Return to Innocence
by Cameron Blackwell
Published by Coyote Dreams LLC at Smashwords
2nd Edition Copyright © 2005-2010 Coyote Dreams LLC
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All characters are fictional and any resemblance to real persons is either coincidence or wishful thinking.
Chapter 1
My head reeling with a prime case of overload from the news of the last half hour, I drove northward at racing speed. Engine running full bore on I-405; I was headed for the Los Angeles enclave of Brentwood, convertible top down, red and blue lights flashing their ominous warning from an incongruous place above the dash of my classic American muscle car. The traffic at this early, barely morning hour was surprisingly light for one of the busiest Interstate highways in the nation. The near absence of traffic made for an eerie almost quiet unusual for the City of Angels. Maybe the city was already in mourning for someone who was undoubtedly one of its Angels, though few would have thought her that, and even less would after the news of the circumstances of her death made the front page and the even more gruesome televised headlines.
Complementing the near quiet, to my left, I could see the deep blue darkness that was night over the ocean, as yet undisturbed by the rapidly arriving day. Morning was still struggling to dominate the western slope of the mountains to the east, a feat in which it would not succeed for at least an hour. I wished I could say the same for myself, that I lay unknowing of the events of the night, in such mountainous slumber. It was not to be. Ah, the cop's life, almost always far too interesting, a prime example of the realities of that most ancient of Chinese curses; may you live in interesting times. At that moment, I was just beginning to feel the grim truth of that curse. While normally I liked the interesting cop life, I did not need this particular kind of diversion. My life was about to become cursedly interesting.
Hanging suspended just over that ocean darkness was an early morning, full moon. It drifted hugely over the horizon, seeming cool as the proverbial cucumber, seeming only distantly aware of events that would make that same bright moon burn painfully deep into my soul, in a way my east European ancestors would have greatly appreciated. I knew something of what the moon had seen this night, that all knowing sister presence. Would that sister moon gave up her secrets easily, without a struggle. A veteran homicide cop, I knew better. She seldom did, preferring, one would presume, to watch from above, far away from the danger and the pain, speculating on the darkly humorous foibles of those mere mortals far below. Still in all, the views to my left and right reminded me of what I loved about Los Angeles. There was a lot of beauty here, both natural and man-made. As a homicide detective I saw far too much of its ugliness. To keep my sanity, I regularly reminded myself of the kind of beauty which it could and regularly did have. As I continued driving parallel to the shoreline, and morning took over the day, the moon seemed to be slowly sinking into the sea, its reflection a spreading gel on the smooth liquid surface as if, from the sweltering summer heat, it was melting into the sea.
Heat. Even in the early morning hours, with the California sunrise just becoming a reality, the July becoming August heat rolled off the pavement. Those roiling waves now eerily distorted my vision of the cityscape as I moved northward at breakneck speed past increasingly more affluent neighborhoods. The neighborhoods I now passed, I could not really afford, although I knew intimately some of its more, shall we say, unusual inhabitants. I drove with the top down and the air conditioning cranked up full, all the vents pointed toward my body. Despite the car's air conditioning, and the breeze from high speed, I was sweating a bit, uncomfortably staring at the rising waves of baked air as I drove the vehicle ever onward, the race-bred engine an almost noiseless rumble that normally would have soothed my disquieted spirit. Now, I could feel the scorched air reaching at me, trying to suffocate me with heat both real and political. I hoped strongly that I could defeat that heat and keep cool, secretly, quietly, cool. Fear and good sense told me otherwise.
I dreaded getting out of the car and plunging into that summer heat, the stifling, humid, summer heat. Even more, I dreaded the political heat that had already begun to cling malodorously to this case. Please, just let this be an air-conditioned investigation, I thought wearily. If it's going to be a weird one, let it be a long cool search through air conditioned mansions, filled with air-conditioned suspects, crisp cool suspects that will confess rather than be exposed under the bright white-hot lights of the media vultures. It might just be that given where I was headed. The semi-magical name of Brentwood conjured lurid images for most Americans. It did so even for me, who should, by rights, know better. This case would strengthen that image. I had missed the last infamous case in Brentwood. Luckily, I was on a very rare vacation, taken alone, but at the bosses urging. He thought I had been too long without one. I only wished I had the same luck here. It would not be long before I was glad to have gotten the case. It would be the only way I could keep my own secret from discovery. Discovery was inevitable, but if I could control the who and when, I might be able to keep my career unaffected.
The call from my boss, at home, hours before our daytime shift would start, indicated the assignment was going to be a tough one. The boss wanted me personally involved in this investigation. He thought that I was the only homicide detective working for him who could handle it without getting sidetracked in the weirdness, and being misled by it. My boss was one of the few who knew about me, knew that I understood this particular weirdness. Hell, I was a part of it, though I did not think it any real weirdness. He thought that I would see through any misdirection. Sure I will! I thought.
"Damn him!" I swore aloud, angrily banging hard on the steering wheel, again and again until I felt that warm softness that warned of a potentially bruised muscle. Calm. I need to calm down. It is too early in the morning to be getting this frustrated. I turned on the radio and was rewarded with a Doors number, played by an early morning DJ whose morning started as mine had, in the still dark of night. He was either making a comment or meant in as a serious gesture. For me, it was an omen, a welcome one that fit my mood. I turned the volume up. The engine's powerful drone and the music began to settle my thoughts and let them collect in the orderly pattern of a seasoned homicide detective. Yeah right! I laughed at myself. It felt good, the laughter, well, almost. Waiting for the sun, waiting for the sun, became the mantra by which I calmed myself and began to go over what little I already knew about the case.
