First Degree Feliny (Page 22)
by RenderPretender - http://deviantart.com/renderpretender and patreon.com/renderpretender
Bound In Matrimony
by Rescuer673 - http://deviantart/com/rescuer674
by RenderPretender - http://deviantart.com/renderpretender and patreon.com/renderpretender
Bound In Matrimony
by Rescuer673 - http://deviantart/com/rescuer674
·
Anne was right about one thing. Jack Bishop
was smart enough to know that she wouldn’t have stood him up. When she wasn’t
at her motel at the appointed hour, he thought she might have lost track of the
time. He headed to Sunset Prairie, keeping an eye out for her car in case she
was on her way back.
When he found the school building locked and dark, and her car missing from the
parking lot, he thought they might have passed each other, without either one
noticing. Unable to locate her at the motel a second time, it still never occurred
to him that she’d stood him up. It did occur to him to get worried. He wondered
whether his theory was right, and the man who’d murdered Phil had now abducted
Anne.
He called the phone company and attempted to get her location via her cell, but
it didn’t have a GPS tracking device, and there weren’t enough cell towers in
rural Tracy County to get a location from triangulation that was accurate. The
best they could do was narrow it down to an area about four miles square.
As that four square mile area was still within Tracy County, Bishop got on the
phone with the county dispatcher and asked that the deputy, or deputies,
covering the beat(s) within that area, keep an eye out for Anne’s car.
Then he headed for that area himself.
*
Deputy Travis Lutters was known as a particularly attentive beat cop, so Bishop
was not surprised when he turned out to be the one who found Anne’s car. When
Bishop arrived at the bridge near which the car had been parked, it turned out
that the car was not all Lutters found.
“Her purse was lodged in this here corner, where the bridge wall meets one of
the supports,” said Lutters. “The purse and shoes anchored the dress and
sweater.”
Bishop’s heart skipped a beat. It was the strapless floral number Anne had worn
that afternoon when he’d stopped by the school, and her white angora sweater.
“This was sticking out of the purse, like she wanted to make sure we’d find
it,” said Lutters, handing Bishop a piece of paper and the cross that was
wrapped in it.
Bishop looked at it briefly and said, “Bullshit!”
“You think the note’s phony,” asked the deputy.
“I’d stake my life on it. In the first place, she’s a devout, practicing
Catholic, and suicide is one of the biggest taboos in Catholicism, which is why
Catholics tend to have lower suicide rates. Secondly, most suicides don’t even
leave notes, so the presence of a note’s automatically grounds for suspicion.
Third, the note’s typed.”
“C’mon, Jack. I’ve personally seen more’n one typed suicide note.”
“Yeah, but is there a computer around here? The fact that this is typed means
she must have used the computer in her classroom, then driven twelve miles to
this bridge to do the deed. That’s too deliberate. If suicides leave notes,
they’re usually spontaneous, written at the scene where they were going to
commit the act.”
“You’re saying no one’s ever written a note first, then took it with them to
the place they killed themselves.”
“I’m saying it’s rare enough to be suspicious, and if you put it together with
everything else, it gets less and less likely. And I haven’t even gotten to
fourth, fifth, and sixth.”
“What’re those?”
“Fourth is her signature. ‘Anne R. Leonard?’ That’s how people sign checks or
business letters or contracts. It’s not how they sign personal stuff. How do
you sign Christmas or birthday cards?”
“Don’t send too many cards, but I see your point. When I do send ‘em, it’s
usually ‘Trav.’ But when I sign checks, it’s ‘Travis B. Lutters.’”
“So, hypothetically, if you were going to do away with yourself, and you wanted
to leave a note for your family, would you sign it like a check or a personal
card?”
“Guess it’d be like a personal card.”
“Exactly. Whoever wrote this was forging her signature from an example on
something like a check or an official communication. Fifth is this crucifix
that’s wrapped inside the letter. She’d’ve never taken this off. She’s worn it
every day since her First Communion. But if she ever did take
it off, she wouldn’t’ve torn it off, breaking the chain like this; she’d’ve
carefully opened the clasp, then closed it again once it was off. You don’t
carefully wrap something up that you’ve contemptuously yanked off.”
“Might have a point at that,” the deputy agreed.
“Finally, look at
this sentence in the first paragraph. ‘Since he’s been gone I feel as though
I’m slowly going crazy.’ Suicides, when they do write notes, almost never use
words like ‘crazy,’ ‘weak,’ or ‘cowardly’ to describe their actions. That’s not
how they see themselves. That’s how people on the outside looking in see them.
When you see a word like that in a suicide note, hundred to one it was written
by a murderer trying to make it look like a suicide.”
“So you think someone killed her, and then wrote the note.”
“Almost as bad. I think someone wrote the note so we’d think she was dead, and
stop looking for her.”
He paused for a
moment, then added, “But it didn’t work”
*
After a few phone calls, Bishop reached the principal at Sunset Prairie
Elementary, and arranged to meet her at the campus.
It was going on eight o’clock when they met at the main entrance. She unlocked
the door and they both entered. She then unlocked Anne’s classroom, and stepped
back to allow him in.
He turned on the light and the first thing he saw was a Diet Coke bottle, left
open on Anne’s desk, with no more than a swallow or two taken out of it.
Suicide my ass! What kind of a suicide buys herself a pop, then leaves it
almost full while she drives away to jump off a bridge?
Because state criminal investigators are few in number, and cover a far-flung
jurisdiction of more than 82,000 square miles (that’s roughly one investigator
for every 1200 square miles), most are trained as evidence technicians. Though
the Bureau employs full-time CSI’s, it’s sometimes more efficient for field
investigators to process their own crime scenes than to wait for specialized
details. Bishop went out to his car to retrieve his evidence kit. When he
returned to the classroom, he dusted the Coke bottle for prints. At the top of
the bottle, he picked up five very clear prints, four fingers and a thumb. They
were apparently from comparatively small, delicate fingers. Fingers belonging
to a lady.
Closer to the bottom of the bottle, he picked up two fingers and a thumb, and
two smudges. These were prints from the fingers of a much larger hand, the hand
of a big man.
It didn’t seem likely that there was anything unusual about the contents of the
bottle, but one never knew. The lid was placed neatly on the table, alongside
where the bottle had been. He put it back on the bottle, and twisted it down to
make sure none of the contents leaked out. Then he filled out an evidence bag,
and placed the bottle in it. The various cards onto which he’d taped the
fingerprints he’d lifted were placed in smaller evidence envelopes.
The distance to the state forensics lab at the state capital was about 240
miles, A three or four hour drive. And by the time he arrived, there’d be no
one there. But if he drove up there now, he’d be able to deliver the evidence
to the lab first thing in the morning, and see to it that they put a priority
on it.
