Chapter 9 - Come on, Buddy.

I approached the desk at the police station with so much anxiety boiling up inside me it felt like it would soon be leaking out my ears. A quiescent but empty Brian was standing just a few feet behind me, staring at his shoes and ignoring everything that was going on around him. The drive over from Kinnetik had been completely silent. Again. Was it wrong of me to hope that, regardless of how hard I knew it would be on my partner, this meeting with Carl would at least serve to get SOME reaction out of Blank Brian? I didn’t think I could handle more of the status quo.

“Gentlemen. What can I do for you?” the handsome, young, uniformed officer who was on desk duty that afternoon purred in greeting. 

I could tell by the elevator eyes that the guy was checking Brian out over my shoulder. It never failed. Even half zonked out, my man could still turn all the heads in the room. Shit like that always made me kinda proud because who wouldn’t want to be the partner of someone like Brian, amirite? Anyway, since Brian was too distracted to do it himself I winked at the guy in his stead. That got me a smile and a personal escort back to Carl’s office as soon as I announced who we were there to see. 

We chatted amiably about the weather and when it might feel like time to get out my favorite summer shorts as Derrick - the uni - led us through a maze of desks towards a reasonably comfortable, although small, office near the back of the building. Brian followed on autopilot. Derrick didn’t seem to mind or notice. He made a point of gently brushing against my shoulder as he reached past me to knock on Carl’s door. I gave him one of my best Sunshine smiles, which was returned in kind. Dayum! If the purpose of our visit wasn’t so fucking dire, I might have blown Carl off altogether in favor of following Derrick and his adorable dimples. Too bad Carl, oblivious to the flirtation going on at his door, interrupted us right then. Alas, the detective hollered at me to come in and shut the door behind us, and that was the end of my chance to get better acquainted with the dimples. 

“Thanks for coming down, guys,” Carl welcomed us, standing up from behind his desk in order to point us towards two chairs. The third chair in the room was already occupied by a stranger with beautiful amber skin and a shaved head that was so shiny I thought I might be able to see myself in it’s reflection. “Brian Kinney and Justin Taylor, let me introduce you to Special Agent Terrence Bridges.”

I accepted the hand Agent Bridges held out while Brian walked right past and plopped down in the chair positioned furthest from the door. 

Carl pretended not to notice Brian’s behavior and carried on with his pre-rehearsed speech. “Terry is the head of the FBI’s local trafficking task force.” That got my attention right off the bat; ‘trafficking’ was a hella scary word. “He’s also the department’s liaison to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children.”

“Mr. Taylor. Mr. Kinney. Nice to meet you both,” the Agent responded politely before resuming his seat. 

I followed suit, taking the last empty chair, and turned my attention back to Carl, who was already jumping right into things. 

“So, after I left your place the other day, I started to look into this Langley guy. I would definitely call him sketchy, although somehow he’s managed to keep his nose mostly clean up till now. He doesn’t have much of a criminal record; just one old DUI and a hefty number of speeding citations. It does seem that your coach likes fast, expensive cars and doesn’t care how much his insurance costs.” 

I briefly glanced over at Brian whose blank expression didn’t confirm or deny this new info. 

“The only thing that really stood out was an assault complaint about eight years ago by an angry parent. The complaint was dropped without any charges being filed but that incident coincided with his teaching license being suspended. Which is why it caught my eye. Unfortunately, the whole affair got swept under the rug by the cushy private school where Langley was teaching at the time. I tried to get more of an explanation but the headmaster refused to talk to me, citing a nondisclosure agreement that restricts dissemination of any information related to Langley’s employment and dismissal, and the cop who took the complaint retired to Boca later that year. It all looks pretty suspicious to me, to be honest, but without more I wouldn’t usually have had reason to follow up.”

I remembered thinking that I should check into the status of Langley’s teaching credentials, but with all the hoopla I’d forgotten; good thing Carl was a lot more diligent than I was.

“Thankfully, it was suspicious enough to prompt Detective Horvath to run the pictures you found through the NCMEC database,” Terry Bridges interrupted, taking up the narrative at that point. “And it probably won’t surprise you that Horvath’s search got an almost immediate hit. Which is when I got pulled in; I’ve been the primary on this case for a long time, so I get automatically notified anytime one of these images pops up anywhere.” 

