Date: Thu, 3 Sep 2015 07:46:08 +0000 (UTC)
From: z119z 2000 <z119z2000@yahoo.com>
Subject: White Noise, Part 8

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.