When the Bough Breaks Read Free Page A

yet knowing vulnerability. It was a look that said I know this is wrong. Why is this happening to me ? The look wasin every snapshot, on the face of the youngest victim.
    It personified violation.
    It gave me nightmares.
    Hickle had unique access to little children. His wife, a Korean orphan whom he’d met as a GI in Seoul, ran a successful day-care center in affluent Brentwood.
    Kim’s Korner had a solid reputation as one of the best places to leave your children when you had to work or play or just be alone. It had been in business for a decade when the scandal broke, and despite the evidence there were plenty of people who refused to believe that the school had served as a haven for one man’s pedophilic rituals.
    The school had been a cheerful-looking place, occupying a large, two-story house on a quiet residential street not far from UCLA. In its last year, it had cared for over forty children, most of them from affluent families. A large proportion of Kim Hickle’s charges had been very young because she was one of the few day-care operators to accept children not yet toilet-trained.
    The house had a basement—a rarity in earthquake country—and the police spent a considerable amount of time in that damp, cavernous room. They found an old army cot, a refrigerator, a rusty sink and five thousand dollars’ worth of photographic equipment. Particular scrutiny was given to the cot, for it served up a host of fascinating forensic details—hair, blood, sweat and semen.
    The media latched on to the Hickle case with predictable vigor. This was a juicy one that played on everyone’s primal fears, evoking memories of the Cosmic Bogeyman. The evening news featured Kim Hickle fleeing a mob of reporters, hands over face. She protested her ignorance. There was no evidence of her complicity so they closed the school down, took away her license and left it at that. She filed for divorce and departed for parts unknown.
    I had my doubts about her innocence. I’d seen enough of these cases to know that the wives of child molesters often played a role, explicit or covert, in setting up the dirty deed. Usually these were women who found sex and physical intimacy abhorrent, and in order to get out of conjugal chores, they helped find substitute partners for their men. It could be a cold, cruel parody of a harem joke—I’d seen one case where the father had been bedding three of his daughters on a scheduled basis, with mom drawing up the schedule.
    It was also hard to believe that Kim Hickle had been playing Legos with the kids while downstairs Stuart was molesting them. Nevertheless, they let her go.
    Hickle himself was thrown to the wolves. The TV cameras didn’t miss a shot. There were lots of instant mini-specials, filled with interviewswith the more vocal of my colleagues, and several editorials about the rights of children.
    The hoopla lasted two weeks, then the story lost its appeal and was replaced by reports of other atrocities. For there was no lack of nasty stories in L.A. The city spawned ugliness like a predatory insect spewing out blood-hungry larvae.
    I was consulted on the case three weeks after the arrest. It was a back-page story now and someone got to thinking about the victims.
    The victims were going through hell.
    The children woke up screaming in the middle of the night. Toddlers who’d been toilet-trained started to wet and soil themselves. Formerly quiet, well-behaved kids began to hit, kick and bite without provocation. There were lots of stomach aches and ambiguous physical symptoms reported, as well as the classic signs of depression—loss of appetite, listlessness, withdrawal, feelings of worthlessness.
    The parents were racked with guilt and shame, seeing or imagining the accusing glances of family and friends. Husbands and wives turned on each other. Some of them spoiled the victimized children, increasing the youngsters’ insecurity and infuriating the siblings. Later, several brothers and