Chapter 15 - The Lake Monster.

“I told you, Bridges, I don’t remember any of this shit,” Brian was growling as I entered the conference room where my beleaguered partner was being raked over the coals by our favorite FBI agent. 

Bridges began to object but Brian had clearly had enough and, without pausing to listen to whatever new argument the agent was about to voice, the angry brunet tossed down the sheaf of photo printouts he’d been holding. The pile of 8x10 glossies spilled across the conference room table. I couldn’t stop myself from looking down at the images they depicted even though I hated myself for my curiosity. The pictures all showed the same sad little brown-haired boy, in various stages of undress, accompanied by different men. I didn’t want to see what the men were doing to the boy, but it was like watching a train wreck; I just couldn't tear my eyes away. Unfortunately, that’s when Brian looked up and noticed my presence. He also clearly noticed the look of disgust that must have been on my face. With another growl, he swiped all the photos off the table and onto the floor so nobody would have to look at the evidence of his humiliation.

With commendable patience, Bridges bent down to collect his photographs off the floor. I took that opportunity to pull an empty chair around to Brian’s side of the table and plopped myself down next to my man. Brian didn’t look up from where he was staring stubbornly down at the cup of coffee which seemed to have somehow escaped his wrath. From the way the milk had separated into little clumps of yellowish-beige, letting the browner coffee show through, and the oily sheen that floated on the top of the beverage, you could tell that it was cold. Brian seemed to be using that cup as a focal point for his private meditations and, at that point, that’s all it was good for anyway. 

“How about we try a different approach,” Horvath suggested, joining the rest of us in the airless little room and taking up the seat next to the one where Bridges was perched. “You say you don’t remember much but that’s not completely true. You’re obviously starting to remember something or you wouldn’t be this upset. So, instead of forcing you to remember things you say you can’t recall, how about we try to start with whatever you do remember and work back from there?”

Brian sighed and slumped back even deeper into the uncomfortable chair he was sitting in. “It’s not much. Just random flashes that don’t seem to go together,” Brian confessed. “It’s like it all happened to someone else. Like I’m watching from outside. Those are Buddy’s memories, not mine.”

“Well, then, tell us what Buddy remembers,” Bridges prompted gently. When Brian still hesitated, he pressed again. “Just describe one of these ‘flashes’ for us. Don’t worry about the context. We’ll figure that part out later.”

Brian took a deep breath and closed his eyes, as if he might see the scene better against the blackness of his eyelids. I reached out for his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze just to let him know I was there. I could feel him relax just a tiny bit. Then he started to speak in a detached monotone, his voice barely more than a husky whisper, as he related whatever he was seeing in his mind. 

“Coach and Buddy are at the soccer field. It’s late. Almost dark. All the other parents are there to pick up their kids. Buddy is worried that his parents won’t remember and he’ll be left there all alone. Russel is the only other boy still waiting. And then Russ’ mother comes to get him too and there’s nobody left but him and the coach.”

“How old is Buddy in this memory?” Bridges asked in an unobtrusive voice, as if trying not to interrupt the flow of the narrative. 

I noticed that he’d pulled out a legal pad and was taking notes. There was also a little digital recorder whirring away on the table. I glanced up and noted that the camera affixed in the corner of the ceiling had a flashing red light flickering away on the top as well. I hated that Brian had to endure having his most vulnerable moments recorded like this, but I knew there was no help for it. If we wanted to take Langley down, this was the evidence that would do it.

Brian was still caught up in his memory as he answered the previous question. “I don’t know. He’s so little; maybe five? I can see Buddy standing there next to the adults, listening while Coach laughs with Russ’ mom, and they just tower over him. Buddy was always small for his age. At least till he hit puberty . . .” Brian’s voice petered out to almost nothing as whatever he’s seeing in his mind usurps all his attention. 

“What happens next?” Bridges prompted gently.

