Kept Boy to Made Man - 15. House of Cards

Thursday, June 23^rd, 1992

“Hey Micah, good morning,” Juan said as he slipped into the guestroom of his mother’s apartment.

The detective stopped short as the scene that greeted him brought back memories of the previous morning. Micah was not in the bed where Juan expected to find him. He was naked once more, curled up on the comforter which had been spread out on the hardwood floor in the corner of the room. The boy’s scared eyes met his.

Gone was the child Thomas had coaxed free the day before. He was once again the frightened slave they had discovered in Carl Jenkins’ basement.

“Micah, it’s me, Juan. I’m your friend, remember?” The boy’s whimper was not encouraging.

Juan thought about trying to tease Micah into clothes, or at east back onto the bed. Instead, he grabbed the sheet and a pillow before slowly moving towards the boy. Micah didn’t resist as the man slid the pillow under his head, but Juan could feel him shaking. He placed the thin sheet over the nude boy before sitting on the floor a few feet away.

“I have to go to work, Micah, but I wanted to introduce you to a very special woman who I love very much. You saw her last night, but I wanted to make sure you met her properly before I go.” Juan turned towards the door. “Come in, mom.”

Rosa entered, her eyes moving in the direction from which her son’s voice had come. Tears came to her eyes as she saw the huddled mass on the floor. Sorrow and anger surged through her as she wondered again what the boy had been forced to endure. She instinctively moved slowly forward, folding herself on the floor next to Juan.

“This is my mother. Her name is Rosa, and she is the most loving woman I know,” Juan said softly.

The young boy looked at the small woman. He had seen her, but barely remembered. Waking up to angry yelling in the unfamiliar room, seeing the twins’ terror, and witnessing Thomas' breakdown had been too much for his new-found confidence to survive. His name was Boy once more, and he wasn’t allowed to sleep in soft beds or wear clothes.

. . .

“I’m scared, Sammy.” Simon wanted to tell his brother that he missed Stan, but just thinking about the man who had been his anchor made the boy feel like crying.

“Me too,” Samuel whispered back.

“Who’s going to buy us food and stuff?” Most eight-year-old boys take meals for granted, but the twins did not.

“Not mom. Not Stan.” Simon didn’t sound eight either, the finality in his high-pitched voice made it clear that he understood their situation in a way little boys should never have to.

A light tapping on the door ended their hushed conversation. Neither knew they were expected to respond. They had shared Stan’s pull out couch when they slept over as he only had a single bedroom. The room they shared at their mother’s didn’t have a door.

Melissa peaked her head in to the room. She wasn’t sure how to proceed with the new arrangement either.

“Are you boys awake?” She asked.

“Yes,” they answered in unison.

“Good morning! Do you need help getting up and ready for breakfast?” Melissa was a young teen last time she had interacted with an eight-year-old child, and that had been her sister Rebecca; She knew little about what boys needed in the morning.

“We need to go potty.” Samuel answered for them both.

“Do you need help?” Melissa didn’t want to embarrass the boys either way.

“No!” Simon answered as he thought about the woman they didn’t know seeing his penis.

Stan had always insisted that they call things by the correct name. He had also made sure they understood the importance of maintaining privacy with people they didn’t know.

Melissa giggled at the small boy’s indignation.

“Okay. Let me know if you need me to remind you where the bathroom is. I’ll go start on your breakfast.” She left the door ajar as she headed for the kitchen.

Jim had evidently found the coffee. He had re-assembled the sofa and folded his make-shift bedding. The man was dressed for the day and sat sipping from a mug at Melissa’s kitchen island.

“Good morning,” he said brightly as Melissa entered the open living space.

“Good morning, Jim.” She knew she was going to have to explain a few things to the man as she watched his eyes drink in her figure. “What time will you be leaving for work?”

. . .

Eight hundred miles away, another man sipped from a similar mug. His eyes were glued to the screen in front of him. Thursday morning meant roll call. He launched a terminal window and entered a command to open a Telnet connection. After keying in the address and port, he entered his credentials.

