Five Days in Summer

Walls, furniture, bookcases, carpet — all white and pristine. Bobby Robertson must have spent all his time cleaning, whatevertime he had left over from his other pursuits. The bookcase Amy had noticed yesterday extended along the wall and was neatly lined with a collection of books on one side and small boxes on the other. A small, old television set and a new VCR sat on a white metal filing cabinet across from a futon couch covered in... white. The furniture was all either cheap or old or both. There was no clutter. A putty-colored computer sat on a white metal cart by the kitchen door.
    “In here!” Partow’s voice ricocheted from down the hall.
    Amy and Geary followed the voice to Bobby Robertson’s bedroom.
    A single bed was pushed up against the wall. Next to it was a small bedside table with a lamp on it. Across the room was a dresser. It was almost like the room of a child, simple and unpretentious, except there was nothing on the walls and every surface was bare. A dozen white oxford shirts hung equidistantly in a closet without a door.
    Partow was kneeling next to the bed, holding up the white bedspread like he was pulling the hem of a skirt out of a mud puddle. His expression looked as disgusted as if he’d just stepped in the mud, or worse, with bare feet. In front of him was an open plastic box, designed flat to slide under a bed.
    Amy stood over the box and saw it right away. Hundreds of photographs of children. Dressed in play clothes, dressed in costumes, half undressed, naked. Every child in every picture looked terrified. Crying. Faces stiff and cracking into fear. Eyes squeezed shut. Eyes frozen open. Bodies straight as soldiers, holding their breath. Bodies contorted, in the hot middle of pain.
    “All somebody’s baby,” she whispered. “Every one.”
    Geary stood next to her, looking down. He shook his head and said nothing.
    There was commotion from the living room.
    “Tag it,” she told Partow as they turned toward the noise. “We’re bringing it in.”
    Officer Petersen was taking the small boxes down off the bookshelf, opening them, setting aside the ones filled with videotapes. And there were many. Officer Shechter was standing in front of the TV, his back turned to the horrifying image on the screen. It was a snuff film, starring the saddest little boy Amy had ever seen in her life. Shechter’s eyes were wet, his mouth taut against more reaction than his dignity could contain.
    “Oh my God.” Amy stopped walking. “Are there more?”
    Petersen nodded slowly.
    “We’re taking them all. We’re watching every inch of those, and the minute we find him, he’s a dead man.”
    She braced herself against the steep climb of rage she felt toward this animal who could entertain himself with the destruction of children. She looked at Geary, who stood beside her. He’d gone ashen.
    Amy took her cell phone out of her purse and speed-dialed dispatch. “Buzz Caruso and Miles, tell them he’s our man, but to keep following him. Tell them to keep a tight circle on him, and if they think he’s leading them to Mrs. Parker, call for support.” She hung up but held her phone in her hand as the tape played a close-up of the child screaming, the lens tightening.
    “Turn it off,” Geary said.
    Amy felt her blood racing through muscle, skin tightening against the surge, a swelling behind hereyes. It was as if her body was refusing the offerings of her mind. “Tag it all,” she said, “and keep looking.”
    “You’re doing good work.” Geary hunched his shoulders and stepped toward her, a little paternally she thought, but it had the calming effect of a protective gesture.
    “If this is good work —” She was stopped by the bleating of her cell phone.
    “Detective Cardoza?” The woman’s voice was sonorous and warm. “I’m returning your call. This is Sally Harmon.”
    “Yes, Ms. Harmon.”
    Geary’s eyebrows twitched. Amy raised her chin to the door, and he winked; he would stay inside to supervise so she could take the call outside.
    Walking out into the sun and the air and the sand-encrusted wind was a relief from the darkness of all that white. Her long hair slapped against her face and she angled herself away from the ocean.
    “The message says you’re calling me in connection with Bobby Robertson?”
    “Your client’s in serious trouble, Ms. Harmon.”
    There was a pause.
    “For what?”
    It sounded a little rhetorical to Amy.
    “You’re his caseworker?” she