Prentiss parked his car in back of the big house, ran around to Mistress Aneksi’s door to open it for her and obediently stood by while she got out of the vehicle. She reached in her large leather bag, removed a full face white mask and silently handed it to Prentiss who promptly put it on while following her toward the home’s back door. Just before reaching the door, she pulled another mask from her bag, this one a half-mask with decorative feathers and put it on herself.
Prentiss followed her down a set of carpeted stairs to the building’s basement. The door they passed through at the bottom of the stairs closed behind them indicating the show was about to begin.
The room had a twelve-foot high ceiling, was sound-proofed and laid out like a small amphitheatre. There were twenty-seven plush, cloth covered chairs that were set up on three semi-circular levels, nine chairs per level. Each chair was situated so that everyone in attendance had a completely unobstructed view of the fifteen by twenty-foot stage built onto the floor directly in front of the seating area. The entrance to the stage was to its right from which the evening’s “entertainment” would appear.
Mistress Aneksi looked over the crowd in the dimly lit theater while Prentiss stood obediently behind her. There were about twenty people in attendance. A few were male-female couples, several male-male and female-female couples and a smattering of single men. One of the men was sitting by himself at the end of the second tier in the chair closest to the door. Mistress Aneksi stepped over to him, stood above him, glared down at him and after ten seconds, the man mumbled an apology, stood up and scurried to the other side of the room. She sat down in the second seat in from the aisle and pointed to the aisle seat indicating Prentiss could take it.
A few minutes later the theater lights went out, replaced by several lights strategically located above the stage to give the audience a well-lit view. A very attractive woman, probably in her early thirties, appeared from backstage wearing a very revealing dominatrix, black-fetish, lingerie costume bodysuit. Like all of the guests, she was also wearing a mask similar to the one Mistress Aneksi had put on.
She introduced herself as Lady Lucille and she would be the Mistress of Ceremonies for the evening. She welcomed everyone to the festivities, gave a brief run-down of the acts to follow, and snapped the whip she held in her right hand with a sharp crack that signaled the show was to begin.
For the next two hours Mistress Aneksi, Prentiss and the other spectators were entertained, if any normal person could use that word, by some of the most depraved spectacles imaginable. And there was nothing fake or phony about it. Women whipping men while the man crawled around the stage on all fours seemed to be the main attraction, but there were plenty of other depravities as well. They watched the first hour and a half or so then Prentiss began to fidget in his seat.
“I’m bored,” he whispered to his date. “You know what I want to see.”
“You’ll see it soon enough,” she whispered back lightly patting him on the knee. “Besides, it’s good for you to watch what you have coming later.”
At that moment, there was a break in the entertainment. A man dressed only in a leather hood and thong bikini underwear came out on stage with a large garden hose and used it to spray off the blood that was on the floor. When he finished, he went backstage with the hose and a minute later came back with Lady Lucille and a young oriental girl. The girl could not have been much older than sixteen. Her hands were bound with rope in front of her and her mouth had a ball gag in it strapped to her head. Her eyes were glassed over and she stood lethargically giving her the appearance of someone who had been drugged.
Prentiss began stirring in his seat as soon as the girl had been brought out. He sat up straight, leaned forward and quietly said, “Now, this is more like it.”
A hook was lowered from the ceiling and while Lady Lucille stood to the side watching, the unidentified man lifted the girl up and attached the ropes that bound her hands to the hook. It then receded back up into the ceiling until the girl’s feet were approximately eighteen inches off the floor. The man then reached up and ripped her clothing off her body leaving her completely naked.
For the next fifteen minutes, the man and woman took turns whipping the poor girl. At first they used soft cloth whips and swung with minimal force. They struck her across the back, butt and legs while she twirled around clearly in discomfort. Before long, each of her tormentors took a single-strand soft leather whip exerting a little more force. There was a stirring in the crowd as this continued. Clearly this was the main event of the evening and the attendees were trying to savor every moment of it.
After the first two strokes with the leather whips, the girl began to writhe and twirl faster and was obviously trying to scream. Despite the drugs she had been given, the pain was getting worse and after just two or three more strokes, her skin was broken and blood began to flow. She received another half dozen shots to her bloody back then the girl made one more pronounced movement, tried one last time to scream through her gag, arched her back as her eyes rolled up into her head and her body went limp, her chin resting on her upper chest.
While several members of the audience began to applaud, Mistress Aneksi grabbed Prentiss by the elbow, stood up and whispered to him to get up, get moving and get out. The two of them quickly went through the door, up the stairs and out to Prentiss’ Lincoln.
“What happened? Why are we leaving? It was just getting good,” Prentiss asked.
“Shut up and get in the car, you fool. We have to get the hell out of here now. And take your mask off.”
She got in the backseat and he drove her home without a word passing between them. When they reached her house, she didn’t wait for him. Instead, she began to open her door as soon as the car stopped.
“I want to come in,” he pleaded. “You said it yourself. I’ve been bad and need some discipline.”
“Go home, Gordon,” she answered as patiently as she could. “Just shut your mouth, go home and act like nothing happened. We weren’t there tonight. Do you understand?” she said forcefully commanding him.
