The Dark Life Part Three

Chapter Three

Letter addressed to Detective Inspector Lucy Dean

Criminal Investigation Bureau, Homicide Division

24th October

What is more sweet and delicious than a beautiful woman?  I know that by now you realise what I have done and that my mention of delicious is not just a quaint old fashioned metaphor.  I truly am enjoying this, Lucy.  The thrills are so exquisite, as are the rewards of my planning.  Sadly, I seem to have glorified your skills as a detective to a level beyond your capabilities; for I am still waiting for you.

I see from the newspapers and the other banal media that you have not mentioned these letters at all.  This was a wise move.  Was it your idea or that handsome young profiler I have seen you with of late?  I do hope you enjoyed that exquisite crab meat lasagne the Riverside Restaurant served you yesterday.  I have found their meals quite satisfying over the years.  Do the families of my delectable victims know you are dining out whilst they mourn the loss of their daughters?  I see you now trying to remember that meal, trying to remember any unusual characters watching you.  I assure you, if you did not notice me then, you will not remember me now.  Nor will the security footage of the Riverside Complex ease your mind.  There were hundreds of people walking past that restaurant whilst you dined and I am wise enough to observe without appearing to.

I am impressed with your friend Doctor Ashton.  His psychological profile of me was quite detailed.  It is as though he knew me.  Perhaps he is me.  I tease you now.  I am smart enough to keep my distance for now, my dear Lucy.  I merely admire from far away.  It is a shame, though, that the media briefing on me was so transparent an attempt to aggravate me into making a mistake.  Was that mention of possible homosexual tendencies meant to trigger some kind of rage?  My dear Lucy, I am no common killer.  Surely you know this by now.  I was interested, however, in his final summary.  Does the doctor truly believe I suffer from antisocial personality disorder?

It is an apt diagnosis.  My disregard for social rules such as that prosaic “thou shalt not kill” that people follow like lifeless zombies from some dull B grade horror film and my obvious contempt for society’s norms, cultural codes and my indifference to the rights and feelings of others are all true observations.  I suppose even my impulsive behaviour would guide you to that diagnosis.  So it has finally been said; I am a sociopath.  There is, however, one problem with your dear Doctor Ashton’s diagnosis.  I, unlike the sociopath and those with antisocial personality disorder, have experienced the whole wide reaching range of emotions and I do love them all.  Yet, like those who experience such a Freudian concept, I fear no punishment or pain you might have ready for me when I am uncovered.  I look forward to that day.

This brings me to my next point, my dear Lucy.  Your thoughts are clouded by my first letter.  You have spent too much of your time searching for “Michael” and “Trudi”.  I left clues for a brilliant detective, not a child.  What fool would hand over the true names of his past?  Come now, Lucy, you should know better.  Reread that first letter and your eyes shall be opened.

Would it be crude of me to offer you another bread crumb?  After the “accidental” death of Michael; my darling parents, being the caring parents that they were, sent me to a boarding school and moved interstate.  It was an all boys’ school but there were the most appetizing young girls at our sister school a few blocks away.  One girl in particular caught my eye.  Let us call her Veronica.

Veronica was a beautiful Indian girl with the most exquisitely smooth brown skin, so soft and silky to touch and scrumptious to taste.  She had the face of an Egyptian queen with eyes that reminded me of an ancient Egyptian goddess.  Her body was delicious; long, perfect legs, round breasts and, most exciting of all, a smooth belly with just a hint of fat and a round, shallow navel that was perfect to sip vodka from; like a dish made from the most delicious skin.

She teased me and played around with me, allowing me to suck shots from her naked tummy and lick her delightful, succulent skin.  But she stopped short of any sexual encounters.  Veronica was in control and she loved that power she held over me.  It drove me wild and angered me at the same moment.

This murder, my friend, was my first truly planned killing.  Something about the power of life and death aroused me to the point that just thinking of the plan made me shake with anticipation.  It excited me more than the promise of sex.  Every night that I slipped into her room and played around, I dreamed of the day my plan would come to life and I would kill her.

That fateful night, we met as we sometimes did in the park that was between our schools; a dark and secluded place with very little in the way of lighting at night.  She appeared, her long jet black hair flowing down over her fine shoulders.  She wore a long black overcoat and as she approached she slipped the overcoat off to reveal her delectable young body.  She wore skimpy pink underwear and her skin shone in the dim light of the moon.

