White Noise

White Noise, Part 6 of 10

z119z

© the author 2015

Comments are appreciated. Please send them to z119z2000@yahoo.com. Thanks.

Chapter 11

At 8:30 Sunday morning, Dell'uomo parked outside Jeff and Michael's building. It was an ordinary box with a brick façade. Nothing special. It appeared to date from the 1950s. He counted eight stories. Jeff and Michael lived in 306. Whatever the two were spending their money on, it wasn't housing.

He had come bearing food. He wasn't sure what young gay men ate for breakfast. Weren't they always ultra conscious about their looks? His mother would have fed them eggs and sausages. He usually had several cups of coffee, a banana, and two slices of dry toast—part of the campaign to keep his weight and cholesterol low. He guessed that Jeff and Michael watched their weight, too, but it was a Sunday and he was intruding. So he had bought bagels, a quart of orange juice, and a tub of cream cheese at the Sam's Place near his own apartment. He had the counterman fill up the large thermos he had brought with the dark Italian roast he loved. He didn't know about Jeff and Michael's taste in coffee, but they didn't have to drink it if they didn't like it.

The preceding afternoon had brought good news and bad news for the Spier investigation. Mike Albertson and Jennifer had come up with very lifelike drawings of a man's face from several different angles, as well as several views showing the man's body in different postures—seated, standing, bent over, gesturing. It was the most complete set of sketches he had ever seen. But the computer leads he had hoped for hadn't panned out. A search on "furry" and "furries" had yielded over a million hits; even a search of online social media groups for furries had resulted in a quarter of a million responses. Narrowing the search to the city still left them with over 150,000 responses. Even if he had the manpower, it would take months to search all the sites, and more would be added even as they investigated all the current ones. Nor had any of the websites from which David had downloaded materials provided any clue as to how David might have contacted someone.

The university police were able to trace David's use of computers the university maintained for students through his ID number. But the only activities shown on David's account were library searches and downloads and a couple of visits to course websites to check on assignments. Nor did his charge card show evidence of the purchase of another cell phone or charges for phone service other than those to the phone they had. The police contact at the phone company pointed out that if someone else had bought a cell phone with a preprogrammed number of minutes and given it to David, there would be no way to trace the calls. It was unlikely that someone of David's generation would use a pay phone, but even if he could find one that still worked, there would be no way to recover the information on whom he had called unless they knew which phone David had used and what times he had called. So all they had to go on was a series of drawings and the hope that they were accurate and that someone connected with the case would recognize the man in the drawings. At least he had gotten another good night's sleep, thanks to Jeff's tape. It was amazing. He had listened to it, woken up briefly to put the CD player away, and then immediately fallen into a deep sleep.

And that was why Dell'uomo was parked outside Jeff and Michael's place early on Sunday morning—to see if either of them could identify the man in the drawings. In the back of his mind, he harbored the suspicion that bringing food as a peace offering was a tactic of his mother. He could only hope that the tactic was not confined to southern Italians.

He needn't have worried about waking Jeff and Michael up. As he got out of his car, he saw a familiar figure walking down the street. Jeff was conversing animatedly with another young man, one who walked with a limp. It had to be Michael Sorenson, he decided. The last time he had seen Michael, his face had been bandaged and he wore casts on both his right arm and his right leg. But he knew that Michael and Jeff lived together, and the two were deep in conversation with each other, the kind of conversation that only two people who are very close have. They weren't touching, yet the impression they gave was of two people intimately connected both physically and psychologically.

Dell'uomo felt a familiar ache of envy and regret. He knew what the rewards of a relationship could be. His parents had bickered a lot, but they had loved each other. Even their bickering was a sign of their love. His brother and his wife had an incredibly strong marriage. But it was a language he had never learned. His barber was a fan of ice hockey, and every haircut was punctuated with comments and questions on the local team. To demands like "Can you understand what Martin was thinking to put Gagne in as goalie?" he could only reply "Unbelievable" or whatever seemed called for by the question addressed to him. He had the same problem with love. He knew the vocabulary but not the grammar.

He also need not have worried about the bagels. Michael was carrying the familiar blue Sam's Place bag with the "We'll always have bagels" logo, and Jeff was holding a egg carton tray with two cups of coffee wedged into the slots. "Plain, sesame, cinnamon raisin, and, my favorite, rye with kimmel," Dell'uomo said, holding up his bag, as they approached. "And dark Italian roast," he said, holding up the thermos.

To judge from the look Jeff gave him, his mother's tactic didn't work outside southern Italy. Michael recovered more quickly from being accosted by the police early in the morning. "One quadruple espresso made with Italian roast and pumpernickel with schmer for me. Light decaf and a plain bagel for the white bread guy. I've tried my best, Lieutenant, but he won't try anything out of the ordinary in the morning. Later in the day, you might get him to eat the cinnamon raisin bagel, but not for several hours. Are you here to see us? Well, that's a stupid question. Of course, you are. Come on up. We're on the third floor, but if you're going to eat all those bagels, you'll need the exercise. There's an elevator, but we always use the stairs. It gives my knee a good workout and keeps it limber. How are you, Lieutenant? Jeff tells me that you have been promoted."

As he labored up the stairs, Michael Sorenson kept up a steady stream of chatter. His bad leg made it difficult for him to move quickly, and Matt Dell'uomo had to slow his speed to match his. A palpable blast of disgruntlement came from Jeff, several steps below the two of them. He made no contribution to the conversation other than occasional hmms in reply to Michael's comments. Once they reached Jeff and Michael's unit, Michael busied himself in the kitchen putting the bagels on a plate and finding coffee mugs. He arranged everything on a dining table along one wall of the main room of the apartment. There were only two chairs at the table. It was obviously where the two men sat when they ate.