It had all started less than an hour before. When the phone rang, I was already awake. The air conditioning in my condo was struggling, even in this predawn hour to keep the place cool. The oppressive heat had awakened me, once my body had gotten its bare minimum of sleep. I had been awake for almost an hour or tossing and turning trying to get back to sleep. "Yeah?" I answered on the first ring, my voice clear. The caller was sure to know that I had been awake.
"Already awake Vukolac? You psychic or somethin'? It's Mackey."
"Yeah boss, I know, what the hell do you want at this hour?" I tried hard to insure that my voice showed irritation, more on principle than anything else. Can't let the boss know I'd rather be working than lying awake, alone in bed. He'd wonder why I was alone and awake. I was far too tired of being alone to explain the realities of single life, especially to a married man.
"It's Captain Boss to you, dickhead. I want your lazy butt out of bed and at a homicide site in fifteen minutes. It's a thirty-minute drive from you, so you're late already."
"What? It's graveyard duty. Let them have it! Anyway, they're supposed to be the heavy homicide hitters, so why would you need me?" My response was dripping with sarcasm as I struggled hard to keep the interest out of my voice. I knew from experience that something was up, something unusual, even for a seasoned homicide veteran. I thought that I needed something different in my life right then. Needed? Well, what I needed was debatable, but I would settle for the distraction of work, of an interesting case. I had forgotten the eternal rule that one must be careful about what one wishes. Wishes sometimes come true, in the worst possible way.
"One, you are the heaviest homicide hitter this town has got, sides me. And two, ‘cause this one's kinky."
"Aren't they all?"
"No, I mean kinky, your kind of kinky Vukolac, S and M bullshit." The sarcasm in his voice showed that, while he accepted that part of me, he did not understand, nor certainly like it. I was used to that. The very few people not in the scene who knew of my lifestyle could not even begin to understand it. "And the victim is a personage!" I could hear the quiet, nervous emphasis in his voice and wondered if I knew the victim.
"Shit, just what we need. Look boss, s-n-m types don't generally murder, not so that you could tell. They're really very stable. They really deal with their difference, not let it fester until the stress pushes them over the edge."
"I know that, and you know that, but I won't be able to convince most homicide detectives of that, let alone the press and the public, unless it's you. You know better. You know the whole thing, I presume. It'll be your job to keep the search focused in the right direction, wherever that may lead."
"Shit. You know that no one will believe it's the right direction. They will
only see the obvious. I'll have to fight every step of the way. Every cop involved will try to prove that the nearest, most obvious or most extreme pervert did it. This ain't fair boss."
"Yeah, ain't life a bitch," his laughter displaying his feel for typical cop humor, sick humor.
"Just how obvious is it?"
"Too obvious is my guess! You'll see just how very when you get there." Mackey gave me the address. I whistled, realizing just how complicated this was getting by the minute. "Now move! You've only got twenty minutes left. And Lou you remember, I've already promised your partner lead on the very next investigation that you two drew. That will make it tougher, though I know you will handle it brilliantly."
"Well, you're just gonna have to break your promise."
"Lou....now, you know I can't do that. She'd raise hell and ask too many questions, questions you don't want to have to answer. I need to give her the lead. She deserves it, she's a good cop, and I can't promote her without a good record as lead, which you also know!"
"You mean I'm gonna have to fight her every step of the way, stubborn as she is, and make her look good doing it?"
"See, now that's why I hired you. You're smart, Vukolac. She’s your partner. If you make her looks good, you will look good."
"Shit! I just knew you were gonna say that. Boss, you still haven't told me the name of the victim." He did, and I whistled again, impressed and puzzled. Okiku Ito-Martinez was a personage all right. She was one of Los Angeles' top newscasters and a tough investigative reporter, aggressive as hell. Lots of possible enemies there. I had known she was in the scene, but had only seen her at some of the bigger private events within the Los Angeles s/m community. I did not travel in her circle. She was a very stylish submissive, much into ritual, every movement perfect, though not necessarily predictable, gotta keep it interesting. She wore the right fetishistic clothes, had the right beautiful partners, accepted only the proper whip to caress her luscious dusky skin.
The press would make this case an absolute publicity nightmare, the press devouring the memory of one of their own in a supreme act of jealousy. It would be revenge not from, but into the grave. I knew that the scrutiny the case would receive would bring me under that same scrutiny. It was something I did not need. I did not want to be out to my fellow officers. They were not very tolerant of differences, any differences. Maybe Beka's being lead would give me a little room.
"And Lou, for both our sakes," Mackey voice was soft and full of concern, "finish this one fast." The click in the receiver told me that a long day was just beginning. I rapidly showered, brooding about the heat, and the early hour, and the sleep I had missed. I forced myself to stop thinking about anything except getting to the address Mackey had given me as fast as possible. Engine roaring to life, my car sped out of the drive powered by a lead foot and a lot of anger. After I had given myself enough time to make sure I arrived first and had enough time with the officers on the scene, I used my cellular to call my partner. She was not awake and bitched incoherently about my waking her, till I pointed out to her that she was lead on this investigation, once she got there. That information brought her fully awake. Until she got there, I reminded her, as senior partner I was still in charge. So she should get a shower, and get dressed and made up, and drive-hard, before the early morning traffic picked up and she was really delayed. She sounded fully awake and almost pleasant as she hurriedly told me not to do anything till she got there.
