!ADULTS ONLY! The Day Leonard R. Fiske Became a Mommy!

More busy work came from checking out the over four thousand known pedophiles within a hundred mile radius. And, as Ron Mills had said at one point, his eyes widening up, "Shit, Gabe, and these are only the known ones!"

* * * * * *

DETECTIVE CABER was at his desk forty-five minutes earlier than he had to be. There was no point, he felt, in being at home and rattling around his bachelor apartment. Not when he could be here, and just might get lucky.

He looked at the long list of call-in leads displayed on his monitor screen. They had been prioritized, the most promising put to the front. Most of them looked nebulous, and very everyday sounding. Woman called in. Saw strange man with little girl, who looked like Martha, sitting in a Dunkin' Donuts shop. Man kept touching girl's knee. Name and phone number.

Caber read a few more and sighed. It was going to be another long and tedious day, but he knew it had to be done. And with zeal. Thus, he treated every lead as if it was precious to him. And to little Martha.

He was about to reach for the phone to start his first hot tip interview of the day when he saw Ron Mills heading toward him. The man looked more chipper than usual. Caber remembered the last thing Ron had said to him as he went home the previous night, "Shit, Gabe, if I don't get some sleep tonight, I'm gonna find out, personally, just how much damage my Glock can do to the human brain!" Caber knew exactly what Ron meant.

As Mills approached, a beaming grin on his face, Caber said, "Holy crap, Ronnie, who painted you with the sunshine stick?" Mills seemed to beam even brighter, if that was possible.

"Got an idea, Gabe, a good one if a bit of a long shot. Came to me last night, right out of old blue. Wanna hear it?"
"Sure, but if I think it's a real rotten idea, I'll tell you straight out, and then we can do it anyway. OK?" He grinned at Mills, who grinned right back, then grabbed a chair and pulled it closer to the front of Caber's desk. He sat and leaned forward, placing both forearms on the edge of the desk.

"Well, since I couldn't sleep last night---what else is new?---
I started my usual trolling for pedo's on the Internet. As usual, I would type a word into the search engine and see where it led me." He paused as if making sure he had Caber's full attention. "Well, in my never-ending search for new words to try, I came up with a doozy . . . Mommy!"

"Mommy?" For pedophiles?

"Yeah, Mommy. It just popped into my head." Caber imagined it would have to. "Well, there being a mere four million hits, I decided to peruse them as a substitute for counting sheep!" He laughed. "And I'll tell you, Gabe, with twenty hits per screen, it does make one a tad tired around screen number ninety-five!" He laughed.

"I'll bet it does!" Caber laughed out.

"Well, as you can imagine, most of the sites were innocent enough, but I ran into one called Mommy's Little Girl dot com. Oh, it tried its best to look innocuous enough, but when I read it had the word sex in its normal sounding message, well, my ears perked up." He leaned back from the desk just as Caber leaned forward, placing his hands on the desk's edge.

Caber said, "Hmm. Mommy, eh?" It made sense to him somewhat, even if ridiculous.

Mills nodded, and then said, "Yeah. Well, I went to the site and lo and behold, a new pedo joint for me to add to my collection. It had the usual pedo stories and what have you, but a link caught my eye." He paused, as if he was about to reveal the killer in the last five minutes of the play. Caber just sat there, waiting, humoring the man.

"It showed the plans for building your very own, and secret, soundproofed room!" He waited for Caber to say something; something that would indicate he saw the meaning of it, too, but all Caber did was stare at him as if looking at a new species of lunatic.

All Caber said was, "So?" It was interesting, but so what?

"So, my fellow Sherlock, we know the guy who grabbed little Martha was a very clever, careful little boy . . . "

"Or just plain lucky . . . "

"That, too, but let's assume he's a wee bit more clever than he's lucky, just for the sake of argument, shall we?" Caber nodded, stifling a yawn. "Well, we both know the careful type doesn't just hit and run with a rape and murder. They stash the kid so they can, well, you know."

Caber knew. He said, "So, where's your plan in all this, Ron?"

"Well, the room plans called for using those common concrete builder's block, you know, the ones about eighteen inches long and . . . " Caber broke in.

