All But a Pleasure

by Phyllis Ann Karr

  “When we were called forth again, M. Osaka mounted at once to the cross, stretched out his arms, and allowed M.’s Imani and Friedman to bind him to it hand and foot, while M. Whitcomb guided me to the side table—you may have noticed it, Sergeant Lestrade? It may at first glance suggest the infamous rack, but it is simply a kind of plaswood bed with restraints and a hard headrest in the ancient Egyptian style, nothing more. She had me lie upon it face upward, strapped me down with bands around the chest, forearms, and lower thighs, and produced a supply of very long, very slender needles in an antiseptic-soaked pincushion. She explained that this third level of initiation was a hygienic and minimally scarring reproduction of perhaps the most ancient shamanic ordeal on record, as seen in Paleolithic—may I use the word Paleolithic? cave painting which show bodies transfixed with arrows protr-…sticking out in all directions like so many human pincushions. You were already aware that M. Whitcomb is a highly skilled nurse? Taking a pinch of epidermis near my navel, she stitched her first needle through it.

  “I fainted.

  “When I came to myself, I was lying once more on the cot in the withdrawing room, a light blanket covering me to the chin, M.’s Whitcomb and Imani bending over me. Seated on the other cot, M. Osaka was having his wrists bandaged by M. Friedman: both are paramedics. All assured me that I had successfully achieved the first two levels, that three in one afternoon had been quite ambitious for someone with a rather low threshold of pain, but that they would welcome me to repeat the third level in a week or two—depending on how many extraordinary—in the sense of emergency—sessions they put in during the present citywide crisis.

  “So far, every event of the long afternoon had confirmed my belief in the complete innocence of Dante’s Delight. Yet I felt I must make assurance doubly sure…are quotations from Shakespeare acceptable? Besides, my duplicity—apologies, I cannot find a simpler word for it on the spur of the moment—weighed more and more heavily on my conscience the more my doubts of these people’s sincerity dissipated. Also, I may have grown somewhat giddy and reckless.”

  Lestrade shot up both eyebrows and grunted.

  “Weighing—rather hastily—all these factors, I confessed to them my uppermost reasons for signing the consent form: that the second victim had so much resembled M. Garvey; that I had seen the tattoo stamped on the body and recognized it, from its picture in their information sheet, as the symbol of Dante’s Delight Purgatorio; that I had felt pressed to learn whether they were completely innocent or somehow involved.

  “M. Friedman asked if I were working for the police, to which I could with a perfectly clear conscience answer ‘No.’”

  Lestrade tapped her fingernails on her pipe. Davison had the sense to look a little shamefaced about that whopping understatement, but put it behind him and went on,

  “And they forgave me! I had played Judas to them, and they forgave me, all of them in unison, with neither long discussion nor voting. They even emphasized that I remained welcome to join their circle. Even after our arrest, they refused to rescind their forgiveness. Sergeant Lestrade, does this not sufficiently prove their innocence?”

  All she said was, “Stop editorializing and finish your statement.”

  “I…thought I had finished. What more of any importance…? As far as we knew, there was nothing to mark me as a missing person, and I think… May I say that much? My own thought remains a fact, whether or not accurate… In any case, I saw no sign that any of them feared interruption that evening. How could we have known or guessed that M. Garvey had returned from Boca Raton and found—to her pain, which I cannot regret more—the letters I had penned simply to insure against any outside chance of the Purgatorio’s guilt, expecting that in all probability I would return home to laugh at and destroy my needless precautions. M. Osaka and I were left alone to reclothe ourselves, while the others brought us the luncheon we had not been able to eat earlier. The other three repaired to…went to the outer room while we ate. I had the impression they began discussing whether they should not go to the police themselves, though they kept their voices low so as not to disturb our digestion, and we overheard no more than a word or two here and there, by accident. This was the state of affairs when you…honored us with your unexpected visit. Can there be anything else?”

