White Noise, Part 8 of 10
z119z
© the author 2015
Comments are appreciated. Please send them to z119z2000@yahoo.com. Thanks.
Chapter 15
Two miles away, at about the same that the Tuesday morning meeting between Marks and the three homicide office ended, a street person named Old Will woke up. He was lying in a small alcove between two buildings. A narrow passageway connected the space to an alleyway. There was just enough room for a lean-to constructed of flattened cardboard boxes against one wall in the space. He had found the alcove several weeks before and had been able to claim it as his own. Several years of drugs and alcohol had dulled his mind, but he dimly recalled an odd dream. Even stranger than most of his dreams. Two people dressed all in black had left a large bundle wrapped in sheets of clear plastic in the passageway. Inside the plastic, he could see a face of a young man. The man's head was hairless, and his eyes stared fixedly ahead. Old Will dragged a word up out of his past. It was a mannequin, one of those store dummies. Soon after the guys in black had left, another pair had picked up the package and taken it away. Some lucid corner of his mind thought it was a funny way to deliver a package, but he soon forgot about it. Old Will didn't dwell on his dreams. He had to focus on staying alive for another day.
"OOO, Officer, I see you have taken my advice and returned to get an introduction to the wonderful world of domination. And you have brought your first `client' to meet me. How sweet." Talbert had opened the door with a look of sleepy annoyance on his face. The look lasted only briefly. He was suddenly all smiles when he recognized Susan Trent. His welcome did not extend to opening the door fully, however. He used his body to block the entrance. He was wearing only a robe made of burgundy-colored silk. It was loosely belted around his waist. His hairy chest was visible through the gap.
Susan Trent looked Talbert resolutely in the eyes. She wasn't about to lower her gaze and check if more than Talbert's chest was on display. "This is my colleague, Detective Robert Samuels, Mr. Talbert. May we come in?"
"You want to borrow a whip. I understand completely, my dear. It's not as if the police department supplies these things. But is it wise to ply your new trade so close to home? Officer Samuels looks like he belongs to the vice squad. Granted, I have known members of the vice squad to lower their trousers and bend over. Although I have never met one with so attractively developed a butt before. Or perhaps I should say a butt aft. You are to be congratulated on your taste, my dear." Talbert winked broadly at Susan and assessed Samuels's body in an exaggerated parody of a sexual leer.
"Alas, Mr. Talbert, Sergeant Trent will not heed my pleas. I waste my words upon the air of her indifference to the pleasures of life. She remains impervious to my charms, glutteal and otherwise. I try, Sir, but to no avail. I wear tight pants to display my assets, but does she pay attention? No, Sir, she does not. But such is life. Has it not been your experience that those we love love us not?"
"My dear Officer Samuels. Do come in." Talbert opened the door and motioned the officers in. The chaos in the room was even greater than it had been when Susan Trent and Dell'uomo had visited the previous week. The sound of snores came from the next room. A bare foot and a hairy calf sprawled across a mattress were visible through the door. "Let me close the bedroom door. Ed—is that his name? I think it's Ed. Well, anyway, whoever he is, the poor man had an exhausting night. But don't mind him. He'll be out for a few more hours. Younger people just don't seem to have any stamina these days. I blame it on all those hours they spend at the gym. The poor dears just wear themselves out building up all those muscles. But where are my manners? Sit down. Sit down. Would you like something to drink? I'm sure I can find something Ed didn't finish." Talbert gestured at a clutter of empty beer bottles on the coffee table. "Whoops. Haven't had time to straighten the place up yet, if you'll pardon the pun. Let me just move that . . . bit of paraphernalia out of your way, Officer Trent. Unless you'd like to borrow it for your session with Robert? It's quite realistic, isn't it? The packaging claims that it's molded from life. No? Robert? Can't tempt you, eh? Perhaps the broad-shouldered lieutenant would benefit from it. You could gain some brownie points if you took it back to him. Still no takers? Oh, well, I try." Talbert waggled the dildo back and forth and then ran his fingers suggestively up and down it before tossing it onto the coffee table.
The dildo was heavy enough that it made the beer bottles bounce. Susan Trent noted with embarrassment that it was very flexible. She hadn't realized that they could be so lifelike. She turned away in distaste. "So the other day when you kept calling Lieutenant Dell'uomo a sergeant, you knew that you were using the wrong rank."
"Your boss did mention that he was a lieutenant, Sergeant Trent. More than once, as I recall. Was it too naughty of me to refer to him as a sergeant?"
"We have been known to call him names as well, Mr. Talbert."
"Oh, I do like this man, Sergeant Trent. Do tell me everything, Robert. Sit down and tell me all about yourself. Are you sure I can't get you anything to drink? Do the police never drink on duty? Or is that just a fiction?"
"Never, Mr. Talbert. We cultivate dry throats so that we sound hoarse and threatening. It's in the police manual."
"Robert, I do love a man with a sense of humor. You must call me Philip." Talbert found a crumpled pack of cigarettes in a pocket of his robe. He extracted one cigarette and looked askance at it. The filter had become detached and hung by a narrow strip of paper. Talbert tore the filter off and dropped it on the coffee table. He picked up a long cigarette holder made of what appeared to be antique ivory and inserted the stub of the cigarette into it. After he had lit the cigarette and taken a theatrical puff, blowing the smoke toward Susan Trent, he said, "Now, let me guess. You're here to ask me more questions."
