Psychic Detective 9 By Jake Preston
This is a work of erotic gay fiction, intended for readers who enjoy a murder mystery in which fully developed characters interact sexually and in other ways. Their sexual encounters are sometimes romantic, sometimes recreational, sometimes spiritual, and almost always described explicitly. My attention is equally divided between narrative, character development, and sex scenes. If you don't care for this combination, there are many other excellent "nifty" stories to choose from. And remember that while nifty stories are free, maintaining a website is not. Please think about donating at http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html
Writing is usually a solitary avocation, but not necessarily so on nifty.org, where a longer story appears in installments. If my characters and my story grab your attention, you can always intervene with suggestions for improvements. All sincere comments will get a response!
Jake, at jemtling@gmail.com
Chapter 9 Peyote Coyote
Dark Eagle stepped forward and placed his hands on David's head. "You didn't fail us, Niizho-manitou," he said. "These visions come from Manitou. He speaks in riddles. Oracles. It's our responsibility, not yours, to think them through. Each detail must be pondered, especially the ones that elude our senses." He spoke to the group: "It's an Ojibwe custom to invite comments about messages sent from Manitou. Give us your thoughts. Help us to understand, if you can."
Svenson used the interval to retrieve his clothes, and Winik's. He knew that they would have to say something. It would be better to be dressed than naked.
"I can't comment on David's vision, but I remember seeing something," Dmitri said.
"I remember seeing something, too," David said.
"We'll talk about that tomorrow," Winik said while fastening the belt on his trousers. "If we take witness statements from you today, they won't stand up in court. A defense attorney will argue that they were tainted by peyote."
"We must look for two additional crime scenes, I'm sure of that," Svenson said. "One is in Oregon, possibly in the Wallowa Mountains. That'll be like looking for a needle in a haystack. One is somewhere in between here and Oregon. My guess would be South Dakota, somewhere in the Lakota Nation, but it could be North Dakota, or Montana, or even Idaho."
"Sergeant Svenson has dedicated a lot of time to these crimes," Winik pitched in. "He researches them all day and dreams about them all night, twenty-four-seven. He's shared his theories with me, but they're speculative. Even so, some of his theories intersect with details in David's vision. These are details that have not been mentioned in the media. I could talk about them, too, but it would be better if they came from their source, if the Sergeant can be prevailed upon."
All eyes were on Svenson. He was glad he got dressed. "There are two killers," Svenson said. "Let's call them Killer Number One and Killer Number Two. Number One is a Caucasian male in his forties or early fifties. He has killed before, but Eight Eagles is the first crime scene that is known to us. Our psych consultants in Duluth think he's a sociopath and his partner is an accomplice, meaning that the planning of crimes and their execution is done mainly by Killer Number One. But the psychologists are wrong on both counts. Killer Number One is a psychopath, but not in the classic sense. He's what psychiatrists call a 'successful psychopath', meaning that he is most likely able to hold down a job and keep out of trouble with his neighbors, but he's 'almost psychopathic' in his relation to others, and he distorts reality. Unlike classic psychopaths, he's in touch with reality when he kills. He knows what he's doing, and he's clever, but not intelligent. Killer Number One is responsible for the torture and execution of Victim Number One, who, as David says, was almost certainly a shaman, or at least a tribal leader. Killer Number One thinks of himself as an avenging shaman, a shaman of the Dark Side, as it were. Killer Number One is probably responsible for the Indian-like symbolism in the crime scene. We'll know more about that when we find another crime scene, and there will be one, possibly in the Lakota nation in South Dakota. That crime scene already exists. For the moment, I'm giving top priority to David's hypothesis that Victim Number One was a Lakota shaman who was kidnapped in South Dakota and brought to Eight Eagles for human sacrifice. Alternatively, Victim One might have been killed in South Dakota and his body transported here. That's a trail that will lead us to a second crime scene. The identity of Killer Number One is closely bound up with four themes that must consider separately if we want to keep things clear in our minds. These are location, Indian-like symbolism, torture, and homophobia.
