Shrink started to talk all of a sudden—the second deviation. He moved closer, wet his undertaker lips, and bent the lady's ear. Lord knows what he whispered, but its upshot freaked me out. Girl's hands and arms floated up from the couch like they were weightless or something.

Then, manoeuvring even closer, Shrink leaned over and ran his tongue the length of this woman's outstretched arm. I did a double-take at that, I can tell you, right through my eyepiece. Funny thing was, she didn't as much as flinch. Must have drugged her on the sly, or cast some sort of spell. For the next ten minutes, or so, Shrink did what he pleased. Which was plenty.

Now I admit I'm no psychiatrist. I know zilch when it comes to therapy. But I've never heard of a cure that called for licking a patient's armpits. No kidding. Slobbered into them both, then hitched up her skirt. When his head eclipsed her crotch, I'd seen enough. Should've called nine-one-one right then and there.

But when the woman finally put her arms down, she acted like nothing had occurred. He'd rearranged her clothes, of course, and scooted her legs together. Still, you'd think she would've noticed something wasn't Kosher.

She left then. I kept the crosshairs fixed on Shrink for a while. He shifted to his desk. Jotted down some notes. Nothing out of the ordinary. Acted just like she did, stony as a sphinx.

So that's the scoop. What will happen next? Your guess is as good as mine. I haven't called the cops, though reserve that option. Does failing to report a crime make me an accomplice? Are journalists indictable because they choose to stay aloof from felonies they may document? I'm 'watching,' is all. Recording. Call it curiosity. Alright, call it smutty curiosity.
Damn, it's after 7; I'm late for work.

It's 5:05 on Friday afternoon and I got him; Shrink. On video. Rigged a Camcorder to my spyglass and shot a triple-X eyeful. What a degenerate! To think I've studied this guy for a month without suspecting his sleaze-ball hanky-panky. Doctor-patient, God-mere mortal, my eye; I swallowed the whole charade—makes me feel like a chump. I hate getting snookered.

No telling how his victim's going to feel when I clue her in. If I clue her in. People don't take kindly to hearing they've been had. Tend to aim their outrage at whoever blows the whistle; kill the messenger. Don't mind bearing the brunt, so long as I'm believed. Aye; there's the rub. I'll be the one she doubts, calls a liar, denounces as a "Peeping Tom"—while disregarding the evidence. You see my dilemma.

Then there's Shrink. Sure, I've got the goods, could mail this DVD to the boys in blue. Or I could shake Shrink down with the threat, though I'm sure he'd worm out someway. Besides, I'm no extortionist. No caped crusader, either. Shrink's a menace, no doubt about it, but the problem isn't mine; it's his—not to mention hers. I shudder to think how she'll react to what he did.

Get a load of this; I'll run the disk. Give you a play by play; let you be the judge. Let who be the judge? I'm writing this to myself; haven't decided what I'll do with it. Put it up on YouTube? Wouldn't pass the censors. Post it at some porn site? That's unfair to her. Shrink is into some pretty twisted nastiness, could ruin a reputation—even if you're zonked and can't be held responsible. Incredible, what folks do when they think they're unobserved.

Okay, enter victim. Wait; I'll fast-forward to the part where Shrink gets chummy.

There; see how he's yabbering... inching closer... taking out a pin? See that? Stuck her! Poked her right through the cup of her Maidenform bra. Geeze, that must've hurt! Except she didn't wince. Must be so stoned... Check that; must be... Hypnotized, of course! What a dunce I am. But how'd he put her under so goddamn quick? Must've laid the groundwork during that first appointment.

Brace yourself for what comes next; he's hoisting her skirt... shucking her panties... wedging apart her thighs... tugging a cotton string—attached to an oozy wad of batting—dangling it like a mouse by its blood-soaked tail... lowering the clotted mess to his gob—I warned you—and chomping it—swear to God—munching it, side to side, like a cow chews cud... all the while undoing his Tai Chi Pants... replacing the gory plug with an implant of his own.

