The Carma Klown
z119z (z119z2000@yahoo.com)
© 2013 by the author
All characters, organizations, and addresses appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or to actual organizations or places is purely coincidental.
Thanks to Joe for his suggestions and his eye for details and inconsistencies.
The following is the first of nine installments.
—In our age, every record, every image, every bit of data, every memory, is suspect. Even an individual's sense of self is fluid and malleable. With the right software, the right drugs, the right indoctrination, one can change anything and anyone. Whimsy rules. Nothing is permanent. Nothing can be trusted. You may not be the person you were yesterday.
—The Carma Klown
Chapter 1
Monday, ca. 7:00, June 7, 2010
The sound of water running in the shower tugged Jeff away from sleep and into a drifting consciousness that mixed elements from a half-remembered dream about a muddle at work with the current reality on the other side of his eyelids. For a moment a minor character from the video game he was working on refused to proceed unless—there was a waterfall to cross, but Michael was using up all the hot water, and the character wanted something—and he would have to deal with the problem today but he had lost the thing—he needed something, but what was it? Or who? Did Michael have it? He must remember to ask Michael if he knew where he had put it.
As Jeff's eyes opened, the digital clock on the nightstand changed from 7:06 to 7:07. The door to the bathroom was open, and he lay in bed on his side, the sheet pulled up to his chin and his hands pushed under his pillows, watching Michael. The blankets were bunched up against his back where Michael had tucked them in to keep him warm while he went for his morning run. Michael often did that. It was odd. Jeff knew that the pressure and the warmth against his body weren't Michael, but he found them comforting, as if Michael had left physical reminders of himself to linger in the bed.
The shower stall had two walls of translucent pebbled glass, and the bright, early morning light coming through the bathroom window glistened off a thousand water drops. Michael's body shimmered in a hundred refracted images as he moved beneath the spray of water. He must have just gotten back, thought Jeff. Michael usually jumped in the shower immediately, barely interrupting his stride to toss his running shoes and socks and shorts on to the floor of the hallway leading to the bedroom. Apparently he hadn't closed the door to the bathroom securely, and the draft from the steam being sucked up by the ventilation fan had pulled the door open.
Jeff watched Michael as he lathered soap onto a washcloth. He raised an arm and for a moment a hand rose above the shower stall, golden-bronze in the light. The distortions in the glass offset Michael's body so that the hand appeared unconnected to the rest of Michael's arm. Seven years of being with Michael had imprinted his body on Jeff's mind. He remembered more than saw how Michael's backside looked. The well-defined muscles that ran on either side of his spine, the indentation over his backbone, the swell of his buttocks, the deep cleft between them, the always surprising reality of his thighs. They were suddenly present to him in a palpable way. He could feel them firm and smooth beneath his hands.
Jeff's morning hard-on twitched, and in one easy movement he lifted the sheet, swung his legs out, and stood up. In five quick steps he crossed the bedroom, opened the door to the shower, and entered it.
"Wha—?" Michael turned around in surprise.
"Let me wash your back." Jeff took the soapy washcloth out of Michael's hand. Michael smiled in anticipation and turned around. Jeff's hands glided across Michael's body, lubricated by the soap. Michael's body was so solid and dense, golden where the sun had tanned it and a pale ivory around the hips and upper thighs in the area covered by his jogging shorts. Jeff massaged the muscles with his eyes closed. He didn't need to look at them. He knew them from memory, and he wanted to isolate the sensations coming to his mind from his hands—the familiar yet still fascinating flesh warmed by the shower, firm and pliable, the smooth skin slippery with soap. He lowered his hands and began washing Michael's buttocks. Their curves filled his hands, deeply concave at the sides and swelling to tight, compact mounds of flesh near the center. He lathered up his hands and ran his fingers down the crack, working soap into it and gently touching the sensitive area between the anus and the balls. Michael groaned and his buttocks shivered as he contracted them and then relaxed them. The area between Michael's thighs was always so surprisingly hot. Jeff ran his hand slowly back and forth between the thighs. Michael gasped and his head titled backwards.
Jeff knelt on the floor of the shower. He ran his soapy hands up and down Michael's legs. When he tapped Michael's left foot, Michael raised it and Jeff washed the foot, sticking a soapy finger between each of the toes. "Turn around," he said. When Michael complied, he washed the right foot in the same way. Then he moved his hands up the front of Michael's thighs, slowly stroking them. When he reached the groin, he washed Michael's cock and balls, pulling on them gently and cupping them between his hands. He wrapped the fingers of one hand around the base of Michael's cock and held it tightly.
