Chapter 42
“WE WON’T REMOVE anything that’s evidence,” Walter said as we pulled on the latex gloves. “We’ll leave it for the Ohio cops to find.”
“Got it.” I was grateful to have an act to perform that would keep my mind off Walter’s plan. I began to search the kitchen as Walter headed for the bedroom.
After ten minutes, I hadn’t found anything that could put Wilson in jail, but I did learn two things about him: he must have lived mostly on dry cereal—he had five boxes of different brands on a high shelf—and he had a low standard of cleanliness. The few plates and saucers in his cabinets were dirty. Cups and glasses were stained from whatever they’d contained. There were no detergents, only a bar of soap in a slimy puddle next to the sink. Underneath the sink was half a roll of the cheapest paper towels, but there were no cleansers or sponges. A couple of rags were stuffed into holes in the walls that had probably been made by rats.
I maneuvered the refrigerator away from the wall far enough to peer behind it. Nothing hidden there, but the movement sent a wave of cockroaches scurrying across the floor. Walter came into the kitchen as I was rocking the refrigerator back into place.
I asked him if he’d found anything.
“Under the mattress,” he said. “Underwear.”
“What kind?”
“A child’s.” The disgusted expression on his face warned me not to pursue the subject.
I didn’t want to. Instead, I asked, “Did you check the bathroom?”
He snorted. “A lady wouldn’t want to use it, but there was nothing we’re after.”
“I haven’t had any luck here, either.”
“One room left,” Walter said, heading for the front of the house.
Ray Wilson’s living room was furnished with a sagging old brown couch, a wing chair with upholstery so stained and threadbare that he might have found the thing set out on the street for trash collection. A small wooden bookcase held bottles of liquor in place of books. An imitation leather recliner faced a big-screen television set.
“That TV’s the most expensive thing in the house,” Walter said. “Three thousand dollars, at least.”
On an upended wooden apple crate next to Wilson’s top-of-the-line home theater was a combination DVD and VHS player. Stacked beside the player was a two-foot high pile of movies. Walter and I went through them quickly, taking each from its box. They were major studio films, ranging from current pictures all the way back to some made in the 1930s. Every one of them starred young girls.
“It makes me sick to think of that pervert watching movies made innocently, for families,” I said.
Walter grunted. “But it’s not illegal to have things you can buy in any video store.”
We looked behind and beneath the cushions on the couch and the chair, and tipped them up to see if anything was hidden underneath. I found thick balls of dust, some candy wrappers—and a well-thumbed catalogue of children’s clothing. My stomach lurched as I thought of him staring at the pictures of child models, but having it wasn’t illegal.
While Walter righted the furniture and put the cushions back, I moved the liquor bottles. Nothing behind them. Walter examined light fixtures while I tested the floor-boards to see if any were loose. We looked at each other and shook our heads: nothing.
Finally, we stood in the middle of the living room, staring at each other in frustration.
“The underwear isn’t going to be enough to get Wilson locked up,” Walter said.
“I have the feeling I’ve missed something, but I can’t think what.” I closed my eyes, visualizing the rooms we’d searched. “Something’s off . . .” Then it hit me and I opened my eyes. “Come on.”
I led Walter back to the kitchen and indicated the high shelf next to the stove.
“Who has five boxes of cereal at the same time?” Stretching, I reached for the nearest one. The moment it was in my hands, I knew the box didn’t contain cereal. The top was folded in, to look unopened, but when I turned it upside down, two videotapes slipped out of the box.
“These aren’t professional recordings,” I said.
Walter reached over my head for the next box and looked inside. “More tapes.”
None of the five boxes held cereal.
“No titles,” Walter said. “Just some numbers on the labels.”
“Dates? Or a code?”
Walter shrugged. “Can’t tell at a glance, an’ we don’t have time to figure it out. Let the cops do that.” He set the boxes on the counter, took a tape into the living room, inserted it into the VHS slot, and pushed Play.
With the first crudely lighted images, I knew what we had found: homemade child pornography. Revolted, I turned my back on the set.
A long minute or two later, Walter turned it off and removed the tape. “He filmed himself with a little girl. That’s enough for an arrest, at least.”
“What do you mean, ‘at least’?”
“A sleazy defense attorney might get him off, saying it was all playacting. The lighting’s so bad they could claim the kid wasn’t a real kid, but a midget.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“Juries have done crazy things. Judges, too. Trouble is, most good people find it hard to believe that somebody who looks normal could do sick things to children. We’ll still need a real young person to stand up an’ tell what he did.”
I knew Walter was right. Making an official report of my story might be the only way to get someone else to speak up. As I thought about what lay ahead, a cold lump of dread began forming in my chest.