The Ties That Bind (6 page)

She saw stains on the sheet. She was bleeding from her
rectum. Lying beside her on the bed, she saw the instrument he had used,
stained with her blood. She remembered pulling up the sheets to hide herself,
more out of deep shame than modesty. He pulled the blanket up to her neck, as
if he were tucking in a child, and put his lips to her forehead. His lips felt
like ice. She cringed and pulled the blanket over her head.

What she wanted was to hide under the covers for the next
millennium. She was too humiliated and horror-struck to meet his gaze.

"Rest, my darling," he said, patting the blanket.
"You were wonderful." Wonderful? Was it possible? Was she dreaming?

"I'll leave you to rest," he whispered.
"I'll get back by taxi."

She must have grunted some response, remembering that when
she heard the door close behind him, she had staggered to it and fastened the
chain lock. Then she had dropped to her knees and cried hysterically for what
must have been hours. Love? No way. In her mind love was beautiful, full of
care and trust and wonder. Not this.

The room was dark when she had finally found the strength
to rise. The pain was still excruciating. She managed to make it to the
bathroom, flicking on the lights. She looked in the mirror, appalled by the
sight of herself.

He had covered her body with filthy words written in cherry
lipstick. The word "pig" was written across her forehead and on one
thigh the word "suck" and on the other "whore." He had also
painted her nipples and had drawn an arrow beginning at the base of her neck
and leading down to the edge of her pubic hair where he had written the word
"trash."

She stood observing herself with disgust. Her shame and
mortification had not yet turned to anger. Had she really been a willing
participant in this disgusting exhibition of sadism. What had possessed her to
consent to such terrible physical abuse? Was there something flawed in her own
psyche? As for him, she could not bear the idea that she had loved such a
monster.

The pain would not go away. She turned on the bath taps
full blast, then crawled into the tub. The sting of the water made her cry out
with pain. Eventually, as she soaked in the hot water, it diminished somewhat.
She spent a long time in the tub, trying to assemble her thoughts, wondering if
she should see a doctor or call the police.

By sheer will power, she managed to dress and drive herself
home, sustained, she later realized, by her anger and hatred for him.

Feigning a flu, she spent the next few days in bed,
suffering through the uncertainty and agony of self-treatment. She made her
unsuspecting mother call Farley to tell him that she was ill. The next day she
wrote him a terse letter of resignation. He made no attempt to respond in any
way.

* * *

As soon as she was able, she left town on the pretext that
she needed to attend summer school, a decision that surprised her parents but
did not stir their curiosity. It took every bit of her inner resources to cope
with the memory of the incident, especially at the beginning. Was she that
naive, that malleable, that weak? Was Farley that sick that he had no insight
into his own predilections?

Even in the subsequent research she did into this type of
practice, the dictum of the bondage-and-discipline subculture was that no
physical harm should be inflicted. He had gone over the edge. Worse, he had
enjoyed her pain.

There was no way that she could face Farley Lipscomb ever
again. What had been love, certainly infatuation and desire, had turned into
raw hatred.

But not only was this hatred generated against Farley but
against herself for allowing herself to become a tool for his perverse acts.
Only later, after years of self-therapy and reading numerous studies of this
aberration, was she finally able to let go and forgive herself, although never
in her heart could she ever forgive Farley.

But the idea that, if the act had remained a pleasurable
game, she might have accepted it was still troublesome. With Farley the game
had turned nasty, beyond the pale. Nor did knowing that totally mitigate the
shame, the awfulness of it.

For a long time after that incident her desire for sex had
simply disappeared. She dated no one during the remainder of her time in
college. Only gradually did the trauma dissipate although psychic scars
remained. Eventually she reached a point where the memory itself became a kind
of fictional imagining far removed from what had become the reality of her
life.

