Shattered Lives (15 page)

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Fishers, Indiana

             
Mary Beth Wilkey, or MB for short, stood five foot four and a fit 130 pounds.  Compact and solid, she had attended Indiana University on a volleyball scholarship and earned a starting spot for four years as the Libero.   She graduated Cum Laude in Health and Physical Education in four years with the intention of becoming a high school teacher and coach, but when the FBI called, Wilkey said yes. 

              She liked the academy, especially the physical aspects of it.  After she graduated, she returned to her home state of Indiana and landed in the urban crime section, which normally dealt with inter-state gang-related issues, but also dealt with any crime that had federal written all over it or one that crossed state lines, which was why she was chosen for the Pressman murder.

She wore her dark hair short because she liked the fact that she could step out of a shower and towel it off.  Besides, long hair and crime scenes didn’t mix very well.  She typically wore black or navy slacks with a matching jacket over a white blouse with little or no jewelry other than simple gold or silver posts in her earlobes.  She also didn’t see the need for makeup, and her looks and coloring were of the type that didn’t need it.

She had driven Chet and Skip to the McGovern house after the crime scene work at Dominico’s and Pressman’s homes and met up with Pete who had arrived forty minutes earlier.  He sat at the curb in his four door navy Chevy Malibu rental.  They eased themselves out of their cars all the while looking up and down the street and into front windows that didn’t have curtains pulled shut.  MB tapped in the garage code, and with Pete, Chet, and Skip providing backup, did a quick sweep of the four bedroom ranch finding nothing but a few breakfast dishes in the sink, the morning paper on the kitchen table and an unmade bed in the master bedroom. 

MB stood at the front window with her hands on her hips and looked around at the quiet neighborhood.  From the outside, the houses appeared to be the same.  Each had a two and a half car garage in the front of the house alternating on either the left or right as you went up the street, and the only apparent variation was the color, but even then the choice was one of three colors. 

A house kitty-corner and across the street from the McGovern house had a For Sale sign in its front yard, and MB wondered absently what price they might be asking.  She had saved enough for a down payment, had done a little on-line browsing and had given a fair amount of thought to purchasing a home in the burbs away from Indianapolis where she was based.  She looked at the house number and made a mental note to check it out when she had the time.

Chet and Skip lounged around the McGovern living room watching Pete pace with a frown on his face.

Something pulled at the back of his mind, but Pete couldn’t quite get hold of it.  It didn’t help that Summer wasn’t partnered up with him.  When she was, they’d piece the puzzle out together.  No such luck now.

Chet didn’t stray far from his laptop.  Pete liked Skip and was developing trust in him, and he knew nothing of MB at all.

“What?” Chet asked, puzzled by Pete’s manner, which was usually much more direct.

MB turned around from the window, folded her arms across her chest and eyed the older man.

Pete ran a hand through his hair and said, “Tell me what we know about Dominico.”  He paused and added, “What type of man is he?”

“You mean besides the fact that he’s a fuckin’ pervert?” Chet said.

Ignoring the retort, he turned to each and said, “Describe his personality.”

MB shrugged and said, “The reports said he could be mean, nasty, and in general, unfriendly.”

“Pedophiles are into control,” Skip said quietly.

Pete pointed a finger at him and said, “Exactly!”  He looked at each and said, “If Dominico wanted to
control
a situation or people . . . this family . . . what might he do?”

“Orders, maybe even passive-aggressive behavior,” MB said.

Pete shook his head and said, “Nothing passive-aggressive about this asshole.  He’s all about aggression, about dominating a situation, about controlling a situation.”

“What are you getting at?” MB asked.

Pete turned to Chet and asked, “If I wanted to control the McGovern family, what would be the ultimate control?”

“Withholding information.  He did that by not letting the kid’s parents know he was alive.”

Skip added, “He did this by pretending to be undercover when in fact he knew all along Brett was in Chicago.  He knew because he helped put him there, and on weekends, went and raped him.”

Pete nodded and asked, “But how could he control and dominate the family besides withholding information?”

