Date: Mon, 7 Sep 2015 08:22:24 +0000 (UTC)
From: z119z 2000 <z119z2000@yahoo.com>
Subject: White Noise, Part 9

White Noise, Part 9 of 10

z119z

Copyright the author 2015

Comments are appreciated. Please send them to z119z2000@yahoo.com. Thanks.


Chapter 17

"Kenneth, can you talk now?" He had barely unlocked the door to his office
when the secure line began ringing. Kenneth Foster wondered, not for the
first time, if his offices were under surveillance. The director always
seemed to know when he could call.

"Yes, Director, I'm alone in my office."

"Your nephew's latest report was waiting for me when I arrived this
morning. It appears that the version of the drug he has is getting closer
to achieving the results we want. I've arranged for a copy of the report to
be hand-delivered to you. I don't want to trust it to email. The details
are . . . rather grisly. I will spare you a recital of them. If you are
interested in what your nephew did, he provides a full inventory of what he
calls his `experimental protocol' and `research results.' Essentially your
cousin murdered both young men slowly and painfully. Yet neither
resisted. The video we have of the second murder confirms this. I won't
send a copy of that. It's gruesome. Your nephew claims that both boys
enjoyed dying. I suspect he's projecting, and it's more a matter of his
enjoying killing them."

"Scott doesn't even have the latest version of the drug. We have tweaked it
since he received the batch he's using now. Preliminary results show it to
be even stronger and to work more quickly but not destroy the subjects'
minds at all in small doses. We are testing it now on volunteers from the
military prison at Fort Miller to see what the minimum dosage for
conversion is. We're getting closer to the point of having the subjects
under control when we need them to be under control yet able to function
independently when we don't. We approaching the point that I've achieved
with the units through hypnosis and brainwashing."

"That's good news. I look forward to reading the reports on the tests."

"I'll have them to you next week. What did Scott have to say about
dosages?"

"According to your nephew's report, the first test subject had received all
the recommended dosages specified in your instructions. The second subject,
however, had ingested the drug only three times. The first time was over
four months before the second. As I understand its effects, that initial
dosage would have worn off within a day or so. The second and third doses
were administered about a half-hour apart and about two hours before your
nephew began his tests. The effects were the same as the full regimen of
doses. This has quite interesting implications, don't you agree?  The
military uses alone are quite promising. Troops could be sent into battle
after receiving only a small amount of the drug."

"The drug promises to be so cheap that, once we enter full production, we
will be able to convert the military fully. They would be ready for combat
at any time. I think the civilian uses will be even more spectacular."

"My colleagues in the military branches will be interested to learn of
these results."

"Is it necessary that we inform them, Director? Perhaps the upper echelons
of the military should receive the drug first, the better to lead their
subordinates. As we have seen, some people develop qualms about using the
drug."

"You are becoming more ambitious in your plans, Kenneth."

"Yes, Director. I will tell you of them soon. Now, what do you have to
report about the surveillance of my nephew and the police investigation of
the murders?"

"We have your nephew under constant surveillance. When he is in his
apartment or the warehouse or the clinic, we have full camera coverage of
him. We follow him whenever he is moving. The offices of the homicide squad
are fully bugged. We can hear everything that is said there. We are using
directional mikes to pick up conversations elsewhere in the building,
although there our coverage is not complete. We have placed tracking
devices and bugs on the cars of all the principal investigators, and we
will shortly have enough manpower to shadow this Lieutenant Dell'uomo and
his two chief assistants, Trent and Samuels. We have all the paperwork
ready to take over the case on the grounds of national security. If
necessary, we could shut down the investigation within about five minutes,
Kenneth. An animal research facility with attached living quarters has been
prepared for your nephew. It is well guarded, and he can be held
incommunicado while he continues his experiments. No one will know where he
is. He will be quite comfortable, and we will be able to supervise his
experiments. We will also be able to ensure him an adequate supply of
subjects. He really cannot be allowed to continue to choose his own test
subjects on a whim. It is endangering the secrecy of the project."

"Excellent, Director. Really excellent. I am quite happy with your
work. You may give yourself 15 minutes of pleasure now and an hour this
evening, Director."

"Oh, thank you, Kenneth. Thank you. That is most generous." The director
was already moaning with pleasure as he hung up.

Kenneth Foster leaned back in his chair and steepled his hands in front of
his face. He was quite satisfied with the course of events. For a moment he
thought about rewarding himself for all his hard work. A day off after the
Scott problem was resolved—he could leave things in Jeff's capable hands
for at least a day. Things were coming together so nicely. Scott was being
contained and would soon be rendered harmless—well, harmless to the
project. Foster had no doubt his nephew would continue to harm others. But
his love of violence would be channeled along useful paths. If he failed to
cooperate, then his supply of the antidote to the drug could be withdrawn,
and he could be converted. His family would be quite relieved to see Scott
behave. Good behavior would be unprecedented for Scott. No one would miss
the old Scott.

All those years ago when Ivy had asked him if he could do something about
Scott, he wouldn't have imagined he would still be taking care of Scott
twenty-five years later. It had been amusing to teach Scott how to indulge
his "peccadilloes" without attracting attention. That may have not been
what Ivy wanted—his cousin probably envisioned that he would turn Scott
into a copy of his older brother. But that would have been such a waste of
Scott's talents. Even as a child, Scott had a flair for cruelty. He could
be quite imaginative. All he needed was focus.

Once he had introduced Scott to the pleasures of control, the lad had
learned to enjoy using his newfound power to camouflage his actions behind
a façade of proper behavior and to entice his acolytes into doing his
bidding. Talbert had been a godsend. So willing to be led, so unable to
resist temptation, so open to the influence of a stronger mind.

