FanStory.com - The Beast by Fleedleflump

FanStory.com
"The Beast"

Chapter 1
The Beast Ch.1

By Fleedleflump

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.

The beast roils within me, lurching in my guts like a joyous orgasm of terror. He’s a dragon writhing in my stomach. No, not just that. He’s effervescent water tumbling across the sand in my veins. He’s the sky bursting open in my brain. If I think about him too much, my reality melts into a quagmire of doubt and dissolution. He is-

“Sir?”

I blink twice as the voice intrudes. All at once, sound and vision coalesce. I’m standing at a counter. A high-pitched hissing is filling the air and the earthy, dark scent of Colombian roast assaults my sinuses. I take in the face of the lady who spoke to me - deep, dark eyes to match her gathering of raven-black hair. A petite nose perches over her lips, painted to a high red gloss and just about maintaining a smile. Her skin is the colour of a well-milked Americano.

Yummy.

“Sir? I need a name - for your coffee.”

I smile to show I’m present and attentive. “Why does my coffee need a name?”

She giggles dutifully but without mirth, giving me the benefit of the doubt, allowing me to feel more like a comedian than an idiot. “I mean your name - for when your order’s ready.”

Call me The Beast. “It’s Terry.”

She scribbles on a cup, hands it to a barista, and then pointedly looks at the next customer, drumming her acrylic nails (red like her lips, one with a design I can’t quite identify etched in white detail) on the counter distractedly.

Taking my marching orders, I move along to the collection point. There’s a gaggle of teenage boys grinning and shoving one another amiably while they wait for their drinks. One catches my eye in particular - paler and smaller than his friends, with a giant, foppish mop of hair. A smattering of acne complements his narrow features and startlingly blue eyes. He’s pursing his lips so they look thinner than I judge they normally would, perhaps a defence mechanism. I raise my eyes and realise he’s seen me studying him. No choice in this situation - I crack a smile to show I’m no threat.

One friend cackles and shoves his small friend’s shoulder. “Mate, you’ve pulled. This bloke fancies you.” Another friend glares at me over their heads - protective or disapproving or both.

“Pumpkin-Spiced Latte with cream and sprinkles for Dennis,” says the barista.

The subject of my gaze smirks slightly as he takes his drink. “Thanksverymuch,” he mumbles as the group moves away. The tall friend throws me a few warning glances over his shoulder.

I move in front of the collection point, assessing idly. Dennis, I judge, is playing the follower - he’s allowing his mates to lead the small herd while he figures out who he is and what role he wants to play. There are five friends total in the group. Statistically, one of the group will become a career criminal, two will develop substance reliances, and three will be victims of some type of crime - about the same as will contract cancer. I smile idly at the correlation.

“Order for Trey!” hollers a voice three inches from my ear. Wincing, I grab my coffee and throw a look at the sour-faced, somewhat androgynous barista and her pretty accomplice as I leave. You know what you did.

Emerging from the coffee shop into crisp, early morning Autumn air, I take a deep breath. Huge mistake! Traffic fumes, body odour and excrement fill my lungs just as horns and engines batter my eardrums - I’d momentarily forgotten I was in central London. Commuters bunch and pulse along the pavement like cattle and for a time I join the herd, losing myself in the freedom of detached oblivion. I am a part of the amorphous blob, far less than the sum of its parts.

Look at them, marching the slow, pre-defined route to death. They are your food. They exist only as a baseline, a stable platform of the norm upon which you revel in power. They are foundations, and you the castle.

“Shut up,” I mumble, and then glance around, half expecting to be challenged by another herd member who thinks I was addressing them. All I see is an ocean of headphones, ear buds and glowing screens. I’m in the middle of wondering why nobody can leave their phones in their bags or pockets any more, when my own rings and I’m forced to join the circus.

I answer the call - ‘Heather’ pulsates on my display - and whip the phone to my ear. Old school. “Hey, hun. How’re things? Sorry for not saying goodbye this morning. I didn’t want to wake you. It was really early.”

“Oh, fuck off - like you even thought about it. I love you for saying it though.”

I hate you, peon. “I love you too, hun. What’s up?”

“Just checking everything’s okay. You left your travel mug on the counter - did you run out of time? Also, I caught an extra shift this evening, so can you go to the shops on your way home?” Her voice is droll and acrid, laced with knowing rudeness couched as unthinking honesty.

“I hate the travel mug,” I reply. “It splashes my hand and it always tastes like last week’s coffee.” I join the herd in a side-step veering manoeuvre around some clipboard-wielding charity types. Everyone’s gaze remains glued to their screens or feet. “No probs with the shopping. What bits do we need?”