"Killer Number Two is a darker companion. He is much more than an accomplice. He is responsible for killing the other four victims. These are men in their twenties. They were not chosen randomly. They were chosen because by a sort of 'planned opportunity'. If Forensics succeeds in identifying them, they will turn out to be either hitchhikers or gay men who hang out at bars or other places frequented by gay men. Killer Number Two is a sociopath. He's a good conversationalist, and charming, and a reasonably good looking man in his later twenties. He picks up his victims at bars, or in parks, or on the road, and he wins their trust in order to set up an opportunity to kill them. By contrast, Killer Number One is creepy and would rarely succeed in winning the trust of his victims.
"Now about location: so far we have only location-Eight Eagles-but we know there's another, the place where Victim One was kidnapped and possibly tortured and killed. I accept David's hypothesis that we must look for two more locations further west, probably in South Dakota and Oregon. But location is a two-part problem. The first part is that there must be a second location, and probably a third. It's customary in the scientific literature to classify serial killers into three groups: Stationary killers who kill where they live and bury the bodies in the back yard, or in the basement; territorial killers like Jack the Ripper who roam in a neighborhood or a city; and nomadic killers who kill on the road. Nomadic killers almost never get caught. I think that Killer Number Two is a nomadic killer, whilst Killer Number One is territorial. The phenomenon of three locations is a compromise between the two, or perhaps an eclectic blending of styles.
"Again about location: the second problem pertains to the Island of Eight Eagles, for Eight Eagles presents us with two crime scenes, not one. This is where I part company with the psychologists and with others in the Sheriff's Office. There are two separate crime scenes, indicating two separate crimes perpetrated simultaneously in the same location, by perpetrators who assisted each other but who planned their crimes separately, because each killer has his own ideas about choosing his victims, executing the killings, and staging the bodies. Crime Scene Number One is focused in its imagery: a victim is suspended from trees, tortured in a most atrocious way, and decorated with Indian-like symbols. Crime Scene Number Two is diffuse, unfocused, and sloppy. That's why we found some body-parts that give Forensics something to work with.
"Now about Indian-like symbolism: it's eclectic, and inauthentic. Neither of our killers are Native Americans, but both of them grew up in the West, either in the Plains or the Mountain States. They use symbolism borrowed from books. The assimilation of Victim Number One to Manitou almost certainly was borrowed from Red Hawk's Ojibwe Monument. I attribute the symbolism to Killer Number One, who reads books about Indians and attended the Summer Solstice Powwow at least once, possibly in 2010 or 2011.
"The tortures that the killers inflict on their victims are unlike any historical Indian tortures known to me. The examples seem rather literary. The corrugated rod thrust through the anus and torso of Victim Number One reminds me of King Edward II, in history and in Christopher Marlowe's tragic drama. The mutilated penis of Victim Two, in the mouth of Victim Three, bears a remote resemblance to an episode in Dante's Inferno. I doubt that our killers are readers of Dante or Marlowe. They probably get their ideas from a popularized history of torture, or from more than one book. Red Hawk has been collecting books of this sort, in an effort to find the sources. It's sorrowful to say, but we probably won't find the sources unless we encounter more crime scenes. It's sorrowful to say, but our next crime scene will disclose a diversity of tortures, with no repetition from previous crimes. Our killers have distinct personalities. Killer One is a middle-aged psychopath. Killer Two is a young sociopath. What is the bond that keeps them together? My guess is that they share an obsession with torture, and act out their fantasies in concert.
"Now about homophobia: an early theory in the Sheriff's Office was that the tortures are 'staged homophobia', intended to mislead us into thinking that the killings were performed by a homosexual cult of some sort. In a way, that's rather silly, since no one ever heard of such cults. But who knows what notions lurk in a psychopathic mind? Certainly our killers are obsessed with gay sex. This might be another link to the Ojibwe Monument. Remember that the first Summer Solstice Powwow began with the wedding of Sam Black Bear and Ben Hasek. It caused a dispute in the newspapers, owing to the claim that the marriage was legal under Ojibwe law, and therefore was the first legal gay wedding in Minnesota. Red Hawk doesn't mention it Ojibwe Monument, nor in his transcripts and translations of the Dark Eagle birch-bark scrolls, but he does mention it in some of his Summer Solstice lectures. If Killer Number One has a hit list, it's possible that Sam Black Bear and Ben Hasek are on it. It's even more likely that the killer has Dark Eagle and Red Hawk in his sights. Remember the warning from Niizho-manitou: 'The hawk must be protected'. David said it three times."
