by Gavin Graham
Killer Fiction
The DCI Mac McGreavy Prequels (Glasgow Noir I - III)
Gavin Graham
Killer Fiction
By
Gavin Graham
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright 2019 Gavin Graham
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by: Mad Skull Publishing House
ISBN: 9781070467849
Created with Vellum
Contents
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Gerard Schaefer
H.H. Holmes
Part 1
1. The perfect woman; for murder, that is
2. The woman who was touched by The Devil
3. The final tease, by a cold shank of steel
4. The sex, the murder & the Glory
5. Bad coffee & human mutilation
6. The woman with the Thai tattoo
7. The silence of a demon & his burning whore
8. The destiny of a parasite: to die by the hammer
9. Deviance, Buckfast & a spoiled corpse
10. The toxic promise of casual sex
11. The enjoyment of a meal at Satan’s table
12. Seduced by a killer
13. Rose petals, flickering candles & an unspoken promise of death
14. The woman who begged for bondage & thrills
15. The trials & tribulations of Police work
16. The fruitless hunt for an elusive Casanova
17. An evening of wine & conversations with The Devil
18. Death by sodomy & a broken skull
19. A pack of wolves & an ominous warning
20. The call of The Abyss
21. The Polish conundrum
22. Policja are coming
23. A Glasgow thing, an Edinburgh thing & a murder thing
24. Addiction, escapism & ghosts in the night
25. The bonnie, bloodied banks of Loch Lomond
Dennis Rader
David Alan Gore
Part 2
2004
26. The grand scent of death
27. A bloody good hanging
28. A criminal case for the High Court
2018
29. The disappearing act
THREE MONTHS LATER
30. From Thailand with love
31. The dark mistress & her ways of seduction
32. The bookkeeper
33. The sniper
34. The psychology of murder: a lecture
35. The kill house
36. The kill list
37. The Beast that lurks at the gate
38. A monster’s grooming of a virgin sex slave
39. The Oracle
40. Only the good die young
41. A dark & thought-provoking piece of art
42. Love & hate: the eternal battle
43. The gangster who came in from the cold
44. A Masonic Lodge
45. Sex, Russians & drugs
46. The House of Gold
47. Whisky & ghosts
48. The roasting of human flesh
49. The last crucifixion
50. Revelations
51. Evil in the blood
52. A spike in The Devil’s chest
Richard Ramirez
Ted Bundy
Part 3
53. The horseman & the woman in the graveyard
54. A meeting with a Priest
55. He lived by The Bible, yet he died by the sword
56. The wisdom of darkness comes, written in human blood
57. Those who would be monsters: a lecture
58. Stale beer, bad food & revelations of The Abyss
59. Whores, cocaine & damaged coppers
60. The Broadmoor files
61. Secrets of the killer-elite, the monsters who never get caught
62. Porn stars & underground fight clubs
63. A mysterious figure in black
64. Trust nobody
65. A roasted bin of charred human flesh, for the innocent die young
66. At the end of the day, it’s a grand game of smoke & mirrors
67. When in doubt, send a lamb to the slaughter
68. A romance in blood & fluids
69. An evolution of evil, within a Satanic ideology
70. A bloodbath in a Church
71. Retribution is the word
72. Never second-guess the esoteric prophecies of a blind fortune-teller
73. The Order of the Black Chapter
74. Hail Satan!
75. The throne & the cauldron
76. The smugness of evil
77. A face emerges from a bleak shadow
78. Lock up your kids, for it wails like a banshee
79. A jar of severed members & a letter written in blood
80. The Junior Suite of a luxury hotel, perfect sheets to be stained by her crimson spill
81. Murder, indignity & the disgusting power of social media
82. The final flame that burns, not even The Devil can escape it
83. Justifiable cause?
84. A final drink
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‘This book is a work of fiction. It is the duty of a competent fiction writer to inflame the imagination of his readers. This book will give you sleepless nights. Any person who reads it will never see murder as pure entertainment again.’ - Gerard Schaefer (Deputy Sheriff, serial killer & short story writer)
‘I was born with the devil inside me. I could not help the fact that I was a murderer, no more than the poet can help the inspiration to sing. I was born with the evil one standing beside the bed where I was ushered into the world, and he has been with me since.’ - H.H. Holmes (The American Ripper)
Part 1
The Casanova Killer [Glasgow Noir, I]
Chapter 1
The perfect woman; for murder, that is
The demon’s horn is strong…
As always, he’d picked his victim with careful consideration.
