by Gavin Graham
“Necrophilia? Fair enough, but why strangle her if she was already dead?”
“It could mean that he didn’t want the excitement and thrill of the act to end so quickly. He wanted to drag it out, really getting off on it. So, he continued to rape and strangle her, simulating the murder over and over again in different ways. He stabs her, rapes her, strangles her and dissects her body to remove her organs. He has no limits, it is his party, and he’s there to enjoy the Hell out of it. Killing is a major event for this guy and he’s really going to town on it.”
“Why the liver?
“No idea.”
“Who found her?”
“Sister reported her missing when she didn’t turn up for Sunday dinner. She came over and used her spare set of keys to enter the premises, found her like this…”
“Aye, no more Yorkshire puddings for her then, that’s for sure,” he replied, with dark humour, morbidly necessary in his line of work.
You have to make light of death sometimes, or you’ll go insane…
He took a closer look now and absorbed the intricate details of what he saw.
The woman had been draped in pearls and golden necklaces. Her eyes were obscured by a velvet blindfold and her lips and nails had been perfectly treated with purple lipstick and nail polish. Her lower half was naked and her cum-stained panties hung loosely around one of her heeled ankles. “Suspects?” he asked, with his famed Wishaw-gruffness.
“Not as yet, I made some enquiries down at the local pub, she was known for being a bit of a lady around town.”
“Yeah? A bit randy, was she?”
“Yeah, had a few young lads on the go, husband was working away quite a bit. But, she was fairly discreet about her affairs.”
“How so?”
“She used Tinder to meet young guys in their twenties and thirties, chatting them up in dark little corners of the web and arranging meet-ups at convenient locations. You know, random hotel romps and discrete home-visits.”
“Sounds very romantic, eh?”
“That’s the modern way Boss, people want less hassle, more privacy and instant gratification. But, that doesn’t come without risk, as you never really know what kind of person your meeting with.”
“Sounds like your talking from experience?”
McGhee smiled but said nothing.
“What you’re saying is, you could end up in bed with a deranged psychopath, as this young lady found out. OK, well, keep asking questions until we get the autopsy report. Also, get her mobile phone and a full breakdown of her Internet history, especially her Tinder account and any other dating sites she was on. I want intel on all the randy buggers she was schmoozing with on-line, OK?”
“And, what are you going to do, Boss?”
“Right now? I’m going down the pub, I need a fucking drink.”
McGhee frowned.
“You got a problem with that, laddie?”
“No, Boss. You enjoy…” he watched the Inspector leave, suddenly thinking to go downstairs and check-in with an incredibly beautiful woman; one that he was eager to have sex with, again…
Chapter 6
The woman with the Thai tattoo
Desire is a natural response to being alive, to satisfy desire is a celebration of life, and a blatant protestation against the alternative; which is death, of some form or other…
Detective Sergeant Siobhan Calloway looked more like a professional Dominatrix than a Police Officer.
She wore shiny black leggings, tight-fitted, with slim-line black leather boots that were high-heeled and zipped up to the knee. Her hair was short, almost masculinely so, and she sported a nose-piercing that gave her a sort of ‘punkish’ edge. She had a kind of Sharon Stone thing going on. Combined with her faded leather biker jacket and the dark purple lipstick, she was a woman that had attracted the attention of several men on the Force; McGhee being one of several.
She didn’t choose that style for attention though, it was just a part of her ‘individuality’ and she wasn’t going to change it for anybody. Working in CID had been her perfect career path too as she didn’t have to conform and be labelled as ‘uniform’.
McGhee approached her from behind as she sat in the kitchen nursing a cup of tea, lost in her own little world. “How you bearing up, kid?”
She turned to him with a smile. “Uch, fine…sometimes I just can’t stomach death for breakfast, that’s all.”
“Aye, I know. I liked that post you put on Instagram by the way, the tattoo new, is it? You didn’t have that when, we, eh…” he cleared his throat, “…you know…”
“What? When we had that night of mind-blowing sex?”