“Carrots, burger buns, and something sweet. You’ll have to get me some fanny pads, too - I am gushing right now. Sorry ‘bout it.”

Foul wench. “Hey, it’s what the self-checkouts are made for, right?”

“And I don’t give two shits whether you use the travel mug, but if you’re not going to, hide it well ‘cause Aunt Vera got you that for your birthday and she is not a forgiving woman.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Oi, don’t you-”

“Love you too, speak later.” I hang up and slip the phone back into its pocket.

Peeling off from the herd, I enter the office building and make my way to the lifts, nursing my coffee like it’s a bowl of chicken soup and I’ve just been rescued from a deadly blizzard. I press the button for the fourth floor and stand right in front of the doors wearing my best scowl until they swish closed, leaving me alone with my aromatic coffee steam. I glance briefly at the ceiling of the lift carriage. I’ve always wanted to climb on top the way they do in movies and ride the cabin like a steed, grasping an oily metal cable in lieu of a mane. Of course, there’s no convenient hatch in the ceiling - indeed, I’ve never seen one my entire life.

Bing! Doors opening.

I traverse two corridors before arriving at my destination - the most boring door in the world, all wood veneer and dull metal handle with a keypad beneath it. I throw a glance over each shoulder before entering the code and cranking the handle, slipping through, and closing myself within.

The store cupboard looks the same as it did 34 minutes previously - just how I left it. It’s about fifteen feet between the door and the back wall, and I’m standing flanked by deep shelving units, with just enough room for a broad man to walk between without having to twist. The shelves play host to a mixture of yellowing stationery items and dust-drenched cameras and digital projectors - the fossils of an evolving office building.

Closing my eyes, I pop the thin plastic lid from my coffee and draw in the steam, revelling in the caffeine cloud that fills my throat and chest.

Can we get on with this?

I breathe jets of steam from my nostrils, keeping my eyes closed. “Let me enjoy my coffee.”

The longer we take, the greater the risk.

“I can’t do this without steadying my nerves first. You know that.” I fill my mouth with hot coffee, letting it spill across my tongue and flood beneath - I’ve timed it right, and it’s the perfect temperature. Swallowing a warm hug of glory, I take another mouthful, pause, and repeat. The warmth suffuses my body and I feel it spreading to my arms and legs. Invigorating. Blissful. Perfect.

For fuck’s sake.

I open my eyes. “Fine.” Popping the lid back on the empty cup, I slip it into a pocket. From another, I extract a wobbly pair of surgical gloves and stretch them over my hands. For the first time, I look down at the floor.

At the dead body on the floor.

I know she was human, or perhaps still is. I know there was once a feminine figure. I know she had features, and fingers and toes. I know she had nipples. I know she had labia and a clitoris. I know none of these things belong in zip-lock bags and rolls of cling film. I know all these things and file them away on the mental shelf of unhelpful information. I know I am here and some things simply need to happen. I blink back a rising sensation throughout my body, looking away from the floor again. No, no time for that.

I take in once again the display of macabre plastic parcels.

Exquisite.

Bending down, I pick up the knife, using only the tips of fingers and grasping it by edges. A glance up at the ceiling shows me what was missing in the lift - panels. Lots of them, all cheap polystyrene and grey corporate pattern. I reach up to lift one aside with the back of a hand and, rising onto my very tip-toes, I place the knife in a tray of cables running above the tiles. Easing the tile back into place, I let my body relax and slump. Retrieving one small bag from the floor, I pull off my gloves one after the other over it, secreting it in a blue balloon. This also gets stowed in a pocket.

Now get the fuck out of here.

Sometimes, a task is simply inevitable. Sometimes, we are but cattle, ambling towards our fate so something more glorious can feed. And so I do not shed the tears. I do not feel the emotions. I do not think too many of my own thoughts. I had my morning coffee. I moved the knife and collected the bag. And now, I have some shopping to do.

And the beast? He roils within me.

Author Notes .
.
This is my NanoWrimo project for 2022. As such, this was written today and may get changed as the story develops later. I may not post a chapter every day but will aim to post quite frequently.

I hope you enjoyed the read.

Mike
.
.

Chapter 2
The Beast Ch.2

By Fleedleflump

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.

DI Bentley slumped down in the first available chair and looked for something to spit gum into. It’d been in his mouth for nearly an hour and had less flavour than a supermarket bagel. The desk was typical fayre in the yard these days - utilitarian, with a couple of (unreliable) cables on it and, if you were lucky, a monitor. Glancing around to make sure nobody was watching, he plucked the gum from his teeth and ground it onto the underside of the desk.