"So, there you are, on screen umpty-ump, bleary eyed and more dopey than usual, and you get the brilliant idea that we should go out and find any guy who's bought a ton of concrete bricks lately. That about it?"

Mills nodded, sheepishly. "Bad idea, huh, boss?"

"Bad? It sucks and sucks big time, old pal." He scowled at Mills.

Mills said, the grin back on his face, "You want I should make the list of lumberyards, or do you want to hog that honor for yourself?"

"You make it, Ron, I've got a few call-in lead interviews to conduct . . . "

* * * * * *

THERE WERE NINETEEN lumberyards and do-it-yourself places in the immediate area. Besides Mills and himself, Caber assigned four other detectives, in two two-people teams, to the foot-working task. The nineteen places were broken down among them as evenly as possible, with Caber and Mills taking seven.

Amazingly, at lumberyard number three, Caber and Mills got a hit. The clerk, a young man in his late teens, who handled the concrete brick concession, so to speak, remembered a man, just nine months ago or so, who had purchased a ton of the bricks.

"Yeah," he said. "Guy wanted four hundred of them, which, I can tell ya, don't happen that often. We special ordered them for him and delivered them, if I remember rightly, just a few days later."

Mills said, "Did he say what he planned to do with that many concrete bricks?"

"Yeah, said he was gonna build a soundproof recording studio in his basement. But, ha ha, he didn't seem to know diddly squat about making musical recordings. He couldn't follow me when I started talking equalizers and the like. Struck me as odd at the time, know what I mean?"

Both men nodded. Caber asked, "What did he say about that?"

"Oh, he tried to recover, so to speak, by telling me he was only making recordings of voices . . . you know, for those books on tapes, but I felt he was lying about it. I figured he was one of those freako's, who wanted to hold orgies in the cellar without the neighbors hearing." He laughed. "But, hey, guys, you haven't told me what this is all about yet. He some kind of wife-swapping perv?" The kid looked all ears.

Mills adroitly lied to him. "Just routine crap. We're looking for a guy that's been making pirated DVD's." That seemed to satisfy the guy.

Caber said, "Any chance you have this guy's name and address on file?" He hoped so, and suspected they did.

"Shit yeah, with our new system, I can call him up on my PC in seconds! C'mon, I'll show ya." He led the men to his information stand, an island kiosk in the center of the do-it-yourself section of the store.

"Watch this!" He typed in the words "concrete block" and in seconds, as he had promised, a list of names, addresses, and even the type of credit card used, came up.

In the "Amount Ordered" column, most amounts were in the fairly normal range. Two, four, even eight and twelve. No one, it seemed, ordered an odd amount of the things.

But one amount stood way, way out from the rest of the pack.

On April 12th, of this year, one Leon Fiske, of 12 Pine Street, Wallpine county, had ordered, and received, 400 gray builder's blocks, size 8"x8"x16." He had also ordered and received, at the same time, 600, 12" square, 3/8" thick, vinyl soundproofing tiles. He had returned two weeks later for 16 additional bricks, and 30 more tiles.

"Well, I'll be!" said Mills, writing down the Pine Street address. "Could be our Mr. Fiske is one helluva pirate!" He chuckled. Caber chuckled, too. The kid didn't, but he did smile at them.

On the way to their unmarked car, Caber said, "Well, this sure looks promising, Ron, but we still have to hit the four other stores . . . "

* * * * * *

BECAUSE all six detectives couldn't uncover anyone else in the do-it-yourself soundproofed, secret room business, except Fiske, he was the only one Mills ran through AFIS, the Automated Fingerprint Identification System. While they lacked his fingerprints, they could run a name search.

Fiske's name drew a blank. His prints were not in there. He had never committed a crime. Of any nature, it seemed.

But when Mills ran "Leon Fiske" and "Leonard Fiske" through the police crime reports files, the name did come up in connection to a crime. An attempted kidnapping of a six-year old girl. Mills excitedly printed it out, read it, and then brought the printout to Caber.

After reading that a guy had tried to grab a girl in a bank's parking lot, two years ago, Caber asked, "They arrest him, our Mr. Fiske?"

