Shattered Lives (2 page)

CHAPTER TWO

Indianapolis, Indiana

His idiot partner had tipped him off accidently by calling to let him know that two Feebs showed up at the precinct carrying a warrant and telling a story about his involvement in a nationwide human trafficking ring.  His partner knew it couldn’t possibly be true.  

It’s not possible, right?  Some sort of mistake, right?
His partner had asked.

He had fooled his partner, just like he had fooled everyone else.  He was, after all, much smarter than any of them. 

He had just finished his workout at the gym when his partner had called, so he had to get back to his house and in and out before the Feebs showed up.  Get in and out undetected.  Had to hurry, because he knew they’d eventually come to the house if he didn’t show up at the station.  He had no intention of doing that, though he had told his partner that he’d be there to straighten it all out in about an hour.  He thought that might buy him some time.

He told his partner to chill.  That was his partner’s favorite word, and it was one of the many things he had hated about his partner.  That and his picking his teeth with his long-ass fingernails after each and every meal, listening to hip-hop crap on the radio, trying to fit in with the Spades and the Spics on the force, and drinking green tea like a fucking Yuppie. 

He hated his stupid-ass, farm-boy partner, and if the opportunity ever presented itself, he’d take his .45 and pull the trigger sending a slug smack dab into the middle of his forehead so it would rattle around in his empty skull and blow a baseball-sized chunk out the back.  Would serve him right, the stupid asshole.

He had seen the first reports of the human trafficking ring bust while working out at the gym.  He had stepped off the treadmill and grabbed a towel, wiped down his face and draped it across his shoulders.  He grabbed his water bottle, drank deeply and walked over and stood at the back of a crowd who had stopped their workouts and watched one of the several flat-screened TVs mounted on the wall.  Three of the screens were tuned to CNN; two to ABC; two to CBS; and three to ESPN.  No one paid any attention to the ones tuned to ESPN.

The group he stood behind listened to and watched a talking head while a videotape played on the half-screen showing cops wandering around the street and walking in and out of a building in Chicago.  EMT trucks and cop cars had been coming and going all morning, but the cameras hadn’t shown any of the passengers. 

He had recognized the building in Chicago, because he had been there many times. 

Every now and then it would cut away to Kansas City or Long Beach.  The stories were the same:  A human trafficking ring had been busted.  Prominent local, state and national political officials, sports and entertainment figures arrested.  Kids- all boys who had been kidnapped and held captive, some for more than two years- had been freed and taken to local hospitals to be checked over before they were released to their parents.

Walking nonchalantly to the locker room, he had gathered his things and left without showering.  He had to get home and get moving.  He had things to take care of.  He was on his way home when his partner had called.

Driving slowly, taking care not to draw any attention, he parked a block from his house on a side street of a normal-looking tree-lined drive with white picket fences and bright, sunny flowers growing under front windows and around mailboxes, with bicycles, skateboards and scooters in driveways.  He sat in his car with the window down breathing deeply of recently mowed lawn.  He got out of his car and locked it but didn’t bother to wipe it down because a simple check on his tags would tell everyone who it had belonged to.  By the time they got around to looking for it, he’d be long gone anyway.

Slowly, he surveyed the streets and houses for anything and anyone out of the ordinary.

Nothing.

He crossed the street to the alley and walked down it as if it were something he did every day.

At six-two, two-hundred and twenty pounds, he moved like the athlete he was.  After all, he worked out at the gym three or four days a week with free weights and pounding a heavy bag every now and then.  He jumped rope for twenty minutes every day and ran six to ten miles before dawn in any kind of weather.  He was proud of his body and the shape he was in, viewing it as an asset, a weapon. 

He knew this day would come eventually, and he had been planning for it for a long time.  He had stashed money away and had created an account at a different bank from the one he used to pay the bills.  He had created two other identities, complete with social security cards and drivers licenses using a Weasel from the streets who specialized in creating identities.   One of the many Weasels he had cultivated from his years on the force.  He had secured credit cards with large available balances under both names, along with a car titled and registered in a garage of a townhouse in a northwestern suburb of the city leased under the name of one of the identities he had created.

Knowing the day would come is different from the day actually arriving.

He had rehearsed.  He had planned.  He had already tied up loose ends.  Like the Weasel. 

The Weasel no longer existed.  Body gone.  Any evidence vanished in a fire described as suspicious, more than likely arson, and it was done so there was absolutely no possible blow back to him.

