Beyond a Reasonable Doubt

Anders and Tate were down in the lobby when I got off the elevator, there were a couple of reporters outside on the sidewalk -- too late for the morning editions, I told myself as I walked over to the Chief -- and Tate handed me a cup of coffee when I got there.

"Thanks. That was rough..."

"Woodward, I want a total black-out on this for now. Strictly 'no comment'; got it?"

"Yessir."

"Of course that goes for you, too," he said as he looked at Tate.

"Of course."

"Did you get what you needed?" Anders asked.

"Think so, Chief. If the locals cooperate, anyway."

"They will."

The way Anders spoke left no doubt in my mind: he had turned up the heat.

The elevator dinged; Pantazis and Eklund walked out; a photographer pointed and all the gathered reporters got ready. Obviously they didn't know who I was, maybe not even Anders, so it was a cinch Tate was totally off their radar.

"There a back way out of here?" I asked the clerk behind the reception desk.

She pointed to a hallway: "Down there, door at the end of the hall. Leads right into the parking garage."

"Thanks." I turned to Anders. "You sure you don't want me to talk the reporters?"

"No, you get out of here, keep on Harker and the lab until you know something."

"Right." I turned to Tate, motioned with my head and we walked-off down the hall to the covert exit. I opened the door and recognized her immediately: Liza Mullins, a crime reporter for the Post-Intelligencer. She'd staked us out, been waiting for us.

"Got anything for me, Woody?"

"Well, does 'No comment' count?"

"Heard it's a cop. Any truth to that?"

"I heard there's a shuttle headed up to the mother-ship. It's already on the roof and they're holding a place just for you."

"Can I quote you on that? 'Seattle PD claims alien Mother Ship wants Ace Reporter?'"

"So, you're an Ace Reporter?" We laughed, then: "You never give up, do you?"

"Never."

"You ever been married, Liza?" That seemed to shut her up...

"I'm not now. Why?"

"Well then, would you marry me?"

Her left eyebrow shot up: "Sure, Woody, right after the aliens get through probing your asshole."

"That's just about what I thought. Always the same story." We all laughed -- even as Tate and I turned and walked off, leaving her standing there. Then I heard her running along behind us and we stopped when I got to the back of the Ford. "You still here?" I pointed at the ceiling: "They ain't gonna wait forever, ya know?"

"Knock it off, Woodward. Gimme something!? Please?"

"Sorry. No."

"How 'bout coffee later? Or some breakfast?"

I looked at her; cute kid, maybe a pest -- but cute. I could handle some cute after a night like this. "I don't know how long I'll be?"

She handed me her card. "Call me. Whenever."

I looked her in the eye. "Cute," I said, and that eyebrow shot up again.

"What?"

"I said, cute. As in, you-are-cute."

She started to blush and I opened the door and got in, started the engine and let it warm up. She moved closer, until she was blocking my open door, then she knelt down beside me.

"Do you mean that?" she said.

"What? About the mother ship?"

She didn't have a come-back ready, or maybe she was being serious.

"Yeah, Liza, I think you're cute. Maybe nine/tenths gorgeous. Why?"

"Just didn't expect you to say that, that's all." She was looking all kinds of serious now but it was kind of odd because for some reason I didn't regret saying it. I'd know her for years, we'd bantered back and forth over cases -- the normal back and forth between cops and reporters -- and yet for any number of reasons nothing had ever developed. We'd certainly never exchanged Christmas cards or birthday greetings, let alone met for coffee, so I considered this a most unusual development.

"Well, maybe I shoulda told you years ago, but there it is."

"Will you call me?"

"For coffee, yes."

She looked at me. She got it. "Call me. I've got to get some sleep, but I'll answer."

"Right."

She shut my door and I backed out and drove out from under the building; Tate fell in behind me and called as soon as we were clear:

"What did she want?" he asked.

"Anal sex."

"You wish, Dickhead. Seriously, Woody, what's she after."

"A warm shoulder, I think. Who knows?"

"Aren't we all. What else."

"Coffee. Chit-chat."

"No shit? You need a chaperone or anything, you let me know."

"Right."

"I'm wasted, Woody; gonna head to the barn and crash for a while."

"Yeah, you old farts! Gotta get your rest or you..."

"Woody?"

"Yeah, Tate?"

"Suck my dick."

"No thanks. Tryin' to quit."

"Well, then, be careful!"

The line went dead.

