The Final Veil: Who had kidnapped America's favorite belly dancer?

by Pat Powers

  The question was, was this guy a dyed-in-the-wool sex offender or a basically normal guy who did something stupid as a kid? I'd have to know more about the case before I made any kind of judgment. He was either a normal guy who was still so frightened of having to return to prison that he still lived like a prisoner so that his life would pass inspection by the authorities should they happen by, or he was a determined predator calmly doing everything necessary to maintain the pretext of normalcy while he planned his next act. Either interpretation was plausible. I might know if I met him, and of course, that could be arranged, after I'd had a chance to check out his record.

  I made one last search of Speakman's apartment. I don't know what made me look inside his dishwasher, other than thoroughness. It was full of dishes. But one of them, a square Tupperware bowl, had a lid sealed on it. Not a particularly efficient way to wash anything. I pulled the bowl out. There was a scrap of paper in it. A printout. A string of random numbers. I took it out and set it on the kitchen counter top, pulled out my digital camera, set it on "macro" and photographed the paper. The printout was nice and crisp and the numbers came out clean.

  I believed I had me a PGP key. And not the public key that anyone could use to decipher messages. The private one that could be used to encode them.

  I very carefully put the paper back in the bowl and put it back in the dishwasher, as I'd done with everything I'd examined. Speakman would notice if I misplaced anything.

  A few minutes later I let myself out of the door and walked out to my van, whistling softly to myself. Another happy client.

  Chapter 11

  More tightly strung than bawdy-dancing lesbians

  I drove to Thomson's place and dropped my flash drive off with him.

  "So your trip went well, no mishaps?" asked Thomson.

  "Smooth as silk," I said. "Except he's running PGP on his machine."

  "PGP is tough," said Thomson.

  "Yeah, fortunately, I found something that looks an awful lot like a private encryption key concealed inside his dishwasher," I said. "I photographed it, and as soon as I get home I'll download it to my set and email it to you."

  "Your camera wouldn't be a Mamiya Sekor ElectricEye, would it?" Thomson asked.

  "No, it's a Kodak Sharpshooter," I said.

  "Shame, I don't have a hookup for that," said Thomson.

  "No biggie," I said. "Anyway, I also got his AOL password and username and a couple of other passwords as well, and I set his system to upload all his text files to me. I'll send you the text files via email, zipped. I'd like you to hack the shit out of Speakman's AOL account, without leaving any traces."

  "Absolutely not a problem," Thomson said, and I sensed a faint note of rebuke. He could have done it without the password.

  "Also, check out the text files I'll be sending you," I said. "I am especially interested in any PGP files that might be among them. Finally, any details you can get me on Speakman's record would help a lot."

  "No problem," Thomson said. Like most alpha geeks, he took any hint that doing anything within his sphere of expertise might be the least bit difficult as a personal affront. Getting the password for him had rendered the job almost too easy. As for hacking a Dept. of Corrections database -- child's play.

  I called Jeff and let him know what had transpired. He was worried but in control of himself, which I suppose is what's expected of a Gorean master kind of guy. I told him I was proceeding with the investigation. My next target: the Mothers of Propriety. I'd done a quick computer search and found their website. It listed their public information officer's name. The lawyer I'd talked to had been tough and unwilling to exchange information on principle. But information officers were always generally more willing to exchange information. It was the lifeblood of their job, knowing what was going on. They understand that telling and being told were two sides of the same coin, as a general rule. And nothing made them look better to their bosses than knowing things their bosses didn't know.

  I could help Anna Pulazzi a lot, if she was willing to be helped.

  I called in and invited Pulazzi out to lunch, telling her I was with Community Communications, a major publisher of papers in second-tier southeastern cities like Columbus, Georgia and Biloxi, Mississippi. They had an Atlanta bureau that reported on capital city news for all their papers. I had an arrangement with the head of the bureau. He'd back me up if someone called to check up on my bona fides as a reporter for the bureau, so long as I wasn't doing anything illegal and I gave him the scoop on what was going on in the case I was working on. It wasn't an arrangement that either of us publicized, but it worked for us and that's what counted.

