My name is Darrell Sherburne. I’m a cop with the Dolcettville Police (DVPD) and I love my job: patrolling the Uni neighborhood. The pay is good and I get to help people. And sometimes there are other “benefits”.

Each day starts with our shift meeting. Mostly the usual stuff, but I always arrive early. I get to chat with my buddies on the force, find out what’s been going on in other neighborhoods — and of course update them about my area. And you never know: a couple months ago there was a guy snuffing young women without consent. Sergeant Bagley gave us the briefing, and I kept a sharp eye out. And I caught the bastard and saved the girl.

I got a thank-you from the Mayor and a bonus. And I was invited as an official witness to his execution. He got to provide us with the same excitement that he’d gotten from strangling his victims, kicking, jerking, writhing, struggling desperately for air while the noose did its work. That execution was unusual in another way: the jury had voted “special punishment,” so the jail medico injected him with a drug that inhibited orgasm. He didn’t even get a last cum from his hanging. But I got off even though he didn’t. The woman sitting next to me was so turned on that she reached over and rubbed me through my pants. I’d learned long ago: always stuff something absorbent like a gym sock into your pants when you watch an execution.

And the really stupid part: Floyd could have gotten willing victims. He had a lot of money; he could afford as many as he wanted at a snuff brothel. Or with a little effort and dinner at a good restaurant he could have talked a coed who was in danger of flunking out of the Uni into letting him strangle her. Some people aren’t happy unless they can make somebody else miserable. I think he got exactly what he deserved. Or maybe he “deserved” worse, but nothing suitable for a civilized society would have been enough.

Okay, with that as background, let me describe an unusually busy week for me. I should emphasize that most of my weeks aren’t anywhere near as interesting as this one. Usually I spend the entire week driving around, writing a few tickets, giving good advice to a few dozen people, and just keeping an eye out for anything untoward. I prevent a lot more crime than I solve, and that’s the way I like it.

But this particular week was different. It started out with routine patrol Monday morning. Just cruising, talking to people, letting them know there’s a cop around if they need one — and to deal with them if they break the law. But along about 11AM I was sitting at a red light. The light changed to green and I was just taking my foot off the brake when I heard this loud engine roar. I stomped on the brakes again and saw a sky-blue Hennessey Venom roar into the intersection, going at least 50MPH, maybe more, and still accelerating. The Hyundai Tiburon next to me had started up a little quicker, and the Venom hit the front end with a horrendous crash. Both cars were wrecked.

I radioed for help and got out to see what I could do. The Venom’s driver, a young-20s woman with two-tone hair, got out and started swearing when she looked at what remained of her very expensive car. She had some lacerations on her arms, but seemed otherwise okay. I pointed at her. “You. Stay where you are,” and went to check out the Tiburon, which had been pushed around so it was almost crossways to traffic.

I found only one occupant: the driver. She looked dazed; her face was all scratched up, and she had a nosebleed. It took her several seconds to notice me.

“Are you okay?” I asked when her eyes focused on me.

“I think ... Owwwwww!” she screamed and tensed up.

“What’s wrong, ma’am?”

“My baby ... it’s coming...” Then she screamed again and put her hands on her swollen belly.

“Hold on, ma’am.” I patted her hand and radioed for paramedics. This was going to get messy. We get a little training in emergency delivery, but it’s going to go a lot easier (and usually better) if it’s done by experts.

I went back, got two-tone’s name — Lorelle Snelling — arrested her, and put her into the back seat. Then I went back to the pregnant woman. I did what I could to make her comfortable, jotted down her driver’s license and name — Narelle Ridge — for my report, and held her hand while we waited for the paramedics.

They arrived a few minutes later and helped her onto a gurney, then rolled her into the ambulance. I took Snelling to the station and booked her for reckless driving causing injury, then found an empty desk and started filling out the paperwork. I was almost done when the Sergeant came in.

“They got the Hyundai driver to the hospital and did everything they could, but the baby was born dead. The seat belt crushed his head when the Hyundai was spun around.”

