Testimony, part 3

Yesterday, I got to meet a fan. And I sold my books, and signed them, and it was awesome. I also got some great feedback about the size of my books. Seems people prefer them to be pocket sized for easy handling. And cheaper.

Which means I need to find a new publisher. Any ideas?

In the meantime, here's another section of the book:

Testimony (3)

Lola gave me a list of the references she'd checked on with Ms. Regland. She gave me the list of people who vouched for her. Normally, that's not something she would do. It's important not to compromise people's privacy. But, given Ms. Regland's death, Lola decided this was a special circumstance. Besides, I think I might have been the only person who believed her innocence. Yes, her lawyer would argue for it and would support that innocence, but I didn't think, at the time, that he believed her. And who cares if he did? That's not his job.

Anyway. I went to the first name on Lola's list. It wasn't all that useful. His name was Walter, and while he was a professional Dom, he didn't have anything to tell me that I hadn't heard already. Ms. Regland was a masochist, she loved being tied up, and she wanted to be beaten more and more severely. He was careful with her, but there were levels of play he didn't want to do. He told me that he wasn't an abusive man, and really wasn't much of a sadist. He was a rigger, and that was where he spent most of his effort.

Let me explain what a rigger is. Every once in a while, you see a picture of someone, usually a woman, bound beautifully in very intricate rope work, knots and webbing. The rope work is called Shibari; it's a Japanese art. It takes a lot of training, and a lot of practice.

In some of those pictures, what you'll see is someone suspended, their bodies contorted into strange positions that could not, by any stretch of the imagination, be comfortable. But those positions are very carefully designed, and very carefully maintained. The master of Shibari makes sure that the ropes are only as tight as they need to be, no tighter. He makes certain that the rope is balanced, that the weight is well distributed, and that circulation is maintained. It may look uncomfortable, and many times it is. But when it is done well, Shibari can also do amazingly helpful things.

It can take pressure off of joints, it can lessen pain and even help blood pressure.

But that's not what Lena Regland wanted. She wanted Scott to turn his abilities down a darker path.

I'm just saying that to be dramatic; it should be pretty obvious that if Shibari can lighten loads, it can also tighten them. Scott knows his business, and he knows how to place a knot so that it presses against a cluster of nerves. He knows how to stretch the joints just enough to cause incredible agony, without causing any kind of lasting damage.

That kind of pain, Scott was willing to give her. The kind that made her feel like he was putting all the pressure of the world on a single joint in her body, the kind of pain that let loose a flood of endorphins, that he could do.

But she wanted more. And he didn't want to give it to her.

Scott chooses his clients very carefully. He is paid, and paid well, for what he does. But he still only works with the people he wants to work with. He has the amazing luxury of not only enjoying his work, but also only working with those he enjoys.

It wasn't that Ms. Regland wanted anything unsafe. He was very clear to tell me that. She was still being safe, she just wanted someone more sadistic than him. So when Lola called him, he told her the truth: nothing about Lena Regland was strange; she was a good client, safe and intelligent. Friendly. And she was a pretty serious masochist, which is why Scotty sent her Lola's way.

The next name down the list gave me, probably, the most help. Because the next name wasn't someone in the kink scene. The next name was a doctor.

Doctor Patrick Finnegan. He wouldn't talk to me on the phone, so I had to go to his office.

Which is also how I found out that he was a psychiatrist.

“I can't talk about my patients with you.” It was the first thing he said to me when I explained why I was there.

“She's not a patient anymore.”

He shook his head. “That doesn't matter. Her records are still protected by doctor-patient confidentiality.”

“There's no way you could give them to me?”

“Not without a warrant or consent directly from her.”

“She's dead.”

He didn't bat an eye. I was hoping he would, that he'd have some sort of reaction. I was hoping he would let slip that he knew she was dead, or that he was surprised, or that he wasn't. But there was nothing. “That doesn't change anything,” he said. “Except that I need a court order now, as she won't be able to sign any kind of consent form.”

I ran my hand through my hair. It's a nervous habit I have. “I can't do that,” I said. “I'm not here in a legal capacity. I'm just trying to help a friend.”

He shook his head. “I'm not going to fall for that,” he said. “Lena didn't have any friends.”

“Not her,” I said. I didn't realize at the time how much he had let slip. “Someone else.”

“Did she hurt someone?”

I shook my head. “Not exactly. At least, I don't think she did.”

“I admit you've made me very curious, Mr. Marsh. But I can't talk to you about her. I'm sorry.”

I took a deep breath, and had an idea. “I'm going to take a shot in the dark,” I said, “And guess that you're kink friendly. You can tell me that without compromising anything, right?”

He nodded.

“And if I were your client, we could keep talking, and anything I said would then be sealed the same way as Lena's records?”

He nodded again. “But I warn you,” he said. “I can't tell you anything about her, what she said, or what happened during our sessions.”

“Did anything unethical happen?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then I have no problems. Are you free right now?”

He looked a little bit taken aback by that. “I don't usually take clients off the street,” he said.

I gave him my most charming smile, backed by the willingness to use every dime at my disposal to try to prove Lola's innocence.

So it didn't take long to convince him to take a client in off the street. So long as I promised not to ask him anything about other patients, he would talk to me about my own issues, my own desires, and my own experiences.

“Would you consider hypotheticals?”

“As long as they aren't thinly veiled attempts to get me to reveal details about my other patients, Mr. Marsh.”

“I promise,” I said. “And please, call me Ian.”