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Chapter 2 Taboo
I’d read up on the necrophilia when I worked my first case. The first historical mention is found in the hieroglyphics of ancient Egypt. It warned parents and husbands to allow the bodies of females to decompose for three days before turning them over to burial attendants who might otherwise use them for sexual purposes. It must have taken a strong stomach to let the wife’s body rot in the desert heat for seventy two hours before you called the undertaker.
It’s a crime like pedophilia that gets folks excited. However, as I mentioned to the captain, the penalties are not that severe. Twenty six states treat it as a misdemeanor and the rest as a less serious felony. Rape the living and you can go away for a long time but fucking the dead will get you a fine, possibly a little hard time, and probation.
While the Captain had claimed to Traffic I had vast experience; my reality was limited to three. The first was a pair of college kids who thought it was cool to work the graveyard shift in the morgue at Mass General. One night they’d gotten stoned and decided to fuck a dead hooker who’d overdosed on heroin and dropped dead while providing a John from the burbs a half and half. The John panicked and tossed her body out on lower Tremont right in front of the Wang Center just as the night’s performance of the Nut Cracker was letting out. Thousand of little girls and their moms got to see first hand what happens to bad girls who don’t learn the dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.
It turned out the dead hooker had a family who wanted to give her a proper burial. A mortuary attendant noted the presence of really fresh semen in the cavity and called the cops. The boys confessed and got a fine and probation.
My next case was more nuanced. There was a big above ground mausoleum near the LNG port. One of the owners got his kicks removing male cadavers from their slots and taking them to his office for wine and cheese. After they’d spent some time discussing how it felt to be dead, he sodomised them with the aid of a metal strap on dildo that encased his penis. The dildo had slots in the sides so he could enjoy the sensation of long dead flesh. He’d purchased the dildo through a German based Web site offering unusual items made with Teutonic precision.
A janitor who’d passed out in his supply closet from too much MD 20/20 woke up locked in after closing hours. When he saw the light on in the boss’s office, he rushed to ask to be let out only to find his employer plowing away inside a long dead ass. The perp pleaded insanity and the judge agreed. A two month stay at a treatment facility and he was back at his old job. I sometimes drive by the place at night and wonder whose corpse is sipping pinot noir, eating brie, and taking it up the butt. My experiences convinced me cremation is the way to go even if it does upset my Catholic parents.
But Cynthia Rose was different. Her late model roadster with the top down had missed a curve and rolled down a twenty foot embankment. The crime scene ME had preliminarily attributed her COD to a broken neck acquired during the roll over. He also noted she had a multiple contusions and a broken left arm. There was an open bottle of tequila in the car that managed to survive the crash.
If that was all there was to it, it would have been a routine traffic death attributed to alcohol. It’s a scenario that happens multiple times every year.
College girl goes clubbing Saturday night. She drives into Boston from her off campus apartment in Chestnut Hill. She visits one or more of the night clubs on Lansdowne Street. She meets some friends, dances, drinks, and does coke, Ecstasy or crystal meth, possibly all three. Maybe she gets lucky in a bathroom stall with some Euro trash before she calls it a night and heads home. Arborway is a winding road and poorly lighted. She misses a turn, flipping her car over the rail. A promising piece of ass bites the dust before she fills her getting fucked quota. Life is full of tragedy.
But some nut case had happened on the body and decided she’s still warm enough to screw. He places her on the trunk of the vehicle which luckily for him had landed upright. He brought along enough sash chord to tie her wrists and ankles. The chord stretched her arms overhead in a V. Her legs were tied to the undercarriage spreading her so wide she was in a split any cheerleader would envy. And he had taken the time to stretch her tight, real tight. You could see the chord was digging into her flesh. Why so tight I wondered?
Why would someone go to all that trouble for a dead body? She wasn’t going to struggle or fight. I’d handled my share of rapes where the victim was tied. Binding the struggling girl so she couldn’t move made sense from the perp’s point of view. Getting your eye gouged out could ruin a perfectly good assault.
Now for the weird part, after the late Ms. Rose was stretched out like a rubber band, he inserted speculums in her vagina and rectum. He’d cranked her open as wide as the instruments allowed and left them there. He must have worn gloves because they were no prints.
My brain couldn’t put together a scenario that added up. Suppose someone was following and witnessed the accident. According to the police report, the car was not visible from the road unless you were standing right on the shoulder of the road looking down. The Good Samaritan goes to help out and finds a very attractive dead girl in a mini dress.
Maybe he too was clubbing and struck out, leaving him drunk and horny. Let’s say he’s some kind of career rapist who just happened to have forty feet of white sash chord in his car. For reasons known only to the mentally unbalanced who are into extreme S&M fantasies, he uses the chord to tie her as if she was a live girl he was going to rape. So far so good, the nut job is pretending and Cynthia’s corpse feels more realistic than the blow up doll he ordered online. Of course, she can’t suck your dick but you can squeeze her tits and pond away in both orifices. Another problem is a lack of feedback. She’s not screaming, “Fuck me harder, Motherfucker.” On the other hand, some guys find that shit distracting.
But that still leaves the speculums. How many guys are driving around with a roll of sash chord and a pair of hole spreaders? Maybe more than we want to think.
I recalled reading that in certain cases when rigor mortis had occurred, the necrophiliac had used a speculum to pry the vagina open. A dead pussy was apparently a tight pussy. According to Krafft-Ebing who defined the disease of necrophilia, a true necrophiliac preferred his victim cold and stiff. They are sick puppies who have an erotic attachment for corpses.
But if he witnessed the accident, she couldn’t have lost more than a couple of degrees at most by the time he prepped her and sought penetration. If she’d been fucked a couple of times during her foray on Lansdowne, she’d be loose and wet, making it easy to slide home.
