Medusa: Naissance

By A. L. Malcom

In the United States, over 680,000 rapes occur each year.

But that number is merely a statistic, and this novel isn’t about statistics. It is about “what if?”

What if there were someone who had the means and opportunity to mete out justice to those rapists the police couldn’t touch?

What if she encased these men in concrete, posed them as copies of famous statues and set them up in prominent locations in the city?

What if she taunted the media, the police — even the Mayor — with accusatory and descriptive letters, each one signed “Medusa”?

It is said, “vengeance is a dish best served cold,” and in the case confronting Lieutenant Caitlin McHugh of the Buchanan Police Department, it appears to be served in the cold shroud of these concrete-entombed corpses. A woman calling herself “Medusa” is on a killing spree, and, like her namesake, is literally turning men to stone. When the first of the victims turns out to be Earnest Waverly, a sadistic rapist and murderer who had escaped their custody five years earlier, even Caitlin and her team begin to question their motivation for trying to capture this vigilante.

Still, they know as sworn law enforcement officers, they are duty bound to pursue this murderer, especially after her victims begin to deviate from the original corps of rapists to include a more cosmopolitan male clientele. On the convoluted path leading to the killer, Caitlin finds herself sidetracked by the shootings of two police officers, as well as the concealment of critical files by members of her own Department.

Female readers may well find themselves surreptitiously cheering for the killer; while male readers — especially those who view women as mere objects for their personal enjoyment — well, they just may begin sleeping with one eye open.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. L. Malcom
• Release date: Jun 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311664488

A. L. Malcom

A. L. Malcom, a grizzled reprobate who hails from so many parts that his origins at first might seem obscure, was actually born in Washington, DC, where he lived out the first nine months of what was to become an extraordinary life. The son of an Air Force officer, he and his family wound up living in Guam, Ohio, Wisconsin, Japan, New York, and Wisconsin again, all before he was eleven years old.He fell in love with writing while completing a literature assignment in junior high school, but had to put his devotion on hold for the next several years.Majoring in anthropology in college, he developed a fascination with the mythologies of the world. He also managed to live in or visit 49 states and 17 countries. All of these travels—including those of his childhood—instilled in him a love for other peoples and cultures, and reinforced his interest in their legends.Becoming a teacher, he taught in Arizona, and later in Wisconsin. Now retired, he lives in Wisconsin, where he comfortably labors over his first passion — writing — crafting his novels, the settings and characters of which reflect his lifelong interest in the world’s fables and myths.

Book preview

In the United States, 78 women are raped each hour. This adds up to 1,872 rapes each day, 56,940 rapes each month and 683,280 rapes each year.

1 out of every 3 American women will be sexually assaulted in her lifetime.

The United States has the world's highest rape rate of the countries that publish such statistics. It's 4 times higher than Germany’s, 13 times higher than England’s and 20 times higher than Japan’s.

1 in 7 women will be raped by her husband.

83% of rape victims are 24 or younger.

1 out of every 4 college women have either been raped or suffered attempted rape.

1 out of every 12 male students surveyed had committed acts that met the legal definition of rape. However, 84% of the men who had committed such acts felt that what they had done was definitely not rape.

75% of male students and 55% of female students involved in acquaintance rape had been drinking or using drugs.

Only 16% of rapes are ever reported to the police.

In the time it will take the average American to read this book, there will be 511 rapes committed across the U.S.

acknowledgments

The statistics above are staggering, yet woefully accurate. Sexual assault is one of this nation’s most common crimes, although one of the least likely to be reported. Nowhere near the trauma that befalls these victims — yet still an ordeal — has been the struggle to produce Medusa and to impart life to a world I could only imagine. I am indebted to my extremely patient wife, who only occasionally complained at seeing nothing of me but the back of my head. I give my warmest appreciation to Delphine Pontvieux, my friend from goodreads.com who graciously provided an accurate French translation in several passages of dialogue.