"Sure Beka, anything you say." I laughed good naturedly, as she realized that I had no intention of following her instructions. "Shit!" she said. I heard some rumbling followed by a thud, as if she had fallen out of bed. With no further words from her I heard the clunking plastic rattle as the receiver found its place. The phone went dead. She had hung up.
If this assignment weren't such a weird one, I would have enjoyed working with her as lead. She was a smart cop and tenaciously stubborn, traits I admired. She wouldn't let go till this was solved. In most cases, that would be just fine. However, her lack of lead experience would be rough in a case such as this one. Combined with the tendency of rookie investigators trying to set records in solving crimes when they get their first lead, this assignment was going to be totally crazy.
Crazy. The word echoed in my mind as I drew near the crime scene. A half dozen black and whites in front, some with lights still flashing, told me there was real trouble here. Most of it had nothing to do with the death that had occurred. The scene smelled of money and fame. Money! Too much money here. This address was beyond what she was making from her comfy salary as a local news media star. The house was mansion big, an eclectic mix and Spanish and Japanese influence, with lots of sculptured shrubbery and primitive stone sculpture including a Japanese phallus nearly five feet tall. This was really big money. Will have to find out where her money came from. Well, money always created possible suspects. The case was already getting more complicated, and I had not even driven through the front gate. I could see now that there would be too large a pool of possible suspects, with too many false leads. I was certain of that.
I pulled up to the heavy wrought iron security gate that was already drawn back, and was waived in by the uniformed officer posted there. He was paying more attention to the action inside than potential intruders from outside. I had come close to running him over when he stepped into my path, back to the street. Moving up the long drive I took it the impression of wealth. I stopped near the group of official vehicles in a large parking area. There was only one ambulance. One victim. The coroner's investigator was already here, the black van an ominous portent of death for all the neighbors to see. Hope we drew a good pathologist. Since Mackey knew image was involved, I was sure he would have taken care of that assignment too. Hope he remembered that we needed both brains and political savvy. Too often the really politically astute M.E.'s could not find their proverbial from the hole in the ground in the terms of medical science. I got out of the car and felt the heat savagely assault my body. It's not the heat. It's the humidity. The tired old catchphrase rattled through my head.
"I hate humidity," I commented to myself loudly enough to get a laugh from some of the blues nearby, their armpits already stained dark with sweat. Striding rapidly through the police line, I could see that there were too many cops on this murder scene, wealth groupies trying to get a glimpse of the good life. Badge hanging from my vest pocket, I smiled at the reaction I got from some of the uniforms. Everybody, said I looked more like a vice cop than a homicide cop. My hair was cut very short, almost a skinhead, more than beginning to gray. I carried a little more weight than I should, but not much. Almost tall, I cut a pretty unique figure in my jeans, white silk tee-shirt and vest. On the vest was a small pin, carved from obsidian in the symbol of a knight piece, a paladin. The vest was, in this heat, worn only to cover my expensive, though essential, Glock sidearm. My black Nike’s were meant for pursuit, as was my car.
I'm not foolish enough to think I am in any way handsome, but my sense of style and sheer ego have seemed to make me attractive to women, or so I have been told. My attractiveness to women I tended to disbelieve, which often resulted in my ignoring their apparent attraction, despite my flirting with them. I flirt regularly, and have come to expect women to flirt back, but don't really anticipate anything to come of it. It usually surprises me when it does. Happily, true, but still a surprise. There was another element that brought women to me, quiet strength and a strong arm, and always that palpable desire and will, essential elements of an s/m top.
The technical teams were on the scene busily gathering whatever there was for evidence. My first job was to find the home team from the graveyard shift and officially take over. Beka would be pissed about that, but I could claim senior privilege. My real purpose was to make sure any premature conclusions on the part of the detectives on scene did not color her opinion of this murder. With luck maybe my own opinions would get her started in the right direction.
"Shit!" I said to myself, spotting a detective coming out of the house toward me. It was Harold Mackenzie, an older cop, nearing retirement; a gold cross pinned prominently on the lapel of his shabbily worn gray suit. Shit, a suit and he's not even sweating! Experienced, and generally a good investigator, he suffered from religious bigotry and felt that every criminal was an agent of the devil himself. A worse draw on this case I couldn't imagine. No wonder Mackey wanted a new investigator. "Hey, Mac, how goes it?" I tried to appear friendly. Mackenzie and I had run-ins before. I decided to take the best approach toward any cop working late in his shift, simplify their job. "How about I make it easy on you, I take care of the preliminary report. You can skip the paperwork." I smiled as I reached out and shook Mackenzie's hand.
