Hague Park Flyers

By L. D. Jacobson

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 19, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462850365

L. D. Jacobson

When he was eight years old, L. D. Jacobson wrote a short story about giant fruit ransacking his hometown of Jackson, Michigan. Twenty-four years later he’s still coming up with ideas, although to this day that tale about fruit remains the most fun he’s ever had writing! His work has appeared in newspapers, fiction magazines and trade journals, but nothing compares with taking the smallest idea and shaping a story around it. He still lives in Jackson with his wife and three children, but his summers are spent on a lake near the Fox River in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula

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HAGUE PARK FLYERS

L. D. Jacobson

Copyright © 2011 by L. D. Jacobson.

Library of Congress Control Number:       2011905345

ISBN:         Hardcover                               978-1-4628-5035-8

                   Softcover                                 978-1-4628-5034-1

                   Ebook                                      978-1-4628-5036-5

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

97242

CONTENTS

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

CHAPTER 34

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER 36

CHAPTER 37

CHAPTER 38

CHAPTER 39

CHAPTER 40—AFTERWARD

EPILOGUE

AUTHOR’S NOTE

For he has not despised or disdained the suffering of the afflicted one. He has not hidden His face from him, but has listened to his cry for help.

Psalm 22:24

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.

Matthew 5:4

CHAPTER 1

It was a lousy night to catch a pervert.

Joel Chase knew the effect bad weather could have on one of his ‘operations,’ and he nervously chewed his finger nails as he contemplated dealing with the disappointment should he have to return to the station empty handed. He was wired and ready to go, and he didn’t like the thought of shutting things down for the night because of a little inclement weather.

The chilly mid-summer rain fell in a steady downpour and its drumbeat battered the unmarked Chevrolet which sheltered Joel and his less than welcome companion. The only sound within the car was the soft ‘crack-crack-crack’ of Joel biting his nails. It was an annoying habit he’d been battling since his early teens and like any other habit he’d developed over the years, he hadn’t figured out how to break it. Losing the battle with temptation seemed to be something he had become very, very good at.

Visibility was nil and only a swipe of the wiper blades across the windshield every minute or so offered any clarity at all and even THAT was blurry. The wiper blades were in a state of disrepair and left streaks of oil, grease and tree sap on the windshield that actually made things worse for a moment.

Joel had been a cop long enough to know that rainy nights on the job were usually slow nights on the job.

Specialty police units, such as narcotics enforcement teams and warrant squads, generally were called off on rainy nights, mostly because the team members didn’t want to get drenched or covered in mud during an intense foot chase. It was a simple matter of energy and on a rainy or stormy night the energy level required to do the job just ran a bit lower.

From within the confines of the unmarked Chevy, Joel again scanned the scene through the rain-swept windshield.

The park was deserted, which it was SUPPOSED to be this late at night and one of the reasons it had been chosen. There were no families cooking out, no kids running around or jumping on the playground equipment, no teenagers playing volleyball or lounging on giant towels beneath the warm summer sun and no one fishing off shore. At night the park was blissfully quiet and any potential walkers or interlopers would be run off by the rain.

Joel rolled the window down and watched the steady downpour.

This was the first operation he had done at Vandercook Lake County Park, south of the Mid-Michigan city of Jackson, and he had scouted the park and its layout a half dozen times prior to tonight and had plotted possible escape routes, prominent walking paths and areas of concealment.

The weather, as usual, was the wildcard.

What his career in law enforcement had taught him, however, was the value of flexibility.

So while he had anticipated the soft sound of insects and bullfrogs from the dark leaves and branches, from the soft bed of wood chips near the playground equipment and from the picnic tables and grilles, he was able to instead ease into the drumbeat of rain drops on that same scene.

At least the rain had driven away the mosquitoes.

But while he was flexible enough to swap a clear night for a steady rain, there WERE certain inalienable differences in the structure of this working environment.

Clouds and rain vs. clear starry skies and moonlight.

Day vs. night.

Under a clear summer sky the normal night sounds would be smothered by voices, portable radios, screaming children and passing traffic. There would be boats and jet-skis out on the water and a steady backdrop of lawn mowers and car horns in the distance, maybe even a chain saw…

But at night…

Yes at night things were much different.

