The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

“Is Jeff Ange around?”

I was in the back taking inventory. Cindy, our clerk on weekdays, was in the front. At the edge of my consciousness I had heard the bell over the shop door ring and her greeting the customer, but it wasn’t until I heard my name that I began paying attention.

“He’s in the back. Can I tell him who’s calling?”

“I’m Detective Inspector Dell’uomo. He knows me.”

My fascination with hypnosis began at an early age. One of the TV action hero adventure shows I watched had a recurring character, The EYE. In countless episodes, he almost brought the Red Dragon under his total control before the RD fought off his evil power and thwarted him once again. While he was under The EYE’s power, the RD would turn into a bad guy, snatching ice cream cones away from kids, driving the Dragonmobile through mud puddles and drenching elderly ladies, his maniacal laughter echoing behind him as he sped away. After he was rescued by AlleyKatt, his flippant but lovable sidekick, the RD would buy the kids triple-scoop cones and dry the ladies’ wet clothes with the magic heat rays that emerged from the ring he wore. I much preferred The EYE to the RD. The RD was interesting only when The EYE had him firmly under his power. The EYE was cool, suave, dangerous, sexy. Although I didn’t learn the word until later, he had panache. In comparison, the RD was a wishy-washy do-gooder prone to giving good advice like “Always look both ways before crossing the street.”

I loved to imitate The EYE’s habitual gesture as he hypnotized his prey. Pulling my hat low over my forehead and twirling an imaginary cape over a forearm, I would lift the cape to cover the lower half of my face so that only my gleaming eyes were visible in the space between the rim of the hat and the cape. As I gazed intently in my victim’s eyes, my heavily accented voice would proclaim: “You vill obey me. You can nawt resist. Look eento mine eyes and obey, mine leetle pet.” Poor Joey Delvecchio spent one summer vacation playing the Red Dragon under my command. I hope he enjoyed the experience of being a mindless robot as much as I enjoyed ordering him about.

I first encountered Mr. Foster when I was twelve. The parents of a friend invited him to perform at a birthday party. He did the usual stunts--chickens crowing, people with legs locked together. Looking back, I would guess that his act was pretty lame, but it fascinated me. Subsequent visits to the public library supplied me with books on hypnosis, and I began to practice on my friends, hoping to turn them into zombies. It didn’t work, but my interests and efforts did alarm my parents enough that they forbade further experiments. That didn’t stop me, but it made me more cautious. A search through the yellow pages led me to Foster’s Sandman Shop. I was soon hooked by the promise of all the junk that he sold. His crystals would connect me to the hidden powers of the universe. Unleashing the hidden powers of my mind was only a matter of listening to an audio tape daily. The goods in his shop may have been varied, but they were alike in promising those who used them diligently access to “hidden powers.” I pestered Mr. Foster to teach me hypnosis, but he refused because I was so young.

Finally, when I reached sixteen, he offered me a part-time job in his shop. For two hours after school every weekday and all day on Saturday, I got to work in the shop of my dreams. I was the perfect salesperson for the stuff sold in Foster’s Sandman Shop. I truly believed in all the claims our merchandise makes. When I was eighteen, during the summer between high school and college, Mr. Foster taught me hypnosis, not the stage hypnosis he used in his act, but Elman inductions and neurolinguistic programming. It was glorious. He would hypnotize me and let me experience trances, and occasionally he would allow me to practice on him.

When I went to college, I majored in psychology. Part of successful hypnosis is finding what entrances a particular person and using that to develop him or her in the desired direction. Psychology helped me understand people and to hone my skills in leading them. I also found a willing pool of subjects to practice on. My classmates needed help improving their concentration and study skills or their athletic abilities; a few even wanted to experience their fantasies. Being in control intoxicated me. I became addicted to having people in my power. Even as I helped them improve their tennis games, I imagined taking them one step further and turning them into obedient puppets, eager to cater to my every desire. On weekends and during vacations, I worked for Mr. Foster in the shop. Eventually he let me help him in his act or in the seminars he gives for businesses on motivational techniques and performance enhancement.

It was at one of these seminars that the germ of the idea for the units came up. Mr. Foster took a female employee through a relaxation session and demonstrated some elementary concentration exercises. Two men were standing behind me watching the performance, and one of them remarked to the other that he wished he had that kind of control over his wife. She was spending money faster than he could make it, and frankly he would divorce her if he thought she would walk away quietly.

The business axiom is to find a niche and provide a product that satisfies it. When I suggested to Mr. Foster that there would be a market for obedient slaves, he saw the possibilities immediately. It took us a while to develop our training procedures, but, except for a few failures at the beginning, they have proved successful so far. Every unit is performing optimally, and every one of our clients is satisfied. In fact, our reputation for quality and customer satisfaction allows us to keep the price for a basic unit at $2.5 million and the monthly maintenance fee at $7,500. Demand outstrips supply. If the transformation were not so time-consuming, we could easily sell twice as many as we do. It’s not just the money, of course. As Mr. Foster says, part of it is the challenge and the fun. Right now, we are programming a set of identical twins. They will fetch a substantial price.

I know that many people think that I am Mr. Foster’s unit, but that is not true. Mr. Foster is a happily married man. He has a devoted wife. His children and now his grandchildren are exceptionally well behaved and polite. And I am happily partnered--I will explain how that came about in a moment. Once Sandman Enterprises took off, Mr. Foster moved his family to Westhaven. He still comes in to the shop on weekends, but most of the week he is busy at the training center devoting his attentions to our newest unit-to-be. I handle the shop and the follow-up visits with our clients and units. Although we hire shop clerks now, both of us still work in the store from time to time, just to keep our skills in enticement sharp.

Mr. Foster is the perfect front man and partner. His upper-class manners and his connections reassure the clients that they are dealing with someone like themselves, someone they can trust. I come across more as the technician and helper. Together we make a good team, I think.

As I said, we had a few early failures, and, as Mr. Foster has explained, these forced us to begin working with the clients to develop customer satisfaction. Before we took this step, however, many clients grew bored with their units. Some people apparently tire quickly of perfect obedience. They begin to wonder what their unit will do for them. Are there any limits? Is there something it will refuse to do? Will it protest if I hurt it? And then, all too soon, How much can I hurt it?

One night Mr. Foster received a call from Mr. “Smith.” His unit, Mr. Smith angrily complained, was broken. Mr. Foster has sold him damaged goods, and he wanted an immediate refund or a replacement. Mr. Foster called me, and the two of us went to Mr. Smith’s place. His unit was a successful arbitrager named Michael who worked at a large investment firm directing its currency-trading unit. Michael is a very distinguished looking man, well educated, personable, but with a desire to be dominated, which we had developed and strengthened. Mr. Smith was the scion of a distinguished family, much involved in civic and charitable affairs. At that time, his name and picture were often featured in the society columns of our newspaper. If I were to use his real surname, many of you would recognize it instantly.

When we arrived at Mr. Smith’s place, we found Michael beaten and unconscious. Mr. Smith had done nothing to help him. All he had done was to call us and blame us for Michael’s failure to withstand his maltreatment. Mr. Smith claimed that this was all our fault. Mr. Foster was impressive. He immediately took charge and arranged for an ambulance to take Michael to a hospital. I felt so cold. We had given this man a great gift, and he had treated it so badly. I cannot explain my anger and the power it gave me. I have never since been able to duplicate it. In my most soothing voice, I calmed Mr. Smith and relaxed him. I soon had him in a deep trance. Under my direction, he phoned the police and confessed to beating Michael.

During further sessions with him, I turned his sadistic tendencies inward toward himself. Mr. Smith was soon regaling his dinner partners with detailed descriptions of his visits to the “docks,” our city’s notorious site for S/M encounters. His facial bruises made it apparent to his fascinated audience that his accounts were true. Soon his private life was the subject of much gossip. Even Suzie, our local newspaper’s society columnist, began hinting at the escapades of “Mr. Smith” and his “peculiar penchant.”

The opening night of the opera season is one of our city’s premier social occasions, a chance to display one’s patronage of the arts by having one’s photograph or one’s wife’s photograph taken wearing the latest in haute couture and the family jewels. Mr. Smith’s family had occupied the same box at the opera house for four generations. Pictures of the women of his family attending opening night were an annual feature in media coverage of the event. Usually the men in the family were content to appear beside them, lending a supporting arm. Three years ago, Mr. Smith broke with that tradition. His attire of knee-length black leather boots, leather chaps open at the crotch and in the back, a studded leather jock strap, and a leather collar may have strained the usual custom of black tie for the gentlemen attendees, but it was the liberally tattooed bare-chested master dressed only in black leather shorts and holding the leash attached to Smith’s collar as well as his frequent application of a riding crop to Mr. Smith’s buttocks that caught the media’s attention. Mr. Smith and his masked “guest” were featured in every report. The welts across Mr. Smith’s shoulders and the blood smears on his back made it apparent that his pre-opera activities had not been devoted to studying the score. Neither the great diva Marta Silberstimme nor the rest of the audience was amused when Mr. Smith’s master interrupted the show by keeping time with his riding crop on Mr. Smith’s body during Siberstimme’s usually riveting rendition of the great second act aria “Tutti dormiandi.”

Along with a bill for reupholstering his blood-stained seat and replacing the drapes in his family’s box, the opera house refunded the money for Mr. Smith’s season tickets and informed him that “in view of his conduct” he would not be admitted to future performances. His friends deserted him, his master took him for most of his money. Today he survives on the income from a small trust fund, endlessly searching for someone to satisfy his lust for punishment.

And what of Michael? Michael was my responsibility. I had helped turn him into a unit, and it was my duty to help bring him back. The doctors had removed his right kidney, which Mr. Smith’s kicks had damaged beyond repair, and stopped the internal bleeding. They had reset the broken arm and fingers. He lay in bed, bandaged, his eyes black and swollen, his right arm encased in a plaster cast. The doctors had pushed his nose back into its approximate shape, and a metal guard held on with tape protected it from further damage. Intravenous feeds led into his arms, and drains led out of his abdomen. I tried not to look at the bag of bloody liquid at the end of one of the drains.

As Michael drifted in and out of sleep, I held his hand and took him back to that warm sunny beach. “Just drift on the wind. Rising and falling with wind as it lifts you, and you soar up into the warm golden sun.”

