Storiesonline.net
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                          Mistrusting a Memory
                               by Lubrican

Copyright© 2008 by Lubrican


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Description: Detective Sergeant Bob Duncan was assigned to investigate a routine rape case. But this case turned out to be anything but routine. Somehow, he and the victim became friends '" good friends. Then there was an accident and Bob had to decide whether to arrest her for a crime... a crime she couldn't remember committing... a crime that might land her in prison for the rest of her life.

Codes: MF reluc het pett preg slow violent
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Foreword

I wrote a story called "For Want Of A Memory" in which I explored how amnesia can affect a person's life. In that book, a man could remember specific parts of an incident, but not the whole thing. Because he only had partial information, the decisions he made were flawed, in the sense that he'd have made different decisions if his memory had been whole. In the process of writing that book I realized there are other ways that missing or corrupted memory could affect a life. This book is an exploration of another of those ways.

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Chapter 1


Bob Duncan ran his hand through his hair and shrugged his shoulders to ease the weight of the Sig Sauer in the shoulder holster under his left arm. He sighed. Another rape in a high rise apartment building. When would women learn to take precautions in a neighborhood that had hosted four rapes in the last three months?

He reviewed the evidence in his head. Purse on the counter in the kitchen, cash and credit cards still in it. Expensive electronics still on the shelves. It wasn't a burglary-turned-rape. Whoever had done this hadn't been looking for money.

He pulled open the doors to the jewelry box on the dressing table against one wall. He was pretty sure what he'd find, but he had to look. Yes, it was still there, a mixture of costume jewelry and some very nice, expensive pieces. One necklace, with a gorgeous oval opal in the center, surrounded by rubies and diamonds, had to be worth a thousand. Something silver gleamed, further back in the drawer. He pulled it open and saw a cigarette lighter, probably sterling silver. He picked it up. It was expensive, and engraved. "LJG" in flowing script. He tried the lighter and it ignited instantly. He examined it, curiously. It was a butane model, and the gas usually escaped when one lay around for a long time. He hadn't seen or smelled any evidence that a smoker lived in this apartment. No ashtrays ... no smoker's candles ... no packs of cigarettes, either full or empty. Nothing in the trash. He knew. He'd searched the trash himself.

On impulse he removed the drawer and peered behind it. There it was. His fingers were almost too big to dig it out, but he managed. Virginia Slims. Female brand. He smelled the pack, which was missing four or five cigarettes. They weren't fresh, but they hadn't been in there for months either.

Secret smoker, he decided. He kept going through the jewelry box. In one drawer there was an old driver's license and some pins, like they gave to high school kids to put on letter jackets. He looked at the license, to find a fresh-faced pretty girl smiling back at him. Lacey Jean Griggs, age sixteen. Lacey Jean Griggs had saved her very first driver's license. He looked at the picture again. The girl in the photograph wasn't smiling any more. Not now. Not at the hospital, after being raped.

He shook it off. He needed to get moving. He'd taken the pictures, identified the visible evidence, and walked through the crime scene. He needed to get out of the way so the crime scene techs could start collecting the evidence. The victim was at the hospital, being processed, and he needed to get to her, to get her story before anyone contaminated her testimony.

He'd been assigned to the Sex Crimes Unit for three years, but it already felt like three decades. The first thing he'd been surprised about, when they moved him from Property Crimes to Sex Crimes, was the number of women who yelled rape, when they meant something else entirely.

His inspection of this scene had told him immediately that it was a legitimate complaint. The place had a feminine, neat appearance, or had, until someone had been thrown around in it, knocking furniture askew, breaking a vase, and even knocking a hole in the sheetrock of one wall. It was clear that something had taken place on the bed, which was rumpled, and had a large wet stain in the middle of it. The UV light had indicated it was body fluids, but he didn't know what kind. He'd learned a long time ago not to assume there was semen in those stains. Body fluids ... yes ... semen ... not necessarily.

It had been called in as a rape, by the paramedics, who had answered a 911 call from a neighbor, who found the victim's door open and heard her moans.

Bob had talked to the neighbor already. Vivian Gage, divorced, the kind of typical nosy neighbor that detectives everywhere thanked God for every time they prayed. Vivian Gage had informed him that Mister Fetterman was away on business, and had identified the victim as "That sweet, dear Lacey" of the same last name. It was Vivian who said she'd complained to the super about how the door at the back of the building didn't close properly, but, of course, he was too miserly to fix the lock.

On his way to his car, he stopped by that door ... just in case. The Fetterman's door had not been forced. She had opened the door, or it had been unlocked. In this part of town, you'd think that wasn't likely. It was more likely she had opened the door, which meant she'd buzzed her attacker in too. She would know who he was.

The door looked OK. He pulled on the handle and it swung inward. He peered at the latch. It looked fine. Working the handle on the inside showed that the latch went in and out properly. The outside handle was, in fact, locked. Why had it opened, then? He bent over and used his pen light to look at the striker plate. A wad of duct tape had been forced in the detent. That would prevent the latch from extending into the detent, which effectively rendered the lock useless.

Somebody had wanted to be able to get in without a key. But that someone had to be inside the building to sabotage the lock. That meant someone in the building had, at one time or another, invited him in.

Of course it could have been any of a hundred delivery persons or maintenance contractors. There had to be a thousand people who'd been in the building who didn't actually live there. Some of them jimmied locks like this, for their personal convenience, so they didn't have to get buzzed in every single time they went in and out, on perfectly legitimate business. The tape was circumstantial, but not necessarily put there by the rapist. He took the duct tape as evidence anyway. Maybe he'd get lucky. Tape retained fingerprints really well, sometimes. As usual, the list of potential suspects was longer than a ten dollar hooker's rap sheet.

The first thing he checked at the hospital was whether a rape kit had been done on the victim, and who had done it. They didn't have a dedicated nurse on staff for this kind of thing, and some nurses felt like it was too intrusive to process the whole kit. A lot of valuable evidence had been lost by combs not used and swabs not taken. He saw it was Cindy who had done the kit. She was good. He'd have to remember to buy her coffee, or maybe flirt with her a little bit. She was married, but she was also cute and friendly.

Bob was not married. He'd gone straight from college, with a proudly won criminal justice degree, straight into the police academy, where he found out his degree was basically worthless. They didn't care what he knew. They taught it to him all over again ... their way. Still, he knew all the precedents for search and seizure, and interviews and interrogations, so the coursework was easy. The physical part had been easy too, thanks to his love of tennis and racquetball.

Then he had been immersed in the real school ... the streets of a major metropolitan city. It was there he had learned there were four basic types of people.

There were your hardcore criminals, who didn't care about anything or anybody but themselves. Statistically, twenty percent of them were responsible for eighty percent of all crime. Those twenty percent were the ones he thought about at the firing range. If you could put a dent in that twenty percent, you made a real difference in the world. But you only caught a few of them, and made it stick. The rest of the hardcore types were who he dealt with on a routine kind of basis. He knew all of them, and they knew him. It was a game they all played. Cops and robbers ... all grown up.

Then there were your basic ordinary, everyday people who succumbed to temptation, or greed, or jealousy, and did something stupid. They weren't really dangerous to society. They were just in the wrong place, at the wrong time, with the wrong attitude. Prisons were full of them, which was why there was no room for the hardcore types.

The third basic type were what Bob thought of as professional victims. They lived their sad lives in such a way that they were always being preyed upon. Wives who wouldn't leave an abusive husband ... homeless people who could have a home and a job, if they had the drive to do that ... hookers, who wouldn't take advantage of opportunities to learn a new trade, and the raft of believers that you could get rich quick, with little or no work involved.

Finally, there were ordinary Joes and Janes, who just wanted to get through the day, without bothering anybody else and without being bothered. They had values and lived by them. They stopped at red lights at two in the morning, when there was no traffic in sight. They worked hard and played when they could, and raised kids and volunteered at the PTA, or the Library, or any of a double dozen other places where they could feel like they were trying to be good citizens.

That last group comprised about ninety-five percent of society. Just about all their woes could be blamed on the other five percent. Majority rules. Yeah ... right.

Bob reviewed what was available. The lab results weren't done yet, of course. It would take a day or two for that. He asked where he could find Lacey Fetterman and was given an exam room number.

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Both women in the room jumped when he opened the door, and then remembered to tap. The younger one, fully dressed and sitting in a chair, jumped up perkily and extended her hand.

"I'm Teresa Green," she said importantly. "I'm Lacey's advocate."

Bob sighed inside. He'd hoped he could get to the victim before the rape advocate got there. He ignored Teresa Green, and looked at the woman on the exam table, wrapped in a hospital gown. She looked vaguely familiar. That didn't mean anything. Everybody looked vaguely familiar. You remembered the bad guys. Everybody else—even people you'd met and chatted with—didn't need to take up storage space in your memory.

"Detective Duncan," he said, displaying his badge. "Mrs. Fetterman?" he asked, formally.

"Yes." Her voice was soft and sounded sad. They always sounded soft and sad.

"I know you've been through a lot," he said, going into his routine spiel. "But I need to ask you some questions. I'd like to catch the man who did this to you."

"All right," she said, her voice cultured.

He noticed that. Most rape victims came from the ordinary ranks of ordinary women, who wouldn't stand out in a crowd for any particular reason. But you couldn't go by appearance, of course. Any woman, from a pre-pubescent child to an eighty-nine year old great grandmother, could end up in this situation. Background didn't tell you much.

Body language, though, spoke loudly, regardless of background. This woman, under the visible bruises, scrapes and pallor, with her long black hair askew, would be beautiful again in a week or two. When the bruises and scrapes healed, she'd be a babe. The way she sat showed the kind of strength that suggested she was used to being confident and in control of her destiny. Her feet hung limply, as opposed to swinging or moving constantly, which would indicate that she was nervous or bored. Her hands gripped the edges of the bed, on either side of her, but she wasn't white-knuckled. She wasn't crying, but that didn't mean anything. Shock did strange things to a person and masked true emotions. All her body language told him right now was that she wasn't terrified and was open to his presence.

That was a good start.

He asked the usual questions, taking notes in his notebook. She said she didn't know who the man was. Her door had been locked. She always locked the door, even when her husband was home. She'd just gotten out of the bath, when the knock came, and the man had announced a gas leak had been called in. He'd said he needed to check her stove, to relight the pilot light, because the gas had been turned off to repair the leak. The instant she'd opened the door, he barged inside. He'd had a knife and had sworn he'd kill her if she screamed.

She hadn't screamed.

It didn't seem to make any difference to the man. He'd slapped her. It had taken her two slaps and a fist to learn that she wasn't supposed to get back up, until he told her to. Then he'd raped her, with the knife at her throat, on her own bed. When he was done, he'd told her he could get in any time, and that if she called the police he'd come back and kill her. She said she had a long, shallow slice, from the knife, across her left breast and down onto her stomach, where he'd almost carefully cut her, just enough to make it bleed in places, while he'd told her that. Bob didn't ask to see it. There would be photographs taken later, when all the bruises had had time to develop fully.

While she told her story, she'd been interrupted by her advocate five times. Every time she showed any emotion at all, the girl — she couldn't have been more than twenty-two — interrupted her, telling her that everything was going to be all right and that she was safe. Bob wanted to tell Teresa Green to shut the fuck up. Everything WASN'T going to be all right. Not by a long shot. The guy COULD come back and carve Lacey up like a chicken being slaughtered. False hope was not what this woman needed. What this woman needed was to know that the animal who had done this to her was behind bars and not coming out for years.

But he kept quiet. Lacey was doing all right, except that she didn't seem to be involved. Not really. It could be the shock ... but she seemed to be holding something back. He believed she'd been raped. Either that, or she and her boyfriend had gotten a little carried away with the S&M stuff, and the nosey neighbor had undone them.

He shook his head mentally. He'd searched the place, from top to bottom. No gags ... no latex clothing ... no whips and chains ... nothing kinky at all, except the vibrator in the drawer beside the bed. And that wasn't kinky. Not these days. Her husband was on the road. According to Vivian Gage, the neighbor, he was on the road a lot, selling something or other. No, this had been rape. Why would she hold something back?

There had been other cases like this, where a man had gotten in under false pretenses and used a knife, making the same threats. Bob had worked two of them, and those women had also seemed to be holding something back.

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Lacey bit down on the inside of her cheek ... the one that little prick hadn't slapped. She had to retain control. She couldn't just lose it and blubber in front of this man. Where was Paul? She'd asked the nurse to call him. It had been hours since she'd come to this antiseptic, but stinking place. The nurse had seemed so friendly ... so nice ... and then had done such unspeakable things to her ... poking and prodding, scraping under her fingernails, even! Why had she had to pee in a cup? Why had they pulled out some of her pubic hairs?

Teresa's arrival had been good, at first. She finally had someone to talk to ... to ask questions of. It was then that she realized she couldn't talk ... couldn't ask the questions. The girl was hardly out of high school. She'd never been raped. She'd never felt the things Lacey had felt ... was still feeling. She didn't understand the shame and horror. She didn't understand what had happened in that room ... in that bed ... the room and bed she could never go in again.

She felt hopeless. Nothing could fix what had happened.

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"Just a few more questions," said Bob. "I'll need to take a formal written statement, but we can do that in a day or two, when you've had time to relax."

"I'll never be able to relax again," said Lacey.

"It will be all right," chirped Teresa. "He's almost done, and then we'll find you something to wear, and you can begin your recovery."

"Oh," said Bob, remembering the plastic sack he'd brought into the room and dropped by the door. He went to get it. "I took the liberty of bringing you some clothes." The patrolman securing the scene had told him the victim had been naked, when they took her away.

"Thank you," said Lacey, feeling an overwhelming sense of relief as she saw her familiar clothing in the bag. She blushed as she saw the bra and panties. This man had been through her most private things.

"Please describe the man again," said Bob.

"She already did that," said Teresa.

When she had gone over her memory of the man again, and added nothing new, Bob asked the question that was always difficult.

"Try to remember anything odd or memorable about him. What can you remember about how his penis looked?"

Teresa gasped. "You can't ask her a question like that!" she exploded. "This woman has been raped!"

"What do you mean?" asked Lacey, her eyes rolling slightly in her sockets.

"Was it straight or bent? What color was it? Did it have any moles or warts on it?" Bob leaned forward as he saw Lacey's eyes widen. Her pupils got smaller. She opened her mouth to answer, but was, again, cut off by her advocate.

"This is insane!" said Teresa, much too loudly. Lacey winced and then her face went calm. She remained silent.

"Do you know if he ejaculated?" asked Bob.

"I will NOT stand for this abuse!" shouted Teresa. "Do not answer any more of his questions, Lacey. I'm going to make a complaint this instant! Don't say another word! I'll be right back!" she said excitedly.

She hustled out of the room, leaving the woman she was supposed to be advocating for, in the clutches of the man who was currently "abusing her."

"Finally!" said Bob. "She's gone. Look, I know this is hard, but I need this kind of information. I need it to find him, and we'll need it to convict him. Please, tell me what you can. Just close your eyes and remember. I know it's hard, but please try. We don't have much time. She'll be back soon."

Lacey heard his words ... heard the earnestness, almost pleading in them, and knew he wasn't being crass or lewd. She knew the answers to his questions all too well. She remembered that part starkly. The urgency in his voice robbed her of control and she babbled.

"It was bent. He made me ... he made me use my mouth. He made me put a condom on him. He said I didn't deserve to have his ... seed. He said I was probably diseased, but that he wouldn't let me make him diseased. He made me put him in meeeee!" her last word became a wail of pain and she sobbed.

"That's good," said Bob soothingly. "Let it all out. Tell me more. What did he do with the rubber?"

"Heeee ... took it ... with him," she cried. "He ... said ... he was ... coming baaack," she wailed. "Heeee ... said ... he'd make ... me ... do it ... again! ... that I'd ... do ... IT ... again!" she sobbed.

"Do what again?" asked Bob, leaning toward her.

He wanted to pat her shoulder. He wanted to hug her, to give her some human contact. She NEEDED human contact right now, but he knew others wouldn't understand. The emotion she was displaying now was normal, too. It was guilt. Something had happened in that room that she felt guilty about. It happened sometimes, but no one talked about it.

It came to him in a split second. Her behavior and the way she'd said things was what did it. It was as he asked the question that would explain all this, that the door opened and Teresa stalked in, the head nurse in her wake.

"Did you have an orgasm?" asked Bob.

"SEE!?" screamed Teresa. "DID YOU HEAR THAT?! THIS MAN IS AN ANIMAL AND I DEMAND THAT HE BE EJECTED THIS INSTANT! JUST LOOK AT HER! HE'S COMPLETELY DESTROYED HER!"

"Out!" snarled the head nurse, pointing to the door.

"I'm not done here," said Bob.

"Yes, you most certainly are!" said the nurse, her voice rising. "And you can bet your ass I'm going to make you sorry you ever came here, you pervert!"

Lacey was a basket case, and the shouting of the two women had caused her to fall to her side, and curl up in a fetal position. Bob knew it would take hours to calm her down, and it was obvious that his presence wasn't helping things now.

"I'll call you about the formal interview," he said to Lacey. Her eyes darted to his, so he knew she heard him.

The head nurse escorted him to the emergency room doors, making sure he left. He didn't say a word to her. She didn't understand either.

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Bob didn't really worry about the complaint. He knew he could explain things to Mrs. Fetterman, when she came in for her formal interview. He gave it a day, then called the cell number he'd gotten from her at the beginning of the hospital interview.

"Hello?" came her soft voice.

"Mrs. Fetterman, this is Detective Duncan again," he said. He didn't make small talk. "I need to set up your formal interview."

"Oh," she said. Her voice sounded flat over the phone. "I already told you what I know," she said.

"I know," he said. "But the prosecutor will need to review your statement."

"Have you caught him?"

"Well, no, not yet," said Bob. He hated this part. "We're working on it, though, and if we find him ... when we find him, the prosecutor will need your statement. It will keep you from having to tell it again then."

He hated this part, too. He was lying. The system required that the victim tell her story over and over and over again. There were good reasons for it. People remembered things as time went by, for one thing, and those little facts and details could make all the difference in a prosecution. Another reason was to catch the liars. Liars couldn't remember what they'd said the last time, and often said something different. The truth is easy to remember. You have to think about it to lie. The average person didn't understand all this, though, and for victims like Lacey Fetterman, it was just torture.

"Teresa said I wouldn't have to talk to you again," said the soft voice.

"Look," he said, impatience edging into his voice. "I'm on your side in this thing."

He winced. That wasn't true either. He was a fact finder, plain and simple. He collected evidence, and it could be used by either side in court. His job was to prove or disprove that a crime had been committed. If there WAS a crime, his job was then to prove or disprove who had been involved in it.

"What I'm saying," he went on, "is that Teresa's a nice girl, and all that, and she cares about you, but she doesn't understand police work. There are good reasons I asked you the questions I asked you. I can explain that to you when you come in for your formal interview. You want us to catch this guy. We need your help to do it. That's all I'm saying."

"All right," said the soft voice. "When do you want to see me?"

He set up the appointment for the next day and hung up.



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Chapter 2


Bob walked into the squad room and tossed his notebook onto his desk. His inbox was full, and he groaned. He could hold his own on the streets. He'd been shot at half a dozen times, and had survived them all. He'd been in two wrecks, and all he'd suffered was a deep bruise in one thigh. He'd processed enough blood and body fluid evidence to infect a hundred thousand people with Hepatitis, or HIV, and was still clean as a whistle. The paperwork, though, would kill him. He knew it, deep in his heart.

That would wait, though. Mrs. Fetterman was due for her interview. He'd much rather gaze on her lovely form than some piece of paper.

There was a note stuck to his monitor: "See Dillworth."

He groaned. Frank Dillworth was the new Detective Captain and he was an idiot. He'd been Captain of Logistics for years, and was pretty good at that, though he'd bowed down to the penny pinchers at every opportunity. Why he'd wanted to take over supervision of an experienced and hardworking bunch of detectives was anybody's guess. He and Bob had had three or four run-ins already and he'd only been on the job for two months. Dillworth didn't know a damn thing about being a detective. Half the time he didn't even know the law. He was a toady ... a brownnoser ... and he was already responsible for two veterans cashing in their chips and retiring, when they could have stayed on for three or four more years.

He knew there was a problem when he entered Dillworth's office to find him fawning over Lacey Fetterman ... and Teresa Green. Teresa looked up and a look of triumph came over her face.

"Yes sir?" said Bob.

Dillworth looked away from Lacey, who looked distinctly uncomfortable. Her eyes went to Bob and then down to her lap.

"I'm reassigning Mrs. Fetterling's case to Simpson," barked Frank.

"Fetterman," corrected Bob. "It's Lacey Fetterman."

Frank's face suffused with dark purple. Bob hoped he'd have a stroke.

"I don't need any sass from the likes of YOU!" said Frank, his voice rising. "Mrs ... Fetterman ... has been kind enough not to press charges against you. You're off the case and that's final!"

Bob looked at Lacey, who was looking at him again, through lowered lashes.

"Tell Simpson about the orgasm," he said. "It's important."

Frank leapt to his feet, outrage on his face. "THAT'S IT!" he screamed. "YOU'RE THROUGH! PACK YOUR FUC..." He stopped and went suddenly white. Bob ached to see his eyes roll up in his head as he toppled, a coronary thrombosis doing what needed to be done. "Pack your stuff," he huffed, calmer now. "I'm recommending you be fired. Go see the freaking union rep if you want to, but I'll have your backside for this, Duncan!"

Bob turned to leave. The look on Lacey's face was one of shock ... and something else. He didn't have time to think about it. "Tell him," he said to her. Then he closed the door, before Dillworth could scream again.

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He didn't get fired. The higher ups knew that the reasons they'd put Frank Dillworth in the Detective Captain chair was because of what he could do for them, when they needed a favor, and not because he had a clue. They had assumed he'd just ride the coattails of the experienced and effective force he was put in control of. Good men made a supervisor look good. Nobody thought he'd actually try to investigate anything. They certainly didn't think he'd run off the good men who could have made him look good. Now, they were stuck with the ramifications of their choice.

Dillworth did reassign the Fetterman case to Don Simpson, but Detective Simpson couldn't get anything done on it, because he had to report directly to Frank three times a day and then run off to do whatever lame-brained idea Frank had come up with since the last time he'd reported. The case went nowhere, and finally stalled.

Bob found all this out in the locker room ... most of it from Don, who said he hated Bob because he'd lipped off to the boss, which had pulled Don into the mess and gotten Frank's fingers where nobody wanted them. Bob knew Don didn't actually hate him, but he wasn't happy.

"That bastard will hit again," said Don, sitting down beside Bob. "He's a classic control pervert. Beat her up, made her do things. He even made her cum."

"I thought so," said Bob. "When I talked to her at the hospital I knew she was holding something back."

"I almost didn't find out," said Don. "That little bitch that was with her wanted to approve every question I asked. She said Dillworth told her that was fine! Can you believe that shit?"

"So, how'd you find out?" asked Bob.

"The Fetterman woman finally asked the bitch to be quiet. I wanted to laugh, but I didn't. She said she just wanted to get it over with and started talking. I could hardly keep up with her on the computer. When she said she had an orgasm, the bitch started screaming again, and the whole thing fell to shit." Dillworth wanted to take that part out of the statement, but he couldn't figure out how. I told him I'd already saved it. The stupid fuck bought it. I was lucky to get her signature on it."

"Well, you got it," said Bob. "That's part of an MO. It will help get him, sooner or later." He sighed. "If any of his other victims will admit it too, that is."

"Yeah," said Simpson, putting on his shoes. "So, how's traffic?"

Bob shot him an evil look and Simpson laughed. "Hey, at least nobody's shooting at you!" He grinned. "I might ask for a transfer myself," he said, his smile fading. "I can't get anything done with Frank Fucking Dillworth dogging my tracks. He says I have promise! Can you believe that shit?"

Don Simpson had been a cop for six years and a detective for two. He deferred to Bob's ten year record, but he was very good, when given the chance to be so.

"A nice, quiet squad car and writing a few tickets now and then might be nice," sighed Don.

"I've already gained four pounds," said Bob. "Sitting around all day doesn't do you any good."

"Protect and defend!" said Don, standing up and saluting. "See you later, buddy. I know it doesn't mean much, but I think you're better off."

"Yeah," said Bob, glumly. "Better off." In two weeks, three drunks had puked in the back of his patrol car and another one had puked ON him. Everybody he pulled over was irate at him for molesting them. Everybody seemed to feel like they had an inalienable right to drive fifteen miles an hour over the speed limit, run red lights at their whim, and park wherever they felt like. He'd been called a communist, an agent of the Gestapo, a "fucking pig" and a "pig fucker." All in just two weeks. If this was "better off," he had no idea how he was going to do his last nine years.

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A week later, Bob was standing at a vending machine in the gym he belonged to, drinking the last of a bottle of Gatorade, when she walked around the corner and literally ran into him.

"Oh! Excuse me," said that soft voice.

Her eyes lit on his face and widened.

"What are you doing here?" she gasped.

"I play racquetball here," said Bob.

He looked at her. She WAS beautiful. Her long black hair was held back in a pony tail that reached to her lower back. She was dressed in tight shorts and a white T shirt that clung to her body like it was two sizes too small. Her breasts bulged in that way that announces they're confined in a sports bra and don't like it. There were just the last traces of bruising on her throat and jaw, where her attacker had hit her with his fist.

She had a sports bag slung over one shoulder, the handle of a racquetball racquet sticking out. He noticed that it had sticky tape wrapped around the handle. Well worn sticky tape. That was interesting. The only people who needed sticky tape were people who were power hitters. It kept the racquet from twisting in the grip. His eyes went to her right hand, but it was bare of a glove. She wasn't sweating, either. She had just arrived.

While he was examining her, she examined him too. He was taller than she was, by a couple of inches. Out of his suit, he looked rugged, rather than beefy. His tank top was wet, in a drooping oval from his neck to his stomach, and his arms and wide shoulders had a sheen of sweat on them. He was wearing a headband and two wristbands that were dark with sweat, and the hand holding the bottle was gloved. His left hand held an E-Force Lethal 160 racquet. She stared at the racquet. Those things cost over three hundred dollars, and she was shocked to see a mere detective ... ex detective? ... holding one. All in all, he looked as lethal as the racquet.

She felt a flutter in her belly. It horrified her and she shrank back.

"You don't have to be afraid of me," said Bob, seeing the look of horror on her face. "I'm not mad about anything."

His tone brought her back to this place ... here ... in the gym she was so comfortable in. It was the only place she could go to battle the demons that ate at her. Here, on the court, she could slam them ... slam HIM. Her rapist was only the latest of a string of frustrations she had battled on the racquetball court at the gym. Before that it had been her boss, whose eyes undressed her constantly. She'd gone out on her own, because of that, and was now in direct competition with him, running a successful business called Fashion La Femme. Her customers had come with her. Before that it was her lemon of a car, which Paul wouldn't let her get rid of, because it was only two years old. Sometimes it was meat, which she was trying not to love, because Paul had become a vegetarian. Occasionally it was her mother, who never listened and forbade her to talk about divorcing Paul.

"I'm not afraid of you," she said, her chin jutting a little.

"Good," he said. "You any good?"

"What?" She looked confused.

His left hand came up and the tip of the racquet touched the handle of hers. "Are you any good at racquetball?"

He saw her shoulders and jaw stiffen. "I do all right," she said, almost lazily. Her comment didn't match her body language. He almost smiled. That handle alone said she did better than "all right."

"My partner had to leave," he said, letting his invitation hang.

"You'd play a girl?" she asked, her hazel eyes showing interest.

"You're probably not supposed to talk to me anyway," he said indifferently. "What with me being a beast and all."

Her eyes got guarded at that. "Why did you..." She didn't finish her question. "I was looking for a pickup game," she said instead.

That was another clue to her level of expertise at the game. Most people who weren't any good, or had just started, had set partners they played with. The best way to get your ass handed to you was to get in a pickup game with somebody you didn't know and who was probably a lot better than you.

"I've got the court for another hour," he said.

"Another hour." She repeated, her eyes narrowing.

"Yeah, I do two hours, three times a week."

"You're good, then," she said. Now her body AND her voice showed interest.

"I do all right," he said, straight faced.

"Let me put my shoes on," she said.

He watched her pull out court shoes. He was impressed that she didn't play in street shoes. When she pulled out sweat bands, like his, a glove, and wrap around eye protectors he smiled. Then she took out velcro wraps. She leaned forward letting her long hair drape in front of her, and put three of them around the hank of hair, so it wouldn't fly all around on the court.

He could already tell this would be good.

-------

She was better than good. She was so good that he actually got a good workout. She was light on her feet, lightning quick, and had a deadly catch off the back wall, where she leaned just so and picked up the ball three inches off the floor. It stayed three inches off the floor, usually ... all the way to the front wall. She knew how to put English on it too. Quite often it hit the wall and rolled, instead of bouncing. That it rolled right to him was no accident either. She was taunting him. The ball almost never squeaked when she hit it.

There wasn't anything you could do about that. The low kill shot was impossible to return, because it just wasn't returnable. It was simple physics. But, when he forced her to put it up on the wall, there were lots of things one could do with the ball.

He used the first two games to probe. She was, as he had thought, a power player. That meant the ball was everywhere, and moving fast. But, as he well knew, because he played the same way, it also meant that the ball bounced hard, and that meant you could stay in middle court, where you could reach almost everything.

He tried slamming the ball so it would come directly at her. In power play that meant you had to be quick to step aside and address the ball, or just boink it, with the racquet right in front of you. Boinked balls were easy kills. Her speed amazed him. She rarely boinked, choosing instead to fall aside and use the back wall. She was good at that too, hitting it just hard enough to get it from the back to the front, on a high arc that gave her time to adjust and made him move forward.

Her serve died in the back corner, and she ran ten points in a row, just on that serve, until he figured out a way to scoop it out of the corner. He lucked out twice, barely getting the ball to the front wall, where it hit that corner and dropped to bounce rapidly back to her serving position. She hadn't reacted, because she thought he'd missed the serve.

She was poetry in motion, whenever he got a chance to actually watch her play. Which wasn't often. He hadn't played anybody this good in years, and it was pure joy.

Ten games later they sat, leaning against the wall, gasping for air.

"You're good," she panted.

"You're no slouch, yourself," he panted back. "Do you belong to this gym?"

"Six years," she said, taking a breath between the two words.

"I can't believe I haven't seen you play," he said.

"This isn't my usual time," she said. "I usually play in the morning. Things ... changed." Her last comment came with obvious unhappiness.

"Changed?" he said, automatically.

At first he thought she wasn't going to answer. As tired as she was, her body announced that this was a very sore point. Finally she relaxed a little, but didn't look at him. "Paul is divorcing me."

Bob stifled a groan. Rape led to divorce in a lot of cases. Hubby couldn't understand why she no longer wanted him to touch her. Hubby blamed it on her, like everybody else did. If you were running in the park, alone at night, you were just asking for it. If you wore slinky clothes, you deserved what you got. You didn't fight hard enough. You didn't say "NO" loudly enough. There were no marks on your body, to show you fought at all—or not enough marks to satisfy him. There were a thousand reasons that people assumed the woman brought it all on herself. Some men thought of their raped wife as diseased, and wouldn't come near her. At the time the women needed them most, a lot of men ran away.

"He got a copy of my statement," she went on. "When he saw that part about the orgasm ... well..."

She stopped. She was tense again.

"Why did you tell me to do that?" she asked, her voice heavy. "It ruined my life. Now that stupid captain of yours doesn't even believe I was raped."

"He's an idiot," said Bob. "There are very good reasons why that information is critical. I could explain it to you, but not here."

"Why not?" she asked.

"Because it's complicated, and you'll have more questions, and I'm thirsty."

She blinked at him. "I'm thirsty, too."

"You want to get something to drink?" he asked, and felt stupid instantly.

"Are you asking me out?" Her voice held something other than just question in it.

"Of course not," he said. "That wouldn't be ethical, and our little friend Thelma would be irate.

"Teresa," Lacey corrected him.

"Whatever," he said, levering himself up. "She'd be irate. She'll be irate if she finds out I even talked to you."

"She means well," said the woman, accepting his hand and letting him pull her up. She had a strong grip. He knew that already. Her racquet had twisted in her hand exactly once during play.

"She helps rapists stay free," he said darkly. "She gives bad advice, at the wrong time, and women like you stop cooperating with the police."

"I cooperated," she said, wounded. "I even did what you said, and look where it got me." She frowned. "What else could I have done?"

"It's not your fault," said Bob. "None of this has been your fault. You're the victim here. The problem is that the system re-victimizes you. It stinks, but there's very little anyone can do about it, especially when people like Tanya and Frank Dillworth get involved."

"Teresa," said Lacey, gently.

"Teresa," he said heavily. "I don't remember names unless the person I'm remembering needs to be arrested."

"Well," she said, her voice soft again. "Since you aren't asking me out, and since we're both thirsty, I don't suppose anybody could complain if we both sought out something to drink at the same place."

They left the court, walking side-by-side. He stopped at the vending machine and dug into his sports bag for quarters.

"What's your pleasure?" he asked.

"White wine," she said.

He looked at her. Her head was cocked sideways, like she was evaluating him again.

"Showers first," he said.

-------

She was waiting for him when he emerged from the locker room. She had on a maroon blouse and tan shorts, with sandals. Her hair was still in the pony tail, and was dry. She saw him looking at the pony tail.

"It takes too long to dry. I'll wash it when I get home." She seemed unconcerned that he was looking at her, but he forced himself to look at her face, feeling the loss of being unable to let his eyes linger on her body. She was a startlingly beautiful woman. But she had troubles enough, without him acting like a caveman, and probably didn't have too high an opinion about men right now anyway. He felt guilty all of a sudden. He was attracted to this woman, and he had no business being attracted to a woman in her situation.

"Delvechio's?" he said.

"My, my," she said. "The man has a three hundred dollar racquet and drinks at the most exclusive joint in town, too."

He shrugged. "You work, you get paid ... you may as well enjoy it."

They walked. It was only a block and a half, and both their cars were in the parking garage, which was probably as close as they could get to Delvechio's anyway.

Claude, the maître d', met them at the door with a professional smile.

"Mrs. Fetterman!" he announced, bowing slightly from the waist. "How delightful to see you." His eyes turned to Bob. "And Detective. I hope nothing is amiss."

"We thought we'd talk away from the noise and bustle of the office," said Bob.

Claude eyed the sports bags that each was carrying.

"Yes," he said, completely unconvinced. "How nice. Let me just seat you in a nice, private booth." His job was to make the customers smile. What they did while they smiled was none of his business.



-------

Chapter 3


There was an uncomfortable silence in the booth, as they waited for the waitress to come and take their drink order. Once she was gone, Lacey looked at him, obviously waiting for him to speak.

"It's like this," said Bob, starting in on a speech he'd given countless times, to countless women like this one. Well ... not quite like this one. This one was a lady. She had class. He rarely dealt with women of her class. But all he had was the speech, and some facts and figures, and that usually helped them understand what had happened to them and why it wasn't their fault.

"Rape isn't about sex." He waited for her to disagree, but she just stared at him, one eyebrow raised. "It's about domination ... control ... it's about making the victim helpless and degrading her."

"And that makes him feel..." her voice quavered.

"Powerful," said Bob. "It makes him feel like he's the most powerful person present—that's what gets him off. He wants to feel like he owns you ... can make you do anything he wants you to, and that you are completely helpless to stop him."

"So I should have fought harder," she said.

"Not necessarily," he said, caution in his voice. "Some rapists are so weak and insecure that resistance unhinges them. The typical tactics taught to women like you, in the classes you've probably been going to, are to make noise, draw attention, use your keys on his face, or your knee in his groin. With that kind of rapist, that works. The problem is that with some of them, it doesn't work. That just makes them mean, because you didn't enslave yourself instantly. They punish you for your uppity behavior. The parallels between how a rapist feels about his victim and how a slave owner felt about his slaves, in the 1860s, are startling."

"But how can you fight? How can you prepare?" she asked, clearly upset.

"Sometimes you can't," said Bob. "That's why it's so important to find these men and lock them away. Most rapes, of the kind you suffered, where the woman doesn't know her attacker, are committed by very few of the total number of rapists."

"Some women KNOW who raped them?" she asked, aghast.

"Most women know their rapist," said Bob. "Statistically, if you removed the women who get into trouble with a man they know, we wouldn't have a rape problem in the United States."

"You mean date rape," she said.

"Yes ... and drunk victim rape, and women who have a rape fantasy and it gets out of hand, and women who want to believe what happened was rape when, in fact, it probably wasn't."

Her body language suddenly screamed at him. She was so tense that she looked like she might actually jump up and run. Her hands gripped the edge of the table until there was no blood in her fingers.

"Calm down," he said immediately, soothingly.

"I'm calm." Her voice was so tight it had risen an octave.

"No you're not," he said gently. "You're screaming inside. What's wrong?"

She sat, rigid, for moments longer. He wanted to touch her again, but didn't.

"Look," he said finally. "This isn't easy to understand. Sometimes things happen that don't make sense."

Still she sat, frozen. The horror was back in her eyes again, but she wasn't looking at him. She was looking at something that wasn't even in the same building they were in.

"Is there something else?" he asked quietly. "Something else you didn't tell me?"

Her eyes cleared and then filled with tears. One ran over and trickled down her cheek.

"Tell me," he said. "You need to understand, and I can help you do that."

"You can't help me," she whispered.

"I think I can," he said. "You can't tell me anything I haven't heard before." He leaned forward. "Things happen that women are ashamed of and think is their fault. That's almost never true, but they THINK it's true. Something like that happened to you ... didn't it."

Her eyes went down to the table. "Yes," she whispered.

"Tell me," he said.

"I can't," she moaned. "It's so terrible."

"I already know you had an orgasm," he said. "You think that's terrible, but it isn't. I can explain that, too. What else happened?"

"Paul and I..." she said and then faltered. "We used to play ... games."

"Rape games," said Bob.

Her eyes snapped to his. She was horrified again, but this time it was the horror of being unmasked.

"How can you KNOW that?" she panted. "How did you know I had an orgasm!? It's like you can see into my brain!"

"Calm down," he said. "I told you, I've heard it all before. You're not as strange as you think you are, and you did NOT let yourself be raped."

"If only I could believe that," she moaned. "Paul is sure I did it on purpose ... that I let a man in, while he was gone ... that it got out of hand, like you said." More tears were coursing down her cheeks.

Bob handed her his napkin, and she took it and dabbed gently at the streaks.

"But I DIDN'T!" Frustration was in her voice. "I DIDN'T let him in. Not like that. I never saw him before! He was just a repairman ... except that he wasn't, and I couldn't do anything!"

"That's right," said Bob, his voice soothing. "You were helpless. He'd have killed you if you'd have struggled too much. Rapists with knives mean what they say. You had no choice."

"Then why did I have an ORGASM?!" Her voice was a hoarse, shouting whisper.

"You couldn't help that either," said Bob.

"You're just trying to make me feel better," said Lacey. "Teresa tried to insist that I didn't have an orgasm ... that it was pain that I mistook for an orgasm, but I know the difference between pain and an orgasm. I felt both that day."

"I'm sure you did," said Bob. "As I said, Teresa is young and inexperienced. She's also poorly trained, as a lot of rape advocates are."

"So explain it," she said. She was calmer already, with the hope that he could do just that.

"An orgasm, whether it's in the male or female, is a physical process. The sexual organs are stimulated during the sex act. When the stimulation reaches a certain threshold, the body does things to relieve the situation, and an orgasm takes place. It's simple biology. The man ejaculates and the semen sooths the penis, causing it to deflate. In the woman, it causes her to want to lie still and rest. All that is nature's way of making babies happen. If the body is stimulated, it reacts. There's nothing you can do about it."

"But some orgasms come with less ... stimulation ... than others," she objected.

"That's the mental aspect of things. Your mind can supply some of the stimulation required. But even if your mind is totally against what is happening, the body can be manipulated in such a way that an orgasm HAS to take place, whether you want it to or not."

"So it was a fluke. He just happened to go long enough that I couldn't help it," she said.

"I suspect not," said Bob. She gaped at him and he went on. "For some rapists, who know what I just told you, part of the domination of the victim is to MAKE her have an orgasm. He knows she will be humiliated beyond anything else he could do to her, especially if she doesn't understand what's happening, like you didn't. It is the ultimate debasement of the victim. He makes her believe she wanted the whole thing to happen. Some women, who are repeatedly attacked by the same man, actually form a bond with their attacker. They come to believe that they just didn't know they wanted this kind of treatment. They voluntarily become enslaved."

She sat back. Her wine was untouched—he pushed it toward her.

"Take a sip. Do you see what I mean when I said none of this is your fault? You were manipulated all the way. He was an expert in making you feel that way. You really do have nothing whatsoever to feel guilty about."

"But what about the rape games?" she moaned. "That's why Paul thinks I did all this on purpose. He's sure that I was cheating, and that the man I was cheating with got carried away."

"I don't know Paul," said Bob. "But I do know he's an idiot. Your fantasy—the one you played with him—didn't involve knives, or hitting ... did it?"

"Of course not," she said, flushing. "I can't even believe I HAD that fantasy now, but it wasn't anything like what happened to me. After what happened, I feel perverted for ever thinking that fantasy was hot."

"Your fantasy wasn't about rape," said Bob. "It was about playing at rape ... pretending rape ... pretending to be helpless when, in fact, you knew quite well that you were NOT helpless. You could stop it anytime you wanted to and, if you're like most other women, you did stop it on one or more occasions."

She shook her head. "How do you DO that?" she asked, her mouth open. "It's like you've been looking into my life with a secret video camera."

"You're not as different, or as odd, or as perverted as you think," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "You're just a woman, trying to understand why her world is falling apart."

She sipped her wine.

"So it really wasn't my fault." For the first time she made a statement of it, rather than a question.

"Nope," he said.

"I opened the door," she said softly.

"You should be able to open your door any time of the day or night." said Bob. "When someone chooses to victimize you, because you are trusting, THEY are victimizing you. You aren't inviting them to do anything."

She was quiet for five minutes, during which she finished her wine. Her eyes were far away again, but she wasn't tense this time.

Finally she focused on him again. "Are you going to catch that son of a bitch?"

"It probably won't be me," said Bob, truthfully. "I just make traffic stops these days."

She looked shocked. "That's my fault!" she moaned.

"No, it's not. It's Tracie's fault, and Dillworth. They're both so misguided that they think they did the world a favor."

"You know her name is Teresa," said Lacey, softly.

"What I know is that, since I got booted out of Sex Crimes, the man who raped you has raped two more women."

She was horrified.

"How do you know that?" she asked.

"I still talk to some of the boys," he said. "Your rapist ... the one who knows how a woman's body works and uses it against her? That's called a modus operandi—an MO. There are other things he does too, like the use of a knife and propping doors open, so he can sneak in. These other women ... their cases have everything yours did ... except that they can't admit to the orgasm part, or some of the other things he made you do. They think if they admit to that, no one will believe they didn't want it to happen."

"That's what I believed," she said, nodding her head. "But what does it matter? I mean if you catch him, you catch him, right?"

"It matters because it ties cases together on much more than mere circumstantial evidence. Say we catch him for your rape. He goes away for ten to fifteen. He'll be out in six, on good behavior. But, if we can tie him to all three, and any more he's done or going to do before we catch him, he becomes a serial rapist. Now he's going away for life, with no possibility of parole. See why I ask those questions? See why it matters?"

"Yes!" she said excitedly. "I understand perfectly. So why don't you educate the advocates?"

"Because they won't listen to us. We're the enemy. We're the bullies who re-victimize the poor women and force them to remember what happened to them. They don't want to believe that a woman can have an orgasm during a rape. Their definition of orgasm has to include pleasure."

"What can I do to help?" she asked. Her attitude was upbeat again.

"Well, you could become a rape advocate yourself," said Bob, smiling. "You'd be a lot better than Tara." He grinned. "We have to stop talking about her. I'm running out of names that begin with T."

She stood up.

"I have to go. But I want to thank you for explaining all that to me. I really do feel much better."

"No problem. Keep your door locked. I don't want to worry you, but if you tripped his trigger, he might actually want to see you again."

"What do I do if I do see him again?" she asked, a little fearfully.

"If it's on the street, do nothing. Act like you don't recognize him at all, but go into a store or someplace, like you're shopping. Ask the clerk to call 911. If he or she won't, then hide behind the counter or start screaming your head off. Draw as much attention as you can. Your rapist will want none of that and will take off."

"But you won't catch him!" she moaned.

"It will unnerve him. He won't feel in control. If we're lucky, that will make him lose interest in you and pick another victim."

"Great, now I'm responsible for him picking some other poor woman to put through what he put me through."

"Well, you could always gouge his eye out."

"What!?"

"If you're close enough to reach his face, stick your middle finger into his eye socket, on one side, and hook your finger around behind his eyeball. Jerk like you're trying to start a lawn mower, and his eyeball will pop right out of his head. It will hang there, by the optic nerve. He'll fall on the ground, and somebody will come and arrest him."

"That's horrible!" She blanched.

"What he did to you is horrible. His eye can be fixed. Nobody can fix what he did to you."

"I really have to go," she said.

"Sure."

She started off, her bag hung over her shoulder. Ten steps away, she stopped and turned.

"Detective?"

"Yeah?"

"Racquetball? Wednesday? Same time and place?"

"Make it six PM and you're on," said Bob.

"Six, Wednesday," she said. "I'm going to embarrass you."

"Don't bring any friends to watch," said Bob. "You might be the one who gets embarrassed."

"We'll see," she said, confidently.

He was smiling as she walked away. This time, he got to watch, and she was pure joy to watch. She had that unconscious sway to her hips that announced she was passionate and relaxed. He was surprised, in a way. Most women took a lot longer to learn to relax again, after something like Lacey had been through. They had to learn lots of things over again ... if they could.

-------

Bob checked his watch for possibly the hundredth time. He'd been checking all day, as he patrolled and interacted with the public. It had worried him, because he was distracted, and being distracted was dangerous. Traffic was pud duty, but it was still dangerous. You never knew when some motorist would snap and do something stupid ... to someone else ... or to you.

He was distracted by Lacey Fetterman. He couldn't get her out of his mind. Young, healthy, beautiful—she'd had everything going for her, until she was raped. Then her husband had tossed her away, like a used tissue. Her world had been destroyed. She was trying to cope, but her internal demons weren't helping. He was going to play racquetball with her in six hours ... five hours and ten minutes ... five hours ... four and a half hours ... It went on and on. The last thing Lacey Fetterman needed was a horny detective ... ex-detective ... ogling her and wishing he could see what the rapist had seen.

He walked forward to the car he had stopped for weaving in and out of two lanes, cutting off and almost hitting a car. When he approached the driver, she was still talking on her cell phone, one hand up, telling him to wait. The conversation was about a sale she'd just been to.

"Sign here," he said, pointing to a line on the ticket with his pen, which he offered the woman.

"I'll call you back in a sec," she said into the phone and flipped it closed. She turned to Bob. "You're actually going to write me a ticket?" she whined. "I didn't hurt anything!"

"You almost caused an accident," he said, patiently. "The ticket is for inattentive driving. I'd suggest you leave your cell phone in your purse while you're driving."

"WHY DO YOU HATE ME?!" screamed the woman, her face twisting into a mask of rage. She ripped the pen from his hand and threw it at him.

"Ma'am, you need to calm down," said Bob patiently.

"FUCK YOU, PIG!" she screamed. She reached for the ignition.

"If you drive away from here," said Bob, his voice suddenly heavy, "I'll have to stop you again, and THIS time you'll be going downtown in the back of my car. Just sign the ticket. It's not an admission of guilt. You can still plead not guilty in court."

"Fucking pigs!" spat the woman. "Harassing citizens ... I PAY YOUR FUCKING SALARY!" she yelled. "YOU WORK FOR ME!"

Her phone rang, on the seat beside her.

"Don't answer it!" warned Bob. "We're not quite done here."

The woman picked up the phone anyway, looked at it and flipped it open. As she was putting it to her ear, he reached in and pulled it from her hand.

"Shirley can't come to the phone right now," he said, into the mouthpiece. He slapped it closed and threw it past her to the other side of the car. While she was still shocked, he leaned down and picked up his pen.

He stood up to find she hadn't been as shocked as he'd thought she was. Her hand was coming out of her purse, and there was a hunk of nickel plated .25 automatic in it.

He reacted without thinking. His left hand reached through the window and grabbed the slide of the weapon. He twisted it away from him, toward the front of the car, bending her wrist painfully, until she had to let go. Her finger was stuck in the trigger housing, and she pulled. There was a sharp report and the plastic lens covering her speedometer cluster starred.

Bob wrenched the pistol from her finger, eliciting a howl of pain as her finger was jerked loose, and then pulled the door open. Thankfully, she wasn't wearing a seat belt. A small part of his mind said it would remind him later to add that to the ticket. He pulled her out by her hair, stuffing the pistol into his left pants pocket.

The woman struggled, screaming constantly, but was no match for Bob, who got her on the ground and put a knee in the small of her back. He cranked one arm up behind her until her fingers were at the back of her neck. She wailed, as he got the other arm and pulled it back. Her pretty dress was pressed into the dirty, oil-soaked pavement, and her legs kicked, showing nice thighs, as he cuffed her.

"You're under arrest for assault on a police officer in the commission of his duties," said Bob, breathing deeply, to avoid panting. He went through the rest of the spiel, as she continued to scream at him. He didn't question her. He just pulled her up and tossed her, still screaming into the back of his patrol car. She started kicking at the windows, and he got a shot of peach colored panties under the dress.

His radio call, which included "shots fired," got some attention. Four more cars screamed in. One had the patrol supervisor in it.

"Let me get this straight," said the beefy man. "You stopped her and wrote her for inattentive driving, and she tried to kill you."

"That's pretty much it," said Bob. He pulled out the pistol and handed it to the supervisor, who sniffed the barrel and shrugged.

"OK," said the man, handing the pistol back to Bob. "We'll cover your turf. You have a shitload of paperwork to do."

Bob checked his watch. Three hours and forty-five minutes.

He might just make it.



-------

Chapter 4


He was, in fact, five minutes late. Jeff Quincy, the patrol captain, had been just as incredulous as the patrol supervisor, and had used up half an hour being convinced that this wasn't some kind of mistake. When it turned out that the woman was the wife of a city councilman, it got more interesting, but the gun and the bullet hole in the dashboard pretty much told the story. This would be extremely difficult to sweep under the carpet.

It helped that the woman insisted she had only been trying to defend herself, as "that corrupt cop" tried to extort money from her at gunpoint. It didn't hurt that two witnesses had identified themselves to the detectives who responded to the scene, either. Their story matched Bob's, though neither one had seen her pull the gun. They were, however, quite positive that Bob never pulled his, even after they heard a gunshot.

As he arrived at the gym, he saw Lacey, waiting for him. She was already dressed for play.

"Sorry," he panted. "Got held up at work."

"You'd think criminals would be smarter than to try to stick up a cop," said Lacey, smiling.

