Murder of a Moral Man - 4. Chapter 4

Robby Wishart: My Protector

I had to wait for Sam to get off me before I could get up myself. He’d knocked the wind out of me. Sam’s a big guy, at least compared to me. While I love being under him in the right circumstances, this was less than romantic. When I was finally standing up, I gave my ass a rub and asked sarcastically,

“What the fuck, Sam? First you take all the hide off my ass; then you try to crush the life out of me.”

The sarcasm didn’t bother Sam. He understood I wasn’t angry with him. I was actually touched, even though his heroic effort to protect me had only ratcheted up my suffering. He started to pick up the brick, but I, the reader of approximately 400 works of detective fiction, warned him,

“Don’t touch it. The police might be able to get fingerprints or DNA from it.”

Sam snorted. “I doubt it very much. Fingerprints, Robby? Seriously? I wouldn’t count on them even testing for DNA, let alone finding it.”

Still, he backed away from the brick. “Should we even bother to call the cops on this? They’ll probably just think we threw it through our own window to divert suspicion.”

I was already calling 911. It looked like Sam’s frozen pizza would remain in the freezer indefinitely.

The police sent a patrol car out. The uniformed officer took a report about what had happened and promised to do some drive-by’s. I didn’t think he took the incident seriously, which relieved me but also pissed me off.

Detective Sergeant Aloysius Hicks: Clueless

I’d put the murder of Tom Keys on the back burner. We had no leads on it, but I had a promising suspect in the stabbing death of Geronimo Butcher. Geronimo’s real name was Jerrold Jerome Butcher, and neither I nor anyone else regretted his demise. Still, as I remind myself every day, we’re the cops. We investigate impartially the deaths of saints and sinners. It looked like Geronimo’s killer was one of the exotic dancers at his eponymous club. It was a known front for prostitution and drug dealing. The dancer had settled a professional disagreement with the CIA letter opener Geronimo had carelessly left on the desk in his back office. She’d left her fingerprints all over the letter opener, which she’d stuck in Geronimo’s liver. It didn’t take long to match the prints to a dancer who called herself Foxy Roxy. Her real name was Ina Williams.

Seeing an opportunity for wit, I joked to Grimes, “We’ve got a butcher and a baker. All we need now is a dead candlestick maker.”

Grimes’ mouth twitched just enough to convey how little humor he found in this coincidence of occupation and name. He tossed a report at me, saying, “You might want to look at his.”

I gave it a glance. “Criminal mischief? That’s not my department says Wernher Von Braun.”

Grimes rolled his eyes. “Look at whose house it was, Sarge.”

“Well, that makes a difference.”

Of course, the jackass who threw the brick through the Anderson-Wishart’s window probably had nothing to do with the Keys murder. We’d still have to investigate it. It reflects badly on the department when vigilantes terrorize suspects. There was also the possibility Wishart or Anderson had staged a crime to divert suspicion. Mostly, it reminded me I was neglecting that case.

I mentally rearranged the pots on my investigative burners, moving Keys to the front again. The department was under pressure to solve the case, which meant I was personally under pressure. A loudmouthed idiot named Randy Pierson was insisting to anyone who’d listen—which was a shocking number of people—that the police knew the murderer but were under political pressure not to arrest him. Trifles like lack of evidence cut no ice with people like Pierson, even though he has a law degree and ought to know better. According to Pierson and company, common sense is always sufficient to make an arrest, and only the powerful interests of something called the Gay Agenda stood between common sense and justice. In my experience, common sense is about as reliable in identifying criminals as my son Trevor is in taking out the trash. If it’s a good week for him without any extra distractions, and Mandy and I both give him hourly reminders, he typically gets the trash out to the curb in time for pickup on one of our two trash days.

Wishart was the common sense suspect, for sure. He was also the only suspect except for an unknown subject or Unsub. I found it impossible to imagine Keys’ wife Leah murdering her husband in such an elaborate way. Either she was an actress with talent that put Meryl Streep to shame or she knew nothing about what had happened. I’m not saying she was incapable of murder. Most people can kill under the right conditions, but Leah Keys would have endured a hell of a lot before risking the security her marriage gave her. I’ve seen plenty of grief-stricken widows but never one so lost. She was putty in Pierson’s hands. She made regular appearances with him where she said nothing but gazed beyond the camera with her thousand yard stare.