When he began researching the use of drugs to control others and render
them obedient, he had been only too happy to repay the senator for his help
in introducing him to the director and in securing the funding and
facilities to pursue his research by hiring Scott to test the effects of
the various versions of the drugs. As far as the senator was concerned, his
finding something for Scott to do had been even more reason to fund his
project. Ivy was very pleased that Scott had a job and was contributing to
furthering the Foster blueprint for the future.

Scott was the perfect person to test the drugs. He had no inhibitions or
moral qualms. Others might have demurred about the test protocols, but
Scott relished pushing the limits on what the drugs could make a subject
do. Unfortunately the same qualities that made him perfect for this
research also made him a danger to the program. He would have to be more
strictly supervised—for the safety of the project and its long-term
goals. The senator would agree, he was sure. Once Ivy understood the threat
an unsupervised Scott posed, he would see that no other action was
possible. Thankfully the senator had long since abandoned any parental
illusions about his younger son. Ivy knew that Scott was a psychopath.

*****

"It appears, then, that Kenneth Foster has been lying to us."

Thursday morning found the principal investigators in the David Spier case
back in Captain Jillson's office, along with ADA Jessica Morgan.

"Yes, Captain," said Dell'uomo. "The fact that he lied about his
connections with Senator Foster and his family makes all the information he
supplied us suspect." The lieutenant felt oddly relieved to be telling the
others about Kenneth Foster. He didn't know why he had been so reluctant to
implicate Foster. When he woke up that morning, however, it was as if his
eyes had been opened to Foster's perfidy. Perhaps it was a side-effect of
waking up beside Jeff and Michael. That had been wonderful. But he couldn't
think about that now. If he thought about Jeff and Michael, he would become
aroused again. God, he hadn't known sex could be like that. Whatever the
reason, his mind had felt totally clear for the first time in his life. And
he knew what he had to do. He pinched the webbing between his right
forefinger and thumb with the same fingers on his left hand. He needed to
focus on the meeting and deal with Kenneth Foster. "We can't trust anything
Foster told us. Not even the claim that that white noise machine was sold
in San Diego."

"But what is he up to, Matt?" asked Jessica Morgan. "Do you suspect Kenneth
Foster of being implicated in David Spier's murder?"

"Perhaps not in the sense of participating in the actual killing. But
definitely somewhere in the background."

Jillson cleared his throat and began issuing orders. "We need to talk with
Kenneth Foster again, Matt."

"Captain, I don't feel that I am the right person to do it. I was totally
taken in by him in all our discussions. He's very persuasive. He needs a
fresh look. I think it would be better if Samuels and Trent spoke with
him. I am building up a . . . rapport with Jeff Ange and Michael
Sorenson. I think I would be better employed talking with them, especially
Sorenson. I get the feeling that he is ready to unburden himself about
something that is bothering him. And, Captain, I think it's time to talk
with Scott Foster."

"Jessica, what do you think?"

"Well, he's definitely weird. But that's no reason to suspect him of
murder, especially this murder. Give us something more to go on, Matt, and
I'll be the first to question him. But at this point, all we have to link
him to the Spier case is a drawing produced under hypnosis, some gossip
from Talbert, and Sorenson's testimony that years ago he was beaten while
Foster watched.  As I pointed out the other day, none of this is evidence
or relevant to this particular case. It gives us reason to suspect Foster,
but our suspicions aren't proof. As for Sandman Enterprises, clearly
something is going on there. But is it illegal?  Again, we have no
proof. Things we don't understand aren't evidence. At most, they're cause
for further investigation. It is not illegal to receive a government
contract. It is not illegal to sell white noise machines. It is not illegal
to hypnotize people. I would suggest that Trent and Samuels talk with
Kenneth Foster and confront him with the fact that he has been lying about
his connections with Senator Foster. Matt should talk with Sorenson and his
boyfriend again to see if he can find out more. I'd like to interview the
Albertson kid myself and see if he can supply anything that would be
admissible evidence. But are we ready to confront Scott Foster with what we
have?  Wouldn't any contact set off alarm bells in him?"

"What if he is the killer, Jessica? Do we risk having him kill someone
else?"

"Don't lay a guilt trip on me, Matt. I'm well aware of the possible
consequences. Why don't we put him under surveillance? Trail him when he
goes out at night and find where he goes?"

"Can we get an authorization for the manpower to have him trailed, Sir?"
said Susan Trent. "By all reports, he seldom leaves the River Towers before
night. We probably could get by with just one man during the day, and two
at night. Robert has been working with the security guards at the River
Towers, and they appear willing to cooperate with us. They know when the
elevator to the penthouse is used. We could arrange for them to phone our
watchers when Foster leaves his unit. We already know that he takes
cabs. We could try to get one of our guys in position to pick him up. Or we
could watch who does pick him up, get the license number, and then find out
from the cabbie where he dropped him off."

"If it will help us find out where he spends his nights, I'm all for it."

"There's one other thing that interests me in all of this."

"What's that, Jessica?"

"There are four Sandman enterprises. One deals with the commercial
end—the shop, the online business, the wholesale business. Another is
for these seminars that Foster gives. The third invests the money the
businesses earn. But the fourth is an employment agency. The first three
are related. Those I can understand. But what has an employment agency got
to do with the other businesses? According to the prospectus filed with the
Business License Office, it is set up to `supply highly trained personal
assistants.' What has that got to do with hypnosis and self-help seminars?
Did this business have an office at Canal Street, Matt?"

"The directory in the lobby listed only Sandman Enterprises. Foster must
run all four businesses out of that office of his. Just because a business
has registered with the state doesn't mean it's prosperous or even
active. Nor does a business have to put a sign on the door when it occupies
the premises. The building is almost empty. I didn't get the impression
that this is a bustling, prosperous operation, Jessica. It looks like a
small business in a run-down building. More hope than performance."

