One More Notch on the Bedpost

"So that's it. We get him, read him his rights, and haul him to a place where he's totally disoriented. A few days of that ought to get him ready to sing like a canary. If not, we can get him juiced up with pentothal to speed up the process."

"Yeah, that sounds good to me. But I wish we could find somebody else that we can tap for info. Right now, Tom's the only window we've got."

"We'll just have to take good care of him and make the most of this opportunity. But if this goes on for a while we may get another shot, because somebody'll get nervous when Tom disappears. Whatever they're fishing for, they haven't got it yet, because If they did he'd have stopped hitting her. Once they find out that Tom's missing, they'll have to do something new."

"You know, when you think about it, we're probably doing Tom a favor. Banging Sherry every day has to have him worn out. This is his chance to get rested up." He must have read something in my face, and he hurried to add, "No disrespect, you understand."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I'd made an appointment for a private meeting with the FBI's Special Agent in Charge of the district office, for ten o'clock. That's ten pm. As I was driving there I reflected on what a lousy job he must have, to schedule a meeting late on a Saturday night and act as if it's business as usual.

Gordon Wilkes looked like an FBI agent straight from a prime time TV show: tall, ramrod straight, blond hair just going gray at the temples, good looking, with eyes that made contact and bored into you. If I didn't know him from the old days, I might have wilted in his presence. He knew that he couldn't melt my soul with his presence, so he'd brought in another agent, named Ellie. Have you ever thought about coming in your pants from a woman just smiling at you and from shaking your hand? Ellie is that woman! I won't even try to describe her. Words won't do it. You'd have to see her, and here she was, up close and personal. Wow!

Gordy swiveled around in his desk chair to slide open the door of his credenza, and dragged out a bottle of Jack Daniel's and three glasses. He poured me maybe a double shot and I resisted the temptation to chug the whole thing down in one gulp. Instead I merely tasted it with the tip of my tongue. Getting comfortable in a soft visitor's chair, I relaxed and recited my whole story.

"Why come to me with this, Ralph?"

"Because I don't know whether I can trust anybody else. It smells to me like something rotten in my department. But what's next? Sheriff's office? Aside from the fact that their detectives aren't too swift, who's to say that they're not involved? State police the same explanation. You Elliot Ness types are supposed to be untouchable, so here I am, prostrating myself at your feet in supplication. Lawdy, Massa Gord', please heah mah plea an' he'p me."

"Have you called Doctor Johnson yet?"

"No. I didn't want to make a move until I talked with you."

"Okay. Here's what we'll do. You go ahead with the plan for grabbing Tom, using your own troops. The only change is that I'll have somebody at your house, not to do any heavy lifting but to witness the Miranda reading. After that, if your prisoner shows any signs of injury or irrational behavior, you must get immediate professional help for him, in a safe place, where his criminal associates can't harm him in any way. If you solicit help from federal agents in doing this, we are duty bound to assist you. Once the suspect is returned to a normal condition, you have the option of charging him or releasing him. Do you wish to comment, Ellie?"

"Only that I agree with everything you've said, Agent Wilkes. To do any less would violate this poor man's constitutional rights." At least, I think that's what she said. I had a hard time concentrating. This chick could recite the weather forecast and guys would line up to ask where they could buy some. Put her on TV and kill the audio, and guys would still watch, just to see her breathe and move her mouth.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

On Monday morning we had a pretty good crowd in and around my house. In the kitchen, Sherry was chatting with her new best friend, Ellie! Ellie had started out by complimenting her on her new sun dress, and when I looked in they were talking animatedly. Ellie seemed to have a calming effect on Sherry, who after all had the leading role in the pageant that was about to unfold. What I saw made me feel that Sherry would rise to the occasion, and it also told me that Ellie must be a handy person to have on our side.

Down in the basement rec room, aka my man cave, one of our old timers named Miller, was shooting pool with one of Gordon's FBI guys named Wells.

