Kept Boy to Made Man - 19. Shared Burdens

The enormity of the case was on display before a tired Daniel Janick. The man tuned out the sounds of the bullpen-turned-command-center behind him as he thought about how much they had learned but how little the ever-growing team knew. His eyes moved from one large whiteboard to the other before finally zeroing in on the handwritten name at the center of everything: Charles Miller, codenamed Darius, the Ace of Spades.

Of the fifty-four cards taped to the board, that card remained the only one matched to a real-world identity. That man, now in custody, had provided the joint taskforce with the codenames of twenty-three more cards, while the Computer Analysis Team had identified twelve additional codenames they had yet to place. That left eighteen aliases and fifty-three true identities unknown.

A dossier had been started for each member of The Deck, tracking online conversations as well as which Card had been, or possibly was still in possession of The Deck’s main commodity: Boys.

The man’s focus moved to the ninety-two young faces displayed on the other board. All but three of the images had been cropped from video stills and photographs recovered from the Ace of Spade’s home. The exceptions were the three faces captured in person with a Polaroid camera. Simon, Samuel, and Micah were safe as indicated by a hand drawn checkmark in green marker.

Eighty-nine others waited for checkmarks of their own, although many of the faces on the board would likely never receive such a mark. There was empty space reserved for boys they had yet to discover as well. As sobering as it was, the team knew there were bound to be other exploited kids that had not passed through Charlie’s studio.

Daniel sighed, wiping a tear from his cheek. He flinched as a soft hand was placed gently on his sagging shoulder. Turning, his moist eyes met those of Rachel Swanson. The woman looked tired and sad as well. Her knowing expression and commiserating touch reminded Daniel that he wasn’t alone.

“Thank you for calling in reinforcements, boss. Caleb- I mean Special Agent Kosiak has deployed an army of agents to coordinate with each of the state agencies.” Rachel held up a stack of printed pages. “We now have missing persons profiles from twenty-seven states.”

“First names are fine, Rachel. We’re in this together and “Special Agent” is a real mouthful.” Daniel paused before asking the question Rachel knew he would. “Micah?”

“Not yet,” she replied. “How is he doing?”

“Juan came in this morning smiling. Apparently, the little girl his mother cares for marched right through the boy’s defenses. She had him dressed and out of his room, even talking a little, before Juan left the house.” Daniel was suddenly smiling as well. “Qian is there now, and Robert plans to spend the afternoon observing. According to Juan’s mother, it’s a true miracle.”

“That’s great news! I am so glad to hear something positive to balance out the horrors of this case.” She held up the papers again. “Want to give me a hand updating the board with the matches we’ve identified?”

“How many?” Daniel asked soberly.

“Nineteen, with a hand full of possibles.” Rachel replied.

“It almost makes it harder knowing who these boys are.” There was a quiver in the man’s voice as he and Rachel Swanson approached the many faces crying out to them for help.

. . .

“Detective? Mr. Schultz is ready for you,” the District Attorney’s receptionist said as she replaced the phone in its cradle.

Juan stood, taking a deep breath. It had only been a few days since he was last in Mike’s office, but it felt like a different lifetime. He mentally reviewed the goals for the conversation that he and Daniel had discussed.

“Juan! It is good to see you. Come in.” Juan was reminded how much he liked Micheal Schultz.

“Thank you for making the time to see me, sir,” Juan said as he closed the door and approached the man’s imposing desk.

“In this office it’s Mike, remember?” The DA took a moment to look the young police detective over. “You look older than you did three days ago. How are you, and how bad is it?”

Juan was reminded of Marcel Thibodeaux, his former commanding officer. Mike was displaying a similar combination of compassion and professional interest. Juan felt as if he was as important to the man as the information he came to discuss. The familiar feelings elicited a calm confidence as he carefully answered the man.

“I’m doing okay, but the case is bigger than any of us imagined, Mike. The scope is overwhelming. It’s like a giant game of Pick-up Sticks. One wrong move, and the good guys lose. Losing just isn’t an option any of us want to think about.” Juan was suddenly uncertain what to share next, just like the game he had spontaneously referenced.