“Oh ... sh-oes!” (I remembered where I was just in time.)

“Yeah. We’re going to re-book Snelling for Murder.”

“No less than she deserves.”

Sarge just nodded. He insisted I take the rest of the day off and get my emotions under control. “Find your center,” he told me. “Then come in tomorrow morning.”

Tuesday morning I felt ready to work again. I reported in as usual and was back on the street right after the briefing. A normal day, as much as any day in a cop’s life is normal. But along about 6PM I spotted an Audi that was very carefully staying in the exact center of its lane. I followed it for about three blocks, keeping another car between us. When it was just a little late stopping for a red light, I waited for the light to turn green, then turned on my flashing lights. The Chevy Malibu in front of me pulled over to the right; I passed him and pulled the Audi over. The driver rolled down the window and looked at me, just a touch owlishly.

“What can I do for you, officer?” She was pronouncing the words very precisely. There was a bottle of wine on the seat next to her with the cork shoved about halfway in.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“No, officer.”

“License and registration, please.”

She opened her purse, pulled out her license, then got the registration out of the glove box. Tara Whitaker.

I took the papers back to the squad and radioed in to check them. Nothing. I went back to the Audi. “Get out of the car, Ms. Whitaker.” I had her lean against the car and frisked her for weapons. “I’m placing you under arrest for open container in vehicle,” I told her.

“What?”

“You are only 19, according to your license. You have no business even having that bottle in your possession, much less driving with the bottle open.”

I told her to put her hands on top of her head, then put one cuff on her right hand.

Got to give her credit for speed and accuracy: she kicked backward and got my left knee square with her spike heel. She jumped back into the car and sped off while I was trying to get the leg to work again. I limped back to my unit and took off after her. I radioed in the pursuit, and a few minutes later we had her boxed in.

Hutchinson and I went over to get her. She cooperated this time. Rolled down her window, put her hands out to be cuffed, let me put her in the back seat of my cruiser with no resistance.

I started the unit and turned around to go back to the station. A very meek voice from the back said, “I’m sorry, I kind of lost it back there.”

“You sure did. Bad mistake.”

“It’s a hanging offense, isn’t it?”

“Assault on an officer? You bet.”

“My dad was a cop. I seem to remember there was an alternative. ‘Informal disposal’ or something?”

“Informal Disposition. Yes.”

“Could we do that? I ... just don’t want to hang naked in front of a crowd. I’m so sorry. Please?

I pulled over, switched the radio to crypto mode, and reported that my prisoner had requested Informal.

The Lieutenant responded a few seconds later. “We’ll have a room set up when you get here.”

“Great.” I switched back to normal mode. “You hear that?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“So what are you offering?”

“Anything except anal. It hurts, and it’s just icky!”

I nodded.

I parked the unit behind the station. Officer Truman was there to help, but Whitaker didn’t give me any trouble. “Room 2” the desk Sergeant said. I took Whitaker to the room. It was all set up: a double bed, a couple of chairs, and equipment for minor bondage. And coffee & tea service with a couple of pastries. And Quinn Stack, who was built like a football linebacker. He was on limited duty because of a minor injury yesterday.

I offered the pastry tray to Whitaker. “No, thanks. Let’s just ... get on with it.”

“Okay.”

I held onto Whitaker while Stack came up behind hand grabbed her head. He twisted, not enough to do real damage, but she got the message. Then I unlocked her cuffs. “Take off your clothes.” She did. “Go use the bathroom if you need to,” and I pointed to the bathroom door. She nodded and went in. I was lying naked on the bed with a silk strangling cord folded into my left hand when she came back out. “Your mouth, please.”

She nodded and lay on top of me, kissing me. I kissed her back, then kissed her ears and neck, and she returned the favor. After some minutes, she reached down and found me more than half hard. She slid down, wrapped her right hand around my cock, and slid her hot, wet lips over it.

