DETECTIVE KOWALSKI'S LAST CASE

   Synopsis: Four girls are found hanged in a Chicago park.

By: DeZ (dez31415@yahoo.com)

   PART 1

       Detective Alex Kowalski of the Chicago Police Department left work early and was already getting off the highway, when the car phone rang. Alex looked at the caller's ID and scowled. Just great! There goes another free afternoon.

     Before picking up the call, Alex steered to the side and hit the brakes. Talking on a phone in a moving car was illegal, and, even though everyone else was ignoring that restriction, it would not do for a police officer to violate the law.

     Before the car came to a full stop, Alex reached for the phone, smothered the cheery melody and, groaning, flipped the damn thing open.

     "Yes, Jack, it’s me. Yes, I am in a car. Yes, I am near my exit. Look, Jack, it’s weekend and I want to go home, so would you please get to the fucking point?"

     The caller spoke for a minute, and Alex's expression gradually changed from frustrated impatience to surprise.

     "You've got to be kidding! Four of them? With ribbons and all? Are you sure? Yes, of course you are. So where is it? All right, I'll be there as soon as I can."

     Alex put the phone back into its cradle and started the engine.

       Half an hour later, Alex's car was parked near the entrance to one of Chicago's less visited public parks. Alex got out and walked across the empty parking lot toward the restrooms – a low brick building next to the park fence. It was already surrounded by the police, and a small crowd of curious locals milled about in front of the police pickets. Some distance away, stood a TV truck with an enormous satellite dish pointed at the skies.

     Alex approached the pickets and reached for the badge.

     "Detective Kowalski?" called a tall, burly black police officer from behind the yellow tape.

     "Uh, yes. How did you know my name?" replied Alex, who had never seen the man.

     He smirked. "Easy. Ain't many Detectives like you in the Department."

     But of course, how could I forget, Alex thought sourly. Everyone and his brother has heard of me. Because I am fucking unique.

     "This way," said the officer, pulling aside a length of tape to let Alex through. "They are in the ladies’ room over there."

     He stopped abruptly, his face growing apprehensive. "Do you really need me to go with you? Because I’d rather not see it again. That black girl in the middle… she could be my daughter."

     "That’s all right. I don’t need any escort."

     The restroom was a very private place. It had no windows and its narrow doors were partly hidden by shrubbery. The thick brick walls blocked all but the loudest sounds. Alex could see why it made such a convenient spot for criminals – where else in a public area could they achieve this measure of privacy and seclusion? The choice of the women’s restroom, rather than men’s, was not an accident, either – even if the criminals were to be surprised by an unexpected visitor, she would still be a mere female.

     Alex went through the entrance and made two sharp turns designed to obscure a direct view from the outside. Yes, this must definitely be a really private place, ideal for something like a premeditated murder.

     Alex stopped at the threshold. At the moment, the restroom was the very opposite of private. It buzzed with activity. Forensic photographers were snapping pictures; medical examiners and various other expert geeks were crawling over the evidence; a couple local cops stood to the side and watched the activity with mild interest. Among the bustle, Alex noticed a few types who clearly had had no business at a crime scene – but at least there were no reporters, thank God!

     The restroom had a long, rectangular layout with a row of stalls on one side and a few sinks and a mirror on the other. The sinks were all steel; the mirror, a polished metal surface; you could not break anything here even if you tried. Against the far wall stood a couch, a common amenity at the women's – but not men's – restrooms. It was hard to imagine, though, any actual woman agreeing to sit on this particular couch. It was low, backless, made of metal and much-scratched plastic; more a glorified park bench than a proper couch. Right now, it was covered by a couple of bunched-up blankets, a few inches above which were—

     Four pairs of bare feet.

     Alex's eyes traveled upward. Four female bodies hung by their necks, suspended from ropes tied to the ventilation grill up on the ceiling. The victims were in their late teens or early twenties -- just girls, really, too young to die in such a horrendous way. They were almost completely naked, with only one bra and one sock to share between all four of them. Harsh police floodlights reflected dully off bare skin, making it look as though it was made of plastic. Perhaps it was only a trick of lighting, or perhaps an effect of the obscene contrast between the intimacy of nakedness and the shocking display of death, or maybe Alex’s own defense mechanism, but the corpses seemed to be not quite real.

     They were real enough though. Whoever murdered those girls did it meticulously. The bodies were lined up and equally spaced, and each length of the rope was carefully measured to have them hang at the exact same height. The nooses, tied in a perfect hangman's knot, completed the impression of the orderly, old-style gallows. One could say that the girls were killed execution-style but that that wasn't quite right; this was no clean, quick execution by long-drop. Judging by their purple faces, puffed lips, and swollen tongues, the girls were hanged short-drop and died from slow suffocation.

     Alex noted that the corpses’ extremities had already begun to darken but weren’t too dark yet, which meant that the young women hadn’t been hanging that long.

     In front of the victims’ bodies stood Detective Jack Lombardi, a portly, hook-nosed, and bushy-browed man, who frankly looked more like a stereotypical movie Mafioso than a policeman. He was a short man, so short that even Alex could see his bald spot, but his height impairment was well compensated by the quick tongue and a high opinion of himself. Jack was typing something on his Smartphone, squinting and furiously pushing the little buttons with his thick stubby fingers. If he noticed Alex approaching, he gave no sign.

     "Hey Jack," greeted him Alex.

     "Just the girl I want to see," replied Lombardi without taking his eyes off the tiny screen. "Hello, Aleksandra."

     Alex bristled. "Don't call me that! You know I hate this name. And don’t call me girl, either!"

     Jack stopped typing and looked at her.

     "Can I call you baby, then?" he asked innocently.

     "No!"

     "Ah, women," sighed Jack theatrically. "Who knows what they want. Very well, then."

     He pointed at the hanging corpses.

     "Here is a brief update. What we have here is a quadruple homicide. The bodies were found two hours ago but we have reasons to believe that they had been dead since about seven in the morning. The murderer picked a great time for his purpose, I should say. The park is nearly empty then, so we are not likely to find any witnesses."

     "No early morning joggers?" asked Alex.

     "Are you kidding?" snorted Jack, "In this neighborhood?"

     "Homeless people?" insisted Alex.

     "Hmm. You might be right. We’ll look into it. Anyway, as far as we can see, there are no signs of violence or foul play."

     Alex ran a hand through her reddish-blond hair. "This doesn’t sound good," she said, "You think this could be the work of the Pink Strangler?"

     "See for yourself."

     Jack seized the nearest body by the hips and turned it around to show Alex the back. Right in the middle of the dead girl's naked butt was a large fancy bow made of pink ribbon and attached right to the flesh with a giant safety pin. The pin was long enough to pierce both asscheeks, pinching them together. There was a smudge of dry blood on one asscheek where the needle entered the skin; there was more blood on the other cheek where the needle punched its way out.

     "That thing must have gone deep enough to penetrate muscle," said Alex. To her, this last indignity seemed almost as outrageous as the hanging itself.

     "Yeah, I guess it’s pretty deep," said Jack indifferently. "So, does the bow on her ass look familiar to you?"

     "It does. I’ve seen old crime scene photos. Yes, it looks like him."

       It was eleven years ago, when one of Chicago's most mysterious and prolific serial killers had first appeared on the scene. Nobody knew what he looked like; the police had never found a single witness who could give even an approximate description. The newspapers dubbed him the Pink Bow Strangler, or simply the Pink Strangler, because he always left pink ribbons pinned to his victims’ breasts or buttocks. In the beginning of his career, Pink Strangler was a common, run-of-the-mill sexual maniac. His initial victims were the usual lot: the prostitutes and the runaway teens; the first three or four of them he simply throttled and dumped by the side of the road. After a short while, he seemed to gain confidence. Now he would strangle a woman with a cord, strip all her clothes, and hang her from a tree, dead or unconscious. The victims were never raped, or beaten, or even touched in any way, save for the signature pink bow affixed to their bodies.

     After two years of this, there was a short lull in the Strangler’s activities. Then, one unhappy day, he reappeared once again. His new murders showed a new method and a different style. His first victim in the next phase of his career was a University student who was found hanged in a shower stall of her dorm room. The young woman was not strangled beforehand but actually died from hanging; if not for the killer’s trademark pink bow pinned to her buttocks, her death might have been ruled a suicide. From then on, the murders grew more sophisticated and frightening. Now the Strangler preyed on nice middle-class girls, often luring them from their homes. The victims, while fully conscious, were slowly and painfully hanged by their necks, and their nude bodies were left to dangle from trees in a forest or from a ceiling in the abandoned buildings. For over two years, the maniac continued his killing spree, murdering one woman a months, varying his routine to some degree but always leaving behind his calling card. A nationwide police hunt produced no leads. Time after time, the killer was able to kill with inexplicable immunity. And then, just when the public hysteria had reached its heights, the murders ceased.

     This was six years ago. In all this time, not a pip was heard from the notorious maniac. A serial killer cannot simply stop, and so it was presumed that the Strangler was either dead or arrested on an unrelated charge and put away for good. The city breathed a sigh of relief. Cautiously at first, and then freely, the people went on with their business. Most of them had forgotten the vanished maniac, who not so long ago haunted their imagination. Eventually, the only places where he still made rare appearances were late-night true-crime TV shows.

     And now, thought Alex, looking at a brand new pink bow, he had killed again. And not once, but four times in a single morning. The Pink Strangler was back, and more dangerous than ever.

       Jack Lombardi opened his briefcase and took out an oversized pastrami sandwich. "Had no lunch today," he explained to Alex before taking a bite.

     "So what do we have here?" he said, chewing noisily. "They were four against one, but none of them even tried to resist. There are no (chew, chew) signs of struggle – no bruises, no blood except on their asses, no foreign tissue under the fingernails, and so on. (Chew, chew, chew.) I find that mighty weird, don’t you? We'll have to determine if any of them were raped, but if this is really our guy, chances are they weren't."

     "We don’t have much to work with," observed Alex.

     "No, we don’t. But at least we know who the victims were."

     "So soon? How?"

     Jack stopped chewing and looked at Alex. "The victims’ clothes were found in that corner – carefully folded, by the way; how do explain that? Their purses were on top of the clothes. Nothing was missing: cash, credit cards, you name it, it was all in there. Including IDs. I called Mike and gave him the names, license numbers, and so on. He e-mailed me back just before you arrived."

     Jack pointed with his sandwich at each dead body in turn.

     "This redhead with the runny makeup around the eyes is Eileen Gallagher. Twenty years old, works as a waitress, rents a small apartment downtown. The bimbo next to her – the blonde one – is Madison Campbell, 19, a socialite. Rich bitch and very spoiled, too; lives in one of her daddy’s mansions, parties every other day. Then we have Letitia Brown, 18, a high school student, and a daughter of a prominent Black preacher. And finally, Jennifer Chang, 22, born in Taiwan and brought here as a baby; a graduate student; works towards the PhD in Economics at the Chicago University."

     Alex noted how Jack used present tense to describe the victims. So, he wasn’t as emotionless as he liked to appear – in his mind, he was separating these four absurd lumps of naked flesh from the living, breathing human beings they once were. Well, everyone had to find his own ways of coping.

     Jack continued nibbling on a sandwich, staring purposefully away from the bodies.

     "What a disparate bunch," said Alex, "Any connections between them?"

     "Beats me. As far as we can tell, none of them even knew the others existed."

     "And yet, someone brought them here…"

     "Actually, not brought. They had driven here in their own cars. We know that because the cars are still parked in the parking lot."

     Alex fell silent. After some thinking, she asked, "Did the rich girl drive a Jag?"

     "Yes."

     "So that explains it. I am parked not far from it. I wondered what such a nice car is doing in a place like this."

     "We looked at the cars," said Jack. "Inside too, of course. You’ll be happy to know that there are no signs of forced entry, nothing suspicious in the trunks, and no traces of any passengers, either. They arrived here quite alone. And here's a curious thing. Letitia Brown's house is only a twenty minutes walk from here, and yet she stole her daddy's car and drove it to the park. It's as though they were afraid to be late for something."

     "Late for their own execution," Alex said gloomily.

     "Or suicide," offered Jack.

     Alex perked up attentively. "You think that’s what happened?"

     "It does look like it, doesn’t it? Four weird, sexually twisted chicks hang themselves for kicks. The problem is, we know it’s not true. Someone was definitely here with them and that someone left only after they were all dead."

     Jack stopped, obviously expecting Alex to ask the question. She obliged, "How do we know?"

     "Use you brain, Detective! For one, they didn’t simply fly into the noose. Before you hang you have to stand on something – and we found what these girls were standing on."

     "So what was it?"

     "It was a kind of folding stepladder with three rungs on either side. The experts team already took it away for analysis. It was as nowhere near the bodies but instead stood on top of the baby changing station near the entrance. Someone had to pick it up and put it there. And that not all. The blankets over here have four separate nice wet spots. They pissed themselves, you see. Well, let’s say you are a girl, and you are hanged, and you happen to piss yourself. Then your piss will end up under your body—"

     "Or maybe some distance in front of it," added Alex. She had to suppress a smile: her pointing out this feature of female anatomy made Jack distinctly uncomfortable.

     "Right," he muttered. "Instead, these spots are all over the place, which means—"

     "—that the blankets had been rearranged," finished Alex. "What a weird case," she mused, "The killer makes it look like some kind of mass suicide but then deliberately leaves behind enough clues to tell us it wasn't. I didn’t know that the Pink Bow Strangler behaved like this."

     "He didn’t," said Jack, "which makes me think it wasn’t the guy at all."

     "So who was it?"

     "Who knows? Apparently, someone who wants us to think that the Strangler is back."

     "But all the details match!" protested Alex, "The shape of the bows, their locations, and so on. Things no one but the original Strangler would know."

     Jack shrugged.  "So the killer did his homework."

     "You mean, he got an inside tip?"

     "Yeah."

     Alex waited. Clearly, Jack had more to say about this.

     "Whom do you suspect?" she asked at last.

     Jack pondered his answer for a while. "I have a hunch. I got it when I learned of Miss Gallagher’s workplace. Did I mention that she works not just in any bar but in a well-known topless one?" Jack glanced at the dead girl’s ample breasts and nodded approvingly, "Well, she does have a nice pair."

     Alex was getting annoyed.

     "Detective Lombardi," she said icily, "I fail to see the relevance of Eileen’s tits."

     Like a typical man, Jack mistook her impatience for jealousy. He poked a finger at Alex’s own chest and grinned, "Don’t worry; you’ve got a nice rack yourself."

     It took Alex all her strength not to explode on the spot. She had to remind herself that she had a job to do here. Time to get the discussion back on track. Alex took a deep breath and said levelly, "So, tell me about your theory."

     Lombardi, quite oblivious to his partner’s reactions, obliged. "I happen to know that this particular bar where Miss Gallagher showed her tits is controlled by the mob. The mob! Exactly the kind of outfit that’s likely to have informers inside the Police Department. Let’s say the mobsters got Eileen Gallagher to help them kidnap the rich bimbo.  But then something went wrong, and the wise guys decided to whack both of them. Perhaps they thought Eileen too unreliable. See how it all fits? Well, I don't know where the other two chicks come into the picture but I'll find out."

     Jack began to pace the room, waving his half-eaten sandwich in all directions. "Here is another detail. Brown and Chang were still alive when the killers pinned the bows to their butts – but Campbell and Gallagher were already dead. You know what this tells me? That the whole pink bow business is just a charade. Here is what I think really happened. Campbell and Gallagher were executed elsewhere and came to this place already pre-hanged, so to speak. The killers brought in the other two victims, pinned the bows to everyone’s asses, just for show, then strung up Campbell and Gallagher for the second time, and hanged Brown and Chang."

     "Why would they want to kill the last two?" asked Alex skeptically.

     "It's obvious!" Jack replied hotly, "If you want to kill someone and hide their corpses, what is the best place to hide them? Among other corpses, of course! You simply kill more people and make it look like something else. In this case, like a group suicide."

     Alex shook her head. "See if I understand it correctly. The mob decide to get rid of two girls, but instead of quickly putting bullets through their brains and hiding the bodies they have this bright idea. Let's take off their clothes, hang them, bring them to a park, hang them there again, and then on top of that, hang two more girls. All to make it look like a job of a maniac from years ago. Does it sound like something an actual mobster would do? And while you are at it, tell me this: why didn't the victims struggle?"

     Lombardi looked deflated. "They could've been drugged."

     "Maybe. We'll know soon. But there is no way a normal non-suicidal person will hang herself, no matter how delirious. You would have to knock her unconscious and do the heavy lifting yourself. This is hard and time-consuming, and in addition to that, it's likely to leave marks. Did you check for bruises near the armpits?"

     "Yes."

     "And?"

     "No bruises near the armpits, or anywhere else. As I said before, no signs of foul play."

     "This is definitely not a mob hit, or anything like that," said Alex. "I don't know what happened here, precisely, but my woman's intuition tells me that this is a sex crime. It surely looks and smells like one."

     For once, Lombardi did not contradict.

     "Excuse me!" said a loud voice behind them.

     Jack and Alex turned around. The Coroner's team was already assembled, and waited patiently for the Detectives to get out of the way. One man held in his hand what looked like a weird kitchen knife.

     "If you don't mind," he said, "We want to take down the bodies."

     "Oh, sure!" Jack and Alex promptly stepped aside.