At the back of his house, he paused at the garbage cans lined side by side in the alley pretending to tidy up a bit, but watching and listening for anything out of the ordinary.

Nothing.

He moved quickly to the backdoor, pulled the screen door back and used the key he had pulled from his pocket to unlock the deadbolt.  He entered quickly and shut and locked the door behind him and pulled his gun from the pocket of his navy-blue Indianapolis Colts hoodie as he did so.

No sound. 

Moving quickly, he went to the guest bedroom, knelt down and loosened the thread in the carpet just to the left of the closet and lifted it up revealing a ten by ten square piece of three-quarter inch plywood.  He used the point of his key to work around an edge of it and lifted it up revealing a drop box of sorts.

He pulled out a fully loaded, unregistered Glock .9M and two magazines loaded with .9M hollow point bullets.  The serial numbers had been filed off, making the gun temporarily untraceable, courtesy of another one of his Weasels, this one a cocaine dealer who supposedly died in a drug deal gone bad.  Not coincidently, the bullets found in his skull came from a Glock .9M just like the one he shoved into his waistband.  Temporarily untraceable, because the firing pin, like any other firing pin, had a serial number few, if any gun owners, knew about.

Underneath the gun were ten banded bundles of cash, all fifties. 

A half-million.  Emergency money.

Underneath the money were a passport and a wallet with a driver’s license and social security card of one of his identities, two credit cards in the same name and a set of keys.

He took a careful look out of the corner of the living room window and satisfied that there wasn’t anything unusual, he pulled the hood over his head and left the house as easily and as quickly as he had arrived. He carried two duffle bags with the money split evenly between them and some clothes on top to help conceal it. 

Four easy blocks away was a metro bus stop that would take him downtown to the station where he’d catch another bus to the north side suburb where his townhouse was located.  The trip would take him thirty-seven minutes. 

He knew this because he had rehearsed.

He was ready to disappear.  At least, for a while, but he would be back.  He had some unfinished business to attend to.

CHAPTER THREE

Chicago, Illinois

              Brett didn’t sleep very well, and it wasn’t from the pain in his shoulder from the gunshot even though it hurt like crazy.  It wasn’t the intercom chimes that preceded announcements for Doctor So and So to call this number or that number, and it wasn’t the fact that in his twenty-two months in captivity, he hadn’t slept much at night except in snatches. 

This morning at some point, he was going to see his parents again, and he was nervous, if not scared, to see them.

              He had been trying desperately to remember what they had looked like, how they might have changed, and mostly trying to remember the sound of their voices.  He had tried to picture his house and his room, but those memories seemed smoky and faded like an old photograph.  That, too, had scared him, but left him mostly sad.  During the time he was in captivity, he had often wondered if they would remember him or if they had given up on him.

              Mostly, he had wondered if he had somehow disappointed them, especially after they found out what he had to do during the time he was in captivity.

              Brett had watched Tim meet his parents for the first time in over two years.  While that reunion seemed to go well, he had learned from Tim that his parents didn’t really want him to talk about all that he had been through.  They explained to him that it might be best if he let the past stay in the past and that he should just move forward.  Neither Brett nor Tim had understood how that might be possible given all that had happened to them.

              Brett had watched Stephen struggle with his father, and Stephen had only been missing one night.  But his father had spent time doting on Michael who was abducted with Stephen.  The difference was that Michael had suffered, and suffered badly. 

              Stephen had confided in Brett and Tim that he thought his dad was ashamed of him for not putting up a fight and that maybe his dad liked Michael more because of all the abuse he suffered. 

              “Not putting up a fight?” Tim had asked quietly as they sat in the sun room at the end of the hall, their favorite place to sit and talk.  “Doesn’t he realize that you
couldn’t
have put up a fight . . . that you would’ve gotten killed?”

              Stephen had shrugged.

              “Didn’t Randy’s dad talk to him?” Brett had asked.

              Stephen had shrugged again and said, “Jeremy told them, but I think my dad thinks I’m gay and that I wanted all this shit to happen to me.”

              “You’re not gay, Stephen,” Tim had said.  “None of us wanted this to happen to us.  We had no
choice
. 
You
didn’t have a choice.”

              “I don’t think he believes that.”