"Ha, ha," said Bob. "Be ready in a minute."

-------

An hour and a half later, they were sitting against the wall of the court again, gasping for breath. She had won six games, he had won five. He was impressed.

"I'm ... embarrassed," he panted.

"You ... should be..." she panted back. "I was ... only ... playing ... at half ... speed."

He grinned. "You should ... have brought ... your friends after all," he gasped.

A look of pain flitted across her face.

"Haven't ... got any ... left," she said. She breathed deeply several times. "They all act ... like I have AIDS or something."

"I'm sorry," he said.

"There is the support group," she said sadly. "But I don't think any of them are into racquetball." She brightened, but not much. "I did find an apartment."

"Good," he said. "Lock your doors."

She looked at him, her mouth open.

"I'm sorry," he said. "Habit."

"Thank you," she said suddenly.

"What for? You won fair and square."

"No, for caring," she said. "Of everybody, you've been the nicest to me. You treat me like I'm normal."

"You are normal," he said.

"You know what I mean," she said.

"You're welcome."

"I'm having some trust issues ... with men." Her voice was dull.

"Gee," he said. "I wonder why?"

"See!" she said, smiling a little. "You're willing to talk about it. Everybody else just tells me to forget it and move on, like it was just a broken fingernail or something."

"It's uncomfortable to talk about," said Bob. "They want to put a Band-Aid on the owie, so they can think about something less troublesome."

"Anyway, I just wanted you to know I trust you. You're the only man I think I can trust right now."

Bob groaned. "Thanks a LOT!"

"What?" she looked hurt.

"You trust me? That's the kiss of death! Next you'll be telling me you just want to be friends!"

She blinked, then laughed. "Are you FLIRTING with me?!"

He shook his head. "Wouldn't be ethical. You're vulnerable right now. Add that to drop dead gorgeous and kickass talented on the racquetball court and I'd be a heel to take advantage of you."

Her eyes narrowed and then her brow furrowed.

"You didn't let me win."

He laughed. "You got THAT right! Nobody's beat me six games in one session in YEARS!"

"You know what happened to me. You know about my ... past. But you just treat me like a friend." She looked confused.

"See?" he chuckled. "There's that word ... already."

"You treat me like a normal woman," she said, not smiling.

"You are a normal woman."

"Other men who know ... there aren't many ... but they won't even look at me," she said. "Yet here you are ... flirting with me."

"OK, maybe a little," said Bob. "It's probably just an aftereffect of almost getting shot, so don't pay any attention to it."

"Shot?"

He told her about the councilman's wife.

"You're KIDDING!" she squealed. "She tried to kill you over a TRAFFIC TICKET?"

He shrugged.

"You're taking this awfully calmly," she said.

"No I'm not. It drove me to flirt with you. I'm almost out of control." He grinned. Then his grin faded. "Really, I'm sorry ... about the flirting. I know you don't need that."

"That's all right," she said. "At least from you."

-------

As Lacey walked to her car, she thought about what had just happened. For an hour and a half, her mind had been clear. Trying to keep up with Bob on the court took all her concentration. It had been wonderful to do something that made her forget. And afterward, sitting there. She had said it was all right for him to flirt with her, but she wasn't sure about that. It had felt good, for a few seconds. Then everything had rushed back into her mind.

She shuddered, and took inventory again, for possibly the thousandth time. Her body was healing. Soon, there would be no trace to show what had happened to her. She had spent almost an hour, sitting in front of a mirror, staring between her legs. It didn't look any different. It didn't feel any different. The pain when the man had first forced himself into her had been excruciating. There had been no natural lubrication to ease his entry, and it had felt like he was tearing strips of skin from inside her. It didn't look that way, though. Of course, then her body betrayed her and the lubrication came, bringing with it horror in her mind as she felt her body coming alive under his thrusting hulk. She had hated herself then, not knowing what to think—thinking that she was so perverted that she was actually approving of this horrible man and the horrible thing he was doing to her. Thankfully, most of the details were just a haze in her mind. But that orgasm couldn't be forgotten.

Now, at least, she understood why it had happened. Thanks to the detective ... no ... she thought of him as "Bob" now. "Detective" was so formal ... so distant. He was so different, in so many ways, from any other man she'd ever met. He seemed dangerous, but not in a scary way. She knew he'd played hard. He hadn't cut her any slack at all. His flirting had brought with it instant suspicion that he was gaming her ... setting her up. But he hadn't made any moves. Other than the flirting, anyway. And only a teensy little bit of that. She tried to remember where he had looked at her, on those few occasions she had been with him. She couldn't remember. She'd had too many other things on her mind, then, to think about where he was looking.

Most men looked at her body. Except those who knew she'd been raped. Those men wouldn't even look at her at all. At first, she thought they somehow felt responsible for what had happened to her, but soon she realized they viewed her as something tarnished ... sullied ... not worthy of their evaluation or interest.

That caused her more anguish. She didn't WANT men to evaluate her or be interested in her. Not yet, anyway. At the same time, she still wanted to be desirable. It frustrated her, because she couldn't decide what she wanted and no one would help her sort it out.

The girls at work seemed to be pretending that nothing had happened, but they couldn't meet her eyes anymore. The women in the support group just droned constantly about how it wasn't their fault. She knew that. The prick that had done this to her was at fault. She hated him, with a white-hot anger. She wasn't concerned about what he'd done to her body. That would heal—was already mostly healed—but what he'd done to her spirit ... for that, she wanted revenge.

She sat there, in her car, and the urge came over her. She got into the console and pulled out a cigarette and her lighter. She hated smoking, but sometimes she had to do it. She had managed to get to where she only smoked one every other day or so ... before the rape. Now, she was back to five or six a day. After taking three deep drags, she lowered the window and threw the butt out. She started the car and pulled out of the garage, into traffic. She had to wait for one of the city's finest to move from in front of her, and it made her think of Bob again.

Of them all, Bob treated her most normally. He said whatever was on his mind and didn't sugar coat it. He treated her as if she weren't diseased. With him, she felt almost normal. He'd given her his card, in the beginning, in case she remembered anything. He'd even written his home number on the back. She remembered being astonished that he'd give her such personal information. She felt the impulse to call him and reached for her purse to find the card and her cell phone. Then she remembered the story about the councilman's wife and left the phone where it was.

When she got home, she put her stuff away and showered.

Then she dug out his card and called him.

-------

"Duncan," came the almost gruff voice on the phone.

"Bob? Detective? This is Lacey Fetterman."

"Are you all right?" came his immediate question.

"Yes," she sighed. "I'm fine. I don't know why I called."

"You wanted to talk to somebody," he suggested.

She realized he was right. She still didn't know what she wanted to talk about, but he was right. She just wanted to hear a friendly voice.

"I guess so," she said.

"You want to talk on the phone or in person?" he asked.

She hadn't thought that far ahead.

"I don't know," she said, feeling helpless.

"Well, you haven't had time to eat. Do you like shrimp?"

"I love shrimp," she said. "But I'm trying to learn how to be a vegetarian."

"Why on earth would you want to do that?" he asked.

"Paul is..." She stopped. She had been trying to become what her husband—her soon to be ex-husband—had become. "I love shrimp," she said, impulsively.

"You want to meet me there, or pick me up, or have me pick you up?" he asked, his tone businesslike.

She was silently amazed. He didn't just decide anything. He gave her options. He gave her too many options, in fact, and her mind stalled, trying to figure out which one to take.

"We should probably drive separately," she said. "You have to go to work tomorrow."

"Actually, I'm off tomorrow," said his steady voice. "I'm moving to swing shift tomorrow night."

"Oh," she said, not knowing how to respond.

"Why don't you pick me up," he suggested. "The place I'm thinking of isn't far from my place."

He gave her instructions on how to get to his building, and they hung up.

-------

On the way there, Lacey realized he had intentionally put her in control. By having her pick him up, she would know where he lived. She would be in control of the car. She would control how long they spent together and could end it any time she chose, and not be dependent on him to get home. She wondered if he had done that on purpose ... or if it had just happened that way.

These were the kinds of things that were driving her crazy. She read into every situation ... analyzed everything around her. Even at work, she wondered if people had ulterior motives. Her attacker had planned his assault. She knew that now. He had fixed the door, downstairs. He had chosen her. He may have even known that Paul was out of town. He had manipulated her at every turn, taken every shred of control away from her. He had even made her body betray her. She felt the rage well up inside her again, and noticed she was speeding.

She had to pull over to get her composure back. By the time she saw Bob, standing on the curb, she was breathing normally. Her stomach hurt, but she knew that would pass, too.



-------

Chapter 5


The place he directed her to was a tiny hole-in-the-wall that she would have never given a second glance. She realized how hungry she was the instant she walked in, through the door Bob held for her, and the odor of wonderful, delicious things hit her like a sledge hammer.

"Vinny!" Bob called out to a man, standing at the grill, wearing a white paper hat.

Vinny looked over his shoulder, grinned, and held both hands up in the air, a spatula still in one.

"You got me, copper," he said. "Take me away."

A well padded woman, wearing a waitress outfit that was at least three sizes too small for her, came toward them. She was beaming, but most men wouldn't have noticed. She had what looked like acres of cleavage, almost bursting out of the top of her uniform.

"My favorite flatfoot in the whole, entire city," she gushed. She hugged Bob and then looked at Lacey. "My my, Bob, you sure have come up in the world!"

"Aw, gee, Donna," said Bob. "I just keep trying to find a woman who can compete with you, that's all."

"Hey!" called out Vinny, who was using the spatula to cook with again. "Quit hitting on my wife! Behave yourself, or I'll call a cop or something!"

"Don't you pay him any mind," cooed Donna, batting her long, over-mascaraed eyelashes at Bob. "I couldn't compete with this one in a million years." She looked back at Lacey. "Honey," she said, "welcome to Santini's, where we serve great food, regardless of the ne'er-do-well you come in with."

There were only six tables in the place, five of which were occupied by people who paid no attention to their entrance at all. Most were busy with shoving food into their mouths. Donna led them to the remaining table and held the chair for Lacey, who sat and then looked up to find the waitress looking down at her. "Sweet or dry?" she asked.

"Sweet," said Lacey, her mind still whirling. Obviously, Bob was well known here. It was almost like walking into some place that was run by your relatives. You were welcome. It was obvious and taken for granted.

"Sweet it is," said Donna. "And I'll bring you a cudgel to manage him with." She tossed her head toward Bob, who was sitting there looking perfectly innocent.

"Shrimp!" said Bob. "Lots of it."

"And what's wrong with my lasagna?" asked Donna archly.

"MY lasagna," came Vinny's faint voice.

"The lady likes shrimp," said Bob. "And she's on the verge of becoming a vegetarian."

A look of horror crossed Donna's face. "Oh! Well, then, that's different. Veal's not on the menu tonight, but I could get Vinny to make you one that will solve that little problem."

"Shrimp is fine," said Bob. "And some clams too," he added, as an afterthought.

"All right," said Donna. She turned to Lacey. "Sweetheart, I'm SO glad he got you here in time."

She hurried off, as Lacey's jaw sagged.

"Sorry," said Bob. "I should have warned you. We like to kid around a little."

"I guess so," said Lacey, weakly.

"You OK?" he asked, concern in his eyes.

"Yes," she answered habitually. "I don't know," she added, honestly.

"What do you want to talk about?" he asked.

"I don't know that either," she said, helplessly.

"Tell me where you grew up," he said.

"What?"

"Your childhood. What was it like? Good? Bad? Indifferent?"

Donna returned with two glasses that had to hold half a bottle of wine each. The one she set down in front of Lacey was dark violet. The first sip revealed it to be a Sangria that was rich and fruity.

Once he got her started, she couldn't stop. For an hour, when she wasn't cramming her mouth full of the most delicious shrimp she'd ever tasted, or taking gulps of the sinfully sweet and rich wine, she talked constantly.

She told him how she'd grown up in a strict, conservative family. Her father was a blue collar worker in an auto plant. When she was thirteen, she and two male playmates had been caught playing doctor and she'd been sent to her grandparents, who lived so far from anywhere that the only boys she didn't see at school were cousins, who lived in a trailer with her aunt and uncle, behind the big house.

It turned out her cousin's interests were the same as the boys she'd been removed from. Unknown to her grandparents, her sexual education had moved forward at a rapid pace. It was mostly hanky-panky, and mostly harmless, though she became intimately aware of the functions and capabilities of the male sexual organ.

She'd had a pet cow, that she milked, and a dog and three cats. She remembered those as the best years of her life.

She told him how she'd gone to college, to get an MBA, because everyone said that would take her far. She'd met Paul there and had finally gotten up the courage to let a man go all the way. Because of that, she was sure she loved him. When he'd proposed, she'd said yes—not because the idea of marrying him made fireworks go off, but because she'd thought she loved him and marrying the man you loved was what you were supposed to do.

It wasn't until she had said that, that she realized she had blurted out all kinds of personal things, without even thinking about it. Bob had listened and eaten, the whole time, without saying a word.

"I can't believe I just told you all that," she moaned.

"I'm a policeman," he smiled. "I know all the tricks of interrogation and how to get you to spill your guts. Don't feel bad."

She ignored him. "I hardly know you!" she said. "Why would I tell you all those things?" She seemed upset.

"May I make an observation or two?" he asked gently.

"Yes," she said, for lack of anything else to say.

"It sounds to me," he said softly, "that for most of your life, other people have told you what to do and how to feel. You've been bouncing along in life, from place to place, doing what you thought was expected of you. Now, here, sitting with a policeman, you did the same thing. I asked you to tell me about yourself and you did."

She stared at him. That didn't make any sense at all. She'd done what she wanted to do. Hadn't she? She thought back to what she'd just told him. He was right! The only things she'd done of her own free will were the secret things. Even then, the boys ... her cousins ... had called all the shots, except for actually fucking her. She hadn't let them do that. She'd wanted to, but was too afraid. And school. She remembered now that she'd talked about archeology, but her grandmother had pooh-poohed that. Nobody could make a living in archeology. Business was the ticket. An MBA would open doors for her.

Had it? Her shop was doing well. Her clientele were loyal. Her employees ran the day-to-day sales part, while she concentrated on ordering and finding new fashions. She had an office, but most of her work could be done anywhere she had access to an internet connection. It was one of the reasons she'd gone out on her own in the first place. She'd already repaid Paul the money he'd fronted her, and the loan she had with the bank was well in hand. Her work hours were flexible. She was even going to be able to get by without Paul's income. It would be tight, but her needs were few. What DID she want out of life?

She realized she had no idea. She had no dream—no long term plans. She didn't know where she wanted to be in five years, or what she wanted to be doing. She felt like she was in a dream ... a bad dream, and couldn't wake up.

She realized he was looking at her, waiting for her to reply. She had no idea of what to say.

"Another observation," said Bob, suddenly, "is that what happened to you ... the attack ... is just part of that cycle."

That got her attention. She looked at him sharply. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that, if what I said is true, you're used to doing what is expected of you. You follow orders. You followed his orders too."

"I HAD TO!" she moaned.

"Yes!" he agreed. "You had to."

"But what does that MEAN?!" she whined.

"You're having difficulties right now," he said.

She realized he was waiting for her to confirm that and nodded.

"You want your life back."

She nodded again and had an errant thought that she was doing just what he had said she did ... she nodded, because he expected her to do so.

"My other observation is that you haven't been in control of your own life at all, up to now. But NOW, you have a chance to TAKE control of your life and change it. Right now, you are footloose and fancy free. Your husband is leaving you. You have a new place to live. You can do anything you want to do, Lacey. You can go back to school, or change jobs, or howl at the moon. Life is wide open for you, right now, and you have the chance to change everything. You said you just want your life back, but, from the sounds of it, you're lucky you lost that life."

"That's cruel!" she whispered.

"It's just an observation. You're beautiful. You're young. You're intelligent. You could have the world on a string. You could have any man you wanted, as soon as you decide whether you ever want another man or not. It doesn't have to go back to that world in which you just react to the whims of others."

"You're saying for me to look on the bright side," she said tensely.

"Not at all. I'm saying that you have opportunities now, that you didn't realize you had before this happened to you. You had them then, too ... you just didn't see them. Right now, you feel helpless and alone. You are anything BUT helpless. You can do anything you want to do right now. You can turn what was the most negative thing you ever experienced into something that makes your life immeasurably better."

"I'm all alone!" she said.

"No you're not," he said. "You have Vinny and Donna. They'll recognize you any time you come in here. Ask them a question and they'll tell you what they honestly think. You have me. And that's just a start. There are lots more people out there who will help you do what you want to do. Finding them is tricky, sometimes, but they're there."

Lacey heard what he said and it all made perfect sense. Why, then, did she feel so resistant to the idea? He was right. She could do anything she wanted. That meant she'd have to decide what she wanted, though, and she had no idea what that was.

"I own a business," she said. "A successful business. I can't just walk away from that."

"Do you love the business you own?" he asked. "Is it really what you want to do, or is it something you thought you should do?"

In a burst of clarity, Lacey Jean Fetterman had an epiphany. It was as if the sun came out from behind a cloud and lit up her whole life. It started with her business. She'd done that because she thought she could be better than the horrible man who had harassed her in her previous job. She'd complained about it, and Paul had encouraged her to start her own business. It went on to other things, both past and present. She'd NEVER known what she wanted to do. Others had decided that for her, like he'd said. She saw herself as a robot, waiting for commands, before moving to do anything. Her fantasies even had that component.

"Do you remember that fantasy I told you about?" she blurted. "The one about being forced?"

"You said you played games," he said softly.

"Yes, but in those games, Paul was never Paul. I pretended he was someone else that I wanted to be with, but couldn't ... because it wasn't allowed. But if he forced me..."

"You weren't responsible," said Bob.

"YES!" she said urgently. "I understand it now! I wanted something else ... someone not Paul ... but I didn't think I was allowed to want that. But if he forced me ... if it wasn't my fault ... then I could enjoy it."

"That's common," said Bob. "Most women don't think it through like that, but that's probably what's going on deep inside."

"But it's sick!" she moaned.

"Not necessarily," countered Bob. "You were trapped. That was your way of reaching for something you couldn't have. You wanted freedom to choose. Just wanting it isn't horrible. That happens to everybody. You found a way to have something that you didn't think you were allowed to have."

"But what if it led to..."

"I already told you, what happened to you WAS beyond your control. Did you ever, at any time, submit to him because you wanted to?"

He didn't have to identify the man he was talking about. Both of them knew it was her rapist.

"No," she whispered. "I did it to stop the pain ... to stay alive."

"You fought him with the only thing you had at your disposal—the willingness to do something you didn't want to do ... to endure what you didn't want to endure ... to stay alive. I don't think you should feel bad about that. You did what had to be done."

"But I didn't fight him," she whined. "He did everything he wanted to do."

"No he didn't," said Bob. There was firmness in his voice. "He doesn't own you, Lacey. That's what he really wanted. He wanted to be able to come back, knowing that you'd let him in intentionally this time—that he had beaten you down. He didn't get that. He could never get that, because you're too strong to let him beat you in that way."

There had been very little talk after that. Lacey's mind was whirling, as she thought about everything he'd said, and the things she was just now beginning to realize about her life, past and present.

-------

Lacey stopped in the middle of the street. It was late and there was almost no traffic. Bob got out and leaned back in.

"You going to be OK?" he asked.

There had been very little talk in the car, too.

"I think so," she said, trying to smile. "When can we play racquetball again?"

"Swings is four to midnight. I usually need some sleep after that. How about we play just before I go on shift? Say two in the afternoon?"

"Yes," she said. "I can do that."

He started to withdraw.

"Thank you!" she blurted.

"It was just shrimp," he said, grinning at her.

"It was the best shrimp I've ever tasted," she said. "But that's not what I meant. Thanks for talking to me."

"I love being around you," he said.

There was no innuendo in his voice. It was just a simple statement of fact.

-------

As she drove away, doubts came back and assailed her. She wished he was still in the car ... wished he was going home with her. She wondered what that meant. She didn't want..."that" ... not now. She frowned. Did that mean she'd want "that" later? She pushed it out of her mind. She just felt comfortable in his presence. He said the most disturbing things, but that didn't make her feel fear. She turned over in her mind, again—their conversation in the restaurant. Then she remembered the last thing he'd said.

He loved being around her.

That was odd, because you usually "liked" being around friends. "Love" suggested something deeper, something one almost required, rather than just enjoyed, like being with a friend. She realized that she DID need to be around him. He was the life raft in the middle of the trackless ocean of her fear and self-loathing. He didn't care that she had those horrible fantasies. He took her like she was, warts and all.

She realized she loved being around him too.

-------

They played racquetball three times a week. Both of them started looking forward to the combat and the relaxed conversation that came after that. They were so evenly matched that almost never, in an even set of games, was one more than two games ahead when they quit.

Every once in a while, they went for a drink. Twice, they had dinner together—once at Santini's again, where she had the veal, which was superb, and another time at a place she chose that was adequate, but nothing to remember.

Almost never, did they talk about her background or the incident. The time for that seemed to have passed. Now, their conversation was just that of two acquaintances, catching up on what had happened since the last time they'd seen each other.

Both of them treasured the time they spent together.

She went to the museum of natural history one day, and got into a conversation with a curator, who informed her there was a group of volunteers who were excavating the site of a Pilgrim village, in anticipation of the property being developed into a strip mall. Museum professionals were supervising, but if she was interested, they could always use more help.

She started spending almost all her free time at the site, carefully brushing away soil from some artifact, until it could be catalogued, photographed, and removed for preservation. She made new friends among the other volunteers. Two men asked her out. She declined, but didn't tell them why. She just said that she wasn't dating at the moment. They were obviously disappointed. She didn't know how to feel about those invitations. She didn't mind being around Bob ... didn't mind him looking at her. He did, occasionally. She knew that now. He wasn't obvious about it, but he looked. There was appreciation in his eyes, but he didn't push it, and for that she was very glad. He flirted with her occasionally, and she liked that, too. She was trying to think of a way to flirt back, but was afraid it would throw a wrench into their relationship.

She didn't know quite what to make of that relationship. She'd never been with a man that she thought of as her friend. The first time she'd classified him that way, she'd giggled, remembering his tortured voice saying, "I suppose next you'll just want to be friends!" His friendship made her feel warm inside—safe warm—and she looked forward to seeing him, whether it was to try to crush him on the court or just to have a drink.

The dig, though, was what brought about the most change in her life. She could be passionate about that—pouring love and care into uncovering a simple shard of pottery, feeling elation as she realized that what she was digging up was a brass button. These things would go on display some day, and they would be preserved for countless generations to see and enjoy. For the first time in her life, she felt like she was doing something that was good, and decent, above reproach, and unselfish.

-------

It was, in fact, while she was doing work for the museum that the thing happened that would change everything for her, in ways that would make previous changes seem like nothing at all.



-------

Chapter 6


Lacey was ferrying a flash drive containing hundreds of photographs from the dig to the museum. A major discovery had been found. A collapsed cellar had been uncovered and, inside it, there were bones. Human bones. It wasn't clear yet how they had come to be there, but there were no indications of intentional burial. The artifacts found with the bodies suggested that people had taken refuge in the cellar and had died there. The pictures were needed at the museum as soon as possible, so that decisions could be made as to what to do with the find. This would become a political issue now.

It was ten after four, and traffic was a nightmare on the freeway. There was no traffic on the off ramp she took, but things were beginning to bottle up and slow down at the end of it. Lacey hated this kind of traffic. It made her nervous. It was obvious she'd be here for a while, because nothing was moving, even though her lane had a green light. She reached for a cigarette. She was about to light it, when there was the screech of tires, the grinding crunch of metal on metal, and her car lurched sideways. The side of her head smacked into the window, and the cigarette flipped from between her lips.

As her head rebounded, she turned unbelieving eyes to see the blue car that had sideswiped her crash into the back of the car in front of hers and flip, impossibly, in a barrel roll that took it into the air to plow into oncoming traffic. She realized, instinctively, that the car had come down the off ramp of the freeway, behind her, going much too fast. She heard sirens, behind her, and looked in the rear view mirror. How had the blue car gotten past the glut of traffic already behind her?

She heard screams, which galvanized her. She tried her door, but it was stuck. She lurched against it, and with a groan, it popped open and she scrambled out. She felt a moment of vertigo and wavered on her feet. Her head throbbed, where it had hit the window.

The scene was a nightmare. The blue car had rolled over two others and was currently lying upside down, half on the sidewalk. People in the cars it had hit were sitting, or leaning, staring around them in shock. She ran to the one closest to her and peered inside. The roof had partially collapsed and glass was lying in tiny shards all around her. It crunched under her shoes as she moved. A man and woman were half lying, where they had leaned toward each other at the last second. They said they were all right.

She darted around that car and saw that others were helping people out of the second car.

A moaning cry came from the blue car that had caused all this.

Lacey ran around to the driver's side and looked in. With the roof partially crushed, it was dark inside. She smelled the pungent odor of gasoline and saw a puddle of the stuff collecting on the sidewalk, near where she was kneeling to look in. She crawled, reaching into the interior with her left hand, trying to see. "Hello?" she called.

"My leg is broken!" came the agonized groan of the man in the car. He was lying on his side, which looked odd, because he was lying on the ceiling of the car. His hand reached for her. "I can't get out!" he moaned. "Help me. You have to help me!"

It was the voice that paralyzed her and bore, like a red-hot ice pick, straight to the center of her brain. It was a voice she would never forget—that she heard in fevered dreams she still had, but wouldn't tell anybody about. His head turned towards her and his brown hair fell aside. The same eyes stared into hers.

"You!" he gasped.

Lacey was frozen. In some dim part of her mind, she realized that her pants leg was getting soaked with gasoline. Another small part of her brain told her she smelled smoke.

Everything rushed back in, to push all thoughts away. She saw his face, twisted, like it was now, hovering over her. For the first time she remembered his elated voice shouting at her, "CUM, SLUT! CUM ON MY PRICK, YOU DISGUSTING WHORE!"

"YOU HAVE TO HELP ME!" screamed her rapist, and her eyes cleared.

She leaned backwards, in an automatic desire to make her unresponsive muscles work to get away from him.

"HELP ME, YOU SLUT!" he screamed. His hand clamped around her left wrist, squeezing with maniacal strength.

She realized her cigarette lighter was still gripped in her right hand.

"I'll help you," she whispered, her voice choked with emotion.

She flicked her lighter.



-------

Chapter 7


Bob had just left the briefing room, coming on shift. He hadn't even buckled his seat belt when the radio squawked to life, telling him of a multiple injury accident, with an explosion involved. Paramedics and the fire department were already on the scene. Three patrols were being dispatched, and all three were still in the parking lot, after the briefing in the squad room.

Three engines roared, and three sirens began to wail, as tires screeched.

It was impossible to get close to the location of the accident. He had to leave his car a full block from the scene. Traffic was hopelessly snarled and would stay that way for hours. When he rounded the corner, it looked like a war zone. Crushed cars and glass littered the street. Dazed people were standing around, bleeding. One car, on its roof, had burned completely. The front of the store near the car was blackened and the windows were all missing.

They couldn't get tow trucks into the mix. It was the worst kind of accident, at the worst kind of place, at the worst time of day. Ambulances had backed down alleys, to pick up the wounded. Troopers were present, but there was little they could do.

The story came out slowly.

The blue car, now a black, stinking hulk, had been 'made' by the highway patrol as a stolen vehicle, and a chase had ensued. When the driver sought to lose the chasing vehicles in the city, rush hour had foiled that plan. There was every indication that the driver had tried to force his way past a line of cars, intent on leaving destruction in his path that would stop the pursuit.

There had been an explosion, and one bystander was in critical condition, with second degree burns. The seriously injured had been taken first and were already at the hospital. The injured were being treated on the scene. All that was left was sorting out what had happened.

The driver of the stolen car was now classified as a "crispy critter." He'd never steal another car. The car he'd been driving was the one that had exploded. Being half on the sidewalk, it had taken out two storefronts, driving broken glass inwards. It was a miracle that only one woman had been hurt seriously. She had been blown through a window, and her pants leg was on fire, when shocked store employees came rushing from the back to find her, amid the ruins of the store.

The cops ignored the car, and the body in it. It had burned so hot that the glass cover of a street light above it had sagged downwards, half melted. The body was so badly burned that it might be impossible to identify without the use of DNA. They had the living to deal with. First were the witnesses. Once they were identified and told to stand by, the next order of business was unsnarling the traffic jam. That was given to the pursuing highway patrolmen, who called in air support to tell them how to route traffic away from the scene.

Bob, and his two other traffic partners, began to take the reams of notes that would be required to write this up. He already knew that this, alone, would take the entire shift and extend into overtime, if the city could afford it. He called in an update.

He walked into what was left of the boutique that had faced the car when it exploded. He located the place where the victim had been, based on a pool of blood on the floor. Everything smelled of smoke and burnt hair or flesh. The two employees, who had been in the back when the car exploded, were sitting, still shaken by their ordeal. All one had to do was look around to see that, had they been out front, they'd have both been cut to ribbons by flying glass. All the displays were hung with clothing that was torn, some shredded, and all of it with sparkling glass particles dusting it. He kicked a pile of bloody cloth to one side and something gleamed on the floor. He bent to pick it up.

He stared. "LJG" in flowing script, told him whose lighter this was.

He turned to the employees.

"Were there any customers in here at all, when it exploded?"

"No," said the woman, looking shaken. "We don't get many in here at that time of day."

"The victim..." He pointed at the blood on the floor. "She was outside?"

"She must have been," said the man. "We would have heard her come in. I think she got blown through the window. If you look, you can see where her body pushed everything aside."

Bob COULD see that, now that he looked for it. There was a clear path from the window to where the blood was.

"She was alive?" he asked.

"Yes," said the woman. "The paramedics said she was. There was so much blood ... she was on fire. I put it out, but she wasn't moving."

Bob frowned. What were the chances? The poor woman was raped and then, in an unbelievable coincidence, was in the wrong place, at the wrong time ... AGAIN!

He wanted to leave ... to go to her ... but he couldn't. In fact, it was seven more hours before they began to wrap things up. It had been a brutal seven hours, with nothing to eat. A store owner had brought them bottles of water, but that was all. His uniform was a mess and he smelled like smoke. He'd had to help remove the remains from the vehicle, before it was turned over and hauled to impound. The body had come out in two pieces. The big one was, as usual, in the fetal position, as the heat of the inferno had caused muscles to tighten and draw the body into a ball. The other piece was one leg, with sharp bone protruding from the burnt flesh that was left, like a tight paper wrapping. The coroner had suggested that there had been a compound fracture during the accident, and the explosion or flames had separated the two pieces.

"I hope the bastard was unconscious when it blew," said the coroner. "That's a nasty way to die, when you know what's happening to you."

"Yeah," said Bob, trying to find something to clean his hands on. He had bits of burnt flesh clinging to them.

He had four more hours of paperwork to get through, before he could go home and clean up. He was able to call the hospital, to get an update on the injured. The unidentified woman was still unconscious, and still critical. A few had been treated and released, but the others were still there. Most had been injured by flying glass, which didn't show up on x-rays, and had to be dug out piece by piece, as each shard was found.

-------

Bob dozed in the chair beside the bed that held Lacey Fetterman. He had been allowed into her room only because he was a police officer. He didn't know why, but he had decided to identify her by her empty car, at the scene, instead of by personal knowledge of who she was. He had seen the car instantly, when he came out of the boutique and looked around. Her purse was in the car. He'd taken her driver's license and used it to identify her at the hospital. She had obviously gotten out of her car, which was damaged, and gone to the car thief's vehicle. When it had exploded, she had been thrown through the window. Her lighter was still in his pocket. He hadn't turned it in to the evidence room. He didn't know why he'd decided not to do that either.

Even though he was in street clothes, he was there, officially, to interview her, as soon as she woke up ... if she woke up. She was a mess. Her beautiful long hair had been mostly burned off. Her swollen face, swathed in bandages, was red from the heat of the explosion. He'd been told that she had second degree burns on one leg that were worse. She had a concussion and cuts all over her body, but no broken bones. They weren't sure, yet, if she was in a coma or just unconscious. The doctor said it would be hard to tell, until some time had passed. Her brain was swollen. The swelling would go down ... or not. Time would tell. That, and the fact that she'd lost a lot of blood, would keep her in the ICU for the moment.

He had stood, looking at her, willing her eyelids to move, so he could see her hazel eyes staring into his. She was a patchwork of bandages. He was able to see her hands, which looked almost normal. He had an errant feeling of relief. At least she could still grip a racquet. Otherwise, she just looked like she was resting. The sheet rose and fell slowly, over her breasts.

Then, fatigue claimed him, and he sat down, to lean his head back against the wall. He dozed, unaware of the times that nurses came in to check on the patient, and record vital signs, and wait.

A nurse finally woke him, around eleven.

"You may as well go home," she said. "Sleep in a bed, not here."

He wanted to stay. He'd already been told to take the next day off. They'd convert his overtime into comp time, if he did, but he didn't care about that. He was worried about his ... What was she? She wasn't his girlfriend. That wasn't the kind of relationship they had. But somehow he couldn't just think of her as his friend, either. It was more than that. They had gone way past the detective/victim relationship. She was his partner, at least in racquetball. He already had plans to suggest that they team up for the city championships in doubles play. He hadn't done it yet, but he intended to.

"I'd really like to stay," he said, softly, even though she couldn't hear him.

The nurse looked at him oddly, but nodded and left.

When she still hadn't wakened, by ten the next morning, he gave up. Her vitals were good. They now thought she was in a coma, but didn't know how deep it was. The swelling was a little less than it had been the day before.

When no one was watching, he took her hand.

"Don't leave me, Lacey," he said urgently. "You haven't had the lasagna at Santini's yet."

Then he went home and got some real sleep.

-------

He went back in uniform the following day, two hours before his shift started. They were supposed to be playing racquetball right now.

The news was good. She had begun moving, and seemed to be responding to pain. Now they were keeping her unconscious with drugs, to allow her to heal more, and to keep her brain inactive. No next of kin had stepped forward to order anything different, so the doctors were having it their way, while they could.

She looked better. There was more color in her face, and not just the bruising. She was breathing a little more rapidly too. Everyone said it was a good sign.

-------

There was more paperwork to do. The incident had been picked up by the local news networks, of course, and they had hundreds of questions that the captain came to Bob to get answered. Lacey was still "unidentified" officially, because there was no one to agree to the release of her identify, and medical records were private. Bob simply reported that she was still unconscious, but appeared to be getting better.

"I'll keep in touch with the hospital," offered Bob.

"You can, if you want, but I think we have this pretty well wrapped up," said the captain. "The perp is deceased, as they say." He grinned. "There's nobody to prosecute. Did you see the autopsy report yet?"

Bob shook his head.

"Yeah, the perp's lungs were charred. He was alive when it went up. Doesn't pay to steal a car these days, huh?"

Bob winced.

"Anyway," said the captain, "it's all up to the insurance companies now."

"Somebody ought to at least tell her what happened to her," said Bob.

"Yeah," said the captain, indifferently. "Stay in touch, if you want."

-------

Bob sat, staring at the report that was finished and ready to go into the official record. He was nervous. He felt like he was hiding something. Nobody had noticed that the victim in the explosion was the same victim that was in a cold rape case. If they did, and found out that Bob knew her ... or should know her ... and that he hadn't said anything about that ... well, there would be questions. With a streak of mercenary anger, Bob knew how he'd answer those questions. He'd been pulled off her case—reassigned—she was no longer a concern of his, except for in reference to the accident. He HAD identified her, after all.

He hadn't done anything wrong. The lighter wasn't really evidence. It was a personal belonging of a victim. He'd get it back to her. It just wouldn't be through the paperwork involved in releasing found property.

Still, something seemed off-kilter, somehow. His radar was flickering. The perp had sideswiped Lacey's car, in the incident. Why had she gone to check on the man who had hit her? That had to have been what happened. Her position, at the moment of ignition, had been right by the driver's side of the car. Her purse had still been in her car. Why did she have the lighter in her hand? It had to have been in her hand. He'd seen the clothing they'd cut off her and the pockets were intact.

He felt his pocket, where the lighter lay. He'd never seen her smoke ... never smelled smoke on her breath. Of course he'd never been that close to her face, either, really.

He closed the file and stood up. Time to get out on the road.

He was walking by the detective's squad room, when Don Simpson called his name. He stopped, to see Don walking toward him, smiling. Don looked around, to see if anyone was listening, then moved Bob to one side of the hall.

"Remember your rapist?" he said, his voice low and conspiratorial. "The one you got transferred over?"

"Like I'd forget," said Bob.

"Sorry," said Don. "Anyway, you know he hit again, four more times after that. I told you about some of them."

"Yeah," said Bob.

"Well that crispy critter you cleaned up, the other day? Guess why the state boys were chasing him."

Bob stared, saying nothing.

"There was a rape, two towns over. Same MO, except this time the rapist stole the victim's car. We think it was the same guy!"

"You sure about this?" asked Bob, as alarm bells went off in his brain.

"All I've got is the preliminary statement," said Don. "We formed a serial rapist task force, or I'd never have even heard about it. The MO is identical, right down to the gas leak complaint scam. The knife, the threats, all of it, right down the line. She called the cops and they put out an APB on her car. That's why the troopers started chasing the guy in the first place!"

"Did they lose contact?" asked Bob. His stomach hurt.

"Only at the off ramp, and the accident happened right there. The burned car was the rape victim's. I'm telling you, it's over! Poof! No more serial rapist! They're already talking about closing all the cases."

"Does the media know about this?" asked Bob.

"No, we're keeping it quiet. I shouldn't even be telling you all this. They just want it to fade away. We'll do some work to tie him positively to the other cases if we can, and tell the victims of course, but later, when we have all our ducks in a row. They won't be convinced he's really gone, otherwise. We have to be able to convince them that their attacker is really dead, or those cases will stay open forever! Isn't it great!?" he said excitedly.

"Yeah ... great," said Bob. "If there's anything I can do..."

"I doubt it," said Don. "Like I said, they want to keep this really quiet. Mum's the word ... right?"

"Sure," said Bob. "Thanks."

"No problem, buddy," said the beaming detective. "I had to tell you. I knew you'd want to celebrate."

"Just out of curiosity," said Bob, "who was he?"

"Don't know yet," said Simpson. "Unless somebody reports him missing or steps forward to ID him, we may never know. We got nothing to compare his DNA to, unless we develop a suspect, and Dillworth probably won't even let us do that. He wants this to go away."

-------

Celebrate. It's an interesting word. The dictionary gives three definitions for it:

1. To observe or commemorate (an occasion or event), as with gifts or festivities. 2. To perform (a religious ceremony or ritual [as in mass]). 3. To praise or gratefully acknowledge. The synonyms are many: extol, applaud, laud, glorify, hail, consecrate, exalt, honor, idolize, recognize, acclaim, praise.

For Bob, celebration was hard in coming. His experience told him too much. No coincidence could explain how Lacey Jean Griggs, AKA Lacey Jean Fetterman, could be kneeling beside the gasoline soaked car that contained her rapist, holding a lighter that had not been used to ignite that gasoline.

There was plenty of coincidence. That the perp was there, at that time and place, was coincidence. That Lacey was there, at that time and place, was probably coincidence, too. She wasn't following him. He'd run into her instead. She could not have known her rapist would be there. Maybe it was even coincidence that she had the lighter in her hand.

But there was no way that if she lit that lighter ... it was by coincidence.

He went to the impound lot, where everyone ignored him. The traffic guys spent hours at the impound lot. He located her car and found both the pack—Virginia Slims again—and the loose cigarette, lying on the floor board of the passenger side of the car. It had not been lit. The pack was in the console.

He replayed it in his mind. She had been sitting in traffic. She only smoked when she was nervous, or upset, or maybe bored. She had been getting ready to smoke, stuck in traffic, when everything had happened. She had gone to help. She had recognized her attacker ... and killed instead.

For the first time in his career, Bob Duncan had no idea of what he should do.

He spent the rest of his shift distracted. Lacey Fetterman had become a major distraction in his life. His mind warred between making his suspicions official, or deciding that everything he was thinking was purely circumstantial and wouldn't prove anything. All he'd do, by bringing it up, was ruin a woman already in the midst of trying to pick up the pieces of her destroyed life. But he was a cop. He was sworn to uphold the law ... to protect the innocent. Who was innocent here?

He realized he was blocking traffic. The light had turned green, but no one behind him was willing to honk at a police car. Angrily he pulled forward. He was between calls, and had nothing to do.

The radio squawked to life.

"Unit 2-2, see the man, Museum of Natural History, request for information and assistance."

Bob snatched at the microphone. "Control ... what man? What's the nature of the complaint?"

"Unit 2-2, be advised the man is Henry Templeton, curator, no further info at this time."

Bob felt a surge of anger. He knew it was unjustified, but he let it rage inside him, as he motored toward the museum. It was probably a parking conflict, or something like that. He'd have to determine if the conflict was on public or private property. It was this kind of thing that made him want to retire to a desert island in the Bahamas ... somewhere there were no roads and no cars.

No one was waiting for him in the parking lot of the museum. Everything looked completely normal. No one was standing, shouting at anyone else. He walked up the steps and into the kind of silence that one rarely experiences in the middle of the city. He approached the information kiosk, where a perky middle aged woman looked up at him, over reading glasses.

"Can I help you?" she asked. She frowned. "Is there a problem?"

"I'm supposed to see Henry Templeton," he said, looking around.

"Oh! Well," she said, nervously leafing through a rotary file. "Let me just give him a call."

Ten minutes later a short, rotund man, walking like a penguin, shuffled towards Bob, his hand outstretched.

"Thank you for coming!" he said, breathlessly. "I tried to do all this on the phone, but no one would help me."

"What seems to be the problem?" asked Bob. He had calmed down and his professional persona was well in place.

"Well, I'm not sure," said Templeton. "You see, we are in the midst of a very important project, and one of our volunteers has gone missing."

"It seems that would be a missing persons complaint," said Bob, feeling his anger start to kindle again. "I'm in the traffic division. I don't know why they sent me for this."

"No, we think we know where she is," said the man, "but no one will tell us it's her, for sure. She's in the hospital, you see. We think she might have been involved in that horrible situation with the explosion and all that."

Bob perked up, but became wary.

"All right," he said. "But if you know where she is, what's the problem?"

"Well, you see, she had something very important with her, when she left the dig. She was supposed to be bringing it here, to me. It's vital to our work. If she was in that accident, it may still be in her car. The only piece of information I was able to get out of the police department was that all the cars in that accident had been towed away. But we don't know if she was in the accident, or if she's the woman in the hospital."

"Can't you just go to the hospital and see if it's her?" asked Bob.

"I tried that. They won't let anyone see her," said Templeton.

"What is this important thing she had?" asked Bob.

"It was a flash drive with photographs of the dig on it," said Templeton. "It's critical to our continued work."

"And what's her name?" asked Bob.

"Fetterman ... Lacey Fetterman."

There had been more. Templeton explained why the photographs were so critical, and that the site needed to be identified as a National Historic Site, so they'd have time to properly excavate it. The developers were trying to get a court to let them bulldoze the whole thing. Lawsuits were being threatened, and the owner of the property was in a tizzy. The flash drive had the documentation that would stop everything. More pictures could be taken, of course, and would be, but these photographs were priceless, in that they showed what the site looked like upon its initial discovery. Work had continued and the site had changed. They could be accused of improper procedures, which would halt the dig, and drag things out even more. Time was critical.

Bob had been stunned. In all the times he had been with Lacey, she had never said a word about volunteering at the museum. He remembered her talking about her interest in archeology. Apparently she had decided to explore that interest again.

He returned to the impound lot, telling control that he was on a property recovery mission, and not to dispatch him anywhere. His search of the car came up empty. He went to the office, where he was presented with the sealed container of personal property taken from the vehicle, during processing. He found the drive in her purse, signed for it, and returned to the museum. Templeton almost cried when he saw the thumb-sized device. He thanked Bob so effusively that it was embarrassing. Then, like a true academic, he turned and waddled off, Bob forgotten.



-------

Chapter 8


When Bob went off shift, he returned to the hospital.

"How come you're the only cop who ever checks on her?" asked the head nurse.

"It's my case," he said bruskly. "How's she doing?"

"Better," said the nurse. "She should be awake. All her vitals are normal. The sedative has been stopped. The only reason she's still in ICU is that she won't wake up."

"I'll just sit with her for a while," said Bob. He'd stayed in uniform, since that got him almost anything he wanted, with no real justification being required.

"Suit yourself," said the nurse.

-------

Most of the bandages had been removed. She'd been unconscious for a little more than ninety-six hours. The redness of her face now looked like an irate sunburn that was coated with something clear and greasy looking. Someone had cut the burnt ends off her hair but, of course, it hadn't been styled. Her arms lay, limp, at her sides. As rough as she looked, she was still beautiful.

He picked up one limp hand and massaged it, just feeling her fingers. He had never touched her in this way.

"Lacey." The word came out of his mouth. Just her name. He realized his eyes were damp, and he shifted them around the room.

He had just looked back to her face, when her eyes suddenly opened wide. They were the hazel he'd hoped so desperately to see again, but they were unfocused. Her hand gripped his, as she took a deep breath.

Then all hell broke loose as she expelled that breath in a primal scream of terror, her eyes wide and sightless. The scream was agonized and impossibly loud. It shook him to his core and he tried to step back, but her hand gripped his like iron.

First one and then two more nurses dashed into the room, shouting questions—asking him what he'd done. They didn't wait for any answers, ignoring him, while they dealt with Lacey's terrified form, which appeared to be in the throes of a grand mal seizure. She screamed again, and a nurse barked an order. A syringe appeared and was thrust into the arm another nurse was holding down, all her weight pressing it into the bed.

Lacey's eyes cleared, for an instant, and her head swiveled, stark questions in her eyes. They slid past Bob and then came back to lock on him. Then, as suddenly as it had all begun, her body went limp, and her eyes closed, and she was asleep again.

-------

The nurses were standing and panting, as a doctor entered the room. His flow of questions was interrupted only by his examination of the patient. He questioned Bob, based on the comments of the nurses. Bob admitted to having held her hand and saying her name.

The doctor stood up.

"This has been a very strange case," he said, looking at Bob. "I don't know if you brought her out of it or not, but I doubt that scream was because of you. She's been severely traumatized."

Bob knew that only too well, but again, he withheld something—the information about how deep that trauma went.

"How long will that shot keep her under?" asked Bob.

"Normally, I'd say two or three hours," said the doctor. "With her, I have no idea."

"I'll come back," said Bob.

"Do you know this woman?" asked the doctor, his eyes curious.

"I feel like I should," said Bob, smiling. "She's taken up a lot of my time lately." He shrugged. "I just need to talk to her."

The doctor's curiosity faded. "Come back in a couple of hours," he said. "Hopefully, she'll be awake. You can talk to her then ... if..."

"If what?" asked Bob.

"She had some brain swelling. Sometimes that causes loss of ... cognizance."

"You mean she might not know what happened?" asked Bob, worry tingeing his voice.

"She may not know anything at all," said the doctor, glancing at his patient. "She may not even know she's human." He looked grim. "Have you people had any luck finding her family?"

"Nothing," said Bob.

He felt guilty because he hadn't even tried.

-------

He went home and got something to eat, but stayed in uniform. He set his alarm, and when it woke him, he went back to the hospital.

The nurse saw him and waved him over.

"She's awake, but she hasn't said anything," she said.

"What does that mean?" he asked, dread in the pit of his stomach.

"She acts like she's cognizant, but she won't answer questions. She reached for a medicine cup, and when offered water, she sipped it. We don't know why she's not saying anything, unless her speech centers were affected."

"Can I see her?" he asked.

"Why not?" said the nurse.

-------

When he walked into the room, her eyes were closed.

"Lacey?" he said softly.

Her eyes opened slowly, and her head turned.

"It WAS you," she said, her voice raspy and dry.

He was so shocked he couldn't react. Then his natural instincts kicked in.

"I was worried about you," he said, reaching for her hand.

"I don't feel too good." Her voice sounded like dry leaves rustling in a wind. "I dreamed I saw you."

"You're in the hospital," he said, helplessly. "You got hurt."

"How?" she asked.

He realized that now that she was talking, he needed to alert the doctor. That could present ... problems, though.

"Listen to me, Lacey," he said softly. "Don't tell them you know me. You can talk about anything else you want to, but don't let them know you know who I am."

"Why?" she asked. "I love you."

She was clearly still disoriented.

"Do you trust me?" he asked.

"Yes." Her answer was instant.

"Then please do what I ask you to," he said, softly. "Don't tell them you know me. It's important. You have to act like I'm a stranger."

"All right," she sighed. "Everything hurts."

"You were hurt very badly," he said.

"You made me feel better," she responded.

He realized she was thinking about the rape, not the accident.

"You were in an accident," he said. "Only talk about that, OK?"

"OK," she said. "I'm hungry."

He used that as his excuse to go to the nurse's station, telling Lacey he'd be right back.

"She woke up and said she's hungry, and that everything hurts," he said.

The nurse's eyes went round.

"You seem to have a tremendous effect on this woman," said the nurse.

"It's the uniform," he said, carelessly. "People talk to the uniform."

She didn't reflect on the fact that the hospital was full of uniformed people. Instead she hurried into Lacey's room.

The nurse adopted her normal, professional, light chattering voice, asking questions, which, this time, Lacey answered. The doctor arrived, nodded at Bob, and examined Lacey again. When he was done he shook his head.

"Amazing," he said. "She seems completely lucid. I have no idea why she wouldn't respond before now."

"You're the expert," said Bob.

Everything went on hold, as Lacey was transferred to a regular ward, where her recovery could be completed. Bob sighed, as the first questions asked of her were about insurance. She knew she had it, but didn't know the details. She gave them the phone number of her boutique and the name of an employee to ask for. Bob felt a stab of guilt as he realized he hadn't contacted anyone at the business, to let them know what had happened to her.

Finally, after she was brought a tray of food, and was sitting up in bed, they were left alone. During the whole administrative process, no one told her why she was there, or what had been done to her.

-------

As soon as they were alone, she looked at him.

"What happened?"

"There was an accident," he said carefully. "Can you remember anything about that?"

"A car accident?" she asked

"Yes."

She looked at her arms, for some reason.

"I don't remember that," she said.

"You were taking something to the museum," he prompted.

Her eyes went out of focus.

"Yes," she said. "Pictures from the dig."

"You never told me anything about the dig," he said.

She looked at him. "I was waiting. I wanted to surprise you."

"Why?"

"I can't remember."

-------

It went on like that. There were huge holes in her memory of things both before and during the accident. She clearly knew him and remembered their relationship. She knew she had a racquetball appointment with him "tomorrow." She had lost the five days since the accident. She remembered odd things. While she ate, she said she wished it was food from Santini's. Her memories of the dig were complete, and she expressed relief that Mr. Templeton had gotten the photographs, when Bob told her about that.

"Do you remember how we met?" he asked.

She looked confused. "At the gym," she said. "We play racquetball."

"Before that?" he prodded, gently.