I approached her as my heart thundered in my chest and I pushed her backwards.  There sat in the street, as it had ever since I had attended the school, a garbage truck owned by a private trash collection company.  I guess somebody in the street worked for this company and parked it there every night.  I lifted Veronica up by holding her under her ribs, loving the feel of her silky skin.  She giggled.  There was an air of excitement over the sexy clandestine meeting in a public place that I think we both felt.

It sat her on the back of the rubbish truck as she continued to laugh and placed her delicate hands on my face.  I looked into her adorable bright eyes and felt aroused.  She moved down and kissed my lips in a delicious kiss.  I felt her tongue caress mine with an erotic gentleness.  Just as it was becoming heated, she pulled her lips away teasingly and smiled her dominant smile.

“You’ve put me on the back of a garbage truck,” she said with raised eyebrows.

“I know,” I smiled.

“Why did you...” I remember that her pretty smile quickly turned to a look of fright as I pressed my hands to her smooth tummy and shoved her right into the back of the truck.

“Hey!” she laughed as I looked down on her in the truck’s rubbish tray.

Then she must have seen the look in my eyes.  That petty face, Lucy, it reflected her confusion.  The poor girl never really understood.  You see, I had checked the truck a week prior, casually walking past and pulling a lever at the back as I walked to her school at night.  Even with the engine off, the compactor at the back of the truck still operated through a hydraulic system independent of the truck’s engine.  I pulled that lever as she stared at me.

I felt my heart race as her eyes widened in terror and she clambered to escape while the metal compactor began moving in towards her soft body.  It was a quick death.  She squealed as her pretty Egyptian queen face turned to me.

I watched with much anticipation.  In her panic she scrambled to escape, terror reflected in her wild eyes.  I watched, Lucy. I watched as the metal compactor squeezed her like dough.  I watched her fine belly squeeze tight and saw her breasts press together as she let out a horrid scream.  I watched her eyes widen in absolute terror.  There was a funny crackle of what I guess was her bones as the compactor pressed in and she disappeared from sight.  When it rose again, I caught a glimpse of the crushed mess that had moments earlier been my sexy girlfriend.  Then the compactor scraped her into the main container.  I had crushed the sweet girl to death in her skimpy underwear.  The body I had licked, sucked vodka off and kissed so many times, the personality I had grown to adore and yet hate for its dominance, the smooth brown skin I had so often loved to caress and taste; it was all gone, crushed to a pulp at my hands.

Again the selfish world ignored the signs.  Nobody responded to her squeals for help or even bothered to check what the noise had been.  She was listed as missing the next day.  Amazingly, the driver of the truck went to work the next day as always to collect rubbish and dumped it all at the tip where I can only assume she was quickly buried beneath more trash.  It surprised even me that the sweet Indian girl was never found.  I had expected a homicide investigation but found myself, yet again, walking away from the incredible thrill of murder unharmed.

The plan was made even more delicious by my misdirection.  After the excitement had died down from the kill that night, I had taken her coat and left it outside the local train station.  I was covering all of my options, careful to ensure I was not a target for investigation.  The police found her coat and without a ransom or a body, it was assumed she was a runaway.  To this day her poor family know nothing of her final fate, squished like jelly in the back of that truck.

I hope that this clue helps you some more.  I am sure that soon you will discover that there are not that many companies in Australia with independently powered trash compactors built into their trucks.

But I digress, dear Lucy.  You wish to know about poor Grace Murray; the heavenly young woman you found at Noosa.  I have actually been planning this sweet victim for quite some time.  It is in my nature to travel to the beaches when I can.  I love watching all the beautiful girls in their bikinis and sparse clothing.  I like imagining how I would kill them if I could and enjoying the pleasurable rush of those imaginings.  I chose this sugar sweet girl because of her routine.

She was a surfer who came to the beach at the same time every morning, no doubt to catch the waves before work.  Many times I waited and watched from the relative safety of my car.  That’s what I love about Noosa.  The car park near the beach is so secluded in the midst of tropical trees and undergrowth that nobody really pays attention to me.  Every morning at five thirty she arrived.  Much to my delight, she would slip out of her tracksuit right there in the early morning light next to her car.  Beneath that tracksuit she always wore the finest of skimpy bikini swimsuits to show off her deliciously sleek and smooth body.  Without fail, she would wax her board and then take the track to the beach.

Like clockwork, Lucy, she would always come back at exactly six thirty.  It was almost as though she were calling me to her.  I could not resist.  Most mornings she was alone but I needed to wait for the right moment, an environment where the chance of others was minimal.  That chance came this morning, during that wondrous thunder storm. I waited in that car park hoping desperately that Grace would come.  You could not imagine the delight I felt when I saw her car pull up directly opposite mine.