“You’re a pig, Bentley,” said DS Chaplain, perching herself on the desk, as far from the gum as she could manage. Her mop of dyed red hair contrasted with a grey pant suit and white shirt. The grin on her face, though, was far sloppier than her dress sense.

“Where the fuck did you spring from, Sergeant?”

“Hey, don’t get crabby just because I caught you in the act. Face it, Bentley. I’m young, and fast, and you're old … and slow.”

“Hah!” Bentley said as he dug for his laptop in his bag. “Sam Elliott - Blue Jean Cop. You won’t beat me on straight-to-video eighties movies.”

She shrugged. “Like I said, you’re old-”

“Yeah, yeah. I get it. You know you shouldn’t talk to the boss like that, right?”

“What are you going to do - spank me?”

Bentley flipped open his laptop and plugged in the cable from the desk. There was probably a forty percent chance it was working. When the screen lit up, he hammered in his password and waited for the various windows to pop up and vanish.

Chaplain rocked on the desk. “Not into a bit of spanky, boss?”

He smiled wryly. “Not into getting disciplined when somebody overhears my answer. Now, stop trying to get me into trouble and get us some drinks, would you?” He let the smile turn into a grin. “There’s a good girl.”

She hopped off the desk, managing to land on one of his feet. “Ah, sorry Bentley! You want your usual Horlicks?” She wandered away from the desk.

“Nah,” he answered as his emails opened on the laptop. “Tastes like a cup of hot cum.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” said Chaplain as she disappeared from view. Bentley bit back on the comeback - she’d timed her exit perfectly.

“One zero to you, Sergeant,” he muttered, tabbing through email subject lines. It was the usual bullshit - upcoming seminar on physical handling of suspects (sorry, ‘customers’), a note about joiners and leavers in the department, a reminder to complete the six-monthly data protection training. Then something caught his eye.

RE: Case Ref 378429 - New Activity

“Fuck me sideways,” he muttered. A sense of weight settled in his stomach as memories flitted through his mind like a slideshow on fast forward. Shiny plastic, frenzied but accurate knife work, carefully sorted parts, and a murder weapon secreted somewhere about the scene.

“Well, it’s a step up from spanking,” said Chaplain, plonking two steaming mugs down on the desk. “Did life just get interesting?”

“Jesus! How do you always manage to sneak up on me?”

“Maybe you need a hearing aid.” She was still smiling, but the seriousness in her eyes told him she was in business mode. “What’s the case?”

Bentley pointed at the screen. “The worst customer I’ve ever had to deal with. Well, I say ‘deal with’ but I never met him, more’s the pity.”

“Why so sure it’s a ‘him’ - did you find, you know, Horlicks at the scene?”

“Scenes plural. And no - there wasn’t any DNA evidence, but still.” He glanced Chaplain’s way. “He cuts off all the bits and bobs from the victims and puts them in sandwich bags. Even their, you know.” He gestured to his lap. “Foldy bits. So, err, yeah it definitely felt sexual at the time.” He opened the crime database on his laptop and brought up the relevant scene photographs.

For the first time, Chaplain’s face held no hint of humour as she leaned forward to squint at the screen over his shoulder. “You should never underestimate a woman’s depravity, boss. Hadn’t you heard? We’re all equal now. We fart, and everything. When are these photos from, then?”

Bently took a moment to reply, mulling the thought that he could be wrong about the killer’s gender. “Few years back. I was a DS at the time, running leads. We wondered why he - sorry, they - just stopped.”

“Stint inside?”

“We may be about to find out - there’s a briefing in a few minutes. Want to tag along?”

Chaplain smiled. “Hells to the yeah.” She laughed when she saw him wince. “Yes, I said that. Come on - let’s get there early and get decent seats.”

He slurped his drink as they moved. "Bloody hell, Chaplain - did you piss in this? Is that supposed to be tea?"

"My aim's not that good," she said with a chuckle. "It's proper copper's tea - made with yesterday's teabag in a mug so stained it should be cancelled for blacking up."

"I don't remember that training module at Hendon," replied Bentley as they left the office and headed down the corridor to Briefing Room 2.

*****

Two constables walked through the briefing room, handing out packs in plastic folders to the ten or so attendees. Bentley thumbed at the wallet and sniffed at the wad of paper within, enjoying the smell of recently-printed pages. If someone felt the need to print things out, this was a serious matter, indeed.