Dell'uomo casually looked around the room for clues to Jeff and Michael's life style. The furnishings appeared to have been chosen for comfort rather than style, he decided. There was nothing that gave the impression of much money. The rest of the furniture—two easy chairs, a coffee table, and a sofa were arranged so that anyone seated in that area would be able to watch TV without neck strain. The room was bright, warm, sunny. Either Michael or Jeff was enthusiastic about plants. Several pots lined every windowsill.

Michael invited Dell'uomo to sit at the dining table. A mug and a plate and a napkin were already arranged before each chair. Michael took the other chair and poured himself and Dell'uomo a cup of coffee from the thermos the lieutenant had brought and took one of the pumpernickel bagels. He broke off an inch-long segment and spread one end with a dollop of cream cheese and ate it. Jeff stood silently as far away as he could from the two men at the table, his back turned to the room and his attention focused on something outside the window. Michael ignored him. "Now, Lieutenant, I imagine you are here to ask questions."

"I just want you to look at the sketches our artist came up with. I don't know if Jeff told you, but we have a witness who saw a man in the dead boy's room, and . . ."

"Yes, he told me about it."

"Could both of you look at these pictures and tell me if you have ever seen this man?" Dell'uomo opened a large manila envelope and spread the drawing on the table. Jeff finally joined them at the table to look at them. "Sorry, I don't know him."

"I do."

"Who is it, Mr. Sorenson?"

"He's a friend of Talbert's. At least he was when I knew Talbert. His name is Scott. I don't know his last name. But he and Talbert are—were—close friends. They had been friends for a long time. I got the impression that their two families knew each other, and that Talbert and Scott had been together since they were boys. They shared a lot—same schools, same set of friends."

"What's the last name?"

"I don't know. I never knew. Talbert didn't bother to introduce us."

"Never?"

"I was Talbert's toy, Lieutenant. In that world, you don't introduce your friends to your toy."

"Lieutenant, this upsets Michael. Do you have to go on?" Jeff picked the sketches up and arranged them in a neat stack. He shoved them back into the manila envelope and placed it on a small table near the front door, as far away from Michael as was possible in the room.

"It's all right, Jeff. I can discuss it. And if it helps catch the murderer, that's all that counts." Michael reached out and briefly stroked Jeff's upper arm and squeezed his shoulder, a shorthand form of thank you for your concern, but you don't need to worry. I'm OK.

Dell'uomo's eyes caught the gesture. Another language he had never mastered. "Thank you, Mr. Sorenson. This is our first break in this case. We will contact Talbert."

"It's Michael. Please call me Michael."

"I apologize to both of you for breaking in on your morning. But with your help, Michael, and with yours, Jeff, we're getting closer to solving this case. I hope I won't have to bother you again, but if we can't find Talbert, we may have to come back with follow-up questions. I promise you, Jeff, that I will keep my visits to a minimum. I do understand what Michael went through, and I have no wish to dredge up unpleasant memories, but it may be necessary. This type of killer rarely stops after one victim." Dell'uomo hated himself for sounding so sanctimonious and for playing the guilt card, but sometimes you had to force people to do the right thing.

"We still don't know what type of killer you are looking for, Lieutenant. The news reports haven't been too specific." At last Jeff was showing some interest in the reasons for Dell'uomo's visit.

"We're trying to keep the more sensational details out of the media, Jeff. We don't want copycats, and we don't want the killer to know what we know. But as you may have guessed, we think the killing involved hypnosis. The only other lead we have is the dead boy's interest in furries, and that has proved impossible to follow up on. There's too much information in that area. I'm sorry but I have to leave. I want to find Talbert and talk with him as soon as possible." As Dell'uomo spoke, he pinched the webbing between his thumb and forefinger of his right hand with the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. Jeff stared at the familiar gesture and glanced at Dell'uomo's face. The lieutenant was lost in his own reflections. What the hell is going on? thought Jeff.

"It's all right, Jeff. At least now the police know about Scott."

"I can't take the tension, Michael. Every time that man shows up, I have to hide so much. I'm afraid one day I'll blurt something out. And why is he thanking me for giving him a good night's sleep and pinching his hand in that way? What does he know about Sandman?"

"It's OK, Jeff. Just relax." Michael stood behind Jeff and massaged his neck and shoulders. Jeff let himself relax. Michael always knew how to make him feel better. God, it felt so good just to let go and let Michael work on him. Michael was so good with his hands. When Michael began kissing the spot of Jeff's neck beneath the ear where the neck curves into the shoulder, Jeff moaned with pleasure. Michael could get him so excited. He sat there both relaxed and aroused by the waves of pleasure flowing through his body. Michael was so skilled at making him feel good. He was the one person Jeff could relax with and feel safe.

"Perhaps you would feel more comfortable lying down." Michael put an arm around Jeff's shoulders and helped him stand up.

"Hmm, I'm sure I would."

"Let's get you out of these clothes. You'll feel much better naked."

"Yes, Michael, and you."

"Yes, Jeff, of course." Michael began stroking Jeff's body, all the places that made Jeff feel so good. It was so easy for Jeff to relax with Michael and let Michael guide him to all the wonderful places. No one else could make him feel so good. So safe, so warm, so comfortable, so filled with pleasure and happiness. Jeff floated in the warm sunlight on the soft ocean toward the light that rippled over the waves, toward the incandescence that awaited both of them.

Michael slowly took Jeff toward the light. With a final moan, Jeff's body exploded in orgasm and then relaxed totally as he drifted into the deep sleep that would keep him unconscious for the next hour. When Jeff awoke, he would be filled with memories of pleasure, his sense of well-being restored. Michael smiled, pleased with himself. He had helped Jeff focus again on his goals, and he was one step closer to his goal.