I also couldn’t see Robby Wishart as a murderer. The kid was far from stupid, and he’d have needed a profound degree of stupidity to murder someone after wishing a very specific manner of death on his victim, using that method to kill said victim, and finishing up by neglecting to give himself an alibi. My instincts told me Wishart had nothing to do with it. Of course, instincts can be wrong. Wishart could have done it. What people like Pierson can’t get through their thick skulls is that showing someone could have committed a crime is not the same as proving he did.

Then there was Dylan Keys. I was sure the kid was holding something back. It might have nothing to do with Keys’ murder, but I wanted to know why the kid was afraid. With little hope of finding anything useful, I decided to ask Trevor when I got home. Trevor was the same age and was in 8^th grade at the same middle school. I had no reason to think Trevor knew Dylan. He’d never mentioned him. It was worth a shot, though. I was getting desperate.

I went up to Trevor’s room to find him on Discord. The conversation started out well with my asking,

“Aren’t you grounded from using your electronics?”

Trevor didn’t bother to turn from his laptop. His fingers didn’t miss a keystroke either, as he responded with a single syllable: “So?”

I rolled his desk chair around so he faced me instead of the laptop. “Is there some ambiguity about the meaning of ‘grounded’, Trev?”

Trev let out a sigh as he reached deep into the wellspring of his self-control. As he faced me with patient contempt, I felt my irritation rise.

“No, Dad. I understand what grounded means. I just don’t care.”

Time to take back control of this situation. I went to Trevor’s closet. On the top shelf was the ½-inch thick hunk of cedar called the Attitude Adjuster that was the only thing that stood between me and total insubordination. Trevor glared at me.

“Oh, come on, Dad. I was just on for five minutes. It’s no big deal.”

“I’ll accept it’s no big deal, so I’ll make it one for the disobedience and two for the snotty attitude.”

I could see Trevor’s internal battle reflected in his face. Three swats with the Attitude Adjuster sting like hell, but he could take them without a total loss of dignity. More than three would pretty much ruin his day. He stood up, shoved his chair out of the way, and bent over his desk. I cleared my throat.

Trevor dropped his basketball shorts and boxer briefs before bending again. I let fly with paddle. It sounded like a starter pistol. I gave him a couple of seconds to try the squeeze the sting out of his buttocks, which were now developing a swath of red right across the crest. A second swat on the same spot made him yelp. One more, sited where he’d put his weight when he sat down, got another yelp.

“All right, Trevor.”

He pulled up his clothes while I put the Attitude Adjuster back in the closet.

Now wasn’t the optimal moment, but I said,

“I need a favor.”

Trevor’s post-paddling sullenness morphed into incredulity. “You’re asking for a favor after you just busted my butt?”

“Sure. Can we just skip the usual pouting period? This is important.”

“I don’t pout. Anyway, what’s the favor?”

“Tell me what you know about Dylan Keys.”

Trevor’s eyes widened. “The kid whose dad was murdered? I know who he is. He’s in a couple of classes with me, but we’re not friends or anything. He’s kind of weird, Dad.”

I asked, “Weird how?”

“Well, maybe ‘weird’ isn’t the right word. It’s just that he keeps to himself. Like I said, I barely know him. He just doesn’t fit in with any of the cliques. He’s an outsider somehow. I don’t get him. He’s not weird in a scary way. I mean, I don’t think he’ll come in and shoot up the school someday or anything like that.”

“Does he have any friends?”

Trevor shrugged. “He eats lunch with some guys, but I don’t think he’s very close to them. I think he knows them from his church. They tolerate him, but he doesn’t really belong to their group. I see him sitting there eating his sandwich at their table, but he doesn’t ever say much.”

I stifled my qualms. “Do you think you could try to befriend him?”

Trevor’s eyes widened. “You want me to spy on a classmate? Be a sort of informant?”

