A small man with a big problem, that's Arnold Torninger, a violently vindictive escapee from a mental institution whose bitter frustration triggers his bestial behavior. With demonic determination and evil cunning, the former Hollywood-based director of sexually explicit horror films sets sail on a sea of rampage and revenge, leaving in his wake the raped and horribly mutiliated bodies of eight beautiful women.
And why? That's just one of the questions Lieutenant Adam Gallagher and his partner, Sergeant Charlie Raster, seek to answer as they stubbornly investigate the series of savage, sex-drenched slayings that has the town terrified and the Mayor on their backs.
Why was June Tracy, a comely sixteen-year-old blonde, brutally raped and then slashed to ribbons with a carving knife while her boyfriend, Bobby Raymonds, watched in helpless horror nearby? For what reason did the demented rapist-killer anally rape and then whip to death lovely Debra Warren, the beautiful, pregnant mother of twins?
What prompted the madman to attack Diane Caterville, a fun-loving career girl, in Cloverdale Park? And why did he select for death luscious Patricia Granger, the ravishing, titian-tressed wife of Bob Granger, ace crime reporter of the Herald-Times?
Savage slaying follows savage slaying as Gallagher and Raster wrestle with the problems posed by the perverted psychopath. And then, slowly but surely, the pieces start to fit. Marjorie Raster, Charlie's buxom brunette wife and movie buff, culls her memory and produces pertinent information about Torninger; a hitherto silent psychiatrist comes forth with equally damning data; and, most important, at the scene of one crime a silver medal with a very revealing inscription is found.
Will the fiendish, wickedly-clever murder be caught before he can strike again?
CHAPTER ONE
Charlie Raster leaned forward in his chair and reached for the brown coffee mug resting on his partner's desk. He brought the mug to his lips and sipped thoughtfully, his tired hazel eyes not straying from the innocuous pink ribbon pinned to a tattered piece of black velvet.
Setting the mug back down on the desk, he picked up the ribbon and leaned back in his chair to once again study this baffling bit of evidence.
This particular ribbon was identical to the two others found, he thought, a faint frown on his fleshy, rough-hewn face. It could have been purchased in any five and dime for no more than thirty-nine cents, perhaps less.
By itself, the pink ribbon was certainly insignificant-a not uncommon and rather pretty adornment for milady's tresses. But since it had been removed from the hair of a savagely slain female, as had two others exactly like it, the ribbon was growing in importance day by day.
Of what significance to the killer was the pink ribbon, Charlie wondered, turning the small silky object over in his hand. Why leave it as his calling card?
"Well, Charlie, think we can wrap this one up in a week?"
The forty-nine-year-old Raster looked up to see his partner, Adam Gallagher, smiling down at him.
"You gotta be kidding. Is that the time limit the captain has set on this case?"
Adam smiled as he moved around his desk and settled into the chair behind it. He was a well built man, standing six-fee-two-inches in his stocking feet and weighing in at one-hundred-ninety pounds. He was also a competent cop, one who didn't enjoy being chewed out by the captain.
"He strongly implied that Lieutenant Gallagher and Sergeant Raster were draggin' their asses on this one. The captain wants some action, Charlie."
"Not action, Adam. He wants a very large miracle. Hell, all we've got to go on are these lousy pink ribbons." Charlie tossed the ribbon he had been studying onto his partner's desk.
"Yeah, I know," Adam sighed, picking up the ribbon. "Three brutal slayings in five weeks ... a pink ribbon found in the hair of each victim."
"No suspects and no witnesses."
"And not a single lead to follow."
"Each murdered girl was very attractive," Charlie added. "And each, if we can believe their friends and relatives, didn't have an enemy in the world."
"The guy we're after is a psychopath, Charlie. He's got to be. Annette Logan, Priscilla Davies, Joan Franks-three beautiful females raped and then savagely murdered for no logical reason."
Charlie smiled wryly. "Their murders made sense to our killer."
Adam nodded. "You're right there. His irrational mind has probably produced a warped sense of justice."
"I wonder if that could be anything, Adam."
"If what could be anything?"
"The idea of justice. You suppose our boy is on the rampage because he seeks revenge?"
Adam shrugged. "I don't see it that way, Charlie. The girls didn't know one another and they hadn't dated the same guy. These were just three females, all approximately the same age, whose only crime was to have been beautiful and to have been spotted by our killer."
"Damn, but that guy is a butcher, isn't he?" Charlie said, shaking his head. "Bad enough that he rapes 'em, but then he goes and whips them bloody before ending their misery with a knife. Franks, that last girl we found in the alley, had been stabbed at least twenty times. Doc says he hasn't seen anything like it in his eighteen years as medical examiner."
"Nor have I, Charlie. This guy is a fiend with a capital F. I can't blame the captain for being up in arms."
"He get a call from the commissioner?"
Adam nodded. "And the commissioner had been phoned by a very irate mayor who-"
"Whose office has been deluged with calls from angry citizens demanding an immediate end to the bloodbath. That's how it usually goes, right? The mayor phones the police commissioner and demand action. The commissioner phones the precinct captain and demands action. The captain drags into his office those assigned to the case and demands action. Tinkers to Evers to Chance."
Adam smiled. "And the ball always stops at our feet, Charlie."
Charlie shook his head in dismay. "If there was only a discernible pattern to the killings. If only we could tie the murders together and come up with a possible motive for them."
"That's a lot of "ifs", buddy. And you're assuming that each girl was murdered for a particular reason, that she committed some crime against our killer and in so doing sealed her own death warrant. I don't buy that-at least not yet. It's my opinion that we've got a sadistic maniac on our hands-a nut who at the drop of a hat rapes and kills."
"An escaped mental patient, perhaps."
"Perhaps. Although Evers hasn't come up with anything yet. He's been checking out all the funny farms in the state."
"Could be that our boy's from out of town."
"Yeah, we'll follow that up next."
"Well, at least we can safely assume that the same man committed all three murders. The pink ribbon found at the scene of each crime would indicate as much."
"I agree, Charlie. Of course, the possibility does exist that the Franks girl was killed by another guy, someone trying to capitalize on the first two murders."
"This guy kills Joan Franks for whatever reason, then leaves behind a pink ribbon to make us think the maniac has struck again?"
"Yeah, that's what I mean. But like I say, it's a long shot as far as I'm concerned. The modus operandi in each murder was exactly the same. What we're confronted with, I think, is one sex nut who wantonly rapes and then butchers his victims."
"Whoever he is, the guy is clever enough to wear gloves when he goes after the girls. The lab boys haven't found so much as a single fingerprint at the scene of the three crimes."
Adam nodded, then pushed aside the pink ribbon he had been fingering. He stood and said, "Let's take another look at the map, Charlie. Maybe we overlooked something."
"Yeah, maybe," Charlie said without enthusiasm, as he ran a pudgy hand through his rapidly thinning brown hair. He pushed his two hundred and five pounds out of the chair and then followed his partner to the small wall map.
"Now, our boy has struck three times so far," Adam began. "Here ... here ... and here."
"Nothin' we can make outta that fact, Adam. The killer strikes first here, raping and stabbing to death Annette Logan. Then he hits again six miles away, his victim this time the pretty high school teacher, Priscilla Davies. And his third victim, Joan Franks, was found over here ... three miles northwest of where we found Annette Logan. I'm afraid this doesn't tell us much."
"No, you're right, Charlie, it doesn't. Unfortunately, it's too early to see any kind of pattern developing." Adam studied the map for a few seconds, then took a pencil from his inside jacket pocket and carefully drew a circle enclosing the three murder sites. "About all we can say for certainty, Charlie, is that our man has so far stayed within this ten mile radius. For the time being, we'll have to concentrate our efforts here."
Charlie nodded in agreement. He looked at his partner and friend of ten years, saw him slowly brush from his furrowed brow a few strands of coal-black hair as his penetrating blue eyes remained fixed on the map.
"Adam, it kills me to say this, but I don't see us taking too many strides forward unless ... unless we get more to work with."
The thirty-six year old lieutenant sighed, then turned from the map to face his friend, Sergeant Rasker. "Yeah, I know, Charlie. It would seem that we need another murder."
"And now just where will that son-of-a-bitch strike next?" Charlie asked in a soft voice, turning again to look at the map.
Some twelve miles from police headquarters a small, bespectacled man was peering from behind a large bush at a parked automobile, his beady brown eyes fixing on the two occupants inside. The auto, a 1970 green Ford, was the only one parked in what had been a popular lover's lane before the lovers discovered an even more secluded, more romantic location two miles distant.
Forty-one-year-old Arnold Torninger had spent the past half hour behind the bushes, waiting and watching, his frail-looking but surprisingly strong body crouched under the cover of an inky-black darkness.
It wasn't nerve he was waiting for. That he had in reckless abundance. He was waiting for the right moment to strike, the most opportune moment to spring from his hiding place and attack the two teenagers petting in the automobile. The element of surprise was most important, his deranged mind told him. And especially so in this particular instance, because for the first time he was confronted with not one but two people to eliminate.
Inside the auto, squirming on the back seat, were Bobby Raymonds, age seventeen, and his best girl, June Tracy, a golden-haired, blossoming beauty of sixteen. Oblivious to the danger which lurked no more than twenty-five feet from them, they kissed and caressed each other with ever increasing fervor.
"Feel me, Bobby," June breathed hotly. "Feel how very hot I am for you."
"Yeah, baby," young Raymonds rasped, "you're always ready to be banged. That's why I love you."
Bobby's eager hand swooped from his girl's pert boobs to her left knee. He squeezed excitedly and then began working his hand up under June's bright yellow mini, his arm pushing back the short skirt and causing it to bunch in her lap.
"That's the way, honey," June whispered, continuing her heated massage of her boyfriend's swelling cock through his slacks. "Rub my cunt for me, Bobby. It's itchin' something bad."
Bobby's hand groped between June's warm, creamy thighs and then clamped over her pantied-pussy. She was really excited, he thought happily. Her cunt was secreting nicely, the sticky sex juices oozing from her love hole to plaster her pants against her crotch.
"How's that, baby?" he asked breathlessly. "You love a good, hot cunt rub, right?"
"Yes, oh, yes," June answered, her voice thickened by a growing passion. "Harder, Bobby. Rub me ... squeeze me."
The muscular, good-looking blond youth lost no time in complying with his pretty girl's urgent request, his hard hand vigorously massaging her sheathed snatch, squeezing it strongly, almost cruelly. June twisted and turned on the car seat, her pantied-ass sliding this way and that as she lifted up, then sank back down, jerked her hips left to right.
She spread her legs as wide apart as possible, pressed even closer to her boyfriend and commenced nibbling on his ear lobe, drew it between her lovely young lips and sucked playfully.
And all the while she was hotly massaging his cock, her hand squeezing fiercely the bulge in his lap. She stroked and rubbed Bobby's cock through the material of his tan slacks, the thought of again being pronged by that wonderful weapon sending all rational thoughts scurrying like unwanted mice from her mind.
"Come on, baby," Bobby said suddenly, "no more foolin' around. I gotta get my cock in you now."
"And I want it, honey," June said throatily, almost reluctantly moving away from her boyfriend. "I want your beautiful prick in my hot, sticky twat."
She gave Bobby's straining tool a parting squeeze, then sat back on the car seat. As her young lover watched, she placed her hands on the seat and pushed herself up and lifted her pert posterior. She maintained this position, little grunts of desire popping from her mouth as Bobby, responding to his girl's excited entreaties, moved to tug down her panties.
"You beautiful little bitch," he rasped, twisting around in the cramped confines of his auto, maneuvering awkwardly into a better position to denude his girlfriend's warm, tingling loins. He inserted his fingers in the elasticized waistband of her flimsy white panties, then impatiently began working them around and off her shapely hips.
"Oh, hurry, Bobby," June pleaded, desire coursing through her veins. "I've got it bad tonight. My cunt's on fire, baby."
"I'm gonna hose it down for you, sweetheart."
"That's what I want, Bobby-your cum shooting into my burning twat."
June plopped back down onto the car seat after Bobby had tugged her panties down to the creamy thighs. Quivering with excitement, she tried to sit still as he worked the pants to her knees and then down her calves to her ankles. Bobby quickly jerked his girl's undies off her feet and then threw them over his shoulder onto the front seat.
June turned and grabbed the small pillow resting against the rear window. She wedged it into the comer of the auto closest to her, then quickly slid around on the car seat to lie on her back. Fucking in Bobby's car was damn uncomfortable, she thought, as she threw her short skirt high on her chest and then commenced a vigorous massage of her naked, shivering cunt. But, unfortunately, the back seat of the Ford was the only place available to them this night.
Neither she nor Bobby had the nerve to attempt to register in a motel; the ground was damp from a recent rainstorm; and both their parents were at home. Thus it was that once again they would be forced to fuck in Bobby's auto. Of course, as awkward and uncomfortable as it was to screw in such close quarters, it was certainly better than delaying her getting dicked to another time.
"Quick, Bobby," June whispered excitedly. "Get it in me, baby. Fuck me a good one tonight."
"Hey, you forgot somethin', didn't you?" Bobby asked, fumbling with the zipper of his fly. The damn thing had chosen this inopportune moment to stick.
"What's that, honey?"
"Your promise to blow me tonight. Remember, you said you'd go down on me before I fucked you."
"Oh, of course. I'm sorry, Bobby. I'm just so damn hot for your beautiful prick."
June pushed herself up to a sitting position, recalling now her promise to suck her boyfriend's bone. The promise, whispered passionately as one might a salacious secret, had been made a little over an hour ago, as she and Bobby sat close together on the front seat watching an X-rated film at their favorite drive-in.
"There, dammit," Bobby growled, when he finally succeeded in lowering his zipper. "Now we can-"
"No, let me," June interrupted, her hand once again flying to the fat bulge in her boyfriend's lap. "You just sit back, baby. I'll do it all tonight."
Young Raymonds was not about to argue. He loved the feel of his girl's soft, supple lips sliding wetly up and down his turgid tool, thrilling to her inexperienced but enthusiastic motions as she sucked his bloated bone into her sweet mouth.
No sooner had he sat back on the car seat than June was going to work, her delicate fingers fumbling inside his slacks and pulling excitedly on his swollen prick. She drew the organ out and immediately began stroking it, a bright, sexy smile lighting her face as she felt its throbbing fullness, its thick rigidity.
"It's beautiful, Bobby," she crooned. "I love it so."
"Come on, sugar, eat it for me," Bobby urged, his hands coming up to clamp over June's concealed boobs. She was still wearing her soft green blouse and under that a constricting brassiere, yet this minimized his delight in fondling her pert melons only a little. Later, before they fucked a second time, he fully intended to strip her completely and spend a fuckin' long time savoring the lush nudity of her young, vibrant body. Now, however, time was of the essence.
"It's my favorite lollipop in all the world," June said softly, a beautiful smile on her face as she adjusted her position just slightly and then lowered her head over her boyfriend's lap. "And tonight he's so hard and thick, Bobby. It's going to feel so delicious when you ram it into-oh, my, what was that?"
"What was what?" Bobby asked impatiently, looking into the face of the pretty teenager who had suddenly jerked her head up, away from the cock dying to be sucked.
"That sound, Bobby. Didn't you hear it?"
"What sound, baby?"
"Like a ... a clumping sound. Like ... oh, Bobby, I think somebody is out there."
"Relax, sugar," Bobby said with a small grin. "You know very few people use this spot anymore. Isn't that why we came-because it's dark and secluded? We couldn't find a more private place to screw if we looked all night. You know that."
"But I heard something, Bobby. I think somebody is watching us out there."
"Well, I didn't hear a thing, baby. It's probably just the wind. A storm could be blowing up. The weatherman did forecast another rain storm, you know."
"Gee, I don't know," a suddenly worried June said, looking out the car window closest to her. "I don't see anything but-"
"Because there's nothing to see, sugar. Now come on, stop acting silly and start sucking me." Bobby gave his girl's boobs a playful squeeze designed to spur her into action. "Remember, no suck means no fuck."
"All right, you meanie," June said, a faint smile now replacing her worried frown. "I guess it was just the wind ... or maybe a small animal scurrying around in the grass."
"Maybe it was a chipmunk sucking off her boyfriend," Bobby grinned.
"Idiot," June cracked, her smile blossoming into a full-fl-edged grin as large as the one blanketing the face of her young lover.
And then again she was squirming around on the car seat, adjusting her position to confer on Bobby his blow-job. When she was reasonably comfortable, kneeling on the car seat, she again lowered her head over his exposed genitals.
"That's my girl," Bobby said soothingly, running the fingers of his right hand through the soft, silky strands of his girl's long golden hair, gently pressing her head down to his stiff, protruding prick.
June licked her lips in anticipation, then flicked out her tongue and swiped the head of her boyfriend's turgid tool. She followed up with a more gentle caress, her moist tongue sliding soothingly all over the plum-shaped crown, laving it lovingly.
Now she closed her pretty blue eyes and opened wide her mouth, her long blond tresses falling softly around her face and shielding it from view as she commenced her feast. With the fingers of her left hand she began funneling the hard cock into her hungry mouth, her supple lips slipping easily over the bulbous head.
She sucked slowly at first, treating herself to just a small bit of her boyfriend's tasty tool at a time. Tenderly she drew on the fleshy stalk, her tightly pursed lips pulling on it with a tantalizing, maddening slowness.
"Ohh, baby ... baby," Bobby moaned softly, as he leaned further back on the car seat and through passion-dimmed eyes watched his girl suck his pulsating pecker.
When she had carefully vacuumed as much of Bobby's bone into her widely-stretched mouth as was possible, June began to suck with considerably more gusto. Her head bobbed rhythmically over her boyfriend's lap, her ovaled lips sliding obscenely up and down his tumescent tool while the promise of that meaty member shoved deep in her hungry twat continued igniting sparks of lust throughout her young body.
Not very far from the automobile stood Arnold Torninger, who with knife in hand had moved, noisily, some eight feet from the large bush he had been crouched behind to stand now half-shielded by a tall oak tree. He peered out from behind the tree-a seemingly harmless figure attired in muddy shoes, black slacks and pale blue shirt, an off-white jacket that had gotten badly stained as he plodded his way through the woods to the clearing where Robert Raymond's car sat.
The wiry Torninger reached a height of five-feet-six inches and after a heavy meal was able to coerce a scale into registering his weight as one-hundred-thirty-eight pounds. His eyes were brown as was his curly hair, and upon meeting him one would think that Arnold Torninger was a mild-mannered man, the sort who valued highly the security and stability afforded by the position of bank teller.
It was with the cunning of a fox that Torninger plotted his beastly crimes. With painstaking care, he studied the movements of his victims, following them for days at a time to learn all he could about their daily routines, watching undetected as they went about the business of living. And then, when he had determined the best time for the kill, he would gather together his "tools"-the eight inch carving knife, the pearl-handled whip with its thick, ten inch straps-and set out on another "mission of mercy," as he sometimes referred to his perversely perpetuated crimes.
And so it was that he knew all he had to know about June Tracy and her boyfriend, Bobby. He had watched both very carefully for the past several days, the girl, in particular, and had learned that this night they would be parked in the once popular but now seldom used trysting spot.
It was better than perfect, Torninger thought, a faintly feral smile creeping across his undistinguished face. The two teenagers were parked miles away from the nearest house; they were alone and oh so vulnerable, engrossed now in their consuming passions; and the moonless night, so coal-black and damp, was in a sense aiding him by providing additional cover.
How easy it was going to be to overpower these two stupid kids, to first get rid of the muscle-bound jerk, Raymonds, and then pleasure himself with the luscious Miss Tracy. She could scream her pretty head off and no one would hear her. She would be all alone ... at his mercy.
Torninger waited for another minute and then, deciding now was the time, moved into action. He removed his glasses and slipped them into a brown case, then stuffed the case in his jacket pocket. The wicked-looking knife in hand, the whip strapped to his right leg (the crusader's sword, of course), he started toward the automobile.
Neither June nor Bobby sensed the approaching menace, too busy were they warming up for their back seat boffing session. June was now sucking her boyfriend's rock-hard cock with utter abandon, her pretty head bobbing rapidly up and down as she vacuumed the throbbing tool into her hungry mouth and savored its jaw-busting fullness.
Bobby's blue eyes were closed, his head rolling lazily on the back rest of the car seat. He had decided to cum in his girl's wonderful mouth, to pump his thick seed down her beautiful throat as she tried in vain to swallow it all. Then, after a few moments spent in each other's arms, they would both strip bare-assed naked and enjoy a long, leisurely, satisfying screw.
Had he not been so drenched in passion, so thoroughly immersed in the warm pleasure of the moment, Bobby would have heard the crunch of approaching footsteps, the snapping twigs and the rustling of damp leaves which indicated the presence of a third party.
But as it was he heard nothing-except the strange gurgling sounds his girlfriend made deep in her throat as she labored on his blood-packed prick like one possessed. Reality at the moment was a beautiful sixteen-year-old girl sucking his cock for all she was worth, milking him dry with her succulent lips.
Bobby worried only about being unable to prolong the mind-clouding pleasure for another few precious seconds. That was the "clear and present danger" confronting him right now.
Torninger was now standing next to the auto, his left hand gripping the door handle on the driver's side, his right hand clutching the eight inch carving knife. What a little pig she is, he thought, looking in the car window to see June Tracy still hard at work sucking her boyfriend's thick cock. But then again, wasn't every female a slut at heart?
Torninger waited just a few seconds longer, then yanked the door open.
"Get out, you two," he shouted, his voice throaty and strong, the kind of firm, forceful voice one might expect from a taller, stronger, more robust man.
Jolted back to reality by the intruder's loud words, Bobby jerked forward on the car seat as his eyes flew open. His cock shot down June's throat and she sputtered and gagged. She yanked the saliva-coated organ from her mouth and bolted up, ready to berate her boyfriend for choking her.
CHAPTER TWO
"What's the big idea, Bobby? You never tried anything like that before. You trying to be smart ... or ... something."
June's voice trailed off and a puzzled frown began clouding her face as she looked at Bobby. Eyes wide, mouth agape, her boyfriend appeared to have been suddenly rendered speechless. He was seemingly in a state of shock, unable to express his fear of....
June very slowly turned her pretty head, some sixth sense telling her to do so.
"Oh, no ... no," she murmured, her heart beginning to pound in her chest. And then she screamed-a blood-curdling scream that sailed from her throat to slice through the damp night air. She grabbed hold of Bobby and held him tight, then, seconds later, thinking that escape was the answer, she scrambled across the back seat and reached over the front to grope for the door handle on the passenger's side of the automobile.
"Get out of there, I said," Torninger growled, pulling the front seat forward against the steering wheel. He stepped into the car and pressed the blade of his knife against Bobby's throat.
"June ... don't, June," Bobby cried out, looking not at his girl but at the angry face of the man whose knife appeared sharp enough to decapitate with a single flick of the wrist.
"That's right, little piggie. You run away and I slit your boyfriend's throat."
June turned her head and saw the knife blade teasing Bobby's throat. Still bent awkwardly over the front seat, her right hand hotly gripping the door handle, she said, "Please, leave us alone. We haven't done anything. We won't-"
"Get out of the car, dammit," Torninger broke in angrily. "On this side."
"We better ... better do what he says, June," Bobby said nervously.
June hesitated briefly, then let loose of the door handle and eased herself onto the back seat. She reached for her boyfriend's hand and squeezed it tightly.
"Bobby, he's going to kill us," she whispered frantically, as Torninger stepped back outside the auto and waited for the teenagers to emerge.
Bobby swallowed hard. "No he isn't. He just ... he just wants to rob us."
"That's stupid. We don't have any money."
"Maybe he wants the car," Bobby persisted, trying as much to convince himself of this and thus dispel his own fears as those of his girlfriend. "Yeah, that's it, baby. He's escaped from a prison and he needs transportation to-"
"Bobby," June groaned, "there isn't a prison within twenty miles of this place. He's going to ... oh, Bobby, I'm afraid. I don't want to die."
"I'm warnin' you two," Torninger barked, poking his head inside the auto. "Stop that whisperin' and get out here-or I'll come in there after you."
Bobby looked at June and nodded in Torninger's direction.
"Come on, baby. We better do like he says. You just stay close to me and don't panic." Then, as a spark of courage ignited in the dark well of his fear, he added, "The guy doesn't look too strong to me. I'll wait for my chance and then jump him."
"Oh, Bobby, be careful."
"Sure, let's get outside now."
Holding her by the hand, Bobby led his girl out of the car. The teenagers stood close together, some five feet from the man whose ugly smirk seemed even more frightening than his scowl.
"You should be ashamed of yourselves," Torninger said, his eyes drifting downward to settle on Bobby's now wilted cock. He had noticed June's white panties lying in a crumpled pile on the front seat of the Ford and had been tempted to take them as a souvenir.
"We love each other, mister," Bobby cracked, stuffing his penis back into his pants and quickly zipping his fly.
"You were groveling like animals, punk," Torninger fired back. "She was sucking your stinking prick."
"I was expressing my love," June argued softly, nervously. Her pretty blue eyes wandered from Torninger's face to the knife he held, and then back to his face.
"Shut up, Miss Tracy. What does a sniveling little brat like you know about love?"
"How do you know her name?" Bobby asked, growing more confident of his chances against the small, lean man-knife or no knife.
Torninger chuckled. "That's of no importance, Robert."
"So, you know my name, too. Well, big deal. What are goin' to do now-give us both a lecture on morality?"
Ignoring Bobby's words, Torninger turned his attention to the pretty blonde teenager whose visible fright he considered a thing of beauty. It was good, he thought, to be in a position of power, to have cringing at your feet those who, under ordinary circumstances, would mock and scorn you.
"You're a very pretty female, June," he said, his voice much softer than before, a small smile displacing an irritated expression. "And you will no doubt grow even lovelier as you mature."
June looked up at her six foot boyfriend, then again turned her attention to Torninger.
"The resemblance is truly remarkable, you know. Until this moment I didn't realize just how remarkable. You remind me so much of her-you're young, very pretty, blonde and blue-eyed. Yes indeed, I've made an excellent choice, June."
"What are you talking about, mister?" Bobby asked, placing his hands on his hips and striking a smug pose. "You know somethin', I think you're crazy. You're just a frustrated little freak who-"
"Stop it, Bobby," June pleaded, very much afraid of the consequences should her boyfriend continue provoking the knife-holding stranger.
"Yes, I've known men like you, Robert," Torninger said, in a tone of voice that suggested an attempt to control the furious storm of anger that raged within him. "They were older, of course, but like you they were handsome and virile, brimming with confidence. Being cocky and strong, these men thought nothing of ruining the lives of others, of squashing like annoying bugs those who dared to demand an equal opportunity. They took what they wanted and to hell with the miserable slobs they destroyed in the process."
"You are nuts," Bobby said. "You're not making a damn bit of sense. Now why don't you just go away and leave us alone. Halloween would be a better night for you to play your stupid games."
