Chapter 2

I refused to consider our baby-faced pervert to be the notorious serial killer that no less than three States were searching for with priority status. It was a matter of record that Billy Bob was about as weird as they come, but he had never been accused of an actual violent act inflicting pain on a victim in any way.

It pissed me off that he had stolen my treasured running shoes and my smiley face panties from my school locker a long time ago. Still, that was no reason to punish him physically now for his perverted ways and his annoying attitude to females in general.

Our hunted killer was a real “sicko” that seemed to enjoy the long sessions of torture that he used extensively now with every victim he selected and isolated in a remote location for his perverted fun and games. It was a sign that he was slowly changing into a monster in front of our eyes with an accelerating cycle of violence that needed fresh blood a little bit sooner every time. On the other hand, this risk-taking downward spiral was good for our side because it furnished additional insight into his area of containment and his modus operandi.

We knew a lot more about him these days than ever before and the Federal units were poised to move in and make a final search to flush him out and eliminate him from their list of active serial killers.

I happened to interview one of the young women that Billy Bob had annoyed recently and was surprised at her lack of interest in telling us anything about his actions after the last New Year’s Eve party up at the crossroads when a bunch of young females got sick ingesting some bad pills manufactured south of the border. It was late in the afternoon, when she finally admitted to me that the prick had handcuffed her to the stove and undressed her down to her socks and shoes whilst she was still in a state of semi-conscious confusion. I tried to pin her down, but she started to cry, making me feel like an ass-hole about the whole thing.

“He made me get down on my elbows and knees and he stuck a thing in me back there that looked like some animal’s bushy tail with a thick rubber plug on the end. It was the rubber thing that he shoved up my backside and he didn’t use any lube to make it go easy.”

I wrote it all down in my little green book and she held my arm and whispered,

“He did things to me that I just can’t tell anyone because he told me if I ever told anyone, he would come and finish me off like I was a stool pigeon. As God is my witness, I don’t even know what the hell a stool pigeon is, if you know what I mean?”

She hadn’t reported this to anyone at the time and I began to revise my opinion about Billy Bob right then and there. If he had scared this one into keeping her mouth shut, I wondered how many others he had bluffed into shutting their mouths about his obscene actions that made him sound more like a serial killer than just your regular run of the mill perverted ass-hole.

I knew it wasn’t standard interrogation process, but I decided to give him a little up close and personal test to see his level of depravity in taking advantage of females under his control. I knew the handcuffs and chain were sturdy and the camera in the two-way was grinding away with silent witness to his every little nuance of movement.

I walked up to the window right next to him and stared out at the gaggle of press folks and the downright nosey and interfering general public that always seemed to smell blood in the water better than a hammerhead shark in shallow water. Then, I leaned forward slightly just to show Billy Bob I wasn’t hiding any tricks up my sleeve. He took the bait and his hot little hand started snaking its way up the inside softness of my legs and slowly made a tortured path to my panty edge like some insect with fearsome plans. I spread my knees slightly like I was trying to get a cramp out of my lower extremities and his grubby little fingers started to dance an Irish jig right on the center of my womanhood like he had some sort of program for making a female take his foolishness and ignoring the downright humiliation of her God-given dignity.

I wanted to see if he would be quick to leave the path of sheer lust and move over into the fast lane of dishing out pain to show he was in complete control. In a way, I was disappointed that he continued to act like a greedy little boy in a candy store and never switched into serial killer mode in that short encounter. No, it was not approved tactics, but it helped to convince me that we had the wrong guy in Billy Bob and that he was just another ass-hole jerk in a town that had its share. It was a lot quicker than asking a lot of silly questions and reporting a lot of crap that didn’t make squat in the long run whilst the serial killer kept running up his winning score.

The radio in the squad room started stuttering like Jimmy Smith back in grade school, when he was excited and tried to tell the teacher he knew the answer, only it couldn’t quite make it past his fluttering lips. I went out on some dates with the not bad-looking Jimmy after high school and he was sort of the same way with his love-making, leaving you with a feeling you had been fucked but you weren’t quite certain.