Jim Beaver Trail had a question for Svenson: "Why do you think the killers are Caucasians? Is it because most serial killers are white men?"
Svenson: "That's true, but there are other factors. Four of the victims were either Caucasians, or in one case could have been mistaken as Caucasian. Usually a serial killer chooses victims from his own ethnic group, especially if he's a sociopath. If Killer Number Two is Caucasian, Number One must be, too. These men are racists. They don't cross ethnic lines for companionship."
Jimmy Brave Heart had a question: "If the killers are caught, what effect would the peyote ritual have on their trial?" It was a young man's question.
Svenson: "That's a good question, Jimmy Brave Heart. There are a lot of variables. If the killers are caught in the act of a similar crime, or with dead-to-rights evidence, the peyote-ritual probably wouldn't come up at trial, if there were a trial. If the evidence is circumstantial, any good defense lawyer would make hay with the ritual in an effort to discredit the investigation as a whole. The opposition would summon David to the trial and ask him if he really thinks he's a prophet of Manitou. They'll represent Manitou as a heathen god. They'll ask him how a Jew can reconcile himself to shamanism. They'll drop hints about illegal drugs-even though they know that our use of peyote is legal. They'll try to drop hints about homosexuality, but there the Judge would stop them. Still, Dark Eagle's ecumenicalism will take them by surprise, and if they appear to be bullying David, the strategy might backfire with the jury. Their attack on the peyote-ritual would be unique, but it's similar to what would happen if we consulted a psychic."
Jimmy Brave Heart: "And would you consult a psychic?"
Svenson: "I might, if I knew one. Let me explain it this way. Most serial killers never get caught. The killers are so disconnected from their victims that we have few clues to work with. The trail of evidence runs cold. Once that happens, I'd try anything that would break the impasse. Even if a so-called psychic is really just a creative thinker, sometimes it helps to look at evidence from a radically different perspective. That's why I'd consult a psychic, if I knew one."
Jimmy Brave Heart wasn't the only person in the room who had heard the rumor that Göran Svenson was psychic. His analysis of Eight Eagles seemed to confirm it. But Jimmy had the good manners not to pursue the issue further. But Svenson did: "Let me draw another analogy. We did consult three psychologists, professors at the University. They said what we thought they would say, that Killer Number One is a sociopath and his companion is a submissive accomplice. This is textbook stuff. There's no doubt in my mind that the psychologists got it wrong. But that's okay. My intuition told me they were wrong, but I couldn't think of a logical reason why. That's when it hit me: on the Island of Eight Eagles, we've got a palimpsest with two crime scenes, like one painting painted partially over another by a second artist. If we hadn't talked to the psychologists, it wouldn't have occurred to me to think of the crime scene in this way."
Svenson spent the night giving himself to Jim Beaver Trail. It wasn't just about sex. They discovered an old friendship that might have been. "Eight years ago, I thought of you as one of the Ojibwe elders, nothing more," Svenson said. "Now I feel differently. Maybe It's because I finally grew up."
"I'm still old enough to be your father," Beaver Trail said. He took a plastic baggie from his pocket. Twelve peyote-chips scattered between them on the bed. He sorted them into two groups of six. Their eyes met. Göran took one of the chips and started masticating. Beaver Trail took the other.
"Yeah, I want this," Göran said. Beaver Trail changed the subject. They talked about every detail of Eight Eagles.
"You know, Göran, it occurs to me that one of the killers, probably Number One, had contact with Indians for a prolonged time, maybe during his childhood. There's something personal about the killings, torture for revenge, and obsession, but with something more added. He might be borrowing details from books, but my gut tells me that he knows things about Indian culture that you won't find in books, subtle differences in thinking or speaking. It's hard to explain. It's like the dialect differences between Ojibwe and Causasians here in Ashawa. When someone calls you on the phone, you can tell right away if he's Ojibwe or Causasian."
"That's possible," Göran agreed. "It might be a way to narrow the search."
They each took a second peyote-chip. "Two down and four to go," Beaver Trail said.
"The countdown begins," Göran countered. It's gonna be a wild night."