     The man with the knife cut the ropes one by one. His assistants caught the corpses and slowly lowered them onto the gurneys. Even experienced morgue technicians had some trouble maneuvering the stiff loads; every now and again, an elbow, a knee, or a tailbone would hit the gurney bed, producing a dull, wooden knock.

     At last, the four bodies were lying on the stretchers, all rigidly straight, except for their hideously twisted necks. More than anything, they looked like huge, life-sized dolls, broken and discarded by their owners. Madison, the only one of them whose eyes were still open, stared blankly into a side wall. The technicians covered the girls' nakedness with long white sheets and, one by one, wheeled the gurneys outside, toward the expectant gaze of the TV cameras.

     "Let's go," said Jack. "There is nothing left to do here." He turned to leave.

     Alex remained in place, deep in thought. "There is something that bothers me, Jack. This is not related to the murders."

     "I don’t have much time but shoot."

     "Why did you call that girl a blonde bimbo?"

     Jack frowned. "Because she was a blonde and a bimbo. Why…oh, I see. You think that because you are a blonde like her, I call you that, too."

     "Do you?"

     "Not anymore... I mean, no I don’t!"

     Alex glared at Jack. "Not anymore?"

     "I’d never called you blonde bimbo. Instead, I was always calling you 'a yellow-haired woman of mental capacity'. Honest to goodness!"

     "Don’t joke with me."

     "Alright, I’ll tell you what I really think about you as a professional. Yes, you are not as experienced as many of the guys, and some say you got where you are only because you’ve got an uterus. But I am not one of them. I think you pretty smart, for a girl."

     "Oh, shut up!" Alex said disguisedly.

     Later, at home, Alex replayed the conversation in her head.  She decided that Jack Lombardi was a real swine but there was nothing that she could do about this. Besides, even though she would never tell him, he was right about one thing. Alex did feel a pinch of jealousy when Jack complimented another girl’s breasts, and it didn’t even matter that this other girl was nothing but a dead corpse.

       On an early Friday morning, a week later, Alex sat at her desk and tried to read a newspaper.

     Alex had the neatest desk in the whole Department, and was so proud of this fact. The neatness took a lot of effort to maintain; if you blinked, your table would instantly grow a pile of papers, and if you looked away just for a second, the pile would quickly become a mountain range. Alex was vigilant: only a few items had won a coveted spot on her desktop. Her desk held a flat computer screen, a telephone, a clock-radio, a few neatly stacked books, and a wire-mesh pencil holder full of many kinds of writing implements. There was a personal touch: a couple of photographs and a small crystal vase with fresh flowers. And that was all; the rest of the table was normally a vast expanse of empty space.

     Today, though, much of this space was occupied by a copy of Chicago Morning Mail, opened to Page 3.

     "POLICE BAFFLED," blared the huge capital letters at the top of the page. Underneath, in a marginally smaller font, was the subhead, "NO BREAK IN HANGING CASE." Below that was a portrait of a scowling bearded man, and next to it, the words "By Brian McCarthy."

     The dreaded Pink Strangler was mentioned in the very first paragraph.

     Alex picked a yellow highlighter from the pencil holder and started coloring the inside of letter O in the word POLICE. This damned McCarthy person was absolutely right: the police was baffled. All the hard work in the past week yielded nada. As usual, Alex was assigned the worst part of the investigation: interviewing the victims’ friends and family. She spoke to Eileen’s fiancé, to Jennifer’s sister, to Letitia’s parents, and so on, and so forth. Not only these talks were nerve-wracking and uncomfortable, they were completely useless. The whole investigation was fruitless. No witnesses had come forward. No one had been seen entering or leaving the park. No new clues were found either at the scene, or at the victims' homes, or anywhere else. The victims did not behave suspiciously before their deaths, and neither did their friends or relations. Last but not least, there was no conceivable motive for the crime.

     Almost everyone in the Department had bought Jack's theory of a mob hit, or at least, of some kind of a profit-driven murder. A few were willing to admit that the hangings could've been the work of a sex-crazed serial killer, but even they dismissed the possibility of this killer being "the so-called Pink Bow Strangler." Alex was alone in thinking otherwise, so she kept her opinions to herself.

     Until today, that is. Today – only half an hour ago, in fact – something very interesting had turned up in the archives. It was an answer to a question only she had thought to ask, and this answer made her closer than anyone to breaking the case. Oh, how great it would be if she were the one to break this case! It would do wonders for her reputation and her career, but more importantly, Jack and his friends will at last be forced to take her seriously.

     Alex’s reverie was cut short by a phone ring. Alex put down the paper and picked up the receiver.

     "Hello. Can I speak to Miss Kowalski?" asked an unfamiliar male voice. 

     "Detective Kowalski speaking," answered Alex, with a heavy emphasis on the word Detective.

     "I am sorry, ah, Detective," said the man. "My name is Eric Knoepfler. I work for Chicago Morning Mail, the biggest hometown newspaper. Can I have a couple of words with you?"

     It was as though he was reading from a script; people who are unsure of themselves often sound like that over the phone. He doesn't seem that assertive for a reporter, thought Alex. Aloud, she said, "I thought Brian McCarthy had the exclusive on this case."

     "It's more of a team effort, Miss...I mean, Detective. We sort of work together. But what I have in mind is not directly related to—"

     "Mister... um… Knoepfler," interrupted him Alex. "I do not provide comment to news organizations. It’s not my job. You will have to call the Department's spokeswoman, Monique Horowitz. I don’t have her number but you can easily find it in the directory."

     "But this is different—" started Knoepfler, but at that moment Alex became aware of Jack Lombardi, who was coming straight at her, waving angrily a bunch of papers.

     "I am sorry, Mister Knoepfler, but I must put you on hold," Alex spoke quickly into the receiver and without waiting for reply hit the hold button.

     Jack approached Alex's desk and threw his papers on top, utterly ruining its immaculate perfection. "These are yours. Cassandra made us plenty of copies."

     "What is this?" asked Alex.

     "The lab reports," spit Jack through his teeth.

     "And?"

     "You won't fucking believe this!" He smashed his hand on the table. Alex winced.

     "All right, calm down. Let’s start from the beginning: what are the drug test results?"

     "Negative," said Lombardi, who after his outburst looked a bit calmer, "No drugs at all. Well, there was a minute amount of alcohol in Madison Campbell's blood, but that’s because she partied the night before."

     "Fingerprints?" continued Alex.

     "Oh, plenty of those! All over the place. But all these belong to the victims and no one else. Take the stepladder, for example: each girl had left at least a dozen prints, but there is not a trace of the murderer’s. By the way, do you know that the stepladder belonged to Letitia Brown? Of course you do, you were the one who got the identification from her family members. And speaking of the ladder, what kind of madness is this? Who carries stepladders in their cars? Blankets, at least, I can understand. Incidentally, the blankets were Eileen Gallagher's – but you knew that too."

     "How about the hair?" asked Alex.

     "Lots. On the floor, on the bench, on the blankets. On the bodies themselves, of course. But again, all that is victims’ hair. And here is an annoying part. They got too much of each other’s hair on themselves to be explained by casual contact. For example, Madison Campbell's mouth we found several red hairs that belonged Gallagher."

     "So?"

     "They were pubic hairs!"

     Alex blinked. "What?"

     "Yes, exactly! And that’s just the beginning. The body fluids test came back today. Not the DNA part – that will take weeks – but the preliminary results are already in. That’s why I came to you. Listen to this!"

     Jack took up one of the papers and started reading. "They found Madison Campbell's saliva in Eileen Gallagher's vagina. Conversely, they found Gallagher's vaginal fluids in Campbell's mouth. Also in her mouth, they found Jennifer Chang's vaginal fluids. In turn, Gallagher's saliva was found in Campbell's, Brown's and Chang's vaginas, and – get this! – in Chang's anus. You can imagine, incidentally, what they found in Gallagher's mouth." Jack lifted his eyes from the paper. "You want me to read on?"

     "No," Alex said quietly. "I got the picture."

     Jack, whose level of frustration was building up, slapped the table again. "What the hell happened there?" he fumed, "A fucking orgy? They were licking each other's pussies and assholes like there is no tomorrow! I actually had to draw a fucking diagram to understand who did whom and how! What a bunch of stinking lesbians! Fuck them and fuck this case!"

     Furious now, he crumpled the paper, threw it on the floor, and kicked it with his foot. Alex watched him cautiously. A standard female reaction would've been either to cower or to start yelling twice as loud, but Alex could not afford this behavior. It was all right for a male to have a screaming fit, but if a woman succumbed to it, she would be labeled weak and hysterical. Alex took a breath and reminded herself that she was a police officer. She had to stay calm and rational.

     "Stop it, Jack!" she demanded sharply.

     Jack looked at her as though she just appeared out of thin air; in his rage, he had forgotten about her existence.

     "I don't think those women were lesbians," Alex said quickly. "There was no evidence of homosexuality in their regular lives. All four had boyfriends. Eileen Gallagher, of all people, was engaged to be married. I talked to her friends – for all her being a topless waitress, she was quite traditional."

     "Yeah, right," muttered Jack. "The bitch was so traditional that she didn’t mind putting her tongue up that Chinese girl's ass." He bent down and started picking up the papers that he had scattered all over the floor. Alex sighed with relief: the outbreak was over. Her partner was back to his usual caustic self.

     "There is no evidence that they even knew each other before this," continued Alex, as though nothing had just happened.

     "Doesn't mean anything," called Jack, ducking under the table to pick up the last page. "They could've met on the Web. Gotta check if they had Facebook profiles or participated in any forums. Did you know that there are discussion forums about things like executions or suicide?" He climbed back up, and, without thinking, used the page to wipe the sweat off his bold spot. Alex pretended not to notice.

     "Right now," continued Jack, "The suicide looks like the likeliest theory. Four crazy chicks got together for a good banging and decided to end it with a necktie party. In other words, a lesbian suicide pact. I heard there were such pacts in Japan, so why not here?"

     Alex frowned at him. "Then why did they make it look like the work of that Pink maniac? Just for laughs?"

     "Perhaps it was an accident."

     "An accident?"

     "Sure. Just like your common autoerotic asphyxiation, but on a grander scale. These girls could’ve been playing hangman. Maybe pretending they were victims of their favorite serial killer. Something’s gone wrong with the game, and they all died."

     "Then who moved the ladder and the blankets?"

     Jack shrugged. "There might have been a fifth participant. Someone who witnessed the accident, got scared, and, instead of helping or calling the ambulance, simply fled. Or perhaps there was an organizer – some kind of suicide guru who helps her fellow freaks leave behind their mortal coils. Or maybe—"

     Jack fell silent but his eyes lit up.

     "Maybe what?" prompted Alex.

     "Maybe it was a trick!"

     "What do you mean?"

     Jack drummed his fingers on the table. "Suppose the girls were paid to star in a snuff movie. You know, a porn flick where they portray staged murders or executions; there is a number of websites that sell such movies. But these chicks got more than they bargained for: instead of only pretending to hang they were forced to do it for real." He stopped drumming and looked at the ceiling. "Hmm. This makes a lot of sense. Come on, Kowalski! Doesn’t this theory explain all the known facts?"

     Alex could see that Jack was warming up to his shiny new idea. Her ideas were different, so she attempted to deflate him a little.

     "I don't think Madison Campbell had any need for money."

     Jack made a dismissive gesture. "Money is only one reason to star in such movies. For example, Madison could've been into exhibitionism and S&M. Rich women often are."

     "There is a bigger problem," put in Alex. "Remember the post-mortem? Eileen Gallagher died first; Jennifer Chang died last; and there was at least a thirty-five minute gap between their times of deaths. Madison Campbell, who went second, died at least twenty minutes after Gallagher. You mean to say that Eileen Gallagher hung there for twenty minutes and no one noticed? And if they did, why didn’t they fight or try to escape?"

     Jack made a face. "Ah, come on! Just one teeny-weeny discrepancy. I am sure we’ll find explanation. Maybe they killed the smart one first, and the rest were too dumb to understand what was going on."

     Alex could only stare: as unbelievable as it was, Jack actually meant it.

     "And what’s with the pins, the bows, and the rest?" she asked at last, when she regained the power of speech. "How do you explain that?"

     "Oh, that's obvious. The killers wanted to throw us off their scent, so they tried to pin it – heh-heh, pin! – on the Pink Bow Strangler."

     "But what if it was him?" insisted Alex. "What if he really is back?"

     Jack snorted in derision. "Impossible! I know that this is the story they write about in the newspapers, and this is what the public believes. Pink Strangler is terrorizing the city once more! Ooh, scary! But this is not how the real life works. We are all smart people here. We don't believe in fairy tales, do we? This is definitely not the Pink Strangler. I am telling you, that guy is dead, and that's that!"

     Even though Alex had expected such a response, she was taken aback by the sheer force of it. But she wasn’t bowled over. Let’s see if he is still so sure of himself after she reveals her trump card.

     She spoke slowly, trying not to sound too eager. "Jack, you remember that the Strangler used the same roll of ribbon in all his murders. Which made it very hard to trace where he bought it."

     "Yes, so?" he asked in a bored tone.

     "So I asked the lab to compare our ribbon samples to the ones from the old crime scenes. The results came back today. The fabric matches exactly."

     Jack blinked in astonishment. His mouth opened wide; his eyes flickered uncertainly. Suddenly, he didn’t look quite so smug, and for a brief moment, Alex hoped that she had managed to break through to him.

     Try to explain this away, she thought.

     But the moment didn’t last. Once an idea took root in Jack’s head, it was impossible to dislodge. He quickly recovered and soon was smiling indulgently, as though Alex were a child who asked a naïve question.      

     "The movie people are very clever," he said brightly, "Don’t forget, they had a mole in the Police Department. They copied the Strangler's style faithfully; and if they knew enough to do that, they knew enough to find the right ribbon."

     "I think you are wrong," protested Alex.

     "I am not wrong!"

     "But—"

     "Sorry, can’t talk," cut her off Jack, "Gotta run now! Gotta explain this theory to the Commissioner, and then begin to look into that Web porn stuff. Lots of work to do! You be a good girl, I'll see you around."

     He departed hastily. Alex dropped her face in her hands. She was ready to cry in frustration. Why won’t this pig-headed prick listen to her, just once? What does she have to do to get through to him?

     "Maybe next time, I’ll drop my bra," she muttered, "That’ll get his attention."

     Her eyes fell on the phone; a little red light was blinking next to the hold button. Knoepfler! Alex groaned: she had totally forgotten about him.

     She picked the receiver and pressed the button, hoping that the reporter was gone. No such luck.

     "Busy day, huh?" said Knoepfler cheerfully.

     "Sorry for keeping you waiting," said Alex without being sorry in the least.

     "Let me state my business," he put in quickly, "I’d like to ask you for an interview. Well, not exactly an interview, but... a little informal talk."

     "Mister Knoepfler—"

     "Please call me Eric."

     "Mister Knoepfler," Alex repeated pointedly, "I told you that I cannot comment on the case."

     "And I am not asking you to! I am not even on the crime beat! I specialize in is social news on the local level; surveys of trends and such. Would you please hear me out?"

     Alex resigned herself to it. If she stopped him now, he would be coming at her time after time. No, let the man finish what he has to say, and then tell him no. It’s easier this way.

     "I am listening."

     "Thank you; it’ll only be a minute. We've been working on profiles of Chicago's up-and-coming women. We picked one in different professions: a teacher, an investment banker, a chef, and so on. My editor asked for a police detective, and I thought you would make a perfect candidate. Particularly now, when there is a deranged maniac who runs around, hanging young women and pinning ribbons on their bottoms. We think our readers will be especially interested in meeting the woman on the investigation team. If you don’t mind, we could get together for a short interview, personal stuff only! I promise not to ask you anything about the case."

     "Mister Knoepfler, you still need to get permission even for a personal interview. I recommend you call—"

     Alex froze in mid-sentence, as her brain replayed the words the reporter said a few seconds ago.

     The police had never revealed to the public exactly where Pink Strangler pinned his ribbons. All the press-releases had said was that the bows were "attached to the victims' bodies" but they had never spelled out specific parts. And yet, Knoepfler had clearly said, "bottoms". Somehow, this reporter had obtained an important, and very secret, piece of inside information.

     "Eric," Alex said quietly, almost gently, "How did you know about the ribbons?"

     Knoepfler must have realized that he had blurted out something he shouldn't have.

     "I don't know what you mean," he said, but his tone gave him away.

     "Yes you do," Alex said severely. "Let me repeat the question. How did you know that the ribbons were pinned to the girls' buttocks?"

     Knoepfler was thinking furiously. "Well, ah... I, umm, figured that out. Yes, that’s what I did. You know, with this Strangler fellow being such a sex fiend, and the police not telling us where he placed his ribbons, I thought that they had to be pinned to an unmentionable spot. So I guessed…it was just a lucky guess! Very, eh, lucky…"

     Alex let this little self-serving lie hang in the air for a while. He knew how lame his explanation sounded; and he knew that she knew it, too. All she had to do was to wait and let him run his mouth until he ran out of words.

     The reporter fell silent. Alex heard him breathing heavily into the phone.

     "All right, you got me," he said at last. "Yes, someone told me. A guy in the newsroom."

     Alex let out a breath, very slowly. If this little tidbit had spread as far as newspaper newsrooms, there was no telling what other leaked information was out there. The ribbon fabric type, perhaps?

