Vice Cop Ch. 11

"Actually that's a big misconception," Madeline replied, "sure it draws the wealthy elite with a taste in the art form, but I've met lots of sincere fans from all social backgrounds. If you have the money to buy a ticket, even one in a back row, that's all that counts."

"So how long have you been dancing?"

"All my life," she said, her eyes sparkling wistfully, "My mother said I learned to dance even before I learned how to walk. I first danced the role of Clara from The Nutcracker when I was still a girl. I danced in several ballets through my teen years, and earlier in my twenties."

"I know it's not always considered good form to ask a lady her age, but how old are you, if you don't mind my asking, babe?"

"I'm twenty eight. My dancing days are nearly over, too. Us ballerinas retire really young because the body can't cooperate later on."

"So what, you thinking of retiring at thirty? What would you do after that?"

"Teach dance. That's pretty much what they all do when they retire."

She looked at the clock on the wall, a small kitschy clock shaped like a cat with its tail serving as the pendulum. It was eleven p.m. She gazed at Vince and smiled at him.

"I really had a nice time, Officer McClintock," she said to him.

"It's Vince, babe. Just Vince."

"You want to fuck?"

She said this so suddenly and in such a straight-forward way that it took Vince by surprise. But as he looked at her, he could read that she was good to go. Her eyes were glistening with lust as she surveyed his small, stocky body, her eyes especially glued to his cute butt. She took his hand across the table.

"I want you to fuck me, Vince," she said to him.

Wildly aroused, Vince nearly knocked over the small dinner table where they had just eaten. He overturned a chair and seized her into his arms, kissing her deeply. She moaned through the kiss and they held on to each other tight, his chest butting against her breasts. They found that they were both getting quite aroused. Their kisses were hard. Vince thrust his tongue inside her which she found to her liking. He tore off her small cocktail dress, which she also seemed to like. They didn't want to waste any time, and were apparently uninterested in doing it in the bedroom.

Vince quickly removed his own clothes, which piled up on the floor beneath him. She was not wearing any bra or panties, which got his cock even bigger. He removed his boxers and she gasped at the erect hard pointing at her. They braced themselves. This was going to be spontaneous and raw, but they were both sure it was going to be damn good sex. He threw her to the floor. She parted her legs and reached her hands toward him, pulling him on top of her. Smiling from ear to ear, Vince slowly guided his cock with his hand on her wet slit, caressing the wetness, making her ache for it.

"Now, Vince," she said to him with urgent lustfulness.

He inserted his cock into her pussy, first in a shallow penetration, allowing her to feel his average-sized cock, with a nice head, embedding itself into her pussy. She wrapped her legs around his small waist and pulled him in. It was a perfect fit.

They were both slim and athletic, and short in stature. Her body was slim and flexible but fit for a ballerina's physique, and Vince's body was small but strong and stocky. They were now fucking, and sweat poured off their brows. Vince was breathing hard and kept his eyes closed as he focused quietly on giving her maximum pleasure. Although Vince was quiet, Madeline was not. She moaned and threw her head back as waves of pleasure splashed inside her, driving her to the brink of orgasm.

"Oh God you're going to make me fuckin' cum," she screamed, her climax building.

"Fuck me, baby, come on," he cried out, "cum for me. That's it."

"Oaaahh God aaahh!"

She body shook like a tremor as her orgasm erupted, making her scream out in the sheer intense pleasure of it all. She scratched him, raking her nails down his back and squeezing his buttocks hard, as if she had wanted to do this for a long time, as if she was venting, seeking release. Her legs were jello.

Vince, couldn't hold it in much longer and ejaculated, moaning while still on top of her. Finally, he collapsed on top of her. They held on to each other and sighed, waiting for the passionate storm that had just rocked them both subside and die out within them. They kissed, softly this time and more intimately. Vince kissed her neck and shoulders and held on to her ass, as they lay on their sides next to each other.

Madeline smiled and looked up at the wall, at that damned cat-clock with tail pendulum. She saw that it was only eleven sixteen p.m. She then relaxed into his arms and sighed deeply.

