BEE-6789A LOVERS IN PARADISE by Hannah Bronto

CHAPTER ONE: Mal Brings Her In

"Oh... it's building nicely," Valerie Marple moaned. She began to bite her lower lip. Her body was moving rapidly now, driving up and down, sliding the moist sleeve of her cunt around and across the throbbing length of my erect cock. A wet, squishing noise echoed up from between her thighs, and I knew it was the sound of her cunt as it kissed itself sloppily against my driving belly. She moaned again. "It's good, Mal... very good."

I leaned down upon her, pressing my body's weight up into her tent. My knees strained against the slickness of the sheets under us as I sought even more leverage with which to drill my cock in and out of her gripping passageway. As if in protest, the bed squeaked under our combined weight as Valerie began to buck wildly.

"Oh... it's good, lover," she moaned. Her head rolled from side to side as her rekindled, passion began to mount. "Oh, it's good! Fuck me, Mal... Please -- fuck me!"

I lowered myself carefully onto her slender, tensed body, relaxing my arms until I was balanced on my elbows and knees. Valerie's breasts were crushed under the pressing weight of my chest, and I could feel the hard tickle of her nipples as they rubbed back and forth. They were hot and burning, like the ends of smoldering ashes.

Valerie slithered her hands around my hips and grabbed onto my hard, driving ass. With her crimson-tipped fingernails, she dug into the muscles, squeezing the knotted cheeks as though her orgasm were somewhere inside of me, and she were trying to force it out into her body.

"Oh, fuck me, Malachi!" she cried. Her hands gripped me tightly. Her arms were like steel bands which joined us in our mutual pleasure. "Fuck me, Mal... fuck me. Fill me up with your cock!"

I bent forward and kissed her on the mouth. It was open and wet, waiting eagerly for my lips. I sunk my tongue inside of her, exploring the damp cavern beyond her teeth. I rolled my tongue over her own dormant tongue, searching out the secret pockets of sweetness which lay between her soft inner cheeks and down in the honeyed depths of her throat. My tongue stabbed hard into her mouth, and she sucked upon it furiously, as though it were perhaps my cock, and she were trying to dram it of sperm; as if she were trying to pull it out by its root so that she might swallow it, wiggling still, deep into her belly.

The touch of my mouth awakened Valerie's tongue from its momentary slumber, and she lashed it viciously against the wet invader between her lips. She pushed me back into my own mouth, shoving me stiffly, sensually, with the spongy hardness of her driving, licking tongue. I captured the soft piece of flesh between my lips, and bit down into it, grinding my teeth gently back and forth, sawing into the darting, spear-like tip.

Excitedly, Valerie broke the kiss off. Her mouth began to go wild all over my face, licking me, kissing me, spreading saliva against my mouth until I dripped with her slippery wet passion.

"Oh, fuck me, Mal!" she cried. She lifted her legs from the mattress, and suspended them in the air, one on either side of my hunching body. Her unanchored legs jerked helplessly up and down, like a puppet dangling from the end of a string, as I drove my cock mercilessly in and out of the tight, squeezing hole of her cunt. "Fuck me, Mal -- I'm going to come!"

I slid my mouth down the side of her face, exploring first the tight funnel of her ear, and then I tickled her neck with the tip of my tongue, pushing further down until I was gliding over the hard ridge of her chest. My mouth slid up the firm cone of her breast. I closed my lips over the erect nipple.

"Oh God -- yes!" she cried. "Suck them, Mal... please! My breasts...! Suck them, suck them... fuck me!"

The flesh of her breast was hard under the pinch of my fingers, and the nipple was stiff and hot in my mouth. I lashed the throbbing nub with my tongue, flitting it back and forth, rubbing it until it trembled with pleasure. Suction from my drawn-in breath caused the button-like nipple to ooze up into my mouth, and I pursed my lips around it, sucking it until it was long and distended. Saliva dribbled from my mouth, trickling down her hard, swollen hill of flesh until I could feel it spreading stickily between my pinching fingers.

"I'm... going to... come!" Valerie moaned. "Oh, my God... oh, my God!"

I lifted myself slowly now, away from the clutching tug of her writhing body. I extended my arms, until rd returned to the position rd been in before: above her body, looking down at her. My elbows were locked out, my arms were stiff, and my body was at an incline over her nakedness.

I could see her small firm breasts once more. The nipples were erect and pointed at the ceiling, like twin rockets ready to soar off into the cosmos. Her right breast was wet and drippy, with a thick colorless film of saliva dribbling down her squirming body.

"Fuck me..." Valerie moaned, working her hips up and down. She used her cuntal muscles like a vise, squeezing the velvet channel powerfully around the swollen rigidity of my thrusting cock. "Fuck me... fuck me... I'm going to come... soon... soon!"

Looking down at her, her cunt appeared swollen and huge; I could see the clitoris throbbing between the lips of her quivering pussy. At the base of my belly I could see the thick white wedge of my driving cock, moving in and out of her gushing, creaming cunt. My belly was coated with all the sloppy discharges of her sexual excitement, and my balls were slapping dully between her open thighs.

"I can feel it... inside of me!" Valerie moaned, almost incoherent in her passion. "Your cock, Malachi. Your wonderful cock...! Fuck me with it... fuck me...! I'm going to... come!"

Without losing a single stroke of my cock as it moved in and out of her, I pulled even further back from her grabbing body. I lifted my arms from the mattress, one at a time, and I placed them on the far side of Valerie's bobbing, dangling thighs so that her body was almost bent in half. Her calves rested against my chest, and her naked feet jerked rhythmically up and down as they curved over the muscular ridges of my shoulders.

I was driving straight down into her now, and Valerie's cunt was turned up, openly greeting the stab of my cock. I leaned over her, pressing her body into an S-shape, with her breasts crushed against the top of her own thighs. Her cunt was inches away from her open, moaning mouth. The smell of oozing cunt filled the air.

"So... deep!" she cried, squirming in pleasure. "Oh, God... you're in so deep... so... deep!"

I pushed down with my body, bending her even further over, almost in half. My arms strained against the back of her legs as I pressed her down with the weight of my shoulders. My cock was hammering deeply in and out of her cunt, driving it in until it could go no further; then I pulled it out until it almost disengaged. In and out, in and out, I drove it in and out, pressing belly against belly, cock against cunt, intermingling the sweaty hairs of our crotches. I could see my cock as it quivered in the puddle of her melting twat, all wet and juicy with the dripping excitement of her budding orgasm.

I was beginning to enjoy the full pleasure of our fucking. With a grunting determination, I rocked myself in and out of her body. Valerie was very close to coming and I wanted to bring myself to orgasm before she came for the second time.

"I'm going to come -- now!" she screamed. Spasmodically the lips of her cunt tightened around my cock. "Now, baby... NOW!"

I grunted and thrust deeply into her. Her cunt began to climb hungrily around the length of my plunging cock. Each time I drove my cock all the way into her, I could feel the hard nub of her clit against my heaving belly. Her cunt was oozing with wetness, as it spilled like a waterfalls over the crown of her belly, and down into the valley between the curve of her ass.

"I'm... coming!" Valerie screamed. "Fuck me, Mal... I'm coming!"

As I drove all the way into her, Valerie suddenly opened her eyes. She stared with wild disbelief between her widely parted thighs, looking up at the swollen softness of her own coming cunt. It was suspended in the air, just inches above her face. Her jaw fell slack, and her eyes seemed to glaze over as she stared at the incredible sight of herself getting fucked.

"Ooohhh -- I love it!" she groaned, still soaring at the height of her orgasm. "I can see your cock... going in and out of my... pussy. Fucking me... fucking me -- oh, my God I'm coming!"

I could feel my own orgasm now, briming near the base of my spine, like a tight ball of prickly pleasures. I thrust in and out of Valerie's oozing, juicing tint, feeling the softly pleasurable friction of my cockhead as it rubbed against the clinging lining of her vaginal tunnel. All kinds of secretions were sweating down around the shaft of my cock so that it made a dull whooshing sound as I parted the moist folds of her tender flesh.

"Oh, Jesus... God!" she cried, her deep blue-eyes all wide and white with staring excitement. "It's fantastic... fantastic!"

I was grunting now, and sweat was running freely down my back. That ball of pleasure inside of me began to grow, and I was suddenly very aware of my own building orgasm. My thighs trembled, and my cock was rock-hard with a strained rigidity. I slammed my weight against Valerie's bent, supplicating body, pressing myself deeply into her cunt, reaching my cock after that elusive tickle of sensation that would bring me to climax.

"Get ready for me," I grunted at her. I pounded my hips savagely against her up-turned cunt, meeting the undulations of her thighs with the stinging slap of my forward driving thrusts. My cock was like a knife, cutting through the soft, mushy butter of her orgasm. "Get ready for me!"

"Oh, God!" Valerie moaned. The color had drained from her face until she seemed to be in pain from coming so powerfully. "Oh... oh... oh..."

Wave after wave of burning sensation began to wash across my drilling middle. I tightened down inside of me, pressing my flesh around the growing hardness of my orgasm, squeezing my muscles around it so that I could somehow prevent it and, at the same time, somehow heighten it. I thrust forward, viciously, anxiously, in and out of Valerie's sucking, draining cunt.

"Soon..." I announced. My hips worked like a piston driving the shaft of my cock deep into the channel of her cunt. "I'm going to come any second!"

Valerie thrashed wildly, kicking her feet up and down on either side of my head. Her cunt was like a slack, quivering mouth around the bluntness of my hammering cock, straining to mumble out her strident pleasure. There were almost tears in her eyes as she grated herself against me, greedily trying to bring herself to yet another orgasm. She clawed her breasts, digging her fingernails into the tender mounds of flesh until her knuckles were white, and there were red marks on her swollen breasts.

"Oh, God!" she moaned, digging her nails into her body until she broke the flesh and began to bleed. "I'm coming... I'm coming -- again!"

Her cunt was on fire, and it felt as though my cock were going to shrivel up inside of her from the intense heat of her passion. It was like driving through a solid wall of molten lava. Gritting my teeth against the throbbing sensation, I grabbed her ass cheeks between my fingers, and I rammed myself all the way into her.

"Jesus!" I cried. "Jesus..."

Valerie's cunt felt like a pair of hands wrapping themselves around the end of my cock, finger by finger. In this position her cunt was narrow and constricted, incredibly tight. Excitedly, I pushed myself through the moist flap of her clinging flesh, as if I were drilling the entrance hole myself, with the searing tip of my knifelike cock.

I began to come. Thick, hot surges of pleasure coursed down the length of my flesh-encased cock as I began to pump the sticky, rich fluid of my orgasm into the swollen depths of her body. Through the haze of my excitement, I could feel my balls swelling up and growing tight under the buried shaft of my cock as I sprayed out the sweet fullness of my bubbling sperm.

"Oh... God!" Valerie cried, feeling the hot, swirling gush of my sperm enter her cunt. "I'm coming again...! I'm coming again...! I'm coming again!"

I grunted and held back, tightening down around my cock so that the sperm would jet from me in an intensely powerful stream. My balls were emptying, and I could feel my whole body draining as I opened myself to the flood of the orgasm. Quivering spasms of release rippled up from my groin, and I felt my cock draw back, then drive forward, like the recoiling of a gun. Bullets of sperm were exploding from the muzzle of my cock as I shot the sperm deeply, hotly, powerfully into the swallowing softness of her cunt, until she was oozing in my come.

"I'm still coming!" she moaned, delirious with her pleasure. "My God... I'm still coming!"

Her cunt began to quiver around my blunt, exploding cock, as though she were drowning from the rushing flood which bubbled into her. Her pussy was an insatiable mouth, sucking out the thick hot richness of my sperm as though she were some insane sexual glutton.

We dueled like that for a long time, the spewing hardness of my cock trying to match itself against the velvet squeeze of her oozing cunt. I felt myself beginning to deflate inside of her, just as I sensed the steel-like grip of her cuntal muscles relaxing their tenacious hold on my organ.

I hunched forward once more, driving my limp cock into the puddle between her thighs, and Valerie ground her cunt against me, squeezing my shrinking shaft with a weak, last cuntal caress. Exhausted, I fell heavily against her. She collapsed under the strain of my body's weight.

For a long while I just lay on top of her, breathing, heavily. My cock was just barely in her cunt: sperm oozed from the open mouth of her vagina, and I could feel the thick, runny discharge seeping down her body spreading all across the mattress.

And then my communicator buzzed softly. I cursed it fitfully in my exhaustion.

Valerie began to laugh.

"What's so funny, Miss Marple?" I asked, wheezing a I tried to catch my breath.

"That," she said when the communicator buzzed again, this time a little louder. "I'd never thought rd see the day that I'd be glad to hear that sound. But thank God it buzzed now and not three minutes ago. I would have vaporized the son-of-a-bitching thing!"

"Shut up," I muttered, mustering all my remaining strength to lift my exhausted frame away from the mattress. I flopped over brokenly, my arm extended out and down as my fingers fumbled with the lump of clothing scattered across the module floor. I found my pants, but I couldn't separate the communicator from my pants, so I lifted them up to my mouth and spoke into the buckle speaker. "Browne here," I said, depressing the button.

"Malachi, where the hell are you?"

"Is that you, Sergeant Mycroft?" I asked.

"Who did you think it was?" he asked. Then, before I had a chance to respond, he asked: "Where are you? I've been hailing you on every conceivable frequency. What's up?"

I looked over at Miss Marple. She was laying back in the relaxing afterglow of her exhaustion.

"I've just brought in Valerie Marple," I said, smiling crookedly at her.

Valerie was a beautiful woman. Long black hair, deep clear blue eyes, and a rich sensual, mouth that pulled into a lazy smile. Her body was hard and full, ripened into perfect maturity, with small firm breasts and a flat but heaving belly. The nipples on her breasts were still stiff with draining passion. Her flesh was a clear, now flushed pink, and the tips of her breasts were a deer coral color. Against the smokey blackness of her hair, the tone of her naked body was in striking contrast.

"Valerie Marple." Sergeant Mycroft was impressed. "How did you grab hold of her?"

I laughed softly. "I have my ways."

"The Commissioner will be pleased..."

"Speaking of the Commissioner..."

"Yes, speaking of the Commissioner," Mycroft asserted; remembering why he'd called me, "he'd like to see you in his office immediately. And that was a while ago, when I fast began looking for you."

"What's up?"

"How the hell do I know. You know he doesn't tell me anything..."

"Bullshit. You tell him everything. I haven't seen a sergeant yet who wasn't really the one who ran a police department..."

"Ain't that the truth..."

"Now, what did he want, Sergeant?"

"I really don't know, Mal. It beats the hell out of me. The old man is really tight-kipped about it, but it's big, whatever it is. That much I can tell."

"No idea at all?"

"Well -- I-I... I think I'd let him tell you about it. Because if it is what I think it is, it's very big. Too big to say over the open bands, even on this Godforsaken frequency."

"Now you've got me interested."

"So why don't you get your ass over here and find out for sure. Then you can let me in on it."

I looked again over at Miss Marple. A residual throb of pleasure made my cock twitch. "I'll be reporting in just as soon as possible..."

"Good. At least now I can tell the Commissioner something. Get him off my back."

"Browne out." I depressed the switch, and dropped the pants back to the module floor. The buckle clinked against the plasteel thickness.

"Malachi..." Valerie purred. She sat up, putting her hand to her cunt. She ran her fingertips through the moist, pearly-wet crack. Sperm stained her fingers, and she brought them up to her lips. With her pink darting tongue, she licked the fingers clean of my come. "I know that sounds important, but do you think you might have a little more time for me...?"

I crawled up between her thighs, licking at her oozing crotch. "I always like to give my prisoners the best possible treatment. You'll never hear any rumors of police brutality about Malachi Browne..."

As my tongue slithered between the lips of her cunt, Miss Valerie Marple clutched my head with both her hands; and pulled me tightly against her wet underside. She began to moan.

"Oohhh, I like being arrested by you..."

CHAPTER TWO: Life In Bos-Wash

After Miss Marple had miraculously managed to come twice more, we dressed and readied ourselves for our journey across town to police headquarters. I signaled Central Dispatch for transportation, and was informed, as always, that there would be a slight delay in getting a tube car over to us. I muttered, screamed, and finally cursed, but there was nothing to be done: we had to wait. With Miss Marple locked electronically to me, we stepped into an antigrav shaft and floated down some three hundred-odd floors to street level. Outside the building, the streets were mobbed, and, as anticipated, our transportation had not yet arrived.

"You're not from Earth, are you?" I asked, trying to make idle conversation.

Miss Marple turned absently toward me. "No, I'm not," she responded. Her eyes flashed with fascination between me and the somewhat cluttered but nonetheless breathtaking panorama that was the teeming megalopolis of Bos-Wash. Across from us was the monumental City Government Building, appropriately shaped like a mountain. It was the single most imposing sight in the city skyline. It seemed to dominate the horizon.

"Where are you from?" I asked.

Holding her arm, I pulled Valerie back into the doorway of the building from which we had just exited. Our presence in the middle of the walk paths had caused a momentary knot of traffic in the impatient and harried pedestrians as they tried to squeeze past us. "Ganymede."

"Oh, that's a nice little world. I was there once on holiday. Where on Ganymede did you live?"

"Ganymede City."

"How do you think our fair city measures up against it?" Even though Valerie Marple was my prisoner, I saw no reason not to be civilized about all this. Besides, I had as much civic pride as any citizen.

"It's fascinating," she said. Her deep blue eyes were wide with interest. "It's my first time on Earth. I've always dreamed of coming here."

"Have you seen the sights?"

She sighed. "No, all I've seen is the insides of one or another module. I've gone from one hiding place to another." She pointed at the City Government Building. "What's that over there? I didn't know there was a mountain right in the middle of the city."

"That's not a mountain," I explained. "It's a building. It's based on something called geo-architecture; its major tenant suggests that all architecture should be indistinguishable from sculpture."

"We certainly don't have anything like that back at home." She shook her head in awe.

"That's nothing compared to some of the developments that are taking place in the midwest. They're experimenting with single-unit cities: mega structures, completely sealed off from the environment, capable of housing up to twenty million people..."

"Jesus." Valerie shook her head and laughed. "I don't think there are that many people on the whole of Ganymede."

"If you think that's a mountain, you should see some of these mega structures. They literally are mountains. It's based on a concept developed by a twentieth century architect whore work is presently back in vogue. Schumann was his name, I think." I tried to remember then shrugged. "Well, anyhow, one of the larger mega structures measures something like ten kilometers in height..."

"My God, that's almost six miles high."

"And it's about two and a half kilometers wide, and it goes down into the Earth a little more than one kilometer. On the whole it's quite an undertaking. The only reason they weren't attempted sooner was because the materials necessary to build such a structure simple weren't developed..."

But Valerie wasn't paying attention to me any longer. A huge star-transport was passing overhead, and shy stopped to watch its ascent. The enormous craft floater weightlessly above us, casting its long shadow across the city, growing smaller and smaller, it seemed, as it rose higher and higher into the stratosphere.

"Brooklyn Space Center is nearby," I explained. "You get used to seeing those things living in Bos-Wash. One is either landing or taking off every five minutes or so."

"Brooklyn: what a quaint name. What does it mean?"

I shrugged. "I really don't know. It used to be part of the city in the old days, when Bos-Wash was a much smaller city. Actually, this area is made up of many areas which used to be cities in their own right."

"Oh, really? I didn't know that. This area we're it now, was it once part of a smaller city?"

"Oh, yes. At one time it was very famous. It used to be called New York. Have you ever heard of it?" Valerie screwed up her face in thought. "No-o, I don't think so. Should I have?"

I shrugged. "No. It's not really important."

Another transport appeared at the edge of the horizon, and for a moment, because we had nothing else to do, we watched it together. It passed directly overhead, then floated effortlessly upward until it vanished from sight. For a moment the sky was empty.

"There is, one thing that does puzzle me," Valerie confessed finally. "Where are the cars? What do you use for transportation? All I see are people."

"Do you see those empty spaces over there?" I pointed to the narrow corridors which lined the wide city streets on both sides, and at the intersections. Men and women were hurrying back and forth, up and down the streets and walk paths, but no one stepped into the corridors. I said: "With the exception of police and other emergency cars, all transportation in Bos-Wash is accomplished by public vehicle."

"But where are they? I don't see them."

"That's because they're not there... now." It was clear that she didn't understand. "For a long time," I explained, "we've been faced with the problem of safe transportation. In the past vehicles have run into each other, hit stationary objects, and have even collided with pedestrians. Well, we've finally come up with what we believe is a reasonable solution. Those corridors you see are depots for our tube cars. Tube cars are rocket propelled vehicles which criss-cross back and forth across the city, racing through time tunnels..."

"Time tunnels?"

"Holes punched through time," I explained. "The vehicles travel across this same space, but in a different time period. In a time period when there weren't any vehicles, or people for that matter, to obstruct their course. Of course all tube vehicles are regulated by the City Planning Computer so that their paths never intersect..."

"Oh look!" she cried, pointing. "I see one."

Across the wide street, a long tube bus appeared, gradually lengthening as it eased into the corridor. A cluster of men and women got off, and another got on. In a matter of minutes, the bus was gone, making its way across the city, making its way across time itself.

"Fascinating," she said, her eyes glowing. "Incredible. I'm sorry now that you arrested me so soon. I would have liked an opportunity to see the city before I'm sent away."

"Maybe that can be arranged," I said.

Valerie seemed confused. "But how? I thought I was going to be put in some sort of detention place?"

"Oh, good heavens, no. Where did you get an idea like that? We're quite civilized here in Bos-Wash. This is not one of those frontier settlements like you find on the fringes of the galaxy, you know. You'll only be detained for as long as it takes a psychotherapist to determine your area of faulty socialization. Then it's a matter of relearning and reintegration. You'll be well in no time."

In the corridor directly across from the building in which we were standing, something began to manifest itself.

"What's that?" Valerie asked, pointing at it. "That, I hope, is our transportation."

It was. Gradually, as it slipped back into our time zone, a tube car, painted bright yellow to signify the police, appeared. First the front bumpers, then the passenger area, and finally the rear portion, until, little by little, the entire length of the vehicle was there. A door appeared in the plasteel side of the car, and a tall thin man with a gaunt-looking face stepped out.

"Ah, I've found you," the man said as we stepped onto the crowded walk path.

I stretched my hand out to the tall thin man. "I'm Plain-clothes Detective Malachi Browne," I said. "This is Valerie Marple, my prisoner."

"My name is Holmes," the man said, gripping my hand with a strength for which I should hardly have given him credit. "Samuel Holmes, your driver."

"What kept you?" I asked. "We've been waiting for some time now."

"The usual," he said. He escorted us to the car. "Obstacles in our time path. I tried to get us an emergency zone; but the computer was tied up. Again, as usual."

Valerie slipped into the rear seat, and I sat in next to her. "Will the tunnels be free on the way across town? I've got an appointment with Commissioner Moran."

Holmes frowned. "I was afraid that you were going to be in a hurry." The door opening transformed itself back into the side of the car. Holmes walked down to the rear of the vehicle, then came up and around to the driver's side. He slipped into the front seat. "The computer has already scheduled us for a fifteen minute delay across," he said, leaning over the partition. "It seems that some prehistoric animal has chosen our particular path and time zone in which to die. Some kind of dinosaur or something. Anyway, we can't get across until the beast dies."

"Dammit," I muttered. "Can't we get reassigned to another level?"

"I've already tried."

"Use my authority."

"Hell, I've used Emergency Priority One authorization," Holmes explained, "and even that didn't do a damn bit of good. There's nothing we can do except wait it out."

I shrugged helplessly. "So, I guess we wait. You can't beat this city. Nothing can beat this city. It always wins in the end. So, we wait."

Valerie laughed. "All of this," she said, indicating the vast wealth and power of Bos-Wash, "and you still can't get across town. I might as well still be on Ganymede."

"Button yer lip," I muttered.

Holmes continued to stare over the partition.

"What is it, Holmes?" I asked, sighing with exasperation.

"Do you want to wait in the tunnel and watch the beast croak," he asked, clearing his throat and lowering his voice, "or would you mind if I... if I... uh..."

"What is it, Holmes?"

"Well... uh..." He exhaled loudly. "Well, sir, the fact of the matter is that I haven't had my break today. I've just been running my ass all over this city, and frankly, sir, I've as horny as a son-of-a-bitch. I've got a hardon that just won't go away. Would you mind, sir, if instead of waiting in the tunnel, I step out for a few minutes and stop off at an Erotiserie?"

"I thought you said we only have a fifteen minute wait? You can't be finished in fifteen minutes."

"All I want is a hand-job, sir," Holmes explained. "It will only take a moment."

I considered the request. "Oh, all right, just don't take too long. I've already late for my appointment with Commissioner Moran."

Holmes smiled and thanked me. "It won't take long, sir," he assured me. "In fact, there's an Erotiserie right down the block. Besides, there's never a line for handjobs. I'll be back in a second."

"Leave the lights flashing," I said, calling through the door opening on the driver's side. "I don't feel like getting a ticket for illegal parking."

Holmes grinned as he leaned through the opening. "Don't worry, sir," he said. He switched on the overhead lights. They began to pulse on and off. "I'm so horny I can almost taste it."

A moment later he was gone, lost in the crowd on the busy walk paths.

Valerie turned to me. "Malachi, what was he talking about? What's an Eroti... whatever it was he said?"

"An Erotiserie," I said. "Don't you have them on Ganymede?"

"I'm not sure. What are they?"

"Sex shops," I explained. "Businesses which deal in every form of sexual behavior. Someone once suggested that they were sexual 'luncheonettes', and I guess that describes them just as well as anything. They're businesses where any person can go to satisfy his sexual appetite, regardless of what it might be, whenever the mood strikes him."

"Oh, houses of prostitution..."

"Well, not quite. Nothing as elaborate as that, although we do, of course, have houses as well as Erotiseries. No, they're more geared to the mass market, much like a cafeteria would be in relation to an expensive restaurant. A person pays his money, gets on whatever line he wants -- for a blow-job, for a quick fuck, or for just a hand-job like Holmes wants -- goes into the cubicle, does his thing, and then he's out. Quick and efficient, one-two-three."

"That's very practical," Valerie observed. "Leave it to Earth to come up with something like that. It's a very good idea, though. I have to admit that."

"Do you have them back home?"

"Are you kidding? Ganymede is a hick moon in comparison to the Earth," she said. "Oh, I mean, we do have our porno theatres and live sex shows, and standard three-dee color sex stations on our wall screens, but nothing even remotely like an Erotiserie."

"Hum, that's something." A business plan flashed through my thoughts. "Someone should open one up out there. He'd really clean up. Erotiseries are making a fortune here on Earth."

Valerie laughed. "Maybe we could go into business."

"Why not," I suggested, half-seriously. "Just as soon as you're all readjusted psychologically, come back and let me know. Maybe we could work something out. There's a lot of money to be made in quick sex..."

"Oh, look at that!"

On the walk paths, coming toward us, was a thick-muscled, broad-shouldered workman striding briskly down the street. He had a tunic blouse on, but he was naked from the waist down. His cock was erect, and attached to the end of his shaft was a silver and plastic electronic masturbatory pump.

"How gauche," I said, shaking my head, looking upon the man with utter disdain. "If there is one thing that I really find offensive, it's masturbating in public. It's so uncouth. It just indicates a total lack of class."

Valerie sighed. "I know what you mean, Mal."

"Do you have much of that..." -- I indicated the masturbating man -- "back home?"

"Not too much. On Ganymede, people generally try to keep that sort of thing off the street, but there are always some people who have absolutely no regard for the rights of others."

"It's a matter of education," I said. "No matter how advanced a civilization may be, there will always be someone like that around. No class. None at all."

Holmes returned shortly after, and I observed that the thickness -- which previously characterized his crotch -- was now noticeably absent. He grinned from ear to ear. When Valerie politely asked him how it was, he said: "Great. A real pick-me-up."

The tunnel was now clear, and we shot across town in a matter of minutes. True to form, the moment we materialized in front of police headquarters, the City Planning Computer came through with the authorization which would have permitted us to take another, clear level.

"It figures," I muttered.

With Miss Marple in hand, we stepped into one of the antigrav shafts and floated up to Commissioner Moran's office.

CHAPTER THREE: The Problem

Sitting just outside Commissioner Moran's door, in his usual place behind his massive desk, was Sergeant Mycroft. He was an absolutely corpulent man, but his face, though massive, had preserved something of a sharpness of expression. His eyes, which were of a peculiarly light, watery gray, seemed to always retain a faraway, introspective look.

"Malachi Browne," he said, making no effort to move. Certainly Sergeant Mycroft was one of the laziest men I have ever known. He had no ambition, and absolutely no energy. He put out a broad, fat hand, like the flipper of a seal. "You certainly took your time in getting over here. What would you have done if this were a real emergency? Arrive tomorrow?"

I shook his hand, well familiar with his kidding banter. "Sometimes, Sergeant, its easier to get clear out to Titan than it is to get across town."

"Don't I know it," he sympathized. "Don't I know it." Valerie stood at my side, clearly feeling uncertain. She looked furtively around the office, the sense of being trapped welling up in her eyes. She studied Sergeant Mycroft. He was in full uniform, and as such, his mere presence must have brought home the realization that she had indeed been arrested.

