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.