes become more sophisticated and more unthinkable.

On a cold winter night in Central Valley, the unthinkable came to the wet winter streets, a stark reminder there was a larger world holding larger terrors.

Chapter 1

January 5, 2007

Friday

Tenaya County, Ca.

The room was dark. Her eyes had adjusted to the absence of light but not to the smell. Damp cold and the acrid tincture of urine seeped from the hard, concrete floor, but she had been cold before and she knew, she hoped, she would be able to feel warmth again. She’d smelled worse. A small child huddled next to her, crying. The little girl had told her a name. It made no difference. Soon enough new names would be given at the pleasure of others.

The child’s crying finally subsided into soft whimpering, but it was alright, the whimpering, the crying; it was to be expected. The older girl reached down and stroked the hair of the younger girl, trying to soothe her. In age she wasn’t much older than the child curled up beside her but the short difference in years had brought a lifetime of feral instinct born of the hard reality of survival. The older girl knew that eventually the crying would stop. They all stopped—eventually. She knew. She’d once been that small child. She’d also cried. She had stopped crying when her river of tears finally ran dry. And then she had changed into what she was now.

The younger child’s words were barely coherent to the older girl. It didn’t matter. The sounds were familiar, but excepting the murmured word Mama, the word meanings had long been lost to the passage of time and memory. She had little memory of her own mother, a figure lost in the fog of time—or of a mother’s warmth, whatever that was. Her memories now reflected the reality of her life, cold like the dampness of the floor; she knew the men that held them would not kill her, but they would provide no comfort either.

She twisted her wrists to loosen the silver duct tape around them and reached over to the child’s hands, feeling the tape, twisting at it to loosen the binding. She moved closer to the child and repeated the word Mama, a small comfort but it was all she could give, that and the little warmth that came from her body heat. There was no escape. All they could do was wait. The waiting wouldn’t kill her either, but this knowledge also provided no measure of comfort.

A thin sliver of light slashed across the darkened room as the door opened. The sharply defined beam carried with it a thick grinding voice speaking words she didn’t understand but felt some inexplicable kinship to. Another heavily accented voice said in English, Time almost to move girls. One of the two men who had brought them came into the room. The spreading light behind him as the door opened limned the rough features of his face. Thick stubble darkened already swarthy skin. He told the older girl to get up, firmly gripping her taped wrists, pulling her toward him.

She didn’t resist. There was no point. She had done that before. To resist brought a lesson she only had to learn once. She stood passively as he pulled at her tee shirt and ran his hands roughly over her body, his guttural laugh an acknowledgment of her submission.

The second man came into the room, Damage her, we both suffer. What followed she couldn’t understand but whatever it was sounded like cursing.

No damage. I want to see why she’s worth so much.

Leave her alone. Buy own girl. This one not for you.

The first man laughed again, his breath smelling heavily of cigarettes and alcohol as his hand lingered on her small breasts. He knelt and cut the duct tape around her ankles, Time to go.

The smaller girl pulled her feet away as the knife flashed in the beam of light. He slapped her, telling her to stop crying and sawed through the tape around her ankles, pulling at her as she stood with difficulty because of the inability to use her bound hands. He pushed both girls out the door and into the light. He looked at the bigger girl, his eyes narrowing, You look old.

The words sent an icy tremor of fear though her. She knew what happened to older girls and now she realized, perhaps she was one.

The two girls rolled on the hard metal floor of the van. It had been dark when they moved them into the vehicle, a cold biting rain hitting them as they were shoved into the cargo area. A jumble of blankets covered the van floor. She pushed her body against the metal wall to brace herself while she watched the two men sitting in the front seats. She’d made her decision. Fate would now decide her freedom.

She looked at the rear doors of the van and slowly sat herself up, putting her back against the metal wall as she slid carefully toward the back. The small child looked at her with wide eyes, terror written on her face. The older girl hesitated. She couldn’t leave her. She knew would happen to the child if she left her. But for her, whatever happened next couldn’t be worse than the life she would try to leave behind. Even if they caught her, they wouldn’t hurt the child. The younger girl was too valuable. But she—she had few choices. Now she was an older girl.

Slowly she slid toward the rear door. Her hands were bound in front of her. They hadn’t bothered to bind their ankles again. She’d pulled enough at the duct tape around her wrists to give herself a little flexibility. Perhaps it would be enough. It had to be enough. She would have to be quick. She’d always been quick. She beckoned the small child with the movement of her head, placing her hands against her mouth to tell her to be quiet.

