Act 1

Taking one last look at his handiwork, he flashed a satisfied smile at the tarp covering his latest victims. "Goodbye, bitches. You'll never laugh at me again," he sneered, then turned and walked quickly down the street.

He wished he could have taken a photo, but that would have been too dangerous, he thought as he got into his car. Besides, he didn't have time – he needed to get back to his apartment. There was work yet to do.

The first girl, Vicki, he thought she called herself, not that he cared what her name was, was fair-skinned, slim, and didn't put up much of a struggle. She went quietly, quickly, almost too quickly, and left him wanting more.

When he walked out of his bedroom to call the other one – Maria, it seemed – in, he tried to appear calm, relaxed. He gave her a smile as he announced it was time for her "audition." She would be stronger; the muscles in her arms and legs told him. She would give him a fight, the feisty look in her eyes said.

And she did...oh, she put up a glorious, violent fight, giving him the excitement he so wanted and needed. He took his time strangling her, enjoying the power, feeling her weaken as the life drained from her body, watching as the spark left her eyes.

When he was sure she was dead, he sat back, pleased, holding the silk stockings he'd used to take her life, the room heady with the smell of their perfumes mixed with their fear. He wished he could bottle it.

He stared at them for maybe thirty minutes, looking into their vacant eyes, still open and still scared, playing the scenes over and over and over in his mind.

At last he wrapped them in the tarp, hauled them to the basement of his building where his car was parked, loaded them in the trunk, and drove them to the most secluded spot he knew. He wanted them to make a good debut. After all, these murders marked his return to his art, and a good artist knew the importance of presenting his work well. A good artist knew the importance of good reviews.

He laid them next to each other, face up. They looked as if they were sunbathing, he decided, except for the red marks around their necks. He should have closed their eyes before they started to stiffen, but, he admitted, he loved the look on their faces too much.

Back at his apartment, he locked the door, and, leaning back against it, took a deep breath in...the scent was still there. He hated to lose it, but he had to clean up, get rid of whatever evidence might linger. He would just have to trust his memory to keep this moment forever...or until next time.

XXXXX

"Could traffic be any worse?" Don Flack grumbled as he navigated the Ford Taurus slowly down Houston Street toward the West Side Expressway.

His partner, Julia Brennan – Julie to her family and friends – snickered and glanced at him over her Raybans as she pulled her red hair back into a ponytail. "Its rush hour on a Friday, Donnie. What did you expect?"

"I've got the frickin' light and siren on," he replied, indignant. "I expect them to move the hell out of my way. We're not out for a Sunday drive – come on, people, move, damn it! We've got a crime scene to get to!"

Julie smiled to herself. Patience was not one of Flack's virtues – never had been, never would be. "We're in Manhattan, not Mayberry – we'll get there when we get there."

They crept along for a few more minutes, then she peered through the dirty windshield and pointed ahead to flashing lights and a group of blue suits. "Up there, on your right."

"I see 'em," he muttered as he turned into an empty lot and parked behind a marked NYPD sedan. "Let's go."

As Flack and Julie got out of the car he called to the youngest-looking cop on the scene. "What do we have, Jackson?"

"Two bodies," he answered, swallowing hard, clearly stunned by what he'd seen. "Women..."

"Women?" she pressed, wondering if he'd just graduated from the police academy. "Think you could be a little more descriptive?"

He shook his head and pointed to where two bodies lay partially hidden by a tarp. "See for yourself, ma'am."

She followed Flack to a dark, damp corner and winced. She'd been a homicide detective for ten years but still wasn't accustomed to the sights and smells of death. "Why do I get the feeling there are going to be serious bugs?" she asked hesitantly as she stood over her partner's shoulder.

Flack didn't answer but lifted one corner of the tarp and immediately dropped it, looking away. "Shit...yeah, I'd say those are serious bugs."

"Oh, God," she groaned, fighting the urge to vomit. "I hate the bugs. You know I hate the bugs."

He looked up at her. "You okay?"

"I will be," she sniffed, turning back to Officer Jackson. "Who found the body?"

Jackson consulted his notepad. "Guy over there – Clarence Henry. He's a custodian at the storage facility on the other side of the lot."

"I'll take him," Flack volunteered. "Back in a few."

"Fine – I'll wait here for CSI."

"No need to wait," Jackson offered. "They just pulled up."

Julie turned and saw Mac Taylor and Danny Messer approaching. Mac looked past her to the tarp. "What's up?"

"Serious maggot infestation," she groused, causing Messer to laugh.

"Sorry, Brennan. Should've let Flack handle the bodies."

"He was gagging too," she replied testily, getting a brief smile from Mac.

"Danny, get some shots of the tarp before we pull it," he commanded. "Julie, I'm gonna need your help."

"Damn," she sighed, taking the pair of latex gloves he was holding out to her. "I'll so kick Flack's ass for this."

"You're the senior detective – you should be doing the interview," he said, leaning in close.

She glared at him as she snapped on the gloves. "Point made. What do you want me to do?"

"Grab the end of the tarp and bring it up slowly and carefully – I don't want to lose any of the debris on top."

"And then what?"

"Hand it to the officers over here so I can get more photos," Messer said.

"Ready?" Mac asked. "On my count...one, two, three...lift."

A terrible stench, much worse than that which had assailed their nostrils when Flack lifted only a corner of the tarp, filled the air. They quickly passed it to the uniforms.

"They were strangled with nylons," Mac observed as he crouched next to the bodies, the scene seeming not to bother him. "Let's hope we can get DNA...."

Julie nodded, trying to follow his lead and focus. "Decomp looks like what? Thirty-six hours?"

"About." He nodded to two coroner's aides. "You can turn them."

Julie stood and turned her back, trying to quietly take deep breaths of fresh air. She felt Mac's eyes on her but he said nothing. When the coroner's aides had turned the bodies, she knelt down, and with an expression that gave no hint of her nausea, studied the scene with him. This was much easier; there were no maggots.

"Better?" he asked quietly, his eyes twinkling.

"Much," she replied. "Now...let's get on with this..."