Mark Gimenez - The Abduction

Jan Jorgenson had been born five years after the Vietnam War ended. Twenty-four years later, she had graduated from the University of Minnesota with a B.S. in Education-the only degree her parents would pay for-and a Masters in Criminal Psychology. She had told her parents that school boards across the country considered crim psych the most relevant degree for a teaching career in America’s public schools. They had bought it. Immediately upon graduation, she had applied with the Bureau. Her parents wanted her to be a teacher; she wanted to be Clarice Starling.

So Jan Jorgenson had left the family farm outside Owatonna, Minnesota, driven to Quantico, Virginia, and entered the FBI Academy. She wanted to be a profiler, interviewing and compiling detailed psychological traits of imprisoned serial killers, psychopaths, and sexual predators, and constructing scientific profiles of suspects in pending investigations. But upon graduation from the Academy, she had been assigned to the Dallas field office, where for the last eleven months she had tracked down and interviewed young Arab men who fit the Islamic terrorist profile.

In fact, this was as close as she had ever come to anyone in the Behavioral Analysis Unit, sitting next to the parents and across the Brice kitchen table from two real live FBI profilers, Agents Baxter and Brumley. They looked like partners in an accounting firm.

“Strangers abduct children for sex.”

Agent Brumley had thus opened this meeting with the family. He could have worked up to that, Jan thought. The mother obviously thought the same; her eyes were now drilling holes in Brumley’s bald head. Oblivious, he forged ahead.

“This perpetrator has a long history of sex offenses, I guarantee it.”

The victim’s father looked like he was going to throw up; he abruptly stood and almost ran out of the kitchen just as Colonel Brice walked in and leaned against the wall.

“We’ve constructed a profile,” Agent Baxter said, “a personality print, if you will, like a fingerprint.” He passed out copies to everyone at the table and then read from his copy. “We believe that the timing of the abduction was relevant to a significant stressor in the perpetrator’s life, perhaps the loss of his job or some other personal rejection. And that the abductor is a loner, over thirty and single, immature for his age, has no friends, is unable to maintain a relationship with a female his own age, probably employed in a job involving children, lacks social skills, abuses alcohol or drugs, reacts violently when angered, handles stress poorly, is selfish, paranoid, and impulsive, possesses an inflated self-esteem that cannot handle rejection, and harbors antisocial tendencies.” He looked up. “We’ll release this profile to the media. Hopefully, a citizen can identify someone they know with these traits.”

The mother abruptly stood. “Oh, my God,” she said. “I can.” She held up her copy. “Immaturity, no social skills, selfishness, paranoia, inflated self-esteem, can’t handle rejection-I can identify every one of those traits to someone I know.”

Agent Baxter was almost out of his chair with excitement.

“Who’s that, Mrs. Brice?”

“Every partner in my law firm.”

Agent Baxter exhaled and sat back down, realizing he’d been had. The mother tossed her copy of the profile on the table.

“Look, Agent Baxter,” she said, “cut the psychobabble bullshit. The guy’s a pervert who likes to fuck little girls!”

The mother stormed out of the room. Agent Baxter was visibly taken aback. After an awkwardly long silent moment, Colonel Brice spoke in a quiet voice.

“He wasn’t alone. There were two men, probably the two men on the videotape.”

“Mr. Brice,” Agent Brumley said, “sexual predators work alone, that’s proven. They’re what we call ‘loner deviants.’ ”

“I was at the park,” the colonel said, “retracing Gracie’s steps. He grabbed her behind the concession stand and took her through the woods to an accomplice waiting for him in a vehicle leaking oil. He didn’t work alone.”

“Then why did he leave her shorts in the woods?” Agent Baxter asked.

“Because he wanted them found.”

Agent Baxter frowned. “ Why? ”

“So you’d do just what you’re doing-hunting for a sexual predator.”

“Are you okay, Mrs. Brice?”

Elizabeth was sitting in her formal living room-now the FBI’s command post-and staring across the table at Agent Devereaux.

“No, I’m not okay. My daughter’s been abducted.”

“Mrs. Brice, I can still get a psychologist in here.”

“No.”

She had gained control of her emotions again. Her mind was alert and angry again. She had a plan. And it required a banker, not a psychologist.

“Let me know if you change your mind. Now, Mrs. Brice, what kind of kid is Gracie? See, with these guys, it’s all about control. They like to intimidate their victims, make the victim feel helpless and cornered so they feel powerful. What would Gracie do if she was cornered?”

“She’d fight.”

“Good. That’s the key to her survival.”

“She will survive.”

Agent Devereaux nodded. “Yes, ma’am. So, Mrs. Brice, you used to work our side of the street?”

“Yes.”

A little smile. “What made you go over to the dark side?”

She paused. “Life took me there.”

The agent frowned, then he said, “Well, then you understand why I need polygraphs.”

“You said it wasn’t random, that she was targeted. Now you think one of us did it?”

“No, ma’am. All I’m saying is, the Bureau is committing extensive resources to finding your daughter and the man who took her. But we’ve been burned before- you remember the Susan Smith case, said she was carjacked, her kids abducted? Turned out she drowned them herself. We must eliminate any family involvement.”

Elizabeth glared at Agent Devereaux, the rage making a move to escape the darkness. “I just left your two brilliant profilers in my kitchen. I listened to them telling me that a predator abducted my little girl for sex.” She slammed her fist down on the table. “Goddamnit! And now you’re telling me you want polygraphs of me and my husband?”

Agent Devereaux nodded. “Yes, ma’am. And Colonel Brice and his wife, and the household staff. Mrs. Brice, I know it’s an intrusion, but from our standpoint, it’s always a possibility. Fact is, only a couple hundred children each year are abducted by strangers. The rest are family related.”

He reached across the table and took her clenched fists in his hands. She refused to allow the tears to come.

“Look, Mrs. Brice, this isn’t a family abduction, I know that. But Washington doesn’t. And I just got off the phone with my superiors, requesting authorization for additional staffing-ten more agents to help find Gracie. So this ends well. Do this, Mrs. Brice, so the Bureau will give me more people to find your daughter. Do it for Gracie.”

“I’ll do it.”

The voice came from behind them. Elizabeth pulled her hands free of Agent Devereaux’s and turned. Her father-in-law was standing in the door. She started to object just because Ben Brice was a drunk and she hated him. But something in his eyes made her hold her tongue. She turned back to Agent Devereaux.

“I want it done here. I don’t want us on TV being marched into the police station.”

Agent Devereaux said, “We’re setting up in the library.”

Ben entered the library to a young FBI agent holding his hand out to him. “Mr. Brice, I'm Agent Randall.”

Randall was thirty, glasses, an accountant trying hard to be sociable. He was holding a rubber tube.