Part I - Chapter 22: THE ICE CREAM MAN

 

 

 

Chapter 22

The Ice Cream Man

(Ó 2007)

 Gregior Divic was nervous and agitated; he believed that he had every reason to be. He paced the floor of the den in his large house located in the wooded area of Riverwoods, Illinois, some 35 miles north of Chicago, with great unease. Now smoking one of the three Camel filter cigarettes that he had lit and burning in separate ashtrays throughout the den. 

The reason for his uneasiness was from the news story being broadcast on the television set, which had on the Nine O’Clock News. It was the top story of the evening, and it had been the only story being reported on now for over fifteen minutes. 

The screen now showed a multitude of people that were congregating in front of a hospital near Northwestern University. The people in this crowd were crying and expressing their anger. The women in the crowd looked shocked, some screaming questions like, “What are they thinking?”, “Why?”, and “How could they do such a thing to him?”

The “him” they were speaking of was Jared Bartholomew; and Jared Bartholomew was one of Gregior’s’ most frequent and highest paying customers. Gregior kept staring at the caption on the bottom of the screen that read in large yellow letters:

JARED BARTHOLOMEW ARRESTED!

 

Gregior went to the bar in the far end of the room and brought down a large bottle of Stolichnaya Vodka, grabbed a tall glass, opened the bottle, took a large swallow from it and then filled the glass halfway up. He then lit a fourth cigarette, stroked his longish blonde hair back, and began to pace the room again, listening and watching to all the different reporters broadcasting this story. He went to the chair behind his desk and sat down hard, then took a large swallow of the vodka and watched the continuing commotion of the unfolding story on the television screen.

A new caption then appeared on the screen that read:

LIVE PRESS CONFERENCE SCHEDULED FOR 9:30 PM

He took a long, deep draw from his cigarette, reached for the remote on his desk and pressed the mute button. The room went quiet, and he then began to feel the warmth of the vodka as it slowly radiated throughout his body. First in his shoulders, then in his chest, then up to his head. He let the vodka do its job and bring some sort of relaxation to him. He took another long swallow of the vodka, and another drag from the cigarette. He sat back in the large, padded leather high backed chair and began to contemplate his situation.

 

He looked around his den and feared that for the first time he really was going to lose everything, not only his material things, but also, his freedom. He would always have the thoughts of this type of scenario come to him every now and then. However, it always seems that when a person’s fear becomes reality, the one “what if” scenario that is never thought of comes about.

His thoughts went back to how it all began for him back in his former homeland, which is always referred to as “the former Yugoslavia”. How as a boy in his preteens, he became involved in the black markets. He worked his way into more profitable illegal activities such as narcotics, receiving and selling stolen merchandise, and even murder for hire. However, there was one way in which to earn his living that he found not only the most profitable for him, bit also, the most enjoyable. That activity was human trafficking.

Although he did continue to do all of the other things to make money, human trafficking was the most profitable, and to him, the safest. He started by luring young girls not only in his former homeland, but also in Russia, Ukraine, and the Baltic States with illusions of grandeur of becoming models and movie stars, only for him, and with the help of certain members of organized crime, would smuggle these girls through Europe, and eventually into the United States.

He eventually himself came to the United States in the mid 1980’s, where, with the help of his business acquaintances in Europe began to manage the smuggling of the women himself. Once he got the girls into America, his true intentions became known. The only part of the “entertainment business” these girls would be involved in was as exotic dancers at “gentlemen’s clubs”, or as “escorts”, and “adult models”. The worst fate though would happen to most girls, the once who resisted the most. They would be sold to some of the most notorious pimps in country and forced into prostitution. These girls were usually “broken in” by local gang members who were friends with, and protectors of these pimps.

Gregior would most always smuggle these girls through the southern border of the United States. He found it easy because of the thousands of illegal immigrants that poured over the border each day. He employed some of the local “coyotes” to bring his “merchandise” over the border along with the other Hispanics who paid them to cross the border.

Gregior would make the trip to the border towns to pick up his merchandise, which he would say was easier to bring in than cocaine and marijuana because you could hide this product out in the open. In addition, with his accent, along with the girls, who’s going to suspect?

It was during these early years that Gregior expanded his “recruiting base” to include parts of Central and South America. It was during this time, with some visits to these countries, that he discovered the most in demand “product” of his chosen profession, that being preteen and adolescent girls. It was mind boggling to him, the demand for these girls, and mostly, the price men, and women, would pay to have them.

It was soon afterwards Gregior discovered something else, something more in demand, and something that would be more expensive to his potential customers. That was preteen and adolescent boys. He discovered that the boys would make him more money than the girls would, so he saw the great potential for him and seized upon on the opportunity.

It did indeed proved to be the most profitable part of his business. He would have his counterparts in Europe bring more and younger girls, and yes, boys into the country. He even had his contacts in Central and South America find them for him. As his business rose, so did his ruthlessness. He would travel about looking at bus terminals, and even just on, the city streets looking for young girls and boys, and if he couldn’t find them there, he would just take them.

He would go to shopping malls, sports stadiums, and even near schools, mostly out of the state, see boys or girls by themselves that he believed had the potential of making him lots of money, would walk right up next to them, and kidnap them.