Then, still kneeling, he kissed the tip of Michael's cock. The water ran down over his head, plastering his hair to his scalp and turning it a darker brown. He ran his tongue over the head of the cock and then up and down the shaft. With his left hand, he reached around Michael's body and pulled him close. He took all of Michael's cock into his mouth and began sucking it while insinuating a finger between Michael's buttocks until he touched the anus. He vibrated the finger against Michael until he relaxed and the tip of the finger found its way into him. Michael's cock grew even harder.
Above him, Michael began to shake. He placed his hands on Jeff's shoulders and started to knead them. He held each breath until he had to take another gasping breath, and then he groaned with effort of restraining himself. Finally he could hold out no longer and began mindlessly thrusting his cock in and out of Jeff's mouth.
When Michael came, Jeff ceased his motions until Michael settled to rest, his cock, now growing flaccid and limp but still swollen, in Jeff's mouth. When Michael signaled with a deep, rasping breath and a pat on Jeff's shoulder that his orgasm was over, Jeff stood up and turned off the water. He opened the door to the shower and grabbed a towel off the rack. He began patting Michael's body dry from head to foot. When he finished, he wrapped the towel around Michael's waist and give him a push toward the bedroom. Then he pulled another towel from the rack and dried himself off.
When Jeff emerged from the bathroom, Michael was already getting dressed. He paused long enough in buttoning up his shirt to hug Jeff and say, "That was wonderful. Thank you. What was the occasion?"
"No occasion. Chalk it up to just simple lust." He finished buttoning Michael's shirt and smoothed it over his shoulders and chest.
"Three cheers for simple lust then." Michael smiled as he pulled on his pants. "I'm always up for that. Next time you have another attack of simple lust, feel free to use me."
"Oh, I got your shirt wet. There." Jeff pointed to spot on the right arm.
"It's okay. Something to remember this morning by. Don't worry about it. It'll be hidden by my jacket, and it will dry soon enough."
"Are you off then?" Jeff tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice."You should eat some breakfast at least."
"Can't. I gotta go. I don't even have time for coffee. I got a text from Altmann while I was out jogging. He has some video that he wants me to look at." As Michael spoke, he pulled on his shoulder holster and buckled it into place. Then he reached into the closet and opened the safe. He pulled out his gun and inserted it into the holster, snapping the flap over it and adjusting it so that it rode inconspicuously on his left side in the hollow beneath his chest muscles.
The gun safe was a concession to Jeff. He hated waking up in the morning and seeing the gun sitting on the dresser or on the night stand on Michael's side of the bed. It reminded him too much of the dangers of Michael's job, and he didn't like the casual way that Michael treated it. He would have preferred that Michael not bring it into their home at all, but departmental regulations specified that every officer had to have his gun within reach at all times. When they had bought the condo, they had compromised on the safe in the closet. It would be, Michael had joked, the only thing hidden in the closet in their apartment.
Michael pulled on his sportscoat and adjusted his tie. He patted the top of his hair to flatten it, but as soon as he turned away from the mirror, it sprang back up. He embraced the still naked Jeff and kissed him. "Mmmm, I love you. I am so lucky."
Jeff smiled and replied, "Not as lucky as me. I love you too. Will you be back for dinner tonight?" Again, it was an effort not to let too much longing creep into his voice.
"As far as I know. Altmann probably needs information on this video before he goes to some meeting. That's usually why he calls me in early. If I'm going to be late, I'll let you know." Even as he spoke, Michael was putting his keys and phone into his pockets and picking up an assortment of coins to take with him. He patted his pockets to make sure that he had everything, picked up the case with his personal laptop, and aimed a smile at Jeff as he left.
If I hadn't woken up and seen Michael in the shower and then joined him, thought Jeff, I wonder if he would even have spoken to me. He probably would have let me sleep. He could hear Michael now, "I didn't want to wake you. I know you were up late working again." That was the pattern lately. Their schedules didn't seem to match any more. Jeff had to time a lot of his work so that he could discuss projects in real-time with the illustrators in the Mountain View office of Jacoby and Greene in California. The people he worked with there had an elastic notion of flex time. None of them seemed to get to work until early afternoon California time, and they kept at it until two or three in the morning New York time. It wasn't difficult for Jeff to stay up. He had always been a night person. Michael, however, was a morning person, and his job schedule called for him to show up by nine. Most of the time Michael was already asleep by the time Jeff made it to bed. At night he had to be careful not to disturb Michael's sleep, and in the morning Michael had to be careful not to disturb him. That seemed to be the story of their relationship now. They tiptoed around each other.