Unlike most boards there was nothing to see. A series of custom keystrokes pulled up a log file. The date appeared at the top, followed by a list of usernames and their login times. To anyone else the list of users would appear random, but the man saw the list for what it was. Each operator was assigned a coded alias to use when communicating within the network, sometimes called The Deck.

He counted, expecting fifty-four. The man counted again and came up one short for the second time. He glanced at his watch. Somebody had failed to check in. He began checking off names from the paper before him until only one remained unaccounted for.

The man knew what was expected. He reached for the phone and dialed the number he had only used a few times in the past. There were several rings over the line before the call was answered.

“Yes,” said a forgettable voice with no inflection or emotion.

“Darius didn’t check in,” the man said.

“Understood.” There was an audible click as the call was disconnected.

The man deleted the log before closing the terminal window. His short phone call kicked off a series of protocols. Four men in four locations would soon receive a notification through independent channels. The messages would all be the same: A/S, bust or fold.

. . .

Craig’s eyes were closed and had been for almost forty minutes. The sound of the FBI lab’s electronic lock disengaging startled him awake. He was disoriented as his eyes tried to make sense of the unfamiliar surroundings. Remembering where he was, the computer technician turned to see who had disturbed his unplanned nap.

Ankit Singh was the lead digital forensics technician for the FBI’s local Computer Analysis and Response Team. He and Craig hadn’t liked each other initially, but eighteen hours together had created a strong rapport built on a shared skillset and similar passions.

“Sleep well?” Ankit asked through a grin as he set a Styrofoam cup of thick black liquid next to Craig's keyboard.

“Just resting my eyes,” Craig said through a smile of his own. Neither man had gone home, choosing to work through the night on Charles Miller’s computer. They had made several new discoveries using the information Charlie had shared with Joe Gallo and Sal Distefano two days prior.

It was clear to both men that they had stumbled onto something larger than anyone had guessed. Charles Miller regularly accessed over twenty bulletin board systems and several unique chatroom services to communicate with hundreds of unique users in the last month alone. They had compiled huge lists of screennames and aliases, but identifying real names and locations was going to be difficult, if not impossible with the information they had available.

Two pairs of tired eyes swung towards the monitor in front of Craig at the sound of a tinny beep. Charles Miller received an electronic mail. Craig quickly tabbed to the message and clicked the enter key.

Check in.

Craig looked at Ankit.

“Maybe we can track the sender.” Craig knew it would likely be pointless even as he said it.

“The interrogation team can ask Mr. Miller what the message means, but I am certain we will miss the reply window even if he tells them how to respond appropriately.” Ankit was already moving for the door. “Somebody suspects Charles Miller is no longer open for business. I need to tell the boss.”

. . .

“I’d like to introduce Special Agents Caleb Kosiak and Martin Crenshaw. Both arrived earlier this morning from Washington. They will be coordinating between our office, DC, and the other field offices.

“Swanson, please read Kosiak in when we are done here. He can pull in as many people as you need to compile missing persons profiles from around the country. He can also facilitate conversations with Canada’s CSIS and Mexico’s PJF. I want as many matches as possible so we know who it is we're looking for,” Daniel said.

“Yes, sir.” Rachel was grateful for the help.

“Singh, you and Craig are getting help as well. Crenshaw is the Bureau’s leading expert on computer crimes. I am impressed with what you have been able to do so far, but I want all the help we can get to find these kids.” Ankit raised his hand, which Daniel found amusing; he had to remind himself that the man spent his time in a lab and not on operations teams. “Yes, Ankit?”

“Sir, Charles Miller received a message thirty minutes ago demanding that he check in. Someone, at least, is growing suspicious.” Ankit looked nervous, even after delivering his update.

“If I may,” Special Agent Crenshaw interjected. “Rings like this are typically dispersed, made up of many separate cells, individuals or groups, who often aren’t even aware of the others. Systems and processes are almost certainly in place to identify compromised cells quickly. The message you received tells me someone suspects trouble. They will likely begin working quickly to assess the situation, impact, and risk.”

