An Unliely Romance

It was fucking ridiculous!!

I, the most infamous living New Yorker, had a fan page of my own on the net. Thousands of 'devout followers' logged in every day to share their thoughts on me. Some called me a Messiah; others said I was 'the coolest guy in New York'. There were even those who wanted to meet me, those who wished to come with me on those nights.

There was also the small matter of over 3000 wedding proposals on the site. I even checked out some of their profiles. Many of them looked nice, but were undeniably disturbed. After all who else would want to hook up with a serial killer?

"What're you looking at?" said a sultry voice from the adjacent room.

Alright, I take that back. Not everyone who hooks up with a serial killer is disturbed. Some can convert that angst into motivation to fight crime, and put people like Malcolm Burns in a coma.

"Nothing much, just surfing the net. You should see this."

The sleepy and bedraggled figure of Monica slinked into the room. Her hair was tousled and her eyes, bloodshot. The bags under her eyes were visible. This case had taken a lot out of her. All those sleepless nights she spent pouring over evidence were really taking their toll.

"Your guy has a considerable fan following. Take a look."

She sleepily browsed through the page, smirking at some of the comments.

"He's a real ladies man."

"Spot on! Some of these girls are pretty hot as well. Take a look at this profile for example. Lana Porter, 29, successful lawyer at the city's top firm, and she's publicly gushing over the butcher."

"Ahh well... New York is a big city. There are loonies of all types. I wouldn't take her seriously."

"Never judge a book by its cover, Monica. Read her first comment."

Still tired, she glanced up to the comment right on top. Reading through it minutely, she gave a weak smile.

"So her dad abandoned his family and ran away with a hooker two decades back. I guess it's understandable why she hates them so much. It says here, she would consider it an honour to defend the butcher in court if he ever got caught. So what's your point?"

"My point is, not everyone out there wants you to catch this guy."

She shook off her sleepiness and sat down in front of me, fixing her piercing gaze on me.

"This case has gone global. The media from six continents are following the story. There are guys in Tokyo who are commenting on various news blogs. No other case in recent history has captured such an audience. I had better catch him."

"Unfortunately for you, he has been silent this past month. So no new leads to work with."

Truth be told, I felt the urge over and over again, gnawing at my insides, telling me to go get a hooker. But with the extra long hours my girlfriend had been pulling at the station, she had converted my place into her base camp since it was just a few blocks away.

Mrs. Freemont was elated. She thought Monica had moved in me.

"So you coming to bed, or are you going to spend the night surfing the net for porn?"

"No, I have some work to catch up on. You go get some sleep."

She leaned over and kissed me. I parted my lips to accommodate her tongue as she sank into it. Her tongue sloshed all over the inside of my mouth for the next few minutes.

She detached her lips and walked back towards the bedroom. The last thing I heard her say was, "At least he's getting laid a lot, judging by his female fan following."

Once again, Monica was right. Every night she came back, frustrated and angry at finding nothing, she took out all that frustration on me leading to rough, animalistic sex including acts I'm pretty sure are illegal in the state of New York. Not that I was complaining, though I was sure that I would be unable to move for a week afterwards.

I needed to point them in a different direction. What better way to do that than write a letter? Zodiac did it, Jack the Ripper did it and now it's time for the butcher to give it a go as well. This letter would put me in exalted company.

So, while Monica went about her day chasing ghosts, I sat down to compose my letter.

The cops and the media probably got hundreds of crank letters every day. Some written by teenage pranksters, delusional nuts and bored guys without a hobby. My letter had to stand out. The best way to do that was to include a detail about a murder which was not known to the public. Something that only the police would know.

I spent the best part of an hour combing through the net and the papers looking for what was not there. I concentrated on the first murder. The police report outlined multiple sloppy stab wounds to the stomach and abdomen. 'Sloppy' was a pretty accurate description. It was one thing fantasizing about a kill, but quite another when it came to actually doing it. The slashes were hesitant and awkward. I accidentally slashed her neck and did the rest while she choked on her own blood. The police had graciously left out the part about her throat being slashed.

