Rescued from Darkness

 

Clyde Burns

 

Sitting at my desk, I drink the last of my scotch that's been staining my coffee cup all morning. The window to my office has been open all morning, letting the warm California breeze in, and it threatens to blow all my files from my past cases to the floor. The old metal box fan that sits on the filing cabinet spins lazily, stirring up the single trail of cigarette smoke from the discarded cigarette I honestly forgot was in there. Flipping through the pages of the different reports, I look for something I missed. 

 

The room was rented by Umsh Inc. I'm not familiar with that company myself, and it could lead to a dead end. Picking up the folder with the report about the room, I walk out in the main room of LASCU, the LA Special Crimes Unit, and hand it to Jenny, saying, "Hey Jen, look into this, will ya? They rented the room for last night's murder. Tell me what you can about them." She listens and says okay, taking the folder. Looking around the room, everyone seems to be hard at work, so I head back into my office to stare at photos some more. 

 

The picture of the blankets under the DA clearly shows that he was having sex with a boy, which makes the panties his and explains the other panties, ten in all. It says here in this report that most of them were found in the pockets of the suits that belonged to the men, maybe as souvenirs. They even found... one broken cat collar. 

 

I'm guessing that this was a `boy sex party' like the ones we had in college, but on a bigger scale. More expensive scale. We only used our little brothers, who liked what we did. It was free, and the boys were as young as seven or eight years old and as old as fourteen, if I remember right. We also had them dress up for the party. The cat or kitty look was very popular: collar, ears, and, of course, tail buttplug. As long as you and your little brother have been fucking for at least a year or two, he is welcome to join our orgies. If the little guy didn't know how to take a large dick in either end, it was just safer to not get him involved. Some of us were pretty hungry and thick.

 

My little brother was ten when he overheard me planning the next party in a month or so with a friend of mine. We were going down the list of things we needed: dildos, buttplugs, lube, etc., and once I hung up, he begged me to let him come. He was always trying to be `one of the guys' and was convinced this was what it took. I had a month to get him ready. I fucked him multiple times a day, every day, for four weeks, and when we got close to the date, I let my friends fuck him to get him used to other dick sizes. It seems to me that a certain party was my first seven-year-old fuck. I miss those parties. Tangent, sorry. 

 

What was I saying? Oh yes, ten little boys, two of them pretty young, in a penthouse apartment. Where did they go? Getting ten scared little boys out of the top floor of the Beverly Hill Hotel had to make a lot of noise and a large scene. I open the evidence box and look for the thumb drive of the security footage, but it's not there. I look under every file in that box and even dump it out on the floor. "What the fuck?" I ask no one really as I open the video evidence log and read it out loud, "No footage due to... maintenance? You're shitting me!" There has to be something, I tell myself as I grab my hat and my cigarettes off the desk, slipping them into my front pocket on my way out the door. 

 

I'm on my way to the hotel to talk to the manager and maybe look at the crime scene again, and my cell phone rings. "Hello, Burns," I answer relatively generically.

 

"Burns, it's Smith," says the voice on the other end. Detective Smith is a pretty good detective, and I normally have him do some follow-up with the victim's families. "I just thought you should know that the DA secretly has a little boy at age eight, now ten, named Ben."

 

"Adopted?" I ask.

 

"I don't know. If it weren't for the neighbors seeing him standing in his window, I'd never have known he existed. How could he keep this out of the papers? He was almost seventy... There has to be something there, right?"

 

"You've got to be kidding me? There has to be. I've met that man, and believe me, he doesn't have any extra love to share with a child, dammit! Can you meet me there?" I ask as I make a `U' turn and head uptown. 

 

"I'm already halfway there. I'll wait for you at the gate," he responds, and I let the call go silent as I think and drive. How sure am I that there is something there? "Burns?" Smith asks, reacting to my silence. 

 

"Yeah, I'm still here. Hey, call Judge Roe and ask for a guardian injunction. Tell her we're happy to take him back to the orphanage." 