Out in the park, Tony had laid out a blanket on the grass and was settling down with our ace detective Sonia. She was a prize, distinguished by three special attributes: She was a good looking woman who appeared to be in her mid twenties, while actually she was almost forty. She had perfected a stupid act -- you'd look into her lovely face and swear this chick hadn't entertained a serious thought since puberty. And she was the best shot with a handgun in our whole precinct, counting all our uniforms and detectives. That was mostly because she seemed immune to pressure. In my one and only gun battle, some years back, Sonia was right beside me, shoulder to shoulder. I was awash with adrenaline, doing all the right things but trembling with fear, rage, and hormones. Sonia was just as cool and accurate as she was at the pistol range. There was one guy that I missed, and she helped me out by giving him one shot right between the eyes.

Given all those abilities, you might assume that Sonia would act like a diva, but she was just the opposite. From the time she made first class she stopped studying for the exams, content to work for Tony and let him handle the decisions and the paperwork. She was friendly and pleasant, and she cheerfully took whatever assignment she was given without comment. We all loved her.

Tony had borrowed a detective named Wilson from another squad, because he was a bicyclist. He would come riding into the area on the bike path, and stop twenty yards east of where Sherry would be, while he tinkered with the chain on his bike.

The grassy area of the park rose slightly at the edge away from our house, to end at a small patch of trees. Back in there we had two young guys, uniformed officers from our precinct who were in plainclothes for the day. They were watching the surroundings but when Tom showed up they'd come out to the grass and toss a football around. Tall, lean, and limber, they were up for chasing anybody anywhere, and had all the skills needed to subdue a suspect, including deadly force if needed.

I heard a car drive up and stop, and when I looked out I saw Bert Hasting, one of our detectives who is a runner. He has competed in marathons, and at the other end of the spectrum I've seen him sprint a torrid hundred yards to grab a suspect. He was wearing running shorts and a T shirt under a flimsy jacket. I knew that the T shirt was a trick garment, actually an elasticized slip-on holster for his service pistol, with a pocket for two spare magazines. The shirt/holster held the hardware securely enough to keep it from jostling around as he ran. Between his running ability and his concealed armament, I knew the front of the house was secure.

Bobby had been in his bedroom, playing with his toys, with the door closed, as all of our team assembled. We all got out of sight when Sherry took him out to go to the park at ten o'clock. Then Ellie and I watched the scene at the park from the big window over the kitchen sink, while the pool players downstairs occupied themselves playing eight ball at a dollar a game. Sherry had given a good enough description of Tom to Ellie so she felt confident she could spot him. Nobody showed up until ten-twenty when she said quietly, "There he is. I spotted him when he walked into view, and now he's sitting down with Sherry and talking as if they're old friends." I went down the stairs and told the guys to get ready, and not make any noise. They climbed the stairs behind me and pulled the door almost closed, so they could see movement in the hallway and shove it open and burst out when needed.

I looked hard at this Tom, who was apparently good enough to take my wife from me. He didn't look like anything special to me. He must have gotten a lot of mileage from reading the right books. I said to Ellie, "As much as you can, scan the surroundings. If this guy is as important to the bad guys as we think, there may be some backups lurking on the flanks or up beyond the woods."

"I don't see any. Oh, Tom's getting up and coming this way."

I called "Stations, everybody."

Ellie went into the dining room. I walked down the hall to the master bedroom, pausing at the cellar door to ask, "All ready?" Both of the poolshooters nodded. I entered the bedroom and pulled the door open, while I got behind it.

The way we'd planned it, I'd stop Tom as he entered the bedroom. The two from the stairs would then step in behind him, one with a pistol to his head, and one with handcuffs ready. Ellie would step into the living room, where she had a clear view of the hallway, and if things went sour at our end, she'd stop him, alive or dead, before he got to the living room.

Tom opened the back door and stepped in from the patio. He'd been walking south on a sunny day, so he had to blink and pause to let his eyes adjust. Then he came on through the kitchen and into the hall, just as we had hoped. As he walked slowly toward the bedroom, I could see through the crack on the hinge side of the door that he stopped and readjusted his pants, which suggested that he must be getting a hard on just thinking about fucking Sherry in a few minutes. That was good for our side. Better to have him distracted than looking for an ambush. He ambled on down the hallway and walked slowly into the doorway to the bedroom.