“Russ leaves with his mom,” Brian elaborated. “Buddy is trying not to cry. He’s scared. What if his parents don’t come for him? He doesn’t want to have to wait all alone in the dark in the park.” Unexpectedly, Brian got this small smile on his face and continued. “That’s when Coach kneels down next to Buddy and hugs him. He says, ‘it’s okay, Buddy. You can come home with me and we’ll wait for your parents there, okay?’ And Buddy feels so relieved. He’s not going to be left all alone. Coach says he’ll take care of him and that they can stop for ice cream on the way home and Buddy is happier than he’s been in a long, long time, because . . . Because someone is finally paying attention to him. Coach is paying attention and being nice to him and . . . It feels good to have someone care . . .”

I had to struggle against a wash of emotions then, listening to Brian talking in that little voice, explaining how he was happy that his abuser was paying attention to him because nobody else ever had. I didn’t know if I was angry or sad or what. I wanted to punch his parents in the face and scream at them. I wanted to beat Langley senseless for taking advantage of a sad, helpless little boy who was just so desperate for love that he became the perfect victim. And I wanted to take little Buddy in my arms and shield him from the world. But I couldn’t do any of those things right then. Instead, all I could do was squeeze Brian’s hand to remind him that he wasn’t alone anymore. I was there for him and I wasn’t going anywhere.

“What happens next?” Carl questioned when Brian didn’t say anything more.

“Nothing. That’s where the memory ends,” Brian answered, opening his eyes finally and looking shyly around at the rest of us. 

“Okay. What else do you remember? Tell us about another of these flashes,” Bridges directed.

Brian went through several additional memory vignettes. Like any memories of a young child, they were splotchy and disconnected and focused solely on instances of heavy emotion; times when Buddy was sad or scared or happy. It reminded me of my own childhood memories and how they were all so disjointed and contextless. It proved how incredibly young Brian must have been when these events were taking place because, if he’d been older, the things he remembered would have been more linear and coherent. 

These memories also proved that Coach Langley had found the perfect prey; a child too young and naive and unprotected and desperate for attention to realize he was being groomed by the most dangerous kind of pedophile.

I listened, the ball of sour dread in my stomach growing larger and larger, as Brian rambled through Buddy’s earliest memories. He related how Coach had bandaged a skinned knee and offered a butterscotch candy to cheer up an injured boy. How Coach had picked him up and let him ride in the front seat of the fancy red sports car on their way to a game across town. How Coach had praised him when he made a goal during a game and then bragged to the other kids’ parents about how talented Buddy was. How Coach had bought him a second ice cream cone when Buddy’s had gotten knocked out of his hand by a rowdy teammate and hadn’t yelled at him for being clumsy like his own father would have. And the whole way through this recitation of his earliest memories, Brian was smiling fondly at what he remembered of the monster who’d later taken advantage of him. It made me sick.

It wasn’t until Brian got to a memory of a time when Coach had taken Buddy out for a day at ‘the lake’ that Brian’s smile faltered. 

He said that Coach had picked him up from home and told Buddy’s mother that they were going to play some games out of town that day so she shouldn’t expect them back until late. Buddy had been happy and excited about the idea of going to a tournament out of town and he remembered watching the scenery through the window as the red sports car sped out of Philadelphia. He hadn’t ever been out in the country before - at least not that he could remember - so he was awed by the sight of the forested hills as they drove further and further away from the city. 

“Buddy had never seen so many trees before,” Brian related the memory he was in the middle of. “It was a hot summer day but when they turned off the highway onto this little dirt road, the trees were so thick overhead that they blocked out all the heat. It felt dark and mysterious, but in an exciting way. It was like a fairy tale; like the woods that Little Red Riding Hood had to walk through or something. It felt like an adventure. And then Coach stopped the car next to his little stream and they got out and walked down a path through the trees to the most beautiful lake. Coach let Buddy take off his shoes and roll up his pants so he could splash around in the water . . . It was the best afternoon Buddy had ever had . . .”

Which was when the look of contented wonder that Brian had been wearing slipped off his face and was replaced by one of confusion. 

“What happened next,” Bridges prodded.

Brian’s brows lowered and the corners of his mouth turned down. “Coach told Buddy to come out of the lake, that it was time to go, and Buddy asked if it was time to get to the soccer game. Coach laughed. He said that wasn’t the kind of game they were going to play that afternoon. That he had other games to teach Buddy. Games that Buddy was going to really like . . .”