     Hmm. What if Jack was right, after all? What if the real murderer, whoever he was, knew enough about the long gone serial killer to reproduce his patterns exactly? If this was true, it meant that Alex’s own theory was wrong. That was all right: Alex could admit to being wrong. That was not important. The important thing was that, by a stroke of pure luck, a clue fell into her lap. Now she needed to track down those who knew about the ribbons and to trace it back to the initial source. Easy! Here, right in front of her face, dangled an end of a thread, and she only had to pull it.

     "What’s the name of the person who told you this?" Alex demanded sharply.

     By now, Knoepfler had time to recover some of his wits. "Do I have to tell you?" he asked.

     He knew that he didn’t have to.

     Alex frowned. Damn! So a surprise attack did not work. Very well. It was time for threats.

     "Mister Knoepfler, you know things you are not supposed to know. We need to talk about it. We can do it unofficially, or we can do it…the other way. Your choice."

     The reporter was silent.

     "What will it be?" prompted him Alex.

     At last, Knoepfler spoke up. "The official way will be the end of my career," he said slowly, "So I must vote for the alternative. Let’s get together in some café and I’ll tell you everything I know. You may pick a time that’s convenient to you."

     "Today," Alex said firmly.

     Knoepfler was taken aback. "But I have to work late! I won't be home until eight-thirty."

     "I’ll come to you," Alex told him. "Be there at nine. And don’t bother telling me your address. I can look it up."

        It was already dark when Alex parked her car outside Knoepfler's house. She told no one where she was going, or why. This was highly irregular, but Alex had no other choice. She could well imagine what Jack’s reaction would be if he knew about this lead. He’d ridicule her mercilessly, but if this avenue would later prove successful, her partner would claim all the credit. No, Alex wouldn’t tell. This was her breakthrough, and she will pursue it on her own.

     The reporter lived alone in a nice neighborhood just outside of Chicago. His house was a small two-story affair, but the property around it was very large and very green. A winding path, overgrown with shrubs, led to the front door. Alex navigated her way down the path, careful not to catch her skirt on the brambles; she went up the steps and prepared to ring the bell, but before she had a chance to push the button, the door opened.

     Knoepfler’s figure was a shadowy silhouette outlined against the bright rectangle of the doorway. "Ah, Detective Kowalski," said the shadow, "Please come in."

     Alex gave muffled greetings and stepped past the owner. Knoepfler closed and locked the door and turned to face his guest.

     First thing Alex noticed about Knoepfler was his remarkable blue eyes. Otherwise, he was an ordinary-looking man in his mid-thirties, of middling height, slightly overweight. His sandy hair had already began to thin on top, but his boyishly round face was quite attractive, even despite the round, metal-rimmed glasses that were giving him a nerdy appearance. He was dressed in khaki slacks and a fine, expensive golf shirt, which clearly wasn't what he normally wore at home. This last detail Alex noted with pleasure. So he decided to dress up for me, she thought. She found herself liking him. Of course, he was far from Brad Pitt – he was balding and beginning to grow a middle-aged belly – but Alex was well past the age where things of this nature were definite deal breakers. He was obviously very smart, a good provider, and kind of cute, as well. Automatically, she checked for rings on his fingers. There were none.

     "This is my living room," said Knoepfler, "You could sit on the couch here. Please make yourself comfortable. Do you want a cup of coffee?"

     "No!" said Alex, a bit more abruptly than necessary. She mentally slapped herself; jut because she liked the guy didn’t mean she had to be rude to him. "I don't drink coffee in the evening," she offered by way of explanation.

     "Fair enough," nodded Knoepfler. "And good for you. Me, I am addicted to coffee. If you don't mind, I'll go make myself some."

     He disappeared into the kitchen. Alex heard the water running in the sink, then some clicks, followed by loud whirring, whooshing, and buzzing. That must be some spiffy coffeemaker, she thought, no wonder he wants to show it off.

     While the host was occupied in the kitchen, Alex took in her surroundings. Knoepfler's living room was a fascinating place. It was undersized, like his house, but the furniture was obviously very high-class. The couch she was sitting on must have been made at least a century ago. Across from the couch, stood two armchairs, apparently just as old. The chairs were similar, but not the same: the carvings and the upholstery patterns differed subtly, which probably meant that the pieces had been acquired separately. The wall above the chairs was bare, apart from two small paintings, which, despite their diminutive size, were clearly worth more than Alex’s total annual rent. In a far corner towered a massive mahogany bookcase full of books with titles like The Neurocellular Magnetoscopy, or The Analysis of Variance. Next to the bookcase, looking incongruous among this wealth of antiques, stood a large-screen plasma TV. In the middle of the room, placed between the chairs and the couch, was a low coffee table, the surface of which was hidden under a pile of newspapers. The topmost newspaper was open, and even from the couch Alex had no difficulty in making out the headline – the gigantic black letters read, POLICE BAFFLED.

     The whirring and the whooshing had ceased, but, for some reason, there was still a soft humming sound issuing from somewhere behind the wall. Shortly afterwards, Knoepfler emerged from the kitchen, holding a cup of double espresso and looking unaccountably cheerful.

     He collapsed into one of the chairs, crossed his legs, and started to make small talk, sipping his coffee as he had no care in the world.

     "Comfortable, isn't it?" he asked, gesturing at the couch. "It was made in 1832, one of a kind job. I am collecting old furniture; or rather, I would be collecting if I had more space. This effing newspaper job doesn't pay enough to buy a right-sized house."

     The man’s behavior was puzzling. On the phone, he sounded so unsure and shy, that Alex half-expected to be greeted by a stammering, insecure nerd. To be sure, he was a nerd. He went on and on about his beloved furniture – very much like one of those geeks that Alex was apparently doomed to date until the end of her life, the guys who were all eager to tell her about their various collections, in excruciating detail. Yet Knoepfler was not your typical nerd; he was cool, confident, and not in the least bit intimidated by either Alex the police Detective, or Alex the attractive female. This was strange, but Alex dismissed the thought. She wasn't on a date, and Knoepfler's personality, or lack of it, was not her problem. She had investigating to do, and it was time to get on with it.

     She collected herself.

     "Mister Knoepfler, it's late," Alex said, interrupting a long monologue about wood varnishes. "We don't have time for this nonsense. I would like to ask you a few questions."

     Knoepfler made a show of slapping his forehead. "I completely forgot!" he exclaimed heartily. Alex gave him a skeptical look. "Before you ask me your questions, I have something to tell you," said Knoepfler. "It’s important. It’s about that maniac who hangs girls. You know, the Pink Bow Strangler."

     Alex took a deep breath and spoke with all the calm she could muster.      "Mister Knoepfler, the individual you call Pink Strangler may or may not have been the murderer. We are looking into all the possibilities. Now, if you please—"

     "Oh, but it was him. I guarantee it. Please listen to what I have to say to you, I promise you won't be sorry."

     Alex groaned. With some people, you simply cannot argue. "All right, go ahead"

     The reporter gave her a bright smile. "Excellent! Now Detective, I have an announcement to make. Listen closely because you want to hear that. I know who the Pink Bow Strangler is. He is—" Knoepfler paused for effect, and then continued in a theatrical whisper, "—he is I!"

     Alex swore softly and dropped her face in her hands. How wonderful, she thought. Another one of those lunatics. In the week following the murders, dozens of deranged or vainglorious individuals came out of the woodwork to claim that they were the infamous Pink Bow Strangler. It has gotten so bad that the Department assigned a special low-ranking person to deal with these folks. "Just my luck," she muttered between her fingers, "Instead of a break in the case, I had to get this moron."

     Knoepfler’s smile slowly turned into a confused frown. "I expected anything but this," he said wonderingly. "It’s as though you don’t care. You don't believe that I am the Pink Strangler?"

     Alex raised her head and looked at him. "That depends," she said. "Are you George Washington as well?"

     The reporter was back to smiles. "Ha-ha-ha! That was funny! So you think I am crazy? But I’ve got the proof!"

     "The proof," Alex repeated weakly. "Right."

     It seemed that she couldn’t leave without hearing him out first. So be it. He did know things he wasn’t supposed to; who knows, there might be a speck of useful information in his blather. Just in case, Alex surreptitiously pressed the record button on the little tape recorder in her back pocket.

     "So tell me you proof."

     "I’ll do better," said Knoepfler, "I’ll show you." He picked a TV remote and pressed a button. His TV came to life.

     Alex swallowed: here on screen, in high definition, was a familiar park restroom. And the girls, they were here too.

    

     The recording starts in the middle of a scene; perhaps it’s a second or a third disk.

     The camera focuses on the leftmost noose, which is already occupies by Eileen Gallagher. At a casual glance, she appears to be standing on the bench, but a closer look reveals a clear gap between the tip of her toes and the surface below. Eileen is dead and has been dead for a while. Her naked body hangs limply; her lifeless face is drawn and indifferent. Her neck had had the time to stretch to almost twice its natural length. There is a dark wet spot on the blankets underneath her body, but her legs are already dry.

     The rightmost noose is taken by Madison Campbell. The blonde girl is not hanging yet but she is about to. She is already noosed. She stands on the stepladder, with her back to the camera. She isn’t bound in any way, yet she makes no attempt to free herself. Her posture is rigid – legs together, back straight, hands along the sides – like a soldier standing at attention. She is sweating but holds her head high, looking straight ahead at the wall. From time to time, she lifts her hand and touches the noose, as if to ensure it’s still there. If there are any emotions that show on her face, no one can see them.

      The two middle nooses are still vacant. On the blanket-covered bench underneath the empty nooses, lie Letitia and Jennifer, locked in a tight embrace. They are kissing, hungrily and passionately, as their hands caress each other's bodies. The room is full with the sounds of heavy breathing.

     Tiny and slender Jennifer lies on top of the taller, fleshier Letitia. This position allows the smaller girl to have more freedom of movement. After a round of deep French kisses, Jennifer takes her mouth off the black girl's lips and concentrates her attention on Letitia's soft, round breasts. The black girl squirms and moans. She puts a hand between Jennifer's thighs to rub the other girl’s cleft, and now it’s Jennifer’s turn to moan.

     "Eat my pussy," exhales Letitia in a low, eager voice.

     Jennifer laughs. She then jumps to the floor, turns around, and climbs back on top of the bigger girl, this time in the 69 position. As Jennifer lowers herself onto Letitia’s face, her hip accidentally knocks Eileen’s knee. The hanged girl begins to sway; she even bumps once or twice into the wall. Jennifer utterly ignores her.

     Soon, Jennifer's head is lodged between Letitia's legs. Her long black hair is spilled all over Letitia’s lower stomach, making it hard to see what she is doing. The camera approaches and zooms. No word is spoken, but the Chinese girl gathers her hair and shifts it out of the way. Now the view is open.

     The screen is completely filled by Jennifer's head and shoulders hovering over the upper part of Letitia's generous thighs. The smaller girl's lips and tongue are busy at work. She plants wet kisses on her lover's chocolate skin, getting closer and closer with each kiss to the great dark hole in the middle. She licks around the edges, then touches Letitia’s little red button and sucks on it gently. After a minute of such play, Jennifer changes her tactic. She inhales deeply, then plunges the length of her tongue into the opening as though she intends to stab it. Letitia squirms and grinds her hips into Jennifer's face, demanding more; but Jennifer does not want to bring her to completion just yet. She pulls out and resumes her licking, aiming lower this time, her tongue slowly exploring its way toward Letitia’s other hole.

     The camera moves, shifting down Jennifer's naked shoulders and undulating back. The view goes out of focus, but a moment later, it’s sharp again. The perspective turns: now Letitia's face is at the top of the frame, and below it, resting on the black girl's breasts like on soft pillows, are Jennifer's small buttocks.

     It is a magnificent contrast – pale skin against the chocolate brown. The difference in height prevents Letitia from returning Jennifer's favors in kind: her mouth simply cannot reach the other’s most intimate spots. So Letitia compensates with her fingers. Using both hands – one for each of Jennifer's two holes – Letitia rubs, pokes, prods, and penetrates; and Jennifer readily responds by squeezing her knees around the sides of Letitia's face.

     After several minutes of mutual gratification, Jennifer decides to bring Letitia over the edge. She buries her face in Letitia’s pussy, attacking it with her tongue until the

black girl closes her eyes and cries out. In the heights of ecstasy, Letitia forgets her duty to the other girl and lets her hands drop to the sides. But Jennifer forgives this dereliction; she never pauses, but continues with triple energy. Soon, Letitia's pleasure is too much to contain; the big girl bucks and lets out a yell that make the walls vibrate with echo.

     "Yes, yes, yes!" screams Letitia at the height of her passion. Then, enigmatically, she cries "Jamal! Jamal! Oh yes, like this, Jamal!"

     Eventually, Letitia comes back to her senses. The girls begin to disengage. The camera pans out to give a wider view of the scene, just in time to show Jennifer lift her head. Jennifer smiles at the viewer, her lips wet with the other girl's juices; then she gets up and jumps to the floor. Letitia follows. The girls stand before the bench, hugging and kissing. This idyllic picture of Lesbian love is framed on each side by two naked female forms, one hanging, the other only noosed. For a few minutes, Letitia and Jennifer kiss each other steamily and pay no attention to the presence of others girls. Then, as though obeying an invisible command, they simultaneously turn toward Madison.

     While the lover girls were getting it on, Madison remained standing quietly on the stepladder, seemingly oblivious to the action next to her. She never gave Jennifer or Letitia – or even Eileen – scarcely a single glance. But she didn't turn to stone, either; she breathed, she stepped from foot to foot, and she continued to touch the rope.

     Letitia steps to a place right behind Madison. She looks up to study the blonde girl’s pink bum, then runs her finger along the line of Madison’s hip and leg. The noosed girl reacts. Apparently satisfied, Letitia begins more insistent caresses. Madison makes a small sound but still doesn’t turn. With both hands, Letitia cups the blond girl's buttocks and spreads them apart. She stands on her toes, her tongue striving to reach the newly open space between the little cheeks. To help the black girl achieve her goal, Madison cautiously bends her knees. She cannot not go far that way – the tightening rope quickly checks her descent. It’s enough, though: Madison's ass and Letitia's mouth meet half-way. Madison heaves a sigh as she sits on Letitia's face.

     For the next five minutes, the black girl licks the white girl's pussy and asshole. Madison moans in ecstasy and rubs her nipples. Jennifer, not to be left out, kneels behind Letitia. In her own turn, she spreads the black girl's asscheeks and wedges her face into the opening.

     This fantastic arrangement of the three naked bodies has to be seen to be believed. Jennifer is below, standing on her knees, her head going in and out of Letitia’s big black ass. Letitia has the best position: she is in the middle, both giving and receiving. And above the two of them, stands Madison. Her neck is in the noose; her knees are half-bent, and Letitia's face is lodged between her buttocks.

     The only sounds in the room are muted smooching and an occasional moan.

     Abruptly, Jennifer pulls away and rises to her feet. Letitia makes a disappointed noise, but Jennifer gently slaps her ass, as though telling the other girl to be patient. Jennifer stretches to her full height and extends her hand to touch Madison's clit. She rubs it energetically. Letitia helps the effort by pushing her tongue deep inside the noosed girl’s pussy.

     Working together, the girls bring Madison close to a screaming climax. "More, more!" squeals the blonde as her body shudders in orgasmic spasms. Jennifer redoubles her efforts. At the very height, when Madison's cries become a single wordless wail, Jennifer acts.

     "Here is more," she says and yanks the ladder from under Madison’s feet.

     Madison does not fall immediately; rather, she slowly slides down Letitia's face until the rope brings her to a stop. Without losing a beat, Letitia lowers her head and continues to lick and suck; but now, instead of standing on her toes, she has to stoop a little. Madison's final cries of joy turns into a short gurgle, instantly stifled. Her body continues to shake. It is hard to say if the girl is still in the throes of orgasm, or if these spasms are of a different nature, a reaction to strangulation. For, without a doubt, Madison is being strangled. Even though Letitia holds on to Madison’s waist, with her face still buried between the blonde’s thighs; and even though Jennifer hugs Madison below the knees to prevent her from kicking, Madison now fully hangs by the neck. The other girls only touch Madison but give her no support. As if to make this point, the camera zooms on the hanged girl’s neck to show just how deeply the noose is biting into the delicate skin.

     Madison’s agony looks almost peaceful; she does not thrash or kick but only squirms. Her legs make one blind attempt to find some purchase, but the bench is too far below, and Madison gives up. She embraces the noose, and the noose embraces her back.

     All through Madison’s ordeal, Letitia slurps away happily. Her tongue never leaves the hanging girl’s pussy. Jennifer helps Letitia by keeping Madison’s legs slightly apart. Gradually, the blonde’s movements are getting sluggish, as she loses her will to live. Before long, Madison ceases her desultory struggles, making Letitia’s job even easier.

     Suddenly, Letitia jumps back and, after a stunned pause, starts to laugh. She says something to Jennifer, who laughs as well. The reason for their mirth becomes clear when Letitia turns her face to the camera. The black girl's face and chest are soaking wet; the liquid flows down her breasts and drips from the nipples. Letitia licks her lips. Jennifer embraces her taller partner and without hesitation kisses her on the mouth. Behind them, Madison hangs motionlessly. She is dead.