Mike let the silence hang as he considered the metaphor along with the little he already knew of Charles Miller and the horrors discovered in his home.

“How can the DA’s office help?” The official phrasing of the question made it clear the attorney understood the delicate nature of the game.

Juan was grateful for the man’s implied permission to withhold details that didn’t need to be officially shared. He opened the file folder he had brought and withdrew a single sheet from the top of the pile.

“This is a list of names Charles Miller gave us. Most are local to Chicago.” Juan handed the paper across the desk. “I have a folder full of everything we know about these people so far."

The detective watched the man’s eyes widen as he read, obviously recognizing many of the people identified as either accomplices or clients in Charles Miller’s illicit business.

"Many of these people are connected to each other. We obviously want them all, but as soon as we make a move the entire network will know we are onto them. They’ll dump evidence and potentially flee.” Juan’s voice dropped to almost a whisper. “This is just Charles Miller’s network, Mike. There are similar operations we have yet to uncover all over the country; likely all over the globe.”

“Shit.” While not eloquent, Mike Schultz’s single word summed up the situation well.

“Yeah,” Juan agreed.

“Okay. We’ll need to investigate these people quietly. I’ll work with Daniel and the Commissioner on a plan. Some of these names come with significant political backing. When we start making arrests and filing charges, I want them to stick!” The prosecutor, while cautious, had never been afraid to go toe-to-toe with the city’s elite.

“Now, what can you tell me about a late-night warehouse fire, murder, and gun battle between police and a dozen gang members with automatic weapons?” The smile Juan saw on Mike’s face told him the official conversation was over.

“Well, nothing official or firsthand,” Juan began.

. . .

Walter Penhurst II had left Springfield, Missouri with a full belly and a full tank of gas four and a half hours earlier. The freeway, first I-44 to St. Louis, and then I-55 towards Chicago was much faster than traveling on the famous US Route 66 the interstate expressway loosely followed. He pulled off near Lake Springfield on the southern edge of Springfield, Illinois in search of gas and food.

While he was a pragmatic and somewhat humorless man with a systematic mind, he was amused that the entire morning of driving had brought him to another city with the same name as the one he had left. He was on schedule and would arrive at his downtown Chicago destination by four o’clock as he had planned.

After paying for his fuel, Walter walked over to the outdoor payphone on the edge of the station’s lot. It was awkward inserting coins and pressing buttons as the drive-up booth sat at average car-window height.

He listened to the ringing over the line, before hearing the same answering machine message he had heard earlier that morning. The attorney would have preferred to have an appointment, but his desire to complete his final tasks for Edward Vitale had him driving to Chicago without one.

After a quick trip through a nearby drive thru for lunch, Walter was once more heading north on I-55. The attorney hoped he would be back to his predictable life and practice in Missouri by Monday morning. It all depended on one man’s availability as well as his response to the unexpected and possibly upsetting news the attorney was being paid to deliver.

. . .

As Walter headed Northeast towards Chicago, another car was leaving the city heading west towards the tiny town of Harmon, Illinois. The man in the backseat of the long, black limousine sat back with his eyes closed. He was still uncertain what he would do once he arrived at the rural property Charlie Miller had purchased to house his ever-changing collection of valuable flesh.

The Jack of Spades knew he would need to close the operation, but he hadn’t yet decided if he dared attempt to relocate Charlie’s boys. Arranging transportation would take time. The man wasn’t certain how much time he had.

His stay in Illinois was open ended. The general sense of urgency he had felt was greatly reduced by the destruction of Charles Miller’s work and the death of Jason Rizzo. The Jack smiled as he remembered the pathetic man’s death. Ordering and witnessing the man’s execution had been almost as exciting as pulling the trigger himself.

. . .

The aging man hung up the phone and allowed his mind to process the information he had just received from one of his many sources. He wasn’t upset by the news itself, but what it might mean was a concern. After a minute, he lifted the phone again and dialed.

“Come back in. Mr. Rizzo won’t be returning to the restaurant.” The man listened to Enzo’s short reply before using his finger to end the call.