Nobody said anything for several minutes after that. I was too scared of what I thought I knew was coming next. I think Horvath and Bridges were afraid that, if they said anything, they’d jar Brian out of this important memory. So, we all just sat and waited to hear what Brian would say next.

“Instead of going back to Coach’s car, they walked down a different path that led away from the lake, back into the trees. Buddy was skipping ahead, investigating all the rocks and plants and things along the path, not paying much attention to where they were going. Coach had to keep calling to him to get Buddy to hurry up . . .” Brian paused and I could see that the frown on his face had deepened. “There was a cabin at the end of the trail.”

“What did this cabin look like?” interjected Agent Bridges with his pen held ready over the legal pad so he could note any details that the witness might remember. 

Brian closed his eyes again, his face screwed up as if the effort to recall this part of the memory was painful. “It was just a regular cabin. Painted brown with red . . . Red trim around the windows and the door . . .”

With a little more prodding from the two detectives, Brian added in that the cabin had two stories with a large dormer extension in the back on the second floor. The front had a large porch but the entrance they’d gone through that first time was a smaller back door that only had a small set of four steps leading up from the pathway that snaked off through the woods to the lake. Brian wasn’t able to remember much about the inside, except that it was sparsely furnished. 

“. . . Coach led Buddy up the steps and inside. They didn’t stop to look around the main room. Coach said . . . Coach said they were going down to the game room . . . Oh . . .” Brian stopped, his eyes popping open but his gaze still unfocused, as if he was seeing something that surprised him.

“What did Buddy see in the game room, Brian?” Bridged asked.

“I don’t remember . . .” Brian started to say, but Bridges cut him off. 

“Yes, you do. Just close your eyes and take a deep breath,” the FBI agent directed. “That’s it. Relax. And then tell me what happened when Buddy and Coach went into the game room. What did you see there?”

Brian followed directions, although I couldn’t say the deep breath had done much to relax him; the hand I was still holding was trembling slightly as he continued with his story. 

“It’s . . . It’s the room in your pictures. The one with the soccer mural on the walls,” Brian whispered. “It’s the same room . . .”

I watched as the two police officers exchanged excited glances. This was what they’d been hoping for all along. This was the good stuff, as far as they were concerned. 

“Buddy asked Coach where the games were,” Brian continued in a voice so quiet I had to strain to hear him and I was sitting right next to him. “It was a game room, so he expected to see board games like the kind they had at the library or at school. But Buddy didn’t see any games . . .”

“Can you tell us what the room looks like? What do you see?” Carl prompted quietly.

“Not much. The room is almost empty. There’s the bed with the soccer design on the bedspread in one corner. And a television over in the other corner that has some gadgets and stuff attached to it. That’s about it. There weren’t any games . . .” Brian’s breathing hitched and I could feel him tense up. “Oh, there’s someone else there, in the room. A man. He’s talking with Coach and they’re laughing and whispering and the man is smiling at Buddy . . .”

“Tell us what this man looked like, Brian,” Carl urged, leaning forward in his eagerness to get the next juicy tidbit of evidence.

“He’s old. Gray hair. Older than Coach; not as handsome. And fat . . . Buddy doesn’t like him . . . He comes over and sits on the bed and Coach tells Buddy to sit next to him . . . His breath smells bad; like cigarettes and stale beer and dead things . . .” Brian tries to pull his hand free from my grip but I refuse to let go. He has to use his other hand to reach up and rub at his face, only the soft cast still protecting his injured wrist interferes, so he just gives up and slumps back deeper into his chair. “‘This is my friend, Kenny’, Coach says. They laughed about how Buddy’s name, Kinney, and the guy’s name, Kenny, sounded kinda similar but Buddy isn’t laughing. He doesn’t like the man. Kenny has his arm around Buddy’s shoulders and he’s squeezing him too tightly . . . ‘Kenny knows some really fun games he’s going to teach you, Buddy, so be a good boy,’ . . .”

“What happens next?” Terry asked, his voice sounding excited now that it seemed like they were getting somewhere. But his face fell when he heard Brian’s response a minute later.

“I don’t know. It all goes black. I don’t remember anything more . . .”