At the front, statue-like behind the lectern, was Commander Shepherd. She stood taller than six feet, with stark blond hair and a carefully made up face. In a party dress outside a nightclub, she’d look like the beautiful one who pulled guys for her less conventionally attractive friends. At the lectern, in her uniform and a deadly serious expression, she was the picture of sobriety and competence.

Chaplain leaned in to Bentley’s ear and whispered, “Bimbo.”

He shook his head. “Don’t underestimate her,” he breathed back.

“DI Bentley,” said Shepherd - not loudly, but the general sussurus of whispers through the room halted instantly.

“Ma’am,” he said, snapping to attention, fully expecting to be told off for talking in class.

She pierced him with a gaze. “If your Sergeant is staying, she should know this will be a marriage-killer case. Secrets, long hours, potential danger - all that good stuff. And Bentley - every action she takes will be counted one of yours, understood?”

Bentley matched Shepherd’s gaze and nodded. “Chaplain knows the score, Ma’am. This will be a good development opportunity.”

“Good. Constable, please close the door.” She looked around those assembled to make sure they were all paying attention. “You’re all here because your commanding officers and line managers trust you implicitly, but they do not know what you’ll be working on. From this point, nothing you hear in this room is shared with anyone not in attendance. Some of you will know more about this than others, depending on your past experience.”

She held up one of the packets. “This material is too sensitive to email widely, so we’ve had these packs prepared. Do not let them out of your sights. You keep this with you and do not divulge its existence. Make notes on the blank pages at the back. No emails. No texts. No database updates. We’re going medieval on this one. Make phone calls if you must, but only to arrange face-to-face meetings or in dire emergencies.”

There was a general shuffling of feet in the room but nobody said anything. Bentley did a quick glance around but didn’t recognise most of the other attendees. This was an unprecedented situation, and apparently required an unusual group.

“What you have,” continued Shepherd, “is all the key information relating to a series of killings spanning two years, ending approximately seven years ago - or so we thought. You’ll all remember that the press went apeshit over this case - called the killer The Bagman, because originality is dead, and dogged our every step. Frankly, we never had a chance. What fewer of you know is that we never even found a viable suspect, and that means we don’t know why they stopped.”

“On pages eight to eleven, you’ll find information about the new victim.” She held up a hand. “Don’t look now - you can catch up after the briefing.” She waited a moment and looked at every person in the room again, confirming she had complete attention. “The same is not happening this time. I want to keep the media out of it for as long as possible. The constables who handed out your packs found the body, so they are your support and feet on the ground.”

She paused for a moment and the lines in her face etched an image of responsibility. “I’m not putting uniform in danger when I can't give them all the information, and tapping SO19 would be too high profile, so.” She gestured at two tall guys. “Ellis and Finch are on loan from the VIP protection unit. If you get even a whiff of danger, get them on scene. They are your backup.”

She gestured to a lady sitting next to Bentley. “Jane Johnson is from the Ministry of Justice. She’ll be our liaison if we need any custodial or Probation information. Harris Brown,” she indicated a man in a tweed jacket, “is your man for all things pathology and coroner relations.”

Bentley glanced around again. That only left two people he didn't recognise and one he certainly did.

“Rose and Preston,” continued Shepherd, indicating the two he didn’t know, “are on loan from Criminal Psychology. I guess you could call them profilers. Hopefully they can help. And you all know Assistant Commissioner Blakestock. If I’m unavailable for any reason, you go to him and nobody else. Nobody.”

“Finally,” she said, turning her attention to Bentley. “DI Bentley, this is your case. The incident rooms here at the yard are too high profile, but I’ve secured you a room in the back of an old, unused station where you won’t be disturbed. Everyone I’ve introduced is everyone you have at your disposal. Since you saw fit to bring her along, DS Chaplain is on the team, but this goes no further, understand?”

“I do,” said Bentley, nodding, “but I’m a little baffled. This killer’s a bad case, and no mistake. We all hoped he’d gone away for good, even if we didn’t know why. But all this,” he gestured around the room, “cloak and dagger stuff seems a little over the top.”

Shepherd smiled but there was no mirth in it. “It won’t once you’re up to speed. Read your pack, Inspector, and you’ll understand. In lieu of that, any other questions?”

“Just one, Ma’am. When I worked on this before, DI McHale was the lead. Shouldn’t this be her case?”

“DI McHale is unavailable.”

Bentley blinked, caught off guard. “Did she take early retirement? I’m sure I swapped some emails with her a few weeks ago.”