“I suppose it was bound to happen eventually. Crenshaw, what do you think these people will do once they realize Charlie Miller is out of the game?” Daniel asked.

The man didn’t look happy.

“If they suspect someone is onto them, the network will dissolve. They will go to ground and may even dump their merchandise,” the expert from DC said.

“You mean they might kill the boys?” The man nodded in response to Juan’s question.

“Shit,” Daniel said as he thought about the sudden threat. “I guess that means we need to convince these animals they are safe. Be thinking about how to play dumb, folks. I’m open to ideas. Thompson, where is the investigation into the twins?”

“The Mound City sheriff found the twin’s mother. She’s dead. Initially, he suspected an accidental heroin overdose. She still had the needle in her arm. Combined with the abduction of her sons and the note from Stan Montgomery we found in a bag full of cash in the trunk of the Buick, we’ve asked him to process the scene as a homicide.

“Speaking of the note, it appears Stan had been caring for the twins for years. He agreed to buy the twins from their mother. The boys were adamant he never touched them inappropriately, so we believe his intentions were pure, although misguided. Hopefully, we will learn more today when we talk to the man who abducted them. He has requested a lawyer, but we have him on one, possibly two murders as well as two counts of kidnapping and trying to sell the boys to known predators. I think he will talk once he hears we have enough to ask a judge for the needle,” Jim concluded.

“With the mother dead, the state is going to want to place the boys in foster care while they search for family. We’ll leave the boys where they are for the moment for their protection, but I don't know how long we can get away with that.” Daniel wasn’t a psychologist, but he was certain the boys would not benefit from additional custody changes. “What about Charles Miller?”

“The US Attorney’s Office approved your offer and Charles Miller accepted. He wasn’t lying about the names. Some of them are shocking. We’ve broken his associates into three lists.” Ben Fisher let his distain drip off the word. “Clients, Investors, and Enablers. Apart from trading in kids and producing pornography, Uncle Charlie was known to host guests as well as provide entertainment for client events. He brought in boys for anyone who could afford his fees.”

It wasn’t surprising, but Daniel sagged as the weight of the revelation was added to his already heavy burden.

“The others,” he prompted.

“Investors are just that, people who provided Charlie money with the promise of a return. We thought this was an Italian operation, but I’m not sure how involved they really were.

“The street name, Riz was mentioned in the CPD interrogation video. According to Charlie, the man’s name is Jason Rizzo. We don’t even have a file on the guy, so we are thinking he is relatively new and likely low level. Anyway, he approached Charlie several years ago, back when he was only dabbling in child pornography. Together, they have grown the operation, largely using funds from these investors. Their early work got them noticed, but they had to borrow the money needed to facilitate their first few transactions. Charlie claims that they paid off their loans quickly and were operating independently months after partnering.

“As for the enablers, think law enforcement, transportation, forged documents, and so on. These are people who make it possible to move the kids without getting caught. Between the three lists, we have over sixty names already. It will take an army or decades to properly investigate all the suspects.” Special Agent Fisher had no idea where to start with the list that grew every time Charles Miller started talking.

“I want to see that list before we pull anyone else in. We can't afford to tip our hand before we are ready to move on the entire lot. Make sure someone asks him about his computer friends as well. I’d like to know who we are dealing with beyond this Mr. Rizzo.” Daniel wasn’t sure he wanted to see the names, but he knew he had to. “What have we learned from Carl Jenkins?”

“You were half right boss.” It was Special Agent Fisher who spoke once more. “He was a sentry, but not for the mob. As CPD learned from his neighbors, the man knows everything that happens in the neighborhood. He caught on to Charles Miller business about twelve months ago and threatened to turn him in. Micah was payment for both his services and silence. He has been holding the boy since last fall. Jenkins is not a career criminal, no priors, and he is scared shitless. He is cooperating so far and seems eager for a deal. According to him, he’s been a true gentleman. He insists Micah was damaged before he arrived.”