"You are a mind reader, Philip," said Robert Samuels. "Susan, stop pacing and sit down. You'll make both of us nervous if you keep that up."
"Yes, Susan, sit down. Like Robert says, you're making us nervous. That's better. Well, Robert, what can I do for you today?"
"Philip, we have come to ask you to help us."
"My dear Robert, how could any upstanding, civic-minded inhabitant of this fair city of ours refuse you? Is there anyone so perverse as to say no to one of your requests?"
"Philip, we have reason to suspect that a former acquaintance of yours is behaving badly, very badly. I won't joke about it. That's why we've come to you for information."
"And the former friend in question is Scott Foster?"
"Yes, Philip, it is."
"Well, Robert, I can't claim to have always behaved myself. In fact, I seldom behave myself. But Scott was a bad influence on me. I did some very bad things because he encouraged me."
"We have heard from others that he likes to provoke people to violence."
"Yes, he once sat in that very chair you're sitting in now and gave me explicit instructions on how to . . . Well, let's just say `cause damage.' A lot of damage."
"Philip, we're not concerned with what you did. That's history. You've paid for it. We're just interested in stopping Scott Foster." Susan Trent interrupted to lend the weight of her rank to reassure Talbert that he could speak freely.
Talbert leaned back and extended his arms expansively along the back of the sofa on which he was sitting. He spread his legs apart and took another puff on his cigarette. His robe gaped open even further, exposing his groin. He looked down and with affected modesty pulled a bit of the robe across his abdomen. The gesture left most of his genitals still exposed. He leered at his visitors. "Susan—and Robert—whatever I can do to help."
"Thank you, Philip. Now I believe that you have known Scott since the two of you were young?"
"Oh, yes, Robert. Your surmise is correct. You're some sort of mind reader, aren't you? That must come in handy in your line of work. No criminal—what is it they're called on the TV—no perp can fool you. Tell me, does this ability extend to other areas? Can you tell what I'm thinking right now, Robert? Or do your friends call you Bob, or maybe Bobbie. Oh, I do hope we'll become friends, Office Bob. I could introduce you to some people who would appreciate you. They would just eat you up. Literally in the case of one of them. Oh, but where are my manners. I do go on. You must stop me, Robert, if I start chattering. It's your looks. They're so distracting. I can't think of anything else. But I promise you, Robert, I'll stay on the subject. Now, you had some questions. You were saying?"
"Scott Foster—how long have you known him?"
"Our families have been close for several generations. Scott and I both went to Cairnbrook Country Day when we were lads and then we went up to Chesterfield together. Our fathers were at Chesterfield together too. My father and the senator—well, he wasn't the senator then of course—and Kenneth Foster—he's some sort of cousin of theirs—were inseparable. My father was the one who gave the senator his nickname Ivy. So Scott and I were fated to be close. We were practically brothers."
"Did Scott misbehave when he was young?"
"Scott could be a bad boy, Robert. But I don't think you could say he was unusual in that. I know one of the signs of a future psychopath is that he likes to torture animals. Well, Scott wasn't like that at all. He loves animals. He always has several pets. He wasn't evil or anything like that as a boy. Just adventuresome. He liked to take risks. He was always the first one to try something out and then egg the rest of us on to follow him."
"What sorts of things?"
"Let's see. There was a barn at Cairnbrook with a steeply pitched roof. He got up on the roof one day and climbed up to the ridgepole and walked along it. Like an acrobat, you know. Then he bullied another kid into trying it, and the kid fell. Broke his collarbone and a few ribs and other things."
"And he continued to behave this way?"
"No, that stopped. At least the overt behavior stopped when he was ten or so."
"What happened? Do you know?"
"Well, his father was becoming involved in politics at that point. It was during his first campaign for the Senate. Scott's parents couldn't look after him, and so they asked Scott's Uncle Kenneth to watch him. Well, Scott always referred to him as his uncle, but he's really some sort of distant cousin. Anyway, this Kenneth Foster seemed to have a calming effect on Scott. Scott was very different after he spent that summer with him. Much quieter on the surface."
"So his behavior improved?"
"The visible behavior got better. But really he just got worse. He wasn't as public about it, that's all. It was as if he had learned how to channel it better. He became more manipulative but in a more discreet way. He was more skilled in using people. And he was even more indifferent to them. It was as if he was the only person in the world who mattered."
"And you remained friends?"
"Oh yes. How can I put this? I was susceptible to his influence. He was like a whaddya-call-em—a mentor. Yes, a mentor in misbehaving. He taught me how to look like an angel while being a devil. I'm sure that Sergeant Trent has mentored you in the same way, Robert. You obviously are a quick study. I'm sure you'll pick up what I have to teach you right away."
Samuels chuckled and wagged a finger at Talbert. "Now, now, Philip. Behave. What sorts of activities are we talking about here? What did Scott Foster mentor you in?"
"Now, Robert, I don't think I will tell you that. At least not without a lawyer present to protect my rights."
"But will you confirm that you did things that might require the presence of a lawyer if you were willing to talk about them?"
"I would not deny that there is a certain truth to that proposition, Robert."
"And later, when you became an adult?"
"A lawyer would also need to be present for that discussion, Robert."
"And if, say, you were to testify in court to what Scott Foster had done, would he need a lawyer?"
"He would need a team of lawyers, Robert. A very large team of very talented lawyers."