"You're not afraid of me, Robert?"
"Not any more, mister. You're just a crazy, sexually frustrated little worm who likes to scare couples making love."
"Suppose I said that I intend to kill you both. You first, Mr. Raymonds, and then your pretty little girlfriend." Torninger looked at June and smiled wickedly. "But, of course, not before we get to know each other much, much better."
"Why you crazy bastard. You're not goin' to do a damn thing to anybody. Give me that knife or...."
The rest of Bobby's thought was left unfinished as he took two quick steps and then lunged at Torninger. June let out a scream, her hands flying up to cover her face. Seconds later she gasped, eyes wide with horror as she heard her boyfriend emit an anguished bowl of pain and then, clutching his stomach, tumble to the ground to lie in a crumpled heap at Torninger's feet.
A satisfied smirk on his face, Torninger planted his left foot under the moaning teenager's body and pushed him over onto his back. Then he raised the bloody knife over his shoulder and without delay plunged it into the boy's chest.
"Bobby!" June screamed, running to the now inert form of her boyfriend.
"The arrogant bastard," Torninger spat, withdrawing the eight inch knife from Bobby's chest. He drew himself erect and held the knife at his side, the blood beginning to slide down the blade and drip onto the damp leaves covering the cold ground.
"He's ... he's dead! You killed him!" June, kneeling now next to the lifeless form of her boyfriend, wore a horrified expression as she looked up at Torninger. Tears coursed down her cheeks and she turned again to view Bobby's body, still unwilling to admit the horrible truth of what she had witnessed.
But she knew in her heart that her eyes weren't lying. Bobby, her Bobby, was dead. His blood was spilling from his chest and stomach, staining his shirt a warm red. The sickening sight made her want to vomit.
How could this be, she wondered confusedly, feeling very much alone all of a sudden, without purpose and hope. Bobby, being muscular and energetic, full of life, had excelled in athletics at Grover High. He had quarterbacked the football team and played center for the basketball team.
And she loved him with all her heart. Everyone said they were a perfect pair-the good-looking high school athlete and the pretty blonde cheerleader. On more than one occasion they had talked about marrying someday, perhaps after both had graduated from college. But now ... now Bobby was dead.
June had no more time to reflect on her great loss as Torninger roughly pulled her to her feet and she stood terrified by the small man with the big hate grabbing a handful of her golden tresses, viciously yanking her erect.
"Now, Miss Tracy," he said, glowering at the hapless teenager, "now the fun begins."
"You fiend," June spat. "You mean, perverted beast."
"How dare you call me names, you foolish little cunt?"
"The police-they'll catch up with you, mister. They'll put you away-in a nut house. You're a crazy-aieee!"
The sudden vicious slap delivered by the infuriated Torninger sent June sprawling to the cold ground. But she was quick to think of escape, now that she was no longer in her tormentor's grip. She waited a few seconds, tears scalding her cheeks, then bolted up and started for the safety of the dark woods.
But the clever Torninger was prepared. At age forty-one he was amazingly quick on his feet, nimble and always alert. And because he had suspected such an attempt at freedom, it took him no time at all to corral his fleeing victim.
June had taken but a few frantic strides before she was brought crashing to the ground, Torninger dashing after her and leaping through the air, like some huge bird of prey, to bring her down with a wais-thigh tackle.
June fell heavily to the ground, the air whooshing from her lungs.
Stunned by the impact of her landing, half-conscious and moving very little, she lay in a nest of damp leaves and twigs. Torninger scrambled to his feet and looked down at the blonde teenager. Satisfied that she wasn't about to run away, he returned to where he had left his knife.
He picked the bloody instrument up and then quickly moved back to his victim. He lifted his arm and flicked his wrist, then smiled as he saw the knife plunge into the earth, four inches of the razor-sharp blade imbedding itself in the ground, the black handle quivering defiantly.
Then he bent to the hardly-moving teenager, the strange, frightening smile still on his angular face as he began removing her clothes.
Minutes later, when June regained full consciousness, she found herself naked and chilled by the cold night air. She was still on the ground, on her back now, and kneeling next to her was Torninger, his perverted lust growing with each passing second.
Upon opening her eyes the first thing June saw was the knife, imbedded in the earth some five feet from where she lay. For a fleeting second she considered a second escape attempt, but dismissed this as futile and foolish. So, scared to death, she decided to plead for her life.
"Please, mister," she began, her voice quivering, "please don't hurt me. If you let me go, I won't tell a soul about this. Honest I won't. Just let me-"
"Shut up, Mary," Torninger snapped. "You're going to do exactly as I say. I've waited a long time for this moment and nothing is going to spoil it for me. You can beg and cry all you like, but in the end you'll obey my every wish."
"Mary? My name isn't...." June swallowed hard as she looked up at the man who was now roughly massaging her pert boobs. Bobby was right, she thought miserably. Her captor was crazy. So warped was his mind that she had ceased to exist for him-now she was somebody called Mary, probably a girl he had known years ago. This man was more than crazy-he was a demented sadist seeking amends for some rebuff occurring years back.
"You have pretty little boobs, Mary," Torninger continued. "I always knew they would be like this-small and round and taut. You never let me get close enough to touch them, but now I can play with you to my heart's content. You won't reject me now, will you, sweetheart?"
"Oh, no, please don't do this," June whined. "I'm not the person you think I-" she let her voice trail off, as popping into her mind was the thought that perhaps she could turn her captor's sickness to her advantage, that by pretending to be the girl he thought she was she might lull him into a contented state, during which, when he relaxed his guard, she would bolt into the comparative safety of the woods and try to find help.
"Mary ... my little Mary, how pretty your garden grows," Torninger smiled, his spidery fingers sliding down June's flat tummy and into curly, golden pubic hairs.
"It-It feels good," June lied, squirming her shapely hips in mock passion. "I'm getting ex cited-really, I am."
"That's good, princess," Torninger said softly, cupping the blonde girl's crotch, squeezing it roughly. He began stroking June's snatch, his long fingers slipping between her dry sex lips.
"You haven't told me your name," June said, forcing a smile and continuing to pretend desire by sensuously rotating her hips up against her captor's caressing hand.
"Why are you playing with me, Mary? You know my name is Arnold. You used to call me Arnie, remember?"
"And your last name, Arnie?"
"You are a tease, aren't you, baby? Have you forgotten my reputation on the lot? Wasn't I sometimes referred to as 'Torninger, the Terrific' in those days?"
June smiled but didn't reply. Although pleased to have learned her tormentor's name-she would store it in her mind and give it to the police when she escaped-she was further confused by Torninger's mention of a "lot." What could that mean, she wondered. Perhaps he was referring to his childhood, when he romped in a lot with other children. Maybe he meant a schoolyard where, as "Torninger, the Terrific" he excellent in sports. But no, that didn't seem likely. He didn't look at all athletic, and hadn't he chided Bobby about his self-assurance and muscular build?
None of it made any sense. Torninger was talking strangely, too, mixing the past with the present as if unable to distinguish from between the two. Had he suddenly reverted to his childhood? Was she suppose to be the very young girl he had had a crush on as a teenager?
"Wasn't it silly to put me off for so long, Mary?" Torninger asked, smiling down at June as he continued rubbing her twat and with his free hand began tugging down the zipper at his fly. "You could have enjoyed my love so much sooner."
"No, I don't want that," June said, looking not at her captor but at the semi-hard cock he pulled from his pants.
"But I guess you just had to play hard to get, huh? I know, a woman must never make it too easy for a man. But at long last I've caught you, my precious."
"No, please ... don't," June pleaded, the sight of the crazy man's prick tossing her quickly back into a state of near panic. Suddenly it no longer seemed such a bright idea to pretend passion, to layer her fear with mock desire and thus trick Torninger to distraction. Now she just wanted out.
"No? Did I hear right, Mary? Are you rejecting me once again-now that I'm so close to having you?"
"Please, let me go. You don't know me. I'm not who you think I am, Arnie. My name is June-you know that. Please, Arnie. Don't do anything to-owwwi"
Torninger squeezed June's crotch cruelly, a look of anger quickly sweeping away his smile of seconds ago.
"How dare you turn your back on me now?" he asked menacingly. "I've waited so long to love you, Mary. To feel your sweet lips on my cock. Do you think you can-"
"No, let me up," June cried, struggling to break free. "I don't want your stinking old prick!"
Torninger gasped, as if struck a fatal blow. Then he jumped to his feet, dragging his whimpering victim up with him. Mumbling curses, yanking on June's golden tresses, he slapped her face repeatedly with his open hand.
"Aiee ... no ... owww...." June cried, each sizzling slap jarring her head back. She flailed the air with her arms and tried to claw Torninger's face, but he easily dodged her wild, frantic blows and continued swatting.
"Little bitch," he growled. "I know you've sucked the cocks of many men. Now you'll suck mine, you filthy slut."
When he tired of beating the girl, Torninger threw her roughly to the ground. Then he pounced on her, his slender hands grabbing at her throat as she stared wild-eyed at him. June gasped, gagged, her small hands flying up to her throat as she made a feverish attempt to stave off her death.
"Listen to me, cunt," Torninger rasped. "You're going to suck me as you've sucked all the others. Then I'm going to fuck your cunt until it's a bloody mess. Do you hear me, bitch?"
"Garghh...." June gagged, realizing that never in a hundred years would she be able to tear Torninger's strong hands from her throat. He was sitting on her now, his hard ass squashing her tummy as he worked at choking her to death.
"Answer me, cunt. Nod your head if you intend to obey-otherwise I'll kill you right here and now."
June nodded, knowing that unless she did so, her demented tormentor would surely follow through with his threat.
"Yes ... yes, that's more like it, Mary. I should have forced you years ago. Then you wouldn't have treated me with such contempt. I wouldn't have had to watch you parade around the set, acting as if I didn't exist when all the time you knew how much I cared. But now is your chance to make amends for your snobbish ways."
Torninger climbed off June and then dragged her up to her knees. Meek protests bubbling from her lips, June allowed herself to be positioned so that she was kneeling directly in front of Torninger, his now stiff prick just inches from her tear-washed face.
"Now open wide, Mary. You're going to suck me better than you did the rest."
June hesitated, the sight and smell of the blood-thickened organ protruding from Torninger's fly making her want to vomit.
"I said open up!" Torninger yanked on June's tender ears and forced her head back.
"Owww ... all right, all right. I'll do it."
June slowly opened her mouth. No sooner had her lips parted than Torninger was attempting to shovel his cock into her mouth, his hard hands now clamped hotly around her head as he shoved his member toward the back of her throat.
"Now start sucking, Mary. Do me like you did Elliot Townsand. Remember him? He was a handsome devil, wasn't he? He told me how great you are at cocksucking."
Baffled by Torninger's words, her naked, kneeling body in panicky quiver, June started sucking the prick packed into her mouth. Resigned to her obscene chore, realizing that her only hope of emerging from this nightmarish experience alive lay in her ability to effect a dizzying, gut-jumbling orgasm, she launched immediately into a rapid, fiery fellatio.
She labored in earnest, thinking that it might be possible to risk another escape try as Torninger shuddered through his climax. Bobbing her pretty head with utter abandon, she sucked on Torninger's tool like one famished. Her tightly pursed lips slid quickly up and sown the pulsating stalk of flesh; her twirling tongue coated the underside of the warm prick; her upper teeth occasionally scraped over the heavily-veined surface.
"Yes, I was right all along, Mary," Torninger said, a smirk on his face as he looked down at the blonde teenager frantically feasting on his rigid cock. "You are a great cocksucker. One taste of prick, one whiff, and you go berserk. Eat it up, my precious cunt. Gobble it all down like the slut you are."
Determined to end this monstrous defilement as quickly as possible, June worked on Torninger's prick with an almost violent enthusiasm, wagging her head like a puppy with a meaty bone as she sucked and sucked and sucked without pause.
She forced herself to concentrate on the vile act and not to think of Bobby, who lay dead no more than ten feet from where she was blowing his killer. If only he would cum, she thought. The foul taste of his sex cream as it gushed down her throat would at least signal an opportunity for escape.
But Torninger had no intention of spilling his seed in the mouth of the wildly sucking teenager. He wanted to plant his rock-hard root deep in her pretty pussy, to hear her squeal and feel her body twisting and jerking under him as he pumped her passion well.
With this in mind, he suddenly yanked her head away from his opened fly, his blood-gorged cock popping from between her pursed lips with a lewd "plopping" sound. Confused, June looked up at her demented defiler.
"You want it in your hungry mouth, don't you, cunt? You'd love to feel my cum washing down your cocksucking throat. But I said I intended to fuck your twat-and that's exactly what I'm going to do. Now."
"No, please. Don't do-owwww!"
June suddenly found herself once again on the cold ground, shoved there by Torninger, who now pounced on his hapless victim and without delay rammed his saliva-coated cock deep into her totally unprepared vagina.
"Ohhh ... it hurts! Ohh, noooo...."
"You're a tight little bitch," Toringer huffed, wasting not a moment as he commenced pistoning his prick in and out of the young girl's dry sex channel. "How come you're so tight, cunt? You've been fucked by everybody around here."
"Please, you're killing me. The pain-I can't stand it!"
"Answer me, bitch. How come you're so damn tight when-"
"I don't know, I don't know," June wailed, twisting her naked body under the humping Torninger in a frantic attempt to dislodge his murderously painful prick. He was ripping her vagina to shreds, punishing her pussy unmercifully with his rampaging cock.
"You like this, cunt. I know you do."
"No. Noooo...."
"This is better than Townsand's fuck, right?
Yeah, sure it is."
"Stop it, please. I can't stand the pain. You're ruining me you bastard!"
"Fuck, you hot-ass little pig," Torninger barked, as he continued pounding his turgid tool into the sobbing female's aching vagina. "Shake that fuckin' ass for me, sweetheart. You know you love a good hard screwin'."
"No ... help me. Somebody help me. Please!"
Torninger thrust again and again, his fleshy spear splashing its way through June's unprepared sex canal and wrenching from her throat pitious sobs of unadulterated pain. Using his cock like a weapon, a meaty hammer, he nailed her pelvis to the sodden earth with repeated plunges into her aching twat.
June's strength was gradually ebbing. She groaned and cried out and beat on Torninger's back with her small, balled fists, but she was being buffeted into complete submission by her attacker's booming bone, his blood-gorged cock hammering her into a whimpering, helpless mass of hurting flesh.
And finally, her spirit broken, her strength gone, she surrendered unconditionally. She stopped pummeling his back and threw her arms on the damp ground, her legs dropping heavily to the ground at the same time. She stopped twisting and turning under Torninger, her naked body becoming a comfortable cushion on which he would bounce and bounce as he ravished her unmercifully.
Sinking ever deeper into a quicksand of lust, his confused, disoriented mind telling him that at long last he was fucking the female who had so often mocked his amorous overtures, Torninger continued slamming his prick into June's dry womanhood with all the strength at his command.
In and out he plunged, his fully-clothed body bouncing atop the whimpering teenager like a large buoy lost in tempestuous waters. He grunted, groaned, spewed filth into her ear as he savagely fucked her breath away, each deep, powerful plunge of his rock-hard prick into her bleeding cunt pushing him closer to ejaculation.
And then he was coming, his body in convulsive ecstasy as the product of his passion bolted from his prick to inundate June's sore cunt. He delivered a final few pulverizeing plunges, then gripped the hapless girl hotly as he shuddered through his orgasm. When the last of his creamy seed had been deposited in June's vagina and his pecker began softening, he rolled off her limp, inert form and wearily got to his feet.
"There ... how was that, precious?" he asked, breathing hard.
June said nothing. She was stretched out on the cold earth, eyes closed; her sadistically plowed pussy aching something fierce.
"Yeah, it left you speechless, huh? Well, sugar, the fun is just beginning. I'm not through with you yet-not by a long shot."
Torninger pushed his limp tool back into his pants and zipped his fly, then quickly unstrapped the whip from around his leg. He stepped to June and reached down, his free hand closing around her arm.
He yanked the softly sobbing teenager to her feet, then dragged her over to the automobile. Grinning satanically, he draped June over the left front fender and then stepped back to ad mire her saucy ass.
"You should see how funny you look, Mary. You're covered with leaves." Torninger chuckled. "Yeah, you look like a woodland nymph, sweetheart."
"Please, haven't you done enough already?" June whimpered, her pain-clouded mind unable to tell her why she had been positioned over the auto.
"I haven't done nearly enough, Mary," Torninger growled. And then, brightening quickly, he added, "Now the first thing we've got to do is sweep those leaves from your fanny."
"Go away," June sobbed. "Leave me alone. I want to die."
"And I'll see to that, too, precious," was her captor's soft response. "But first...."
Torninger raised the whip over his shoulder and without delay brought it crashing down across June's rounded rump. She jumped a foot and emitted an unholy shriek of protest, her hands flying to her ass to protect it from further assault. She spun around to face Torninger, her eyes once again wide with fright.
"Turn around, Mary. That's an order."
"No, I won't. I ... I...." June let her voice trail off as she looked quickly to the left and right. She took two hurried steps and then stumbled, her knees buckling under her. She struggled to her feet and tried again, only to be brought down by the soul-searing pain of the whip as the thick straps lashed her shoulders. She cried out and tumbled forward, great, heaving sobs choking her lungs and blood beginning to ooze from where Torninger had whipped her.
Moving quickly, the sadistic rapist-murder grabbed June and dragged her back to the auto.
He jerked her to her feet and again threw her over the front fender. Then he stepped back and started a furious whipping of the teenager, her maniacal screams serving only to fuel his demented desire to punish ... and then kill.
It took less than a minute of frenetic flagellation to render the pain-wracked teenager unconscious. Emitting a tortured moan of intense agony, she slipped slowly downward off the fender to lie in a crumpled heap next to the muddy tire.
Still not satisfied, Torninger continued lashing the unconscious girl, raining blows on her back and side and front until she was bleeding from a hundred different cuts.
Time and time again he raised the whip over his shoulder and sent the thick, broad straps slicing through the heavy air to land with a sickening "swacking" sound on some portion of June's anatomy. He even lashed her face, turning it from a cream-colored hue to a rich red.
Never again would Mary torment him, his diseased mind told him. Never again would she flaunt her charms and then, when he made an overture, reject him like a piece of dirt, swat him away like an annoying bug. No, sir. Mary had snubbed him for the very last time.
Torninger whipped June until his arm was weary, until she was a pulpy mass of hardly recognizable flesh. Breathing hard, his shoulders slumped forward, he stood and looked down at the girl's lifeless body. Then he dropped his whip and turned around. He moved slowly to Bobby Raymond and kicked the dead boy in the ribs.
Then he looked at his left and saw his knife, still imbedded in the soft dirt not far from where he had raped "Mary." He turned again to look at the dead girl. Then, as a smile began growing on his lean, pale face, he went to fetch the knife.
CHAPTER THREE
Debra Warren smiled her prettiest smile at Mrs. Baxter, the silver-haired, recently widowed woman of fifty-nine whose fifth floor apartment adjoined her own. She rolled her shopping cart away from the elevator door, thereby allowing the stocky, moonfaced female, who had just entered the lobby of the building, to perfunctorily push the elevator button.
"I swear this elevator has a mind of its own," Mrs. Baxter said with a smile. "Only when it's good and ready will it descend to the lobby floor to pick up passengers."
Debra chuckled. "Yes, I know what you mean. I'm beginning to wonder if it isn't stuck on the tenth floor. It's been sitting there for at least oh, here it comes, finally. See the light?"
"Good thing, too. I made up my mind the last time the elevator was stuck that I wasn't ever again going to walk up five flights of stairs. That might be good exercise for some people, but not for an old lady like me."
Debra smiled. "Oh, you're not an old lady, Louise. Didn't someone once say that life begins at sixty?"
"I seriously doubt it, Debra. Such an observation could only come from a person on the verge of senility. Youth-that's what counts these days. As far as today's teenagers are concerned, once you pass thirty, it's all downhill. If it were up to them, I'd be in an old age home somewhere."
Debra laughed. "Oh, what do the kids know? Listen, I'll have you know that I am now of an age where I can no longer be trusted. I celebrated my thirtieth birthday only last week. And I do mean celebrated."
"Congratulations," Louise said warmly. Then, feigning deep concern, she added, "But you're right, of course. Now that you've reached the grand old age of thirty you've become suspect. Only the careless will continue trusting you."
Once again Debra chuckled. "Well, I'll try not to lose too much sleep over it, Louise. Truth is, I never felt better in my whole life. I feel ... well, just marvelous."
Louise smiled. "And you look marvelous, too, dear. Anyone would think you were twenty-one and not thirty."
"They wouldn't think that if they saw the twins," Debra grinned.
"How are the girls, anyway? I don't recall seeing either Pamela or Janey this past week."
"They're visiting my mother-in-law," Debra explained. "Now there's a woman with a world of patience. Who else would ask to care for two rambunctious, always-talking eight year old girls? And for three weeks, mind you."
Louise smiled warmly. "She must love children. And it looks as if she'll have another to lavish attention on before too long."
A faint blush crept over Debra's cheeks as she looked down and patted her protruding tummy. The fact that she was pregnant was more than a little obvious, she thought, realizing it was rather silly to feel self-conscious at her age. And after giving birth once before.
She mildly berated herself for blushing even a little. Although she was proud of the fact that after eight years she was again with child, a child she and David wanted very much, she was almost ashamed to admit, through the coloring of her pretty cheeks, that she and her husband had engaged in the joyous copulation responsible for conception.
It was difficult to imagine any female with a happier sex life, Debra thought. David was a handsome, vigorous man, one whose kindness and consideration she appreciated as much as his quick-to-stiffen cock. He provided her with a kind of pleasure she had never dared dream even existed.
And now, with the birth of her third child, her family would number five. She was indeed a lucky girl. She had a virile husband whom she loved dearly and whose excellent salary enabled them to live in a luxurious high-rise, two pretty little daughters, and some very nice friends like Mrs. Baxter. The baby she was expecting would be just a little more frosting on the cake.
"Eight months, isn't it?" Louise Baxter was asking, a pleasant smile lingering on her round face.
"Almost," Debra answered, slipping quickly back into the present. "The baby is due sometime next month-the end of the month."
That's wonderful, just wonderful," Louise said softly. "It's no wonder you're all aglow, dear. I really do think it's true-a woman is at her most beautiful when she's pregnant."
Debra chuckled. "Oh, I don't know about that, Louise. I feel so fat and ... and frumpy. Like a big spongy beach ball."
"No, you're beautiful, Debra," Louise insisted, again speaking softly, thoughtfully. "You're simply radiant."
"David is going to be awfully happy when he doesn't have to get up at three in the morning to fetch me a pint of maple walnut ice cream. Isn't that the craziest thing, Louise? Just recently I've developed this passionate craving for maple walnut ice cream. Not vanilla or strawberry, mind you. That would be too bourgeoisie. It's got to be maple walnut or nothing."
"And the pickles?"
Debra nodded. "Jewish dill pickles-they're my favorite. I use a pickle for a spoon and scoop up the-"
"I think I would have given everything for a chance to experience pregnancy," Louise broke in, her voice still quiet, distant, as if the sight of her very pregnant neighbor had suddenly brought to mind the thought of her own futile attempts to conceive, those many moments spent in silent prayer.
Debra, realizing a sensitive nerve had been touched, was momentarily at a loss for words. On more than one occasion Louise had expressed her regret at being unable to bear children. This inexplicable inability to conceive had cast a shadow over an otherwise happy marriage, according to Louise.
"I guess ... I guess it just wasn't meant to be," Debra said at last, hoping this didn't sound too inane. "Sometimes we have to accept things that we can't even hope to understand."
Louise smiled softly. "Yes, I know that, dear. And Louis and I did have a good marriage despite our futile efforts to produce a child. Thirty-three years we were married. I guess that's an accomplishment of sorts."
"I'll say it is," Debra said, brightening. "I'd call it a wonderful accomplishment. I only hope that David and I can-"
The groaning sound made by the opening elevator door broke into Debra's thought. She turned in time to catch the smile on the roughhewn face of Ben Walters, superintendent of the Imperial Towers.
"Hello, ladies," Ben said cheerily. "Hope you haven't been waiting down here too long."
"Only for about an hour," Debra grinned.
"Really?"
" No, I'm just joking. What was wrong with the elevator, Ben?"
The burly superintendent shrugged. "I can't really be sure, Mrs. Warren, but it looked to me like some idiot tampered with the emergency button. That threw everything out of whack and caused the elevator to bog down on the tenth floor. I got it going but it got stuck again on the fourth floor."
"Who would do such a stupid thing?" Louise asked.
"A kid, maybe," Mrs. Baxter. "I can't see an adult deliberately gumming up the works. Then again, who knows?"
"Well, is it all right now, Ben?" Debra asked. "I mean is it safe to use?"
Ben smiled. "Sure. But just to make certain that it doesn't break down again today I'm going' to call the elevator repair service. They'll send over an expert to check everything out."
"Well, Louise," Debra said with a smile, "shall we make the great gamble?"
"I said I wasn't going to walk up five flights of stairs again," Louise answered, smiling back at her blonde, blue-eyed friend. "So, it's fingers crossed and off we go."
Ben chuckled. "Don't worry none, ladies. "You'll get to where you're goin', I'm sure."
"If anything happens the three of us will sue you," Debra promised, grinning.
"The three of ... oh, now I get it." Ben smiled at the sight of Debra gingerly patting her big belly. "And how is the little fella, anyway?"
"The little fella? Now just how can you be so certain that-"
"I just got a hunch, Mrs. Warren," Ben grinned. "Besides, it would be nice if your little girls had a baby brother to-"
"To rough up," Debra interrupted, a broad smile on her un-lined, clear-complexioned face. "Take care, Ben. If you hear us yelling for help, come to our rescue, will you?"
"Will do, Mrs. Warren. And I'll be up later to fix that leaky kitchen sink faucet you told me about."
"Oh, yes. Thanks, Ben. Make it about four o'clock, will you? I think I'll take a little nap after I put away these groceries."
"Fair enough, Mrs. Warren. I'll see you around four."
The smiling superintendent moved aside and Debra maneuvered herself and the shopping cart into the elevator. Louise followed close behind and pressed the button numbered five. The thick elevator door creaked closed.
"We're on our way," Debra smiled.
"It's still moving, anyway," Louise said, returning the smile.
The elevator hummed its way upward and came to an abrupt, bumpy stop at the fifth floor. The door opened noisily and the two women stepped out into the carpeted hall.
"Hey, we made it," Debra exclaimed, feigning great surprise.
"Safe and sound," Louise said. "Listen, how about letting me help you put away this stuff. You shouldn't be exercising so much at this stage of the game."
"Thanks, but I can manage. I'll just put the groceries away and then lie down until Ben arrives to fix that darn faucet." ' "Well, if you need anything you know where I am-right next door in apartment 5E."
Debra smiled. "I'll give you a buzz if anything comes up ... or comes out."