“Does that work?”

“It helps. It gives him something to focus on that’s not painful.” I didn’t look to see who was speaking and concentrated on helping Michael, as if my thoughts could reach into his mind and comfort him.

“Does he hear you?”

“Perhaps at some unconscious level, Doctor.”

“I’m not a doctor.”

I turned around, and there in the doorway stood the police, all 6 feet 4 of him, broad-shouldered, big-chested, curly brown hair, bright eyes. You didn’t need to read the name on the ID he was holding out to know that he was Italian.

“I’m Detective Sergeant Matteo Dell’uomo. I’m here to talk with Mr. Sorenson about what happened.”

“I think he’s sleeping now.”

“I’ll wait. And you are?”

“My name’s Jeff Ange. I’m Michael’s friend”

He gave me that cop look--the one that leaves you wondering what he suspects and what he knows. The look that says he’s certain that you know more than you will tell him and that you are guiltier than you will admit.

“Was that hypnotism you were trying?”

“Sort of. I’m just trying to help him imagine a better place.” I realized that I was squeezing Michael’s hand too hard. I placed it back on the bed and folded my hands in my lap, trying to look innocent. Why do cops always make me feel like a little kid who had been caught doing something wrong?

“Mr. Sorenson is lucky in his friends. Looks like he can use all the positive images he can get.” Detective Dell’uomo’s attention drifted away for a few seconds, his thoughts turned inward on something that left his face sad and weary.

And that was how I met Detective Dell’uomo. He returned often as Michael recovered and could begin to talk. He seemed to accept my presence as helpful, and in time when Michael’s good hand sought mine, he would nod to me as if to tell me it was ok that we touched. At first, Michael was not as forthcoming as the detective wished. His training as a unit gave him a lingering reluctance to say anything bad about his owner. When I could speak with Michael privately, I reprogrammed him to speak of his experiences as a relationship that had gone bad and to talk about what Mr. Smith had done to him. But in the end, it didn’t matter. In return for a plea bargain to a lesser charge, the district attorney’s office dropped the worst of the charges against Mr. Smith. Michael never had to testify in court. Detective Dell’uomo delivered the news of the arrangements. The lack of emotion on his face and the stiffness with which he held himself betrayed his feelings. He was not happy about the outcome of the case. But then, Detective Dell’uomo didn’t impress me as someone who was often happy.

I took Michael home. When he recovered enough to work, he took over the financial operations of Sandman Enterprises. In my monthly follow-up sessions with the clients, I sometimes acquire financial tips. With the knowledge I gain and with our lucrative business, we are financially secure. Michael is a wizard at investing, and he has increased our wealth many times over.

And in time, I helped him to be happy. He will never walk without a limp, and his face still bears the marks of the damage Mr. Smith did. His chest and abdomen are crossed with surgical scars. But he accepts this, and he accepts me as his partner. Perhaps his feelings for me arose only because I hypnotized him into loving me, but I didn’t hypnotize myself into loving him. Our relationship may not have come about through the usual fashion, but it is none the less real.

“Detective Dell’uomo.” I pushed aside the drapes covering the entrance to the backroom. “It has been a while.” I was not happy to see Dell’uomo again. Both Mr. Foster and I had been interviewed by him, and I don’t think he was convinced that our involvement was as innocent as we made out. Since it wasn’t, our encounters with him, separately and together, were tense. Mr. Smith’s plea bargain saved not only himself but us.

“Mr. Ange, I wonder if I might have a word with you?”

“Of course. What can I do for you?”

“I believe that you know something about hypnosis.”

“Oh, Jeff’s the best.” Cindy, who had been staring at Dell’uomo with open-mouthed fascination, interrupted. “He can put anyone under.”

Dell’uomo’s attention shifted from me to her and then back to me. To judge from the look on his face, “best” is not a word he would have applied to me.

“Is that coffee shop down the street any good?”

“It’s ok. Lanning’s around the corner on Tenth is better.”

“Will we be able to talk privately there?”

“There shouldn’t be too many people there at this time of day.”

“It’s cold out. You’ll need a coat.”

I reached behind the door to the backroom and pulled my jacket off the hook. Dell’uomo waited while I put it on. Then he held the door open for me, nodding to Cindy. “It may take a while.”

“Will I be back by 5:30?”

“Maybe.”

“Cindy, if I’m not back by 4:30, call Mr. Foster and let him know that I’ve gone out with Detective Dell’uomo and haven’t returned yet. He’ll come over and . . . .”

Dell’uomo shut the door before I had finished speaking. “Where is this place?”

I led the way. “Did you get a promotion? The last time we met you were a sergeant.”

“Yes.”

“What’s this all about?”

“Murder.”

“Oh.” Dell’uomo’s advancement in rank had not made him talkative. We walked the rest of the way in silence. Other than speaking to place his order, Dell’uomo said nothing more until we had our coffee and sat down. We had the place to ourselves, and he chose a table as far away from the counter as possible. I picked at the rim of the paper cup.

“Do you know this person?”

Dell’uomo pulled a photograph out of his briefcase and handed it to me. It looked like a high school graduation photo--it had that bland, posed look of someone who doesn’t often wear a tie and found something of interest to examine in the camera lens. “No, I’ve never seen him before.”

“I can’t give you many details, but two days ago the body of this young man was found in an alley off of Second Street. He had been dead for a day or so.”

“Oh my god. I didn’t see anything about this on the news. Who is he?”

“We didn’t identify him until this morning. He was a student at City University. The campus paper will have an article on him tomorrow. The Chronicle and the television news people may pick up the story if they can find an interesting angle.”

“Will they?”

“Not from me. And not from you.”

“Why would they ask me?”

“No reason.” Dell’uomo didn’t speak for a moment. “You and your boss have reputations for being skilled in hypnosis. I need information from someone who won’t talk to television reporters and who won’t ask many questions.”

“I won’t talk.”

“What about asking questions?”

“I’ll try not to.”

“That would be best.”

Dell’uomo took a drink of coffee and then sighed. He looked around and then gazed out the window for several seconds. Whatever he wanted to know, he was reluctant to begin asking. He sighed again and then reached inside his coat to pull out a piece of paper. “Do you know these books?”

I scanned the list of titles. “I know some of them. The NLP handbook is a standard text. Elman’s work is a classic. The others look like basic how-to guides. I couldn’t say without seeing them. Some of these are good resources. Others are probably just junk--how to hypnotize your girlfriend and make her put out--that sort of thing.”

“There was also a three-ring binder in the victim’s room. It had articles downloaded from the internet on hypnotism and other stuff.”

“What’s hypnotism got to do with the kid who was murdered?”

“That’s a question, Jeff.” Suddenly I was no longer “Mr. Ange.”

“Sorry, Detective.”

“Can someone be hypnotized into doing something against his will?”

“No. We always say, ‘All hypnosis is self-hypnosis.’ All a good hypnotist does is to break down the barriers that prevent someone from acting the way he wants to or help the person develop tendencies that are already there.”

“Could you convince someone to do something he didn’t want to?”

“The general consensus is no. There are some who believe that given enough time and a good subject, you could gradually change him by utilizing pleasant experiences and leading him in a direction he might not normally take.”

“You don’t buy that?”

“No. It’s not possible.”

“Not ever?”

“No. The hypnotic trance is just a state of altered consciousness. Everyone, you included, goes into a trance several times a day. Every time you get engrossed in a movie or a TV show or a book, you’re in a trance. Every time you daydream, you’re in a trance. A good movie or book will draw you in and make you into a participant in the story, but you eventually emerged from it, still the same person you always were.”

“It’s that easy?”

“Yes.”

“What’s a furry?”

Well, that question came at me from left field. “Furries are a fad among young people. Some people dress up in animal costumes and play. Others use hypnosis to make themselves believe they are an animal--a cat, a wolf, a bear, whatever. If the person is skilled at self-hypnosis, he might be able to actually see himself as the animal. Most people can achieve some sort of perception of being the animal briefly but can’t sustain it for long.”

“What’s the attraction of that?”

“I don’t know, Detective. I don’t understand it myself. Some people have suggested that it’s a reversion to childhood and the comfort of plush toys.”

Dell’uomo paused again. He gave the impression of a man who had nothing better to do than sit in a coffee shop but had nothing particular to say to the person he was with. If anything I had said had answered his real questions, I would never know.

“There is another matter.”

“Yes, Detective Dell’uomo?”

“First, you can call me ‘Matt’--at least in private. Second, the guy who lives across the hall from the victim at his dorm at City University saw him with a stranger in his room several weeks ago. This kid is very upset and isn’t able to give us a clear description of the stranger. But they were in the same room for several minutes at least. We had the kid work with a sketch artist, but the results aren’t any good. I’ve heard that hypnosis can help in such situations.”

“It might. Depends on the person.”

“Could you try?”

I could but I sure didn’t want to become involved in this. Some of Dell’uomo’s questions were getting too close to Sandman Enterprises. “There’s no guarantee of success.”

“The young woman in your store says you’re the best.”

“Employee loyalty. Cindy exaggerates.”

“This kid’s downtown at my office. My car’s parked outside your shop. You can let Cindy know on the way back that you’re ‘assisting the police with their inquiries.’ ” The quotes around the detective fiction cliché were audible. Somehow my help had become a given. I hoped that “assisting the police with their inquiries” was not another way of saying “prime suspect.” Dell’uomo stood up and dropped his coffee cup in the trash bin at the counter. “It might take a while. If you’ve left anything in your store, you had better bring it with you. I’ll have someone take you home afterwards.” The detective had done his homework. He knew that I didn’t drive to work.

“So what happened?”

“Well he took me downtown and turned me over to this woman cop, Officer Trent. No first name. Just ‘Officer Trent will look after you.’ She put me in some sort of office and then brought in this kid--Mike--and the police sketch artist. She sat up a tape recorder and then mentioned all of our names and the date and time and explained what I was about to do.”

“Dell’uomo wasn’t there?”

“No, he went somewhere else. Mike was very nervous. He had all the usual beliefs about hypnosis. It took me a while to calm him down. When I asked him what images he found restful and peaceful, he said he like being out in the country in a woods. So I used the hammock technique and set it in a woods. It worked quickly. He turned out to be a good subject.

