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experience as an outreach worker, a first-responder, a foster parent and counselor working with sexually abused or exploited girls, I began to experience re-occurring dreams. At first, the images my sleeping mind conjured-up involved having the perpetrators at my mercy, and I meted out fitting punishment – a beating, clawing at them with my fingernails while hurling verbal abuse -- or worse – scenes that shocked me on waking.

As my experience and expertise in the area grew, and I received referrals to more horrific cases – child victims of sadistic, unspeakable sexual torture; victims of the child sex-slave trade and survivors of long-term infra-familial molestation, these dreams escalated. I’d have a collage of perpetrators parade through my mind, and I’d burst out like Al Pacino in Scarface, (“meet my little friend”) and let loose a deadly barrage, a blood bath. I’d wake up bathed in sweat, screaming, shaking, disturbed to my core at the depth of my rage and hate.

I wasn’t alone in these fantasies. I discussed my distress and concerns relating to my sanity with some of my contacts in law enforcement. Those, like me, on the front line and exposed to the horror; the ones who take the perpetrator away, listen to the sniveling excuses, the babbled rationalizations, sickened by the complete self-absorption that makes it all right to use a child as no more than a thing to gratify a sick libido. And through the entire process of interviews, interrogations and arrest, they are required by law to respect the rights of the degenerate before them, to treat the accused like any other human being and to suppress their emotions, however devastating they may be.

What did they feel? I’ve heard them discuss what they’d like to do – much of it having to do with sharp knives. I’ve seen the toughest of police officers walk out of an interview and into the bathroom to vomit. I’ve watched hard-bitten, long experienced veterans weep. Did they, like me, go home to their own children, sit and watch them sleep and torture themselves with could-be’s and what-if’s?

At some of the child protection conferences I’ve attended, after the dry, professional presentations and discussions, social workers, law enforcement and outreach workers from many lands, many backgrounds, many cultures held informal chats over a drink or a meal, and we shared our inner demons. And over it all lay this constant feeling of guilt, a sense of shame we were not professional enough to stay uninvolved – which is the first rule of this work. Yes, we berated our own humanity.

In spite of our many differences, one thing we all held in common – a question, a riddle, a conundrum – what can be done to control the worst of these scum – the violent, dangerous sex offender, the predator destroying not just mental health, physical well-being, trust, and innocence, but often taking the very life of their victims?