     When the sharing of juices is complete, Jennifer steps away, turns, and disappears from view. A moment later, she is back. In her cupped hands, Jennifer holds four big pink bows tied on four very sharp-looking safety pins. She makes her way straight to Madison, reaches up with one hand, and pinches together the hanged girl's buttocks. Using the other hand, she pierces both buttocks with a pin. The hanged girl gives a violent twitch.

     In the meantime, Letitia prepares Eileen. She takes the dead girl by the hips, turns the body around, and, to make Jennifer's job easier, squeezes the buttocks against each other. Even so, it takes Jennifer several attempts to puncture Eileen's stiff muscles.

     The third bow is for Letitia. Jennifer comes up from behind, slaps the black girl on the ass to make her relax, and attaches the pin with a deft movement of the fingers. Letitia jumps in place, howling with pain. She quickly recovers though, and soon laughs happily once again. She even pulls on her ribbon to test how this new accessory feels like. While she does that, Jennifer takes the last bow and, looking over her shoulder, pins the thing onto her own little butt.

     Now everything is ready for the final act. The girls find the abandoned stepladder and pick it up. They install it in the middle of the bench between the two empty nooses. Holding their hands, they climb the ladder from the opposite sides. Jennifer stands on top and Letitia one step lower, so that their heads are almost at the same level. Gently, they pull nooses over each other's necks and tighten the knots. Then they kiss. Letitia embraces Jennifer, and the smaller girl cuddles in the big girl’s arms, pressing her slim body against Letitia's full breasts.

     They cling to each other for a long time, eyes closed, lips locked in a deep kiss, tight rope snaked around their throats. None of the girls speaks or gives any signal, but their feet, in small synchronized movements, begin to push the ladder toward the edge of the bench.

     Jennifer opens her eyes abruptly, as though waking from a dream. She looks wonderingly at her partner's face, as if she'd never seen her before. Then she looks down and discovers their nakedness. Her mouth opens in surprise. Instinctively, she steps back but her move is thwarted by the tightening noose. It is then that the full horror of her situation hits her. Screaming, she turns her head wildly from left to right. She tries to escape, but Letitia, her eyes still shut, only pulls Jennifer closer. She pins down the weaker girl’s hands and smothers her with kisses. Jennifer tries to fight, to pull away, but all her efforts are in vain; the oblivious Letitia is simply too strong. Jennifer's hands go to her neck – she wants to undo the knot. Letitia intercepts Jennifer’s move and forcibly wraps the smaller girl’s arms around her waist. Jennifer makes a last, desperate attempt to free herself, but Letitia will have none of it. "Almost there," Letitia whispers, and, holding Jennifer in an iron grasp, she kicks away the ladder from under their feet.

     They plunge together, their bodies still joined on the way down. Letitia is the first to reach the end of the rope. She doesn’t fall far, yet her body comes to a stop with a violent jolt. She loosens her grip; the girls separate at last and continue to dangle apart. Hanging side by side, but no longer paying any attention to one another, Letitia and Jennifer separately fight the noose.

     Letitia loses her battle early: just seconds after the drop she is rendered unconscious. After a few perfunctory jerks, she slackens her muscles. The dreamy expression on her face never changes, save that a round, red-black object – her tongue – is pushed out of her mouth. Her last action in life is to let out a powerful stream of pee. Soon, Letitia’s brown body is merely a large inanimate object, a chunk of meat that spins on the rope, slowly coming to a stop.

     Not so Jennifer. Alone among the lifeless bodies of her three companions, the slim Asian girl continues to struggle. She twists her torso, kicks her legs, claws blindly at the noose with her fingers. Even though her closed throat admits no air into her lungs, her breast rises and falls with futile breathing attempts.

     The view closes on Jennifer. The camera relished in the dying girl's suffering, feeds on her agony. Zooming closer, it lingers lovingly on every detail. It shows the feet, which are still striving to reach the ground; the compact butt, made to look even smaller by an enormous pink bow; the heaving chest; the petite breasts covered by dying sweat. The camera dives underneath to show a view of Jennifer’s opening and closing thighs and a closeup of the dying girl’s throbbing pussy.

     A drop of juice falls toward the viewfinder, narrowly missing the lens. The view shifts up, rising past the stomach and the chest, and focusing on Jennifer's face. Her face is dull red and glistening with tears, sweat, and saliva. The eyes are closed, but the girl is still alive and conscious. Jennifer’s features are contorted with pain; her expression is half fear and half determination. She is near death but she still does not give up.

     Suddenly, her lips part. Jennifer shows her teeth in a hideous parody of a smile. Her eyelids flutter and with a great effort open half-way. The girl looks into the camera; her eyes focus. Her mouth moves; it’s as though she is telling something to the viewer… And then the image on screen freezes.

        Knoepfler put down the TV remote and spoke up.

     "So. What do make of that?"    

     Alex gave a start. Until this moment, she was glued to TV as though hypnotized, but the sound of his voice broke the spell. It took her a second to remember where she was, but when she finally came to herself, she immediately reached into the holster and pulled a gun.

     "You are under arrest," she said, pointing the gun at the man across from her, "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say—"

     Knoepfler raised both hands palms forwards. "Whoa! Hold on! You can't arrest me. See, you have absolutely no evidence placing me at the scene of the crime!"

     Alex quickly glanced at the screen.

     "The video?" said Knoepfler, "Why, I found it in the street! I was on my way to give it to the police."

     "I have your confession on tape," lied Alex.

     He gave her a smug smile. "No, you don’t."

     Alex was stopped in her tracks. Knoepfler was right – she had nothing on him, and he knew it. So, what now?

     Seeing her hesitation, Knoepfler pressed his advantage. "Oh, come on, Detective! I won’t try any tricks. I am unarmed and you have a gun! All I ask for is a few minutes of your time, and in exchange, I will tell you what really happened in that park. Don’t you want to know? After that, you may take me to wherever you wish."

     Alex thought a little. Well, it was worth a try. "All right; you have my attention. But I am warning you, don’t try anything funny. I have a gun, and a radio, and a backup team on call." The last part wasn't exactly true but Knoepfler didn't have to know that.

     She lowered her weapon. "Now talk”

     "Did you know that I was a college Professor?" asked Knoepfler, with no apparent relevance.

     "No, I didn’t. What does it have to do—"

     "I am getting there! Yes, I was an adjunct Professor of Psychology at UC. My second specialty was Applied Math and Statistics. You’d be interested to know that by the time I had became a Professor, I had already strangled two or three girls. The first one was a prostitute. I remember her very well. She told me I could do anything I wanted as long as I didn’t leave a mark. I promised her that I wouldn’t and I kept my promise! You see, before strangling her I wrapped a soft towel around her neck, and—"

     "So, you were a professor," Alex said in a sharp tone.

     "Yes, yes. Sorry for getting off track. To continue. I was a professor and a working scientist. And a pretty good one, too. I specialized in the brain science. Did lots of research, published many papers in prestigious magazines. Interesting work and very important."

     So he is a scientist, thought Alex. A brain scientist who works as a lowly reporter. This sounded fishy. Alex looked closely at him, but he appeared to be telling the truth. He seemed confident and perfectly relaxed, if a bit animated – not a criminal confessing to the police, but a geeky guy who can’t wait to tell his date about his exciting job.

     "My predecessor at UC," Knoepfler was saying, "was Professor Jablonski, an old, distinguished scientist. Polish, like you. When he died, I inherited his office and all the papers he kept there. In his papers, I discovered mentions of a top-secret government research project. It appears that in 1950’s the Pentagon commissioned a study of the power of subconscious suggestion. Hypnosis and all that."

     "Mind control?" asked Alex. Knoepfler shook his head contemptuously.

     "No, mind control is pure science fiction. The brain is far too complicated to be controlled like a machine. But it’s a fact that some people are very open to subconscious suggestion and others not so much. This is what the researchers tried to do, to identify those more susceptible, and to learn what these people had in common. They spent years working on that but failed in the end. And do you know why?"

     "Why?" she ventured. Despite herself, she was fascinated by this stuff.

     "Because," Knoepfler said ponderously, "their heads were full of Freudist mumbo-jumbo, which was very popular at the time. They tried to correlate this behavior with Oedipus complex and other mythical nonsense. It's no wonder they got nowhere. But, they did manage to accomplish something. The researchers worked with millions of young men, mostly army draftees. As a result, they accumulated mountains of data – all kinds of data. They stored it in a mainframe computer. In fact, this was one of the first examples of using computers for scientific research. However, the researchers did very little data analysis. Basically, they used the mainframe as a giant filling cabinet and nothing more. Any questions so far?"

     Knoepfler was now in the full Professor mode; he even raised his voice as though he was giving a lecture to a roomful of students. Alex tried to shake off the feeling that she was back in college.

     "No questions," she muttered.

     "Good! Then let’s go forward. Professor Jablonski's notes contained clues about the current location of the data. It was still classified, but I managed to obtain it and downloaded it to my PC. Once I had it, I was free to apply modern statistical methods. Have you ever heard about data mining? No? Never mind then. Suffices to say that I wasn’t interested in whether this or that schlub wanted to fuck his mother. No; I was looking into the hard stuff, like a proportion of certain chemicals in the blood. My background in molecular biology helped me a lot in this pursuit."

     Knoepfler paused to drink some of his cooling coffee, then continued his discourse.

     "Professor Jablonski and the old Pentagon researchers were not altogether wrong. It is true that there is some correlation between openness to suggestion and the personal history. For instance, a domineering father or an unhappy first love tended to be positive factors…Are you sure you don't want coffee?"

     Alex silently indicated her refusal. Knoepfler shrugged and made another sip from his cup.

     "Once I had my defining factors, I turned to experiments. Isolate the susceptible, map her brain, see what makes it tick. And, eventually, try to influence behavior. At the time, I used drugs for that purpose; but later I moved on to something else. My subjects were college students. All psychology majors, all female. Four of them later committed suicide; one girl actually hung herself in the gym locker room. Pity I wasn’t there to see it. "

     He finished his coffee and set aside the cup.

     "I like to think my experiments had something to do with the suicides. Those experiments were pretty rough, you know. The things I made the girls do could easily destroy their self-respect. But other hand, I didn’t exactly make them do it. You asked about mind control; well, it wasn’t like that at all. All you had to do is remove inhibitions and amplify hidden desires, and girls would do things that might surprise you. This was the easy part; the hard part was to find those with the right desires."

     "I don’t understand how it is not mind control," said Alex.

     "Very well, I’ll explain it better," said Knoepfler. "A metaphor should help."

     He rubbed his forehead absently.

     "Imagine hundreds, thousands of boulders strewn on a side of a mountain, near a precipice. A great majority of these stones are lodged tightly into their resting places, and no matter how hard you push, you won't budge them. But there are some – only a few – that aren’t so secure. If you give these stones a little nudge in the right direction, they will roll down the slope and tumble over the edge of the abyss. Tell me, do you control such stones? Of course not! You didn't place them there, and most certainly, you didn’t carry them down the crevasse; they fell down all by themselves. You simply provided a small impetus, that’s all. So it is with humans. Of course, the human brain is much more complicated and multidimensional, but the principle is the same. You find a brain that is not being held in place very securely and you give it a little nudge."

     Knoepfler gave Alex a self-satisfied smirk. He was in his element now – a brainy college Professor who just demonstrated a proof of an especially tricky theorem. And underneath it all…

     Alex felt goose bumps crawling up her spine. It was easy to dismiss this geeky weirdo who talked of blood chemicals and rolling boulders, but from a corner of her eye she could see TV screen, which still showed a dying girl's frozen grimace. For the sake of this girl, at least, Alex had to get to the bottom of this.

     "So, what do you do, then?" asked Alex in a dull voice. What she really wanted was to scream or start shooting, but she had to keep herself calm.

     Knoepfler beamed at her. "I knew you’d be interested! Here is what I do. First, I need to spot my prey. I hacked my way into an enormous medical database shared by insurance companies. Thanks to that, I can easily get blood test results for half the people in the country. I use them to get the names and addresses of the potentially susceptible girls."

     "Do you prefer killing young girls?" asked Alex, trying to keep a level tone.

     "Not necessarily. I really wouldn’t mind stringing up a mature woman now and then. However, such a woman is very hard to find. Susceptibility to suggestion is terribly age-dependent. At the age of eighteen, one out of about three hundred girls can be made receptive; but by the age of twenty-four, this ratio plummets to one in five thousand. And after that, the odds decrease exponentially."

     It makes a twisted kind of sense, thought Alex. After all, the young are more impressionable. She recalled herself at this age, all those years ago. What a sheer idiot she was! A gullible pretty face, taken advantage of by so many people…What might’ve happened if this maniac had found her then? Alex shuddered. It took a heroic effort to push the thought away.

     "And what do you do once you have a name?" asked Alex, her voice louder than necessary.

     "After I select my victim I begin to stalk her. I move in for the capture. Here is my hunting weapon," Knoepfler pointed toward a corner of the room where, in an open duffle bag, lay a big, professional-looking video camera.

     "Isn’t it a beauty?" he exclaimed. "This is a legitimate camera that can record video, but it's something else too. At a switch of a hidden button, it generates a series of ultrasound bursts. I discovered that modulated ultrasound can produce the same mind-altering effects as the drugs; but unlike the drugs, ultrasound leaves no traces. I approach my prey and ask her to have a few words with me. They always agree. This is why I left the University and got a job as a reporter: it gives me perfect cover. The poor things love to give interviews! I ask the girl a bunch of innocent questions while pretending to videotape. What she doesn’t realize, is that my camera is messing with her brain. In ten minutes she is conditioned to obey my suggestions – just like a fish with a hook embedded in her mouth. All I need to do is to come back the next day and pull on the line."

     "I see," said Alex. She didn’t trust herself to say anything more.

     "This is how I netted them in the last several years," added Knoepfler conversationally.

     Alex looked up with surprise. "Last several years?"

     "Of course," snorted Knoepfler. "You didn't think I really retired, did you? Oh, I was careful not to cause any suspicions – but I did manage to stretch a few necks. All my killings were ruled to be suicides or autoerotic accidents. One case even made the papers. 'Lesbian Murder-Suicide.' Remember that one? Actually, that was one of my early failures. The original plan was to have those two girls hang themselves together, simultaneously and side by side. Unfortunately for me, the brainwashing doze was too small. The older girl woke up, or anyway, came back from wherever she was – I don't know what they really experience in their trance. She started to scream and otherwise created distractions and nuisances. Luckily, her younger friend was still under my control, and she was physically stronger, too. I made her strangle her lover and hang herself over the corpse. It didn't turn out so bad, after all..."

     Knoepfler looked into the distance, lost in memories. Alex felt weak and nauseous – she was involved with that case and saw the gruesome photos. She opened her mouth but for a long time could produce no sound. When at last she could speak, her voice came out as hoarse whisper.

     "Why are you telling me this?"

     Knoepfler continued to stare past Alex; but he heard her. Something new appeared in his face – a passionate, even fanatical determination, very different from a facade of cool detachment he had affected up until now.

     "Miss Kowalski—" he said, still not looking at Alex. He stopped, looked the Detective in the eye, and began anew. "Miss Kowalski, I had achieved a major scientific breakthrough. I could have published my work in a science magazine and be as famous as Einstein. Or I could have established my own company that exploits my discoveries, and be as rich as Bill Gates. I did neither; instead, I chose to hang women. Do I regret my choice? Not for a second! You see, I consider myself an artist. Art is what I do.

     He lifted his hand as though to forestall objections.

     "Yes, hanging is art! In fact, it is several art forms at once. It begins as a theatrical performance; then it turns into ballet; and in the end, it becomes a visual installation, a piece of decorative art. Don't you agree?"

     Alex said nothing. Somehow, she didn't think Knoepfler was expecting an answer.

     "My aspiration," he went on, "is to create beauty – and there is nothing more gorgeous than a woman hanging by the neck. When her bare feet leave the mundane soil forever, when her delicate throat is being squeezed by the soft, loving rope, and her unclothed body floats in the air, fluttering like a feather in the wind… isn’t she a glorious vision then? And later, when her struggles are through, when she is dangling limp and helpless, her life trickling out with the last of her body fluids – at that magical moment she is the most magnificent creature in the Universe!"

     Having put his innermost feelings into words, he fell silent. His eyes burned as his mind summoned scenes from his past – scenes that, though terrible for others, were beautiful to him.

     Presently he spoke.

     "I have witnessed more female hangings than anyone else now alive. I was privileged to be the creator of extremely unique and wonderful works of art. For that, I am forever grateful." He scowled and smashed his hand on the armrest. "But lately, I got tired of being an anonymous non-entity. They know the Pink Bow Strangler but no one knows Eric Knoepfler. This is grossly unfair. An artist as great as I deserves recognition! I want my face to lead the news; I want newspaper headlines; I want my name to be known around the world. I want to be appreciated!"

     Alex winced: Knoepfler sounded dead-serious, which meant that the man was much crazier than he looked.

     "Is it why you hanged the girls in the park?" she asked him, even though the answer was obvious. 

     "Of course! I had to remind everyone of my existence, and I needed something spectacular to accomplish it with. But what can be more spectacular than a mass hanging? Picture not just one dancing girl but a bunch of dancers – a whole chorus! Isn’t that splendid?" He hummed the Dirty Dancing theme song, then continued, "It took a lot of work to find the stars of my production, but it was worth it. Now, four hanged girls later, I am famous! Or I will be soon."