"We met at the gym, Bob," she insisted. "You challenged me to some games."

The nurses were beginning to get curious about him staying there so long, so he got up and told her he'd see her the next day. He had to get some sleep and get to work. She said that was fine and that she looked forward to seeing him again.

It had taken four hours, but when he left, Bob was convinced she didn't remember anything at all about the rape.

She also didn't remember murdering her rapist.



-------

Chapter 9


Sleep came with difficulty for Bob. His mind roiled with the import of what he knew ... or thought he knew. He tried to convince himself that cars caught on fire all the time. There was only circumstantial evidence that the dead man was her rapist at all. Even the fact that there had been no more rapes with that modus operandi didn't prove anything. Like Lacey, no one had come forward to ask where their son, or brother, or father, or husband was. The crispy critter, still unidentified, was still on a slab, but was scheduled to be put in a plain, unmarked box and buried in the county cemetery. Everyone else had forgotten all about him. They'd forgotten about Lacey, too.

Just like Lacey had forgotten.

And then there was her calm statement: "I love you."

There had been no time to go into that. He didn't even know if he SHOULD go into that. He wanted to believe it was a random statement, made while she was thinking of someone else. Then he thought about how absurd that was. She was, as far as he could tell, the perfect woman. Intelligent, capable, strong, not to mention gorgeous. There was her background ... her willingness to accede to people's suggestions ... the rape ... her abandonment by her husband.

He realized he didn't know if she remembered her husband. Was it him in her mind when she'd said those three immensely powerful words?

He only got three hours of sleep, and even that was troubled.

-------

His shift went smoothly, for which he was thankful. He knew that the Lacey distraction was affecting his work ... his judgment ... his habits. All the questions he'd thought of, while trying to get to sleep, were still there.

While he was in, doing paperwork, he ran a computer search for civil actions. Her divorce hearing had taken place while she was in the hospital, unconscious. It was listed as: "Uncontested—dissolution granted in favor of the petitioner." The years she had spent with a man were dissolved in a matter of fifteen minutes, because she wasn't there to argue about it.

She didn't even know she was no longer married.

By the end of his shift he was a wreck. He dropped by the hospital and was informed that visiting hours were later.

"We've searched everywhere for family," he said. "There's no one we can find. What will happen to her when she's discharged?"

"We'll call her a cab, I suppose," said the nurse, obviously disinterested and wanting to get on with her work.

"Her purse is in the impound lot," he said, feeling heat in his belly. "She doesn't even have clothes."

"That's not my problem," said the nurse.

"This is ridiculous," he said, heatedly. "She's a human being!"

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave, officer," said the woman formally.

The last thing he needed was a complaint lodged against him by the hospital. Instead, he got official himself, and demanded to see the nurse's supervisor. Firm in her conviction that, once Lacey Fetterman was no longer her patient, she would have no responsibility for her, the nurse was glad to hand the annoying man over to the head nurse.

Bob handed her a card, instead of explaining the situation. "When she's ready to go home, call me and I'll come pick her up," he said.

"Why would you do that?" asked the woman, suspiciously.

"Because, your nurse just informed me that all you people plan to do is stick her naked into a taxi cab, with no money, and say farewell!" he growled.

"We would not!" said the woman, indignantly.

"According to the nurse who brought me here, how she gets home, and how she is clothed when she does that, and how she pays for the cab is not your problem." His voice was heated.

"We're just overworked," complained the woman. "We wouldn't actually do that. We'd call the county ... or something." She was visibly upset. "Usually, there are people who come to get patients."

"That's all I'm offering to do," said Bob. "The woman has been through hell and I, for one, am not going to let her be put out on the street, because you're overworked."

"Fine!" said the woman, just as heatedly. She stared at him, as if they were done.

"When might I expect a call, to come pick her up?" he asked.

"I can't discuss patient matters with unauthorized persons," she said stiffly.

"Please take me to YOUR supervisor," he said instantly.

She looked nervous, suddenly. She didn't need this headache. What did people expect them to do? She did her job. She cared for patients. If they weren't patients any more, why should she care?

"Tomorrow, probably," she said stiffly. "Rounds are at eight. The doctors just said she could probably go home tomorrow."

"Thank you," said Bob, smiling. "Now that wasn't so hard, was it?"

"Is that all?" asked the woman. "I'm very busy."

"That's all," said Bob. He couldn't resist adding, "for now."

He ignored the unhappy staff and went to her room, even though it wasn't visiting hours. No one tried to stop a policeman in uniform.

"Can't stay," he said, from the doorway. "Sounds like they're letting you go tomorrow. I'll come pick you up. Is that OK?"

"That's wonderful!" she said, her eyes lighting up.

"I'll bring you something to wear, too," he said. "Gotta go."

She said something, but he couldn't quite hear it. It sounded strangely like "I love you." He turned back.

"What?"

"I said I love you," she said. It was like she'd said it a thousand times.

"I'm glad," he said, purely on impulse. "See you tomorrow."

-------

He was so wasted that day that he had no trouble falling asleep. He would rotate after his next shift, going back to days. That meant he'd have all day and all night the next day off. He was familiar enough with hospital operations to know she probably wouldn't be released until ten or later, even though the decision to release her would be made hours earlier.

He spent his shift wondering what it would be like to talk to her outside the hospital. They'd finally have privacy. She would have questions. He had some too. It was as if he had somehow awakened in a whole new world. No, that wasn't it. It was like he had one foot in this world and another in an alternate dimension of some kind. He felt excitement, and worry, and curiosity. He pushed all that aside, so he could do his work ... so no other insane person would be able to pull a gun on him, with him unaware. It was suddenly very important to him that he be able to pick her up in the morning.

He stopped at an all night department store in the suburbs. The clerk looked at him curiously as he laid his best guess in sizes of clothing on the checkout belt. He'd thought about getting her a dress, but decided on sweatpants with a matching top, one pair of socks, some tennis shoes, and underwear. He couldn't have told anyone why he picked the lacy blue bra and panty set that he did.

"Going under cover?" asked the dyed blond cashier, looking at his blue uniform. She arched an eyebrow.

"No," he said. "Practical joke."

"Oh, yeah," she said, smiling. It all made sense now.

He had to work an hour overtime for an accident, where a drunk driver had plowed into a fire plug and broken it off. The street was flooded, and of course, there were no emergency personnel to cut the water off. He was still damp when he showed up at the hospital.

He was shown into an administrator's office.

"It is highly unusual for us to release a patient to the police," said the man. "Is she under arrest?"

"No," said Bob. He stood there, offering nothing else. Her clothing was in a plastic bag, hanging from his hand.

"I see," said the man, though he obviously didn't "see." "Where are you taking her?"

"Why do you care?" asked Bob.

The man bristled. "There are liability issues involved here," he said.

"When I asked what would happen to her, I was told that 'probably' a cab would be called. When I asked what she would wear, and how she was expected to pay for a cab, I was told that's not the hospital's problem. That sounds like a liability problem to me," said Bob. He kept his voice calm.

"There are procedures," said the man. "I must think about the hospital."

"I would have thought your first priority would be to think about your patients," said Bob.

"We do, of course," said the man, impatiently. "I just have to be able to explain why I let her be taken out of here by a policeman."

"OK," said Bob, hearing a stone wall speaking. "Here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to give her these clothes to wear." He held up the bag. "Then I'm going to take her to the impound lot, where her car is. We had it towed there after the accident. Once she has her car, and her purse, which was in the car, I don't give a shit WHERE she goes or what she does."

"Oh," said the man. "Of course." It didn't seem to bother him one bit that the man who was taking charge of a woman with only partial memories left in her head, was going to give her back her car and then wash his hands of her. What Bob had said sounded like policy, and policy was never questioned. "That's different, I suppose."

It was eleven before Lacey was wheeled out of her room and toward Bob. She wanted to walk, but, of course, they wouldn't let her. She said nothing to Bob, staring straight ahead.

"I'll take you to your car, ma'am," he said.

"Good," she said. "I'd like to get home."

Once out the front doors, Lacey stood and walked away from the chair without ever turning back around, or saying anything to the nurse who "helped" her leave the hospital. She stopped and turned to Bob.

"I don't know where we're going."

"My car is over there," said Bob. "I'll answer your questions on the way."

When he opened the door for her, she hugged him, instead of getting in the car.

"I'm so glad you're here," she moaned into his shoulder. "This has just been a nightmare!" She looked up, tears in her eyes. It was obvious she expected him to kiss her. His hands had gone to her back, instinctively. There was yearning in her gaze.

He lowered his lips to hers.

Her kiss was the intimate kind, warm, loose lipped, almost hungry. It was so unlike her that he was shocked. She pulled away.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I guess I've just been worried," he said weakly.

"Thank you. I love you so much. Why didn't you want them to know who you were?"

"We'll talk in the car," he said, giving her a little push. The last thing he needed was for some hospital employee to see what was going on between their former patient and a cop.

It was surreal. She got in, reached for the seat belt and latched it. Then she turned, halfway in the seat, to face him as he got in.

He didn't know where to start. First, he got them out of the parking lot.

"A lot has happened," he said. "I don't know quite where to begin."

"Why didn't you want them to know I knew you?" she asked again.

"That's going to be difficult to explain," he said. "There is a lot that you seem to have forgotten."

"I know that," she said. "There are so many things that I know I should remember, but I can't. Like where I live. Bob, I have no idea where I live!"

"I'll take you there," said Bob. "But first we have to get your car back, and your purse, and keys and all that."

"OK," she said. "I guess that makes sense."

"I need to ask you some questions," he said. "To find out what you do ... and don't remember, OK?"

"Shoot," she said.

He asked her to tell him about her childhood again. She told him the same story, though in different words. She mentioned that she lived with her grandparents, but not why she was sent there. She remembered her cow, and pets, and cousins, though she never said anything untoward happened between them. She knew she'd been to college, but not which one, nor what her degree was in. She knew she had a boutique and the names of her employees. She was suddenly worried about how the business had fared in her absence. She told him all about her volunteer work at the museum, but couldn't remember why she hadn't told him about it before, except that it was supposed to be a surprise. Finally she ran down.

"What do you remember about me?" he asked.

"We play racquetball and I love you," she said. "You take me to wonderful places to eat."

"When did you fall in love with me?" he asked, feeling the other dimension pushing into his world.

She sat for a minute, thinking. "I don't remember. I just know I did."

"Have you ever been married?" he asked.

She looked at him. "What kind of question is that? You know I gave you my virginity!"

"You did?" He couldn't help it. It just came out.

"Of course I did!" she yelped. She frowned. "Didn't I?"

"Don't worry about that," he said. "Like I said, I'm just trying to find out what you remember. The doctor said the swelling in your brain might cause problems. You're really lucky that you remember so much."

"I don't feel lucky," she said. "I had to lie there, for days, and I couldn't kiss you. I'm horny."

Bob got the car back under control before he ran up on the curb, but barely.



-------

Chapter 10


He took her to the impound lot, answering her questions when he thought he could do so safely, and dodging them or changing the subject when it got close to something he didn't want to talk about.

She was appropriately awed by the damage to her car, and only glanced through the box of her possessions. The attendant brought out a bill for storage, and Bob tore it up.

"Hey, you can't do that!" said the attendant.

"I just did," said Bob. "The lady was in the hospital while it was impounded. She almost died. The accident wasn't her fault, and you're not charging her a dime." He wadded up the paper and put it in his pocket. "Besides, you got the VIN number wrong anyway. Sloppy work, if you ask me."

"Somebody has to pay for the storage!" the man whined.

"No, they don't," said Bob. "You're paid by the city. You'll get your paycheck regardless."

"You're signing for the car, then," insisted the man. "I'm not getting in trouble over this."

"Make out a new bill," said Bob. "Put 'Police Impound' on it, with no charge. I'll sign that."

The attendant did, and Bob scribbled across the bottom.

"I can't read that," complained the attendant. "Nobody can read that."

"It clearly says Frank Dillworth," said Bob. "Can't you read?"

The attendant laboriously printed "Frank Dillworth" above the signature.

"Come on," said Bob. "I'll take you out and read you the VIN number myself."

He did, substituting the wrong numbers for both the year of manufacture and the serial number of the car. The attendant didn't think to check it himself.

-------

Lacey followed him to her new apartment. She had to examine her keys to find the one that went to the door. She went in and looked around.

"I don't remember any of this," she said, sadness in her voice. "I live here?"

"You did the last time I picked you up for dinner," he said.

She picked up a picture of her grandparents.

"These are my grandparents," she said. "I must live here."

She wandered around, and went into her bedroom. Bob had never actually been inside the apartment, so he followed her. He found her standing in front of the mirror.

"I'm a mess!" she said. One hand went to her hair. It was longer on one side than the other, where it had burned off. "I'm embarrassed to be seen like this!" she moaned. "My hair! My beautiful hair!"

"Your hair isn't what makes you beautiful," he said.

She turned around and came to him, hugging him. Then she wanted a kiss. This time he let himself kiss her back. It was delicious.

She leaned back, keeping her loins welded to his, and rubbed him gently with her mons. "I'm still horny." She looked up at him through smoky eyes that looked odd without lashes or eyebrows.

Bob's heart almost seized in his chest. She was offering him something he'd daydreamed about. Night-dreamed too, but he had tried to forget those dreams. He couldn't do this with her. It just wasn't right. She wasn't herself. She didn't know what she was doing.

He blinked, and saw concern on her face.

"There's nothing I'd rather do than make love to you right now," he said softly. "It's too soon. You were badly injured and you need more time to recover. You shouldn't get excited."

Her eyes went out of focus again.

"Do I get excited when we make love?" She frowned harder. "I can't remember making love with you. Ohhhh, Bob, I can't remember," she moaned.

"It's all right," he said. "Maybe it will come back. Why don't we get some real food, then you can rest."

"You'll make love to me later?" she asked, her voice high and young. "I know I love it ... I just can't remember it. I feel so helpless!"

"Don't fret over it," said Bob. "The doctor said some of it will come back to you, but you don't need to worry about it. You're healthy, and you'll get healthier, and you're safe now. There's plenty of time for..." He didn't know what to say, and not say. "There's plenty of time for everything."

She melted against him. "Safe," she sighed. "I've always felt so safe with you."

Her soft body, pressed to his, and his emotions for her, had the predictable result. When she felt his arousal, she leaned back again and rubbed some more.

"At least I know you still love me," she said, smiling. "I feel so ugly like this."

"There has never been a woman who captured me like you have," he said. He was amazed to find that had come from the heart. She had captured him. He'd done stupid and foolish things for this woman. His erection faded. He'd fallen in love with a murderess.

She didn't notice the sadness on his face.

"I'm famished," she said. "But I can't go out like this."

"There's no alternative," he said. "You can get your hair done tomorrow. You need food and rest, right now."

"You can cut my hair," she said. "At least it will look even. And I'll get it styled tomorrow."

She pushed away from him, but then stood there.

"I can't remember where I keep the scissors!" She looked around. "I know I have them ... I just don't know where."

Bob found them in the bathroom, in a drawer, and called out that he had. He returned to find her arranging a chair on the tile floor in the kitchen. She whipped off her sweatshirt and pushed her sweatpants down, to stand in front of him in the lacy blue bra and panties he'd bought for her. He goggled.

"What's wrong with you?" she asked. "You've seen me like this before."

"It's just been a while," he said quickly. "I can never get over how gorgeous you are."

"Flirt!" she said, grinning. She looked down. "I must have grown or something. This bra is killing me." Before he could react, she reached behind her. The bra went slack, and she pulled it off.

"Ahhhhhhh," she sighed, massaging her breasts. "That's better." She sat in the chair and leaned back, to let what was left of her hair fall over the back of the chair. "Try to take as little off as you have to," she said. "Just make it even across the bottom."

Bob was incapable of moving. He'd looked at her breasts many times, in the shirt she wore to play racquetball in, and on those occasions when she'd been in street clothes. He'd imagined them to be smaller than they actually were. Instead of the pink nipples he'd imagined, hers were light brown, almost a tan color, that perched on areolas a shade lighter yet. Her breast flesh was milky white, and he could see the tracery of tiny blue veins beneath the skin. His erection was back, and it was complete.

"Honey?" She tilted her head at him.

"Give a guy some warning," he breathed. "You can't just spring a body like that on a poor guy and expect him to roll with that kind of punch."

"You're so sweet," she said. She hefted her breasts, presenting them to him. "Are you sure we have to wait?"

Her behavior was so foreign ... so not Lacey ... that he realized instantly it was a product of the accident, or the explosion, or something. Her "memories" of him ... of THEM ... were not just some attempt to gloss over the fact she had killed a man. It was this behavior that convinced Bob she really did not remember. She didn't remember the rape, and she didn't remember burning her rapist alive.

He moved, finally. "Yes, I'm sure," he said firmly. "Don't tease me right now. I'm just getting used to the fact that you're all right."

She didn't seem crushed, though she put a pout on her face, sticking her lower lip out. Even with peeling skin, bruises, no lashes, and a receding hairline, where the hair had been burned away, he thought she looked beautiful.

But the Lacey Fetterman he knew wouldn't have pouted. Of course, she wouldn't be sitting here in front of him in only panties, either. She seemed the same, and yet, completely different at the same time.

Two dimensions. They were living in two dimensions simultaneously.

-------

He tried to ignore her body, while he clipped her hair. When he was done, it fell in a V to just below her shoulder blades. The sides were much shorter and it looked more like the tail of some animal than her hair. On impulse, he gathered it in his hands and made a ponytail out of it. It looked almost normal, though it was short.

"Ponytail," he said. "It looks good in a ponytail."

"You've always liked my hair in a ponytail," she said. "You always stare at my boobs and my hair when we play racquetball."

"I do?" he said. "Why didn't you ever say anything about it?"

"I like it, you dope," she said. "What woman doesn't crave for her man to look at her like that, even when he's getting his ass handed to him by the woman he's lusting after?" She put her hands up and replaced his, standing up. She turned around. Her breasts had lifted a bit and the nipples were upturned now. "ESPECIALLY when he's getting whipped by a girl." She grinned.

He felt weak. He HAD admired her body and hair when they played. And she'd never said a word. Again, her behavior was a mixture of the old and new Lacey. It was eerie.

"Are you OK?" she asked, worry coming over her face. "You look like you just saw a ghost."

"I came so close to losing you," he said. "You were unconscious for days. I feel like I barely know you."

"Well, then," she said, flippantly. "I guess we'll just have to get reacquainted." She smiled. "Ow," she winced. "It still hurts to smile."

"You were lucky you didn't get burned worse," he said.

"You never told me what happened," she said, still standing there, still holding her hair with both hands ... still looking nakedly gorgeous. "My car isn't all burned up. How did I get burned?"

"At dinner," he said. "I'll tell you about it at dinner."

-------

She came out of the bedroom wearing a tan dress that looked like it was made of suede leather and showed a lot of cleavage. It fell to just above her knees. The bandage on her leg looked out of place, until you saw her face. Brown sandals, and the ponytail, softened the elegant cut of the dress, making it look less formal. Even the damage to her face detracted from her beauty only a little. She had never worn anything like this for him before.

"Apparently, I don't wear much makeup," she said. "I have very little here. That's kind of odd, don't you think? I sell it in my shop."

"You've never needed makeup before," said Bob, staring at her. She made his heart ache.

"Well I could sure use some now," she said. "I look like somebody sandblasted my face."

"I'll arrest anybody who says anything," he said, standing up. "Public disturbance. Then they'll be sorry."

She smiled. "Come on. Let's go. I want to know what happened."



-------

Chapter 11


He took her to Santini's. On the way, he told her a car had sideswiped hers, and that she hadn't been injured. While she was trying to help others involved in the accident, an explosion had occurred. He left it simple.

"Explosion," she said, her voice far away. "I remember light ... all over ... I was submerged in light."

"What else do you remember?" he asked, his voice guarded.

"Just that. When you said explosion, it just came to me."

When they walked into Santini's, Donna met them. Her smile turned to dismay when she saw Lacey's face.

"Oh, you poor darling," she moaned, hugging the taller woman. "What did this beast do to you?"

"He didn't do anything to me. I was in a wreck," Lacey said. "I don't remember anything about it."

"From the look of you, it's a good thing," said Donna, concern in her eyes.

Lacey looked over.

"I'm all better now," she said. She looked over at Vinny, who had come to the counter, at the tone of his wife's voice. "How's my second most favorite man?" asked Lacey, gaily.

Donna's eyes widened. Bob caught them and gave a minuscule shake of his head. She frowned and raised an eyebrow. Vinny was equally confused. Lacey had never said anything to either of them, except to say how much she enjoyed their food.

"I'm starving here," said Lacey. "I need Lasagna and lots of it. The whole time I was in the hospital, all I could think of was the taste of Vinny's lasagna."

Donna recovered like the pro she was at dealing with the public. "You just come over here, baby," she said. "I'll sit you down and get you some. Can I borrow Bob for a minute? I need to ask him a question."

"Sure," said Lacey. "And could I have some of that wonderful Sangria too?"

"Coming right up, sweetheart," said Donna, pulling at Bob.

She took him to the office.

"What the hell happened to her?" she asked, staring at Bob.

"She was, in fact, in an accident. There was an explosion, and she was unconscious for days. She almost didn't make it."

"She's never flirted with Vinny," said Donna. "And I know for a fact she's never had the lasagna."

"Her memory is fried," said Bob. "She's forgotten a lot. She remembers some things correctly, but then there are other memories that are false, like the lasagna. She thinks we're lovers."

"Well, as to that ... I did too," said Donna. "Are you telling me you aren't ... or weren't?"

"Things never got that far, Donna. I like her. She's had a rough go of it and needed a friend. I didn't push it."

"I've always known you were a good man, Detective," said Donna. "What are you gonna do?"

"I haven't got the faintest idea," admitted Bob. "She's forgotten some things that are better left that way. Her most unhappy moments seem to be gone. She says she loves me."

"That much is true. I knew that the first time you brought her here," said Donna.

"What?" Bob was astonished. "We weren't that way, Donna."

"Well, I know what I saw, and I saw a woman who wanted to spend a LOT of time around you. Maybe it wasn't love, but it wasn't far from it."

"Donna, I never even kissed her, until I got her out of that hospital. Then she kissed ME! All we ever did was play racquetball and talk."

"Then my advice to you is to keep playing racquetball and talking," said Donna. "If I could tell before this accident, then it was working for you then, too."

"I can't game her, Donna," objected Bob. "I like her."

"I'm not talking about that, you stupid flatfoot," snorted Donna. "I saw how you looked at her, too. She had you wrapped around her little finger."

"Donna," said Bob, exasperated now, "nobody was wrapping anything around anything else. We were just friends, I'm telling you!"

Donna looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Well, Bob, it looks like you're better friends now. She likes you ... you like her ... what's to complain about?"

"I don't know," said Bob, doubtfully. "It's like she doesn't really know what's going on. I feel like I'm taking advantage of her."

"And maybe she's the wolf, in sheep's clothing, waiting to eat you up. Go on out there and talk to her," said Donna, giving him a push. "I'll serve her something that will get you laid." She cackled and pushed him harder.

-------

Donna's comment about Lacey gaming him, instead of the other way around, didn't sit well with Bob. It worried him. He'd met plenty of conmen, and conwomen in his days on the force. They had the same charisma that Lacey was now displaying. Before, she'd been pensive, withdrawn, and unhappy. She came alive when they battled on the court, and when they were relaxed and talking, but always under that was the pain.

Now, it was if the pain had vanished. She was a different woman. At the same time, she was still Lacey. He wondered if this was how she had been before the rape. At the same time, he wondered if it was all an act, to avoid responsibility for a murder.

She asked him all kinds of questions, during dinner, trying to fill in the gaps in her memory. The problem was that she asked questions for which there were no answers. He tried to tell the truth, whenever he could. He got very inventive when that was impossible.

"When was our first kiss?" she asked. "I remember loving it, but not where it was or what we were doing."

"It was on a day like today," he said, thinking furiously. "You'd been having difficulties, and I could see in your eyes that you needed a kiss. It was amazing."

Another time, it was a more bizarre turn.

"Have we been to the opera?" she asked, wiping her lips. "I remember being at The Barber Of Seville, and holding your hand. Was it your hand? Whose hand was it?"

"It must have been in college," said Bob. "Or maybe after that, but before we met. Sad to say, it wasn't me."

She had other false memories, but then there were the things that were completely genuine as well. She remembered what kind of ice cream he'd gotten at a little sidewalk cafe. He'd tried a new flavor, and it had been awful.

He saw her shoulders drooping lower, and called for the check.

On the way back to her apartment, she lay her head back on the headrest of her seat.

"Can I stay at your house tonight?" she asked.

"I guess that would be OK," he said, nervously.

"I just don't remember living in my apartment. It's nice and all, but I don't want to be alone tonight."

"You want to grab some clothes ... maybe a nightgown or something?" he asked.

She rolled her head. "Now whose memory is messed up? You know I sleep nude."

"I just want you to do what makes you feel the best," he said.

"You won't let me do what I know would make me feel best," she countered. "I have to heal some more first ... remember?"

He was almost relieved, when she walked into his apartment and didn't recognize anything there either. She prowled all over the place, looking at everything, behind every door. He made some hot chocolate, while she explored. When it was done, he found her, spread eagled on his bed.

"Of all the things I thought I'd remember, it was this bed," she said. "But I don't." She sighed. "I remember everything you ever did to me in this bed, but not the bed itself."

"Everything?" he asked. She sat up and he handed her the cocoa.

"You, my handsome Romeo," she said, "are a consummate lover. Just remembering some of the orgasms you've given me makes me all wet."

"Enough of that," he said. "You're just torturing yourself. You need sleep. You're not healed yet."

"You're as bad as the nurses," she groused, standing up. "All they ever said was 'Get some rest', and then they woke me up every twenty minutes for one thing or another."

As she talked she unzipped the dress and stepped out of it. Bob was astounded to see she was braless. He took the dress from her, telling her he'd hang it up. It had a built in bra. He'd never been with her when she hadn't worn a traditional bra. Her panties were the same color as the dress, very plain and very sheer. She bent over to remove them, and her breasts hung, swinging slightly, like ripe fruit about to fall from a tree. She stood back up, and handed him her panties, too. She looked down and traced a finger along a line that was whiter than the rest of her skin, from one breast across her abdomen.

"How did this happen?" she asked. "Was this part of the accident?"

Bob remembered her telling him about how her rapist had marked her with his knife. He'd never seen the photographs of it, and had been too discombobulated to notice it the first time she stripped in front of him.

"Must have been," he said helplessly. "There was a lot of broken glass."

"You have to come to bed, too," she said. "I won't be able to sleep unless you're there."

"What do you do at home?" he asked.

"I don't know," she said. "But I know that if you're here and not in bed with me, I won't be able to sleep."

He hung her dress up in the closet. For lack of anywhere else to put them, he draped the panties over the hanger neck. When he returned to the bedroom, she was in bed, the covers pulled up to her navel. He felt himself getting hard.

He undressed as slowly as possible, unsure what to do. He was erect, and if he took everything off, she'd see that. Even in his boxers, it was pretty clear what was under them. It was better than nude, though, so he walked toward the bed wearing them.

"How cute," she said.

"What?"

"I can't have what I want, and you're covering it up so I can't see it. I know it's there, though. I promise to be good. At least let me gaze on what will make me happy tomorrow."

"Two or three days," said Bob. "Doctor's orders. Don't torture yourself."

"I'm not torturing me!" she squealed. "YOU'RE torturing me! Two or three DAYS!? I want two or three TIMES PER DAY!" She put on a disgusted look and folded her arms under her breasts. Bob felt his prick leak precum. She was so gorgeous it was making him weak.

He turned around. If he didn't leave now, he'd do something stupid. He'd only taken two steps when she wailed.

"I'm sorry! Please, honey, don't leave me. I'll be good, I promise! Oh, baby, I need to feel your arms around me. I promise I'll behave."

He turned around to see her kneeling in bed, reaching out to him.

"You promise?"

She ran her index finger down between her breasts, then across them, just above the nipples. "Cross my heart," she said. He saw her eyes glisten, and realized she had been terrified he was rejecting her.

He did it while he could make himself do it. He went to the bed and climbed in. She snuggled up to him immediately, throwing an arm over his chest and kissing his shoulder. She let him slide an arm under her, and he pulled her closer against him.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"I love you." It was out of his mouth before he knew it. It had just seemed like the thing to say. But he realized he meant it, on some level. He didn't understand that. He'd said it before to other women, but he'd never meant it. At least it hadn't felt like this when he'd said it. How could he mean it now? This was an insane situation.

She wiggled against him and her leg fell on top of his. Her arm hugged him tighter, for an instant, and then relaxed. Her hand slid from his shoulder to the hair on his chest, and she played with it with one finger.

"Thank you for coming to get me," she said. "I didn't know how I'd get home, cause I didn't know where home was."

"I love you," he said again, but he wasn't talking to her. He was saying it out loud, testing his own ears. It even sounded normal. He began to think that they had crossed into the other dimension, where they were both in love with each other and she hadn't murdered anybody.

"And thanks for letting me stay here tonight." She yawned. "This is so much better than being alone in my bed."

"It is." Again, it was as if his other self had said that. Feeling her here, in his arms ... it really WAS immeasurably better than being alone.

Her face was on his shoulder. She leaned forward to kiss his jaw, and relaxed again, feeling suddenly heavier on him.

"Night, sweetheart," she said softly.

"Night," he said back.

In five minutes, she was snoring softly on his shoulder.



-------

Chapter 12


Bob eventually slept, despite the erection between his legs that demanded attention. It was still demanding attention when he woke the next morning, with a soft, naked woman pressed against his body. It had been a long time since there had been a naked woman of any kind pressed against his body when he woke. That had been a result of long hours, and an unwillingness by Bob to turn over part of his life to any woman. It wasn't that he didn't like women ... it was more that he hadn't found a woman yet who didn't drive him crazy within a few months of getting close to her.

Perhaps it was the multidimensional aspect of his relationship with Lacey that caught, and held his interest. She had always been interesting, in the sense that she was the most beautiful woman Bob had ever become friendly with. Most beautiful women weren't interested in a cop with a crooked nose, who loomed over most people and looked slightly Neanderthal when he frowned. He kept his hair cut short, almost in military style, because it was cooler and kept the "appearance pricks" off his back. He'd gotten tired of being reminded that he represented the whole fucking city ... to the whole fucking city ... long ago.

Most women, beautiful or not, also aren't interested when a man comes through the door and answers "How was your day?" the way most cops answer that question. It was even worse in Bob's case. What woman wants to hear about how poor virgin Sally was tied spread eagled on the bed, screaming, while fifteen men apparently tried to inflate her body by overfilling her with semen?

Lacey was still asleep. Bob didn't want to move, even though he needed to pay homage to the porcelain goddess. Part of that was because it WAS so nice to have a warm naked female body pressed against him. But he had some thinking to do. Lacey Fetterman seemed to require much more thought than any other woman Bob had ever met. A lot of that thought was still centered around his natural suspicion. Cops are, after all, paid to be suspicious.

He was sure, in his mind, that Lacey had killed the crispy critter that was about to be buried. At the same time, he was also sure that that critter deserved to be crispy. That critter had ruined Lacey's life ... twice, if you looked at it from a slightly skewed angle. He had also ruined the lives of at least four other women, and since most rapists commit ten times the number of rapes they are ever found accountable for, he had very likely ruined the lives of fifty innocent women.

There were two horns of the dilemma Bob was currently hoisted on.

The first was that if the rapist had been caught, successfully prosecuted, and sentenced to death, the result, though it would have taken twenty or thirty years, would have been the same. He wouldn't be a crispy critter, but he'd still be dead. In effect ... that sentence had been carried out. The innocent were now protected, at least from this particular serial rapist. The only problem was that the warm naked body of the woman pressed against him, a woman who was delightful, and interesting, and loving, had shortcutted justice, taking the law into her own lighter-filled hand. The fact that her crime was, most likely, only second degree murder, committed in the heat of passion, was merely a mitigating circumstance. It was still murder, by the letter of the law.

The second was that, if all the signs were correct, the murderess not only didn't remember the original cause of the heat of her passion when she committed the crime ... she didn't remember the crime either. Had Bob stood over her, demanding a confession, she would have, quite literally, believed herself innocent.

While most people don't think about it, the purpose of the criminal justice system in the United States is not to put criminals behind bars. Everyone thinks that's its purpose, but if you read the constitution, it is quite clear that's not what the founding fathers had in mind at all.

The purpose of the criminal justice system is to ensure that no innocent person is deprived of his or her freedom.

That purpose has morphed, over the centuries, which isn't unusual. Most social programs morph as the society morphs. Additional purposes have been added to the system. There is the purpose of removing incorrigible criminals from the society they would continue to prey on. But not all criminals are incorrigible, or a threat to society. If a criminal repents his societal sins, and is not a danger to others, what purpose is there to keeping him ... or her ... removed from society? There is retribution, of course, another purpose that has crept into the system. Victims want revenge, but we can't allow them to take it themselves, so it is taken by the state on their behalf. Sentences, in fact, are based on that justification. Punishment is meted out to soothe the victim and encourage the perpetrator to repent.

If Bob unmasked Lacey, and her prosecution was successful, she would certainly be punished. She would not be repentant, because she would, forever (if her memory stayed the way it was now), believe she was innocent of the crime she was convicted of. No family had stepped forward to claim the crispy critter's body. The victim, himself, could not, in his current condition, desire revenge. The world was a better place because he was gone.

Bob could think of no possible way that prosecuting Lacey Fetterman would make the world a better place.

Yet, he had a sworn duty to uphold the law.

It was driving him crazy.

-------

When she woke and started kissing him, telling him it was the best night's sleep she could remember, it took everything he had not to roll on top of her and give her what she wanted. Her kisses were warm and inviting, the kind that are almost impossible to fake, and that affected him the most. He became convinced, in the ten minutes it took to extricate himself from her embrace, and basically browbeat her into getting dressed, that at least as far as Lacey Fetterman's brain was concerned, she really did love him.

He wanted to stay with her all day, but insisted that she go home and rest. She agreed, only after he promised to take her out that night.

It was very hard to leave her when he closed her door.

-------

He had the day off, but the situation had to be resolved. He had no idea how to do that, so he went looking for help in the only place he could think of to get answers to some of his questions. Well, there were two places he could go, but one of them would be professional suicide. He could have gone to see the department shrink, but any officer who went in that office voluntarily was looked on with suspicion by his coworkers, and that lasted forever.

But there was a woman he'd helped in the past. She'd been stalked by a patient, who attacked her in the parking garage where Bob just happened to be getting out of his car. He had been in civvies, and technically off duty, but he carried his badge and gun everywhere he went. It was the furtive movement in the shadows that had tipped him. The man had had a chloroform-soaked rag in his hand, and the woman was unconscious at his feet, when Bob stepped up behind him and saved the day.

The woman, a psychiatrist who did some consultation with the court system, was immensely grateful. She had, in fact, predicted in court that a defendant who was on trial for sexual assault would attack another woman and that bail should not be granted. The judge had ignored her, and she almost paid the price. It was that man who had attacked her. Her name was Claire.

When Bob entered the office, he almost didn't get to see her. The secretary was adamant that the doctor was booked and could not see a walk-in patient. It didn't help that Bob said he wasn't a patient. Claire walked out of her office to hand the receptionist some paperwork and saw Bob.

"Is this my lucky day?" she asked, brightly. "Have you finally come to take me away from all this?"

Her receptionist's jaw dropped. It stayed dropped as Bob asked if he might have a word with her, and she told the girl to hold all appointments until they were done.

-------

Claire sat in a chair, beside which was another chair. She didn't put her desk between them.

"What's up?" she asked.

"I have this problem," he said. "Actually, there's a friend of mine who has this problem."

Claire grinned. "That's the oldest story in the book, Bob."

"Well, this time, it's true. I had a case a while back ... a rape case ... and the victim and I ran into each other after that. We play racquetball together."

"Mmmmmm," said the doctor, noncommittally.

"Well, anyway, we became friends."

"Just friends?" asked Claire.

"Maybe good friends," said Bob. "She had a lot to work through, and her rape advocate wasn't helping."

"Is this the case that got you transferred?" asked the woman.

"You know about that?"

"I asked that you be assigned to a particular case that the court wanted further information on. I was told you weren't available. Naturally, I asked some questions."

"Yeah, it's that case."

"I see," said Claire, crossing her legs in that way that women can do, but men can't. It puts her legs on display, in a comfortable kind of way, but at the same time firmly closes off her sex, titillating and denying the man at the same time. She didn't do it intentionally, but if she'd have seen it in a surveillance video she'd have recognized it instantly as a tease.

Bob tried to ignore her legs. "Anyway, all we ever did was play racquetball, and go out to eat a few times. I guess we had drinks once in a while too. She called me sometimes, when things were rough. I explained some things to her about rapists and her situation. Her husband divorced her, because of the circumstances."

"And she got attached to you," said Claire.

"No ... or at least I didn't think so. I mean it was nice. We could talk about anything, but she didn't show that kind of interest, and I knew it was too soon to show any myself."

"But you were interested," suggested Claire.

"Of course I was interested," snorted Bob. "She's beautiful."

"Was her case solved?"

Bob had to be careful here. "We think it was a serial rapist, and that he's dead now."

"Did you tell her this?"

"No, that's part of the problem ... I mean why I'm here. Something else happened, and everything's all screwed up."

"Go on," said Claire. She liked this man. He'd been her knight in shining armor. But appointments were stacking up. She resisted the urge to look at her watch. He was clearly troubled.

"She was involved in an accident, with head trauma. She was unconscious for the better part of a week. When she woke up, she had this whole set of memories ... about us ... that aren't true." Bob waited.

"What kind of memories?" asked Claire.

"She has memories of us as lovers. She thinks we've been lovers ever since she met me. She's forgotten things, too. She has no memory of the rape. She has no memory of her husband ... ex-husband. I don't even think she remembers being married. Her whole personality has changed. She was pretty conservative, but that's gone. She's as happy-go-lucky as a woman who's never felt pain at all."

Claire stood up. "Be right back," she said. She went to the door and leaned out. "Janice? Cancel all my appointments for today. Reschedule them any way you want. I'll work evenings if necessary."

Then she came and sat back down. Brain trauma and false memories were something she'd been looking at and thinking about for years. The professional journals played at answering the questions that everybody had, but there was nothing definitive. No studies had been done, because there weren't enough subjects to do one properly. It was rare to find a case like this one, and she was instantly fascinated.

She took him back, asking him detailed questions about everything he and Lacey had done together. She asked him what both of them wore and what they talked about. He described how she had told him about her background, both before and after the accident, and what the differences were. Blushing, he admitted to her lusty behavior and sleeping with her the previous night.

"But you didn't have sex with her?" asked Claire.

"Of course not," he said. "It isn't really her. I mean she's not herself. It would have been a lie ... taking advantage of her."

"But she wanted to have sex with you." It was a statement, rather than a question.

"She EXPECTED me to have sex with her," said Bob. "But I couldn't do that. Surely you understand that."

"Yes," said the psychiatrist, shifting her legs. She understood that Bob was a rare man, who had an opportunity most men would grab at, but was gentleman enough not to. She felt a flutter in her belly and pushed it away, almost angrily. She had some idea of what it was like to be saved by this man ... and the feelings that could generate in a woman. She was quite happily married, but had still fantasized about being in bed with Bob. She'd thought that was all over. She still enjoyed seeing him and thought of him as a dear friend.

"Doctor?" Bob prompted her, after almost a full minute of silence.

"Hush!" she said. "I'm thinking."

What Claire was thinking about was the possibility ... no, likelihood ... that if she somehow woke up with no memories of her husband, and Bob was there, she might act in much the same way as the woman Bob was dealing with. She was attracted to him and that attraction was held in check only by her own psyche. If that psyche were to change, her behavior towards him could easily change.

She looked at him. He was ruggedly handsome. He had the hint of a smile on his lips now, as his eyes watched her. She felt her nipples stiffen and tingle. He had an animal magnetism that affected even her.

She pushed those thoughts away and returned to the other woman's situation ... and Bob's.

"It would appear that, for things to work out for you, this woman needs to regain her memories."

Bob grimaced. "I wouldn't want any woman to regain some of those memories."

"In order for her to process her feelings for you honestly, though," said Claire, "which seems to be what you need in this situation, she'll have to be told the truth."

"What do I tell her?"

"This is a delicate situation, Bob," said the doctor. "One in which you may not be the best qualified person to inform her." Claire sat back. "Perhaps I could work with her a little."

"How do I get her to talk to a shrink?" asked Bob. "She's not aware that anything is wrong at all."

"That's the easy part," said Claire. "You tell her part of the truth ... that she has memory loss, due to the accident. You tell her you're worried about her, and that I might be able to help. You tell her you love her, and want her to talk to me."

"Do I love her?" asked Bob, sounding lost.

Claire couldn't keep the bubble of laughter in, even though it was highly unprofessional.

"Oh, you love her, Bob. That is obvious, even to me."

"How do you know that?" he asked.

"If I asked you to make love to me ... right now ... right here ... would you do it?" asked Claire. Her nipples itched at the very thought of it.

He looked at her blankly.

"Would you, Bob?" she asked, relentless.

"No," he said. "I don't know why, but that doesn't work for me."

"No it doesn't," she said. "You love me, Bob, not on the same level as this other woman, but as a friend. You love me enough to know that it wouldn't work out. Am I unattractive?"

"Of course not," he said.

"Then the reason you wouldn't make love to me now is because it isn't the right thing to do. You have morals, Bob. You have desires that are completely normal, but your values direct your behavior. As much as I'd like..." She cut her sentence off and blushed, embarrassed that she'd let her own desires slip into the comment. "I'm flattered, more than you could imagine, by the fact that you care for me enough to say no."

"So I did the right thing?" he asked. "Putting her off, I mean?"

"I think you did." Claire stood up, unable to remain seated. She had allowed herself to fantasize, and he had only fed that fantasy by being the man she knew he was. She'd need to change panties after he left. The attraction was that strong. "See if she'll come see me. If she doesn't want to come to the office, I'll come to her place ... or yours, if necessary. You have my number. Call me anytime."

-------

Claire sat at her desk, after Bob had left. The thought of going to his apartment had left her knees weak. She knew she'd have to take a minute and masturbate, if she was going to get anything done, and she needed to go back over all the research material on memory loss, before she met Bob's woman. She felt heat in her belly, as her mind created a facsimile of the woman who was "Bob's woman," and realized she was jealous of this unidentified female. She fanned her face. How this man could do that was something she wished she could bottle. She'd be a millionaire within six months.



-------

Chapter 13


Bob went back to his apartment. The bed was still unmade and the wrinkled linens held the imprint of a bed that had been slept in by a couple. The pillow she'd used was lying against his own, like her head had lain close to his. On impulse, he bent to sniff the sheets where she had lain. They smelled like ... her.

He hadn't missed the verbal slip that the doctor had made. She'd been about to say that as much as she would have liked to get naked with him, right there in the office, it wasn't the right thing to do.

Going from having no real sex life at all to having two beautiful women lusting after him was monumental, at least in this situation. He knew Claire was no problem. He was sure she'd talk it over with him at some point if it was causing HER problems. He had no designs on her, though she was pure joy to look at and be around.

Lacey, though, was a different proposition. He couldn't talk to her about the problem ... not without possibly reawakening horrible memories that would destroy her again. It wasn't just the rape he was worried about. If she remembered killing her rapist, he knew it would torment her for the rest of her life. She was just that kind of person. At the same time, he couldn't live a lie with her. If he did that, and THEN she remembered her past ... it would destroy them both.

By the time he picked her up for dinner, he'd thought about it most of the day. He had to get her to talk to Claire. It was the only thing he could do. At least then, if she remembered, she'd be with a professional, who could deal with the trauma.

-------

She met him with a kiss and the loin rubbing she was so good at, which made him erect almost instantaneously.

"Mmmmm," she said into his lips. "You DID miss me."

"I always miss you," he said.

"Why haven't we gotten married?" she asked him.

It was questions like that that brought his world crashing down around him ... and deflated his erection as quickly as it had appeared.

"Sit down," he said. "We have to talk."

"I can think of things I'd rather do than talk," she said, pressing her breasts against his chest.

"That's part of what we have to talk about," he said.

"Uh oh," she said, backing up. "I'm not sure I like the sound of that."

He had practiced for hours, but it all fled his mind like smoke in the wind.

"First off, I want to tell you that I love you," he said. Then he wasn't sure he should have said that. Claire saw things he couldn't quite lay out for himself. He was a little gun-shy about telling any woman that he loved her, but he knew that whatever it was he felt for Lacey, it was much stronger than anything he'd felt for any other woman.

"Of course you do," she said, frowning.

"Would you please let me finish?" he moaned. "This is hard enough as it is."

"It sounds like there's a 'but' at the end of that confession of love," said Lacey, her face going stiff.

"Lacey, please," he begged.

"All right," she said, folding her arms in a defensive posture.

"A lot has happened to you recently," he said. "Some of that has caused you to have some memory problems."

"I know that," she said impatiently.

"Lacey!" he barked.

"OK, OK," she said. "Go on."

"There are things that you don't remember ... things that happened to you, and things about us, and things about your past. Some of those things are very important to me, because they affect who you are. I love who you are ... who you were before ... and now..."

He tapered off. This wasn't going well at all. Thankfully, she sat, listening.

"I want you to remember some things," he said, trying again. "I think you'd want to remember them too ... I think they'd be important to you ... to us ... but at the same time, I DON'T want you to remember some of the really painful things."

She sat, still, stiff. When he didn't go on, she spoke.

"Can I say something now?"

"Yes," he said weakly.

"Do these painful things that I can't remember ... do they involve you?"

"In a way," he hedged.

"Did you hurt me?" she asked.

"No! I'd never do anything to hurt you!"

"Then how could they possibly affect you and me?" she asked.

"Some of what you've forgotten could very well affect how you think about me," he said. "It could ruin your life."

"What in the world could be so terrible that it could ruin my life?" she asked. "Did I murder somebody or something?"

She didn't see him go stiff, frozen by her comment, and went on.

"That can't be. I'd be in prison if I did something like that. Bob, why can't you just tell me what I've forgotten?"

"It's complicated," he said. "If you remember the wrong things, at the wrong time, it could drive you crazy. I'm walking around on tiptoes, afraid to tell you things, for fear that it would devastate your life."

"Well what are we supposed to do?" she moaned.

"There's a woman I know. I met her in my work. She's interested in talking to you about all this, and might be able to help you remember, in a way that won't be harmful. She's a psychiatrist."

"A psychiatrist," repeated Lacey.

"Yes," said Bob softly.

"And you want me to talk to her."

"Yes," said Bob, again softly.

"Do you think I'm crazy?" she asked.

"No."

"And you think this will help ... us?"

"Yes."

"Do you love me, Bob?" Lacey's face held anguish.

"I thought you knew I did." His voice rose a bit.

"Did." She repeated that one word. "That's past tense, Bob. Do you love me now?"

He looked at her face. It was a study in fear, and hope, and preparation for disappointment, all at the same time.

"I do love you," he said. "That's why I want you to talk to her. I'm in love with the woman you really are, and that includes your memories."

"All right," she said. "I'll talk to her."

She could see the relief on his face and it stirred something in her. This really was important to him, and anything that was that important to him, was important to her, too. She felt a chill, as if those horrible memories he had mentioned were trying to break through into her consciousness. If they were that bad, why did he want her to remember them? She stood.

"I'll do this for you," she said.

"Thank you," he said. He meant it, and that caused another thrill to shiver down her spine, banishing the dread she had earlier felt.

She had a sudden thought. "Does this have anything to do with you resisting making love with me?"

She saw the pain in his eyes.

"Yes, it does."

"Have you been cheating on me?" Her voice transmitted the hurt she was already anticipating.

"No," he said. "There is no other woman in my life."

"Have I been cheating on you?" She frowned. The idea of possibly throwing away his love horrified her.

"No," he smiled.

"When can I talk to her?"

"She said to call any time."

"Any time? Even now? At night?"

"She said any time, and she meant any time."

The chill was back. If a professional was willing to talk to her after hours, that meant things must be very serious indeed.

"Am I going to be OK?" she asked, her voice soft and young.

He came to her and hugged her. She'd never felt anything so good in her life as that hug.

"Sweetheart, there is nothing in the world I want more than you being OK," he said into her hair.

"Let's call her now," moaned Lacey.

-------

The call had been made, and Claire, true to her word, was willing to meet them that night. She asked about dinner, and said she'd call out for some food. She asked Bob to come along, but said he wouldn't be in the room with them when she talked to Lacey.

They met at her office, and had to be let in by a security guard, who was expecting them. He looked at them curiously, but only said to let him know when they left.

The odor of Chinese permeated the room, when Claire opened the office door. She insisted that they eat first, and sat and chatted about whatever came to mind. She could tell that Lacey was nervous, but that was perfectly normal. That her jealousy returned, as soon as she saw the woman, she almost expected. In a way, she was glad the woman was so beautiful, even though the ravages of the accident were still visible. It helped her shove her fantasy about Bob back in a tightly closed box, where it belonged.

Finally, the time came to leave Bob in the waiting room, while the women went into Claire's inner sanctum.

-------

"Do you know why you're here?" asked Claire.

"Bob says my memories ... the things I've forgotten ... are a problem for us."

"Before we begin, I want to tell you something," said Claire.

"OK."

"Bob loves you very much."

Claire sat back to see what effect that comment had on this woman. She saw relief, and belief. She saw emotion that was very genuine, and which signaled that Bob was extremely important to this woman. She didn't smile, but was pleased. That love would have to be the anchor that held things stable, as the stormy seas of things forgotten built and washed over her.

Claire was relatively sure that the lost memories could be dredged up. She had at her disposal a number of techniques that might help. The first one she thought about using was hypnosis, since the memories could, if found, be examined from an emotional distance. Through post hypnotic suggestion, they could be held at bay, for a while, to prepare the patient for full waking exposure.

Claire went through a quick review, with Lacey, of her whole life as currently remembered. She saw amazing gaps right away ... whole sections of Lacey's life were just missing. One example of her amazement was that Lacey hadn't already wondered why her last name was Fetterman, instead of Griggs. She remembered her maiden name, but something was shielding her from concentrating on the name change.

There were other obvious things, such as her inability to explain how Bob had courted her. Her first memories of Bob were of racquetball, and being his lover, but she couldn't remember how that had all happened. Perhaps the oddest thing of all was that Lacey didn't seem to be bothered by her memory loss. It was as if a part of her brain recognized that those memories weren't worth dredging up at all. It was a classic case of memories repressed because they were painful.

"We'll have all the time you need to talk about anything you want to talk about," said Claire. "But right now, I'd like to hypnotize you, to see what is readily available. That doesn't mean you'll remember everything right away. It may not work at all, but that's what I'd like to try first."

"All right."

Claire started.



-------

Chapter 14


Bob sat and read magazines, until there were none left to examine. There was no noise coming through the door—it was so quiet he felt like he was the only person on the planet. Eventually, his ears detected the hum of air being pushed here and there by the building's air handler units. He heard a siren dimly, through the walls, but no traffic noises. He checked his watch so frequently that he finally took it off and put it in his pocket. Finally, he dozed off.