That was part of the beauty of working nocturnal shifts—you got to hear and see things otherwise rendered invisible under the sun. You got to see things that, covered in a blanket of daylight activities, would otherwise go undetected. Things that during the daylight hours appeared harmless and perfectly normal took on a far more sinister hue under the shifting shadows of night. Things like dancing, skeletal tree branches and the accompanying chorus of night insects. Things like the darkness beneath a car in the driveway or that part of the side yard where the house lights can’t reach and the shadows all pooled to escape the brightness. Tree stumps, swing sets and picnic tables were everyday items during the day, but at night they might change. They might become something different, and of course, something far more menacing. When a thunderstorm approaches during the daylight hours, families and neighbors gather to watch the skies darken and the force of nature flex its muscles. It is an event, and one that draws people from their offices or homes. Little League Baseball games are postponed and people stand out in their yards to watch the dark clouds approach.

But all that changed when the sun went down.

At night when a thunderstorm approaches, it’s far more sinister. First the wind picks up, usually gently, as if a sweet breeze is blowing just to give the trees a little shake. Wind chimes sing softly, bringing smiles to sleeping faces lost in dreams. Then things shift… The wind gets a little stronger, and loose branches and dead leaves begin tapping on roof tops and against windows. Moms and dads now stir in their sleep because, even in the depths of their slumber, they KNOW something is about to happen. Even beneath the covers, their subconscious mind can sense it.

Something is coming.

By the time they awaken and grab their eyeglasses for a look out the bedroom window, thunder is rumbling in the distance and lightning is slicing across the underbelly of that once comforting night sky. Are the doors locked? Did I roll the windows up on the car? Have the eves been cleaned out so the water doesn’t back up into the basement when the downpour comes because it’s coming… Oh yes, it IS coming. Lightning reveals the closeness of the storm.

And then it’s upon them.

Using the night as its vanguard, it has crept up on them.

This didn’t happen during the day.

Now Joel leaned back in the seat, the car positioned perfectly between two large maple trees, and looked out over the park and the gravel lot near the concession stand. It was this lot, nothing more than a square opening filled with pock marks and loose stones that would serve as the scene of the apprehension.

Vandercook Lake was out there, just at the edge of the grass, although at the moment the lake was nothing more than a black, empty maw. Joel couldn’t see the water, but he could hear the rain assaulting the surface of the lake and the sound of waves lapping at the shoreline and the sound of a loose piece of metal (a buoy chain, maybe?) tapping lightly. The lake was rimmed with the lights of waterfront houses, but no boats were out on the water, not in the rain. The night was absent the sound of pontoons, voices or boat motors. The grassy park area, a haven for bikini clad girls and the guys who chased them during the day, was matted down and empty. The spindly collection of tubes, slides and teeter-totters that rested on that soft bed of wood chips and mulch in the play area was silent.

Somewhere up in the back streets of the little village of Vandercook a county sheriff’s patrol car was parked and also waiting. The radio that connected the two units, Joel’s car the lead, was silent.

You sure he’ll show?

The question came from the passenger seat, from a spot that Joel had almost forgotten was occupied in the first place. He had been so focused on getting the car hidden amongst the trees and getting everything ready that he had let his mind drift away from the fact that he had company tonight.

Company that Joel in no way welcomed or felt he needed.

His superiors, however, thought that shedding light on this often secretive area of law enforcement might be in the publics’ best interests.

This, of course, was simply another way of saying ‘how about letting everyone in on this by doing a newspaper feature before the idiots that write the columns make up their own slanted definition of what we do and get the whole thing shut down.’

The truth was Joel knew that someone at the local paper had started to put together a feature on police sting operations and where they stood with regards to individual rights. And he also knew, as much as it pained him to admit it, that his department was probably correct in nipping potential hazards in the bud by jointly working on the feature and allowing a reporter to ride along on one of Joel’s Internet stings. Internet crime was quickly becoming one of the most sinister, effective and dangerous criminal landscapes in the world and law enforcement agencies were only beginning to recognize the potential dangers that lurked there. Frauds and identity scams were costing people millions of dollars and those numbers would only go up in time. Law enforcement couldn’t afford to set back and not take an active role in combating the new wave.

