The Ties That Bind

by Warren Adler

  "Just another body count in the murder capital of the U.S. of A.," Fiona sighed, mimicking the Eggplant.

  As they studied the various reports involving the girl, the sound of shouting exploded in the Eggplant's office. The door was closed, but it did not deter them from hearing what was going on.

  "This is defamation pure and simple," a man's voice said. Fiona had not heard the voice before. "I intend to press for your resignation. And I fully intend to pursue the matter in the courts."

  "That is your right," the Eggplant said, not as loudly as the other man, but loud enough to be heard.

  "It's more than my right. It's my duty to my son's memory. You have no right to make the charge that my son caused that girl's death."

  "I didn't," the Eggplant replied. "I simply answered the reporter's question."

  "And who put the question in the reporter's head?"

  "Not me. I stay as far away from the media as I can, especially the Washington Post."

  "I don't believe you," the other voice shouted. "You people love to see your names in the paper. But I resent it. You have no right. I'll see you in hell, Captain."

  At that moment the telephone rang on Fiona's desk. Without picking it up, she knew who it was.

  "You and Prentiss," the Eggplant growled. "Get your asses in here."

  Fiona and Prentiss exchanged glances and hurried to the Eggplant's office. They found him in a state of barely repressed anger. Sitting on a chair in front of his desk was a man in a rumpled suit who looked deeply disturbed. There were dark bags under his eyes and he needed a shave.

  "This is Dr. Barker, the father of Phelps Barker. This is Sergeant FitzGerald and Officer Prentiss, the detectives in charge of the Herbert case."

  "You people ought to be cashiered out of the police force," Dr. Barker said, his flush deepening. Fiona looked toward the Eggplant, who slid a copy of the Washington Post across his desk. A small story in the Metro section was outlined in red pencil.

  "You see that?" the Eggplant asked Fiona.

  "No," she said, picking up the paper, holding it out so that Gail could also read it.

  MURDER SUSPECT A SUICIDE

  "Phelps Barker, 23, a lawyer for the Justice Department's Civil Rights Division, who was found shot to death in his apartment Wednesday night, has been officially declared a suicide, according to Homicide Chief, Luther Greene.

  Barker had been a suspect in the death of Phyla Herbert, 22, whose body was found in the Mayflower Hotel last week. Miss Herbert had been brutally assaulted, although death was attributed to an asthma attack brought on by the trauma.

  Captain Greene announced that no other suspects had been questioned nor has any further evidence been uncovered other than the fact that Barker's fingerprints were found in the woman's room. Barker had been questioned and released pending further police investigation. Captain Greene declared the case closed."

  "They called me," the Eggplant said. "I merely responded."

  "That's your story," Dr. Barker said, his voice raised again. "The fact is that my son's name is besmirched. My son was never charged." He turned toward Fiona. "Can you say unequivocably that he caused Phyla Herbert's death?'

  Fiona looked toward the Eggplant, who nodded, implying that she was to tell the man the truth.

  "We did not charge him," Fiona said.

  "That wasn't my question," Dr. Barker pressed.

  "His fingerprints were found in the room," Fiona said. "We questioned him about that. We also were able to find some unsavory things in his background."

  "Does that constitute guilt?"

  "I repeat. We didn't charge him."

  "No, you didn't. Instead, you convicted him in the media."

  "I was not responsible for that," the Eggplant interjected. "I merely stated that no other evidence had surfaced. I didn't write the story. Nor did I initiate it. We never do in this department. The media can never be trusted to accurately report the facts."

  "In addition to the suit I am contemplating and the call for your resignation, I fully intend to demand a retraction from the Post."

  "Look, Dr. Barker," the Eggplant said. "I sympathize with you and I understand your anger. But your accusations are off the mark. Nor can we be responsible for your son's suicide. We regret it. Believe me, we do. Your son was obviously a very fragile young man."