And now that the police were searching for Scott, he was even closer to his revenge. Revenge for all the times that Scott had proposed "extra-special sessions" to Talbert, suggestions that Talbert had been only too ready to adopt. Some of those sessions were so horrible that he hadn't ever talked about them with Jeff. He wanted to forget them, but he couldn't. But he owed Jeff so much that he would never pollute Jeff's mind with the horrors.

Like the time that Scott had shown up with a present for Talbert. Talbert had oohed and aahed as he put the leather jock strap on. He had examined himself in the mirror from every angle as Michael had lain prostrate on the floor. Scott had dimmed the lights so that all the sharp points on the tips of the metal studs that covered the strap glistened in the light.

"Just think how those will feel against your skin, Michael," Scott had grabbed Michael by the hair and lifted his head, pulling him up until his eyes were level with Talbert's crotch. "Or your face and lips? The good little doggie wants to feel that, doesn't it?"

The awful thing was that as soon as Scott mentioned it, he did want to feel the sharp points tearing into his flesh. And Talbert wanted to make him feel them too. The idea that Scott planned in their heads tempted them equally.

"There's one feature that I think you both will like." Scott reached out and unbuckled a panel at the front of the strap, revealing a round hole. Talbert's cock was visible, coiled in the pouch. Scott unbuckled a strap and then threaded Talbert's cock through the hole. It was hard by the time he finished rebuckling the strap and adjusting it so that it fit Talbert snugly and securely. Talbert's cock dangled out the front.

Neither Talbert nor Scott needed to speak. Talbert gyrated his hips so that his cock swung slowly back and forth before Michael's mouth. Michael knew what he was to do. He opened his mouth and began sucking. Talbert pushed his cock deep into Michael's throat, forcing the metal studs into Michael's face. At first Talbert held back a bit, but when Scott ordered him to drive his cock harder and faster into Michael, he obeyed. Michael accepted the pain gratefully. He was pleasing his owner. That was his purpose in life.

When Scott suggested that Talbert fuck Michael, Michael spun around and presented his ass to Talbert.

"Isn't the agony exquisite?" Scott knelt on the floor in front of Michael and held Michael's face in his hands. He watched every flicker of pain that crossed Michael's face. He fed on Michael's pain. He laughed at the drops of blood that spattered his face as the force of Talbert's thrusts scraped the skin off Michael's ass. He came spontaneously when Michael started screaming.

"Sergeant Dell'uomo. I won't pretend I'm happy to see you again."

"Mr. Talbert, this is Sergeant Trent. And I'm a lieutenant now. May we come in? We'll only take a minute of your time."

"Do I have a choice?"

"We hope that you will be able to assist us in our inquiries in another case. It doesn't involve you."

"Then why are you here, if it doesn't involve me?"

"Perhaps we should step inside. Your neighbors might overhear us talking in the hall, and this matter does not concern them."

Talbert gave them a look of amusement that said he could care less what concerned the neighbors and then shrugged. "Oh, what the hell, come in."

The apartment that Talbert occupied was much lower on the scale of dwellings than the penthouse above the park in which Dell'uomo had first met him. Much smaller, and much shabbier and dirtier. The once elegant furniture showed signs of neglect and ill use. Dell'uomo tried not to think what had caused all the stains on the carpet and upholstery. Talbert also looked much shabbier and dirtier than he had before. The fastidiously groomed and dressed man of several years earlier had become disheveled, softer around the edges, indifferent.

"I would offer you coffee, but it's the cook's day off. Now what can I do for you? Please, let's get this over quickly. I have an appointment."

"Do you know this man?" Susan Trent handed Talbert the stack of drawings.

Talbert barely looked at them. "Yes."

"Who is he?"

"He was the first to desert me when my . . . problems started. He was my best friend. We had been friends since childhood, inseparable really, we did everything together, and then when the gossip started, he fled and left me alone. His father made him run—he couldn't tolerate Scott having a questionable friend."

"Scott who?"

"Scott Foster, Senator Foster's son. He lives over on Monitor Street in the River Towers, or he used to. We haven't been in touch for over five years now. He may have moved. For all I know, he may not even be in the country."

"The Senator Foster?"

"I don't pay much attention to the news these day, Sergeant Dell'uomo, but I can't imagine that the good citizens of this state would elect two Fosters to the Senate. Yes, the Senator Foster—the distinguished-looking man with all the silver hair dedicated to protecting his family's wealth from taxes and increasing his cronies' income while telling you he's representing all the people and really has your best interests at heart."

"And you're certain the man in the drawings is Scott Foster?"

"Yes, they're excellent likenesses. Please compliment the artist for me. And now if you don't mind, Sergeant . . ."

"Just a few more questions. When was the last time you saw Foster?"

"It's been at least five years, Sergeant. As I told you, he broke off relations when my behavior became too scandalous. I thought he at least would appreciate it, but I was wrong."

"Why would he have appreciated it?"

"Oh, didn't I tell you? Scott also likes to beat up pretty boys. We were a team until his daddy broke us up."

"Did he help you beat Michael Sorenson?"

"He may have. I don't recall, Sergeant. That was so many beatings ago. One loses track. A few bruises here, a few there. One can't remember them all." An airy gesture waved away the possibility of rendering an accounting. "Oh, I can see that you disapprove of my `proclivities,' Ms Trent. You should try it some time, you might enjoy it. With those fierce looks, you could probably even earn a decent income as a dominatrix. It pays very well, probably better than the police. And you already have the uniform, I imagine. The pension plan isn't as good, though."

"Have you ever seen this machine?" Dell'uomo pulled the white noise machine out of his briefcase.