  Lestrade said, “You mentioned seven levels of initiation. I counted six. What’s number seven?”

  “Oh. Compression. That is…the opposite of stretching. It is actually the sixth level, the seventh and highest being quasi—… I might say, temporary crucifixion.”

  “Nails and all?”

  “Usually ropes. Sometimes cilices.”

  “Wounds? Bleeding?”

  “Small ones. Comparable to the pricks of thorns.”

  “Hmm.” Nothing so far to cause any wounds of the kind found on the two murder victims. In fact, compared with some real smasters of Lestrade’s passing acquaintance, all fairly restrained. “Any other practices?”

  “Some. Proposed by the penitent in question and allowed or rejected by consensus following discussion. Rarely proposed by any penitent not already old in the five repeatable levels already mentioned.”

  “Detective Clayton has told me that there are in fact scars on M. Whitcomb’s back, which she claims resulted from an accident involving a fall on broken glass. Never mind how he knows.”

  “Until about a lustrum…that is, five years ago, they did employ scourges, blades, and occasionally various forms of heat. M. Whitcomb may have earned some scars in the earliest months of her membership, before they went to lighter equipment. Or she might actually have fallen on broken glass. I have never seen her other than fully clothed.”

  Lestrade walked over and tabbed the recorder off. “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?”

  “Did I? Not, I assure you, at the time!… But, in retrospect, I suppose…recounting it to—in some sense—a captive audience…yes, perhaps I did enjoy that. Do not people both normal and healthy relish describing their operations, dental experiences, and other ordeals once safely past the same? And it distracted me from…” Letting his voice trail off, he stole another look toward the window. “They are still there.”

  “Yep. Still giggling and poking each other and ogling you.”

  He mused, “It must be the deplorable—unfortunate—human fascination with the criminal element. Are they not aware that a citywide alert remains in effect?”

  “Should be safe enough this close to the police station. Relax, M. Davison. They’re how the public protects you from police brutality.”

  “With only partial success.”

  “I never laid a finger on you. ‘Sticks and stones’ and all that.”

  “Whatever philosopher added ‘words will never hurt me’ clearly had never had the privilege of your acquaintance, Sergeant.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment. Now. I hope you understand that as a witness for the defense, you’re every prosecutor’s dream come true.”

  “What?” It was almost a whisper.

  “Fact: you’ve established that we have here a cozy little knot of people who get together regularly for the purpose of torturing one another. I don’t care what kind of noble-sounding rationalizations they’re come up with, the general population—and that includes the jury pool—is going to see it as smastering. Fact: this cozy little knot of smasters—as everybody is going to see them—uses a stamped tattoo as their membership mark. Fact: this same tattoo has been found on both murder victims. Fact: tattoo stamps are registered. Artists can’t legally copy other artists’ designs, or ethically sell stamps with the same design to different and unrelated buyers. Fact: both our victims show marks of either torture or mutilation. Hard to be sure which, after the time they spent with water rinsing the wounds clean of any blood there might have been. Our consulting forensic examiner puts the highest probability on post-mortem mutilation, but people, including jurie
s, are going to ignore that and assume ‘tortured to death’ because it’s more shocking, therefore, to the disgrace of our species, more fun for most people to believe. At least when they think whoever did it is safe in custody. And when it only involves strangers. Now: put these facts together, and how do you think any jury—outside, maybe, Vegas or Frisco or possibly selected parts of New York City—is going to vote? And any conceivable element of doubt be damned.”

  “But…my own experience with Dante’s Delight…”

  “Can’t very well murder all their recruits, can they? You were just one of the luckier ones. That’s how the prosecution will call it, anyway. Of course, they might allow, M.’s Jackson and Soderstrum could have died accidentally, maybe from initiations that got too enthusiastic. The difference in the sentencing will be life plus ninety-nine years or life plus fifty.”

  “Cannot I testify at least as a character witness —”

  “Oslo Syndrome.”