He called a buddy who worked at headquarters to see if he could be put up for
the night and, on receiving an affirmative, headed to his small studio in Dodge
County, changed clothes, packed a bag, and took off for his buddy’s place in
the suburbs of the state capital.
*
The next morning, though still exhausted after the long drive, he was up bright
and early. He drove into the capital before the rush hour and was at the
headquarters of the State Bureau of Investigation on Tyler Street a full hour
before the working day officially began.
His first stop was the Central Records Repository, where he dropped off the
envelopes containing the latent prints he was able to lift.
“I’m pretty sure the prints in this envelope belong to Anne Leonard,” he told
the fingerprint tech, “but I need it confirmed. Her prints should be on file
with the Department of Education, from when she got her teacher’s license. I
don’t know who the second set belongs to, but I’m pretty sure it’s a man. Run
‘em through our records first to see if we get a hit. If we don’t, send ‘em to
Washington. I need this done as soon as you can get to it.”
The print tech was a buddy, so he didn’t give Bishop any grief.
It was a different story at the Forensics Lab.
“What do you think you have?” asked the forensic chemist, looking at the Coke
in the plastic bottle somewhat skeptically.
“I’m not sure” replied Bishop. “Some kind of drug, I guess.”
“What kind?”
“How do I know? That’s why I’m bringing it here.”
“Well, what are you investigating?”
“Not sure of that, either. Right now it’s a disappearance, but it looks like it
might be a kidnapping. It’s possible that whatever’s in that bottle would
confirm it.”
“Why do you say that?’
“It’s the last thing she held in her hand before she dropped out of sight.”
“I’ll get to it
when I can. Right now, though, I’m really backed up.”
“Look, if it is a
kidnapping, we need to know as soon as possible. This is a breaking case. Can’t
you move it to the head of the line?”
The forensic
chemist was something of a bureaucrat. But Bishop’s tone of urgency moved him
enough to put his bureaucratic tendency to the side.
“Okay,” he said,
nodding.
“Thanks.”
*
While the evidence was being worked, Bishop found a computer and desk that was
not being used, and wrote up the report on Anne Leonard’s disappearance.
By the time he was finished, the Central Repository had two hits for him.
“Women’s prints were Anne Leonard’s, just like you thought,” said the tech.
“The man’s prints belong to a mope named Peter Lucian Carmichael, aka Pete
Carmichael, aka ‘Wolf’ Carmichael.”
“That name rings a bell,” said Bishop.
“It should. He’s a biker. In fact he’s a pretty high up biker. Runs an OMG
called the Heathens of Satan.”
“OMG” was law enforcement shorthand for “Outlaw Motorcycle Gang.”
“How high up?”
“I think he’s the president. Heathens aren’t one of the Big Four, obviously,
but they have a pretty big rep here in the Midwest.”
“There was a Pete Carmichael at the same high school I went to. A year behind
me. Is this the same guy?”
“Where’d you go to school?”
“Kent County High, in Poague.”
“Says here his birthplace is Poague, but nothing about where he went to high
school.”
“Thanks,” said Bishop.
*
The forensics lab took a little longer to get a result, but when they did, it
went a long way to confirming his worst fears.
“Curare,” said the chemist.
“Isn’t that the stuff that Indians in South America use to poison their
arrows?”
“That’s the stuff. It’s a muscle relaxer. If you’re hit with it, it’ll stop all
muscle activity, including the beat of your heart, and your ability to breath.
The stuff in the Coke is a pharmacological derivative called Pancuronium
Bromide. It’s been combined with another compound to make it work orally, make
it work faster, and get it voided out of the system in less time. Actual amount
of the stuff in the drink is almost microscopic. Since a good bit of it’s still
in the drink, that means whoever got hit with it didn’t drink that much. Just a
few sips, and those sips mostly Coke.”
“Can you think of any specific criminal application?”
“Well that ‘angel of death’ serial killer out in California, Efren Saldivar,
used it as a murder weapon, but he was injecting large amounts, not giving it
orally. Given that it relaxes the muscles almost to the point of paralysis, and
that it’s designed to act quickly and wear off quickly, I’d say it’d make a
good date rape drug. There’s only one drawback.”
“What’s that?”
“Wouldn’t knock the victim all the way out. She’d be sleepy, but not
necessarily unconscious. She might know what was going on. Which means she
might be able to testify who it was that slipped her the mickey. Unless . . .”
“Unless whoever it was killed her?”
“Yeah.”
It was not good news, but at least it confirmed that Anne was the victim of
some kind of criminal assault.
*
Bishop was not an expert on OMG’s, but he knew someone who was. As soon as he
left the lab, he was on the phone to the Stevenson County Sheriff’s Office,
specifically to Detective Brad Kevan. When Bishop was still a deputy on the
Stevenson County SO, he’d worked with Kevan a few times, and knew he was
regarded as one of the foremost experts on OMG’s in the state. Moreover, he was
the state representative to the board of the Midwest Outlaw Motorcycle Gang
Investigators Association, which meant that, not only was he an expert himself,
but had access to a network of experts.
“Brad,” he said, when they were finally connected. “I need anything you can
give me on Wolf Carmichael.”
“You mean the State Bureau of Investigation’s asking for help from us local
peons?”
“You’re the expert on biker gangs, and that’s what I need right now.”
“What are you working on?”
“Possible kidnapping.”
“Well, they certainly do that sometimes. Girl wanders into a biker bar, not
really knowing where she’s going, suddenly finds herself taken for a ride and
getting gang-raped. They call it ‘pulling a train.’”
“I think this is something a little more deliberate. Not spur-of-the-moment,
but something planned over a long period of time.”
“To what end? OMG’s aren’t generally into ransom kidnappings.”
“He desperately wants the girl he’s kidnapped.”
“Any particular reason you think so?”
Bishop laid it out for Kevan. How he and Carmichael had both gone to the same
high school, during a period when just about every Kent County student with
more than a drop of testosterone was smitten by the lovely and (to a bunch of
teen-aged boys) mysterious girl from the Catholic school down the street. How
she’d eventually married a Kent County student whom she’d met in college. How
the husband had been murdered a little over a year ago, for no discernible
reason. How she’d been apparently kidnapped the night before. And how both her
prints and Carmichael’s were found on a bottle of spiked Coca-Cola that had
apparently been used to drug her.
“You think he kidnapped her ‘cause he’s still obsessed with her?”
“Everybody at Kent County was obsessed with her, Brad. Most of us grew out of
it. But now she’s gone, most likely kidnapped, and the head of a vicious
organized crime group seems to be behind it. If he never outgrew it, is he
capable of that kind of long-term planning? Could he’ve killed her husband,
then bided his time ‘til there was a favorable opportunity to take her?”
“Might be. Likes to think he’s clever, I can tell you that. Couple of hits his
gang has put out on rivals were staged to look like accidents or suicides.
