Free Primal Fear by Brad Boucher

tattered, but some—presumably those that had been hung more recently—stood out as bright and glossy newcomers amid the sea of flesh.  Some of the pages had been applied in layers, four or five thick in some places before the wall behind them could be glimpsed through some tear or fold in the paper.
    He let his eyes wander aimlessly over the immense collection of photographs, taking note that the majority of them seemed harmless enough—the same sort of photo you could tear out of a girlie magazine that any convenience store in the county would sell you over the counter.  There were also a great number of them that had clearly been purchased from an adult bookstore.  These were much more graphic, depicting their subjects in all manner of actual sexual activity.
    Harry was on the verge of wondering aloud how many years it would have taken Marty to amass such a huge collection of images, but the words stuck in his throat.  Because his eye suddenly detected a sudden similarity in all of the photos, a single bit of connective tissue in the wide varieties of positions and activities.
    And he felt his stomach take a nauseating lurch.
    All of the girls in the photos, every last one that he took the time to train his eyes on, had been chosen for a single similar trait: their innocent, youthful appearance.  Small-breasted and thin-hipped, many of the girls had been made up to appear even younger than they obviously were.  Ponytails and barrettes appeared in abundance, girls posing with a gleam of innocent curiosity in their eyes, sometimes clutching teddy bears or sucking on lollipops, but always achieving the same result.  The overall impression of this collage was that each of its subjects was a juvenile; for all intents and purposes, a child.
    But surely they couldn’t be.  For a minor to be photographed in such a manner would be an act of child pornography, and no newsstand magazine in the country would ever dare to stoop that low.  But that certainly didn’t mean they would shy away from suggesting it.
    Harry knew for a fact that many of those same publications made a concerted effort to appeal to every sort of fetishist they could.  An extra touch of make-up to strengthen the illusion of youth was just as much a carefully calculated strategy as a photographer moving his model into an overtly evocative pose.  Such a strategy would fire the reader’s imagination, allowing him to fantasize more easily about whatever sexual act it was that brought him the most pleasure.
    But this . . . this went well beyond harmless.  Harry knew enough about psychology to understand that a collection this massive—and one displayed so prominently, spread out as though to surround its creator—could no longer be considered an outlet of one’s personal preference.  This collage of images spoke of something that was nothing short of an obsession, one whose very subject matter hinted at a very disturbed and possibly dangerous mind.
    He moved towards one of the walls, taking a closer look at a number of the photos.  He couldn’t be sure, but he felt fairly certain that none of them were the real thing.  A good number of them had achieved an impressive level of illusion, but a close look into the model’s face gave away her true age in every picture he took the time to examine. 
    He thought about Ben’s reaction and wondered if his deputy understood that the photos were all just fakes.  The idea of such a depraved obsession was chilling, of course, but surely not horrible enough to send one of his best deputies stumbling from the room.
    He turned to Ben, who was still in the corner by the door, apparently unwilling to re-enter the room.  “What is it?  What’s the matter with—”
    Harry broke off, finally picking up on the direction of Ben’s stare.  It wasn’t the walls themselves that Ben was looking at, it was something beneath the table set up opposite the door.  Harry let his own gaze fall there.
    A number of