Discreet Detective Agency – Chapter 4

https://discreetdetectiveagency.wordpress.com

Chapter 4

WARNING:  For mature audiences only

HE’D MANAGED TO GET an hour or so of sleep after ramming his cock up the girl’s tight ass a few more times.  He enjoyed fucking dead Black girls.  All of the fun and none of the sass, he thought as he rubbed his hand once more over the girls round firm ass.   She was still soft.  Rigor mortis hadn’t set in yet.

“Mmmm,” he moaned rolling her over and ramming his right hand between her legs.  He rubbed furiously at her clit.  He wanted to see if even in death she’d cum.

He began urging her on.  “Come on.  I know you want to.  Show me you’re still in there.  Show me how I make you cum.”  Insulted that she did not show her appreciation for all of his hard work, he pulled his right hand from between her legs and slammed his balled up fist down hard in the center of her face.

“Whore!” he screamed, releasing his pent-up rage/

“Whore! That’s what you are.  That’s what all of you are!  Whores!”

He wanted to hurl things, throw things, and break things.  But knew better.  The less he touched in the room the easier it would be to clean.   Standing up, he looked down at the dead young Black girl’s body.  At least, he reminded himself, he still had her.

He picked up the girl’s body and threw it violently against the wall.  When it plopped to the floor, he calmly walked over and begin kicking it.  Still not sated, he reached down, grabbed a hand full of the long black human hair weave attached to the young Black girl’s head and started punching her beautiful bronze face until it was unrecognizable.  Emotionally satisficed, he dropped the body back in the middle of the bedroom floor from where he’d retrieve it later.

He was hot and sweaty and smelled of whore.  He needed a shower.  But that was against the rules.  Some of those new detectives down at the Bureau of Detectives actually worked. And he wasn’t about to help them by giving them his DNA.  He kicked the body one last time before retrieving his clothes from the funny looking orange chair beside the bed.   He dressed quietly, casting his eyes over at the lump of flesh on the floor from time to time.  He tied the last loop in his shoe laces and snarled, “Where’d you hide them, bitch?”  The young Black girl gave no answer to his question.

The man got up, slipped on a pair of gloves he kept in his pants pocket and searched the room for her keys.  The apartment door key and the downstairs door key.  He’d need them to get back in and finish his business.

He scanned the top of the dresser.  Nothing.  He pulled open every dresser drawer.  Every single one of them was empty.  Which meant this was a place of business for the girl.  It was not where she lived.  “Ahh,” he sighed aloud.  “Her purse.”  The keys and her phone will be in her purse.  Now, where the hell was her purse?

Then he remembered.  The last time, he’d done this, the whore had hidden her purse where she could get it if there was trouble.  Bathrooms were usually the only rooms with a lock.  He sauntered over to the bathroom, opened the door, and sure enough, there behind a stack of folded towels was a nice pink lady like bag.   “Humph,” he said to himself.  A whore with a lady like bag.  What the hell is this world coming to?”

He rummaged through it, careful not to leave any traces of himself and found what he was looking for.  The keys.

As cool as if he were going out for a summer stroll, he walked out of the room, down the hall, and out the door.

Outside, the sky was a dark navy blue indicating that sunrise was maybe two or three hours away.  He had time.

He walked slowly to his car, a white Buick Encore, that he’d parked around the block, unlocked the truck, and pulled out the Samsonite Winfield 2 Expandable rollaway suitcase he used for these occasions.  There was a reason he liked them petite.

Pulling on a baseball cap and keeping his head down, he made his way back to the apartment building and using the dead young Black girl’s keys, let himself back in.

The lump of flesh was still where he’d left it.  He knew what he had to do.   There was a reason he liked them petit.

First, he pulled the sheets from the bed and placed them on the floor next to the body.  He rolled the dead young Black girl’s body onto the sheets.  Opening the suitcase, he pulled out a turkey baster full of bleach and plunged it into the dead young Black girl’s vagina and squeezed until it was empty.  Then, he stuffed her, the sheets, and the pillow cases into the suitcase.  Satisfied with his work, he put the keys back in her purse and put the purse back where he’d found it.

He did one final check of the apartment, making sure he’d left nothing of himself, and assured that he had not, he left dragging the rollaway suitcase behind him.

He took Indiana Avenue south.  Passing First Unity Baptist Church, he knew he’d escaped the Police Station at 5101 S. Wentworth Avenue.  He didn’t slow down or speed up.  He didn’t even turn his head for a look see.  Instead, he kept going until he reached Cottage Grove Avenue.

He hung a left.  Things were going as planned.  Confident, he took another left onto 64th and stopped when he reached a section of apartment buildings near 65th and South Ingleside Avenue that had a large parking lot which was adjacent to an empty lot.

He parked his car under a large grove of trees.  He had to be careful now, it was getting light outside.  But he wanted to make sure that those leaving for work, early in the morning saw the fire.

He pulled the rollaway suitcase from the back of his car along with a bright red container of gasoline.  His lighter was in his pocket.  He said nothing.

Stooping behind one of the park’s large trash cans, he unzipped the suitcase and lifted the young Black girl’s body out of it and dumped it into the trash can.  He looked down at the sheet covering her naked body and smiled.  He stooped down again, picked up the bright red gasoline container and emptied its contents all over the sheets making sure every inch was saturated.  Then, he closed the suitcase, put the cap back on the container, removed his gasoline soaked gloves, pulled the light from his pocket, flicked it, and tossed it in.  The trash can erupted in flames.

The tall well-dressed solidly built man got back into his car and drove off.

By
Eliza D. Ankum

I'd love to hear from you!

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s