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Beyond a Reasonable Doubt

By: Adrian Leverkuhn



I took the call a little after midnight, and yes, it was a dark and stormy night, but I guess in my line of work they usually are -- in one way or another. Dispatch called just as I ran across an ex-wife in a bad dream, but the sleepy voice on the other end of the line had no way of knowing that, and even if she had, there wasn't a damn thing either of us could have done about it. Sometimes late night calls are just the luck of the draw, some nights you end up in the wrong place at the right time, and everything goes to hell from there. No one's fault, you know what I mean? But still, some calls are like a stone skipping across a pond, they ripple through time. This one sure would.

I slid out of the berth up forward and looked at the puffy-eyed stranger in the mirror, threw on some clean pants and ran my belt through the loops, then hooked my badge over the left front pocket and strapped my old Sig P-220 into the crusty leather shoulder holster a wife had given me twenty years and several divorces ago. Funny how some things from marriages last longer than others, even if the joke turns out to be on you. On second thought, maybe it isn't so funny.

I hopped off the boat -- another consequence of one wife too many -- and walked through the fog-shrouded marina to the car in the parking lot, checked 'in-service' with dispatch and groaned when the light rain turned heavy. As if losing another night's sleep wasn't enough, I'd forgotten my raincoat, something you do in Seattle at your peril. Oh well, it's only water, right? Just like water under the bridge. You live and learn; at least, you're supposed to, anyway.

The windshield wipers beat like drums in a funeral march; lightning rippled inside clouds just overhead, and city streets drizzled by in tired mechanical cadence. My mouth tasted like crud, too, and I'd felt a sore throat coming on last night, but that didn't matter: sick, well, or dead, this was my call and I had to take it. Mine to make or break, to seriously fuck-up, or for whatever I found out there to seriously fuck me up. You just never know, and that's the real fun of police work. Hell, at least the rain was supposed to let up later in the day. But would it? I've heard some rains last forever. That's why there's Prozac, and bourbon.

The address didn't mean a thing to me, neither did the run-down apartment building I parked in front of: both were in a pretty bleak area south of downtown -- an area full of docks and warehouses -- home to a lot of broken dreams and burned out souls. Three squad cars were already parked out front, their red and blue strobes pulsing through the waterfront fog. The frenzied light created strange moving shadows on the walls of this brick canyon, and it was unsettling, even to my jaded eyes. An ambulance was out front, too, and a couple of firemen sat in the brightly lighted back of the box; they looked bored -- tired and bored. Still, those two guys looked as though they were sitting in an island of intense light, and that kind of clarity looked out-of-place here in the lightning and foggy rain. Out-of-place because this part of the city is a land of shadows, and clarity isn't really welcome in the shadowlands. Truth is a painful subject to the down-and-out, a reminder of all the wrong turns some people make along the way to where they are. I guess it can be kind of rough to turn around and everywhere you look you're reminded how far you've fallen. Like that pain in your gut where hunger used to live isn't enough?

A medical examiner's rain-streaked van, dull blue with official looking white letters on it, pulled up behind my old Ford right as I got out of the car; Mary-Jo something-or-other was behind the wheel writing on a clipboard but she looked up and waved at me as I walked by. I nodded and wished I'd worn a hat; no one ever told me when I was growing up that cold rain on a head with three hairs left on top could be such all-consuming fun.

Anyway. Mary-Jo something-or-other and her assistant got out of their van (both wearing rain coats and hats, by the way) and followed me into the building; we made it to an elevator just before the door closed and squeezed in.

"Messy night," her assistant said. "Gonna rain for a week."

"No shit. Welcome to Seattle."

"Hey, Woody, you still on the boat?" Mary-Jo asked.

Funny, but I couldn't remember telling her I lived on the lake, but that's just another one of the joys that go along with white hair and old hemorrhoids, and I'd known Mary-Jo through work for more than a few years. She was cute in a thirty-something kind of way, but the work had taken a heavy toll on her. She'd filled-out a little too much over the last few years, yet she wasn't what I'd call fat, either. She was like everyone I'd ever met on the M.E.'s staff: puffy circles under her eyes, cigarette ashes on her blouse, and the requisite weird sense of humor. Working around dead people does that, I guess. Even so, working around victims of violent crime sucks the humanity from the marrow of your bones and leaves most people pale and dried up. Having worked homicide for fourteen years that's a statement I feel I can make with some authority. You just don't get used to some things.

And these cheap apartment buildings are all the same, too: rickety old elevators spit you out into dingy, dimly lit hallways, and why the hell are the ceilings so goddamn low in these shit holes? Virgil's "Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here" should be carved in stone over the entry to these hovels, because that's exactly what happens to the poor souls living in them. And man, did it feel that way now, looking down to the open door at the end of the hall. The walls even smelled like this was a place people came to die, to give up and drop dead on the floor, even if it took them years to get around to it. This was a world of frayed carpets, of peeling, cracked linoleum, and of bare light-bulbs hanging from broken fixtures -- like the necks of old men after a trip to the gallows. If I had to write building code violations for a living, I could have made this place into a career.

Still, the essential truth of places like this is simple: nobody cares whether you live or die. All you need to do is make rent and everyone will leave you alone. That's just the way it is when you live in the shadows: life is all the shit that happens to you before you die.

Up on that third floor it was the same story: dim grunge everywhere you looked, haunted eyes looking out through cracked doors, maybe a little curiosity -- but a whole lot of fear. Just ahead, down there in the gloom, I could see the door to Apartment 333 stood wide open, and I saw the indirect light of a camera flash pop off -- so someone from forensics was already up here, photographing the scene. A patrolman stood outside the door looking bored, because, I guess, some things never change. A couple of nervous neighbors had gathered in the gloom across the hall and were hopping around like birds in a cage, but there was no place to fly to now, and they knew it. Life had trapped them and now held them fast to their despair.

I walked past the patrolman and into the room and -- stopped dead in my tracks.

The victim was a middle-aged man and he was a shattered wreck; the sight of so much blood still got to me. The M.E.'s assistant walked-in -- but turned away, too late. I watched him stagger back, watched as he flashed hash all over the hallway; within seconds the poor guy fled to the safety of the elevator, retching as he went.

"Fuck a duck," Mary Jo said quietly.

"I don't think so, Ma'am," I said in my best Joe Friday. "No duck did this."

The guy was sprawled out on the living room floor, the worn green carpet under him had been unable to absorb all the blood there, and vast pools of it had already coagulated under his head and torso. His throat had been cut and he'd been stabbed in the chest and belly too many times to count, and for good measure his penis had been cut off and stuck in his mouth.

"Jealous wife?" Mary-Jo said as she bent down beside the guy.

"Or boyfriend," one of the techs from forensics said.

I bent down to have a closer look, saw something odd under the blood on the guy's belly.

"Somebody get me a wad of four-by-fours and some saline."

A paramedic brought me a wad of gauze pads and a one liter bottle; and I popped the cap and poured a little on the guy's stomach right below his sternum, then I wiped away the coagulated mess and just had to shake my head at the sight.

"What does it say?" Mary-Jo asked, looking over my shoulder.

"Love me," I said absently. Whoever had killed the guy had taken something really sharp and carved the two words into his flesh, even taken time to underline them with a nice, bold slash.

"Well, sometimes love hurts, I guess," Mary-Jo chuckled.

See, I told you working around dead people sucks.

Mary-Jo had her tackle box open and was taking samples from under his fingernails a minute later when I saw something in his hair.

"Better take a look here," I said.

She came up, her gloved fingers sifting through the victim's hair: "Semen?" she thought out loud.

"Well, I sure ain't gonna smell it! Tell you what? Why not take a sample and do some of that science shit and tell me just what the fuck it is? Okay?"

She chuckled: "Maybe he shot his load all the way up here..."

I rolled my eyes: "Mary-Jo? You need to get your fat ass laid. Bad."

"You volunteering, Woody?" she said as she removed some of the stuff with a sterile swab. She held it up and looked at the gunk in with a UV light, then put it in a vial, before turning around and saying: "Cause, ya know, I swallow..."

I just had to get away from her then. Even the dude from forensics stepped back and looked at her all wide-eyed. I didn't quite know what to say. Neither did he. Mary-Jo just laughed and laughed, before she looked at me and licked her lips.

+++++

I was in the bedroom poking around, trying to make sense of this senseless crime scene. There were ligature marks on the guy's wrists and ankles, and a few deep, small cuts inside his thighs -- like the victim had been tortured before he was killed -- and the things I'd seen so far just weren't adding up to a routine murder. The evidence was contradictory. Tied-up but no signs of a struggle? So had this thing started out consensually? And if that was the case, then this had to have been some kind of sexual encounter. A paid encounter? Some kind of hooker?

The evidence said some of the wounds might have been the result of aggressive -- if consensual -- foreplay, before things went way south anyway, so the guy probably didn't really know his assailant all that well. But what if he had? Then he didn't know the perp well enough to have trusted her (or yeah, him) with his life. Probably, but then again, what if he had? But then, there was the explosive nature of the wounds on his torso, the penis stuffed in his mouth, the carved words on the guy's gut...and those added up to evidence of pure rage. The murderer, or even murderers, were uncontrolled or consumed with blinding rage at this point, either wild with rage or completely off-the-wall in some sort of frenzied lust.

Then there were the basic questions. Was the 'perp' a woman? Some kind of 'Gay' encounter? Maybe a threesome, some kind of 'bi' thing gone wrong? Envy? Jealousy? Still, without much to go on, I was grabbing at straws now, because there just wasn't enough evidence.

"Yo! Woody!" Mary-Jo called out from the living room. "Better come take a look at this."

What else was I missing? I looked at the bed again before I turned to the living room.

"What you got?"

"Semen. All over the external anus."

"Swell."

"We'll have to wait until autopsy," she said as I bent over to take a look, "to sample what's inside."

"Peachy. Can't wait."

"Woody? You ain't going all soft on us down there, are you?"

The woman was merciless, just annoying, and merciless. Hell, it would probably be a month before my poor dick would get up again after seeing her smile while shining a light up that guy's ass. "You know, M-J, if I have to listen to anymore of your shit I'm going to go somewhere and join an order. Maybe the Benedictines."

"Yeah, sure thing Woody. You'll get all you want there!"

"You're a twisted bitch, you know that, don't you?"

"Yeah, ain't that the truth? But I know you still love me."

I looked at the words carved on the guy's belly and shook my head, then walked back into the bedroom with my back to her laughter. "Very punny," I said over my shoulder as I disappeared around a corner.

I went back to the bedroom again and poked around the head of the bed; a pillow was stained and still wet with what looked like some sort of clear fluid, and not semen from what I could smell. Urine? There was a length of discarded rope on the floor, and in the corner a pair of pantyhose: "Johannsen! Did you get these yet?" I called out to the photographer shooting in the bathroom.

"What? The rope and stuff?"

"Yeah. The pantyhose. Did you get those?"

"Yeah. You ready for me to beg 'em?"

"Let the M.E. have 'em, see if they can get some hair or fluid. Maybe we'll get some DNA."