"Sure thing Vukolac. This one makes me sick anyway. There is no sign of forced entry and there's lots of swag inside, so robbery is not a likely motive, jury is still out on that, but my guess is nothin' is missing. Victim knew the perp, is my guess. Probably just involuntary manslaughter. She was likely just accidentally strangled during some kind of sadistic orgy. Asshole did it woulda got probation, if he'd reported the death as an accident. Bet is this one gets wrapped up fast. By the by, your partner called and advised us she was lead on this; didn't want us leaving the scene before she got here, and we briefed her. She said you'd get here first. I told her, who got here first got briefed, and we was outta here A.S.A.P. So, if you don't mind, you got any questions ask the blues who got here before us. My partner and I don't know shit."
"Sure, sure, thanks Mac. Have a good one and get some sleep."
"Will do." He stepped away and then turned back, speaking low so the uniformed officers around us could not hear. "A word of advice, don't let that girl partner of yours get outta hand. She may be lead, but you've got the experience. Not that this case needs much. The boyfriend, or maybe a girlfriend; you know how it is these days. One or the other probably got a little too excited, if you know what I mean, accident, stupid but no murder. There are lots of pictures inside. Come to think of it, there's a girl in a lot of them, posed with the victim. Very pretty, both of ‘em. Looks like some family shots too, parents and a sister. Parents are dead according to the blues. Next of kin is the sister. Sister discovered the body, reported it, and then had some kind of seizure once the blues were on the scene. They took her away in an ambulance. You'll have to question her at the hospital. Consider yourself briefed. Now, time to git, 'fore your partner arrives to chew us out. I'm not taking that shit from any rookie."
"I understand. And Mac, between you and me if you call her a girl I won't say squat, but be careful whom you say that to, or in front of. She is after all a woman."
"One with balls, I hear tell."
"Yah Mac? Well, I wouldn't have a partner who didn't have chutzpah. I want my back covered. I trust her to do that. She's not some green kid fresh out of the academy. She's been through the wars."
"Anything you say Vukolac, but I'm glad she's yours, not mine."
Mackenzie turned and walked away toward his unmarked squad, his partner following behind, shaking his head before glancing back at me a shrugging. I moved toward the entrance to the huge house. Slipping inside, I followed the series of pointing thumbs through a couple of rooms to a short hall and down a stairway to a large basement room, fully and elaborately finished. At the bottom of the stairs I entered a large room, lit sensually in reds and blues. I knew generally what to expect, having seen more than a few dungeons in my life. This one was impressive, done with a lot of expense, artistically designed, with only the best materials and equipment. Brushed stainless steel bars decorated two walls, placed over expensive sound proofing material made to look like brick. The other two walls were high quality fake stone made out of the same sound proofing stuff. There were a number of very expensive, custom built, properly padded contraptions used to hold the submissive subject of an erotic couple, or whatever.
I saw the victim, strapped into one of the rigs, an ring that was on a big central pivot. It was done in hardwood and brushed stainless steel, an expensive custom piece. As I gazed at her almost tranquil face, a sudden slight dizziness overcame me. Through a dream haze, I saw the victim as if in a vague blurry movie scene. In this dream she was warm and very much alive, utterly naked, on wide spread knees in a classic submissive pose, hands tied behind, crimson painted mouth open, reaching for my genitals with her tongue and lips, desire and lust writ large on her face. The image was extremely sexy and physically arousing. I felt myself becoming quickly erect, my pulse racing. I could feel the damp warmth of being totally engulfed in the wetness of her mouth, sensing her wild need in the force of her mouth sucking on me. I could feel my body responding even more in immediate and full arousal, both within the dream and in real life. Struggling from the impact and intensity of the dream, I shook off the vision, concentrating on bringing my awareness back to the immediate present, the present where she was cold and dead. Where had that vision come from? It seemed that it might have been a memory. It would be another puzzle to solve, one that I needed to solve soon, I knew. I was being told something, but what?
That immediate present was a body, wearing an outfit of black leather and gold chains, clearly custom made in an improvement over the usual chrome or silver. A leather collar hung around her neck. Hanging from rings attached to the collar were multiple strands of chain strung between the collar and a band fastened around the ribs a bit below her breasts. Her full breasts, decorated by the chains, were almost entirely exposed and would have been lovely had they been suffused with life. Each nipple was pierced with a gold nipple ring. She wore thigh boots in soft black suede. Expensive. Her crotch was barely covered by a leather G-string, split open at the front with another chain filling the gap, though it was very thin. The chain was intended to slip occasionally between her labia, a teasing presence. Her entire pubic area was shaved smooth. She had a trim waist above wide, feminine hips. She was pretty, but not overly beautiful. Pretty enough for most of the public, though. She had that range of pretty enough to be trustworthy, but not so beautiful as to be thought dangerous and therefore not deserving of trust. She had perfect journalistic looks. It was said that the camera liked her, a lot.
Had she been alive, the image of the attractive young woman bound like that would have been incredibly arousing to me. Dead, she was just another victim, unique perhaps, but still a just number in the awful game of death.
There was something wrong about her appearance. Looking more closely I saw a lot of something wrongs. The first thing I noticed was the coloring of her nipples. They were a pleasant medium brown, the kind of color that resulted from her mix of Japanese and Hispanic blood, and from never having had children, which might have left them darker. Something nagged from memory, something someone had said about her, and not something I had seen. Ah yes, she was a dramatic type, big on show and ritual. She always rouged her nipples a deep red-brown, with that lipstick that didn't wear off easily. It did not always last, but it always made an impression. Today, there was no evidence of the rouge. If the coroner's report showed that she hadn't had sex, which given the way she was still dressed was likely, then the absence of rouge was an indication that she did not prepare herself for this. The show would have always been on with her, even with her closest of intimates. That was, after all, part of the thrill, the ritual preparation, the rituals of following the master or mistress' orders and one's own deepest desires.