Thing is, he’s not really that good at it. Doesn’t expect cops to examine the
evidence very closely, just go with what seems like the obvious conclusion. Of
course, proving that the supposed accidents or suicides were actually murders
didn’t give us enough evidence to actually convict anyone. Another thing you
should be aware of. Leaving aside the gang affiliation, Carmichael’s a
powerful, dangerous man.”
“What do you mean?”
“His uncle was one of the wealthiest farmers in the state. Owned thousands of
acres that he was able to lease out, turning him into a rich man. Some of the
property turned out to have oil on it. That made him a ridiculously rich man. Carmichael
was his only living relative. When the uncle died, he got it all. You know what
happens when cops go after the rich and famous.”
“Cops usually have to brace themselves for a swift kick right between the
legs.”
“That’s right. And one more thing.”
“Yeah?”
“Carmichael’s supposed to be very possessive about anything he regards as his
property. There’re rumors he once beat a guy to death just for leaning against
his chopper. What’s his is his, and God help the man who tries to take it away
from him.”
“Okay.”
“Point is, Jack, if he’d react that violently to a perceived threat against his
hog, imagine what he’d do to someone who tried to take away the lady he’s
wanted for so many years. You watch yourself.”
“Point taken, Brad. I promise I’ll be careful.”
*
The next morning, Anne was awakened from her fitful sleep by a sharp slap on
her rump. Her sharp cry was muffled by the thin gag still tied around her mouth.
“Wakey, wakey, snookums,” said Carmichael. “Time for some lovin’.”
She felt Carmichael’s eyes on her naked form. Apparently feeling a little too
lazy to bother untying her legs, and perhaps rather liking the way those
shapely limbs looked in rope anyway, he decided to pleasure himself that
morning by forcing Anne to complete the hand job she’d started the night before
when he’d finally drifted off to sleep.
It didn’t take long. She groaned a little when he came, and felt a little sick
as his seed spilled onto her hands. It was rather an odd reaction, she thought
to herself, given how much of the stuff she’d had to absorb into virtually
every orifice of her body, to feel sickly at having some of it on her hands.
Finished, he walked to phone and ordered some breakfast to be sent up. When it
arrived he opened the door a crack, passed a twenty to the fellow who’d
delivered the meal, and asked him to set it on the floor outside. When the waiter
was gone, Carmichael opened the door, picked up the tray and placed it on
table.
“Do you know what a lap dance is, baby?” he asked. “Let me show you how you’re
going to earn your meals from now on.”
With that he picked her up off the bed, brought her to the table, where he sat
down with her on his lap, and ungagged her. With her legs tied together, he
would have some difficulty penetrating anyplace, but at the moment he just
seemed to want his member stimulated.
“Wriggle, baby,” he said, removing her gag. “Shouldn’t be hard. I know you
don’t wanna be here. The better you wriggle, the more you get fed.”
With that, he began squeezing her breasts painfully, and rubbing her crotch,
and, much as she hated being compelled to do exactly what he wanted, she
couldn’t help it. The whole situation was so revolting, that she involuntarily
twisted and squirmed, trying to get away from him.
“Please let me go!” she pleaded. “You’ve gotten what you wanted from me. Now
please let me go! Let me go back to my baby girl!”
“That’s good, baby,” he said. “Keep begging like that. You might even scream.
We’ve pretty much got this whole part of the hotel to ourselves, and the rooms
are sound-proofed, so no one would hear you except me, but hearing you scream
would give me a real charge.”
She continued to squirm and twist and plead. All it got her was a piece of
toast hand-fed fed to her, some orange juice that he made her sip through a
straw so it wouldn’t spill, and some scrambled eggs that he spooned into her
mouth she though she was a child. When he came yet again, he pronounced it the
best breakfast he’d ever eaten.
*
The meal completed, Carmichael dressed, then assisted Anne in putting on her
denim skirt. There were a pair of iron links on the belt that held the skirt
up. To each of these, he’d locked a small chain with a leather cuff on the end.
He tightened each cuff around each of Anne’s wrists, and locked them both in
place so they couldn’t be loosened. Her ankles were untied, but as had been the
case the day before, the thighs remained tied to keep her from being able to do
more than hobble. Finally, he placed the sweater honcho over her, hiding her
bare breasts and her bondage.
They checked out, and Carmichael led her to the car.
“One stop to make, then we’re heading home,” he said.
He turned the car into the business center of Rutherford City. On 27th Street,
he parked near the Bank of Rutherford, turned off the car, and turned to Anne.
“You and me’ve got some business to conduct in there. I’m gonna unlock your
right wrist, and leave you ungagged. If you try anything, I’m gonna kill the
banker, kill two or three other people in the bank, then kill you.” He pulled
up his jacket to show he had a pistol shoved inside the waistband of his jeans.
“If any of them people in the bank are little kids, I’ll kill them after I kill
the banker. Everybody’s safety is on you.”
Anne nodded. Carmichael loosened the leather cuff over her right wrist and she
pulled it free. He handed her a small card.
“When you get asked for ID, show him this.”
It was a state driver’s license, made out in the name of “Carmichael, Anne R.”
“Spike’s old lady works at the Drivers License Office. She got this made from
your old one.”
They entered the bank, and Carmichael guided them over to the desk of a
middle-aged man, whose name plate identified him as “George Thomas – Vice-President.”
“How ya doin’, Thomas?” said Carmichael.
“Mr. Carmichael. What a pleasure! What can I do for you today?”
“The lady here and I got married recently. I want my savings and checking
accounts changed to joint accounts.”
“Of course. Please sit down, and I’ll take care of the paperwork myself. May I
see Mrs. Carmichael’s identification?”
Anne passed over the phony drivers license (was it phony? Issued irregularly,
but, if the marriage was legal, as Carmichael insisted, wasn’t this really her
name now?) to Thomas.
Thomas spent a few minutes typing out forms on his computer. When he was
finished, he printed them out, and handed them over to Carmichael and Anne for
their signatures.
Once the forms were signed, Carmichael informed Thomas that he had a document
he needed secured in his safety-deposit box. This was quickly accomplished.
All business
concluded, Thomas thanked them both, and assured Carmichael that his updated checks
would be delivered to his home the very next day.
*
As they were heading back to the huge home in the center of the massive
property he owned, he turned to her and said, “Don’t worry. You’ll never have
to sign a check.”
“Then what was that all about?”
“Just one more way we’re publicly putting it out there that we’re married.”
The rode for awhile in silence, then Anne, perhaps happy not be gagged even if
the only person she had to talk to was her abductor, asked, “What’s a ‘citizen
wife?’”
“Where’d you hear that?”
“That woman, Sherry, said I was passing over ‘sheep,’ ‘mama,’ and ‘old lady,’
and going straight to ‘citizen wife.’ What’d she mean?”
