Date: Fri, 28 Feb 2014 18:37:53 -0500
From: Jake Preston <jemtling@gmail.com>
Subject: Psychic Detective 10

Psychic Detective 10
By Jake Preston


This is a work of erotic gay fiction, intended for readers who enjoy a
murder mystery in which fully developed characters interact sexually and in
other ways. Their sexual encounters are sometimes romantic, sometimes
recreational, sometimes spiritual, and almost always described
explicitly. My attention is equally divided between narrative, character
development, and sex scenes. If you don't care for this combination, there
are many other excellent "nifty" stories to choose from. And remember that
while nifty stories are free, maintaining a website is not. Please think
about donating at http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html

Writing is usually a solitary avocation, but not necessarily so on
nifty.org, where a longer story appears in installments. If my characters
and my story grab your attention, you can always intervene with suggestions
for improvements. All sincere comments will get a response!

Jake, at jemtling@gmail.com


*  *  *  *  *  *

Chapter 10
Göran under Cover


	Summer turned to autumn. Dmitri and David transferred to Bemidji
State, and started their junior year as roommates in a second-floor
apartment in a house on Lake Bemidji, about a mile from campus. Dmitri
changed his major from Business to Anthropology. With Red Hawk as his
mentor, he started planning an anthropological study of the Five Spirits
Island crime scene. It was to be his senior thesis. The combination of
Native American and gay themes with serial murders gave him plenty of
material to work with. Thanks to Red Hawk, he got a head start on the
project. David continued his major in Computer Studies, but added History
as a second major. Working in tandem with Dmitri and Red Hawk, he started
work on his senior thesis, too.  It was to be a study of computer
applications in the Five Spirits Island crime scene. Red Hawk gave him his
first assignment: to establish a database for each clue discovered on Fire
Spirits Island.

	In winter the trail of clues at Lake Ashawa grew cold, but the
Crime Lab identified victim number three—a nineteen-year-old `urban
Indian' named Sam Benton, who had lived with his mother and two younger
brothers in Superior, Wisconsin. He had worked as stock-boy in a warehouse
on the harbor. Winik and Svenson returned to their duties in Duluth. For
weeks Svenson drove across the High Bridge to interview Benton's family,
friends, and co-workers. He amassed a voluminous file of data about
everyone Benton knew. No one knew of another missing person. Benton did not
seem to know the other four victims, whose identities remained elusive.

	Svenson hypothesized that `Albino Perp' (as he called him) had more
than one hunting- ground. He sent emails to sheriff's offices in Minnesota
and in neighboring states, describing the Five Spirits Island crime scene
and requesting information about similar crimes. Most of his emails were
answered, but no one was able to help. He decided to take another tack. He
prepared a report of the Five Spirits Island crime scene, complete with
photos, sketches, interview reports, and colored photographs of Anna
Ravitch's paintings, which depicted possible crime scenarios.  He mailed
these to sheriffs who worked in or near Reservations in Minnesota and in
neighboring states, and further west to Montana, Wyoming, and Colorado. The
Indian themes in the crime scene were significant, Svenson reasoned, so he
limited his scope to Reservation areas.

	Svenson mailed his report and hoped for the best, but he didn't
give up on the `Harbor Connection' (as he called it). So far as Benton's
known acquaintances were concerned, he had exhausted all leads. That trail
went cold. He decided to try his luck at gay bars in the Twin Ports.  So
far as he knew, there were three in Duluth and two in Superior, all near
the harbor. He asked Sheriff Matthews for permission to go undercover,
pretending to look for Benton, a boyfriend who had gone missing.

	"What have you got to work with under cover?" Matthews asked
him. Svenson showed him three family photos, and one from a high school
yearbook.

	"You need something more intimate, Göran," Matthews said, "like
a picture with you and Benton together. Otherwise they'll know you're a cop
and they won't tell you anything."

	"What do you propose?" Göran asked.

	"Get Anna Ravitch down here. Ask her to use this material to paint
three or four realistic pictures; the two of you swimming at Park Point,
for example. A bit of nudity would help."

