by Jaden Wilkes
Serial
Volume One
a dark erotic thriller
by
Lily White &
Jaden Wilkes
Copyright © 2014 by Lily White and Jaden Wilkes. Amazon edition. Serial, Volume One. All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Everything is made up, from our twisted minds, but if you do resemble Jude or Donovan, we’d like to hear from you. We have questions about blood spatter, hunting knives VS kitchen knives and the difference between DNA breaking down during chemical cleansing VS exposure to the natural elements.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
About The Authors
Bonus Chapter
Prologue
Jude
I don’t know why I kill. I mean, there’s no definitive reason. It’s not cut and dried like on TV or in films. I had a nice upbringing, a very privileged life with no beatings, no distant father or sexual abuse. I never tortured animals as a lad. I never acted out in school or behaved cruelly towards my classmates.
Killing isn’t about cruelty though. The way I kill is methodical and obviously sociopathic or psychopathic in nature, depending on whose interpretation of serial killers you happen to be reading…but it’s not cruel.
I believe I love my victims. Something about each and every one of them calls to me, draws me in and makes me fall in love.
I just happen to destroy the things that I love.
My particular brand of death is about sex. Mostly about sex, I suppose. There is nothing like the feel of blood rushing through my body when I kill, and nothing as fucking energizing as timing my orgasm with the death of a beautiful creature. The tragedy of taking a life, coupled with the sensation of release, is intoxicating, overwhelming and addictive.
I couldn’t stop now even if I wanted to. And why would I want to? I grant those I love the gift of eternal youth, beauty that will never fade or falter such as that of a withering flower.
It is my calling.
My name is Jude Hollister. The third, if you want to get technical. My grandfather wore this moniker, then my father and of course now I wear it as well. If I am ever able to produce a male heir, it is assumed he will share the same name.
I took my father’s name, and I also recently took his companies.
No, not like that. He gave them to me. It was time he retired before he died during some executive golf game. After his second heart attack, my devoted and doting mother forced him to leave the businesses up to me and travel the world with her. I see them when they’re in town, and I might admit to having an affection for them if I’m hard pressed to say it. I wouldn’t cry at their funerals, but I could probably fake a mild break down or two.
I’m good at acting.
I’ve also been groomed from a young age to manage our family’s assets. It was expected of me. All my education, my friendships, my courtships…they were all designed to push me forward along the path to follow my father. Not just in his footsteps, but to become him.
I suppose that might be one reason I kill. Boredom. I’ve been on a singular course since the time I can remember; everything has been laid out for me from day one. Clothing in the morning by the house staff, every meal prepared, every school chosen before I could read. It is all very secure, very satisfying and in some way, very dull.
Some of my classmates and colleagues chose drugs as their escape from the mundane. I chose death. It’s easier on the body and doesn’t show up on tox screens. It’s not like “Hey, I slit a woman’s throat last night” will be picked up in a cup of urine.
It’s the safe choice of rebellion I suppose. I ought to chuckle at this, but it depresses me somehow. Even in acting out, I choose the one least likely to be detected.
At this exact moment I’m watching her. I don’t know her name. To me, she is just her. Or Her, with a capital letter, like a title.
She is utterly captivating and brutal in her beauty and she doesn’t seem to notice. She glides through the Waffle House like a semi translucent angel, laughing and talking to her customers as though she doesn’t realize she’s otherworldly.
I love her, I think. As much as I can love a woman, I love her. But I don’t want to kill her and this confuses the absolute shit out of me.
I met her five days ago after a wild night clubbing with the guys. Luka has been slumming lately, so we all packed into his Range Rover, blasted Lil Wayne and cruised the bad part of town looking for the perfect drunk food spot.
“Waffle House!” Tony had screamed and Luka had hit the brakes. We’d all tumbled out into the restaurant. Five of us, too drunk, too loud and too damn rich to belong there, but we sat at a booth in the back corner and grabbed the plastic menus.
That’s when I first noticed her. Her employers had sausaged her into a polyester blend grey and pink uniform, classic fifties waitress. She had her long blonde hair slicked back into a severe ponytail that hung down her back and swung when she walked. The severity didn’t reach the soft curves of her face, her legs, or her body though. She was femininity personified.
When she took our orders, I couldn’t help but stare at the pulse in her neck. Her blood pumped there, just under the skin, hot and sweet. I could picture it spraying out down the front of me, covering me in its viscous desperation as her eyes dulled and I slid my cock through her last breaths.
It occurred to me though, as I told her exactly how I wanted my Denver Omelet presented…three eggs, no cheddar cheese, whole grain toast cut diagonally with the butter on the side…that I didn’t want her to die. I wanted to see her writhing and twisting and possibly in pain, but not dead.