"Do you think this uncle—what did you say his name was? Kenneth Foster?—had an influence on his behavior?" Samuels made a show of writing the name down.
"Yes, that's right. Kenneth Foster. That was the impression I had at the time. I didn't see Scott for three months because we were traveling in Europe. But when I came back, he was always saying Uncle Kenneth says this,' Uncle Kenneth says that gentlemen never wear argyle socks'—things like that. He was full of Uncle Kenneth for a couple of years."
"Did they stop seeing each other? Was there a rift?"
"No, I don't think so. I think Scott just got old enough to take care of himself."
"Do you know much about this uncle?"
"I only met him a few times. He was a friend of my father's, but we didn't see him socially. He didn't have much money, at least not enough to keep up with the Talberts. He had to work for a living. I mean really work. To survive, not just to increase his trust fund. But my father used to see him occasionally. Maybe he still does. I don't know. You'd have to ask Dad. Anyway, Dad always said that Kenneth Foster was the smartest man he knew. Oddly enough, he popped back into my life briefly. He was the one who introduced me to Michael Sorenson. I'm sure that episode is part of your file on me, Robert. Michael Sorenson was the one—well, he was another person who betrayed me. I have not been lucky in my friends, Robert."
"No, Philip, I don't think you have. Have you seen Scott Foster lately?"
"No, not for years."
"Based on your knowledge of him, do you think it's likely he changed?"
"Are you asking if I think that he's become a nice man? Helps old ladies across streets, volunteers to feed the homeless?"
"Something like that."
"No, Robert, I don't think he's become a nice man. If he helps old ladies across the street, he's planning to steal their life savings. If he feeds the homeless, he's experimenting with ways to give them food poisoning."
"How do you do that, Robert?"
"What?"
"Get people to open up like that?"
"It's all in the hands, Suze. It's like magic. You distract them with one hand while you put the rabbit in the hat with the other."
"Talbert patted my butt as we were leaving."
"Hmm. He patted mine twice, once on each cheek."
"So you had twice as much fun as I did."
"Which cheek did he pat? I'll pat the other one, and then we'll be even in the fun department."
"Actually, Robert, if you were to pat either cheek, I think I would be ahead in the fun department."
"Suze?!"
"The lieutenant's going to be interested in this."
"The butt patting?"
"No, Robert. What Talbert told us about Kenneth Foster and Scott Foster."
Scott Foster awoke slowly, hanging on to the dream for a bit longer. It had been such a wonderful dream. He felt so calm now. Violence always left him renewed and satisfied. And now that he had found this new level of violence, he felt even better. Why hadn't he thought of it before? He would have to space the acts out, however. Repetition might dull the sensation. And then, too, the act was rather irrevocable, and the supply of "volunteers" for . . . well, what should he call it? There were the simple, direct equivalents, of course. Murder, killing, execution—but they lacked that certain detached je-ne-sais-quoi amusement that he sought to bring to all his acts. They had no panache, no sprezzatura. The Japanese had the right word to characterize the deeds of an aristocrat—asobi, play—every act of an aristocrat should be an asobi.
And there the word was—his volunteers for asobi. How filled with joy the act of asobi would be. How glad his pets would be to volunteer for it. But he would have to pace his pleasures, anticipate them in advance. The first two times he had become excited and caught up in the act. The pets' helplessness and obedience, their joyful anticipation of asobi, their willing acceptance of his grace and favor, had led him to push too hard too soon. How long could one extend asobi? It would depend on the volunteer, of course, but he would have to exercise greater discipline over himself.
The Chinese had had the death of a thousand cuts. Was that possible? Could the body survive anywhere near that much pain and loss of blood? Suppose one were to make one cut every minute, pausing after each to watch the flesh part like a tiny mouth and the thread of blood to appear on the skin, and then slowly to swell into a red bead that would flow down the body. Yes, the body would have to be upright so that it was open to him on all sides. And not just any flesh. It had to be hairless, white, pale flesh, a thin body, tranced by the drug into complete immobility. Standing unsupported, out in an open room, standing on a white cloth that would gradually become stained red with the blood. One cut a minute, 60 every hour, a thousand cuts would take nearly seventeen hours. Would that satisfy? Or was it too fast? Well, he wouldn't know until he tried it.
And he could hang the cloth. Display it along with the body. It would be like a work of art. He could even share it with others, maybe tastefully arrange the body and the cloth in public in some prominent space, the same way that he had shared David's body. But the park had been a mistake—almost no one had seen David before the police arrived and carted him off. No, it had to be a place with lots of people. Like a museum. With the drug, he could easily overpower the guards at a museum. The entrance lobby of the Guggenheim—oh, that would be the perfect place. How many visitors would ooh and aah over the display before they realized that the body wasn't a mannequin? Oh, he would get so much pleasure from listening to their vacuous comments as they struggled to find words to express their appreciation in what they hoped their listeners would regard as insightful ideas. Most of the hoi polloi would pretend to be appalled, of course. They and their media spokesmen would be horrified and condemn the act. Secretly, the hypocrites and philistines would be titillated, however. But there would be a few special people who would appreciate what he had done. They were his audience—the fearless people who would not let vulgar, pathetic, conventional morality prevent them from understanding and enjoying his art. Some of them might even compete for the privilege of being turned into a work of art. Yes, this opened up so many promising avenues. One had to keep experimenting to find new routes to pleasure.
