The Seven Books of Aquarius

Book 7. From the Beast (The Seventh Catamite, Jason)



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Book 7: From the Beast (Part 1)

By Ganymede

With editing and technical assistance from Master Frank

Original documents translated and interpreted by: Professor Andrew K. Paxton
Historical accuracy and fact checking by: Keith Reiner, Ph.D. Ancient History
Prose checking and inspiration by: Anonymous Maestro



Key historical sources:


Αδελφότητα (Lit. Brotherhood) presages the birth of a boy (Ιάσονας Greek) Jason) on December 19, 2004. See Vol II, Lines 567 to 604.

Hadrian’s compilation, Fraternitatem, foretells an inspirational child who would spend his formative years in a barn in great pain, and his middle years in great joy.

Documents in Drawer 39 of the Vatican's secret Library of St. Rasmus refer to five oracles pertaining to the seventh and most powerful of the Aquarian Catamites.



Chapter 1.

It began with a growl and a slow swoop through the sky. The beast’s three talons gouged into the earth and stopped, as if reconsidering. With a full-throated roar from a massive Cummins diesel engine, the claw disappeared into hard-packed ground, a furrow of torn and ragged clods ripped behind it. It emerged, dropping clumps before it swung sideways. A moment later, it began another downward sweep. Inside the nearest classroom, all but one of the boys and six of the girls kept watch through fly-spotted windows.

Ten-year-old Jason Thorne was elsewhere. Only that day, playground talk had turned from football to girls. To his dismay, his friends, Chad and Ronny, had decided Kathy Madison was the prettiest girl in town, maybe the world. Even without their knowledge of the world, he was bright enough to realize they were overreacting. She sat in the row in front of him, two seats to his left, so close he could see a freckle on her neck. So what if she was the object of envy among every girl, the object of desire and competition among every boy at C. K. Mason Elementary School old enough to spit?

He drifted in his thoughts, far from Ms. Enrich’s determined march through Imperial Europe, 18th century British exploration in particular. His chin rested in his cupped palm, his thumb pushed into his jaw. His body was perfectly still, braced by his left arm resting on the well-worn desktop. Intermittently, his fingers massaged his cheek. He contemplated escape, a possibility remote even to his fertile mind.

Afternoon light streamed through the windows, wilting the children who were closest to the wall. Kathy Madison’ reddish-blond hair glistened; a dancing, curling fire down her back. She wore an expensive blue shirt and tight-fitting designer jeans. She looked happy. Jason’s half-closed eyes stayed in a daydream brought on by lack of sleep and the lethargic warmth of the sun.

Outside, the sky was the crisp cerulean blue typical of early autumn in Arkansas, so clear that it seemed you could see the individual leaves on trees on the distant, rolling hills. Each day the golden-red tones of fall grew stronger, slowly changing the spectrum.

Kathy turned slightly towards her best friend, and a tiny flicker of a smile floated between the two girls. Jason wondered what the source of their secret amusement was.

“Thorne.”

Jason jumped, his daydream interrupted by Ms. Enrich’s uttering his name. His heart pounded as he looked up. A fiery blush burned across a tan earned over a long summer's work on his stepfather’s farm.

“Who me?” he said nervously.

He straightened up in his seat and tried desperately to reenter the last few minutes of the history class. Even as he tried to concentrate, he stole a quick glance at the clock on the classroom wall opposite the windows. Five minutes to go. He cursed under his breath.

“Any other Thornes here?” Ms. Enrich politely inquired of the class as though it was possible.

There was a sudden relieved wave of giggles from thirty other students who temporarily joined in a silent conspiracy. The victim of the moment was alone.

Jason shook his head.

“Have you been paying attention?” She had a faint smile, the low-level triumph of one who wins at hide-and-seek.

He’d been in the clouds since school started. He nodded, though he had no idea what the question was. His misery increased exponentially; not only was Kathy Madison smirking at him, everyone else was. He looked down at his desk. It was as if he saw the scarred fake-wood top for the first time. Carved into the plastic surface and retraced in pencil and marker were the usual schoolboy taunts of past and present. However, his eyes were drawn to the ‘A queer sits here,’ an anonymous message from two days ago. He reddened even more before he risked looking up at Ms. Enrich.

“Thorne?”

Jason stared straight ahead. Just five minutes to go and it would all be over. “Could you repeat the question, Ms. Enrich?” He smiled hopefully.

His voice was always high-pitched. Given the nervous tremor afflicting it, it became a mouse-like squeak. The silence was long and painful. He waited, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as Ms. Enrich came up to his desk. Two hundred-and-forty pounds of trained educator stopped inches from the 62-pound boy. She loomed over him and glared down. Jason swallowed and slowly raised his eyes. His tongue brushed against the back of his teeth as he waited. He knew, as every student knew, that Enrich could not be rushed, you just had to wait her out. And no blinking. He straightened up in his seat, swallowed, and pushed his tongue firmly into his teeth to stop the quiver in his jaw.

“Certainly, Jason,”

Again the class giggled and Jason sank back into his seat. Ms. Enrich frowned.

“Perhaps you could tell us something about British explorations of the Pacific during the 18th century?”

Jason blinked. “Pacific? I thought we were still in Africa.”

“Go Jason,” Chad whispered from behind him. Chad Wilson was Kathy Madison’s greatest admirer.

“Enough!” Ms. Enrich snapped. “Unless Mr. Wilson wants to tell us about the voyages of Captain Cook, instead?”

Now, her voice was measured. She’d provided the all-important clue; there was no faster way to find out if a child had been listening.

“James Cook, right?” Jason said, hoping he didn’t stutter or mumble because either one was trouble.

She raised her eyebrows with a pained expression, though she considered letting him off the hook. The silence returned. Jason blinked furiously, racking his mind as he tried to remember what he had studied the night before.

He stalled. “Like in 1700 and something?”

When she frowned, he slid farther down in his seat, physically shrinking under her gaze. It was impossible not to cower before her. His throat was parched like summer’s dry dust. He sifted his mind for a few phrases, anything to do with eighteenth century explorations. All he could think of was Magellan, and Lord only knew that wasn't in the eighteenth century. He didn't sound very 'British' either.

‘Say something’ was the rule, even if it meant running the risk of irritating Ms. Enrich. Stalling just increased her impatience. Anything was better than that, even a public admission of ignorance on a subject he had, in fact, studied.

“Thorne?”

At the worst possible time, his gut churned. He wriggled in his seat to stem the unending ache in his britches. Shame surged, his heart inching closer to panic.

“Captain Cook was like a British explorer who went to the Pacific… in the 1700s.”

The class roared. In the middle of it, Kathy turned and mouthed ‘Australia’ at him. Ms. Enrich looked around, not amused. Silence returned instantly. She backed away, miraculously passing between the desks, all the way back to the chalkboard.

“After class, Thorne,” she said.

Jason breathed out. What awaited him at home was much worse than anything she could do to him after school. Arriving home late made for a far bigger problem. He looked down and tried to bury his face in the open notebook before him. The pages were empty. He stared at the blankness. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed Kathy making exaggerated silent syllables. Suddenly, he remembered everything. He stood up, eager to redeem himself.

“Sit down, Thorne!” Enrich said firmly.

“Ms. Enrich? Please?”

She vexed her eyebrows, and then changed her mind. She nodded swiftly.

“Captain James Cook was a captain in the British Navy; and in 1770 he commanded a sailing ship on a voyage around the world. His ship was the Endeavor. It used to carry coal around England, so he had it fixed up for the trip,” Jason stopped and took a much-needed breath. “First he sailed to South America and around Cape Horn, and across the Pacific Ocean, and he discovered New Zealand, and Australia…” He grinned at Kathy. “… and he got shipwrecked, and then he sailed back to England…”

‘Thank you, Thorne.”

Jason wasn’t close to stopping. “… only he really didn't discover Australia, because some other people had been there before him. Some Dutch guys on their way to the East Indies that Columbus was trying to get to when he discovered America. Anyway, Captain Cook made two more voyages, and sailed to Tahiti and Hawaii, and then…”

“Yes, Jason. Thank you!” she interrupted.

The class laughed as Jason slumped into his seat. The clock on the wall seemed to jerk when the minute hand moved from 2.59 p.m. to 3.00 p.m. At that instant, a tidal wave of movement began through the building, a rising crescendo accompanied by the insistent screech of a buzzer that went for several long seconds before it died. The noise in the corridor grew ever louder, erupting into Ms. Enrich’s fourth-grade history lesson. Students, in one sweeping updraft, began to rise from their seats. No teacher could hope to stem the tide of ten-year-old bodies on Friday afternoon.

“Class dismissed,” she called as they rushed for the exit to freedom.

Jason was quiet as he pushed his books into his backpack. He watched Ms. Enrich shuffle through homework assignments. She seemed oblivious to his presence. Three minutes passed slowly, then four minutes. His bus was always the first to leave because it had the farthest to go. She moved slowly across the room to the chalkboard, making ineffectual sweeps with an eraser white with chalk dust. The minute hand jerked past ‘five’. His bus left at 3:06 exactly. Unless it had another flat battery, he had a five-mile walk in front of him in less than a minute. He coughed quietly, not wanting to draw attention. The slight noise reached Ms. Enrich as she wiped the far end of the board.

She turned around. “Jason, why are you still here?”

“You said I had to stay, Ms. Enrich.”

He shuffled his feet and looked down at his shoes. His grimy-gray sneakers were old. The laces had broken twice so bows had become knots and frayed ends dragged on the floor. His faded-denim jeans barely reached his ankles, and like his shoes, were too cheap to be comfortable.

The woman considered the young boy who stood awkwardly in front of her. Jason T. Thorne carried himself with a gentle hesitancy, not the animal of thoughtless energy that inhabited most fourth-grade boys. He seemed to welcome the chance to understand and express ideas and emotions. She expected that would change. Jason Thorne was also the brightest boy that she had taught in 28 years. Those 28 years had also taught her how unlikely it was that he would ever amount to anything, not even if he looked like the Home Improvement kid and he could do 8th grade math problems in his head.

More than shabby clothes, his long light-blond hair set him apart. It wasn’t short like other boys. She almost smiled. Perhaps he would amount to something after all, though not in Wilford, Missouri. She assumed, rightly, that Jason’s shaggy hair was less reflection of social status than personal preference. It signaled disposition as surely as his parents hanging a sign on him, yet somehow he managed to avoid the ridicule that such inclinations invited.

“Do you remember how and where Captain Cook's ship was damaged?”

Jason grinned triumphantly. “The Endeavor hit a coral reef and had to be beached for repairs. It was the Great Barrier Reef in Australia, Ms. Enrich.”

She suppressed another smile and nodded reassuringly, gesturing towards the door to indicate dismissal. “Have a nice weekend, Jason.”

Jason looked at her shyly as he scooped up his backpack, “You too, Ms. Enrich,” he said quietly. He turned toward the open door and the long trek home.

The teacher watched Jason move slowly between the desks. The boy's head was down and his shoulders were slumped. Anyone could tell that he was unhappy.

“Jason?” she queried tentatively.

He turned slowly. “Yeah?” He sounded both worried and uncertain, which increasingly was normal behavior for him.

“Jason, is everything okay?”

The boy shrugged. She hadn't really expected him to answer. They seldom did.

“Jason, I might be able to help?” she tried again.

He glanced away, reluctant to meet her gaze. Ms. Enrich sighed. How many times had she made the same inquiry and received the same response? The signs were all too familiar. She’d grown up on Route 308.

“Jason, if you need to talk, I'm here,” she said gently. Such a delightfully handsome boy deserved better, but Mary Enrich had long ago abandoned any notion that life was fair, though good looks certainly helped.

The boy shrugged again. “Yeah, thanks Ms. Enrich.” His unbroken voice had a melodious softness that conveyed polite appreciation, while his entire demeanor rejected anything she might say.

She suddenly felt bone weary. “Jason, stay safe, okay?”

The boy still looked away, yet a sigh escaped. He held his breath to regain control of himself, his mouth an unyielding line. Ms. Enrich inclined her head with a nod of understanding. Perhaps he knew best, after all. Most of the children who passed through her classroom learned to deal with their problems in their lives. Involving herself just gave them more problems.

She watched the boy leave before she turned to cleaning the classroom—a year earlier the janitor had been laid-off after a tax levy failed. Teachers emptied trashcans, and brought supplies from home. However, there was plenty of money for solar panels and heat pumps, and the new geothermal system currently being stalled under the preschool playground.

Jason walked slowly down the corridor and pushed through the doors at the far end of the hall, hoping he would see Chad and Ronny. As he came through the doors and onto the landing, he scanned the playground. There was no sign of them. Like his bus, they had left.

Unlike them, Kathy Madison had not left. She was deep in conversation with a girl Jason didn’t much care for. He started down the stairs. There was an immediate tightening in his chest when he thought he heard his name. There was a giggle and Kathy hushed her friend as Jason came past. He pretended to ignore them despite the telltale blush on his cheeks. He was certain that they were laughing about his miserable performance in class.

“Hi Jason,” Kathy called out after he had gone a few paces past her.

He stopped and turned. The beautiful Kathy had actually spoken his name. Kathy's friend giggled as he looked at his feet. He could feel the heat building in his face.

After a long pause, he mumbled, “Hi Kathy.”

“It took you forever to wake up.”

“Yeah; I was kind of on drugs. Thanks for Aus-tra-lia.”

He grew redder, rooted to the ground. He wanted to casually walk away, coolly nonchalant, except his legs were as immobile and ineffectual as his tongue. The other girl, whose name Jason drew a blank on, giggled louder.

“At least she didn't keep you very long,” Kathy observed with a slow smile. “You're her favorite, you know.”

By now, even his ears were burning hot. He wanted to sink through the pavement and into the earth. “Favorite would be you!”

“You even sound like him,” the other girl giggled. Jason despised her.

Kathy turned. “I'll see you tomorrow, Julie!”

“You going to tell him?”

Kathy looked annoyed. “At the mall, okay?”

“Sure, tomorrow!” Julie smiled at him and picked up her bag. “I'll see you Monday, Jay-Tee.”

Most kids called him Jay-Tee even though his namesake, JTT, starred in the 90s.

Kathy watched her friend all the way down the path. Jason shuffled his feet and dropped his bag off his shoulder. Holding it by the strap, he swung it inches off the pavement.

Kathy turned toward him. “You think you and Danny will be at the mall tomorrow?”

“Nah, I got a list of chores through next month.”

Julie reached the school gate. She looked back before disappearing behind the trees. Kathy’s green eyes met Jason’s blue eyes.

“What did you mean about Ms. Enrich?” Jason asked.

“Everyone knows the mean old witch likes you,” Kathy scoffed.

Jason’s lips tightened. Anger flashed through his mind. Ms. Enrich was nicer than any other teacher he’d had.

“It's only because you're so cute.” Kathy’s smile measured the boy beside her.

Jason never expected that. Now, he had to say something nice, even if he didn’t mean it. “I think you're really pretty, Kathy.”

“You're the cutest boy in the whole school. Everybody in town says how cute you are.”

He watched in disbelief as a yellow and black school bus pulled away from the rank of buses in front of the school.

“Fuck!”

“You’re on bus 12?”

“Yeah! Now, I got to walk five fucking miles.”

“Why don't you just call your mom or dad to pick you up?” Kathy asked with a little shrug.

“Yeah, right.” He rubbed at his left eye. Up close, you could still see a bruise.

She flicked her head making her long hair bounce around. “You don’t like Julie very much, do you?”

“She’s okay.” Jason studied his feet. With his eyes downcast, his expression was unreadable.

“Do you like me?”

“I guess,” he said with a quiet uncertainty.

Saying it made him feel better, even though he worried his secret wasn’t a secret. It was how she looked at him, as if she knew everything about him. If she did, she knew he lived a lie.

“I’m okay for a girl, huh?”

He grinned. “After Aus-tra-lia, you’re cool.”

“I said it like ten times.”

“So I’m slow.”

Kathy giggled back and closed the gap until they were inches apart, making the difference in height all too apparent. Jason was a good four inches shorter. Next to her, Jason seemed younger than ten, a little boy avoiding the pressing metamorphosis of childhood.

Kathy him a friendly bump. “If you’re walking home, my place isn’t that far out of the way.”

“You live on Elmhurst, don't you?”

She gave the nod of the privileged. Elmhurst Avenue, on the west side of town, was the heart of Wilford’s most gracious turn-of-the-century homes.

“Am I walking home by myself?”

“I guess not,” he shrugged with a boy’s unwitting vagueness, knowing all too well why he was supposed to go home immediately after school.

Kathy led him like a puppy down the path. The rest of the school buses pulled away from the curb as Jason followed her through the gate. To the right lay Main Street, and the street to Kathy’s house.

Just past the Greyhound bus station sign, the road leveled out and became what Main Street was supposed to be. The town had changed little since the Second World War. There were some recent changes, of course; buildings were crumbling as if in response to the town’s outward sprawl. A few shops survived behind glass-enclosed storefronts, the rest opaque with paint and converted to offices.

“How did you know where I live?” she asked sweetly.

Jason swung his book bag back and forth, and lied. “Danny Benson told me.”

“Danny’s okay.” She stopped outside the Democratic Party Headquarters, bunting and flags stuck to the walls. “I miss the toy store.”

Shortly after he had moved to Arkansas, Jason had visited the toy store with his mother and the man she had just married. He’d just turned seven, and was perpetually happy. He remembered gazing into the window of Kids of All Ages, resisting the forward tug of his mother's hand. A huge, painted ‘SALE’ sign splashed in vivid red paint across the front window. It was four days before Christmas with ‘50% OFF’ and ‘EVERYTHING MUST GO.’ It was the day when everything changed.

Jason quickly turned from the memory. “I gotta keep movin’, Kathy.”

“Julie thinks you’re gay. That’s why you don’t talk to girls.”

He almost fainted. Blood drained from his face before it rushed back with a vengeance. “She’s crazy.”

“You’re too pretty not to be queer.”

His face got even redder. “She said that?”

“I don’t care if you are. Lots of boys are gay.”

“Yeah, right!”

“I don’t know why everyone hates gays. My uncle’s really nice and he likes boys.”

Jason gulped and muttered something about needing to get a life. However, all he could think about was about Kathy’s uncle. They walked side by side, talking school and avoiding friends.

“You are gay, right?” Kathy asked when they reached the next corner.

“What kind of question is that?”

“Are you?”

Jason swallowed hard. “Danny tell you I was?”

“I’ll still like you, Jason.”

“It’s not normal.” He hadn’t meant to say that.

“Who knows what’s normal?”

“It’s the worst sin there is; that’s what my stepdad says.”

“It’s just different, that’s what my dad says, and he ought to know.”

“Your uncle is gay, really?”

She nodded. “It doesn’t make you a bad person, Jason.”

There was a slight spring in his step after that. They turned onto Elmhurst. For Wilford, Elmhurst’s houses were mansions, late-Victorian ornate buildings with gracious verandahs, and pretentious entries sculpted from red brick and pale limestone. Kathy stopped in front of one of the grandest with a wide verandah that went all the way around. Jason was sure it was the same porch as the one in his photograph.

“This is where I live,” Kathy said brightly.

Jason studied the house with envy. It was set well back from the street with a manicured lawn and colorful garden amid ancient oaks.

“It’s nice,” he murmured.

“You want to come inside?”

“I can’t,” Jason said uncomfortably. “I’m already late”

“Uncle John’s here for the weekend. He lives in St. Louis. That’s his car.”

It was a Triumph TR6, green with wire spoke wheels. Jason got flustered and had no idea why. “His car’s sweet.”

“Mom says it’s because he’s old-fashioned. He doesn’t have a cell phone.”

“Neither do I.”

She giggled. “So you have three things in common.”

“He really likes boys?” Just saying it made him nervous.

“You want to date him? He’s really handsome,” she teased.

Jason didn’t believe she’d said ‘date’. “What’s he do? He a doctor like your dad?”

“He’s a scientist, kind of a genius, but so so weird.” She smiled at him. “He brought Simba with him.”

“Okay.”

“You know, Simba the Lion King cub. If he had a boyfriend, he wouldn’t get lonely at night.”

He shrugged, not about to say what he really thought. He was certain Kathy would hate him if she knew what he dreamed about when he kissed his pillow at night. It’d crossed his mind 32 times since they left the school grounds; every man they passed received a glance; some short and nervous, some long and hard, which always left him shivery all over.

She regarded him diffidently. “I thought you’d want to meet him.”

“Because I’m weird?” Weird was the safe form of different.

“You’re into science and math like he is. That’s four things you have in common.”

Jason fell for it. “What’s the other thing?”

“You’re both really good-looking.” The way she smiled, she might have been thinking something else. “You sure you don’t want to come inside?”

“Maybe next time. I gotta go, really.”

“I bet he’d drive you home if I asked him.”

Jason felt his face get hot. “Nah, it’s cool. I gotta go.”

“So go. I’ll see you Monday.”

Perhaps her mother was right about the people who lived on the east side of town.

When Jason looked back, Kathy had crossed the front lawn and was nearly out of sight. He watched her passing between the little green sports car and the bushes beside the stairs before she disappeared from view.

He hurried down Main Street, jogging after he passed the clock on the town hall tower. It was already three-thirty. He passed the police station, a cruiser outside ready for the weekend bar fights and family explosions on his side of town. That very cruiser had come to Jason’s house about his 911 call.

Large, painted-wood houses with elaborate fretwork and lathe-turned millwork took the place of shops and banks. Once home to the town’s middle class, they were now poor multi families. Paint peeled away in palm-sized flakes, exposing silver-gray wood beneath. Cheap automobiles clogged the driveways, remnants of the previous decade hidden among rusty cans and rye grass. He’d lived on the second floor of one of those houses before his mom married his stepfather. He wished he still lived there.

He jogged past the gas station, crowded with pick-up trucks. There were six men outside, none of whom were worth a second glance. There were two men at the Co-op Feed and Grain with its earthy odor and rental farm implements in neat rows. He stared at one who might’ve been his grandfather.

Danny Benson waved from a pick-up truck as it roared into town. From his neon-green shirt, he was headed to soccer practice. Long-haired, Danny Benson had run away at the start of the summer, gone for most of three months. He reappeared a week before school started, which gave him minor cult status. Jason was one of a handful of people who knew he gave blowjobs in Gateway Arch Park, St. Louis until a rival hustler beat him up.

Just beyond the sandstone ridge, the road forked to Ravendon, 136 miles to St. Louis. A little farther was the Wilford Regional Airport, built in 1936. It was a stark reminder of Wilford’s past success, and the only murder in 52 years. It was at the end of 2012 and people still talked about it and the private jet that had disappeared into the dark cold night.

He jogged downhill, kicking at empty beer cans, the wind blowing in his face. A faded sign on a blackened wood barn set forth the virtues of chewing tobacco. Jason had passed it in school bus 12 close to a thousand times, each time wondering why anyone would want to chew tobacco. Floodplain soil was rich, not the people who lived in trailers on concrete block foundations. He passed Danny’s house, its wooden deck brightened with pots of flowers and a flagpole. A patch of bare soil reminded him. There was no turning back after that.

Jason T. Thorne was fully erect before he’d walked a half-dozen paces, only this time there was no one to see him slip his hand under the waist of his jeans. For a hundred yards, he fondled his penis, his face flushed and belly aching, tormented by unspeakable desire.

He’d been hidden from prying eyes when he surrendered to lust, lying in the dust among abandoned cars and a haphazard jumble of a blue-gray Ford tractor, green Deere seeders and sprayers, and a red hay baler. His scruffy shorts were pulled down to his ankles for Danny to suck him. Grinning and showing off his skills, newly acquired from St. Louis, Danny introduced him to the Devil’s sweet pleasure. His hair danced on Jason’s bare belly. It was the same color as the broad expanse of yellowing corn that stretched to the river.

It was only the start. Comforted by the sun on his back, Jason reciprocated, never realizing he possessed the ability to give unparalleled joy. It felt right, and it tasted good, enough to make a boy queer forever. Nonetheless, the voice in his head was insistent, though he’d heard it only once before, and then it was saying ‘you serve Zeus, the Great God of All.’

Later, he said he would never do it again, but Danny insisted he was too pretty to be straight. He made it sound as if Jason’s good looks somehow made it right to have another boy’s unwavering three inches stuffed in his mouth. However, it was the only time. Jason was too scared to let it happen again.

The road turned from the river and began to rise. Farmhouses and barns replaced trailers, inherited millstones passed from father to son since the early 1800s. Jason knew the farmers who lived on these farms; he’d worked on their hay balers, lugging and stacking bales for a few bucks an hour. He played with their children too, while their mothers sat on front porches snapping beans for dinner, or hanging wash on clothes lines.

Jason started jogging again, chasing imaginary balls with agile skill, humming mindless melodies, anything to avoid thinking about what waited for him. When he passed the creek that separated his farm from the Ferguson’s, his nightmare started again. He was lucky; the one thing he wanted to remember was always crystal clear. The rest was like a fog that made everything hazy.

It began two years and nine months ago, three days after his seventh birthday. It was the same day they’d gone into the toy store. Given that Christmas was only four days away, he'd asked for Simba. On sale, it was only $11.99, which was cheap for a big furry lion cub to help a boy sleep at night. . His stepfather chastised him during the drive home, accusing Jason of ravenousness greed. He added gluttony, avarice, and self-indulgence, awful sins in the eyes of the Lord. He dragged Jason into the barn for punishment.

It was night when Jason stumbled out, bitterly cold with the wind sweeping across the prairie. He’d been shivering when the old man found him, hiding between thin, twisting trees, wearing only bloodied blue jeans. The man might have been an out of work Santa Claus, withered and bearded, or a hobo with a big overcoat that was open in front. However, he was gentle with the boy as he took down his pants. His voice was soothing, whether speaking of things from the long distant past or giving a progress report on his inspection of Jason’s small bottom. He applied nature’s salve, rubbing his saliva into the tortured opening. As if by magic, Jason’s agony vanished, bloodied fissures sealing until the only damage was a blurred memory.

It was warm and comforting sitting in the old man’s lap, his hands reassuring as they stroked slender bare thighs. Even the thing pushing into Jason’s bottom didn’t bother him. It was as big as the awful device which preceded it in the barn, though it didn’t hurt in the slightest. Whatever it was, it wasn’t there very long, a few minutes at most, yet it gave him a reason to live.

When the man began to move him up and down, Jason glowed all over. This was what he needed, rhythmic and powerful, and alive inside him. Nothing else mattered. It grew, harder and thicker, and hotter, until Jason quivered. The man held him tightly in place, as erratic pulses began. That moment, Jason’s heart stopped. It started again, having missed seven of Jason’s rapid heartbeats, as long as it took the man to intone, ‘Now, you serve Zeus, the Great God of All.’

Heat poured into him, frantic gushes deep in his core, life itself spreading through him, reaching into every part of his body. His sturdy little penis throbbed insistently. The old man touched it tenderly and whispered, ‘The youngest and last boy of seven, rosy-fingered and crowned with fuchsia, will discover unlimited power.’

When Jason finally looked down, his penis was different. It glowed, the shaft seductively pink, the head vibrant magenta. His balls were enormous, stretching his little pouch so taut that it might burst any moment. Yet even as he stared in amazement, his penis jerked, spurting mercurial fluid from the end of it. Immediately, his testicles started to shrivel. Eggs that had belonged on a potent teenage boy, now belonged on a baby. His stretched scrotum ended up as a dangling fold of delicate pink skin. It looked as if there was nothing inside it.

‘My little lion cub has roared his first and last time, but not to worry; my seed is inside you,’ the old man whispered, still clutching Jason against him. By then, his navel burned from within, the mark around it as mysterious as his still-twitching penis. “Remember, the more he hurts you, the stronger you will be when you ascend.”

In that wonderful aftermath, he began to shiver again. The man gave him a girl’s nylon jacket to wear, pink and blue, and three sizes too large. It had a cartoon of Simba and ‘lion cub’ on the back.

When he slipped into the house and went up to his bedroom, his stuff had been scattered across the floor, his toys smashed or ripped apart. The photograph of his father that his mom had given him was a few crinkled burned flakes on his desk. He’d cried as he stuffed the jacket in a shoebox at the back of his closet.

+++++

Beyond no trespassing signs, Jason saw the farmhouse where he lived with his mother, his five-year-old half-sister, and his stepfather. The house was a simple box with a pyramid roof, stark efficiency interrupted only by a porch. At first glance, it was no different than any other farmhouse on Route 380. On one side was an ancient oak tree, its branches shadowing the house. On the other side was the barn. Jason hated the barn.

He looked about as he passed through the gate; no sign of his stepfather. He stepped onto the front porch, ready to reach for the knob when the door suddenly flung open.

Every Sunday in the East Wilford Church of the Redeemer, Jason T. Thorne sat in hand-me-down clothes as old as he was and tried to blank out the embittered lessons of his stepfather, Deacon Thomas Bachman. He was a man who found fault in everyone, especially Jason. Now, he loomed from the gloom, dressed in dirty bib-overalls and a graying plaid shirt. He had reason to vent and Jason recoiled, his lips jammed together in the kind of grim resolve that survival required. Jason hated his stepfather.

“Where’ve you been?”

“It wasn’t my fault. I missed my bus.” Jason stared at grey wood boards spotted with chicken blood.

Suddenly, that familiar voice in his head came back to life. ‘Meet his eye.’ He looked up, meek as a barn mouse.

“Liar! You were defiling yerself with that wicked Benson boy.”

“I wasn’t! The teacher kept me back a few minutes, that's all.”

“It don’t explain three hours late!”

“It wasn’t like that.” The voice said, ‘tell him why.’ “The bus left before I could get there. I had to walk home.”

“So you say. I’m tired of your lies. Your evil pollutes my house. Every day I thank the Lord, you kept your surname.”

His mother appeared behind him. Name or not, no one had ever mistaken Jason as not being her son. She looked like a boy herself.

“Mom?”

“Thomas, he walked the whole way. See, he's out of breath. He can make up the time.”

“Your son is lazy and worthless, Christine.” His fervor went up a notch, same as it did every Sunday before he started his tirade. “He’s consorted with Moloch! His soul is imprisoned, bound by the chains of sin. You know it as well I do.”

“Please, Thomas, it’s only this one time?”

“Git in the barn, shameful boy!”

Jason blinked. ‘Don’t cry,’ the voice warned. He wasn’t going to cry no matter what. “Mom, it wasn't my fault. I ran most of the way. Can't I have some water at least?" he pled.

“Thirst is good for the soul!” he interrupted.

“I’m sorry, Honey.”

“Moloch himself forged your chains, boy. Only the Lord can set you free. With His blessed help I can break each link.” He turned on her with a gesture demanding agreement.

She nodded. “It’s for the best, Jason. You can have a nice warm bath afterwards.”

“Let us pray that he can atone for his sins before it’s too late.

Our Holy Father’s Son, who loves each child without sin;

Hallowed be thy name, Blessed Savior,

We stand before Thee at Heaven’s drawbridge

To beg forgiveness. Cast aside this wicked child’s chains,

Sever each shameful link forged in foul sin,

Let him feel your hot flame with each plea for punishment

Give me the strength to drive out Moloch, I beseech you;

That I might release him as Thy Servant.”

“Amen. Forgive me my foolishness. I know you mean well, Thomas!”

“Keep our daughter indoors, Mother.” Deacon Bachman rose to his full height of five foot five inches. He pointed at the barn. “Go!” Only dogs snarled like that.

Jason turned. At the bottom of the stairs, he glanced back. She never looked at him when he was being punished.

“Don’t hurt him too much, Thomas.”

“I’ll not spare the prod 'til each sin is undone. We’ll be back when Moloch has gone.”

Chapter 2

The barn filled page 63 of Laura Armistad’s Missouri Barns; ‘A unique example of vernacular excess, this rustic, somewhat eclectic barn on Route 308 is nothing less than a hallowed temple to the farming way of life… its builder possessed by the Spirit, and an eye for cadence and syntax.’ With book in hand, barn fans gazed from the road to discover rural harmony. With difficulty, one could discern the unpretentious archetype of the Great Plains house of God; mostly, it was Gothic glut.

With the barn door closed and locked from within, Deacon Thomas Bachman glared at his stepson. He held his tongue as if awaiting divine stimulus. It arrived when a pigeon fluttered out. Many more pigeons had been there two years and nine months earlier.

“Did you use the Lord's name in vain today?”

He always started the same way he ended the previous day, an unending circle of questions to uncover his stepson’s transgressions. How he remembered was surely a miracle.

 Jason winced within. “No!”

“You must answer to Him, not me! And you lied! Two sins of the worst possible kind.”

He held out his hand, fingers snapping until Jason responded, inching into the shadow behind bales of hay. He plucked at shirt buttons, shamefully revealing his body to his stepfather’s mute scrutiny. From behind, he was flawless, wiry like a hard-worked farm kid, smooth skin hued like honey, not a single freckle. From the front, a sculpted expanse of taut muscle and bone formed perfect proportions. A port-wine birthmark blemished the otherwise immaculate boy, though he hadn’t always had it.

“Did you shame your body today?”

Jason wrapped his arms around his middle to hide the blotch around his belly button. He flinched when he tried to shake his head. Bachman pounced on prevarication.

“You are a disgusting, disgraceful boy.” He snapped his fingers again.

Each transgression meant one piece of clothing. The inquisition would halt when Jason was totally naked. Then, transgressions received punishment. So far, only his torso was nude.

“I didn’t touch *it*, honest. I didn't even think about it.”

His stepfather almost slapped him. “That you entertained even the thought is enough to count for two, plus two for another lie.”

Meekly, Jason nudged off a sneaker. He didn’t need to hear ‘sock too’ to lift his foot and yank off his sock.

Bachman gaped at the newly bared skin, his sex already bulging behind Dickies’ overalls. Even the boy's ankle and foot got to him.

“What else was on your wicked mind today?”

Jason stared at the ground, seeming stupid or incipiently masochistic. He’d learned not to care. To get it finished, he nudged off his other sneaker and pulled off his sock. His silence was evidence enough for his stepfather.

“I didn’t touch it, honest.”

However, that voice in his head immediately chided, ‘you’re a boy, you’re supposed to touch it.’ He couldn’t help smiling just a little.

“Yet another offense!” His stepfather walked around him, muttering, “Lord, I beseech you, this sinful child must be disciplined.”

He stepped back, as if contemplating which sin to probe next, or simply just looking.

Inspired by divine beauty, or simply devious, he inquired,” Did you yield to temptation today, boy?”

Jason’s usually nimble fingers fumbled at the button of his jeans. It took three nervous tugs to open the zipper. He paused. Sometimes, his stepfather insisted on doing the rest. Sometimes, his stepfather was barely able to contain his disgust.

“You expect me to defile myself?” It was visceral and contemptuous.

Chastened, Jason hurriedly shoved down his jeans, past his knees, all the way down to bunch at his ankles.

Bachman looked again, longer this time. “How many is that?”

Jason squirmed. “Three, Sir.”

“Your pecker is like Pinocchio’s nose. It gives you away, boy.” He oozed delight whenever he saw his stepson’s miniature erection.

Humiliated, Jason couldn’t help but glance down at the traitor. According to Chad and Ronny, his penis was the smallest in the fourth grade. He hoped they were teasing, yet it seemed small to him as well. It poked into his underpants like an undersized thumb sticking out. On his muscular little body, it made him look preposterous.

“No wonder it’s tiny when you lie all the time.”

Jason glared back.

“Did you wash today?”

Jason nodded meekly. His eyes blinked as he peered down his front. The mark was blotchy. No matter how long or often he washed, it stayed. Even lye soap, which burned his belly skin, couldn’t remove it. It just made it less precise, less geometrical aberration.

“Did you curse today?”

Jason nodded, suddenly terrified. The awful dread was long gone; since Christmas he’d experienced a quivering thrill that he’d come to despise.

“What are you waiting for?”

With his hands on his hips, Jason peeled off his tight white elastic-waist briefs, past his lithe brown thighs to his knees, sliding down his smooth lean legs until they joined his jeans in the dust. Instantly, his loins and chest pimpled like a recently plucked goose.

Bachman stared at the brown bare body and crimson flushed face. “How many times did you curse today?”

Jason wavered from ‘none.’ What fourth-grade boy didn’t say ‘fuck’ at least once a day?

Bachman waited with steadfast eyes. His stepson’s rigid penis pointed to the heavens. What it lacked in size, his scrotum made up for. Even now, it hung low.

Meekly, Jason held up one hand as if he was about to swear to tell the truth and nothing but the truth.

“Five?” Bachman scoffed.

“It m-might have been m-more.” Goose skin covered him completely now.

Despite Jason’s shame, or perhaps because of it, the voice in his head stayed calm. ‘Always look him in the eye.’

“How many more?”

Jason had no idea. He grabbed at the last time his stepfather believed him. “A f-f-few. M-maybe ei-ei-ght.”

“Will you ever learn not to lie?”

“I-I-I don’t r-remember. Ten, I think.”

The voice was very quiet, yet not to be trifled with. ‘He is the coward. Not you.’

“Ten!“ Bachman shook his head. “Step out of those pants, boy so He sees what a liar looks like.

He strode to his bench, picking through 40 lengths of chain until he found what he wanted. The chains of sin spanned the gamut. Sins of the Body were 1/8-inch thick. Sins of the Mind were a 1/4-inch thick. The worst were Sins of the Soul, Hell Fire and Eternal Damnation by another name. They were 3/8-inch thick. He chopped them into sections, from one link to ten.

He looked up to the rafters, 35 feet up. “Lord, help me rid this boy of Moloch. Show me the way.”

When he looked back at Jason, he was smiling serenely, three appropriate lengths of chain dangling from his fingers.

Jason balanced on one foot while he dragged jeans from his other foot. When he straightened, he held his underpants in front of him. His penis was throbbing and the mark around his navel was darker than ever.

With a baritone that could reach to the heavens, Bachman intoned, “For your own good, your sins must be punished.” He counted off on his fingers. “Three small for each hour you were late today. Ten for your curses…. ”

He went on and on, listing offenses against Him. Jason’s head drooped. Any fight in left him was gone from hurrying to get home.

“What’s wrong with you?”

‘Be strong!’ the voice commanded. ‘You serve Zeus.’

Jason blinked back tears. “It’s t-too much. I-I-I never had that m-many b-before.”

“Two more for being a coward. I don't want to look at your disgusting face. Turn around!”

Jason faced the wall, catching glimpses of his mother’s garden and his stepfather’s cornfields through cracks in the wood. Beyond the creek, a car disgorged three elderly barn tourists.

His stepfather contemplated his handiwork. Jason's white bottom was a patchwork of blue and purple bruises some old, some from the previous day. He’s spilled not one drop of blood since Jason’s first time in the barn.

“You’ve never been three hours late before!”

Jason’s bottom always excited him, a deep-down tremble that enveloped him. He wanted to cup a little rounded cheek. He was sure his hand was larger. He licked his lips with glee. When he couldn’t stand it any longer, he directed Jason to the root cellar with a firm shove.

Naked and nervous, Jason descended the stairs seeming smaller and more vulnerable with each step. He stood in the required position before the Pillar of Deceit, at attention and facing away. His stepfather made it with a length of four-inch diameter PVC sewer pipe from Home Depot. It was white and smooth, polished with love to a high gloss. It was the essence of purity; however, it wasn't as pure as it looked. A chain went right through it, all the way to a hoist secured to a beam in the loft. There was an eye bolt in the top of the post to secure his wrists. More eye bolts secured his ankles, knees, hips, chest, and neck.

“You know I don’t want to do this, but you make me punish you,” Bachman said, leaning against a wall, limestone temporarily cooling his fervor.

“I’ll try to do better,” Jason whimpered softly. The voice was gone.

“Put in the ‘prod’ that I might drive out Moloch, boy.”

Bachman handed over the ‘prod’. He’d fashioned it nearly three years ago, using a 1989 Ford tractor gear-shift knob. It looked like a snooker ball, ebony black and just as big. He’d replaced the lever by screwing in a six-inch-long stainless steel eyebolt.

“Please…” Jason’s eyes teared, begging for forgiveness.

“You want mercy? You rot your brain with disgusting thoughts, and shame yourself every night, and you want me to show mercy?”

“I’m sorry. I won’t do it any more, I promise.”

Bachman selected his favorite walking stick. Immediately, Jason drooled spit on the ball, as much as he could get out of his mouth. There was never enough. When his stepfather tapped his thigh with the stick he quickly placed the ball between his buttocks. He shoved his rump against it. His anus stretched around it, impossibly wide before it started to enter.

“Show me, boy.”

Jason turned, bending forward, his buttocks split apart, exposing his hole, his belly shuddering as he felt the ball finally squeeze through his opening. Hard and unyielding, it forced past his muscle, tantalizingly close to his core. With a sneer, his stepfather pressed on his hand, forcing it deep into his rectum. Even after two years and nine months, it was all he could to do to cry out.

“Hurts.”

“Stop sniveling and take it inside.” Bachman swung the switch.

“Please, no.”

“Take the Lord’s poker all the way, boy. Stir up Moloch and the Fires of Damnation.”

Gripping the eyebolt, Jason skewered himself with a muffled groan, twitching as his lithe body tried to adjust.

“Your pecker likes it.”

Jason hung his head. The little traitor was doing calisthenics.

“You’re all show, boy. You look like you should have balls, but we both know you don’t.”

Usually, his stepfather had his penknife open when he said it, rubbing his finger on the blade as it he meant to use it on Jason. Now, he just smirked, his eyes unwavering. It didn’t help that his stepson was far prettier than his daughter.

“I can’t help how I am!” Jason cried.

From what he’d observed in the change room at the high-school swimming pool, his scrotum was the biggest in the fourth grade. He wasn’t sure about his balls, though Danny said his were probably the smallest on the planet.

“They’re so tiny they aren’t worth having.” He tossed his knife and caught it. “I can fix that.”

“I hate you!”

The voice bounced back to life. ‘That’s my boy. Stand tall.’

“Make it worse, why don’t you?”

By the time Jason settled down, his stepfather had fastened his wrists to the pillar. Another cord went around his neck, another around his chest. The fourth cord stopped his hips from moving. Leaving his feet untied made it more painful later.

With a solemn face, Bachman presented his final cord, a 36-inch black bootlace. He made a loop and passed the ends through the middle, forming a noose. Fixing his gaze on Jason, he reached down with his right hand. He positioned the bootlace underneath and behind the boy’s loose scrotal pouch, fingers pressing silky skin through the noose. He searched and found both miniature testicles and pushed them through too before he tugged the cord ends, tightening the noose. Then, he passed both ends through the eye-bolt.

Only one thing remained to be done, and he took great delight in it. He added the chains at a time, tying a knot after each strand. Jason squealed when he added the second one. It took all of his strength to keep the ball-end of the ‘prod’ deep inside him. The last chain weighed close to a pound. Jason wailed and jerked, and gritted his teeth as he tightened his bowels even farther. There had been a time when he couldn’t stop the ‘prod’ from pulling out. Then, his balls had taken the weight. It felt like they were being ripped from his body.

Bachman had done it so often, he could’ve been blind. “Matthew Six, 9 through 13.”

Jason stifled a cry as the weight seemed to grow, dragging through his bowels. The chains bounced between his slim thighs. He strained against Moloch, clenching and pulling up inside. After two years and nine months, his inner muscles were incredibly strong.

Our Father in heaven,

hallowed be your name.

Your kingdom come,

your will be done,

on earth, as it is in heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread,

and forgive us our debts,

as we also have forgiven our debtors.

And lead us not into temptation,

but deliver us from evil.”

“Again, shameful child. Louder, so He can hear you.”

Jason shuddered and said it louder. At the end, his stepfather hauled on the chain. It rattled through hoist high above, slowly lifting the Pillar of Deceit and Jason. His toes pointed down, dancing a frantic ballet as he tried to keep the weight off his arms. Soon, his body sagged, the tendons in his arms like steel wires, cords cutting across his breast and pelvis.

“One. Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane,” Bachman waited.

“Please forgive me, Lord,” Jason sniveled.

The voice roared back, ‘No! Zeus is the Great God of All.’

“The Prayer of Redemption.”

Jason’s feet no longer danced. Now, his slender legs clutched the pillar, ankles and knees locked like clamps. ‘The prod’ stayed deep inside him, mercilessly stirring Moloch’s fire that burned in his bottom. For once, the voice stayed quiet as he went through the motions of begging forgiveness.

OLord,JesusChrist,RedeemerandSaviour,forgivemysins,justasYouforgavePeter'sdenialandthosewhocrucifiedYou.Countnotmytransgressions,but,rather,mytearsofrepentance.Remembernotmyiniquities,but,moreespecially,mysorrowfortheoffensesIhavecommittedagainstYou.IlongtobetruetoYourWord,andpraythatYouwilllovemeandcometomakeYourdwellingplacewithinme.IpromisetogiveYoupraiseandgloryinloveandinserviceallthedaysofmylife.”

“Slower! It’s not a race.”

It was 42 feet from the root cellar to the loft, 14 stations in total, fourteen times for beg for forgiveness. That time it took two hours and seventeen minutes to go from Hell to Heaven. It would’ve been less, but Jason fainted twice.

Chapter 3.

Tuesday morning, the week after Thanksgiving, was unseasonably cold. At 5.30 a.m., John Madison easily decided that lying in a warm bed with cuddly lion cub was better than anything else he could be doing, except spending the winter in a warmer climate with a real live boy.

He eased his right foot into a cold corner of the bed before the alarm burst into the bedroom. He jabbed at the “snooze” button and pulled the bed covers over his shoulders. He enjoyed sleeping in. He pulled his sole concession to his innermost fantasy close for a hug. Pretending was the safe way of appeasing a part of him that he dared not expose.

“Grrrrr.”

However, he sounded like Matthew Broderick doing Simba, not JTT before his voice broke.

“Mufasa too sleepy to suck.” Madison stroked the silky smooth front, smiling at himself.

His students thought he was overbearing and demanding. What would they think if they knew he kept a toy-lion as pacifier, that sometimes he smelled the cub’s furry crotch and dreamed about doing it to a boy.

“GRRRRRRR.”

He sounded more realistic, though his voice was too deep. If only they made talking Simbas. He added a paternal growl and stroked lion cub tummy.

Inspiration took over. He felt lower, his fingers gliding around a slender smooth thigh. No underpants, groping private places, except there was fur and nothing else.

“I’ve created a sex monster,” he whispered in the dark.

“So jerk me.” His imaginings were never so clear. The voice was high pitched, like a boy a year or two before puberty. He squeaked soprano. “Stop poking in my crack.”

It was better, yet still not right. Jonathan Taylor Thomas’ voice was more like music. It had cadence. He tried again. It sounded better.

He cuddled his toy lion, grasping an empty crotch and tiny chest, nuzzling hair like polyester. Despite his imagination, it wasn’t what he needed.

His Apple was still open on the nightstand, though it had long since gone into hibernation. It bounced back to life with the press of a button. As if he’d been waiting all night, the same boy cavorted on a shiny kitchen stool, his front streaked with shaving cream. His teasing expression was faked, not so his fingers pulling down the front of his shorts. On imgsrc.ru he was called Andy. It was easy to imagine him as a 10-year-old lover. He wasn’t a rugged manly boy. The way he looked back at the camera certainly wasn’t virile. He wasn’t girlish either, certainly not like Kathy, his ten-year-old niece. And was androgynous, and sexy, and beautiful, and shy, and wanton, all at the same time.

Madison smirked at the thought of bringing a boy like Andy to a faculty party. They’d be appalled, their frumpy facetious wives scowling. Even Dr. Deborah Planter would be disgusted, and she was a lesbian, supposedly a leading researcher in plasma physics. It wasn’t his field, yet he did far more research with the kinetic model than she did.

With his left leg thrown over Simba, he imagined kissing Andy’s full red lips, stroking his smooth cheeks. The boy’s hair was mussed up in all 138 photos. He was amazingly good-looking, hauntingly good-looking, stupendously…. He reached down to fondle. His penis needed no coaxing awake. He wondered what it would be like to have a little dick and balls jammed between his thighs. A boy’s penis was only couple of inches long, about the same size a man’s thumb. He licked his thumb. He sucked it, feasting his eyes on Andy wearing a red low-cut Speedo. There was only one photo that showed his belly button. The tattoo had to be fake. He was too young to have a real tattoo.

His seven-inch erection was a hot drooling beast when he moved to the next photo. He rubbed very slowly as he clicked through the photos. His next-favorite pictures had Andy in tight swimmer’s shorts, nothing else. He had long smooth legs with impossibly narrow hips. In the dozen or so high-resolution photographs, he couldn’t see a single flaw. Not even a glint of peach fuzz, not even a freckle. He was the epitome of perfection.

Madison fantasized. He imagined stuffing his cock in Andy. It was far too thick to give a boy pleasure, not unless he practiced first. He kept a junior-size dildo in the drawer next to the bed just in case he met a willing volunteer.

“I bet someone fucks you on a regular basis,” Andy’s 40-year-old admirer mused aloud.

The next four photos had Andy in boxer-briefs covered in shaving cream. No matter what he wore, he always had a small bulge. In some of the photos he had an erection. In the shaving-cream photos, his boxers were wet, not quite see-through. In two photos, Madison could see his butt-crack. From the front, the waist of his boxers was pulled up to hide his navel. He peered at the screen, trying to decide what else there was besides wet cotton over skin.

“You can suck me any day, Sweetheart, even if you do have a tattoo on your cute little belly button.”

With a chuckle, Madison pushed away the bed covers and came to his feet. His morning erection bobbed all the way to the bathroom. Between yawns and stretching a perpetually aching back, he struggled into his dressing gown. He found his slippers in the chaos of shoes at the bottom of the closet and walked unsteadily down the hall. It was a relic of St. Louis grandeur with walnut paneling and two chandeliers. He owned two gilt-framed paintings, Wild West landscapes by lesser-known artists; however, he’d already moved them to their new location.

He turned on the kitchen light, navigated the island-bench, and switched on the diminutive television set he’d found in a closet after he moved in.

“The stalled Canadian cold front is shifting east as warmer air moves into the southern part of the state. Look for a high of 30 by this afternoon. There is a 40 percent chance of showers continuing until late this afternoon. However, another cold front is on the way. Expect the showers to end and turn back to light snow by this evening.”

“Fucking snow in fucking November,” Madison grouched aloud. He poured fiber-rich cereal and cold skim milk into the only clean bowl.

He was barely aware of local events, only partially interested in the regional news, and bored by global issues. He debated with a sports reporter complaining about the university football team’s continuing lack of success, until there was no point in continuing. The coach sucked; there was no getting past it. He stretched and yawned, reconsidered having coffee, glanced at the clock, rationalized going back to bed and failed, and headed off to the bathroom.

The hot shower eased the dull ache in his back as he washed, shampooed and shaved, relishing torrents of steamy water cascading over him. It helped to clear his head of everything except the murky complexities of quantum mechanics, and loop quantum gravity in particular. By the time he stepped out of the shower, steam clouded the bathroom. Even the mirror was misted over. He smeared his towel over it and peered at the blurred image.

“Not so ugly that I shouldn’t be able to find a boy of my own,” he thought aloud.

He walked into the bedroom, opened his dresser drawer, and removed designer underwear, socks, jeans, and a black turtleneck sweater. He changed his mind on the sweater, opting for a pink oxford shirt to annoy his fellow faculty. The advantage of being a professor was being able to dress how he wanted, that and the freedom of the academic life after he’d taught his two required classes.

Fantasy and flaunting his sexuality kept Madison sane. Light-headed, he stroked polyester fur, marveling at the softness. For nearly a minute he stood quietly, looking down at his bed, dreaming of a little boy lying there, still asleep with his favorite toy. He backed away soundlessly until he was several feet away. What would he give for a murmured goodbye?

“I’ll fuck you when I get back,” he whispered.

“Better be a good one.” It sounded perfect.

He was in a good mood when he went downstairs. He shoved his feet in sneakers, put on his favorite bomber jacket, picked up his umbrella, and closed the back door behind him, turning the door handle several times to make sure that the lock was secure. A light mist from recent rain made the darkness spooky. For a second, he had feeling that he’d forgotten something. Coming up with nothing, he commenced walking, a brisk pace down the driveway, before turning left. His walk was confident, his direction clear. He always went the same way so he could think.

There was another reason to go that way; he would pass the house he was renovating. 3276 Hamilton Avenue was an impressive house on an impressive street, one of the nicest streets in the neighborhood. It sat well back, with large oaks and maples guarding the lawn now under a thin layer of wet snow. There were two stories and an attic with large bay windows and side windows inset with lead glass in intricate diamond patterns. A circular turret on the right side and a grey slate roof added Victorian elegance to red-colored bricks laid by a Flemish mason, who with characteristic flamboyance used cream-colored limestone around every door and window.

Madison was contemplating the intricacies of electromagnetic energy when he passed the oak tree on the side of 3276. He looked toward the darkened house. It was a month behind schedule, victim of contractors’ broken promises and out-of-stock materials.

With nearly an hour before sunrise, the house was little more than a silhouette against the brightening sky. In the summer, it was an Italian villa in the Veneto. On a cold November morning, the house brooded, waiting for Heathcliffe and that Eyre woman, gray and forbidding.

It was still too early for the determined beat of joggers, steaming breath in the chilled wet air. At the front gate, he paused. The stairs still needed repair, just another thing that needed fixing before he moved in. Rather than risk it, he turned away to continue his mile-and-a-half walk to the university. On a whim, he looked back over his shoulder. Only a few minutes later it would have been too light to need a flashlight. Without curtains, he could see through the bay windows, through the arched doorway into the dining room. A shaft of light darted and sparkled on crystal glass. It came from behind, not inside the house.

At first, he thought the contractor had arrived early, though there was no sign of his pickup truck.

Of course, the smart thing would have been to call the police, but John Madison didn’t have a cellphone. He hated the things. He wasn’t so important he needed constant contact with the world that rejected him. Some faculty made their students turn their cellphones off before they started class. Not Professor Madison. If a student wanted to send text messages instead of learning about quantum physics; it was no concern of his.

At six-thirty in the morning, Madison had three options; he could walk the half-mile back to his apartment; use the telephone he’d had the electricians install in the house; or wake one of his neighbors and use their telephone, which wouldn’t endear him.

He made his way carefully up the frost-covered sidewalk to the front terrace, its limestone balusters likely carved by the Flemish mason. He was on the fourth of six steps when the light vanished. He felt his jacket pocket and pulled out a fist-full of keys. Keys to cars, keys to houses, keys to offices, keys to classrooms. The key to 3276 was easily identifiable by the plastic tab.

The house key, like its lock, was new. It fitted tightly and turned with machined precision. The front door was a relic, carved from three-inch oak planks, refurbished so it opened on no-squeak brass hinges. Madison closed the door, breathing deeply, his ears straining to hear mice in the basement even though the light was outside, near the kitchen.

The hall was dark, the only light from the grey gloom of predawn, filtered through diamond panels around the door. The floor was barely visible, a black and white marble checkerboard polished a week earlier. Madison moved cautiously as soon as he realized his sneakers squeaked on wax. The telephone that had been in the hall the previous afternoon was gone.

Increasingly exasperated, he turned into the dining room. Perhaps the most beautiful room in the house, it had a domed ceiling and niches in the walls for painting s and sculptures. The floor was walnut and dark red mahogany in intricate patterns, with pale maple on the borders. Painters had been touching up the day before; paint-splattered cloths still covered the floor.

Now, he could see out the windows. The flickering light had gone. He paused in the arched doorway, waiting and searching the darkness. He found himself almost hoping that the light would return when he spotted the telephone resting precariously on an upended cardboard box. He picked up the receiver. There was no dial-tone.

“Damn electrician!” He replaced the receiver, thinking that he had imagined the light after all.

He was checking the progress of converting the butler's pantry into a wine cellar when the light beam came through the kitchen window. He moved back until he was hidden from sight. He watched the light traverse the kitchen before it turned away.

He hurried through the kitchen to the back door. Certain he could hear a dog scratching, his hand moved to the switch for the outside lights. Even as it clicked, he remembered nagging the electrician to install floodlights. The fittings were still in the box. He cursed electrical contractors everywhere before he steeled himself to come face to face with a couple of mindless black hoodlums. His hand closed around the door handle. There was an audible click when the latch opened. He jerked the door open and stepped into the cold darkness of early morning.

He dropped like a rock into a hole as deep as a grave. He slammed into the muddy bottom so hard that his legs collapsed under him. He catapulted forward, face down into the trench. Wet, cold slime engulfed his face even as the wind was knocked out of him.

Life came back with a wild terror. He shook uncontrollably, his body unresponsive to frantic orders to get up. He thought he might die with a bullet in the head, like a soldier in the muddy trenches of no man’s land. However, nothing happened. He started to shake, so cold and wet that he shoved his hands into slippery clay and pushed up until his torso was free. Bracing himself with his left arm, he smeared away mud in his eyes.

He shook his head dully, muttering ‘Fuck!’ over and over, sucking in foul-smelling air.

Just the previous afternoon, he had watched a backhoe scoop clumps of clay and pile them a few feet from the house. At its opening the trench was two feet wide, half that at the bottom. It ran the width of the house and halfway down one side before it reached the sewer pipe. It was his idea to put two planks from the landing outside the kitchen door to the top of the embankment so the workers weren’t using his front door.

When he’d cleared his eyes of muck, unimaginable horror stared up at him. From the trench’s gloom, a small pale face, dirty, splattered with mud, gazed upwards. The face was topped by hair, part mud, part corn-silk. The sight was made even more horrible by wide-open brown eyes.

Madison gagged, his scream dying in panicked dismay. He jerked away, scrambling to his knees, yet unable to look away. The child was a boy. His mouth was open enough that he could see the white of his teeth. He tasted bile, surging up from his stomach. He choked, forcing back vomit, coughing as he gasped for air. Tears welled in his eyes. He coughed again and again, spitting out the sour taste in his mouth.

When he looked down again, he realized the boy was naked. Not since his own childhood had he seen a boy in the flesh. He was slender and pale. Even though covered in mud, he was grotesquely beautiful. It was too cold for a child to be without clothes. He yanked off his jacket, struggling against the walls of the trench. As he lifted his jacket over the child, his fingers brushed against the smooth skinny chest. It was cold and slick, like wet marble.

He staggered up, convinced the child's murderer was above, looking down at him. He clawed at the trench to get enough leverage to pull himself up. Mud and clay disintegrated under his fingers. He slid back, never so afraid. His Ph.D. defense wasn’t as scary, even though Professor Melnikov made it clear he intended to fail him.

He still remembered telling himself that Melnikov was an idiot who should never have been tenured. His committee applauded. They called his work brilliant, and officially named his hypothesis the Madison Principle. Melnikov didn’t say a word.

His fear subsided slowly. If someone was going to kill him, it would have happened already.

The top of the trench was a foot above his head. His hand landed on a flashlight squashed into the mud. With a shaking hand, he directed the beam at the bottom of the trench. The boy reminded him of a doll, once precious, now abandoned. The child's genitals, barely visible through the slime of mud, were puny, hairless and pale. He closed his eyes, yet an instinctive urge drew his gaze back to the circumcised thin shaft that flopped from the boy’s slender thighs. There was something, a shoelace perhaps, tied around his balls.

The child stared back at him, his mouth gaping, as if saying, ‘how could you do this?’

He backed away, sliding in the mud, unable to leave. A tiny navel adorned the boy’s belly, surrounded by an odd-shaped birthmark, or maybe it was a homemade tattoo. Disgusted with himself, he frantically groped his way down the trench until the ground was at waist level. He levered himself up and over the embankment onto wet grass.

With an awful shame, he followed the trench back to the child, finally jamming the flashlight into the clay so it stayed there. The rain was a fine mist as he stared down, taking in every beautiful detail. The boy had long hair, parted down the middle like Jonathon Taylor Thomas when he was a preteen.

There were cold splatters on his face before he finally lurched away, appallingly erect under his jeans. He stumbled when his feet became entangled in something lying in the long grass. He kicked at it, cursing as his shoe hit the sharp edge of a shovel. Blindly, he shuffled across the back yard, clenching his fists. He needed to mow the grass again before winter came to stay.

Everything seemed foggy, yet the garage door of the adjacent property was crystal clear. Nothing made sense.

“Dan’ll be pissed to the max.”

Dan Coleman was the plumbing subcontractor, a likeable overweight black guy with tattooed arms. He could almost hear Dan say ‘don’t be wastin’ ma time wiv yo no sense.’

Yet he had to call the police. And say what? “There’s a dead boy in a trench?” he tried aloud. “They’ll think I’m crazy.”

He started to run. He ran across the lawn, down the driveway to the street. The adjacent houses, like the houses opposite, were dark. He went up the street, wondering if he should simply scream ‘help’.

A narrow rectangle of light came from a small frosted window on the second floor of the next house. Madison shrank from hailing a neighbor in the shower, especially when the house was rented. However, a barking dog and the muted mutter of a radio made him stop. Maybe it was to discourage would-be burglars, or irritate the neighbors, but as always, a light was on in the kitchen window.

When he thought he saw someone move behind the window, he went up the driveway to the side door. Bushes crowded the stairs, snagging his hands and clothes. He jabbed his finger on the door bell. There was no sound. He hammered on the glass panel until a bolt pulled back, and then another. The door flung open.

A man stood there, radiating impatience.

“I need to use your telephone,” Madison said. Realizing how impertinent he sounded, he added. “It’s an emergency.”

The man wore a black sweater under a burgundy dressing gown, tied at the waist and stained with food droppings, his legs and feet bare and pale. His hair was a mess, his cheeks and chin darkly shadowed with the beginnings of a beard. He wiped breakfast crumbs from his mouth with his fingers as he looked at Madison.

“What emergency?”

“I have to call the police. There's a boy at the back of my house,” Madison gasped.

The man assessed him, taking in the mud-splatters and the clenching and unclenching of hands, shivering.

“You’re the guy fixing up 3276,” he said. For several moments, Madison looked at him. “You must mean one of the Jackson kids. They’re always roaming, just never this early.”

Madison continued to gasp although he hadn’t run that far. “He’s stuck in the trench we dug yesterday.”

“You’re shittin’ me! I guess you can use my phone,” the man said, not making a move to step aside. “Take your shoes off. I don’t want mud dragged in here.”

“There isn’t time!” Madison said. “I need to call the police.”

He tried to step forward, but the man blocked him. “Take off your shoes; then call.”

Madison kicked his shoes off, shoving them close to the wall. A pair of boots was already there, covered with ochre-brown mud. In wet socks, he followed the man into the hall.

The man pointed at a telephone. Madison punched in 9-1-1.

“9-1-1 emergency services. How may I help you?” The voice was black, female, and governmental.

“I need the police.”

“I'm sorry, Sir, I can barely hear you. Can you speak louder?”

“I said I need the police,” Madison repeated.

“A little louder, please? What is this call in regard to, Sir?”

“The police, please.”

“Is this an emergency? You can't report car accidents here, unless there’s an injury.”

“There’s a boy at my house. I think he's been murdered. That qualify?”

The look on the man’s face was positively creepy, as if he wasn’t all that surprised to hear ‘murdered.’

“Where are you calling from, Sir?” Apparently, calamity increased zeal in the call center.

“A neighbor's house; just up the street. My fucking phone doesn't work.”

“Sir, I need the address where are you calling from, please?” It seemed she’d been trained to stay calm under stress.

“He’s at my house. That's 3-2-7-6 Hamilton Avenue.”

“Could I have your name, Sir?” she persisted.

He was seconds away from another ‘fuck’. “Madison. John Madison.”

“Mr. Madison, the police are on their way. Please wait right where you are. A few minutes that’s all.”

Madison replaced the receiver. He looked to his neighbor, who’d been listening closely except for a brief excursion down the hall to close the door to the room with the light on. He scratched the back of his hand absently. Skin flaked off like dandruff. He smelled stale, like he hadn’t taken a shower for a few days

“I'll wait outside. That’s for the use of your phone.”

The man followed him, now scratching his crotch through his robe while Madison put on his shoes. Madison was out the door and halfway to the sidewalk when a police car with blue and white lights flashing, stopped at the curb.

Chapter 4.

Having his family together at breakfast was important for Kevin Burton. Dinner was usually finished when he came home, too tired from work to do more than flop into his recliner, put up his feet, eat leftovers, and watch TV crime shows.

Breakfast was noisy, 25 minutes of twins talking sports, school, friends, and computer games, playing their twin-rap game, and pestering their father for more pocket money while wolfing down sugar-coated cereal. His prim, bun-haired wife took lunch requests as if she actually cared, checking twin schedules for after-school activities, and following up on the previous day’s homework. It was hectic with the twins on the early school bus, yet he always found time to tease them or engage in lighthearted banter while he enjoyed five slices of toast, two cups of coffee and a quick browse through the news channels.

He was tuned into a CNN story about the political showdown over global warming when laughter erupted. He sensed something was up, since moments earlier, the twins had been teasing each other. Now they were silent, watching their father with barely suppressed grins.

He regarded them with the trained eye of cop and dad. Jeff was the instigator; he had more alpha-male genes than his brother. Barely eleven going on 13, he had the penis to prove it, plus he flirted with the limits of parental authority. It was parry and thrust, father tormenting son, son constantly challenging his father, and both of them loved it.

The other half of sibling rivalry took his genes from his mother. Hair like golden maple instead of mahogany. Green eyes instead of doe-brown. Razor-thin eyebrows since he was nine years old. Computers instead of kicking a soccer ball, which was probably a good thing because puberty seemed a remote possibility, not at all like his brother who was racing towards it. Most people found it hard to believe they’d occupied the same womb, much less entered the world within five minutes of each other. Besides their parents and their bedroom, the only thing they shared was rock and roll, and twin rap.

He was still thinking how different the twins were when they suddenly stifled giggles. Janice had disappeared, so he wondered whether she was in on it as well, unlikely as it seemed. Now she’d found religion, all she did was pray.

“What’s up with you guys?” His tone required some sort of acknowledgment.

He was met with silence. He glanced at Kyle, his 'baby' ever since it started. It wasn’t Kyle’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. It just happened. One day they were a normal family, with a normal father and normal kids, the next day, everything changed.

Kyle focused on his cereal bowl. He was doing his best not to laugh, with no idea what his father had been thinking. He glanced back to Jeff, the likely mastermind behind all practical jokes. Jeff munched cereal, unable to resist a sideways peek at his twin.

“I guess I’ll find out soon enough.” Burton lifted his cup with one eye on his chief suspect. Jeff, captain of the 12 and under Colts, was also MVP of the Fairview Heights Junior Elite Soccer Team. He always teased his father about his weight.

One little sip and Burton choked on sickly sweet coffee. The twins gave themselves up to helpless laughter.

Once he could be heard, he said, “Time you started drinking coffee, Jeff.”

Jeff glanced up, puddling his spoon in soggy cereal. “I'm too young for caffeine, Dad.”

Burton raised his cup, swirling coffee. He saw sugar heaped on the bottom. “I think you should try some of mine?”

“Not your best idea, Dad. I’ll be hyper all day.”

His rap rhythm brought his brother in smoothly. “Get into trouble at school. Get put on suspension.”

Jeff picked it up. “Hang out at the mall.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Get a girl pregnant by the end of the day.”

His father laughed. “Not much chance of that with your baby nuts.”

