Chapter 14: The Book of Promiscuous

San Luis Obispo, California

July 9, 2004

San Luis Obispo Police Sergeant Renee Delgado was parked behind the United Church of Christ on Los Osos Valley Road. She was the patrol sergeant for District 4, which covered the city’s west side up to the invisible line that marked the border with the frontier of unincorporated SLO County—Sheriff’s territory.

The church was empty at this hour, and her black and white Crown Victoria was the only car in the secluded lot. She’d known about this hiding spot since she was a rookie fifteen years ago. The bulk of the church building blocked her from street view, and the back of the lot dead-ended at a chain-link fence and Prefumo Creek. Cops liked to stay unobserved when parked—partly for officer safety, mostly to avoid morons walking up with stupid questions or snide comments.

It wasn’t technically her lunch break, but she was working through a bag of trail mix and sipping from a 32-ounce Sprite she’d scored for free at the 7-Eleven up the road.

So far, it had been a quiet Friday. Too quiet. None of the six patrol units under her supervision had been dispatched to anything since roll call at 1530. That made her uneasy. Not even the Mission District was stirring and that was where most of the action was in this small city.

And when it was this quiet, it usually meant something loud and hideous was building steam.

As if this very thought stirred the Call Gods into action, her mobile data terminal, or MDT, suddenly beeped. Orange text appeared on the black screen.

Delgado stared at the screen a beat, her Sprite straw in her mouth, mid-sip. She released the grip her lips had on it and set the cup down in the holder, still staring at the screen.

“What the fuck is this bullshit?” she muttered to herself. The phrasing alone raised flags. Non-consensual sex with the homeowner’s son? Not daughter? Not minor child? No age listed?

She tapped the ENROUTE button.

Two other units had already acknowledged: Chan and Bellamy, both solo in their respective patrol cars. Standard for SLO PD—one-officer cars. It let them stretch thin across town, especially on an understaffed Friday night in early July.

Delgado didn’t usually get dispatched to stuff like this—at least not directly. Sergeants were supposed to supervise, circle the big calls, jump in when shit went sideways, not ride first-in on every fucking domestic that rolled down the pipe.

Still ... this one was weird.

The screen beeped again. A message popped up on her MDT, addressed only to her—from Sergeant O’Hara, the dispatch supervisor and the longest-tenured sworn officer in the department. O’Hara had been wearing a navy blue uniform and carrying a gun for the city for thirty-four fucking years. Renee had fifteen on and already felt like she’d done two and a half eternities.

The message read: FYI: The RP is Judge Michael Olson. Yes, THAT Judge Olson. He made sure to inform the call taker of that fact.

She snorted through her nose. Well shit. That solved the mystery. She hadn’t even noticed the name of the RP, short for reporting person, on the initial dispatch because—well, who gave a fuck? Half the RPs were named Olson or Smith or Jones or fucking Brown in this town. But this Olson?

Yeah. That fact that it was this Olson explained a lot.

Michael Olson—technically a Superior Court judge, but forever a municipal court moralist in tone—was infamous in SLO law enforcement circles. He was the terror of speeding tickets and DUI cases, known for lacing his rulings with unsolicited Bible verses and fire-and-brimstone lectures about “sin” and “God’s law.” He’d lost more than a few cases on appeal thanks to his inability to keep the Gospel out of his gavel.

And now he was saying his son had been raped. Delgado had been skeptical the moment she saw the suspect was a woman and the alleged victim a man—not unheard of, to be sure, but very far from common as far as sex crimes went. Usually it was some fucked up teacher-student scenario if it happened. But with Judge Olson? Her doubts doubled. His idea of “non-consensual” probably included low necklines and dancing that wasn’t sanctioned by the Book of Leviticus.

She keyed her mic. “Sierra four-Charlie enroute.”

A few seconds later, Chan and Bellamy, Charlie four-two and Charlie four-one, respectively, echoed her.

Five minutes later, she was rolling slowly up Williams Avenue, the two-lane feeder road through one of SLO’s wealthier neighborhoods—quiet streets, manicured lawns, pastel stucco boxes with views that gave real estate agents a hard-on. The brass loved to see heavy patrol presence up here, but actual calls for service were rare. And when they did come, it was usually for a trespass, a burglar alarm, or a vehicle break-in—not a female on male rape in progress.