“Then I took him back to the dorm room of this guy who got killed--his name was David--and made him see David’s room and the stranger he met. I just kept suggesting that he was able to think of the stranger calmly and see his face clearly. Then I woke him up and he started working with the sketch artist.”

“How did that turn out?”

“I don’t know. Officer Trent took me outside and found someone to drive me home.” I nestled closer to Michael and rested my head on his chest. His arms tightened around me and pulled me in. He stroked the back of my head.

“You’ve had a hard day. You’re home now. Just relax for a while.”

“Hmm. That feels good.” Michael stroked my head and the back of my neck for a few minutes. That always helps me relax. He has very sensitive fingers, and they just seem to communicate relaxation to me. He seems to know just where to touch me and how much pressure to exert. My tensions just melted away. I could feel myself relaxing.

“I suppose Detective Dell’uomo is as handsome as ever?”

“Yes, still good looking. His shoulders are even wider than they were before and his butt is just as rounded and firmly packed.”

“Should I be jealous?”

“Don’t think so. He’s Italian. He’s probably got a chestful of hair that’s as thick as a rug. The only place on his body that isn’t covered with hair is his upper arm, which he shaves so that everyone can see his tattoo of a heart with an arrow through it that says ‘Momma mia’ in the middle.”

“It doesn’t say ‘Momma mia.’ It says ‘To protect and to serve.’ ”

“How do you know that?”

“Gotcha.” Michael laughed and pulled me in even closer. His fingertips massaged the back of my neck and shoulders more firmly. “Just relax, Jeff. We’re together. We’re safe.” I rubbed my face against his chest and extended my arm to grasp his trunk. We fell into our usual sleeping posture of me with my forehead against his neck, my cheek resting on his chest, with our arms around each other and our legs crossing. He turned his head and kissed my forehead, before settling back into his pillow. I could feel his body relaxing as his breathing became regular and deep. He was following all the techniques I had taught him to help him fall asleep. When I was sure that he had dropped off, I matched my breathing to his and let myself relax.

For the rest of the night, Jeff and Michael slept soundly, never far apart. If one turned, the other would move so that they remained close together. Occasionally Jeff’s mind rose toward consciousness, his sleep disturbed by flickering images of a shadowy cloaked figure sitting in a small room with a young man. But the familiar warmth of Michael’s body soon pulled him back into sleep.

“The sketch is good, Susan.” Inspector Dell’uomo was sitting at his desk examining the police artist’s drawing Susan Trent had just handed him.

“Very good. Now all we have to do is identify this man and hope that he’s the killer.”

“Is this copy for me? I want to show it to Ange and that boss of his. The guy may be known to them.”

“Do you think they’re involved in this case, Matt?”

“I intend to find out. How did Ange do with the Albertson kid?”

“He’s good. He just talked to Albertson for a while and then had the kid lie down and close his eyes while he talked about being in a forest. It felt real peaceful and then he took Albertson into the dead kid’s room and had him look at this man and told him that he would remember the guy’s face clearly and be able to describe it after he woke up.”

“Did Ange say anything that revealed he knew more than he should?”

“Not that I heard. Why don’t you listen to the tape? Everything he said is on that.”

“I might do that. Maybe I’ll take it home with me and listen to it later tonight.”

And that is why at 10:30 that night, Detective Dell’uomo ended up lying on his couch, listening to Jeff’s voice.

“Now, I want you to just close your eyes, lie back, relax, and let yourself just sink into the couch. Just make yourself comfortable and begin to relax. Imagine yourself lying in a hammock. It’s so comfortable. The hammock is swaying gently. It supports every part of your body, holding it up. You can just relax and let it support you. You don’t have to do anything. It just rocks gently back and forth in the breeze. The sun is warm on your body, and you feel so comfortable and relaxed. The sunlight coming through the trees is so warm. You can hear the breeze moving through the trees above you, rustling the leaves and gently moving the branches. The shadows of the leaves move across your body, breaking up the sunlight. Sunlight and shadow moving gently across your body. It’s so peaceful. Far away you can hear birds calling. The leaves moving in the breeze, birds calling, the warm sunlight on your body. You feel so relaxed, so at peace, so calm. Just take a deep breath in and let it out slowly. Now another, and as you breathe in, pull all the tension out of your right leg and into your lungs. The tension is a dark cloud, and as you breathe in, you pull all of that dark cloud of tension out of your right leg and into your lungs. Now slowly let the air out of your lungs, and as you breathe out all of that tension, your right leg relaxes totally. Now take another deep breath and pull all of the tension out of your left leg and into your lungs. The tension is a dark cloud, and as you breathe in, . . . ”

It had been a long and tiring day for Matt Dell’uomo. It had started too early when a dream of a young man’s mangled body woke him up. A hurried cup of sour cold coffee left over from the previous morning did nothing to quiet his nerves. A call from Susan Trent with the news that the dead boy had been identified led him to begin his workday with a long drive through the cross-town commute traffic and a visit to David Spier’s dorm room and a look at its contents. Clothes, books, CDs, a computer, a TV, a radio, a tape player, a cell phone--the small room was crammed with the kid’s possessions. Nothing out of the ordinary except several books on hypnosis. He had set in motion the interviews of the boy’s friends and his neighbors in the dorm and talked with his distraught parents. None of them had been able to supply any information that identified the killer. As usual, the victim was a prince, and no one had any reason to murder him. It could only be a random killing, the dead boy an unlucky casualty of a madman. No one could explain how he had come to be so severely beaten or suggest who might have done it. The one student who had seen anything that in hindsight might be suspicious was so upset that he was making little sense.

Dell’uomo had turned the computer over to the lab. If they could get into David’s email and files, there might be something that yielded a lead. The cell phone was also being checked for phone numbers and text messages. When he finally returned to the office, he had sat down and read through the contents of the binders that had been found in the dead boy’s room. As he skimmed the materials, his mind had moved to his only other case that had involved hypnosis. But instead of answers, his conversation with Jeff Ange had led only to more questions.

Matt Dell’uomo closed his eyes and concentrated on Jeff’s voice, intent on hearing anything that revealed that Ange might know too much. When Jeff suggested that he just focus on Jeff’s voice and relax and let Jeff guide him, the detective’s body unconsciously slumped deeper into the couch and his mind began to grow fuzzy. Soon he was deeply asleep. He felt totally at peace, however, as the flickering sunlight and shadows played over his body. So at peace, so calm, so relaxed, so warm, so trusting, all the black cloud of tension dispelled from his body. He was so safe.

And, under Jeff’s guidance, he remained calm as he walked into David’s room and saw the stranger. When Jeff suggested that he could see the stranger’s face clearly and would recall it easily and totally, he turned toward the man. He saw the face in the drawing. It was very clear. The face of a murderer.

In another part of the city, two large cats lay on a bed. Their sleek muscled bodies were covered by a glossy coat of black hair. Their owner threw a ball across the floor, and the cats scampered after it, sliding on the polished wooden surface. Their owner laughed and tossed the ball again and again until he tired of the game. He patted the bed, and the cats leaped lightly on to the bed. They curled around him, purring as he stroked their bodies. As they had been trained, their tongues licked him and their paws stroked his body. As the man became aroused, they doubled their efforts to please him. The bodies become entangled on the bed as the cats endeavored to satisfy the man. Feline and yet not feline, the duo brought the man to a climax under their tongues, their heads buried in his crotch. Spent, the man relaxed and patted the cats. “Sleep,” he ordered. The two cats ceased cleaning themselves and stretched out on the bed, the black furry costumes hiding their human bodies. Their size and the human lips that showed at the edges of the costumes’ mouth slits were the only signs betraying their true nature. As for the cats, they slept cat sleeps and dreamed cat dreams of warm spots in the sun and meals of fish and chicken, happily unaware that they were not really cats.

The man was satisfied. His manimals were performing so well. Tonight they had been good kitties. Perhaps tomorrow he might have them be bad doggies. That was always fun. Or he could play emperor and his prize stallions. It was too bad about David in a way. The final session had been great fun, but the games had been more interesting with three manimals. Perhaps David’s young friend from the dorm would make a good substitute. What was his name? The kid who had shown up the day he had unwisely visited David at the university. Mike something or other. The kid who had proved so susceptible to his soft voice and his suggestion that when he remembered the meeting, he would see the man whose picture was on the page of the newspaper lying open on David’s desk.

Detective Dell’uomo showed up at the shop even before it opened. I had barely had time to discuss the events of the previous day with Mr. Foster when the knock came at the door. The shade was pulled down, but the early morning sun cast two shadows on the door, one of them of a person who was very large through the shoulders.

“Detective Dell’uomo, Officer Trent. You’re here early. We haven’t even opened for business yet. Officer Trent, this is Mr. Foster. He owns the shop.” I thought for a moment that Officer Trent was going to say something about having been at work for hours, but her obvious fascination with the shop silenced her. It does look nice in the morning when the sun is still low enough to shine through the windows and the light hits all the crystals and globes. A thousand points of light glittering in the sun. The display apparently did nothing for Dell’uomo. He was concentrating on Mr. Foster, who stepped forward and extended his hand.

“Detective Dell’uomo, how are you? Officer Trent, I would say that I am pleased to meet you, but Jeff informs me that the business that brings you here is anything but pleasant.” Mr. Foster shook hands with Dell’uomo and Officer Trent in turn. “We, of course, will be happy to assist you in whatever way we can, beginning with the offer of coffee. We just finished brewing a pot. Can I get you a cup? On the car radio on the drive in, I heard a report of a death of a student at the university. I take it that this boy is the one who was murdered? Why don’t we go through to the back? There are chairs back there, and we can sit.”

“We won’t keep you long, Mr. Foster.”

“Kenneth. Please call me Kenneth, Inspector. The news report mentioned that Detective Inspector Dell’uomo of the Metropolitan Major Crimes squad was in charge of the investigation. The last time we met, I believe you were a sergeant in that precinct on the east side. You have moved up in the world.”

“Yes. Thank you.” The last was Dell’uomo’s response to the cup of coffee I placed in front of him. “I take it that Jeff has told you about our discussions yesterday and the help he gave us.” Mr. Foster nodded. “This is the sketch of the man seen in David Spier’s room. Does either of you know him?”