Bridges opened a manila file that had been waiting on the edge of Horvath's desk and pulled out the photos I’d originally found in Joan’s box, each one now carefully encased in a plastic cover, spreading them out across the desktop. We all looked at the images of a frightened little boy in his tighty whities for several long seconds without further comment. Meanwhile, the implications of what the FBI agent had just said filtered through my brain. I’d watched enough crime drama television to understand that ‘getting a hit’ in this situation meant that the prints I found weren’t the only copies. And that feeling I’d had for the past week, like there was some pendulous dread hanging over my head, instantly became a ten ton weight that descended with crushing despair.

Bridges shifted in his chair so he was facing Brian more directly. “It turns out that these photos, along with the others indicated by the negatives you found, are pretty well known to most trafficking investigators. They’ve been circulating for decades on the internet and are pretty much a staple in the kiddie porn scene. And, unfortunately, there’s a lot more out there just like these. In the ten years or so I’ve been doing this, I’ve personally come across a couple hundred pictures of the same boy and maybe two dozen related videos.” 

I must’ve made some tiny noise of protest then, because three pairs of eyes turned to look at me, interrupting Agent Bridges' explanation. I could read concern and sympathy in the expressions of both law enforcement officers. Brian, however, still betrayed no emotion at all. I held up my hands in a gesture of apology, mouthed the word ‘sorry’, and then waved at the agent to indicate he should continue.

Terry returned his attention to Brian. This time his expression betrayed a touch of awe, almost as if he was meeting a celebrity or something. “I have to admit that I didn't think I’d ever locate the real person behind these pictures. To be completely frank, Mr. Kinney, the consensus among those of us who do this kind of thing was that the boy in these pictures probably hadn’t survived the amount of abuse he was subjected to. We didn’t expect to ever be having this conversation with you.”

Brian‘s only response was to reach out and pick up one of the photographs - it was the one showing a young Brian perched on the edge of the bed and crying - while slowly shaking his head. 

Was he still in denial despite all this proof? Or, maybe, he was just trying to shake away the fog of paralyzing confusion he’d seemed to be suffocating under all week? At first I couldn’t tell. But, when he used two of the fingers still hampered by the bulky cast on his wrist to swipe at the surface of the plastic casing holding the glossy print, gently trailing his fingertips across the visage of the small boy staring back at him, I realized that he simply wanted to erase the images he could no longer deny. He wanted to make it all go away. To make it stop. And I was right there with him. One hundred percent.

“Which is why,” Carl took up the burden of the conversation at that point, “these pictures Justin provided are so important. They’re like the Rosetta Stone of the porn world. They’re the key to bringing down a whole ring of pornographers and traffickers the FBI has been after for years.”

“You see,” Terry chimed in enthusiastically, “the same person - or, more likely, persons, plural - who’ve been propagating the ‘Buddy’ porn are also responsible for a metric fuck ton of related material depicting the abuse of dozens, if not hundreds, of other children. It’s one of the biggest kiddie porn rings the Bureau has ever come across. If we could bust these guys, it would be seismic.”

“Buddy porn?” I questioned, not sure of the reference.

“It’s what we call the output from this particular production group,” Bridges elucidated with a halfway apologetic smile aimed in Brian’s direction. “We nicknamed the child in the videos ‘Buddy’ because that’s the only name the adults ever used for him; we figured it wasn’t his real name, but we didn’t know what else to call him, so . . .”

“Buddy . . .” Brian muttered, vocalizing for the first time, but not looking up from where his gaze was locked on the photograph in his hand.

“Anyway, that’s where you two, and the evidence you’ve provided,” Carl intervened, pointing to the array of incriminating photos, “come in.”

