I nod and then start to stand. He stands as well. "Detective, I appreciate you meeting with me in person. I don’t mean to rush out of here, but this is a lot to handle." I hold out my hand to shake his over the desk, and he grasps mine in a firm hold, shaking twice and letting go.
"I know this is a shock, and so if you think of any questions later, please don’t hesitate to call me. If you’re planning on posting her bail, you can call the courthouse to get instructions from them on doing that. Her arraignment is Monday morning. But, Jake, I can tell you, the evidence we have on her is fullproof."
I nod, but I have no intention of bailing her out so I don’t ask for any more details.
"Thank you again, Detective." He hands me his card, nodding again, and I leave.
I walk out of his office, weaving through the station, emotions warring within me. I feel sickness and disgust at the knowledge of what Lauren was trying to do, start a relationship with another fifteen year old? Or a thirteen year old? Jesus. Vomit threatens, and I swallow it down. But something down deep inside of me feels a sort of vindication too. Almost like I couldn’t truly believe she was sick until this very moment. I realize suddenly that I have always believed that my participation allowed her to be sick, not that she was sick despite my participation. Walking through the San Diego police headquarters, it's like a weight that's been sitting on my chest for eight years, gets just a little bit lighter.
I climb in my car and sit there staring blankly through the windshield. I roll down the window and take a deep inhale of the fresh, warm, morning air.
I think about everything the detective said to me again, going over the information in my mind. Fuck, what if that anonymous tipster hadn’t gotten the information he or she did? I scrub my hand down my face. I picture some other teenager meeting up with her… Oh, Christ. If I could call that tipster and thank him or her, I would. But, an anonymous tipster? Really? I wonder at how someone could have identified her by name and known about those conversations. There is no way in hell Lauren told someone about that. It wasn’t like she was the type to get drunk and brag to someone in a bar somewhere about her latest underage sexual conquest. I sit there pondering on this for several minutes, thoughts racing through my brain, going in every direction.
You might be surprised to know that I used to work with computers when I was your age. Was good at it too. I still do it on a consulting basis here and there.
I freeze. No, no, that’s too crazy. It can’t be. I shake my head to clear it, almost laughing at my own ridiculous thought. But if someone good with computers didn’t access hers, how did that information get to the police? And who would want to keep tabs on Lauren's internet activity?
Detective Peterson had said that they were lucky that the tipster knew exactly what information they'd need to be able to look into the online conversations that were occurring.
So, the tipster is someone who is not only good with computers, but is an expert on sex crimes, and works with the police, and therefore knows what specific information they'd need to move forward on an investigation?
I grab my phone and the card Detective Peterson handed me on my way out. I dial his number and when he answers, I tell him who it is and then, "Detective, you mentioned a psychologist you work with who might be able to shed some light on the nature of my mother’s crime. Can I get his number from you, just in case I decide to call him?"
"Oh sure. Hold on, I have his card here." I hear him rifling through what sounds like a pile of papers. "Okay, got it. His name is Dr. Fox and here’s his number." He reels it off but I don’t bother writing it down. I already have that number.
I thank him and hang up, not knowing what to feel. None of this is a coincidence.
As I sit there unmoving, my mind racing, I see two familiar figures get out of a car. Preston and Christine. They close the car doors and start walking across the street toward the station. I get out of my car and call out to them.
"Jake!" Christine rushes toward me and grasps my hands, her eyes flying over my face as if I should be showing some form of physical wound. "Are you okay? Lauren called Preston this morning to post her bail and then we called the station to talk to the detective on the case. One of the officers told us you were meeting with him. We came straight from the airport."
Preston flew in this morning for the same reason I did and he brought Christine to help out with some of the presentations we had today.
"Yeah. I just did. Can we go somewhere and talk about this? Get some coffee or something?"
Preston has walked up now and he says, "Yeah, sure, Jake. But we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. We’re just here to make sure you’re alright. You’re the one we’re concerned about."
The air whooshes out of me and I clear my throat, feeling suddenly like they’ve given me something that I didn’t even know how much I needed until it was offered. Support.
"Thanks. I appreciate that. Are you going to post Lauren’s bail?" Please say no.
"No, I’m not. We don’t need to have a conversation about why. But, Jake, I want you to know that no. I’m. Not." He looks at me pointedly and then looks away, continuing, "Maybe she’ll make bail eventually but hell if I know who’ll help her." Something in his expression looks pleased.
We’re all silent for a minute and then I gesture to my car. "I can drive somewhere close and then drop you back off at your car."