Page 95 of Rage

Finding little of interest in the emails, I go to the file that contains several chat-room logs. Most are written almost solely with emojis, abbreviations, and pseudo acronyms.

I’m NIFOC.

LMIRL

WTTP?

CU46?

WTGP?

It’s almost as if the exchanges are written in code. Curious, I go to my laptop, pull up my search engine, and plug in a few of the acronyms.

NIFOC: I’m naked in front of the computer.

LMIRL: Let’s meet in real life.

WTTP: Want to trade photos.

WTGP: Want to go private.

Even more disturbing are the emojis.

In some circles, a growing heart emoji indicates a minor person is available for sex.

A cherry or cherry blossom emoji indicates a person who is a virgin is looking for sex.

“What the hell were you into?” I murmur as I read on.

The phrase that follows stops me cold.

Sex traffickers use emojis to advertise their services, coordinate operations, and evade detection by law enforcement. Emojis can be used as a coded language to communicate.

I consider everything I know about Samuel Yutzy and Wilma Borntrager. I think about all of the connections that don’t quite connect. The patterns of behavior that aren’t quite patterns. And for the first time, it begins to make sense.

Is it possible Wilma Borntrager was being trafficked for sex? Was she helping to traffic other women? I recall reading that some trafficking victims don’t initially even realize they’re being trafficked. Is it possible Wilma didn’t realize what was happening to her?

The second zip file contains dozens of JPEG files, most of which are photographs of people I don’t recognize. Midway through, I come upon a slew of odd-looking close-ups. At first, I’m not even sure what I’m looking at, but I quickly discern the blue-green tint of tattoo ink on pale flesh. Why would someone photograph a tattoo? I focus on the tattoos. One is of a crown. Another image is that of a red heart affixed to a chain. I see a barcode that’s been tattooed onto what looks like someone’s nape. Another of initials done in an Old English font. I make a mental note to research more in depth and keep going.

The next file contains what looks like screenshots of social media posts. I recognize Wilma Borntrager in some of them. Outwardly, the images look like something a twenty-year-old woman might post on her Instagram account or Facebook page to share with her circle of friends. But the deeper I go, the more obvious it becomes that these photos are not all fun and games. I can’t put my finger on it, but there’s something off. The photos look posed. They look forced. The smiles a little too bright …

I skim through some of the screenshots’ captions:

Check out my new dress. Got it for a steal. Squeal!

Picnic this afternoon with my guy. Rose or sauvignon blanc (or both)?

A photo of three young women, one of whom is Wilma Borntrager, all three raising margarita glasses. Out on the town and on the hunt for 53X!

Another photo of Borntrager. This one taken out of doors. She’s topless and wearing bikini bottoms, her head thrown back as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. The caption reads: All turnt up and lookin’ for Smash!

I’ve just opened another file when my cell chimes. I glance down, see Tomasetti’s name, and snatch it up.

“I’m halfway through the zip files,” I tell him.

“Of course you are.”

“Tomasetti, is it possible we’re dealing with some form of sex trafficking?”