Sexual predators were the easiest place to start. They were generally easily fooled, lured in by their own twisted interests and secrets, and undone by their inability to control themselves. Although conniving and in some cases very clever, they weren’t sophisticated enough to avoid even the simplest of traps and the reason was simple : Somewhere during the process the brain’s power to decipher and navigate trouble was overrun by the sexual drive to fulfill a fantasy. A true computer hacker, someone with the knowledge and the equipment needed to break into someone else’s computer for bank numbers, credit card information and personal identification, were often more difficult to hunt down and catch. A sexual predator generally grew more and more sloppy as they progressed and the more excited they became. Their addiction, their lack of impulse control, became their ultimate undoing. And while the public could often be persuaded to show a little mercy to the down-and-out bank robber, shoplifter or man-on-the-run, they didn’t share that same sympathetic slant towards pedophiles and sexual deviants. Even other criminals, those same bank robbers and shoplifters, despised pedophiles and perverts. Thus it made sense for the department to go after such deviants with the public along for the ride.

And that’s the niche Joel had carved out for himself in addition to his normal patrol duties.

He was Joel Chase—Cyber Cop.

He had joined a growing list of officers and specialists who worked internet and sexual crimes, an area of law enforcement growing rapidly in the face of media attention and television shows.

But it wasn’t’ something that put a smile on his face.

The chat rooms he had to visit, the conversations and e-mails he had to trade, were the type that would make any father’s stomach turn.

And turn his did.

After years as a police officer, Joel thought that he would be used to the levels of depravity that men often sank to. The pornographic thoughts, the lustful games and the macabre interests left Joel wondering what had happened to humankind. Whatever good God had implanted in His people, seemed to serve as nothing more than a thin outer shell that covered a deep, dark ugliness that resonated just out of sight. This ugliness reared its’ head in the pornography trade and the billions of dollars it generated. It revealed its ugliness in an endless stream of prostitution and shattered marriages torn asunder by infidelity and lust. The advent of the internet only allowed that thin outer shell to become even more transparent until the ugliness was allowed to bubble out through cracks to surface, all within the privacy and comfort of one’s own home.

His mother had always said it was a fallen world.

As he had gotten older and his tenuous faith in God had withered altogether, he realized the world hadn’t just fallen, it had bottomed out. It had become mostly hopeless, with only scattered sparks of decency amidst the darkness.

Joel diverted his attention away from the rainy night outside his window and turned instead to the young reporter sitting awkwardly in the seat next to him.

He’ll show, Joel said. Despite the rain, he’ll show.

How can you be so sure?

Tim Clark’s skin was a pasty white. His features, already thin and gaunt, were almost skeletal in the darkness of the Impala. Joel was sitting with a replica of Ichabod Crane from the old Headless Horseman books. He had a notepad on his lap and pencil in his hand, and he now began tapping the pencil on the paper as he spoke. It was an annoying gesture, akin to teeth being ground together, and for a brief moment Joel felt tempted to grab the pencil out of the guy’s hand and jab it into his knee cap. The fleeting thought passed with the realization that probably anything the reporter did would be an annoyance to Joel. And, truth be told, the reporter was probably equally annoyed in return by Joel’s fingernail biting.

The question isn’t whether he shows for the meeting, Joel said. The question is whether or not he gets spooked. That’s ultimately what it will come down to… He’ll be here because the thought of meeting this girl is driving him crazy, but he’ll be skittish. He’s still keenly aware of how much of a risk he’s taking. The slightest movement on our part or the sight of a police car will scare him off…

And then the words came easily, where silence had ruled a moment earlier…

Do you have a dog? Joel asked.

Tim Clark nodded.

