I sat on the edge of the bed and read the rest of the article. It was taken from a Wisconsin paper and detailed the sort of crime that, while it makes headline news locally, rarely goes further, not because it is insignificant but because, quite simply, it happens too often to qualify as news.
A middle-aged man, leader of some youth organization, had been accused of molesting boys on camping trips in a list of crimes stretching back a decade, resulting--the prosecution had claimed--in two victim suicides. He was also believed to own a lucrative online child pornography business, and the police had found boxes of evidence in his home.
Unable to prove the business allegations, they'd settled for possession of child pornography, plus the molestation charges. Nothing stuck. His lawyer claimed the porn had been illegally seized, and a judge had agreed. That then excluded all photographic evidence of his molestation crimes from the trial. Left with only victim testimony--from boys who'd gone on to have their own run-ins with the police, psychiatric problems and substance abuse issues--a jury had decided this fine, upstanding citizen was being railroaded by ungrateful juvenile delinquents. Case closed.
Not an unusual story, though that didn't keep my hands from clenching on the paper as I read it. Then I read the small yellow paper attached to the bottom. A sticky note with numbers on it. A figure: $100,000.
I understood what I was holding. A job offer.
My first "target" had been a pedophile. Not that prostitute-killing thug the Tomassinis set me on, but the first criminal I'd ever hunted. I'd been seventeen, a few months from finishing high school, already making plans to attend police college.
The man had been accused of sexually and physically assaulting two boys in his apartment building, one six years old, one seven. He'd lived in Kitchener, a city a half-hour from our town, meaning the case had hit our papers, had been discussed--in detail--in our living room, over poker, those games I'd once catered and now joined, even getting a bottle of beer after my mother retired to bed, though my father drew the line at the rye and Scotch.
Over those poker games and from hanging out at the station, I'd heard more about the case than the average citizen. And I knew, as every cop in that part of the province knew, that the guy was guilty. But things had gone wrong. There'd been only two victims, one too terrified to talk and one who'd recanted his story at the last minute--some said his family had been bought off by the wealthy defendant.
I'd shared everyone's outrage and frustration, participated in the debates and agreed that this experience wouldn't scare the guy straight--if such a thing was possible for a pedophile. Yet my own feelings about it didn't go much deeper than that. Or so I'd thought.
A month later, I'd been at the rifle range with an older cousin, a constable on the Kitchener force. After Amy's murder, my father had introduced me to marksmanship. In it, I'd found a place where caution and planning were not only appreciated, but vital to success. Just follow the rules, work out every contingency and success is predictable in a way life never can be. Through my teens, marksmanship had been my favorite hobby--my outlet and my escape. But that day, I discovered something even better.
We were there, my cousin and I, at the range, when the accused pedophile walked in.
"That's him over there, Nadia," my cousin said, pointing out a pleasant-looking man in his late thirties. "Looks like he's getting some training. A little nervous maybe? Feeling like someone's gunning for him?" He snorted. "I wish. Bastard deserves a bullet--right through the nuts. That'd solve his 'problem.'"
I'd said nothing. I never did. I would participate in the debates and discussions on a purely philosophical level. But, taking my cue from my father, I never let it get personal, never let my frustration descend into wishes and threats. Not aloud, anyway. So I'd only nodded, and continued with my practice.
But in that moment, something happened. Maybe it was seeing that man. Maybe it was hearing my cousin's words. Maybe it was witnessing the man's fear--as he struggled to shoot a gun, trying to feel safe, when I was only twenty feet away, holding a gun myself and knowing--should I turn it on him--he'd never have a chance. Knowing that he'd be as helpless as the boys he'd abused.
Whatever the reason, at that moment I realized I had the power to do something. I wasn't thirteen anymore, helpless, hearing my cousin being raped. Only four years later, I had changed. I had power. I could fight and I could shoot, and I had the will and confidence to do both.
When the man left, I followed him. I'd driven my parents' car, so I told my cousin I was feeling unwell and he never thought anything of it. Even if he'd noticed the man leave before me, he didn't see a connection because I was just his teenage cousin, the one who drove seniors to church on Sunday and always had a friendly word for everyone.
I spent the rest of the day following the man. I took notes. By the end, I knew where he lived, where he shopped and where he liked to park his car--in a quiet lane behind the school where he could watch the little boys playing tag.
He watched them. I watched him.
For three weeks, I followed him. Not every day--I had school--but every few days I'd head to the city and find him. Then, when I had his routine down, I considered what I could do. Considered what would be a proper punishment for his crimes, a sufficient deterrent.
I read up on pedophiles. Read about treatments. While the therapy sessions sounded very nice and proper, I'd heard enough stories about criminals and their misuse of the psychiatric system. Chemical castration seemed far more effective. Impossible for a teenage girl to pull off, though. So it would have to be true castration. I considered that for a long time, whether the punishment fit the crime, whether preventing future molestation would justify such an extreme measure.
As I studied, fear crept into my gut. The fear that I would be found out, that my dark thoughts would show on my face, in my manner. I imagined my father discovering my notes and my books, and that was almost enough to stop me.
But while I was plotting to castrate a pedophile, my world revolved as it should. My mother alternated between ignoring me and harassing me over imagined misdeeds. My brother just ignored me. My boyfriend still kissed me, still looked into my eyes and mangled misremembered love poems in a vain attempt to get into my pants. My friends still phoned, still sought my company, still told me their secrets. And my father still waited for me, at the station, every day after school. Waited for me to arrive, coffees in hand, and join him in his office, where we'd share our
day before heading home.
If I'd changed, no one noticed.
So I continued to plot. Studied methods. Examined my target's schedule. Came up with a plan. How I would carry it out. Then I closed my books, burned my notes and placed an anonymous pay phone call to the Kitchener police, telling them about the man's voyeuristic habits.
Three months later, he was brought up on fresh charges stemming from surveillance. Justice was served.
And now, in my hands, I held another chance.
I read the article again. Looked at the man's picture.
I could do it. But where would it lead?
Did I want to go there?