Distinguished in our mutual profession, the manifold virtues of Detective Michael Celluci, had, for years, been a scandal within the Toronto Police Department. His arrest and conviction rates, particularly in the case of especially horrific and baffling crimes, were universally acknowledged to be the highest. Yet such is the perversity of human nature that instead of exciting admiration within the breasts of his less successful colleagues, each accomplishment served only to arouse suspicion and jealousy, jealously leading to the basest speculation—it was whispered that Celluci had risen by the unfair attentions of his female Captain. But if one listened closely, one heard worse—it was said that Celluci could draw on extraordinary resources—that he accessed unnatural advantages.

Out of concern for the respectable image of the Toronto Police Department and as the child of that nearly vanished breed, a hellfire and brimstone spewing clergyman, I occasionally in respect of my own detective skills, entertained the notion of investigating these rumors to determine their veracity. It is likely that nothing would have come of such idle musing, but it chanced that, at a favorable juncture in my career, I was transferred to his very precinct!

The details of my introduction to Celluci have inexplicably vanished from memory. It may have been upon the morning I first assumed by new duties or the occasion I attended my first task force briefing; it hardly matters; there was something so extraordinary about Celluci's presence that, however the introduction came about—I found myself possessed by an extraordinary fascination that operated to prevent any definite attention as to time and place. It is a personal failing of mine—you may think it an unacceptable failing in an officer of the law—to be fascinated—almost to the point of obsession—by physical perfection in both man and woman—and Celluci's form was such as would have made Buonarotti weep to sculpt him.

He was six feet in height, at least, and, despite a tendency to slouching, of an air distinguished by the impression of natural authority. You could not fault the proportions of his figure—neither in the breadth of his shoulders, nor in their appearance—the Discobolus of Myron would have envied such shoulders! And what perfection in the modeling of his thighs and that gentle due prominence above the os femoris! Clearly, the best blood of the conquering army of the Emperor Otto I had found renewed expression and vigor in a profile and character of face that could only be described as remarkable—oh, remarkable is too meager a word to support that first impression—that head of gold curls would not have looked out of place on an angel! His eyes were shockingly blue and deceptively mild, his chin well formed and determined. The mouth, in particular, was utterly unequalled. The lips were full and of a delicate pink and, when he smiled, though that was rare, his lower lip assumed a surpassingly perfect curve, which sweetness did nothing to detract from the overall impression of profound manliness. Unable to believe such a man could incline to corruption, I cast aside all doubt and, resolving to secure a portion of those smiles to myself, determined to prosecute an immediate campaign to obtain his friendship.

Initially, my attentions were met with coolness on Celluci's part; he was not at all susceptible to flattery. Although, not an invariable habit, I observed that he had a marked propensity for working at night. One morning, I arrived as he was concluding his 'day' and found myself standing beside him at the coffee urn. I offered my compliments upon his solving of the recent case of the Pentagram Killer, and inquired to what insight had led him to its resolution. To my earnest inquiry, Celluci said only, 'Got lucky—hand me the sugar, will ya.' It was my pleasure to do so and a spark leapt between our fingers as I complied.

Despite this promising beginning, the next time we met, Celluci passed by as though it had never happened. I could not feel slighted; I too have suffered and, as he held everyone, including his current partner, the exquisite Detective Lam, at a distance, I did not surrender hope. As the object of my personal study, I had already discovered that if there was one flaw to be detected in the perfection of Celluci's face, it was that his mouth, of which I have spoken; seemed too frequently set in an expression ineffable sadness. By discreetly probing my own partner and fellow officer, Detective David Graham, I sought to uncover the essential roots of his despair

'Celluci?' said Detective Dave G., when he at last comprehended the purport of my inquiries, 'that pain in the ass bite your head off, or something? Don't let him get to you—only person who could stand him was Victory Nelson.'

'Trafalgar?'

'No, dork, his par—"

'Pardon me! Where can I find Detective Celluci?' Here we were intruded upon in the rudest fashion by some random member of the public who, coincidently, had come in search of the subject of our conversation. I recall a blond man of aesthetic, almost saintly, aspect, certainly dressed entirely in clerical black. This individual, upon being directed to the desired object, whispered something in Celluci's ear, that so captivated the detective's attention, that the two withdrew to the glass conference room, and there engaged in what appeared to be a very intense tête-à-tête. I happened to be strolling by as this individual was leaving, and heard him say to Celluci, 'My number's in the file.'

Within days of this odd occurrence, Celluci had put paid to the Serial Homeless Killer and solved the case of the Prostitute Church Murders; he was showered with acclamation by the press; our fellow officers could not get enough of discussing it:

'Chains!'

'Drugs!'

'Ritual murder! Ghastly!—'

'Victory! Nelson!' (The admiral again!)

'What uncanny insight!'

'Fuckin' luck!'

'Some kind of kooky blood cult!'

O yes, the blood—

Strangely, there was no comment or commendation from the Chief Inspector's office.

Within weeks, I could not fail to remark that Celluci grew thin and pale, as though beset by some gnawing disorder—aenemia or some deep disturbance of the soul that found expression in his flesh.