The two men sitting in the front were laughing, the biting smoke from their cigarettes filling the back of the van as the men kept the windows tightly closed against the wet night. She could hear them talking about the next stop, their language coarse, filled with a mélange of words that stirred distant memories. The patois of faintly familiar words mixed with English made it hard to tell which language they were speaking.

Quietly she reached up to the rear door handle while the men in front seemed preoccupied with where they were going and what they would do when they got there. Wherever it was, she could sense that their journey would soon be over. She felt the van slow.

The men didn’t seem to pay any attention to the two girls. She intended to make them pay for their mistake. She knew what would happen to the men if they didn’t deliver. She allowed herself one small moment of satisfaction at that thought before she pulled the handle and rolled out the back of the van, grabbing at the leg of the other girl. Her hand slipped off the thin ankle of the younger child as she felt the bite of wet asphalt and then began to roll, covering her face, knowing she had to take this chance. She was an older girl.

Anne Brown was on her way home from the hospital. It had been a long week. The New Year holidays always seemed to bring out the stupid in people and the hospital had been swamped with a steady deluge of accident victims from around the Central Valley. St. Peter’s Hospital was the main trauma center, and it was never empty. The swing nursing shift had been particularly hard this evening. She was already thinking about sinking into a hot bath with a glass of wine in her hand before she went to bed. She reached over to the disc player and punched the number to replay the last song, a favorite, taking her eyes momentarily off the road. The movement of the van in front of her caught her eye as the back door swung open.

Almost instinctively, Anne slammed her foot against the brake, the tires biting into the asphalt as she swerved to the left, feeling her car skid on the rain slick road as she fought for control. She didn’t know what it was that flew out of the back of the van, but it was large. When her car finally slid to a stop in the middle of the road, Anne felt a momentary shudder of relief. She hadn’t felt the car hit anything.

The van skidded to a stop about a hundred feet up the road, the brake lights glowing red, as a man jumped out of the passenger door. The headlights of Anne’s car lit up the van where a pair of bare, thin, legs dangled out the back. Anne immediately knew it was a child. Then she saw an older girl lying in the roadway. Her hands were bound with silver duct tape that reflected in the glare of her headlights. She was bleeding, stumbling as she tried to get up and run before falling back to the asphalt.

The child in the back of the van jumped and began to roll to the street as a man slammed opened the van’s passenger door and ran to the rear of the van. He began pulling at the younger girl who was struggling and kicking as much as she could. Anne didn’t know what else to do. She began pushing on her horn and hit the button on her phone for 911. She heard a woman’s voice, 911, what is your emergency?

Anne began screaming into the phone as she pressed on the horn hoping someone would help her.

It was late but there were a few businesses still open. Two men began running from a CVS pharmacy toward her car. She could hear them yelling and then she heard the sirens. Without thinking, she got out of her car as another car stopped behind her. Seeing Anne yelling and pointing, the driver, a large man with his tee shirt stretched tightly over an imposing bulk, came up to her car before he saw the girl in the street and the struggle. He started toward the man struggling with the child, yelling at him to stop. The two other men joined him.

The passenger from the van began yelling for all of them to stay away, pulling at his waist area as he attempted to retrieve a gun caught on his belt. The would-be Samaritans slowly backed away, keeping their distance but not running. The younger girl broke loose from his grasp, kicking at his legs and screaming. He hesitated, trying to decide whether to make one more attempt to take the child and confront the approaching men, or flee. The hesitation was only momentary. The shrieking of sirens was overwhelming the sound of the screaming girls and yelling between him and the would-be rescuers. He waved the gun wildly, firing a staccato burst, shouting in an unintelligible language, as he backed toward the side of the van and jumped in. The van’s tires squealed against the pavement as the driver and passenger fled.

The two girls were still in the street when the first patrol car came up, red and blue lights flashing and siren screeching.

Chapter 2

Through the cold, thin drizzle the wet street reflected the glare of multiple red and blue flashing patrol car lights. An officer waved the sparse traffic around an area that was outlined by flares and orange traffic cones. As usual, even though it was the middle of the night for most people, when human misery took center stage a crowd gathered to watch. Tonight was no different, thought Detective Art Puccinelli as he drove up in his aging, black Ford Crown Victoria. The only thing interesting that had happened all day was that Bill Cowher, the coach of the Pittsburg Steelers, had resigned. Art didn’t care. He hated the Steelers. He had almost made it to the end of his shift—almost. Now it was after midnight, and he already knew he wasn’t going home.

