Not yet.
Closing her fingers around the knife, Francine pulled it from its hiding place. She rolled her hips faster, climax mounting, the heat spreading over her belly, down her legs.
Almost time.
“I’m gonna come,” he grunted.
Of course he was. She lifted the knife, grinding faster and faster, until tiny dots of light danced in her vision.
Now.
He cried out, both pleasure and pain contorting his face as the knife plunged into his chest. His expression shifted slowly, as though played at half speed, and understanding reflected in his eyes. Francine felt him stiffen and shudder. He was lucky. Most men didn’t get to die as pleasantly.
She watched him struggle, albeit weakly, with the cuffs. He choked, sputtered, as his wounded heart bled out. She pulled the knife from his chest and held it up so he could see his blood streaming down the blade, over her hand. Francine felt its warmth licking her wrist and then her arm. Trembling, Francine pressed the blade to her breasts, enjoying the slick yet sticky sensation of his blood on her nipples. She found release as he choked on his last breaths.
The fire had grown almost painful, burning a path to her chest. Soon it would mar her vision, fill her brain, and she planned to revel in its glory.
But not yet.
Francine had a stage to set. A picture to copy.
She moved off his body, which was now as limp as his dick, and opened the nightstand drawer. Shaking out the plastic bag she’d hidden inside, Francine turned back to the bed. His pretty blue eyes stared vacantly, a little bulged, but she’d grown used to that. She removed the condom and dropped it in the bag. Then, knife in hand, just in case he had one last hoorah in him, she picked up the key to the cuffs, and released one arm. It flopped beside him on the mattress. She released the other arm and then tossed the cuffs and the key into the bag. It would have been nice to remove the wig, but not yet. Damn things made her head itch.
Francine glanced at the clock and realized she had to move quickly. Her landlord would be by in less than six hours to show the unit to prospective tenants.
#
“Please,” Joe begged. “Don’t do this.”
Robert leaned against the wall, the cool brick rough against his bare skin. He was naked, except for a shower cap and socks. While he knew he must look like a lunatic, his decision to kill in the nude was practical. No fibers. No hairs, thanks to his meticulous shaving. No evidence. He took great pains to ensure he didn’t get caught. His common sense had served him well for more than a decade. In the early days, he’d worn a suit, the kind crime scene investigators wore to avoid contaminating the scene, but those had to be purchased. Purchasing such unusual items left a trail. A scent. Evidence.
“Joe.” Robert ran a finger along the knife, wishing he didn’t have to wear the gloves so he could feel the edge of the blade properly. But then he’d have to wipe his prints on the off chance he misplaced it or some idiot stole it, and there was always a small margin for error in such things. “I’m going to make you a deal.”
“I’ll do anything,” Joe promised. He hung from a harness at the end of a chain Robert had looped over the beams of the storage unit. Joe shuddered violently. “I won’t tell. I swear. Just let me go.”
Robert sighed. Joe was a moron. When Robert said they needed to talk about the hookers, Joe stupidly followed him to this storage unit, owned by an unsuspecting couple just wanting a place to store their many useless possessions. He’d taken the bait too easily, which sucked some of the fun out of the game. The chase was the best part, but Joe didn’t even try to run. Robert sighed again.
“You made your point, man,” Joe continued. “I won’t do it again.”
Stupid that Joe believed he could escape this and prevent Robert from getting what he wanted. Idiot.
“If you shut up, I’ll make it as painless as possible,” Robert said.
Joe sobbed.
“Crying only makes me angry. Be a man, for fucksakes.”
Joe’s body shook. Snot bubbled from his nose, mingling with the blood. Christ, Robert had only torn a few strips from him—short ones at that. Hardly reason to be so damn upset.
Robert knelt, picking up the skin he’d peeled from Joe’s right bicep. It was smooth and floppy. Cold. Joe stared, hiccupping as he tried to stop bawling.