An investigator from the medical examiner's office was examining the victim. I sighed with relief and mentally thanked Mackey. The choice was a good one and he had probably called in a few favors to get her assigned. No surprise he picked a female investigator. I am sure he thought it would keep me in line. This investigator was also a thorough professional, and did not let her disgust at some of the things she saw cloud her assessment. She was making very professional sounding noises into her fancy, state of the art tablet computer, occasionally stopping and making handwritten notes and drawing with its stylus. Listening closely, professional senses running full bore, I thought her voice had a note of curiosity in it that was unusual for the rather blasé investigators from the coroner’s office. The experienced ones had just seen too much. She had been at this for at least five years and seen some of the worst humanity does to one another, enough to make her pretty jaded. This interest was intriguing. It had been a long time since.....Maybe she...No, I would have heard about. Maybe not, LA is a big town. But maybe she is more than professionally curious. Have to remember that, always thought she was hot! And here I am, beginning a delicate, politically sensitive murder investigation, looking for a new playmate. Hell, it's not like they were everywhere, especially attractive females. And the desire is so strong now, and the need!
"So, what's the verdict?" I asked, almost whispering in her ear.
The leggy brunette investigator dressed in appropriate, though seasonally minimal black turned to me. Her smile broadened immensely when she saw me, making me feel really good. I got the sense that the smile was more than she would have given another.
"Hi Lou!" She looked beyond me, probably wondering if I was just another hanger on or actually was involved in the investigation. The tone in her voice made me feel even better. How had I missed this one? Nora was quietly attractive, though I had noticed she often dressed to subdue her looks. I had a feeling that with the right clothing she could be a knockout. "What happened to Mac? Not that he will be missed."
"Hi, Nora. Mackey wanted me on this one. I have some experience with this kind of... situation." Her reaction to my statement was the raising of one delicately plucked eyebrow, the question clear in her expression, but not spoken. Her eyes held mine for a long moment, and her expression became thoughtful. She seemed to look me up and down, a long lingering look which visibly stopped at my crotch. Given her position kneeling beside the body, her view was an inches close eye level shot of my tight jeans molded around a growing erection. Was it my imagination that she was checking out my package? I realized I still had a full erection and the thought that she was staring at it and so close, made me even harder. There was another delicately raised eyebrow and an accompanying smile. No, it was not my imagination. She had checked me out. Probably thought I was a real perv, getting hard seeing a nude corpse. But then again, she had that note of interest. Gotta check this one out! Always liked her. "So fill me in."
"Appears to be death by asphyxiation. Strangulation I would guess, as her makeup is not mussed at all. Though how she was strangled through that, I can't imagine." She pointed to the leather collar the victim wore. "Maybe somehow the collar itself was used."
"No, I don't think so. Hey," I turned around and looked for the crime scene photographer. "You, Pictures, come here." The photographer came over. "You got pictures of the body already, right?" He nodded. "Take another set, from a new roll of film." I waited while the photographer efficiently took another full set of the victim, grumbling all the while about my insult to his professionalism. I was concerned that no errors occurred, like lost pictures, before I started fussing with the body. The crime scene investigators would not like it either, but I needed information gathered from the perspective of my experience, not jaundiced by their bias.
"Now take the collar off, Nora. Carefully, so the prints if any don't get smudged."
"What?"
"Take the collar off. You'll know why when it's off. And you, Pictures, get a set of close shots of her removing the collar. Nora, take it off slowly while the pictures get every step."
She carefully removed the collar, touching it as little as possible, pausing for camera shots, her attentive gaze showing intense fascination. As the flesh underneath the collar was exposed, fresh bruises appeared, captured on film as the cameras strobe flash created an eerie hypnotic spell. After examining the collar carefully and holding it for photographs, she carefully set the collar on the victim's stomach. The exposed neck showed ugly bruises, the finger marks of strangulation. The bruises were small, but clear.
I lifted the collar with a metal pointer, one of my tools of the trade. "See, the inside of this collar is thickly and professionally padded. The foam is some of the stuff NASA developed. The victim is a high profile type, so chaffing or bruises on the neck are definitely out. It's heavily padded and kept relatively tight so that its wearer knows it's there, but can't be visibly damaged. Padded like this, it did not make those bruises. They weren't made through the collar either. The leather combined with the padding, it is too thick. No, she was killed and then the collar was put on her. I'll bet she wasn't bound into the rig either when she was killed. There are a couple of things wrong with the way she is fastened in and dressed. Either a novice did it, which she wouldn't have allowed, or someone did it to make this look like something kinky. That someone knew a little, but not nearly enough, about all of this."
"Well, the victim was certainly into something very kinky. This is her own house, and there is all of this." Her gesture took in all of the room, but did so with a motion that seemed to indicate a strong curiosity about it all, not disgust, and perhaps more than a note of fascinated awe.