Louise laughed. "You do that. I may never have given birth but I'm sure I could be of some help with a delivery. Feel free to call on me at any time, night or day."
"I'll keep that in mind, I promise. David is ordinarily a pillar of strength, but something tells me that should the baby arrive earlier than expected he'll faint dead away. And in that case I'll need someone with a cool head."
"That's me," Louise said. "I'm as cool as a cucumber."
The two women chatted for another few minutes outside Debra's apartment door, then, after having agreed to lunch together in the very near future, they said their good-byes. Louise walked down the hall to her apartment and unlocked the door. She waved a final good-bye to Debra and then entered her apartment, closing the door quietly behind her.
Debra fumbled in her small black pocketbook for her keys. When she found the one she wanted she inserted it in the lock and then pushed open the door. She backed into her apartment, pulling the loaded shopping cart inside the foyer and then letting the door slam shut.
Emitting a small groan, she removed her light coat and tossed it over a nearby straight chair. Then she gripped the shopping cart and started pulling it through the living room. Once in the kitchen she went about putting away her groceries, moving slowly from cabinet to refrigerator to cabinet as she stored each item in its proper place.
It was when she stood on her toes to reach the top shelf of the small cabinet over her stove that a hard hand was suddenly clamped hotly over her mouth. She attempted to scream but the sound was smothered in her throat. Fearing for her life, she started struggling fiercely, flailing the air with her arms and at the same time kicking her feet back as she tried to break the strong hold the intruder had on her.
But Debra's valiant efforts to escape proved futile. Although she was in no condition to wage a prolonged battle, she thrashed around and tried desperately to break away until every last ounce of energy had been drained from her. Then, totally exhausted, a gut-jumbling fear clouding her mind and tears trickling down her cheeks, she collapsed against the intruder.
Seconds later she was being dragged out of the kitchen and through the apartment, one hand still clamped tightly over her mouth and an arm now hooked around her neck. She flapped her arms in weak protest and tried, unsuccessfully, to stop the intruder's progress by dragging her heels on the carpet.
And then she was in the bedroom. Her stomach was churning crazily and her mind was a muddle of confused, disjointed thoughts. She felt faint and thought for certain that before too long the vomit would come rumbling up from her belly to gush from her mouth. The baby, she thought. Oh, my God! The baby!
But then she was sent sprawling into the bed, the result of a violent shove suddenly given her by the maniac who had managed to gain entry into her apartment while she was out shopping. An anguished grunt and throaty groan tumbled from Debra's lips as she hit the bed, belly first. Then, tears of fear blurring her vision, she rolled over awkwardly to face her attacker.
How nice, Arnold Torninger thought gleefully. How very, very nice. Sugar and spice and everything naughtily nice. Mrs. Warren was indeed a very lovely female-a picture of pulchritude even though pregnant. And wouldn't it be fun to dick this big-bellied beauty in the deriere! Those luscious ass cheeks!
This pretty pregnant one, this blue-eyed lovely with the shoulder-length golden tresses and delicate, angelic expression, would no doubt welcome his stiff pecker in her shit chute. Married or not, pregnant or not, Mrs. Warren was a woman in need of a vigorous rectum reaming, The hunger for his hard-on was written all over her beautiful face.
The demented Torninger was as wrong as wrong could be about his captive's intentions, the insane anger that had warped his mind having blinded him to the reality of the situation. Because Debra was sitting on the side of the bed, stark naked, her wrists and ankles bound with rough cord, and because exhaustion compelled her to sit quietly, as if in silent surrender, he figured he had everything well in hand and that her heart was throbbing with joy as she contemplated her posterior plowing.
The truth was that Debra had never been so frightened in her life. She feared for herself, for the baby she was carrying, and the prospect of intense pain which would accompany the wicked spearing of her seat was like nothing when compared to her thoughts about being murdered by the ugly, lewdly-grinning maniac, the obviously degenerate beast who stood less than ten feet away from her, his almost laughable body bared for her inspection.
"So, you refuse to admit that you find me attractive, huh?" Torninger said, an evil smirk basking on his characterless face. "Could it be that pride prevents you from doing so?"
"How did you get into my apartment?" Debra asked, her voice quivering. "Why-Why are you doing this to me?"
Torninger chortle. "Questions, questions. The lovely lady is just full of stupid questions. It makes no difference how I got in here, can't you understand that? What matters is that I did get in. And before too long you will be begging me not to go."
"Please, Mr. Torninger. I haven't hurt you. I don't even know you. Let me go, please. If you leave now, I promise not to inform the police. I'll just forget the-"
"When do you expect the baby?" Torninger asked, interrupting his victim as he took a few steps toward her.
Debra said nothing.
"Answer me, Mrs. Warren," Torninger shouted angrily. "When is your child due?"
"In-In about six, seven weeks," Debra stammered.
Torninger grinned. "Yes, that makes it almost perfect. Cynthia was also in an advanced stage of pregnancy when ... but no matter, that doesn't concern you at all."
"Oh, please," Debra sobbed, "I don't understand any of this. How do you know my name? What have I done to deserve your hatred? Who is Cynthia? Please, tell me something about yourself."
"Are you stalling for time, Mrs. Warren?"
"No. I just can't understand-"
"But you don't have to understand anything, sweetheart. Not a blessed thing. You simply have to behave yourself and allow your true desires free rein." A broad smile suddenly planted itself on Torninger's face. "Come now, the truth. Wouldn't you like to feel old Arnie's cock worming up inside your pretty ass?"
"Ohh, nooo," Debra wailed. "This is crazy ... you're crazy. I've got to get out of here and...." she let her voice trail off as she struggled to stand.
"Stay put!" Torninger barked, advancing toward Debra until he was standing directly in front of her, his limp pecker no more than a foot from her tear-streaked face.
"Help me," Debra moaned, slumping back down onto the bed. "Somebody please help me.
"No one is going to help you, Mrs. Warren, You and I are all alone in your bedroom." Torninger cupped Debra under the chin and lifted up her head. "Finally, after all these years, I've managed to get you alone. You never permitted me to get close, to touch you and tell you how muchl cared. But now at last we'll be able to screw the night away."
Debra shut her eyes tight, refusing to look up into the ugly face of her tormentor a second longer. "You don't know what you're talking about," she hissed, her voice reflecting the angry frustration that had suddenly welled within her to momentarily replace her fright. "You're ... you're confusing me with somebody else. With another woman named-"
"I wasn't good enough for you, I know," Torninger continued, his spidery fingers tightening around Debra's well-molded chin. "And so you rejected my every attempt to love you and behind my back called me a slimy nuisance. Yes, that's right, Cynthia. You didn't realize that I knew what you were up to, did you?"
"You're wrong ... so very wrong," Debra moaned.
"But I watched you like a hawk, baby. I know that it was that muscle-bound stuntman, Jack Acker, who knocked you up. All he had to do was wink and you came running. But you wouldn't even give me the time of day. You couldn't be bothered."
"Please ... you're hurting me. Let me go."
"Not a chance, beautiful lady. It's high time you gave me what you gave all the others. I've been dreamin' for years about screwing your sweet ass and now it's goin' to happen. But first you're going to chew on my cock for a while and get it nice and wet."
"No ... don't ... uhhhmmmm...."
Debra tried to twist free, to pull her head back and away from Torninger's smelly tool. She clamped her lips together and tried to kick her tormentor with her bound feet. But the wiry Torninger refused to give an inch.
He pressed closer now, his pale, naked body in excited quivering motions as he straddled Debra's legs and ordered her to open her mouth. He hid her head in a vise-like grip, one hand still firmly-locked around her jaw, the other pressing hard against her forehead. Determined to pry open her lovely lips, he exerted strong downward pressure on her jaw and at the same time tried to push her head back.
"Open up, damn you," he growled, "or I'll twist your fucking head off."
Tears again began welling in Debra's soft blue eyes, the droplets slithering down her already tear-washed face. She dared not open her mouth lest her cruel captor stuff his slimy organ between her lips, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to breathe through her nose only.
And now he was yanking on her hair, twisting her head to the left and right with sadistic glee as again he demanded her unconditional surrender. The pain was seeping through her body, clouding her mind, and she knew it was only a matter of time before the need for more air and a desire to escape the pain forced her to give in.
"Open your eyes, slut," Torninger shouted. "Look at me-look at what I'm going to shove down your throat and ram up your beautiful ass."
Realizing it would serve no purpose to prolong the agony, Debra reluctantly opened her eyes to once again look up into the evil face of her captor. Seconds later, before she could squirm or murmur even the weakest of protests, Torninger clamped both hands around her head and with a vicious yank plastered her face to his lower belly.
"How's it look to you, baby?" You think you're going to like sucking my prick?"
"Please, I'm begging you," Debra whined, the right side of her face now flush against Torninger's abdomen, his still limp member a fleshy pistel swaying slightyly under her chin. "Don't do this horrible thing to me. Please, let me go."
"I've never fucked a pregnant women," Torninger stated, ignoring Debra's pathetic protests. "It's going to be fun feeling that big belly of yours shake as I ream out your filthy fanny."
"Have you no mercy? Don't you care about the baby? Please ... I don't want to lose-"
"You won't lose anything, baby," Torninger growled. "Except maybe the virginity of your beautiful bottom. Then again, you probably let Acker fuck your ass dozens of times. Is that right, sweetheart? Did you let that overgrown beachboy bang your tempting tail? Did you?"
"You're insane," Debra moaned piteously. "You're completely out of your mind."
"Yeah, I'm sure Acker stuffed his meat up your stinking seat many times. Hell, you were always swinging your fanny around the set. You were asking for it all the time, baby."
Another sudden surge of stomach-turning panic triggered the moan that now spilled up from Debra's throat. Her desperation knew no bounds and mind-shattering fear strode menacingly through her quivering body like some avenging monster. She was alone, horribly alone with a crazy man, and there seemed no way in the world to avoid the disgusting abuse he intended to inflict upon her.
For the briefest of moments Debra considered the possibility of yelling for help, of screaming her head off until ssomebody, perhaps Louise Baxter, came to her aid. But the thought, a fleeting one, was driven from her mind by the realization that a cry for help would serve only to further anger her captor. And that was a risk she most certainly could not afford to take.
There was only one alternative, Debra decided at last. She would have to humor Torninger and pretend pleasure, make him think that she was the type of female who enjoyed succumbing to a, violent man, that she secretly craved domination. And she would hope, no, pray, that his insanity would blind him to the truth and that his diseased mind would, somehow, be able to accept her sudden transformation from unwilling captive to happy, eager slut without question.
"There, isn't that nice, Cynthia?" Torninger crooned, as he began rolling Debra's face into his foul-smelling loins, his spidery fingers pressed hotly against the back of her head.
"Ughmmm ... yes ... ummm...." Debra answered softly, unable to utter more than one syllable words and moan weakly now that her beautiful face was being rubbed against her tormentor's cock and hairy scrotal sac. She loathed having to pretend a response and was tempted, in a second of intense hatred, to sink her teeth into Torninger's flaccid organ. But this, she knew full well, would without doubt trigger a severe and possibly fatal beating.
"What was that, beautiful?" Torninger asked. "I hope I heard you correctly."
"It's ... good ... uhhh ... good," Debra whimpered, her words partially smothered by her captor's warm flesh.
Torninger grinned wickedly. "Yes, I knew you'd come around. You women are all the same-sluts at heart. This is where you belong, beautiful bitch-sitting naked on a bed and whimpering happily as I use your face like a washrag to clean my genitals. Come now, stick out your pretty little tongue and let me feel it glide over my cock and balls."
You rotten, no good son-of-a-bitch, Debra thought, silently cursing the repulsive man humiliating her as she moved to comply with his obscene command, her tongue snaking out from between her lively hips to commence trailing up and down and all around warm, hairy flesh.
A pleased Arnold Torninger spent the next several minutes continuing to defile the female who bore a strong resemblance to the one who had caused him such mental anguish years ago. Calling her by turn "Debra" and "Cynthia, he reviled her for past peccadillos he imagined she had committed and mocked her spirited at tempts to lick clean his genitals.
Unable to distinguish between right and wrong, truth and fiction, his diseased mind in trembling turmoil, Torninger savored what he considered his moment of revenge. The spine-cracking frustration of repeated failures with women suddenly seemed to be of little importance. What mattered was that he was getting his revenge, achieving that which had been denied him with such spirit-crushing regularity down through the years.
He was getting even making amends. But he realized that he still had a way to go before the score was evened. Annette Logan. Priscilla Davies, Joan Franks, June Tracy-they had all helped to assuage his bitter frustration. And now it was Debra Warren's turn. She would bring to five the number of women whose humiliation and death helped right a serious wrong.
As Debra swallowed her pride and allowed her face to be rubbed sensuously into Torninger's loins, her cunning tormentor rocked on the balls of his feet and looked around the bedroom. Another evil smile creased his face as he focused on the blue and white striped maternity dress, the one he had ripped from Debra's trembling form not so very long ago.
Next to the dress were her bra and panties and stockings. These, also, had been unceremoniously removed while she stood in shivering fright before him and pleaded for mercy. Close by were his own garments; shoes and socks, a light jacket, brown shirt and slacks, his greying underwear.
And resting atop the dresser were his glasses, two extra lengths of cord, the eight inch carving knife and the pearl-handled whip with the ten inch straps.
Yes, revenge was indeed the sweetest of pleasures, Torninger thought, continuing to grind Debra's head up into his crotch and mashing her beautiful face against his foul-smelling genitals. And soon his delight would be even greater. Following the fucking of Cynthia's ass would be the whipping of same, the delicious sound of her shrieks as he slashed her behind to pieces.
And then, of course, the coup de grace-the plunging of the knife into her big belly. What utter ecstasy!
Torninger turned his gaze from the dresser down to Debra's head. He asked her once again if she enjoyed laving his sex organs, if she was sorry now that she had spurned him so often in the past. And Debra, having resolved to follow through with the hideous charade, fought back waves of nausea and breathlessly answered that she did indeed find his cock to her liking.
"Then perhaps it's time we shoved it in your pretty ass. Or would you rather suck it for a while?"
Torninger loosened his grip on Debra's head, allowing her, as it were, to come up for air. Through eyes wet with tears she saw her captor's slimy cock, almost totally tumescent now as a result of having been obscenely massaged by her chin and cheeks and lips and nose. Choking back a scream of outrage, she opened her mouth wide and plunged it over the bulbous head of the pulsing organ.
"Well," Torninger grinned, "now that's what I would call a very explicit answer. "Suck it nice, Cynthia. Do me like you did all those others."
Trying to make her mind a blank, closing her ears to Torninger's wicked taunts, Debra commenced a spirited sucking of his disgusting dick. Again she felt his hard hands embrace her head. He was holding her loosely, almost gingerly, gently guiding her as she orally massaged his manhood.
Knowing that what slim chance she had of surviving this humiliating ordeal depended entirely on her ability to convince Torninger of her suddenly awakened passions, Debra labored licentiously and with conviction on his now fully erect cock. She drew on it passionately, with determination, her tightly pursed lips sliding wetly up and down its rigid length.
It was a role she was loath to act out-that of a two bit tramp slobbering over a man's meat. Yet the situation required that she play the role of turned-on trollop crazy for cock. To do otherwise, to meekly submit to his ugly, perverse demands or scream for help, would most assuredly spell her death.
She must, Debra thought, convince Torninger that she was this mysterious "Cynthia" he spoke of. Maybe then, once his perverted lusts had been satisfied, he would remove the cords from around her wrists and ankles and she could dash out of the apartment before he could react.
"You suck cock like a professional, Debra," Torninger said, his warped mind once again traversing the trail separating illusion from reality, the unreal from the real. Now, for the moment, the female avidly vacuuming his hard cock into her mouth was Debra Warren and not Cynthia Albert, the actress who time and again had snubbed his amorous overtures.
"No, it's me-Cynthia!" Debra said, after pulling her head back and allowing the fat, pear-shaped crown of Torninger's tool to plop from between her ovaled lips. "I'm Cynthia, remember? I'm the girl you've been wanting to ... to fuck."
Torninger grinned lewdly. "Well then, suck me, Cynthia. Let's feel those luscious lips of yours wrapped around my meat." He took hold of his saliva-laden cock and without ceremony jammed it back inside Debra's mouth. Then he thrust his hips forward and sent the fleshy stalk streaking to the back of her throat.
Debra gagged but recovered quickly. She resumed her salacious sucking immediately, bobbing her head rapidly up and down and trying to convey, with lewd, slurping sounds, the magnitude of her need for thick, juicy prick.
It was unbelievable, she thought. Horribly unbelievable. Never, not in a hundred years, would she have thought that a person could be so mentally unbalanced. She was at the mercy of a complete madman, a psychotic whose totally irrational behavior defied description.
"All right," Torninger said loudly, after enjoying for two minutes more the wanton washing of his blood-hardened pecker, "that's enough of that. Now that you've greased my prick for me, I can ram it up your shitty behind."
Debra sat almost motionless on the bed, her head bowed as she breathed in some needed oxygen.
"You want me to do that, Cynthia?" Torninger asked angrily, his right hand darting to Debra's golden tresses. He yanked down hard, snapping her head up and back and wringing a cry of pain from her throat. "I said do you want-"
"Yes-yes, I want that," Debra blurted out. "Please ... do it to me in my ass. I like that ... I want it there."
Torninger chortled. "So many years I've waited to fuck your arrogant ass ... and now...."
Leaving the thought unfinished, the little man with the big problem quickly dropped to his knees and without delay untied his victim's feet. Then, straightening up, he removed the cord wrapped tightly around her wrists and threw it aside. He jumped to his feet and placed his bony hands on his hips, a lewd, mocking grin plastered on his pale face.
"Now get up and kneel on the bed, Miss Big Belly," he ordered. "And make it snappy, you hear?"
Debra sniffed back a few tears and then pushed herself off the bed. Once on her feet, she turned around and proceeded to assume the posture demanded by Torninger, succeeding, after some awkward maneuvering, in arranging herself on hands and knees with her provocative posterior on a line with the edge of the bed.
Torninger took two steps forward and placed his hands on Debra's shapely hips, then began a lazy, sensual exploration of her creamy thighs, lower back, smooth and firm fanny. His spidery fingers dug into the resilient flesh as they probed and pinched, pressed without finesse.
"Go ahead ... do it to me," Debra begged timorously, her golden tresses hanging straight down and shielding her tear-marked face from view.
"You want it that bad, do you?"
"Yes ... please," Debra lied, already thinking ahead to the moment when, after Torninger finished the fiendish fucking of her behind and stumbled back spent and huffing, she would make the run for her life.
"This bottom of yours was made for screwing, sweetheart. It's so round, so firm, and soon it'll be so fully packed."
"Please ... I'm getting tired in this-"
"Tired? Already." Torninger chuckled derisively. "I always thought that you were strong as well as beautiful. I remember that difficult scene I asked you to rehearse-"
"Just get on with it," Debra pleaded, softly but passionately.
Torninger leaned forward over Debra's smooth back, his bony fingers trailing over the creamy flesh of her bottom, skipping around her hips and slipping sensuously under her big belly. He squeezed, rather carefully at first, and then with greater force.
"Oww ... don't do that," Debra moaned.
"And don't you start getting uppity with me, Cynthia," Torninger snarled, his foul breath brushing her left ear. "I'm in charge here, completely in charge. The tide has at last turned and now I'm in a position to give the orders. Don't you forget that, beautiful."
"Just don't-arghh ... please!"
Torninger snorted. "All right, I won't disturb your precious baby. At least not right now."
Not now, but later, he thought gleefully, as in his diseased mind he pictured the blood spurting from the dying woman's belly, the razor-sharp, eight inch carving knife having punctured the rounded flesh and speared the fetus-mother and child disemboweled-how delightfully different an end.
Torninger straightened up, the totally wicked, degenerate smile lingering on his face as he now spit into his right hand, commenced a brisk preparation of Debra's derriere for the penetration of his blood-thickened, saliva-coated cock. Working quickly, he rubbed globs of spittle in and around the woman's anus and probed that small rear portal with a long, bony finger.
Had it not been for the fact that she had her very life to worry about, Debra would have been appalled by the soon-to-commence atrocious violation of her most private aperture. But at the moment, when sudden and violent death loomed on the horizon, she considered the upcoming cornholing a small, albeit horribly humiliating, price to pay for the chance, however slim, to escape the slimy clutches of her insane captor.
Nevertheless, Debra realized that the reaming of her thrice-tapped tail would involve considerable pain. Only three times in thirty years had she been dicked in the derriere, and after each occasion she silently vowed it would be the last. David, who was responsible for all three fanny fucks, was inclined to pooh-pooh the pain she experienced. This didn't sit too well with Debra, who loved her husband dearly but wished he would keep his cock from her tender asshole.
Now again her bottom would be defiled, her aching rectum painfully stretched to accommodate the unnatural invasion of a male's blood-gorged pecker, and this time she would be denied the somewhat consoling thought that her sacrifice was appreciated, that she was suffering in order to please her husband, the praiseworthy father of her children.
"Just a little bit more, Cynthia," Torninger cackled. "After all, I wouldn't want to hurt you too much."
"Y-You won't hurt me ... Arnie," Debra. stammered, the lie leaving lips upon which lingered the taste of Torninger's smelly tool. "I told you I want it. I want my ass ... fucked."
"And that, my big-bellied bitch, is exactly what you're going to get. I promise you that you'll be sitting on hot coals for a week." Torninger chuckled, suddenly remembering that after fucking the beautiful female's skillfully-molded fanny he was going to slay her with his knife. "Well, maybe not quite that long," he said, a sadistic smile on his face as he amended his promise.
Not many seconds later, all was ready. Debra, still positioned on hands and knees on the bed, her bloated belly almost touching the bedcovers, quivered in fearful anticipation of Torninger's first torturous thrust, the one that would signal the beginning of a brutal sodomizing.
She could feel him now, his hard hands clutching her hips and the pear-shaped head of his turgid cock probing the small, resisting nether hole. He was pressing against her, leaning up and exerting force, obviously determined to drive his thickened dick to the very depths of her derriere.
"Help me, you beautiful bitch," Torninger growled, hardly able to contain himself now that he was on the verge of vigorously violating the plush posterior he had admired from afar. "Open up that ass and let me in. Relax, you cunt."
"I'm trying," Debra whined. "I'm trying."
"Try to fart. That will help."
Debra moaned, shamed by her tormentor's ob scene command. Yet she attempted to obey, knowing that unless she co-operated and tried to expand her sphincters her pain would be almost unbearable.
His hands clamped firmly around her large hips, fingers digging roughly into the resilient flesh, Torninger continued pressing against Debra's derriere. The bulbous head of his blood-stiffened prick strained against the wrinkled ring of pinkish-brown flesh that was her asshole.
And then ... success.
A sudden shriek of mind-bending pain flew up from Debra's throat when the fat head of Torninger's hard tool popped inside her shit chute. Again tears welled in her eyes and began slipping down her cheeks. She shivered in shame and pain, thoughts of escape now cringing in her mind as she realized the seeming hopelessness of the situation, her frightful helplessness in the face of this humiliating, heinous humping of her backside.
"Now," Torninger huffed, "now we start the ball rolling. You still want your sweet ass fucked, beautiful?"
"Y-Yes," Debra lied, choking back the vile epithets she wanted to hurl at the perverted madman responsible for her agony. "Get it all in me. I want ... I want a good hard screwing."
"Pig-that's what you are, Cynthia. Just like all the rest of your sex. An elegant, well-groomed mare on the outside, but a filthy pig on the inside. Well I'll show you a thing or two."
With that, Torninger began pushing his prick up into Debra's aching shit chute, ignoring her whimpers and tremulous moans as he filled her expanding rectum with his pulsing prick.
Slowly but surely he packed her posterior, his rock-hard organ inching ahead relentlessly, inexorably, sinking ever deeper into the dank, constricting confines of her dark after-passage.
Debra's curling fingers dug into the bedcovers as she bit down on her lower lip. She fought back the terrific urge to emit a scream of outrage and instead continued feigning a painful pleasure. She felt the fleshy invader in her bottom, wending its way to the furthermost reaches of her warm rectum like some just-awakened, excited serpent.
And then, with a buttock-flattening lunge, Torninger buried the last inch or so of his cock in Debra's aching ass. He rested briefly, pausing only to gloat in triumph and savor the sight of his tumescent tool buried to the balls in the woman's beautiful behind. Then, without a word, he commenced the obscene fuck.
"How's it feel, Cynthia?" he asked throatily. "Good, huh?"
"Y-Yes ... good," Debra lied. "Do it ... harder."
Eager to truly defile the woman who had so often rejected his expressions of love, Torninger wasted no time in complying with her wicked wish. His wiry body tingled with excitement as he withdrew his turgid shit streaked tool until only the pear-shaped head was tightly sheathed in her clasping anus and then, with a satanic thrust, plunged the fleshy cudgel back inside the heavenly heat of her gripping rectum.
"Owww ... arhhh...." Debra groaned, silently praying for a quick end to this bestial banging of her behind.
"Talk to me, you beautiful whore," Torninger demanded.
"Wha-What should I say."
"Talk dirty-real dirty. Tell me what I'm doin' to you."
"You're ... you're screwing me," Debra groaned, thinking that if she had a gun she could quite easily, without hesitation or remorse, blow her captor's brain out.
"Where am I screwin' you, baby?" Torninger snarled.
Debra swallowed hard. "In ... in my bottom. You're screwing my bottom."
"My cock's in your ass-your filthy ass?"
"Yes. It's in my ass-my filthy ass."
"And you love my cock, don't you, whore? You love when a hard prick is shoved up your behind."
"Yes, I love it," Debra lied again, tears of frustration and humiliation sliding down her face and then dripping from her chin to the bedcovers below.
"Say 'fuck my fanny,' you perverse bitch. Say it!"
Once again swallowing her pride, loathing the demented beast subjecting her to such awful torment, Debra spoke the lewd words demanded of her. To her utter dismay, she quickly discovered that it wasn't enough, that Torninger intended to wallow in the horribly demeaning, loathsome litany.
"Say 'shit,' my pretty, pregnant one. Say it loud and clear."
"Shit!" Debra barked.
"Cunt and twat and asshole."
"Cunt and twat and asshole."
It went on and on, Torninger reveling in his moment of total supremacy, in the fact that he was extracting from his victim the most obnoxious, most degrading admissions of surrender. And all the while, as the obscene phrases spilled from Debra's lovely lips, he was sawing his thickened tool in and out of her aching rectum.
Again and again he drove his rock-hard prick deep inside the whimpering woman's sore rectum, ravishing it royally while he rejoiced in her harsh grunts and tremulous groans, mistaking these for salacious signs of a complete and willing submission to this bestial coupling.
And Debra, wanting nothing so much as a speedy end to her awful torment, an immediate cessation of the agony wracking her trembling body, continued to play her role of happy harlot much in favor of a sound, bone-jarring fanny fuck.