Despite all their additional poking and prodding and suggestions to relax, Brian could’t recall anything more about that first visit to the ‘Game Room’. Buddy’s memories shut off at that point. It’s all been blocked out; which, as far as I was concerned, was probably for the best. The detectives weren’t satisfied, however, and kept pressing for more. They urged Brian to go through more memory flashes, trying to focus him on other times he remembered going to that cabin. Brian isn’t able to give them anything concrete about the site’s location, just that it’s in the woods and near a lake. After more than an hour of questioning, though, he’d managed to recall several more trips to the woods with Coach Langley. He also remembered more men: Tommy, Nick, Cutter, Sticks . . . He can’t remember what most of them even look like, just names and vague images. But whatever happened after the men came into the Game Room, is all just a big blank, no matter how much Agent Bridges or Detective Horvath pressed him for more. 

When Brian had finally had enough and insisted he couldn’t remember any more, Horvath reached over and scribbled something on Bridges’ pad of paper. Reading upside down, all I could see was the word ‘Nightmares’. I mentally berated myself for having divulged that piece of information to Horvath. Bridges nodded at his fellow inquisitor and then turned back to his interogee once again. 

“I think you remember more than you think, Brian,” Terry surmised. “Maybe not consciously, but it’s all in there somewhere. So, how about we look at this a different way . . . You mentioned before that you were tired and haven’t been sleeping much. I’m assuming you’re dreaming about all this shit?” Brian shrugged and reluctantly nodded. “Okay. Tell me about your dreams then. Maybe there’s more there?”

Brian shook his head and looked away but in the tiny conference room there was nothing to look at except for the bare wall off to his right so I don’t know what it is he finally found to focus on before he slowly began to relate his most recent nightmare. 

“I’m at that fucking lake in the woods. The dream always starts out good, you know. It’s sunny and warm and I’m walking in the shallow water near the shore and then I hear a noise behind me. When I turn around there’s nothing there except the trees. But they’re somehow bigger. And it’s become dark. I need to get home now that it’s got so late but I don’t know how to get home. I can’t find the path. I can’t see anything through all those fucking trees. And while my back is turned to the lake . . .” He looked over at me and I could see so much fear in his liquid hazel eyes; it made me want to scream, but I held it all in so as not to interrupt him. “While I’m turned away from the water, something reaches out and pulls me backwards. I go under. There are . . . Hands - so many hands - touching me all over, scratching at me, pinching my skin, tugging at my hair, and they pull me down. I can’t . . . I can’t breathe. There’s a hand over my face, so I can’t see. I’m drowning.” His voice faded into a tiny whisper. “And the lake monster’s hands are all over me, poking into me, inside me . . .”

Nobody said anything for a really long time after that. The silence felt so heavy it was almost like a physical weight pressing down on all of us. What the fuck could you say after something like that? 

Eventually Bridges shook himself out of the momentary stupor. He reached out and pushed the button to turn off the little recorder that had been whirring away on the table the whole time. That seemed to break the spell and we all began to move again. I figured I could finally let go of Brian’s hand without worrying that he’d fly off into a thousand pieces. 

“I know this is painful, Brian,” Agent Bridges admitted aloud, his face set in a determined frown. “But even the little you’ve remembered helps. At the very least, it corroborates the things we can see in the pictures and videos.”

“Is it enough to make the charges against Langley stick?” I asked, speaking up for the first time since I barged my way into the interrogation.

“I’m not sure,” Bridges confessed with a shrug. “Based on what we found in his house and on his computer, we’ve got Langley for sure on the possession charges. And we’ve subpoenaed his internet service provider so we think we’ll be able to locate  messages or emails proving dissemination. But, to be honest, we’d actually expected to find a lot more than we did if Coach Langley really was the one who’s been producing all these videos.” Bridges and Horvath shared an indecipherable look before the Agent returned his attention towards Brian and myself. “We suspect there must be somewhere else where Langley is keeping all the really incriminating stuff. Maybe the same location where the videos are being filmed? This lake house perhaps?” He started to gather together his legal pad and the recorder and the file full of photographs. “Keep thinking, Mr. Kinney. Anything more you can remember will help. And, if you remember anything about where that cabin is, the one where the filming was done, please let us know.”