“So, Moron, who the fuck is this dildo?” John Harris asked the uniformed officer beside him as they stood behind the mirrored glass observation widow of the interrogation room. The ‘dildo’ was seated at the metal table and was being questioned by Jefferson State Police detective McMichaels. He looked about like any other college kid: late teens early twenties, saggy pants, tank top, gaudy bauble adorning an earlobe and several tattoos on uppers arms and lower legs, including three Japanese or Chinese characters that probably announced to the Asian world that the bearer had a little dick or liked small boys.

“Richard Russell Anderson, D.O.B. 7/10/90, enrolled at Shasta State, works part time in the campus book store. Resides at 1940 Harrison, shares the apartment with a Melody Ann Jenkins, D.O.B. 5/8/92, unemployed, also a Shasta Stater,” Moronni said, handing Harris a folder that included Anderson’s student ID card and driver’s license, as well as copied of his recent tax returns.

“Vehicles?” Harris asked, watching the youth squirm uncomfortably in the hard metal chair.

“An ’09 Subaru, paid for, and she drives a new Mazda, leased by him.”

“She have any money?”

“None to speak of. Her mother is a CNA in a nursing home, not much more than minimum wage, and her dad works in a hardware store, plus they still have two other kids at home.”

Harris paused and fumbled in his jacket pocket and extracted a package of cigarettes. Smoking was forbidden in all public buildings but he ignored that as well as the disdainful look from Moronni and fired up the smoke. He’d been smoking all his adult life and he wasn’t about to quit now. As for the brass, fuck’em. They could can his ass any time they wanted; he didn’t need this shit anyway. Actually, he did need it, but that was another story. “His family have any money? Maybe a rich uncle?”

“No way. The father’s unknown, and the mother’s on public assistance.”

“Okay,” Harris pondered, “what we have is a kid living high on the hog, shacked up with Suzie Creamcheese and paying his own way through college. All on a part time minimum wage job. Anybody see anything wrong here?”

“Either drugs or gold,” Moronni surmised. “It’s always one or the other.”

Cultivation and sale of marijuana is legal in Jefferson, as is the mining of gold, and the income from both are heavily taxed. It appeared that this kid was doing business under the table.

“Okay, give this shit back to McMichaels and let him have another go at the kid. Turn the volume up, Moron.” Harris handed the kid’s ID and tax returns back to Moronni, who transferred them to detective McMichaels in the interrogation room.

“You see, Son, here’s the problem,” the detective told the youth. “You’re living way beyond your means, and that rings bells for us, makes us think there might be some criminal activity. See, according to these,” he referred to the kid’s tax returns, “you earned less than eight thousand dollars last year, and you don’t seem to have any savings or investment accounts at any bank. So, just how do you come up with the rent each month?”

“I, uh, have….I want a lawyer.”

“You can call a lawyer after you’re arrested. This is just a friendly chat to see if we need to arrest you, see?” McMichaels explained. “You don’t get a lawyer yet.”

“Hey Lou,” Harris said, entering the room and interrupting the interrogation, “go grab a cup of coffee or something, and let me try to explain the situation to Mr. Anderson. Oh, and stop by my desk on the way back, Okay?” The kid had no doubt watched enough TV to pick up on the old good cop-bad cop routine, but Harris still though he might get through to the guy. “Listen up, you little rat fuck,” Harris snarled. “We’ve got you and Sally Rottencrotch going at it hot and heavy with no visible means of support.” The kid bristled at the insult to his girlfriend but before he could speak Harris followed up the accusation, “We know that your job doesn’t pay shit and that neither of you get any money from home. Your paycheck, all hundred and fifty bucks a week, gets deposited in a Wells Fargo checking account and you use it to pay for utilities and shit. You buy cashiers checks each month with cash, usually hundred dollar bills, to pay for your rent, tuition, and her car lease payment. Now either you had one hell of a summer job, which doesn’t show up on you tax returns, or you’re laundering money. Do you see our problem?”

“I refuse to answer any questions without a lawyer present.” The statement was loud for the benefit of any hidden microphones.

“You don’t need a lawyer until we arrest you,” Harris explained. “Right now, we’d just like a little background information. We’d hate like hell to have to arrest you if you’re clean. That kind of thing sticks with you and might crop up sometime in the future and bite you in your ass. Understand?”

“I understand my rights and I have nothing further to say to you,” the kid said, rather indignantly.

“Okay kid. If that’s the way you want it,” said Harris, leaving the room.

“What do you think, Moron?” Harris asked the uniformed officer as soon as McMichaels had rejoined them.

Officer Moronni was in no way a moron, as Harris’ nickname for him implied. He was an experienced patrol officer and would take the detective exam the next month. “Well, he’s packing a full class load and working twenty hours a week, so what with studying and keeping his girlfriend happy I’d say he doest have time to mess around with digging gold or growing grass. He just about has to be dealing, probably coke or meth or heroin.” A guy could make a good living mining wildcat gold or growing bootleg marijuana, but it required much more time than selling drugs on campus.