“No, Detective Inspector, she didn’t take early retirement.” Shepherd closed her eyes momentarily and let out a long breath. “DI McHale is the new victim.” She met his gaze pointedly. “Not only that, she was found in pieces, wrapped neatly in plastic, in a stationery cupboard in this building.”

Chapter 3
The Beast Ch.3

By Fleedleflump

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.

Bentley allowed the gaggle of voices to wash over him for a while. Their secret new incident room looked like a house that got abandoned half way through a renovation. Rough edges outlines the plasterwork, channels showed in the walls where cabling once ran, and the ceiling showed the yellow scars of nicotine abuse. A relic of different times, it would have played host to a local team of police - probably five officers with a single cell, a reception area, and the one office in which the team now sat.

As far as he could tell, for the last few years, it’d been used as a store room of the ‘file and forget’ variety. There was no working kitchen area, so he'd sent the two constables out with the mother of all coffee orders. It was good for them, he thought to himself - keeping track of that many very specific requests was good character building.

He flicked through pages in his case pack while the others talked, letting the images and snippets of intelligence merge with memories of scenes and conversations from his past. The information was all here, technically everything the team needed to start investigating. But without context and filtered through a lens of memory he’d tried several times to turn off, it was frustratingly fragmented.

Chaplain dusted off a chair nearby and wheeled it over, wincing as she sat down. “This place reminds me of my student days living with a bunch of guys in a crummy old house.”

“Too much testosterone?” said Bentley, smiling.

“Hardly. With the VIP guys stuck out front, all the men in here evaporated years ago.”

He snorted. “You shouldn’t talk about poor Mr Brown like that. I mean, you’re obviously not referring to me, a man in his prime.”

“Prime denial, maybe.” She gestured to the two profilers, who were deep in conversation with Brown from Pathology and the MoJ lady. “I’d actually forgotten about the profiler - is the guy Preston or Rose?”

Bentley shrugged. “We’ll figure them out in a minute. Did you notice something in your pack, or did you just come over to call me old?”

Chaplain elbowed him. “Alright, Mr Grumpy. Allow a girl to do both, will you? The pack’s great, but it doesn’t give me a feel for what’s going on here. Clearly, Shepherd’s worried about inside issues, given where the body was found. Do we really think somebody in the department did this, though? Was there any sense it was one of our own originally?”

“None,” he replied, sighing, “but then we never got a strong sense about much at all. Bear in mind, more civvies than cops access the yard, so it’s a pretty huge suspect pool, and if they're using a stolen ID badge, it could just be a hole in our security system.”

She nodded. “But if it is someone who works for the Met?”

“Then they’re completely off our radar. To get access to the building, you need CTC-level national security vetting clearance at a minimum. You don’t get that if you’ve even been suspected of something, never mind having a record. Not to mention, the balls or detachment it takes to wander through a building full of police having just dismembered somebody.”

“Also, a technical thought.” Chaplain shifted as if in discomfort. “There’s a bucket at every crime scene. Couple that with the complete lack of blood stains and I get the picture, but I have to ask - how?”

“Hold that thought.” Bentley stood up and cleared his throat. “Everyone, gather round. Let’s make some kind of plan.”

Everyone rolled chairs over into a rough circle and Bentley sat back down. “Alright, you’ve seen the contact sheet in the pack for this group. We’re using personal numbers and I assume everyone’s okay with that - yell now if not.” Nobody made a sound. “Sorted. Chaplain here will set up groups and channels using something with end-to-end encryption. That way you’ll also get her number. Let’s make that the only way we communicate if not face to face. Now.”

He closed his pack and looked round the group of faces. All attentive and serious - excellent. “McHale was a good cop. More importantly, she was a friend, so I’m damned sure going to see this through. I don’t know why this killer has resurfaced or what prompted the timing. I don’t even know why McHale was targeted - she may have been the lead investigator, but we never got a sense of purpose or a theme before. The choice of victim seemed irrelevant. So, let’s pool what we know.”

Bentley turned to Harris Brown in his tweed jacket - old enough to retire, perhaps, but there was a fire in his gaze and a lifetime of experience behind it. “Mr Brown, my Sergeant asked how we think the blood gets in the bucket. We had ideas back in the day, but I’d like to hear your thoughts - on the whole process, actually. How does he kill and dismember them?”

Mr Brown nodded. “It’s quite fascinating, actually. I can give you the process as we see it, but it’s hard to imagine an attacker managing it. The victims die from suffocation, leading us to believe they are wrapped in plastic - at least their heads - before anything else. Given the lack of signs of struggle, we believe they are incapacitated first. The most likely agent is isoflurane because it’s delivered through the respiratory system, acts fast, and is still very commonly used in developing countries, which makes it cheap and easy to buy online if you know where to look.”

