Shrink
By Dreamspinner



Jailhouse evaluations can be run-of-the mill ... drugged-up prostitutes, chronic
schizophrenics run afoul of the law for stealing a loaf of bread off the shelf
in a corner market, runaways, and psychopaths faking craziness. Or they can be
serious ... suicide attempts following a murder, uncontrollably violent
offenders, and very occasionally the serene serial killer. Either way, I
thoroughly enjoy going down to the lockup. The clang of the heavy iron doors,
the loud buzz and clack of the electric locks, the metal detector, the
polished concrete floors ... it's heady stuff ... almost intoxicating. I've been
doing psychiatric evaluations for nearly thirty years and it's as good still
as it was when I started. The only drawback is that the call sometimes comes
in the middle of the night.

I'm dreaming about a narrow space, and in my dream I'm thinking it must have
something to do with the passageways on the ship I was on in the Navy. The
alarm for General Quarters is sounding. The scene shifts and my shipmates and
I are running to our battle stations. I collide with another guy running the
opposite direction and fall on my back. From where I am, I can see the red
light on the bulkhead flashing. Each time it flashes, the GQ alarm rings. It
seems like the guy I'd run into is pulling my arm. Then, incredibly, I hear my
wife's voice say, "Hey, Dave! Answer the phone!"

I open my eyes and say, "Shit, I was dreaming," I say. My wife stops pulling
my arm. I pick up the receiver. "Dr. Liebowitz," I say.

"Hi, doc," the husky female voice says. "It's Rodriguez down at County."

The GQ alarm fades away. "You want me to come down?" The clock on the
nightstand says 2:31.

"Yeah," she says. "And doc," she says, "Wear a tie."

"A tie? Are you nuts?"

"No. The FBI's here. Wear a tie," she says again. "The chief said 'Have doc
wear a tie.'"

"Are you serious, sergeant?"

"Yep," she says. "One of 'em's from DC."

"You're shittin' me."

"No, I'm not shittin', doc," she says.

"OK. I'll be down directly." I hang up.

My wife has rolled over. I touch her shoulder. "I'm going downtown. I'll see
you later," I say.

"Love you," she mumbles.

"I love you, too," I say, and get up.

Ten minutes later I'm on my way, wondering what the FBI's doing here. I have a
tie stuffed in my jacket pocket. Fifteen minutes after pulling out of my
garage, I turn left off Penn and pull into the County parking garage. I find
the reserved space, park, get out and take the stairs to the main floor. I
thread my tie under the buttons of my collar as I go. When I get to the door,
the officer buzzes me in.

Ordinarily, the lobby of the County jail is almost empty at a quarter to three
in the morning, but not tonight. The place is packed with uniforms, undercover
cops, and suits ... FBI ... five, by my count.

I spot Chief Malone. He's surrounded by suits. He spots me and waves me over.
"Hey, doc," he says. "Glad you're here." He sticks out his fat hand. I take
it. It's damp.

"What's up?" I ask.

Malone lets go. "This is special agent Fox," he says, turning to the Alpha
suit. "This is doc Liebowitz," he says. "He's our psych doc."

The Alpha suit sticks out her hand. I take it. It's dry...cold and dry. And
thick. 'She's tough and her hand is thick,' I think to myself. There's steel
in her eyes. "Doctor Liebowitz," she says. "We have a situation here." She
lets my hand go. She turns to the chief. "Is there somewhere we can go that's
more private?" It's not a question ... that's obvious to everyone, especially
Malone.

"This way," he says, and turns to the officer at the door to the inner
offices. The officer unlocks the heavy door and it slides open. Malone leads
the way. The Alpha motions for me to go ahead. I yield to her. She follows the
chief. The three of us walk down the hall to Malone's office. The door clangs
shut behind us. I notice that Special Agent Fox has thick calves. We get to
Malone's office. He goes in first. Fox motions me to go in and again, I yield.
The pneumatic closer hisses, pushing the door shut.

Fox turns to me and says, "There's a guy upstairs we'd like you to have a look
at." She looks at Malone.

Malone says, "One of our uniforms got called to a coffee shop where this guy
was. Couldn't stop running his mouth about computer shit ... some kind of
'photo-editing whatever.' I dunno shit about computers." Malone waves his hand
like he's shooing a fly away. "Anyway," Malone says, "The owner of the shop
calls 911. When the uniform gets there, the guy's going on and on about
wanting to get into websites and change what's on them." He puts his fat hands
behind his head and leans back in his chair. "Pulled the guy in for disorderly
conduct."