Daniel felt like screaming. Rather than turning Charles Miller in, Carl Jenkins partnered with him. Micah and many others continued to suffer because of his opportunistic depravity.

“Stay on him! I want to know everything he knows about the operation and about Micah.” Daniel turned his attention to Rachel Swanson. “Any leads on who Micah is or where he belongs?”

“No sir.” Rachel loved the respect she got from her new FBI colleagues. “Micah doesn’t match any local missing person profile. We have requests out to several surrounding states, but responses have been slow. We received eleven cases from Iowa via fax late yesterday, but none matching the boy you found.”

“Not me. Us. I don’t always remember to slow down and celebrate. Yesterday, this small team from both the FBI and the Chicago PD pulled three boys out of unimaginable misery, potentially saving their lives. I am proud to be working alongside each of you. We are far from finished, but on behalf of three small boys who can’t say it themselves, thank you!” SAC Daniel Janick didn’t try to hide the tears forming in his eyes; tears for the boys found, the boys still lost, for his team and friends, for himself.

The small, but growing team began to clap as they looked around the conference room. Many faces displayed conflicting emotions as well. This case was difficult, both because the victims were so young and because the crimes committed against them were so heinous.

“Before we go, I want to make one last introduction. Robert?” Daniel had been trying to figure out how to welcome the psychologist to the team while avoiding the distrust most would feel when they learned his area of expertise. “Mr. Fenton is here to help us on several fronts. He will be focused on team efficiency and effectiveness as well as consulting on operational strategy.”

Daniel saw Dr. Fenton’s curiosity and surprise. He purposefully avoided the man’s hard-earned title and profession. If the team saw the psychologist first as a respected expert and peer, they would be less likely to view him as some sort of meddlesome oversight. The team leader saw both understanding and appreciation blossom as the man’s quick mind caught on to his plan. Daniel nodded at the man as a smirk creased his lips. He could play mind games as well.

. . .

Mary’s mind was lost in a wild garden far away as she pushed a chunk of French toast around her plate. Rosa was glad to see that while distracted, the young girl seemed to be less distressed than she had been the previous day. Joshua was oblivious to them both as he concentrated on moving the sweet sticky bites from his plate to his mouth using the blunt kid-safe fork he had been given.

“Rosa, I heard someone crying last night.” Mary’s memories were fuzzy as she had been falling asleep; she half expected Rosa to tell her it had only been the wind.

“You probably did, dear,” Rosa said sadly. “There is a boy staying with me for a while. Some bad things happened to him, and he is very sad and scared.”

“Oh.” Mary wasn’t sure what to say about the sad boy who had been crying in Rosa’s apartment.

. . .

“Come in,” Daniel said in response to the knock on his office door.

“Sir,” Juan said as he stood just shy of full attention inside the office door.

“At ease, Juan.” The man laughed. “You’re not in the Corps anymore. Have a seat if you’d like.”

Juan sat. He found it unnerving to be alone with Daniel, sitting so close; he focused on the idea he came to share instead of his confusing emotions.

“I’ve been thinking about what Agent Crenshaw said this morning.” Juan waited for permission to continue while staring at the petite man before him.

“What are you thinking?” Daniel asked as he returned the stare.

“I’ve had a lot of down time at the department over the last year, and I’ve read a lot about the latest uses of DNA and other forensic evidence in court. After discovering Charlie’s studio, I put the CPD lab to work. I wanted to make sure we discovered and recorded all the evidence there was to be found.

“Chief Monroe is a bit more traditional. He told me to focus on the real police work, rather than what he called the science-y shit.” Juan swallowed nervously before proceeding. “I was thinking that we could pretend to have done just that.”

“Keep going.” Daniel thought he could see where Juan was headed, but he wanted to hear everything the man had in mind.

“Well, what if the Chief or even the Commissioner made a public statement about Charles Miller’s arrest. They could talk about the good, old-fashioned police work that took a pedophile off the streets. If they do it right, it would look like the investigation wasn’t going any farther than Charlie Miller.” Juan waited to hear what the FBI Agent would say.