"This," I said, bowing gallantly, "is my captive, Miss Valerie Marple. I trust, Sergeant, I can leave her in your capable hands."

"Wait a minute," Sergeant Mycroft muttered. "Wait a minute. You know you've got to sign for her." He searched through the papers on his desk, finding at last the necessary form. He shoved the paper at me.

Without reading it, I signed it.

"Bringing her in," he mumbled under his breath, reading over the signed form. He dropped it into the Out file. "I'll bet you were bringing her in."

I laughed. "Was that what I told you over the communicator?"

"Well, I didn't make that up. Don't you remember?"

"You must have called at a good time."

Sergeant Mycroft gave Valerie a careful once-over with his pale eyes. "I'll just bet that I called at a good time."

There was a row of buttons embedded in the right-hand corner of the bright yellow plasteel desk, and Sergeant Mycroft pressed one. "Send in Policewoman Drew," he growled.

Valerie pressed herself against my side. Her body was trembling. "Mal, I'm frightened..."

"There's no need to be," I assured her. "This is all perfectly routine. You'll be photographed, a voice print match will be made, and then you'll be brought to a room where you can bathe and rest. If you're hungry you can order something to eat. Then, a little later, a psychiatrist will come and interview you. There's nothing to be afraid of."

"But what if..."

"Would you like me to stop down and visit with you a little later?" I asked.

Valerie's face softened with hope. "Oh, would you? I'd appreciate that so much."

"Of course."

Policewoman Drew appeared at the door. "Miss Marple," she said softly, smiling.

"Mal..."

"Go ahead. There's nothing to be afraid of. I'll be down there a little later."

When she was gone, Sergeant Mycroft leaned forward over his desk, and in a low, conspiratorial tone, he asked: "How was she?"

"Excellent," I told him. "She's a very passionate woman. One of those rare multiple comers. Hell, she must have come ten, twelve times in all."

Sergeant Mycroft nodded sagely. "Oh, yes, I know the type. My wife Nancy is like that. For her, sex is one long orgasm. She's one hot-blooded woman, Nancy is. You ought to try her out once Mal. I really think you'd like her. All our friends really rate her high."

"Why, thank you," I said, sincerely flattered. "I really do appreciate that. I've heard a lot about your wife from some of the guys, and she really does sound good. I'm going to take you up on that."

"Fine; fine," he said, pumping my hand. "I'm sure Nancy will be tickled pink to hear that. She's always had a thing for you, frankly, especially since she's found out how thick your cock is. Nancy likes a thick cock. She's not so crazy about long cocks, but she sure does like a big fat one."

"Where did she hear about me?" I asked, flushed with quiet pride.

"Oh, you know how it is. Things like that get around. She mentioned you to me a couple of times, but I didn't know how to bring it up with you. You know how it is sometimes. You don't like to impose."

"Don't be silly, Mycroft. You should have told me. I'd have been glad to fuck her. You should know better than to stand on ceremony with me. We've been friends for too long."

Mycroft sighed. "You're right. Absolutely right. It was all my fault. I hope you didn't take offense or anything?"

"Me?" I asked incredulously. I laughed softly. "Don't be silly. I understood completely. Besides, what have you got to worry about now? I said I was coming, didn't I? Hell from what I heard about Nancy from the guys, you couldn't keep me away from her. Just thinking about her gives me a hardon. And I want you to tell her that, too!"

"You always know just the right thing to say. I appreciate this, Mal. And so will Nancy."

"Don't mention it."

"Say, I've got an idea. What are you doing this Sunday?"

I thought for a moment. "Nothing important. Why, what did you have in mind?"

"Well, you see, I've off this weekend, and I was just thinking maybe we -- the three of us -- could get together on Sunday. Nancy could fix us some dinner, we could have some drinks, and then we could have a trio together: you, me, and Nancy. What do you think?"

"Fabulous. That really sounds great You've got yourself a deal, buddy. And you tell Nancy what I said: tell her I can't wait to fuck her."

"Don't worry about that -- I'll tell her. Hell, she'll probably get so turned on by the idea, I'll bet she masturbates ten times before Sunday!"

I laughed appreciatively at the image. "Hey, you know what? Now you've given me an idea. Why don't you fuck Valerie Marple?"

"Miss Marple? Your prisoner?"

"Sure. Why not? She'd like you, I'm sure. She's a very, very passionate woman." I leaned forward, and in a whisper, said: "And, frankly, just between you and I, I really think she's better than most local girls."

"Really? Why?"

"Well, coming as she does from Ganymede, it seems to me that she's just more than a 'little' aroused by our standards of sexual openness. You've got to remember she's from the sticks -- and they're still pretty prudish out there. In fact, did you know they don't even have Erotiseries out there yet?"

"No shit?"

"Absolutely true. She told me so herself. I tell you: Valerie Marple is turned on by all our sexual freedoms and openness. It impresses her. It makes her feel very worldly and sophisticated."

"A real hick, huh?"

"Yeah, and all you've got to do to get into her and have the time of your life is take her out later. Take her out on the town. Show her the sights. Maybe take her to an Erotiserie. Believe me, she'll be creaming in her panties and grabbing your cock before you know what's happening to you."

"Do you really think so?"

"Do I think so? I know so. In fact, when I go down and speak to Valerie later, I'll put in a good word for you."

Sergeant Mycroft's face grew serious. He pumped my hand vigorously up and down. "Thanks, Mal. Thanks a lot. I sure do appreciate this. I certainly do."

"Don't mention it."

"And I've gonna call Nancy right away and tell her what you just did for me. This way we both know she'll show her appreciation appropriately on Sunday. I'll have her give you a blow-job you'll never forget."

I pried my hand from his meaty paw. "Hey, enough of this socializing. I'm late enough." I cocked my head at Commissioner Moran's office door. "Tell me, is the second most powerful man in Bos-Wash in?"

Mycroft laughed. The dubious title of "second most powerful man in Bos-Wash" was one that Commissioner Moran had given to himself in a fit of ego mania upon being appointed to his job by the Mayor. A title, which, incidentally, neither Sergeant Mycroft nor I was about to let him forget easily.

"Yeah, he's in there, but he's with somebody. Wait a sec and I'll buzz him for you."

I walked toward the door. "Don't bother. I'll just walk right in, like I usually do. After all these years, I think he expects me to be rude."

I pushed open the opaque plasteel door and strode into the room. Sitting, slumped behind his desk, with the sunlight streaming in over his shoulder from the open window, was Police Commissioner Spencer Mortimer Moran. Across the desk from him was a slender and most attractive young woman with long blonde hair. My intrusion caught her in mid-conversation: "... know. You have his report right there in front of you. Give Auggie a call if you don't..."

"No, no, that's quite all right..." He sat up in his seat, looking as rumpled as always, adjusting his rimless plasteel glasses. "What is the meaning..."

"Auggie?" I echoed incredulously, striding across the room, ignoring Commissioner Moran, smiling my best and most seductive smile at the beautiful blonde. "Who is Auggie?"

Commissioner Moran bristled. He pushed his slipping glasses up with a brisk jerk of his index finger, causing his head to snap back in surprise. "Malachi Browne -- what is the meaning of this!" His pale blue eyes glared at me through the lenses of his glasses.

The blonde's mouth opened in surprise, as if she were going to say something, but nothing came out.

"Plain-clothes Detective Browne," Commissioner Moran shouted, pounding his flat, open hand on the top of his desk with such force that the few soft white hairs remaining on his head flew violently up and down, giving him a wild-eyed appearance, "at least you could have had the courtesy of waiting to be introduced!"

"Then, allow me to make the introductions," I said glibly. "My name is Malachi Browne, but you can call me Mal. This somewhat flustered gentleman is..."

"Malachi Browne!"

"Don't believe him; I'm Malachi Browne. Say, you never answered me: who's Auggie?"

The blonde finally found her voice, trembling with indignation though it was. "He may be Auggie to me," she said, bristling visibly, "but to you, he's Doctor..."

"Doctor!" I turned back to Commissioner Moran. He was half out of his seat in frustration, his mouth twitching fitfully. "Are you sick or something, Spens?"

"No, I am not," he said, deliberately, coldly, "but believe me when I say I think I may be ill." He turned to the blonde, smiled apologetically, and in his softest, sweetest voice, said: "If you don't mind, Miss Wolfe, I think I'd like to speak to Mr. Browne in private. Perhaps we can go over this a little later."

"Yes, of course," Miss Wolfe said. "I understand." She rose up from her chair and crossed the room, moving toward the door. "Goodbye, Mr. Malachi Browne!"

I smiled at her. "You never answered my question. Miss Wove... Miss..."

She slammed the door.

"Oh, well," I said philosophically. "You win some, you lose some."

"Sit down, Detective Browne." Commissioner Moran commanded, his anger hardly contained. His hand was trembling as he stroked it through what little hair that remained on his head.

I sat down and smiled.

Commissioner Moran settled himself back in his chair. For a moment he said nothing. He simply sat there, with his elbows on the top of his desk, his fingers laced together in front of his face, the knuckles white. He continued to glare at me from behind his glasses.

"Malachi Browne," he snapped, "if you ever..."

I waved off his anger. "Oh, come on now, Spens. Don't get your balls in an uproar..."

"Don't you tell me how to act! This is my office, and you work for me!"

I stared back at him and frowned. "What's the matte with you, Spens? I've never seen you react like this be fore. Christ, if after all these years you're not used to the way I behave... what's come over you? Are you worried about something?"

He exhaled heavily and shook his head. "You're lucky that you're my best man, Mal, or I never would have put up with you..."

"Something is bothering you. What is it, Spens? Does it have anything to do with Miss Wolfe?"

"In a way... yes." He continued to shake his head staring blankly down at his desk top. "And you're right: something is bothering me. Ha -- that's an understatement. It's got me baffled. Everything's in flux. I've got the Mayor on my back, the City Council, and I've got tc worry about the newspapers and television finding out." He sighed mightily. "Ah, Mal, I tell you, sometimes it's just not worth it."

"Jesus Christ, Spencer, are you going to tell me or do I have to guess?" Among his many virtues, the foremost of which was putting up with me, Commissioner Moran had one really bad habit -- he was the most oblique, long-minded son-of-a-bitch in the world. If he had his way he would keep me dangling all day long. I said: "What's up, Commissioner? From the way you're reacting, it must be big."

"Big... I'll say it's big. Bigger than anything I've ever had to deal with in all my years as a policeman. That's why I've called you in on this. We've got to solve this, Mal, and solve it fast."

"Solve what? Jesus!"

Looking preoccupied, he removed his glasses and cleaned the lenses absently. "Perhaps I should begin at the beginning," he said, holding the glasses up above him, squinting as he stared through the lenses.

"Bravo!"

"Now, I don't want any interruptions from you," he warned me. "I know how impatient you get with me, but I won't stand for it this time..."

"Jesus, get on with it!"

"See! That's exactly what I'm talking about."

"Oh, my God."

"I'm going to tell this in my own way. Do you understand that? In my own way."

I sighed and nodded.

"Good." He nodded once to affirm his victory. Then he sat back in his chair, lacing his fingers across his chest, and he spoke to me while fixing his eyes on a spot somewhere above us on the ceiling. He said: "Over the centuries, mankind has learned to deal reasonably well with his sexual drives. This, as I'm sure you're well aware, was not always the ease. There was a time in our past when -- generally speaking -- men and women were ashamed of their nude bodies, and they abhorred and denied their sexual feelings. They were obsessed with outmoded ideas like personal fidelity, and despite all the readily available evidence, they chose to believe that man was not fundamentally a promiscuous being..."

I groaned.

His eyes dropped from their lofty angle, and he glared at me. "However," he continued, clearing his throat, "today we no longer suppress our sexual drives, nor are we ashamed of or by them. In this present world in which we live, sexual experience is looked upon much in the same way we look upon... eating."

I remembered suddenly who it was who'd made the analogy between an Erotiserie and a luncheonette.

He pursued the metaphor. "Yes -- eating. As a biological necessity, as a fact of life to be faced openly and realistically and maturely. Our culture has a very mature, intelligent, and quite sophisticated outlook toward sex in relation to the generations that have passed before us. In our world, nothing is repressed sexually; in fact, everything is out in the open. Our lifestyle is one of total uninhibition."

I shifted in my chair to show my impatience. He went on, unaffected.

"Sexual interplay," he observed, pressing his fingers together as if in prayer, "between strangers, friends, neighbors, and even members of the same family is looked upon as normal in our culture. The petty sexual jealousies of another age have long ago been laid to rest, just as personal possessiveness on a sexual level no longer exists. So much so, in fact, there had not been a single sex-related crime in over one hundred years... until now!"

I opened my eyes. "What did you say?"

He smiled and went on, confident now that he had my undivided attention. "And why should there be sexual crimes in our world? We have everything available sexually; nothing is repressed, nothing is considered perverse. Every form of sexual interaction -- from pornography to live sex shows to Erotiseries -- is readily available to every member of our sexually liberated culture whenever the mood strikes him to satisfy his erotic appetite."

"Don't stop now, you long-winded son-of-a-bitch!" I cried. "Get to the point!"

Commissioner Moran leaned forward across his desk. He spoke in a harsh whisper. "Malachi, something very unusual and very frightening is happening in our city. Someone, apparently the same person, has committed a vicious and brutal series of rapes..."

"Rape!"

"What's right. It's a frightening word, isn't it: rape. And what's even more frightening is the fact that there has not been a single case of rape reported any where in over one hundred years."

"My God..."

"Needless to say, the necessity of solving this despicable crime at once is of the utmost urgency. Mal, the city is in turmoil -- panic is about to break loose. Thank God public awareness of these brutal attacks has been kept to a minimum; there have been no official releases. But there have been leaks. The city is rampant with rumor. I'm not sure how much longer we can keep this a secret."

A chill ran up my spine, and I shuddered involuntarily. The very idea of rape was repugnant; it was so completely alien to my way of thinking, to my way of feeling, that it physically made me feel ill.

"He's sick," I said, shaking my head. "Whoever is doing this is a sick, sick person."

"Clearly. But your reaction, Mal," observed Commissioner Moran, "touches exactly the core of the problem that faces us. We, as a society, and as individuals, no longer know how to deal with this form of antisocial behavior; it's far, far too threatening to us. My God, we don't even know how or why something like this can be happening, much less find the one responsible for the crimes. It's absurd, it's bizarre, it's... perverted. Why in the name of God should any man rape when free and open sexual intercourse exists for all members of our society? Why?"

I didn't know the answer to that question. Yet.

"You've got to find him, Mal, and stop him," Commissioner Moran told me. "You've got to restore sanity before one man's sickness awakens that same kind of sickness in others. And if that happens, we'll be faced with an epidemic that quite literally could destroy us."

CHAPTER FOUR: The Partner

For a moment I just sat there, numbed by Commissioner Moran's words. I had anticipated a special assignment, for that was my job, but nothing of this magnitude. This case had the potential for doing more harm than any I've ever worked on before. This rapist, whoever he was, had to be stopped, and stopped fast.

"I see what you mean, Spens," I said after a while. "You had better give me all the details quickly, because I'd like to get started on this at once."

"Everything that we have on these cases has been pulled and culled from our files," Commissioner Moran explained, "including verbatim depositions from the three victims. The entire package of material is sitting on the desk in your office awaiting your inspection. Naturally, you'll have all the assistance you could possibly want, including the full and unlimited use of Central Computer. You have been assigned a tube car for your transportation, with the highest possible tunnel passage authorization. All departments are open to you, and all the supervisors have been instructed to drop whatever it is they may be doing whenever you need help. If you need a staff, tell me how many, and they'll be assigned to you."

I began to rise up from my seat, impatient to get started. "Fine... excellent. It sounds like you've taken care of everything. Let me go read over the files and familiarize myself with the case, and then I'll be in a better position to know what else I may need."

I was halfway to the door before Commissioner Moran spoke again. "There is one more thing, Mal."

I turned. "Yes?"

"I've assigned you a partner..."

"What?"

"Now, now don't get yourself all worked up," he said, trying to soothe me. "I know how you feel about working by yourself, but..."

"No good, Spens," I cried, shaking my head. I stomped back across the room to his desk. Leaning over it, resting my hands on top of it, I said again: "No damn good. I don't work with a partner, you know that. Now, if I need a staff, I'll let you know. But a partner is out..."

"A partner, Malachi Browne," Commissioner Moran insisted, "is in. And this comes not only from me, it comes directly from the Mayor himself. This is a big case, Mal, and we can't afford to take any chances. Two heads, even if one of them is yours, still are better than one."

I sat down heavily in my seat. "But Spens..."

"No buts, Mal. You have no say in this matter. On this case you'll have a partner." He flipped a switch on his desk and spoke into the communicator. "Sergeant Mycroft, send in Policewoman Wolfe, please."

My eyes widened. "She? Oh, Jesus, Spencer."

The door opened, and in walked Policewoman Wolfe. This time she was smiling, and I had a feeling she had known about this all along. She walked directly across the room, without once looking at me, stopping directly in front of Commissioner Moran's desk.

"You sent for me, sir?" she asked.

"Yes. Sit down please, Jocelyn. You, of course, are familiar with this case..."

"Yes, sir. I've gone over most of the information from the files, and I'm quite familiar with it."

"And you know, of course," Commissioner Moran continued, "that you'll be working as Detective Browne's assistant."

"Oh, yes, sir. I'm quite familiar with the famous Malachi Browne." She flashed a dazzling, if not sardonic smile at me. "I'm looking forward to working with him. His reputation is almost legend."

"That's it!" I said, slapping my palm against Commissioner Moran's desk. "It's just not going to work. I can't work with her."

Her ice-blue eyes froze up, and her smile melted away. "If you object to me, sir, because I'm a woman, let me just say..."

"No, no, no! It's not that." I waved away her objection with a disgusted flap of my hand. "I wouldn't care if you were a kangaroo, I still wouldn't want you for my partner. I don't want anyone for a partner. I'm a loner, sister. I work by myself."

"I am not your sister," she said in carefully controlled anger. "My name is Jocelyn Wolfe. You may call me Jocelyn, or you may call me Miss Wolfe, but I will not stand for you calling me..."

"Oh, God," I moaned sarcastically. "One of those!"

"Listen, buster..."

"Stop it. The both of you." Commissioner Moran gave us both withering looks. "You're acting like children instead of the professional policemen that you, both are. You are going to be partners, whether you like it or not; is that understood?"

"But Spencer, for Christ's sake," I tried once more, "listen to reason. I'm a loner -- you know that. A partner, any partner, will only get in my way. It will slow me down. It will prevent me from doing my job effectively. A partner will..."

"A partner will help you," Commissioner Moran finished for me. There was a rigid tone of finality in his voice. "Besides, look at this from a purely professional point of view. The crimes you'll be investigating involve rape and women. Wouldn't it make sense to you, therefore, to have a woman's perspective in on the case? She'll see things that you might not even be aware of simply because you are not a woman. But Jocelyn is, and on top of that, she's a damn fine policewoman."

Jocelyn's voice was subdued. "Thank you, sir."

I heaved a mighty sigh. "Yes... yes," I grudgingly admitted. The idea was sound. "That does make sense... I guess. All right. I'll work with a partner. That is if she has no objections."

"I have none," Jocelyn said.

Commissioner Moran smiled a tight uneasy smile of relief. "Thank goodness that's settled. If you both don't mind my saying this, you acted more like children than professionals. In many ways you're both very much alike -- independent and headstrong and resentful of being told what to do; but, in the same breath, you're both damn fine cops. If you learn to work together I'm confident that between you you'll have this matter settled in no time at all."

Jocelyn and I mumbled something quietly appropriate.

"All right," Commissioner Moran said. "Get out of here, the both of you. I want you to keep me posted on every move you make. I want full summaries, daily. Now go to work and solve this damn case."

I looked at Jocelyn, and she looked back at me. Something like a smile passed between us. I don't think she was any more ecstatic about the circumstances than I was, but what the hell. We had no choice. Together we got up and began to walk toward the door.

"Oh, yes!" Commissioner Moran called. "I just remembered something. Mal, I'd like to speak to you for a few seconds more. You know where Detective Browne's office is, don't you, Jocelyn?"

"Yes."

"Why don't you wait there for Mal. I'll only keep him a moment."

When she was gone, Commissioner Moran called me over to his desk.

"What is it, Spens?" I asked.

"I didn't want to say this in front of her, Mal," he began, looking concerned, "but we -- the department are worried about Jocelyn. As little as two months ago she was considered by everyone a cracker-jack policewoman. She had all the potential in the world of developing into something really special. She had all the tools: a fine mind, sensitivity, keen perceptions... everything."

"And then?"

Commissioner Moran sighed, "It's tragic. Her husband left her. They were married for less than two months, and Jocelyn was mad about him. She literally worshiped the ground he walked on. But he left her for another woman. She took it very poorly. The psychiatrist's report says that her father did the same thing to her mother when Jocelyn was only a little girl: he left them for another woman. Apparently, in Jocelyn's mind, she convinced herself that she was responsible for both incidents. With that kind of a load to carry around, she cracked. She had a nervous breakdown."

"I wish I'd have known," I said, feeling sorry for her. "I wouldn't have made such a fuss before."

"For a long time she was very bad: depression, even suicidal; there was a real possibility that she wasn't going to pull through. She did, thank God, but the trauma changed her. It shook her confidence in people and in herself. She's still floundering, looking for something to grab onto. Her psychiatrist suggested that work would be the best possible kind of therapy for her now. So we put her on this case with you."

"I see."

"There is a possibility that getting back to work, being in on an important case, with the possibility of solving it, may restore her to what she used to be before. She had a fine mind, Mal, and would have been a first-rate police officer one day. She still may, if we can pull her through this. If not, I'm afraid she's out. This just may be Jocelyn Wolfe's last assignment, so, please... don't be too hard on her."

Jocelyn was sitting at my desk, studying the files, when I returned to my office. I smiled at her without pitying her, and I said: "Would you like to go to dinner? We can discuss the case together."

"I've already eaten, thank you." She smiled. "But I'll let you buy me a beer."

"A beer?"

"Sure. I simply love beer!"

CHAPTER FIVE: Making Love

Somehow Jocelyn and I wound up in bed. Actually, it wasn't an accident; I'd planned it this way. Of course I was sympathetic toward her and what had happened to her, but I decided that sympathy wasn't the best way to begin a professional relationship. The case we were on was a serious case, and I wasn't about to carry her no matter what was in her past. The quality and tenor of our partnership had to be established right from the beginning. She had to know that I was in charge, and that she was my assistant. So, in a tradition that men had used from time immemorial, I decided to use sex as a way of gaining the upper hand. I seduced Jocelyn Wolfe.

Actually, it wasn't all that difficult to do: she seemed fairly willing. It was very late when I'd gotten her to her apartment, and the lobby was empty. We'd had a nice long talk -- about the case, about Jocelyn, about me -- and we'd consumed an incredible amount of beer. To say that we were both more than slightly drunk would have been an understatement. We were smashed.

"Oh, I don't think I could take the antigrav shaft," she said, shaking her head. "My stomach doesn't feel all that great now, and I'm certain that floating up fifty or sixty floors won't help it either. If you don't mind, lets take the elevator."

The elevators were in the rear of the lobby, and they were completely deserted. Hardly anyone used them any more. We stepped into the brightly-lit car, and the doors closed. By the time we were half-way up to her apartment, I had two fingers in Jocelyn's juicing cunt. I twirled the fingers around, and jabbed them in and out until my fist and fingers were all sticky with her leaking excitement. She pulled my cock out, and she began to stroke it with her curled fingers, squeezing hard into the shaft until I felt my balls tense with pleasure.

With my cock still jutting nakedly from the open zipper, we hurried to the door of her apartment. Jocelyn called out her name, and the, voice-print mechanism verified her identity. The door slid open.

By the time we made it into her bedroom, Jocelyn was stark naked. "Oh, God... I'm burning up! It's been so long... so damn long!"

Frantically she began to pull at my belt, opening it, and tugging my pants down my legs. She followed them down, until she was on her knees, pulling the pants over my boots. When they were off, she looked up and moaned when she saw my erect cock staring her right in the face.

"Oohhh -- Jesus!" Her voice sobbed with passion. "I must have it... I must have your cock!"

Jocelyn grabbed the naked shaft with both her hands, pulling her kneeling body toward it. I was just pulling my tunic blouse over my head when I felt her lips close around the head of my cock. I moaned softly in pleasure. Her tongue flittered expertly up and down, licking at the crown of my shaft. She spread her saliva all over my hot flesh using the flat part of her tongue. She stroked and dabbed at me, up and down, back and forth, in and out. I could feel the sharp edges of her teeth sinking into the swollen flesh of my cockhead. She curled her tongue in a tight cylinder, pushing it at the slitted opening in the tip, as though she were somehow trying to fuck my cock with her tongue.

"You're hungry, Jocelyn," I said, moaning softly.

"It's been a long time," she explained, running her tongue greedily up and down, the thick round shaft. "Much too long!"

I reached down between our bodies, and I lifted her breast in my hand. It was large and soft, and I squeezed it between my fingers. I could feel her hard stiff nipple scratching at my palm, and I caught it between two fingers, and pinched down hard into the stiff nub of her flesh. Jocelyn moaned and slid her lips further down my cock.

"Eat my cock, Jocelyn!" I urged her. "Eat it... eat it all!"

Her mouth was like a suction pump around my groin, and I could feel her lips tightening excitingly around the thick, throbbing shaft. Her tongue flattened under the bottom of my cock and, as she slid forward, eating my cock shaft, she lifted me with her tongue so that the head of my cock rubbed against the roof of her mouth. Her cheeks hollowed, and I could feel her saliva dribbling down around the hardness of my erection. With hardly any effort, Jocelyn pushed her mouth down to the base of my belly. Then, turning her head from side to side, she twisted my cock back and forth, moving it around in the wet hollow tunnel of her sucking mouth.

"Jesus... that's fantastic!" I moaned, closing my eyes to absorb the swell of wet pleasure which was washing across my belly. "Great... great!"

I pushed forward, fucking my cock into her mouth, until my balls were banging softly against the saliva soaked edge of her chin. The heat of my cock throbbed at the opening of her throat, and I could feel her breathing through her nose. Hot air snorted from her quivering nostrils, fluttering the hair on my belly. Jocelyn's cheeks were so hollowed that I could feel their slippery wet slide against the shaft of my cock. She was sucking deep and hard on me, trying, if possible, to sink her mouth even further down around me.

I moaned and grabbed onto her head with both hands. "Suck it... suck it! Oh, my God...! Suck it... suck it all!"

I began to hump myself in and out, pulling her head, moving her mouth up and down the shaft of my cock as if it were an extension of my fingers. I was masturbating myself with Jocelyn's mouth.

As I stood there, enjoying that pleasure, I suddenly realized the sensation was more similar to fucking a cunt than a mouth. I closed my eyes and imagined that it were Jocelyn's cunt I was pumping myself into. I had no difficulty in maintaining that fantasy. I could feel no teeth: only the slurping liquid wet slide of her tightly pressing lips slithering up and down the length of my cock. Against the throbbing hardness on the underside of the shaft, her tongue jerked spasmodically, moving like wet, scraping sandpaper. My cock stiffened in her mouth, and I pulled her hard against my belly. I felt myself twitching and throbbing.

"Jesus!" I groaned. "You're going to make me come! You're going to make me... come!"

Jocelyn pulled her mouth away from my cock. Her face was all red and sloppy with saliva and stray hairs. Her eyes were glazed over with passion, and she was breathing heavily as she stared up at me from between my widely parted thighs.

"No, Mal... no!" she cried. "Not yet... please not yet. Put it off. I promise you it will be worth it!"

And, to prove it, Jocelyn began to lick up at my dangling balls. She nuzzled her warm face between my thighs. Her tongue was like wet fire as it slithered up against my sweaty flesh. She licked at the hair on my balls, parting the dark wrinkled flesh, sucking out the salty flood of perspiration. I stood awkwardly, leaning half forward to maintain my balance, rocking from side to side on my widely parted feet as she pushed her face up against my groin. I tried to hold onto her with my hands, but she was too far under my body. So I resigned myself to hold only onto my thighs, bending even further over while I permitted her, her pleasure.

She sucked one testicle into her mouth, rolling it over on her tongue. As if it were my cock, she sucked it back into her throat. The straining pull made me groan in a combination of pain and pleasure. When I felt her sharp teeth biting gently, sinking into my flesh as if she were going to castrate me, my knees became weak with excitement.

Deftly, Jocelyn released one ball, but at the same time, she sucked up the other. Then she pulled them both into her mouth, rolling my balls from side to side across her tongue. Pulling back slightly, she licked their elusive softness and hardness, pressing them down with the tip of her tongue until they ached with pleasure.

"Jesus..." I moaned, my eyes screwed shut. "Jesus!" Jocelyn's mouth opened, and my saliva-drenched balls fell heavily out, swinging wetly against my thighs. Jocelyn's breath, snorted chillingly against my drippy crotch. She reached up from under me, and she grabbed onto my cock. Her mouth moved further back, her tongue extended stiffly from between her lips, and she slid all the way under me, licking at my naked flesh as she stroked my cock up and down.