  “But it was not Oslo Syndrome! They in no sense kidnapped me! I signed the consent form of my own free and unconstrained will. Had I changed my mind at any point, even on my way upstairs with M. Whitcomb, they would have allowed me to tear up the form and leave without further argument. M. Whitcomb even attempted to dissuade me, in light of my promise to —”

  “Pity she didn’t succeed. We’re not even talking facts any longer, M. Davison. We’re talking twisty little prosecution arguments. They can make it Oslo Syndrome without blinking. And your own safest course will be to let them.”

  “My…own…”

  “Make yourself out to be one of the victims, and you walk home a free man. Or turn State’s Evidence. Your testimony won’t be any more damning as a witness for the prosecution than as one for the defense, and you’ll get off with a suspended sentence.”

  As he sat digesting the information, which might never have occurred to him before, that today’s initiation nonsense had put him in almost as much danger from the law as the rest of the idiots were in, Lestrade glanced out the window and remarked, “Our giggling girls have finally left us. Probably got bored when I took over.”

  “No,” said Davison.

  “No?”

  “To pass myself off as a victim would be a lie, and I have already told too many lies in this affair.”

  “And told them too damn well.”

  “Rolegaming experience. And to turn State’s Evidence would imply that I believed them guilty. These people have befriended me. I will not turn traitor on them yet again.”

  “Then you’ll be sitting at the defendants’ table right alongside them. I hope today’s little escapade was worth it.”

  He passed a shaking hand in front of his face, sat silent for a moment. Finally he said, “Even so. I…have lost her in any case.… Please ask M. Garvey to take my cat into her home. I think M. Florsheim might like my canary.” He looked back at Lestrade and tried to crack a joke. “Possibly prison will knock some of the pomposity out of me.”

  She would’ve been disappointed in him if he had gone down either of the safe roads.

  “All right, M. Davison,” she said, leaning back against the wall and tapping her pipe again. “In confidence. I agree with you. I think they’re being framed, too.”

  He looked at her hopefully.

  She went on, “Trouble is, the idiots—including you, after today’s little picnic—have made themselves so double-damned easy to frame! I’ve even got a fairly strong hunch who’s framing them, but plain hunches don’t buy search warrants. Not without something hard to back them up.”

  “You need evidence in order to procure evidence?”

  No point spelling it out for him that his stunt had upset all her plans and hopes. One way and another, he’d been through enough for now. “See?” she said. “You can put things in a nutshell, after all.” She tabbed the chime to signal ‘done with this one’ and added, while they waited, “First offense, no previous record—I assume?”

  He shook his head.

  “New recruit, not yet part of the group when the murders happened. A good lawyer might be able to get you off with ten to twenty. At least hire your own lawyer.”

  “A ‘good’ lawyer, as opposed to the lawyer the others will have?” he protested.

  “A separate lawyer, just to underline the situation for the court. Courts can be slow on the uptake. Ah, here!”

  It was Dave who opened the door.

  “Cell number two,” she told him, jerking her head in Davison’s direction.

  “Number two, Sarge?” It was the VIP cell, the one the pollies themselves sometimes sneaked into and used when they needed a lie-down during long hours. Davison didn’t need to know that.

  “Number two, Detective. Lock him in, and come right back. Or send me Little Bird…Brown…anyone who’s available.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Still Tuesday, October 3

  The Old Woman must’ve given him a hard time, Dave thought sympathetically on their way to the cellblock. Young floater was staggering against his arm. Must be fresh out of adrenalin.

  “Yo! Kim,” Dave said, passing her. “The Old Woman wants someone in Interrogation.”

  “Right, Detective.” The rookie didn’t actually salute, but her tone of voice did. She turned and hustled away, all Official Police Business.

  “Very…very aesthetically pleasing…young officer,” Corwin murmured into Dave’s shoulder. He didn’t say anything else until they reached the cellblock. He was the next thing to sleepwalking.

