Daniel Palmer - Helpless

Jill stared up at her father through a glaze of tears. Her bottom lip trembled, and Tom knew it meant a flood was imminent. “I can’t tell you,” she sobbed into her hands.

Just thinking about Mitchell Boyd made him want to return to that house and inflict further misery on the boy.

“Jill, this is really important,” Tom said. “I need you to trust me. Did he hurt you? Did he touch you in a threatening way?”

Jill’s gaze again retreated to that spot on the floor, and she shook her head. It was a tentative no at best.

“Tell me exactly what he did that got you so scared,” he said.

“I guess I thought he was going to hurt me,” Jill responded. The timbre of her voice came at him weak and rueful. “I didn’t know who else to call,” she continued. “I’m sorry I caused so much trouble. Maybe… I just overreacted.”

Tom stood up and plopped down on the sofa beside her. He pulled Jill close to him. Something inside of her must have let go when he did. Tom felt her whole body begin to relax. He brushed away a tear that lingered near her eye. Jill crinkled her nose and smiled at him after he smoothed it away.

“Jill,” Tom said in a more somber tone, “I need you to open up to me about Mitchell. I need to know everything.”

Jill shook her head. Her posture changed. She seemed more closed off again. “I don’t want to talk about what happened.”

Tom glanced over at the whiteboard, and that big, obtrusive square with the word trust in the center. Jill leaned over and gently kissed her father on the cheek.

“Will you come back home?” Tom said.

“I am home,” Jill said. She inhaled a sob, then let her own tears fall freely. She fell into her father’s open arms, and he wrapped her warmer than any fleece blanket ever could.

“Please trust me,” Tom said. “Please give me a chance. I told you my greatest secret. Please don’t burden yourself by keeping secrets from me.”

Jill nodded.

Tom stood up and walked over to the whiteboard. With the palm of his hand he erased the square blocking the goal. Tom turned around to look at Jill.

“What really happened at Mitchell’s?” asked Tom.

Jill took in a heavy breath and breathed it out slowly. “We were hanging out in his room. But we weren’t doing anything —”

“I know,” Tom said, nodding so that she could skip over the uncomfortable details. “Go on.”

“Well, he wanted to do things that I wasn’t comfortable doing. He started to push me into it, and I got scared. I didn’t know who else to call. So I called you.”

“Did he rape you, Jill?”

Jill shook her head. “No. I think maybe he might have if you hadn’t come. I don’t know.”

Tom bit his lip. The furious impulse to inflict permanent damage to Mitchell Boyd had returned. “Okay. Is that everything? Are you sure you’re telling me everything, Jill? No more secrets.”

Jill nodded emphatically. “That’s everything. I swear.”

Rainy was back at work in Boston. She was getting ready to leave for the day. Her report on the James Mann investigation for the USAO was nearly complete. It was detailed and heinous, a report on the darkest of hearts. She would be glad to be done with it. But she had more reports like this to write, and more investigations to conclude.

This was the job in the cyber crimes squad. It never got easier.

Rainy’s work in Shilo was basically over. She’d interviewed all ten girls from Shilo High School whose pictures were found on computers belonging to James Mann and Tom Hawkins. The four new girls she’d interviewed lied to her as well. They’d sent their pictures to somebody, but Rainy couldn’t prove it. From the subpoenaed phone records all Rainy could ascertain was that they didn’t text or call Tom Hawkins. Several had texted and called Tanner Farnsworth, as they had lots of different boys from Shilo High School.

Rainy even got three of the girls to agree to consent to searches of their phones. But she found nothing useful. The sent messages were mostly texts. The pictures attached were of friends and parties. Nothing lewd. Nothing lascivious.

Nothing illegal.

The girls had probably deleted those images long ago. Rainy had already put in preservation requests with their cell phone carriers. A search of those servers was a dead end, too. The girls had sent thousands of text messages since her request went into effect. They’d sent hundreds of pictures as well, but the only alarms in those images were underage drinking, some pot smoking, and lots of cigarettes. It was the business of their parents, not the FBI.

Tanner Farnsworth remained uncooperative throughout her investigation. Meanwhile, Tom Hawkins and James Mann were both going to be found guilty of crimes by a jury of their peers.

A small failed battery was enough to convince both Rainy and Carter that Hawkins was probably innocent. They’d brought their finding to the D.A. and Shilo PD, who had thanked them for the information. Rainy could tell they weren’t going to drop the charges against Hawkins. But at least Marvin Pressman had some new ammunition to use for Hawkins’s defense.

Rainy wished she could stop thinking about Tom Hawkins, but he’d wormed his way into her consciousness, where he seemed destined to remain.

“Any plans tonight, Miles?” Carter asked.

“Does attempting to revive my spider plants count as a plan?”

“A certain-to-fail one, but yes, it counts.”

Rainy’s desk phone rang. She answered it. “Hello. This is Agent Miles. How can I help you?”

“Rainy Miles, my name is James Mann. I believe you arrested me.”

Rainy cupped the phone’s receiver and mouthed the words “James Mann” to Carter. Carter naturally took interest.

Were your ears ringing? she thought.

“Mr. Mann,” Rainy said. “I can’t speak with you unless I have permission from your defense counsel. I’m afraid we have to end this communication immediately until that permission is granted.”

Rainy hung up the phone after Mann gave her a number where he could be reached. In State court, prosecuting attorneys were barred from speaking with a defendent without prior approval. The McDade Act subjected Rainy to the same professional standards.

Hours later, Rainy called James Mann.

“We’re able to speak freely,” Rainy said, having procured the necessary permissions. “So tell me, what can I do for you?”

“I’d like you to come over to my apartment,” Mann said.

“Why would you like me to do that?” asked Rainy.

“I have something I want to show you.”

“And what would that be?” Rainy asked.

“Evidence that’s going to prove I’m not guilty of any crimes.”

Rainy made Carter go with her to Mann’s apartment. She carried a firearm and knew how to use it, but she wasn’t stupid, either. She’d be happy to look at the evidence James Mann claimed to have, but only with armed backup at her side.

Mann’s new residence was a far cry from his former home. Rainy knew that Mann and his wife had separated, and that Mann had spent a week or so at a Motel 6 after he posted bail. Other than that, she didn’t know much about his life after his arrest. She didn’t know he had found this place to live. Mann’s apartment building was in deplorable condition and was located in a rather sketchy section of Brighton, a neighborhood of Boston.

Rainy pushed her finger against the apartment’s grimy buzzer. The door unlocked, and they entered a dark foyer. They climbed two flights of paint-chipped wooden stairs.

James Mann opened his apartment door when they reached the second landing. Mann looked tired. His skin color looked gray; his eyes were sunken and marred by dark rings. Rainy gave Mann and his rail-thin body three months to survive in prison. Four at the outside.