"You got something in there for me, Woody?" Mary-Jo asked suggestively as she came into the room. There are days when I wish my last name wasn't Woodward, and this was one of them. When I heard Johannsen snickering in the bathroom I'd have gladly settled for Smith. I guess I should be grateful my folks didn't name me Richard. Dick Woody. Yeah. That would have been just the thing on a night like that.

+++++

The sun was coming up, the rain had tapered to a drizzle and paramedics were loading the stiff's body in the ambulance; Mary Jo's assistant would ride in back with the body to the lab, then get it logged-in for autopsy. Forensics had a pile of evidence to log-in at Central and I had a headache -- like I'd just come out of a bad movie. I rubbed my eyes while Mary-Jo joked with one of the patrolmen, then groaned when I saw her headed my way. I rolled down my window as she walked up.

"You hungry?" she said.

"You're like, kidding, right?"

"No, not at all. Seeing a guy's severed cock stuffed in his mouth always makes me hungry."

"Brings out the man-eater in you, does it?"

She looked down at that. "Woody, I need to ask you something. Some serious shit."

"I could use some coffee," I said, nodding. "If you'll stop with all the creepy jokes for a while."

"Right. Pike Place?"

"Sure. Starbucks? The alley? There ought to be a place to park on Pine or Stewart this early in the morning. Oh, and be sure to park that heap in front of a good restaurant. Good PR. Know they'll thank you for it."

"Gee, Woody -- that's nice," she said, looking at her Medical Examiner's van. "And you call me creepy?"

I beat her there, made my way to Post Alley and followed the scent of roasting beans and got a table; rain had given way to fast-scudding clouds over the sound, and now the tops of the Olympics were all aglow in the sunrise.

Cool, clean air, roasting coffee, fresh pastry...life suddenly felt good again, and Mary-Jo showed up a few minutes later and I got a couple of two-liter quadruple-shot espressos. Nothing like a slight buzz to start the day, I always say.

"Geesh, I didn't know they made 'em this big," she said while she stared at the cup, daunted.

"Oh, sure. Gets the main pump throbbing."

"Really? My guess is your heart's going to explode one of these days." She looked nervous, like she didn't know how to say what she had to say.

"You know, I find it best to just spit it out, M-J."

"What?"

"You said you had a question. Some serious shit, I think you said."

"I got divorced, you know," she began, "a few years back..."

"Well no, M-J, I didn't know that. In fact, just to set the record straight, I'm pretty sure I didn't know you were married. Come to think of it, I don't even know your last name."

"What? Oh, shit," she said as she laughed. "Right. Kopecki. Maria Josephina Kopecki."

I held out my hand: "Ed Woodward. Nice to meet you."

"I'm sorry," she continued, "I just took it for granted, ya know, having worked around you all this time..."

"No problem."

"Well, see, I've been trying to hook up with someone for a while, like, through the internet. Well, see, I did, sort of, but it didn't really work out. Turns out the guy, the last one, was kind of creepy. I mean really creepy."

"Is that, like, 'really, really creepy'?"

"Don't make fun of me, alright?"

"Yeah. Sorry."

"Right, well, see, the problem is, the guy is a cop."

"Uh-huh. Define creepy."

"Well, see, he wanted to meet the first time at this club. A swingers' club."

"And?"

"Yeah, well, I did, see, and he had already hooked up with another couple by the time I got there. He wanted to go back to their place and I don't know why, but, well, see, I did."

"Really? Why?"

She looked down, just shrugged. "I dunno," was all she could say but it looked a little like an act to me.

"So, what's the problem?"

"Well, the guy has shown up a couple of times, like, see, at things where I was."

"Things?"

"Clubs."

"Clubs? You mean like..."

"Yeah, swingers' clubs."

"This is, well, see, your thing, then?" I was trying my damnedest not to laugh, or even smile for that matter, but the stupidity of young people sometimes leaves me breathless. And if she said 'well, see' one more time I was going to have to hurt her.

"I've done it a few times, yeah." She was speaking quietly now, very self-consciously. "It's fun."

"Yeah, well, whatever floats your boat."

"Well, see, I wasn't sure if he was following me, or if it was just a coincidence..."

"Well, see, I'm still not seeing the big problem?"

"Well, see, he's got a big tattoo on his chest. 'Love me.' That's what it says."

Now she had my attention. "Uh-huh. What's his name?" I asked as I took a notepad out of my shirt pocket.

"I don't know for sure."

"Oh?"

"Well, see, like I only know his internet address and his screen name."

"And how do you know he's a cop?"

"He, like, told me so."

"Uh-huh. Did he like show you a badge or anything?"

"No," she said.

Sometimes I wonder how people so fucking stupid could possibly live long enough to reproduce. Then again, maybe more than a few don't. "Can you describe him?"

"Tall. Six feet, maybe a little more. Not fat but like really buff..."

"Buff?"

"Muscular. Like a weight-lifter."

"How old?"

"Late-forties, maybe fifty. Red hair and freckles. You know, he's got like a faint scar on his right cheek."

She had just described Mark Tottenham, one of the department's assistant chiefs; Tottenham had been in charge of Internal Affairs for years, and while I'd heard rumors he was flaky, this was off the charts.

"Got an email address?"

She gave it to me.

"When's the last time you saw the guy?"

"Night before last."

I looked over my glasses at her, tried not to judge the kid too unkindly. "I'll see what I can find out. Where can I get in touch?" She gave me a number.

"Thanks, Woody. Maybe I could buy you dinner?"

"Yeah. Maybe." I flipped my notebook over and made a few more notes then put it away. "Well, see, like I got to go now. Do like some cop-like shit. I'll give you a call this afternoon." I made my way to the Ford, felt a little sick to my stomach. I checked in with dispatch, then made my way over to Tate's office.

Richard Tate had been a detective for almost thirty years; now he was doing the PI gig, doing sensitive background checks for corporations and taking photographs of cheating spouses. I wanted him to run down the internet stuff for me as I didn't want any traces of a search on department computers, or my private one for that matter. I gave him the run-down on what Mary-Jo had told me and he whistled, leaned back in a squeaky leather chair.


Beyond a Reasonable Doubt



"You ain't gonna believe this," he said, "but this ain't the first time Tottenham has been in the shits for something like this. The tattoo thing, the wife-swapping shit; he's been into some pretty creepy shit over the years. He supposedly likes, or used to, anyway, to rough-up girls."

"What about guys?"

"Guys? What do you mean?"

I told him about the murder scene this morning and he whistled again. "No shit, Woody?"

"That's a fact. No shit. But maybe a little piss, however."

"Crap. I can get a friend in Tacoma to run down the IP. Can you get a picture of Tottenham to show to the girl? Just to confirm things?"

"I dunno. Might be better to get someone outside the department. Maybe a reporter," I said, grinning.

"Are you kidding?" he said. "Then what? They'd want some inside angle or some other tit-for-tat, or fuck, they could get hold of something you'd missed and then what the hell would you do?!"

"Fuck, I don't know, Tate. I'm tired, been up too GD long."

"Alright, alright; I'll take care of it." He steepled his hands over his chest and sighed. "Shit, it's probably nothing anyway. No telling how many people have that tattoo."

I nodded. "Yeah. Who knows? It couldn't be that common, could it?"

+++++

I drove back to Central and went up to my office in CID, called dispatch, asked them to run-off the NCIC print-outs I'd called in earlier. I wanted to know more about the background of the victim, but turns out I wasn't ready for what came next.

"He's clean, Woody," Trisha Wickham told me. "You wouldn't believe how clean."

"What do you mean?"

"He's FBI. White-collar crime unit, computer crime. Talked to the SAC; he filled me in. The guy was as clean as they come, too; fifteen year veteran. Wife and two kids."

"Shit. Anyone told the family yet?"

"Nope. SAC wanted to talk to you first."

"Got a number handy?" She read it off to me. "Thanks, Trish. Appreciate it."

"Woody?"

"Yeah?"

"This doesn't feel right. Be careful, okay?"

She hung up before I could ask what she meant.

Just what the fuck was going on?

+++++

Peter Brennan was the Special Agent in Charge of SeaTac FBI; I'd known him for years and he was a straight-shooter, a no nonsense, old school kind of Irish-American cop. He was waiting for my call.

"Woody, what can you tell me? Any suspects?"

I gave him the basics but left out a bunch of details. "Hell, Pete, we haven't confirmed anything yet, don't even have the fingerprints processed yet. Was your boy supposed to come in this morning?"

"Yeah. He's a no show, his wife said he went out early last evening on a call and never came back. She called in about six-thirty this morning, worried."

"Sounds about right."

"Yeah. Anything else you can tell me, Woody?"

"Let me pull the prints and I'll run 'em over in a bit. Got any time this morning?"

"I'll make time."

"Okay, Pete. Seeya later." I hung up, walked down to the locker room and picked-up my mail, then dropped by dispatch to pick up the NCIC and DL print-outs that would have to be attached to my preliminary report. Trish was not there so I turned and walked back to the elevator. Tottenham walked into to the elevator right after I did.

"Hey Woody, how's it going?"

"Fine, Chief. You?"

"Can't complain. You still livin' on the boat?"

I laughed to avoid the question. "Well, it worked for a while but it got real small real quick."

"I can imagine. Brennan called me a while ago. You got the case?"

"Yessir."

"Any leads?"

"Not a thing, Chief." The elevator binged and the door opened.

"Well, keep me posted."

"Right, Chief."

"Seeya later."

"You bet."

The door closed and lurched up to the next floor; I walked to my office and got my coat, then called forensics and told them to fax a copy of the fingerprints to Brennan. My other line lit up and I took the call: it was Dick Tate.

"Hey Woody! Long time no see, amigo. Wondered if you'd like to have lunch and swap lies."

"Hey there yourself! What the hell have you been up to? You still chasin' lyin' husbands and cheatin' wives?"

"Only when I'm not screwing their wives!"

"Yeah. Ain't Viagra a wonderful thing?" We laughed. "Listen, I have to drop by and see Pete Brennan for a minute, but how 'bout I meet you for a bowl of chowder at Betty Lincoln's?"

"Be good; like old times. Say about noon?"

"That'll be fine."

"Okay, buddy. Can't wait. Be good to catch up on things." He hung up; I'd managed to tell him of FBI interest in the case and told him to meet me near Ballard Locks, and he'd told me he had something important to discuss. Hopefully, if anyone was monitoring the line they'd not get too suspicious.

I drove over to the main FBI office by the Wa-Mu building and talked with Brennan; he told me they'd handle the notification and I thanked him.

"Any leads?" he asked.

"Nothing solid yet. I'll let you know as soon as something breaks. I assume you'll start your own investigation?"

"Already have."

I nodded. "You got a private number?"

He squinted, sat down and wrote out two numbers: "The first is unlisted, anytime. The second is my home number."

"Understood."

"You got something?" he asked.

"I need to confirm a few things, probably know something in the morning."

He nodded. "You need me, just call."

"Pete, if I need you it'll be too goddamn late to call."

"That bad?"

"Worse."

"You sure you don't want to fill me in?"

"In the morning."

"Okay."

"Pete?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't put a tail on me, okay? I'm expecting someone to try and I don't want you to run 'em off."