Mr. Foster and I examined the sketch. It was a very life-like image. Mr. Foster spoke first. “I wish I could say that I do, Detective, but the problem is that it could be half a dozen people I know. I mean, the sketch is very realistic, but the features are hardly unique. It’s like a generic picture of a human male, age 40 or so, white, middle class.”

“What about you, Jeff?”

“No, I don’t know this person, but Mr. Foster is right. It could be anyone.”

“I know. It’s looks good, but it could be anyone, as you say.”

“That happens, Detective. Jeff said that the young man he hypnotized for you was a very good subject. Sometimes the hypnotized person is so anxious to please that his mind makes things up. He doesn’t mean to mislead you. It’s just that he wants to offer you something that will satisfy you.”

“Jeff says that he does not believe that a person can be made to do something against his will through hypnosis. Do you agree?”

Mr. Foster shifted in his seat and gave the two detectives his thoughtful look. “I have a darker view of human nature than does Jeff. One hears tales of drugs used by spy agencies, of mind-altering techniques. So I would say, yes. It would take an enormous effort, but it could be done.”

As Mr. Foster continued to speak at length and expertly on the subject, I picked up the drawing again and held it up to the light. It did look familiar. I guess my face betrayed something of what I was thinking because Officer Trent broke in. “Do you see something, Jeff?”

“From this angle, it looks a lot like a professor at City University. Professor Hanson, he teaches American history 101. He’s a very popular teacher there. Most students take his course. He’s very good. I learned a lot from him when I took it. He recently won some sort of prize for a book he wrote. The only difference is that he’s much older than the man in the picture.”

Both detectives leaned forward in their chairs. “Do you know his first name?”

“I can find it in a second on the computer.” I called up City University’s website. A few clicks quickly took me to the faculty listing for the history department and to Professor Hanson’s page. Officer Trent held the drawing next to the photograph of the professor. The face in the drawing was that of a much younger man who looked enough like Hanson to be his younger brother. There was a link to a campus news report at the bottom of the screen, and I clicked on it. “Professor Carl Hanson wins Simon Prize for his work on the Federalist Papers.” Another link took us to a lengthy biography of Hanson, and there, among the pictures chronicling a distinguished career, was the model for the drawing. There was no doubt. The sketch the police artist had produced under Mike Albertson’s direction was a picture of a young Carl Hanson giving a lecture. “Can you print that story out for us?”

“Sure, Matt. I’d be glad to.”

Officer Trent looked from me to Dell’uomo. Whatever she thought about my casual use of his first name, she quickly hid.

“What is the date on that story?”

“It says it appeared in the campus newspaper on December 3.”

“Almost a month ago. That’s about the right time.”

“But surely you can’t suspect Professor Hanson?”

Whatever Detective Dell’uomo suspected, he was not going to tell us. “What does this mean? It says that he’s on leave and is a guest professor at Cambridge University in England.”

“Sometimes professors spend a year teaching at another university. It gives them a chance to use the other university’s library, and they can earn money while they’re on sabbatical. Their own university hires another professor to fill in for them.”

“It says here: ‘Hanson was reached for comment by phone and said that he was delighted, blah, blah blah.’ It appears that he was in England when this story was written. Will you check on that, Susan? Samuels should be at the university by now. Give him a call, would you?”

Officer Trent pulled a cell phone out of her pocket and stepped out of the room. I could hear her in the store talking to someone over the phone. “There is one more thing,” said Dell’uomo. He reached into his briefcase and placed a small device on the table. “Are you familiar with this?”

“Oh, yes, Inspector. It’s an early model of the Sandman white noise machine. May I look at it?”

When Dell’uomo nodded assent, Mr. Foster picked it up and turned it over to look at the label on the bottom. “Yes, I was right. This is the 1800 series. This model was discontinued ten years ago. We sold our last unit in this series in June 1997.”

“You are certain of that?”

“I invented the machine, Inspector. When my wife and I were first married, I was just starting in business, and we didn’t have much money. We lived over near St. Mary’s Hospital on Ninth. The noise from the ambulances disturbed my daughter’s sleep and that kept my wife and myself awake. So I came up with the idea for this machine. I commissioned a place here in the city to make the first units. When the machines became popular, I had to find a factory that could make them in bulk. For a long time they were made in California, in San Jose. But now we import them from China.”

“So this machine was purchased here?”

“In this shop? Not necessarily. Sandman products are sold throughout the country. In fact, it’s more likely that this unit was bought elsewhere. We probably sell only 1 or 2 percent of the units through this shop. I can check my business records at my office downtown. Perhaps I can trace who purchased this particular unit.”

“I would appreciate that very much, Mr. Foster. It probably means nothing, but at this point in our investigations, any fact may prove to be of help.”

“Ah, Sir, Could I have a word with you?”

Officer Trent stood in the doorway, the phone clutched to her chest. Inspector Dell’uomo rose. “We’re finished here, Officer Trent. Gentlemen, thank you for your help. Mr. Foster, if you could call me at the number on this card when you find out when this Sandman machine was sold and who bought it, I would appreciate it. If I’m not available, leave a message with the person who answers.”

I unlocked the front door for them. Trent went first and opened the door on the driver’s side of the unmarked car parked in front of our store and got in. As he was leaving, Dell’uomo turned to me. “I forgot to ask you yesterday how Michael Sorenson is doing. Are you still in touch with him?”

“I see him every day. We live together.”

Dell’uomo stared at me for a moment. There was no doubt that he knew what “live together” meant in this case. What he thought about it is anybody’s guess. “Then he is in good hands. Please tell him for me that I hope he is doing well. I mean that sincerely, Jeff.” Dell’uomo patted me on the shoulder. The squeeze of the shoulder that followed was perhaps a little stronger and more friendly than usual for that manly gesture. “And thanks for the good night’s sleep.”

Now, what the hell did he mean by that?

“Well, Susan, what did Robert have to say?”

“He had already found several students who identified the man in the drawing as this Hanson guy. When he checked in the history department, he found out that Hanson has been in England since midsummer.”

“We’ll have to confirm that he hasn’t made a quick trip back. But it looks like this drawing is a bust.”

“Yes, Sir. What did they have to say about the machine?”

“It’s a white noise machine. Mr. Foster’s company makes them and sells them throughout the country. He’s going to check if he can trace this particular machine to a seller at least.”

“So where are we now?”

“Eyeless in Gaza, it would seem, Susan.”

Susan heaved a mental sigh. She hated it when Dell’uomo indulged in these comments that made no sense. What the hell did “eyeless in gahza” mean?

“Jeff Ange called you ‘Matt.’ ”

“You’re very observant, Susan. Yes, I call him Jeff. He gets to call me Matt.”

“Do I get to call you Matt?”

“No. You get to call me ‘sir’ or ‘inspector.’”

“Sir, yes, Sir.”

“You’re a true marine, officer.”

“Thank you, Detective Inspector Dell’uomo.”

“Watch the road, Susan. I’ve seen how hospitals treat accident victims.”

“Did you recognize the Sandman unit?”

“It’s one of the early machines, one of the altered machines. I have to get downtown and check the serial number to see who had it.”

“It belonged to one of the units then?”

“Definitely. We gave it to someone we thought worth developing. It can’t be one of the fully trained units. All of them have their own Sandman machine.”

“As far as I know.”

“Perhaps it belonged to one of the people who proved untrainable. I have all the records. I will check.”

“What will you tell Detective Dell’uomo.”

“That depends on what I find out. Probably that the unit was bought by that shop in San Diego. If he bothers to call, he’ll find that that guy’s records are so chaotic that he has no idea who bought that machine or whether it was even in his store.”

“There’s Cindy.”

“You better get the shop opened. What’s your schedule today?”

“I’m seeing three groups at the Albion this afternoon. I will be here until noon and then will be back to close up at 5:30.”

“Hi. Are you here to see Jeff? He’s gone out and won’t be back until about 5:00.”

“It’s Cindy, isn’t it? If Jeff isn’t here, is Mr. Foster around?”

“No, officer. I’m the only one here this afternoon. I’m sorry, but I don’t remember your name.”

“Dell’uomo. Inspector Dell’uomo. You must be busy being here all by yourself. Does that happen often?”

“Oh, most days, I’m the only one here. We don’t have that much walk-in business during the week. Most of my work is filling online orders and packing stuff to ship out. Saturday is the only time it really gets busy in here and then Jeff and Mr. Foster are always here.”

“What do the two of them do then if they’re not here?”

“Well, Mr. Foster has a lot of other work. He started out here, but as the business got larger, he moved to an office downtown. Jeff gives seminars or meets with clients.”

“What clients?”

“I don’t know, Inspector. They don’t meet here. I don’t have anything to do with that part of the business.”

“So the two of them aren’t involved in the shop much?”

“Oh no. Mr. Foster is here only a few hours a week. Jeff is here to open and close the shop. You were just lucky to find him in yesterday. Most of the time he’s out taking care of business.”

“Hmm, I wonder what keeps them so busy?”

“Well, Sandman Enterprises is a big business. I think Mr. Foster just keeps the shop open because he started here. Kind of, like, you know, nostalgia? We barely sell enough here in the store to pay me--and it’s not like I get paid a lot. If it weren’t for the mail-order business and the other stuff that Sandman does, this wouldn’t be much of a business.”

“The shop is just the tip of the iceberg?”

“Yes. This is nothing. There’s a lot of other stuff going on. Mr. Sorenson--he’s the accountant--well, he was here to talk to Jeff one day, and I overheard him say that they were going to celebrate because they had cleared over $10 million that month. They gave all of us a bonus that month. Mr. Foster is very generous with bonuses.”

“How many employees are there?”

“I don’t know. But lots. It’s not just me and Jeff and Mr. Sorenson.”

“Do many people buy this stuff?” Dell’uomo indicated the crystals.

“Sure. They’re popular. But the best-selling items are Jeff’s tapes.”

“Tapes?”

“These tapes here. We also have CDs with the same files. There are several series. The concentration series is the most popular, but lots of people like the relaxation tapes and the sports improvement tapes. I use the relaxation and concentration tapes myself. They’re wonderful. You just put on a CD and earphones and listen to Jeff. He has you imagine yourself lying on a beach or in a hammock and before you know it, you’re totally relaxed and ready to fall asleep. There are nights when I can’t get to sleep until I listen to Jeff. My boyfriend says he would be jealous if he didn’t know Jeff is gay. Oh, oops. I shouldn’t have said that. Sorry. Forget that I told you that.”