Turned out she wasn’t a very skilled fellatrix. She knew how much pressure to use, but not when to slide all the way down and when partway, or when to speed up. I grabbed her head and took control, so all she had to do was maintain suction. It took about 4 minutes for me to come in her mouth.

I let her swallow it all, then pulled her off me. I whipped the cord around her neck and pulled, hard. She gasped once, then stiffened, but didn’t resist as I rolled us over, trapping her naked body under my weight. I slid down so we were face to face, then pushed my right leg in between hers. Then I started kissing her while I strangled her. Her hands grabbed the bedspread, so I pulled harder.

After some time, she let go of the coverlet and beat her fists on the bed, right ... left ... right...

I pulled as hard as I could. I felt her legs open to me, so I used my thigh to rub her labia. It took some time, but I think she had a last orgasm. Her legs started twitching somewhere around there, then her feet kicked several times. And eventually she relaxed. I held on until Stack tapped me on the shoulder.

“It’s been a good 15 minutes.”

“Check?”

He nodded, then used two fingers to check her carotid pulse. “She’s done.”

I nodded and let the cord go. I heard one outrush of air, but nothing more, so I got up and got dressed. It took about five minutes to fill out the paperwork and hand it to the Lieutenant. I gave myself a quick sponge bath, got back into uniform, combed my hair, and went back on patrol.

I had the afternoon shift Wednesday. The usual routine of random chats, warnings, tickets, separating people who’d gotten a little emotional after a few drinks, that sort of thing. Until about 7. I got a radio call: retail burglary at Juniper Street Galleria, suspects in custody.

Security briefed me when I got there. A 26 year old brunette and her 19 yo boyfriend had been “lifting” clothes and stuff from the stores. They were on their way back to her car when the mall cops grabbed them. What a haul! Easily $25,000 worth of fancy dresses, scarves, stuff like that. And jewelry that the store listed at well over $20,000. They were looking at some serious time.

Then the sec chief showed me the real problem: the boy had surrendered when the mall cops showed up, but the girl was a different story. When the guards tried to take the goods as evidence, she grabbed the clothes and yanked. Three of dresses got torn, including a Piccioli original.

Well. That was bad news. A serious felony.

Then I got a look at the girl’s ID. Kate Lawson. Holy shit! The Dean’s daughter. I put cuffs on her, then cuffed her ankle to a heavy chair, and did the same to the other perp, a DU student named Curt Attwood. I got the mall cops’ names on my report, put the stuff in evidence bags, and wrote receipts for the stores. Then I took statements from the store managers and clerks and the security people. This case needed to be airtight. We all went to my unit together. I put Lawson and Attwood in the back seat, then had the security guys watch them while I loaded the bags into the trunk.

Dean Lawson was already at the station — with three lawyers — when I arrived. The DA herself showed up a few minutes later, and they all started arguing. Well, let’s call it “negotiating”. I went back on patrol.

Thursday was pretty much normal, except that I wrote almost no tickets: it seemed like the whole neighborhood had decided to be sane for a day.

I got a private briefing from the Lieutenant when I reported in Friday morning. Lorelle Snelling — the Venom’s driver — had been remorseful when she found out that she’d killed Ridge’s baby. She overrode her lawyers and pled guilty. She’d be hanged naked in front of City Hall on Saturday.

As for Ms. Lawson, they’d spent most of Thursday negotiating, but the Dean’s lawyers finally reached a deal with the DA: His daughter would be hanged naked as the law required, but in private. And the boy would be hanged in the Uni’s quad after lunch.

“Why...?” I asked.

“Well, nobody told me exactly,” the Sergeant said, “But I suspect the fact that the mall is so close to Dolcett University has something to do with it. Over half of their customers are Uni students. So the victims really want to stay on the University’s good side.”

“That makes sense.”

“Yeah. Anyway, you’re going to have a busy day tomorrow. I’m authorizing a day of overtime pay. Or you can take comp time off next week if you’d rather.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Good. Here’s your list of where to show up and when.”

I took the card, glanced at it, and put it in my pocket.