Some days they hardly had a chance to speak, let alone have a conversation. When they had first met, the excitement of having someone to talk to in a way that you couldn't talk to other people had been the starting point of their relationship. It was what made them both sure that something special was beginning. Staying up until two in the morning and talking happened almost daily. They usually went to bed only because the talk led to touching and kissing and clothes being pulled off and minds becoming aroused and bodies overwhelming them with an urgent physical need for release. Suddenly it was just necessary to be in bed, and that led to sex, and exhaustion eventually led to sleep. In those days when they took a shower together, Michael didn't rush off as soon as it was over.
Michael still wants sex, thought Jeff, at least when I remind him that sex is an option. He hadn't, after all, said he didn't have the time this morning and pushed me out of the shower. No, he had waited until I had finished servicing him. And "service" felt like the right word for what had happened. But neither had he wasted any time once the shower was over to get away.
Worse, Michael didn't even seem to be aware that there might be a problem—that I might want a few more minutes with him and a bit of reciprocity. Maybe not an orgasm, but a little physical enthusiasm, a little regret that he had to dash off. Jeff shook his head. I've got to stop feeling sorry for myself, he thought. The relationship was still strong. They were even talking about formalizing it, and the discussion was progressing from Should we get married? to When and how should we get married? They had bought the condo. True, it wasn't large—just the bedroom, a fair-sized living room, a room barely larger that a closet that he used as a home office, and a small kitchen—but it was in a decent neighborhood and had some of the things realtors said were important like closet space and plenty of light. Moreover, both of them, without needing to discuss it, knew that buying the condo was a sign that the relationship was permanent. And their families and friends had known that as well. The condo was littered with housewarming gifts that had been presented to them with smiles and congratulations.
But their jobs, especially Michael's career ambitions, were beginning to intrude more and more into their daily life. Jeff understood Michael's need to be successful, and he wanted him to succeed. Still, he missed the maelstrom of the early days, that whirlwind engulfing them and sending everything else spinning away. And he missed the conversations. Perhaps no relationship could remain at that intense level forever. At least, there was still a relationship. For which, he reminded himself, he should be thankful.
Jeff walked naked through the apartment, stepping around Michael's jogging clothes (he would pick them up later), and into the kitchen. He put bread into the toaster and made coffee. Maybe the dampening of ardor was a good sign, a sign of comfort in each other's presence. The extraordinary had become routine, and they had settled into an equilibrium. Married life rather than crazed, passionate romance. At least that's what I'll keep telling myself, he thought.
Chapter 2
Monday, ca. 8:30 a.m., June 7, 2010
"What are you?" The harsh whisper came from off screen.
The image on the monitor was centered on a kneeling man. He was isolated in the glare of spotlights that revealed only a small area of the uniformly matte black space surrounding him. He appeared to be in his fifties. He wore a charcoal gray business suit, a white shirt, and a tie with diagonal blue and red stripes. The sharp edge of a white handkerchief protruded from the breast pocket of his suit coat. The cuffs of his shirt extended a uniform quarter inch beyond the sleeves of his jacket and gleamed in the bright light. His body was bent slightly forward at the waist so that he could rest the tips of his fingertips on the floor. A watchband was partially visible on his left wrist. His black hair was flecked with gray and cut short. It clung to his head like a helmet. It was flawlessly and expensively styled. He was clean shaven, and he glowed with health. Obviously he had never gone hungry or lacked for good medical or dental care. Everything about the man's clothing and appearance exuded the subdued look of power that success, wealth, and privilege can give a man. High-powered lawyer, a CEO of a major company, successful politician—the man could easily have stepped into any of those roles.
None of that mattered, however. It was the expression on his face that captured attention. His eyes shifted from side to side, as if looking directly into the camera would acknowledge the presence of viewers on the far side of the lens. He was almost in tears; his body vibrated with tension. He had the look of a man from whom everything had been taken, even the last wisp of self-respect. The man's chin dropped and he closed his eyes, shutting himself away from the camera's remorseless gaze. He looked guilty.
"I am a faggot." His voice was almost inaudible.
"Louder. Don't mumble. Speak clearly."
"I am a faggot." The man briefly looked directly into the camera before his eyes darted away again. His voice trembled, and he gnawed at his lower lip with his teeth. For a moment he looked like a student who hadn't done his homework the night before and was worried that he might be giving the wrong answer.
"Correct. You are a faggot. And what sort of faggot are you?"
"I am a worthless, pathetic, old faggot."
"That is correct. You are a worthless, pathetic, old faggot. And what is a worthless, pathetic, old faggot like you good for?"
The man suddenly looked relieved. He knew the correct answers after all. The warmth in the hidden speaker's voice showed that he was doing well. He knew that he was pleasing the man. He no longer had to worry about being punished because he was getting things wrong. He raised his voice and almost shouted his response. "The only thing that this worthless, pathetic, old faggot is good for is to worship other men's assholes by rimming them."