“Did those whores beg you to stop?” Robert tossed the skin on the floor again and walked toward Joe. “Did they promise they wouldn’t tell?”
“I never killed them,” Joe said. “We just… they were prostitutes.”
“So they deserved to be raped? You’re a cop, man. You’re supposed to protect people.”
Joe sniffed. “They fuck people for money.”
Robert pressed the knife against Joe’s thigh. He pushed the tip into the flesh, releasing it from the muscle beneath. Peeling human skin was much like skinning a deer, but required a little more finesse. When Robert skinned an animal, it was already dead, so it didn’t move around so much.
Joe screamed as Robert sliced the skin down to the knee. He tried to jerk away, which only caused him to scream more. Robert moved the knife a few inches to the left, repeating the action, smiling as Joe swore through his agony.
“You’re a psycho,” Joe cried. He spat in Robert’s direction, but missed his target.
“Close,” Robert admitted. “I don’t like labels, but if I had to choose, I’d say I’m more of a sociopath. I’m not crazy, Joe. Sociopaths, in general, are actually highly intelligent and controlled individuals. It’s why I’m so good at what I do.”
“Only a lunatic skins someone alive.”
“Your small mind is why you wouldn’t have made it in homicide. Can’t catch a killer if you don’t think like one.”
“They’ll find you.”
Robert chuckled. No they wouldn’t. “I’m not hiding.”
“Someone will put it all together. They’ll ask questions. You’ll need an alibi.”
“Not when I’m the investigator.”
“This whole time… fucking crazy.”
Robert hated when morons like Joe tossed that word around. He was far from mentally unstable. “We’ve been partners for how long? Almost a year, right?”
“Can’t believe I didn’t realize I was working with Dexter.”
“Oh, I don’t have a dark passenger or any of that nonsense, Joe. You see, writers make up that stuff so the reader is empathetic. It’s the whole unlikeable protagonist thing. I’m not likeable. Don’t care to be.”
“You’re killing criminals, just like on TV.”
“I kill some criminals, but I don’t choose who dies based on that. It has nothing to do with sins or crimes.”
“You said—”
“I didn’t choose you because you raped those women, Joe. I decided you’d die long before I knew about that. It’s just a bonus you’re such a bastard.”
“You don’t have to do this,” Joe said. “Just let me down and we’ll work something out.”
“Nothing to work out. Life’s a game. You lost. It’s as simple as that.”
“Please,” Joe started sobbing again.
“A year is a long time to listen to your shit. Frankly, I’m tired of your mouth, Joe. Every day you spew your hate, your bigotry, your bullshit. I’ve let it all go, because stupidity isn’t a reason to die. Not usually.”
“You’re my judge, are you?” Joe’s voice was barely a whisper. He was weakening. Robert hadn’t planned on him being such a bleeder.
“Someone has to be, but that’s not why you’re here.”
“Fuck off.”
“When we met, my first instinct was to put a bullet in your head. I knew this wouldn’t end well for you, so I requested a different partner. The captain said no. I tried to make it work, but the sad reality is I can’t stand you.” Robert lifted the knife to Joe’s neck. He slid the edge of the blade just beneath Joe’s chin, watching the blood flow from the wound down to his chest. “So I’m taking ma
tters into my own hands.”
#
Francine sat on her balcony, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her skin. Her head itched from the hours she’d spent wearing the wig. She should rest, but he fire still raged inside, consuming her, energizing her. As a crime reporter, she’d interviewed many serial killers. They spoke of feeling cold or a dark force within them, pushing them to hurt others. Francine had never encountered this dark energy. Her inner demon was light; a roaring fire that burned inside every cell.
Sometimes it made her reckless, as it had last night. She knew killing someone so close to home was pushing the envelope. It put her on the police’s radar, made her visible. Francine wasn’t worried, though. If she’d learned one thing since giving into the fire, it was that no one suspected a woman. Serial killers were predominantly male—the ones that got caught anyway. Women were weaker, less aggressive. Men destroyed. Women nurtured.
