Intimate Bondage

by John Flynn

  “I was just exploring all angles,” she replied.

  “I would not rule out the possibility that your killer is a man,” Belasco interrupted. “While the notion is highly speculative at best, there have been a number of documented cases of dissociative identity disorder in which a person shares the identities of two different genders. The female half is often seen as loving and nurturing, while the male half is destructive, even homicidal.”

  “Thank you for your analysis, Doctor,” Aguilar said.

  “Yes, Doctor,” said Roberts, “I want to thank you, on behalf of the department, for your assistance.”

  “My pleasure, Lieutenant,” the doctor replied, and then, after a moment of thought, added, “I do want to caution you that you’re dealing with someone very dangerous and possibly very ill.”

  Miller nodded at his partner, but she remained adamant about seeing Monroe. If he was “dangerous” and “possibly very ill,” she was confident that she could handle him.

  A COUPLE OF hours later, Miller drove down Fulton Street towards the University of San Francisco, while Kate sat in the passenger seat with her elbow hanging out the window. She would have never admitted it, not to Miller, not even to herself, but she was looking forward to seeing John Monroe again because she was attracted to him. In the twenty-four hours since they had met, she had thought about him almost constantly. She was attracted to more than just his good looks. There was something about him that fascinated her, something that she could not put her finger on. She let her mind go back over every word they had spoken during their brief exchange at the adult bookstore. Perhaps it was his arrogance, or perhaps it was his sense of confidence—she just didn’t know. About the only thing that she knew for certain was that Monroe was guilty. At the very least, a suspect in a murder investigation.

  Miller stopped as the next traffic light turned red, and stared at Kate for a long moment. “I’ve never seen you so jazzed before,” he said, at last. “You’re actually looking forward to seeing this guy again.”

  “Seeing how far he can be pushed,” she corrected him.

  “Jeez, Dawson, you never give up, do you? What the hell is it with this guy?”

  “I know it’s him. I can’t explain how I know . . . I just have this gut feeling that he’s involved somehow.”

  “You know him, don’t you, Kate?” he asked as the signal turned green. He released his foot from the brake pedal and accelerated through the traffic light. “What is he, like an ex-boyfriend?”

  “I don’t know him,” she said plainly. “He doesn’t know me. I never heard of him, never saw him before yesterday.”

  He continued driving along Fulton Street, then turned right on Masonic and left on Golden Gate Avenue. “What happens when the forensics boys get through watching all those home movies Collins made in his torture chamber and your boyfriend doesn’t have a starring role?”

  “That’ll just mean he was smart enough to retrieve the video when he was cleaning up after the murder,” she surmised.

  “If he’s that clever, he’s capable of anything. Maybe I should tag along when you go to see him.”

  Dawson shook her head slowly. “I have to see him alone. He’ll shut down with you around, and we won’t get anything if he thinks he’s cornered. I need to make him think that he’s still in control.”

  “Tell me again, Kate,” he said pulling his car into a parking spot. “You know, humor me. You do not know John Monroe in any capacity, except as it relates to the details of this case.”

  “You don’t trust me,” she said, sighing.

  “No, that’s not it. I just want you to look me squarely in the eyes, and tell me that you don’t know this man.”

  “Okay, okay. I don’t know this man.”

  He nodded reluctantly, and added, “I want you to keep your cell phone on, and, at the first hint of trouble, I want you to get the hell out of there. Is that completely understood?”

  “You’re worried about me,” said Kate, touched by her partner’s words.

  “Let’s just say that I’d feel a whole lot better if I was going in there with you,” he replied.

  She leaned over from the passenger’s seat, and gave him a kiss on the cheek. It was the first outward sign of affection she had showed her partner in the seven years that they had been working together.

  “Don’t worry about me,” she said. “There’ll be hundreds of students around. I’ll be perfectly safe.”

  THE UNIVERSITY of San Francisco was a private, highly selective, Jesuit institution known for its nationally-recognized graduate programs in law, education, business, nursing and psychology. Founded in 1855, USF was the first university established in San Francisco, and the second oldest institution of higher learning in the State of California. Its 9,000-member student body was comprised of students from seventy-five countries, and was ranked in the top fifteen national universities for student diversity and international student enrollment. Nicknamed “The Hilltop,” the campus was located at the peak of one of the city’s major hills, situated between the Golden Gate Bridge and Golden Gate Park.

  Through one of its back doors, Kate slipped into Campion Hall, and quickly found the large lecture hall where John Monroe’s Psychology 101 class met. Unlike a traditional classroom, which had a capacity of twenty-five to forty students, the capacity of the lecture hall measured in the hundreds. Thankfully, no one seemed to notice when she took a seat in back which was elevated higher than those seats in front near the pitched floor. But then, every seat in the auditorium had its own visual access to the instructor.

  Kate looked around the lecture hall. Several dozen students were seated in desks that seemed to be equally spaced throughout the auditorium. Some were listening intently to the lecture by Professor Monroe, while others were taking notes. In the third row, a female student with red hair was trying to get his attention with a raised hand, but he seemed to look right through her as if she wasn’t there.

