The Ties That Bind (23 page)

"I knew I could trust the old Fiona," he said.
"I hope I have earned your forgiveness."

She did not know how to respond. She felt disoriented and
upset with herself. Walking toward the door, he turned again. She had followed
him partially, then stood rooted in the hallway.

"On the other matter, Fiona. I am totally
innocent," he said, holding the knob of the opened door.

"I doubt that, Farley," she said.
"Unfortunately, the case is closed."

He nodded without offering any verbal response, then let
himself out of the house. She rushed forward and locked the door behind him,
hoping he would never return.

A dozen times after he had left, Fiona wanted to call Gail.
But revulsion was too strong and she did wish to relive the events of the
evening. She felt herself on the razor's edge between compassion and hatred. It
was time, she decided, to step back, leave it alone. Farley's infestation of
demons was punishment enough. Wasn't it?

What she could not deny, however, was that Farley had,
using his powers of manipulation, made her vacillate in her certainty that it
was he who had brought about Phyla Herbert's death. Had this certainty become
an obsession, crowding out all logic, all reality? Must she be doomed to
forever rehash it her mind, looking for clues of doubt to explode the
obsession?

By morning she was physically and emotionally exhausted,
although in the light of day, a sparkling sunny morning, she was able to push
the matter aside and pull herself together. She had every intention of throwing
herself into this new case. It was time, she decided, to put the matter of
Farley Lipscomb away.

Meeting Gail in the squad room, they began to go over the
paperwork involving the young black woman. Dr. Benson's report indicated that
large traces of cocaine had been found in her body.

"Drug-related," Fiona groaned. These were the
toughest cases, largely because they involved drug lords and gangs. This was
their method of advertising the fate in store for nonpayment or territorial
usurpation. She and Gail could look forward to long, fruitless interviews
leading nowhere. The chances of closing a case like this were small.

"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.

"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 again 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."