“Exactly!” Terry seemed far too excited to let his fellow investigator take back the narrative. “Like I said, we’ve been trying to bust this particular ring of douchebags for years. Our forensic techs have put together enough evidence to tie it all to one individual production location, but that’s as far as we got. We’ve tried going at this case from every angle we could think of, but we could never pinpoint the man, or men, who were creating the primary content. They stripped all location information out of the metadata. There’s never any identifiable images of the adults involved; their faces are always obscured. And even when we’ve managed to bust one of the lower-level scumbags distributing this crap, they all claim ignorance as to the identity of the producers. But now, with Justin providing the all important link between the source material and Langley, we think we can prove he’s the guy in charge. And, once we nail Langley, we can go through him to bring down the whole fucking network.” 

“To do that, though, we’re going to need your testimony,” Carl insisted. “That box of evidence is the first step. That, plus Justin’s statement about how he got ahold of it, should be enough to get us search warrants for Langley’s properties. But, to convict him, we’re going to want both of you to testify.”

I was nodding my agreement before Carl had even finished speaking. I would gladly do whatever I could to put the monster who’d hurt Brian behind bars. Hopefully forever. Somehow, though, I didn’t think it was my testimony the cops needed the most. To make the most damning charges stick, they undoubtedly needed one of the victims to speak up. 

They needed Brian, aka ‘Buddy’.

Everybody in the room waited, literally holding our breath, for the man of the moment to speak. Brian, though, was still doing his Zombieland impression. He didn’t even look up until Carl called his name.

“Brian?” Horvath asked, softly, as if coaxing out an easily frightened animal. 

Finally looking up, he replied with a less than articulate, “huh?”

“You’ve been awfully quiet this whole time,” Carl pointed out. “Are you okay with all this? Do you have any questions?”

“More importantly,” Agent Bridges interceded, less solicitously than his comrade, “can we count on you to testify against Langley? Because, while I understand how difficult this is going to be, I’m telling you now that we won’t be able to make this case without your direct testimony. Not unless we miraculously turn up a lot more evidence at some point. You’re the lynchpin of this whole case, Mr. Kinney. You’re the only living witness we know of.” 

Brian finally sat up and tossed the picture he’d been analyzing back on the desk. “I don’t know how much I’d be able to help, Agent Bridges. I don’t remember any of . . . Of this.” He pointed to the photos dismissively. “I’m not even convinced that boy is me. This kid is what, five, here? There’s no way to tell what he would have looked like when he was older. How can you be sure . . .”

Bridges was already rifling through the file folder again before Brian had even finished his sentence. “We’re reasonably sure,” he stated, handing over a computer printout he’d pulled from the file. “Back when we were first looking into the Buddy case, we had this age progression done. Take a look for yourself.”

The computer enhanced drawing Brian was scrutinizing looked like a dead ringer for my partner, at least according to this artist’s judgment. It was a little vague, of course, because those things always were, but the progression had got the shape of the face, the cheekbones and the eyes almost dead on. Only the nose was a little off. That might have been because Brian’s nose had obviously been broken at some point in the past, which altered the shape a little bit. Overall, though, it was about as close as you’d get to a firm identification.

“This doesn’t mean anything,” Brian maintained, tossing the printout onto the desk next to the photos. “It can’t be me in those pictures. Wouldn’t I remember if I’d been . . . You have to be wrong.”

“Brian, son, I realize this isn’t easy but, even if you don’t remember, you’ve got to admit it all makes sense,” Carl offered, trying to sound reasonable. “You already positively identified Langley from the soccer photos in the box, and confirmed he was the one from your high school shower scene, I don’t know what other proof you need.”

“That was different. I was in high school. It was my choice . . .” Brian faltered when he noticed all three of us giving him exasperated looks. “Whatever. I get it . . . Him being a teacher and all, but it’s just not the same. It’s not this.” He looked down at the pictures again. “It doesn’t mean he would do this. I just don’t . . . I mean, that couldn’t be me . . .” 

Brian’s blind denials made me almost as angry as the photos he was referencing. I couldn’t let him delude himself like that. Not to protect a scumbag like Langley. So, to back Carl up, I pulled my phone out of my pocket and selected one of the photos I’d taken of Gus during our last trip to Toronto. Holding up the screen so that everyone in the room could see, I picked up the closest Buddy photo and held them side by side. The resemblance was uncanny. The only difference between the two was that Gus was smiling and happy and clearly loved, while the older picture showed a sad, lonely, neglected child.

