Just My Luck

Also, there was a problem in our metropolitan area at that time that caused me a lot of angst. A serial killer or killers was/were on the loose. Over the last several years at least twenty-two deaths were linked to the same perpetrator(s). All victims were shot point blank with a 40-caliber handgun. Two different guns were believed involved, one likely a Walther PPQ M2, and the other a Glock 23. Most victims were also beaten post-mortem. The reason why the beatings were believed to be post-mortem was because there was virtually never any external bleeding except at the gunshot wounds, and the details of the bruises were different than if the beating was given when the victim was alive.

Since ten of the twenty-two known victims were women, and several of the women were killed within a two-mile radius of our apartment, I told Sean that I was freaked out. "I want to get a gun," I insisted when one female victim was found six tenths of a mile from our apartment building.

"You know that I don't like guns, Denise," he groaned.

"I don't give a shit whether you like them or not I'm getting one and a concealed carry permit. I'll keep a trigger lock on it when it's in our apartment," I sternly replied.

He tried to say that there was "no need" for it, but I would not be deterred. I bought the #1 rated handgun for women with good hand strength -- a Sig P365 -- and took an extensive live course in how to handle and shoot my specific gun, and how to safely conceal it while still allowing ready access. I bought a Browning Alexandria Concealed Carry Purse which was perfect for a Sig P365, and spent so much quality time on the range that the range proprietor told me that I was the best female civilian shooter to ever hit his range, making me very proud. I was very careful to always put the trigger lock on when in the apartment to ease Sean's apparent angst, but always removed the lock when I put the gun in my purse, and was almost never without it when I was outside our apartment.

Getting back to my two issues with Sean, when he was in one of his excitable periods he would take off for several hours, often when Rocky picked him up at our new apartment (primarily payed for with my wages, although Sean did make about $60,000 in our two years of marriage by selling his sculptures, and he kept his old cheap apartment as a studio). When he returned, he would be depressed and uncommunicative, and his sweatshirt would be disheveled and he also had a somewhat sulphury smell. He would never give a straight answer about where he was or what he had been doing. Two days later he would be completely normal.

The end of our marriage came as a result of two events one night two years and twenty-six days after we wed. Sean and I went to a nightclub with Rocky and his date Cindy. While I couldn't really call Cindy a friend, I didn't dislike her and she was certainly much easier to take than Rocky was.

I should have declined to go to the night club with Sean et al because Sean was in one of his disturbing excitable periods, but he begged so I eventually relented.

The nightclub was really hopping and the four of us were dancing a good bit of the time. However, when consuming my third drink I started feeling funny -- I don't drink much but I never have gotten drunk even when I drank more than the average guy because I apparently metabolize booze quickly.

In retrospect Sean and Rocky seemed to be looking at Cindy and me in a strange way. I started to get what I can only describe as hot flashes in my pussy (not to be confused with the hot flashes during menopause). Sean snuggled up to me, touching my pussy through my skirt which almost caused me to cum right then. "Take off your panties and give them to me and I'll see that you get a nice surprise tonight," he whispered into my ear. I was atypically clumsy as I removed my panties right at the nightclub table and with an uncharacteristic giggle handed them to him. Once I removed my panties I had an almost irresistible urge to have something -- preferably Sean's cock -- pushed up my snatch.

I saw Cindy doing the same thing for Rocky -- she looked to be as shaky as I was. Once my husband and her date had pocketed our panties, they escorted us out of the club and to Rocky's car.

I was really feeling light headed as we got into Rocky's car. I didn't realize it at first but Sean had gotten into the driver's seat, Cindy in the front passenger seat, and Rocky in back with me. When I did recognize our positions, I didn't like it but I was having trouble just keeping my concentration so I didn't complain.

I don't know what the passage of time was, but when we were on the road I felt Rocky -- who is a big strong guy -- lifting me onto his lap. I tried to squirm away when I realized that his pants were pulled down and his hard dick was sticking straight up and attempting to enter my pussy, but I didn't have my normal strength or mobility. Once his cock was buried in my twat not only did I not have the strength to resist but I also strangely lacked the desire. I realized at that point that I had been drugged but it was too late to do anything about it and I was embarrassed that I actually started participating in my unwanted fucking in the back seat of Rocky's car as he simultaneously mauled my tits.