"A small operation with a decent sized government contract, which may or
may not be a black operation for some spy agency. That may be the reason
for the run-down building. It attracts less attention than a glitzy office
downtown would. Foster has to be doing something for that contract to be
renewed for three years running. In terms of the total federal budget, it
may not be a lot of money. But even the government doesn't throw money like
that about. I'm just saying it's curious, Matt. Something else to look
into. Even if Sandman has no connection with the Spier murder, something is
going on there that we need to investigate. Perhaps not homicide, but the
fraud guys."

"Ok, people, I think we've gone about as far as we can with what we have."
The captain drew the meeting to a close. "Susan and Robert, you interview
Kenneth Foster. One of you arrange for the Albertson kid to come in and
have an interview with Jessica, and, Matt, you talk with Sorenson and Ange
again. Let's find out where Scott Foster goes at night—I'll arrange for
surveillance outside the River Towers and for one of guys to impersonate a
cabbie. Maybe we'll get lucky. The guy could be a big tipper, and the night
squad can order pizza. If Foster gets in another cab, we'll find out where
he goes. Any positive evidence, and we'll move on Scott Foster."

*****

"Yes, Director?"

"Kenneth, we picked up a conversation at police headquarters between an
unidentified male and someone we believe to be Sergeant Susan Trent. They
were making plans to visit a `Foster' this afternoon. The male had to make
an appearance in court at 11:00 to testify in a case. We are checking the
court rosters now to see if we can identify him. We know the male is not
Dell'uomo because he was talking on the phone at the time. So you may
receive another visit from the police this afternoon. Or they may be about
to visit your nephew in the River Towers. It was not clear from the
conversation which Foster they were talking about. We will give you as much
warning as we can of their arrival. But what should we do if they are
visiting your nephew?  He's hardly sane at this point, and he could easily
reveal everything. He thinks what he is doing is perfectly normal and
reasonable. A sympathetic interviewer could get him talking, and he would
never stop. You know how he is when he gets on one of his hobby horses."

"Don't worry, Director. I have prepared my nephew to deal with the
police. His behavior will give them no grounds for suspicion, and he will
reveal nothing. I will call him and trigger his defenses, just to be
sure. It's a pity that Dell'uomo is not the male officer who is coming to
interview me. I could handle him easily. I have met Sergeant Trent. I have
no doubt that I will be able to deal with her and her colleague's
questions, Director. Let me know as soon as you can when they leave and
where they are headed."

*

"Scott? This is your Uncle Kenneth. How is my favorite nephew?"

"Uncle Kenneth, I've been hoping you would call."

"I've just received your latest report. This is excellent work, Scott"

"I thought you would like it, Uncle Kenneth. The drug worked perfectly."

"No resistance at all?"

"None, Uncle. They were willing participants. And the pets had no reaction
to the scene. It did get rather . . . messy, but they just helped me carry
on the testing procedures. The implications of this are so promising,
Uncle. I have been making plans for further tests. I'd like to share them
with you and get your feedback."

"We must meet soon, Scott.  Now there is one thing I need to talk with you
about. You remember our discussions about how you should act and what you
should say if the police ever question you?"

"Oh, yes, Uncle Kenneth. I would not forget those."

"Good, Scott. Now listen carefully. If the police question you, you are to
activate your self-protection program. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Uncle Kenneth."

"Good. Now what are you going to do if the police question you?"

"Activate my self-protection program."

"Excellent, Scott. I am so proud of you. You are doing such good work, and
your experiments are very important to my researches."

"Oh, it's my pleasure, Uncle. I enjoy this work so much. It's so rewarding
and fulfilling. I can't wait to tell you about my latest project. I think
you'll really like it."

*****

"He's not there, Matt." Susan Trent stood in the doorway of Dell'uomo's
office with a look of alarm on her face.

"Who?"

"The Albertson kid. He hasn't been seen for days. The last time anyone
recalls seeing him was on Monday evening. He had a pizza party in his room
at the City University dorm. We spoke to several of his neighbors in the
dorm. As near as everyone can remember, the party broke up about 10
o'clock. They're rather fuzzy about the details. It seems everyone was
tired from the weekend and fell asleep soon after the party ended. No one
has seen Albertson since then. We checked with his teachers—he hasn't
been to any of his classes either."

"Did anyone check his room?"

"I called the dorm manager and had him take a look. The room was cleaned on
Tuesday. The manager said it looks like a typical student's room. So
cluttered it would be hard to tell if anything is missing or how long it's
been since Albertson was there."

"Find out his family's phone number and see if they have heard from him. He
can't just have disappeared into thin air. And get a team over to check his
dorm room. We need to find out where he's gone."

Dell'uomo had a premonition that they weren't going to find Albertson, at
least alive. "Oh, and Susan, get in touch with the local precinct that
includes Garfield Park and ask them to watch the park tonight. And call
that man who's head of the neighborhood watch and ask him to double their
patrols of the park. I don't believe in coincidences. Albertson's
disappearance is related to the Spier murder." Dell'uomo looked out his
window in dismay. He wished he could generate some optimism about
Albertson's fate. The day had started so well. Now it was disintegrating
into the usual nightmares. They were never very far away in his job.

*****

"Is this the right address, Susan?" Samuels bent forward and gazed at the
building through the windshield. He had finished testifying in court before
noon. Susan and he had grabbed some lunch and were now about to interview
Kenneth Foster.

"Yes, 1010 Canal Street. Hardly looks like the headquarters of thriving
corporation, does it? At least it's easy to find parking in this
area. There's a place right across the street."

"Susan, what other offices did Matt say were in the building?"

"I don't recall all of them. Just small businesses, mostly. Didn't he say
the upper floors were empty? Why?"

"Those two guys that just came out of the building."

"The pair in the identical outfits?"

"Yes, they look like twins."

"Yes. So?"

"They're very young looking. I just wondered what sort of business they
would have here."

"It looks like they're off to the gym. The way they're dressed and the gym
bags and all."

"They just seem out of place here. Maybe these are the two of the `highly
trained personal assistants' Jessica was wondering about."