Copying the crimes of others was her insurance. It’d become easier when she realized she didn’t have to get it perfect. She used to drive herself crazy trying to duplicate the murders exactly, but soon learned the cops only looked for a certain number of similarities. Killers adapted, so sometimes they deviated from their usual plan.
That realization had freed Francine.
Last night, for example, wasn’t planned. Well it was, but not so soon. She’d dated Brad a few times, feeling him out. She made sure he was a good target. An easy target. She moved up the timeline of his death when he mentioned moving to Seattle. She couldn’t follow him there, not without leaving a trail. Francine usually avoided rushing things, but she’d made an exception this time. All the work she’d put into setting him up would have been wasted. She’d have to start over, and the fire demanded blood now. How long before there wasn’t enough blood to keep it satisfied?
She shook the doubts from her mind and focused on her success instead. Would he notice? Would he be angry? The Bloodletter had been so quiet, even after she’d written a lengthy feature on his murders. The fire whispered to her, suggesting she encourage him to come out and play. Francine wished she could meet him; show him what he’d inspired. He was so meticulous, but so brutal. His victims, all male, were usually drained of blood while they still breathed. He had sex with them first, always using a condom, and bathed in their blood afterward. There was talk of him drinking it too, but Francine had no desire to copy every detail.
Would he chastise her for the modifications she’d made? Francine didn’t think so. He’d made mistakes too, killing two of his victims prior to draining them. The police theorized these victims put up too much of a struggle, so the Bloodletter had to modify his usual process. They’d believe last night’s victim was a fighter as well, so Francine’s impatience wouldn’t send up any red flags. The Bloodletter would get the glory, and she’d be rewarded by his return to the limelight.
A knock at the door brought Francine out of her thoughts. She stood, smoothing her robe and then mussing her hair a little. As she walked to the door, Francine rubbed her eyes. She should look disheveled, as though they’d interrupted her sleep.
She reached the door and peered through the peephole. A tall man, his athletic build noticeable beneath his perfectly tailored suit, stared back. His gaze was so cold, so penetrating, Francine felt a flutter in her chest. Clearing her throat, she turned the knob.
The man flashed a badge. “Sorry to disturb you, Ma’am, but I need to ask you a few questions.”
His voice was like velvet. Francine’s cheeks warmed as his gaze traveled the length of her barely clothed body. “Sure,” she said. “Is there something wrong?”
“Did you hear anything unusual last night?” he asked.
“No. I was out late, though. When I got home, I kind of slipped into a coma.”
He frowned, his dark eyes boring into her soul. Could he tell what she was? Francine shivered at the possibility.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Someone was murdered in the apartment next door.”
She felt a smile pushing at her lips, but covered it with her hand. “But, no one lives there.”
“Your landlord said as much,” he said, his gaze lowering to her breasts. “I’m going to have to ask you to stay here until we finish up. I’ll have more questions later.”
“Of course.” Francine pulled the edges of her robe together. “Could I—I mean, I’m a journalist. Is there anything you can tell me about the crime?”
He smiled. “We’ll issue a statement later.”
“Okay, thank you.”
“Don’t go anywhere,” he reminded her. “I’m not finished with you yet.”
Francine nodded and closed the door, a thrill dancing over her spine at the promise in his eyes.
TWO
Robert hated the paper booties. They crinkled as he walked the room, never quite fitting his shoes properly. He forgot about the booties as he surveyed the scene. The bed was unmade, its once pristine white sheets now saturated with the man’s blood. He stood over it now, staring at the stain, his mind replaying the events that put it there.
“Looks like a knee print.” He pointed to the rounded white area near the base of the stain.
“How do you see that?” The forensic tech, a new guy with a fancy camera, snapped a picture of the area Robert pointed out.
“The stain shows an outline of the body.” Robert knelt next to the bed. “But here, where his hips would have been, it widens a little. Like maybe someone straddled him.”