"Fuck."

"Promise, Pete?"

He stood, held his hand out. "Scout's honor, Woody."

I smiled. Like I said, Pete was 'good cop'.

I drove down to my boat on Lake Union and put the Zodiac in the water, then took off toward the locks. So far I hadn't seen anyone on my tail, either on the ground or in the air.

Tate was standing on a dock about a hundred yards shy of the locks and I pulled over and he hopped on; if anyone had followed him they'd have to hustle to follow us now -- but he hadn't seen a thing either. I puttered over to the south side of the channel and we both watched the shore as we trolled along.

"Victim was an FBI agent, supposedly clean."

"His name Dan Harvey?" Tate asked.

"Yeah. How'd you find that out?"

"The IP for Mary-Jo's contact. It's Tottenham alright, and there's been a lot of activity between him and this Harvey fellow over the past few months. A lot of meets at a code name, some place they refer to as the Hole in the Wall."

"My. How original."

"So Harvey was FBI, huh?"

"Yeah, and supposedly clean. White collar crime."

"Think maybe he got onto someone, maybe Mark?"

"Possible, but I doubt it. Why all the contact?"

"Maybe they were working a joint task force? Undercover?"

"That's a stretch. Ran into Mark this morning; he didn't let on he knew the guy. Any luck on a photo?"

"Yeah. Pulled one off the net, from the Post-Intelligencer; about a year old, so it ought to do."

"Good deal."

"So Mark knew the guy and didn't own up to it? And the tattoo? You think the girl might know the name of the club?"

"It's a good bet. Yeah, I think she will, but she's a little weird."

"Say, you think we could grab a bowl while we're out?"

"Yeah. You know, that actually sounds pretty good." I upped the throttle and scooted up channel toward Fisherman's Terminal and tied-off below Chinook's. With any luck we'd missed the lunch crowd; we got lucky and sat way back from the entrance, looking out on the fishing boats; from here Tate covered the entrance and I watched the dock. We ordered clam chowder and coffee and had just begun to relax when Dick sat upright and coughed attention.

"Tottenham," he said under his breath. "At the desk, trying not to look this way."

"Fuck."

"What have you gotten into, Woody?"

"Your guess is as good as mine?"

"Well, here he comes..."

The waitress came by and dropped off two huge bowls of chowder and some Tabasco.

"Damn, that looks good!" Tottenham said when he got close. "Tate! What are you doing here? Where's your Nikon?"

I turned and looked up at Tottenham.

"Sheesh! Well, looky who's here!" Tate said

"Hey Chief," said yours truly, feigning surprise.

"Shit. This is like old times, huh?"

"You alone, Mark?" Dick asked. "Wanna join us?"

"Kind of you to ask, but no. I'm meeting Pete Brennan, should be here any minute."

My heart lurched.

"Well, good to see you Dick. Woody, check in with me this afternoon, would you?"

"Right Chief."

Brennan walked in and they took a table across the huge restaurant from us.

"I think I've lost my appetite," Tate said.

"At these prices? Better go find it, and fast."

He laughed. "Too bad you're on duty."

"Ain't that the fuckin' truth. Nothing like a cold one with chowder."

"So. What the fuck do you think's going on?"

"Damn, I have no idea. Maybe Harvey found something on Tottenham, or maybe they were just into the same shit and they met up with Cruella de Vil in that apartment. Anyway, I asked Pete not to throw a tail on me. I don't think he was lying when he said he wouldn't."

"Really? I wouldn't count on that. Well anyway, Woody, you're missing something. Something big. Why the hell would Tottenham and Brennan both be here? Right now? I hate to say it, but it sure feels like someone's following you."

"Us," I said.

"Right. Us." He coughed, looked over at Brennan. "Thanks, I think."

"Don't matter. Food's good, sun's out... what else is there?"

"I guess so, Woody." He shook his head at that, and I really couldn't blame him for feeling put-upon. "You'd better think about lining something up with the girl soon."

"Yeah. You working anything major right now?"

"Nope. Not even anything minor."

"Things that slow?"

"Slower. In a recession nobody gives a damn if their spouse is cheating 'cause nobody has any money. I'd sure hate to be a divorce lawyer these days."

"No, no you wouldn't. I can guarantee you they've made enough off me the last twenty years to keep themselves in Gucci loafers the rest of their goddamn lives." We laughed, but we'd both been there and done that. Most cops have, and I guess that's why most cops grow old by themselves. Bitter and cynical doesn't even begin to describe it.

We finished up and paid the bill, Dick went over to say 'bye to Tottenham and Brennan while I washed up, then we hopped into the Zodiac and continued up channel to the lake and my boat. The shore was lined with boat dealers and houseboats, and even Tate wanted to linger and look over the little floating shack where they filmed "Sleepless in Seattle."

Whoever it was tailing us was doing a good job, because neither of us picked up anything until I turned into the little marina where I kept my boat -- and even then he was hard to see. Standing up on the second deck of a parking garage overlooking the lake we saw a man with binoculars and a walkie-talkie watching us; he looked away when we looked at him.

"Dark suit," Tate said.

"Sunglasses," I said.

"FBI," we both said. It was an old joke.

"Yeah, but pretty good anyway," Tate said, then we laughed.

"Why would they be watching us?" I said, thinking out loud. "I mean, we're not suspects?"

"Wanna follow you, I guess; see where you lead 'em?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe? What else?"

"Keep us from getting too close to something."

"Woody? You're getting paranoid."

"Damn straight. I just hope I'm getting paranoid enough."

"Amen to that, Brother."

+++++

I dropped Tate off by the locks as the sun dropped behind some clouds; the plan was for him to fall way behind me on an agreed-upon route and see who was tailing me. I took my phone out and clipped it to my shirt pocket, hooked up a hands-free headset and took off down Market Street, then turned right on 15th Avenue and crossed Ballard Bridge.

The phone chirped and I looked at the screen. Dispatch.

"Woodward," I said when I answered.

"Detective, there's an urgent call for you from the Medical Examiner's office."

"Gimme the number." I scribbled the info on a pad and hung up. The phone chirped immediately.

"Yeah?"

"Two cars. Fed plates, and I'm pretty sure there's one on me too."

"Right. Go to the barn."

There was no way to beat this kind of operation; too many resources had been allotted -- and that, really, told me all I needed to know. The FBI had been running some kind of ops; Special Agent Harvey had been made and neutralized. Now, the question was: what role was Tottenham playing, and what did Brennan know, or not know?

I drove back to the lake along Mercer, wound around to Westlake and pulled into the MarinaMart lot and locked the car; I stopped at the pay phone outside the gate and called the MEs office. Mary-Jo picked up on the first ring:

"You alright?" I asked her.

"Yeah. You know the identity of the guy yet?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. So do I."

"What about the stuff you found inside the back door?"

"His property."

"Right. Want some dinner?"

"Sure."

"Ray's Boathouse, Shilshole. Eight o'clock."

"Okay."

"And you'll be followed."

"Okay." She sounded pretty uncomfortable now. There was a little quiver in her voice when she continued: "You too?"

"All day. I'll fill you in at dinner." I hung up, took out my mag-key and held it up to the gate; it buzzed open and I walked though, then turned when I heard cars pulling in. Two black Fords slipped into the lot and parked near mine; I thought I might as well wait for Tate and he pulled in a few minutes later - trailing his own duo of Fords. Tate got out and surprisingly all the other feds did too -- Brennan in the lead. As Tate walked my way the entourage did as well. I stood by the gate and held it open, watched as they filed past silently -- and there was something almost comical in their uniformity -- like every black suit and all the Ray-Bans in the Pacific Northwest had been scooped up by FBI agents, and here they were now, my very own parade of Men in Black.

I walked past them and hopped on board the boat -- Brennan and one other agent I didn't know followed me on board, and Tate brought up the rear; we went down below and I put on coffee.

"Why'd you have to bring him in?" the unknown agent said, pointing at Tate.

I looked at the man and took in his smug swagger, his pompadour hair, then looked at Pete Brennan: "Don't y'all still administer a test that measures the stupidity of your applicants?"

Brennan laughed; Pompadour bristled.

"Look, Woodward," Pompadour said, "its hard enough keeping a lid on things without you, well, without you bringing in every broken down old cop in Seattle."

"I guess you don't plan on getting old?" I said. "Does that about sum it up, asshole?"

Pompadour huffed-up, stepped toward me. "Sit down, Rollins," Brennan commanded. Pompadour sat, just like any other well-trained Doberman, but he kept his eyes locked on mine.

"I thought you weren't going to throw a tail on me, Pete?"

"I didn't know you were bringing in reinforcements."

I nodded. "Hard to know who you can trust; I'm sure you understand."

Pete scowled. "Did you get the ME's report yet?"

"Nope." He handed me a copy.

"Read it."

I read it. The conclusions were pretty freaky. "Someone dosed him with Viagra?"

"Yeah. He might have been unconscious, by the time they killed him, anyway. Apparently some people can pop a woody, even in their sleep." Pompadour laughed at the pun, I flipped him the bird. "Best guess is they jacked him off, then shot him up with potassium, caused a massive heart attack."

"They didn't find any..."

"No, it doesn't hang around too long... not much of a half-life. But there are a couple of puncture wounds consistent with an injection site..."

"Insulin?"

"Fuck, are you kidding?" Brennan said.

"Had to ask."

"Anyway, I hope he was out. Before they did that to him. Would freak anyone out, you know?"

I shrugged. "Okay Pete, why were you with Tottenham this morning?"

"He called, wanted to meet."

"And?"

"And nothing. He didn't even mention the case. Wanted to talk about some Homeland Security shit."

"You know about the tattoo on his chest?"

"What... no?"

"Says 'Love Me', right there in red and blue, right across his heart."

"Fuck."

"No shit, Sherlock." Pompadour, on hearing that little tidbit, turned vivid white on us. "Know any people in your office with something similar?" Both men shook their head.

"So, there's no tail on Mark," Tate stated, a dour look on his face. "That's fucking great. A roman legion on our ass and not one on the prime suspect. Perfect."

"Hey, not our fault," Pompadour said. "You kept us out of the loop, remember?"

"I have a hunch," I interrupted, "that we're dealing with a club of some sort. There may well be a lot of guys with that tattoo. Anyway, I hate jumping to conclusions."

"Right," Brennan said. I could tell he was still holding back. Who the fuck was this clown he'd brought with him?

"So, what's your interest in the case, other than losing an agent?"

"Sorry," Pompadour said. "Need to know basis only."

"So, let me get this straight, so I'm crystal clear. You think I don't need to know?"

"No. Not yet, anyway."

I looked at Brennan. He shrugged, said not one word, and didn't even bother to look apologetic.

"Fine," I said. "That's just fucking fine."

"Your tax dollars at work," Tate said, shaking his head.

"When are you meeting the girl from the MEs office?" Pete said.

"What? Don't you know already?" Tate shot back.

"There's a limit to what we can do, Bucko. You know? Congress? Surveillance courts, all that shit?"

"Doesn't seem to have stopped you guys much lately," Dick fired back.