“Well, aye…”
There was an awkward silence, made even more awkward as she passed him the knowing sultriness of a sensual wink and it made his penis stir. He smirked, feeling uncouth as his arousal peaked, stood there in the midst of a horrendous crime scene, where a woman had been murdered in cold-blood, and he felt himself jutting-out with a half-mast erection.
It felt so wrong, but so damn right.
He’d been referring to a rather sultry photo she had posted online, of herself, sat naked on the edge of a bed.
Who took the photo?
Who…the Hell…took the photo for her?
She’d been sensually pouting her shoulders in the picture, proudly showing her back to the camera, majestically adorned with a stretched-out tattoo of an Asian-style tiger; the orange tail of the beast had curled around her right buttock as black claws caressed her ribs and the red tongue kissed upon her shoulder blade. The post had gained more than six-hundred likes already and this had made him insanely jealous, that so many men from around the world had drooled and commented. They had most probably pleasured themselves too and sent her crude proposals of sex and devotion.
All just from that one tantalising picture, such was the power of female sexuality, and of social media in the modern age.
He wanted to slam the kitchen door shut, right then, and put her over the table. To enter her. Touch her. Feel her. To see the tattoo for himself and caress it as he fucked her, ravished her, and ejaculated inside her.
“It is new, yes, I got it done in Thailand.”
“Oh, right,” he grinned, somewhat boyishly for such a hardened copper.
“Look, if you want to get a closer look at it, why don’t you just invite me over for a drink, eh?”
“Aye, right, OK then…”
Siobhan smirked and laughed, playfully. “You are a lot less timid when you’ve got a drink in you,” she said and came in close to put her hand on his shoulder and whisper something in his ear, “I like my men to be dominant, and take what they want, got it?”
McGhee frowned and took a deep breath, she was right, he didn’t know why but he always got a little shy and uneasy around her; not many women had that effect on him. “Tomorrow night then, my place, eight o’clock?” he said, strongly, projecting himself with the Alpha-confidence that so clearly turned her on.
“Aye, right, see you then,” she said and sauntered off with a sensual sway of her tight, leather-clad butt.
Chapter 7
The silence of a demon & his burning whore
Evil is nurtured, not in the womb, but in the home…
They’d been a small family - three of them in total - Tam, Nora and a son named John. They hailed from Easterhouse; one of the most notorious housing schemes in Glasgow.
‘Johnny-Boy’ Moffat was an endemic-looking soul with alluring eyes, beguilingly dark in their hollow transparency, like glistening oil that runs like blood. A soul spoiled by measly maggots. His morals were tarnished and bleak. He was the venomous snake that hissed in your strangest nightmare.
It had just been a matter of time, till he began killing; not ‘if’, but ‘when’…
It soon came too with the ghastly massacring of a poor innocent woman, and he’d walked away from it scot-free. He’d been humiliated, you see, by a teacher at school for being
slightly dyslexic. So, when the bell rang and class finished, he’d followed her home, and hid in her garage till the lights went out. A full-moon had shone bright that night, a sign to Johnny-Boy that the Gods were in favour of her imminent expiration.
In the garage was an axe.
He took that axe and entered the premises.
He slowly walked upstairs as the floorboards creaked, to where the marked cunt slept - Miss Grainger - snoring like an old pig at the flaming house of the midnight slaughter. He’d gone into her bedroom and stood tall over her sleeping body. Listening to her. Smelling her. Mocking her measly habitat.
He wasted no time.
He hurled down with the axe, roaring like a lion, as it split through the neck bone, splattering into her slender sheen of flesh. The head came off completely, with just one chop. He’d been impressed by this and would later recall feeling sexually aroused like never before.
There wasn’t as much blood as he’d expected and that had been somewhat disappointing; he would have wanted to see more blood.
