 |
|||
|
|
Chapter 1 New Case
“You’re late, Simon. Sullivan’s looking for you,” said Matt the asshole who sat across from me at Boston PD headquarters. I could tell my getting in trouble thrilled him to no end.
“Had some things to take care of,” I said dropping my laptop on my desk before heading in the direction of Captain Ryan Sullivan, the head of my unit. Matt’s really not as asshole, he’s a low grade cretin prick whose idea of a good time is sitting in the break room telling his buddies how much his Italian wife, Andrea, likes to be fucked in the ass. Sometimes, he illustrates his tales with Polaroids of her face down and cum smeared butt up. Why she stays married to the shit head is a mystery. It probably has to do with her desire to feed and clothe their three sons.
My name is Detective Lieutenant Simon Westbrook. I work in the Special Crimes Unit or SCU. There’s nothing special about the crimes other than they are too disgusting or violent for the good cops to sully themselves with. Most involve sex of the type you can’t watch on hardcore porn. If your neighbor is butt fucking his six year old or your toy poodle, SCU is on the case.
It’s a dumping ground for officers whose career is finished. Our offenses were bad enough to permanently keep us off the promotion list, but not serious enough to be fired or incarcerated. Compared to some of my fellow officers who did things like shoot their collar and plant a gun on them, mine is actually pretty tame.
Before I screwed up, I was on the fast track to Boston PD’s top echelon. I made lieutenant at thirty two, the minimum qualifying age. My record was clean and I had twice as many arrests as the next cop. I played by the rules and the DA’s conviction rate on my arrests was almost a hundred percent.
Then I got stupid and started an affair with Mary Travers, whose husband, Tom, was my partner in Homicide. Everyone liked Tom, me included. Why did I pick the most popular guy in the department to fuck over? Pussy is the reason. Mary and I met at the annual police awards ceremony. Sometimes things just happen.
One minute we were making small talk, the next we were whispering about where and when we could get together. The only attraction was sex but that was incredible. I ran out of things I’d always wanted a girl to do but was afraid to ask. She has a thing for the Rusty Trombone and didn’t mind how much rust her tongue had to lick off to hit my high notes.
Her husband finally figured out his wife had round heels and an itch between her legs that needed frequent scratching by anybody who was not him. Tom placed a video camera in my condo that not only videoed everything but transmitted it over the wireless internet to his laptop. He specialized in electronic surveillance; so recording the two of us fucking like rabbits was a no brainer.
What I didn’t appreciate was that he loved his wife even if she was a slut. He was in his car outside my building watching us while he wrote a letter blaming me for betraying him something a partner should never do. After he typed out a full page of woe and ran it through spell checker, he stuck his Glock in his mouth and pulled the trigger, punching a hole in the roof and ruining the upholstery of his Ford Tarus.
Inside I had Mary face down on all fours. Her asshole was gaped open from my repeated assaults. I thought I heard a loud bang out on the street but I was too focused on dumping my load in her rectum to take a look. A passerby called the police.
The department’s Media Liaison Group managed to keep the press from learning why Tom blew his brains out. The Boston Globe has always been a team player and cop suicides were a downer. Of course, the real reason spread through the department overnight along with copies of the video and letter. I was surprised it didn’t make YouTube.
I became a pariah, a cop avoided by his fellow officers like a crack whore with AIDS and the clap. No one wanted to partner with me. I hadn’t put the gun in Tom’s mouth and pulled the trigger but most of the department felt I might as well have. I found myself transferred out of Homicide to SCU, the department’s way of telling me career wise I was finished and it might be better if I moved on to another PD, perhaps the Royal Canadian Mounties were hiring.
I was hanging around contemplating my next move. My sister wanted me to go back to law school and join her legal practice at triple my salary, but I wasn’t sure I was cut out for the bar. I’d replaced Mary with Darlene, a stripper who worked at the Squires Club. She moved in with me a month ago. She was almost as good a fuck as Mary with the advantage she was unencumbered, no husband or boy friend, only her regular customers who paid for sex and didn’t give a shit who else was banging her.