Chan was staged at the intersection of Williams and Morning Glory, parked at the curb with his emergency lights off, waiting for backup. Standard protocol: no one went into any in-progress call alone unless some asshole was actively shooting or waving a machete around. Officer safety 101.

Once Chan spotted her black and white coming up behind him, his brake lights flashed for a second and then the car began to move forward, turning right onto the cul-de-sac. Delgado followed him, unfastening her seatbelt as they approached in case she had to get out of the car in a hurry.

The judge’s house was in the northern curve of the cul-de-sac. A big two-story that looked exactly like the sort of house you would expect a judge to live in. There was no activity out front at the moment. They parked in front of the house next door and got out of their vehicles. Delgado walked up, adjusting her gun belt as she did so, and met up with Chan at the front of his car.

“Hey, Sarge,” Chan greeted. He was a third generation American who spoke no Chinese and had no desire to visit China or any other place in Asia. He had nine years on the department and has just been assigned to the early swing shift in District 4 a few weeks ago. A good solid cop from what Delgado had seen so far. He knew his ass from a hole in the ground and hardly ever stepped on his dick. “Why’d they send you to this bullshit?”

“Did you notice the name of the RP?” she asked him.

He shrugged. “What the fuck difference does it make?” he asked.

“Usually, it doesn’t. This time, it does. This is the home of the Honorable Michael Olson of the SLO Superior Court’s traffic and misdemeanor division.”

Chan groaned a little. “That fuckin’ bible thumper?” he asked, shaking his head.

“The one and only,” Delgado said.

“Motherfucker tossed one of my DUI arrests once because the guy was driving home from church. No legal defense. Just church.”

Delgado arched an eyebrow. “You serious?”

“Yeah. His ass got popped by the review board for it. Reprimanded. Still—my righteous DUI walked.”

Delgado shook her head. “We live in a fucked-up world.”

“No argument,” Chan said.

“All right,” she said with a sigh. “Let’s go see what this bullshit is all about.”

They approached the house carefully, slowly, eyes scanning the windows, the gate to the backyard, the front door. Nothing moved.

They walked up the concrete path. Mounted to the mahogany door was a plaque:

“As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.” —Joshua 24:15

“Charming,” Chan whispered as they took position on either side of the door.

Delgado simply nodded. Creepy would’ve been the word she used.

They didn’t knock right away. They listened first, trying to get a feel for what was going on inside. They had no idea what they were about to walk into and, like any good cops, they wanted to assess the scene before making contact.

They heard nothing.

That, in itself, was information.

They exchanged a look. A shared nod.

Chan knocked hard.

They waited, both resting their hands lightly on their holstered Glock 22s—department issued, .40 caliber. Standard posture for contact on what might be a hot domestic in progress.

They heard footsteps approaching. Angry ones.

The door swung open, and there stood Judge Michael Olson.

He wasn’t wearing his robe—though, for some reason, both of them had kind of assumed he would be, ridiculous as that seemed. Instead, he wore a dress shirt and slacks, the shirt untucked, his hair frazzled like he’d been yanking on it. And he was pissed.

“Come inside, officers,” he said sharply. “I have the rapist in my son’s bedroom. A clear violation of PC 261! She is dressed like a slut, which is better than the way I found her!”

Delgado and Chan made no move to enter.

They were both staring past him, trying to get a glimpse of what was happening inside. All they could see was a clean, quiet foyer and the edge of a formal living room—the kind with furniture nobody ever actually sat on.

Delgado kept her tone even. “I’m Sergeant Delgado, Your Honor, and this is Officer Chan, San Luis Obispo PD. Can you give us a little more detail on what’s going on?”

“That slut raped my son!” Olson snapped. “That’s what’s going on. I want her booked and charged with rape.”

“How old is your son?” Chan asked. Technically, he was lead officer on the call, which meant he’d be responsible for any reports that came out of it. It was the right question. If the son was underage and the “slut” in question wasn’t, and they’d actually had penetrative sex, it was a pretty open-and-shut case. Minors couldn’t legally consent to sex. Didn’t matter if he’d begged for it—it was still a charge.