It was obvious that Sean knew what was going on since in response to my grunts he chuckled "Having fun back there?"

From Cindy's noises coming from the front seat it was apparent that she was being finger-fucked by Sean while he was driving. I was actually hoping that we'd get into an accident before Rocky came in me, but that was not to be. I chastised myself for orgasming once his girthy cock ejaculated into my pussy because I was trying hard not to climax.

That was not the last indignity of the night. Sean and Rocky had to virtually carry Cindy and me, respectively, up to our apartment. The men stripped Cindy and me and then I heard Sean say "Since you fucked Denise I get to Double Dip first."

I didn't know what "Double Dipping" was but unfortunately, I found out. While in a stupor I was laid on my back on a sheet and blanket which had been spread out on the floor, and Cindy was lifted onto me, her bare twat roughly even with mine, and her nipples almost dueling with mine. Since I had already been fucked my pussy fairly easily received Sean's mammoth cock. He fucked me for about a half dozen strokes then pulled out and shortly after that I heard Cindy groan. Despite my foggy brain I soon caught on to what "Double Dipping" was when Sean would obviously fuck Cindy's pussy for a dozen or so strokes, pull out and stroke in me about the same number of times, etc.

Despite the fact that I don't have any lesbian leanings whatsoever, Cindy's tits rubbing against mine enhanced the unwanted orgasm that seemed to be welling in my body. When Sean started ejaculating in me I did start to orgasm but then the bastard pulled out halfway through and finished up in Cindy. Despite Cindy's groans of pleasure almost right into my ear I heard Rocky clapping and chortling in the background. "Awesome -- can't wait for my turn," was among his many cackles.

Once Sean was done filling Cindy's pussy he withdrew and he and Rocky started some mindless banter. I rolled Cindy off of me. Undoubtedly because of Sean pulling out of me mid-ejaculation I got a small window of clarity. While Sean and Rocky were drinking beers as Rocky obviously expected to be the double-dipper in the next round I crawled to where my purse had been dropped onto the floor next to my clothes. I reached into the purse pocket where I kept my Sig and latched onto it. If the Sig had had a safety lever on the trigger's face I probably could not have manipulated it properly. It doesn't have a safety lever, however. I pointed the gun in the general direction of Rocky and Sean but hopefully over their heads and started pulling the trigger. After the third shot I heard what I was sure was feet pounding on the floor, then heard the front door to the apartment open and close with a bang as loud as the gunshots. With my last ounce of energy I crawled to the door and put on the interior lock and chain; then I passed out on the floor.

I woke up still lying on the floor naked and with a spinning head when the sun shone through our east facing windows the next morning. I was able to stand and walk for a few steps into the kitchen. I drank a glass of water, then put my head under the faucet and let cold water run for a few minutes. I finally lifted my wet head out of the sink and looked at the kitchen clock -- 9:37 a. m.

I walked back into the living room and saw naked Cindy there still in a drugged stupor with seminal fluid caked on her thighs adjacent her reddened pussy.

I took a long shower and almost felt human again. I dressed, woke Cindy up and helped her into the shower. After she cleaned and woke herself in the shower I gave her a pair of my sweats to put on since her clothes from last night weren't functional. I made us both some breakfast, made sure that she had enough money for a taxi, and called one for her. She was as distraught and embarrassed as I was.

It was apparent to me that my marriage was over. After I called the management to have the locks changed and was putting some of Sean's possessions into several contractor bags my cellphone rang. It was Sean.

"What the fuck do you want, asshole," was my friendly greeting.

"Look...Denise...I thought that it would be a good time. I'm really sorry that I misinterpreted what your reaction would be. Can you promise not to shoot me if I come home?"

"You don't live here anymore pervert. If you somehow get back into our apartment I'll put a slug in that weapon between your legs that you're so proud of. I'll call you when all your shit is outside in the hall so that you can pick it up and go live with your depraved asshole buddy or flop in your studio, I don't give a fuck which." I then terminated the call wishing that my cellphone was a landline so that I could have slammed the receiver down and punctured his eardrum.