     Alex had become aware that something had changed – something in the air around her. It took her some time to realize what had happened: the incessant humming that she had been hearing for nearly an hour had finally stopped. Knoepfler heard it, too. His expression brightened.

     "This is your lucky day, Detective," he said with a grin, "You are about to become famous. Don't let you chance to pass you by!"

     His grin was gradually morphing into a creepy leer. "I promise you a piece of my reflected glory. How would you like to be the cop who apprehended the legendary Pink Bow Strangler?" He stretched his hands toward Alex, keeping the wrists together. "Do you still have your handcuffs? Get them out and take me in! I surrender to you."

     Alex jumped to her feet and nearly keeled over. There seemed to be something wrong with her sense of balance.

     "Turn around!" she snapped at Knoepfler, "Put your hands behind your back! You are under arrest, and so forth…"

     He obeyed without rancor.

     Keeping her gun pointed squarely between Knoepfler’s shoulder blades, Alex groped for the cuffs at her side. She made a step toward the man… but, for some reason, got no closer. Somehow, without moving a limb, Knoepfler shifted forward. Alex opened her mouth in surprise: the man appeared to be sliding away from her. Soon, he became a small, far off figure, as though seen through the wrong end of a telescope. Alex made another step, and Knoepfler vanished altogether. Suddenly, she was surrounded by an even, milky glow, completely featureless in every direction. She looked down and felt, rather than saw, that the floor was replaced with the same milky-white fog, thick but insubstantial. She stepped forward one more time. The fog lifted, revealing the bottomless blackness underneath, and, like a lonely leaf falling from a tree, Alex tumbled dreamily into the gaping chasm.

    PART 2

       A gust of fresh wind cooled her face and brought the aroma of garden flowers and newly cut grass. A lone bird sung a gentle song, and somewhere in the distance, leaves rustled on trees. I am outdoors, thought Alex. She opened her eyes to bright sunshine – much too bright after the black, barely remembered dreams she escaped from. Her eyes watered from the excess of light. She tried to focus and failed. She tried again and discovered that she could see clearly only what was near her. Distant objects appeared as mere blurs.

     She was reclining in a canvas lawn chair, situated in the middle of a well-manicured lawn that appeared to stretch forever. She was still dressed in the same clothes she last remembered, apart from the shoes, which were missing. As far as she could judge, she was alone.

     She made a feeble attempt to get up but found herself unable to move. She tried to look behind her but could not turn her head. She couldn’t even wiggle her toes. It dawned on her that she had no control over her body. She cried out in fear and frustration; immediately she felt a movement at her back. Someone was coming.

     Alex heard the sound of steps crunching on gravel. A voice called out, "Miss Kowalski? Are you awake?" The voice belonged to Knoepfler.

     Alex panicked briefly, then tried to calm down. Her situation seemed bad, but there could still be a way to protect herself. She still had her gun – she could see its handle sticking out of her hip holster, which no one thought to remove. She tried to pull it out but could not even lift a finger. She nearly cried with disappointment; the gun was right here but it might as well have been a thousand miles away, for all the good it was going to do her.

     "Ah, you are awake," said Knoepfler. "A pity we can't talk face to face. I can’t go on the grass, you see. Can't afford to stomp around and leave footprints in the dirt; have to stay on the stone path at all times."

     The crunching steps came closer.

     "So, good morning, my dear. Yes, it's morning – an hour after sunrise on a beautiful Saturday. You should know that we spent the night together – but don't worry, your chastity wasn't injured. You must be wondering what happened, where you are, and how you got here. Am I right?"

     Alex said nothing.

     "I’ll answer your last question first," continued Knoepfler, "You drove me here in your own car, which was so kind of you. I did help you find the way, of course. As to your second question, I can tell you that we are far from the city. This charming place belongs to Stuart White, the CEO of the Equity Savings Bank. He will host our little party, although he doesn't know it yet. His mansion is behind us, and this is his park. Isn’t it lovely? This is quite an extensive property: the closest neighbors are over three miles away. We will not be disturbed."

     "What do you want with me?" asked Alex in a hoarse whisper.

     Knoepfler chuckled. "My, aren’t you direct! Came straight to the point. Well, Miss Kowalski, what I want is very simple." Now he stood right behind the chair. Alex still could not see the man but she saw his shadow looming over her. Never in her life had she felt so exposed and vulnerable.

     "What I want, Miss Kowalski, is to own you."

     His gloved fingers brushed her cheek. Alex strained against her invisible bonds, trying to get away from his touch.

     "Afraid I’d rape you?" He sounded amused and a shade wistful. "I wish I could. I really do. I often imagined myself pinning you to the ground, ripping your clothes into shreds, and fucking your brains out, while you cry for mercy. But you wouldn’t cry for mercy, would you? You are one tough cookie."

     Almost gently, he ran his fingers through her hair. "Did I tell you that you are beautiful? Oh, come on! Don’t pretend that you don’t like to hear that! Yes, my dear Slavic queen, you are so very pretty. Your gray eyes; your long, honey-colored tresses; your sweet face with those adorable dimples – they all make me so hot that I begin to wax poetic! And I didn’t even get to your fabulous tits! You know, Miss Kowalski, you could've been a fashion model. You could’ve been famous and fabulous. Or, you could've married some rich guy and taken it easy for the rest of your life. Instead, you’ve chosen to become a cop. You are a strange woman, Aleksandra."

     He was kneeling over her. His mouth was so close to her neck that she could feel his breath on her skin. She shuddered involuntarily.

     "That's right, Aleksandra," he murmured in her ear, "I know you hate this name, though God knows why. Hate me, too! React to me, don't just ignore me! I want to fuck you so badly! I want to kiss you lips, your nipples, your pussy. I want to force myself into your body and plumb you with my dick. I want your gray eyes look deeply into mine as I cum inside you!"

     The man fell silent as he fought for self-control. Then he spoke again, and his tone was bitter. "Yet, as much as I want to, I cannot do any of that. Can’t fuck you; can’t kiss you; can’t even touch you without latex gloves. But that’s all right. There are other ways to own a woman."

     He straightened with a grunt, then retreated a couple of steps.

     "You may have guessed by now," he said in his normal, cool voice, "that I had obtained the results of your blood test. Do you want to know what I gleaned from it? Well, my dear, you fit my profile perfectly, on every single point. It’s not often that a girl that beautiful fits the profile this well, so you were quite a catch. When I saw the figures, I just had to get my hands on you. But there was this tiny little problem. Unfortunately, you were a bit too old. Had I found you in your early twenties, you'd be swinging by your pretty neck in no time, but alas! I stumbled across your test only three years ago when you were already twenty-eight."

     Knoepfler thrust something into Alex's field of vision. It was a photograph – Alex’s old high school picture, taken at a party at someone’s house. Young Alex Kowalski grinned stupidly at the camera, sitting on a couch and looking moderately smashed. She wore a fashionably short haircut and was dressed in tight jeans and tighter silk shirt, which accentuated the very noticeable lack of brassiere. Next to Alex, holding her by the waist, sat a tall, brown-skinned, ponytailed boy in a leather jacket. Alex caught her breath: she hadn't seen this boy’s face in fifteen years.

     "Where did you get this?" she demanded.

     "Doesn’t matter," said Knoepfler and snatched away the photo. He studied it himself for a while.

     "You know, you are prettier now than you were then – softer, curvier, more feminine. You hips are fuller, and you tits…ah! Only adult women can reach such perfection in the tit department; most teenage girls may only dream of it. I know that for a fact: I must’ve hung dozens of those scrawny, flat-chested fledglings."

     He put the picture back into his pocket. "I have more pictures. There are several where you in a dress at some sort of wedding. You look about sixteen."

     "Eighteen," said Alex, "It was the day of my sister’s wedding. I turned eighteen that day."

     Knoepfler did not appear to hear her. "I have a whole folder of your photos. A few videos, too.  I suppose I was obsessed with your person, I simply had to have you. Call it love, if you will."

     Love? Alex’s heart skipped a beat, and she didn’t understand why. Sure, she liked the man in the beginning, but she doesn’t anymore. Definitely not! Yet he sounded so sincere…

     "The last three years of my research were dedicated to you, Miss Kowalski. Doesn't it make you feel special? The age problem got me thinking. If a subject – you – is too old to succumb to ultrasound, could there be another way? To make a long story short, there could. Magnetism! After many experiments, I determined that a strong and precise magnetic field could be used it to manipulate almost anyone regardless of age. But there is a catch: the smallest possible magnetic generator is the size of a dishwasher and almost twice as heavy. Moreover, the subject has to remain stationary for at least forty-eight minutes. Do you see my dilemma? I can’t come to you; you have to come to me. And not only do I have to lure you into my house somehow, I need to keep you occupied and immobile for a certain amount of time."

     He allowed himself a short, unpleasant chortle. "Amazingly, that part was much easier than I thought. An innocuous phone call, a supposedly accidental hint, and you come running to me the very same night! And not only that, but you placed yourself right where I told you. The couch, designed to be the field's locus. The rest was piece of cake. Remember a certain humming sound? Ah, I see you flinch; you do remember. Yes, that sound was made by the magnetic generator. While you listened to my blather and watched my home videos, your brain synapses were being forcibly rearranged."

     Never in her life had Alex felt like such an idiot.

     "And what if I didn’t come alone but brought my partner?" she asked sullenly.

     "Your partner? That Italian guy, what's his name? It would've changed nothing. I wouldn't have confessed or showed you the movie, of course; I would’ve occupied your attention with something else instead. The next day your partner would be suffering mild headaches, and you – you’d find yourself in exactly the same predicament."

     "When are you going to hang me?" asked Alex. She attempted to sound brave but her voice betrayed her.

     Knoepfler clucked his tongue. "That’s an extremely imprecise choice of words. Me? Hang you? Hardly. But let's not dwell on it now. Our immediate next step is introducing the other actors in this performance. Oh yes, there are others. Did you think you would be alone? I consider you the brightest gem in my collection – but no means the only one."

     He stepped to the side and picked up something from the ground. Alex heard a few clicks similar to the sounds made by computer keyboard.

     "In the next few seconds your vision will improve," said Knoepfler, "Then you’ll see them."

     The distant, blurry shadows in Alex's line of sight came into focus. She saw that the lawn wasn’t infinite after all. After a stretch of two hundred yards, it gave way to a copse of tall oaks, which were the source of the ceaseless rustling that Alex heard all this time. About half way toward the edge of the grass stood an open gazebo, an octagonal wooden structure about fifteen feet high and thirty feet across with a high pyramidal roof that rested on eight slim pillars. At the center of the gazebo was a round wrought-iron table surrounded by a dozen of high stools, most of which were occupied. Nine young women – girls, really – sat around the table, facing every which way, seemingly not aware of each other's existence. With a shock, Alex recognized one of them: the pretty Cassandra, a nineteen-years-old college dropout who was a secretary with the Police Department. Normally a happy, bubbly person, Cassandra sat in eerie repose, tranquilly contemplating something in the far distance. Neither she, nor any of the girls, gave any sign that they noticed Alex.

     Knoepfler tapped Alex on the shoulder. "Originally, I planned to recruit twelve supporting performers. I thought I had plenty of time to round them up because I really believed that it would take me weeks to convince you to come and visit my place. But you fell into my lap much quicker than I expected, which caught me unprepared. Because of that, while you were sleeping peacefully on my couch, I had a hell of a time getting a hold of everyone. Due to such a short notice, three of them were unfortunately unavailable – unfortunately for me, fortunately for them. So, in case you feel bad about being such an easy prey, just remember that your gullibility saved three lives... at least for a few more weeks." He waited for reaction, but Alex refused to take the bait.

     "All right, let's start the introductions," Knoepfler said after a while, sounding somewhat discouraged by Alex’s lack of cooperation. "You know Cassandra the little perky secretary. She was my mole in the Department. I used her to get information on you and your so-called investigation. Since I have you now, the little Cassandra is no longer useful. Not useful as a spy, that is; I will put her to a different use very shortly. That slim brunette on her right is Zoey Novick, last year's Miss Illinois runner-up. As a reward for her achievement, she got a medal, a few minor modeling jobs, and a long interview with me. That interview was never printed, but, as you can see, it got Miss Novick another modeling job of sorts. The hot blonde next to Zoey is our charming hostess, Mrs. Kayla White. She will have the honor of opening the performance. It makes sense to give the mistress of the house a starring role in a show that takes place in her own garden, don’t you agree? Now, let me give you some history. Kayla is Stu White's third Missus: five months ago, he divorced his previous trophy wife and married someone even younger. So what do you know? His beautiful Kayla is about become my trophy; you know, like those kinds of trophies they hang on walls. All right, let’s move on. That Indian princess…"

     He went on describing each girl in turn. Alex hated him for this – it would've been easier if they remained nameless ciphers. By giving them names and telling the stories behind the faces, Knoepfler humanized his victims, which made the notion of their impending death somehow less bearable. Soon the introductions were over. Knoepfler declared that the show was about to begin; any moment now, he said. But he didn't seem to be in a great hurry. He continued to lecture Alex on the finer points of the science of brain rape. He delivered more panegyrics to the glories of a hanging body. After those subjects had been exhausted, he simply paced to and fro, while the sun was rising slowly in the sky. He appeared to be killing time, waiting for something or someone.

     At last, Alex heard the sound of an approaching car. It stopped somewhere close; the engine shut off; the car door opened and closed. Alex heard the crunching of another pair of feet.

     "You are late," said Knoepfler to the invisible newcomer, "We have less than three hours before we have to get out. Now don't just stand there, hurry up! Here, hold the controls."

     Once again, Alex heard a series of keyboard clicks. For a time, she felt nothing. Then, with a sudden jolt, the ground shifted and began to slide. Alex looked to the side: everything was still in its place. Alex’s own senses were at odds with each other; her eyes were telling her that she was staying put, but her inner ear objected. She felt as though she was traveling down a giant tube, picking up speed with each second. She swallowed and shut her eyes. There were more clicks, each sounding fainter, as though the distance was really increasing. Shortly the clicks ceased, and so did the apparent movement; Alex opened her eyes to see where she was, but all she could see was uniform white light. It was so blinding that Alex had to turn away. That did not help: the brightness was coming at her from all directions. She closed her eyes but it did not make it go away, either. For one final, terrifying second Alex understood that the source of light was inside her head…

     …And then she understood nothing at all.

        Alex woke up to light breeze and bird song. A soft ray of the sun was touching her gently on the cheek. High above, wispy clouds chased each other across the deep blue sky. Alex yawned and stretched luxuriously, then propped herself up on the chair.

     "How did I manage to fall asleep outdoors?" she asked no one in particular.

     She surveyed the grass and the trees around her. There was something both familiar and uncomfortable about this place. Alex pursed her lips and rubbed her forehead. Something tugged insistently at her memory, but try as she might, Alex could not bring it to the surface. She knew she could not just sit here like this. She had to do something…Something very important…But what?

     Then she remembered – and the shock of recollection made her cry aloud.

     "Oh my God!" She jumped to her feet and started to walk resolutely. "I have so little time! The wedding! It starts in less than two hours!"

     Alex felt overwhelmed and helpless. So much remained to do! The guests, the bridal party, the dresses, the decorations... The million other details. And to think that today was her birthday!

     It was only four months ago that her dumb big sister Martha made the big announcement. She and John were getting married. "John who?" asked Dad, but Mom was secretly happy. And Alex was not happy at all. When she heard the date of the future wedding, she could not stop crying: of all the days in the year, Martha had to pick Alex’s eighteenth birthday! Give it to that stupid bitch to spoil Alex’s own big day.

     Naturally, Alex was appointed the Maid of Honor, which meant that most of the preparations fell into her lap. "You are the responsible one," explained Martha and disappeared for a month, together with her idiot future husband. The happy couple did nothing for days, apart from sitting around in his dirty apartment, smoking pot, and fucking. Once, they were so stoned that Martha decided to give John a blowjob right in front her kid sister. Alex remembered how his fat dick was sliding in and out of Martha’s mouth. She wasn’t as revolted as she would’ve been even a month ago; by that time, she had already experienced her first blowjob.

     Alex smiled. She forgot Martha and the stupid wedding as she recalled that afternoon in the high school broom closet, when she dropped to her knees and pulled down her boyfriend’s pants. She was so proud of herself and a little surprised that such a simple thing would make him so happy. It was worth even the bad taste that he left in her mouth. Of course, she had to do it again. Next time she swallowed, and then they went far beyond mere oral sex. This was the happiest time of her life. She thought it would last forever, but after three fantastic months, he broke up with her… Alex wasn’t smiling anymore; now she fought to hold back the tears. How could Enrique leave her so abruptly? The memory still hurt…

     Alex gave herself a mental slap. "Stop it! This is no time to feel sorry for yourself!" She blinked away the tears. Despite Dad's best efforts, the wedding day was finally here, and she had a job to accomplish.

     So much to do, so much to do...

     Alex examined the location. Martha and John had planned a garden wedding, so this must be the garden. At the moment, Alex could not recall where this place was or how she got here, but it wasn’t important now. That gazebo, toward which she walked – presumably, this was the location of the main ceremony. In that case, it was badly in need of decorating.