"No, should I? What is it?"

"You've never seen it?"

"No, I have no idea what it is."

Dell'uomo put the machine back in his briefcase and nodded to Susan Trent. "We won't take any more of your time for now. Since you are no longer in touch with Scott Foster, I won't have to ask you not to contact him about our visit. Thank you for your help, Mr. Talbert."

"You're most welcome, Sergeant. I'm always ready to assist the police in their inquiries. No need for your warning. Scott and I no longer run in the same circles. And, Officer Trent, so nice to meet you. Now, don't forget my advice about a career change. The clients may scream a bit, but ear plugs block most of the noise. If you want, I could put you in touch with some people. No? Well, think about it. You know where I live in case you want to contact me when Sergeant Dell'uomo isn't around."

Chapter 12

"There isn't enough to get a warrant. Even if it were some nobody, you don't have enough. But this is Scott Foster, Senator William Foster's son. Every TV station in town could run live footage of Scott Foster massacring a hundred people in Times Square and you could have a thousand witnesses, half of whom had taped him on their phones doing it, and no judge in this town would risk his political career by issuing a search warrant for his home, let alone Foster's office and car. No one is going to risk angering Senator Foster on evidence like this. You need to bring me hard evidence that Scott Foster killed this kid, and that means an eyewitness or undisputable forensics. Hell, my boss might not even allow me to apply for a warrant then. And if you did find enough evidence to arrest Foster, my boss would argue at the preliminary hearing that Foster should be released on his own recognizance without having to post bail. He'd do anything to be in the senator's good graces." Jessica Morgan, one of the ADAs attached to the Homicide Squad, shook her head decisively as she slid the folder on Scott Foster across the table toward Detective Lieutenant Matt Dell'uomo. She hadn't bothered to open it.

It was Monday morning a few minutes after 9:00. Dell'uomo had just finished summarizing the investigation to date of the David Spier case for Morgan and Captain Jillson, the head of the Major Crimes Division, and had asked Morgan to apply for a search warrant. Also present were Sergeant Susan Trent and Detective Robert Samuels, Dell'uomo's assistants on the case, and Lieutenant Davis Marks of the Business Fraud Division.

Dell'uomo leaned forward across the table, picked up the folder, and tossed it back in front of Morgan. The folder flapped open, and a few sheets of paper spilled out. The ADA wasn't helping, and her unwillingness even to open the evidence folder angered him. "Damn it, Jessica. You could at least look at what we found. We have evidence that Scott Foster is . . ."

Morgan ticked the points off on her fingers. "I was paying attention, Matt. You have a witness who under hypnosis recalls seeing Scott Foster in David Spier's dorm room four months ago. Any judge I present this to would argue that the evidence is tainted—that Albertson's memories of Foster's presence were implanted by the hypnotist, this Jeff Unger, or whatever his name is. Moreover this isn't the only man your witness identified. The first person he came up with under hypnosis is someone who can't be the murderer. That makes his second round of recalled memories suspicious.

"And no judge would accept your hypnotist as qualified to do what you had him do. First, he's not registered with the Police Department as a consultant. Even a judge who might admit that the hypnosis is possibly valid would not regard him as properly vetted for this sort of work. He's just somebody you met years ago in an unrelated case and dragged in off the street. Second, if that weren't enough, he's the gay partner of the man who identified Scott Foster for you. No judge will admit to a bias against gays, but a gay hypnotist exerting who knows what sort of influence on an innocent young mind, and who just happens to be the lover of a man who allegedly was beaten by Foster years ago—come on, that's just not probable cause. And that weak link, believe or not, is the only plausible one you have between Foster and Spier.

"The rest of your evidence is useless. What do you have? The testimony of Michael Sorenson that Scott participated in a beating that he alleges took place five years ago, a charge that Sorenson did not see fit to make at the time. Remember no charges were filed in the case, and the case file has a note that the District Attorney's Office thought the case wasn't worth pursuing. Foster's name didn't even come up at the time. And then there's the notorious Philip Talbert, who avoided a jail term only because he had a good lawyer. His very notoriety makes him an unreliable witness. Both Susan's and Robert's reports make it clear that he wants revenge on Foster. He admits he hasn't seen Foster in years and has no knowledge of his current activities. What happened five or more years ago in regard to a different case has no bearing on the present case. Yes, you have reason for suspicion, but that's all you have. It's not enough. I could waste my time applying for a search warrant. I might even find a judge naïve enough to issue one, but it would take Foster's lawyers ten seconds to get it thrown out and any evidence obtained under it declared inadmissible. I'm sorry, Matt, but this isn't enough. You need hard evidence, not just gossip and innuendo. You know that suspicions aren't enough to get a warrant."

Dell'uomo started to protest when Captain Jillson cleared his throat and signaled for the lieutenant to be quiet. Jillson liked to play the peacemaker. "There are too many Fosters in this case. Is this Kenneth Foster related to Senator Foster?"

Dell'uomo shrugged. He knew when he was beaten. The captain was moving on and suggesting further lines of investigation. He expected Dell'uomo to drop his request for a warrant and move on too. "We don't know yet, Captain. I plan to interview Kenneth Foster later this morning to ask about the substance that was sprayed on the Albertson kid's face, and I will probe for a connection."

"Doublecheck whatever Foster says about this spray with someone uninvolved with the case. There must be an expert at one of the universities in this city who knows something about this. Now, are we certain that the man in the drawings is Scott Foster?"

"We've had positive identifications from Talbert and Michael Sorenson. I still think they're valid even though Jessica can't take them to court. We compared the drawings with Foster's driver's license photo and some photos we found by searching online. The resemblance is unmistakable. Of course, we learned of this connection . . ." Dell'uomo paused and then with a nod at Morgan continued, "this alleged connection between Spier and Scott Foster only yesterday, and we haven't had time to follow up on all the leads."