"You know, Göran, everyone at Dark Eagle's thinks you're a psychic, even though you explain things logically. You're not a self-dramatizing celluloid psychic, but you always seem to notice some detail that everyone else missed. Mrs. Ravitch thinks you're either a psychic or a genius."
"If that's an either-or proposition, you can rule out genius. I have to work hard to get results. What do you think?"
"I think you're 'almost psychic'," Beaver Trail said. He picked up a peyote-chip and fed it to Göran, and took one for himself. "After the ritual with David, you had insights that went beyond reason, yet they still made sense when you explained them. The experience drained your energy. Afterward, you seemed tired."
"Not tired, but unhinged, Beaver Trail. Unhinged, and I still feel it."
"Is there anything I can do to get you hinged?" Beaver Trail asked.
"You can master me."
"Now you're saying words I've wanted to hear," Beaver Trail said. He fed Göran a fourth peyote-chip, and took one himself.
"Now you're saying words I've wanted to hear," Göran replied, evenly, but his body trembled.
"Time to get mitaakwa," Beaver Trail said.
Göran stripped off his clothes and tossed them on a chair across the room. He lay on his side facing Beaver Trail. Four peyote-chips remained between them. "I still have the physical memory of your dick up my butt," Göran said.
"How do you know that wasn't Matt Aseban?"
"Who could forget a wedgy wide seven-inch uncut cock?" Göran countered. "Ahhh! I didn't know Ojibwe could blush!"
"I hope your offer includes pain," Beaver Trail said.
"It does," Göran replied. "And before you ask, the answer is no, I don't know what I'm getting myself into." They helped themselves to their fifth peyote-chip. Beaver Trail fondled Göran's cock. Göran moaned. "I haven't had much experience with erotic pain, but the little I've had seems to make me feel 'hinged'."
Beaver Trail pulled out a vibrator, a pair of nipple-clamps, a string of multicolored beads, two pairs of handcuffs, a butt plug, and a twelve-inch dildo. "These belong to Tom," Göran said. "Pick one, Beaver Trail. If we use them all, we won't have a reason to get together again."
"Does that mean we might?" Beaver Trail asked.
"Of course we will, if you'd like. We're fond of each other, aren't we?"
"I guess I feel unsure of myself, being the older man," Beaver Trail said.
"Line up the toys and let's see what you think," Göran said.
"Nip clamps, maybe for a time when we're concentrating on upper body. Right now we're thinking lower down. Vibrator, always possible, but it's pure pleasure, no pain. Anal beads, possibly. Butt plug: it's like nip clamps, you can't do that much with it. Dildo, twelve inches, still in its cellophane wrapper, " Beaver Trail said. "Have you ever had an anal orgasm, Göran?"
"Anal orgasm-I thought that was a myth."
"And you've never been fucked by a dildo?"
"It's a virgin dildo. I'm a dildo virgin," Göran replied.
"We must give him a name. I suggest 'Little Caesar'."
"Named for the pizza?"
"Named for the Roman Emperor: Little Caesar can be quite a tyrant," Beaver Trail said. "You and Little Caesar can lose your virginity together." He slapped the dildo into the palm of his hand. "I'd be honored to be the holder of your virginity."
"Tell me more," Göran said. "So far I haven't said yes, but I haven't said no. I'm not trying to be coy. You've got me curious, but I need to know what's entailed."
"What's entailed is your tail," Beaver Trail laughed. "Seriously, every move we make would be about how you feel inside. Have you seen dildo-fucking on youtube?"
"I have."
"Well that's kabuki sex. It takes one guy less than a minute to stick a dildo up his partner's ass. Then he reams it fast, like a crankshaft. It's not like that in real life, and it's not like fucking with cock. Twelve inches: it'll take a long time to get it inside you, maybe an hour, maybe longer. Every move I make must be slow and gentle. Even the slightest twist or nudge feels like an earthquake. And we have to keep a dialogue going. With every move I make, I need to know how you feel, and you need to know what I'm doing, and what I'm planning to do. If I'm any good at my job, I'll bring you through the pain and pleasure you in ways you've never felt before. It's best done with Crisco rather than lube."