“I wouldn’t put it quite like that. His dad just died—was murdered, in fact—and he needs a friend.”

“If I do it, will you unground me?” my cynical offspring asked.

“Okay,” I replied, “But I want to know anything he tells you, even if it seems unimportant. I’m worried about him.”

“I’ll do my best.”

I added, “Trevor, don’t mention this to anyone else.”

He rolled his eyes. “No shit, Dad.”

Dylan Keys: Death of a Ghost

He sighed when his American History teacher announced they should find a partner for her stupid current events presentation. He didn’t know anyone in this class well enough to be partners, and he’d had enough current events for a lifetime. His entire existence had become a current event, leaving him feeling like an animal in a zoo. The class was supposed to be history.

He was surprised when Trevor Hicks came over to ask, “Want to work with me?”

He barely knew the redhaired kid, but the offer was a lifeline. Dylan hated waiting to see if anyone else was left unpaired and becoming partners by default—or worse, being attached as the third person to partners who didn’t want him.

Trevor asked, “Got any ideas? The whole world is pretty much on fire right now.”

Dylan shrugged. “I don’t care. Whatever you like is fine.”

Trevor dropped his voice to say, “By the way, I’m sorry about your dad, Dylan.”

“Thanks.”

“Are you and your mom doing okay?”

Dylan looked up. “I guess. It’s hard but Mom’s selling the equipment from the bakery and someone else is taking over the lease. Dad had life insurance, so we’re okay. Some guy who’s a lawyer’s been telling her what to do.”

“It’s weird no one’s been arrested yet. Do you think that guy who had the argument over a wedding cake did it?”

“I dunno. He didn’t seem much like a murderer, but I don’t know what murderers are like.”

“My dad does. He’s a cop.”

Dylan froze. Hicks. Red hair, freckles, hazel eyes.

“He’s the one in charge of the investigation!” Dylan glared with suspicion at Trevor.

“Yeah, and he’s not doing so hot. Sorry if I’m making you uncomfortable. I don’t blame you if you don’t want to talk about it.”

They spent the rest of the period deciding to do their project on anti-vaccination and mask protests.

*****

Dylan dreaded another evening with his silent mother in a silent house. He wished he could talk to her, but conversation was impossible. Her vacant eyes stared into nothingness. He didn’t know how to act around her.

He opened the front door and called, “Mom, I’m home!” She didn’t answer. He came through into the living room. The lights and television were off. He shrugged his backpack off his shoulder onto the sofa and headed for the kitchen. She sat at the table, head slumped over, resting on her folded arms.

“Mom?”

He touched her arm and felt a frisson of repulsion.

The 911 dispatcher heard the panicked voice of a teenage boy: “Help! My mom won’t wake up. I think she’s dead!”

Detective Sergeant Aloysius Hicks: A Jarring Note

Probable suicide. Leah Keys’ body showed no sign of violence. An empty bottle of tranquilizers, a nearly empty wine bottle, and a wine glass were on the table beside her. In her medicine cabinet was a bottle of antidepressants, which, judging from the date on the bottle, she’d had before her husband’s death. I noted two different doctors had issued the scrips.

There was also a note, but the note more than anything troubled me. She’d apparently felt the effects of the pills while she was writing it and gone to sleep with it under her head. It read simply:

“Dylan, I’m sorry”

It just didn’t add up. First of all, why the hell would she take the pills and then start writing? Of course, people who kill themselves aren’t necessarily thinking straight. But the letter itself was wrong. Wouldn’t a mother want her last words to her child to convey affection? The tone was more consistent with a quick note to say she was dashing off on an errand. Also, she should have had time to write more than three words. It’s not as if she’d have swallowed the pills and five seconds later been asleep. I supposed the letter could have been an impulse after she was already feeling the effects, but her handwriting to my inexpert eyes looked like she was in control of her faculties.

On impulse, I asked Dylan if he’d checked his cell phone after school. He shook his head. He’d forgotten to charge it. I had him put it on the charger, turn it on, and check. His mother had left him a text message at 10am:

“Have to go to bakery to meet man buying equipment and do other errands may take all afternoon call me if u need me.”