“He’s nineteen years old,” Olson said.

Well, that derailed that theory.

Now the issue was consent.

And both Delgado and Chan had been cops long enough to know that nineteen-year-old males did not get raped by women very often. Not impossible, but rare. Hell, most nineteen-year-olds would stick their dicks in the knothole of a tree if they had some lube and a little privacy.

Delgado kept her tone even. “Okay, Your Honor. Let’s slow down a bit. Who exactly is this woman?”

“Her name is Tiffany Moreland,” Olson replied. “I ran her through the system when she moved into that ... that house. The one at the end of the street—where those so-called musicians live. The ones from that evil band, Intemperance.”

That rang a bell for both Delgado and Chan. They knew Nerdly Archer—the pianist for the notorious rock group—lived somewhere in the city. So did Matt Tisdale and John Cooper, at least for now. They’d been called to Tisdale’s place more than once for noise complaints and weed smoke, but had never had reason to go near the Archer house. Until now.

Now they knew where it was.

And if Nerdly Archer was involved, this already-fucked-up situation just got more complicated.

Delgado said nothing. Neither did Chan. But they exchanged a look.

Chan scribbled something on his notepad. “What’s this woman’s relationship to your son?”

“She’s not supposed to have a relationship with my son,” Olson snapped. “But apparently she’s been using him. Seducing him. Defiling him. I came home early today and saw the evidence with my own eyes.”

“What kind of evidence?” Delgado asked.

“I walked into my living room and found—on my chair, no less—her clothing. Her thong underwear and her slutdress—” (he said it just like that: slutdress, as if it were an official term) “—laid across the arm like some kind of trophy. That chair is mine. No one is allowed to sit in it. My son knows that. Everyone knows that. It’s not for sitting—it’s for reading the Word. And she used it as her throne of debauchery!”

Chan blinked. “Okayyy,” he said, unknowingly channeling a Caydee-ism. “Then what happened?”

“I heard noises from down the hall. Moaning. Heavy breathing. Lust. I went there and found them on his bed. She didn’t even have the decency to close the door while she defiled him! I got there just in time to hear her telling him to spank her and call her a dirty girl. They were both naked. And she was making him do it from behind. An unnatural position. She was smiling. He looked hypnotized.”

Delgado glanced at Chan. “And where are they now?”

“She’s still in the bedroom,” Olson said. “I ordered her to get dressed and stay put. She complied—but not before informing me that she’d done nothing wrong.” He shook his head. “Some people will say anything when they’re caught.”

“And your son?”

“Sitting on the couch. Shamefaced. Broken. Corrupted. As soon as this situation is resolved and that woman is in jail, I’m going to call Bishop Myers to come over and offer spiritual support”

Chan kept his tone neutral. “Any weapons in the house we should know about?”

“None,” Olson said quickly. “Unless you count sexual depravity as a weapon.”

Delgado let that one pass. “We’re going to make contact with her now. We’ll speak with your son next.”

“Good,” Olson muttered. “Maybe you can explain it to him in terms he understands. Authority.”

Delgado offered a tight nod. “Right. May we come in?”

“Of course,” he said. “I’ll show you the way.”

He led them inside. The house was clean, tastefully decorated, though with a bit more of a Spanish Inquisition vibe than Delgado cared for—crosses, framed scripture, and a painting of Jesus that followed her with its eyes.

The boy in question—they still didn’t know his name—was sitting in the family room, slouched on a sectional. Jeans, t-shirt, bare feet, hair rumpled. He didn’t look scared or traumatized. He looked like a young man who’d just gotten thoroughly laid and now found himself in the opening stages of a reckoning—but with zero regrets about the act that had led him here.

Down the hall, Olson pointed to a door. “That’s his room.”

Delgado turned to him. “We need you to stay out here while we make contact.”

“I should be present,” he insisted. “To hear what she says. I am a judge, after all.”

“She might be dangerous,” Chan said, deadpan. “Better if we handle it.”