"Correct. And does the worthless, pathetic, old faggot like to rim other men's assholes?"
"This worthless, pathetic, old faggot loves to rim other men's assholes." For the first time, the man looked hopeful and enthusiastic as if a promised reward was in view. He smiled and looked directly into the camera.
"Yes, you do. But do other men want you to rim them?"
"No, other men do not want me to rim them."
"Why not?"
"Because I am a worthless, pathetic, old faggot." The man suddenly began to cry. Noiseless tears welled up along his lower eyelids and then brimmed over and ran down his cheeks as his mood plummeted from jubilation to despair.
"That's right. No one wants to have anything to do with a worthless, pathetic, old faggot like you."
"No. No one." The man's voice caught on an anguished sob.
The camera slowly circled around the man until it showed him from behind. Another man sauntered passed him and into the shot, with his back to the camera. He was shirtless and visible only from the shoulders down. Taut muscles fanned out symmetrically from both sides of the deep groove of his backbone. His jeans were old—the back pocket on the left had a hole in one bottom corner where his wallet had worn through the fabric. The dark brown belt that circled his narrow waist was dry and cracked and scuffed. Not that he needed a belt to hold the jeans up—his muscular legs and ass filled them and stretched them tight—the belt was a character statement rather than a necessity. He stopped about a yard away from the kneeling man and reached around to the front of his body. The microphone caught the faint clink of metal against metal, and for a moment the belt tightened across the man's back as he unbuckled it. The man slowly peeled his jeans off his ass until they came to rest about two-thirds of the way down his buttocks.
The kneeling man licked his lips and looked hungrily at the second man. The camera moved past the first man to focus on what he was regarding with such desire. Gradually the camera panned in until the shot was centered above and slightly to the second man's left side. The lens looked down into the crack between his buttocks. The top of the crack was a shallow, elongated oval. Below that the crack plunged into a shadow leading downward toward a dark triangle formed by the belt line of his jeans and the rounded arcs of his glutes. The kneeling man moaned hungrily.
The second man pushed his jeans down until his entire ass was visible. Strands of fine black hair feathered the crack. The man bent forward at the waist and used his hands to spread his buttocks apart. His fingertips dug into his flesh, dimpling it. The camera moved in, focusing on the wrinkled slit of his asshole. It was surrounded by hair. As the camera lingered on it, the man flexed it so that it appeared to wink at the camera.
"Would you like to rim this man's asshole?" The voice sounded amused, like someone teasing a pet with a treat held carefully out of reach.
"Yes, yes." The man spoke with longing. "Please."
"Please what?"
"Please let me rim this man's asshole."
"But no one, certainly not this man, wants anything to do with you. You are a pathetic, worthless, old faggot."
The man slumped. "Please, please don't torture me. I'll be good. I'll do what you want. Just let me rim him." He looked as if he were about to start crying again.
"But you know that he feels nothing but contempt for you. No real man would want you." The voice grew stern and hard. "With a body like that, he could have anyone he wants. Someone far more desirable than you. Unless," the whisper continued, "Unless, of course, you pay him handsomely for the privilege. That's the only reason a real man would let a pathetic, worthless, old faggot like you rim his asshole."
"I'll pay. I'll pay." The man eagerly reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a long wallet bulging with money. "Here, I have money. I can pay." He straightened up and began pulling bills from the wallet.
"It will cost you $5,000."
"Yes, $5,000." The man grabbed a handful of bills from his wallet and began counting them out, laying each bill on the floor. "100, 200, 300 . . . 1,000." When he reached 1,000, he picked the pile up and straightened the edges to form a neat stack. He repeated the count and the action four more times. Then he picked the five stacks up one by one, joined them together, and then reverently laid the bills on the floor.
"Count them again."
"Yes, Sir." The man hastened to obey. He was so eager and anxious to please. When he finished, he looked toward the camera with a plea in his eyes. "It's all there. $5,000."
"Yes. You have purchased five minutes. Time starts now."
On the bottom right-hand corner of the screen, a clock appeared. It briefly read "5:00" before shifting to 4:59. The man wasted no time, He crawled on all fours over to the other man and shoved his face into the man's ass and began licking. The camera zoomed in. His nose disappeared into the crack. The thrusts of his tongue were visible as convulsive movements of his cheeks and throat. His face shook from side to side as he tried to force it deeper between the other man's buttocks, his eyes closed in ecstasy. His grunts and moans of pleasure formed a rhythmic counterpoint to his movements. From time to time, he gasped as he pulled back briefly to fill his lungs before resuming his onslaught. The second man's buttocks quivered from the impacts of the man's head against them.
A bell sounded. "Time's up," the voice giving the orders said.