He woke, when the door opened and Claire came out. She held out her hand.

"Give me a dollar, Bob," she said firmly.

"What?" His eyebrows rose.

"Give me a dollar."

He fished out his wallet. The smallest bill he had was a five. She snatched it from his hand. Without another word, she turned and reentered her office.

He went to the secretary's desk. Her computer was passworded but, as with most people, a little searching found the slip of paper that had the password on it. No doubt the girl had thought she'd been clever by taping it under the desk top, inside the drawer, but it was the second place he looked. Once in, he investigated the games on the computer. None of them had any high scores registered. No game playing went on in this office.

He settled back to make himself immortal on the high score boards.

-------

When the door finally opened, and Bob turned, he saw concern and anguish on one woman's face. It wasn't on Lacey's face, though. Lacey looked a little confused, but otherwise comfortable.

Claire hugged Lacey and turned to Bob.

"You can take her home now. We have a lot more to do, but at least now I know what we're facing."

Bob had a hundred questions. The first one, oddly, was about the five dollar bill.

"You're my patient now," she said. "That was a retainer, for services yet to be rendered."

"You need to talk to me?" he asked, confused.

"I need you to be my patient," she said. "The doctor/patient privilege kicked in when you became my patient. You paid for Lacey, too, by the way."

"She remembered things?" he asked, anxiously.

"I'm right here, Bob," said Lacey, looking miffed.

"I hypnotized her," said Claire, also ignoring the other woman in the room. "Yes, some things came out. She and I have already talked about how we're going to proceed. We've just scratched the surface."

"What should I do?" asked Bob.

"Take her home," said Claire. "We talked about you. I'll let her tell you that part. We're all tired, and we all need some rest. I'll be in touch with you."

"But..."

"Go on!" she said, giving him a push toward Lacey. "We're taking things slowly. Just be patient."

-------

In the car, Bob didn't know what to say.

"What happened?" he finally asked.

"We talked for a while. She hypnotized me. I don't remember anything about that. Then we talked a little bit more ... about you and me."

"What about us?" he asked.

"She told me I was married before. Before you. I don't remember. She's going to help me remember later. She found that out while I was hypnotized. I never even thought about my last name." She sounded puzzled. "I wonder why I wouldn't remember about being married?"

"You weren't very happy with him," said Bob.

"I guess not!" she retorted. She looked at Bob. "She says we've never made love."

Bob glanced over. "I wanted to tell you, but you were so certain."

"I AM certain! I remember every bit of it!" She slumped. "She said that is a manufactured memory ... something I must have wanted to be true."

"How do you feel about that?" he asked.

"I love you," she said simply. "It's what I feel. I remember your arms around me ... I remember ... very intimate things. I'm so embarrassed!"

"Don't be," he said. "I fell in love with you too. I wanted to do all those things ... but I couldn't ... not if you'd remember later that it was all false."

"You love me?" Her voice held hope.

"I do," he said. "But I want your love for me to be genuine ... not something you've made up."

"But I FEEL it!" She had frustration in her voice. "How could it be false if I still FEEL it?" She reached out to touch him. "I know what she said, but right now I want nothing more than to be in your arms."

"I don't know what to do," he said helplessly.

"Take me home," she said.

"I am," he replied.

"I mean YOUR home ... where I slept last night."

"Honey, you have no idea how hard it was for me to resist you last night," he moaned.

"Who said anything about you having to resist me?" she said, her hand sliding to his lap. "I don't care what Doctor Montgomery said. I know how I feel about you. It isn't false. I love you, Bob." She licked her lips. "And you love me. That's all that matters."

-------

In his apartment, she walked around looking at things again.

"I can't remember seeing these things before last night," she said, reaching out to stroke an Indian pot he'd bought on a trip to Arizona. "But I feel right, here. It just feels right."

She came to him and kissed him. She didn't rub her pelvis against him, this time.

"Take me to bed, Bob," she whispered into his mouth.

"I want to," he moaned.

"I know what you were afraid I'd remember," she said. Now she DID rub her pussy against his prick. "I know you didn't want to take advantage of me. I know my memories of what we've done are false. The only thing that bothers me about that is that, apparently, I've never really felt the joy of you making love to me. I remember it ... now I want to feel it."

She stripped naked, in front of him, saying nothing. She watched him, watching her. She cupped her breasts.

"Have you really never tasted these?" she asked.

"No," he whispered, licking his lips.

"I want you to. I want to see if it feels as good as I remember it feeling." She pinched her nipples. "Oh, please hurry, Bob. I NEED you."

He fumbled with his clothes, ending up standing, naked, across from her. She was four feet away. They examined each other like eight year olds playing "you show me yours, and I'll show you mine."

She suddenly turned and ran to the bedroom. He heard her jump on the bed, a full body landing, that made the bed bounce her back up into the air.

"HURRY!" she wailed.

-------

It was surreal, for both of them. She offered her body willingly, knowing, even if she didn't understand it, that this had never really happened before. That offering gave him the permission he had craved. Her running commentary only inflamed him more.

"Ohhhh it IS different than I remember," she moaned, as he sucked her nipples. "You're more gentle. I could cum just from this!"

Neither of them explored who he was more gentle than. It soon became clear that her memories were, indeed, of some other man, who had, indeed, made her feel wonderful. What mattered ... to both of them ... was that Bob made her feel even better.

"Your hands are rougher," she panted, as he stroked her belly and she spread her legs. As his fingers played with her pubic hair, she arched. "But so gentle," she moaned, as he kissed her.

His finger probed gently, at the top of her split, and he found her button. He pushed it down, and let his finger slide to the side. He began circling it. She was already soaked.

"Ohhhh fuuuuck, you do that so good," she gasped, arching again. Her hand fumbled for him. Her eyes opened wide. "You're bigger!"

"I'm big for you," he panted. "You drive me crazy."

"Mmmmm." Her face suddenly twisted as his finger mashed her clit. Her mouth opened and she lifted her hips eight inches off the bed. "Ohhhhh it's going to happen, Bob ... don't stop, baby ... ohhh yessss ... OH YES!" she ended with a squeal. Bob couldn't resist, and slid his longest finger into her, probing deeply. She bit his lip, but not too hard, and her flailing head jerked it from between her teeth.

She collapsed, and he stopped moving his finger, just leaving it in her.

"Your ... finger ... feels ... so big," she panted. "I ... need more ... please?" Her hand, which had never left his penis throughout her orgasm, pulled at it.

He rolled, to land between her widespread thighs. She pulled his prick to her opening.

He loomed over her, holding himself off her chest so she could breathe, and so he could stare at her heaving breasts. Her nipples had extended so far that they looked like they were trying to burst.

"Are you sure?" he panted, aching to plunge into her.

"If you don't fuck me, I'll just die!" she moaned.

He didn't plunge, though it was hard not to. Her comment about his finger feeling big made him ease into her, with steady pressure. She was soaking wet, but even so, her tightness pressed on him as if she were trying to keep him out. Her eyes rolled up into her head, but her groan was clearly one of satisfaction.

"Don't ever stop doing this," she whined. "I love you so much!"

"I love you too," he panted, and, for the first time, he realized that he really meant it ... that it wasn't just words, trying to explain how he felt about her. He really did love this woman, regardless of who she was or what she'd done. He knew, in that instant, that he could never testify against her, even if she confessed to a murder.

He was sure he couldn't last very long. That he did, amazed him. He finally realized it was the sounds she was making that spurred him to continue for as long as possible. It wasn't until her third orgasm, when she had relaxed, and was staring up at him with love-filled eyes, that she spoke again.

"I don't know who he was," she sighed, her hands going to stroke his shoulders, "but he wasn't half the man you are. I've never felt like this in my whole life."

"I'm close," he grunted.

"Oooooo good," she whimpered. "Cum in me, darling."

"I don't even know if you're protected," he moaned.

"I don't care," she said. "I want you to feel you cumming in me."

"Ohhh baby," he sighed, going in and stopping.

At first, neither of them thought he was actually going to have an orgasm. He thought he had just stopped too soon, and she thought he was trying to do the right thing.

Then, out of nowhere, his balls bunched and his prick expanded. His eyes widened, staring into hers.

"Oh!" he gasped.

"Yes!" she moaned, feeling his prick expand in her tight channel.

It wasn't a violent orgasm, as orgasms go. His balls merely pumped his semen through his penis, soothing it as it went. Five strong spurts emptied him completely, as she cooed her approval, her hands going to his buttocks, to keep him firmly embedded in her.

He was suddenly empty of all energy and felt his arms go weak. As he fell, he rolled, pulling her with him. He ended up on his back, and she scooted down, to get what had slipped out of her back in, as deeply as she could get it. It was softening quickly. She felt a burst of energy, and sat up, her legs folded beside him. Her hand came to her belly.

"I've never felt that before," she said. "I thought I had, but it was completely different."

"Felt what?" he panted.

"A man's semen ... inside me," she said.

"You were married," he reminded her.

"I can't remember that, but I know that he never had an orgasm inside me ... not like that. I remembered YOU having an orgasm in me, but this was different. I know I'd remember this."

She rubbed her hand in a circle, around her navel.

"He must have worn a condom," she said, frowning.

Bob was afraid that her memory might be of the rapist, instead of her husband.

"It doesn't matter," he said. "Thank you. I've wanted to do that since the day we met."

"So, apparently, have I," she said, smiling. "Doctor Montgomery suggested that my memories of ... us ... were unlived fantasies that I had. I can't imagine cheating on my husband, though ... any husband."

"You wouldn't have been cheating," said Bob. "He was divorcing you, when we met." It was only a small lie.

"Good riddance, then," she said, still rubbing her belly. "He must have been an idiot to divorce me. I'm a good catch." She grinned.

"You are indeed," said Bob. "And don't think I'm going to let you get away from me."

"If you can do more of what you just did, you don't have to worry about that," she said, lying down on him to kiss him. "You can do that to me any time you want."

"We'll have to do something about birth control," said Bob, stroking her back.

"We can't," she said, laying her face on his chest.

"Why not?" he asked.

"I'm Catholic," she said.

"You are?" This was new information.

"I must be," she said. "I can't imagine doing anything to stop you from making me pregnant."

Bob felt his prick coming back to life.



-------

Chapter 15


Bob popped two Vivarin when he got into the squad car the next morning. She had kept him up all night, satisfying her own needs and making up for the dry spell Bob had been in. He felt drained, but also more relaxed than he'd been in years. He was no longer distracted, either. Lacey had another appointment with Claire, but he was no longer worried that she'd suddenly realize there was no past between them. That had already been addressed. Now all he had to worry about was the return of other memories ... darker memories. Still, if it happened, Claire would be there to soften the blow.

For two days, Bob went home to a Lacey who was bubbly and full of love and life.

-------

Lacey liked her time with Claire. For much of the time they just sat and talked. Claire asked her to tell her whatever she could remember various things. She could clearly recall odd things, such as what her teachers had been like in high school, while things like what her first car had been were blanks in her mind.

On the second day there was another hypnosis session. Claire softly asked leading questions that brought memories of Lacey's college life, her husband and marriage back to her. Those memories had been suppressed, along with others that were much more dark and dismal, but could be separated, to a large degree, from them. It was as if Lacey's brain had taken all her bad memories, in one big lump, and shut them away in a box, where they could no longer be seen by her conscious mind.

The reason for the divorce was not one of the things that Claire instructed Lacey to remember. She didn't want to implant more false memories, but allowed Lacey to fix on the fact that Paul had been disillusioned with her and left it at that. She hated to do it, because, while remembering the divorce, Lacey remembered that it was because she had been raped. She had stuttered her way through that description.

"I was raped?" she asked.

"Don't worry about that now," said Claire. "We'll talk about that later. Paul was disillusioned because of that, right?"

"Yes. He said I wanted it to happen."

"Did you want it to happen?"

"No. I hated it." That answer was delivered in a flat voice proving the effect of Claire's posthypnotic suggestion against worry.

"All you need to remember, when you wake up, is that he was unhappy with the marriage."

"He was unhappy," said Lacey. "Yes ... he was unhappy."

Lacey's reaction to the return of those memories was surprising, to both Claire and, later, Bob.

"Do you remember your marriage now?" asked Claire, carefully, when she had brought Lacey out of the trance.

"Yes," said Lacey, frowning. "Paul was a jerk," she said. "Bob is twice the man he'll ever be."

"I never met Paul," said Claire, tactfully, "but I know Bob, and you're right. He's a good man."

"I still love him," said Lacey. "Bob, I mean. I love him even more now than I did before."

"I understand that," said Claire. "If I weren't happily married, you'd have some competition."

Lacey smiled. "I'm glad you're happily married."

-------

In her apartment, that night, when Bob came to visit after his shift, she hugged him tightly.

"I know about Paul, now," she said, kissing him. "Some of what I thought was you, was actually him." She rubbed against him. "You're much better."

"Thank you," said Bob, grinning.

"I want you to be much better right now," she said, unbuttoning his shirt.

An hour later, he fell, limp again, to roll off her. She came with him, but only to her side. Her hand played with the hair on his chest.

"Much better," she said, kissing his shoulder.

Neither Bob nor Claire realized that, while she wasn't worrying about it, Lacey was now aware that she had been raped. She couldn't remember that. It was just a hazy ball of darkness in her mind. She realized, quite clearly, that that was one of the memories Bob was afraid of, and she was quite happy that it was only that ball of haze. She decided not to mention it to him. He probably knew about it anyway. He was a policeman, after all. With very little effort, she tucked it back in the box and didn't think about it anymore.

-------

Don Simpson didn't say anything more to Bob about the task force, or the fact that the cases had, in fact, been quietly closed, with a synopsis that the suspected perpetrator was deceased and the women who were believed to have been his victims had been notified. It was only luck that the hypnosis session had happened prior to Detective Simpson calling Lacey at work.

"Mrs. Fetterman?" came a modulated voice on the phone.

"Yes?"

"This is Detective Simpson. I'm calling to give you an update on your case."

"Case?"

"The sexual assault investigation," he said, being politically correct.

"Oh." The box opened, but the memory was still a hazy, dark ball. "I don't remember much about it," she said.

"We have everything we need," said Simpson. "I just wanted to let you know that we believe the man who did it is now dead."

"Dead?"

"Yes, he was killed in an accident. He won't be able to bother you again."

"That's nice," she said, her voice slightly dreamy. "I won't worry about it anymore."

"Excellent," said Simpson, pleased that he didn't have to convince her, like he'd had to convince several others. "Thank you for all your help. We wouldn't have been able to identify him without it."

"You're welcome," said Lacey. One of her sales associates was standing impatiently, waiting to get a question answered. "I have to go now."

"All right. Thanks again. Good luck."

Lacey hung up the phone. Within ten minutes she'd forgotten all about the call.

-------

It took two weeks before Bob thought Lacey was recovered enough to try racquetball. She was the old Lacey, there, with nothing forgotten. Two weeks wasn't enough, though. She could only go four games, and she lost all of them, even though the first two were very close.

They sat, panting, leaning against the wall, like they had done so many times before.

"You owe me," she said.

"What for? I won fair and square."

"I've never been this humiliated," she sighed.

"You're still recovering," he said soothingly.

"You still owe me," she said.

"OK, what do I owe you?"

"Two dinners at Santini's and..." She started adding on her fingers. "The way I see it, you took advantage of my sore side at least fifteen times."

"Hey, I just played to win," he said.

"I know that," she snorted. "But you took advantage of my injuries, so you owe me at least fifteen orgasms before you get to spurt in me again."

"Not fair!" he complained.

"Tough," she said. "Deal?"

"You want to try to get even? We've still got time." He grinned.

"And ten more orgasms for being cruel!" She rubbed her pussy. "BEFORE you can cum in me!"

-------

She wanted to go to his apartment to clean up, and once there, she strutted around, naked, teasing him. He took her into the shower and held her in the corner, fingering her.

"Get ready for number one," he said, kissing her shoulder.

"I want them with you in me," she said, pushing at him. "Not like this."

"You can't change the contract once it's been signed," he said gleefully, prodding her deeply with his finger. He sucked at a nipple, knowing she'd go off.

"Ohhhhhh, I don't like you anymore!" she moaned, squatting a little, to give him more room.

"Yes you do," he said.

She got him into bed, and ripped through six orgasms, while he stroked her with something longer and thicker than a digit. Then she made him stop, because she could tell he was getting close.

"Nineteen more before you can try making me pregnant again," she panted.

"Awww come on, Lacey," he pleaded.

"I'd suck you, but then you'd cum anyway," she said, sticking her tongue out at him. "You have to pay the consequences for your actions."

Bob started masturbating, grinning at her.

"You'd better not!" she growled. She tackled him, and got on top, sinking down on him. She rocked in a way that crushed her clit, but didn't let him move in her very much, getting four more orgasms out of the way.

"Lacey, you're killing me here," he moaned, thrusting up into her.

"Don't be a baby," she giggled, leaning down to suck at one of his nipples.

She got off and padded, still naked, to the kitchen, to fix them a snack. When she brought it back, he was lying there, his penis soft.

"You'd better not have cheated while I was gone," she warned.

She gave him his sandwich, and ignored hers, taking him into her mouth instead. He was hard again within a minute.

"That's better," she said, pulling off. She got her sandwich, climbed back on top of him, and rocked some more, while she ate. He reached up to squeeze her nipples, just short of painfully, and she had to put her half-eaten sandwich on his chest while she shuddered through another orgasm.

She'd taken her last bite when he grabbed her waist and lifted her off, throwing her to one side and rolling on top of her. She resisted, but he pried her knees apart. It was a game, until he grabbed her wrists and held them beside her head.

-------

The memory returned so starkly, and so unexpectedly, that it shocked Lacey to her core. She knew the man above her was Bob ... that she loved him ... that they were playing, but at the same time she suddenly remembered everything the other man had done to her.

She screamed.

Bob heard the horror in that scream, and saw her eyes appear to go blind, as they rolled up into her head. She dragged in another breath and screamed again, a long, wail of remorse, pain and fear. Instinctively, he knew what she was remembering, and that it had been triggered by his manhandling of her ... his attempt to immobilize her.

He let go immediately, getting off of her and forcing her legs closed with his hands.

Her next scream was for him—his name, drawn out into a sobbing wail that tore at his heart. Again, by instinct, he snatched at the bedspread, flipping it over her, to cover her nakedness. Then he got on his knees, beside the bed, so he wasn't tall ... wasn't looming over her.

He cooed to her softly, not touching her until she reached for him, and then only holding her hand. Her eyes returned to normal, looking frantically for him and locking on his face.

"Hold me," she wailed.

He did, with her wrapped in the covers, and she sobbed into his neck. He let her do that, stroking her hair and saying over and over again, "I'm here."

Finally her sobs fell to hiccupping sniffles.

"It was horrible," she moaned.

"I know, baby, I know," he said, kissing her hair. "I didn't want you to have to remember that."

"It came back so fast!" she moaned.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I won't ever do anything like that again."

"NO!" she almost yelled. "I LOVE you!"

"I know you do, baby, and I love you too."

"I can't let him stop you from loving meeeee," she whined.

"I'll always love you," he crooned into her ear. "I don't care about him. All I care about is you."

She stiffened.

"He's dead!"

"What?"

"A detective called me ... I can't remember when ... several days ago. He told me the man was dead!"

"That's true," sighed Bob, grateful that she hadn't remembered why he was dead. It was obvious that that could happen, though. He'd have to talk to Claire about how to prepare for that.

"You knew all this," she said, pulling her face back, to look at him.

He nodded.

"You loved me anyway ... not like Paul."

He nodded again.

She hugged him fiercely. "Ohhhh how could I ever have done anything without you?" she moaned. "I love you so much!"

"You going to be OK?" He stroked her hair. Neither of them was aware that Claire's posthypnotic suggestion was still trying to work.

"It's funny," she said, looking into his eyes. "I remember how I felt ... afterwards ... but it isn't so bad now. I'm glad you're here. I feel safe with you."

"You want to get dressed?"

She frowned.

"Probably." She didn't sound sure. "I mean I'm sure not in the mood right now ... but I want to be later. That's different, too. Before ... when it first happened ... I didn't want anybody to touch me. I'm all mixed up inside. I have these memories of you and me, but they aren't real. And I don't want to remember Paul. Would you kiss me?"

He did, gently, and she pressed hard, hugging him. When it was over she kept hugging him.

"Thank you," she said into his shoulder.

"I love you," he said. "Whatever you want ... just tell me."

"I'm going to be OK," she mumbled. "For the first time I feel like I'm going to be OK."

"That's my girl," said Bob, squeezing her.

-------

She demanded that he stay there, while she got up. She said she wanted to see what it felt like, being naked with him, now that she remembered. He didn't know how to look at her ... or more correctly, where to look ... or not look.

"It's OK," she breathed. "I feel OK." She looked around for her clothes. "I'm not horny, but I don't feel embarrassed either. You've seen me like this a lot lately."

"I have," he agreed. "And those are some of my favorite memories."

She looked sharply at him, probably because the word "memories" had a different meaning to her now, than it had before all this happened. She realized, though, that when he used it, it was just a word.

He got dressed with her and, when they were done, she stood, not knowing what to do.

"I think you were right," she said, finally. "I wish I hadn't remembered that."

"We'll work it out," he said. "You're part of a support group, too."

"OK," she said. "That's good ... isn't it?"

"It all depends on how you feel, now that you've remembered," said Bob. "You were pretty broken up by it ... before the accident."

"It's there," she said slowly, looking off to one side. "It's not pleasant, but it feels more like disappointment than fear. He's gone. He can't hurt me anymore. You're here. That makes a lot of difference, I think." She cocked her head. "I remember how I felt, in a general sort of way ... but I don't feel that way now. It was like I was helpless ... before. I don't feel helpless now. Why not?"

"Maybe it has something to do with the fact that, before the accident, I was just your racquetball partner. That's kind of changed." He looked unsure of himself.

"Yes," she said, looking at him. "My memories of you are all mixed up." She cocked her head again. "I do love you. That feeling is very strong in me. I just don't remember starting to love you. Isn't that odd?"

He smiled. "If you still love me, that's all I care about."

"What do we do now?" she asked.

"Life goes on," said Bob. "We played racquetball and we made some love. You hungry? I owe you dinner at Santini's."



-------

Chapter 16


Lacey went back to see Claire ahead of schedule, and told her everything that had happened. Claire put her under again, and spent an hour exploring the details of the rape that she hadn't gone after earlier. As each horrible part of the assault was revealed, Claire worked more instructions into the dialog, intended to minimize the emotional impact of the memories. Then she brought Lacey out of the hypnotic trance and spent another hour with her, concentrating on the things that Lacey felt were better in her life.

"Is it weird that I love Bob, even though we don't really have all the history my mind keeps telling me is there?" she asked.

"Love is weird," said Claire, smiling. "Love doesn't make any sense at all sometimes. We don't know where it comes from, or why it centers on the people it does. There might be no logical reason for you to love Bob at all, but that doesn't mean anything. It's what you feel that's important."

"But how do I know I really feel that way?" asked Lacey.

"You're afraid that one false memory means you have other false memories," suggested Claire.

"Yes."

"Let's go back to your relationship with Paul for a minute, OK?" Claire crossed her legs. "When you married him, you loved him, right?"

"I remember loving him," said Lacey. It was obvious she didn't trust that memory.

"And you remember being unsatisfied and frustrated with him, right?"

"Yes."

"At this point in the game," said Claire, "what difference does it make if either or both of those memories is a result of the accident, instead of being historically accurate?"

"But what if I really still love Paul?" asked Lacey, getting agitated. "What if the bad memories of him are false?"

"DO you still feel like you love Paul?" asked Claire quietly.

"No." Lacey sounded defeated. "But what if I'm supposed to? I mean if the accident had never happened, I might still love him. This is all so confusing!"

"Look," said Claire, her voice soothing because she made it that way. "The unfortunate fact is that truth is relative sometimes. Some things appear to be true because we BELIEVE they're true. In cases like that, it doesn't really matter whether something is actually true or not. If the mind believes it, then the mind acts on things based on that belief. In this case, you believe you don't love Paul any more, and you believe you do love Bob. Unless something changes to alter that belief, then, for all intents and purposes, it is true."

"So you're telling me not to worry about it," said Lacey.

"Not at all," said Claire. "The purpose of education and debate is to explore those things that people accept as truth. Your experience during the rape is a perfect example. You believed that if you had an orgasm during the attack, that it meant you were enjoying it. So did Paul, for that matter. But the truth is that something else was going on there. What you both believed wasn't true, but you both acted on it as if it were. Now that you understand the truth of what happened, your feelings of guilt are gone. There's nothing wrong with seeking to clarify things that are uncertain, for one reason or another. If you're not sure about something, it's a very good idea to investigate that."

"So I should question how I feel about Bob?" Lacey didn't sound happy.

"Not question ... explore." Claire re-crossed her legs. "What you feel for Bob is real, but it's based on something that may not be true. I suspect that you felt the attraction ... the attachment ... before any of this happened. All the accident did was let you expand on that and believe it consciously. It freed you to feel the way you wanted to feel. What I'd suggest now is that you explore the relationship, and begin to base it on things that are real in the present. This isn't radical thinking, Lacey. This is the kind of thing that married couples need to do all the time. People change, and getting married doesn't stop that. If you stay together for longer than a few years, you need to keep falling in love with your spouse, because he or she keeps turning into a new person."

"I never thought of relationships like that before," said Lacey. "But it makes sense. It's obvious when you think about it. Why didn't I ever think about it before?"

"We get stuck in ruts," said Claire. "It's easy to just stay in them. They make it so we don't have to think about where we're going. We think the ruts will just take us where we want to go."

"So people are in these ruts, believing things that may not be true, and not really thinking about what's going on in their lives. That's so sad." Lacey sighed.

"It can be," said Claire. "But change is very hard. Look what happened to you when you bounced out of the ruts you were in."

Lacey's reaction was slightly different than Claire thought it might be. Her patient smiled.

"I'm glad I got out of the ruts I was in," she said. "This has been very difficult for me, but I know I'm in a better place than I was. Isn't that strange? I was raped, and in a terrible accident ... and yet I'm actually glad it happened. That's just so strange!"

"Not strange at all," said Claire firmly. "It simply means that you're dealing with the circumstances that fate has visited upon you. Hope and joy and love are stronger than the bad things. You've recognized that, and have chosen to seek out the good things in your life. I'm very happy about that, Lacey. It means you won't be needing me much longer."

-------

Ironically—and there's no better word for it—Lacey's reaction to her latest session with her psychiatrist resulted in her settling into a new set of ruts in her life. She decided not to question her feelings for Bob. Paul was gone, and the dim memories she had of him weren't appealing, so she didn't think much about him either. Her business was doing well. She was happy. Though there were still holes in her memory, she didn't worry about them. She developed another "belief" that wasn't based on facts. As far as she was concerned, if she didn't remember something, it wasn't very important. Life was good, and she intended to enjoy it.

Part of that was enjoying being in love with, and being loved by Bob Duncan. And part of THAT was the physical love they shared, which she no longer associated with anything unhappy in her history.

It wasn't so easy for Bob. His memory was fully intact, and his moral code was unaffected by trauma. Irony was also present in the way he tried to deal with the situation. In his case, what he chose to believe wasn't based on "facts." Instead, it was the LACK of facts that let him tell himself that there was no PROOF that Lacey Fetterman had murdered a man. Unfortunately, his experience and intellect kept telling him otherwise.

That Lacey loved him was no longer in question. They talked about the things she and Claire had discussed. Lacey found innumerable reasons to love Bob, and told him about them. And his feelings for her were unquestionable too. He was well aware that part of his attraction to her was based on lust. He had lusted after her when he first met her. What had changed was that now he couldn't imagine his life without her.

And if he acted on what he knew ... or thought he knew ... she could very easily be snatched out of his life, possibly for years, while prison destroyed her. He had no doubt prison would destroy a woman like Lacey. She was too bright, and active, and involved in life to survive sitting in an eight by ten room for hours on end, watching daytime television, and trying to just survive when she was outside that room.

He tried to imagine what it would be like if Lacey accused HIM of something he had no memory of doing and he was punished for it.

If he did what he was sworn to do ... what was the law said was the right thing to do ... he would lose her. Even if by some crazy technicality of the law she was found not guilty, he would still lose her, because she couldn't possibly love a man who accused her of a murder she couldn't remember having committed.

He gave no thought at all to trying to get her to remember killing her rapist. She had remembered other things.

He'd seen what that did to her.

It was an exquisite torture for him, as he continued to see her. Because her work schedule was flexible, the fact that he was on rotating shifts didn't interfere with their life together that much. If he was working the graveyard shift, she simply spent the hours of darkness going over her books, or doing the reams of paperwork required of a small business owner to satisfy local, state, and federal bureaucrats.

And, when it came time for him to sleep, as often as was humanly possible, Lacey spent those hours with him. Where that was depended on what they planned to do together after he woke up. The zoo, for example, was closer to her apartment than his, so when they planned an outing to see the animals, he slept at her place. Other times she'd let herself in with the key he'd given her, and be waiting for him in his bed.

A cop's life is filled with unimaginable boredom, punctuated by usually short, violent periods of craziness that bring on adrenaline rushes.

In either case, good sex is a wonderful way to recover.

-------

What happened next came months later.

Lacey, of course, wasn't prepared for it in any way ... or at least not part of it. Bob's conscience had almost managed to shove away the niggling thing that kept poking at it with sharp little claws. But, it was a little like being asleep on a cool night, with one blanket over you, when a cat jumps up on the bed to seek a warm place to sleep. The cat flexes its claws, which penetrate the blanket just enough to make themselves known to the skin underneath. The sleeper moves, or even wakes, but then the claws are retracted, and the pet snuggles in, and all is quiet again. He didn't think about it often, but he couldn't forget it completely, either.

By now, Bob and Lacey were thoroughly and genuinely in love with each other. Neither was pushing things, because each had been on the receiving end of pushes enough to be willing to let things happen slowly.

What happened to Lacey, however, didn't come slowly.

It happened while she was setting the table for a surprise dinner. Not that having dinner together was surprising. They did that all the time these days. But THIS dinner would be surprising.

She laid out the plates, and arranged the silverware, folding the napkins in a special fancy way. She placed the wine glasses just so, and set the flower arrangement she'd brought with her in the middle of the table. She had also brought two silver candlesticks with her, from her china cabinet, and two new white candles she'd found in a drawer below the china. All of these things were things she knew she owned, because they were in her apartment. The fact that she didn't remember acquiring the candlesticks, and had no idea when or where she bought the candles didn't bother her. Worries about that kind of thing were long past.

She was familiar enough with his apartment now to feel completely at home there. Dinner would be beef stroganoff, and it was simmering on the stove, while homemade rolls waited nearby, covered with a towel, risen and waiting to go into the oven.

She had another fifteen minutes, before he got there, so she got dressed, putting on a dress that DID have memories for her. It was the one she'd taken off the first time he'd made love to her. She looked into the mirror critically. Her hair had grown back, though it would be years before it was as long as it had been. The bruises were gone. She got into her purse for a compact and applied the tiniest hint of rouge to her high cheekbones.

She was stirring the stroganoff when she heard him come in.

"Hi lover," he said, as he entered the kitchen. "Something smells wonderful."

She melted into his embrace, feeling the various things he wore on his body pressing into her. For some strange reason she liked the hard edges of the extra ammo case and first aid case he wore on either side of his belt buckle. Her fingers traced along the back of his basket weave belt, feeling the handcuff case there, and the radio holster, as he kissed her.

"Do I have time for a shower?" he asked.

"Mm hmmm," she said. "But hurry. And don't come in here naked. If you come in here naked, I won't be able to resist you and dinner will burn."

She heard him singing in the shower, a rich baritone that was perfectly on key. She put the rolls in the oven, and the vegetables in a serving dish. She imagined him drying off and putting on his clothing, as she transferred the stroganoff to its dish and put it on the table. Only the rolls were left when she looked for a match to light the candles. She couldn't find one anywhere. She'd never needed a match before, in his apartment, and had no idea where he might keep them.

"What's the occasion?" he called from the bedroom.

"It's a surprise!" she yelled back, looking in the last drawer she could explore. No matches. Nothing.

She went to the bedroom and saw his uniform pants draped over the foot of the bed. His shirt was tossed carelessly beside it. He was still in the bathroom, and she could hear him humming through the partially open door. She went to his dresser and searched the top.

No matches.

She knew the drawers had only clothing in them, but there was a wooden box on top of the dresser. He called it his junk box, and the time he'd been dressing for the opera, and needed cuff links, he'd gotten them from that box. She opened the inlaid wooden lid to see a jumble of objects. Her fingers pushed and lifted, looking in vain for a book of matches. She saw a silver lighter and plucked it from the box. It was heavy. Her eyes took in the flowing script: LJG.

Something pulled at her mind, but the door opened and she looked up.

He was naked.

"Not fair," he said smiling. "I didn't know you'd be in here."

"I just needed something," she said. "Get dressed. Dinner is ready."

She left the room, going straight to the table. Everything was perfect.

She leaned over and didn't think about how practiced her muscles were as they operated the lighter. She flicked it and flame burst from the tip, next to the wick of the first white candle.

In the next instant, Hell descended on Lacey Fetterman like a ravening pack of wolves.



-------

Chapter 17


Bob heard her gasp as he left the bedroom. His head swiveled and he saw her standing there, bent slightly forward, her arm outstretched, hand turned sideways in a fist at the top of a candle. Her face was so pale it looked almost ghostly. Her mouth opened and an agonized groan was torn from her throat as she dropped the lighter and reeled backwards.

-------

Her eyes stared at the tall, pale yellow flame that the lighter had created at the tip of the candle, but her mind saw the same hand, outstretched in the darkened interior of an upside down car. She saw her rapist's bloody face, and his scream of "HELP ME, YOU SLUT!" rang in her brain. She also saw her hand, with the flaming lighter, dart toward a pool of liquid. Then there was just light expanding toward her ... consuming her.

-------

Bob recognized the lighter instantly. He had no idea how she'd gotten her hands on it, but he knew instinctively that she was remembering. Her hands came up, palms facing outward, as if she was trying to shield herself from some unseen attacker. She kept backpedaling and bounced off the wall as a tortured scream ripped from her throat.

-------

Her knees gave way first, and she dropped straight to the floor, impacting on knees that registered sharp pain. Her eyes became her own again, and the vision was gone. Movement in her peripheral vision caused her head to turn to the left. She saw Bob.

It may have been that the pain in her knees distracted her enough that she didn't just shut down. It might have been kinder if she had lost consciousness just then, because her brain, though stressed in a hundred different ways, was still capable of putting all the bits and pieces of information together that told her what she had done ... and what had resulted from it.

"Nooooooooooo," she groaned. Her knees hurt, and her thigh muscles relaxed to let her fall. Her body accommodated automatically and she sat hard on the floor, her legs beside her, still bent at the knees. Her groan was interrupted by a deep indrawn breath, which became a scream as she tried to cover her eyes to keep the vision of that ball of fire away. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

By the time he got to her she was a basket case, hysterical, her hands waving in front of her. He caught her as her waist was letting her fall. He couldn't pick her up, so he sank to the floor, pulling her upper torso across his and holding her tightly to him. She fought him for a few seconds, but then collapsed against him.

"I KILLED HIM!" she sobbed.

Bob had no idea what to do. As much as he'd thought about this possibility, it hadn't prepared him for the eventuality. His own emotions were roiling. One part of his brain screeched, "Lacey Fetterman! You're under arrest for the murder of ... some guy!" But that part of his brain was almost brutally silenced by the overwhelming sorrow he felt at what he knew she must be going through right now. He had nothing to offer ... except to hold her.

The platitude came from his lips just as helplessly and easily as it had come from a rape advocate's lips, months before. And just as uselessly.

"It's OK," he murmured. "Everything is OK."

-------

When we are overwhelmed by events, and what is called the "fight or flight syndrome" kicks in, the world can become a tumultuous place. There are a myriad of things going on, both biologically and in that strange and interesting place we call a brain. The odd thing about that is we can't really call what happens in that situation "biology." Mental processes aren't physical, in the sense that we haven't been able to match up physical activities in the brain with specific thoughts. We know what parts of the brain are used for various things, but not how they actually operate. Even if we did, in the heat of the moment, we have no time nor inclination to parse out what's happening, and very little control over it, as well. We rely on instinct, in those times—another thing we don't understand very well.

Bob's primary instinct was to comfort his beloved. Other instincts were there, but were not strong enough to claim dominance. That's why he was saying everything was OK, even if he knew that right then nothing at all was OK. He WANTED everything to be OK and he was trying to MAKE it OK.

Lacey's instinct was to withdraw to a safe place, where the hurtful thing that she couldn't ignore wouldn't be able to torment her. She was well aware that something was terribly wrong, too, and was quite sure it would destroy her.

The so-called fight or flight syndrome's purpose is to resolve the danger, in one way or another. In this case, flight was impossible, because the danger was in her mind.

The only other option was to fight.

-------

To be honest, Lacey might have lost that battle, had Bob not been there. Even as she tried to tell him what was wrong, which she was quite sure would drive him away from her forever, she clung to him as her last hope. And, even though he had agonized over this very scenario countless times, Bob's single thought was to protect her from the danger.

It took most of half an hour, which seems like a very short time, unless you're facing the hounds of Hell. Eventually, she came to understand that his tight embrace meant he wasn't leaving her. Then she cried, grieving for the loss of her own innocence.

This was completely different than what she had experienced during the rape. She remembered looking into the eyes of the man she hated more than anything in her life. She remembered the odor of gasoline. She remembered intentionally bringing her lighter to life. She remembered the animal rage inside her. She remembered feeling her face twist as she snarled. She remembered seeing the man's eyes widen with fear as he saw the flame in her hand. Most of all, she remembered driving her hand, holding that flame, down into the patch of wet that flared into the light that then took over her entire memory within seconds.

She remembered wanting to kill him, and the exquisite joy of being ABLE to kill him.

And that made her someone she didn't want to be ... but had no choice in being.

She didn't think of her confession as being to a law enforcement officer. She spewed out all the vile things she had done and felt to a man named Bob, the man she loved, and to whom she was clinging both physically and emotionally. He was her only anchor in the storm. That he was holding her as she did so, and kept holding her, penetrated parts of her brain that weren't conscious, but which reacted in ways that helped her feel less storm-tossed.

Bob, on the other hand, was quite familiar with confessions of this sort. He was well aware that there were the beginnings of healing in a confession, when there was remorse for what had taken place. That Lacey felt remorse was obvious, and that appealed to the part of him that loved her and wanted her to be unhappy with the fact that she was a murderess. It meant that evil didn't own her, even though she had served its purposes.

At the same time, though, it gave form to his dilemma, which could no longer be ignored. Her crime was out in the open now ... and something had to be done about it. What was different about this particular crime was how he felt about the person who'd committed it. Justice might need to be served ... but Lacey's mental health needed to be served first.

He got her to let go of him long enough to find Claire's private number and call her.

"Yes." Claire sounded terse and busy when she answered.

"Bob Duncan. We have a problem with Lacey."

Her terseness was still there as she said, "Wait one."

He heard her tell someone that they'd just have to discuss this later, then she was back. The terseness was gone.

"What happened?" she asked.

"She remembered something ... something really bad."

"I was afraid of this," said the psychiatrist.

"You knew?" His voice rose half an octave.

"If this is what I think it is," she said softly, "then you knew too. You just didn't tell me that part, Bob."

"How could you know?" he gasped.

"I hypnotized her, Bob," she said patiently. "I took her through the whole thing. I took her through everything, Bob. And now I can ask you is why you didn't tell me about this. Am I right, Bob? You did know about this ... didn't you?"

He sighed. He should have known Claire would know more than he thought she did. She was the best. That's why he'd consulted her.

"I suspected," he hedged.

"Remember that retainer I got from you?" she asked. "That's why I did that, Bob. But we can't talk on the phone. Where is she?"

"She's here, in my apartment. She was lighting candles for dinner when it came back."

"I'll be right there," said Claire. "Just keep talking to her and telling her you love her."

-------

Lacey broke down again when Claire arrived, and it was the psychiatrist who held her this time, rocking her. Claire didn't tell her everything was going to be all right, though. She didn't say anything at all, except to encourage Lacey to keep talking, as, once again, she tried to vomit out the poison that drenched her mind.

And, again, with time, Lacey calmed and became more rational.

Claire didn't discuss any rationalization of Lacey's actions. That might come later, in an attempt to help the woman sort all the emotions involved and put them where they could be managed. What was needed now, Claire knew, was for Lacey to feel like she had some kind of control over her life and could move forward ... wherever that might lead. To do that, she had Lacey make decisions right away.

"OK," she said, when Lacey had leaned back, to sit beside her. "We have a lot to do, but most of that can wait. Right now you need to decide what you want to do about all this in the short term."

"I don't understand," said Lacey, wiping her eyes.

"There are legal ramifications," said Claire. She looked at Bob. "For both of you."

"You mean turn myself in?" Lacey's eyes got wide.

"Is that what you want to do?" asked the doctor.

"No!" said Lacey automatically. She drew and held a breath, and then finally let it out. "I should," she said, uncertainly.

"Then let's say it's 'no' for now, and leave other options open for later," said Claire.

"Can we do that?" Lacey sounded confused.

"My concern is for you," said Claire. "Your mental health is all I'm thinking about right now."

"But I KILLED a man, Claire!" gasped Lacey.

"And he's dead," said Claire. "We can't change that. I can't do anything for him. But I CAN help you. That's all I'm worried about right now." She turned to Bob. "What about you?"

He'd been sitting by, more or less helplessly, while Claire comforted Lacey. Now that attention was turned his way, he had to think again.

"I don't know," he said. "There are problems."

"Other than that you love her?"

"Yes," he said.

"Tell me," said the doctor.

-------

It got a little wild and wooly as Bob did the confessing. Lacey was both shocked and amazed that he had suspected her of the crime, ever since he'd investigated it. She knew him well now, and knew how committed he was to the ideals of law enforcement. She was astonished both that he had kept silent, even to withholding the evidence that was her lighter ... and because of the fact that he had loved her in spite of his suspicions.

Claire also knew of his commitment to law enforcement and justice, but she was just as cognizant of the fact that "justice" can be a very thorny issue, with a myriad of "accepted" definitions, some of which are at odds with each other. More than that, as an observer of human behavior, she was well aware that moral conflict can bring about entirely unexpected behavior in a given person.

"What you're saying," said Claire, cutting through the complexities he was expounding upon, "is that you could get in a lot of trouble if this became public."

"I'm toast if this becomes public," he said simply.

"No!" shouted Lacey.

He held up his hand. "It's too late to change things. I knew that when I made the decisions I made."

"But it doesn't HAVE to become public," she intoned.

"That is the next thing we have to talk about," said Claire. She looked at Bob. "This may take a while. Why don't you get us something to eat while we talk."

"Dinner!" yelped Lacey. She jumped up, before she realized that all the food was still on the table, and not the stove. "It's cold now," she said helplessly.

"I can heat things up," said Bob, standing up.

"Put it in the fridge," said Claire. "It would be better if you went to get something while we talk. Take your time while you're at it."

Bob realized suddenly she was trying to get rid of him, but being polite about it.

"Right!" he said. "What should I get?"

Claire looked disgusted, but only for a few seconds. "Food, Bob," she said tersely.

"Of course," he said weakly.

They were already talking when he left.

It was understandable that his first thoughts were of ways to mitigate the danger of the situation ... both to Lacey and himself.



-------

Chapter 18


Back in the apartment, Claire asked questions. They were not "What did you do?" type questions, but rather were "How do you feel about what you did?" type questions.

Lacey didn't feel good about any of it.

For the psychiatrist, it was like walking a tightrope. Or, perhaps it was like making her patient walk the tightrope. There needed to be remorse for a bad deed, for there to be health in the mind and spirit. But it could be taken too far, and the patient could begin to hate herself, or believe there was no possibility for redemption.

The way to work through that was, oddly enough, to talk of the past.

"I want you to think about the way things were in the eighteen hundreds," said Claire.

"What do you mean?"

"Before there was a widespread presence of law enforcement," said Claire. "What happened to horse thieves?"

"They were lynched," said Lacey.

"They were hanged," said Claire. "There's a difference."

"I don't understand." Lacey blinked.

"Back then, a man's life depended on his horse," said Claire. "If you stole a man's horse, he could lose his job. If you took it under the right circumstances, you were leaving him for dead." She let that sink in. "There were no police to arrest a suspect," she went on. "So citizens ... people who were basically normal everyday law abiding citizens ... had to administer justice themselves."

"This isn't the eighteen hundreds," objected Lacey.

"Of course not, but what I'm telling you is that those citizens weren't bad people. They weren't murderers, by the standards of the day. They were just doing what there was no judge or jury to do. They were protecting themselves from those who would do harm to them, or who had no conscience and were a danger to frontier society." She paused a few seconds. "They did it with rustlers, and they did the same thing with rapists, Lacey."

"But there ARE police now," moaned Lacey. "They were even LOOKING for him!"

"There is no doubt that it would have been better if you'd have told a policeman about him, rather than what you did," said Claire. "At the same time, millions of years of evolution are at work here. You reacted in a way that, just a couple of hundred years ago would have been lauded, rather than punished. You're not a bad person, Lacey. You did something that is wrong, from society's perspective today, but that doesn't make you a bad person."

"I killed him!" shouted Lacey. "I can't live with that!"

"Yes you can," said Claire calmly. "He's dead and nothing you do will bring him back to life. You're NOT dead. What you have to decide is what actions to take to move ON with your life."

"I don't KNOW what to do," wailed Lacey.

"You said something about keeping this quiet," said Claire. "How does that make you feel?"

"Awful," said Lacey. "I'm scared. That's what made me say that, but it's not the right thing to do." She covered her face. "But I don't want Bob to get in trouble either!"

"What do you feel is the right thing to do?" asked Claire.

Lacey let her hands drop. "The right thing to do would be to turn myself in. I don't want to do that, but that would be the right thing."

"I told you you weren't a bad person," said Claire. "Let me talk to Bob when he gets back."

"I don't want him hurt, Claire!" barked her patient.

"He has to make his own decisions, just like you do," said Claire. "He's a big boy, just like you're a big girl. You're both grappling with difficult issues. You choose to do the right thing. You know Bob. Do you really think he'd choose to do the wrong thing?"

"He knew!" whimpered Lacey. "He knew I killed that man, but he never told me."

"What good would it have done to tell you that?" asked Claire. "What would it have fixed? How could telling you his suspicions have made the world a better place? He loves you. I think he just didn't want you to have to go through what you're going through right now."

"Why would I kill him?" asked Lacey, her voice hollow. "I remember wanting to, but I don't understand that!"

"Revenge," said Claire simply. "He ruined your life. He took something from you that could never be given back. He cost you your husband and your peace of mind. Didn't he say he'd be back? Did you worry about that?"

"Of course I did," said Lacey. "But there was Bob now. I knew Bob would never let him hurt me again."

"So you just wanted revenge?"

Lacey slumped and looked down. "I don't know what I wanted. He called me a slut. I FELT like a slut for a long time, after he..." She looked back up. "I wanted him dead. That's what I don't understand, because I thought it would feel good ... and it doesn't."

"That's something we'll talk about later, after you've had a little time to think," said Claire.

Claire could see that Lacey was regaining control of her emotions. That was good. Now she thought about this woman's future. Her job was to do what was within her means to establish and nourish good mental health. Sometimes that meant paying attention to things outside the mind. If Lacey turned herself in, there was likely to be a prison sentence. And, all her talk of the past aside, Claire knew that modern law enforcement would see it as murder of some kind. That put her client at risk, and for Lacey to be able to deal with all that, she needed to be prepared.

That's what Claire concentrated on until Bob returned.

-------

When Bob came back with enough takeout orders of food to feed a small army, Claire said she'd get it ready. She nodded her head at Lacey, who wasn't looking at Bob in a way that made it clear she either wouldn't look at him, or couldn't look at him.

Bob went to the woman and held her. She resisted him at first, and then melted into his arms, sobbing again and trying to apologize for "messing everything up." He just shushed her and held her.

Claire set the table in such a way that she sat next to Lacey, and Bob sat across from them. He didn't think anything of it. They were eating, with almost no conversation, when Lacey suddenly dropped her fork and slumped sideways. Bob jumped to his feet, as Clair reached for an elbow and kept the woman upright.

"I put a sedative in her food," said Claire calmly. "She needs rest right now, more than food."

"You drugged her?!" Bob's surprise was evident.

"I SEDATED her," said Claire. "A little help here?"

Bob carried Lacey to the bedroom and put her on her back. He draped a cover across her lower half and turned to see Claire standing in the doorway, watching.

"I used to wish you'd do that with me," she said softly.

"What?"

She blushed. "Nothing. It's totally inappropriate. I shouldn't have said it." She frowned. "We need to talk."

-------

"She's still ambivalent about what course of action to take," said Claire. She didn't want to go into the details of their talk, though she didn't think Lacey would see it as a breach of confidentiality. Claire did, and that was what counted.

"Whatever she wants to do," said Bob, after Claire described her talk with Lacey.

"You can't just say that, Bob," said Claire. "Whatever she wants to do is going to affect you."

"Sure I can say that," said Bob. "I want her to be happy."

"Well then, let's talk about that. What if she wants to turn herself in?"

"That would be ridiculous," said Bob.

"Explain that to me," said Claire.

"He was a serial rapist. I suspected him of three rapes before her, and there were at least four more after her with the same MO. He would have gone right on victimizing women. We didn't have a clue as to who he was before this happened. She did the world a favor."

"Have you ever killed anybody, Bob?"

"No, but I don't see what that has to do with anything."

"What I'm saying is you don't really know how it feels to be responsible for someone's death, whether he deserved it or not."

"I've put men on death row before," said Bob. "Two of them were actually executed. I was responsible for that."

"But you didn't actually kill them," pointed out the psychiatrist.

"I'd have been happy to push the plunger," said Bob.

"Would you have been happy to incinerate them alive?"

Bob blinked. He really WOULD have been willing to kill either of the men who'd been executed. Neither would ever reform, and both would continue to be a threat to others as long as they were alive. He viewed them as if they were animals with rabies. It was incurable, and they were a clear and present danger to others. Killing them wouldn't bother him that much.

But he would have done something clean and quick, even if it was a bullet to the head. He would NOT have tortured them, or drawn out their suffering. Not intentionally. He thought about what Lacey must be going through. He could imagine, and his imagination was bad enough. Reality was usually worse.

"OK," he said. "Point taken. But he's dead, and he probably needed to BE dead, and her turning herself in won't change that."

"Are you sure you aren't just worried about your job?"

He snorted. "I've thought about this for months," he said. "I found her lighter at the scene. I knew it was her lighter, and it was pretty clear that she was standing by the vehicle when it went up. That's circumstantial evidence. I had no reason to believe that she knew who he was, or even that she was responsible for the whole thing. She was stuck in traffic. She couldn't have known it was him, when he bounced off of her and turned over. I had no probable cause to arrest her."