He started to build a large clientele of patrons in the Chicagoland area. He would only bring his product to these special customers. People with money and power. He would use these children just a few times before he would sell them off to other pimps. Gregior would not worry, he understood that these children would either soon be dead, or too out of the mainstream to even want to be found by their families.

It was Gregior’s reputation of always providing the youngest, freshest, and most pure “product” to his customers that brought about his the nickname of “The Ice Cream Man”, because when he would contact his clients, he would inform them of his new “sweet treats” that he had for them.

The vodka was now flowing all through Gregior’s bloodstream and bringing the feeling of euphoria about him. The tension that was in his arms and neck unraveled. His breathing became slow and deep as relaxation came to him, and his thought process returned to being somewhat organized.

This was all short lived when then sudden sound of his dog, Bodo, a large black and tan Rotweiller, loudly barking from the hallway brought him back to reality.

“Bodo!” He yelled angrily with his Bosnian accent, “Shut de fuk up”

His attention then returned to the television screen where it showed a podium with a microphone. In the upper right hand corner of the screen was the word “LIVE”. The bottom of the screen read the caption:

LIVE PRESS CONFRENCE CONCERNING

JARED BARTHOLOMEW ARREST

Bodo let out a couple more loud barks, and Gregior once again answered back with, “Bodo! Shut up!” He then reached for the remote and pressed the button to raise the volume on the television. In a few seconds he watched as Lieutenant Arthur Hatton of the Kenilworth Police Department walked up briskly to the podium, in his hands were some sheets of paper, which he shuffled and tapped into place neatly in his hands. The room immediately went silent from the previous chatter of the news people in the room. The only sound that was heard shortly was that of the whirring and clicks of the photographers cameras.

“Good evening everyone.” Hatton began, “First of all I need to make a correction, this is not, and I repeat not, a news conference. Rather, I’m going to read to you a statement explaining the events of today. I will not answer any questions from anyone here. Thank you.”

Hatton then put on his reading glasses and cleared his throat. He then drew a long deep sigh through his nose and paused for a moment, a look of bewilderment on his face. “You’ll have to forgive me,” he then said, “It has been a long and strange day.”

Bodo then came into the den and let out a couple of loud barks. He seemed to be barking at the window behind Gregior. “Bodo! Get out! Go back to your place! Now! Go!” He said in a most demanding tone, pointing to the direction of the hallway. Bodo gave a look to his master; it seemed a canine version of frustration. However, Gregior turned his complete attention back to his television screen.

“As you all know,” Gregior heard Lt. Hatton say as he began to read his statement, “We began conducting an interview with Mr. Jared Bartholomew this morning. The purpose of this interview was to investigate the circumstances concerning his attack last week. That attack has left Mr. Bartholomew paralyzed from his shoulders down. During this interview however, Mr. Bartholomew revealed to us some facts about his own behavior, and his life. Let me make clear that these facts and statements were given to us by Mr. Bartholomew by his own free will, with I must add, his attorney present the entire time.”

Hatton then paused; he looked around the room to see that all present were giving him their undivided attention. As Gregior also was as he leaned forward to understand better.

Hatton continued, “Let me just tell you this, what Mr. Bartholomew confessed to us, was again of his own free will. What he confessed to us . . . came to all present in that room as a complete surprise.” Hatton paused once again, let out a sigh, and then continued, “After listening to Mr. Bartholomew’s confession, we had no other choice but as to place him under arrest.”

There was the sudden sound of all the news people in the room as the began shouting out questions, Hatton held his hand up, palm out, and motioned them to be quiet.

“The stem of the charges against Mr. Bartholomew are this, suspicion of child molestation,” with that, the sound of the combination of camera clicks and gasps filled the air, Hatton held his hand up again, “child molestation, taking indecent liberties with minors, child sodomy, sexual assault of a minor under the age of sixteen, and participation in child sex trafficking. More charges are pending.”

A small pandemonium broke out as the news people started to flail questions to the Lieutenant. Hatton just held his hand up once again until everyone in the room returned to somewhat of a calmer state.

“I’m going to have to repeat,” Hatton told them, “We will not answer questions at this time. Reason being, there are other rather delicate circumstances here. There are many people who are going to have to be contacted. This matter is also very complex, and wide spread.” 

A reporter then tried to ask a question, but Hatton shot him a glance that silenced him at the halfway point of the question.

“I’m sorry,” Hatton then continued, “But you all are going to have to be patient, because what I have to add to this will prove the complexity of this whole situation.” Hatton paused as he let his words sink in to the members of the media, when all was calm he then said, “To further complicate matters, as we continued to interview Mr. Bartholomew, and as he further volunteered the information concerning his crimes, Mr. Bartholomew implicated his father, Mitchell Bartholomew. According to the statements of Jared Bartholomew, his father has been an accessory to the fact of his son’s actions, and has even helped finance this behavior. Therefore, Mitchell Bartholomew has also been taken into custody.” 