“A ‘citizen’ is what we call anybody who’s an outsider. If you’re married to a
biker, but kept separate from the biker life, you’re a citizen wife. A citizen
wife keeps the house clean, raises the kids, and basically puts out a front for
the rest of citizen society. You’re not gonna be part of biker life. So I guess
you’re a citizen wife, sort of. But you’re not gonna be part of public life,
either. You’re something altogether different, sweetcheeks. You could say
you’re the ‘princess bride,’ forced to marry the evil baron, and kept prisoner
in the tower for the rest of her days. I’m certainly evil, and, since the
Heathens are a small club, too small for me to be a king, or a prince, or even
a duke, I guess I must be a baron.”
He paused for a
moment, turned to her, and said, “And I’ve thought of you as a princess since I
first laid eyes on you.”
It might have been
a sweet, romantic thing to say, had it not been accompanied by such an evil,
frightening leer.
*
Adams County could not quite be classified as “metropolitan,” the way Stevenson
could. Nevertheless, it was considerably larger in population than counties
like Tracy or Kent, and, in consequence, though its Sheriff’s Office was still
fairly small, it was considerably larger than its counterparts in those counties.
Nine patrol deputies, three detectives, two court deputies, one undersheriff,
two lieutenants (one for patrol and one for corrections), and ten civilian
jailers.
In consequence, it was not necessary for the Sheriff of Adams County, Hiram Roscoe,
to be a hands-on cop. Which was just as well since Roscoe hadn’t possessed a
lick of police experience before his election to the office he now held. He was
able to pass the actual details of law enforcement to his undersheriff, Harv
Edwards, who was a professional cop, and who, most of the
time, was able to keep Roscoe from making errors of a truly serious nature.
For Roscoe, former mayor of the City of Adams, the position of sheriff was
merely a jumping off point to higher office. Believing that holding a position
that had once been held by one of the best-known of the Old West’s legendary
gunfighting lawmen would give him a higher profile, he had run for sheriff upon
the retirement of the previous incumbent and, surprisingly, had won. He now
spent most of his time planning his campaign for State Senator representing the
40th District.
And avoiding controversy.
Young Bishop, the firebrand state investigator sitting across from him, wanted
him to do something controversial. And Roscoe wanted to duck it.
According to Bishop, Peter Carmichael, whom Bishop insisted on referring to by
the distasteful nickname of ‘Wolf,’ Adams County’s wealthiest resident (and a
generous contributor to Roscoe’s campaign for sheriff), was a kidnapper and a
sexual predator, as well as the head of a major criminal organization.
“Riding around with a bunch of friends on his motorcycle doesn’t make Mr.
Carmichael a criminal, Bishop.”
“Outlaw Motorcycle Gangs aren’t a bunch of friends riding around on
motorcycles. They’re engaged in violent criminal activity all over the country.
Undersheriff Edwards will bear me out on this.”
Edwards, in addition to being second-in-command of the Sheriff’s Office (which,
for practical purposes, meant he was in command of the Sheriff’s Office), was
also specifically in charge of narcotics enforcement for Adams County.
“He’s right, Sheriff,” said Edwards, standing in a corner of Roscoe’s private
office. “Biker gangs run most of the drug traffic in this state, and in most of
this state, biker gangs means the Heathens.”
“But he’s already rich, legitimately,” said the sheriff. “Surely he’s separated
himself from that kind of activity now that he no longer needs the money.”
“It’s not really about the money for bikers, Sheriff,” said Bishop. “It’s about
the rush, the high. They get off on breaking the law and thumbing their noses
at conventional society.”
“Kicks,” agreed Edwards. “That’s why they all call themselves ‘one percenters.’
They try to deliberately separate themselves from the other ninety-nine percent
of society. And what Jack’s brought us is certainly reasonable suspicion. Might
even already qualify as probable cause.”
“I don’t need to hear all that legal mumbo-jumbo,” said Roscoe. “All I know is
I’m not going to authorize any deputy on this department assisting some hotshot
from the State Bureau of Investigation on a wild goose chase. Hell, Bishop, this
isn’t even your territory. Your office is in Dodge County.”
“The crime occurred in Tracy, which is in my district. And
I’ve already let Doug Reed know I’m here doing follow-up. My badge gives me
statewide jurisdiction. I’m just asking for one deputy to assist me with a
surveillance.”
“On the man’s private property,” said Roscoe.
“Yes, but beyond the curtilage. Case law allows this.”
Roscoe snorted and said, “I don’t even know what cartilage means.”
“‘Curtilage,’” corrected Bishop. “And, as I’ve explained, it’s the part of the
property that’s appurtenant to and regarded as part of the actual residence,
which means that . . .”
“You said all that before,” Roscoe interrupted. “And it still doesn’t cut any
ice with me. Private property is private property. I’m not authorizing any of
my deputies to assist you in invading the private property of the wealthiest
man in this county. And, Edwards, you tell Reese Thomas that if he lets Bishop use
that investigator of his, I’ll pull his deputy’s commission so he can’t operate
as a cop, anymore.”
Reese Thomas was the county attorney. He employed his own investigator, but
that investigator was deputized by the sheriff, and drew his law enforcement
authority from that appointment. Having it pulled would cripple the
investigator’s ability to function, and the County Attorney’s ability to
prosecute cases.
Bishop knew when a battle was lost. He got up, politely said, “Thank you for
your time, Sheriff. I guess I’ll just have to handle it myself. See you, Harv.”
Edwards said, “Jack, can you wait for me outside the office before you go?”
“Sure.”
“Good. Give me minute and I’ll be right with you.”
*
“Just what do you mean, telling him to wait for you,” said Roscoe. “If you’re
thinking of helping him on your own time, just you remember, I can bust you
down to road deputy, and make someone else my undersheriff.”
“Yeah, you can, Sheriff,” said Edwards, “but you won’t, ‘cause we both know you
can’t run this department without me. Don’t worry, though, I’m not going to
disobey a direct order. But you’re not going to sabotage Bishop’s investigation
any more than you already have. There’s a better’n even chance that Wolf
Carmichael’s holding a woman against her will in that rustic pleasure palace of
his. If you call him up to warn him that a state cop’s on his trail, I’m going
to personally arrest you for aiding and abetting kidnapping and rape, and then
denounce you to every news outlet there is. What do you think your chances of
getting into the State Senate would be then?”
“Are you threatening me?”
“You bet your life I am. More importantly, it’s a threat I’ll follow through
on.”
“I’ll . . . I’ll fire you!”
“Now that’s an empty threat. I’ve already got thirty years in. My
pension’s as high as it can go. The only reason I’m still around is to keep you
from screwing up this department too badly. My threat, by
contrast, is full to the brim. And if I have to make it good, I’ll put in my
retirement papers fifteen minutes after I’ve booked you, just to deny you the
pleasure of dismissing me. I’ve got half a mind to do it right now, then go
back up Jack as a civilian, but I don’t want to leave this department in your
benighted hands.”