  “. . . and we now turn our focus to the character of Electra. But mind you, I’m not talking about that hot-looking, sai-wielding assassin that Jennifer Garner played in the movie Daredevil.”

  Some of his students nodded with recognition and smiled. Others chuckled, while still others giggled to themselves.

  Monroe continued, “Even though I’m sure that some of you would find her to be a much more interesting figure to study.”

  A handful of guys laughed loudly and gave each other high-fives.

  “No, of course, I’m talking about the woman from Greek mythology who avenged her father, Agamemnon’s, death by killing her mother Clytemnestra.”

  “How do you spell that, professor?” asked a male student.

  “You’ll find that in last night’s reading assignment,” he replied. “Under the letter ‘H’ for homework.”

  Some of the female students now chuckled out loud.

  Kate watched their reactions to his lecture, and was surprised by the level of comfort and rapport that Monroe demonstrated with his students.

  “In much the same way that he did with the story of Oedipus, Freud borrowed the central conflict in that Greek story of Electra to explain the adolescent development of females,” Monroe said, resuming his lecture. “He suggested that women break away from their mothers during the phallic stage when they discover they lack a penis, and become romantically attached to their fathers. The adolescent woman is so envious of her father’s penis and wants to possess it so strongly that she dreams of bearing his children. She believes that pregnancy will replace that missing organ and allow her to gain equal status with the father.”

  Dawson listened to his lecture, and then shook her head. Maybe that’s how things were in Greek mythology, but it sure as hell didn’t fit the modern world. Women didn’t need daddy’s penis to be equal. What the hell was he thinking? What bother
ed her even more was that the female students in his class were just soaking it in. They needed some straight talk from a woman like her who competed with men every day. They certainly didn’t lessons from the past.

  An alarm bell sounded, signaling the end of class.

  Some of the students began closing and gathering their books together, while others filed out of the lecture hall.

  “Don’t forget to read Michelson, Chapters Four and Five,” he shouted, reminding them of their next assignment before they left the room. “Oh, and I’ll be in my office on Monday, but not Wednesday.”

  Monroe snapped the large textbook on his lectern closed, and placed it inside his briefcase. He then gathered together his notes and filed them away.

  The last of his students, including the redhead, filed past him, making their way out of the auditorium.

  “Dr. Monroe,” Kate said, “I wonder if I could have a brief word with you.”

  Monroe’s eyes narrowed as he looked towards the far back of the large lecture hall. He smiled as Kate emerged from the shadows.

  “Detective, I was hoping to see you again.”

  “Interesting lecture,” she remarked. “And here I thought Oedipus was the only one who had issues with his parents.”

  “The Electra complex is just as real as the Oedipal complex. It’s just that our social system is one that seems to think the male psyche is the more dominant entity in human relations. And thus, any theory that suggests an aggressive woman could take power from a man, even take away his penis, would not find much acceptance in a patriarchal culture like ours.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Kate said, finally drawing near to him. “I’ve always wondered why it was okay for a woman to be called ‘Daddy’s little girl,’ but insulting for a man to be called a ‘Momma’s boy.’”

  Monroe smiled. “Well, you get an A in the class. Why don’t we go to my office so that we can continue this discussion in private?”

  “Why not?”

  Monroe escorted Kate out of the lecture hall, and down a long corridor. On their way to his faculty office, they passed by students who were clustered in small groups, talking, their voices echoing softly off the linoleum floors and walls of the building.

  “Any new leads in your murder investigation, detective?”

  “Just one.”

  With a degree of surprise, Monroe raised an eyebrow. “Really? Well, that’s good news, isn’t it? I can only hope the material in my book proves to be instrumental in helping you catch your killer.”

  “So do I.”

  “You know, most outsiders—‘mundanes’ is the word that I use in my book—still think the whole subculture of BDSM centers around gay men in leather jockstraps who like to beat each other up,” Monroe said, sounding like he was conducting another lecture. “That misconception is due largely to a book Larry Townsend wrote in the early seventies called The Leatherman’s Handbook. In it, he defined the subculture by a strict code of rules—”

  Kate cut him off in mid-sentence. “Professor, I must advise you that anything further you have to say may be used against you in a court of law.”

  “What? Am I a suspect?”

  “You do have the right to an attorney and to have the attorney present during all questioning . . .”

  “I know my Miranda rights,” he said, flabbergasted. “Do you know how absurd this is? I’m the one helping you with your case.”

  “Dr. Monroe,” said a young woman.

  Monroe and Kate turned. Standing outside his office door was the redheaded student who had tried unsuccessfully to get his attention in class. A light-complected Plain Jane, she was dressed in a funky long skirt, beaded top, and oversized combat boots, and carried an army surplus backpack. The terms “nerd” or “ugly betty” would not have even begun to describe her. With a ton of makeup or an extreme Hollywood makeover, she might have been able to pass for human.

  “Ruth-Marie, did we have an appointment scheduled for this afternoon?” asked Monroe.

