Chapter 12

Bob eventually slept, despite the erection between his legs that demanded attention. It was still demanding attention when he woke the next morning, with a soft, naked woman pressed against his body. It had been a long time since there had been a naked woman of any kind pressed against his body when he woke. That had been a result of long hours, and an unwillingness by Bob to turn over part of his life to any woman. It wasn't that he didn't like women ... it was more that he hadn't found a woman yet who didn't drive him crazy within a few months of getting close to her.

Perhaps it was the multidimensional aspect of his relationship with Lacey that caught, and held his interest. She had always been interesting, in the sense that she was the most beautiful woman Bob had ever become friendly with. Most beautiful women weren't interested in a cop with a crooked nose, who loomed over most people and looked slightly Neanderthal when he frowned. He kept his hair cut short, almost in military style, because it was cooler and kept the "appearance pricks" off his back. He'd gotten tired of being reminded that he represented the whole fucking city ... to the whole fucking city ... long ago.

Most women, beautiful or not, also aren't interested when a man comes through the door and answers "How was your day?" the way most cops answer that question. It was even worse in Bob's case. What woman wants to hear about how poor virgin Sally was tied spread eagled on the bed, screaming, while fifteen men apparently tried to inflate her body by overfilling her with semen?

Lacey was still asleep. Bob didn't want to move, even though he needed to pay homage to the porcelain goddess. Part of that was because it WAS so nice to have a warm naked female body pressed against him. But he had some thinking to do. Lacey Fetterman seemed to require much more thought than any other woman Bob had ever met. A lot of that thought was still centered around his natural suspicion. Cops are, after all, paid to be suspicious.

He was sure, in his mind, that Lacey had killed the crispy critter that was about to be buried. At the same time, he was also sure that that critter deserved to be crispy. That critter had ruined Lacey's life ... twice, if you looked at it from a slightly skewed angle. He had also ruined the lives of at least four other women, and since most rapists commit ten times the number of rapes they are ever found accountable for, he had very likely ruined the lives of fifty innocent women.

There were two horns of the dilemma Bob was currently hoisted on.

The first was that if the rapist had been caught, successfully prosecuted, and sentenced to death, the result, though it would have taken twenty or thirty years, would have been the same. He wouldn't be a crispy critter, but he'd still be dead. In effect ... that sentence had been carried out. The innocent were now protected, at least from this particular serial rapist. The only problem was that the warm naked body of the woman pressed against him, a woman who was delightful, and interesting, and loving, had shortcutted justice, taking the law into her own lighter-filled hand. The fact that her crime was, most likely, only second degree murder, committed in the heat of passion, was merely a mitigating circumstance. It was still murder, by the letter of the law.

The second was that, if all the signs were correct, the murderess not only didn't remember the original cause of the heat of her passion when she committed the crime ... she didn't remember the crime either. Had Bob stood over her, demanding a confession, she would have, quite literally, believed herself innocent.

While most people don't think about it, the purpose of the criminal justice system in the United States is not to put criminals behind bars. Everyone thinks that's its purpose, but if you read the constitution, it is quite clear that's not what the founding fathers had in mind at all.

The purpose of the criminal justice system is to ensure that no innocent person is deprived of his or her freedom.

That purpose has morphed, over the centuries, which isn't unusual. Most social programs morph as the society morphs. Additional purposes have been added to the system. There is the purpose of removing incorrigible criminals from the society they would continue to prey on. But not all criminals are incorrigible, or a threat to society. If a criminal repents his societal sins, and is not a danger to others, what purpose is there to keeping him ... or her ... removed from society? There is retribution, of course, another purpose that has crept into the system. Victims want revenge, but we can't allow them to take it themselves, so it is taken by the state on their behalf. Sentences, in fact, are based on that justification. Punishment is meted out to soothe the victim and encourage the perpetrator to repent.

If Bob unmasked Lacey, and her prosecution was successful, she would certainly be punished. She would not be repentant, because she would, forever (if her memory stayed the way it was now), believe she was innocent of the crime she was convicted of. No family had stepped forward to claim the crispy critter's body. The victim, himself, could not, in his current condition, desire revenge. The world was a better place because he was gone.

Bob could think of no possible way that prosecuting Lacey Fetterman would make the world a better place.

Yet, he had a sworn duty to uphold the law.

It was driving him crazy.

When she woke and started kissing him, telling him it was the best night's sleep she could remember, it took everything he had not to roll on top of her and give her what she wanted. Her kisses were warm and inviting, the kind that are almost impossible to fake, and that affected him the most. He became convinced, in the ten minutes it took to extricate himself from her embrace, and basically browbeat her into getting dressed, that at least as far as Lacey Fetterman's brain was concerned, she really did love him.

He wanted to stay with her all day, but insisted that she go home and rest. She agreed, only after he promised to take her out that night.

It was very hard to leave her when he closed her door.

He had the day off, but the situation had to be resolved. He had no idea how to do that, so he went looking for help in the only place he could think of to get answers to some of his questions. Well, there were two places he could go, but one of them would be professional suicide. He could have gone to see the department shrink, but any officer who went in that office voluntarily was looked on with suspicion by his coworkers, and that lasted forever.

But there was a woman he'd helped in the past. She'd been stalked by a patient, who attacked her in the parking garage where Bob just happened to be getting out of his car. He had been in civvies, and technically off duty, but he carried his badge and gun everywhere he went. It was the furtive movement in the shadows that had tipped him. The man had had a chloroform-soaked rag in his hand, and the woman was unconscious at his feet, when Bob stepped up behind him and saved the day.

The woman, a psychiatrist who did some consultation with the court system, was immensely grateful. She had, in fact, predicted in court that a defendant who was on trial for sexual assault would attack another woman and that bail should not be granted. The judge had ignored her, and she almost paid the price. It was that man who had attacked her. Her name was Claire.

When Bob entered the office, he almost didn't get to see her. The secretary was adamant that the doctor was booked and could not see a walk-in patient. It didn't help that Bob said he wasn't a patient. Claire walked out of her office to hand the receptionist some paperwork and saw Bob.

"Is this my lucky day?" she asked, brightly. "Have you finally come to take me away from all this?"

Her receptionist's jaw dropped. It stayed dropped as Bob asked if he might have a word with her, and she told the girl to hold all appointments until they were done.

Claire sat in a chair, beside which was another chair. She didn't put her desk between them.

"What's up?" she asked.

"I have this problem," he said. "Actually, there's a friend of mine who has this problem."

Claire grinned. "That's the oldest story in the book, Bob."

"Well, this time, it's true. I had a case a while back ... a rape case ... and the victim and I ran into each other after that. We play racquetball together."

"Mmmmmm," said the doctor, noncommittally.

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