by Barbie Wilde
Susie eagerly accepted my offer of a drink and contact was made. We talked and danced, talked some more, drank some more. Eventually, I asked her if she wanted a lift home, and she said “yes.”
I nearly blew it when I started driving to her place without asking her where she lived, but luckily she didn’t notice and volunteered the address. We drove to her place and I felt strangely nervous and out of sorts. As much as I enjoyed The Project, my recent bouts of paranoia had made me feel edgy. I even wondered if there was any point to it all. Here I was driving home some strange drunk woman who I had every intention of fucking and killing. God, how weird can you get? I had to keep reminding myself that I was doing this for the attainment of Elene.
We got to Susie’s house just after midnight. I kissed her goodnight, making it a nice long one. To combat my distraction, I thought about how much more beautiful Susie would look dead and that helped a lot. My penis hardened and I gently guided Susie’s hand to it. She whispered, “Oh, baby, you’re ready, aren’t you?” I assured her that I was. She then apologized and said that she was on her period, but that she would be happy to suck my cock for me.
Ah, shit.
I contemplated throttling her anyway just for wasting my time, but decided it wouldn’t be worth the time, the trouble and the energy. I made my apologies and left. What a bummer.
Dear little Susie will never know how lucky she was.
ENTRY 71:
Today I got a phone call from the head of my department, Professor Mandelson. I picked up the telephone without screening the call through my answering machine, which is exceptional for me.
After the usual pleasantries, he got to the point.
Mandelson: “Michael, I’ve been working on a little project for the police for a few days and I’m not getting anywhere. I wonder if you might be interested?”
Me: “What project?”
Mandelson: “They wanted to consult with me regarding two murder cases they are investigating. The criminal psychologist who is working on the case is convinced that there is some kind of art angle and she called me in. But after a few days, I couldn’t make heads or tails of it all and frankly I just don’t have the time. She wanted a replacement and I thought of you. She teaches at the University. Her name is Dr. Elene Sheppard.”
Me: (At the mention of Elene’s name, my mouth went instantly dry, but I kept it together.) “What would consulting mean, exactly? I don’t want to do anything that will interfere with my classes.”
Mandelson: “Dear boy, you’ll have the time. After all, we’re not exactly overworking you. All I had to do was look at some rather gruesome crime scene photographs and give her my opinion. Not pleasant viewing, I have to tell you. Dr. Sheppard is convinced that the killer is trying to tell us something by leaving the bodies in certain positions. I couldn’t make anything out of it. If he is using some kind of artistic template, then it would be more your field than mine. You possess a virtually photographic memory of paintings and works of art. I’ve burned out too many brain cells over the years with alcohol abuse to have much of a memory left at all.”
Me: “Sounds like a left-handed compliment to get yourself out of something difficult and me in.”
Mandelson: “You always could see through me, compadre. What do you say? It’s not as if teaching at the University is unduly straining your health, you know, and Dr. Sheppard is a tasty little work of art herself.”
Me: “I am shocked—shocked—Professor, that you would refer to a fellow colleague in such unprofessional terms.” (I pretended to think it over for a few seconds.) “Oh, hell, why not.”
Mandelson: “I knew you would come through for me, my son. You’ve made an old man very happy. Those damn photographs gave me nightmares.”
Me: “Great. Just what I need.”
Mandelson: “It will be good for you. You have to admit, I have been coddling you. It’s time to get out of your academic haze and back into the real world again. What better way to do that than by helping our brave boys in blue solve a series of dastardly murders?”
Me: “Well, when you put it like that.”
Mandelson: “Fantastic. I’ll call the luscious Doctor and tell her that you are eager and willing to help. I am sure that she will call you immediately, as she is such an enthusiastic creature. It’s not every day that Syracuse has a serial killer to dinner. It’s downright disreputable.”
I always liked Mandelson, the clever old bastard. An ace manipulator, someone who would never do any more work than was absolutely necessary to get the job done, and yet was always considered a leader in his field. You had to admire someone like that.
I thought that my initial demure protests were fairly believable. I am sure that my voice didn’t change when he mentioned Elene’s name.
Elene is going to call me. She is going to call me soon. I am going to see my works of art again. It’s too good to be true.
ENTRY 72:
The call came when I was in the bathroom. I heard Elene on my answering machine. I was in the middle of having a tremendous shit, and the sensation of the excrement easing itself out of my body accompanied by the dulcet tones of her voice was orgasmic.
She wanted to see me. She needed me. She wanted to consult with me. She desired my help.
Oh, God. Oh, God. Oh, God.
The time is coming, literally and figuratively. I will meet her. Speak to her. Help her. Fuck her brains out onto the floor. Whoa, boy, slow down. One thing at a time.
I am beside myself. But I always was, wasn’t I?
Yes, you were always beside yourself, Michael, from the time you were a little tiny boy.
Elation. Ecstasy. Euphoria.
ENTRY 73:
I spoke to Elene. It took me two hours, but I finally screwed my courage to the sticking point and called her at the number she left on the machine. Her home number. My heart was hammering so hard in my chest that I almost thought that I would pass out.
She answered the telephone on the third ring.
