Irreconcilable Differences

"Nope, can't think of anyone."

"Okay, Robert. I just thought you might want to tell me a little about the fellow who's in room 114 nearly every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon. And I thought you might want to tell me that you don't retrieve the key from him, that he's renting the room long-term. And I was absolutely sure you would fall all over yourself showing me the registration card he's required to fill out for each visit. You know the card Robert, the one that state law requires you to keep and that causes your state business license to go away if you don't keep it. By the way, Robert, isn't having steady work a condition of your parole?"

Robert began to look very, very ill. As Nixon's resident SOB Chuck Colson once said, "When you've got 'em by the balls, their hearts and minds will follow." Robert seemed to be getting into a "following" mode.

"You know, Robert, I think the sheriff's office needs to start paying a little more attention to what's going on in this area. You'll probably feel a lot safer with a sheriff's car driving through your parking lot every hour or so, won't you. I know your guests will, because every now and then a deputy will have a talk with some of them just to make sure they know they're staying at a safe motel."

"All right. What do you want?" Wonderful. Another cooperative citizen.

"What I want, Robert, is for you tell me everything you know about the fellow that rents room 114. Then I want to see your records for room 114. Then I want you to show me that room and the rooms on either side of it. Then we're going to come back here and talk some more."

Between Robert and his somewhat less than meticulous records, I learned that "John Smith" (how original) had reserved room 114 for every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon for the previous six months. He paid for the room every month in advance, so Robert let him keep the key. Mr. Smith was paying Robert $300 per month for the use of room 114 two days each week. The Stateline Motel is not exactly a four-star establishment. It's hardly ever thirty percent booked, so Robert never needed to rent the room to anyone else. That's why he let Frank Wilson, AKA: John Smith, keep the key and come and go more or less as he pleased. Robert checked periodically to make sure that Mr. Smith wasn't using the room any other times, and he wasn't. Since room 114 was an "around the back" room, Robert rarely saw Mr. Smith arrive or depart. Fortunately, Robert cared only about Mr. Smith's money. He didn't know or care who Smith really was or why he wanted the room. Well, Robert probably had a pretty good idea of why. Rooms by the hour are his bread and butter, after all.

We walked back and looked at room 114. Its décor was North Idaho seedy. Queen-size bed, one nightstand with telephone, no table or chairs, TV complete with local channels only, no cable, X-rated movies (available at an additional charge, of course), one cheap Formica-covered bureau with drawers for the TV to sit on, a small closet, a toilet next to a basin vanity replete with cigarette burns, and old worn carpet. There was tacky wallpaper that looked like someone wanted it to be velvet but didn't quite make it. Of course, there was a window-mounted air conditioner that sounded like an 18-wheeler at full throttle. It probably didn't get used much. The walls between rooms appeared to be the ever-popular gypsum board with little except fiberglass insulation in between. There was a full-length mirror screwed solidly to the wall opposite the bed. The whole room smelled like mildew, disinfectant, and tobacco. I was sure that had I looked under the bed, I would have found a year's supply of used condoms in addition to enough dust bunnies to grow a wheat crop. Lovely romantic ambiance.

Rooms 112 and 116 were mirror images of room 114. I decided that room 112 would serve my electronic surveillance needs best.

We walked back to the motel office.

"Robert, I am investigating the person you are calling John Smith. (Had he looked at Robert's other records, there would no doubt have been an amazing number of John Smiths.) I'm sure the sheriff's office would look very kindly on your renting room 112 to me for a fair price, say $200 per month. And you, being a public-spirited citizen, albeit one on parole, would probably be more than willing to do that, wouldn't you?"

Robert looked shocked but pleased. Almost certainly he hadn't been expecting me to pay any money at all. Local cops generally prefer that parolees like Robert demonstrate their rehabilitation by offering freebies to the cops.

"That payment is to ensure that you will keep our conversation and arrangement between you and me. You do understand that, don't you? If anyone, especially Mr. Smith, were to find out about it, well, your parole officer would probably alter your living arrangements in a New York second. NICI is really nice during the winter, isn't it?"

NICI is the North Idaho Correction Institution in Cottonwood. Cops call it Frostbite University for Career Criminals. Get someone sent there, you've really FUCC'd them.