"This will be a political mess." Jessica Morgan picked up the folder and looked at the top sheet. "Senator Foster will call the mayor and the DA as soon as gets wind of any questioning of his son."

"Lieutenant Dell'uomo is noted for his tact, Jessica."

Dell'uomo gave a bark of laughter. "Thank you, Captain. But I'm afraid it may not be much help in this case. OK, we won't approach Scott Foster until we have more to go on. So far there is nothing to link him to the case other than Albertson's recollection under hypnosis and Sorenson's and Talbert's identifications of the drawing. We'll keep looking until we find more."

"I hope you find them, Matt," said Morgan. "To reiterate, not only is the hypnosis testimony not good enough for a warrant, but it also won't be admissible in court. Even if Albertson had recalled without outside help that he had seen Foster in Spier's room, it would show only that the two knew each other and not that Foster had a role in Spier's murder. And, again, any facts recalled under hypnosis would be challenged on the grounds that suggestions had been implanted in Albertson's mind by an unqualified hypnotist with a prior connection with Foster motivated by a desire for revenge—that is, assuming that Sorenson is telling the truth and Foster was involved in his torture years ago. Why did you use this Jeff guy anyway?"

"Yes, I get the point, Jessica. As I said, we'll keep looking for a link that you can present to a judge and get us a search warrant. OK?" Dell'uomo chose to ignore Morgan's question about why he had asked Jeff to help. He didn't even want to think about the reasons himself, and he certainly wasn't going to discuss the issue in public.

"I think we all get the point," interposed Captain Jillson. "Let's move on. Does Scott Foster have a record?"

Susan Trent pulled a sheet of paper from her briefcase and handed it to the captain. "There have been three complaints of physical abuse. Two were dismissed when the complaint was withdrawn. In the other case, the DA declined to pursue charges."

"So we have some history of violence."

"Yes, plus Talbert said that he and Foster had jointly engaged in beatings."

"And Jessica has already told us that he wouldn't be regarded as a reliable witness."

"Again, what happened before has nothing to do with this case. Testimony about the priors would be challenged and not allowed. Even if we snuck Talbert in as a negative character witness, the opposing lawyers would argue that he was motivated by malice and that his testimony was biased. I wouldn't even bother to call him. Just regard what he told you as background information and reason for suspicion."

"Well, Foster is the only suspect we have so far," said Jillson. "Let's keep digging for a few more days. We may find something. If nothing shows up, we'll move on. Remember—dig carefully, Matt. That goes for the rest of you. Until we have more to go on, let's not arouse the senator. What else do we know about Scott Foster?"

Dell'uomo signaled to Susan Trent to present the information. "Foster is 34, Sir. He is the third and youngest child in the senator's family. His old brother, William—by the way he is William Foster V, the senator is William the Fourth, hence his nickname "Ivy"—is president of Foster Enterprises. He lives in Westport in the family's compound out there, has an office here in the city in the Foster Building. There is a sister who is married and lives in San Francisco. The children's mother died several years ago. The senator remarried two years ago. Scott Foster bills himself as a consultant. He also has an office in the Foster Building. We have not been able to find out what sort of consulting work he does. Scott is unmarried, lives alone in the penthouse in the River Towers. Motor Vehicles shows one car licensed to his name. Unlike his brother and sister, Scott Foster is not active socially. He appears only at family gatherings or at celebrations of his father's re-elections. There is some talk that he and his father are not close. Other than the three charges of assault I mentioned earlier, he has received four parking tickets over the course of twelve years."

"So on the face of it, nothing to arouse suspicion other than the assault cases. How recent are those?"

"The last complaint was made five years ago, Sir. We will keep looking. There may be others that were not reported."

The captain directed his next question at Lieutenant Marks. "What do we know about this Sandman business?"

Marks, like Morgan, was formally dressed. Unlike the other cops in the room, whose dress ranged from street casual in the case of Samuels to the formal uniform Captain Jillson was wearing, the dapper Marks wore a well-tailored charcoal gray suit, a white shirt, and black dress shoes. His red and blue striped tie matched his suspenders. He could easily pass for one of the businessmen his squad investigated. "I didn't have much time to research it this morning. I only have what I could pull off the computer. The state has listings for four different LLCs operating under the Sandman name. The first is Sandman Enterprises, which is, according to the statement in the articles of incorporation, `a closely held corporation set up to distribute self-help and self-development aids.' Among its assets are this Foster's Sandman Shop. To judge from the business statement, it not only runs this shop here but sells similar goods online as well as wholesale throughout the country. Kenneth Foster and his wife are listed as owning 80 percent of the stock in the company. Jeff Ange and Michael Sorenson each own 10 percent.

"Then there are three businesses involving mainly Foster and his wife, but Ange and Sorenson play a role in all of them. Sandman Investments, Sandman Personal Development Consulting, and Sandman Personal Assistants. The first seems to be an operation to manage the group's financial assets. It appears to be a company that allows them to take income from the other companies and reinvest it without taking it as taxable personal income. The consulting operation is set up to give seminars to businesses and to provide motivational training' for businessmen. The third is an employment agency that provides highly qualified and trained personal assistants,' according to the statement in the articles of incorporation. All of them operate from the same address, 1010 Canal Street. Since none of them is publicly traded, there are no filings of yearly income statements. Just the pro forma statement for the state's Business Licensing Office. We would need a subpoena to gain access to the tax records. I don't think we have enough to ask for that yet. There's no suggestion that these are anything but legitimate businesses. There is one odd thing about all of these companies. None of them has ever been sued."