So, now that I could get them take to take me seriously, who do I make my scapegoat?

After the incident with Malcolm Burns, I had settled on pinning it on some religious fanatic. This letter would squarely put them in the spotlight. I had to find as many Christian metaphors against immoral women as I could.

"Monica Devereaux, you want to chase ghosts, I'll give you a ghost."

---

"Alright listen up, we have a development in the case."

The entire section turned towards Monica in unison.

"The butcher wrote a letter to us. He made three copies. One was sent to Judy Lynch, one to Stanley Quinn at the Times and one was personally sent to me."

"I am putting the letter on the big screen. Hopefully I will hear something apart from the obvious. By the way, this is the real deal, he knows about the throat slitting in case of hooker number one."

All eyes went to the screen.

Dear Reader,

Take a look around you. How many women do you see on the streets selling their bodies like cheap goods? The sanctity and purity of their bodies have been violated. In turn, they have led good men astray from the path of Jesus, our one true Lord. These seductresses are blights upon our society, ones that I plan to erase. Let me tell you about the first time.

I still get the chills when I remember that black hooker. I was not used to it and she was a feisty one. In the end, I slit her throat and watched as she bled out before inflicting the half a dozen other stab wounds. It was such a rush.

The Lord appears to me in visions, telling me where to go and what to do. He shows me a city drowning under the weight of it's filth and debauchery. Whores of every creed and kind swarm the streets and fill them with the waste of their fornication until the good and righteous people have nowhere left to turn. Our Saviour instructs me, to seek out these immoral women and punish them. He came to Earth to suffer for all our sins, but we have since sinned so much more that He may soon consider us beyond redemption.

You may think I am a monster, but all those harlots on the street are the actual monsters. They tempt the weak with the deadly sin of lust. The Lord is on my side, I am cleansed and pure.

I will pray for all of you tonight and hope that you see it my way. For our Lord is merciful and he will accept you into his fold for your actions. And when you kill these sinners, you shall see the light, like I have.

Castigo corpus meum.

Sincerely,

The Butcher of New York (I have moved beyond the Bronx now.)

Everybody looked on at the big screen blankly. It seemed like an age before someone spoke up.

"So, it's like we expected, a religious nutcase."

Monica wasn't even listening. Every fibre in her body was telling her it was a fake, but it had a detail no one outside the force knew. Reluctantly she turned to the officers.

"Canvass neighbourhoods for radical priests. Look up records of anyone with a history of religious delusions that live near the crime scenes. Look through traffic cams and surveillance videos for anybody matching this description. Go. Go. Go."

Everybody went off in different directions, leaving Monica to her own thoughts. She needed a break from this. It had been a week since she had her last good sleep. Maybe a fresh insight after some rest would do the trick.

Visibly tired, she made her way down to her car and almost ran over Judy and her crew who were in her way. She could see that the number of hookers had visibly decreased. Sighing aloud, she made her way back to Simon's house.

---

I had been peacefully going about my work, designing a search grid for IBM. Suddenly, I felt a finger at the back of my neck. It snaked it's way down the back of my shirt. I shuddered involuntarily. The finger proceeded to lightly trace out various shapes on my back. Soon, there was a pair of wet lips on the nape of my neck. I shuddered involuntarily.

Unable to resist any more, I turned my chair to see Monica standing over me, with a smile on her face.

"How did you get in?"

"Since I virtually live here now, I took your duplicate key."

Mrs. Freemont was right. We were living together.

"What if I were to tell you that I want you to keep that key, even after this case ends?"

She turned her face to look at me obliquely. It took a second or so for the full meaning of what I had said to register.

"Are you asking me to move in with you?"

I offered an innocent smile.

Instantly, all that tiredness disappeared as she embraced me. It wasn't a sexual gesture, just a very deep and loving one. The case seemed less important. I held back gently. She withdrew from the hug and mumbled something incoherent. I took the cue to get up and kiss her deeply on the lips. She gently cradled my head in her hands as she kissed back, at first softly, but the passion soon took over.