	To shorten a long story, Mrs. Ravitch painted five pictures of
Svenson and Benton sporting and cavorting on a remote beach at Park
Point. Svenson modeled in the nude. One of the paintings showed both men up
to their thighs, splashing water at each other. Another showed Benton
ducking Svenson under water. A third showed Svenson with an erection,
sitting in the sand with Benton, who was fondling him. A fourth showed
Svenson standing behind Benton, his hands thrust through Benton's thighs
and fondling his cock. A fifth showed Svenson with his backside arched
while Benton appeared to be showing off Svenson's gaped butthole. Mrs.
Ravitch photographed the paintings. They almost looked like snapshots.

	"Well, no one will think you're a cop," Sheriff Matthews said when
he saw the pictures.

	Svenson made the rounds at the bars. For the occasion, he borrowed
the name of `Harv Winik', a little joke on his part. He had a driver's
license, a library card, and a credit card made up with this name, in case
some proof of identity was needed. Whenever he met a guy who was willing to
talk, he showed the photos in a sequence, beginning with the more innocent
ones, and proceeding to nude photos. Mostly he ended up turning down offers
for blow-jobs, quick fucks, and long-term relationships. No one seemed to
know Benton, but Svenson kept going to the bars, and interviewed different
guys each time.

	On a slow Tuesday night, September 16, he scored at a bar called
`Edmund Fitzgerald's' in Superior. A middle-aged married businessman
recognized Benton. "I got to know him pretty well," the man said. "He's an
Indian, all right. He didn't call himself Sam Benton, though. He called
himself Jim Crawford."

	Svenson bought the man a beer and they cosseted in a quiet corner
in Edmund Fitzgerald's. His informant introduced himself as Don Connors, a
bulky red-headed Irishman.  Svenson took care to indicate that he was
interested in Connors as well as Benton. Connors saw signs that he might
get lucky, and opened up about Benton. "He's such a nice boy, Sam is, but
it's been more than a year since I've seen him. Be sure to say hi to him
for me when you find him. The photos capture him well."

	 "I'll do that, Don," Svenson said. There was silence, and a second
beer. "In case you're wondering, I know he's a hustler."

	"That's true," Connors said. "Your boyfriend's a hustler. I paid
him. But Harv, you should know he's not anybody's hustler. He's got me and
three other guys that I know of."

	Svenson realized that Connors could be a mother-load of
information, but he would have to play his part, too. Connors sensed that
his new acquaintance was getting horny.

	"Well, Don, I'm not a hustler. I don't take money for sex. But that
doesn't mean..."  Connors's eyes widened. "What I mean to say is... Maybe
we could go somewhere."

	"We could go to my place," Don said. "My wife is out of town."

	"Is that where you go with Sam?"

	"Oh, no," Connors said. "We go to a house on Bexley Street. Other
hustlers hang out there, too."

	A whorehouse for hustlers, Göran thought to himself. This needs
investigation! "I didn't realize that Sam is so... entrepreneurial. Let's
go to the place on Bexley, then, and if we've got the right chemistry, we
can meet later at your house."

	Svenson followed Connors in his car to Bexley Street. From his
glove-box, he retrieved a leather bag filled with sex-supplies: lube,
condoms, poppers, viagra, a vibrator, a butt-plug, a dildo, a string of
anal beads, a pair of nipple-clamps—more than enough to make his
cover-story convincing. The door-clerk recognized Connors, so they gained
entrance without a hitch.  Svenson paid $20 for the use of a room. Connors
led the way.

	Svenson expected that the house would be a dump. I turned out to be
an elegant Victorian farmhouse, with furniture that was old-fashioned, but
clean. Gay-themed pictures hung on the walls. A statue of Michelangelo's
David stood on a lamp-table by the front door. "Did you know that ten years
ago a small statue of David was found in a museum in Firenza, and for a
while it was believed to be a model from Michelangelo's workshop?" Svenson
asked.

	"No, I missed that one," Connors said.

	"The so-called model looked exactly like this one. Art historians
figured out that it was a fake. Can you guess how?" Svenson asked. "You
have to look closely."

	Connors examined the eighteen-inch statue. "I can't see anything
wrong," he said, "but I've only seen Michelangelo's David in photos."

	"The problem is the scrotum," Svenson said. "In this model, the
testicles are uniform. In Michelangelo's David, the left testicle hangs
lower than the right one, just like in real life."

	"We'll have to check that out on you, to see if it's true," Connors
laughed.