  Once inside cell number two, it was Dave who broke the silence. “Corwin…”

  “Call me prisoner number…yet to be assigned.”

  “Hey, don’t even think that! Sergeant Lestrade will pull something out of her hat.”

  “I hope it is not myself.”

  “Scorch you, huh?” Dave asked sympathetically.

  The other nodded.

  “And you’re still in one piece? Impressive. Well, try not to let it get you down too far. She only scorches the ones she likes.”

  “I refuse to make an obvious rejoinder.”

  “Your privilege. Corwin…about Julie…”

  Blinking himself a little more alert, the younger man looked back into Dave’s eyes. “Officer…Detective…whatever you are thinking…there was no…activity of a salacious nature…in the Purgatorio.”

  “It’s not even that. Well, not so much. It’s… Well, dammit, boy! It’s still unhealthy, dirty. With or without.”

  Corwin gripped Dave’s upper arms and stared him even harder in both eyes. “Dave. This…peculiarity…calling it nothing worse…has cost me my…love. Please, please, I beg you, don’t let it cost you yours!”

  Then he collapsed onto the cot. Dave spread a blanket over him, left the cell, locked the door as quietly as possible, and stood in thought, looking down the corridor between the two rows of cells.

  * * * *

  Officer Little Bird,” Lestrade said when the rookie showed up. “M. Garvey still in the building?”

  “Still in the waiting room, Sergeant, just like you wanted.”

  “I’ll see her next.”

  Officer Little Bird blinked around at the interrogation room. “Sergeant, M. Garvey is not…?”

  “She’s a material witness, Officer. But in here is more comfortable than in my office, and I don’t feel like moving.”

  As soon as Little Bird had left, Lestrade finished fitting the pieces of torn letter back together again on the sink counter.

  * * * *

  The Forest Green Police Station had eight cells, each one large enough to fit four people in reasonable comfort, as far as comfort was possible when you were under arrest. Eight cells were probably overdoing it for a small city as peaceable and safe…usually…as Forest Green. Only two cells, at the far end, had already been occupied, by a separated pair of �
��drunk and disorderlies.” There was plenty of room to stick Dante’s Delight each in a separate cell. They would have preferred being together, if they’d been asked their choice.

  They were all in a row on the same side of the corridor: cells one, three, five, and seven. The Privcom guiderules still let police bug their own cellblocks, “for safety,” but Sam, Paul, Curly, and Julie had nothing incriminating to let slip as far as the police were concerned, and talking things over from their separate cells would have been possible. Still, there were those two drunk and disorderlies in cells six and eight, and prudence remained in order as far the general public was concerned. So the four friends sat—or paced—silent with their own thoughts. All had given their statements, each to a different polly, two pollies with typewriters and two with steno pads. Julie had lost track of Corwin. They had taken his fingerprints and mug shots first, and then led him off to some back area of the station.

  She sat on her cot in cell number seven and allowed herself to cry.

  She heard someone come in, a murmur of voices…too low and far away for her to make out the words, but she thought she recognized Dave’s voice, and Corwin’s. They must finally have finished with him, too. Locking him up beside the rest of them. Julie wiped her eyes and wondered whether Dave would come all the way down the corridor to her cell.

  He did. She raised her eyes and saw him there, standing on the other side of the bars, looking in at her.

  “Hey, M. Handsome,” she said weakly.

  “Hey, Dragon Lady.”

  She was at her cell door in three strides, groping for him through the bars.

  He leaned in against the side of the cell door, reached his own arms between the bars, and gently seized her shoulders. “Julie. Back there at Sam’s house…that was the pollydeck. This is the man, me, your Dragon Prince.”

  Pressing as close as the bars let them, they clutched each other and managed a long, sweet kiss. A cheer spread through the rest of the cell block: starting with the two drunk and disorderlies, who had the best view, quickly spreading to Sam, Paul, Curly, and finally, she thought, reaching Corwin at the far end.