Mac Taylor arrived at the apartment building in Midtown. Hawkes and Giles hadn't been able to help, and the rest of the CSI team really didn't have the experience to deal with such a strange case.
Cathy had been a member of the team from a while ago, and then left to work with the Museum of Natural history. Cathy was a literal genius, finishing college at 18, taking an extra year off to do some forensic work with the Vidoc Society before joining the NYPD's Crime Scene Investigation Unit. Her Jamaican born parents would have preferred their youngest become a doctor. It was disturbing that Catherine found her niche working with the dead than with the living. But she found joy in Forensic work, and after ten years, she went on to work with the Museum, specializing in medieval lives and artifacts, inspecting remains of people and the objects they used. Mac had seen her become a thoughtful woman, from what was once a cocksure teenager. He'd seen her grow physically as well, once a borderline geek behind glasses to a total knockout. That thought resonated longer since he was now a widower. He knew he wasn't being unfaithful, but he couldn't resist the twinge of guilt along with lust. He put those thoughts aside as the elevator opened and he found her apartment at the end of the hall, and knocked on the door.
He heard a slight tumble, and the door opened. Cathy Reid stood there, wearing nothing but a white satin bra and panties and a fuzzy bathrobe. "Shit! Mac, you weren't supposed to be here for another hour!"
He raised an eyebrow. "I can leave if you want, Cat, and we can do this later…"
"Chuh! Come in, dammit, it's not like you're stopping anything," She grabbed his arm gently and showed him into her apartment, shutting the door. "Take off your jacket, I'll change. There's some Jack Daniels on the side table."
"Alright," Mac said with a smile. He had made her revert to her Jamaican patois, if but for a minute. He seemed to have that effect on her.
Cathy used the moment in her room to pull her self together and to pull on a pair of shorts and a tank top. She had hoped for the hour to herself to relax before seeing her old boss. She'd had an undeclared crush on him; one that fit with her mildly twisted desires. She felt herself moisten at the thought of submitting to, being possessed and conquered by Det. Mac Taylor.
She walked back into her front room, where he was settled with a glass of Jack, and an array of photos on her coffee table. She pulled a pillow from a chair and got on her knees on the opposite side of the table, facing him. "So, what is this great and mighty thing we are looking at?"
Mac was taken by surprise. Her eyes were somewhat at crotch level, and he felt his cock stiffen. He tried to focus. "Teenage girl found in Hell's Kitchen. I'm sure you see the ligature marks-"
"Uh-huh."
"We thought the method was manual strangulation, possibly during a sexual assault-"
"But there's no bruising, and I'm betting the rape kit is inconclusive." She leaned forward onto the table, affording Mac a view of her cleavage and full caramel breasts. He nodded, to agree with her assertions. She continued. "Sex was probably consensual and death may have been accidental. Hell's Kitchen - -you've got sex clubs doing all kinds of kinky shit. Could be autoerotic asphyxiation -"
"I was gonna ask about that."
"Shoot." Her chest heaved, revealing her nipples starting to protrude through her tight tank top. Her deep brown eyes concentrated on his. He was beginning to think about how much she was teasing him.
"My question is these bruises on her back." He passed her a picture of a milky white back with a series of deep purple circular bruises. Cathy didn't bat an eye. She shifted and leaned back.
"It's definitely medieval."
"Ok, what is it?"
"It's a rack. It explains the dislocation to her arms and leg sockets." She thought about it. She ran her tongue along her lips and leaned over the coffee table, her hands supporting her as they squeezed her breasts together. "I can show you the principle behind it," she said with a raised eyebrow. "I think it'll help the case."
His eyes wandered from her graceful neck to the swell of her breasts, her long brown legs, and back to that impudent mouth. Was she asking him to teach her a lesson? "Of course. You were always a hell of a tease, weren't you, Catherine Reid?" He took her chin in her hands.
"Yes, sir." Her eyes locked onto his light blue eyes, which served as a shocking contrast to his dark hair. She looked back at the table where the flask of Jack Daniels and its shot glass companions stood. His eyes followed hers. "Sir, you should open the drawer. I think I have all that's needed for an accurate reconstruction."
"Fine." He got up and opened the drawer. There was a metal bar with a long chain, handcuffs, a blindfold, ball gag, a pair of jeweled clamps, a small chain, collar and leash, and a paddle. My, this girl is a little freak, he thought. "I'm guessing someone's been naughty." Lust and guilt were fighting with one another, and as the looked at the dark-skinned girl in front of him, lust was winning.
"Oh, you know I have, Detective Taylor." she responded. She moved aside the pictures into a neat pile and stood on the coffee table, her hands extended toward a hook in the ceiling. He got onto the table with the chain, bar and handcuffs. Standing this close, he leaned in to kiss her, grabbing the back of her head forcefully. She obediently followed, he looped the chain over the hook, placed her hands over the bar, cuffing her in place as they continued kissing.