It’s kind of like when you leave the kitchen after dinner and you leave meat on your plate on the table and the dog sees it, Joel said. Despite the fact he knows it’s bad, he knows he’s going to get an ass whipping, he can see that piece of meat on the table and he just can’t help himself. Its’ right there, so close and so damned attainable, and he just goes for it… He smiled at his own analogy, not lost on him the unintended comparison of meat to a dog and a female or a child to a sexual predator. This type of crime is different than others we deal with. Someone who robs banks or steals cars carries a bit of an air about them. There’s a defiant cockiness about the whole thing, whether they’re caught or not. ‘Yeah, you got me—big deal!’ But in this type of crime, what this guy does, it’s a lot sleazier… It’s ugly, even for the criminal element… It’s a notch below the others… There’s no red badge of courage to it amongst criminals. There is no honor among thieves when it comes to a true sexual predator. Although… Joel sat in silence for a moment. There IS an underground pipeline of predators that exists just out of sight—exchanging photographs and thoughts, victim information and acts. Every now and then we come across one and it just turns the stomach. But our guy tonight isn’t like that. Maybe he WILL be in time but right now, and as far as we can tell, he’s just a local guy just looking for some action. Just suggesting the meeting was the tough part for him—that precarious first step. That’s what took the most nerve… Once the girl agrees to meet, the rest is fluff… The anticipation is probably driving our guy nuts, maybe even more than it’s driving ME nuts… He’ll be early.

He glanced at his watch.

It was just after eleven o’clock under the rainy night sky and the meeting was for eleven-thirty.

If we don’t spook him, Tim Clark repeated.

That’s right, Joel said. That’s why it’s just us and one other patrol car. If we need more units, they’re out there, but you can’t have an army of cops waiting in ambush. Our guy will sniff them out… Plus, it takes a lot of money and resources to allocate bodies for this kind of operation. There’s no way a police chief could budget for any more than a couple of officers for something like this. That’s just the way it is.

The two fell silent again.

Even the police radio, on scan mode, was silent.

Tim Clark had something else on his mind, though.

Joel could sense it.

He could sense it in the way the young reporter kept tapping the pencil against the notepad, and the way he kept biting his lip while he followed Joel’s gaze out into the park. The young man was no doubt intimidated a bit in this environment, but a question or concern gnawed at him.

Tap-tap-tap… The kid wanted to press the issue on something, and Joel knew precisely what it was.

Did you read the transcripts? Joel asked.

Did I… ? Tim Clark looked momentarily confused. Yeah, sure I did…

Joel nodded.

Outside the rain let up just a bit, so that through the haze thick drops fell from drooping tree branches.

Tim Clark rustled through the pages of his pad, drawing from the notes he had scribbled down earlier.

I just want to make sure I have this right, he said.

Joel waited for the young man to continue, but his own gaze remained on the empty parking lot and only roads that would lead down to it…

You created an internet profile for yourself, using the guise of a young teenage girl, he said. You hit chat rooms, trade e-mails and things like that. You’re flirtatious, probably a little more, or maybe a LOT more flirtatious or outgoing than a normal girl that age. You even scanned a picture out of a magazine to send to the people you talked to in order to further convince them you’re legitimate. You talk to men older than you… He flipped the pages in his pad. You wait for them to suggest meetings, all centered on sexual exploration. Illegal sexual exploration, given everyone’s ages. Then when these guys show up for the meeting, you nail them.

The notes were flipped a few more times, evidently to a point where Tim had a few blank pages to work on.

Somewhere in the distance a car horn sounded.

First off, let’s quantify the age, Joel said. My bait of choice is a thirteen year old girl. We wouldn’t get involved if we were dealing with two consenting adults, even if they were married and this was an affair of some type. My character was thirteen years old, meaning that ANY type of sexual involvement with her is illegal, even if she BEGS for it.

Tim jotted down the correction.

Second of all I’m not sure I agree with the term ‘nail them’, Joel continued. I think something along the lines of ‘arrest them’ or ‘catch them before they ruin the life of a REAL girl’ might be better applied here. He adjusted his position in the seat and he could feel his anger rising with each word he uttered.

This WAS a bad idea, after all.

You can say it, Joel said. You’ll probably write it, so you might as well say it where it can be discussed at length.

Say what? Tim asked.

How this is entrapment, Joel said. How what we do somehow violates someone’s rights or that it doesn’t quite seem like we’re playing fair. Joel glanced across the seat at his passenger, who remained silent. At least have the balls to exchange in dialogue with me before you circle the wagons and once again lash into the police department for doing something you consider unethical.

That wasn’t my intent…

Really… ? Joel frowned. Let me ask you a question, Clark. Do you have kids?