But, what happened next more than made up for it - something truly freakish that would live onwards, forevermore, in the twisted creations of his evil dreams. It was the way in which the head had woken up, independently from the lower half as he’d chopped it off. The eyes had been staring up at him, darting around in panic, completely dissected from the rest of her body, and the mouth had been attempting to breath, to talk, with quivering lips.
He’d bent down to stare at the head with fascination, putting his face right up to it, to talk to it. “Can you hear me?” he’d asked the head in the still, moonlit night. “Now’s your last chance to say you’re sorry, bitch. Blink if you’re a sorry whore…”
The dead-head blinked back at him and the mouth had opened, giving way to a magnificent flow of sooty ash that flowed back to the wall and spread across it, a shadowy mist, like demonic fingers crawling beneath the horrid skins of tainted flesh. He was now in the clutches of The Devil’s claws.
He stood back and took it all in, feeling like a man re-born, breathing deeply as drug-like sensations burned in his blood, demonic awakening, it had touched at his innards and turned him on to the killer’s lonely and methodical path. It was better than he ever could have imagined - that very first experience of murder.
It felt so sexual, arousing him to the core of his belly where it burned like a furnace and chilled his loins. It found its way down to his unfurling penis, growing to life in the glory of a human sacrifice. His whole body had tingled with lustful adrenalin.
It had gotten him so hard that he’d been unable to stop it.
He’d unzipped his jeans, carefully crouching over the bloody torso, where he pushed forward with his hips and slid his python into her mouth. He held the head by its hair and slowly started to pump it hard until he came inside her beautiful oesophagus, never really knowing if it was dead or somehow still alive. It had certainly felt alive, the insides of her cheeks hot, and the roof of her mouth still warm. He’d been quite sure, even, that he’d felt the wetness of her swirling tongue, moving around him as she worked her lips and sucked him off. All the time, he forced his way deep into the throat of her dissected stump, where his manhood had been touched by nothing at the tip but dead air.
This had been his first sexual experience; losing his virginity at The Devil’s altar…
It wasn’t a straightforward murder, it was an inhumane act of gruesome butchery, the awakening of a demon…
After he came, he got back to work, continuing to chop around the torso with his axe. He hacked off the other limbs and took all the bits and pieces down to her garden to set them on fire along with all of her semen-stained bedding. He piled them up in a curious little heap with the raped head perfectly perched atop, right at the centre of her well-kept greenery. He’d stood and watched as she roared and flamed in the night, her freshly-used face turning to a red-mush and melting like fiery, fleshy candle-wax. She filled the air too with a gorgeous smell that was not dissimilar to a grilled gammon steak. It made him hungry as he watched. He wanted to kill her again, and fuck her again, and then eat her with a bag of Co-Op salted oven chips, before washing her down with bottles of American Cream Soda. He neither smiled nor frowned, just watched her burn, and massaged his crotch in the cool night air, savouring the smells of a lush human BBQ.
He closed his eyes and savoured the smoky taste of the cool, moist air, and he felt the Gods smiling upon him, with satisfaction and pride.
Soon, the sirens could be heard of the Strathclyde Police and he decided to make a run for it. Within a day, he had become the talk of the town and all the papers.
EVIL, SADISTIC KILLER REMAINS UNCAUGHT AFTER BRUTAL SEX MASSACRE.
ALL FEMALES URGED TO WATCH THEIR BACKS AND LOCK THEIR DOORS.
Ironically, it was only by reading such headlines in papers like the Daily Record that he first became aware of the fact that he was ‘evil’. He’d never been a suspect and he’d never told a soul about what he’d done that night.
The silence of a demon and his burning whore…
For years, after that awakening night when Johnny-Boy had walked with The Devil and burned a lamb in sacrificial delight, he’d been plagued by increasingly dark and gruesome fantasies. About taking more random souls, in different ways. Interfering with their confused bodies. Having intercourse with their chopped-off heads.