  “Rosemary, Professor Monroe. Rosemary Murphy,” the young woman corrected him. “Don’t you remember me? I’m in your Psych 101 class.”

  Monroe nodded politely. He obviously still didn’t recognize her, but pretended that he did.

  “I don’t have an appointment, but I was hoping that you’d take a few minutes to discuss my semester project with me.”

  “Now is not a good time, Ruth-Marie,” he said, gesturing toward Kate. “Why don’t you call the departmental secretary on Monday, and schedule a time for us to meet during one of my regular office hours next week?”

  “Sure thing, Professor.”

  With a nod of her head, Rosemary acknowledged his request, but then continued to remain in place. She stared at them, expressionless. Kate could almost see the great, industrial wheels in her head turning, plotting her next move, figuring out what she was going to say. There was an air of lethargy about the young woman. She seemed like a life-sized wind-up toy whose springs and cogs had finally run down to nothing.

  “Was there something else, Ms. Murphy?”

  The student hesitated a moment longer, then said, “I enjoyed your lecture today very much. I really identify with women like Electra.”

  “Thank you. That’s very nice of you to say.”

  She continued to stand there as if frozen in time and space.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” Monroe said, “I do have some very important business to attend.”

  After another moment of awkward silence, Rosemary took the hint, and shuffled away, head down, dejected.

  “Why don’t we go into my office?” he said at last, fumbling through his pockets for the keys to his office. Monroe then unlocked the door and entered the room, flicking on the lights. Kate followed him.

  The faculty office was spacious and sparsely furnished. Other than a few plaques and diplomas on the wall, a bulletin board with pictures, a handful of books on the bookshelf, a chair and a computer on the desk, the office looked very empty. Kate was reminded of her own apartment, and how empty it must have seemed to the few visitors she had invited over. She carefully stepped around the boxes of books on the floor, and took a moment to look at each of the plaques. They contained lurid covers for each of his eight books, with the title and publication date printed on a brass name plate underneath each separate cover. Only one of them dealt with the subject of BDSM.

  “I’d offer you a cup of coffee,” Monroe said, acting more like an absent-minded professor than a criminal mastermind, “but as you can see, I’m still in the process of moving into my new office. I’m not quite sure where everything is.”

  “Not a problem,” she replied.

  Kate continued to explore his office. Her fingers moved over the handful of books on his bookshelf; they were all standard texts or workbooks or research manuals about Psychology. She would have been surprised if they had not been there. He’d hung his diplomas from Stanford University and UC-Berkeley alongside a bulletin board. At first, she only saw a handful of black and white photos thumb-tacked to the board. But then, as she looked more closely, she recognized the photos as those taken at each of the “Angel of Death” crime scenes. Suddenly, she felt a cold chill, and rubbed her arms up and down without thought or volition.

  Kate looked at him sideways. “How the hell did you get your hands on photos from my investigation?”

  “I have a friend in Internal Affairs who owes me for the occasional psych file I review,” he replied with a shrug. “When I first read about the ‘Angel of Death’ killings in the newspaper, I got curious, and decided to have a look for myself.”

  “I suppose you’re going to tell me next that you’re some kind of amateur detective.”

  “No, not at all. Just a writer with expensive tastes,” Monroe admitted. He walked behind his desk, and s
at down in the leather armchair. “Your investigation sounded like the kind of thing that would make a good book.”

  “And your job here at the university?”

  “Well, that pays the rent. But have you ever tried to live on a college professor’s salary?” he asked, sinking back into his chair. “That’s why I finally agreed to be chairman of the Social and Behavioral Sciences department. Bigger office, better pay.”

  Kate folded her arms across her chest. “And what about all that bullshit you were spouting about power and control?”

  “Oh, the ‘power exchange.’ The first thing you should know about writers, Kate, is that they’re pretty good liars.”

  “Is that so?”

  He flashed his winning smile. “Writing teaches you how to lie.”

  For an instant, the words didn’t register. She stood there, staring at him, searching his face for a sign that Monroe was an average, healthy, totally fucked-up human being like everybody else. But she just couldn’t find it. Everything he said was loaded with hidden meaning. Even when he confessed to being a liar, Kate couldn’t help but feel that he was being dishonest with her. He was unlike any man that she had ever met, and that frightened her.

  “What do you mean, teaches you how to lie?”

  “Before I start writing a new book, I like to immerse myself so thoroughly in the subject matter that I know the material cold,” Monroe explained. “I can then write about the subject authoritatively, and make the reader think that I’m the world’s leading expert, even if I’m only making things up as I go along. It also helps to sell books if the public thinks you’re some kind of crazy ‘dungeon master’ who actually practiced that S&M shit before he found Jesus.”

  “So, the book I read . . . you just made all of that up?”

  “Well, the background material is factual, but all of the rest is just bullshit,” he confessed, with a slight nod of his head. “You didn’t really think I was into all of that crap, did you?”

  “Sure, why not?”

  “Well then, I guess, my ‘lie’ was a convincing one. Thanks for making my point for me.”