Her tongue struck at my anus, and I trembled convulsively. With all her strength, Jocelyn squeezed my cock, digging her fingernails into the trembling column of rigid flesh. The tip of her tongue struck again at my anus, curling hotly into it, probing it, licking it, testing its resiliency. Up and down her fingers slipped, up and down, her hand wet with saliva, stroking me from the base of my belly up to the swollen tip of my prick.

"Oh my -- God!" I groaned, pleasure exploding behind my eyeballs. My knees turned to jelly, and my head spun, making me feel as if I were going to fall forward. Jocelyn's tongue slithered into my anus, prying open the wrinkled brown mouth, inching herself firmly into that tight dark passageway. "Oh, Jesus... Jesus!"

I could feel her nose pressing into the sweaty crack of my ass, and I could feel her warm wet saliva dribbling from my convulsing anus. Her tongue slid wetly up the canal, slipping from side to side like some obscene slinking snake. Fire leaped from the end of her tongue until it danced against the tender walls of my anal passageway, turning them into masses of quivering nerve ends. Suddenly her tongue stiffened, and she pushed up hard, sinking it to its full length inside my asshole. She squeezed my cock hard.

"Jesus Christ!" I cried, my head spinning woozily from the intensity of my pleasure. My cock felt as if it were going to explode, and it seemed as though I could feel Jocelyn's tongue all the way up into the middle of my belly. I had to grab the tip of my cock and squeeze it with both hands to keep from coming. "Oh... ohhh...! Oohhhh!"

With the flitting speed of a switchblade, Jocelyn's tongue slipped from my anus. The hole re-closed with a deflating wet sound, like water going down a drain. She climbed up from between my legs. Her eyes were unfocused and wild with passion.

"Fuck me now!" Jocelyn cried, her mouth quivering uncontrollably. "Fuck me... fuck me... fuck me now!"

We climbed onto her bed, and I began to slip my wet rigid cock into her oozing, creaming pussy.

"No!" she cried. Jocelyn pushed me away from her and waddled to the middle of the bed on her hands and knees. "I want you to fuck me from the rear... from the rear! I want to feel every inch of your cock sliding up into me!"

On my knees, I climbed onto the bed, the mattress bobbing up and down from my hurrying, shifting weight. Jocelyn rested flat on the bed, with her ass high and elevated, and her thighs spread wide apart. Her cunt was at cock-level, all wide and wet and opened like a hairy bull's-eye. I parted the thick lips of her pussy with the tip of my cock, made a minor adjustment in angle, and leaned in hard against her. I felt my cock go in.

"Oh, God -- fuck me!" she moaned, humping herself back around me. "Fuck me... fuck me! God -- it's been so long...! Oh, yes... harder... deeper..."

Jocelyn was impaled upon the rigid stake of my cock, and she was massaging it with the rippling walls of her sugary cuntal passageway. My balls swung between her widely parted thighs, and smacked tensely against the edge of her cunt. I felt her fingers come up to the hairy mound as she began to twirl the stiff button of her clitoris. I thrust myself in and out of her, and she thrashed around as if she were caught in some terrible convulsive palsy. She reared her head back, arching her spine, spraying her long hair across her back.

"Oh, God -- fuck me!" she cried, almost whinnying like a horse. "Fuck me... fuck me...! Fuck me!"

My cock throbbed in the constricted tunnel of Jocelyn's cunt. The walls of the oozing passageway clung to the sides of my shaft as if they were adheased with glue. Her heat and wetness baked down around my cock, scalding it, turning it a fiery red. Her cunt made a wet oozing squishy sound as my cock drilled in and out.

"I'm going to, come!" I grunted. I grabbed onto her ass cheeks with fingers of steel, digging my nails deeply into her sweaty pink flesh. I pulled Jocelyn back hard against me, screwing the shaft of my cock viciously into her creaming box. With a dull slapping sound, my legs rammed against her thighs. Pleasure was coursing down the length of my cock. I grunted again: "I'm going to come... I've going to come... now!"

I began to come. My cock began to spurt its thick hot blobs of sperm into the narrow crevice of her cunt. I moved my hands around to her hips, and I pulled Jocelyn hard against me. Her cunt loosened momentarily, and I felt myself being swallowed into the pit of her body. I could feel my sperm spewing out, splattering like hot heavy oil into the soft lining of her cunt. Then her muscles tightened like a vise, like a steel fist, crunching closed around the pumping shaft of my cock. My sperm began to stream out in a thin, pressurized gush, erupting like molten lava against the quivering walls of her convulsing pussy.

"Oh, God -- I'm coming!" Jocelyn screamed, milling my cock with the muscular coils of her cuntal passageway. Her pussy pulled and tugged and squeezed my cock, wringing the sperm up from my balls. Her back was wet with perspiration, and as I tried to pull her tighter against me, my fingers kept slipping from her tensed, humping hips. "I'm coming... I'm coming! Oh, God -- fuck me... fuck me! It's wonderful... wonderful...! Ooohhh! I can feel it! I can feel it! Your sperm... your come! Filling me... filling me...! Filling me up!"

I ground my cock into her softness, pressing my thighs against the back of her thighs, feeling the cheeks of her ass spreading around my belly, my dangling balls against her pussy, drilling my pulsing cock all the way up into her creaming cunt. The mouth of her pussy tightened around the thick, hairy base of my cock shaft, and trickles of my own sperm oozed from her convulsing hole, leaking down against my pumping balls. The considerable wetness between us acted like a seal, welding our bodies together.

"Oh... my... God!" Jocelyn groaned, coming still. She fell forward onto the bed, her body collapsing from the emptying drain of her orgasm, and dragged me along with her as she fell. My cock jammed hard into her as I made contact, and Jocelyn groaned again, either in pain or in intense, throbbing pleasure. "Fuck me, Mal... fuck me... fuck me -- God, I can't stop coming!"

Exhausted, I lay on top of Jocelyn, my cock all shriveled in the insatiable oven of her cunt. Every once in a while my cock would twitch or throb, and some final dribble of sperm would ooze painfully into her still-fiery cunthole.

Obviously it was the first time she had made love to another man since her husband left her.

CHAPTER SIX: Jocelyn's Views

For a long time after it was over, we lay together on Jocelyn's bed, panting softly to the darkened room as the sweat on our flesh evaporated. I felt good and contented, and as I usually felt after a satisfying sexual experience, slightly hungry. Jocelyn was over in one comer of the bed, with her back against the headboard. She was smoking a vita-cig, staring straight ahead, looking somewhat preoccupied. The sweet citrusy smell of smoke filled the air. Her breasts heaved softly up and down, the nipples pink and wet-looking.

"Can I rustle myself up something to eat?" I asked. There was a food-dispenser extension in the bedroom, implanted in the wall just to the left of the wall screen. "If you don't mind?"

Jocelyn shook her head, apparently still preoccupied. "Of course I don't mind. Order whatever you like."

Groaning from the effort, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and I stood up. My limp cock slapped wetly against my thighs, and the plasteel floors were cold under my naked foot. The thermal equalizer tripped on almost instantly, triggered by my body's weight, and by the time I reached the dispenser unit, it was nice and warm and pleasant.

"Would you like me to get you anything?" I asked.

For a moment she didn't answer. "Hum... what? Oh. No, no thank you."

I checked out the machine. It was a moderately priced unit, much in keeping with her social status, with a fairly wide selection of choices. I decided not to order anything too exotic. I pushed the activator button and spoke into the request box.

"A bacon and egg sandwich, and a cup of caffnil. No sweetener. Are you sure you don't want anything."

"No. Nothing."

Instantly the chamber door slid back and there was my sandwich and caffnil. It was still a little warm from preparation, and I held it gingerly on my fingertips. I carried the food back over to the bed, dragging over a levitab to place it down upon. I suspended the levitab at the side of the bed, and I sat on the edge of the mattress, looking at Jocelyn while I ate.

"You certainly are talkative," I said, sipping the caffnil tentatively. It tasted strong and bitter.

"What? Oh. I'm sorry." Jocelyn sucked on her vita-cig, exhaling the sweet smoke in a thinning orange cloud. "I was just thinking."

"What about?"

"The case," she lied.

"It was your first time, wasn't it?" I asked, chewing into my sandwich. "I mean since your husband..."

"Yes, it was, if you must know."

"I was just curious. Did you enjoy it."

She turned toward me and studied my face a long moment or two before she answered. "Yes, I did, as a matter of fact. I enjoyed it very much. You certainly lived up to your departmental reputation, if that's what's bothering you."

"My reputation..." I laughed softly.

"Don't be coy with me. You know damn well what I'm talking about. And I'm not talking about your reputation as a detective either."

"Yes, I guess I do know what you're talking about." I smiled modestly.

"Did you enjoy it?" Jocelyn asked.

"Yes. Yes, indeed. I did." I bit into my sandwich. "You're quite good. Quite accomplished."

Jocelyn smiled. "Well, I'm glad to hear that. It's nice to know that I haven't lost anything over the months. Do you think you've gotten it out of your system?"

I sipped the caffnil and looked down at my limp cock. "For the time being, at least."

"No, not for the time being. For good. Thai's the last time it will ever happen between us. Is that clear? The last time."

I shook my head, confused. "I don't think I understand what you're getting at?"

"All right, then let me tell it to you very plainly." Jocelyn flipped the vita-cig into the air. It made a lazy, graceful arc, toward the plasteel floor, and just before it hit, a robocleaner zoomed from the floorboard of the far wall and caught the cig in its open funnel. Just as quickly the roboclean returned to its place in the wall. Jocelyn said: "You see, Mal, you didn't seduce me. I allowed you to seduce me."

"You mean you weren't...?"

"Drunk? Well, slightly, but that wouldn't have altered anything. When I say that's the last time you and I are going to make love, I mean that literally."

"But why?"

Something changed in her face. It grew harder, almost angry. Her eyes narrowed into tiny points, and her tone was clearly bitter and resentful.

"I'm sure by now," she said, "you're quite familiar with my so-called 'case history'. No doubt that's what Commissioner Moran called you back for. I'm not stupid, you know. And I don't want you to think that you're carrying me or anything. What happened to me in the past, Detective Malachi Browne, is quite over. I'm fully recovered. I'm as capable as you are, and I'm on this assignment for one reason, and one reason only -- to solve this crime."

I stared at her, my mouth dropping open in disbelief. Her anger was barely controlled, and she was striking out at me, as if I were responsible for what had happened to her.

"This case is my last chance," she said, stabbing her finger through the air at me, making her point emphatic. "You know that as well as I do. My last chance, and I'm not about to let anything stand in my way."

"I'm not going to stand in your way. I'm your partner. I'm on your side."

"If I can beat you at your own game -- and, admittedly, the great Malachi Browne is the best man on the force -- and discover the rapist's identity before you do, then I'll have my career back. But if I fail, I'm out. It's as simple as that."

"You make it sound as though we were in competition. We're not, you know. We're both after the same thing: we both want to solve, this case."

Jocelyn shook her head. "No, now, no tricks," she said softly, slyly. "I'm not about to compete with you -- not officially, at least. I'm willing to work with you. But I want you to remember one thing -- I'm in this for myself. I have a personal stake in this case. So, from now on, our relationship is one of strict professionalism. We work together, but that's all we do together."

Now, here is a cold-blooded bitch. I thought my ego wincing with the realization that she had indeed tricked me by permitting me to seduce her. Still, I had to admire her courage and professionalism. She was quite determined, even if it is for the wrong reasons.

I took a stab back at her. "Allowing your personal feelings to influence your behavior in this case, in any case, for that matter, is a dangerous thing. You should know that by now."

She laughed cynically. "Oh, no, you're not going to get me thrown off this case that easily. I know you didn't want me as a partner, but you're stuck with me, and I'm stuck with you. I'm too much of a professional for any one to believe that kind of accusation."

"Jesus, you're really paranoid about my intentions. Pr not your enemy."

"And I'm not emotionally involved in this case." She smiled, softening somewhat. "How I feel about my exhusband, or my father, or you, or just men in genera will not influence my performance as a professional policewoman. But, as for my prejudices about rape an rapists... well, I can't help those. I'm a woman, and if women who've been raped. As a man, I can't expect you to understand that."

My God, I thought, shaking my head. She's almost fanatical about this case. Too enthusiastic... pressing much too hard. Is it just her background or could it be something else?

"I hope I've made things clear for you now," she said smiling sweetly, sardonically at me.

"Well, there is one more thing," I said, trying to lighten the hostile mood which was settling heavily upon us. "Who is Auggie? You never answered me."

"Well, if you really must know, he was my psychiatrist..."

I changed the subject quickly. I didn't want to go down that path again. Once was quite enough for me.

CHAPTER SEVEN: The First Rape Victim

Diana Chan lived all the way across Bos-Wash, in the area still known as Harvard, but we made excellent time with our top-priority clearance. Our on-board computer stopped us directly in front of her building, a tall, rambling structure that was on its last legs. Built before plasteel had been developed, it stood almost anachronistically on the edge of the city, a tall chrome and glass tower stretching some fifty-odd floors into the smoggy artificial sunlight. We put on the flashing lights in our car, to indicate we were on official business, and we entered the lobby of her building.

There was no doorman or any roboserv, but we managed to find the building directory in an alcove just to the left of the entrance door. Miss Chan's apartment was listed simply D. Chan, which made me immediately suspect that the rapist, whoever he was, must have known her by sight, for certainly he hadn't gotten any clue from the directory. There were buttons next to each name, and a speaker in which to talk, but no wall screen.

"It's an old building," I said, waiting for Miss Chan to respond to my ringing of her bell. We knew she was at home, and expecting us, for we'd spoken to her before we had left my office.

"Hum..." Jocelyn said, non-committally.

"Yes?" The voice through the speaker sounded metallic, but not enough to disguise its feminine origin.

"Miss Diana Chan?"

"Yes, it is. Who am I speaking to?"

"This is plain-clothes Detective Browne. I spoke to you a little while ago from my office."

"How do I know you're the same man?" she questioned.

I smiled at Jocelyn and shrugged. "Can't you tell from my voice?"

"Well... you sound like the same man, but how do I know for sure?"

"Policewoman Wolfe is here with me. You remember her, don't you? She spoke to you also. See if you recognize her voice." Then, to Jocelyn, I said: "Say something to her."

Jocelyn leaned into the speaker. "Hello, Miss Chan. This is Policewoman Wolfe. You remember me, don't you? We spoke over the wall screen. I'm the blonde who was sitting next to Detective Browne."

"Well... I guess it's all right. You both sound like the people I spoke to. I guess it's safe for you to come up. I'm apartment 33-J."

"Thank you, Miss Chan," I said. "We'll be right up."

The antigrav shaft was out of order, so we were forced to take a rickety elevator up to her floor. It was the second time in as many days that I'd been on an elevator. Probably I wouldn't ride another for another few months. Sometimes things went like that.

"She seemed very suspicious," I observed.

"Wouldn't you?" asked Jocelyn. "Especially after what she went through."

Apartment 33-J was the last door at the end of a long, winding corridor. It was a large metallic door with the number painted on. I knocked loudly.

"Who's there?" Miss Chan called from behind the door.

"Detective Browne and..."

The door opened a crack, and Miss Chan peered out at us. "Show me your identification."

With a patient sigh, I passed my I.D. card to her. It slipped behind the door, and then a moment later, it reappeared in her hand. "Policewoman Wolfe's identification, too."

Jocelyn handed it to her.

Miss Chan opened the door. "Ail right," she said, still behind the metal door, as if she were using it like a shield. "I guess it's safe..."

The apartment was small, but clean and orderly. We were led into the living room where I observed that rarest of rarities, a real wooden floor. Through the years of continual scrubbing, the wood was almost bleached white. Against the far wall was a small-sized wall screen, obviously new because the wall around it was freshly poured plasteel where it flowed into the older, plaster wall. We sat on an organic pillow which molded itself to our bodies' shape. Miss Chan sat in an imitation wood straight-back chair across from us.

"I hope you don't think me suspicious," she said. "It's just that since the... the incident I'm quite nervous. It upset me more than I like to admit."

"Not at all..." I said.

"That's quite understandable," Jocelyn said.

"Can I offer you something?" She glanced over at the food-dispenser in the dining room. The dispenser was very small, barely functional. "Something to eat, perhaps? A cup of caffnil?"

"Nothing, thank you. If you don't mind, I'd like to get right to the questions."

"Oh... yes, of course," she said nervously. "The questions. Always the questions. I swear I must have gone over this a hundred times with the other policemen. You know, the ones in the uniforms..."

"Well, just one more time, then," Jocelyn said. "I don't think you'll have to be bothered with this again after today."

"I see... yes." Miss Chan shrugged in tired resignation. "Oh, well, then... where shall I begin?"

She was a small slender woman, in her early twenties, with short straight black hair, worn in that upsweep that has become so fashionable of late. She was wearing a student's green smock through which her small but firm breasts protruded. Except for a slight elongation of her eyes and her somewhat high cheekbones, her oriental heritage was hardly discernible.

"If you don't mind I'd like to set up our recording equipment first." I unsnapped the top of the portable quadcorder, then placed it on the floor between us. I activated the start button. "Now we can begin."

Miss Chan looked at the machine apprehensively. "What is that?"

"It's a quadcorder," Jocelyn explained, setting the young woman at east. "It records not only your words and image, but it picks up the beating of your heart and your respiration as well. It's standard practice to use this in all interviews."

What Jocelyn failed to mention was that the quadcorder, through its monitoring of heartbeat and respiration also acted as a completely reliable truth verifier. In short, a lie detector.

"Now then," I began. "I'm going to begin with some general questions, and then well get to the details of the... attack."

Miss Chan, nodded nervously, but didn't speak.

"Would you state your full name and address, date of birth and occupation..."

She did, indicating that she was indeed a student. "What are you majoring in?"

"Alien psychology..."

Jocelyn cut in. "Oh, really? How fascinating. I minored in that. Where are you studying?"

Miss Chan warmed to Jocelyn. "Did you really? Not too many people are interested in that subject. That's really nice... Oh, yes: where am I studying? Bight here at Harvard. At the Symposium."

Two points for Jocelyn, I thought, observing her technique. Maybe she does have some police qualities. "You're not originally from Bos-Wash, are you?" she went on, gently pumping the young woman.

"No, I'm not." Miss Chan smiled and visibly seemed to relax in her chair. "I'm from Hawaii originally. I'm only in the city because of school."

"Do you come from a large family?"

"Do I?" Miss Chan laughed. "I have thirteen -- no, make that fourteen -- brothers and sisters. Mom's had another since I began school. I'm the number three daughter: third oldest."

Skillfully, Jocelyn went on like that, eliciting bits and pieces of information, building up Miss Chan's background, until it was time for me to take over. I began asking her questions about the rape.

"Now, Miss Chan, in your own words, could you please tell us what happened..."

"Well, I went down to the lobby -- I got a call, and when I got back..."

"Just a second. You said you got a call. From whom?"

"I don't know. A man called over the downstairs speaker saying that he had a package for me. He said he didn't want to bring it all the way up, so he was going to leave it in the lobby. I said all right, and then I went down to get it. Only it wasn't there. I looked all over but there was no package. So I went back upstairs to my apartment. He was in the apartment when I got here. He was hiding in the bedroom..."

"Wait a second. Can we go back a bit. When you left the apartment to go downstairs, did you lock your apartment door?"

"Yes I did. I always do. Besides, it has an automatic lock. Even if I would have left it wide open, the roboserv mechanism would have swung it shut."

"I see. Does anyone else have a voice card? Is the lock programmed for any other voices?"

Her head shook solemnly. "No, I am all alone. I have brought up an occasional man, but that has only been for sex. No one but I has ever lived here. That's what frightens me: how could he have gotten in?"

I laughed cynically. "That's easy enough: a forged voice card. He must have made an unsuspecting recording of your voice, pressed himself a transposed voice print, and impressed it on the card. Unfortunately, it's done every day."

"Is there anything I can do?" The girl looked sincerely frightened.

I was going to shrug helplessly when Jocelyn cut in. "There is something new on the market. Of course it's still experimental, but it seems to work quite effectively. It's a mechanism that's attached to the inside of your apartment door. A piece of metal which only you have is inserted into the mechanism, and that throws some tumblers, and a metal bar clicks into a housing in the doorjamb. The door is locked. A heavy metal bar holds the door shut. No one can get in unless he has an identical metal insert like the one you have. It's almost foolproof. I'm thinking of getting one myself."

I waited while Miss Chan took down the information, then I went on with my questions.

"Tell me again what happened from the time you decided to return to your apartment?"

"Well, I came up when I couldn't find a package..."

"Did you see any one going in or out of the antigrav shaft? Either the up or down side?"

"No one."

Jocelyn said: "He probably took the elevator."

I nodded. "Then what happened?"

"I walked down the hall to my apartment, I opened the door, and I walked in. I remember that I was veil angry. At first I thought that someone had stolen the package, but then I realized it must have been a hoax. I was angry because I had been studying. I had an examination the following day in Conversational Turiops Truncatus." She paused. "Well, anyhow, he was waiting for me when I went into the bedroom..."

"Can you describe him?" Jocelyn quickly cut in. She leaned forward intently.

"No... I never saw him. He told me not to turn around. But I heard his voice. I would remember that I ever heard it again." Miss Chan shuddered. "I don't think I'll ever forget that voice."

"What did he say to you?"

"I don't remember his exact words: He said something about not turning around. He said he would harm me if I did. His being there terrified me, so I did as he asked. I didn't think to question him."

"What did he ask you to do?" Jocelyn wanted to know.

"First he told me he was going to rape me. I asked him what he meant. I had heard the word before, but wasn't sure exactly what it meant. He told me it was an old-American word, pretty much obsolete now because it had fallen out of use. He told me it meant fucking -- but forced fucking." Miss Chan shuddered again, then shut and opened her eyes. "I said that I didn't under stand that: how could fucking be forced? It was some thing that two consenting people did together: how could that be forced? He said that the man would insist on fucking, even if the woman didn't want to, and that he would make her do it even if, he had to hurt her. That's silly, I said. No man would insist that a woman fuck him. If she said no, he would go away. No one would be that rude..." She shuddered again. "I guess I just didn't understand..."

"What happened then?" I asked.

"He threw something to me and told me to put it over my head. It was a leather sack. A small black leather sack with a drawstring around the opening. He told me to put it over my head. I did. Then he told me to pull the drawstring tight so I couldn't see out. There was a hole for my mouth so I could breath, and holes near my ears so that I could hear him, but it was quite terrifying to wear that... thing. It was like death-mask."

"My God..." Jocelyn said softly.

"So I put it on," said Miss Chan, "and I pulled the string. He came up to me and tied the string in a knot so that I couldn't take the mask off."

"Then what happened?"

"He told me to strip. He told me to take my clothing off -- all my clothing off. What a strange request, I remember thinking. If he wanted to see me naked, he could have easily met me in the street somewhere and told me honestly and openly. I am not a prude. If he were nice-looking maybe we could have fucked. Why did he have to do it this way? It was so... sick!"

"The world is full of sick people," Jocelyn said, her voice quivering with bitterness. "Go on, please."

"So I undressed... feeling foolish and frightened at the same time. When I was naked, he told me to play with myself. You know... to masturbate. But, I cried out through the mask, if you want to fuck me why not do it the right way? Let me take off the mask. He said masturbate, so I did."

"Did he tell you to do anything specific?"

"No, he just said masturbate. To do myself the way I do when I want to come. So I began to play with myself. I rubbed my cunt and pinched my clitoris and played with my breasts. Well, you know how it is with sex: once you start you naturally begin to enjoy it, and I began to get wet. I began to finger my cunt, shoving up one, two, three fingers -- while I'm standing there, with my legs wide open..."

"Did he touch you at all?" I asked.

"No, not while I was masturbating."

"Go on."

"I began to enjoy it a lot after awhile, and I guess I forgot where I was and what was really, happening to me. I began to masturbate as if I really wanted to come. I have this thing -- this way of masturbating -- that is really great and really works for me. When I started to get hot I began to do it to myself. What it is, is that I separate the lips of my cunt so that my clitoris is exposed, and then, instead of rubbing it or rolling it, I take my fingernail of my index finger -- that's why I keep it so long, see?" She stopped to show us her fingernail. "Anyhow, I scrape the fingernail across my erect clit very rapidly, very roughly. Usually it brings me to orgasm within minutes..."

"Did you come from masturbating?" I asked.

"No, I didn't. I was building toward it, and thinking about it, and I suddenly realized how sick the whole thing was. I mean, this man must have been crazy to ask me to do such a normal thing in such a perverted situation. I mean it would have been just as absurd if he would have forced me -- under threat of physical pain to eat my dinner. More than anything else, it was the normalcy of his request that frightened me. God, if he only had asked me to do anything else, I would have understood. But to force me to masturbate, to tell me that he was going to fuck me -- only a madman would have forced me to do what I readily would have done without being forced!"

"And then what happened?"

"I stopped masturbating and I told him to leave me alone. I told him I was going to scream. He got angry and yelled at me. Then I heard him walk closer, and he sprayed something at me. I remember it smelled funny, and then I don't remember anything. The spray, whatever it was, must have caused me to fall unconscious."

"Or it was an amnesia inducing chemical," I offered, "and you've just forgotten what happened. Go on."

"Then I woke. He was gone. And I... I was raped. I knew then what the word meant."

I thought for a moment. "If you were unconscious, how do you know you were raped?"

Miss Chan snorted in disbelief. "Are you kidding? This maniac must have had a cock a foot in length and at least four inches across. My cunt was all bloody. I was ripped wide open. I couldn't walk for a week. Even now, I still can't fuck without some pain."

Jocelyn shook her head. "The despicable animal. Some woman should fuck him and then he would know how it felt. Someone should shove a cock like that up his ass and then..."

I gave Jocelyn a long hard, look. She knew what the look said: she was thinking with her emotions and not her intellect.

"And you're sure you can't identify him?" I continued.

"No, I'm sorry."

"Might he be someone you might know?"

Miss Chan shook her head. "I just don't know."

"And his voice -- did it sound, even remotely, like the voice of anyone else with whom you're familiar? Even if there's just the slightest similarity?"

"No."

I sighed. "All right. Now can we go over this just one more time. From the top..."

CHAPTER EIGHT: The Second Rape Victim

Mrs. Nora Hudson, who lived in the Baltimore area of Bos-Wash on Baker Street, a busy eight corridor thoroughfare, was almost the complete opposite of Diana Chan in all ways. She was quite rich, wasn't a student, was older -- but by no means old, barely into her late forties -- and she was married. Mr. John Clay, her husband, a very stout, florid-faced, elderly man with fiery red hair, was present during the entire interview. Sitting next to his wife on a very expensive spun plasteel sofa, he never intruded into the conversation, and only uttered one word, once.

"I tell you," Mrs. Hudson went on, "the city has become a jungle. It never used to be like this, you know. It used to be nice. People used to be able to walk around without being afraid something was going to happen to them. Women used to be able to walk around at night -- anywhere -- without being afraid." She shook her head sadly and sighed, "I tell you I don't know what's become of the world. Get out of the city! That's the only solution: get out of the city. Go out to Centauri -- further! Go all the way out to the boondocks. Get away from it all. That's the only way."

There were a lot of people like Mrs. Hudson: people who said the city was on its last legs; people who lived in the city, worked in it, made their money in it, but did nothing but tear it down to others every chance they got. I suppose Mrs. Hudson had reason to be bitter; I wouldn't deny that. But I loved the city: Bos-Wash meant something to me. It meant a lot to me.

"I'm not sure that's the solution," I said, wondering to myself why I was allowing myself to be drawn into her argument. "Sooner or later the problems we face in the city will reach all the way out into the suburbs. You can't escape the problems of life by running away from them. I really think you have to take a stand, people have to take a stand, and try and solve these problems. I guess, in a way, that's why I became a cop. At least I hope that's why."

"Yes. But you see," Mrs. Hudson said, fluttering her matronly arms out, indicating her wealthy apartment, "I have so much more to lose than most."

That couldn't be denied: the apartment was rich -- wide and plush, with an area so enormous that Diana Chan's entire Harvard apartment would have easily fit inside the room in which we were presently sitting. The floors were all carpeted with real wool from the mutant sheep herds of the Martian veldt, so thickly piled that you literally sunk down into them. There were two wall screens, just in the room we were in, both of enormous size, and one of them actually picked up many of the deep space programs -- or so Mrs. Hudson claimed. Across from us, the entire far wall was made from a very rare and expensive type of translucent plasteel so that as you looked out, the entire breadth and scope of Bos-Wash seemed to lay below, almost at your feet.

"Everyone has something to lose," Jocelyn said, shifting stiffly on the edge of her chair. She pressed her thighs together, playing preoccupied with the wrinkles in her uniform. She was letting her feelings show again.

"Oh... really?" Mrs. Hudson said, looking at Jocelyn with disdain. Her husband didn't say anything.

"Perhaps," I said, quickly cutting in, "we should get down to our official reason for this visit -- as unpleasant as it must seem to you, Mrs. Hudson, to have to go through this again."