He dreamt constantly about hurting and killing his own parents too. Of stabbing his father in the eye-socket with a kitchen knife, for example, or taking his mother by surprise at tea-time by biting off one of her ears and raping her violently as the six o’clock news played in the background.
He was a sociopath - a real mental case - and he had entertained this violent and twisted imagery in his mind’s eye for years and years whilst resisting the temptation to further act on his murderous urges. Not a single soul in the world knew of the staggering propensity of his mental illness. Well, some would say it was an illness, others might say that he was the unfortunate by-product of a dysfunctional home, and others would most definitely say that he was just pure evil: a real-life monster.
The monster will kill his own father, so sit back and relax because I’m going to tell you all about what happened…
Chapter 8
The destiny of a parasite: to die by the hammer
We always have a choice, to accept our fate, or seize it and become its master…
Tam Moffat was a despicable parasite. He was a miner by trade but pimped out his wife, Nora, to a seedy little sauna that was located up a back alley in the City Centre, close to Blythswood Square, where a large metal door that grated and squeaked on loose hinges led to a narrow staircase, up to a front desk and multiple rooms where privacy and pleasure was guaranteed; for a modest fee, naturally.
All the rooms were well-equipped with tissues, condoms and lubricants.
Some of the VIP rooms had shower cubicles, a plasma TV and, if you were lucky, you might even get to take a wee bottle of lager from the fridge. Downstairs, a red neon sign hung high above that creaky grey door, simply advertising - OASIS SAUNA - LUXURY MASSAGE - it was a well-known whore-house, for the select-few men who knew of its location. They didn’t have to worry though, about the coppers, neither the punters or the working girls, as it was one of many owned and run by the McConnell family (Glasgow’s premier crime syndicate), which meant that the pigs were on the take and had been paid-off to stay clear. Tam had been privileged to get Nora into a brothel that was granted Police-protection and had repeatedly told her that she should be grateful and think herself lucky.
Young John despised his cowardly rodent of a father, seeing him as a lower-being, less than a rat. And, Johnny-Boy Moffat killed rats, set them on fire, just to watch them die…
Poor Nora went within herself and tried her best to numb the pain of her humiliating existence, with booze and pills and by just staring out the window for hours on end, dreaming of God knows what; winning the lottery perhaps?
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Well, one day, it happened.
They had a ‘win’ on the National Lottery.
Would you bloody believe it?
Rags-to-riches, overnight, just like that; they were now worth over a million…
“We’re fuckin’ rich!” Tam flaunted it repeatedly, to whoever he came across, and he was usually piss-drunk, dancing around in flamboyant fashion, irritating the locals beyond measure. After going to his boss and breaking his nose with a head-butt, telling him to fuck-off and stick his job up his arse, he spent a week on the lash, buying bottles of champagne in all the local bars. One night though, a local heavy took Tam outside and gave him a beating, shattering his ribs and breaking his jaw. “You’re no anything special Tam, even with a fucking Lotto win, yer’ still a piece of shite around here…” the heavy had told Tam, in the dark-blue shadows, as Tam lay drunk and bleeding in a crumpled heap against a leaking drainpipe at the back of the pub.
The heavy had been right, for all intents and purposes, Tam Moffat was still the low-life scum that he’d always been; money wouldn’t change that.
Some things never change…I mean, what kind of bastard puts his own wife on the game?
A low-life scumbag of a bastard, that’s what kind…
And for Nora and John, the damage had already been done, especially so for the now-grown son - the still unknown sociopath. His true destiny awaited him. An exceedingly dark and violent one.
Nevertheless, Tam attempted to make changes for the family, to move onwards and upwards to pastures new. They moved out of their Easterhouse council flat and bought an eight-bed Georgian villa, one of the most luxurious and sought-after houses in the trendy West End, not far from Kelvingrove Park. It had huge wrought iron gates at the front and from the main road you could usually see their big fancy Merc - the brand new one that Tam had bought for cash.
There was so much cash.