He stretched out on the black sheets. The mirror on the wall opposite the foot of the bed reflected the image. His black body suit and the dark lighting made him almost invisible against the sheet. If he kept quite still, he could fade away, become a piece of furniture. Achieve nonduality. The purity of his being quite dazzled him. To be only a thought unencumbered by the body. A bodhisattva of mercy releasing souls to their next stage of being, helping them achieve nirvana. Even his father would be pleased. He would be ridding the streets of the vermin and inferior beings that his father despised.
But last night he had been in too much of a hurry. The frenzy had come upon him, and he had acted in haste. He must not make that mistake again. The pet had been so . . . delicious in his helplessness, though. A misting of the drug on the pizza, a second spray of the aerosol, and he had been quite docile. And what a luscious body had awaited him when he had climbed the stairs. It was almost naturally hairless. At his command, the pets had quickly and efficiently removed the hair from the boy's armpits and groin first and then his head. The fine down that covered the boy's forearms and legs had been next. The flesh was almost perfect. So white. The body so thin that the ribs had shown through the chest wall.
The genitals with their ugly bumps and veins had been covered with the white plastic protector, leaving only the pleated curves of the plastic shell visible. He had chosen wisely. The white scallop shape was much better than the `sexe.' If he had kept the pet longer, of course, he would have had it fixed. That doctor was so obliging. One would think he enjoyed castrating pets. Perhaps he did. Sometimes, the human animal was unfathomable in its love of destruction.
The nipples had been too large and dark, though. Even when the pet had been encased in the silvery body suit—a pity it was ruined, that metallic sheen was becoming a favorite of his. So suggested of the mechanical robot he wanted. Well, he could always buy another. But the new pet's nipples had been so hard that they marred the smooth surface of the suit. Tape hadn't made them protrude less, and the edges of the strip had been visible. He hadn't had a choice really. They had had to be removed. Perhaps it had been the sight of the blood flowing down the body, curving as it flowed over every rib and across the abdomen. It had been mesmerizing to watch. And then the temptation had come over him to see another rivulet of blood. So entrancing. All three pets had behaved admirably. The new pet so calm and accepting, even joyful, about the asobi. And his two pups following orders so obediently. But now, once again, he was back to only two pets. And he had meant to ask the new pet about Jeff Ange and what it had revealed to the police. He really had to exercise more control over himself.
Perhaps he should interrogate Jeff. The drug would make it easy to do, and then once Jeff had "spilled his guts," as it were . . . The phrase was meant to be metaphorical, but there was no reason it had to be. Perhaps Jeff could really spill his guts. . . . The Japanese had a word for that too—seppuku. That would be something to see. It would be messy, of course. Guts weren't as clean as blood. Still it was tempting. With a little thought, he could devise a way to make it aesthetically pleasing, part of a piece of performance art. He must remember to videotape it. One of the manimals could operate the camera. Or both of them. Views from two different angles. He laughed in anticipation.
Jeff was not his type, of course, but it wasn't as if he intended to keep him any longer than necessary. And it would serve Jeff right for interfering. Uncle Kenneth would be put out, of course, but he could always make himself a new helper. And the new version of the drug was even better than the hypnosis that Jeff used. Jeff and his skills were becoming obsolete. Surplus to requirements. Really, the inconvenience to Uncle Kenneth would be minimal, and besides Uncle Kenneth had always been so forgiving of his star pupil. Uncle Kenneth would thank him for getting rid of Jeff. But was the satisfaction of punishing Jeff worth lowering his standards?
Well, there was no hurry. He had time to think about it. At least he had been able to sleep in today. Tomorrow he would have to clear out before the cleaners came and then go to the office to write his weekly report. Dad was being so stingy with his allowance. He needed the income from his consulting work, and the money was so generous. Other than the tedium of writing the report, he was beginning to find the work quite enjoyable—not the experiments they made him do, but his own projects. And if he did say so himself, his experiments with this drug were really quite thorough. He was really putting it to the test. Uncle Kenneth would find it difficult to find anyone else with his skills.
Really, what he wanted to do was to try out his new idea. The idea had come to him last night while he was playing with the new toy. He had seen the plastic hood in a catalog. It was milky white but still clear enough that the facial features were dimly visible beneath the plastic. It covered the entire head. It was tight enough that it compressed the nose and ears and smoothed out the head. A tube protruded into the mouth and held it open. It was meant to allow the penis and other toys to be inserted. That wouldn't be necessary for his purposes, but it would allow the volunteer to breathe, and it could be closed off for the asobi.
He knew the type of plastic. It was soft. It felt like human skin. The hood was a half inch thick, too thick for what he wanted to do. What he needed as a suit to fit the entire body, but at most a quarter inch thick. That way it wouldn't interfere with movement or distort the body too much.
It would be like having one of those sex dolls. He'd find someone of the right size and drug them. Then he would put them inside the suit. He could move them about like a puppet. He would have the suit made so that a sleeve was inserted inside the toy's anus, just like the one in the mouth. Maybe have electrical wiring built in so that he could shock the doll. And when he got tired of the doll and it no longer amused him, he would plug the mouth hole and watch it die. What did they call them? Death throes. Yes, watch its death throes.
