A Saint and A Sinner Ch. 14

They're putting together a task force, he thought as he rubbed his hands together, almost giggling in delight. A task force in his honor. It was almost like getting an academy award. He did giggle then, thinking about standing at a podium, Nick Saint handing him the head of a dead girl as a trophy. Too delicious.

He was down in his laboratory, what he called the underground room where he kept his research. His latest case file was open in front of him letting him relive every glorious moment, he was looking at the before and after pictures of his experiment. She had been beautiful, he still felt a twinge of desire when he thought of her, of the way she had responded to him. Of her defiance. Of her impudence. She had lasted a lot longer than some.

He remembered the first girl, the girl who wouldn't quit crying. She called the knife. She hadn't lasted three days.

But a task force was something new and delicious. They couldn't find him, they had nothing on him. Mr. Big Shot Detective Nick Saint couldn't find his ass with a flash light, road map and both hands.

He smothered his giggles into his hand.

And his partner, whoa, now she was something. All blonde, cool good looks and ice in her veins, sexy as hell in her uniform. He could imagine her strapped down to the table, spitting at him. She would be in that uniform at first and then naked after he cut each and every delightful bit off of her.

He would be able to touch her everywhere,

anywhere. His hand slid under his desk and fondled the bulge in the front of his expensive pants. A light sweat beaded on his face. He could see his hands on her pale skin, could hear her curses, her cries of pain, her screams of terror.

He stopped himself before he ejaculated into his fine dress pants. He wouldn't stain his clothing that way. Leaving himself unfulfilled gave him the edge, ready and alert. He loved that moment, the second before pleasure spurted when tension was at it's most tightly strung. He smoothed the wrinkles from his groping with a firm hand, creases were terrible in this soft wool.

He liked fine things, like the feel of silk and satin, Egyptian cotton, fine French wines, symphonies and good food. He drove expensive cars, and he had personal staff members to satisfy his every personal need. He had a good life, even if he had to deal with his cold-hearted bitch of a wife to keep it and to keep his real self buried beneath a facade of a whiny hen pecked husband which had become more difficult through their years together.

Tomorrow, he would be going to the task force. He would be a member of all those people who's only job would be to find him. The irony of it was something he wished that he could share. He needed to tell someone. He rubbed his hands together again, feeling his erection straining against his zipper. He needed to find a new case study.

He picked up the plastic bag that contained urine soaked jeans, opening the seal and breathing in the acrid scent. It smelt like expensive perfume to him but better. He wished he could take the time to strip down, to rub the material on his body and remember what she had felt like straining under him when he had rammed himself into her body. The sounds she had made when he forced her body sideways, despite the bonds, and fucked her anally.

Her cries had been a song of pain to his ears, her screams a balm to his soul. She had cursed him, making him even more amorous, more ready to make her his.

She had bled many times, on him, on the table. The blood had made her passage slick, hot. It had made the mating all the more satisfying for him. He had licked blood off of her body, careful not to give into the impulse to bite. He didn't want to leave marks, anything that they could use to track him later. But the temptation had been there, oh, so heavily pounding in his brain, the need to tear flesh, to feel the hot weight of it against his tongue, to taste it's sweetness.

He resealed the bag, carefully expelling as much air as he could. He closed the file, and placed it, along with all his evidence bags back into the plastic box, firmly closing the lid. The box was set on top of a stack of shelves, carefully placed with five others. Each box was neatly labeled and dated.

He could remember each and every one of them without looking into those boxes. And he could remember the others, the ones that he had done before the knife. The ones that were buried and hidden in places where they would not be found.

The ones that were before, when he hadn't the knowledge to study, or to make conclusions.

The police wouldn't be able to stop him. He had studied the greats, Gein, Kempner, Gacy to name just a few. Though his personal favorite had been Ted Bundy. He would never have been caught, never, if it hadn't been for sloppy driving.

But Ted never had it in him to study the art. He was in it for the thrill, the quick and fleeting sex, not the science. He hadn't understood that it was the aspect of death that was important to understand, the act of finding out what was capable, what the human body could achieve.

Ted Bundy might not have had it in him to understand that death was an art form in its purest sense. But he was slick, good looking, well-spoken and managed to fool many women into coming with him to their deaths. He was evil in one of its many disguises.

He had styled himself as Ted Bundy, had employed some of his methods to sweet-talk women into going with him. It was all so easy. Some of these women, when they saw his clothing, his car, his money, they all but jumped into the car eager to see if they could get their filthy hands on what was his, on what he had worked so very hard to obtain. They were such fools.

He was too smart for Detective Nick Saint. He could play his games. He liked games. He was good with games. They made the hunt, the chase and the final bagging of the prey so much better. They made the studies so much sweeter, the planning of each detail so much more important. And the victory so much more worthwhile.

Tomorrow, he would be in a room with a handful of others, hearing all the details of the women he had captured and explored, knowing that he could supply details that the others never would believe. He could give them dates, times, the exact last words of each victim.

He could give them numerous video tapes of exactly what he had done to these women, his face carefully screened from the camera. He could let them listen to their screams, hear the glory in their voices as they faced the knife. He could tell them his Purpose, the glory of the science that they could never understand unless they could understand the knife. The video tapes lined the walls of his lab, carefully dated and labeled, the camera set up to only allow the bodies of the women to be seen, naked and writhing beneath him. He never allowed any details of his lab into the shots, that was private, his own domain.

He could tell them what he had done with the cars. The different lakes they had been driven into. They wouldn't be found. He could even give them the registration slips, carefully sealed in plastic and placed in files. He could tell them the names of the girls they had found. He could tell them the names of the ones that were still sitting in deserted farmhouses, rotting.

He felt such power. How could this power, the power to take life, to hold it in your hands and decide whether to crush it or to let it flourish, be wrong? How many times had he helped young girls out? Had them in his grasp and let them go? How many girls were there out there that remember the good-looking man that had saved them.

None of them would connect him with the 'monster' on the news. None of them knew how close they had come to death.

He hoped there would be women on this task force. He knew he would be able to see the female deputy again. It would be a new experience, to relive his accomplishments and look into her face. He wanted to see what she felt.

He opened a drawer in his desk and removed a package of file folders, pulling one out of the plastic wrap. He grabbed a black marker from the middle drawer and pulled off the cap. In his carefully neat print he wrote three words. Then he put the supplies away, leaving the file to sit in the middle of the blotter, the words drying.

Deputy Michelle Parsons.

He giggled again. Time to go up to the house. He needed to prepare, needed to get a good night sleep so that he could be bright and shiny tomorrow for his debut.