I waited until she stood in the heavy rain in nothing but that delicious silver bikini she sometimes wore.  It left little to the imagination and showed off so much of her fine, athletic young body.  The rain cascaded down her body.  She swept back her long, dark hair and threw her wet tracksuit into the car.  I surveyed the scene one last time.  She was alone in the darkness of the early morning storm.  I moved swiftly.

Her surf board was resting against the bonnet of her car and she stood beside the driver’s door.  She was stretching, arching her back so that her irresistibly smooth skin tightened over her fine ribs and gave me a perfect view of her superb thin but deep navel.  I grabbed her smooth long throat with my left hand as I saw her hazel eyes widen in shock.  Her pretty face, with her long, thin nose and thin red lips, looked flawless.  I felt her skin squeeze between my fingers as she gasped and stared deep into my eyes.  At first she did nothing but stare, frozen in shock or fear, I imagine.

It was as I began to squeeze her neck tightly in my grip that she began to move.  I pressed my body up against her refreshingly smooth figure and felt her squirm against her car door as her soft hands clawed at mine and she let out that magnificent gurgling noise girls sometimes make when I strangle them.  Her mouth fell agape and I stared into those panicked eyes that showed true terror.

But this beauty was not destined for my strangulation list.  Yes, my darling, there is a book where I list my victims by method.  It sits on a shelf with the head of dear Madison in a jar and the briefs of sweet young Emma, along with so many other souvenirs of murders you are yet to learn of.  This fine surfer girl was destined for a new adventure in my book of thrills.

I watched her hazel eyes stare at me as she wriggled and punched and tried to kick, my body pressing her into the cold metal of her car door.

That was when I produced my wonderful knife; a fine hunting knife made for skinning tough hides.  Her hands were clutching my left hand, trying to pry it free when I sank the knife into her left side, right to the hilt, just beneath her ribs.  Her delicate mouth opened wider and her eyes seemed to almost pop from their sockets as the blade sliced into her sweet flesh.  The rich red blood mixed with the rain.  I pulled the knife free and stepped back, letting her go to fall to her knees before me.

She gasped for breath and clutched at the wound in her side as I licked the blade and tasted her sweet red blood.  I could see tears in those adorable eyes as I stepped up to her.  She pleaded for her life, begged to be spared.  I watched rainwater drip from her chin.  That lovely girl did not run as I had expected.  I got down on one knee and held her head back by grabbing her silky long hair and pulling with my left hand to expose her lovely neck.  Her breath was heavy and smelled of sweet roses.  She was so beautiful that for a moment I just stared into her panic stricken eyes.

“Please,” she squeaked more than said.

I shoved the knife into her smooth, flat belly near her bikini line and watched her eyes widen again as she gurgled.  Her warm, luscious blood flowed freely over my hand.  I watched the life die from those cute eyes as I pulled the blade free and stabbed her again.  She let out another gurgle as she tried to stop me but her gentle hands did little.  Her eyes never left me as I let the knife slide out.  Tilting her head right back, I then plunged it into her smooth long neck, watching as he rich blood flowed freely and her body twisted and convulsed.  I gently let her fall to the ground in my arms and stared into her wide eyes as they glazed over and she died.

The blade of my knife was coated in blood and before the rain could wash it away I licked the blade again, loving the delicious taste of that warm fluid on my tongue.  That was when the second part of my plan came to life, my dear Lucy.

My friend, you will find that I cut away the delicious meat of her thighs.  I took that flesh home with me.  I cooked it with a lovely Italian creamy tomato sauce.  As I said to begin with, Grace was delicious; mouth wateringly delicious to taste.

I hope that by now you have noticed the souvenir I took from this beautiful surfer girl.  I could not resist taking that part of the body I love so much.  I cut away the skin of her belly, so smooth a creamy to touch, and have her navel for life now, preserved in a jar beside Madison’s head.  I fear I may have gone too far but I cannot help myself.

I eagerly anticipate the day we meet, dear Lucy.  I hope it is not long for already I am planning my next exploit.  Send my apologies to whoever is left to clean the mess I left.  Grace did not die in vain, Lucy.  She was a deliciously mouth watering feast from the moment I first saw her to the moment I ate her flesh.

Look after yourself and try to keep your relationship with the dear Doctor Ashton on a professional level.  If you must flirt, he loves a perfume called Darkness.  I shall send you a bottle.

Your Friend,

The Dragonfly