“Don’t worry about it. I had sort of guessed anyway. So Jeff puts people to sleep?”

“All the time. His tapes are very popular.”

“So you would recommend these tapes?”

“Oh, yes. I can guarantee that you’ll be a changed person after you listen to them.”

“How much is the concentration series?”

“It has three tapes, and the set is $24.95. But you can also get the same files on a CD for $14.95. The files are in a series, though, and if you buy the CD we recommend that you listened only to the first file for the first two weeks. After that, you can begin listening to the other two files. The first file helps you develop an awareness of the body and how to relax it. So it’s kind of like basic training.”

“I’ll take the CD then, and I promise to follow instructions.”

“Great. You won’t regret this. I promise it will help you concentrate. Oh, rats. I don’t have any unopened copies of the CD here. Jeff usually restocks the front before he goes out. But I guess he didn’t have time to do this morning. I’ll just get one from the back. It will just take me a second. Please don’t leave. Jeff will be so excited to learn that you bought one of his recordings.”

Dell’uomo doubted that Jeff would be excited by his purchase, curious certainly, worried perhaps, but not excited.

“Here it is. I’m sorry I took so long. There weren’t any CDs on the shelf and I had to go into the storeroom.” Cindy held up a CD with a bright red label. “That will be $15.26 with the tax.” Dell’uomo handed Cindy a twenty and waited while she counted out the change and put the CD in a bag with the Sandman logo. He folded the bag around the CD and put into a pocket of his coat.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No, Cindy, you have been very helpful. Very helpful indeed.”

“Oh, that’s so great. This is kind of, you know, exciting? Now, promise me that you’ll listen to Jeff’s files.”

“I promise, Cindy. I’m looking forward to the experience.”

“Hello. Is Inspector Dell’uomo there?”

“I’m sorry, but he can’t come to the phone at the moment. May I take a message?”

“Thanks. My name is Kenneth Foster. I spoke with Inspector Dell’uomo this morning, and he asked me to trace the sale of one of our products. Would you tell him that the particular unit he’s interested in was sold to a store in San Diego, California? The store’s name is Inner Journeys. I can give you the phone number if you want.”

“Yes, thanks.”

Mr. Foster recited the number and gave his own as well. “Please tell Inspector Dell’uomo that if I can be of any further assistance, I would be happy to help.” “And,” thought Mr. Foster to himself, “I hope this puts an end to the inspector’s interest in the Sandman machine.”

As soon as he hung up, Mr. Foster made another call. “Jeff, we have a problem. Can you talk now?”

“I have about five minutes before the next client arrives. What’s the matter?”

“The unit the police have--it was Michael’s.”

“Michael’s? Michael hasn’t used a Sandman in years--not since we rescued him and took him to the hospital.”

“It’s the unit he was using before that. There’s no doubt. Did we leave it at Smith’s place?”

“We must have. I don’t recall taking it. We left everything of Michael’s there. When he came out of the hospital, we had to buy him new clothes, everything. Remember?”

“I didn’t take it with me. I didn’t even think of it at the time. So we must have left it at Smith’s. But how did it end up in Dell’uomo’s hands and what does it have to do with the murder of this kid?”

“What are we going to tell Dell’uomo?”

“I’ve already called and left a message that the unit was shipped to San Diego. I’ll let the police figure out how it got back here.”

“San Diego? Then how did it end up back here?”

“That’s what we need to find out. What time is it in California--one o’clock? Susan, will you call this number and see if they have any information on this machine? It’s unlikely that they can trace a sale this old, but let’s check. And then call Mr. and Mrs. Spier to see if the family was ever in California or if David was there. Oh, hold on. What’s the name of the guy over in the fraud division who tracks businesses?”

“Davis something or other. He has one of those names that sounds like two last names. Davis Marks? Ask Robert. He knows all those guys.”

“Cindy, I’m back. I’ll close up. You can leave whenever you’re ready.”

“Thanks, Jeff. I need to pick up something for dinner. Maybe I can catch the 5:30 bus. See you on Monday. Oh, hi, Mr. Foster, Mr. Sorenson. Gotta run. Have a good weekend.” Pulling on her coat, Cindy raced out the door.

Mr. Foster held the door open for her and then locked it, turned over the closed sign, and then pulled down the shade. “Let’s go into the back.”

Michael looked miserable. “It definitely my machine, then?”

“It’s the same serial number, and I gave each of the special machines a unique number.”

“But how did the murdered kid get hold of it?”

“Was it still at Smith’s place the night you left?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember much about the last days there. I don’t recall using it much after I went there. It was in my room at first, but . . .”

“But what?”

“Don’t badger him, Kenneth. He’s trying.”

“I was about to say that it wasn’t there after a while. Now that I think of it, I’m sure that at some point it wasn’t there.”

“Damn.” Kenneth Foster looked at his watch. “I’ve got to leave now. I have to be in Westport by 7:30. You two try to figure out what happened. When you do, call me. Hopefully I put Dell’uomo off the track by directing him to San Diego. Jeff, walk me to the car.”

As we stepped into the alley behind the store, Ken pulled the door closed, shutting Michael inside.

“What’s so important that Michael can’t hear it, Ken?”

“If Michael can’t remember, you have to hypnotize him again and help him find a memory of what happened with that machine.”

“I can’t do that, Ken. I promised him not to do it ever again.”

“This is too important, Jeff. If it’s the only way to recover his memories, you have to do it.”

“He’ll remember, Ken. He’ll calm down and then he’ll remember.”

“You’d better hope so. If you won’t do it, I will.”

“Ken, you can’t. It hurts him too much.”

“Would a jail term make him feel better? I’m serious. You know we can’t let this investigation touch us. We’re not exactly operating within the law here. Look, I’m sorry. I know you love the guy. I know he’s been through some hard times. But if he loves you and if he wants to keep his cozy life, then he has to cooperate.” I didn’t get to answer this because Ken slammed the car door and drove off without looking back.

“So what did Ken want?” Michael was massaging my neck and shoulders.

“He wants me to hypnotize you to help you remember what happened. I told him no. But we’ve got to come up with an answer.”

“You told him no?”

“Um-hmm. I won’t do that to you again.”

“And what if I can’t remember what happened to the machine.”

“Let’s go to dinner. We’ll worry about it later. Let me set the alarm and lock the storeroom. Look at this mess. Cindy was in such a hurry to leave that she didn’t straighten up in here.” It was then that I noticed the box of open CDs. It was one of the boxes of the special version of my concentration CDs. “Michael, did you . . . ?”

“What is it?”

“Nothing. Mr. Foster must have taken a red CD when he was here this morning.”

It had been another long day, with little to show for it. The call to San Diego had left then no further ahead. “The guy who owns the store said he couldn’t tell you who had bought what yesterday.” The dead kid’s parents swore that they had never been to San Diego and neither had David. And what we were asking about California for when the murder had occurred here. The Business Fraud Division was closing for the weekend by the time Dell’uomo had reached them. He had left a message for Marks asking him for information about Sandman Enterprises, but nothing would happen with that request until Monday at the earliest--if he got lucky.

Then having no excuse to avoid the weekly Friday night dinner with his mother, he had taken the long subway trip out to Kings. The train was packed, and he had had to stand the entire way. All this for a heavy meal and several glasses of the cheap red wine his mother favored (“I can’t tell the difference. Why should I spend more?”), and three hours of listening to his mother’s usual litany of concerns about the neighbors (rude), the neighborhood (going downhill), his brother (working too hard), her health (don’t ask, enjoy your health while you’re young), himself (you’re not taking care of yourself). Since he was visibly tired, he got away earlier than usual, although not without several containers of food and detailed instructions on reheating. He ran across a group of homeless men near the subway stop and offered them the food if they could find something to put it in. He had no doubt that his mother would be able to identify the exact containers she had given him, and he needed to return them to her next week, washed and empty.

Nearly seventeen hours after Matt Dell’uomo had put his necktie on, he pulled it off and hung it up. He folded his shirt and placed it in the pile for the dry cleaner’s. He stripped off the rest of his clothes, hanging his pants up neatly. His underwear went into the clothes hamper reserved for whites, his black socks into the other hamper for colored clothes. He pulled on a bathrobe and knotted the belt around his waist. Finally he poured himself a glass of club soda and sat down on the couch. For lack of anything better to do, he unwrapped the concentration tape he had bought at Sandman’s just to keep the clerk talking.

Would listening to it lead him any closer to David Spier’s murderer? Was there any link other than Spier’s interest in hypnosis between the present case and his suspicions about Michael Sorenson and the Sandman operation? He doubted it. The directions on the back of the case were simple. “The purpose of these files is to help you improve your concentration and deal with the distractions that prevent you from achieving your maximum potential. Daily listening to these files will result in greater concentration and an increased ability to focus on what is important. This disk contains three files. We recommend that in the beginning you listen only to the first file. Each file ends with a sequence of suggestions that will return you to full waking consciousness. Tell yourself that when you hear these suggestions, you will wake up and turn off your CD player or play the first file over again. Listen to the first file for at least two weeks or until you notice results before proceeding to the other two files. Remember, increased concentration and improved focus are your goals.

“For best results, listen to the files through earphones. This will eliminate external noise. Dress comfortably and find a place where you can relax completely. Try to listen at the same time each day and in the same place and position. Before you begin, state your goals clearly to yourself with conviction and sincerity. Repeat three times ‘I am listening to this file to improve my concentration and my focus.’ ”

Well, what could it hurt? he thought. It probably wouldn’t help him get closer to Spier’s killer, but if it resulted in better concentration--who could complain about that? He finished his club soda, took the glass to the kitchen, rinsed it out, and put it upside down on the drain board. He brushed his teeth, flossed, and gargled; then he washed his face thoroughly, rinsed all the soap out of the washcloth and hung it up carefully so that it would dry and not mildew. Matt Dell’uomo had early learned the virtues of discipline from his parents. In most things, he was a good and dutiful son. His mother might find his resistance to marriage unfilial, indeed incomprehensible, but in more ways than she realized, her training had molded Matt. Perhaps the only behavior she would have faulted that evening was her son’s habit of sleeping in the nude. The flannel pajamas in the neat blue striped pattern she had bought for him lay neatly folded in his dresser.