Brennan's face was a blank mask: "So anyway," he said, "we're not monitoring phones."

"You going to drop the tail?"

"No. Not unless you'll wear a wire and a locator."

"No way. Not yet."

"Then we'll be around."

"So, why this meet?"

"Just don't try to shake us, alright," Pompadour said. "Waste of time; anyway, your field-craft sucks."

"Bet you didn't know your mother gave me a blowjob after lunch," Tate chimed in. "She's coming back for seconds in a half hour."

Pompadour fumed, stomped up the companionway ladder and jumped off the boat.

"Nice, Tate. Real class," Brennan said sarcastically. "Alright, the low-down is this: we're going to be on you, that's the point of this meet. Don't try to drop the tail."

"Why, Pete? What are you saying?"

"Just listen to me, Woodward. Don't think. Just listen. Act like you don't know or don't care, your choice, but don't shake the guys on your six."

"I don't like it, Woody," Tate interjected. "Not one fucking bit."

"I don't care, Dick. I'm perfectly happy to lock you up for a few days if you won't play ball."

I got it then. Pete's reasoning was clear. "Okay, Pete. I got it."

He looked at me, relieved. "Be careful, Woody. I mean it."

"I hear you."

He tromped up the steps and all of the Feds trooped off behind him.

"Okay," Tate said, "what am I missing?"

"We're the bait, the tethered goat."

"Oh, shit."

"I couldn't have said it better."

+++++

I looked at my watch: a little after three.

"Better call Tottenham now," I said as I fished out my phone. I called dispatch, they transferred me.

"Chief? Woodward."

"Woody! How was ole Richard doing? Is he getting along well?"

"Not much business, he says. Barely making ends meet." Tate flipped me the bird.

"Oh really? Too bad. Well, pensions don't make up for sloppy retirement planning."

"No sir, they sure don't."

"Do you have the medical examiner's report on the FBI guy?"

"I've got to go over and pick it up, sir."

"Oh? Well, fine, fine. Keep me posted on this, would you? Pete seemed pretty bent about it at lunch."




Beyond a Reasonable Doubt



"Will do, sir." With that, the line went dead.

"You gonna meet the girl?" Tate asked.

"Yeah. Eight. At Ray's." I shook my head. "Guess what they talked about at lunch?"

"Yeah. One lie leads to another. Always does." He grinned. "So, Shilshole for dinner?"

"Yeah."

"You're gonna put on ten pounds today."

I looked down at my stomach. It was still flat -- except when I sat.

"I gotta take a nap," I said. "Been up for two days."

"Okay if I sit here?"

"Sure." I went forward and crawled in my bunk; I think I was out before my head hit the pillow.

+++++

Someone was shaking me, shaking me from somewhere far away.

I opened my eyes. "Fuck," I think I said.

"What?"

"I said fuck. As in, 'why is that whenever someone wakes me up it's not an insanely gorgeous redhead wanting to sit on my face.'"

"Ah. Yeah, I pretty much have the same problem. It's called getting old, Dickweed."

I sat up, rubbed my eyes. They burned, burned like someone had thrown acid in them. I reached over and grabbed some eyedrops, asked Tate what time it was while I struggled to put them in.

"Six-thirty. You got time to take a bath."

"Thanks. What have you been up to?"

"Looking through your porn stash."

"Hah-hah."

"I was reading a book. 'Cruising in Serrafyn,' by a couple named Pardey. Pretty cool stuff."

"Yeah, I met 'em at the boat show a couple years back. Nice people."

"Well, I get it now. The boat thing."

"Right. Well..."

"Oh, shit, excuse me..."

I shut the head door behind him and hopped in the shower, looked in the steamed up mirror when I got out and freaked when I saw that stranger in there again. Man, getting old hurts in all the wrong places.

We locked the boat and went up to the parking lot; the black Fords were nowhere to be seen. Spooky.

"Okay. You sure you don't want to come?"

"No. I'm gonna go home. Got to feed my cat, commune with some Hustler magazines for a while."

I laughed. "As long as you keep the two activities separate!"

"That's just gross, Woody."

"Well, it's nice to know you're still getting some pussy."

He stared at me, then shook his head. "You need to get out more."

"Hey, where do ya think I'm going?"

"This ain't a date, Woody. Don't forget that. Anyway, she sounds like damaged goods to me."

I nodded. "Probably right."

"I'll keep my phone on," Tate said.

"Right. Be careful."

"You too."

We got in our cars and I took off toward the bridge, then retraced my earlier route out past the locks and pulled into Ray's. The lot was nowhere close to full; I wondered where the Feds were, and I was worried about Tate...

Mary-Jo pulled into the lot and parked; I got out and walked over, opened her door and helped her out. She'd gotten dressed for the occasion -- my khakis and boat shoes were a little shabby next to her rig. I held out my arm and she slipped hers in mine and we walked in, checked-in and went to the bar.

"You look fantastic," I told her. And the truth of the matter was she really did look great. In fact, she didn't look anything like she had earlier that morning: her hair was down now, her face was made-up discreetly, the dress... well, classy described it well. Black, low-cut in front, and her legs were simply stunning -- and there was a lot to see, too; I felt myself responding to her before I knew what was happening. We ordered drinks and looked out over the Sound -- a ferry was making it's way across the water to Bainbridge Island. The snow-capped Olympics across the Sound lay beyond the ferry, and I suddenly wanted to get away from all the ugliness in this world and leave it all behind -- while I still could.

"What are you thinking about?" Mary-Jo asked.

"Out there," I said, pointing.

"What about it?"

"I think I'm ready to retire."

"What? Out there?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, right. The boat."

"So, have a look at this." I pulled out the image of Tottenham and handed it over; she unfolded the paper and looked at it for a split second then folded it back up and gave it back. "Is that him?"

"Yup."

"What can you tell me about the club? Where you two met?"

"He called it the Hole in the Wall, but it doesn't have a name on it. Anywhere. It's a red brick building over on Leary."

"By the docks?"

"Yeah. I don't know the address but I could take you there, show you where it is."

I nodded. "Tell me about the people there."

"Like what?"

"Anything that comes to mind. Rich, poor, black, white -- whatever."

"Well, I'd say mainly middle-aged white people, probably pretty educated group as a hole. Some nights they have erotic poetry readings, other nights erotic art shows."

"Do people just hook-up there, or do people have sex there as well?"

"To tell you the truth, Woody, I'm not sure. I think the place is pretty big, but I'm not sure. I've only seen a few rooms, but I think it's like an old warehouse that's been redone."

"Is there a bar?"

"Oh yeah."

"Any people doing drugs? You know, out in the open?"

"I saw some guys doing lines off the top of a girl's thighs. Does that count?"

We laughed.

"Probably so." I looked her in the eyes now: "How many times have you been?"

She looked away: "More than a... more than once."

"With Tottenham, or with other people?"

She didn't answer.

"What are you into, Mary-Jo? Swinging? Or is it something else?"

Again, she just looked away, didn't answer.

"I need to know, Mary."

She nodded. "Yeah, I know."

She seemed to gather herself inward, as if to protect herself from a storm, then she looked up at me. Her eyes were really lovely, soft, kind, but confusion lurked in the shadows.

"Tell me." I remember that now. I commanded her to tell me, and something seemed to snap-to when I told her what to do: "I'm a Bottom, Woody."

"A Bottom? What's that? Like something to do with anal sex?"

She laughed. "No Woody, it means I'm submissive. I do what people command me to do."

"What do you mean, 'what they command you to do'?"

"Sexually, though sometimes it's just role playing. You know, like the French maid and the Gestapo interrogator?"

"What? You mean like bondage and stuff?"

"If that's what my master wants to do."

"Your master?"

"Yeah. The Top, the person in charge."

"The person? You mean, man or woman?"

"Yes."

I coughed, took a long pull on my drink.

She reached up, wiped my forehead: "You're sweating, Woody. Does that turn you on?"

It was my turn to look away.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of, Woody. Everyone has fantasies."

"Yeah? I guess so."

"What would it be, Woody? Would you to tell me what to do? Would you like to do that?"

Her hand was under the table now, then it was resting on my thigh. I cleared my throat as her hand drifted up to the zipper on my khakis.

"Or maybe you'd like it better if I told you what to do. Would that do it for you, Woody?"

She was squeezing my cock through my pants. I'm pretty sure I felt an eyelid was trembling.

"Ooh, Woody! I think that's it! I think you'd like it if I told you what to do!" She squeezed again: "Do you feel that, Woody? Feel that need? To let loose, lose control? Let me?"

"Let you? What?"

"Let me take you there, Woody?"

"You keep squeezin' my dick like that and you won't have to take me anywhere. I'll pop-off right here."

Her eyes smiled, she licked her lips. "Really?"

She slowly pulled the zipper down, undid the belt, then she reached in and pulled my cock out; our waiter came over to fill our water glasses and she looked up at the kid: "Would you bring me a clean glass?" she said to him. "An empty one, please?"

"Certainly, Ma'am."

He disappeared and she started squeezing my cock again, milking it. Every now and then she'd pause and run her fingernails up and down the shaft, then she'd jerk it fast a few times before squeezing it again, milking it.

The waiter came back and dropped off the glass.

"Take it, Woody. The glass. Hold it down there."

I did as she said, felt my balls boiling, my cock getting hard as a rock.

"Hold it there, Woody; let me shoot it in the glass."

I did as best I could; within a blinding flash I started to cum. And cum. And cum some more.

"Jesus, Woody! How long has it been?"

I couldn't answer. I was biting my lower lip, holding on to the edge of the table with one hand and the glass with the other... and I was still cuming... it felt like it lasted forever...

"Hand me the glass now, Woody."

I brought it up from under the table and put it on the table.

"Woody?"

"Yeah?"

"No, Woody. Not yeah. It's 'Yes, Mistress.'" She squeezed my prick with her fingernails to drive home the point. "Woody, I said hand me the glass."

I picked it up and put it in her hand, then she released my cock and I groaned.

A couple at the table across from ours was looking at us, they were leaning close and whispering something to one another. Mary-Jo held the glass up to the dim light like she was examining a fine wine, then she drank the cum -- all of it -- in one smooth motion. The man across from us squirmed in his seat, the woman with him was directing all her attention to his lap, and soon he held up his own glass, as if toasting us, and then he handed his glass of cum to the woman.

I guess it really hit me then; the couple across from us were our minders, here to keep an eye on us. Just part of the club, I guess, but I felt cold dread as I looked at the smiling couple across from us, as I watched the woman drink down the milky contents of her glass.

+++++

I felt my phone go off in my coat pocket and excused myself, went up on the front deck and called dispatch, trying to conceal the alarm I felt. The only way anyone could have found out about our dinner plans was through Mary-Jo -- or Tate, and the latter just wasn't possible -- was it?

"Woodward."

"Detective, we have officers at the scene of a homicide; they want to talk to you directly. Can you take a number?"

"Go ahead," I said as I fumbled for my pad. I scribbled as she spoke, then hung-up and dialed the new number.

"Woodward."

"Detective Woodward?"

"Yeah. Go ahead."

"Ah, yessir, we're going to need you to come out here."