The “suicide note” could easily have been a backup note to the text message. It also suggested she’d had no plans to overdose that morning. If she had killed herself, something must have provoked it.

Then there was the problem of Dylan. Dylan was supposed to be the problem of the social worker from CPS. She was tearing her hair out, as he didn’t have any convenient relatives she could park him with. Both sets of grandparents were dead, no aunts, and just one uncle, who lived in Seattle and who’d had no contact with his sister for decades. Anyway, I didn’t want the kid taken out of our jurisdiction until his parents’ deaths were solved. Ms. Carter didn’t want to put the kid in any sort of institutional care or with strange foster parents for obvious reasons, though she had to place traumatized kids in less than ideal situations on a regular basis.

I suggested placing him with me temporarily on the very thin basis he knew my son, Trevor. Carter was dubious, to say the least. I pointed out that my wife and I had jumped through the hoops to be foster parents a few years earlier to sponsor a refugee child through my wife’s church. We’d never had a child actually placed with us, but I hoped the thought might count for something.

Carter eventually agreed to let me take Dylan home while she worked on a more permanent solution. Dylan seemed past caring where he went. He packed a bag and came with me without objection or enthusiasm.

I was relieved he’d be under my roof. With two-thirds of his family now dead in the space of a couple of weeks, I had an irrational fear for his safety.

I was unsure how hard I wanted to push an investigation into Leah Keys’ death. I had no solid grounds to justify manpower on a death that appeared to be suicide. I’d checked Leah’s phone for messages and found nothing to indicate she was meeting with anyone at her house. I had evidence she suffered from depression, though I asked Grimes and Johnson to follow up with the doctor who’d issued the antidepressant scrip. She’d left what everyone else was happy to call a suicide note. There was no sign of violence. I had the wine tested to see if it had anything dissolved in it, but beyond that, I really had no justification to rock the boat.

A Man of Flexible Planning and Morality

Leah Keys’ murderer was sure he hadn’t been seen coming to the house. He had actually planned her “suicide” for a later date, and he’d already decided on a different method. The opportunity had been too good to pass up. He’d interrupted her writing a note to her kid and recognized its potential for suggesting suicide.

The rest had been easy. Leah Keys had been so weak she’d swallow anything. Literally.

Sam Anderson: To Tell or Not to Tell

I can’t say what I felt when I heard Keys’ widow had killed herself. Alarm? Pity? Incredulity? I guess it was a mixture of all these things and more. I’d never met the woman, but her life had intersected with mine and Robby’s. It may have been selfish, but I was mostly worried about how Robby would handle the news.

It probably took longer than five minutes in reality, but it felt like only five minutes before Randall Pierson was mouthing off in front of cameras again, this time blaming the poor woman’s suicide on Robby. I thought I could cheerfully commit a murder myself if I could get my hands around Pierson’s fat neck. I’d come down hard on Robby for listening to Pierson’s bullshit. Now, I found myself doing it.

“Robert Wishart is morally as guilty of Leah Keys’ death as he is legally guilty of her husband’s. I warned what would happen if the Supreme Court forced same-sex marriages on us. For true Christians, those unholy unions are not marriages. Religious freedom is at stake here. If the law can punish business owners for violating their own consciences, then we might just as well be living under a Marxist regime. If the law doesn’t hold Robert Wishart responsible for Thomas Keys’ death, it has invited more violence—more intimidation—from radical homosexuals. I beg every one of you who is concerned with religious freedom, everyone who wants to protect Christians from persecution, whether that persecution is cloaked in the law or comes from the violent, leftist mobs of homosexuals, atheists, Marxists….”

I turned the television off before I found out what Pierson was begging for from these beleaguered Christians. Robby looked at me with haunted eyes.

“What’s going to happen to that poor kid, Sam?”

To that question, I had no answer. My parents have always been a loving, supportive presence in my life. Robby wasn’t so fortunate. His biological father died in a car accident when he was a toddler, leaving Robby only the sketchiest of memories. His mother was alive, and he’d had a procession of stepfathers in his life. He’d never really bonded with any of them. His relationship with his mother was what he called cordial. To me, she seemed as cold and distant as the moon. She was currently living in Costa Rica. No wonder Robby felt for Dylan Keys.