*
After receiving Roscoe’s written promise that he would not warn Carmichael,
Edwards went out to meet Bishop outside Roscoe’s office.
“First off,” he told the state investigator, “you don’t have to worry about
Roscoe snitching you off to Carmichael. I couldn’t change his mind about giving
you assistance, but I was able to scare him off any idea he had of warning a
financial supporter.”
“Thanks, Harv.”
“Second, I can’t just disobey a direct order, but I can at least make it easier
for you to get cover rolling if things turn to shit.”
He walked Bishop over the equipment room and took out one of the portable two-way
radios the deputies wore on their belts.
“If you need back-up use this. It’ll save a few seconds if you don’t have to go
through the dispatcher on your cell phone. Sometimes those few seconds make a
difference.”
“I appreciate this, Harv.”
“Sorry it’s not more, Jack. One last thing. Was it me setting up a stakeout,
I’d go through Sam Morrison’s place. Sam’s a reserve deputy. He lives on the
farmland he rents from Carmichael. Enter the woods to the north of Sam’s fields.
Keep going as straight as you can. The woods aren’t that thick, so it’s not
like you’ll have to chop your way through. It shouldn’t take you more than a
fifteen minutes to get to the clearing at the center of the property where
Carmichael’s uncle built the house. The front entrance is on the south side.”
“Thanks again, Harv.”
*
She was going to die soon. She could imagine no other way for this to end.
Shortly after they
arrived back at the farmhouse, and he’d marched Anne back to the downstairs
chambers he’d prepared for her, instructing her to prepare for the day by
voiding, showering, brushing her teeth, etc., then putting on what he called
her “uniform of the day,” Anne became certain that she was going to die soon.
The “uniform”
more-or-less replicated her old school uniform. At least to the degree that it
consisted of a blue plaid skirt, the same plaid pattern she used to wear at
Perpetual Help, and a white polo shirt with the school emblem sewn over the
left breast. But the skirt was so short it barely covered her crotch; and the
sleeves had been removed from the polo shirt, as well as all but the bottom
button, and it was barely long enough to cover her breasts, and a full size too
small, as well, so that it looked less like a shirt than a bikini top. The
final items were a pair of knee socks and athletic shoes.
This was all just
a series of sex fantasies for him. And she was nothing but an instrument of
those fantasies. That much she’d already realized. What now occurred to her was
the answer to a specific question. When she was no longer able to satisfy those
fantasies, when the novelty of having his heart’s desire from high school in
his power wore off, what would become of her?
The answer was
obvious. He’d kill her and find someone else.
He loved his
motorcycle, his “hog” as he called it. But if it no longer performed up to
standard, if it was damaged beyond repair, if it no longer provided him with
the amusement he had derived from it when it was first acquired, he’d replace
it.
And, she was sure,
he’d do the same with her.
So what could she
do? She would, of course, escape if the opportunity ever presented itself. But,
right now, she couldn’t imagine that opportunity materializing.
So what was left?
Her faith.
It had sustained
her through Phil’s death a year ago, through her mother’s illness when she was
twelve, through her father’s being out of work when she was ten, through the
death of her dearest friend by a rare illness when she was eight. If she turned
to God now, even if she never escaped, He could help her endure.
The beloved
accoutrements of her faith were lost to her. The Rosary she carried in her
purse, the cross she wore around her neck, weekly Mass, the sacraments. But she
still had prayer. And even without the Rosary, she could still pray that sacred
mantra on her fingers. Whenever he was having his way with her, she would pray
the Rosary to get through it.
And when he killed
her, she would be reciting a prayer.
*
The last thing on Wolf Carmichael’s mind was murdering Anne. He was enjoying
her too much. Generally, the more you do a thing, the more boring that thing
gets, but sex with Anne just seemed to get better and better.
She was far from the only woman he’d ever raped. Those wings on his colors had
been earned, and every one represented a woman he’d ruthlessly and deliberately
ravaged. The blue one, which he’d earned for a forced sexual encounter with a
Texas state trooper, was one he took particular pride in. The blue was a little
misleading inasmuch as officers of the Texas Highway Patrol wear tan uniforms,
but since blue was the color most associated with law enforcement, he wasn’t
going to quibble. That particular conquest had also resulted in his acquisition
of the shoulder patch from his victim’s uniform, which was also displayed on
his colors.
But those rapes
were less about the sex, or even about the sheer enjoyment of violence,
then it was about the Club. It was part of living up to his own self-image as a
biker. And about getting respect from other bikers because of his
accomplishments as a sexual predator.
He’d also had
countless consensual (comparatively consensual) sexual trysts with the various
sheep and mamas associated with the Heathens. But that was just about getting
his ashes hauled.
With Anne it was
different. First, of course, she was far and away the most beautiful woman he’d
ever had. Second, was the fact that he’d been obsessed with her since high
school.
But there was more
to it.
Perhaps it was the
total control he was able to wield over her. She wasn’t just a hitchhiker on
the side of the road who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, someone he
briefly invaded because the opportunity presented itself, and discarded with as
much thought as disposing of a used tissue. She was his prisoner, totally
dependent on him for her survival, and acquiring her took, time, trouble, and
planning. Having a human being, a beautiful, vibrant, intelligent human being,
so completely in his power, and hating every second of it, was a huge turn-on.
Perhaps it was
that, in forcing her to marry him, something he conceived of primarily as a way
of enhancing the control he already wielded, he’d also made a sort of commitment
to her. He didn’t intend to be faithful, certainly. But he’d gone through a
ritual that told the world, publicly, that this particular person was more
important to him than anyone else. Having someone like that in his life, albeit
completely unwillingly, was also rather heady.
Whatever it was, one thing was clear to
Wolf Carmichael. Once he was finished doing Anne, the only thing he could think
about was the next time he could do Anne.
No other woman had
ever had that affect on him.
***
·
by Rescuer673, 1 hour and 50
minutes ago
·
WHACK!
“Hail Mary, full of grace,”
Anne recited to herself, counting on the fingers that were tied behind her.
WHACK!
“. . . pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death, amen.”
WHACK!
Her situation was revolting and humiliating in every respect.
“Hail Mary, full of grace,” she repeated, while envisioning an image of the
Archangel Gabriel informing the Blessed Virgin that she was with child.
Meanwhile, Wolf Carmichael was thoroughly enjoying the role-playing.
“You’ve been a very naughty girl, Little Miss Anne,” he said. “And naughty
girls have to be punished.”
And with that, he gave her another crack across her naked bottom with a tawse,
a stiff leather strap with a wooden handle designed for the application of corporal
punishment.
A little earlier, after Anne had finished her ablutions and dressed herself in
the ridiculously abbreviated version of her old school uniform, he’d appeared,
entering the room (she couldn’t think of it as “her” room), and shutting and
locking the door to which he had the only key behind him.