Scott Foster got out of bed. He wanted to get started with his new idea. He needed to find a volunteer and then get him custom-fitted for a suit. It had to fit the toy's body perfectly. He wondered how long a body could be encased in such a suit. Would the toy overheat? It wouldn't do for the toy to cease functioning before he was ready to discard it. So much to research. He had to find a volunteer, and then he had to find a supplier of the raw material, and then he had to find someone to make the suit. It had to fit perfectly, with no seams. Just a solid layer of material over the body.
But first, he had to take of Jeff. What a nuisance Jeff was. Really it was too tedious that he to stop and take care of Jeff—another thing that Jeff had to pay for. Any delay in gratifying his wishes was intolerable. Especially now that he had such a great idea.
"He is insane, Kenneth."
"Yes, Director, I am afraid that he is." Kenneth Foster nodded into the phone.
"The men who are trailing him watched him pick up a kid and take him to that warehouse of his. We were able to install cameras in the warehouse yesterday afternoon when he was out. Those subjects of his didn't even notice our men, by the way. Absolutely no reaction, I am told. The drug is working admirably in their case. But, anyway, we were able to watch him murdering the kid. We also have it on tape in case we need the evidence later. I'm told that he devoted several hours to the task. Then he leaves, and those helpers of his clean up the body and wrap it in plastic sheeting and load it in that van of his and dump it in an alley. Luckily our people were able to remove the body before it was discovered."
"So the police don't know about it?"
"No. That's been taken care of. We're watching Scott around the clock now. Tomorrow when he pays his weekly visit to the office, we'll install cameras in his home. Unfortunately, we do not have many resources locally, and I have been unable to watch the police operation as closely as I would like. I am having more people flown in. By tomorrow, we will have full access to their investigation. We will know everything that they know. And we will decide what to do. We should be able to guide their investigation. We will see. Perhaps we can use a minimal dosage of the drug on them to persuade them to drop the investigation."
"We can't count on that working yet. The latest versions are much more effective than the earlier ones, but still a small but significant number of subjects are able to resist one or two doses. We can't risk having anyone remember, and we aren't ready yet to dose civilians completely. Their behavior would stand out, and other people would notice. But one thing we should think about is cutting off Scott's supply of the drug. I only gave him enough of the latest version for about twenty doses. He must have used up a lot of it by now. His two long-term subjects are fully doped. So he wouldn't have to use the drug for them. He must have used about six-seven doses for Spier. How long did he have last night's subject? A few hours? Say maybe another four or five doses there. So he still has quite a supply left. Enough to do at least one more subject fully or several more subjects only partially. Plus his supply of the antidote to keep him from being susceptible to the hypno-drug. Unfortunately Scott can still do a lot of damage."
"Kenneth, as long as the police have nothing to go on, I think we should let him continue. He is providing valuable information, and our own investigators would hesitate to conduct his kind of experiments. If the police get too close, we can always remove Scott to a secure facility. We'll have to do that sooner or later. He has to be put to work in more closely controlled conditions. He'll attract attention if he carries on as he has been."
Chapter 16
Dell'uomo's first thought upon awakening on Wednesday morning was that he was listening to Jeff and Michael talk. Had he been dreaming about them? His second was that he was aroused. Very aroused. He had listened to the files on the CD last night before going to sleep. He thought he had played only the first two, but he wasn't sure. Perhaps he had listened to all three. The sound of Jeff's voice must have lingered in his mind and somehow become fused into a dream. But why was he hearing Michael's voice? Why were the two of them invading his sleep?
He stretched out full length on this back, his arms at his side, legs spread slightly apart—the same posture he used when listening to Jeff's concentration files. With his eyes closed, he heard Jeff's voice begin the induction routine. He was back in that hammock in the forest, the sun and shadows playing over his body. But he was also lying in his bed, with a hard-on, his cock lifting off his stomach and throbbing. Jeff seemed to be inside him now. Not an external voice coming through the earphones but somehow speaking from within him. All he had to do was relax. It was so easy and so pleasant. The warmth grew and grew inside him. He just felt better and better, but this time the pleasure he felt in listening to Jeff was so openly sexual. Jeff inside him, not penetrating him from without but filling him from within. And Michael was there too. Jeff and Michael joining forces to consume him. Somewhere someone was breathing harshly, moaning. His own body felt paralyzed except for his cock. It was as if it were being sucked, as if his whole body was being stimulated at the same time, as if he were both being penetrated and penetrating and being overwhelmed by waves and waves of pleasure. His whole body was being held just short of the point of orgasm, as the pleasure surged through his body again and again. He felt so helpless, so unable to resist what was happening, gripped in Jeff and Michael's presence.
Wanting their presence, wanting more of their presence, wanting to join with them, wanting to them to possess him totally, finally. His body giving in to the pleasure, his head pushed back against the pillow, his chest and stomach arched up off the bed, the muscles of his arms and legs clenching and unclenching. They were both inside him, thrusting and penetrating him. He was also inside them, penetrating them as the same time. His chest burned as his breath came in gasps. His body spasmed. His muscles locked rigid. And finally Jeff said, "now"—the three of them came in unison—as Dell'uomo spontaneously shot all over this chest. His body shook with each ejaculation. His breath came in gulps, someone cried out with pleasure. He collapsed. He could hardly swallow between breaths.