As luck would have it, Old Jimmy got his ass waxed over in God-forsaken Iraq by a roadside bomb that didn’t have anything against him personal. In a way, it was probably better he never got married and didn’t have many friends to mourn his passing except maybe his widowed mother that was a bit touched in the head from even before he was sent to school. He would have been an ideal suspect for this serial killer case because he was often the brunt of jokes by lots of females with a nasty streak in them that started in their pussies and went all the way up to their lack of grey matter between their ears if the truth be known and people didn’t try to hide their natural orneriness like a bunch of dang fools.

That got me to thinking we were going about this the wrong way.

Maybe, we should be looking for a female serial killer instead of a male because these killings were vicious enough and filthy enough to indicate a woman was involved in the mess. The only thing that left females out of the profile was the statistic that almost ninety percent of the serial killers were men and women didn’t seem to have that “hunting” instinct that males just came by naturally.

The radio was calmed down now and we started getting the details on a crime scene up north of town that described a pair of female victims in their mid-twenties that had been cut up and spread over a deserted field like trophies from a butcher shop that specialized in female corpses.

By the time, we arrived at the scene, the coroner had already sorted out the main parts and we had two women’s remains minus their hands and heads making our identification process a big lot of nothing because we depended entirely on facial characteristics, dental records, and fingerprints as a vital start to the process. Fortunately, we discovered their clothing stuffed into a drainage pipe up next to the highway and that was how we determined they were Rebecca Moonlight and Sally Wildwood from the reservation and both girls worked for the Indian casino right next to the interstate. They both had records for public drunkenness, and soliciting for prostitution that filled folders with lots of juicy details. It would have been put down as a simple case of workplace violence, except for the fact of the odd means of disposal that indicated the serial killer was getting confused and out of control.

I view the bodies after they were put back together like humpty dumpty in the coroner’s office and we had already found one set of hands and a head from Sally Wildwood sitting in a dumpster behind the casino all by their lonesome. We never did find the other head and set of hands, but Rebecca’s grandmother gave us a positive identification from her knee scars that came from some sort of punishment best left unsaid in this report. Both of the women had been engaged in vaginal and anal sex shortly before their demise and the report was inconclusive about the fact that it was consensual or forced. In the long run, it didn’t make any difference because they were both dead, cut up and thrown away like yesterday’s garbage only a whole lot worse.

We decided to put them both on the serial killer’s list of victims because the bottoms of their feet had the same indications of the shoe fetish bandit at work with his nasty obsessed mind. Their shoes were still missing along with their undies from the clothing recovered and that gave further indication we were dealing with the same twisted mind that had already taken a dozen female lives.

The Bureau of Indian Affairs got involved because it was a crime against Native Americans and they kept strict records for obvious reasons. Besides, the State Commission on Gambling was interested in any outcomes because some new licenses were on hold until the crime statistics were better documented for regional impacts.

It looked like those two girls were a lot more important dead than alive and a lot of important people were interested in finding out who had killed them and why.

For some strange reason, that was when Billy Bob confessed to murdering both of those girls because of some bogus scam they had pulled on him that cost him his winnings at the casino and his nice, new Lincoln convertible with the detachable top and full leather interior. His so-called confession was a bunch of bull-shit that any fool could pull apart without really making any effort at all.

I found out later it was because he was feeling left out and thrived on the notoriety of being the serial killer. His petulance and lack of common sense made him an unlikely target in our line of inquiry, but some of the higher-ups were frantic to find a viable suspect to hang the killing on and take the heat off the State government in an election year. I knew they were trying their best to railroad Billy Bob and wrote a blistering report to the media that all but eliminated him from our list of suspects. Now that he was dropped to “a person of interest” the press had no interest in him and they went into a mode of describing the physical aspects of the case to keep reader interest alive and on top of the daily news cycle. After the case, the only thing of interest was the political conflicts and that was so depressing with nothing ever getting done anymore that the general public just tuned it out and went on with their lives like ordinary folk all over the world.