Fox picks up the story line. "Because of the guy's talk about websites, Chief
Malone called the local office. The supervisor called me this evening. I
reviewed the info and I'm thinking 'hacker,'" she says. Her eyes flash. "I
took the first flight in."

"OK," I say. "Why call me?"

"He's a nut job, doc," Malone says. "Lays on his bunk, all curled up. He's got
this weird expression on his face. He says 'Mommy wants them to be
smaller' ... over and over, like he's fuckin' hypnotized." He pauses and looks at
Fox.

She says, "When the Chief and I looked in on him he took one look at me and
started bawling like a baby."

"Damndest thing I've even seen," Malone says.

"How long has he been here?" I ask.

"Three days," Malone says.

"Do you have a file on him?" I ask.

Malone hands me a manila folder. A 3 x 5 picture of a gaunt, forty- something
male is stapled to the upper right-hand corner. According to the grid behind
him, he's sixty-six inches tall exactly. He's thin, pencil- necked,
medium-brown hair. I open the folder. "Gary Rasmussen," I read. "Forty-six.
Lives with his mother on 1435 West Washington. Never Married. Works at
Target ... has for fifteen years. Worked for K-Mart for seventeen before that.
High school graduate. No priors." I close the folder and study Gary
Rasmussen's photo.

Fox clears her throat. "Any thoughts?" she asks.

"I don't think he's a hacker," I say.

"Why?" she asks.

"I don't know," I say. "He doesn't look, uh...sinister enough ... just my
instinct. I can't say more until I've seen him."

That seems to have absolutely no effect on Fox. "Well," she says, "Time will
tell. I'll stay around until you're able to state with certainty whether Mr.
Rasmussen is a hacker or not," she says.

She stands up and makes for the door. With her hand on the knob, she turns to
Malone and me and asks, "Is there a heavy-iron gym close by?"

Malone says, "Gold's is three blocks from here."

"That's good," Fox says. "I don't like to go for too long without a lift."
Then she walks out. Her heels click down the hall. The heavy door slides open
and then clangs shut.

"Fuckin' Feds," Malone says. "Got to horn in any time somebody farts upwind
from DC. Motherfuckers don't think we can carry our own water." He bangs his
open palms down on his desktop. Jesus!" he shouts. "Makes me fuckin' nuts!"

"Take it easy, Mike," I say. "We'll do our job ... let them do theirs. If there's
nothing to this Rasmussen guy, Fox will go back to DC and the rest of the
suits will go back to business. If he is a hacker, then they're at the right
place at the right time."

Malone nods his shaggy head. "Whatever," he says. He takes in a long breath
and blows it out. He puts his hands on his desk and pushes himself up. "You
want to see the little fucker?" he asks.

"Yeah," I say. "I do."

We go up three flights of stairs to the maximum security unit. The officer
clicks Malone and me inside. The door slides shut behind us. "He's down here,"
says Malone, and walks halfway down. "Have a look," he says, making a thumb to
the square 6 X 6 window.

Reinforcing wires embedded in the glass make little diamonds in the window. A
prisoner once told me there were 74 diamonds in the window. "Seventy-four," he
had said. "I counted them a hundred and fifty times, just to be sure," he had
said. Gary Rasmussen's in no mood to count diamonds in the glass just now,
that's for sure. He's laid out in the fetal position, just like Malone said. I
can just barely hear him mumbling through the thick door. Sounds like he's
chanting, almost. "What's he saying?" I ask Malone.

"Something like, 'Mommy wants them smaller' or some shit," Malone says.
"That's what it sounded like to me when Fox and me was up here earlier."

"You had the door open, then, I take it," I say.

"Me and Fox went right in the cell. She wanted to size him up." Malone
shrugged his heavy shoulders. "Fuckin' FBI," he says. "Who knows what the
fuck." He looks at me, wanting me to agree with his opinion of the FBI.

Instead, I turn back to Rasmussen. He's pathetic. Slender, pale, three days of
stubble, oily hair. "Why do you think he cried when he saw Fox?" I ask.

"I'm not for sure," Malone says. "But I think it had something to do with her
legs. She's got big fuckin' calf muscles...maybe you noticed. Anyway, I seen
him look right at 'em when she walked in. Took one look and started bawling
into his pillow. I could've puked," he says. "Fuckin' baby."

I look at Malone. He's the typical Irish cop. Big, heavy, red- faced. Tough as
shoe leather. But despite his roughness, he's genius when it comes to sizing
somebody up. Never misses a thing. He looks like he's about half-lit most of
the time, but not much gets past him. I've seen him in action too many times
to doubt it. I have to trust him on this. "You think it was her legs, you
say?"