Tim shuffled his pen and paper but shook his head.

I’ve been married for a year now, he said. My wife and I are planning on starting a family soon.

Joel seemed to know this way coming, and he bit his lip fiercely as he contemplated placing blame where it needed to be placed, and unloading on the young man next to him.

Then you’re the wrong guy to have write this feature, he said. At your age and with your limited life experiences, you’re still caught up in career advancement and having a social life. You guys are probably still basking in the glow of your wedding, for Christ sakes! A story like this, especially one shedding a negative light on this aspect of police work, not to mention maybe having a hand in getting it shut down, would be huge for your career. Maybe it would even earn you a job offer from the Detroit Free Press or the Sun Times in Chicago… This could be your big ticket…

Tim Clark neither wrote nor spoke.

Now, someone with children… Joel nodded knowingly…

The silence returned between them then, broken only by the wind and the fluttering of leaves overhead.

I hope you and your lovely new wife have a daughter, Joel said. He looked over at his young passenger, and the kid recoiled just a little further. Tim Clark’s head might have popped right through the glass behind it had Joel not looked away again. I hope you and your wife have a daughter, because then you’ll begin to understand. Maybe one day you’ll take her for a walk in a park, maybe on a nice, sunny afternoon in July… And maybe that day you’ll see some guy raking leaves or looking for cans in the garbage or maybe just eating an ice cream, and you’ll catch him looking at your little girl… You won’t know why, but the way he’s looking at her will bother you somehow. You’ll just get a real uneasy feeling about it. It just won’t sit right… That’s when you’ll realize what types of monsters are out there and what they’re lying in wait to do if given the chance. When you go to the beach with the family you’ll start watching to make sure your little girl’s bathing suit doesn’t leave too much skin exposed and you’ll make sure her shirts come down to cover her belly. Things that you wouldn’t even consider before you became a parent, you’ll become keenly aware of. You think about some stranger in a van being a threat, right? Maybe some weirdo who drives around in the middle of the night in a big, old car with tinted windows and a loud exhaust, right? Think again. Think about that married guy across the street. Think about the really nice old man around the corner or the guy at the grocery store who’s always so pleasant and bags your groceries. Think about THOSE guys. Think about what goes through their heads when they look at your daughter, Clark. Think about what happens when you walk away and they watch you just a bit. They’re not watching YOU, buddy, they’re watching her… They won’t see your little girl as a person with dreams or hopes or prayers or…

He fell silent with a shake of his head, the taste bitter and fowl in his mouth.

Then, his voice barely above a whisper:  . . . They’ll see something else.

There was a long pause then, a long dip of darkness into the Impala that had rendered both men silent.

Jesus… Tim Clark said softly. Is that how you go through life, man? I mean, you carry those thoughts and suspicions with you all the time? How do you even exist?

They call it a heightened sense of awareness, Joel said.

Really? It sounds like complete paranoia to me. Do you allow yourself the time to be at peace?

Joel didn’t answer at first.

I’m not sure what that is anymore, he said.

Finally he changed the subject.

So you think its entrapment, he said. Or a part of you does. Probably the part of you that also thinks undercover drug buys involving cops is entrapment. Or that prostitution stings are entrapment…

Hey, I didn’t…

But he didn’t have too, and that’s what angered Joel the most.

So the question that needs to be answered, Joel said. How the hell do you expect the police to catch bad guys? Again he looked over at his partner in this uncomfortable exchange. Would you rather this guy find some poor young girl who really IS confused and bored with life and let her fall into his little trap? Would that be better? Would it sit better with you and your superiors if we didn’t act? That way he could lure a REAL girl into this, maybe rape and hurt her first, and THEN we could go after him because at least the crime would have already been committed and we wouldn’t be as concerned that this might be entrapment. At least that way the prosecutor and the defense attorney could joke around about it in the court’s legal room and then settle on a plea agreement that wouldn’t add up to anything other than some counseling and maybe a month in jail. Would that be better? We’d really be making a difference then, wouldn’t we? That little girl whose life had been destroyed would feel good knowing that at least a crime had been committed and no one had been called to task about entrapment. After all, the suspects’ rights would have been protected and that’s what matters the most. THAT’S what fucking matters, right? And we could all feel confident that when he gets out in a month he’ll be all better.