Where would it end, she wondered miserably, as once again-it seemed like the hundredth time-Torninger's wicked weapon soared up into her flaming rectum, scouring tender tissue as it burst into her bottom with maniacal force.
CHAPTER FOUR
A soft, sympathetic smile slid lazily over Laura Gallagher's face as her eyes followed her husband's return to the large double bed they shared. She watched him drop heavily onto the bed and then emit a noisy yawn that, under other circumstances, would have sparked a chuckle or two.
Poor guy, he's really beat, she thought. His investigation of the sadistic, sex-drenched slayings that had occurred during the past several weeks was beginning to wear him down. He and Charlie were getting absolutely nowhere and it seemed that everybody, from the Mayor on down, kept reminding them of that sad fact.
And the pressure continued to build as day followed day and no clue, not one piece of substantive evidence, was unearthed. Adam was a jumble of nerves and went to work with his stomach in knots and a frown etched on his handsome face. His return home, some twelve or fourteen hours later, would find him in much the same mood as when he had driven off to the station house-disgruntled and dissatisfied with his performance to date.
"Tired, honey? Or is this what they call a moment of quiet contemplation?" Laura placed her left hand on her husband's back and patted him lovingly.
"Yeah, I'm really knocked out tonight, baby," Adam answered, sighing heavily. He was sitting on the side of the bed, slumped forward, his arms resting on his knees as he stared down between his legs at the bedroom floor.
"Well it's no wonder, darling. Not only are you faced with a seemingly unsolvable case but you've also got to contend with a slew of amateur sleuths. Everybody and his brother-in-law has suddenly become an expert in criminology."
"And isn't that the truth, though? Today, after work, Charlie and I dropped into a bar for a few beers. You know, just to try to unwind a little and get our minds off the case. No sooner had we been served than Mike, he's the bartender at this joint, starts giving us his theory on the slayings. Would you believe it?"
"I believe it, honey. People read the newspaper accounts of the murders and right away they start playing detective. I guess it's just human nature."
Adam shrugged. "Yeah, I guess you're right, baby. It wouldn't bother me so much if I had something really solid to go on. I'd settle for anything-one lousy fingerprint, a lock of hair, a mentally retarded witness to one of the killings. Anything."
Laura smiled softly. "And no doubt our favorite precinct captain has been offering his famous brand of constructive criticism."
"Damn right he has. Today he even implied that unless Charlie and I come up with something soon he'll put another pair of detectives on the case. How do you like those apples? I haven't been pulled off a case since I made Lieutenant."
"Well, I suppose he's feeling the pressure, too."
"Sure he is. But that doesn't make matters any easier for me and the other guys working the case."
"Hey, how 'bout a backrub?" Laura said, hoping to get her worried husband's mind off his problems for a while. "That should relax you and help you sleep, honey."
Adam turned on the bed and smiled at his wife. "One of your famous, sexy backrubs?"
Laura winked. "Yep, that's what I had in mind."
"Well, why not. Maybe you can knead into my weary muscles some of the enthusiasm for my job the Captain says I've lost."
"Did he really say that? It's completely unfair."
Adam shrugged. "He's upset, baby-very upset. So he simply takes it out on those he assigned to the case. He doesn't mean everything he says, of course, but the longer it takes to solve these murders, the more flak he gets from the Commissioner. He doesn't like criticism any more than the next guy."
"Well that may be, darling. But you're the best squad commander he has, and I might just have to skip down to the station and remind him of that little fact. Stay here, I'll be back in a jiff."
Adam grinned as he watched his beautiful brunette wife swivel around on the bed and get to her feet. Then, as he stretched out on his back on the bed, his lean, hard body clad in only white jockey briefs, he watched the delicious wiggle of her pretty, pantied-posterior as she skipped out of their bedroom.
He was indeed one helluva lucky guy, he thought. Laura was one girl in a million, the only person capable of helping him forget, at least for a little while, the sometimes unbelievably frustrating aspects of his job.
At twenty-eight, she was every bit as desirable as when they married seven years ago. Laura was the type of female who starred in the fantasies of most males-a girl as intelligent and understanding as she was beautiful and sexy, one who was a lady in the living room, all charm and decorum, and a most provocative whore in the bedroom.
She was a perfect thirty-six, twenty-four, thirty-six, with firm, well-molded breasts, a smooth, flat tummy, sensuously curved hips, strong, sleek thighs that tapered to well-formed calves and nicely-turned ankles. Laura's figure, alluring to all but the blind, the senile and the impotent, drew whistles of admiration from passing males and stares of envy from less fortunate females.
"Back the same day, darling." A fetching smile lingered on his wife's light-complexioned, un-lined face as she glided into the bed room and toward the bed, bottle of rubbing alcohol in hand. Her large brown eyes sparkled mischieveously.
"What took you so long?" Adam grinned.
"What took-oh, you, roll over onto your belly."
Adam did as requested, flipping quickly over onto his front and hugging the pillow with his strong, hairy arms. Laura dropped down onto the bed and unscrewed the bottle cap, then, after putting the cap on the night stand next to the bed, poured a little of the alcohol into her left hand.
"Oww-that's cold," Adam complained, shivering.
Laura laughed. "Of course it is, silly. Now just relax and let mama soothe those tired muscles."
"I have one muscle that isn't too tired, baby."
"Really?"
"Yes, really. So maybe you'd enjoy getting rubbed up after you finish rubbing me down. How's a screwing from supercop sound to you, beautiful?"
"All of a sudden my favorite hero's confidence has been restored," Laura grinned, continuing to rub the alcohol into her husband's well-muscled back. "You certainly do bounce back quickly."
"Just wait until I start bouncing on your five feet six inches."
"Is that a promise, darling?"
"You bet it is, sweetheart," Adam answered, the right side of his face pressed warmly into the pillow. "No man alive could resist the sight of you clad in only bra and panties. You could harden the prick of a dying man."
"I thank you, kind sir. But how about when I'm fully dressed? Aren't I just as provocative when I'm wearing, say, a blouse and formfitting skirt?"
Adam didn't answer.
"Well say something, supercop," Laura grinned.
"It's like this, hon. When a woman is fully clothed it just isn't the same as when she's bare-assed naked. You see, a man can never be sure that the woman in question isn't ... well, padded."
"Padded! Why you palooka. There isn't one part of my anatomy that would benefit from padding and you know it." Laura took a palmful of alcohol and slapped it onto her husband's hard back. Some of the cool liquid splashed up against his face and he jerked his head away.
"Hey, the lady has a temper, doesn't she?"
"You're darn tootin' she does, lover," Laura said, stifling a chuckle. She brought her hand from Adam's back to his taut bottom and quickly traced the indention of his buttocks through the terial of his jockey briefs. Seconds later she was pushing her middle finger into his anus, trying, or so it seemed, to imbed the entire digit in that niggardly portal.
"Hey, that hurts!" Adam cried out, exaggerating the degree of his discomfort. "Just what do you think-"
"Now you know how I feel when you stick that big banana of yours into my behind. Hurts a little, right?"
"Cut it out, honey, will you?" Adam chuckled, squirming his behind as his wife continued wedging her long finger into his small nether hole. "My anus doesn't need a massage, you know."
"Promise to behave, supercop?"
"Yes ... I promise. Now I'll give you just three seconds to ... all right, that's better."
Smiling, Laura resumed the alcohol rub, splashing some of the liquid into her palm and then transferring it to her husband's back, her soft, slender hand moving in sensuous circles as she kneaded and pulled tired muscles. She glanced down at his bottom and saw that a tiny bit of the briefs was wedged in his anus-the result of her having diddled the dark hole through the material.
It was an arresting sight, she thought. Mysteriously provocative and curiously cunt warming, erotic and exciting. And although she was always ready to be reamed by her hubby, either fore or aft, the idea of intimacy, of a good, hard fuck, suddenly seemed especially appealing.
Laura began massaging Adam's back with more enthusiasm, visions of his prick, rock-hard and throbbing impatiently, beginning to dance in her beautiful head. She squirmed her plush, pantied-posterior on the bed and felt the lubricating juices trickling from her warming, ready vagina to dampen the snug crotch of her white undies.
Adam turned quiet and closed his eyes, his thoughts once again drifting toward the series of savage slayings he was investigating with considerable intensity but no success. In his mind he saw again the woman brought in yesterdayor rather what was left of her. An involuntary, visible shudder passed through him.
"Honey, are you all right?" Laura asked.
"Yeah, sure."
Laura nodded knowingly. "Thinking about the case again, huh?"
"Can't help it, baby. If you could have seen what that female looked like ... brother, it was awful. Just awful."
"I can imagaine. When you find whoever is responsible for these bloodbaths I hope the jury recommends the gas chamber. Although even that is too good for the likes of such a beast. He should be strung up on the nearest tree and whipped until he's nothing but a bloody pulp."
"He?" Adam grunted. "We're not even certain that it's a male we want. That's how close we are to solving this damn thing."
"But it has to be a man, doesn't it, darling?" Laura asked, continuing to massage her husband's back. "I mean the victims were all female and ... well, it just seems logical to assume that...."
"Yeah, I know what you mean, baby," Adam broke in. "And we're working on that assumption. But who the hell knows? As of right now I have nothing to disprove the theory that a female might have comitted the crimes. We're assuming it's a man we're after because it's difficult to imagine a woman committing such beastly murders."
"But wasn't sperm found in the bodies of all the girls?"
"True. And that's another reason we're assuming a male is responsible. On the other hand, I can't yet discount the possibility that each murdered girl engaged in intercourse just prior to her death."
"You mean with someone other than the killer."
"Yeah. That would explain the traces of sperm we've found."
"I don't think that's likely, hon. It would certainly be a coincidence if each female-"
"I know, I know," Adam broke in again. "The possibility is a remote one. Then again, everything in this case makes little sense. Except the horribly butchered bodies of the victims."
Laura nodded. "Well, I guess psychopathic killers come in both sexes, male and female. I just hope this maniac is corralled before he, or she, can find another poor girl to brutalize. Boy, just the thought of a creep like that running around loose is enough to send shivers up my spine."
"Which reminds me, honey. I think it would be a damn good idea if I had somebody tail you for a while-until this thing is resolved. I could ask one of the-"
"You must be kidding?"
"Not at all. There's a lunatic running around this-mmmmm, that's good, baby ... a little lower now ... yes, that's it. As I was saying, there's a psychopathic murderer on the loose and-"
"Adam, you can't take a man off his beat and have him follow me around all day."
"And why can't I?"
"Because you just can't, that's why. You can't single me out for special protection just because I happen to be your wife. I mean, what would the other detectives say?"
"What do I care what they say? All that matters is that you're protected from this maniac. Who knows where he'll strike next? And when I leave here in the morning, I want to know that no harm will come to you."
Laura smiled warmly. "That's sweet, darling. Really it is. But first off I won't allow anyone, not even a policeman, to watch my every move during the day. And furthermore I'm a big girl now, remember? I can take care of myself."
Adam grunted. "Yep, that's what the five murdered women probably thought."
"Well be that as it may, I won't let you put somebody on my tail." Laura chuckled. "The only one I'll allow on my tail is you. And then only when you're horny."
"Funny, very funny."
"Oh, darling, I appreciate your concern and-"
"Had you seen the grisly mess that was carried into the morgue yesterday, you'd be pleading for protection."
Laura sighed, realizing the mood of the moment was turning somber. She had hoped to break up her husband's despair with the suggestion that he fuck her, but it was obvious that, while he would eventually oblige, he had the desire to talk more about Debra Warren, the pregnant mother of twins whose nude, badly mutilated body had been discovered yesterday afternoon. This being the case, she decided to take the cue and ask a few questions.
"Was it really as bad as the newspapers made it seem, darling?"
"You're referring to Granger's piece in the Herald-Times, aren't you?"
"That's the one."
"It was that bad, all right. Robert Granger is one of the best and hardest-working crime reporters in this town who, at times, for the sake of blood-thirsty readers, likes to color his stories with all the gory details he can dig up. This time, however, he didn't have to exaggerate one tiny bit. Mrs. Warren looked like she had battled a shark."
Laura shook her head slowly side to side. She screwed the cap back on the bottle of rubbing alcohol and then placed the bottle on the night stand. Adam turned over onto his back and entwined his fingers behind his head.
"Did Granger have all the facts down correctly, hon?"
"That he did. Granger might be a reporter who never shies away from a sensational story, but I've never read a piece of his that wasn't accurate right down to the last dirty detail. We gave him what we knew and he printed it-simple as that."
Laura nodded. "He painted a verbal picture of a really horrible murder. I got goose pimples just reading about it."
Adam chuckled nervously. "That's Bob for you. He has a flair for that sort of thing. As a matter-of-fact, this case has fired his imagination to such an extent that he's going out on his own for information."
"Well that's all right, isn't it? I mean it can't hurt to have him snooping around."
"No, it's perfectly fine by me. Hell, I'll take all the help I can get at the moment. I just hope that if he finds our boy he doesn't make any kind of grandstand play."
"You mean try to capture the killer by himself?"
Adam nodded.
"He wouldn't do a thing like that, would he? I mean no one is about to hire a dead reporter-even if he died heroically."
Adam grinned wryly. "No, I'm sure he wouldn't be foolish enough to pull such a stunt. Hell, that's the last thing I need. After I'd read his obituary I would be checking the help-wanted ads."
Laura smiled. "Granger made mention of a Ben Walters in his story. He's the one who found Mrs. Warren's body, right?"
"Yeah. Seems he came around to repair a leaky faucet in Mrs. Warren's kitchen. He told us he rang the doorbell a few times and when there was no answer he tried the door. He found it open so he entered the apartment while calling her name. According to him, he wound up in the dead woman's bedroom and-,'
"Bingo."
"Yep. Walters said he must have stood frozen in shock for a full minute, unable to believe what he was seeing. Then he bolted from Mrs. Warren's apartment and ran to the apartment next door."
"Where Louise Baxter lives."
"Right. She apparently was a close friend of Mrs. Warren. Anyway, Ben takes Mrs. Baxter for a look at the bloody corpse, Mrs. Baxter emits a spine-chilling scream and then starts sobbing uncontrollably, then Ben finally stumbles to a phone and calls the police."
"Enter Lieutenant Gallagher and Sergeant Raster."
"That's about it, baby. We spent a few hours questioning Mrs. Baxter and Walters in the hope we might find something in the dead woman's past that could provide us with a lead. And we also asked some of the tenants if they had noticed anybody suspicious hanging around the building."
"With the result that you know no more about the killer than you did before Mrs. Warren was brutally killed."
"Baby, you're beginning to sound like the Commissioner."
Laura smiled wanly. "Who notified Mr. Warren, hon?"
"Charlie .. it was his turn."
"The poor man ... he must be heartbroken."
"That's putting it mildly. Warren broke down and cried like a baby for over an hour. He just ... just fell apart before our eyes."
"Oh, it's awful, just awful," Laura said, pushing herself up off the bed."
"Damn right it is, honey. And that's why I'm going to insist that you let me put a-"
"Now don't start up again, Adam," Laura interrupted, a faint suggestion of annoyance in her voice. She picked up the bottle of rubbing alcohol and then started out of the bedroom.
"Coming back, beautiful?" Adam asked, a smile blossoming on his handsome face. He brought his right hand down between his legs and clamped it over his crotch.
Laura turned at the door. "I'll think about it, fella. Who knows, I might get a better offer."
"In the bathroom?"
Laura winked and then left the bedroom. In less than a minute she was back, standing with her hands on her heavenly hips and looking down at her husband's prone form. She had removed her brassiere in the bathroom and was attired now in only her sexy, almst transparent panties.
"Come here, you," Adam grinned.
"And if I don't?"
"I'll place you under arrest."
Laura smiled. "On what charge."
"For refusing to behave in a manner befitting a proper, loving wife. That happens to be a felony, sweetheart."
"Put a law like that on the books and half the women in the country would leave their mates."
Adam grinned. "Are you coming to bed or not?"
"Are you forgetting that I'm into Women's Lib? I refuse to be treated as simply a twat."
"Well I want to get into you, beautiful. And it's your pretty little twat that I want to treat to a nice fat cock. Now be a good wife and climb into bed. Supercop is going to screw you silly."
"Promise that you'll forget about having somebody tail me all day. I don't want to hear another-"
"Oh, all right," Adam groaned. "I'll never mention the subject again if you promise to be on your guard. Now I want your word that you'll stay alert and keep a wary eye out for our psychopath."
"You have my word, darling-my solemn word."
"All right, then. Now bend over. Turn around and bend over."
"What?"
"But I don't see the-"
"Haven't you heard of husbands hiding their wive's gifts under the bed?"
Laura beamed. "A gift? You bought me a surprise gift?"
"A surprise, baby. Now go ahead and fetch it."
Laura quickly turned around and bent over. Before she could drop to her knees and look under the bed, her grinning husband bolted to a sitting position and rammed the middle finger of his left hand up into her delightfully rounded derriere.
"Owww!" Laura cried out, stumbling forward.
"I owed you that one, beautiful," Adam stated, a broad smile on his face as he fell back on the bed. "Turnabout is fair play, you know."
Laura turned around and again placed her hands on her hips. Trying hard to keep a straight face, she said, "You think you're pretty darn smart, don't you, lover? Well you just watch me wipe that silly grin off your puss."
"Wipe away, my beautiful broad," Adam said, extending his arms in invitation.
Inserting her thumbs in the elasticized waistband of her white briefs, the lovely Laura quickly peeled the flimsy garment around and off her shapely hips. She pushed the panties down her thighs to her knees, then, lifting one sleek leg at a time, she worked the garment around and off her feet.
Nude now, her exquisitely proportioned body bared in all it's stunning beauty, her pussy twitching and wetting, she tossed aside her undies and clambered up onto the bed. She squirmed sensuously on her husband's hard body, positioning herself so that she was lying on top of him with her succulent, mouth-watering breasts mashed against his strong, hairy chest.
"I'm better than a blanket, aren't I?" she asked, a warm, sexy smile bathing her fair, un-lined face as she looked down into her husband's ruggedly-attractive one.
Adam grinned. "A blanket doesn't have such delicious curves, baby. And neither is it as warm as your wonderful body." Encircling his wife's smooth back with his arms, he commenced a tender stroking of her creamy flesh.
Laura purred her approval and lowered her head, her soft, supple lips locking lovingly with her husband's thicker, harder ones. Her shoulder-length tresses created a silky, slippery veil, behind which lips met in warm willing embrace, tongues entwined in lazy simulation of the sex act to follow.
Her desire to be dicked increasing with each passing second, Laura began pushing her hips into Adam's hard middle as she continued exploring his mouth with her talented tongue. With a slow, sensuous rotating motion she ground her pelvis into her husband's sheathed loins and felt the growing bulge of his arousal through the material of his jockey shorts.
He was getting hard, she thought happily. His beautiful cock was struggling to thicken and lengthen in the hot prison of his constricting briefs. It felt so good-that moving mound of hardening flesh pushing up into her leaking, twitching twat. And now Adam was moving his hips, lifting her own in the course of a salacious series of lazy swivels and slow circular spins.
"Ohh, baby, I'm getting hot," Laura purred, her voice thickened be the delicious desire inhabiting her rapidly warming body.
"Let me get my shorts off, baby," Adam husked.
"In a minute, darling ... in a minute."
Laura again lowered her head and this time began nibbling like a hungry mouse on her handsome husband's lips. Then, only seconds later, she was laving his face, her teasing tongue like a slippery snake as it slid salaciously over his chin, his rough, faintly stub bled cheeks, his eyes, his nose, his slightly furrowed brow. She dipped her fingers into his curly, coal-black hair and, as she was orally massaging his right earlobe, breathed the words "fuck" and "pussy" and "prick" with considerable relish.
Adam's hands wandered down his wife's back to clamp hotly over the succulent half-moons of her beautiful buttocks. He began kneading those twin delights, savoring their smooth texture and firm sponginess as he pulled and pressed and prodded. His eager fingers slipped into the dark cleft of Laura's taut bottom as he pried the cheeks apart.
"Now, darling," Laura breathed hotly, lifting her head. "Do it to me now. I want to get laid so badly."
"Roll over, baby. I'm beginning to hurt."
Laura slipped off her husband's hard body and twisted around onto her back. She spread her sleek legs and brought her hands to her now steaming snatch. A tremulous man of lust sprung from her lips as she began massaging her leaking love hole, one finger zipping up to stroke a blood-filled clitoris.
Wasting not a second, Adam lifted his hips and pushed down his white jockey briefs. After working the garment down his legs, around and off his feet, he tossed it onto the floor and quickly scrambled into position between his wife's legs. Finally freed from the stifling confines of the briefs, his prick, now totally tumescent and throbbing defiantly, protruded proudly from a warm nest of black, crinkly pubic hairs.
"Please, darling," Laura groaned. "Do me now. Get that beautiful bone into my aching cunt."
Adam smiled down at his lust-soaked wife, savoring the sight of her squirming in heat and the expression of sheer need etched on her passion-twisted face. It was difficult, he thought, to decide which Laura he loved the most; the completely entracing, self-assured, stylishly-attired Laura he took to parties, or the Laura now writhing on the bed, her shivering, naked body wantonly welcoming the vigorous onslaught of his blood-stiffened cock.
"Honey, what are you waiting for? I'm dying for your prick ... your beautiful, fat juicy prick."
"Hang tight, beautiful," Adam husked. "A fat juicy prick is on the way."
"I want it, baby. I want it bad."
Although highly aroused himself, Adam decided to ignore his wife's fervent request for his rigid rod. At least for the moment.
Carefully positioning himself atop his prick-hungry mate, he commenced a licentious licking of her mammaries, an almost worshipful laving of those magnificent mounds of creamy flesh.
"Adam, darling ... ohh, baby," Laura crooned, pressing her hubby's head to her warm, tingling bosom. Shivers of pleasure coursed through her as he brushed her hardened nipples with his thrilling tongue and coated the surrounding pinkish-brown aureoles with sticky saliva.
"Like this, huh?" Adam rasped.
"You know I do, darling. It's good ... so fucking good."
Having bathed almst every delightful inch of his squirming wife's mouth-watering melons, Adam concentrated his oral attack now on her blood-gorged nipples. Me nibbled passionately, his hard-working tongue again flicking out to jab those crinkly points of excited flesh, to swab them unmercifully.
"Yesss, baby," Laura hissed, lust striding through her body like an avenging monster. "Chew on them, Adam. Suck my tits."
Quickly but with considerable expertise Adam continued mouthing the tiny, tasty morsels of crinkled flesh, his tongue never still as it lapped loving, briskly. While kneading Laura's left boob he sucked on her right, then reversed the process, rubbing with his palm the breast just washed while he attended to the other, neglecting neither in his pursuit of pleasure.
Laura could feel her husband's hard prick pressing into her molten crotch, brushing against her thighs as he squirmed this way and that. Whimpering with pleasure, she drew her legs up and splayed her knees. Her hips jerked involuntarily, her yawning pussy lips snapping at the bone it craved-the one so near yet so far away.
"My pussy, darling-do my pussy," Laura breathed excitedly. "Suck my twat now, Adam darling."
Always ready to aid a female in distress, Adam paused only for a few seconds before heeding his lust-happy wife's lewd request. After resting his head in the velvety warmth of the valley between her luscious boobs, he began working his way down her still squirming body.
He inched toward his goal with supreme cunning. Planting a slippery trail of warm kisses on her smooth flesh, his teeth nipping, his tongue swirling devilishly, he maneuvered downward, drawing ever closer to his odorous objective-a pretty pussy, one wet with desire and pouting for hard prick.
Now, crouched between her still widely splayed knees, he licked and pecked his spouse's pink tummy, dug his teasing tongue into her navel and swirled it around and around. He nibbled hungrily on her lower belly.
"Please, Adam," Laura moaned hotly, her eyes glazed by desire. "Put your mouth on my cunt. Chew it, lover."
Once again Adam heeded the call to action, his own urgent need preventing him from doing otherwise. Wafting up to his nostrils was the stimulating scent of his wife's passion, the heady aroma of her humid crotch. He moved closer, the better to whiff the musky scent of her passion perfume.
Then, still in worshipful crouch between Laura's legs, his hard pecker still pulsing proudly, Adam commenced his exciting oral exploration of the molten womanhood. Little whining sounds excaped Laura's lips when she felt his face on her fluffy passion patch, heard his muffled grunts of lust.
"Yes, baby, oh, yes," she pleaded, her head rolling side to side on the pillow. "Eat me, Adam. Chew on my smelly twat."
Braced on elbows and knees, Adam plastered his hungry mouth against the sopping wet, open gash of his whimpering wife's delicious pussy, sent his tongue slithering between the slick, pouting lips. Again he inhaled the invigorating fragrance of her taste-tempting twat, sinking his tongue as deep as it would go inside the quivering channel of her vagina.
"Ooooh!" Laura sang out, her back arching as she lifted her hips off the bed and shoved her molten cunt up against her hubby's pistoning tongue. She was betwixt and between unwilling to call a halt to the sizzling pleasures afforded her by this cunning lapping of her womanhood yet frantic with the need to have something harder, thicker and longer, crammed into her pulsating vagina.
She wanted Adam to continue slobbering over her twitching twat until he suffocated between her humid thighs. But she wanted a good screwing, too. No, not a screwing. A mean, hard fucking is what she craved. A vigorous, mind-numbing, jaw-busting fucking, one that would send her spiraling toward the heavens in salacious search for a truly tumultuous orgasm.
CHAPTER FIVE
Breathing hard, Adam continued his oral ministrations. Inspired by his lust-drenched wife's throaty moans and gargled pleas for more of the same, he burrowed his head between her warm, trembling thighs and ground his face into her steaming sex slit.
He lapped up Laura's sticky love syrup and swallowed it, his tantalizing tongue roving up and down her hot, pulsating cleft. He found her swollen clitoris and stroked that passion button until it was a rosy red, a throbbing, blood-gorged mini penis.
"No ... no more, please," Laura moaned, reaching down with both hands to pry her hubby's head from her molten womanhood. "Please, Adam, fuck me now. I've got to be banged, baby."
Adam lifted his head to reveal a face coated with the product of Laura's passion. He grinned lewdly, his almost perverse delight in seeing his wife in the throes of a fierce, burning lust reflected in his shinning blue eyes.
She was hot, he thought happily. Hotter than hell. Seemingly unable to still her hips, she rolled them maddeningly and wickedly conveyed to the world her need for a sound screwing. And still the sex fluid flowed from her itching vagina-tiny pearls of passion oozing from her slick love hole and trickling down her odorous crotch like drops of water on a window pane.
"Darling, please," Laura groaned. "What are you waiting for? Fuck me, Adam. Bury that beautiful bone deep."
"All right, baby," Adam croaked, jerking up so that his weight rested on his haunches. "Supercop to the rescue."
"Do me-do me mean and hard. Fuck the hell out of me, my darling. I love your beautiful prick."