"Why is that unusual?" asked Jillson.

Marks and Morgan exchanged a look and then laughed. "There are people—mostly lawyers—who make a good living suing companies on behalf of `clients' they find on the street," explained Marks. "The suits rarely make it to court. The businesses or their insurance companies figure it's cheaper to pay off the lawyer rather than go to court. So they give the lawyer $4,000 or $5,000. The lawyer hands the client a few hundred and pockets the rest. Do that a hundred times a year, and you've got a good income."

Jillson rolled his eyes in mock amazement and then said, "I would appreciate it if you would look into this further, Davis. Find out what you can about Sandman. See if there are any links to Scott Foster there. And let's find out if all these Fosters are related." The captain nodded and shifted his attention back to Dell'uomo. "Matt, what about this hypnosis angle? Is there anything in that?"

"It may just be a coincidence, Sir. David Spier definitely had an interest in hypnosis. I initially contacted Jeff Ange for information and for help with the Albertson kid, but now there seem to be more links. If we accept the memories Ange uncovered through hypnosis, Albertson appears to have been drugged and instructed under hypnosis to forget seeing the man in Spier's room. That alone would make the man's visit suspicious. This stranger was definitely taking a risk by attempting to hypnotize Albertson, according to Ange. It worked, but he couldn't have known that when he tried it. Plus there's this stuff that the man sprayed on Albertson's face. Ange wouldn't speculate what it might be. All he would say is that perhaps it was a device to focus Albertson's attention, but that didn't make sense to me. I mean if someone sprays something on your face, it will get your attention but it would make you angry and upset rather than dizzy. I asked the lab if they knew of any substance that would cause this. They emailed back they didn't know of anything specific but that there were, in their words, `several candidates—narcotics, anesthetics—that might be used alone or in combination to lower resistance to suggestion.' "

"You said you would ask Kenneth Foster about this. Why him?"

"He told me on Friday that he had heard of such drugs. I'll see if he knows more and can give me more information."

"Are there other links with hypnosis, Lieutenant?"

Dell'uomo was pleased to see that Jessica Morgan had filled several sheets of her yellow legal pad with notes. She may not have been willing to get the warrant he wanted, but she was taking the investigation seriously.

"Well, Ange is an expert on hypnosis, and the first time I met him he was using hypnosis to help Michael Sorenson recover from his beating at Talbert's hands. Sorenson identifies the man in the picture as a friend of Talbert's. Then Talbert gives us a name and says that Scott Foster shares his interests. Also, one of the odd items found in Spier's room turns out to be a white noise machine manufactured and sold by Kenneth Foster's Sandman company, an operation that deals in hypnosis, among other things. So everywhere we turn in this case, we run into hypnosis."

"I grant you the coincidences are there, Matt, but I own a white noise machine—in fact, it's a Sandman machine like the one you have here." Jessica Morgan pointed at the white noise machine in the center of the table. "And I can assure you that it has nothing to do with hypnosis."

"You own one, Jessica? What for?" Captain Jillson picked up the machine and looked at it.

"Oh, it's terrific. I turn that on, and all the noise from outside disappears. I wouldn't try to go to sleep without it. That's probably the reason that the Spier kid had one. The dorms at City University must be noisy. He bought a machine to cover up the noise."

"OK, people. That's it for now." Captain Jillson put the white noise machine back on the table and stood up. "I think we've gone about as far as we can go. Let's follow up on these leads and work the Foster angle to see how that develops. But keep a low profile for now. There is to be no contact with Scott Foster or anyone in his family until we have more information. Anybody got anything else?"

"Ah, Captain." Susan Trent tentatively raised a hand. "I was there when Jeff Ange hypnotized Albertson. It was very impressive. I know that Jessica has said that we can't use testimony from hypnotized people in court, but it did provide the only lead we have in this case. I was thinking that having Ange vetted and registered so that he can qualify as a regular consultant might prove useful in other cases. Also, I was thinking about checking out courses in hypnosis myself. There are possibilities here for police work."

"Well, I don't know. What do you think, Matt? You want an assistant who could put you in a trance and get a good performance review?"

Matt Dell'uomo joined in the laughter. "Susan's work is already excellent, Captain. Plus, I don't think I would make a good subject. Jeff Ange says that no one can be made to do things through hypnosis that they aren't inclined to do anyway."

"Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Foster." Dell'uomo joined Kenneth Foster in his third-floor office on Canal Street shortly after 1:00 on Monday. He turned down the cup of coffee Foster offered him.

"Please, Lieutenant, call me Kenneth. I'm happy to help out."

"I won't take much of your time. I just wanted to follow up on some remarks you made the other day."

Matt Dell'uomo faced Kenneth Foster across Foster's desk. The directory on the wall of the lobby of the small building at 1010 Canal Street listed only a few businesses. The fourth and fifth floors seemed to be empty, and Sandman Enterprises was the only occupant listed for the third floor, and only one of the four doors along the corridor on that floor was labeled "Sandman Enterprises." Foster's outer office was a reception room, filled with filing cabinets, a table with a small photocopier and fax machine and a coffee maker, and an empty desk. Mr. Foster had ushered Dell'uomo into the inner office. It, too, was simply furnished—a desk, two chairs, a computer table behind the desk. The only window looked out on the brick wall of the building in back. There was little to suggest a prosperous business.

"You sure I can't get you a cup of coffee, Lieutenant? It would just take a minute to make."

"That's OK. I won't be long. I don't know if Jeff Ange has told you anything, but he helped us with the young man who saw a stranger in the dead boy's room."

"Yes, he told me that Michael Sorenson knew the man."

"He provided us with a clue that allowed us to identify him."

"Do you have one of the drawings, Lieutenant? I'm curious to see it."