Clark was silent, but that was better than him putting up an argument.

Joel could live with silence.

He could ALWAYS live with silence.

He had never felt a need to fill the empty void with senseless words, images or music. Everything that was around him right now, the task at hand, was more than enough. Anything added might only detract from what he had to do.

What you see on television, that stuff doesn’t happen, he said. That Law & Order crap where the detectives and the attorneys take everything personally? Forget it… If this guy meets up with a real teenager and hurts her, rapes her or heaven forbid KILLS her, it’ll be nothing but a statistic for someone. The prosecutor and the defense attorney will sit around a conference table and make sure the evidence wasn’t tainted. They’ll discuss due process and counseling and what ELSE the idiot has done, but it’ll end up just a statistic like all the others. We have to find a way to stop this evil, sick crap before it happens. And we have to stop serving up our kids as lambs to the slaughter.

When his passenger didn’t open up, Joel continued.

Jesus, you can get life in prison for certain drug crimes, but you can rape or molest a young child and walk in a matter of a few years, he said. How’s THAT for justice? When his passenger didn’t answer, he pressed on. How does it work for justice when a pedophile can get a lesser sentence because he has a RIGHT to face his accuser and his accuser might be a scared-to-death little kid? We should stop worrying about Constitutional Rights and focus more on common sense. Give me some suggestions. Let’s hear them… How else would you suggest we catch guys like this?

Clark coughed and adjusted his position in the seat.

I don’t… He started. I mean, the question has to be asked—How DO you balance this guy’s constitutional rights with what you’re doing?

Joel shook his head but remained silent.

I take it your opinion differs, Tim said.

Your take on this man’s Constitutional Rights is what allows him to go on preying on innocent victims, Joel said. The truth is he makes a mockery out of the entire Bill of Rights. He’s the madman with a machine gun hiding in a crowd of innocent women and children, using THEM for his shield.

The short silence that ensued between the two men grew thick and uncomfortable.

It was Joel who felt the urge to break it.

You just nailed it, he said. Right there. The two most over-used words in the legal system: Constitutional Rights. How do we protect this guy’s constitutional rights? You know what my answer is… ?

He looked over at Tim.

Who cares? Joel shrugged. Who gives a shit about this guy’s rights? You think his victim cares? You think the parents of that victim care? Do you think the PUBLIC cares? Give me a break Clark, the unlawful prosecution of the innocent doesn’t happen as often as you think it does. That’s part of society’s problem, you know? When someone is wrongly convicted it’s plastered all over every media outlet in the world, but the reality is that happens once in a fucking blue moon. It’s like a plane crash. Thousands of planes land safely every day, but when one goes down its big news. If we wait for this guy tonight to actually commit the crime against an innocent victim, we’ve allowed that victim to become bait. We stood by and allowed it to happen in the name of political correctness, or in the name of constitutional rights. Are we really doing our jobs by handling it that way? Are we really doing what we’re sworn to do? As law enforcement we get so few opportunities to be PRO-active that it feels damn good to finally have a chance to make that kind of a difference. Think about it, how many good and honest people, maybe friends of yours, hang around on the internet at night and suggest meetings with young girls and boys? The line isn’t crossed when you commit the act—the line is crossed when you suggest it. The MOMENT you suggest it, because that’s when the planted seed starts to grow. And THAT’S when we have to stop it, before we have another innocent victim to send to therapy for the rest of her life.

But you’re attacking someone for their thoughts, Clark shrugged his shoulders. I can’t get past that—you’re going after someone because of their thoughts.

No we’re not, Joel shot back. He can have all the thoughts he wants too. What goes on in his sick little head is his own business. But this arranged meeting, this reaching out to our young pseudo-victim, is where he went wrong.

I just acknowledge the line could get crossed, Clark said.

Sometimes you have to cross it, Joel said.

And with this guy tonight? Did you have to cross it?