“I think Moron’s right. We need to turn things up a notch or two.” Harris lit another cigarette, then turned to McMichaels. “Lou, did you stop at my desk on the way back from getting coffee?”

“Yeah, John. Here.”

“Thanks, Lou,” Harris replied, slipping the object Lou gave him into his back pocket before turning to Moronni. “You with us on this, Moron?”

“Moronni hesitated for a few seconds before answering. What Harris was proposing was illegal as all hell, and heads would roll if the wrong people found out about it, but Harris was the best detective on the force and had the highest clearance rate. “Sure,” Moronni finally answered.

“I told you before. I’m not answering any more questions, so either arrest me or get off my case. I’m late for work,” the kid said as the three police officers entered the interrogation room. He had recovered his composure and was now trying to sound tough.

“Okay,” Harris replied, “Richard Anderson, you are under arrest for income tax evasion and the sale or transfer of controlled substances.” Harris then read the suspect his rights, after which he frisked the kid for weapons. “Empty your pockets on the table and remove your belt,” Harris ordered, and once the kid had complied he added, “Hands behind your back,” and removed a set of handcuffs from his belt pouch.

“Do you really think you need those?” The kid questioned. “After all, I’m all ready in custody.”

“I’m not answering any of your questions.” Harris mimicked the kid’s voice as he snapped on the cuffs. Harris then nodded to the other two officers. Moronni looped the kid’s belt around his neck as Harris and McMichaels wrestled him to the table. Moronni then secured the belt to the prisoner restraint loop on the end of the table and then helped the other two hold the struggling suspect’s legs.

“What the fuck are you doing?” The kid screamed with indignation as his pants were pulled free, and then “You goddam perverts!” as his legs were pulled apart and a rough hand seized his balls.

“Hold still and shut the fuck up or I’ll hurt you,” Harris said, momentarily tightening his grip. The threat had an immediate effect and the kid quieted down and quit struggling. Harris then removed the tool McMichaels had given him from his pocket. It was an ordinary elastrator, common to all farms and used to castrate calves. He loaded a green band on the four protruding prongs and closed the handles to expand the band.

The kid’s nuts were plump with the virility of youth and the enlargement that comes with frequent sex, and it was only with effort that Harris finally massaged both orbs through the loop. The kid couldn’t see what was happening, and it wasn’t until Harris released the handles and rolled the band off the prongs that he realized what had just happened and he renewed his struggles.

The three men released their prisoner, who immediately tried to free his hands so that he could reach his crotch. “We’ll be back after a while, Harris said as they exited the room. “Maybe you’ll be ready to talk by then.”

“How long does he have before he’s, you know, permanently damaged?” Moronni asked as they watched the young man frantically try to step through his arms so that his hands would be in front. A person with long arms may have managed the contortion, but it was hopeless for this guy.

“I don’t really know,” Harris answered. “I put one on myself when I was a little fart and it hurt like hell after just a few minutes. I think an hour is probably max.” The kid had given up trying to shift his hands and was now attempting to bend forward far enough to reach the band with his teeth. Again, possible for some people but hopeless for him. And after fifteen minutes of nearly breaking his back the kid shifted his efforts to trying to snag the band on the edge of the table.

“Well now, look at that!” McMichaels said. It appears that young Mr. Anderson is starting to enjoy himself,” referring to the erection the kid now sported.

“Yeah, that usually happens. I don’t know if the body is subconsciously trying to get in one last pop or what. Oops! Clean up on aisle four! Fruitful little fucker, he’ll really be hurting now.” Harris laughed, and Moronni subtly shifted his hands to shield his crotch and conceal his own erection.

“It’s been a half hour,” Harris commented, checking the clock on the wall. “Let’s go see if he’s ready to answer some questions.” Harris knew the kid would talk; they always did. The urge to reproduce is the strongest human drives and all normal males will do whatever it takes to preserve that ability. They start out cursing and yelling and threatening, but they start pleading as the pain increases, and as soon as the realization that they are about to be rendered sexless sinks in they offer anything they own in exchange for relief from the constricting band. Eventually they will even profess a willingness to drop to their knees and open their mouths if that’s what it takes to prevent or delay their castration.

Five minutes later Harris had a list of the kid’s suppliers and major customers. “You just sit tight a few more minutes while I check some of this out,” Harris told the suspect, who was now sitting quietly, hunched over, trying to ease the pain radiating through his belly.

“So, what do you think? Is he telling the truth?” Moronni asked as soon as they were back outside the room looking in through the one-way glass.

“Yes. I’ve been watching some of these guys for a long time, and this is just what it will take to bust them.”

“So we take the band off now?” Moronni was starting to feel sorry for the tormented youth.

“Fuck no,” Harris replied. “The doctor can cut the band off tomorrow along with everything else that needs removed. As for the kid, fuck him. He made his choices; let him live with the consequences. It’ll serve as a deterrent to every other little fucker in Jefferson who wants to get into dealing drugs.”