When I, Ben Shaklee, graduated from Northwestern University's journalism school I was lucky to land a job with the Chicago Tribune. Ever since I was a kid, no doubt inspired by Clark Kent, Lois Lane, and cub reporter Jimmy Olsen in reruns of the old Superman TV show, and then enhanced by real life investigative reporters from the Washington Post and New York Times, I always wanted to be a newspaper reporter.
I went through the normal hierarchy for young reporters at the Tribune; obituaries, then local interest pieces, and then assisting on political stories both local and national. I got a big break when I was twenty six and still single, with no significant other. No one senior to me could stand the hours that would be involved, so I was assigned to ride with a Chicago Police late night crime squad. On a typical night we took off about ten p. m. and finished about five a. m.
After a testy start the cops on the squad - a sergeant, two Swat dudes, a uniformed policeman, a uniformed policewoman, a homicide detective, and a vice squad detective - warmed up to me. I wrote several very favorable articles about them that were published in the Metro section, never got in their way, and always brought coffee and donuts for all when we started the shift. They allowed me more and more access until I was almost treated like Richard Castle in the popular T V program.
While if this was a "True Crime" story I could relate many hairy and violent episodes that I witnessed and subsequently wrote about for the Tribune, by far the most unusual case I ever came across, which someday I might actually write an entire book about, was that of "Amanda's Worlds."
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It was about two a. m. on a Wednesday morning when the squad, with a "No Knock" warrant, broke down the front door of a townhouse in a middle class neighborhood. It was a "first" in my experience when we entered a den on the ground floor where music was playing and saw a naked woman being fucked doggy style by one guy, and vigorously sucking another guy's cock. While the guy getting his cock sucked immediately broke away the guy pounding away doggy probably didn't see us right away because he kept going despite the order from the lead cop to "break it up."
The woman being reamed turned her head toward the lead cop and snarled "Let him finish," and then she reached her long arms in back of her and pulled the guy fucking her toward her. It was also obvious that she was doing something with the muscles in her crotch area because the eyes of the guy fucking her got really wide when her pelvis seemed to start vibrating.
All of us in the squad were stunned - stunned enough that no one immediately did anything but watch. Within seconds of when her pelvis vibrations started, the woman looked like she was having a convulsion, and the guy grunted and yell "Holy Shit," at least a dozen times. Obviously they had both orgasmed violently - certainly more violently than any orgasm I had ever experienced.
When the cops on the squad finally regained their composure they pulled the fucker out of the woman, and lifted her up. It was when she was standing, still naked, with cum leaking from her pussy and her eyes rolling in her head, that I got a good look at her. She was the sexiest woman that I had ever seen in my life.
The woman looked to be about thirty years old, five feet eight inches tall, maybe one hundred thirty pounds, with sleek thighs, prominent hips, and big tits with puffy nipples. Her hair was dark blond and shoulder length. Her eyes appeared to be dark blue, but since she was rolling them I couldn't initially say for sure. Her face wasn't classically beautiful yet cute, although it did look a little older than her firm body.
While the cops pulled the two men out of the den to begin interrogating them, I stayed in the room, mesmerized. The lone policewoman, Cathy Jenkins, in the squad went up to the woman with the leaking pussy and put an afghan that was lying on a couch around her, spoiling some of my view - but not all of it; I could still see one of her thighs and part of her pussy, and the cum slowly inching down toward her knee.
After she cuffed the woman, only Officer Jenkins and I were still in the den because apparently the two guys had gotten frisky and were being restrained by some of the squad members while others searched the rest of the townhouse.
"What's your name?" Cathy asked.
"What the hell is going on?" the woman replied, obviously still feeling the effects of her massive orgasm.
"I need you to cooperate, ma'am. Tell me your name."
"I haven't done anything wrong; fucking isn't against the law."
"I really need you to cooperate. If you haven't done anything wrong, tell me your name."
After a long pause and a few deep breaths "Amanda; Amanda Watkins," came out of her lips.
"Where are your purse and clothes?"
"Over by the bookcase."
Cathy walked over to the bookcase, picked up Amanda's very short skirt, thong, and skimpy top - there didn't appear to be a bra - and then her purse. As Cathy looked through the purse she asked "Why are you here, Amanda?"