Sighing, the mob boss lifted his finger and listened to the dial tone. Jason Rizzo was dead, and the Feds were searching his restaurant. The man now knew he had no choice but to make one more call. He dialed and listened to several more rings.

“Pronto,” a gruff voice said.

“This is Santino. I need to speak with Mr. De Luca.” Growing up with Dominic De Luca’s late son, Santino had known and worked for the man most of his life.

“He has asked not to be disturbed.” The voice said dismissively.

“I believe he will forgive the intrusion. My news is important.” There was a short pause.

“Certo, please hold,” the self-important man said finally.

. . .

“Ciao, Santino. What is it?” Dominic was not pleased to be disturbed, but he had known this man since he was the twins’ age; The man reminded him of his dead son.

“We may have a problem. I thought you should be aware.” Santino took a breath before elaborating. “One of my soldiers got into something. He was involved with many disgraceful things: primarily moving, filming, and selling young boys.”

Dominic De Luca swallowed a growl as his eyes automatically moved to the nine-year-old twin boys playing in the yard just out of earshot. He had believed the organization had finally left the detestable child flesh trade behind when Shy Eddie Vitale was imprisoned.

“Was?” Dom asked after several calming breaths.

“I found out the man, Jason Rizzo, was clipped late last night. An associate of his, an earner named Charlie Miller, was pinched on Monday. My man sent his enforcers, both dirty detectives, to silence Charlie but they failed.” Santino paused.

“Sloppy. What else?” The old mafia boss could hear the anxiety in the somewhat younger man’s voice.

Santino spent several minutes telling the older, more powerful man everything he knew about Jason Rizzo, his business, and the outsider with the disturbing calling card. After he had answered his boss’ questions, Santino silently awaited judgement.

There was a time Dominic De Luka would have demoted an underling who failed to maintain control over his men. One of Santino’s soldiers had endangered the entire organization, both with law enforcement and an outside organization. He thought about his dead son and condemned grandson. He thought about the twin boys tossing a baseball back and forth in the yard of his estate. He thought back to when Santino himself had been a young boy; a time when Dom answered to other men.

Dominic De Luca was tired.

“Send a visitor to Shy Eddie. See if he knows who these other players are,” Dom suggested.

Eddie had worked for Santino for years, but the man knew he would learn nothing from the incarcerated man. Eddie had been sick. Santino was informed of the man’s death the day before.

“Eddie Vitale is dead, boss. Cancer,” Santino said nervously before making one last admission that Eddie’s name had brought to mind. “There’s once more thing I forgot to mention. Roger Cicero is working with the Feds to recover the boys. I haven’t been able to figure out why, but he is deeply involved.”

“Call around to some of the other families and see what you can learn about the man with the cards.” Dom sighed deeply. “Leave Mr. Cicero to me.”

. . .

“So, we know there are at least five adult men, three that patrol the area around the buildings and two more that were seen smoking on the front porch. There may be others in the house or outbuildings that we have not seen,” the HRT lead summarized before trying to stifle a yawn.

“The boys are most likely in the barn, but without sending someone in, it’s impossible to confirm much more than we’ve already observed,” Special Agent Thompson added.

The smaller of the two barns was the only other building the sentries seemed concerned about. Neither man was happy with the number of questions that remained unanswered after a long night of little sleep.

“Agent Thompson, we’ve got a situation down by the road.” Jim keyed his radio and raised it to his lips to respond.

“Situation?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.” No other details were forthcoming.

. . .

Agent Fisher looked around Jason Rizzo’s small office tucked into the back corner of his restaurant. The crime scene team ripped the building apart but hadn’t found much beyond cash, some drugs, and a couple guns.

Ben looked at the only unexpected and potentially interesting thing the search had netted. The playing card, now secure in an evidence bag, was both unique and disturbing. According to the hostess who was on her way to headquarters for additional questioning, the card had been left for Jason Rizzo by a frightening man arriving and departing in a long black limousine.

There was a second Card in town, and Ben himself had seen the man’s car multiple times. From behind those opaque windows, the man, apparently the Jack of Spades, had seen him too. Crenshaw, the expert from DC had been certain The Deck would send someone. Clearly, they had, and that man was cleaning up Charles Miller’s mess.