"Yah, she was into kink all right, deep into it. So why would she allow an incompetent novice to do careless things to her, voluntarily at least? No, she was strangled, and then moved here, and put into that costume, and strapped in to make it look kinky. Someone's trying to divert our attention. Whoever did this has no real experience in s/m. We are looking for someone who knew she was into this, but isn't them self."
"Glad you've got this solved!" The voice from behind me had come much earlier than I had expected. Beka must have set some speed records getting here. I turned to see her professionally made up, basic and not too elaborate. Too much makeup lost female detectives points in the credibility with other cops field, though it was sometimes useful with male witnesses and perps.
"Beka, glad you're here. Haven't solved it yet, but I know who didn't do it."
"Oh yah? From what the Blues told me they found, I'm betting it's the boyfriend. He just arrived by the way, with a woman, a pretty woman, another girlfriend perhaps. He is acting pretty strange and won't talk without a lawyer."
"So? That's pretty smart, given what she and he were into. The other woman, well, they may have both been into her. I'll bet she isn't talking without a lawyer either, and is the one with the vic in some of the pictures upstairs."
"Yah, the Blues said she is in some of the pictures. So? You have a point?"
"Let's go have a brief chat, and let them get their lawyer out of bed so we can take them in for a serious discussion."
I leaned down and whispered softly in the ear of the M.E.'s investigator, my lips brushing her earlobes. "See you later, sweetheart. I'll give you a call, and we can talk about your unusual personal interest in this case." She turned to me, and our eyes locked for a too long moment. She blushed a deep red looking away, though her smile, told me that my suspicions might have hit the mark. And what a lovely mark! Beka and I headed for the stairs.
Once out of Nora's hearing, Beka asked, "So what did you say to her to get that pretty red color? Most of these coroner types are pretty jaded. Must have been a bit intense."
"You might say that. I just complimented her on her professional interest in the case." Christ, why did I say that? I've gotta learn to watch my mouth closely around her as long as this investigation goes on.
"Oh." She had a puzzled look on her face, as if she had missed something, which I hoped she had. I did not really want to have this investigation bring out certain details of my personal life. Even so, I was beginning to wonder if, given the nature of the investigation, that was even remotely possible. I would, at least, try to delay the revelation for as long as possible. I did not want to lose Beka as a partner. I was uncertain about how the details of my sexual proclivities would affect her, especially given her ardent feminism.
The attractive couple we found upstairs seemed pretty distraught. Both were red eyed and had evidently been weeping, though she had obviously been crying more than he. Her eyes were far more swollen and red from tears. They were dressed casually, he in jeans and a crisp white shirt, feet clad in sandals. She wore a jogging outfit. He was unshaved and she was not wearing any makeup. Both being California attractive, they were a neatly matched couple. Of course, they weren't just a couple, or had not been. My guess was that they had been part of a very complex triad.
Beka had apparently already introduced herself and introduced me only as her partner, giving no name. Despite that, the man acknowledged me by my last name, without any rank, as he shook my hand.
"Paul Davies," he identified himself. Paul was all typical California tan and sun lightened brown hair reaching firmly toward blond. Hands tough and calloused, though extremely well cared for; he clearly did some manual labor on a regular basis and just as regularly had his hands manicured professionally. The toughness surprised me in a boyfriend of someone so impressed with image. The woman remained quiet and did not offer her hand. Her name, I would learn later was Dierdre Stepanski. She was a drop dead gorgeous American girl next-door type, looking thoroughly buff, obviously into fitness. I knew we had not met in any official capacity. He did look familiar, and a look passed between us that said we were cut from the same cloth. That was something I had already guessed, but it was something he evidently knew also. Shit! More complications. When are they gonna stop?
He whispered into his companion's ear. She looked at me wide eyed, though smiling a bit at first, and then smiling broader. She looked me up and down, in appreciation, lingering a bit at my crotch, which brought back a natural rise that she very likely noticed. Her eyes suddenly lowered, becoming coy. This stimulation crap has got to stop. I can't be going around with a constant hardon this whole investigation and given my situation in life right now, don't know if I can resist, I thought. He whispered again into her ear. She moved a step forward to just in front of me, giving me the barest little curtsey and bow of her head, a sign of respect given as unobtrusively as possible and clearly at his command. To cover, she stuck out her hand to shake hands. We did so with a strong handshake from her. All in all this last little bit said that she too was a submissive. She stepped back, ignoring Beka. I had to try and remain detached and objective, but I was certain that these two had nothing to do with this. They were still in for a lot of unpleasantness, simply because they varied from the mainstream, in several ways. Now it would all be public. They also had a prominent lover. Had. Prominent. Dead.
"So, how did you find out about this?" I asked, drawing a look from Beka that said, it was her show. I figured I had better let her take the lead for real or face some partner problems I did not need.
"Her sister called us," from Paul.
"After waiting too damn long." This from the athletic looking blond spoken barely loud enough to be heard. There was some animosity there, toward the sister. Paul did not seem to feel quite the same. Another little mental note was made, and more questions created.
"So," began Beka, "do you two still want your attorney? If you didn't do this, you've got absolutely nothing to be afraid of. Only guilty people need attorneys." Beka's voice was far too sticky sweet. She needed the experience in this kind of interrogation, but the practice was wasted on these two, who were neither naive nor a guilty perp in need of tricking.