The light in her eyes was too intoxicating, the way her mouth curled up at the corners when she smiled was too addicting.
I wanted her to live, but I wanted her. This much I knew.
I’ve been back almost every night since, parked in the shadowy lot of the insurance building across the street from her.
Watching her and wanting her.
I will have her, I just need to devise a plan and she will be mine.
My beautiful girl.
My pet.
My love.
Her life will be mine, not to take, but to break and rebuild until she only knows my name, she only breathes my air and she only wants to drink me in, savoring my taste like a fine wine.
Mine.
Chapter One
Agent Donovan Blake
FBI Behavioral Unit
“Good evening, Gentlemen. Before we begin, I’d like to thank all of you for traveling and making yourselves available for this meeting. I’m aware that you have other cases and duties in your units currently; however, I felt a special team needed to be organized regarding the perpetrator we will be discussing tonight.”
Pacing in front of the thirty men who gathered to discuss an individual that was quickly climbing to the top of the FBI’s most wanted list, I glanced between their bodies and the pictures I had pinned to the task board at the front of the room. The pictures I’d selected to display initially were not the most disturbing shots taken thus far of our perpetrator’s work, but they were enough to set the tone for what the task force wo
uld be viewing later in the presentation.
Combing through the FBI’s roster of special agents, I’d spent the last week tediously selecting these men based upon not only their experience with subjects such as the one I was currently hunting, but also for their special talents within the agency. Not all men would be selected to remain, but I needed to speak with each one to determine what, exactly, they could offer the team.
“As I’m sure you are all aware, both through agency discussions and news media outlets, we have a killer on our hands, gentlemen. He is methodical, he is careful and to date, he has been able to elude law enforcement, leaving local police departments and agencies scratching their heads. This case has also garnered interest from the public and unfortunately, due to information having been leaked that was considered confidential within the Portland Police Department, there is now the beginning of widespread panic throughout the State of Oregon as to the identity of man known in the media as the Cascades Killer.”
“They are always quick to name them, aren’t they?”
A voice called out from the group of men and I turned to notice that several other men were attempting not to laugh at his comment. I wanted to admonish him for interrupting the presentation, but decided to let it go, realizing that he was correct. Media was sensationalism at its best and it seemed that a race to name a criminal was always the first task taken on by newspapers or television stations.
Ignoring the comment, I continued.
“You have to remember, gentlemen, that the northwest is not new to serial killers. In fact, the area has been the infamous hunting grounds of some notorious men: Ted Bundy and Gary Ridgway, also known as the Green River Killer, to name two of the most well known. However, despite the decades that have passed since those men ran free, the memories of their crimes have not left the minds of the residents. Obviously, it is our job to stop this person before the body count continues climbing.”
The door opened in the back of the room and light flickered in before being snuffed out when the door shut behind Agent Emily Chase. A tall and rather serious brunette, she stepped quietly into the room taking a seat at the back. She was my second in command on this team, however that fact would not be known to the men until the additional members were selected. Any man that cracked a joke at Agent Chase’s expense or made any type of derogatory or misogynistic remark would be excluded immediately and returned to whatever unit I’d pulled them from.
As part of her purpose on the team, Agent Chase would prod these men into making mistakes, thus eliminating them as weaker links. I needed a solid team, one that did not have room for incompetent members who might possibly be fooled into giving up information over drinks at a bar. A brilliant psychologist, Agent Chase had earned her doctorate while still in her early twenties and she was the best person in the agency for drawing out the hidden quirks of other agents. This again was a fact unknown to the other men in the room and one I intended to keep secret for the duration of the investigation.
“How do we know that the suspect is, in fact, a serial? Is this information the FBI has put together themselves or are we basing our analysis on the investigations already carried out by local police agencies?”
It was a good question coming from an unidentified voice in the group. Pulling my attention from Agent Chase, I glanced among the sea of faces. “Who just asked that question?”
A single hand rose up and I nodded in the direction of Agent Moss. A skilled investigator and behaviorist from the mid-west, he’d been instrumental in solving cold cases that were determined to fall within federal jurisdiction.
“The Cascades Killer, also known as CK, has a calling card, Agent Moss. It’s subtle, but it exists and it wasn’t discovered until one particularly observant member of the Portland P.D. identified it. Unfortunately, it was also the same bit of information that was leaked to the media and thus…a serial killer is born.”
Pacing again, I commented, “You each have a file in front of you that contains police reports, limited photographs and other extraneous information regarding our target. I’ve also prepared a PowerPoint, which contains more of the confidential information we have on this case that I was not willing to put into print. This, as usual, is considered a heavily classified investigation and any comments, remarks or discussions outside of what you are assigned and outside of the members of the team will be handled with immediate termination.