It was just loud enough for Kyle to whoop, snorting back hysterical giggles.

Jeff looked over his shoulder. “You said I’m getting close to cumming when my balls get bigger.”

Burton checked over both shoulders, and lowered his voice to a murmur. “They need to be a whole lot bigger than what I saw last night.”

“I told you, Doofus,” Kyle said, remarkably calm considering his father had been watching him suck his brother’s penis at the time.

“They’re twice the size of yours, Dipshit.”

Size mattered, like everything else. Two and a half inches instead of three and a half inches. Mexican jumping beans instead of robin’s eggs. Clinging underneath instead of starting to sag.

The telephone rang. Midway through the second ring Jeff bounded over to the kitchen counter.
“You’ve reached the Burton Mental Asylum. Please hang up and dial again.” He listened for a few seconds before he looked at his father. “Yeah, he's here. Just a minute.” He clamped the phone against his chest. “Hey Dad, it's that Terry guy from your office again. He wants to speak to you.”

Burton grabbed a last bite of toast on the way. “You die, Sugar Boy.” He swatted Jeff's butt on the way. “Burton here. No, I just finished eating.” He tossed the crust to the family spaniel.

Phone calls before 8:00 am were almost always about murder. The twins listened in as best they could; however, a senior detective in the homicide division excelled at saying a lot with a few monosyllables.

Jeff went back to teasing his brother. He certainly wasn’t hungry, not when his father was whispering sex stuff. Kyle told him to go suck himself, which was ironic. Instead, he poured his father another cup of coffee, black with one heaped teaspoon of sugar.

Burton put the phone down just as Janice came back into the kitchen.

“It looks like I'm going to be busy.” He studied the twins, still not believing what had happened the night before while she was at evening services. “It’s a kid.”

“A little angel,” she sighed, making no secret that she hated phone calls before she’d prayed, a half hour in the morning, and a half-hour at night.

Some cases with juvenile victims were enough to make Burton pray too, or think about becoming a lawyer.

“Jesus will save him,” she went on. “You’re supposed to be in the office until Hank gets back, aren’t you?”

“We’re shorthanded at present. I’ll have a uniform with me.”

He hadn’t told her that Hank Lake wasn’t coming back. No one went back to work after a massive cerebral hemorrhage. He also hadn’t told her that Hank was parked off Horseshoe Lake, fucking an under-aged Mexican hooker when his stroke happened.

He rubbed her shoulder through her dressing gown and wondered where the magic had had gone. She wasn’t depressed like she usually was, just resigned. Maybe she thought there was no reason to put on makeup until midmorning, until after he left. She said she cleaned the house when she finished praying, but he couldn’t see it.

He looked at the twins, still at the breakfast table. Its top was stained and scratched, one of the first pieces of furniture they had bought together. The twins deserved better, a lot better. Every time he looked at them it seemed like they knew they were being deserted, that their mother was pulling away from the family. At least they still had him.

“I've got soccer practice tonight, Dad,” Jeff reminded him. “Don't forget.”

“I’ll try. You know I can't promise when something comes up.” He watched her make a Catholic cross, muttering mindless homilies about God’s precious children.

“It’s your turn to drive, Dad.”

Burton paused. “I'm sorry, pal. You better work out something at school. Get hold of one of the other kids' fathers, or maybe Mom can take you,” he added hopefully.

“Abandoned again! No one loves me. I’ll end up in jail, for sure. I’ll never finish college. With a criminal record, I’ll never get a job.”

Kyle rolled his eyes, matching his twin for melodrama. “You won’t get into college in the first place, Dumbass.”

Burton left them squabbling and followed his wife into the hall. They stood at the front door, far enough from the twins to be reasonably certain of privacy. The drizzle had stopped. Wet leaves, brilliant gold and crimson, clung to the steps. He breathed out heavily.

“Janice, I'm sorry. I'm going to be real late tonight. Can you make sure Jeff gets a ride for tonight?”

“I have Church tonight. Why is it always your schedule that’s a problem?”

“It’s a bad one.”

“You’ll solve it. You always do. You ought to move downtown so you’re close.”

Burton grimaced. “Not now, okay?”

“It’s a boy, isn’t it?” Janice inquired, not at all hesitant. “I can tell, you know.”

“I don't know how!”

“God, give me strength. Let me guess, Kevin. He was sexually abused, wasn’t he?”

“McKelvey said he’s nude, so yeah. It’s likely.”

The last kid-killing in Burton’s file was a Caucasian male, left in a dumpster. He’d been tortured, his genitals crushed with a woodworking clamp. With a crucifix jammed in this mouth, it looked like some kind of religious nut-case was at work. A year later, the boy was no more than a name and a face on a photo.

Afterwards, Aaron Planter’s photograph moved from being pinned to the wall to a frame on Burton’s desk. He kept it next to his family photos. There was no reason why, except regret, perhaps hind-sight. When Janice saw it she asked if the boy was now part of his family. It left him wondering why he’d been unable to throw it away.

“What are you doing about a car?” his wife interrupted.

“The uniform’s bringing a car from the station. I’ve got it until mine’s fixed.”

A minute later a police cruiser pulled up in the driveway. Burton called out good-bye to the twins and went to greet it. She was upstairs, praying for forgiveness.

“Morning,” Burton got into the passenger's seat. The smell of cigarette smoke lingered despite the open window on the driver's side. “You’re Phillip Morris, right?”

The uniform gaped back. “Lonny Harrison, Sir.”

“You know where you're going?”

“That kid at the university. Hamilton Avenue, right? ”

Burton affirmed with a nod of his head, intending to spend the trip in silence. What Janice said before he left depressed him. He dreaded talking to her about it almost as much as he dreaded seeing the kid’s corpse.

The police car lurched out of Burton’s driveway, skidded on the wet street, and accelerated, rear wheels spinning. The main road was already busy with morning traffic, yet Harrison drove faster than Burton considered prudent.

“You mind if I smoke?”

“I mind!” Burton snapped.

At 8:05 a.m., they turned into the driveway of 3276 Hamilton Avenue only seconds after the paramedics’ red van backed out. Six police cars were parked either side of the driveway, more lined up across the street. The City Coroner's dark-blue 1999 Oldsmobile Cutlass was also parked in the driveway, right in front, like it was some kind of valuable antique instead of a slightly improved Chevrolet Malibu.

A mobile television crew was already working hard, the reporter half-turned and gesturing at the house behind her. She spoke quickly, as though urgency compensated for actual facts. Two other TV crews were setting up, positioning cameras to view the house.

“Fucking circus,” Burton said under his breath.

Two reporters approached him before he opened the car door. Half out of his seat, he sighed impatiently.

“There’ll be a press release when we know beans from bacon. Now get off the property!”

They backed away. Burton was infamous for his public relations skills; he was even worse if the story went national.

“You want me to hang around,” Harrison asked.

“You got assigned to car duty, so you hang, at least for today. Meanwhile, get me a large coffee, black, two sugars.” Burton slammed the car door.

In his gut, he felt more than the usual anxiety. Human cruelty made for a guilt trip, followed by worry that he wouldn’t solve the crime. And then there was the victim, a boy about the same age as the twins.

Burton walked up the driveway, ready to tell the congregation of blue-uniformed officers to get back to giving out traffic tickets. A few dispersed after recognizing the bulky figure of Detective Sergeant Burton.

“The kid was in the ditch when we got here,” one of the uniforms volunteered. His neutral voice countered a quick gesture of his finger.

“Why isn't he still in the ditch?”

“Ask her,” one of the officers said contempt.

Some 35 feet away, a little naked body lay on wet grass, attended by two male officers from the Crime-scene Squad and the deputy coroner, a black woman. Burton had heard about her, but had never met her.

Burton approached her, intent on taking it all in. “Where's Blake?”

“Doctor Blake's in Hawaii,” the woman said. “He's giving a paper on skull fractures at a pathology conference, and then he's taking a holiday.”

“Well, that’s just great. A dead kid, a press cluster-fuck, and Blake’s in Hawaii.”

The woman looked straight into Burton’s face. “I'm assigned to this investigation so deal with it.”

The scene was marked off by yellow and black tapes strung from metal spikes hammered into the ground. Burton stopped when he reached the tape. On the other side was a long mound of clay piled several feet high. During the night, the rain had loosened it, sending muddy water across the grass and into the trench.

“We haven't met. I'm Burton, Homicide. You’re Andrews?”

The woman regarded him for a moment. “I'm Doctor Andrews, from the Coroner's Office,” she replied with an antiseptic tone.

Burton glanced at the mud-covered body on the grass. Caucasian male, ten-to-twelve years old, no visible signs of the cause of death, naked except for a single sock partially on the right foot. The sock had been white, but was now muddied. Burton immediately thought of his twins—they wore the same socks. Did the kid play soccer? He turned on Andrews.

“I see he climbed out of the ditch by himself.”

Doctor Andrews glanced at the deep trench on the other side of the clay embankment.

“I had him lifted out,” she said wearily, looking at him as though he were slow witted. “It was too confined down there to do anything. It's only a foot wide at the bottom. And it’s full of mud after all the rain.”

“So much for rule number one.”

“Rule number one, Detective, is stay out of my way,” she shot back.

“No one moves anything until I give the word.”

Doctor Andrews took a slow deep breath. “You're the dick,” she conceded with a trifling smile. “I'm the doc. Keep out of my way until I'm done.”

“No need to get uppity, Mam.” He said with a grin so she’d know it wasn’t racial.

“You took your sweet time getting here. It was my call, and I needed room to do my job. While you’re waiting your turn, read the code. Paragraph six of Procedures, ‘The medical examiner has sole responsibility for the decision to disturb the body’, so there.”

The suddenness of the skirmish surprised Burton. Police officer and coroner were supposed to be an investigative team, collaborating to identify and apprehend the guilty party. That was in the introduction to the Manual of Police Procedures. Turf was never an issue with Blake. Burton saw only one reason why it was now.

He glanced into the trench. Maybe, she was right. The trench was so narrow that an examination of the body was next to impossible.

“What can you tell me?”

She shrugged. “You'll get my report tomorrow afternoon.”

Burton had a problem controlling anger. “The first few hours are critical, Doc.”

“You want a best guess as to the cause and time of death? Your guess is as good as mine, Dick.”

He stared at her.

Doctors Andrews returned to pawing the mud-soiled body, moving the head and opening the jaws. She grabbed a thin wrist in her latex-gloved hand and held the boy's arm near the elbow, pushing the arm into a bend before it resisted her effort.

“Pupils are restricted with a lot of cloudiness. There’s some rigor... more in the lower jaw, arms still developing. He’s thin as a rake,” she said as much to herself as to Burton. “My estimate is stage two, maybe three.”

“How long has he been dead?” Burton interrupted. He’d been looking at the boy’s crotch, short circumcised penis, lumpy scrotum underneath with a cord tied around it, which likely explained why it was so dark.

She turned and snapped, “Call me in two hours!” However, she continued. “It's hard to be certain without actual tests. Based on the extent of the rigor, ten to twelve hours at most. The body's not that cold, so no longer than that. His rectal temperature was 75 degrees when I measured it a few minutes ago. The air temperature was 30 degrees. It was warmer when it was raining. I'd say thirty-five degrees max. We’ll need to confirm that with the weather service.” She looked right at him. “He was killed at least eight hours before he was brought here, though the autopsy will narrow it down.”

“What makes you think he was here for two hours?”

“Now you want science? Okay, any longer and the body temperature would be lower. I'll need to take another reading of his body temperature to be sure of the rate at which the temperature has declined.”

“I think I follow you,” Burton said.

“Let’s say death occurred ten hours ago and the body was in a place at room temperature. You’d expect for his size the rectal temperature to be about eighty degrees by now, but it's lower by five, nearly six degrees. Now if the body was here for all night you’d expect the body temperature to be much lower.”

“Got it.”

Andrews paused. “His livor mortis will give me a better idea when he was moved.”

“What was the cause of death?”

The coroner turned, light touching dark-brown slime and bare flesh. “No sign of a substantial physical injury. The open mouth and eyes suggests asphyxia.” Her fingers gently probed the slender muddy neck, looking for signs of bruises or damage to the larynx.

“The lips are blue. My guess is asphyxiation. No sign of a struggle. He might have choked on something, of course,” she added.

“Was he strangled?”

“More likely he was smothered,” she said cautiously.

Burton looked at the small, dirty genitals. The boy was like Kyle, not nearly as pretty, just very immature. “Sexual imposition?”

Doctor Andrews’ voice lost its edge. “I’m not done yet.”

“There seems to be damage to his genitals.”

“No comment until after the autopsy. Once he's turned over, I’ll confirm the rest…” Her voice trailed off. “I had to lift him when they got him out of the trench.”

With a suddenly queasy stomach, Burton went over to examine the trench. Tom Mitchell, a crime scene investigator, crouched in the bottom, squeezed between the vertical walls. Mud streaked his overalls. He glanced up with a slight smile. He pointed at a turquoise-blue drainage pipe.

“He landed on this.”

Above the muddy water, shiny plastic was smeared with clay, indicating where the boy’s body had been.

“You want to come down, Kevin?” he offered with a wry smile.

“I’ll jump right on it!”

Mitchell gave a chilly laugh. “We got plenty of photos. I’m just making sure there's nothing else down here.”

Burton looked into the trench. “What happened, Tom?”

Mitchell scratched the back of his neck with his soiled gloves. “Some guy dumped the kid here during the night. He threw a few shovels of shit from up there, mostly to cover him up. There was a lot of clay on his legs, some on his chest. We got the spade and a flashlight.”

“Prints?”

“Too much rain, Kevin. Ernie found a partial thumb on the front of the flashlight. Might not even be germane. I’m thinking he used gloves.”

“Big guy? Small guy?” Burton questioned.

Mitchell scratched the end of his nose. Women seldom killed kids, and never this way. Plus, the boy weighed near eighty pounds.

“Could go either way. There’s eight sets of footprints.”

There were little colored flags everywhere, footprints all over the place, mostly of them churned into mud.

“Fucking touch football game,” Burton said wryly.

“I’m betting on the blue flags. Might be a hiking shoe. Size is a 9 or 10. He crossed the embankment twice. Went along the side of the house, the basement door, all over.”

Burton looked over the backyard. “You think it’d be difficult to carry his body over the embankment?”

“You could carry the kid with one arm, Kevin.”

Mitchell started back along the trench to where the height decreased enough to allow him to clamber out.

Burton walked beside him, stealing glances of the dead boy, his limbs poked and prodded by the deputy coroner, his hands already in plastic bags and taped at the wrists until the autopsy.

“What do you think of her?” he asked when they’d gone far enough not to be heard.

Mitchell smiled enigmatically. “She's okay. She's not Blake, but she knows her stuff. I worked with her on the Greely thing.”

Burton had forgotten about Greely. His fingers found a stubble of beard, overlooked when he’d shaved in the shower. “You think the kid was raped?”

Mitchell shrugged. “It’s a good bet. He looks the kind.”

“Hustler?”

“Might be. I was thinking homo.”

Mitchell followed Burton's gaze to the coroner. She knelt next to the body, now turned over. He could guess what was going through Burton’s mind with two good-looking boys about the same age.

However, Burton didn’t dare think about his twins on the job. “Who found the body?”

“Some professor. He's waiting in the house. I don't know his name. By the way, he covered the kid with his jacket. I gave it back to him after I checked it out,” Mitchell replied. “Officer Travis is with him. He was first on the scene.”

Burton proceeded up the steps to the terrace, making mental notes. Typical for that part of town, leafy back yard, manicured hedges around a stagnant fountain, not concrete, but real stone, maybe marble. The house was Victorian, a mansion compared to his modest suburban ranch. The garage was a double, paneled doors open to reveal stacks of cardboard boxes and an old fashioned green sports car.

Resentment intensified at the front door. He opened it and walked inside. The entry hall screamed luxury, highly polished marble on the floor, walnut paneling, vaulted ceiling. The living room took his breath away.

The previous Saturday afternoon he’d taken the twins to the St. Louis Art Museum to work on school reports. The museum’s wood floor had gleamed with the same rich golden-browns, squeaking under their rubber-soled shoes wherever they went. Jeff was writing about American painters and the Wild West. He whooped and hollered his way through the galleries until his father made him sit down. Kyle was always more focused. He went straight to George Caleb Bingham's Election Series and stayed there for two hours.

Burton was still smiling about what happened when he stepped outside and beckoned to his driver. He waited for the officer to join him on the terrace, not impatient, amused. Of the two boys, he’d always thought Kyle might be gay. Jeff would provide the grandkids. How wrong could he be? It was Jeff who he surprised looking under the loincloth of a warrior statue.

“You can make yourself useful by taking notes,” he said to Harrison. “Hello.” he called out loudly.

“I’m in the kitchen making coffee,” a voice called back.

Burton went into the dining room, thinking he was glad his wife wasn’t there or she’d want their dining room redecorated to match. The kitchen was spectacular; there was no other word. Simply stainless steel and white in pristine efficiency.

His first impression of the man making coffee was late thirties or early forties. Good looking, average height, intelligent, but not geek-like. A powerful presence that was immediately noticeable, and unusual because he was blatantly gay. He stared out of the window over the sink, his attention focused on the activity outside. He seemed sad. Maybe he could see the body lying on the grass from where he stood.

The man’s clothes, jeans and pink oxford shirt were damp, stained with a yellow-brown film. A muddy grey leather jacket was discarded on the counter. His sneakers were mud-coated too.

Burton held out his right hand. “I'm Detective Sergeant Burton. I'm the investigating officer from Homicide Division. You found the body earlier this morning?”

“Madison,” Madison’s hand was cold and hard.

“Professor Madison?”

“John.”

“Sorry, I have to use your last name Mr. Madison. Or Doctor Madison if you prefer.”

“Mister. A lot of faculty insist on their titles, not me.”

“How did you come to find the body, Mr. Madison? I assume this is your house?”

“Yes. I’m renovating it. Right now I live a few blocks away.” He seemed absent.

The detective glanced around the kitchen; drywall yet to be painted, tiles yet to be grouted, bare wires poking out of electrical outlets and waiting for fixtures to be installed.

“It’s going to be nice, real nice. What happened?”

“I walk to work most mornings. I'm at the university. I usually don't go early on Tuesdays but I have a meeting later, so I left early to get ready.”

“When were you here last?”

“Last night. I came back after dinner to do some work. I've been building some bookshelves in the basement.”

“What time did you leave?”

“I suppose around eleven o'clock, though it might have been later.”

“Did you hear or see anything unusual last night?”

“No!” Madison realized how it sounded. “I was beat when I left here. I've been trying to get the house finished so I can move in. I've been working here most nights for quite a while.”

Burton glanced at Harrison. His note-taking skills matched his driving skills. He was earnestly scribbling every other word.

“What time did you leave your other house this morning, Mr. Madison?”

Madison's eyes wandered back to the window. “Six-fifteen, sometime around then, maybe earlier.”

“When did you arrive here?”

“It takes seven minutes to walk here. That would make it 6:22, plus or minus.”

“Do you always come here on your way to work?”

“I like to keep an eye on the house. It also gives me more time to think. I always get my best ideas walking. That’s not uncommon you know, or in the shower. A lot of people get them when they first wake up… I’m sorry.”

“What time did you find the body?”

“Exactly?” Madison shrugged. “Six-thirty, close to it anyway.”

He watched Harrison made rapid notes in cramped writing in a pocket-sized book. He was putting down accurate times, not estimates. He thought about pointing it out.

Burton regarded him. For a professor he seemed laid back, if not dopey. “Pretty dark to be checking on work in progress.”

“It was only because it was dark that I saw anything,” Madison responded.

“How so?”

“When it's so early, I normally don't come inside. This morning, I looked back and saw a light through the windows.”

“It was inside the house?”

“Outside. It was flashing through the windows like it was looking for something, like someone was going to break in if it was worthwhile. I came in to call the police, only the phone wasn’t working.”

Harrison scribbled furiously. “No cell phone, Dr. Madison.”

“Curmudgeon’s don’t have cell phones. It’s a faculty joke,” he explained. “The light was right outside.” He pointed to the kitchen window. “I waited for a minute. There might’ve been someone moving around, though I couldn't see the light anymore. So I opened the door. God only knows what I thought I was going to do.” Madison managed a feeble smile.

“Nice door,” Burton admired. It was old-fashioned, mahogany with a decorative diamond panel, not insulated glass in a plastic-coated frame like his back door.

“There's supposed to be a plank over the trench. It was there yesterday afternoon when they finished working on the pipe. Only it wasn’t there.”

“I take it you fell into the trench?” Burton managed not to smile at the image of the obviously gay professor falling into the trench.

“He was lying under me,” Madison said softly, his face ghost-white.

“You fell onto him?” Burton inquired. As macabre stories went, it begged disbelief.

Madison nodded. Each man waited for the other. Officer Harrison glanced from one to the other.

“What did you do then, Mr. Madison?” he asked.

“He didn't have any clothes on,” Madison whispered. “He was a fine looking boy, really handsome.”

Burton raised an eyebrow, regarding Madison with increased interest. However, Madison seemed not to notice. He stared at the floor, his arms crossed against his chest. Burton glanced at Harrison, warning him not to say or do anything.

“He wasn't very old,” Madison murmured. He rubbed his brow. “Why would someone kill him?”

Answer that, and I’m halfway home, thought Burton. He stepped close to the sink so he could look out the window. Fifteen feet away, the coroner was still examining the boy with a quiet professionalism.

“What happened then, Mr. Madison?”

“I don't remember. I tried to climb out once or twice…” Madison fell silent.

Burton waited for nearly a minute, watching him blink. His breathing was erratic, though not like he was guilty. More like he didn’t want to remember, or he was trying to forget.

“I came back inside the house again. I’m sure I tried to call the police again. I ran up the street until I came to a house with some lights on. I called from there and waited for the police to come.”

Burton looked around. “Harrison, check the time of the 9-1-1 call.”

“Now Sir?” Harrison asked uncertainly.

“Now, Harrison.”

Harrison handed over his notebook as he left.

“Do you know the boy?” Burton asked in a neutral voice.

“I never saw him before.”

It came too quickly, and he rubbed his face. ‘Lie number one,’ Burton decided.

“He felt so cold and moist when I touched him. I could tell he was gone. I don't know him, though,” Madison repeated with emphasis.

He shivered, suddenly feeling a need to sit down. He was breathing quickly, as though his chest was being squeezed before air got to his lungs.

“Do you want some of that coffee you made?” Burton asked.

The coffee maker was covered with a film of dust. It would be lucky to survive the construction project.

Madison shivered. “I don’t think it works so great.”

“You don’t look so great. You got dry clothes here?”

“Just a pair of overalls in the basement. I need to go home and take a shower.”

Burton shook his head. “In a while. I need some holes filled in first.”

“It happened so quickly. Those eyes, just staring.” Madison swallowed and turned back to the kitchen window.

Burton came to a quick decision. “State law requires I ask permission to obtain your fingerprints, Mr. Madison. It’s routine in these matters.”

“Eliminate me as a suspect, huh? Sure, no problem.”

“I’m going to have to ask you to stay in the living room if you don’t mind. I'll be back shortly.”

“I have a meeting at nine o'clock. I can’t be late.” Madison examined his watch.

“Sorry. You’d better call someone. It'll take an hour or two before we finish up outside. There’ll be more questions then.”

Madison shrugged. “The politics of unfunded theoretical research. I don't think I’ll be much use anyway.”

“Give Officer Harrison a name and phone number when he gets back. He’ll take care of it.”

Burton peered through the window, into the trench. It was eight feet down, maybe more. “How come there's a trench?”

“The basement leaks. The plumber’s digging next to the foundation wall to put in a pipe and a waterproof barrier.”

“I figured something like that when I saw the plastic sheet against the wall. When was the hole dug?” he added.

“Yesterday afternoon. The plumber wanted everything in place before the rain started last night. There would’ve been a real mess in the basement, otherwise.”

“When was the trench going to be filled in?”

“First thing this morning. The backhoe's costing me $500 a day.”

Burton just nodded. ‘So a few more shovels of earth and the body would have been covered. Another hour it would be buried under six feet of clay.’

He faced Madison for longer than he needed. Was it the pink shirt that made him look queer? What if he wore blue instead? Or checked flannel? It was like looking at Kyle. It didn’t matter what he wore. He was too pretty to be an all-American boy like his brother. However, it was more than facial features and gestures and trimmed eyebrows. It was personality that made the difference. Kyle radiated ‘girly boy.’

“Anyone else besides you and the plumber have knowledge of the work schedule?”

“The contractor. Most of his people. Some of the neighbors, because of the noise.”

The window of opportunity was only a few hours. So luck? Burton doubted it.

+-+

He met Harrison at the door. “What did you find?”

“The call was taken at 7.03 am, Sir.”

“That’s a problem! Madison needs to call his office. Let him use your cell. I want him in the living room, not looking at the scene. Close the blinds if you have to. Stay with him. Don’t try to question him. Your job is listen. And don’t be writing down everything he says. You’ll creep him out more than he already is.”

Burton went over to the deputy coroner’s car. She hefted an aluminum case into the trunk.

“What else, Doctor?” he asked without preamble.

Doctor Andrews gave an indifferent shrug. “I’ve completed the on-site examination of the body. I’ll know more after the autopsy this afternoon. Call me after four pm.”

“I need to know now.”

“Deceased is a male Caucasian between ten and twelve-years old. Scrotum and testes tied with a cord, contusions on the buttocks suggest sexual molestation. The cause of death is undetermined, though asphyxia is more than likely.”

Burton’s face tensed in frustration. “Was he raped?”

Andrews opened the car door, started to sit down, and stopped. “There are signs of entry, if that's what you mean.”

“That the best you can do?” he inquired.

Andrews stared at him. “Right now anything else is speculation. The anus is very dilated, some slight lacerations, and the surrounding tissue is bruised. It's pretty obvious he didn’t get like that from going to the toilet.”

“Anything else?”

“It was big.”

Burton swallowed. It was mostly how she said it; like she knew she was dealing with a man who thought about sticking his fat pedo-cock up his twin sons’ cute little butts. It hadn’t happened yet, but it was going to. After last night, it was just a matter of time.

“You saw his belly, Detective.”

“A tattoo, right?”

“Don’t know what else it could be.”

“That cord on his scrotum?”

“Standard parachute cord. It was tight enough to cut off the blood flow. Personally, I think we’re dealing with a sicko. I’d put in a call to Roger Thomas, if I was you.”

Doctor Roger Thomas was the special consultant hired by the city as an investigative expert to assist the Sex Crimes Unit. Thomas was knowledgeable, though prickly.

“Semen?”

“I didn’t see it. That big, I thought he was one of mine at first, only there was no semen. Your average black rapist leaves his seed at the scene. Any DNA will be a fluke.” Andrews was momentarily magnanimous. “I’m scheduled for a senior citizen autopsy this morning. I'll give John Doe Junior priority instead.”

Burton knew there was more, but she wasn’t letting on, not until she had the body in her pathology lab.

“Thanks. When are you doing it?”

“My office will call you before I start. I follow procedure, even if most cops don't.”

“I won't be there, Doc.”

“Aren't you up to it?”

“I have more important things to do,” he said quietly. “I'll arrange for someone from Homicide to be there.”

“You’ll get the preliminary report tomorrow morning. Call me after lunch. I'll know more by then.”

“Thanks.” He looked around, sorting out what he had to do next.

“Do you know who the deceased was? For the report.”

Burton's eyes locked on hers. “I’ve got a sock and a belly tattoo, Doc.”

“Not much to go on, is it?”

He agreed with her on that. “We'll ask around, run him against local missing persons, check with the Feds. Maybe he’s been missing for a while. I’d be surprised if he's a runaway.”

“Good-looking kids in good shape don’t live on the street?”

“Something like that.”

“I thought he might be gay. His eyebrows have been plucked…” She paused. “Some boys are into it at his age, even younger.”

Burton nodded. Kyle made his eyebrows thinner. Luckily, he only plucked a few at a time so his mother had never noticed. Either that or she ignored it.

“It'll take weeks to get a positive ID, and then we'll be lucky.”

“What about the man who found the body?”

“He says he never saw him before. Too soon to tell more. Being in shock isn’t helping. Next time…”

“Next time what?”

“I'd appreciate it if you didn't move the body.” He gave a weak smile to soften a sore point.

Doctor Andrews shrugged herself into the car seat. She turned the key, whacked the column shift in drive, and drove away.

“Black bitch,” Burton muttered.

He went after Harrison, crossing the lawn on his way back to the house after moving the cruiser from the driveway.

“Has he talked about anything to do with this?”

Harrison lost his smile. “Not much. He’s nervous as hell, keeps looking away.”

“He was doing that in the kitchen, looking out the window and closing his eyes. Probably shock.”

“Did you see his hands, how he was clenching them the entire time?”

“I saw.”

Harrison continued. “He called 9-1-1 at 7.03, but he said he found the body about 6.30.”

“So you’re thinking what did he do for thirty minutes?”

“He said he tried to call 9-1-1 from inside the house before he ran up the street.”

Burton exhaled. “Were it so simple.”

Harrison shrugged. “He’s got some explaining to do, hasn’t he Sir?”

Burton pivoted on the driveway, looking into the garage. “Nice fucking car. Nice fucking house? I should’ve been a fucking professor.”

“Some pervert got his hands on the kid, right?” Harrison asked from behind him.

“Will it make you work smarter or harder if a little boy got fucked in the ass?”

Harrison reddened sharply. “I didn't mean it the way it sounded.”

Burton gestured dismissal. “Make yourself useful and set up a search team, Harrison.”

“Yes Sir. What are we searching for?”

Burton sighed frustration. “Whatever looks like it doesn't belong! First, go round up a few of the uniforms. Then, get with Mitchell.”

He beckoned Mitchell over. “Tom, tell him to do the grounds on a sector pattern. Flag everything that might be important…”

Mitchell waited until he finished. “You see the kid’s belly?”

Burton’s head snapped up. “Some kind of tattoo.”

“Yeah, I thought that too.”

“Might be a lead. It’s pretty distinctive.”

“Hundred to one it’s a homo.”

“Figures. The male sign, pointing up like a hardon.” Burton looked back at the house. “I’ll ask Madison for permission to search inside.”

Mitchell smiled. “I figured you’d spot him.”

“With a petunia-pink shirt, it’s hard not to, Tom. Find me four smart uniforms for preliminary interviews of the neighboring houses.”

“I got it under control, Kevin. Any news on Hank?”

“He’s fucked. You think he’d be smart enough to keep his pants zipped.”

++++

“Interview as many as possible before they leave for work. Local kids, stray kids, you know the deal.” Burton hesitated. Of Mitchell’s four smart police officers, he knew two were taking detective courses. “Plus background on Madison, just in case. Disturbances during the night or early morning, anything going on at 3276 Hamilton Avenue. A light at the rear. I want the responses verbatim, okay. Note their actions. Are they relaxed or nervous? I want to know gestures, attitudes, anything at all. If you see something that doesn't appear normal, write it down. Interview everyone you can find.”

Mitchell took over. “This looks like a male crime. Find out if there are any boys in the house, preteen and over.”

The only female officer asked, “We interview them as well?”

“Most are on the way to school by now. Get their names and ages, and their movements since yesterday evening. Let me know if anyone gets squirrely,” Burton stopped for a much-needed shot of coffee.

“Work your way up the street,” Mitchell said. “Maybe someone saw Madison walking to work.”

“I'd like to know times if possible. Make sure you get the house on the corner where he called 9-1-1 from. I think it's 3-2-8-2.”

“How about the next street over, behind the property?” the female officer inquired. “There aren't any fences back there.”

“Absolutely do it,” Burton agreed.

The search of the house, garage, and grounds lasted all of three hours and forty-five minutes and produced nothing except muddy shoes and wet socks for the officers, and evidence of vomit in the far corner of the rear yard. A sample was duly collected and marked as #106. The interviews were even less helpful.

Madison added little new information in his second interview with Burton. He sat on the steps in the hallway of the furniture-less house, hunched over with his hands clasped together. He was still nervous, hesitancy over words allowing a long delay between the time a question was posed by Burton and his answer. He seldom made eye contact. He swallowed constantly. Finally, Burton told him to go home and stay there where he could be reached for further questions. He ignored Madison’s startled look and headed for a final look at the scene.

Shortly after noon, the only sign of a police investigation was a two-inch wide tape strung around the rear of the house. It would be there for ten days before the stakes were pulled out, and the backhoe started backfilling the trench. The backhoe cost was not Burton’s concern.

Chapter 5.

Homicide Division was located in Room 206 of the Aleborn Building. It was on the fringe of the St. Louis central business district in a seedy area close to the courthouse. Built before the turn of the century and designed by one of the lesser known architects of the time, its once intricate neo-Gothic detail of carved limestone was obscured by a weighty facade of bricks and stucco applied ten years earlier. Room 206 also had been renovated ten years ago. It retained the timeless ugliness required of unimportant government buildings, enhanced by puce-colored walls, ancient gray-green four-drawer filing cabinets, mismatched metal desks, and a plethora of manila folders that covered every available horizontal surface. The vertical surfaces were decorated with pin-up boards plastered with America's Most Wanted, EEOC notices, and FOP announcements.

Room 206 was the work area of half-a-dozen junior detectives, an equal number of clerks and assistants, and files going back for three years before they were scanned and dispatched to Records. A Homeland Security grant provided the latest computers, networked to America’s law enforcement, including the FBI and the police departments of other states.

Small cubicles, eight feet by ten feet in size lined the hot southern side. Black stick-on letters identified Room 206D, jointly occupied by Detective Sergeant Kevin Burton and his partner, Hank Lake. It was neither more nor less tidy than the other cubicles. The lack of space for two desks and four filing cabinets was made worse by Lake's ficus tree, struggling towards the window while it hovered near death.

Burton dropped down into his seat and swiveled back and forth, looking at the photo. Head and shoulders; it was still too much.

“No fucking way am I letting him get away for this!”

He needed a clean slate. His slate was full with five murders in six weeks with no solution in sight. Five murders in busy streets, all of them drug-related, all of them young black bucks. There were no witnesses; they were either too stoned or scared to come forward.

He glanced up. Officer Harrison might’ve been in the doorway for ten minutes before he noticed.

“Type your notes.” Realizing brusqueness wasn’t called for, he added, “I'll need you to drive me later on today.”

Harrison nodded. “Use one of the computers outside, right?”

“Whatever!” Burton chided himself as soon as the word left his mouth. “Ask Brenda to come in for a minute.”

He tapped his pencil on the desk. Between noon and 1:00 the twins were on lunch break. Peanut butter and jelly on white bread for Jeff. Kyle went the other way. Low-cal crackers and sharp cheddar cheese. It was like waving a rainbow sign.

Pencil tapping disturbed Lake, but Lake wasn’t there. No more Hank Lake, except maybe with an oxygen bottle and a walker if he was lucky. Suddenly, pencil tapping disturbed him too. He shifted the tapping to his yellow writing pad. His train of thought drifted, ending at home with the twins. He still couldn’t believe Kyle had sucked his brother’s dick right in front of him. Of course, it was only in play; teasing that got out of hand when Jeff told his brother to ‘suck it.’ As if on cue, Kyle said ‘dare me.’

There was no hesitation from the twins, not like there was for Burton. Jeff had promptly upped the ante with ‘I double-dog dare you.’ With a smirk, he opened his zipper. Burton didn’t think Kyle would go through with it. He leaned over his twin’s exposed crotch, his mouth already open. From across the room, Burton had witnessed a once-in-a-lifetime act of brotherly love. It lasted 30 seconds, not nearly long enough. When Kyle lifted off, his lips were rosy and wet. With an unromantic giggle, he smeared spit from his face before he glanced at his father. Embarrassed by the short, sweet intimacy, Burton had said ‘take it upstairs, guys.’ Thank god, Janice was out with a friend.

Burton looked up again when Brenda McMahon entered. Brenda was born and bred southern, Louisiana or Alabama, a card-carrying lesbian who went undercover in a Texas’ kiddie-sex sting. It went bad and three kids died. Brenda resigned. Now, she did research and stayed in the office.

“I need some help with an ID for this morning's kid,” he began. One of these days, he’d look up the Texas case and see what really happened.

“You've got my sympathy, Kevin.”

“Mitchell sent up a photo.” Burton handed it over. “Not much use. The kid’s a mess. Poor little bugger was lying in mud,” he explained. “We'll use autopsy pics after they've cleaned him up”

“Aw, he’s a cutie.” Brenda breathed a quiet sound of sympathy. Her eyes drifted across Burton’s desk. His kids were better looking. Kyle was gorgeous, no doubt about it. “You want me to check missing local kids first?”

“Good luck on that. Go back three or four months, just in case. Maybe we'll get lucky.”

“Puppy-eyes looks queer.”

“We’re on the same page, Brenda.”

“Could be a FUB thing that went bad.”

‘FUB’ was the sanctioned acronym for familial sexual relations. According to the 2012 Pontifical Commission on Child Sexual Abuse, 87.3 percent of child sexual abuse involved fathers, uncles, and brothers.

Burton looked back at her, as if challenging her to read his mind. “FUB boys usually end up like him?”

“Just the opposite, despite what you hear on TV. The worst I’ve seen are a few bruises. A FUB boy has no worse a life than a normal kid, and probably better in some situations. They’re almost always loved more than they’re abused, and some get spoiled to death.”

“You’re saying what exactly?”

“We want to think their abusers are pond scum. Some are; a lot of them aren’t.”

“I think we’re dealing with a creep this time.”

“My thinking too. A four-hundred-mile radius ought to turn up something if he’s been reported as missing. After that, I’ll go back a year. It’ll take an hour or two.” She leaned against his open-cases file cabinet. “I think you'll strike out, Kevin. Nowadays, it’s mostly chatroom hookups. Every gay guy out there started life as a lonely gay kid, only they’re not so lonely any more. As a general rule, they don’t end up covered in mud. A boy with a face like his, he might be a runner, but I doubt it.”

“I was thinking working boy. Russian or Eastern European, maybe?”

“Over the last couple of years, it’s gone south. If you know where to look, there are hordes of Hispanic kids selling ass. Not many with his looks. Nice little body?”

“Yeah, what I saw of it.”

“He looks the type alright. I wish parents were as good at taking care of them as putting them in the oven in the first place.”

Burton tapped his pencil on the writing pad. She might’ve been talking about him and Janice raising the twins. He gave them every spare moment and it still wasn’t enough.

“All the fuss on TV, it’s just a few clowns sharing porn getting caught. The media make a big deal of it to boost ratings. I’ll check the image boards, and ask around, but I bet he’s a fresh face. There’s no way we’ll find out anything if he’s been living an alternative lifestyle,” she added.

“Meaning what?”

“There’s a big demand for a cutie like him. Someone will latch onto him fast, new identity, all very low profile.”

“Like I said Brenda, maybe we'll get lucky.”

“By the way, Kevin, the boss wanted to see you when you got in this morning. It sounded urgent like.”

“It's probably his hemorrhoids.” Burton stood up. “A kid like this, what’s he worth in the sack.”

“The hourly twice what St. Louis’ most overpaid lawyer gets.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m not talking trailer trash on the street. We pretty much stamped that out in the 90s. Nowadays, a cute kid gets commitment. Puppy Eyes is blond and good-looking. We’re talking red-hot property in the pedo market.”

“You mean his ass is hot property, right?”

“You don’t get it, do you? A lot has changed since I was working in Texas, Kevin. It’s all Internet porn except for a few lucky men who get to adopt a boy like Puppy Eyes. He gets a wonderful life in return for a slight loss of sphincter control.”

He hadn’t thought of Kyle and Jeff like that. Cuddling two naked boys in his bed was one thing, problems of sphincter control were in a whole different league. The problem was all he could think about was fucking them in the ass.

He followed Brenda into the main office and watched her sit down at her computer terminal. Two keystrokes brought up the main menu. The computer was blindingly fast. Unlike most other city departments, the police department overcame budget reductions by having a professional grant writer on staff.

The head of Homicide was Stan Bronski. Burton knocked and entered, waiting until Bronski put the telephone down.

“Bad?” Bronski asked.

“I can handle it,” Burton said abruptly.

Bronski tilted his chair back, scratched his cheek. “Hank’s going to be hospitalized for months. His wife called to let me know. He’s scheduled for a second surgery in a day or two.”

“Damn!” Burton straightened up.

“His wife is hopeful,” he said bluntly. “If he’s lucky, it’ll take several months for a 70 percent recovery. Unlucky, we’re talking Mr. Potato-Head.”

Burton swallowed. He and Lake usually had hamburgers and French fries for lunch.

“You got a name for this morning?”

“Not yet. Brenda’s calling him Puppy Eyes,” Burton said, looking out the window.

“Whatever! Problem is we’re short-handed, Kevin. There’s no one else available, least not in Homicide.”

Burton nodded, still thinking of Hank and his wife. They were good people. All it took was one little fuck-up to ruin a marriage.

“I’m thinking a transfer from another division,” Bronski continued. “A temporary arrangement in case it doesn’t work out. I can justify it on an emergency basis.”

“I can work alone,” Burton said.

“My recommendation is Rick Langley. He’s good; way underutilized in Drugs.”

Burton nodded.

“It’ll take a week, assuming the Commissioner agrees. What do you have so far?”

Burton summarized. “Fuck all. My guess is he's not a runaway. He’s cute and blond so it’s likely he sold ass. There’s a male sign on his belly, a tattoo most likely.”

“Some kind of gay thing?”

“How the hell would I know? Probably there to throw us off. I’ll have Brenda look into it. We might get lucky. Otherwise, we wait.”

“Sexually molested?”

“He took a big one up the ass by the look of it. No sperm. The deputy coroner said she’ll lucky to find DNA.”

“You think it's just the one?” Bronski asked suddenly. “Murder I mean.”

Burton shrugged.

“Either way, the media will be all over it. Kid killing and sex abuse makes for news. Fucking reporters. It’s like John Gacy’s around every fucking corner.”

Burton felt a spurt of anger. It wasn’t only the media that reveled in gruesome details.

“I can't spare anyone in Homicide, Kevin. What I can do is pass the street whacks to Broderick, if you'd like?”

“Do it! This is going to be a bear.” Burton stood up.

“I'd like you to keep P-R in mind when you talk to the media.”

Burton laughed. “Bad media, bad budgets; I got it.”

“You want to bring the FBI in?”

Burton shook his head.

“Not my choice, either. They throw their weight around and take the credit.”

“Give me a few days, Stan. If the kid’s out-of-state, there’s no choice. The FBI wasn't much use on Aaron Planter.”

“Remember the fucking profile? Jesus, it could’ve been me, or you if you ever went to church!” Bronski chuckled.

“My wife’s going for both of us.”

“Any thoughts on a temporary partner until I can get Langley transferred?”

“How about Officer Harrison? He drove me this morning.”

“I seriously doubt whether his IQ’s up to it, Kevin.”

Burton winced. He had been in uniform for more years than he cared to remember. “He can take notes, Stan. That's all I need right now.”

“You got him, Kevin. I'll call downstairs and set it up.”

“I'd like to get someone down to the Coroner's Office for the autopsy.”

“Too busy?” Bronski smiled. “Broderick's too near-sighted to notice, and too mean to care.”

In the main office, Brenda was looking over little rectangular boxes on the right side of the screen.

“Six hits, Kevin. That's just Missouri since the first of September. It gets worse when school starts. It only slows when the weather turns shitty.”

She clicked on the first box. The boy was good looking with Mediterranean features, dark hair and dark eyes. He had been photographed in a studio with an artificial seaside background.

“He’s your mid-priced call-boy. Recruited by some pimp in Kirkwood. Hangs out at the Magic Zone. Missing since October 3. He’s probably gone up a grade and moved to Colorado.”

Burton smiled. “Next time you'd better include blond hair and brown eyes otherwise we’ll be here till the Second Coming.”

He looked over her shoulder at six other boys reported missing. Not much likeness to Puppy Eyes. The seventh boy was something else. He was gorgeous. Like the boy of Troy, he had a face that could launch a thousand ships packed with Greek pedophiles.

He scrutinized the boy’s face. “Way better looking than Puppy Eyes,” he said quietly, looking at big grey-blue eyes.

“He’s a doll,” Brenda agreed. “His mom reported him missing the day after Thanksgiving.”

Burton read between constant glimpses at a face too pretty to be on a computer monitor. “Jason Tyler Thorne, from Ravendon Springs. Where the hell is that?” he asked before he saw the zip code was in Missouri.

“He ought to be in Hollywood. He’s way cuter than JTT,” Brenda smiled. “He never ran away though, see.” She sounded happy. “His stepfather called the next day.” She pointed at the case activity report. ‘Saturday, 29th, Deacon Thomas Bachman (stepfather) reported boy found hiding in the barn. Case closed, December 1. ’

“Good luck,” Burton said. He returned to his office to sort out the files for Broderick, adding handwritten notes. It was near two o'clock before he stopped for lunch.

Every time he had a bad case of heartburn, Burton resolved to eat fat-free turkey on seven-grain bread, with yogurt for lunch. He couldn’t enjoy canteen burgers without Hank so he bought his lunch from the vending machine, two bags of fat-free pretzels and a carton of orange-flavored juice. The pretzels would take a long time to eat.

At two o'clock precisely, after a lunch that left him longing for dinner with the twins, he called the Coroner's Office. Doctor Andrews was in the pathology lab where she would be for several more hours. So much for ‘something by noon’ promises. He checked Brenda's progress, a stack of prints slowly mounting next to her computer. No matches, a few in the ‘might-be’ category, one likely.

As he gazed at the prints he felt distinctly uneasy. It was like looking at different versions of Kyle. How had it missed it for so long? He hadn’t missed it. He’d avoided it like the plague. There was a nasty ache in his stomach, a kind of low-riding heartburn. The last thing he needed was a fucking ulcer. The rest of the pretzels went in the trash.

He could feel the stress eating at him; every tiny pore beneath the muddy film was captured on crime scene photos. He traced over the belly tattoo and made a mess of it. His circle was an ellipse, his arrow wasn’t nearly as straight. He handed it off to Brenda. The rest of the afternoon passed in slow-motion frustration. Each new batch of missing children reports boosted his hopes of a match. The best he had were strong likenesses, nothing useful unless he was clutching at straws.

With an armful of files on known sex offenders in the area, he came at it from the opposite direction. The files came from the Sex Crimes Division, spanning five years. It was the Who’s Who of St. Louis pedophiles, boys *and* girls, all ages, all races. Of 145 sex-offenders prosecuted, 139 went to prison. As he flipped through the files, he spotted the anomaly. Fifteen years without parole for possession of porn—203 images found on the Internet. Twenty-two years for a swim coach who touched a kid’s genitals one time. Thirty years for oral sex with a ‘consenting’ ten-year-old in the back of a 18-wheeler, one time only. Twelve years for a Mexican immigrant who raped a neighbor’s daughter multiple times and got her pregnant. Anger flooded him. Anger at why the courts did such things.

Burton sorted out the most likely suspects, eleven files of child-endangering pederasts. He spent most of two hours on the telephone to follow up on them.

All but two were still in jail. One was prolific, sporadic episodes that never injured his victims. He had the typical profile, average education, married 15 years with two kids, and employment associated with young people.

Burton smiled to himself. “So much for the Boy Scout troop leader.”

Over five years he’d taught two dozen cub scouts how to masturbate. Not hands on, he’d just talked about it, explained the difference between dry and wet orgasms…

One file got his attention as soon as he opened it. Roland Keiffer, age 35, once a school teacher, now in sales for educational publishing, and a part-time car salesman. No arrests since his last conviction for gross sexual imposition four years earlier. A plea bargain earned him a two-year sentence for the anal rape of a twelve-year-old.

Sheer laziness had allowed Keiffer to skate. He noted Keiffer's place of employment and residence. At four o'clock, he called the Coroner's Office. He waited ten minutes for the deputy coroner.

Before he could ask, she said, “I’m working up a report right now.” The way she said it was cold.

“I can’t wait for the official autopsy report.”

“I’m waiting on Forensics.”

“So what can you tell me?”

Intellectually, he accepted that he’d get more with a carrot than a stick, that his rapport with Doctor Andrews needed work. Emotionally, he just couldn’t manage it, not when the twins were home with their mother. She filled their heads with religious nonsense.

“The sooner we start working as a team, the less likely he'll kill again.”

There was a pause before she replied, her words less icy her tone. “I'll tell you what I’m confident of.”

She consulted her notes.

“Male Caucasian, aged ten to twelve based on bone development. There’ll be supporting details in the report. 148 centimeters high, weight of 37 kilos. A long way from what you’d call overweight, even by yesterday’s standards. Deceased was naked except for a single sock on the right foot. The sock is white nylon and calf-length, and covered with mud. Adult teeth, one filling in the upper-right molar. Distinguishing marks, scattered freckles on his back and shoulders, minor scars on his knees; and a tattoo around the navel. It’s recent, a few days old.

“As I told you earlier, the cause of death was asphyxia, with no signs of strangulation such as crushing of the cartilages of the larynx. The trachea would be depressed more than it is.”

“So some windpipe depression?” Burton interrupted.

“Very little. It’s possible the deceased was moved by lifting around the neck, or something was secured around the neck.”

“Death was asphyxiation?”

“Plenty of Tardieu's spots on the inner surface of the eyelid and the eyeball, and the lungs. Think of it as hemorrhaging when the body panics from lack of air. There's none in the neck, ergo cause of death wasn’t strangulation. I’ll have red blood cell results tomorrow.”

“Let me know.”

As though divining dissatisfaction, Andrews testily inquired, “What exactly do you want to know?”

“How he was asphyxiated?”

“Take your pick, officer. A pillow over the face, a plastic bag, a blanket if it’s tightly woven. There’s nothing in the deceased's airway to suggest what it was.”

“Shouldn't there be fibers?”

“Plastic bags don't leave a residue.”

“Any signs of a struggle?” Burton inquired.

“It wasn't an easy death. Before you ask, I can’t confirm a struggle. No bruising or laceration of the skin. His fingernails were clean, chewed down to the cuticle, but that’s not unusual with kids.”

“Yeah, my son does it.” Jeff chewed. Kyle manicured. A few times he’d spotted black flecks on his nails, like he had some kind of Goth thing going on.

“with the eyebrows, he might have more than his share of problems, the deceased I mean.”

“Time of death indications?”

“Body temperature you know already. Livor mortis; the deceased was on his back, so there’s discoloration on the lower back and legs. There should be discoloration on all the areas that supported the body, from lying on the drainpipe, for example. Are you with me so far?”

Burton, tapping his pen on the pad, gave a terse, “Yes.”

“If the deceased was moved within three to four hours of death, the discoloration would begin in the position of death and then shift to other areas. There was some discoloration under the spine and buttocks. Those were the areas resting on the pipe. The discoloration is largely fixed, so the time of death was eleven to midnight.”

“When was the body moved?”

“Early this morning, between five and six.”

“What else do you have, Doctor?”

“There was a small amount of mucus in the deceased's mouth that may not be his.”

“You mean saliva?”

“Not the same thing. Saliva’s in the mouth, produced by the parotid gland. It's thinner and much more watery than what I'm talking about. Mucus is thicker and comes from the pharynx. That's deeper in the throat. Blood types can tell us if the mucus was foreign. The bad news is there’s a 30 percent chance it won’t work…”

“I know about secretors, Doctor. Here’s hoping. Anything on the cord?”

“Looped around his scrotum, one piece of 1/8” parachute cord, red with black flecks, 37 inches long. Any hardware store carries it. It wasn’t knotted, probably so it would tighten. It was on for at least a day, and tight enough that it restricted the blood flow. It would’ve been very painful. He would’ve lost them if he survived.”

“Anything else?”

“Oh, you mean semen,” she said, enjoying his unease. “The rectum was clean.”

Burton lost his battle with bitterness. “Even killers practice safe sex.”

“The rectum was flushed. That’s usual for gays by the way, though it’s done before the sex act.”

Burton hadn’t thought about doing that to the twins, not even for a second. “He gave the kid an enema afterwards?”

“From the saline residue it’s your basic Fleet saline disposable. You can buy a four-pack at Walgreens for five bucks.”

He forged ahead. “The penetration, was it forced?”

“Here’s where it gets weird. The anus was lacerated slightly and there were traces of oil-based lubricant in the rectum, likely Vaseline. Some of the lacerations were older than others, several days prior to death. The most recent was right before.” She hesitated. “Remember what I said about it being one of mine because it was big? The passage was huge.”

“How huge?”

“He was loose from his anus to the end of his rectum, with extensive displacement of the colon; that’s over five inches long right there. Given the amount of dilation, I’d estimate a minimum two inches wide. The rectum should’ve ruptured with something that big, except there was no bleeding, not even a tiny break in the lining. There’s no indication a penis caused it. I think the perpetrator knew what he was doing.”

“Now you got me.”

“It’s possible he used a range of dildos to progressively stretch the boy. That big, there’s a possibility of a permanent loss of muscle control. I don’t think that happened here.”

“Speculate on what did.”

“A lot of gay men use anal plugs to enlarge the rectum. A plug usually doesn’t stretch the anus that much, though some do.”

“Why?”

“A large rectum plus sphincter strength and flexibility; if a boy was active with multiple partners that would be a big bonus.”

“Fucking hell!”

“One more thing; it took a long time to make it that large without ripping him apart.”

“We’re talking hours or days?”

“You need to get with a doctor specializing in gay health, but my guess is two or three days, pretty much nonstop.”

A hot flush poured into his face. Ever the jester, Jeff had flipped onto his front and pulled his buttocks apart. He might have been offering himself to his father. Only Kyle giggled, though both of them saw the virginal pucker. It was beautiful, inviting a tickle, if not more. His reaction at the time was not at all what he expected. Just thining about it now, made him anxious. He blinked, trying to imagine an eleven-year-old boy with a two-inch-wide anus.

“What were the contents of the stomach?” he asked, suddenly fearful.

“I'm waiting for lab tests. I know he ate a couple of hot dogs. I’m thinking the deceased ate hurriedly, as if there wasn't time to chew. The hotdogs are standard six-inch ballpark, beef. Oh, and they weren’t cooked either.” She couldn't wait any longer. "The last thing he ate, wafers and wine.”

“God!” Burton sighed. “I hate this job,” he added under his breath.

There was a momentary hesitation. “He had Communion is my guess." Again she paused. “That’s all he ate for the last three days.”

“Sounds like he was a prisoner of a religious nut job with a hotdog fetish?”

“I'd say that was one reasonable conclusion. All together, this case is as weird as I’ve seen. The alternative is Junior liked raw hot dogs. There was a whole one in the lower intestine,” she added wryly.

“Pardon?”

“There was a whole hotdog in his lower intestine. It either slipped in or was forced past his colon by whatever was used in his rectum. It’s possible the others were used the same way before he ate them. It's hard to be certain without chemical analysis.”

“Fuck!”

“I'll have the report to you by 8:00 tomorrow.”

“The tattoo?”

“Industry standard, male gender sign pointing up, not down, though up and down depend on your perspective. It was done some time in the last week. It was probably a five-needle setup. The carrier was ethyl alcohol; it makes the dermis more permeable. The pigment is a mix of organics. I’ve sent off samples, but don’t hold your breath.”

“Why?”

“There’s no regulation. No records. You can do whatever you want on the kitchen counter.” She laughed strangely.

“You think it’s some kind of gay thing?”

“It’s the male sign turned into a phallic symbol; what do you think?” After a moment, she added, “There is one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“There were traces of adhesive on the wrists and ankles. The child was restrained during part of his ordeal.” She continued. “There was a small piece of tape on the right wrist, about two millimeters long, grey like duct tape. I sent it off to the FBI, just in case.”

“The sock?” Burton prompted.

“A cotton-nylon mix, calf length, the kind of sock used in kid’s soccer. No manufacturer's mark; it’s been washed off if it ever existed. You could buy a pair at any discount store, all over the country. If we're very lucky, we might find the manufacturer and batch, though it'll take a few weeks. There's a lot of imported clothing not in the FBI database. Unless you find the mate and want to prove a match, it isn’t much use. Then, Defense will argue the socks came from different batches.”

“Nothing else?”

“No fingerprints because of the mud. My assistant is still looking for latents with cyanoacrylate and the laser. I doubt we’ll get lucky.”

Andrews hung up. Burton stared at the pin-board, grimy cork plastered with seven prints from the crime scene. The centerpiece was a black and white photograph of Roland Keiffer, the most likely suspect.

Chapter 6.

Roland Keiffer's last known address had him living a short ten-minute drive away from 3276 Hamilton Avenue. It wasn’t proximity that elevated him to prime suspect. Keiffer had been arrested four years earlier. He had kidnapped a boy as he waited for the school bus on a cool spring morning. The boy's liberation fourteen hours later from a motel room was fortuitous. A woman staying in the adjoining room became anxious after hearing the boy's muffled cries through the wall.

“Damned boy fucker,” Burton thought, ignoring the irony.

He went to find Harrison, who had taken up temporary residence at a scarred desk in the far corner of Room 206, adjacent to the fire-escape door.

Keiffer’s place of work was Merton’s Auto Sales, 32 minutes in heavy afternoon traffic. Harrison drove fast, with an eye on every car he passed, which wasn’t surprising after three years on highway patrol. Burton concentrated on Keiffer’s file, interrupted only when Harrison braked hard and turned into a driveway festooned with flags.

“This Keiffer guy sure works close to where the kid was murdered,” Harrison observed proudly.

“Where did the murder occur, Harrison?”

Harrison paused “He works close to where the kid was found, right?”

“Three miles, say ten minutes, is close enough,” Burton agreed.

Harrison parked in one of the ten spaces for prospective customers. Even before the engine stopped, two salesmen came from either side of the car. One wore a green sports jacket and checked trousers, the other, an open-necked shirt, a gold chain, and cream-colored trousers. Burton and Harrison looked at each other and smiled.

“Frigging vultures. How many would there be if we came in a regular car?”

“It’s the cruiser that’s the problem,” Burton quipped. “The rest are burning the records.”

He wondered why he had bothered.

They almost pinned Burton and Harrison to the hood before they assumed the sales position, hands out for the welcoming, can-we-help-you handshake.

“I'm Jerry Hane. I guess you’re looking to buy an unmarked car?” Green-sports-coat laughed, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. “One of our Mustangs would make a nice pursuit car, wouldn't it Jake?”

“How can we help officers? Looking to buy something for the wife? I can make you a deal on a mini-van you won’t believe.” Jake lacked the requisite smile.

“You,” Burton pointed to the green sports coat, “can exit. I'm talking to my friend Mr. Keiffer.”

Keiffer nodded slightly. Jerry smiled again. “If I can be of any help, let me know.” He headed back to the showroom.

Burton hesitated, not long enough for Jerry to be out of earshot. “Roland, or should I call you Jake?”

Keiffer shrugged. “Who are you?”

“Burton, St. Louis Homicide. What's the alias for?”

“How many car salesmen do you know called Roland? Jake's better for business.”

He looked harmless enough, ordinary in fact, like any other pervert you might meet in the back corner of a sex shop. He should’ve been in prison for thirty years for the anal rape of a minor.

“You still living with Mom, Keiffer?”

Keiffer studied the dented front of the police car. “I'm doing okay. I've been in counseling for two years.”

“That’s great. What about the kid? How’s his counseling going?”

Keiffer shrugged. “He doesn’t need it. I didn’t hurt him.”

“What have you been doing since your release?”

“Nothing that concerns you. I haven't missed a session with my parole officer. I've had a steady job here the entire time.”

“Are you still hanging around arcades, Keiffer? Or it is just bus stops now?”

“I've been getting help. I don't do those things anymore,” Keiffer said.

Burton waited. Interrogation was not live radio. Silence could be golden. Silence staring down guilt.

“Why can't you leave me alone? I screwed up once; I won't do it again. Never again!”

Burton doomed him to Hell. If a man were going to make love to a boy, he ought to do it gently. He certainly wouldn't fuck him until there was blood on the sheets.

“I spent two years in the slammer being fucked by niggers. You think I'm stupid enough to do it again?”

Burton took a breath. It took all his willpower. So much for bonding with the suspect. So much for being sympathetic. Fuck privacy concerns! The interesting thing was Keiffer seemed to need absolution.

“It wasn't just one boy, Keiffer. There were lots of boys. I know some of the kids you met at the arcades.”

It was bullshit, but Keiffer’s head snapped up as though Burton had slapped him. He clenched his hands, and stared at the front of the cruiser.

“I'm getting psychiatric help. I don't do that any more,” Keiffer said softly.

“I'm glad. You used up your plea bargain chips last time and the judges are cracking down on perverts.”

Keiffer looked up. “This police harassment?” His eyes met Burton's momentarily before they darted away. “You got a question, ask it. Otherwise I have to get back to work.”

Burton nodded to Harrison, who promptly got out his note pad.

“Where were you from yesterday afternoon until eight o'clock this morning?”

“I was at home or here. Why?”

“Why is none of your goddamn business.”

“You're in Homicide, right?”

“I’m in Homicide. You rape little boys. That’s why we’re talking.”

Keiffer recoiled. “I didn't rape him, or any one else. I-I-I'm seeing a psychiatrist.”

Burton was in no hurry. “What were you doing on Hamilton Avenue this morning?”

“I wasn't on Hamilton Avenue this morning. I don't even know where it is.”

“Near the University. I would’ve thought you were smarter than leaving your semen in him.”

I've already told you, I don't do that stuff now. “Keiffer's hand twitched toward his forehead, his voice high. “I didn't touch any kid this morning!”

Burton regarded intuition as a ribbon, never the package. Never shortcut the process. “Where were you last night and early this morning?”

“I worked here till six-thirty. You can check with Jerry because I left with him. And the manager as well, he saw us leaving. I usually stay later. Business was slow because of the weather. Then, I had dinner on the way home.”

“No dinner with Mom?” Harrison taunted.

Burton glared Harrison into silence.

Keiffer was frightened, but his fear was an old one. “I hate turkey tetrazzini and mashed potatoes.”

“Where did you eat dinner?” Burton resumed.

“Casey’s. It’s a bar and grill about a mile up the street. I usually eat there when I work late. My waitress last night was Kate. We talked for a while.”

“Right, alibi. Now, what time did you leave there?”

“Between 7:30 and 8:00. I stopped for gas. I got home at eight-thirty. I was there the rest of the evening, watching television until after the news finished.”

“With your mom?” Harrison prompted. He reddened when Burton glanced him.

“She went to bed when the news started at 11:00.”

“You were there for the entire night?”

“All night, every night. I woke up around 6:00, showered, and had breakfast. I was back here by 6:30 sharp.”

Burton turned slightly and observed the cars for sale lined up in endless straight rows.

“You're putting in some long days, aren't you Keiffer? What with two jobs and all?”

“It’s been slow with the school books. It’s all going digital,” Keiffer said. “I’m on commission. I need the money.”

“Why were you here so early?”

“I'm doing the books for Merton. It pays an extra eighty dollars a week. I'm still paying off my attorney's bill.”

“Ever think about compensating the kid? Medical bills? Therapy? College, maybe?”

“I got fined twenty grand.”

“Keep away from the kids, Keiffer,” Burton said, ending the interview. “And stay in town. We may need to talk more. Where's your boss?”

“In his office? You telling him about what happened back then?”

Burton started to walk away. He stopped and turned to Harrison. “Take a run down to Caseys’. See if you can find Kate. No alibi is air-tight.”

He waited until the cruiser was headed up the street. “I don’t think you did this one, Keiffer.”

“Whatever it was, I didn’t do it.”

“A boy was raped and murdered this morning.”

“Not by me.”

Burton looked him in the eyes. “Better not be you. You won’t make it to the station, Keiffer. I’ll cut off your fucking cock and let you bleed to death.” He waited a few moments. “You know anyone local who might do a kid?”

“No. All of them are doing time.”

“How about mess with him? Friends from the past?”

“Most of them hang out at gay bars looking for twinks. The smart ones groom a boy into wanting it.”

“Or pick them up at bus stops.”

Keiffer ignored the jibe. “There was a tag-team a year or so ago. I don’t think they’d do a boy, but they were into some serious shit, drugs and bondage mostly. I heard they went to South America, Venezuela or someplace.”

Burton handed him his business card. “You think of anyone, or you hear something, you call me?”

“Sure. Anything you say. I didn’t do it.”

“How about you prove it?”

“By doing what exactly?”

Burton cocked his head. “By helping me out. I need advice, and the way I see it, you’re an expert in the subject.”

“Okay?”

“Let’s go sit in your car for a while.”

The employees’ cars were behind the building. The first car in the row, in a “reserved” spot, was a white Lincoln Continental, Merton’s from the plates. Beside it was a bright-red Pontiac FireHawk, 2002 model. It looked new with chromed, five-spoke wheels and wide, ultra- low-profile tires.

“Nice car. I should have been a car salesman,” Burton said.

“Low miles too. It was off the road for four years.” Keiffer opened the doors.

“Get a lot of boys with this, do you?”

Keiffer’s head slowly turned. “I’m getting counselling, remember?”

“Right.” After an ungainly struggle, Burton leaned back in the seat. “Fast?”

“Zero to 60 in five. What do you want to know?”

“If you were doing a boy for the first time, would you use a Vaseline? Let’s say he’s eleven.”

“You’re kidding right?”

Burton gave him a withering look. “Just answer the question.”

“Fuck no!”

“You wouldn’t use Vaseline?”

“Jesus! You’re serious.”

“There’s no book on how to fuck boys that I know of. Plus the subject is not one I’m comfortable talking about with a lady coroner.”

Keiffer braced his arms, hands on the wheel. He glanced sideways. Still uncertain, yet something inside him said take the risk. “When they’re tight, you need water-based lubricant. First time Anal-Ese, then Astoglide or KY. Once he’s stretched, I’d switch him to Vaseline.”

“Why?”

“The first time you want to take the edge of his pain, the next few times you need it really slippery inside. After that, you want it to last.”

Burton managed to nod. Was it really that easy? “Next question, still his first time, but his partner’s got a big one. How would he get it in him?”

“How big?”

“Maybe two inches wide.”

“Forget it. There’s no way that’s going up a kid’s ass without ripping him apart.”

“Actually, there was almost no damage at all.”

“In that case, a slow stretch is the only way. Real slow. You start him with small dildo and work it in, way up inside.” Keiffer licked his lips. “You leave it in a long while. A really long while. Then, you move up a size.”

It affected Burton too. “So like over a day?”

“For the first one. That big would take a three or four… shit I don’t know. I’d never do it. With something like that there’s a good chance it’s permanent. At a minimum, he’ll always crap without pushing hard.”

Burton nodded. The next question came from the beast inside him. “What if it was shorter, like six inches and not that thick? Any damage?”

“Sounds about average. It’s unlikely with enough foreplay, and the kid doesn’t fight it.”

“It’s that easy?”

Keiffer sensed the change. Now, the cop was asking questions because he wanted to, not because he had to. “I never said it was easy. Little boys are tight, but if you do it slow and gentle, he’ll like it. Hit the spot as much as you can.”

“What spot?”

“His prostate. Get him excited and he’ll probably cum for you.”

“He’s too young for that.” Where had that come from?

“Ah, right, well that changes everything.” Keiffer smirked back. “Actually, his partner is lucky guy. Even though nothing comes out, he’ll get awesome cums.”