  Pulazzi met me in the waiting room and we headed out to lunch. Pulazzi was a tiny, intense woman with raven-black hair and huge brown eyes. She was dressed in a conservative black woman's business suit, with a dress that ended just above her knees, but was tight enough to reveal a body that had a certain ripeness and richness to it. Her body spoke of children and the ability to bear them, and to make the act of creating them a real pleasure. The way she moved and carried herself suggested that she would take real pleasure in the act of child-creation as well. I wondered what the hell she was doing working for a group like the Mothers of Propriety as I watched her butt slide silkily out the door in front of me.

  "How about Vertigo?" she asked as she slid into the front seat of my van.

  "Sounds good," I said. It was a great burger joint in Little Five Points.

  "So, how long have you been working for Communities?" she asked.

  "About six months," I said. "Before that, I was with the Hearndon chain out in California for about five years, mostly working crime stories." (It was part of my cover for my "reporter" identity, because it placed me well outside the region in a chain known for high turnover among editorial staff, according to the Sam Nesbitt, the Communities bureau guy. Made it hard for her to trace me.) "How long have you been with the Mothers of Propriety?"

  "About a year," said Pulazzi. "Before that I was with Catholic Outlook, a religious watchdog organization for three years. Then my husband got transferred to Atlanta, where there aren't nearly as many Catholic organizations as in Cincinnati. But MOP is a non-denominational watchdog organization, open to all. Are you on a crime beat with Communities, John?"

  "Not really," I said. "I mean, Communities' Atlanta bureau isn't really big enough to have "beats." I'm generally the "go to" guy for crime stories, but I cover whatever the news of the day is, on a given day. And in Atlanta, most of the news that people outside Atlanta want to hear about is political and economic, not crime stuff. But I'm on a crime story right now -- the April Dancer kidnapping."

  "I'm not familiar with it," said Pulazzi. She spoke the lie easily and comfortably, but I could tell she was lying. "Is your visit with me about that?"

  "Yes, it is," I said. "I'm hoping you and I can exchange information about the case."

  "I doubt if I can help you," said Pulazzi. "Who is April Dancer and how is she related to our organization?"

  So I gave her a quick rundown of the case and the Mother's connection to it as we drove to Vertigo and got ourselves a table.

  Vertigo's origins had been as a wild-ass biker bar and its decor was not something you'd expect a member of the Mothers of Propriety to find attractive, with skulls, devils, and photos of half-naked women adorning the walls. Then again, its clientele in this location was mostly yuppies and office workers. They did make a great burger.

  Pulazzi ordered a bleu cheese burger while I had a patty melt.

  "So, the Mothers are going to be the subject of a police investigation soon?" Pulazzi asked.

  "You already are the subject of an investigation, they just haven't gotten around to visiting your offices yet," I said. "I expect you might see someone today."

  "So, the cops are after us because of these emails some of members wrote to April," said Pulazzi. "I don't get it, we never asked any of our members to write her. Of course, they'r
e free to write anyone they like, we're a voluntary organization, but we can't be held responsible for that."

  "You won't be held responsible as an organization by the cops unless there's some evidence that you organized her kidnapping," I said. "But we both know that even if your organization is not charged officially with any crime, you can still be blamed for it in the court of public opinion, which could have disastrous consequences for MOP."

  "Well, then, it's good to know there are objective journalists like you out there who pay attention to the facts," said Pulazzi with an engaging grin.

  "Yeah, it's too bad there are so few of us who have a grip on the facts," I said. "What I was thinking is that your organization needs to find out -- fast -- whether or not any of your members are connected with April's disappearance so you can take an appropriate stance."

  Now I watched Pulazzi with real interest. If there was a cover-up in place and she knew about it, she was going to have to do some real dissembling, concealing things she KNEW to be untrue, rather than just putting a flattering gloss on a half-truth, which is all most pr people are really called on to do.

