Syrah and Swingers

by Sandra Woffington

  “I’ll bet she’s seen it all,” said Joy.

  “If you mean lust—don’t go there. You’re talking about my grandma—my adopted grandma.”

  “Max, I hate to break it to you, but people of all ages have sex.”

  “Hey, I have worked up my appetite over here. Don’t blow it.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about, Max. Appetites. They’re not just about food.”

  “Right now, that’s the only one on my list.”

  “We need to find you a girlfriend.”

  Their waitress stepped up. She grinned, indicating that she had heard the comment. She smiled as she set down their plates of food. “Can I get you anything else?”

  “A new partner,” said Max. “But I’ll settle for catsup and some peace and quiet while I eat.”

  Joy made the sign of zipping her lips and she gave the waitress a thumbs-up. She kept up the charade of pointing to her food and then licking her lips and rubbing her belly.

  “How is it possible you can be even more annoying when you don’t talk?”

  Joy shrugged her shoulders.

  15

  Mark lived in a cookie-cutter tract home. When Max knocked on the door, an older man answered. Max flashed his credentials. “We’re here to see Mark.”

  “I’m Mark’s father. Is there a problem?”

  Before Max could answer, Mark rushed up behind his father. “Sorry, Dad, I forgot to tell you. I witnessed a car crash. Pretty bad one. I’ll just be a minute.” He slipped out the door and nudged Max and Joy to the sidewalk. Max spotted Mark’s father peering out the window.

  “That was fast thinking,” said Joy. “Think he’ll buy it?”

  “I hope so. So far, I’m his nerd-boy who understands algorithms better than people. Did Ted overdose?”

  “We don’t know yet,” said Max. “How did you end up in this group?”

  Mark ran a hand through his hair. “Well, it started as a research project for school.”

  “Research?” asked Joy. “Care to explain?”

  “Not really, but I don’t think I have a choice. You know how colleges make you take crap courses you need for your degree. I’d be happy with nothing but computer or engineering courses—those make sense. But I needed a class to satisfy my sociology requirement. I picked the one titled ‘Definitions of Normality,’ which sounded pretty cool. We’ve covered everything from masturbation to fetish.”

  Max shook his head. “California schools have changed a lot since I went—and it wasn’t that long ago.”

  “Hey, I totally agree. It’s total bullshit, and the professors who teach this crap think they’re so cool and we should all think like they do. And you can’t disagree with them either—people don’t even try to complain anymore. There are plenty of ways to think outside the box without diving off the edge of the Earth into fantasyland. Just my opinion, and you’re welcome to disagree.”

  “How did the class lead you to swinging?”

  “Like I said, I needed a subject for the final essay, and we had talked about swinging in class, the idea of pushing socially perceived sexual delineations of acceptable behavior to the limits, where people openly engaged with multiple partners. And I thought it would be a cool research topic. I asked around and people told me about personal ads—like I didn’t know people advertised for sexual hookups. Did you?”

  Max and Joy nodded.

  Mark said, “That’s terrifying, but I also found that swingers parties did not accept singles—you have to have a partner. I put an ad in the paper. ‘SWM wants SWF for party pleasures.’ A few single-white-females answered the ad. One girl had been to Elwin’s and Sophia’s before, and she told me I should contact them. Mary answered the ad too, which blew me away, because—you saw her—she’s like as wholesome as girls come.”

  “And you?”

  Mark crossed his arms over his chest. “Hey, look at me. I’m no stud. Not even close. High school was pure disaster. I lived my life outside of school playing video games with my geeky friends. But Mary and I really hit it off. We had sex at her place and wow! We both wanted more. I get the hype. Mary wanted to experiment, and she was cool with my research project, at first.”

  “At first?” asked Max.

  “When we went to our first party, Elwin and Sophia pulled us under their wing. They told us not to do anything we didn’t want to do. The people were…”

  “Human,” said Joy.