She sighed stoically. "Oh, well... if we must."

I unsnapped the quadcorder and placed it upon the levitab in front of me. I pushed back the two glasses, one still half-filled with the languidly rolling mercumist Mrs. Hudson had graciously offered Jocelyn and I, and two darting robo cleans whisked the glasses away in the blink of an eye.

"This is just standard practice..." I began, indicating the quadcorder.

"Ah, a quadcorder," Mrs. Hudson said. "So you're going to see if I'm telling you the truth or not. Well, don't worry, I've clean."

I glanced quickly at Jocelyn, and she returned my perplexed stare.

"I watch a lot of the wall screen," Mrs. Hudson explained, allaying my suspicions. "They always have quadcorders on the shows. Police melodrama is in this season, you know. Just the facts, ma'am..."

"Oh, I see. You understand, of course, use of this instrument in no way implies..."

"Yes, yes, I know. In no way implies any suspicion of me on your part. It's strictly routine."

"Yes... that's so."

Mrs. Hudson sighed. "I watch all the programs. I'm something of a mystery buff myself. Actually, if it weren't for the damn rape, this would be positively fascinating. It still is, I guess, in its own way."

"All right..." I said, simply because I didn't know how else to respond. "Let's begin. Just for the record, would you please state your full name and address, date of birth, and occupation..."

Mrs. Hudson replied, answering the questions fully.

"Ah, yes, one point of clarification," I said. "Again, lust for the record, you state that your name is Nora Peel Hudson, but your husband's legal name is John Clay. Could you clarify that, please?"

"Well, that should be obvious. We have different legal names. I never adopted his when we married."

The ancient practice of a wife legally changing her surname to that of her husband's upon marriage had long ago been abandoned generally, but in the last few years many women had revived the fad. I just wanted to make sure.

"This is just routine, ma'am," I said, turning to my next question. "You state that you're in the hotel business. In what way?"

"I'm sole owner of the Stamford Hotel."

"All right, then. Now would you please, in your own words, tell us what happened to you on the night of January eleventh..."

"It was a Monday," Mrs. Hudson, began. "That's important because John -- my husband -- is only out of the module on Monday nights -- business meetings -- so I find that an interesting 'coincidence'. If, indeed, it was a coincidence. Personally, I believe it indicates that the criminal must have been someone who knew my routine."

I interrupted her. "Are you speaking about any one in particular?"

"Good heavens, no. No one in particular, but there are, of course, any number of possible suspects."

"Ma'am?"

"Well," she said, shrugging magnificently, "one does not achieve as much as I have in her life without making some enemies..."

"Could you be a little more specific?"

"All right, for example, there's Zeck Roland. He used to be my husband's partner. And then there's..."

"We'll take a full list from you a little later. Now, if you don't mind, can we get back to the... attack."

"Very well. Where was I?"

"It was a Monday night..."

"Yes, and I was home alone. I remember I was watching the screen, when I received a call from the lobby wall-screen. Curious, too, that the visual was distorted..."

"Ma'am?"

"The picture didn't come through. Something was wrong with the vertical reception. All I got was a bunch of lines..."

"A distorter," Jocelyn said.

I nodded to her in agreement. "Go on."

"Mr. Ohls, the security man down in the lobby -- that's Cramer Ohls: he's a very nice man -- said that some man had delivered a package for me. He said he was Mr. Ohls, but I soon found out that was another ruse... but I'm getting ahead of myself. The man impersonating Mr. Ohls said he had a package for me. I questioned him why he didn't send it up, but he said he couldn't leave his post. Clearly, all he wanted was to get me out of my module... And I fell for it. I said I would gladly come down and pick up the package."

"Did you go down immediately after the call?" Jocelyn asked.

"Yes. I closed off and went directly down."

"By shaft?"

"Well, of course."

"There are no elevators in this building?" I asked. Mrs. Hudson looked scandalized. "Don't be absurd!"

"How many shafts are there in the building?"

"There's the large one at the front of the building: it has six separate channels, three up and three down, and there's a smaller, private shaft in the rear. Only that one is locked. Only tenants have voice cards."

"Did you pass anyone in the shaft?" Jocelyn asked. "Going either up or down?"

Mrs. Hudson thought for a moment. "No... I don't think so -- wait! I think I did. Yes... yes, I did pass someone: a man, going up..."

I became excited. "Did you recognize him? Can you describe him?"

"No, I can't," Mrs. Hudson confessed, looking perplexed. "He was wearing one of those portable viewers: you know the kind that slips over the wearer's head..." I exchanged a knowing glance with Jocelyn.

"I don't understand," Mrs. Hudson said. "What does this all mean? What are you getting at?"

"In all probability," I explained, "the man you passed in the antigrav shaft was the attacker, on his way up to your apartment."

"My God..."

"Are you sure you can't identify him?" Jocelyn pressed. "Perhaps his size, his type of build?"

"My God -- I never thought... No, no, I can't describe what he looked like for the simple fact that I didn't look at him. I mean, I saw him, but I didn't look at him. He was just a man. But young, old, short, tall, thin, fat -- I just don't know."

I realized I had been holding my breath. I let it out slowly. "That's quite all right, Mrs. Hudson. Please continue with your explanation."

"Well, I got down in the lobby, and I began to look for Mr. Ohls. When I found him he said he knew nothing of a package, and insisted he had not spoken to me. Needless to say I was furious... poor man: I certainly tore into him. I accused him of irresponsibility, of being intoxicated on duty... everything. I even threatened to have him discharged." She looked at me very confidently and nodded. "I have that power, you know."

"Continue, please."

"I came up in a huff -- angry, sputtering, talking to myself in the antigrav shaft. I walked down the hallway to my apartment, unlocked the door..."

"You're sure you unlocked it?" Jocelyn asked. "It wasn't open?"

Mrs. Hudson glared at her. "I un-locked the door to my apartment, and walked in. I stormed into the living room, intending to fix myself a drink at the bar to calm my nerves, when he -- the rapist -- called out to me from somewhere behind me."

"What did he say?"

Mrs. Hudson thought for a moment. "He said: Don't move! Don't turn around I've got you covered with this blaster..."

I glanced at Jocelyn. "Are you sure those were his precise words?"

Mrs. Hudson assured me they were. "I'll never forget them as long as I live. I've got you covered with this blaster, he said. And then to prove it -- he shoved the muzzle of his gat into the small of my back."

Jocelyn's face was pained. "Are you certain those were his words? That he did exactly what you said?"

"My dear young woman..."

I cut in. "Would you continue, please, Mrs. Hudson. Then what happened?"

She smiled smugly at Jocelyn. "After he shoved the gun in my back, I knew he meant business. Naturally, I thought he was after my jewels." Then she quickly amended: "Not that I keep any here... I just thought that was what he might be after. You don't know my relief when he said he was interested only in me."

"Relief?" Jocelyn questioned.

"Well, of course. I mean, I like fucking as much as the next woman. More perhaps. After all, what happened to me was nothing really serious, albeit it was an inconvenience. But can you imagine how I would have felt if he truly were after my jewels? Why, they'd be gone forever perhaps! As it was all I really suffered was a little pain, and that will pass soon enough..."

Jocelyn's face turned scarlet, but she said nothing.

Mrs. Hudson continued: "He threw me a hooded mask to put over my head, and then he told me to strip. I did as he asked, taking off every stitch of my clothing. I have a wonderful body still, you know. I do. It's quite remarkable. Very youthful. Why I look..."

"What happened then?" I asked.

"He threw me a dildo and told me to make love to it. It was quite a nice one too: very long and very, very thick. Made of a nice soft, but firm flestex. I hoped he was going to leave it behind, but he didn't. It was a shame: it was some rubber cock."

"And?"

"And I made love to myself, using the dildo. I started off very slowly, you know -- just running the tip of the shaft between my legs, getting my cunt used to it. I pushed the head against my clitty and rubbed it hard back and forth, setting up the most glorious sensation." She sighed, as if in passing memory. "Then, when I got loose and wet, and held the cock parallel to my cunt, spreading the lips around the sides of the shaft, and I pumped it up and down, humping myself with it. It was quite nice."

Jocelyn said nothing. Her lips were pressed tightly together, stretched tautly across her clenched lips. Mrs. Hudson's husband didn't say anything either.

"Then I began to open up all the way, and I just tipped the cock up, and it slid into my pussy just as neat as you please. Let me tell you -- that was some cock. I was really filled up: from the lips of my cunt all the way up into my belly. And then, when I began to move it, you know, push it in and out of me -- well, I tell you, I was in ecstasy, regardless of the circumstances."

I shattered her reverie. "And then what happened?"

Mrs. Hudson flushed slightly. "I have a small confession to make." She leaned forward and spoke in a low, confidential tone. "I have a slight sex problem -- I have a tendency to over-sex. Once I get started, I sometimes don't know when to stop. My doctors tell me that it might be glandular. But, whatever the case, I do have this propensity for over-sexing, and that time was no exception. I was really enjoying it, building nicely toward what seemed to be a shattering orgasm, and then... and then..."

"Yes?"

"And then that -- beast! -- asked me to do something unnatural. He simply ruined it."

I looked at her curiously. "What did he ask you to do, Mrs. Hudson?"

She gulped, but held her chin out bravely. "He forced me to..." her lips quivered as she spoke "... to insert the dildo into my... into my..."

"Rectum!" her husband, John Clay, said, speaking up for his only contribution. He said it smugly, firmly, as if his only reason for being there was to say that one word. And perhaps it was.

"Yes, that's where he made me put it. I didn't like it at all. I'm a very sexually well adjusted woman, but there are limits!"

"Of course," I said. "And then?"

"And then it was over. He sprayed this misty thing at me, and I went out, just like that." She snapped her finger. "When I woke up, he was gone. He took the dildo with him."

"You know, of course, you were raped for certain?"

"Of course. My poor little cunny was all sore and bloody. Oh, it ached so bad. He must have had some cock, that man." She shook her head and sighed. "And I have a very wide cunt. I can take a cock as big as -- here, let me show you." She began to lift her dress.

I held up my hand. "No -- that's quite all right. We don't doubt your word."

Mrs. Hudson smiled. "Thank you."

"And you're positive you can't identify him?"

"No. I can't."

"Shit!" Jocelyn exploded.

CHAPTER NINE: Mal's Theories

Police Commissioner Moran sat back in his chair, putting his finger-tips together, as was his habit, and continued to suck on the pipe hanging from the corner of his mouth.

"All right," he said, "now tell me about the third rape victim. Her name was..." he consulted the file on his desk "... Miss Louise Archer."

Jocelyn giggled, and because it was the first time I can remember her ever having done so, it only made matters worse. "Lou," she said.

Commissioner Moran frowned. "Lou?"

"That's quite enough!" I cut in, directing my annoyance at Jocelyn.

Her giggle broke into a laugh.

"Would one of you two please have the decency to lei me in on the joke. I enjoy laughter as well as the next person."

"It's no joking matter, Spens..." I began.

"I'll say it wasn't," Jocelyn offered, barely smothering her laughter long enough to get the words out. "I thought she was going to pull his pants down and fuck him right there for the quadcorder to tape. What an interesting report that would have made!"

"Jocelyn!"

"Well, it's true," she insisted.

"Will someone please..." Commissioner Moran rocked forward, pulling the pipe from his lips. He pointed the stem at Jocelyn. "You explain..."

"But Spens..."

"And you," he said, training the lethal stem at me now, "keep quiet. When I want your observations, I'll ask for them. It seems clear to me that this involves you and another young woman. I'd hardly consider your version of what happened unprejudiced." He dismissed me with a flip of his pipe. "Now, Miss Wolfe, what happened? And from the top."

"We stopped at Miss Archer's apartment quite late," Jocelyn began, "and apparently she was getting ready for bed, because she came to the door wearing hardly nothing. Just a flimsy, and quite transparent, negligee. Take my word for it, Commissioner, Miss Archer had nothing to hide..."

"I get the point, Miss Wolfe. See whether you can continue without leering."

She straightened out the smile that was curling up the comers of her lips. "Yes sir, I'll try," she said. "Anyhow, Miss Archer was glad to let us in -- I say 'us' only because I was there as well. But if it were up to her, she and Mal were quite alone in the room."

I glared at Jocelyn, muttering under my breath. "Well, you've got to admit that she did all the talking to you, didn't she?"

"Spens, are you going to...?"

"Mal," he warned.

"Miss Archer, who by the way, wanted Mal to call her Lou instead of Louise or Miss Archer, went over the details of her particular attack in considerable and quite graphic detail. She left nothing to the imagination, telling Mal how it felt, how wet it made her, how horny -- everything. And all the while she was leaning all over him, nudging him with her pert little tittles..."

"Now you've gone too far!" I cried, standing up.

"Well, it's true!" Jocelyn retorted.

"Malachi Browne," cried Commissioner Moran, "sit down! And not another word from you until this is finished. Do you understand?"

I sat down. "Yes... sir."

Jocelyn continued: "It seems the rapist's means of getting into her apartment was the same as it had been for the other two victims: a call from the lobby of her building for a package that wasn't there. When she returned to her apartment, he was waiting for her."

"Did he go through the same kind of procedure with her as he did with the others?"

"Essentially the same, with a slight variation, as there had been with the others. He forced her to strip, and then he made her make several 'obscene' calls over the wall screen to men at random. All the while she spoke to these various men, the rapist stood out of direct line with the screen, so identification that way is out."

"Obscene calls?"

"The rapist forced Miss Archer," Jocelyn continued, "although I hardly doubt he had much difficulty, to make sexual advances to these men while in full view of the screen. Remember, she was naked. She was forced to talk obscenely to the men while she masturbated and fondled herself. According to Miss Archer, one of the men actually became so aroused by her he pulled out his cock and jerked off. He came quite copiously, too, she said. All over his wall screen."

"Hum... that's novel, at least. Anything else, Miss Wolfe?"

"There is a lot more detail," she said, "but I don't think it's necessary to go over it now. Its all down in the transcript of the quadcorder tape. I have the tape as well, if you'd like to view it."

"That won't be necessary. The transcript is good enough. Continue, please."

"After Miss Archer made three calls, our man moved in to do his work. From here on it's the same as the others: he put a blindfold over her head, sprayed her with that substance, whatever it was, and when she woke up she was raped. Apparently, she'd faired better than the other two women because she suffered no blood loss. But her cunt was quite bruised and battered. I saw her physician's report, a copy is included in her file, and the results are quite brutal. She was attacked, make no mistake about that."

Commissioner Moran sucked on his pipe. "Hum... what about identification? Did she know him? Does she have any ideas?"

"Negative, sir. Just like all the others."

"Was there any mention of a weapon?" he asked. "A blaster, in particular."

"No, there wasn't. I'll attribute that, and that incredible piece of dialogue she reported the rapist to have said to Mrs. Hudson's obvious lurid imagination."

"I agree," Commissioner Moran said. "What do you say, Mal?"

"Yes. Clearly the woman watches too much wall screen; too many old neo-renaissance films." Commissioner Moran nodded, pressing his finger-tips together again. His chin was resting on his chest, and he was looking at me over the top of his glasses. "Now," he said, sucking on his pipe, "will someone please explain to me what any of this evidence has to do with Plain-clothes Detective Malachi Browne?"

Jocelyn began to giggle again, but I glared her down crossly.

"Our Miss Archer," she said, "was one hot-blooded woman. After the rape she was so bruised she couldn't have any sex. And I mean no sex. She couldn't even masturbate, so you can imagine, how horny she was. Well, all it took was for her to get one long look at Mal's cock, and she got an immediate case of the hots for him. Miss Archer was climbing all over him, touching him, caressing him, telling him how she hadn't been fucked in weeks..."

"Thank you, Miss Wolfe. I think I have the picture." He looked at me, arched one eyebrow, then sucked on his pipe. "All right, now where do we stand?"

"We know all three rapes were committed by the same man," I said. I realized how insignificant this piece of evidence was when weighed against the mountain of evidence it would require to track the rapist down. Still, it was one of the only hard facts we had about this case. I said: "Not only is his M.O. the same in all three attacks, but Crime Lab had established conclusively that all three women were penetrated by the same brutally large cock. The probability percentage of it not being the same man in all three cases is so small that the computer reads it out as insignificant. So, for what it's worth, we're only looking for one man."

"And thank God for that," Commissioner Moran agreed. "All that's needed to make this case any more complicated is for us to find out there are two rapists. No thank you, one is more than enough. What else do we have?"

"We know the rapist was someone who knew the routine of the three women," Jocelyn said. "In every case they were alone when he attacked them."

"What does that tell us?" Commissioner Moran asked.

"It tells us that the rapist was someone who could find that kind of information out about people, or it says he had that kind of information available to him."

"What type of person does that suggest?"

"I've all ready put it through the computer. It's sorting them out now. We'll have someone tracking down any possible leads we turn up, first thing in the morning."

"Good," he said, nodding with approval at Jocelyn. "What else do we have?"

"Lists have been taken from all three women," I said, "of their friends and relatives: husbands, boy friends, lovers, bosses, and anyone else who might possibly have a grudge against them. The whole mass of data has been fed into the computer, and has been checked, rechecked, cross-checked, even randomly-checked. Nothing. No leads, no results, nothing. Not even for Mrs. Hudson, and believe me, she does have a lot of enemies. But everything checks out. And, worst of all: no possible connection exists between the three victims. In short, they were all strangers to each other."

Commissioner Moran frowned. He pulled the pipe from his lips, tamped down the tobacco with a stick match, then struck the match and lit his pipe. He puffed out some smoke.

"Summarize what we have," he said.

"Conclusion: we're dealing with one man," Jocelyn said. "One man whose identity we do not yet know."

Something in my unconscious mind reached out and stung me. "What did you say? Say that again?"

Jocelyn looked surprised. "All I said was that we were dealing with one man..."

"That's it: one man!"

Now Jocelyn looked confused. "I don't...?"

Commissioner Moran pulled the pipe from his mouth. "Do you have something, Mal!" he asked, sitting forward, placing his elbows on the desk.

"I just realized were making the most fundamental kind of mistake. I'm surprised we didn't see this before. Aren't we making a mistake by limiting our investigation to men only. I realize it sounds farfetched, but think about it: isn't it possible that the three women were not raped by a man, but by a -- woman!"

Jocelyn blinked twice, and then, as if the idea were physically repugnant to her, her lips twisted into a sour frown, and she pulled back away from me. "Are you crazy?" she demanded. "That's the most..."

"Shhh! Wait," Commissioner Moran interjected excitedly. He physically silenced Jocelyn with an impatient wave of his hand. "At least hear him out. Make your point, Mal."

I collected my thoughts. "Let's re-establish the facts in light of my hypothesis and see what we come up with. One: All three women were unconscious when the rapes took place; therefore, no one can say without reasonable doubt that they were definitely raped by men. Not even the victims themselves can say that.

"Two: We have assumed all along that the reason for the hooded mask was to keep the victims from identifying the rapist. But what if there was another reason? What if the three women were blindfolded to hide from them the fact that the rapist was a woman?

"Three: The only time the rapist might have been seen was when Mrs. Hudson passed a man on the shafts. But that man was wearing a viewer which hid his head. I submit: couldn't the head inside that viewer have been a woman's head?

"Four: The Gynecological Reports on all three women each say that the victims were attacked by a cock of enormous size and thickness, and used with a vicious brutality. But suppose that wasn't a real cock. Suppose that it was a dildo.

"Five-and-Final: The Gynecological Reports again all state that the rapist deposited no sperm into the bodies of the three women. Again: Could not it have been a dildo and not an actual cock which forced penetration?"

There was a momentary silence, and I used it to study the faces of my two colleagues. Jocelyn was clearly unconvinced, almost violently so, while Commissioner Moran was clearly interested.

"I don't know," he said. "I think maybe the damn idea has possibilities. I think maybe you've hit upon something."

"I'm not saying I think the rapist is a woman," I expounded. "I'm only saying can we overlook the possibility that he might be a woman?"

Commissioner Moran nodded. "You're right, of course, Mal. We have no choice but to investigate that as a possibility. Run everything you have back through the computer for a woman this time and see what kind of results you get. And get new lists from each woman -- lists of women who might be suspects."

"There's also the possibility," I saw, "that if the rapist is a woman, the attacks might have been made by a known lesbian. Maybe we've been looking for the wrong kind of deviant all along!"

Jocelyn, who had been sitting by listening with her mouth opening progressively wider with each new step we took, suddenly exploded.

"Have you two lost your senses?" she wanted to know. "That idea is positively stupid, not to mention totally sexist. You're both expressing a typically male prejudice by even suggesting that a woman might have done it. No woman could have done that to another woman. Only a man knows how to hurt that deeply."

Her voice was rising shrilly until it seemed to catch her attention. She stopped to listen to it, and then she stopped altogether. Her eyes fluttered, as if she were looking inwardly at her own pain.

"Or a sick woman," I said softly.

Jocelyn stung back at me. "How about a sick man? And how about the fact that not one of the women even implied that the rapist was anything but a man? And how about the fact that every one of those women distinctly heard a man's voice?"

"Disguising your voice is a relatively easy thing to do," I pointed out. "It could have been done any number of ways. By tape recordings of a man's voice telling each of the women what to do. There are also devices that you can put in your mouth that will make you sound like the Commissioner, and he could be made to sound like you. It can be done."

The weight of evidence, if not reason, must have been frustrating for her. Jocelyn threw up her hands, as if in disgust.

"All right," she conceded. "You stick to your theories, and I'll stick to mine. And mine tell me that the rapist is a man."

I stared back at her a very long time before I answered. "And mine tell me we haven't got enough evidence yet for you to be that sure, this early."

CHAPTER TEN: An Urgent Call

The next few days were busy and frustrating: new leads were checked out, run down, and eliminated. Suspects were questioned, then released. Every bit of evidence was reevaluated in light of my theory, but nothing solid developed. It was another big and exhausting run-around, and by the end of the week we were no closer to a solution than we had been before I was struck by my startling new insight. If that's what it really was, and not, as Jocelyn suggested, "a desperate and hair-brained clutch at a few scattered straws."

Tired, depressed, and in desperate need of consolation and reassurance, I decided to drop off at Irene's apartment. Irene was Irene Marlowe, my girl friend, and one of the best fashion photographers in the Free Worlds. She was also an incredible lay, and that wouldn't be all bad in itself, especially after my abortive involvement with Jocelyn. Hell, even if Irene was away on assignment, the mere lure of her empty apartment and her huge but comfortable bed was temptation enough. I needed to get away from the case for awhile.

I shot uptown to her apartment. The roboserv doorman recognized me, and greeted me with a friendly, if not pre-programmed, hello. I closed my eyes in the antigrav shaft, and leaned back, allowing the cloud-like leisure of the shaft to do all the work. I must have dozed off, for the next thing I knew I was drifting past the three-hundred and twentieth level, twenty-five floor above Irene's apartment. With a disgusted kick of my feet, I "swam" across the shaft into the down stream and when I got to Irene's floor, I stepped off into the hallway.

"Open up," I said wearily to her door. It was programmed to admit me. "It's me."

Yawning, I walked into the apartment. I heard noise in the bedroom, so I, made my way toward it. The bed room door was open wide, and on top of her large bed was Irene and a man I'd never seen before. They were both naked, and they were sixty-nining. The man was on his back, and Irene was on top of him, with her face buried in his crotch. His thick round cock was buried to the hilt in her mouth.

"Oh," I said, yawning again. "Irene, I'm sorry. I didn't know you had company."

Irene looked up from her work, popping the cock from her lips. "Mal," she said, sounding genuinely surprised and pleased. She held the man's swollen cock between her fingers, away from her mouth as she spoke, "This is a surprise! Where have you been?"

"Oh -- work," I said, flustered and feeling a little out of place. "I didn't know you were entertaining someone. I guess I should have called..."

"Nonsense," Irene said. She climbed off the man, although continued to hold his cock, and she sat cross-legged on the mattress. The guy sat up, propping himself erect on his elbows, and stared at me. He had an enormous cock: it reminded me of the trunk of a tree between his widely-parted thighs. "You're always welcome here anytime, Mal, you know that. Call or no call."

"But you're busy..." I turned to leave.

"Mal, where are you going? Don't be silly. Stay and join us. Philip doesn't mind, do you, Philip?" She turned to the man with the huge cock. "Tell him."

"Of course not, old man," Philip said. He was stroking his thick long cock leisurely. "Do join us. You know the old saying: two cocks are always better than one."

I was tempted. My hardon was throbbing powerfully. Still, it really wasn't polite. "Oh, I don't know," I said hemming and hawing, hoping they would talk me into it. "You're right in the middle of something..."

"Mal..." Irene pleaded. "Please?"

"Come on, old man," Philip urged. "Your girl friend Irene is one hot cunt. I'm having trouble keeping he satisfied. What do you say we join forces? Between us we could probably make her come ten, twelve times!"

"Oh... that sounds sexy," Irene shivered delightfully. "Please join us, Mal?"

I sighed a big sigh. "Well... all right."

Irene clapped with glee. "Oh, wonderful... wonderful. Let me introduce you two first." She turned to the naked stud on the bed. "Philip, I'd like to introduce you to my boy friend, and the man I truly love more than any other person in the whole world -- Malachi Browne, Mal meet Philip Watson."

I reached across Irene's naked body and shook Philip's hand. As I did so, Irene caressed my cock through my pants. "Pleased to meet you," I said.

"Likewise."

"I picked Philip up on assignment," Irene explained. "I saw him and I immediately got wet in my panties for him. He reacted to me the same way." She reached over and stroked his naked, saliva-wet cock. "Doesn't he have a wonderful cock? I just love it!"

"Why don't you two just continue what you were doing," I said, being my politest. "I'll get undressed and then I'll join you. Don't stand on ceremony because of me. Enjoy each other."

"All right," Irene giggled. "But don't be long!"

I laughed softly. "I won't be."

"It's a pleasure meeting you," Philip said. Then he moaned as Irene's soft wet mouth reclosed around the tip of his cock. "Oohh... Excuse me, please."

I stared at Irene. Her eyes closed with a silent flutter, and I watched as the unmistakable signs of excitement stole across her delicately featured face. Her ruby lips stretched wide, her teeth flashed, her tongue snaked out, and the swollen, pinkish column of Philip Watson's cock disappeared into her open, supplicating mouth.

"Oooohhh -- yes!" Philip moaned, his eyes closing for a split second as their flesh made contact. The sound of his cock going into her mouth was like a soft wet whisper: a sudden sucking intake of breath. "Oh... suck it! Suck it, Irene -- suck my cock!"

Irene's mouth went all the way down on Philip's cock, until her lips were pressed into his belly, and his balls were pushed up under her chin. Her cheeks were drawn in, and the ring of her mouth was all wrinkled and puckered with the pressure of holding her lips around the throbbing column of his cock shaft. Philip's belly undulated up and down as he moved himself around inside of her mouth. I watched in fascination as the bristling black hairs around the base of his cock rubbed back and forth under Irene's nose.

"Oh, that's good," Philip moaned. He lifted one thigh, and turned slightly to his side so that his cock would go in deeper. Then he pulled back, and his cock slid from between her lips, about an inch and a half of the shaft reappearing. It was dripping wetly with her warm saliva. "Oh, that's wonderful... wonderful!"

A wet sucking sound echoed hollowly from inside of Irene's mouth. The flush of her passion spread all across her cheeks, and I could see her tongue moving inside as the thickness of Philip's cock pushed from one side of her mouth to the other. She began to draw her head back so that her lips slid wetly along the smooth shaft of his plunging cock stem. Further and further she pullet up from his belly, so that more and more of his cock appeared, until five or six inches were visible. Colorless trickles of saliva oozed down from her pursed lips, rolling in thick trickling streams until her sloppy wetness clotted in Philip's pubic hair.

"Oh -- Jesus!" Philip moaned, closing his eyes to absorb the pleasure of her wet expert sucking. "Irene, baby, you have some mouth. Suck me off, baby. Suck me off!"

Irene's lips were almost to the end of his cock, and I could see the stiff ridge of his glans sneaking out frog under her top lip. Her tongue came down, pushing out of her mouth, and it curled under the cockhead. Irene licked him back and forth, swishing her tongue all over his cock. Then she tightened her mouth in a sudden swift surprising movement, pulled back her tongue, and slid her lips all the way down the rest of his cock shaft, taking the full-length of his cock once again inside of her.

Philip moaned, then began to hump his dripping cock in and out of the ragged hole of Irene's sucking mouth. He pulled almost all the way out, then jackknifed his knees, and drove himself all the way in again. In and out, in and out, until his cock was making a slurping sound across her straining lips, and saliva was trickling down Irene's bobbing chin.

"Enough... enough," Philip moaned. He pushed Irene away from his crotch with an open hand. Like a marionette without any life other than that which was channeled into her, Irene fell over on her side. Her mouth was still open, as if an invisible dick were yet between her lips. Philip's cock stood stiffly in the air, its natural redness made to appear even more vivid by the thick coating of saliva which dripped from it. The head of his cock seemed to have swollen to twice its previous size. He said: "We're being selfish. Here we are giving me pleasure, while we've forgotten all about Mal. Why don't you go and give him a little pleasure while I watch."