+++++

Forensics was in an annex to the original Central Precinct building; it had been cobbled together over the years to make room for new gadgets and ever newer technologies, but somehow digital had yet to replace film completely in our lab, and I for one was grateful. Digital is good, don't get me wrong, but a fine grained film in the hands of a good photographer with a Leica can reveal all kinds of things better than digital, particularly in the infrared spectrum, and that's why I'd called Harker.

Infrared excels at picking up things the human eye misses; things like leather scuff marks on floor tiles, or the impression made by knees or shoes on blankets and sheets. Harker knew exactly what I was looking for; he hadn't needed to ask because we'd danced this dance a hundred times before. He came out of the darkroom a little after eight that morning with a big smile on his face.

"Bingo!" he said.

"Yeah? Let me see."

He laid out a pile of 11x17 inch prints on a drafting table and flipped on an articulated desk-lamp/magnifying glass and pulled it over; I sat down and looked at the first print...

"She probably stood over him, on the bed. High heels, probably a size seven, maybe a seven and a half. Look at the next one."

I picked up the next image and put in under the light.

"Scuff mark on the tile in the bathroom, and a couple of other prints in the next shot. Same shoe, same size."

"So... female for sure."

"Yeah. Probably pretty small, too. Like five four, five five, maybe a shade more. Look at the next one... close."

"This the bathroom floor again?"

"Yeah."

"What is it?"

"Two sets of prints, really. The same high heels, and a man facing her. About a size nine, maybe a ten."

"Tottenham?"

"Size thirteen. I checked."

"Bingo, indeed. Good work, Amigo."

"Woody? It's pretty weird you know, even so."

"Why?"

"Well, all the usual places you'd find prints were wiped down, like a cop was in on it, but an insider would know we might use infrared. Any competent lab would."

"So?"

"Well, I just assumed an insider, you know, what with that FBI guy and the A/C."

"How'd you hear the other was FBI?"

"Shit, Woody, are you kidding? Everyone was talking about it yesterday."

I bunched my lips, frowned. It would be in the papers today. Had to be. It would be interesting to find out their source someday. "So then, what are you thinking? Amateurs?"

"Yeah. Or just sloppy."

"Or tryin' to throw us off the trail."

He shook his head at that one. "Glad this is your case, Woodward."

"Yeah, ain't life grand?"

+++++

Anders wasn't in; he'd gone home and left a note for me to call him that afternoon. I pulled Liza's card from my pocket and dialed the number.

"Hello?" She sounded half asleep.

"So, let me take a wild guess. You blew off the Mother-ship?"

"Woody?"

"Yup."

"You find out anything?"

I didn't answer.

"Oh, right," she said. "Sorry. No questions allowed."

"Coffee?"

"I could do that."

"Starbucks on Westlake, by the Marriott. Half hour." I broke the connection then checked my messages. First one was from Tottenham, telling me to check in with him in the morning. Okay, nothing unusual going on there. Next one was from Mary-Jo, late last night.

"Woody, sorry you had to go so soon last night. Maybe we could so something this weekend?"

Uh-huh. Sure. When I get back from the mother-ship.

Next was from Tate, this morning when he got home: "Just checkin' in, Woody. Call me if you haven't heard from me by noon or so." I dropped by my mailbox and then walked out to the Ford, got in and drove over to Lake Union, went into the Starbuck's and bought a New York Times. I looked around, took a seat away from the windows. The Times, I thought, ought to really piss her off.

She came in a few minutes later; the dark circles under her eyes were almost as puffy as mine.

"I didn't take you for a bird owner, Woody."

"Hm-m...what?"

"The only reason to buy a rag like that. To line the bottom of a bird-cage. Get it?"

"Ah. Gee, I didn't even think..."

"You order anything yet?"

"Nope; thought I'd wait and see what you wanted. You know, like bein' chivalrous and all that crap."

"Woody?"

"Yes?"

"Cram it."

"Here? Now? Are you sure?"

She laughed. "Yeah, man. Bend over."

"What do you want?"

"Hi-test. Big."

"I hear that." I came back a few minutes later and sat across from her.

"I didn't take you for a Lake Union kind of guy," she said as I sat. "You got a boat?"

I ignored the question. "So, what are you hearin' on the street about this?"

"Two cops dead, same MO."

"Someone inside tell you?"

"Is that a confirmation?"

"Nope."

"Then I'm sorry. Sources are confidential."

"Tit for tat, huh?"

"No other way in this biz, Woody."

"C'est la vie."

"Il ne doit pas etre de cette facon."

"Yes it does. It wouldn't work for very long if we expected each other to compromise our integrity."

"Guess so." She looked me in the eye: "You lonely, Woodward?"