 

"Ohhh, good idea. I'll call right now."

 

Fifteen minutes later, I pull up to the house and hop out of my Jeep. "Have you knocked yet?"

 

"Nope, I'm waiting on you. Judge Roe gave the approval," he says, holding up his phone with a copy of the injunction. I knew she would. I'll have to call her and tell her what I found so she can justify the paperwork later. 

 

We knock on the door and wait a little, then the housekeeper opens it. "Hello, I'm Detective Burns from the LA Special Crimes Unit. I'm sorry for your loss. Can you stand out here, please?" She steps outside, and Smith begins to explain the situation as 'Rated G' as he can. As he's doing so, I look inside, and movement upstairs reveals a small boy about the age of eight, a little on the small side to be ten, in my opinion, hiding behind the baluster that holds the handrail. Taking advantage of Smith's distraction, I slip inside and up the stairs. I slow down the closer I get to the top and sit on the second to the top step. 

 

I sit comfortably and watch the scene play out through the front door. The housekeeper almost looks relieved that we're taking the boy. The boy sits on his knees and tries to keep as much of the balusters between us as possible. "Do you trust cops, Ben?" I ask that I watch him as much as I can without making him feel uncomfortable. He remains still for the time being, but does nod his head `yes.' I nodded also to let him know I saw his nod and looked back out the door, saying, "Well, I'm a Detective. I'm way more trustworthy than just a cop. Would you like it if I took you from here?"

 

He jumps to his feet and hurries into my arms, almost knocking me off my step. I'm about to say something, but the soft sounds of crying on my shoulder bring a lump to my throat. I'm right. Damn it, I hate when I'm right. I stand up and tell him it's okay. We are out the door with no resistance from the housekeeper. I put Ben in my Jeep and told Smith, "I need her at the station. She's seen things. Get her to talk." He nods, and I hop in my Jeep and drive Ben away from that house. 

 

He holds my hand with a steel grip as I turn the Jeep into the McDonalds, a few blocks away from the DA's house. I've learned from my past that a kid will tell you just about anything over a Happy Meal. I go to slide out of the Jeep and turn to tell Ben that I'm coming around, but he has other plans. He practically jumps over to the driver's seat and into my arms, not willing to let me. "Hey pal, it's just McDonalds. Come on, let's get some food. You hungry?" I ask and get a little nod. This poor boy has been waiting for someone to knock on that door and save him for two years. 

 

I place our order and get us to a booth, where I slowly convince the little man to let go of me long enough to text Smith to meet me here. I have withdrawn from asking him anything as of yet. He seems to be calming down as we sit there waiting for our order number to be called. His eyes scan the restaurant, and once in a while they look into mine, and I smile, making him blush a little. 

 

"Order number: 189!"

 

"That's us; be right back," I tell him as I get up, and before I can take a step, he's there holding my hand. "Or you can come with me," I correct myself. I reach down and pick up Ben. We get his food and sit back down, with a little more grace than before. He digs into the happy meal, and I just observe him, telling myself, `There is no way this kid is ten.' 

 

"Ben, listen, before Smith gets here, can I ask you a couple questions I need the answers to?" I ask him as he eats his cheeseburger like he's never had one. He nods and takes another bite. I lean over the table and decide to ask him straight out and not sugarcoat it. "Ben, how old are you?"

 

With a mouthful, he thinks about it and then answers, "Eight, I think."

 

Okay, that's what I was guessing. Now for the hard one: He's not going to answer this, but I have to ask, "Ben, how do I even ask you this?" I wonder out loud in front of the most innocent eyes I've ever seen. He swallows the last of his cheeseburger and drinks some orange soda from his straw. "Ben, did the District Attorney... touch your body and hurt you?" 

 

His eyes look around, and he asks, "Can I see your powiceman's badge?" Without hesitation, I pull it off my neck and hand it to him. He studies it as he drinks more from his straw and answers me, "It's against the ruwes for me to wear cwothes if he's home, so he can touch or spank me when he wants to." The shame on his face breaks my heart. He sets his cup down and continues, "He's a bad man, sir. He wouwd wet his friends.... use my butt and hurt me, so he couwd watch."