The second man straightened up, fastened his jeans, and walked off. The first man's face shone with sweat and spit. He had drooled so much that the front of his shirt and the collar of his suit coat were wet.
"What are you?"
"I am a faggot."
"What sort of faggot are you?"
"I am a worthless, pathetic, old faggot."
"And what are you good for?"
"The only thing that this worthless, pathetic, old faggot is good for is to worship other men's assholes by rimming them."
"What is the worthless faggot's name?"
"John Rossiter."
"And where does the pathetic faggot live?"
"22 Nyland Heights Drive."
"And what will the old faggot do?"
"The worthless, pathetic, old faggot will worship the asshole of any man who shows up at his home."
"Stand up."
"Yes, Sir."
"Turn around and drop your pants."
The man quickly undid his belt and unzipped, letting his pants drop to the floor. He dug his thumbs under the waistband of his dark blue boxers and bent forward as he pushed them down. For a brief second a smudge was visible on his left buttock, but as he stood up the tail of shirt and his suit coat fell down and covered his ass.
"Show your ass. Immediately." For the first time the hidden speaker spoke in anger.
"Yes, Sir. Right away, Sir." The man grabbed at his coat and shirt and jerked them up. "I'm sorry, Sir."
The camera moved in until the tattoo on the man's left buttock filled the screen. A clown stuffed into a small cartoon car with oversized wheels sped away from the viewer. His upper body was twisted around so that he looked backward over his shoulder. His left arm was raised and waving good-bye. Large arches had been painted over his eyes in lurid orange and yellow inks, and a red ball was fixed to his nose. The tip of the thumb of his right hand was pressed against the ball and the fingers were spread and wriggling in a rude gesture. The skin around the tattoo was red and puffy. The tattoo was fresh.
The video of the man ended and a message in white letters against a black background appeared: "Another korporate kriminal punished by The Carma Klown. Join The Carma Klown in the fight against korporate assholes. Help punish John Rossiter and others like him. Use the comments section below to expose the guilty. The Klown makes the punishment fit the crime." The message dissolved as a picture of a grotesque, evil-looking clown came into focus on the screen. A tiny car appeared in the upper left-hand corner and then sped toward the clown, growing larger and larger. When it stopped, the clown leaped into it. As the car raced off, he looked back over his shoulder and waved, mimicking the tattoo on Rossiter's butt. The image remained on the screen for several seconds before the video stopped.
Detective Michael Chang stirred uneasily in his seat. When he arrived at work, he found a manila file sitting on his desk. Attached to the cover of the file folder a penciled note from Captain Altmann gave a URL followed by "Have a look at this. Meeting with Redding and Baker at 9:30 in the conference room next to my office." Inside the folder was a two-page printout of an internet bio for a John Rossiter. According to the biography, Rossiter was 58 and the CEO of an investment firm bearing his name. He had an impressive résumé. Harvard undergraduate and Harvard Business School. Employed at several major financial firms before branching out and founding his own company. The company had apparently weathered the 2008 collapse well and come out even stronger. Its holdings were estimated at around $42 billion. Rossiter had been married twice. His first marriage had ended in divorce in 1998. He had two daughters from that marriage. He had remarried in 2001 and had a seven-year-old son by wife number two.
As soon as he saw the name on the printout, Michael knew what the case was. Rossiter's name and face had been splashed across the front pages of all the newspapers in the city that morning. He was the latest victim of The Carma Klown's campaign against those who had caused the 2008 recession and then profited from it. Michael hadn't stopped to read the story, but he had overheard a remark on the subway that spoke of Rossiter as if he were dead. Clearly Rossiter and/or The Carma Klown had done something that had led to the involvement of the Midtown Major Crimes Division.
The URL Altmann had left for him was for a site called Star in Your Own Porn Video. It seemed to be The Carma Klown's preferred venue for posting his videos. The controls on the police computer network tracked visits to X-rated sites; even though Michael's job often required him to do that, he wanted to avoid the paperwork he would have to file to acknowledge and justify such a visit. He quickly searched the Internet for a copy of the latest Carma Klown video. The difficulty was not finding a copy but choosing which one to watch. In the day since the video was first posted on the Star in Your Own Porno Video website, it had been reposted dozens of times on many different sites. He selected one of the versions on YouTube that didn't as yet require a viewer to log in to attest that he was an adult. As he began watching the video, he noted the time and the case number so that, if necessary, his activities could be documented in court.