The four of them looked at each other and then the realization spread over Chet’s face.

He said, “Oh fuck!  No way!”

Pete shrugged reading Chet’s mind. “It’s possible.  Maybe likely.”

“Just like-“

“-Stop,” Pete said holding up his hand and cutting him off, not wanting to give away too much information in case his hunch was correct.

Chet set his laptop aside, stood up from the couch and looked around the living room.  He shook his head and went into the kitchen.  Pete followed him with Skip and MB trailing.

“Besides the bathroom, the kitchen and the family room would be the most lived-in rooms in the house.  Next would be the bedrooms.”

Chet did a slow 360 in the middle of the kitchen, eyes up at the recessed lighting in the ceiling.  He dragged a chair over from the kitchen table, climbed up and began unscrewing the small floods sweeping his fingers cautiously and carefully around the socket.  On his third light, he left his fingers where they were and stared at Pete, who shook his head.  Chet nodded.  Realization dawned on Skip and MB. He checked the rest of the lights but found nothing.

Next he moved to the air-conditioning vent in the ceiling.  He pulled out a small pocket knife and unscrewed the cover and opened up the vent.  At the top left and almost out of sight, mounted to the drywall, Chet found another.  He turned to Pete, motioned to his eyes and nodded, then to his ears and shook his head.  Pete made a note on a piece of paper.

The group then went into the family room, and Chet examined the stereo system hooked up to the 42 inch big screen.  Inside one of the speakers, small and unobtrusive to most eyes, Chet found a small camera.  It was motion sensitive and state-of-the-art.  He left it where it was, pretending to examine the speaker size, commenting on the fact that he had a similar system at his house, but that the McGovern speakers were of a better quality.  He next began examining the recessed lighting, and on his second try, just above the couch facing the TV, Chet found a small microphone.  

Room by room they went.  There was one camera in the master bedroom.  There were two microphones and a camera in the study, all three in recessed lighting.  There was one camera and one microphone in Brett’s former room, now the spare bedroom.  There was another set in the other spare bedroom.

They hit the jackpot in Bobby’s room, Brett’s younger brother.  They found one camera in one light over the bed, one in the air-conditioning vent, and two microphones, both in recessed lighting over the bed.

Their search done, Pete said, “Guys, I think we should wait for the family in the driveway.  I don’t feel comfortable in their house without them being here.”

“I agree,” Chet said.

They left by the front door, climbed into Pete’s car and rolled the windows up though the day was warm and humid.

They sat in silence and then Pete asked Chet, “What kind of system is it?”

“Near as I can tell all motion sensitive.  If he’s recording, he’s doing it via remote access.”

“How would that be possible?” Skip asked.

Chet started out in geek mode, but switched to common, every-day English when he recognized the puzzlement on Skip’s and MB’s faces.

“It is as simple as tapping into a phone line or internet.  The computer wouldn’t necessarily have to be on, but it’s a lot easier if it was.”  Then he added, “Did you notice that the computer was on, just asleep?”

Skip nodded.

“As long as it’s on, he has access.  Then, he can monitor from just about anywhere, especially if he knows their IP address, which I’m willing to bet he does.”

“Why all the electronics in the younger brother’s room?” MB asked.

“Yup,” Chet said.

He stared long and hard at Pete.

“Oh Jesus, no,” MB said quietly.

Pete shrugged and said, “He’s about the same age Brett was when Dominico first molested him.”

“Easy access.  Availability.  An uncle looking out for his nephew.” Skip added looking out the window. “If Dominico is molesting Bobby, I’m wondering who else he might be molesting in the extended family and just how much about it Brett’s brother knew.”

“Good questions, Skip,” Pete said, impressed at the way Skip’s mind worked.

“But why?” MB asked, shaking her head.
              “All about control,” Pete said turning and looking at the McGovern house. “As simple and ugly as control.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

Indianapolis, Indiana

              The car hadn’t even pulled into the driveway yet when Bobby burst out the front door waving, dancing from foot to foot, and peering into the McGovern vehicle.  It came to a stop, and he moved to the rear door where he knew Brett to be and was rewarded when Brett opened the door and climbed out.

