“Fucking bitch!” I screamed to the empty room and dragged my arm across the crystal on the bar, sending it all careening and shattering onto the gray slate floor. “You stupid, fucking cop.”
I pounded my fist on the black, granite countertop. That bitch thought she had dirt on me. Before I was done with her, she’d wish she had never spoken to me in that condescending fucking attitude. I changed from my suit since I’d met with a client because they had insisted they’d be too busy to meet next week, and into my running gear.
I ran on my treadmill at a severe incline at a pace unsafe for anyone with a heart condition. Occasionally I swore under my breath at that fucking cop and her stupid male counterpart. I was angry, intensely angry like I hadn’t been in years. That stupid bitch cop had no right to question me, and yet, she had. I also wanted to know who the witness was that supposedly saw me that night so that I could kill him.
That fucking cop wasn’t going to investigate me. She wasn’t going to ruin my life by accidentally figuring out who I was, which would’ve been the only way she’d be capable of doing it. She wasn’t going to stop me from doing the one thing in life that gave me pleasure.
I ran until my lungs burned and sweat dripped down over my forehead. Then I stopped and stripped nude in my large apartment living room and went to my bedroom where the dark gray bathroom was located. The subtle tones of grays and whites matched the aesthetic of the rest of the apartment. It was neat and orderly, no fluff and silly décor like pictures on the walls or vases full of flowers. It was sterile. Just the way I liked it.
I washed, shaved from head to toe again, and shampooed my hair. When I was done, I wrapped in a white robe and went into my closet. I pressed a button and watched the rack move from left to right, watched the suits I wore at work move away and circle to the back. Then I chose black slacks, a black, button-up shirt and a black jacket that was spacious inside. I’d bought it a few years ago from a website that sold items made specifically for people who had a permit to conceal and carry a firearm. There were multiple interior and exterior pockets. Perfect for my needs.
Inside the jacket, I holstered the .45 I’d stolen from the nightstand of the Sarchione’s. I knew it belonged to Maria Sarchione and not her husband I’d killed. In another pocket, I stowed away a six-inch serrated dagger, a few zip ties and a lighter. I never knew what I’d be getting into when I left the house.
A few weeks ago, when I’d gone out to the island where the Sarchione’s kept a summer home, I’d considered torching their once-beloved place that had obviously held happy memories for them. I’d left evidence there on purpose. It had been funny, but I’d also left a stage in the basement that made Sarchione seem like an even bigger kinky fuck. When I was finished, the stupid cops probably thought that Sarchione had been killed by someone wanting vengeance against him for screwing their wife or by someone from one of his kinky sex parties.
I’d known about the strange sex parties for a long time. He’d first hit me up to tag along to one of those freak parties a few years ago. What a loser. He’d hit on just about every woman at my place of employment because he was a pathetic, old pervert. He disgusted me. It was one of the reasons I’d killed him. He’d divulged in no uncertain terms his penchant for young, nubile women, preferably no older than twenty or so. He’d definitely deserved to die, if for no other reason than to save the young millennials of our great country from having to fuck him, even if it was for money. Disgusting.
I’d gone to a few of the parties, invited by him and declined. I went on my own. I had actually learned a lot from those idiots. People were capable of a lot more devious behavior than I usually gave them credit for. They were all basically disgusting in my opinion. Who gave so much time and energy to having sex? Pathetic. Sex was just messy and not nearly as exciting as killing.
I’ve had sex before. I had sex in college with women, a few men later on in my life after college, and had found all of the experiences mildly satisfying. It had been a part of an elaborate plan to decide about sexual satisfaction derived from a partner. A two-minute orgasm was nothing compared to the weeks and weeks of reliving in my mind a murder that I’d committed. That was real pleasure, something beyond what most people could even handle or ever comprehend. The feelings I had were so intense that it sometimes became difficult at work to concentrate when I daydreamed about someone I’d strangled or shot or stabbed. A few times, I’d had to go into my private bathroom and masturbate. It was always so much better than sex with another person.
I pulled on black running shoes and tied the laces. I couldn’t afford to leave trace evidence anywhere. I slicked my hair back, pulled on a red wig and sunglasses. Then I pulled my hood up to cover my head. I planned on leaving through the emergency exit stairs of my building to avoid being seen by the guard at the front desk. I also didn’t leave by that way on the nights that I killed people. As far as the video cameras would witness, I didn’t leave my building. I knew that there weren’t any security cameras in the stairwell, and I always tried to park far from the ones in the garage. On special nights, I left through the rear alley exit where there also weren’t video cameras. I’d made sure one was never installed there.
Earlier I scoured the internet for everything I could dig up on Detective Lorena Evans and her fuckhead partner Jack Foster. I didn’t find much, especially on social media. But I was able to find last known addresses and a scant amount of information about their families. I was in a rage. That bitch had to pay for snooping into my life. I wanted to take her to a secluded location and question her, torture and hurt her. Then I wanted to kill her partner in front of her. The smug, good looking male counterpart to that stupid cunt.