Göran and Beaver Trail got into their blue-jeans and fetched a small can of Cricso from the kitchen. When they got back to bed, they helped themselves to their sixth peyote-chips. Fondling and fellating by turn and in 69, peyote fueled their passion. Beaver Trail fondled Göran aggressively, sliding fingers up and down his cleft and into his portal. He spread Göran's ass- cheeks apart. "Why Göran, your hole is beautiful, wild rosy pink but with delicate folds that make it look like the North Star, a twinkling star hidden in a mysterious cleft!" Beaver Trail exclaimed. "I've always admired your shapely butt with its deep curve of cleavage, but I never seen such an aesthetic asshole, tight at the center too, with traces of brownish pink and vermilion, so tight, a challenge for me and for you."
"Thanks," Göran replied.
"When Little Caesar opens you up, you'll have a gape right here, at the center. It'll bring out different shades of red, like a flower, to accentuate your pink aureole," Beaver Trail said. "Just let me know when you're read to get started."
Göran lay on his back. Beaver Trail nudged a pillow under his butt, and knelt between his legs, holding Little Caesar in one hand, and a glob of Crisco in the other. "Crisco works better than lube. It lasts longer. Still, there will be times when we'll have to apply more Crisco, whenever you feel friction. Let me know when you need a Crisco break, Göran." Their eyes met. Göran looked bewildered, like a young boy. Beaver Trail's gaze was stern resolution while his fingers worked Crisco into the target. He coated Little Caesar with Crisco, and positioned the head of the dildo at Göran's rosy hole. He pushed it through Göran's sphincter. Göran groaned. Little Caesar was thicker than any cock that had ever passed through the portal. Beaver Trail waited for Göran to regain his composure.
"I'm going to give you a couple inches, Göran," Beaver Trail said softly. He kept on pushing Little Caesar until Göran groaned again. "That was three inches," Beaver Trail said. "Your ass is giving Little Caesar a welcome reception."
"It's so big," Göran said. "It takes me a while to get used to the volume."
"Little Caesar says he wants to slide through your inner sphincter, Göran," Beaver Trail said. "It's gonna hurt."
"Do you think so?"
Beaver Trail pushed another three inches. Even the peyote could not prevent Göran from yelping and howling like a timberwolf. "Take deep breaths, and concentrate on your breathing," Beaver Trail said. He kept on pushing. "Are you okay, Göran?" Beaver Trail asked when the howling stopped.
"Yeah, I'm okay, God that hurt!"
"You've got eight inches, Göran. We won't go in deeper just yet. We can fool around a bit, with eight inches."
Göran reached down to feel the dildo. He ran his finger along the remaining four inches. Beaver Trail gave the dildo a nudge. Göran gasped. Beaver Trail pulled the dildo a couple inches out, and pushed it back in. Göran gasped. Beaver Trail repeated the fucking maneuver, several times, slowly. Göran's discomfort was mixed with twinges of pleasure. Beaver Trail sucked Göran's cock and moved the dildo slowly. "Little Caesar says he wants a hug," Beaver Trail said. Göran squeezed his sphincter around the dildo. It felt good. He did it again. "That sweet ass sure looks good wrapped around Little Caesar," Beaver Trail said.
"It feels good. I like it," Göran said. Beaver Trail dildo-fucked him with longer strokes, but he kept the motion slow. He pulled it all the way out, and inserted a fresh supply of Crisco. He coated Little Caesar with Crisco, and pushed it back in, past the eight-inch target. Göran groaned and gasped, but then the pleasure returned.
"I think we can make it all the way," Göran said while Beaver Trail sucked his cock. "I think we can make it all the way. I want you to deflower me, Beaver Trail."
"We'll make it, Göran, but not all at once." He twisted the dildo clockwise, then counterclockwise. Göran gasped and moaned. He alternated between long slow fuck-strokes, and slow rotations of the dildo.
"I'm feeling something strange," Göran said, "a crackle, pop, pop deep in my ass. It feels great."
"You're starting to have anal orgasms," Beaver Trail said. "They'll come and go, every five minutes or so." He was right. The orgasms returned. Beaver Trail continued alternating between rotations and long, slow fuck-strokes. Each time he did this, Little Caesar burrowed deeper.
"Beaver Trail, I'm ready to bite the bullet and take Little Caesar all the way," Göran said.