Burton stared out the windscreen. He could feel his face burning. It wasn’t from the sun. ‘Little boys are tight,’ was right on the money after seeing Jeff’s tiny pucker. It didn’t seem possible.

Keiffer glanced sideways. He could always tell when men and boys were interested. The cop was thinking through what he’d just said. He thought about saying, ‘You’re like me.’ He couldn’t avoid smiling.

“What usually happens?” Burton thought he sounded professional.

“Seriously?” Keiffer smirked again. “You want step by step?”

Somehow, Burton nodded.

“You going to report me?”

“Not over this.”

“First time or experienced?”

“Experienced.” It seemed safer, more distant.

“After five, six times, they get used to it. The first thing is to get him real horny, so you feel them up, kissy face if he’s into it, play with his dick. Once he’s in the mood, it takes a minute or two to loosen him up.”

“How?”

Kieffer shook his head. “With a dildo if you’re uptight about touching his ass. Most guys use fingers.”

“You?”

“I always use my tongue.”

Burton swallowed saliva. “Boys like that?”

“I’ve never seen one not love it. Gets ‘em worked up fast. Once you feel it get stretchier, you start putting it in.”

“Fast, slow?”

“Steady pressure. Have him push out too. Once it’s in about halfway, give him a few minutes to get used to it.”

“Then what?”

“You start moving it in and out. Only about this far.”

Burton looked at Keiffer. His first finger and thumb were a half-inch apart. “That’s all.”

“If it’s in the right place, it doesn’t take much movement to bring a boy off, not like a woman.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

‘Yeah, I bet you will.’ Keiffer took the biggest risk of his life. “Boy ass is the best fuck you’ll ever have. Hit the spot every thrust and he’ll bounce all over the place. He’ll probably start whimpering when he gets close to orgasm, most of them do, or they get all giggly.”

“I never realized he’d come from being fucked in the ass.” Burton smiled at himself.

“Why do you think boys let men do them? You want to drive him crazy, play with his dick at the same time. If you do it just right you’ll feel him bang one out every few minutes.”

“Seriously?”

“Before puberty, a boy can cum again and again. I’ve seen them black out from it.”

“Jesus!” Burton wondered whether Jeff would faint from too it. It didn’t seem possible.

“How old is he?”

He blanched, his hand grasping the door handle. “One more question. Why would a man stick a huge dildo up a boy’s ass?”

“Now you’re kidding.” Keiffer chuckled when Burton didn’t respond. “You bust boy’s ass with a really big one, he’ll always want your cock in him.”

“You’re…” Burton was going to say ‘disgusting’; however Keiffer was looking down. He didn’t dare look down. He could feel it though. “You need to keep going to counseling.”

“Wait till you’ve got him so loose he never really tightens up afterwards. He’ll be into it as much you are. The best part is when you feel his little ass squeezing on your cock and you know he’s having a good one. Both of you all shaky and hot. Once your cum’s in his ass, you won’t want to stop. The only problem is you’ll lose your hardon.”

“Okay. I think I’ve heard enough….”

Keiffer knew Burton was on the edge. He smiled. “My advice is fuck your son every night. Get him a big plug if you like, but he won’t enjoy it half as much as sitting on your cock.”

Burton was ejaculating into his boxers when he threw open the car door, sweat pouring off him, his heart pounding. “Don’t leave town, Roland.”

+++++

Burton burst into the glass-fronted building that served as salesroom and offices. He hit the water fountain and gulped what seemed like half a gallon. A quick peek through the window revealed Keiffer demonstrating the features of a Jeep Wrangler to a prospective buyer as if nothing had happened a minute earlier.

He found Merton on the telephone, in a vinyl-covered chair with his feet on his desk. Behind him was an assortment of cards and letters taped to the wall, and a three-inch wide banner proclaiming them to be from satisfied customers.

He acknowledged Burton with a nod and continued. “I can't believe Brannigan's trading a fuckin’ Mustang for five grand. A V8 and air, but Jesus, it's nearly ten years old. It must be gold-fucking-plated.”

“Mr. Merton,” Burton interrupted, holding out his badge. “I have one question. I need to know what time Keiffer arrived this morning?”

Merton kept his cellphone to his ear until Burton could barely control his anger. He needed to get this over and clean up in the restroom.

“Jake? Between six and seven. I have him doing the accounts. He wasn't here when I got in at eight o'clock though. Said he'd just gone out for a donut and coffee. He picked up two for me too. He came back just as I was opening up.”

“Had he done the accounts?”

“Don’t know about the accounts, but the alarm was turned off when I came in. Someone hit the switch at 6:35.” Merton was nearly smirking.

Burton glanced around the small office. A residual sludge of bad coffee lay in a badly stained mug next to a full ashtray. A mauled donut from which the chocolate icing and the upper half-inch had been gnawed away kept it company.

He left the room with Merton's laugh behind him. He walked by the restroom, full of post-orgasmic guilt, too upset at himself to go inside. Harrison was stalking the receptionist. They walked back to the cruiser, not speaking until they were inside.

“What next, Sir?” Harrison asked hesitantly.

Passivity did nothing to stop Burton’s anger. “Madison’s queer; plus he lied.”

There was no response from Harrison.

“He said he went back inside the house to call 9-1-1 after he found the body, only he didn’t. Or if he did; he cleaned up after himself very carefully.”

Harrison had the sense to remain silent.

“The floor in the hall was clean enough to eat off. Trench. Mud and dirt. Don’t equal clean.”

“You know I wondered about that. After he climbed out of the trench he must have been a mess. So if he didn’t go in the house, what did he do? You think he was hiding the boy's clothes?”

“He threw up, actually.”

“Damn fool! I ought to cite him for that!” Harrison hit the horn.

The driver of the Audi had braked at a stop light. Less than three inches separated the two vehicles.

“So you think that psychiatric stuff changed Keiffer, Sir?”

“All that’s changed is his venue.” Burton stated. “Now he just pops down to Central America. He’s not working two jobs to save up for a Disney cruise.”

“So you think Keiffer's guilty?”

Burton looked up suddenly, irritated at the intrusion. “You think he’s the sort of person to stick hotdogs up a boy’s ass, and then make him eat them?”

“Sorry Sir,” Harrison replied.

“We'll check out his story just in case. I wish you'd slow down a bit, Harrison. You got a death-wish or something?”

“No Sir. Sorry.”

“We’ll talk to Mom, but I can’t see her ratting out Sonny. Unless we can find some wedge, or Mom’s had enough.”

Harrison accelerated into a narrow gap between two cars.

“Where to now, Sir?” he inquired as he braked briskly for the next stop light.

Burton held his tongue. “Back to Hamilton Avenue. You’re going to the office. I want the arrest records for any pedophiles living within a four hundred mile radius from here. It’ll mean calling each county and town.”

“I'll be there until midnight.”

“Think overtime, and be glad you’re not married. You aren’t are you?” Burton didn’t wait for Harrison to answer. “Turn left down Martin Luther King.”

“You going to talk to Keiffer’s mom?” Harrison flipped the indicator lever

“He would’ve called her by now. I want to see how long it would take him to get to Hamilton Avenue.”

Burton’s cellphone played the opening tune to StarWars. The twins put it on for him. He flipped it open and smiled. Jeff was Scruffy.

“Hey Champ.”

He could hear kids chattering in the background.

“Hey Dad, I’m on the way to practice. Shane’s mom’s taking us.”

“Great. Hey, I’m not going to be able to pick you up.”

“She’ll bring me home.”

Burton missed what he said then over the noise. There was nothing more deafening, or as much fun, as a rear seat full of screeching eleven-year-old boys.

He waited for a few seconds of calm. “How was school?”

“Kyle aced that history paper, from when we went to the museum.”

No surprise. Kyle was studious, the kind of intense kid who’d never be happy unless he had all the right answers. Jeff hovered on the edge; he loved a challenge.

The background noise grew again. He heard Jeff tell one kid to ‘shove it.’ Another boy was being tormented for not having matching socks.

In the middle of it, Jeff mumbled, “I’m probably going to be really sore after practice.”

“Yeah right! I’ll take care of *you* tonight.” It sounded harmless.

“I love you, Dad.”

“I love you too, Champ. Score a goal for me, okay.”

Burton was chuckling when he snapped shut his cellphone. “Kids, you got to love ‘em.”

What he was thinking wasn’t only about love. Somehow, lust had raised its head and things would never be the same again. However, he also had something to look forward to.

+++++

They arrived at 3276 Hamilton Avenue in fading light. It wasn’t the kind of house that Burton would feel comfortable living and raising his twins, yet he still felt a tinge of jealousy. The house was a mini-mansion, with woods behind, perfect for boys to roam until puberty thrust them into uncaring adolescents.

“I wouldn’t think a professor would make enough money to buy this,” Harrison said.

Burton nodded and opened the car door. There were a half-dozen onlookers in a huddle across the street. People always came to crime scenes. He’d long ago outgrown the visceral need to follow each one home and scream at them, “What if it was you? Your kid? Your mother? Would you want to sell front-seat tickets then? Would you? Would you?”

One of the onlookers was a kid, a boy a year or so older than his twins. A red-headed kid, chubby and pale, with pimples and freckles. He probably gorged on hotdogs at baseball games.

Bringing a kid to a murder scene was bad enough, but when a kid had been murdered and raped, and God alone knew what else, it made him want to shout, ‘Fucking ghouls!’ After today, he was no longer sure there was a god.

“I'm staying to talk to the neighbors,” he said to Harrison. He consulted his watch. “Pick me up at 7:00 sharp. If I finish early I'll give you a call.”

“It’ll take longer than that to get the files you wanted, Sir.”

Burton snorted. “There's a young boy lying in the morgue right now, Harrison.”

“I know that, Sir. I don't need to be reminded.”

“Long day. I didn't mean to take it out on you.”

“You have kids of your own, don't you sir?”

“Twin boys. They just turned eleven. Three days ago.”

“Big party?”

“Twenty boys. We rented two hours at a laser-game place so it wasn’t too bad.”

“They’re about the same age as the deceased, huh? You should’ve said something.”

“Like what, exactly? When you’re in the office, find out whether Andrews’ photos have arrived. If they have, bring a copy with you when you come back.”

“Autopsy photos, right?”

“My advice is don’t look at them. They make a long incision down the front so all the organs can be removed. The last one I watched was right after Christmas two years ago, in Montgomery, Alabama, when I was giving a methods’ seminar. It was newborn baby. Probable crib death, but they still cut him open.”

It was enough to send him rushing out of the laboratory. His face still paled at the thought.

“Are you okay, Sir?”

“The baby was smothered with a pillow, Harrison. They got the fucker on a surveillance camera in the hall. About 45 years old, so he looked like a dad coming to see his new son. You think they could find him with 45 seconds of tape. No fucking way!”

“I'll be back at seven o'clock, Sir. Unless you call,” Harrison muttered at last.

Somehow, Burton held off puking until he heard the cruiser backing down the driveway. When he got back his breath, his face was flushed and he mopped his brow with his handkerchief before he opened his case folder, turning pages to find the morning interview reports.

Mary Dodge lived in 3278 Hamilton Avenue, 14 weeks since moving from New York. She had two daughters in private school there. Her husband, Peter, had left early to catch a plane to Chicago. Maybe he’d observed something on his way, because she hadn’t.

Burton aped Shultz on her behalf. “I hear nothing, I see nothing, I know nothing!”

He studied the house, finding its garage far more interesting. It was once a carriage house, with accommodations for a groom and servants above the stables. It had a steeply pitched slate roof and carved wood details around the windows. It was forty feet from the garage at 3276. The two driveways ran side by side all the way to the street, separated by a hedge of azaleas.

He sauntered to the street and turned into the next gate, following the path up to the house. Even with winter bearing down, 3278 had pristine grounds. He stabbed his finger on the button and knocked on patterned crystal glass. His door had a tiny glass panel that was always grimy. He liked this door, even if it had panels sculpted with religious scenes. He knocked again, drumming his knuckles on dark-stained wood.

The door swung open and he stood face to face with Mary Dodge. She was attractive, in her late thirties or early forties, slim and graceful. From her skin alone, she spent a great deal of money to save herself from the ravages of time.

“I hope I didn't keep you waiting.” Her voice had a tone of wealth and education, impeccable diction.

“I'm sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Dodge. I didn't hear the door bell ring, so I knocked a couple of times,” Burton apologized.

“I was in the kitchen and the television was on,” she said in the same quiet refined voice. “You’re the detective I saw over there this morning.”

“Kevin Burton, St. Louis Homicide, Mam.”

“Everybody’s wondering what happened. At first, I thought the new owner may have hurt himself. He stays very late at night.” She took a breath. “I saw Mr. Madison on his porch this morning while all the cars were over there. He looked very upset.”

“He discovered a body behind the house this morning.”

The woman nudged the door open “I heard about the boy. Just terrible. It was the very first thing on the evening news a few minutes ago.” She hesitated. “The reporters were like vultures.”

Burton nodded his understanding. So far Mary Dodge would be a good witness, if she knew anything at all.

“I’m sorry, but I already told the two policemen this morning. I didn't hear or see anything. I woke up after seven o'clock. My husband went to Chicago, he was on his way to the airport between five and six o’clock. “

“Yes, I have all that. I came over to see if you remembered anything else that might be helpful. Perhaps from early this morning,” he suggested casually.

“I slept right through until my youngest daughter woke me up when she called about something or other. I sleep quite soundly. I'm on medication, you see, for a sleep problem. I could sleep through an earthquake.”

“I wonder if your husband is back from Chicago yet?”

“Yes, he came in on the afternoon flight. He's in the study. Why don't you come in?” She opened the door wider.

Burton followed her into a house as luxurious as any that he’d ever seen. Rich people didn’t have homicides, not like poor people. St. Louis’ squalid housing projects were the worst. Every other day, he pored over gunshot wounds amid the fumes of burned toast and the stench of rotting garbage.

He absorbed ostentatious wealth, real pictures in gilt-encrusted frames, a grandfather clock worth a month of his salary, bookcases neatly stacked with row upon row of books, solid, dark furniture with a provenance and antique labels.

Most of his furniture came from the Sears Furniture Catalog. As Janice said, vinyl seats made sense; twin boys were hard on fabric.

“This is my husband, Peter,” Mary Dodge announced at the entry to the study. “This is Mr. Burton from Homicide. He's investigating the little boy.”

Peter J. Dodge looked up from a collection of files, pages spreading across the broad surface of an oak desk. He was older than his wife, fifty plus, though he looked very fit. Burton envied him.

“I assume you want to talk to me about next door.”

His tone was tense. Burton took another step into the room, pulling the notebook from his jacket pocket. It should have been Harrison’s job, the same it was Hank’s job.

“That boy over there, he wasn’t one of the neighborhood children was he?” Dodge asked abruptly.

“We’re still looking into it, but I doubt it.”

“It was just on television, dear,” she chimed in. “They showed pictures of the street and him. Such a sweet little face, but you can tell he’s not an angel. I’m not surprised they’re asking for help in identifying him.”

“You should have called me,” he interrupted. “I left early this morning to fly to Chicago. I won’t be of any help, I’m afraid.”

“What time did you leave the house, Mr. Dodge?” Burton asked, certain that Mary was looney. “You caught the first flight to Chicago I understand.”

“Sometime around five, five-fifteen. I got to the gate just before six-fifteen. It’s why I fly first thing in the morning.”

“And your flight left on time, right?” Burton queried.

“That’s another of the reasons. You must fly a lot too.”

“What was the purpose of your trip to Chicago?” Burton asked.

“I work for CPC. That’s the Catholic Property Company. We invest in properties, manage them for the Church, and so on. I go to Chicago every few weeks. Usually I fly up and stay overnight. Today was a quick trip to take care of some contract negotiations.”

“Did you happen to see anything unusual when you went outside?”

“It was so dark I didn't see much of anything. Besides, it was starting to snow. I wasn't outside very long.”

“So nothing unusual?” Burton continued, still looking around Dodge’s study.

There were more books than some branch libraries owned, all of them arranged with spines out, a lot of them with gold lettering, all of them having to do with Catholicism. The fireplace was a cavernous opening in an immense green and white marble mantle with fluted columns to support it. It would be fun sitting around it on a cold winter night, cracking sparks and flickering flames lighting up his beautiful twins, naked and sprawled on a creamy sheepskin rug….

“I didn’t see anyone hanging around the house next door.”

“Too bad; that would be helpful,” Burton joked.

It was impossible not to notice the photo on the fireplace mantle. It had a silver frame, heavy with greyish finger marks. It was real silver, not plated and covered with lacquer.

“You?”

Dodge smiled. “Forty-five years ago. That’s Cardinal Orsini next to me. He should’ve been Pope.”

Burton couldn’t take his eyes off the boy in the photo. He had short hair, walnut brown not long golden maple like Kyle; and yet they might have been distantly related. Full red lips and big somber eyes made a boy look less masculine.

“Something came up?”

Maybe it was how the man’s hand rested on the boy’s slender shoulder. How the choir boy gazed upward as if seeking divine compassion. He was very good-looking, a dainty nose, long lashes, and thin brows, girlish features the same as Kyle.

“You might say that. He thought he would be better for another job.”

“Did you notice any lights on next door when you left?” Burton asked, his gaze persistent.

It looked innocent, yet sinful. It was all in a smile, and those big beautiful eyes. The same as Kyle. Jeff was different in that way too. He had sexy eyes too, yet he seduced with a boyish giggle and by clowning around.

“There may have been. John works there most nights, one o'clock sometimes. He’s so tired he forgets to turn them off. Let me think. Yes, there was a light. One of the basement lights.”

“Where in the basement? This side of the house, or the rear?”

“This side. I couldn’t have seen it otherwise. It was coming from the corner of the house. I had to pick up my briefcase from my office. It’s in the room over the garage. I was there quite a while.”

“What were you doing?”

Dodge looked away for a moment. “I was working on my train layout. I have an exhibit that I’m trying to get ready for.”

“I'm something of train-fan myself. H-O. I got it for the twins’ birthday. I had no idea how much work it was to set it up. Now, they want to make it look like Switzerland, all mountains and tunnels.”

“Myself, I enjoy the work. Relieves the stress. I'm often out there until midnight.”

Mary Dodge’s expression changed from indifference to surprise, and then to something else, dismay perhaps. It was fleeting, only seconds.

“Any other lights? Perhaps a flashlight?”

Dodge shook his head

“No one moving around the house, front or back?” Burton persisted.

“I would have told you already if I had.”

Burton was tired. He scratched at the back of his left hand. There was something here. Likely, the train was a subject for marital discord.

“I'm sorry that I can't be of more assistance,” Dodge added

“How well do you know Madison?”

“Well enough. John’s pleasant, likeable, not what you’d call outgoing, though he tries to help out when he can. He gave me some cherry wood for my model, and helped me build the control box.” Dodge yawned. “Sorry, it's been a long day. He’s some kind of physicist. A bit strange him working on the house by himself.”

“I thought all the work was being done by sub-contractors.”

“It is when it has to be inspected. He’s doing the rest. Going by the lights, most nights he doesn't finish until after midnight.”

“As you were leaving, anything unusual come to mind? Sounds? People about?”

Dodge looked smug. “A barking dog, though that’s hardly unusual around here.” He paused, meeting Burton's eyes. “Any other questions?”

Burton said the usual ‘if you think of anything else, call me,’ and headed towards the door. “Good luck with your trains, Mr. Dodge,” he added.

He left the study and followed her back to the front door. She hadn’t said a word during her husband’s interview, likely a marriage of convenience like his own.

“What do you think of your new neighbor?” he queried as he paused beside the door.

“I've only met him a few times. He's always busy. I hate to disturb him.”

Burton stepped through the doorway and onto the terrace. He turned around, his right foot on the granite threshold, before she closed the door. With the light behind her, she looked like a frightened animal.

“You don’t happen to know when Madison stopped work last night?”

That she said she was on medication in order to sleep wasn’t unexpected. His wife took sleeping pills to avoid him, another interesting though unimportant category of marital trivia. They hadn’t fucked since last November. A whole year without coitus. No wonder he was looking at the twins.

“No. Usually, I can tell when he stops because I can't hear his power tools. It's been rather quiet over there the last few nights.”

Burton thanked her and started down the steps. Mary Dodge was strung as tight as a violin, like Janice. Maybe she had lesbian tendencies, like Brenda. She looked like she might.

+++++

His follow-up interviews with the other neighbors were of little value. He got tired of aping Schultz on the way to the next house. Their impressions of John Madison were all the same, very smart and friendly. No one said outright that he was gay, though a few were surely thinking it.

He saved the house on the corner for last. This was the house where Madison had gone to telephone the police. The unkempt house was depressing, made worse by a miserable day. His first knock brought a booming, unintelligible response. The door swung open and Burton introduced himself to Ian Quinstone, associate professor of history. He had lived alone in the house for more than 14 years.

“Tell me what happened this morning?” Burton began, his notes at the ready.

“I was working in my study when he came to the door. He looked like he’d crawled out of the ground, mud all over him. It was even dripping from his coat. He was quite perturbed.”

Burton jotted down ‘perturbed’. “That was at about what time?”

“Some time after six. The weather report was on TV. I thought I’d stay home for the day. On Tuesdays I only have a few appointments, one with my teaching assistant and a few with my grad students.”

“Some of the neighbors reported hearing a noise. Maybe a dog barking?”

“No dog here.”

The interview went nowhere. Burton left with the impression that Quinstone was not only strange, he had no sympathy for the police.

+++++

He waited in the driveway of 3276 Hamilton Avenue for Harrison. A wry smile creased his face. He’d be home by 8:00pm. She’d go off to church. He’d have exactly two hours alone with the twins. A shower first, all three of them together. The twins would enjoy that. He could towel them off and wrap them up. Then, back rubs. Their little twin beds would be cramped, though safer than taking them to his bedroom….

+++++

The police cruiser moved rapidly down the street, its tires protesting as Harrison hit the brakes. The car slewed, turning into the driveway with a continuing howl. Harrison was fifteen minutes late.

“I'm sorry I'm late, Sir,” Harrison began apologetically. “I managed to get all of the files you wanted. I thought you might want to look through them at home.”

“Thanks.”

“I included recent releases as well, in case the murderer was a long-time offender and just got out.”

“Good idea,” Burton admitted.

“Did you find out anything helpful?”

“Just checking what we’ve been told. Some people are more believable than others, like Madison. The problem with him is that he's more intelligent than the two of us put together.”

“He didn't seem all that smart when you were questioning him.”

“He's smart. He could’ve planned the thing from beginning to end and acted the part.”

“So we search the place again, right?” Harrison inquired eagerly.

The search had yielded nothing. The house was examined from top to bottom, the yard had been covered inch-by-inch, the garage had been emptied of its contents, Madison's precious sports car gone over with a magnifying glass.

Burton got into the passenger seat and closed the door. Cigarette smoke lingered in the air. He opened the window. “No more smoking in the car!”

“I had the window down.”

“What’s interesting is only one person heard any dogs barking.”

“Dogs barking? I don't follow, Sir.”

“Think about it. Someone carried the kid to the trench. Make sense a dog might bark?”

“Probably bark its head off that early.”

“One more thing. Lose the cruiser Tell the desk sergeant I want something less conspicuous for tomorrow.”

Chapter 7.

“Bang! Bang!” Kyle bellowed, double tap firing from behind the front door.

He’d hidden there as soon as he saw the cruiser’s headlights pull into their driveway, trying his best not to giggle as the key turned in the lock. .

Burton jumped back, like he was supposed to. “Ambush! I got Kyle Giordano cornered in the living room. We’re coming in, Giordano!”

He shoved the door open, hoping Kyle was well back. It banged against the stop. Kyle leaped into the opening, two-finger pistols in each hand. He got off one ‘bang’ before his father grabbed him, heaved him up and over his shoulder. It was like carrying a piss-ed-off lion cub, clawing at his back, little feet kicking at his protruding waistline. On the spur of the moment, he snatched the rear of Kyle’s track pants and yanked them down.

Kyle shrieked, “No!”

He didn’t have anything on underneath. Maybe it was deliberate. Maybe he just wanted the extra freedom. Burton rejoiced either way. It was like grasping two warm rubber balls that bounced and flexed their own. The last thing he expected was his fingers would slip into the tight little crack. Suddenly, he was awed. It was hot and moist and firm, and it made him weak at the knees. Everything that Keiffer had said took on real meaning.

Despite mercy pleas, he forced Kyle’s little cheeks part, his fingers rubbing back and forth along the crevice. He touched his son’s anus a dozen times in the flurry. Kyle didn’t care, he was too busy shooting two-finger blanks and whooping and wriggling, both of them wanting more.

Between giggles and piglet squeals, Kyle managed to yelp, “Mom hasn’t left yet!”

“What are you doing to him?”

Burton stared. Janice was on bottom stair, dressed in her best clothes, staring at him with an expression that left him cold.

“Giordano tried to kill me,” he laughed, slapping bare boy butt over his shoulder.

“For God’s sake, leave him alone.”

“Why? He loves it.” Burton slapped the little bongos again, making Kyle giggle hysterically. “You love it, don’t you, Giordano?”

Kyle looked from behind his dad, nodding his head wildly. “He’s torturing me, Mom!” He gave an extra hard wriggle, squashing his knees into Burton’s chest.”

“Kevin!”

Burton glanced at his wife. Kyle was so much fun to be with that he couldn’t stand to look at her. Grouchy with middle-aged hormone problems. Her upper lip was starting to get hairy, and it curled with some disparaging comment forming. He rolled Kyle off his shoulder and caught him on the way down, letting him dangle with his arms flailing helplessly, little bare butt exposed to the world.

”You die, Giordano.”

“No! NO! I’ll squeal on my brother.”

Burton guffawed as his wife shoved at him.

“Pull up his pants and put him down *now*! I’m tired of you mauling him.“

He glared at her. “I’m not *mauling* him, Janice. We’re having fun, that’s all.”

“We’re having fun, Mom!” Kyle grinned at her from upside down, thumping his fist against his dad’s butt, while he tried to pull up his track pants with his other hand.

“You need to check their homework. They have math, and an essay on the benefits of working in teams.”

“Sure, as soon as I’ve had dinner.”

“They have a spelling quiz tomorrow. Jeff needs to spell out the words four times, and know what they mean.”

“Right! I’ll get on it as soon as I’ve taken Giordano to jail.”

He stood aside, tickling Kyle’s little bare feet as she went through the door. He didn’t trust himself with Kyle’s now covered butt. All he could think of was how it was soft and firm at the same time. In the gap, it was so hot it might have been sweaty. He resisted the impulse to make sure as he nudged the door closed. He lugged Kyle into the living room and dumped him on the couch.

“I’ll be back!” He was ready for cold leftovers.

His dinner wasn't cold, though it suffered for two hours in aluminum foil. The lukewarm meat loaf was soggy. He sat in the kitchen, picking up peas with his fork as he listened to the drone of the television in the family room. If Jeff had been home, he would’ve heard an occasional squabble as the twins debated the merits of ESPN versus the History Channel. He started to get up as soon as he heard the kitchen door open behind him. Jeff looked at him sullenly.

Still dressed in his soccer clothes, mud streaked his loose shiny red shirt and regulation white shorts. There were dirty splatters on his legs and socks. No obvious bumps or bruises. No windbreaker either, so it was probably in one of his friends’ cars.

“Hey Champ,” he said with a relieved smile.

Jeff avoided his father's eyes. “Hi Dad.”

“You must have done well at practice. You're dirty enough,” Burton teased.

“We had a practice game. I scored twice, Dad. I wish you were there.”

“I wish I was there too, Jeff. I just got in a minute ago.”

The boy leaned against the counter, oblivious to footprints on the floor. “Mom leave?”

“You just missed her.”

“You working on him, aren’t you? The boy from this morning?”

“You hear about it on TV, huh?”

“All the kids were talking about you at practice. They showed you walking up the driveway.

Burton pushed his plate away. He’d been hungry when he came in. “What's up, Scruffy?”

Scruffy and Fluffy were nicknames he used in private, his special names for his boys when he wanted to be extra close to them.

Jeff leaned against the refrigerator and shuffled the ceramic magnets around, rearranging them first in a horizontal line, then vertically, then haphazardly. Burton waited patiently.

“Dad, the boy was sexually abused before he was murdered, right?”

“Yes.”

“So he killed by a queer?”

“It’s a logical assumption.”

“At practice, some of the guys were talking about it. They thought I should know all about it because of you being my dad and all.” Jeff stared at the floor, confused. “Is that why he was killed, Dad? Because the man did stuff to him and wanted to hide it?”

“It’s too soon to know for sure.”

Jeff’s eyes lifted slowly. Burton could see the struggle in him, the worry showing in his face. He wanted to cuddle him and rub his back, and squeeze his bottom like he’d squeezed Kyle’s little rear. He was about to ask for a hug when Jeff opened the refrigerator door, stooping as he scanned the shelves. His appetite, like his interest in sexual matters, came in trifling amounts, yet it seemed never-ending. He lifted out a gallon of milk and carried it over to the sink, unscrewing the cap as he went.

“The guy did him, didn’t he Dad?” Jeff asked, awkwardly pouring 1/3rd of a glass.

Burton hesitated. “That’s not for public knowledge, Jeff.”

“In his butt, right?”

Burton played with his fork, scraping meatloaf and peas to the side of his plate. How to answer Jeff's question? Enough of the truth that he wouldn’t be lying, while holding back the very thing that he wanted to do to his own flesh and blood.

Janice came in the back door. He hadn’t even heard the latch open. It was the last thing he expected, or wanted.

“Hi honey,” she greeted Jeff. “Why don't you let him finish his dinner?”

“We’re talking, Mom.”

“Run through your spelling words with Kyle and make sure all your homework is done. I need to talk with your father.”

Jeff and Burton shared a silent father-son conspiracy against the domination of women. Jeff slurped his milk loudly, and headed off to his twin. Burton picked up his fork and made a half-hearted attempt to mix peas and mashed potatoes into an edible heap.

“Why did you let him see it on TV?” he asked, not looking up at her.

“I want you to stop molesting him and Kyle.”

“WHAT?” Burton shoved his plate, scattering peas across the table.

“I know what’s going on,” Janice said softly. “I watch TV.”

“What’s *going on*, exactly?”

“You’re grooming them.”

“What in the hell…”

“Don’t blaspheme at me, Kevin Burton! And don’t try to hide it. It was on Opra last week. Fathers who keep touching their sons, always pretending to be close to them. You do it to him all the time.”

“With Jeff?” His head was reeling.

“You were talking about sex with him. That’s what perverts do. You’re getting him used to the idea by talking about it.”

“You’re crazy! Jeff asked me about the sexual assault.” He sounded like a nervous eleven-year-old himself, full of prurient curiosity. “I told him nothing; well next to nothing, nothing he didn’t see on TV.”

Janice stepped into the dining room to check the twins were out of hearing range. Kevin shrugged. The twins had ninja stealth down to a fine art. They could be anywhere by now, even listening outside the backdoor.

“You disgust me. I ought to report you to the police,” she said, framing the doorway.

“Because I rough house with my sons? You’re out of your mind.”

“Because you harbor disgusting thoughts. Because you’re evil. Oh, they think you’re nice, but they don’t know you like I do.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Burton shook his head. He dropped the fork with a clatter and pushed his plate away angrily.

“You're making Kyle queer too, Kevin. Every time I look at him, he's more girly...."

“Now it’s my fault he doesn’t want his hair short?”

“You buy his clothes.”

“He’s eleven. I let him pick out what he wants.”

“You want him to wear pastels so he looks queer.”

“There’s nothing wrong with his clothes, Janice.”

“So if he wears girls’ clothes that’s okay?”

Burton nearly told her to shut up. He didn’t because the last time he took the boys clothes shopping at Walmart he found Kyle in the girls’ section. At the checkout, he checked the labels, ‘Hanes Girls.’ He didn’t say anything; he liked to see Kyle in tight T-shirts. He looked even cuter in soft pastels.

“God, how I hate you sometimes.”

She went to the back door, her hand on the knob. “I have to go to Service. Not because I want to. Someone in this family has to do Christian duties.” She glared at him, still trembling. “Keep your filthy hands off them. I don’t want you defiling their beautiful little bodies.”

“They’re my children, for God’s sake.”

“They’re God’s Children.”

“That why you call them ‘bratty boys’?”

“I pray for them, Kevin. I want them to be Saints. They can’t be if you corrupt them.”

++++

There were too many reports and too many offenders. The reports lay in a pile on the coffee table. Burton had sorted them into several piles, first by sexual preference, then by the degree of violence used in the assault. He ended up with an African American male who’d been dead for five years. He made a mental note to clue Harrison in. After that, he examined each file in turn, looking for commonalities besides little boys. He found Roland Keiffer’s file and read it from front to back. What he hadn’t realized from the file summary was that although the boy in the motel room made enough noise to wake the neighboring room, according to the medical report, he wasn’t injured. Not even a bruise to show what had happened. Keiffer went up a notch.

‘If you do it slow and gentle, he’ll like it. Hit the spot as much as you can’ replayed in his head. Why on earth had he said, ‘he’s too young for that.’ He’d been thinking of Jeff. It was obvious that Keiffer was onto him. It should’ve bothered him, yet it didn’t. Jeff didn’t cum, or if he did, he hadn’t said anything. Neither had Kyle. Both were still dry. Dry was cool.

His cock tightened up, ready to play. He sipped cheap Irish Cream and listened to the remote murmur of the twins as they read aloud to each other. Up the stairs, second door on the right. He still had to go up and kiss them goodnight. He kissed them every night. They read like that every night. More than six years. How many times had Jeff made his father kiss him on the lips? How many books had they read together? He wasn’t even sure when had *that* started; it just sort of happened as part of their good-night tickle game.

Keiffer knew. He had to know from the way he’d talked in the car. Burton let out a loud, “Fuck!” Now, it bothered him.

‘A little boy can cum again and again.’ He smiled at the thought. The twins were close, even for twins. They were supposedly reading Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix the first time he discovered them masturbating each other. They were under the covers so he couldn’t see anything. He’d seen straying hands before, just not deliberate rubbing. He hadn’t said anything, just let it happen. It was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen. He stood in the shadows and watched.

He watched for two weeks before they allowed him to stroke their smooth bare bodies. He called it a back rub, and made a point of doing his share of the reading. They called it being tickled, and giggled when his fingers strayed. They always took off their pajamas beforehand.

Furniture City’s made-in-China American-Heritage grandfather clock chimed 9:00 pm. He still needed to do spelling words and check homework. If they were reading, they were already in bed. Naked and waiting for him like they did every night their mother went off to her Service work. She helped out at New Way, an outreach program for troubled and runaway kids.

After her outburst, he dared not go up to the twins’ bedroom, not even to say goodnight to them. He stomped into the kitchen, put on a windbreaker, threw open the back door, and walked into the night. Within seconds he shivered. The night was still. He listened to the faraway sound of a dog barking, the low purr of cars on the freeway. Each breath was refreshing, though not what he needed.

“Fuck you, Janice!” he murmured.

He walked around the yard, kicking at the twin’s basketball. How many times had he told them to put it away? How could she possibly know about him and the twins? Had he been so transparent that she’d seen through his façade? Reason took over. She’d had to have seen something, but what? Now that she’d found Jesus, she ignored them most of the time. Maybe she’d sneaked upstairs one night. Surely, she would’ve said something right away. Very likely she hadn’t even seen him playing with Kyle’s butt in the foyer. From where she stood, it probably looked like he was tickling the kid.

“Fucking melodramatic bitch!”

It had to be the twins, though he couldn’t see Kyle ratting him out; he had his own set of problems. And Jeff absolutely wasn’t like that. Jeff was a daddy’s boy. He’d cool it for a while. Hold off on the wrestling and bed tickles. Act the part of the responsible dad. There was only one problem. It was six inches long and hard as steel.

He’d been the same way with Keiffer. ‘Wait till you feel his little ass squeezing on your cock. Both of you all shaky and hot. Once your cum’s in his ass, you won’t want to stop.’

“Goddamned fucker knows I’m like him.”

He sauntered down the pathway to the garage, still kicking the twins' basketball as he went.

“Hey Dad, you want to shoot hoops?” Jeff called from the back-door.

Burton pivoted as his son bounded towards him. He was dressed in thin, cotton pajamas a size too small for him.

“You ought to be inside. It's too cold to be dressed like that.”

Jeff picked up the basketball, bouncing it smoothly, with expert, effortless grace. “I’ll play skins, if you want?” He looked up at his dad. “Dare me?”

Burton gulped and took a baby step off the precipice. “I dare you.”

Smirking, Jeff lifted his arms and yanked off his shirt. He tossed it, balled-up, onto the hedge. Burton did the same with his windbreaker, not believing what was happening before his eyes. His son’s hands moved to his waist, thumbs slipping under elastic. He yanked down. Burton stared. Even in the faint light from the windows, he could see his son’s slender pale chest and belly, bony hips barely big enough to hold up pajama pants, lithe long thighs, and a little penis. Even though the garage was at the rear of the property, with a long driveway to the street, there was still a chance someone might walk by and see them.

“Jesus! What are you doing?”

“Playing skins. You dared me, remember?”

“Not here, Scruffy.”

Jeff let loose a giggle, letting his father feast his eyes. He even flexed his perky sex organ, showing off proudly. “What happened to being nude is okay?”

Not for the first time, Burton thought being water-boarded would be less stressful than raising twin boys.

“I said it was okay when your mom wasn’t around. I didn’t mean outside.”

“We know you like looking at us without clothes on, Dad.”

Jeff’s boner pointed to the stars, his little balls like a door knob underneath. Burton licked his lips, wondering what boy-dick would taste like.

“Have you finished your homework?” he croaked.

“I bet I can beat you, Dad. Two to one?” Jeff pulled up his pants, picked up the ball, and spun it on a fingertip. “Cool huh?”

“I'm a fat old man. How about three to one?”

“You're not that fat, Dad. And you're not old, well not that old. How about I make your age before you get to mine?”

With that, he bounced the ball down hard, caught it again on the way up, leaped upward as he twisted around and plopped it neatly though the hoop over the garage door.

“One for the kid, zero for the fat old man.” He darted to the edge of the concrete, ready to do it again.

Burton closed the gap, arms outstretched, hoping to grab him—anything was fair game at night. Jeff dodged and feinted left before he spun around and took the shot. For a boy who was four-foot-six-inches tall, he was deadly. Speed and agility gave him near constant possession, and five points in a row

With a few moments of behind-the-back dribbling, Jeff caught his breath. Burton wondered where he’d learned to do that. One day he was a clumsy clown, the next day, a little Olympian with more skill than Burton ever had.

Raw temptation looked him in the face and snickered, “Wanna play for clothes?”

Jeff had pajama pants, nothing else!

“You’re on!”

Burton gave it his best. His preteen son stripped him naked in three short minutes. Two hundred and sixty pounds of middle-aged flab was no match for the lithe muscles and tendons of the Fairview Heights Junior Elite Soccer Team MVP. Burton sweated, groaned, and complained about unfair shots. He lost socks and shoes, shirt and pants in less time than it took to drink a beer, mostly because he couldn’t take his eyes of the lithe half-naked boy. Down to his boxers, the chance of him losing everything was very real.

With his father advancing on him, Jeff kept moving back until he could take the long shot. It was still a good throw, though it missed the hoop. Burton nearly tossed the ball back for a second try. He dribbled from side to side to get in position, bouncing Jeff off his butt as he darted around him. He shot and scored, and started doing his victory dance. Suddenly, Jeff’s pants went flying onto the hedge to join the clothes already there.

“You better put ‘em back on, Scruffy,” Burton laughed.

He stopped playing and stared, pigging out on preteen boy. Jeff was beautiful, like a young god with a chiseled abdomen from near constant exercise. Summer’s tan had faded, though he was still brown enough that his little white butt looked like Hanes briefs.

Undeterred, Jeff weaved past his father with a cross-over dribble, and lobbed the ball into the basket.

He pirouetted with a gymnast’s grace, guffawing. “Take ‘em off, Dad.”

Burton finally managed to grab his arm. He hauled his beautiful boy closer, crushing his little lithe naked body against him, awed by his vibrant warmth. Jeff hugged him back, wrapping his arms around his dad’s neck until he hoisted him higher for a spitty kiss on the forehead. Only then, his lithe legs wrapped his dad’s meaty thighs, bringing them into a loving hug. Big daddy dick and little boy wiener rubbed together. They’d never hugged with only silky boxers separating them.

“You feel so good,” Burton growled between hurried breaths.

Jeff looked up at him, panting, frantic as he writhed naked and shivery-sweaty in his dad’s arms. He titled his head back, looking up at the stars. It was magical as he slowly brought his lips closer. However, Burton didn’t kiss him. Through the trees, he’d glimpsed headlights coming down the street.

“God-damn!”

The Burton’s lived at the end of Paxton Court. There were two other driveways in the turn-a-round; the Hunts, who were scuba diving in the Abacos, and Tom Gribble, who was 65 and never drove at night because of a vision problem.

“It’s your mom!”

Faster than it took to say ‘fuck,’ Jeff was frantically grabbing clothes from the hedge. Father and son hurtled around the corner of the house, into the relative safety of the dark back yard. Janice was halfway up the driveway before they ducked down behind the above-ground winterized pool.

“You think she saw us, Dad?”

“Shhhhh.”

With only his boxers, Burton was never more aware of his offspring, crouching beside him, breathless and trying hard not to giggle. Jeff was as naked as the day he was born, his penis so hard it looked brittle. He looked exactly like the little Greek satyr immortalized in marble at the St. Louis Museum.

“What’s she doing home early?” Burton muttered.

He gasped when Jeff grasped. There was no warning. One moment Jeff was pressing up against him, the next, clutching his rigid thick sex in his little hot hand. The boy’s grip was so tight that his boxers offered no defense at all. Janice never held his cock like that. It belonged in Jeff’s hand.

It had taken all of Jeff’s resolve to do it. He’d wanted to for weeks, yet the opportunity never arose. Now, it reared up before him in all its splendor, like a thick banana, arching from under his father’s bulging belly. Suddenly, his world changed. Whatever followed, he wasn’t about to let go of his father’s cock. He didn’t dare rub either. Instead, he squeezed, his thumb and fingers not meeting no matter how much pressure he applied.

Burton’s groan came from deep inside, his captive cock throbbing relentlessly. Instinctively, he reached around Jeff’s slender shoulders, drawing his son against him. His other hand reached lower. Jeff’s belly was so smooth and soft he wasn’t sure he touched anything until he encountered heat and hardness, and then there was no mistaking the boy’s erection, and no stopping either of them. Both father and son trembled mightily at that first intimate contact.

Of course, Burton knew why his wife was back a half-hour early. If he had any doubt, he watched her walk briskly up the driveway, on the way to the front door. She *never* came in the front door.

He abruptly relocated Jeff’s hand. “Get dressed. Quickly.”

+++++

They came in the back door when she came down the stairs.

“What have you been?”

“Outside.”

“Not you! Jeff?”

“Dad was showing me stuff in the backyard, Mom. We weren’t out there very long.” He shrugged off his father’s windbreaker and handed it back. “He got cold, not me.”

“What in Heaven’s name is *stuff*?”

Jeff glanced as his father with a bail-me-out look.

“Apparently, the kids were pointing out stars at practice. He didn’t know any; so I showed him some.”

“*You* showed him *stars*?”

“It was awesome, Mom. We saw Alpha Centauri and Taurus… and we saw a pole star, didn’t we Dad?”

Burton choked on a laugh. “Don’t forget that one is part of Ursa Minor. It’s the Little Bear, so it has a tail.”

“So Polaris, right?”

Burton gaped.

Janice smelled a rat. “Since when do you know about stars, Kevin?”

“Since I was a cub scout about his age.” Burton hugged his boy, tousling his already scruffy hair. “I really need to get you and Kyle outdoors more. Maybe after this case, if it’s not too cold to camp out.” He looked at his wife. “Wouldn’t that be fun, Janice?”

She looked at him with frigid eyes. “I’m prepared to do what’s necessary, Kevin.”

“So you’ll come with us?”

“I don’t want you alone with them.”

Before he could tell her what he thought about that, the telephone rang in the kitchen. He hurried to answer it, suspecting the caller before he picked up the receiver

“Burton residence.” He was still short of breath.

Jeff followed him into the kitchen. He poured another half glass of milk.

“I just got off the phone with the Commissioner, Kevin. There’s a nine-thirty meeting scheduled for tomorrow morning to discuss progress on the case.” Bronski was calling from his cellphone.

“This early? Calvin's a goddamned clown, Stan.”

Jeff looked up sharply. Their eyes with a flicker of a smile. Just a few minutes earlier they’d been holding each other’s cocks for the first time. Burton quickly looked away.

“What’s he expect after one day? I don’t even have an ID for the kid. Hell, I’m still waiting for the autopsy report.”

“Calvin's getting pressure from the Mayor’s office. He’s personally involved in anything even remotely resembling child abuse. I just got off the phone with the DA. He said it’ll be the death penalty for this one.”

“Okay by me, but I’m the one looking for a needle in a haystack.” Burton studied the school lunch menu pined to the family notice board beside the phone. Next to it, Janice had taped a list of the current projects for New Way. The following Saturday, she’d penciled him in to assist in building beds for the dormitory.

“What's up, Stan?” He didn’t intend to be so curt.

The lull in the conversation dragged on for several long seconds. For the following day, Burton went for the Garlic-Herb Chicken Rotini and Breadstick. Kids at school ate on the Obama menu. Judging by the name, they ate better than he did at the office cafeteria. Not the twins. Janice packed their lunches every day to save money.

“Kevin, you’re on the front line for this one.” Bronski sounded strange. “It could turn nasty real fast.”

“Big fucking surprise!” Immediately, he swung around, relieved to see that Jeff had left.

“He also said no on the temporary assignment. Homicide will be a man short for a while.”

“Let me guess, I'm stuck with Officer Harrison?”

“That was your backup plan. Have you called Hessler yet?”

“I’d like a better idea of what happened before I talk to a criminal shrink. Maybe by the end of the week.”

“Calvin wants you to call him immediately, Kevin. He's on a 24-hour-call contract. He’ll be helpful in sorting out your perverts.”

“Stan, you're laugh a minute.”

Burton replaced the receiver, retrieved his writing pad from the coffee table in the living room, and opened his cellphone.

He waited for eight long rings before he was asked to leave a message. He was giving his number when a man's voice interrupted him.

With a strong German accent, he explained, “I get crank calls nonstop. At ten o'clock at night, they try your patience.”

“I'm sorry to be calling so late, Doctor..

“It wasn't directed at you. I was expecting a call. The story was all over the TV earlier tonight. Anything else you can tell me.”

“Most of what we know was on the news tonight. There are a few things I'd like to keep private so we can sort out the weirdoes when they start calling in.”

“All our conversations are confidential,” Hessler said.

“We don't have much. He was kept a prisoner for several days. His diet was hot dogs mostly. A whole hotdog was found in his rectum.”

“I’d be surprised if it wasn’t.”

Burton let it slide for the moment. “He also ate wafers and wine.”

“Probably there to throw us off. I’ve seen it before. I assume he was raped?”

“Hard to tell. His rectum was very enlarged.”

“So he’s one of those.”

Burton put that aside until later. “He was flushed afterwards. The pathologist said if he was raped, a condom was used.”

“So he’s not black. Was the boy mutilated in any way?” Hessler demanded suddenly.

“There was a mark on his abdomen. The coroner said it was a tattoo, a male symbol, only it points up, not to the side.”

“Could be nothing. Any chance of it being a serial killer?”

Burton tensed. “This boy is the only one, so far.”

“Based on the rectal abuse, we can’t rule out a mesoped,” Hessler said. It sounded like a warning. “Quick overview. There are two types of child molester, pedophiles and mesopeds. Pedophiles are child-lovers, despite what you hear in the media. Mesopeds are child-haters. Most are violent; he's going to force the child to have sex, and then delight in inflicting pain. At the end, he destroys the victim. He can be very brutal about it.”

“Could you slow it down it bit, Doctor? I'm taking notes.”

Burton felt his rage grow until it interfered with his thoughts. Some of it was because of Janice. He stalled, scribbling on the pad to bring his pen back to life.

“I use Lanning's classifications, an oversimplification but they’re standard for behavioral analysis for child molesters. Your mesopeds run from sociopath to sadist.”

Burton liked Hessler, sight unseen and reputation notwithstanding. Confident, quick to explain, he knew what he was talking about.

“Your run-of-the-mill sociopath will attack whatever strikes his fancy at the time. One day it will be a child, the next day he'll kill Granny. His environment affects him. Depending on the situation, his attacks look random until we know the underlying circumstances. He's poorly educated, a social misfit with a menial job. Anything can push him over the edge. Your boy was strangled, right?”

“The Coronor said asphyxiated.”

“More than eighty-five percent of sex murders are strangulation. Kids too, only its done with a plastic bag so it looks like an accident. It's supposedly the ultimate orgasm. It also makes sense. During intercourse the assailant's hands are close to the victim's face and neck. Just a second…”

Meanwhile, Burton scanned the school lunch menu again. If the twins ate school food, Jeff would chow down a Turkey Taco. Kyle would be grazing at the fresh fruit and salad bar. He was watched his weight like a preteen girl. Maybe he should send Harrison out for sandwiches. He made a mental note to take a plastic bag of potato chips with him in the morning.

“Back again. Given that he tried to bury the body, it’s possible he was ashamed of what he had done to the boy.”

It was difficult to imagine a man kidnapping, raping, and murdering a boy, and then feeling so guilty that he buried the body.

“Any other possibilities?”

“It might have been an accident, or he lost control. Now, your sadist is preferential. The assault is related to a sexual disorder, in this case, prepubescent boys. He often tortures his victims before he murders them. Enlargement of the bowel might count; it depends on how it was done. When a sadist kills it's mostly deliberate. A sadist would have strangled him,” Hessler said confidently.

“Okay?”

“I think what's important here is that the boy was kept a prisoner for several days. That symbol on his navel might be important, or it might be a ruse, like Communion wafers. ”

“Right now, I’m assuming the murder was unplanned.”

“I agree. We’ll reconsider if we get an indication it was premeditated. Most likely the boy fought back or cried, or did something to piss him off.”

“A couple of people have said he looks gay. I thought he might’ve been a hooker.”

“No surprise there! Your killer might well be preferential , a schitzoid would fit.”

Burton’s wrist was aching from scribbling nearly undecipherable notes on his pad.

“He has a preference for young boys. Vulnerable victims, I call them; runaways or lonely kids who are desperate for affection. Did you know one third of kids are raised by a single mother? One in three boys is hungry for an adult male to show interest in him. The initial contact will be harmless, followed by a bribe of some kind, money or drugs, clothes, whatever the kid needs as proof of affection. Once he has the boy under control, he might turn violent but it's unlikely. Mostly, he's a seducer.”

“He doesn't sound like a murderer,” Burton said critically.

“He might kill to avoid getting caught, or if he panics for some reason. He's very likely to be a pillar of the community, a professional or a businessman. Fifty-fifty chance he’s in an occupation that brings him into close contact with boys, or he’s involved himself in some kind of a youth group. You're probably looking for a teacher, a pediatrician, a part-time swim coach, that sort of thing.”

“Any idea where we should start looking?” It was sarcastic, though he didn’t intend it.

“He’s on the prowl for good-looking young boys, Detective.”

Burton closed his eyes. He had his own good-looking young boys in bed upstairs.

“He’s choosy. He won’t waste his time with fat ugly kids.”

“So we start checking soccer teams, cub scouts, and church groups?”

“I would. Anywhere there are cute boys. Like I said, no fat kids. He’ll avoid kids with what he thinks are flaws, wrong race, dark skin, too many freckles; they’re usually safe unless he has a fetish. I guarantee he'll try his hand with some of the boys he's around, the ones who are most at risk.

“You mean kids from broken homes?”

“Don’t forget slow learners, if they’re good looking. Low IQ makes grooming easy.” Hessler paused momentarily.

Burton flexed his hand, glancing over his notes. Hessler’s profiles fit all of the men he’d studied for the last two hours. Hessler was right on target.

“Here’s where I earn my fee,” Hessler said. “He’s between thirty-five and fifty-five. He has difficulty with adult sexual partners, heterosexual ones that is. I'd be surprised if he's gay.”

“He's not gay after what he did to the boy?”

“Your murderer might even be married. If he is, his relationship is strained and sex is infrequent. It's an even bet that he's inadequate, even impotent.”

“You think our killer is impotent,” Burton said. He’d had trouble getting an erection the last time he had sex with Janice.

“Remember the rectum, Detective. I bet the boy was penetrated with plastic.”

“Jesus,” Burton groaned.

“Your murderer will lack confidence about his sexual abilities. People like him have a need to find others like themselves so he’ll frequent online chat groups. He'll derive his thrills from kiddy porn. He’ll surround himself with kid’s toys. He’ll go to kid’s movies. He’ll drive a car that impresses preteen males.”

“I know the kind,” Burton said, thinking mostly of Keiffer, though Madison’s car fit the bill too in an old-fashioned way. “Is there anything else I should know?”

“He’ll be consistent in who he goes after. Very likely, there are other young boys he sexually assaulted. The problem is finding them because the vast majority of cases will go unreported. Vulnerable victims become willing victims in the right circumstances.”

“Meaning what?”

“All the hype on TV about kids being raped or seduced, only about ten percent is true. Around puberty, even a few years before it, most boys are game to try anything. Especially sex. Society wants to treat them as children, when they aren’t. They’re sexually aware and know what they want. Boys will often take the lead with a grown-up. And if they’re gay, they welcome the opportunity to explore, if you catch my drift.”

“You've helped a lot,” Burton admitted.

“The trouble with a profile is it's based almost entirely on supposition. You won't really know if I'm right until you arrest him. I can look over any files you've got on sex offenders. Maybe I can spot a likely suspect for you. Just give me a call when you want me. Mornings are generally better for me.”



Burton leaned back against the counter. Hessler might have been talking about him. He walked into the living room and shuffled through the files again. Now, his approach was a little more than pure conjecture. He ripped pages from the writing pad and went to work. It was after midnight when he finished.

As he climbed the stairs, one thing was clear. The murderer was someone who had intimate knowledge of what was going on at 3276 Hamilton Avenue, or could find out the construction schedule. It was all he had for the meeting with the commissioner. His mood soured.

Tonight, he was too tired to look in on the twins. He was yawning continuously, when he undressed and eased down onto the bed beside his wife. She moved away, pulling the comforter with her.

“You can’t sleep here.”

He glared at the hump of her back. “This isn’t the time, Janice. I’m too tired to move.”

“You need to leave. I can’t stand to be near you. You disgust me.”

“For God’s sake, what’s the problem with you?”

“There’s no reason to commit blasphemy! It’s your dirty mind that’s the problem.”

He rolled away. “Fuck you!”

He stumbled away, shutting the door louder than he intended. He started towards the stairs before he realized he might’ve awakened the twins. He turned, shuffling past *her* bedroom, telling himself he’d never sleep in there again. He entered the twin’s bedroom on tiptoe. Jeff was sprawled on his front, the same way he slept as a baby, his arms and legs extended to the sides of his bunk-bed. Kyle was sleeping on his side, a little fetal ball with his knees drawn up to his chest. Both boys were beautiful, though in quite different ways.

He left quietly, retracing his steps down the hallway. He peeked into the master bedroom as he passed, hoping for an invitation to join Janice in the conjugal bed. If she was still awake, she ignored him. He went down stairs and stretched out on the living room couch. Within minutes, he was cold. He retrieved the twins’ fuzzy blanket. It smelled like his boys, warm, and soft, and… he dozed off.

Burton’s feet were so cold he had to get up. No matter how he placed the twins’ blanket, it wasn’t big enough to cover his feet. Grumbling and bleary eyed, he went up the stairs. From the hallway, he heard Janice snoring. No longer tempted to reenter his bedroom, he turned into the twins’ bedroom, diverting around Jeff’s stuff that crept like an untidy plague past the middle of the room.

He lifted back the covers and eased onto the bed next to his neat-freak son, curling up behind him. After a minute, he cautiously extended his hand under Kyle’s T-shirt and onto his flat little belly, lightly stroking around the tiny navel with his fingertips before slipping his fingers under the elasticized waist. He had to go all the way to Kyle’s thighs before he reached a little shriveled penis. The temptation to make it stiff was unavoidable, but he drifted off too soon.

He awoke in a sweat, aware his joints were aching. Certain, he had caught a cold while stomping around Madison’s back yard, he groaned. He was startled as a warm little hand brushed his forehead.

“It's okay, Daddy,” Kyle whispered. “You had a nightmare.”

Like a trusty sheep dog, Kyle always protected him. It made him smile. He pulled Kyle closer, using his right arm as a pillow, his other arm still wrapped around his son’s front, still under his T-shirt.

“Why are you in my bed, Dad?”

“I didn’t want to wake Mom,” Burton whispered.

“What time is it?”

He looked at the clock on the night-stand, and then over his shoulder at the window behind the bed. “Five o'clock, Fluffy. That’s why it's still dark.”

“Go back to sleep, Dad. I'll wake you up at seven.”

He snuggled closer to his son, fitting his body into Kyle’s small frame, the curve of his little bony back pressed tight against his front, feeling the pleasant warmth of his firm small buttocks sink into his groin. His left arm moved lower until it was draped over Kyle’s hip, still in the safe zone. Again, temptation roared its demand. He resisted, contenting himself with an embrace that pulled them even closer together in the middle. Now, his erection squashed between Kyle’s buttocks. He felt Kyle’s bare legs rub against his, relishing the soft smoothness of hairless skin. At some point, Kyle had stripped off his pajama pants.

His hand eased onto to Kyle’s scrawny chest, brushing lightly against his T-shirt. In what seemed only a second or two, he felt the tiny nipple harden under soft cotton. Holding his breath, he slipped his hand underneath the T-shirt again and rubbed it with his thumb tip.

“Daddy?”

He didn't answer. He kissed the back of Kyle’s neck, pressing his nose into his son’s hair as he moved towards his ear, probing with the tip of his tongue. Kyle trembled against him. Burton was on the verge of stopping when Kyle rolled onto his back. Burton followed, straddling his son’s slender body. He raised himself upward on outstretched arms.

“Dad,” Kyle whispered. “The door's wide open.”

“Mom’s asleep.” He regarded his son with a teasing smile in the darkness. “If you take off your T-shirt, I’ll give you a special tickle?”

Kyle nodded eagerly. Burton slid out of bed and padded across the floor. On the way back he dropped his boxers at the side of the bed. Without light from the hall he couldn’t see much, though he certainly felt Kyle’s bare flesh against his own as he climbed into the little bunk bed. He was hot and silky, and smooth as a baby. He leaned over his son. He felt Kyle’s welcoming warmth, the waft of a longing breath on his cheek.

He reached down to be sure he wasn’t doing something that Kyle didn’t want. Kyle’s penis certainly wanted what he had to offer; it was hard and baby-soft at the same time. He caressed with trembling fingers, the springy little sex organ flexing as if trying to get him to hold it tighter. He massaged the tiny knob, tugging against it as if trying to gain a little more length. Kyle twitched against him, little hips pushing his aroused member into his grasp. By then, both hearts were beating much faster than normal.

Then, Kyle’s head lifted up, licking his lips as if he knew what came next. They gazed at each other, barely seeing yet realizing what was about to happen as certainly as if the lights were turned on. It was inevitable. All of a sudden, they were kissing, chastely at first, then increasingly passionate as Burton showed his son what to do. The heat grew between them faster than seemed possible. They were sweaty when their lips parted.

Burton breathed deeply, his son panting like a frightened rabbit. He pressed down on the little naked body, pinning Kyle to his bed before he began to thrust gently.

“Dad…”

“Shhhh.”

“Dad, you weenie is rubbing my legs.”

“It’s not going to hurt you.”

“Dad, can you do it higher, like against mine.”

The bunk-bed protested as Burton crawled higher, hugging and nuzzling Kyle, rocking his pelvis to rub his hard hot penis against his son’s smooth flesh. He stopped when his face was on Kyle’s pillow.

“That’s my tummy, Dad.”

Kyle’s small body was like a baby underneath him, soft and smooth and trembling, and burning hot. There was no mistaking the little erection jammed against his big hairy balls.

He grinned down and whispered, “You want to get tickled or not, Fluffy?”

He moved from side to side with the experienced rhythm of a lifetime. Soon, he started making gentle thrusts, mostly sliding his cock along Kyle’s lower belly. He knew his juices were leaking onto his son, yet nothing could stop him. He inhaled sleepy boy scent hidden in stale morning breath. When he skewed his head to look down, Kyle’s eyes were closed in deep concentration, an aura of serenity that could only mean he was utterly content. It wasn’t the first time that Burton thought Kyle needed to be beneath a man to be happy. He scooted lower, placing their cocks parallel, never so aware of the contrast of big against small.

Only a few days into eleven years old, Kyle should’ve been totally unfamiliar with what he was feeling. He’d never felt so wonderful. He was being loved, his father's body an incredible source of pleasure. Soon, he was uttering little panicky whimpers. His penis started to throb. His arms locked around his father’s neck. He wasn’t sure what else to do.

Long, unforgettable minutes passed as Burton ground his pelvis against Kyle's, forcing his sex into his son’s genitals and pubis. He became frantic, desperate for release, increasingly infatuated with the boy until he could no longer stand it. In an awesome surge, he raised up and ejaculated. Even after his talk with Keiffer, he had a lot stored up.

Semen spurted, hot and thick, and creamy white. It covered Kyle’s body, from his head to his groin. Thick gobs of it, long splashes of it, dribbles of it, everywhere. It puddled in Kyle’s belly button like a small fishing pond. It splattered over Kyle’s still erect penis. It coated his fat little scrotum and the insides of his thighs. It drooled off his flanks like molten lava. There was cum spewed on his chest, completely covering both nipples. A trickle ran all the way to his neck. A couple of spots dotted his cheeks and chin, and one had landed on his forehead, like a Hindu-third eye, a mystical symbol of divine sight.

Startled, Kyle’s head jerked up. “Daddy?”

“Shhhh.” Burton was breathless, still shaking from the intensity of it. It was all so right. He’d never felt so close to anyone. “It’s not what you think,” he croaked.

“You made cum on me, huh Dad?”

Burton heard unbridled awe as innocence rushed for the exit to depravity. It was funny how boys learned about semen long before they made any themselves.

“It won’t hurt you, Fluffy.”

“I know. I like having it on me.”

Burton gulped, disbelieving his ears. He lowered himself, careful not to squash Kyle. With his weight on his knees and forearms, their fronts pressed together. He felt the warm, slick squishiness of his semen between them. Kyle’s arms locked around his neck again.

“This is so cool, Dad.”

“I’ll clean you up in a while.”

Post-climax guilt rushed into the void of fading excitement. Suddenly, Burton was a ‘pervert’, no different to the perverts he had talked about with Hessler.

“I have to get up, Kyle,” he whispered. Shame was exponential as his failure as a father confronted him.

“I’m okay with it, Dad,” Kyle whispered back.

“Office Harrison will be here at seven. I have a lot of work to do before then.”

“Dad?”

“Yeah, Kyle?”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, Fluffy.”

“Dad?”

“Are you going to be silly about this? Because if you are, I’ll have to tickle you.”

Kyle hugged his dad tighter. “I’m glad Mom made you sleep with us.”

Burton eased onto his side. Semen smeared his front like egg-white. He leaned over his son and smeared his semen over Kyle’s taut little belly. “This is the special tickle I promised you.”

His hand moved up, spreading seed over silky boy-skin. Sliding side to side, back and forth until Kyle’s skinny front was shiny wet. Around his shoulders, under his arms, down to his crotch and thighs; it was a slippery massage of grownup semen. Kyle beamed with delight, constantly peeking down as his father’s rubbed it in.

Finally, Burton rolled away from his son and swung his legs out from underneath Kyle’s quilt. His mother had made a quilt for each twin with intricate red and blue patterns borrowed from the Navajo. Jeff’s quilt had the colors reversed.

He was about to stand up when Kyle reached out. He leaned over, kissing him quickly on the forehead.

“Go back to sleep, Fluffy.” He wiped his belly and crotch with Kyle’s pajama pants and reached for his boxers, thanking the gods that Janice hadn’t checked on the twins during the night.

+++++

Harrison arrived promptly at 7:00 am, not smiling, still driving the same car as the previous morning. It had the residual odor of cigarette smoke that Burton hated. Already soured on guilt, he grumped ‘hello’ and let it go.

When they arrived at Room 206, Burton assigned Harrison the task of preparing coffee, and retired to his office, ignoring the chatter which was louder than usual. The growing stack of reports was first on his agenda. He knew the school morning schedule by heart. At 7:30am, Kyle would be in the shower, washing off his father’s dried semen. Had he told his twin brother, Burton pondered as he looked through reports of missing boys aged 10 through 12.

Harrison came in, bearing a second polystyrene cup of coffee.

“Our boy was just on the national news.”

“That’ll help. What’s the big deal in the office?” Burton asked.

“The Rams won last night. It was awesome, right down to the wire,” Harrison explained. “First win in three weeks.”

Burton smiled. “Jeff bet me a buck the Broncos would win.” He sipped coffee. “What’s the story.”

There was no mention of the boy's three-days of captivity. The sexual assault was a vague implication of molestation, no lurid descriptions of what had happened to him, a photo asking for anyone with information to call in. That was a plus.

“You think someone will report the kid as missing now?” Harrison asked when he finished his version of the news.

“I doubt it. He would’ve been gone for several days at least, so it would have happened by now.” Burton sipped more bitter black coffee. “Next time, if I say no sugar, I mean one, okay. I’m hoping someone recognizes his photo.”

“You're thinking he didn’t run away from home?”

“If he was made to leave, or he wasn't wanted, he wouldn’t be reported as missing. It’s also possible his family doesn’t know he’s gone. There’s any number of viable explanations. He might’ve been missing for years… ” Burton shook his head. It was too sick to think about.

He swiveled on his chair to face the pinup board. He clasped his hands, interlocked his fingers, and planted his elbows on the arm rests.

“Look at the pictures from the coroner's office, Harrison. Good-looking kid don’t you think.”

Puppy Eyes wasn’t pretty like Kyle, or movie-star cute like Jeff.

“I guess. Madison said he was ‘handsome', something like that.”

“What he said was ‘he was a fine looking boy, really handsome.’”

“You remember that?”

Burton smiled. “He was in good condition. Someone took care of him. Ten years old and he had one filling. That says something right there.”

“He didn't eat candy?”

“You see his belly; he had maybe a pound of fat on him. My bet he’s a farm kid, something like that, or he had strict parents who made him brush and exercise regularly.”

“I don’t know, Sir. Maybe his family’s just poor.”

“He could be one of my own kids. We need to find out what he did before he ended up with a murderer.”

Burton watched Brenda through the glass. She didn’t look like a lesbian. Then again. Keiffer didn’t look like a pedophile.

She stuck her head in the door. “Bronski asked me to tell you that the Commissioner wants to meet in ten minutes.” She lifted off the first two pages from a stack of pages and put them in front of Burton.

The likeness was remarkable, enough to cause Burton to examine the photograph and description carefully. Missing for four months from St. Paul, Minnesota, last seen in a red tee shirt and swimming costume on his way to the swimming pool. Age, weight, and height almost identical, the faces side-by-side were very close. A two-inch appendectomy scar on the right side of the lower belly eliminated him.