Daniel ran through the scenario. There were some major flaws and gaps, but the idea had merit. He thought about some of the logic issues they would need to overcome to make Juan’s idea viable.

“It will be assumed, or perhaps even known that you searched Charlie’s house. The county would need to explain why they were choosing to close the investigation despite the damning evidence they were sure to have discovered in his home. It also isn’t a secret the FBI is involved, at least within the department. We can’t rule out additional informants.” There was one more problem with the fledgling idea. “The public will also demand to know what happened to the kids even if Charlie’s accomplices buy the lie.”

“You’re right. It won’t work. There is simply too much evidence for the department to stop digging.” Juan couldn’t help but think about the stolen boys being executed and abandoned.

They both sat in silence, Juan growing depressed and Daniel allowing his mind to work the problem his young friend had so succinctly summarized. Slowly, a smile began to stretch across Daniel's fine-featured face. He almost laughed as his mind measured Juan’s plan again with several additions and edits of his own.

“It could work, Juan. It’s crazy, but it could work.” Daniel Janick picked up his desk phone. “Hopefully we aren’t too late.”

. . .

The Jack of Spades exited the Midway terminal building and climbed into the back of the stretched Towncar. He sat back as the large vehicle pulled away from the curb. It had been years since he had been to Chicago. The last time had been for Charles Miller’s interview and audition. He had made a substantial profit on the boy he had brought to test the man, largely due to the fantastic marketing reel Charlie had made for him.

His mob financier was less than desirable, but Charlie's personal passion and skill had been too good to pass up. The Chicago studio had been a top earner both as a recruiting firm and production house; the operation was a credit to their suit and to the Jack of Spades himself. He pressed the intercom.

“Let’s swing past the Ace’s house first.” The Two of Spades acknowledged his boss’ request as he maneuvered the rented limousine away from the downtown airport and towards Bridgeport.

The Jack hoped Charlie Miller had a reasonable explanation for going dark. Replacing the Ace of Spades wouldn’t be easy, and he didn’t look forward to telling his King that one of their suit had jeopardized the entire deck.

. . .

Special Agent Benjamin Fisher was not pleased to be back in Charles Miller’s house. He sat on the couch where he had spent most of the afternoon. His eyes moved towards the dark stain on the floor inside the front door.

“There is a black limo approaching from the north.” Ben stood and stretched.

“Places everyone,” he said into the radio. “Get set.”

Ben’s team waited. They had done this over twenty times and would continue to do it for each new vehicle that passed Charles Miller’s house.

“Go.” Several people began to move, their seemingly natural actions fitting together like clockwork.

This was possibly the strangest undercover role Ben Fisher had ever played. He zipped his dark blue coveralls closed. ‘FBI' was printed prominently in large yellow letters on both the front and back. Bending, he lifted his banker’s box from the floor. It was filled with outdated training manuals he had pulled from a storage closet back at headquarters.

Stepping through the front door, Ben carried his box to the waiting Suburban. He saw several other field agents dressed as fellow crime scene techs moving along their assigned paths. The perimeter of the yard was clearly marked with yellow crime scene tape.

Ben saw the long black car approaching slowly. The tinted windows made it impossible to see inside the back. The agent had to remind himself to look but not stare. He slid the box into the back of the truck before returning to the house once more.

“Reset,” he heard through his radio a minute later.

The SAC hadn’t explained what the charade was all about, but Ben had worked with Daniel long enough to trust him implicitly. If the man wanted to make someone think they were processing Charles Miller’s house, that was what Ben would do for as long as his boss thought it was necessary.

. . .

She hadn’t had so much fun in years. Melissa stood by the merry-go-round spinning the small platform as fast as she could once more. Simon and Samuel screeched as they held on tightly. She stopped pushing when it looked as if one or both boys were likely to fly off. The rotation slowed, finally coming to rest again.

The afternoon sun was starting to dip. She had managed to keep the twins busy all day under the watchful gaze of the nearby agent. Melissa watched their smiles fade as the boys realized once more where they were and why. Melissa sighed. At least she had given them the gift of laughter, if only for a while.