Save that the very cleanliness of his habits would forbid such a thought, and that his physical beauty grew concurrently, I would have suspected him of indulgencing some illicit substance. But his eyes became more lustrous, his skin paled to ivory—and his teeth—his teeth—the points of the canine teeth, set against bloodless gums, dented that soft, no longer pink, lip, and appeared longer and sharper than the human norm! Our fellow officers were oblivious; the effect was subtle; Dietz, alone, suggested that he procure a sun lamp before Nelson mistook him for a fish and kicked him out of the hammock! That was Dietz all over and, shortly, Dietz was all over.

For myself, as securing Celluci's friendship had become indispensable to my peace of mind, I endeavored to tempt his appetite with a selection of tasty pastries and gourmet coffee—in place of the stale beavertails and 'battery acid' that are the common fare of the squad room—Celluci blanched at my offering. He scowled at me, and said, 'You gay, kid?'

You may understand how this thrust me into an intolerable state of tension! To be misunderstood in this fashion could only be the consequence of a disturbed mind. Even more certain that something other than the suspicion and mistrust of his fellows was blighting Celluci's spirit; I conceived that in some mysterious way it was bound up with the key to his success and my determination to discover the secret of his heart became an obsession that dominated my every waking hour. I listened with close attention to the radio 'chatter' whenever Celluci was called to the scene of a murder. I persuaded Minnie in records to give me her password, for the purpose of reviewing his closed case files. It was while pursuing one of those dated files, and analyzing his methodology, that I came across the name Victoria Nelson—yes, the name I had misapprehended as referring to the great British admiral—was that of Celluci's former partner! I repaired again to Det. Dave G., who had previously proved such a reliable source of information.

'You planning a walk on the wild side, kid?' (Here Dave G. thought it appropriate to put his finger at the side of his nose.)

'What?'

'Nelson?—You don't know about Nelson?'

'Would I ask, if I did?'

Det. G rolled his eyes and informed me that Nelson's eyesight had failed and that, upon leaving the force, she had set up in business as a private investigator—a private investigator with a penchant for things that go bump in the night!—Straight out of left field!—Weirder the better! Further, it developed, in the evident opinion of our superiors she had begun to exert a malign influence on Celluci's professional career—he had been warned, on peril of his job, to have nothing to do with her. As Dumas (pere) might say, Cherchez la femme, pardieu! cherchez la femme! This discovery filled me with a delicious novelty of sensation; and yet, I could not be satisfied in any way touching Celluci; surely his secret could be nothing as mundane as pussy! Do not misunderstand me; I revere women; but the demands of representing the law must put a strain on all but the most exceptional female. A Google search revealed the address of the building where Ms. Nelson kept an office.

I knew the street; it was only a few blocks out of the way of my drive home and renowned for the number of small, ethnic business and cafes along its length. I reacquainted myself with the Ayutthaya—excellent lemon grass soup, and a bow front discretely screened by dragon plants—the perfect observation post where from, on a bleak and late December afternoon, when the sidewalks were still crowded with holiday shoppers, I was rewarded in seeing Celluci exit the building. With him was a person whose appearance immediately arrested and absorbed my whole attention. In that moment when the day surrenders its struggle with the night, and the sodium lamps have just ignited, the wild effects of the light revealed a slender, boyish figure whose honey brown hair was cropped and curled in the manner of a Renaissance prince. Could this be Victoria Nelson? No. The two paused only twenty feet from my post and I had a good opportunity of examining the person; despite the long unmanly locks and baroque chin, nothing so antithetical to femininity could be imagined. And the face—it was so remarkable a face, there arose in my mind the conviction of vast, ancient power, of blood-thirstiness, of passion, of triumph, of terror and of majesty, of dark splendor. I felt singularly aroused, startled, fascinated. As the night deepened, so deepened my interest—Celluci was expostulating with his companion—his hands thrusting in the air; twisting, as if he meant to throttle the other. His passion, though, seemed merely to inspire amusement; I saw the flash of white teeth as the other laughed. Finally, the exchange terminated with a final neck wringing gesture of Celluci's. He threw up his hands and they moved briskly on into the night.

There came a craving desire to keep them in view. Tossing some bills on the table, I abandoned my Pad Thai, pulled on my overcoat and hat, and ran into the street. Pushing through the crowd in the direction I had seen them take, I buttoned my coat close around me and saw them stopped at Celluci's automobile. As they stood within the radius of a street lamp, I realized that, despite the cold, the young man wore only a short, open leather jacket and caught a glimpse of ruby silk as he entered the vehicle. Unwilling to abandon a scrutiny in which I now took an all absorbing interest, I flagged a passing taxi and, in the best noir style, instructed the hack to—'Follow that car!'

'Why?' said the impertinent fellow; 'Your wife in it?'

'Mind you own business!'

'Just askin'. You want a girl?'

'I'm a cop!'

'So?—you want a boy?'

By this means, I traced Celluci to a by-street, where, when I refused to tip him, the ill-bred wretch gunned his poorly-maintained engine, engulfing me in a cloud of gasoline fumes as he drove off. I made a note to file a complaint with the proper authority.