He gestured to the photograph of the St. Paul boy. “I hope he’s not next. At least we know who he isn't.”

+++++

The Police Commissioner’s Office was at City Hall, two blocks away. Burton walked briskly, and then the secretary kept him waiting for half-an-hour. He was impatient and angry when he took his seat. Bronski still hadn’t arrived when he was called. It took just four minutes to tell all that he knew, and what had been undertaken to date. Police Commissioner Calvin A. Tanner gazed out of one of the three vast windows that formed the corner of his office. He seemed more interested in a speckled pigeon on the cornice.

“This is an important case, Burton. A big case. We're going to be closely watched. I want the Department to look good.”

Burton stared at the Commissioner's back, certain the commissioner’s suit was recently pressed, judging from the crisp folds in the trousers.

“I’m not sure what else I can do, Sir.”

“The boy was a prisoner for a week, raped repetitively, and murdered. I’m sure you’ll think of something,” the commissioner added, suggestively.

Burton considered saying he had evidence for two or three days. “My department is short-handed, Sir. Currently, my partner is a uniformed policeman to meet policy. ”

“Good thinking, Burton. This is a heinous and shocking crime. The safety of our children is at risk, etcetera. I can use that to push for a bigger budget for law enforcement. I want you to look for chances for good PR as the case moves forward. Above all, I want a conviction. NO fucking around!”

“I could do with some help to identify the boy and trace his movements before he died.”

“Excellent. Involve the public! Except I'd like the media to think we're in charge, not begging for help,” he finished sarcastically.

Burton flushed with anger, holding back his temper. Five years ago, Calvin was a Homicide detective, and an active member of the Democratic Party. The Mayor appointed him Acting Deputy Police Commissioner, being 'the best man for the job'. His promotion came a year later.

“We need do whatever it takes to find out where he's been and what he was doing before he was snatched,” Burton said angrily.

“If I was you I'd start by checking out the hustlers in Gateway Arch Park.”

Burton stood up. “Yeah. I'll do that.”

“Seriously, Burton. Check out the juvie shelters next. Runaway or whatever, the chances are he’d go there to hang out.”

Juvenile shelters were already on Burton’s list. “Stan Bronski said you wanted daily reports?”

“I want progress. I want an arrest that sticks. Whoever he is, he’s going to be six feet under by this time next year.”

+++++

Burton started the walk back to the office, the sunshine warming his front. He stopped at a coffee shop and ended up buying two donuts. He ate as he walked. The area he passed through had stores with occasional boarded-up windows, spray-painted graffiti, and dirty footpaths, pockmarked with splotches of chewing gum.

He was passing The Edwardian Players, a local drama theater, when his cellphone beeped with an incoming text.

‘u cool dad’. It was sent from Scruffy.

‘how r u’. Burton was a step up from a texting retard.

‘ok saw u spoo muff’.

It took a moment for ‘spoo’ to become 'spew', or maybe it was 'spooge', or maybe ‘spoo’ was the new preteen word. Burton stepped into a laneway to avoid the crowded sidewalk outside Walgreens.

“The little bugger!” He smiled and typed, ‘u watched’.

‘yup hehe you spood him good’.

‘u ok with it’.

Jeff replied in a flash. ‘yup I jacked’.

Burton never expected that! ‘u in class’.

‘math got a boner’.

Burton shook his head. No wonder Jeff brought home Bs in math. ‘bye’.

‘me tonight luv scruf’.

‘maybe luv u’.

It was hard to think after that. Burton scrolled through the texts twice before he destroyed the evidence. He tried to calm himself. All he could think about was Jeff watching from his bed a few feet away, playing with his penis as his father clambered over his twin brother and… “Damn, why am thinking this shit.”

It was a city with few vagrants. Most homeless people either moved on or never came in the first place; however, someone had set up a cardboard box camp at the end of the lane. On the nearest door was spray-painted the male sign pointing up. Maybe raping and murdering of little boys was a gang thing after all?

He finished the second donut as he turned into the front entrance of the Aleborn Building, oblivious to all. He stopped at the front desk. Sergeant McKelvey, duty officer, came over as soon as he saw Burton. They still went to baseball games together, less frequently now that Jeff and Kyle wanted to go more often.

“Mac, if I was a runaway between ten and twelve, where would I go?”

McKelvey leaned on the counter, scarred, stained, and littered with pamphlet holders and forms. He scratched the back of his head, the only remaining patch of hair on an otherwise bald dome.

“Not one of the twins, I hope?”

“I keep ‘em too busy.”

“Things have changed since you were in uniform. The drug scene is worse. A lot of strays are dealing so they hang out where the market is.”

“What about kids selling sex?”

“Don’t really know. Most of them moved out of the city years ago. Malcom Martin Memorial Park is hot for hookers until pimps latch onto them. The hustlers pretend to be skateboarders and work the Arch. Most of them aren’t what you’d call runaways. The boys who are, move along pretty fast.”

“Where would your average stray boy hang out?”

“The malls when school is out. When school is in, like now, they head downtown. Gangs are running the scene now. They keep the truancy officers back.”

“Where in particular?”

“Black and Hispanic kids you’ll find in deserted buildings, mostly dealing drugs. The park down by the river and cheap hotels, if they're hustling. It’s always the pretty white boys who sell ass. Your kid qualify?”

“Unfortunately, yeah.”

“It’s slim pickings at the best of times so it shouldn’t be too hard to track him down. A little honky runaway would get pimped out fast unless he gets his butt off the street. I’ve even taken a few boys to New Way. It’s Catholic, but it’s the best. The kids eat restaurant food.”

“My wife helps out there,” Burton said. He didn’t add that his kids ate crap because she was too busy to cook.

McKelvey turned to advise a constable on the upcoming promotion exam. Burton picked up one pamphlet after another. Drugs, alcohol, rape, AIDS, everything unpleasant.

McKelvey returned, exasperated. “That one can't read, I swear he can't.”

Burton laughed. “What about the kids who don't make it to the shelters? Where do they go?”

“You don't want to know. There are four to eight kids in houses on 13th, near Olive that are popular, have been for about a year now. We sweep them every other week. Some fool in the Planning Department has decided that they're historic structures and can't be demolished. A few hang out by the river until it’s so cold they start hitching rides to Florida.”

“Thanks for the help, Mac.”

“That's what I'm here for, to protect and serve. By the way, how is Harrison working out?”

“Okay. Did he ask you for an unmarked car?”

“Nothing's available. I guess you heard the transmission on your Taurus is shot. The estimate is more than it’s worth, so it won’t happen this year.”

Burton started towards the elevator. “I’ll take anything that doesn't say 'cop'.”

+++++

It was near lunchtime when Burton decided a visit to 13th and Olive Street was in order. Harrison parked the car nearly a block and a half away, near the St. Louis Public Library where it was slightly safer. They walked back. It was in the heart of one of the most run-down areas in the city, 43 percent vacant, a one in eight chance of being a crime victim each year.

The street was lined with brick buildings, reminders of a bygone era when St. Loius was a stop on the way to the west. There were apartments almost the entire way down Olive Street to the arch. Buildings had been demolished to make way for parking lots for the stadium, while decrepit and immobile cars and dumpsters full of rubbish filled what was left over. Weed patches and refuse collected in the corners, shards of glass from broken beer bottles lay like land mines around graffiti-adorned walls.

The few stores that remained in business had metal doors and window grates, with full length roller doors that turned them into steely fortresses against nightly marauders. Pawn shops and convenience stores were the best protected of all; they had gang insignia on the walls.

As they approached the corner, there was an opening recessed into the wall, a landing set four steps above the pavement. The sour stench of stale urine overwhelmed them. A placard placed by a city inspector said the building was unfit for human habitation.

Burton tried the door handle, despite a large, bronze padlock mounted on a galvanized hasp-hinge. Before he could tell Harrison not to knock, he did. From somewhere within the building a door slammed loudly, followed by a voice shouting ‘cops.

“Round the back!”

Harrison leaped to the street and took off running. Burton followed. The pavement jarred his spine and he staggered for a couple of paces before he lurched around the corner. He caught a glimpse of Harrison before he turned into a lane lined by broken fences and garages in only slightly better condition.

Two lanky unkempt teenagers, one white, one black, were at the other end of the lane and running considerably faster than their pursuers. Harrison ran for a few more yards before he realized he was wasting his time. He skidded to a halt in wet leaves and mud, spun around and began running back the way he had just come. As he ran, he pulled back the flap of his holster and withdrew his pistol. He crashed through a narrow gap in the fence.

The gap was barely big enough for one of the twins to slide through, not Burton’s bulky frame. He heard Harrison shout ‘stop’, a panicked scream, and then a torrent of foul obscenities before he reached the nearest garage door. It was locked. The gate was hanging loosely, barely attached by its hinges. He slammed it back so hard that the top hinge broke.

Harrison’s left arm was locked around the chest of a struggling boy as he tried to re-holster his gun. The boy was in his early teens, skinny with unkempt hair.

“Get your fuckin’ hands off me, asshole!” He kicked at Harrison's legs.

Harrison jerked his arm upwards, hooking it around the kid’s neck. The boy croaked and kicked harder, his obscenities strangled.Choke holds weren’t legal, but neither was trying to kick a cop in the balls.

Nearly a minute passed before the kid’s struggling stopped. A few months ago, he might have been a middle class kid with his sweat-shirt from Utopia. With his free hand, Harrison searched pockets, hauling out an iPhone, and a tatty leather wallet that he handed to Burton.

“Yours?” Burton asked.

The boy stared at him. “I fuckin’ found them.”

“Did you now?” Burton scratched his cheek. “So this three hundred bucks isn’t yours? Let him go, Harrison.”

The boy dropped to the ground, his legs collapsing under him. He gagged, spitting out phlegm.

“He nearly fuckin’ killed me,” the boy rasped.

“That's too bad. What's your name?”

“None of your fucking business, asshole.”

“If I hear your foul mouth again, you'll spend ten minutes alone with Officer Harrison.”

The boy breathed heavily, mouth open, his face pale. He looked seasick, eyes scrunched and vacant. Burton recognized the downside of a crack high.

The boy rubbed the snot from his nose with the back of his hand, and wiped it against his filthy jeans. “Colin.”

“This where you sleep, Colin?”

Colin shrugged. “Sometimes.”

“How old are you?”

“Fourteen.... Next January”

He looked younger. There’d been a time when someone loved him. Probably still did.

“Pity! Colin, I’m looking fora boy. He’s a bit younger than you.” Burton held a postcard-sized photograph in front of Colin's face. “You recognize him?”

Colin glanced at the photo and then at his Nike sneakers. “Cute little fucker, but you can do better, man.” His head had a nasty, epileptic jerk.

“You seen him around, Colin?”

“You want boy ass; I got ass, dude.”

“You and your friends sell drugs. Why fuck around selling your butt for peanuts?”

After a few seconds, Colin shook his head. “I ain’t doing neither, cop.”

“You got your johns on your cell?” Harrison chimed in.

“Just my stockbroker, asshole.”

“Harrison, take a walk around the block and see if his friends are waiting for him.” Burton waited until Harrison closed the gate behind him. “You're on real shaky ground, Colin. I’m supposed to take you to St. Louis Childrens’ Hospital. When they stick a scope up your ass, what are they going to find, you reckon?”

“Shit!

Jeff would’ve said said ‘poop,’ and it would’ve been funny.

Burton stared him down. “They’ll know if you prefer KY or Vaseline?”

“I ain’t no ass-boy, cop. You going to read me my rights?”

“A kid has no rights. You want to get high, or you want the scope up your hiney?”

“I ain't seen your boyfriend, man. He new in town?

“Might be.”

“About a week ago, I heard there was fresh boy-butt. He didn't come here. Probably hung out near the park.”

“Where, exactly?”

“Under MLK bridge is where most kids go when they’re not in the park. It's okay, except for the bums.”

“Why?” Burton asked.

Colin gave him an exasperated look. “They pester you till you give it up, and they don't fuckin’ pay.”

“So why hang out there?”

“Most gangs don’t like white boy ass enough to keep it around. Anyway, there’s creeps all over.” He fixed his gaze on Burton. “Your cutie-boy’s long gone, Mister. Probably fuckin’ his ass off with some rich old fag in Miami by now.”

“Why Miami?”

“No reason. You looking for a tight one, right?”

Burton breathed out. He resented how Colin knew his darkest secret. At least he didn’t know about the twins. “If I was?”

“A hundred bucks.”

“Right. I got it in my wallet.”

“Fifty then; ‘cause you’re a cop.”

Burton hated himself for even considering it. It was different with the twins. They were his boys; he loved them.

“I’m too old for you, ain’t I?”

“Depends.” All he could think about was Jeff’s smooth little body.

“If you’re into boys without hair on their dicks, I know someone, okay?”

Burton just nodded, partially pleased he was off the hook. He managed to avoid the kid’s steady gaze by looking around the yard. There were at least 20 bicycles propped against the fence He wondered why.

“My little brother, he does it.”

Burton’s head snapped back.

“He’s almost eleven,” Colin said quietly. “The runt of the litter. He’s fresh meat too; he only just started fuckin’.”

“You’d sell your brother’s ass?”

“Hell yeah! He’s ready for it, ought to be after last night...”

Burton groped at straws rather than admit the runt of the litter sounded ideal. “What happened last night?”

“The kid needed stretching.”

“Go on.”

“He’s small...” Colin smiled, playing to Burton’s obsession. “… so he was tight, real tight. We pussified him, you know what I mean?”

“Not really.”

“With little kids, you force it open. Real wide so it stays loose afterwards. When he takes a big dick, it won’t hurt. Nothin’ better for a kid chasin’ man meat.”

Burton’s ears burned. “You and your buddies took care of it, right?”

“They did. I did him once, the first time. Kelly really got into it. He’s still up there with Rosemont.”

“Up where?”

Colin looked over his shoulder. A tattered white curtain veiled a window on the second floor. Burton turned as Harrison came through the gate.

“You and Kelly are going to New Way. If you’re smart, you won’t come back here.”

The boy's expression showed what he thought of Burton’s suggestion. “Here, if a guy wants it, he pays for it.” He gulped intentionally, his newly formed Adam's apple bobbing in his thin neck.

“That mean what I think it means?” Burton asked, unable to meet the boy's eyes. He knew what he was going to do. He should’ve been ashamed, but he wasn’t.

“It means what you want. Swallowin’ ain’t nothing my brother hasn’t been doing since he turned five.”

“Harrison, take Colin to the car. If he steps out of line, deck him. I’ll check the building.”

Colin’s gaze wandered back to his shoes. “What happened to your boy?”

“He was murdered.”

“Fucking asshole!” Colin’s lips compressed, thin and harsh. He was through talking.

Burton shrugged it off. Jeff would be him in a few years. It depressed him to think about it. He waited until Harrison and Colin were halfway up the lane before he crossed the backyard, avoiding lumps of dog crap, paper towels, and scraps of pizza. Beer bottle caps were like confetti.

He went through the back door with his hand on his pistol grip, looking around, straining his ears. There were sounds from upstairs that he would never forget. It sounded like a whining puppy dog. At the top of the stairs, he paused to catch his breath. Now, he heard grunting, the steady slap-slap of wet slippery flesh. He crept down the hall, his heart pounding, not from physical effort. It was raw excitement that caused it.

Kelly looked like a frog on its back, pale white and passive with his skinny thighs splayed wide, little arms tied behind his head. Rosemont was black. He power-fucked the little boy under him with mechanical efficiency. His cock was huge, a glistening dark purple beast, sliding in, jerking out. Each time, his buttocks clenched at the end of the stroke, driving in a little bit farther. Whenever he grunted, Kelly whined his loudest. Burton would never have believed it was possible to put something that big in a boy’s ass.

He watched for a minute, maybe longer, before Rosemont began to thrust faster, harder, slamming up against his little sex-partner. Kelly wailed, delirious yet barely moving as if the fight had gone out of him. He might have been asleep except his eyes were wide open. Burton couldn’t imagine Jeff lying there submissively. Kyle yes, but not Jeff. It wasn’t a matter of letting himself be used like a girl; Jeff would be writhing, hugging him, stroking his flanks, giving something back.

Skeptical than a boy could enjoy getting fucked in the ass, Burton watched the black teenager attain orgasm. Erratic panicked thrusts increased in ferocity until suddenly he bucked and strained against the boy’s slim abdomen, shoving him along the mattress. His massive erection was all but hidden as it pulsed repetitively.

Rosemont withdrew with a sloppy slurp, his plump knob still oozing semen and bouncing against Kelly’s slimy anus. It resembled a funnel, a big one. Even from the doorway, Burton could see inside the boy’s bottom. He expected to see blood, but there wasn’t any, just shiny wet stuff that covered his groin, his butt, and thighs. He dragged his eyes away and looked everywhere but at the filthy mattress.

He couldn’t imagine Jeff ever lying there and letting something like that happen to him.

“You want a turn with him, Mister?”

Burton barely realized the teenager was talking to him. He wasn’t sure of anything except the one thing he wanted more than anything else. He wanted to do the same thing to Jeff. The idea of fucking his preteen son into mindless ecstasy appealed like never before.

Rather than stare at the little boy, he fixed his gaze on the mattress. It was old and stained, the stuffing extruded out in clumps in several places, the floral patterned covering strangely reassuring.

“Yo! You want some a dis pussy?”

“Pussy?”

Rosemont backed onto his knees, his erection already beginning to droop. “Little honky boy got hisself pussified all fuckin’ night. Look at his ass, man. Ain’t dat one fine little pussy?”

Burton breathed. It didn’t seem possible a man could turn a boy into quaking, quivering Jell-O simply by sticking a cock up his ass.

“He’s a little ass-boy, jus’ like his bro. He gonna like fuckin’ big dudes now. You’ll slide right in, Mister. Easy squeezy. He got lots of room for cock. Make you cum harder than the honky bitch you married to.”

Burton swallowed and stared. He wanted to take his turn between Kelly’s wide-stretched thighs. He wanted to guide his cock along the slimy furrow and slam it into the boy’s dilated hole.

“Real nice,” he croaked.

“Do dis to straight boy ass, stretch him so he don’t get tight ever, he gonna want cock in his ass till he die.”

Burton couldn’t stop himself from staring. This was what the Coroner meant about a huge cock causing permanent damage; Keiffer too. Strangely, the idea appealed to him. What didn’t appeal to him was the dribble of white fluid that trickled out of Kelly’s swollen anus.

“You wanna slide some cock up his ass, Mister?”

“How much?’

“Fifty gets you an hour with Fag-boy. He’s a better fuck than a ho.”

“I’ll take your word for it. One problem though; you be takin’ Fag-boy to New Way.”

Rosemont thought that was funny. “Yeah, right.”

“Let me spell it out, fuck-head. You don’t, I’ll find you and charge you with raping a minor. You’ll get your nigger ass fucked for thirty years by Billy Bob and the brothers.”

+++++



By the time, Burton reached the car he’d changed his mind. He opened the passenger's door, picked up his case file, and sorted through the contents to find a photograph of Roland Keiffer.

“I thought he was innocent, Sir?” Harrison said. He sounded excited by the prospect.

Burton showed the photo to Colin in the backseat. He straightened up. After a moment, he shook his head. Burton opened the rear door. The kid was lying, plain as day.

“Go help your brother, Colin.”

“I’m not taking him to New Way. There’s creeps at that joint.”

“Just go, Colin.”

Colin scrambled out. He looked at Burton, uncertainty building exponentially. Without warning, he turned and ran.

Burton gave instructions to Harrison and started to walk down 13th Street. Colin was already halfway down the next block. He slowed at the corner as a car turned. A black woman stopped in front of him. She was middle-aged with broad buttocks and thighs that threatened to rip a seam in her pink nylon slacks. Colin darted around her and kept running. The woman waited there until Burton came up. She glared at him, chewing gum loudly. She glanced at a group of black youths gathered on the adjacent corner.

“You be doin' somethin’ 'bout dat honky ho-boy, off’cer?” she demanded, saying the words slowly to rebut the immutable fact that intellect mattered

“If I can catch him.”

“Them boys sellin’ ass in tha’ brick n’ white house. Tha’ one!” She pointed. “Theys got johns comin’ and goin’, and you cops do nothin'.”

Burton smiled his best public relations smile. “Thank you for bringing it to my attention, Mam. Unfortunately, I'm not in Vice. I will report it though. I'm sure they'll have a car here shortly.”

With that, he turned and crossed the street, heading to the far end of the alley, the direction in which the two other boys had gone. With the front door locked, the only way in was the back door.

He entered through the gate he’d used earlier. The back door was closed. Once a bright-blue color, it was now covered with dark scuff marks where it had been kicked open.

Burton listened to voices from inside the house. Colin’s higher-pitched voice stopped with a loud yell. He opened his jacket zipper. His hand closed around the grip of his Smith and Wesson .38 Special. It was a source of derision among Homicide detectives. Bronski would’ve harassed him too, except for his performance at mandatory practice sessions.

After a second muffled scream, he eased open the back door and stepped inside. This time, he detoured through the kitchen, and wished he hadn’t. The dried corpses of pizza and chicken bones, and beer cans were scattered over the greasy vinyl table. Everywhere he looked, there were rat droppings like dead flies.

The voices became louder when Burton turned into the hall. He went up the stairs, keeping close to the side nearest the wall; the stairs creaked less there and it was as far as he could get from the flimsy railing.

Colin was frantic. “Don’t hurt him, please. He’s had enough, okay.”

“You blabbed to Porky Pig, motherfucker.”

“He asked me if I recognized some kid. I swear I didn't tell him shit.”

“What did you tell him about us?”

“Nothing, Jamal. I didn't say a word.... Please stop. No!” A loud scream ended Colin's pleading.

“Fuckin’ suck it, faggot.”

“You’re hurting him, you dumb fucker.”

A dull thud followed, then Colin sobbed, “Please, don't hurt him. I swear, I told him nothing.”

“Last chance to suck my nigger dick before it goes in his ass.”

Burton peeked into the bedroom. Colin was kneeling before a black teen.

He’d heard jokes about blacks being bigger. Heck, he’d even seen Mason Taylor from the Ballistics after playing racquetball. Mason was a stallion, no doubt about it; however, he was no competition for Jamal. His cock was so big it seemed too heavy to lift up. It hung down, long and thick, looking more like a python than anything human. Colin sucked it like a pro, his lips and tongue trained to please. Jamal slapped his head until Colin craned back. He was grinning as he lunged forward to drive his cock deep into Colin’s throat. They were so busy, they didn’t notice Burton peering around the doorway.

Rosemont was gone, but the mattress was still in service. Kelly was lying on his back, one leg crooked, his other leg hoisted up by a rope tied to the overhead fan. His arms were wrapped around his chest. He screamed into a filthy handkerchief stuffed in his mouth, struggling frantically each time he tried to breathe. A white youth knelt before the boy. When he was younger, he’d been good looking. Now, pimple pustules pockmarked his face. He had a ribbon of hair, shaved mohawk-style.

Burton shuddered. There was a thick black tube pushed into Kelly’s bottom. It was shiny smooth, like a D-cell mag-light. Was it even possible to do that without splitting the kid in half?

He watched with a peculiar sense of déjà vu, curious as to how the youth's hand grasped it, like he was pinching something on the end. Inch after inch came out when he drew back. He drooled spit on the shaft as he prepared to shove it back in. Burton knew there was no way he’d stop him before it penetrated the rest of the way.

Across the room, Jamal shoved hard at the same time. “Choke on it, motherfucker.”

Colin jerked away from python-cock, gasping for air. “I told him nothing, Marty. I swear. You’re gonna rip him if you go any farther.”

“Little honky boy wants a big nigger hole like you, Colin. Jamal’s gonna give it to him soon as I’m done.”

“The cop already knew, Marty. I didn't say nothing, I promise.”

“He's right,” Burton said softly.

Marty and Jamal swung around in shock.

“Git the fuck out,” Marty spat. “This ain't none of your business.” He had a silver ring through the corner of his bottom lip.

“Yeah, motherfucker,” Jamal added.

Burton regarded each in turn, no older than sixteen or seventeen, yet so distant from desirable that he despised them. What right did pimply teens have to abuse beautiful little boys? He stared them down, his gun still out of sight. His eyes roved from one to the other, hoping for an excuse to shoot, a bullet between the eyes for Marty; Jamal he’d shoot full of holes, and enjoy it.

Colin crawled onto the mattress, cradling his naked brother as if he cared about him. It sounded as though Kelly was crying, the gag choking back bile that rose in his throat. Marty inched back towards the wall. Burton's hand tightened on his gun. He willed himself to relax, to stay alert; however, he couldn’t stop glancing at Kelly, at a thick black tube that was awfully close to sliding into the boy. His distended red opening was less than an inch from the end. The slightest push and it would slide inside.

One moment, Jamal was standing with his jeans drooping down his thighs, his fat black cock bobbing and slimy after Colin’s unfinished blowjob. In the next instant, he charged Burton and slammed him into the door jamb. Marty's other hand, which had been out of Burton's sight, now clenched the butt of a snub-nosed revolver. Burton grappled with the black youth, clenching one hand around his neck, keeping the youth between him and the gun. The sour smell of unwashed skin was as sickening as yesterday’s after-shave lotion.

Using mass to advantage, Burton kicked at the youth's ankles and shoved. Jamal was a lightweight, flailing arms and legs as Burton heaved him across the room. Before he bounced off the opposite wall, Burton had his gun pointed at Marty's chest.

“Drop it asshole,” he roared

The youth wavered.

“Say good-bye,” Burton said.

Marty's hand eased down until his gun pointed at Burton's knees.

“Last chance.” Burton's finger tightened, squeezing back on the trigger.

Marty’s gun clattered to the floor.

Burton took a deep breath. “Both of you, face the wall. Feet apart, lean forward.”

He kept one eye on Jamal as he cautiously patted Marty’s dirty clothes. All he found was a wallet with $50 and a bottle of pills tucked into his jeans.

“You're under arrest, Marty.”

“We ain't done nothin',” Marty snorted derisively.

“What’s in the bottle?”

“Ex, man. The Supreme Fuckin’ Court said it ain’t that illegal.”

“Real Ecstasy?”

“Eighty fuckin’ milligrams, $20 bucks each; yeah, it’s real.”

Burton shook the bottle, 30, maybe 40 tablets. He put the bottle in his pocket.

He snapped his handcuffs onto Marty's skinny right wrist, closing the band tightly. He jerked Marty's arm sideways and forced it around Jamal's back. He closed the other end of the handcuffs around Jamal's right wrist, securing the two boys in an awkward embrace. Jamal's wrist was as thick and strong as his own.

Burton smiled pleasantly. “I caught me a pair of boy fuckers, imagine that.”

“I never fucked him,” Marty retorted.

“Don't matter,” Burton shot back. “You’re still in deep shit. If I charge you with boy fucking, you won't last the night where you're going.”

“You got no witnesses, cop. Hell, you ain't even got a victim. Kelly’s so queer he ain't gonna tell who fucked his ass. And Colin there? He’s a bigger fag than his brother.”

Jamal picked up. “You know what's good for you, Mister, you fuckin’ walk your ass outta here right now an’ keep goin’.”

Burton glanced at Kelly and wondered if he was injured. He was pale, his eyes vacant, yet he didn’t seem to be in pain. The thing was still in his ass, although Colin could’ve pulled it out if he wanted. If anything, Kelly looked very distracted, his pelvis jerking as if he was writhing on it, whatever ‘it’ was

Burton opened the handcuffs on a hunch. “You two clowns have 30 seconds to get out of here.”

“Fuck you,” Marty growled as he rubbed his wrists.

“Get out of my sight! If I ever find you messing with a boy, I’ll cut your nuts off.”

“Big tough cop wanna fuck Colin,” Jamal laughed.

“You blind? He’s looking at Kelly like he’s in love,” Marty said.

His sneer made Burton angry. “I’m married, asshole. I want to speak to them without their pimp.”

“Hey, Cutie Boy, don’t bend over unless he pays first,” Marty shot back.

Burton waited until Jamal and Marty clattered down the stairs before he squatted down. He pressed his fingers gently against Kelly’s bottom, exposing his crack. Up close, he could see a candlewick protruding out of the boy’s anus. He touched the inflamed flesh around the distended opening, and the boy winced. However, for some inexplicable reason, Burton knew he’d resist if he tried to remove it.

“It's really in there,” Colin sounded awed.

Burton’s hands turned sweaty. “How big is it?”

“Pretty big.” Colin touched his brother’s clammy flank. “He wanted his ass stretched, Mister.”

Burton found that hard to believe.

“It’s not nearly as bad as you think,” Colin went on. “It hurts like hell when it first goes in, but once you get used to it, it’s like your insides come alive when you move.”

Kelly clenched his teeth and shifted his free leg so it rested against his brother’s thigh. His face contorted in what appeared to be pain; however, he was loaded up with Ecstasy, the sensations so intense he was nearly delirious.

“It’ll be a problem getting that out.” Burton could scarcely see any black wax.

Kelly shuddered, his eyes watering until he squeezed them closed.

“Trust me, it ain’t a problem,” Colin said. “It’s doin’ him a favor actually.”

His hand enclosed his brother’s little penis. It was limp, but not for long. Also as soon as Colin’s fingers stroked, it lengthened, straightened, and lifted up. Kelly had a boner in seconds. However, Colin didn’t stop there. His hand kept moving, expertly stimulating his little brother, taking his mind of the shuddering spasms in his bottom.

“He ought to go to hospital. If it goes up inside him, he might start bleeding,” Burton muttered. He would’ve offered to lend a hand, if not for Kyle and Jeff.

“I can handle it.”

Clumsily, Burton clambered to his feet, leaned forward and brushed grime from the knees of his trousers. “Have it your way, Colin.”

Colin kept masturbating Kelly. “He’ll be okay. He’s stretched enough it’ll slide out when he pushes down.”

As if to prove it, Kelly exerted pressure inside. He grimaced as his anus expanded. The blunt end of the candle popped through his anus. Burton stared. It was like the boy was giving birth as his body shoved it out. After a few inches, it began to slide freely. It was six inches long and wider than a flashlight. Kelly’s anus gaped wider than seemed humanly possible. A dribble of liquid was followed by a loud wet fart, then a gush of semen spurted onto the mattress.

Burton gulped. “Can I help?”

“We don’t need no help. Why don’t you just leave,” Colin said, angrily mopping up the mess with a handful of soiled paper towels.

“Yeah, you’re doing just fine, living with a couple of pedo drug dealers.” Burton untied Kelly’s foot. Kyle’s feet were smaller.

Without realizing why, he used one of the paper towels to pick up the candle. It was warm and slippery until he wiped it off. Fascinated that it had been inside Kelly’s little body, he held it with selfish satisfaction. Was it possible that a candle could turn a boy’s ass into a cock-hungry pussy? Would he dare do that with Jeff?

The candle didn’t strike him as something one could buy at Walmart. It certainly wasn’t like the perfumed candles his wife placed around the house, brightly colored with little labels that read ‘Aspen Pine Fragrance’ or ‘Martha’s Scented Beeswax-Pomegranate.’ It was the same size as the Holy Family Catholic Candle that Janice burned in the hall to assist her daily devotions; however, those candles came in glass bottles imprinted with Saints’ images and prayers and weren’t black.

It was warm, so warm he couldn’t put it down. Thinking the boys would likely reinsert it as soon as he left, he discreetly put it in his jacket pocket. If it was evidence of a crime, it wasn’t one that concerned him. He stepped back and turned towards the doorway. However, he had no intention of leaving. Half-way down the hall, he turned back.

He listened outside the door for five minutes. The boys didn’t say a word. Colin was still masturbating his brother’s sturdy little erection. Kyle was oblivious, mostly inspecting his violated ass, wiping off the slimy film that coated his buttocks. As if the boys knew all along that he was outside, they ignored him when he reentered the room

“When did the guy in the red Firebird pick you up, Colin?” Burton asked quietly.

Silence.

“You *know* who I mean, don't you?”

Colin looked up with sullen eyes. “I don't know him like that.”

“You know who he is though, don't you?”

Colin shrugged and tugged on Kelly’s stiffness. “I've seen him at Abbie's.”

“That the arcade off the Parkway?”

“He’s there most Saturday nights. Watches us play, but not much else.”

“Why?”

“He’s into boy ass. Why else would he hang out there?”

Burton knew there was more. “Go on?”

“Kelly’s more his kind,” Colin said, smirking at his brother, who’d taken over rubbing his penis with agitated pumping.

Burton gave a reassuring smile. “You know who he is, Kelly?”

Kelly ignored him, blinking and staring at his throbbing penis. His hand squeezed and he shook. Burton was patient when he was close to the truth. He waited for nearly a half minute, fascinated as Kelly extracted a single droplet of clear juice from his penis and proudly showed it to his brother.

“Red Firebird,” Burton interrupted.

“A couple of weeks ago he offered Kelly money to get in his car,” Colin said.

Burton kept his excitement in check. “How much?”

“More than I get for a blow job.”

Until then, Burton was certain Keiffer wasn’t the kind to murder a boy. Now, he wasn’t so sure. Every cop learned their first day on the job that pedophiles never changed. It was drummed into them, and the signs to look for.

He took two steps into the bedroom. The mattress was mildewed, the smell putrid. He squatted on his haunches, and took out the photograph. He held it out. He saw immediate recognition in Kelly's dazed eyes. He wondered what Keiffer’s money had purchased. It was like selling Jeff for a fist full of dollars. The thought depressed him, though part of him understood why boys did it. It wasn’t all about the money.

“That's him,” Colin said softly.

“Jake like younger boys?”

Colin nodded.

“You see Jake during last week?”

Colin glanced at his brother. Kelly shrugged.

Burton took that as a yes. “Was he at Abbie's on Saturday night?”

After a long wait, Kelly shook his head. “Friday. He was parked on 15th.”

“Was he cruising?” Burton asked.

He exposed his inner self with a glance; he couldn’t help it. Kelly was right in front of him with his thighs apart, still on his back. His hole beckoned. It was still huge. It seemed like a sacred place, a secret entrance to a holy treasure. What was he thinking? It was an asshole, yet more than anything, he needed to look at it. He wanted Jeff to look like that, so used to his father’s penis that it could easily slide inside. If it took a candle to do it, he was more than willing. He wanted to hate himself. Instead, he found himself wondering how long it would take. How it would feel. Kelly looked… succulent… He looked like a man could fuck him for hour after hour and he’d still want more. They both would…

Colin snickered. He’d seen that look all too often. “His windows were open. What do you think?”

“Did he pick up a boy?”

Both boys ignored him. After nearly a minute, Burton gave up waiting.

“The boy he picked up, what did he look like?”

“Cute.” Colin glanced at Kelly. “Hairless too, I guarantee it.”

“What happened?”

“How would I know? Jake always checks out the new kids in town.”

Kelly nodded agreement.

“So he was new in town?”

“I never saw him before. Maybe he was staying at New Way,” Colin added with another snicker.

Burton looked up. Something bothered him in Colin's tone. “What’s the big deal with New Way, Colin?”

The boy averted his eyes. “No big deal. I don't just want me and Kelly stayin’ there.”

“I heard the food is really good?”

Colin shrugged.

Burton got to his feet. His knees were stiff. “You won't last a week with Marty and Jamal.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Suddenly Colin broke from the husky tenor of early adolescence. He had a noticeable tremor, a twitch in his eyes, a nasal drip from allergies.

He was about to give in. The signs were there, but mostly Burton noticed Colin's eyes, and his breathing. The kid had migrated to stronger stuff, maybe meth. He was on the slide down. He smiled reassuringly, a friendly smile.

“He was at the park the next day,” Colin said softly.

“Jake?”

Colin rolled his eyes. “Your kid was. On Saturday afternoon. I only saw him one time.

“By himself?” Burton tried to hide his interest.

“I don't know. It was like only a few seconds.”

Burton breathed an audible, slow sigh. “What were you doing down there?”

“None of your god damned business!”

He was selling drugs, or selling himself.

Burton picked up Marty’s handgun with his handkerchief, holding it by the cylinder. The stubby barrel was less than two inches long, the end was roughened where someone had used a hacksaw. It looked more like a child's toy than a Smith and Wesson 38 Special.

He glanced at Colin. “Kelly with you?”

Colin's head dropped down. When he thought Burton wasn’t looking, his eyes flickered at his brother.

“What were you doing at the park, Kelly?” Burton asked.

“Huh?” The younger boy came across as too innocent, too relaxed.

“You heard me, Kelly.”

It was like Burton hit the ‘on’ switch.

“What?” Kelly sniveled, on the brink of bawling, and stalling.

“Don't even think about trying that nonsense on me. Were you setting him up with a john, Colin?”

“It was nothin’ like that.”

“I know why were you there, Colin; you were selling your ass. There’s no other reason for you to be in the park. Was Kelly doing it too? ”

“Doing what?”

“Don't play dumb, Colin. You're smarter than that.”

However, he knew he had gone too far, pushed too fast. Colin was lost. Kelly too, he stared vacantly at the rope hanging from the ceiling fan. From the adjoining houses, Burton could hear voices raised in anger. Another domestic dispute. His eyes narrowed as he regarded the boys, suburban kids turned into hustlers, both bending over for any man with the money to buy ten minutes of pleasure. He didn’t want Jeff to be like *that*. He wanted Jeff for himself. He wanted Jeff to know what it meant to be in love. Kyle too, but his feelings were different for him. He wanted Kyle to be happy with someone else. Another man who he could trust not to hurt him…

“We weren’t there long,” Kelly murmured, twitching eyes at his brother.

“We went to the river,” Colin said, his tone sharpened to a point.

“Under MLK bridge?” Burton asked. Colin gave a shrug, not nearly as disinterested as he pretended. “You and Kelly were selling ass, weren’t you?”

“NO!”

‘Gotcha!’ On a whim, Burton asked, “You were sent there to find the new kid, weren’t you?”

This time, Colin ignored him though he looked right at Burton and licked his lips.

With a second ‘gotcha’, Burton looked for another way in. “Just between us,” he said softly. “No one will know.”

Colin had a way of using his eyes to convey what he wanted. He wanted sex with grown men, and he knew how to get it. He even wore girly clothes, tight black jeans and a pink and blue T-shirt under a zipper-front hoody. His brother was headed the same way though his clothes were normal; blue jeans on the floor and a white fleece top thrown over a bed lamp. However, a tiny red bikini at the bottom of the mattress screamed fem-boy. If there was any doubt Kelly had inclinations, his toenails were painted metallic purple. It didn’t faze him. Not when he’d already noticed traces of his wife’s fuchsia-pearl polish on Kyle’s toenails.

He wondered what else the boys had in the way of personal possessions. Not much; there was a thin red-and-black nylon jacket, a green down jacket, a couple of hoodies, a cardboard box with the flaps folded over.

“Jamal and Marty bring the johns up here for you?” Burton asked directly.

However, he shuddered at the thought of lying on the mattress, even with the very desirable little brother.

“It ain’t like that. Marty's my friend.”

“Marty's a punk. He's no friend, Colin. He fucks your ass, but that’s all.”

“Actually, he don’t.”

“After what he did to Kelly, he might never shit properly.”

“It don’t work like that. It makes you bigger inside, that’s all.”

“Bigger outside too.”

“Only so it’s easier to put it in.”

Burton paused, unsure of his ground, especially after hearing ‘easier.’ He wanted it easy with Jeff, so easy his cock could glide into his son’s tight little ass. Again and again; the thought made him quiver. After last night, he was closer. One little push, and he’d break through the incest barrier.

He tried again. “I can help you guys, if you’ll let me.”

“By takin’ us to fuckin’ New Way so they can pervert our minds and save our souls.”

“My wife works at New Way. Everyone says it’s the best.”

“Yeah, right. They did it to me two years ago.”

Maybe he should’ve asked Colin what ‘they did’ to him, but he was tired of double speak. The boy was in need of help more than at any time in his life. He offered it instead.

“You can stay here with Marty and let his johns fuck your asses, or you can go to New Way. An hour a day of Bible studies won't kill you.”

He watched as Colin's jaws clench, his lips a thin line of resistance. Jeff had full lips, not quite as full as Kyle, who could do lipstick ads if he wanted. Beautiful red Cupid’s-bow lips, so unlike their mother. He wanted to tell Colin and Kelly about the twins, how they were both queer, just different versions.

“I wouldn't be alive if it wasn't for Marty and Jamal,” Colin muttered.

Burton considered following up. Again, it had nothing to do with the case, so why bother. He watched Colin's hand smear at his eyes, rubbing away tears as they started to form. For the first time, Burton saw the frightened boy within.

“I’m sorry I hassled you earlier,” he said.

“You think Jake killed your boy, don't you?”

“What do you think?”

“He told Kelly he only wants to keep us safe,” Colin said. “He’s kind of creepy, but he’s not like them.”

“There are a lot of sick people with good intentions. Jake's not alone.”

“What about you? Anyone can see my brother turns you on. You’re queer for little boys. That’s why your dick’s like a fuckin’ crow bar.”

“I only want what’s best for you and Kelly.”

“Meaning you want to get your dick in his ass, only I’m in the way. That's what you're trying to tell me, isn't it? I’m not good enough now I got a few hairs. You're just like my dad. He was always telling me how cute I was. I did everything he wanted. I even let his friends fuck me so he could take photos.”

A long time ago, Burton had come to the conclusion that reporting anything to the Sex Crimes Unit would only make a child’s life worse.

“I’m sorry.”

“Not as sorry as I was when I started making cum. It was never the same after that. Now, he’s always running me down and saying how bad it is for Kelly for me to be around him.”

“Your dad fucks him too?”

“I took him with me to New Way the day after dad took his cherry. I’m not going back there, and neither is Kelly.”

Colin met Burton's resolute gaze, the bond between them stronger with every word.

“You think you’re old enough to decide what you want. You’re not, but I can’t stop you. If you want Marty to fuck you, go for it. I just don't want to get called down here and find you and Kelly dead.”

They glared at each other. Burton saw Jeff, a year or two into puberty, a young adolescent, striving to be himself.

“Marty never fucked me…”

“A good-looking boy like you; I find that hard to believe.”

“Marty never fucked anyone. He can’t!”

“He’s a bottom?”

“He lived at New Way for a fuckin’ year. What do you think?”

“What about Jake? He fuck you?” Burton waited for the lie.

“Jake’s not like that. He knows what it’s like for a gay kid.”

“He cares?” Burton made it sound ridiculous.

“More than you do. You want up Kelly’s ass so bad you can’t stand it. Fifty bucks for an hour.”

“I have twin boys, not much older than he is.”

“You sayin’ you fuck them?” Colin smirked, reading Burton like cheap porn. “You haven’t yet, but you want to. I’m right, ain’t I?”

“Have it your way, Colin,” Burton said. Was he that transparent?

He stood and stretched. His muscles were so tight that pins-and-needles tingled through his legs. He massaged his thigh muscles. It was too easy to take advantage of kids like Colin and Kelly. He could have Kelly right there on the moldy mattress if he wanted. Fifty bucks was dirt cheap. He probably wouldn’t even have to pay after the first time. He sighed inwardly. He loved Jeff. Kelly would go on fucking strangers. He still felt like a traitor.



Chapter 8.



Burton stared out the car window as Harrison drove through the city, watching a steady stream of men and women on lunch break. He would’ve been one of them if he’d completed law school. As a lawyer, he’d have money to provide anything Jeff and Kyle wanted, an annual vacation at a resort like Atlantis in the Bahamas, private school, a lot more meals at restaurants. Of course, he’d need to work for one of the large law firms, not the district attorney's office, and certainly not the public defender’s office.

They stopped at a traffic light in front of the court house. Lawyers crossed the street, most dressed in smart grey pinstripes with white or blue shirts, all with regulation briefcases, rushing headlong like lemmings to their boring though fancy offices. How many were pedophiles? He focused on one man walking by himself, imagining him driving around the city parks on the weekends looking for a boy. He was good looking, seeming gentle and refined. He looked like he had enough money to pay for a nice hotel room. If the right boy came along, he would be willing and able to change his life for the better. Colin needed a man like that; Kelly too.

His cellphone beeped with an incoming Jeff-message.

‘yo dadster’

‘yo scruffy miester’

He sent it before he realized it was ‘meister’.

‘cool cumback hehe what u doin’

‘in car u’

‘cafeteria sum lady talking social responsibility u home late’

‘try by ate luv u’

‘u can wank me hehe luv u’

Burton deleted the messages immediately. When he looked up again, they’d left the city-center behind them and turned left on Sullivan, following the river, past warehouses and parking lots. Harrison parked the car in an empty lot. The river was a hundred yards away, as close as they could get in this area. Ahead, the soaring steel structure of MLK bridge defied gravity, until one saw the size of the piers underneath.

A man in blue overalls came over to the car as Burton got out. “You looking for a place to park? Try…”

Burton cut him off. “I'm looking for a stray kid. Supposed to be hanging around here.”

“What ya want with the little bastard?

Burton fished in to his jacket pocket. The photograph of the dead boy already had dog-ears. He held it up. “You seen him?”

The man peered at it. “He's the kid on the news last night. Sure is dead-lookin’, ain't he?”

“Real dead.”

“There ain’t no kids today. When they’re here, they shoot up under the bridge. There's a hole in the fence where they get through.” He waved at the river. “Next to the pylon. That's where they go.”

The hole in the fence was large enough for a horde of boys to pass through unfettered. A section of chain-link had pulled away from the galvanized metal tubing.

“Someone ought to fix it before someone drowns,” Harrison said.

Burton shrugged and headed towards the opening in the fence, kicking at a nearby beer can, one of hundreds. After a few yards he stopped, watching the river swirl past in grey streaks. There was no pattern to it, like Jeff’s last text message.

‘u can wank me hehe luv u’

Sometimes it seemed like there was another boy hiding inside Jeff. Kyle too, though he kept it more concealed, as if he knew that that every kid at his school would torment him if word got out he was gay, though it was obvious that he was. He was always the more sensitive twin, He was gentle-natured, delicate compared to his boisterous twin brother. It was tough, reliable, popular Jeff who saved his twin from queer purgatory.

The river flowed on regardless. It seemed to Burton that nature had screwed up the Kyle. It was like the gods had conspired to make a beautiful girl in a boy’s body, from his long eyelashes to his undersized genitals. By contrast, Jeff was rugged and boyish, and sexy. No matter what Jeff did, he aroused his father. It didn’t matter if he was doing his homework, or grinning at him from the backset of the car, or playing one-on-one basketball in the driveway.

For a few seconds, it seemed as if all it would take was a prayer and he could exchange being the twins’ father for something infinitely better. He loved both boys, yet he idolized Jeff. He was filled with an irrepressible feeling that something would happen soon. It would exceed all of his dreams, and all he needed to do was pursue Jeff until a closer relationship was inevitable. There was only one problem. It always came down to Janice. He shook his head wearily.

Kyle was a different kind of problem. He needed a man who understood him, who appreciated his charm and intellect and effeminate manner. Someone smart and not into sports, someone loving and compassionate, someone like…. Madison. That made him smile. Of course, being gay didn’t mean that a man liked boys that way.

Burton was still smiling when the security guard said, “The only person who comes down here today is that preacher from that mission for runaway kids…”

Burton slowly turned, surprised to find he’d only gone a few yards “New Way?”

“Whatever. It's near the Greyhound station.”

Chapter 9.



New Way was a block south of the Greyhound Bus Station. It was in the worst part of town, judging by the litter swirling along the sidewalks. Years of grime gave a grey patina to every surface. New Way was a few minutes’ walk from 13th and Olive Streets, past boarded up windows, spreading like a pox across the city. The City put a good face on reports of a population decline; it was actually the desirable result of urbane young professionals replacing people who didn’t pay taxes. Nonetheless, homeless people and unemployed black males haunted every corner. Buildings that were once homes for half a dozen poor families were part of urban renewal, parking lots, or vacant. It was between two parking lots that the Wayward building stood, a stark remainder of St. Louis at the turn of the century.

According to the St. Louis Historical Society, German settlers built it for the paltry sum of $21,000, in Renaissance Revival style, specifically ornate Italian with a heavy cornice and carved stone lintels over the windows and doors. At one time, it had been a beautiful building on the front page of the St. Louis Star.

Harrison parked in the adjoining lot, ignoring a scrappy sign to place $1.00 per hour in the metal box. It would’ve been pointless; the metal box was smashed open, face down on a pile of mortar-covered bricks.

+++++

The front door was partially open. Burton entered without knocking. Beyond the hall, he could see light spilling through a doorway. On both sides of the hall, the walls were decorated with mildly religious posters and pin-up boards cluttered with newspaper cuttings about New Way and Father Delucca’s good work with runaway boys. There was a board dedicated to staff and donors. Janice Burton, from St. Paul’s, was listed three times as a donor, and once as a disciple-assistant.

Nearby, was a colorful poster with ‘SAINTS’ emblazoned across it. The ‘Saints’ was Father DeLucca’s program for boys who lived in the suburbs of St. Louis. It advocated Jesus, exercise , and abstinence, whether drugs, alcohol, or the opposite gender. Only twelve preteen boys were in the program at a time, each handpicked for leadership potential so they could influence other boys.

There was a New Way galley of snapshots with the boys’ names and ages handwritten underneath. Most were white, between 10 and 14. There were a two Hispanic boys, and one black, which seemed very odd. ‘Colin Eastman, 12,’ was in the third row, a year younger. He looked cute like his brother.

Burton announced his presence with a loud hello. Moments later, a pimply teen with closely cropped bleached-blond hair stepped into the hall. His eyes moved restlessly.

“Can I help you, Mister?” His voice had deepened with the strident twang of youth.

“I'm looking for Father Delucca.”

“He’s busy.” The teen looked up, to the floor above, or maybe to Heaven.

Burton smiled. “I'm a cop.”

“Tell me something I don't know. Whatcha want?”

“I need to see someone in charge.”

“Who's in trouble now?” The boy feigned disinterest, yet glancing at Harrison every few seconds.

“Harrison, wait in the car,” Burton said.

Harrison nodded, turned around, and went down the stairs.

“No one's in trouble. I just want to talk to whoever’s in charge.”

“That’d be Sister Carey .” The youth glanced into the room he had come from. “She's out back, right?” he called to someone out of sight.

If there was an answer, Burton didn’t hear it. The teenager started down the hall, leading the way.

“You here about the missing kid who was on the TV last night right?” he asked over his shoulder.

Burton watched the retreating shoulders. He’d bet the teen would say he knew nothing about the missing boy even if they were best friends.

They stopped at the kitchen, the last room before the back door. It was ajar and beyond was an untidy rear yard. Burton waited until the woman looked up from slicing green peppers. She was middle-aged, not attractive. Her face was thin, more wrinkled that her years.

“He's a cop, Sister Carey,” the youth said. “He's here about the kid on the news.”

Burton stepped into the kitchen, enjoying the aroma of cooking. It reminded him of Panini Quattro, the Italian restaurant the twins loved going to because it served four types of panini sandwich on each plate. Kyle always got the same thing, spinach and goat cheese; Jeff mixed his up, never the same thing twice. He held out the picture of the boy's head and bare shoulders.

“I ain't seen him ‘round here,” the youth said. He sounded as hurried as his departure.

“Sister Carey, I'm Detective Burton, St. Louis Homicide. I'm investigating this boy’s murder,” Burton explained.

“I haven't seen him,” the woman said with no more than a cursory glance “Poor little angel. He’s with God now.” She sniffed. “I take it he's a long distance runner?”

Burton frowned momentarily. “We suspect he's from out-of-state.”

“He wasn't here, least not while I've been here.”

“Do you live at New Way?”

“Yes. I'm here most days, and every night, of course. Father Delucca has volunteers who help me. They take the kids on outings, help them with school work, that kind of thing.”

“One would be my wife.”

“Of course, Janice Burton. She’s such a sweet person, always helping out with the boys, and she’s a devoted mom to her own sons too. You’re so lucky to have her.”

Burton thought ‘not.’

He counted back days. One day since the body was found, two or three days to account for the distorted rectum and the unusual contents of the stomach, placed the time the boy was last seen in public on Saturday, or earlier.

“Who was here the end of last week?

“Well, me on Friday. It was very quiet till the boys got back from school. Father Delucca arranges the weekends with our volunteers. You’ll have to ask him who was on duty.”

“Is Father Delucca here now?”

“He's upstairs in his office working on recruiting for his Saints program. No doubt Steve will tell him there's a policemen who wants to talk with him.”

++++

Several minutes passed in chit chat about what boys liked to eat before Father Delucca appeared. He looked nothing like the handful of priests that Burton had met over the years. Dressed casually in blue jeans, sweat shirt, and sneakers, he was lanky, several inches taller than Burton. His handshake was firm and dry, and unlike everyone else, he studied the photograph carefully. He shook his head thoughtfully.

“Can’t say I’ve seen him around here. He's such a nice looking boy, I wouldn't forget.” Father Delucca’s eyes narrowed. “Of course, a lot of boys come for a meal, and don’t stay. They’re too far along Moloch’s Path, if you know what I mean.”

“Drugs?”

“Black boys sell drugs, the rest sell their bodies. Most of them do it, you know. I’m not saying he hasn’t been here. I'm not here as often as I’d like. I’ve been busy with my Saints program. Most of my runaways come from the suburbs, so I taking God’s message to the source, so to speak.”

“What’s your role at New Way, exactly?” Burton asked.

“Mostly, I spend my time getting people like yourself interested in helping runaways. They're still God's children if we get to them quickly enough. Getting the money to keep New Way and Saints running takes most of my time..”

“The Church provides most of what we need,” Sister Carey added.

“We get a lot of help from others,” Father Delucca glanced at Burton. “We're non-denominational at New Way,” he added. “So long as Jesus is The Savior, we don’t get involved in religious preference.”

“Were you here last Saturday?”

“I took my disciples to the Cincinnati Zoo for the weekend,” Father DeLucca chuckled. “Before you ask, ‘my disciples’ are boys in our Saints’ program.”

“Why there?”

“They have three newborn lion cubs. Boys love lion cubs. I don’t why.”

“My boys love them too,” Burton said.

“We spent all Saturday afternoon in the rain, waiting for a peek. I’ll be lucky if they don’t all come down with colds.”

“Do you know who volunteered here last Saturday?”

“That would be the Greenways. Bill was here with his wife. Diane does the cooking. They stay until Mrs. Carey comes in. The other volunteer was from St. Pauls.”

“Not last weekend, Father. Mr. Madison was here.”

“John? You're absolutely right. He worked all day.”

Burton felt excitement rise through him in a flood of adrenaline. His hand cramped on the pen. When had he stopped writing? He could feel a tremble deep down. He breathed out.

“John Madison, right?” Burton rolled his pen between his fingers.

“He's from St. Louis University. He’s some kind of scientist.”

“Quantum physicist actually,” Burton said, not adding there was a long article on him on Wikipedia.

“Do you know him?”

“In a roundabout way. He’s fixing up a house. How often is he at New Way?”

“John comes down here every other week. Something to do with his childhood, though he’s never said what. He’s been building furniture for the fourth floor. He’s a bit strange, but the boys really like him.”

“I'm surprised he can find the time. So on Saturday, there were the Greenways and him?”

“Father Delucca?”

Father Delucca turned. “Yes, Sister?”

“The Greeways didn't come until late because their oldest daughter having a baby, her first I think,” she explained. “Apparently, they thought it was time. It was a false alarm, so it was after four-thirty when they arrived here.”

“How long has Mr. Madison been involved with New Way?” Burton asked, trying not to show unnecessary interest.

“Three months. He volunteered through a program at the University. Besides the furniture, he's really been very helpful. Fund-raising is a big thing for him, but he's also involved with the kids.”

Burton nodded slowly. “How exactly?”

“He has them play games that make math fun. Last time he was here, he had our regular boys and my disciples using polar coordinates to find treasure, candy bars actually. It was a hoot.”

“How long have the Greenways been involved with New Way?”

“Bill and Diane started coming here two years ago. Their youngest boy, Matt, ran away from home. I guess he was about twelve. The first time, we found him. The second time, he called home to say goodbye. That's all they've heard from him since.”

“What's on the fourth floor?”

“It’s close to Heaven so it should be special,” Father Delucca said with a godly nod. “We organize our boys not by age, by Godliness. They sleep in the basement when they’re right off the street. The attic is where the angels and Saints go.”

“I have twin boys. Jeff would be the basement kid. Kyle’s an upstairs kid. My wife thinks they should both be saints,” Burton joked.

“Have them apply to my Saints program,” Father DeLucca sounded sincere. “I can’t promise they’ll get in; I only take 12 at a time so they have to be special in some way.”

Burton avoided that like Ebola. “What time did Mr. Madison start on Saturday?”

“He came in during breakfast,” Sister Carey replied. “We had a cup of coffee and then he went up to the fourth floor with Michael and Steven.”

“So Mr. Madison was here by himself most of Saturday?”

“Except for the boys, yes.”

“How many kids are staying at New Way right now?” Burton asked.

Father Delucca took over. “Now that Jeff's gone back to his folks, we only have Michael and Steven on a regular basis. There are three more boys who come by when they need a meal and a clean bed, and don’t mind praying for it. We had ten or more regulars every day during the summer, plus drop ins. The kids head south at the end of fall.”

“Do you mind if I talk to Michael and Steven?”

“Not right away. They're minors so they're not supposed to talk to the police unless someone from Child Welfare is present.”

Burton smiled wryly, thinking the pimply, long-limbed youth hardly needed the protection of a City bureaucrat.

“I'd be very surprised if they didn't want a policewoman to do the interview, especially with Michael being fixated on sex the way he is.”

“Sounds like a normal teenager to me,” Burton joked.

Father Delucca walked with Burton to the front door. “I can’t say this in front of her. I expect you to treat it as confidential.”

“Certainly, unless it has a bearing on the case.”

“Mike’s nearly 12,” he said quietly. “He was sexually abused by his uncle since he was five, terribly used, the sort of things only the Devil would do. His parents kicked him out three months ago. He's a nice boy, except he’s constantly sexual. It can become quite difficult at times.”

“How does he get on with Mr. Madison?”

“John thinks a boy can do no wrong. He accepts them as they are. Not many people can do that. The boys adore him.”

“And Michael?” Burton prompted.

“He's closer to John than anyone else. Of course, John’s knows his background so he’s never alone with him.”

Burton walked along the porch.

“You need to understand that all our boys have sexual issues. All of them have served Moloch in one way or another.”

“You mean sex?”

“They do what they need to in order to survive. ‘Judge not that ye be not judged’, Matthew 7:1.”

The smell was strong, a brewing mix of factory smells, auto fumes, and the musty stench of old buildings. Burton hated the smell of the city. He faced Father Delucca.

“Do you ever do a background check on your volunteers?”

“They're good people, Detective. The people who help us are sent by the Lord. We take all the help we can get. Despite what everyone thinks, there are boys desperate for a man’s love. Even boys with a mom and a dad, living in nice homes in the suburbs.”

As if he’d been poked, Burton stumbled going down the stairs. He walked several paces before he realized the car was the other direction. When he turned, Father Delucca had closed the door. He was certain the priest had seen his face, and knew his twins were like that.

Harrison was listening to the police band. He turned down the radio volume as Burton got into the car. “Learn anything, Sir?”

“It's amazing how much a case can change with a little information.”

“You know who the kid was?” Harrison asked.

“I don't think who matters as much as what he was.”

Harrison backed out onto the street. “Where to?” he asked.

“Courthouse, and hurry. We have an hour before they close.”

Harrison accelerated and headed south. “What's so important?”

Burton smiled. “A search warrant for 3276 Hamilton Avenue. We’re going to take the place apart, brick by brick if we have to, Harrison.”

“First thing tomorrow, right?” Harrison said

“As soon as the judge signs off on the warrant, we're going up there. Right now would be best. There's no time to waste.”

“You think we missed something?” Harrison asked nervously.

“John Madison not only found the body, he owns the place. He’s also spending two days a month with the boys at New Way.”

Harrison grinned. “Sounds like a hell of a coincidence.”

“He was down here on Saturday. Just him and the boys. Another coincidence?”

“So he's the murderer, right?” Harrison asked.

“Maybe. There are a lot of coincidences all of a sudden,” Burton scratched the side of his head. “Would Madison kill the boy and then go to the trouble of finding the body on his own property? Why not just bury him? What's more, Madison isn't the type. He’s gay enough that he might have sex with a boy, but not the rest of it.”

“An accident?”

“You don’t accidently suffocate a kid.”

Burton sighed. “On the other hand, you never know. We have an opportunity for Madison to meet the boy, assuming he arrives at New Way sometime on Saturday morning. It wouldn't be too difficult for Madison to sneak him up to Hamilton Avenue sometime during the day.”

“Why?”

“If the kid went to New Way, there’s a good chance he was a hustler or queer. That’s their specialty, by the sound of it. Sexual orientation really isn't important. Maybe all Madison offered was friendship.”

Burton stared out the window. Any time now, he would get a text message from Jeff. He always sent a message from the school bus.

“Harrison, let’s assume the kid spent three days in Madison’s house. Where would he keep the kid?”

“It's a big house, Sir.”

“He’d need an out-of-the-way place, somewhere where the construction people wouldn't go. How well did you search the basement?”

“We were down there for quite a while. It was a mess. He's building bookshelves so there's sawdust over everything. There's a lot of stuff stored down there as well.”

“How about the attic?”

“There's nothing up there except a lot of dust and rafters.”

“The big problem with Madison being the murderer is he could’ve just covered it over. It might be fifty or sixty years before someone found it.”

“Maybe someone saw him,” Harrison suggested haphazardly. He started to chuckle. “Maybe he fell into the ditch by accident like he says.”

“It’s happened before. Something goes wrong and the murderer has to cover up his crime. The sooner we get up there and check his basement, the better.”

“Why the basement, Sir?” Harrison asked.

“According to his neighbors, the lights in the basement were on all night.”

Burton had his cellphone out when it beeped. It was from Jeff. This time there was a photo. It took a few moments for Burton to realize what it was Kyle’s middle, from the waist of his blue jeans to just below his crotch. Jeff’s next message made it clear.

‘fluffy bone’

There was a bump in the middle. Not a very large bump, yet it was in the right place and it pointed up. The next photo arrived. Different blue jeans because the button was metal and the bump was much bigger. Burton could actually make out the shape underneath faded blue denim.

He typed, ‘scruffy bone right’

‘hehe u want bare’

Burton inhaled. His finger tapped across the screen. ‘if safe’

The next photo took a minute to arrive. He held his cellphone as if trying to shield the screen from the sun. The beautiful little boner was in high definition, six megabytes with a Carl Zeiss lens. Hardly a smart thing to do. Burton had sweat on his face. He knew it was Kyle’s dick from the circumcision scar. With his shorter penis, it was much farther down the shaft than his brothers. The clincher was Kyle’s balls, like jelly beans clinging underneath.

‘nice view’ Burton typed.

He’d barely finished when the next photo arrived. Jeff had a boner and balls to be proud of. He’d taken his photo from a different angle so it didn’t look all that long, certainly not three-point-five very stiff inches. On a slender boy like Jeff, it was ample, if not oversized. Burton had to lick his lips. He needed to taste it. He hurriedly saved it and went back to text message mode.

‘u nice too’

‘u like’

‘very tasty u safe’

‘duh fluffy says luv u’

‘tell him I luv u too’

‘u boned’

Burton smirked, past caring about anything except his twins. And Janice thought they should be saints? If only she knew. He pecked at the keys. ‘duh u wait for me’

‘hehe bye dadster’

+++++

The desk clerk at the County Court shuffled forms while Burton fumed for five minutes. With only one judge in the building at 3:30pm, he had to wait nearly 40 minutes while phone calls were made. Another 12 minutes passed convincing a law clerk of the importance of the warrant. Finally, Burton entered the cherry-paneled chambers.

Judge Bowman sat in a high-backed leather chair. She met his eyes with a glare and took the form from her clerk. She read, tilted her head back, and half-closed her eyes.

“Detective Burton, I assume there is an emergency?”

“Yes, Your Honor. The body was discovered two days ago. I received information that implicates the owner of the property only a half-hour ago. The sooner I am able to....”

Judge Elisha Bowman was black, nearly 300 pounds, and interrupted everyone. “I'm turning down your request for a search warrant, Detective.”

“Your Honor, there’s evidence to believe that Mr. Madison is involved in the crime, and may even be the murderer.”

“There’s a remote supposition, not 'evidence', as you call it.”

“Your Honor, it’s possible Mr. Madison met the deceased on Saturday.”

“Conjecture is not probable cause, Detective.”

“Your Honor,” Burton began. “New Way is one of the few places where a runaway might go in this city. The timing is right if Madison met the boy sometime on Saturday.”

“New Way?” She frowned. “Detective Burton, you’ve been there today, tell me how many African American children are there right now.”

“I didn’t see any, You Honor.”

“How about girls? Did you see girls?”

“No, Your Honor.”

“So we have a Catholic shelter for little white boys? Doesn’t that sound like prejudice to you?”

“I don’t know, Your Honor. It could be a coincidence. They seem to specialize in sexually traumatized kids. There may be a disproportionate impact.”

“You’re a lawyer too?”

“No Your Honor. I believe there is a strong likelihood that John Madison is implicated in the murder.”

“Believe what you will, Detective! I see no probable cause. The property has already been searched once with the permission of the owner, I suggest you get his permission again.”

“And if he doesn’t agree?”

“I want you to listen to me, Detective Burton,” Judge Bowman leaned forward and picked up a pen. She pointed it at Burton. “A second search implies you screwed up the first search. Let me be clear about this. To get another chance at Madison, you need to specify the exact objects you are searching for and their relationship to the crime.”

“Your Honor, we will be looking for the clothing of a white male 148 centimeters high ,aged between ten and twelve.”

Judge Bowman’s expression hardened the longer she continued to lean on her elbows. “Don't get smart with me, Detective Burton.”

Burton took time to stem the surge of anger. He examined law books on the bookshelf beside him.

“Your Honor, for all we know, the murderer has already taken another child.”

That cinched it. Judge Bowman folded her hands, interlocking fingers and rubbing her thumbs together. She settled back in her leather chair.

“Why can't you get confirmation that Madison actually met the child at New Way?”

“Your Honor, I'm not able to interview the two boys who may have been witnesses.”

“And why is that?”

“They're minors, Your Honor. There has to be someone from Child Services at the interview to represent the child's interest. That'll take a day to set up and, we can't wait that long.”

“I understand, Detective. The problem is that there is no reason to believe that evidence would still be on the property.”

“Your Honor, while he's had time to remove evidence, there's still a chance if he thought we were finished with searching the place.”

That provoked an immediate change in the Judge's attitude. Again, she leaned forward.

“I find cause for a warrant to be issued, but your affidavit is totally unsatisfactory. It is vague about the locations to be searched and the items you're looking for. There are at least two spelling mistakes.”

“Thank you, and good afternoon, Your Honor.”

Burton stood up and left before his temper erupted.

Chapter 10.

At ten minutes past five Harrison parked in the driveway of 3276 Hamilton Avenue. For Burton, the 10 minute drive to 3276 Hamilton Avenue was not wasted. Cold logic replaced anger. Madison even possessed some of the elements of Hessler's pedophile profile. Still, it was difficult to think of Madison as a sociopath.