"No, I'm tired."

She nodded. "When you going to retire?"

"Yesterday."

She laughed. "How long 'til you can?"

"Oh, I could now. Just not with full benefits."

She sighed. "So why are you staying?"

"Habit."

"The bad ones are tough to break."

"The hardest. May I ask you a question?"

"I'm forty three, was married once, divorced about ten years ago."

"Touché. Damn, I hate being so predictable."

"Well, if it means anything to you Woody, I'm lonely too."

I nodded, looked at her eyes, saw the long nights typing stories, just meeting deadlines by minutes day after day, year after year, and pushing everyone she cared for right out of her life. It was all right there -- hiding in plain sight.

"What about you? You gonna work 'til you drop?"

"I've thought about quitting but I have no idea what I'd do. Guess I could teach somewhere."

"Where you from?"

"Portland. You?"

"Military brat. All over."

"Married? No. Wait. How many times?"

"Three."

She whistled: "Just didn't work out, huh?"

"The hours. You have to be around every now and then in order to have a relationship. Took me awhile to figure that out. Funny thing is, we're all still good friends. No alimony, none of that bullshit. Just friends. Like the marriage thing never happened."

"That's why I never remarried, I guess. No good reason to, really, because I was never ready to put my work in second place."

"Any regrets?" I asked. She was so easy to talk to, like an old friend.

"No, not really, not then, anyway. The prospect of growing old, alone? Well, that's not comfortable anymore."

"Perspectives change a little bit, don't they?"

She nodded. "If you retired tomorrow, what would you do?"

"Depends. If it was just me I'd take off, maybe just go wandering."

"Really? What, like on a motorcycle or something? A motorhome?"

I took a deep breath, wasn't sure I wanted to put so much about myself out there in the public domain. Then it just sort of slipped out: "I have a boat."

She went wide-eyed on me: "No shit!?"

"No shit."

"Powerboat?"

"Hell no, are you serious?"

"Good for you. Always thought that would be fun. Sea of Cortes, Baja..."

"Tahiti."

"Now you're talking. When do we go?"

We laughed at that one, but it was an uneasy, loaded laughter, like we were all of a sudden finding something in common and grasping to make something out of it. Maybe we were. Maybe we could...

My stomach growled.

"He hungry down there?" she said as she looked at my belly.

"Always. How 'bout you?"

"You know? I could eat."

"Follow me." We walked out and went over to the Ford, I opened the door for her then got in behind the wheel, drove the few blocks down Westlake. We walked down to the slips and I buzzed-in the gate, then I led her out to the boat.

"She's nice. How big?"

"Forty one."

"About right for two people."

"Yep." I unlocked the companionway, slid back the hatch and stowed the boards, went down and offered her my hand. She ignored it and hopped down with practiced ease.

"It's nice, Woody. Comfortable."

"Thanks. Eggs and bacon sound okay?"

"Maybe. How 'bout some juice or something..."

"Okay, comin' up." I poured a couple glasses, put them on the table.

"You don't have any tissue handy, do you?"

"Sure. Be right back." I went to the head, rummaged around for a fresh box and went back. She had some eye-drops out and her eyes were watering; I handed her the box.

"Thanks."

"No problem."

She took her juice and drank most of it. "Good stuff."

I took my glass and downed it. I thought it had a funny aftertaste -- kind of bitter.

She smiled at me now. "I don't really feel like bacon and eggs, Woody."

"Oh?"

"No, I had in mind something, well, firmer, something a little more satisfying..."

She was looking right at my groin and I swear she was licking her lips.

"Oh?"

"Come on," she said as she stood. "I'm going to fuck your brains out, Woody."

She came over, took my hand and pulled me up, led me forward. I felt a little light-headed, suddenly sleepy. She pulled me up to the berth and turned me around, pushed me gently and laughed as I fell back. I felt like I was spinning now, like the whole world was careening wildly out of control. She leaned over and unbuttoned my shirt, undid my belt, then she yanked down my pants. "Sit up," she commanded; I felt her tugging my pants all the way down, pulling my shoes off, pulling them over my ankles. I could hardly keep my eyes open now.

"Woody, push yourself up, to the head." It was hard, my arms and legs felt like hot lead, nothing worked right anymore. "Here, I'll help you..." I felt her arms under my shoulders, wanted to say something but couldn't. She fluffed-up some pillows, propped me up in a reclined position and I watched as she took off her clothes, folded them neatly and put them aside.

She opened her purse, took out a bottle and opened it, then she came over, opened my mouth, slipped a pill under my tongue. "I want you nice and hard, Woody. Real hard."