"No fuckin' doubt about it, doc," he says.

"Let's go in and talk to him," I say.

Malone turns to the guard in the booth and gives him the high sign. The cell
door buzzes and slides open. Rasmussen stops his mumbling and looks at us.
He's been crying, judging from his red-rimmed eyes.

Malone says, "Rasmussen. There's somebody I'd like you to meet." Malone turns
to me and says, "This here's doc Liebowitz...he's our psych doc."

Rasmussen lets himself roll on his back. He stares at the ceiling. "I've seen
too many of you guys already," he says to me, and rolls over, putting his back
to us.

Malone clears his throat. "Where's your fuckin' manners?" he says. "Sit up and
look at the doc!" Malone takes a couple of steps in Rasmussen's direction.

Rasmussen rolls back over and props himself up on one elbow. That's when I see
his wrists are covered with hesitation marks. "How's this, chief?" he says.
"Is this polite enough for you?"

Malone squats down on his ample haunches so he's at eye level with his
prisoner. "I don't think you realize what deep shit you're in here, sonny," he
says to Rasmussen. "You better stop bein' a smartass and start bein' nice to
me and the doc, here."

I lean out and signal the guard to bring three folding chairs to the cell.
When he gets there, I thank him and give one to Malone and set up one for
Rasmussen and one for myself. Malone and I sit down and wait. Rasmussen stares
at us for about two minutes and then gets up and sits in the chair I opened up
for him. He folds his arms across his chest and stares at me, then at Malone.
Then he turns back to me.

"Are you hungry?" I ask him.

"No," he says. "I'm not."

He turns to Malone and asks, "Is she coming back?"

Malone says, "Is 'who' coming back?"

Rasmussen says, "You know, the one whose legs are too big. Mommy thinks she
needs to be shrunk."

Malone looks at me. He turns to his prisoner and says, "That's 'Special Agent
Fox,' to you, sonny. And yes, she's coming back, but not this morning. Why?"
he asks.

Rasmussen gets that look in his eye I've seen a thousand times. It's the look
somebody gets when they're teetering on the brink ... about to lose it but
holding on to whatever shred of reality they can find.

"What's going through your mind?" I ask him.

He looks at me and says, "I'm not telling," in a too-quiet voice.

"Does it have something to do with what you said earlier, about 'Mommy thinks
she needs to be shrunk'?" I ask.

Rasmussen says, "Mommy says I'm not supposed to say."

"Can you hear her now?" I ask.

"No," he says. "You think I'm nuts?"

Malone shifts his weight like he's getting ready to remind Rasmussen to mind
his manners, but I put my hand on his arm to stop him. "Gary," I say. "Let's
be clear about this. You can't hear her, is that what you're saying?"

Rasmussen looks at me. "That's what I'm saying. Yes, I can't hear her."

"Then what's this 'Mommy says I'm not supposed to' stuff?"

"I'll have to ask her if she thinks I should tell you," he says. "She tells me
what to do," he says.

Malone's patience runs out. "What the fuck," he says. "You mean you're gonna
fuckin' ask your 'mommy' if it's OK to tell the doc what he wants to know?"
Malone takes a breath and lays in to him again. "'Mother may I'? Is that what
you're playin'? For crissakes, Rasmussen, you're forty-six motherfuckin' years
old!" Malone stands up, fists clenched. "Goddammit, fuck your 'Mommy,' you
punk-ass cocksucker!"

Rasmussen dives back on his mattress and curls up into the fetal position. I
stand up and drag Malone out into the corridor. "Mike, goddammit to hell!" I
shout. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Jesus!"

Malone is breathing hard. "There's something about this guy, doc," he says
between breaths. "Little fuck pisses me off!" Malone goes to pacing the
corridor.

I take the Chief by the elbow. "Listen to me, Mike," I say. "Go out and cool
off. Leave me alone with Rasmussen for a few minutes. I'll be OK. Go on," I
say.

Malone hesitates, then nods and goes out to the guard's booth. I go back in
the cell. Rasmussen has pissed himself. I gather up the chairs and set them in
the corridor. "Gary," I say. "Sorry it happened this way." I step out in the
corridor and signal the guard to lock the door. It buzzes loudly and slides
shut with a bang. I look in at Rasmussen lying there in his piss. I say, "I'll
be back tomorrow." Then I walk down to where Malone is wiping his face with
his handkerchief.