I was spending my days doing mostly nothing. Of course, I was working with GALA (Gay Alliance for Legal Assistance) to prepare for a hearing on my suspension and a potential lawsuit if the hearing didn’t clear me to return to my classroom. Robby was still able to go to his own classes at the university, where he met with support from his professors and fellow students. His freshman writing students were also supportive. It was good for his morale, which needed all the boosts it could get.

Three days after Leah Keys’ suicide, two things of note happened. The first was that Robby came home devastated because Pierson had staged a protest at the university. Pierson had stopped just short of urging his followers to take the law into their own hands. We already had police cruisers going past the house hourly. Though we’d had no more bricks through the window, we got plenty of death threats. I worried we were about to endure even more intrusion from law enforcement in our own best interests, thanks to Pierson.

The second was an email.

I’d given one of my personal email addresses to a student back in November. The student, Nick, was afraid his parents would find out he’s gay. He’d come to me because he knew I was gay. He didn’t want to communicate through my school district email because he was afraid the school might turn any communications over to his parents. I’d been able to put him in touch with a support group that was better equipped to advise him than I was, but he still had the email address if he needed it.

He wrote:

“Hi, Mr. Anderson. We miss you. A lot of us signed a petition demanding your return. I’m not really writing you about that, though. I know something about Dylan Keys. I’m not sure if it’s important or whether I should tell anyone about it. I don’t see how it could help clear your fiancé, but I trust you to do the right thing with it. Dylan used to be part of the same online chat group I’m in for kids who are afraid to tell their parents they’re gay. Dylan’s dad is worse than mine. He beat him with a belt all the time for nothing.

“His user name was Fairy_Cakes. He used slightly different versions of the same handle to post on Twitter, TikTok, and Instagram, though he didn’t post much. He also used versions of Fairy_Cakes on some hookup sites, but I’m not sure which ones. All the social media accounts under those names are gone now. I wasn’t trying to dox him, but I was worried he wasn’t safe at home. I just wanted to keep an eye on him. I also think he was getting involved with an older guy from things he said in some of our chat sessions. Not sure if they ever met in person.

Nick”

I composed a suitable reply to thank Nick and then let my mind process what I’d just learned: the son of the homophobic baker was gay. I’d suspected it. No wonder the kid had reacted to Robby and me the way he had.

Now seemed a bad time to share this information with Robby, but I felt he had to know. He immediately forgot about his own woes in an outpouring of sympathy.

“Poor kid. What he must have gone through! What he must still be going through!”

Robby’s eyes teared up. “I wish I could give him a hug.”

I felt I should give Robby a hug. He clung hard to me for several long seconds. When he let go, I asked,

“So, what do you think we should do with this? Should we give it to the police?”

Robby glared at me. “Why the fuck would we do that? I don’t see how it has any relevance unless you think Dylan might have killed him.”

I said as gently as I could, “It’s possible he could have done it, Robby. Particularly if he had an accomplice. Keys would undoubtedly have opened the door to his own son. You have to admit he has a better motive than you.”

Robby shook his head stubbornly. “No, I don’t believe it. If you pass this onto the cops, they’ll put him through hell for nothing. He’s lost both of his parents and now you’re talking about outing him so the police can give him the third degree.”

I gave a resigned sigh. “Okay, but what about this older guy Nick thinks was involved with Dylan? Maybe he’s X. He might have felt protective or angry if he found out Keys was beating Dylan and decided to kill him. Nick called this mystery person an older guy, which could mean anything from another teenager to an adult trying to groom him. Teenagers have killed parents before with help from their friends. Or, maybe X is a deranged adult who killed Keys and Dylan had nothing to do with it. If he was grooming Dylan, he may even have killed Keys out of fear of exposure.”

“I just think we should be careful about giving information to the police.”

I reluctantly agreed to do nothing for now.