He winced and shifted in his chair. Bentley heard a hip click and winced himself in sympathy.

“So,” said Jane Johnson from the MoJ, “they could use a cloth over the mouth?”

Mr Brown nodded. “Potentially, or more likely an aerosol to the face. The initial shock would cause an intake of breath, which would lead to disorientation, and then a more substantial dose could be administered.” He cleared his throat. “Once controlled and suffocated, the victim is drained of blood. We found consistent puncture wounds to the neck, opening the jugular. Without the heart pumping, this would be a slow, controllable process. However,” he said, lifting an arm for emphasis, “one would need gravity to assist in the exsanguination. This would take a great deal of strength - holding a body over the bucket for the required time - or perhaps some apparatus.”

“Was there any physical evidence of something like that?” asked Chaplain.

“No,” replied Mr Brown while Bentley nodded his agreement. “However that process is achieved, the body is then portioned and wrapped, and all the extremities and trinkets removed and bagged. At each scene, one piece is missing - a nipple or a finger, usually. In the most recent case, the clitoris was taken. These are presumably trophies.” He placed his hands palms-down on his thighs. “Once we finish here, I will head to the lab and check progress on DI McHale’s remains.”

Jan Johnson cleared her throat. “While Harris is doing that, I can do some digging. I’ll look for prisoners released recently who might fit the bill, and ask some questions around Probation. There might be some cases their psychologists had lingering doubts about, but didn’t have anything actionable to hold them on.”

“Awesome,” said Bentley. “Thanks, both. We have two constables in the team - I'll assign one to each of you, and they can help with notes and collation. Now, what useful information can we glean from our guest profilers? Oh,” he held up a hand. “And before we start, which of you is Rose, and which Preston, and why do we have two of you?”

They grinned, and the female behavioural psychologist spoke first, pushing a thin pair of glasses higher on her narrow nose. “I’m Lilly Preston, Detective, and my colleague is Dan Rose. We come as a pair because our field is as much about interpretation as application. In other words, we’ll disagree with one another lots but that will help us focus in on likely truths and indicators.”

“Are you going to tell us what the killer eats for breakfast?” asked Chaplain. “And regale us with tales of cruel words his uncle said to him when he was little?”

“In some ways, we could,” said Rose, sitting forward. He was chubbier and younger than Preston, but carried a self-assured edge. “Profiling isn’t some mad art you need to be a savant to perform - if I’m honest, it’s not even hugely reliable. It’s a balance of probabilities that might help you narrow down a suspect pool. We are one aspect of this investigation, and our role is to be like human databases.”

Jane Johnson leaned forward over crossed arms, clearly fascinated. “How do you mean?”

“For example,” said Preston, taking over. Bentley suspected this would be one of their things. “The killer dismembers the victims. Statistically, on its own, that tells us he’s most likely a latina gang member. However, we know that’s unlikely here since there's no reason to think these are gang-related killings. So we go to the next most likely demographic, which means a white male, early middle age, middle class - you know, exactly what you’d expect.”

“But then,” said Rose excitedly, “we look at other factors in combination. When we consider location correlations, social trends and historic cases with similar aspects, we can make assumptions. White males of his age would most likely have been raised primarily by their mothers, with a disciplinarian father. They are either Christian or agnostic. There's a forty percent chance of either physical, sexual or emotional abuse in their childhood on some level - yes, that high."

"So," said Preston, "we can assume some signs of stress such as worn teeth, or indicators of rebellion for somebody or that age and demo, such as tattoos, aggressive dressing or an avant garde hair cut. I know - it sounds silly - but that's how we create a baseline. It's important to note that a profile is fluid, changing to meet new factors. We never interpret evidence to meet it - rather, we amend it to account for all the evidence."

Rose held his hands out to his sides. "So, that's basically what we do. And then add to that lots of stating the obvious, because you'd be surprised how often that unlocks something insightful. For example, this is someone who has no trouble appearing normal, or at least normal enough to be unremarkable in a bustling city. That means they're either a world-class compartmentaliser, or - more likely - experiencing a level of dissociation."

Jane Johnson made an excited breathing noise. "Like a psychopath, or is it sociopath?"

The behavioural psychologists laughed in creepy unison and looked at one another.

"Way to start one of those arguments we talked about," said Rose. "But we'll shelve the psycho-socio debate for now. With dissociation, it's more important to know that it's a symptom that could indicate many different conditions. The key is to figure out some other symptoms and look at the combination to arrive at a diagnosis."