Of course Robert understood. That was going to be $200 per month that the IRS and state tax board would never know existed. He actually smiled. It occurred to me in passing that Robert might better spend the money on dental work than locally-produced meth.

"One more thing, Robert. Should Mr. Smith ever make or receive any phone calls in the room or have any extra requests, I'm sure you'll let me know, won't you?"

Robert agreed. I paid Robert the $200 for the coming four weeks, collected the key, and then left, wishing I could decontaminate myself before getting in my pickup.

I returned to my office and dug out the contact information for a friend in Sacramento. His specialty is electronic surveillance equipment. We had been friends for years since his career with the California Department of Justice. We had sort of an unofficial mutual aid society. No money ever changed hands between us, but we both came out ahead in the long run. I gave him a call. We talked for twenty minutes, and Sacramento Flash agreed to FedEx the necessary equipment.

[Tuesday, August 20]

Tuesday morning the equipment arrived. There would not be time to install and test it by that afternoon, so I spent the morning checking it out in the office. It was both audio and video equipment. Smile, Frank, you're about to become a star.

That afternoon I again sat outside Frank's office, this time in a borrowed sedan. No point in letting him see the pickup too often. Surprisingly, or maybe not, Frank practiced law all afternoon and then headed for home. I thought Frank probably needed to recharge his batteries. If only I had known then just how close to the truth I was.

[Wednesday, August 21]

I spent most of Wednesday at the Stateline Motel installing microphones and video cameras in Frank's room. Everything was well hidden so even the maid wouldn't find it. I ran the cables into his room through concealed holes in the wall hidden behind the cove molding baseboards. No, as a matter of fact I didn't trust Robert the Rodent to not snoop around. On the other hand, today's small surveillance electronics make concealment relatively easy. It takes some time, but once it's in, it's very hard to detect.

I paged Sherry Wilson. Within fifteen minutes she called back. She sounded a little disappointed when I told her that Frank had been a good boy Tuesday, but she brightened up when she learned the room had been wired. Lights, camera, action!

[Thursday, August 22]

On Thursday I figured it was worth a shot to go directly to the motel and get the equipment set up. Frank's pattern suggested strongly that the infamous room 114 was where he met all of his sexual liaisons.

After unloading the equipment in room 112, I moved my pickup to a spot on other side of the motel, walked through the connecting hallway, and went back into my room. It took about an hour to hook up all the cables and test the equipment. The results were impressive. The three small color video cameras, each with a remotely controlled digital pan-tilt-zoom lens, performed spectacularly even in the almost no-light condition of the room. Only the bathroom and the closet didn't have video coverage. I had planted six small fiber-optic microphones as well. I had earlier decided to impression a key for Frank's room rather than tip my hand any more to Robert the Rodent by asking him for a key. Making the duplicate key to room 114 took about half an hour. A good entry man can impression a key in less than ten minutes, but my skills were rusty.

Back in the listening post, I had set up three nine-inch video monitors and one twenty-three-inch color monitor. There was a digital video recorder set up to record whatever was being seen on the larger monitor. The microphones were mixed through a small mixer, equalizer, and noise filter. The final audio mix was fed into the audio input on the video recorder and to a small power amplifier for headset and speaker listening in the room. As an afterthought, I let himself back into Frank's room and installed a small radio-frequency transmitter in his telephone. No point in relying on Robert the Rodent to be honest about any phone calls Frank might make or receive.

Since it was only noon, I went out and grabbed a bite to eat at the fast-food joint just across the parking lot. While munching on a rubbery mystery meat burger, I noticed that the restaurant's back parking lot had a perfect view of the spaces in front of room 114. I hurried back to the motel and repositioned my pickup to the restaurant's back parking lot so I could see the room' entrance from inside the cab. Then I locked it up and walked back to room 112, fired up the equipment, and waited. I fervently hoped that Frank would not decide to practice celibacy.

He didn't.

At about 2:10 p.m. a car pulled up outside and stop. I peeked out through the drapes and saw that it was Frank. Alone.