He walked across the grass to the front steps. The house exuded mystery, looming out the darkness like Count Dracula’s castle, or the Addams’ Family residence. A yellow glow came through the patterned lead-glass beside the front door. There was nothing else to suggest that Madison was inside. He pushed the button and then rapped on the door. Oak was hard enough to bruise his knuckles.

“No one's home,” Harrison volunteered, holding back a gleeful 'I-told-you-so'.

Burton hammered on the door. A moment later, John Madison opened the door, now dressed in paint-splattered blue overalls. He seemed surprised.

“Detective Burton, you’re back!”

Burton nodded. “Yes Sir. You have a good memory.”

“It's not the kind of thing one forgets easily,” Madison said dryly.

“If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a few more questions.”

“Of course. I can probably do a better job answering. I was pretty shaken up before. Why don't you come inside?” Madison replied.

He stepped back and closed the door after Burton and Harrison. The glass-crystal chandelier that had previously caught Burton's attention, had disappeared. The paint cloth had been moved from the dining room into the hall and two stepladders were close to the far wall.

“We've been trying to identify the boy,” Burton said. “He's probably a runaway. Stray kids mostly stay downtown. They either sell drugs or hustle, or they end up at a shelter. This afternoon we went to New Way.” Burton watched Madison closely.

Madison seemed slightly nervous. “Then you know I help out there. Actually, I was working there last Saturday. Father DeLucca left early to drive to Cincinnati with his Saints’ boys.”

“Father Delucca said you also help with fund-raising.”

“I help out when I can.” Madison looked down at the crumpled cloth on the floor. “You're here because you think I killed him.”

“Did you?”

Madison met Burton’s eyes with such intensity that his emphatic, “No,” was moot.

“What were you doing at New Way on Saturday?”

“Fixing up the bedrooms on the top floor. Next summer they’ll have up to 16 kids sleeping up there when the Saints boys stay over.”

It wasn't what was said as much as how Madison said it that interested Burton. If he was lying, he was an excellent actor.

“The boy was at New Way on Saturday,” Burton said.

Madison's expression changed slightly. “I didn't see him.”

“When did you get there?”

“About seven-thirty or eight.”

“You were working with Michael and Steven, I understand?”

“Yes. They were the only boys there. Three younger boys were on the bus trip. Another kid helped me the week before, but I heard his parents took him home.”

“You volunteered two weeks in a row?”

“Father DeLucca asked me to so he could take the boys to Cincinnati.”

“You were with Steven and Michael the entire time?”

“Not the entire time. I had coffee with Sister Carey before she left. Steve, he's the oldest boy, helped carry my tools in. I don't remember what Mike was doing that early. I know he helped us get the drywall out of the garage. He stayed around most of the day, not a lot of help, but he tries hard.”

“I heard he can be difficult at times?”

Madison signed. ‘’Mike has problems. I expect they told you he’s very sexual. Not with girls though, which is probably a good thing considering. I’m gay, so I have to be very careful.”

“He comes onto you?”

“He flirts nonstop. I tell him I’m married to my childhood sweetheart. It pisses him off, but he stops for a while.”

“Both boys were with you the rest of the day?” Burton said, thinking the gay lifestyle all very strange.

“I sent Steve to buy some more drywall screws when we ran out. It was right before lunch. He was gone an hour.”

“You were alone with Michael?”

“It wasn’t the smartest move on my part. He took off his pants and masturbated. I ignored him. He got a bit upset and went off for some personal therapy for a while. He does it more than I ever did.”

Burton smiled. “My twins just started. I told them to do it where their mom won’t see them.”

Madison shrugged. “We’re supposed to tell Mike he should do it in private. Except it’s not a good idea. I know it sounds weird, but given what he’s like, he’s probably safer if someone keeps an eye on him.”

“Meaning what exactly?”

“Kids today, with the Internet and everything, they get involved in weird stuff. Instant messaging, texting, selfies. God only knows what he does in private.”

Burton hadn’t thought the twins might be doing things like that. For the last three months they’d had a computer in their bedroom with Internet access. He hadn’t gotten around to installing software to restrict access to unsafe places. Knowing how smart Kyle was, it probably wouldn’t stop him anyway. He was the computer whiz in the family.

“I find if I ignore him, he gets frustrated; however, he gets over it quickly,” Madison went on. “He’s supposed to be mildly retarded. Frankly, I think he’s mentally lazy.”

“That would be my son, Jeff. Basically, he's a good kid who’s easily bored. He doesn’t try all that hard at school.”

“Michael too, except he has the sex urge of an eighteen-year-old.”

Burton nodded. The sex urge comment applied to the twins, though it was still developing. Jeff was especially open about it. Kyle was right on his heels, but more clandestine--he kept his urges bottled up inside him.

“When was the boy at New Way?” Madison asked awkwardly.

Burton looked back at him. If Madison was trying to hide his interest, he could not have done a worse job.

“What did you do after lunch?” Burton watched Madison closely.

“We finished putting up the drywall.”

“Both boys were with you for the rest of the afternoon, is that correct?”

Madison hesitated. “Not exactly. Mike was there when he wasn’t masturbating. Even when he was there, he wasn't, if you know what I mean.”

“No I don't. Was he with you or not?”

“Sometimes he's just like a normal kid. At other times, he's so distant he could be in another world. When he's like that there's nothing I can do to help him. Father Delucca thinks it’s because he remembers the sexual abuse he went through.”

“What time did you leave New Way, Mr. Madison?”

“It was around five o'clock. I waited for the Greenways before I left. They were supposed to be at New Way at 2:00pm on Saturday, only they didn't make it because...”

Madison stopped mid-sentence. His eyes flickered, very aware that Burton was studying his every movement closely.

“Yes?” Burton prompted as if nothing was amiss.

“You know I was at New Way by myself on Saturday. You think I met the boy there and brought him back here. I never saw the boy before,” Madison leaned against the stairs, his hand gripping the dark wood orb of the newel post.

Burton moved closer. “Did you meet him after you finished at New Way?”

“No! I never saw him before... before I fell on him.” Madison paled. “He wasn't at New Way while I was there on Saturday.”

“Are you sure? You were on the top floor most of the time, weren’t you?”

“Yes. The boys might’ve seen him, I suppose. I didn’t.” His hand tightened on the orb until his fingers whitened. “I don't believe this is happening. I have never seen him before, at New Way or anywhere else,” he said loudly.

“One more question. How did you get involved with New Way?”

“Father Delucca and I have a friend in common. He thought I could contribute so I applied through the University’s Helping Communities Program about four months ago”

It seemed innocent enough to Burton. “Mr. Madison, I'd like to search the house again, if you don't mind.”

“Search the house?” Madison repeated slowly. He looked at Harrison. “He already did that on Tuesday.”

“I might’ve missed something,” Harrison said.

“In that case… If you have to search my house again so that you believe I didn't kill the boy, then please go ahead.”

Burton took a folded paper from his jacket pocket and held it out.

“Search away, Detective. Do you mind if I keep on working in the basement?”

“What are you working on down there?” Burton asked.

“I'm building bookcases for the library.”

“We’ll search the basement first so you can keep working while we do the rest of the house.”

“The basement's a mess. I should tidy up before you go down there. I've been sanding, you see.”

“That's not necessary, Mr. Madison. We won't mind the mess.”

Madison's offer to tidy up intrigued him. Maybe the man was as naive and innocent as he appeared. Maybe he was a highly intelligent murderer playing mind games.

“Mr. Madison, Officer Harrison will stay up here with you will I look downstairs.”

Harrison pointed to into the dining room. “Basement stairs are off the kitchen, Sir.”

Burton descended the recently rebuilt stairs. At the bottom of the stairs, was a temporary work room. The signs of carpentry were all around. A bench was set up next to the wall with the only window. Nearly finished components of a bookcase were placed on the bench and several bookcases were assembled and waiting for varnish. Sawdust and wood shavings covered the floor in a thick carpet.

It would be difficult to find anything without a lengthy search. He resigned himself to the task after he had called to Harrison to bring Madison down to the basement. It was more than one person could do in a single evening.

“Harrison, I want you to start in the far corner with the broom and sweep all of the stuff up once you've sifted through it. Do it in squares, about a yard at a time. And you, Mr. Madison, I'd like you to sit on the stairs and not move from there. As soon as we've finished you can go back to work.”

He began with a cursory look through the cardboard boxes next to the bench. They contained cans of varnish, glue, and sandpaper. Another box contained power tools, two different kinds of sanders, a planer, and a drill.

Harrison scooped his hands wood shavings. After every square he stretched his legs and dusted off his hands. ”You enjoy making stuff?”

Madison smiled. “I spend my days solving equations. Working with my hands is therapeutic.”

Harrison inspected the bookcase nearest to him. “Cherry, isn't it?”

“Beautiful to look at, but a bitch to work with because it burns so easily.”

Harrison brushed his hand across the distinctive red-grained wood. “You must’ve been sanding this for ages.”

“Harrison, how is the floor going?” Burton interrupted.

Harrison squatted again, raking his fingers through wood curls and chips before he pushed them into a pile. When he finished, all he had to show were a few loose screws.

Madison smiled. “I wasn't looking forward to cleaning up, and now it looks as though I won't have to.”

Burton finished searching the metal frame shelving on the opposite wall. He looked around. A narrow passage led into the dark recesses of the basement. It would take several hours just for the basement. Next, he turned his attention to the room on the other side of the stairs. The door was solid oak, two inches thick, patterned with rectangular panels that suggested it came from one of the rooms above.

“Used to be the laundry,” Madison said as Burton tried the knob.

“Why is it locked?”

“It's a wine cellar. The key’s over the frame.”

Inside, were cardboard boxes stacked three high. He opened one box and examined a bottle, a family name, Cotes du Rhone, 1998 vintage. He replaced the bottle and turned to look at the shelving racks. Like the shelving in the other room, it was secured to the wall. He stooped to examine the lower shelves. The bottom shelf was three inches above the floor. He knelt down and pulled the flashlight from his jacket pocket.

“Damn!” He had to chuckle at the black candle in his hand instead of a flashlight. At least it wasn’t still at body temperature. Funny to think that only a few hours early it was stuffed inside a little boy’s rectum.

He felt around under the shelving, oblivious to the dust. With some difficulty he pulled out several paper towels crumpled into balls. He felt under the shelving again, this time placing lying on the floor to improve his reach.

Something was wedged between the leg of the shelving and the corner of the room. He retrieved it carefully, unrolling a dirty white sock with grubby fingers. He stretched it out until it was flat. It was a child's soccer sock, about the same size as the socks that Jeff and Kyle wore. The similarity to the sock that the boy had worn to his grave was enough to cause a big surge of adrenaline.

Burton stood up, placed the sock in a plastic evidence bag, and looked around the room. Was it possible that the boy had been kept in this very room? If so, then there should be signs of his occupation, remnants of last meals, and of what had been done to him.

He looked around the cellar, his gaze stopping on the boxes of wine. He moved one stack of boxes to the side. The floor under the box was cleaner than the adjoining floor. He squatted and picked up one of the paper towels. He unfolded it. There was a yellow smear and several blotches that looked like mustard and ketchup. Carefully he placed the towels in an evidence bag. He continued to search, examining every nook and cranny. There was nothing else. If the cellar had been the boy's prison, Madison had methodically cleaned it.

He searched the other rooms in the basement. The laundry also had been recently cleaned. With few exceptions, dust covered every surface in the old house. Stirred up by the renovation, the dust had an unpleasant stale smell.

“I'm going to have our Forensics Department come by in the morning and finish the job,” Burton said when he returned to the work room. He glanced at Harrison and nodded slightly.

“So, I'm still a suspect.” Madison stood up. “What did you find?”

“It's getting late that's all.”

Madison shrugged.

“I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but I'm going to ask you to leave now. Forensics should be here first thing in the morning and I don't want anything disturbed. I hope you don't mind.”

Still standing on the second step, Madison he slowly shook his head. “I can only tell you I never saw the boy before.”

“This is standard procedure. Leave no stone unturned.”

“I’m not a murderer,” Madison said weakly.

“I didn’t say you were,” Burton said tiredly. “Harrison, somewhere in the trunk is a box labeled ‘crime-scene security’. I need a couple of seals.”

It was impossible to tell anything beyond Madison’s facade of disbelief. Only the man's eyes moved, not a furtive movement, though his eyes avoided Burton's.

As soon as Harrison reached the top of the stairs, Burton said, “Tell me what happened at New Way.”

“What? For God's sake, nothing happened. I didn't touch Mike. He tried, but he always does. I always ignore him when he’s like that.”

“It’s happened before?”

Madison nodded. “I understand what he’s going through. I started young. I was sexually active when I was nine. I came out when I started high school. I stopped in college, and haven’t since. Before you ask, I could never do what they said on the news tonight.”

“What about the news?”

“They said he was kept a prisoner for several days before he was killed, and that he'd been terribly abused.”

Burton shook his head is dismay. Once the TV knew the facts, there was no stopping them. Reporters from across the country would descend like vultures.

He was startled as he looked past the man standing before him. On the window ledge was a roll of silver-grey duct tape.

He wondered why he hadn’t noticed it before. He reached to pick it up before he remembered the shiny surface of the duct tape could retain fingerprints. He lifted it up gingerly with a plastic evidence bag and then turned back to Madison.

“You use this for building bookcases, Mr. Madison?”

“It's duct tape. For ducts, Detective. I had central-air installed last month. I expect there are a few rolls lying around.”

“I'm sure there are,” Burton replied. He started to walk back across the room.

Burton stopped in front of Madison and carefully pulled the plastic bag over the roll of tape.

“Tape was used on him, wasn't it?” Madison asked softly.

“Yes.”

“I didn't do it,” Madison said. “After I found him, I had this feeling I had done something wrong.”

His voice was low, barely a murmur, yet Burton focused on every word. He wasn’t sure he heard what he thought he heard.

“It's not unusual for a person to have those kind of feelings after what you've been through. I know it was a shock to you when you discovered the body.”

“I keep seeing him,” Madison said quietly. “His face, you understand?” He swallowed. “His eyes were so sad.”

“You thought he was still alive,” Burton prompted. “But he was cold, wasn't he?”

Madison shrugged and gestured vaguely. “He wasn't that cold,” he said bleakly. “At least he didn't feel very cold when I touched him.”

“Mr. Madison, I'll like to meet you here tomorrow morning at 8:00 am. Our Forensic Department will need most of the morning, I expect. You'll have put off anyone you have working here until after lunch. I'm sorry, but it can't be helped.”

They went up the stairs and into the kitchen just as Harrison returned with the seals.

Chapter 11.

“I see you signed me up to work at New Way this Saturday,” Burton said. He made a point of sounding normal.

“Service is a *family* commitment, Kevin!”

He didn’t think he’d sounded confrontational. He thought about saying, ‘I don’t go to your church.’ “No need to be snarky, Janice.”

She shook her head, prim and middle-aged, and self-righteous; she wasn’t the woman Burton married.

“It’s very likely I’ll be working this weekend. Besides, Jeff has a soccer game on Saturday.”

“You always have an excuse, don’t you?” She shoved plates into the dishwasher and slammed it shut. “I’ll take him. You can work on Sunday. You never go to Church!”

“Janice, I’m not Catholic.”

“Well I am! And the twins too.”

“We agreed they’d decide for themselves when they turned 12.”

“I want my children to share my faith."

“I agreed to having them circumcised and baptized because you’d said you'd never pressure me or them to become Catholic.”

“It’s nothing to do with being Catholic. Jesus was circumcised!”

Burton stared at her, wondering when the Virgin Mary had taken possession. “And cutting the end off a boy’s penis is important, why?”

“A Christian boy should be circumcised.”

“So he looks like Jesus?”

“If you went to Church, you’d know that cleanliness is next to Godliness!”

“I’d rather my sons look like me.”

“And I’d rather they didn’t smell like rotten cheese!”



“What on earth brought this on?”

“You really don’t understand, do you? I've already talked to Father Delucca about the catechumenate. He wants them to start Confirmation classes this Sunday."

"Christ!"

If you had my faith in Jesus," she lowered her voice and her eyes, "you wouldn't be impotent. And, you wouldn't have to resort to blaspheming!"

"I’m not impotent.”

“I pray my sons don’t share your filthy habit!”

“WHAT?”

“You masturbate when you think I’m asleep.”

“Big deal, so I jerk off sometimes.”

“More than sometimes. I used to wonder why we used so much olive oil. Now, I know!”

“Janice, why… why are you going on like this?”

“I know why you’re impotent with me.”

“Why?”

“You're lucky the twins haven't noticed."

"Noticed what?"

"You get erections all the time with *them*."

"Oh my God! You're crazy! You really think I get erections because of the twins?"

"Well, don't you?"

“Of course not.”

“I’ve seen you. Lying on the couch, pretending you’re having sex with them.”

What would she bring up next? Wrestling? If the boys were shirtless, it was guaranteed to give him an erection; them too. If they were just wearing underpants, he’d grope their private parts and pretend it was an accident. So far, Janice hadn’t seen that. And then there was going into the twin’s bathroom when they were showering? Supposedly, he was making sure they brushed their teeth before bed. Instead, he dried them off, toweling their naked little bodies vigorously and tickling anything that got in the way. Again, she hadn’t seen that either, though she made snide comments about him taking too long upstairs.

“They like to cuddle when they’re watching TV,” he said camly.

“Is that what you call it when you rub against their bottoms?”

“I can’t help it that they don’t want to cuddle with you.” He skipped conflict avoidance training, which was mandatory after the Ferguson riots.

“I hg them every morning before school. I don’t stick my hand down the back of their pants.”

“They’re boys, Janice. Wedgies are a fact of life.”

Janice looked heavenward. “Forgive him, Lord. He prefers to ignore how The Beast fouls his body with sinful thoughts.”

“Janice, really; I think you need help.”

“No, you need help.” She pointed at him. “You’re depraved. I’ve seen you lusting after your own flesh and blood. I don‘t want you touching their beautiful little bodies again. Keep your disgusting hands to yourself.”

Burton sighed. He was too tired to argue. The problem was she was right. He needed to paw them. It didn’t matter whether it was butts, bellies, legs, or feet. Just thinking about it made him hot all over, like a raging fire that burned deep down inside him. Perhaps there was a beast inside him.

“I have too much work to talk about this now.”

“And I have a fundraising meeting at New Way. “

“Another one?”

“Father Delucca wants me to chair the Spring Fete Committee.”

“Father Delucca. I thought, Father What’s-his-name is in charge at St. Paul’s?”

“Father Braunstein has gone to the Vatican.”

“He’s having a private audience with the Pope?” He made it sound laughable.

“If you must know, he’s taking part in a special training program on how to root out pedophiles.” She glared at him, as much as saying, ‘men like you.’

Burton stomped off, muttering ‘bitch’ under his breath and shaking his head. ‘Pedophile’ was a dagger in his back. Surely, she could see him squirming?

Post-shower, the twins were in the living room, sprawled on the couch and watching Nickelodeon. If there was a training program to teach boys how to attract pedophiles, they’d surely passed with flying colors. They wore their pajama pants, no shirts but bathrobes open in front. Burton could see their tight little tummies. They scooted to the ends of the couch, leaving him in the middle. As soon as he sat down, Kyle flopped over, his head in his father’s lap.

Kyle tilted his head back and said, “I getting a headache, Daddy.”

“Lie still and I’ll see if I can make it go away,” Burton said.

The urge to kiss his son on his beautiful full lips roared from inside him. Instead, he gently ran his hand through Kyle’s still-damp hair. He couldn’t be certain, but Kyle’s eyebrows seemed thinner than ever. He looked like a girl with short hair.

Jeff wasn’t about to let his twin get away with it. “Now isn’t a good time, Fluff.”

“Mom’s in the kitchen. Anyway, you always hog him!”

Jeff made a pig-snort with a snout to match, and shifted back, placing his bare feet on his father’s thigh, next to Kyle’s head. They were fresh from the shower, yet Kyle shoved them away. Something was going on with the twins. They almost never fought. In fact, Burton couldn’t remember the last time.

Burton stroked his son’s wavy hair. It was much longer than Jeff’s, almost too long because it hung in his eyes. He brushed it back and caressed Kyle’s smooth forehead. Kyle closed his eyes. Dreamily, he stroked his son’s cheek, drifting back to his delicate ear, to the curly hair behind his ears.

“You’re turning him into a fairy,” Janice said from the hall.

Burton let out a groan. Before he could say Kyle had a headache and he was just trying to soothe him, Jeff erupted in giggles.

“He’s Stinker Bell, Mom! Or Tinker Smell, take your pick!”

“At least I’m not an elf, like you!” Kyle shot back. “Anyway, fairies are cool. It’s pixies that cause their parents problems.”

“And elves,” Burton added, making a half-hearted attempt to keep Jeff from diving across the couch like he was in the finals of the 50 yard freestyle.

Jeff landed half-over his father, half-over Kyle, both little robes shoved past their shoulders. His twins wrestled, grinding their fronts together, both bare-to-the-waist. With Jeff the stronger twin, Kyle begged for help from his father.

Seeing the twins out of control always annoyed Janice. She glared at Burton. “Don’t touch him, or Kyle!”

At the time, Burton was making an Apache war drum out of Jeff’s little butt, much to Kyle’s delight. He laughed at her, and slapped even harder. She turned and left, slamming the front door behind her.

“Holy heart failure, what brought that on?” Jeff said, looking as angry as his father had ever seen him.

“It’s got to be dirty, Scruff.”

Jeff skewed around to make sure she was gone. “Holy banana-shaped anatomy.”

“Holy crack up!” Kyle cackled.

Burton hadn’t heard this game before. He got ‘Holy Cock’, and rightly assumed ‘Crack Up’ was the other half of preteen innuendo because of how Kyle said it. With ‘cock’ ‘up crack’, it was time to intervene.

“Okay, that’s enough, guys.”

“She’s getting worse, Dad,” Jeff complained, making himself comfortable on Kyle’s end of the couch, his toes probing his twin-brother’s ears. “She keeps asking if you touch me.” He glanced at his middle to make ‘where’ clear.

Burton knew she’d bring the subject up with the twins eventually; it was just a lot sooner than he expected.

“She’s always looking at our computer,” Kyle said. “Like we don’t know how to clear the cache on a browser.”

Jeff added a snicker. “We never save anything except stuff for school.”

It was all Burton needed to hear to know the twins were looking at websites they probably shouldn’t be visiting, at least while he wasn’t there to supervise. He wasn’t happy. “She’s off her meds, guys.”

The boys looked at each other.

“It’s no joke, Dad,” Jeff muttered.

“Okay. Out with it.”

“She said she’s taking us to see some priest, Father Delucca, I think his name is.”

“He’s the person who runs that Saints program she wants me to apply to,” Kyle said.

It was the first Burton had heard mention of it. Maybe she’d told him and he hadn’t been paying attention. Given what little he knew from the ‘Saints’ poster at New Way, he thought Jeff would be more likely accepted. He was a born leader. Kyle wasn’t a leader, or a follower. He was a free spirit.

“You know what she wants you to see him about?” Burton had a uncomfortable feeling.

“You.”

“When we got home from school she wanted to know the last time I saw you without your clothes on,” Kyle added.

“Damn! What did you say?”

“I told her it was this morning, when you cummed on my tummy.”

Burton played along. “You what!”

“Sheesh, Dad, I’m not a dummy. I told her it was at the YMCA last summer, because you didn’t want us in the showers by ourselves.”

“Good answer, Fluffy.” Burton playfully hauled Kyle onto him. “Now, I won’t have to tickle you.”

“Dad, be serious, will you!” Jeff folded his arms. “Kyle and me decided to take turns with you. If one of us is playing with you, the other has to keep watch.”

Burton reddened at the implication of taking turns with the twins, one watching, the other enjoying.

“I’m first,” Kyle said, nestling on his dad’s unshaven chin.

“Hm, so you’re first to be tickled.” Burton groped under Kyle’s skinny arms while he smooched the top of his head. “You’re so cute when you giggle.”

Suddenly, Kyle grabbed his father’s hand and dragged it down to his pajama pants, shoving it under the elasticized waist. Burton looked on, amazed that a boy could be so uninhibited, so clear about what he wanted. Kyle didn’t stop shoving until his father’s hand clasped his very stiff penis.

After a playful squeeze, Burton gently stroked the hot little erection. Unlike his twin, Kyle’s penis was stretched taut. It made him wonder whether the doctor took the same amount of foreskin from both boys, even though Kyle’s penis was a third shorter than Jeff’s. When he felt Kyle flex back, he squished the little glans. Holding his son’s penis between his thumb and first finger, his other fingers scooped up loose, sweaty moist skin. He found his son’s testes and rolled them gently.

“Rub it, Dad,” Kyle murmured.

Burton inhaled. As much as he wanted to, he wasn’t at all sure it was a good idea. A quick glance sideways confirmed Jeff was watching him molest his brother. He couldn’t resist. What was the harm? They were ready.

With his thumb hooked over the waistband of Kyle’s pajama pants, he pulled them down far enough that they didn’t get in the way. It didn’t seem to bother Kyle that Jeff could see, so why should it bother him? They were farther along than he ever dreamed possible. He began to masturbate the little penis with unhurried strokes, intending only to make Kyle feel good.

Was it even possible for a boy’s penis to become so stiff that it felt like rubbing a little wooden peg? Kyle’s eyes closed in dreamy delight. His smile was enough to make Burton happy. He caressed very lightly, as if he still remembered how tender a young boy’s penis was. Kyle’s smile grew bigger.

“If you want to make him cum, you have to hold it tighter, Dad,” Jeff said knowingly.

Burton smirked back at him, amused by collusion. Clearly, the twins were collaborating. They’d probably planned who would do what. He was the lamb being sacrificed to the benevolent boy-god, who at that very moment was flexing his penis, making it pulse, so hot and alive under Burton’s strong hand.

He tightened his grip until he could feel rippling inside the fleshy little tube. Up and down, still slow, still keeping his finger tip away from the excitable glans, his other fingers lovingly massaging Kyle’s little balls.

Kyle twitched and sighed.

“He likes it fast,” Jeff pointed out.

“Who’s masturbating this boy?” Burton rebuked.

Jeff cackled. “Fast, Dad, or you be doing it forever.”

Burton laughed too. It was all so unbelievable. Only minutes earlier, Janice was going on about Sin. Now, not only was he masturbating Kyle, but he had an erection of his own that wouldn’t go away until he climaxed. It didn’t seem to bother Kyle, not when he had the side of his head burrowed into hard flesh, nuzzling with his cheek as if he knew what his father wanted and he was still too shy to open his zipper and do it.

Burton felt Kyle’s penis become hotter, and a tiny bit thicker. Now the skin was inflexible, the stubborn shaft so stiff he thought it might rupture, yet he rubbed faster, jerking it with each flick of his wrist. He was thinking about increasing the speed to see if Jeff was right, when Kyle’s hand clasped his and stopped him from rubbing. The last thing he expected was what Kyle did next. He brought his father’s hand to his lips. He kissed his dad’s fingers, tonguing them playfully before he emptied his mouth of saliva, clear, thin boy-spit.

With his mind in a whir, Burton reached down again. This time, Kyle’s penis was slippery and his finger and thumb glided up and down. Effortlessly. Quickly. Tantalizingly. Hotly. Nerves firing off a fusillade of spontaneous twitches. The difference was mind-boggling.

“Fluff likes it more when I use olive oil. You want me to get some, Dad,” Jeff offered.

Burton had trouble believing his ears. Somehow, he shook his head. When his fingers began to dry, he used his own spit, thicker and slipperier than Kyle’s. He pummeled the little sex organ into submission, gleefully watching his son’s hands clench into fists, his bare feet twitching and curling his toes. Kyle nuzzled harder, shamelessly shoving his cheek against his father’s hard bulge, taking quick shallow breaths as orgasm reared up from his loins.

Kyle peaked in a shuddering rush, his erection pulsing rapidly, doing its best to spit seed, yet earning an ‘F’, his only grade ever to fall below ‘B+’. Not a single droplet oozed out, not even a moist smear. He groaned and shuddered all the same, his eyes wide, his face lit up with a glow from deep inside.

Burton smiled. He’d felt his son’s penis twitching, and that was more than enough to last a lifetime. All he had from six minutes of masturbation was a near-heart-attack and a throbbing erection, so hard it was ready to burst.

Kyle rolled onto his back and looked up at his dad. It was hard to believe that his penis was still convulsing, still rock-hard, and now it was reddish pink all over.

“He’s alive!” he giggled.

Burton smiled back at him.

Kyle cupped his groin, pretending to be embarrassed by his still aroused condition. After a moment, he let his glans peek out from under. It might’ve been gasping for air.

Burton was sure it was swollen. “Was that awesome or what?” he teased.

“You were okay for your first time. I’ll teach you how to do it properly next time,” Kyle snickered.

He smiled down at his son. “Next time, I’ll give you one you’ll never forget.”

“You promise,” Kyle giggled. He lifted his butt off the sofa and tugged his pajama pants back into position

“Now do me,” Jeff demanded. His pajama pants were already at his knees.

So much for standing guard. He had watched the entire time.

“Upstairs and in bed, both of you,” Burton said, exerting parental authority.

+++++

Before he followed the twins upstairs, Burton locked the front and back doors. He figured if one of the twins kept watch from the window he’d have a minute of warning if she parked in the driveway, two minutes if she parked in the garage. If she parked down the street and walked in the shadows all the way to the front door, he’d have 30 seconds from the time she unlocked the front door to make himself presentable. Like a murder investigation, timing was crucial.

He was pondering timing at 3276 Hamilton Street when he arrived at the door to the twins’ bedroom. It resembled a tornado zone, one half tidy, the other destroyed. He switched off the halogen spotlights he’d installed over their trophy collection. He sat on Kyle’s bunk-bed, opposite disaster.

Still in a quandary of lust and disgust, he fondled Kyle’s curly hair. “You okay with what happened downstairs, Fluffy?”

Kyle smiled. He seemed drowsy, as if orgasm had sucked out his energy. “Mmmhmmm.”

“You worried about what it means?” Burton didn’t mean to be so obvious about it.

“I’m okay with being gay, Dad. I liked it. Didn’t you?”

If he wasn’t sitting down, he wouldn’t taken a step back. “You know, what we did on the couch, it’s not a bad thing. Every boy masturbates. Eventually, he’ll do it with someone else, maybe someone who’s older. There’s nothing wrong with it. It’s just something we need to keep private.”

“I can keep secrets, Dad.” Kyle took hold of his father’s huge hand, playfully tugging on each finger to hear his knuckles crack.

“Me too,” Jeff added from across the room.

“We all have secrets, guys. We learn to keep them bottled up inside us. Sometimes, they escape and things happen that normally wouldn’t,” Burton said quietly.

Kyle looked up at him, unblinking. Burton couldn’t remember him so serious.

He tried again. “How to put this…”

“It’s okay, Dad. We kind of know already,” Kyle said softly.

“My secret is I love you guys more than I should.” Burton hesitated. After a deep breath, he added, “Do you know what I mean by that?”

“You want to have sex with us,” Jeff murmured.

“That’s part of it.” Burton looked for a better way to say it. “I love you so much that I need to touch you, especially down there.”

Kyle grinned ‘I told you so’ at his twin brother. Jeff nodded as if he had it all figured out.

“Some men love guys instead of women.” Burton nearly ‘boys’ instead of ‘guys.’ “I know it sounds weird.”

“Not if you’re gay.” Kyle was right on the verge of revealing himself.

“If I am, it’s not the end of the world.” Burton smiled and stroked his son’s little ear, fluffing up silky curls. “Some men love boys.” There, he’d said it. There was one more step. He took another breath. “I’m in love with you guys.”

“We love you too, Dad,” Jeff said with far more seriousness than was normal for him.

Kyle just nodded, still unblinking. He had such beautiful eyes that Burton wanted to lean down and kiss them. And his lips. They were thicker and redder than his brother. Kyle had Cupid’s lips.

“You need to be very careful around your mom,” Burton said, anything to change the subject now that he’d brought it up.

His other hand strayed onto Kyle’s bare chest, warm and soft, yet bone and muscle underneath. His thumb brushed a dimpled nipple, scratching lightly. It firmed in seconds, a pinprick compared to Janice’s bulging teats. There had been a time when he watched her breastfeed the twins. Even then, Jeff was more aggressive.

“She hasn’t caught me and Fluff yet.”

Burton barely heard him. Kyle’s nipple was so tiny, it almost wasn’t there. His belly button was the same way; just a dimple.

“At your age, it’s fun when someone plays with your dick.”

He wondered how far the twins had gone by themselves. He was sure they sucked, or at least Kyle did. He had the lips for it.

“No one’s ever going to know you play with us, Dad,” Kyle said, catching his father’s hand on its way under his pajama pants.

Burton’s hand kept going, past Kyle’s belly button. Just another inch would be enough.

“So you like corn-holing little boys, huh Dad?” Jeff asked, doing his best not to break into giggles.

Immediately, Burton stopped trying for that last inch. “You guys are craz-zy…” He even shook his head as he tried to make light of it, at the same time thinking, ‘just you.’

Kyle, who was almost ready to give up trying to reverse his father’s hand, turned on his brother. “Don’t make him sound like a pedo, ass-hole.”

“Whoa Scruff! I’m in tease mode, that’s all. Dad knows I’m joking.”

In a moment, Burton’s fingers went the rest of the way. He grasped a hot, hard, little cock and squeezed, the kind of squeeze a man gives a boy when he’s horny.

“After that incredible cum I gave you downstairs, you’ve still got a stiff?”

“It was okay, Dad. You got the basics, but you need to practice for a while, that’s all.”

“He dry-cummed, so it stays hard. Unlike yours,” Jeff added.

Burton stroked the stubborn shaft, still entranced by its smoothness. It was still as soft as when Kyle was a baby. “How do you guys know about stuff like that?”

“What do you think we do on the computer?”

Burton wasn’t about to ask what else the twins learned on the Internet. “Just don’t let your mom see you. And if you mess around, make sure she’s not going to catch you.”

“We’re always careful, Dad. What about you and us? We can do stuff with you, right, if she’s out of the way?” Jeff asked.

Burton rubbed the tiny acorn on the tip. “Only if we’re certain she can’t surprise us.”

“That’s so easy to arange, Dad, a kid can do it,” Kyle said, digging in his father’s pants’ pocket.

He retrieved Burton’s cellphone, and brought up the menu.

Burton stopped playing, cupping his hand over Kyle’s privates. “What on earth…?”

Kyle pressed keys in total control. He smirked at his father. “I’m putting the intruder alarm on silent so your phone will buzz.” Still smirking, he added. “It’s his turn now, only you have to leave the lights on so I can see.”

Burton gave a final squeeze and a loving caress of Kyle’s taut little tummy before standing up. Three steps took him from order to chaos. Jeff’s giggle brought him back to earth.

“Get nude, Dad.”

He was about to say that wasn’t a good idea, but he’d been nude with Kyle that very morning, and she was in the house. His heart was beating so fast he thought he might have a heart attack before he finished undressing. Just when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, Jeff shoved back his comforter.

Burton gaped. He couldn’t remember when he’d last seen Jeff totally naked. Shooting hoops didn’t count. It was wonderful and exciting and awe-inspiring, yet it was too dark to really see. Nothing could be more magnificent than a prepubescent boy, he decided. He tried to fix the image in his mind, thinking it might never happen again. It was like looking at… a boy god. He was different to Kyle. Both boys were hairless, yet Jeff looked more masculine, a year or two older, even though he arrived only five minutes before him. It wasn’t just his noticeably bigger dick and balls, although that was part of it. He had soccer thighs, and his arms were thick enough to hit home runs. His belly was flat and firm, which was what happened to a boy when he did 100 sit-ups every morning.

“You sure, Scruff?” Burton said quietly.

He had to say something, but he wasn’t sure what it was. Anything to take the edge off his urge. He felt like a pervert, staring, licking his lips, falling head-over-heels in love with his son. Even worse, his engorged cock was like a truncheon, drooling wet on the tip.

“Now that there’s an extra wide ass-pleaser,” Jeff chortled. He was always the clown, the prankster, born to entertain.

“I love you,” Burton added awkwardly as his other son’s giggle went on and on.

Jeff reached out and tugged on his hand, pulling him down onto his bed. He wriggled back to make room for his father to stretch out. Burton reached out for his son, hauling him on top for what he expected would be a quick hug. Jeff’s erection jabbed his thigh, then his belly, then ground into his crotch. It wasn’t quick, and it definitely wasn’t a hug. Jeff was humping him, urgently thrusting his little pelvis, bucking against his father’s nude body.

Burton felt his son’s frantic hot breath on his chest, little fingers scraping at his chest hair, surprisingly strong fingers groping his cock, unfazed by the extra skin or the strong smell.

“Slow down a bit,” Burton said, not quite pleading.

Jeff’s grasp tightened, his little fist already in motion on his father’s thick erection, playful squeezes turned into erratic jerks, turned into rhythmic up and down stroking, his father’s foreskin now a slippery advantage.

A quick glance to the side confirmed Kyle was watching intently. He actually smiled at his father and nodded encouragingly. Emboldened, Burton rolled Jeff to the side and pinned him there with one leg over his son’s little body. It was his turn to reach down. Jeff’s penis pulsed between his fingers. It was small, but it came attached to a powerful little fucking machine.

“Yeahhhh. Rub it, Dad.”

Jeff was putty in his hands. Burton caressed with his fingertips, drawing them slowly up and down, feeling the rippling veins underneath, firm erectile tissue, the spongy urethra. There was more skin than on Kyle’s penis, and he used all of it. He watched Jeff react, his nostrils flaring with each fractured breath, his cheeks rosy with first time awkwardness, eyes blinking. Slowly, a little knowing smile appeared. Then, Jeff’s eyes met his and they smiled at each other.

Burton rubbed his son’s penis the same way he masturbated himself, from base to crown, pinching the tiny plump glans between his first finger and thumb, rolling it, twisting it, scraping his fingernail in the groove underneath until Jeff squirmed. He’d never been masturbated like this, never been brought to the edge by an experienced hand. It only got better when the torment ended and his father started to rub in earnest.

“Oh God! Don’t stop. Please don’t stop.” When he breathed, it came out as a whimper, followed by a nervous giggle.

“You’re so horny you can’t stand it.,” Burton whispered in his ear. “You like your daddy rubbing your dick, don’t you?”

“Oh yeah. You like doing it too, don’t you Dad?”

Burton wanted to kiss him, not a fatherly kiss, but a long hot wet kiss that took a boy’s breath away and changed him forever. Instead, he rubbed faster, aware that his son was trembling against him.

In less than a minute of rubbing, Jeff started to twitch. He was still grasping his father’s cock, but his eyes were now closed, his teeth gritted as the surge started. Suddenly, he was gasping, pumping his stiffness through his father’s fingers, shuddering as his already taut scrotum turned into wrinkles. Burton felt the pulses, five maybe six, though he wasn’t counting.

Jeff didn’t even slow down when it finished; he had other things on his mind. He jerked his father’s cock as fast as he could, grunting out each breath.

Burton pulled Jeff up tight against him, holding both cocks in his hand, letting Jeff provide the motion while he clasped them together. Big mashed into small. His other hand mauled his son’s rump, fingers digging into his hot moist crack, one fingertip touching the tiny pucker, stroking gently as if permission was needed before venturing into the virginal hole.

“Mmmmmm.”

Jeff’s sigh was music to his ears. He felt the opening grow, the muscle slackening, inviting his finger in as far as the first joint.

“He likes it in him, Dad,” Kyle said from his bed.

Burton nodded. ‘It’ was a finger. His finger. He rubbed into the dimple. He could probably push his fingertip through if he tried. Jeff was thrusting against him, pushing back on his finger, gasping with each anxious jerk of his loins. He tightened his grip on Jeff’s butt, small enough to fit in his hand, soft as a silk, yet packed with muscle.

“Getting tired, Dad…” Jeff huffed. Already, he was slowing down, his thrusts less energetic.

Burton took over, still holding their cocks together as he thrust against Jeff. Jeff lay there, shuddering, feeling his dad’s huge cock pummeling his boyhood into submission, covering it with sticky slime. Big hairy balls pulverized his testicles until he started to feel faint.

Without warning, his father tensed. Jeff could feel him straining, tightening his grip on their cocks, the hand on his butt shoving him higher, the fingers pressing into his crack, that lone-ranger finger still exploring, only now it was shoving deeper into him.

Burton squirted into his hand, hot thick semen coating both cocks, making them incredibly slippery. He gripped tighter, squashing Jeff’s little toy into his throbbing erection, not daring to look or think about what was happening in case Jeff was disgusted. His son’s cock seemed ready to burst. Without question, it was holding its own against the grown-up version. He compressed them together, side by side even though Jeff’s erection was half the length of his cock. It was skinny like Jeff was, flexing and throbbing as he massaged them with his fist.

A lot of his emission escaped, oozing from his fist onto their bellies. He rubbed against Jeff, holding him close, sharing his semen until it covered him, from his thighs to his chest. He felt Jeff’s hand on his cock, smearing slimy cum into his pubic hair, over his balls.

When Burton looked at Jeff the last thing he expected to see was Jeff’s hand at his mouth, his little pink tongue protruding, licking his fingers. He saw delight in the boy’s eyes. Tasting a man’s semen for the first time; it was undoubtedly foreign to him. However, there was no sign of revulsion, no rejection, not even worried that he had his dad’s semen on his tongue, in his mouth. Jeff kept on licking, smiling until he realized his father was watching him lick it off, and then he stopped immediately.

“Don’t you dare tell him,” Jeff whispered.

Burton reddened from his neck to his cheeks, excitement, embarrassment, depraved thrill all mixed together into an unforgettable three short minutes. He relaxed his grip on their cocks, his already retreating, Jeff still hard as steel.

“This thing ever go down?”

Jeff smirked back. “Kids dry-cum, remember?”

Burton rubbed gently, mostly cupping Jeff’s cock and balls in the palm of his hand. What had Keiffer said? ‘A little boy can cum again and again...’

“Did he do it on you?” Kyle asked from across the room.

“Yeah. It’s like you said, hot and slippery as hell.” Jeff grinned at his dad.

“Fun huh?” Kyle said.

“Lots.” Jeff inched back, dislodging his father’s finger from inside his butt. What was that about anyway? He leaned up and whispered, “Your stuff tastes icky, but I like it.”

Burton was sure he’d heard wrong.

“Next time, you can do it in my mouth if you want. You gotta warn me first though, okay.”

Lost for words, Burton nodded. Somehow, he was able to reach down and find his boxers on the floor next to the bed. He wiped Jeff clean, not that there was much left, just a few wet streaks. He sat up, light-headed, his heart still thumping, not at all sure he could stand up. Janice had never excited him like that.

Across the room, Kyle was sitting cross-legged, one hand in his crotch, his other hand attentively holding his father’s cellphone as if the warning beep might come any second. He sucked on his bottom lip, meeting his dad’s eyes shamelessly, as if he knew exactly what Burton was thinking and was daring him to say it.

“You guys want to talk?” Burton picked up his clothes while he waited. “A kid doesn’t just wake up one morning and want to do sex stuff.”

Jeff giggled. “It’s cool, Dad.”

“I think maybe we should talk. Not now; maybe tomorrow night,” Burton said.

“I got soccer practice.”

“Okay, so when I pick you up, I’ll bring Fluffy and we can talk on the way back.”

+++++

Burton was showering when Janice returned. She slammed the front loudly, as if she was letting him know she was home, or maybe she’d been home all along, creeping through the house while he was in the twins’ bedroom.









Chapter 12.

Shortly after 8:00 am, Burton arrived at 3276 Hamilton Avenue. Madison and Harrison were already there. They waited in gloomy silence, standing on the terrace. Burton watched Janice pull away from the curb. During the drive across town, she hadn’t said more than ‘next time you get up in the middle of the night, don’t wake me’.

During the night, he’d tossed and turned, thinking about Jeff and Kyle; mostly Jeff eating his cum. Even now, it was an effort to keep his thoughts focused on anything else. Finally, he couldn’t stand it. He’d gotten out of bed and gone downstairs. He stroked himself in the downstairs bathroom, thinking of Jeff’s tongue licking his hand, imagining him licking his cock. With a cup of coffee and a notepad, he sat in the kitchen to wait for dawn. At least he’d have breakfast with the twins before they went off to school.

Burton sent Harrison to buy coffees and donuts. Burton passed the time by asking about Madison’s university job. What started as a discussion of academic life turned into a layman’s view of quantum physics. Burton’s head reeled, even though Madison had an uncanny ability to make complex theories understandable. Just being around Madison made him feel intellectually second-rate. Worse, not only was Madison highly intelligent, he was athletic. He swam laps at the University pool every other day, and helped coach the Varsity fencing team. Madison was handsome, blue eyes, dark wavy hair, a fading tan. Madison had a magnetic personality. He made jokes about himself, his research, the university, other faculty. The only negative, if it was a negative, Madison was manifestly queer. Whether his attraction extended to prepubescent boys was another thing entirely. Was it such a bad thing if he was? A man like Madison could have any boy he wanted, and the boy would only benefit. Burton found himself thinking that again and again.

Harrison’s cup of coffee and iced chocolate donut improved his mood, if not his understanding of quantum physics. It was like religion, one simply had to believe and never question in the impossible.

The rest of the search team arrived a few minutes after Madison departed to teach his morning class. If anything remained to be found, the second search would find it!

“There’s one goal; find evidence the kid was in the house,” Burton began, feeling like a turncoat.

He took a bite of the second of Harrison’s donuts and launched into a review of the items already found, the known contents of the boy's stomach, the condition of the body. The preponderance of evidence was mounting against John Madison.

“You think Madison kept the kid here for three days?” Anderson asked. Anderson was from Forensics, yet hearing the result of the autopsy made him pale.

“It’s circumstantial, but the coincidence boggles the mind. It's easy to overlook the obvious,” Burton said. “I called Andrews on the way here to check on the lab tests. She forgot to tell me she found a wood shaving inside the kid's sock. Either she's incompetent or she's working her butt off and really forgot to tell me.”

“Cherry wood ?” Harrison asked.

Burton grinned. “Right first time, Officer Harrison.”

“Another coincidence, Sir?”

“Maybe. We need something solid that places the boy in the house and we can fry Madison. A fingerprint would be nice. DNA would be great,” he added pointedly.

“If there is evidence, we'll find it.” Anderson still wasn’t comfortable. “Any idea where the kid might have been kept?”

“The basement, because that's where I found the sock and paper towel. There are wood shavings all over the place, plus the neighbors saw a light about the time the boy was murdered.”

“Are you staying to help?” Anderson asked.

“I wish I could. I've got to meet a woman from Child Welfare at nine-thirty. Lock up here when you're done. If you find anything let me know right away!”

Burton led the way across the lawn to Harrison's car. He waited until Harrison had backed out onto the road.

“Back to Aleborn.” He finished the third of Harrison’s donuts. “Madison’s good looking, isn’t he?”

“You turning gay, Sir?” Harrison joked.

“If you were a boy, would he turn you on? I mean if you were gay.”

“I’m not. He is cool to talk to though. What he was saying about space being spiral, pretty awesome huh? The stars we think we see, really aren’t there at all. ”

“Answer the goddamn question, Harrison. Would a boy find him sexy?”

“Yeah, I guess. A gay kid definitely would.”

+++++

The Department of Child Welfare was on the second floor of the adjoining building, in what was known as the Aleborn Annex. Burton brooded during the drive downtown. Once again, Jeff and his hard little dick were foremost in his mind. What was going to happen the next time they were together? He’d had his finger up Scruffy-ass, not all the way, but far enough. And Jeff hadn’t complained. If anything, he’d wriggled on it deliberately. A little spit and it would’ve slid right in. That would’ve been fun, though at the time, he mostly wanted to suck his son’s dick! He licked his lips, thinking about it.

He instructed Harrison to go up to Homicide and collect his mail and a copy of the autopsy report. He watched Harrison continue up in the elevator. He was beginning to enjoy the position of superiority. Next on his agenda was a smoking ban. He went the other direction, taking the elevated walkway across to the Annex.

In accordance with the City's policy of minority hiring, the Department of Child Welfare was 97 percent brown and black. His initial fears were well founded when he waited for almost five minutes until a grossly overweight receptionist waddled across the room and announced that he was to see Mrs. Yates. Burton entered a corner office and sat down to face Dinestra Yates.

She regarded him silently, hands clasped, fingers interlocked, obsessively manicured fingernails. She was tall with distinctive Tutsi features. According to the sign on the door, Dinestra Yates was a ‘senior administrator.’

“Good morning Detective Burton.”

The woman's voice was like a ratchet, controlled and intense. Burton settled back into his chair.

“Mrs. Yates, I need to talk to two boys at New Way,” Burton began patiently. “One boy in particular.”

“Michael Lynch,” she interrupted. “I spoke with Father Delucca right after I spoke with you. You believe Michael has information pertaining to a murder?”

“He may have. It concerns a boy who was murdered earlier in the week.”

Yates twiddled her thumbs. “Michael is mildly retarded, Detective. It's unlikely he knows anything that could be of help.”

“Perhaps you should let me be the judge of that Mrs. Yates.”

“In that, you're mistaken, Detective.” She glanced at a wood-paneled door, a sickly cream color, as much as admitting Michael was in the adjoining room. “He’s already been interviewed.” She handed over three photocopied pages of handwritten questions and answers.

Burton felt his temper flare. “You have no business interviewing a potential witness.”

“Protecting Michael's welfare is my business. He’s very unstable. It is my opinion that he shouldn’t be subjected to stress from you.”

“Mrs. Yates,” Burton began.

“It's Doctor Yates, Detective Burton,” the woman interrupted.

“I take it your doctorate is in child psychology?” Burton asked.

“Actually, my area involved planning solutions for community problems in the inner city.”

“Right.” Burton paused. “All the evidence points to this being a homosexual murder. I believe Michael is hustling men. There’s a very good chance he met the boy before he was taken. “

“I can’t allow any questions of a sexual nature. Michael has a right to privacy.”

They glared at each other for several seconds. Burton heard a telephone ringing in the office beyond the glass partition wall behind him.

“Doctor Yates, I need to talk to Michael Lynch,” he said slowly. “If I have to, I will go to Juvenile Court. There is a boy in the morgue who was sexually abused with great violence. There might well be others before this is over. Judges worry about things like that.”

Yates shrugged. “Detective, I’m prepared to allow you to interview Michael. I'm certain he won't able to tell you anything.”

Burton nodded patiently. “May I see him now, Doctor Yates?”

“If he has to give evidence you will need the approval of Juvenile Court,” Yates said coldly. “If I decide any question is inappropriate, I will stop the interview.”

She disappeared through the cream-painted door. Burton heard her talking quietly. She reappeared followed by Michael Lynch. Burton stood up and offered his hand. That the boy was mildly retarded was not immediately obvious. He was good-looking, not beautiful like Kyle, or overly handsome like Jeff. His hair was cut short and moussed into a spikey mohawk that Burton thought was sexy in a punk kind of way.

He glanced at Burton and then stared downward at his feet as he stood next to Yates. He looked flighty, more gay than Burton expected, and nervous.

“Michael, this is Detective Burton. He wants to ask you some questions,” Yates said.

“I don't have nothin’ to tell the cops. Do I got to?” Michael glanced at the woman beside him.

Burton rubbed his forehead. “Hello Michael. Can I call you Mike?”

Michael looked like any other eleven or twelve-year-old boy on the cusp of puberty, a kid-proportioned body that needed good food and exercise. He shrugged with pre-teen ambivalence.

“You spend a lot of time at New Way?” Burton asked.

If he didn’t have Jeff and Kyle, he’d be interested. Michael had nice lips and a big boy-bulge, definitely filling out his jeans more than Jeff. There was nothing specific though, more like he had a sock stuffed down there.

Michael glanced sideways at the woman beside him. “Sometimes, I hang out there.”

“New Way is just guys, right?

Michael shrugged. “Yeah.”

“It’s more fun not having girls there, huh Mike?” Burton raised an eyebrow. “You know what I mean, right?” he added suggestively.

“Yeah.” Michael smirked lewdly.

“You like guys more?”

“I guess.”

“Guys are hot, aren’t they?”

“Yeah. They like me 'cause I fuck good,” he added smugly.

Burton glanced Yates. For an instant, he enjoyed her embarrassment. He looked back at Michael, relishing his fleeting triumph.

“I can see why guys like you, Mike.” Burton paused, dropping his gaze to Michael’s crotch, wondering how far he could go before Yates intervened. “I bet Steve is jealous,” he added.

“Real jealous. He’s too old. Most guys want kids. I can get a hundred-bucks any time I want,” Michael said boldly.

Michael looked innocent in blue jeans and a grey hoody. It was his hairdo that gave him away. It screamed ‘queer’ loud enough to bring pedophiles running.

“I'm sure you can, Mike.”

“I think this has gone far enough, Detective” she said distastefully.

“I’m sure you do, Doctor. Mike, you know any other boys who do what you do?”

Michael sucked his bottom lip and shrugged. Slowly he shook his head. After a few seconds of silence, he glanced at Yates.

“I can’t say in front ‘a her,” Michael scraped his long fingers through spikes.

Burton thought Jeff would look sexy with moussed hair, really sexy. “A few or a lot, Mike?”

“I know like six boys who sell ass in the Park. They’re there most days.”

Burton wondered whether Yates had any idea about the damage she was doing just by being there. If she wasn’t there, Michael would hold nothing back.

“Mike, do you remember working at New Way with Mr. Madison on Saturday?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you like Mr. Madison?”

“He's okay, most of the time.”

“He treats you good, doesn't he?” Burton said, making it sound suggestive.

There was a slow but uncertain nod, but Michael’s expression said otherwise. “I’m thirsty.” He looked at Yates; a preplanned signal perhaps.

Casually, Burton reached into his breast pocket and withdrew one of three photo of the murdered boy.

“Mike, I'm going to show you a photo of a boy and I want you to tell me if you've seen him before.” As he held up the postcard-sized photo, Burton saw a flash of recognition. “Where did you see him, Mike?”

Michael looked at Yates for support. “I don't remember.”

“I want you to think back to Saturday, Mike. Did you see him at New Way?”

“He got murdered by some fag, right?”

Burton nodded, now cautious. “Did you see him on Saturday, Mike?”

Michael stared at the picture. “I was with John, man. He looks really dead. Did he get fucked too hard?”

Yates glared at Burton, pissed off and ready to stop it.

“Was he at New Way on Saturday?” Burton repeated.

“I was with John. Steve was there, he'll tell you.”

“Were you with John the whole day?”

“I had some stuff I needed to do,” Michael said absently.

“After Steve went to the hardware store, what happened?”

“John and me kept on putting up boards. I kinda got horny. I had to jack off before we got done,” Michael added. He looked at Yates almost proudly, as if daring her to say he was out of line.

“Other than that, were you with John the whole time that Steve was gone?”

Michael's brow furrowed. He shuffled his feet. “That when he was at New Way?”

“Mike, why weren't you with John all the time? I don’t mean when you needed to jack off,” Burton asked.

“Maybe we had a fight ‘cause he was mean to me.”

“John's usually very friendly, isn't he Mike?”

“I guess.”

Burton caught the woman's warning glance even as he asked, “Has he ever tried to touch you?” he asked suddenly.

Michael shrugged.

“Is that why you had a fight with him on Saturday?” Burton asked quietly.

“He don’t do that stuff!” Michael retorted. “I’m not pretty like him,” he added angrily.

“Like who?” Burton prompted, though he was sure he already knew. His finger stabbed at the photo. “Was he at New Way on Saturday, Mike?”

“He might'a been there. Maybe he was outside.”

Yates voiced her frustration. “I think this has gone on long enough.”

“I'm not finished, Doctor Yates.”

Burton turned back to the boy. The change in his demeanor was slow, but it was there. Michael scuffed the side of his right shoe against the small square of carpet.

“Is he why you and John had a fight?”

“He was mean to me so I told him to fuck off. He went downstairs,” Michael glanced at Yates for reassurance. She stared back at him; she hadn’t heard this part of the story.

“Mike, why did you have a fight with John?”

“I forget.” Michael turned adamant.

“What happened, Mike?” Burton asked, trying to appear reassuring.

“I want to go back to New Way,” Michael whined.

Burton cocked his head. “We’re nearly done, Mike. You can leave as soon as you tell me what happened downstairs. Did John meet with someone downstairs?”

“I cain’t say.”

“There's no reason to be scared. Not if you’re telling the truth.”

“I heard him talking. It might'a been that kid. I forget.”

“How long was John gone?”

“A while. I don't know! A long while, I guess,” Michael said petulantly.

“Was John was talking with this boy?” Burton held out the photograph again.

“Might'a been him. I didn't see who he was talking to. I don't remember no more, okay?” Michael glanced at Yates, seeking protection. “You said I don't have to answer no questions, not if I don't want.”

“Why don’t you tell me the truth, Mike?” Burton said.

“I can't tell,” Michael murmured.

“You have any more questions, Detective Burton,”

Burton ignored her. “You wanted John to touch you, but he wouldn’t. When you wouldn’t stop pestering him, he went downstairs. You heard him talking to someone. Is that what happened?”

“Maybe.”

“What did John say to him?”

Michael looked up. “I didn't hear nothing.”

“How long was John gone, Mike?”

“You deaf? You think John killed him, don't you? He likes boys, only he ain’t like that, not even when he gets really mad.”

Burton gave Yates a ‘keep out of this’ look. “Mike, tell me about a time when John got really mad at you.”

Michael's neck reddened. “I,...I,... f-f-forget,” he stammered. “Maybe he wanted to play with my dick, and I said no!”

Burton almost smiled. “So John got angry with you because he wanted to touch you and you wouldn't let him?”

“What if he did? What if John did me in the ass?”

Burton sighed as he looked at the boy. He was cute enough that a man attracted to boys would find him desirable. Was he so needy that he would lie about something like that.

“You want to tell me what really happened?”

Mike shuddered. “You got to send her out, okay?”

Burton glanced at Yates. There was no way she was leaving him alone with Michael. He shook his head slowly. “She has to stay, Mike. Don't be embarrassed. Just tell me what happened.”

“I wanted him to suck me, okay?”

Burton nodded. His voice was soft and sympathetic. “But he didn't want to, did he Mike? You got angry with him and he went downstairs.”

“He told me to jack off, only I followed him. I heard him talking with a kid,” Michael said.

“What happened then?

“He took the kid outside. It was like an hour before he came back.”

“What did he say he was doing?”

“He had to get some stuff outta his car. I don't wanna answer more questions.”

“Why are you angry with him, Mike?”

“'Cause of what he said. He was mean to me.,” Michael looked away. “Are you going to put him in jail?”

“If he murdered the boy. Do you know of any other boy at New Way who he tried to do things with?”

“There's only me and Steve. Maybe Colin, when he was there.”

“Tell me about Colin?”

“He’s into older guys. He fucks black guys too. Dumb mother likes big ones up his ass.”

Yates pushed her chair back, shaking her head in disgust. Burton waited for two minutes as she took Michael into the corridor. He stood up as she came back into her office.

“Thank you Doctor Yates,” Burton said. “I really appreciate your assistance.”

The woman wheeled on him. “I'm not happy about this. When I talked to Michael there was none of this crap. I think he's making it all up.”

“You really think so, Doc? Explain to me why he’d make up a story like this about a man who’s supposed to be a friend.”

“All that sex stuff, I don't believe that for one second. Michael isn’t like that.”

“Bullshit! Michael is gay, Doctor. Maybe he’s in love with Madison.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Right now, he's scared as hell, but he's not lying, at least as far as I can tell.”

She flounced to her desk. “Would you mind taking him downstairs? Father Delucca is waiting for him in the parking lot.”

+++++

Burton knew something was up as soon as he saw Michael.

“I gotta use the can,” the boy blurted out

Burton looked around. The men’s bathroom was a dozen yards down the hall, the door blocked with plastic tape. “You’ll have to hold it. It’s being worked on.”

“I gotta go. Really bad.”

“There’s one on the next floor.”

“You take me.”

Burton saw his chance. Michael seemed different. Maybe he was ready to talk. He walked beside Burton, pestering him with questions about what it was like to be a cop. Burton humored him all the way to the men’s bathroom on the third floor. He planned on waiting outside.

“Don’t need to go, huh?” Michael asked, looking around.

After Building and Zoning moved out, the floor was largely vacant, just a few offices at the other end of the corridor.

Michael stepped back, his butt pressing against the door to the restroom. “You want some boy-dick?” he whispered.

“Ah, no thanks.”

“You got boy-eyes something awful, Mister.” Suddenly, he closed the gap between them. He was so close to Burton their fronts touched. “You wanna suck mine?”

“Never a good idea, Mike, propositioning a cop.”

Yeah, it is, ‘cause ya do it. I can tell by how look at me.”

He pulled up his sweater a few inches. Burton saw belly, flat and pale, and incredibly smooth. His other hand moved to his waist, unfastening the button at the front of his jeans.”

“Not in the fucking corridor, for Christ sake!”

Michael smirked and sucked in his tummy. Burton looked down at the red of his briefs. He was certain there was an erection underneath. He glanced around quickly. The empty corridor went on forever.

“I want it sucked real bad,” Michael whispered. ”You wanna suck it?”

Jeff was brazen, but nothing like this. Burton could feel Michael’s heat, his preteen body pushing against him, mostly his lower belly and below, letting the man know he was sexually aroused. His heart raced as he nodded. Michael backed up, pushing the door open. Burton followed him in.

A quick glance around and Michael tugged the unresisting Detective Burton into the handicapped stall. Burton stood there, dumbfounded. Breathing heavily, mostly worrying that he was being unfaithful to his twins. Michael’s little hands were busy, always in motion like Jeff’s, his eyes alive with mischief, his coy smile too much like Kyle’s, all working their magic. He kneaded the lump in Burton’s pants until the man yearned for more.

“You like getting sucked, huh?” Burton asked.

Michael smirked and nodded.

“I bet John’s good at it.”

“He’s fuckin’ awesome. He’d suck it off, if I let him.”

Burton wasn’t sure if he was playing to Michael’s fantasy. At least the boy was talking. “You suck him too, right?”

“I ain’t tellin.’”

“I bet you do. Nice big mouth like yours.”

Michael opened his mouth to show him teeth in need of dental work. His tongue extended, swiping his lips as if he was licking up excess cum.

“What else does he do?”

“You wanna know if he fucks me?” Michael grinned. “I definitely ain’t tellin’ that.”

“Lots of guys do you in the ass though, don’t they?”

“For a hundred bucks, sure. You want some boy-pussy?”

“How much for a blow job?” Burton muttered, hoping it wasn’t more than $50 and change, because that was all he had. The $50 was supposed to cover his lunches for next week.

“It’s ten this month, whether I suck you or you suck mine…” Michael was moments from panting.

“You running a blow job special, huh? You’re a real little businessman, aren’t you? ”

“How about you blow me and I won’t charge you nothing.” Michael had a quirky smile, making dimples that were cuter than the rest of his face.

Burton smiled back. “I suck you, you tell me everything about New Way.”

“No fuckin’ way! You wanna suck it or not, cop?”

Burton sat on the toilet seat to do it. He felt like a pedophile, hanging out in a public toilet in the park, buying his sexual thrills from runaway boys. He shoved self-disgust back where it came from and told himself, he wasn’t really selling out the twins. With trembling hands he opened Michael’s zipper to finish what the boy had started in the corridor.

“You turn John on big time, don’t you?” he asked, his voice turning husky.

“He fuckin’drools! Looks at me just like you do, ‘specially when I’ve got my shirt off.”

Michael hauled his sweater up to his armpits. Burton started to say he was awesome. His body was nice, not beautiful like Jeff with his taut boy-muscles, or Kyle with his skinny girlish figure. Michael was pudgy around his belly from too many Big Macs and fries and not enough exercise.

He shoved Michael’s jeans down to his knees; his briefs too, barely noting they were tiny like a woman’s skimpy bikini pants. Unfortunately, thongs weren’t sold in the boys’ section of Walmart, or he’d have bought them for the twins.

“You’re a big boy, aren’t you?” Burton said, his fingers tingling as he caressed the boy’s erection. It was as long as Jeff’s and half as thick again. There were a few sparse hairs sprinkled around the base,

A few more years it would be an ‘extra wide ass-pleaser’, which was what Jeff said about his cock. It was the way Jeff said it that bothered Burton, as if he knew that wider was better. How his boys even knew about such things confounded him?

“John’s dick as big as this bad boy?” Burton asked, tugging playfully on the fat little erection.

“Hell yeah! He’s fuckin’ huge, man.”

“That big?”

“It ain’t no nigger dick, that’s fer fuckin’ sure,” Mike said.

“Not like Jamal, huh?” Burton was being funny, though just the thought of a boy being penetrated by a cock that big excited him.

Mike laughed, flexing his erection constantly. “Ain’t no honky cock even close to that fucker, ‘cept some porn stars. I seen him fuck Colin a few times.”

“Hot huh?”

“Would’a split his ass open, but he’s pussified. Rub it fast, man.”

Burton picked up the pace, still not using the full length of the boy’s erection.

“Fuckin’ work it faster.”

He took advantage of Mike’s distraction. “John cut or not? You’d know if you really sucked him.”

Mike smirked, breathing quickly. “He’s cut, about this far down.” Two inches, maybe more.

“How big?”

“Between six and seven, really thick. Jack it faster, okay.”

“That could be any one of fifty million guys. What else?”

“He shaves it. There ya go, cop.” Mike grinned, his loins straining forward. “Ya want proof he likes little boys, that’s it right there.”

Burton slowed his stroking to a crawl. “You saying boy fuckers shave their groins?” He’d never thought of shaving there, and yet, once the idea was planted, it grew like a weed.

“Most pedos go for the hairless look. Don’t wanna scare off little boys, I guess.”

“So he’s not just gay?”

“When he first came to New Way, he told me and Steve he was married to some guy.”

“Bull shit huh?”

Michael smirked. “He ain’t got a ring, not on his finger anyways.”

“You want to fuck him?”

“Hell yeah! He’s cool! He makes fun of me always bein’ boned up around boys, but he’s lookin’ too. I figure he’ll do it if I pester him enough.”

Burton stroked casually, in no rush to bring the boy off before he got him in his mouth. “That why you hang out with him, huh?”

“We would’a done it by now, only he says he ain’t into boy ass. One time, he told me he likes Colin’s little bro. He’s really hot.John won’t do nothing ‘cause he’s a kid.”

With his mind in a whirl, Burton leaned closer, licking his lips, trying hard not to swallow his spittle. He slid his lips over boy-prick like he’d done it all his life. Michael was circumcised, the American Pediatric standard, ample leftover skin and close to the head. It tasted a little sour, slightly stale, like he showered at night and not in the morning. It was pure boy-aphrodisiac. Once the head was slippery with spit, he let it slide into his mouth. His lips closed to an ‘o’ as the shaft followed. He didn’t stop until his lips were wrapped around the base of Michael’s sturdy little cock.