"Don't you think they are rather young to be personal assistants?"

"That would depend on the type of assistance they are being trained to
render."

"Oh. . . . Right. Gotcha."

"Let's see if we can find out where they are headed. I wonder if there is a
patrol in the area."

"We can only hope." Susan Trent triggered the switch on the police
radio. "Dispatch?  This is Sergeant Susan Trent, Homicide, Badge
no. 5460. I'm outside 1010 Canal Street. Do we have a patrol in this area?"

"One moment, Sergeant Trent. I'm calling the information up on my screen
right now. We have one foot patrolman on Meridian. His last report was from
three blocks east of Canal Street. There is a patrol car, on Tenth, about
five blocks from you."

"We have two males, late teens, early twenties. They appear to be identical
twins. Both wearing red athletic-style warm-up pants, dark blue wind
cheaters, baseball caps, dark glasses, white tennis shoes, white socks. Now
walking south on Canal Street toward Tenth. If possible, please have them
followed and see where they go. No intercept. I just want to know where
they go."

"Understood, Sergeant Trent."

"I'll be out of radio and phone contact for the next hour or so. Have the
patrolman phone the report to homicide and leave a message for me."

*

From a third-floor window, Kenneth Foster watched the unmarked police car
pull up and park opposite the entrance to 1010 Canal Street. Luckily he had
had enough warning to send the twins away and prepare his second
office. The officers seemed to be taking their time getting out of the
car. Probably discussing tactics. He opened a drawer and stuck a small
aerosol spray in his pocket. It would be better not to use the drug on the
police at this point, but just in case all else failed, it was a
backup. Best to be prepared for all contingencies. Would they try the
good-cop, bad-cop routine? Television and the movies had made that so
familiar it would hardly work anymore. It should be an interesting
interview. He was quite looking forward to it. Ah, they were getting out of
the car now. He must prepare the welcoming scene for them.

*

"Sergeant Trent, please come in. Pardon the mess. I'm working on some
budgets."

"This is my colleague, Robert Samuels. We're sorry to intrude, but we had a
few more follow-up questions."

"Officer Samuels, pleased to meet you. Well, that may be inappropriate
under the circumstances. I hope there hasn't been another murder."

"No, nothing like that, Mr. Foster. We just are tying up a few loose ends."

"Of course, officers. I would be glad to help in any way I can. Oh, let me
just clean off that chair. In my case, work tends to expand the space
available to it. Let me get another chair. Oh, thank you, Officer
Samuels. Sorry, it's a bit crowded in this office. It isn't really meant
for meetings."

"Where do you hold meetings?"

"My business isn't of the nature that many meetings are necessary. We do
our order processing in the backroom of the store—that's the one you
visited earlier, Sergeant Trent. The orders are sent online to our
warehouse, which is across the river. The goods are shipped from there. The
warehouse serves many small companies such as mine. We don't ever have to
visit them. It's simply a matter of communicating with them by email or by
phone occasionally. Our accounting is done by a man who works out of a
spare bedroom in his apartment. Computers have made it so much easier to
decentralize operations. This is really just a small operation. Myself and
three full-time employees and then several free-lancers under contract."

"You outsource a lot of your operations, then?"

"Yes, Officer Samuels. We really couldn't survive if we had to support a
large staff."

"But your business must be prospering. You live in Westhaven, I believe."

"You have done your homework."

"Surely you have seen enough television shows about police work to realize
that we check into the background of everyone involved in a case, no matter
how peripheral to the investigation they are."

"So life imitates fiction."

"Very often, Mr. Foster."

Foster smiled thinly. He shuffled the papers on his desk to show that he
was a busy man. "And what can I help you with today, Officers?"

"We are trying to track down this white noise machine that was found in the
murdered boy's room. You told Lieutenant Dell'uomo and Sergeant Trent
earlier that the series was discontinued in June 1997."

"Yes, that is correct. We would have sold the last of them before we began
selling the new model. I don't have my records handy, but the last of them
would have been sold within two or three months."

"And the unit in question was sold to this Inner Journeys shop in San Diego
in 1997?"

"Yes, that is what my records show."

"I spoke with the proprietor of that shop earlier today, Mr. Foster. He did
not open for business until February 1999."

"If you spoke with him, then you realize that he is often confused about
things. I suspect that he uses drugs frequently and heavily. He is often
irrational."

"He seemed quite rational. And he has remained in business for several
years now. That takes some skill. We also checked his memory against the
California State Business Licensing Bureau's records. It seems he is
correct. The business began in 1999."

"I really have no explanation for the discrepancy, Officer Samuels. I will
check my records again. Perhaps I was too hasty the first time."

"There is one other matter, Mr. Foster."

"What is that, Sergeant Trent?"

"You told Lieutenant Dell'uomo that you have had very little contact with
Senator Foster's branch of your family."

" `Little' is a relative term, Officer."

"That it is, but both you and the senator attended Chesterfield at the same
time. We understand that you were quite close. You were almost a foster
parent to his son Scott for several years. Foster Enterprises lent you a
substantial sum of money. You have a sizable government contract. There is
a suggestion that Senator Foster may have played a role in the awarding of
that contract to you. `Little' would seem an inadequate characterization of
the relationship, don't you agree?"

"And may I ask what the police interest in these matters is?"

"As I said, we are tying down loose ends. This is a murder investigation. A
young man was brutally murdered. A witness described a man for a police
artist, and several people, including yourself, identified the drawing as a
picture of your relative Scott Foster. You have stated to Lieutenant
Dell'uomo that there has been almost no contact between yourself and the
senator's family. Yet we have found evidence of substantial contact. It is
a loose end. We do not like loose ends. Nor do we like it when we find
evidence that someone has been less than truthful to us. We begin to wonder
why."

"Are you accusing me of lying to Lieutenant Dell'uomo, Sergeant?"