  "Fragile? He was an up-and-comer, my boy was. You people probably harassed him to death." He looked toward Fiona and Gail. "Didn't you?"

  Fiona went over the events in her mind. Most interrogations of suspects could be classified as harassment. Yet, she could empathize with Dr. Barker's anger. The fact was that he had a right to be upset. Without question, the Post story could be interpreted as having declared Phelps Barker guilty.

  "We did our job," Gail interjected. "I'm terribly sorry about your son, Doctor. I truly am. But the truth is that we cannot be responsible for how the media reports. It is often distorted."

  "I warn you all," Dr. Barker said, standing up. "I will not be deterred."

  He looked from one face to other, the pain and agony apparent in his eyes. Fiona's heart went out to him. No, they had not charged him, she thought, because he was innocent. Knowing that, it would be impossible to push this out of her mind, no matter how hard she tried.

  When he had gone, the Eggplant slumped in his chair and stuffed a panatela in his mouth.

  "Can't win," he sighed.

  "He's in a terrible emotional state," Fiona said. "He'll calm down."

  "Maybe. But he has a point. The irony is that just before he arrived, the mayor called me about the Post story. "Good PR," she said. He shook his head. "PR. What a crock."

  Later, in the car, as they drove in silence to interview relatives of the dead black girl, Fiona acknowledged that she could not let the matter rest.

  "I don't know if I can live with it, Gail," she said.

  "With what?"

  "Knowing that we are sweeping it under the rug."

  "In the light of morning are you still convinced about Lipscomb?" Gail asked. Fiona's long silence was answer enough. After last night, she was no longer sure and she said so.

  "Now there's a turnaround," Gail frowned. Yesterday, she, too, had been convinced of Farley's guilt.

  "Not a full turn," Fiona admitted after another long silence. Fiona realized that she could not keep the events of last night inside of herself. Pulling the car to the curb, she shut off the ignition, and, turning to Gail, told her the story of Farley's visit the night before.

  "Denied it over and over again," Fiona said. "Then I did this B and D number and he locked right into it. It was weird. Like something clicked in his head. I could have made him do anything, anything at all."

  "Why didn't you get him to confess."

  "I'm not sure. Maybe I was afraid that if I got too close to that, he would buck. Then I got disgusted with the whole process. It sickened me and I couldn't wait to get rid of him."

  "It's beyond my understanding, Fiona," Gail said.

  "Not mine. I wish you were there. It would have been a real eye opener."

  "I'm sorry I wasn't."

  It was at that moment that a startling new idea flashed into Fiona's mind.

  "You can be, Gail."

  "I can?"

  Fiona explained her idea.

  "Are you serious?" Gail asked.

  "You'd be perfect," Fiona said, looking at her. "And if it works, it's probably the only way we'll ever know for sure." Their eyes met.

  "I don't know if I can handle it, Fiona. To tell you the truth, the idea of it is pretty repulsive."

  "Think of it as a game," Fiona said.

  "It's sick, Fiona. I have enough problems with sex as it is."

  "That's another thing, Gail. It's not just about sex. I know this sounds weird to you, but from what I've read, it's only fantasy, creating another time and space. The point is that in a disciplined state people are the most vulnerable and that's the way they want to feel, like a little kid aga
in being told what to do by their parents."

  "Why not you, Fiona?"

  "If I thought it would work, Gail, I'd do it in a minute. But we've got history and the bond of trust might break at a crucial moment."

  "So why me?" Gail asked.

  "In the first place, you're a stranger to him. He could build a fantasy around you..." she hesitated.

  "And in the second?"

  "You're now going to think I've lost it." Fiona shook her head and smiled. "Look at yourself. You'd be the most mesmerizing dominatrix in the history of B and D."

  Gail threw her head back and howled with laughter.

  "Protect me, Jesus," she cried.

  "Your call, Gail," Fiona said, waiting for her to settle down, which she did finally. "But if you do agree, remember this is strictly against the Eggplant's order and might backfire. We could be in real trouble. Both of us."