              Bobby stepped forward, took gentle hold of his brother’s shoulders and said, “Brett?”

              Brett smiled at him, his eyes tearing up.

              “It’s over, right?” Bobby asked. “It’s over . . . done . . . right?” He asked, shaking him a little, hurting Brett’s shoulder without realizing he had done so.

              Brett nodded and said, “I’m home.  It’s over.”

              Bobby broke down, wrapped Brett in a hug and both boys wept.

              “It’s okay, Bobby.  It’s okay.”

              They stood almost the same height, Brett just a smidge taller, but not much more than that.  Bobby had filled out to almost the same size as his older brother, and at first glance, they looked identical.  They even had the same longish haircut.

              Eerie was what Brett thought at the time.

              “Bobby, be gentle of your brother’s shoulder, okay?” Victoria said.

              Brett smiled at her through his tears and said, “He’s okay, Mom.  I missed him too.”

              Bobby pulled away from Brett, but still gently gripped his shoulders, looking him up and down.

              “You’re okay?”

              Brett laughed and said, “Well, other than my shoulder, I guess so.”

              Bobby noticed Brett’s shoulder for the first time.

“Who did that?”

              “Don’t worry, he’s dead.”

              “Uncle Tony?” Bobby’s eyes were huge, wondering if it could possibly be true.

              “No, he’s still around somewhere,” Brett said with disgust.

              “Don’t talk like that about your uncle,” Margaret Dominico muttered.

              She had come out of the house just after Bobby, but had stood off to the side, just in back of Victoria and Thomas.  She was small and round with white hair tied back in a bun. 

She kept her small three bedroom house neat and tidy, though her humble furnishings were old and outdated.  Since her husband had passed away, she didn’t bother to update anything or buy anything new.  She was content and for the most part, happy.  Her best work was in the kitchen, believing that any ill, any wrong, or any sadness could be cured with a good hot meal of pasta piled high and buried in rich tomato sauce with garlic bread on the side. 

Every now and then she’d consider the fact that though her health was good, she was on the downhill side of eighty and knew her time was coming to an end.  It didn’t bother her, and it didn’t make her sad.  She had accepted it as fact.  More than anything, she was tired.  She had a wonderful family and wonderful grandchildren, and she had looked forward to times when family could all be together.

All of her family should have been together now that Brett had come home.

Should have been, but it wouldn’t be.

She and her daughters had been visited by the police, the FBI and the US Marshalls looking for her baby boy, Tony. 
How dare they ask those kinds of questions, demanding to know his whereabouts and accusing him of those disgusting things?  Didn’t they know he had hunted for his nephew?  Didn’t they know he had promised to find Brett and bring him home?
 

              “Mom, stop,” Victoria said gently, but firmly.

              Brett glanced at her, then at his mom and then back at his grandmother and said, “Hi, Grandma.”

              She had been crying but had wiped her face on the apron she had worn over her simple black dress.  She didn’t know what to do with her hands and settled on folding them behind the apron.

              She smiled and said, “Hi Brett.  Glad to have you home.”

              “I’m happy to be home.”

              She limped slowly to meet him, and he met her halfway where they embraced.

She kissed his forehead and both cheeks and said, “I need to fatten you up.”

              Brett smiled and said, “I wouldn’t mind that.”

              Margaret stepped back, smiled and nodded and said, “We’ve planned a welcome home party for you on Sunday.  All your aunts and uncles and cousins will be there.”

              Brett’s smile disappeared as he looked at his parents.

              Thomas shook his head and said, “He won’t be there.”

              Margaret stepped away from Brett and brushed past Thomas and Victoria and went back into the house without another word and without looking back, letting the door slam shut behind her.

              Bobby slipped his arm around Brett’s shoulders and said, “Can we go home now?”

              “Yes,” his mother said with a smile, though she wiped tears from her eyes. “I’d like that.”