He took a sip of wine and wondered if Claire had put anything in it.

"And she had no memory of doing it," he went on. "That much was clear, as soon as I spent some time around her. What possible good could it have done to voice my suspicions? She'd been raped ... her life turned upside down. She was just beginning to recover from that! Would it have helped if I'd told her she might be a murderer?"

"We don't know, because it didn't happen," said Claire.

"Don't give me that," snorted Bob. "You know quite well it would have torn her up. It DID tear her up, when she remembered it. And didn't you say YOU knew about it too? YOU didn't tell her either!"

"I would have gotten around to it sooner or later," said Claire. "I'll admit it's touchy, and needed to be handled with very special care, but I was afraid something like this might happen. She's remembered a lot from her past."

She looked at Bob for a long time before going on.

"I think the only way she's going to forgive herself for this is if she's punished. It's the kind of person she is."

"I can take care of myself," said Bob. "But she doesn't realize what she's letting herself in for, if she goes all noble."

"Don't denigrate her, Bob!" snapped the doctor. "She isn't going noble. Not the way you meant it. She's a good person, with a strong moral code. For her to heal from this, she needs to feel like she took responsibility for her actions. That's something we could use a lot more of in this world."

"I can't be happy about her going to prison," said Bob. "She doesn't deserve to be there. My job doesn't mean squat beside that."

"It does to her," said Claire. "She doesn't want to hurt you either."

"I'm not too worried about that. I could probably mitigate the damage to my job anyway. If done right, all I'll get is a reprimand."

"What do you mean by doing it right?"

"If I'm the one who arrests her, that negates a lot of the flack. I'll get yelled at for playing detective, but that's probably all."

Claire blinked. "You HAVE thought about this!"

"It caused me more sleepless nights than you can imagine," he admitted.

"Oddly enough, that makes me feel a lot better," said Claire. "I couldn't rationalize why you'd act the way you did, except for being in love."

"That IS why I acted the way I did," he admitted. "We just won't mention that part to the internal affairs boys. I was suspicious, but didn't have any proof. I hung around her—call it unauthorized undercover work if you want—until I got a break and she confessed."

"It's very unorthodox undercover work," suggested Claire.

"I'll get yelled at for that, too," he said. "Maybe fired, but only if the press gets wind of it."

"Cop sleeps with suspect to get confession," said Claire.

"Yeah," said Bob. "I'm already on the shitlist at the precinct. What are they going to do ... transfer me to traffic?" He grinned.

"Are you willing to lose your career over this?" asked Claire.

He didn't pause at all. "Yes. If it will help her, and I still get to love her, it would be worth it."

-------

After a while, there wasn't much else to talk about. Claire and Lacey had already agreed on another appointment, the next day, where they would try to work out an exact plan of action. Bob said he'd just stand by and do whatever was needed of him.

Lacey was still sleeping, so he just undressed down to his shorts and got into bed with her, holding her limp body against his and breathing in the scent of her hair. He left her dressed.

He woke when she jerked in his arms. She was looking around blearily. Then her face twisted, and it was obvious she was remembering the night before.

"It's OK," he said, staring into her eyes.

"No it's not," she said softly. "I don't think it will ever be OK again."

"For what it's worth, I love you," he said.

Her eyes filled with tears and she pushed her face into his chest. He let her cry, but it didn't last long.

"What time is it?" she asked, pulling away from him.

"About six," he said, looking at the level of light coming in the window.

"It can't be six," she said. "It was six just a while ago."

"AM," he said.

She blinked. "It's morning?! What happened?"

"Claire slipped you a mickey," he said. "She felt like you needed sleep more than anything else."

"I have to turn myself in," she said. Her voice sounded dead.

"No you don't."

"Yes I do. I can't go on feeling like this for the rest of my life. It would make me suicidal."

"As far as I'm concerned, you did a good thing," he said.

"How can you say that?" she cried.

"You saved who knows how many women from having to go through the same thing you did. He did four more rapes after you, Lacey. He was running from the fifth one, driving HER car, when he hit you."

"But they would have caught him then," she moaned.

"Not necessarily," said Bob calmly. "If he'd gotten past that traffic jam, he could have dumped the car and disappeared into the crowd. We would have been no better off than before."

"I still didn't have the right to kill him," she said.

"You know what will happen if you turn yourself in?" he said.

"You'll lose your job." She started crying again.

"Honey, that's the least of my worries," he said urgently. "I don't care about that, and I don't think it would happen anyway. What WILL happen is you'll be arrested and jailed. You'll have to make bail, if they LET you make bail. There will be a trial and you'll probably spend time in prison."

"I SHOULD spend time in prison!" she sobbed. "I killed him. He was helpless, and he called me a slut, and for THAT I killed him!"

"You killed him because he raped you," said Bob. "And he said he'd do it again if he could. You defended yourself." He knew he was badly mauling the legal points concerning self defense, but he couldn't let her tear herself down like this. "Maybe you shouldn't have killed him, but the fact is you snapped. It happens all the time. I've seen it dozens of times. You lose control and do something crazy. It doesn't mean you're a threat to society."

"What if I did it again?" she moaned.

"Who do you hate enough to do that to?" he asked.

"Nobody," she sobbed.

"OK then," he said.



-------

Chapter 19


She was adamant about keeping her appointment with Claire. He was glad she was going, because he had to go to work. He hoped Claire would talk some sense into her, and he made her promise not to do anything until she'd talked it over with him, no matter what she decided to do.

She was waiting for him when he got home from his shift. She was calm, but looked drained.

"I have to make this right," she said.

"If you're sure about this, then it needs to be done right," he said heavily.

"I feel like I'm hurting you," she moaned.

"I'm more worried about you than me," he said. "If you're going to do this, I'd like you to do it my way."

"All right," she said.

It didn't take long to figure out what they were going to do. When all was decided, he kissed her. Though neither of them knew it at that moment, it was to be the last time he'd do so for a very long time.

-------

Patrol Captain Quincy and Detective Captain Dillworth stood on either side of Lieutenant Sandra Hopkins, of Internal Affairs.

"Let me get this straight," said Sandra, staring at Bob, who was standing at a position of semi-attention. "You were playing racquetball with this woman ... the victim of a crime you'd investigated when you were assigned to the detective division."

"Yes, ma'am," said Bob.

"And you've played racquetball with her ever since you were reassigned to traffic for sexually harassing her during the investigation."

"No, ma'am," said Bob.

"So you haven't played racquetball with her."

"No, I didn't sexually harass her. She's my regular racquetball partner."

"Don't fuck with me, Duncan," said Hopkins. "You're in a world of shit here."

"I admit that I used unauthorized techniques and procedures to follow a hunch," said Bob calmly. "But it paid off. She trusted me enough to confess."

"And that's the other thing," said Sandra. "You were just banging the ball around and she blurted out that she'd killed her rapist?"

"That's pretty much it," said Bob. "She said she was seeing a shrink and that during hypnosis, she remembered it. Said she couldn't live with herself and said she wanted to turn herself in."

"And you suspected her from the beginning, but didn't think it was worth mentioning," said Hopkins sarcastically.

"I found her lighter at the scene," said Bob, shrugging his shoulders. "It's not illegal to have a lighter. None of the witnesses said she lit the car on fire. Cars catch on fire all the time in situations like that. What probable cause, exactly, do you think I had?"

"You had your gut instinct, detective!"

"He's not a detective anymore," Dillworth said hastily. "You can see why."

The lieutenant's teeth ground together, but she didn't address Dillworth.

"You had your gut instinct, didn't you, Officer Duncan?"

"When I WAS a detective," Bob said, staring right into her eyes, "Captain Dillworth taught me that gut instinct isn't worth a damn." He went on with a straight face. "He taught me that facts are what's important. I didn't have any facts, but I thought if I hung around her a little and ... um ... banged the ball around with her, I think you called it ... I might get some facts."

"Is that all you banged?" Hopkins sounded quite serious, and glared at the two captains when they both snickered.

"I kept things casual," said Bob. "She'd just been raped. I try not to hit on women who've just been raped, regardless of what you may have heard."

"Don't get snippy with me!" snarled Hopkins, who'd so far gotten nothing that would stick very well. The motherfucker HAD solved a murder, after all, even if nobody had known it WAS a murder up until then. And THIS piece of work was the cop who brought her in, wearing sweats and a headband. The motherfucker didn't even have his badge on him when he made the collar.

Based on the file Dillworth had given her, the arraignment must have been a circus. The woman confessed to the judge, who told her to shut up. When he said there was no evidence, she insisted she'd burned the man to death because he'd raped her. She'd been assigned a public defender, even though her financial status would normally have required she hire her own lawyer. That was because she'd said she didn't want an attorney at all and wouldn't hire one!

Then, the next day, in interrogation ... with her fucking lawyer present ... she'd waived her rights and confessed all over again, ignoring the lawyer who, according to Detective Zwinkowski, had been almost on the verge of tears trying to get her to shut up.

"And this lighter you found. You didn't turn it in to the evidence locker." It wasn't a question, and there was danger in her voice.

"I knew it was hers," Bob said. "I saw it when I searched her apartment during the rape investigation. That clued me in that she was involved in the accident somehow, but I didn't see it as evidence. Not then."

"So you just gave it back to her?"

"No."

"You want to explain that?"

"She was a secret smoker," said Bob. "The lighter was hidden in a jewelry case when I first saw it, along with a pack of cigarettes. When I visited her in the hospital after the accident, I was going to give it back to her, but she had amnesia. I guess I got distracted and forgot about it. Then, when I got home, I found it in my pants and put it on my dresser. I didn't want to turn around and go back to the hospital just for that. I figured I'd go see her again sometime, to see if her memory had returned. I guess I forgot all about it until she remembered using it to torch the car."

"But you played racquetball with her after that," Hopkins prompted.

"She forgot she was a secret smoker," said Bob, shrugging his shoulders. "Why would I remind her of that? Smoking's not good for you, you know."

"But you were still suspicious of her?" Hopkins' voice was heavy with sarcasm.

"The lighter was on the floor in the shop she was blown into during the explosion. I thought that was odd. Why wasn't it in her purse or her car or whatever? It just seemed odd. And maybe her amnesia was fake. It just made me uncomfortable, so I decided to keep an eye on her. When she confessed to me, I took her down to the station. Then I went and got the lighter and turned it in to the evidence locker. The chain of custody is unbroken. I've had control of it ever since I picked it up at the scene. It just got turned in late, after I knew it really WAS evidence."

Lieutenant Hopkins sighed. She wondered why she always seemed to get assigned to the really fucked up cases.

"This isn't over yet," she said. "You're suspended with pay until we get this figured out."

"OK," said Bob. "I could use the break."

-------

What was the hardest for both of them was that they couldn't see each other anymore. The judge had turned her loose on her own recognizance, so she could still go to work. Bob knew it would have been incredibly stupid for them to be seen together again.

The first time they saw each other after he'd brought her into the station house and announced she'd confessed to a murder was when Matthew McDill, her public defender, called Bob to his office for an interview. Lacey was there too.

"Hi, Bob," said Lacey softly.

"Hey," he said, resisting the urge to take her in his arms. "You OK?"

"I'm really confused by all this," said the lawyer, looking at Bob with a peculiar expression. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you two were ... friends."

Bob didn't say anything. Instead he looked at McDill and said, "You had some questions?"

"Yes," said Matthew. "Normally I'd wait until the discovery motion. But I don't know which prosecutor they're going to assign to this case, and there's no rule that says I can't interview the arresting officer before discovery."

"OK," said Bob. He sat down. It took an effort not to look over at Lacey.

"That's it?" asked McDill. "You don't mind being interviewed before the prosecutor talks to you?" He was mildly astonished.

"Law enforcement isn't on anybody's side," said Bob. "We make an arrest and investigate the circumstances to establish facts. That information is available to both sides."

"I have to tell you it's mighty refreshing to find that attitude in a policeman," said the lawyer.

"It should be that way with every cop," said Bob, shrugging.

The last thing they had discussed before she "turned herself in" was how his job might be saved in the whole process. Bob didn't like it, but some omissions or lies might be required. Lacey insisted that he tell her about them.

In the end, they decided how they would characterize their personal history together. As far as she was concerned, they were racquetball partners, purely by accident. They'd become friends, she thought, and she was completely unaware that he was still "investigating" her. The fact that she'd done what she'd done was discovered during a therapy session with her psychiatrist. Then, when she'd been unable to deal with the guilt, she'd told him, turning herself in to a policeman she knew and trusted. She was to pretend to know nothing about the lighter, or the fact that he'd had suspicions about her involvement in the explosion.

There would be no admissions that they had slept together or were in love with each other. If that happened, they might both go to jail.

He thought about what he'd say during the internal affairs investigation he knew would result from their actions, and went over that with her so that she wouldn't inadvertently say something that would conflict with his testimony.

He had already begun the subterfuge during his interview with Lieutenant Hopkins. They continued it now, with McDill.

Or tried to.

Had Lacey not been there, it might have worked.

After an hour of questioning that became more and more detailed and intense, McDill leaned back in his chair and dropped the pen on the legal pad he'd been taking notes on.

"You two are involved with each other," he said.

"That seems obvious," said Bob. "I'm a cop, and she did something wrong."

"I mean romantically," said Matthew.

"Why would you think that?" asked Bob.

"You're a cop," said McDill. "You know that body language is the majority of communication when people are face to face."

"So?"

"Don't game me, officer Duncan," said McDill heavily. "I may only have been out of law school for half a dozen years, but I've learned how to recognize when a client is keeping something from me. If you really want her to have any kind of chance, I need to know everything."

"You and I both know she doesn't have a chance," said Bob. "Not if she insists on confessing to this."

"I have to do this, Bob," said Lacey, her voice agonized.

"I know," said Bob. "But this is bad enough. Why rake your name through the mud with innuendo and scandal too?"

"I'm not going to rake anybody through the mud," said Matthew. "But I have to know the facts, or I can't mount a decent defense."

"I don't see what defense you can mount in the first place," said Bob.

"You do your job and I'll do mine," said the lawyer. "She gets a defense based on the Constitution of the United States, and I'm going to do my best to give her one. We're not going to lie about anything, but I need to know as much as possible about how we got to where we are."

"Bob could lose his job," said Lacey.

"And you could lose your freedom for the rest of your life," said Matthew. "The sentence for murder two is mandatory life, with no provision of parole for ten to twenty-five years. That means at least ten years in prison."

"I can't help that," said Lacey, tears coming into her eyes. "I did something, and I have to pay the price. But Bob shouldn't be punished. He didn't do anything except help me and love me."

"He ARRESTED you!" barked McDill.

"I made him do that," said Lacey, sniffling.

The lawyer's eyes went back to Bob. "I need to know everything," he said. "I need to know everything you thought or did since you first met her. This goes all the way back to the rape." His mouth snapped shut and his eyes darted to Lacey, looking to see if he'd caused her pain. She wiped her eyes and looked back at him.

"I don't want Bob hurt in this," she insisted.

McDill thought for almost a whole minute.

"OK," he said. "Everything the prosecution has is available to me. But I don't have to give them everything I've got. Not unless I use it in the trial. If you tell me everything you can remember, I'll try not to use anything that might get him in trouble. I won't lie, though, and I won't let you lie either."

"Do you actually believe you can do anything to mitigate the offense?" asked Bob.

"Honestly, no," admitted McDill. "But you haven't told me everything yet either. I may not have decades of experience, but this isn't my first time around the block either. I can tell you more when I think I know everything I need to know."

"So you just want me to trust you," said Bob.

"That's pretty much it. I have her best interests at heart."

"But not mine," said Bob.

"She loves you," McDill said calmly. He looked at Lacey, who dipped her head once, unable to control the emotion that filled her. "And you love her, right?"

Bob looked at Lacey, who had tears running down her cheeks again. He nodded tersely.

"Then that makes you part of my client's life," said McDill. "Her best interests include you and your survival."

Bob ended up staying for four more hours. He'd never been questioned as closely and thoroughly by any lawyer in his life.



-------

Chapter 20


Two weeks later Bob was coming home from the gym, still dressed in his sweats. McDill had instructed them, superfluously, not to see each other until after the trial. He had been noncommittal after his questioning of Bob, concerning what his defense would be. "I have some ideas," was all he'd say.

Bob turned the last corner and started toward the entrance to his apartment building. A car pulled to a stop at the curb next to him and the window rolled down.

"Get in!" came a male voice he recognized. It was Don Simpson, his old peer in the detective division.

"Why?"

"Just get in," said Don. He sounded anxious. "They might have your place staked out."

Bob didn't look around. He opened the door and slid into the seat. Simpson pulled out into traffic immediately.

"Man did you ever poke a stick in a hornet's nest," said Simpson.

"You investigating me now?" asked Bob.

"No, IA is taking care of that. You're on an occasional watch list. They aren't on you full time, but they're interested in your comings and goings."

"Why?" asked Bob.

Simpson looked at him with a look of disbelief. "Well duh," he said.

"So what do you want?" asked Bob.

"Why didn't you tell me about her when I told you the guy was her rapist?"

"Would it have done any good? What would you have done with the information?"

"I don't know. Maybe nothing. We just wanted to close the cases. But if you'd have told me one of his victims was present at the time of the explosion..."

"I'd gotten to know her by then," said Bob. "We played racquetball together quite a bit." He was being careful to only say what IA already knew.

"Yeah, well that's just fuckin' weird too," said Simpson. "You got something going with her?"

"What do you want, Don?" asked Bob. "I'm probably already toast. You don't need to put another nail in my coffin."

"Not at all," said Simpson. "You're nowhere near being toast. They're trying to figure out how to keep you from being a fucking hero!"

"I don't get it," said Bob.

"Remember I told you we were going to shut everything down?"

"Yeah."

"Dillworth wouldn't let us run the DNA on the evidence we had from the different scenes. We had hairs and epithelials under the fingernails of a couple of the other victims. We even had some prints off of a can of soda the guy helped himself to at one scene, but Dillworth said there was nothing to compare it to."

"OK," said Bob.

"So we never actually tied him to all those rapes. The guy was buried as a John Doe and we had to fudge a little when we told all the victims their attacker was dead."

"OK," said Bob again.

"But when this Fetterman thing blew up, they went back and reinvestigated all the cases. They ran the DNA. It really DID tie all the cases together." He looked over at Bob.

"You have a point," said Bob. "Why not get to it?"

"The point is that now that she confessed to killing him, they had to identify him. The prosecutor was foaming at the mouth, because he was going to have to try her for killing a John Doe. You know that's almost impossible. The commissioner was livid. IA was already involved, but he called in the state patrol to review all the cases. So they ended up doing a full blown location analysis of all the rapes, and narrowed down where the guy probably lived. Then they did a house to house canvass, trying to find somebody who went missing. They got a hit on a guy named Gilbert Kinneson, who stopped paying his rent, but left everything in his apartment. The landlord still had all his stuff in storage, because he was afraid the guy would show back up and sue him if he got rid of it."

Don looked around, as if to see if they were being followed, and went on.

"So they took HIS driver's license picture and put it in some photo lineups on all the cases the task force had closed out. They got TEN more hits, Bob. All the women he'd left DNA evidence with nailed his picture, and there were TEN more beyond that, Bob! All cold cases. The motherfucker set some kind of record, and it was YOU who brought about the further investigation. The chief has egg all over his face and the Commissioner of Police is asking all kinds of questions about why this wasn't all done in the first place!"

"He should ask Dillworth why it wasn't all done in the first place," said Bob. "He's the captain of detectives. He's the one who called all the shots."

"We fucking know that," grumbled Simpson. "And by now IA knows it, too. He's running scared, because it's coming out how he mismanaged shit and caused cases to go cold. And IA tied all the cases together by using the MO on the Fetterman case ... including your questions about the orgasm thing."

"You're shitting me," said Bob, finally surprised by something.

"Not at all. They got an FBI profiler involved, when the original DNA came back, and he said it was definitely part of the guy's MO. So they went back and asked all the victims and every fucking one of them finally admitted it had happened during their rapes as well. And TWO of them admitted he came back again! It was so fucking bizarre I about peed my pants!"

"So how do you know all this?" asked Bob.

"One of the IA detectives is my brother-in-law," said Simpson, grinning. "I'm not supposed to know any of this, but I had to tell you, cause I knew you were hurting."

"So why are they watching me?" asked Bob.

"Cause they're pissed that a traffic cop showed up everybody else on the fuckin' force," said Don gleefully.

"I didn't show anybody up," said Bob. "I just tried to do my job."

"That's the whole point!" said Simpson. "Dillworth has been shown to be incompetent. The chief looks stupid, and the commissioner's embarrassed as hell, too. They're trying to do damage control, but I'm telling you, buddy, heads are gonna roll."

"Well that's it for me then," sighed Bob. "When the shit starts, it rolls downhill. They'll want me gone, if only so I don't remind them of all the trouble."

"Maybe," said Simpson. "But IA isn't being nearly as nasty with the rest of us as they were in the beginning. A MAJOR fucking serial rapist was identified because of you, my friend. And the detectives aren't pissed at you at all. We've all had to close cases we knew needed more work, but when Dillworth made decisions, there wasn't anything anybody could do. They've even interviewed retired detectives."

"So what do you want from me?" asked Bob.

"Nothing," said Don. "I just thought you ought to know you didn't screw up as much as you thought you did."

"I DID screw up, though," said Bob. "I didn't turn in the lighter."

"OK, so you bent the rules. Look at the payoff. I mean they have to slap your wrist, but they can't fuck you over because they're afraid you'll blow the whistle on the whole thing. They're still trying to keep it quiet."

"You're shitting me!" said Bob. "What about the state guys being involved? And that FBI profiler? They can't keep it quiet. And why would they WANT to? What about all the PR for identifying the guy?"

"They can't do that unless they admit to the rest. You know some lawyer from the ACLU will want to do a Freedom of Information Act request or something, just looking for a way to stir up shit. And if that comes out, there will be a ton of requests for new trials, because they'll claim all the investigations were tainted by incompetence. You know how that works. You've got them by the balls, brother."

"No I don't," said Bob. "I don't know any of this, remember? And neither do you."

"Yeah, but her lawyer can get it," said Simpson, his face straight. "He's got to defend her, and one of the defenses for vigilante justice is that the authorities were incompetent."

"I don't know what you've been smoking," said Bob, looking at his friend. "But I hope you have some left to share with your friends."

Simpson laughed. "The system WAS broken," he said. "And it wasn't our fault. Not all of it anyway. We should have pushed Dillworth harder. Nobody had the spine to go over his head, or we might have stopped the guy a lot sooner than she did. But we saw what happened to you, and the others before you. We LET him fuck people over. And if we can fix that through her lawyer ... well ... it gets fixed, and that's the important thing. Heads DO need to roll, but it needs to be the right heads."

"So you want me to be the little birdie that talks into her mouthpiece's ear."

"I knew you'd understand," said Don.

He stopped. "Have a nice walk home."

"You're dropping me here?" complained Bob. "It's ten blocks back to my place."

"They might be watching," said Simpson. "That's the breaks."

-------

Matthew McDill looked up from his desk to see his secretary standing beside Bob Duncan. He raised his eyebrows in question.

"I need to talk to you," said Bob. "But I don't know how much of it you're going to want to hear."

McDill was very careful, until he found out what Bob wanted to tell him.

"It's not a problem," said McDill after Bob explained the category of information, without going into details. "It's a public record, and I should have access to it for my client's defense. All you're going to do is tell me what they should give me, so I know if they're shortchanging the request for information."

"What exactly IS your defense strategy going to be?" asked Bob.

"That, officer, is privileged information," said Matthew, his face calm.

"Of course," said Bob.

"Now, give me the details," said the defense attorney.

-------

Lacey kept going to sessions with Claire, who utilized hypnosis to illuminate as many details of Lacey's past as possible. Now Claire suggested she remember the details. The really ugly things were already back. Now she wanted Lacey to have as good an understanding as possible as to why she might have made some of the decisions she'd made. While the law might find her guilty of a crime, Claire didn't want Lacey to feel like a criminal, if possible.

Additionally, Claire was brought into the defense team as an expert witness, though they weren't going to use a temporary insanity defense. There were too many obstacles to that, and it rarely worked anyway. Matthew's ideas were of another nature, though he didn't give either Lacey or the doctor the details of them. Lacey was firm in her conviction to take responsibility for her actions, and the psychiatrist didn't need to know, so that her answers to questions on the stand wouldn't sound rehearsed. Nonetheless, the information she provided helped him plan his defense.

As part of her therapy with Lacey, Claire contacted some of the other women that Kinneson had raped. Six of them agreed to her request, and they were gathered in a group one evening.

What ensued was more or less a free group therapy session, facilitated by Claire, where the women were encouraged to talk about their feelings. They had been informed their rapist was dead. This was the first time they'd found out how he'd died, and who was holding herself responsible for his death.

What began as a very uncomfortable meeting, almost burst into a full-fledged orgy of catharsis as the women described how they'd felt while being raped. His MO became clear. In all cases, their attacker had taken his time, and had talked to them, telling them that he'd be back when they least expected it, and that after a while they'd want him back. Then he'd made them all have an orgasm, while he gloated. In all cases he'd used a condom, telling the women that they weren't yet worthy of receiving his seed, which he'd characterized with words like "noble" and "kingly." They all cried, Claire included, as the pain came out like festering vomit.

At the same time, though, there was universal thanks, almost joy, that was directed toward Lacey. Two of the women had already been through counseling, but even they expressed their thanks that they no longer had to worry about him coming back. One woman almost broke down, when she admitted that he HAD come back, just as he'd promised. He'd somehow known that her husband was working a double shift. Unknown to her, he'd made an impression of her house key in a lump of clay when he raped her the first time. He'd used the key made from the mold to enter her house and rape her again.

She hadn't told a soul, until her case had been reinvestigated, and it had come out then. She still hadn't told her husband. She firmly believed her rapist when he told her no one would believe it had happened again, unless they also believed she had cooperated. When her hysteria died down to manageable levels, she sobbed that the only reason she had said anything to the police the second time was because he was dead.

When the session was over, a new support group had been born. The women would go on to contact all of Kinneson's known victims, and create a formal non-profit organization to support victims of rape.

That was in the future, though. For now, all it did was what Claire had intended. Lacey felt less moral guilt for her actions. The legal guilt, however, was still there, and still demanded that she be held accountable for the killing.

Claire also talked to McDill about the session, in general terms, thinking that some of the women might be willing to testify on Lacey's behalf.

"Can't," said Matthew, shaking his head. "She didn't know that before the incident. I wish she had. I could use it, then. And, if there weren't a mandatory sentence for second degree murder, I could use them at a sentencing hearing, but there won't be one if she's found guilty. If she's found guilty, she goes straight to jail for ten years. She doesn't pass Go, and she doesn't collect two hundred dollars."

"It's just wrong," said Claire, amazed that she was defending the actions of a murderer. "I firmly believe he would have struck again, and quite possibly struck Lacey again."

"I know that," said McDill. "That's what I'm going to have to convince the jury of."



-------

Chapter 21


Roger Schwartz grabbed his briefcase and hurried for the entrance/exit of the new suite of offices the prosecutor's staff was lucky to have just moved into. Lucille, his secretary, called out a cheery "Good luck!" as he sailed by her desk.

"Don't need luck!" he yelled back, flashing her a grin.

In fact, he believed that. He was one of the up and coming lawyers of a generation that believed skill would make "luck" an archaic term. If that seems a bit rash, perhaps it could be said that he believed you made your own luck, rather than hoping it would stumble into your life.

The case he was on the way to the courtroom to prosecute might have been considered an argument that he was wrong. Anyone else would have said he was lucky indeed that the defendant in this case had the kind of ironic moral fiber she appeared to have. After all, she'd confessed to a murder and then turned down an offer of eight years and a hundred thousand dollars in restitution. He'd thought the plea deal he offered her was quite reasonable. The explosion she'd intentionally ignited had not only killed a man, but had probably caused well over three hundred thousand dollars worth of collateral damages.

Even the fact that the official investigation had labeled the explosion an accident didn't bother him. He had her confession on tape, and it was ironclad. There was no way in the world that confession would be thrown out. Her lawyer had been there while she made it, and had objected to every word she'd said. She was on tape a dozen times telling him to shut up, because she'd done it.

And the investigation after the fact had come up with lots of evidence to prove she was telling the truth. That evidence, added to the photographs taken when the incident occurred, left him eager to see the look on the jurors' faces as they were handed the Fetterman woman's head on a silver platter.

Yes, this one was a slam dunk. At most, it should take two days, and then he'd have another notch carved in the grip of his metaphorical six shooter. His mind wandered as, for perhaps the hundredth time, he thought quite seriously about getting himself an old time revolver and actually filing a notch into the handle of it for each successful prosecution he tried. Of course, it would have to be a nonfunctional replica weapon, since handguns were banned in the city.

But still, it would look good on his wall.

He breezed through the tall double doors of the courtroom. There were already a few people in the gallery, and he saw Matthew McDill poring over papers in a file on the defendant's table.

"Poor sap," he said under his breath as he walked down the aisle. He nodded to the bailiff as he pushed the gate open.

"Morning, Matt," he said, giving the obligatory greeting to his foe. Then he put his briefcase on the prosecution table and asked the bailiff to remove the extra chair. He'd be trying this case alone, and he wanted everyone to know it. He was about to enter into a complicated dance that had as many psychological elements to it as it did physical ones. Much of "the law" was an illusion, carefully crafted and presented in such a way as to convince people to believe what you wanted them to believe. In many ways it was like playing a role in a play or movie.

If you played the role well, people believed what they saw in the court room was the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

That it wasn't necessarily so, didn't bother Roger Schwartz at all.

-------

On the other side of the room, Matthew McDill, counselor for the defense, looked over his notes and sighed. Lacey was bound and determined to be punished for her acts. This was all a kind of penance for her, in her own mind, an attempt at catharsis that he was sure would end very badly for her.

He already thought of her as a prisoner, dressed in an orange jump suit and locked up in some horrible place where she'd look haunted after only a few days. Her spirit would be assailed with such force that she'd exit it as only a shell of her former self. And that was too bad, because he was convinced she was a nice woman and a good human being, all things considered.

At least he'd convinced her to have a jury trial, instead of just letting the judge sentence her. The only way to do that was to plead not guilty, which she'd argued about. Her psychiatrist had helped convince her that what she seemed to need to find peace, needed to be meted out by people like her, which meant she had to go through a trial.

His notes stared up at him. His plan was a radical departure from the way he normally defended a client. Of course this whole case was a radical departure from the kind of thing he usually dealt with.

He knew the truth, for one thing. That was pretty rare, actually. Most clients held things back—hid things—and guilt of the crime committed was only one of the things they usually tried to hide. They pretended to be innocent, and it often handicapped him, because most people don't lie well and juries are suspicious to begin with.

But this time he knew every intimate detail of his client's life. He knew what had led to her actions. She was an open book and her credibility was undoubted in a way that made her different from any client he'd had to date. Even the way she blushed when she gave certain details screamed that she was telling him everything, and that everything she was telling him was the stark truth.

That was the basis for his defense, as odd as it might have seemed.

She would confess to a jury of her peers. She had demanded that. He'd argued with her until he was blue in the face, but she was unbending in her desire to testify and throw herself to the dogs.

She thought she was going to sit in the witness chair and tell the jury she'd killed a man, and then be punished for it. She thought that would allow her to live with what she'd done.

What he hoped, as he reviewed the questions she didn't know he was going to ask her, was that the members of the jury would react to her story like he had.

He hoped they'd feel sorry for her.

His logical mind accepted there'd be a finding of guilt. There was no way around that. But the human being in him was going to try like hell to get a hung jury. If there was a mistrial, and the press got wind of it, even a change of venue was likely to end up in a mistrial the second time.

Matthew McDill's intent was to try to wear down the prosecution and buy himself enough time that Lacey would stop participating in her own crucifixion.

Lacking that, he wanted the judge to give her the first opportunity at parole, which was ten years, instead of the last, which was twenty-five.

-------

In another room, down a short non-public hallway from Courtroom B, twelve people sat, or milled around, contemplating how their lives had been interrupted. Perhaps co-opted was the better term, because their lives went on. Just not in the way they preferred that it happen.

There was a coffee pot, and a plate of danish, most of which was untouched, because it was sticky on the outside and dry on the inside—the cheap kind that looks great, but is only good for one bite before interest is lost. People looked at each other, but tried to do it in a nonintrusive kind of way. The jurors didn't try to make eye contact with each other. They were strangers and each, in his or her own way, was convinced they'd always be strangers. The mystical jury selection process had been gone through and most of them had ended up drawing the short straw, somehow. This was a temporary speed bump in their lives, a civic duty that they had to perform, before they could steer their attention back onto the usual roadway of their different patterns of existence.

Maggie Thompson was fifty-eight, a widow, and the mother of two grown children. She was the epitome of the term "WASP" and, in her own mind, had lived a thoroughly uninteresting life thus far. She'd had two years of college, but hadn't gotten a degree. She'd married Walter, raised her children, buried Walter when he'd had a heart attack, and then worked at various unskilled jobs over the years that followed. She got by, because Walter's insurance had paid off the house and her needs were few.

When she was called to jury duty, she'd tried to get out of it by pretending to believe that anyone who had been arrested must be guilty. She'd seen something on TV one time about that, and something called a peremptory challenge. She'd thought that if she presented the appearance of someone who was like that that she'd be dismissed.

She hadn't been, though, and here she was. She tried to see the positive side of things. At least this was something new and interesting in her otherwise humdrum life that seemed vaguely unfulfilled.

-------

Waldo Cunningham straightened his tie, unconsciously and stood, more or less in the center of the room, next to the long table they'd sit around while they deliberated. At forty-five, Waldo felt like he was in the prime of his life. He was an accountant, by trade, an active member of his church and the rotary club, and now was going to be part of a jury in a murder trial. This fact simply added to the impression in his mind that he was a pillar of the community. Marge, his wife, had wanted him to try to get out of it, but he'd ignored her. This was something good ... something important. Crime was rampant in the streets, and he firmly believed in the old saw that for evil to triumph it required only that good men do nothing.

He'd taken the time to do some research, to ensure that he would be chosen as a juror. He'd learned all the right things to say, and was proud that he'd been successful in being chosen to be a purveyor of justice.

He looked around at the others. He didn't interact with the public much. Not at work, anyway. And when he was at church, or club meetings, the people he was around were above reproach and didn't need to be analyzed. He couldn't tell much about these people so far.

But he knew they'd need a leader, and he was sure he was the man for the job.

-------

Reginald Bower felt alone and isolated in the room. That was something he was used to, though, and it didn't bother him all that much. Reggie was a black man, thirty-seven years old and born during a time in America when race relations were a firestorm. The kiln of integration, as he went through his formative years, had fired him into a vessel that, like a clay pot, becomes hard and unchanging. He was jaded, without knowing it, and his routine beliefs about the world in which he lived were set. He didn't think much about why he believed the things he believed. He just believed them.

One of those things was that racism was alive and well, and that partial proof of that could be found in the statistics of prison populations. Everybody knew that there were more blacks in prison than any other race. And that meant that black men and women were still being put down.

He stood alone, at one end of the table in the room. That was more proof that racism was still in the world. All the others in the room were white. He knew he was the token black on this jury, and the others were keeping their distance from the black man. They were profiling him, just like the cops did, assuming he was a problem of some kind.

He was used to that, too. He got suspicious looks when he went into stores, or even just walked down the street. He'd learned to armor himself against that kind of thing. There were a few chinks in his armor, though he wasn't aware of them on a conscious level. His wife's death, for instance, was a chink in his armor. She'd taken a stray bullet in a drive by shooting. One second she was yelling at him for not asking for a raise at the shipping company where he drove a forklift, so they could get a decent car. The next second she was lying on the floor, her eyes wide open, staring lifelessly at a water stain on the ceiling. It had been a black man who had pulled the trigger on the Tech 9 that had killed her. His subconscious mind knew that, and that it was gang violence that had killed her, but his conscious mind insisted that if the white man would give jobs to young black men, they wouldn't join gangs. Still, it bothered him sometimes that a man of his own race had killed his wife.

It didn't matter. He was here, and the defendant was white. He'd been given a chance to alter those statistics, even if only a little. That was the black man's burden ... to be restricted to taking baby steps ... toward a day when, finally, black men and women would be truly equal to those around them.

He was here to take a few baby steps.

-------

At the other end of the minority spectrum was Helen Zwinkowski. That she was a white woman put her in the minority, along with Reggie. That she was a single mother, working two jobs put her in another minority. That she was a knockout might be thought of as yet another minority group she belonged to, as could the fact that she had been in the upper ten percent of her graduating class in high school.

Helen had had it all, back then. She had been beautiful, sharp as a tack, and had a four year full ride scholarship to Columbia University. But even a near genius, a minority she missed being in by virtue of three points on the IQ test, can make a mistake in judgment.

Her mistake had been celebrating too much at a graduation party, where she'd accepted too many drinks, one of which had something in it that left her conscious, but unable to convince her boyfriend that she was still in the same mindset as all those times she'd already said "No!" He wanted to believe she'd just been waiting to graduate. He didn't use a condom, and she was then among that un-envious minority of women who get pregnant the very first time they have sex.

Her parents decided she'd thrown away her life, and basically threw her away like the garbage they'd decided she must be.

She knew what it was like to survive in the world. She'd gotten rid of the boyfriend, kept the baby, and worked part time nights at a convenience store, and full time days at WalMart. She viewed jury duty as a vacation, especially since daycare was provided for her four year old son, including meals. Since the vast majority of her paycheck went to pay for daycare, she figured the loss in income was a wash. And she'd get to sit down for a few days, too. She'd known she could probably get excused by virtue of her income level and personal situation, but she hadn't asked for that.

Besides, she needed some mental stimulation. Her jobs were driving her crazy with boredom.

-------

Sitting two chairs down from Helen was Rick Brown. He was firmly in the majority, at least socially. At forty-five he was successful in the insurance business, and this horse shit trial was something he wanted no part of. He had no idea that his protestations of needing to be on the road, and needing to be there for his customers, got him selected by the prosecution precisely because his profile suggested he would want to get this done with and over quickly. People like that tended to vote "Guilty!" and push others to do the same thing so they could all go home.

He was on his third cup of coffee already and only sitting down because there was a fairly nice looking MILF type sitting across the table from him. He'd already checked out the looker, who was younger and definitely eye candy, but his instincts told him she was hard as nails and wouldn't put up with any bullshit. He generally had a good eye for people, so he dismissed her. The MILF, though, might be worth the effort. He had introduced himself and was thinking up lines to lay on her, but he had to be careful, because he couldn't just walk away if he said the wrong thing and she got offended.

If he was going to be stuck here for who knew how long, at least maybe he could get laid out of the deal.

-------

The woman Rick was trying to engage in conversation was Jane Quincy, a thirty-one year old mother of a little girl who was eight. She was married, but her husband was a mechanic who worked so much overtime that she rarely saw him. He was up with the rooster, and came home after she was already in bed.

Like Helen, Jane looked forward to jury duty as a break from her mind numbing routine as a stay-at-home mom. When Cynthia was at school, all there was to do was re-clean an already clean house, and watch daytime television, which she was sure was slowly rotting her brain.

She felt neglected and bored. At least jury duty was something to do. And she knew that the man sitting across from her ... the one with the piercing gray eyes ... was looking her over. She couldn't catch him at it, but she could feel his stare. He looked successful, and his hands were immaculately groomed. No broken fingernails with grease under them there. Those hands looked soft and warm.

She mentally shook her head. She'd never even THOUGHT of cheating on Phil. And she was here for jury duty, not some flight of fancy meeting with a stranger.

Still, it was nice to think she was still desirable.

She looked away from the man across the table. They'd been here for almost an hour already, and nothing was happening. She hoped this wasn't all a terrible mistake.

-------

Standing at the window was a man who, even in civilian clothes, looked like a soldier. That's because, until six months ago, that's exactly what he'd been. Twenty-five year old former Staff Sergeant Danny Baumgartner did two tours in Iraq, which was why he was standing at the window. He never could get over how bold it made him feel, to stand there exposed and not worry. And the world he looked out on was so peaceful that he just loved looking at it.

He loved everything about civilian life. His job at the Home Depot was great. He'd made new friends, and he didn't have to worry about them being blown to pieces before he saw them next. He loved the food. He loved having days off. He loved being able to drink a beer whenever he felt like it. Others were having trouble ... mental trouble ... but Danny felt great. He'd survived, and that was what it was all about.

He hadn't found a girlfriend yet. That was the only rub. But there were hookers galore. He'd tried talking to the little hottie standing across the room, but got a hostile stare in return. "Probably a Democrat," he thought to himself. "Against the war and fuck the troops." He grinned. He'd be more than happy to put a flag over her face to muffle her liberal whining and fuck her for Old Glory.

He didn't know much about the case they were going to hear, except that it was a murder case and a woman was the defendant. It would be interesting to see if she was like any of the women he remembered from the army. Most of them had no problem busting a cap in somebody who needed it. He liked a strong woman who didn't puke at the sight of blood.

He turned away from the window and limped to the table to sit down and rest his aching leg. A sniper's bullet had taken a chunk out of his femur. He had a presumably shiny titanium replacement in there, and he could walk again, but there was still pain now and then, a dull ache that only went away if he rested the leg.

"Shouldn't be much of a problem during the trial," he thought, easing into a chair. "Get to sit around and tell war stories for a few days."

-------

Hank Goss also sat at the table, but it wasn't to relax. He wasn't quite sweating, but it was only the air conditioning that kept his nervousness from dampening his shirt. He was sitting because he knew if he stood, he'd pace, and if he paced, he'd draw attention to himself.

Hank was fifty-one and, before this, had never thought of himself as any kind of crusader. He cut meat for a living, or had for almost thirty years. It was looking more and more like he'd be out of a job before he could even think of retiring. The big box stores were taking over, and they didn't hire meat cutters. All their meat was shipped in, already cut and packaged, ready to put on the shelf.

He'd been annoyed at being called to jury duty, and had thought to try to get out of it if he could figure out a way.

Until, during the questioning involved with jury selection he was asked, "Have you ever had a relative, or close female friend who was raped?"

His heart had almost stopped, while his mind whirled. His precious Cindy ... his beautiful daughter ... his teenage daughter who was STILL frightened of men ... had been brutally raped when she was only eight. They'd never caught the son of a bitch who'd almost ruined her life. It had taken her three years before she even smiled again, finally showing teeth it had taken thousands to repair after the beating she got, along with the theft of her innocence.

It wasn't much of a leap to figure out that rape was involved in this case, even though it was supposedly a trial for murder. He knew the defendant was a woman, also based on some of the questions he'd been asked. It also wasn't much of a leap for him to decide that if a woman had defended herself and killed her attacker, she deserved all the help she could possibly get, and that included his help.

"Why ... no," he'd lied, his voice tight.

No one had shouted that he was lying and the questions had gone on. From that point on, he thought about every answer before he gave it, because, suddenly, he wanted to be on this jury.

Now, though, he was terrified that he'd be found out. He expected any minute for someone in a police uniform to stalk into the room, point at him and shout out that he was under arrest for perjury, or jury tampering, or something.

He took a too-large sip of coffee and it burned his throat on the way down. That actually helped. As he coughed, some of the tension left him. It was too late to do anything about his lie now. All he could do was play it out and hope for the best.

-------

Almost the polar opposite of Hank was Jim Lowery, a young man of only twenty-three whose entire world was wrapped up in the laptop he'd brought with him. He was a game designer and, to be frank, wasn't much interested in anything other than that. He was a geek's geek.

He had his laptop open now and was writing code on it. He'd had to disable the Wi-Fi connection, because he wasn't allowed any contact with the outside world. That didn't matter. It would be another week or two before what he was working on was perfected and he could send it in to his project manager.

Maybe, he thought, he could pull off working on it during deliberations. He could claim he was taking notes or something.

It might cut a day or two off the process of getting the code finished.

-------

Another person staring out a window was one of the four women present. Judy Tipton wasn't enjoying the relative peace of the view, though. She was simply not looking at the men in the room.

Though only twenty-one, Judy was firmly burned out on men. She'd made half a dozen attempts at having a relationship with half a dozen men, only to end up hurting each time. Men were pigs, who only wanted one thing. That they wanted it from her was even worse, because Judy knew she was nothing to look at. Thin to the point of emaciation, her hair was a drab brown that wouldn't do anything except hang straight down. She didn't wear a bra, because the only ones that would fit were training bras. Long walks had built up her calves until they were disproportional to the rest of her legs. She had to wear a belt because her jeans wouldn't stay up if she didn't, sliding over her almost nonexistent hips without even having to be unsnapped.

So when men hit on her, she knew it was because they wanted a warm pussy, and not to have a relationship with a whole person.

She met both men and women as she tended the perfume counter at the department store where she worked. That she felt more attraction to the women than the men had bothered her a lot, until she'd just given up men and decided she was gay.

She stubbornly clung to that belief, even as she wished she could extend the quick hugs she exchanged with a couple of her closer female friends. She longed for the closeness of being in love, but the only humans she felt like she COULD love were other females. There was one, in particular, that she believed loved her back, and it was working out so far.

Like Hank, she figured out that the defendant was a woman, and that she had killed a man. She would eventually be horrified by it, in the not too distant future, but her initial impulse response was "Good for her!"

-------

One of the remaining two men on the jury stood by the coffee pot, holding a cup of coffee in his hand that was cold. He'd been the first to pour a cup, but hadn't taken a sip of it yet.

That was because Timothy Flynn was thinking. He did that a lot, and it was often quite complicated. Tim Flynn was a philosopher. Had he been born a couple of thousand years earlier, he'd have been perfectly suited to be one of Socrates' students. In college, which he'd had to drop out of when his money ran out, he'd read everything Plato had ever written and was convinced that the Socratic method of dealing with a problem would never fail to illuminate the truth in a given situation.

Now, though, the forty-three year old florist rarely ran into the kind of problems that Socrates might have been interested in. He had, over the years, attempted to bring philosophy to bear outside work by using it to solve the problems of his family and friends. The stunning irony of that was that, while he wasn't aware of it, the Socratic method he loved so much was responsible for the fact that he was divorced and no longer had any friends. Basically, people couldn't stand to be around him because he confused them to the point of fury.

Now, at long last, he had a chance to use his talent for the good of mankind ... to illuminate the truth of what should be done ... in the name of justice.

-------

Last, and arguably least, insofar as he was concerned, was Kelsey Dodge. He was twenty-nine, married with one child, and he had no idea why he was in the room. He didn't know anything about the law, and had never committed even the tiniest infraction of any legal code. He obeyed the law, because that was what he'd been taught to do. If a stoplight turned red, Kelsey stopped, even if it was three in the morning and there was nobody else in sight.

Not that Kelsey Dodge would be out at three in the morning. That was time for sleeping. Kelsey lived by a list of rules he'd inherited, somewhere along the way, and had never given any thought to. You went to work and gave an honest day's work for an honest day's wage. You went home and took care of things there. You loved your wife and raised your child as best you could. If there was something good on TV, you watched it. If there wasn't, you read a good book.

And, when the summons for jury duty came, you went and did your duty that way, too.

Even if you had no earthly idea of how to do it.



-------

Chapter 22


The door to the jury room opened and a man wearing glasses came in. He looked at something on a clipboard in his hand.

"We're about to begin," he said, with no other introduction. "I need to give you some information about what's expected of you. Please listen closely."

He read a list of rules, things they could and could not do while they were sitting in the jury box. His voice droned, making it clear he'd read this list countless times in the past.

Fully half the jury tuned him out within the first thirty seconds. Reggie wasn't interested in hearing a white man tell him what he could and couldn't do. Rick just wanted to get on with things. Jane thought it was stupid that you couldn't talk to each other out there, and while thinking of all the reasons it was stupid missed everything else that was said. Jim was trying to remember if he'd saved his recent work. Judy, similar to Reggie, heard a man laying down the rules and felt sorry for his wife. Kelsey was trying so hard to learn the new rules that, after the third one, he got confused and gave up.

-------

"All rise!" came the astonishingly high and effeminate voice of the tall, gangly bailiff.

There was a snicker from the gallery, and the Honorable Wade Gunderson's head turned sharply as he stepped up to the bench. His eyes raked over the sparse audience, which went deathly quiet as it was obvious he was trying to see who had made the noise. The bailiff seemed not to have heard the disturbance, and droned on, saying the Judge's name and the type of court everyone already knew they were in.

Judge Gunderson arranged his long black robe and sat in the desk chair he'd picked out himself. If you had to sit somewhere for hours on end, it should, by God, be comfortable.

"Sit down," he growled, looking down at the folder on his desk. He looked up, his eyes going to the prosecutor first. "You ready?"

Roger stood. "Yes, your honor," he said formally.

The judge's dark eyes, under bushy white eyebrows that could have been Andy Rooney's, went to Matthew next.

"Is the defense ready?"

"The defense is ready," said Matthew.

"Any motions before we begin?" asked Gunderson.

No one said anything.

"Opening statements," said the judge, and leaned back.

Roger stood, looked through some papers on his desk one last time, and strolled over to lay one hand on the rail that separated him from the twelve people he was quite sure would side with him by the end of the day.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, you are here to hear evidence that will prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Lacey Jean Fetterman killed one Gilbert Kinneson. Further, you will hear that that killing was unlawful and constituted murder in the second degree."

He seemed to think for a few seconds and then went on.

"The defense is going to try to convince you that this was all just a mistake, or that Ms. Fetterman lost control of herself. They will point out that she turned herself in and that she feels remorse for her acts. But the fact remains, ladies and gentlemen, that she burned a man to death, and that she knew he was alive when she did it. She even confessed to that, and the prosecution will show that she confessed without being coerced in any way."

He looked into the eyes of each juror, all of whom were actually looking at him.

"The spirit of her victim cries out for justice. You MUST find her guilty, ladies and gentleman. Justice demands it!"

He made eye contact with each juror one more time and then returned to his seat.

Matthew McDill got up. He looked scared.

"On the twenty-third of May, this year, Lacey Fetterman let what she thought was an employee of the gas company into her apartment. Her life was then threatened with a knife, and she was brutally raped. The rapist said he would be coming back to rape her again."

Matthew also made eye contact with each juror, and continued.

"It ruined her life, ladies and gentlemen, in ways that will be explained to you. She was frightened all of the time after that, never knowing if or when her attacker would suddenly show up to abuse her again. Then, quite suddenly, through circumstances she had no control over, she was thrown together with this despicable rapist again. She was terrified, and she reacted. We will make argument that her actions, at that point, were ill advised, but she was terrified. She didn't set out that fateful day to hurt anyone. She's never hurt anyone before or since that day. The prosecutor said that justice demands you find her guilty. I say that justice demands she be given a chance to gather what remains of her life and struggle on."

He turned and went to sit beside the woman that every juror was now staring curiously at.