Michael was alone in his cubicle and was sitting so that the computer screen faced the wall behind his desk. Even so, he positioned the cursor over the minimize screen button in the upper right-hand corner so that he could hide the display quickly if anyone came over to check on what he was watching. His posting as one of the resident computer crimes specialists at Midtown Major Crimes required him to view a great variety of websites, but as far as his colleagues were concerned, he spent his day watching only one thing—porn. Last Friday Sergeant Ryan had shouted at him as the daily briefing broke up, "Hey, Chang, the wife's going to be gone for two weeks to visit her mother. Ya seen any good porn lately, something with big boobs? I'm gonna need something to keep me occupied while the wife's away." It hadn't helped that some beat cop Michael had never seen before had shouted back, "Why are you asking him? The only reason he gets to watch dirty movies all day long is that he's gay. Chang don't get excited and jerk off under his desk like you, Sarge." Her remarks were greeted with whistles and catcalls that halted only when Captain Altmann told everyone to knock it off and get back to work. So even the beat cops thought he spent his days watching porn. His record in solving so many computer crimes in the four-plus years that he had been at Midtown and in aiding the other detectives to use the resources opened up by computers and the Internet to solve theirs were lost in the joking. At least she hadn't said that he was good only for recommendations for gay porn—although there were days when he wished that gay porn was all he had to watch. He had seen enough pictures of the female body.
He had time to look at the Carma Klown video only once before he had to join Altmann and the other two men. The latest comments on the video made it clear that Rossiter had committed suicide the previous night. Baker and Redding were both detective sergeants, and Michael assumed that they must be leading the investigation. His job would be, he guessed, to advise them about the possibility of using the Internet and computers to analyze the videos and identify The Carma Klown.
As Michael scribbled a few notes on his laptop about points he might make at the meeting, his thoughts were drawn in another, familiar direction. He had to look at so much filth and junk in his work, and in so much of it sex was used to humiliate one of the participants. It still disgusted him. He hoped it always would. But what if it didn't? What if it ceased to disgust him or, worse, he accepted it as normal and wanted to replicate it in his own sex life? Sometimes he caught himself wondering how it would feel to indulge in some of the activities that filled his screen daily. The day when he moved from wondering to acting—thankfully—hadn't arrived yet. At least, he hoped he didn't treat Jeff that way, even in the smallest way. With vigilance on his part, he would never cross that line.
To judge from some of the remarks in the comments section, however, many fans of the Klown's videos were already so far on the other side of that line that they weren't even conscious there might be a line. Some commentators expressed disappointment that the Klown hadn't gone further—Raunch Dressing had complained: "Too vanilla. Check out this site." Scatluver had advised: "The asswhole shld b durty." Others even celebrated Rossiter's death—"Another korporate kriminal offed, thousands left to go. Good work, CK! Keep it up!"
It wasn't the rimming itself that revolted Michael. Jeff and he had done that and enjoyed it. He hoped that they would do so again. No, it was the way that the word "faggot" was used to mark Rossiter as sub-human and immoral and deserving of punishment and the delight with which the Klown had forced him (Michael noted to himself that he was already assuming that Rossiter hadn't been acting freely when he made the video) to engage in acts the Klown clearly expected viewers to find repulsive. The video struck Michael as intentionally cruel and the humiliation as meant to be understood as no more than just desserts for Rossiter. Michael was repelled but not for the reasons that the Klown intended. But then, he thought, I'm not the audience at which this is aimed.
Michael hadn't had to read far into the comments section to find widespread approval of the Klown's efforts. There were almost no negative reactions. Indeed there were many proposals of candidates for his next victim. To judge from the obvious glee with which so many people nominated their boss, the Klown was exploiting a popular desire for revenge. He'll soon have imitators, thought Michael. We need to stop him so that we can deter others. But as soon as that thought occurred to him, he knew it would be futile. An arrest would stop the Klown, but his fans would learn from his mistakes and be even more successful. There probably was even a reality show in the offing—Real Korporate Kriminals of Wall Street competing to see who could break the most laws in one hour, or Real Korrupt Politicians of Washington, DC—that was a program that could run forever. He dragged his mind away from these musings and back to the meeting with Altmann. It was almost time. He grabbed his computer, picked up his coffee cup, refilled it from the pot in the break room, and then headed for the meeting.
Michael was the third person to arrive. Detective Sergeant Jerry Baker sat at the table, hunched over a computer keyboard and peering into the monitor. Captain Altmann was standing behind him and leaning forward to squint at the screen over Baker's shoulder. A cable snaked across the table from the computer to the AV control panel embedded in the table. Both men looked up when Michael walked in. Baker's right hand was poised over the wheel on the mouse, his index finger about to move the cursor.
"Great. Just the person we need," said Altmann. "Can you get this thing to work?" He gestured at the wall screen. "We're trying to link to the video so that we can view it on the big monitor. I couldn't activate the link. Jerry's got the link going, but now we can't get it to run up there."