I also wish to thank Hiroko Sakai, a truly wonderful artist and friend — whose work may be found at her website: HirokoSakaiFineArt.com — for the cover illustration.

prologue — five years ago

Shaina Gordon had never been to the Amherst Inn, so the mere thought of dining at the most exclusive establishment in the city had beguiled her from the start. That bait, coupled with the inordinately smooth presentation of the enticement had done its work, and Dylan Murdock felt almost smug in the knowledge that, before the evening was over, his hands and other more sensual parts of his body would be satisfying themselves with the carnal delights the amazingly beautiful woman sitting across the table would be more than willing to give up to him. It was getting difficult for Dylan to avoid licking his lips at the prospect. What would it matter if I did, he thought. She’d just think I was infatuated with the cuisine. He smiled one of those smiles only the wearer can see, and then returned to the conversation — a blend of seduction and witty repartee the skill of which he had mastered over the years through countless engagements such as this one.

And they were just that, weren’t they? Engagements, skirmishes — military campaigns that coupled precise deployments and strategies, and which contained the singular objective of victory over the opponent. Not that he viewed this seemingly unending parade of hapless women as his opponents. Not at all. He was no chauvinist. He adored women! His heartfelt desire, to his way of thinking, was to bring ultimate pleasure to those who had been heretofore deprived of his exceptional skills.

No, the opponent, the enemy if you will, in each and every situation was the prudish inhibitions that stifled the natural and inherent desires that he knew to be hidden — albeit sometimes quite deeply — within the very souls of the women he helped. It was his job, his mission, his obligation in life to release these poor females from the constraints with which a puritanical society had imprisoned them. He was the Perseus to their Andromeda, and the incontrovertible task he had accepted was the selfless act of freeing them from the shackles that would have — without his adroit intervention — sacrificed them upon the rocks of ignorance.

…so like I said, Mr. Murdock, Shaina said, I don’t want to give you the wrong impression of me.

Dylan was startled back to the conversation, suddenly aware that he had allowed his attention to wander once again. Wrong impression? He was genuinely puzzled, not by her statement, but by the fact that he had completely lost track of where they were in the discussion. The puzzlement is a good thing, he thought. It’ll win me points in the long run.

Shaina ran a hand through the seemingly unending waves of her flaxen tresses, brushing the golden treasure away from her face. Dylan felt himself getting a hard-on.

I mean, Shaina continued, "I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate this dinner. God knows I always dreamed of being able to eat here; and this is like, the most amazing evening of my life. I want you to know that.

But, Jesus Christ, Mr. Murdock, I know you’re married. And I just don’t want to get involved with a married man. You know?

Murdock never missed a beat.

In… involved? He asked the question, not out of puzzlement this time, but with a façade of injured feelings.

Well, yeah, Shaina said. I mean, you did sort of invite me back to your place and all.

Murdock had heard this line of discussion before. He was ready for it.

Oh, Shaina… uh… Miss Gordon! He laughed. I’m so very sorry, he said. "You’ve completely misunderstood my meaning, and… oh, my God… I can see where you might have thought… must have thought… oh, God, I am so very, very sorry. I never meant…" He laughed again, this time with the nervousness that might accompany a gross misunderstanding. With practiced skill, he caused the redness to flush his face.

Shaina was suddenly mortified.

Oh… oh… oh, Jesus, she said. "I… no… don’t apologize… it’s me… I overreacted to what you said. Oh, Jesus, Mr. Murdock! I’m sorry… oh, Jesus… please forgive me. I can be such a dunce at times!"

Dylan sighed in a visible attempt to calm himself.

Are you sure? He asked, as meekly as possible while shifting to ease the pressure on his swelling cock.

Yes, of course, she said. I guess I’m so used to guys wanting stuff from me, I just go around expecting it. You didn’t say or do anything wrong; like I said, I just overreacted.

Dylan Murdock looked across the table at his quarry with an expression that conveyed nothing but the deepest sincerity.

I should have anticipated that, though, he said.

Now it was Shaina who was puzzled.

What do you mean? She asked.