      Their room had an overstuffed queen-sized bed. Beside the bed was an
elegant dresser with a full-sized mirror, positioned in such a way that its
occupants could watch themselves having sex. Two overstuffed chairs stood
on either side of a fireplace. There were tables with doilies, mood
candles, figurines, Victorian dolls, and a set of knickknack shelves loaded
with all the fussy trimmings of a bed and breakfast. A full-sized window
was decked with crimson velvet drapes. "Why, Connors, this place is
lovely!" Svenson said. "It's worth twenty bucks just to see it."

	"They charge double on weekends," Connors said.

	Svenson opened his leather bag and arranged its contents on the
dresser. He held up each item and exhibited it for Connors's benefit:
"Lube-tube, viagra, poppers, condoms if we decide to use them, butt-plug,
dildo, vibrator, anal beads, nipple-clamps," he announced, as if he were
introducing guests at a formal soirée. Connors rubbed his hands together
and smiled. Svenson handed him a little blue pill. He swigged it with a
bottle of whisky that he had brought for the occasion. Svenson took a
viagra himself, and swigged from the bottle.

      Connors poured out two drinks in whisky tumblers. He watched while
Svenson took off his shirt. "I've got only one pair of nipple-clamps," he
said. "You can use them on me, if you want, or I can use them on you."

      "I'll put them on you, later," Connors said.

      Svenson kicked off his shoes and removed his socks. He stepped out of
his blue-jeans, which had holes in both knees, especially designed for
bar-hopping. He stood before Connors in jockey shorts. "You do the honors,"
he said. Connors fondled Svenson's cock, and pulled down his shorts. His
half-hard cock flipped upward as the band of elastic brushed it. Connors
ran his hands over Svenson's torso. He offered a kiss. Svenson did not
refuse. Connors brought Svenson's cock to full erection, and murmured. It
was a big one! He fondled Svenson's balls. He pushed his hand back toward
Svenson's butthole, and took digital liberties with his cleft.

      "You know your boyfriend's a bottom, so you must have figured out
that I'm a top," Connors said. "What about you, Harv?" He kissed Svenson
again.

      "I'm a full-service guy, Don, as you can see from the sex-toys I
brought. Tell you what, Don. Let's just relax. I'll follow your lead and
nature will take its course." Svenson helped Connors get naked. He was an
overweight guy with too much gut, but in other respects, he was a
well-built man with a mean-looking intact cock. His red body-hair and pubes
were an attractive novelty. Svenson may have been working under cover, but
he wouldn't have to fake it. They lay side by side in the bed. Connors
handed Svenson his tumbler of whisky.

      "Let's clink our glasses to Sam," Svenson said. They toasted Benton
with a sip of whisky.

      Connors fondled Svenson's scrotum and determined that his left
testicle hung lower than the right. "And now let's drink to... your
butthole," Connors said. He slid his hand behind Svenson's scrotum. His
finger hit the target.

      "I can go along with that," Svenson replied. They clinked tumblers
and drank.

      "We'll drink to your dick, Don, it's a beauty," Svenson said. They
did. Connors poured out a second round of whisky.

      "Here's to fun with sex-toys," Svenson said. They clinked tumblers
and drank.

      "Here's to breeding," Connors said.

      "Ah, gee, Don, I'm not sure I can go along with that," Svenson said.

      "You might have a change of heart," Connors said. "I really want us
to go all the way."

      "Tell you what, Don, let's drink to the concept of breeding. You've
might persuade me, but there's no guarantee."

      "Here's to barebacking, breeding, and santorum," Connors said.

      "Santorum?"—Svenson hadn't heard the word before.

      "Santorum: lube and shit mixed with semen and sperm. I want to make
us some santorum," Connors grunted.

      "Barebacking, breeding, and santorum, then, in principle," Svenson
repeated. They clinked tumblers and downed their whiskies.

      Connors pinned Svenson down and pinched his nips. He kissed them and
bit them, eliciting short yelps. He nuzzled Svenson's pits. Svenson bit at
the red hairs in Connors's pits in return. Connors attached the clamps to
Svenson's nips. He tugged at the chain that held them together, testing for
pressure. Svenson winced while Connors experimented with the clamps. He
straddled Svenson's chest and smacked his cock against his cheeks and
lips. Svenson accepted cock in his mouth. He nibbled at Connors's foreskin,
and fingered it.