"That was unbelievable," Vince said, "my God. I didn't know I was capable of doing that."

"I think everyone is," Madeline said, as if she was thinking about a particular person.

"I don't normally have spur-of-the-moment sex," he said, "I thought we'd get to know each other first and date before we even thought of --"

"You want to date me?" she said, surprised, even vexed.

"Well sure. I mean I thought you were interested in me when you met me after your performance."

She got up and looked for her cocktail gown, which was torn. He caught her gaze and suddenly felt ashamed.

"I'm sorry I tore up your dress. If you stay the night, I'll buy you a new dress in the morning."

"I would like that, but Vince...I....don't want to see you again. This was only a one night stand."

"But baby --"

"I'm not in love with you and I don't plan on it either. It was really hot sex but I was just in that kind of mood. It was just us two and one beautiful moment. I hope you can understand this and not make it any worse."

Vince sighed in disappointment and frustration.

"Yeah I understand," he said.

"Good. It's not about you. You're a good guy and all but I have my reasons. I don't want to hurt you."

He found her words to be odd and a bit baffling but he nodded.

NINE

Professor Dorian Messing was walking about Manhattan at night, his mind racing with dark thoughts.

The street lights became jungle trees, the neon lights from storefront windows became flowers, and the broad boulevard became the Amazon River. It was calling to him, that primal urge, that instinct. He could feel like one of them, one of those ancients who dwelled in the jungle, who, more powerful and more masculine than any modern man, answered the call, that particular call that made a man even stronger. Messing craved that energy, that forgotten source of power, that could only come from another........

Dizzying lights became mosquitoes, like the ones that had nearly killed him of malaria. The drums were calling. The natives and their songs. The gods sought a new sacrifice, a new enemy to defeat. He had not left the jungle, he had only returned to the jungle that was New York City............

He had been invited to dinner at the home of an old friend. And the man was not even a real friend. He had learned from experience to act hypocritically and pretentiously. The man, a journalist, had once followed him to Indonesia and forced an interview on him. Outwardly, there was nothing wrong with the man. He was a typically nosy journalist with a taste for scandal but he was a professional.

It was the fact that this man had pushed his buttons during the interview that bothered him. It was the memory of the man, the memory of the unpleasantness of the interview. He had found him in a hut and had been drinking a strange fluid with one of the natives. He had been younger then, they both had been younger, but Professor Dorian Messing never forgot rudeness.

The Professor arrived at his apartment in the Upper West Side of Manhattan. He rang the door bell. A man who looked to be about sixty answered the door, wearing a turtleneck sweater and leather pants.

"I see you follow new fashion styles," said Messing, "I had no idea you could even fit into those clothes at your age, Mr. Rock Dautrive."

"Professor Dorian Messing, how long has it been?" said Dautrive, "I'm so glad you answered my invitation. Please come in. It is a bit chilly out tonight....."

"But you were so obviously asking for attention," Roger Dautrive said to him, finishing his wine which he drank from an antique goblet and biting the last piece of his turkey.

"What do you mean by that remark, Dautrive?" said the Professor raising an eyebrow.

"You were an attention whore in your youth as you are now. You know it's true. There you were, an Oxford Professor turned American, traveling the world, looking for lost artifacts and lost cultures. You were in the jungles of Peru, taking those eternally long journeys down the Amazon River, and promoting your books each time you came to New York City. You had TV appearances. You took that film actress with you to Africa. You wanted the whole world to know who you were."

"It bothers me to see that you have changed so very little since 1973, Dautrive. You should not be so critical of me. I do what I do in the interest of --"

"In your own interest. You wouldn't have been involved with that actress if you --"

"I did not come to dinner to argue with you. My arguing days are over. I don't take criticism from anyone anymore."

"Not even from your Dean? I was told he was beginning to find you very odd. You teach a strange new theory. Something about obtaining powers from people who are different than you. What powers are these that you are talking about?"

"Power, my friend, is what every man desires. Every woman, too, I dare say. The power I speak of is inside all of us. It remains untapped in our modern world. Can't you guess what it is?"

"I haven't the faintest idea."