Elene: “Hello?”
Me: “Hi. Is that Dr. Elene Sheppard? This is Professor Michael Friday.”
Elene: “Oh, hi there, Professor. Thanks for getting back to me so soon.”
Me: “Professor Mandelson already mentioned that you needed an art consultant for some murders in Syracuse, but I am still a bit confused as to why you would need my services.”
Elene: “You may have already read about it in the papers: the so-called ‘Painted Lady’ killings? There are some peculiar aspects of our current murder investigation that require some expert advice in the field of art. Professor Mandelson recommended you after he found he didn’t have the time to help. The poses of the bodies are so unusual and so studied that they obviously signify something to our killer, so it is vital for us to find out their meaning. I can’t be much more specific over the phone, as I am sure you can understand. If you are willing to meet with me and sign a confidentiality agreement then I would be able to give you more details about the problems we are facing.”
Me: “It sounds intriguing. I’m perfectly willing to meet with you to discuss it at the very least.”
Elene: “Do you mind coming to the Public Safety Building tomorrow at around 10:00 in the morning? Just ask for me at reception and they will show you up to Incident Room Number Ten.”
Me: “No problem. I’ll be there.”
Elene: “Thanks so much for your help, Professor. See you tomorrow.”
Me: “Good-bye.”
Not exactly the out-takes from the love letters of Abelard and Heloise, but heck, it’s a start. I couldn’t believe how wooden I was, but as far as I am concerned, the fact that I didn’t act like a babbling loon was a triumph. How will I cope tomorrow? I have to discipline myself. I don’t want to give anything away to her.
I must prepare myself, mentally and physically, for the challenges ahead.
ENTRY 74:
I was early for my appointment with Elene, so I sat in my car in the parking lot out
side The Public Safety Building for about ten minutes. I stared blankly at the miserable February rain falling relentlessly on the windshield, my breath slowly steaming up the windows.
My heart was thumping in my chest again. It would be ironic if I had a heart attack right now and missed out on the chance to meet the girl of my dreams. I took a deep breath. Control. I needed to control my emotions before entering the lions’ den. I had to keep reminding myself that they knew nothing. Their ignorance was like a comforting cloak I could wrap around myself like the armor of a great king. King Arthur. He was a great king. If he existed at all, that is. Didn’t he screw his sister, Mordred, or was that the name of his son? I used to be able to remember things like that. No, it wasn’t Mordred at all. Morgana, that was her name. A mind like a steel trap, that’s me.
I had made an extra effort to make sure that I looked my best. I was wearing my favorite Armani suit, which in an obscure way made me feel more secure. That morning, all my clothing was a non-threatening shade of gray, to match my eyes, the weather and the storm clouds roiling in my brain.
I looked at my watch. It was just before ten. Time to go in.
I entered the building and went up to reception. The Desk Sergeant told me where to go and gave me a stupid little name badge to wear. I went through the metal detector without incident. I walked down the dismal industrial yellow corridors and they hardly knew I was there. All those cops running around like chickens with their heads chopped off looking for the nasty serial killer and there I was—in their very midst. I was killing myself laughing—on the inside. On the outside, all was calm, impassive, impressive. Maybe I should have gone on the stage—yet another talent wasted.
I looked around the incident room and I felt pity for the police again. They were so woefully unprepared. Upstate New York was hardly Serial Killer Central. How could they possibly cope with works of art as intricate as mine?
I could feel confidence starting to flow back through my veins. I calmed right down, no more palpitations. I was in control of the situation. I felt powerful because of my secret; the secret that no one else knew about.
Guess who came in first? Not Dream Girl—of course not. Frank poked his head in and inquired, “You the professor from the University?”
Me: “Yes.”
Frank came in and plopped into one of the uncomfortable-looking chairs littered around the room.
Frank: “Dr. Sheppard said you were coming in today. She seen you yet?”
Me: “No.”
Frank: “I’ll warn you right now, she’s always late.”
He looked at me and, as it didn’t occur to him to ask me to sit down, I just took a chair. I stared back at him with as much lack of interest as he was showing in me.
Frank: “I have to be honest with you, Professor. I think you and the Doc are barking up the wrong tree.”
Me: “Well, I am not even sure why I am here, Officer. Dr. Sheppard said that she could only explain in full once I signed the confidentiality agreement.”
Frank: “It’s Sergeant. Right. Well, I’ll see if I can scare her up. She’s really running late this morning. Must have had an emergency patient with ants in his pants.”
He left.
I thought it was a neat touch that I called him Officer instead of Sergeant. He hadn’t bothered to introduce himself, so how would I know who he was? What a clod.
Elene arrived. Flustered, beautiful, apologetic. She shook me by the hand and, for one absurd moment, I thought, “I’ll never wash that hand again!”
Elene: “Professor, I’m so sorry I’m late. Have you met Sergeant Frank Bianchi yet? He’s the officer in charge of the investigation. He was supposed to meet us here.”
Me: “There was a Sergeant here, but he didn’t condescend to give me his name.”
Elene: “That sounds like Frank. You’ll have to forgive him. The only way I can stand it is by imagining that he has warped in from another time; a kind of Clint Eastwood era where policemen were never required to be polite.”