Grasping both my hands, she led me to my bed. Pushing me on it first, she lovingly looked at my face. For the first time, I saw no lust, no angst, no deviant desires, just pure unadulterated affection. This would be the best time yet.

After fumbling out of my clothes, I reached out and pulled her down on me. She clambered on top and gently lowered herself on my penis. It felt so good when her vaginal muscles forcefully contracted around the head. She loosened a bit and let another couple of inches slide inside and clenched it. For the first time, the pace wasn't like Mercer Avenue at rush hour, but instead soft, slow and calm, like an opera.

Our thrusts were in sync as we moved up and down harmoniously. She didn't slap me, bite me or any of the other things she usually did. I was in a serious relationship now.

"What do you make of the letter that's all over the news?"

Still keeping up her momentum, she calmly replied.

"We are looking into it. Don't you have anything better to talk about than work?"

That ended our coital conversation. I couldn't properly ascertain what she made of my communiqué. The speed of her thrusts gradually increased as I could feel an impending climax approach. She seemed close too as her face was clenched with intensity. My orgasm left me on cloud nine for a while as she continued pumping in the hope of squeezing out any leftover spunk from my member. She rolled over on her side and looked at me with a wry smile on her lips.

"You want to know what I think of the letter? It's probably a red herring. A real religious psycho would have written to us sooner and would have a lot more to say. My guess is he picked up on the Malcolm Burns case and did this to turn the heat off his tail."

She was uncomfortably correct.

"But he's smart. Sending it to the press and the media means I can't just trash it. I have to waste some man-hours on it, just for show."

Inwardly, I was beaming with pride.

"While the officers go on this wild goose chase, I intend to keep looking elsewhere."

The verdict: partial success.

I would somehow need to convince her. Unfortunately for some poor whore in Brooklyn, I knew exactly how.

I cautiously waited until Monica was gone the next day before I ventured out to Brooklyn. Since, no murder had taken place here, there were still enough hookers here for a party. I patiently drove around looking for a corner. Finally, I found one. No surveillance cameras and hardly any witnesses. There were two girls wasted out of their minds, dressed skimpily to attract customers.

"Two at once. That would make a point."

I casually drove up to them. They gave me interested looks and a few lame one-liners later they were in my back seat. I found my kind of motel soon enough. The fear had not spread to this part of town yet, so there was no hassle at the reception.

I took my key and headed upstairs with my two lovely dates. We did not waste any time on the seduction and foreplay, but got straight down to it. First on the menu was a delicious double header as the two girls assaulted my cock jointly. Their twin tongues entwined around my delicate head as they slurped noisily. Then one of them concentrated her activity on my balls while the other went back to engulfing my shaft. It was heavenly as they frequently changed up.

After about half an hour of this treatment, it was time to defile them. The first one invitingly got on all fours and wiggled her ass. I eagerly assumed my position and began thrusting. My movements were hard and fast as she was delirious with extacy. The other one just watched on curiously as her friend was on the throes of orgasm. Finally after twenty minutes of rhythmic strokes, she came violently. Weak from orgasm, she just lay in bed and lightly fingered herself while her partner got her turn.

The second girl was not as loud and her pussy seemed frequently used. Her vaginal walls were so wide, that I could barely feel them. I was tempted to ask her what she inserted there in her free time, but thought better of it. Fucking without feeling the friction was no joy, but I gave her a similarly satisfying orgasm as her friend.

Now for the fun part.

While they were lying on the bed, still recuperating from the hard sex, I went to retrieve my knife. Even as I thought about it, I felt a deep sense of remorse. I wished that I didn't have to do this; I wished I was stronger than my urges, but I wasn't. Spontaneously, I started sobbing.

Bewildered at the turn of events, the less stoned of the girls came over to where I was sitting on the bed and tried to comfort me.

"What's wrong?"

"I am sorry. I am sorry. So sorry. So so so sorry."

She tentatively put an arm on my shoulder to comfort me, unsure of exactly why I was sorry. I looked at her. She was barely legal. Driven to this profession in need of cash, drugs, whatever, she would never get to grow up. She would never get a chance at redeeming her life. Her innocent, almost childlike expression stuck in my mind. Such endearing innocence and I would end it in a few minutes. I put on my jacket and walked up to the bed. I hugged her tightly and whispered in her ear.