Dell’uomo slid the CD into the player and fit the earphones to his head. He lay back on the pillow and pulled the covers up. He turned off the light beside his bed, made himself comfortable, and turned on the CD.

“Jeff, it’s no good. I can’t remember anything about that machine except that it wasn’t there after a while.”

“Well, we’ll just have to tell Ken that you can’t remember.”

Beside me, Michael stiffened in bed. All our attempts to conjure up mental images had left him tense and anxious. His conditioning made him want not to disappoint me. Despite my promises to him, I had not removed all of his training.

“He won’t be happy.”

“I’m happy.”

“Are you?”

“Yes.”

“I want to help.”

“I know you do.” There was a long pause before Michael spoke again.

“Jeff, we could try it.”

“What? Hypnosis? No way! Forget about that.”

“As long as you were careful. I’ve got to face up to the bad memories sometime. I can’t always be afraid to think about Smith.”

“You’re improving. You can say his name now. It will just take a while longer.”

“Jeff, what are you worried about?”

“Nothing.”

“What is it.”

“It’s nothing.”

“Well, now it’s an ‘it.’ We are making progress with your cure, Jeffers. We have got to the point that you can admit there’s an ‘it.’ A few more years, and you’ll be able to hypnotize your lover again.”

“Well, what if we dredge up some bad memory, and you can’t face it? What if I lose you?”

“You won’t lose me. I’m . . .”

“What? You’re what?”

“Just try it. It’s what you do. If I can’t trust you, who can I trust? I’ll go get a crystal.”

“No, not a crystal. I won’t use a crystal. That’s a training tool for the units. It’s not for you.”

“I was a unit.”

“You were a unit. Past tense. End of discussion. No crystal.”

“Why are you so resistant to doing this? You do this everyday. It’s your business, your life, your hobby.”

“Because . . .”

“Because why? Say it, you coward, say it.” Michael hugged me tightly and kissed my forehead.

“Because I love you.”

“Well, I love you, too. It’s the best thing in my life. You’re the best thing in my life. And now that we have that settled, it’s time for Dr. Jeff to make a housecall.”

“Don’t joke.”

“I love you.”

He always wins the arguments.

Jeff’s voice was easy to listen to, Matt Dell’uomo decided. He spoke very clearly and slowly, but with warmth and conviction. The file began by repeating the instructions on the CD cover. He barely listened as Jeff cautioned him against listening to the second and third files until the first file had had results. What the results were was left unspecified. Matt could only suppose that they would be made clear later in the file.

“Now make yourself comfortable. Take a minute to check every point in your body to make sure that you are comfortable. Mentally take inventory of your feet . . . your legs . . . your hands . . . your arms . . . your trunk . . . your head to make sure that you are resting comfortably. Pay particular attention to your neck and shoulders. Is your neck resting comfortably so that it is supported by the pillow? Are your shoulders relaxed and resting comfortably on the bed? Just take a minute to check and make sure that you are ready to relax.”

“Ok, Michael, just take a moment to make sure you are relaxed. You know the drill. Is your neck resting comfortably on the pillow? Shoulders touching the bed? Now take a deep breath in. Good. Hold it for a few seconds. Now let it out slowly. Good. Now another slow breath in. Fill your lungs. Hold it, and then slowly let it out through your nose.”

“Now take another deep breath, and as you do, picture all the tension in your right foot being pulled into your lungs as you breathe deeply. All the tension and tiredness in your right foot being pulled up your legs and through your body into your lungs. Now breathe out and expel all that tension. As you breathe out, all the tension in your right foot disappears. Your right foot relaxes completely.”

“Now another deep breath in, and this time pull all the tension out of your right ankle”

The live Jeff and the Jeff on the file continued to work through the body. Gradually both Michael and Dell’uomo relaxed, Michael more quickly because he had more experience. But Dell’uomo was not far behind. The tension left his body, and he relaxed more and more, drifting deeper and deeper.

“Now move backward in time a little further. Remain relaxed and calm. I am with you, and you are safe. You have just moved into Smith’s place. You are in your own room. Look around you. There is a Sandman machine in the room. Where is it located?”

“It’s sitting on the dresser.”

“Now move forward a week in time. Is it still there?”

“Yes.”

“Move forward two weeks. Is it still there?”

“A month. Still there?”

“No.”

“What happened to it?”

“Scott took it. He wanted to use it.”

“Who is Scott?”

“A friend of Smith.”

“Michael, in a minute I am going to wake you up. When you awaken, you will be able to remember all of this and be able to discuss it calmly.”

“In a few minutes, I will awaken you. When you awaken, you will be remember the exercises that we have done. Whenever you want to concentrate on a problem during your waking hours, you will perform the mind-clearing exercise we practiced. Close your eyes briefly and focus on a white spot of light. Let your mind clear and become focused on the white light. Then when you open your eyes, direct your mind to the problem facing you. You will see it clearly and be able to deal with it efficiently and promptly. If any distractions arise or your mind wanders, pinch the web of flesh between your right thumb and forefinger firmly between the thumb and forefinger of your left hand, and as you do so, focus your mind on the task at hand. You will listen to this file over and over. You feel very relaxed and comfortable. You enjoy listening to this file. It makes you feel so good. Now, I am going to count to five. When I reach five, you will awaken. If it is your regular bedtime, you will turn this recording off and put it away. Then you lie down and fall into a deep and comfortable sleep.”

“His name is Scott. I never knew his last name. Smith didn’t think I was important enough to introduce to him. But I know they had known each other for a long time--they were in school together. They were a lot alike.”

“And this Scott took the machine?”

“Yes, he was curious why I had brought it with me. Other than clothes, it was the only thing I took to Smith’s.”

“It was an early model. It would have had only a subliminal voice recording instructing you to obey the owner.”

“So, what now?”

“We have to get this information to Dell’uomo somehow.”

“We can’t let him know the truth. I don’t even know Scott’s last name.”

“Then we will have to find him.”

“Jeff, it could be dangerous. He may be the killer.”

“You can’t be involved. He would recognize you. We have to figure out a way to get Dell’uomo involved in the search.”

The two dogs lay quietly on the floor, not daring to move lest they disturb the man. They had been bad doggies, and the man had punished them. For the moment he lay silently on the bed, thinking of his pleasures, the riding crop resting in his hand. Was there anything more to be gained by further punishing the pups? He rolled over on his side and traced the line of the larger dog’s spine with the tip of the riding crop. He contemplated bringing it down on the dog’s flanks and pictured the dog’s body flailing about in pain again.

God, he was bored. It has been so much better with David. The way David’s body had arched in pain as he fought the restraints. It had been all the more beautiful because the restraints had existed only in David’s mind. The bound, captive David had thought himself to be had been unable to get away. And then that moment when he had become aware that David was no longer alive. It was so delicious. He would be forever grateful to David for introducing him to that pleasure. To have such power--and David had offered himself so willingly for his pleasure. A few games, the teddy bear costume, to draw him in. A few drops of the drug and then the hypnotic sessions that had taken David further and further into his service. He had given David the ultimate experience, and David had repaid him with gratitude. He could tell that David had been so happy to die. He would have to find another that he could develop to that point.

He watched himself in the mirror on the ceiling, his lithe body encased in a silvery zentai suit, gleaming, every move catching the light. Human and yet not human, the suggestion of eyes and a nose beneath the headpiece of the suit, the body there but not there. Its human imperfections hidden beneath the shiny surface. With his free hand, he began stroking the cloth covering his torso. His eyes following his hand through the fabric covering his eyes. He was so beautiful, his body perfect, his hand gliding effortlessly over the smooth silky covering. Perfection, its surface unblemished by hair or wrinkles or spots.

He tossed the riding crop on the floor. It wasn’t enough. With his free hand, he picked the control box off the nightstand and placed it on the bed. Keeping his eyes on his image in the mirror, he set the controls for level 1 and pressed the charge button. Off to the side of the mirror, he could see the pups twitch as the electrical shock surged through the collars around their necks. Those cunning collars with the embedded wires that delivered a shock when he activated the remote control device. Level 1 was just a tickle, of course. The pups generally lasted until level 5 before they fainted. It had never been necessary to go above that. Would they survive higher levels? He would have to experiment. Perhaps just with one of the pups. But they were becoming boring. They had become too obedient. There was no challenge left in them. Such good little manimals. Such boring little manimals. What more could they offer him?

He would have to find replacements soon. That boy in David’s room. Where had he come from? Had he said that he was in the room across the hall? He couldn’t risk another visit to the dorm. Perhaps he would send one of the pups. Have it in dress in street clothes and go searching--reconnoiter. “Reconnoiter”--that was such a lovely word. He tasted it forming in his mouth several times. So sensuous to say the word. It was a silver color like his suit, a silver bubble of sound floating in the air.

Was it wise, though, to harvest another subject so close to David? Perhaps not. But then being wise was no fun. It had taken the police only two days to identify David. He imagined that they had searched David’s room and questioned his neighbors in the dorm. Perhaps they were even watching the dorm. He was confident that the other boy had told them little. A spray of the aerosol in his face and a few words had taken him into trance and from there it had been easy to implant false memories. If the boy disappeared, the police would connect his disappearance with David, he was sure. But that made it even more exciting. He would have to think about this--the wise thing to do would be to troll the gayfurries site again, but it was getting too predictable. Everyone wanted to be a tiger, a wolf, a puppydog. As he contemplated the joys of training a new subject, his finger pressed repeatedly on the control button, the pups’ howls and twitches a counterpoint to the pleasure he was feeling in himself.

He gave a command, and the smaller pup fetched the other control device and brought it to him. He patted the dog on the head and scratched him behind the ears. Perhaps he would keep the smaller one for a bit longer. Once he had replacements for both of them, he would re-evaluate its usefulness. He tapped the bed beside him, and the smaller pup leaped up beside him. It circled about and then lay down at his side, its head resting on his thigh and watching the other pup in anticipation.