 

I open myself up, and he quickly hurries into my arms. "Ben, he can't hurt you anymore." He sobs on my shoulder, and I hold him tightly. "You're so brave, Ben."

 

He looks me in the eyes, and I wipe his tears off his little cheeks. Then he said something I wouldn't have guessed in a million years: "My name isn't Ben, it's Ryder. He cawws aww of us `Ben.'" 

 

All of us?

 

Smith walks in, orders three chocolate shakes, and comes over to the booth, asking, "I had a beat cop pick up the housekeeper, or I'd be here sooner. You two getting along?" 

 

Ryder locks in a death grip on my shirt, afraid Smith is going to pick him up. "Hey, hey, Detective Smith is a friend. He's a great cop. Show... Ryder... your badge," I say, emphasizing his real name. Smith looks puzzled at me as he shows Ryder his badge clipped to his belt. The small boy looks at me, then at Smith, and then takes the shake from him. He takes a drink and smiles at me like he's never had a chocolate shake. Poor kid. "Look, kiddo, I'm going to give you to Smith, and he's going to take you to the hospital, and I'm going to meet you there, okay?" I ask him as I bounce him a little on my knee, making him giggle as he sucks in his shake straw. 

 

I take my cellphone, and Ryder leaves my lap to climb into Smith's arms. I texted Smith to get him rape tested and checked for the normal abuse problems. He reads it and nods in silent agreement. "So, did this monkey tell you anything good?" Smith asks, giving Ryder a little tickle. 

 

"Yup, he loves cheeseburgers. Why don't you buy him another one?" I suggest I stand up, slipping my badge back over my head. Ryder gives me a tiny wave as they head to the counter. I grab my shake and hit the restroom before I leave. 

 

It only takes about thirty minutes to make a ten-minute drive here in LA, but I get to the hotel with minimal trouble. I pull up in front and hop out of my dirty Jeep and toss the keys to the valet, who catches them, and as we pass, I take my number receipt from him. As I walk inside, I speed up any confusion caused by my attire and just pull the chain with my badge on the other end out from underneath my yellow flower-patterned Hawaiian shirt. 

 

"I need to talk to the manager," I tell the desk clerk, tapping my badge. She immediately gets on the phone, and it doesn't take long for him to arrive. 

 

"Hello, detective. How may I help you?" He asks. He's a taller fella, about my height, and really skinny like me, but unlike me, he's not unhealthy skinny. 

 

"I need to see the camera footage from this morning, starting about ten o'clock last night to well after the mess upstairs."

 

He places his hand over his heart as if he's doing a little prayer, then says, "There isn't any. I already showed the police officers. Our cameras were down for maintenance during those hours."

 

"Horse shit! Show me!"

 

The manager is a little surprised by the remark, but he still takes me back into the security office. We pass a mailbox system that they have set up for every room in the building. Each little cubicle has at least one key with the room number on it. Some of them even have letters or messages, including the Penthouse box. When no one is looking, I hang back a little and snatch the letter, putting it in my back pocket. The manager enters the security room, and I quickly catch up to him. He sits down and fiddles with the keys on the keyboard.

 

With a couple additional clicks of the mouse, he loads up the night in question and lets me sit down. Sure enough, at ten o'clock, the cameras go off one by one and don't come on until the men are walking from the elevator to the double doors. I sit back in my chair and contemplate whether this is a coincidence or not as I look over the time stamp list. "What's this other list on the side here?" I ask, pointing to the four cameras on the far right of the screen.

 

"Those are the cameras outside the building," he says, and I give him a look that would melt ice. 

 

I open them and begin to flip through them. Maybe I'll get lucky and catch the killers arriving or something. I didn't get so lucky, but I did find something unexpected. At eleven that night, a boy and a black lab walk down the alley, and the boy hides the dog behind the dumpster. That dog must have been very well trained because it sat there for fifteen minutes until the loading door opened and the boy called out and hurried the dog inside. Well, that answers my questions about the dog, sort of.