Preston held up a finger. "And from our point of view here, we always need to be asking - regardless of any other consideration - will this help us catch them? We’re not here to diagnose an exact medical condition unless it’s going to move us forward."

Bentley clapped his hands together. "In other words, you don't know much and that's actually part of the process." Chaplain chuckled. "That's not a criticism, by the way," added Bentley. "I now understand the point of what you guys do. Many thanks for the update."

"It's mid-afternoon, boss," said Chaplain. "Are we going to look at the crime scene?"

"Once the day staff have gone home - at that point, there shouldn't be anyone else in that part of the building." He looked around the team again. "Let’s reconvene here tomorrow morning. We know what you're doing next, Jane and Harris. So profilers, how do you think your time is best spent?"

They looked at each other and nodded wordlessly. "If it's alright, Inspector," said Preston, "we'd like to accompany you to the crime scene."

Bentley nodded. "Awesome. And just out of interest, what do you think our suspect is doing right now?"

Rose smiled. "Statistically? He's alone somewhere, either enjoying his trophies or arranging his home in meticulous detail somehow. Our prey is someone used to their own company."

Author Notes .
.
This is my NanoWrimo project for 2022. As such, this was written today and may get changed as the story develops later. I am not posting a chapter every day but will aim to post quite frequently.

CTC stands for 'Counter-Terrorism Check' - there are two levels of security clearance above that.

I hope you enjoyed the read.

Mike
.
.

Chapter 4
The Beast Ch.4

By Fleedleflump

Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of violence.
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language.
Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of sexual content.

Fair Notice: I'm not kidding with the sex warning.

She rears on top of me as I lay prostrate on the bed, pressing her buttocks across my face, burying my nose and mouth in a world of flimsy silk and sweaty heat. I reach up, running my hands up her bare back as I release a hot breath between her cheeks, and then talon my fingers to drag nails down between her shoulder blades, feeling a small wave of skin riding ahead of my touch.

She moans softly and her hands, braced just above my knees, grasp at my muscles with ardent fervour. I open my mouth wide, enjoying the sensations of her details sliding around my chin, and drag in another breath through her underwear. The metallic tang of her waning period teases my tongue as the air passes over it, and I feel my cock ache as it stands, brandished to attention.

“You dirty cunt,” she whispers, her words slipping to my ears through a fog of breath and heat. “You like that?”

She leans forward, her weight shifting, the warm pillows of her buttocks rising up around my cheeks. They aren’t as pert as they used to be, more like water balloons than tight cushions. Yes - so much better than before. I press my face forward as hard as I can, feeling my nose pushing silk against her arsehole, grabbing her hips to pull her against me.

And then I feel the wet heat of her mouth enclosing me, and the breathing gets harder and faster. She twines her tongue around my shaft, and then rises and unfurls it, like a child riding backwards up a twirl slide. As she lifts clear, I feel her plant a kiss on my tip, and my whole length bobbles in response, curtseying in encouragement.

“Mmmm,” she drawls. “Somebody’s all sticky for me.” She bears down again, her lips forming a seal that rides the ridge of my head and meets the furrows and slopes of the veins along my eager rod. I feel her breath, warm from her nose through my pubic hair, and her throat massaging me like a greasy glove. Waves of sensation flood through me, hot and breezy, pushing clouds of steam through my thoughts. I grasp at her cheeks, pulling them apart, releasing the vibrations of a loud moan directly into her groin.

Wake me up when the violence starts.

“Fuck off,” I say urgently.

Heather chokes momentarily and lifts, coughing over my cock in what is a unique and pleasurable sensation. “Yes, baby,” she says through heavy breaths. “I want to fuck too. You know I’m always horny when I’m on. It’s not fair.” She goes down again, drawing in my shaft, filling my world with dizzying arousal. Through waves of sensation, I pull her underwear down and bury my face between her buttocks, licking eagerly at her arse and pressing my chin against her Perineum. I know she likes that.

Sure enough, I feel her moan with appreciation, sending vibrations into my abdomen. Her weight shifts as she reaches down and cups my balls, drawing a snorting exhalation from my nose, and I spear my tongue forward with renewed vigour, twisting and exploring. It’s not getting in there, but it traces every detail of the sensation, back and forth, around the edges, above and below. I can feel her muscles pulsing and contracting in response.