Well, if I may be allowed to say so, he continued, you are a remarkably beautiful woman. I should have realized that men are probably constantly approaching you, and… may I be direct?

She nodded.

Well, he said, approaching you and trying to… to get you in bed with them. He sighed. Am I right? He asked, knowing that she had already answered the question but following his script nonetheless.

She blushed a little.

Well, yeah, she said. "But Mr. Murdock, I should have never thought that you… I mean, you’re Mr. Murdock!" She gesticulated, emphasizing the importance of this name, this man, this legend to whom she found herself talking.

Dylan Murdock, founder and CEO of Murdock Hydrosystems was a man of uncountable wealth and inaccessible power. He had built his empire from the ground up, carefully staffing key positions with the best talent and filling other slots with his eyes directed toward the physical attributes of his applicants. His invention of home-based water purification systems had been sheer genius. His clients saved money every single month on their sewer bills, because his system all but eliminated wastewater. Every drop was cleansed and re-circulated throughout the house, also cutting down on fresh water consumption. Toilet water was cleaned and put back into circulation to flush again and again. Laundry water washed load after load of dirty clothing. If Murdock had had his way, and his personal bodily fluid recycler had received government approval, even urine would have gone back into the drinking water supply, but the FDA had stepped in to forestall that particular expectation.

Still, Shaina was sitting across the table from the most powerful and influential man she or anyone else she knew would ever have the chance of meeting in their life. And she had just insulted him. She lowered her head.

"I’m so sorry." She almost mumbled.

He reached across to her, gently placing his fingers below her drooping chin, raising her head until their gazes met.

No, he said. "I’m sorry. As I told you, I should have been much more sensitive to your situation."

She blushed again.

Can we start over, Mr. Murdock? She asked, tentatively.

He looked her over as if weighing the prospect.

On one condition, he said.

Anything, she said.

You stop calling me ‘Mr. Murdock’ and start calling me Dylan.

Of course… Dylan. She giggled.

Gotcha! He thought.



The phone rang and Caitlin reached over to turn off the alarm. The phone rang twice more before she realized her error and, with all the weight of sleep still burdening her arm, reached past the clock for the cell.

McHugh, she said, her voice dry and hoarse.

Sergeant, this is Lieutenant LaFrancois; did I wake you?

He had, but she denied it.

No, no Lieutenant; I was just getting some reading done. She looked at the clock, saw that it was 3:17 in the morning, and realized how lame what she had just said must have sounded. She decided to change the subject. What can I do for you? She asked.

How soon can you get to the station? He asked.

Caitlin did a cursory pit smell and said, Fifteen minutes — twenty if you want odor-free.

Twenty will be fine, he said in his matter-of-fact manner. He hung up.

Bobby stirred and rolled over, wrapping his arm around his wife, mumbling something unintelligible as his hand found its way to her breast.

She extracted herself, saying, Not now, Babe. Go back to sleep. She kissed his forehead and got out of bed, now fully awake and wondering what could be important enough for the Lieutenant to call her in the middle of the night.

Caitlin showered and dressed with practiced efficiency, then hurried out to the unmarked white Crown Victoria that was parked in her driveway. Ten minutes later, she pulled into the parking lot at the police station. She walked into to the Criminal Investigations Division office of the Investigations Bureau exactly twenty minutes after she had received the Lieutenant’s phone call, somewhat surprised to find that, apart from the Lieutenant and Corporal Slattery, she was the only one there. Slattery nodded in greeting, but said nothing, respectfully waiting for the Lieutenant to be the first to speak. LaFrancois looked at his watch, gave the slightest of smirks, and motioned for her to take a seat next to the Corporal.

What I am about to tell you, Lieutenant LaFrancois began, must, for the present at least, stay between the three of us. Can I count on your utmost discretion?

Yes, sir, McHugh and Slattery answered in unison.

LaFrancois sighed, and gave them both an uncharacteristically warm smile. He knew full well that he could count on this pair. The three of them had already been through the most unimaginable of ordeals; and, although their escapade had involved the entire police force, only the three of them had been left with the memory of the literally monstrous nightmare. Yes, mes amis, he thought, I am fully aware that I can most assuredly count on you.