He tied her wrists together, then her elbows. Her thighs he strapped together
with a belt. Her ankles were left free.
“Now the gag,” he said.
“We’re inside your own house. There’s no one here but us. Your nearest
neighbors can’t hear anything that goes on here. What’s the point of gagging
me?”
“It makes you look more helpless. Helplessness adds to a girl’s beauty. Today
I’ve got a special one.”
It was something called a ball gag. A plastic ball with a strap on either side
that buckled behind her head.
With that, he hoisted her over his shoulder, and carried her upstairs, fondling
her naked bottom as they ascended. Underwear hadn’t been part of the “uniform
of the day.”
“You’ve got a first-class tush, babe,” he’d said. “It was made for what I got
in mind.”
He put her down behind a heavy, leather easy chair. There were leather cuffs
attached to each of the rear legs. He strapped one cuff to her left ankle,
unbuckled the strap restraining her thighs, and secured her right ankle to the
opposite leg. Then he lifted her arms, forcing her to bend over the backrest of
the chair, and began enthusiastically spanking her.
Unlike the hand-spanking he’d given her on their wedding day, this truly stung.
She tried to stay silent with each blow, to deny him the satisfaction of
knowing that she felt the pain, but that only made him swing harder. Ironically,
he finally stopped when she got to the Second Sorrowful Mystery of the Rosary,
the Scourging at the Pillar.
When he was finished, he dropped his pants, and entered her from behind,
pulling down the tight polo shirt and groping her exposed bosom with both
hands.
*
Bishop, dressed in blue jeans, a work shirt, and a blue raid jacket that said
“POLICE” in big letters across the back and down the sleeves, had taken a
surveillance position in one of the trees facing the front of the house. Except
for a driveway leading to the road, the clearing on which the house was built
was surrounded by woods. Beyond the woods were the lots that Carmichael rented
out either to farmers or to oil companies. These woods were part of the
secluded refuge that Carmichael’s uncle, and now Carmichael himself, retained
as a private home.
But, according to case law, the woods, though privately owned, were not a place
over which the owner had what the courts called a “reasonable expectation of
privacy.” That expectation could be exercised only on that portion of the
property that could be considered part of the actual residence, the “curtilage”
to use the legal term.
With a pair of binoculars, Bishop was keeping a watch on the huge picture
window through which the living room of the home could be seen. This brought
another legal principal into play, the “plain view” doctrine, which states, in
essence, that the eyes can’t trespass. If a cop sees illegal activity going on
inside a private residence, through an open window or door, then he can
intervene without a warrant even though the activity was taking place inside
that private residence, because the activity was in plain view.
The home was two and a half stories tall. The second floor was the main floor,
the front door opening up onto a spacious deck, which served as the roof for an
open-air garage. There was a storm cellar opening on the west side of the
house, suggesting that the lower half-story might be full story, extending
below ground level.
So
far Bishop had seen nothing, but he was sure Carmichael was home because both
his vintage Fleetwood and his cycle were parked below the deck. He could only
hope that Anne was there, too. If he saw her, particularly if she appeared to
be under some duress, that would be all the probable cause he’d need to call
for backup and enter the home. He’d only been there a little more than an hour,
and stakeouts usually lasted much longer. He was prepared to be patient.
Bringing
the binocs up after checking his watch, he saw Carmichael leading Anne, wearing
what he recognized as a costume that replicated her old school uniform, only
abbreviated to the point that it looked more like a stripper’s outfit, into the
room. Her hands were tied behind her, her legs hobbled at the knee. He
positioned her behind a huge, overstuffed easy chair, secured her ankles to the
back legs of the chair, forced her to bend over, lifted up her skirt, and began
beating her rear with a leather strap.
That
was what he needed.
He
turned on the belt radio that Undersheriff Edwards had loaned him, and called
the for backup from the nearest unit.
No
response.
In
fact, he could hear nothing but some occasional rasps of static. This must be a
dead zone.
He
tried calling “911” on his cell, but, apparently there were no cell towers near
enough for him to receive or send a signal.
He
was on his own.
A
frontal attack was out of the question. There were at least fifty yards between
the edge of the woods and the house. Carmichael would see him before he got
there, and even if he wasn’t seen, he’d be heard coming up the stairs. He’d
have to flank Carmichael, then lure him out.
He
climbed down the tree, and started running, still inside the woods, until he
faced the west side of the house, allowing him to approach without being seen
from the living room. He sprinted the distance between the wooded area and the
house. He tried the storm cellar doors, but found them locked, so he started
for the corner, sticking close to the house, walking slowly to make as little
noise as possible.
He
was recalling what Kevan had told him when he called for information about
Carmichael. That Carmichael was almost psychopathically possessive about things
he regarded as his property. He had an idea how to lure Carmichael out.
When
he turned the corner bringing him to the front of the house, he went directly
to the open air garage, and began hot-wiring the Harley, this is a fairly
simple thing to do, as he’d learned during a short period when he was one of
the six deputies on the motorcycle detail of the Stevenson County Sheriff’s
Traffic Division. He soon had the Harley’s engine turned over. He revved it a
few times, then went to the Fleetwood. Hot-wiring that was a more difficult,
time-consuming task, particularly since he wasn’t as familiar with the Cadillac
as he was with the bike. But just making the attempt set off the car alarm, and
all he really needed was noise. He revved the bike’s motor a few more times,
then went around the corner to see if Carmichael would bite.
*
Carmichael came at almost the moment when he heard his bike’s engine, a sound
as particular and familiar to him as his own voice, starting up and getting
revved.
“My hog!” he yelled. He withdrew, zipped up his pants, and went to a desk
against the wall. Opening a drawer, he withdrew a small semi-automatic pistol,
the same .32 he had used to make sure Phil Leonard was dead more than a year
ago. As he checked to make sure the magazine was loaded, the Fleetwood’s alarm
sounded.
“Thieving motherfuckers!” he yelled, and ran out of the house, leaving Anne,
still helplessly tied and gagged, and still bent over the chair.
She’d been praying the Luminous Mysteries of the Rosary, for the third time,
and had just completed the second, the Wedding at Cana.
*
Bishop saw Carmichael run down the stairs in a fury. He’d put his cell phone in
“record” mode so that he’d have something to back up his account of the
encounter if it came to shooting.
Carmichael turned off the motorcycle, and the car alarm, and, then looked
around, swinging his pistol back and forth, yelling, “Where are you,
cocksucker? Come out and face me, you thieving sack of shit! Where the fuck are
you?”
He kept turning in a circle, trying to find the thief. When his back was turned
toward the corner behind which Bishop hid, the detective leaned out, took dead
aim with his SIG-Sauer .40 caliber pistol, and said, “Police, Carmichael! Put
down the gun! You’re under arrest!”
