Fatal Encounters, Chapter 21
by Irv Pliskin
Betty Louise sipped the champagne very carefully. She wrinkled her nose at the bubbles and made a pout at the tart taste of the dry wine.
“Well, tootsie,” he said, “How is that?”
“It's okay, but I wish you had had some Southern Comfort. That's my kinda drink, really.”
“I figured that might be the case,” he said. He reached in the brown paper bag and pulled out a pint of Southern Comfort. “How's this?” he asked,” is this the sweet crap you want to drink?”
“Ohh, yeah,” she said. “Did you really get that jest fer little ole me?”
“I figured you might be the Southern Comfort type, so i bought some just in case you might want it. Yeah, just for you.”
She walked to him, and put her arms around him and kissed him, pressing herself into him as hard as she could. He could feel her breasts, as she pushed against him. Her right hand snaked down and reached for his zipper.
“Ralph, oh Ralph” she said, “You are a very special man. I'll prove it to you. I am real grateful you walked into my booth tonight and that I broke the book store rules and agreed to come here and be with you. I sure don't know many guys who worry about a girl's likes like you do. You are very special,” she said. “Very special.”
She dropped to her knees, unbuckled his belt and pulled down his pants. “I'm gonna show you a time like you ain't never had before.
“You just wait,” she added. “I'm really gonna surprise you. I know things none of them feren gals in Iraq ever dreamt about. I'll show you, I will. ”
She stood up then, and deftly undressed him. Then in a few quick movements she, too, was completely naked. She took his arm, and drew him to the bed, lay down and pulled him towards her.
Some time later she looked up at him. “Well,” she said. “weren't that different from what you usually get?”
Carl had to agree. She was really something. “Yeah,” he said. “Pretty good for a country girl. . Where didja learn to screw like that?”
“I donno, I think it comes natural. When I was a littleun, growin up, my mom used to tell me how to do it. She was some kinda expert, I think. I learned a lot from her, I did. But you are good, too. You are pretty special in lots of ways, Ralphie. Man, you are a real treat.”
“Most guys” she said, “ ain't too good at screwing. They don't care none how a girl feels afterwards, especially a girl like me. They leave a girl hung up, you know. Especially them guys who think they're great, like those freaken truck drivers. They all think they're hot, and they don't know the first thing about it. Most of 'em are really lousy lovers.”
“How do you know?”
“I used to be a lot lizard. I screwed a lot of 'em in them sleeper cabs in the rigs. Whatcha do is hang around the truck stops, and pick them up. But they ain't no good in bed. Most of 'em just think they are. I'll tell ya that.”
Afterwards, when she got up to go to the bathroom Carl poured her another Southern Comfort and put three crushed sleeping tablets he had prepared much earlier, into her drink.
She drank it down and made no comment about the taste, so he was secure that the syrupy whiskey taste had masked the bitterness of the drug.
“Ya know,” she said, “all that foolin' around made me hungry. Didn’t you say you got some eats, too?”
“Yeah,” he pointed to the bags on the dresser. “Food's over there, go help yourself.”
She got out of bed and looked in the bags, took out a roll and some cold cuts and made herself a sandwich. “Ralph, honey? You want one too?”
“No. No thank you.”
He had poured her another drink of Southern Comfort, and slipped in an additional three crushed sleeping pills.
Munching her sandwich, she looked over at him. “Hey, she said, you like seeing me walk around like this dontcha? See, I can tell. Why you're getting ready again. Hold on, lemme finish this drink and I'll be right there.”
She put the glass down on the table and walked to the bed, put her arms around him, and pushed him down onto the mattress.
“That was great,” she said sounding a little slurred. “You know, I'm gettin' pretty sleepy. Would you care if I slept for a little bit, and then, we can do it again if you'd like.”
“No” he said. “I certainly don't care. Let me get you another drink, that will help you sleep better.”
He got out of bed, poured more Southern Comfort into the glass, sprinkled in what he guessed was three or four crushed-to-powder sleeping tablets and brought it to her. She was already drowsy, but she drank from the glass, and then fell back, sound asleep on the pillow.
When Carl was sure she was out cold, he pinched her. Her sole response was to push his hand away. He was ready.
He took two of the clear plastic bags out of the box and opened them. He slipped one inside the other. Then, when Betty Louise moved slightly, and her head was facing the ceiling, he put his hand under it, raised it up, and slipped it into the plastic bags.