  "I'd say it's to our interest to know about it if one of our members was involved in April's disappearance," said Pulazzi, not giving away a thing, "but since we're not involved as a group, we really have no way of telling."

  "Yeah, but you might know some likely suspects," I said. "Maybe some loose cannons who have a history of saying and/or doing things that are ... extreme. Any organization, and most especially political and religious organizations, tend to have these problem people. I mean, being from a Catholic watchdog group, I'm sure you've had all kinds of grief from people over the pedophile priest scandal."

  "God, yes," said Pulazzi. "If I had a nickel for every time I've been asked, “Well, how can you people presume to guide people morally when you can't even get your priests to keep their hands off children?'"

  "Yeah, so you know what kind of grief that kind of person can bring to an organization," I said. "If you knew about them ahead of time, you could move to distance MOP from them early on, maybe find some aspect of their character other than their association with MOP that you can emphasize as the force that drove them to do it. If it's one of you."

  "So, what do you want from me?" Pulazzi asked.

  "I would like to know who those loose cannons might be," I said, especially those that might work together as a group."

  "How could you help me?" Pulazzi asked.

  "You mean, other than by giving you advance notice of a police investigation?" I asked.

  "Our legal counsel had alerted us to that possibility already," said Pulazzi, "though she was a little vague as to what they might be after."

  "Well, I do have some knowledge of where the police investigation of the alfalfans is taking them," I said casually. "Might be nice to have another list of suspects to bring up to other members of the media."

  "Yes, that might be nice," said Pulazzi. "I might have some information you can have."

  "All right," I said.

  Our food arrived. The burgers were huge.

  "I'll go first," said Pulazzi. As she spoke she carefully removed the bun from her hamburger and set it aside on the table, leaving the hamburger naked but for its blue cheese topping. I watched and listened. "We've got a few loose cannons like everyone does, but if I had to bet on who did it, I'd bet on Mopus Deim."

  "Mopus Deim?" I asked.

  "They're another watchdog group," said Pulazzi, "only the buzz is they do more than watch. They correct. They're an action group. They're very secretive, it's even rumored some of their members are important members of the CIA, the FBI, the NSA. They might kidnap April."

  "How do they relate to MOP?" I asked.

  "Very little," said Pulazzi. "As I said, they're secretive, and MOP is a very public organization. I know about them more from my work in Cincinnati, since there were some Catholic members. But I've heard there's a branch office, if you will, in Atlanta, mostly fundamentalist Christians."

  "Any contacts?" I asked.

  "Betty Furnsome," said Pulazzi. "She's a retired bank officer, lives up in Roswell. Very moral woman, who set up a special place for retired professional women who didn't have family to live with. I don't know what she does with Mopus Deim, or if she even does anything with them, but she's rumored to be the 'go-to' gal for Mopus Deim information. But I have to tell you, nothing I've ever heard about her would lead me to believe she'd be associated with kidnapping."

  "But Mopus Deim might kidnap someone," I said.

  "Might, maybe, might, perhaps," said Pulazzi. "I heard Mopus Deim might do some stuff that fell within the gray areas of the law when it was clearly to the greater good. But kidnapping someone isn't all that gray."

  "They might consider themselves to be doing her a favor, if they have the same opinions of her and her lifestyle that the letter writers do," I said.

  "Maybe," said Pulazzi noncommittally. "Tell me about the alfalfan investigation."

  I dished what I knew of the alfalfans to Pulazzi. She listened with great interest.

  "So they do those nasty dances that April does for other women," said Pulazzi. "And they figure it's OK because they're exciting other women, not men?"

  "More or less," I said.

  "Surely they must see that it is just as much a sin, in fact more of a sin, to excite homosexual lust as it is to excite heterosexual lust," said Pulazzi musingly.

  "You'd think," I said dryly. "I don't think these are Christian women. They worship something called the Moon Goddess, if they worship anything."

  "Pagans," said Pulazzi. "We can use that."

  "That and the lesbianism and the bawdy dancing," I said. I did not share with her my thought that the public considered people who styled themselves "moral watchdogs" to be just as flaky and probably more tightly strung than bawdy-dancing lesbians -- less pent-up sexual energy in the bawdy-dancing lesbians.