I chugged a protein shake, took an apple and an energy bar and grabbed my car keys. I left my apartment, forgoing the elevator and taking the stairs. It was almost dark. Soon it would be, which would help me. It was late afternoon, and traffic in the city would be light. I took my Mercedes to an older neighborhood in the city and did a slow drive-by on Jack Foster’s house. According to what I found on the auditor’s website, he had only just purchased the place. It looked typical for what a detective could afford. I was hardly impressed. It was also a place that would be difficult to break into because of the close proximity of the neighbors. There wasn’t a car in the driveway, so I assumed he was either working or not at home. A Land Rover was parked at the curb in front of his house, though. It was not something a detective could afford at all.
Next I drove to Lorena Evans’s home. Or at least, I tried. There was a guard shack and a private lane that led to it. I couldn’t even get close and didn’t try to. I didn’t want to sound an alarm with the guard or end up on video surveillance. I spotted the cameras before I even turned down the lane. I kept going, foregoing the need to spy on that cunt detective. How the fuck did she afford something with a guard shack and a private lane? Was she a dirty cop? It intrigued me. I wanted to know more about her.
I went back across town and drove by a few of the relatives’ homes of Jack Foster, mostly because I couldn’t dig much up about her family. It had been a dead-end. But I did find two of Foster’s siblings online. At the home of his sister were quite a few cars parked in the drive and children playing on the front lawn. I parked down the street and watched for a short while. Then beyond my wildest dreams, I watched those two assholes come out the front door, Foster and Evans together. He’d apparently taken her home to meet the family. I wondered to myself if he was fucking her. She was dressed considerably nicer than when I’d met her. They must’ve had dinner with his family.
A moment later, a young girl ran out the front door and down to Foster’s Jeep where she hugged Lorena Evans around the waist and pressed a kiss to her cheek. Even more interesting. Jack sent the girl a wave and got in. Lorena hugged her again, said something to her, and the girl ran back to the house. Was this a relative of Jack’s? I’d found nothing on the internet about Evans having a child. Was she a single mother? Even better. A child made people weak. It could make someone vulnerable. It was leverage for me.
I followed them when they pulled away. I was curious to know more about this bitch. Maybe I’d get lucky and the two idiot cops were going to talk to that witness again and I could find out who it was and kill him later. I knew for certain that their witness hadn’t truly seen me the other night or else he would’ve been able to give them some sort of positive identification that would’ve led them my way. They were just busting my balls because they thought they might know something about me. Little did they really know, they actually knew nothing at all about who I really was. I’d like to get my hands on that female detective and show her personally.
They drove for a while, excruciatingly slow, and ended up back downtown at the crime scene where I’d butchered that whore Linda Egglestein the other night. The pleasure I took from killing her had diminished upon having to speak with those asshole detectives. I couldn’t even relive the event now because I was too distracted by them and their snooping. I pulled to the curb and sat. I wasn’t sure what had made them leave their little family gathering to return to the crime scene in their dress clothes, but there they were heading back down that alley. I twirled Linda Egglestein’s ring on my finger, toying with it.
I didn’t always allow myself to take a trophy. Most of the time I didn’t actually. But lately, the idea had become too tempting. I wouldn’t do that again. I knew to watch myself for patterns and not to repeat behavior that would get me caught. Later today, I planned on taking my boat out on the water. I had a love of the water ingrained in my heart from my father. He’d grown up sailing with his family and had taught my brother and me all about sailing knots and different boats, their abilities and how to handle ourselves on the water. When I was done with my casual observation of the cops, I would still take out my boat. Then I’d consider dropping her ring in the lake.
I kept a smaller boat down on my dock at my lake cottage. It was quite a distance away but well worth the drive. It was peaceful, not too crowded on the lake, and the people in the community were reclusive like me, not nosy or overly curious about each other. It was perfect for weekend getaways by myself where I could leave work behind and decompress. I could live there all year if it weren’t for my work schedule and needing to work in Cleveland where the big money clients were located. I had a certain lifestyle that I was used to and had no desire to change that anytime soon. It supported my habit, so to speak. I loved privacy, and my lake home provided that. Also, I’d killed my neighbor down there. She’d asked too many questions, and over time, I’d also found her annoying. Nobody ever bought her home after her murder, and so I had the block mostly to myself. It was almost perfect.
I ate my apple and drank a bottle of water, one of the many I kept stashed everywhere for easy access. I was patient. It was one of the many things I’d had to change about myself over the years to become a more professional killer. It always paid off, too. If I’d rushed a kill, not vetted properly, or got too hasty, I could’ve fucked up and left evidence or a witness and ended up in prison on death row. That thought ground away at my calm. I was angry with myself for having my first witness, but I knew he hadn’t truly seen me. He may have seen the façade of what I wanted other people to see, but he hadn’t really seen me.
I pulled out my phone and initiated a more in-depth search of the two detectives looking at my work. I had just as many connections as them. By the end of the next work week, I’d know all I needed to know about Detective Lorena Evans.