"Would you say that all your statements to the police have been truthful,
Mr. Foster?"

"I do not see that my personal affairs are any concern of the police."

"Oh, but they are. We are becoming very interested."

"Perhaps I should call my lawyer."

"That is up to you, Mr. Foster. I'm sure your lawyer will advise you that
truthfulness is the best policy in answering our questions."

"Most lawyers advise silence, Sergeant."

"That is true."

"In any case, I will not answer further questions before seeking advice of
counsel, Officers."

"That is your right, Mr. Foster. We will call you later to arrange a more
extensive interview at police headquarters."

"At headquarters?"

"Yes, that is our right, Mr. Foster. As a good citizen, you are obliged to
assist the police in their inquiries. . . . What the hell?" Susan Trent
jumped up when the spray hit her face. Unfortunately she blocked Robert
Samuels's attempt to grab Foster. Kenneth Foster took advantage of the
confusion to direct the spray into Samuels's face as well.

Samuels's momentum carried him across the desk toward Kenneth Foster. He
received a full dose of the drug in his open mouth. The two officers
struggled against the effects of the drug for a few seconds. Foster stepped
back and watched them flail about until their movements ceased.

"Good. Stand up both of you. Now here's what happened today. You
interviewed me. I had nothing to contribute to your investigation. You are
satisfied that there is no need to interview me further. You will have no
other memory of what happened here. You interviewed me. I had nothing to
contribute to your investigation. You are satisfied that there is no need
to interview me further. You will now leave and continue with the rest of
the day."

Susan Trent and Robert Samuels obediently left and drove away.


Chapter 18

Around the same time that Trent and Samuels's meeting with Foster began,
Matt Dell'uomo was greeting Michael Sorenson with a kiss. It astonished him
how natural the greeting felt, and how good Michael's body felt against
him. He allowed himself to enjoy the embrace for a few seconds before
pulling back. "Michael, I need to talk with you—officially." He still
had a job to do, and there would be hell to pay if his colleagues found out
that he had become sexually involved with a witness in a case. Two
witnesses in fact. And it was more than just a physical involvement. There
was an emotional link as well, one that he hoped would continue, and an
emotional entanglement would count even more against him than a physical
encounter. Lust, the department could countenance; love between an officer
and a witness was grounds for an investigation.

The living room of Michael and Jeff's apartment looked the same as it had
on the previous times he had been there, but Matt couldn't forget what had
happened there. The room had a history now that included him and a future
that would include him. Michael's welcome had assured him of that. So it
didn't feel like the same room. It was a different room. It was more
comfortable, more familiar. And he was part of it now. There were atoms
floating in the air that he had breathed out. Atoms that Michael and Jeff
had breathed out were now part of him. Flecks of his skin and hairs from
his head and body probably littered every surface.

It was like the CSI mantra. Every person who enters a room leaves something
behind and takes something away. The crime scene officers would find plenty
of evidence of his presence and would be able to conjecture with a high
degree of certitude what he had done in the apartment. A forensic
investigator would quickly find DNA confirmation of his presence, and his
lights would fluoresce that special blue-white sheen that signified the
discharge of cum. He could almost hear the court testimony. "Tests showed
that the traces of ejaculate found on all three cushions of the sofa and
the bed and the rugs in the living room and bedroom were human. DNA
screening proved that it belonged to Lieutenant Matteo Dell'uomo, Michael
Sorenson, and Jeff Ange."

"Please clarify. Traces of sperm belonging to all three men were found on
all the areas mentioned?"

"That is correct."

"As an expert witness," the DA would ask, "what does the presence of
ejaculate belonging to Lieutenant Dell'uomo mean?"

"It implies that Lieutenant Dell'uomo discharged ejaculate either in the
presence of Sorenson or Ange or both or while alone. It is impossible to
tell if all three men's sperm was deposited at the same time."

Well, he would gladly testify to the presence of Michael and Jeff and a
long romp throughout the apartment. Perhaps not in the kitchen, but he
couldn't swear to that. His memories of portions of the previous evening
were hazy. But what the CSIs would not find were traces of his emotions and
feelings. He wasn't ready to share those with anyone but Michael and
Jeff. When Michael had embraced him at the door, his mind and then his body
had responded. He wanted to continue kissing Michael. He wanted to tear his
clothes off and offer himself to Michael, but he forced himself to pull
back. He had a job to do, but he would do it gently. He pulled Michael over
to the sofa and made him sit down. He took a seat opposite Michael in an
easy chair on the other side of the coffee table. He sat erect in the chair
with a certain stiffness of posture. "Michael, I need to talk with you."

"Of course, Matt. Any time."

"Michael, I need to talk with you as a policeman."

"Yes, Matt, it's about time I was straight with you."

"Well, you don't have to be straight." The two men shared a complicit
grin. "Just tell me what you know about Kenneth Foster's business."

"Can I hold your hand? It will be easier for me if I can touch you."

"Michael, last night . . . last night was wonderful. I hope it happens
again. I really hope it happens again. But, caro, a boy was badly abused
and then murdered. It's my case, and I have to find the guy who did it and
stop him from doing it again. A second boy has disappeared, and we're
afraid that the same man was responsible. We suspect Scott Foster to be
that man. And everything we have found out so far points to your boss being
involved in this as well. He's not the murderer, but he and the murderer
are cooperating in something, and that something has spilled over into
murder. Now, last night, you said that Jeff was involved with some evil
people. I promised you that I would protect Jeff. And I will if I can, but
you've got to help me, Michael."

"Foster takes submissive people who are susceptible to hypnosis and turns
them into slaves and then sells them."

"Sells them?"