"What?" I think I managed to say.

"Don't try to talk, Woody."

"What?"

She had my handcuffs now and she came over and put them on me, clamped them down hard. I think I winced.

"Is that too tight, Woody? Hmm?"

"Why?"

"That's right... I heard you like it rough. You like it rough, don't you Woody?"

I felt cold fear in the air all around me. "Who?"

"Mary-Jo told me, Woody."

I blinked. I wasn't tired anymore, just... paralyzed. She had pantyhose in her hands now and she leaned over and tied my cuffed hands behind my head with them, then draped the moist crotch over my face. "Does that smell good, Woody? Do you like that?"

I could see her moving through the fabric; no details, really -- just her body moving slowly around the cabin. It was getting hard to swallow and I felt fear for the first time, wondered how it was going to feel to die, then I felt her leaning close, felt her hot breath on my cock, her tongue stroking it. It felt like a hot, wet glove had gripped me and I saw her shadowy head moving back and forth, up and down...

"Oh, Woody, you're getting so nice and hard."

"Glad... like... it..." I managed to say.

"Oh, Woody. I do, I do like it." She leaned forward and licked my lips through the fabric, stuck her tongue in my mouth and forced the nylon in with it. My left eye was clear now and I watched her as she leaned back down over my cock and took it in her mouth again. I tried to move my legs, felt some kind of rope around my ankles and gave up.

I was aware of the smell now, the smell of her pantyhose up against my nose, then I felt her get off the berth and walk to the rear of the boat. I turned my head, saw her talking with someone out there. There was someone with her, a man. It was too dark to see anything clearly but everything was becoming all too clear.

She came back a minute later and leaned over me, kissed my open eye as she reached down and stroked my cock. "You ready for me, Woody?"

"Ready?"

She straddled me, rubbed the head of my cock against her cunt. I felt the heat, the unbelievable wetness, felt her hand grab the head and guide it inside her, then she slid up and down a few times -- until I could feel my cock getting unnaturally hard. She slid off me, then up my body and I watched as she moved the nylon from my face and hovered over me.

"I'm going to mark you now, Woody. Mark you as mine..."

I felt hot liquid splash my face, smelled urine, tasted it as it ran down my face and across my mouth. She lowered herself onto my face and mashed her wetness all over me, pissed some more -- filling my mouth until it spilled down my chin and onto my chest -- then as quickly she lifted herself from my face and slid down onto my cock again.

"It's hard, Woody. So hard. I think you liked that. You ready to cum for me?"

I couldn't speak at all now but I saw her lean forward and take a cotton ball and moisten it with alcohol, then she wiped my arm, took out a syringe.

"It's not going to hurt, Woody, I promise."

She stuck the needle in, pushed the plunger down slowly and I felt a little warmth flooding through me.

I didn't feel too different at first, then the dizziness returned. My vision changed, everything looked cast in blues and purples, and I felt her hand around my cock. She was jerking it furiously now.

"Not much longer, Woody...not much more..."

I could see her holding a glass under the head of my cock, then felt an incredible orgasm wrenching through me, pulsing into the glass...

"Ooh, Woody! So much! And so soon, too!" She kept jerking it, mouthing her surprise as she looked first at the glass, then at me, then she held the glass up and looked admiringly at the pearlescent flow. She came up to me again, sat beside me so I could see her face clearly and she drank it down, licked the sides of the glass to get every bit of it, then she put the glass aside carefully and turned to me, kissed me. She forced her tongue into my mouth and painted broad strokes of cum across my face, dribbled a huge wad down onto my forehead, then licked it off and spit it down again, this time onto my lips.

She got up after that and the man came into the cabin. He had a mask on, and she stood beside him silently while he looked down at me.

"Did I do well, Master?"

He only nodded, but then he whispered in her ear.

"Yes, Master," she said after a moment. "I will obey you."

He handed her a knife.

She came up to my face again and looked at me, spoke gently, almost kindly: "My Master says I must tell you that this is a warning. A warning to stop, now."

She held the knife at my neck, I could feel the point just beneath my chin and she pressed gently.

"Will you stop now, Woody?"

The knife pressed it into my skin; I could feel my heart beating part the knife slid through skin -- into muscle.

"Yes."

"Do you swear it?"

The knife pressed deeper, I could feel my pulse hammering in my head...

"I... swear..."

She turned, looked up at the masked man. He nodded and she withdrew the knife, then he turned and left the cabin.

She leaned into me, kissed me again -- this time gently.