In time she had stopped thinking about it, perhaps even
denied that it ever happened. It was never again part of her menu of fantasies.
It was as if her psychic immune system had kicked in and flushed out all
visible symptoms of the aberration. Nonetheless, she knew that it had had a
profound effect on her life. Giving up her free will, the power over her mind
and body, became her most frightening nightmare. Any hint of such an event
occuring provoked a strong negative reaction. Perhaps this was why she was
never able to sustain a long-term relationship with a man.

In learning about herself, Fiona recognized her own
powerful sexuality. She did not need to have the envelope pushed that far to
find pleasure and she invariably rejected those who did. Indeed, she had
developed a sixth sense to screen any potential lovers. The slightest
revelation of a similar tendency was enough to abort a relationship without guilt
or explanation.

Ten years after the episode, she had actually been in the
company of Farley Lipscomb and his wife at a dinner party given by one of Washington's most active hostesses. She had greeted both him and his wife with politeness.
Little was exchanged between them. She was suprisingly indifferent to his
presence, as if he, too, had become a fictional character in someone else's
play. Indeed, she savored the indifference as proof positive of her psychic
wellness.

As for him, he gave no hint that the incident even lingered
in his memory. He smiled, acknowledged her with sentiment and nostalgia as
would be appropriate to the daughter of an old friend. Not a gleam, not a
single iota of subtle recognition of what they had shared that afternoon was apparent
in any visible expression or body language on his part.

As time went on, she hardly thought of him as being the
same man who had abused her that day. Nor did his constant coverage in the
media trigger any response that affected her in any emotional way.

Until she saw the body of this woman in the Mayflower
Hotel, she had no reason to let the events of that fateful day resurface in her
mind.

But the image of that poor unfortunate woman spread-eagled
on the hotel bed, with similar block-lettered graffiti on her body, had brought
back the memory with hurricane force.

Her detective's mind could not reject the notion that this
woman was victimized by a perpetrator with an MO that seriously matched that of
her long-ago lover. The effect on her had been profound, setting off shock
reactions that took all her inner resources to control.

The details of that afternoon, she had always felt certain,
were etched into her memory. But how accurate were they really? The pain, the
horror of the experience, her embarrassment, the assault on her self-respect,
the roller coaster ride of her emotions ... had all occurred. Had time rendered
them anecdotal? Nevertheless, it felt like a memory match but she couldn't be
certain.

Unfortunately, she had no photographs to validate the
similarities of the assault. The physical style of the lipstick graffiti, the
words themselves, the knots used to harness the woman, the type of injuries,
the way the woman was positioned, the specifics of her wounds were all
disturbingly familiar. And the most puzzling question of all. What had caused
her death? She would have to allow her mind to meander through the maze of
memory before giving herself permission to validate the similarities.

In her heart, she wanted, badly wanted, the perpetrator to
be Farley Lipscomb. With the onrush of memory had come the desire for revenge.
Professionally, she knew, this was a dangerous and highly unethical position to
take.

But she did allow herself to hope that it might be Farley
Lipscomb and to secretly create a scenario in which his aberration had grown
more uncontrollable and dangerous with the years. Perhaps, too, a search of
data banks would reveal the occurrence of a regional patch of cases with the
same MO. In good faith, she assured herself, she could not eliminate Farley
Lipscomb as a prime suspect, at least in theory. Could she?

And if he was the perpetrator? Even the possibility was a
double-edged sword. First, she needed to find some physical connection, some
compelling evidence that linked him with the crime. Only then could she dare
reveal what had occurred to her so many years ago, a detail that might
compromise the accusation, whatever the evidence. A personal motive was
dangerous baggage for a detective to carry. If revealed it could be raw meat for
a defense lawyer.

Such a personal confession had negative career
ramifications as well. It would mark her as someone who participated in what
the police culture would characterize as bizarre sexual practices. She could
become the butt of the kind of ridicule that undermined respect and corroded
working relationships.

But there was still another wrinkle that filled her with
dread. Suppose there was no hard evidence, no connective tissue? Suppose she
felt it necessary to confront him directly. She dared not speculate on how such
a confrontation would play.