There was very little pubic hair on Michael’s pudgy pale groin. His balls were so smooth they might’ve been shaved. Burton slobbered all over Michael’s scrotum. He was hooked, addicted to boy genitalia as soon as he sucked in both balls. It was definitely something he was going to do to the twins as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

When Michael started thrusting, Burton gripped his butt with both hands. He thought about putting his finger in the boy’s anus, the same as he’d done to Jeff, but it seemed too special to share with anyone else. Instead he sucked, bobbing his head when he thought it necessary. He felt Michael’s body responding to pleasure, his breathing getting faster, shorter, more panicky. When he wriggled his pelvis, pushing up against Burton’s mouth, he was close. He tensed and twitched as Burton took him in all the way and sucked as if his life depended on it. He felt tiny pulses between his lips, the little cock jerking, trying to spurt. He tasted something as it squirted over his tongue.

He barely heard Michael groan, “Eat my cum.”

Michael backed away immediately after his orgasm, looking down at his spit-covered dick. It was still twitching, still rock-hard, still oozing watery semen, a little redder than it had been two minutes earlier. It looked like it was ready to go again. He was a little fucking machine, just like Jeff.

“You suck dick before?” Michael asked.

“When I was a kid.” Burton licked his lips, of the mind that ten bucks was cheap for a blow job.

“You wouldn’t know it. You suck like a fuckin’ girl.”

“And you’d know that how?” Burton quipped.

Michael flipped him off. “You’re s’posed to make it last. Fuckin’ awfulest suck I’ve ever had.”

“There’s no such word.”

“Fucking’s a word! Your wife ever suck your dick?”

“A couple of times.”

“You got kids?”

“Twin boys, about your age.”

Michael grinned. “You ever suck their dicks?”

Burton felt his neck redden. “No.”

“You ought to. My uncle, he started suckin’ my dick when I was little. Real little, like when I was still in diapers.

Burton gaped. “Go on!”

“I fuckin’ loved it! He was so good at it. He blew me every day after school, before my ‘rents came home.”

“He fuck you?”

“Duh! Suck and fuck every day. It was awesome. I loved him so much.” Michael pulled up his miniscule briefs and his jeans. “We used to drive to the fairground and do it in his pickup if my ‘rents were home. Then, my asshole teacher saw us parked there. Lesbian bitch fuckin’ reported him.”

Burton wondered if he should say ‘sorry.’ “Sounds like I need him to teach me, huh?”

Michael grinned. “You’ll learn. Use your lips and tongue more. Don’t just suck it. My uncle made me suck him an hour every day so I knew how to make it last.”

“How about I pay you to teach me ,” Burton joked, pulling out his wallet. He peeled off a twenty and stuck it in Michael’s jeans’ pocket.

Michael yanked up his zipper. “You gonna suck them, ain’t you? Your own kids?”

Burton was on the verge of lying. He changed his mind at the last moment. “I’d like to.”

After a moment, Michael smiled. "I was sure you were going to bullshit me. Tell me about them.”

“I’ve seen them suck each other.” Not quite the truth, but close enough.

“They queer?”

“It’s a good bet.” He hesitated, hoping he was right about Michael. “I’ve jacked both of them.”

It didn’t faze Michael in the slightest. “They like it?”

“No one complained.” He couldn’t stop himself. “I cummed on one of them last night.”

“Cool, huh?”

“Very! I already cummed on his brother that morning.”

“You going to fuck them?”

Burton expected it. He managed to stay calm. “If they want me to.”

Michael seemed a hundred miles away. “I always wanted my dad to do me.”

“You got any hints?”

“The first time my uncle fucked me he took me camping.”

“I’m worried I’m too big for them.”

“Size don’t matter once they get used to it.” He sounded confident, which made Burton think he was probably right .

“I don’t want to hurt them.”

“Only hurts till it’s stretched. Fuck ‘em a couple of times, they’ll back up for it.” From his grin, he seemed delighted at the possibility a cop would fuck his kids. ”You want ‘em tight or loose?”

“There’s a choice?”

Michael rolled his eyes. “Most guys like loose. Fuckin’ tight’s a bitch. Make ‘em as big as you, bigger if you can.”

“How?”

“You need lessons? I pity yer kids.” He grinned again. “You gotta stretch their boy-pussies till it stops hurtin’, man.”

“I got it. How?”

“Sheesh! How do you think?”

“I fuck them?”

“You can’t stay hard long enough. My uncle had this inflatable thing he stuck up my ass. I got stretched okay, only it took a week. Colin, they did him special ‘cause he’s cute.”

“That’d be a black candle, right?”

Mike’s eyes lit up. “Shit, why didn’t you say something, man?”

Burton considered saying he’d seen it used on Colin’s little brother. It was an anecdote; nothing more.

“I’m new to this,” he hedged.

“No shit! You goin’ to use a candle on ‘em?” Michael asked, his enthusiasm expanding like his penis.

“I’ve got one. You think I ought to use it?”

“Take ‘em camping for the weekend and fuckin’ use it, man.” Mike groped his crotch. “You goin’ to pussify them, right?”

“You think I should?” At this point, Burton had no idea.

“You gotta, man. I was there when they pussified Colin. He cummed awesome, banged ‘em out like the whole fuckin’ night.”

Now, he was even more confused. “Mike, I’d love to keep talking, but we need to get moving before they send out a search party. That kid who was talking with John…”

“What about him?”

“You know you can trust me, Mike.” Burton waited.

Michael looked right at him. “I saw John drive off with him, okay. He had his head way down. Either he was blowin' John, or he didn’t want no one seeing him.”

Chapter 13.

Burton waited in the driveway of 3276 Hamilton with the arrest warrant for John Madison, Ph.D. There was enough evidence for a grand jury, yet Burton was still far from certain. There were too many coincidences. However, the evidence said otherwise. As if by default, John Madison had to be the murderer, his young victim still unidentified.

He paced across the driveway and stopped with a foot planted on the terrace stairs. Only an hour earlier, he’d met with Stan Bronski along with Ron Tempel and Jean Wright from the county prosecutor's office. The three of them made the decision to proceed against Madison. There was too much at stake not to move ahead, Bronski said.

At the end, Bronski conveyed Commissioner Calvin A. Tanner congratulations on a job well done. A four-day investigation was approaching a record for police efficiency. Clean up the remaining details of the case, and relax for a few days. Burton was contemplating a weekend away with the twins, and how to exclude Janice when Harrison interrupted his thoughts.

“What's up?” Burton demanded. He’d been thinking about taking the twins camping. Janice would never go camping. The twins and him in the tent at night, cuddling in a big sleeping bag….

“Madison’s supposed to be here by four, isn't he?”

Burton smiled. “He's a few minutes late. Maybe his class ran over.”

A dark green sports car turned into the driveway and parked a few yards from the two policemen. It was an antique, a British Triumph TR-6 in pristine condition. The door opened and Madison got climbed out of the low-slung leather seat.

“You want to search the house again, Detective Burton?” Madison joked as he walked up to them.

Burton’s face lacked amusement. Madison's expression changed swiftly.

“You're here to arrest me?”

“I have a warrant, Mr. Madison. There are four charges.”

“Is this where you read me my rights?”

“There is a process we have to follow, Sir.” Burton realized he sounded heartless. He didn’t want this case to end, at least not like this.

Burton pulled the Miranda-warning card from his jacket pocket and began to read. Madison wasn’t listening. He stared past Burton at his house, still weeks from being finished. When Madison didn’t make eye contact, Burton had the strangest feeling. He didn’t understand how or why, but his life was intertwined with Madison, the twins too.

“I wanted to be in the house by Christmas. I had a big party planned. My sister and her family are visiting for the holidays. They still live in Wilford, in the same house where I grew up.”

“Sorry,” Burton said. He really wasn’t paying attention. A murder ruined lives, both guilty and innocent.

“What happens now?” Madison asked quietly.

“You'll be taken downtown, where you’ll be officially charged. Then, you'll be taken across the street to the courthouse. This late in the day, I doubt a judge is available. I expect you'll have to spend the night in a holding cell.”

“I didn't do it.” Madison shook his head. “I don't know what I can do to make you believe me.”

“Mr. Madison, anything you say from now on may be used in evidence against you,” Burton warned.

“I have to call my sister,” Madison murmured. “She won't believe this is happening. We talked about it last night. She was certain I had no reason to worry. Just a matter of time until you got it sorted out.”

“You’ll be able to make a phone call from downtown,” Burton explained. “You'll need to get a lawyer.”

Madison nodded absently. In a daze, he followed Burton down to the street, unaware that Harrison walked close behind him. He looked back at the house.

“I better lock up,” he said glumly.

“Harrison will do it. Keys?”

Madison handed them over. He stood quietly while Burton made a perfunctory search for concealed weapons. Regulations required that arrestees be handcuffed.

“You're so wrong, Detective,” Madison examined his manacled wrists with resigned humor.

Burton guided him into the rear seat. A few minutes later they were on the way back to the Aleborn Building. Madison stared out the side window as the car pulled away from the curb. Someone watched through the window of the house next door. He stared back until the shadow behind the window was barely visible.

Madison made his phone call from Burton's office. He called his sister. Burton watched through the glass partition as he waited in the main office. Did she know he was a murderer? Had he managed to conceal his perverted interests from her? He made a mental note to get a search warrant for Madison’s apartment. According to Hessler, Madison would have a stash of child porn. Maybe he’d photographed the boy prior to killing him, though he didn’t seem the type to do either.

Madison put the phone down and turned to see Burton observing him through the partition. He had a gnawing ache in his stomach. He sat down tiredly.

“My sister says I'm too trusting,” Madison said as Burton resumed his seat.

“You’re not married, I assume?”

“Eleven years ago, I nearly was. I knew her from when I lived in Wilford. Looking back, it would’ve been a huge mistake.” He smiled slightly. “My sister said not to say anything until she can get an attorney here.”

It wasn’t Burton’s problem. “What’s she do?”

“She was CEO of Agrow. She had a golden parachute when the company was taken over. Now, she sits on boards and raises her kids.” Madison scratched the side of his head and looked past Burton. He took slow deep breaths. “I didn’t do it.”

“We're finished here. Harrison will take you to the courthouse in a few minutes. I might make it over,” Burton said abruptly. His intuition was seldom wrong; the case was screwed up and he had no idea how or why, just that he’d missed something important.

“I didn't do it,” Madison repeated softly. “God help me, I didn't kill him!”

“There's a lot of evidence that says you did,” Burton replied. “You'll have plenty of opportunity to prove otherwise. If there's something I should know, you better tell me now.”

“I didn't do it!” Madison interrupted.

“Were you afraid he'd tell someone what you did to him?”

Madison held his anger back.

“Does your sister know you like little boys? She'll find out fast enough, once the TV stations announce we've made an arrest.”

Madison clenched his fists.

“What’s his name, John? We need to contact his parents about the burial.”

“You don't know?”

“After you had your fun with him, you used a plastic bag. We found it in the last search of your house.”

Madison's head shook imperceptibly.

“What did you do with the rest of his things?”

Madison sighed loudly. “I've already told you a dozen times what happened. What’s wrong with you? Why can't you believe me?”

“Because he was in your basement before he died.”

“You're a complete ass,” Madison said flatly.

Burton shrugged it off. His mind was elsewhere, making a mental list of things he needed to buy at the sports store in the mall. He’d drive right past it on the way home, and even if it was too cold to actually go camping, he’d have fun with the twins setting up the tent in the basement rumpus room.

+++++

Madison spent seven minutes in the holding cell at the courthouse. Almost as soon as the door closed behind him, he was taken out and led down a corridor. He waited in an anteroom adjoining Traffic Court. Madison was brought in between a speeding ticket and driving without a license. Police Commissioner Calvin A. Tanner entered with the Prosecutor. He nodded at the judge, a thin, small man, visibly tired from a long day. He leaning back in a dull green chair, listening as the charge was read.

Right away the judge’s mind was made up. He surveyed Madison with distaste, easily deciding an uneasy stance and nervous eyes could only mean guilty as charged. There followed a brief discussion with an Assistant Prosecutor, a formality, another step in due process, with perfunctory questions.

“Mr. Madison, it is ma decision you be held at the County Jail till Monday mornin’, where pendin’ ya ‘pearance ‘fore the Court of Common Plea, you be arraign wiv a hearin’ fer bail. Court adjorn.”

The bailiff led a bewildered Madison out of the courtroom and into a tunnel that connected the courthouse and the county jail. He was stripped naked and subjected to the indignity of a latex-gloved finger being shoved into his ass, given an orange jumpsuit to wear, photographed, and fingerprinted. Everywhere, he heard, ‘’he's that pedophile who killed the kid on TV. ‘

Chapter 14.

It came as no surprise to Hal Stein that bail was denied. Beyond Madison's status in the community and the claim that his students would suffer if he missed his classes, there was nothing in his favor. The severity of the four crimes involved and the risk of flight logically prevailed.

Stein watched as Madison was led out of the courtroom in handcuffs. He was undecided about taking the case. A few minutes of discussion left a bad impression. Madison’s simple-minded claim of innocence offered nothing. Stein settled on naive over dangerously intelligent; it was less worrisome. He started on a brisk walk back to his office.

Beyond the over-heated confines of the courthouse, a chilly Monday morning was a pleasant change. Still, he enjoyed the warmth of the sun. It was freezing cold on Sunday when he walked three blocks from his house to Madison’s Mansion, as he’d taken to calling the house at 3276 Hamilton. The house was the heart of all of it. What had the cops discovered there? A plastic bag, Madison had said. Whatever was in it linked him with the murdered boy.

Stein stopped at the corner and watched cars pass. The last thing he needed was a case of sexual abuse and murder of a child, crimes so despicable that the public automatically presumed the defendant was guilty. If Madison was guilty, the firm was guilty by association. On the positive side, there would be media attention. He’d learned the essential lesson of success the hard way: the creed of Mayer and Stein was 'Become noticed, but become noticed favorably.'

He became noticed by winning criminal cases, all with exorbitant fees. All things considered, Madison’s case should net at least fifty thousand dollars after expenses, perhaps double that. It would likely bankrupt the fucker, unless his sister contributed. This time, he didn’t flip a coin. It was a good case for Alan Erdman to get his teeth into.

Erdman was in the office when Stein came in. He followed like a lawyer on the pathway to partnership, into Stein's plush corner office. Stein's secretary brought in coffee and Girl Scout cookies from Stein’s daughter. After a minute of football analysis and a sketchy overview of what he knew about Madison, Stein sat back in his stainless steel and leather chair. He folded his fingers together and studied the young associate.

“Well Alan, you want it?”

“You haven't answered my question yet, Mr. Stein?” Erdman persisted.

Stein dwelled on Erdman's question. “From what his sister told me, I’d lay bets he’s queer. He doesn't look like he's the type to rape a kid, and then kill him. He’s a professor. You remember them from law school? They don't know the inside of a courtroom from a restroom, but they're still full of crap.”

Erdman laughed. Stein never laughed at his own jokes.

“He’s some kind of advanced physicist. His sister said he’s another Einstein. He says he's innocent,” Stein added with a smirk. “They all say that, especially the pedophiles. Call it a hunch, but I’ve got a feeling about this one. We'll defend him as best we can. Try to keep the hours under control. I rather like the guy.”

He came to his feet and moved away from behind his desk. The discussion was finished.

Erdman stood up. He was several inches taller than Stein so he made it a practice to always stand some distance away.

“Get over to the jail right away,” Stein added. “I'll call Madison's sister and tell her we'll take the case.”

+++++

The St. Louis City Justice Center was on South Tucker Boulevard. Its attorney-client rooms were as depressing as the visiting rooms down the hall. It was the confluence of modernity and low budget. Room 6 was small, eight feet wide by ten feet long, squeezed by concrete block walls and a white-painted concrete ceiling. Unlike the adjoining rooms, a clear plastic panel of Lexan divided it in two. Most lawyers wanted to be separated from their clients for their initial meetings. Erdman found a pen and writing pad in his briefcase and doodled as he waited for Madison to appear.

After several minutes, the drawing in the top corner of his pad had a curious religious quality. He began to add circles to crucifixes as Madison entered the room. Madison was not what he expected. He had aged. He even looked tired. Erdman introduced himself.

It was difficult to believe Madison's story as it unfolded. Madison was either naive, or a very good liar.

“You fell onto him?” Erdman asked with a queasy feeling in his gut.

Madison brushed through his hair, massaging the back of his neck. “I'll never forget his face.” His voice lowered suddenly. “He was staring straight up at me.” When he spoke again, his voice was little more than a whisper. “He was naked, covered in mud.”

Erdman stopped writing. He pictured the trench, the bottom cold and muddy, a small, body that lay face up.

“He was a beautiful kid.”

Erdman heard the intensity of the memory, though it didn’t explain how he described the dead boy. It would be dark in the bottom of the trench in the early morning. Guilty reverberated!

“The time was what?” Erdman asked, thinking, ‘we’re screwed.'

Madison jerked back to reality. “After six-thirty. I told that to the police, I think.”

Erdman made a quick note to check the timing.

“I don't really remember a lot. I remember trying to climb out, but it was too slippery. I had to walk back along the side of the house until the sides weren’t as high.”

“Did you touch him?” Erdman realized from Madison’s shudder how it sounded. “Did you move the body or anything like that?”

“I fell on top of him. Of course, I touched him.” He closed his eyes momentarily. “I thought he was still alive.”

“Why was that, Mr. Madison?”

“Probably because his eyes were open.” Madison shifted in his seat. “I’m not trying to be funny. I didn't kill him, Mr. Erdman. I told the police everything. They didn't believe me.”

“John, I'd like you to call me Alan. We're going to spend a lot of time together over the next few months. Maybe much longer if we have to appeal. Let's go back to the trench. I know this is difficult for you, but it is important. Did you touch the boy?”

“I already told you I fell on top of him.”

“Yes, I know that. What I mean is did you touch his genitals?”

“What?”

Erdman watched Madison breathed deeply. “Did you?”

Madison glared at him. “Why would I do that?”

“The police have evidence that allows them to charge you with gross sexual imposition. I need to know everything.”

“I may have. I don't remember. There was mud everywhere. I fell down a couple of times.”

“You don’t remember is not an answer, John. You have to tell me everything if I'm to help you. Did you touch him?”

“I’m not sick, okay.”

“Tell me what happened when you managed to climb out.”

“I was sick.” Madison made a wry face. “I threw up, honestly. I don't remember much after that.”

“Come on John. It was only a week ago. What did you do?”

“You don't understand, Mr. Erdman. Finding him there like that, it was a shock. I couldn't think straight.”

“You called the police didn't you?”

Madison missed the point. “Of course, I called the police.”

“After you climbed out, did you go back into the house to make the call?”

“I tried to call from there earlier, but the phone was out, so I went up the street.”

“Did you walk or run?” Erdman glanced at his watch. Madison was scheduled to be interrogated at twelve-thirty. He had a few minutes left before they had to stop.

“I went all the way to the corner house before I found one with lights on inside. The man let me use his telephone.”

“I asked whether you walked or ran.”

“I ran.”

“You’re sure?” Erdman asked.

Madison shook his head slowly. “I remember I was breathless. I couldn’t stop shaking. I must have looked quite a sight. He even made me take my shoes off before I went inside. I was covered with mud, just like he was.”

“John, I want you to tell me everything; anyone else, from now on, answer the question. Only the question! Volunteer nothing. If you don’t understand, ask for the question to be repeated. If you have the slightest doubt, say ‘you refuse to answer on the advice of counsel,’ especially if it’s something we haven’t talked about,” Erdman said.

He explained the interrogation process to Madison along with the standard warnings; never ever confess, pause before answering, look for traps set for him, expect the worst, and above all, never answer unless he sees a gesture from his lawyer.

It struck him that Madison was more than smart enough to carefully cover his tracks, so why didn’t he?

+++++

Madison’s interrogation began right after lunch. The interrogation room was large enough to accommodate Burton, Daniel Gorman and his assistant, who were attorneys from the Prosecutor's Office, Madison and Erdman, and three others, Bronski, a woman from Burton’s office, and a woman with a laptop computer and several notebooks before her.

During introductions and a few introductory remarks from the prosecutor, Burton reminisced. Surely, it was the best weekend in memory, despite being too cold to go away camping with the twins. With Jeff’s coach sick with the flu and practice cancelled, Burton and the twins erected the tent in the backyard. The tent wasn’t very big, but the price was right. He’d bought Outdoor World’s 4-pack Coleman camping set, an end-of-season special that was 65% off the regular price at $199. A 4-person tent, inflatable mattresses, four zip-together sleeping bags, four sets of speckled enamel tableware and cutlery, a propane stove with coffee pot and fry pan, and a propane lantern. The twins were ecstatic. Janice was pissed to the hilt that he’d bought it without consulting her, which made his mood that much better.

While Erdman reviewed procedures with his client, Burton had to look down at his notes to hide his smile. As soon as the tent was stable, the twins scrambled inside, after shoving sleeping bags and inflated air mattresses through the opening. Burton hammered in the last four stakes before he glanced through inside. The boys were kneeling, facing away, and giggling at each other. When they turned around, they had stiff penises poking through the open fronts of their jeans. Burton did what any pedophile would’ve done. He kissed the twins right on the tips of their proudly displayed erections, which initiated a barrage of giggles. It was beautiful, and awe-inspiring, and unforgettable, and that alone made $199 worth every penny.

“Detective Burton?”

His head snapped up at Bronski’s voice, feeling cheated by the interruption. Worse, right before he’d entered the interrogation room, Bronski had taken him aside. ‘Make him squirm, Kevin. Tanner wants this one brought down, nothing left standing. It’ll be worth it. Trust me.’

“Mr. Madison, for the record, please confirm what you told me yesterday.” Burton read from Harrison’s notes. “I quote, ’I never saw the boy prior to that morning. I do not know who he is or where he came from.’”

Now under oath, Madison took a breath. “I never saw the boy prior to that morning. I do not know who he is, or where he came from.”

“Thank you, Mr. Madison. Now, I’d like to clarify and confirm some facts,” Burton muttered. “On Saturday, the 26th of November, what happened at New Way when you were alone with Michael Lynch?”

A slight movement of Madison’s eyes indicated he had a problem with the question.

Erdman intervened. “Can you be more specific, Detective Burton?”

Burton consulted his notes. Of course, kissing the twins dicks had escalated to other things; intimate wonderful things, like sucking cock. The twins took to it like ducks to water.

The question he had written down wasn’t close to what he wanted to ask. “Isn't it true Mr. Madison, that when you were alone with Michael Lynch you requested that he have oral sex with you?”

Erdman swung around in his chair. “My client won't answer that question.”

Burton watched Madison. He was stunned, his mouth gaping open, definitely not squirming the way he should be.

“Isn't it true that he refused your request, and that was the reason for your disagreement with him?”

“Is that what Michael told you?” Madison asked. “Because if he,...”

“My client will not answer,” Erdman interrupted swiftly. “John, please say nothing until I instruct you to answer. Next question.”

“Isn't it true, Mr. Madison, that at about 2:30 pm you left Michael on the third floor and went downstairs?”

Erdman nodded.

Madison looked relieved. “Yes. That is true.”

“Isn't it true that you met a boy at the front door, a boy who you then escorted to your house at 3276 Hamilton Avenue…” Burton looked up from his notepad. For some murky reason, beyond Bronski and Tanner, he needed to harass Madison. “…where you repeatedly sodomized him with a large foreign object?”

Madison shuddered. Erdman stood up, took several paces, and turned around. Still fuming, he glared at the three men sitting at the other side of the table.

“My client will not answer questions like these. If you persist, his every answer will be to exert his Fifth Amendment rights under the Constitution.” After a moment, he added, “Detective Burton, any further attempt to unnerve my client and distract him by getting him upset, I will bring to the judge as evidence of police harassment.”

Throughout, Burton scrutinized Madison's face for signs of distress. Instead, there was utter bewilderment, which was what he would’ve expected from someone who had no idea of what had been done to the boy.

“Counselor, I think your client is doing just fine,” he said caustically.

However, his mind was elsewhere. Janice came out to the tent for the sole purpose of telling him NOT to touch the boys. Just five minutes earlier would’ve been a disaster. He’d sucked Kyle’s penis much longer than he’d sucked Jeff’s. Maybe fifteen minutes of sweet delight. It was so much smaller than Jeff’s chunky penis, yet Kyle was much more responsive. Jeff just lay there, smirking contentedly. Kyle, usually the passive twin, oohed and gasped and bounced and writhed around the tent.

“Detective Burton, my client doesn’t deserve to be antagonized by you, or anyone else,” Erdman returned angrily.

“You think? Your client is charged with murder, kidnapping, gross sexual imposition, and felonious penetration of a minor. Felonious penetration occurs when a large foreign object is forcibly inserted into a boy’s rectum for three days.”

Madison tensed. He turned pale. He swallowed bile, close to throwing up.

“Detective, my client can leave this room if he pleases. He has agreed to this interview in the belief, apparently mistaken, that it will help to establish his innocence,” Erdman said, his voice ice-cold like Sunday’s weather.

Gorman smiled. “Can you tone it down a bit Kevin?”

“Tell me why you fought with Michael Lynch?” Burton asked casually.

“We really didn't fight, Detective. I've told you about Michael already. He can be difficult sometimes,” Madison turned slightly towards Erdman, catching his eye. “Michael is mildly retarded with social problems. A firm hand works best with him. Usually, he responds positively. Sometimes, he reacts negatively.”

“What was the fight about, Mr. Madison?” Burton continued.

He’d fought with Janice in front of the twins, something he’d promised himself he would never do. Even though the twins sided with him, it was still a dumb move on his part.

“It was about a circular saw he wanted to use to cut the ends of some old beams. I didn't think it was a good idea. He's strong enough, but he doesn't understand how dangerous it can be.”

Burton hesitated. Doctor Yates had elicited the same story from Michael before he had questioned him. He’d discarded the story as a fabrication, a not-very-smart kid trying to conceal what happened at New Way, the real reason why Madison went downstairs by himself.

“You expect me to believe that, Mr. Madison?” he said, though a little doubtful.

Janice didn’t believe him. She called him a liar in front of the twins. At the time, he could still taste Kyle’s sweet penis. Only minutes earlier, it was pulsing wildly as it imitated ejaculation. It felt like it was vibrating in his mouth. When it stopped jerking, he started rubbing, only faster than before, wanting to see if his son could go again. Kyle groaned and clung to his father as a second orgasm made him shudder. Overcome, Burton had lifted Kyle’s butt off the air mattress and rubbed his anus. He was still doing it when Janice shouted for him to come inside.

Madison ignored the jibe for several seconds. When Erdman failed to say anything he spoke. “I don't know what I expect when you don't believe anything I say.”

“Why did you go downstairs by yourself?”

Erdman rolled his pen between his fingers.

Madison still hesitated. “I went to get a jigsaw from my car. I thought it would be safer for him.”

“What happened when you went downstairs?”

Madison waited for Erdman’s signal. “Nothing!”

Burton smiled, not merely to addle Madison. Kyle had liked his father touching his hiney, every bit as much as Jeff, and probably more given how he wriggled back to make his father’s finger go in deeper.

“Who did you talk to?”

Again, Madison delayed. Erdman was making notes. “Colin; he stayed at New Way until his parents took him back.”

“Colin Eastman, right?” Burton didn’t wait for Madison to say. “After that, did you leave New Way?”

“Yes. The jigsaw wasn’t in the trunk, so I drove home to get it. I dropped Colin off at the Library. It was on the way.”

“Then, you went to 3276 Hamilton, is that correct?” Burton asked, now doubly distracted.

He hadn’t expected Kyle to get a third orgasm just from having his butt played with. Having his finger inside his son’s anus, changed everything between them. It wasn’t tight like Jeff’s, and his finger wasn’t just inside. It was all the way to the knuckle, and he could feel Kyle’s sleek hot insides. The look on Kyle’s face told him when he was in the right place.

Madison nodded. “I went to the house. I’d told Father DeLucca I had to check on the excavation. I was gone for thirty minutes. It generally takes Michael that long to get over his problem.”

Burton nearly laughed. “What did you talk about with Colin when you went downstairs?”

“I asked how he was doing. He’d run away again. He said his little brother was with him this time.”

“What about the other boy you talked to?

“My client did not see the boy prior to Tuesday morning, Detective,” Erdman said loudly.

“Michael Lynch has stated that he heard your client talking with a boy in the front hall of New Way. He identified the boy as the same one whose body Mr. Madison found behind his house.”

“Michael is a liar,” Madison said flatly. “I talked with Colin. No one else.”

“Why would Michael lie about it?” Burton asked. “Maybe he wanted to get back at you for not letting him use your electric saw.” He made it sound ridiculous.

“I talked Colin for a minute while I was leaving New Way...”

Burton barely heard him. Janice called him a pedophile in front of the boys. It made Kyle cry. A minute earlier, he’d been ecstatic. Had Jeff really sucked his penis while he finger-fucked his twin brother? Jeff’s tongue was warm and slippery with spit as it licked up and down his shaft. Then, Jeff had pulled down his foreskin and wiped it off with his hand before… Kyle twitched as he levered his finger back and forth. And Jeff was smirking about something as his head came closer and closer. The last thing Burton was was his son’s wide open mouth. It was only the tip, yet it was the most incredible sensation.

“…Colin wanted a lift up Olive Street.”

Burton wasn’t about to waste time asking questions about Colin Eastman when he had nothing to do with the case.

“How do you explain the fact that the dead boy’s missing sock was found inside your house?”

“Just a minute,” Erdman interrupted. “This is the first I've heard about a sock.”

Burton regarded the attorney testily. “I’m still waiting for the report. You’ll get it when I do.”

The Forensic Laboratory had established that the two socks were of the same size and design. While the chemical composition was very similar, one sock had a slightly higher percentage of nylon, 0.1 percent, which could be accounted for by the socks being manufactured on different machines, or at different times. It wasn’t enough to say they were made at different factories.

“I don't know how it got there,” Madison replied. He seemed humbled.

“John!” Erdman interrupted. “What sock, Detective?”

“There was a sock found on the boy’s body,” Burton explained. “I found its mate in Mr. Madison's basement.”

“What else did you find there?” Erdman demanded abruptly.

“You'll get an official report as soon as possible,” Burton said, his tone placating. He turned back to Madison.

After Janice returned to the house, the twins made him lie on the air mattress while they inspected his adult equipment up close with a flashlight. Jeff, the little rascal, had teased him relentlessly about not being circumcised. He was of a mind to get it done, just so he’d be the same as his sons. They weren’t keen about all the hair either, which convinced him that Michael was right about men shaving their groins not to scare off boys.

“Why don't you tell me about what happened at your house over the weekend, John?”

“I've already told you everything I know,” Madison said angrily.

“You kept him at your house from Saturday afternoon to late Monday night when you murdered him.”

“I did not kill him!” Madison retorted.

“Easy, John,” Erdman cautioned. “Just answer his question.”

“How about I answer it this way? Bull shit!”

Bronski leaned forward and tapped Burton’s shoulder. “Keep on him, Kevin. Do it for Puppy Eyes.”

“That thing you forced into his ass, Madison; we haven’t found it yet, but we will,” Burton said with unconcealed disgust. “You did it again and again, didn't you? He was screaming from the pain when you killed him, wasn't he?”

“For God’s sake! Enough already,” Erdman interjected.

“God had nothing to do with this! Moloch maybe,” Gorman snapped back.

Madison seemed not to hear. “I've told you already, I didn't touch him.”

“Oh you touched him alright,” Burton continued calmly. “You’re a pedophile. You made Michael Lynch give you oral sex.”

“You better have proof, Detective,” Erdman said.

“How about he described your client’s penis exactly.”

“You’re crazy!” It was the first time Madison raised his voice.

Burton hadn’t planned it this way. He didn’t understand why he did it. Perhaps because Madison was so good-looking. Perhaps because ever since his quantum physics lecture, he’d been thinking about Madison as a man who loved boys so much that he would never hurt them. Perhaps because for the last few minutes he’d been thinking that Madison would make a perfect companion for Kyle… Perhaps because he was still upset about Bronski telling him to make Madison squirm.

“Michael said your erection is between six and seven inches long, and thick compared to most men. You’re circumcised about two inches down,… oh and you’re shaved!” Burton placed a photo face down on the table. “I was at the jail when they searched you, Madison.”

Burton leaned across the table. His face was only a foot away from Madison's when he lifted up the photo. Madison seethed, rage boiling to the surface. Burton had used his cellphone camera through one-way glass. He’d zoomed in. Up close, and semi-erect, it looked big. Madison was hairless beneath his underpants.

“I have twins about the same age as the boy you murdered. Their mother worries constantly about someone like yourself getting his hands on them, only you're far worse than a pervert, Madison. You murdered him and threw his body behind your house.”

“I did not!”

“What went wrong, Madison? You didn’t fall into the trench by accident, did you? You thought someone saw you. You got scared and made up this story to cover it up, didn't you?”

Load him up with questions until he falters; it was a technique Burton had used with past success.

“I saw a light through the windows and I went to investigate,” Madison said tiredly. “I fell in the trench.”

“I’ve heard it all before. Why don't you tell me about how you tied him up with duct tape? Or about the hotdogs you fed him after you shoved them up his ass?”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“That makes two of us,” Erdman interjected. “I want a full report on all evidence found in the house.”

“You’ll get a copy an hour after it’s on my desk,” Burton said, unable to mask his irritation.

He was only that way because of Janice. They were always squabbling, not just about the twins, though they tended to be the focus of most of their fights. He wasn’t doing enough to make Jeff work harder at school. He babied Kyle too much. He spent too much time alone with Jeff. What was he talking about with Kyle in the bathroom? She didn’t want him talking to the twin about sexual matters.

Erdman leaned forward and placed his hands on the edge of the table. “This interview is terminated.”

“He was a handsome boy, wasn't he Madison?” Burton said quietly.

Madison glared back.

“You didn't mean to kill him, did you? Was he crying and you wanted him to stop? Was it an accident, Madison?”

“Don't answer any more questions, John,” Erdman instructed between shoving papers into his briefcase.

Burton smiled slightly. “It would be different if he wanted to go with you. Maybe you didn't rape him; who knows?”

“I didn't rape him!” Madison said emphatically.

“You wanted the boy to enjoy it? Is that why you used KY?”

“I’ve never used KY!”

Hearing the crack start, Burton was beyond stopping. “We found it in your trash can.”

“That's a lie!” Madison shouted.

“John, shut up!”

“No! It isn't true!”

“You prefer Vaseline?” Burton went for the carotid artery like a rabid dog.

“WHAT?”

“I thought pedophiles used Vaseline for experienced boys because it lasts longer,” Burton goaded, his sneer unmistakable as he forced open the crevice.

Madison’s knuckles were white. “You! You’d never understand.”

Erdman shoved back his chair. “That’s over the top, Detective.”

Gorman chuckled quietly. “Come on, Counselor. Let's try to be reasonable about this.”

“You want reasonable? I expect the evidence report in my office before tomorrow afternoon. I also want the autopsy and anything else you have against my client.”

Gorman continued to smile. “Now Mister Erdman, Detective Burton is just doing his job.”

“You've arrested Mr. Madison on suspicion of murder. You better have enough evidence to convict him otherwise my firm will bring a charge of false arrest.

“We both know a bluff when we see it. It will take a few days for the pathologist to get her final report out. The rest, I’ll try to speed up.”

Erdman stepped back from the table. “The interview is terminated. John, I don't want you discussing this with anyone, especially anyone you meet in here, guard or prisoner.”

+++++

Burton felt relieved as he walked back to Aleborn with Stan Bronski. Even though he’d accused Madison of the utmost depravity, his taunting was merely to evoke a response.

“You got it figured out, Kevin?” Bronski said while they waited for the lights on 5th street.

“My bet is he’s a runaway.” Burton pictured him as even more vulnerable than Colin and his little brother. He lacked precise details, though he doubted they would ever be known unless Madison confessed. “He turns up at New Way. He’s hungry, starved for affection, he needs a place to sleep. He’s cute, more than likely already hustling. He needs a guy to take care of him. Along comes Madison. He’s a closet pedo, smart, likeable, well off, so he gets in the car with him.

“At some point, the kid changes his mind because Madison’s a weirdo. Madison is worried, or things simply get out of hand, and the boy is killed. Either way, he’s dead by 11:00 pm on Monday, about the time Madison says he left the house.

“There’s a ready-made grave outside the house that will be filled in the next day. Early Tuesday morning, he dumps the body in the trench and begins to cover it, only his neighbor leaves for the airport. Either he startles Madison, causing him to fall into the trench, or Madison thinks he sees him, so he needs an excuse as to why he’s there.”

Bronski reflected. “Seems right to me. You did a great job on this one, Kevin. Tanner wants to see you tomorrow morning. I expect he wants to thank you personally. He's very pleased.”

“See if he can get me some wheels; something that doesn’t scream cop?”

What Burton wanted to say was ‘get me a car that my boys will like.’

“We talked about it. You’re on the list for a new Tahoe. Meanwhile, I’ve got an unmarked Dodge Charger for you, all black, ex-highway patrol.”

“Perfect.” It sounded sarcastic. It wasn’t.

“Tanner likes you. Play your cards right, Kevin, and there’ll be a promotion in this for you.”

“He was on TV last night, sharing the limelight with the mayor.”

“You can bet on their re-election. Solving major crimes in four days goes down well with voters. Especially the religious right.”

“We’d better pray the jury sends Madison to jail,” Burton said, mostly joking.

Bronski didn’t get the joke. “Any chance of that?”

“Gorman said it's a formality. He’s already got enough to go to trial. He’ll have ample for a conviction when the time comes.”

“You’re not convinced?”

Burton inclined his head. “Too many loose ends, I guess. That tattoo, for instance. The Vaseline jar and the plastic bag turning up in the trash can; Harrison swears he searched it. Why haven’t we found more evidence if the boy was in the house for three days? I keep thinking there’s a lot more to the case that I’m not seeing. You see Madison’s reaction when I called him on the KY?”

“You really pissed off Erdman.”

“Then, when I brought up Vaseline, I swear he sounded shocked. What I don’t get is that ‘you’d never understand’ comment?”

“He’s looking for forgiveness?”

“He’s not into self-flagellation! It was more like… he was trying to tell me something.”

“A charge of false arrest would really screw things up.” Bronski let the suggestion ferment.

“No shit! I’m not sure we should throw everything at him right away. Like kidnapping, there’s no evidence of that.”

“Tanner wants the fucker burned,” Bronski chuckled. “Kidnapping and sex abuse guarantees the death penalty. If we find out later he didn’t kidnap the kid, it’s no big deal. It sends a message to every fucking pedo in the city. I never said that, by the way.”

“Guilty or not, he’s fucked,” Burton said.

Part of him was certain Madison was guilty; the boy had definitely been in his house, yet the rest of the evidence was circumstantial.

“What's up?” Bronski asked.

“We have three items that put the boy in Madison’s house, and two of them are suspect because we missed them the first time. The only witness that places Madison with the deceased is a kid who’s supposedly retarded. If you met Michael Lynch, I think you'd understand the problem, Stan. He's over-sexed, masturbates constantly, and probably tried to get Madison to have oral sex with him. Other than that, he’s quite likeable. If he goes on the stand, Erdman will rip him apart.”

“Actually, Erdman will go easy on the kid. He may not even go on the stand. So what's the problem?”

“The case isn’t airtight. Did Madison do it? He’s more likely than anyone else, except I’ve a feeling there’s something important I don't know.”

“No case is airtight,” Bronski said. “That’s why we have black juries.”

Burton sighed. “Stan, I think I’ll take the afternoon off. Kyle has soccer training after school. I still haven't been to watch him. I've missed every match he's played this season.”

+++++

Kyle played recreation soccer through his school, the emphasis on exercise and having fun. Jeff played elite soccer with a private club, the goal to develop outstanding players, teams that played like machines, and ultimately to win. Still, Burton watched with pride as Kyle practiced kicking. There were more than a dozen boys on the field and Kyle was doing very well. The practice sessions with his twin brother were apparently paying off, though Kyle was far less agile than Jeff, and he lacked both stamina and aggression.

Almost as soon as Burton arrived, Kyle caught his eye and waved vigorously. With the sun on his back, Burton decided he’d made the right decision to take time off. A whistle blew and the variously attired boys sprinted back to gather around the coach.

The boys milled excitedly around a middle-aged man, his white polo shirt with a big red ‘S’ and skimpy black nylon shorts proclaiming ‘soccer’ persona. They scuffled together with an easy familiarity, engaging in energetic boy-play. Their voices carried clearly through the crisp clear air, high-pitched, with shrieks and shouts until they finally settled down.

Burton recognized five of the boys on the team because they played with the twins, and several of the fathers from taking their kids to seemingly endless birthday parties. However, the coach was also familiar, though he had no idea where he’d seen him. He tousled one boy's hair, tickled Kyle, and put a playful half-nelson on another boy who was acting up, shooting make-believe baskets with a soccer ball. Amused by their friend's predicament, all the boys rushed to help him, dragging the coach down into a melee of prepubescent bodies. Innocent fun, or was it?

Madison was outgoing like this man, Burton realized. He was trim and good-looking, and he interacted with the boys in a manner that bothered him. It would be easy for him to develop a rapport with a boy like Kyle. Was the coach like Madison in other ways? Did he have a long thick cock? What did Colin say about big cocks and little boys? ‘Nothin’ better for a kid.’ The very thought made him tremble.

He began to walk towards the writhing tangle of young bodies around the coach.

When the coach finally shook the last boy free, Kyle moved back, standing quietly, almost resentfully, as Burton introduced himself.

Burton announced, “Hi, I'm Kevin Burton, Kyle's father, unfortunately.” He grinned at Kyle, who relaxed slightly.

“Kyle's the ticklish one who thinks he wants to play goalie,” the coach laughed and straightened up. “I’m Coach Landers. I hear you're a detective. Kyle was bragging about you before we started practice. You just solved a big case, right?”

Burton glanced sideways and caught his son's eyes. It was a proud moment for him.

“I hope so. We’ve arrested a suspect, though it's really not over until we get a conviction.”

The coach turned his attention to his players. “Okay giggle-heads, that's enough clowning around. Go kick some balls. Not each other’s. Two on two. I want to see teamwork this time. You're not playing by yourselves out there.”

“How is Kyle doing, Coach?” Burton asked when the boys had departed.

“Kyle's great. He's really getting into it. His last two matches were awesome. He’s got a fraction of his brother’s skill, but he’s the smarter player.”

Burton smiled. Apparently, he wasn’t the only one who saw it. Jeff still played tactical soccer, following his coach’s formulae for victory. Not Kyle, he invented tactics on the fly with a constantly evolving strategy. It was the same way he got though every day.

“With some extra coaching, he could be playing elite,” the coach went on. “I help out with Fairview Heights Tigers. I get to watch the Colts sometimes. Kyle’d fit right in, though this team would suffer.“

Burton thought he looked familiar. “Kyle’s not into soccer enough to practice that hard.”

“Every kid here is a fifty percenter. He wants to be goalie, only he’s better mixing it up on the field. You should see him play.”

“I haven't had time,” Burton said, guiltily waving at Kyle as he trotted after a stray soccer ball.

“Most of the parents are too busy. You're in Homicide, aren't you?”

Burton nodded and followed Kyle's darting movements on the field. An hour of practice in the backyard every day after school was transforming both boys, burning off energy and bringing them even closer. Initially, Janice was against the idea, though she’d relented when homework quality also improved.

“Kyle said you were investigating the boy who was found last week?” Burton nodded again as the coach shouted. “DON'T RUN AWAY FROM THE BALL, LEWIS! KICK IT!”

He turned back to Burton. “He was raped before he died, huh?”

“That's what we think happened.”

“The bastard who did it deserves to die painfully.”

“If he's lucky he’ll get the death penalty. Jail is hell for pedophiles.”

As he watched, Burton began to smile. His son was the smallest boy in his two-on-two match, yet he clearly outperformed the other three. He liked how the coach was supportive while he challenged the boys to do better He treated every boy the same; they all had nicknames. Kyle was Goof-Butt. He knew what each boy was good at, and where he needed improvement. Kyle needed ‘aggression shots.’

“Which one is yours?” Burton asked curiously.

“All of them,” the coach chuckled. “CLOSE IN JACKSON! My ex-wife's got the kids in LA with her.”

“Why do you coach?”

“Because I love it. I've been coaching since college. I played for Stanford. It helps to keep my mind off my own kids.”

“You're lucky to have the time.”

“It gets me out of the office. When I'm finished here, I go back to work for a few hours. GET UP THERE, ACE! KICK IT GOOF BUTT!” The coach smiled. “Sorry, I forgot Kyle is yours.”

“Feel free to shout at him. Sometimes, I wonder whether we're on the same planet. He can be pretty dreamy at times.”

“He's a cute kid. He seems out of it, but he really does listen. I never have to say anything to him twice.”

“I used to wonder whether his having a twin brother was the problem. They get on well together, but Jeff’s a hard act to follow. He's been playing elite since he was seven.”

Coach Landers smiled. “I expect Kyle knows he's smarter though.”

“Too smart for his own good sometimes. He stretches my patience a dozen times a day,” Burton said good humoredly.

“Has he always been shy?”

Burton was sure he heard more than interest. “He's been getting a bit better lately.”

“I had a player last year who started out just like him. He got accepted into a special program. You could see a difference after a week. Get Kyle in it and he'll be like his brother before you know it.”

Burton laughed. “Don't say that! Two Jeffs would be too much to handle. I want Kyle to stay just the way he is right now.”

“GREAT KICK, JACKSON! NOW FOLLOW UP!” The coach shook his head in dismay. “That boy must be the slowest kid on the team. If only the rest of them could kick like him. How did you catch Madison?”

The question startled Burton. Suddenly, he wasn’t sure whether Madison's name had been used on the press release. He’d talked about it with Public Relations. He was against it, just in case he was wrong. There was no reason to ruin a man’s life if he was innocent.

“He’s the suspect, isn't he?” the coach continued.

Burton was jolted again. He was certain the TV stations didn’t know Madison's name, though it wouldn’t be much longer.

“It's hard to believe Madison would kill a kid,” the coach continued. “And that other stuff, well that's too weird even for him.”

“Huh?” Burton muttered.

His chin bristled with a day's growth of beard. The twins were as smooth as babies. It was one of the things he loved about them.

“I never would’ve guessed he was some kind of pervert.”

“You know him?”

“He came to see me earlier this year. I’m in Engineering. He has plans for an infinite energy machine, way out sci-fi stuff.”

“You're at the University?”

“I thought you knew. I told your wife when she brought Kyle at the start of the season. That's how I get time off to coach. If I had a real job, I'd be at work now.”

Burton glanced at the coach. His intuition said the coach was holding back something that involved Madison.

“So you met with him?” he said.

“He wanted to talk about how to build it. Basically, it has to defy gravity. He’s not what you’d call a practical genius. EVERYONE, FIVE LAPS AROUND THE FIELD.”

The boys groaned and started running. Kyle dropped behind, chatting to a dark-headed boy as they jogged.

“He really is a genius, you know. I first met him on the Porn Committee,” the coach volunteered.

Burton almost choked. He waited patiently, half-following Kyle’s progress.

“One of the Vice Presidents decided that the University needed standards for Internet use in the dorms, so they set up a committee. The two of us were on it. The rest were women. It was quite a show they put on. Outright censorship of anything sexual, no consideration of free speech, though in a way they had a case because some of the stuff dealt with some pretty gross things.”

“Such as?”

“The worst was stuff involving animals and children. I mean…” He looked around. “There was streaming video of a pony doing a little girl on some farm in Yugoslavia. Everyone was appalled. Definitely not the sort of thing that should be tolerated in a university.”

“Tell me about Madison's role on the committee.”

“He was pretty outspoken about free speech. He also made the point that we needed to educate our students to make informed choices about how they used technology. He brought some photos to the second meeting. He was trying to make the point that we shouldn’t eliminate access to everything remotely concerned with sex.”

“What sort of photos?” Burton asked cautiously.

Landers smiled slightly. “There were three photos of nudist kids that obviously wouldn’t destroy the morals of our faculty and students. And there were three photos of a boy in a Speedo, professionally taken, very artistic. You couldn’t see anything, yet you got the impression that the boy was really into the sexual aspect. The photos were pornographic, depending on how you looked at them, plus they were legal.”

“All boys?”

“There may have been a girl in one of the nude photos. They were harmless really, so Madison made his point.”

Burton felt a surge of excitement. “Where are the photos now?”

“Somewhere in the campus cloud. You know what made me bring this up?

“No idea actually.”

“That house Madison is fixing up; in a way I’m the reason why he bought it. I coached a kid who lived there. Bobby Fuller, he was the shy kid I was talking about, only he wasn’t shy after a couple of weeks. That leadership program he was in meant he had to miss a few games, but when he played he was my star player. We were two games from winning the championship when his family moved to Santa Monica. I told Madison about it being for sale.”

Coach Landers blew his whistle. It startled Burton and brought the jogging boys to a halt. They dropped and imitated a dozen pushups before they ran across the field to their waiting parents. Practice was over. Kyle picked up the pace, waving to his father.

Burton said a quick goodbye to Coach Landers. With one hand on Kyle’s shoulder and his over-stuffed backpack in Burton’s other hand, father and son hurried to the parking lot. It was either that or get Kyle’s insulated jacket out of his backpack.

“Awe-some!” Kyle screeched before he ran up to Burton’s temporary black Charger.

It was the Pursuit model, with the Hemi V-8, all-wheel-drive, and extra wide tires. Three other boys were already there, trying to look through the darkly tinted windows. Burton opened the passenger door, tossed Kyle’s backpack into the rear, and stepped aside for Kyle to climb into his moment of glory.

As Kyle babbled on about all the instruments and switches, but mostly the computer in the center console, Burton drove sedately out of the parking lot. With a flick of a switch blinding blue and red lights flashed behind the grill. He floored the accelerator. There was a sideways slide in loose gravel before AWD took over. The speedo hit 53 mph before he backed off. Another second, and the car would’ve exceeded freeway speeds.

Burton glanced across at his passenger. Shy Kyle was grinning at his father, kneading his crotch with his fist.

“You got a stiff?” Burton asked, already back to a gurgling safe cruising speed.

Jeff would’ve pulled down the front of his soccer shorts. Kyle just shrugged. “Kinda.”

Burton took his right hand off the steering wheel and reached over. He patted Kyle’s thigh, very aware of firm warm boy flesh under the satiny material.

“You warm enough?”

“Mmmhmmm.” Kyle swiveled to look out the window at a bright red Pontiac that had caught his attention. “Thanks for picking me up from practice.”

“It’s cool. Sorry I can’t be there more often. You’re getting really good.”

It was an honest appraisal. Burton stoked his lust with another sideways glance. Kyle was beyond good looking. It was like having a little Adonis in the passenger seat. Perfection smiled back at him. It fascinated him how a boy could be so beautiful that he couldn’t stop staring. And it wasn’t just him. Coach Landers watched Kyle far more than any of the other boys.

He stroked Kyle’s slender thigh. He was lost for words. His son was gorgeous. In the distance, the police dispatcher was giving location and background information to a squad car headed to a domestic violence report. There was another report of shots fired on 13th Street, the second time in two hours. Sooner or later, he had to talk about it.

“When you’re on the Internet, you and Jeff look at dirty pictures, right?” he asked.

Kyle didn’t answer right away. After thinking it through, he nodded slightly.

“Photos of men?” Burton couldn’t imagine Kyle looking at anything else, yet he needed to be certain.

Again, Kyle’s head barely bobbed.

Burton smiled. “You like big dicks, huh Fluffy?”

“Kinda,” Kyle murmured. He stared down.

Burton had never seen his son look so vulnerable. “Being attracted to guys is nothing to be ashamed about.”

“It means I’m gay, Dad.”

“Well yeah!” Burton laughed. He gave a parting squeeze and took his hand away to search the folder he’d left on the console. “Listen Fluff, I’m going to show you a photo, and I want you to tell me what you think, okay?”

He handed the photo to Kyle. Kyle opened his mouth to say something, and stopped. If he needed more confirmation, his son’s hand trembled.

"It's big," Kyle whispered. He peeked at his dad before he looked at the photo again. "Why doesn't he have any hair?"

"He shaves it off... so he looks like a boy."

"Yeah?" Kyle licked his lips. "It's really beautiful." He licked his lips again. "I like it all smooth."

"I figured you might."

"Who is it?"

"Just a guy. No one you know."

Burton left Madison’s photo on the console where Kyle could see it and settled his hand on his son’s thigh again. After a few moments. Kyle’s little hand covered Burton’s hand and held it tight. He pulled gently, drawing his father’s hand a few inches higher and over, relocating fingers from his soft inner thigh to cupping his little bulge.

“Is there another reason why he shaves down there, you think?” Burton posed, his fingers pressing into little balls, his thumb caressing a smaller, hotter, infinitely softer ‘thumb.’ Kyle giggled and turned away. “Out with it, Fluffy.”

“So his boyfriend doesn’t get pubic hairs in his mouth.”

Burton laughed, both shocked and delighted his son was so brazen. “You think I should shave down there?”

“Um…. I guess. It might be fun.”

Kyle’s groin was hot, his little dick completely hard. It got Burton wondering whether seeing the photo caused it. He wanted to think it was his manipulation, yet he sensed Kyle was wired differently than Jeff. He fondled gently, his fingertips teasing, rubbing the little bulb on the tip. Unfortunately, there were soccer shorts and briefs in the way. Casually, his fingers inched under the elasticized waistband of Kyle’s shorts and plucked at warm briefs. He rubbed Kyle’s lower belly, slipping his little finger between the boy’s thighs, playfully poking at his balls.

“Does it bother you what Jeff and I did in the tent?” he asked.

“Should it?”

Kyle had watched his twin brother suck their father’s penis. Mostly, Jeff licked it. It was only for a few seconds that the huge red knob was actually inside his mouth, and then he laughed about it, and spat, and gagged, and said it tasted awful.

“Is it a bad thing if he wanted to?” Kyle asked, partly for himself.

Burton squished rigid boy dick. “Does this feel like a bad thing?”

“Uh uh.” Kyle shook his head. “Do it more on the end, please.”

“Sure Fluffy-boy. I’ll play with this little guy whenever you want, so long as your mom doesn’t find out.”

“Sheesh, Dad.” Kyle kept peeking at the console, although he made a concerted effort to appear disinterested.

Burton was hardly surprised. So what if Kyle couldn’t stop looking at the photo? If he really was queer; he was supposed to look at men’s dicks. It was probably a good thing he kept looking at it.

Burton drove a mile on autopilot, worrying about the shy little boy sitting next to him, rolling his stubby erection between his thumb and first finger. Only when Kyle was twitching, did he mash the swollen tip with his thumb. Suddenly, Kyle might have been trying to pass a kidney stone, squeezing down, clenching his fists, his eyes shut tight. Burton felt it throbbing, flexing, straining in his grasp.

“Squeeze harder,” Kyle gasped.

He did it again, even harder. This time, Kyle shuddered, trying his best to explode.

“You want it harder?” Burton pressed. Unable to stop himself, Kyle nodded. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Daddy, please,” Kyle whined, nodding, too afraid to said what he wanted, unable to resist his urgent need. He twitched intermittently.

Ever since Kyle sucked his twin brother’s penis, Burton suspected Kyle was hiding more than a gay inclination, though he never expected it would be some sort of masochistic thing.

He glanced again. Kyle was staring at the photo, flicking his tongue like he could taste it on his lips. For a gay boy, Madison’s penis was inspirational. He whimpered softly as his father abused his penis. Burton rubbed until it was so sensitive Kyle voiced his ecstasy with a loud moan.

“Pull down your shorts, Fluffy,” Burton said, his voice hoarse with excitement.

Kyle lifted his butt off the standard cop seat. There were no bolsters to catch side-arms, a heavy-duty seat belt, the vinyl scratched by two years of abuse. He yanked down his soccer shorts and underpants and settled back down as his father’s hand returned to his crotch.

Burton began to masturbate him, jerking his son’s short shaft, making his balls bounce around underneath.

“That photo, you really like looking at it, huh?” he muttered. Kyle’s penis flicked in response. Could a ten-year-old penis get any stiffer?

“Mmmhmmm.” Already, Kyle was breathing faster.

“Would you like to…” Burton made his son wait, squeezing his penis relentlessly until he groaned. “Suck it.”

“Suck it….” Kyle wheezed. “Yes. Yes.”

Burton twisted his hand relentlessly, and squeezed. The pressure was so great that Kyle trembled mightily. He strained into his father’s hand, so tense that his face was red and his neck tendons looked like cords.

“That feel nice?” His precious son was a hot little bitch, hungry for sex.

“Daddy… Daddy… Ahhh…”

“You want a big cock so bad you can’t stand it. You need it bad, don’t you Fluffy?”

Kyle nodded wildly.























Chapter 15.



The next time that Burton saw Madison was a week after his arrest. Madison was waiting with Erdman outside Judge Elisha Bowman's chambers. Bowman was the last judge Burton would have picked to preside over the case. That he was ten minutes late was an obvious problem though it wasn’t his fault.

All but Madison and his guard filed into the Judge’s chambers. Burton sat down, taking a seat next to Gorman in case he was needed. Bronski had given no reason for him to be there, except Tanner’s secretary called a few minutes earlier. Certainly, there were no new facts that had a bearing on the case. Nothing had changed since he’d passed the case to the prosecutor's office. The order to attend the hearing was a complete surprise.

Silence persisted for a minute as the judge perused the papers before her. Her upward glance came abruptly as if the document wasn’t worth studying any longer. She looked around. She greeted Burton with a glare.

Her finger tapped the page she held. “This, is a problem. Taken with the rest, it borders on grounds for dismissal,” She gestured to two other pages lying on her desk. “First, there’s the incident and obvious complicity. Then, there are two rules of due process that appear to be grossly violated by the State.”

“Your honor, the State can’t be held accountable for any of this,” Gorman stated. He sounded worried despite slouching. “There’s no complicity, that’s for sure. I'm sorry that Mr. Madison may have been… er subjected to… er…mistreatment yesterday…”

“Mistreatment is a gross understatement, Counselor.”

“Your Honor, the so-called due process breeches are just the usual delays in getting reports completed. We have half our staff out sick with the flu.”

“We’ll get to due process in due course, Mr. Gorman. What I want to know is why was Mr. Madison placed in the cell block for convicted criminals? We have an entire wing for defendants pending their cases.”

“I agree the incident shouldn’t have happened, Your Honor. I expect someone screwed up, Your Honor. While it's regrettable, this type of thing happens in jail.”

“Until Mr. Madison is convicted, we must presume that he is innocent of the crimes he's charged with. Is that clear?”

“Very clear, Your Honor. However, we only have Madison's word that anything actually happened to him. There aren’t any witnesses, and it doesn’t help that Madison can't identify his assailant.”

“You're suggesting that he’s lying?” Judge Bowman asked.

Burton sensed he needed to stay silent, though his curiosity was unbearable.

“Your Honor, Mr. Madison's claim is completely unsubstantiated.”

“Mr. Gorman, is it common knowledge in the County Jail that he's been charged with a sex crime against a child?”

“I wouldn’t know, Your Honor.” Gorman cleared his throat. “Word usually gets around.”

“A charge like that attracts violent behavior, does it not?”

Gorman shrugged. “There’s no report of him being at the infirmary.”

“That Counselor, is complicity! I have no doubt that Mr. Madison was assaulted! He was taken to the infirmary and examined. He was given an enema and drugs to calm him down. No one reported it officially. Why was that?”

“No idea, Your Honor. ”

“Your honor,” Erdman began plaintively.

“Mr. Erdman, I will get to you in due course. I want to be sure the prosecuting attorney understands that I will not tolerate incidents like this in cases before this court.”

“Your Honor, there's not much that I can do personally to stop a thing like this from happening. Maybe there was some miscommunication. I’ll do my best to make sure the proper procedures are followed in future.”

“You had better do better than that, Mr. Gorman. I wouldn't be surprised if Mr. Erdman's office is preparing a suit right now.”

Across the room, Gorman nodded. Burton was more confused than ever.

Erdman took silence as his opportunity. “Mr. Madison was examined by his doctor this morning, Your Honor. I am appalled that Mr. Gorman calls rape the result of miscommunication! I’m not surprised though, not when he brings a case before the court based on assumptions, not facts. ” Erdman glanced at Gorman. “Not only does he ignore destruction of evidence, he withholds reports and provides out-of-date material.“

Judge Bowman leaned back and folded her arms. “I noticed that no samples were taken from Mr. Madison after the rape; I find that incredible! The Court must assume there is a likelihood Mr. Madison will contract AIDS.”

Gorman was flustered as she glared at him. “Naturally the State will do everything in its power to ensure this doesn't happen again. Child killers are very unpopular in jail. Short of putting Mr. Madison in solitary confinement there isn't a solution.”

“Perhaps the Court might reconsider Defense's application for bail in the light of this?”

“No, Mr. Erdman. Given the severity of the charge, bail would be inappropriate, though I may consider the possibility at a later time. Meanwhile, I will offer the Court’s apology to Mr. Madison for this travesty and hope for the best.” She turned to Gorman. “Any further incidents of ‘miscommunication’ and I will declare a mistrial. Clear?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Gormon held up a package of envelopes. “With regard to the due process issues before the Court, I have Mr. Erdman’s reports with me.”

“You can bring Mr. Madison in now, Bailiff,” Judge Bowman settled back in her leather seat. “Mr. Erdman, we will proceed through your issues. If you agree to keep your client out of the discussion, he can stay.”

“Yes. Your Honor,” Erdman leaned forward attentively. “First, the Defense has requested a deposition of Michael Lynch. The Department of Child Welfare informed us that the witness is a minor with mental retardation, which precludes our access without the senior administrator of the department being present.”

“Your Honor, the Defense has already interviewed the witness on two occasions,” Gorman interjected quickly. “The boy is being unnecessarily harassed.”

“Your Honor, every time we’ve attempted to interview Michael Lynch we have not been able to obtain satisfactory responses.”

“Such as?”

“If I ask him a question he looks to the administrator before he answers. She either nods or shakes her head. When she nods, he says yes, and when she shakes, it’s no. The situation is ridiculous.”

“Your Honor, the boy in question has an IQ of 83. We have a psychologist's report…” Gorman held up a paper. “He is very easily confused. We believe that the Defense is deliberately antagonizing him.”

“Your Honor, if the Prosecutor will allow me to finish. The Defense moves to compel the witness to attend deposition with the senior administrator present in the room, but out of sight.”

“I understand. I'll need a day to review the matter.”

Judge Bowman waited while Erdman stood up, and escorted his client to his seat. Until now, John Madison had been no more to her than a name on a file, a person who television reporters described at a child abuser and murderer, as if the case was already decided. She studied him closely while he sat quietly staring at her desk with downcast eyes.

“Mr. Madison,” she began uncertainly. “You have the Court’s sympathy. I sincerely regrets the events of yesterday.”

Madison nodded, his eyes never lifting. His hands lapped together, his left grasping the wrist of the other with a force that whitened his knuckles. He looked like a man afraid of dying, if not from the injection of lethal chemicals, then from AIDS.

Judge Bowman cleared her voice with a slight cough. “Mr. Madison, even though you are incarcerated, you do not lose your rights. Given the nature of your injury and the duty of the State to protect, you have the right to sue.”

Madison nodded again, but as he did so, his eyes flickered to the side, to Burton. His look of hatred was unmistakable. Slowly he turned to the judge. “Your Honor, I just want this over with.”

“Next issue, Mr. Erdman,” Judge Bowman said. No one had ever made her feel so inferior. It was as if Madison had looked right through her.

“Your Honor, I requested the official report on environmental conditions. I was given a web address, www.noaa.gov.”

“Your honor, I have here a report prepared by the Bureau of Meterology and the weather station at the airport for the weather conditions for the general region during the hours between 11.00 p.m. on Monday the 28th of November and 9.00 a.m. of Tuesday the 29th of November,” Gorman passed a sheet of paper to Erdman.

For several seconds Erdman scanned the paper.

Gorman held up a second page. “This is the crime scene report, with relevant weather conditions. If I may read, ‘Dr. Andrews arrived at the house at 7:40am and was met by Detective Mitchell of Forensics. At approximately 7.45 a.m., Mitchell observed that rain mixed with snow had fallen during the night, and that a light rain was continuing to fall at that time. An ambient air temperature of 35 degrees Fahrenheit was recorded at the crime scene by both Andrews and Mitchell at approximately 7.45 a.m.’” Gorman paused. “I am skipping some details concerning the crime scene, Your Honor. ‘At approximately 8.00 a.m., the light rain had ended. Doctor Andrews recorded measurements in the vicinity of the body. The air temperature had fallen to 31 degrees Fahrenheit. The ground temperature at that time was 33 degrees Fahrenheit.’

“Your Honor, the report goes on to provide the temperature of the deceased’s body, and so on. The Defense now has enough to use commonly accepted forensic science, to calculate the time of death, if it wants.”

Erdman's right hand clenched as he started to come to his feet. He eased back down. “Your Honor, the Defense wants to calculate the time. However, ‘commonly accepted forensic science’ requires accurate temperatures from the time of the murder until the time the first body temperature was taken. Not approximations by a local weather service. And what are ‘measurements in the vicinity of the body’ exactly?”

Burton was miles away. It was Friday, the week after the murder, when he found incriminating files in a desktop folder entitled ‘Research Work’ on Burton’s home computer. He remembered feeling aroused as images of pre-pubescent, naked boys appeared on the high-resolution screen. There wasn’t a picture of the dead boy as he’d hoped, yet it was convincing evidence of Madison's guilt. The boys were engaged in various sexual activities with a black man, masturbating, sucking, even fucking.

Burton and leaned forward. “Excuse me, Your Honor, but I might be able to clarify. Mr. Erdman, I was at the crime scene at the time when the temperatures were taken. I watched Dr. Andrews take the ground temperature. The body had been removed from the bottom of the trench because access was impossible and it was partially filled with water. The temperature was taken about six inches from the body, in the dirt excavated to make the trench. It was only about six feet from the trench so I would assume that the temperature would be very close to that of the trench.”

Erdman nodded. “Thank you, Detective Burton.”

Madison looked up. “Uh, I'm sorry, but it’s likely the ground temperature is higher!”

Judge Bowman looked at Erdman, not Madison. “Are you saying you observed the temperature was incorrectly taken, or that it was taken from the wrong place?”

“No! Yes! Well, not exactly,” Madison mumbled. “The temperature is different lower down.”

“Lower down where? What are you talking about, Mr. Madison?”

Gorman breathed out heavily. “Your Honor, if it please the Court, we do need to move on to the autopsy report. Perhaps Mr. Madison should leave so that we can continue. His attendance here is out of order.”

“The temperature will be lower the lower in the ground. No, I mean it might be higher. I'm sorry. I mean it might be higher if it was taken lower.”

“Jesus,” Gorman groaned. “Your Honor? We need to move on.”

“Your Honor, could my client finish his thought first,” Erdman interrupted. He whispered aside, “Calm down! Always say ‘Your Honor.’”

Madison inhaled. “Your Honor… the lower one goes in the ground, the higher the temperature becomes. Actually, it depends on where you are. It will be the opposite up north in Spring, because the ground stays frozen longer and the top thaws.” He stopped, glancing at Erdman for support. There was none forthcoming. “It's not rocket science. It's why we put foundations in the ground deep enough to be below the frost line. We do the same for drainage pipes. They have to be deep enough that the water inside them doesn't freeze up.”