“Yes, I understand,” he replied even though he didn’t.
“Good. Now go home,” she said slamming his door and walking toward her house.
Two days later, Prentiss read a small story on page one of the Metro section of the paper. It was a short report of a group of kids hiking in the woods in a remote section of Dakota County, south of St. Paul. They had discovered the naked, badly beaten body of an oriental, teenage girl. Authorities believe she was a young girl whose parents had reported her missing three days before. It was only then that it finally dawned on Judge Gordon Prentiss what he had witnessed and how lucky he was to have gotten away when he did.
FORTY-TWO
Teeing off from the white markers on the par five, fourth hole at Phalen Golf Course, the Governor of Minnesota, Ted Dahlstrom, hit his best drive of the day, two hundred and forty plus yards straight down the middle of the fairway. It was a beautiful, sunny day, low humidity, plentiful sunshine and the governor had sneaked out with three good friends for a pleasant afternoon.
Since the brutal murder of his daughter at the hands of a serial killer the previous year, few things had given him much joy. Grief counseling had helped somewhat. Running a state government and being the head of a major political party kept him busy and helped take his mind off of the tragedy. He was finding out what most parents who lost a child had learned. The passage of time brings a bit of relief, but there would always be a hole in his heart for his daughter.
The governor and the other members of his foursome, all having teed off, got into their carts and headed down the fairway to find their golf balls. Following them in their own cart were two members of the governor’s security detail, Phil Monson and Ron Harlan.
The two men guarding the governor were dressed as casual as the golfers except for the .40 caliber handguns and communication equipment they carried. Both of them were members of the state highway patrol s
pecially selected for this duty.
The governor’s cart was being driven by the only African American member of the group, the head of the Minnesota Republican Party, Paul Thatch. The other cart carried the Minnesota Senate minority leader, Cal Renner and the Chief Judge of the Hennepin County District Court, Harold Jennrich. All four men were good friends and long time Republicans.
Thatch and Governor Dahlstrom stopped their cart in the fairway where Jennrich’s ball had gone into the rough. While waiting for the judge to find his ball and play it, the two men quietly chatted about the weather, how badly the Twins were doing and what a nice drive Dahlstrom had made. The one rule the men had and tried to abide by was no politics on the golf course. They wanted to make it one of the few places they could get together and not talk shop.
Jennrich found his ball just as Phil Monson, the security man driving the follow cart, pulled up alongside the governor.
“Sorry, sir, it’s Laurie Anderson,” he said referring to the governor’s chief of staff as he held out a phone to him. “She says it’s extremely important.”
Dahlstrom took the phone, got out of the cart and walked thirty feet farther onto the fairway so as not to disturb Jennrich. He put the phone to his ear and quietly said, “Yes, Laurie, what is it?”
“You’re not going to believe this, sir, but we just got word that Alan Maslin is dead.”
“Are you serious?” Dahlstrom asked as he turned and waved at Thatch for him to join the governor. “Has this been confirmed?” he said as Thatch approached him with a puzzled look on his face.
“Yes, governor. It’s all over the news. CNN, Fox, CBS, all of them are reporting it.”
“What?” Thatch silently mouthed the word when he got next to Dahlstrom.
The governor removed the phone from his ear and said, “Alan Maslin is dead.”
“No shit! How, when, what?”
“Who are you talking to?” Laurie asked.
“Paul Thatch,” Dahlstrom replied.
“Oh good, I was hoping he was with you. He was going to be my next call. You’re going to love this. They are reporting an apparent heart attack and Fox is reporting, and they’re the only ones who are saying this so far, that he died in bed with another man.”
“No! C’mon, what? You’re not serious,” Dahlstrom said.
“That’s what Fox is reporting. Of course, none of the others are saying it. But if it’s true, sooner or later they will have it too.”
“He’s a married man! He has kids!”
“What?” Thatch asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.
“What’s going on?” Cal Renner asked when he and Jennrich pulled their cart up to the other two golfers.
“And the best part is…”Laurie began.
“There’s more?” Dahlstrom asked.
“Oh, yeah. The Senator’s alleged lover is a guy named Keith Farrell. He’s a lobbyist with Citizens for the Second Amendment. It’s a gun rights advocacy group.”
“This just keeps getting better,” Dahlstrom said shaking his head, the phone to his ear as his three companions, in unison, all said “What?”
“The press is going to want a statement,” Laurie said.
“Yeah, well, for now just give them the usual bullshit blather about our thoughts and prayers go out to his family. You know the drill. Tell them we’ll have more later.”
“They’ll want to know about selecting a replacement.”
“Just tell them it’s too early and that I haven’t had time to even think about it.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll take care of it.”
Dahlstrom shut off the phone, looked back at the tee box and when he saw no one waiting for them, turned to his three friends. He told them what he just learned and waited for a response.
“The limousine liberal, socialist senator from show-biz is dead. That’s a start,” Renner said. “The one who practically weeps if he is in front of a TV camera and someone uses the words ‘gun’ or ‘Second Amendment’, has a heart attack while in the sack with a gay gun rights lobbyist. It can’t get better than that.”