      "I love uncut cock," Svenson said.

      "The better to breed you with, Harv," Connors replied.

      "Do you think so?" Svenson said meekly. Connors yanked Svenson's
nip-chain and elicited a groan.

      They 69'd and sucked cock and balls, in alternating positions. When
Svenson was on top, Connors fondled his butt aggressively. When Connors was
on top, Svenson licked Connors's perineum. Connors moaned. He arched toward
Svenson's mouth. Svenson licked the perineum harder. Connors handed Svenson
the bottle of poppers. "Here, take a snort, Harv, and kiss my ass," he
growled. Svenson obeyed. His tongue-action in Connors's butthole was
tentative at first, but got energetic.

      Connors coated the butt-plug with lube and inserted it into Svenson's
butt. Svenson groaned at the penetration. Connors tugged at his nip-chain
and Svenson winced. Connors straddled Svenson at the chest, and lowered is
asshole to Svenson's mouth. Svenson snorted poppers and rimmed.

      Connors knelt on all fours with his butt arched. "I love it when a
man knows how to fuck asshole with his tongue," he said. Svenson knelt
behind him, snorted poppers, and ran his tongue along the length of
red-hairy cleft, down to the hole. Connors moaned. "Do you like that
butthole, Harv?" "Uh-huh." Connors reached between his thighs and yanked
Svenson's nip- chain. "Get that tongue in deeper, Harv," he said. Svenson
obeyed.

      "Show me the position you like best for rimming," Connors
said. Svenson told Connors to lie on his back with his ass at the edge of
the bed. He knelt between Connors's legs, sucked his cock and his balls,
licked his perineum, snorted poppers, and administered a netherlabial
French kiss while Connors frog-legged with his ankles on Svenson's
shoulders.

      "I want to make you my bitch, Harv," Connors said.

      "Do you think so?" Svenson stammered. He was good at this under-cover
act.

      Svenson rimmed Connors in every position they could think of. "You
give good tongue, Harv," Connors said. "You give good tongue. Does it make
you feel submissive, giving tongue?"

      Svenson said nothing, as his tongue was kept busy exploring the
ridges and edges of his hole. Connors spread his ass-cheeks wide apart with
his hands. "You give good tongue, Harv.  Does it make you feel submissive?"

      "I guess so," Svenson said meekly.

	"Time for the vibrator," Connors said. Svenson lay on his back with
is butt propped on a pillow. Connors removed the butt-plug and inserted the
lubed-up vibrator. It didn't go into Svenson's butt without a deep groan
from him, and a wicked smile from Connors. Connors fucked Svenson's butt
with the vibrator and twisted it round. Svenson groaned. Connors turned on
the vibrator and fucked Svenson gently. Groans turned to moans.

	Connors removed the vibrator and handed it to Svenson. "Fuck
yourself with it, Harv," he said. He knelt at Svenson's face and fed him
his cock. He frigged Svenson's cock.  Svenson's body writhed with vibrative
pleasure. Connors studied his movements, the way Svenson fucked
himself. Then he took control of the vibrator and pleasured him with the
rhythms that he seemed to favor. "Is it pussy yet?" he asked.

	Svenson gazed into Connors's eyes. It was like the look of a
submissive young boy, waiting for instructions from his master. Connors
knelt between his legs. He removed the vibrator, and inserted the string of
nine colored beads. "Here's a red one for you, Harv," he said.  "And a
white one, and a blue one, and a yellow one, and a green one, and a black
one, and a purple one, and a gray one. The last bead is lavender. You'll
really like this one up your pussy."  He sucked Svenson's cock and fingered
the beads up his ass. "You've got the biggest clittie I've had the pleasure
of frigging, Harv," he said softly. "Your clittie is sending messages to
your pussy. Your clittie is telling your pussy to take it bareback. Your
pussy wants a whitewash.  They're sending messages back and forth."

	Svenson moaned while Connors pulled the string of beads from his
butthole, slowly, one by one. Connors fucked him with the ten-inch dildo,
but only half way. He withdrew it and reinserted the vibrator.

	"I'm ready for the real thing, Don," Svenson said.

	"You'll get the right thing when you ask the right way," Connors
said. He smiled wickedly. "You have to say `pussy'."

	"My pussy is ready for the real thing," Svenson said.

	"Your pussy's ready for what?" Connors asked.