"What's going on?"

"Can't say sir. Not on an unsecured line."

"Well okay, but where the hell are you?" I wrote down the address of a hotel out north on the Interstate. "I'll be there in about an hour," I said as I closed the phone, then: "Fuck!" I walked back in, sat down beside Mary-Jo, avoided looking at her.

"You okay?" she asked. The couple across from us had departed, I noted.

"A call." I couldn't even look her in the eye.

"You have to take it?"

"Apparently so." Fuck! What had I just let happen?

Our waiter had brought our dinner while I was out; I had a beautiful King Salmon and some steamed broccoli Hollandaise and I was damned if I was going to walk away from it, so I lit into it as fast as I politely could.

"Goddamn, someone back there sure knows how to cook fish!" I said as I finished up. I flagged our waiter, got the bill and paid up. "Sorry," I said as I stood.

"I understand. Will you call me later? Let me know you're alright?"

"Sure."

I walked out to the Ford, saw a note tucked under the windshield wiper and plucked it up while I opened the door. 'Watch your six... T'

Goddamn! Tate hadn't gone home at all and he'd seen something. I closed the door and my phone went off again.

"It's me," he said. "Did you get it?"

"Four."

"Need to twenty-five with you," he said. "Betty Lincoln west?"

"Four." I started the Ford and drove the three blocks over to the visitor's parking lot by the locks; Tate winked his lights and I drove over and parked next to him.

"There's a shitload of traffic on the scanner. I mean, even the Chief's on the air, en-route to a Signal One."

"Tottenham?"

"No, no, not an A/C... I mean THE Chief."

"Fuck."

Nice night to dawdle over dinner, Dickhead!

"I just got the call, I think. I'm on my way now."

"Want me to tag along?"

"If you're not too tired, sure. The Silver Cloud, in Mukilteo."

"Wow, out of our jurisdiction. Oh well, I'll follow you."

We made our way over to I-5 and blended in with the northbound traffic and I didn't even bother to look for a tail; we probably would have looked like a freight train if I had. Twenty minutes later I exited and we wound our way west between huge Boeing assembly buildings, then down to the shore. More patrol cars -- local ones, more flashing lights, a couple of ambulances. I could see the Chief waiting in the lobby, looking at his watch.

"Great! Just fucking Great!"

I grabbed my stuff and walked in, looked for the Chief and walked over to him. He was on his phone talking in hushed tones: "Okay, he's here now. I'll call you in a half hour."

"Chief Anders," I said as I walked up.

"Where the hell have you been? And wipe that shit off your shirt!"

I looked down at a nice, shiny glob of salmon on my shirt and groaned.

"Who's that with you? Richard Tate?"

"Yessir."

"He's retired, isn't he? What's he doing here?"

"Chief, I'm still active in the reserves; just putting in some hours."

"You were homicide, weren't you?"

"Yessir."

"Oh, well, come on, then." We walked up a flight of stairs and down a hall that stretched off into infinity to an area cordoned off with yellow crime-scene tape. We walked past two patrolmen into the room.

Mark Tottenham lay face-up on the bed, his penis had been cut off and was dangling from his mouth. The tattoo on his chest had been cut out of his flesh, and it looked like he'd been stabbed about a hundred times in the chest and belly.

Now I didn't know what to think. I looked at the Chief. There was a tear running down his cheek and his teeth were clenched so hard the side of face was trembling. Tate walked over to Tottenham's body while I walked around to the other side of the bed. There was a glass there, the rim smeared with red lipstick, and obviously, whoever she was, she'd drunk a shitload of cum from the glass.

Some nights are worse than others, you know. Nature of the beast, I guess you could say; no two nights are ever the same yet somehow they all are, but this was like déjà vu all over again. Even with more than a decade of looking at wrecked and mutilated bodies, this one got to me. I don't care what you have to say about it, or what you think: when you look at one of your own, a brother officer, your feelings are...different. The Wall can't go up fast enough and you're left wide open and vulnerable -- and just like every other Joe on the street you feel a big, cold slap on the face. There's no other way to look at it: you really feel the scene around you and it hurts. It hurts because you don't get to play the objective observer anymore. It hurts because the pain hits you where you live and there's no place to hide. And you can't run from your feelings, either. They come for you hard and fast, grab you by the throat like a lion and won't let go.

Chief Anders was shook up bad, too. He was standing at the foot of this hotel bed looking down at Tottenham's body and I couldn't even begin to guess what was running through the old man's head. They'd gone to Academy together, been close friends for just a little longer than forever -- and now this. This death wasn't a random drive-by or another officer run-down by a drunk driver; this wasn't a pissed-off veteran blowing his brains out after a bitter divorce or a forced retirement. No, this one was different...because everything in that room was so goddamn dark and twisted. It looked like the body on that bed had gotten there on its own, so it was a consensual encounter. But then what had happened? Had Tottenham been betrayed, or set up? Still, as I looked around the room it hurt most of all because it hinted at something immeasurably dark and vicious within our ranks.

Whoever it was had not bothered to untie the wrist and ankle restraints this time, and Tottenham's body was obscenely splayed; he looked like da Vinci's Vitruvian Man -- drawn in blood. There were deep impressions all over his body, marks not easily explained.

Only Tate seemed relatively unaffected. He'd never really cared for Tottenham, thought he was a martinet and had done sloppy work in Internal Affairs, yet Tate seemed to be the first to grab hold of the implications of having the head of IAD compromised; I didn't get it yet because none of us had quite grasped the depth of departmental penetration this murder implied.

+++++

This was another city's jurisdiction but after learning the identity of the victim we'd been asked to join their investigation; given the FBIs tertiary interest I wasn't surprised when Brennan showed up. Tate and I helped the local detectives, a crusty old veteran named Spiros Pantazis, and a new detective, a four year veteran -- who also happened to be a woman.

Her name was Susan Eklund, and my first impression of her was that she might make a good cop -- when she got out of high school. To my eye she looked like a teenager, but then again I've been a little slow to admit that just about everyone under the age of forty looks like a teenager to me these days. Eklund had a round face and round, curly hair, sort of blond but not quite. She was wearing a suit. A very masculine suit, and she was laying the macho know-it-all routine on pretty thick. Her partner, Pantazis, regarded her knowingly, yet we could tell he was embarrassed for her showmanship.

Their photographer was moving around as directed, taking photos then standing back, waiting for orders; Eklund seemed intent on ignoring Tate and myself but was deferential to Chief Anders. No one, it seemed to me, knew what the fuck what they were doing...

I went over to the bed's headboard and looked at the grain of the wood. "Prints here, I think," I said; Pantazis came close and looked too, held up a little UV lamp and looked again.

"Good call," he said. "Missed that one."

That had been Eklund's mistake and he wanted her to know it, too. She glowered at him and came over with her kit and began taking the print.

I walked over to the sliding glass door; it was unlocked. "Anyone been out here yet?"

No one had. "And don't let anyone in the bathroom!" I yelled. The carpet was already useless.

Pantazis came over and looked with me. There was dozens of prints on the glass, and we wouldn't be able to tell about the door-handle and lock-lever until Eklund tried to lift prints from them, but I was guessing there'd be a relevant one or two -- at least -- on both.

"You shootin' film?" I asked their photographer. He looked like he was -- maybe -- fourteen.

"No, sir. We haven't in years. Canon, 1Ds with data verification."

"Can you shoot I.R."

"What?"

"Never-mind," I grumbled as I took out my phone. I called dispatch, had them transfer me to the lab.

"Woodward here. Is Harker in?"

"Yeah, hang on." I heard some hollering in the background, banging sounds of stools falling over onto the floor, then the always and ever diminutive: "Jonathan Harker here."

"Jon? Woody. You got any high speed infrared left?"

"Yeah, sure. Tons. What's up?"

I filled him in; he got excited and loaded up his stuff and was headed our way in a flash, he got there about a half hour later -- somehow keeping his velocity just under the speed of light. I had managed to keep everyone away from the patio door, and the bathroom, until he arrived, then told him what I needed. I moved off and let him at it. He knew what I was after.

We finished the crime scene about five hours later, only then did we let the M.E.'s people move the body. I had Harker shoot some IR where Tottenham's body had been, then pulled down the comforter and had him shoot the blanket, then each sheet underneath. Pantazis and Eklund looked at me like I was nuts.




Beyond a Reasonable Doubt



Anders and Tate were down in the lobby when I got off the elevator, there were a couple of reporters outside on the sidewalk -- too late for the morning editions, I told myself as I walked over to the Chief -- and Tate handed me a cup of coffee when I got there.

"Thanks. That was rough..."

"Woodward, I want a total black-out on this for now. Strictly 'no comment'; got it?"

"Yessir."

"Of course that goes for you, too," he said as he looked at Tate.

"Of course."

"Did you get what you needed?" Anders asked.

"Think so, Chief. If the locals cooperate, anyway."

"They will."

The way Anders spoke left no doubt in my mind: he had turned up the heat.

The elevator dinged; Pantazis and Eklund walked out; a photographer pointed and all the gathered reporters got ready. Obviously they didn't know who I was, maybe not even Anders, so it was a cinch Tate was totally off their radar.

"There a back way out of here?" I asked the clerk behind the reception desk.

She pointed to a hallway: "Down there, door at the end of the hall. Leads right into the parking garage."

"Thanks." I turned to Anders. "You sure you don't want me to talk the reporters?"

"No, you get out of here, keep on Harker and the lab until you know something."

"Right." I turned to Tate, motioned with my head and we walked-off down the hall to the covert exit. I opened the door and recognized her immediately: Liza Mullins, a crime reporter for the Post-Intelligencer. She'd staked us out, been waiting for us.

"Got anything for me, Woody?"

"Well, does 'No comment' count?"

"Heard it's a cop. Any truth to that?"

"I heard there's a shuttle headed up to the mother-ship. It's already on the roof and they're holding a place just for you."

"Can I quote you on that? 'Seattle PD claims alien Mother Ship wants Ace Reporter?'"

"So, you're an Ace Reporter?" We laughed, then: "You never give up, do you?"

"Never."

"You ever been married, Liza?" That seemed to shut her up...

"I'm not now. Why?"

"Well then, would you marry me?"

Her left eyebrow shot up: "Sure, Woody, right after the aliens get through probing your asshole."

"That's just about what I thought. Always the same story." We all laughed -- even as Tate and I turned and walked off, leaving her standing there. Then I heard her running along behind us and we stopped when I got to the back of the Ford. "You still here?" I pointed at the ceiling: "They ain't gonna wait forever, ya know?"

"Knock it off, Woodward. Gimme something!? Please?"

"Sorry. No."

"How 'bout coffee later? Or some breakfast?"

I looked at her; cute kid, maybe a pest -- but cute. I could handle some cute after a night like this. "I don't know how long I'll be?"

She handed me her card. "Call me. Whenever."

I looked her in the eye. "Cute," I said, and that eyebrow shot up again.

"What?"

"I said, cute. As in, you-are-cute."

She started to blush and I opened the door and got in, started the engine and let it warm up. She moved closer, until she was blocking my open door, then she knelt down beside me.