Gorman sighed loudly. “You Honor, can we move the discussion from footers and sewers.”

“Mr. Madison, if you have more on this subject, you should discuss it with your attorney.”

“Your Honor, the Defense requested page 13 and 14 of the autopsy report. These pages were not finalized when the report was released. I have them here.” Gorman held up two pages. “May I read it aloud so there is no further suggestion that the State did not provide it?”

“Proceed, Counsellor.”

“’Examination of the anus, rectum, and lower intestine was undertaken during the autopsy. The anus and anal passage was studied microscopically. There were four longitudinal fissures, likely caused by over stretching of surrounding tissue. There was discoloration of the anal verge consistent with surface and internal bruising that would result from penetration of the bowel by a large foreign object. The estimated diameter of the object is between 2” and 2.5” inches. The length exceeded 5 inches.’” Gorman glanced at Madison, who seemed unaware of the implications. “Your Honor, the report goes on the describe damage to the rectum, all consistent with the preceding observation, so I’ll go on to the next section.”

“‘ Seminal fluid reagents produced negative results, consistent with the perpetrator wearing a condom and flushing of the rectum with saline solution. Scrapings of the lining of the rectum revealed the presence of oil-based or hydro-carbon compounds. Subsequent tests indicated one compound to be white petrolatum, such as is found in many brands of petroleum jelly such as Vaseline, which is available at most drug stores. There was also a small quantity of blood in the rectum of the same type as the deceased. The conclusion reached by this medical examiner is that the deceased was sodomized on multiple occasions. There was no stool, again indicative of flushing of the bowels. An undigested beef and cheese hotdog was recovered from the colon where it had been forcibly compacted...”

Judge Bowman glared at the Prosecutor seated before her. “I will not sit here and listen to the inhumane treatment afforded to the boy prior to his death so you can make your point!” Silence hung heavily in the overheated room like a shadow of gloom. The ringing of a telephone in the adjoining room was barely audible. “With this kind of case it's all too easy for a jury to focus on inflammatory detail. Anyone who hears the autopsy report will react negatively. They would find the Pope guilty.” The knock on the door cut though Judge Bowman’s outrage. “Come in!”

Her receptionist poked her head inside. “Excuse me. There's a call for Detective Burton from the Mayor's Office. He's to contact Mr. Bronski as soon as possible. It sounded very urgent.”

Burton stood up, irritated, knowing that Bronski wanted to reassure the Mayor and Tanner they could use the case to enhance their public relations.

“Please excuse me, Your Honor. It appears that I’m called by a higher authority.”

Judge Bowman smiled graciously. “Detective, we both know that you aren't in a position to bite the hand that feeds you.”

Burton departed. No longer steamed up, he was annoyed enough to take his time returning the phone call. After a brief visit to the bathroom, he located a quiet corner and called the Mayor's Office. His attendance was required immediately!

+++++

Within a minute of leaving the Judge’s chambers, Burton was on his cell phone. He had a text message waiting from Jeff.

‘colts in playoffs next stop new orleans december 14 you get to not sleep with me love u scruff butt

After thinking about ‘scruff butt’, Burton texted back. ‘u might be sore during game u sure’

He hoped Jeff would be up for anal. They had talked around the subject a few times, after Jeff wanted to know what guys did together. Afterwards, there were crude jokes, a few hinting that he was interested in trying it. However, it was more than a hint on the way home from practice two nights before. Jeff had come right out and asked ‘Will taking you up my butt hurt a whole lot?’ Burton thought he’d done a good job of dodging that bullet.

As he walked towards City Hall, he checked the Fairview Heights Junior Elite Soccer Team website. Right there on the front page was the announcement. ‘Colts Make Regionals. GO COLTS.’ There was a photo of Jeff, grinning, balancing a soccer ball on his fingertip. The trip arrangements were on the next page. The team was staying at Holiday Inn, $89.99 a night with breakfast included. He entered Burton and his password only to find Jeff, or most likely Kyle, had already hacked the account. Someone had already booked a non-smoking room with a king.

When his real misgivings arrived, Burton could never be certain. He was within sight of the architectural extravaganza of City Hall. It was a Midwest Chateau de Chambord with ornamental dormer windows and abundant towers. He walked right past the sky-lighted atrium, oblivious to the frescos. Mostly thinking about spending a weekend alone with Jeff, he skipped the elevator and began the long haul up the staircase. He paused at the landing to catch his breath. The marble was breathtaking; however, with his eyes half-closed, Burton worried.

Something had been wrong all along; not new. He’d missed a clue of vital importance; again not new. Even thoughts about what might happen with Jeff were background noise like the constant echo around him. His intuition was adamant; the piece missing in his puzzle had to do with Madison’s expertise on footings and buildings, and the depths at which pipes were placed. He was supposed to be a quantum physicist, and a genius too, not a building expert. Was there anything he didn’t know?

“The goddamn timing is wrong!” he said aloud. “That’s why Madison was going on about the goddamn ground temperature!”



Chapter 16

Burton made his way to the Mayor’s Office where he took a seat on a bench in the hall. While he waited to be called in, he phoned Doctor Marvin Blake, the head medical examiner. He waited for ten minutes, listening to recorded music until Blake's familiar voice came to the phone.

“Blake here!”

“This is Burton! I have a question for you Marv.”

“You dragged me away from road-kill so make it a good one,” Blake chuckled. “What can I do you for Kevin?”

“I have a question about the John Doe Junior who turned up while you were in Hawaii playing golf,” Burton parried.

“That's Andrews'. Policy says all questions go to the case examiner. Only you want me, don't you, Kevin?”

“If I wanted Doctor Andrews, I would have called her. I need to know something that might contradict what she put in the official report.”

“At least you're honest, Kevin. Fire away!”

“How much do you know about the case?”

“A boy was found in a trench. Asphyxiated, nude, sexually abused, and his rectum was stretched. Unusual diet. Tattoo on his belly. Your normal weirdo at work.”

“That trench ran beside the basement wall of a house, Marv. It was raining on and off during the night so the trench was partly filled with water. To make a long story short, the trench was narrow at the bottom so Andrews had the body lifted out so she could go to work.”

“That’s standard,” Blake said. “Assuming photos were taken before hand, there’s not a lot she could do under those conditions.”

“I need to know how the body would be affected being at the bottom of the trench.”

“Other than being wet and dirty. The answer is it depends.”

“Depends on what?” Burton asked.

“If you're trying to figure out the approximate time of death then you need think about how long the corpse was lying in water, how much of it was covered by water, and that’s only the start.”

“Okay. How about accurately measuring the ground temperature?”

“That's a biggie. It’s why the time the body spent in the water would come into play. Ground temperature’s important, but if the body’s in water, it's going to cool the body down by conducting heat away faster.”

“Where would you measure the temperature, Marvin?”

“Under the body. In this situation, I'd hang a thermometer over the side of the trench as close to the body as I could get.”

“You wouldn't measure it at the surface?”

“Hell no! The temperature varies with depth into the ground.”

“That really such a big problem?” Burton asked. This was what Madison was going on about.

“Might be few degrees off. It depends on the surface temperature and how far down in the ground.”

“The air temperature was 31 degrees and the surface temperature was 33 degrees. The trench is about six feet down.”

“That far? This time of year, I'd expect it to be about 60 to 65 degrees. You did say that the trench was next to a house, didn't you? That could have an effect as well, depending on the thickness of the wall and the amount of insulation. Until I know more, 60 degrees would be a safe guess. Have I answered your question, Kevin?”

“More or less, Marvin. What if the body was lying on a plastic drainpipe and not in the water?”

“It would depend where the pipe was coming from and what was inside it.”

“It’s a new sewer line from the house.” Burton was beginning to think he was wasting his time. “Marv, with a ground temperature of thirty instead of sixty degrees, would that have a big effect on the time of death?”

“Time of death? No, but it would affect my estimated time of death?”

“Very funny, Marvin! How much are we talking about?” Burton was getting impatient, and worried.

“It depends on how she calculated the estimated time of death, and how it was used with her other observations on the corpse, Kevin. What did she put in the report?”

Burton thought back to the last time that he had seen Dr. Andrews. They were in the Prosecutor's Office to review the evidence prior to seeking an arrest warrant.

“He died around 10:00 pm Monday night. He was dead for about ten hours when she examined him around eight the next morning. She based it on the extent of rigor mortis. The boy had been in the trench less than two hours because of discoloration on his back, plus his rectal temperature was six degrees lower than it would be if the body had been at room temperature.”

“So instead of being about 80 degrees, the body temperature was down by six.” Blake was silent for several seconds. “The livor mortis backs up her timing, Kevin.”

“You’re positive?”

“Let's assume that her observation on rigor and lividity are right. The boy died about 11:00 pm. He's moved once about two hours before Andrews examines him at the crime scene. The big question is did he spend the night outside? Are you with me, Kevin?”

“That's what I'm asking you, Marvin. When was the body placed in the trench?”

“That's easy!”

“So tell me for God's sake!”

“It's highly unlikely that the boy was killed there, however, his body was put in the trench shortly after he died. He was there from about 11.00 p.m. to about 6.00 a.m. of the next morning.”

“But that doesn't explain Andrew's conclusion that the body was moved at some point during the early morning. She was quite definite about that,” Burton added with annoyance. “Oh my GOD! Madison said he fell onto the body. He was still in shock when I saw him about an hour and a half later.”

“There's your explanation, I won't say it's what actually happened, but it's one explanation.”

Burton shook his head irritably. “Madison got raped yesterday. If I’m wrong, Marvin, I really screwed up.”

“I can’t help, Kevin. You could argue it Andrews' way, but the Defense would decimate your case if they latch onto the temperature thing. Obviously, you’ve got a lot more on the guy, so you correct the timing and move on.

Burton churned evidence like a computer. Madison dumped the body in the trench before he left the house on Monday night. The next morning, he stopped by the house on his way to work to check that the body was still covered by the dirt he’d placed over it. However, the rain had washed it off. He panicked and fell in the trench. It actually made more sense.

Burton breathed afresh with the load off his shoulders. “Marv, thanks for the help. I appreciate it.”

However, while one small flaw didn’t change everything, Burton started thinking back. He queried every piece of evidence, and every step during the investigation. The minutiae of detective work was still racing through Burton's mind when he entered the Mayor's chambers.

It went as he anticipated, a few minutes of bullshit, congratulations on a job well done, followed by insincere interest in his family. The words of praise were hollow, but he graciously accepted the Mayor's appreciation for a job well done.

“Detective Burton is my best detective,” Bronski added. “He’s been on top of this from the very start. Left no stone unturned. We guarantee he’ll fry, don’t we Kevin.”

The Mayor gave Burton a perfunctory glance. “It's the best thing for everyone if he’s dead and buried a-sap. I know I sound harsh, but we won’t tolerate pedophiles in St. Louis. This boy ran away from home, right?”

“Very likely,” Bronski said. “We don’t think he’s local.”

“No city wants runaway kids, and we’ve got more than out share,” the Mayor went on. “That’s why we have places like New Way”

“Kevin’s wife works at New Way, Mr. Mayor.”

Burton gave serious thought to laughing, though how Tanner knew about Janice’s involvement, he had no idea..

“We need more women like her!”

“Madison worked there too,” Burton added, wondering whether Madiaon and his wife had met at some point; perhaps at a fundraiser that he’d so far been able to avoid attending.

“So I’ve been told. Mind you, he brought this on himself,” the Mayor said. “Despite what people might think, he hasn’t been singled out.”

“I’m not sure who might think that,” Burton said.

“This is a triumph for the Police Department, Mayor,” Deputy Police Commissioner Tanner read from his notes. “One, we had an arrest in record time. These child sex-murders usually take months to solve. Two, It won't take more than a week of trial to get a conviction, so it demonstrates our efficiency. Three, we nipped pedophilia in the bud.”

“These runaway kids are getting to be a problem. We certainly don’t want them raped and murdered, but maybe it’ll send a message they aren’t wanted here,” the Mayor expounded. He picked up his coffee cup from the table. “Tell me, Burton, are there a lot of depraved perverts like Madison hiding under rocks?”

“I wouldn’t call him depraved, Sir. The media have done a job on him,” Burton said quietly. “Other than some photos on his computer, there’s no indication he was attracted to kids before this.”

“I heard yesterday that he was fired from the University,” Tanner said. He sounded positively gleeful.

“Can't say I blame them,” the Mayor quipped. “If I found I had an employee who has sex with little boys I’d fire his ass so fast he’d leave skid marks.”

“He can't have too much saved for a rainy day,” Bronski said. “That’ll bring him down.”

Burton needed to do some serious thinking. The change in timing nagged at him. Was there something else that he missed? Maybe it was just too easy? Even the 439 obscene pictures of preteen boys found on Madison's laptop seemed convenient. There were other photos of a boy called Andy, sexually evocative yet legal. They’d been encrypted and carefully hidden, not sitting on the desktop waiting to be found.

The telephone buzzed and the Mayor walked behind his desk to answer it. Bronski moved closer to Burton.

“For God's sake, Kevin, join the team here. You're working for the Mayor, and Tanner too. Start acting like it.”

“Sorry Stan,” Burton muttered. “Something’s wrong, only I can't put my finger on it. It's really bugging me.”

The Mayor put the phone down. He seemed radiant, as if he’d spoken to a higher authority.

“Worry about it later, Kevin. Frying Madison is more important.”

Burton was about to mention the photos, when something clicked. It wasn’t only where the photos were located on the computer, it was the profound difference between them. Andy was a beautiful boy, likely a professional model, or could’ve been if he wanted. Beyond a few delightful little bulges, his photos were revealing only to the imagination. Any lawyer could argue they were ‘art’ and win. The other photos were disgusting images of unattractive boys with a well-endowed young black man, whose face was cropped out of the photos. If he didn’t know better, he never would’ve believed a cock that big would fit inside butts that small.

“You finally have that kid witness under control?” Tanner asked.

“Michael Lynch is something of a problem,” Bronski answered when Burton did not.

“How is that?” Tanner asked, a little too quickly.

“He’s mentally retarded. He can be quite difficult at times,” Burton said, choosing to leave Michael’s sexual issues out of the discussion.

“I thought we needed him to show Madison had access to the victim,” Tanner said.

“Gorman wants to keep him out of the courtroom,” Bronski said. “If the kid gets flustered under cross-examination, it would be a problem.”

Tanner smiled. “Not a problem. Doctor Yates will be in the Courtroom. She can jerk him out at the first sign of trouble.”

“It isn't that simple, Sir,” Burton said. Tanner seemed to have a grasp of the issues, which was out of character. “The Defense has a right to cross-examine Michael, especially in a case like this. They’ll likely agree to a private meeting in the Judge's Chamber and a transcript provided to the jury. Madison has a right to attend.”

“So?” the Mayor boomed, still looking pleased with himself.

Burton looked out the window, wondering how he could explain himself. Jeff would do anything for him, anything at all. Kyle too. It was more than familial bonds could explain. Their relationship went far beyond father and son. It was as if they’d joined some sort of ancient underground brotherhood. Was it the same for other boys who loved men?

“Lynch has a love-hate thing for Madison. Seeing him might cause him to…” Burton was about to say, ‘tell the truth.’ Instead he said, “… say something else.”

Tanner interrupted Burton. “Madison wanted oral sex. That's enough to keep the kid away from him.”

Burton studied the Deputy Police Commissioner. He seemed to have it all figured out.

“Michael Lynch said Madison wanted oral sex. There is no proof that he did. No other boys have come forward with similar claims. On the other hand, Madison said Michael approached him. Father DeLucca also told me that Michael has sexual issues. My point is I'm still not sure who I believe. The only thing I know for certain is there was a fight about using an electric saw.” Burton stopped, his own experience with the boy much too close for comfort. “When he doesn't get his way, Michael becomes very frustrated. It could explain a lot of what he says about Madison.”

“Not an issue,” the Mayor said quietly. “This is private knowledge only. I had Bowman appointed to this case. She’s very sensitive about child abuse. Her 12-year-old daughter was seduced by a neighbor. He did her every day after school until she got pregnant. Luckily, her mom found out soon enough for the girl to get an abortion.”

Burton took a deep breath. He’d heard right, no doubt about it; the Mayor as much as said that Judge Bowman was in the bag.

It was all too easy to believe that Madison had wanted oral sex, even though he knew what Lynch was like. Though he’d done the same thing; prepared to pay $50 to put his mouth on Michael’s cock, yet his motivation wasn’t pleasure. At the time, he’d wanted to find out what it was like to suck a boy’s penis, nothing more.

Michael Lynch was pubescent. He ejaculated watery semen. He had pimples on his forehead. He wasn’t a beautiful boy like Jeff or Kyle, or Andy, or even the unidentified boy who had laid in a trench for ten hours. What he felt for Michael Lynch wasn’t like his urge for Jeff and Kyle. That bothered him. That was what was wrong! Hessler had been specific. A pedophile lost interest in a boy once he started puberty.

Burton spoke his thoughts aloud. “I can't see Madison proposing oral sex with Lynch. It's totally out of character.”

The Mayor laughed absurdly. “You're telling me he rapes young boys, yet it's out of character for him to want oral sex with a hustler?”

“I didn't mean it like that. Our psychologist believes the murderer is attracted to immature boys. Lynch is sexually mature.”

“Madison’s a disciple of Moloch,” Tanner snapped. “The sooner he gets the death penalty the better.”

Burton stared. Bronski coughed. The Mayor wasn’t happy.

“Gentlemen, I hate to conclude this discussion, but the affairs of City Hall await me. Detective Burton, I'd like to thank you for you speedy investigation. Keep up the good work. It’s great for public relations. Commissioner Tanner, would you might staying a few moments.”

Burton nodded, though his thoughts were elsewhere. He mumbled appreciation for the Mayor's interest in the case and left with Bronski.

Chapter 17.

It snowed during the night. By the next morning, more than nine inches of soggy wet snow had accumulated. At breakfast, Jeff gorged on chocolate-flavored cereal. Kyle picked at apple slices and wheat toast. Burton drank coffee. An endless line of school closings trooped across the bottom of the TV in the kitchen, though so far not Pattonville School District, where the twins were in the Program for Exceptionally Gifted Students.

Nonetheless, Burton made plans to stay home for the day, the opportunity for fun and games easily overwhelming a less-than-pressing need to be in the office, especially with Janice driving to Minneapolis to bring her mother back for Christmas. She’d left in a stink, the remnants of their argument about her signing Kyle up for the Saints program still festering.

Typically, Pattonville was the last of all the school districts in five counties to close. It took an official snow emergency to be declared by City Hall before Pattonville announced schools were closed for the day. Already, there was a delay of two hours, and no bus service for the morning. Apprehensive about arrangements for conveying his boys to school, Burton steeled himself for complaints when he told the twins they’d be leaving in 20 minutes. He turned back to his coffee, loosely interested in a news report about ten missing boys in Florida. He missed most of the story because of twin banter. It seemed they’d prayed to the School Gods and were spending the day sledding on what passed for a hill at the end of the street.

“Way to go! We’re off for the day!” Jeff shrieked, pummeling his brother’s shoulder as they ran off to change their clothes.

Burton barely caught ‘Pattonville Closed’ before it disappeared off the screen. With his driveway reasonably impassable, his non-attendance in the office was no longer an issue. Another cup of coffee and he’d start shoveling a corridor to the street, though it would be a waste of effort given the weather report for the rest of the day. By lunchtime, the temperature would be in the mid-fifties so most, if not all of the snow on the driveway would be gone by evening.

By nine o'clock, the twins were dressed in jeans, hoodies, insulated jackets, and winter boots. They were ready to hit the slopes, impatient for Burton to down his fourth cup of coffee. They needed him to retrieve their sleds from amongst the junk jammed into the garage attic. The twins’ sly glances were all the proof needed Burton needed to know something secret had been planned. He dragged out the last cup, sipping the last dregs to make them anxious.

They went outside, boys bounding ahead through soggy virgin snow, their jeans soon soaked halfway up their legs.

“Hey Dad,” Jeff called.

Burton was ready with a snowball of his own. He realized quickly that boys were impervious to snow, even when his wet clumps of ice hit their targets. It was on, snow balls from left and right until their father charged the weakest link. He grabbed Kyle around the waist, swung him upside down and used him as a shield while he advanced on Jeff, who was pelting him with snowballs. He swapped Jeff for Kyle, and roughed up his little hottie, sticking two handfuls of snow down the fronts of his jeans before he surrendered. Pretending to be the Abominable Snowman, he marched the twins into the garage and locked the door behind him.

“Told ya he’d mess with us!” Jeff said, smirking at his brother.

Kyle smirked back. “Only because Mom’s not here.”

Realizing he’d been outsmarted, Burton pointed at Jeff. “It’s too damned cold in here. I’ll take care of you later!”

“You played dirty, Dad,” Jeff grumped.

He unzipped his jeans, pulled down his underpants, shook off icy clumps, and dried his crotch with an old bath towel.

Burton laughed. “The last time your weenie was that tiny was when you came out of your mom’s tummy.”

“He’s shriveled because he’s friggin’ frozen! That was really mean, Dad.”

“You want me to warm him up.”

“Yeah, right!” Jeff giggled. “I dare you to warm him up in your mouth.”

“In your dreams, Scruffy-boy!”

“Suck him, Dad,” Kyle urged, hardly saint-like; he was sitting on his mountain bike, feet on the pedals, balancing with barely perceptible movements, and fondling his groin to warm his fingers.

“Do it, Dad. You know how good my weenie tastes.” Jeff’s knowing smirk made his father uneasy.

Instead, Burton laughed and hugged him, and said, “Maybe later.”

When he hoisted Jeff up to retrieve the sleds from above the rafters, Jeff wrapped his legs around his father’s waist and wouldn’t let go. They gazed at each other, never as close as that moment. Even though a few moments later, Jeff was giggling and carrying on like a clown, Burton saw far more affection in his son’s big bright eyes than he’d ever seen in his wife’s eyes. He was in love, no doubt about it.

Burton intended only a safe fatherly kiss, at least that’s what he told himself. However, Jeff’s lips met his halfway.

It was their first real kiss, hot and wet and passionate. It left Burton breathless and steely hard. When they parted, Jeff’s lips were wet, his tongue hanging out like a puppy on a hot day, except Jeff was shivering and taking quick short breaths.

Still fondling and perched on his bike, Kyle cackled, “Ooh lah lah.”

Burton half-expected to hear him sing, ‘Daddy and Jeff are in love.’ Instead, Kyle exploded with giggles when Jeff reached over his head and dislodged the sleds, which brought down nine months of dust of both of them.

+++++

Two hours later, Burton was sitting at the kitchen table, writing the report for his annual evaluation. He’d finished his fourth chocolate chip cookie and his fifth cup of coffee for the day. He’d showered and dressed in a tracksuit that predated the twins, an era when he exercised every morning before he jogged four miles. His exercise program stopped while he worked the night shift for a security company to earn money to buy a house. He started putting on the pounds after he graduated from uniform to detective. Now, the tracksuit was so tight it looked like stretched Lycra.

He was debating whether he’d make soup and sandwiches, or bake a frozen cheese pizza for the twins’ lunch when his mind drifted to Puppy Eyes. Despite everything, he admired Madison. They were alike, both attracted to young boys. Like Madison, he loved boys. He loved their youth and innocence, and energy, and wit. He liked his boys slim and firm, and sexy, which was a good reason to have low-fat turkey hotdogs for lunch. He loved watching movies with boys as heroes. Madison had many of the same DVDs he’d bought for the twins. There was as much chance of Madison being the perpetrator as himself.

Burton shuddered. The nagging suspicion he was wrong returned with a vengeance. He had missed something important, and Madison was innocent.

As the snow began to melt on the driveway, Burton recreated the time line, beginning with Madison’s visit to New Way where he first met the boy. One problem was that the boy was still unidentified. Someone should’ve reported a missing child, even if the parents were remiss in their responsibilities. How had he ended up at New Way? It was as frustrating as his efforts to find more evidence of Madison’s attraction to boys.

Predilection slicked the surface eventually. Neighbors had been interviewed, friends and coworkers sought out for their impressions, veiled questions asked about Madison’s social interactions particularly around children. He was what Dr. Hessler described as ‘pillar of the community,’ except he was always around boys. As evidence went, it was useless.

After an hour, Burton had but one avenue remaining to be explored. It existed because a phone call Burton had made to California was never returned. At the time, contacting the previous owners of the house offered little more than background information.

Burton entered the phone number. It was three hours earlier there, a bad time to catch someone if they worked during regular business hours. The phone rang twice before it was picked up.

“Ms. Fuller?”

“Yes!”

“Good morning,” Burton said. “I hope this is not a bad time to call.”

“It’s lousy.” The woman’s voice was impatient. “I’m on my way out the door. Whatever you’re selling, I don’t need.”

“I’m not selling. I’m Kevin Burton, St Louis police. I can call back this evening if you wish.”

“There’s nothing wrong, is there?”

“No! Nothing like that! There’s a chance you can assist in an investigation. I have one or two questions. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

“Just a minute.” Despite a hand over the receiver, Burton heard, “Get your shoes on, Katie. I won’t tell you again. Bobby, do you have your homework?”

Burton smiled. It sounded like his house every morning. Even the weekends were frantic, with sleepovers and soccer and baseball games.

“Ms. Fuller, back in November, a body was found behind your old house.”

“I know about the murdered boy, Mr. Burton. I don’t know how much help I can be with your questions. We haven’t lived in the house for nearly a year. Bobby, stay with you sister while she waits for her bus. I’m sorry; I’m trying to get my kids off to school.”

“What did you think of John Madison, the man who bought your house?” Burton asked innocuously.

“I never met him! We were gone six months before the closing. My husband spoke to him by telephone twice.”

“He’s been charged with murder,” Burton said. “There is a lot of evidence against him.”

“Why would someone would kill a child and then pretend to find the body?”

“I have the same problem,” Burton said. He changed the topic. “Your son’s departure to California was a real loss to his soccer team, according to the coach,” He waited a second. “If he’s like my kids, it’s an ordeal just to get their stuff together before a game. I must have bought a dozen pairs of shin guards this year. And socks, I swear we lose a pair every week.”

“Somewhere there is a huge pile of my son’s socks waiting to be claimed.”

Burton laughed. “We may have found one of them for you. It turned up in what used to be the laundry. Plain white, calf-length, it would fit a ten-to-twelve-year-old boy.”

“It’s probably his. His team wore white socks and shorts. Don’t bother sending it,” Fuller laughed. “His feet have doubled in size this past year. At least I could get white socks in Kmart. Now, he wears black and gold, and the only place I can find them is at a sports shop. I used to think soccer wasn’t expensive.”

Burton froze at ‘Kmart’. FBI analysis of the two socks was inconclusive. They were a close match. The only certainty was that the socks were produced for a single retailer, Kmart, though they were sold all across the US.

“If there is anything I can help you with, please ask. However, I really have to get to work,” Fuller said abruptly.

“Thanks for your time this morning, Mrs. Fuller. Can I call you back if I need to?”

“Please do! I’m sorry about the dead boy. I was too busy to return your first phone call. I need to go or I’ll be late for work myself. Good bye!”

The phone clicked before Burton had a chance to reply. Just how many white socks had the Fuller boy lost in the house? And why was she so anxious to get off the phone?

+++++

The twins came in soaked and shivering. Burton made them strip off in the kitchen while he retrieved towels from the guest bathroom. When he returned, Kyle was the only one nude. He buffed Kyle until he was pink and tingling, and sent him racing upstairs with a slap on his little bare butt. He turned on Jeff, who was halfway out of his jeans. He scooped him up, dragged off jeans and soggy socks, and dumped him on the kitchen counter.

“You want Junior warmed up now?” Burton teased, flicking his finger at the bump in Jeff’s underpants.

Jeff grinned and leaned back, pulling down the front of his briefs so his father had access to his shriveled penis. His balls were so tight there was nothing but wrinkled skin underneath.

Jeff met his dad’s eyes. “You suck him if you want.”

Burton stepped up to the counter, pushing Jeff’s knees wide apart. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered. “I love you.” He wrapped his arms around his son and hugged him, nuzzling his nose into wet clumps of hair. “We keep on like this and I’m going to do more than suck your dick; you know that, don’t you?”

Jeff’s head nodded slightly. He tugged down the zipper on his father’s track suit, burrowing his face into his father’s chest. He felt his dad’s hands rubbing his back, pulling them closer. His father was warm and strong and he loved him so much. His penis got so hard it didn’t seem possible. His father grasped it. He trembled.

“Dadda… I love you so much...”

“I know, Scuffy. It’s only a few more days and we’ll be in New Orleans.”

“Just you and me, right?”

Burton smiled. He didn’t want Kyle there either, though he’d never say so. “Kyle’s staying here with Grandma.”

Jeff eased back a few inches and looked down. He could see his father’s bulge protruding past his overhanging belly. His much smaller penis was fully erect and pointing straight up.

“He wants you to suck him, Dad.”

Burton laughed. “You’re so horny you can’t stand it.” He gave Jeff’s penis a loving squeeze. “We’ll play after lunch. Right now, you need to get some warm clothes on. How about a kiss that lasts before you go upstairs?”

“Kiss my dick first.”

Burton backed away and squatted. His head was at the ideal level. Jeff pointed his erection down. Burton brushed his lips across the little helmet and backed away. It was more blue than pink, and so sensitive that Jeff trembled as soon as he touched it. He pushed it down and it bounced back at him. He kissed on the tip where Jeff peed from.

“He wants a proper kiss, Dad.”

Burton wondered what a proper kiss was for an eleven-year-old boy. He licked circumcised weenie, tasting sweet soft skin. His lips settled over the perfectly formed glans. His kiss lingered, his lips holding Jeff’s penis captive as the tip of his tongue rubbed back and forth. He stood up before his knees began to ache.

“How was that?”

“You need more practice.” Smirking Jeff held out his arms.

Burton leaned in, pressing his son back, his thumbs in warm little armpits. Jeff’s arms locked around his neck. Their lips came together, then their tongues met in a long, sweet kiss.

Burton wasn’t sure he’d survive until evening. “How did you learn to kiss like that?”

“From Fluff-ster. He and I practice at night.”

Only after Jeff bounded upstairs, did Burton wonder what else they practiced at night. Of course, they sucked. He’d seen them do it, but what about… The telephone interrupted that thought with a strident ring. He reached for it before it had another chance to ring.

“Mr. Burton? It’s Deirdre Fuller again. There’s something I need to tell you. It might have some bearing on the case. “

“Yes, Ms. Fuller. What is it?” He expected she had more to say about the sock.

“I don’t know how to put this. It was one of the reasons why we left… because of what happened. My husband’s company had offered him the position of vice president in California, but we hadn’t decided to take it.”

Burton bided his time. Patience paid off when witnesses came forward of their own accord. Sometimes they needed a prompting. Usually they’d decided to tell what they knew and it just took time to get it out. Sometimes, it took courage, especially when family members were implicated.

“There was more money, of course, but it really didn’t mean that much to us. The other thing was that he wouldn’t have to travel as much. He was away every weekend so he didn’t get to spend much time with the kids. We were really happy in that house, and the children were doing well in school. Well, that’s not quite true. Katie was doing very well... Bobby was having problems, though he seemed to improve after he was accepted.

“Then, he came home one day. He looked awful. He could barely speak. I was so shocked, I didn’t know what to think. It was totally unexpected. I didn’t believe him at first.”

“What happened, Ms. Fuller?” Burton asked cautiously, recognizing the moment.

“That man, that goddamn sick bastard molested him. Bobby was so worried he’d done something bad. Like it was his fault. He didn’t want to tell us! I had to drag it out of him.”

Burton felt his heart beating faster. He tried to breathe slowly, listening to each word, each difficult step, the changing intonation, the uncertainty and fear revealed in her hesitant awkwardness.

“Mrs. Fuller, let’s start with what happened when your son came home,” he suggested.

“As soon as he walked in the door, I knew something was up. He went straight to his room. When he didn’t come back down again, I went upstairs to see what was wrong. He’d been crying. His cheeks were still wet.”

Burton waited, certain he knew what had happened. He found his right hand grasping the telephone so hard that his knuckles were white.

“What happened?” he finally blurted out.

“That afternoon Bobby’s class had watched a video about sexual abuse,” the woman muttered. “That’s why he told me. I think he knew all along what a bad thing it was, only he was afraid to tell! I still feel awful talking about it. Just the thought of it is disgusting. It’s my fault.”

“How is it your fault?” Burton queried.

“I mean a grown man wanting to be with preteen boys should’ve told us something was wrong. However, his father was away most weekends, and Bobby seemed to really like him. And he was a close friend too, or so we thought,” she laughed wryly.

“I take it that this man sexually abused Bobby?” Burton asked.

“That’s a nice way of describing what that pervert did to my son.”

“Did you report the incident?”

“Of course not! We could never prove anything! In fact Bobby wouldn’t say who it was. All he said was that a man did the same things with him that they talked about in the video. He acted like it was his fault,” she ended with a sigh.

“Mrs. Fuller?”

“I looked at him…. At his bottom…. He didn’t want his father to see him… I didn’t know what to do… It was huge…”

“His anus?”

“It was wide open. I never realized it could get like that… I could see right up inside him…”

“Jesus!”

“Bobby said the man put something big inside him. He said it was to drive out Moloch.”

“What was it?”

“I don’t think he knew. Bobby said it was a lot bigger than…” she choked. “It was bigger than his penis. Bobby was so… clean… inside. I didn’t expect it to be like that. Bobby said the man washed him out…”

“You asked him who did it?” Burton said quietly, guiding her from emotion to fact.

“Repeatedly! He wasn’t going to tell, even when he knew he should. However, it was obvious who it was! We must have been blind not to see what was going on.”

“You could have reported your suspicions,” Burton suggested.

“You don’t understand. Bobby liked him! That was why he wouldn’t tell us who the man was or what he’d done to him. We couldn’t even go to our priest about it. When we tried to talk with Bobby all we succeeded in doing was making him feel guilty. For all I know, Bobby liked what the bastard did to him! We had to move to get Bobby away from him.”

“It wasn’t Madison, was it?” Burton asked abruptly.

He knew he should be sympathetic. The cop-part of him was annoyed that Bobby’s parents didn’t report their suspicions. The rest of him snarled in hypocrisy.

“I told you we’ve never met him! Do you know what really hurts? My husband confronted him about what he’d done to Bobby and he laughed. He said it was ridiculous. He even suggested Bobby was making it up. Do you know what he said then? He told Philip to be careful what he said to other people because God would punish him in terrible ways.”

“Ms. Fuller, who was it?”

“It won’t do any good. Bobby’s safe now. I don’t want to think about it again. All I can tell you is he wasn’t the man who bought our house.”

“Mrs. Fuller, you have to report this,” Burton said grimly. “Not only for your son, but for the safety of other kids. This man is a murderer.”

The telephone clicked as the connection ended. He was about to redial when he realized that she would not answer the call. He’d call again in a day or two, after she had time to realize he was right. With luck, he’d be able to talk to Bobby.

Chapter 18



Still fuming at himself, Burton made the phone call he would’ve preferred not to make. Gorman answered on the second ring. He listened as Burton reviewed point by point what he had learned from the Coroner’s Office and his two conversations with Deirdre Fuller. He’d just brought up the similarity of Bobby Fuller’s injuries to those of John Doe Junior when Gorman interrupted him.

“Blake’s timing doesn’t change Madison’s guilt. We still have a workable fact pattern. Everything points to our pervert professor. I’ll have to think about how to present Andrew’s evidence, given that Blake’s contradicted her.”

“You mean we use Blake’s analysis?”

“No. We downplay the timing. Boy is in basement at 11:00 pm. Boy is in trench at 6:00 am. The alternative is the Defense brings in an expert and discredits the autopsy. Meanwhile, you don’t mention this to anyone. No one, okay?”

“What about the Fuller boy?” Burton asked.

“So there’s another man who’s into molesting little boys. All she has are suspicions, and a kid’s claim that some guy stuck something up his ass.”

“It was a huge something,” Burton said.

“So he has a cock the size of a coke bottle, or he used a coke bottle; does it really matter?” Gorman chuckled. “For all we know it was an uncle with a wine bottle, or a teacher with a milk bottle. Hell, we don’t even know he lived in the neighborhood.”

“I’m sure he lived nearby. Her son was with him regularly.”

“Good point. If you knew who messed with little Bobby, I could get you a search warrant. You might even turn up another sock, Kevin.”

“Very funny! I’m serious, Tony! I think I screwed this one up. I really do.”

“The timing works fine. Everything points to Madison. We have his DNA down the kid’s throat. There’s the piece of wood from the sock. The pictures you found on his computer. The Vaseline and the garbage bag were in his trash. And the kid from New Way ties it all to Madison. Guilty as charged!”

“Mike’s a lousy witness,” Burton interrupted. “I’ve got doubts about his story.”

“You think he’s lying?” Gorman interjected.

“He’s oversexed. If Michael wanted Madison sexually, and got turned down, he might lie to get even.”

“Now you’re speculating.”

“He’s not all that smart, Tony. Erdman can get him to change his story without trying.”

“The kid is a bad witness, agreed, but he places Madison in the company of his victim. Any cross-examination will be a cakewalk given Bowman’s the judge. There’s only one problem. If Erdman finds out about the Fuller kid, it goes right to police incompetence. I’m not blaming you by the way. Shit happens. He’s got track record, a similar injury…”

“I’m certain he lives in the immediate area.”

“So add in proximity. Chances are Madison gets off scot free. Not what we want right?”

“Tony,” Burton began with exasperation.

“Kevin, the bottom line is I’m not going to hold anything back if we go to trial. I want to fry Madison. I also don’t want to come out looking like an idiot.”

“What’s ‘if we go to trial’ supposed to mean?” Burton demanded. His fingers drummed on the tabletop.

“I figured something like this might happen. I’m going to recommend dropping the charge against Madison for the present. Better a day of bad publicity than media outrage for a month. You reopen the investigation. Maybe you’ll turn up something that will stick the next time you arrest him.”

“I’m confident it wasn’t Madison.”

“I hope you’re right, Kevin. Maybe the guy who molested the Fuller kid did it. If so, you’re in luck. You have a witness who can establish his predisposition to little boys. You give me a name for a search warrant and I’ll expedite it.”

“She wouldn’t tell me who it was,” Burton said angrily. “Actually, she wasn’t certain she knew who it was. Her son wouldn’t tell apparently.”

“That tells you something right there. It may never have happened. Kids make up all kinds of stories for one reason or another.”

“He stuffed something up the boy’s ass; she was certain of that,” Burton said.

It was strange how it both appalled and excited him, the same way he’d been thrilled watching Colin’s little brother get ‘pussified’ with a two-inch-wide candle.

“Might be the kid is kinky and did it to himself.”

“Not the way she was talking. Bobby spent a lot of time with the guy. He was supposed to be a friend of the family.“

“Maybe he was a relative. Check the kid’s father, Kevin. Fifty-fifty he was screwing Junior,” Gorman laughed heartlessly. “The other possibility is the kid was real close to the guy and didn’t want to get him in trouble.”

“That’s how she made it sound. Like Bobby was into it.”

“Into it? Like he was queer?”

“I’m just repeating. Maybe things went too far.”

“We’re going to have one pissed off judge. Bowman is going to be unpleasant to say the least when she hears this.”

Burton felt relief. “Madison has spent three weeks in jail and we’re going to tell her we made a mistake and she should let him go.”

“Not we! I’m going to tell her you made a mistake,” Gorman laughed. “I’m joking. We all screwed this up. I’d blame Andrews except she’s black.”

“She didn’t help, but the truth is I screwed up. I rushed this case because everyone wanted an arrest asap.”

“Let me call Bowman and get the ball rolling. You better call Bronski so Tanner and the Mayor can take care of the problem from their end.”

“Get him out as soon as you can, Tony,” Burton said.

“I’ll try. I don’t want Bowman releasing him with prejudice just in case you’re wrong. You can be sure Madison will be out of jail by the weekend. Meanwhile, get your ass in gear and look for the other guy.”

“I’m on it. I need to interview Bobby in person. Bronski will have a fit when I tell him about Madison, and then ask for funds for a trip to the West Coast.”

“A couple of days in sunny California would be nice,” Gorman laughed.

+++++



Unlike Janice, who sought divine guidance at every opportunity, Burton never went to church. He’d even seen her pray before going to the store, as if saying ‘Hail Mary’ could shield her from frivolous expenditure. In lonely supplication, Burton contemplated his next move, both hands supporting his weighty head. He should’ve felt relieved. Instead, he was dispirited. With his next phone call, he would put his career in jeopardy. He had the same sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that was there when Janice confronted him about the twins.

He called Bronski’s cellphone. “Stan, it’s Burton. You have time to talk?”

“You still worried about the timing for Puppy Eyes. Trust me, it’s not a problem, Neither is the Lynch kid. Tanner’s on top of it,” Bronski said.

“That’s not the problem. I had a call from the previous owner of Madison’s house.”

“Oh?”

“Their son was sexually abused right before they moved. By someone in the neighborhood. A close friend of the family. The thing is there’s a similarity with the murder. His mom said there was damage to his rectum. He told her the man forced something big up his ass.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s a murderer? A lot of gays use a dildo when they fuck, or so I’m told.”

“Stan, I’m serious.”

“This is St. Louis, Kevin. Shit like forcing things up kids’ asses doesn’t happen here. This kid, what’s his name?”

“Bobby Fuller.”

“He queer?”

“How would I know?” Burton hesitated. “He might be. His mom said he was protecting the man. He might’ve been willing, up to a point.”

“There you go. Little Bobby gets more than he bargained for, so he makes up a story about stuffing something up his ass.”

“His mom say him afterwards. She said it didn’t close up.”

“So it was a big something. The guy wear a rubber when he did Bobby?”

“Not funny, Stan. He was flushed afterwards, the same as Puppy Eyes. Put this with the timing and our case is full of holes. I just got off the phone to Gorman. He agrees. He’s calling Judge Bowman to drop the charges, at least temporarily.”

“I figured. It’s probably be better this way.”

“Pardon?”

“Nothing, I was just talking to Tanner. I’ll have him call the Mayor and let him know the deal.”

“Stan, one more thing, I need to go to L.A. to interview Bobby Fuller?”

“Get me an estimate. I have to tell you, Kevin, travel funds are short right now. I’ll talk about it with Tanner. I know what he’ll say; do it by video-conference. Meanwhile, get busy checking out the neighbors.”

The call to Bronski was a lot less painful than Burton anticipated. A pedophile molesting little boys in the same neighborhood as the murder changed everything. Approached the right way, it wasn’t the political hot potato that could bring down the Mayor and his cronies. So far the reaction was positive. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad after all.

He was about to go online and check air ticket prices and accommodations in Santa Monica when his Skype window beeped for an incoming call.

+++++

He clicked to receive, expecting Bronski, Tanner, and the Mayor in a video-conference, an online reprimand to exceed his worst expectations. Instead, it was the twins using their computer upstairs. They were facing away from the videocam, wearing identical bath robes, plush blue with soccer balls on the backs, birthday presents from their grandmother that they wore only when she came to visit.

“You there, Dad?” Jeff called, peering over his shoulder.

“I’m here.”

Kyle, the giggle-head, couldn’t stop himself. His giggles made Burton smile. Suddenly, his world was a much brighter place.

Jeff gave his brother a friendly shove. “Do it just like we practiced, Fluff. Yo Dadster, this is your early Christmas present from me and Fluff. Let’s hear it for Twin Rap. One… Two… Three.”

On three, noise blasted from Burton’s laptop. It was all electronic, drums, organ, and rock guitar, the twins’ own creation. Or re-creation, because sometime during the crazy performance, Burton recognized the Christmas Classic, We Three Kings of Orient Are. Only it wasn’t the slow harmonies of the Beach Boys version that he made the twins suffer through every Christmas. They’d jazzed it up by a factor of ten, and turned it into rap.

At the end of the intro-refrain, both boys bent over and yanked their bathrobes up their backs. Two beautiful little pink butts seemed to fill Burton’s screen. He stared at little balls peeking between their slim thighs, their little cracks open just far enough that he was certain he could see… No, *that* was impossible.

When the twins straightened up again, they’d shed their bathrobes. Now, the only thing on their beautiful little bodies were matching cowboy belts. Again, they were presents from Grandma. As she said when the twins tried them on, ‘when my little cowboys want to show off their style, they need belts with bling.’

The belts had ‘bling’ aplenty, enough that they would’ve stood out at a New York gay pride march. One side was more-or-less-normal, brown basket-weave leather with a large silver-floral-horseshoe buckle. On the other side, hairy cowhide, silver conchos, large rhinestones, and silver studs turned the rugged West queer.

Kyle started the rap, one line only, while Jeff minced and mimicked. The second line, Jeff took over rapping and it was Kyle’s turn to dance. Kyle was by far the better dancer. Burton could actually see his part of the story. Then, it turned dirty and Burton gaped as his twins rapped and danced.

We three guys are Dad and pair

Bearing gifts, we will bare

Dicks and Nuts

Holes and Butts

Showing off what we dare

When the twins reached the refrain, Burton stared in rapture as they thrust their little pelvises back and forth. He couldn’t imagine ever being that limber, that lithe. Just bone and muscle, and perfectly smooth skin. Their 23-inch waists were mindboggling, as were those glittering rhinestones adorning their slender naked bodies, however their frenetic shameless undulations was surely the most erotic sight he’d ever seen.


Oh, cock of wonder, cock of might

Cock so hard it sticks upright

Boyhood leading

Our dad proceeding

Guide us to what’s only right

Burton was seconds from orgasm when it ended. Guiding his twins to what was right? What did that mean? Surely not what he thought it meant.

Frank incest we have to offer

Better daddy than each other

Cock and asshole, all men desiring

Suck me off and fuck my brother

Hearing ‘incest’ and seeing Jeff making Cupid’ kisses at him brought his climax roaring back to life. They rapped the last line together, mocking each other as only twins can do as they imitated sucking and fucking.


Oh, cock of wonder, cock of might

Cock so hard it sticks upright

Boyhood leading

Our dad proceeding

Guide us to what’s only right

“Oh my God,” Burton murmured when it ended.

The twins kept kissing, locked in a full frontal embrace, grinding their little pelvises to the music they’d created. There was just enough room between them to see their erections, one nearly twice the size of the other. Burton put his hand on his chest, certain he could feel his heart pounding. He waited until they parted. They stood, naked except for glittering cowboy belts, with arms around each other’s waists.

“Guys, that was awesome.”

“Um, so you liked it, huh Dad?” Jeff said, trying hard not to giggle.

His giggle-head brother erupted, laughing so hard he collapsed on the bed.

“I’ll be right up, guys.”

Burton closed his laptop, checked the front and rear door locks, and headed up the stairs. He could hear them giggling, treble voices still carrying on twin rap, inventing on the fly. It wasn’t as good as We Three Kings, not nearly as evocative; however, they were totally in sync.

He looked into the twins’ bedroom. They’d put their robes on, the fronts wide open so he could see their garish cowboy belts. He was glad they hadn’t taken them off; it made them look so gay, like two raunchy little faggot-boys hungry for sex.

“Incredible,” he said, just staring.

Jeff was a lusty little pre-teen athlete, with muscle definition and a sturdily erect penis. Kyle was stunningly beautiful, flaunting his androgynous body at his sexually aroused brother.

Burton waited at the doorway, sensing he was welcome, yet very aware he was interrupting intimacy of a kind he’d never seen. He recognized the motion of their syncopated bodies, Jeff’s pelvis thrusting upwards and inwards, Kyle’s slender oscillating pelvis receiving, accommodating. When the rap ended, they started laughing.

Jeff flopped onto his bed, back first. “Hot, huh Dad?”

“Where on earth did you learn to dance like that?”

“Fluffy found a vid on some gay chat site he goes to.”

Kyle grimaced. “It’s not like that!”

Burton gave him a hug and noogie-rub. “You, my beautiful boy, are going to get into trouble if you keep going to places you shouldn’t.”

“Dad!” Kyle pulled away. “I’m careful okay. It’s not like I’m dumb enough to tell some weirdo where I live.”

Burton caught him, hoisted him off the floor, carried him over to his brother’s messed up bed, and tossed him on it. His twins grinned up at him, and he grinned back. All three knew the moment for the milestone it was. Ahead, was another bridge, another fork in the road, another chance to live the life he wanted…

“Get naked too, Dad,” Jeff murmured. He shed his robe, tossed it over his brother, and lay back naked, little fingers fondling his stiff penis.

Eyes wide and face flushed, Kyle nodded encouragingly. Agreement, willingness, complicity, hopeful; it was impossible to tell. There was more to Kyle than his father dared imagine.

Burton lifted his sweater, wishing that he weighed 80 pounds less. It was all in his middle, a huge expanse of ugly pale flab. It was like hauling around a bag of pre-mixed concrete 24-7. Strangely, his twins didn’t care. He tossed his sweater at Jeff, who balled it up and tossed it back at him. He shoved down his track bottoms and boxers and let them see him. They feasted their eyes though they’d seen him naked often enough. They smirked, staring at his thick hard cock, arcing up from the forest of hair at his groin. His pendulous furry balls were huge compared to their own marble-holding pouches.

Feeling more walrus than man, he stepped close to the bed, his erection bobbing. For the first time, he wasn’t worried about Janice. She wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. He had 24 hours.

“Dad’s drooling,” Kyle peeped, his gaze fixed on his father’s weeping meatus.

“You’d be drooling too if your balls were big enough, boy.”

Was that husky voice his? He grinned at his twins, still shamelessly staring. They’d always been sexy, but when had they become so brazenly sexual? Jeff was into it, rubbing his dick with slow deliberate strokes. Burton loved his contented smile, the languid movement of his hand. His eyes were dreamy with a ‘make love to me’ look that seemed like the most natural thing in the world.

“What was that line; ‘Suck me off and fuck my brother’?” Burton said, looking from one boy to the other. “Who gets sucked and who gets fucked.”

The twins giggled.

“You want to flip a coin or do I get to pick?”

“You pick!” Jeff said.

“How about I fuck you first?” Burton wavered back and forth before he pointed. “And then I suck you.” He pointed again. He couldn’t avoid smiling. “Only you’re way too tight to do it today…. So… Scoot over guys.”

The twins wriggled across the Jeff’s twin bed to make room for their dad to lie down. Burton rearranged the covers so no one would get cold.

“First, I want a real kiss from both of you.” He nudged Kyle. “How about you? I hear you’re Hot Lips?”

Kyle eyes flickered. Burton was nervous too.

Jeff giggled. “Tongue him, Fluff, the same as we do.”

Kyle scooted around, shoving the pillow away. He sat, facing his dad, impetuously wetting his lips with his tongue. He smiled, meeting Burton’s eyes without wavering.

“You don’t have to, not if you don’t want to, Fluff,” Burton said.

He didn’t mean it. He knew Kyle wouldn’t say no, not when he’d used black marker on his fingernails.

His hands were already on Kyle’s shoulders, pushing back his robe. He tugged it down his son’s scrawny arms until he was as naked as his brother. He rubbed Kyle’s back, his shoulders, his neck. He held his son’s head in both hands and gently brought their mouths together. Instantly, lust took control. ‘Hot Lips’ was apt and Burton was rapt! Their kiss was hot and wet and wild. It was an incredibly passionate kiss even before Kyle’s tongue surged into his mouth. Burton sucked. He sucked hard, urgently mashing their lips together.

Instinct took over. Kyle needed to be dominated far more than his brother. Burton forced him back onto the pillow as Jeff quickly shifted out of the way. He rammed his tongue between Kyle’s lips, into his mouth. Simultaneously, his hands sought the boy’s sensitive places, one hand cupping his groin, his other hand pinching tender nipples, twisting them into hard points. Kyle groaned beneath him, both arms locked around his father’s neck, afraid to let go, his only way of showing he needed more. Burton claimed what was left of virtue. He abused his son’s mouth, and mauled his body, and Kyle loved every moment.

He was breathless when Burton finally lifted up. His face was flushed and he kept licking where his father’s lips had been, tasting his tongue, mostly gasping. He smiled, his eyes filled with disbelief. Burton gave his nose a playful lick, not at all ashamed that his son was trembling and red-faced from embarrassment.

“Fluff, that was a 9.5 on the Dadster kiss-meter!” Somehow, Burton kept a straight face. “Not a bad start. Next time, I want more writhing, okay? And don’t be afraid of sharing spit.”

Kyle giggled and nodded and thought his father was the best dad in the world. He sniffled—there were happy tears on his cheeks. He watched Jeff take his turn.

Burton pulled his other son across the bed by his cock. Jeff couldn’t stop laughing as he scrambled into position, kneeling so he was the right height for his father. His giggles stopped as soon as they held each other. They gazed in silence. This was love. Both dreamy and eyes-closed as their lips brushed. Jeff’s little tongue swiped playfully between his father’s lips. Their mouths merged somewhere in France.

“You guys fuck yet?” Burton asked when his heart resumed its normal rate.

He could still feel Jeff’s lips nibbling on his, Jeff’s little tongue doing its dance against his. He could taste Jeff in his mouth, boy-sweet and mustardy from the hotdog he’d had for lunch. They’d French-kissed until Kyle told them to ‘cut it out.’

Jeff and Kyle exchanged glances.

“Have you done it?”

Jeff shrugged, avoiding his father’s eyes. “On Halloween. It was kinda like a candy high that got out of control.”

“We’ve done it twice, Doofus,” Kyle corrected.

Jeff glared at his twin. “Only like a week ago. It was after you and me had that talk, Dad.”

“You like sucking more?” Burton asked, not wanting to make a big deal about the twins having anal sex, yet wanting to know details. It was amazing to think his beautiful boys were fucking each other up the ass.

“Doofus can’t get it in,” Kyle said with a smirk that said he was ready to try again.

Burton realized the twins were on a collision course. “I bet you guys just need some practice.”

“That’s what I said,” Kyle agreed.

“I tried, okay,” Jeff snapped.

Burton picked up on tone more than anything. The problem was Jeff wasn’t into it like his brother. He took hold of Jeff’s erection.

“Pity. This thing's nearly big enough to fuck me,” he teased.

It was almost as long as his fist was wide; another half inch and it would’ve protruded beyond his thumb. However, it was too skinny to do more than tickle his innards.

“No way, Dad.”

"It ought to be perfect for Fluffy’s tight little ass. How about you fuck him, while I watch? Maybe I can figure out what you're doing wrong."

Jeff wasn’t sure about that.

Kyle on the other hand was enthusiastic. “It would’ve slid right in if he did what I told him.”

“You’d know!” Jeff retorted. “Mr. Computer pervert. You ought to see what he looks at, Dad.”

Kyle scowled back. Not in the mood for a twin squabble, Burton jumped in. “How about you guys show me what you did.”

“Do I have to put it in him?” Jeff grumbled. “Can’t we just pretend?”

Burton laughed. “Unless you know some other way to fuck, I think you have to put it in his ass, Dude.”

“I want you to fuck me.” Jeff was indignant.

For the last few days, Burton was fully aware that the situation with Jeff was officially out of control. They were barreling down the virginity highway so fast they might not reach New Orleans. He had it planned for Saturday night, beginning with dinner reservations at the aptly named Coquette, a New Orleans’ landmark, strolling the French Quarter, followed by the official deflowering in their hotel room. With luck, Jeff would’ve let the Colts to victory that afternoon.

Burton stalled. “I think we have to get your hole opened up first.”

“You do that with your finger, Dad,” Kyle snickered. “It won’t be enough though.”

Burton had more than an inkling that Kyle knew what he was talking about. “Go on.”

“You’re so big, you need to stretch him with a dildo first.”

It was hard to believe his eleven-year-old son knew more than he did. “Not something your mom and I ever used. I’ll buy one tomorrow.”

“His ass is so tight you can start out with a pencil,” Kyle quipped.

“Yours isn’t!” Jeff snapped.

“Okay guys. Any more squabbles and I’ll go downstairs.” He pointed at Kyle. “You, assume the position.”

“I have to get something first.” Kyle bounced off the bed and rand down the hall.

“What’s got him so hot and bothered?” Burton mused.

Jeff cuddled up, his head on his dad’s chest, looking down the big hairy belly at an unwavering, thick cock nestled in dark pubic hair. He smooched his dad’s fat nipples, sucking like a baby on the teat. Burton kissed his head. Jeff crawled lower, licking belly and tickling his dad’s penis. He glowed, feeling shaky inside, liking what he was doing more and more the closer he came to his goal.

“Mmmmhmmm,” Burton sighed.

Jeff sniffed at uncircumcised cock. “Can’t we make him watch a movie or something?”

“Nice idea.” Burton stroked his son’s bristly hair.

Jeff skewed around to look up. “It’s nicer with just us.” He smiled. “You want me to suck your dick?”

Burton inhaled. He nodded, ‘yes.’ He watched in wonder as Jeff's head moved down. He was still on the same breath when he felt Jeff’s lips settle over his glans. It popped inside, hotter and wetter than seemed humanely possible. He felt Jeff’s hand clasping the shaft, allowing a little more of his penis to enter that succulent little mouth. Jeff’s tongue probed and massaged. When Burton glanced down he saw Jeff looking up at him, expectant and anxious.

“You’re doing great,” Burton whispered.

He caressed his son’s wiry back, gradually shifting to his neck, to his head, wanting him to take more. And it happened. He felt his cock engulfed past halfway. He’d never seen Jeff look so pleased with himself, so content. He seemed so acquiescent, his father’s thick hard erection possessing him in ways he’d yet to dream of.

“You were born to have a man’s cock in your mouth,” Burton whispered.

“Sheesh! I leave for a minute and you’re blowin’ him,” Kyle grouched. He stood by the bed, horny and breathless from running up and down the stairs.

Instantly, a very embarrassed Jeff lifted off, though he couldn’t help licking at his lips. They were tingling after less than a minute. “Why does he always have to be here?”

“Make room, Scruff!”

Kyle handed over a bottle of cherry-scented hand lotion and a red candle that hadn’t been used since the previous Christmas dinner.

“Hand lotion?” Burton queried.

“We’re almost out of Pam, Dad; and safflower oil is really messy.”

“Good thinking.” Burton managed not to smile. He had a good idea why Kyle brought back the candle. The end was rounded, like someone had carefully scraped away wax. “I’m glad someone in this family goes to gay chat sites.”

“Dad! It’s not like you think. Everyone thinks I’m 18.”

“Well, that’s okay then,” Burton chided. He saved the lecture for later. “At least I know what do you guys do when your mom and I aren’t here to keep an eye on you.”

“We do other stuff too.”

“What kind of stuff, exactly? Not you, Fluff.”

“Just stuff, Dad. You know. We get naked and mess around.” Jeff looked to Kyle for emotional support and got a giggle back.

“As in you tried to fuck him, only it didn’t go in, huh?” Burton teased. Talking about it was nearly as good as the real thing.

“I told him it’s got to be slippery,” Kyle interrupted.

“I’m not putting greasy shit on my dick, okay.”

Burton was hard and horny. “But it’s okay if I put it on mine when I fuck you?”

Put on the spot, Jeff was embarrassed. Kyle, he wasn’t so sure about. Kyle smirked as if he knew how much his dad wanted to have anal sex with his boys.

Burton held up the hand lotion. “Who’s first?”

Without further encouragement, Kyle got into position, his head on Jeff’s ‘soccer-ball’ pillow, his elbows and knees on the bed, his butt lifted up. He looked back over his shoulder.

“Put it in me, Dad.”

Of course, he meant hand lotion. He couldn’t possibly know what his dad was thinking…

Burton pressed the plunger and squirted hand lotion over his fingers. He was trembling as he parted Kyle’s little buttocks. He’d been right, though what he thought was a little red circle was actually a little red heart drawn in permanent marker.

“I’m thinking you’re Kinky Boy from now on,” he teased.

With Curious Jeff looking on, he smeared pink hand lotion over Kyle’s little rosebud. He poked at the pucker with his finger tip. It slipped into the hole. He pressed and wriggled and got in an inch before it tightened reflexively. He rotated his wrist, fascinated by the firm grip. He eased out his finger, scraped lotion up to the tip, and tried again. It slipped in again, up to the first joint without really pushing. He rotated and pressed and another inch went in. Now, Kyle’s anus locked on his second joint; however the tip of his finger was free to move. His finger was actually inside Kyle’s scrawny little body.

His heart thundered. It was… “Fucking incredible.”

His voice was hoarse, like he’d been shouting ‘go home’ at the protestors at Ferguson.

He added more lotion to his finger, getting most of it inside Kyle before spreading the excess in his crack. Jeff inched closer, his eyes wide. He grinned at his dad.

“Can your dick really fit in there?”

Burton nodded back.

“How deep will it go?” Jeff murmured.

“All the way, if you want it to. It has to be slippery, right Kyle.”

Kyle giggled and wriggled his butt, showing off.

Soon, Burton’s finger was sliding in with only a little pressure. It was in as far as the knuckle when Kyle let out a long sigh.

“He really likes it, Dad,” Jeff pointed out. He was all eyes, up close and attentive as his father’s finger slowly sawed back and forth.

“Poke down, Dad,” Kyle peeped. He sounded panicky. “That’s where it is.”

“Where what is?”

“That gland thingie where you make semen.”

Burton had his prostate examined every year at his checkup, only the doctor was all about hygiene and professionalism with nitrile gloves and perfunctory probing. It felt strange, more invasive than pleasurable, though he always sensed the possibilities.

That was why he levered down the tip of his finger and began to search for Kyle’s prostate He felt the sleek rectal wall with his finger. Deep inside Kyle, he pushed into firm tissue, rubbing and hoping for a reaction. Kyle twitched and clenched on his finger, and slowly relaxed. He breathed deeply. Burton was sure he was in the right place.

“You ready for the candle, Fluff?” Burton croaked.

“It’s not for me, Dad. Put Jeff in me and then you put it in him.”

“So his asshole gets bigger, right.” Burton grinned at Jeff.

Jeff giggled. “I’m game if you are.”

“Bring that stiffy over here, son.”

Jeff knee-walked behind Kyle and awkwardly took up position. Burton smeared hand lotion on his son’s erect penis and guided it between Kyle’s buttocks. Lining them up seemed so natural. He loved Jeff’s bigger penis, hot and slippery between his fingers. With his other hand, he felt underneath Kyle. His smaller penis was incredibly hard. He rubbed Jeff’s penis up and down Kyle’s crack, using a finger from underneath to locate the opening. He tickled and felt Kyle relax, pushing out slightly. Automatically, he positioned Jeff’s little knob where his fingertip had been and settled it into Kyle’s puckered hole. Jeff trembled.

“Push in a little bit,” Burton whispered.

He felt Jeff apply pressure. Kyle looked back at his dad. He smiled, still shy though his excitement was obvious.

“He’s got to push harder, Dad.”

“You heard him, Scuffy. Give him a good hard jab.”

“I don’t want to hurt him.”

“You won’t.”

Burton let go of Kyle’s cock and spread his buttocks apart. He could see Jeff’s plump red knob half-buried in his brother’s small hole. With one hand on Jeff’s butt and his other hand holding the hard slippery erection in the hole, he forced them together.

Kyle let out an involuntary squeak as his brother’s penis penetrated his anus. After the initial breakthrough, he pushed out. Everyone he’d chatted with online said to push down like he was trying to poop.

Jeff’s penis was as big around as the Christmas candle Kyle had been practicing with since the day after Halloween, which was when he’d chatted with MasterFrank. He said to practice with a candle and lube.

The twins’ first anal intercourse wasn’t at all how Burton expected it would be; or Jeff for that matter. Three and half inches of boy cock vanished in seconds. Jeff’s pale bony pubis was tight against his brother’s rump.

Equally shocked, Kyle exhaled, “Wow!”

“You like it,” Jeff muttered.

His brother clenched and he trembled. The pressure, like the heat, was awe-inspiring. In seconds, he was breathless. He liked it too.

“I’m in his ass, Dad.”

“I see.”

“He’s really in there,” Kyle said dreamily.

“It feels nice, huh?” Burton had given up trying to see where the boys were joined, they were so close together.

“Oh yeah,” the twins said together.

On impulse, or inspired, Burton shifted down. He crouched on the bed, gazing between four slender thighs. He was certain it was the most thrilling thing he’d ever seen. It was stunning; two wrinkled little scrotums just an inch apart, Jeff’s cock completely plugged into his brother’s anus, Kyle’s penis barely visible. His beautiful hairless twins had joined so closely together it seemed as if they would never argue again. Jeff began gently rocking his pelvis, not thrusting his erection in and out the way Burton expected. However, he could tell from Kyle’s erratic tremors that it was definitely moving inside him.

It was all of Burton’s fantasies come true. Jeff’s firm little butt clenched rhythmically, his thigh muscles exaggerating as he started to pick up speed. Finally, his cock pulled back about two inches. His glans was still imbedded in his brother. His shaft was shiny wet, creamy pink paste accumulating at the base. With a quick jab, he shoved back in. Kyle shuddered. Another stab and Kyle shuddered again. And again and again, until he was thrusting in and out. There was no cadence to it, just unpredictable intermittent thrusts. Maybe Jeff was trying to make it last, or his penis was too sensitive to keep up a rhythm, or he was still learning how to fuck, or he did it simply when he needed to do it.

Kyle’s whiny voice brought him back to reality. “Candle, Dad.”

Burton wondered how long he’d been crouching, gazing at his boys’ first intercourse. They looked so beautiful together, one on his hands and knees with his ass presented, the other kneeling behind him, still trying to get the height right, holding his brother’s hips as he strained, and wriggled, and pumped.

Jeff was so caught up in his pleasure that his eyes were closed. He didn’t see his father getting the candle ready. However, Kyle did. He smirked at his dad as he smeared cherry-scented hand lotion over the candle.

“How far?” Burton muttered.

“Half way… easy,” Kyle gasped.

It was obvious that Kyle was no stranger to a standard ¾” wide 10 inch wax candle.

Burton placed one hand on Jeff’s rump to stop him thrusting. “You sure you want this up your ass, Scruffy?”

“It’ll only hurt for a minute,” Kyle said. “When he starts pushing it in, you try to poop it out. It makes it go in easier.”

“You’d know,” Jeff snickered. “My dick went in you so easy.”

Burton ended the competition for smart-ass by with a playful slap on Jeff’s rump. When he parted the boy’s buttocks, his anus was a pink dot in the center of a black permanent-marker heart. Compared to Kyle’s opening, it was tiny.













Chapter 19



Six men gathered in Judge Bowman’s chambers and waited until she recessed the court for lunch. The door opened abruptly and six heads turned as one. She entered, took one quick glance at the expectant faces, and walked with defiant, if lumbering grace to her chair. She flopped down heavily, interlocked her manicured fingers, and glared at Gorman.

“Mr. Gorman,” Judge Bowman began with a faint smile, “it seems as if the prosecution has a problem. Or is this normal procedure for you?”

“Your Honor,” Gorman said, “we became aware of new information just yesterday. This information casts doubt on Mr. Madison’s guilt. We’re bringing the matter to you as soon as possible.”

Madison’s face was expressionless, his gray pallor in stark contrast to the faces around him. He breathed a long slow sigh of relief. He seemed to know what was coming even as his attorney leaned forward attentively.

“What new information?” Erdman demanded.

Gorman glanced at Burton. “We have reason to believe that another boy was sexually abused in the same area.”