His right hand sought his forehead and rubbed it hard, something, some sensation to bring him down, to take him back to normal, to the world in which sunlight suddenly flooded through the window and he heard the noise of traffic in the street rise up to his bedroom. He became aware that his neck muscles were sore. It felt as if he had pulled several muscles throughout his body. Eventually his breathing slowed, and he was able to swallow. To open his eyes and survey his body, the cum already drying. He needed to go to the bathroom, but he felt unable to move. Movement would destroy the feeling that still lingered in his body and mind, and he wanted, wanted desperately, to hold on to that. What the hell happened, he thought. All his careful years of self-control and denial given up and given up gladly to Jeff and Michael. Whatever it was, he wanted it to happen again. Preferably with the real live Jeff and Michael.
*****.
"Where's Robert?" Dell'uomo had just finished a meeting with the detectives on another investigation. He had walked over to Susan's desk to summon her and Robert to discuss the Spier's case.
"Don't you remember, Matt? He told you. He's taking the morning off—he has a dentist appointment. He'll be in by this afternoon."
"Oh, right. I forgot his dentist appointment. Is your land line working? Mine keeps cutting me off."
"As he was going off duty, Kurt told me that everyone on the night shift was having problems. Nancy Becker called the phone company. They're sending someone over this morning to check. Here, use my cell phone."
"Thanks, but I'll use mine. It's in my office. I want to check with Davis to see if he's found anything more. Give me a few minutes and then come in."
Dell'uomo closed the door to his office. The squad room was noisy enough that it was not unusual for someone desiring to make a private call or simply to hear clearly to go into an empty room and close the door. Dell'uomo wasn't as worried about the noise as he was about being overheard discussing Sandman. He wanted to control that investigation. If Davis had found out anything, Susan was sharp enough to put his comments to Davis together to reach the conclusion that Sandman was worth investigating. He knew that Jeff and Michael and Kenneth Foster had nothing to do with the murders. He was certain that Foster was doing something, but nothing that would interest homicide. And he was very interested in Jeff and Michael. As he dialed Davis's extension, he saw the man from the phone company come into the outer office and talk with Susan. Susan gestured at him through his window onto the squad room and indicated that the repairman wanted to come into his office. He held up his hand and flashed five fingers twice to indicate that they should give him ten minutes. The repairman said something to Susan, and she led him off down the hallway. He vaguely recalled that the janitor's closet down the hall held the phone junction boxes.
"Davis? Hi, this is Matt Dell'uomo. How's it going?"
"It's going great. I was about to call you. I found out some more about Sandman and Scott Foster's business. Both of them have government contracts. Sandman has a $50 million contract with the Department of Labor to research "employee motivation." I checked back, and it's had this contract for three years now. So far it's been paid $150 million to do research and consult. I did a search on the Labor Department's website, however, and I can't find any project that mentions Sandman or any indication that this is a DOL project. Same with Scott Foster. He's been paid $10 million a year for the past three years to advise the Treasury Department on estate planning. Again, no mention of this on the Treasury Department website."
"So what do you think?"
"I think the two Fosters are being paid to do research for one of those agencies with no name, and the payments are being hidden in the Labor and Treasury budgets."
"But what research?"
"Well, what are they qualified to research? Hypnosis for Kenneth Foster. Sleep aids, concentration, employee motivation. Hardly seems worth $150 million. So far nothing that we've been able to find out about Scott Foster suggests that he is qualified to research anything. Perhaps it's just Senator Foster's way of paying the kid's allowance. The senator is head of the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence. He would have the connections to get his cousin and his son contracts. It's worth looking into."
"Definitely. Do me a favor and see out if you can find out more. I'll pay another visit to Michael Sorenson. He was very forthcoming about Sandman the last time we talked. There's something there. His loyalties are to Jeff Ange, not to Kenneth Foster. Maybe he'll talk."
As Dell'uomo hung up, the phone repairman came back into the room. He started picking up the phones on each desk and checking them, joking with the few officers present in the room. Dell'uomo opened the door to his office. "Sorry to keep you waiting. I had to make a call."
"No problem. One of the main switching units had burnt out. I've changed it. The phones should be OK now. If I could just check your phone, I'll be out of your office in just a few seconds."
Dell'uomo nodded and left to find Susan. The phone repairman was as good as his word. It took him barely half a minute to bug Dell'uomo's office.
Robert Samuels was dressed in blue coveralls and wore heavy work shoes. He carried a box of tools. If queried, he planned to say that he was a plumber checking on the tenant's report of a dripping faucet in one of the bathroom sinks. He waited with the two maids while the security office called upstairs to the penthouse and let Scott Foster know that the cleaners had arrived. They waited another fifteen minutes until the security cameras in the garage showed Foster exiting the elevator to the penthouse. Robert picked up the tool box he had borrowed and said, "OK, Officers DeSoto and Clarke, let's roll."
The two maids giggled. It was fun helping the police, especially when the officer in question filled out the cleaner's uniform so nicely.
"So, Officer Robert, do we get badges for helping the police?"
"Maria, you get me. That's better than a badge."
"No, we want the badges."
"I'm not enough?"
"You're already here. We get you no matter what. It's the badge I want. It's for my son. He'll think it's cool."
"I'll send badges for everyone. You got any kids, Lisa?"
"They're all grown. But I got two grandkids."
"Ok, badges for them too. Now, ladies, it would be best if you just did what you usually do and ignore what I'm doing. You don't see me. But if you spot anything out of the ordinary, tell me."
"Wait till you see this place, Officer. You'll see. Anything out of the ordinary would be easy to spot."