"Nah, he was merely interviewed, along with eleven other men, whose faces showed up on the bank's ATM camera. But . . . and this is interesting . . . the mother of the girl was conked on the head from behind as she was getting into her car. Knocked unconscious, just like the Styffe woman." He smiled at Caber.

"Hmm, you said attempted, Ron, I take it the girl got away from him."

"Yeah, she did. It was winter, and when the guy slipped on some ice, the girl squirmed loose and made a beeline for a supermarket. She doesn't know just how lucky she was."

"For sure. No witnesses, huh?" Mills shook his head. "Even the girl?"

"Nah, she was too shook up to see a thing. Plus the guy had his gloved hand over her face."

"So they interview this Fiske character and let him go. And, because the girl is all right, they promptly forget all about him, and everybody goes home, happy and content." Caber looked up at the ceiling. "Well, Mr. Leonard R. Fiske, looks like you're back in our collective memories."

"Amen!" said Mills. "Well, I'm gonna run Fiske through every system I can get my hot little hands on. He's still a long shot, but he's got promise." He turned to leave and get started on knowing all he could about the man named Leonard Reginald Fiske. Over his shoulder he yelled back to Caber, "Besides, what else do we have to keep us sane, besides your cheerful disposition?"

Caber quipped, "Psychics?" but it was doubtful Mills had heard him . . .

* * * * * *

FISKE was under round-the-clock surveillance, and had been for ten days now. So far, the man was reclusive.

"Shit," Mills said. "This guy never leaves his house. In ten days, he's gone out just once, to do grocery shopping. Out a whole friggin' two hours."

"What he buy?"

"Well, only two items a child might like to eat. Six packages of Ring Dings, and three boxes of Cheerios. Granted, it don't mean much on the surface, but with a suspicious mind such as I have, the man is guilty as sin." He chuckled.

"What was it, Ron? The Ring Dings?" Caber laughed.

"That, and the fact that no normal guy buys three boxes of cereal at a time. Never! If that ain't suspicious, I'll eat the cardboard boxes they came in." He laughed. "Without sugar!"

"Well, until they revise the Cheerios purchasing law, we can't do shit but sit and wait. And hope he gets careless somehow. If he's even our guy, that is." Caber looked dejected.

"Yeah, sit and wait, while he's doing lord knows what to the child. If, as you say, he has her that is, which, by the way, I feel in my gut, he has. So there!" He scowled and then added, "Why don't we go and knock on his door and have a little chat with him, real friendly like, just to see his overall demeanor. It might shake him up a bit, and make him nervous enough to want to move her."

"No, Ron, I don't think we should telegraph anything to him. Might make him overreact and do something desperate with her. But how about we pull some ruse, like using the fire department, or water works people?" Ideas were beginning to form in Caber's mind.

"How about we just break in his fucking door and . . . "

"My favorite career buster! No stinkin' search warrant for us. No probable cause. Just the straight old strong-arm Gestapo technique of smash and grab . . . count me in, sieg heil, mein führer!" He laughed, and clicked his heels together under the desk.

"Why not? We knock on his door and invite ourselves in. If he's got nothing to hide, he let's us pass. On the other hand if he . . . "

"You know, Ron, why the fuck not? We can tell him we heard a women scream from inside the house. You heard her, didn't you?"

"Sure did, she was real loud, too."

"Fuck, let's do it! It beats waiting . . . "

* * * * * *

LEONARD R. FISKE was in the middle of fucking Eve, in his soundproofed basement room, so he didn't hear the two detectives knocking loudly on his front door. He also didn't hear them when Caber used his skills to pick the lock. They both knew, and now remembered, that the door had been wide open when they went to inspect the cause of the desperate sounding woman's scream.

Fiske had little Eve on a table, naked, her small butt even with the edge. Her legs were resting up on his shoulders as he stood there doing his deed.

"Doesn't that feel good, my darling?" he asked.

"A little, but it also hurts, too." She winced, making her point.

"Don't worry, in time it will stop hurting and feel only good all the time. You'll see." He pushed in and out of her, bottoming out at a mere six-inches. He knew she would be able to accommodate his entire length, over time, as she grew taller.