Ben found it difficult to look away from the bagged calling card on the desk in front of him. The custom image unnerved the agent. Evil was something often encountered in his line of work, but Ben found the innocent looking child, which represented immense depravity, incredibly disturbing. The agent thought of the exploited boys the card represented and wondered how Agent Thompson was doing at the farm.

The farm.

“Shit!” Ben hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep after the excitement of the night before, and his thoughts were sluggish.

The Jack of Spades had destroyed the warehouse and likely been behind Jason Rizzo’s violent death. The Deck was cleaning up. Ben moved quickly from the office, suddenly certain that the Jack of Spades was on his way to the farm; it was possible the man was already there.

. . .

“It’s about time you boys showed up. We called months ago!” A large, muscular man in camouflage pants and a black t-shirt stood next to a relieved looking agent.

“Let’s start over. I’m Special Agent Jim Thompson with the FBI.” Jim looked at the man expectantly.

“Billy Morrison, Liberty Rats Militia. I own eighty acres over that way,” the man said as he pointed to the planted fields to the East.

“Alright Billy. I’m going to assume you have a permit for that firearm?” He asked, eyeing the Colt 1911 holstered on the man’s belt.

“You bet your sweet bippy. I survived Vietnam, and I ain’t gonna let no commie bastards get me at home,” the eccentric middle-aged freedom fighter said as he pointed at the farm.

“You said you called?” The agent wanted to end the conversation, but knew angering a squad of weekend warriors could cause problems.

“Yes sir-ee! I called the pentagon myself a few months back and gave my report. They promised to investigate the old Peterson place, and here you are,” Billy said proudly.

“Alright soldier, you have our attention. What do we need to know about the Peterson place?” Jim asked as calmly as he could.

“The old Peterson place. Pete, well his real name was Eugene, but everyone called him Pete, for Peterson, see. Anyway, he died, and his good-for-nothing son wanted nothing to do with the land he had been born, weaned, and raised on. That damn boy always was too good for honest work. He sold the place to another pig-snot slick city boy. That was a few years back, I guess.

“A few of us get paid every year to lay seed and pull in the harvest. I’ve met a bunch of men who don’t say much and occasionally a youngster or two, but never any women. There aren’t any livestock or milking cows either. They obviously ain’t doing any farming on that farm.” Jim could tell that those were the relevant facts as far as Billy Morrison was concerned.

“You called the Pentagon because your new neighbors aren’t farmers?” Jim’s frustration was starting to show.

“No, sir. I called the Pentagon because they’re Ruskie Commie Bastards training sleeper agents right in my back yard!” The man looked at Jim expectantly.

“You realize the Soviet Union collapsed six months ago?” Jim asked trying to find a way to end the conversation.

“That’s what the Red’s want us to believe. How else would you explain a bunch of armed men and young boys living all secluded like but not raising a single animal? There is no way they make a profit selling the grain they pay us to plant. Cars and trucks are in and out of there at all hours of the night, men and boys coming and going. Me and the boys have been watching them for months.” Billy took a breath and Jim quickly interrupted, realizing the man might have information they needed.

“You are right about one thing, Billy. Your new neighbors are not farmers. What exactly have you and the boys observed?” Jim asked suddenly hopeful.

Much like Carl Jenkins, there wasn’t much happening in Lee County that Billy and his band of brothers didn’t know something about. Their enlightening conversation was interrupted by the radio once more.

“Thompson, I have eyes on a single white boy being led out of the smaller barn by the redhead. Looks to be a tween or early teen. They’re heading towards the house.” Thompson’s radio was back in his hand.

Thompson was about to respond when the cellular phone Daniel had sent with him began to ring.

“Acknowledged. Does the boy look distressed?” The phone rang again.

“Not especially, sir. More like resigned,” the HRT lead said as the phone rang again.

“Keep your scope on the house,” Jim said before turning to the phone. “Thompson here.”

“Jim, this is Ben. I think one of the Cards is headed your way, possibly in a black Towncar limo. All I know about him so far is that he’s the Jack of Spades, and he’s a mean mother fucker. Stay out of sight and watch your back.”