"Yes, Kenneth uses hypnosis to condition them to be obedient, subservient
slaves, and then he sells them to people. Well, technically he leases
them. That's what Sandman Personal Assistants does. It manages the
units. That's what they're called. `Units.' I was one. In some ways, I
still am one. Philip Talbert leased me from Kenneth Foster. Right now,
Kenneth is training a pair of identical twins. They're almost ready to be
sold. He's also working on another project—one that is earning him a lot
of money. But I don't know what it is. I just handle the money that comes
through."

"We know about the money. It funds some sort of government project."

"Yes, the checks come from the government."

"What role do you and Jeff play in all of this?"

"Jeff's a unit. Kenneth has been training him for years. Jeff doesn't think
he's a unit, but he is. He does everything that Kenneth tells him to. But
Kenneth isn't interested in Jeff sexually, and after I ended up in the
hospital, Kenneth made Jeff fall in love with me. I'm supposed to keep Jeff
satisfied. Kenneth can still control me when he wants. But he's forgotten
about us. He thinks Jeff and I are so obedient that we don't need to be
reconditioned. I have begun to escape from him, and I'm trying to help
Jeff."

"Tell me everything you know about this."

And so Michael told Matt everything he knew.

"This is unbelievable."

"Matt, you've got to believe me. Kenneth is . . . ."

"I think he hypnotized me. I visited him at his office on Canal Street, and
he showed me some machine. The next thing I know he's ordering me to jump
out an open window. I woke up from the trance, or whatever it was, at that
point. He said he was trying to demonstrate to me that no one could be
forced to do something under hypnosis."

"Matt, you're very susceptible. In fact, you're the type Kenneth looks
for. That CD you bought, it's been training you to respond positively to
Jeff's voice so that you can be trained further."

Matt did not speak again for a minute. "So all this has been a
sham. Everything that I've been feeling for Jeff, everything that you have
told me before, all of it was a lie." Another lie. First Foster and now
Michael and Jeff. None of them could be trusted. Sandman was . . .

"No, you're not far enough along in your training for that to happen. It's
been real. Last night was for real."

"I don't know whether to believe you or not, Michael. Jeff and Kenneth have
been manipulating me. Why not you as well?"

"Red dragon."

"What?"

"Red dragon."

Matt looked dazed for a second, and then his head slumped forward and his
shoulders and arms relaxed.

Michael stepped behind his chair and placed his hands on Matt's shoulders
to prevent him from falling out of the chair. I'm one of the good guys,
thought Michael. I'm doing this for a good reason. I won't hurt Matt. Just
use him a bit.

He hoped he wasn't being complicit in Sandman's evil. Well, he was, but he
was trying to stop it. Surely that counted for something. And he wouldn't
hypnotize Matt again. It was just something that had to be done now. A
temporary expedient.

"Listen to me, Matt. Relax deeply and completely. Just take a deep breath
in. Hold it for a second. Now let it our slowly. And as you do, you feel a
deep wave of pleasure spread through your body. You feel so comfortable, so
relaxed, so open. You feel so good when you listen to my voice. Just listen
to my voice and sink deeper and deeper into sleep."

Gradually Michael took Matt into his control, associating the strong
feelings of pleasure Matt was feeling with obedience to his
commands. "Matt, Kenneth Foster and Sandman are behind Scott Foster and the
murders. You will investigate them further until you find the evidence
needed to convict them. I will help you. Jeff and I are innocent of any
wrongdoing. We are being used by Kenneth Foster. You love Jeff. You will
protect Jeff. You will see that no harm comes to Jeff."

Matt floated in world of warmth and comfort and security. Michael was with
him. He was safe, He wanted to stay there with Michael, but Michael was
telling him that he had a job to do. He had to wake up and do his job.

"So this white noise machine belonged to you?"

"Yes, they are programmed with a subliminal message. The unit listens to it
while sleeping and is further conditioned to obedience and submission to
the patron. Scott Foster took it away. He must have given it to the
murdered boy for some reason."

"The unit. The patron. Why don't you call them what they are? They are
victims and criminals. We have to put a stop to Foster. How can he use
people like that?"

"It's horrible, Matt. I can't tell you what it was like to be a unit. I was
conditioned to the point where I couldn't do anything but obey Talbert,
even when he was hurting me."

Matt felt anger rise inside himself. He had to put a stop to this
obscenity. He leaped up and looked at his watch. "How did it get to be so
late? Where is Jeff now?  I have to take the two of you downtown so that
you can make statements. We can have Foster arrested tonight."

"Foster has paperwork that makes it look innocent. On paper, the units are
employees of Sandman Personal Assistants and work under contract to the
owners. We collect a monthly fee to pay their wages, their social security,
health benefits, pension plans. It all looks innocent on the surface. Every
unit you talk to will claim that he or she is only an employee of
Sandman. And I'm not sure that Jeff will testify against Foster. He's been
under his control for years."

"I need to talk with Jeff. When will he be home?"

"He's usually back by 6:30 or so. Some nights he's later."

"What do you have on that computer of yours? Can you get a list of all
these units and who owns them?"

"I have the employment records. Foster keeps the main records at Canal
Street. But I can find the names and addresses."

"Where are these twins?"

"Also at Canal Street. The units are trained on the top floor of the Canal
Street Building. They stay in an apartment owned by Kenneth Foster."

"Michael, it's going to be all right. I'm going to help you and Jeff fight
this and get you free."  Matt put his arm around Michael's shoulder and
hugged him. "Now, let's have a look at your computer and see what we can
find."

*****.

"Captain Jillson, this is the James Barnes, from the U.S. Attorney's
Office. And this is Special Agent Sean Campbell. Gentlemen, this is Calvin
Jillson." Chief of Police Bryson gestured for everyone to sit down.

"Captain," said Barnes, "I believe you are investigating the murder of a
David Spier."

"That is correct. We have identified a likely suspect and are gathering
information on him."

"Who is heading the investigation?"

"It's under the direction of Lieutenant Matt Dell'uomo. He's being assisted
by Sergeant Susan Trent and Detective Robert Samuels. Jessica Morgan is the
supervising counsel from the District Attorney's Office."