Baker quickly stood up and pushed the chair back, motioning Michael to take over. "Be my guest." Altmann and Baker took a few steps away from the table and began talking about the Yankees' win over the Blue Jays the previous night as Michael sat down. It struck Michael that they weren't really interested in the game. Typical, thought Michael. Rather than watch what I do and learn how to do it themselves, they leave the technical details to me and stand there chattering away, indulging in "men's talk" to pass the time while they wait. He quickly typed in the commands that activated the monitor and then linked it to the original video. "All set, Captain." Altmann barely interrupted his conversation with Baker to nod his head in acknowledgment. Michael thought about moving to another chair, but then mentally sighed. He would undoubtedly be called back to do something else with the computer; so he might as well stay put. Besides it was the best seat at the table for seeing the monitor.
When Phil Redding walked in, the captain greeted him and then said, "Okay, let's get started." Baker pulled a notebook and a pen out of the inside pocket of his jacket and tossed them on the table before he sat down. The pen skittered to the middle of the table, and Baker had to lean over to retrieve it. As usual, Baker had pulled his tie loose and opened the top two buttons of his shirt. As he bent over, the shirt puckered open and Michael glimpsed a tuft of grizzled hair. Jeff has hair in the same place, he thought. He wondered if it would grow gray and wiry looking like Baker's when Jeff reached the sergeant's age. The reminder of Jeff instantly brought to mind the image of Jeff kneeling in the shower this morning, his curly brown hair plastered to his scalp by the shower spray, and the water coursing down his back and between his buttocks. And his lips on Michael's cock. His mental images were like a video of his cock being sucked in and out of Jeff's mouth. Jesus, what had gotten into Jeff? He hadn't done something that spontaneous in months. Michael's cock stirred, and he suddenly became aware of where he was. He shut down the image stream and forced his mind back to the meeting.
The captain closed the door and pulled down the shade to cover the window in the door. "I don't think we want anyone to see what were about to watch. Do you two know Mike Chang? He's joining the team as our computer guy."
That was the first indication Michael had that he had been assigned to the investigation. His joy at finding that out was tempered by Altmann's mispronunciation of his name. The captain still pronounced "Chang" as "chayng." Michael was always careful to pronounce it as his ancestors in China had—"Jahng" with a j sound at the beginning and broad ah in the middle. He always introduced himself as "Michael Jahng" and answered his work phone with "Detective Jahng," but trying to get his colleagues to pronounce his name correctly was, he had concluded within a few days of arriving at Midtown Major Crimes, a hopeless effort. The first time he had met Altmann, the captain had said "Good to have you on the team, Mike," and then turned around and shouted to the crowded squad room, "Hey, guys, this is our new guy in computer crimes, Mike Chayng." And Mike Chayng he had been ever since.
Phil Redding took the chair next to him and smiled, "Hey, how's it going, Michael?" Baker and the captain sat further up the table, nearer the screen. Altmann motioned to Michael, who clicked on the triangle to begin playing the video.
Altmann and the other detectives watched the video carefully until Rossiter begin rimming the second man. Then they begin twisting uneasily in their chairs, and their eyes darted away for seconds at a time. When the video ended, no one wanted to be the first to speak. Nor did they want to catch one another's eyes. They stared at the table, trying not to look at the image of the clown frozen on the screen.
"Turn that off, Mike." Altmann stood up, opened the shade on the door, and looked out at the squad room as he spoke. "This video was uploaded to a website called Star in Your Own Porn Video Sunday morning by this creep who calls himself The Carma Klown. He also emailed copies of the video, along with a videotaped confession purporting to be from Rossiter admitting to various financial crimes, to all TV and radio stations in the metro area as well as all newspapers, even local shoppers' guides. Friends, family, neighbors, colleagues—anyone who might know Rossiter was sent a copy too. This is the sixth video this Carma Klown nut has posted. The others are similar to this one. A prominent businessman is humiliated and taken through a series of admissions and actions like the ones in this video. Then he gives his name and address and invites anyone who wants to, to show up on his doorstep. The men in the first five videos have all gone into seclusion. All of them deny involvement in the videos and claim that their bodies and faces were inserted into the videos by computer manipulation. None of them is willing to press charges or cooperate in the investigation. That hasn't prevented them or their lawyers from calling the mayor and demanding that he do something. Which is why we are here. We're the something the mayor's promising them."
"Why are we handling this?" Michael asked. "Isn't this a job for Vice or the FBI?"
