Intimate Bondage

by John Flynn

  On Geary Boulevard, in front of the cathedral, two San Francisco fire engines had suspended a gigantic American flag between two extended ladders. Beneath the flag, a row of mounted police officers sat erect on their horses, the animals painstakingly groomed. Several rows of motorcycle cops sat astride their machines to one side, while on the opposite side, officers representing law enforcement agencies from as far away as Salinas, Reno and Sacramento stood at attention.

  Tears that had been welling up in Kate’s eyes finally exploded all over her face as she finished loading Miller’s casket in the hearse. She took a handkerchief from the pocket of her police uniform, and wiped her face. She had trouble recalling a more somber day in her life, except perhaps the day she’d buried her daughter. She prayed their two souls would meet up in heaven, if there was a heaven, and keep each other safe until it was her turn to join them.

  Weeping, Kate climbed into the limousine that was parked behind the hearse, and sat between Frank Miller’s grieving ex-wives. She sat there quietly, except for the occasional sniffle, and didn’t say a word to anyone the rest of the day. She promised herself that she was done attending funerals.

  THE MORNING after the funeral, Kate entered the firing range at police headquarters alone, and walked toward the light switch. The range was cold, dark and hollow. Human silhouettes with numbered kill zones hung at various distances. They appeared like skeletons in a vast grave yard, until the recessed lights flickered on and revealed their true purpose.

  Quickly, she removed her black Versace blazer, and unholstered the Beretta 9 millimeter semi-automatic pistol. She dropped the chambered bullet, slipped out the magazine, and worked the slide. Ka-chink. The weapon was smooth, well-oiled, deadly. She slapped in the magazine, slid one in the chamber, and holstered the weapon for her practice.

  She stepped up to the red firing line and pulled on her safety goggles and headphones. For a long moment, Kate stood there, examining her right hand, trying to hold it steady before her eyes. She was still trembling.

  Kate grimaced, with her teeth clenched tight. She braced herself, then pulled her gun from its holster with lightning swiftness. Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! The sound of the semi-automatic pistol emptying its full magazine was deafening in the closed room. With the last shot, she instinctively holstered her weapon, and cued the human silhouette.

  A hole about the size of a billiard ball appeared on the target. A perfect clustering of shots, right between the eyes. Kate nodded in determination. She gathered her jacket, and exited the firing range.

  As Kate returned from the firing range, she wrestled with the desires and suspicions that constituted her dark attraction with Monroe. Except for a short, voice-mail message in which he had expressed sympathy for Miller’s death, she had not seen or heard from him in the four days since her partner was killed at the Black Rose. It was as if the man had dropped off the face of the earth. Her calls to his office at the university went unanswered, and trips to his favorite hang-outs, including B&J’s Adult Bookstore, failed to produce any new leads.

  Professor Monroe was once again under her skin, gnawing away at feelings that she had purposely buried deep within her soul. She hadn’t wanted to become involved with him, and yet she also knew that point had long since passed. Like it or not, Kate had to admit she was in it up to her neck.

  She walked the corridor towards the Homicide Bureau, and ran into Clark coming off the elevator. He was heading in the same direction, carrying a manila folder. He studied her for a moment. Kate knew she looked bad. Her hair was unkempt, and her features looked worn and weathered without make-up. She also had deep, dark circles under her eyes as if she hadn’t slept for a week.

  “You look like shit,” Clark said, without tact.

  “Fuck you, Clark,” she replied. “I’ve had a really fucked-up week.”

  “No, seriously, have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?” he asked, this time with more discretion.

  Kate stopped walking. “I get it. All right? Just chalk it up as my having a bad hair day or something.”

  Clark nodded, and then glanced down at the folder. “Talk about a bad hair day, did you get a load of the bruiser they brought in from the Funderburk crime scene? She looks scary enough to make Gorilla Cookies.”

  “I didn’t hear anything about it,” she said, grabbing the manila folder out of his hands. “Did CODIS return a match?”

  “Yeah, about two hours ago. Where the hell have you been?”