"Are they the only ones involved in the investigation?"

"They are the primary investigators. Various officers have been sent to
gather background information, interview neighbors and friends of the dead
boy, that sort of thing. Davis Marks from the Business Fraud Division has
also provided invaluable information."

"On what? What has a murdered student have to do with business fraud?"

"We have been pursuing leads that led us to a company that appears to be
implicated in the murder. Chief, what is this all about? What does a
murdered student have to do with the federal attorney's office?"

"Captain Jillson," James Barnes interrupted, "the federal government has an
interest in David Spier's murder. I have been instructed to inform you that
it is a matter of national security and the investigation will be taken
over by Special Agent Campbell and his office."

"And what office is that?"

"I am not at liberty to say, Captain Jillson. We have a writ from the
Federal District Court ordering you to hand over all records relating to
the case to Special Agent Campbell and his men. You are to instruct your
officers to cease their investigation of the case."

"Chief, I must protest against this."

"Cal, I have received several calls on this from the highest levels. This
is a matter of national security. Special Agent Campbell is simply doing
his job. I expect you and your men to cooperate with him and turn over all
your records. Our investigation is to end immediately."

*****

"Matt, where are you?"

"Susan, what's up? I'm with Michael Sorenson. I've uncovered some
incredible evidence against Sandman."

"We've been called off."

"Called off what?"

"The Feds are in our offices now, taking all our records on the Spier case,
Sandman Enterprises, everything. Captain Jillson has ordered us to
cooperate with them and stop the investigation."

"Where are you now?"

"I'm in the women's bathroom. All of the federal agents are male. It was
the one place I figured they couldn't follow me."

"Susan, you wouldn't believe what Sandman's been doing. We can put Kenneth
Foster away for years."

"Matt, the government is claiming it's a matter of national security. They
are threatening to arrest us if we don't drop the investigation."

"We can't drop it, Susan. We have to figure out a way to stop these guys."

"Matt, I can't talk any longer. They'll get suspicious. These guys mean
business, Matt. We'll have to be careful. I'll talk with you later."

When Susan Trent put her cell phone back into the pocket of her suit coat,
she felt a piece of paper she had tucked into her pocket earlier. On it was
jotted a phone message that had arrived for her earlier. "Patrolman Black
reports that twins were trailed to Midtown Health Club." She remembered
seeing the twins and radioing a request for surveillance, but she could not
remember why. Well, as her mother always said, if you can't remember
something, it can't have been important. She almost tossed the piece of
paper into a waste basket, but then thought better of it. Perhaps if she
and Robert paid a visit to this health club, it would come back to her.

*****

"Delivery for Jeff Angie." The bike messenger arrived at the shop just as
Jeff and Cindy were closing up for the day. He carried a large, padded
manila envelope and a handheld digital reader. The messenger pointed the
reader at a barcode on the envelope. It beeped.

"I'll take care of it, Cindy," said Jeff. "If you've closed out the till,
you can go home now. I'll lock up."

"Sign here." The messenger handed Jeff a stylus and pointed at a blank line
in the window of the reader.

"Thanks, Jeff," called Cindy from the back. "I'll just get my coat and
purse."

"Just a second. Let me give you something for your trouble." Jeff pulled
out his wallet and offered the messenger a dollar.

The messenger shook his head. "It's been taken care of. Enjoy, Mr. Angie."

"Thanks."  "And it's Ange," Jeff said under his breath. Out of habit, he
glanced up and down the bike messenger's body. Not his type. Way too
skinny. The guy must do drugs. It didn't look as if he had eaten for a
month. His scalp was shaved smooth under the bike helmet he wore, which was
not to Jeff's taste at all. Plus his skin was so pale—odd for a bike
messenger who spent his days outside delivering packages.

Jeff put the manila envelope on the counter while he locked the door behind
Cindy and the delivery man and then carried it into the backroom. It was
only after he had double-checked Cindy's totals and put the money into the
wall safe and the credit card receipts into the bag for Michael that he
turned to the package again. It was marked "Urgent. Open Immediately" in
what appeared to be Kenneth Foster's handwriting. That was a first in his
experience. He couldn't recall getting a delivery from Kenneth before. He
tore open the flap and pulled out a plastic baggy. It appeared to contain
only a sheet of paper. This is weird, he thought. What was with a blank
sheet of paper?  He opened the bag and pulled out the sheet. It was wet,
like one of those moist towelettes that restaurants that serve messy food
give you. And there was an odd, peppery smell.  He felt dizzy. He tried to
focus on what was happening to him, but it was so hard. He was so tired. He
wanted to lie down and sleep.

He was barely aware of answering the phone when it rang a few seconds
later. "Jeff, have you opened the envelope?"

"Yes. It is open."

"Wipe your face with the towel. Hold it over your nose and breathe in
deeply."

Jeff did as he had been told without hesitation.

"Now unlock the front door."

Jeff dropped the towel on the table and walked through the dark shop to the
front door and unlocked it. With his last conscious thoughts, he recognized
the bike messenger and the man in Mike Albertson's drawing. A third person
dressed in a black body suit slipped into the room behind the other
two. The man gestured for the messenger to relock the door and led Jeff
into the back room and sat him down. He held the towel over Jeff's
face. "Breathe in deeply. Good. Now again. Very good. And once more."  The
man glanced at his watch. Better to give the drug a minute or two to
circulate in Jeff's system. He checked the backdoor to make sure it was
locked. He lifted the shade on the window and checked the back
alley. "Bring the van around back here," he said to the messenger. "And get
changed. I don't like those clothes."  He let the manimal who had played
the role of the messenger out the front door and locked it again. None of
the people hurrying by paid them the slightest attention. No one was
watching.