As I staggered through the apartment collecting Sean's things, I pulled out a small steamer trunk from his closet. Although empty it seemed a little unwieldy to me. Curious, I inspected the inside. After about a minute I determined that the trunk must have a false bottom. I got a screwdriver and pried the bottom open. Underneath the false bottom were two long sleeve sweatshirts with some sort of material visible on the sleeves and a slightly sulphury odor, a Glock 23, a couple of boxes of ammunition, and a blackjack with what looked like some sort of biological material caked on the business end of it.

Suddenly a criminal justice course I had taken my freshman year in college about crime scene investigation popped into my head. Without touching anything in the trunk I was sure that at least some of the material on the sweatshirts was GSR and/or blood, that the sulphury smell was from gunpowder, that the blackjack had been used to beat dead or dying victims, and that the Glock 23 had been fired by supposedly anti-gun Sean. I chastised myself for being so fucking stupid as to not have earlier recognized that Sean might be a serial killer; but then again what wife wants to believe that her doting husband is such a deviant.

I immediately called 911 and told the dispatcher that I thought that I had evidence that linked my husband to the serial killings in our metropolitan area. Within ten minutes flat my apartment was swarmed with detectives, crime scene investigators, the police chief, and a prosecutor and her investigator.

I was interviewed extensively at my apartment and although in shock and on the verge of tears I gave them everything that I knew. I told them that Sean was likely to call to come get his stuff. They took me into protective custody and told me exactly what to do if Sean called.

I was a nervous wreck sitting in a conference room at the prosecutor's office with two female cops in the room with me and two male cops outside the door. They brought me food -- not that I was hungry -- and coffee, and offered comfort. I texted my boss and told him that I wouldn't be at work Monday or Tuesday.

About 3 p. m. Sean called. He again tried sweet talking me but this time -- in accordance with what the cops had told me -- I was receptive. I told him that I needed my space for a while but that I would be gone from the apartment from 5-7 p. m. that day and that he could get a key -- not to be duplicated -- from the landlord on the first floor of our building and get whatever stuff he wanted from our apartment until I could see my way to living with him again.

After that the cops moved into high gear. There were frantic phone calls and a beehive of activity. The prosecutor herself was going to the apartment building (behind a SWAT team) to make sure that everything went smoothly because the Glock 23 had already been linked by ballistics tests to be the gun used in more than half of the serial killings. From what I overheard the plan was to get the landlord's representative out of the building, keep the elevators and stairwell doors closed beginning at 4:30, and have two dozen cops in and around the landlord's first floor office.

One of the female cops babysitting me received a phone call at about 6:30. After somberly listening and only responding with a few "OKs" she terminated the call. She solemnly turned to me and said "Your husband showed up with his buddy Rocky Werner about 5:30. When confronted by SWAT at the landlord's office Rocky pulled out a gun -- I bet that you can probably guess that it was a Walther PPQ M2 -- and gunfire ensued. Sean is dead and Rocky is in the hospital in serious condition."

That information -- that Sean and Rocky were clearly the serial killers, not that Sean was dead -- broke the dam and I began sobbing.

***********

I had truly loved Sean -- but in roughly 24 hours that love had turned into hate and revulsion. Within a couple of months Rocky did recover from his wounds and was then tried, convicted, and sentenced to death, and as far as I know is now on death row. I haven't bothered to check.

Since I inherited all of Sean's possessions -- which included eight finished sculptures and two partially finished ones -- and because of the perverse nature of society whereby the artwork of a serial killer can instantaneously increase dramatically in value, I quit my job in finance. Just selling one sculpture for $250,000 (ten times what his most expensive sculpture sold for when Sean was alive) allowed me to change the direction of my life. Since I was only twenty-four years old, was fit, could handle a gun, had minored in criminal justice, and had some guilt for not recognizing much earlier that Sean could have been a serial killer, I applied for a position in the police academy and was accepted. I realized halfway through the academy that I had found my place -- and passion -- in life. In the ensuing years I first became a rookie cop and then subsequently gained a reputation of being a tough, fair, and smart police officer. I made detective faster than any other female in department history -- less than four years. One thing that helped was that I never took Sean's surname when we married but kept my maiden name of Richards so no one immediately associated me with the now infamous serial killer Sean Gilbert but rather when introduced to me thought of the famous actress instead.