  Hastily, Kate scanned the documents in the folder. CODIS, the computer program that collected and maintained DNA profiles from local, state, and national databases of convicted offenders, crime scene evidence and missing persons, had returned a positive match based upon the two strands of hair that were found at the last crime scene. The suspect’s name was Purdy Spriggs. According to her rap sheet, the thirty-eight-year-old white female had a long criminal record that included prostitution, solicitation, assault and grand theft, just to name a few. In fact, she had been arrested earlier that day for soliciting a female undercover officer to engage in certain sexual acts.

  Kate shoved the report back into Clark’s hands, and scrambled to the interrogation room. When she arrived, Lt. Roberts and Detectives Ramirez and Jawara were talking privately between themselves, while observing the female suspect through the two-way mirror.

  Kate went right to Roberts. “I’ll handle the interrogation,” she said.

  The lieutenant stopped talking and half turned toward her. “What makes you think this is up for discussion?” he asked. “I’ve already assigned Jawara. You should go soak your head. You look like shit.”

  “She’s not gonna talk to him,” Kate persisted.

  “And how the hell do you know that?

  “Because I wouldn’t.”

  Roberts turned to face her full on. He looked into Kate’s eyes and must have seen the burning passion. “You want to sit in on the interrogation, go ahead. But just remember this is Jawara’s show.”

  Kate nodded, reluctantly, then walked over to Jawara who was stuffing a few materials for the interrogation into a manila folder. He glanced at her and smiled. He did not seem angry or resentful that she had tried to take his place as the lead interrogator.

  “Are you okay with me running backup?” she asked him.

  “Hell, yeah,” he said. “But you gotta promise me one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  Jawara was silent for a moment. “If this white cracker calls me nigger one more time, you gots to let me slap it right out of her mouth along with a few teeth,” Jawara replied, with a big, shit-eating grin. “I’m done through being called nigger by the likes of that trash.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” Kate said, as she and Jawara entered the interrogation room.

  Purdy Spriggs sat on a chair behind the metal table. She was a hard-looking woman, late thirties, with a short, butch-like haircut. Her nose looked as though it had been recently broken and reset. Her hair was red, like the evidence found by forensics. Spriggs glanced up, and flashed Jawara a look of utter disdain.

  “Ms. Spriggs, I’m required by law to identify myself, even though we did meet earlier in lockup. I’m Detective Jawara,” the young African American said, sitting down in a chair opposite the suspect, “and this is Detective Dawson. You have already been read your Miranda rights, and you have chosen to waive counsel. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Go ahead, boy,” Spriggs replied in a husky voice. “I ain’t got nothin’ to hide.”

  “Ma’am, do you remember where you were on the night of September 18th?”

  “I don’t know. Probably working.”

  “Working,” Jawara repeated, opening the manila folder on the metal tabletop. His palms were clammy, and his forehead was starting to bead with sweat. He must be a
nxious to make a good impression for the boss. “Our records show that you work nights as a short-order waitress at Fog City Diner in Fisherman’s Wharf.”

  Spriggs looked at Jawara. Her demeanor changed when she realized that he was reading from her rap sheet. “What’s this all about? My bail got paid. You got no right to hold me. I was supposed to be out of lockup hours ago.”

  “Ms. Spriggs, this has nothing to do with your arrest earlier today,” Kate said, hoping to clarifying things for her. “We’re not Vice officers. We’re Homicide detectives investigating a murder.”

  “I don’t know nothin’ about that,” she replied.

  “A man was murdered in his Pacific Heights home last Saturday night,” he reported, by the book, “and your DNA was found at the crime scene.”

  “That’s not exactly a part of town I’m welcome in,” Spriggs said, and then shot Jawara a sideways glance. “Besides, I wouldn’t be caught dead in that neighborhood with some john.”

  Kate and Jawara reacted to her use of the word “john” by looking at each other. In police parlance, the word “john” was slang for a prostitute’s customer, but Kate felt there was an even deeper connection.