     Alex kicked off her shoes and started running. As she expected, her lazy-ass sister was nowhere to be seen; but the bridesmaids were all here. At least she will have some help. The girls just sat around doing God knows what, but Alex could hardly blame them: she herself had somehow fallen asleep in that damn lawn chair. Well, it was time to put them to work; all they needed was a little motivation.

     "Hey, ladies!" Alex bellowed, "Get off your bums! We’ve got to get busy immediately!"

     Nine bridesmaids turned their heads to Alex. None of them looked familiar to her, but that was not surprising – after all, they were Martha's crowd. The girls looked high on drugs: hair disheveled, jaws slack, eyes empty. Not what one would call an ideal bridal party, but what else can you expect from a bunch of pot addicts? Alex had to work with what she had.

     "Okay guys," Alex told everyone, "We need to do some heavy-duty decorating. Anyone brought the decorating materials?"

     Apparently, someone did. The table was heaped with rolls of ribbons, spools of cord, scotch tape, scissors, a box of pins, and strips of colored fabric.

     "Perfect," said Alex. "Now let's get started. First, we make some bows. The color of the wedding is pink, so we use pink ribbons. Anyone wants to help?"

     There were no volunteers.

     Alex selected a girl at random. "You! Can you tie a bow?"

     The girl that Alex picked was a pretty, pampered blonde with 'money' written all over her. It was highly unlikely that she was ever required to do anything in her life.

     "I'll show you," said Alex. "First, you take a safety pin... no, the bigger one."

     To Alex’s amazement, the blonde obeyed. She picked up a pin and a piece of ribbon and, without saying a word, started copying Alex’s hand motions. Together they made a dozen beautiful bows, which they stacked on the table.

     "What are they for?" asked the girl.

     "It’s a dress accessory," explained Alex. "We are supposed to pin them to the upper part of the train." She turned away and snapped her fingers to get everyone's attention. "All right, ladies. Now let's begin decorating the gazebo."

     Alex cut a length of cord, made a rough loop design at one end, and tied it together with a slip knot. She climbed a chair and attached the other end to one of the wooden structure's horizontal beams; then she jumped to the ground and stepped back to consider her handiwork. She didn't like it much. This sort of decoration wasn't too attractive; and in addition to that, there was something vaguely disturbing about its shape. For a moment, Alex wondered what made her choose this particular design; but the thought quickly disappeared. Instead, lacking any other inspiration, she decided to make more.

     In the end, Alex made the girls hang nine more of these ornaments. The number was significant, but Alex couldn’t quite remember why. The arrangement was not symmetrical, but Alex only shrugged: she agreed to hang some decorations but she didn’t promise that they would necessarily be beautiful. Later, she would improvements, but for now, the immediate task was to get everyone dressed.

     Among the crowd of bridesmaids Alex picked out the same blonde girl who helped her with the bows. She strode purposefully toward her.

     "What's your name?"

     "Kayla."

     "Time to change into your dress, Kayla. Take off your clothes."

     Alex expected the girl to protest, but the blonde promptly unbuttoned her blouse.

     "The bra and the panties, too?" Kayla asked timidly.

     "Of course!"

     Alex turned to the rest of the bridesmaids. "That goes for you too, guys," she addressed them loudly, "Take it all off now."

     Some girls groaned, but all listened, and in the next few minutes, Alex had to oversee much unzipping and unbuttoning. This taken care of, Alex returned to Kayla.

     "Turn around. I have to pin a bow to the back of your dress."

     "But I am still naked!" complained the girl.

     Alex looked at her. From the shoulders down to the toes, Kayla was covered in a pretty, almost skin-like shade of pink. Alex nodded with satisfaction: pink was the correct color for a bridesmaid’s dress – especially for such a tight-fitting gown as this. She waved the blonde girl’s objection away.

     "Don’t talk nonsense to me! You are fully dressed. Now, be a good girl, turn around, and bend over!"

     Kayla complied. Alex touched the smooth pink surface that, to her, looked like a stretch of silk fabric. She stroked it carefully, straightening imaginary creases, then punched it with the business end of a pin. The blonde yelped and whirled back; her eyes were suddenly full of tears. Alex realized that she must have hurt her somehow, but she was strangely unmoved by the other girl’s apparent suffering. She just waited patiently until Kayla got over her pain. After the blonde’s whimpers had subsided, Alex directed the other girl’s gaze upward.

     "These ornaments – they are really ugly. We have to do something about them."

     "What do I have to do?" asked Kayla meekly.

     But Alex was out of ideas. "How would I know?" she snapped. "Why don't you take the initiative for a change?"

     The blonde girl nodded. She looked thoughtful for a while; then she climbed a chair and started fumbling with one of the decorations. From this angle, Alex couldn't see much of what Kayla was doing, but it looked almost as though she was wrapping a cord around her neck.

     That’s a strange way to decorate, Alex thought. She opened her mouth to voice her doubts, but just at that moment, the chair tilted and toppled to the ground. 

     Somehow, Kayla remained suspended in the air. Her feet didn’t touch the ground, nor was she holding on by the hands; yet her weight was supported in some way Alex couldn't quite understand. The girl began to move funny. She started to wiggle like a fish on a hook, and her limbs assumed a life of their own – flailing around, punching and kicking the air. She was looking very unhappy – her eyes were closed, but her lips were curled in an expression of extreme consternation. Her face was gradually turning cherry-red, and there was something wrong with her tongue behind the clenched teeth.

     "What are you doing?" asked Alex.

     Kayla paid her no attention.

     "End it this minute!" Alex demanded. "We have no time for stupid dances!"

     As if on cue, the girl stopped moving. Still, she refused to come down, choosing instead to remain suspended above the ground in her mysterious way. No matter how loudly Alex yelled at her, Kayla would not move a finger.

     At last, Alex gave up. "Fucking egotist," she muttered under her breath. "Oblivious to anyone except her precious self." She ground her teeth in frustration. "Fine!" she yelled at Kayla, "If you snub me like that, I’ll find someone else to help me." She turned to other bridesmaids.

     Alex noticed a dusky-skinned girl with jet-black hair made into two heavy braids, who stood a few paces away, staring at a pile of clothes at her feet. Alex boldly approached, and the girl looked up. She had beautiful almond-shaped eyes.

     "What is your name?" asked Alex.

     "Sheela. I am an exchange student from Mumbai." She spoke with a strong, endearing accent.

     Alex looked her over. "You look good, Sheela."

     The girl was nearly naked: the only thing she had on was a pair of white cotton panties. Despite her small size, she had full breasts with large, almost black nipples. Conscious of Alex’s gaze, Sheela blushed and lowered her eyes, but made no attempt to cover herself. Her eyes darted at Alex from under the cover of long lashes. There was something vaguely sensual in her demeanor, as though she was expecting something; but Alex had no time for this sort of things. She had to get Sheela to do the decorations.

     Alex explained the situation, especially the part about her disappointment with Kayla.     "You see what this idiot did?" she asked in an indignant tone, "Now who is going to do the decorating?"

     Sheela stared wide-eyed at the motionless blonde.

     "Yes," she said at last. "I see what she did. My sister-in-law did the same only last year. She was very upset."

     "There is no need to get upset," Alex said impatiently, "All you have to do is to go up there and do what needs to be done. Just don’t take too long about it."

     Sheela was taken aback. "You want me to—? But—"

     Alex took the girl’s hand. "Look, honey…"

     Sheela reacted strangely to the touch. Her palm got instantly damp, her forehead moist with sweat. She blushed even stronger than before and dropped her eyes to the ground. Haltingly, an a barely audible whisper, she asked,

     "Would you please kiss me…down there?"

     Alex considered this. Eating pussy didn’t sound very appealing, but on the other hand, it could make Sheela more amenable to requests. And there was so little time until the start of the wedding that desperate measures were in order.

     "Things I do for my sister," Alex sighed as she kneeled before the Indian girl.

     Alex pulled Sheela’s panties down to the knees. With her fingers, she parted the black pubic hair and gave the naked lips a weak kiss. She kissed Sheela’s clit and heard the sound of a sharply indrawn breath. So far, so good. She brushed her tongue around the edges, then dived headlong into the throbbing wetness that yielded instantly under her onslaught. The sensation of her tongue inside someone else’s pussy was weird but not unpleasant. Now and then, it was even exciting, which was completely unexpected considering that it was Alex’s first time.

     Sheela, though, had clearly had her pussy eaten before. She moved her body in unison with Alex; she moaned and ground her thighs against Alex's face; she even lifted one leg to spread the pussy lips and make Alex’s tongue go further. Sheela’s moans were getting ever louder; at last, she grasped Alex by the hair and pushed Alex’s face deeper into herself. She held on like that, while she came noisily; then she let go and nearly collapsed. Wiping her lips, Alex remembered other girls. She looked furtively at them: what will they think of this scene? But none of them seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary.

     Alex was distracted by a sound from below: Sheela was lying on the ground, sobbing.

     "Oh boy. What now?" asked Alex tiredly.

     Sheela gave Alex a solemn look. "You must punish me."

     "Punish?" asked Alex, puzzled. "What for?"

     "I’ve done a very bad thing."    

     "Umm… all right. If you want to…" Alex steered Sheela toward the spot beneath the nearest ornament. She pointed upward. "Just do what I asked you before."

     Sheela gulped. "You really would order me to do it?"

     "Sure. A very suitable punishment."

     Sheela glanced toward Kayla, then turned back to Alex. "You are right, I deserve this." She rubbed her neck contemplatively. "It will be a good way to go."

     Alex blinked. "Go? Go where? What are you talking about?"

     Suddenly, her eyes fell on Sheela’s bare breasts. "Wait, before you go anywhere, we need to cover you up. Don’t move!"

     Alex picked a pink bow from the table and held the pin in her mouth. With one hand, she lifted Sheela's left breast so that the nipple would point up and forward. She took the pin out of her mouth, and, with a quick movement of the other hand, drove it through the girl’s dark areola. The Indian girl grunted, but took it well. Alex repeated the process with the right breast. Now Sheela's chest was covered by two large, puffy bow shapes.

     "What about this?" asked Sheela, pointing at her crotch. Alex remembered that the Sheela's panties were still wrapped around her knees.

     "Hmm. We can cover you pussy with another bow."

     Sheela winced, and Alex relented a bit. "Nah. You may go like this."

     But Sheela seemed to change her mind about going anywhere. Instead, she picked up the chair that was lying under Kayla's feet, and put it upright. With Alex’s help, she climbed the chair. Once she was on top, Sheela reached for the cord and started to manipulate it in a manner Alex couldn't quite comprehend.

     "I am ready," she declared from her perch. She sounded calm, but Alex saw that the girl fidgeted nervously, stepping from foot to foot.

     "Good, good. Now do it!" called Alex.

     Instead of doing what Alex wanted her to do, Sheela pushed away the chair. It tumbled to the ground, and Sheela's feet followed right after. Alex held her breath, expecting the girl to hit the ground hard, but that never happened. Sheela's fall was checked abruptly just a few inches above the grass. Her body gave a mighty jerk, which made her panties slide down to the ankles. She froze for a second, as though in shock, then started flopping and flailing just like Kayla before her.

     Alex could not believe it.

     "Hey! What the hell are you doing?"

     Something had to be done immediately. Alex approached the gyrating body and gripped it by the hips, but Sheela butted Alex painfully in the chest and promptly twisted away. Alex was so furious that she barely resisted the urge to punch the other girl in the stomach. "Stop it! Stop it this second!" she yelled on the top of her voice. But the only response she got was a gob of spit landing on her cheek.

     Alex stepped back and wiped her face with the back of her hand. "What's wrong with you people?" she muttered, addressing no one in particular. A thought struck her. Eating Sheela’s pussy made her agreeable before. Why not try this tactic again?

     Alex watched the Indian girl’s strange yoga-like workout, waiting for it to wind down. Less than a minute later, her wish was granted. Now Sheela only twitched and wiggled her toes, and Alex decided that it was finally safe to come closer.

     There was a small hitch. Sheela’s ankles were so tangled up in her panties that her legs were effectively bound together. Alex got to her knees to undo the tangle. She freed one foot and left the knotted mess tied around the other. She wiped her hands – Sheela’s panties were damp and no longer quite so white – and pulled herself upright. Using an elbow and a shoulder, she spread apart the girl’s legs, which wasn’t that easy, thanks to a complete lack of cooperation.

     Alex stuck her head between Sheela’s legs and took a good look. She was surprised to see how incredibly engorged Sheela’s sex had become. The lips were huge and puffed with black blood, and the clit was twice the size Alex remembered. The smell was different, too, sharper and sweeter. And boy was Sheela wet!

     "I see you had fun, honey," murmured Alex.

     She got to work. Unlike the last time, Alex’s licking and sucking routine elicited no response, aside from a few minor muscle spasms. After ten minutes of this, Alex was exhausted and Sheela was no livelier. More upsettingly, Sheela’s pussy began to dry up. Alex sighed: the tactic of using intensive cunnilingus as a persuasion tool had clearly failed.

     "You don’t want to help me? Suit yourself!"

     Alex let Sheela go.

     Could she round up another helper? Alex looked past Sheela’s and Kayla’s at the opposite side of the gazebo. She saw another girl – somehow she knew her name was Cassandra – hovering just below the beam, doing a lively spinning-dervish dance without ever touching the ground. The rest of the bridesmaids were crowded round her; they watched the performance with great interest. No one appeared to do anything useful.

     Alex shrugged. "If you want it done right, you have to do it yourself." She considered the decorations once again and decided that they weren’t ugly, after all. On the contrary, they were very appealing, though a bit scary. Something in their simple, elegant shape attracted her like a magnet. Alex wondered. Did Kayla and Sheela feel the same way? Is it why they did whatever they did? Perhaps, if she climbed a chair and wrapped a cord around her own neck, she could understand it better? Yes; all of a sudden, it seemed like a cracking good idea. She had to do it right away!

     Alex pushed Sheela’s body to the side and bent down to pick up the fallen chair. Just at that moment, there was a sound of light steps behind her, but Alex was too absorbed to hear them. She lowered her head and stuck out her ass. She did not know how good a target she presented – when she felt someone slap her butt, she was too shocked for words. Even though it wasn’t a particularly strong slap, Alex jumped in surprise, then grabbed the chair like a weapon, and whirled around to face the attacker.

     When she saw him, though, her fists unclenched and the forgotten chair dropped to the ground.

     "Enrique!" she cried. "It’s really you! You've come back to me!"

        "Hello, Alex," said Enrique.

     He looked just as she remembered: dark, hook-nosed, tall, and thin, raven hair gathered in a ponytail. His intelligent eyes watched her intently.

     Alex clapped her hands in a wave of elation. "Oh Enrique! I waited for your call for so long, and you didn't call…I was so sad, and I cried, and cried, and wanted to die..." She looked at him hopefully. "Will you stay with me now?"

     He gave her the slightest of nods, and she rushed at him joyously. He caught her and gathered her into his arms; she clung to him as though her life depended on it. As she cuddled in his embrace, she had a fleeting impression of round female breasts touching her collarbones. Surprised, she pulled back and looked down his front. Just as she expected, Enrique had flat muscular chest with the small kissable man-nipples, dark brown against the coffee-and-cream skin. She smiled: Enrique was certainly all man; there could be no doubt about it. She lowered her face and kissed each nipple in turn.

     And yet, something still bothered Alex. For a longest time she couldn’t quite comprehend what it was. And then it hit her.

     "Hey, wait a minute!" Her eyes narrowed. "What are you doing at my sister's wedding?"

     Enrique craned his neck left and right. He looked puzzled.

     "What wedding? I see no one here."

     Alex followed his gaze. He was right: they were totally alone.

     "Where did everyone go?"

     Alex felt uneasy. The garden was free of people as far as the eye could see, but some crazy part of her mind insisted that the girls of the bridal party were still around. She could almost feel vague presences near the gazebo: several hazy shapes, some of which appeared to hang in the air. So she told herself sternly to get a grip. It was all an illusion, a trick of her imagination. There were no girls and no wedding. Just her boyfriend who came back to her.

     "Let’s fuck," offered Enrique. All of a sudden, Alex realized that he was completely naked, and had been all along. His gloriously erect dick had been pressing against her stomach.

     "Yes. Let’s make love,"

     After hurrying to remove her top and then bra, Alex dropped to her knees. She used to give Enrique a hard time about giving oral sex – what a fool she’d been! No hesitation now. Alex took his dick into one hand and cupped his balls with the other; she squeezed the base and kissed the tip of his erection. She took a breath and arranged her lips and tongue just so, in preparation for one of the deep-throat plunges that Enrique liked so much.

     A hand on a shoulder prevented Alex from making her move. "I go first," said Enrique. "Spread you legs."

     Alex gaped at him in astonishment. The boy has changed a lot since she had last seen him. The old Enrique loved to receive but would flatly refuse to give. Now, he was looking hungrily down her belly, licking his lips in anticipation.

     "Yes, yes!" Alex said hastily, "Just let me find a place to park my butt."

     Alex sprinted toward the gazebo, where she could see several chairs she could borrow for her purpose. Her naked breasts swayed violently as she ran, but she didn’t care. It took her mere seconds to reach the closest chair, which stood solidly on its four legs next to a pillar. Alex tried to lift the chair but that turned out much harder than she thought. The damn thing wouldn’t even budge – it was as though some invisible weight was pinning it to the ground.