It was never a random selection.
They have to fit a certain mould…
They were always females of a certain age - forty-plus. His preference was for dark brown or reddish hair and he liked them to have pale skin and freckles. They had to flaunt their sexual virility, whilst also projecting subtle signs of vulnerability. They had to live in an isolated area, where nobody would hear them scream. And, of course, he needed access to their premises whilst they were home alone.
This one was perfect, with a luxurious three-storey house near the affluent suburb of Giffnock, not far from Greenbank Garden.
Conveniently, ‘hubby’ was working away, so she was all alone.
Vulnerable.
Easy to thrill and easy to kill.
She had stunning good looks - her mouth was luscious and her full, pouty lips could stir the imagination of any man. Her eyes sparkled, cocoa-brown in colour, giving her a likeness to one Julia Roberts. She was middle-aged and a well-kept piece; forty-three years and change, looking damn good for it too.
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br /> She was a brunette - the killer had a thing for ladies with a dark brown mane, with shiny chestnut nuances that would glow like a fire in the moonlit hues of burning midnight pleasures, dancing constantly along the eternal spectrums of darkness and light.
Life and death.
The omnipresent circle.
Flourishment and destruction.
The flower and the grave.
The peaks of God and the flames of Satan.
She had sexy curves - tight and toned, her flesh spilled where men wanted it to spill. Fine, tight-fitted threads by Karen Millen and expensive Jimmy Choo shoes could easily make her a thing of obsession and wild fantasy for thousands of teenage boys as they imagined losing their virginity to her, worshiping at her feet and the pointed toes of her cherry-red heels.
She’d flaunted herself on Tinder as a HOT MILF, with semi-pornographic photos, touting herself like a prostitute; she didn’t want money though, just sex.
She has provoked The Devil and now she must pay…
He’d lusted over those photos and dreamt of killing her, then defiling her stank, lifeless corpse. He’d masturbated profusely to that very real and sordid agenda and always spilled his seed as he imagined her blood, flooding beautifully from her venomous gut when he seized the moment and stabbed her to death.
Now, there he was, in her precious home; and she was practically begging to be taken by the blade.
This whore, with her needy hunger.
This married woman, with her Cartier wedding ring.
The fact that she was married merely added to the kinkiness of seducing her and, ultimately, of taking her life. It got the blood burning down below and a dull heaviness of need flamed in his manhood.
He was ready for it.
Sex, and murder.
Right there and then.
In her house.
In her bedroom.
He was going to kill her, in his moment of orgasm.
She has no idea…
She stood by the bed and smiled at him, dusk looming on an early September evening. She slowly put her arms up and around his strong bull-like neck, and she spoke to him. “Do whatever you want to me…” she instructed the much younger man, in her ultra-posh ‘ladies-who-lunch’ drawl. She could already imagine sharing the sordid details with ‘the girls’ - other desperate housewives - at their next afternoon-tea meet-up.
Casanova stared back at her, having eased up her skirt and enjoyed the indulgent feel of her smooth bottom as he carefully pulled down her black lace panties, where a clammy white patch had formed in at the central cleft.
He could smell her.
It was pungent and edacious.
Her thighs were thick, her quads somewhat muscled, fleshy and mountainous; he liked that in a woman. “You want to feel The Devil’s finger?”
“Yes,” she said. “Please, touch me, where I need to be touched…”
Chapter 2
The woman who was touched by The Devil
She wants it, she needs it…
Her head was spinning from all the expensive Pol Roger champagne they drank, downstairs. “Finger me,” she urged him.
He eased and pressed into her glutinous heat.
She felt warm and fluid inside.
Casanova probed with his finger as she gasped, inhaling deeply at the back of her throat, like she’d been thumped in the sternum with an ornate dagger of the occult. The need to kill her flowed from his belly and down into his pants, where the urge spiked and made his cock stiffen. All that heat in the sultry sheen of her easy flesh, grand and disgusting, and all the glory of her sexual provocation made him tremble with dark intent.
It sent shivers down his spine.