  “Have you gone back to turning tricks, Purdy?” Kate asked.

  “Why do you want to know?”

  Jawara examined the folder. “Well, according to our records, you’ve been arrested fourteen times for solicitation and convicted twice for prostitution,” he reported, keeping pace with Kate. “And that doesn’t include your arrest today.”

  “So what?”

  “You used the word ‘john,’” she reminded her.

  “I know a lot of guys named John.”

  “Well, maybe there’s a special one, you know—”

  Spriggs cut Jawara off. “Look, I don’t do men,” she shouted, and in one swift motion, she had pushed her chair back and was standing up, the fingers in both hands curling into fists. She was ready for a fight. “My whole goddamn life is right there in black and white. I’m a dyke! You got that? Why don’t you look at your frickin’ records, you stupid nigger!”

  Jawara slapped the folder shut on the table, and stood up to her, obviously ready to fight. His hands curled into hard fists and Spriggs got in his face. They were toe-to-toe, all set for round one.

  “Hey, hey, what’s the problem?” Kate yelled, scrambling to come between them. She put a hand on Jawara’s forearm, and pushed him back away from Spriggs. “Let’s just simmer down.”

  “Forget your promise, Kate?” said Jawara, with a sneer.

  “You keep that fuckin’ nigger away from me,” the suspect said, standing her ground. Spriggs was not ready to cool down. Her eyes blazed with hate, particularly for the African-American detective.

  Kate pulled him back to the table. “She’s not worth it, partner,” she whispered.

  “I’ll be all right. Let’s just get this done,” he said.

  Kate backed the suspect away from Jawara. “Ms. Spriggs, do you have anger management issues?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then why don’t you take a seat?”

  Spriggs glared at Jawara for another moment, then sat back down. There was an awkward pause as everyone calmed down.

  “Have you ever met or had any dealings with a Howard Funderburk?” Kate asked finally.

  “Nope.”

  “Can you tell me how your DNA showed up at his home in the Pacific Heights?”

  “Nope.”

  Kate looked back at Jawara for help. He was still simmering, but at least he had eased back in his chair, and appeared to be less agitated. Kate wasn’t quite sure what to do next, and suspected her “partner” didn’t have any answers either. Unless Purdy Spriggs was one hell of a liar, in addition to being a convicted felon, she didn’t see any motive that tied her to the evidence.

  Kate stared back at her suspect. “What’s with the broken nose?” she asked. “Pick the wrong partner?”

  “That’s none of your fuckin’ business,” Spriggs replied with heat. She was right on the edge, a heartbeat from losing control.

  “Looks like it really smarts.”

  “What’s it to you?”

  “Nothing. I guess you’re just not as tough as you think you are,” Kate added, trying to provoke her. Dawson figured, if she could provoke her, then maybe she’d say something she hadn’t planned to say.

  Spriggs had had enough. She leaned across to Kate, while looking directly at Jawara, and said, “Well, if you must know, I was eating his wife’s pussy out . . . and she got excited, being that it was the first time and all.”

  “You fuckin’ bitch,” Jawara exclaimed, as he sprang out of his chair, his face red with anger.

  He lunged across the table, and grabbed Spriggs around her neck. They tumbled and crashed down against the chairs. Jawara scrambled to his feet, and pulled her up by the throat, slamming her body against the wall as if she was a rag doll. His strong hands tightened around her windpipe, and the scream that had started in her lungs was now gurgling in her throat. He seemed to be blind to everything around him, except strangling the life out of her.

  Kate grabbed Jawara by the shoulder, and tried to pull him off Spriggs. He fought her with a backwards elbow jab. Roberts and Ramirez in the outer room rushed to help Kate. They grabbed Jawara around the waist and shoulders, and for a brief instant, Kate swapped places with Spriggs. She looked into Jawara’s eyes and saw blind rage. The kind of rage that was capable of murder.