Dylan Keys: Grief

The room Mrs. Hicks showed Dylan to was comfortable without being comforting. The walls were a noncommittal greyish-green shade, unrelieved by any paintings, photographs, or posters. The double bed on which he set his duffle bag was covered with a greyish-green spread. Mrs. Hicks, a frankly middle-aged woman, had a kind face. A look of concern replaced her usual expression of unrelenting cheerfulness.

“Make yourself at home, Dylan, and let me know if you need anything. I’ll let you put your things away. We’ll have dinner in half an hour or so. Trevor’s room is right next to yours if you want to talk to him. We’ve asked him not to bother you or he’d make you welcome himself.”

At the door, she turned back to give him an impulsive hug and a kiss on the cheek. The affection startled but didn’t displease Dylan.

She hadn’t been gone but two minutes before someone knocked on the door. Trevor didn’t wait for an invitation to enter but walked right in.

“Are you all right, Dylan?”

Dylan glanced in Trevor’s direction. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry about your mom.”

Dylan didn’t know how to respond so he didn’t.

Trevor stood there a moment in uncertainty. “Would you rather be alone?”

Dylan shook his head.

“Why don’t we go to my room then? This room is awful. Mom’s always saying she’s going to do something with it, but she never does.”

Trevor led Dylan to his own bedroom, where he chattered about school and sports until his mother called out, “Trevor! Dylan! Come to dinner!”

Dylan felt out of place in the normalcy of a family dinner. His appetite returned when he smelled the pungent scents of tomato and garlic. He hadn’t eaten a hearty meal since Dad had died. The food wasn’t anything special. Mrs. Hicks’ Italian dinner had come from bottled sauce, pre-shredded parmesan cheese, and frozen garlic toast. But it was plentiful, and the tastes were familiar.

After dinner, he joined the family to watch a movie. He suddenly realized he was laughing at the antics of the boys in the movie, and it seemed monstrous he could laugh with his parents dead. He excused himself before the end of the movie, saying he was tired and just wanted to get a shower and go to bed. It felt strange to shower and brush his teeth in an unfamiliar bathroom. His father had never allowed him to sleep over at other boys’ homes. He was careful to leave no mess behind.

At last, dressed only in t-shirt and boxers, he crept back to his room. He was embarrassed to find Mrs. Hicks there, busily spreading a red and green log cabin quilt over the bed. She seemed not to notice he wore only underwear.

“It’s going to be cold tonight, honey, so I thought you could do with a quilt.”

Alone once more, the numbness that had dulled Dylan’s emotions began to wear off. It was like the painful return to sensation of a leg that has fallen asleep. He wept at last for his mother.

How could she have killed herself, he wondered. Dad had ingrained in him that suicide was the one unforgivable sin. The thought of a Heaven where he’d be reunited with his father but eternally separated from his mother was too cruel to bear. The enormity of his own sins no longer mattered. If he was destined for hell, he would at least be with Mom.

Robby Wishart: Fairy Cakes

At the risk of serious damage to my backside, I decided to do a little undercover research on the new laptop I’d been forced to buy. The cops still hadn’t returned my old one. I hoped if I didn’t tell Sam but he found out anyway, I could argue he hadn’t told me not to.

Dylan Keys worried me. I’d persuaded Sam not to go to the police with what he’d learned about Dylan from one of his students. However, I felt we had a responsibility to protect the kid. At least, I had a responsibility.

The quasi-anonymity of the internet is dangerous. One can pretend to be anyone one likes, but so can everyone else. Nick had told Sam that Dylan used various versions of Fairy_Cakes. I thought I’d create some new accounts with my own similar versions of the name. I didn’t expect much, but I thought it was at least worth a try. Of course, Dylan could have created a new handle that X already knew about. Maybe they were in contact via phone or even in person. I’d just have to hope Dylan had truly ghosted himself and left X wondering where he was. Even if X didn’t bite, maybe I could learn something from others who knew Dylan.

I decided to stay away from the best known places where I thought anyone familiar with Fairy_Cakes/Dylan would easily recognize me as an imposter. I figured hookup sites that didn’t concern themselves with trifles such as the user’s legal age might be a good start. I created accounts at several of these, where I learned that it was surprisingly hard to find a version of Fairy_Cakes not already in use and that my faith in humanity may not be as well founded as I hoped.