It’s not a matter of whether or not I had to cross a line to get this guy to arrange the meeting, Joel said. Whatever I say here won’t make a damn bit of difference. The truth is guys like you would find fault with the plan no matter how I handle it. It’s in your blood… It’s what you do… As Clark raised his hands to fend off the criticism, Joel kept talking. You want guys like this off the streets, but you don’t know how to get them there. Do you really think these people will just come to their senses some day and turn themselves in? Do you think he’ll wake up one morning and realize he’s sick and might hurt someone? If I don’t get this guy, he’s going to arrange a meeting with a real girl. God only knows what happens then. Would you find it preferable to me doing it this way? Sexual predators and pedophiles CANNOT be rehabilitated, Clark—do you understand that? They CANNOT be rehabilitated. The only thing you can do is take them down before they get the chance to ruin too many lives… He was getting wound up again and unable to stop it. People like you rip on the police and the way we do things, yet if you hear a noise in the basement in the middle of the night your first call is to 911 for help.

Tired of being a punching bag, Clark responded.

Come on, don’t give me the old ‘you NEED me on that line’ speech that Nicholson gave Cruise in A Few Good Men, he said. I recognize the value of the police department and I appreciate what you guys do, but it’s someone’s job to be a watchdog to make sure things are handled the right way. You’ve seen Will Smith in that movie Enemy of the State, right? I don’t mean to question your motives, but I need to understand. I mean, with what happened to your daughter…

The glance Joel shot him caused the reporter to close his mouth and fall silent for a moment. Clark knew he was treading on extremely thin ice, yet he couldn’t help himself. He said what he thought needed to be said.

Is that… Is that why you’re so passionate about this?

What do YOU think? Joel returned sarcastically.

Please, I’m just trying to get the whole picture here…

Joel’s tone was measured and controlled.

My daughter wasn’t lured away by some guy on the internet, he said. She was taken while riding a bike around the neighborhood…

Clark slipped his notepad and pencil back into his pocket.

It wasn’t the sinister black van roaming through the neighborhood, it was the son of the old couple up the street, Joel said. It was the sweet little boy who used to walk around the neighborhood as a kid and earn money shoveling driveways and raking leaves.

The words spit from Joel’s mouth like a venom, laced with a sharpness that he hoped would convey to Clark his unwillingness to delve deeper into the issue. Tim Clark, reporter that he was, understood now the connection between Joel and this line of work. Even with no further questions, that connection had become painfully obvious.

It looks like we’re both not suited for this then, he finally said.

Joel looked over at him.

What do you mean… ?

You had mentioned I was the wrong person to do this interview because I don’t have kids, Tim said. Maybe it’s possible you’re the wrong person to do this kind of work because you DO… Because you lost one…

Joel had heard the phrase ‘the truth hurts’ more times than he could count in his life and most of the time he hated it. He hated it again now.

I do the best I can, he said numbly.

The truth was he hadn’t gotten involved in this aspect of law enforcement to settle a score, at least not publicly, and any questions Clark had about Joel’s proximity to the situation only echoed those of Joel’s superiors. WAS he too close? Could he look at cases objectively? Would he take things too personally? What were the liability issues involved? But Joel had gotten involved because, in some way, he felt doing this would allow him to use the loss of Lindsey as fuel to keep going—not just in police work but in life…

Fuel he desperately needed at times.

He had heard stories of parents overcoming the loss of a child and turning that loss into a mission or a drive to change SOMETHING. John Walsh, the television host of America’s Most Wanted, had turned the abduction and killing of his son into the foundation for helping law enforcement apprehend criminals.

And there were others, as well.

Joel Chase could think of worse things than nabbing men who fantasized about doing sexual things to young girls.

Kids are naïve, he finally said. A lot of adults are, too. People who seek out others on the internet want to believe the person they’re talking too really IS a kindred soul or a pen pal or someone who understands them. They need that very badly, which is pretty sad in its’ own right. And as long as young girls, or boys for that matter, look for that special person to share their worries and lives with, there will be people on the other end ready to use that longing to their advantage… He looked over at his passenger. Do you have a nephew or a niece? Maybe a younger sister… ?

I have a sister, Clark said. She’s fifteen.

