Burnside's Killer
By Timothy Ellis
The Hunter Legacy, Book Six
An Interlude Novella between Parts 1 & 2
Copyright © 2015 by Timothy Ellis
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and events are fictional and have no relationship to any real person, place or event. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is purely co-incidental.
The author is Australian and the main characters in this book are of Australian origin. In Australia, we colour things slightly differently, so you may notice some of the spelling is different. Please do not be alarmed.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without the written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contents
Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven.
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Epilogue
A Message to my Readers
Also by Timothy Ellis
Prologue
The ride back to his place was torture for both of them.
He had to concentrate on driving.
They'd already had one close call when her hand had brushed the bulge in his jeans, and he'd almost hit a parked car.
He pulled into his driveway, the car stopped, he turned the key off, and pulled it out.
She yanked up the hand brake for him, and threw open the door so forcefully, it whipped back and knocked her knee hard. They stepped out of the car on opposite sides, and she fell to the grass.
He raced around the car, bent, scooped her up in his arms, and carried her to the front door.
Getting the door open with a drop dead gorgeous girl in both arms, while she was kissing him, and stroking his groin, proved to be difficult.
The keys dropped to the mat below. He sat her down beside the mat, grabbed the keys, shoved the wrong key into the lock, and broke it off trying to turn it.
"Shit", he said.
"What's the hold up," she demanded.
"Fuck it," he said.
"That's the idea," she responded. "You want to do it here on the mat?"
"No." he said forcefully. "Too many eyes."
He picked her up again, and carried her around to the back door. He put her down in the flower bed, and shoved the right key into the lock, twisted and kicked the door open.
He picked her up again, and carried her into the bedroom. The back door slammed behind them, but neither of them heard it.
He put her down on the bed. She jumped up immediately, and wrapped her arms around him, pushing her breasts against his chest, and their groins together.
"Sorry, I was just kidding," she said with a grin, before kissing him.
Their mouths opened, and tongues flicked against each other.
His eyes widened. Something wasn’t quite right, but he couldn’t think what. He couldn’t think. Why think? Passion drove all thoughts from his mind.
She pulled away from him. Her hands went to his waist, and she hauled his t-shirt up over his head in one go, almost wrenching his arms out of their sockets in the process.
He took his cue, and ripped her blouse open with both hands. Buttons rained down on the carpet.
Another yank, and the blouse dropped to the floor.
He sank his head into her cleavage. She yanked it up, and kissed him again, before turning her back on him.
He obliged by undoing her bra for her.
She turned, and stepped back. Her arms were over her breasts. The straps over her shoulders loosened, and one after the other, she reached up and pulled the strap off, letting it fall down her arm, while keeping the other arm covering the cups.
She smiled at him seductively. Her arms moved very slightly, and the tops of her breasts became visible.
He licked his lips in anticipation.
Suddenly, she yanked her bra off, and threw it at his face.
He ducked, and by the time he straightened up - well actually, he didn’t straighten up because she pulled his head back between her breasts.
He eased back and moved to the left nipple, which was already hard. His tongue flicked the tip, and it grew even harder. She sighed loudly. He moved to the other nipple, and repeated the flicks with the same result.
He pulled back, and his hands moved down to her jeans. First he had to move her hands, which were still stroking his bulge.
He undid the button, and she stopped him with a smile.
Stepping back again, she slid down the zip, showing panties the same colour as her bra. She turned so he could see her athletic butt, revealed as the panties turned out to be a thong. As the jeans slid slowly down, his eyes were fixed on the smooth skin of her cheeks. The jeans continued falling to the floor, almost unnoticed. She stepped out of them, and kicked them away.
"That," he said, "is a class arse!"
She laughed, and backed up so her butt was brushing against the bulge in his groin, still confined by his jeans, and now beginning to be painfully constricted.
His hands caressed the smooth skin of those luscious cheeks, and moved to the thong.
Gently he pulled downwards. Halfway down there was a strange resistance, but she moved a hand down to her crotch, and the thong slid off, dropping to the floor. She kicked it away too.
She pulled away from him again, and turned around.
He drank in the sight of her, his eyes starting at her face, and going down, the breasts firm and high, the nipples pointing at him.
His eyes continued down her stomach, and finally came to rest on her…
…tentacles.
She had tentacles instead of pubic hair!
His eyes went wide in shock, and what had been hard, went soft in an instant.
He looked up at her face again, mouth open, and unable to speak.
"What lover?" she said. "You thought I was just a regular gal?"
He nodded, still unable to speak.
"I'm close enough," she said huskily.
She put both hands around his neck, and kissed him.