. . .

Oliver lay on the bed in one of the small upstairs bedrooms. The now familiar floral wallpaper and lace curtains looked especially garish to the boy as he cleared the tears from his eyes once more. The man named Willis hadn’t been that rough with him in months. The boy knew sitting would hurt for several days as the fingers he used to gently assess the damage came away covered in vibrant red blood.

He had been trying to tune out the voices outside the room, but it became impossible as the volume and intensity grew.

“It’s been days since we’ve heard from anyone!” That sounded like the man called Lips.

“Business is probably just slow,” Willis’ voice responded shortly.

“It’s June. Business is never slow, especially in the summer. Call him!” Lips sounded almost frantic.

“I’m in charge, Lippy, not you. Go ask the guys if anyone else wants a go at the kid before you throw him back in the barn.” Willis’ words faded as Oliver heard feet descending the creaking stairs.

“Something is wrong, Willis! We should get the fuck out of here!” The man screamed.

Oliver listened to Lips stomp after his boss.

They had left him alone.

He was never left alone outside the barn.

The blood was forgotten as the boy tried to think through his options. Oliver rolled off the bed and hobbled painfully to the room’s single window.

Looking down, Oliver saw the roof of the house’s front porch. His eyes followed the long tree-lined drive towards the road. The old, wooden double-hung window was stiff, but he was able to rock it back and forth in its frame until it was open wide enough for his thin body to squeeze through.

With the window open, he couldn’t decide what to do. Oliver wouldn’t abandon Mark or his other brothers, but he also couldn’t save them from the adults on his own.

. . .

“Ah, boss, there is a naked boy climbing out of second story window! Same kid as before.” The man quickly scanned the property with his scope looking for the guards. “He’s on the front porch roof. There are three- nope, now there are four armed adults in the yard, one by the barn and three talking behind the house.”

“Fuck! We are not ready to move!” Thompson looked around frantically but had no idea what he was looking for.

“Maybe I can help,” offered a suddenly excited militiaman.

“I don’t have time to explain, but if those men suspect the FBI is on to them, a lot of kids could die. We can’t go in and get that boy, but I can’t leave him their either! Fuck!” Jim felt helpless. “Update?”

“The kid appears injured. I see blood and he is not moving as well as he was when he entered the house thirty minutes ago. Fucking monsters!” The man’s growl was followed by a short pause. “The kid’s trying to find a way off the roof. Thompson, it’s only a matter of time before one of those animals sees or hears something. What do you wanna do boss?”

“Billy, do you have a blanket or tarp in your truck and maybe some different clothes? Civvies I mean.” Jim asked suddenly.

“Sure, I always have a spare set of clothes. Be Prepared, and all that,” the veteran and former boy scout replied as Special Agent Jim Thompson all but pushed the man back towards the road and his waiting pickup truck.

. . .

Billy Morrison was excited and nervous. He loved his brothers in the militia. The group of guys had likely saved him after he had returned home from the war. He still had nightmares about the horrors he witnessed, and the awful things he himself had done in the name of liberty. Many of his friends hadn’t made it back.

The former soldier was entering another warzone with armed combatants, but this time it was in his own back yard. That morning, he had believed the farm was full of Soviet spies, but now he realized that the situation was far more disturbing.

Billy swung his ’87 F250 pickup onto old man Peterson’s former drive. He pushed the truck slightly faster than he normally would have while doing his best to avoid the largest of the dips and ruts. He winced when he saw the naked boy slide over the edge of the hot asphalt-shingled porch roof and drop several yards into the hydrangea bushes below. The man shuddered as he imagined the scrapes and burns the boy must have just added to his young, naked skin.

“Stay in there kid,” the man mumbled. “The calvary is coming.”

Twenty seconds later, Billy slapped the horn a few times and skidded to a stop fifteen yards from the hiding boy. The FBI agent had told him to get close before making too much noise, but he didn’t want to startle the armed men too badly by sneaking up on them.

He turned slightly and whispered out the open back window of the cab.