Wilson went inside and immediately went to the phone. He dialed a local number, the Fightin' Creek Resort judging by the operator that answered. Wilson asked for room 245. The operator rang him through, and a woman answered. All he said was, "I'm here."

Clearly recognizing Frank's voice, the woman replied, "Just remember what I want and how I want it." Then they both hung up.

The transmitter in Frank's phone worked beautifully.

Frank Wilson had not called his office, so I ruled out any hope of seeing luscious Ms. Lee's attributes.

At 2:30 p.m. a Chevrolet Tahoe pulled up and parked right in front of room 112. That made it easy to get the tag by looking out through the curtain slit. Odd, it was an Ada County tag. Boise. The state's capital.

I didn't recognize the woman who got out of the Tahoe. She was in her early forties, attractive but not gorgeous, probably about five-feet-four but looking much taller because of the four-inch heels she wore. Her expensive full-length coat covered what I presumed to be equally expensive attire. Odd to be wearing such a coat on a hot day like this. When she knocked on Frank's door, I turned to his electronic equipment and began watching the video from inside Frank's room.

The video monitor clearly showed Frank walking to the door. He opened it and the woman walked in, unbuttoning her coat as she moved. Frank closed the door behind him and immediately grabbed the shoulders of the coat. With one quick jerk he pulled it from her body. She screamed as she spun around. It was an odd scream, more an expression of surprise than fear. She smiled at him.

The woman wore only a very sheer black fishnet body stocking. There was nothing beneath it. Her full breasts and extremely prominent nipples were visible beneath the sheer material. Even on video, I could clearly see the dark triangle of hair between her legs. I could almost feel her body heat jumping out of the video monitor at me.

She hardly had time to react before Frank moved to her and pushed her onto the bed. She started to get up, but he forced her back down.

"No, please, not this way!" she pleaded. Yet, she had a strange look on her face. In contradiction to her verbal plea, there was no real fear or look of terror even though she was breathing heavily and continuing to struggle. The weight and position of Frank's body overcame her resistance and she collapsed back onto the bed.

Uh-oh. This is not good. All I need now is for Frank to rape this woman and for the cops' investigation to find my video equipment. I started thinking about how I would strip out my equipment and leave before they arrived. Hopefully, I wouldn't have to work around a woman's corpse to do it.

Now Frank tried to straddle her, but she brought her knee up toward his groin. He put his hand on her thigh and pushed it back down. He was sitting on top of her. Her legs and arms were flailing, but she was tiring fast. Frank grabbed first one of her wrists, then the other, and held them together in one of his hands. With his other hand he grabbed the body stocking's neckline and pulled fiercely on it. The entire upper portion of the body stocking ripped away. The woman screamed as her breasts were exposed. With his free hand, Frank began to knead her breasts, first one and then the other. His fingers left red marks behind on her breasts' whiteness. He pulled on each nipple until it became even more hard and erect. She moaned with each pinch on her nipples. Her hips were writhing under his weight as he straddled her.

Using his left hand to hold both her wrists captive, Frank changed position from on top to her side. Her energy gone, she offered only token resistance as he began to take each of her nipples into his mouth. As he bit down on one, she screamed again. He pulled, and again she screamed. But the scream still lacked the terror I would have expected. In all my years with the sheriff's office and having separated a lot of fighting men and women, I thought he had seen every possible response from a terrified woman. Yet, there was something not quite square in this woman's responses. It was as if...

Frank Wilson continued to kiss and lick her breasts and the area between them. Suddenly, with his right hand, he grabbed at the body stocking and began to rip it, pulling it downward as the material tore.

"No! Please stop!" she cried.

Again, that odd cry. He quieted her cry by bringing his lips to hers in a forceful kiss. Her muffled screams were still audible through the kiss, but they were becoming less fearful and more yielding.

Frank moved his right hand over her belly, then downward to her womanhood. His large hand covered it completely, the palm resting on her clitoral hood, fingers each side of her pussy lips. He began to apply pressure, moving in circles, not abrasively but not too firmly. Her screams subsided and were replaced by more guttural sounds, deep from within her. She still struggled against his force however it was evolving into movement to try and get closer to him.