I found myself, in a neighborhood of neat craftsman bungalows. Celluci's vehicle was parked in a driveway nearby. There were old maples on the lawn and hedge borders which, in full the full bloom of summer, would have concealed any approach to the house, but in winter could hide nothing behind bare twigs. I had no notion of being thwarted at this point, though, and proceeded around to the alleyway. With some little difficulty, backyard dogs set to howling, I found his back gate, opened it and crept along the side of the house until I could climb up on a basement window well cover. The shade was not fully drawn and, despite the slight precariousness of this perch, I had an excellent view, through the dining area, to a comfortably appointed living room. On the table was a bottle of Del Duque amontillado and one small crystal stem.

It was then that Celluci entered the scene, holding a second crystal with a spot of garnet fluid in the bowl. As he refilled his glass, that extraordinary individual I had marked on the street, slipped up behind him. I could see the crown brown curls just topping Celluci's shoulder, and bare arms, arms white as Parian marble, slid around Celluci's waist. The glass was removed from Celluci's hand and put down. Celluci stood there passively, letting his shirt be unbuttoned and eased down his shoulders, from where it fell to the floor. He did submit to bend his proud neck, and let his hair be ruffled, when it was insisted that a waffled Henley undergarment be treated in a similar cavalier fashion. Though, when that had been dispensed with, Celluci took hold of the hands, now working at the waistband of his pants, and held all still—so still—I, too, held my breath and did not dare to breathe again until Celluci's chest suddenly heaved. It seemed to me that Celluci was gasping, though I could hear nothing through the double-pain thermal window, but then, Celluci's head rolled back, whereupon, I realized, evidently, that—that—person!—was kissing the length of Celluci's back, even as the hands, I could see, made quick work of the fastenings and tugged pants and underwear out of sight. This knowledge was visibly confirmed as Celluci seemed to melt and turn, and then, at last, I saw the wanton creature in full, perfectly naked!

Angel—or demon—but in the first flush of manhood, for which the evidence thrust proudly from a nest of chestnut curls—he pulled Celluci, stumbling over the jumble of clothing, into the living room and, there, that child pushed the man down on a couch and knelt upon the floor between his knees; as an acolyte before a pagan god; kissed and nuzzled the very tip of the membrum virile erectum!—opened his mouth—those coral lips—would have swallowed it!—had Celluci not thrust his hands into the mass of brown curls, gripped the back of his head, and forced a thumb into his mouth. Why appeared Celluci was feeling the teeth! The youth, balked of the meat he had meant to consume, only tilted his head and seized the smaller part, sucking it like a child at the breast. As if in pain, Celluci closed his eyes. I outside, ensorcelled, enchained at the window, did not feel the cold in any muscular sense, but my senses had became praeternaturally sharp; the light in the room illumined only the two of them. I could count every crisp curl on Celluci's chest; tickle the crinkled flesh of his nipples; savor the taste of salt on his thumb. I had undergone such a contagion of feeling that I had left my body; it was me kneeling at Celluci's feet. Me!—to whom Celluci spoke the words that had such a galvanizing effect upon the Incubus between his knees that he spat out his sweet and began to entreat and expostulate. Mine was the body Celluci raised up and drew down on top of himself as he lay back. Me!—squirming and struggling; raising his knees and joining us together, thrusting between his thighs, until I buried my head in his neck—he arched up and fell back with a piercing shriek!

I came to myself as Celluci fell back—alone at the window, polluted, the sweat freezing on my skin, newly awakened from a nightmare—unable to deny the blood I had seen on Celluci's breast or that the seeming child was drinking from Celluci's neck as from a fountain. The hairs of my head erected themselves; it was an animal feeding, shoulders working, sucking hard—I should have called for back-up!—lapping—bestial and brutish—Celluci's fists drumming on the predator's back, until, with a horrible final spasm, he collapsed.

—I should have called for back-up!

As I betrayed Celluci, my foot betrayed me, slipping on the frosted wooden frame of the window well cover. Quick as a cat, though he should not have seen me through the drawn shade, the creature looked where I scrambled to recover myself. I saw his blood-stained lips and the eyes, the lifeless, pupilless eyes. 'You! Stop!' he said, in a tone thrilling and distinct. And there I stayed until he came and dragged me inside to confront Celluci—still breathing—still alive!—sitting there like the Ludovisi Mars.

Warmth and fear oiled my tongue.

'So sorry—didn't realize—thought you were in trouble.'

I was babbling, but the two feigned not to notice.

'You know this guy, Mike?'

'I told you about him, Henry—my stalker.'

'Oh, yes.'

Celluci's lover (Henry) perched on the arm of the couch like a bird of ill-omen. For decency, he, at least, had put on a pair of black jeans and, close to, he looked young, though how could I ever have mistaken those ancient eyes for the freshness of youth—?

'Do we let him go?'

I would have departed at this point, fully satisfied, on every count, but it was then that I fully comprehended the secret of his success.

Celluci just smiled.

'No,' he said. 'Waste not, want not.'

The End

31 October 2009