I watched as Irene rolled over and, on her hands and knees, she crawled toward the edge of the mattress, toward me. Saliva was smeared all across the bottom of her face, and her breasts hung, down pendulously between her stiff arms as she waddled forward.

"Come closer, Mal," she whispered. Her eyes were glassy, and I knew from past experiences with her that Irene was very, very excited. Any form of sex play generally turned her on, and anything extraordinary or exotic practically reduced her to a mass of quivering female flesh. "Give me your cock, Mal. Give me your cock!"

Dazed with mounting passion, I stepped toward her. I felt my knees bang softly into the edge of the mattress. The sheets were cool against my burning flesh. I watched with a instant passion as Irene crawled up to my crotch. Her hair brushed against my naked belly.

"Give it to him, Irene baby," Philip said, obviously excited by the exhibition. His fingers were wrapped around the pole of his erect cock, and he was stroking the shaft slowly up and down. "Give it to Mal, baby. Suck his cock for him the same way you sucked mine."

I could feel the hot kiss of her breath on my belly. The head of my cock was on the same level as her mouth was. Irene's lips parted and her tongue slid forward. She licked the head of my cock.

"Oh, that's nice to see," Philip said. His hand moved more rapidly against his stiff middle as he jerked himself off. "Lick it for me, baby... lick it!"

Irene pulled her tongue back into her mouth, and then she brought her hand up, and she grasped my cock. I felt her fingers wrap themselves around the rigid shaft as she pulled me toward her mouth. I could feel the wet sliding of her lips as they opened over the head of my cock, and the moist billow of hot air as it breathed from her open wet mouth. Her tongue moved forward again, and wrapped itself under the head of my cock. Then it slid back into her mouth, taking with it the shaft of my cock.

"Suck it, baby," Philip cried excitedly. He stood up on his knees to get a better look. His hand worked in and out now, and his cock throbbed up and down under the pressure of his pulling fist. "Suck his cock, Irene. Give Mal a deep, wet blow-job."

Irene's lips reclosed, and she began to suck on me. The head of my cock was hot and wet, and I could feel her tongue exploring the hardness of my shaft as if it were the first time she had even taken it into her mouth. Her tongue moved slowly over my cockhead, then slid underneath, and slid back and forth against the bottom part of the shaft. I could feel her teeth gently grating into me as she moved her mouth from side to side. Her lips pressed down hard, and I could feel a subtle, drawing, sucking pressure building against the rigid hardness of my cock.

"Oohhh!" I moaned, excited despite my strangely detached emotionality. I stared down at her licking face, attached like something obscene to the end of my very stiff cock. I watched her nostrils flare as she sucked in air, and her lips seemed incredibly extended and puckered around the column of my cock. It was a deeply, deeply erotic sight, and I discovered myself sucking in my belly so that I would have a clearer view of what her mouth was doing to me.

I lifted my hands from my sides, and I placed them on Irene's small sloping shoulders. I could feel the gentle rub of her hair as it brushed up and down against my forearms. She twisted her head from side to side, and caused my cock to roll across her tongue. As a throbbing wash of pleasure gripped me, my fingers tightened into her shoulders.

"Suck him good, baby," Philip said, encouraging Irene who rarely ever needed encouragement. Philip wobbled forward, his cock still in his hand, and he came around the curve of Irene's ass, so that he was kneeling just to my right. He stared down at her mouth, barring his teeth excitedly as his lips curled back. He was watching how she sucked my cock. "Oohhh, suck that cock, baby! Suck it!"

I watched, my stomach quivering in excited passion, as Irene's mouth slid all the way down the length of my erection. I felt her tongue licking me all over, and I felt her teeth scraping gently, erotically against the sides of my shaft. The head of my cock was pressed gently into the back of her throat. The heavy weight of my balls dangled against the rolling point of her chin.

I began to stroke myself in and out, fucking my cock through the tight hole of her lips. I could feel the rubbing friction coursing pleasantly down the stiffness of my cock, and I could feel the soft wet caress of her tongue and cheeks as I humped into her. The pleasure of her sucking was excitingly powerful. The draining rush of her saliva rushing over the thickness of my cock was like gushing, pressurized water. It felt as if she were trying to swallow my cock, balls and all.

"Suck that cock!" Philip cried. He placed his hand on her bobbing ass, then slipped his fingers down between the cheeks. I saw his hand push forward, and Irene stiffened, tightening her lips around the shaft of my cock. "Suck it, baby! Suck that cock!"

A wild flood of pleasure made me groan, and I took my hands from Irene's shoulders, and placed them on top of her head. I stretched up, as if I were somehow trying to rise over the swell of pleasure, and I pushed her down with my hands. Her back bent low, and I could see over her ass. I could see Philip's fingers in the slit of her cunt. He moved his hand rapidly in and out, driving his fingers hard against her cunt. His hand was dripping with the wetness which oozed from her.

Irene began to moan, and I knew that Philip's hand was getting through to her. I could feel the excited frenzy of her tongue rolling rapidly over the head of my cock, and the sucking draw of her lips made my cock stiffer with excitement. She began to move her mouth rapidly up and down, turning her face from right to left as she attempted to touch every part of my cock. She began to moan loudly, sucking frantically, and she climbed up, placing her hands on my hips. She pushed me back, then pulled me forward, moving her head in reverse so that my cock went all the way into her mouth, and then pulled all the way out. In and out, in and out, in and out, until my cock was a dripping wet blur extended from her lips.

"Take it, Irene, baby -- take it!" Philip said. He stroked himself with one hand, and he drove the other one in and out of Irene's dripping pussy. I could hear the squish of her cunt as she tightened her vaginal muscles around the piston-like probe of Philip's fingers. "Suck cock! Suck cock! Take it, baby... take it!"

Irene began to moan out loud. Her mouth tightened around me spasmodically, and I felt her teeth biting into my rigid cock. Her tongue went berserk against the head of my cock, fluttering wildly in a frenzy of sensation. She sucked up hard, as hard as she could, drawing with all her strength on my cock. She violently crushed her cunt back against Philip's hand.

"She's coming!" Philip shouted excitedly. Irene's cunt was like a closed fist, and as he drove his fingers savagely in and out of her, she squirted her wetness all over his hand. Cunt juice dripped down her own thighs. "I can feel her coming, Mal! Her cunt's getting tight... tighter! I can feel her pussy just creaming all over my fingers!"

"Oh... oh... oh!" Irene sobbed, her mouth still fastened securely to the length of my cock. The words oozed up around her pursed lips, bubbling out like her saliva. She sucked me desperately, hard and deep, using her lips and tongue and teeth and cheeks, drawing upon me with all her determination as she tried to suck the sperm up from my balls. "Oooohhh!"

I moved my hands around to the side of her face, and I held her tenderly between my fingers. Irene's eyes were closed, and sweat was running freely down her face. I pressed my hands softly into her hair, against her ears, and I held her in place as I drove myself in and out of her. I could feel the humming vibrations of her moaning cries against the head of my cock as her throat quivered. Her mouth was so warm and soft that I found myself moaning right along with her.

Philip pulled his fingers from her convulsing cunt. He wiped the wet discharge all over the swollen head of his cock, and then he brought the fingers up under his nose. He sniffed her wetness deeply.

"That smells good," he said, jerking himself off. His tongue snaked from between his lips, and he licked his fingers clean. "I think I want to eat her."

Irene was still coming when Philip dropped down behind her. Her orgasm must have been on its way down, because the tight grip of her lips had loosened around the rigid pole of my cock, and the maddening twirl of her rolling tongue had slowed.

But the moment she felt Philip's tongue slipping into her cunt, Irene's body stiffened, and defensively she tried to pull away from the overwhelmingly new sensation. She groaned sharply, as if in pain, and then she forced her widely-parted thighs back, and crushed her cunt into his face. Philip grabbed onto the cheeks of her ass and pulled them widely open as his head bobbed wetly up and down. Thick wet licking sounds oozed up into the sweaty air.

The moment Philip's tongue drove itself all the way into Irene's cunt, she began to come again. This new orgasm tagged itself to the end of the old one, and began soaring skyward in a sudden surge of sexual power. Irene's back bent down low, her thighs spread even further apart, and she sealed her cunt tightly against Philip's licking tongue. She began to massage my swollen cock with her teeth as the sensations of orgasm filled her body.

But Philip wasn't satisfied. He pulled his face away from her cunt. Irene pushed back against him with a groan of disappointment, almost pulling my cock from her lips. Philip straightened, then drove his stiff cock all the way into her cunt.

Irene began to come for a third time.

"God!" she cried. "Aaaahhhh!"

Her jaw dropped loose as the pleasurable shock of penetration spread her cunt wide open. The color drained from her face, and then, in an instant, she brought her lips firmly again around my driving cock. Irene began to suck and lick my erection with a frantic excitement that indicated this was the best of all orgasms.

I stared across Irene's naked, coming body. I could clearly see what Philip was doing to her. He had his hands on her hips, and sweat was lolling down his face as he drilled his cock in and out of her pussy. I could see the dark tufts of hair around the base of his cock over the twin slopes of Irene's quivering ass cheeks. Philip was moaning and smiling at me, humping himself in and out of her hot, gripping body.

"I'm gonna... come!" he grunted, his face a mask of pleasure. I could see the stub of his wet cock going in and out of her cunt. The lips of her pussy clung like glue around his drilling shaft. "I'm... coming! Oh, my God -- I'm coming!"

I didn't wait: I began to come.

The orgasm which still gripped Irene was causing her to tighten her body so much that I could actually feel the hard edges of her teeth chewing themselves into my cock. And when the sperm pumped up into my shaft, I could feel the downward press of her hold causing the passageway to constrict into a tiny, narrow opening. My sperm exploded into her mouth, like a volcano erupting, gushing out so forcefully that I had to hold her head against my belly as Irene defensively tried to escape from the burning flood of my pressurized discharge. I could feel the wet throbs of my sperm splashing thickly into her open, throat, and I could feel her tongue rolling back in her mouth as she swallowed greedily.

"Oh, yes..." I moaned, colors flashing before my eyes. I could barely breathe, for my orgasm was draining my entire body. It was as if there were a hole somewhere in me, and my insides were running out, spilling hotly into Irene's open mouth. "I'm coming... I'm coming!"

When it was all finally over, no one moved for a very long time. We just lay there, my shriveled cock still between Irene's lips, and Philip's exhausted prick, slipping wetly from her scummy cunt. The bed under us was drenched in sweat, saliva and sperm.

I was in the bathroom, washing up, feeling relaxed and contented, when the call came over my communicator. It was from Central Dispatch, and when I questioned what it was about, I was just told again to report, on the double, to a certain address in the Manhattan section of Bos-Wash: West Thirty-fifth Street, between Ninth and Tenth Avenues. And old brownstone, 221B.

I was fully dressed when I came out of the bathroom. Irene and Philip were still in bed, and they looked like they were building toward another bout.

"I've got to go now, darling," I said.

Irene, who's always in her best mood after she has come, smiled sexily at me, licking her tongue around the rim of her mouth. "What's afoot, Mal? Not another woman I hope?"

I grinned at her. I would have loved to stay; my cock was hard already. "Irene, darling," I said, leaning over the bed and kissing her cheek, "as far as I've concerned. You know that you'll always be the woman in my life. The only woman."

Twenty minutes later I was on West Thirty-fifth Street. Standing outside the building was Commissioner Moran, Jocelyn Wolfe, and Sergeant Mycroft. Two police cars were parked in front of the ancient brownstone, their overhead lights flashing steadily. An ambulance was vanishing into the corridor a little way down the street, its wailing siren sending echoes rippling into time itself. All eyes were on the ambulance. Everyone was grim and silent.

"What's up?" I asked, sensing it was something big.

There were tears welling up in Jocelyn's eyes. She turned abruptly away and walked rapidly down the walk path, heading toward Ninth Avenue.

"Oh, my God," I said. "Another rape?"

Commissioner Moran heaved a sigh. "Worse."

I drew back. "Worse? I don't..."

"Murder," he snapped angrily. "Not only did he rape this one, he slaughtered her as well. It's the first damn murder we've bad in almost two centuries!"

CHAPTER ELEVEN: More Of Mal's Theories

For some reason, Sergeant Mycroft wasn't at his usual post behind his desk just outside of Commissioner Moran's office, so I knocked on the door once, and walked in unannounced.

Expecting to see the Commissioner behind his desk, I was surprised only to find Jocelyn in the room. She was seated in one of the two free-form black plasteel chairs which faced the Commissioner's desk. Her eyes were closed, and she was leaning back in the chair, with her hands clasped across her flat, pinched belly. At first I thought she was sleeping, but her lips pushed in and out, as if in indication that something was going on behind those tightly-lidded eyes.

The moment she heard me enter the office, her eyes snapped open. "Oh, it's only you."

"Sorry to disappoint you. You're right: it's only me. Might as well get some more shut-eye."

"I wasn't sleeping," she said defensively.

"You could have fooled me." I sat in the other chair, swiveling around so that I was facing her. "What were you doing?"

"Thinking..."

"About what?"

"That should be obvious, even to you."

"The murder of Effie Spade, no doubt."

"That and the whole damn case. There's something about it that just doesn't -- ah, well, forget it."

"No, go ahead. Are you on to something?"

Jocelyn nodded and smiled. "I just may be. But until I'm certain, no one but me is going to know what it is. It's my lead."

I frowned. "Do you think that's wise, partner? Keeping an idea or a piece of evidence to yourself in a case of this magnitude isn't a smart move."

"It is if I solve this case," she said. "Don't worry, partner, I'll let you in on it -- in due time. I'm not going to take all the glory for myself: but just enough of it with which to save my skin."

I shrugged indifferently. "Have it your own way."

"I will, thank you."

"Where is everybody?" I asked, indicating the Commissioner's empty chair. "Even Mycroft wasn't at his usual post."

"Haven't you heard? Sergeant Mycroft got the day off. He's getting married."

"Married? But what about his wife? They were devoted." I remembered suddenly my invitation for sex with his wife that Mycroft had so graciously offered.

"He got married again," Jocelyn explained. "He's taken a second wife. Some woman by the name of Valerie Marple. It seems she's a rehabilitated criminal he had taken out a few times. They got along very well, and when he brought her home to meet his wife, she liked Miss Marple as well. All three were compatible, so he decided to marry her."

"Hum," I said smiling. "Miss Marple."

Jocelyn looked at me curiously. "Do you know her?"

"Me? Don't be silly. Where would I meet someone like that." I smiled across the room at her. "Where's the Commissioner?"

"He went down to the lab. The Autopsy Report on Effie Spade was ready. He was anxious to see what it said. I offered to pick it up for him, but he insisted on getting it himself." She shrugged. "You know how he is sometimes when he fixes upon an idea."

Indeed I did.

A second or two later, the door to the office opened, and in walked Commissioner Moran, his face buried in the pale blue folder of the Autopsy Report. He looked up for a moment from the page.

"Ah, Mal, you're here." He closed the folder and dropped it on the edge of his desk. "I was just going to call your office."

"What does it say?" I asked, indicating the blue folder. "What did she die of?"

"What we first suspected."

"A blaster?" Jocelyn's voice was incredulous.

Commissioner Moran nodded gravely. "She took the full blast right in the chest. There are some pictures of her in the folder in case you'd like to see. I warn you -- they're not pretty."

I picked up the folder and looked. He was right. They weren't pretty at all. Neither was Effie Spade any longer. I reclosed the folder and offered it to Jocelyn. She shook her head.

"I guess that gives a whole lot of credence to what Mrs. Hudson said." I dropped the Autopsy Report back onto the Commissioner's desk. "Unless, of course, it was just a coincidence."

Commissioner Moran shook his head. "I don't believe in coincidences. Not in a murder case."

"Do you realize what that means?" Jocelyn asked. "My God, I've never even see a blaster outside of a picture or in a museum. Where would he have gotten one? They haven't been manufactured in ages."

I shook my head. "It beats me. This whole damn case beats the hell out of me. First rapes, then a murder, and then we find out the murder was committed with a blaster. What next?"

"What's next is that we try and run down that weapon," Commissioner Moran asserted. "I want every person or place where blasters are kept checked out. And that includes armories, museums, private collectors, even police stations..."

Jocelyn seemed shaken. "Do you mean that weapons are still kept in police stations? At this late date in time? You mean, right here, in this station there are weapons like that around?"

"There are some in the vault downstairs," I said. "But how would anyone get to them? They're under constant lock and key, as they would be in any place that kept weapons."

"How does any criminal commit crimes?" Commissioner Moran asked. "There are ways. There are ways for every improbable thing to happen. If, they didn't happen, we'd be out of jobs."

I grinned cynically. "Right now that doesn't seem like too bad an idea. Besides, I have a feeling that if we don't get some breaks in this case soon, we might be all out of a job regardless."

Commissioner Moran glared; he had no sense of humor about some things.

"Detective Browne," he said dryly, "I want you to check out the weapon angle. Get a rundown from the computer of every possible place and person who would have access to weapons of any kind. If we're lucky -- and I frankly see no reason why anything will change in our favor -- somewhere a blaster will turn up missing. If it does, we'll at least have some where to begin."

"And if it doesn't turn up?"

The glare intensified. "Then we'll be no worse off than we are now."

"Check," I said meekly.

"Miss Wolfe," he said, turning to Jocelyn, "what do you have to report on possible suspects?"

"There are three, sir," she said.

"That's all the computer turned up?"

"Yes, I've afraid so."

"You included, of course, Mal's theory?"

"Of course, sir," she said crisply. "Interestingly enough, the computer seemed to verify my own view in that it didn't turn up a single female suspect. All three are men, sir."

"That doesn't prove anything," I said. "If this were a normal case, the computer would have pin-pointed the murderer a long time ago. Because it hasn't only proved that the killer is a lot smarter than we give him -- or, her -- credit for. He -- or she -- has either kept out of our files, or we have no record of that person at all. In either case, there is still no way to say for certain whether the rapist/murderer is a man or a woman."

Commissioner Moran nodded in approval. "Tell us about the three suspects, Miss Wolfe."

"Two of the suspects have since been eliminated from consideration," Jocelyn explained. "They are Henry Roylott and Daniel R. Baley. Roylott has since turned up dead of natural causes, and Baley has been located on Delta Centauri. He's a legitimate businessman now, completely rehabilitated. He hasn't left Delta Centauri for more than six months. There's just no way he could have come to Earth without our knowing."

"Who does that leave?"

"Dain Gutman. He has a record as long as my arm, everything from piracy to armed robbery. He's a habitual -- something about him genetically that resists therapy. He's done time here on Earth in Reich Rehab, and he was three years in solitary on an asteroid. Nothing apparently helped. His present whereabouts is still unknown, but I've got several lines on him. It won't be long before he's run to ground. One other point in his favor: he has been known to use a weapon in the past. A blaster, sir."

Commissioner Moran grunted. "Hum. Sounds good. What do you think, Mal?"

"I think it's too soon to say for certain. He sounds as if he might be our man, but then so did the other two, Baley and Roylott, or the computer wouldn't have come up with their names. For all we know, the same may happen with Gutman. We can't know until we find him. So I think we should proceed with the investigation as if he hadn't even entered into our considerations. If we stumble across his name through some other avenue of investigation, then well know for sure. If not, and we find out he's not our man, then nothing will have been lost."

"Agreed." He turned toward Jocelyn. "Miss Wolfe?"

Jocelyn snorted angrily. "Yes -- agreed."

Commissioner Moran nodded. "All right then, where does that leave us and this investigation? How does the murder of Effie Spade affect this case?"

"Well, for one thing," Jocelyn said, "we know the killer and the rapist is the same man. Gynecological Reports indicate the same type of bruises and battering of Miss Spade's thighs and curt that were found on the other women. They matched identically. So it's the same man."

"Or woman."

Jocelyn glared at me.

"What else do we know about this -- person?" Commissioner Moran asked.

"Clearly," Jocelyn expounded, "our one time rapist has now degenerated into a murderer. Apparently his lust is no longer satisfied by simply attacking his victims sexually. Now he is resorting to murdering them as well."

Commissioner Moran nodded several times. "Yes, I wholly agree. Obviously this man is so filled with hatred for women that degrading them sexually no longer fulfills whatever perverse compulsion it is that motivates him. He has taken things one step further."

For the moment, I said nothing. The pieces seemed to fall in place the way Commissioner Moran and Jocelyn had arranged them. Everything they said seemed logical. But what if it weren't? What if they were looking at this whole thing backwards?

Commissioner Moran must have recognized the uncertainty in my eyes. "What's bothering you, Mal?" he asked. "You're too quiet."

"What if that wasn't his motive, sir?" I asked back. "What if the murder wasn't done in a blind, psychotic rage, but was, instead, a very controlled, purposeful act?"

"Oh, my God!" Jocelyn snorted cynically. "What kind of wild goose are you chasing now?"

Commissioner Moran shook his head. "I don't see your point, Mal. Clarify it for me."

I sat forward on my chair. "What if this murder is the first real break we've had in this case? Think about that for a moment. The pattern of these crimes has been altered, changed, disrupted. Our criminal has changed his behavior in a very significant manner."

"Go on..."

"Perhaps," I reasoned, "the murder is the key to this case. Maybe there was a reason why this particular woman was murdered and the other three were not. Hypothesis: maybe she was murdered because she saw the rapist and could identify him. I'll even take it one step further -- maybe she even knew her attacker."

"What evidence do you have to even make such a suggestion?" Jocelyn demanded. "That's not even logical! I'm sure you could come up with any number of hypothetical equations that would 'fit', but I'm certain they'd be no more valid than the one you're offering now."

Commissioner Moran rubbed his lips slowly while he thought. "I don't know, Mal," he said finally. "In this instance I think I agree with Miss Wolfe. It's an interesting thought, but I'm not so sure it works."

"I disagree," I said frankly. "And I'm not going to give up on it until I'm as sure as you two seem to be that I'm wrong."

Commissioner Moran shrugged. "Well, I'm not going to tell you how to conduct your investigation." It was obvious that he disagreed with me considerably. "Mal, you do whatever you think is right."

Jocelyn was much more blunt. "I think you're wasting you time, but that's up to you. As for me, I'm going to investigate along other lines. And I'm going to start by getting a run-down on Miss Effie Spade from her neighbors. That seems as good as any place to begin."

The telephone on Commissioner Moran's desk rang. "Excuse me a moment," he said, inserting the receiver into his ear. It was a private communication, coming in on the top-priority channel. His face was grim when he rung off.

"What was it?" I asked.

"It was a call for Miss Wolfe," he explained. "I had it put through into here. I'm afraid it's bad news. Dain Gutman is in maximum security prison on Triton, and has been for the past two years. He's not our man. So now what do we do?"

CHAPTER TWELVE: A Friend In Need

I depressed the buzzer, and somewhere deep inside the apartment there was a sound like the swarming of bees. It stopped when I took my finger off the buzzer. I waited, thinking about nothing much. After a little while more, I pressed the bell again. This time, over the muted swarming of bees, there was the sound of softly padding feet coming toward the door.

"Who's there?"

I leaned toward the door. "Police, ma'am. Would you open the door, please."

The door slid back about three inches. Between the end of the door and the doorjamb a woman's face appeared. Her face was tilted sideways, and a rippling wave of shocking red hair tumbled across her pale blue eyes. She pushed the hair away with a nervous snap of her hand.

"What is this all about?" she asked.

"I'm Detective Malachi Browne," I said, showing her my I.D. "I'd like to ask you a few questions, Miss Poirot. It won't take long."

"But -- what is this about?"

"It would be easier to talk inside," I suggested.

"You can't come in now. I'm right in the middle of -- something."

"Well, Miss Poirot, it's about Effie Spade..."

"Oh, for Christ's sakes!" she exclaimed. "Why didn't you say so in the first place! You had me scared to death. Jesus."

"Ma'am?"

"I couldn't figure out what I did wrong! I was wondering what the hell you wanted to speak to me for?" The door began to slide back, revealing the rest of Miss Poirot. She was stark naked. "Come on in!"

I stared in at her incredulously. She was standing squarely in the doorway, her thighs spread wide apart, and she was fingering her red-haired cunt. With the other hand she was cupping her pert apple breast, tweaking the pink nipple between her thumb and index fingers. Sloppy and wet was the sound coming from between her thighs as her middle finger slipped from her cunthole and began to vigorously massage the swollen bud of her clitoris.

Seeing her as she was, I said the first logical thing that came to my mind. "Oh, you're busy. I can come back a little later..."

"Don't you dare!" she cried, groaning softly at the end of her words as her hips ground tightly around. Her finger slipped and pressed, twirling rapidly the ruby-tipped bud nuzzled between the lips of her cunt. "You come right in here now this minute!"

"But..."

"No excuses..." She moaned again, closing her eyes as she masturbated. "When you rang the bell I was just about to get off -- and you made me lose it. I'm hotter than a bitch in heat and I need desperately to come. So don't leave me like this -- you owe me at least a quick fuck to put me out of my misery. Then I'll tell you anything you want to know about poor Effie. But me first... oooohhh!"

The combination of her offer, and the promise of what would come afterwards was too much to resist. I was inside in less than ten seconds, and in less than ten seconds more, I was inside of Miss Michelle Poirot. She came a couple of times from fucking, and then she came twice more while I was eating her. By then I was really in the mood for coming, and I told her so.

"Oh; I know," she moaned, almost delirious with simultaneously subsiding and erupting orgasms, "fuck me up the ass. Fuck me up my ass... God, I just love that! Oh, God."

"Yes... yes," I grunted, getting ready to mount her again. My cock was dripping wet, both from her cunt and mouth, easily lubricated enough to slip effortlessly up her ass. I pressed the burning tip of my swollen shaft between the cheeks of her ass.

"No -- wait!" she cried, pushing me away: "Not yet. I'm too sensitive now from coming so much. I've got to come down a bit. Let me rest a second and then I'll let you fuck my ass."

My cock was throbbing, I was impatient to come, but what could I do? I stepped back away from the bed.

"All right... I guess," I said, shrugging stoically. I gripped my cock and began to pump it. "But don't take too long. I don't want to make myself come from just jerking off. I want to fuck your ass."

"Oh, yes -- do that!" Michelle cried, pointing to my pumping hand. "Do that... jerk off while I watch you. That'll turn me on great! I'll watch you, and I do it to myself while you watch me. Then I want you to fuck my ass good and hard!"

I staggered back two feet more, cock in hand, and I watched Michelle as she masturbated. She leaned back on the bed and spread her thighs. Her cunt was very wet and wide open. I could see the ring of pink muscles at the opening of the hole screwing open and closed, as if it were an eye winking obscenely at me. She placed her hand on her cunt, and she began to masturbate, using her index and middle fingers. Her hand rolled swiftly, touching the spot just above her clitoris, and from the moans that oozed past her convulsed lips, it was evident that she was giving herself pleasure. I saw her thighs quiver once, and her body stiffened. She pressed her cunt forward, obviously experiencing a sudden swell of excitation.

"I like that," I said, pulling on my rigid cock. "Talk to me while you're masturbating. Tell me how it feels."

"It feels... good!" Michelle said, her voice colored with emotion. "Hot and wet -- very wet. My fingers keep on slipping off the clit. Ohhh... that felt good. A very powerful wave of pleasure. I've... I'm very close to coming again. I can feel the sensations building in my cunt... all wet and tingly!"

My cock was hot and swollen, and still very wet from the combined juices of Michelle's cunt and mouth. The cool air in the apartment made it prickle sensually.

I walked over to the bed; I could hear the wet movement of Michelle's fingers as she worked them between the lips of her cunt. It was a gummy, swishing sound.

"Turn over," I said. "Get on your hands and knees." Obscene excitement worked into the look on her face, and Michelle obeyed quickly, turning over and elevating her ass. She leaned forward and cushioned herself in her folded arms so that her back sloped down on a decline.

I put my hands between her thighs. "Spread your legs more. And move back toward me so that your ass hangs over the edge of the mattress."

Michelle did as I asked, turning her head and looking back at me. "Are you going to -- fuck my ass?"

"Yes," I said slowly. "I'm going to fuck your ass until you beg me to stop."

"Good," she moaned, and her body trembled with excitement.

With little more build-up or preparation, I bent forward, taking the cheeks of her ass in my hands, and I began to lick my tongue up and down the crack of her ass.

"Oh... yes!" Michelle moaned, squirming the moment my tongue touched her flesh. She trembled fitfully, almost a violent, uncontrolled quaking of her muscles. "Oh, yes, do that... do that!"

I held the cheeks of her ass in my hands, pulling the delicately curved mounds of flesh apart with my straining finger. I watched as the tight brown circle of her anus stretched under the pressure of my hands, pulling the rubbery orifice open so that at the center of her flesh was a tiny black hole. I slid my tongue into that hole, prodding it with the wet, licking tip, trying to stuff the full-length of my tongue up inside of her.

"Oh Jesus!" Michelle cried, screwing her ass back in my face. "Eat it! Oh, please; God -- eat it!"

As I brought my face closer to her ass, I could smell the musky odor of her runt. My chin rubbed against the uppermost edge of its lips as my tongue sunk into her anus. The lips fluttered against me, rubbing me with its slimy wetness. Both sides of my face touched the straining muscles of her ass, and my lips were pressed wetly around the puckered mouth of her anus.