Her naked body in trembling turmoil, Laura waited impatiently while her handsome hubby assumed the proper pricking position and aligned his throbbing weapon with her weeping womanhood. Then, when all was ready, the fleshy reamer poised to the hot sex hole, she again gave voice to the lust shocking her system.
Excited now to a fever pitch, Adam adjusted his position just a little and ordered his wife to stop squirming. Then, fighting the gut-jumbling urge to ram her viciously, he inserted just the knobby head of his cock in her sizzling cunt and proceeded to tease by slowly, maddeningly, rotating only that portion of his prick in her lubricous love hole.
"Oh, damn you, Adam," Laura groaned. "Don't start playing games. Give it to me-all of it. Shove that fucking thing in my belly."
"Such language-shame on you, sweetheart."
Slowly, ever so deliberately, Adam began pistoning his blood-thickened tool in and out of his wife's pulsing, sodden vagina, giving her just a taste of its warmth and throbbing strength.
"Bastard!" Laura croaked. "You teasing bastard." She tried thrusting up her hips, her hungry cunt in hot pursuit of the rest of Adam's meaty member. But he held her fast and forced her to accept just two inches of solid bone-two totally insufficient inches.
"Want a little more, beautiful?" he asked, a wicked grin basking on his face.
"Adam, how can you be so cruel? Don't play with me, baby-not when I need it so bad."
"What do you need, honey?" Adam sank another half, inch into his whimpering wife's steaming sex oven and felt slippery, rippling muscles grasp his cock gratefully.
"Your cock," Laura answered. "Give it to me, you son-of-a-bitch. Ram it clear through me."
"Beg a little, princess. Tell me how bad you
"You mean, rotten, no good ... oooh ... Adam, please. Please!"
Possessed by a demonic desire to be ripped asunder by her husband's rampaging rod, Laura started mumbling incoherently and began pounding her clenched fists against the bed. She trembled excitedly, her beautiful body out of control. Again and again she tried to jerk her shapely hips off the bed and impale herself on Adam's rock-hard root.
Grinning lewdly, Adam wrapped his strong hands around Laura's tingling tits and squeezed passionately. He trapped the hardened nipples between his fingers and pinched almost cruelly, all the time watching the wonderfully obscene expression of lust planted on his wife's contorted face.
"Don't, darling," Laura pleaded piteously. "Don't do this-"
"Beg, honey," Adam growled.
An anguished sob of desperation broke from Laura's throat, tears welled in her eyes. She couldn't remember ever having been so unbelievably hot, so crazed by the desire to be banged senseless. And now, of all times, her husband had slipped into a perversely playful mood, deciding to delay her dicking until she recognized his arrogant authority.
"I'm waiting, sweetheart," Adam said thickly.
"All right, all right," Laura moaned, the words coming quickly, with frenzied excitement. "I'm begging you, Adam. Fuck me shitless. Split me open with your filthy prick. Ream me out, baby!"
Fully aware of the strange pleasure her husband was receiving in his role of conqueror, Laura continued goading him with the vilest language imaginable while beseeching him to plow her pussy like never before. The wicked words stumbled from her lips, the one falling over the other in jerky jumble.
Suddenly mingling with her outrageous need to be skewered like a chicken on a spit was a rapidly rising masochistic delight, a keen awareness of her role as submissive spouse. How thrilling it was to be thoroughly vanquished, her lust-dazed mind told her. How wickedly exciting to have to plead for her cock like a child imploring an adult for candy.
Nostrils flared, her eyes mirroring the intense need raging within and tossing her about like a plastic buoy in turbulent waters, the lust-drenched Laura spat out obscenities, cursed her teasing hubby, and begged to be battered senseless by the rigid rod he was cruelly witholding from her needy twat.
And finally, when he could take no more, when his beautiful mate's maniacal, vulgar exhortations-so deliciously filthy-threatened to unhinge his mind, Adam reared back and with a single, belly-squashing thrust sent his meaty prick streaking into the mushy warmth of her viscous vagina.
"Ahhh...." Laura wailed, thankful that at long last the blessed hardness was hers-hers to embrace with happy, hotly-hugging cunt muscles. She was stuffed now-totally, magnificently stuffed with hot throbbing prick!
"Happy now, baby?" Adam rasped, looking down into his wife's face as he braced himself on hands and knees. He flexed his stiff pecker in the clasping channel of her cunt and received an answer to his question.
"You brute," Laura moaned. "You wonderful, marvelous, beautiful brute. Fuck me now, lover. Pound it to me."
No longer of a mind to tease, the sudden need to demonstrate his mastery of a situation (born, perhaps, out of the frustration he was encountering in his present investigation) satisfactorily assuaged, Adam began pumping steadily and smoothly into his wife's very grateful vagina.
"Yes, that's it, darling," Laura whimpered happily, throwing her arms around her methodically humping hubby when he dropped down onto her heated, squirming body, his hard, hairy chest flattening the gelatinous globes of her tingling breasts. "Do it harder, you glorious stud. Sock it to me."
Combining regular in and out thrusts with occasional salacious hip swivels that sent his bloated bone corkscrewing cunningly into Laura's wet warmth, Adam emitted grunts of delight and continued pumping his way to nirvana. He fucked carefully, with deliberate but hard thrusts, thus enabling Laura to rotate her luscious ass in wide circles and push her pelvis up to greet the descending dick.
"I love it," Laura groaned, her pleasure second only to that she would experience when the erectile now scouring her slushy cunt exploded and all that creamy goodness drenched her quaking insides. "I love it like crazy. Loveit, loveit, loveit."
Her hungry hole grasped at Adam's plunging prick, embraced it with all the devotion and eagerness of a man who, perilously close to drowning, accepts and clings greedily to a life preserver. Her sloppy twat was like a fleshy vacuum cleaner as it sucked in the blood-fattened cock, threatening to devour balls and all as it strained for every last millimeter of the pussy-punishing organ.
And each sensational squeeze of his wife's cunt muscles around his bloated bone increased Adam's pleasure. He slipped his hands between their tightly pressed bodies and grabbed hold of her tits, began savagely attacking those spongy melons while continuing to churn his cock in her tight, twitching twat.
"Baby ... you're good," he groaned. "The greatest."
"I love you, Adam," Laura whimpered happily, her flushed face a mask of pleasure as she began raking her husband's hard back with her long, sharp fingernails.
"Supercop?"
"Yes, lover. Supercop-and superstud. Super superstud!"
Adam grunted into the crook of his wife's neck and increased the tempo of his hard thrusts into her welcoming womanhood. Beneath him, Laura moaned with sheer delight and breathlessly encouraged his efforts, her usually lyrical voice a husky, passion-coated growl as she begged for the boffing of her life.
And as they made like the beast with two backs, their naked, highly aroused bodies grinding together heatedly as they strained for the ultimate joy of simultaneous orgasms, Adam and Laura forgot all about the series of sex-soaked murders causing the police such a monumental headache.
At the moment, they couldn't have cared less if the maniac was prowling around outside their apartment door. Or making plans to bring to a sudden, shocking end the life of yet another pretty female.
A sly grin slipped over Arnold Toringer's face as he perused his scrapbook. He was alone, comfortably ensconced in the tattered old armchair that sat in one comer of what the proprietress had said was the best room in the place, the place being a run-down rooming house located on the wrong side of the tracks.
But it mattered little to Torninger that he was living in such surroundings, that he slept on a lumpy, bug-infested mattress in a room that measured twelve by fourteen, that he ate his meals in a nearby diner where greasy, ill-prepared food was gobbled down by winos, assorted weirdos and whores too old and too tired to accommodate the classier breed of John.
None of this was important to the troubled Torninger, for on his diseased mind there were weightier matters to consider, thoughts to be digested with care and various plans to be perfected so that, when he was ready and the timing was right, he could strike without fear of capture.
And how very sad it would be, he mused now, as he studied carefully the picture of a raven-haired lovely fetchingly attired in a polka dot bikini, if he were to be caught and sent back to the home before he could complete his mission. He still had work to do-a considerable amount of work, in fact.
There were still three names on the list of those females whose death he deemed of paramount importance. He had crossed out the names Annette Logan, Priscilla Davies, Joan Franks, June Tracy and Debra Warren. Now, having disposed of these five, he had three to go to accomplish the task he had handed himself some years ago. He was a little better than half way home and it was with a certain sadness that he wondered what he would do when all eight females had been eliminated.
But time enough to worry about that, Torninger thought, adjusting his glasses as he continued studying the girl smiling at him in the four by six photograph. She was a stunning creature, a brown-eyed, black-haired beauty whose figure seemed created by one who manufactured breast-hugging, fanny-molding bikinis.
"Yes, you really thought of yourself as something extra special, didn't you, sweetheart?" Torninger said, speaking to the photograph. "You were the cat's meow, the girl everybody just knew would be a smashing sucess in Hollywood. Producers and directors fawned over you and catered to your every whim. You could do no wrong, could you? Of course not. You were a blossoming flower, a precious little seed that had to be nurtured with love and understanding. And you soaked up all that adoring attention like a sponge, didn't you?"
Torninger snorted. "But I knew the real you, bitch. A snot-nosed, disgusting little tramp is what you were. All the others were blinded by your beauty-the directors, the actors, even the screenwriters, the whole stinkin' bunch of them. But you were nothing more than a cheap whore, a classy trollop trying to break into the movies because someone once said that that was where you should be. A star my ass."
Torninger worked up some spit in his mouth and then spat at the glossy photo, the viscous glob landing directly over the bikini-clad beauty and then dribbling down over her carefully-posed body. An ugly grin crept over his face as he grasped the scrapbook firmly, turned it slowly this way and that and by so doing moved the spittle all over the picture.
"I should have done that years ago, sweetheart. Yes, I should have spat right in your beautiful puss. Maybe then you would have noticed me, you wily whore."
Torninger paused to catch his breath. He was getting angrier by the minute and the words were hurrying from his mouth. Once again it was coming back-all of it. He remembered the uppity attitude of the female in the photo, the arrogant, holier-than-thou approach she favored when "forced" to be his company.
And what really riled him, what made him want to vomit in her mocking laugh, was that she had seemingly singled him out for abuse. She treated none of the others the way she treated him-with such loathsome contempt, such hideous ridicule.
All the others, from her leading man down to the lowliest cameraman, she considered friends, allies who, when necessary, would help her avoid even the briefest confrontation with Arnold Torninger. Yes, she was the sneaky one, all right, he thought angrily. A brazen little bitch who was willing to fuck half of Hollywood but who could not muster up a single small smile for him.
"I haven't forgotten how you hurt me, you phony, cock-hungry slut," Torninger blurted out, again directing himself to the photo pasted in his scrapbook. "I remember your mocking grin, your sarcasm, the derogatory remarks you made about me when you thought I wasn't within earshot."
Torninger suddenly slammed shut the scrapbook and threw it on the floor. He jumped to his feet and began pacing back and forth, his heart pounding in his chest. Angry, pulse-quickening thoughts danced on the stage of his mind, vying for his complete, total attention.
Less than a minute later he was moving purposefully toward the stained, scratched dresser that sat near the door, pulling open the top drawer and reaching inside. In one comer of the drawer, nestled between some socks and handkerchiefs, were three bright pink ribbons. Torninger took one and closed the drawer.
He fondled it in his hand for a few seconds, thinking how pretty it would look in Diane Caterville's lustrous black tresses. Then he stuffed the ribbon in the back pocket of his cocoa-colored corduroys and walked to the rickety table near the window. He pulled out the straight chair and sat down, then reached for the large yellow note pad resting on the table top.
This wouldn't be as easy as the others, he mused, his eyes roaming over the first page of the pad, his mind filling with the pertinent information that, after a full week of careful surveillance of Diane Caterville, he had jotted down with satanic glee. Not as easy, but just as much fun.
The killing of Diane Caterville would provide him with a certain challenge, Torninger thought, refusing to even consider the possibility that he wasn't up to the task since he had long ago vowed to remove whatever obstacles lay in his path of sweet revenge. It was a challenge he would meet with daring, with a well-timed sneak attack.
The primary problem was that Diane, a stunning blue-eyed beauty employed as an excutive secretary at an advertising agency, seemed always to be surrounded by people. She was a career girl who very obviously enjoyed her responsible position at Blackston & Craig and one who treasured the good things that a high salary enabled her to afford.
The broad has too many fucking friends, Torninger remembered saying to himself one rainy night, as he stood shivering under a lamppost and watched Diane and four of her female friends file from a cab and then enter the luxurious high rise in which she had a four room apartment.
She was always entertaining somebody at home or going out on a date. Not once during his week-long scrutiny of her daily routine had he seen her alone. She was always in the company of a business associate or personal friend, or so it seemed, leaving her apartment to attend a party or arriving home with one of her lovers. And these lovers stayed the night.
Yes, the need for caution was evident, Torninger thought. He knew now all that he had to know about Miss Diane Caterville, having spent seven days and nights watching her every move, learning all he could about her habits, noting the time she did this and that. Now he had it all on paper. It was all here before him; those pertinent facts relating to Miss Caterville's frenzied life, facts that he had scribbled on the yellow pad soon after arriving home after long hours of patient watching and waiting.
He knew that in just a few weeks she would be celebrating her twenty-ninth birthday. He knew the names of her closest friends, the occupations of her many male lovers. He knew she took a taxi to work and usually was given a lift home by one of her business associates. He knew where she shopped and when. He knew she was an emotional female, one who acted impulsively. Yet she was well--liked and trusted by her employer. He knew all this and more about the female he intended to murder.
"I could write your biography, sweetheart," Torninger said, thinking aloud. "And before too long I'll be writing your epitaph."
All that remained for him to do was select a time and place for the kill. It would not be possible to attack her in her apartment, he realized. The fucking place was always packed with people. Either that or she was screwing one of her lovers.
So he would have to make the most of what little opportunity existed, Torninger thought. He must plan his moves carefully and decide when and where the act should be committed. Then, having disposed of Diane Caterville, he could cross her name off his list of intended victims and move on to the next unsuspecting soul.
Torninger spent the next twenty minutes going over what he had learned about the beautiful woman he planned to slay, his mind a muddle of thoughts as he searched her schedule for an hour or so when he might catch her alone. And vulnerable. Then, telling himself that there was time enough to firm his plans, he flipped the note pad onto the table and left the straight chair.
A sudden pleasant thought triggered his march to the dresser. Again he pulled open the top drawer, this time searching for the small, rectangular black box he had placed there some time ago. When he found it, he smiled. He closed the drawer and with box in hand moved slowly over to his bed.
He dropped down onto the bed and then opened the box, which in size was no larger than a child's hand. Again he smiled, a sense of satisfaction, different from that which he derived from his vengeful murders, beginning to suffuse him.
How beautiful it was, he thought, a loving look bathing his face as he contemplated the silver medal resting in the soft folds of white silk. It was all he had to show for his efforts and he intended to treasure it to his dying day.
Torninger very carefully removed the medal from the box. He placed the box on the bed next to him and then brought the medal close to his face, the better to read the inscription on it.
"To Arnold Torninger, Director," Torninger read aloud, "For Consistently Fine Filming Of Horror Tales. Copenhagen Film Festival, 1960."
Oh, that sounded so good, he thought. Those words were like music to his ears. Sweet, sweet music. True, it annoyed him to realize that he had to leave his own country to get the recognition he deserved, but the fact of the matter was that he had been honored for the high quality of his work. No one, not a single living soul, could dispute the authenticity of his award.
Those quick-money clowns in Hollywood wouldn't recognize talent if they stumbled over it. But the Danes had ignored his American critics-not that there were all that many-and handed him this bright silver medal in honor of his achievements.
And how very proud he had been to receive it, Torninger mused, thinking back to that wonderful moment when, sitting in the celebrity-filled auditorium, he had heard his name announced as the winner of that year's distinguished service award. Proudly, almost defiantly, his head held high, he had marched to the podium to gratefully accept the medal, all the time thinking how stupid his fellow American film makers were for failing to recognize his abilities.
Well, he had shown them just how pitifully inept they were when it came to judging a director's work. And no doubt it was for that reason, because he had proven his talent abroad, his fellow artists continued snubbing him upon his return to native soil. Fuck them all-the whole jealous bunch of them. What did they know about anything, anyway?
Of course, it was a long time ago that he had been honored by the Danish film society, Torninger thought, fondling the medal in his right hand as he stared into space. But his award still meant something to them and surely there must be many in Denmark who would remember him.
Yes, it would be nice to return to the scene of his triumph, to once again tour the spotlessly-clean city of Copenhagen, to visit the enchanting Tivoli Gardens, which many regarded as the finest amusment park in the world. Perhaps in a few months, when he had disposed of the last woman on his list, he would fly over there and visit his good friends. They would be delighted to see him again.
In the meantime, why didn't he carry the medal on him, Torninger asked himself. Wouldn't it be more fun to keep it in his pocket, always handy for inspection, than to leave it sit in a dark comer of his dresser drawer? Of course it would.
From here on in, as he traveled about, he would carry the medal on his person. That way he could always take it out and read the inscription. Maybe even show it around. Sure, he would have a watch pocket sewn in all his trousers and in there keep his award. In such a small pocket the medal would be safe-snug as a bug in a rug.
Pleased by his decision, Torninger snapped shut the black box and carried it back to the dresser. He put it away in the drawer and then very carefully placed his medal on the dresser top, telling himself that he must remember to visit a tailor first thing tomorrow morning. Then, realizing he had an even more important decision to reach, he returned to the table near the window and settled himself on the straight chair.
"Now, lovely lady," he said, picking up the large yellow note pad, "let's see if we can't decide on the place and hour of your death."
CHAPTER SIX
Robert Granger's broad smile and wicked wink was more than enough to convince his sultry, redheaded wife that the provocative strip she was performing, or trying to perform, had his wholehearted approval. And if she wanted further proof of the success of her amateur peel, she had only to drop her sparkling green eyes to his lap, where, under the cover of his slacks, one excited penis was struggling to stiffen.
"Patricia, baby," Robert began, his smile lingering, "you may never make it as a stripper, but you can disrobe for me any old time. I like your style, sugar."
Patricia grinned. "What you see is what you get, handsome. And judging from that growing bulge in your lap, I'd say you were very eager to get a piece of me."
Robert shook his head. "Man, those X-rated flicks really turn you on, don't they? I'm just glad you didn't start to undress in the damn theatre."
"Why? It might have been better than the movie." Patricia began a sensuous undulation of her nicely-curved hips, pushing her pelvis forward in a most lewd invitation to a blood-fattened, throbbing prick. "I think I do this pretty good-at least as good as that busty blonde in the film. Remember how during that wife-swapping scene she suddenly got the hots and-"
"I remember, I remember," Robert broke in. "And did she ever get hers. Brother, I didn't think they were allowed to show so much actual fucking in a movie."
"As somebody once said, darling, the times they are a'changing."
"For the better, I guess."
"Sure. Now, would you care to see more of my performance. I'm ready to thrill you with a tantalizing removal of my undies. I hope your beautiful blue eyes don't pop out of your head."
Robert laughed. "Thrill away, baby. I'll just unzipper my fly and drag out old Mr. Cock. He'd like to steal a peek at pretty Mrs. Pussy, I'm sure."
"They've been introduced before, darling," Patricia grinned.
Having already peeled out of her tight-fitting green knit dress and kicked off her white pumps, the ravishingly beautiful Patricia stood now, approximately ten feet from the long sofa where sat her blond-haired hubby, clad in cream-colored brassiere and matching briefs, garter belt and hose.
"Ready, darling?" she asked, watching as Robert curled a hand around the fully erect prick he had just hauled from the warm confines of his shorts.
"Take if off, honey. Take it all off."
"And what'll happen then, my well-hung spouse?"
Robert chuckled lewdly. "What happened in the movie we saw tonight?"
"The blonde who did the impulsive strip was fucked dizzy by two horny bastards. Right on the living room floor."
"Does that answer your question, beautiful?"
Patricia grinned. "But in the movie there were two men, darling. Two strong, pussy-hungry studs who-"
"Well, we're just going to have to make do, Mrs. Randy Wife of 1972. Now on with it-bare that snatch, reveal that rear, expose those crazy boobs for inspection."
"Oooo, such a masterful man I married," Patricia cooed, imitating a dumb starlet whose brains were in her bottom.
A suspenseful silence descended, then, Robert Granger watching with keen interest and stroking his turgid tool as his very rapable wife of six years reached back to undo the clasp of her brassiere. He had seen it all before, of course, having on innumerable occasions savored the sweetness of his twenty-nine-year-old mate's smooth, creamy flesh, enjoyed the snug warmth of her mushy vagina and thrilled to the fantastic tightness of her rectum. Yet never, not in a hundred years, would he tire of feasting his eyes on Patricia's outrageously desirable nakedness.
To the guys down at the paper, those whose good fortune it had been to meet Patricia, she was "the beautiful broad," or "the redheaded bombshell who oozed sex appeal" or, sometimes, "that gorgeous cunt who must have been hypnotized into marrying a brawling bastard like Bob Granger."
It didn't bother the ace crime reporter of the Herald-Times that his co-workers referred to his wife in such basic terms. He knew that their vulgar descriptions of Patricia's charms were genuine, albeit uncourth, forms of flattery, and that when one or the other described her as "the titian-tressed twat whose tail he'd love to screw," he was actually admitting, or perhaps revealing, his envy of the guy whom she had chosen to wed.
A wonderfully wicked smile basked on Patricia's clear, un-lined face as she peeled the constricting brassiere from her magnificent mammaries. Her beautiful breasts jiggled on her smooth chest, grateful for their freedom. She tossed the bra over to her smiling husband and then, as she continued weaving her hips in suggestive, snake-like manner, inserted her thumbs in the elasticized waistband of her cunt-clinging panties.
"Like it so far, honey?" she asked.
"Indeed I do, sweetheart," Robert answered, his right hand still lazily massaging his tumescent tool. "Come on, hurry up and get yourself naked for me."
"You're impatient, lover-that's not good. A good stripper works slowly, sensuously. She bares her body just a little bit at a time. There's a certain erotic rhythm to all this that builds suspense and heightens anticipation. You have to keep your body in constant motion as you caress yourself lovingly. Each man in the aroused audience must think that he's up on that stage helping you peel. A good stripper builds to a climax and-"
"Well this audience of one is damn near ready to climax, my enchanting, hot-to-trot darling."
Patricia grinned. "Then I guess you don't want me to continue my lecture on the fine art of stripping."
"Not really. But you can tell me how it is that you're such an expert."
"Didn't I tell you, honey? Before you rescued me from the greasy paws of those Las Vegas casino owners I had some ideas about becomming a professional stripper. I mean, a girl can't make a career out of serving drinks and smiling like an idiot, can she?"
Robert chuckled. "I don't think you could have, luv. As a hostess you left a little to be desired. Remember the first time we met, when you spilled that scotch and soda on my lap?
"I spilled the drink only because you pinched me, you stinker."
"I did not."
"Did too. I thought you were like all the rest of those half-drunk clowns-interested only in trying to feel me up and talk me into the sack. Just because I worked in a casino you figured I was loose as a goose."
"That's not true, sweets. Hell, it took me five months to get you between the sheets."
"Keep your pants on, baby-no, I don't mean that, do I?"
"Apologize for that crack, Mr. Granger, or I'll put my clothes back on."
"No, please-anything but that. All right, I apologize. For what I don't know, but I apologize."
"I accept," Patricia grinned. "Now keep your eyes open and you might see something you like."
Once again a quiet, pregnant with erotic anticipation, hovered over the stimulating proceedings. Robert watched with ever increasing excitement at his ravishing wife, whose flaming tresses cascaded down over her shoulders, resumed her amateurish but still very provocative striptease.
Patricia pushed her panties downward, baring her loins just inches at a time as she glued her eyes to her husband's face. Lower and lower the panties went, the clinging silk creeping over large but firm, spongy buttocks and carefully-curved hips. And then, finally, Patricia's copper-colored cunt was revealed in all its lush beauty.
Robert stared at the tempting triangle of curly pubic hairs, his hand moving on his rigid prick a little faster now. The urge to ruffle that warm nest of protective hairs was quickly consuming him. Just the thought of massaging his wife's womanhood with his powerful eight inch cock was enough to send shivers of lust up his spine.
Having bared her bush with maddening slowness, Patricia now quickly worked her panties down her legs. Lifting one leg at a time, she worked the silk garment around and off her feet and then tossed it onto the sofa next to her hubby. Now she stood, hands on hips, clad only in garter belt and the sheerest of hose.
"More?" she asked, smiling suggestively.
Robert swallowed hard. "No more, baby," he said thickly, pushing himself up off the sofa, his throbbing tool jutting from his opened fly. "Your audience of one has seen enough."
"But my stockings, Bob. Let me take them-"
"Not necessary, beautiful. They won't be in the way." Robert started toward his wife, a lustful gleam in his eye.
"Aren't you even going to-"
"Nope. No time to undress, beautiful. I've got to get in you right now. My cock is about ready to-"
"But this will be like ... like rape."
"Yeah, how 'bout that?" Robert grinned lewdly. "Are you going to start running or will you let your husband rape you in the living room?"
Patricia returned Robert's wicked grin. "I think I'll just relax and enjoy it. My rape does seem inevitable, doesn't it?"
"That it does, luscious," Robert answered, enfolding his wife in his strong arms, drawing her near-nude body close against his fully-clothed one.
"Do I get kissed before I'm raped, darling?"
"Darn tootin' you do, baby."
"Goodie," Patricia grinned.
The kiss was hard, demanding, Robert's thick lips mashing against Patricia's soft, supple ones, his tongue slithering into her mouth with a salacious urgency. Patricia wrapped her arms around her hubby's back and ground her pelvis into his middle, the feel of his powerful prick, bent up now against her smooth tummy, fueling the lust that had started to grow during her provocative peel.
It was going to be especially good tonight, she thought. The sizzling X-rated movie they had seen and her slow striptease had combined to spark a fiery need in her handsome mate. And the fact that he intended to fuck her without first removing his clothes was inspiring her own desire.
Not since the early days of their marriage had Robert taken her with his clothes on. Now, too aroused to bother with such time consuming chores as disrobing and petting teasingly, he was about to again cock her unceremoniously. It would be delightfully different, she thought excitedly. A mini-rape on the living room floor-how wickedly unique!
Yet if she were to admit the truth, Patricia would willingly acknowledge the fact that, as far as she was concerned, her handsome, well-hung husband of thirty-three could rape her every night of the week and twice on Sunday.
He was a deliciously attractive specimen of male-a blond, blue-eyed beauty, if the word "beauty" could be used to describe a marvelous man who stood six feet one inches tall and weighed a fat-free one hundred ninety pounds. And of all his muscles the one she most enjoyed, the one she treasured, was the one he stuffed into her mouth or cunt or asshole.
No sooner had Robert broken the sizzling kiss than he was urging his luscious wife to the floor, guiding her into position on her back and brushing open her sleek, strong legs. He knelt between those quivering stems, his mind a blur of licentious thoughts as he feasted on the sight of the five foot seven inch, near-nude female stretched out before him, eagerly awaiting his sexy ministrations.
