When I’m finished using her, I untie her and coldly command, “Get dressed and get the fuck out of my house!” The bitch is lucky I didn’t kill her as mad as I am right now.
She scurries, grabbing her clothes quickly and making her way out the door. After all, I know she isn’t in it for love either because she just used me for sex too.
I’m a bastard with no redeeming qualities, an asshole who takes what I want and makes no apologies. There is no redemption for a man like me. I’m fucked up to the core of my being. I just degraded some poor woman I don’t even know and I don’t feel any remorse. I’m beginning to wonder if I’m a fucking sociopath.
I make my way to my bedroom and lie in bed smoking a cigarette and staring at the ceiling as I think about the one woman that I truly covet and desire… Melanie. I decide to follow her home in the early hours of the morning and I reach over to set my alarm clock for 2:00 am. I may be waiting to bring her to her new dwelling but I’ll be damned if I’m not keeping a close eye on her and protecting her until then. Though it’s early, I turn over and go to sleep so as not to take a chance on sleeping through my alarm. Tonight will be a night that I’m grateful I set that alarm…
Chapter Four
Agent Turner
I’m standing off to the side watching Rene behind the podium. I push the thoughts of how attached I have become to the woman who works for me by day and is my Mistress by night. Though in the beginning I held doubts that we would be able to make our arrangement work, I am pleased to be able to say that it does. I can only attribute its success to the spontaneous way it all happened. We didn’t plan anything and it just sort of happened for us. In my past relationships, I had always been the dominate partner. Rene has brought out my submissive side—a side I was unaware even existed—but it only surfaces in the bedroom. At work she does, and will continue to, answer to me and that will never change. She has come to grips with that because she understands professional protocol.
I push the thoughts of our personal relationship out of my head and focus on the business at hand. I am purposely letting her do the first part of the press conference and I will close on the note of stressing how important it is for the public to not glamorize this serial killer we’re dealing with. The narcissistic bastard has a website set up and we have been unable to lock down its IP address. He has hundreds of thousands of fans following him from all over the country. It isn’t helping our case that people are feeding into his beliefs. He has become a celebrity of sorts and it grates on my fucking nerves. He is smart and, as much as I hate to admit it, I know I have my work cut out for me.
As crazy as it sounds, Rene has the insight and the intuition to know exactly how to deal with Black Rose. She understands not only what Black Rose is doing, but why he is doing it. Even she has a streak of mercy towards him and it burns me. I’m certain I’m jealous of the fact that she sees his side of things. She is professional enough to not let her personal feelings of vigilante tendencies to steer her in the wrong direction. She is FBI through and through and I respect her for the fact that she goes above and beyond being a professional. Though we are fraternizing according to FBI policy, we never go so far as to allow personal feelings or preferences to get in the way of our job.
It boils down to one thing: the mark of a good profiler is being able to get inside of an unknown subject’s mind. You have to journey down the dark corridors of a serial killer’s psyche. You have to be a certain kind of individual to be able to navigate the dark crevices of a killer’s mind. Traversing the twisted depths effectively is one thing; it’s getting out unscathed that presents the true challenge.
She, for some reason, needs Black Rose to know that she understands him and the message he sent to her—the black rose which was pinned to the dead pimp’s body. Once again a feeling of jealousy surges through me at the thought of her holding feelings of adoration for any other man. I want her to want me; no, I want her to need me. The voice of a reporter pulls me from my inner musings.
“Ms. Reynolds, why are you doing this interview rather than your boss? Is there some sort of strategy being directed towards Black Rose by you doing the interview instead of your partner?” She gave Rene no time to answer the question before she was firing off another one. “Have you received some sort of personal message from him?” What Rene said next totally threw me off guard but I’m going to use it to my advantage.
“We aren’t certain it is a man doing the killing. At this point, we have no absolutes.” That set off an instant response from the crowd. This is actually going to work in my favor.
At this point, it’s time for me to cut in because it has become an issue of reporters talking over each other and I need to gain back control over this interview—an interview which is being taped on live TV, no less. I’m certain our narcissistic killer is watching this press conference in the confines of some dark and hidden corner or, at least, that’s what I imagine him doing.
“One at a time please,” Rene reprimands the press. “I believe The Black Rose Killer is sending a message that he kills with a purpose in mind. His or her killings have been directed towards the criminal element of the city.”
“So you are saying that we are dealing with a vigilante?”
“If you need to label it, then that would be the correct label to use. I will say this… The Black Rose Killer has purpose. He/she is sending a message to the citizens of Louisville, Kentucky that the criminal element is the one in danger.”
I quickly make my way to the podium to answer any more questions. Our purpose had been to relay that we understood The Black Rose Killer to be a vigilante and Rene has accomplished just that. Now it’s time for me to stir up the hornet’s nest. I have every intention of purposely pissing this guy off. When people operate in the emotional realm, they’re more likely to make mistakes. I’m going to throw this guy off his game and when he fucks up, I’m going to be right there to arrest him. I’m fully aware Black Rose is a man so I’m going to hit him where he is vulnerable—his ego, of course. After all, I’m still harboring some jealousy towards this asshole for giving my owner a black rose. Bastard.