Michelle began to rock back and forth on her knees, banging her ass into my face almost as if she were trying to impale herself on my tongue. She screwed her hips around in a tight circle, as though she were fucking with me and she was trying for a deeper penetration.

"Stick it in me!" she cried, trying to knock me down with the powerful thrusts of her ass. "Oh God! It's driving me crazy! It's like a fire inside of me! Stick it in... harder!"

I tried to accommodate her passion: I pulled at the cheeks of her ass with all my might, spreading them as far apart as I could. Stiffening my tongue, I jabbed it forward, into her, until I could feel the clutching spasms of her sphincter as it tried to close around my tongue.

"Ohhhhh!" she cried.

The tight walls of her anal canal pressed against the thrusting wedge of my tongue as I slid wetly into her, lubricating the passageway. My chin was jammed fiat against her crotch, with my nose pushed painfully flat in order for me to penetrate her as deeply as I could. I wiggled my tongue around inside of her, and Michelle danced in pleasure, responding to the flicks of my tongue as if it were a whip, and I were beating her with it.

The canal was as wet as I could make it, and I quickly withdrew my tongue. Michelle followed the movement out, trying to recapture the flitting sting of my tongue, but I moved too suddenly. Turning my head slightly, I wet my index finger in my mouth. I thrust the finger into the open hole of her anus.

"Oh -- it hurts!" Michelle moaned, moving her ass away from the swift penetration. "Oh!"

I followed her attempted withdrawal closely, thrusting in hard, almost viciously, until my finger was enclosed in the warm grip of her anus, pushed all the way in, right down to the curl of my fist. The muscles of her ass clenched shut, as if she were trying to expel me in a spasm of downward pressure.

"Oh, my God!" she moaned, her legs trembling. "It feels like you're all the way up into my stomach. God, you're in so deep!"

I began to rotate the finger, turning it slowly to the right, and then slowly to the left. Her muscles tightened, then relaxed, and the movement of my rolling finger became easy and free. I began to push in and out, pulling my finger almost to the rim of her canal, then thrusting it in again until my finger had returned to its original position all the way up her asshole.

"Fuck me, please," Michelle begged. The lips of her cunt were quivering as she tried to rub her swollen clitoris against my other dangling fingers. "Fuck me, Mr. Cop... fuck me before I explode!"

I pulled the finger out, it made a wet, popping sound. For a moment I thought she was going to collapse. I put both my hands under the cheeks of her ass, shoring them up so that she was high and spread wide open for my penetration. The twin pink hills were covered with a greasy film of perspiration, and a river of sweat oozed down into the valley just below her ass, trickling between the lips of her wet, open cunt.

My cock was still wet from her cunt and mouth, but I spit into my hands and rubbed the spittle all over my rigid prick. Once wet, I moved in closer to her, until the tip of my organ was pressed firmly against the small brown hole of her anus. I gripped the cheeks of her ass tightly in my fingers, and in a single fluid motion, I pulled them even further apart and I thrust in simultaneously.

"Oh, my God!" Michelle screamed. "Oh, my God! It's too big... it hurts!"

But I was in: just the tip of my cock, but I was in her asshole. I had to lean forward, pressing my weight into her, just to keep Michelle from expelling me. Her anal muscles screwed down, crushing the tip of my blunted cock, as if she were trying to squeeze the life out of it.

"Loosen up," I instructed. "Relax..."

But the grip of her muscles was vise-like, and Michelle began to press her legs together. I realized there was only one way to overcome it, and that was by thrusting forward into her. Once the pleasure of fucking began, she would loosen up naturally.

I leaned forward and wrapped my hands around Michelle's thighs. My fingers dug into her pale flesh, and I propelled my hips forward, thrusting as hard as I could. Michelle screamed in agony, but I felt something give. I slid into her ass.

"Aagggghh!" she moaned. "Oh, please... I've changed my mind. Don't... no! It hurts... it hurts!"

Michelle continued to crush down with her anal muscles, but I was all the way up inside of her. I began to move slowly in and out, rocking back and forth as my cock tunneled up into her rectum. She squeezed and ground her hips back, but I continued to thrust in and out, and after a few more moments her cries of pain had become pleas for continuance.

"Oh, it hurts... nice!" Michelle moaned. "Oh, don't stop -- don't! It feels so good... it hurts so good! Oh Jesus! My insides are on fire! You're in so deep. Your cock is so thick and hard!"

Michelle was pressing back to meet me now, rocking on her knees like a dog in heat. Her anal canal was incredibly tight, but greasy and slippery. My cock sawed in and out with an insistent rhythm. My balls swung like dead weight, banging into her wet oozy cunt like the clappers of some fleshy bell.

My back strained to maintain my rocking tempo, and my cock felt as if it were literally on fire. Michelle tightened her muscles and rolled her ass, rotating my cock as though it were a crank and she were winding it. She screwed her empty cunt against the hard muscles of my thighs, trying to rub out the fire that had transformed her body into a package of raw nerve endings.

"Oh, baby... baby, it's coming... it's..."

I released her thighs and stood more erect. I put my hands on top of her back, and, bending my knees, I pushed my cock in and out of Michelle's ass. I could feel my orgasm also beginning to mount. My balls were tensing, expanding, getting ready to explode. I thrust in with all my might, watching as the thick shaft of my cock disappeared into the tiny opening between the cheeks of Michelle's ass.

"Oh Jesus!" she screamed, sounding surprised. "I'm coming! Oh, God -- I'm coming. Fuck me hard! Fuck me hard!"

In a chain reaction, Michelle's orgasm set mine off. I felt my cock rupturing inside of her ass, the orgasm exploding so forcefully out that it seemed to blow the tip of my cock right off into her. My sperm gushed out, under pressure, spewing into the constricted tunnel of her throbbing rectum. Like a stream of pressurized water, my sperm spit from the end of my cock, splattering like thick hot oil into the lining of her anus. My balls ached from keeping up with the steady flow of swirling hot blobs of sticky white substance. Michelle screwed her ass back, swallowing my cock once more, trying to suck from it even more of the precious fluid.

My hips pounded against her ass so steadily that the dull slapping sound of sweaty flesh stung the air around us. Even though my cock had clearly met its match, and was now deflating, Michelle didn't slacken her enthusiasm as she tightened the passageway even further to compensate for the loss in size and thickness. She rolled forward and rocked back, grinding her hips around, trying to snap my cock off inside of her.

"Fuck me!" Michelle screamed, her voice shrill in the ringing ecstasy of her orgasm. "Fuck my ass!"

I tried to, I really did, but my cock was limp and floppy and felt as if it were broken. Michelle continued to squeeze it regardless, massaging it in long rippling waves, until it was all wet and pulpy. Finally my cock slipped out of her anus, now all wide and gaping, and afterward, a milky white ooze leaked out, almost like pale blood from an open wound.

Michelle fell forward on the bed, face down and spread-eagled. Weakened, I staggered back a few feet to observe my handiwork. It was then that I noticed Michelle had managed to bury two fingers down to the knuckle of her hand between the lips of her cunt. Sperm trickled down from her ass, sliding like loose gelatin around her finger-engorged cunt.

I sat on the bed next to her. My cock ached and it was completely flaccid. Even more than that it seemed shrunken and deflated. My whole crotch was smeared with now cold sperm that dripped down between my thighs and got all over my balls.

I put my hand on Michelle's ass and I patted it. "All right," I said, wheezing breathlessly, "now tell me all about Effie Spade."

"Jesus, you don't give a woman much time, do you?"

"This is official now, ma'am."

"Oh, I see. What is it you'd like to know?"

"Anything... everything. What she was like, what she felt; what she thought about, who her friends were, her lovers -- everything."

"Well," she whined, turning slowly over, "I really don't know that much about her. Effie was kind of a private person, you know."

I gave Miss Poirot a hard stare.

"I really don't know! Ask somebody else who knew her better. I only made love to her once in a while, that's all. Ask her friends, ask that doctor of hers."

"Her doctor? Was she ill?"

"No, not that kind of doctor." Miss Poirot tapped the side of her head. "A psychiatrist."

"Do you know his name?"

"Oh... yes, I do. I remember I have it written down somewhere. I'll find it when I get up."

"What was she seeing the doctor for?"

"She was trying to cure her problem."

"Her problem?"

"She was a lesbian. Didn't you know that? Effie Spade was a lesbian."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: A Visit With A Psychiatrist

It was an opaque pebbled glass door, and stenciled on it in bold black letters was: Dr. C. Auguste Gideon. A little lower, in smaller letters, was: By Appointment Only. There was a bell on the jamb of the door, and I rang it. At the same time I put my hand on the doorknob, twisted my wrist, and stepped into his office.

Quaint, I thought. An old fashioned door that doen't open by itself. I wonder if they're going to come back into vogue?

"Ah, there you are Mr. Fell," a young and pretty nurse said. She was sitting behind a low dark green desk that curved around toward her in a lazy but graceful arc. She had long blonde hair, and it tumbled like loose sunshine across her shoulders. She smiled with all her teeth flashing. "The doctor has been waiting for you. You're very late."

"I think there's some mistake..." I began.

"Oh, no." She shook her head certainly admonishing me with her sparkling green eyes. She tapped her finger against the crystal of her wristwatch. "Your appointment was for three o'clock and it's twenty after now."

"Miss... I'm not..."

"Now, now, Mr. Fell," she insisted, refusing to listen, "you know what Doctor Gideon thinks of tardiness. You only get your one hour, and if you fail to get here on time, the loss is yours. There will be no refunds."

I snapped my I.D. open. "My name is Browne, Miss Plain-clothes Detective Malachi Browne. I'm with the Bos-Wash police."

"Oh, then you're not...?"

"No, I'm not."

"Then why did you lead me on?" she accused. She shook her head seriously, making a soft tsking sound with her tongue.

"Miss, I'm in a hurry. I'd like to speak with Dr. Gideon, please."

"In reference to what, sir?"

"Police business, Miss."

When she saw that she wasn't about to get anything further from me, she sat back in her chair, lacing her fingers primly together in the center of the desk. She smiled a bland, professional smile.

"Would you have a seat, please. I'll see if the doctor can speak to you without an appointment. He's a very busy man, you know."

"I thought you said he was free? Didn't he have an appointment with Mr. Fell for three o'clock?"

There was an appointment book on her desk, and she glanced at it quickly. When she noticed my eyes following hers, she promptly closed the book. "I'm not at liberty to divulge that type of information, sir." She smiled again. "Would you please have a seat. I'll see if the doctor is in."

Realizing that there was no way I would ever get the best of this woman, I wordlessly withdrew, taking a seat in the totally empty waiting room off to the left of the desk. There were magaview attachments imbedded in the walls at various intervals around the room, and I pulled one down and snapped it over my head. The reel was an old one, almost three months out of date, but I flipped past the images regardless, just trying to kill time.

"The doctor will see you now, Mr. Fell."

I snapped up the viewer and smiled at the nurse. As the attachment slid silently back into its housing in the wall, I found myself thanking God she was the good doctor's secretary and not mine.

Dr. Gideon was a young man, much younger than I had expected, and I was surprised. In his middle thirties, he was trim, healthy-looking and handsome. He had a thin, almost aesthetic face with large round sad brown eyes and a quick easy smile. He was confident and quite sure of himself, and his grip was like iron when he shook my hand.

"Please be seated," he said, his voice a warm reassuring baritone. "I'm sorry, but I don't think Miss Gethryn gave me your name."

"Browne," I said, showing him my I.D. "Malachi Browne."

Dr. Gideon settled himself in his chair. "How can I help you, Detective Browne?"

"I'd like to ask you a few questions about a patient of yours. Miss Effie Spade."

Doctor Gideon frowned thoughtfully. "Spade... Effie Spade. And you say she was a patient of mine?"

"Come off it Gideon," I snapped. "I have it on good authority that she was your patient. Besides, you gave yourself away by asking about her in the past tense. You should have said is and not was a patient. If you didn't know her you wouldn't have known she was dead. Try again, Gideon."

He was unruffled. "So she was a patient of mine." He swiveled from side to side in his chair. "So I knew she had died. What does that mean?"

"It means you know something about her, and you're keeping it to yourself. I've a curious man: I want to know why."

"Surely you're aware that doctor-patient confidences are privileged. By all rights I shouldn't even be talking to you."

"Are those confidences binding even after death?" I asked. He was a cocky son of a bitch. I wanted to cut him down to size and cut him down quick.

"Of course..."

"Even in a case of murder?"

Dr. Gideon fell forward a fraction of an inch, then caught himself. But it was too late: his mask had slipped just enough.

"Murder. Who said her death had anything to do with murder?" He settled back in his chair, all the ruffles carefully smoothed out.

"I say it was murder."

"But the newspapers... her friends and neighbors -- they all said Effie... Miss Spade had died of natural causes. A genetic defect of her heart."

"That was the story we gave out. The first murder in over two hundred years isn't something we like to brag about."

He studied me for a long while. "You're telling the truth, aren't you? Effie Spade was murdered, wasn't she?"

"She was shot at point-blank range with a blaster set at maximum strength. Believe me it's not a pretty sight."

"No, I imagine that it wasn't." For a moment he seemed distracted. "I know what those things can do they're terrible weapons."

"You know about blasters?" I asked softly.

Anger flashed in his brown eyes. "Now, wait a minute! Don't you go putting two and two together and come up with me. Sure I know about blasters -- and in anticipation of your next question, yes I do own one."

"Oh?"

"It's all perfectly legal. I'm a collector of rare weapons, and I have a very large collection. And among them is a blaster, but I can assure you right now it is not the weapon that murdered Effie Spade. The blaster I have is in mint condition. It's never even been fired."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"And, to show you that I'm anxious to help you in every way possible," he said, nodding calmly, "I'll drop my blaster off at police headquarters for your science laboratories to check. You'll see that my weapon has never been discharged."

"Dr. Gideon, if you know so much about guns, as, you imply you do, surely you must know that in this day and age there is no definitive test for establishing whether or not your particular blaster has been fired. There are certain ways in which a blaster can be 'cleaned'."

Gideon glared at me. "I don't like what you seem to be implying. I'm a respectable psychiatrist, with quite a considerable standing in my community. If you think..."

"I don't think anything. All I do is ask questions. It's the answers that make the difference."

His lower lip quivered, and he pulled it taut by grimacing at me through his clenched teeth. "All right, Cop, what is it you want from me?"

"I want to know about Effie Spade."

"I've already explained that to you: I can't divulge that information to you, murder or not." When I didn't say anything, he went on. "I have a Code of Ethics, man! I could lose my license..."

"Effie Spade lost her life."

"Dammit, man, I want to cooperate!" he shouted. "Isn't it clear to you that I can't? My hands are tied! I simply can't tell you the things you want to know."

Again I didn't say anything, aware that not asking questions sometimes gets you the best answers. I glared at Dr. Gideon as he floundered. Sometimes when you let a man talk he forgets when to stop.

"Look dammit. I have a lot to lose in this! I can't afford to be touched by scandal: it would ruin my practice. If people found out that Effie was murdered by a, blaster, and that I had a blaster -- well, they might... would... Oh, Jesus."

"You're good, Doctor," I said softly. "You're really good. You're either lying through your teeth or telling the truth. I can't be sure which it is yet. But I'll bet that being a psychiatrist must give you something of an edge, right?"

He sighed and seemed to slump in his chair. "All right, ask your questions. I'll answer what I can but nothing more. I'll bend the rules but I won't break them. That's my last concession."

"Fair enough." I sat up in my, chair. "Was Effie Spade your patient?"

"Yes."

"Why was she seeing you?"

"I-I can't answer that."

"Did it have anything to do with her being a lesbian? Answer only yes or no. I can figure out the rest by myself."

"Yes, it did."

"Tell me this: was she at all interested in men?"

"In what way?"

I glared at him. "No, not at all."

"Would Effie Spade have allowed a man -- any man to fuck her? To make love to her in any way?"

"No, never. Absolutely not. It would have been literally impossible for her to do so willfully."

I considered his answer and what it implied. "What kind of a person was she?"

"She was a nice person, a kind person. She didn't have an enemy in the world. Outside of the lesbianism, Effie Spade was a very well adjusted young woman. She was liked by everyone in the group..."

"What? Hold on."

"What's wrong?"

"You said group. What group? What are you talking about?"

"The therapy group of which Effie Spade was a member. There are six -- five now -- in the group. Didn't you know?"

"No, I didn't. I thought she was seeing you privately."

"I do see some patients privately, and others on a group basis. It just depends upon the particular case."

"Tell me about the others in the group."

"I -- no, I can't." He shook his head firmly. "I cannot do that. I have a responsibility to them as much as I had to Effie. More so, because they're still alive. I cannot tell you anything at all about them."

"All right, then generalize: what kind of people are they? Psychotics? Neurotics? Just tell me what kind of problems they might have had -- no names."

"I cannot do that, don't you see? And don't try and weasel it out of me, because I won't tell you."

"Tell me about the composition of the group. Was it a mixed group? Were they all women?"

He shook his head, dropping his eyes. "I cannot even tell you that."

"Jesus!" I exploded. I was frustrated beyond belief. Sitting in front of me was a man who just possibly might hold the solution right in the palm of his hand, and there was no way I could get him to answer my questions. To be this close and know I could get no close: was agonizing.

Dr. Gideon shrugged helplessly. "I'm sorry," he apologized meekly.

I scratched my head. "All right, tell me this then: could one of your group members have murdered Effie Spade? Just tell me that."

"Oh, my God -- you can't be serious! Of all the questions you've asked me, that is..."

"Just give me a yes or a no, for Chrissakes!" I slapped the top of his desk sharply out of frustration. "That's all -- a yes or a no!"

"I will not -- I will not..."

"For God's sakes," I cried. "Think of what you're doing! There's a murderer loose in this city. He's raped three women and killed one. He'll do it again, just as sure as you're sitting there so complacently, if we don't stop him. He will murder another human being... and that death, that poor dead woman, will be on your head because you wouldn't say yes or no!"

"Oh my God..."

"Look: if you say no, I'll drop it. I won't ask you another question. Nothing. And -- if you say yes, then I'll find out that person's identity some other way. You won't be responsible."

"Christ..."

"Tell me!" I demanded.

"All right!" he cried sharply. Then a moment later, after a loud silence, he said it again, softer, in a whisper. "All right. I'll tell you. Yes: the answer is yes. But remember this -- it's a qualified yes. Qualified in that many people could have killed Effie Spade: you, perhaps, me, some member of my group, some member of some other group somewhere, some person but there in the world who isn't a member of any group, but who is nevertheless very sick! I say yes to an infinite number of possibilities!"

Softly I said: "But you still said yes."

Something flickered in his eyes, and an imperceptible change altered the expression on Gideon's face.

"I'll be going now, Doctor," I said. I stood up and began to walk toward the door. "And thank you; despite all your efforts to the contrary, you have been a help."

I decided to take the elevator down so that I'd have some privacy. The moment the elevator doors closed, I snapped open my communicator to Commissioner Moran.

"Spens, I think I have something. Effie Spade was a lesbian. She was also a member of a psychotherapy group guided by a Dr. Gideon. And there is a good possibility that one of the group members might be our murderer."

"Mal, I don't quite know how to tell you this..." His voice was soft, almost sad. "There has been another rape and -- another murder. I guess I don't have to tell you what that means."

He didn't have to tell me: I knew what it meant. It meant that my theory about Dr. Gideon's group just went right out the window.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: A Re-Evaluation

Jocelyn was late.

Commissioner Moran was alone in his office when I walked in, studying the latest development in the case on the portable viewer that was angled toward him in the corner of his desk. He looked up when he saw me, mumbled something, then reached across the desk and snapped the viewer off.

"Have a seat, Mal," he said.

I dropped heavily into the chair. "Jesus, I'm tired," I said. I stretched until the bones in my shoulder "popped", then I yawned. "I've got to take some more energy pills. My ass is dragging."

"Why don't you try sleeping at night," Commissioner Moran suggested. "A normal good night's sleep will do you a world of good more than any chemicals you pump into your body. Energy pills -- junk."

"Where's Jocelyn?"

"On her way here. She was checking something out over at Effie Spade's apartment building. She thinks she may be on to something."

I laughed. "Well, let's hope her theories prove a little more substantial than mine did."

"I'd like to talk to you about -- that, Mal." He was falling into his fatherly role with me, and I realized that much of our relationship was characterized by exactly that feeling between us. Commissioner Moran was almost like my father, and he treated me very much like the son he had never had. "Perhaps its fortunate that Miss Wolfe isn't here. We can be frank about things, if you know what I mean."

I nodded. "I think I follow you."

"First let me say this, Mal -- I'm very much aware of the kind of relationship you have with Miss Wolfe. I feel responsible for it in some way, and I'm sorry for the extra burdens it places on you. But they are necessary, as I'm sure by now you can well attest."

I nodded. "Yes, Jocelyn is a damn fine policewoman. A little obsessive at times, but I guess that's understandable in light of her background. But you're right: she should be saved regardless of the price. You just don't throw away that kind of raw material."

"That's very gracious of you, Mal. You truly are a professional. I realize that this case has become something personal between the two of you -- mostly because of Miss Wolfe -- and you had a chance just then of sabotaging her. You didn't, which says something about your character. I doubt, I sincerely doubt whether Miss Wolfe in a similar circumstance would have said the same about you."

I shrugged. "Maybe you're being too hard on her. She's had her good moments."

"Nevertheless, Mal," he continued, "what happened at Dr. Gideon's need not come out. I'm not going to give her any new ammunition with which to shoot you down. As far as I'm concerned, Dr. Gideon and your theory about his group never existed. Simply, they were leads which failed to work out. You'll continue the case as if it never happened. It's bad enough that she'll have something to say about your original theory that Effie Spade was murdered by someone she knew; I don't want to see you humiliated in front of her. I'm not about to allow her to rebuild her ego at your expense."

I was grateful, of course, and for a moment my mood perked up. It was depression, I realized in a sudden per sonal insight, and not fatigue that was working on me physically.

"Do you think that's wise, Spens?" I asked, knowing the question had to be asked. "Do you think it's a smart move to keep any of the details of this case from her?"

"Look, it was a dead end, you know that as well as I do. I'm not going to let her humiliate you with it. I at least owe you that much."

I shrugged. "Well, if you think so."

"I do. And not another word about it, is that clean. Good." He smiled. "Mal, what do you say when this is al over, just you and I go out together and get good and drunk?"

"Spens, I think that's one of the finest ideas you've ever had in your life."

The communicator on his desk-buzzed, and Commissioner Moran reached across and flipped a switch. "Yes?"

"Policewoman Wolfe is out here, sir."

"Thank you, Mycroft. Send her in, please." He closed the communicator. "And none too soon. Remember what I told you, Mal."

The door of the office opened inwardly, and in walked Jocelyn Wolfe. Instead of the standard uniform she usually wore, she had on a short, tight-fitting orchid-colored dress that fit her like her flesh did. The skirt was short and it flounced against her well-shaped thighs. Her breasts were high and firm, and under the thin gauzy material, her nipples were erect.

"Good afternoon, everyone," she announced. Jocelyn was in an exceptionally good mood. "And how is every one today?"

"Hum," I snorted cynically. "Murder must agree with you: I've never seen you so congenial. What would you do if there were another murder? Begin giggling?"

She dropped into the empty chair across from me. "Ha-ha, very funny. You're hysterical. But I'm not going to let you bother me: I'm in too good a mood."

"Oh, really. Why?"

Jocelyn looked at me levelly. "Because this second murder proves all your theories are wrong. It's all a bunch of hot air. And, what I've been saying all along is right after all. Besides, I have a good solid line on the murderer."

Commissioner Moran frowned at her gloating;. "Oh, is that so? Tell us about it, Miss Wolfe."

"I will," she quipped, "in due time. But first let's discuss everything else. I want to save the best for last. I love surprises."

"All right," I said coming to grips with her challenge, "let's discuss all my theories. Where would you like to begin?"

"How about beginning with the latest murder?" she suggested. "Let's see what the murder of Shelley Charles does to your typically male prejudices."

"All right, I admit that my idea about the murder being the turning point in this case was wrong. Clearly, Effie Spade was not murdered because she knew her attacker as someone she could identify. Shelley Charles' murder proves that without any doubt. These acts of murder were the beginning of a newly emerging behavior for pattern for our rapist/killer. It would be stretching probability to the limits of reason for me, or for anyone for that matter to suggest that Shelley Charles knew of could have recognized her attacker."

"There are a couple of other points," Jocelyn interjected. "Like for instance, what the computer says about the two women. No link -- I'll repeat that -- no link whatsoever has been found to tie the two murdered worrier together. They were strangers; consequentially, the murderer could not have killed them because he knew them. There was no way for him to know them both: they had nothing at all in common. Effie Spade and Shelley Charles never worked in the same places, never lived in the same places, didn't know the same people, never went to the same schools, and so on. What it comes down to is this: Effie Spade and Shelley Charles lived two separate, never overlapping lives. The man who raped and murdered them was a stranger to the both of them."

"I noticed," Commissioner Moran said, "you've made it a point to stress that the murderer was a man. Is this more rejoicing on your part, or do you have a reason for being so positive."

"I always have a reason for what I say find do," Jocelyn said, smiling sweetly. "The both of you should know that by now."

"I'd like to hear that proof," I said.

"Well," she said, "in my discussions with her neighbors, the people who lived in her building, as well as the people in her general neighborhood, I learned something very interesting about Miss Effie Spade." She paused dramatically, just to make sure she had our rapt attention. She did. "Effie Spade was a lesbian."

I smiled.

When no one reacted, Jocelyn looked confused. "I don't understand. I thought you'd see..."

"We already know that," Commissioner Moran explained. Even he looked pleased. "Mal brought that to my attention earlier in the day."

"He did?" Jocelyn's face sagged with disappointment for an instant. She looked over at me, warily holding something back. "How did you find out about that? I thought it was a deep dark secret."

"From a friend of hers," I said. "A sometime lover. Her name was Michelle Poirot."

"Oh." For a moment Jocelyn considered this. "Well, did you also know that Effie Spade never went out with men? I mean never, not even on dates."

"Yes; we knew that as well," I said.

"Mal also found that out from Miss Spade's friend, Michelle Poirot," Commissioner Moran lied deftly. "None of this comes as a surprise."

Jocelyn smiled, like the cat who had secretly swallowed a canary. "Oh, well, by itself those facts are not really important. They only become important when weighed against what I found out about Shelley Charles, the second murdered woman."

"And what is that?"

"Only that Shelley Charles was not a lesbian. From what I found out about her, she was anything but a lesbian. Even in our free-thinking culture, Shelley Charles would have been considered promiscuous. According to her neighbors, she would fuck with any man who had a cock, regardless of what he looked like, and how he made the suggestion to her."

"Interesting," Commissioner Moran said. "Develop the hypothesis."

"First of all, we know that Shelley Charles wasn't a lesbian, so that the probability that she was murdered by a female lover is quite remote. Granted she might have been, but I think a male lover would have been more in character for her. Second, she probably would have been open to any suggestion of fucking, regardless of how that suggestion was made. Again, that seemed to suggest she was indeed with a male rapist. Third, if Shelley Charles probably was not murdered by a woman, then logically neither could Effie Spade have been murdered by a woman. Unless, of course, you want to subscribe to the uncertain theory that there are indeed two rapists and murderers on the loose?"

"One is still enough," Commissioner Moran said dryly. "Go on. I still haven't heard anything I would consider conclusive proof. It still sounds awfully speculative."

"My fourth and final point," she said casually, "has something again to do with Effie Spade, the first murdered woman. Several of her neighbors maintain they heard someone in the apartment a little while before she was found murdered. According to them, it was a male visitor."

The words dropped like a bombshell. I glanced at Commissioner Moran, but he was concentrating on Jocelyn. He was very interested.

"Are you -- sure?" he asked.

"Her neighbors were fairly certain."

"But can they identify him?"

Jocelyn shook her head. "The ones I spoke with couldn't, unfortunately, because all they heard was his voice through the paper-thin plasteel walls separating their apartments. Thank God for shoddy constriction materials; it's a good thing they don't build things like they used to."

"They thought they heard a man's voice," I pointed out. "But they might have been mistaken. They could have heard a woman's voice."

Jocelyn smiled. "Oh no, it was a man. Someone saw him."

"Saw him?" Commissioner Moran's eyes glittered.

"The landlord of the apartment building," she explained. "A man by the name of Hammer. Archie Hammer. I haven't spoken to him yet because he's been out of town on business. But before he left he mentioned to some of the people in the building that there had been a visitor to Miss Spade's apartment. A male visitor."

"Have you tried to trace this man down?" the Commissioner asked. "This landlord fellow."

"He'll be back sometime this evening. With any luck this case will be wrapped up by morning."

"You will, of course, speak to him the moment he gets in tonight."

Jocelyn frowned and rubbed her forehead. "Would it be possible for Mal to handle that?" she asked. "I'm not feeling all that well. Besides, it should be a matter of routine from here on in."

"Of course he will," Commissioner Moran assured.