In spite of himself, his body started to respond again.
He felt the button of his jeans pop open, and the zip pull down. He pulled back from the kiss, and looked down between her breasts.
Two tentacles were pulling the flaps of his now open jeans aside.
She laughed.
"They have their uses," she said.
Her hands went down to his jeans, she knelt in front of him, and peeled them off. He stepped out of them, and she threw them over to her own.
Her hands went to his crotch again, and caressed and stroked him back to a bulge. She looked up at his face, and then jerked his briefs off.
His semi-erect dick bounced out. He stepped out of the briefs, and she threw them after her thong.
She stood again, wrapped her arms around his neck, and they went back to tongue flicks.
He felt skin against his dick, stroking him. He couldn’t help it, and broke the kiss to look down again.
A tentacle was wrapped around his dick, rubbing gently up and down the shaft. As he watched, another one started a gentle wiping motion against its t
ip.
Revulsion, curiosity, and eroticism, warred in his mind for a few moments.
Eroticism won. His dick grew longer than he had ever seen it before.
The tentacle wrapped around it pulled, and their groins ground together.
She pulled his head back up, and they returned to kissing.
After five minutes, he felt like he was about to explode. He pulled back.
"Stop," he said.
She complied for a moment, but only so she could turn him around, and push him back onto the bed.
He thumped down onto the quilt cover, and she climbed over him. She stood above him.
Thank god, he thought, the rest of her is normal. He grinned up at her.
She lowered herself down until she was just above his quivering dick. A tentacle grabbed it, guiding it to where she wanted it.
His hands went to her breasts, caressing them and the nipples.
Slowly, oh so slowly, she lowered herself on to him. The tentacle let him go as he slid inside her.
He felt tentacles tickling his balls, and one slid over his arsehole as it worked its way between his cheeks.
For a moment he almost freaked, but then she started to move along his shaft, rising up and down in a slow steady rhythm.
Her hands were on his chest, teasing his nipples hard.
Her pelvic motions intensified, and he felt himself moving towards a climax.
"Almost there," he grunted.
She smiled and increased her rhythm.
A tentacle tightened around his balls, as another stroked them, while yet another stroked the soft skin between the balls and his dick.
She arched her back now, hands over her head, breasts out of his reach. He brought his own arms behind his head, and watched her breasts moving up and down as she moved along his shaft.
Suddenly a tentacle inserted itself into his arsehole, and shot in as far as it could go.
He exploded inside her, as above him, she screamed her orgasm.
They went limp together, his dick still fully within her.
She looked down on him, a look of triumph on her face.
He looked up at her, exhilaration in his eyes.
He felt movement.
For a moment, exhilaration became puzzlement.
Then he screamed.
One
I hate the weird ones.
This didn’t stop my superiors from routinely assigning them to me. In spite of myself, I'd made a career out of solving the weird cases, and retired. You could say, I'd developed a love-hate relationship with my work.
Retirement lasted as long as the next weird case to come along. Earth System PD called me back as a consultant, issued me a new badge, and gave me carte blanch to go anywhere and do anything, as long as it was on one of their, my, weird cases, which no-one else had any clue about.
I solved ten for them, and told them where to stuff their badge and carte blanch.
Six blissful months later, they were back on my doorstep, and this time the case was so weird I couldn’t resist.
Two years later, and I'm still working the same case, following a serial killer from one end of the spine to the other.
The crime scenes were eerily the same. Always a bedroom, always the same kill method.
Twice, through sheer luck, I’d come within hours of catching up with the killer, but usually I arrived to a stale crime scene, and had to make do with the hollo's, images, and forensics.
The bitch of it was, a killer who travelled space like a phantom was almost impossible to catch. But that was my thing. The impossible was the only thing left which interested me. And sooner or later, this killer would slip up, and leave enough of a clue for me to catch up and make the arrest. Or so I'd thought. I was still waiting for the elusive slip-up which would break the case wide open.
The local PD had picked me up at the space port, and rushed me to the latest crime scene. While I was well and truly out of my jurisdiction here in the Sci-Fi sector, the locals were as baffled by these killings as the other sectors were, and welcomed a specialist coming in from Earth-side. I'd been on my way here anyway, following a hunch and a series of killings heading out along the spine through their sector, and even if they'd not welcomed me, I had the credentials to bull my way in.
The ground car stopped in front of a good class of outer residential home. The owner obviously had a modicum of credits, and a desire to be out of the mainstream. The car in the driveway was an expensive retro. I glanced inside as I went past. 'Antique look' was the way I'd have described it. So many people with credits went into it these days. Give me cheap high tech every time.