He turned the second control device on and adjusted the level to a high setting. On the floor, the other dog trembled. As the man pressed the button, a current of electricity passed from the ring that encircled the dog’s balls and cock to the rod buried in the dog’s anus. The dog howled in pain. The man and the other dog watched the larger dog writhe on the floor. It took only three shocks before a wet stain spread across the larger dog’s crotch. The man felt a wave of revulsion. Always the body reasserted itself. If only robotic technology were further developed, he could discard these attempts to force the human body into perfect obedience. He sighed. Training took so much time, yet no matter how much effort he put into it, the results fell so short of his desires.

Matt Dell’uomo gradually returned to consciousness. At first he felt only warmth. The warmth of lying beneath a golden sun that slowly became the warmth of the bed. Someone had been talking to him about the sun. He stretched slowly beneath the covers as his eyes drifted open. For once, he felt good. Two nights in a row he had slept well, and both nights he had listened to Jeff’s voice before going to sleep. He didn’t know if the file would help him improve his concentration, he decided, but if it helped him sleep this well, he would use it every night.

He felt even better after his usual Saturday morning five-mile run and a shower. He poured himself a cup of coffee--it did taste better freshly made. He really ought to make a new pot every morning. Then he sat down to review the Spier file. The autopsy was conclusive. David Spier had been severely beaten about the body and head. The report catalogued over fifty separate blows severe enough to case gross external and/or internal damage. There were burn marks around his collar. His genital region had been shaved, and there was a circular mark around his scrotum and penis, as if a tape or a ring had been placed above the penis and around the scrotum. The marks were identical to those often found in cases of electrical burns, and the coroner theorized that metal rings had been placed around his neck and genitals and that electricity had been run through them. His anal region showed signs of bruising consistent with the insertion of a large object, which had probably been made of a nonporous material such metal or plastic or glass. There were no traces of lubricants in the rectum. Whatever had been inserted had probably caused severe pain. Death was consistent with prolonged and intense trauma. David had died of internal hemorrhaging, heart failure, brain embolisms--the damage was so extensive that the precise cause of death was impossible to determine. As the doctor performing the autopsy remarked, David had, in layman’s language, been tortured to death. The dead boy had been dumped in the alley. He had been murdered elsewhere, between 18 and 24 hours before the body was found. When the body was found, it had been nude, wrapped in clear plastic sheeting. The exterior of the body appeared to have been bathed in alcohol before being wrapped and dumped. The trace evidence on his body was sparse and inconclusive--the elements so common as to be found on every body.

Other than Mike Albertson, none of the people interviewed had seen anything out of the ordinary in David’s recent behavior or activities. He had attended his classes, studied in the library, watched TV, listened to music. He had been seen leaving the dorm alone many nights. The odd thing was that none of the people interviewed had ever gone out with David. Whenever David had been asked to join a group, he had always excused himself and said that he was meeting someone else. A few people who had been inside his room knew that he was interested in hypnotism, but he had never discussed his interests in detail. None of the informants knew anything about his interest in furries, or even that he had such an interest. Mike, who lived directly across the hall, seemed to be the only person who had ever talked much with David, and even he had not been close to him.

His email account at the college yielded nothing except university notices. The email account through which his parents and family communicated with him contained nothing but messages from them and the usual junk mail. If he had accounts under other names or accessed messages through other websites, the computer guys at the lab hadn’t been able to uncover them yet. They noted only that the machine was suspiciously clean of any indication of activities over two weeks old. A check with David’s neighbors in the dorm had revealed that David had gotten a new computer only two weeks earlier. No one knew what had happened to the old one.

Dell’uomo was famous among his colleagues for his ability to put himself into the victim’s shoes. Some of them even joked that he communed with the dead. He examined several of the pictures that the dead boy’s parents had supplied. They showed David in quite a different light than the police photographs of the dead boy. Slight, not athletic, not bad looking, though. The type of boy that was studious and quiet and kept to himself. But something suggested a dreamer to Dell’uomo. The type of kid who had a full fantasy life. Somehow this loner had met up with someone who had killed him. The autopsy report noted that several of the bruises were older and had been inflicted on several occasions. The earliest were perhaps two weeks old. Others were more recent--made any time from four to ten days before the final beating that had led to David’s death. Whatever David had been doing and whoever he had been doing it with, he had done it on more than one occasion.

So how does a kid from an ordinary, middle-class family, something of a geek, find someone to help him live out his fantasies of being hypnotized and made into a furry? Were there websites for furries, Hoohah groups for furries? Dell’uomo made a note to have this checked out. The articles in the binder had the names of the websites from which they had been downloaded--those needed to be checked as well. There were computers for the students scattered throughout the university. Was there a way to determine if a particular student had used them and what he had done? Perhaps David had accessed websites through them. Dell’uomo added another note to have someone call the university. They had found only the one cell phone and that had yielded nothing of interest. Had David had another cell phone or other means of text messaging? Somehow he and the murderer had communicated. The means of contact had to be found.

Then there was the business of the hypnosis. He picked up one of the pictures of David and stared at it. He was a young man, he had a fascination with hypnosis, he dreamed of becoming an animal, an animal who had sex with other animals. Dell’uomo tried to imagine what it would feel like to be a tiger. The cat body, the short hair, the dry smell of cat fur, the furry tongue, the muscles rippling under the skin, the legs ending in claws, the lithe tail. To be powerful like a tiger, sexy, strong. He could see the attraction for a shy young man like David. The other students would have had no idea that David was really a tiger, a predator in their midst, as he sat in class with them or studied in the library. And then he had met someone over the internet, in a chat room, and had confessed his desires. Someone who had offered to help him realize his fantasy, to be a tiger, not just to pretend to be one. The man with the face of the professor that the Albertson kid had seen.

Dell’uomo’s attention shifted from David to Mike. Mike enters David’s room and finds David talking with a stranger. The stranger who has been hypnotizing David. He sits and talks with the stranger. A copy of the campus newspaper with the story about Professor Hanson lies on David’s desk. The stranger’s voice is soothing. Mike finds it easy to listen to. Soon Mike slips into a trance and the stranger suggests that Mike will remember only that he visited David and saw the picture in the newspaper. But for some reason, Mike remembers meeting the stranger; it’s just that he gives the stranger Hanson’s face.

Could Jeff help the Albertson kid recover the stranger’s real face? Well, at this point, it was all he had. He picked up the phone.

Saturday is our busiest day at the store--well, it’s our only busy day. I usually arrive on Saturday morning around 8:00 so that I can restock the shelves and open the till. I could come later, I suppose, but I enjoy being in the store alone. These days it’s about the only time I have to myself, and arranging the stock and tidying up are mindless tasks that I find restful.

We open at 10:00 on Saturdays. I had everything ready and was drinking a cup of coffee, waiting to open the store. Ken usually arrives just before 10:00. The phone rang about 9:45. It was Dell’uomo, and he wanted me to hypnotize the Albertson kid again. He had already called Albertson and arranged for someone to bring him to the police station. He would drop by shortly to pick me up. I tried to explain that I had to help run the shop, but as soon as he found out that Ken would there, he told me that my services were required by the police, and he would be at the shop soon.

And that’s how I found myself sitting in a conference room with Officer Trent at police headquarters at 10:30 on Saturday morning. The room was furnished with a sofa and several easy chairs. I had pulled the shades and closed the drapes to cut down on the light streaming through the window. A mirror was hung on one wall.

“Does any suspect questioned in this room not know that that’s a two-way mirror?”

“What makes you think it’s a two-way mirror? This is a room where we meet. We don’t use it to question suspects. The mirror’s there so Dell’uomo can straighten his tie and comb his hair. The inspector’s careful about his looks.”

“Why doesn’t he use the mirror in the men’s room?”

“Maybe the men’s room doesn’t have a mirror. I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.”

Officer Trent’s cell phone rang. She listened briefly, said “Ok, bring him up” to the person at the other end and “Mike Albertson’s on his way” to me.

Mike was noticeably more relaxed than he had been the first time. Whatever anxieties he had felt about being hypnotized were gone. I had him lie down on the couch and took him through the same induction using the hammock in a woods. Again he proved a natural subject and was soon deeply entranced, his chest slowly rising and falling as he breathed in and out evenly at my direction.

“Mike, I want you to move backward in time to the day you met the stranger in David’s room. You will be able to talk to me and Officer Trent about it. Just remain relaxed and comfortable. You are here with us but you are also back in that room. Just remain relaxed and comfortable. You feel so safe and warm and comfortable. Just relax in the hammock. You are safe and warm. Just let your mind rest on what happened that day and talk to us about it. Now, can you see the man?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”

“Sitting in the chair by the window.”

“What is he doing?”

“Nothing, just sitting there. David says me he’s kinda busy right now and what do I want?”

“What do you say?”

“I just want to borrow your chem lab notes.”

“What happens then?”

“The man tells David to wait a minute. He wants to talk with me.”

“What does he say to you?”

“He sprays my face.”

“What?”

“He has a small can, you know like an aerosol can, and he sprays my face with it.”

“What spray?”

“It’s like a perfume. It smells sharp, like pepper. My face is wet.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No. Dizzy for a second.”

“You feel dizzy?”

“Just for a couple of seconds.”

Officer Trent signaled me that she wanted to ask some questions.

“Mike, this is Susan Trent. This is very important. You can help us a lot. What does the man do next.”

“He talks to me. He makes me lie down on the bed and then he relaxes me.”

“Relaxes you how?”

“He just tells me to relax, like Jeff.”

“He hypnotizes you, like Jeff.”

“Yes, different words, but like Jeff.”

“What does he talk to you about?”

“Nothing. Don’t remember. Mustn’t remember.”

Mike was beginning to show signs of agitation, some internal struggle was visible in the twitching of his eyes and mouth. Officer Trent mouthed the word “help” at me. “Mike, this is Jeff again. You are doing very well. Just relax a bit more. Just relax in the hammock as you sway back and forth gently in the breeze, the shadows of the leaves playing gently across your face and body. You are far, far away from David’s room, in a warm and safe place. Nothing can hurt you here. Just relax and move even deeper into sleep. Everything that happened in David’s room that day is far, far away. It can’t touch you any more. You can discuss it calmly. You are safe here. Did the man tell you not to remember what happened?”

“Yes, Don’t remember, Mustn’t remember.”