When I get to where Malone and the guard are, I say, "Chief, let's go down to
your office so I can lay out this case the way I see it."

Malone stuffs his hanky in his pocket and leads the way downstairs. Once on
the way down he turns like he wants to say something but I motion for him to
go on ahead. When we get to his office, he goes on in and gets in his chair. I
take the seat I was in earlier and wait. The door hisses shut. Malone draws in
a breath and says, "Doc, I'm sorry about what happened upstairs. It's just
that whenever I hear a grown man..."

I cut him off. "Mike, forget it," I say. "Listen. Let's concentrate on this
guy as a 'case,' OK? Forget how he makes you feel." Malone gets ready to talk
again but I raise my hand and say, "If this guy Rasmussen is just a geek who
lives with his mother and works at Target, then he's just a geek, OK? But if
he is a hacker, we can't blow it. Fox will be up your ass three feet if you
do. Now act like a cop and let me deal with that little squirrel, Rasmussen,
OK?"

The chief falls slumps back in his chair and says, "I hate them fuckin' feds,
doc. Do you know what it's like to have them come horning their way in my
house? Jesus!" He looks tired all of a sudden. I look at my watch. 4:30, it
reads. I've been up for almost two hours exactly. I realize I'm tired ... and
hungry.

"Let's get some breakfast, Mike," I say.

Malone gets up and puts on his jacket.

We go to a greasy spoon a couple blocks from County and get full of eggs and
pancakes. After breakfast, I'm thinking things over when I see Fox go down the
street dressed in workout shorts and T-shirt. She's thick as a longshoreman.
Watching her walk I remember Rasmussen saying his mother thought she should be
shrunk. "Mike," I say, "Look there ... it's Fox. Looks like she's either going
for a workout or coming back from one."

"Holy shit!" Malone says. "She's got muscles on top of her muscles! I wonder
what it'd be like to fuck her." He stares at her out the window. He takes a
sip of coffee and licks his lips. "I'd like to!" He laughs, his belly shaking.

"What do you think Rasmussen meant when he said 'Mommy thinks she needs to be
shrunk.'?" I ask.

Malone gets quiet. I can almost see his cop brain working. "This is a weird
fuckin' case, doc," he says. This thing with his mommy, him go on and on in
the coffee shop about changing things on websites, and his reaction to that
musclebound Fox...they're all tied together somehow. I don't have the words to
explain it any clearer, doc. I've just got this feeling. What do you think?"

"I think I need to see Rasmussen again, but first I've got to get a couple
hours sleep. I take out my daytimer from my front pocket. I've only got a
half-day's worth of patients in my office. I can be down at the jail by 1:30.
That work for you?" I ask.

"Works for me," he says.

I'm not worth a shit that morning with my patients ... two hours sleep makes me
feels worse than if I'd had none at all. I keep thinking about Rasmussen
curled up on the thin jail mattress, lying in his own piss, mumbling to
himself. And most of all, I wonder what kind of woman his 'mommy' must be to
have that kind of power over him. Three of my patients have to ask me what's
wrong ... that's not like me. I'm usually right there with them but this morning
I'm down at the lockup ... in my mind, anyway.

Like Malone, I think the three aspects of Rasmussen's case we know about so
far are linked. I struggle to make sense of it all morning but come up
empty-handed ... or empty-headed, I'm not sure which. At 12:30, my last patient
leaves in disgust, telling me I look like I need a good night's sleep. I thank
her for noticing. When she's gone I get my jacket and hurry down to County.

When I go through the front door I see Special Agent Fox and Chief Malone
standing in the lobby like they're waiting for me. Fox has her jacket over one
arm. She's wearing a sleeveless top. Her arms are as muscled as those of some
of the guards who work on the SWAT team. Malone looks over to make sure she's
not looking at him and grabs his crotch. He winks like he wants me to remember
he said he'd like to fuck her.

I stick out my hand and she takes it. "Doctor Liebowitz, we've been waiting
for you," she says. She lets go of my hand and folds her arms across her
chest, trapping her coat between her arms. The last time I saw veins like hers
was when I examined a ditch digger.

"There's been a development," she says.

I snap out of it. "What?" I ask.

Fox looks at Malone. "Rasmussen asked to call his 'mommy,'" he says with a
sneer. "Anyway, I let him ... it's his right, you know. Rodriguez was on the line
with them and she heard the old lady say she'd be down at 2:00." Malone looks
at his watch. "That's ten minutes from now."

Fox says, "I think we should have a game plan."