“Show a little respect, Cal. The man was a U.S. Senator and he has died. Let’s not dance on his grave,” Dahlstrom politely admonished him.
“Looks like we have a senate seat that we’ll win this fall,” Thatch said.
“What about that, Ted?” Harold Jennrich asked. “Are you going to appoint someone to fill out his term?”
“Yes, I think I will,” the governor answered. “They have some important votes coming up this fall and we should have representation.”
“Anyone in mind?” Renner asked thinking primarily of himself.
“Not you, Cal. I need you right where you are, not spending six months in Washington and then be out of a job.”
“What about our candidate, Monica Dorn?” Renner asked.
“No, I don’t think so. She’s practically a shoe-in to win unless they pick the grieving widow to run in Maslin’s place.”
“I don’t see that happening,” Thatch replied. “She’s about to have a shit storm of shame and embarrassment come down on her. Besides, have you ever met her? She’s a decent enough person, but Dorn would eat her for lunch in a debate and do it without getting her any sympathy.”
“Who else?” asked Jennrich.
“Don’t know,” Dahlstrom replied. “I’ll have to think about it.”
“It has to be someone willing to go to Washington, vote the way he’s told and be willing to step aside in January,” Thatch said.
“I know, Paul,” the governor agreed. “Think about it and let me know if you have any suggestions.”
The four men continued their golf game but with the news of Minnesota’s junior senator’s surprise death, none of them were really concentrating on their game. Plus, the “no politics on the golf course” rule was not holding up. When they reached the seventeenth tee Jennrich stepped up to Dahlstrom while Renner was teeing up his ball.
“I have a suggestion,” the judge quietly said, which caught the attention of the state’s GOP chairman who turned to listen. “I know someone who would be perfect for us and we could kill two birds with one stone.”
“Okay, I’m listening,” Dahlstrom said.
“You remember Gordon Prentiss? The judge who handled the serial killer case last year? He’d jump at the chance.”
“Go on, Harold,” a skeptical Dahlstrom said. “Convince me.”
“He’s arrogant and ambitious enough to think this could be a stepping stone to greater things. He’s always acted as if being a state district court judge was somehow beneath him. And he’s a born conservative Republican. He wouldn’t go to the john without getting permission.”
“What do you think, Paul?”
“I’ve heard crazier things. Why do you want this, Harold?”
“Because the man is a horseshit judge and a gigantic pain-in-the-ass. Even the prosecutors are starting to complain about him,” the judge admitted.
“And I owe you one,” Dahlstrom said as he patted the judge on the shoulder.
“I wasn’t going to bring it up…”
“I know you wouldn’t. Let me think about it.”
Laurie Anderson knocked softly on the door of the governor’s office and without waiting for a response opened it and stepped aside for their visitor and followed Paul Thatch inside. Dahlstrom was seated at his desk leaning back in his chair with his feet on the desktop. He had his phone to his ear, with a bored look on his face as he listened. Seeing him on the phone, his visitor hesitated as Laurie closed the door behind them.
Dahlstrom silently waved the two of them to come forward as he said, “Thank you for your input senator. I certainly appreciate your position and will give it careful thought before I do anything.”
He continued listening for another twenty seconds before politely saying goodbye. As he set the phone in its cradle, he looked at the phone and said, “Kiss my ass you crotchety old bastard.”
Laurie and Pa
ul Thatch both laughed as Thatch asked, “Who was that?”
“Senator Harry Opperman, the Dems leader in the senate.”
“You mean the talking cadaver?” Thatch replied, “The man looks like he should be lying on a slab at a university somewhere waiting to be the next medical school project. What did he want?”
“He’s trying to get me to pick a Democrat to replace Maslin. I also got a call from the president this morning wanting the same thing and the minority leader in the house.”
“That woman gives me the creeps,” Laurie said. “I swear she sleeps hanging upside down from the rafters.”
“Now, now, Laurie,” Dahlstrom falsely admonished her. “She and her pals never say anything bad about conservative women.”
“What did the president have to say?” Thatch asked.
“Pretty much what everyone else wants to talk to me about. He’s trying to keep the seat in Democratic hands as long as possible. We had a polite conversation during which I committed to nothing. Have you heard anything from the state Democrats about who they’re going to run in Maslin’s place?” Dahlstrom asked Thatch.
“Not so far. I talked to Mark Poling, Maslin’s campaign manager, he said he’d let me know as soon as they decided something. I also called Claire Archer the chair of the state Democratic party…”
“Sure, I know Claire. Nice lady. Smart. Wish we could get her to switch teams,” Dahlstrom said.
“Yeah, I like her too. We had a nice chat. She said the liberals are more pissed off that the guy was in bed with a gun rights lobbyist than the fact that Maslin was a married man having a gay affair.”
“Have you heard from the RNC and Dorn’s campaign?” Thatch asked.
“Yeah, both. I talked to Monica and told her I would not appoint her and she agreed that would look terrible. The RNC just wants someone who will do what he’s told. Occupy the chair and vote the way the leadership wants.”
Marc Kadella Legal Mysteries Vol 1-6 (Marc Kadella Series) Page 68