"As you know, my wife… passed away a little over two years before I came to the United States. I… mourned for a long time, but friends kept at me, urging me to begin dating again, to not allow life to stagnate around me. In reality, they did not want for me to allow myself to stagnate.

"I finally took their advice. I met three young sisters and went out with one of them on several occasions. Shaina was beautiful, charming, witty; just the kind of person I needed to get me out of my découragement and bring some life back into my soul. We had wonderful times together. But she began to feel that a permanent relationship was going to be out of the question — for one thing, our age difference was too great; and my job, well, my job was just a bit too challenging for her to feel comfortable with. We parted romantic company, but Shaina, her sisters and I have kept in touch over the past several months."

Caitlin shifted in her chair.

I’m sorry, LaFrancois said. I guess I’m giving more information than necessary. He cleared his throat. The thing is this: Shaina’s sister, Andie, is in my office. She called me a little while ago and told me that Shaina is missing.

Has she filled out a missing person report? Caitlin asked.

No. LaFrancois’ brow furrowed.

Well, Captain, I mean, I’m not the one to tell you how to go about doing your job or anything like that, and you know I hold you in the deepest respect, but isn’t that SOP?

Normally, yes, the Lieutenant replied.

Caitlin looked him in the face.

There’s more to this story than what you’ve told us, isn’t there? She asked.

LaFrancois sighed and nodded.

Caitlin rose from her chair and walked over to him, putting her hand on his shoulder.

C’mon, Jacques, she said. We’ve been through a lot together. You know we can deal with whatever it is.

LaFrancois looked at her with eyes that reflected as much admiration as they did the weight of concern over what he was going to tell them next. Finally, he inhaled and exhaled with a chest-filling sigh."

She was last seen in the company of Dylan Murdock, he said.

Slattery, who had said nothing to this point, slapped his hands to his knees and stood.

Okay, he said, drawing out the second syllable. Who wants coffee?



Romulus Tiberius R.T. Ward washed his hands carefully, making certain that any last bits of debris were entirely extracted from beneath his fingernails. In all, he had scrubbed them four complete times before he was satisfied that they were totally clean. He then applied a moisturizer to offset the depletion of natural oils his use of stringent detergents had caused.

I’m not being anal, he said to his reflection in the mirror, with a conviction to his voice that made it clear that he felt his reflection needed convincing. But you know as well as I do that there are germs everywhere. I’m just being thorough.

He winked at his mute conversational partner and exited the bathroom, stabbing at the light switch with his elbow, missing the first time before making contact with the second try. The error brought a scowl to his face and a glare to his eyes that was still present when he walked into the living room to rejoin his early morning visitor. With a skill developed over years of practice, he immediately replaced the unpleasant expression with a warm and cordial one.

And what might The Ward Foundation do for you this beautiful morning? He asked his guest.

the first lesson

Seduction is often difficult to distinguish from rape. In seduction, the rapist often bothers to buy a bottle of wine.

— Andrea Dworkin

one — present day

It strikes me as being quite intriguing that — as you read this missive — you will know absolutely nothing about me. Oh, I am reasonably certain that you wholeheartedly will imagine you do. But you must believe me when I tell you that your presuppositions will be as far from the truth as they might possibly be. Your powers of judgment will have been skewed by the media, as you eagerly have sat at their table, gluttonously filling your maw with their overblown distortions and fantasies. With such a foundation for your so-called knowledge, how could you possess anything other than misinformation? So, I must let you know that, to a degree — and, even though meager, the depth of forgiveness here is of the most extravagant measure I could possibly give, I assure you — I shall absolve you of this portion of your sin.

But the majority of this sin falls squarely upon your own shoulders. You have allowed yourselves to be misled, duped and hoodwinked as you have sat immobile, comfortably ensconced within the undemanding arms of your easy chairs and upon the overindulgent cushions of your couches, sucking the trivial electronic juices that have flowed from the box, through your eyes and into your brains.