Shivers of delight that gripped his loins. It was a prophecy, for he would steal her secrets and end her life, right where she stood. She would soon be swallowed by the darkness of life and the glory of death, as she fell to his mercy, and further froze at the luring feel of his nefarious touch.
She gripped at the edge of a table behind her, surrendering herself to his sovereign command, her womb swaying to the pressure he applied at the front-wall of her lower abdomen. She held his dominant eyes with a gaze of sexual depravity. Her veins were fused with want and desire, an outright submission to his malevolent promise of filthy sex and a boundless exploration of erotic perversities.
Right then, as he explored her sex with a knowing finger, she saw his true darkness for the very first time. Like his hypnotic eyes knew the infinite mysteries of all the realms. It struck her as the sexiest thing she had ever experienced, up-close-and-personal, seeing him in all his wise glory as he used and exploited her needy flower.
She was speechless.
Her mouth was agape with lust, begging him for something, an unspoken kink. The knowing supremacy of his wicked gaze almost felt like an edible and delicious thing. A thing that she would very much like to taste.
Just once.
Before giving herself to The Devil. To devour, and be devoured, as he punished her sexually.
The void of the next dimension is calling upon her…
The pull of the Reaper is strong…
She subconsciously received the esoteric energy that formed around his being. She felt it, strongly, as it gripped her. It was getting her even more wet, the juices of her sweet fruit flowing freely down the underside of his long finger. It made her tremble, from her shoulders, all the way down to her clitoris.
She was powerless to it.
Casanova continued to work her down below, sliding and pressing on her inner-segment, using his touch as a tantric expert, his middle finger curling back onto her pink-firmness and massaging it. He was pleasuring her, inside and out, and stimulating her rosebud for the very last time. Controlling the rise of her orgasm, to be enjoyed in the exodus of life.
He was touching her the way that she wanted to be touched and in the ways that her doting husband never had. “What are you, huh?” he asked her, with mock curiosity, his Glasgow brogue gruff and hard.
Tell him what he wants to hear, the demon needs to hear it…
She was moaning and whimpering now, galloping into his world of erotica, as he still worked hard on the fluid walls of her murky and viscous vaginal heat. “I'm a bad woman who needs to be punished for my sins…I’m a whore…”
The power of the spell is strong…
“Yes, you are. You are a very bad whore, Julia. So, tell me, is that the bed where you pretend to make love with your husband?” he asked, glancing to the over-sized unit, draped with a black-gold Versace spread.
“Yes…” she responded with a smile, still moaning with pleasure. “Yes, it is. That’s where I fake my orgasms with my limp-dick husband,” she giggled, like an overgrown naughty girl.
“Why, then, would you persevere such a hollow and vile existence with such a despicable piece of lifeless excrement? I bet the steam of my feces has more life in it.”
“I persevere, for the money,” she groaned, eyes closed, and momentarily had to focus on her breathing, like a woman in labour. “I married him because he was a high-flying partner in a London law firm and I could have this beautiful house, all I had to do was suck on his limp-dick every once-in-a-while and pretend to be in love with him. And, of course, I did it because I’m a callus Jezebel. I love money and gold but I also want good sex with fit men, to invite them to the house when he’s not here so they can fuck me the way I need to be fucked.”
“Good, that’s what I wanted to hear…”
“You already know all that, so please just do it, give it to me, punish me for my sins…fuck me…”
Casanova slowly stopped and released a sticky finger from her sodden peach, moving around now with both hands to grip onto her fleshy behind. Her skin was aged but still soft and milky. He enjoyed how her body felt in his hands so massaged and squeezed her as he positioned her for intercourse - her so-called punishment. He propped her backside upon the wooden ledge of an expensive looking vanity desk, lit up
with star-lit lights, Hollywood-style. It was cluttered with womanly paraphernalia and French perfumes by Chanel and Guerlain. Brushes and bottles fell to the floor, as she opened her legs for him and leaned back onto the illuminated mirror.
“Such a ravenous and hungry little cunt you are,” he said, gritting his teeth with hunger, not for her sex but for her imminent execution.
He will take her life and send her into the void…
“Yes, you know what I am, I love the way that you see me naked, for the bitch and the whore I am, without all the lies and false pretences.”