-------

Roger Schwartz went about his job with precision and efficiency. He had read all of the police reports the woman was involved with. He'd had to scramble to get Kinneson identified, since he'd been buried as a John Doe. There were quite a few details in those reports that he had no desire for the jury to know about. Bob Duncan had testified in Roger's trials in the past. It was obvious there had been some kind of dustup in the police department, since Duncan was no longer a detective, but his reports were superb and Roger hadn't seen any need to interview him before the trial.

Considering that the accused seemed to want to confess every time anybody talked to her, it seemed very straightforward, though. It was really open and closed, just like the reports seemed to be.

He anticipated few bumps in the road.

He started with the traffic investigation of the incident that day, calling Officer Robert Duncan to the stand. In many cases, he just would have just asked the witness to describe the investigation. In this instance, however, his questions were precise. Roger wanted the jury to learn as little about Mr. Kinneson as possible. He did not, for example, want them to know that Kinneson had died in a stolen car, after being chased for miles by half a dozen troopers and cops who suspected him of just having raped the woman whose car he'd stolen.

"Officer Duncan, did you find Mr. Kinneson's body in a car?" he asked.

"I found a body in a car which was later identified as being Gilbert Kinesson," said Bob, who generally answered questions in court as accurately and with as few words as possible.

"What was the attitude of the vehicle when you first saw it?"

"It was upside down."

"I understand the car was burned."

"Objection!" said McDill. "Leading the witness."

Judge Gunderson scowled. "Don't try to make a game of this. We all know he can establish the car was burned."

"I'll rephrase, your honor," said Schwartz magnanimously. He turned back to Bob. "Was the car burned?"

"Yes," said Bob.

"Did you take any photographs?" asked Schwarz.

"Yes," said Bob.

Schwartz went to his table and picked up a sheaf of prints. He announced them as Prosecution Exhibit A.

"Objection, your honor," said Matthew. "Those photographs are inflammatory."

The judge took them and looked through them. His face didn't change. He pulled two out and laid them face down beside the others.

"I'm going to allow these," he said, handing the majority to the court clerk. "Crime scene photographs are standard evidence." He handed the two he'd removed back to the prosecutor. They were close-ups of the body, after it had been removed from the vehicle. They depicted the common fetal position of a badly burned body. That position was caused by muscles drying out and tightening up, and not, as people often thought, any attempt to escape the flames. "I assume you'll be establishing cause of death with the coroner," he said.

Schwartz took the photographs with a nod and returned to his table. It was too bad the jury couldn't see them. They WERE inflammatory, which was exactly why he'd included them in the mix. He turned back to the witness.

"Officer Duncan, I understand you found evidence at the scene linking the accused to the crime."

"Objection," said McDill. "Calls for a conclusion."

"Sustained," grunted the judge.

"All right," sighed Schwartz dramatically. "Did you find a cigarette lighter at the scene?"

"Objection!" said McDill. "Relevance?"

Judge Gunderson didn't miss a beat. "Overruled."

"Yes," answered Bob.

"And did this lighter have any identifying marks on it?"

"It had the initials LJG on it," said Bob, then went silent.

Schwartz frowned. Instinct told him the man was being less than cooperative. He was wearing his traffic uniform. Maybe he was just pissed off that he'd been canned as a detective, and that it showed in his uniform in front of the jury. It didn't matter. He'd seized the only physical evidence in the case, and it was needed to cement her guilt.

Schwartz went to his table and picked up a plastic bag with the lighter in it. He announced it as Prosecution Exhibit B, and there was an immediate objection from the defense.

"Motion to suppress based on chain of custody irregularities," said McDill.

Gunderson smacked the gavel, calling for a recess, and invited both attorneys into his chambers.

"You too," he said, turning his eyes to Bob.

In chambers the story came out about when the lighter had been found, and where, as well as who had had control of it since then. Gunderson frowned, but he knew cops had kept evidence in their desk drawers in the past, and THAT evidence had been admitted into a trial, even though the drawer in question was available to other cops. He frowned.

"So this stayed in your house the whole time," he said, looking at Bob.

"Yes, sir."

"And who had access to it during that time, besides you?"

"I didn't have any parties, or friends come over to visit," said Bob. "I don't have a very active social life. I always lock my apartment when I'm not there." He didn't mention Lacey. "When I found out its real relevance, I turned it in to the evidence locker."

"I'm going to allow it," said the judge. "It's distinctive ... custom made. If it was a plain old Bic lighter, things might be different."

McDill sighed. Two minutes later they were back in court, and the clerk was marking the lighter as Exhibit B.

"Did you recognize the lighter?" asked Schwartz.

"Yes," said Bob, saying nothing more.

"Please describe for the jury why you recognized it," said Schwarz, a little impatiently. It was like the man didn't want to cooperate.

Bob erased his doubts, though, as he described finding the lighter in her jewelry box, along with the driver's license that explained what the LJG stood for. He explained his suspicions that Lacey was a secret smoker, and about how he returned the lighter to its hiding place, because it had no relevance to the rape. Then he described in detail how he found it at the scene, next to where a then unidentified female's body had ended up because of the explosion. He said he'd kept it because he intended to give it back to her and that he hadn't turned it in as evidence because he had no probable cause to believe it was.

"And you kept it after that?" asked Schwartz.

"It slipped my mind until she told me she thought she might have killed a man," said Bob.

There was an indrawn breath from the area of the jury box.

"Objection!" McDill stood. "Her comments to Officer Duncan were not obtained after a proper rights advisement!"

There was another trip to the judge's chambers, while Bob explained the circumstances of her confession.

"What questions did you ask her in an attempt to get incriminating information?" asked the judge.

"None, your honor. She was hysterical with grief and guilt over what she'd done. She was just sobbing things." He didn't think it would do any good, but he tossed in: "I didn't tell her to be quiet until she had been advised of her rights."

"Objection!" said Schwartz, who then grimaced. "Sorry," he said softly.

The judge just frowned at him.

"Spontaneous admission," said the judge. "I'm going to allow it."

McDill sighed again, but not too loudly.

-------

Back in the courtroom, Schwartz finished his line of questioning, asking Bob why he was in her presence when she confessed, and working the term "spontaneous admission" into his questions several times, to ensure that it was in the record. Then he turned Bob over for cross examination.

"I'd like to defer cross examination until later," said McDill. He'd already decided to take that tack. That way he could use Bob's testimony in the defense, without calling him as a defense witness. "It's about lunchtime anyway."

"I believe I'll be the one who decides when it's time for lunch," drawled the judge. Then he turned to the jury.

"You'll be fed in the jury room. Do not discuss the case. You can use the time to get to know each other. When it's time for you to come back, I'll have someone come get you."

The jury was led out and when the door was closed, Gunderson said, "Make it quick, people. Be back here in half an hour."

He banged his gavel. The bailiff yelled, "All rise!" and people flowed from the courtroom in all directions.

-------

In the jury room there were box lunches, and a refrigerator with various sodas, tea and bottled water in it. The jurors were hungry, by then, and dug into the food. About all they got done as far as getting to know each other was for each to introduce him or herself by name.



-------

Chapter 23

The next witness called after lunch was probably a poor choice for that particular spot in the lineup, but it hadn't been planned that way. It was the medical examiner who had done the autopsy on Kinneson's remains. Schwartz apologized to the jury for what they were about to hear, and then had the doctor describe the compound fracture in the victim's leg, which would have made it impossible for him to move around on his own. Then there was the testimony of the condition of the lungs, which indicated, in the doctor's professional opinion, that the man had been alive when he was burned, because the lining of the lungs had been seared when he breathed in super-heated air.

The witness left no doubt in anybody's mind that the man had suffered horribly as he died, and that it could have taken as much as a full minute for him to actually expire.

Schwartz pushed it when he asked, "Could this man have felt his flesh burning before he died?"

McDill's shouted objection was sustained, but the jury wouldn't be able to forget the question, which was Schwartz's intent all along.

Schwartz's next question was "How was Mr. Kinneson's identity determined?"

"DNA was used," said the medical examiner. He'd been told this question would be asked, and been told what the expected answer was to be.

Schwartz went to his table and got a sheaf of papers. He showed it to the doctor and had him identify it as his report. Then he admitted the report into evidence as Prosecution Exhibit C. There was no objection, and a copy of the report was delivered to the defense.

"Cross," said Schwartz.

McDill stood up, the report in his hand.

"You said DNA was used to identify the body you examined, is that correct?"

"Uh ... yes," said the doctor, sensing trouble.

"And did you take a DNA sample from the body?"

"Yes," said the medical examiner. "It's standard practice in cases like this."

"And what did you have that DNA compared to?" asked McDill.

"Uh..." The doctor's voice failed.

"Doctor, did you do ANY DNA testing on the body you examined?"

"Well ... not exactly," said the medical examiner. "The lab does all the actual testing, but they send me a report."

"And when did you get this report?"

"Uh ... that was about a month ago. It's in there," he said, pointing to the papers in Matthew's hand. "It will have the date on it."

McDill glanced at the report and flipped a few pages.

"So you examined the victim six months and seventeen days ago, but didn't know who he was for a little more than five months. Is that correct?"

"Yes," said the examiner, his voice tight.

"In fact, in your report, didn't you identify the victim as 'John Doe?'"

"Objection, your honor," said Schwartz loudly. "He didn't question the report when it was entered into evidence."

"Your honor," said Matthew smoothly. "I just noticed that the name 'John Doe' has been scratched through, and the name 'Gilbert Kinneson' has been inscribed over that. If my client is accused of killing Gilbert Kinneson, I think the jury deserves to understand how it came to be known that the victim really WAS Gilbert Kinneson."

"Your honor," moaned Schwartz. "I don't know what kind of game the defense is playing, but the victim was clearly identified by the use of DNA comparison, which is a legitimate scientific examination that is fully admissible in court. If the defense likes, I can get the actual examiner in here to testify to his procedures."

"The defense likes," said Matthew firmly. "Just to be clear about everything. This is a serious matter, after all."

"I'll need some time to locate him and issue a subpoena," said the prosecutor.

"You can do that during a break, since you didn't bring an assistant with you," said Gunderson dryly. "Call your next witness."

Schwartz called as a witness the doctor who had examined and treated Lacey in the hospital, after the explosion. He asked a full line of questions about how the woman responded when she regained consciousness, and what she could and could not remember. He was able to indicate that she could remember a lot, and that the amnesia wasn't anything like complete.

"In your opinion, do you think she had any real amnesia at all?" asked Schwartz.

"Objection!" said Matthew. "The witness is not a mental health expert."

"No, I'm not," said the doctor, who was obviously unnerved by the ferocity of the prosecutor's questioning.

That prevented another sidebar, where the doctor's credentials could be examined, and the objection was sustained.

Again, though, the seed was planted in the jury's minds that her amnesia might have been a ruse, so she could pretend like she'd done nothing wrong at all.

The judge looked at his watch, and then at the jury.

"Have you elected a foreman yet?" he asked.

They all looked around in confusion.

"Obviously not," he said. "I'm going to send you to the deliberation room, but I don't want you to talk about the case. Just select a foreman so that tomorrow, when the prosecution finishes..." He looked at McDill. "How long will your defense take?" he asked.

"I should be able to wrap things up by tomorrow evening, if we can get this DNA issue out of the way," he said.

Gunderson looked at Schwartz. "How many other witnesses do you have?" he asked.

"This was supposed to be the last one," said the prosecutor, his voice heavy with disgust. "I only have one more piece of evidence and that is the taped confession of the accused."

"Which I'm going to object to," said McDill.

Gunderson gave Matthew a long look. "We'll deal with that in the morning." He looked back at the jury. "Select a foreman today," he said. "That way when I give you this case, you can start deliberating right away. Remember, you are not to discuss the case. You are only to select a foreman. Is that clear?"

There were a number of nods, and a general shifting of bodies.

"All right," said Gunderson. "We'll recess until ten o'clock tomorrow morning." He banged his gavel once. Then he got up. The bailiff's croaked "All rise!" was tardy, and Gunderson was already opening the door to his chambers when the last person in the room stood.

-------

In the jury room, Waldo wasted no time in making his move.

"I'll be happy to be the foreman," he said into the quiet of the room.

"Who died and made you king?" asked Reggie, an edge in his voice. It was just like a white man to assume he should be the leader.

"Nobody," said Waldo, a bit ruffled at the open hostility in the young black man's face. "He told us to elect a foreman. I'm just volunteering, that's all."

"What does a foreman even do?" asked Judy.

The door opened and the bailiff entered.

"My name is Joseph," he said without fanfare. "I'm here to give you instructions on how to choose a foreman. I have a list here, for each of you, so you'll know what the foreman's responsibilities are. Take your time. Get to know each other for a little while, and then take a vote on who you want for your foreman."

He handed a sheet of paper to each person in the room, then abruptly turned and walked out, closing the door behind him.

Twelve people looked at the paper, and saw the following list:

A. Meet with other jurors in the jury room when it is time for deliberations. It is one of the foreman's responsibilities to make sure every member of the jury is present before the discussions can begin.

B. Lead the jury in discussions during the deliberations. Ensure that all the issues in the case are fully discussed in order to reach an appropriate verdict.

C. Make sure that the deliberations are conducted in an orderly fashion. The discussions should be open and free so that every juror can participate.

D. Remind the jury members to meet their responsibilities during deliberations. Every juror must state their views about the case, what they think the verdict should be and why.

E. Send a message to the judge when necessary. This will occur when the jury has a question, needs clarification, requires further guidance during deliberations or when the jury is ready with a verdict.

F. Ask for recorded testimony to be read back to the jury if necessary. This may be the next step when the jury cannot agree on what was said in a testimony and cannot continue with the deliberations. However, this would mean that the jury, parties, attorneys and the judge will have to return to court, so this request should only be made when necessary.

G. Have the members vote for the appropriate sentence. Every member must vote on each charge in the case. If this is a criminal case, all members must agree unanimously on the verdict. In a civil case the judge will let you know how many votes are needed for a verdict.

H. Count the votes to ensure that every juror has voted.

I. Fill out the verdict form when the jury has arrived at one. The form will have a "guilty" or "not guilty" blank for each charge. Check the appropriate blanks then sign the form on behalf of the jury.

J. Inform the bailiff when the jury is ready to announce a verdict. When returning to the court, you will be expected to take the signed verdict form as well as any other used, but unsigned, verdict forms.

K. Announce the jury's verdict to the court when prompted by the judge.

"Take our time," huffed Rick Brown. "Like I'm not losing a ton of money every hour we're stuck in this stupid trial."

"We've all been inconvenienced by this," commented Maggie. "But this is important business, and we should take it seriously."

"What's to take seriously?" snorted Waldo. "She did it. She's guilty. End of story."

"Hey!" said Helen, looking at Waldo. "We're not supposed to talk about the case."

"I agree with him," said Rick. "You heard the prosecutor. She confessed. Let's just get this over with. I've got business to conduct."

Danny Baumgartner cleared his throat. "I haven't heard any confession yet," he said. "And she's right." He pointed to Helen. "We're not supposed to be having this conversation. We're supposed to be electing a foreman."

Reggie bristled. "I suppose you think you should be the head honcho too."

"Me?" Danny laughed. "I don't want the job. I think Maggie should do it."

Maggie's head jerked toward the young man. "Why on earth would you think that?"

"You're more mature than the rest of us," said Danny. Somehow there was no barb in his reference to the fact she was the eldest member of the group. "You've raised kids, right?"

"What does that have to do with anything?" asked Helen. "I'm a mother too. I have a four year old."

"I was just thinking that Maggie has probably already raised her kids, and has had to deal with the uproar in a house with teenagers in it. We seem to be acting like teenagers already, arguing, breaking the rules, and generally being non-productive."

Maggie laughed out loud. The others all looked at her, except for Jim, who had his eyes glued to the screen of his laptop. He didn't appear to be paying any attention to anything around him.

"Sorry," said the older woman. "He just described teenagers rather well, that's all."

"I'm no teenager!" said Jane Quincy. It was the first time she'd spoken. "And I don't appreciate being compared to one."

Danny grinned. "See what I mean? I think we need somebody to be foreman who has some experience at handling difficult people."

"I'm not difficult!" Jane's face was getting red.

"Let's vote!" said Judy, raising her hand as if she were in school.

Now everyone looked at her, and she shrank back a little.

Maggie cleared her throat. "Is there anyone else besides Waldo who wants to be foreman?" She looked at Reggie. "How about you, young man?"

Reggie blinked. She sounded serious. It was the first time in a long time he could remember a white person actually caring about what he thought. Then he thought about what might happen if things got fouled up. People blamed black folks for most things anyway, though the Hispanics were starting to bear some of that problem. He didn't want to hand anyone an excuse to rant about how inept and useless a black man was, and if this jury thing didn't work out, and he was in charge of it, that's exactly what would happen. Besides, in his culture, elders were deferred to and respected. It was just the way things were.

"I'm fine with you doing it," he said to Maggie.

"But she's a woman!" blurted Waldo. He was a church-going man, and he took the writings of the apostle Paul seriously. Women had no place in making important decisions. He understood why they had to be on a jury, but that didn't mean they should be in CHARGE of a jury.

Four sets of hostile female eyes centered on him. It was a sign of his ingrown bias that he didn't even notice.

Reggie, Danny and Hank were also less than impressed with the pompous man's attitude. When Judy repeated, "Let's vote!" they agreed with her.

Then they had to figure out how to do the vote.

"Let's just go with a simple majority," suggested Danny. "We can vote on Maggie first. If she's not elected, we can choose another candidate."

With no other candidates Maggie decided not to vote at all. She said she'd go get some paper and left the room. When she returned, it wasn't needed. They'd voted while she was gone.

She'd been elected foreman, seven to four.



-------

Chapter 24


It was day two of the trial and Roger was ready to produce testimony about the DNA identification of Gilbert Kinneson's remains. He had contacted Senior Technician Fred Simms, the lab supervisor, and hastily explained what he needed. Simms said it would be no problem. Schwartz tried to be as clear about things as possible.

"Now I know that there were a lot of tests done on the DNA from the body," said Roger. "That's not germane to the issue in this trial. All I need is an overview of how DNA is used to identify people, and a statement of how Kinneson's DNA was confirmed."

"Got it," said Simms, who was reading a report that was riddled with spelling errors and marking each one with a red pen. "What time?"

"Be there at nine," said Schwartz. "Courtroom B."

"Got it," said Simms again.

Roger had written his questions carefully. Nobody needed to know that Kinneson's remains were tied to all those other rapes. It wasn't material, and it would be prejudicial to his case.

"I call Fred Simms to the stand," intoned Roger Schwartz.

The door bailiff opened the rear door and called, "Fred Simms!" into the hallway. A woman appeared. She was smiling, and had a clipboard in her hands. She appeared to be in her early twenties, with her blond hair in a pony tail. She was wearing a white lab coat.

There was confusion until she introduced herself as Tiffany Baldridge, the technician who actually did the comparisons in question. Fred had done what he always did. He sent the tech who did the work. He did not pass along Roger's restrictions. All his personnel were professionals, and knew how to testify.

They told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

When she had been sworn in, Roger asked her to state her qualifications. She calmly listed her degrees, her length of service with the lab, and a count of cases she'd worked on. She threw in that none of her work had ever been successfully challenged in court. She confirmed that she'd received a blood sample from the autopsy of a John Doe and listed the case number and date.

"And what did you do with that sample?" asked Roger.

"I ran the probes on it and established a baseline for later comparison," she said.

"Could you explain what you do when you run probes?"

She did. It went twenty minutes. She had visual aids, printouts of the results on the sample. By the time she was done, even the judge was fidgeting in his chair.

"And whose DNA was it?" asked Roger.

"We didn't get a match in any of our databases," she said. "He remained John Doe, until some new samples were received, to be compared to the original baseline for the deceased."

"These new samples," said Roger. "When you compared them, did they match the DNA of the victim?"

"Yes they did. They established that the victim was Gilbert Kinneson."

"Thank you very much," said Roger, returning to his seat. "No further questions."

McDill got up.

"Miz Baldridge, could you tell me where these new samples you mentioned came from?"

Tiffany went through her report.

"They came from various places," she said. "The ones that identified the victim came from a hairbrush belonging to Gilbert Kinneson, according to the evidence form."

"And the others?"

"Objection!" said the prosecutor. "Irrelevant and immaterial. The victim has already been identified."

"By hairs from a hairbrush," said McDill. "How do we know they were Gilbert Kinneson's hairs? How do we know it was Gilbert Kinesson's brush? There were other samples that were tested. I'd like to know about them."

"Overruled," said the judge. "But let's get past this without any showmanship, counselor."

McDill didn't seem to be affected by the warning.

"Please tell us where the other samples came from, and how they compared to your original," he said.

"They were hair and skin samples," said Tiffany, leafing through the pages on her clipboard. "I had two hair samples from crime scenes, and some skin samples. Here they are. They were from fingernail scrapings." She stopped.

"Crime scenes," mused McDill. "And fingernail scrapings. And how did they compare to the baseline for the deceased?"

"They were a match," said the technician.

"These samples seem to have been related to crimes," said McDill. "What kind of crimes?"

"OBJECTION!" yelled Roger. "Mr. Kinneson is not on trial here. His background is irrelevant!"

"What are you trying to do, counselor?" asked the judge, frowning at McDill.

"I'm trying to establish motive, your honor," said McDill, his face straight.

There were ten seconds of silence.

"You DO know you're the defense attorney in this matter," said Judge Gunderson, his eyebrows raised.

"I do, your honor," said Matthew, ignoring the veiled sarcasm in the judge's voice. "And motive is an important part of any murder trial. The prosecution seems to have ignored that, thus far. Rather than call this witness back during the defense, I thought I'd get the information out now."

Schwartz stood, his face flushed. "Your honor, this is ridiculous. I repeat that Mr. Kinneson is not the one on trial. And the establishment of motive is MY prerogative!" Had he stopped there, things might have been different, but his anger drove him forward. "I think it's quite clear that the accused THOUGHT Mr. Kinneson was her rapist, and that's why she murdered him."

The judge looked back at McDill, who spoke in an even, modulated voice.

"I want the jury to understand my client's motive for her actions."

"This is highly unusual," commented Gunderson.

"There is no rule of evidence that I'm aware of that restricts the showing of motive to the prosecution," said Matthew. "I'll be happy to wait and recall Miz Baldridge as a defense witness, if that will help."

The judge sat back in his chair. "I'll allow this to continue, until such time as I think you're playing games. Be careful, counselor. If you're trying to set up a case for appeal on the grounds of incompetent counsel..."

"Not at all, your honor," said Matthew, flushing a bit. "My client's motives were at the core of her actions that unhappy day. She at least deserves the chance of having those motives clearly understood."

Roger sat down and started scribbling furiously on his legal pad.

Matthew turned back to the witness, who was a lot more tense now than she'd been a few minutes ago. She'd never been in a situation where anybody was really all that interested in what she said.

"What kind of cases did these other samples come from?" he asked.

She already knew the answer to that. "They were rape cases," she said.

There was rustling in the courtroom, and the judge looked around warningly.

"How many samples?" asked Matthew.

"Seven," answered the witness.

"All different cases?"

She went through the papers again.

"Yes," she said. "All different."

"And was the assailant identified in any of these cases?"

"No," said Tiffany. "They were all unsolved, until we ran the probes on them."

"OBJECTION!" yelled Schwartz, jumping up. "He said his intent was to better identify Mr. Kinneson. He's just muddying the waters! It's all conjecture."

"Please, your honor," said McDill, getting nervous now at the look on Gunderson's face. "I can show the relevance. I just need time to get there."

"You're on thin ice, counselor," growled the judge. "Just remember that."

Matthew turned back to the witness. "And, for the record, did the DNA in all seven samples from unsolved rape cases match that of the blood sample taken from Mr. Kinneson's body during autopsy?"

"Yes," said Tiffany. "They did."

"I am now satisfied that the deceased was, in fact, Gilbert Kinneson, whose DNA was found to be involved in at least seven rapes," said McDill rapidly.

Schwartz stood up. "Your honor," he said, as if he were exerting extreme patience. "May we approach the bench."

"You may," said the judge.

Once there the prosecutor again stated his objections to the cross examination. He asked that the testimony about the extra samples be stricken from the record and the jury instructed to ignore it. His crowning comment was "She couldn't even have known about any of this. It didn't even take place until after the murder!"

McDill's response was urgent. "Your honor, she WAS aware that the same man who raped her also raped at least four other women AFTER he raped her. He threatened to come back and rape her again. This was all at the forefront of her mind when she unexpectedly saw him again. It IS relevant, because it affected her thought processes. I admit she couldn't have known about this DNA evidence, but it proves that what she DID know was, in fact, true and not some deluded fantasy. I have a right to seek mercy for my client, your honor. If I can't do that, I can't defend her properly."

The judge leaned back and thought. Then he leaned forward again.

"I'm going to allow what's been done, but you're through for now," he said, looking at McDill. "You got what you wanted. The jury knows that Kinneson was a rapist, but that's it, understand?"

"Yes, your honor," said Matthew.

Roger had groaned softly, and the judge looked at him next.

"I don't want to hear it," he warned. "YOU said in open court that she believed Kinneson was her rapist. Mitigating evidence is admissible. You know that. Stop whining. I've seen the evidence in this case and we all know the likely outcome. Let's get on with this."

Roger turned and stalked back to his table.

"No further questions," said McDill as he went to stand by Lacey. "However the defense requests that Miz Baldridge's lab report be entered into evidence. If the prosecution declines, we can make that Exhibit A for the defense."

There was a further delay while copies of the report were made, since Tiffany had been rushed and hadn't brought any with her. It was labeled Exhibit D for the prosecution by the clerk. Everyone except McDill and Lacey were grumpy by the time that was taken care of.

"Next witness," called the judge.

Roger snatched a plastic bag up from the table.

"The prosecution enters Exhibit E, the tape recorded confession of the accused to the intentional killing of the victim."

McDill stood. "Motion to suppress, your honor," he said calmly. "I plan to put my client on the stand. She can speak for herself."

Both the judge and prosecutor stared at him. Roger's mouth dropped open.

"I remind you," said the judge heavily. "You are her defense attorney. I will not stand for any attempt to set the stage for an appellate overturn."

"Your honor," said Matthew, unruffled. "The accused has the right to speak in her own defense."

Roger, sensing the opportunity to rake Lacey over the coals in front of the jury, waved his hand. "Your honor, I'll withdraw the exhibit for now. I may need it for rebuttal later, though."

"Have you anything else?" asked Gunderson.

"No, sir. The prosecution rests."



-------

Chapter 25


Instead of calling the first defense witness, Matthew now exercised his right to cross examine Officer Robert Duncan. Once Bob was on the stand, and had been reminded he was still under oath, Matthew began what he believed in his own mind was some of the most important questioning he'd do. He didn't want to ruin Bob, but uppermost in his mind was Lacey's welfare.

"When did you first meet my client?" was his first question.

Bob named the date and said, "I needed to interview her as the complainant of a crime."

"What crime?"

"She had made a complaint that she was sexually assaulted."

"You mean she was raped," said Matthew, wanting the jury to hear the more ominous word.

"She alleged she was raped," said Bob, being politically correct.

"So you didn't believe she was raped," Matthew paused, expecting an objection for leading the witness.

None was forthcoming, though, because Roger was hoping some doubt that a rape had even occurred would enter into things. Nothing had been proven in a court of law, after all.

"I developed probable cause to believe her complaint was founded," said Bob.

"Does that mean you believed she was actually raped?"

"Yes." Bob was just as silent for the defense as he'd been for the prosecution. It was important for him to maintain the illusion of distance, or at least objectivity.

"Please describe your interviews with her," said Matthew, throwing the door open for whatever Bob wanted to say.

Bob described how he'd met her at the hospital, and included that a rape advocate was present. He recounted his questions and her answers, describing her body language and what it had meant to him.

There was no objection to his lack of qualifications as an expert on body language. There was, however, a vociferous objection when he calmly stated that he'd asked Lacey if she'd had an orgasm while she was being raped.

"OBJECTION!" yelled Roger.

"Grounds?" asked the judge.

Roger spluttered. "That's outrageous! What POSSIBLE reason could there be for a putrid question of that type!?"

"Grounds?" asked the judge again, warning in his voice.

"It's the very definition of immaterial!" barked Schwartz.

"It goes to motive, your honor," said Matthew instantly.

Judge Gunderson leaned back in his chair. It was so quiet in the courtroom that the squeaking of the springs in his chair seemed loud. He looked at the bailiff.

"Take the jury to the deliberation room. I'll tell you when to bring them back."

There was a pause while the members of the jury, looking confused, stood and moved hesitantly out of the box, following the bailiff. Maggie stepped to one side, like a mother hen, waiting to bring up the rear, as if she expected someone to stray, or that they might be attacked from behind.

The door closed, and Gunderson's eyes flicked to Lacey, who looked completely relaxed. Then he looked interestedly at Bob. "Please explain why you shouldn't be impaled on punji stakes for asking a question like that of a woman who has just been through a sexual assault."

Bob explained the MO of the rapist who wants to take as much from the victim as is possible, without killing her. Gunderson was thunderstruck.

"Could you provide any victims to which this has happened?" he asked. He held up a hand as Roger tried to interrupt. "This is just for my own edification," he said. "Not this trial. I've never heard of this kind of predator before, and I'd like to know if it's true or not before I rule."

"Besides Lacey," said Bob, forgetting to call her by her last name until it was too late, "I know of seven other victims of this perpetrator, and I could probably get three or four women from different cases to agree to be interviewed. It's very stressful for them." He went on without a break. "And the psychiatrist who has been treating Mrs. Fetterman is familiar with this phenomenon in a clinical manner."

"I'm going to call her as an expert witness," interjected Matthew.

"Has she been vetted?" asked Gunderson.

"She's testified in dozens of trials as an expert witness," said McDill.

"And she'll back you up on this orgasm business?"

"Absolutely, sir," said McDill.

Roger had been thinking furiously. At first he'd been horrified, on a personal level, by the issue at hand. Now, though, he thought he saw a chance to remove any chance that the jury would feel any sorrow for the Fetterman woman at all. It was obvious that McDill was going to say she'd had an orgasm during the rape. By some twisted, perverted kind of thinking, the idiot must think that could be used to get pity from the jury. All Roger could think of was that he could expose the slut. And it would all be on the head of the defense. THEY were the ones bringing this up. Now he could show her to be a degenerate slut who enjoyed being forced.

No! Wait! It all came clear to him now. The rape was all just smoke and mirrors. It was her excuse for killing him, and it was possible they really COULD get some mileage from that. But what if it wasn't a rape at all? What if she KNEW Kinneson? Or even if she didn't, and he was a complete stranger, what if her perversion led her to want more that Kinneson wouldn't give her? Could she have killed him in revenge for that?

For the first time he wished he'd gone ahead and charged the bitch with murder one. Second degree was an automatic lesser offense she could be found guilty for, but if he could prove she'd done it intentionally, he could have gotten her the chair!

It was too late now, of course, unless he asked for the charges to be dismissed so he could re-charge her later. It was tempting, but his boss would scream.

No, it was better to just expose her now, get the conviction, and close the books.

"Your honor," he said. "I withdraw my objection."

-------

In the jury room, Maggie was trying to keep some semblance of order. Reggie had set off the commotion by saying, "Orgasm! Can you believe that shit?"

"I can't believe that happened," gasped Jane, horrified that such a question would be asked.

"Why would he ask her that?" complained Helen, bristling.

"He didn't really think she was raped," said Danny.

"I don't think we're supposed to be talking about this," complained Maggie.

"Why not?" asked Danny. "We're the jury, and we've heard some testimony."

"We haven't heard everything," said Kelsey.

"I don't need to hear anything else," said Rick. "She did it. All they're doing in there is playing lawyer games."

"You mean all those objections," said Jane.

"Exactly," said Rick. "That defense attorney is trying to get her off. They always do that. She killed that guy and that's that."

"But he was a rapist," said Kelsey.

"Yeah, right," said Rick. "Like soldier boy here, I have my doubts about that. So did the cop."

"What was all that about the lighter?" asked Judy.

Waldo felt left out. What he'd heard thus far had horrified him. The man was burned alive. The rape disgusted him, sure, but while rape was a sin, murder was a bigger one. He felt like he should say something. The woman, as usual, wasn't controlling things.

"It was her lighter," he said. "The policeman found it at the scene, and there was a fire. Obviously she set the car on fire."

"That's not obvious to me," said Tim. "I think they call that circumstantial evidence."

"Well there wasn't anything circumstantial about her burning that guy to death," said Rick. "Just ask him." He made his mouth go into an O shape. "Ohhhh, we can't!" he said in a high falsetto voice. "He's fucking DEAD!"

"Please!" moaned Maggie. "We shouldn't be talking at all. And please don't curse!"

"What we shouldn't be is here," barked Rick. "This is a monumental waste of time."

It would have gone on, but the bailiff opened the door and called them back to the courtroom.

-------

When the jury was seated no one told them anything. The trial just resumed from where it had stopped.

McDill asked Bob to explain his earlier comment.

"The reason I asked her about the orgasm was based on a hunch, really," said Bob. "We'd had a string of rapes in the same area, with the same MO."

"Explain what MO means," said McDill.

"It stands for the Latin Modus Operandi, which is a term that describes the habits, or preferences of someone ... criminals in my line of work. An example of an MO is a thief who steals only silverware, and leaves other valuables behind. It might be because he likes silverware, or because he has a regular buyer for that product. For whatever reason, when he steals, it is only that."

"How is that helpful in an investigation?" asked McDill.

"It can help tie one person to a number of different incidents," said Bob. "Statistically, twenty percent of the criminals commit eighty percent of all crimes. So it's reasonable to expect, when you catch a criminal, that he's committed other crimes than the one you caught him for."

McDill nodded and Bob went on.

"In the example I was using, if we have ten unsolved thefts of silverware, and we catch a thief stealing silverware, he's automatically a suspect in the other ten crimes. We can sometimes use that during an interrogation, to get confessions to those crimes. Conversely, an MO can also be used to set up a situation where a criminal might be lured into a trap. It's not a very good example, but say we announced there was going to be a big showing of silverware. The thief might try for it, and we could catch him at it."

"All right, so back to the MO of this rapist."

"I suspected that the rapist who was preying on women in this particular neighborhood tried to commit his crimes in such a way that women would not report it. If he was able to manipulate the victim in such a way that she had an orgasm, it could embarrass and confuse her. She might be less likely to report the assault, fearing scorn or disbelief."

"How can a woman be manipulated, by a rapist, to force her to have an orgasm?" asked McDill.

"Objection!" said Roger, standing. "This officer is not an expert medical witness."

"Sustained," said Gunderson, but it was obvious he wished he could have overruled it.

"To your knowledge, Officer Duncan," said McDill, trying another avenue, "are you aware of any documented cases wherein a woman was forced to have an orgasm during a rape?"

Roger wanted to object to that too, but couldn't find a basis for it.

"I know of two cases, personally, in which there was testimony to that effect," said Bob. "I have spoken with one other woman who claimed it happened, but refused to make a complaint because she was afraid to admit it in public."

"But Mrs. Fetterman DID make a complaint," said McDill.

"Actually, her neighbor made the initial call to the police," said Bob. "When I talked to Mrs. Fetterman at the hospital, her attitude was such that I suspected she was holding something back. It could have been that she wasn't raped at all. False complaints are made sometimes."

Roger kept a smile off his face by pure force of will.

Bob went on. "Another possibility in a situation like that could be that her rapist was a friend of the family, and she didn't want to create an uproar. And sometimes it's something like the orgasm issue. In any case, I needed to find out, because there were other cases that had a similar MO, and if we could tie them together, the analysis might help us catch the criminal."

"What was her answer?" McDill put his hands in his pockets, to keep from fidgeting.

Roger leaned forward, the beginnings of a smile on his lips.

"That's complicated," said Bob, instead of answering the question.

"How so?"

"She wasn't given the opportunity to answer at that time."

Then it came out about how the rape advocate and head nurse had thrown him out of the hospital, and how he'd been reassigned to traffic for asking the question.

"The prosecutor's response, earlier, was fairly typical for those who are ignorant of the issue," he said.

Roger stopped smiling and jumped up. "I object! I demand an apology!"

"Sit down," said Judge Gunderson. "We're all learning something here."

"Did she ever answer the question?" asked Matthew. He hated to pursue this, but it was critical to his strategy.

"Yes, later when we were talking, she admitted an orgasm was part of her assault."

A female voice gasped from the jury box. It was juror number three, otherwise known as Helen Zwinkowski.

Matthew decided to leave it there. He went and got the lab report. Opening it to the pages that described the evidence tested, and which cases it came from, he handed it to Bob.

"These other cases that were tied to the deceased. Are any of them the cases you mentioned that had an MO similar to the one in which my client was raped?"

"Objection!" said Roger. "Once again, this is immaterial and irrelevant."

"The relevance will become clear with my next question, your honor," said McDill.

"Overruled," said Gunderson. "But remember what I told you earlier."

"I recognize three of them," said Bob after a moment. "I worked on those three. I don't have any official knowledge of the others. They happened after I was transferred to traffic."

"And did you inform Lacey Fetterman that, based on the MO, the man who raped her appeared to have raped other women?"

"I did," said Bob.

"Why did you do that, Officer Duncan?" McDill raised a hand. "Why would you tell a victim that the man who raped her was still at large and could victimize her again?"

"I wasn't going to lie to her," said Bob. "And I needed her to come forward about the orgasm, to bring it into the light, to expose this man's MO publicly, so that other victims would come forward. I suspected him of many more rapes than were reported. We needed those women to feel like they could cooperate with the police and establish the kind of network of facts that would identify him, so he could be taken off the street."

"Thank you," said McDill. "How long have you worked traffic?"

"It's been about six months," said Bob.

"And in six months, have you ever seen a car involved in an accident catch fire?"

"Yes," said Bob. "I'd call it rare, but it happens."

"How many have you seen?" asked McDill.

"Four," said Bob.

"When you were at the scene, and examined Mr. Kinneson 's car, did you see anything suspicious about the fact it was burned?"

"It wasn't Mr. Kinneson's car," said Bob.

Roger groaned.

"Whose car was it?" asked McDill.

"Objection," said Roger, standing. "The issue is whether Mr. Kinneson was in the car when it burned. It's irrelevant whether it was his car or not."

"Sustained," said the judge, who knew the facts and circumstances of how Kinneson ended up in the car, and knew why the defense was trying to get that information in front of the jury.

"All right," said McDill, who didn't seem concerned. "Were you able to determine why the car burned, during your examination of it?"

"Not at that time," said Bob.

"And did you suspect foul play at that time?"

"No, I did not," said Bob.

"No further questions," said Matthew. He felt like it had gone remarkably well.

"Anything on redirect?" asked the judge.

"Yes, your honor," said Roger formally. "I do have a few questions."

He got up. He seemed to wander by the jury box, instead of going straight toward Bob, who sat, waiting.

"I want to make sure we understand this," said Roger, finally turning to Bob. "The accused told you that she had an orgasm while being ... raped. Is that correct?"

"Yes."

"When did she tell you that?"

"It was several weeks later," said Bob vaguely.

"After you were transferred to traffic division?"

"Yes."

"And why, if you were no longer on her case, did you meet with her and talk to her about her orgasm?"

Matthew wanted to object, but he couldn't think of any reason the judge might buy off on.

"We ran into each other at the gym," said Bob. "She wanted to know why I'd asked her about it. She'd already put it in her formal statement, and had already suffered for it. So I explained it to her."

"How did she suffer for it?" asked Roger. He was just fishing now, looking for anything he could use as dirt.

"Her husband divorced her when he found out about it," said Bob.

"Can you blame him?" asked Roger automatically. "I mean she pretended it was a rape, but enjoyed it!"

"OBJECTION!" screamed Matthew, spittle spraying from his mouth.

"SUSTAINED!" said Judge Gunderson, almost as loudly. "The prosecutor's remarks will be stricken from the record." He looked at the jury. "Members of the jury will ignore the prosecutor's unprofessional outburst and abhorrent behavior." He looked back at Roger, who kept the smile off his face. "One more outburst like that and I'll find you in contempt, mister!"

"My apologies to the defendant," said Roger. Everyone in the room was quite aware his apology wasn't sincere. He looked at Bob.

"What was the defendant's frame of mind toward her ... rapist?"

"She was scared to death he'd come back," said Bob tightly.

"Oh, I see," said Roger. "Is that usual, officer? Do rapists routinely revisit their victims?"

"Based on my experience it's rare," said Bob. "Only the most vicious of control freaks behave like her attacker did."

"I see," said Roger again. "Tell me, officer, what kind of physical injuries did the defendant suffer at the hands of her ... rapist." It was obvious by his sarcastic tone that the prosecutor didn't believe she was raped.

"She had a bruise on her left jaw, consistent with a blow as would be caused by a blunt object or fist," said Bob.

"Could that have been caused if she ran into a wall?" interrupted Roger. "Is that possible?"

Bob knew what game the prosecutor was playing, but was unable, in this case, to avoid playing it.

"It's possible," he said.

"Go on," said Roger.

"That cheek was also swollen and red, consistent with the victim's allegation she had been slapped. There were abrasions on her wrists, consistent with her being restrained."

Roger interrupted him again. "Officer, while you were a detective, did you ever find a situation in which people tied each other up during sexual play?"

"Objection!" said Matthew loudly. "Irrelevant and immaterial!"

Roger smiled. "It goes to motive, your honor." His voice sounded very near to teasing, but not enough to draw the judge's ire.

"Overruled," he growled.

"I have experienced such things," said Bob. This time he did add testimony. "However these marks were not consistent with a rope or cord having been used. There were bruises consistent with fingers having been used to restrain the wrists."

"I see," said Roger, who didn't really care what kind of restraint had been used. The jury had heard she had an orgasm, and now they'd heard that sometimes people play at force during sex. "Anything else?" he asked.

"Yes. There were multiple marks on her neck, at the left base of her throat, consisting of thin scrapes, consistent with a sharp object scratching the skin repeatedly."

"Such as sharp fingernails?" suggested Roger.

"Objection!" said McDill. "Leading the witness."

"Sustained!"

"Let me rephrase. Is it possible that her own sharp fingernails could have caused the scrapes on her neck?"

"Anything is possible," said Bob, who was tired of being forced to play this game.

"And nothing else? No other injuries or trauma?"

"The medical report indicated minor trauma to the vaginal tissues," said Bob, hating to embarrass Lacey like this. "That was an indicator that there had been sexual intercourse recently."

"Minor trauma," said the prosecutor. His voice was dismissive.

Roger left it at that. He'd do the rest with the slut herself, when McDill was stupid enough to put her on the stand.

"According to the report I got, you were the officer who arrested the accused for murder," said Roger.

"That's correct," said Bob.

"What probable cause did you have to arrest her, officer?"

"She told me she'd remembered killing a man," said Bob.

"And who was that man she confessed to killing?"

"She said it was the same man who had raped her," said Bob.

"And did she say how she had killed him?"

"Yes," said Bob. He knew there would be follow-up questions if he didn't go on, so he finished. "She described the accident scene and said she'd lit a pool of gasoline on fire near him."

"Did she say she watched as he burned alive?"

"OBJECTION!"

"Sustained!"

"I withdraw the question," said Roger cheerily. "That's all I have."

Bob stood and left the witness box.

"We'll recess for lunch," said the judge.

The jurors were allowed to seek their own sustenance, but ordered to be back in an hour and a half. They were warned not to discuss the case with anyone.

"All rise!" called the bailiff, somehow knowing the judge was finished talking.



-------

Chapter 26


There was a diner, of sorts, on the first floor of the building. It served pre-packaged sandwiches and salads. There were also hot soups, Polish sausages, hot dogs, kraut and the like.

Maggie wasn't interested in the fatty foods, so she chose a bowl of mushroom soup, with lemonade, and took it to one of the small tables that were scattered around. She sat in one of two chairs at the table.

She was joined by Helen, who asked if she could sit in the other chair. Neither woman seemed to be interested in conversation. Reggie approached a few minutes later, laden down with two cardboard trays, one containing a huge Polish sausage on what looked like a tiny bun. It was covered with sauerkraut and mustard. The other held a regular hot dog on a bun, drenched with chili and sprinkled onions with cheese. He balanced those on one hand, and carried a 32 ounce soda in the other.

He set them on the table without invitation, and got a chair from another table and sat down.

"How can you eat that?" asked Helen, wrinkling her nose. "That stuff will kill you."

"Like you care," said Reggie. He used a plastic fork to worry a huge bite of the Polish sausage loose and then stuffed it, dripping kraut, into his mouth.

"That's disgusting," said Helen, looking away.

"Manf's godda eet," mumbled Reggie.

"Behave yourself!" said Maggie sternly. "You're acting like an animal."

Reggie chewed and swallowed. He looked unconcerned. "White people think blacks are animals anyway," he said. "Don't make no difference how I eat."

"Why did you sit with us, then?" asked Maggie. She actually wanted to know, to her surprise.

"If I sit alone, people will think I'm casing the joint," he said easily. "If I sit with you, they don't pay no attention to me."

"Do you really believe that?" asked Maggie, shocked.

"Sometime I'll sit alone and you just watch what happens," he said. "There will be security guards all over the place within minutes."

"That's awful," said Maggie.

Reggie looked at her. She wasn't quite what he'd expected when he'd first seen her. He'd expected her to keep her distance, and ignore him as much as possible. This was twice now that she'd seemed to actually be interested in something he said.

"I'm used to it," he said. "It's just part of being black."

"Well you're welcome to sit with us any time," said Maggie.

"I can't believe you said that," said Helen.

"What kind of stick you got up your butt?" asked Reggie. "I expected HER to be a racist, but you looked cool."

"My only objection is that the way you eat makes me ill," said Helen. "My four year old is more polite when he eats than you are."

"She's right," said Maggie, leaning toward Reggie. "You'd get a lot further with people if you were more civilized."

Reggie stared at her. She was an odd one. One minute she was friendly as could be, and the next she was calling him uncivilized. But rather than antagonize her, he let it pass.

He put a smaller bite of the chili dog in his mouth, chewed, swallowed and washed it down with some Coke. "So," he said. "How about that wild orgasm stuff, huh? I never heard no shit like that before. Is that true?"

Helen looked at him with a frown. "Why do you think we'd know something about that?" she asked.

"I don't think we're supposed to be discussing the trial," Maggie reminded them.

"You're women," said Reggie simply, ignoring Maggie's warning.

"I do not believe this," snorted Helen. "You think everybody else is racist, and in the meantime, you're sexist."

"Well," said Reggie, leaning back and taking not the least offense at being called sexist, "the way I see it, I'm a man, right? I know what a man feels. But I can't know what a woman feels, right? Cause I'm not a woman. So I didn't think there was any problem with asking a woman how a woman feels. If that makes me sexist, then I guess I'm sexist."

-------

Down the street, at a Subway restaurant, Jane Quincy and Rick Brown sat across from each other. Rick had seen her looking around uncertainly at the front doors of the courthouse. He had recognized his opportunity to approach the MILF and took it.

"There's a Subway down there," he said, smiling.

"Oh," she said, as the attractive man approached her. "I don't need much. I guess that would be fine."

As they sat, eating, he tried to work his magic. He was affable and smiled at her. He told her a little about himself, but asked a lot more questions than she did, getting her to talk about her own life more than they talked about his.

The ice had been broken, and he moved on.

"So," he said. "This jury duty thing is a pain, huh?"

"Oh I don't know," said Jane. "I think it's kind of exciting." She frowned. "Or I did. Some of the things I've heard are making me want to throw up." She put her sandwich down and stared at it.

"Yeah, I guess so," he said. "There's some strange people in the world. That's for sure. She's guilty as sin, that one. She sits over there looking all calm and collected, but she burned that guy to death, sure as anything."

"I guess you're right," said Jane. "I don't understand how a woman could do that." She wrinkled her nose. "Burning a man to death! That's so awful!"

"I mean I get why she did it," said Rick. "A guy does something like that to her ... I guess any woman would hate a guy like that and want to kill him."

"Not me," said Jane. "I could never kill anybody."

"Well, it doesn't matter anyway. The law is the law and she did it and that's that. You know what they say. Don't do the crime if you can't do the time."

He grinned, even though there was nothing to grin about.

"You need to eat," he said. "A good looking woman like you needs to keep herself healthy for her man."

He was pleased that she blushed, instead of taking offense. He'd have to work slowly, but it was already looking like he might have a decent chance to bang her.

-------

Danny saw some of the others going into the diner. He wasn't interested in chit chat with them. So he limped down the street to a McDonalds on the corner, where he engaged in his favorite pastime, watching people. He'd gotten into that by necessity, in Iraq. He'd had to learn to recognize the signs of the terrorist who was nervous as he prepared to negotiate an attack of some kind. His natural curiosity had helped, and he'd become somewhat of an aficionado at guessing what people were thinking about as they went about their daily business.

He'd been watching the woman during the trial. She was a good looking woman, but he ignored that. Physical beauty meant nothing. Instead he'd watched her react to the various testimony. She'd looked sad at times, and uncomfortable at others. But when that cop was on the stand, she'd just lit up. There was something going on there. The cop had testified that he'd "bumped into" her. And they'd been together again, at least once, because she'd confessed to him that she torched the poor son of a bitch in the car, too. He shuddered. He'd seen too many burned bodies. He'd heard the screams of men burning to death.

Suddenly, he wasn't all that hungry any more.

-------

Waldo was still pouting about the fact that he hadn't been elected foreman. He needed some affirmation, though he wouldn't have thought about it that way. As they left he chose Hank as the man most likely to align with him, even though the man hadn't said a word yet in the jury room, other than to introduce himself.

It wasn't odd that he'd select Hank, really. They were about the same age, race and social class, at least by appearances.

"Want to get some lunch?" he asked, approaching Hank.

Hank's first thought was "Isn't that what we're supposed to be doing?" but he didn't voice it. "Guess so," he said instead, going with the flow.

He spent the next half hour regretting his decision. Waldo complained incessantly about how a woman was in charge, and how things would invariably get all fouled up because of it. His assumption that the defendant was guilty, and that this was really just a waste of time was made clear.

Hank just sat and ate his burrito, wondering how this pompous fool could be so insensitive about what had happened to the woman ... that had caused her to do what she'd done.

-------

Judy Tipton strode quickly for the exit of the building. It wasn't that she was unwilling to eat with the other jurors, or get to know anyone better. She just had a mission in mind. That mission was to walk the five blocks to Graboff's department store, where she had been excused from working during the trial. She had to see Francine.

Francine Graboff, the granddaughter of the man who had started the business seventy-five years ago, was forty-two, had never married, and had worked in the business all her life. She'd taken it over from her father when he had his third heart attack at the age of seventy-five, which was the age her grandfather had died at.

She was also Judy Tipton's lover.

Francine had made a habit of carefully selecting the girls who worked at the perfume counter. When Francine needed a girl to work there, she interviewed applicants until she found one who was meek and nervous. She wanted a girl who would be malleable, and who fit her personal tastes. It all went back to Francine's own stint working the perfume counter. The woman who had taken her under her wing had seduced her, using perfumes she "applied" to various places on Francine's body.