"Do you mean that?" she said.

"What? About the mother ship?"

She didn't have a come-back ready, or maybe she was being serious.

"Yeah, Liza, I think you're cute. Maybe nine/tenths gorgeous. Why?"

"Just didn't expect you to say that, that's all." She was looking all kinds of serious now but it was kind of odd because for some reason I didn't regret saying it. I'd know her for years, we'd bantered back and forth over cases -- the normal back and forth between cops and reporters -- and yet for any number of reasons nothing had ever developed. We'd certainly never exchanged Christmas cards or birthday greetings, let alone met for coffee, so I considered this a most unusual development.

"Well, maybe I shoulda told you years ago, but there it is."

"Will you call me?"

"For coffee, yes."

She looked at me. She got it. "Call me. I've got to get some sleep, but I'll answer."

"Right."

She shut my door and I backed out and drove out from under the building; Tate fell in behind me and called as soon as we were clear:

"What did she want?" he asked.

"Anal sex."

"You wish, Dickhead. Seriously, Woody, what's she after."

"A warm shoulder, I think. Who knows?"

"Aren't we all. What else."

"Coffee. Chit-chat."

"No shit? You need a chaperone or anything, you let me know."

"Right."

"I'm wasted, Woody; gonna head to the barn and crash for a while."

"Yeah, you old farts! Gotta get your rest or you..."

"Woody?"

"Yeah, Tate?"

"Suck my dick."

"No thanks. Tryin' to quit."

"Well, then, be careful!"

The line went dead.

+++++

Forensics was in an annex to the original Central Precinct building; it had been cobbled together over the years to make room for new gadgets and ever newer technologies, but somehow digital had yet to replace film completely in our lab, and I for one was grateful. Digital is good, don't get me wrong, but a fine grained film in the hands of a good photographer with a Leica can reveal all kinds of things better than digital, particularly in the infrared spectrum, and that's why I'd called Harker.

Infrared excels at picking up things the human eye misses; things like leather scuff marks on floor tiles, or the impression made by knees or shoes on blankets and sheets. Harker knew exactly what I was looking for; he hadn't needed to ask because we'd danced this dance a hundred times before. He came out of the darkroom a little after eight that morning with a big smile on his face.

"Bingo!" he said.

"Yeah? Let me see."

He laid out a pile of 11x17 inch prints on a drafting table and flipped on an articulated desk-lamp/magnifying glass and pulled it over; I sat down and looked at the first print...

"She probably stood over him, on the bed. High heels, probably a size seven, maybe a seven and a half. Look at the next one."

I picked up the next image and put in under the light.

"Scuff mark on the tile in the bathroom, and a couple of other prints in the next shot. Same shoe, same size."

"So... female for sure."

"Yeah. Probably pretty small, too. Like five four, five five, maybe a shade more. Look at the next one... close."

"This the bathroom floor again?"

"Yeah."

"What is it?"

"Two sets of prints, really. The same high heels, and a man facing her. About a size nine, maybe a ten."

"Tottenham?"

"Size thirteen. I checked."

"Bingo, indeed. Good work, Amigo."

"Woody? It's pretty weird you know, even so."

"Why?"

"Well, all the usual places you'd find prints were wiped down, like a cop was in on it, but an insider would know we might use infrared. Any competent lab would."

"So?"

"Well, I just assumed an insider, you know, what with that FBI guy and the A/C."

"How'd you hear the other was FBI?"

"Shit, Woody, are you kidding? Everyone was talking about it yesterday."

I bunched my lips, frowned. It would be in the papers today. Had to be. It would be interesting to find out their source someday. "So then, what are you thinking? Amateurs?"

"Yeah. Or just sloppy."

"Or tryin' to throw us off the trail."

He shook his head at that one. "Glad this is your case, Woodward."

"Yeah, ain't life grand?"

+++++

Anders wasn't in; he'd gone home and left a note for me to call him that afternoon. I pulled Liza's card from my pocket and dialed the number.

"Hello?" She sounded half asleep.

"So, let me take a wild guess. You blew off the Mother-ship?"

"Woody?"

"Yup."

"You find out anything?"

I didn't answer.

"Oh, right," she said. "Sorry. No questions allowed."

"Coffee?"

"I could do that."

"Starbucks on Westlake, by the Marriott. Half hour." I broke the connection then checked my messages. First one was from Tottenham, telling me to check in with him in the morning. Okay, nothing unusual going on there. Next one was from Mary-Jo, late last night.

"Woody, sorry you had to go so soon last night. Maybe we could so something this weekend?"

Uh-huh. Sure. When I get back from the mother-ship.

Next was from Tate, this morning when he got home: "Just checkin' in, Woody. Call me if you haven't heard from me by noon or so." I dropped by my mailbox and then walked out to the Ford, got in and drove over to Lake Union, went into the Starbuck's and bought a New York Times. I looked around, took a seat away from the windows. The Times, I thought, ought to really piss her off.

She came in a few minutes later; the dark circles under her eyes were almost as puffy as mine.

"I didn't take you for a bird owner, Woody."

"Hm-m...what?"

"The only reason to buy a rag like that. To line the bottom of a bird-cage. Get it?"

"Ah. Gee, I didn't even think..."

"You order anything yet?"

"Nope; thought I'd wait and see what you wanted. You know, like bein' chivalrous and all that crap."

"Woody?"

"Yes?"

"Cram it."

"Here? Now? Are you sure?"

She laughed. "Yeah, man. Bend over."

"What do you want?"

"Hi-test. Big."

"I hear that." I came back a few minutes later and sat across from her.

"I didn't take you for a Lake Union kind of guy," she said as I sat. "You got a boat?"

I ignored the question. "So, what are you hearin' on the street about this?"

"Two cops dead, same MO."

"Someone inside tell you?"

"Is that a confirmation?"

"Nope."

"Then I'm sorry. Sources are confidential."

"Tit for tat, huh?"

"No other way in this biz, Woody."

"C'est la vie."

"Il ne doit pas etre de cette facon."

"Yes it does. It wouldn't work for very long if we expected each other to compromise our integrity."

"Guess so." She looked me in the eye: "You lonely, Woodward?"

"No, I'm tired."

She nodded. "When you going to retire?"

"Yesterday."

She laughed. "How long 'til you can?"

"Oh, I could now. Just not with full benefits."

She sighed. "So why are you staying?"

"Habit."

"The bad ones are tough to break."

"The hardest. May I ask you a question?"

"I'm forty three, was married once, divorced about ten years ago."

"Touché. Damn, I hate being so predictable."

"Well, if it means anything to you Woody, I'm lonely too."

I nodded, looked at her eyes, saw the long nights typing stories, just meeting deadlines by minutes day after day, year after year, and pushing everyone she cared for right out of her life. It was all right there -- hiding in plain sight.

"What about you? You gonna work 'til you drop?"

"I've thought about quitting but I have no idea what I'd do. Guess I could teach somewhere."

"Where you from?"

"Portland. You?"

"Military brat. All over."

"Married? No. Wait. How many times?"

"Three."

She whistled: "Just didn't work out, huh?"

"The hours. You have to be around every now and then in order to have a relationship. Took me awhile to figure that out. Funny thing is, we're all still good friends. No alimony, none of that bullshit. Just friends. Like the marriage thing never happened."

"That's why I never remarried, I guess. No good reason to, really, because I was never ready to put my work in second place."

"Any regrets?" I asked. She was so easy to talk to, like an old friend.

"No, not really, not then, anyway. The prospect of growing old, alone? Well, that's not comfortable anymore."

"Perspectives change a little bit, don't they?"

She nodded. "If you retired tomorrow, what would you do?"

"Depends. If it was just me I'd take off, maybe just go wandering."

"Really? What, like on a motorcycle or something? A motorhome?"

I took a deep breath, wasn't sure I wanted to put so much about myself out there in the public domain. Then it just sort of slipped out: "I have a boat."

She went wide-eyed on me: "No shit!?"

"No shit."

"Powerboat?"

"Hell no, are you serious?"

"Good for you. Always thought that would be fun. Sea of Cortes, Baja..."

"Tahiti."

"Now you're talking. When do we go?"

We laughed at that one, but it was an uneasy, loaded laughter, like we were all of a sudden finding something in common and grasping to make something out of it. Maybe we were. Maybe we could...

My stomach growled.

"He hungry down there?" she said as she looked at my belly.

"Always. How 'bout you?"

"You know? I could eat."

"Follow me." We walked out and went over to the Ford, I opened the door for her then got in behind the wheel, drove the few blocks down Westlake. We walked down to the slips and I buzzed-in the gate, then I led her out to the boat.

"She's nice. How big?"

"Forty one."

"About right for two people."

"Yep." I unlocked the companionway, slid back the hatch and stowed the boards, went down and offered her my hand. She ignored it and hopped down with practiced ease.

"It's nice, Woody. Comfortable."

"Thanks. Eggs and bacon sound okay?"

"Maybe. How 'bout some juice or something..."

"Okay, comin' up." I poured a couple glasses, put them on the table.

"You don't have any tissue handy, do you?"

"Sure. Be right back." I went to the head, rummaged around for a fresh box and went back. She had some eye-drops out and her eyes were watering; I handed her the box.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

She took her juice and drank most of it. "Good stuff."

I took my glass and downed it. I thought it had a funny aftertaste -- kind of bitter.

She smiled at me now. "I don't really feel like bacon and eggs, Woody."

"Oh?"

"No, I had in mind something, well, firmer, something a little more satisfying..."

She was looking right at my groin and I swear she was licking her lips.

"Oh?"

"Come on," she said as she stood. "I'm going to fuck your brains out, Woody."

She came over, took my hand and pulled me up, led me forward. I felt a little light-headed, suddenly sleepy. She pulled me up to the berth and turned me around, pushed me gently and laughed as I fell back. I felt like I was spinning now, like the whole world was careening wildly out of control. She leaned over and unbuttoned my shirt, undid my belt, then she yanked down my pants. "Sit up," she commanded; I felt her tugging my pants all the way down, pulling my shoes off, pulling them over my ankles. I could hardly keep my eyes open now.

"Woody, push yourself up, to the head." It was hard, my arms and legs felt like hot lead, nothing worked right anymore. "Here, I'll help you..." I felt her arms under my shoulders, wanted to say something but couldn't. She fluffed-up some pillows, propped me up in a reclined position and I watched as she took off her clothes, folded them neatly and put them aside.

She opened her purse, took out a bottle and opened it, then she came over, opened my mouth, slipped a pill under my tongue. "I want you nice and hard, Woody. Real hard."

"What?" I think I managed to say.

"Don't try to talk, Woody."

"What?"

She had my handcuffs now and she came over and put them on me, clamped them down hard. I think I winced.

"Is that too tight, Woody? Hmm?"

"Why?"

"That's right... I heard you like it rough. You like it rough, don't you Woody?"

I felt cold fear in the air all around me. "Who?"

"Mary-Jo told me, Woody."

I blinked. I wasn't tired anymore, just... paralyzed. She had pantyhose in her hands now and she leaned over and tied my cuffed hands behind my head with them, then draped the moist crotch over my face. "Does that smell good, Woody? Do you like that?"