 

While I'm watching the rest of the footage of the outside, I do catch a lot of young boys by themselves walking up to the front doors, including the dog owner. Behind me, I hear someone call the manager out of the room, and part of their conversation is that someone was complaining that their air vent was blowing air that smelled really bad.

 

"That's weird?" I say it out loud to myself. I have a bad habit of talking to myself out loud. It helps me think. 

 

"What is it, sir?" The manager asks when he walks back into the room.

 

"There is no footage of it leaving. I've watched it all the way up to now."

 

"I'm sorry, Detective, I don't follow. Who didn't you see leave?"

 

"Not who... it; I didn't see it leave." The dominoes begin to fall as my alcohol level runs low. "Your guy out in the hall, what kind of smell was it?"

 

"Um, feces, there must be something wrong with the plumbing." 

 

I bolted up from my chair and looked around the room. I'm not really looking at anything; I'm just giving my brain time to build up the theory. "Did the complaint come from the floor with the crime scene?"

 

"Yes, how'd you know?"

 

I turn and head out of the offices and tell the manager, "Call an ambulance; if I'm right, we're going to need one." We hurry to the elevator--well, I do with him on my heels. The ride to the top floor takes too long as I bounce from wall to wall, praying I'm wrong. The elevator doors open, and I run out, then come to a stop. "What would I do with a dog?"

 

"Pets aren't allowed in the building, sir," the manager says behind me. I give him a side-eyed glance. 

 

"As I was saying...," I tell him with a look that warns him to remain quiet. "I couldn't take the dog to the party. I'd have to stash it here. Somewhere close by..." Then I remember the door with the red tape. I turn to him suddenly and scare him a little, making him whoop out loud when I grab him by the shoulders. "Last night there was a door with red crime tape. What was that door?"

 

"Um, I don't... There is a utility room down the hall near the crime scene."

 

Shit! How could I be so dumb? I turn and run as fast as I can down the hall. Once I get to the door with the red crime tape, I rip it off and try to open the door, but it's locked. "Unlock it!" I shout, startling the manager. 

 

"I don't have the keys. I have to call maintenance!" He says it just as loudly as I did. We stare at each other for enough seconds for him to realize I'm waiting for him to call maintenance to get their asses here. "Oh, sorry, I'll call right now."

 

I turn around and stare at the door knob, recalling how long it took for us to ride the elevator up here. My self-control fails me, and I kick the door open, scaring the manager again. The door blows open and reveals a utility closet. There are a few boxes upturned, but nothing is out of the ordinary, at least until I look behind the boxes. There is a two-foot-square cold air vent that's been ripped from the wall by something with huge claws. 

 

"What could have done that?" My tag-along asks when he sees it. 

 

I fish out my phone and turn on the flashlight, shining it in the vent. "Hello? Is there anybody in there?" I yell and wait for a response. I wonder if I'm going to fit in there. After hearing no sound, I look back to my faithful sidekick and quickly decide if I can trust him to pull me out if my suspicions about what is in this cold air duct are correct. "Okay, look, I'm going in there, and if you hear me screaming, just pull me out as fast as you can." I take the yellow rope from the shelf, tie it around my feet, and give the other end to the manager.

 

"Why would you be screaming?" He shouts back, looking upset and like he's about to pee his pants. 

 

I decided not to answer him and just dive into the unknown. The duct is tight, and there's definitely no room to dodge or wrestle a full-grown black lab. As I make the first turn and reach the T intersection, I yell back down where I came from. "Well, I found your smell," I tell him, as there is a very large pile of dog shit on my left. I pull my phone up to my face and look around to the left. The crime scene is down that way. I can see the light from that room coming from the vent. Turning to my right, I see jaws! Gaping, drool dripping, lip raising, bad breath blowing, teeth I know what you're thinking: teeth don't breathe, but when you're that close to the jaws of death, all you see are teeth. 