"Then you are also the same stupid man I remember. My dear Dautrive, I'm talking about the Fountain of Youth."

"Oh come on. Don't tell me you found it during one of your trips and just now open up about it. What? You plan to write a book about it now? Bullshit. You're resorting to lies now to sell books that aren't even promoted as being fiction?"

"Fool. The secret of eternal youth is not a real life fountain. It is in the fountain that flows inside us. The very fabric of our being, the source of our life that flows inside us."

Professor Messing took a letter opener, shaped like a knife, from a table directly next to him. Here is where Dautrive kept his mail. He took the letter opener and seized Dautrive's arm. He stabbed his palm with it.

"What the hell are you doing? Are you nuts?"

Blood began to flow from the spot where the Professor had stabbed him.

"That, that is the secret of life," Messing continued, "every ancient knew it. The very consumption of it. The very excess of it. It keeps us all alive and will keep us alive for as long as the sun burns."

"You've gone crazy, Messing. You are talking cannibalism and vampirism."

"Why do you think I've remained so very young looking?"

A devilish grin appeared on the Professor's face. He got up and walked over to the frightened writer. He looked up at the Professor towering over him, looking like a lion ready to claim his prey. Messing laughed. He was still holding the letter opener.

"You fool, you knew what I did to people in the 70's didn't you? You knew that I did the same thing each time I returned from the jungle. Yet you kept quiet. You didn't tell anyone, not even the police. And why? Because you were waiting, waiting until you could attain success as a journalist. Well, now you write for The New York Times and besides that you are starting your own magazine. You want to write a book as well. And somehow, somehow you want to reveal to everyone what I've done. You want fame for yourself as well."

"Messing, I'm going to put a stop to you once and for all," Dautrive said trying to reach for the phone next to him on his side of the table.

But Messing took his arm strongly and pushed him on to the floor.

"You have always been a problem for me," Messing said angrily, "and I'm going to enjoy feeding off your energy."

He slit his throat with the letter opener and then proceeded to take out his special instrument from his bag, which he always carried with him. The bag had another head inside. The device was a strange looking artifact with a pointy edge, a sort of big hunting knife. He began to remove Dautrive's head......

* * * *

There was no time to waste.

Professor Dorian Messing knew that cops and F.B.I. were searching for him. He could not forget the determination written on Detective Mason Holmes's face when he had been interrogated. This could only mean that with dedicated detectives like him working on the manhunt, it would not be long before he would get caught. He was sure that not even by silencing his old rival Dautrive would he be able to elude the the authorities.

It was like a madness brewing in him, making him want to get even with those who saw in him a face of evil. He had never considered any of his murders as a crime. He had motives for his dozens of killings. Many of them had crossed him in one way or another. He felt that he had gotten rid of people who he saw as trash, as scum or as undeserving of life.

In the 1970's, he had discovered that he could maintain his youthful appearance by drinking some of the blood of his victims. But there were periods of time when he did not do this and simply killed for sport.

He collected human heads.

He knew that this was a way to feed off their energy, even as their dead faces stared at him. He felt empowered and triumphant. He would write successful books and give memorable lectures each time he committed a decapitation in secret. But now he knew that destiny was catching up with him. He had developed a strong premonition that his identity would be discovered and that he would be sent to the electric chair. And the drums kept beating in his ears, and the voices of the natives, chanting, urging him to kill.

He had decided that his next victim would be Detective Mason Holmes. He knew that he could kill him in a number of ways. A simple invitation to dinner for another "interrogation" could do the trick. He could drug him, slip a sedative in his drink and then kill him. He had found killing Dautrive at a dinner was very easy. Another way was to entrap him. He could lure the detective into a building where he would be completely alone with him and then murder him.

In nothing but a silk robe, he was lounging in his home in Manhattan and petting his pet lizard Cecile-Cecile. He had on the T.V. The news was on. A black anchor woman in puffy hair and broad-shouldered coat sat next to a white male anchorman who had just finished talking about President Ronald Reagan and his visit to Russia. The black anchorwoman retrieved a piece of paper and a photo of a profile, in shadow, appeared in a superimposed box above her head. The profile looked a lot like his own physique that it startled the Professor.