Truly did she represent a cornucopia of fleshy delights, he thought dazedly. One wondered what part of Patricia's lush anatomy to explore first. Her size thirty-eight breasts, magnificent melons of spongy, velvety-soft flesh, beckoned for the rough, massaging hands of a horny male.
Her smooth, shapely legs were twin pillars of firm flesh, two surprisingly strong stems that could squeeze his breath away when wrapped around his pistoning hips. Her fanny was full and firm, a bottom-pincher's delight. And her face, so exquisitely expressive, mirrored the quiet intensity of her nature, her desire to live each day to the fullest.
"Well, am I to get raped or not, lover?" Patricia asked, her voice thickened somewhat by the lust wending its wily way throughout her body.
"You're to get raped, beautiful," Robert answered, speaking the utmost conviction. "But good."
"Do it to me, darling. Put that beautiful bone of yours where it belongs-deep in my cunt."
Patricia drew her legs up and splayed her knees. She put her hands on her spongy boobs and squeezed "hard, then pinched the erect nipples. Her eyes drifted down her husband's body and fastened on the blood-hardened cock protruding from his opened fly.
"You're nice and wet, baby," Robert said, clamping his right hand over his wife's crotch. "I guess you're ready for cock."
"I'm always ready for cock, lover. I'm a girl who creams her panties at just the mention of the word cock. Now come on, stick that pretty pecker I see into my hot twat. Otherwise...."
"Otherwise what?"
"Otherwise I'll find somebody else to rape me.
Robert grinned. "You wouldn't have the nerve."
"Don't think so, huh? Well, if you don't move pretty darn ... oommph! Ohh, baby, why did you ... oooo, nice ... good ... oh, darling."
Having fallen heavily onto his luscious spouse, knocking her breath away and at the same time pleasing her simmering vagina with the skillful insertion of his prick into that viscid well of love, Robert now proceeded to bounce merrily up and down. Braced on elbows and knees, his hard chest mashing Patricia's big, beautiful boobs, he commenced a rhythmical reaming of her slushy sex chute.
"Did I hurt you, baby?" he asked thickly, looking down into his mate's suddenly flushed face.
"No, luv, of course not. But you didn't ... ohh, that's nice ... you didn't have to jump on me quite so hard."
Robert grinned lewdly. "This is a rape, isn't it? As a rule, rapists are not very gentle with their victims."
"Then don't be gentle with me," Patricia husked, returning her husband's wicked grin. "Do it to me hard-hard and mean. Make me really feel it, lover."
"You're not co-operating, baby."
"What? I'm not-"
"This isn't a rape unless you struggle. You have to fight me and try to escape."
"But I'm happy where I am. I don't want to escape."
"You'd make a lousy rape victim," Robert rasped, increasing the tempo of his steady thrusts just a little. Now come on, fight back ... try to shove me off."
"You mean it?"
"Sure. Make me work for my pleasure."
Patricia again matched her hubby's evil smile with one of her own. "All right, Mr. Rapist, don't forget you asked for this."
And with that, having speedily resolved to make of this mock rape a truly memorable experience, the ravishing, titian-tressed temptress proceeded to do battle with her happily humping husband. She clenched her fists and started beating on his back, at the same twisting and turning every which way under him as she tried to dislodge his rock-hard pecker from her syrupy vagina.
"Yeah ... that's the ticket," Robert husked. "You're getting the hang of it very-hey, owww!"
"Aren't I allowed to scratch?" Patricia asked breathlessly.
"No you're not allowed to scrach. That's like ... like kicking me in the balls. It's notowww, damn you."
"How ... how can I kick your balls when ... when they're bouncin' against my crotch?"
"That's your problem. Now stop scratch-arghh."
"Can't take it, huh?" the struggling Patricia teased. She snapped her hips up again in an unsuccessful attempt to unset her rider, then tried to push him off by clamping her hands on his waist and exerting upward pressure.
"I can take all you can dish out, baby," Robert stated, his voice charged with emotion. He pumped his stiff prick into Patricia's pulsing pussy three quick times and then returned to his earlier tempo.
"You'd make a lousy rapist, luv," Patricia said thickly, pulling fiercely on her husband's bobbing buttocks.
"Oh, yeah? Well ... well I'm still sittin' tall in the saddle, princess."
"But not for long, you bit brute."
"Yes ... until you submit, baby. I'm goin' to tame you ... break your spirit."
"No."
"Yes. You'll be ridden like an untamed horse. Like a-"
"I'll throw you ... then stomp you," Patricia gasped, finding it increasingly difficult to speak. She was really fighting back now, bucking like an angry mare in a determined attempt to rid herself of her hubby's heavy weight.
She started scratching again, her long, sharp nails digging through the thin material of his blue sport shirt. She snorted and snarled, kicked out her legs, tried biting his face when he dropped his head down on her shoulder. At one point she took hold of his ears and yanked, only to receive in return a particularly bone-jarring and almost painful thrust from his fleshy sledgehammer.
"Give up yet?" Robert grunted, punctuating his question with a savage, hip-spinning plunge into his spouse's weeping womanhood.
"Never, you big-pricked bastard. Never, never, never!"
"Then you suffer, fair maiden."
"Arghhh," Patricia growled, heaving her beautiful body up in still another futile try at dislodging the thick dick scouring the walls of her slushy vagina.
For two minutes more husband and wife acted out the salacious scene, each whipped to a frenzy by an ever growing desire to win this battle of wills. Neither would relent and admit defeat. Patricia struggled like a wildcat, her lush body, now layered with a fine film of sweat, never still as it jerked side to side, bucked up and down, twisted and turned with manical fervor.
She was strong, but not that strong. And no match for her well-built husband, who was now booming his bloated bone up into her pulsating cunt with a fiery determination. Robert held his ground and repeatedly slashed his meaty eight incher to the mushy depths of his wife's sex chute, each wicked, belly-flattening plunge of his prick dampening, just a little more, Patricia's desire to continue the mock ravishment.
And then, finally....
"All right ... all right, you win," Patricia gasped, throwing her weary arms way out and dropping her legs. She ceased all motion and went limp under her husband. She was exhausted, thoroughly beat, and her perspiration-coated body felt as if it weighed three hundred or more pounds.
"Did ... did I hear right?" Robert husked, his breathing labored. "Are you ready to admit-"
"I Said you won, you handsome bastard." Patricia gulped in some badly needed oxygen and blinked her eyes rapidly. For the first time in a very, very long time she was too pooped to appreciate the pecker now lodged snugly in her vanquished vagina. Even its throbbing fullness, its cunt-captivating length, wasn't enough to spark the flame gradually doused by her fierce but futile efforts to achieve a victory.
Robert lifted his head from his wife's left shoulder and smiled down into her flushed face. Although there wasn't a sadistic bone in his body, he realized that a rather strange sense of satisfaction was not suffusing him, a somewhat perverse pleasure in having successfully outlasted his proud, beautiful wife.
"All right, don't rub it in," Patricia said, smiling weakly.
"I'm not rubbing anything in, luv. I'm just smiling at you."
"But I know that smile, luv. It says 'ha, ha, that'll show you who's boss around this place.' Patricia coughed to clear her throat. "The next time we play this silly game I'll come prepared."
"Prepared? All you need is your pussy."
"Next time I want a handicap. Like a club, maybe."
Robert laughed. "What about this club of mine, baby. In case you hand't noticed, I didn't cum during our little love match."
"Your staying power is to be marveled at, Mr. Granger."
"Hey, what's with you, princess? I suddenly get the impression that you've lost interest in a sex session. Just because you're a bit frustrated-"
"And who says I'm frustrated?"
"Well you did lose the contest, sweetheart."
"Oh, silly, that's not it," Patricia grinned. "I'm just drained, that's all. This mock rape took a lot out of me."
"Well, then we're just going to have to put it back in you," Robert said, smiling as he flexed his imbedded prick in his wife's syrupy love oven.
"It's already in, darling."
"Not my prick, princess. I was referring to pep. I'll endeavor to bring you back to life, to start those old fires roaring again."
Patricia chuckled softly. "And I suppose you'll use a magic wand to accomplish this feat."
Robert nodded. "Yeah, you could call it that. Now just relax and let big daddy do all the work. I'll have that big, beautiful ass of yours bouncin' under me in no time at all."
"Go to it, darling," Patricia purred, lazily slipping her weary arms around her hubby's back as he gently placed his face alongside hers and began anew to ream her soggy cunt. "But just remember that you're pushing me against a hard floor."
"It's carpeted, isn't it?"
Patricia groaned. "Yes, you idiot, it's carpeted. But you can still go easy, can't you?"
"Better behave yourself, woman," Robert said, concealing the small smile that crept over his face. "Or I'll have to rape you again. And I won't stop when you yell 'uncle,' either. I'll fuck until I cream you good."
"Promises, promises," Patricia chuckled merrily, tightening her hold on her husband's back as he methodically pistoned his swollen manhood in and out of her copper-colored cunt.
"Oh, making fun of me, huh? Well you just better hand on because I'm about to-"
The ringing of the telephone cut Robert short.
"Oh, dammit," Patricia moaned. "Of all times for that blasted thing to-"
"I'd better answer it, baby," Robert said, pushing himself up off his wife but keeping his bone buried in her mushy warmth.
"Do you have to? Couldn't we let it ring? Who the hell would be phoning us at this time? I mean we're right in the middle of-"
"Whoever is calling doesn't know that we were screwing, baby," Robert interrupted with a broad grin. "Besides, it could be somebody telling us we've won a million dollars."
"At eleven o'clock on a Saturday night? That'll be the day."
"You never know, luv. Stranger things have happened. You stay right here-I'll be back in a jiffy."
Robert hopped to his feet, his rigid pecker sliding wetly from his wife's sodden womanhood. He reached down and patted her damp nest of pubic curls, then, after a wink, straightened up and started toward the telephone, which sat on a small table near the door to the kitchen.
As her husband picked up the receiver, Patricia spread her legs and brought both hands down to her sex bush. Hoping Robert wouldn't be on the phone too long, she proceeded to lazily massage her warm snatch. Although she had expended considerable energy while trying to escape the "rape," she knew that the urge to get laid could very quickly be restored by her husband. Or more accurately, by her husband's powerful eight inch prick.
"Yeah, you're right, Adam," she heard Robert say into the receiver. "This is the big break you've been waiting for."
Patricia cocked her ears. She listened carefully while continuing to minister to her cunt, noting that her husband was speaking now in a rather serious tone of voice as contrasted to the lighthearted, perhaps overly cheerful, tone he had employed when greeting the caller.
"Yes, of course," Robert was saying. "No more stumbling around in the dark. It's just too bad that another girl had to die. Who did you say she was, again? ... mmmm, no, I don't recognize the name ... well, she's a somebody now, that's for sure ... yeah, right...."
Her curiosity aroused, Patricia took her hands from her snatch and dragged herself up to her feet. She moved slowly toward her husband and started to speak, but was silenced immediately by a wave of his free hand.
"Yes, I agree, Adam. No need to tell you that I appreciate your call ... right ... listen, give me about a half hour and I'll join you at the station ... OK, see you shortly ... bye."
"Hey, what was that all about?" Patricia asked when Robert had returned the receiver to its cradle. "You got kind of serious all of a sudden."
"Diane Caterville. Adam says she was a career girl who did a lot of entertaining. She lived in one of those fancy apartment buildings over on Decatur and liked to live it up. You know, parties almost every night and a whole mess of screwing in between."
"Is that where they found her-in her apartment?"
Robert shook his head. "Some old wino found her nude, mutilated body in Cloverdale Park and called the police. Adam doesn't expect any surprises when the results of the autopsy are in. The poor girl looked as if she had fallen into a meat grinder."
"Oh, it's awful, simply awful. How could anybody be so unbelievably sadistic, Robert?"
Robert answered with a weak, "who knows the answer" smile.
"How old was the murdered woman?"
"Between twenty-five and thirty-five. Adam will have her exact age once the autopsy is completed."
"Not that it'll make a damn bit of difference," Patricia moaned. "How long will this madness continue, Robert? This maniac is terrorising the city and all the police do is go around asking questions of the murdered girls' friends and relatives. When are they going to capture this madman?"
"Soon, baby, very soon, I think. Aside from that mysterious pink ribbon that the killer leaves in the hair of his victims, he also left a bit of very incriminating evidence this time. The police now have as solid a clue as they could wish for."
"Well, what did this beast leave behind? His name and address on a slip of paper?"
Robert chuckled softly. "Not quite, sweetheart. But something that ties him directly to all the slayings. A medal-He apparently lost a silver medal with his name on it in his haste to leave the scene of the crime. Adam found it near some bushes about five feet from where the body was discovered."
"A medal? But how can the police be sure that it belongs to the killer? Maybe somebody else was walking in the park a few days ago and just-"
"Now don't go throwing a monkey wrench into this, sweetheart," Robert interrupted with a grin. "If Adam thinks the medal belongs to the killer, then I'll go along with him. He needs all the moral support he can get right now."
Patricia shrugged. "Well, he's desperate for a lead, we know that much. I hope he's not grasping at straws."
"And I hope you never decide to become a detective, luv," Robert said, tucking his wife under the chin. "You'd be forever dismissing vital evidence as a mere coincidence. Now you had better clothe this luscious body of yours because it'll be a while before I can resume ministering to it. I'm going down to police headquarters to see Adam and Charlie."
"Must you?" Patricia pouted.
"I must, beautiful. Adam said he called because he thought I'd be interested in his discovery. And I am. Hell, I've been following this story from the very beginning. I intent to be right there when our madman is pinched so I can tell my loyal readers all about it."
"And how am I supposed to occupy my time while you're out playing crime reporter of the century?"
"I won't be playing crime reporter of the century, sweetheart," Robert grinned. "I am the crime reporter of the century. Now you just wiggle into the bedroom and climb into our big king-sized bed. I'll join you in there just as soon as I can."
"Like three o'clock in the morning, maybe," Patricia sighed, her eyes following her husband as he started for the front door.
"So? That's as good a time as any to pick up where we left off. Besides, by then you should have regained all that energy you say you lost during our sex scuffle. We'll have ourselves a wild and woolly fuck, luv."
"Hey, come back here!" Patricia shouted as her husband pulled open the door. "You forgot to kiss me good-bye."
Robert grinned and walked quickly back to his near-nude wife. He pecked her on the cheek and gave her left boob a tender squeeze. "That'll have to hold you until I get back, princess. Now get some clothes on before I have on of my police friends arrest you for indecent exposure."
After giving Patricia a playful swat on her delightfully-rounded rump, he turned and started once more for the front door. No sooner did he grip the doorknob than his wife called out his name. With a heavy sigh he turned around to face her.
"What is it this time, luv?"
"You didn't tell me the name that was on the medal the police found near the body."
"Arnold Torninger," Robert said quickly, eager now to be on his way. He wanted to learn from Adam and Charlie all that he could regarding this latest slaying. It was too late to make the deadline for tomorrow's second edition. But if he hurried he could get all the pertinent facts and file his story in time for the third. After all, he thought, he had an obligation to his faithful readers-all of whom no doubt enjoyed spending a leisurely Sunday reading about a savage sex murder.
"Torninger ... Arnold Torninger," Patricia repeated slowly, her lovely brow furrowing. "I don't remember having heard or seen that name.
No, I never "Well, you can thank your lucky stars that you never bumped into him, beautiful. Now let me go, huh. Adam is going to give me a rundown on this latest murder and if I'm fast enough I-"
"I know, I know," Patricia broke in. "The byline-the all-important by-line."
"It helps pay the rent, sweetheart. See you later."
"Oh, Robert."
Robert groaned and once again turned to face his wife. "Dammit, honey, I'm in a hurry. What the hell is it this time."
"Well, if you'd rather I didn't talk to you," Patricia said, pretending to be hurt by her husband's abruptness.
"Of course not, baby. Out with it now. What did you want to tell me?"
"Well, I was just going to suggest that before you leave you...."
"For pete's sake, baby, get on with it."
Patricia brightened, her face taking on the wickedly mischievious smile of a little girl about to shock her playmate with a naughty revelation. "I just think it would be a good idea," she began, "if before you meet Adam and Charlie you stuff your pecker back in your pants. Indecent exposure, you know."
Mouth agape, Robert looked down to see his prick, now as limp as a large, wet noodle, dangling from his opened fly.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Adam Gallagher was sitting at his desk reviewing some notes when Robert Granger arrived at the station house. Without taking his eyes from the sheet of paper he reached for the container of coffee. He found it and took a sip. Over the rim of the container he saw the wave of the Herald-Times' crack crime reporter.
Robert approached his friend's desk and grinningly asked, "Is that scotch or bourbon you've got in there?"
Adam swallowed and set the container back down on his desk. He smiled. "Just some good, old-fashioned coffee, Bob. Grab that chair over there and sit down. You sure as hell made good time."
Robert quickly fetched the chair and brought it back to Adam's desk. "I wanted to get here before our sick friend committed another murder," he explained with a smile, as he settled himself on the hard seat of the chair. "This makes number six, doesn't it? Or have I lost count?"
Adam nodded. "Six is right, Bob. I hope I didn't take you away from anything at home, but I figured you'd be very interested in the medal. It's given us the spark we've needed."
"I can imagine, Adam. No, you didn't take me away from anything I can't finish when I return home." Robert smiled, remembering the mock rape he and his gorgeous wife had acted out and the impish grin on her face when she told him to tuck his tool back in his slacks.
"How's Patricia?" Adam asked, smiling knowingly as if able to read his friend's thoughts.
"Good-very good, thanks. And Laura?"
"Just fine."
"That's great." Robert reached inside his sport jacket and took out a small note pad and pencil. Flipping back the cover on the pad, he said, "All right, pal, now if you'll just lay it on me-and right from the beginning."
"Well, you have the dead girl's name, right? I gave it to you over the phone."
"Uh huh. Let me just get the correct spelling, Adam. That was Diane ... Caterville. C-a-t-e-rv-i-l-l-e. Is that right?"
"You got it."
"Who discovered the body? What was that wino's name?"
"Becker ... Fred Becker. Says he had just finished off a pint when he left the park bench and stumbled over the body."
Robert smiled and shook his head. "It's amazing he could see anything in the condition he was in. Now when exactly was the girl discovered, Adam? You said over the phone-"
"About four hours ago," Adam interrupted, looking at his wristwatch. "That would be around ... seven-fifteen."
"Seven-fifteen? And you waited all this time to clue me in? For shame, Lieutenant."
Adam grinned. "Hard as it may be for you reporters to believe, the fact of the matter is that I do have other things to do besides worrying about your damn stories."
"All right, you're forgiven," Robert chuckled. "Now how long had the girl been dead?"
"Until the medical report is in I can only give you a rough estimate."
Robert shrugged. "Rough is better than nothing."
"Well, doc thinks Miss Caterville was murdered sometime between five and six."
"Really? Then the body was still warm when discovered. Mmmmm ... late afternoon. Well, that's reasonable. It was already dark at that time and-"
"Just take down the facts, pal," Adam broke in, "and leave the deducing to us detectives."
"Well that's a fine thing to say," Robert grinned. "It would appear that you've forgotten my many contributions to the cause over the last five, six years. I recall digging up information for you that led to the arrest and conviction of at least-"
"I know, I know. And we're most appreciative, buddy. That's why I phoned you when I had the chance, and that's why I'm granting you this personal interview. You don't think I treat every reporter in this town this good, do you?"
"Any of the other guys know anything?"
"You're referring to your fellow newspapermen."
"Yeah."
Adam shook his head. "A few buzzed over to the park when they heard about Becker's grisly discovery but I refused to comment."
Robert smiled. "That's why I like you, Adam. You have a real nice style."
"Sure. That and a hundred and fifty bucks will buy me a good suit. Now then, where were we?"
"Mmmm, let's see ... oh, yeah, fill me in on the medal. What are you doing about this guy Torninger? I suppose you've got-hey, by the way, where's Charlie?"
"At the morgue."
Robert grinned. "Is that how he gets his kicks these days-viewing the remains of a butchered body?"
"One of Miss Caterville's neighbors agreed to come down and give us a positive identification. The guy showed up about ten minutes before you did and Charlie took him to the morgue."
"I see. This guy clean or...."
"Yeah. He was just acquainted with the dead girl. They would meet in the building and exchange greetings-you know, that kind of stuff. I guess he figures he's doin' his civic duty by coming down here and-"
"But how'd he know Miss Caterville was dead?"
Adam grinned. "Always fishing, aren't you?"
"I take after my wife," Robert explained smiling. "Wait till you hear her opinion of your discovery of that medal. But answer my question, will you? Isn't it a bit strange that-"
"Not at all. Miss Caterville lived right across the street from the park. In fact, her body was found less than a hundred yards from the entrance to the apartment building. The blaring police sirens attracted a large crowd at the scene of the crime and-"
"And this guy," Robert broke in, "Just happened to be in the vicinity-in his apartment, maybe. So, his curiosity aroused, he pops across the street for a look see. All right, I'll buy that."
Adam chuckled. "Good, I'm glad. Now, shall we continue with Torninger and the medal?"
"By all means, Adam. Listen, any chance of my taking a quick peek at the thing?"
"Not now at any rate. I gave it to the lab boys as soon as we got back to the station. They're going over the medal with a fine tooth comb. Not that I expect to learn anything more, but-"
"What more do you need, man? You've got the killer's name."
Adam brightened. "And that's not all, friend. "There was an inscription of the medal and...."
As Robert continued taking notes, Adam explained, with considerable enjoyment, the obvious importance of the medal found near Diane Caterville's brutally mutilated body. There was no doubt in his mind that the medal belonged to the killer. It had apparently popped out of a pocket as Torninger struggled With his startled sixth victim.
"Torninger ... no, it just doesn't ring a bell," Robert said, his brow furrowing as he tried to match the name with a face. "On the way over here I tried to place that name, but ... no, I'm sure I don't recognize it. Even the fact that he's apparently some kind of movie director doesn't help. I'm afraid I'm not too familiar with the world of show biz, Adam."
"Nor am I," the Lieutenant said, "so don't feel too bad. What matters is that now I have my killer's name and present or former occupation."
"Former occupation?"
Adam nodded. "That medal was awarded to Torninger in 1960. He's been carrying it around for twelve years, Bob. And from the condition it was in when we found it, I'd say he's very fond of the medal. It appears to have been polished regularly."
"Well if that's the case, then it's possible our madman might return to the park to retrieve the damn thing."
"Possible but not very likely. I have a man stationed at the park just in case, but I doubt that Torninger would be stupid enough to risk capture-even if he does treasure the medal."
Robert shrugged. "The guy's a psycho, pal. Who knows what the hell he'll do next." He thought for a few seconds, then added, "It could be he doesn't yet know the medal was lost."
"Yeah, could be." Adam said disinterestedly.
"Is this guy Torninger clean? Does he have a record of any kind? Any convictions?"
"I checked that out immediately. He's as clean as a whistle."
"You've got an A.P.B. out on him, of course."
"Of course, fellow crime fighter," Adam said, a grin breaking over his rough-hewn face.
"Evers didn't turn up anything, huh?"
Adam shook his head. "Nope, not a thing. He and Tim Sloane checked out every damn loony bin in the country, beginning with those in this state."
"No recent escapes? No patients discharged within the-"
"Not a single substantial lead," Adam broke in. "There were fourteen escape attempts and fourteen rather fast captures. Thirty-four patients were discharged recently but not one could be tied to the killings. Needless to say, the name Torninger was on none of the lists we received from the institutions."
"Which means he has no history of mental trouble. That's too bad."
"Well, it might have made things a little easier. But like I say, now that we've got our man's name it's only a matter of time before we bring him in. Charlie is leaving for Hollywood first thing tomorrow morning. I expect him to ask a million questions and come back with a detailed biography of Mr. Arnold Torninger."
Robert smiled. "All right if I put that in the story?"
Adam shrugged. "Sure, why not? I had planned to ask you not to mention that we had found the medal with Torninger's name on it. But on second thought I can't see it doing any harm. It might even be of some help."
"Sure. Could be that somebody who knew Torninger real well will read my piece and pay you a little visit." Robert suddenly chuckled. "Torninger himself might even read it and realize the game is up."
"And come in here and give himself up, right?"
"Like I say, the man's a psycho, Adam. No one can tell what he'll decide to do next."
"It's not going to be that easy, pal," Adam smiled. "The day a psychopath walks in here and admits to multiple murder is the day I start attending church again."
"Yeah," Robert chuckled softly, "I suppose you're right." He turned his attention to the small note pad in his left hand and quickly studied the notes he had taken. Then, looking up again, he said, "Have you come up with some idea about those damn pink ribbons? Of what significance are they to Torninger do you think?"
Adam shrugged. "Beats me, Bob. We found another one tonight and-here, it's in my desk." He pulled open the small, top-left drawer of his desk and pulled out a pink ribbon, then tossed it into the desk top. "There you go-same color and size as the five others we took off the murdered women."
"Not like collecting stamps, is it?" Robert asked, a small grin on his face as he picked up the ribbon and studied it. "Sure as hell is puzzling, Adam. I can understand his choice of color-pink for girls. But the ribbon...."
"Well," Adam said, pushing his chair back from the desk and standing up, "you can be sure I'll ask our Mr. Torninger about them when I have him in custody. Meanwhile, maybe one of your blood-thirsty readers will come up with an answer."
"Don't sell them short, pal," Robert smiled, flipping the ribbon back on the Lieutenant's desk. "One doesn't need a badge to put a piece of a puzzle into its proper place."
Adam grinned. "Listen, I'm going down to the lab and see what's what on that medal. So if you'll excuse me...."
"Mind if I tag along?" Robert asked, getting quickly to his feet.
Adam took the ribbon from his desk and put it back in the small drawer. "I thought you had a story to write, fella. What about that all-important deadline?"
"Now you sound like my wife," Robert grinned. "I'll just spend a few minutes with you in the lab and then take off. That's if you have no objections."
Adam shrugged. "No, I guess it'll be all right. Just promise not to touch anything-look all you like, but don't grab."
Robert chuckled. "You know something, pal? That's exactly what Patricia kept telling me for months after we met. All right, I promise not to lay my filthy hands on anything."
"Good man. Let's get a move-oh, here's Charlie."
"How are you, Charley? How's the corpose?"
"Dead, Mr. Granger," Charlie Raster answered with a weary smile, as he approached his partner and the crime reporter. "Very, very dead. This guy takes one look at what's left of Diane Caterville and mumbles somethin' about having to vomit. And I can't say that I blame him."
Charlie, I think you should go home and get a few hours sleep," Adam said. "You've got a full day ahead of you tomorrow."
"Yeah, think I'll do just that, Adam. Brother, you'd think a guy like me, somebody with all this seniority, wouldn't have to work on a Sunday. It isn't fair, I tell you. It just isn't fair."