“You know how everyone’s always saying Gus looks just like you?” I commented to my partner, who looked away without any outward acknowledgement of the truth that was being shoved in his face. “This boy and Gus could be brothers . . .”

Brian had, apparently, finally reached his breaking point and, instead of capitulating to the obvious, that famous temper of his took over. 

“This is bullshit! All of this.” He reached out with his injured hand and swiped at the accumulated pile of evidence, knocking it all to the floor. “I don’t remember ANY of this shit. I don’t! That,” he pointed to the pictures scattered across the linoleum tiles making up the floor, ”that can’t be me. It can't!” 

With a growl of rage the beleaguered man vaulted to his feet, attempting to escape physically even if he couldn’t escape the truth that had already settled in his heart. Too bad Carl’s office was far too small to allow him to get past both my chair and Bridges’. He couldn’t make it to the hallway, and eventual freedom, without us moving out of the way. He’d barely made it two steps before he was forced to a halt. 

I stood up then too, reaching out to grab him, intending to offer comfort. But that seemed like the wrong approach; Brian snarled at me, holding up both hands in a gesture meant to fend off my advances. But, instead of striking out at me - which Carl and Terry seemed to think was a possibility, causing them both to rise to their feet in a rush to stop whatever they thought was about to happen - Brian took a shuddering breath, scrubbed cholerically at his face with the one uninjured hand, and then pinched at the bridge of his nose in a familiar way that I recognized meant he was fighting off a headache. 

I was well aware Brian wouldn’t appreciate any overt displays of emotionalism right then; all I could offer was a squeeze to his biceps. I guess my touch was enough, though, to afford him some measure of calm. He dropped his hand and looked into my eyes and I could see the barely restrained panic hiding behind the hazel gaze. With gentle pressure, I managed to guide him back to his chair. Then the two cops sat as well and all was momentarily tranquil again. 

“I can’t help you,” Brian reasserted, but this time in a slightly more restrained tone. “I really DON’T remember anything.”

Agent Bridges wasn’t ready to give up, though. “I have more pictures. Maybe, if you looked through them, something might jog your memory?”

Brian sighed and shrugged, his arms rising in a ‘whatever’ gesture that seemed to give the FBI agent permission to try out his suggestion. 

Bridges retrieved a mini-tablet computer from the briefcase that had been waiting on the floor next to his chair and opened the photo gallery app. I got up and moved around to stand behind Brian’s chair, allowing me to not only look over his shoulder so I would be able to see what was on the tablet but also to help ground Brian by way of the hands I rested on his shoulders. I could feel the invisible tremors that were running through my partner’s body even while he was trying to maintain a stoic facade. I didn’t know how I was going to get through this, and I knew it was going to be even more difficult for Brian, but I’d do whatever I could to provide any support he might need.  

The tablet lit up, displaying a full color photo of a not-quite-teen boy, lying atop the same bed with the same soccer-themed cover in the same room with the same creepy cartoonish mural. It was clear that this boy was the same child as in the previous photos, only older; here, though, you could see even more clearly than before the resemblance to adult Brian. The other big difference was that the kid had become much more adept at striking the type of faux-sexy pose that his handler had been trying for with the younger version. This boy was displayed at the perfect angle for the camera, spread out across the bed, completely naked, his legs wide and one hand resting on a soft thigh, provocatively close to his crotch. While the subject of this photo still retained all the vestiges of youth, you could tell he was on the verge of the inevitable transition into adulthood. Some sick minds might have found that image attractive but, personally, it made me ill. 

Bridges scrolled through a dozen or more images along the same lines - each making me cringe more than the one before - as the version of Brian that was displayed on the tablet regressed in age. The last couple showed a boy almost as young as he’d been in those first pictures I’d found in Joan’s box. If there was any doubt before that the child in the photos was Brian, it was gone now. You could see the resemblance so clearly as the succession of images made it seem like you were watching him age in reverse. 

“Anything?” Bridges asked when he reached the last of his carefully curated collection of images. 

Brian shook his head. “No. Nothing. I don’t remember any of this.”

After a brief, conspiratorial glance Horvath’s way - the detective nodding his tacit permission to continue - Bridges closed out the photo gallery he’d been going through and instead opened the video player. 