     Alex swore. "I don't have time for this! Enrique must be getting impatient." She pulled at the chair with all her strength, once, twice, until, on the third try, it gave way. Alex had a vague impression of something heavy falling from the seat; she froze, expecting a thump. But whatever it was that fell from the chair, it never hit the ground. There was a squeak and then a slight movement of air that suggested a large, human-sized object swinging back and forth. Perplexed, Alex looked up. She saw nothing in front of her but blue skies and bright sunshine. She shrugged: something was not right but these puzzles were not her business. She had something to sit on, and that was all that really mattered.

     Carrying the hard-won chair under her arm, Alex headed back. Her skirt prevented her from running too fast, so she halted for a second, tore the skirt off, and tossed it into a bed of flowers. Now, dressed only in her lace panties, she could run like wind… if only she had had a sports bra to contain her madly bouncing tits. Oh well, at least Enrique was enjoying the view.

     Alex put the chair on the ground and stood next to it, waiting anxiously. Enrique kissed her breasts and licked her nipples, while his arms expertly removed her panties. He placed the palm of his hand between her thighs and rubbed gently. That felt so good that Alex’s knees buckled; she had to lower herself into the chair. Enrique spread her legs as wide as they would go, then planted rapid kisses on her hips and stomach. With each kiss, he was getting closer to the main prize, making Alex giddy with anticipation. At the long last, after much sweet agony on Alex’s part, Enrique reached the honey pot. He brushed his lips over her clit, and her breath caught. But he did not linger there, concentrating at first on the labia. Alex watched Enrique’s black head bobbing up and down between her thighs and wondered which of her girlfriends he had practiced on to get so good. But she couldn’t stay angry with him, not when his efforts were making her lightheaded with desire. Soon, Enrique grew tired of teasing the surrounding parts; he pushed two fingers into Alex’s pussy and started sucking on her clit. Alex nearly fainted.

     After his fingers and tongue brought Alex to a wet orgasm, Enrique stood up. He presented the fingers to Alex and she licked off her own juices. Without saying a word, he pulled her to her feet, turned her around, and bent her body forward. She held on to the chair and lifted her bottom, presenting him with a view to die for.

     "Look at me!" demanded Enrique. Alex turned her head. He kept switching his glance between her face and her ass, as though trying to decide which to do first. "Do you want me to fuck your pussy first?"

     Alex shivered; there was something oddly vehement, even menacing, in his tone. He had something on his mind but she didn’t care; her desire was so great that she could only nod hungrily. "Yes, yes, please."

     Enrique threw back his head and laughed. "Nuts!"

     Holding Alex's hips in an iron grip, he placed his dickhead against her tiny asshole and pushed.

     Alex cried out in surprise but made no move to get away. When they were dating, Enrique kept asking for anal sex, and Alex had steadfastly refused him. She later regretted her refusals and resolved to never, ever, deny him any kind of sex, no matter how disgusting or uncomfortable. If he wanted to fuck her ass, she would take him in the ass without hesitation.

     Nonetheless, willingness alone was not enough. It wasn’t easy to insert a dick as thick as Enrique's into such a small hole; it was even harder to do without any lubrication. Alex ground her teeth, trying hard not to make a sound. She used her hands to spread her buttocks as far apart as they would go. This helped her not at all; her tight asshole still refused to admit such an enormous object.

     Enrique increased the pressure. Alex whimpered with pain. He ignored her and pushed even harder. Just when Alex thought she could stand it no more, he heaved mightily, and Alex's sphincter gave way. The pain was so bad that she almost blacked out. Instinctively, she tried to pull away, but his hands held her tight. It was too late trying to escape anyhow, as she was already impaled. Enrique's dick was lodged halfway inside her rectum, but that wasn’t enough for him; he attempted to push even further. Alex realized that he wouldn’t rest until he was in up to his balls.

     "Please! It hurts!" she cried out. There was a limit to how much pain she could stand.

     "That’s your problem," he spit through his teeth. This was Enrique Alex knew so well: brutal and insensitive, concerned with nothing but his own pleasure.

     "Please Enrique, you are breaking me apart," Alex pleaded, "Your dick is too dry."

     He stopped to think. "All right," he said at last, "You may make it wet." He sneered at her and added, "With your mouth!"

     "Yes, Enrique," Alex said meekly. She cautiously took him out of her body, trying not to scrape her insides more than necessary. Still on her knees, she turned to him. His dick poked her in the face. After a moment of hesitation, she began to lick. The taste was nasty, but Alex obediently licked the foul thing until it was sparkling-clean. She thought she was done, but Enrique had other ideas.

     He squeezed the sides of Alex’s head and forced himself most of the way into her throat. Alex understood. She gagged on his dick, came up for air, gagged again… With each repetition she tried to swallow him ever deeper and hold him inside ever longer. She made herself soft and pliant, like a piece of putty, letting him throat-fuck her as roughly as he wanted. There was a point to it, other than giving him pleasure. His dick was pressing rhythmically at the root of her tongue, and that was making her mouth fill with sticky saliva. When it started to dribble down her chin, Enrique pulled out. Alex spit the thick fluid into the palm of her hand and used it to coat Enrique's rod.

     Once again, Alex presented Enrique her ass. Thanks to the improvised lube, they had an easier time with the second penetration. This time, Enrique's dick slid into Alex’s ass with only a moderate effort; and the pain was just about bearable. He pushed his thing all the way in, then paused for a moment. Alex felt his hips pressing against her buttocks, his balls touching her pussy, and the knob of his dick deep inside her guts. She tried to relax but it was easier said than done. Her muscles contracted involuntarily around the foreign object, and Enrique took for this an invitation to go forward. He began to move, going quicker and quicker. Soon he was pumping ferociously, his hot dick like a piston inside Alex’s ass. The discomfort was great but that was all right, thought Alex. Even if Enrique was hurting her, at least he paid attention. It was better, she consoled herself, to have his dick inside her ass than inside some other girl’s pussy.

     Alex did not think she would enjoy Enrique’s idea of anal sex, and she didn’t, at first. But then a strange thing happened. Gradually, the pain went away, and Alex realized that she almost enjoyed being skewered in this way. She rather liked the sensation of a hard rod massaging places inside her that could not be reached by any other means. And it turned out that the faster he was, the more she liked it! She moaned softly and wiggled her butt, and Enrique picked up the cue. He reached down and started fingering her clit while his other hand went to work on her breasts. That did it: not a minute later Alex convulsed with a pulsing, hollering orgasm.

     "Cum in my ass," she whispered at him after surfacing.

     Enrique grunted. "No."

     "Please!" Alex squeezed her ass to emphasize the point. "I want your cum in my ass!"

     "What do you mean, cum? Don’t you see—"

     But Alex did not get to hear what she was supposed to see, because Enrique stopped talking in the mid-sentence. He stopped moving as well, his dick coming to a halt inside Alex's body.

     "What—" Alex started to say but caught herself as she noticed a new shadow at the edge of her vision. Slowly, very slowly, she turned her head – and froze with a horrible recognition.

     "And who do I find here?" asked Alex’s father.

     Alex gulped. "No, daddy! It’s not what you think! I am just…" 

     She ran out of words and fell silent, not knowing what to tell him. Her father said nothing for a while, and neither did Enrique.

     The silence stretched ominously.

     At last, Alex’s father spoke. "My daughter, an asswhore," he said quietly, as though to himself.

     "Daddy, please!" she whimpered, "I can explain! It’s not what it looks like!" She shut up when she realized what it did look like: standing on all four, fully naked in the middle of a public par, sporting a big fat dick up her ass. What a spectacle she presented!

     Alex felt herself drowning in a hot red tide of embarrassment. Her face, neck, and shoulders – even her breasts – turned scarlet from shame. She wished she were dead.

     "Asswhore." repeated her dad, his tone rising. "Dirty asswhore! Tell me, how much did you charge him for this?"

     "Daddy, please—"

     He shouted. "Shut your trap!" Alex squirmed in fear. "I'll deal with you later," he informed her.

     He regarded Enrique, as though seeing him for the first time. "A Puerto Rican. It had to be a dirty Puerto Rican." Alex’s lover’s brown skin seemed to upset him more than anything else did.

     Enrique said nothing.

     "Get off my daughter!" bellowed Mr. Kowalski. His voice was shrill with fury. He grabbed Enrique by his ponytail and dragged him away from Alex. The boy's dick made a soft sucking sound as it popped out of Alex's ass. Alex jumped up from her knees and turned back. She met her father's eyes. There was murder in them.

     Enrique was the taller of the two, but Alex's father, who had been a factory worker for thirty years, was wider and stronger. Even so, Enrique could've offered some resistance – but he did not. He just stood there and allowed the older man to manhandle him. Alex wondered at the meaning of this unusual passivity. Was Enrique scared? Or did he simply intend to avoid an embarrassing confrontation with his girlfriend’s dad? At any rate, Alex understood that it was now up to her to defend him.

     She let out an earsplitting shriek. "Let him go!"

     Gripping the boy in a chokehold, Mr. Kowalski turned to his daughter. His eyes narrowed. Even from a distance, Alex could feel the reek of alcohol in his breath. "Stand back, Aleksandra!"

     Alex recoiled instinctively – the only time her father would use her full name was just before she was about to be beaten. The name brought back the memory of his senseless drunken rages, the pain of fresh bruises on her face, and her mother's secret tears. She hated the name; and she hated him.

     And now he was taking away her love.

     Alex still felt more than a little frightened, but there was a new emotion added to the mix: hot rage. He was taking away her love!

     Angry as hell, not bothering to cover up her nakedness, Alex stepped forward to confront her father.

     "Leave him alone!" She screamed so loud that the birds had stopped their chirrups. Mr. Kowalski didn't even deign to answer. He held Enrique by the elbows and pushed him forward, leading him away from the scene of his crime. The boy meekly allowed himself to be frog-marched in this manner.

     "Where are you taking him?" shouted Alex at their backs.

     Yet again, Mr. Kowalski paid her no attention. Alex bounded after her father. She ran into him, pushing him with all the force she was capable of. Frustrated by the lack of effect, Alex pummeled him with her little fists, and when that didn't work either, she grabbed his arm and bit it. This finally got his attention; Mr. Kowalski roared with pain and swatted his daughter away like an annoying insect.

     Alex flew into the ground head first. She hit hard and must have blacked out for a bit. When she opened her eyes again, her father and Enrique were gone. She sat up, brushed off the dirt, and looked around, searching.

     She found them under the gazebo. Enrique stood on a chair, looking distant and uninterested. He was still very naked, and oddly enough, his dick was still erect. Mr. Kowalski was behind Enrique’s back, tying the boy’s hands with a piece of wire, doing a very thorough job though Enrique wasn’t trying to escape.

     The whole scene looked very familiar. Alex tried to think…Naked people who stood on chairs under the gazebo… yes, she had seen something like that, and very recently. She could not remember how it all ended, but there was something definitely menacing about the whole setup.

     Alex started to limp toward the gazebo. She saw it when she got close enough: a rope was looped around Enrique’s neck, its other end tied to the wooden beam above him. The understanding hit Alex like a lightning.

     Her dad was about to lynch Enrique!

     "No, daddy!" she squealed, running unsteadily toward him. "No-o-o!"

     Mr. Kowalski leered at his daughter. "Yes, you whore. Your boyfriend’s gonna swing now!"

     "You wouldn't dare!" yelled Alex, but this was pure bluster. She knew that he would dare, she could see it in his eyes. She felt so weak, so powerless. She had to do something immediately, but there was nothing she could do.

     No. There was one thing...

     "If you kill him, I'll kill myself" she informed him coolly, "I’ll hang myself next to him."

     He pretended that he didn’t hear her. "All is ready," he said, "Say bye-bye!" Grinning, he kicked away the chair.

     Alex gasped: Enrique was hanging! She rushed to his help, but Mr. Kowalski caught her. Unable to move, she was forced to watch Enrique’s death struggles. His body jerked and twisted; his hands were chafing against the bonds. His big cock was flopping up and down, the balls underneath it jiggling violently as Enrique kicked the air. His mouth was foaming, his face was getting darker. His eyes seemed to be rolling in their orbits. Abruptly, he ceased his movements, shuddered one more time, and hung still. The last part of him that stopped shaking was his dick.

     Mr. Kowalski let Alex go. Choking down tears, she approached her lover’s corpse. She threw her arms around it and kissed the higher place she was tall enough to reach – Enrique’s bellybutton. His dick poked her breastbone – incredibly, it was still erect even after death. Alex kissed it too; it still smelled like her. She sobbed. A new, terrible determination filled her.

     She turned to her father. "Remember my promise? I am going to hang myself, right here, right now! You can’t stop me."

     Mr. Kowalski was unfazed. "I will not stop you. Go ahead, hang yourself! I don’t mind if hang. One less whore, who cares." He laughed and shook his head. "But you won’t do it. You’re just threatening me, but you are too chicken to actually go through with it. I know you: much talk, no action."

     Alex stomped her foot. "It’s not talk!" she exclaimed hotly. "And I am not chicken!" She wagged a finger in his face. "In five minutes I’ll be hanging. You’ll see!" He shrugged skeptically.

     She turned her back to him and looked up. Only two feet from Enrique’s noose, there was another, an empty one. Alex didn’t question where the second noose came from, she was only happy that there was no need to ask her father for extra rope. The five minute promise looked very doable.

     Alex picked up Enrique’s chair and gingerly stepped on top. The noose was cut to the perfect length: the loop was exactly opposite her face. She hurriedly tightened it around her neck and glared at her father. "Now do you believe me?" He gave an ambiguous hand wave that meant, "I’ll believe it when I see it."

     All Alex had to do now was to step off the chair. One easy step and the rope would take care of the rest. Soon, very soon, she’d experience everything Enrique had gone through. She extended her hand to him and stroked his cooling cheek, "See you soon, dear!" She imagined the two of them, hanging naked next to each other – it felt so right! Alex wished she could hang closer to him, so that their bodies could touch. Well, there was nothing to be done now.

     "I am ready," she said aloud. "On the count of five. One, two—" she checked the noose, "three, four—" she lifted a foot over the edge, fi—"

     Suddenly, Alex’s body went rigid. She could not step off the chair; she could not even move a finger. And she was rapidly going blind. Alex panicked: what was happening? There was a brief sensation of falling, and Alex wondered if she did hang herself after all. Was she about to hit the end of the rope? Or was she dangling already, and that’s what being hanged was really like? But the noose around her neck did not tighten, and her feet still felt the solidity of the chair underneath. She attempted to jump off and failed. Alex whimpered tearfully; being thwarted like that was a crushing disappointment. But that emotion soon evaporated without a trace, because her blindness had lifted and Alex remembered everything.

        Alex heard, somewhere to her left, a sound of clapping hands. "Very nice performance," said the voice of Knoepfler. "Such realistic passions!"

     "Why did you bring me back?" growled Alex. She still had no control over her body below the shoulders, but she found that she could speak and had the ability to turn her head in any direction. Nevertheless, she stared straight ahead, refusing to look at her tormentor or acknowledge him any more than necessary.

     "I would never hang you without returning your consciousness!" responded Knoepfler, sounding outraged. "You are the star of my show, and more importantly, I like you! If I like a girl, I always uncloud her mind before she takes her last drop. See, I hang a person, not just a body. I want make sure it’s the actual Aleksandra Kowalski who is dancing in the noose, otherwise it’s not real."

     So, I’ll be dancing in the noose, thought Alex. A cute euphemism for an excruciatingly painful death by suffocation. By rights, she should have been terrified – but she was not. Knoepfler must have retained some control over her emotions, because she seemed simply incapable of experiencing fear. The strongest thing that she did feel was anguish and heartache – not for her own fate but for Enrique. She felt like she had lost him once again.

     Of course, it wasn’t Enrique who was with her just now. It couldn’t have been – the real Enrique was now in his thirties and likely very far away. Still, the loss felt very real; she was making love to the only man she ever wanted, and now he was gone. And instead? Alex knew that she should not look but she could not help herself. Despite her best judgment, she turned her eyes to the body hanging next to her.

     It wasn’t Enrique. It was a girl.

     In some respects, the hanged girl did look like Alex’s lost love. She was tall and thin, with brown skin and straight black hair gathered in a ponytail. But the differences between them were enormous. For one, the girl owned a set of large, probably enhanced, breasts. Their faces were quite dissimilar, too; Enrique’s face had hard, masculine features, while the dead girl’s face was very feminine and unusually pretty, even after being distorted by the agony of strangulation. Alex remembered Knoepfler pointing out and describing this girl. Her name was Florencia Hernandez, and according to Knoepfler, she was a minor porn star who specialized in, as he put it, "the rough backdoor action." Thinking of her own aching ass, Alex understood what kind of fantasy Florencia was playing out in her mind.

     But how did Florencia manage her savage penetrations, with her being a girl and everything? That thing up Alex’s butt was quite real.

     Alex cast her eyes down the length of the porn star’s body. It was just as she suspected. Fastened to the hanged girl’s hips, was an enormous, anatomically-correct strap-on dildo. It was very realistic in every detail and its brown color matched well with the girl’s skin. The illusion of male erection was so strong that Alex felt her body respond. A strange, residual longing stirred inside her. If she could not have Enrique, at least she could have his impersonator. She could pull the hanging body toward her chair, set it upright, and then if she hugged it firmly she could—

     "Oh no you don’t!" muttered Alex, "I am sure Knoepfler would like to see that but there is no way am I giving him this show!" With an effort, she peeled her eyes off Florencia. Still carefully not looking at Knoepfler, she turned back and took in the scene behind her.