Dell'uomo reached into his briefcase and pulled out the manila envelope with the drawings. He unfastened the clasp and gave Foster the stack of drawings.

"Oh!"

"You know this man?"

"Yes. His name's Scott Foster. Actually we're related—distantly. My Grandfather Foster and Scott's Great-Grandfather Foster were brothers. Scott and I are first cousins, twice removed. Or something like that. I can never keep that terminology straight. But I imagine you already knew this, Lieutenant. Is that the reason for your visit here today?"

"It's one of the reasons, Kenneth. We were curious about the presence of so many Fosters in the case."

"I'm afraid I can't tell you much about Scott Foster, Lieutenant. I know his father, Senator Foster, of course, and I have met Scott. But I come from the poor branch of the Foster family. My grandfather and father squandered most of the money they inherited from my great-great-grandfather. That's William Foster I, by the way. The robber baron, defrauder of widows and orphans, destroyer of forests, etc. Senator Foster's branch of the family was more careful with their money. They are the sober Fosters. My forebears were the drinkers and gamblers, I'm afraid."

"When did you last see Scott Foster?"

"Scott and his family aren't much interested in knowing their poorer relations, Lieutenant. It's been years. Six, maybe seven years. It was at an alumni day at Chesterfield. Both Scott and I went there. I was at Chesterfield a good twenty-thirty years before Scott, of course—there was still enough money in the family coffers to send me there. But I doubt if Scott and I have exchanged a hundred words over the years. I don't have a good impression of him, by the way. Nothing solid. Just a feeling. I also have the impression that he's not in Senator Foster's favor. William Vee is definitely the favorite in that family. But that's all that I can give you, Lieutenant."

"William Vee?"

"William Foster the Fifth. He's called "Vee" from the roman number. It started as a joke at Chesterfield with his father. He's William Foster the Fourth—I, V in roman numerals and hence "Ivy."

"Oh, I'm afraid that type of humor is over my head. You said the two branches of the family are not close."

"Not particularly. I don't know if you've met many rich people, Lieutenant, but they are always on the alert against poor relations. They suspect us of wanting money from them. Senator Scott is friendly, but then he's a politician, isn't he? Friendliness is part of his public act."

"It doesn't carry over into his private life?"

"I really couldn't say, Lieutenant. I've rarely seen the senator in private. I can assure you that he doesn't want to know someone like me."

"But you've become more successful now."

"Yes, but not by Senator Foster's standards. It would take far more success than I have achieved to reach those heights. I hope I don't sound bitter, Lieutenant. When I was younger, I was jealous of their wealth and resentful about being the poor relation, but I make a good living now. I've made my peace with the situation."

"You were able to identify Scott Foster readily. He must not have changed much since you last saw him."

"And so you suspect that I saw him more recently than I claim, Lieutenant. Very astute of you. But Jeff told me that Michael had identified the man as `Scott.' And Scott has inherited his father's looks. So with the various clues, I was able to identify him. Perhaps it was merely the results of mistaken inferences, however. The suggestions were there. I just followed up on them and came to the wrong conclusion. Is that possible, Lieutenant?" Kenneth Foster leaned back in his chair and peered at Dell'uomo over steepled hands, a look of bemusement on his face.

"I suspect you seldom make `mistaken inferences,' Kenneth."

Foster smiled. "You said that the Foster connection was only part of the reason you came here, Lieutenant."

It did not go unnoticed by Dell'uomo that Foster had deftly turned the conversation away from the Foster family. He still had questions about the Foster connection. He would get back to them later, but for now he would let Kenneth Foster have his little victory. "Yes. I also need more information about hypnosis. The other day you said something about rumors of drugs used in hypnosis. Mike Albertson, the boy who saw the stranger in the dead kid's room, said that the stranger sprayed something on his face and then hypnotized him. Is there some something that can do that?"

"There are various drugs that will make you drowsy and more suggestible, Lieutenant. Some of them are readily available. Alcohol, for example, lowers resistance in many people. Over-the-counter cold medicines are rumored to work on some people. There are also the various substances known as `rape drugs.' They rob the person who ingests them of conscious volition and make them open to sexual assault. There are other substances with similar effects. I've never heard of a substance that works by being sprayed on the skin. Or did this spray take affect after it was inhaled?"

"We don't know. Albertson just said that his face was wet and then he felt dizzy. The man then hypnotized Mike to forget that he had seen him."

"The drugs I mentioned don't make people forget or make them susceptible to hypnosis, Lieutenant. They either knock the victim out or paralyze them. But I don't know of any drugs that produce a hypnotic trance, especially that rapidly."

"If there is such a drug, could it be used to change a person?"

"Perhaps, Lieutenant. I really don't have any information on it, and so I can't say. As I said the other day, you can't really use hypnosis to make a person do something they are not inclined to do. It would take a lot of conditioning to achieve that and several months, maybe even years, of work. And it wouldn't be worth the investment of time. As I also pointed out the last time, you can always find someone to do what you want. You don't need to resort to hypnosis to change someone. It's too time-consuming. It wouldn't be cost-effective."

"You speak from experience?"

"Many people have desires, Lieutenant, but are held back by convention. They come to me and other hypnotists wanting help to overcome their inhibitions. They have great expectations of hypnosis. They want to use it as an excuse for acting out their fantasies."

"And do you help them?"

"No, I do not, but I would be very surprised, Lieutenant, if there weren't people who do help them, or attempt to help them."

"Are there people who are more easily hypnotized than others?"