Carmichael turned and snapped off one shot that went wide. Bishop had started
squeezing the trigger of his SIG almost the instant Carmichael started to turn
toward him. His first two went into Carmichael’s chest. Then he put two more
into Carmichael’s forehead, and one through his nose. He got out from behind
the corner and started walking toward the biker, continuing to fire as he moved
forward. Another ten rounds into the chest emptied the weapon. As Bishop was
reloading, Carmichael fell forward, dead.
*
After disarming and cuffing Carmichael (standard procedure), Bishop ran up to
the front door and entered the living room.
Anne tried to say “Jack” through the ball-gag, but it came out garbled.
“Don’t worry, Anne,” he said. “I’ll have you loose in a few seconds.”
With a pocket knife, he cut the ropes securing her wrists and elbows. Cutting
her loose, rather than untying her, preserved the knots, which might have
evidentiary value. Then he unbuckled the straps that held her ankles to the
chair legs. Finally, he unbuckled the gag.
“Are you OK? Did he hurt you? I know he was beating you just now, but did he
break any bones or cause any wounds?”
“He raped me, Jack. Every way he could, more times than I counted.”
“You’re safe now, Anne. I’ll get an ambulance here. You’ll be in the hospital
in no time.”
With that, he draped his raid jacket over her shoulders to protect her modesty,
and went to the hard-line phone on the desk where Carmichael had kept his .32.
He called the dispatcher at the Adam County Sheriff’s Office, informing them
that there’d been an officer-involved shooting, and asking for back-up and for
an ambulance for a kidnapping and rape victim. Then he called his headquarters
at the state capital and told them he’d been in a shooting and needed to get an
investigation into it started ASAP.
*
Within the hour, deputies had cordoned off the garage to preserve the scene of
the shooting, the local coroner had pronounced Carmichael officially dead, and
Anne had been transported to the Rutherford Medical Center in an Adams County
EMS ambulance.
While this was going one, and having nothing to do until the state
investigators who’d be looking into the shooting arrived, he called Anne’s
parents to let them know she’d been found, and was at the Rutherford Med Center
just for an examination, but was not physically injured (psychologically might
be another matter).
“Are you sure she’s all right,” asked Mrs. Riley.
“No broken bones or wounds, Mrs. Riley. But she’s been through a tough time. A
very tough time. I think it would be a big help if you and your husband, and
little Maureen, could get up here as soon as possible.”
“We’re on our way,” she assured him.
*
About six hours later, the investigation into the shooting was winding up. The
state CSI’s had gone over the scene, meticulously searching for forensic
evidence. The recording of the event on Bishop’s cell phone had been carefully
listened to. And Bishop had been interviewed at length.
Lou Sanford, the senior investigator in charge of the shooting investigation,
having questioned Bishop meticulously for most of those six hours, finally
closed his notebook, and said, “Well, I guess that’s all I need, Jack. I
wouldn’t worry about this being judged anything but a righteous shooting.
Physical evidence bears out your account. So does the recording on your cell
phone. That was a really good idea, by the way. One thing still bothers me,
though.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, Jack, you went and shot him fifteen times. Fifteen! Why’d you shoot him
that many times?”
“I honestly don’t know, Lou. Didn’t really think about it. But I guess if
I had to say why . . . ”
“Yeah?”
“Well, you know the mag on a SIG-Sauer .40 holds fourteen rounds.”
“Sure.”
“And I had one up the pipe.”
“Naturally.”
“I guess, when you come right down to it, the reason I shot him fifteen times
is that the pistol only held fifteen rounds.”
*
Two days after the shooting, Bishop visited Anne in the hospital.
She gave him a bright smile when he entered and said, “Hi. I was getting
worried again. I never really got a chance to thank you properly. And I still
have your jacket.”
“Not much to thank me for,” he replied.
“You risked your life to save me from a vicious kidnapper. If you hadn’t’ve
been so relentless, my disappearance might have been written off as a suicide,
and I’d’ve spent the rest of my life as living blow-up sex doll. And I have no
doubt that it would have been a short life. I think I have a lot to
thank you for.”
“If I’d’ve been more on the ball, you’d’ve never been kidnapped in the first
place.”
“You can’t blame yourself for that. That’s like Dr. Salk blaming himself for
all the people who died or were crippled from polio because he didn’t invent
the vaccine sooner. You solved Phil’s murder, and you rescued me from a life of
misery. I was praying the Rosary when you managed to lure . . . him,” she
couldn’t being herself to say his name yet, “away from me. You were the answer
to a prayer. You’re a hero. You were getting dispatched by God Himself. How
many cops can say that?”
“Well,” he said, “I won’t argue with you. How long are they keeping you here?”
“I’m getting out today. My folks are on their way to pick me up.”
“Take it slow for awhile. Spend time with your family, and life’ll look
better.”
“It looks pretty good now.”
“I’m more happy than I can say to hear that,” he said. “You be sure to call me
if you need anything.”
And, without even a handshake, let alone a kiss, he got up and left.
*
Two weeks after she got out of the hospital, Anne had her period. She uttered a
silent prayer of thanks that she wasn’t carrying the child of her abductor.
*
For three months Jack didn’t come by or call.
In the interim, the three Heathens who were part of the kidnap conspiracy,
Vice-President (and Reverend) Spike Foster, Sergeant-at-Arms Snake Thompson,
and Associate Shelly Marvin, were all arrested. One of them, no one knew who,
offered to turn state’s witness against the other two, as well as provide
intelligence about the Heathens’ operations. At least there were rumors to that
effect. All three were being held without bail. All three were found dead in
their cells one morning. The Heathens were, apparently, disinclined to take
chances.
The murders were investigated in a fairly desultory manner by the local
sheriff’s office, who chose not to call in the State Bureau of Investigation.
That pretty much ended things. At least as far as the criminal justice system
was concerned.
*
Anne
finally swallowed her pride and called him.
“State Bureau of Investigation. Bishop. May I help you?”
“Your phone manner is very professional, Mr. Bishop.”
“Anne?”
“That’s right.”
“Is anything wrong?”
“No. Just that I never heard from you after you visited me at the hospital. You
still owe me a dinner.”
He found it difficult to say anything. Words just wouldn’t come.
“Are you still there?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Well, then, what about that dinner?”
“I . . . didn’t think you’d want to, Anne. I thought I’d just be a reminder of
three terrible days you’d rather forget. I wasn’t sure you’d ever want any man’s
company again.”
“Well, maybe if he’d decided to do this back when I was a high school freshman,
I would have felt that way. But, by the time he finally got around to it, I’d
already had a very loving marriage with a very good man. And we enjoyed the
intimate aspects of marriage very much. Did you know we went together for three
years? But he was a gentleman and waited ‘til the wedding night. He really was
a terrific guy. And, after the wedding night, which was wonderful, it only got
better. I know what sex with a gentle, loving man is.”