     The gazebo was garlanded with dangling female bodies. They hung at different heights facing every which way, in various states of undress. Some were totally naked; others wore an odd piece of clothes – a pair of shorts but no bra, or perhaps a T-shirt but without panties. Each sported a large pink bow pinned to her private place.

     The group was incredibly diverse – the girls were picked from among all races, all body types and walks of life. And yet, they looked so much alike, it was as if they were a picture of a single family. It took Alex a moment to recognize where this similarity was coming from. They all had the same expressions on their faces, an identical mask – the puffed-cheeked, swollen-tongued mask of the slowly suffocated.

     Most of the girls were stone-dead but a couple still twitched, and there was one black girl – Alex didn’t want to recall her name – who twisted her exposed, pixyish body in the throes of last paroxysms. There was something indecent and deeply offensive about so much naked female flesh put on display in such a degrading manner. Alex averted her eyes.

     Counting the bodies showed Alex that she wouldn’t be the last one to hang. Looking down, she saw who had that particular honor. It was the girl whom Alex mistook for her father – a plump blonde thing with droopy breasts, who sat cross-legged on the grass and stared vacantly past the dangling bodies. From all appearances, the girl was unaware of an empty noose that was waiting for her. The chubby blonde must have felt Alex’s eyes on her, because she stirred, then lifted her face and looked back, grinning malevolently.

     "I told them my daughter is a big chicken," she heckled. "Five minutes are gone and you are still alive."

     The girl’s squeaky voice was very unlike Mr. Kowalski’s deep one; but the imperious, abusive inflections could well have belonged to him. No wonder Alex was confused. Alex felt instinctive dislike toward this person even before she realized why Knoepfler kept the girl alive to the last. When she did realize that, she liked her even less.

     Knoepfler interrupted Alex’s thoughts. "Thank you for admiring my latest composition. I call this etude, 'The House of Desire.' It’s a philosophical statement about our desires and their ultimate futility. The girls who were hung low desperately desired to touch the ground, and the ones who were hung high just as badly desired to fly away, but all their efforts were ultimately futile. I believe this is a deep metaphor that describes our life. What do you think?"

     Alex stated at her toes. "Why do care about my opinion? Especially when you intend me to join your damn composition."

     Knoepfler sounded offended. "Of course I care! I am an artiste, not some kind of filthy pervert! I care deeply about my subjects. So what do you think about my work? Isn’t it profound?"

     "And isn’t it sexy?" added a second voice, and Alex started in surprise. If she could move her limbs, she would’ve fallen off the chair right then – because the voice was unmistakably female.

     Forgetting her unspoken pledge never to look directly at Knoepfler, Alex swung her head to the left, toward the new voice. She saw a broad sea of green grass parted by a narrow gravel path that was coming from the house. The path terminated in a stony circle, in the center of which someone spread a piece of bright-blue plastic tarp covered with blankets. Two people occupied this improvised bed: Knoepfler and a compact Oriental woman looking to be in her late twenties. Both were only half-dressed; Knoepfler was down to his boxers and the woman was topless. Discarded clothes lied in little heaps around the perimeter. Next to the couple, attached to a tripod stood the tricky camera which Knoepfler demonstrated to Alex seemingly a hundred years ago. A tiny red light was blinking just above the lens: the camera was recording.

     The woman gave Alex something approaching a friendly smile. "Hello, Detective. Nice to see you again." There was not a trace of irony in her sweet voice. She appeared to be genuinely happy to see Alex.

     Alex stared. "Excuse me? Have we met?"

     "Don’t you remember me?" asked the woman, sounding almost hurt.

     Alex looked closer. There was something definitely familiar about the stranger; nevertheless, she drew blanks. The woman made an impatient gesture. "We talked only a few days ago. I am Julia Chang."

     "Oh shit!" said Alex. Now she could see it. There could be no mistake: this was Julia Chang, Jennifer Chang’s older sister. She even looked like a more mature version of Jennifer.

     "What are you doing here?" asked her Alex. "Is he going to hang you too?"

     "I should be so lucky," said Julia. "No, I am here to watch the swinging beauties."

     "And this is not the only reason you are here," put in Knoepfler. He fondled one of Julia’s perky breasts and she giggled.

     "Are you with…him?" Alex asked her incredulously.

     "Yes, I am with Eric," Julia replied simply.

     "You see, Alex," said Knoepfler. "I am a theoretician and a visionary; the brains behind the enterprise. But I can do squat with my hands. Who do you think built all my gizmos? Julia, that’s who! She’s got an engineering degree from MIT, and she is very handy and very smart!"

     Julia beamed with pleasure at the praise. Knoepfler leaned to her to receive a kiss, then continued, "There is something you need to understand, Miss Kowalski. The world famous Pink Bow Strangler is actually a team. It has been for years."

     Alex gaped at them in utter amazement. Only days ago, she questioned Julia Chang about the murder of her sister. Julia looked very distraught, cried convincingly, and seemed to be totally struck down by grief. So this was all playacting?

     Julia’s finger gently traced Knoepfler’s cheek. "Remember our very first hanging? Back when I was in college and we decided to get rid of my annoying roommate?"

     He nodded. "Yeah, we hung her in the shower. No complicated gadgetry then; just a couple of old-fashioned sleeping pills"

     "And look at us now!"

     "Yes, we’ve come a long way." They kissed again.

     "Last week was great," said Julia reflectively. "And my dear late sis was awesome. She lasted so long! Remember how she danced? And the way her legs moved? And her pussy – mmm… Wasn’t she beautiful?"

     "Yes she was!" cooed Knoepfler, "Oh, and remember the look on her face when she saw you in the end and realized that you were there all along? Priceless!"

     They both smiled at the pleasant memories.

     Julia turned to Alex. "You should consider yourself lucky," she said earnestly. "Dancing in the noose for Eric is a great honor. Ooh, how I envy you! But that’s all right; someday, I will dance for him too!" Her eyes glazed over. "I will do my best! I will take off all my clothes; I will climb a ladder; I will put my head through a noose and tighten the knot. I will stand like that for several minutes to let him appreciate how pathetic I am. I will tell him that girls like me deserve to be hung by their necks. And when he gives me his command, I will kick off the ladder and begin the happy dance. I’ll be twisting and kicking, for a long, long time. I will bite my tongue and wee myself. I will be so humiliated! And then I’ll die, and my naked corpse will dangle at the end of a rope… Yes. Someday, soon…"

     "But not yet," said Knoepfler when Julia fell silent "I still need you."

     Julia did not hear him. She was deeply immersed in her fantasy, which, judging by her erect nipples and quickened breath, was a major turn on for her.

     Knoepfler caught Alex stare dubiously at Julia. "Oh, don’t look at her like that! Yes, she dreams of being hanged. But so do all my girls – including you! The only thing that’s different about Julia is that she actually knows what she wants."

     "Will you hang her?" asked him Alex, just to keep the conversation going. She didn’t really care about the answer, but if she could manage to keep him talking, perhaps someone would find and rescue her. Not that she thought that was likely.

     He snorted. "Of course I’ll hang her. Why not? I am all for giving a girl her heart’s desire. I decided that Julia will be the star dancer at my retirement party." Seeing Alex’s skeptical expression, he said, "Yes, I am going to retire. I didn’t lie to you about that; I just wasn’t clear about the exact timing. Did I imply that I was going to go away after the last week? That was so careless of me! No; stringing up only four subjects is too small scale for such artist as myself; even ten or twelve is not nearly enough. The scale is too small! So, to mark the end of my stellar career, I am planning a truly extraordinary event. Oh, it is going to be a magnificent grand finale. Miss Chang will have more company than you can imagine." He flashed Alex a sly smile. "Pity you won’t be there to see it."

     He turned from Alex to shake his girlfriend out of her reverie. "Time to get started, hon."

     Julia got to her feet and peeled off her skirt and panties. She lay on her stomach with her head in Knoepfler’s lap. Still keeping her eyes on Alex, Julia pulled down Knoepfler’s boxers and began to stroke his cock.

     "Now, when I cum," Knoepfler was instructing her, "I don’t want my DNA flying around. Not even the littlest spillage – the plastic we are sitting on may have holes. So I have no choice but to cum deep inside you throat. You must swallow it all to the last drop! And remember, no coughing or accidental spitting."

     Julia inclined her head to indicate acknowledgement. She obviously heard this speech a million times before; this was simply one of those cozy little rituals that are shared by all loving couples. Alex wondered how many hangings the pair of them had witnessed. Several dozens? But she didn’t spend much time reflecting on this, because the one most important hanging in her own life was approaching all too soon.

     Knoepfler reached for the camera and pressed a few buttons. The blonde girl stood up, circled once around the chair, and took a position beside it. Alex spared a glance toward her intended hangwoman and was met with unblinking, almost reptilian stare. She instantly looked away.

     "This is it," Alex thought suddenly. "I am going to hang for real." Goose bumps crawled up her spine; the fear was back and getting stronger with each moment. Here she stood, naked and defenseless, about to provide horrible entertainment for two monsters, and there was nothing she could do.

     Like a puppet on a string.

     "Time for the last word," announced Knoepfler. Alex clamped her jaws but it turned that Knoepfler meant his last words, not hers.

     "First, I’d like to know that I will have enjoyed your dance," he informed her. "I am telling you this now because afterwards you’ll be in no condition to hear…Ah, that was good…" The last remark was in response to Julia, who, without taking her eyes off Alex, began to lick Knoepfler’s cock. This was yet another sign – as if Alex needed any more – that her hanging was only seconds away.

     "Second," continued Knoepfler, "In recognition of your service, I am giving you a gift. But I won’t tell you what it is. You will find out for yourself." His breath was becoming ragged, as Julia was getting even more aggressive with her tongue. "I hope you’ll like dancing for me as much as I’ll like watching you dance," he finished raspily.

     Still looking at Alex, Knoepfler reached blindly behind him, found the camera by touch, and pressed a button. The chubby blonde stirred. Moving much like a robot, the disposable hanggirl placed a foot against Alex’s chair and stopped, awaiting further command. Knoepfler hit another button. It happened very fast: one moment the chair was a solid surface under Alex’s feet; the next it lay on its side several feet away, and Alex—

     Alex was hanged.

        The noose squeezed her neck with more force that she ever thought possible. All her being suddenly concentrated in one narrow strip of skin and muscle that was being compressed, pulled, and torn savagely. It was as though the rope was trying to cut right through, to make the head completely separate from the top of the neck. The animal body reacted to this violence with much pointless motion: the torso bended and twisted erratically, the arms and the legs flew about, the muscles flexed and relaxed in total disorder. After standing on a chair like a statue, Alex regained the ability to move her limbs freely – for all the good this freedom was doing her now. But in a curious reversal, she could no longer move her head, not even a tiny bit. This was not due to any of Knoepfler’s mind compulsions but because of a simple physical fact. The noose was gripping her head in a steel vise.

     Despite the hellish pain, Alex was fully self-aware. She opened her eyes a slit – and immediately discovered that the world was permanently tilted to the right. It was also rotating; first one way and then the opposite. Alex watched a parade of disparate images going past her: the sky and the grass; the trees; a large house; a gazebo dotted with other hanging corpses; a little faraway man who was throat-fucking a little woman on top of a blue blanket. However, after three or four rotation cycles, Alex’s eyes filled with tears, and everything went blurry.

     Some time later – seconds? minutes? – the squeezing pain completely faded into background. Alex gradually became aware of other things. She felt her neck stretch; an awfully uncomfortable feeling. There was a salty, metallic taste in her mouth – had she bitten her tongue? If she had, she didn’t notice it happen. Her face was wet; streams of liquid were pouring from her eyes, nose, and mouth. But it was her lungs that bothered her the most. Alex made a mistake of inhaling a lungful just before she dropped, and now the stale air sat in her chest like an iron ball. Her body was making unconscious attempts to expel the air, but the noose, which by now had thoroughly crushed her windpipe, prevented any escape. Alex had heaved and strained her neck muscles with all her remaining strength; all to no effect, apart from triggering a new bout of frantic flailing.

     This did not last long. Soon, Alex stopped struggling and hung limply, not breathing and not moving, but only swaying slightly. Her face had turned into a numb mask. Her swollen tongue had become a rubbery sphere too large for her mouth. It would’ve fallen out, had the noose not locked her jaws. The extremities – hands, feet, even the breasts – felt as though they were swaddled in thick woolen cloth; an effect of pooling blood. But on the positive side, the burning in her chest had eased, and the heaviness, after all the attempts to force it out of her closed throat, was shifting the opposite way.

     It dropped down to her belly, where it started to churn within her guts like an extremely bad case of the butterflies in the stomach. An unbidden memory came to her mind – the memory of the time she was overcome by equally powerful attack of fluttering butterflies. She felt the same crazy blend of dread, desire, and anticipation of pain she experienced just before she allowed Enrique to pop her cherry. Just like then, she was very scared but at the same time very horny, and the awareness of having been hanged was somehow making these feelings even sharper.

     Right on cue, the heaviness in her tummy started to sink. It settled on top of her womb where it began to pulse steadily, pushing from inside all the sweet spots. A new sensation rose inside her, a result of a complex mixture of pain, sexual pleasure, and oxygen deprivation. Alex imagined herself in the hands of a giant lover, whose mighty fingers held her by the neck, squeezing the life out of her, but who, at the same time, was inflaming her deepest passions with skillful erotic caresses. Sometimes his attentions were like a wet tongue on her clit; sometimes like a monster cock in her pussy; but mostly, it was nothing like she ever knew before. Suddenly, being hanged naked made a lot of sense: who knew that hanging would be so much like sex? Gallows were Alex’s marriage bed and she writhed in the throes of sweet agony. An indescribable sensation that was more that mere orgasm went on in wave after powerful wave, getting stronger with each of her body’s paroxysm. In a rare lucid moment, Alex wondered if this was the essence of Knoepfler’s gift. Perhaps. Or perhaps not: what if it was something experienced by every hanged woman in history? Who could say; none of them were alive to answer that.

     The heavy load inside Alex’s pussy shifted down some more and now was lodged right behind her blood-engorged clit. The thing was pulsing ever more rapidly and began to get hotter with every moment. The orgasmic waves came closer and closer together until they turned into one constant, ever-rising flood. Alex’s muscles were rippling irregularly, making her shake and quiver like a dancing marionette. Her body was sweaty and bloated. Her womb felt like a steaming pressure cooker full of boiling water. Alex was right on the edge of a mighty climax; and had her throat not been closed by the noose, she would’ve cried out with lust. She parted her legs a measure, touched her quivering pussy with her thumb…, and was right over the edge. The flood had become a great tsunami that swallowed her whole; her body shuddered as though shocked with high voltage. The heavy thing that filled her pussy swelled to an incredible size and burst like a punctured water balloon. A burning stream of liquid poured out of her, scalding her inner thighs and soaking the ground beneath.

     By reflex, Alex arched her back and spread her legs even farther apart, as she forcefully ejected large quantities of steaming pee. She remained in this position until the last sluggish drop had trickled down her foot and fell on the grass below; then she slowly moved her legs back together and straightened her spine. She undid her fists and stretched her arms alongside her torso. One by one, her muscles relaxed; and her half-open eyes glazed over. Afterwards, she simply hung – motionlessly, without a tremble or a twitch. The only movement was the wind, which played lightly with her hair, beating it on one side against her pale shoulder and a bluish, puffed cheek.

     Alex appeared to be as utterly dead as all the corpses beside her. But she wasn’t, not yet. Somewhere deep inside, she still hung on to life by the thinnest of threads. She was still fully conscious and aware and could sense every part of her body. She could feel the wind on her bare skin; hear the rustle of tree leaves; she could even see a tiny patch of blue skies. True, she was unable to open her eyes more than a slit or move her eyeballs even a fraction, but the world that she did see appeared so bright through her dilated pupils. She felt no discomfort at all, as though hanging by the neck was the most natural thing in the world.

     Only the tiniest of echoes remained of her past emotions. Alex’s mind was clearer than ever, and she was thinking. She considered her situation and found it not so bad, though a little embarrassing. She remembered Knoepfler and his weird girlfriend and felt no malice toward them. She also thought about her police work and this last, unfinished case. It was up to Jack Lombardi now. Alex imagined his face, the eyes bulging in nasty surprise when he sees her naked, hanging body. What will he make of it? How he will explain other girls’ juices in her mouth? A delicious mystery, eh Jack? If Alex could move her lips, she would’ve smiled.

     She was getting colder and the light in her eyes was dimming. Was it evening already? Was she hanging that long? Or was it only her eyes, failing, and her body, freezing and stiffening? Presently she could no longer feel her heartbeat. Death was not far away.

     In her line of sight, she saw a murky shadow detach itself from the ground. The blonde hangwoman got to her feet. In each hand, the girl carried a pink, lacy object. She lifted her arms toward Alex’s exposed breasts, and at that moment, Alex’s vision finally failed and she saw no more.

     The last thing that Alex felt, before the darkness took her, was the piercing pain through her nipples.

      (August 2007 - August 2008)