  The three detectives pulled Jawara to the floor. He was still struggling to fight when he realized his hands were empty. Moments later, he looked from Ramirez to Roberts and finally to Kate, as if to ask why the four of them were spread out over the interrogation room floor. But he didn’t say a word. Instead, he helped the lieutenant to his feet, then he stood up, and brushed the wrinkles out of his suit. Jawara didn’t seem to have any memory of what had happened, and Kate thought that it was probably better for him and his career that he never knew.

  Once Kate had managed to climb to her feet, she walked over to their suspect. Spriggs was doubled over, hacking and gagging, holding onto her throat. Kate didn’t buy her helpless act. She reached down with both hands, and with all her might, she hoisted the woman into the last standing chair.

  “Okay, Ms. Spriggs,” she said. “Are you ready to cooperate with us now?”

  SEVERAL HOURS later, Kate was back in the interrogation room with their primary suspect, Purdy Spriggs. Spriggs had bandages around her throat and a black eye, but she looked no less for wear. In fact, Kate thought the black eye actually gave her character, unlike the broken nose.

  As she circled the suspect, Kate was flanked on each side by two uniformed officers who stood guard. She was also joined by Clark and Ramirez. Jawara was noticeably absent.

  Kate pulled on the handcuffs that held Spriggs to the table. “You learn to control that temper of yours, Ms. Spriggs,” she said, “and ain’t noboby gonna bust that nose of yours again.”

  “Fuck you,” replied Spriggs, spitting the words out.

  “No, fuck you,” Kate yelled, coming down on her hard. “I’ve got evidence that places you at a murder scene. You better start talking to me or you’re going down for murder one.”

  “I didn’t kill nobody.”

  “Then what are your hair fibers doing at my crime scene?”

  For a moment, Purdy Spriggs closed her eyes and rocked back and forth in her chair. Then, all at once, she started laughing. She eased back in her chair, and slapped the tabletop with the palms of her hands. She obviously knew the punch line, and felt the joke was on the San Francisco Police Department.

  “Okay, okay, you’ve had your laugh,” Kate said, trying to contain her anger. “Now, why don’t you let us in on the joke?”

  “You cops are so fuckin’ stup
id,” she said, chuckling.

  “Then why don’t you show us how smart you are.”

  Spriggs looked up at her inquisitor for a full half-minute, thirty seconds of humor and disbelief. “A couple of months ago, my ex-slut of a girlfriend talked me into cutting my hair off so she could pay the landlord,” she explained. “Instead, she stiffs me for every last dime, and runs off with some musician she just met. Shoulda known the bitch was gonna fuck me over, that lowlife whore.”

  Kate was surprised. “Are you saying you sold your hair for money?”

  “Christ, yeah! Sure as shittin’ wasn’t gonna give it away,” she replied. “Got top dollar for it, too.”

  “Do you still have your receipt?” Clark asked, taking notes in his notebook.

  “Who did you sell it to?” Kate asked, a heartbeat later.

  Spriggs gazed up at them, a grin from ear to ear. “One of those beauty outlets. You know, the ones that use real hair to make wigs and extensions.”

  “Where?” they both asked.

  “Try Geary Street,” she replied, in triumph.

  Without another word, Kate walked over to the door. She lingered there for a moment, in thought, and then said, “You can cut her loose.” Abruptly, she turned and exited the room.

  LATER THAT NIGHT, Kate was lying facedown on the twin-sized bed, her head buried beneath a pillow. The light from her television was the only thing that illuminated the room, but the sound from the set was completely off. On the nightstand next to the bed, a bottle of Wild Turkey Bourbon, which was mostly empty, stood vigil, while she fought the battle to sleep.

  Tap . . . tap . . . tap . . . tap . . .

  Kate raised one side of her pillow, and listened to the light tapping at her door. It grew in intensity the longer she tried to ignore it. She climbed out of bed and looked out of the peephole of her front door. She wasn’t too surprised to find Lenny standing outside her apartment that late at night. She had been expecting him to drop by the last couple of nights. “I am sorry to bother you this late at night,” he said, speaking through the mail slot, “but I saw the light on in your bedroom.”