A tech was working on the front door as I went in. It looked like an old style key was broken off in the lock, and the tech was working on getting it out. Rather than muck around, the first on the scene had blown off the hinges and removed the whole door. It never ceased to amaze me that in a century noted for electronic locks, so many people living ground-side opted for old style keys, and other simpler things in life.
Avon PD led me down a passage way, and into the kitchen at the back.
"What's the hold up?" said a voice from the next room.
"You heard the orders," said a second voice. "We wait for a specialist, and preserve this crime scene until he gets here."
"Shit!" said first voice. "I want to get out of here, so I can watch the game."
"We get out of here when the Lieutenant says we get out of here. Stop whining." Second voice was obviously not happy waiting either, but was sick of his partner's complaining.
I stepped in the door of the bedroom, with my badge out.
"About bloody time you got here," said first voice.
"Ed," said his partner in a warning tone.
Both were wearing suits, the same as I was, their detective shields on their belts.
"Richard Burnside," I said. "ESPD. Has anything been touched?"
"You see it as we found it," said Ed.
"Good," I said. "Give me the room please."
They hesitated, and pushed past me, stopping just outside the door, and leaning there, obviously intending to watch every move I made.
A bedroom is a bedroom. I'd seen dozens of them over the last couple of years, all pretty much the same. A lot of the crime scene images could be superimposed on top of each other, and only the body and colour of the bed linen varied.
The victim was always a man. Age varied considerably, and as far as I could tell, wasn’t a factor in choosing the victim. This one was a man.
The victim was always naked, and lying on his back, as if pushed back onto the bed during sexual foreplay. This one was naked, on his back, and in the pushed back onto the bed position.
The why of the crime always looking the same had been tormenting me since the first one I was brought in for, which was by no means the first for this killer. The victim never varied in position on the bed, other than variance for height. None of them had ever had their heads resting on a pillow for example.
Like all the others, the victim had bled out from a single wound. I could almost predict the autopsy report just by looking at the crime scene. Apart from the physical condition of each victim, how they died was always the same.
The penis was missing, severed almost surgically.
I didn’t have to move from my place inside the door, to see the obvious, and the large pool of blood which always resulted.
This was my serial killer for sure.
I let my eyes slowly cover the entire room, recording to my PC the whole way. I took specific images, for later comparison with similar images from past crime scenes.
The cops behind me were getting impatient, but I took my time recording everything. When I was finished, I turned to them.
"Who was he," I asked.
"James Patterson," said Ed, consulting his tablet. "Local sports star by all accounts."
"Noted for being the up and coming star player, and his enjoyment of the fairer sex," said his partner. "Apparen
tly he played a game this afternoon, was seen leaving with a female fan, and several hours later, was found dead as you see him."
"Do you know who the girl was?" I asked.
"Not yet," said Ed. "Officers are studying stadium vid as we speak. The moment we knew who it was, we started a movement's check. So far the few images found show a female form, but no face. No sign of her when uniforms arrived. We assume they bonked, she left, and then someone like a husband or boyfriend came in and offed him, making a point by removing his dick."
They always made this assumption. It was wrong. I didn't bother correcting them.
"It looks like a revenge domestic to us," went on his partner, "but we have a standing order to report missing dicks, so we did. We were told to wait for you, so we have."
For some reason, they never made a connection between the contradiction of the order, and the error in their own assessment of the crime. I never pointed it out.
"No sign of it?" I asked.
"No."
There never was. Most serial killers took a souvenir. This one always took the victim's penis. Always.
"Murder weapon?"
"None."
There never had been one found. Whatever it was had to be small, extremely sharp, and quick to wield. The victims passed out every time before they could move. And bled out shortly after. The killer always took it, and presumably used it the next time. There was never any stump remaining, just a single clean slice across the base of the abdomen.
"How was he found?"
"Neighbor called it in after hearing two screams," said Ed. "She said the first one sounded like a woman faking her orgasm. The second one was the sort of scream you hear in horror movies just before someone dies horribly. When local uniforms hadn't turned up an hour later, they've actually had a very busy evening, she decided to knock on the door herself to check. Back door was unlocked, and she walked in to find this. This time her hysterics were taken seriously. If you need to see her, she's back in her house with a doc giving her a sedative."
"No, I don’t need to see her."
I turned back to the room for a final look. I'd seen this so many times now, I no longer generated any emotional response to it. Crime scenes did that to you very quickly, but the weird ones always generated some response from those who saw them. Even that was gone in me now.
Burnside's Killer: An Interlude Novella between Parts 1 & 2 (The Hunter Legacy Book 6) Page 1