Malone says, "Let's go to my office."

We get settled in Malone's office and Fox says, "The Chief briefed me on what
happened earlier, and how he believes ... and I assume you do too ... that the
issues of Rasmussen's mother, the idea of changing something on websites, and
his reaction to me are all linked somehow."

"I do," I say. "I'm not sure how, though." I settle back in my chair and put
my hands behind my head. "Tell me, Special Agent Fox, what do you remember
about the moment Rasmussen saw you?"

Without missing a beat, she says, "He looked at my legs."

Malone stands up and nearly shouts, "That's exactly what I told you, ain't it
doc?"

I look at Malone. Having the feds in his house has got him geeked up. I've
never seen him act this way. "Take it easy, Chief," I say, trying to lighten
it up. He sits down and puts his elbows on his blotter. "Sorry," he says.

I turn back to Fox. "Talk about that," I say.

Fox crosses her legs, and as so many women do when they cross one leg over the
other, she points the toe of the foot left on the floor. Her calf swells up
into a lump. "You may have noticed," she says, running her fingers over it,
"That my calves are quite developed." I nod. Out of the corner of my eye I see
Malone squirm in his chair, looking for all the world like he's making room
for a hardon. "I'm a bodybuilder," she says. I nod again. "I'm used to getting
all kinds of reactions because of my muscles, but I've never had anyone cry.
That was a first."

"What do you make of it?" I ask.

She shrugs her shoulders. I see her trapezius bunch up under her blouse.

"He told Chief Malone and me that his 'mommy' thought you needed to be
shrunk," I say.

Fox gets a thoughtful look and says, "He doesn't think women should have big
muscles."

"Then why did he cry when he saw you?" I ask. "Why didn't he just get a
disgusted look on his face if it's as simple as that?"

Malone slams his hands down on his desk. "It's got something to do with his
'mommy!'" he yells. "Damn!" he yells again. "I don't know how, but I'm sure of
it!"

I look at Malone. His face is beet red, flushed with the excitement of getting
an insight. "Go on, Chief," I say.

Malone stands up and begins to pace around his office, which isn't easy, with
two visitors in it. Two minutes later, he says, "Ah, shit! I'll be fucked if I
know," and sits back down.

Chief Malone's intercom buzzes. "There's a Mrs. Rasmussen here," the voice
says.

Malone looks at me, then at Fox. "Send her back," he says. I get up and unfold
another chair for Mrs. Rasmussen.

Fox says, "I should put my jacket on."

"Leave it off if you don't mind," I say. "I want to see how she reacts to your
muscles."

"Should I try to provoke her?" she asks.

"Yes," I say. "Use your best judgment, though. If she doesn't say or do
anything noteworthy after a minute or so, then make your muscles more
conspicuous. It's your call."

Fox nods. "I'll think of something," she says.

I see two figures through the frosted glass of Malone's office wall. One is
mainly dark blue ... that would be Rodriguez, the other is mostly beige ... Mrs.
Rasmussen. The blue figure knocks. "Come!" says Malone.

Sergeant Rodriquez opens the door and sticks her pretty brown face halfway in.
"Mrs. Rasmussen to see you," she says.

"Show her in," Malone says. The three of us stand.

Rodriguez looks over her shoulder, opens the door wide and says, "Go on in,
ma'am."

In steps Gary Rasmussen's 'mommy.' She's seventy-something, gray- haired,
bespectacled, five-foot six, and lean as a nail. She's wearing a short-sleeved
cotton dress. The arms that clutch her white purse in front of her are as free
of developed muscle as Fox' are covered with it. She reaches for Malone's
hand.

"Bessie Rasmussen," she says.

Malone takes her hand. "Chief Malone," he says. She takes the chief's thick
hand. "Please, Mrs. Rasmussen," Malone says, "Have a seat."

She sits in the chair I unfolded for her and before Malone can introduce Fox
and me and without looking at either of us, she starts in on Malone. "I
understand you're holding my Gary without due cause, Chief Malone," she says.

Malone lays his arms on his blotter and leans forward. His thick face gets
red. "Mrs. Rasmussen," he says. "We have reason to believe your son is a
hacker...or planning to be one." He gestures to Fox. "That's why Special Agent
Fox from the FBI is here," he says.

Fox holds out her hand. Mrs. Rasmussen looks at Fox like she's looking at
something on her shoe. "Women shouldn't have big muscles!" she declares,
without taking Fox' hand. "And who's this?" she asks, looking at me like I'm
something on her other shoe.