And thus, with the underpinning of tripe that you have — through your sin — allowed to poison your thought process, you will dare to judge me; and worse, to trivialize me and what I do by lumping myself and my accomplishments in with those whose acts, through some accident of similarity, will appear to be analogous to mine.

Yes, I am aware that I have used the word sin exactly three times. It has been chosen for its precision. It has been repeated for emphasis.

It comes to us from the sport of archery; its meaning is to miss the mark or target. And this is exactly what you will do in your one-size-fits-all depiction of me and my deeds. You will miss hitting the mark. I shall prove to be of a different size — a different caliber, if you will. Soon, you will have the opportunity to begin to be taught exactly what I mean.

Then, perhaps, and only then — if you should see fit to extract your dead asses from the softness of your pillows and to pay strict attention — you may at least begin to truly know me.

The first lesson will be taught tonight.

I wish you well.

Medusa

The hand-written letter contained no salutation or greeting, but it had been found in an unmarked envelope that had been — apparently surreptitiously — mixed in with the Letters to the Editor mail at the downtown offices of The Sun. As soon as it had been opened and read, the staff member who had stumbled upon it had had the presence of mind to enclose it and its envelope in a plastic bag and to call the Police Department.

It now lay on the desk of Sergeant Anthony Galliano, the man in charge of the Forensic Crime Unit of the Department’s Criminal Investigations Division. He looked at the clock, noting that he had less than two minutes left to his shift.

Why, exactly, asked Galliano of the officer who had brought him the communication, did you bring this to me?

Well, Sergeant, said the officer, the newspaper people were pretty spooked about it, and it seemed to them that the letter is referring to some sort of crime about to take place.

Exactly, the Sergeant said, picking up the correspondence and looking at it again. "About to take place. The letter itself is not a crime. It doesn’t refer to any crime that has occurred. For that matter, when you really look at it, it doesn’t say that a crime will be committed; it only says that some sort of ‘lesson’ is going to be taught tonight.

"In case you didn’t notice, Rook, this is the Forensic Crimes Unit. We deal in crimes, crimes that have been already perpetrated. We don’t deal in the media’s flights of fancy!"

He took the still-wrapped letter and tossed it back onto his desk.

There’s nothing here, he said.

Getting up from his desk, he came around and put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder.

Look, he said, looking for the first time at the officer’s nametag, "uh… Officer… Kennedy, you did good. No harm, no foul. The press people wanted it to get looked at, and now it has been. Should they call to follow up, feel free to direct them to me. I’ll have this thing filed away in the ‘C’ File for Cranks, Crackpots and Crap. But trust me, Kennedy; nothing will come of it.

"Now, let me give you some unsolicited advice, okay? You are not gonna get far in this Department if you turn out to be the type who sees crimes and conspiracies around every corner. Nobody appreciates a ‘make work’ kinda guy. Capice?

Now, I’m going to go home.

With that, he withdrew his hand, turned and left Officer Kennedy standing in front of an empty desk, a look of moderate bewilderment etched across his face.

two

The following morning almost began in the usual manner for Lieutenant Caitlin McHugh, with a lot of sweating and heavy breathing. Since the reconciliation she and her previously wandering husband, Bobby, had consummated over five years prior, few mornings went by without the two of them dancing horizontally across the satin sheets of their king-size bed. Their morning ritual, if one might call it that, consisted of rising, using the toilet, brushing teeth and returning to the bed for a sexual free-for-all that left both parties spent, yet curiously refreshed. This was followed by showering, dressing for work and drinking a breakfast of French-roast coffee. On occasion, a whole-wheat English muffin was thrown into the mix.

Since Caitlin’s shift began at eight o’clock, she seldom had the variation that might be brought about by an unexpected phone call. Today, however, was an exception, as, at 7:03 AM, Caitlin’s cell phone rang. The caller ID stated that the caller was the office of Captain Jacques LaFrancois of the Investigations Bureau of the Buchanan Police Department.