"I'll put in a good word for you with the Captain," Adam smiled.
"And I'll put your name in my story, Charlie," Robert added.
The heavy-set Sergeant grunted. "Just what I've always wanted. Well, since I'm not goin' to get any sympathy from you two I may as well cut out. I'll see you in the morning before I leave for Hollywood, Adam."
"Very good, Charlie."
"Who knows, Charlie," Robert said grinning, "you might be discovered by some hot-shot producer."
"Oh, that's funny, Robert," Charlie said. "You should be writing comic strips instead of covering crime."
With that the Sergeant turned and walked away.
"Good man," Robert said with conviction, his grin fading.
"One of the best," Adam agreed. "If anybody can dig up info on Arnold Torninger, Charlie Raster can. Well come on, let's see what the lab boys have come up with-if anything."
"You know," Robert began, as he put away his note pad and started after the Lieutenant, "I have a psychiatrist friend who just might be of some help here. First chance I get I'm going to pay him a visit. Maybe he can explain the pink ribbons."
Adam smiled. "I'm sure it would surprise you to learn that I've already spoken to a very competent psychologist."
Robert shrugged. "Well, no harm in my seeing another, is there? I mean, when a patient is ill he usually likes to get the opinion of more than one doctor. That way-"
"I know, I know," Adam interrupted. "I read you loud and clear. Go right ahead and see this psychiatrist friend of yours. And if he comes up with something, maybe you'll be kind enough to pass it on to me before you plaster it on the front page of the Herald-Times."
"You have my word, pal," Robert grinned.
"I'm a man with a strong sense of loyality. Screw you and I blow my chance for future scoops, right?"
"Right, fellow crime fighter," Adam said, returning his friend's grin as he held open the office door. "Now if you could just do something about those typographers at the paper. Nine times out of ten my name is spelled wrong. Tell them once and for all that's it's Gallagher, will you? That's G-a-l-l-a ... "
Charlie Raster arrived home to find his forty-year-old-wife, Marjorie, still very much awake. She was sitting up in bed, her back propped by two pillows, and her eyes were glued to the television screen. A glass of milk sat on the night stand next to the double bed and on the bed itself, just to Marjorie's right, was a small platter of open-faced sandwiches.
Another night at the movies, Charlie thought, as he carefully made his way into the darkened room. He had let himself in the small but tastefully-furnished three and a half room apartment, not wanting to disturb his wife should she be sleeping-or viewing television in their bedroom.
In the kitchen he had made himself a ham and cheese and lettuce on rye, washing it down with a cold can of beer. Then, feeling a bit less hungry but no less tired, he had doused the light in the kitchen and moved slowly through the apartment to the bedroom.
Now, having blown his wife a kiss-one she returned with a bright smile-Charlie slipped noiselessly over to his side of the bed and started to undress. A small smile crept over his round face as he removed his suit jacket and draped it over the back of a nearby straight chair.
Marjorie just loved movies, he thought, his fingers fumbling with the knot of his tie. Old films, new films, comedies, dramas, monster flicks, mysteries, action-adventure tales, horror stories replete with three-headed ogres, it made not a bit of difference. His wife just ate them up-even the cartoons.
He wondered what she was viewing at the moment. Whatever it was, romance, murder mystery, or what have you, the flick was enjoying his wife's undivided attention. There she was in bed, the lightweight, ten inch portable resting comfortably on her lower belly, supported by her bent legs, her eyes not straying from the action unfolding on the small screen-even when she reached for a sandwich.
It didn't bother Charlie that his wife of twenty-one years had not yet outgrown her childish infatuation with the cinema, that instead of rushing to greet him at the front door with a big kiss she preferred to remain in front of the boob tube, totally enthralled by the make-believe antics of the actors.
When a man has been married to the same woman for over a score of years, Charlie reasoned, he can't expect to be treated like a dashing knight just returned from battle, like a handsome prince who comes to court a fair maiden. No, those days were gone-certainly not forgotten, but gone.
Not that he had ever been the elegantly-attired, immaculately-groomed, good-looking stud. Yet Marjorie had found him to her liking, he thought, as he peeled out of his trousers and laid them across the seat of the straight chair. Perhaps she had been excited by his position of policeman-he had been walking a beat in those days-and he supposed she found a certain charm in his occasionally gruff and sometimes uncouth behavior.
In any event, Marjorie had fallen for him and he had made, at age twenty-eight, that important commitment. And now, at age forty-nine, he could look back and in all honesty say he had not a single regret. He loved Marjorie as much now as he had during their wild and woolly honeymoon in the Virgin Islands. Perhaps more.
True, his wife was not the same five foot two inch, always happy little tease he had screwed passionately on their wedding night. She had put on some weight during the years and her brown hair, which up to a few years ago enjoyed the weekly ministrations of a loving hairdresser, now appeared rather mousy and unkempt. Her face had filled out so that it was now more round than oval, and her fanny, which at one time was large but firm, was now simply large.
But while changing physically, Marjorie had retained her sense of humor, her bubbling, not-to-be-ignored effervescence. She still looked at life through warm brown eyes that twinkled merrily, seeing the good and reveling in it and dismissing the bad as something that was needed, unfortunately, for balance.
When Charlie had stripped down to his undershirt and shorts, he climbed onto the bed and maneuvered his rather bulky body close to his wife, who sat munching on a sandwich and staring wide-eyed at the television screen in what seemed a mesmeric trance. He leaned over and pecked her on the left cheek.
Marjorie didn't budge an inch.
"Hi, honey," Charlie said softly. "How's the movie?"
"W-What? Oh, hi, honey." Marjorie gave her smiling husband a sloppy, salami-scented kiss, then quickly turned back to the small boob tube.
"I asked you if you were enjoying the film, baby."
"Yes, it's a dandy, Charlie," Marjorie answered, not turning away from the screen. "It'll be over in just a minute. The police are about to catch the creep who's been terrorizing a small community in-oh, look at that. I think he's going to kill himself before they can ... oh, my."
Charlie grinned. "That reminds me, baby," he said softly, "we got a big break in the case this evening. Adam found a-"
"No!" Marjorie suddenly shouted at the television screen. "Don't do it, you ugly creep. Committing suicide is the easy way ... oh, look at that, Charlie. He plunged a knife into his stomach, the stinking coward."
"Guess he thought it was better than the electric chair, baby," Charlie said, turning his attention to the tube. "What did this clown do to deserve your hatred?"
"He went around throwing lye into the face of every pretty female he met."
"Oh, is that all? I thought maybe-"
"See, here come the police," Marjorie interrupted. "Too late as usual."
Charlie chuckled. Realizing any attempt to talk to his wife while her program was on would prove futile, he adjusted the pillows be hind his back and squirmed into a more comfortable position. He yawned loudly and quickly mumbled an apology, then, while Marjorie voiced her disapproval of the film's ending, he closed his eyes and contemplated the discovery Adam had made earlier in the evening.
Less than a minute later, his wife was turning off the small set and nudging him in the ribs.
"Oh, is the movie over, baby?"
"It's over, hon," Marjorie answered, putting the empty platter on the night stand. "It was very exciting-except the end, that is. I don't like to see the criminal get away with suicide."
Charlie smiled. "What was the name of this epic?"
"'Danger in the Dark.' It was one of Arnold Torninger's best movies but-"
"What was that?" Charlie broke in, suddenly wide-eyed and not at all sleepy. "Who did you say was in the movie?" p "Not in, darling," Marjorie gently chided her husband. "Arnold Torninger was a director not an actor. He made some of the scariest horror movies I've ever seen. Kinda sexy, too, but of course they edit out all the real juicy parts for the television audience."
Charlie swallowed with some difficulty and pushed himself up until he was sitting erect in the bed, his back propped by the pillows. "I don't believe it," he murmured. "It's ... it's too much of a coincidence."
"Well, it's the truth, darling. If you don't believe me, I'll dig out some of my old movie magazines and-"
"No, it's not that, baby, but ... did you hear me earlier when I said we had just about cracked the rape-murder case?"
"Yes, but what does that have to do with Arnold Torninger?"
"Everything, baby. Simply everything."
"Explain, please," Marjorie said, smiling as she sat up higher in bed so that she could talk comfortably with her husband.
"Another woman was found brutally beaten this evening," Charlie began quickly. "Some old wino found her in Cloverdale Park."
"Oh, no. Not another one."
"Yes, another one. But what matters is that at the scene of the murder Adam found a medal with the killer's name on it."
"That's wonderful, hon, but I still don't-"
"The name on that medal was Arnold Torninger."
Marjorie gasped. "No, I can't believe it. Are you serious?"
"I was never more serious, baby. The medal was given to him in 1960 at a film festival-a Danish film festival."
"And you think he's responsible for all these bloody sex murders?"
Charlie nodded rapidly. "I'm leaving for Hollywood tomorrow morning to dig up all that I can on Torninger. And you know something? I probably would have left without asking you about the guy. Here I am, married for twenty-one years to a movie nut, and I don't think it would have occurred to me to find out what you know about a Hollywood film director. Jeez, I must be slipping."
"I just can't get it into my head that Arnold Torninger is the madman who's been committing these beastly crimes."
"He's goin' to need one helluva iron-clad alibi when we catch up to him, baby. Now I want you to tell me all you can about this character. Then I'll have something to work with when I arrive in Hollywood and start asking my questions."
"Well, I really don't know all that much about him, " Marjorie began. "Up until about ten years ago he was a fairly successful director of horror films. He packed a lot of sexually explicit scenes into his movies, although it was nothing like the sex we see on screen these days. Some of the movie magazine writers hinted at the idea that Torninger was making blue movies on the side--just to get back at the censors who were deleting the hot stuff from his aboveground features."
"You say this was about ten years ago?"
"Yeah, about that."
"Well what happened then?"
"Torninger disappeared," Marjorie answered, reaching for her half-full glass of milk.
"Disappeared?"
Marjorie swallowed and set the glass back down on the night stand. "Yep, disappeared. He just dropped out of sight and hasn't been heard from since. Until now, that is."
"Didn't the gossip columnists suggest where he might be? I mean the sudden disappearence of a well-known film director would be right up their alley. The movie magazines must have milked a story like that to death."
"There wasn't all that much to milk, hon," Marjorie explained. Sure, everybody and his brother-in-law thought he knew for certain where Torninger was, but nobody ever established contact with him. After a while the magazines stopped running stories on his vanishing act and moved on to juicier subjects. I think most people were of the opinion that Torninger had killed himself and that one day his remains would be found."
Charlie frowned. "What reason would a guy like that have to end it all. He had money, didn't he? And a certain fame?"
"True, but I remember reading somewhere that he wasn't happy with the film reviewers in this country. He thought they were out to get him for some reason or other. I think he said once that the critics were jealous of his talent and wanted to destroy his career," Marjorie shrugged. "I don't know. I thought his movies were pretty darn good."
"That's not much of a motive for suicide, baby. He didn't like the critics and the critics didn't like his work. So what? A man doesn't kill himself just because he thinks he's getting a raw deal from a few people."
"Well, there was something else disturbing him, Charlie."
"What was that?"
"The movie magazines ran quite a few stories about his relationship with his leading ladies. Most of the women who starred in his films said Torninger was impossible to work with and that they tried to avoid him whenever possible. They said he was difficult and arrogant and always forcing his attentions on them."
"Was he?" Charlie asked.
Marjorie shrugged and smiled. "I don't know, hon. What I'm telling you now is straight out of movie magazaines. Could be the writers exaggerated and blew the whole thing way out of proportion."
"What was Torninger's reaction to all this?"
"Needless to say, he didn't think very highly of his leading ladies. I remember one article in which he implied they were all uppity, talent-less bitches who needed to be slapped to their respective senses. He said he didn't know of one so-called star who could take three steps forward without being shown how by a director like himself."
"Mmmm, how 'bout that," Charlie said thoughtfully. "It's very obvious that our Mr. Torninger didn't like being ignored by his beautiful leading ladies. That could explain the savagery of his murders, couldn't it? A vindictive former film director comes out of hiding to viciously slay those who, he feels, humiliated him by rejecting his amorous overtures. But why wait ten long years for revenge?"
"That's not the only question that needs an answer, hon," Marjorie said smiling. "There happens to be a major flaw in your reasoning. None of the females murdered by Torninger ever appeared in a movie-let alone one directed by him."
Charlie nodded slowly. "True, very true. But I'd be willing to bet now that each victim bore a strong resemblance to one of his leading ladies. If that's so, then Torninger is crazier than we all suspected."
Marjorie thought for a moment, then said, "Isn't it strange that you didn't come up with one tiny lead during your visits to all those mental institutions?"
"It is curious, baby. On the other hand, Torninger may never have been committed. Could be that the pressure built up during his ten year exile and he finally exploded."
"Whoooo, it's frightening," Marjorie said, shuddering as she hugged herself. "If Torninger is guilty-and it looks now as if he is-I hope you catch him fast. Before he can add another poor female to his list."
Charlie smiled wanly and then turned quiet. He turned over in his mind what his wife had just told him, a faint feeling of satisfaction beginning to suffuse him as he realized that, while Torninger was still at large, the pieces were now beginning to fit. The police had a name, a better-than-average motive, and a damning piece of evidence that would hold up in court. All that remained, as Marjorie had just said, was to corral Arnold Torninger before he could vent his sick vengeance on another hapless female.
"You know, Charlie, I just thought of something else," Marjorie said suddenly, intruding on her husband's thoughts.
"Out with it, baby."
"The ribbons-those pink ribbons that Torninger leaves as his calling card. Dammit, why didn't I think of this before? I've been following the story in the newspapers and I never once made the connection."
"What connection, honey?" Charlie asked impatiently. "What do you know about the pink ribbons?"
Marjorie turned to her husband. "Each of Torninger's leading ladies wore a pink ribbon in her hair for the duration of the film. Torninger insisted on it. It was his trademark-something he figured would distinguish his films from all the rest. The pink ribbon was synonymous with his work. It was Arnold Torninger's signature!"
CHAPTER EIGHT
Her heart pounding furiously, a scorching scream anchored in the dry well of her throat, Patricia Granger tightened her grip on the steering wheel and, as directed, pressed down on the accelerator until the 1968 Plymouth was traveling at a speed of fifty miles an hour.
She sat stiffly behind the wheel, her eyes glued to the expanse of highway straight ahead. She was afraid to move a muscle lest the razor-sharp knife, at the moment pressed menacingly against the creamy nape of her neck, under her flowing titian tresses, suddenly slipped and sliced into her tender flesh.
"Yeah, that's the good girl," Torninger snarled. "At least you know how to listen."
"Why are you doing this?" Patricia asked, her voice no more than a fragile whisper. "Please let me go now. If you let me stop the car and get-"
"You won't tell the cops about me," Torninger broke in, his words coated with sarcasm. "Yeah, I know the routine by heart. Hell, all you broads must have hired the same screenwriter. There isn't much originality in your whining promises, that's for certain."
"But it's true-I mean it," Patricia countered quickly. "I'll leave you the car keys and you can go wherever you like. You can keep the car. I don't care, believe me. Just let me get out and I'll hitch a ride home. Please, I don't mean anything to you."
"Now that's where you're wrong, beautiful," Torninger growled, squirming his ass on the edge of the back seat and tightening his hot grip on the handle of the eight inch knife he was holding against the woman's neck. "You mean very much to me. Very, very much."
"No, that's not right. We've never met."
Torninger cackled. With his free hand he removed his glasses and slipped them back into the leather case hooked onto the inside pocket of his dull brown sport jacket. He looked out the window at the passing scenery and tried to estimate the distance to his destination.
"I said we've never met," Patricia persisted, as a small voice in the back of her mind warned her against pushing the demented Torninger too far. "I mean nothing to you-absolutely nothing. You've mistaken me for somebody else. I must look like some-"
"Now you just shut up, baby," Torninger snapped, cutting his captive off in mid-sentence.
"I'm fed up with all of this stupid chatter. From here on out I'll do the talking and you'll do the driving. You got that, Audrye?"
"Audrey? But my name isn't-"
"I said do you understand me!" Torninger shouted, grinding the dull edge of the knife blade into Patricia's neck.
"Y-Yes ... all right. I'll ... I'll do what you say."
"Good, that's more like it. Now this diner should be about five miles ahead. You just keep your pretty green eyes on the road and I'll watch for the diner."
"All right," Patricia said meekly.
Realizing the ultimate futility of further argument, the titian-tressed wife of Robert Granger, knowledgeable crime reporter, resolved to keep her mouth shut the rest of the way. To complain or argue anymore would be not only useless but also dangerous, she thought, as it might provoke him to make use of the wicked-looking knife now teasing the tiny hairs on her neck.
Patricia was still unable to believe that it was she who was in this terrifying, pulse-pounding predicament, that she was the one driving Arnold Torninger, a madman responsible for the savage slaying of half a dozen attractive women, to a run-down diner deserted by its owner years ago. And what fate, she wondered nervously, awaited her there.
It had all happened so quickly, with such unnerving speed. One minute she was putting her groceries on the front seat of the car, scooting in behind the wheel and slamming shut the door, and the next she was driving out of the parking lot, almost frozen by fear, the knife-wielding maniac instructing her to drive quickly but carefully to the county line and the deserted diner.
Why hadn't she taken the time to check the back seat before entering the Plymouth, Patricia asked herself now. Robert was forever telling her to be careful, to be on her guard at all times-especially now, in the wake of six maniacal murders. Had she peeked in the car window she would have seen the small man crouched on the floor like a wily animal, waiting to pounce the second she slid in behind the wheel and snapped the door lock.
Now it was too late. She was trapped. She remembered how casually she had told her husband that the name Arnold Torninger meant nothing to her. But it did now, she thought sadly. It did indeed. The hate-drenched slayer of six women was forcing her to drive to her destiny.
"We're almost there, baby," Torninger said, an evil grin basking on his face. "You and I are goin' to have ourselves a little feast."
"The pl-place is closed down," Patricia stammered. "You won't be able to get in."
"We'll get in, beautiful. Don't you worry about that. When we arrive at the diner I want you to pull into the lot next to it. We should be there in a few minutes."
"All right," Patricia said softly.
"And don't try anything foolish, sweetheart. The longer you do as I say, the longer you'll live. You understand me?"
"Y-Yes, I understand."
"Good ... very, very good."
Torninger turned quiet, then, his thoughts skipping back to his most recent murder as he looked out the window. Losing his most precious possession bothered him still, yet he realized that a return to Cloverdale Park to search for the silver medal would be extremely unwise.
Now, three days after surprising Diane Caterville in the park and savagely slashing her to ribbons, he was able to view the loss of his award with a degree of objectivity. Leaving the woman's bloodied, broken body in the park, behind a clump of bushes, he had returned to his small room in the old rooming house and there wept uncontrollably for two hours, unable to believe that he would lose the medal the very first time he carried it on him.
But helping to ease his disappointment was the thought of murdering the next female on his list, Patricia Granger. He approached her murder as he had the others-with vindictive glee and diabolical cunning. He had observed Patricia's movements closely and learned, by eavesdropping, that she liked to do the bulk of her weekly shopping on Wednesday afternoons.
Taking advantage of her forgetfulness, he had simply opened the unlocked back door of the auto and positioned himself on the floor. And now he was once again in command of the situation, ready, willing and able to kill his seventh victim.
"Yeah, there it is," he said suddenly, pointing toward a rusty, weather-beaten old structure on the right, some seventy-five feet from the lip of the road. "Pull right on in, beautiful. By now you must be a little hungry."
Patricia did as she had been told, stopping the car at the side of the crumbling diner. Torninger reached over the front seat and turned off the ignition, then quickly opened the back door and climbed out of the auto. Seconds later, he was yanking open the front door on the driver's side and ordering Patricia out.
"Please, don't hurt me. I haven't done-"
"Shut up, cunt!" Torninger barked. "Just start marchin' around to the back of this dump.
There's a door in back-I cased the damn place earlier."
Yes, there was a door, Patricia thought. One that would enable them to enter the diner without being seen by passing motorists. It was pathetically ironic that she and Robert had eaten at this diner on several occasions. Now she had returned to ... to what?
"Yeah, I like your outfit, baby," Torninger said, grinning as he followed close behind the titian-tressed beauty, knife in one hand and the evil-looking whip strapped to his left leg, musketeer fashion. "But you always did know how to dress, didn't you? Those sexy duds of yours always turned me on."
Suddenly conscious of her attire, Patricia silently berated herself for dressing so provocatively. In truth, she had worn the same garments a number of times without stopping to reflect on their effect on others, but now she felt miserably obscene when she realized that, to the denomic Torninger, she must look like a wild whore.
Once inside the dilapidated diner, Torninger grabbed Patricia's left arm and steered her over to the front of the counter. He smiled wickedly as he placed his knife on one of the stools and then removed the whip from his leg. Her humiliation was going to be delicious, he thought gleefully. Simply delicious.
Patricia stood as if frozen to the spot, unable to tear her eyes from the pearl-hand whip with its ten inch straps and the eight inch carving knife. With petrifying horror, as if the terrifying truth of her situation was suddenly made known in a split second of blinding revelation, revelation, she realized that both sinister objects were meant for her. She tried to move, to run, but, like one in the grip of a horrible nightmare, found fear hugging her feet and making them all but useless.
"Tight-fitting, bright yellow blouse, black velvet, ass-hugging pants, low heel white shoes-the perfect attire for a sexy broad," Torninger said thoughtfully, his beady eyes roaming over his voluptuous victim. "No doubt you select your clothes to complement your shining red hair and your green eyes. Am I right, slut?"
Patricia didn't answer. For the first time she became aware of the musty odor of the deserted diner. She found it hard to realize that the popular eating spot was once brimming with life, that couples with children had sat in sparkling booths enjoying good food reasonably priced. Layers of dust now covered the counter and bare shelves. The vinyl-top swivel stools, which ran from one of the counter to the other, were torn, tattered by time.
There was about the place an eerie silence, as if lurking somewhere, perhaps in back, in the kitchen, were the ghosts of the cook, the countermen, the fetchingly-attired, cute waitresses. They were all awaiting their cue, donning those plastic smiles which accompanied the serving of the food.
The quiet, the deathly quiet-it was not the kind of place to die in, Patricia thought, pure panic gripping her as she imagined Robert finding her mutilated body in this crumbling old diner, choking back tears as he encountered her bloody remains. She looked quickly to her right, toward the large windows, only to discover that they were still boarded up.
"Like a rat in a trap, aren't you, cunt?" Torninger grinned. "To leave this place you have to get past me. And that is not about to happen, I assure you."
"Please, I'm begging you. Let me go. Listen to reason, Mr. Torninger. Sooner or later the police-"
"Now you know what frustration feels like," Torninger scowled, the ugly grin vanishing from his face. "Now you know what it's like to want and not be able to get. It's not very pleasant, is it?"
"You're insane!" Patricia shouted suddenly, the tears that had welled in her eyes now beginning to trickle down her cheeks. "You don't know what you're talking about. You don't know me. We've never even met. You're just using me to vent your anger-"
"Strip, bitch!" Torninger yelled at the top of his lungs. He reached out and wrapped his right around the gleaming handle of the carving knife. "And do it this very instant. This very instant!"
The sheer frenzy of the madman's outburst quickly returned Patricia to a state of quiescent obedience. Slowly, with fumbling fingers, she began to remove her clothes, her fear-cloaked mind racing as she sought an escape route. And now Torninger was again grinning at her, mocking her nervousness.
He was the perfect example of a man gone mad, Patricia thought miserably, tossing her blouse aside to reveal beautiful breasts snugly encased in a soft pink brassiere. The unbalanced assumed different personalities faster than a chameleon changed colors. Ever so quickly did a smile replace a frown, a smirk chase away somber expression a crude laugh dispel tears. One never knew, could never know, exactly what an insane person was thinking. Isn't that what Robert had told her when discussing the series of savage slayings?
"Now get over here, bitch," Torninger snarled.
Naked now, her clothes lying in a heap on the floor, Patricia slowly bridged the distance between herself and her tormentor. She stood facing him, debating the wisdom of suddenly shoving him out of the way and bolting for the back door. No, it wouldn't work, she decided. He would catch her and chop her body up into little pieces before she reached the car.
"My, what a pretty pussy you have, Audrey."
Patricia recoiled at Torninger's touch, a look of disdain forming immediately on her face when his bony right hand closed over her crotch. At his command she spread her legs further apart, then silently suffered the gross indignity of a pussy patting by a demented, scurrilous stranger.
"I use to lie awake nights thinking of touching you like this, Audrey," Torninger said, continuing his not-too-gentle exploration of the titian-tressed female's copper-colored sex nest, his long, thin fingers slipping between the dry folds of her pussy lips. "I dreamed you were bare-assed naked, your luscious body quivering with desire. And I was there to satisfy your lust."
Audrey-she was obviously a woman from Torninger's past, Patricia thought. But who? An actress, perhaps. Yes, that was probably it. Robert had filled her in on the former director's life, explaining that it was Charlie Raster's wife, Marjorie, who had supplied much of the information. Thanks to Marjorie, the police now knew almost all they had to know about one Arnold Torninger. And when he returned from Hollywood, Charlie would add to the store of knowledge.
But none of this was of much value to her right now, Patricia thought, wincing when the wily madman poked a finger up into her dry sex chute. There was certainly no point in trying to argue with Torninger and make him see the error of his ways. One couldn't converse intelligently with a vile, vindictive lunatic.
"Turn around now, cunt," Torninger ordered, giving his beautiful victim's cunt a cruel squeeze. "I want to get a real close look at your sweet ass."
Patricia slowly turned her back to her captor. Seconds later, she heard the rustle of clothes and realized that he was beginning to strip. She clenched her fists at her sides and wondered nervously what perversity she would be required to perform. Then, remembering the six women Torninger had already butchered, an involuntary shiver of fear rippled up her spine.
"Why are you so afraid of me, Audrey?" Torninger asked in a soothing tone of voice. "I love you, remember? You and I are here to enjoy each other, baby. No harm will-"
"D-Do what you want to me," Patricia interrupted, "and then let me go. Please ... I'll do anything you ask if-"
"Of course you will," Torninger chuckled lewdly. "And you'll love doing it, I know." Having slipped out of his sport coat and tossed it over a stool, pushed down his trousers and shorts so the two garments formed a rumpled heap at his feet, he now shuffled forward to stand directly behind his redheaded captive.
"N-No ... don't," Patricia stammered, thoroughly repulsed by the feel of the demented former director as he pressed in close behind her, his greedy, clutching hands slipping around to her front to close over her magnificent mamillaries.
"Oh, is the beautiful lady suddenly shy? Why is that, Audrey? You've known me for a long time. You know how I feel about you, I'm sure. Mmmmm ... isn't this nice. Can you feel my cock against your pretty derriere?"
Patricia could indeed feel her captor's prick in the dark crevice of her voluptuous ass. Much to her dismay she realized that Torninger's tool was thickening quickly, that it would soon be hard enough for the cruel copulation he no doubt had in mind.