"I've got good news for you, Göran. Little Caesar is already there." Göran didn't believe it. He reached down for a feel. Sure enough, the base of the dildo was at his asshole. "I'm going to pull it out now, so I can fuck you," Beaver Trail said. "Let's check out this asshole," Beaver Trail said when the dildo came out. "Sure enough, a cute reddish gape," he said.
The fuck was pleasantly furious. Beaver Trail spooged Göran. After another application of Crisco, he prodded Little Caesar all the way in. Little Caesar's progress was eased by the silky santorum-smoothed lining in his anal canal. Beaver Trail sucked Göran's cock while he fucked. Göran spooged Beaver Trail's mouth.
In the morning (Monday, July 7), Göran drove Beaver Trail to his worksite-a lumber road five miles west of Lake Ashawa. For almost ten years he had worked for Jake Preston's cousin, who owned a limber concession on State land. "Your lumbering sites have always been around here," Göran observed. "Did you ever consider moving to Ashawa? It would be easier than driving forty miles from Crane Lake-eighty miles a day."
"I have my duties as an elder to consider," Beaver Trail replied. "Besides, I own my home in Crane Lake. There are four of us who work here and live there. We carpool, and enjoy each other's company. Still, I guess I'd stay here sometimes on weekdays, if I had a place to live."
"What about Jake Preston's farmhouse on Rice River?" Göran asked. "Now that you've moved the Ojibwe artifacts into the museum, the farmhouse is vacant. Why not designate it as a retreat for the Ojibwe elders?"
"That depends on what you mean by elders," Beaver Trail replied. "If you mean senior citizens, maybe; if you mean the four elders, it would be a transgression. The Ojibwe are an egalitarian people. An aristocracy of elders isn't possible."
Göran changed the subject. "Peyote Coyote, that's who you are," he said. Beaver Trail smiled slyly. "In case you're wondering, my butt still feels corn-holed. How many times did you fuck me? I lost track, but I sure had a powerful itch, Coyote!"
"That was the santorum effect," Beaver Trail replied.
"Santorum effect?"
"Yeah, you know, santorum-a mixture of lube, semen and traces of shit after fucking. When the lube used is Crisco, about an hour later an itch develops in the anal canal. That's the santorum effect."
They drove two miles into the woods on a newly-carved lumber road. In the lumber business, making temporary roads in the woods is the most expensive investment. Beaver Trail's fellow Ojibwe lumberjacks were already there: Steve Waabooz, Roger Johnson, and a younger man, new on the job, named Don Lewis. It was his first day on the job. Göran introduced Beaver Trail to him as Peyote Coyote. Steve Waabooz laughed. "If Indians can give new names to white guys, I guess white guys can give names to Indians," he said.
'Coyote' has diverse meanings in gay culture. In many parts of the country, it's an epithet applied to any lascivious gay man. Sometimes it implies that the guy is a sexual predator. But in the Lake Country, 'coyote' is an affectionate term applied to a man who has succeeded in possessing his partner in some unique way. When Göran referred to 'Coyote', he let the others know that Jim Beaver Trail had 'owned' him, by seducing him into a new level of sexuality. It meant that in Beaver Trail was the holder of Göran's cherry in some secret sense. It was a compliment to Beaver Trail for his sexual prowess, all the more so because Göran acknowledged it to Beaver Trail's friends.
How much of this Don Lewis knew about coyotes, it's impossible to say, but Don read the situation well enough to see that Beaver Trail and Göran had been sexual partners and that Beaver Trail had played the active role. Neither Beaver Trail nor Göran failed to notice Don's interest in the man called Peyote Coyote. As he departed, Göran wrote Beaver Trail's phone number on a slip of paper, and pressed it into Don's hand.
Göran and Harvey Winik drove north to Crane Lake to interview David and Dmitri. Harvey spoke with Dmitri in the ceremonial wigwam. Göran spoke with David on the dock. They compared notes on the road back to Duluth. During their romantic adventure on No Name Island, also known as Five Spirits Island, and (by the Ojibwe) the Island of Eight Eagles, Dmitri and David had glimpsed two figures, partially obscured by balsams. One was a tall man, and white-not Caucasian white, but actually white, with curly snow-white hair. The man with him was shorter, and darker, with dark brown hair and a complexion that could have been either Indian or Mediterranean: "complexion and hair like Dmitri's," David remarked, "though not nearly as handsome."