He was no longer Farley Lipscomb, lawyer, but Farley
Lipscomb, associate justice of the Supreme Court.

"Jeez," the Eggplant exclaimed, looking over the
pictures of Phyla Herbert's much abused body that were scattered over the
surface of his desk. He shook his head and clucked his tongue in a genuine
reaction of resignation and despair. "Sick bastard," he wheezed.

"Very," Fiona said, exchanging glances with
Prentiss, who nodded her head in agreement.

They were sitting in the Eggplant's office, the dust-laden
window behind his desk darkening. Beyond his closed door she could hear the
ceaseless ringing of the telephones, blaring out their cacophony of death.

Prentiss sat beside her in one of the chief's mismatched
office chairs, her notebook on her lap. Throughout the day, she had been a
whirlwind of activity, scribbling furiously in her notebook, her head cocked to
one side, her shoulder bracing the phone against her ear.

"Give him the rundown, Gail," Fiona said, turning
to Prentiss.

Gail's eyes met hers, somewhat surprised. She had, of
course, expected Fiona, as the senior detective in charge of the scene, to make
the first report to the chief. But Fiona felt drained. It had taken all her
energy to cope with her recollections.

Worse, she feared that she would not have the strength to
keep her secret hidden, that some errant word or phrase would spark their
suspicion that she was keeping something from them. Above all, she did not want
them to know that she was pursuing a private agenda. She had made calls, worked
the computer feverishly looking for similar cases in the area.

She had met with some success in ferreting out some
similarities but there was always just enough of a difference in
modus
operandi
to reject the possibility of a match. She wondered if she secretly
enjoyed these rejections, as if each elimination brought her closer to what she
really wanted ... that the finger of suspicion be pointed directly at Farley
Lipscomb.

As if to professionalize the idea, she actually called his
office to determine whether or not her suspicion had any merit at all. There
was always the possibility that he was on some extended vacation in some
distant land, which would knock any presumption of guilt into a cocked hat.

The Supreme Court was in session and Justice Lipscomb was
very much in evidence. It was, in fact, only two weeks past the second Monday
in October. She did not give the receptionist her name.

"Phyla Herbert," Gail began with a crisp economy
of language and presention. "Caucasian, twenty-four years old. Recent
graduate of University of Chicago Law School. Apparently a whiz kid.
Magna
Cum Laude. Phi Beta Kappa
. Law Review. Father with a prestigious law firm.
Mother died when she was a teenager. She came to town Thursday night for a
series of interviews. Met with people Friday at the Justice Department,
Interior, the Energy Department. Also had scheduled appointments on Capitol
Hill with two Illinois congressmen. Also had interviews set tomorrow and was
scheduled to head home on Wednesday."

Gail paused for a moment and looked up, possibly to
reassure herself of the chief's full attention, which was quickly confirmed.
"Based upon Flannagan's assessment, the victim probably died late Saturday
night. The rooms on either side of hers were not booked through the weekend.
None of the other guests we managed to track down who were booked into rooms
further down the corridor heard any uncommon sounds worth mentioning. She never
used room service."

"Flannagan get anything more?" the Eggplant
asked.

"Reports should be coming in shortly," Gail said.

"Did we get a
modus operandi
match?" the
Eggplant asked. Gail turned to look at Fiona.

"Nothing of significance, Captain. A few open cases in
southern Virginia, but they are prostitute kills, a completely different
formula."

"Next-of-kin notified?"

"Afraid so," Gail sighed. "Always the worst
part. The father is flying in from Chicago. I must warn you. He is very
angry."

Ignoring the comment, the Eggplant fired a question at
Fiona.

"Autopsy results?"

"Coming," Fiona said.

Earlier she had talked to Dr. Benson, whose caseload on
this Monday was extraordinary. As she had known, he was going to do the job
himself. The Herbert woman and the crime that had destroyed her fit into the
category of a "must do" for him. His forensic detective work was an
essential first step in bringing the perpetrator of such a crime to justice.