Francine used the same technique, and the results were almost always the same, as long as she used them on the right girls. She'd had a stream of luscious young women at her beck and call, and had warmed her bed with them for years. She was in her office when Judy tapped on the door frame and stood there, a look of awe on her face. Judy idolized Francine. Francine loved her like nobody had ever loved her before.

The older woman looked up and smiled in welcome.

"How delightful!" she said, standing up. "I was missing you already. I didn't think I'd get to see you for days!"

"You know I couldn't stay away," said Judy softly. Her face changed, reflecting distaste. "It's so horrible! You wouldn't believe the things I've already heard."

"What kind of case is it?"

"It's a murder!"

"Surely not!" Francine was shocked. Judy was not the kind of girl to be put in this kind of situation. She was much too fragile and flighty.

"It is!" moaned Judy. "This woman—I can't remember her name—but she was raped! And then somehow she found her rapist and she killed him!"

"And she's the one on trial," said Francine, her voice showing distaste.

"Yes," said Judy. She then recounted as much of the testimony as she could recall. She left a lot out, both because she just forgot about it, and because there were some things she hadn't understood.

"This isn't right," said Francine, taking her young lover to a chair and sitting her down. She sat beside the girl. "This is just typical," she said. "Men try to get away with everything, and the first time a woman defends herself they want to lock her up and throw away the key."

"But she KILLED him, Frannie! The prosecutor said she even admitted it!"

"And what other choice did she have? He forced her. Men always try to force a woman."

That reminded Judy of the orgasm issue, which was something she just couldn't believe. She told Francine about that.

Francine could believe it. She knew an orgasm could be induced, even if the woman was trying not to have one. That's because she had used the same technique on Judy and some of the ones before her. Judy had resisted her advances, initially, saying it was wrong for them to touch each other like that. Like the others, though, she only resisted until that first orgasm. That first orgasm brought confusion, and after that the confusion gave way to joy, as Francine taught them how perfectly one woman could love another.

"How awful," moaned the older woman. "Imagine that horrible man, making her do something like that. I'd have killed him too!"

-------

Jim Lowery stayed in the jury room, where there was an outlet he could plug his laptop into. He forgot all about lunch as he began coding on a brand new idea. It was a game where the player would become the victim of a crime and then stalk the perpetrator. He was thinking of all the ways revenge could be obtained, from stealing the criminal's identity and emptying his bank account, to blowing him up in his car.

-------

Tim Flynn followed Kelsey Dodge out of the building. Tim was thinking about the case and all of the philosophical conundrums it posed, when Kelsey stopped suddenly and Tim almost ran into him. Kelsey turned, sensing another person close behind him.

"Sorry," he said.

"No problem," said Tim.

"I'm not familiar with the downtown area," said Kelsey. "You know any good places to eat?"

"That depends," said Tim. Kelsey was soon to find that almost everything "depended" when it came to Tim Flynn. "There are lots of places to eat. It just depends on what you're looking for."

"Something quick," said Kelsey, instead of naming a type of food, which was what Tim had been alluding to.

"We just passed the lunchroom," said Tim, able to change gears on a dime.

Kelsey started back into the building. Tim never ended a conversation, once it was started. There might be breaks in it, but conversation was like the wind—if it wasn't in your face, it was blowing around somewhere else, and would soon return. He followed Kelsey in, assuming the conversation would continue.

When both had selected pre-packaged sandwiches, they looked around. Both saw Maggie, Helen and Reggie sitting together off to one side.

"Should we join them?" asked Kelsey.

"No room," Tim responded.

They sat at another table. It was the only one that didn't have an empty cup or wadded up wrapper on it. Neither thought anything about the fact that it was as far away from the three other jurors as one could get.

-------

"Let's not argue," said Maggie, trying to settle down the two other jurors, who were glaring at each other. "And let's not discuss the case either. Why don't we just have a nice, pleasant lunch?"

Reggie took another messy bite of kraut, sausage and bun. Mustard coated his lips, looking almost like strange yellow lipstick. Helen groaned and threw a napkin his way. He grinned, but then used it.

"That's better," said Maggie. "There's no reason we can't get along. Not everybody is racist or sexist."

"Like them?" Reggie nodded across the room.

Maggie and Helen both looked to see Kelsey and Tim sitting down.

"What makes you think they're either?" asked Maggie.

"They're on this jury," said Reggie. "Yet they choose to sit way over there, away from the women and black man." He cut another bite of the chili dog. "The world is full of it," he said. "It's just the way things are."



-------

Chapter 27


"The defense calls Doctor Claire Montgomery to the stand," said Matthew.

Roger stood. "Your honor, I fail to see the relevance of anything this witness could bring to the issue. I must object. Mental state is not at issue here. The accused did not plead based on insanity, either temporary or otherwise."

Matthew spoke clearly. "Your honor, I have already indicated that I'm trying to establish motive for my client's actions. This witness's testimony is crucial to that endeavor."

"Your objection is noted," said the judge to Schwartz. "Since the defense appears to be trying to do your job, I'm going to allow the witness until such time as it becomes clear that her testimony is irrelevant."

Claire was sworn in. The first few minutes were used by McDill to establish her experience and the number of times she had testified in trials as an expert witness, which he then asked the judge to classify her as. Her credentials were unassailable. Gunderson looked at Roger.

"No objection." Roger sounded mildly disgusted.

"Proceed," said the judge.

"Is Lacey Fetterman your patient?" was Matthew's first question.

"Yes," said Claire. "She has given me permission to divulge information that would normally be confidential." Claire had done this many times and knew how to get in tidbits of data without being asked for it.

"Under what circumstances did she become your patient?"

"She had been involved in an explosion, which caused extended unconsciousness and some swelling of the brain. The attending physician's report, when she was in the hospital, had a Glasgow Coma Scale rating of three, which indicated she was in a deep coma upon admittance. When she awoke from the coma, her memory was faulty, and she was referred to me for diagnosis and treatment." Claire left out who referred Lacey to her and let those present draw their own conclusions.

"What kind of memory problems was she having?" asked McDill.

"Initially there were indications that she had some memories that were false, and that she apparently didn't remember some facts of her personal history. I diagnosed her with partial amnesia, brought on by the physical trauma caused by the explosion. That didn't explain the false memories, though, which are usually caused by psychology, rather than physiology. False memories are usually displacing real ones that threaten the patient. I needed to try to expose which memories were false, and why they had been suppressed."

"And how did you do that?" asked McDill.

"I hypnotized her," said Claire.

"Objection!" said Roger. "Statements made under hypnosis out of court are not admissible. Further, the accused is the best witness in this instance."

Matthew put his hands in his pockets and faced the judge.

"Your honor, I haven't asked the witness what her patient said under hypnosis."

"But you're going to," suggested the judge.

"I submit that this hypnosis only refreshed memories that had been suppressed."

"Your honor!" groaned Roger. "Now the counsel for defense thinks he's a doctor!"

"Sidebar, gentlemen," said the judge.

Both attorneys approached the bench, on the side away from the jury.

"Your honor," whispered McDill. "The only reason my client confessed to the crime is because she remembered it under hypnosis. Prior to that she had no memory of it. Hypnosis is the reason we are having this trial in the first place."

"This is highly irregular," said Gunderson, who wasn't concerned with the hypnosis issue itself. Testimony "refreshed" by hypnosis had been found to be admissible in a number of cases during appellate review. He was more concerned with the behavior of the defense counsel. "You're hanging your client out to dry." He looked from McDill to Schwartz. "And YOU'RE trying to stop him. This was supposed to be a routine process, gentlemen, but you two are making it into something close to a travesty."

"Her confession was corroborated by conditions at the scene," insisted Roger. "It doesn't matter how she remembered. It only matters that she DOES remember."

"Now you're suggesting that her testimony IS admissible," pointed out the judge.

"Your honor," whispered McDill. "I ask you to treat her confession as a discretionary admission. There is precedent for that, under which you are the judge of the reliability of her statement, since it resulted from hypnosis."

Judge Gunderson narrowed his eyes. "You're fishing for a mistrial, hoping I'll consider her confession to be unreliable because it was obtained under hypnosis."

McDill blinked. "I hadn't thought of that, sir," he said. "But it's a good point."

"Nice try, counselor, but the prosecutor is right. I didn't allow the taped confession, but I did listen to it, and her account of things does match the evidence at the scene."

"Then it's refreshed memory," argued McDill. "And that makes it admissible as well."

"We're arguing about something that hasn't even taken place yet," said the judge. "You haven't put her on the stand yet."

"This is the foundation for the reliability of what she's going to say," said Matthew.

Gunderson thought for ten or fifteen seconds. "Go sit down," he muttered.

When they had, the judge turned to the jury.

"I'll instruct you on the hypnosis issue later, when I send you to deliberate. I'm going to overrule the prosecutor's objection, but that doesn't mean I'm awarding any reliability to information obtained under hypnosis. That's going to be your job." He didn't say it out loud, but both attorneys understood he was going to allow testimony based on refreshed memory, rather than discretionary statements. That let him off the hook in the appellate process, should there be one. He looked at Matthew and said, "You may go on."

Matthew stood and approached Claire.

"Please describe what you learned during the treatment of Mrs. Fetterman."

"I learned that there were two different issues involved in her loss of memory. I believe the trauma from the explosion acted on a physiological basis to stop her conscious mind from thinking about the things that had happened before that. That was anatomical. At the same time, psychologically, her brain began to suppress certain undesirable memories. When she woke from the coma, her memory had undergone something like sanitization, where bad memories were no longer available to her conscious mind and a set of false memories had been created to fill the gaps left by the repressed memories. In other words, when she woke up, she forgot things she didn't want to remember and believed things she wanted to believe."

"OK," said McDill. "So how can you tell the difference?"

"It's a little complicated," said Claire. "I'll try to explain. False memories are easier to expose, because there is no history for them. In this case, in her waking state, she couldn't remember being married, but believed another man was her current boyfriend. Under hypnosis, the circumstances were exposed to be something completely different. Under hypnosis, she remembered she'd been married and that her husband had divorced her. That was trauma she wanted to forget, so she replaced the ex-husband with another man who she WANTED to be her boyfriend. The coma enabled her brain to repress the bad memory of her husband and the divorce, and manufacture the false memory of being happily in love with this other man." She stopped to see if McDill had any questions about what she'd said.

"Go on," he said.

"One of the problems is that sometimes repressed memories can return without warning. The divorce is a good example. There were lots of people who knew she'd been married, and about the divorce, so sooner or later she'd be confronted with the truth. She was even using her married name. At some point it was likely that the unpleasant memories would return, causing emotional trauma. That was one of my concerns. She had other repressed memories too, though, which were of much more concern, because the trauma that caused them to be repressed was much greater. If those memories were triggered unexpectedly, it could have destroyed her emotionally. What I tried to do was bring them back under controlled circumstances, so that the disturbance of exposing them wouldn't be so harsh."

"So how do you know whether the repressed memory is real or not?" asked Matthew.

Claire looked over at the jury box. "When a person is under hypnosis, he or she is not a zombie, like many think. They exhibit emotion and response to stimuli as if they were awake. Those responses can be affected by suggestion from the hypnotist. For example, if someone remembers something scary and dangerous during a session, he or she will react with honest fear. But the hypnotist can assure the patient that there is no immediate danger, and that all is well, so that the fear doesn't prevent progress in dealing with the situation. In some cases, the patient can then be instructed to remember the incident when the hypnotic session is over, with the same understanding that there is no immediate danger. It can then be dealt with on a conscious level."

"Could you explain how you discover a repressed memory?"

"It helps if you know the facts," said Claire. "I was aware there had been a rape investigation. I took her back to the day before the rape and asked her to describe what was happening. She did so, and kept going until she said there was a knock at the door, and that there was a man there saying there was a gas leak in the building. She stopped then and became terrified. I had to reassure her that there was no real danger, and that this was just a simple memory of something that was past. Her behavior, as she described what happened, was controlled by my suggestion, but she was in obvious distress."

"Please relate what she said."

"It's graphic," warned Claire, looking at the judge.

"Under the circumstances, that's understandable," he replied. "I rely on your professionalism to moderate it where you can. You may paraphrase, initially, since the defendant intends to testify. I may have to recall you if she does not take the stand."

Claire looked back at the jury and spoke directly to them.

"The man produced a knife and threatened her with it. He made her disrobe and made her watch him disrobe. He demanded that she tell him what parts of his body she found to be attractive, and punished her when she refused. He did that by striking her with his fist, twisting her nipples with great pressure, and pressing the tip of the knife to her throat. He demanded that she ask him for sex. She refused and was punished. When she acceded to his demand, he required her to put a condom on his erect penis. He told her she wasn't worthy of receiving his sperm yet, but that if she was a good girl, someday he would consent to impregnating her. He had sex with her for a period of time she couldn't identify, but which she characterized as going on for what seemed like forever. We had to take a break there, because she became hysterical at that point."

"So you stopped," said Matthew.

"No. I calmed her by telling her these things she was remembering were like the chapters of a book that could be closed any time she wanted it to be. I suggested they were something like a dream, and that they were over and could not harm her. Then we went on."

"All right," said Matthew.

"When I told her to describe what was happening, her distress was clear, but muted. She said she recognized the signs that she was going to have an orgasm and didn't want to. She was confused, because it was wrong for this to happen. The man started laughing and went faster. She tried to push him off then, but he was too heavy."

Claire paused, before going on.

"The patient was crying openly at this point. Tears were running down her cheeks. This is an example of the kind of emotion I was describing earlier that is not suppressed by hypnosis. It is highly unusual, rare in the extreme, for someone under hypnosis to be able to fake this kind of emotion."

Claire turned to look at Matthew, instead of the jury, where there were open mouths and looks of disgust.

"When she couldn't stop the orgasm, the man said, and I quote, 'Cum, slut! Cum on my prick you disgusting whore!'"

There were gasps from the jury box.

Claire leaned back in her chair, and returned her gaze to the jury, making sure she didn't make eye contact with anyone for longer than a second or two.

"She went on to describe how the man got up and got dressed, telling her he would return in the future, possibly many times. He predicted that the time would come when all he'd have to do was knock and she'd let him in voluntarily. He called her a slut again, and said she'd enjoyed it and would always enjoy it. Then he hit her on the face with his fist, and she couldn't remember anything until she was being tended to by paramedics."

McDill sighed. He couldn't quite believe he'd gotten this in. But it was time to go on.

"Besides the divorce and rape, were there other repressed memories you discovered in your treatment of Mrs. Fetterman?"

"Yes," said Claire. "I must be honest in saying I didn't expect there to be anything else. What she had described was horrific enough to account for the memory problems I was observing. But I was faced with multiple issues, and I thought that by taking her forward, I might be able to work on some of them right then. I knew I'd need to meet with her multiple times. It was as I was working on the issue with the boyfriend, helping her understand that some of her memories were false, that the other major issue came up."

"What was that?" asked Matthew.

"She remembered killing her rapist."

-------

Claire Montgomery's testimony took the rest of the afternoon. She described in detail what Lacey had remembered about the accident, hearing her rapist's voice and intentionally putting flame to a puddle of gasoline.

Matthew asked her why she hadn't informed the police about the situation.

"Two reasons, actually," said Claire. "First, I was bound by confidentiality. But the greater issue was that I had to prepare her for her waking mind to deal with this memory. I planned on working with her much longer than I got to. While the other suppressed memories were harmful, this one was dangerous and could have unhinged a healthy mind. When she DID remember it spontaneously, I had to sedate her initially. As I expected, her psyche and moral code required her to act, once the memory returned. I tried to prepare her for that, because she insisted on turning herself in for the crime."

"One last question," said Matthew. "As a doctor, could you explain the physiological process of an orgasm under circumstances when someone is trying not to have one?"

"Certainly," said Claire. "An orgasm can be a result of either physiological or psychological stimulus. If someone wants to have one, their psyche helps raise the excitement level of the physical body. But that's not required by the body. The body is evolved to react to physical stimuli. All species of living things are wired in some way that requires them to contribute to reproduction under the right circumstances. In the case of the human female, proper stimulation of the clitoris and vaginal canal will result in an orgasm, whether the female wishes it or not. The same is true of a male. If an erection can be induced in a male, by whatever means, and that erection is physically massaged, the body comes to a point where it requires an ejaculation to sooth the tissues in the penis."

"So a man could actually be ... raped," suggested Matthew.

"Objection!" said Roger, some weariness in his voice. "That can't possibly be material to this case."

"It goes to the involuntary nature of my client's reaction during the rape," said Matthew.

"Overruled," said Gunderson.

"It is more challenging, since it's difficult to stimulate the penis unless it is erect. Enough stimulation, though, could coerce an ejaculation," said Claire.

"Just one more question," said McDill. "How would it affect someone to be forced, against her will, to have an orgasm during a rape?"

"It would be devastation of the harshest kind," said Claire. "Rape itself is a humiliating and violent act of control over the victim. It is that loss of control that is the primary injury. The body may receive no injury at all during a rape, but the injury to the mind and spirit may last a lifetime. Being helpless is bad enough, but to have something usually associated with pleasure and love be forced on you by someone you loathe is the height of viciousness. It creates confusion and self-loathing. This man told her she liked what happened and her body seemed to agree with him. But somewhere deep inside she knew that was wrong. It is a testament to Lacey's core strength that it didn't drive her to insanity."

McDill turned over the witness then, and Roger got up to cross examine her.

"A moment," said the judge. "It's getting late. I'm thinking a recess until tomorrow morning might be in order."

"I won't take long," said Roger, waving a hand.

"All right," said Gunderson.

Roger faced Claire. He wasn't all that concerned about the rape. He knew McDill was trying to engender pity in the members of the jury, but the law was clear. She had killed a defenseless man. That was the issue here.

He tried a time-honored way of manipulating a witness.

"The answer to my question requires only a simple yes or no, doctor. Based on your opinion as an expert in psychiatry, when the accused burned Gilbert Kinneson alive, did she know what she was doing?"

He expected her to say, "Yes." What she had described had, in his opinion, made his case for him. The detail was there. The description was perfect. She saw him. She recognized him. She wasn't injured in any way, but he was. She could have run away. Instead, she burned him alive.

But Claire had done this before. She turned to the judge.

"Your honor, I cannot, in good faith, answer that question with one word and represent the whole truth to the jury on this issue."

"The witness may answer as befits her status as an expert witness," said the judge.

Roger frowned ferociously, but Claire didn't gloat. She just started talking again, looking at the prosecutor.

"You asked if she knew what she was doing. In psychiatry, what that really asks is if she was conscious of her actions. Consciousness is composed of two fundamental elements: awareness and arousal."

Roger interrupted her. "The arousal part is obvious. She had an orgasm with the man she killed."

"Objection!" shouted McDill.

"Sustained!" said Gunderson. "Let her answer the question."

Claire wasn't ruffled.

"Awareness lets one receive and process information from the five senses. It connects one to the outside world. Examples of that, in this incident, were her ears, hearing a voice she recognized, and her nose, telling here there were gasoline vapors present. Awareness has both psychological and physiological components. The physiological part has to do with the functioning of the brain, and therefore that brain's physical and chemical condition. In this case, Lacey's brain was being flooded with adrenaline, because she recognized danger and went there with the intention of helping someone."

"But she killed him instead," said Roger, interrupting her again.

McDill didn't even have to open his mouth. The judge spoke instantly. "I've warned you for the last time, Mr. Schwartz. Let her answer the question. You can follow up with more, assuming you're still here and not down in the lockup for contempt of court!"

Roger backed up a step or two. He looked furious. Claire went on as if nothing had been said.

"Awareness is regulated by cortical areas in the outermost layers of the cerebral hemispheres. It allows us to function on an intellectual basis that is not found in other animals."

She paused to let that sink in, or perhaps to give Roger a chance to get thrown in jail. Then she went on.

"Arousal, the other part of consciousness, is regulated solely by physiological functions, and consists of more primitive responses to stimuli in the world around us. Those areas are also affected by adrenaline, and they require a response to the stimuli. That response is both predictable and reflexive, or involuntary. An example is what is commonly referred to as the 'fight or flight syndrome.'"

She looked at the jury and saw a few nods.

"Now, arousal is maintained by something called the reticular activating system. This is not a single anatomical or physical area of the brain, but rather a network of the brainstem, the medulla and the thalamus, along with nerve pathways which all function together to produce and maintain arousal."

She paused for a breath and then finished.

"This is all important to understand, because while Lacey's awareness in the situation sent her to the car in an attempt to help, the man's voice and his hand holding her there flooded her mind with fear, creating arousal that required her to flee or fight."

She paused only long enough to take a breath.

"She fought. It was a reflexive behavior that provided what her awareness interpreted as a solution to the threat to her. She was aware of what she was doing, but her actions were the result of her reticular activating system."

She stopped and waited. Roger looked confused. He looked at the judge, who was looking at him.

"Is it fair to say she was aware she was going to cause injury to Mr. Kinneson?" he asked carefully.

"Yes," said Claire, using only one word.

"So, if I understand correctly," said Roger, "she acted out of passion."

"She committed what is routinely referred to as a crime of passion," said Claire.

Roger blinked and smiled.

"Passion," he mused. He turned and walked away, as if he was finished. Then he spun back around and barked, "Who was this man she believed was her boyfriend?"

"Objection!" said Matthew. "Immaterial and irrelevant."

Roger smiled. "Your honor, his witness is the one who brought it up while HE was questioning her."

"Overruled," said Gunderson.

This was something Claire and everybody else on the defense team had hoped would not come out, but she had to answer the question.

"It was Officer Duncan," she said.

"Officer Duncan?" asked Roger, sounding surprised. "You mean the man who arrested her for this murder?"

"That's correct," said Claire. "He had shown some care and concern for her after the rape, and was the only man she knew who did so, which may have contributed to her unconscious decision to believe she had a relationship with him, instead of her husband, who abandoned her."

"So after she was allegedly raped, she started having an affair with the detective who investigated it. Is that right?" Roger sounded incredulous.

"OBJECTION!" shouted McDill.

"I'd like to answer the question," said Claire, before the judge could rule. She shot a look at McDill. He looked uncertain.

"Is there an objection or not?" asked Gunderson.

"I withdraw it," said Matthew nervously.

"There was no affair at the time I hypnotized her," said Claire. "It was Officer Duncan, in fact, who alerted me to the fact that her memory of the relationship was false. She expected him to behave as her boyfriend, but he knew he was not. He asked me to help her regain her real memory, because he was uncomfortable with her believing something that wasn't true. This is why I delved into that memory and classified it as a false one. She could not provide details as to where or when their supposed romantic relationship had begun. She just believed it was so."

"I see," said Roger, unhappy that nothing salacious had developed. "Thank you," he said. "I have nothing further."

"Redirect?" asked the judge.

McDill stood up, but didn't leave the table.

"Doctor, in your professional opinion, had Lacey Fetterman's brain NOT been infused with adrenaline, and had the deceased NOT grabbed her wrist ... what do you think she would have done?"

Claire didn't pause.

"Based on extensive interviews I've had with her, and extended sessions of hypnosis, during which she was less able to prevaricate or obfuscate, I would have expected her to flee instead of fight."



-------

Chapter 28


As soon as Claire left the courtroom, the judge turned to the jury.

"I'm not going to sequester you, because you have not started your deliberations. You may all go home to your families, but you are not to discuss anything you've heard in this case with anyone, under any circumstances. Is that perfectly clear?"

Most of the jury nodded.

"Court will resume at nine-thirty tomorrow morning," he said, and banged his gavel hard on the block.

-------

The gravity of the situation had penetrated all the jurors' minds. Of them all, only Judy Tipton violated the judge's order. She told Francine everything, and Francine, while they made love, told her she had to vote "Not guilty."

-------

"I call Lacey Jean Fetterman," intoned Matthew.

It was so still in the courtroom as she rose and walked toward the witness box that the creaking of the boards under her feet could be heard clearly.

She was sworn in, and the judge took a moment to remind her that despite her apparent willingness to testify, her fifth amendment rights under the constitution still applied. She said she understood and sat calmly waiting for Matthew to begin.

"Why did your husband divorce you?" was his first question.

"I made a statement to a detective after I was raped. I had been told it was important to put in the statement that I'd had an orgasm during the rape. I did that, and my husband got a copy of it. He said I wanted the rape to happen. He called me the same things the rapist had and filed for divorce."

"Prior to this were you having any marital problems?"

"No. Everything was great. We were talking about starting a family."

"Why were you at the intersection of Seventh and Walnut, at four P.M. on Thursday, the seventh of June, this year?"

"I was taking a flash drive with important photographs on it to the museum where I volunteer. The archaeology department needed them as soon as possible. They documented an important find at an archaeological dig downtown."

"And why were you doing volunteer work for the museum?"

"I had to do something to take my mind off of what had happened to me—the rape. I found that if I helped with the dig, I didn't think about the other so much."

"Did you think about it a lot?"

"I thought about it constantly. The only time I ever felt really safe was at the dig, and when I was playing racquetball with Bob."

"Bob," said Matthew. "You mean Officer Duncan?"

"Yes. We ran into each other at the gym one day. He explained some things to me about rapes. I think he was trying to make me feel better. Since we both loved racquetball, we played some games. It turned out we're evenly matched, so we played more games. It became a regular kind of thing. I felt safe there, because he was a policeman."

"How many locks do you have on your door at home?"

"Objection," said Roger, almost tiredly. "He's made his point. She was traumatized by the rape. We understand that. Can we just move on?"

The judge appeared to think about that, and Matthew spoke. "We can move on," he said. "While you were at the afore mentioned intersection, on the afore mentioned date, what happened?"

"I was stuck in traffic. It was all snarled up and we weren't moving. I was about to light a cigarette when another car hit mine. It came from behind and really only glanced off of my car, but then it ran into some other cars ahead of me and flipped over on the sidewalk."

"And what did you do?"

"I didn't know what to do," said Lacey. "I pushed my door open. People were screaming. I went to one car. The people in it said they were OK. There was screaming coming from the car that had hit me and turned over. So I went there, to see if I could help."

"And what happened when you got to the car?"

"I had to get down on my hands and knees. The car was all bent up. He was screaming so horribly, but I couldn't see him at first. Everything was upside down. There was a child's car seat lying in my way, and I moved it. I smelled gasoline. It was dripping on the ground right beside me. And smoke. I smelled smoke. Then the man told me I had to help him. That's when I realized who he was."

"And who was he?"

"He was the man who raped me."

"How could you tell?"

"I recognized his voice. And when I moved the car seat I could see him."

"Did you recognize his face?"

"No. It was covered in blood. But he recognized me. He said, 'YOU!', like he couldn't believe it was me."

"What happened then?"

"I couldn't move. Everything he'd done to me rushed back into my head. He was screaming at me. He screamed some of the same things at me that he had said during the rape."

Tears that had filled her eyes spilled over and ran down her cheeks. She didn't try to wipe them away. It was as if she was paralyzed all over again. Her breathing was ragged. McDill was prepared and offered her a tissue, but her hands stayed in her lap. There was a look of horror on her face.

"What did you do then?" asked McDill, hating himself for asking the question. If he didn't, Schwartz would.

"I couldn't leave," she sobbed. "He wouldn't let me go. He called me a slut and I FELT like a slut all over again. The lighter was still in my hand. He screamed at me again, and I lit it and put it in the puddle of gas."

She broke down then and sobbed. She covered her face with her hands as the sobs wracked her body. It was quiet in the courtroom, except for the sounds she was making. Eventually, by what appeared to be force of will, she began to stop crying. Her hands wiped at her face. She hadn't worn makeup, because she'd known this would happen. She reached for the tissue in McDill's hand and dabbed at her eyes and cheeks with it. She straightened up. Her mouth quivered and her eyes were red, but otherwise she seemed to be in control of herself.

"What else do you remember?" asked McDill.

"After that ... nothing ... until I woke up in the hospital. I didn't remember any of what I just told you until two months ago."

"I only have one other question," said Matthew. "The police called this explosion an accident that resulted from a car chase of a man fleeing in a stolen car. They had closed the case. Were you aware of this when you confessed to killing Mr. Kinneson?"

"I was told that the man who had raped me had died. I found out how after I remembered setting the car on fire."

"If they had already closed the case as an accident, and were no longer interested in it, why did you confess to killing him?"

Lacey's lip wasn't quivering any more. She was in full control of herself again.

"Because what I did was wrong," she said.

-------

Roger's mind whirled. He'd been so anxious to cross examine this woman. But her testimony had already spoken to all the questions he had for her. He'd expected her to hedge, and to say she was afraid for her life or some such nonsense. Instead, her confession in person was even better than her confession on tape. All he could think of to do was hammer home the salient points of the law. He went and picked up the plastic bag with the lighter in it.

"Is this your cigarette lighter?" he asked. He tried to hand it to her, so the jury would see it in her hand, but she didn't take it.

"Yes. The initials L.J.G. stand for my maiden name, Lacey Jean Griggs."

"Is this the lighter you used to start the fire that killed Gilbert Kinneson?"

"Yes."

"Was Mr. Kinneson armed with a weapon when you started that fire?"

"No."

"So ... what you're saying, Mrs. Fetterman, is that you recognized Gilbert Kinneson, who was helpless and in pain, bleeding freely from an unfortunate accident, and instead of helping him ... you killed him."

"Objection!" shouted McDill.

"Basis?" asked the judge.

"The prosecutor has characterized the accident that disabled Mr. Kinneson as 'unfortunate, ' when in fact he was fleeing the scene of ANOTHER rape in the victim's stolen car!"

"Overruled," snapped the judge. He turned to the jury. "What you have just witnessed is the dismal attempt of two attorneys to sway the jury using inflammatory language. I want you to ignore that childish behavior." He turned back to the attorneys. "And if either of you pull that crap in my court again, I'll throw you in jail for contempt. Is that clear?"

"Yes, your honor," said McDill, sitting down.

Roger simply stood, looking at Lacey. When she didn't say anything, he prompted her.

"The judge overruled your attorney's objection. Please answer the question."

Lacey was crying again, but this time she wiped ineffectually at her cheeks.

"Yes," she said tightly.

"No further questions," said Schwartz. He held out the bag with the lighter in it, as if he was afraid it might contaminate him, and slowly returned it to the evidence table.

Judge Gunderson looked at McDill, who was slumping in his chair, looking dejected.

"Counselor?" he asked.

"I have no further witnesses," said Matthew. "The defense rests."

-------

The judge looked at Schwartz. "Deliver your closing argument."

Roger got up and smiled, going to stand in front of the jury.

"The facts are clear. The accused put flame to a pool of gasoline and burned another human being to death. She did it intentionally, and she knew what she was doing when she lit that lighter. She had no right to kill him, but she decided to do so anyway.

He paused, turned to look at Lacey, and then turned back to the jury.

"The defense would have you feel sorry for her. That the accused suffered at the hands of the man she killed is sad. It's regrettable. It deserved justice. But the accused took the law into her own hands. She tried Gilbert Kinneson and found him guilty all by herself, and then became his self-appointed executioner."

He moved his eyes to meet those of each and every juror as he continued to speak.

"Our society cries out for justice ... but not this kind. Lacey Fetterman burned a man alive. She had no right to do that. She is guilty of murder in the second degree, and you MUST find her guilty."

He turned and went to sit down.

McDill got up without any prompting from the judge. He put his hands in his pockets and almost wandered toward the jury box, apparently deep in thought. Then he looked up and smiled.

"Thank you for your willingness to serve on a jury," he said. "The prosecutor was right about one thing. We all crave justice. We want to live in a world where nothing bad happens to us, and if it does, somebody fixes it. You all want that, and so did Lacey. She had the life we all want, until a man savagely attacked her and abused her to the point where she doubted her own sanity. And if that wasn't bad enough, he promised to do it again."

He shrugged.

"Where was HER justice? Who fixed that? Who caged the beast who devoured her happiness?"

He paused and shrugged again.

"No one."

He took his hands out of his pockets.

"He was left to roam the streets ... OUR streets ... where he could prey on others. Where he DID prey on others. And while she tried to find justice, she was mocked, and divorced, and ignored by those who were charged with helping her. The only man who tried to help her was fired from his job and demoted! What was she to think?"

He moved forward scowling.

"I'll tell you what she was left to think. She was left to wonder when she'd be victimized again. She was left to wonder when she would feel the hated hands of her attacker on her body again. She was left to wonder when he'd force her own body to betray her again!"

He moved back.

"And then he was there! Suddenly, completely without warning, his hated hand gripped her. The knives of his words pierced her cruelly, just like they'd done before. He demanded that she serve him, just like he'd tried to enslave her before. And this time, she fought back. This time, she wasn't helpless, and she reacted!"

He turned his body sideways and pointed at Lacey, but kept his eyes on the jury.

"Look at her! She's just like you. Any one of you could have snapped in a situation like that. She's STILL looking for justice! Is it justice for her to rot in jail?"

He dropped his arm and put his hands back in his pockets.

"I don't think so," he said. "Who will benefit from Lacey Fetterman being put in prison? Will anyone's life be better for that? Will anyone be safer? Will anyone be happier?"

He waved a hand.

"The prosecutor said what happened to her was regrettable. His choice of words doesn't even come within light years of describing the pain and suffering she went through, and is STILL going through this very day. But that's the word he chose to use with you. By the same standards, what happened to her vicious rapist was regrettable, too."

He put his hands on the rail of the jury box and looked around at each juror.

"Nobody is celebrating what happened in those few split seconds. Can you IMAGINE what it must have been like? She was terrified, reliving a vicious rape, in her mind, while the hand of the man who'd raped her gripped her yet again. She had lived in fear that this VERY THING would happen ... and when it did ... she happened to have a lighter in her hand."

He shook his head.

"No one is happy with the outcome, least of all Lacey, who is tormented by what happened, and always will be. She cannot forgive herself, for what happened."

He walked back to stand by Lacey.

"I ask YOU, her peers, to forgive her. I ask you to find her not guilty, and let her pick up the shattered remnants of her life and try to find peace. I ask you to finally give Lacey Fetterman the justice we all deserve."

He turned to the Judge.

"Your honor, the defense requests that the jury be instructed on the lesser included offense of voluntary manslaughter."

The judge looked at Roger, who smiled and waved a hand. He wasn't worried that they'd find for a lesser included offense. She was guilty of murder, and he'd proved it.

"No objection, your honor," he said.

-------

Judge Gunderson wasted no time. He faced the jury and spoke.

"Your job is now to determine the guilt or innocence of Lacey Jean Fetterman, who is charged with murder in the second degree, a crime punishable by a mandatory sentence of life in prison, without possibility of parole for at least ten years. If you find the defendant guilty of murder in the second degree, it will be my job to determine when she will be eligible for parole.

"Now, as to the lesser offence you may consider, that is called voluntary manslaughter. Whoever is guilty of voluntary manslaughter shall be fined under the law, or imprisoned for not more than ten years, or both. Should you find the defendant guilty of this lesser included offense, it will be my job to determine the sentence.

"Therefore, your sole duty is to determine her guilt or innocence, based on the law and my instructions.

"The crime of second degree murder is composed of the following elements of proof: First, that a certain person is dead. Second, that the defendant's actions are responsible for the death. And third, that the killing was unlawful. In order to find the defendant guilty, you must believe that all three elements have been proven, beyond a reasonable doubt.

"The crime of voluntary manslaughter is defined as the defendant killing someone because of a sudden quarrel, or in the heat of passion.

"The elements of proof for manslaughter are similar to those I already listed. The difference is that the killing took place as a result of the heat of passion. Heat of passion is not simply anger. There must be provocation by the victim that causes the defendant to act rashly, under the influence of intense emotion that obscured the defendant's reasoning or judgment. Further, it is required that the jury find that the provocation would have caused a person of average disposition to act rashly and without due deliberation. This provocation must be immediate. Slight or remote provocation is not sufficient.

"Finally, it is the burden of the government to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that the defendant did not kill as the result of a sudden quarrel, or in the heat of passion. If the government has not met this burden, you must find the defendant not guilty of voluntary manslaughter.

"I must inform you that the crime of murder in the second degree and the crime of voluntary manslaughter are both general intent crimes. What that means is that there is no requirement for you to find that the defendant intended to kill in order to find her guilty. In other words, what she intended is of no consequence, and is not an element of proof.

"Every element must be met by evidence presented to you, in this courtroom, for you to arrive at a finding of guilt. You may not use any evidence not presented in court. Nor are you to allow your personal feelings for any witness or the defendant to sway you in your decision. Should you do so, it would be a miscarriage of justice.

"Your decision, whatever it is, must be unanimous. If you do not arrive at a unanimous decision, I will be required to declare a mistrial, at which time you will be discharged, and the defendant either set free or remanded for a second trial.

"Finally, the verdict is your decision, and yours only. You must not allow anyone else to sway you. It is your responsibility to determine the reliability of all witnesses and other evidence presented in this trial. That includes comments or statements made by the attorneys of record in this case. For your purposes, they are simply witnesses too, whose reliability you must determine. Your test for reliability must extend to the comments made by the accused as well. Concerning the memories she had which were refreshed by hypnosis, you should give them no more or less weight than any other information she provided. Hypnosis itself does not convey or remove reliability of a statement.

"If you have perceived any of my actions to reflect bias or an opinion as to how I think you should find in this matter, I tell you to ignore that. If you have questions during your deliberations, I can instruct you on points of law, but I cannot help you in making your decision."

He looked at the jury for a few seconds and then spoke again.

"The bailiff will conduct the jury to the deliberations room. This court awaits your decision."



-------

Chapter 29


The jury room hadn't changed much, but the changes that HAD been made were obvious. At each of the twelve chairs around the long table, there was a cheap name tag, made of paper folded into an inverted V. Maggie's was at one end of the table and bore the title "Foreman."

It was almost lunch time and some faceless employee had provided a tray of sandwiches, individual bags of various kinds of chips, fruit, and pre-packaged salads from the cafe downstairs. There were also a dozen kinds of soda, as well as bottled water and several brands of pre-mixed tea in a refrigerator in the corner of the room. The coffee in the carafe was brewing as they trooped in, to begin their job.

"They must think we'll go through lunch," observed Waldo, who didn't think that would happen at all. Fetterman was obviously guilty and that was all there was too it. One vote should end things. He no longer thought of himself as the man they should have chosen as their foreman. They didn't even NEED a foreman.

"Never turn down a free meal," said Reggie, eyeing the sandwiches.

"Let's vote and get this over with," said Rick. "Then we can go get a real lunch."

"Aren't we supposed to talk about it first?" asked Judy.

"What's to talk about?" snorted Rick. "She's guilty as sin. End of story."

"Absolutely," said Waldo, righteously. "She did it. She's guilty."

Judy was shocked. Sure it LOOKED like the woman had done something wrong, but there was more to the story. These two men's rush to judgment took her aback. She felt frustration, because it looked like they weren't even willing to discuss things.

Another juror also felt a stab of emotion at the two men's casual assumption that all the others would simply fall in with them. Helen's blood always boiled when a man took it for granted that he was right, and that everybody knew it—especially women—and so should just bow down to his wish. She knew the woman was guilty, of course, but they should at least give her a fair hearing. She spoke up and couldn't hide the anger in her voice.

"I thought she was supposed to get a FAIR trial!" she said belligerently.

Waldo felt his religious roots tugging. Women didn't understand important things. They needed things explained to them. He was fully capable of doing that. He did it all the time.

"She did get a fair trial," he said calmly. "She was tried with full due process." He wasn't exactly sure of what "due process" involved, but the lawyers had made all those objections and the judge had ruled on them. That made things fair. "She confessed," he went on, and was taking a breath to go even further, but was interrupted by Helen.

"People make false confessions all the time!" she snapped. "And she was blown up, for Christ's sake! Who KNOWS how faulty her memory is?"

"I'll thank you not to take the Lord's name in vain, young lady!" lectured Waldo. "Sacrilege isn't necessary, or acceptable in decent conversation."

Helen stared at the man, openmouthed. Waldo felt a little thrill that he'd impressed her with his witness.

"Everyone sit down!" said Maggie, her voice raised. She hadn't wanted the job of foreman, and wanted it even less now. They hadn't been in the room for five minutes and there was already tension and discord. "We'll take an initial vote. If it's unanimous, we're finished. If it's not, then we'll talk about things in a civil fashion."

"Not unanimous?" Rick laughed. "How could it not be unanimous? She did it! She's guilty! We all know that!"

"Let's vote!" yipped Judy, who was itching to prove to the men that they didn't know everything, the way they thought they did. She might have only one vote, but it actually COUNTED in this. The judge had said so.

"Yes," said Kelsey. He was horrified. He'd gotten on this jury to strike a blow at rapists, but he had to admit he'd been foolish. The evidence was clear. He thought Lacey was a hero for what she'd done, but his hands were tied. Now he just wanted to put this all in the past. His pain would go on. His daughter's rape would be un-avenged, still. But it was obvious she'd killed the man when he was completely helpless.

People eventually settled into seats. There was a pad lying at Maggie's place. Each sheet had three boxes on it: Guilty; Not Guilty; and Undecided. She tore sheets off and passed them to the people sitting on either side of her, asking them to take one and pass it down. Each juror had a pencil and a pad of paper by his name plate.

"Mark your ballot and fold it in half, please," said Maggie.

"Ooooo," said Rick. "Secret voting, even. Have to make sure it's fair!" He snickered.

He didn't snicker when Maggie counted the votes, announcing each as she unfolded it, and placing them in two piles.

There were ten in the "Guilty" pile, and two in the "Not Guilty" pile. No one was undecided.

-------

"You've got to be shitting me!" groused Rick Brown. "Who voted not guilty? This isn't funny!"

Nobody said anything, while everybody looked around.

"I've got business to tend to!" shouted Rick. "I don't need this shit. We've already wasted two days. Who voted not guilty?"

Maggie raised her hand.

"First off, I'll thank you to moderate your language." She meant to go on.

"Fuck you, Grandma," snarled Rick. "I didn't vote for you and I'll be damned if I'm going to listen to a stupid bitch who voted not guilty when that murdering cunt confessed to the fucking murder." He stood up. "Now, let's vote again, and THIS time, I expect everybody in the room to throw the bitch in prison where she fucking belongs so we can get the FUCK out of here. Is that clear?!"

He looked around. The faces in the room were either pale, or flushed brightly red. Maggie stood up. Instead of reaching for the ballots, however, she turned on her heel and left the room.

Rick spat and reached for the ballots himself. He tore one off and threw the pad toward Hank, who was on his right.

"Where did she go?" asked Judy timidly.

"She went to get the judge," said Danny.

"Why?"

"Because I'm about to kick," he leaned over to read Rick's name plate, "Rick's ass," he finished.

"You and what army," sneered Rick.

"Let me introduce myself further," said Danny calmly, standing up. "Staff Sergeant Daniel Baumgartner, medically retired, formerly a member of the seventy-fifth Ranger Regiment, with three tours in Iraq. I'm fully trained in ripping your beating heart from your chest while you stare at the bleeding lump, just before your worthless carcass falls to the floor."

"Fuck you, Hero," snorted Rick. "You can't threaten me."

The door opened and Judge Gunderson swept into the room. Maggie was behind him, wiping tears from her cheeks. He took in the belligerent stance that both standing men were in.

"Mister Brown, you are excused from jury duty," he said. "Please leave this room and wait outside. I'll be with you in a minute."

Rick snorted. "Fine by me," he said. "I've got better things to do."

"Don't leave," said the judge casually. "If you're not out there when I come out, I'll find you in contempt of court and have you found and given a room in the county jail until I get around to dealing with you. I'm a busy man, Mr. Brown, and it could take weeks to straighten out any misunderstandings."

Rick opened his mouth and then closed it. He stormed out of the room. The judge put his hands on the back of Maggie's chair, where it had slid when she fled the room and inclined his head toward it. He seated her.

"Each of you has one vote," he said. "It's your vote. Nobody has the right to demand that you vote in any particular manner. Is there anybody else in this room who feels they have the right to order people around?"

Most of the jurors shook their heads.

"Fine. I'll appoint an alternate juror to join you. Please bring him or her up to date and continue your deliberations." He left the room.

"That was interesting," said Tim Flynn.

"Damn, bro," said Reggie. "You got style, I'll give you that." He was grinning at Danny.

"You wouldn't really have hurt him ... would you?" asked Judy, looking wide-eyed at Danny.

"I went to war to protect America and The Constitution," said Danny tightly. "I lost good friends over there who were doing the same thing. I take this just as seriously as I took my duty when I was still in the army. Assholes like that don't deserve to live in America."

"Please," moaned Maggie.

"I'm sorry about the language, ma'am," said Danny formally. "It won't happen again."

"Can't we all just get along?" asked Tim.

"As long as nobody acts like he did," said Danny.

There was a long moment of silence as people's heart rates slowed. Finally, Hank posed the question many of them were thinking.

"So what do we do now?"

Danny's apology to Maggie had revived her. She shook off the anger and frustration she'd felt.

"We talk about it," she said. "And you don't have to say how you voted."

"Isn't it going to be kind of obvious?" asked Kelsey. "I mean if you voted not guilty, that's what you'll be arguing for."

"I suppose you're right," said Maggie. She looked unsettled. "I want everyone to agree right now that there won't be any bullying. You heard the judge. We all have one vote and we have the right to vote however our conscience tells us to."

"How could anybody vote not guilty?" asked Jane.

"That's what we need to talk about," said Maggie. "I, for one, would like to hear the argument for that."

"You mean you wasn't one of the not guilty votes?" Reggie looked surprised. "You raised your hand before that ... dude ... went off on you."

"I was trying to get his attention, to tell him his behavior was unacceptable," said Maggie.

"Well obviously it wasn't you," said Reggie. "And it wasn't me. I'll be up front about it."

"I voted not guilty," said Danny.

"I did too," said Judy.

"I almost did," said Helen. "I wanted to, but I thought I'd be the only one." She looked at Maggie. "Can I change my vote?"

"We'll vote again in a while," said Maggie. "Until then, we just need to talk about why we feel the way we do ... however that is."

Everyone else looked around. Danny spoke first.

"Like I said, I was in Iraq. I found out there are all kinds of people who need killing. I don't mean I liked doing it, but the fact of the matter was that there were people there who were ready to ruin the whole country, maybe the whole world, just to make everybody do what they wanted. And there wasn't any law. It was a cesspool, and it wasn't going to get any better until some of these shi..." He stopped and glanced at Maggie. "Turkeys got taken out," he finished. "This guy—this Kinneson guy—was one of those. He raped her. He said he was coming back to rape her again. He ripped her life apart. He needed killing, as far as I'm concerned, and I'm not inclined to punish her for doing it."

It was quiet in the aftermath of his speech. Most of the other jurors looked slightly horrified. Tim and Hank looked thoughtful. Kelsey's eyes were closed. None of them knew it, but all he could think about was if this had happened to his wife or daughter. The thought of them being tortured like had been described in the courtroom made him almost physically ill. He was thinking that it was too bad Danny hadn't been there when it was happening, and how much he hoped somebody like Danny would be there if it ever happened to Marie or Bethany.

Helen opened her mouth to speak, but there was a knock at the door and the bailiff brought a Hispanic man in. He was young, in his mid twenties, and was wearing a tight T-shirt that exposed tattoos all over his arms. They were around his neck, too, and on his hands.

"This is Hector Ramirez," said the bailiff. "He's an alternate juror." He turned and left with no further introduction.

"Another man of color," quipped Reggie. "Welcome, brother."

"I ain't colored," said Hector firmly. "And I ain't your brother."

The women all moved. It was just an inch or two, but it was away from Hector. He saw the empty chair and went to sit in it, between Jane and Judy. Jane moved away from him in one direction, and Judy moved the other.

"I don't bite," he said, grinning to show a gold tooth. "I just ain't his brother, that's all." He looked around. "So whas up?"

-------

Maggie's resolve, which had faltered when Hector first came into the room, came back when he grinned. She decided to forge ahead and hope for the best. She felt a little foolish for having been almost in hysterics when she told the judge what had happened, and she didn't want to go through that again. He had not been happy and his rapid fire questions about what had gone on had left her feeling somewhat helpless and weak. She straightened her shoulders and gave what she thought was a succinct recap of events thus far.

"OK," said Hector simply. "I'd have voted guilty if I was here. So what are we doing now?"

"We're talking about the case," said Maggie.

"That's good," said Hector. "I mean, I really wanna hear why somebody thinks she's not guilty. That's got to be interesting."

He waited, but nobody said anything.

"They scared of you, dude," said Reggie. He was grinning for some reason.

Hector looked around and sighed. "OK, it's like this. I was in a gang when I was younger, OK? But I finally figured out it was a dead end, and I got out of it, OK? I got a job. I got a wife and a kid. I'm just like you, except you ain't got no tattoos, OK? I'm just here, doing my duty like you are. My boss don't like it, but he ain't got no choice and neither do I. So let's get on with it, OK? How come some of you think this chick din't kill that dude?"

Danny lifted a hand off the table, catching Hector's attention and then dropped it.

"I think the guy got what was coming to him."

Hector lifted his head and dropped it again, while his lips stretched over his teeth. It was his way of acknowledging that he understood.

"Kind of like what goes around comes around," he suggested.

"Yeah," said Danny.

"But, like, that ain't the point, you know?" said Hector. "The man says we got to decide this on the law, and not how we feel, right?"

"I can't help how I feel," said Danny, shrugging his shoulders. "The guy needed to be dead. That's more important than how he got that way, the way I see it. If she'd killed him while he was raping her, we wouldn't be here, because she would never have been arrested."

"I think the punishment is too harsh," Helen said suddenly.

Hector's eyes went to her. He was obviously looking her over, and obviously liked what he saw.

"If you can't do the time ... don't do the crime," he said, shrugging his shoulders like Danny had.

Jane nodded, remembering Rick saying the same thing.

"It's not justice," said Hank, suddenly.

Hector looked at Maggie.

"I thought you said there was only two not guilty votes."

"I changed my mind," said Hank. His face was pink, and he had a stubborn look on it as well.

"So ... wha' do you wanna do?" asked Hector. "You wanna let her go?"

What Hank thought was that she should be given a medal. She'd taken out an animal who preyed on women ... who would now never prey on Hank's wife and daughter. He couldn't say that, though. He also couldn't quite bring himself to agree with Hector's suggestion.

"I don't know," he said. "I just don't want her to go to prison. I don't think that would be justice."

"We have a philosophical conundrum," said Tim.

Everyone looked at him.

"On the one hand, there is a plentitude of evidence that she committed a crime. The law says we have to make a judgment about that, either guilty or not guilty. If it were just that, it would be relatively easy. But the other part of the equation is punishment, which we cannot control. If we could control the punishment aspect of the issue, it would also be easy. We'd say she's guilty, but should not be punished. But the way the law is encoded, we are restricted to dual propositions. One is to honor the law, which dishonors the defendant, and the other is to honor the defendant, which dishonors the law."

He looked slightly smug at having been able to sum up the problem in so few words.

"What the hell did he just say?" asked Hector, looking at Maggie.