I stepped around the door and grabbed the front of Tom's shirt with my left hand, which I then rammed up into his Adam's apple. I shouted, "Police! Freeze!" as I brought my right arm around and slammed my elbow into his nose. Then I shoved his head back against the doorframe with my right forearm against the bridge of what was left of his nose. I held him there while I watched his hands, which were simply hanging down at his sides with his fingers spread wide open. I yelled "Gun to the head," and Wells, the Fed, put his pistol muzzle against Tom's brainstem. "Cuffs" I yelled, and Detective Miller grabbed Tom's wrists one at a time and cuffed them behind Tom's back. The action had all taken place in way less than half a minute.

Ellie came down the hall, holstering her pistol and talking as she walked. "You have been arrested on suspicion of interfering with the constitutional rights of a citizen, a federal offense. Ralph, you're in front of him so you're in the best position to read him his rights."

I knew that she'd be recording the whole thing. I recited the ritual, and asked, "Do you understand what you just heard? If the answer is yes, nod once." He nodded and I said, "The suspect has nodded to indicate yes."

Tom was doing a good job of bleeding from his smashed nose. The vigor had gone out of him, and he was slumping. "I'll hold him up while you two frisk him. Be thorough." Wilson did one side and Wells did the other. They found nothing that could be used as a weapon, but they did find a wallet. Wells held it up, looking at me questioningly. "Hand it to Ellie," I said.

Ellie flipped through it until she found his diver's license. "Ronald Rogers, from Cleveland," she announced.

To Wilson I said, "that door by your right hand is a linen closet. In there you'll find a plastic shower curtain, folded up in a package. Please get it out and spread it out flat on the floor down cellar. We'll be bringing Mister Rogers down the stairs and lay him down flat on the shower curtain, to do first aid on the injury he sustained resisting arrest." As soon as Miller went down to the man cave, Wells and I took Rogers down the stairs, a step at a time, with me in front and Wells behind. Ellie grabbed some basth towels and followed us down the stairs. Over the next ten minutes we stuffed rolled gauze up his nostrils and wrapped gauze around his head, to surround his nose and catch as much of the blood as we could.

As I stood up I could hear women's voices chattering amiably. Ellie had gone up to be with Sherry, who was peering down from the top of the stairs. She asked, "Everything okay?"

I smiled up at her and answered, "Proceeding as planned." Then I saw Sonia's face as she looked around Sherry at the suspect, who now looked like the victim of a bomb blast. She asked, "Nose?"

"Yeah. We'll spread this shower curtain over the back seat of the car to catch the blood. I'll need two rolls of paper towels and four white garbage bags for the trip. Maybe two or three big towels just in case. Tony excused himself and slipped around the ladies as he came down the stairs. "Keys in the car?"

"Yeah."

"Rope?"

"On the driver's seat."

Ronald Rogers was placed into the back seat of the car, an old Lincoln TownCar, with his ankles tied securely together and then suspended above seat height from the riser rods of the head rest on the shotgun seat. We got Rogers situated so he was in a stable position, secured him with two seat belts, and made sure he could breathe all right. Then Ellie took a syringe out of her purse and gave him a shot in his shoulder, right through his shirt. "Monitor his breathing, Ralph. You can insert a hand through the front of his shirt, just above his belt buckle, to feel his diaphragm. Keep checking for the next fifteen minutes, and after that you can just spot check every ten to fifteen minutes."

Once Rogers was asleep and breathing evenly, Sonia came to the garage with a portable fingerprint kit and took his prints. She gave them to Wells, to be checked on the FBI's computerized ID system. Then we were ready to travel.

Tony drove, Ellie was in the shotgun seat, and I was in back with our suspect. We were making great time down Interstate 10, until a state trooper pulled us over for speeding. "I'll handle this," said Ellie.

The trooper came up to the driver's window. Ellie reached across Tony and opened her ID wallet. "Federal agent, officer, on official business."

The trooper pulled out a little notebook and wrote her name and ID number. "Thank you, ma'am. I'll radio ahead. You're cleared to wherever you're going."