 

A low growl comes from the demon dog that hunches before me. Just past the black dog from hell, the vent opens up into a union box that even I probably should be able to sit up in. In that box, two small legs are visible, and one of them is covered in dried blood, looking bad. Keeping my voice as sweet as I can, I say, "Hey kiddo, how about you call off your beautiful guard dog?" I watch his legs intently, hoping for them to move even a little. 

 

The dog snarls even louder, and the manager yells in the pipe behind me, "Who are you talking to? Should I pull you out yet?" 

 

"Are you hurt? I'm a police detective, and I can help you out, but you have to call off your dog," I calmly say again, even though I'm screaming `I need to back out,' in my head. I forced myself to wait and pray. I've never been a religious man, but there is a time and a place for everything. Just as my heart begins to fear the worst, I see a small hand reach up and lay on the dog's foot.

 

"Fuss!" whispers a tiny voice from behind the dog. The dog immediately stops and backpedals until it can stand, revealing a naked boy covered in dried blood holding a blood-soaked t-shirt to his leg. His eyes look very strange set in a face of dark red blood. Like one of those Viking movies after the main battle. Slowly, his eyes moved to look at me, and his lips parted. I wait to hear what he has to say, fearing it might be his last words. He swallows and leans his head back, looking up, and I shake the thoughts from my head.

 

"Look, I need to know that your friend back there isn't going to kill me if I try and help you. You need a lot of help, and we're wasting time."

 

His head wobbles over to the dog, and his weak hand pets him on his face, whispering, "Steht noch," and the dog sits down. 

 

"Good, nice trick," I say trying to sound supportive. "I need you to lay down on your stomach and give me your hands." Slowly, he falls to his chest, and I reach for his hands. Every inch causes him a lot of pain and great amounts of energy. This kid has little to no strength left, and I know if I'm going to get him out of here in time, I'm going to have to hurt him. I pull as much of my body into the vent as I can and roll on my back. Reaching over my head, I grab his arms and pull the boy's limp body up on my chest, much to his dismay.

 

As carefully as I can, I use my arms to back us through the duct. "Gently pull the rope!" I yell behind me and can feel the yellow rope pulling my legs. Once I get my legs out of the vent, I quickly kick off the rope and pull the boy out. I grab a towel from the utility shelf and tie it so tight around his leg that he screams out. The maintenance man that came with the keys removes the rope for me and helps to hold the boy down, not that he has much strength left to fight back. When I'm satisfied with his leg, I lean close to him, and he wraps his arms around my neck.

 

"It's over! It's over for now. Come on," I tell him as I scoop up his legs and run down the hall. 

 

Almost to the elevator, the boy speaks up and says, "Wait! Heir! Heir Bear!" Banging comes from the utility room, and the maintenance man backpedals out of the little room till he falls on his ass. Then a large black dog comes running out and up to me. I get really nervous seeing him come at me at a full run like that, but once the dog gets to me, he stands next to my leg and whimpers a little. 

 

"Your dog is pretty cool. What's his name?" I ask the boy trying to keep him talking.

 

"Bear," the boy whispers into my shoulder, then asks the hardest question to answer, "am I going to die?"

 

"Come on, kiddo, don't ask me that. I've got you in my arms now and I won't let anything happen to you. Just keep talking to me, okay."

 

A soft, "okay," comes from the boy and my heart sinks thinking about what he's seen and been through.

 

"What's your name, I can't keep calling you boy," I say kind of teasing him. He's still and I give him a little shake, saying, "don't give up on me, tell me your name."

 

Finally he answers, "Gus, my name is Gus," and his eyes flicker open and then closes. I watch him have trouble breathing. His chest wearily rises and falls.

 

The elevator doors finally open, and we move inside with the dog heeling at my leg. Looking down, Bear looks back me and whimpers the saddest sound in the world. I try to comfort him saying, "Don't worry, boy, I've got him. Your master is going to be okay," as the elevator doors shut.