“If I could ask everyone to be quiet, please.” I am not even trying to hide my frustration at this point.
“We have no proof Black Rose is a man. As far as we know, this could be a woman with a vendetta or it could someone suffering a mental breakdown. The most important thing we can do at this point of the investigation is to stop idolizing the killer. To feed into this subject’s narcissism is a mistake. Stop following his website and stop glamorizing his or her behavior. Black Rose is NOT a hero. Black Rose is a killer—a narcissistic, mentally inept killer!”
I turn and leave the podium at that point. I have done what I set out to do, and that is to publically disrespect and embarrass him. Now it is only a matter of waiting for him to fuck up.
Though I have done what I intended, I have also done something else. I have put us right in the line of fire and in even more danger. Only time will tell if this was a smart move…
Chapter Five
Evelyn
I breathe a sigh of relief because, after countless months of searching, I have finally managed to land my next victim and things are beginning to look up for me. Years of never fitting in have ultimately forced me to do the unthinkable.
My transformation into a gold-digger wasn’t an overnight occurrence; it has been years in the making. Years of never measuring up due to not donning the right clothes and not being thin or pretty enough took their toll but, in the end, it was their judgment against me that has caused me to seek out a man who can meet my need to belong. The rejection and snubbing I have been subjected to from those fortunate enough to be born into royalty has been due to one thing and one thing only—I simply wasn’t born into their elite inner circle.
Fitting into the lives of the rich and famous has been an ever elusive fantasy for me. It’s my dream and my own personal demon which has been close enough for me to covet and
crave, but just out of reach enough to taunt and tease me. It started in the hallways of the elementary academy I attended as a child and it has followed me throughout the years, even to the hospital where I am now employed as a nurse. I have worked my ass off to be where I am today and yet I’m still not good enough. The mere fact that I attended those academies with the help of a grant for those less fortunate labeled me as being one of those kids—a pitiful charity case. To be friends with me would have been the same as putting a target on your back for the mean girls and, where I come from, they take it to a whole new, and very vicious, level. The girls who attended the private academies where I was educated made the girls in my trailer park neighborhood look like novices at being cruel.
In the neighborhoods I grew up in, you fought it out. The girls in the private academies had a different way of doing things; they made a sport of their sadistic deceptions. They had the money and the means to make my life miserable. I’ll never forget the year they used social media to drive the one friend I did have to suicide. It was that year I decided I would do anything to make it up the ranks of society.
I know you probably think I’m horrible but all my life I have been shunned and looked down upon because I wasn’t born into society’s nobility. I spent my school years going to the private schools of the who’s who in Louisville, KY. I graced the doors of academies people covet in the ranks of private education but I never fit in. My fellow students never allowed me to forget that I came from a trailer park and my tuition was paid by a grant for those less fortunate. Their fathers were men who owned horses that ran in the Kentucky Derby and my father was the man who cleaned out their stalls.
You have to understand… poverty is a dirty word for the elite. I’ve seen fellow students expelled when their parents lost money due to a black Monday incident, a real estate bubble bursting, or the loss of a horse race. There is only one loyalty in the world I inhabit and that is loyalty to the almighty dollar. Anything else is expendable and that most certainly includes people. I’m not a terrible person; I’m only doing what I have to do in order to survive. Welcome to my world…
Day by day, I am surrounded by the success of an elite few in the community. I’m a nurse and what many don’t realize is that a hospital is much like a small community in and of itself. Social status in my world is everything. If I’m ever going to escape the plateau I’m stuck on, it is going to have to be done by marrying a doctor. I have done quite well for myself in my career as a nurse but I want more. I want the life of the rich and powerful. I want the life that has forever eluded me before I’m too old to use what feminine wiles I do have.
The doctors and their wives are the rock stars of this hospital community. If I’m ever going to be included in the ranks of the upper echelon here, I’m going to have to marry into it and the only way to accomplish that, is to land a surgeon. Surgeons rank a higher status than any of the other doctors; they are the crème de la crème. Amongst surgeons, neurosurgeons rank the highest in social status and I have managed to snag one up.
Now I will be the first to admit that Bill is a tad bit of a nerd and he isn’t much to look at but I simply don’t care about trivial things like that. I want status and he can give it to me. He can get me into all the right boutiques, parties, and social gatherings and that’s what matters. I’ll be looked at as better than a menial nurse. Though it’s never discussed, it is a common practice for women to roam the halls with various masks of intention, but there is only one truth to their motive and that is to land a doctor.
They do it under different guises but the true motive is to marry into wealth and fame. Some come in the form of nurses while others are in the form of volunteers. Hell, I’ve even seen pastor’s wives do it under the pretense of visiting sick parishioners, but we all share one common goal and that is we want to marry a doctor because it will give us money and status.
Dr. Bill Anderson is working out quite nicely. I have purposely chosen a man with a timid personality in order to manipulate and control him. I’m quite pleased that my social status is already in a better state now that I have landed a doctor.
People are suddenly interested in me and this is of upmost importance to a girl with my motives because I’m all about image and social standing.