Without any warning she gave a quick swing of her left leg. Frank was thrown off balance and rolled toward the edge of the bed. The woman jumped up and started toward the door, but Frank recovered and caught her by both arms. Her continued struggle was futile against his strength, and he drove her back toward the bed. As he pushed her down, both his hands grabbed the remainder of the fishnet body stocking and pulled it off. She was completely exposed to him.

She looked at him. Her eyes were fiery. This time there was no fear in them. The fear had been replaced with pure unadulterated lust. Frank saw it. As she lay on the bed, her breasts rising and falling with her heavy breathing, Frank removed his shirt, then his shoes and trousers, then his underwear. His erection was full and throbbing. Her eyes locked on it.

"You want it, don't you, baby?"

"Oh, yeah!" She was practically salivating at the sight of him.

In an instant Frank was on top of her, wrapping his arms around her, kissing her mouth, her neck, her shoulders. She wrapped her legs around his and began moving them up and down his. No longer was she trying to escape.

"Come on, lover," she moaned. "Come on, Frank. Put it in me. You know how bad I want it. C'mon. Do it! Fuck me now! Please! Please!"

The little cartoon light bulb of realization came on over my head: The woman was into rape fantasy. Her resistance was all an act. Frank Wilson was fulfilling her exact wishes, something I should have caught earlier from the woman's abbreviated comment during the telephone call.

Well, good. That keeps the cops out of the room unless she screams too loudly.

"Not yet, baby, not yet."

"You sonofabitch," she said with a leering grin. "I'll make you want me worse than anyone you've ever wanted in your life."

And with that, she released her legs from around him. With one leg on the bed, she gave a push that rolled him to one side. In the same motion, she rolled on top of him, her pussy against his penis, her breasts against his chest. She began to grind her pussy against his growing manhood that was sandwiched between their bodies. Her face was only inches from his as she continued to gyrate her hips.

"Nancy, stop! You're going to make me cum! I want to be inside you!" He was genuinely begging.

"How bad, lover? How bad do you want me now?"

She had clearly seized control. If she continued her sensual grind, he would finish. She was leering at him now. But the friction of his erect cock against her clit was having an effect on her as well. The expression on her face showed her pleasure. It was going to be a duel to see who could hold out the longest.

"Oh, God, it feels so big. So good. Are you ready Frank? I'm almost there, lover. Are you ready? Oh, my God!!! Now, baby!! Fuck me now!!"

They rolled together as one with Frank on top. Sweat was glistening on their bodies. Once on top again, Frank raised his hips to position his cockhead over her red enlarged pussy lips showing through her black matted hair. Begging him.

He paused.

"Now, Frank!! Now!! Hard!!"

He thrust his hips and pushed deeply into her. She reveled in his hard fullness pushing deeper and deeper inside her as if he would go on forever. Her body's entire energy was focused on holding him tight, climaxing with him. As he pushed all the way into her, the hair at the base of his penis brushed across her clit. He moved his hips side to side, slowly, seductively, holding the pressure on her clit.

"Oh, shit!" she screamed as the intense pleasure of his movement brought her nearer and nearer. "Hard, baby! I want it hard! Fuck me hard! Now! Now!"

It was clear that Frank had been trying to hold back, but he could no longer resist her words of passion and the warm wet friction as her vagina gripped his cock. He began to stroke, out, in, out, in, with increasing speed and energy. His grunts with each stroke aroused her even more. She timed her thrusts with his so that each thrust brought him into intense contact with her.

She was bucking up and down against him. Her arms were around his back, pulling her down toward him. Her fingernails scratched frantically at the flesh on his back inflicting passionate pain on him. Harder and harder they drove together.

Their eyes were closed tightly, their faces distorted in the pleasure of orgasm. The muscles on their bodies were rigid. As she came, her eyes snapped open, seeing only the colors of climax. She roared out her sexual release through her clenched teeth. With each thrust through his climax he cried out in the sounds of sexual fulfillment, sounds unmistakable, sounds primal.

Spent, they collapsed together and lay gasping for breath.

Finally, she spoke. "God, Frank, that was the best ever. I thought I was going to cum as soon as you ripped the body stocking off me. I don't think you'll ever top that."