McHugh, she said.

Lieutenant, said the Captain in his to-the point, ‘just the facts’ manner, I need you to start work a bit early this morning. Should I expect the usual twenty minutes?

Caitlin smiled.

No, Captain; already showered. I can be there in fifteen.

Fifteen it is. He hung up.

Gotta go, Babe, Caitlin said as she gave her husband a final morning kiss and squeeze.

His hands found her onyx hair and supple ass simultaneously, and he held her tightly as he prolonged the kiss. Pulling away finally, he said, The Captain never calls you.

I’m sure it’s nothing, she said.

No, he said. Not with LaFrancois. He wouldn’t call if it was nothing.

She gave him another quick peck and said, Once a cop, always a cop. She smiled and stroked his nose with her index finger.

He smiled back.

Okay, he said. Maybe I’m reading too much into this. But I just get a feeling…. You just be careful today, alright?

She smiled again, cupping his face in her hands and bringing them eye-to-eye.

Listen, Babe; I’m always careful. She kissed him once more.

Now, really. Gotta go!

She was well out the door before her scent ceased to linger in his nostrils.



The crude concrete representation of The Thinker sat squarely in the front center of the Murdock driveway. As the private road itself was wide enough to accommodate the passage of two M-1 Abrams tanks side by side, the human-sized statue’s presence did not impede the flow of a normal level — or even, as was the case this morning, an abnormally high level — of traffic. However, the detail that did prompt avid braking, thus decelerating the flow, was the position of the figure’s left hand. While the right fist was half-closed and supporting the chin, as in the original statue, the left hand was wrapped around the subject’s penis in a more than obvious masturbatory fashion. The accompanying ecstatic expression on the figure’s face erased any shadow of doubt as to what the sculpture represented.

Corina Murdock had been the first to spot the monstrosity, as she would call it. She had been on her way out of the Murdock estate, already late for an early morning tennis lesson with her favorite instructor, Reg Nyquist. As she had approached the gate to the forty-acre property, she at first had been given the impression of someone sitting in the middle of the driveway. She had gotten within less than a hundred feet before she had been able to see clearly the creation that had been deposited inside the Murdock’s front gate. She had traveled even closer before being able to grasp the full effect of the figure.

She had not been amused, and had so stated to the dispatcher at the Buchanan Police Department.

I want LaFrancois! She had demanded.

Dylan and Corina Murdock were among a small group of privileged people in Buchanan. Unlike Garth Brooks, they had friends in high places, including the Mayor’s office, and they thoroughly enjoyed the ability to have any level of the Police Department at their beck and call. This latter advantage had been brought about by the fact that some five years earlier, Dylan had been investigated for a brief time by the Department in the case of a missing young woman. Being wealthy, famous and very married at the time, he quite naturally had become the principal target for the news media, who had asked a bevy of embarrassing questions, primarily focusing on his allegedly prodigious sexual exploits. Cleared at that time of any involvement, he nonetheless had sought a propitiatory arrangement with the Department, more insisting than requesting that they assuage his justifiable anger over the invasion into his personal business by making themselves available to his and his family’s future needs or desires, the response to which calls would be made by officers with no less than the rank of Captain. The authorization for this arrangement had come down directly from the Mayor’s office. Thus, when Corina Murdock had demanded to speak to Captain Jacques LaFrancois, of the Investigations Bureau, her call had been put through immediately.

The Captain had vowed to put his best people on the investigation of this intrusion, and had called his head of the Criminal Investigations Division as soon as he had gotten off the phone with Mrs. Murdock. True to her word, Caitlin McHugh had arrived at the Station at exactly 7:18, had received a briefing on the situation and had been back on the road to the Murdock estate by 7:23. Behind the wheel of her car, she radioed Sergeant Arcelia Jasper of the Crimes Against Property Unit and requested her presence at the scene as well.

I don’t know, Celi, Caitlin said. "It sounds pretty strange. Some sort of ‘disgusting’ statue — Mrs.