"I'm Dr. Liebowitz," I say. I offer my hand.

"Hmpf," she sniffs. "What kind of doctor are you?" she asks, taking my hand.

"I'm a psychiatrist," I say.

"A Jewish psychiatrist," she says, withdrawing her hand like she'd touched a
slug. "How appropriate." She takes her clutch bag in a death grip.

I glance at Malone. His face is even redder.

Before he can go off on Mrs. Rasmussen, I say, "Ma'am, I'd like to explain why
I've been called in to consult in this case."

"Oh, I know why you're here, doctor," she says. "Someone saw the marks on my
Gary's arms and called you. You've all jumped to the conclusion my Gary's
suicidal. We've been down this road before, believe you me!" she declares.

I sit up in my chair. "Well, no, not exactly," I say. "Your son's mental state
was what got me here ... not the marks on his arms. In fact, to my knowledge, I
was the first one to see them, and that was after ... long after ... your son had
been brought in."

Mrs. Rasmussen's eyes are boring into mine like gimlets. "Then tell me
exactly, doctor ... what is my Gary's mental state?"

Malone leans into his blotter even harder and says, "He says 'Mommy wants them
to be smaller' ... over and over, like he's fuckin' hypnotized."

All the color drains out of the old lady's face. "I'm sure I don't know what
you mean," she says. She looks at Malone, then at me, but not at Fox.

I catch Fox' eye and nod slightly.

Special Agent Fox suddenly sits up straight, flexes her elbow and starts
massaging her big biceps. She says, "Sorry, everybody ... I just got a charley
horse in my arm." She straightens out her arm and bends her elbow a couple of
times, which makes the muscle run up and down under the skin. "It's the price
you pay for a heavy, early morning workout. Could be I need some potassium,"
she says.

Mrs. Rasmussen's lips are pursed so hard they're white. "Absolutely
disgusting!" she hisses through her lips. "Of all things! Muscles belong on a
man ... not a woman ... if that's what you are!"

"I take it my muscles offend you," Fox says.

The old lady goes even whiter. She glares at Fox for a second and then looks
at Malone.

"When can I see my Gary?" she asks.

Beads of sweat have broken out on her forehead. I look at Malone. He's seen
it, too. He pulls out one of his desk drawers and pulls out a roll of toilet
paper. "Can I offer you a something to wipe your forehead with?" he says,
holding out the roll to Mrs. Rasmussen.

She looks at the roll of TP as if it's a turd. "No, thank you!" she snaps. She
opens her purse and takes out a hanky and dabs her forehead with it. "When can
I see my Gary?" she asks, still dabbing.

Fox is still working away at her biceps, but what started out as innocent
massaging of a sore muscle has turned into blatant autoeroticism. Fox is
diddling ... tracing the outline of her muscle when it's hard, then gently
squeezing it when it's relaxed. She's got a look on her face like she's about
to have an orgasm. Out of the corner of my eye I see Malone tear off an arm
length of TP and go to mopping his face with the wad of it.

"Must you do that?" Mrs. Rasmussen says to Fox. "It looks like you're playing
with yourself!" she declares.

Fox keeps on at her arm. "We think your son may be a hacker, Mrs. Rasmussen,"
she says. "As Chief Malone said before we got sidetracked, that's why I've
been called in."

The old lady glares at Fox. "That's absurd," she says. "My Gary hardly knows a
thing about computers."

"I take it you do," Fox says, still working her arm.

"Whatever makes you think I do?" asks Mrs. Rasmussen.

"You said 'computers'," says Fox, leaning in to the old woman. "Didn't you?"

Mrs. Rasmussen sits bolt upright. "What if I did? That doesn't mean anything!"
she declares. She's got her clutch bag in a death grip again. "And will you
please stop playing with your muscle!"

Malone gets up and goes around to the old woman. "Did Sergeant Rodriguez
search your bag before you came back to my office?" he asks. He stands with
his hands on his ample hips, using his size to intimidate her. His enormous
stomach is just inches from her face.

She clutches her bag even tighter to her chest. "I went through the metal
detector ... isn't that enough?"

Malone reaches over to his intercom. "Sergeant, would you come in her please?"
he says.

Rodriguez' husky voice comes back, "On my way."

Seconds later, Rodriguez taps on Malone's door. "Come," Malone says. Rodriguez
steps in. "Sergeant," Malone says, "Search Mrs. Rasmussen's bag."

Rodriguez reaches for the clutch bag. Mrs. Rasmussen turns away so Rodriguez
can't get it.