Then they both looked at me.

"Of course I will," I answered evenly. Underneath, however, it was another matter. The bitter realization welled up inside me that if this did work out, then Jocelyn essentially would have solved the case. Already our positions had somehow reversed themselves. Just as she had planned it, her "illness" not withstanding. Jocelyn was on her way home, while I, almost like her junior partner, was reduced to running down leads late into the night.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Mal Investigates A Clue

It was dark by the time I got to west Thirty-fifth Street. Located in one of the oldest sections of Bos-Wash, in an area once called Manhattan, the neighborhood was quite run down. During daylight hours the section must have seemed quaint with its small and impractical brownstones, the largest of which would barely contain ten or twelve modules, even when utilized to capacity. At night there was something positively sinister about it. The square old-fashioned doorways were swallowed in inky pools of shadow, and the long narrow windows which lined the face of the buildings reminded me of blank, dead-staring eyes.

I left my tube car sitting at the side of the walk path -- here they were called sidewalks -- and I climbed the old stone stairway which led up to the front door. The door itself was a novelty, made out of wood and real glass so that you could look into a small hallway beyond. There was another door at the end of the hallway, this one made from heavy-duty plasteel, the building's one concession to security.

All the buildings in this area of the city remained exactly as they originally had been built. Except where absolutely necessary, no improvements were ever made on the buildings, and every replaced part first had to be approved, and then refitted exactly to ancient specifications. Almost a century ago a wave of nostalgia had swept over the City Council, and these buildings had been salvaged as landmarks representative of Bos-Wash's long and glorious past. Since then, however, very little had been done with or to the buildings, and they were left to deteriorate. Perhaps after another century had gone by the buildings would be remembered again the next time the cry for their demolition was raised against them.

In the meantime, they were eyesores: small, dirty, over-crowded, and incredibly neglected. Because they were landmarks, and therefore were without any of our society's technological advancements, only the fringe members of our culture lived in them: the artists, the malcontents, the criminal elements -- people who were content to look backward toward a simpler and, in their opinion, better life style.

I peered in through the dirty glass of the door. The hallway was lit by a small round globe attached to the ceiling, and the light it cast out was sagging and muted. I pushed open the door, it protested squeakily, and I stepped into the hallway. It reeked of urine. I tried the plasteel door, but it wouldn't budge.

I stepped back. "Police. Open up."

The door didn't move. I repeated the command. Again nothing happened.

"Humm..." I said aloud. Strange. It doesn't work by voice control. And there doesn't seem to be any place to insert a voice card. I wonder how the hell it opens?

I looked around the hallway. It was finished in large porcelain rectangles, now cracked and filthy with age, going up the walls to a certain point, and then the rest of the wall was bare. It was painted a dingy green up and across the peeling ceiling. On the opposite wall was a flat metal square, divided into six evenly-spaced metal rectangles placed one against each other. There was a slot at the bottom of each, and in one or two were slips of paper on which names were written. Each rectangle also contained a little round black button.

A directory? I wondered. I pushed one of the buttons. "Hello?" I called out, looking for a speaker in which to talk.

Something buzzed behind me, and I whirled. No one was there. It was the door that seemed to be buzzing. After a moment it stopped. Nothing happened.

"I wonder...?"

I pushed another bell. Nothing at all happened. I pushed the first one again. The plasteel door buzzed. I jumped at it and twisted the handle -- it turned! -- and I stepped inside.

"What the fuck ya playin' with the bells for?" someone out of sight screamed.

There was a long narrow corridor, and against one side of it a steeply sloping wooden stairway. The voice seemed to be coming from there.

"Police," I said, looking up.

All the way up above, looking out over the railing of a banister, was a face. "What the fuck do you want?"

"I'm looking for Mr. Archie Hammer. Which is his module?"

"He's in the basement." The face began to withdraw.

"Wait!" I cried. "What did you say?"

"The basement... the basement!"

"What's a base-ment?" I asked.

"Jesus Christ!" the face exploded. "Downstairs, under the ground, for Christ's sake!"

Why would anyone want to live under the ground? I wondered. I said: "How do I get down there?"

"Out the door, down the stairs, turn sharp left, and go back under the stairs. You'll see a door there. That's his apartment."

I followed the instructions, and found myself facing a warped, gritty-looking solid wooden door painted jet black. I looked around for a buzzer or a bell to ring, but there was none. I didn't know what to do, so I banged on the door with my curled fist, reasoning it to be a reasonable way of attracting the attention of anyone inside.

The only response I received was a loud barking sound, followed closely by growling and yapping. Apparently Hammer kept an animal. I wondered what kind it might be. Probably a dog. I saw a dog once in the zoo.

I continued to hammer the door, and the dog continued to bark at me. No one else came to it so I shrugged and assumed I was too early. Mr. Hammer had not retained yet. I left my card in the door.

I walked back to my car and got in. I punched out my authorization, and put the car on auto drive, snoozing my way across town. When I got to my apartment, I undressed, fixed myself a drink, and while I sipped it, took a shower. I was standing under the blowers, luxuriating under the soft fingers of warm air caressing my body, when my wall screen hummed to live.

Shit. I wrapped a towel around my middle and walked into the living room, feeling the air around me rising in temperature in compensation for my nakedness. "Yes?" I said.

Like an eye opening, my wall screen expanded in a pool of light, depth and color. A grubby-looking man with a broken nose glared at me.

"You Browne?" he demanded.

"I am, sir. You must be..."

"Hammer," he said. He put a cigarette between his thick lips, struck a multi-match with his thumbnail, and lit the cigarette. It wasn't a vita-cig either, judging from the faint smell wafting through the sensors. He exhaled at the screen. "Archie Hammer. What's this all about, pal?"

"Are you at home, Mr. Hammer?"

"Near to it. I ain't got a wall screen. Don't believe in 'em. I'm at a -- shall we say, friend's house."

"All right, I'm on my way over now. I'll be at your apartment in twenty minutes."

"Wait! What's this all about, bub?"

"I'll explain to you when I get there." I terminated. I turned back toward my bedroom, cursing to myself. All I could think of was Spens' suggestion: get a good night's sleep. I had a feeling it was going to be a long night.

Seventeen minutes later I was standing again in front of that warped, gritty black door. "Hammer!" I shouted. "Open up! It's me, Detective Browne."

The animal began to yap and bark. From inside I heard: "Shaddup!" The door snapped suddenly open, and peering out at me, another cigarette dangling from his lips, was Archie Hammer.

"What the fuck you yelling about?" he demanded. He stepped outside and carefully looked around, squinting into the darkness. Apparently satisfied, he moved back inside. "Why don't ya knock, fer Christ's sakes! Where were you brought up? A barn?"

I wanted to ask him what knocking and a barn were, but I reconsidered and didn't. This wasn't the time for broadening my vocabulary, as archaic as the words might have been. I followed him into the apartment.

Something small and white ran at me, growling loudly and barking. I froze in terror, not knowing how to react.

"Quiet, Blackie -- quiet!" Hammer demanded. The animal growled once, then made a purring sound, and rolled over on its back, all four-legs pointing at the ceiling. Hammer bent down and stroked the animal. "Good boy, Blackie... good boy. Good dog."

A dog, I thought. Seeing it as submissive as it was, watching Hammer stroke it affectionately, some of my fear of animals lessened. After all, it did look harmless enough; although those teeth... Why would anyone keep an animal in a city? Animals belonged in zoos.

"Is he dangerous?" I asked tentatively.

"Who, Blackie here?" Hammer laughed. "He'd rip your arm off if I told him to. But don't worry; as long as I'm here you've got nothing to be afraid of."

That was reassuring.

Still holding myself back, away from the dog, I asked: "What kind of dog is he?"

"Blackie is a bulldog. He's a good of dog, he is. Me and him been together a lot of years." He petted Blackie's belly. "I used to have a Boston Terrier, but he died. Now all I got is my Blackie."

I looked at Blackie's mug-like face, and I studied Hammer's pushed in, stubble-darkened face, and I realized they had a lot in common. They were both incredibly ugly. I think I liked the dog better.

"If we can get down to my questions," I suggested, inching into the apartment, edging past the lazy but fierce-looking dog. "I realize it's late..."

"Right," Hammer said. He straightened. "Inside now, Blackie. Good doggie. Inside."

The dog ran off deep into the apartment. Hammer turned toward me. "Now what's this all about?"

"Effie Spade."

He blinked. "Effie? The lez from upstairs?" He sounded surprised. "The one what croaked?"

"Yes. We're having some difficulty in locating her family," I lied. No sense in telling him she was murdered. The fewer people who knew the better. "Something was wrong with her name card. We think that Effie Spade might not be her real name."

"Effie," he said. He laughed. "Why didn't you say so right off?" He thought for a moment. "Not her real name, you say? As far as I always knew..."

"Could we go inside?" I suggested.

"Sure... sure." He took me by my arm and led me into the apartment. We sat at a kitchen table, Hammer on one side, me on the other. Blackie was in the corner, Hammer said: "I'd offer you a drink, but I don't drink anything but milk." He patted his broad belly. "Ulcers."

"That's quite all right. Actually, all I want are a few answers and I'll be on my way."

"Shoot." He poured himself a glass of milk.

"Some of the other people upstairs," I made a generalized gesture toward the ceiling, "mentioned something about her having had a visitor before she died. Do you know anything about that?"

He sipped his milk, then wiped the foam from his top lip with the back of his hand. "Sure I do. I saw him."

"Him. Then her visitor was a male."

"Sure. I recognized him from her group therapy meetings."

The casualness with which he'd said that last sentence was electrifying. Her visitor, the man who was the last known person to see Effie Spade before she was found murdered, was a member of her group! What did that mean? Was I right after all? Was there a connection between the two murdered women? But what could it be?

The revelation, I suddenly saw, said something even more disconcerting: all of a sudden, Archie Hammer knew an awful lot about Effie Spade.

I shook my head. "I don't understand," I said. "How do you know the man you saw visiting Miss Spade was in her therapy group? Are you one of its members?"

"Me?" Hammer questioned with rising incredulity. He began to laugh. "I ain't no psycho from the loony-bin! Not by a longshot."

"Well, then, how do you know?"

"I recognize the guy. You see, sometimes the group used to meet in Effie's apartment. It's a very progressive group, or so Effie tells me. They like to get away from the doctor's office for their meetings, you know what I mean? It's a very casual, loose group."

"You've seen him then, coming and going?"

"That and I saw him in her apartment. Sometimes they got a little loud, and the rest of the tenants began to complain about all those nuts up there. So I had to go up once or twice."

"Can you recognize him?" I pressed. "Do you know who he was?"

"Sure I recognized him. He's a good-looking son of a bitch too. Young." Archie Hammer drained his glass of milk. "He's the guy who runs that group. What's his name again? Dr... I got it. Doctor Gideon."

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Breaking And Entering

For the second time today I stood in front of the opaque pebbled glass door, rereading the bold black letters that read: Dr. C. Auguste Gideon By Appointment Only. This time I did not push the bell on the doorjamb. No one would have answered it. The office was dark and empty.

After I'd left Archie Hammer, I shot across town to headquarters. There, furtively, I stole up to "the Black Museum" and "lifted" an electronic tonal lever: in short, a jimmy.

I had to get into Dr. Gideon's office without anyone knowing about it. It was going to take all my, police training to do it and not get caught. For if I did get caught, legally I'd be just as guilty as any criminal I'd ever apprehended. Still, I had to take that chance. The solution was behind that door. Dr. Gideon, in some way, was the key to this entire case.

After sneaking into the building through an open window in the rear, I made my way across the lobby toward the elevators. Aware that the shafts probably were electronically surveilled, I prayed that the elevators would not be. Thankfully they weren't, and I slipped in and made my way up to the office.

The hallway was dark, even when I stepped into it from the elevator, so I assumed that the sensors were closed down for the evening. I was glad that, in addition to the tonal lever, I had brought with me a condensation of cold light. I depressed the button, and a shimmering ball of cold light sprayed from the nozzle of the condenser. The light levitated a foot or so above my head, casting an eerie half-light against the glass door of Gideon's office.

I quickly inserted the tonal lever into the voice card slot, then activated the switch. Electronically, in a blink of an eye, the lever was searching out the exact combination of tones needed to spring the lock in the door. There was a soft click from inside. The door was open.

I tried the handle, turning it slowly, again hoping there was no alarm that would be triggered. The tonal lever should have taken care of one, if there was one, and it was wired into the lock. However, some doors had an auxiliary system independent of the lock, as a counter measure to just this type of illicit entry, but I didn't think Dr. Gideon's office should have needed one. If it had, and the alarm tripped, it was all over for me.

Nothing happened.

I stared into the office, the flickering light ball hovering over my shoulder dimming rapidly until it dissolved. Again I was in darkness. I fought back the panicky urge to spray out another light ball from the condenser. I allowed my eyes to adjust to the darkness, knowing it was safer, until I could see clearly into the office.

I saw Miss Gethryn's low green desk, thankfully empty now, and a shudder went through me. Memory brought her back to me, like a ghost haunting my conscience, and I wondered what she might say if she saw me here like this. Probably: You're late Mr. Fell! I walked quickly past her desk, into the bowels of the office.

It was just as I remembered it from this afternoon: a large square room with chairs and sofas pressed against the walls, magaviewers jutting out above them like obscene fingers against the night. The far wall was made of clear plasteel, overlooking the deep canyon of the street beyond. Another building stared at me from across the way, all dark and closed down, its windows like observing, accusing eyes.

I turned into Dr. Gideon's office, stumbling over the unfamiliar, placement of furniture. After banging my knee on the sharp, edge of a quietly floating levitab, sending an ashtray sliding off the edge so that it clattered loudly on the floor, I decided I needed light with which to see. There was no light on Gideon's desk, and the overhead illumination would have been too bright, so I decided to spray another ball of cold light from the condensor. I drew the drapes first, as a precaution, and then I stood in the center of the room and pointed the nozzle toward the ceiling. An opaque mist sprayed out, condensing and shrinking until it had formed itself into a hazily amorphous globe of flickering warmthless light.

There, that was better. I could see -- not perfectly, but enough in which my search could be conducted. But where to begin? And what, I wondered, was I looking for? Would I know it when I found it? Was it even here, or was I off again, as Jocelyn once pointed out, on another wild goose chase?

His desk, I decided, was the logical place to begin the search. Then I'd go through his files, and if I still hadn't found what I was looking for, perhaps somewhere there was a wall safe. Behind one of the pictures on the walls: it was not uncommon.

I sat in his chair behind the desk. First I checked out the top of the desk: a picture of a pretty dark-haired, dark-eyed woman, probably his wife, in a double frame. The other picture was of a little girl in a pair of red sleepers. She looked like Gideon. Probably his daughter. A desk calendar, a tape box for correspondence, a decorative blotter, and a desk viewer, probably so that he can talk with, good old Miss Gethryn.

I removed the pictures from the frame, checking to see whether there was anything behind them. There wasn't. I felt the edges of the pictures themselves, and inspected the backings, just to make sure something wasn't attached there. There wasn't. I returned the pictures into the frame, then placed it again on the edge of the desk where I'd gotten it from.

Next the calendar. I went through each page carefully, beginning on the first of the year. I read every note, every memo, every appointment, right up to today. Nothing. Several times there were notations about a group, and I wondered if that was the same group Miss Spade was a member of. Probably, but maybe not. I decided to check the rest of the pages for the balance of the year. Except for appointments which would come in the next two weeks, there was nothing. I checked the calendar base and frame, looking underneath and around the sides for -- what? Something.

I pulled over the tape box, dumping out the crystals onto the blotter. Six tape crystals in all. I left them on the blotter and inspected the box itself. I checked for false bottoms and secret walls. Nothing: solid plasteel. I put it back and studied the crystals. There should be a player somewhere, probably in one of the desk drawers.

I was lucky: the first drawer I tried was not only unlocked, the player was in there. I lifted it carefully out and sat it down in the middle of the blotter. It was a very fancy model, and it took me a moment or two to figure it out. Finally I snapped one of the crystals into it, and turned the machine on. It began to play.

I listened to all six tape crystals: nothing. Just notes on various patients, none of whom helped my case, but were nevertheless fascinating. Psychiatrists certainly had some fucked up patients. I was amazed that rape and murder wasn't more prevalent. The rest of the crystals dealt with various other things: instructions to Miss Gethryn, letters to any number of people, and personal memos: again nothing except something of an insight into Gideon's mind. Even that didn't help.

I put the crystals back into the tape box and returned the box to its place on the desk. Then I shut the player and put it back in the drawer out of which I got it. I reclosed the drawer. All that was left to check out was the blotter and then I would be finished with the top of the desk.

The light ball flickered and went out. I sat in the darkness and listened to the silence. Then I sprayed out a small burst, and it sat above the desk like a glowing cloud.

There was nothing under the blotter but an unpaid liquor bill. Either Dr. Gideon entertained a lot, or he had a drinking problem. The bill, which was clearly for only one month's purchases, was astronomical. I tucked that fact away for future use; it was hard to tell how something like that might eventually fit into all this confusion. And perhaps it didn't.

I opened the middle drawer of the desk. It was a wide but shallow drawer, and in the front were some pens, a couple of paper clips, and a knot of rubber bands. In a small cup was some loose change: less than a quarter of a credit. I pulled the drawer a little further out. On the left was a folder full of papers, and on top of it was an envelope. Something was scribbed across the envelope. I turned my head and read it: Darling!

I yanked the envelope out of the drawer, my pulse quickening as I sensed significance. My stomach tightened into a knot as my fingers fumbled with the flap. I pulled it out. It was a single sheet of plasper, very expensive judging by the rich texture, folded in half. I opened the sheet and read:

Auggie,

Please, darling, don't forget! Tonight is the night we go to Anne and Martin's dinner party! And we don't want to be late, do we, darling, as we were last time?

So please! Don't schedule any last minute "emergencies". They'd be terribly hurt if we disappointed them again. Anne is such a dear friend.

Until tonight, darling, remember I love you.

Love,

Margot

Then I read it again, just to make sure.

I glanced back up at the dark-haired, dark-eyed woman in the picture in the corner of the desk. The same handwriting and signature appeared written across the picture: Love, Margot.

So much for hunches, I thought. I shoved the letter back into the envelope and dropped it on the desk I pulled out the folder of papers. It turned out that they were letters, but business letters. I ruffled through them, looking for a name or address that might mean something, but saw none. With a resigned sigh, I turned to the top of the pile and began to read them. It wasn't until I'd read through the third letter that I cursed out loud, and banged my fist on the desk top.

"Son-of-a-bitch!" I cried. I reached again for the letter written by Gideon's wife.

I re-read the salutation: "Auggie." Something clicked in the back of my brain. That name meant something to me. Where had I heard it before?

"Auggie..." I said aloud. "Auggie... Dr. C. Auguste Gideon... Dr. Auggie Gideon... Auggie -- good God! Could he be the same one?"

I jumped up quickly, knocking the chair back behind me, my hand inadvertently shattering the dimming globe of light. There were a few frantic moments when I clumsily fumbled with the condenser, and then, when I finally did find the nozzle, I sprayed too much. The room lit up like a Christmas crystal.

My eyes darted around the four corners of the room. Where were they? Then, with plodding awareness, I realized they must be inside. In the front office. Yes! Behind Miss Gethryn's desk!

I shattered the foggy bubble of light with a willful jab of my fist, and the light broke into a billion shimmering crystalline pieces. In the darkness it looked like iridescent snow.

I literally ran into the front room, the condenser held readily in my hand. The blood was racing in my ears, but this time I forced myself to be calm and take things slowly. I sprayed a small burst. Too small, too dim. I squirted out another blast. Too much this time, but the hell with it -- it would have to do.

I ran my fingers up and down the file drawers. L-P-R-U-W! I pulled on the drawer. Son-of-a-bitch! It was locked. Wasting no time, I inserted the tonal lever into the voice card slot. An instant later, the W drawer popped open.

The name jumped out at me: Wolfe, Jocelyn. My hand was actually trembling as I pulled the file from the drawer. I flipped the folder open and was stopped cold.

Staring back up at me was Jocelyn's picture.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: To Jocelyn's

I inserted my Finance Card into the public vida-phone, and the small but functional screen jumped to life. The standard smiling, courteous android operator looked out at me, her marble eyes clicking blindly.

"What's the trouble?" I asked.

"Sorry, Customer," the android said in the usual breathless and sexy voice. "Due to circumstances beyond our control, the Finance Computer is presently down. As such, your call cannot go through. This is not a reflection of your credit rating, since no check can be made under these circumstances. We are sorry for any inconvenience this may cause you. Please try again in a few moments. We hope to have this difficulty cleared up as soon as possible. Thank you for your patronage."

"Wait," I said. I flashed my I.D. at the screen. "Police business. Put the call through on override. Top priority. Urgent."

The android smiled back at me. "Sorry, Customer. Due to circumstances beyond our control, the Finance Computer is presently down..."

"Put me through to your supervisor," I snapped. I should have known better.

Something clicked behind her marble eyes. "Yes, Customer. You will be put through to my supervisor immediately. Would you please remain on the line."

The image wavered, then faded out completely. The screen was a dull opaque gray. I whistled for a while, then tapped my finger impatiently. Finally the screen rippled to life. Staring back out at me was a variation of the first smiling, courteous android, only this one had enough physical modifications to befit her exalted status.

"Hello, Customer," she said. "I am the supervisor. What seems to be the problem?"

I flashed my I.D. at her. "I'm Plain-clothes Detective Malachi Browne. The Finance Computer is broken down and I must put a call through. I want you to bypass the Finance Computer so that I can dial. This is a Top Priority-Urgent call."

"One moment, please, Customer... Browne," she said, "while I check your authorization." Her eyes went blank for a moment, and then she flashed a quick, frozen smile. "Thank you for waiting, Customer... Browne. Your authorization has been cleared. The Finance Computer will be by-passed. What is the number you wish to call?"

"It's a local call. The number is: 12-1887-CA. The party's name is Wolfe, Jocelyn. I'll spell the last name: W-O-L-F-E, initial J."

"Thank you, Customer... Browne," she said. "Your call is being put through. Thank you for your patronage." She smiled and faded out.

The screen remained that dull opaque gray while Jocelyn's number rang. She didn't answer it. I let it ring. By the fifth ring I was about to hang up out of frustration, when she answered it.

The dullness parted, and there stood Jocelyn, the three-dimensional image a little fuzzy on the small screen, but good enough. She was naked except for a towel which she had wrapped around her breasts and middle, and her flesh was beaded with tiny water globules. Her long blonde hair was wet and dangling in her face. I found myself struck by her sheer raw beauty, and for a moment I did nothing but look at her.

"Oh... it's you," she said cynically. "Do you have any idea what time it is...?"

"Jocelyn..."

"What do you want? And this better be good. I was in the shower."

"Were you getting ready for bed?" I asked.

"No, I was dancing. Of course I was getting ready for bed. What did you think I'd be doing at this hour of the night?"

"This is important..."

"My lead!" she gasped, her eyes widening. "It paid off. You have something!"

"It paid off," I said, then, to myself, added: more than even you could have guessed.

"Well? Do I have to guess?"

"I know who the murderer is."

She gasped. "You're kidding."

I shook my head. "I'm not. I know who the rapist/murderer is. I studied her reaction carefully."

Her eyes narrowed, and her lips seemed to twitch. I couldn't be sure because reception was so poor, but her breathing seemed ragged and irregular, almost as if she were holding her breath.

"Well, who is it?" she demanded.

Again I shook my head. "Not over the vida-phone. You never know who might be listening in. I'll be at your place in half an hour. I'll tell you as soon as I get there."

"I'll be ready," she said.

I terminated. When I removed my Finance Card from the slot, the screen jumped to life. The first android operator was back.

"Thank you for waiting, Customer," she said. "Unfortunately the Finance Computer is still down. If you would please call again..."

I left the machine talking to the empty air inside the vida-phone booth.

On my way to Jocelyn's I made a reluctant detour. My tube car pulled up in front of police headquarters. I left the car in the corridor, with its light flashing, and I entered the building. I took the shaft down to the vault. An android policeman stood guard in front of it. He snapped to attention as I approached.

"Yes?" he asked.

"I want to check out a weapon," I said, disbelieving my own voice. In all my years I'd never used a weapon, and it was exceedingly distasteful for me to do so now. But I didn't think I had much of a choice. This had to be done.

"What type of weapon, sir?" the android asked.

I thought for a moment. "A blaster," I said softly.

"You understand, of course, sir, that I will have to check your authorization. Weapons cannot be disbursed without proper authorization."

I showed him my I.D.

"Oh, yes, Detective Browne," he said. "I have been programmed to anticipate this. Your authorization is valid. Please wait out here while I secure the weapon. No human is permitted past this point."

The vault opened, and the android entered it. A moment later he came out again. In his hand he held blaster.

I looked carefully at the weapon. It was sleek-looking black, and deadly. I shuddered involuntarily.

"You will have to sign for his, Detective Browne," the android said.

"No!"

"I do not wish to seem insubordinate, Detective Browne, but those are the regulations. All weapons must be signed for or they cannot be released."

"No," I said more softly. "No... thank you. I've changed my mind. I don't want a weapon after all."

I knew I was being foolish, and I would probably need it, but I just couldn't bring myself to wrap my fingers around its handle. There had to be a better way. Our society might not be perfect, but it did have some good points. I wasn't about to upset that delicate balance any more than it already had been. One killer was enough in two hundred years.

"Have a pleasant evening, Detective Browne," the android policeman said.

"Thanks," I answered, and not without some bitterness.

In a matter of moments I was in my car, and the car was screeching through the corridors of time, taking me across town toward something that would either irreparably alter my life or end it. After a short trip, the car came to a halt in front of a building I immediately recognized. It was the building Jocelyn lived in.

I left the car in front of the building. For a reason I couldn't quite understand I consciously left my lights off. I really didn't care if it got a ticket. I took the slow stream up to Jocelyn's floor, going over the conversation we were about to have again and again until almost I believed it.

I stepped out on her floor, and I walked down the corridor toward her apartment. Under my clothing, my body was wet with perspiration. The clothing was sticking damply to me.

I really wasn't anticipating anything, but the moment I saw Jocelyn's door I knew something was wrong. Perhaps I had intuitively sensed it while I had been walking down the hallway. Maybe that's why I had been sweating. As my muscles tensed, I could feel my stomach knotting like a gnarled fist.

The door was slightly open. Just a crack, no more than five or six inches, rolled back and away from the jamb. I could see darkness in the deep space, and it spilled out its gloom into the empty hallway at me. I tried to penetrate that darkness by squinting, but the room was pitch black. Holding my breath, I listened, and for a moment I thought I heard something in the room. The sound of a heel scraping across a plasteel floor.

"Jocelyn..." I called out. My voice sounded hollow against the silence. "Jose..."

With the tips of my fingers along the edge of the door, I slid it inward slowly. The rollers creaked noisily, and the ribbon of darkness gradually widened.

Then the darkness was gone, and a flash of daylight illuminated the room in a blinding white explosion. Then came the thunder.

KA-RACK!

Blaster! my brain screamed.

Something exploded near my face, and I felt the searing whistle of the beam scream hotly past my ear. The plasteel door shattered into a fountain of splinters, and the slamming blaster impact rocked the door violently back against my fingers.

I didn't have time to think: I jumped and rolled away from the door. My left shoulder hit the floor, and I winced in pain. I continued to roll until I was on the opposite side of the door. I quickly stood, pressing my back tightly against the safety of the thick wall. My body tensed for the next shot, and in anticipation, I could feel my ears screwing down in order to screen out the concussion.

The impact of the blaster beam had rolled the door all the way shut. In the center of the door, about chest level, was a hole at least six inches across. Splinters of raw, untinted plasteel made the hole look like a bleeding wound.

Tensely I waited until I suddenly realized the second shot was not coming. I cursed myself for having refused the blaster, and then, in the same breath, I saw the wisdom of the decision. I was angry enough to kill someone.

I spun quickly around until I was again in front of the door. A flash of darkness winked at me through the obscenely gaping blaster hole. I grabbed onto the overhead post of the door frame, squeezing tightly for support. Lifting both legs off the ground, I kicked forward with all my strength.

The impact of my lick smashed the door open, ripping it right off its track.

I dropped down on the tips of my toes and leaped for the safety of the wall. Still no second blast rang out.

I looked into Jocelyn's apartment. It was as though someone had strung a curtain of darkness across the doorway. I could see nothing through the shadows. For a split-second I held my breath, and then I plunged into the apartment. With each step I took I expected to feel the fiery sting of the blaster as it burned itself through my flesh.

But it didn't happen that way. Out of the comer of my eye, even through the darkness, I saw a blur of movement. I went to scream, but the end of the blaster came down squarely on the crown of my head. I crumpled and then everything got dark.

I was unconscious before I hit the floor.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: Telling It All

Consciousness seemed to come slowly, in bits and pieces, like fragments of a confused puzzle. My head was pressed down against my chest, and for a long time I couldn't understand what I was looking at. I finally realized it was my legs. When I tried to move panic touched me as my limbs failed to respond. I tried again, straining with all my strength, but the most I seemed capable of doing was rolling my head from side to side.