"You're a big girl," Torninger said softly, grinding his middle into Patricia's bottom as he squirmed against her back and continued mauling the gelatinous globes of her creamy breasts. "You're a big, beautiful girl. You need a lot of loving, baby. I'm going to teach you some interesting, exciting tricks. Would you like that?"
You sadistic son-of-a-bitch, Patricia thought.
Torninger grinned satanically. "Yes, I know you will. We're going to fuck and suck the night away, sweetheart. Right here in this old diner. Doesn't this place bring back memories, Audrey?"
Patricia again refused to answer.
"Well it should, baby. I had a diner like this one constructed on the set, remember? It was for your big scene in 'Deadly Desire,' that we built a replica of an old, deserted diner. You met your lover there and made mad, passionate love. And then ... then he killed you because he knew one day you'd be untrue. It was just your nature."
"Stop this ... please," Patricia pleaded, her voice an urgent, frightened whimper. "You're man ... so pathetically mad."
Torninger stopped squirming up against his naked captive and stepped back. He took hold of her left arm and gently turned her around so that she was again facing him. Then, as an ugly scowl slid over his face, he drew back his right hand and whipped it across her mouth.
"Aiee!" Patricia shrieked, stumbling backward.
"I'll tolerate no snotty remarks, do you hear, cunt? You will obey me completely or else. This isn't like it was in Hollywood, Audrey, when you could walk off the set in a huff if something I did or said displeased you. You can't go to your dressing room and sulk like a child. No, my beautiful redheaded bitch, I'm calling the shots now. All of them."
Patricia wiped her mouth and then looked at her hand. She was bleeding. Torninger's wicked wallop had knocked loose a tooth and now blood was trickling out of her mouth and sliding slowly down her chin in tiny rivulots.
"Now get on your knees, Audrey," Torninger cracked. "You're about to learn what it's like to kiss ass."
Still somewhat shaky from the sudden blow, a tearful Patricia dropped to her knees in front of the demented Torninger. Staring her in the face was his cock. It was a pulsating column of rigid flesh, an ugly, heavily-veined length of solid meat ready to be shoved with vindictive glee into one of her orifices.
An evil smile suddenly appeared on Torninger's face. He wound his bony fingers in Patricia's long red hair and waved his tumescent tool under her nose. Later, he thought, he would savor the feel of her lovely lips wrapped hotly around his rock-hard pecker, but right now he had another use for those full, sensuous lips.
"Do you know what you're going to do, Audrey?" he asked, pulling on Patricia's hair so that she was forced to look up at him. "Would you care to venture a guess?"
"N-No," Patricia answered.
Torninger cackled. "I'll tell you, sweetheart. You're going to eat out my asshole. Yes, that's right. I'm going to turn around and bend over and you're going to treat my filthy asshole to a real nice reaming."
"No-please, no," Patricia whimpered, the very idea of putting her lips and tongue on her tormentor's anus making her nauseous.
"Yes, yes, yes," Torninger grinned. "You're going to suck my asshole until I tell you to stop. Then I'll think of other equally interesting things for you to do. Now, are you ready?"
Once again the thought of an escape attempt darted to Patricia's fear-cloaked mind. But out of the comer of her eye she saw the whip and knife on the stool. She shuddered, realizing that her chance of surviving this heinous ordeal was less than minute. Her one slim hope of getting out alive rested in her ability to surprise Torninger, to make a dash for freedom when he dropped his guard. He would come after her with the knife, she thought, but she would just have to take her chances.
"I asked if you were ready to suck me, Audrey?" Torninger said loudly, his voice reeking of evil.
"Y-Yes ... I'm ready," Patricia answered, forcing the words out.
"Good. I only wish we had a cameraman here to record this scene for posterity. Wouldn't it be fun to film the famous Audrey Dalton as she sucked on her director's anus?"
Chuckling softly, Torninger turned around and slowly bent forward at the waist, bracing himself by planting his hands on his body knees. He turned his head and looked back over his right shoulder, a perverse pleasure suffusing him as he saw the revulsion written on his captive's beautiful face.
"Now get to work, sweetheart. Pry apart the cheeks of my ass and start sucking."
Patricia swallowed hard. Her stomach flipped over as she reached up and, fingeers trembling, drew apart the taut half-moons of Torninger's behind. She stared at the hair-fringed portal that was his asshole and felt the vomit bubbling in her quivering belly.
"Quit stalling, baby," Torninger scowled. "Plunge that pretty puss of yours into my ass."
Loathing the madman forcing her to perform this obscene, servile rite, Patricia closed her eyes and brought her face to Torninger's bottom. Her nose slipped into the dark, hairy crack of his ass and her lips brushed against his smelly anus. She inserted her tongue in that niggardly portal and wondered just how long it would be before she threw up all over the place.
"Good girl," Torninger said seconds later, when Patricia began sucking on his anus. "I knew you'd get the hang of it quickly. It's fun, isn't it?"
The little man with the huge problem stared down at the floor as Patricia labored behind him, her tongue slithering in and out of his shit-flecked rectum. How utterly appropriate it was, he thought, that he should now turn his back on the woman who, with frustrating regularity, had turned her back on him.
Of course, there was one rather large difference.
CHAPTER NINE
What was left of the once ravishing Patricia Granger was found four days later. Her bloody, harly-recognizable body was discovered by a trio of horrified teenagers who, to their regret, had decided to explore the deserted diner. Shaking from head to toe, the oldest youth had phoned the police and in a quaking voice told them of his gruesome find. Adam Gallagher and Charlie Raster were at the scene in a flash.
No amount of genuine, honestly-felt sympathy could pull Robert Granger out of the dark well of despair into which he had been thrown by his wife's savage murder. Despite words of consolation from good friends and assurances by Adam and Charlie that justice would ultimately be served, he brooded for days and wrongly blamed himself for Patricia's horrible demise. The once happy-go-lucky reporter who enjoyed clowning around turned silent and refused to speak unless spoken to.
And then, as could be expected, despair turned to anger. Thoughts of revenge filled Robert's head and he vowed to one and all that he personally would capture the fiend who had brutally killed the woman he loved. Suddenly his sanity seemed to hinge on his finding Arnold Torninger.
Nothing mattered any more. He had but one goal in life now-to locate Torninger and do to him what he had done to Patricia. Possessed by a fierce desire to avenge his wife's murder, a defiant rage seethed within him, a determined Robert Granger went in search of "his" psychopath.
At first, his bitterness blinding him to the possible rewards of a rational approach, he tried going in all directions at once and wound up accomplishing nothing. Then, calming down a little, he began thinking and studying, channeling his efforts in one direction at a time. He made use of the information fed to him by his friends, Adam and Charlie, and began exploring, with a controlled intensity, some of their suggestions.
Thus it was that three weeks after his wife's murder, on a Wednesday afternoon, Robert Granger stormed into police headquarters with a frightened, heavy-breathing man in tow. Adam and Charlie jumped up and exchanged puzzled expressions as the crime reporter shoved the bald-headed, bespectacled man into a straight chair.
"Bob, what the hell is this? You can't-"
"Wait a minute, Adam," Robert broke in, holding up a hand. "This joker has something important to tell you." He looked down at the man he had dragged in. "Haven't you, buddy?"
The man looked up, nodded slowly.
"Who is he?" Charlie asked.
"His name is Tyler ... Kenneth Tyler, M.D."
"A physician?"
Robert chuckled derisively. "Yeah, but one who lacks a code of ethics. He thinks nothing of lying to-"
"No, that's not right," Tyler protested. "It's not fair at all. I told you why I had to-"
"You just shut up, Doc," Robert shouted, glaring down at the obviously nervous physician. "You blew your chance to talk when Evers and Sloane visited Peaceful Plains, but now you're goin' to make up for it or I'll break every-"
"All right, hold it, Bob," Adam broke in. "Now just calm down and start at the beginning." He dropped down into the chair behind his desk and took a deep breath. "All right, now explain to me what connection the doctor here has with ... what was the name of that place again?"
"Peaceful Plains," Charlie said, settling himself into the chair in front of his partner's desk. "It was one of the mental institutions visited by Evers and Sloane."
"And thanks to this spineless bastard Evers came back with nothing," Robert fumed. "Had the doctor told Evers what he knew about Torninger then we might have been able to catch the creep before ... before he could get to Patricia. I ought to tear you limb from limb, Tyler."
"Bob, if you don't calm down-"
"All right, all right, I'll keep my hands off him. I'll save my strength for Torninger."
Adam turned his attention from the reporter and zeroed in on the physician. "Now, Doctor, suppose you tell us what this is all about. Is Mr. Granger correct when he says you lied to one of my men when he called on you at Peaceful Plains?"
The physician hesitated.
"Well, did you lie, Dr. Tyler?"
"Y-Yes, but ... but I had to."
"That needs an explanation, Doctor," Charlie said.
Tyler sighed heavily. "Yes, of course it does. As you have probably guessed by now, I am the psychiatrist in charge at Peaceful Plains. I've been at the asylum for almost twelve years. Until now I was proud of my accomplishments and the fact that I enjoy a reputation as an honest, hard-working administrator."
"Come on, Doctor, get with it," Robert said angrily. "The police aren't interested in your life history. Just tell them the facts surrounding Arnold Torninger's commitment."
"Yes, of course. Well, ten years ago, Arnold Torninger was committed to Peaceful Plains by his only living relative, an aging aunt who feared her nephew was on the verge of destroying himself. It seems that just prior to his being committed Torninger had suffered a severe nervous breakdown. His aunt wanted him confined to the asylum because she thought the peace and quiet would enable him to regain his mental balance."
"Go on, Doctor," Adam said softly.
Tyler took a deep breath. "Instead of recuperating, Torninger became increasingly ill. He started having delusions of grandeur and on a number of occasions imagined himself a put-upon prince. Sometimes he was Napoleon, sometimes King Henry the Eighth, and once in a while, Jack the Ripper."
"The perverted bastard," Robert fumed.
"Easy, Bob," Adam cautioned soothingly. "Please continue, Doctor. You say that during his stay at Peaceful Plains, Torninger got worse instead of better?"
Tyler nodded. "Yes. He progressed to the point where I considered him a very serious threat to the other patients. I was about to have him placed in one of our padded rooms when ... when he suddenly disappeared."
"He escaped and you didn't notify the authorities? Why?"
"I couldn't. That's what I tried to explain to Mr. Granger when he started questioning me about Torninger. I was being paid not to divulge any information concerning Arnold Torninger's whereabouts."
"How's that for ethics, Adam?" Robert asked sarcastically.
"Who was paying you, Doctor?" Charlie asked.
"A group of Torninger's friends. It seems they had invested a great deal of money in a talent agency that Torninger had started before his breakdown. They were afraid that people would shy away from the agency if word got out that Torninger was in an insane asylum. I found such thinking unreasonable but I accepted their offer of one hundred dollars a week to keep my mouth closed."
"That was out and out bribery, Doctor," Adam said. "How can you reconcile such a thing with-"
"I can't," the doctor interrupted. "Week after week I cashed the check they mailed and pretended it was for services rendered-professional services, that is."
"Why, Doctor? Surely your salary must be-"
"It wasn't enough-not nearly enough." Tyler paused, then said, "Gentlemen, you're looking at an addict. No, not a dope addict. I happen to be hooked on gambling. The bigger the stakes the better I like it. When Torninger's friends came to me with their offer I was already badly in debt. I owed a big wheel in the underworld over forty thousand dollars."
"And you were afraid that if you didn't pay up...."
"Exactly. And the only way I could pay back what I owed was to keep gambling. Well, I got lucky and managed to get out from under. But that didn't quench my thirst for gambling."
"Well, how about that?" Charlie said, looking at his partner.
"Let's get down to the nitty-gritty, Doc," Robert said. "Tell these gentlemen what you told me about helping to catch Torninger."
"Can you do that?" Adam asked. "Do you know where he is?"
The doctor swallowed hard. "Yes, I think so. Arnold Torninger phoned me at the asylum a few days ago. He said he wanted some medicine-tranquilizers to quiet his nerves. I was to send the sedatives to ... wait, I have the address in my wallet. I jotted it down while I was talking to Torninger."
"What made Torninger so certain that you wouldn't come to the police?" Charlie asked.
"I don't know. I'm sure he didn't know what his friends were doing to protect his reputation. I guess he thought of me as a man to whom a confidence could be entrusted."
"Brother, that's a good one," Robert cracked. "It's for damn sure that you would have sent those sedatives to Torninger if I hadn't spoiled things. Mister, you ought to be drummed out of medicine and exiled to an island in the Pacific."
Tyler handed Adam the small piece of paper he had extracted from his wallet. "I think it's a rooming house. Torninger mentioned something about not-"
"Charlie, get on this right away," Adam broke in, ignoring the doctor. "Try to take Torninger alive, but whatever you do don't lose him. If we let him slip through our fingers...."
"I'm on my way, Adam," Charlie said, getting quickly to his feet. "I'll take Evers and Bottomley with me."
"Good. I'll join you as soon as I finish up with the doctor."
"I'm going along, Adam," Robert said firmly. He stared hard at his friend, daring him to argue the point.
"All right, Bob. Just keep in mind that I want Torninger alive. Any hot-headed attempt at revenge might-"
"I read you, buddy," Robert interrupted. "I just want to be on the scene when that lousy creep is pinched."
"Well, let's move it," Charlie said, stuffing the paper on which was written Torninger's name and address into his pocket. He started out of the office with the crime reporter right on his tail.
Adam watched the two men leave and then turned to the psychiatrist. There were still a few questions that needed answers, and a decision to be made on Tyler himself. Once his part in all this was made public, the doctor's career as a hospital administrator, and probably his practice of medicine, would be over. The press-Bob Granger, in particular, would crucify Dr. Kenneth Tyler for keeping secret the whereabouts of a criminally insane fugitive.
But that was probably the least of the doctor's worries, Adam reflected silently, as he thought of the number of charges that could be pressed against the errant physician. The good doctor was going to need a good lawyer.
Had someone told Jill Farnsworth, a wealthy, raven-tressed beauty of twenty-six, that she was about to become the vindictive Torninger's eighth victim, she no doubt would have laughed in his face. The happy-go-lucky, sex-happy Jill had never paid much attention to the ominous warnings and sad sounds of those she considered uptight and not with it.
And she was certainly not about to start at this moment-not when she was in the midst of a most happy humping session with her current flame, one Sam Smith, a good-looking, well-muscled Negro she had met two months ago at a cocktail party.
Thinking it would be rather kinky, Jill had brought the eager black buck to her summer home. It was cold this time of year and all the other cottages on the beach had been vacated by their tenants many weeks ago, but the thought that she and her new boyfriend would be all alone on a deserted beach turned Jill on.
And at the moment she was really being turned on by his thrusting tool. He was pounding his prick into her molten pussy, using all the strength in his six-foot two-inch, one hundred ninety-five pound body as he drilled his dick deep and made the Hollywood bed creak and groan in protest.
"Ohhh, Sam ... oh, you beautiful hunk of man," Jill moaned happily. "Screw it into me, lover. Fuck me to heaven."
"You're gettin' it, baby," Sam huffed. "You're ... you're gettin' it all. Every fuckin' inch."
"Hard, Sam. Pound me with that big prick. Fuck me!"
Twenty-eight-year-old Sam Smith was doing his level best to ram his blood-hardened cock clear up to Jill's quivering tits. His hard black body glistened with sweat as he fucked with fervor, each bone-jarring plunge of his ebony erectile into the slushy warmth of Jill's clasping cunt wringing a cry of pleasure from her throat.
"Sock it to me," Jill whimpered, the beautiful black bone thumping yet another time into her seething twat. "Fuck me dizzy, baby. Shake my fuckin' bones, you snatch-lovin' spade."
"Bitch," Sam growled. "You hot white bitch."
Jill laughed crazily and threw her legs up, scissoring her lover at the waist. She wrapped her arms around his hard black back and held on for dear life as he continued pounding her steaming pussy with his bloated cock.
There was nothing in the whole wide world that could compare to getting laid, she thought, deliriously happy to be in the sizzling grip of a lovely lust. A frenzied fuck, like the one presently being administered by Sam, could chase away a girl's cares and make totally unimportant those world problems often discussed by some of her more serious-minded friends.
"I'm gonna come soon, baby," Sam husked. "You ready?"
Sensing that he was about to blast off, Sam emitted an animal-like growl of lust and slammed his blood-engorged prick once again into the warm mushiness of his white girlfriend's sodden vagina. His taut buttocks bobbed crazily as he smashed her weeping cunt with mind-blurring thrusts of his ebony tool.
"Come, you beautiful bastard," Jill cried out. "Cream in me, stud. Fill me with gunk."
Oh, yes, she thought, this big, beefy hunk of male was going to be around for quite a while. She wasn't about to dismiss him as she had her other lovers. It was impossible to imagine herself tiring of Sam's terrific technique in bed or getting bored with the hot, pulsating bone now churning madly in her sloppy cunt.
Lost in a world of their own, each about to be rocked by a delightful, dazzling climax, Jill and her black boyfriend failed to realize that their lusty antics were being watched. The spectator was none other than Arnold Torninger, who, shivering in the cold, stood outside the summer cottage and peered in the wondow.
A slut, that's what Jill Farnsworth was, Torninger thought, his beady eyes glued to the passionate proceedings on the bed. She was the typical society slut, a snot-nosed bitch whose wealth enabled her to come and go as she pleased, to fuck whom she pleased without worry or regret.
Well, her time was fast running out. She was number eight on his list-last but not least. He would have to bide his time, though.
He would have to wait until her boyfriend left and she was alone-alone and vulnerable to attack. Then he would burst into the cottage, his knife at the ready, and surprise the rich little minx.
Jill Farnsworth's death would signify the end of his mission, the completion of his chores. A measure of revenge will have been attained and he could go his way secure in the knowledge that, come what may, he had rid the world of eight wicked women whose repeated rebuffs had brought him so much pain.
Maybe then he could rest, Torninger thought.
CHAPTER TEN
"Dammit, where could the son-of-a-bitch be?" an angry Robert Granger asked, his eyes darting about the small room they had been directed to by a puzzled landlady.
"Maybe he's out buying groceries," Charlie answered.
"Or out killing another woman."
"We have no choice but to wait, Bob. Evers and Bottomley are stationed downstairs. They'll alert us when they spot Torninger."
The crime reporter shook his head in disgust. "What a lousy, stinking piece of luck, that's all I can say. We've got everything we need to crucify the bastard and now he's taken off on us."
"We'll get him," Charlie said with conviction. "Don't you worry about that."
"Yeah, but when? After he's killed a few more women? Listen, you don't think Tyler warned Torninger, do you?"
"No way, Bob. The doc is up to his ears in trouble already. No reason for him to stick his neck out further. It's like you say-a bad break. But he's got to return and when he does we'll be ready for him."
"Yeah, I suppose so," Robert sighed. "Let me give you a hand searching this place. Shit, how could anybody, sane or otherwise, live in a cell like this?"
Charlie chuckled. "Torninger's goin' to wish he was back here when they lock him away in that padded cell." He moved over to the small, dirt-stained night stand next to the old bed. "You take the dresser over there, Bob, and I'll see what's in here."
"Right," Robert said firmly, marching toward the dresser. "I want to find so much evidence that a battery of the world's finest lawyers couldn't get him off."
"There's no way that'll happen, Bob. He'll plead insanity and-"
"And escape the death penalty."
"The man's insane, Bob. There's no denying that. I know how you feel but-"
"Yeah, he's insane, all right," Robert broke in, as he pulled open the top drawer of the dresser. "My psychiatrist friend made that abundantly clear. He told me that Torninger is so fouled up mentally that he actually believes the women he's killed are the same ones who rejected him years ago. He finds a female who looks like one who rebuffed his advances and suddenly she becomes that female. Then he murders her and goes away thinking he's snuffed out another spark of frustration."
"He'll be put away for a long, long time," Charlie remarked, as he rummaged in the small drawer of the night stand.
"They had damn well better, Charlie. Because if Torninger manages to squirm free on some stupid technicality, then I'm going to personally ... hey, Charlie, take a look at this."
The Sergeant looked up. "Watcha got there?"
"A scrapbook ... a very interesting scrapbook. And ... oh, no ... here's a photo of a girl who looks remarkably like ... like Patricia."
"Easy now, Bob," Charlie said, hurrying over to the dresser. "Here, let me take a look at that."
The reporter handed Charlie the scrapbook and then resumed his search of the drawer. Seconds later he was showing the Sergeant a small black box, which, both men agreed, had once been used to store a shiny silver medal.
Strange sounds struggled from Jill Farnsworth's throat as she fought to keep from choking on the thick, rock-hard pecker filling her mouth with its pulsating fullness. She was sitting on the side of the bed, her naked body in constant quiver as she suffered the indignity of having her mouth fucked.
"It's goin' to come right down your throat, you pretty bitch," Torninger promised. "And you're goin' to swallow it all like the little slut that you are."
He was standing directly in front of the hapless female, his hard hands clamped around her head, tilting it up just a bit. He was sawing his bloated bone in and out of her mouth with sinister delight, enjoying the sight of the tears trickling down her flushed face and the strangled groans she emitted when the bulbous head of his prick bumped the back of her throat.
"Get ready, my little prick-tease," Torninger growled, sensing his ejaculation. "All that creamy semen is goin' to wash down your fuckin' throat."
Jill tried to jerk her head back, away from the fat cock sliding wetly between her lovely lips. But it was to no avail as her evil captor held her fast, his bony fingers pressing hotly against her tender ears.
And then the moment of truth arrived. She felt the wild jerking of the excited cock iri her mouth and then, seconds later, felt the viscid discharge enter her mouth. In warm waves the creamy semen flowed from Torninger's quivering cock into her oral cavity, there to mix with sticky saliva.
"Drink it all down, you sexy tramp," the demented killer spat, holding Jill's head in a vise-like grip as the product of his passion burst from his cock to inundate her mouth. His naked body shivered with excitement at the sight of the hapless beauty swallowing rapidly and trying desperately not to gag on the thick gunk rushing down her throat.
And then it was finished, the obscene, salaciously sinister fucking of Jill's mouth over as fast as it had begun. Torninger stumbled back and grabbed hold of a chair to steady himself. Breathing hard, he looked at his victim and grinned evilly. Jill was sitting with her mouth agape and appeared to be in some sort of semi-shock. The warm semen trickled out of her mouth and dribbled down her well-molded chin, dripped onto her trembling tits.
He had just the thing to wake her up, Torninger thought, moving quickly to the whip he had earlier deposited on a chair near the front door. Holding the wicked whip in his right hand, he walked purposefully back to the bed to stand once again in front of his confused captive.
"Now, my little minx, we'll give you a taste of the whip," he growled.
And with that, as if the simple announcement that he would lash her unmercifully was sufficient, as if it complied with some perverse regulation pertaining to the warning of a victim, Torninger drew back his arm and then sent the whip whistling through the air. The thick ten inch straps curled around Jill's face.
"Aiee!" she screamed, falling back on the bed and instinctively throwing her hands up to protect her face from further punishment. Her pain was enormous, almost unbearable, more intense than any she had experienced to date. She curled herself up into a ball and sobbed into her hands.
"Bitch!" Torninger barked, again raising the whip over his right shoulder. "Slimy, rotten, no good bitch!"
Incensed by the sight of Jill trying to escape the brutal lashing he knew she deserved, the insane Torninger proceeded to whip her with savage delight, with a desire decidedly demonic. Again and again he brought the whip crashing against Jill's naked, writhing body, her bloodcurdling screams and guttural, agony-drenched groans like music to his ears.
Curling into the fetal position was of no help to the now bleeding beauty. She ducked her head between her arms and tried thus to ward off the outrageously painful blows, only to receive as a reward several stinging lashes across her thighs and back. She twisted and turned crazily on the bed in a frantic attempt to avoid the vicious, mind-numbing strapping, the sheer agony of her ordeal searing her insides and turning her flesh into a seething sheet of white hot, bone-melting pain.
Torninger rained blows on the screaming woman until his arm grew weary. Then he threw the whip away and hurried to fetch his knife, which he had left atop a small table near the window he had peered through earlier. He returned to the bed and for a few seconds watched Jill writhing in agony.
Then he sliced her toes off.
The bestial butchering of the female's once beautiful but now bloody body took but fifteen quick minutes. When it was over a satisfied Arnold Torninger stumbled back, a fiendish gleam in his eyes and a crooked, wicked smile basking on his face. He hurled the knife across the room and heard it crash against a wall and then drop to the bare floor with a sharp cracking sound.
Then, his naked body splattered with blood, he took one last look at what was left of Jill Farnsworth and chuckled insanely. It was over, he thought, ecstatic now that he had murdered his eighth and final female. Those who had caused him so much pain, so many long, sleepless nights of bitter frustration, had at last gotten their just deserts.
Torninger stumbled out of the cottage in a demonic daze. Once outside he breathed in the refreshing salt-water air, his eyes wandering over the expanse of beach near which sat an uneven row of summer homes. Earlier, when standing outside Jill Farnsworth's cottage and waiting for her lover's departure, the cold ocean breeze had turned his normally pale cheeks a rosy red and chilled his bones. But he wasn't cold now. He was comfortable and happy, his naked body warmed by the satisfying thoughts dancing in his diseased mind.
As if in a stupor, Torninger started toward the ocean, his toes digging into the still warm white sand.
Two teenagers, a boy and a girl, suddenly appeared on a sand dune and spotted the bloodsplattered man walking wearily from the cottage door, his arms dangling at his sides, his lean body swaying from left to right as he drew ever closer to the water's edge.
"Holy smokes!" the boy exclaimed. "Am I seeing things or is that guy bleeding?"
The girl gulped. "He sure is bleeding. Heavens, look at him! I think he's going to commit suicide."
"Where did he come from, I wonder."
"That's Jill Farnsworth's cottage," the girl said. "Maybe he's a friend of hers."
The boy shook his head. "Can't be. She wouldn't be here at this time of year."
"But he must have come from there. Look, the door is open."
"This doesn't look right at all," the boy said nervously. "You wait here while I take a peek inside the cottage."
"Maybe we should call the police."
"Yeah. Let me look inside first. You keep an eye on-"
"No, I want to go with you," the girl protested. "I don't want to stay here alone."
"All right, come on then."
The boy gripped the girl's hand and together they hurried to the cottage. Less than a minute later, horrified by their grisly discovery, they bolted from the cottage and ran like mad as blinding fear gripped them both. The boy's face was ashen as he pulled the screaming girl after him. A phone, he thought excitedly. He had to get to the nearest phone.
Hearing the girl's ear-piercing scream, Arnold Torninger turned around. Seconds later, his face devoid of expression, he turned back to confront the ocean. The sound of a female screaming no longer interested him. He had made his peace, cleansed himself, and now he wanted only to rest. The mission had been accomplished.