"Because I needed to get fucked badly, and the two guys you saw me with as well as the guy upstairs looked like good prospects for ringing my chimes - which they did despite your rude interruption."
"Are you a prostitute Amanda?"
"Fuck no - just because I enjoy sex that doesn't make me a prostitute. I wasn't being paid, just having a good time."
After that exchange, Cathy pulled out an I. D. from one part of Amanda's purse. Cathy got a weird look on her face. She fished around some more and found two more I. Ds. in other parts of the purse. She walked up to Amanda holding them.
"How come you have three I.Ds. Amanda?" Cathy asked, fanning them out.
I walked over to the side, right next to Amanda so that I could plainly see the I. Ds. The one Amanda first focused on had her photo and the name Amanda Watkins, just like she had said. "That's me," she replied, nodding at the Amanda Watkins I. D.
"Well whose picture is this, then?" Cathy asked putting the Amanda Watkins one behind a second I. D. The second one had a photo almost identical to the one on the Amanda I. D. but the name on it was Shirley Blomquist. Amanda stared at it, blinked her eyes, and then got this funny look on her face. As she looked around the room, at herself, at me, and at Officer Jenkins, her look morphed from odd to terrified. She squealed, and then said "Where am I, and why don't I have clothes on, and why have I been handcuffed?"
Cathy Jenkins thought that it was an act. I wasn't so sure. Without responding to Amanda's inquiry Cathy put the second I. D. behind the third one and asked "Who is this?"
The name on the third I. D. was Joan Greene, and the photo sure looked like Amanda and the photos on the other two I. Ds.
Amanda's actions looking at the second I. D. were virtually repeated this time for the third I.D. Then her lips started quivering and she started softly crying. "I don't know what's going on. I want to talk to my husband Richard."
"Richard Greene?" Cathy asked.
"Yes - call Richard!" she whined.
Cathy went back to the purse to find a cellphone. There were three of them, one in each of the compartments that she had gotten the I. Ds. from. "Which one is yours, Amanda?" she asked.
"My name is Joan. I don't know what those two flip phones are, but the iPhone is mine. Richard's number is in the contacts."
"Where is Richard now?"
"He's on business in Los Angeles,"
"Just past midnight there," I said to Cathy. She nodded, scrolled through the menu and then pressed a button. She put the phone on speaker.
"Uh, shit, Joan. Why are you calling so late. I have an important meeting tomorrow," the obviously sleepy voice on the other end of the line said.
"Mr. Greene, this isn't your wife. This is Officer Jenkins of the Chicago P. D. calling on your wife's phone. We found someone who might be her in a precarious situation and want to confirm her identity."
"I'm OK, Richard, honey," Joan yelled. "There is some mistake; they've handcuffed me."
"What? What the hell is going on?" Richard snarled, now apparently fully awake. At that point Cathy turned off the speaker, and for the rest of the conversation I only heard one end.
After asking Richard to describe his wife, and when he would be back in town, and who his lawyer was, Cathy - obviously at Richard's request - put the phone back on speaker.
"Joan, honey. I'll be back as soon as my meeting ends tomorrow. In the meantime say nothing. John Braxton, my attorney, or one of his associates will meet you at the police station. Do not say anything, understand?"
"I won't Richard," she sobbed. "I love you - hurry back."
Cathy asked me to stand in the doorway to the den, with my back to her and Joan to block her exit in case she tried to flee. Then Cathy uncuffed her, helped her get dressed, then cuffed her again and put the afghan back on her so that her prominent puffy nipples were not visible through her blouse. I heard Joan say a number of times "These aren't my clothes - they look like a hooker's," while Cathy kept responding "They fit you though, Joan, and you have to wear something."
Once Joan was dressed, Cathy marched her out of the townhouse. The three men that had been found inside were on their knees in the living room, handcuffed, and being read their rights. The two that had been in the den were bloody, and still naked.
I rode with Cathy in the front seat of one of the squad cars, with Joan in the back. After Cathy put Joan in the car she handed Cathy's purse to me and whispered in my ear "I can't interview her since she asked for a lawyer, but you can. On the way to the station make nice with her and then ask her about the piece of jewelry in her purse."
