by Karl Tutt
Chapter Eleven
Damned, it had been good . . . having the straw girl in her own apartment. Not as tasty as the detective, but the look of helplessness mixed with horror in Maddy’s sunken eyes had made it all worthwhile. Sure, it was risky, but just the thought of it made him smile. It was her space, a place she felt protected . . . even safe. He had snatched it from her. She would never find a haven again . . . within her body or her mind. He relished the thought. His spine tingled, and he grinned like a death’s head.
Stuart looked in the mirror, or maybe it was more of a grimace. He’d have to work on that. After all, that appearance of sweetness and light was what made his success. Fooling them was one more part of the fun. It crossed his mind that he should have killed her, but that was one step he hadn’t taken. At least not yet. Even he didn’t like the idea of leaving two kids orphaned. Maybe fatherless kids were a part of what was wrong with this damned world. He knew that, it was at least a part of the darkness that screamed within him. His father leaving, then his mother with the overdose. He and his sisters farmed out like stray dogs. It was no way to raise a family, or maybe the operative word was “destroy”.
He sat on the chair and hit the remote. It was time for Jerry Springer. That show always made him laugh out loud and sometimes he got an idea for his next “excursion”. He’d watch the contestants yell at each other and circle the stage, stalking, waiting for an opening. The hair pulling, the tangle of arms and legs. Then the inevitable wild punches. The bouncers were the real artists, letting the bozos get just enough of each other without having to call an ambulance. It was so damned stupid, but it had an insidious delicacy about it, almost like some twisted ballet. Actually, if you wanted serious damage, a razor-sharp blade was much more effective . . . and he was very good with the steel.
Suddenly there she was in his consciousness. “Please,” she had sobbed . . . and she the so-called “tough detective”. He laughed quietly to himself. Yeah . . . he’d softened her up quite a bit. The silk between her legs had run like thick honey. He promised the best fuck she’d ever had . . . then delivered like a jackhammer. Oh . . . she couldn’t say shit . . . she liked it. He knew that. Then he realized she’d like it that much more again, especially in her own apartment. He’d watched. He knew where it was, knew her comings and goings, even though her schedule jumped around a lot. He still had the notes he’d made.
He muted the TV and went to the table. Enough of Jerry’s sad opera. He had his own to create. The mini spiral notebook was already open. He thumbed back a few pages and read. Before he knew it, his hand was at his crotch. The thing was growing in his pants. He thought about dropping his zipper, hitting a few strokes for some quick release . . . but why not save it . . . spit the creamy white cum where it was supposed to go? To fill a waiting, willing void with something hot and slippery. The thought exploded within him. Hell, yes. An encore was precisely in order. But he needed a plan.
----------------------------
Priss smiled a little. There are some givens about criminals. They always think they’re smarter than you, but really, more often than not, they were just damned stupid. And even if they weren’t, they got over-confident, arrogant, and took ridiculous risks. It was almost like they had a death wish . . . and some of them did. Our boy --- he of the long, thick one --- had left prints all over Madison Elson’s apartment. Despite her devastation, she’d been smart enough not to wash after the assault. There was DNA from sperm he left inside her, even a few stray hairs. Don had run the prints through the local records, and the national data base. Mr. Stuart Macelli had been arrested on a DUI just last year. A sharp attorney had gotten him off, but the records had not been expunged. He even had an address. It was an apartment in North Miami not far from the interstate.
He handed the report to Priss. She pored over it for only seconds.
“We need to act fast. Get a couple of uniforms for backup. I don’t think we need S.W.A.T., but a show of force might be advantageous. We’ll hit the apartment. I got a friendly judge on speed dial. He’ll get us the warrant. Let’s be ready to go within the hour.”
Dontravious nodded and picked up the phone. Priss did the same and put her hand to her hip. Standard issue for the Miami P.D. was the Glock 9 mil, but she liked the S&W .38 Special. Only five rounds, but reliable, up close and personal. She always carried a loaded extra cylinder, but she’d never had to use it. Besides, her scores on the range almost always exceeded the men in the department. She slid it into the holster at her belt. She and Don hustled down the steps. Her unmarked was at the curb, flanked by two squad cars, a couple of uniforms in the front seat of each. Don rode with her. She specified no sirens or lights. If they were lucky, they might still have an element of surprise. She parked in front of Mr. Macelli’s building, and she and Don went to the elevator. A sign on the door was written in a crude hand. “Temperarilly out of order”.
She unholstered the .38 and placed her finger to the side just above the trigger guard. There was a tightness in her belly, followed by what might be movement. She’d recognize him. Maybe just put a slug in his gut. After all, it was self-defense . . . even if it was after the fact. She locked her teeth together, then took the steps one at a time. Don, Glock at his side, stayed behind her and the uniforms followed. The unit was on the third floor. So far they had encountered no one.
She stood to the side of # 301 and rapped on the door.
“Police. Open the door and step away. Keep your hands where we can see them.”
No response. No sound coming from the unit. Priss tried the door. It was locked, but it rattled just a bit. She signaled to Don. He stepped in front of her and pumped a size twelve boot next to the bolt. It shattered like cheap glass. The door swung open and crashed into a chair behind it.
“Police,” she shouted again.
Nothing. It was an efficiency, small kitchen to the left with a folding card table and an ancient wooden chair. There was an empty coffee cup and a plate crusted with the residue of an egg, probably sunny side up. A dirty fork and a wadded up paper towel lay beside them. The living area was dusty and empty, except for a fat old TV that must have weighed 60 lbs., and a stained green recliner with stuffing erupting from it.
Don eased up to the bedroom door, careful to stay out of the line of fire. He pushed gently at the edge. The door swung easily on the hinges. He scanned the room. The bathroom door was open. There was simply nobody home.
It didn’t take long to search the place. It had obviously been lived in. All of the signs were there . . . an open box of corn flakes, fresh milk in the fridge, Ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet, but very little in the way of furniture and not many places to hide anything. Priss thanked the uniforms and sent one car back to cover their beat. She instructed the others to stand off, but remain in a secluded place for surveillance. She and Don rummaged a bit. She did bag a few items that might have fingerprints . . . a glass, the fork, the pill bottle, and anything with potential traces of DNA. They’d had no luck locating a building super or a landlord, but it would happen. They put strips of yellow Crime Scene tape over the door in a crisscross, and left.
Stuart Macelli stood in an alley across the street and watched them enter the building. They must have thought he was stupid. He wasn’t. He knew they were coming. Hoped they liked his little touch with the elevator. Even the crappy spelling on the sign. His first grade teacher, Miss Evans, had taught him much better than that. He grinned as he watched the female detective cross the sidewalk and open the car door. He already knew she was Maybry. Her lackey carried a bag and followed like the faithful dog that he was.
He thought it was funny how careful Miss Priss was to conceal all those sweet goodies she had bundled inside the dowdy clothes. He knew better. He had seen every inch of that body in all its glory. The soft supple skin, those luxurious tits with nipples like silver dollars, that tasty little tuft of blond just below her flat belly. Yes, he had seen it, felt it, penetrated it, and bapt
ized it with his hot seed. . . and hell, it was a damned nice package. He felt his pants tighten against a slight swelling. Soon . . . he promised himself. Soon.