	"My pussy is ready for your cock," Svenson said.

	"Your pussy's ready for naked bareback cock, say it," Connors said.

	"My pussy is ready for naked bareback cock," Svenson said.

	"Your pussy wants a whitewash, say it," Connors said.

	"My pussy wants a whitewash," Svenson said.

	"I've got hundreds of gam-swimmers waiting to float in your ocean,"
Connors said.

	Svenson fondled Connors's balls. "Yeah, give me your swimmers,
Don. Breed me," Svenson said. He groaned when Connors thrust him with a
full shaft of cock. Connors's gaze was stern. "I'm barebacking male pussy
with naked cock. Too late to back out now, Harv," he said. "Nice clittie,"
he said. "Nice clittie, happy clittie, say it, Harv."

	"Nice clittie, happy clittie," Svenson repated.

	Connors flipped Svenson and fucked from behind. "Why Harv, you've
got athletic jock- ass on the outside, and pussy on the inside, a sexy
combination," he said. He flipped Svenson again and announced, "I'm getting
ready to cum. I want to see the look in your eyes when I breed you." They
gazed at each other and missioned. Svenson felt the thickened warmth of
cock and a trickle of milky sperm in his anal canal. Connors
moaned. "Someone's gonna have a baby," Connors whispered in Svenson's
ear. "There's nothing better than breeding a stud with a bit dick." He lay
between Svenson's legs and soaked his cock in sperm while it receded. When
it slid out of Svenson's butt, Connors knelt between his legs and
finger-fucked him.

	"Harv, I want to watch you jack off, and while you're doing it, I
want you to tell me how much you like getting barebacked and bred." He
handed Svenson the bottle of poppers. Svenson snorted poppers and jacked
his dick. "Give me your thoughts, Harv," Connors said.

	"I'm thinking about rimming your red-hairy ass, Connors," Svenson
whispered gruffly.  "My tongue in your crack, my tongue in your butthole,
you're my rim-master, Connors."

	Connors finger-fucked his new partner, slowly. Svenson's sphincter
tightened around his finger. "I just got barebacked by my new boyfriend and
I love it," Svenson continued. "My new boyfriend rode me bareback and
planted his seed up my ass. I still feel it. Your swimmers are moving
inside me."

	"My swimmers are looking for veins in your pussy," Connors
said. "That's what you're feeling, Harv. Hundreds of microscopic Don
Connors are swimming into your bloodstream. As long as you've got my DNA,
your butt will be pussy."

	Svenson arched and orgazzed. The room was pungent with the
fragrance of jizz. Connors flipped him over and bred him a second time.

	In the next two evenings, Connors entertained Svenson at his
home. His manner grew gentler. He dropped his `tough guy' act, calling it
"too exhausting," but his obsession with breeding Svenson was real.

	"I've got a confession, too," Svenson said. "My name's not
Harv. I'm a cop, and I've been working undercover to find out what I can
about Sam Benton. He was murdered some time ago. His body was identified
last week. That's why I hooked up with you." It was not necessary for
Svenson to add that Connors wasn't really his `type', not because of his
age or his looks, but because of the way he used sex toys. He thought about
his night with Jim Beaver Trail. Their toy box was full, but they chose
only one: Little Caesar. That was erotic. But to ramble through an
encyclopedic collection of toys made all of them seem irritating.

	Connors got over the shock of Svenson's identity, and the sadness
of Benton's murder, and offered to help Svenson as much as he
could. Svenson showed him Anna Ravitch's portrait of `Albino Perp'. Connors
had never seen such a person, but they took the portrait to the other three
clients known to Benton. "I saw a tall whitish-looking guy, maybe a year
ago," one of them said; it was Bud Benson: "I remember because his color
was so strange. It wasn't at Edmund Fitzgerald's. It wasn't at any of the
bars. It was at Bexley House. But this doesn't look much like him, except
for the color." Svenson explained that the portrait was made from a distant
sighting, so it wouldn't be exact." Benson met with Anna and helped her
with corrections in the portrait.

	Svenson decided to work under cover at Bexley House, in disguise as
a hustler. Connors and Benson assisted him by pretending to be his
johns. In a few days he gained the trust of the guys there—not without
having sex with two of them—and learned that Sam Benton had disappeared
during the first week in June, 2013. His pay-record at the warehouse ended
in May, confirming this.