  "Do you think your judge might respond ... I mean to me?" Gail asked after a long pause.

  "I'd say that would depend on the quality of your performance."

  Fiona could see Gail was continuing to wrestle with the idea.

  "You said it was all theater." It was a kind of half-question.

  "Yes, it is," Fiona replied. "With props."

  "Props?" Gail asked. "What kind of props?"

  "I'll show you. There's a place in Georgetown, a sex shop."

  Fiona had seen it but had never had the courage to go in.

  "I don't know if I'm a good enough actress," Gail said. Fiona could see she was waffling.

  "You're halfway home, Gail. You've got the look."

  Gail smiled thinly and shrugged her consent.

  "Who knows ... I may get to like it," she said, laughing.

  Fiona reversed the car, did a U-turn and pointed the car toward Georgetown. In less than fifteen minutes they were in front of the shop.

  "I've never been in any of these places before," Gail said.

  "Neither have I."

  Fiona's first conscious reaction was that she did not know how to act. There were books and magazines and strange devices, mechanical dildos in every form imaginable, plastic penises, even larger dolls with grotesque simulated female parts, and a huge display of condoms, potions and other elixirs designed to, according to the labels on these items, enhance sexual pleasure.

  At first glance it seemed like a store selling magic tricks and equipment for the practical joker.

  "Kind of demystifies sex," Gail whispered.

  "Maybe that's a good thing," Fiona responded. "Could be we take it all too seriously."

  Contrary to expectations, the shop did not seem seedy and the wares displayed appeared more like strange toys than items created to aid sex practices. A lady clerk, attractively groomed, approached them with a smile. She could have been selling shoes, perfume or any other common upscale item.

  "Anything special I can help you with, ladies?" the woman asked.

  "We're not sure," Fiona said.

  The woman eyed them curiously.

  "Dildos? We have a wonderful collection. They've come out with some marvelous devices." She waved a hand in the direction of the dildo display. "All colors, sizes and patterns. Note how lifelike they are."

  "Well, actually..." Gail hesitated, looking at Fiona.

  "Bondage stuff," Fiona said, barely getting out the words.

  "You've come to the right place," the woman said. "We have that collection in a special room downstairs. Would you care to follow me?" The woman stopped by the counter and picked up the phone. "Paul. I'm taking a customer down to S and M. Would you cover for me?"

  The woman led them to a staircase, talking as she walked. Her voice was chirpy, and her attitude upbeat. There was an air of the absurd about the scene.

  "We have items for all the S and M choices here," the woman said cheerily. "For every taste." Then, as they continued to descend the stairs, she offered a verbal preview of what they were about to be shown.

  "Everything is categorized. What we don't have, we can order. Actually, we have a catalogue business as well, but we display much of the material here. Whether your pleasure is whipping, piercing, cutting, hanging, electric shocking, rack stretching, imprisonment, altered consciousness, mummification, tickling, stomping, we have it all. You did say B and D ... We have rope, twine, cotton thread, wire, leather, cloth, chains, nylon stockings, handcuffs, steel shackles, rubber tubing ... what else ... oh yes, straitjackets and we have the harness for the pony game. Here we are."

  The room was simulated as a castle dungeon with a number of what could be described as infernal torture machines, including the replica of an iron maiden. She led them to a wall of items displayed under the heading "whipping." There were numerous whips and paddles of every variety, canes, switches, leather straps, chains, knouts, belts and riding crops.

  "Unbelievable," Fiona whispered under her breath.

  "Weird," Gail said in a whispered response.

  The woman turned to them.

  "May I ask if you're serious practitioners or beginners." Her eyes shifted from face to face.

  "A little experience," Fiona acknowledged. The woman nodded her understanding.

  "Tops or bottoms?" the woman asked, her eyes studying Gail. "What a magnificent mistress you must make."

  Gail shot a glance of skepticism at Fiona.