Television trucks were pulling as close as they could to the scene. Obviously, somebody at the television stations drew the short straw to sit around waiting for the apocalypse to occur sometime after the 11:00 p.m. late news and the 5:00 a.m. morning show. It would only be a matter of minutes before young, breathless reporters tried to milk a few facts to fill out a breaking news ribbon across the bottom of local programs and perhaps get themselves seen by national networks looking to fill the gaping maw of recycled news.

Puccinelli, Pooch as he was generally known in the Sheriff’s department, eased his bulk out of the detective vehicle. As his stomach brushed the steering wheel, he reminded himself that he needed to go on a different diet than left over donuts in the break room. It was a thought he knew he would ignore, but he rationalized that as long as he thought about it then he wasn’t disregarding the expanding girth slipping over his beltline.

He ran his fingers through steel gray hair, cringing as his fingertips slipped over a growing patch of bare skin revealing itself at the back of his head. More and more he wore a baseball cap when he was off duty. It didn’t fool anybody. Young men wore baseball caps as a fashion statement. Old men wore baseball caps to keep their exposed scalp from sunburn. But he was a night detective and there wasn’t any justification he could provide as to why he needed a baseball cap while on duty.

Pooch spotted a patrol officer he knew, standing in front of a band of yellow police perimeter tape. The young officer acknowledged Pooch before making a wisecrack about the Crown Vic that Pooch insisted on keeping.

It gets me where I need to go, Pooch responded, slipping around the yellow taped area before he walked onto what appeared to be the crime scene. Everyone knew he got away with the Vic because the Sheriff chose to ignore his refusal to take a new car. The sheriff didn’t really care. Detectives didn’t do high speed chases, and the sheriff could also sympathize with the comfort provided by the larger car. Sheriff Jack Mover Bekin made sure his personal car accommodated his own impressive bulk.

Bekin was better known as Mover because he was built like a moving van of the company with the same name. So long as Pooch stayed on Mover’s good side, he knew he could keep the Vic. The other positive was that nobody else would touch the car so it was only necessary to keep it as clean as he was comfortable with, which wasn’t all that clean.

Pooch wasn’t precisely sure what he was dealing with. The dispatch call had been vague, as had the 911 message. Apparently two girls had jumped from the back of a still moving van which had then sped off. There was a garbled description of one of the men from the van waving a gun. An all-points bulletin had gone out for a white van with a specific license plate but there had been no hits on the van yet. The initial reports were that the plate didn’t match the vehicle, so it was possible the plate number called in was wrong, but it was more likely the plate was stolen.

Pooch walked up to the on-scene sergeant, Dave Sanchez, and asked for a run-down. Sanchez was brief. He’d been around for a lot of years and didn’t get excited at much anymore. But it was obvious he was agitated. That was unusual.

What you got, Dave? There was no sense of urgency in Pooch’s voice as he pulled out his notepad and flipped it open.

Both he and Sanchez had been around the block many times and frequently met for mid-shift meal breaks. Sanchez’s waist was also expanding over his black leather utility belt. It was an occupational hazard of older cops. Between the two of them they probably knew every greasy spoon café, Chinese or Mexican restaurant in the county.

The response was tenser than Pooch would expect from an experienced sheriff’s sergeant as he gave a compact sit rep. "It looks like a child abduction, but we don’t have any Amber alert. I don’t have any reports of kids being kidnapped. Neither girl has anything that identifies them. Both girls had their hands bound with duct tape.

The witness, that’s her over there, Sanchez pointed at a woman standing on the sidewalk with a female deputy and two young girls wrapped in emergency blankets, "says that a van was in front of her. She looked away momentarily and then the van door came open and someone came flying out. She swerved to miss whatever it was and then realized it was a female, an adolescent. Then a younger girl jumped from the back of the van and the van’s passenger tried to stop her from getting away. A couple of men heard the commotion and came running over.

"The passenger had a gun which he started waving around and then he jumped back in the van after firing a few shots. We have a license plate but no hits, yet. The plate number doesn’t match the van. It belongs to some fly by night rental outfit in the San Francisco area.