"Ma'am," Malone says, "I'll lock you up if I have to, but one way or the
other, you're going to give your bag to the Sergeant here."

The old woman hands it over.

"Dump it out on my desk," Malone says.

Rodriguez empties the bag on Malone's blotter. Car keys, a billfold, a hair
brush and a CD tumble out.

Fox stops working over her biceps and reaches out a thick arm. She takes the
CD in her hand. "I wonder what's on here?" she asks. She turns to Mrs.
Rasmussen. "Do you mind if we take a look?" she asks. "It's really not a
question," she says.

Malone takes the CD from Fox, presses the eject button, and lays it in the
tray. He turns to the old lady and says, "Ready or not," and slides the tray
in.

The D drive starts up. Fox and I get up and lean over Malone's desk so we can
see the monitor. "Let's see what we've got here," says Malone, and clicks on
D. A thumbnail of a folder named 'Shrink' appears. I hear Mrs. Rasmussen shift
her weight.

"Open it," I say. Malone puts his mouse arrow over Shrink and double clicks.

"Jesus," he says. The screen is full of small folders. The message on the
bottom left-hand corner of the window reads '284 object(s).'

I turn to Mrs. Rasmussen. "What's in these?" I ask.

Her face lights up. "Each one contains hundreds of pictures of women who once
looked like this thing here." She gestures to Fox. "Now," she says, "Thanks to
my Gary's hard work, they've been transformed into women of proper
proportions." She glares at Fox, then turns to Malone. "Like me," she says,
grinning insanely.

"Go ahead, Chief Malone," she says. "Open up any one of them ... you'll see how
what wonderful transformations my Gary has wrought." Here eyes are shining
with anticipation.

Malone double clicks the first folder in the CD and thumbnails of famous
female bodybuilders appear on screen. I recognize most of them by their faces,
but that's where it ends. What were once thickly developed biceps, triceps,
lats, pecs, quads, and gastrocs are now mere threads of sinew. Once full
muscle bellies are completely wasted ... shrunk to the bone. It is especially
absurd because the 'transformations' are made from pictures taken at a
competition.

"Holy shit!" Malone says under his breath. "Looks like a bunch of fuckin'
Olive Oyls tryin' to show off their muscles ... but they ain't got any!" He
double clicks on a thumbnail. A woman proudly flexing withered biceps fills
the screen.

Fox turns to face the old woman. "Who did this, Mrs. Rasmussen ... Gary or you?"

Mrs. Rasmussen draws herself up and says, "My Gary did ... at my direction and my
insistence."

Fox stares at her. "Why?" she asks.

Mrs. Rasmussen turns to me. "I'll bet the Jew knows," she says.

"I have an idea," I say. "But I'd rather hear it from you." I nod to Malone
and Fox. We three sit down. "Go ahead," I say to Mrs. Rasmussen.

The old woman scoots up on the edge of her seat and launches into it. She says
that one night about six months ago, she had fallen asleep in front of the TV.
When she woke, she stopped in to say goodnight to her son like she always did.
She opened his door and found him lying on his bed, 'playing with himself,'
she said. But that's not the worst of it, she said. To her horror, she saw
that Gary had pictures of women on screen who looked like Fox (and she
gestures to the Special Agent like she's a pile of cow shit). She said it went
against everything she's ever held dear ... not only about playing with
oneself ... which is a sin, she said, but about what women should look like.
Those 'things,' she said, were exactly what women should not be. They weren't
proper-looking women. They didn't look at all like her, she said.

Then she stands up and twirls around in Malone's office like she's on stage.
"I'm the very essence of feminine perfection, don't you think?" still twirling
and without really looking at any of the three of us. "Anyway," she says,
coming to a stop, "I slapped it ... yes, I mean his penis. I told him then and
there that he was never again to touch himself down there, and moreover, that
he would ... if he knew what was good for him ... shrink those awful women so they
looked like me."

She sits down. "After all," she says. "A boy's mother should be his ideal,
don't you think?"

"So you made him shrink all the pictures in his collection," I say.

She gets warmed up again and tells us with relish how it was she ... not her
son ... who went out and bought the photo editing software, installed it and
showed him how to use it. It took weeks, she said. He kept begging her not to
shrink his favorites, she said, but she wouldn't relent. After all, she said,
she needed to firmly implant the proper female form in his mind. Replace the
awful, burgeoned women that inhabited his imagination with feminine ones, she
said. "Like me," she says, literally mad with conceit.