"I'd like to say that it's because we're the best," said Altmann, "and the brass have confidence in us, but it's because yesterday evening John Rossiter was found dead at his home and now it's our case. The coroner is 99 percent positive that Rossiter committed suicide, but we'll have to wait for her report. Even if it's ruled a suicide, if we can find The Carma Klown, the District Attorney's Office thinks we might be able to charge him as an accessory because he precipitated Rossiter's death. If Rossiter's tox screens come back positive for drugs, we may be able to charge this nut with possession and use of controlled substances if we can prove that he and not his victims administered the drugs, not to mention kidnapping, false imprisonment, coercion, and extortion. We don't have an exact count, but Rossiter's neighbors said that there was a constant stream of visitors to his house beginning in the afternoon yesterday—just a few hours after the video became available. Several of the neighbors called the police when they heard the sound of a gunshot around 9:30. When the police arrived, the front door was open, and a man who had shown up for his free rim job was taking pictures with his cell phone and posting them online. Rossiter was found dead in his living room. Our job is to identify the Klown and put a stop to his activities."
Altmann paused to let the three men chosen to head the investigation consider his remarks before continuing: "The mayor's been hearing from a lot of corporate executives, not just those featured—make that allegedly featured—in the videos. Evidently many of them are worried they might be next—guilty consciences maybe. The comments sections on the videos are full of suggestions of other men who deserve to become members of what people have started calling The Carma Klown's Asshole Lovers Club.' There's even an abbreviation now so that you don't have to waste so many characters typing the full name—CKALC. Several million people have viewed the videos. The mainstream media aren't showing the videos, but they've been posting the links on their websites. So there's going to be a lot of pressure on us to get results. The mayor and Chief Branson are holding a press conference downtown," Altmann paused to look at his watch, "in just about an hour—in time for the mid-day news broadcasts—to announce the formation of a task force. I have to be there and make the usual we're pursuing several active leads, but have nothing to report at the present time' statement. Jerry, Rossiter's widow and son are returning from a trip to California to visit her brother. Meet her at the airport and escort her to wherever she's staying. Try to find out if she knows anything that will help us. Phil, you get back to Rossiter's house and supervise that investigation. Tomorrow, I want the two of you to begin contacting the previous victims and trying to persuade them to talk to us. Chang, you get the `enviable' job of watching all the videos for clues where they were made and trying to trace them. Any questions?"
"This can't be voluntary, right? Nobody in their right mind would willingly take part in a video like this, especially if they knew it was going to be made public. But what's happening? Are they drugged? What sort of drug would make someone do this? Can Rohypnol make people do things like that? Or is this some kind of sex club stunt gone wrong? Jesus, you should have seen the crowd at Rossiter's home last night, Captain. Some of those guys were disappointed that they couldn't get a rim job. Others started cheering when they heard Rossiter's dead." Baker's body language betrayed his disgust. "Is this something that gay guys do?" The last question was addressed to Michael and to Phil Redding. Both of them shook their heads to indicate that they had no answers to Baker's first series of questions. Both chose to ignore his final question.
"Those are things we need to find out," said Altmann. "Rossiter's blood is being analyzed right now for drugs, but we won't have preliminary results until tomorrow at the earliest."
Chang looked up from his laptop, where he had been keying in notes. "Who was in charge of the investigations of the earlier videos? Have we got the files yet?"
"There was no earlier investigation. As I said, none of the other victims would press charges. And rimming's not a crime. Nor is posting a video of a rim job. The only reason we can get involved now is because Rossiter is dead. So we have to start from scratch."
"Steve, is there some significance to the fact that Michael and I are part of this team? Is there some evidence The Carma Klown is gay? Is that why we were picked for the team?" Redding gestured with his hand to include Michael in his remarks. He spoke aggressively. His beef with the department about his frequent assignments to crimes involving gays was of long-standing.
"No, Phil. It's just a failure of imagination. One man licking another man's ass—it's gotta be gay, right? That's the way they think downtown. And who better to investigate a gay crime than gay cops? They'd really like to pretend this is some sort of underground gay club getting out of hand. That way they can forget about it."
Redding shook his head. "I don't see this as a gay crime. It's more like The Carma Klown thinks punishing someone by making him rim another man is a way of humiliating him or maybe that . . ."
Altmann held up a hand to stop Redding. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. We need more information before we can start reaching conclusions."
"But . . ."
"I'm not saying you're wrong, Phil." The hint of impatience in the Captain's voice made it clear that he was restraining himself from saying more. "In fact, I hope you're right. But we've got work to do. And I have to get downtown to the press conference. We'll talk later. Let's get the investigation started."
Altmann signaled the end of the meeting by opening the door and speaking over his shoulder as he left. "Mike, would you shut that thing off for me?"The other two men stood up and filed out of the room. They hadn't stepped two feet from the door before they began calling to members of their teams and organizing their part of the investigation. Michael sighed and clicked on the buttons that initiated the computer's shut-down sequence—once again, he was part of the computer clean-up crew.