  "What about those awful Goreans?" asked Pulazzi. "Are the police investigating them?"

  "Of course they are, though I don't think there's any thought that the Goreans as a group did it," I said. "They're looking more at jealous lovers, spurned masters, that kind of thing."

  "Yeah, but the Goreans enslave women and treat them as property," said Pulazzi. "Surely a little thing like kidnapping wouldn't bother them."

  "Actually, from what I hear, it would bother them a lot," I said. "They've made a very big deal out of the fact that both partners only act with fully informed consent. Kidnapping April is totally nonconsensual, it would get any Gorean who participated thrown out of Gorean society, and they wouldn't risk that, especially the guys."

  "Why the guys particularly?" Pulazzi asked.

  "Access to the slavegirls," I answered. "The Goreans have these get-togethers, they call them 'meets.' Most of the slavegirls are required to serve any man at the meet, in any way he chooses."

  "Oh, that's awful!" cried Pulazzi.

  "The Goreans don't think so," I said, "including the slavegirls themselves. From what I gather, they look forward to the meets as much as the men do, if that's possible."

  "Orgies," Pulazzi said disgustedly. "Still, I must say, the ideal of serving your man selflessly strikes a chord with me. But in groups, that's all wrong."

  "The Goreans don't see it that way," I said. "They think it's fun. That's why exile from their society is such a scary thing to them. No more access to all those fun people."

  "You talk as if you've met with the Goreans," said Pulazzi. "You sound sympathetic to them."

  "I've interviewed several Goreans," I said, "and I've formed a good impression of them. They've got their own ideas about sex, but they're very fair and honest as a general rule."

  "Have you interviewed any slavegirls?" Pulazzi asked.

  "Several," I said.

  "But the masters were right there when you did," Pulazzi said.

  "No, most of the time I was in a room by myself with the slavegirl," I said.

/>   "That must have been strange," Pulazzi said.

  "I dunno," I said. "It was different, having a woman kneeling at your feet and addressing you as master, but it was nice, too. I mean, what's not to like, on a certain level."

  Pulazzi gazed into the distance for a moment, her eyes half lowered in thought. I thought it was thought, anyway. She had huge, luminous, Mediterranean eyes that glowed even beneath her lowered lids.

  "It sounds like you could have had your way with them," said Pulazzi.

  "I believe I could have," I said. I would let Pulazzi figure out whether I had or not. I wouldn't tell, of course. The Goreans had their code, but I also had mine. You did not report your trysts to a third party without the express consent of the lady involved, slavegirl or not.

  "I have always thought of myself as a woman who loves men and believes in serving men," said Pulazzi. "I don't know if I could bring myself to kneel before men in that ... way."

  I suddenly realized that all of Pulazzi's interest in the alfalfans had been feigned. What she really wanted to know about was the Goreans. And she'd known that I could tell her about them. Which meant that the briefing she'd received had been a lot more thorough than she'd let on. She wanted to know about Goreans, and for personal reasons. That was OK with me, I'd tell her whatever I had that didn't compromise my client's interests. I might need something from her, later.

  "The slavegirls seemed to enjoy it," I said. "One of them said she didn't get to observe proper Gorean forms much since they'd had kids. And they didn't just kneel before me, they actually prostrated themselves before me."

  "Prostrated themselves?" Pulazzi asked. "Is that what they call it?"

  "You know what I mean," I said, grinning. "Head to the ground, hands behind their backs, butt hiked up in the air."

  "Ah, prostrating," Pulazzi said, but I could tell her bantering tone was to hide her excitement. "Made you feel more like a man, I guess."

  "Made me feel like a Gorean master," I said. "Those slavegirls had a way of not letting me forget I was a master to them, too. Like, they'd scooch right up to me when they talked to me. If I were standing, they'd stand less than an inch from me, looking right up at me, but not touching me. If I were sitting, they'd kneel as close to me as I'd let them."