“The kids hiding in the big bush left of the porch.” Billy Morrison swallowed hard, trying to psych himself up like he had countless times over twenty years earlier in a jungle far away.

The now jean-clad man opened the truck door and moved quickly to the side of the house, yelling loudly as he went.

“Anybody home? Hello? Whoa, buddy! Don’t shoot! I’m looking for the boss man. I’m not sure I’ll be able to get to your fields this fall and wanted to let y’all know now so you can look for someone else!” Jim listened to the voice of his unexpected ally as the surprisingly brave man moved around the house.

The nearly silenced radio in Agent Thompson’s hand came to life.

“You’re clear.” Jim was already moving from beneath the tarp as he replied.

“Watch out for Billy. Scopes on each threat. If our new deputy is in danger, take the shot.” Jim vaulted over the side of the lifted pickup’s bed.

“Kid?” Jim whispered urgently as he moved towards the boy’s hiding spot. “I’m with the FBI. I’m here to help you.”

Moving quickly, he kept his whispered monologue going, hoping to reassure the boy that he was in fact a friend.

“The farm is surrounded by good people who want to help you and any other boys who are trapped here. Please buddy, we don’t have a lot of time.” Jim reached the side of the porch and began to move through the lush, large-leafed bushes.

The man jumped back as a terrified and angry white blur flew towards him fists first. Years of combat training drove his body sideways, but compassion had him reaching for the boy as he flew by.

“You’re okay, son. I am not going to hurt you,” Jim whispered urgently to the naked boy he suddenly held in his arms. “We need to get in the truck before one of the men with guns sees us. Please, buddy. I am one of the good guys.”

The boy stopped struggling, but the hatred Jim saw in his eyes made him flinch. He carried the naked and bleeding boy back to Billy Morrison’s truck.

“I’m going to let you down. Your best bet is to allow me to help you into the back of this truck. I know you are angry and scared. Please let me help you.” Jim held his breath, waiting to see what the traumatized boy would decide.

. . .

Oliver White looked at the man who was holding him firmly but carefully. He wanted to recoil from the contact. He wanted to lash out. He wanted to run away. He wanted to roll up into a ball and cry.

Instead, he thought about Mark and the other boys locked in the nearby barn. He remembered his thoughts from earlier that morning. Oliver shoved his fear and pain away. He was used up. There was nothing more this man could do to him that hadn’t already been done. Oliver had vowed that he would make sure at least some of his remaining brothers survived, and he couldn’t do that without help.

The boy made his decision and forced his rigid muscles to relax. His hateful expression was replaced with resolve. The strong stranger wasted no time in boosting Oliver into the bed of the truck. Seconds later he had joined him.

“We need to lay down under this tarp so no one can see us,” the man said apologetically.

“I need to help my brothers.” Oliver didn’t recognize his own detached voice, but he meant the words.

“We will help them together,” Jim said as he pulled the plastic sheet over their bodies. “My name is Jim. What’s yours?”

The boy stared at the stranger now bathed in blue light as he weighed the man’s words and actions. Oliver had trusted a kind stranger once before.

“Oliver.” Jim watched as the boy's expression changed from fear to fury. “I don't care what happens to me, but if you hurt my brothers, I will rip off your dick."

For the second time that week, Jim Thompson’s heart was broken by a naked boy who had suffered unimaginable horrors at the hands of other men.

“I understood, Oliver. You have nothing to fear from me or my friends."

. . .

“Okay, I’m going. Sorry for trying to be neighborly! Have fun cutting your own corn come fall!” The truck rocked as Billy Morrison climbed into the driver’s seat and started the truck.

“Sir?” He asked before shifting into drive.

“Get us the hell out of here, Billy!” the man heard from the bed of the truck.

“Sir, yes sir!” The tires spun for a split second before biting into the gravel driveway.

Billy began to shake as he drove quickly away from the old Peterson farm. Playing soldier with his friends had always been a fun way to connect his past to his present, but facing armed men and possible death once more had shaken the man badly. The past few minutes had not felt like a game. Long buried memories assaulted the veteran's mind as he fled enemy occupied land once more, transporting a wounded soldier in the back of his truck.