*****.
"Hey, Robert, you're back earlier than I expected." Lieutenant Dell'uomo paused in the doorway to his office, holding the report he had been reading. He glanced at his watch. It was just after 10:30. "Dentist appointment didn't take long."
"No, just in and out, Matt. No problems."
"That's always good news with dentists, Robert. You got a minute to talk. Something I need to brief you on."
Dell'uomo closed the door to his office and motioned Samuels to sit down.
Robert got right to the point. "Total waste of time, Matt. There's nothing in this place. A big fucking place—must be 5,000 square feet, and there's less furniture in it than either of us have. And get this. Everything is either black or white. Huge living room. One black sofa, sitting on a black rug surrounded by a floor painted white. No pictures, just blank walls. Nothing else in this room. It must be 30 x 40. Just one sofa. A kitchen that's all black. No food in it. A couple bottles of water in the fridge. Place looks like it's never been used. A bedroom with one king-size bed, black lacquer bed frame. Sheets, blankets, everything black. A mirror on the wall opposite the bed. That's the only thing hanging on the wall throughout the entire apartment. The floor and walls in the bedroom are painted black. Everything in it is black. The bathroom off the bedroom, black towels and rug, black tile on the floor and walls. Black fixtures. Black soap. A black toothbrush. Nothing in the medicine cabinet but shaving stuff, toothpaste, an unopened box of band aids, and an unused tube of first-aid ointment. And a bottle of aspirin. The pills looked like aspirin, but I took one for the lab to analyze just in case Foster's hiding something in plain sight. His closet was filled with black clothes. Suits, shirts, ties, socks. Even his underwear is black. He has these body suits—mostly black but a couple of silvery ones. The other rooms in the place are empty. No furniture, no TV, no books, no radio, no records, no newspapers, no computer, nothing but empty space. What does this man do when he's there? According to everyone I talked to, he spends most of the day there. Only goes out at night. The maids come in, dust, vacuum, change the sheets, and wash them, clean the bathroom, and wipe down the kitchen. There are other bathrooms and bedrooms, but the maids say that they've never been used as far as they can tell. That's it. I was in and out in half an hour."
"Anything on the sheets that might be of interest?"
"You mean like signs of emissions, hairs, that sort of thing? Nope. Hardly look used."
"He can't just sit in an empty room all day long."
"Maybe he just jacks off on the bed and watches himself in the mirror. I should ask him for lessons. I'd like to last that long."
"You have to work for a living. You wouldn't have the time. You'd get started and then be called to a crime scene."
"Protecting and serving does interfere with my sex life. Must be nice to be rich."
"Hey, money can't buy happiness."
"Yeah, but it makes the misery bearable."
Dell'uomo paused and examined the scene outside his window for a few seconds. He picked up a ballpoint pen and clicked it a few times while he thought. "I'd really liked to talk with Scott Foster. But we still don't have anything that will persuade the captain and Jessica to let us interview him."
"His apartment sure didn't give us anything. Maybe if we can find out where he goes at night, we'll find a smoking gun. Have you got anything for me to do? I've got to talk with the ADA in the Adams case at 1:00. That goes to court tomorrow, and he wants to go over my testimony again. Other than that I'm free."
"Check with Susan. I'm in meetings until late afternoon, and then I'm going to see Michael Sorenson again and talk with him about Foster. See if he's recalled anything new."
"The maids are leaving now. The plumber left about an hour ago. Is Foster still in his office?"
"Yeah, we're watching him. If he makes a move, we'll let you know. But he usually doesn't leave until 5:00 or so."
For a few seconds, the television screens in the security room at the River Towers went blank. When they resumed functioning, nothing seemed amiss. The guards on duty briefly discussed reporting the incident, but decided that it wasn't worth the hassle. Things were back to normal.
The agents exchanged looks of surprise when the elevator doors opened at the penthouse level. "Where are we going to put the cameras? There's no place to hide them. I can't believe this fucking place. There's nothing here. What is this guy, a monk?"
"Some monk's cell. Jesus, this place is bigger than my whole house."
"Hey, look in here. This must be the guy's bedroom. I can put a camera on the mirror frame and another on the headboard of the bed."
"Just what the guys like to watch. Bedroom scenes."
"It's set up like a theater. The guy lies in bed. He can see everything in that mirror."
"The bathroom's here. You can put a camera in there."
"Watch the guy piss."
"Whoopee. Now there's excitement for you."
When the security screens briefly went blank again thirty minutes later, the guards barely noticed.
*****.
"Hi, I'm back."
"Mmm. So you are." Michael wrapped his arms around Jeff and pulled him close.
"God, what a long day. I thought it would never end. Were you hiding behind the door?"
"Umm, hmm. Waiting for you."
"Waiting long? Oh, that feels so good."
"Not long. I saw you coming down the street."
"And that's when you got undressed?"
"Yep. Leaped out of my clothes and stood behind the door to waylay you."
"I like the lay part of that. Oh, do that again."
"My pleasure, Jeff. I have a surprise for you."
"Besides what you're already doing? I can't take much more."
"Yes, it's in the bedroom."
"What?"
"You'll never guess."
"The cat had kittens?"
"He was fixed years ago."
"That might explain that look he gives us."
"Aren't you interested in the surprise?"
"I don't want to move. It feels too good."
"Are we getting excited?"
"You might say that."
"Bedroom?"
"Hmmm." *
"Michael, why is Lieutenant Dell'uomo lying on our bed?"