"There's more," Gail said with a sideward glance
at Fiona, who nodded her permission.

"The father will be a problem. Apparently he put lots
of muscle into arranging his daughter's foray into town. All of the interviews
came down from the top. Thomas Herbert, as I've discovered, cuts a wide swath
through Washington, official and nonofficial. He's one of those political power
brokers, well connected to both parties."

The Eggplant shook his head with disgust.

"That's exactly what we need," the Eggplant said.
"More pressure from the top."

"I'm sorry," Gail said. "But I thought you
ought to know."

"I appreciate your concern, Officer Prentiss,"
the Eggplant said, with more resignation that sarcasm. "What other joyful
news do you bring?"

Gail, not quite knowning how to interpret his comment,
offered a half-smile.

"I spoke briefly to all the people she interviewed
with. Just preliminary interviews. Two of the people were women. Strangers. The
one at Justice was a man. A young hotshot, Phelps Barker. Father is a physician
friend of Mr. Herbert's. He grew up with the victim."

"What was his reaction?"

"Shook up. We're seeing him tomorrow." She looked
toward Fiona, who nodded. She felt an acute sense of irony, wondering if all
the shoe-leathering and interviewing would, in the end, be merely red herrings,
detours on the road to Farley Lipscomb. But one factor was obvious; their investigation
would take them hopscotching along the "golden power grid."

At her father's knee, Fiona had learned what was meant by
"the golden power grid." They were the connecting links through which
the power flowed, not unlike the way electricity was distributed. People who
were connected to people who were connected to people who made things happen.

They would be crisscrossing the circuitry that led through
connectors of wealth and privilege, through corporations and law firms, country
clubs, pockets of society connections, through interlocking political power
links. They were all hooked together seamlessly along the grid. The energy
generated along this grid pumped out rewards to those who knew the complex
circuitry and how to move through it without being electrocuted.

Her father had once been part of it, and although he had
finally been cast out of the net, Fiona had continued to maintain a connection
to it through her childhood contacts. She was a well-accepted asset on the
"A list" Washington social scene, a position she continued to
cultivate. In her social circles, her profession was considered more exotic
than déclassé, and her subtle knowledge of the grid structure gave her a
special cachet.

She also had the means and the venue, her lovely house in
prestigious Spring Valley, which she often threw open for a small dinner party
or a larger cocktail bash, a necessary ritual to continue her level of
acceptance on the social scene.

The Eggplant had no illusions about what he was up against
when an investigation spilled into the power grid. Thomas Herbert, Fiona knew,
would arrive like a bull in a china shop. Grief and outrage are powerful
stimulants and he would use whatever muscle he could muster to light a fire
under the investigation, a process that always resulted in more heat than
light.

"Theories?" the Eggplant asked, shooting a glance
at Fiona, who diverted her eyes momentarily, then forced herself to stand up to
the question.

"So far, only the obvious," Fiona said, clearing
her throat, trying to keep her voice from wavering. "The woman was
probably consensual at first."

She felt Gail's sudden movement, the body language of
disagreement. Earlier, she had not found the courage to broach the subject with
her partner.

"The man was obviously experienced in this type of
sexual behavior." Fiona pointed to a photograph on the Eggplant's desk.
"Note the proficiency of the knots that held her extremities. For this
type of execution, the woman had to be docile and consenting."

"You think so?" Gail said cautiously. "I
would have thought just the opposite."

"It's only a theory, Gail," Fiona said gently.
"My guess is that he got her to allow him to immobolize her."

"You mean she allowed this psychopath to put her in
this position. Look at the result."

"I don't believe she knew the full extent of what he
was doing, where it was leading. Perhaps she had done this with him
before." She felt her voice weaken and she coughed to mask the condition.

"My God," Gail said. "Look at those stab
wounds."

"Doing that was probably the way he achieved
orgasm."

"You don't think there was penetration?" Gail
asked. Fiona avoided her gaze.

"We'll have to wait on that for the results of the
autopsy," Fiona said.

