JF Gonzalez - Fetish.wps by phuc

across her throat in a savage cut. Blood sprayed against the faded paint of the wall and a fountain splashed into the metal bucket as a small hiss escaped from her lips. His lust carried the blade through the flesh of her neck in one swoop, cutting through her larynx. Her body convulsed, spurning him on. He cut through the spine with a second cut, separating her head from her neck. Her body had contorted and convulsed wildly, blood gushing from her neck like a geyser, landing in the bucket. He had watched, breathed heavily, chest rising and falling with his excitement. He had lifted her head up, smiling amid his heavy breathing at the wide-eyed look of surprise and fear on her face. It appeared that she had regained consciousness just as he had drawn the blade across her throat. Her eyes had lighted on him, the pupils contracting as if in fear, her mouth opening as if in a scream and then the features froze. And remained that way.
    He had placed the head on the table and turned his attention to the body, which was still rocking and rolling with death spasms. He had lost himself in it for the next hour.
    Now as he sat with the headless corpse in his living room he realized that the chloride of lime he was using, and the refrigeration, was doing little to retard decomposition. It might be time to cut her up and dispose of her; the first woman had lasted quite a bit when he had dismembered her and stored the individual pieces in the refrigerator. Maybe this one would last longer if he did the same thing.
    He stood up and picked up the heavy wet form and carried it to the dungeon.
    Once there, he set the body on the rubber-covered rack. His breathing was slow and heavy now as he rummaged on the small table for the butcher knife. He gazed down lovingly at what remained of the woman that had come to call on him three months ago, ignoring the heavy rot of decay that wafted up to him. Then he set to work, brow furrowed in concentration as he separated her, everything he had been taught coming to him effortlessly.
    For the first time in over a month, her name came to his mind. “Rosie,” he said, breath coming in heavy pants.
    As euphoria set in he gathered her up, wrapped her up in the butcher paper that he kept in the room behind the dungeon, and put her in the refrigerator that he kept there. He arranged the pieces nicely, then paused to admire his handiwork. He smiled. She should last another few months. If he got more lime, she might even last another year.
    He closed the door, feeling light-headed and sleepy, and went to the living room.

Chapter 6
    Rachael Pearce sat in the front seat of Daryl Garcia's unmarked sedan as they cruised the area east of Downtown Los Angeles. In the backseat, a photographer from the Los Angeles Times , a bespectacled man in his mid-thirties named Lance Benatar, clutched his Nikon in his hands. She was glad Lance was with her. She had worked with him for the last five years, and he could get the best shots on spur-of-the-moment or threatening situations. He covered the 1992 riots with her, and the 1993 Malibu firestorms. He had an eye for detail, a great sense of timing, and he blended in well with the background of whatever scene they were at.
    Rachael glanced in her sideview mirror. They were being tailed by a black and white patrol car. When Daryl called her last night—two days after she had cornered him at Parker Center and taken him out to lunch—to tell her the news, he told her that they would be escorted to the Eighty-first Street bridge by four patrol cars and two unmarked cars. He was only able to get this amount of backup between the times of 12:45 and 2:00
    p.m. the following day. Knowing it was the only window of opportunity she had, she took it.
    She had called Lance that night at his home, told him the plans, then agreed to meet him in front of Parker Center at 12:15. Lance showed up, and fifteen minutes later they were in Daryl's car on their way.
    For the last ten minutes they