"Ooooh, Mommy's gonna cum, sweetheart. Oooooh!" He came in her, bareback, his cum sloshing out around the base of his cock. Then he thought he heard something, so his ears pricked up. The sound had to be imaginary for it didn't repeat itself.

He belted his robe and told Eve he was going to prepare her some dinner. He went to the secret door and opened it.

And there they were . . .

One glance over Fiske's shoulder, and Caber and Mills both had their Glock's drawn. And pointed right at Fiske.

Mills said, "Move a hair, motherfucker, and it's the last hair you'll ever move. Put your hands on the back of your head! Now!" Fiske complied. In mere seconds, Mills had the man's hands behind the back and handcuffed. Caber rushed over to Eve.

He quickly covered her nudity with the small towel he found lying on the floor alongside the bed. "Hello, Martha, I'm Gabe, are you okay?"

She nodded and said, "That's my old name, Gabe. My new name is Eve. My new mommy named me." She pointed to the handcuffed Fiske. Caber sighed. He had seen this shit before. Too many times to count.

"Well . . . Eve . . . we're going to take you out of here, back to your real mommy. She's been missing you something fierce." He smiled at her. She looked perplexed.

"My real mommy is dead and in heaven. My new mommy told me so." Again, she pointed to Fiske.

"Well, he lied to you, honey. Your mommy is alive and just fine. You'll see when I bring you to her." Caber looked around the room, but the only clothing he could see for her was a pair of pajamas. He put them on her.

"Now, sweetheart, let's get out of here . . . "

* * * * * *

LEONARD R. FISKE spent exactly four days in jail before he was released, a free man, with no charges whatsoever being filed against him. While the DA was totally sympathetic, the flagrant violations of Fiske's rights by the two detectives meant that no evidence in the house, including Eve herself, and even Fiske's sperm in her, could be used against him.

". . . and we were lucky," said John Moore, the ADA, adding to his diatribe, "that Fiske didn't sue our asses off! What were you two clodhoppers thinking? You break into his house; using the lamest probable cause story I've heard in years, and blow any chance we have of making a real case against him, clear out of the water. Christ, the Nazis had less chutzpah!"

"Yeah, well," said Caber. "I'm glad we did. And, amazingly, so is my Chief. He didn't even ask us to resign." Caber looked absolutely defiant.

Mills tossed out, "That's right. And, John, old law book, for your information, Martha's folks think we're pretty neat, too. They've got two capes all picked out for their latest superheroes. Ta da!" He did a quick two-step, his arms flung out to the sides.

"You can laugh, you clowns, but this means that Fiske is free to do it all over again. He's sold his house and moved out of town somewhere. So tell me, Batman and Robin, what good will those capes be when Fiske, now much smarter, grabs another Martha?"

Mills said, looking at Caber, "I told you, Batty, we both shoulda shot Fiske for wearing that summer robe on a winter's day!" He grinned at Moore.

Caber said, "Is that still against the law in this state, Robby?" He, too, grinned at Moore.

"Oh, yeah, Batso, and it's still a capital offense, too." Caber and Mills now both grinned at Moore.

Moore just glared back at the two men . . .

* * * * * *

"HOLY MOLE SHIT, BATMAN!" Mills said. "Looks like we won't be needing our capes after all when it comes to battling the evil Fiske." He chuckled, and handed Caber a crime report printout.

It read, in essence, that one Leonard Reginald Fiske, aged 46, was found in his car, six hundred miles from here, a victim of foul play. A person, or persons unknown, had pumped six shots from a small caliber pistol into him as he sat parked in front of the entrance to a small park.

The kind of park young mothers took their children to . . .

The End.
"From my mind, to your mind!"

While fantasy and imagination are wonderful things, to any of the Leonard R. Fiske wannabe's out there, and you know who you are, who want to turn fantasy into reality, you should keep one thought firmly in mind: It's quietly becoming commonplace for parents to have a satellite tracking chip implanted somewhere under their child's skin, even at birth.

And you know you, Leon, with your rotten bad luck, you'd end up as the permanent day and night mouth and rectal servicer to a cellie called Buster, who, along with his dozens of gang chums, will teach you, old Lenny, real quick like, to call them more than just mommy!

As it has frequently been said, and it's surely the plain truth, "What goes around, comes around . . . "