As he was flipping his notebook closed, he mumbled to Tony, "Best lookin' Fed I've ever seen."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The trip to the private hospital south of Patagonia was about 180 miles, and it took us about two and a half hours. Doctor Johnson was expecting us, and we were relieved of our prisoner by two burly Mexican orderlies. I went with them, to look at the room he was to be confined in. It was very plain. The walls were concrete blocks, painted off-white. There was one small window high up in the outside wall. Furniture was a bed, a small bedside table with a drawer, and a chair. The bathroom was open to the bedroom, with a small step down from the bedroom floor so it could be hosed down. It had a toilet, sink, and small shower stall. The door to the hall had a viewing port, glazed with heavy Plexiglas, with a sliding panel to cover it on the outside. Below that was a wide, low panel that could be opened, closed, and locked from the outside, for passing food trays in and out.

Doctor Johnson invited us to join him for a late lunch, and we discussed the case of Ronald Rogers, whom we called Edwin Smith. Edwin was obviously disturbed, and it was very important that we get to the bottom of his disturbance. He might have been forced by his employer to do things that violated his personal code of decent behavior, and the only way to proceed in that case was to get him to purge all the memories that were bothering him. But first he would have to be returned to physical health, which might take a few days. We decided to try to do the memory dump on Friday. Then we thanked Doctor Johnson for his hospitality and hit the road, except that we went back by a different route, with a stop in Tucson to change cars, and returned home in a late model Taurus with the high output engine.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I dropped Sonia off at her house, and Tony at the precinct house, where his truck was. Then I went home and put the Taurus in the garage, along with my wife's car. My SUV was at the precinct house, but I didn't want the Buick to be seen parked there, which might have helped somebody figure out where Tom, aka Ronald, aka Edwin, was staying.

It was late, and Sherry was already in bed. I stripped off and slid in beside her. She didn't wake up, but she did wrap an arm and leg around me and pull me close to her. Gradually, the inevitable happened, that miracle of rapid human tissue growth.

Sherry was wearing a shorty nightgown. I pushed it up around her waist, and began to rub my little friend against her crotch. I could feel a little moisture down there, and decided to help it along. Sliding down in bed, I gently lifted her legs and laid them over my shoulders, which rolled her onto her back and opened up her snatch. The position was perfect to fit my head in between her thighs and stick my tongue between her outer lips. She tasted delicious! I slipped two fingers into her cunt and started a sliding motion, finally building up to a decent rhythm. I rotated my wrist and dragged my fingertips across her G spot, which got a response, and then brought my thumb around to rub her clit at the same time. She began to moan, softly at first, but gradually picking up in volume. I decided she was far enough along to have an orgasm on my little friend, so I slid quickly up to where he could enter her cunt. This proved to be a great success, and soon Sherry was saying, "Yes, yes, fuck me, fuck me Ralph, jam that big prick into my cunt and make me your woman again. Fuck me, oh, fuck, fuck, fuck me hard. Bang me. Harder. Oh, come on, harder! Ram it in there. Oh, yesssss! Oh, I'm, I'm, I'm coming! Go on, come in my cunt! Fill me up!"

And on command, I did. It felt wonderful to be filling her with my semen again, as I pumped one squirt after another into my sexy little Sherry. I bent down a little and at the same time, pushed her back so that she straightened up. The combination brought her tits even with my mouth. I shoved the straps of her nightgown off her shoulders and down her arms, until the whole nightgown was bunched up at her waist. But that was immaterial. What mattered was taking her tits, one at a time, into my mouth and sucking as much in as I could hold. As I let them out I tongue-lashed her nipples ferociously. She wrapped her arms around my neck and pulled my face into her tits as she sang a song that had no words and no melody, yet was music to my ears. Then the lyric poetry began. "Ralph, you fucker, you long-tongued cunteater, you titsucker! I love you, and I'll always love you!"

While I was being crushed happily against her beautiful chest, she began to rock back and forth. "Honey, I got you a present. Do you want to open it now?"

"A present? For me? You bought me something, and it's not even a birthday? Sure I'd like to open it. Where is it?"

"The first part is right here, in my nightstand drawer. Here, it's wrapped as a gift. Let me turn on the light. See the pretty paper?"

I tore at the wrapping and pulled it away from the gift, which was a plastic bottle, with a funny top that had a little squirt nozzle set off at an angle. I pulled off the tiny cap and squirted some on my hand. It felt gooey and slippery, and it smelled like strawberries. I licked some off my finger and it tasted like strawberries, too.