I could see her moving through the fabric; no details, really -- just her body moving slowly around the cabin. It was getting hard to swallow and I felt fear for the first time, wondered how it was going to feel to die, then I felt her leaning close, felt her hot breath on my cock, her tongue stroking it. It felt like a hot, wet glove had gripped me and I saw her shadowy head moving back and forth, up and down...

"Oh, Woody, you're getting so nice and hard."

"Glad... like... it..." I managed to say.

"Oh, Woody. I do, I do like it." She leaned forward and licked my lips through the fabric, stuck her tongue in my mouth and forced the nylon in with it. My left eye was clear now and I watched her as she leaned back down over my cock and took it in her mouth again. I tried to move my legs, felt some kind of rope around my ankles and gave up.

I was aware of the smell now, the smell of her pantyhose up against my nose, then I felt her get off the berth and walk to the rear of the boat. I turned my head, saw her talking with someone out there. There was someone with her, a man. It was too dark to see anything clearly but everything was becoming all too clear.

She came back a minute later and leaned over me, kissed my open eye as she reached down and stroked my cock. "You ready for me, Woody?"

"Ready?"

She straddled me, rubbed the head of my cock against her cunt. I felt the heat, the unbelievable wetness, felt her hand grab the head and guide it inside her, then she slid up and down a few times -- until I could feel my cock getting unnaturally hard. She slid off me, then up my body and I watched as she moved the nylon from my face and hovered over me.

"I'm going to mark you now, Woody. Mark you as mine..."

I felt hot liquid splash my face, smelled urine, tasted it as it ran down my face and across my mouth. She lowered herself onto my face and mashed her wetness all over me, pissed some more -- filling my mouth until it spilled down my chin and onto my chest -- then as quickly she lifted herself from my face and slid down onto my cock again.

"It's hard, Woody. So hard. I think you liked that. You ready to cum for me?"

I couldn't speak at all now but I saw her lean forward and take a cotton ball and moisten it with alcohol, then she wiped my arm, took out a syringe.

"It's not going to hurt, Woody, I promise."

She stuck the needle in, pushed the plunger down slowly and I felt a little warmth flooding through me.

I didn't feel too different at first, then the dizziness returned. My vision changed, everything looked cast in blues and purples, and I felt her hand around my cock. She was jerking it furiously now.

"Not much longer, Woody...not much more..."

I could see her holding a glass under the head of my cock, then felt an incredible orgasm wrenching through me, pulsing into the glass...

"Ooh, Woody! So much! And so soon, too!" She kept jerking it, mouthing her surprise as she looked first at the glass, then at me, then she held the glass up and looked admiringly at the pearlescent flow. She came up to me again, sat beside me so I could see her face clearly and she drank it down, licked the sides of the glass to get every bit of it, then she put the glass aside carefully and turned to me, kissed me. She forced her tongue into my mouth and painted broad strokes of cum across my face, dribbled a huge wad down onto my forehead, then licked it off and spit it down again, this time onto my lips.

She got up after that and the man came into the cabin. He had a mask on, and she stood beside him silently while he looked down at me.

"Did I do well, Master?"

He only nodded, but then he whispered in her ear.

"Yes, Master," she said after a moment. "I will obey you."

He handed her a knife.

She came up to my face again and looked at me, spoke gently, almost kindly: "My Master says I must tell you that this is a warning. A warning to stop, now."

She held the knife at my neck, I could feel the point just beneath my chin and she pressed gently.

"Will you stop now, Woody?"

The knife pressed it into my skin; I could feel my heart beating part the knife slid through skin -- into muscle.

"Yes."

"Do you swear it?"

The knife pressed deeper, I could feel my pulse hammering in my head...

"I... swear..."

She turned, looked up at the masked man. He nodded and she withdrew the knife, then he turned and left the cabin.

She leaned into me, kissed me again -- this time gently.




Beyond a Reasonable Doubt



"You're a sweet man, Woody. So sweet. I wish I'd met you a long time ago." I could see she was crying, like she hated what she had done -- but that she had been powerless to resist, as well.

"I..."

"Don't try to talk now, Woody. You're going to sleep now."

"Please... don't..."

"It's okay, Woody. This is it. It's all over now. As long as you don't break your promise, this is it."

I felt sleep coming, powerful, irresistible sleep. I could feel her cradling my face, kissing my forehead, telling me that everything would be alright again, that everything would be fine... but I knew nothing would ever be fine again... nothing would ever be the same...

I hoped it wouldn't hurt. Hoped they wouldn't find me with my dick hanging from my mouth and take pictures of me and wonder what the hell had happened to get me mixed up with this bunch of crazy, fucked-up monsters.

I felt myself falling... falling... and I wondered if this was how Lucifer felt when he was forced out of Heaven and fell from the sky.

My head hurt -- as if from a series of violently spinning falls, and my gut burned like nothing I'd ever felt before. Everything was dark, pure unadulterated black, but I saw distant glowing flashes of light that were like a lightning -- but not quite.

Then the thought hit me: these flashes were a sign or some sort. What were they trying to tell me? What had I missed?

Obviously, I was dead... or maybe still just dying. That was clear if only because nothing in my experience had ever felt even remotely this -- like the way I felt now. The sensation of falling was so real, so vertiginous, it overwhelmed almost every other sense. But it was the supporting elements that were so disturbing.

I could feel my hair fluttering in the slipstream, hear vast oceans of wind howling as I fell downward, and that pulsing white glow...that sign? Photons would pass through me on their way to wherever they went, leaving just the faintest impression of their passage. What were they?

Then I could hear something like muffled surf, perhaps wild breakers crashing on a distant shore. The sound would come upon me -- then as suddenly fall away.

It went on like this for hours, days...the pulsing light and distant surf that defined this windward passage... yet from time to time I felt a jabbing in my arms, pressure in my chest...then one day:

An eye opened. No, not that. It was opened by someone. Someone was above me, holding my right eye open, shining a light in my eye. I tried to see beyond the woman, the woman holding the light, but she followed my eye, followed my movements and kept shining the light in.

Then I saw her hand. Fingernails. Sharp fingernails. She was pressing my forehead with her fingernails, right between my eyes. Son-of-a-bitch but that hurt!

I wanted to tell her to stop but couldn't.

Then she had an earlobe; she was pinching it with those fucking talons of hers and I found all I could sense or feel now was the pain she was inflicting. I struggled to tell her to stop. Stop it... stop...

"STOP! GODDAMN IT!"

And she did, too.

And it was like I heard people letting go after holding a deep breath... or was it me struggling to breathe?

Both my eyes were open now, but it was like someone had smeared Vaseline in my eyes... everything was a coarse blur, coarse and watery. I wanted to move my hands, rub my eyes -- but I couldn't and I felt a familiar panic grab my chest...

"Mr Woodward... you're in the ER, the emergency room at Mason. You're alright now so try to relax."

Her words found me and I understood what she was saying but panic still held my chest... like a vice... gripping... darkness again, coming for me...

"Oh fuck!" I heard the woman say. "He's going into arrest again... get me a..."

Then darkness. Darkness and falling, all consuming darkness...

+++++

I knew I was awake. Knew something wasn't quite right, but I was awake. But what was with all the incessant beeping?

Beeping. I heard beeping everywhere, just like I was on the set of some hokey medical show, and I remembered thinking I must have become an actor somewhere along the way because here I was, starring in a television show about a man dying in an unknown hospital.

I opened my eyes, looked at banks of streaming monitors in black and green and I tried to swallow but my throat was too goddamned dry. My tongue was stuck... to the roof of my mouth. I tried to raise my head, to say something... something, to somebody... but I couldn't see anyone...

"Hel..." I gasped. "Hello!"

Nothing.

"Hello! Help!"

Footsteps. I heard footsteps! Then a woman, huge and black. I remember thinking I was in Star Wars, I was a prisoner and someone had brought me before Jabba the Hut. Her eyes were round and huge too, and even the room looked kind of like a cave.

So.

I was an actor now. This was my big chance...

"Mista Woodward? Can you hear me?"

"My name is Luke," I said, proud I'd remembered the lines, "Luke Skywalker. If you let me have the Princess and Han, I'll let you live..."

And Jabba was laughing, right on cue: "Oh, Mista Woodward! You ain't no Luke Skywalker, and I sure ain't no Princess Leia. Now. You thirsty?"

"Not Leia?" I was -- crushed.

"How about some ice?"

"Yes. If you'll tell me where I can find her?"

"Shit! Don't dat beat all..." I heard her say as she left the room, laughing as she went...

She came back a few minutes later, and an old man was with her:

"Obi-Wan?" I said.

"I'll be damned," my old friend said to Jabba. "You weren't shittin' me, were you?"

"Obi-Wan?"

"Yeah, Luke, old buddy. It's me. Howya feelin'."

"Obi-Wan? The Princess... she... the Dark Side. Oh, I'm so tired..."

"Woody, come on... snap out of it. What are you saying, what are you trying to tell me?"

"Woody?"

"Yeah, that's you. Me Richard. You Tarzan. Now come on, Woody. Concentrate."

"Woody? Woodward?"

"Yep. Now, what about this princess? Who are we talkin' about here, Woody?"

"Reporter. Liza."

"Mullins? She did this? You sure?"

I nodded. "It was a warning. They told me it was a warning."

"They? You mean she wasn't alone?"

"A man. And Liza. 'This is a warning,' she told me. I have to stop. Stop, or they'll kill me."

"Shit."

"Obi-Wan? Got to find out what size shoe she wears?"

"What? Woody, what the fuck?"

"Harker. Photographs."

"Woody. Jon's dead. Fire. In his apartment."

"Harker?"

"Yeah, Woody. He's dead."

"When? When did..."

"It's been a few weeks now."

"Weeks? What do you mean, weeks?"

"You've been out a while, Woody. Almost a month."

"Coma?"

"Yeah. Probably drug induced. You were high as a kite on morphine and LSD when I found you."

"You... found me?"

"Yeah. When you didn't call I went down to the boat."

"The boat?"

"Yeah, Woody. She's alright. I've been taking care of her."

"Can somebody lift my head or something?"

The nurse hit a button and a motor under the bed whirred, my back inclined. "Dat better, Mista Woodward?"

"Yeah, thanks Princess." I winked at her and she laughed, put a cup full of ice on the table by the bed and left the room.

"I remember the ER. Did I have a heart attack?"

"Three."

"Three? Heart attacks?"

"Yep."

"Swell."

"You'll be joining the ranks of the disabled and retired now, Woody. Sorry."

"Fuck."

"Ain't it the truth."

"Harker took photographs, in infrared. Tottenham. Woman, small. Like size seven shoes. High heels. Man. Size nine or ten."

"You want me to see what size shoes she wears?"

"No, wait. It was a warning, right?"

"I can't do it without you, Woody."

"Maybe we shouldn't do it, Richard."

He nodded. "I understand."

"Have there been any more? Murders?"

"No. Not a one."

"I wonder what the hell we were on-to?"

He shrugged. "No way to know now, is there?"

"Call her."

"Call? Who?"