Bedlam returned to the conference room. Hatton now held up both his hands, when there was enough quiet in the room so that he could be heard, he said, “That is all that I can give you at this time, thank you very much.” The Lieutenant then briskly left the podium, the members of the media were asking a thousand questions at once, but Hatton ignored them, and quickly disappeared from view.

Gregior watched the screen as the reporters continued their barrage of questions towards the Lieutenant and continued to do so even after he was gone. Gregior then reached for the remote on his desk and pressed the mute button, and then silence came to his den. He placed the remote down on his desk gently, placed both his elbows on the desk and placed his face into his palms. He sighed deeply into his hands and massaged his eyes, then his temples. He was deep in his thoughts, trying to access his situation. Going over hundreds of scenarios of what might be coming.

The vodka now was working full force throughout his body, so much that he didn’t notice that Bodo had come into the den. Bodo let out one loud bark that startled him and made him jump back to the reality around him. He felt a sudden burst of anger from being startled, but he looked at his large dog and that quickly subsided. He stood up and stepped over to the Rottweiller and began to gently scratch him behind the ears, and said to him “Bodo . . . is OK . . . you now go back to your place.”

The large dog now knew, by the way his master was speaking to him, that what he sensed outside the house was apparently nothing to worry about. Bodo then did as he was told; he went back to his usual place in the hallway, across from the basement door, to guard it.

Gregior watched as the large animal turned the corner. He heard as Bodo dropped all one hundred twenty pounds of himself on the mat that he rested on while guarding the basement. Gregior then stepped back into his den. He reached for the side of his neck with his right hand and placed his index finger under his collar. There he felt the three neck chains he wore and pulled out the silver beaded chain. This chain did not have any type of medallion or religious medal, but rather a four-sided key. He then stepped over to the bar where he pulled open the top left drawer. He slipped the chain with the key off and around his head. He then reached inside the drawer where there was a secret switch, up and under the countertop. Once it was pressed, the shelf that held the vodka popped slightly open like a door. He pulled the secret door open where against the wall was a safe. It was not a combination type safe, rather it took the key that was worn around Gregior’s neck to unlock it.

Gregior took the key and unlocked the door, he then turn the latch and opened it. Inside there was about $50,000 in cash. This was just a small amount of the huge sum of cash he had hidden elsewhere in his home. What he wanted was resting on the only shelf inside the safe. The top shelf that was only two and a half inches deep from the top of the safe. It was “the Pink Book”, a bright pink binder that had all the names of his “special clients”, the highest paying and most frequent customers for his “special treats.” It had there names, addresses, phone numbers, and notes of each clients “certain tastes.”

Jared Bartholomew’s name was in this book, along with many others like Jared, and his father. CEO’s, politicians, bankers, even high-ranking clergy. He usually used this book to supply the needs of these customers; however, he now was going to use it for his protection. There were many names of many people in the pink book, and none of them would want what Gregior knows of them to become public. For the book also contained information of what customers had paid for their own individual “treats”, along with dates and times.  

 

Gregior went back to his desk and sat down; he glanced up to look at his television to see the muted screen still broadcasting the story of Jared Bartholomew’s arrest. He then opened the Pink Book and thumbed through the pages. He then chose the name of a client that would be the first of many that he would be calling over the next couple of hours, to extort and blackmail them for their help in protecting him from whatever Jared Bartholomew had informed the police of.

He reached over and picked up his telephone, and began to dial the first number - - -

- - - He knew that the dog would sense him and try to warn its master. Dogs are loyal and protective, and are never judgmental of their masters who take care of them. He first saw the dog from a distance when he first commenced with his surveillance of the house. 

He made the first of his mental notes. First obstacle . . . the dog.

He observed the trust and dedication the animal possessed for its master when he was barking his alarm and warnings. When the master calmed him, the dog trusted him enough to believe all was well. 

He stood in the darkness outside of the house, peering through the window, through the sides and the small open slits of the blinds. He watched as the man paced nervously around the room, the man he saw at the gate of the Bartholomew estate just the week prior.

He looked to his wristwatch and felt he had some more time to observe. He watched when the man opened the secret door on the bar and pulled out the large pink binder. That binder must be quite important to be locked away with so much cash right below it he thought to himself. He now observed as the man began to make phone calls, and listened to the contents of the conversations.

He knew that the pink binder now was going the integral part of the mission. He looked to his watch again and decided it was time to leave. He had time; he had plenty of time to plan the strategy. He then stepped away from the window and looked around. He would now leave as he came and took two steps when . . .

 

“What?” He said ever so silently to himself, and froze in his tracks. He reached up with his right hand and placed it on the back of his right ear.

Something. 

Something else. He sensed something else. Something was making him stop. Something . . . just like before. 

There. That muffled sound. He scanned around him, straining to hear.

There . . . he heard it again. It came from below. From the side of the house, and below the ground. He stepped close to the house, he stilled his breathing so that he could hear better.

The muffled sound came again, from a closed window that was at ground level, a basement window. He now heard the muffled sound much better, and he slowly went to lie prone on the ground next to the window. He placed his ear as close to the window as he could without touching it.

The sound was still muffled; however, he could now make out what it was.

It was the muffled sound of voices. 

Children’s voices.