"Oh, yes. There are also those who have misconceptions about the power of hypnosis and play along in the expectation that they are truly being controlled by the hypnotist. A lot of stage hypnosis relies on that. People act in a certain way because that is how they have been trained to expect to act. But to answer your question, yes, there are people who are easily hypnotized. If I were looking for a likely subject, I would choose someone who is an avid reader of fiction. Fiction depends so much on the reader mentally constructing the scene of the novel. The ability to envision the scene being described is usually a good sign that the person has a good imagination and will respond readily to the hypnotist's suggestions. You're smiling, Lieutenant. Are you such a reader?"

"I don't get much chance to read because of my work, Kenneth."

"That doesn't exactly answer my question, Lieutenant. Here, let me show you something. Maybe this will help answer your questions."

Foster reached into a drawer and set a small box in the middle of his desk. "Let me dim the lights and pull the shades. This works best in a dark room. OK. Now make yourself comfortable, Lieutenant. Feet on the floor. Arms resting on the arms of the chair. Lean back and let the chair support you. Now just watch the box." Foster turned a switch on the side of the box, and it began to pulse slowly with a red light, growing stronger and then fading out.

"Just watch the light, Lieutenant. You don't need to focus. Just let your eyes rest on the box. Take a deep breath in and relax. Another slow breath in. Hold it for a few seconds, and then let it out slowly through your mouth. Very good. Let's do one more. A deep breath in. Fill your lungs. Good. Hold it for a few seconds. Now let your breath out slowly through your mouth. Continue breathing deeply and slowly. Just watch the light and listen to my voice. The red light is so warm and comfortable. It is so relaxing to watch it and let your cares drift away. Your cares just fade away as the light fades. And as the light strengthens, its warmth spreads into your mind and body. The warmth gets stronger and stronger, as your cares and concerns fade away. It feels so good to watch the light. Your eyes are so focused on the light. It feels so good to watch the light and let yourself drift. Just so comfortable and warm, Matt. So relaxed, so warm, so comfortable, so peaceful."

Kenneth Foster continued to talk about the warmth and the light. When he began to suggest that Dell'uomo felt tired and his eyes were heavy, so hard to keep open, Dell'uomo's eyes drifted shut with only a few flutters. Even Foster was surprised at how little resistance he found in the lieutenant. Either Dell'uomo was a natural subject or a great actor. All the tests revealed him to be deeply entranced, however. Foster took him deeper and deeper.

"Matt, you are now deeply asleep. Your conscious mind is asleep, but your unconscious mind hears what I am saying. You feel so wonderful. Being this deeply asleep is so pleasant. Your mind and your body feel so wonderful. So free. Just floating in a sea of well-being. You have no concerns about hypnosis. Only hypnosis can make you feel so wonderful. You want to go into a trance as often as you can. I can help you. The more you trust me, the better I can help you feel. You want to feel this good all the time. I can help you, Matt. Shortly I will take you toward a more alert state. You will remember nothing that I have said to you. You will remember only that you were watching the red light and that we ran a test that proved to you that hypnosis is harmless. You will remember only that we ran a test that proved to you that hypnosis is harmless. You will forget everything else. But the feeling of well-being and trust will remain with you, and you will come back again. If you understand, your right arm will float into the air. Oh, very good, Matt. I am very pleased with you. Your right arm will now drift gently down onto the arm of the chair. Very good.

"Now, Matt, I am going to count from one to three. With each number you will become more alert, and after I say the number three, you will be in a light trance. Later, after I return you to full consciousness, you will remember only what happened after I said the number three. OK, let's begin. Imagine you have dived into a swimming pool and you are rising toward the surface. One, you drift slowly to the surface. Let the water lift you upward. Two, closer and closer to the surface. Three, you reach the surface. Take a deep breath and just let yourself float on the surface of the pool of warm water. It is so comfortable just to relax and let yourself float.

"Now, Matt, I want you to be aware of the room in which we are sitting. There is a window in the wall to your left. We are on the third story of the building. Anyone who jumped from that window would injure himself badly. I am going to raise the shade and open the window. Feel the cool air coming in. Stand up, Matt. Good. Now walk to the window. Good. Now look down. Good. Now climb up on the windowsill and jump out."

"What?" Dell'uomo leaped back, away from the window. His heart was pounding and he gasped for breath.

Kenneth Foster looked pleased with himself. "You see, Lieutenant. You were in a trance, and you were willing to follow my suggestions as long as they were harmless. But when I suggested you do something that would have injured you, you immediately woke up. Your mind immediately overrode the trance. Can you imagine what it would take to get a person to actually jump out a window?"

"You wouldn't have let me jump."

"No, but your mind didn't take any chances."

Dell'uomo closed the window. "If this was a joke, it wasn't funny." Dell'uomo was more upset than he cared to let Foster know. For a second, he had almost jumped. The urge to follow Foster's orders had been so strong. For a brief moment, he wanted to obey. The need to please Kenneth had been so overwhelming. It had taken a violent act of will to overcome his acceptance of the command. He had no doubt in his mind that it had been a command. If he didn't trust Kenneth so completely, he would suspect him of risking his life to prove a point.

"No joke, Lieutenant. You wanted to know if a person could be made to do anything under hypnosis, perhaps even harm himself. I just showed you that it's not possible. I apologize if my methods seem unsafe, but I can assure you that you were in no danger."

"Yes, but you're trustworthy. What if the hypnotist had no scruples?"

"Lieutenant, the subject would have to be suicidal to follow such an order. You obviously are not."

"I am relieved that you have such confidence in me."

"It is you, Lieutenant, who has the confidence in yourself."

"Did I make a good subject?"

"Better than average."

Matt Dell'uomo smiled with satisfaction. He felt good. It had been a very useful conversation. He forgot that he had more questions about the Foster connection. He didn't even think to ask what the other rooms on the floor held or about the vacant floors above him.