Dr. Anderson has given me the prestigious image and social position that I have been unable to attain for so many years.
“Bill,” my voice rings out, “did you make reservations at the country club?” As usual he answers in that timid way he always does, “Yes, Dear.”
Yes…Bill is working out quite nicely for my plan of moving up the ranks of high society.
Dr. Anderson
Her voice cuts through me and grates on my nerves like proverbial fingernails on a chalkboard. I have to remind myself every day that she works perfectly for my plan. When she looks at me she sees a meek, mild-mannered, submissive man. Nothing could be further from the truth.
I have to stop myself from chuckling at her naivety. She has no idea that a blood thirsty monster inhabits my body and owns my soul. Though I grant life to my patients on a daily basis, there is nothing I enjoy more than wrapping my fingers around a woman’s neck and squeezing the life right out of her while I fuck her from behind. Slitting a throat and watching a woman’s eyes as they bug out in disbelief is also an enjoyable pastime for me. A victim’s warm blood oozing and dripping through my fingers as I watch the droplets hit the floor and form their own unique blood spatter pattern is art to a man of my nature.
“Yes, Dear,” I obediently answer.
She is rambling on about some social event but I am in a world of my own, happily thinking about my night before with a hooker by the name of Selena. She played the part so well that I stayed an extra hour. A thousand dollars is nothing to a neurosurgeon. I’ve got more fucking money than I will ever be able to spend but I’m sure my gold-digger bitch of a soon to be wife will be all too glad to help with that issue.
I like experiencing the real thing but it isn’t easy to get away and kill somebody. After all, I’m a very organized man when it comes to things of this nature. I enjoy doing things like taking pictures and, at times, making movies. The professionals refer to it as ‘taking a trophy.’ It’s true… I do it so I can go back and relive the kill. I have to have some way to fill in the gaps during my cooling off periods.
I like it even more so when I’m able able to go back after a day or two and view my victim. There is nothing as enjoyable as seeing their pale skin with blue undertones and dark circles under their lifeless eyes. When the opportunity doesn’t present itself, there are always the pictures and movies and that helps to get me through until the next kill. Of course I’m always able to replay the killing in my mind’s eye, but I definitely enjoy it more when I can go back and view the victim in person. I like to feel how cold and hard their bodies have become. In my demented, fucked up mind, a corpse just feels… so… very… right…
Yes, that whore Selena played the part very well, but I can feel myself getting the itch. I will need the real thing before too long.
Melanie
It’s been a rough night already and looking out, seeing the rain, causes me to groan. A fellow waitress has been kind enough to offer me a ride home if I can get off a little early but my greedy boss won’t allow it. It seems like no matter how hard I try to do the right thing and make things better for Tommy and me, life has a way of knocking me back down. It’s important that I stay strong for him. Right now, getting home to my son is at the forefront of my mind. I never notice the white cargo van following me. In the van is a man who will attempt to end my life tonight. He is the same man I was just inwardly thanking because he was gracious enough to leave me a twenty dollar tip.
I make my way to the entrance of the field that I use as a shortcut and the sprinkling of rain has now turned into a torrential downpour. I speed my pace up to a slow jog and the Croc style shoes I’m wearing offer no grip as I fall face first into a mud puddle. My frustration
has now turned into a full-blown meltdown and I’m sitting on my knees, rocking back and forth with my head in my hands, sobbing.
I feel a gentle touch as his hand touches my shoulder and he asks me if I’m okay. The last thing I will remember is a rag being placed over my face and a sickeningly sweet smell before all went dark…
Black Rose
I always follow Melanie as she walks home from her job at the truck stop each night. I refuse to allow her to brave the mean streets of the neighborhood, alone and defenseless, at this time of the morning. Her asshole of a boss made her work until after 2:00am and tonight will be a night I’m grateful that I follow her.
As soon as she makes her way into the open field, I do as I always do and double back around the block to meet her as she exits on the other side. However, this time, she never exits. I quietly park my car and ease up behind one of the buildings to conceal my presence and try to discern what’s taking her so long. I never could have anticipated what I see next.
I watch in curiosity as a woman runs full throttle up behind the man who has fallen down into the mud beside Melanie. It is evident he has drugged her and he fell down trying to drag her dead weight over to the white van which he parked and left running in an area of the field that is quickly becoming a muddy mess. I feel like I’m watching a movie as the blonde beauty pulls out a gun and executes the offender right before my eyes. This is getting interesting…
Seconds later, a man I’m all too familiar with makes his way over to clean up the killing field of any evidence. He quickly removes a baggie of what I presume to be drugs and plants it in the corpse’s pocket. In less than a minute, the two have picked up Melanie’s body and thrown her into the black SUV they are driving. As if nothing happened, they speed off into the night. When I’m certain they are gone and there are no curious onlookers, I make my way over, hoping perhaps that they have left something behind in the midst of the confusion. No such luck… not with a man of Miller’s caliber. I was hoping the fact that he now appears to have a female trainee at his side would have thrown him off of his game. You see, Miller is a hired hit man. The question is, why is he rescuing my woman?
Black Rose Page 3