"I dearly wish I didn't have to do this. You have to believe me. I wish there was another way."

"Do wha....."

Her question remained incomplete as I swung my knife in an upward arc from her abdomen to her chest. She died instantly, feeling no pain. Her friend was asleep, facing the other way. She never saw it coming.

Six weeks after my last outing, I finally felt at peace again. Peace intermingled with a deep and profound sense of sadness. I had ended two lives for no apparent fault of their own. I do not know if there is a God, but if He exists, He probably created me out of spite for humanity.

Speaking of God, I needed to give this murder a religious touch. My semen would confirm it was me, so this message would have to be taken more seriously than my letter.

Reluctantly, I dipped my finger in one of the wounds. With a sufficient amount of blood on my finger I went to the wall to write my religious message. I looked on blankly, unsure of what to write.

It was probably the worst time to get writer's block.

The blood was clotting fast; I had to make up my mind soon. Something short, yet catchy enough. Nothing came to mind. Finally, after a few minutes of scratching my head I wrote the first thing that came to my mind.

Thoroughly embarrassed at my literary effort, I washed up and got out.

---

Bleecker Street was backed up several miles with traffic as the police, the media and a horde of onlookers converged to see the crime scene. Crime scene tape encircled the entire motel as the forensic went about their respective duties with extreme urgency.

Monica was irritated, like always, as she stepped out from her car and met Boz at the entrance.

"Are we sure it's not another copycat?"

"No overkill this time, just neat and clean strokes like our guy. He got two hookers at once this time, and left an interesting message for us. I don't know what to make of it."

She strode inside flashing her badge at all the correct people. The mood here was distinctly different from the other butcher murders. Some of the lab techs and officers were laughing.

"Probably the interesting message" though Monica as she stepped into the room.

The two bodies were neatly lain out, with their arms crossed across their chest. There was minimal stabbing on each of them. What caught her attention the most was the hurried message on the wall. The butcher was obviously short on ideas. The side wall proudly proclaimed: PAT ROBERTSON RULES.

"This guy has a thing or two to learn about God."

The hotel manager was talking to Boz, who seemed animated as the discussion went on. Finally, he went to her with a big smile on his face.

"Christmas has come early for us. We have a massive lead."

This piqued her interest as she went to see what it was. Boz was right, it was massive.

For the first time in months, Monica could see the finish line. This last lead was massive. It was just the thing the beleaguered NYPD needed.

---

I could swear I heard a spring in Monica's step as she came up the stairs. She entered the room, looking better than I had seen in days. She stopped over to kiss me and sat down on the bed beaming.

"It's just a matter of time now. We got him."

"The butcher?"

"The one and only."

Curiously, I turned around. This was something I had to hear.

"The motel manager there is a real douche bag. Usually a bad thing, but not in this case. He has miniature cameras hidden in the motel rooms. The daily recordings fund his low-budget adult film business. None of the Johns are aware of this. If any particularly rich fellow walks in, then the tape can be used for extortion as well. So we have a fucking video of the butcher going about his business. Did you hear that? We have his fucking face on candid camera."

Still with the spring in her step she walked off to change.

Robotically, I turned back to my computer and opened the last site I was viewing. The manager of the motel, Tim Katz, distributed some of his porn online and I was just browsing his site.

So yeah, I knew all along.

That's why I had put on a fake beard and moustache as well as a putty nose before venturing out. They would see a face alright, just not mine. This 'great lead' would lead to a sketch which would appear in every newspaper shortly (it was already on the net). This coupled with the letter would keep everybody on the lookout for a psychotic, bearded clergyman.

Nobody would be looking for a friendly, endearing, clean shaven programmer.

"I am in a mood to try something new tonight" came from the adjacent room where Monica was changing.

Almost nobody.

I strode into the room, interrupting her changing and took her in my arms. She gave me her most charming smile as we kissed. I was trying my best to undo the straps of her bra, when we heard a cry from the street.