  “Yeah, and refreshingly nice. Everyone made us feel comfortable. No one got drunk. It wasn’t an orgy or anything. They used safe sex, and we just watched the first time. We didn’t know you could do that. Well, of course not, we didn’t know anything. Besides, what I really liked was that they saw me for me. The women treated me like a virile male—not a bully-toy or someone unworthy of sexual encounters.”

  “How many parties have you been to?”

  “Three. The first time, we just watched. The next time, we exchanged with Ted and Nicole. But Ted slapped Mary. I called it quits. I yanked him off of her and socked him in the face. Nicole ran out of the room and grabbed Elwin, and he pulled Ted aside. Should have banned him, because after that, no one wanted to be with him. I don’t know why Tony wanted him for Christie. I don’t think he knew.”

  “And your report?” asked Joy.

  Mark stood an inch taller. “I shifted my focus. I elucidated the acceptable and unacceptable norms for current pedagogical subjects within my educational institution and correlated that with the acceptable and unacceptable norms of free speech when a student attempts to refute the cognitive and social benefit provided to students who study these extreme pedagogical offerings.”

  Max’s brows furrowed in an attempt to make sense of what Mark had just said.

  “Ouch,” said Joy. “You totally slammed the class and eruditely too. If the teacher applauded free speech, and I surmise you had healthy research of your topic in your paper, you would have earned an A—I’m guessing you’re close to a straight A student. If the teacher did not approve of your challenge to the merits of the class, but he or she did not want to appear to be punishing you, you’d earn a B. And you’d get a C from a bully who wanted to punish you for challenging his or her norm.”

  “B minus. I am a straight A student, but that class actually—pun intended—gave me a set of balls, and now, I know how to use them too.” Mark winked. “In more ways than one.”

  “Ironic,” said Joy. “A stupid class that made you think.”

  “Ah, but the intention of the class was to push extreme ideology—but by doing so, it forced me to either keep silent or rebel. You’ve no idea how many students keep their mouths shut in fear of grades.”

  “Actually, I do,” said Max. “And sometimes, it’s a teacher, and sometimes, it’s a boss who’s out to get you.”

  “Tell us about Mary,” said Joy.

  Mark glanced at the window. His father was still there. “I’ll let her tell you. It isn’t my place.” The moment Joy had said Mary’s name, Mark’s face lit up. His pupils dilated.

  Joy smiled. “You two still out to experiment?”

  “Once I have a job, I’m going to ask her to marry me. Don’t tell her, though! We’ve talked about leaving the swinging life. It’s served its purpose, you know. It made me sexually confident, and she rebelled and experimented. Sadly, Mary correctly suggested that we’ll have to lie about how we met. Most people wouldn’t understand. They’d see us like we saw swingers before we joined them.”

  “Do you remember anything else about the night Ted died?” asked Max.

  Mark shook his head. “That’s all I know.”

  “Thanks for talking to us,” added Joy.

  “Does my father have to know?”

  Max closed his notebook and put away his pen. “So far, we can keep this under the radar.”

  Mark set a hand over his heart. “Thank you, guys. You’d be investigating another murder—mine. Just kidding but sorta not.”

  “You’re in good
hands, then, Mark. Your dad sounds like my dad,” said Max.

  “And mine,” said Joy, meeting Max’s gaze. “Mark, you go in there and hug your dad for all that protection—before he’s gone and it’s too late.” Joy headed to the car.

  “She’s right. We wait too long to say what we should have said to one another. Don’t make that mistake.”

  Max pulled into the parking lot of Wine Valley Assisted Living. Other than the name over the building, one would presume they’d arrived at a resort, one with a circular paver-stone drop-off area and a lush garden of ground roses that surrounded a fountain. Decorative wrought-iron balconies graced the apartments.

  Inside was even more of a surprise. Besides the shiny cream-colored lobby with a stacked-stone fireplace, guests had their own ice cream parlor and gift shop. Signs pointed to spa areas, lawn and game areas, and the nurses’ station. Tall windows flooded the room with light. Soothing music filled the space with serenity.