"He's resting."
"Why doesn't he have any clothes on?"
"He was hot."
"Michael, he's a cop! You can't take his clothes off"
"He's been red-dragoned. He didn't protest."
"Oh my god. How long has he been listening to the files?"
"I don't know. But he showed up again this afternoon, and he was definitely excited to see me. So I tranced him. Happy Birthday!"
"It's not my birthday."
"It's Lieutenant Dell'uomo's birthday. He's beginning a new life."
"Michael, we can't do this. It's illegal."
"Probably. But he is very good looking, isn't he?"
"Hmm. He has less hair than I thought he would."
"Just enough."
"Yes, it outlines his pecs and his abs so nicely. Argh, Michael, don't change the subject. We have to wake him up and get him dressed and out of here."
"Well, I do intend to wake him up, but clothes aren't part of my plans. He's been prepped, and he's so ready for his sweet 'tist, Jeff. The lieutenant has the hots for you, Jeff. He confessed all to me. Wants your bod. Want to feels your hot cum spurting inside him. Wants to bear your children. I'll spare you the details. The man is smitten, Jeffers."
"Smitten? No one has been smitten since the Civil War."
"Doesn't he have beautiful legs. And you ought to see his ass. My god, Jeffers, it's perfection."
"Did you . . . ?"
"Jeff, I waited for you. It's you I love. The lieutenant is a mere bagatelle. A trifle. A fling. A soupcon. A cookie. A succulent little hors d'oeuvre before the feast that is my angel. I confined myself to the merest chaste kiss on his forehead, Jeff. Then I waited for you. Will you look at the shoulders on that man? You can have the right side. I'll take the left. Let's start by licking his nipples."
"You're evil."
"Hmm, very evil. Shouldn't you get undressed? Matt has plans for your naked body."
Jeff didn't even stop long enough to hang up his pants. They were badly wrinkled by the time he got back to them. *
Some time later Matt was kissing the inside of Jeff's left thigh. He began just above the knee and ran his wet tongue slowly up the thigh. He would advance upward an inch or so and then move downward to the knee again. Slowly licking upward a little bit farther each time and then moving back down the knee to begin again. As he moved upward, Jeff began to anticipate his advance. His cock was throbbing long before Matt reached within tonguing distance of his balls. Michael was stroking Jeff's body and kissing his neck, leading him toward that white hot sun. When, after what seemed like an hour, Matt finally reached Jeff's groin and began licking just beneath his balls, Jeff felt like pure being. A white hot light was consuming him. He didn't know if he came or not. But the orgasm disintegrated him. *
Later still, Jeff was lying with his head resting on the right side of Michael's chest. Michael was lying flat on his back, with Jeff nestled between his body and his right arm. Michael's arm was bent at the elbow across Jeff's back and his right hand cupped Jeff's shoulder. Jeff's free hand rested on Michael's stomach. Matt was on Michael's left side, with his right arm extending under Michael's neck, his face against Michael's neck. With his left hand he began stroking Jeff's body, gently tracing his eyebrows, the line of his nose, his lips, his neck, his arm, his hip. Then he began stroking Jeff's hand. It was all Jeff could think about. Dell'uomo's touch on his body. Michael and Matt were talking quietly. Jeff couldn't make out the words, but he could feel the vibration through Michael's chest. Michael said something, and then Matt placed his left hand over Jeff's. He placed his other hand over Michael's hand on Jeff's shoulder and squeezed it. Jeff thought he heard Michael moan. But he was so drowsy at that point. Maybe he just imagined it. *
As Matt lay with his face pressed against Michael's neck, he gently stroked Jeff's body with a sense of wonder. Jeff and Michael were so beautiful. His hand traced the outlines of Jeff's body with the lightest of touches. It was barely a movement of the air over Jeff's skin. A phrase from his childhood rose unbidden to his mind. He was home free. A hot summer night, the darkness bringing mothers to their doors to call their children inside. A game of hide-and-seek brought to a sudden end with the cry, "Allee, allee outs home free." He was home free. All the prisons, all the strictures, all the rules, everything that had held him back was gone. Michael was talking to him, barely the slightest disturbance of sound. He closed his left hand over Jeff's and his right arm bent spontaneously upward and his fingers interlaced with Michael's hand resting on Jeff's shoulder. He pulled both of them tight against himself. He was home.
Michael spoke very quietly to Matt, not disturbing Jeff. His head was resting on Matt's right arm, which extended beneath his neck. "He's being used by some very powerful people, Matt. There are doing some very evil things, and they are using Jeff. Please, please, protect him."
He felt Matt's head nod yes against his neck. "You, too, Michael. I'll protect you, too." Matt's lips brushed against the side of Michael's neck. Matt's bicep flexed and lifted Michael's neck as he bent his arm and lay his right hand over Michael's hand as it rested on Jeff's shoulder. Matt pulled all three of them close together.
It was that small motion, the movement of Matt's bicep against his neck, that overcame Michael. Suddenly he was drained of everything. Momentarily emptied of all feelings and then just as suddenly filled with a great joy—the emotion welled up within him and his eyes watered. A bead of moisture flowed out of the corner of his eye and traced a line downward across his cheek and onto Matt's face.
Matt barely registered the wetness on his face, but it tugged at his mind. There was something he should ask, something about moisture on a face. But he was too tired to remember what it was. Time enough to think about it in the morning.