Crude, I grant you, to have video-taped a rape I might've prevented—or tried to prevent—but look; Shrink's in-and-out so fast, how call the cavalry? Slam, bam, thank you ma'am, he's done... dismounts... wipes off... rifles through her purse... scores an extra tampon... corkscrews it in... wrestles her clothes back on... and just like that he's fucked his unsuspecting patient.

Who is clearly—once she snaps out of it—none-the-wiser. Acts like waking from a catnap—refreshed more than corrupted; which hardly vindicates Shrink from having banged a virtual stiff—like making it with a corpse. Necrophilia, is what that's called—I looked it up. The man's got problems. Don't we all? But his are a lot more sinister than, say, my ogling babes in tights—women likewise unaware they're being... what; abused? Hardly. 'Appreciated from afar' is how I'd describe it. Compared to Shrink's shenanigans, mine are downright wholesome. Certainly 'innocuous.' Looked that up, too; means "not harmful or injurious or likely to offend." And that's the difference between us, in case you're keeping score.

"Jeff hates me, Steve. He mistook my sexual apathy for chastity. 'My little virgin,' he called me. Even that was misleading; I pretended to be a virgin to fend off his advances—or to postpone them for as long as I legitimately dared. I actually timed our wedding night to coincide with the onset of my period. Bled right on cue; Jeff swelled with pride. He was so grateful he allowed my poor torn nether parts weeks to heal. Was that wrong, Steve? I realize you're my doctor, but you're also a man. If your wife had deceived you carnally, wouldn't you hate her guts?"

Steve Monk sits impassively, eyes on his patient, observing, without remark, her superficial traits—roused despite his contempt for the simpering psyche they so succulently belie: her buoyant bust, teeny-bopper hips, and waxed-smooth extremities crying out for attention disavowed by a mouth he longs to suck, violate with his tongue, then forcibly inseminate, gag the rich-bitch suburbanite with his cum then flush it down with piss. Somehow simply the sight of Susan Sinkevich mutates Steve's proclivities.

"Time to relax, Susie. Two black-eyed Susans, remember?... Relax... Imagine pitch-dark pupils turning baby-blue... Getting drowsy... Relax... Sleepy... Relax... Surrendering to a numbness that spreads from tip to toe... a conscience-quelling paralysis that renders you blissfully irresponsible... blameless for the wicked sensuality you are aching to indulge."

Goddamn Giants! They blew it. Tenth inning. Made me miss my 4 PM with Shrink; by 5, he was nowhere on the premises—nowhere I could spot him, from my elevated perch. I did, however, catch the final cool-down at AerobiCentre West. And lo and behold, who do you think was panting and sweating among the ranks? Shrink's patient—cantaloupe boobs set bouncing to the music's manifest throb. Should have made the connection; she wore Spandex one day to therapy. Sheer coincidence, of course, that her class meets up the street. Still, I should've 'deduced' it... though folks are hard to identify once they're out of context. Ever met a bank teller outside the bank? You know you know them from someplace, just can't pinpoint where. Poor excuse, I admit, for a shamus the likes of me. Who am I kidding? I'm no more objective than Shrink's sneak-thief hard-ons. Guy pisses me off. Didn't realize how tiny his clay pigeon was—is. Lined up with her exercise-mates she looks like an r-rated elf—a bit buxom for her body type—but pint-sized and huggable. Makes you want to coddle her—then fuck her six ways from Sunday. Men are all alike; we're horny as toads.

Whoops; the phone.

"You've been doing what? Say no more; I don't want to hear. And I sure as hell don't want to see this 'surprise' you shot yourself. You recorded an actual rape and expect me to watch it; and what, nibble popcorn, dim the lights, swill some beer, slap high-fives? Well, here's news for you, Mick. Rape is not a sport, it's a goddamn crime. And I will not be your after-the-fact accessory."