I signed on my computer, accessed the Web and listed medical supply houses sites that sold speculums. Fifty bucks bought the finest surgical steel. A Google search revealed they were also sold by medical fetish sites along with enema equipment, mouth gags, and short sexy nurses’ uniforms.
Maybe the perp was making a statement. She’s a whore and her holes are open to all. That implied he knew her and didn’t approve of her sexual habits.
“Man, I could use a turn with that,” said Matt who had stopped by my desk on his way back from the break room. He was standing behind me looking over my shoulder at the crime scene photos.
“What’s the matter, Matthew? Andrea got a bad case of hemorrhoids and cut you off,” I said.
Matt picked one of the photos for a closer look. “It wouldn’t matter if she did. The Mattster doesn’t take no for an answer. Her backdoor is always open to me. What’s she got in her twat?”
“Speculums, you ever use one?” I asked.
“Don’t know what it is,” said Matt.
He was not just a prick; he is an ignorant prick. “It’s a medical device, doctors use to spread open the vagina or anus so they can examine the interior. Ask your wife. Her gynecologist uses one to look up her snatch.”
Matt turned to the female officer who had been assigned to SCU last week. “Hey Sarah, do you know what a speculum is?”
Sarah Covington’s desk was next to mine across the aisle. She was an attractive brunette and from what I could tell had a good figure. I particularly admired the way she pushed out the front of her uniform blouse.
Rumor had it she fell out of favor with the wife of the head of Family Justice Division when she caught her screwing her husband. The wife followed her spouse to a motel in Everett where she demonstrated enormous resourcefulness by persuading the desk clerk to let her into the room. Once inside, she pulled Officer Covington off the top of her husband and proceeded to beat the shit out of her with her son’s Little League bat she had cleverly concealed under her raincoat.
Fortunately for all concerned, the desk clerk managed to subdue the aggrieved spouse before she committed homicide. Sarah’s husband of two months, who was a fellow officer assigned to the Harbor Patrol, learned of her infidelity in the ER while the orthopedic surgeon was setting her broken arm. He took umbrage at her betrayal of the marriage vowels and promptly filed for a divorce. Her only defense was that she had been putting out for the division head since she joined the force seven years ago and being married wasn’t a credible reason to stop. I admired her logic and looked forward to having an opportunity to discuss it with her.
Media Liaison worked overtime to cover up the scandal which required cashing in current and future favors. Someone’s career had to take the fall and Sarah was the logical choice. Division heads are hard to replace but office whores are a dime a dozen.
“What are you talking about, Matt,” asked Sarah looking pissed she was being sexually harassed?
Perhaps one of her fellow female officers had informed her of the existence of a pool each male SCU member had paid twenty dollars to join. The first policeman to provide incontrovertible proof that he’s screwed her would collect the entire amount. I should note the pool was not discriminatory in that it was enacted for every female who joined SCU, even fat ugly Greta who no one was particularly eager to prong. Her pool would possibly have gone uncollected if Sergeant Howie Stark had not gotten drunk out of his mind at the Shield and drug her into a back room and mounted up. No one argued when the next day, he offered a pair of 10/3XLarge drawers as proof. The crotch had a stain that no laundry pre-treatment could remove.
Matt provided the definitive conclusion after he took a whiff of the crotch. “Smells like a fat girl’s pussy.” No one was prepared to argue with his assessment.
Officer Stark used a felt tip to print the date, time, and location of his victory along with his initials on the come stained crotch. Then to the applause of his fellow officers he penned the garment to the secret cork board located in the janitor’s closet of the Men’s Locker Room. It was a poignant moment and everyone was suitably respectful. My time at SCU was short but there were two thongs bearing my initials. In ways that don’t count, I am an overachiever.
“Simon’s caught a speculum case,” said Matt. “I just wondered if you ever used one.”
I didn’t doubt that Matt’s attempt to involve Sarah in the conversation represented an opening gambit in his attempt to win the pool.
“Gynecologists use speculums, Matt. What’s a speculum case, Simon?” asked Sarah.
“Actually, it appears the perp is a necrophiliac who used a speculum,” I said seeking to disassociate myself from Matt’s stupidity. Based on several glances, Sarah and I exchanged I felt I had an excellent chance at winning the Covington Pool and adding her to my building legend. But I didn’t believe in rushing things and it has been my experience that females are more likely to offer sex to males they believe, however mistakenly, are gentleman.
“So does your gynecologist use a speculum when he looks in your pussy,” asked Matt unwilling to quit when he ahead.
“Of course, Matt,” said Sarah.
“What does he find in there,” asked Matt.
“Nothing, it’s a hole, an empty hole and it’s going to stay that way,” said Sarah.
Deciding that being part of the conversation was not conducive to screwing Sarah, I signed out and left the office.
I made a quick visit to the scene of the accident. It was a sharp curve. The guard rail was bent over and twisted. Down below you could see where the car had crushed the kudzu.
The Arboretum was owned by Harvard but policed by Boston as one of the many urban parts built my Frederick Olmstead in the last decades of the eighteen hundreds. There were several buildings within the property where Harvard scientists and students studied plants. There were also numerous nature walks that in times past had been excellent venues for rapists. Recently, gentrification of the surrounding neighborhoods had improved safety. The last reported attempted rape was two years ago.
I couldn’t find any skid marks. Cynthia must have been too blitzed to hit the brakes. But I did find shards of orange plastic scattered on both shoulders of the road, the kind that covers directional signals and indicators. I carefully gathered all I could find and placed them in an evidence bag.
I was a little surprised Traffic hadn’t collected it but I suppose they were in a hurry to get back to the donut shop.
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