  "There's money in it, you know," the woman said. "A cottage industry, actually. A good dominatrix can make an excellent living. Many people participate as a form of therapy."

  Fiona was tempted to ask the woman what her preference was, but she held off. It did occur to her that the company mailing list would offer a valuable cornucopia for the media.

  "In fact," the woman said, "everything in this store is therapeutic. A shame we have all these silly taboos. The body is a wonderful pleasure machine."

  "Beats smoking," Fiona cracked, unable to resist.

  "Exactly," the woman said. "You can't get cancer from B and D."

  Fiona looked over the display. Farley had taught her how to put him through his paces. It's only a game, she told herself. People into this practice lived only with the illusion of danger, the excitement of believing they were on the edge. Farley had taken it a step beyond. He had crossed the thin line between virtual and actual reality.

  Gail inspected the various items, handling many of them, some of which were demonstrated by the clerk. They both watched as she took a bunched leather strap from its display and cracked it against the wall.

  "The quality of the noise is part of it," she said. Then she remove one of the paddles. "Preferences are individual, of course. But we have one of the best selections in America. We are the capital of the nation, after all, why not be the B and D capital as well?" She giggled at her little joke.

  "Oh, yes," she said, leading them to a glass-enclosed display. "We have all the costumes. I presume you're interested in leather."

  "How could you tell?" Gail said with a touch of sarcasm. "Do they say me?"

  "Very much so," the woman said seriously.

  "I'm assuming that all these items are legal?" Fiona asked. She knew the remark was facetious, but she was already projecting the legal aspect of what they were planning, wondering if there was any precedent for such an action.

  "Completely legal," the woman replied, with a touch of indignation. "We have been harassed, of course. Fortunately, the Constitution is on our side. There is an irony in the issue. We do not, for example, sell weapons of destruction, like guns." She looked at Fiona sternly. "And our materials are made for use in private homes by consenting adults. What people do with these items is their own business."

  "I hadn't meant to offend," Fiona said, but she could tell that the woman was wound up and she made way for her to continue. "We are talking about human sexuality. Freud, you must know, was one of the first to explain the deeper meaning of these impulses. They are perfectly natural. Many say, comforting. We don't invent these things. And we wouldn't be selling them if there wasn't a m
arket. How do you propose we show our wares? In some sleazy clandestine environment? This is not a sleazy business. We do not dispense evil here. Harm is evil. And our products are not meant to harm. You cannot imagine how many successful people buy our wares and practice B and D. There are lots of powerful men, for example, who love being submissive. It comforts them to suspend all control over others. In the top category, we have quite a few female customers, women who need to exercise the kind of power they do not regularly have over their own lives. I personally happen to be very enthusiastic about the practice. I like it both ways, top and bottom."

  It was a long speech, an advocacy. It struck Fiona as eons away from Farley's resort to hurtful and dangerous excess. She had noted a product called an anal vibrator on display. It looked benign in size compared to the one that Farley had used on Phyla and her. There was one item that had them puzzled. Made of leather, it was labeled a cock lock.

  "That encloses the erect penis and locks it in place," the clerk said.

  "My God," Fiona commented.

  "Actually, it's for the most advanced mistresses. It is rather a formidable item."

  She moved around the room describing some of the other items, stopping by a glass case displaying silk stockings and leather lingerie that seemed to be constructed to exaggerate the buttocks and push up the breasts. There were also black lace panties and bras and shoes with five-inch heels.

  "For stomping," the woman said, pointing to the shoes.

  Fiona and Gail exchanged glances and shrugged.

  The clerk continued her tour, stopping at a makeup counter with various vials and lipsticks displayed under glass.

  "Mistresses' colors are normally cherry red and black," she said, again studying Gail. "I can make you look marvelous."

  "How does one learn to be a good ... mistress?" Gail asked. In the context of the environment, the question seemed logical and matter-of-fact. Fiona was amazed how quickly they had reached a level of "normality." There seemed a kind of "new age" spirit about the shop.