“But still, Anne, I’ve known rape victims who couldn’t even look at me ‘cause I
was a man. Couldn’t look at husbands they’d been married to for years, ‘cause
they were men. To you I’d be more than just any man. I’d be a constant reminder
of what Carmichael did to you.”
“What Carmichael did to me isn’t going to change who I am. I’ll be skittish for
awhile. You’re right about that. And I’m having the expected sleepless nights
alternating with nightmare-filled sleep. I’m not trivializing what happened.
I’m seeing a therapist, and I’m going to a support group regularly. But I want
to be loved by a good, decent man again. And, before all this happened, I kind
of hoped you might be that man, Jack.”
“I . . . kind of hoped I might be, too. I was just afraid you wouldn’t want a
romantic relationship, or even a platonic friendship. And it seemed easier,
less selfish, to just stay away, rather than inflict myself on you.”
“You’re hardly an affliction, Jack.”
“Well, then how about dinner and a movie this Saturday?”
“Sounds great!”
*
Three months after that, they were married at St. Michael’s, the church where
they’d both been baptized, received their First Communions, and been confirmed.
And thereafter, they enjoyed a passionate, if somewhat vanilla, sex life.
Maureen loved her new daddy as much as she had her old one, and looked forward
to having younger brothers and sisters in the course of time.
But that’s not the end of the story.
*
About six months after Anne Leonard became Anne Bishop, she received a phone
call from a lawyer in Adams County named Herman Williamson, who asked if it
would be possible for her to stop by his office the following day.
“I can leave my daughter with my folks, Mr. Williamson, but I don’t know if my
husband can get any time off work.”
“It’s you I need to see, Mrs. Bishop. And it’s fairly important. I can’t talk
about it over the phone, but I will say you’re likely to find it good news.”
“I’d still prefer to have my husband there.”
“Just as you say, Mrs. Bishop. I’ll set aside three o’clock tomorrow afternoon.
If you can’t make it, just let me know ahead of time.”
*
Bishop was sufficiently intrigued, that he went into work early that day to get
caught up on his backlog of paperwork, so he could leave early. They were
living in Ford City, now, in a smallish two-bedroom apartment. They were
looking around for a house within their means, but, for the moment, the
apartment served.
The drive to Rutherford took about an hour and a half. They were ushered into
Williamson’s office promptly at three.
“Mrs. Bishop, you might not be aware that, when he died, Peter Carmichael was
intestate,” said Williamson
“Come again?”
“Means he didn’t leave a will, sweetheart,” said Bishop.
“Exactly,” said Williamson. “Since no will was found, a ‘default will,’ so to
speak, goes into effect. The court has appointed me the administrator of his
estate. For practical purposes, that makes me the executor of that default
will.”
“I see,” said Anne. “But what does that have to do with us?”
“With you, Mrs. Bishop.”
“Okay. Then what does it have to do with me?”
“In searching for a will, Mr. Carmichael’s safe deposit box at his bank here in
Rutherford was opened. No will was found, but this was.”
He showed them the marriage certificate that had been filled out during the
ceremony to which Carmichael had forced her to acquiesce.
“Is that your signature, Mrs. Bishop?”
“Yes, it is.”
“So you went through a marriage ceremony with Mr. Carmichael?”
“I was forced to go through such a ceremony, yes.”
“It was not consensual?”
“Depends on what you mean by ‘consent,’ I suppose. My family’s life was
threatened if I didn’t cooperate. Given the choice between going through with
the ceremony or allowing my parents and my daughter to be murdered, I chose
what seemed to me to be the lesser of two evils. But it was certainly not my
wish to marry my abductor.”
“Of course not. Was the marriage consummated?”
“He raped me repeatedly after the ceremony had been completed. I guess that
might count as consummation.”
“And did you put yourselves out publicly as being a married couple?”
“He registered us at a local hotel here in Rutherford after the ceremony was
completed.”
“That was the Emissary?” Williamson asked.
“I think so. It was a large hotel just outside the city limits.”
“Just so. Did you do anything else to publicly proclaim yourselves as a married
couple?”
“He changed his bank accounts into joint accounts under both our names. I
signed a form to that effect. He’d had a phony ID made up that I showed to the
banker.”
“But you didn’t show it to him ‘til after the ceremony?”
“No, I did not. Just to be clear, you should know I was still under duress this
whole time. I was tied up and gagged at the hotel, but wearing clothes that hid
my restraints. He allowed me one hand free at the bank to sign the forms, and
left me ungagged so I could say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ at the appropriate times, but I
cooperated because he was still threatening my family, and all the people in
the bank, if I didn’t.”
“I understand that, Mrs. Bishop, but the salient point here is that, on the
surface, judging from the documentary evidence, this would seem to be a valid
marriage.”
“What do you mean?” asked Bishop.
“Mr. Bishop, as you know this is a state in which common law marriages are
considered valid. To be regarded as valid, presuming there’s no pre-existing
impediment such as one party or the other already having a spouse, three things
are required, consent from both parties to their being married, consummation,
and living together publicly as a married couple. Mrs. Bishop went through an
actual ceremony, and signed a certificate, one that was also signed by the
putative husband, by an officiant who was an ordained clergyman, and by two
witnesses. That’s a pretty solid piece of evidence in favor of consent.
Hospital records show that, as Mrs. Bishop has already stated, she had sexual
relations numerous times with the deceased, as is borne out by DNA analysis.
They registered at a hotel as husband and wife, and opened joint accounts as
husband and wife at a local bank. Finally, from the time of the ceremony until
his death, the deceased spent every minute with the putative bride. So we have
documented consent, documented consummation, documented instances of them
publicly putting themselves forward as a married couple, and the couple living
together until death did them part. All the elements needed to make this a
valid marriage under Common Law, at least in terms of documentary evidence, are
present. Further, despite the questionable aspects, or to be blunt, the
criminal aspects of the union, and Mrs. Bishop’s obvious discomfort with being
regarded as Mr. Carmichael’s widow, no effort was made to have the marriage
declared invalid.”
“So what? As you said, death did them part. The scumbag’s dead now. There was
no point in putting Anne through the rigmarole, to say nothing of humiliation,
of getting the damned thing annulled when his ticket was already punched.”
“Precisely. And the consequence is that means Mrs. Bishop is his widow. And
since there are no other living relatives, according to the default will
established by the state legislature, Mr. Carmichael’s entire estate would pass
to her. Mr. Carmichael was one of the wealthiest persons in this state. And
now, with everything probated, estate taxes paid, and all debts settled, the
residue is still large enough to make Mrs. Bishop one of the wealthiest persons
in the state.”
“Mother of God!” said Anne. “Dear sweet Mother of God!”
*
And that’s how, by forcing the captive he planned to use as a sex slave into
going through a ceremony that he intended to be merely another element of her
imprisonment, Wolf Carmichael wound up endowing his victim with all his worldly
goods.
The power of prayer?
That’s a question for theologians, not storytellers.
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