She wanted to add more, like being certain that the woman's
anus had been violated by some mechanical device that had caused bleeding. In
her brief, very brief assessment of the body, she had noted the condition,
masked by the blood that had cascaded over the body from the stab wounds.

"Why do you reject coercion, Fiona?" Gail asked
diplomatically, obviously careful to show the proper humility of a junior.
"Isn't it possible that her assailant had a gun or, most certainly, a
knife that he would have used to terrorize her and make her do his
bidding?"

"Oh, I didn't rule that out completely," Fiona
admitted. "There were no obvious signs of a struggle and the neatness of
her discarded clothes indicated that she might have taken them off with some
care. She did have interviews scheduled for Monday. And from the way her
clothes were arranged in the closet, she seemed rather fastidious."

"You have a point," Gail said, without rancor.
Fiona could tell that she was not convinced.

"Also, note that the clothes were not exactly casual
for a daytime Saturday. A pair of jeans was hanging in the closet, which
indicates that Flannagan's eyeball assessment of late Saturday night or early
Sunday morning is on the money. She might have met someone or had a prearranged
date with someone she had known." Fiona paused, choosing her words
carefully, wondering if her subconscious was guiding her along a single path.
"Or was a friend of the family."

"Some friend," the Eggplant muttered, his gaze
washing over the picture.

Gail shrugged, as if she were unsure whether to challenge
any of the assumptions in Fiona's theory. It was, Fiona knew, a deduction based
upon her own experience. She had arranged her clothes neatly on the chair
beside her when she had been ordered by Farley to undress.

"Do you really believe that someone as intelligent as
Phyla Herbert could be talked into being a willing participant in this..."
Gail began, then broke off the sentence and shook her head. It was obvious that
such behavior was not in the range of Gail's experience. Indeed, Fiona
realized, Gail would, no doubt, be astonished at the extent of the practice.

"Surely we can't discount that possibility,
Gail," Fiona said patiently.

"I suppose we're too early in the game to discount any
possibility," Gail replied, but without conviction.

"Are you theorizing that the perpetrator was someone
she knew?" the Eggplant asked, obviously taking Fiona's theory with more
seriousness than Gail.

"Maybe." She shot Gail a conciliatory glance.
"We haven't accounted for all of her contacts, particularly in the
evenings. Thursday, Friday or Saturday. Since her father was well connected,
she might have attended a dinner or cocktail party thrown by mutual friends or
business associates."

Fiona paused, watching Gail's reaction, pondering an idea
that had suddenly jumped into her mind. Considering Gail's background, it would
take a leap of faith for her to believe that a brilliant and well brought up
woman like Phyla Herbert could associate with someone who got his kicks in this
manner.

Gail, too, was the daughter of privilege and power. Having
lived in Washington most of her life, Fiona was aware of the mores of the black
hierarchy that had dominated black society in Washington for more than a
hundred years.

This was a group more class conscious and tightly
controlled than any society of privilege anywhere. Dominated by their own
inter-connections and well-forged old family links, they were elitist, educated
and successful. Fiona was certain that Gail had been a debutante in a
"coming out" event that was one of the great seasonal traditions of
this proud, prestigious, super-achieving and self-segregated group.

It was also a society known for its religious fervor and
strict moralistic traditions. Church was part of its culture. It was only
natural that Gail might reject the notion that Phyla Herbert knew her
assailant. In an odd way Phyla might be, despite the racial difference, one of
Gail's crowd.

"I'm not saying it's not possible," Gail said.
"Anything is possible." She shook her head. "What you're also
saying is that she was predisposed to participate in this disgusting
perversion."

"It happens," Fiona said. "We all have our
vulnerabilities." Had she gone too far? Was she actually trying to create
the impression that there was a kind of normality in such a practice? Perhaps
even justify her own past participation?

"I wonder," Gail said, with a smile to take the
sting out of her rejection of Fiona's theory.

"When it comes to sex," Fiona said boldly,
returning the smile, "people have their dirty little secrets."