Malone gets up, puts his heavy hands on his blotter and leans across his desk.
"Why didn't he refuse?" he asks.

Mrs. Rasmussen laughs. "My Gary knows better," she says. "I have the goods on
him."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

She looks at me with ice in her eyes. "I threatened to tell everyone he liked
looking at musclewomen, and that he played with himself while he did. You
should have seen his face," she says. "He begged me not to tell," she says.
Her cheeks are rosy red.

"Which one of you was working on the worm?" Fox asks.

All the color goes out of Mrs. Rasmussen's face. "I'm sure I don't know what
you're talking about," she says.

Malone picks up his phone, punches in a number. He pushes the conference call
button. It rings once, then twice. Then a voice says, "Prosecutor."

Malone folds his arms on his blotter. "I've got somebody here in my office I
think was working on a worm. I think I've got probable cause to search her
residence and confiscate anything that looks suspicious." He pauses a beat and
says, "By the way, the FBI's here. They're on the case."

A moment passes. "I'll see the judge right away. I'm sure I'll have a warrant
momentarily," the voice says.

Malone hits his intercom. "Rodriguez, I need you," he says.

Rodriguez comes down the hall and walks right in without knocking. She taps
the old lady on the shoulder. "Please stand up, ma'am," she says. "Put your
arms behind you. Interlace your fingers and point your thumbs up," she says.
The cuffs click.

Mrs. Rasmussen is as white as a ghost. "I'll see you in court, Chief Malone."

"Yes, you will," he says. "Show her to a nice, warm cell, sergeant."

Rodriguez drags the old lady by the crook of the arm and leads her out. I hear
Rodriguez trying to read her Miranda rights as they go up the hall towards the
cell blocks but the old lady's hissing up such a fuss the sergeant can hardly
keep on track.

Fox blows out a big breath. "I think the old lady's in it up to her neck," she
says. "You've got good instincts, Chief."

"Thanks, Special Agent Fox," he says.

"Call me Madeline," she says.

The very next second a voice screams from the overhead: "Medical emergency in
max security! Medical emergency in max security!"

All three of us burst out of Malone's office and go running up the stairs.
Malone is first through the door to the unit. I'm next. Fox is behind me.
There's a crowd of uniforms outside Rasmussen's cell. I see the blood on the
floor. I run to the cell. There's a nurse on her knees, leaning over
Rasmussen. Her hand is on his crotch. Blood is everywhere.

My training kicks in. I step in the cell, bend down, and lay my fingers on his
carotid artery. There's a pulse, but it's weak. I see why ... he's cut his dick
off. It's in his hand. Arterial blood is spurting out of the still-hard stub,
despite the nurse's efforts. I push down hard on his lower abdomen and the
blood slows to a trickle.

"The EMT's are on the way, doctor," the nurse puffs. "I had the guard call
them as soon as I saw what happened."

"Good girl," I say.

It takes two very long minutes for the EMT's to get up to the third floor, but
when they do, they burst through the elevator doors and run down the corridor
and into the cell. One takes over from the nurse, another pushes me out of the
way. In seconds, they have Rasmussen on a gurney and his dick in a plastic
bag. In another, they're out of the cell. In the next, they're on the elevator
and gone.

I look at my hands. "I hope the little shit is HIV negative."

"Hey doc," says Malone. "Look at this."

He's pointing to a message written in blood on the cell wall. He reads it.
"Thinking about Special Agent Fox's muscley calves makes my dick hard. Mommy
doesn't like that."

"I need to wash up," I say.

Fox says, "I need to throw up."

"I need to eat," says Malone.

The three of us go to the greasy spoon and get full of catfish, fries and
beer. Over her third, Fox says, "Poor little guy. I feel sorry for him."

"Yeah," says Malone. "I do, too. He had a fuckin' witch for a mother. It's a
wonder he survived as long as he did."

I remember the hesitation marks on Rasmussen's wrists. "It's not the first
time he tried to get away from her," I say. "He almost did this time. Another
fifteen minutes and he'd have bled out. The nurse saved his life."

"By grabbin' the stump," says Malone.

Fox shudders. "I don't know if I could've done it," she says.

I think you would've if you'd been first on the scene," I say. I finish off my
beer and stand up. "I've got to get some rest," I say. I look at my watch.
"I'm out of gas."

Fox looks at Malone. "Are you?" she asks.

"Just getting started," says Malone.

"You want another round?" she asks. "This one's on me."

"You're on," he says.

On the way out I look back and see Malone feeling Fox' muscle. He's squirming
around like he's making room for a hardon.

The End