      Svenson reasoned that the mysterious `Albino Perp' must have been
cruising the gay bars in May. Where else could he have learned about Bexley
House? Armed with Mrs. Ravitch's revised portrait of the Albino Perp, he
visited each of the bars on weekends, this time accompanied by the real
Harvey Winik. He found two University of Wisconsin students who recognized
the man in the portrait. "That guy propositioned me on the docks," one of
the students recalled. "I turned him down. He was creepy."

      "Which dock? Do you remember where, exactly," Svenson asked. The boy
said it was a dock by a warehouse. It turned out to be the one where Benton
had worked.

      "You had a narrow escape," Winik told the boy. "Here's my card." He
handed both boys a card. "If you ever see this man again, don't speak to
him. Keep away from him, and call me right away, day or night."

      Svenson and Winik met with Sheriff Matthews to review their findings:
"We know that `Albino Perp' cruised the gay bars in Duluth and Superior
near the end of May, 2013. He also cruised the Bexley House in Superior. He
abducted Sam Benton from one of those places early in June. We have three
witnesses who saw him. All three confirm the portrait prepared by Anna
Ravitch."

      "Anything else?" Matthews asked.

      "Anything else is speculation," Winik said. "We think Albino Perp
finds his victims in gay establishments, especially in bars. He's a
psychopathic killer, but he might not be a sociopath; one of our witnesses
thought he was `creepy'. Apparently he can't conceal his creepiness for
more than ten minutes. He must have an accomplice, but we know nothing
about him. Our hardest problem, at the moment, is that we have no other
`missing person' reports that could help us, with the exception of Sam
Benton."

      "So we have five murder victims, four of them unknown, at the end of
a trail that's gone cold for now," Matthews said. "The question is, what to
do next? We could publish a `wanted poster' with the portrait."

       "We could also identify college men who dropped out of local
colleges after Spring semester," Winik said. "We might find some `missing
persons' whose disappearance was never reported. Remember, we're talking
about young gay men. They're vulnerable. If a gay man that age disappears,
his family might assume that he's run away, especially if he has a history
of mysterious absences due to cruising the bars."

	"That sounds like a long-term project, and a long shot. We'd have
to hire new computer staff for that," Matthews said. "Still, I'm not ruling
it out."

	"Maybe David Gabrioli could help us," Winik said. "He's a computer
geek, and he knows as much about the murders as anyone."

 	"All right then, Detective Winik. You organize this with David. If
he's willing, you should supervise. Drive to Bemidji to set it up. He'll
need official sanction from our office when he communicates with
colleges. On your way back, stop by Lake Ashawa and check out the crime
scene again. I've got another task for Sergeant Svenson. Earlier today I
received a call from a sheriff in South Dakota who said he's got a crime
scene that might be similar. His name is Jack Jackson." Matthews gave
Svenson a card with his phone number. "Sheriff Jackson is expecting your
call. It's up to you to decide if it warrants a drive to South
Dakota. That's your next mission."

	"There's something else to report, Sheriff," Winik said. "Sergeant
Svenson hasn't mentioned it because it's speculation, but I'm convinced
that he's right. The serial killers attended at least one of Red Hawk's
lectures on Ojibwe religion. He gives a lecture each year at Summer
Solstice. The lecture opens the powwow at the Ojibwe Monument on Rice
River, about eight miles east of Ashawa. It's possible that they think of
Red Hawk as a sort of priest. If they've got him in their sights, he's in
danger. We've duplicated a file of photos and pictures on a
flash-drive. We're both spending time looking at them for Albino Perp. If
he's there, maybe his accomplice will be there, too."

	"There's more," Svenson added. "I believe that Albino Perp regards
Five Spirits Island as a sacred space. I know of no such tradition in
Ojibwe history, but he made it sacred by making human sacrifice there. When
we took the bodies, we dismantled his altar. He'll want to reconstruct it
with another sacrifice. He might think of Red Hawk as the central figure,
when he choreographs his next set of murders."

	"Our most immediate problem is how to protect Red Hawk," Matthews
mused.

	"Maybe Red Hawk should come with me to South Dakota," Svenson
said. "That way he can drop out of sight for a few days, or weeks,
depending on how long it takes."

	Sheriff Matthews agreed.