While work was going well, I was apprehensive about romantic relationships. I rarely dated before I made detective although I did develop a friends-with-benefits relationship with Paul Gibbons, an entrepreneur who I had known from my time working in finance. In addition to servicing my pussy quite well Paul helped me get in on some ground floor investment opportunities so that I parlayed the money I got from selling all of Sean's sculptures (even the two unfinished ones went for almost $100,000 each) into some really big bucks so that monetarily I was set for life and even got my mother out of the semi-poverty that she had lived in most of her life and into a nice house, with a new car, and with spending money. While Paul and I really liked ringing each other's chimes between about one and three times a week, we both represented that we didn't have any interest in a long-term relationship.

I had been a detective for about two years -- and was now almost thirty years old -- when my experienced partner Joe Friday (think that he got ribbed about that name by anyone who ever saw the old Dragnet TV series?) and I had a case that caused us to consult with an assistant law professor at the local State University named Neal Minton. Minton was an expert in the legality of electronic surveillance. He had an engineering degree in addition to a Masters in Law so he understood the technology as well as the legality. I was impressed by him in many ways -- he was obviously brilliant, seemed kind and compassionate, and --not that it was important (cough, cough) -- handsome and slim. Also, he was really young for someone in his position; I'd guess only two or three years older than I was.

I had interaction with enough men to know that Minton was impressed with me too. I don't wear understated clothing like most female police detectives -- I find showing off a few of my assets puts lots of criminals off their game and enhances the cooperation of male witnesses. Neal tried to hide his many surreptitious glances at my legs and boobs, but I noticed them even if my partner didn't.

Neal provided much worthwhile information and at the end of the interview as he shook my hand goodbye specifically asked for my card "In case I think of anything else that might be helpful to you." I gladly provided it, the one with my personal cellphone number on the back.

It only took five days before Neal called me on my cellphone. After pleasantries he got to the point. "One thing that I forgot to mention when we met is that there is a trade show in a suburb where all of the latest electronic surveillance equipment will be on display, including high-tech cameras. I'm going this Saturday and would be happy to pick you up and drive you there."

"Interesting," I chuckled to myself. "Since I don't know my schedule for sure yet why don't you give me the address and a time to meet you there and I'll call you Saturday morning to confirm that I'll be there." I was hesitant to ride with him in case he turned out to be different than my first impression, but was also anxious to see if a relationship was possible.

Neal agreed to my suggestion, I confirmed on Saturday morning that I could meet him at the tradeshow at 3 p. m., and I wore an enticing outfit on Saturday afternoon.

To make a long story short, Neal and I hit it off at the trade show. He was obviously well-versed in surveillance technology but didn't act like a know-it-all, and he showed a self-deprecating sense of humor. We ended up having dinner together and just before we got into our respective cars to go home after dinner, he demonstrated that he wasn't a game player.

"I've really enjoyed today, Denise," he started out, holding my hands and staring into my eyes -- almost at the same level as his in my three-inch heels. "I'm not the type to beat around the bush," he continued, and then with an evil smile said "unless naked," which caused us both to laugh. "Seriously, I really want a romantic relationship with you. Is that a possibility."

"I'm not ruling it out," I replied with a smile. "Why don't you call me Friday morning after I know my weekend schedule and we can talk about a real date."

Neal smiled, kissed me briefly on the lips, and we parted.

************

While if I had done a background check on Sean before I married him I still would have had no clue that he was a serial killer -- but my experience with Sean caused me to be extremely careful with Neal. I had a complete police background check done, and also paid a private service too in order to get as much information as possible about him. Except for a few minor things -- like only having worked as a civilian contractor for the Army doing electronic surveillance for three and three-quarters years rather than the four years on his curriculum vitae resulting in a seemingly three-month gap in his work history, or having graduated college with a BSCpE instead of a BSEE -- he checked out. Because the discrepancies were so trivial as to be inconsequential, especially since the big issues like lack of a criminal history and clear academic and workplace achievement demonstrated that he was a straight shooter, and even one ex that the private background checker interviewed had nice things to say about him, I had no concerns.