"Really?" His tone of voice spoke volumes of disbelief. "I wish I could believe that, I really do. However, given our lifestyle, I don't believe that at all. Police are....but, well, of course we do want our attorney present, as a formality, and to insure that we have nothing to fear from telling the truth. We are not guilty of any wrongdoing. We both loved her. We were going to be married in just two weeks. We had a honeymoon planned and everything."
"The three of you?" Beka asked, voice now dripping in sarcasm. She had at least astutely recognized he was speaking of the whole triad, not just the couple being legally married. Her voice though, carried that tough edge of the suspicious cynical cop combined with an obvious lack of tolerance for their lifestyle choice. I again reminded myself that I would have to watch what I said around her, she was smart. It would not take much to put the total together.
"Yes, the three of us. Look, you may not agree with our lifestyle, or even like it, but you should not judge us for it. It does not make us criminals." He looked at me, eyes pleading as an equal with me to agree. I could not ignore him, or the justice he requested.
"No Paul, it doesn't!" I acknowledged quietly. My response drew a sharp look from Beka.
"Thank you for that. In either case I am not saying anything more until our attorney arrives. I...I took the liberty of calling him." He drew a state of the art PDA cellular phone out of his pocket. This drew a dark suspicious look from Beka, who gave me a, what gives with this? look. I shrugged, in return, a gesture saying that, He's not under arrest so... in our unspoken partner code.
I pulled Beka several steps away, whispering closely into her ear, "You are going to have to try very hard to not let any prejudices get in the way. If you don't try, if you don't succeed, you'll never solve this. I can, and I will. So if you want the points for this one, you are going to have to see this all with an open, accepting, and most importantly, unprejudiced mind."
Her response, though spoken softly was not whispered. The couple heard it clearly. "I'm just a cop. I'm going to solve this, and right now he looks like the best bet. She probably wasn't strong enough to leave those bruises, especially through that collar. Don't say it. I heard your theory. Maybe he just did that for misdirection."
"He couldn't have known we'd see that. He would have thought that we'd miss it. Our prejudice would get in the way."
"But it didn't, did it?"
"Not with me, but if I hadn't been the one who saw the body before she was taken down, the obvious subtleties would likely have been missed. If you'd seen it first, or a CSI..."
"Thanks a lot for the vote of confidence, Lou. What subtleties are you talking about? What is it that you are not telling me, Vukolac?"
"There is nothing about this case that I am holding back. It is just that I've been around and know a few things that rookie detectives don't know." Beka looked at me with questioning eyes, and I knew she did not entirely believe my answer. She would be looking for an explanation. I knew that the faster we solved this murder the less likely my secret was to be discovered. We could hear a disturbance outside, and Beka moved immediately to intervene. As she opened the front door, she found herself trying to stop a stylishly dressed older gentleman, from entering.
The figure in an expensive suit, worn immaculately even at this early hour, moved past her, slapping dramatically, though gently, at her hand. She was grabbing to restrain him. "Keep your hands to yourself officer, this home belongs to a client, whether alive or dead, I therefore have as much right as you to be here. Further, if you are questioning any other of my clients, they have a right to have me present. I presume you are aware of Miranda." His voice was commanding, but high pitched, perhaps a bit too staged for use on cops. I did appreciate the show, laughing to myself.
Beka sputtered in reaction to this theatrical verbal onslaught, and I struggled to suppress the urge to laugh, realizing at that moment just who she had to contend with. Beka had to be aware of the identity of one of the best defense attorneys in the city. What she may not have known was that David Halvorson also was in the scene, although he was rather public about it. Had I had time more to think about it, I would have expected his involvement as soon as I knew who the victim was. As strong and dominant and aggressive as he was in court, he was submissive sexually. More than that however, he knew of my own involvement in the scene. There was a strong code among us, and I knew that he would not give away my secret. His involvement in the scene was already glorified public record. I had long suspected that he allowed knowledge of his sexual submissiveness to become public solely to psych out his legal opponents, who might be led to underestimate his ability or aggressiveness. He may also have had something to do with my assignment to this case.
"Now, if I might have a moment alone with my clients?" He proceeded to take them by an arm, slowly, as if just waiting for the interruption he must have known was coming.
"Stop!" Beka's voice was a firm command. While Halverson might have taken such a command as gospel under the right circumstances, in his attorney role it was only likely to draw wrath.
"What?" His voice was again, theatrically commanding, though now, pitched significantly lower, his court voice. "Let me point out a couple of realities, officer." He spoke as if before a jury, hands moving in wide professorial gestures. "First, you have not charged these two. Until you do, they are free to come and go as they please. Secondly, no matter what you think, they are innocent. I don't mean until proven guilty. I mean innocent. Completely! Your pursuit of them as suspects will do nothing but interfere with the investigation. They may be the best leads you have to the real perpetrator, and I can assure you that they desire, far more than you, to know whom the guilty party is and to see that party punished. Thirdly, I am their attorney, and they have a right to consult with me and to my presence during questioning. Now, if I might have a few moments with them? After, I would like to see the body. Then you may question my clients. They will respond fully, subject to my discretion. Have I made myself clear? If you do not accede to each of these points, we will leave. I will hire an investigative firm, and we will see who finds the murderer first. My investigators will have the full cooperation of these two young and bereaved victims, for they are after all, that. I would not take bets on you solving it before they do, given the information these two are likely to be able to provide."