These people set traps, Joel said. It’s what they do. They’re sneaky, they’re slick and they’re devious. They’re good at it. Maybe this guy tonight meets your sister on the internet net week if we don’t catch him. Maybe he meets her in a chat room and strikes up a friendly chat about school or homework or boys or how unreasonable parents are. Maybe she rolls the dice and decides to meet this guy. And maybe one night she just goes missing. That’s not a feeling you ever want to experience, man, and I know firsthand… Your world stops, your stomach bottoms out and you find it hard to breathe… So maybe in your looking you discover she was lonely or she found herself unattractive and she found someone online who was nice and all the things she was looking for… And we find her a year later in a barrel somewhere… Joel’s stomach turned as he spoke, but he couldn’t stop himself.  . . . Or buried in some shallow grave off a dirt road somewhere in the country. Or maybe she DOES survive, and maybe it’s ONLY a rape she has to live with for the rest of her life. Clark remained silent. As law enforcement we can’t afford to sit back and wait to see what happens. We have to be as aggressive and as pro-active as we can in going after these guys, just as THEY are going after our kids. That’s how it works. The sheep dog doesn’t wait for one of its flock to get attacked, it recognizes the threat in the distance, sounds the warning, and goes after it. Think of us as sheep dogs.

I respect that, but Jesus when my kid sister goes to a high school basketball game guys of all ages watch her ass when she walks by, Clark said. They don’t all deserve to be locked up!

We could debate this all night, Joel said. Right now, though, we don’t have the time… He’s here…

*     *     *

The black Mustang, a 2008 model with its’ redesigned hood and retro body style, rolled slowly in darkness down the hillside towards the park. It crept along, more like a predator than a motor vehicle, and would have been invisible had the dim streetlights not reflected off the shiny exterior.

Headlights out, no parking lights… No loud, thumping bass music… No excessive engine noise… It appeared, sleek and black, inching down the hillside in the rain.

Behind the wheel of the Chevy, in the dark interior of the unmarked police car, Joel sat up and watched intently.

Stealth mode, he said softly, as if the driver of the Mustang could hear him. Any sign of another car, especially a police car, and he’s out of here.

How could he know?

He’s done it before, Joel said. A repeat offender. Surprise, surprise… He brought his portable police radio out from beneath the front seat and adjusted the volume. One way or the other, he’s going to run.

Joel liked that.

Heads up you guys. He’s here and he sniffs something. Lights out, car silent… Black Mustang, one of the new models…

The female voice on the other end came through in a soft, crackling whisper: Copy that, Joel. We’re ready to roll on your signal.

Has he seen us? Clark asked.

Joel hesitated.

Maybe… Maybe not… He said. The rain no doubt has thrown a monkey wrench into it because his girl won’t be as easy to spot. Luckily… He tapped a finger against his temple. Luckily I anticipated crappy weather was a possibility and suggested he meet her near the concession stand. Or it could be he smells something… Could be he’s just being cautious…

What does that tell you… ?

It tells me BigStud has done this before, Joel said. He’s not just looking for patrol cars because that would be too obvious. He’s looking for ANYTHING. Someone on foot walking their dog, maybe someone jogging or a car parked up the street…

Big stud?

That’s his screen name on America Online, Joel said. BigStud1—I thought you said you read the transcripts?

The Mustang crawled along the gravel parking lot, its big engine grumbling softly as its wide tires eased over the stones, It parked at an angle next to the concession building and remained still. Through the dark glass of the front windshield no shape could be discerned. There might be one person in the car, there might be five. Joel leaned closer to his windshield to see better, but the soft rain prevented him from seeing inside the car. The brake lights were on, twin shiny red orbs, indicating the driver hadn’t put the car in park yet.

He brings the Mustang rather than a pickup truck, a Camry or a mini-van, Joel whispered. Something a young girl would look at and be impressed—’wow, look at THIS car!’

He’s not falling for it, Clark said. He knows it’s a trap…

Joel adjusted the Glock 9mm semi-automatic pistol in the holster at his hip and fought the energy that drove him to spring to action and make a move.

Patience… He said, more to himself than to his passenger. This is where we force ourselves to just take a deep breath and wait.

Even as the Mustang sat idling, Joel pondered at what point to turn this predator into prey.

As long as the shadowed man was inside his car, there was the possibility of flight. Even now the brake lights remained on, but the vehicle wasn’t in