“Let’s try this,” he suggested and tapped the screen to begin playing a video that was already cued up.

The scene opened in the same room with the same bed and the same boy. The grainy, low-definition production value and poor sound quality of the video, even more than the age of the child being taped, proved exactly how dated this particular piece of cinematography was. The audience it was meant for, though, probably didn’t care about the amateur filming; that wasn’t what they came for. 

The video started off with a wider view of the entire room but then, almost immediately, zoomed in on the subject of the production. The camera maneuver allowed the viewer to get a closer look at the beautiful little gamin’s face. The child was sitting up on the bed, knees tucked under his body in an innocent pose, leaning slightly towards the camera. To my relief, he didn’t look all that upset this time.

“Go ahead, Buddy. Say your lines just like we practiced,” a disembodied male voice, altered electronically so you couldn’t identify the speaker, directed the child.

“I don’t want to,” the boy replied, screwing up his face pugnaciously. Even with all the intervening years, I could hear the Brian of today in that chirpy little voice. “I want to go home now, Coach.”

“Buddy . . .” the adult voice warned. “Don’t be like that. You know better. If you don’t play the game the right way, you’ll have to be punished. You don’t want that, do you?” The boy frowned, squirmed around a bit on the bed, and shook his head. “Now, say it. And don’t forget to smile for the camera so all your fans can see how pretty you are.” Baby Brian smiled shyly without looking directly into the camera lens, which only made him seem even more adorable. “That’s right, Buddy. Come on. Say your lines. Just like a movie star.”

The boy on the screen finally looked up and spoke in a clear, sweet voice. “Do you wanna be my Daddy? I’m all alone and it’s a big scary world. I need somebody to teach me how to be a real man. That could be you if you’re lucky . . .”

I put one hand over my mouth to stop the groan that wanted to escape. Fucker. If the feds didn’t get Langley, I was going to go after that nutsucker myself and castrate him with a rusty spoon.

Unfortunately the video clip we were watching didn’t end there.

“That was great, Buddy!” the off screen voice praised, eliciting another beautifully angelic smile from the brunet boy. “You did really good. People are going to love you when they see this one.”

“Can we get ice cream now? You said if I was good, I could have chocolate ice cream,” Buddy asserted, sounding hopeful.

“Not quite yet, Buddy. First, I’ve got a surprise for you.” The voice paused and there were some sounds from off camera. “Look. We have guests who’ve come over to play with us tonight. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

Judging by the way the boy’s expression fell, his body immediately shrinking away from the camera as he pulled his knees protectively into his chest, Buddy didn’t think much of this prospect. “I don’t want to play tonight. I want to go home now. Please, Coach. I just want to go home.”

“Stop being rude, Buddy,” the voice ordered, no longer sounding at all pleasant. “My friends came over especially to meet you. They’re big fans. You don’t want to hurt their feelings, right?” 

The camera slowly panned out while the voice spoke until you could see two male bodies entering the frame of the picture. Both men were naked; one was older and heavyset with coarse, grey body hair, and the other younger with a compact build. Meanwhile, Buddy had curled up into a ball, pushing himself as far back into the pillows at the head of the bed as he could get. 

“Be a good boy now, Buddy, and show our new friends that fun little game I taught you yesterday . . .”

“STOP! Just, stop already!” Brian roared, pushing aside the tablet and covering his face so he wouldn’t have to look. “What the fuck? Why are you showing me this shit?” 

Agent Bridges paused the video and set the tablet aside. “Did you remember something? Did that trigger any memories? Anything that would help you confirm the identity of the man speaking . . .”

“NO!” Brian insisted, the word ending on an involuntary sob and his shoulders shaking so badly as he tried to hold back all the emotions that it felt like he might explode. “No. That’s not me. It’s just not. I-I-I don’t remember any of that.” His words started to fade away until we were all leaning forward in order to hear him. “It can’t be . . . That’s not me . . . That’s not me. That’s . . . That’s Buddy . . .” Then, whispered in a plaintive voice that was more sob than anything, he added, “I want to go home.” 

Just like in the videos.