"The witness stayed with the two girls, but both are basically non-responsive. We haven’t even gotten names. The older one answered a few questions, but she seems afraid to talk. The younger one said a few words too, but we couldn’t understand any of it. All I know is she isn’t speaking any language I recognize.

The witness is a nurse, Anne Brown, who was coming off the night shift at St. Peter’s hospital. The older girl has scrapes and road rash from where she rolled onto the road but nothing that looks serious. The van was moving when she jumped but not that fast. Paramedics fixed her up, but the nurse says she needs to be checked out at the hospital. I kept her here waiting for you, but we gotta get the kids checked out.

Sanchez’s anger erupted, spilling over the veneer of professional demeanor, I got a girl at home a little older than those girls. So do you. I hate these assholes that hurt kids. But I’ll tell you, Pooch, something about this whole thing just doesn’t fit.

Pooch understood what Sanchez was implying. The average crime, whether it was a murder or a robbery or a kidnap, had patterns. When something was out of synch it laid in your cop gut, nagging at you until you figured out what it was. The first thing his sergeant had taught him when he was a brand-new deputy was to always trust your gut. If Sanchez said something wasn’t right, then something wasn’t right. Of course, the whole situation wouldn’t be right to the average person, but they weren’t cops with years of dealing with aberrant behavior and picking out aspects that were distinctive.

Pooch flipped his notepad closed, thanked Sanchez, and started walking over to where the victims and the primary witness were. He needed to see if there was any preliminary information he could get that might help the search for the van. Then they would take the kids to the hospital for an examination and then downtown. It was going to be a long night and probably a long day also. Detectives stayed with their cases for as long as it took. That was one thing about Sheriff Bekin. He didn’t scrimp on overtime if it would help close a case.

Are you Ms. Brown, Anne Brown? Pooch opened his jacket, revealing the gold star clipped to his belt. I’m Art Puccinelli, of the Sheriff’s office, detective division. Could you give me a few minutes, please? Pooch pulled Anne gently away from the two girls who looked at Brown anxiously while the female deputy tried to soothe them.

Anne Brown looked to be in her mid-thirties, with short brown hair and a face that didn’t look like a woman who had difficulty with stressful situations. Her blue eyes looked tired but alert. Brown said, We need to get the girls to the hospital to get checked out. I’m a nurse.

Pooch nodded, moving Anne about ten feet away but still in eyesight of the girls. I understand. I just need to know if there was anything, anything at all, that you remember about the van or the man who came out of the passenger side that might help us? Right now, that’s something that’s urgent.

It was just a white van, like a delivery vehicle. It wasn’t new, I can say that. I didn’t see any dents, or anything written on it. But I only looked when the door flew open so if there was writing on it, I didn’t see it. I didn’t get the license number, but I think one of the men who helped got it. I was just focused on the girls. Anne was getting more and more emotional by the minute.

Pooch put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Did either of the girls say anything, anything at all, that might help us? Names? Did they give you names?

The older girl said, Crystal when I asked her but other than that she hasn’t said much of anything. I can’t understand any of it, but I think the younger girl is speaking some kind of Eastern European language, nothing in English, except for mama. At least I think it’s English. I understood mama. It doesn’t sound quite right, but that word sounds pretty much the same in a lot of languages. Anyway, the older girl clearly isn’t her mother. I’m guessing she’s maybe thirteen or fourteen.

Anne started back toward the girls, Detective, we need to get them to a hospital. I’ve done as much as I could. So did the paramedics, but I think the older girl should have x-rays done. Can we do that?

Pooch smiled sympathetically. Of course. We’ll have the ambulance take you and the girls to the hospital. I’ll follow.

Pooch was a regular visitor to the St. Peter’s emergency room, usually asking questions of someone barely conscious and still blood stained. He was always amazed by the people that filled the emergency room with colds and minor scrapes, but he had come to recognize that there was a percentage of the population which functioned at a very different level of competence. Survival to them began with waking up.

He moved with practiced quickness through the microcosm of society and made his way to someone with authority. With a few quick words to the supervising nurse as well as the presence of one of their own, Anne, the girls were moved into an examination room. Anne shoved Pooch outside the curtained off area.

After almost an hour, Anne came to a closed area where law enforcement personnel usually waited to find Pooch writing a preliminary report and drinking coffee. She looked at the vending machine cup, I’m betting that isn’t your first cup of coffee tonight, is it? You know that isn’t good for you—especially for a man your age.