“It’ll probably be like the rest. We’ll find evidence of intercourse.”
Robert nodded. On the surface, it looked like a Bloodletter murder, but something felt off. The only two victims murdered by the Bloodletter had shown signs of a struggle. A deviation the killer probably hated, but this one…
“Looks like the killer was straddling him, possibly stabbed him during sex.” Robert rubbed his chin and stood. He eyed the bed, his gaze moving to the headboard. “Get a few shots of the wood there, where it’s chipped.”
“Cuffs?” The tech snapped more photos. “There’s splinters on the pillow too.”
“Yeah.” Robert turned from the bed. He walked to the bathroom, where the evidence suggested the Bloodletter’s hand, but not convincingly enough. “Not much blood in the tub.”
The forensic team leader, a pretty blonde woman whose name Robert didn’t remember, chuckled. “There’s enough to bathe in. Isn’t that all this whack job cares about?”
Robert stared at the scene. The body had been next to the tub, kneeling with his wrists over the edge. They’d removed it soon after he arrived. Red lines remained as a reminder of his blood trickling into the tub. Spatter indicated someone splashed in the liquid, as though bathing in it, but Robert didn’t believe the killer actually sat in the blood. There was no back print at the rear of the tub for one thing, and the handprints on the wall were too high. When the Bloodletter rose from his bath, he always braced himself on the wall with gloved hands, which had given them an idea of his size. These prints indicated his arms were abnormally long and his hands ridiculously small. A woman’s?
He thought of the woman next door—the reporter. When her robe had opened, he’d seen a brownish streak near her nipple. Could have been dried blood.
“I have to go,” he said. “If you need me, I’ll be next door.”
“Think she heard anything?” The blonde pressed a sticky sheet to the wall, although they both knew the transfer would reveal nothing. The killer would have worn gloves, copycat or not.
“I think she saw something.”
#
“Do you mind if I take notes?” Francine barely had time to change before the cop returned. He sat on her sofa, hands folded in his lap.
“For?”
“My article. I’m a crime reporter for the—”
“Right, I forgot.” He shrugged, but she noticed a slight tick in his jaw. “Be my guest.”
Francine sat in a chair facing him, notepad and pen in hand.
She knew the details, but notes helped her make sure she didn’t reveal more than the police shared. “Thank you.”
“What time did you come home last night?”
She pretended to think about it. “I didn’t look at the clock. Probably around midnight? What time did the victim die?”
“It’s not confirmed yet, but the coroner estimates around three a.m.”
She nodded. Pretty accurate.
He tapped his knee. “You heard nothing next door? Not even the door closing?”
“Doors close here all the time. I don’t pay attention anymore.”
“I noticed the walls are pretty thin. I could hear everything in the apartment upstairs when we were inspecting the scene.”
She laughed. “The guys upstairs are elephants.”
He stared. God, he was cold. Francine cleared her throat.
The cop rubbed his chin. “Your bedroom shares a wall with the bedroom next door.”
“Is that where he was killed?”
He nodded. “You should have heard something.”
Did he suspect her? Francine suppressed a shiver. “Like I said, I pretty much slept like the dead.” She frowned. “No pun intended.”
A knock at the door, and then a blonde woman rushed in. The cop turned as the woman whispered something in his ear. He raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”
She frowned. “Wish I wasn’t, Robert, but it’s definitely Joe.”
“Jesus.” Robert glanced at Francine.
“I’ll just… make some coffee.” Francine walked past them. Once inside the kitchen, she stood behind the door, listening to their hushed tones.
“It’s definitely the Stripper?” Robert asked.
“Oh yeah. He made sure we had no doubts. Escalating in a big way.”
“Fuck me,” Robert muttered.
“He was thorough this time. No skin left on the body they said. Almost looks like this one was personal.”
Terrible Cherubs: Tales of Sinners, Mistakes, and Regrets Page 6