“No,” she squeals softly. “Not yet.” She kneels forward, releasing my springing member and her glistening hole, and throws herself onto her back on the bed. Lifting her legs into the air, she slides her underwear over her knees, then bends them frog-like so she can reach to clear her feet. I stand and move before her, feeling my pill-inducted cock dancing excitedly as it points the way.

I mount the bed and kneel between her legs, marvelling at the shape of her. Age has only improved her allure, adding lines of detail and motion to her parts where before there was none. The softness in her breasts and tummy is like comfort, their pliance a thing of wonder. Her nipples stand, excited as the first time I kissed them, and her pubic hair invites, showing the way like markers on a runway. Her thighs are like down-stuffed pillows as they settle over my hips. In all ways, we are designed to meet this way. She is my lady, my better half, my concubine and my all. She is my goddess.

“Fuck my arse,” she says, her eyes meeting mine and a saucy smile twisting her lips. “Fuck me, you filthy bastard.”

Perhaps ‘goddess’ was a misleading term. I press forward, dribbling a glistening trail across her inner cheek, and feel myself press up against her, meeting the instant resistance of muscles squeezing.

“Oi, wait a sec, lover boy,” she says, turning to one side to rummage in a bedside drawer. “Here.” She leans forward with a small tube and squeezes clear fluid into her hand. “Lube up a bit. I don’t need to be bleeding from two orifices.” Her fingers encircle me with a cool, wet grasp, sending a shiver through my guts and a renewed vibrance into my erection. I watch her breasts dance as she slumps back again on the bed, tossing the tube back in the draw and grabbing a bullet-shaped vibrator. “Now,” she breathes, turning her gaze back to mine, “where were w-”

I thrust forward, feeling my head pop through her ringpiece and my foreskin roll back. Half way in, resistance drags at my skin, and I pull back, using my shaft to spread the lube around, before pressing forward again. Her gasp finds my ears like the smell of fresh pie reaching for my nose, urging, enticing, requiring more. Her tightness clasps at the base of my shaft and I pull back slowly, feeling it gripping and pulling. She braces her feet on my shoulders, knees bent, hips lifted, creating an angle for maximum depth.

This is more like it. Stab her again!

Before I register the thought, my body takes over and thrusts forward once more, sliding my full length inside until her cheeks press into the hollows of my hips. She holds the vibrator against her clit and turns it on, flicking aside the string protruding from her lips. I feel a shudder pulse through her muscles and she arches her back slightly, eyes closed and nostrils flaring.

But I no longer see the passion. I see a knife, grasped in my hand, performing a dance choreographed by hate and depravity.

Die, wench. Show the world what you are truly made of. Foulness and seduction. The misuse of power. The cynical deployment of wiles.

I feel Terry losing grip and a spike of fear piercing my consciousness. All at once, I’m not making love to my wife. I’m shoving my dick in a sewer. Warm sensations are suddenly sweaty flesh slapping against itself. The rampant breath of joy sounds like the laboured wheezing of an ageing horndog.

Blue pills or not, my erection wilts like a vine under too much sun.

Fucking pussy!

“Wait, I don-”

I stab her like the whore she is. She needs to know there is no purpose for her, no function in life beyond the momentary slaking of my thirst. I aim for her witch-parts - the tools she uses to control men, the fetid repugnance of her clutch. As her screams fill the air, my frenzy increases, striking her again and again, revelling in her struggles. My muscles fill with the tightening joy of power, the reverence of anger released, the elation of justice achieved. As her cries reach a fever pitch, I rear back and roar my power into the sky, feeling the energy flow out of me like a torrent.

I crash onto my back on the bed, breath heaving through me and vision swimming. I look at my hand, dreading the sight of a blood-covered blade, but there’s nothing there, and the sensation of holding it dissipates. Heather is gasping beside me, and as her arm drops onto mine, her hand clasping gently at my wrist, I feel a little more like myself again, like I’m a husband and not crazed lunatic.

I am both.

Our cat jumps up on the bed and sniffs at us suspiciously, climbing over legs to inspect where the interesting scents are coming from.

“Fucking hell, Terry,” whispers Heather. “Your balls must have been the colour of blueberries! I feel like an icing bag that’s just been pumped full of the sweet stuff.” She looks down along her body and giggles. “If I fart right now, Mr Snuggles will look like a plasterer’s radio.”

I laugh and it’s the most human I’ve felt in a long while. Forget buying coffee. Forget mingling with the herd. Laughing with the love of my life - that’s the stuff of dreams.

“You can get those pills again,” she mumbles, rolling to press her warm body against my side.

Cuddling.

Killing.

Fucking.

Stabbing.

Caring.

Destroying.

This … is the life.

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