Ouch, now that hurts, and no, it isn’t my first cup but then I expected to be home in my own bed by now. He quickly changed the subject, How are the girls? I need to talk to them as soon as possible.

Only cuts and scrapes and bruises on the older girl. The younger one has a few scrapes but otherwise they’re both okay. The doctor did a rape kit examination like you requested. There really aren’t any signs of major trauma. But there is one thing.

And that is?

The older girl has had sexual intercourse in the past. Based on what the emergency room doctor says, I would guess she’s sexually experienced.

How sexually experienced?

Very.

Pooch nodded and sighed heavily, his face a mask of resignation. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen it and it wouldn’t be the last, children with far more adult experience than their years could justify. He didn’t bother feeling shocked. Not much shocked him anymore.

The younger one?

Anne sat down heavily and rubbed her face and eyes, No, she had a normal pelvic exam, but they did a rape kit anyway. I don’t think they’ll find anything but it’s what you wanted, so it’s what we did.

Anything else?

Yes, the younger girl appears to be speaking Romanian. The older one, the one who said her name was Crystal, hasn’t said anything to me. She just held my hand and looked around. She seems unusually used to being in strange places. I don’t see fear. More like an observer. That one, her eyes have seen a lot and, my guess, not much of it is good.

Romanian? Pooch started writing again, then put his pen down. Who says it’s Romanian?

One of the nurses used to be a gymnast and she competed against some gymnasts from Romania. She says she recognized some of the words, but she can’t speak it. That’s the best guess, right now.

Okay, I’ll try and get something out of the older girl. Would you mind staying? They seem attached to you, and I think it would help. But do me a favor and let me do the talking. Children are difficult to question, and you have to be very careful. You have children?

Anne held up her bare left hand, Not married. No kids. But I deal with a lot of kids. I understand.

The older girl sat across from Pooch while Anne kept the younger girl occupied. Large blue eyes stared at him. He could tell she was waiting.

Pooch kept his voice low and non-threatening as he asked her if she understood English. She didn’t respond and continued to stare at him without emotion. I’m here to help you but I need help from you to do that. Do you understand? It was like he could see the wheels turning behind her eyes.

She nodded. Good. Let’s start with your name. Can you tell me that?

What do you want it to be? The words came out of an adolescent’s mouth, but they sounded like something a woman would say, uncomfortably seductive in tone. Pooch’s eyes narrowed as he blinked several times, not precisely sure how to respond.

It’s not what I want it to be; it’s what your name is. I need to know your real name. He was trying to be reassuring but could tell he wasn’t having much success.

My name is what you want it to be. Again, the tone carried a sexual implication, but the words were almost reflexive. She’d said them before. Pooch’s discomfort caused him to pause.

Anne interjected, looking over at Pooch for permission or, at least, no objection. When we talked tonight, I asked your name and you said, ‘Crystal.’ Is that right?

That was my last name. Her voice was toneless.

Pooch tried again, Your last name is Crystal? What’s your first name?

Crystal is my only name, but I have many names. What do you want to call me?

Deciding that this part of his questioning wasn’t going to go anywhere, Pooch decided to try a different tact. I’ll call you Crystal for now. Who were the men who were in the van? Do you know them?

Crystal’s face hardened. For an instant, she didn’t look at all like a thirteen- or fourteen-year-old girl, if that was in fact her age. I can’t talk about them.

Why?

I can’t. You aren’t supposed to ask.

Where do you live?

Where they send me.

Where who sends you?

You aren’t supposed to ask. I’m not supposed to answer.

What about her? Pooch pointed at the younger girl. Do you know her name?

Nadia. Her name is Nadia..

Does she have a last name, another name?

That is her name.

Crystal, do you know what language Nadia is speaking?

Crystal became extremely agitated, rubbing her hands over her face. I’m not supposed to say.

Pooch looked over at Anne, his face twisted into a grimace of frustration. Maybe if you ask?

Anne spoke gently, Crystal, we need to find Nadia’s family. We need to find your family. We need your help.

For now, she is with me. I’m her mama.

What do you mean, you’re her mama? She can’t be your child. Are you related?

I will be her family. Anne looked over at Pooch, frustration showing now on her face.

Pooch tried a different tac. Where do you live?

Where I’m sent.

Where were you going, do you know?

I’m not supposed to say.

Can you help us talk to Nadia?

No, I don’t have the words.