"F.B.I and detectives are looking for a man in his early 60's who is quite possibly the notorious Manhattan Headhunter. He is responsible for many brutal murders that included decapitations. The head of the victims were never found and it is thought that this cold-blooded serial killer collects the heads and keeps them as trophies or for some other bizarre purpose. Chief Barry Hiller of the local Manhattan precinct has issued a statement in which he details the investigation, which is headed by Detective Mason Holmes.

Mason Holmes in his beige trench coat appeared on the T.V. and was answering questions by reporters, standing in front of cameras. He looked angry and upset. His strong jaw made the Professor recall 1930's serials he had read as a child that featured tough detectives or superheroes.

"I can almost smell him," Mason said, "he is very close. He is working as a Professor of Cultural Anthropology or perhaps History or Archaeology at a local university. He is a tall, thin, young-looking man. I have spoken with some eyewitnesses who, although not entirely certain they saw him, claim that they have seen a man fitting this description carrying a large shoulder bag even when he is not teaching, even on weekends. It is very strange, they say, that a man would carry such a bag constantly. It is my theory that this killer walks among us. He may be your next door neighbor. He may be your son or daughter's professor. He looks harmless and may even appear friendly, but no matter how intelligent he is, no matter how educated he may be, this is a man who has killed for sport, for fun, for reasons that indicate he has a schizophrenic state of mind or perhaps some strange mental condition that he might have developed in another country. He thinks and acts like an ancient headhunter from parts of Africa, South America and New Zealand. I am going to continue this investigation by holding an important meeting with all the professors of anthropology. Surely this issue affects even the professors who are innocent."

"Damn that pig," said Professor Messing, "he thinks he's smarter than I am. Well, I'm one step ahead of you, detective."

The more he looked at the TV screen, looking into Mason's Germanic looking face with blue eyes and blonde hair, a man who looked older but still handsome, he acquired a feeling he had not had before. This detective would make an excellent addition to his collection of severed heads. He could attain this man's skills by feeding off of him. He would be able to always elude authorities by killing a member of the Homicide Detectives of New York. He would inspire other serial killers to do the same. He would be a legend. He would be famous, infamous, like so many in history.

His need for fame had never been greater.

"I'll get you, Detective, if it's the last thing I do."

TEN

Once again, Lexa was at the front door of Claire Marshall's home in Park Avenue. She rang the doorbell and the maid/housekeeper Mercedes answered the door. She immediately showed off her cop badge. But it was an unnecessary thing to do for she recognized Lexa instantly.

"Miss Marshall iz not home, "Mercedes said, "she left me in charge of keeping house and I'm house-sitting while she's away. She went to her house in da Hamptons."

"Did she say when she'll be back?" Lexa asked her.

"She said she wants to be away for a long time. She said three to four weeks. They took her husband's body for examination."

"Yes I know. I know this is a very difficult time for her. But I need your help, Mercedes."

"Anything for Miz Marshall."

"Do you have the number of her house in The Hamptons?"

"Yes. Please come in and I'll get you the number."

She walked into the living room and sat down on the sofa. Mercedes retired to another room. The house was absolutely still and quiet and the gloom left behind after Victor's death still hung in the house.

His headless body was still undergoing physical examinations by experienced forensic anthropologists who studied bones and who could determine cause of death. All the waiting must have surely made Claire distraught, she was probably seeking a quiet place away from the city and The Hamptons was the perfect place for that. Mercedes returned with a big portable phone and a notebook.

"Here it iz. Da number is on the top of the page," Mercedes said.

"Thank you," Lexa said and began to dial the number.

Claire's old-fashioned telephone, which was an antique she had purchased when she got married, was ringing. It was situated in the library, one of many phones throughout the two-story home. She was in the conservatory which was within the house itself, with a view of the beach shore just beyond the glass.

She was preoccupied watering some flowers and plants. The plants grew quite large and she was barely visible as she crouched under the grove. She was able to hear the phone ringing, however, even with the sound of the ocean just outside the glass. She removed her gloves and hat and walked to the living room. She picked up the phone.