"Further, perhaps I can provide some insight as well. For example, these two had no motive what so ever. He and the victim were to be married in two weeks. Under California law, that would have left her estate to him, baring a will to the contrary. She, at present, had no will. The will I was preparing for signing upon their marriage would have left her estate to these two here. They were a triad, each dedicated to the other two, fully and totally. If law had permitted it, they would have married together as such. They were to have a symbolic ceremony after the legal wedding, which would have, at least spiritually, linked the three of them together. To accuse them of murder under such circumstances is ludicrous."
"Perhaps it wasn't murder, simply...simply kinky sex gone awry. Manslaughter."
"I will decline to comment significantly on that until I see the body. I am very skeptical that such is possible. They were too....experienced and always careful." With that comment he looked at me, eyebrow raised. I nodded; confirming his suspicion that something about the body said this was murder. How did he know? Should he be considered a suspect? "I thought as much, given the details the uniformed officers gave me."
"What?" Beka was ready to explode. "Who was it?"
Halverson merely shrugged.
"When I find out, and I will, somebody's head will roll."
Halverson smiled quietly, "Just make sure officer that it is not yours. Now, I presume I may have a word with my clients." He proceeded into the next room, the attractive pair in tow, closing the heavy, carved door behind them.
"He sure has his nerve!"
"Come on Beka. You can't say you don't know who he is, or how powerful he is. He will be dogging this investigation until it is finished. He will be protecting not only his clients, but also the victim, and all those who share their sexual interests. This is a highly political case involving a lot of very important people who have similar interests, politically powerful people, who could easily wreck your career. If you believe that this is simply a careless death as a result of a lifestyle choice, you will have to make that accusation carefully and only after physical evidence backs that up. Again, don't reject the likelihood that this was a cold-blooded murder, or even an act of anger, made to look like something kinky. That is what I think so far. I always go with my first reaction."
"Maybe and maybe not, but he does not get to see the body. He is their attorney! We don't want to help the defense."
"There is no defense yet. He is, was, the victim's attorney. That gives him privileges he wouldn't have otherwise. My report, which he will have access to if we ever charge them, will contain a detailed analysis of the way the victim was found and why it points to a person unfamiliar with s/m on more than a distant observer level. He knows the victim. He may give us leads we would otherwise miss. Personal clues. We can't afford to miss something he would have seen. He would crucify us. This is a political case. Sensitive. Do you want your reputation to be made on blowing such a sensitive case on your first lead?"
She thought for a long moment, her anger retreating, the red in her face fading pink, then back to her California tan, as she reached a calm state. "All right, but in my report, I will indicate that I was against this and I only acceded to your wishes, not his."
"It's your funeral. You should appear to be accepting his right. We are here for justice. The victim deserves it and so do they, innocent or not. Justice breaks both ways." I could not go further because they came back out. I try hard not to argue publicly with a partner.
"Shall we?" He gestured for us to lead the way. I moved forward immediately and he followed, Beka trailing. The bereaved pair stayed behind. I would have let them come. Their reaction might have told me a lot. Perhaps counsel was uncertain and did not want them to give away anything.
As we entered the room, I called for Pictures. "You got any Polaroid shots of the scene?" He nodded, giving me the lot, which drew a curdling glance from Beka. I could tell I was in for a truly professional reaming. I gave Halverson the photos. Beka almost intervened again, but stopped herself, glaring daggers at me, which everyone could see. Halverson went through the photos with a professional and experienced eye, both as a defense attorney and as someone in the scene.
Finished with the photos he bent to the body; careful not to touch anything he examined her with surprising detachment. Pulling out a micro-cassette recorder, he made quiet notes, mouth close to the recorder. I stepped back, assuring client privilege. I knew he would give us his observations when he was done and would only leave out any details that directly pointed to his client. That probably meant he would hold nothing back. He would not want anyone innocent convicted either. While I was not fond of the political nature of the murder of a wealthy Angelean, and the involvement of a highly visible defense attorney, and of course the kink, this was turning out to be a fascinating case, populated with intriguing characters. Just be careful. The words echoed in my mind as they would continuously through this investigation.
Finished with the body, he stood, gesturing for both of us to join him.
"Her outfit will have fingerprints of the two upstairs, which will mean nothing. They handled it often. I am sure. Any prints other than from the three of them are likely candidates for the culprit. You saw of course, the heavy padding on the collar, and the bruises. She would never have allowed anyone to choke her. Some people in the scene enjoy that kind of thing, but she was too concerned about her appearance."
"She might not have had any choice, bound like that." Beka's voiced again dripped sarcasm. She obviously had problems dealing with all of this. She could not understand anyone voluntarily giving up their power, especially someone with the kind of publicly arrogant attitude that the victim and this attorney had. She could not understand the dichotomy.
"She always had a choice, always used a safe word, though I doubt in her current relationship she needed one. Moreover, for quite some time, she seldom played with anyone but the two upstairs, and never with anyone new, without him being with her, and clear ground rules. He had the final say, and anyone she became involved within the scene would have had to meet the approval of all three. This agreement was not likely to lead to mistakes. It was a verbal contract that is common in the scene and would not have been violated without serious consequences."