You don’t understand her language?

It was a long time ago. The words I’m not sure of. I’ve forgotten.

Crystal’s blue eyes stared back at Pooch, unblinking. He tried to read her face. There was nothing. It was an opaque mask. Unlike suspects he normally interrogated, this one was a chameleon. She would conceal herself unless concealment didn’t suit her needs. Pooch had seen this before, but not often. She was a survivor and hers was a very harsh world.

Chapter 3

January 6, 2007

Early Saturday morning

Harry Maxwell, the night shift detective sergeant, yawned as he listened to Pooch relay on the telephone what little information he had. Maxwell preferred to be in the field but the decision to become a sergeant, a desk clerk, as he referred to it, was a retirement decision. The extra pay was worth it. It didn’t change the boredom of waiting for other detectives to relate what they had seen. The night shift batted cleanup for the day detectives. Occasionally, he would go to a major crime scene like a homicide, but mostly he just policed paper, piles and piles of paper or he stared at a flickering computer screen. He wasn’t sure which was worse as he rubbed his eyes, trying to focus on the disembodied words coming at him over the phone.

Harry interrupted Pooch mid-conversation, You don’t know their last names? Okay, I’ll put out a description and search the national data base. We need to get their pictures up on the wires. Maybe we’ll get a hit. Harry listened further before asking, Where the hell am I supposed to get a Romanian interpreter at 1:30 in the morning? We’ll get somebody from Child Protective Services to come deal with them. In the meantime, bring them downtown so we can take pictures and maybe we can get more information.

Harry put the phone back down. The thought that flashed through his brain was that whatever Pooch had stumbled into, it wasn’t going to be just missing children. He hit the tab on his computer, reactivating the sleeping screen and started typing in the description Pooch had given. It didn’t seem likely that there wouldn’t be a whole bunch of hits on two missing girls. But then again, he’d done this before; he knew there was someone out there waiting and hoping that somebody like him was searching.

As he scrolled the computer, Harry stared at the child faces. Hundreds of young girls and some young boys stared back from photographs taken at school or taken by parents. Blond and blue eyed, brown hair, almond eyed, freckle faced, and chocolate skinned, all smiling, nothing to be afraid of as they looked out of the photographs, most of them school photos with gap toothed smiles, innocence reflected in their eyes. Just kids. He sighed. It was just a drop in a flood of missing children. There was no end to it. Where did they all go? And these were just children from America. He thought of the anguish of parents who suddenly had their children ripped from their lives, the despair and the uncertainty that lingered for days, weeks, months, years—even unto death. Harry rubbed his eyes again and continued scrolling through the endless faces.

Harry knew that most of them would never be found and that all the parents would have was hope that maybe someday, somewhere, someone would find their child.

Harry also knew that the waiting would grind the parents down, destroying families, marriages, sucking the life out of the lives of those who waited, hearing nothing and living with a gaping emotional hole. It was almost worse than the ones that he sometimes found, shattered and discarded; their bodies ravaged by predators who watched for opportunity. The thought lingered that only death after years of wondering might bring grieving parents their answer and their reunion.

Pooch was waiting in the interview room of the Sheriff’s office. Along one wall was an aged threadbare couch that was there when Pooch moved into the detective division. It was there for detectives who were working around the clock and needed a place to crash for a few hours. It wouldn’t be accurate to say it sagged in places. Pooch thought that it would be more accurate to say where it didn’t sag, which was nowhere. But tonight, the two girls were on it, curled up against one another, sound asleep. Anne Brown was dozing at the other end.

Pooch had debated about releasing them to Child Protective Services, but he needed also to establish some type of relationship with the older girl, Crystal. He didn’t have the stomach for calling Protective Services after what he knew had happened to the girls and what he suspected they’d been through. It was apparent that the girls had formed something of a bond with Brown and she’d done the same with them. It had just seemed easier to bring her along.

Pooch quietly closed the door and went down to Harry’s office. The sergeant’s eyes were bloodshot from staring at the computer screen. Harry looked up when Pooch walked into his office without knocking. Nothing matches the description. There’s thousands of them.

Pooch hadn’t expected that Harry would find anything. Something told him that these two girls would be an enigma until they found the men that had been in the van. And right now, all they had was a general description, but without prints or some other identification it wasn’t going to be enough.

The phone on Harry’s desk rang. He listened without expression, asking a few questions that didn’t reveal what