  Max showed his credentials to the bubbly overweight girl behind the information counter. “Where can we find Mary Bakken?”

  “Let me call her station and get her out here for you. Please, take a seat.” The girl reached for the phone.

  Max and Joy found a quiet table next to a window and waited. When Mary stepped off of the elevator, Max waved her over, and she sat down with them.

  “Hi, detectives.”

  “Hi, Mary,” said Joy. “We just have a couple of questions.”

  “Sure. I’m happy to help.”

  “Nice place,” said Joy.

  “I love it here. The people are so nice. Well, some are grumpy, but then it’s my job to help them feel better. I like cheering them up. They cheer me up too.”

  “So Mark told us how you two met. What made you answer a personal ad?”

  Mary had her long brown hair pulled back in a scrunchie, but she ran her hand over her ear as if pushing hair back anyway, a gesture born of nerves. “Experimentation and rebellion.”

  Joy added, “But you could date and experiment.”

  Mary scooted her chair closer to whisper. “I grew up wearing jeans skirts, no makeup, and received near beatings for transgressions. No television. I could not have friends outside the church. Mom homeschooled me until I was ready for high school. By then, I didn’t fit in. I barely spoke for four years. My father is a Pentecostal preacher. My mother is devout—she won’t stand up to him. No one stands up to the men. I knew I wanted out when I turned sixteen. We spent all day Sundays in church, some weeknights too. For the first time, I saw the writhing and speaking in tongues and calls up to the altar for sinners as theater—it didn’t seem real. But it had been real for me for years. I spoke in tongues. I writhed on the floor filled with passion. When the preacher called for five sinners to step forward and only four came up, I came up to make five. I played along until I got through nursing school. My father pressured me to marry. He even had someone in mind, but I put him off. I stayed at home as long as I could to save money, but my father and I had a blow up, and I moved out. I guess swinging was my way of causing a divide so huge, I could never go back—not that they know anything about it. Looking back, I guess I went a little crazy. But, the funny thing is, that’s how I met Mark. God does work in mysterious ways. Sounds weird, but finding Mark has restored my faith. I love Mark, and he loves me.”

  “What more can you tell us about Ted?” asked Max.

  “Nothing you didn’t already hear from Mark, but I can tell you that I think my father followed me to Elwin and Sophia’s the night of the party. I saw his car. What if he snuck inside? What if he snuck inside…and if he found Ted naked on the bed…no, he wouldn’t. He couldn’t.”

  “We’ll talk to him,” said Max. “Every little detail helps us find out what happened.”

  “I never meant to hurt my parents. My mother was my teacher most of my life. We spent a lot of time together. I broke her heart.” Mary dropped her eyes to her hands and her shoulders slumped.

  Joy added, “Hey, I gave my father more grief than he deserved. He loved me—faults and all. Give your parents time.”

  Mary pushed the invisible hair behind her ear again. “Maybe. But it won’t stop me from marrying Mark, if he asks.”

  16

  Max settled into a seat closer to the back of the room. If the mysterious woman who had shown up at the last class reappeared, he would be ready. The room of the Price-Wellsman Academy had theater-styled rows. The east-coast university, which specialized in sociology, psychology, forensics, police procedures, and criminology, had satellites in several states, including California and Virginia—the latter ran programs designed specifically for FBI profilers.

  Semi-circular rows faced a stage, more of a single-step platform, upon which sat a black lectern. Behind that, massive whiteboards covered the walls. The room had soundproof beige panels along the walls and fluorescent lighting. Students spilled in and found seats.

  Max opened the notebook he used strictly for class. He watched Joy in discussion with various students at the front of the room. He beamed a little, knowing that it was his brilliant half-sister who taught the class—not that he could tell anyone. As the clock struck seven, Joy moved to the lectern, students found seats, and the room quieted.

  The backdoor opened. Max turned.