"We're trying not to curse during the deliberations," said Maggie. Her voice trembled a bit.

"Got it," said Hector, smiling. "Got to be polite while we send this nice lady murderer to prison, right?"

Hector abandoned her and turned to Tim. "Could you like say that in language I could understand?" He didn't look at all like he was embarrassed.

Tim blinked. "We only have two choices and we don't like either one of them."

Hector nodded. "Why didn't you just say that in the first place, man? I get you now. This is one of those lesser of two evils things, right?"

"Right," said Tim, looking a little miffed.

"OK, so which is the less evil?" asked Hector, looking around.



-------

Chapter 30


An hour and a half later Judy again chirped, "Let's vote!" Maggie looked around. People looked tired. A lot had been said, but there didn't seem to be any general consensus. Voting would at least be trying to make progress. She passed out ballots.

This time, when she separated the pieces of folded paper, there were four in the guilty pile and eight in the not guilty pile. Everyone looked surprised.

"My, my," said Maggie, who had changed her vote, but didn't expect anyone else to do so. The others who had changed their votes felt the same way. It buoyed them all a bit.

"Interesting," said Tim, who hadn't thought anyone other than Hank would change his vote.

"What just happened?" asked Jim, whose laptop was open on the table in front of him. He'd tuned them all out for the last 45 minutes, when they seemed to be saying the same things over and over. He'd simply voted with the majority this time ... except that he was suddenly in the minority. "I want to change my vote," he said.

Everyone looked at him. "Why?" asked Maggie.

"Cause I want to get out of here," he said honestly.

"Dude!" said Hector. "Try not to care too much about this woman, you know?"

"What do you care for?" asked Jim, staring at the Hispanic man. "You don't know her. She's from a different world than you and me."

There was a stunned silence. This was the first time Jim had spoken more than a word or two. All of them had seen him pecking at the keyboard of the laptop. Most thought he was taking notes for some reason. None of them had realized he didn't really care about the issues until he spoke this time.

"Let me tell you a story," said Hector. "There was this girl I knew. Her name was Maria. She was like thirteen, OK? So she's sitting there, doing some math homework, minding her own business, when this carload of dudes drives by and unloads a clip of nine millimeter. She takes one in the head and boom ... she's dead. Just like that. No more homework. No more going to school. No more getting a goodnight kiss from her mother ... just dead."

Jim's fingers left the keyboard. "OK, sure that's sad, but she IS from your world. What does that have to do with this case?"

Hector didn't frown or give any other indication that he was upset.

"She was sitting in an ice cream parlor, over in midtown, not in the hood. She went there every day to get away from the hood, so she could do her homework without being afraid. They wasn't shooting at her. They was shooting at the ice cream parlor, because one of the guys in the car thought the owner of that place had dissed him. What I'm saying is there is only one world, and we all live in it. You can't just decide that because that chick lives over there, and you live over here, that it ain't your problem. It IS your problem. It's ALL of our problem ... you know?"

"Very astute," commented Tim.

Hector looked at him. "Man ... you need to learn some English." He sat back in his chair, looking disgusted.

Jane was frustrated. The vote had surprised her, because she thought Fetterman's status as guilty had been agreed upon. Hadn't everybody agreed that she killed the man? Tim's rambling comments had seemed stuffy. She was still nervous about Hector, and hadn't gotten his point.

"I don't understand," she said suddenly. "She killed the man, right?"

There was a nod or two.

"So what's the problem here? I just don't get it."

Helen was sitting across the table from Jane. She leaned forward. "Are you comfortable with sending Lacey Fetterman to prison for the rest of her life for killing her rapist?"

Jane looked uncomfortable. "That's not the point," she said.

"It most certainly IS the point," said Helen. "If we find her guilty, that's what's going to happen, plain and simple."

"No it's not," said Waldo suddenly. "She can get parole in ten years."

Helen looked at him now. "Are you comfortable with sending Lacey Fetterman to prison for ten years for killing her rapist?"

"We have to!" said Waldo, interrupting. "She murdered a man. Read the Bible. Thou shalt not kill!"

"Oh Jesus," moaned Jim.

Waldo looked at him sharply. "Yes! Jesus! He paid the price for our sins, and he told us to obey the law!"

"Well then," said Hector calmly. "If he died for our sins then she's covered, right?"

"Don't mock God!" Waldo almost shouted.

"I'm not mocking God," said Hector. "I'm just saying ... you know ... would Jesus have voted to send her to prison?"

"Please," moaned Maggie. "Let's not bring religion into this."

"Render unto Caesar what is Caesar's, and unto God what is God's," intoned Tim from the end of the table. "This is a matter for Caesar."

"Exactly!" Said Waldo. "She broke man's law and she must be punished."

Danny laughed. It was almost shocking in the room, which was filled with tension.

"It's not funny!" shouted Waldo.

"Hang on," said Danny, still smiling. "Look what just happened. You said it was God's law first, and now you're saying it's man's law. You said that Jesus paid the price for our sins ... Lacey's sin ... and yet you demand that she be punished. I'm not laughing at you. I just think you're confused, that's all."

Waldo DID look confused. He folded his arms. "I just know murder is wrong," he said stubbornly.

"That's the problem with the law," said Tim. "The law is black and white, but real life is full of shades of gray."

"I actually understood that," said Reggie. "Congratulations."

Tim smiled tentatively. "It's what I was trying to say during lunch."

Hank spoke up. "IT IS full of gray," he said. "I get what Waldo is saying. But I also get what Tim just said. All I know is that this man attacked her. I voted guilty the first time, but I changed my vote because I thought about how he grabbed her, there in the car. Can you imagine what must have been going through her mind? Here was the animal who had caused her so much pain ... had ruined her whole life. He had a hold of her again! I can't help but think I'd have done the same thing she did."

Waldo almost jumped up. "There you go!" he said. "That's manslaughter! Acting in the heat of passion. You said you'd do it too. That's one of the elements of proof! And grabbing her was provoking her. That's another element of proof! If you won't vote for murder, at LEAST vote for manslaughter!"

"But he was helpless," moaned Jane. "He grabbed her, but he couldn't DO anything to her. She could have jerked loose. Even I could have jerked loose, and I'm weak."

"What if you HAD been in her place?" asked Hank. "What if you tried to jerk away and couldn't. What would you have done then?"

"I don't know," moaned Jane. "Screamed! I would have screamed!"

"Everybody was screaming," said Hank. "The man raped you. He said he'd be back. He has your wrist in his grip! You can't get away. What are you going to do?!"

"I DON'T KNOW!" screamed Jane. There were tears in her eyes.

There was a moment of silence as Jane wiped furiously at her cheeks.

"She smelled gasoline," said Kelsey. "Didn't she say she smelled smoke? If he held her there, and the car caught on fire anyway, she could have been killed. What if she was unconsciously afraid of that? Wouldn't that be self defense?"

Maggie shook her head. "There was no testimony about that. She didn't say she was afraid the car would catch on fire. We can't try to imagine what was in her mind. I'm like Helen. I think the punishment is too much, but we have to obey the law. The judge said so."

Hector looked at her. "So you were one of the guilty votes this time?"

Maggie looked flustered. "No. I changed my vote."

"Why?" asked the tattooed man.

She looked even more flustered. "I don't know. I can't explain it."

"That's not very helpful."

"I have an idea," said Tim. More than one person groaned. "Hear me out," he said almost impatiently. "We are a jury of her peers, right? The law says she is to be judged by her peers. If we want to just turn her loose, who's to say we're wrong?"

"You can't do that!" said Waldo tensely. "She killed a man. I don't want to send her to prison forever either, but we can't just ignore the fact that she killed him. It's just the way things are!"

Maggie reached in front of Waldo and touched Reggie's hand. When she had his attention she spoke.

"Remember when we were having lunch, yesterday? We were talking about racism and sexism, and you said the world is full of it." She went on. "You said it's just the way things are."

Reggie was astounded she'd remember that, but nodded.

Maggie went on. "Waldo just said the same thing. He said we have to punish her ... that's just the way it is. We're sitting around thinking about how she killed him, and that means we have to do something about it. It's just the way things are, right? But just like I don't think we should tolerate sexism and racism, I don't feel good about tolerating a system in which an otherwise decent woman is judged so harshly for striking out at somebody who hurt her so horribly."

"Is she decent?" asked Jane. "How could a decent woman decide to burn a man to death—ANY man?"

"That's easy," said Danny softly. "I've been there." Everyone looked at him. "In Iraq," he said. "There were a number of times I thought about that old saying: it's better to be tried by twelve than carried by six."

"Amen, brother," sighed Hector.

"So now HE's your brother?" asked an obviously miffed Reggie.

"I just know what he's saying," said Hector. "I can understand why she did it."

It seemed as though things were at an impasse.

"What ABOUT that lesser included thing?" asked Jim. He didn't really care what happened to Lacey Fetterman. He didn't really care about what had happened to Gilbert Kinneson either. He just wanted to be able to work on his new idea. He already had a title in mind: "Vigilante Justice." He'd already seen enough in this jury session to know there were people out there who would buy a game where they got to kill bad guys in a contemporary setting. It would be different than anything that was already on the shelves. No science fiction ... no alternate worlds ... just shooting purse snatchers and blowing up rapists. He'd vote not guilty if that's what it took to get this over so he could make his mark in the game industry. But maybe they could all agree on the lesser charge. "What if we find her guilty for manslaughter instead of murder?"

"It really doesn't make any difference," said Danny. "She still goes to jail for ten years."

"For up TO ten years," argued Waldo. "The judge decides how long."

"She killed a man," said Danny. "Do you really think the judge is going to go easy on her? He'll give her the max possible. It's what judges do."

"But it's not as serious a charge," said Jim.

"If the electricity is out, does it matter whether somebody knocked down a power pole, or a transformer got struck by lightning?" Danny shook his head. "You still got no juice, either way."

"Hey," said Jim, giving up. It wasn't worth arguing about. "It was just an idea."

"Can we ask the judge what sentence he'd give her if we chose the manslaughter thing?" asked Judy.

Everyone looked at Maggie, who had no idea if that question would be entertained.

"I can try," she said.

-------

The question was formulated and Maggie had written it down. She looked around.

"Anybody have any other questions, while we're at it?"

"Ask him if she was in her right mind," said Kelsey.

Nobody said anything, and Maggie added the question.

"I'd like to know something," said Tim. "Ask him if she had killed him while he was raping her, would she still be on trial, like Danny said a while back."

"That's ridiculous," said Waldo. "He wasn't raping her when she killed him."

Tim held up a hand. "I was just thinking about how this would have been treated two hundred years ago. Back then she wouldn't have had to blow him up. All she'd have had to do was point at him and say, 'That's him! He raped me!' and the men of the day would have strung him up."

"That was lynching," pointed out Reggie. "Lynching is wrong AND it's illegal."

"Not back then," said Tim. "If there was no territorial law, the people administered justice as they saw fit. There were trials, even. They just protected themselves. And I'm not talking about lynching people because of the color of their skin either. Horse thieves and rapists were tried and hung. And when a territorial judge came along, nothing was said about it."

"That's all well and good," said Waldo. "But the fact is he wasn't raping her when she killed him."

"He was if her mind went back to the act," said Tim. "If she was transported back, mentally, to when he WAS raping her ... she acted in self defense."

"That's just ridiculous," snorted Waldo. "She didn't say anything like that when she testified."

"Just ask him if that happened, if it could be considered self defense," insisted Tim.

Maggie added it to the list.

-------

The judge's response, in writing, was less than helpful, as far as most of the jurors were concerned.

"Regarding the sentencing: That is fully within my purview and may not be a consideration in your deliberations.

"Regarding the defendant's state of mind: A defense of insanity was not presented. The jury must deliberate based solely on the evidence presented in court.

"Regarding the third question: The statutes as I described them are the only law that may concern your deliberations. Self defense was not raised as a defense and may not be considered in your decision."

-------

"He's telling us to find her guilty," said Waldo, when Maggie was finished reading the answers out loud. He sounded smug.

"He also said that if we perceived any bias on his part, we were to ignore it," said Danny. "All he did was answer the questions."

"We have no choice," insisted Waldo. "She killed him. She knew what she was doing. Why can't you people understand that?"

"Because it's not fair!" snapped Helen.

Maggie stood up. "Let me say something," she said. She looked around. "What I'm hearing is that most of you agree that she did kill the man, but that the punishment doesn't fit the crime in her situation."

She got a few nods.

"Let's go over the evidence together," she said. "Let's look at and read everything. We haven't done that yet. I want us all to read over it. Then we can see where things are."

It took them three more hours to examine everything in detail. It was clear to them all that, by the law, if everything they had heard was true, then Lacey Fetterman was guilty of murder.

And that, in the end, turned out to be what brought them all together, and resulted in a verbal consensus.

They had just reached that consensus when the bailiff knocked and announced that it was almost five. The judge was prepared to recess court if they needed more time. Maggie told the man that they were taking one more vote, which should answer the judge's question.

The verdict was, at last, unanimous.



-------

Chapter 31


"Has the jury reached a verdict?" asked Judge Gunderson.

Maggie stood. "We have, your honor."

The bailiff took the folded piece of paper from her hand and walked it to the judge. He opened it. He looked at the jury, and then back at the paper. "Was this unanimous?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," said Maggie.

Gunderson handed the paper back to the bailiff, who returned it to Maggie.

"The defendant will stand," intoned the judge. Lacey and McDill stood. Lacey looked like she might fall back down, and McDill aided her in remaining standing by gripping her elbow. "The foreman will read the verdict," said Gunderson.

Maggie cleared her throat and looked at the preprinted form she'd been provided with. All she'd had to do was put down the verdict in two places.

"We the jury, in the matter of the State versus Fetterman, as to the charge of murder in the second degree, find the defendant not guilty. As to the lesser included offense of voluntary manslaughter, we the jury, find the defendant not guilty."

-------

One could have heard the proverbial pin drop in the courtroom, for the following seven or eight seconds. Then people gasped as Lacey collapsed. She would have fallen to the floor if her attorney hadn't aimed her falling body at her chair.

Roger was sitting there stunned, his mouth hanging open. From the part of the courtroom where the other three alternate jurors were seated, there came the sound of one person clapping. An old man sitting in the gallery, who was only there because watching courts work was his entertainment, sighed, "Well I'll be damned."

Judge Gunderson looked at McDill. "Is she conscious?" he asked.

"I think so," said Matt.

Lacey proved he was right by moaning, "I don't understand!"

Gunderson said, "All you need to understand, Mrs. Fetterman, is that a jury of your peers has found you not guilty. You are free to go."

He turned to Maggie.

"I'd like a word with the jurors before I release you."

"Certainly," said Maggie, looking a little nervous.

Bob got over his own shock and went to help McDill get Lacey on her feet. She was staring around with a glazed expression. She saw Bob and lurched for him, pulling him into a frantic embrace.

Gunderson, who had come down from the bench, was about to poll the jury. It wasn't required in this situation, and neither attorney had asked for a poll, but the facts and circumstances of the case were such that the judge was concerned that a miscarriage of justice had just taken place. As he approached the jury box he heard Danny Baumgartner say, "See, I told you so." Reginald Bower said, "Yeah, yeah, yeah. I hope you're happy." Both men were looking toward the defense table. The judge looked to see the exonerated woman in the arms of the man who had arrested her.

Once they were all in the jury room, the judge simply asked, "Why did you acquit her?"

Maggie gestured toward Danny, who unconsciously straightened up into what was almost the position of attention, as all eyes were turned on him.

"It all came down to what you said about us deciding about the reliability of all the witnesses. You said that was our job, and our job only. All the evidence against her was circumstantial, except for her confession. But the doctor explained that she had false memories. She had a false memory about the policeman being her boyfriend because she WANTED to think of him as a boyfriend. And we all agreed that just about anybody in her situation would WANT to kill her rapist. But that doesn't mean she did. What if that was a false memory? What if she believed she'd done it because she WANTED to kill him? It's perfectly reasonable to believe that a car involved in an accident, and which was leaking gasoline, might catch fire. We decided her confession wasn't reliable. That raised a reasonable doubt in our minds that she actually lit the car on fire."

"I see," said Gunderson, feeling much better, despite the fact that he didn't believe for a minute that her memory was flawed on that particular issue. At least their mistake was an honest mistake, and he didn't have a runaway or vigilante jury on his hands.

"Thank you for your service," he said. "You may all go now."

-------

Lacey had expected to be led away to prison after the jury found her guilty. She had expected for her punishment to begin. Now, she had no idea what to do.

"Let's get out of here," said Bob into her hair.

"But..." she moaned.

"But nothing. I'm hungry. Are you hungry?"

She looked up at him with glazed eyes that were somehow also astonished.

"How can you be hungry?"

"It just happens," he said, his face straight. "About three or four times a day, actually."

"But..."

She looked around. Matthew McDill had a goofy smile on his face. His eyes looked a little glazed too. Claire was walking toward them. Her face was unreadable.

"Shit!" barked McDill suddenly as his whole body jerked. "He's polling the jury!" He burst into movement, saying, "Don't go anywhere!"

"Don't listen to him," said Bob, tugging on Lacey's elbow. "The judge said you can leave."

"He did!" agreed Lacey, clearly confused by that fact.

"We have some talking to do," said Claire, as she approached. "You have some adjusting to do."

"I'm hungry," said Bob, winking at Claire. "Are you hungry?"

"I'm famished," said the psychiatrist. "Why don't we begin the adjustment over dinner."

Lacey had to be herded, more or less, as they traversed the hallway, which was empty. Most other employees in the building had left at four-thirty. They had to wait for the elevator, during which Lacey just leaned against Bob. His arm tightened around her, and Claire took her hand, giving it a quick squeeze.

They almost made it out of the building. A uniformed security guard stepped forward to bar their way.

"Are you Lacey Fetterman?" he asked.

"She is," said Bob. "What's the problem?"

"Nothing," said the guard. "Her lawyer just called down and asked me to stop her. He's on his way down.

Bob nodded. "We can wait a minute or two," he said.

McDill appeared, jogging, his briefcase flopping in one hand.

"Don't you want to know what happened?" he panted, as he got to them.

"We already know," said Bob. "They found her not guilty."

"Yeah, but..." said Matthew helplessly.

"Talk to me first," said Claire. "She's still my patient, and she's very fragile right now." She looked over her shoulder. "Where?"

"Santini's," said Bob instantly.

"We'll meet you there," said Claire.

"Got it," said Bob.

He took Lacey to his car and she climbed woodenly into the passenger seat.

"I don't understand," she whispered.

"We'll figure it out," he said. "For now, just think of it as getting one more supper with me at Santini's."

She blinked. "Santini's," she sighed. "I never thought I'd get to see Donna and Vinny again."

"Well you do," he said.

She turned sideways in her seat, until the seatbelt he'd fastened for her impinged her freedom of movement.

"And YOU," she said, some volume coming into her voice for the first time since she heard the verdict read. "I get to see YOU again too!"

"If you want to," he said softly.

"Of COURSE I want to!" she yipped. "I LOVE you!"

"I arrested you," he said simply.

"You had to," she said back. "I murdered him."

"No ... you didn't," he said, staring straight ahead.

"But I did!" she insisted.

"The jury said you didn't," said Bob. "That's official."

"I don't UNDERSTAND!" she wailed.

"Claire will help you," he said.

-------

She didn't have to be helped into the restaurant. Donna's eyes opened wide as they came in. Bob had apprised her of the whole situation one time when he came in for dinner. She had clucked and commiserated with him, but had written Lacey off. She'd appointed herself the keeper of Bob's morale, and had kept abreast of events up until the first day of the trial. She hadn't seen him since. Seeing them together again left her speechless, for once.

Vinny looked over from the grill.

"Well I'll be damned!" he said. "Don't tell me a judge finally had his head screwed on straight."

"It was a jury, actually," said Bob, as if they were simply talking about the results of a baseball game. "Got someplace quiet we can eat?"

"YES!" All of Donna's paralysis and emotion were expended in that one word. She whirled and hustled to the doors of the party room, which she opened. She stood there, looking nervous as they went through it. Bob's face turned to her as he passed.

"Claire and the lawyer will be showing up soon," he said. "They're going to join us."

"Sure," said Donna weakly. "They let her go?"

"They did," said Bob.

"OK," she said, her voice tiny.

"Just bring us food and drink," he said. "Doesn't matter what."

"OK," she said, in the exact same tone of voice.

He reached around her hip and pinched her bottom. "Wake up, woman," he said grinning. "This is good." She jumped, squealed, and almost ran the other way. She didn't hear him say, under his voice, "I hope."

-------

Claire Montgomery had a problem. It was an ethical problem. She had taken the Hippocratic oath, just like any other doctor had. The third paragraph of oath is: "I will prescribe regimens for the good of my patients according to my ability and my judgment and never do harm to anyone."

Her prescription for Lacey had been a wild and bumpy ride. Initially, it had been to help Lacey recover her memory so she could fully engage life, without the prospect of an unwanted memory suddenly appearing in her head. Then, when she'd found that those unwanted memories were particularly horrifying, her prescription for Lacey had changed to mitigating the mental and emotional harm of facing them. She'd been trying to find a way to help Lacey deal with her suppressed memory of killing her rapist when the events had overcome them all. At that point, the prescription had changed again, to helping Lacey seek the only kind of redemption she seemed to be able to recognize, even if that involved a long prison term. Lacey had wanted to be punished for her sin and, as odd as it might seem, Claire had decided to help her find that punishment. At the same time, she wanted that punishment to hold as little trauma as possible.

She hadn't intended to extend a branch to a jury that was drowning, and wanted some way to get out of the water. Her testimony had been, in her opinion, completely professional. She just wanted people to understand what had motivated her patient to do a terrible thing, and to understand that didn't make the patient a terrible person.

Now, having heard what the judge had told McDill, she was faced with an ethical dilemma.

One kind of redemption had been sought, and another kind had been offered, even if it wasn't the kind of redemption that had been anticipated. But if she told Lacey the truth—that the jury doubted her memory—then the redemption she'd been offered would turn into something else. Lacey didn't doubt that memory, neither did Claire. Knowing the truth would make Lacey feel even more guilty than she already did. Maybe with years of therapy that problem could be overcome, but it could destroy the woman, just as much as prison would have. She'd have to live with the guilt of getting away with murder for the rest of her life, and guilt can tear a person to shreds.

Telling Lacey the truth would be like driving a knife between her ribs—a knife that couldn't be removed, but killed only slowly.

But lying was wrong! Claire's whole practice was founded on exposing the truth. "The truth shall set you free" was more than a mere Biblical passage to the psychiatrist.

It was that which had been the subject of conversation between them as Claire steered her car to the restaurant.

"So don't tell her," said McDill.

"What DO I tell her?" moaned Claire.

Spin was a lawyer's stock in trade. McDill spun everything, and spinning this was no problem.

"The jury said that they believed anybody in her situation would do the same thing," he said.

"They said much more than that," objected Claire.

"True, but if you'll recall, I asked them to forgive her." He grinned. "Put the two together, and there's your answer."

"But they DIDN'T forgive her."

"I know that ... and YOU know that ... but SHE doesn't know that," he said.

"What if she found out somehow?" asked Claire. It was simply an extension of her treatment of Lacey. She'd been worried about the things Lacey might remember. This was almost the same thing.

"Well, I was kind of happy that the press wasn't interested in this case," said Matthew. "Until the verdict was read. Then I wished the room had been full of reporters. Now I guess it's good that they weren't. I doubt that anybody will really pay any attention to this trial OR the verdict. So nobody is going to be interviewing any jurors, hopefully." He grinned. "Which is too bad, really. This would make a hell of a good book."

"Not for Lacey," said Claire darkly.

Matthew stopped smiling. "Yeah, I guess so. You're the doctor. I'll just smile and keep my mouth shut. How's that?"

"I don't feel good about this," moaned Claire.

"Didn't you say you helped her deal with the suppressed memories of the rape?" asked the lawyer.

"Yes," she said. "I gave her posthypnotic suggestions to keep the memories from being so traumatic, so she could process the information without breaking down."

"So do the same thing with this," he suggested.

"It doesn't always work that way," said Claire. "I was lucky with her. The memories of the rape were easier for her to deal with than the memory of the murder. Her mind was willing to take the posthypnotic suggestion, because that was something it could bear thinking about. If the murder hadn't been there, scaring her subconscious to death, it might not have worked as well as it seems to have."

"Your life is really complicated, isn't it," suggested Matthew.

"You have no idea," sighed Claire.

"Well anyway, thanks for your help."

"Did I help?" asked Claire. "I told the truth. That made the jury believe a lie. That's not what I was trying to do!"

"My client was found not guilty," said Matthew, sounding satisfied. "That's the bottom line in my business."

"I don't think I like your business very much," said Claire darkly.

"Nobody does," said McDill, completely unruffled. "Think of it this way. Lacey Fetterman is no danger to anybody. Well, unless they rape her." He didn't smile, which was why Claire didn't unload on him. "It was a onetime thing, an aberration in her behavior. Is it so terrible that she gets to go on with life?"

"If I could answer that question, I wouldn't feel like I feel," said the psychiatrist.



-------

Chapter 32


As it turned out, Claire's misgivings were justified. Nothing like this had ever happened before, and she had no clue as to how to proceed. Had she been in her professional setting, she would have controlled the conversation. She couldn't really do that, there in the restaurant.

So, she chose to try giving Lacey the redemption she sought.

"They forgave you," she said, her voice tight.

Bob shot her a look that said very clearly, "What the fuck? You don't mean that." Lacey didn't see it.

"I don't understand," said Lacey, blinking eyes that were full of moisture.

"They put themselves in your shoes," said the psychiatrist. "Remember, there were men on that jury, who have wives and daughters. They were thinking about what it might have been like if those wives and daughters had gone through what you went through. And the women were feeling it even more directly. They decided that anybody would have reacted like you did."

"But I killed him!" insisted Lacey.

"And they forgave you," insisted Claire, feeling more and more out of control.

Lacey blinked. "So that's it?"

"That's it," said Matthew. Claire didn't remind him that he'd promised to remain silent.

What turned the tables was when Lacey looked at Bob.

"Do you forgive me?" she asked, her voice tiny.

"Sweetheart," said Bob gently. "I knew about it, and I fell in love with you anyway."

"I've always loved you," she whispered. "I loved you from the very first time I saw you."

Claire frowned.

"I'm glad," said Bob, smiling. He kept his voice light.

Lacey saw Claire's frown, and heard the patronization in Bob's voice. She was well aware that some of her memories about Bob were false ones, and she now knew which ones were.

"No, you don't understand," she said, shaking her head. "There, in the hospital, I knew you cared. I didn't even know your name, but when you walked in there and looked at me, I knew you cared. You had never seen me before. I wanted to die with shame, but you cared about me. That was the only reason I could go on." She wiped at one eye with the back of a finger. "I think I already knew Paul would abandon me. He's like that. If something breaks, he just tosses it out. I'd seen him do that with friends who disappointed him. Everything was disposable to Paul. But YOU cared about me, and you didn't even KNOW me!"

Bob had no idea what to say, so he just kept quiet. He felt conflicting emotions because of what he had put her through, and how it had turned out. He was still worried. Until he looked back at Claire.

She wasn't frowning any more.

-------

It took a while.

Lacey met every day with Claire, who kept hypnotizing her, nudging things here and there, with posthypnotic suggestions. The psychiatrist delved into the woman's mind, until she was convinced there was nothing else hidden. In the end, other than the normal disappointments that all people suffer, the only real trauma was related to the two incidents in Lacey's life that most people don't have to deal with.

Lacey herself didn't really notice any improvement. She still knew she had killed Gilbert Kinneson, and she still felt as though she had done something wrong, but slowly, the lack of condemnation for the act turned from dread—waiting for some kind of shoe to drop—to a feeling of equilibrium. Claire's insistence that she had been forgiven, both legally and morally, at least by the jury and those who knew her, slowly sank in. Equilibrium eventually turned to hope.

Bob helped, though he wouldn't have said he was "helping." He waited, and it had to be called waiting patiently. Four agonizing months had passed since Lacey's candle light dinner had turned into the beginning of an ordeal that was still not completely finished. The trial and her expectations about it had become a wedge between them, put there by Lacey, and it was up to Lacey to remove it. Bob just loved her. And her hope that the next time she saw Bob he would still love her was something that led her forward, as gently as Claire's suggestions.

It's hard to say when she saw the hope that was in HIS eyes—hope that this was behind her enough that they could move forward together—hope that they could fully love each other. He was much more quickly able to adjust to the verdict than she was. People "got off" all the time, and this time was one he could applaud, though he was careful not to.

But nothing happens in a vacuum ... and there were other ramifications to the decision of the jury that day.

-------

Bob wasn't aware of it, but the acquittal was taken personally by some other players. The District Attorney was the first, who wanted to know why Roger Schwartz hadn't gotten a conviction, when the accused had admitted her guilt in court. Roger hadn't talked to the judge, and was sent back to do so. The judge wasn't nice about it, reminding Schwartz that he'd known there would be an expert witness on the stand, put there by the defense, and asking why he hadn't had the woman examined by his own expert witness. Schwartz ducked that issue when he went back to report to the DA. He blamed it on the jury, for jumping to what he was sure was an erroneous conclusion.

The Commissioner of Police wasn't happy either. He was still smarting in the aftermath of the internal affairs and state investigations. That he'd requested the state to get involved didn't make him feel any better. It had ended up airing the department's dirty laundry. So far, all he'd had to tell the mayor was that a large number of rapes had been solved, and that the perpetrator was dead.

He'd hoped to be able to tell the mayor that the person who killed the rapist had been tried and convicted too.

He hadn't been in touch with the mayor yet. Now, a week later, he couldn't help feeling that something was going to happen ... something bad ... something that would cause him problems. He sat staring at the reports from the IA investigation and the one the state patrol had sent him after their review.

He'd read both reports before. The commissioner had thought things were going to work out. A major offender had been identified, even if it had been done ass backwards, and a startling number of cases had been resolved. The offender wasn't a problem anymore, and he had expected there would be a murder conviction because of that. The commissioner liked murder convictions. They made the department look good.

But the way this case had shaken out made the department look like the Keystone Cops. He couldn't get any PR out of the deal, because one of the worst serial rape cases on the books wasn't even solved until a victim admitted she'd murdered the perpetrator. That made the department look bad. And if the media got hold of this not guilty business, somebody might dig and expose the rest.

He hadn't taken any overt action before this, other than to chew the Chief of Police a new asshole. Even that had been somewhat fruitless, because the chief insisted that the "morale problem" in his detective division that had led to less than satisfactory performance on the rape cases was going to be taken care of with extra training.

A conviction would have smoothed things over. But there was no conviction. There might be heat generated by this mess. The best way to deal with heat was to be sure somebody else took it first, so you could deflect it. If this thing ever went public, he wanted people to know that he'd already handled it.

He read through the IA and patrol reports again. The cover sheets were spare in the details. Unsolved cases had been reexamined, as he'd requested, and resolved by use of DNA evidence and the MO of the rapist. The IA report suggested that detectives had been less than thorough in the original investigations, and that a maverick detective, transferred to the traffic division for bungling the Fetterman rape case, had then used unapproved techniques to identify the woman as the rapist's killer.

He'd read it all before, but hadn't dug into it. He went to the back of the report, where the IA interviews were, and pulled out the information on Officer Duncan. By the time he was finished reading that, his eyebrows had risen an inch. He went back to the beginning of both reports.

Now he started reading between the lines.

He knew that Officer Duncan had testified, and he requested a copy of the record of trial. What he saw made both his eyes and a vein on his right temple bulge. What the fuck was one of his fucking traffic officers doing in what was obviously a romantic relationship with a rape victim and suspected murderess? He didn't buy that "keeping an eye on her" bullshit for a minute. The testimony of the lab tech caught his eye. The state patrol report had said all the rapes were tied together by DNA, and that had been good enough for him at the time. He hadn't paid any attention to the lab results.

He visited the lab and talked to the technician who had done the work and testified. Then he requested the files of all the women who had been tied to the murdered man's DNA.

All the files were stamped "Closed - Perpetrator Deceased." It got worse. The fucking flatfoot had been right from the very beginning. His hypothesis that the rapist forced an orgasm on each victim had been dead on. Why hadn't he ever been briefed on orgasm as part of a rapist's MO? Why hadn't someone besides Duncan seen that? By reading the statements of the victims, he saw that the question had never been asked. Except for of Lacey Fetterman. The detective who'd taken her statement—Detective Simpson—had put that in her statement, and the commissioner was pretty sure WHY he had put it there. Duncan had gotten to him.

That left him with the queasy feeling that the most unethical son of a bitch on the force was also the only one who had gone after the real deal ... who knew what the fuck he was doing.

The commissioner knew that Duncan had been the first detective on the Fetterman case, and that the chief had signed off on his transfer to traffic ... his demotion. The commissioner didn't have his job because he was stupid. Instead of going to see the chief, he went to see Detective Don Simpson.

Then he went to see the chief.

It was a simple conversation, and one that any politician could have written a script for. You kept your friends close ... but you tried to keep your enemies even closer.

"To what to I owe the pleasure?" asked the chief jovially.

"You don't," said the commissioner, whose face was stony.

"If there's a problem, we can solve it," said the chief. His smile was false by then, and both men knew it.

Two minutes later the chief said, "I thought we'd already resolved this." It was the last time he said anything for quite a while.

Fifty-five minutes later Frank Dillworth was relieved of his badge and gun, which was found to be in such filthy condition that it probably wouldn't have fired if he'd tried to use it. He was handed his walking papers, escorted to his desk to retrieve personal items, and then escorted out of the building.

As a supervisor, he couldn't even complain to the union rep.

-------

On another front, there were others who reacted to Lacey's acquittal.

The six women Claire had brought together with Lacey during her treatment were, of course, interested in what happened to the woman they thought was a hero. They knew the trial was going on, though none of them attended it. Their expectations were the same as everyone else's.

Jennifer Woodson was the first to call Claire, asking if the trial was over. It had been over for more than a week. She made five more calls within ten minutes after that. By the time she was done, her voice was hoarse. Then she called Claire back to find out Lacey's address and phone number. Claire said she couldn't reveal either, but she'd be seeing Lacey soon and would let her know the women wanted to get in touch with her.

That wasn't good enough. Their heroine had been given a reprieve and they wanted to celebrate, especially Sharon Zimmerman, whom Kinneson had raped twice, and whose husband had also divorced her. They met at Fashion La Femme and went inside together. Lacey wasn't there. Her employees, well aware of their boss's travails, wouldn't tell the women anything.

It might have gotten loud, but Jennifer's cell phone rang just then. It was Lacey calling. She gave them directions to Santini's.

-------

Donna was all smiles. She didn't care that the group of women was loud, even sequestered in the party room like they were, or that a few of the other customers shot annoyed glances at the closed doors to the room. Lacey was smiling again, and that was all that mattered.

She swept in, pushing a cart that had plates of food and bottles of wine on it. The women all looked around at her as she entered, wary looks on their faces until they saw who it was. Then it was all smiles and laughter again. Donna couldn't believe how vulgar some of the talk was, but she recognized it as a stress-relieving mechanism.

It didn't matter. Bob's Lacey was smiling again.



-------

Chapter 33


Bob was turning in tickets. He'd been approached by no less than six people when he came into the building. Dillworth was gone. News like that travels like lightning in any organization. He'd heard not only that Dillworth was gone, but the circumstances of how he'd gone. The place was still abuzz with it. Nobody knew exactly why it happened, but the manner in which it had taken place had made the detective division euphoric. He didn't think anything about it when his supervisor, Captain Quincy, approached him.

"Turn those in later," said Quincy. "The chief wants to see you." He sounded worried. "The commissioner is with him."

"What for?" asked Bob. He had a sinking feeling he knew what it was for. If anybody took even a little time to look into things, his relationship with Lacey couldn't remain a secret for long.

"I don't know," said Jeff. "I asked them if they wanted me there, and they said it wasn't necessary."

"That's fucked up," said Bob.

"They asked me one other thing ... before they said that," said Jeff.

"Yeah?"

"The chief wanted to know how I'd feel if I lost you."

Bob looked at him.

"I'm sorry, Bob," said the captain of the traffic division. He actually looked sorry. "I tried. I told them you were one of the best I have. That's when he told me to have you report, and that my presence wasn't ... necessary."

"Probably trying to keep you out of the union tussle," said Bob. "You don't need that shit anyway."

"You ARE one of the best," said Jeff. "You make life interesting, and sometimes you're a pain in the ass, but you're one of the best."

"Thanks. They in the conference room?"

"No, the chief's office."

"Anybody else there?"

"The union rep's not there, if that's what you mean. You want me to notify him?"

"It's not your job, Captain," said Bob.

Bob didn't delay. He just went out of the squad room and up the hallway. The chief had his office on the same floor as the squad rooms. He felt like it made him more accessible, though why he thought normal patrolmen would ever seek him out without a summons was a mystery. Bob went into the front office. There was a young woman there who he knew was named Marjorie. He'd never talked to her before, though.

"Officer Robert Duncan," he said simply.

She smiled gaily. He wondered if she'd trained herself to do that, just to try to keep from being dragged into emotional situations. "I'll tell him you're here." Bob started to sit in one of the three chairs against the wall, but she said, "Don't sit down. He's expecting you."

-------

Bob stood at parade rest in front of the chief's desk. No use acting like a slouch. The way he saw it, he'd had a pretty good run, and even if they canned him, with the kind of experience he could offer he wouldn't have any trouble getting a job in another city. He'd have to work his way up again, but he was already at the bottom here, so it didn't matter.

"I want you to know that the only reason you're standing here in uniform is because you referred the Fetterman woman to a psychiatrist when she thought you were her boyfriend," said the chief. The commissioner was standing, leaning against a wall, with his arms folded. He was impatient, because he'd been here for over two hours and had other matters to attend to. But it didn't show. He just appeared to be ... watching. Bob wondered what kind of man would want to be there to watch the slaughter.

The patrolman didn't say anything. What was there to say?

"I assume you aren't seeing her anymore," said the chief.

"No, sir," said Bob.

"Good. I..."

Bob interrupted him. "What I meant, sir, is that you're incorrect. I am still seeing her."

"You want to explain that?" ask the chief, his voice choked.

"No, sir," said Bob. "It's personal ... and I don't think it would matter even if I did." He stared straight ahead. "I'm not going to try to hide it, though."

"Charley," said the commissioner. "Take a breath." Bob's eyes flickered to the man, who was staring right at him. "You're a maverick," the commissioner went on, addressing Bob this time.

"I suppose it could be viewed that way," said Bob. "Sir," he added belatedly.

"A city councilman's wife tried to shoot you," said the commissioner. "She's coming up for trial pretty soon, by the way. I checked."

Bob wondered what was going on. Were they just playing with him?

"Yes, sir," he said, his voice neutral.

"The last woman you arrested for a serious crime ... the woman you're seeing ... got off scot free," said the commissioner.

"Yes, sir," said Bob.

"You arrested her for murder, and now you're ... dating her? Don't you think that looks a little odd?"

"She was found not guilty, sir," said Bob.

"Oh, believe me, I'm aware of that."

"Other cop's wives have been arrested and prosecuted," said Bob, beginning to feel the anger rising in him. "They don't get fired when that happens."

"You're going to marry her?" There was finally some emotion in the commissioner's voice.

"This is a bad idea," said the chief.

"Hang on, Charley," said the commissioner. "You know why we're doing this. Let's see it through."

Had Bob not already been stiff, he would have frozen, but not because of the commissioner's comment. What his mind centered on at that moment were his own last words. Where had that come from? He loved Lacey, and he knew she loved him, but there had been no talk ... no thought ... of marriage. And yet he had put her in the same category as an officer's wife. His mind roiled and his fingers twitched behind his back. He felt a tenseness, almost a feeling of panic.

"Well?" asked the commissioner when Bob didn't say anything. "Are you going to marry her?"

"I ... um ... we haven't talked about that," he finally said. "But my point remains, sir. That's personal. If the press asks me about that, I'll tell them the same thing."

"That's all fine and well," said the commissioner, firmly. "But in any case, she's part of the equation."

"What equation is that, sir?" asked Bob.

"Go ahead, Charley," said the commissioner, apparently turning things back over to the chief. "This doesn't really change anything."

Bob's eyes bounced down, to the chief's face, and then back up. The man was red in the face.

"You may be aware that this department needs a Captain of Detectives," said the chief.

Bob had no time to adjust to the change of subject. He couldn't keep the smile off his face. "Yes, sir," he said. "That was an excellent management decision."

The commissioner coughed. It sounded almost like a stifled laugh, but it had to be a cough, because he coughed some more after that.

"You want to tell me why you feel that way?" asked the chief, his voice tight.

That was something Bob WAS willing to talk about, and he did, at some length, staying in his formal stance and staring straight ahead. He had listed seven reasons why Frank Dillworth was bad for the division, or the department in general, when the chief stood up.

"That's enough!" he said harshly. "Look at me."

Bob did. The man was angry, but there was something else in his eyes ... something Bob couldn't quite categorize.

"At ease," he finally said. He tossed a hand. "Sit down over there."

Bob looked behind him and saw a chair. It was a nice chair, with a high back, covered in dark brown leather.

"Here, sir?" he asked, unsure again of what was happening.

"Just sit down!" barked the chief.

"Calm down, Charley," said the commissioner. "You want me to leave?"

"You got me into this," growled the chief. "You're going to be here when it happens, cause I'm not taking the shit for this if it all goes south."

"For some reason I have a feeling it's not going to go south," said the commissioner. "But I'll stay, just to make sure you don't start a fist fight with him."

The chief turned to stare at his boss, then sat suddenly back down in his chair. He looked anguished. Bob wondered what in the world was going on here.

The chief's face went calm again, and he put his hands on top of his desk.

"Maverick you may be," he said, "but you're smart. And you know your stuff. I have a feeling I'm going to regret this for the next twelve years, three months and fourteen days, which is exactly how long it will be until I can retire ... but..." He went silent. After what seemed like five minutes, but was really only fifteen seconds, the commissioner spoke.

"What he's trying to get out is that your name came up as a candidate for Captain of Detectives."

Bob blinked.

"You're shitting me," he said, wonder in his voice.

"You're shitting me, SIR," barked the chief.

"You're shitting me, SIR!" Bob almost yelped.

The commissioner laughed out loud.

"It looks like you can handle him," he said, slapping the chief on the shoulder. "I've got things to do. Don't let this one screw up, Charley. You don't get two strikes on my watch."

"Yes, sir," sighed the Chief of Police. "I hear you loud and clear."

"I hope so," said the Commissioner of Police. He started for the door and then paused, looking at a clearly befuddled Bob.

"Don't let this go to your head. You walked a very fine line with this Fetterman business. There may still be some flack because of your ... posture. I want to say the only reason you're still here is because other people screwed up much worse than you did, but the fact is you're good, and that's what we need in that division. Don't make me regret my decision on this."

"No, sir," said Bob, weakly.

"And try not to ... improvise so much ... Captain." The commissioner left.

-------

It wasn't until Bob was standing out in the hall, leaning against a wall because his knees were so weak, that he realized they'd managed to make themselves look like benevolent astute leaders, while putting him in a position to be the next sacrificial lamb if anything went wrong.

He went back to finish up his last official duties as a member of the traffic division and tell Jeff Quincy, who was now his peer, what had happened.

-------

"That's WONDERFUL!" squealed Lacey.

Her hug was tight. It was the first time that it had felt really conscious and passionate since the trial had finished. They'd spent time together, but it just hadn't felt right to try and pick things up where they'd left off before she'd remembered killing Kinneson. Even now Bob wasn't sure how he should return the hug. He placed his hands on her lower back and pressed gently. It felt so good to touch her again, like this.

She looked up.

"I've missed this," she said softly.

"You have?"

"Yes." She put her face against his chest and squeezed him tighter. He slid his hands up her back.

"Me too," he said. "I didn't know if ... things had changed."

"I'm better now," she said into his chest. "Claire is helping ... and the girls."

She just held him. It was still a little awkward, for some reason.

She looked back up. "You know I still love you," she said.

"I know," he said. "I just want to let things go at your pace."

She buried her face in his chest again. "You're so good for me."

"You hungry?" he asked, not knowing what else to say.

She nodded.

They were in her apartment. He had gone there to tell her the news.

"You want me to cook?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Santini's," she said into his uniform.

-------

She seemed almost like the old Lacey as she told Donna to bring her the same meal she'd had the first time she'd ever been there, shrimp and Sangria. After Donna left, she turned to Bob.

"Tell me all about it!" she said excitedly. "I can't believe they did that." She frowned. "That sounded bad. I didn't mean it that way. Of COURSE they should have picked you. I'm just surprised they were smart enough to do that."

"You think YOU were surprised," said Bob. He was still processing events himself.

He started describing what had happened. Her eyes opened wide when he mentioned that they asked about her.

"Why?" she asked. "What did they say?"

"They said it was ... um awkward ... that I was still seeing you."

"I can understand that," she said.

Bob went quiet. The commissioner's voice came back in his head, asking, "Well ... are you going to marry her?" His world lurched again. He'd never thought about getting married. He'd never met a woman who made him think about it. Or he hadn't THOUGHT he'd met one. His mind was suddenly full of the time she teased him, telling him he'd have to wait to try to get her pregnant until she'd had twenty-something orgasms first. That simple comment hadn't scared him. If anything it had inflamed him, just as he knew she was trying to inflame him.

Now, like a thunderbolt, it hit him that while she was teasing, she knew the dangers of their lovemaking.

And she had ignored them.

"Bob?" Her voice interrupted his reverie. He looked at her face. There was concern on it. "What's wrong, Bob?"

At this instant, Bob Duncan felt like he was in a tunnel, and that something huge was rushing toward him, something he couldn't avoid or resist and which might lift him up and toss him a continent away in the blink of an eye. But he was used to making snap decisions in terrifying situations ... going on gut instinct ... adapting ... improvising ... overcoming.

"They asked me if I was going to marry you," he said.

The concern fled her face, as her mouth sagged open. Her eyes went from worried, to shocked, and then took on a slightly glazed appearance. She sat, mute.

Silence stretched between them for long seconds.

"So..."

Bob let it hang there for a few seconds. His next question came without conscious thought.

"Am I?"

-------

Donna carried the chilled bottle of Sangria in one hand and two glasses in the other. She worked the lever on the door to the party room with the heel of one hand and pushed it open with her hip. Lacey was sobbing.

"What the dickens did you do now?" she barked at Bob, who looked helpless. Donna wasn't used to seeing this man look helpless.

"I asked her to marry me," he said weakly.

Donna looked at Lacey again and picked up on some physical cues.

"Oh, all right then," she said.

"It's not all right!" moaned Bob. "She's crying!"

"Idiot," commented Donna. "That means yes."

Bob jerked.

"It does? You will? We are?" he yelped.

Lacey stood up and lurched toward him. "YEEEEEESSSSS," she wailed, the huge smile on her face marred only by tears streaming from her eyes. The couple crashed together into a passionate kiss.

Donna smiled.

"I'll just fix up your dinner to go," she said, turning and sweeping out of the room.

Lacey's extended "I'm so happpeeeeeeee!" followed her out into the main room of the tiny restaurant.



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Epilogue

There are all kinds of stress charts out there on the internet that will tell you if you're abnormally stressed or not, and how soon to expect a heart attack, if you are. They don't tell you you're probably suicidal, but they recommend you see your doctor immediately if you score too high.

Some of the major things they list on such charts are: marriage, major holidays (Thanksgiving was coming up), major changes in working hours or conditions, trouble with the boss, change of residence, outstanding personal achievement, major changes in responsibilities at work, change in financial state and trouble with the law, to name a few.

Well, to name the ones that Bob was engaging anyway. Bob's score, had he taken a test, would have been almost three hundred, and a flashing red box would have come onto the monitor saying something like, "SEE YOUR PHYSICIAN IMMEDIATELY!!! YOU NEED HELP SIMPLIFYING YOUR LIFE!!!" What they really mean is, "DON'T JUMP!!!" or maybe "PUT THAT GUN DOWN NOW!!!" but they don't say that.

Lacey's list would have scored just as high. Even though it had some different stressors listed on it, she had a lot of the same ones.

In other words, both of them should have been in real trouble.

The fact of the matter, though, is that stress is relative. Here's an example. You just found out that the chemo worked and that malignant tumor is gone. The cat scan is clear. You're cancer free. So the broken arm you just got from dancing around with joy and falling down the stairs doesn't carry the same amount of stress it might have otherwise.

Sometimes good stress cancels out bad stress. That's where both Bob and Lacey were, at this point in their lives.

And, of course, exercise is good for dealing with stress. A month after she had been found not guilty, their lives had finally calmed down enough that they could resume playing racquetball. They'd played, splitting eight games four and four. A tiebreaker would have to be determined by some other enthusiastically vigorous exercise.

Lacey had chosen sex.

She collapsed on her new husband's chest, dragging in deep lungfuls of air.

"I win," she panted. "I had four, and you only had one."

"Not fair," he complained, sliding his hands up and down her naked back. "I can never win that contest. Even if I did I'd still lose, 'cause it would be one to zero, and I know how you'd react to zero."

"This only proves the superiority of women," she sighed. "We're just better at sex than men are."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," said Bob, pinching her butt and making her wriggle on him.

She reached behind her to bat his hand away and kissed his chest.

"I'm so glad you married me," he said. "I don't think I'll ever be able to express how ecstatic I am that you were crying from happiness."

She scooted up to kiss him, a short, warm kiss with loose lips, and then lifted her face to let it hover over his. Her eyes, staring into his, were serious.

"I'm glad you asked me," she said softly.

"I was worried," he admitted. "It just came out of me. I didn't exactly plan it that way. I was terrified when you started crying. I was afraid it was too soon and I'd blown it."

"You didn't blow it," she said. She kissed him again. "And it wasn't too soon."

"We hadn't talked about that, and I didn't want to push you."

"I'm glad you did," she said. Her eyes were very serious. "It helped a great deal."

He smiled. "I thought Claire was the one helping you."

"She is," said Lacey. "But she couldn't help me with the problem I had with you."

"Problem? What problem? I thought you loved me."

"I did," she said. "That's why I didn't want to put any pressure on you during the trial." She kissed him again. "Or after," she added.

"Pressure on me?" He laughed. "My pressure wasn't anything like your pressure."

She burrowed her face into his neck and gripped him more tightly with her hands.

"Not true," she mumbled into his throat. "I was resigned to raising our baby in prison. They let you do that these days, at least for the first four or five years. I was more worried about what it would do to you. That's why I didn't tell you."

"Baby?" Bob's voice was faint.

"Uh huh," she said, her lips on his throat. "I'm four and a half months pregnant. I had just found out, and was going to tell you at dinner that night ... the night I found my lighter in your junk box. Then ... well you know what happened then."

"You're going to have a baby?" He sounded flummoxed.

"Your baby," she said softly. "That's one memory I'm pretty sure I can trust, darling."


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The End
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Posted:  2008-10-27
Last Modified: 2008-11-17 / 10:31:19 am
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