"The reporter. Liza. Tell her I want to talk to her."

"Are you out of your fucking head?"

"No. Now, do it now."

He looked at me -- his eyes hard, then he nodded and left the room.

Everything was coming back to me now, like in a flood. Memories were flooding in, out of control, like water pushing through a dam and running unrestrained across a vast, empty plain.

+++++

Tate came back in a few minutes later.

"Did you get her?"

"Yeah."

"She coming?"

"Yeah, Woody. She's coming."

"Can you find out about the photographs? The infrared prints?"

"Why?"

"The only evidence. If they've penetrated the department, compromised us, then the photos will be gone. They've won if that's the case."

"If I ask around that might alert whoever, ya know?"

"Who said anything about asking?"

"Gotcha. Look, Woody, I don't wanna be anywhere near this place when that bitch gets here, ya know?"

"I understand. Not sure I want to, either."

"Then, why?"

"Something I gotta know."

"Dangerous, man. This is real fuckin' dangerous."

"I think I understand. Something I need to know before I take the next step."

"I sure hope you know what you're doin', man." He seemed reluctant to talk, like he was afraid of something else.

"What's bothering you, Richard?"

"Later. We'll talk later. I'm gonna split now. I'll come back tonight."

+++++

"Crushed ice! Man, I love it."

The nurse, another one, basically ignored me as she went about the little room scribbling down readings from various machines, then she injected something into my IV and started to leave the room.

"What is it this time?" I asked. "Heroin? Potassium?"

She stopped, turned and looked at me and she smiled, then said: "Not this time, Woody." She looked at me for what felt like an hour, mouthed the words 'Love me' - then walked out of the room.

There are certain moments in your life that run up on you fast, like lightning out of a clear blue sky, and time stops because nothing makes sense anymore. I think dying must be like that.

This was one of those moments.

She came back in a little later, adjusted the drip on the IV. "Can I get you anything?" she asked.

"Think I could have a Coke?"

"Yeah, sure." She looked at me again, this time with real human kindness in her eyes, then leaned forward, ran her fingers through my hair. "Don't do anything stupid, Woody."

"I'm doing my best."

She lifted up her skirt and ran her hand inside her panties and rubbed herself, then she brought her hand to my face and wiped her juices under my nose. She smiled at me the whole time; her eyes were bright, almost feverishly bright, then she ran her fingers over my lips. "You know you want to, Woody. Go ahead."

I opened my mouth and she slipped her fingers in, I tasted her cunt on the soft skin of her fingers and sucked them for a moment, then she smiled, laughed a little before she turned and walked out of the room.

"What the fuck..." I think I said.

She came back some time later with a cup; she sat by my bedside and spooned ice into mouth, then opened a can and poured some Coke into the cup. She put a straw in and handed it to me. "Suck it, Woody."

I laughed, took a pull on it, then chewed on some ice.

"We're going to have fun, Woody. You and I."

"Are we?"

"Oh, yes. Yes, very much."

"Who do you belong to?"

"My Master, you mean?"

"Yes."

She smiled. "It doesn't matter now, because he's given me to you."

"Given?"

"Oh yes. I am yours now. Your property."

"Indeed. And if I don't want you?"

"Then I will have failed. I will die."

"Die?"

"I will be killed."

"Just like that?"

"Yes, like that. Just like that, Woody."

"And you must do whatever I ask of you? Is that it?"

"Yes. That is The Way."

"The Way?"

"Yes."

"And if I commanded you to tell me who your master was?"

"I will tell you, but then I must kill you."

"I see. But then, you would have failed. Is that right?"

"Yes. And I would die."

"So, why have I been given... this honor?"

"You were marked. By my sister?"

"Your sister?"

"We are all sisters. Think of us as belonging to a religious order."

"You say she marked me?"

"When you opened your mouth to her, and took her inside."

"I see. Your sister; I am expecting her."

"Oh, she is here. She has been."

"Why didn't you... let..."

"Master, she can only come to you when commanded."

"I see. Well, I'd like to talk to her. Alone."

"Yes, Master."

"Please don't call me that."

"But..."

"Just... Woody, for now. Okay?"

"Okay, Woody." She stood by the bedside, waiting. I think she was waiting for me to dismiss her and the thought was mildly silly.

"Dismissed," I said... and she turned to leave the room. "Stop!"

She turned to face me again: "Yes, Master?"

"I don't know your name."

"My name? Master, that is yours to choose. Each master chooses."

"Fine."

She stood solidly still.

"Go on, then!"

This was exasperating. Stupid, silly -- and totally exasperating. And not even mildly interesting, I told myself.

The door opened and Liza came in. She was dressed in black from head to toe, like she was in mourning, yet even so I looked down at her shoes. Her feet were small, very small, and she was wearing high heels.

"Hello." She said when she got to my bedside. "How are you?" Her voice seemed flat, almost forced.

"Not bad, considering."

"I'm sorry. We didn't know your heart was so weak."

"Neither did I."

"I feel very bad. For what happened."

"Was the man with you your master?"

"No."

"Who is?"

"Do not ask me this. It is very dangerous to talk about these things."

"But if I ask, you must tell me."

She hesitated. "No, that is not so."

Why did she hesitate? Was it that simple?

"And if I command you?"

"Then I must tell you. But do not, please."

"Alright, I won't."

She looked at me and I saw a great weight fall from her; her eyes became kind and I wanted her so much it hurt inside. But I needed to know more, and fast. I couldn't fall under her spell again.

"You said something, before you left. You said you wished you'd met me long ago. What did you mean?"

She looked at me with those eyes and I struggled, simply because I was powerless before the weight of the lust I felt for her.

"It doesn't matter now, Woody. Truly."

"Did you kill Mark Tottenham?"

"Only a servant may kill a master. I will say no more."

"Can a master kill his servant?"

"If it is his pleasure, yes."

"And if I wanted to be your Master?"

She looked at me and beamed: "Would you?"

"If that was what I wanted, how would I make that happen?"

"If you pass the trials, if you are accepted, you have only to ask the council."

"I see. But in the meantime?"

"You have a servant now."

"I can have only one?"

"For now. Yes."

"Would you want to be with me?"

"What I want is of no importance. To be wanted is all I could ever hope for."

"All?"

"Yes, it is all to be worthy of a Master's desire. It is all one could ever ask for."

"I desire you. With all my heart."

That broke her. Clean through. She leaned over, put her hand on my cheek and rubbed my face.

"Then you forgive me?"

"You changed me."

"Truly?"

"Yes, truly."

"Will you join us?"

"If that is what I must do to possess you, then yes, I will join you."

She nodded. "I had hoped this would happen."

"Will you tell your Master?"

She clouded over. "No. I cannot."

I understood then. Tottenham had been her master.

"Then you will tell who you must of my decision."

"They know now."

"Can you come by from time to time? While I'm here?"

"If that is your wish, then yes. I will come."

"Well then, it is my wish that you visit me each evening until I leave this hellhole."

She smiled. "Then I will. Are you tired?"

"Yeah, think so."

"I will leave you now."

"Alright."

"Woody?"

"Yes?"

"I think you will be a good master."

"Good?"

"Fair. I think I meant to say fair, as in just."

I nodded. "Would you send my nurse in?"

"Yes. Good night."

"Good night, my love," I whispered.

I know she heard me, too. This was going to be a very dangerous game, indeed.

+++++

"I have decided on a name for you," I said to my nurse when she returned. "Persephone."

"Thank you, Master."

"I assume you heard our conversation?"

"Yes, Master."

"Well, I accept you as my property so long as you accept me as your one master."

She hesitated, the conflict immediate.

"Then get out of my sight!"

"But..."

"Now! Leave me!"

She fled in tears.

That was easy, I told myself.

Too easy?

I waited a few minutes then hit the call button. She came in; it was obvious she'd been crying, and was probably scared to death. What did she say? If she failed -- she was toast?

"I'm..."

"Master, no. You must never apologize."

"Of course. Nevertheless, I was careless. I should have understood the conflict I put you in."

She was looking at the floor but I could tell she didn't know what to say.

"Your friend has returned."

"Tate? Already?"

"Yes, Master."

"Send him in." She left the room, came back in with him and lingered in the back of the room. I didn't send her away -- probably no point. I had to assume audio and video surveillance.

"What did you find out?"

"No photographs, Woody. Sorry."

"Well, it probably doesn't matter anyway."

"What?"

"It doesn't matter, Richard. If the department wants to continue the investigation, well, then, that's their business. Like you said, I'm retired."

His face creased as he scowled, and it looked like he was chewing the inside of his cheek as he turned my words over in his mind. "You feeling okay?"

"Yeah, fine. You say the boat's okay?"

"Yeah. There wasn't too much to clean up."

"Forensics?"

"Yeah, you know the score. It was a potential homicide scene."

"You had any new cases?"

"A couple new ones. Cheating husbands, angry wives."

"Have Nikon, Will Travel!"

"Paladin! Man, that was a great show!"

"You know it, amigo. You need anything? Hustler? Penthouse?"

"Nah, you know me... I was always a Leg Show kinda guy!"

He laughed, so did the nurse -- my Persephone.

"Well, I guess I can leave you now. Looks like you're in able hands."

"Yeah, she seems very dedicated to her profession. Right, nurse?"

"Yessir."

"See? How 'bout that, Richard?"

Did he see? Could he make the leap? If he had, he didn't show it.

"Well Woody, if they cut you loose I'll drop by the boat in the morning; maybe see you around lunch time."

I closed my eyes after he left, felt myself dozing, then 'Persephone' came in with "dinner".

"Sorry. Restricted diet for a while." She rolled the table over my lap and I looked at red Jell-O and green yogurt and felt very ill indeed.

"Gross."

"Sorry," she said again. "And you won't be going home for a while."

"I know. All things being equal, I think I'd rather suck on your fingers again."

She smiled, came next to the bed and lifted her skirt.

"I'm glad I can please you, Master. Do you like the way I taste?"

As a matter of fact, I did. Many times, as a matter of fact.

I was discharged from the hospital a couple of weeks later. "Persephone" had somehow, astonishingly no doubt to those of you following along here, been assigned to the hospital's home health care division and presto! -- she came home with me. Again, I ask for leniency here; please do consider, despite your misgivings, that a boat can be a home -- and anyway, she took to it like a duck to water. But I want to be clear: as I have never been particularly adept at housework I was glad to have the help. The fact that she had sworn a blood oath to serve me until my death? Hey, man; icing on the cake.

Now, don't get me wrong. You see, it's like this: having three heart attacks over the course of a week -- while in a coma, no less -- fucks with your head. You stand up from a chair too fast and you hear the grim reaper walking up behind you, his scythe whizzing through the air -- right for your carotids. Which were already, I had good reason to believe, pretty well clogged after a twenty-five year binge on Quarter Pounders and Krispy Kremes. Having a nice, sexy-as-Hell blond-haired, blue-eyed nurse following me around begging to please me was -- well, frankly -- kind of unexpected, yet this was just one of the unforeseen perks accrued by hooking up with a bunch of homicidal sadomasochists. Hey, I've always said if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Who am I to question the logic of this fucked-up world?