The Neighbor - Lisa Gardner [29]
Personally, I think Wendell is a freaking psychopath. Poor, picked-on exhibitionist, my ass. Wendell always targeted a specific victim group. For example, he liked to visit old folks’ homes and flash three hundred pounds of white ass before the bedridden patients who barely had the strength to shield their eyes. Then he’d motor over to the teen health clinic, where he could wag his dingdong in front of the overwhelmed fourteen-year-old who’d just learned she was eight weeks pregnant. Mostly, however, he liked to operate outside rape crisis clinics, where he could spring a massive mountain of flesh upon already traumatized women.
His final victim went home and hanged herself. But as Wendell will tell you, he’s not as bad as the rest of us.
“I didn’t touch her,” I answer now, ignoring Wendell’s knowing grin. “I didn’t even know her. But it doesn’t matter. The police will check the database and my name will come up. They’ll arrest me just on principle, and it’s not like I can make bail. They get me, I’m done.” I’m snapping the band again. I can see Mrs. Brenda Jane watching me, and once again force myself to stop.
I can already tell what she’s thinking: And how does this make you feel, Aidan Brewster?
Trapped, I want to scream. Very, very trapped.
“A woman disappeared? In Southie? When did this happen?” Another group member, Gary Provost, speaks up. Gary is a thirty-seven-year-old alcoholic investment manager, who was caught inappropriately touching his friend’s eleven-year-old daughter. His wife left him, taking with her their two sons. His extended family is still not speaking to him. Yet of all of us, he probably has the most hope. For one thing, he still looks like a respected professional, versus a convicted pervert. For another, he seems genuinely remorseful and very dedicated to his recently achieved sobriety. Gary’s a serious one. Quiet but intelligent. Of everyone in the room, I almost like him.
“The woman disappeared last night.”
“I haven’t heard anything on the news.”
“Dunno.” I shrug.
“How old is she?” Wendell asks, cutting to the heart of the matter.
I shrug again. “She’s a mom, so mid-twenties, something like that.”
“That’ll cut you some slack,” Jim offers, “that she’s an adult and all. Plus, you don’t have a history of violence.”
Jim smiles as he says this. Jim is the only Level III sex offender in our group, meaning of all of us, he’s the one the state fears the most. An exhibitionist such as Wendell might have the highest rate of recidivism, but a hard-core pedophile such as Jim is the true monster under the bed. By Jim’s own admission, he’s attracted solely to eight-year-old boys and has probably had inappropriate relationships with thirty-five kids in a span of nearly forty years. He started when he was a fourteen-year-old babysitter. Now, at the age of fifty-five, his own flagging testosterone is finally slowing him down. Plus, the docs got him on a heavy regimen of antidepressants, the side effects of which repress the libido.
As we get to discuss in our weekly meetings, however, it’s very difficult to change sexuality. You can try to teach someone to desire adults, but it’s difficult to “remove” an object from someone’s sexual orientation, or, in other words, teach that same person not to desire kids.
Jim has a tendency to dress in Mister Rogers sweaters and suck on hard butterscotches. From that alone, I’m guessing he still fantasizes mostly about prepubescent boys.
“I don’t know if that will matter,” I say now. “A registered offender is a registered offender. I think they’ll arrest first, ask questions later.”
“No,” Gary the investment manager interjects. “They’ll visit your parole officer first. That’s how it works.”
My parole officer. I blink in surprise. I have totally forgotten about her. I’ve been on parole two years now, and while I am required to check in each month, my own behavior has been so constant