“Mike, I want you to picture a closed door. It is very clear in your mind. The door has a handle and a lock. You can see it very clearly. You are standing in front of the door. The man has locked your memories of that day behind the door. Your memories of that day in David’s room are locked behind the door. Hold out your hand. I am putting a key into your hand. You can feel it in your palm. It is the key to the door. With this key, you can open the door. Reach out, and put the key in the lock and turn it. Unlock the door.”

As we watched, Mike’s right hand closed around the key I had put there. He held it in his fingers and slowly reached out and mimed unlocking a door.

“Good, Mike, very good. Now, you are going to reach out and turn the handle and open the door.”

More quickly now, Mike traced the motions of opening a door in the air.

“Excellent, Mike, you are doing very well. Now step into the room and look around. You can see everything that happened that day clearly now. You can remember everything. There is no more block on your memories. Everything that was clouding your memories of that day has dissolved. The door is open. You are lying on a bed in David’s room and the man is talking to you. What is he saying.”

When Mike spoke again, his voice was lower and more raspy. “Mike, listen to me. You feel very comfortable and warm. You are very comfortable, very warm. It feels so good to be so relaxed, so comfortable, so warm. It is so easy just to relax and listen to me, to do what I tell you. You want to help me. You feel very good when you do what I tell you to. You will forget everything that you have seen in this room. You will remember nothing of what has happened here. You came into David’s room to borrow his chemistry notes. He gave them to you, and you left. A wave of pleasure flows through your body from the top of your head down to your toes. The more you forget, the better you feel. The wave of pleasure starts at the top of your head and flows down across your face, your neck, your shoulders. It flows down through your chest, filling you with this wonderful feeling of well-being and pleasure. Down through your arms and across your stomach. The wave of pleasure flows down through your legs, your calves, your feet.”

Mike continued speaking in the same vein for another ten minutes or so, as the man who was hypnotizing him substituted the wave of pleasure for any memory Mike had of the meeting. “Now, you are going to stand up and return to your room. When you reach your room, you will sit down and study the chemistry notes. You will not remember anything except going into David’s room and then returning to your own room and studying.”

“Very good, Mike. That was excellent. Now, I want you to look closely at the man’s face. Can you see it?”

“Yes.”

“Your memory of the man’s face is very clear, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Remember the other day when you worked with Jennifer, the police artist, and helped her draw the picture of the man’s face?”

“Not the same.”

“No, it’s not the same face.”

“Professor Hanson’s face in the newspaper.”

“Yes. But you can see the man’s real face now, can’t you?”

“Yes.”

“In a few moments, I will wake you up. You will remember what the man in David’s room looks like. You will remember it very clearly. You will be able to describe it to the police artist.”

“Yes.”

I brought Mike back to consciousness slowly, reassuring him several times that he would be able to remember the man’s face clearly and be able to work with the artist.

“Wow. That was so weird.”

“You can remember what happened while you were in the trance?”

“Yes, Officer.”

“Mike, let’s go downstairs to Jennifer’s office. Mr. Ange, please wait here. I need to find Inspector Dell’uomo and tell him what happened. Then, we need to talk with you about this.”

“Does any suspect questioned in this room not know that that’s a two-way mirror?” Jeff was looking directly through the mirror at Dell’uomo, although he did not know that.

“What makes you think it’s a two-way mirror? This is a room where we meet. We don’t use it to question suspects. The mirror’s there so Dell’uomo can straighten his tie and comb his hair. The inspector’s careful about his looks.” Right, Susan, thought Dell’uomo. Insult me.

“Why doesn’t he use the mirror in the men’s room?”

“Maybe the men’s room doesn’t have a mirror. I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.”

Susan’s cell phone rang. She listened briefly, said “Ok, bring him up” to the person at the other end and “Mike Albertson’s on his way” to Jeff.

Dell’uomo was glad to see that Mike, in contrast to his earlier appearance at the police station, was more relaxed, even anxious to be hypnotized again. Jeff spoke briefly with him, putting Mike at ease, and then got him settled on the couch. He was, Dell’uomo noted, using the same induction as before. It was astonishing how familiar Jeff’s voice had become. He had listened to only two inductions, and yet he felt a tug at his consciousness as Jeff spoke. It would be so easy just to close his eyes and follow along. To lie in that hammock and let the warm air swing it gently back and forth, the wind rustling the leaves in the trees, and the shadows of the leaves playing over his body, dappling it with light as he lay there. So comfortable, so relaxed, so warm, so safe, so content, so happy. Just gently swaying in the warm breeze like a leaf on a tree. So relaxed, held up by the warm breeze, just floating and drifting.

And now Jeff was taking him back to revisit David’s room. The day the stranger had been there. He had just wanted to borrow some of David’s chem notes. But the stranger was there and talking to him. Jeff was asking him questions and then Susan. Something wet on his face, and then dizziness. The stranger’s voice was low and harsh. Hoarse sounding. Telling him to forget, forget everything, as waves and waves of pleasure flowed through him and covered him. He couldn’t remember. Jeff and Susan wanted him to remember something, but he couldn’t. He had to forget. He had to obey.

Then Jeff broke in and took him back to a place of safety. Wonderful Jeff. Jeff was helping him open a door. His memories were behind the door. He had to open it. And then suddenly he was free. So grateful to Jeff for helping him. He had to help Jeff and describe the man to Jennifer, the police artist. But when he turned to look at the man’s face, he saw only a blank. There was no face. What would he tell Jeff? He couldn’t fail Jeff. It was unthinkable.

And then he woke up. For a few seconds, he was totally disoriented. The scene on the other side of the mirror meant nothing to him. He could tell that something had happened to excite all three of them. What a weird dream, he thought to himself. But what had happened in the room to make them so excited?

“Inspector, Mr. Ange just achieved a breakthrough,” Officer Trent said as Dell’uomo walked into the room. She was pretending that Dell’uomo hadn’t seen the whole episode through the mirror, which gave him an opportunity to ask for a recap. Together the three of them listened to the part in which the man had spoken through Mike again.

“What I don’t understand, Jeff, is why it didn’t work. This man evidently told the Albertson kid to forget the whole incident. If he had, then we wouldn’t even had known that he had seen someone. But he did remember, at least in part. But another part of his memory was blocked until you opened it.”

“Perhaps the trance wasn’t that deep or perhaps the man didn’t have enough time to develop it fully.”

“But why didn’t Albertson remember everything the first time?”

“That’s easier to answer. He was trying to please two different sets of people who were making demands on him. The man told him not to remember and so he forgot the man’s face as instructed. We wanted a face, and he gave us one, one that he had seen about the same time. He ended up giving both of us what we wanted.”

“Let’s hope this time the drawing shows the face of the man he saw.”

“I hope so too,” thought Jeff. Perhaps that would take the pressure off him and Michael and divert the police from the Sandman operation.

At 8:30 the following morning, Dell’uomo parked outside Jeff and Michael’s building. He had learned the address from Motor Vehicles. 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 would watch their weight, too, but it was a Sunday and he was intruding. So he bought bagels, a quart of orange juice, and a tub of cream cheese at the Sam’s Bagels near his place. He had the counterman fill up the large thermos he had brought with the dark Italian roast coffee he loved. He didn’t know about Jeff and Michael’s taste in coffee, but they didn’t have to drink what he had brought 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 hope for hadn’t panned out. A search on “furry” and “furries” had yielded over a million hits; even a search of Hoohah groups for furries had resulted in a quarter of a million responses. Even 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 a couple of text messages to other students. Nor did his charge card show evidence of the purchase of another cell phone or charges for phone messages 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 had, 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 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. 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 words but not the experience.

He also need not have worried about the bagels. Jeff was carrying the familiar blue Sam’s Bagels bag with the “We’ll always have bagels” logo, and Michael was holding a egg carton tray with two cups of coffee wedged into the slots. “Plain, sesame, cinnamon raisin, and, my favorite, 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 expresso 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, Inspector, 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. How are you, Inspector? 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 wave 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, Dell’uomo and Michael sat at a table, with the bagels spread on a plate and coffee poured into mugs. Jeff stood silently off to one side, his attention focused on something outside the window. “Now, Inspector, 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 Smith’s. At least he was when I knew Smith. His name is Scott. I don’t know his last name. But he and Smith were close friends. They had been for a long time. I got the impression that their two families knew each other, and that Smith 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. Smith didn’t bother to introduce us.”

“Never?”

“I was Smith’s toy, Inspector. In that world, you don’t introduce your toys to your friends.”

“Inspector, this upsets Michael. Do you have to go on?”

“It’s all right, Jeff. I can discuss it. And if it helps catch the murderer, that’s all that counts.” Michael 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 Smith.”

“It’s Michael. Please call me Michael.”

“I apologize to both of you for breaking in on your morning. But with your help, 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 Smith, 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, Inspector. The news reports haven’t been too specific.”

“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 Smith 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 inspector was lost in his own reflections. “What the hell is going on?” thought Jeff.

“It’s all right, Jeffers. 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 me and massaged my neck and shoulders. God, it feels so good when he does that. He’s so good with his hands. Then he was kissing that spot on my neck, the spot beneath the ear where the neck curves into the shoulder. That always makes me feel so excited. I just sat there and let the waves of pleasure he was creating flow through my body. He’s so skilled at making me feel good. He’s the one person I can relax with and feel safe. “Perhaps you would feel more comfortable lying down.”

“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, Jeffers, of course.” He began stroking my body, all the places that make me feel so good. It’s just so easy to relax with Michael and just let him guide me to all the wonderful places. No one else can make me feel so good. So safe, so warm, so comfortable, so filled with pleasure and happiness. We just float together in the warm sunlight on the soft ocean toward the light that ripples over the waves.

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 revenge.

“Sergeant Dell’uomo. I won’t pretend I’m happy to see you again.”

“Mr. Smith. This is Officer Trent. And I’m an inspector 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.”

Smith 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 Smith occupied was much lower on the scale of dwellings that the penthouse above the park in which Dell’uomo had first met him. Much smaller, shabby, dirty. The once elegant furniture exhibited signs of neglect and ill use. Dell’uomo tried not to think what had caused all the stains on the carpet and upholstery. Smith also looked much shabbier 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 Smith the stack of drawings.

Smith 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 five years. 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, 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 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. 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,’ Officer 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. Smith.”

“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.”