He returned to the backroom. Jeff's eyes were vacant. "No one's home at
Jeffie's place." He chuckled to himself. Really, he expected more of Uncle
Kenneth. Uncle dearest needed advice on choosing a personal assistant. Jeff
was positively fleshy. Not at all sleek. His arms strained the sleeves of
his shirt. He had to work out to be that well developed. And there was that
tuft of hair showing at his throat. It was disgusting. And yet Uncle
Kenneth trusted this Jeff with his business. Not his real business, of
course. That he gave to his favorite nephew. But Uncle Kenneth let this guy
train these units and service them, as well as run this shop. True, it was
a pretty crummy shop, but Uncle Kenneth had never even asked Scott if he
wanted to help out. He would have made a much better assistant than
Jeff. He had seen how Jeff treated the units. Jeff was too kind to them,
too tolerant of their wishes. He would have put a stop to that. After all,
he had been the one who had shown Philip how to discipline Michael. And
that silly white noise machine that Jeff had given Michael to keep him
trained. That had been totally useless. He had tried it on David, and it
hadn't done anything but put him to sleep.  No, the new way was much
better. Once he and Uncle Kenneth had the product ready, it would be only a
matter of time before . . .

The van pulled up into the alley behind the store. Scott turned off the
lights and waited until he heard the door of the van close. He opened the
back door of the shop a crack and watched while his manimal stood in the
alley and stripped off his clothes. Now that was a proper body. Thin,
white, hairless, sleek, smooth, pale. The black suit flowed on
effortlessly. Nothing caught at it. It was if a shadow were flowing over
his manimal's body. It was so beautiful now. The body suit was so much
better than those ugly jeans and t-shirt. He briefly thought ahead to the
pleasures that awaited him later. But first, business. He had work to do.

He turned back toward Jeff. Really it was much better to keep the lights
off. That way, he didn't have to look at Jeff and his ugly body. It was
also so nice the way the manimals disappeared into the background. He
should have brought his black suit too. Poor Jeffie wouldn't have been able
to see anyone in the dark. Well, poor little Jeffie wasn't seeing too much
anyway. It was time to begin. He made a mental note. Jeff had received a
dose of one drop. So clever of him to have put the towel into an envelope
with Uncle Kenneth's writing on it. Of course, Jeff had only breathed the
drug in. Perhaps some of it had been ingested through the skin when he had
held the cloth over Jeff's mouth. So the total would be even less. Say
maybe three-quarters of a drop maximum concentration. Enough to make Jeff
compliant without making him so helpless that he attracted attention as
abnormal. He might appear tired and somewhat listless to an outsider, but
not enough to cause alarm. Most of one dose was enough to give him control
over Jeff's mind and body, however. Of course, it wasn't really Jeff's body
anymore. "I am taking you away," he crooned. "I am taking your body away
from you, Jeffie. Stripping your mind of all control. Your body no longer
obeys you. It obeys me. Does Jeffie want to lie down in a hammock? Does
Jeffie want to lie in the warm sun at the beach?"  Oh, this was too
luscious. Uncle Kenneth would be amazed to see which of his star pupils had
proved the victor. The Jeffie stud under his control at last. But poor Jeff
wouldn't be a stud much longer.

Should he make Jeff kneel and kiss his shoes? A bit theatrical and silly,
but a nice way to begin, he thought. Scott Foster pulled a wooden desk
chair into the center of the room and sat down, his legs stretched out in
front of him. The manimal had put a nice shine on his shoes. The tips
gleamed in the few rays of light penetrating the room. It was quite
entrancing to look at them and slowly move them back and forth. Uncle
Kenneth had shown him the fascination of moving lights so long ago. So
relaxing. So entrancing. Just the flickering beam of light in front of
him. "Jeffie, prostrate yourself on the floor at my feet and lick the tips
of my shoes." He was gratified to see how quickly Jeff obeyed. "Oh, such a
good obedient boy. You would like to be my toy, wouldn't you, Jeffie. But
you can't. I won't allow it. You're too ugly. All you are good for is
licking my shoes and a little game of asobi later. You don't know what that
is, but you will find out. Although it's a pity that you won't be able to
comprehend all that is happening to you. One of the shortcomings of this
wonderful drug. But, then, I will be able to comprehend it. And that will
be enough for me."

He hadn't planned this at all well. The scene deserved candlelight,
flickering over Jeff's tongue as it lovingly licked his shoes. The little
pink tongue tirelessly licking his shoes. Perhaps he should take it as a
trophy later. He should have worn boots, dirty, filthy boots for Jeff to
lick clean. The aristocrat home from a long hard gallop along muddy
roads. And he should have one of mother's heavy crystal brandy snifters
beside him on the table. He wouldn't drink any of the foul liquid, but it
would help set the scene. The nobleman accepting the fealty of a serf. Ah,
once again he had been in too much of a hurry. He had to learn
patience. But back to work, play later.

"Now, Jeffery Jeffers Jeffie, some questions before I start to play."

*****

"Hi, it's just me. I'm running late. I thought I would pick up a pizza on
the way back. Is the usual OK? . . . Oh, OK, I'd better get two then. What
does he like?  . . . Anchovies? . . . No, I don't mind anchovies. . . .
Well, it's about time I gave them a try, then. You're always complaining
that I'm not an adventurous eater. . . .  I'll be there in about 45
minutes." Jeff shut off his phone when he finished the call and set it down
on the table as instructed.

"Very good, Jeff. You sounded quite normal. Is someone there besides
Michael?"

"Matt—Lieutenant Dell'uomo."

"Even better. I will get all three conspirators at once. Uncle Kenneth will
be surprised that you have been consorting with the police, Jeff. He will
be most disappointed. But he will be happy that I've rounded up the three
of you so efficiently and put a stop to you. I'm afraid you've been a very
bad boy, Jeff, and you need to be punished, don't you? All three of you
need to be punished, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Good. Phone this pizza place and order the pizzas. We'll pick them up on
the way."