Erdman sat up. “This happened while my client was in jail?”

“It happened a year ago,” Gorman admitted. “Detective Burton brought it my attention yesterday afternoon.”

Burton’s mind was a day behind. He could still hear Jeff fucking Kyle. Both of them were into it, Kyle’s soft purrs sounding like a sleepy cat, Jeff making breathy little grunts each time his pelvis thrust forward. When he withdrew, he impaled himself on the candle. It was too good to be true. His beautiful Jeff was being fucked at both ends, and he loved it. Burton knew. Every time he glimpsed Jeff’s face, it was obvious he was into it as much as his brother, only he went both ways. Kyle was a bottom, no doubt about it.

Beside him, someone was talking; however, he was thinking about Jeff climaxing. He’d been pumping away at Kyle’s butt for only a minute when he suddenly went very tense. Burton watched his boy’s butt clench, his thighs straining, three abrupt quivers as he pulled himself tight against his twin brother. Somewhere between giggling and gasping, Jeff disengaged and flopped over his father. Burton still had hold of the candle. He’d pushed it deeper, he was sure it was past the halfway point. Now, it was his turn.

Burton cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Mr. Madison. It was never reported. I found out about it only by accident. I was checking up on some evidence and it came out. I immediately called the prosecutor to tell him.”

“This is unbelievable,” Erdman snorted. “By some accident, as you call it, you find another boy who has been victimized by some pervert. Oops! Sorry.” He threw up his hands. “You really think you can release my client after a month in jail as if nothing happened?”

“Your Honor, it’s 23 days today,” Gorman interrupted.

“Mr. Erdman,” Judge Bowman began, “please don’t make this more inflammatory than it needs to be. I‘m aware of the injustice done to Mr. Madison. The prosecution has officially dropped all four charges. I release him from confinement as of 11:55 am today. However, for *my* peace of mind, I want Mr. Gorman to tell us why.”

“Your Honor, yesterday, Detective Burton made a phone call to the previous owner of Madison’s house, Ms. Fuller in California. He was following up on the sock found in the basement of the house. He’d been informed a few days earlier that her son had played soccer. It was a simple matter of eliminating other explanations for the sock before we went to trial when he called.”

Burton was thinking about the incredible hour he spent with Jeff and Kyle. What would’ve he done without Kyle? Kyle knew what to do, and he made sure his father did it to Jeff. For a whole hour, Burton worked the candle inside his boy’s ass, only it wasn’t as tight as it had been when he started. He soon learned where it felt good, how much he could push in before Jeff twitched, or whimpered, how fast he could do it, and how hard. That surprised him! He also learned a lot about himself. He’d always remember cumming over Jeff’s little bottom and Kyle rubbing it in.

Erdman shook his head in disbelief. “How would anyone remember losing a sock?”

“Mr. Burton?”

Burton gaped at Judge Bowman momentarily. What would she think if she knew his semen splatters gave his son’s back and bottom a glistening sheen? That his hands, and Kyle’s hands were slipping and sliding all over Jeff? That Jeff had an orgasm just from the candle?

“I had a feeling that I was missing something important. I tried to call the Fullers about it right after the arrest, but my call was never returned. It wasn’t important at the time, so I let it go, Your Honor.”

Gorman continued. “Mrs. Fuller indicated to Detective Burton that her son had been molested when they lived in the house. Although he would not identify the man, she had reason to believe that the man lived close by. He was a friend of the family.”

“She told Detective Burton that a man molested her son? That’s all you need to release my client?” Erdman shook his head in utter disbelief.

“Obviously there’s more than that,” Gorman answered. “Something large was forced up the boy’s rectum. The similarity in modus operandi defies probability.”

“Defies probability,” Erdman repeated.

Judge Bowman interceded. “Mr. Erdman, the Prosecution laid out the issues last night for me. We don’t need to go into intricate details. That sock likely belonged to the Fuller boy is enough for me. Also, we can thank Mr. Madison for his earlier point about temperatures at different depths in the ground. Detective Burton pursued it with the Coroner, and he was correct.”

Madison smiled weakly, though his mind, like Burton’s was elsewhere.

“The body was placed in the trench during the night. Although it doesn’t prove innocence, it gives cause for doubt,” Gorman added, glad to be off the hook.

“This is unbelievable,” Erdman said rudely. “My client is innocent. You release him now and there will always be a shadow over him. His life is ruined because of police incompetence. It defies probability!”

There was a shadow over Jeff when Burton had leaned over him. The sun was out and it lit up the boys’ bedroom like a floodlight. He’d licked Jeff’s butt, tasting his cum and the remnants of cherry-scented hand lotion. Kyle took a photo with his cellphone—that was hot. He had his tongue in Jeff’s now-somewhat stretched hole.

Burton looked at Erdman with contempt. Only a man who loved boys would understand what it meant to make love to them. It was nothing like making love to his wife. He never felt invincible with her. He never young and alive with her. With the afternoon sun streaming through the window behind Jeff’s bed, he might’ve been 13. He was all-powerful with his naked, horny twins.

“We will arrest the murderer shortly. I’m in a video-conference this afternoon to interview the Fuller boy. Apparently, the Mayor can’t find the money to send me to California. As soon as we know who abused him, we’ll move quickly.”

Erdman shook his head in disbelief. “Maybe you’ll get it right the second time! Don’t expect it to end here, at least if I have any sway over Mr. Madison.”

Gorman sighed loudly. “Your Honor, had we known about the Fuller boy earlier, the investigation would’ve proceeded differently. I do not intend to prosecute the case at this time. As I told you last night on the phone, we are dropping all charges against Mr. Madison.”

Judge Bowman stared at Gorman, her expression contemptuous. “John Madison, because the State has removed its charges, you are free to go. There is no doubt in my mind that you have been unfairly treated. We have all made mistakes, Mr. Madison. In the effort to bring a murderer to trial, investigations were rushed and certain actions were not taken. The need for haste was further compounded by a reasonable belief that the murderer may strike again.

“In my opinion, due process was not violated. Detective Burton followed standard procedure. New information has placed the evidence against you in a different perspective. He immediately brought this to the Court’s attention. The charges against you are removed without prejudice.”

Erdman scowled. “Innocent but guilty, Your Honor!”

“Yes, Counselor. There is no point in proceeding to trial at this point. Mr. Madison would be acquitted with a motion to dismiss when the prosecution completes its case; however, there is too much at stake to do otherwise. I presume there will be a press release shortly?”

Gorman looked up. “Your Honor, it’ll take a day or two given the sensitive nature of the material.”

Judge Bowman’s mouth wrinkled. “Mr. Gorman, the defendant was raped in prison, a month of his life lost, his finances squandered, and his career ruined; and you want to delay because a couple of politicians depend on the outcome of this case.”

Gorman reddened. “If it pleases the Court, the delay is not to minimize the political fallout. Detective Burton’s job would be easier if he can interview the Fuller boy, and return here before the news breaks.”

“Mr. Madison?” Judge Bowman began. “Does it matter to you if the news of your release is held back for a few days? If the murderer believes he is free to do whatever he wants, the opportunity to catch him might be increased.”

Erdman coughed loudly. “The *murderer* has been free to do whatever he wants for the last month. Do you really believe he’ll rush out tomorrow and give the police the chance to catch him in action.”

Madison glanced at Burton. He was tired of rules and restrictions. “I just want to be out of that place, Your Honor.”

So did Burton, only ‘that place’ for him was living under the same roof as his wife. Within a single day, a divorce had become a real possibility. His only problem was the twins, if she wanted them, and he was sure that she would, if only to deny him. There was even a possibility she’d bring up his relationship with them, make it sound as if he was sexually abusing them, even if there wasn’t a shred of evidence to prove it. Except for the Christmas candle, of course, and he’d taken care of that.

Judge Bowman heard Madison’s despair, not rage. Slowly, it dawned that Madison could never murder someone.

“Mr. Madison, this Court must do whatever it can to assist the police in apprehending the murderer. I cannot right the wrong that has been done to you, and for that I sincerely apologize.”

Madison slowly came to his feet, staring blankly at an artsy portrait of Judge Constance Motley, first black woman Federal Judge. “I can go, Your Honor?”

Judge Bowman nodded. She waited until Madison started towards the door. “Mr. Madison, I’m truly sorry.”

Each step took Madison closer to freedom. He was outside the door before Judge Bowman spoke.

“Mr. Erdman, this Court cannot repair the damage to Mr. Madison’s career. However, you have an opportunity to obtain just compensation for him. A false accusation of murder coupled with kidnapping and child molestation will likely convince a jury to make a substantial award. I think he deserves it!”

+++++

Erdman caught up to Madison in the elevator vestibule. He had a bewildered look as if he didn’t know where to go.

“Congratulations, John!” he said as he approached, his hand outstretched.

Madison’s hand trembled, his voice soft. “I can’t believe it’s over. There’s not going to be a policeman come up to me and say it’s all a mistake, is there?” He smiled weakly he watched Burton walking down the corridor. “Here he comes now.”

Burton stalked down the corridor. “Mr. Madison, I don’t know how to tell you how sorry I am. When I arrested you, I was absolutely certain you did it. I’m just glad it wasn’t you.”

“Let’s get out of here, John” Erdman said brusquely. “How about we get some lunch?”

“In a minute! I want to talk to Detective Burton,” Madison looked directly at Burton. “I don’t blame you for what happened. I was loved as a boy, and I enjoyed every moment. However, it made me want the same thing. I haven’t done anything because I knew it would get me into trouble. It’s the reason why I’ll never have children of my own.”

“I understand. I really do,” Burton said. His voice cracked. “I have twin boys. I love them so much it hurts when I’m not with them.”

He’d have to find a replacement for the candle. It was innocuous enough; though not something you’d normally find in a boy’s bedroom. It was obvious it had an alternative use after it spent an hour inside Jeff’s rectum. Body heat was enough to soften wax, so it bent, adapting to Jeff’s body.

“The man you’re looking for is not like me, Detective. He’s an animal. I hope you find him before I do because I plan to start looking as soon as Erdman and I have finished lunch.”

“I think you’ve said enough, John. “

“I’m not finished,” Madison plowed on. “When I saw the boy’s face, I knew he’d suffered. It wasn’t like that for me. I was never happier than when I was with Randolph. Now, I wake up every night in a sweat, thinking about how the boy died and how much pain he felt.”

A worried Erdman intervened. “John, I think we all know how you feel.”

“You know how it feels to be raped? Your guts hurt like hell afterwards,” Madison turned back to face Burton. “If I find the man you should’ve caught, I intend to kill him.”

Burton sighed. “I can’t stop you from trying.” He had a video conference call to make, and preparations before he left for New Orleans.

A fair bit of poopy fluid came out of Jeff before he finally pulled out the candle, including a big dribble at the end. Kyle kept calling it ‘butt snot,’ though he said it was normal. The family expert on gay sex also had the solution. On the way home, he’d pick up a couple of disposable enemas at the local Walgreens. And a tube of KY, because Kyle said that's what most gays used. And Anal Ease, since that’s what men used with virgins. And Vaseline, so Jeff’s dick wouldn’t get rubbed raw—he doubted he’d need it for their first weekend away, though there was nothing wrong with being prepared. And some of those baby wipes he used when the twins were in diapers. And some analgesic ointment just in case Jeff was sore afterwards…

“If you find out anything, please call me. You can help best that way.” He held out his business card, his mind still in Walgreens…

And a thicker candle because ¾” wide was loose at the end. And some all-day suckers in different flavors because there would be three boys in his car for the trip to New Orleans, and there was no better way of keeping a boy quiet than giving him something to suck on. And shaving cream and a razor because it would be cool to be hairless like Jeff, and there was no way his Remington shaver would shave close enough. Maybe Jeff would let him shave the peach fuzz off his legs, but then he’d look like Kyle? Burton had a lot to think about.

Madison pocketed the card, but otherwise ignored him. He walked to the elevators before he turned around. “Catch him before I do, Detective. It’ll be a painful death after what he did. There are things in the realm of quantum physics which, if applied by one who knows, can be excruciating.”

+++++



At that point in time, Madison had mentioned no less than seven times a pair of mud-covered boots he’d seen on the morning of the first Tuesday after Thanksgiving when he’d used the phone at 3282 Hamilton Avenue. The boots stood side by side, on newspaper, next to the back door. The thick mud that coated them was of the same color as the mud on his own shoes.

He talked about the boots again over lunch. Erdman showed little interest in his theory. For Madison, it could be an important clue, if not actual proof. They finished their meal with a heated discussion of what should be done next.

“I know you’ve suffered, John,” Erdman said. “We both have. A good lawyer feels for his client. Your problems become my problems. You’re a brilliant guy, but you have to be patient and trust me to do my job.”

“Don’t patronize me!”

“I’m not! You’re not a cop. You don’t know the first thing about tracking down a murderer. Burton knows what he’s doing.”

“You’re joking!” Madison said angrily.

“He’s considered good at his job by most of the defense lawyers in town. You need to start putting your life back together.”

“My life is fucked.” He stared through the restaurant window. “He’s still out there, Alan. What if he wants another boy? Maybe I can’t stop him, but I plan on trying.”

“John, I can talk to the University on your behalf. Chances are they’ll reinstate you.”

“Even if I still get my job back, how do I walk into a lecture when every student knows I was charged with sexually abusing and murdering a kid?” Madison snarled.

“Okay, maybe you shouldn’t go back to work right away. Take a month and go away, enjoy your freedom. You told me once that you liked South Carolina.”

“My boyfriend took me there for a holiday. I used to catch our dinner every day, while he worked on his book.” Madison smiled. “My mom must’ve been crazy. I was 11 at the time.”

“Seriously? She let you go off with some guy…”

“He wasn’t ‘some guy. Randolph was a college professor. He rented the apartment over our garage for a semester while he was on sabbatical. I was with him every day. I practically lived with him all summer.”

“You mean…” Erdman gaped at him. “You were doing it at 11?”

Madison smiled. “It was no big deal. My mom knew I slept with him. My brother teased me about having a boyfriend.”

“So go where he took you, John! Just get away from here. With luck, Burton will have caught the son of a bitch and everyone will be sorry they ever thought you did it!”

They stopped talking as the waiter brought them coffee, both pointlessly watching the fountain splashing in the atrium beyond the restaurant window.

“I haven’t had good coffee since Thanksgiving.” Madison added cream to his cup. “Or cream for that matter. I’ll think about it, okay?”

Erdman pushed back his chair and folded his napkin. “I have to get back to work. Some dumb ass kid pistol-whipped a clerk at a 24-hour convenience store and got away with twenty dollars. He did it while he posed for the video camera and now he wants to plead innocent. His mom’s a big get-out-the-vote organizer.”

Madison grinned. There was a funny side of law practice. “Thanks for all you’ve done for me.”

Erdman stood up and picked up the check. “You won’t think that when you see my bill. John, you can meddle in something that you have no understanding of, or you can get on with your life.”

“It may not be very long,” Madison said softly.

“John, that’s why it’s so important not to waste time now. If you want to do something, sue the fuckers! They’ll be less likely to put someone in jail next time. You’ll win big after what you’ve been through.”

Madison watched a mother and her young son by the fountain. She passed a few coins to the boy, who threw them into the water one at a time. The boy was about seven years old, cute with a sunshine smile.

“What do you plan to do?” Erdman asked.

“Find the bastard.”

“Just be careful. Let Burton know if you find anything,” Erdman cautioned.

Madison made himself look away from the little boy. Needing to feast his eyes was like a hunger inside him. However, it was strange how he could tell just by looking. More than the boy’s long hair, or that they’d made eye contact twice; there were a half-dozen other subtle clues that said not only gay in the making, but effeminate.

Erdman went on. “I know it seems bad right now, John, but you need to move on with your life.”

“I got used to hearing screams at night.” Madison abandoned the rest of his lunch, he’d eaten very little of it despite being hungry. “They’d be rutting down the hall like animals all through the night. I think the guards were in on it too.”

“Sounds like hell.”

“It wasn’t like that for me. All I wanted was to be with him. I realize how that sounds, but it’s true. People don’t understand what it’s like to be a gay kid. I was incredibly lucky to find a man who loved me as much as he did. He would’ve died for me.”

Erdman’s head reeled. “Don’t do anything illegal. I don’t want to defend you on another murder charge, or something else.”

“Alan, I’ll call you in a day or two. Thank you for standing by me.”



Chapter 20.

A yellow glow came from a single light. It shone through the irregular panes of an Arts and Crafts window, which didn’t belong with Victorian Gothic arches and Romanesque turrets. Originally, it was the home of Jeremiah Longfellow, a flamboyant merchant of women’s undewear. With white flight to St. Louis’ affluent suburbs in the 1970s, it languished in disrepair, too higgledy-piggledy for most homebuyers.

Its present owner was Ian Quinstone, an eccentric, part historian, part fanatical collector of St. Louis’ memorabilia and bric-a-brac. Neighbors referred to Quinstone as ‘He’. He was seldom outside. His front yard failed the test of social responsibility, his cursory hacking of overgrown shrubs and knee-high grass once a month did not go unnoticed on the block.

Quinstone’s strangeness was known to all. Even children who were new to the neighborhood learned about 3282 Hamilton Avenue within a day or two. At Halloween, it needed no decoration. Few children dared venture onto the front porch, local folklore rife with rumors of devil-worship and animal sacrifice, whose only basis was the body of a dog found outside the house during the previous winter.

Given society’s fondness for normal, Quinstone would’ve been a logical murder suspect. He was too creepy not to be. However, Madison’s memory of that morning changed logical to near certainty. He waited across the road, three houses down, sitting so low in his rented white Honda that someone would have to walk past the car to see him. He watched the rear-vision mirror closely.

Quinstone had been home since three pm, which was when he parked his red Ford Explorer in the driveway and stalked inside. Madison was patient by nature; however, he’d been cooped up for a month. He had to do something besides sit in his car and wait. He opened the door, and headed for darkness under a large elm tree. He shivered in the evening air, lifting the collar of his leather jacket around his neck before thrusting his hands back in his pockets. It was the same jacket he’d been wearing at the time of his arrest.

Another hour passed with no sign of movement in the house. He was almost ready to give up, when he saw Quinstone silhouetted in the window. He might’ve been talking to someone.

Madison yawned, shuffled his feet, and tried to decide whether his feet were numb from the cold, or from standing for so long. He rubbed at his eyes. As his hand lifted, a shadow rose up from the couch and then fell back again . Whoever he was, he was smaller than Quinstone, a lot smaller.

Madison began walking, reacting without thinking. Instinct, not reason, directed behavior. He crossed the road. Ten feet from the gateway he’d entered on a cold Tuesday morning, he stopped. Suddenly, he was uncertain. Everything was moving too quickly. The last thing he wanted to do was charge into Quinstone’s home with wild assertions. On the other hand, he had everything to gain and nothing to lose if he was mistaken.

When he mounted the stairs to the porch, all he could think of was the pair of mud-covered boots he had seen in the hallway and Quinstone’s creepy behavior. He knocked three times before he stabbed at the doorbell.

The door opened, framing a bespectacled Quinstone wearing only a bathrobe, the same grimy burgundy bathrobe as before. He studied Madison until recognition dawned.

“The local pedophile. I never thought I’d see you again!”

Madison restrained an impulse to knock out his teeth. “Local pedophile’ was the final straw. While in jail, he was the source of constant crude jokes about fucking boys. He’d borne the brunt of insults about looking queer, and threats about getting back what he gave to the kid, one of them despicably acted upon when the guards had a convenient union meeting in the middle of the night. Everyone he came in contact with, hated him. Innocent until proven guilty was a joke when it came to child abuse!

He took a breath. “I’m not out on bail. I thought I’d look for the real killer myself.”

Quinstone laughed. “I’m unconventional, but I’m not a murderer! Little boys aren’t my thing,” he added flippantly.

Madison stared at him, his anger growing with every sneer. He despised the man. The problem was he could prove nothing. Any evidence would have been destroyed long ago.

Quinstone smiled slowly. “I hear little blond boys are your thing.”

He stepped back from the door, a clear invitation that left Madison no alternative but to step inside. He closed the door behind him. He hadn’t noticed before, but all around the foyer were photos and newspaper clippings, artifacts and antiques, a muddle from floor to ceiling.

“You want to explain that?” Madison said as calmly as he could manage.

“Your poor sister needed a shoulder to cry on. You were eleven weren’t you?”

Madison felt his face go crimson. “What did she say?”

“I helped her empty out your house in case it had to be sold. She was so upset about you. I’ve always been a good listener. Of course, once I got her started, there was no shutting her up. You’d think a company president would know better than to tell a complete stranger things like that.”

Madison fumed. “What did she say?”

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to tell anyone. I’m sure for some little boys having a sexual relationship with a man is the best thing that could happen to them. You were especially lucky though, weren’t you? I mean how many little boys have a NYU college professor fawning over them. How on earth did Randolph end up in boring little Wilford?”

“He was on sabbatical. He was translating some ancient manuscripts and needed a place where he could concentrate.”

“He was able to concentrate with a sexy eleven-year-old boy always hanging around?”

Madison rose to the occasion. “Actually, I helped him figure out the numerical system.”

“And a few other things too, I expect,” Quinstone chuckled. “I must tell you, John…” He lowered his voice. “I wish I was as lucky at that age.” He leaned against a cluttered dark-wood sideboard, smiling at the opposite wall. “Even before she told me you were a closet pederast, the whole thing didn’t make any sense to me,” he continued unabated. “Why would you come rushing into my house looking like you had just seen Lucifer himself if you were the murderer? I more or less told the detective that when he interviewed me, but I don’t think he was all that bright.”

“Why is a good question,” Madison agreed cynically. “Maybe I was in shock after finding a kid’s body in my backyard.”

“Once she told me what Randolph meant to you, I realized you weren’t the murderer. Men who love little boys don’t go around killing them. Of course, I could hardly tell the police that.”

Madison stared back at him. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say to his sister, though it would not be pleasant.

Quinstone scratched his ear and then proceeded to insert his fingertip. “So why did they let you out, John? Did they finally realize they made a mistake?”

It was Madison’s turn to smile. “Something like that,” he said.

“Is there something you want?” Quinstone asked brusquely.

“That morning, when I made the phone call, I saw something you might be able to explain,” Madison began.

He peered past Quinstone into the hallway behind him. He stepped to the side. Still, he could see nothing unusual, certainly not the child he’d seen in the window.

“We’re very alike, you and I,” Quinstone said nonchalantly.

Madison gave him a withering glance. “In what way?”

“For one thing we’re both intelligent. We’re curious. We’re independent thinkers.”

Madison nodded. It was like a Masonic handshake, a private clubs for social misfits.

“We’re dangerous to society because we don’t do what we’re told. We like things our way, which wouldn’t be a problem except we want things society doesn’t want us to have. In your case, it’s sex with little boys.”

“So you keep saying,” Madison said flatly.

Quinstone chuckled. “You won’t be happy until you’ve seen what you’re here to see, will you?” strode down the hall.

Madison followed. At the study, he paused. There was a store mannequin on a couch, a girl from its long silvery hair. Girls’ clothes were strewn across the floor. Suddenly, he was aware that Quinstone had turned around.

“I spent two years in ‘Nam,” Quinstone said, watching Madison. “Lots of little girls worked in the brothels. You could fuck them for a buck. Seriously, you could get a cutie for five minutes for a dollar. It was a marketing ploy. Sample the wares before splurging on a pair for the night. I spent every penny I had on little girls.”

“I’m sure they spent it wisely.”

Quinstone laughed. “Ah, repartee from someone who knows how to. After that, I got real good at spotting willing girls in the streets. There were hordes of them at night. You could see their pussies under their skirts. Those you could get into for a dollar. ”

“You must really like little girls,” Madison jousted.

“No better or worse than liking little boys, just harder to come by.” He smiled at a private joke.

“Nowadays, you enjoy your mannequin?”

Quinstone laughed. “You ought to get a boy; some are quite delightful, and so easy to clean up afterwards, if you’re so inclined.”

“When I was here last, I was very upset,” Madison said slowly. “It was a few days before I remembered anything. It’s funny how you can see something and think nothing of it at the time, and then a week or so later, you begin to wonder why it was there in the first place.”

“I can’t imagine what you’re talking about.” Quinstone walked to the couch and closed the lid of his laptop. It was easy to imagine what was on the screen.

“Your boots!”

“What are you talking about?”

“There was a pair of boots in the hall, sitting on newspaper. They were covered in mud.”

“Ah, right! Boots! That proves I go around killing little boys,” Quinstone said snidely.

Madison’s confidence evaporated.

“I killed my share of little boys in ‘Nam,” Quinstone said. “The Cong didn’t think twice before giving their kids a grenade or two. I shot one once, just before the grenade he was carrying went off. Maybe six years old, cute as a button if you like dark meat. There were bits of him all over the goddamn jungle.”

Madison tried to think of something else. They studied each other in silence.

“Were you there... behind my house?”

Quinstone smiled. “You’re still on boots. I was putting my bulbs in the ground the previous afternoon. Bit late in the season, but I got them cheap at Home Depot.”

He regarded Madison with amusement. The clock on the mantel clicked metallic notes. He pivoted, summarily dismissing his visitor. Madison watched him with growing anger.

“Do you have any leads besides mud on my boots?” he said over his shoulder.

Madison hesitated. He was tired, almost to the point of not caring what happened. “Just one,” he said. “One of the boys in the neighborhood was molested a year ago. The police believe the man was a friend of the family, probably someone who lived on Hamilton.”

“I assume you’re talking about the Fuller boy?”

Madison nodded. “He used to live in my house.”

“You think I diddled Bobby?”

Following the boots, Madison shrugged. “After it happened, the family moved to California.”

“Come with me,” Quinstone said flatly.

“Why?”

“Because I can show you everything you need to see to figure it out.”



Chapter 21.

Madison gazed out the window, gaining a new perspective on an otherwise familiar place. He couldn’t see his house at 3276, just the corner of the rear yard, the spreading branches of the sycamore. The house was blocked out by the carriage house at 3278.

Perhaps Quinstone saw the same flashlight beam that had attracted him that morning. Was it possible that Quinstone observed someone carrying the boy’s body up his driveway? Unlikely; it would have been dark at the time. He turned back . Quinstone stood patiently in the doorway.

“You couldn’t have seen anything from here,” Madison said, his voice subdued. He had no experience, no way of knowing what questions to ask, no understanding of what to look for.

“That depends,” Quinstone said unflappably. “I can’t see the back of your house from here, so obviously I didn’t see who put the body there.”

Madison stared at him. “You just said you could see everything from here.”

Quinstone smirked. “I wasn’t referring to the murder. You said something about Bobby Fuller. He was polite, not like most of the kids around here.”

Madison swallowed, his attention riveted. “What did you see?”

A slow smile appeared on Quinstone’s face. “As you know, I have my peccadilloes. I say live and let live. I used to wonder about him though,” he added slyly.

“Who do you mean?” Madison asked swiftly.

Quinstone glanced out the window. “Bobby spent a lot of time over there, but it was none of my business. I mean he was close friends with the Fullers. Always going to each other’s houses for a drink or a barbecue, or some other social event. And to church, of course.”

“You’re talking about the Dodges?”

“Hardly. They moved in right after you bought the Fuller House. It’s owned by the Church, you know. The man you’re after is the previous resident. Unless I’m mistaken, he’s the man who diddled dear Bobby. And a darn sight more, I’d bet.”

Madison’s eyes fixed on Quinstone, his mouth gaping. To come so close, only to hit a brick wall. However, he was glad it wasn’t Peter Dodge. Peter had come over to visit often. He’d helped with storage, and tools, and carrying heaving things to the dumpster. Sometimes, he brought a thermos of coffee to share on cold afternoons. In return, he’d provided a few pieces of American Cherry wood for Dodge’s model train set and showed him how to shape it with a grinder.

“Who lived there before?” Madison said hesitantly.

Quinstone chuckled. “Do your homework and figure it out, Professor. All I know is Bobby was always hanging around him. He was up there day and night. It seemed weird even to me, but his parents didn’t worry, so why should I? It’s none of my business.”

Madison turned back to the window. He’d seen the top floor of the carriage house only one time. It was like another world. Dodge’s train set occupied an entire wall, eight feet deep and forty feet long. The artificial terrain was mountainous, based on Lake Como, transformed by artistic license and considerable skill into a fantasy that was simply spectacular. It was easy to see why a boy went there for company and a place to play. The only problem was the Dodge’s didn’t live there when Bobby Fuller was molested.

“You didn’t see another boy hanging around here before that morning?” he asked hopefully.

Quinstone stepped to the window. “’fraid not. Maybe you should ask Dodge.”

“You ever hear anything?”

“You think I’d hear screams from here? Quinstone asked testily. “I would’ve reported it if I thought he was being hurt.”

“How about something huge being forced up his ass? That qualify?”

Quinstone smiled. “I seriously doubt it, given how often Bobby went back.”

Madison agreed, though he would never say so.

Quinstone was right about one thing. The carriage house was sufficiently distant from the adjoining houses that even the loudest scream would not be be heard through closed windows and thick masonry walls.

Madison needed confirmation. “You ever see anything when the lights were on.”

“Since when do you need the lights on to have sex,” Quinstone quipped. “I like to see what I’m eating, but that’s as far as it goes.”

Even as he spoke, a dark figure began to walk from the house in a straight line towards the carriage house. Madison’s eyes strained to see the door open. A flash of light spilled onto the outside ground, illuminating the few remaining drifts of snow. Peter J. Dodge was silhouetted for a second or two before the door was closed and the light went out.

“What do you think he’s doing at this time of the night?” Madison asked.

Quinstone said nothing.

“Working on his train set, I guess?” Madison added uncertainly.

“He’s as weird as I am, sitting up there in the darkness all by himself,” Quinstone offered casually.

“It’s quite a layout he’s built for himself.”

“A grown man playing with toy trains; it’s like he’s trying to relive his childhood,” Quinstone muttered.

“I better go have a chat with him. Find out who lived there before him and Mary. Seeing as you don’t want to tell me,” Madison joked feebly.

He stepped away from the window, wondering why the carriage house remained dark. The look on Quinstone’s face conveyed nothing. Madison walked towards the door. He waited for Quinstone to say something, to give him a name. He said nothing.

Quinstone followed him down the stairs. He stopped in the doorway to the untidy room that served as his study. “Your niece is a beautiful little girl. How old is she?”

Madison winced. “She’s ten.”

Quinstone returned a simpering smile. “How delightful! I thought she might be. Ten is such a nice age for girls. Their little pussies are so smooth and hairless. I like them just big enough for my cock. Tell me, are little boys’ bottoms the same way?”

“What way?”

“Nice and tight, of course. It must be tight at first; but doesn’t your ass get loosened up the more you do it?”

“It depends.”

“I bet your ass loosened up quickly. Your sister said Randolph fucked you at least once a day.”

Madison scowled. “You’d never understand.”

“One more question before you go, John.” Quinstone smirked. “Is your pretty little niece still a virgin? She looks like a virgin, but you can’t really tell until you get their legs apart. It’s always nice when their pussies bleed a little bit; know what I mean?”

“You’re fucking crazy.”

“Close the door after you,” Quinstone said simply.

+++++

Madison was apprehensive as he walked down Hamilton Avenue. His unfinished house loomed like a black castle. There was a ‘for sale’ sign stuck in the lawn. He followed the driveway, past the stone terrace to the corner of the house. The last time he’d seen it there was a trench the entire width of the house. Now, only a dark strip of bare earth interrupted the grass.

He continued towards the Dodge’s carriage house. The only sound was his feet squishing in wet grass until he reached the flagstone pathway of the neighboring property. Now, he was trespassing.

The carriage house door had three locks, two of them new deadbolts, which seemed excessive, though maybe Dodge’s train set was that valuable. There was no knocker or button. He considered calling out, but it seemed pointless with the door closed. He reached for the knob. It turned and the door swung inwards.

The only sound was a dog whining, and it came from upstairs. He peered into the garage. Peter Dodge had a new Volvo wagon. His wife drove a Toyota Prius. Both cars were inside the carriage house, along with a little white sedan Madison had not seen before. A moment later, the light switched off. He was about to call out when he heard the floorboards above his head creak, then footsteps.

“C-c-can I-I eat it now?”

The voice of a child came from above. It startled Madison in a way that chilled him all over. The Dodges had two daughters who attended a private girls’ school in New York. He met then for the first time when the came home for Thanksgiving. They were likely adopted because they looked Eastern European, very likely imports from Bulgaria, Estonia, or Hungary.

“I-I h-h-hate it f-f-from there.”

The voice was soft and high, like his niece when she spoke. By intonation alone, he was sure he heard the voice of a very jittery boy.

“First we feed Moloch. Then, we feed you, sinful child.” That was Peter Dodge. He always sounded stern and uncompromising.

Very little light entered the garage through the glazed panels in the garage doors. Madison thought the stairs were against a wall that had once separated horses and carriages. He groped his way forward, brushing his hand back and forth to avoid knocking into anything. He bumped the wooden handle of a rake and barely caught it before it clattered to the floor. His right foot kicked a bucket and it scraped on the concrete floor. He paused. There was no sound except for his ragged breathing.

He reached the stairs and waited, trying to calm his pounding heart. He stared up, thinking the smart thing to do was go back to Quinstone’s house and call the police. They’d say he was crazy. Besides, the voice was likely one of Dodge’s daughters.

He paused on the second tread, his hands clenched to fists. An uncomfortable urge to piss made him tremble. A foul smell pervaded the darkness.

“I-I h-h-ave to e-eat it?”

No girl! The boy was soprano, like crystal glass. Even resigned and unhappy, his voice was musical.

“We must feed the Beast before it turns evil. It only eats when it’s inside you, my child.”

“It’s g-gross!”

Madison heard Dodge’s voice, louder and closer. “Renounce Moloch and I’ll bring you something to eat.”

Maybe Dodge was waiting for him at the top of the stairs.

“I-I already h-have. D-dozens of t-times. It d-d-doesn’t d-d-do any g-good”

“Then, accept Him as your Savior.”

“P-please. I’ll d-do w-w-what ever y-y-you w-want.”

“Then, stop pretending you don’t like it. Your prick gives you away.”

“I-I c-c-can’t h-h-help it.”

Madison started up the stairs, moving as quietly as he could. Four more steps and he was halfway up. There was a partially open door at the top of the stairs. A beam of faint light spilled out. He craned his neck to see more than the room’s polished wood floor.

“Bend over,” Dodge ordered.

“N-Now? Can I r-rest a-a f-f-few m-more m-minutes.”

“Moloch is weaker when his belly is full.”

“P-please…”

“Your skin is soft like a girl’s. That’s how mine used to be,” Dodge purred. “Push out and take it inside you.”

The boy whimpered.

“Stop crying. You’re quite big enough. Remember what I told you. Push and relax. Push and relax.”

Madison shuddered. He took the next two stairs slowly, barely able to stop from rushing forward. Now, he could see the corner of the room. A table lamp, with a translucent parchment shade and an ugly brass sculptured base, stood on a card table. It seemed to be the only light in the darkened room. Heavy black curtains covered the windows. He couldn’t remember seeing them when he had been in the room back in September. He reached the doorway and listened before he stepped through the opening. From his previous visit, he knew the room was L-shaped with the stairs in the short leg. He walked slowly, a step at a time towards the corner.

A boy was sitting in a reclining chair, surrounded by candles on the floor. In the flickering light, Madison saw what appeared to be a black bathrobe draped over his head, making him look like a Benedictine monk. The robe exposed only his hands and his small face peering out. He was turned towards the train set, eating a hotdog. After each bite he wiped it with his left hand, before returning it to his mouth. After two small bites, he placed the hotdog on the armrest and picked up what looked a flat Pringles chip. He ate mechanically, feeding hunger without interest. After a few mouthfuls, he sipped from a pewter goblet.

Other than silver chains around his neck and waist, the boy did not appear to be a prisoner. He wasn’t restrained in the chair. He moved his arms and legs with ease. Nothing would stop him from getting up and running for the stairs if Madison called to him; however, what if he’d come to Dodge’ carriage house of his own will, like Bobby Fuller? Perhaps he shared an interest in Peter Dodge’s train set.

Then, the boy leaned back in the chair.

Madison mouthed, ‘what the fuck!’

What he thought was a bathrobe, was a rough woolen cassock. It ended halfway down the boy’s slender bare legs. He had no doubt that the boy was without shorts and underpants. The way he pulled the cassock across his front meant he was concealing his private parts. In doing so, the cassock pulled back from his head, revealing short silver-blond hair, almost as if it’d been shaved to the scalp and allowed to grow out a bristly half-inch. It struck him like a punch in the gut that the boy in his trench also had blond hair.

Suddenly, Madison realized there was no sign of Dodge. In a blink of an eye, discretion lost out to valor! He, John Tyler Madison would save his boy-prince. What was he thinking? A million thoughts clamored, not one logical, not one even the slightest bit scientific. In the blink of an eye, his decision was made; all intuition and instinct, and simply knowing. He knew this beautiful child was his preordained boy-god. Being there, at that very moment, was his destiny. It was fated from when he was a boy himself. Every step brought him closer. He took a deep breath. Reason asked ‘why’? Love answered.

“Come here!” Madison said as he stepped around the corner.

The boy looked up, startled. Something clattered on the wooden floor. He started to stand, but thought better of it. His head tilted and the expression on his face changed from shock to curiosity. Still, his hand moved to his lap, ensuring the lower half of his body was concealed.

“W-w-who are y-you?” he stuttered.

Madison came forward a few paces. Desire surged the closer he came. It was magnetism, hot and urgent, and powerful. Still yards away, the boy looked guilty and ashamed. There was a scarlet blush from his neck to his cheeks.

“W-what are y-you d-doing h-here?”

His lips pressed into a thin determined line. Madison was dumbfounded. He’d never seen the boy before, yet no matter the cost, he needed to protect him. This boy was his, his only purpose in life.

“You P-P-P-P-Peter’s f-friend?” the boy asked nervously.

“Come here, Jason!” Madison called. He had no idea where the name came from. It was simply there, at the epicenter of his mind.

Again, the boy started to stand and Madison started forward. The boy was perfect, truly a boy-god, though all he could see was a shadow under the cassock hood, slender arms and legs, small hands and feet. His brain shrieked grab him and run.

His next two steps brought him to a partially open door. Peter Dodge stepped out behind him. Madison sensed him an instant before Dodge grabbed his shoulders threw him against the wall. A knee slammed into his gut. Dodge pulled him forward with a savage jerk, snapping his head back. Dodge punched one time and his head crashed into the door. Something exploded in his skull. His knees weakened and he dropped heavily to the floor.

Madison thought he heard the boy call his name, or maybe he was singing. There was another voice from his past. It was like a fog horn, a long way away, urging him to get up and fight. He clambered up. Dodge kicked into Madison’s groin. He felt an awful stabbing pain before he toppled through the open door.

“Get your ass over here, boy!” Dodge snarled. He glared down, adding a second kick for good measure. “How the hell did he find out so fast?” he said under his breath

Suddenly Jason Thorne was very frightened. He began to shiver, shaking as he stumbled closer. He stared down, disbelieving.

“W-who is h-he?”

Dodge glared at Jason. “Don’t pretend! You know who *he* is.”

Jason shook his head. He sniffed and blinked, and gazed down at the crumpled body on the floor. There was something familiar about the man’s face; however, he knew better than to say so.

“He came here to kill you,” Dodge said very calmly. “I warned you already, remember. He’s the man who murdered Danny.”

“D-Danny… H-He’s m-my f-friend...”

“He was a sinful boy, just like you...”

“M-Moloch w-was inside h-him too. W-we d-d-did b-bad things t-together.”

“I almost managed to get him out of Danny. This man killed him before I succeeded. That’s why the police put him in jail.”

“D-did h-he ‘scape?” Jason muttered.

His belly ached worse than ever. He shivered despite a sweaty sheen on his forehead. He started to quiver. Every time he glanced down, more heat spread from his belly into his body. Every part of him came alive. Dodge saw a slight pointy bump form in the front of the cassock. The boy’s penis stiffened so quickly he was oblivious.

“He must have.” He met Jason’s eyes, big and blue, and frightened. “Don’t worry, boy. I’ll drive the Beast out of you.”

Jason heard a whisper and looked around. It had been a long time since he’d heard the voice. Now, it was so soft, he wasn’t sure he’d actually heard it.

“H-h-e w-w-wants to k-kill m-me too?”

“That’s why I warned you to be careful. He can’t hurt you now.”

Jason’s head twitched. He shook his head to clear cobwebs. “A-are y-you g-going to c-call the p-police?”

Dodge almost smiled. Despite the boy’s obvious arousal, he was close to breaking. “If I do, they’ll send you back to your stepfather.”

“I c-can’t g-go b-back there,” Jason sniffed.

His hand smeared across his face, wiping his nose. He noticed the wetness on his fingers and rubbed it on his cassock. It was spotted with stains. Dodge moved closer, placing his arm around the boy’s narrow shoulders. He felt the boy’s warmth like a glow from deep within.

“You won’t have to. I have friends who’ll take care of you once you’re free of Moloch.”

He caressed the boy’s slender neck, one finger skirting the neck chain to stroke his collar bone, his thumb on the other side of Jason’s windpipe. He pressed lightly, feeling throat cartilage. He was sorely tempted to end it right there.

However, Orsini was adamant.

‘Keep the seventh one alive. He holds the key to unlimited power. He’s suffered the most, so he’ll be the hardest to break. Keep him weak, and be very careful.’

Orsini had said that, not once, but every time he called from Rome.

“I’ll b-be a g-g-good boy w-when h-he’s g-gone,” Jason said timidly, looking up hopefully.

Yet, he heard the voice whisper, ‘good.’ He blinked.

Al of a sudden, he didn’t want Dodge to touch him. It made him feel like cockroaches were crawling on him. He pulled his cassock close and stared down, finding strength he didn’t know he had. Now, he was certain he’d seen the man before; but where?

Still, Dodge rubbed Jason’s shoulder, pretending affection. Jason shuddered and backed away, his eyes constantly peeking down. The man was very good-looking. Was that why his penis started to throb? It was like that back in Wilford. Every time he looked at men his body reacted.

Dodge sensed the connection, bonds forming between man and boy simply by looking at each other. He pulled Jason after him, around the corner.

“I’ll get rid of him and stay with you until I drive out Moloch.”

“C-can I l-leave it out then?” Jason asked meekly.

The voice in his head was calm and soothing, like the voice he’d heard nearly three years ago, only it was speaking nonsense, or a language he’d never heard.

“My dear child, you must trust me.” Dodge slipped his hand into the warm cassock. “’I drive out demons by Beelzebul.’ That’s Matthew 12:27. I want you to repeat it.”

“I d-drive out d-demons b-by B-B-Beelzeb-b-bul.”

“Good boy. Now, you know, Beelzebul was the ‘heir of fire and punishment,’ and he had a baton. Do you know what a baton is, dear boy?”

“L-like a c-c-conductor uses?”

“That’s one kind. A policeman carries a baton too, or a truncheon. Sometimes it’s called a nightstick.”

“H-he uses it to b-b-eat b-b-bad p-people.”

“Exactly. Beelzebul’s baton was very powerful because it was so thick. He used it to spear through a boy’s fundament, the hole in his bottom. It was so hot it felt like fire; the fiercer and fierier it was, the more it purified a boy.”

“It’s a c-c-candle.”

“Ah. A candle burns at the end, so it is like Beelzebul’s baton, is it not?”

Jason nodded slightly.

“And the other end is like a policeman’s nightstick. It will beat you into submission… Submission is good for a boy, especially a boy like you. Men like submissive boys. Boys who always obey. Good little boys always do exactly what they’re told. Sinful boys like you have to keep Beelzebul’s baton inside them so they remember to be submissive… That way, Moloch can’t return.”

“I-I d-don’t w-want him b-back.”

“Then, you must do whatever I say, no matter what,” he said, suggestively rubbing Jason’s small chest.

“I h-have to h-have B-Beezelbul’s b-baton in my b-butt,” Jason murmured. Now, he could feel his penis twitching under the cassock, his heart pulsing, his belly burning hot.

The voice wasn’t helping. Ancient Greek was surely gobbledygook to a boy born in the 21st century.

Dodge squeezed his fingers into Jason’s shoulder. “I’m afraid you must, unless you are worshipping Him. Allow me, His Servant, to enter your sanctum, your rectum sanctorum. Only I can extinguish the flame. It’s the only way to keep Moloch at bay.”

It made as much sense as Ancient Greek. “P-please l-let me g-go.”

“I’m afraid I can’t; there’s too much at stake. It’s time to tempt Moloch out of his lair. If you’re good, I’ll let you play with the trains,” he added temptingly.

Jason glanced back at the unconscious form wedged against the door. “H-he r-r-eally killed Danny?”

Dodge laughed. “Don’t worry about him. He’s as good as dead.”

Holding Jason’s shoulder firmly, he gave a gentle shove towards his train set, its elaborate landscape an invitation to make-believe. He sat in the control panel chair, pulling the boy to him.

Even out of sight of Madison, Jason resisted. He squirmed away, forcing his butt against a cherry-wood box. It was curved like a pillow with rounded edges.

“Sit with me, Jason,” Dodge said gently. “I’ll keep you company while Beelzebul’s baton is in you.”

To Jason, Dodge’s soft voice was sincere and reassuring. Not like the other voice, which now seemed irritated. He eased away from the varnished wood behind him.

“P-promise y-you won’t t-t-t-t-touch me again?” he peeped.

“I must touch you, child, and you must trust me. I know what is best for you. Now, let me see make sure it’s stretching you properly.”

Obediently, Jason turned and leaned face down over the smooth cherry-wood box. Without being asked, he pulled apart his buttocks.

“Just look at you, so smooth and pretty, like a little girl’s part.” Dodge used his thumb to spread Jason’s small cheeks wide apart. “For boys like you, the gate of Sodom is always open.”

“W-what’s S-S-Sodom?”

“My dear boy, 'If the Lord of hosts had not left us children, we would have fared like Sodom’. Romans 9:29.”

“I d-d-don’t understand.”

Dodge smiled. “All in good time, my darling. Are you ready for my pizzle to enter your rectum sanctorum?”

“It’s t-too b-b-big.”

“Not for you, my darling. In all the years I was with Orsini, my hole never looked like a little mouth.”

Dodge touched satin-smooth black wax with a fingertip, avoiding the slimy accumulation around the anus, stretched so wide Jason appeared to be giving birth.

“Moloch’s spawn are arrogant, vindictive creatures,” he whispered in Jason’s ear. “There are seven, all of them disgusting boys who open their bottoms for any man. They suck men’s penises and gulp their seed, and then drink the blood of little girls. Do you want to be one of them?”

“N-n-no.”

“Even with your sanctum desecrated, you’re still perfect, Jason. Because you have been punished for your sins by Him, you will always be immaculate. No matter how much men faun over you and commit sacrilege, you will be His Servant.”

“I-I-I-I…”

“Shhhh. Trust me, Jason…. Now do as I say; try to push it out, dear boy.”

Jason tried, straining the muscles in his lower abdomen to force it through his dilated sphincter. His face contorted from the effort. He was exceptionally strong for his size.

“Push harder.”

Remarkably, Jason’s anus stretched around the blunt end of the candle. As it began to slide out, Dodge stopped it from being expelled with his finger, gauging the boy’s effort before he drew Jason against him. Callously, he shoved the candle back into the boy’s rectum before he lifted Jason onto his thighs.

Jason settled into Dodge’s lap, closing his eyes as he felt a strong hand reach under his cassock and across his bare thigh. He heard the whir of the electric motors of the trains as they began to move around the tracks, clicking as they crossed junction points. He kept his eyes closed as the trains made lap after lap, completing a around the lake before ascending through tunnels and across bridges of wooden sticks into the mountains. It was so nice with Danny that he couldn’t stop himself. Now, he tried to hate the feelings. He tried to deny the pleasure. He tried to be angry when the man stirred the massive candle plugging his bowels. He climaxed quickly, his unyielding penis throbbing relentlessly.

+++++

Madison came to with an unending hum filling his head. He groaned. His hand inched across the oak floor to his forehead. There was blood. There was a fiery pain in his groin. He gagged from bile rising in his throat. After a minute, he opened his eyes. Dark indistinguishable shapes beckoned him to reach out for them. One was a camp bed. For some reason, the boy’s smell was instantly recognizable. It was fresh and sweet. He inhaled again and again, filling his lungs until he was able to lift his head from the floor and peer over his right shoulder. Through the open doorway, he saw Dodge seated before his train set. Madison closed his eyes and wondered where Jason had disappeared to.

The sound of a toilet flushing startled him. It was on the other side of the wall. Jason waddled across the room until he stood next to Dodge. He stared down at an intricate Alpine village. There was even lettering on trucks and fence posts and rails of toothpicks.

“You feel better now?” Dodge asked, his tone patronizing.

“I h-had to p-p-poop.” Jason put something beside the control panel. “Who i-is h-he?”

“Don’t you recognize him?”

“N-no. Sh-sh-should I?” Jason looked behind him. It was dark in the storeroom where he slept at night. “Y-you g-going to h-hurt h-him again?”

“Don’t worry about him.” Dodge reached for Jason’s slender arm. He stepped back. “It’s time to sit down. We’ll try again. Maybe it’ll work this time.”

“I d-don’t w-want to!”

Dodge laughed. It was an unpleasant sound. He rolled across the floor on castors. He touched Jason’s lips. “You really are a beautiful little boy. My girls would give anything to have your looks.”

Again, Jason turned as if his name had been called. When he turned back, he seemed stronger. “Y-you always h-hurt me w-when I c-cum, and it’s n-not my f-fault. You m-make me d-do it.”

“How many times must I tell you, child? You must be punished for your sins each and every time. It’s the only way to get Moloch to come out.”

“I don’t w-want you to p-put it inside me again.”

“Why not, Jason? We both know you like to feel Beelzebul’s baton inside you. You’re sinful boy. That’s why you let me play with your penis.”

Jason shook his head. “I d-don’t l-let y-you!” he exploded. “I d-don’t w-want you t-t-touching me.”

“You like it, Jason. What’s more, you need it inside you!” Dodge said angrily. He picked up the thick black candle that Jason had left by the control panel. He stroked the shiny wax surface, still hot from Jason’s rectum. “Now bend over and be a good boy.”

Jason stepped backwards. “I d-don’t w-want it inside m-me.”

He glanced over his shoulder again. Madison slowly got to his feet. He braced himself against the door jamb, holding his head with his other hand. His face was pale.

“I d-don’t b-believe h-he k-killed D-Danny.”

“Jason, dear boy, I told you already. He murdered your little friend.”

Madison gagged on bile. He gulped, swaying as he tried to stand by himself. He felt the floor heave under his feet. It moved so much he had to brace himself against the wall.

“I’m only trying to save you from an evil, sinful life,” Dodge said, unaware that Madison was slowly coming to his senses. “You know I would never hurt you.”

Jason regarded each man before Madison’s gaze enveloped him. Something changed inside him, as if a slow-burning fuse had been ignited.

Madison mouthed ‘Jason.’

He might have been his niece, Kathy, mouthing ‘Aus-tra-lia,’ trying to save Jason from embarrassing himself. This time, Jason heard him as clearly as the end-of-class bell.

Jason smiled, still uncertain, yet already admiring the way the man tilted his head and crinkled his eyes. He was thoughtful. He was gentle and protective, and if Kathy was to be believed, her uncle loved boys. It should’ve bothered him that he knew who the man was. It didn’t. Perhaps he’d known from the moment he was born.

Something pressed on his shoulder, guiding him, although he had started that way nearly three years earlier.

“You can trust me, Jason,” Dodge said in his most convincing voice.

“G-go t-to h-hell. I h-hate y-you,” Jason whispered.

“You’re a disgusting little faggot! You don’t know what hate is!”

Dodge pushed back the chair as he came to his feet. It tumbled over with a loud crash. From his pocket, he withdrew a knife. The handle was black metal with four big circles drilled out. The blade was serrated and so pointed that the slightest nick would slice through the skin.

“Screw Orsini! I’m going to do what I should’ve done when DeLucca brought you here. You lived on a farm so you know about gelding.”

Jason shook his head.

“Let me spell it out for you. I’m going to cut off your balls, tiny as they are. You may be the last of seven, but you're the most important. There’ll be hell if you breed.”

Jason's skin turned white as alabaster. He shuddered and backed away. With a deep breath, his color returned as his hands balled into impotent fists, his eyes bright with fire.

“I serve Zeus, the Great God of All. I can’t breed because I carry his seed” His eyes bored into Dodge, his stammer gone.

Chuckling, Dodge dropped his knife next to the candle. “Zeus be damned! Maybe I’ll cut that thing from your belly and watch you bleed out, instead.”

“Fuck you!’ Jason said.

“I don’t see Zeus coming to save you.”

“He sent someone else.”

Dodge spun around and attacked with a powerful lunge. He grasped Madison’s upper arm and forced him down as his other hand clawed brutally, scraping into eyes and mouth before Madison managed to tear his hand away. Madison fell to his knees, clutching his face and retching. Dodge glanced at Jason and grinned. He circled Madison. This time, he locked hands around Madison’s neck, his thumbs jammed into the windpipe.

‘You are his boy. Go to him.’ It was the voice from a night Jason would never forget. Serene yet commanding.

Madison’s strangled scream terrified Jason. He ran to the stairs, trembling as Madison choked on his last breath, his frantic struggling fueled by panic. Reason argued to keep running.

The voice in Jason’s head was unwavering, ‘You are his boy. Go to him.’

Jason turned back. He stopped feet away, separated from the struggle by the chair that he had been sitting on earlier. He had been violated on that chair, watching toy trains make endless circles.

‘Jason, you are his boy.’ Jason’s head cocked to the side as if he hadn’t heard.

He watched Madison’s flailing cease, then twitch with spasmodic jerks. His tongue was purple and hanging from his mouth.

‘Jason, pick up the chair.’

Jason tried. “It’s too heavy.”

‘You have the seed of Zeus inside you. Nothing can stop you.’

Jason did what the voice said to do. With the strength of Hercules, he lifted up the heavy steel chair. He brought it down onto Dodge’s head.

Dodge tottered to his train set, his head exploding in a thunderclap. After a few moments of confusion, he vomited over the marshalling yards. For as long as it took for Jason to kneel beside Madison, Dodge teetered between consciousness and a massive subarachnoid hemorrhage. It was no different to a ruptured cerebral aneurysm. A black chasm inexplicably opened before him and he toppled into it.

Jason leaned over Madison’s body. He was going to be brave and not cry, yet tears formed as soon as he blinked. He squeezed Madison’s hand tightly.

“Please don’t let him die,” he whispered to himself.

The voice in his head was louder, and even more insistent. ‘You are his boy, now.’

Chapter 22.

Madison gagged, coughed, and gasped for air. The first few breaths began to restore the color in his face and within a minute his eyes opened. His dazed eyes looked into Jason’s eyes before they closed again. Magnetic, grey-blue, sensitive, loving eyes….

“… Kathy said you were really handsome…”

“Kathy…. What about Kathy?”

“She’s kind of my friend. More than a friend. We go to school together.”

“ You’re from Wilford?”

Jason nodded nervously.

“Are you okay?” Jason stroked his father’s temple. He still wasn’t sure, not completely.

Madison groaned, hacking loudly as the pain in his throat choked him. “I know you… You’re…”

“Jason T. Thorne…”

“T as in Tyler?”

Jason nodded nervously.

Madison stared at him. He had the same wavy blond hair, the same grey-blue eyes. He was small like his mother. “You’re my… my son…”

Jason nodded. “He said you were. I’m pretty sure I am. I’m not absolutely certain. Like 75-25. We probably should have a DNA test. I mean you look like my dad.”

“Huh?”

“My mom gave me your photo for my bedroom, only my stepfather burned it because of my avarice.”

“Your what?”

“Avarice. Like greed, you know. It was the first time he….” Jason forced back the memory.

“You... have to... get... help.” Madison muttered as another wave of nausea swept up from his gullet.

Slowly his head turned until he saw Dodge slumped beside him.

“What... happened?”

“I hit him with the chair,” Jason said, as stoic as any ancient Greek philosopher.

Madison blinked, focusing on the worried young face. “You’re bleeding.”

Jason looked at the gash on his hand. Already, the bleeding had stopped. “It’s only a scratch.” In the time it took him to say it, the gash had become a cat-scratch. “He told me to do it.”

“Who?”

“Zeus. I hear his voice sometimes,” he said shyly. “He said my blood could save you, so I cut myself.”

“Who said?”

“Zeus. Zeus is the Great God of All.” Jason felt his father’s forehead again. When he took hand away there were silvery flecks on his palm that had been blood smears.

“You sound like Randolph.”

“Zeus tells me what to do. I think it’s how he protects me.”

Madison managed to smile. Just being next to Jason made his pain fade. “Thank you, Jason; and Zeus,” he added in a whisper.

“You don’t think I hurt him too badly, do you?” Jason asked worriedly.

With great difficulty Madison sat up. It needed all of his strength, and even then Jason had to help by pulling on one arm.

“He’s asleep. That’s all.”

He was more worried about himself. He rocked back and forth, only it seemed that the room was rocking up and down. It was like being on a small yacht at sea.

“How did you get here?” he asked at last.

“Danny Benson and I ran away the day after Thanksgiving. His dad found me and him together in the barn. We weren’t doing anything, just kissing to see what it was like, but he still told my stepfather.” Jason paused long enough to take a very deep breath. “See Kathy told me her uncle lived in St. Louis, only I didn’t know you were my dad, just that you liked boys, so I thought maybe you’d like me, and if you did, we could take care of each other, because I can do all the chores and cook, and clean the house after school, and we could do stuff at night if you wanted, so Danny and I hitch-hiked here, and then when we got here we didn’t know where to go, so we went to New Way for something to eat, and Father DeLucca brought me and Danny here for Peter to take care of, and then when he brought us up here he had us take off our clothes because we were dirty and he saw my tummy and he got so mad we thought he was going to hurt us, but it was only because Moloch was inside us, only he killed Danny after he put Beelzebul’s baton inside him and he did it to me too, only he kept me because I’m supposed to know how to make unlimited power from the earth’s gravitational force and magnetic field, except you and I will invent it together once we move to South Carolina, and we’ll live in this special house because I’m the seventh catamite and we’ll make love all the time, and…”

“Whoa! Slow down.”

Jason blinked repeatedly, his head whirling through chaotic images mashed together. He held his father’s hand, breathing slowly and deeply until everything became clear again.

“What was that all about?”

Jason frowned. “I don’t know. Zeus said to tell you everything.”

“I don’t think he meant all at once.”

Jason smiled for moment. “It was like I was falling into mirror and couldn’t stop myself.” Suddenly, he covered his face with his hand and shuddered, “Nnnoooo!”

“What’s wrong?”

“Danny…. He’s dead. Danny did whatever he wanted, and he’s dead.” Jason looked up. “It should be me who’s dead. I made him angry.”

“I’m glad it’s not,” Madison said, his voice still raspy. It hurt when he breathed. “Did he hurt you?”

“The last one hurt. Danny wasn’t used to it, not like I was, so he cried a lot, especially at first, plus he couldn’t keep it in.”

Jason was red-faced. He shifted his feet constantly, loath to talk about what he’d done with Dodge.

“He can’t hurt you anymore,” Madison said gently. “Let’s get out of here.” It needed all of his strength to stand. Jason dragged him up. He stumbled. His head throbbed mercilessly. “Where are your clothes?”

Jason shrugged. “He made me wear this. He said it was because of what happened when I was seven. That’s why I have to wear the Three Chains of Sin, so I don’t spread my evil.”

“You are not evil.”

Jason looked down his front at the silver chain around his waist. Tears formed in his eyes. He wiped his nose as he sniffed.

“It’s okay now, Jason,” Madison said.

He took a last look at Dodge. He’d once thought Peter to be one of the nicest people he’d met. He was barely breathing. With luck he’d never hurt another boy again.

Madison gathered his strength and staggered down the room, partially supported by a still-frightened boy Jason. He had to stop when they reached the stairs.

If there was a light switch, he couldn’t see it. He led the way, worried that he would stumble and take Jason with him. He gripped the handrail tightly and moved each foot slowly. The stairs didn’t seem so steep going up. Behind him, he could hear Jason offering words of encouragement. He was a real little trooper, taking care of him despite everything.

With both of them blocking the light from the room above, it was very dark below. Madison stared into the gloom. The next step was missing. Unbalanced, he crashed forward. He landed heavily, his arms and chest taking the brunt. He heard Jason’s scream a moment after the lights turned on. He rolled over slowly and pushed himself into a sitting position. Jason stood behind him several stairs higher.

“U-u-uh-h-h-d-d-d-d-a-a-a-,” he stammered.

“I’m okay, Jason,” Madison wheezed. When he finally noticed Mary Dodge, he sighed, “Thank God,” he sighed.

“John, you’re supposed to be in jail.”

“They released me earlier today. New evidence, they said.”

“Why didn’t you turn the light on?”

“I couldn’t find the switch. He tried to stand. His legs wouldn’t work, though he could feel the last stair with his feet.

“Where’s Peter?”

Madison hesitated. “He’s upstairs.”

He needed to explain his presence and the boy behind him. He considered saying he’d come to see the train set, and the boy was a friend, which was believable except the boy was stark naked under a cassock.

The funny thing was she didn’t appear to see Jason, or if she did, she was ignoring him. Her expression was curious, her head tilted to one side.

Madison crawled to wall and leaned back. “Mary,” he began awkwardly, “I don’t know you to tell you this… I think Peter killed the boy I found behind my house.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized he’d stumbled into something far greater than a simple case of murder and child abuse.

Mary Dodge finally glared at Jason. “You need to go to your room, Jason.”

“N-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-n-o-o-o.”

“Stop it! You’re not retarded.”

“I-I-I w-w-want t–t-to l-l-leave. I-I’m g-g-going w-with h-h-him.”

“You can’t. Orsini wants you. You’ll be one of his little friends once Moloch is gone.”

Jason shuddered, tugged at the waist of the cassock in a futile attempt to cover his front. Looking up, Madison saw three chains, the third wrapped around Jason’s loins and connected to a brassy ring enclosing his pale puny penis, mimicked by a little arrow pointing up his abdomen The center of Jason’s body glowed like pure molten gold.

Mary Dodge looked too. “Vile catamite from hell!”

Madison studied the symbol on Jason’s abdomen with suddenly increased interest. The boy in the trench had the same mark on his belly, though his was crimson.

A shimmering circle enclosed Jason’s belly button where the glow began. He had a feeling that he was looking at the center of the universe, that energy emanated from Jason’s navel. It sucked him in like a cosmic black hole. It spoke to him. Or maybe he was just delusional from falling down the stairs.

What had Jason said about the earth’s gravitational force and magnetic field? To anyone else it would’ve been nonsense. To a quantum physicist it was the Philosopher’s Stone; base metal turned into gold, the elixir of life, the nectar or immortality.

After a moment, Mary Dodge walked to the door and closed it. She turned back, her expression contemptuous. “But I forget, you’re special!”

Madison was shocked by her tone, so bitter, so full of hatred, yet he knew the reason. He’d always known Jason was special. He’d felt it at the very instant his semen had oozed into Jason’s mother. It wasn’t a real ejaculation, his penis wasn’t stiff for that, and all that came out was a dribble. In fact, he wouldn’t have been able to get any into her vagina if he hadn’t pushed it in with his fingers.

“Are you permanently stretched now, Jason?” she asked, more sneer than interest. “You should be. It only takes a couple of days, and you’ve had the big one inside you for two weeks. You can’t even hold in your poop, can you?”

Jason scowled back, his little hands clenched so tightly his knuckles were white.

“Orsini’s boys are always loose. You can spot them; how they smile, like they know everything. They walk with their little bums clenched in, the same as you do.”

It wasn’t the ravings of derangement; Madison knew firsthand how a boy’s bowels stretched when he made love with a man. So what if he walked funny? Thirty years later, he was still glad it had happened to him. Being bigger inside was infinitely better for both him and Randolph.

“Afterwards; you can smell them coming.” She wrinkled her nose, disgusted.

The juices that had seeped from inside a boy had an unforgettable smell, though Madison only noticed it lying in his bed afterwards. His mucus was musky and sweet, not sour and musty like the woman he’d nearly married to avoid pursuing boys.

“That nonsense about forcing out Moloch, it’s Orsini’s way of making sure boys are loose. That way, the old fool can insert himself whenever he wants!” She laughed. “Now, you won’t be able to stop him, or anyone else, even if you wanted to, which I doubt.”

Madison had heard ‘Moloch’ before. When he was a boy, Randolph had talked about how far the pious, the pig-headed, and the politicians would go to prevent the coming Age.

“Everyone knows men can’t control themselves around cute little boys,” she went on. “Peter’s the same. Oh, he likes our little girls in his bed, mind you, but you Jason, you excited him.” Her voice, increasingly hysterical, turned to cold fact. “I always saw lust in his eyes when he came back to the house after being with you.”

She slowly walked towards the garden tools hanging from hooks on the wall. Her fingers brushed over the wooden handles. She stopped and stroked the handle of the pitchfork.

“I only watch because Orsini told me to. I was there when Peter finished stretching your little friend. You were asleep, but I saw what Peter did with him. I had to give him an enema afterwards to clean him out. The smell of his shit was disgusting!”

She spat out the last few words. She regained control and breathed out. “Peter wanted to put it up you the same way, but I wouldn’t let him. Orsini wants you stretched but untouched.”

Mary Dodge lifted the now-threatening pitchfork from its hook and caressed the handle lovingly. “Poor Danny! He enjoyed it so much. He had a cum, you know. His first wet one, I expect. Unfortunately, Peter had to get up early the next morning.” She smiled crudely. “Danny must’ve been exhausted. He didn’t wake up until I had the garbage bag over him.”

Madison stared at her. “You killed him?” he asked uncertainly. “You put his body behind my house after I left that night.”

She smiled. “That nice old man you had working for you told me the hole was going to be filled in first thing the next morning. All I had to do was throw some dirt over it so it couldn’t be seen. And wouldn’t you know, it rained a few hours later!”

“You went out the next morning with a flashlight to check on it, didn’t you?” Madison asked.

She nodded. She lifted the pitchfork up so that the prongs pointed at Madison. “Orsini will be very angry. Peter was always his favorite.”

She took a step forward, and another. She stood directly over Madison. She brought the pitchfork higher. Madison looked up at four steel spikes above him. Jason was primed, lithe muscles and tendons taut, like a mountain cat ready to fling himself forward.

He whispered what sounded like, ‘Please save him, Zeus.’

Harrison stepped from behind the Volvo. “Drop it, bitch!” His handgun was aimed at her, ready to fire if she did not back away.

Even as her arms began to thrust the pitchfork down, Harrison fired. The force of the bullet blew out her forehead and knocked her onto her Prius. The pitchfork clattered to the floor loudly.

“Thank you Zeus,” Jason murmured.



THE END OF PART ONE.

Will there be a Part Two? What really happened in New Orleans? Does Kyle get pussified? Do Jason and John give new meaning to incest? And what is that quantum physics stuff about anyway?

Don't be a tightwad. Your generosity determines Part Two: PRESERVE EROTICA, DONATE TO NIFTY





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