. . .

Rachel Swanson had no idea why Detective Ramos had asked her to manufacture a duplicate set of evidence. She had been standing at the color copier for over forty-five minutes photocopying pornographic images from Charlie Miller’s albums.

Several members of her team were cutting out the images and putting them in the albums they had purchased for the task. Earlier, they had placed labels with hand-written numbers on over seventy-five blank VHS tapes.

She almost laughed when she remembered showing Robert Fenton the clothing they had pulled out of the studio closet. He was tasked with purchasing similar items in the city, much to his embarrassment.

It had been a long, emotional, and now weird week. She was almost curious enough to ask Juan what he intended to do with the fake evidence. She swapped the pornographic images and pressed the green copy button again. Rachel decided she didn’t really want to know.

. . .

“That’s him, brown slacks, light blue polo, pinched face,” Detective Ramos heard Roger Cicero growl over the radio.

He stepped out of his unmarked squad car and walked toward the man who had just exited a restaurant called Zia Marie’s. Juan made eye contact with Special Agent Thompson, offering him a small nod as they converged on the man called Riz.

“Jason Rizzo?” Jim called from several yards away.

“Who the fuck are you?” The man looked startled for a second before his surprise was replaced by indignation.

“Special Agent Thompson, FBI. We’d like to ask you a few questions.” The agent moved his hand into his jacket, removing his badge which he flashed in front of the man’s face.

“I don’t feel like answering your fucking questions,” Riz said.

“We weren’t asking.” Juan moved in behind the mobster. “Juan Ramos, Chicago PD.”

Jim saw the hate that flashed across the man’s face as Juan introduced himself. He filed the expression away, realizing his young Hispanic friend had an obvious enemy in the Italian Crime Family.

“Let’s take a ride.” Agent Thompson guided the man towards Juan’s car, happy that he was moving forward willingly; Daniel had specifically asked that they try not to arrest the detestable man.

. . .

Roger watched as Juan drove away. He shifted the BMW into first gear, but his eyes were drawn to motion at the restaurant’s front door. A older man was exiting. There wasn’t anything obviously exceptional about him, other than the fact that his eyes were also glued to the unmarked squad car disappearing down the road.

Roger watched the man pull a cellular phone from his jacket. It seemed to the lawyer that everyone was suddenly carrying one of the damn things. The attorney thought about approaching the man, but he was illegally parked. Instead, he memorized the man’s face as he drove slowly past. He had done his part, so Roger pointed his car back towards his office.

. . .

“Your boy was just picked up by a couple badges. Do you want me to follow them?” The man asked his boss.

“No, I don’t think he’s been arrested,” he said after listening for several seconds. “I’ll wait here and take him if he comes back.”

The man slipped his phone back into his pocket, admiring a brand-new BMW sports car as it drove by. He turned back towards the restaurant as a long, black limousine pulled up to the curb beside him. A well-dressed, middle-aged man stepped out before the driver could come around to open his door.

. . .

The Jack of Spades entered the small restaurant and approached the hostess.

“I’d like to speak to Mr. Rizzo,” he said crisply, trying to hide his distaste for the man.

“He’s not here right now,” the teen said.

“Disappointing.” The man pulled out a boxed deck of playing cards and extracted the top card. He placed it on the seating diagram in front of the girl. “My card. Please tell Mr. Rizzo to stay close when you see him next. I’ll be back, and I do not have time to play games.”

. . .

The older man watched the unknown but obvious player leave before approaching the hostess’ podium himself. He saw the man’s card clearly. It featured a stylized profile view of a young boy, which was mirrored like a traditional face card. The child was shirtless, tongue stretched out towards the red, white, and blue popsicle held in his hand. He saw the black ‘J’ and symbol that indicated the suit.

He found the image disturbing and shuddered as the hostess slipped the card into the pocket of her apron.

“Table for one, please,” he said as the girl's nervous eyes found his; she didn’t even recognize that she had already seated the man once that afternoon.