Me: “Right.”
Elene: “Let me go through the agreement that you’ll have to sign and then we can get to work.”
So she took me through the paperwork. I studied it as carefully as I could, but I was totally distracted by the close proximity of HER. I caught a whiff of her delicious perfume. Chanel Number Five, I think.
I signed the agreement and then Elene told me what the police had so far, which wasn’t much. She showed me photographs of the crime scenes. Detailed close-ups of the drawings. My drawings. Thank God I was seated at a table by this point, because, understandable in the circumstances, I began to get aroused. Perusing my works of art was so stimulating, especially in Elene’s company. My goddesses looked exquisite. I desperately wanted some copies of the photographs.
Maybe the preceding paragraph makes me sound like I lost my cool, but I am sure that I was acting very “professorial.” I made few comments, and I even averted my eyes at one point and pretended to try to regain my composure. Elene put her hand on mine and said, “This must be very difficult for you, Professor. I realize that you aren’t used to looking at photographs like this, but any help you could give us would be greatly appreciated.”
I heroically pulled myself together. Robert de Niro couldn’t have done it better. I studied the photos for a little while and finally said, “Dr. Sheppard, I can’t give you any kind of intelligent analysis in so short a space of time. The poses of the bodies bring certain things to mind, but unless I have my research books in front of me, I can’t assist your investigation.”
Elene: “I’ll see if I can get you some copies of the photographs. Then you can take as long as you need.”
(Fantastic! Masturbation fodder for the next few weeks!)
Elene: “Any ideas about the signs and poetry on the bodies? The symbols look astrological.”
Me: “Well, poetry isn’t exactly my field of expertise, but the symbols are definitely familiar. I can research them as well, if you like.”
Elene: “Oh, yes, please. We are short of manpower here and while the police do regard this evidence as important, they can’t devote as much time to it as they would like.”
Me: “Time is something I have plenty of, at the moment. I’m only teaching a couple of classes a week.”
Elene: “Professor Mandelson told me about your accident and the loss of your wife. I’m so sorry.”
Me: (looking deeply into her eyes) “That’s all behind me now.”
Elene smiled and it was as if the gods smiled down on me as well. The sun came out in my head. She is my savior. I know it.
Elene went off to get permission to give me copies of the crime scene photographs. From force of will I made my erection go away so I could stand up without embarrassing myself. It was made much easier by Frank’s reappearance.
Frank: “Professor, just a friendly warning. If those photographs fall into the hands of the press, I will personally track you down and hang you from the nearest lamppost. Capisce?”
Me: “Of course, Officer, I wouldn’t dream of allowing anyone else to see them.”
Frank: “It’s Sergeant.”
He left without saying good-bye. What an asshole.
Elene came back with the copies. I had to sign another piece of paper to acknowledge receipt of them.
She accompanied me downstairs and our elbows touched in the elevator. I got another hard-on. Luckily, I was wearing my coat, so I don’t think she saw anything.
At the door, Elene said good-bye and shook my hand again. She smiled at me once more and I was almost dumb struck, but I kept it together and managed to act fairly normal. I promised to call her if I got any bright ideas.
In my car, I had to sit and breathe deeply for a few minutes. I contemplated masturbating, but thought it would be too dangerous in the middle of the day outside a police station.
I drove home as fast as I could within legal limits, the photographs of my works of art snug in my briefcase.
I
wanted to postpone the enjoyment of gloating over the pictures in private for a while, but I couldn’t resist their allure. The desire was too strong.
Oh, they were beautiful. My goddesses looked divine. For some bizarre reason, I thought that the photographs would be in black and white, but no, the colors were bright and realistic. The only complaint I had was that the lighting was a bit harsh, but that’s just quibbling.
I put a picture of Tamsin next to one of Katrin. I imagined them together, gently playing with each other, sucking each other’s pussies, toying with each other’s breasts. I undressed and scattered the photographs on the living room floor. I sat on the couch and I engaged in my solitary pleasure.
I fantasized about Tamsin and Katrin being in bed with me. Totally devoted to me. I pictured myself kneeling on the bed with Tamsin giving me a blowjob while Katrin gently probed my ass with her finger. I ordered them to stop. Tamsin lay on her back and Katrin straddled her face and lowered herself down on Tamsin’s waiting tongue. I entered Tamsin while Katrin sensuously undulated on Tamsin’s face.
I came. Then I came again. And again. My imagination ran riot. I spent hours reliving my time with Tamsin and Katrin and it was so good. I was exhausted by the end of it.
I took a shower and for one moment felt guilty that I hadn’t done any research for Elene. Then I remembered that I didn’t have to. I knew it all already. I had immersed myself in my role as art consultant with such enthusiasm that I was beginning to believe my own hype. Disconcerting, to say the least.
After my shower, I ate a hearty meal and took a nap.
ENTRY 75:
As their souls were extinguished, they were totally mine. I possessed them utterly. I could manipulate their limbs and arrange them in any position I wished. I could caress their smooth cold breasts. I could playfully tweak their permanently erect nipples and fear no recrimination—no reproving hand would push mine away.