              And so the conversation went.  Mike was uncomfortable with Stephen’s dad’s attention and just wanted to be left alone.  Mike had even told Brett that he was afraid of losing Stephen’s friendship, and when Brett had mentioned that, Stephen just shook his head and wept some more. So, that left Brett worrying about meeting his parents and what might be in store for him. 

The other guys seemed to do okay with their parents, guys like Ian and Patrick.  But he had watched his friends, and he had worried.  All of the other boys had gone home, except for Tim, Mike, Stephen and Johnny. Brett worried that Johnny might not ever make it home because he had heard doctors and nurses talk about him in hushed tones.  Johnny’s parents hadn’t shown up yet either.

Brett woke up tired.  A fairly typical morning after a fairly typical night for him as far as sleeping went.  He kept his eyes closed, and he lay still listening to the sounds of the hospital.  He had learned to listen well and to use his sense of smell to his best advantage.  Captivity and the constant threat of being whipped or branded would do that. 

He had learned to know the guards by their smell and the sounds of their shoes and the distance between their steps.  Their faces were permanently etched in his brain, and it would take a million years to forget them and what had happened to him. 

In this same way even after just the one day and one night he’d been in the hospital, Brett knew the sounds the different aides and nurses made, as well as the smell of their shampoo and their deodorant. 

              His shoulder ached.  The bullet had come from a .38 and left a jagged and quarter-sized hole, dark like molasses against his white complexion, and he was still heavily bandaged and in a sling.  It had entered his left shoulder, exited out his armpit and lodged in his tricep.  He had spent a couple of hours in surgery the morning before and that same afternoon had his first physical therapy session, which hurt like hell. 

He took the medicine that would prevent any infection and one that reduced inflammation, but he had refused any pain medication.   Brett refused because he didn’t want to be out of it or
loopy
as he and the rest of the boys described the sensation. 

Twenty-two months ago, he was taken late in the afternoon after school as he peddled a bike to a pick-up basketball game at the middle school five blocks away.  Like all the other boys, they had drugged him, and he hated the zombie-like feeling.  

He and the other boys were given two pills to take each morning before their breakfast and shower.  One was something to keep them in submission and under control.  So while they stood in line waiting for their turn in the shower, Johnny and Tim had devised a plan and had coached the boys to fake taking that pill.  They ended up fooling the guards.  It was just a matter of finding an opportune time to spit the pill out and dispose of it without getting caught.  Risky, but the boys took that risk.  They felt they needed to.

              The doctor at the hospital had told Brett he was lucky.  Had the bullet been from a larger caliber gun and had struck an inch or so to the right, it would have hit his lung or heart.  As it was, if he had listened to Skip, he wouldn’t have been shot at all.

Brett turned slightly, opened his eyes and looked at Skip who was curled up on two chairs at the side of his bed, sleeping with what looked like a grimace on his face.   Evidently the dream he was having wasn’t a very good one. 

Brett was an expert on bad dreams.  For him, every night ended with a bad dream and was a prelude to a bad day, one bad day after another, one bad day leading to one bad night and over and over and over on permanent rewind and repeat for twenty-two months.

              He watched Skip sleep under only a flimsy white blanket, knowing that even though he had worn his clothes, he must have been cold.  The hospital seemed to not have any warmth at all, and ever since arriving, Skip and Brett and the other boys had had a chronic case of goose bumps.  No cure for that except warmth, and the hospital didn’t believe in that.

              Skip Dahlke was a forensic scientist in Wisconsin up until yesterday.  He had been recruited for the siege on a building in Chicago that would eventually free thirteen boys held in captivity, and he had been an almost constant companion of Brett ever since.  Brett wasn’t sure why he had spent so much time in his room or why he chose to sleep there, but he welcomed his presence.  He felt reassured somehow, and more importantly, safe.  The fact that there were cops guarding either end of the hallway helped too.

              All of the major networks and CNN had carried the story of the boys’ rescue: thirteen boys in Chicago, four boys from a motel in Kansas City and twelve boys from a building in Long Beach, California in three separate but simultaneous raids by a coalition of FBI, police and sheriff deputies.  The raids also brought the arrest of 123 men from across the country, but that number was in a state of flux.  Originally, there were 147 warrants issued, but the FBI had figured that by the time it was all said and done, there would be more because the initial reports put the number at 117.  Several had committed suicide upon hearing the news reports, while still others couldn’t be found or located.  U.S. Marshalls and police departments had arrested those they could find, many of whom argued and objected that it was a misunderstanding and a mistake. 