“If the media already has enough information to refer to our suspect as a serial, how classified can this information really be? It seems to me that the investigation has already been jeopardized.”
Nodding my head, I considered Agent Moss’ concern, but discounted it quickly based on the facts he did not yet know.
“The media was only given a small bit of what we know, Agent. Since that time, the majority of information was pulled from the local police agencies. Luckily for us, our killer has crossed state lines, thus allowing us the ability to remove the case from local authorities. They’ve been left with limited information and my contact information should another body turn up.”
“What is the body count?”
Frustration shot through me as a result of the incessant questions. “If you’ll allow me to complete my presentation, that question, as well as whatever new ones you can formulate, will be answered.” Turning towards him, I allowed the corner of my lip to curl in warning. “I am the person in charge, Agent Moss and I will not have any member of this group attempt to drive this investigation from the back seat. I’d bite your tongue if you’d like to remain on this case.”
He’d been sufficiently cautioned and I was prepared to continue forward without further interruption.
Starting the PowerPoint, I flipped to the first slide. On it were three crime scene photos taken of what we believed was the suspect’s first kill, however there could be earlier kills of which we are unaware. This victim hadn’t been discovered in time and the combination of animals and decomposition had eliminated all but trace amounts of her flesh. What was left was an odd and seemingly intended positioning of the skeleton. The police had been fortunate that her bones were not scattered by the animal activity in the area.”
Pacing again, I revealed details not known to the media or any other person besides those that had previously worked the investigation. “This is our only Jane Doe in this case. Every other victim of CK has been identified, which leaves us to believe that this particular victim was one of opportunity rather than specific intent. What I’d like to point out with these photos is the position of the skeleton.”
“She looks like she’s sleeping.”
Glancing back at the group, I nodded. “That’s an astute observation. In fact, every victim we have attributed to CK has been positioned in this manner. Face up, with arms folded over the abdomen as if she’d been placed in a coffin. The legs are always stretched out and crossed at the ankle. The hair of the victims found in time has always been brushed and secured beneath the head and body. From a distant observer, and before decomp sets in, these women would appear to be sleeping. Great care appears to have been exercised in their disposal, whether as a result of remorse or remembrance, we’re not yet sure.”
Flipping to the second slide, I glanced over the photographs showing the breasts of two separate victims. “We’re unsure as to the order in which these two victims were killed, however they are the most recent and best examples we have of this similarity. Each victim associated with CK has not only been positioned in a certain way, but has had one nipple removed from her body. We can only confirm this with the victims found quickly and that is why BOTH similarities are being used to link the victims to this particular perpetrator.”
Flipping to the next slide, I was happy to have bullet points in my view rather than the gruesome and gory photographs shown previously.
“Prior to your arrival, I took the time to put together a preliminary profile for CK. Given his methodology and the care taken in the disposal of his victims, I believe we are not
dealing with a psychotic as much as we are a psychopath…”
“What’s the difference? In the end, they’re all fucking nuts.”
Several men laughed at Agent Moss’ comment and I turned to him with the most charming smile I could muster.
“And you, Agent, will now be stepping out of this room, getting into your car and returning to your unit in the mid-west.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but I held my hand up to silence him. “I suggest you leave without further interruption.”
His pudgy expression soured, but I had to credit the man for finally learning when to shut the fuck up. Without another word, he gathered his briefcase and left the room. If you looked close enough, I’m sure you could make out the impression of a tail stuck between his legs as he retreated.
When the door had closed and the room was returned to shadows, I spoke again.
“Agent Chase. Would you please explain to the remaining men in this room the difference between a psychotic and a psychopath?”
Without hesitation Emily responded, “A psychotic can actually be considered ‘crazy’ in that they may or may not experience a break with reality. There is usually always a trigger or some sort: family life, work, or society. It differs between these types, but during their kills they might not understand the difference between right or wrong or they might not realize the weight of their actions. These are the types that ‘snap’, the ones who, had they not endured some type of physical or emotional trauma, would have possibly avoided committing their resultant crimes.”
She paused a beat before finishing her comparison.
“A psychopath, on the other hand, has no known mental dysfunction. These are your natural born killers, gentlemen; the ones who know what they are doing is wrong, but they do it anyway. They are charming and charismatic. They blend into society and usually climb the ladder of success in both their personal and professional lives. They are, for lack of a better term, evil incarnate. What makes them so difficult to track is their ability to think clearly during their crimes. They are masters of leaving a clean scene, so to say. Nothing there but the remains of whatever atrocity they committed and NOTHING that would link them to the act. It is only when they become manic, or kill out of a driving need rather than a cold fascination, that they make mistakes.”