  Draven Blackmoor glided down the aisle. He shot Max a cold glare as he swept past. He found an aisle seat about a quarter of the way back—where Joy could not miss him.

  Joy’s eyes turned. Blackmoor had timed his entrance so he’d be the only man standing.

  Max hoped her newfound courage would hold. It seemed to be. Or maybe, thought Max, she had a routine persona of command in front of a class, a familiar space, where she was in charge. She did not show any signs of fear. She didn’t even look in Blackmoor’s direction. She kept perfect focus on her students.

  “Tonight, we will delve into the psyche of serial killers. As someone said to me recently, ‘if you do not think like they think and understand the factors that created them, you will never catch them.’ For example, you see depravity in them. But many serial killers do not see their own acts as evil or depraved. They disassociate their good selves from the ‘other’ within them who does bad things. Some even see themselves as saviors to individuals or to society. Still others feed off of control and the manipulation of victims or they meld their need to kill with their need to outsmart law enforcement.

  “In simple terms, we can divide serial killers into two types: organized and intelligent, and disorganized and low IQ. Since the disorganized killer is usually easier to discover—their murders are often spur of the moment or take place when an opportunity presents itself—tonight, we’ll delve into the realm of the highly intelligent serial killer. The number of genius serial killers is small—and they are the hardest to catch. There’s a long laundry list of typical traits, but I’ve put together a concise list for you to get us started.”

  Joy pushed a button and a list flashed on the screen that hung from the ceiling. Joy read the list aloud:

  Good social skills, may date, may marry, may use seduction, stable father image

  Has a job that ensures mobility, does not kill or hide bodies in the home

  College educated, follows the news, follows his or her crimes, engages police

  Neat, good hygiene, consistent habits, may even drive a flashy car

  Leaves a controlled crime scene, leaves little evidence, knows forensics

  Does not seek self-help; has conversations with the victim

  Abuse in the family, physical or emotional

  Predatory aggression—the thrill of the hunt

  Joy paced across the stage until she stood directly in line with Draven Blackmoor. “There is a difference in how a person evolves into a serial killer. If you did your reading, you know the difference between psychopaths and sociopaths. A psychopath is born to kill. The other is nurtured or has anti-social disorders.”

  Joy kept her eyes locked on Draven. “The
psychopath is a master manipulator. He may have moved frequently as a youth, failed to make connections, or he lived in an unstable household, or perhaps suffered some type of abuse. He seeks to manipulate and control others. He is charming, often handsome, which helps him blend. Some have a God complex. His intelligence makes him feel superior to others. He decides who will live and who will die. It’s the domination over others that feeds him, besides his inability to feel. He can’t feel what others feel, but he wants to feel something, and killing is his way of feeling. He has an addictive personality—otherwise, let’s face it, he’d be able to stop, wouldn’t he?”

  The crowd laughed.

  Draven Blackmoor stood up. “Sorry, Dr. Burton, but I have to disagree with you.”

  “Ladies and gentleman, we have a special guest with us tonight. Perhaps some of you have heard of Dr. Draven Blackmoor, author of many books and an expert on serial killers. Dr. Blackmoor, exactly which point would you like to argue?”

  After news of the conference, the sound of Blackmoor’s name raised audible whispers from the crowd.

  Max sat up in his chair. Using the word “argue” posed a threat to Blackmoor’s domination of the conversation.

  “That serial killers are incapable of feeling. I’ve interviewed many—some express emotions—including love.”

  “I stand corrected. Serial killers do love—they love power. That’s their first love.”

  The crowd laughed.

  Draven grimaced. “Serial killers feel pleasure! I’ve interviewed enough of them to know. Hell, I wrote a book about it: The Serial Killer’s Guide to Pleasure.”

  “The serial killer, Dr. Blackmoor, is an ugly, hideous beast that takes pleasure in taking life. He will stop at nothing to manipulate and destroy others. He is a cat playing with his food before he becomes bored and kills it. The intelligent ones use their intelligence to exact evil on innocent victims.”