After a few days of this soul-destroying task, I was growing ready to give up. Then I got a bite at a site called The Walk-In Closet. Its purpose is to facilitate hookups between guys on the down low. I created a profile for FaiRyCaKe6969, trying to hint I was a minor while providing my actual age of twenty-three. Most of the messages wanted me to upload a photo of myself, so I ignored them. I also ignored messages from men looking for quick hookups. That didn’t leave much else, and none of it was promising.

The site has a chatroom, so I decided to lurk there. I entered and sent a message that I was just curious, and the other chatters obligingly ignored me. After nearly two hours of boredom, Mark_Cain entered the chat and requested a private chat with me. I agreed.

Mark_Cain: Dylan?

FaiRyCaKe6969: Yeah.

Mark_Cain: You okay?

FaiRyCaKe6969: Yeah, I guess.

Mark_Cain: Can we meet?

FaiRyCaKe6969: Not right now. I shouldn’t even be here.

Mark_Cain: You’re right. My dad would literally kill me or worse.

FaiRyCaKe6969: Are YOU okay?

Mark_Cain: I miss you. Been worried sick about you.

FaiRyCaKe6969: Miss you too. Difficult to be online right now.

Mark_Cain: I understand. I’m so sorry about your parents. Especially your mother. Shouldn’t say so, but I wish someone would kill my father.

FaiRyCaKe6969: You don’t mean that.

Mark_Cain: No, not really, but I pray sometimes he’ll get cancer or run his car into a tree. He’s not a good man. He ruins people’s lives.

Mark_Cain: I’d better go. God help me if he ever finds out about us. God help us both.

FaiRyCaKe6969: Stay safe! ❤️

MarkCain: ❤️

At that point, Mark Cain left the chat.

Sam Anderson: Brush Fire

“Robby, are you out of your fucking mind?”

That was clearly not the response Robby had expected when he decided to show me the fruit of several nights of illicit labor.

“No. Look, I found X, sort of. At least now we know X didn’t kill Dylan’s dad with or without Dylan’s help. I also don’t think X is a whole lot older if he’s worried about his dad killing him.”

I rolled my eyes. “He could just be saying that, Robby. Need I remind you that people can represent themselves as someone they’re not on the internet, Dylan?”

“I’m not an idiot, Sam. The two mentioned meeting. Dylan must know what Mark_Cain looks like if they’ve met.”

“Maybe. On the other hand, Mark_Cain may have been trying to lure Dylan into a first meeting. Regardless, you shouldn’t have been doing any of this. It’s all traceable, you know. If the cops start delving into your online behavior, this won’t look so good.”

Robby’s face fell. “I didn’t think of that.”

I took him in my arms. “I know, Baby. For a smart guy, you’re awfully prone not to think before you do something.”

“I guess I’d better get the hairbrush.”

I took a step back from him so I could look into his eyes. “Do you need the hairbrush?”

“Don’t make me say it, Sam. I need for you to decide.”

I wanted to let him off so badly, but I had to give him what he needed. I couldn’t let my own needs take precedence. Not now, when he was on a jagged edge.

“Okay. Get it.”

Robby returned naked, carrying the hairbrush. We positioned ourselves on the sofa in the familiar position. This time I began with my hand, spanking rhythmically in a predictable pattern. This type of spanking is deceptively easy to take in the beginning. The burn takes a long time to build unless the spanker is prepared to fracture the bones in his hands in the cause of brutality. I’ve always suspected I suffer worse than Robby.

When I’d warmed his bottom to a vivid pink, I stepped things up. Hard, fast, and unpredictable are the keys to this stage. Robby began to flinch and vocalize as I peppered him with an unrelenting sting. I stopped long enough to reach for the brush. A hard, fast, unpredictable spanking with a hairbrush is in another league, and Robby’s reactions reflected that. I had to pause a couple of times to get a better grip on his hip because he was trying to levitate off my lap. I finished up with five very hard smacks on each cheek.

Both of us were exhausted. Only Robby was able to fall into a deep, restoring sleep.