As a bonus, Darlene’s sixteen year old sister, Nikki, also lived with us. Nikki was a voluptuous piece of jail bait who aspired to join her sister in the adult entertainment field. If Nikki had any morals, it certainly didn’t show. Her ambition was to move to Los Angles when she was eighteen and break into porn.
“Captain wants to see me,” I asked Nancy the chubby brunette who guarded the boss’s door?
“Yeah, he’s pissed. Where you been?” asked Nancy whose taste in clothes ran to too tight sweaters and too short skirts. She was a new hire and the word around the department was that her employment was based on her unequaled proficiency in providing Captain Sullivan his daily hummer. She waved me through.
“Come in, Simon, you know Marty Graves of Traffic?” asked the Captain pointing toward a uniform seated in front of his desk.
“Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure,” I replied shaking the hand of the nervous looking cop. As we shook, he handed me a case folder with his other hand. He passed it off like you would if you were getting rid of a particularly bad smelling turd.
“What you got here, Marty,” I asked flipping the folder open as I took a seat?
“Something that’s not in our line of responsibility,” said Marty looking happy I was now holding the folder full of shit.
The first picture had shock value, a blonde female spread out on the trunk of a roadster I took to be a Beemer. Her mini dress was up under her armpits and her underwear was missing. She was skinny as a runway model except for her softball sized tits. I wrote those off as augments. The car was banged up and from the looks of her, the blonde was too. Her head was hanging at an angle a healthy neck bone doesn’t allow.
“What am I looking at here, Marty” I asked?
Marty flipped open his note book and read. “Cynthia Walcott Rose, twenty two, daughter of Doctors Walter and Daniela Rose, both employed at Brigham’s and Women’s. She’s a student at BC, rather was a student at BC. Her car was found by a jogger Sunday morning at approximately 7:30AM in the Arnold Arboretum. Apparently, Ms. Rose missed a turn on Arborway Drive and the vehicle rolled down an embankment.”
“Then what happens,” I asked glancing through a series of photographs of Cynthia. The last two were close ups of her pussy and anus. They gave me a good idea why the case was being dropped in my In Box.
“We’re not completely sure. The ME believes the victim was killed in the crash then raped which is a hideous crime,” said Marty doing his best to look disgusted.
“Since when does Traffic not handle necrophilia,” I asked wondering if Marty had any sense of humor?
“That’s our job,” interrupted Captain Sullivan spoiling my fun. “Lt. Westbrook has considerable experience in this particular area.”
“I need to get moving. Call me if you need anything,” said Marty. He was anxious to leave, no doubt heading back to Traffic to report he’d successfully passed off the turd to one of the losers in SCU, the one who caused his partner to blow his brains out.
“Where the hell you been,” asked Captain Sullivan as soon as Marty departed?
“I had something personal I needed to attend to,” I said not wanting to get into the story of how Darlene’s kid sister, Nikki, had arrived from Rochester after her parents kicked her out, and to show appreciation for allowing her to stay at my place, the two sisters had offered me a threesome which turned into a foursome when my brother Winston unexpectedly showed up for breakfast.
“You didn’t call,” said the Captain.
I nixed the excuse I couldn’t talk because my mouth was full of pussy. “I forgot. I’m sorry. I won’t let it happen again,” I said doing my best to look contrite.
The Captain should be grateful I didn’t call in sick. I left a first class orgy in full swing. Winston’s wife, Cecilia, is seven months pregnant so he was on a pussy free diet a home. When I left, the three of them were still going strong.
“So what do you think we got here,” asked the Captain?
“Hard to say at this point, who runs around with a speculum in their pocket in case they happen on a dead girl,” I said realizing there were things that didn’t add up.
“Fucking stiffs is disgusting and downright creepy,” said the Captain mindful it was only three weeks to Halloween.
“Only a misdemeanor in most states,” I said aware that the penalty for having sexual intercourse with a corpse was a Class C Felony in Massachusetts with a maximum sentence of seven years. The embalmer I’d arrested last summer drew three years probation. The DA had only charged him with one count but I suspected hundreds of attractive females embalmed by McCarthy’s Funeral Home had been buried with his spunk rotting in their cunt.
“Be careful. Her parents have juice. O’Malley from the mayor’s office has already called to say we need to handle this one carefully and keep him informed of any progress we make,” said the Captain.
|
|
|