Not a mistake, but a human trafficking ring run by Victor Bosch, AKA Gary Sears, or
The Dark Man
as the boys had called him.  These men had taken part in the kidnapping, abuse and torture of the boys who had been saved, along with the murder of others who hadn’t been as lucky.  Some of these same men were actually responsible for identifying and targeting the boys. 

Just as Brett’s uncle, Detective Anthony Dominico, had done. 

Brett couldn’t wait to confront him.

Bosch had a horse ranch outside of Conway, Arizona, a suburb of Phoenix, but his
real
business was the human trafficking of boys in Chicago and Long Beach, as well as a mobile component that moved kids around the country.  He and two former FBI agents were confronted in a Sheraton restaurant in downtown Chicago.  Bosch and Agent Douglas Rawson were arrested and taken away in handcuffs, while Agent Thatcher Davis had grabbed a knife and stabbed it deeply into his neck and bled to death before he could be arrested.

              Brett and the rest of the boys who had ranged in age from twelve to fourteen had been abducted off the streets in their hometowns and had been forced into a life they had never dreamed existed, nor wanted.  The boys had been forced to do anything and everything a sick, perverted mind could imagine. 

He shut his eyes to push those thoughts away, but they were there and weren’t going anywhere for a long, long time, and Brett was smart enough to know they might not ever go away.

              He opened his eyes and found the clock on the wall that read 5:12; almost morning. The light from the window was brightening, though there were clouds in the sky and not much sun.  Moving quietly, silently, Brett swung his bare feet over the side of the bed because he had to get going.  This was a big day, an important day.     

              Using his good arm, Brett yanked one of the blankets off his bed and placed it over Skip carefully and gently so as not to wake him. He stood at the doorway looking out into the hallway and across from his room at the nurses’ station.

              His chestnut eyes saw everything and missed nothing.  Carol, the night nurse, sat at her desk, her back to him, pecking away on a computer keyboard.  Her shift had officially ended at five, but Brett knew his mother, also a nurse, had often worked longer to catch up on the pile of paperwork that had accrued during her shift.  To his right and down the hall towards Tim’s and Mike’s room, Rodney, one of the day orderlies, leaned against a wall and flirted with Dee. 

              “Brett McGovern . . . what are you doing up so
early
,” came a harsh, but playful whisper from his left.

              Monique, a big woman and Brett’s favorite nurse, stood in the hallway with her hands on her considerable hips, feigning anger.

              “Shhh . . . Skip’s still asleep,” Brett whispered.

He pulled his door to a crack and smiled at her.

              “Hmm, hmm, hmm . . . that boy could come to my house and sleep in my bed any time, but instead, he sleeps in a chair in your room.  I must be slippin’ or somethin’.”

              “Monique, you know I have dibs on him,” Carol said getting up from her computer.  “Brett, honey, give me my morning hug.”

              She scooped Brett up in her arms, careful not to press against his shoulder, and kissed the top of his head.

              “How’s our angel this morning?”

              Blushing, Brett shrugged his good shoulder and said, “Ok.”

              “Brett, you know why Carol puts in extra time?  Just so she can steal Skip from me,” Monique said.  And to Carol, she said wagging a finger, “An’ don’t you think I don’t know that.” Turning back to Brett she said, “Give Big Monique a hug, Angel.”

              Brett was immediately enveloped by the big lady, but gently and tenderly.  She kissed the top of his head as Carol had done, took his handsome, young face in both of her hands and looked him squarely in the eye.

              “How did you sleep and don’t you dare give me no BS.  I want an honest answer.”

              Brett made a face and shrugged his good shoulder.

              “That’s what I thought.  Honey,” Monique said shaking her head at him, “Carol and Dr. Blaine said you aren’t taking any pain meds.  Why?”

              “I don’t need to.  I’m okay.”

              She waved her arm from left to right and said, “My BS meter works just fine, Angel.”

              “I’m okay,” Brett repeated quietly.             

              “Carol told me you barely ate your supper.  I can count every one of your ribs, Child,” she said poking a finger at his stomach, tickling him.

              Brett danced out of the way but didn’t comment and just smiled up at her.  Truth was he didn’t have much of an appetite.  Twenty-two months of fast food menu items would do that.  He, like the other boys, came to the hospital malnourished and dehydrated.  Monique knew hospital food wasn’t the best in the world, but it was a damn sight better than any fast food restaurant.