Say the Word(75)

The way I saw it, I had one shot. One chance to involve the authorities and bring this organization down for good. Because if I misfired — if I cried wolf and called in the cavalry at the wrong moment — I could miss my chance forever and end up jeopardizing everything I was trying to accomplish, as well as the lives of Vera and the other missing girls.

Without law enforcement at my back, there was really only one recourse — an exposé. A story in every newspaper, at every breakfast table across the country that would stop people in their tracks as they sipped their morning coffee or prepared for their commute to work. A tale so awful, so unforgettable, that people couldn’t stand by impassively anymore, swaddled in their safety blankets of denial, convinced that bad things only happen in third world countries.

I had to write something to make sure that Vera was the last girl that disappeared. It was my obligation as a journalist, but also as a basic human being. So as much as I wanted to storm that warehouse, guns blazing, with a hundred armed SWAT team members by my side, I had to do this the right way, with irrefutable evidence that would not only bring the ringleaders down, but ensure they stayed down for good.

I took a deep breath and tried to assure myself that I could do this.

I’d keep my personal feelings at bay. I’d be methodical, calculated, and smart. After all, I was a reporter — this was what I’d been trained for, even if I had been out of practice for the past few years, writing about booty-blasting workouts and natural facial exfoliant alternatives.

So, after tossing and turning for several hours, around midnight I’d given up on sleep and struck an internal compromise to reconcile my own indecision. Research, writing, surveillance — those would be my outlets for action, while I bided my time for concrete evidence. With my computer propped in my lap I typed for hours like a woman possessed, the words pouring from my fingertips in a flood, filling the blank word document on my screen. I typed everything I could remember from my conversations with Miri and my trips to Brooklyn, creating a timeline of events and detailing what little I knew about the brewery operation.

There was Santos, who supplied drugs and perhaps played a part in scoping out vulnerable girls using his NYPD connections. Then there were Smash-Nose and the Neanderthal, lackeys who apparently provided pure muscle and handled new “shipment” arrivals. And, lastly, there was the mysterious “Boss” they’d mentioned more than once during their discussion. Other than those few small details, though, my picture remained vastly incomplete. I needed to figure out exactly how many players were involved, and I knew there was only one way to do that.

I had to go back.

I had to somehow find a way inside that warehouse without detection and get a good look around, taking photographs and gathering proof as I went. The plan sounded simple enough on paper. Somehow, though, I had a sinking feeling that no matter how many episodes of Veronica Mars I watched, I’d never possess the P.I. skills necessary to succeed at such a stunt.

But I’d cross that bridge when I came to it.

I used up an entire ink cartridge, printing out pages of documents related to sex trafficking in America. Statistics, figures, common trends — anything I thought might be useful. Then I printed out my notes, along with photos of The Point and any images I could find online of the pier and the old Rochester Brewery. I even found some photographs of the brewery interior that a local historical society had scanned and uploaded to their website.

Finally, using nearly ten pieces of paper, I printed out a massive street map of the city and used clear tape to adhere the puzzle back together into one cohesive chart. I laid the map alongside everything else I’d printed on the floor next to my bed, my head pounding with stress as I stared down at the collection. The sheer amount of information before me was overwhelming, and as I looked at the images, the small nervous pit in my stomach expanded to become a cavernous crater of anxiety.

There were too many sheets jumbled together to make any kind of sense or begin to think things through logically; I needed a way to see everything at once and to track my progress through the city. Grabbing the large chart by an edge, I walked over to the small kitchen table that doubled as my desk area and grabbed an unopened container of thumbtacks.

I paused in the middle of my studio and deliberated for a full minute, contemplating whether I was standing on the threshold of whatever normal boundaries exist between a reporter and her story. Turning my apartment wall into a pin-board of notes and theories didn’t feel exceptionally detached. Was I about to cross the line of demarcation between overly-obsessive, verge-of-insanity involvement and normal, professional interest?

Staring at the blank wall adjacent to my kitchen, I shrugged my shoulders, thought of Vera, and told that line to go straight to hell. I wasn’t just any journalist, and this wasn’t just any story. It wouldn’t do me — or Vera — any good to pretend I didn’t have an emotional stake in this.

I crossed the room, positioned my map with one hand, and jabbed a pin into its corner with the other. Within minutes, I’d used most of my thumb tacks and my studio wall had been transformed into a virtual storyboard, much like those used at Luster when planning out an issue but, instead, full of macabre images and figures. Thankfully, when I’d moved in last year I’d run out of money before spending a big budget on wall decorations — but who needed Crate and Barrel when you had a creepy, DIY serial-killer-esque shrine of photos and clippings to color your walls?