"Ah, he's coming around," a voice said. It was a familiar voice, but for the life of me I couldn't place it. "See, I told you he wasn't dead. All he was was unconscious that's all."

I lifted my splitting head and rocked it back, toward a direction that seemed behind me. Orientation was difficult. The pain of movement was excruciating, and it exploded behind my eyeballs and hammered across the straight ahead. My surroundings were a smear of fuzzy top of my head. With bleary, unfocused eyes I stared colors and irregular and misshapened forms. I squinted into the muddled mass, trying to make sense out of it.

"Mal..." another voice called at me. Through a long and involved mental process I figured out who owned the voice. It was Jocelyn. "Mal..."

Like a slowly resolving camera lens, the world beyond my eyes began to focus. The first thing I was aware of was that I was sitting erect in a chair, with my head tipped down, which explained why I had been looking at my legs. Another revelation filtered down into my consciousness, bringing with it something of a relief and consolation, if that indeed were possible in the kind of circumstance in which I found myself. Thin but incredibly powerful cords of spun plasteel were wound around my lower legs and thighs, and then wrapped around the legs and seat of the chair in which I was sitting. A little higher up, across my arms and chest, were another set of identical cords, wrapped tightly around me, disappearing somewhere behind me. Probably tied to the back of the chair.

At least, I thought, I'm not paralyzed.

Grunting from the effort, I forced my head to move from side to side as I tried to comprehend what else there was outside of my skull. I was in a room, a room that was somehow familiar to me. I could see the walls and part of the ceiling, and what looked like the edge of a dresser or bureau. By moving my head the other way I saw a long low flat blue and lumpy pink thing. It took me a very long time to figure out that the blue thing was a bed, and the pink lumpy thing was a person.

Jocelyn was that person.

"Mal!" she cried. "Are you all right?"

I grunted something. My throat seemed constricted, and my mouth was very dry. "I... y-yes."

The picture beyond my eyes was coming in clearer now, and my memory was returning. So I was not too greatly surprised when I finally realized that Jocelyn was laying on the bed, stark naked, her arms and legs spread-eagled, her hands and feet tied -- with the same spun plasteel cords which bound me -- to the corners of the bed. There was a pillow under her head, arching her head up so that she was looking at me. Her face was grim with muted fear, her eyes alive and darting, like a caged animal. Her long blonde hair was splayed out across the pillow like a halo. Another pillow was jammed under her naked ass so that her hips were thrust high up, and the sensual invitation of her furry blonde-haired cunt was almost like an offering.

"Welcome back to the land of the living, Mal," that other voice said. "For awhile, at least."

I turned my head, finding it less difficult to do so as time went by, and I focused on the source of that voice. He was standing in front of the dresser that was across the room from me. His arms were down, at his sides, and in his right hand he held a very lethal-looking blaster, the twin of the one I had refused at the station. I pried my eyes away from that morbidly fascinating weapon, and forced myself to look him levelly in the eyes. His pale blue eyes were calm behind the rimless lenses of his glasses.

"You'll never get away with this, Spens," I said, my voice soft. "Give it up."

Commissioner Moran laughed, in a voice that was equally soft. "Of course I'll get away with it, Mal. Who's going to stop me? You? Miss Wolfe over there? Tell me honestly, Mal: who's going to suspect that the Commissioner of Police for the City of Bos-Wash, the second most powerful man in the city, is, in reality, a rapist and murderer? No, Mal, I'll get away with it. Especially when you two, the only two who know my secret, are found murdered by the unknown criminal they were perusing. When you two die, all evidence which leads back to me will be effectively buried. You'll take the solution to this case with you to your graves. After all, you can't expect me to arrest myself, can you?"

"Give up, Spens," I said again, my voice regaining some of its old strength. "Give this up before this goes any further. Two murders are enough. Don't add two more: it won't help anything. You'll be caught in the end -- just as all criminals are inevitably brought to justice. Killing Jocelyn and me won't help you. There will be others. And, if you kill them as well, more will follow in their footsteps. In the end Spens, well get you. There is no escape."

"There will be for me," he said, his voice still soft, almost friendly. "The only kind of end this could possibly have for me: death. You see, Mal once I have eliminated you and Miss Wolfe, I intend to kill myself." He held the blaster up. "With this."

I shook my head slowly, insensitive to the pain it caused. "What a waste," I said. "What a stupid, senseless, waste."

"It's all a waste, Mal, isn't it?" he asked. "When you come right down to it, isn't it -- life, death, work -- isn't it all a senseless waste?"

"No," I said. "No."

"Believe me, Mal," he said, "you would not think that if you were me. If you had gone through what I have gone through. You would welcome death for the release it brings from... pain."

"Pain? Is something wrong with you? Are you... sick?"

"Not that kind of pain, Mal. A much worse pain exists than physical pain. What I'm talking about is pain inside of here." He tapped the side of his head with the muzzle of the blaster. "That's real pain, real agony. And there is no way to escape it. You live with it all your life until it drives you... mad. Until it makes you do things you hate and despise, and then you hate and despise yourself for doing them, and in the end... in the end... all you're left with is more pain. So don't tell me about suffering or death. I welcome death as a friend; I welcome it with open arms."

"Death isn't the only answer," I said. "There are other ways. There are doctors, psychiatrists, medicines that could help you..."

He threw his head back and laughed wildly. "That not help. It doesn't cure anything. All it does is make you conscious of what and who you are and why you've become whatever it is you are. But it doesn't change you: it helps you to accept your limitations. It teaches you to go on despite your pain. But the pain is always... always there." He looked at Jocelyn. "Isn't it, Miss Wolfe?"

"Mal..." she cried. "Mal, he's crazy. He's going to kill us. He told me about the others... how he raped an murdered them. It was horrible, Mal -- horrible!"

Commissioner Moran sighed and shook his head. "Now that I find disappointing," he said. "Of all the people in the world, Miss Wolfe, I really thought you would be the one who understood what it was I've been talking about. You know the kind of pain of which I speak. You've suffered it yourself with your father, and the later with your husband. By everything that is logical you should still be suffering that pain. Why don't you understand me?"

"Because I'm not, sick and you are!" she cried. "Oh, was sick, very, very sick, and I remember that pain. But that's over now. I'm well now. The pain is gone..."

"The pain is never gone!" he shouted, shaking the blaster at her. His voice was roaring, and his eyes were wild and angry. "Never... never!"

"Then go to a doctor," she shouted back at him, "like I did! Like all sick people who are in need of help should go!"

Commissioner Moran laughed, and for a moment he seemed genuinely amused. "Oh, I did go to a doctor, Miss Wolfe. In my life I have gone to many -- of course in secret, under different identities to protect my exalted position, but none of them helped. Not even your wonderful Dr. Gideon..."

"Auggie?" Jocelyn looked at me. "Mal, what's he talking about? What does Auggie have to do with any of this?"

"Tell her, Spens," I said. "Or should I?"

"Oh, no," he said. "I'll tell her. Why not, after all? I will never go any further than this room, and perhaps... just perhaps it will enable Miss Wolfe to understand what I'm talking about. She should, you know. We have a lot in common."

"Never!" Jocelyn cried, straining at her bonds. "I'm nothing like you and I'll never be!"

"Oh, I don't know," he said. "I think when you know my story, my full story, you will see and understand. You will sympathize with me."

"Yes, tell us, Spens," I urged, desperate for time. As long as he was talking he wouldn't be killing. Maybe we could come up with something. "I want to know al about it, too, Spencer. I want to understand you."

"Good... good. I'm glad to hear that. I want to tall about this. I've wanted to talk about this to someone for a very long time." He leaned back against the edge of the dresser, and then he did something which might have been his first mistake: he put the blaster down of the dresser top. "Let's see... where shall I begin?"

My stomach quivered as I stared at the blaster. "Why don't you tell us about Effie Spade," I suggested. "Tell us why you killed her."

"Yes, that's a good place to begin," he said. He nodded. "You know I really didn't want to kill Effie; she was such a nice person, really. It was an accident. She recognized me..."

"Recognized you?" Jocelyn asked. "How? I don't understand?"

He smiled. "I realize, Miss Wolfe, that this will come as something of a surprise to you, but Detective Browne was correct all along. She was murdered by someone she could have identified, and that person was me. We were both members of the same therapy group, the one which was run by your eminent Dr. Gideon. I was only recently in the group. It was my latest and final attempt at resolving my... problems. After I'd raped those first three women, I knew I had to do something to help my self. The group was my answer." He shook his head, "Some answer. It caused me to go from bad to worse; from a rapist to a murderer."

I had no feeling in my hands; the cords were so tight they cut off my circulation. Still, I began to move my hands around, rubbing them against the plasteel fiber, trying to loosen it. I continued to stare at the blaster.

Commissioner Moran continued: "I followed Effie home from the group that day. There was something about her that I found fascinating. She reminded me of -- someone. Someone I once knew. I was on my way up when I saw Dr. Gideon leaving her apartment. I found out later from Effie that he was giving her private sessions in order to help her over some very difficult changes she was going through. Dr. Gideon didn't see me; I hid in a doorway as he walked past me. When I was sure he was gone, I walked up to her door and knocked. She answered it quickly, perhaps expecting Dr. Gideon to have returned. When she saw it was me the disappointment was evident on her face, but, since she recognized me, she reluctantly invited me in. We sat around her living room, talking... trying to talk. It was very painful. She didn't want to be there with me. But I-I was fascinated by her. I couldn't get it out of my mind that she wasn't Effie Spade. All I could think about was that she reminded me of -- her. Of that other woman."

"Who?" Jocelyn asked. "What other woman?"

"I told her she was pretty," Commissioner Moran went on, oblivious to the question. "She began to get nervous. She asked me to leave, but I didn't want to leave. I wanted to stay and talk some more. There was so much I wanted to say to her... so much. Then... something happened. It's funny, but I can't remember what it was. Something silly, I think. Something Effie misunderstood. Women are always doing that, you know. Misunderstanding your good and honest intentions. Anyhow, she began to scream -- the stupid bitch. I told her to stop but she wouldn't. She began to scream louder... so I hit her. Not to hurt her, you understand, but just to, make her stop. Effie fell down... and her skirt went up above her waist. She had nothing on under the skirt, and she was sprawled there on that floor, with her legs wide open, and her cunt hanging out."

His voice was rising, and he realized it, and consciously softened it. He shrugged helplessly, then continued: "And then something -- snapped in my head. The next thing I knew I was on the floor, between her thighs, and I was fucking her. She continued to scream and hit me, so I hit her again to make her quiet. She got very still -- like those other three women did -- like she used to, as if to say I was no good, that I really couldn't satisfy her." He shrugged again. "I got off of her. There would have been no purpose in remaining on top of her. She wasn't enjoying it and neither was I. I sat and thought for a long time, wondering what to do, knowing I had to do something. I realized there was only one solution: she had to die. So I killed her." He picked up the blaster again, stroking it almost sensually. "I killed her with this."

I strained against the cords. "But why did you kill the second woman? Why did you kill Shelley Charles?"

He laughed again. "You made me do that, Mal," he said. "It was your fault that I had to kill her too."

"Me? Why me?"

"It was your suspicion that the murder might have something to do with Effie knowing her killer." He nodded. "That was very perceptive of you, Mal, I have to give you that. Of course it was most unfortunate for poor Miss Charles. I didn't know her at all. I merely picked her at random, followed her to her apartment, and did what I had to do. I murdered her. She was my sacrificial goat. I killed her as a way of throwing you of the track. I reasoned that your theory would fall apart if there was another murder. And I was right: it did fall apart. We even convinced you to abandon the idea. I thought it worked out rather well... for awhile. I must have slipped up somewhere, however, or you wouldn't be here now. I bet it was that damned psychiatrist. That's where I messed up, isn't it?"

"That's right, Spens. That's where you messed up."

"Oh, well, never mind. It's not really important, is it? I mean, whatever mistakes I made will be erased shortly. None of us will leave this room alive. It's a shame really. I liked you, Mal. I really did."

"I like you, too, Spens. I still do, in my own way." My wrists were bleeding where the friction rub of the plasteel cords were chewing into my flesh. "Tell me one thing, though. What started all of this? What made you begin raping the women in the first place?"

"She did." He pointed at Jocelyn with the tip of the blaster.

"Jocelyn?" I shook my head. "I don't believe that. What does Jocelyn have to do with this?"

"Jocelyn?" For a moment he seemed confused, as if he never heard the name before. "Oh, no... not Joce -- not Miss Wolfe. But someone like her. Someone very much like her."

"Is that the other woman you were talking about before?" I asked.

"Yes..."

"Who is she?"

"My mother." Commissioner Moran slumped against the edge of the dresser. "I loved her, the bitch."

"Tell me about her, Spencer," I said. The blood was running hotly down my hands, making my fingers sticky. "I want to know. I want to understand."

His eyes got misty, and he seemed to be looking far away somewhere. "She was a beautiful woman, Mal. Striking, breathtaking, exciting! She was a powerful woman, too, and forceful. Very, very demanding. She had a mind of her own, and no one told her what to think or how to act. She was a taker, Mal. Some women are like that: they take what they want from life. They don't wait or ask -- they take. The bitch... the hateful bitch!"

"What did she take, Spens? What did she take from you?"

He sobbed. "She took my manhood. She took it from me... she stole it from me. I was no good after her. I had no confidence left. I couldn't believe in myself as a man. She made me... impotent."

"Tell us about it, Spencer," I urged softly. "Tell us. We want to hear about it. We want to understand what she did to you."

"I was thirteen when my father died." He shook his head. "I don't remember him very much. It's almost as if he never really existed. Maybe he -- no." He shook the thought off. "Anyhow, he died. My mother took his death very badly. Somehow in her mind I took his place. Me, a boy of thirteen. She depended on me, she leaned on me, she called me her 'little man'. God, I hated that term: her little man... Anyway, soon after my father's death I was sleeping with my mother, satisfying her insatiable sexual desires. I matured very early, probably because of her help, and I learned all about sex from her. I did everything to her, and she did everything back to me. To me: her son. A boy of thirteen. I loved her... I loved her desperately, until..." His voice choked off.

"Until what?"

He shrugged. "She remarried. A new husband. Our relationship ended. Forever. As if it had never happened. She loved her new husband and she abandoned me. She didn't even treat me nice any more. I never forgave her for that. Never."

"And so, through these other women, you were getting back at her," I suggested.

"Yes... yes! That's what I was doing. I was punishing her for what she had done to me. I hated her for what she had done to me: that's why she had to be punished I punished my mother through those other women: through Effie Spade, and Miss Chan, and all the others. The punishment took the form of rape because rape was such a terrible crime in our culture... and I wanted to make her suffer! I wanted to humiliate her -- the way she had humiliated me! -- for what she had done to me."

He stopped and shook his head, as if that thought he had tried to push away before was somehow hanging tenaciously on. He continued: "But I got... confused. Like I did before with Miss Wolfe. I began to see my mother all over... in every woman who looked like her." He began to giggle in a silly, high-pitched titter. "That was something you never caught on to, Mal -- the physical similarities between all the victims. Think about that: with the exception of the first two, probably because the pattern hadn't solidified in my own thinking yet, all the women looked alike. Even poor Miss Charles looked like her: memories of my mother." He giggled again. "In fact, if you look very closely, Mal, even Miss Wolfe rather fits into that same image, don't be think?"

I looked at Jocelyn. She shuddered visibly.

"Actually," he continued, "that was the reason I put her on the case with you, Mal. The real reason. You see, Miss Wolfe is going to be my neat victim. My next rape and murder victim."

"Oh my God..." I said softly.

"And so we have come to the end of this discussion. Once again it is time for actions to speak." He put the blaster down on the dresser again and began to undress, "I think I'll allow you to watch, Mal, and then I'll kill you. I've never had an audience."

In numbing fascination, I watched as Commissioner Moran stripped all his clothing off. He stood stark naked, except for his rimless eyeglasses, in the middle of the bedroom floor. In a final fitting irony I watched his cock rise from flaccidness to the longest and thickest erection I have ever seen in my life. I remembered the Gynecological Reports on all the women: "a cock of enormous size and thickness, used with blunted brutality." The shaft was at least ten inches long, and as thick as my wrist around. The cock of a giant on a man who would never be older than a thirteen year old boy.

He began to advance upon the bed.

"No -- stop!" I cried. I strained against my bonds, feeling the inflexible cords cutting deeply, painfully into my flesh. "Spens, stop! My God, Spencer -- don't do it!"

There was a look of helplessness in his eyes when he turned toward me. "I can't," he said, his voice strained with genuine agony. "I have to do this, Mal. I must rape Miss Wolfe. Don't you understand?" He turned toward Jocelyn. "You understand this don't you?"

"Yes!" Jocelyn cried, her voice ringing loudly through-out the room. Her eyes were blazing with raw sexual passion as she gazed upon his huge cock. "Yes... yes! I understand. For the first time, Spencer -- I understand!"

I shook my head. "No, Jocelyn... don't..."

"Fuck me, Spencer," she begged, her voice cooing and purring sensually. "Oh, my God... please... please fuck me, Spencer. Fuck me hard and deep... fuck me with that wonderful cock of yours. Help me forget!"

I rocked from side to side on my chair, gritting my teeth from the blinding pain. "Oh, God, Jocelyn... don't give in to him. Don't let his illness become your illness. Don't..."

"Shut up!" Commissioner Moran roared. He spun on his heels and trained the blaster on me. "Your time has come, Mal. Goodbye."

"Don't, Spencer -- don't!" Jocelyn yelled at him. "Forget about him... come and fuck me! Forget about everyone but me. I understand you, Spencer. I am like you. We do have something in common: my father and your mother..."

Spencer turned and looked at her. "What... what did you say?"

"You're like my father," she cried. "I need a father just as you need a mother. We're both orphans, Spencer. The both of us: abandoned by those we loved the most. I remember the pain... I can feel the pain again! Help me to forget it, Spencer! Help me forget my father -- my husband! -- and I will help you forget your mother. Come and fuck me, Spencer... fuck me!"

The blaster trembled in his hand. "Yes... yes!" he cried. "All my life I've looked for you... all my life! And now I've found you. Fuck you... yes... yes! I will fuck you!"

He dropped the blaster and ran toward the bed, that long thick shaft of his cock bobbing like a sexual metronome. He climbed onto the mattress, crawling up between her eager thighs.

"Untie me, Spencer!" Jocelyn begged. "Set me free! I want to fuck you back. I want to wrap my legs around you. I want to claw your back with my nails when I feel your cock grinding up into me. I've not like the others: I'll not lay passive under you. I want your cock -- I need your cock. Fill me up with it." Her mouth quivered with passion, and in a last, desperate need, she ran the tip of her tongue around the rim of her hungry lips, communicating with him physically, saying with her body what her words could not convey. "Untie me, Spencer..."

He sobbed. "Yes, Mother... yes. Anything you say, Mommy..." He untied her legs.

"And now my hands, Spencer," she begged. "Set my hands free. I want to run my fingers up and down your cock. I want to pull it into my mouth. I want to spread the lips of my pussy so that I can push it up inside of me. Oh, God, Spencer -- help me. I'm in agony!"

Tears were streaming down his face. "Yes, Mother... I will. I love you..."

The rest happened very quickly. The moment her hands were free, Jocelyn struck him savagely with the edge of her palm across his throat. Spencer crumbled helplessly onto the mattress.

The nightmare was finally over.

CHAPTER NINETEEN: A Summary From Bed

I climbed onto the mattress, and positioned myself between Jocelyn's thighs. As I leaned forward, sliding on my belly, I slipped my hands under the cheeks of her ass and pulled her toward my open; waiting mouth. The tip of my cock rubbed against the coolly erotic slickness of the bed sheet, sending a throb of excitement up and down my spine. I settled myself on the bed, nodding toward her cunt, and I began to eat her pussy.

"God!" Jocelyn cried as her body stiffened with pleasure. She arched her hips and, as she threw her head back in total sexual abandonment, she began to pump her cunt up and down against my face. "Eat me, Mal... oh, Jesus...! Eat me!"

My tongue slithered sensually up and down the slick avenue between her cunt lips. Jocelyn's body was hot and wet, and she was oozing her juices into my mouth. I licked her slowly, from the puckered ring of her anus, right up to the tip of her throbbing clitoris, pausing more than just briefly to lap up the sticky drool that was leaking from her dilating cunt hole. I pushed my tongue deep into the creaming tightness of her passageway, and I could feel her muscles convulse around my slippery intrusion.

"Oh yes... oh yes!" Jocelyn moaned. "It's good... it's really good!"

She was incredibly hot inside, and I took a particular pleasure in flitting my tongue from side to side, stinging the wet walls of her cunt with the rapid thrusts of my licking caresses. When she began to grind her hips in a tight rolling circle, and she began to moan, grabbing at my head with her powerful fingers, pulling me closer to her pussy, I slipped my tongue from her cunt hole, and I began to stroke Jocelyn's clitoris. I battered the tender bud savagely with a rapid back and forth movement, until her clitoris seemed to be vibrating under my lapping tongue. Jocelyn arched her back away from the mattress, smearing her wet, oozing underside across my face.

"I'm coming!" she cried, finally grabbing onto my head. She pulled me hard against her quivering cunt. She pumped her hips and gyrated her thighs, screwing her coming crotch all over my face. "Oh, God! Oh God...! I'm coming... I'm coming...! I'm coming!"

I stroked her mercilessly throughout her orgasm, feeling the quivering flesh trembling under my tongue. I could taste Jocelyn's come in my mouth, a sudden warm wetness, and I dug my tongue into it, flicking it back into my mouth, drinking it down. I parted her dank, hairy pussy, and sunk my teeth into the button of her clitoris. Grinding my mouth sensually from side to side, allowing the pain to mingle in with her pleasure, I could almost feel her orgasm splattering across my lips.

"Oh God... Oh God!" she cried, tears of release streaming from her eyes. "Fabulous...! Fabulous...! I..."

I pulled my mouth away from her cunt, and I straightened myself. Jocelyn sobbed in disappointment and tried to return my lips to her upturned pussy, but I was too fast for her.

Taking my cock in my hand, I guided it at her wet, open pussy, and inserted the swollen tip of my shaft between the lips of her cunt. I watched my cock entering her body. I pushed it slowly, carefully in, through the vibrating membrane of her orgasm, until my belly was pressed directly against her belly and the entire length of my cock was buried inside of her. I began to push my cock in and out.

"Oh -- oohhh!" Jocelyn cried, gasping in pleasure at the shimmering intensity of the sensation. She humped her pussy up and down my drilling cock, the wet walls of her canal clutching at my hardness. "Again... again! I'm coming again!"

I could feel her coming this second time. Her cunt tightened down around me; and I could feel her wetness oozing all over me. I pushed my cock slowly, deeply in and out, stroking Jocelyn with my full hard length. Her body became very hot, and I could feel her wetness gushing against my driving middle. I watched my cock sliding in and out of her, the lips of her cunt clinging to the sides of the shaft. I went in dry and came out wet, my flesh glistening with the greasy discharge of her orgasm. I pumped into her until I could feel her orgasm peaking, and I continued to pump until she began to respond once again to the in and out thrusting of my cock.

I knew I would have no difficulty in coming. I slipped my hands under the cheeks of her ass, and I rippled my hips, driving my cock in and out of her as I pushed and pulled Jocelyn back and forth. Her cunt gripped me tightly, grinding the entire length of my shaft in the warm wet prison of her oozing pussy. My hunches became deeper and stronger as the pleasure of fucking washed across my drilling middle. The tempo of my thrusts accelerated, and became more frantic, until I was grunting. I stiffened suddenly, and drove myself in for one last thrust.

"I'm coming!" I cried, as my cock opened up and spilled out a fiery spurt of sperm. "I'm coming, Jocelyn... I'm coming!"

My cock pumped and throbbed inside of her, as wave after wave of sperm spewed into her gripping passageway. I could feel it splashing against the roof of her cunt, and then, like a slow, rolling wave, I felt it wash back against my pulsing cock, bathing me in my own orgasm. After the incredible, almost paralyzing initial spurt, I resumed my thrusting, grinding my pelvis into the softness of her sticky hole. The moment I did so, and Jocelyn felt the burning mist of my come, she pushed back against me, and began to come for a third and final time.

We lay like that afterward, my cock yet buried in the puddle of her cunt, Jocelyn's arms around my back and shoulders, our bodies locked in exhaustion as tightly as they had been in our passion. A warm, pleasant feeling rolled softly inside of me for her. I could feel the sperm dripping from her cunt hole. It leaked all over the mattress.

"Mal..." Jocelyn finally said.

"What?"

"Mal, what will happen to him now?"

"He'll be taken care of. He'll get the kind of specialized treatment he should have been getting all these years. I spoke to Dr. Gideon, and he agreed to take Spens on full-time, without the group. Right now he's in an intensive psychotherapy program."

"Will he ever be... all right again?"

I reached over and cupped her breast in my palm. It felt warm and soft. I could feel her chest moving up and down, and under my fingers, deep inside her body, I could feel Jocelyn's heart beating.

"Of course he will," I said. "It's Gideon's professional opinion that Commissioner Moran will fully recover. This time next year he will be a normal, functioning human being again. And in two years, he'll have his old job back. He'll be the second most powerful man in Bos-Wash again."

I laughed softly and shook my head.

"What?"

"I was just thinking," I said. "Thank God we're not like our ancestors. Do you know what they used to do! They used to kill rather than rehabilitate men like Spens."

Jocelyn looked at me strangely. "Is that true?"

I nodded. "But -- why?"

I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. "Damned if I know."

"Maybe they were just too primitive to know any better. Maybe..."

"Maybe..."

We thought about that for awhile.

"Oh, yeah," I said finally, pretending that I just remembered it. I didn't really: it's been on my mind ever since it happened. "I have a couple of things I'd like to say to you."

Jocelyn smiled, sensing my discomfort. "Oh?" she asked, not making it any easier for me.

"First of all, I want to thank you for -- saving my life." I swallowed the last three words. "And I also want to compliment you on your superb police work, all throughout the case, but especially in the way you first tricked, and then disabled Spens. I'll tell you something: I almost believed you when you were saying all those things..."

"Almost?"

"I also want to compliment you on the lead you uncovered," I quickly added, ignoring her question. "Without the information I received from Archie Hammer about Dr. Gideon and the group, we might never have broken the case."

"All I did was plod through the routine," Jocelyn modestly admitted. "No spectacular feats of deduction. I just jumped on every lead I could turn up."

Under my hand, I could feel Jocelyn's nipple stiffening. I pushed my limp cock into her cunt, and she gave it a playful squeeze.

"And finally," I said, "I want to say to you that you -- and not I -- were right, just as you maintained all along the rapist was a man."

"Thank you," Jocelyn said. "Now it's my turn. I wan to thank you for saving my life. It was you who came to my place, if you hadn't, Commissioner Moran would have easily raped and murdered me."

"Maybe, maybe not," I said graciously.

"And, most difficult of all, I want to congratulate you on solving the case. It was you -- and not I -- who learned Commissioner Moran's terrible secret. You discovered the identity of the rapist/murderer first. I don't think I'll ever forgive you for that. How did you do it? I didn't even have an inkling it was Spence."

I laughed. "I almost didn't guess correctly. I almost made a terrible mistake. When it finally dawned on me that Dr. C. Augusta Gideon was the same person a your 'Dr. Auggie', for a minute there I thought I was right in thinking all along that the rapist was a woman. I thought you were that woman."

"Me?" Jocelyn exclaimed incredulously. "Why me?"

"When I broke into Gideon's office," I explained, "suddenly everything clicked for me. I wondered whether he might be the same psychiatrist who had treated you. I quickly checked his files, and I found your record folder in there. That just about convinced me."

"What made you change your mind?" she asked.

"I read the file. Thank God I did. Thank God I tool that extra minute or two. I looked at the date and realized yours was an inactive file."

"What happened then?"

"I systematically went through the rest of the files, starting with A. About half way through them I found Commissioner Moran's folder. His was an active file."

"Why do you think Commissioner Moran picked Dr. Auggie -- Dr. Gideon? just a coincidence?"

I shook my head. "No, probably not. What probably happened was that he was impressed with the way Dr. Gideon had helped you. After all, you mentioned him frequently enough, telling everyone in sight how great he was; I'm sure it must have made an impression on Spens. Actually, he was right: between his mother and your father and husband, the both of you do have a lot in common. Spens probably figured that if it worked for you, it would work for him. And it will, too -- in time."

Gradually, through all this while, my cock had grown erect again, and I realized I was thrusting it in and out of Jocelyn's tightening cunt. What was even more interesting was that Jocelyn was not only returning my thrusts, she seemed to be doing so with ever-increasing passion.

"Mal..."

"Yes?"

"I realize now," she said, her cunt gripping my cock, "that I was wrong in thinking I was completely well when I came back to work. I was better, much better, but I still have a long way to go. I know I must have treated you badly..."

"No worse than I treated you."

Jocelyn moaned softly. "What I'm trying to say is -- will you help me, Mal?"

I screwed my cock into Jocelyn, deeply, powerfully, a brand new orgasm building suddenly within me. "Oh, yes," I said. "Oh... yesssss!"

THE END