He pulled the plastic bag down completely, tightened the drawstring, and then climbed astride her. He put his hands around her neck, squeezed.
She kicked, and bucked, and took deep breaths and he was vaguely aware that she woke up and was staring at him with an incredulous look through the plastic.
But it was too late.
She had neither the strength or the ability to resist and he held her until she finally spasmed, gave a deep final breath and died.
He experienced sexual release as she took her last tortured breath. It was unlike any climax he had had in months. He relaxed and had a feeling of total satisfaction. He decided that that experience was even better than watching them depart after a lethal shot. He enjoyed an almost spiritual feeling of power. Total power, complete control. After a few minutes of savoring the glow, while Betty Louise was still warm, he spread her legs and mounted her, screaming imprecations and curses at all of womankind.
Finished and spent, finally, he fell across the lifeless body. He lay there motionless for half an hour. Finally, he got up, slipped on his clothes and went to the drapery covered sliding glass door. He looked outside; it was very dark, and very quiet out there.
He came back, found her handbag, and rummaged through it looking for the car keys. He found them, and slid the room door open just a little and walked out to the battered Plymouth. The trunk was fairly empty. He pulled the trunk lid up and then took out the bulb that cast a feeble light. It was now complexly dark around the trunk.
He left the trunk open, checked to make sure there were no lights on in any of the rooms on that side of the hotel. It was completely dark as he expected it to be at that hour of the night. He came back into the room, picked up Betty Louise's nude body and carried it to the car trunk. He dropped her in the trunk, face up, and then adjusted her, so her head faced the front of the car, and her feet the back. He spread her legs as far as he could, hooking the bare feet under the rear light assemblies at the back of the car inside the trunk.
He checked her position until he was certain he was satisfied with it. He then lowered the trunk, but he did not close it. He went back to the room and got the vibrator from the bed where she had dropped it before she fell into her terminal sleep.
He came back to the car, wiped the vibrator clean of fingerprints with his handkerchief, and put it into Betty Louise, as if it were in use. He pushed the trunk down slowly and carefully, until it snapped shut.
“Good,” he muttered, “Now I have a few things more to do before I finish this up.” He pulled the keys from the trunk lock, and went back to the room.
He realized that he should have bought rubber gloves to make things easier for himself, but since he hadn't he took the two wash cloths from the hotel bathroom, and the sleazy, thin towel, and went to the car. He put the washcloth over the door handle and opened the driver's door. He didn't much care if they got his fingerprints or not, but why give them a really solid clue: let the stupid cops work for their leads to him. He felt certain he would be pretty far away when they made identification, if they ever did.
The cops might be able to identify him through DNA using his semen as a source of identification. But if they took the time to do that much work, it would no doubt just sit somewhere in some dusty records.
So far as he knew, there was no easy DNA network they could use for tracing culprits, as there was with fingerprints.
Carl got in the car, put the washcloths on the steering wheel, started the car, used the towel on the gearshift lever and drove out of the parking lot. He had no idea what to do with the car, with its unique trunk cargo.
The Adult Book Store was open twenty-four hours a day. The parking lot held a dozen cars in it, even at four in the morning. Carl decided that that would be as good a place as any to dump the car. It would be hidden, he felt, in plain sight, and since the place was just a short walk from the Day's Inn, it would be easy to get back to his room from there. He parked the car, and walked back to the hotel, now needing to sleep.
He felt certain that no one would be able to trace him instantly to the dead woman in the trunk. With any luck, it might be two or three days before anyone investigated the car in the row of cars parked in front of the store entrance. It might be that long, or even sooner. Carl was not quite sure how long it would take before the odor of decaying flesh permeated the area. If it got real bad, he thought, it would put a crimp in the bookstore's business, and that might not be a bad thing, not at all. After all, he said to himself with a righteous snicker, 'Those people cater to man's most prurient instincts. They can't be good for the area or the world. They lead to temptation, and that should be curtailed.'
There wasn't much to worry about, he was sure. He would tidy the hotel room up in the morning and use one of the plastic trash bags to take away anything and everything that might be in some way incriminating.
He undressed, pulled back the spread on the other, unused bed, and slipped beneath the sheet and the light blanket. He fell into a deep, dreamless sleep within minutes.
Carl awakened about ten in he morning. He was feeling pretty good, satiated and satisfied with his activities of the evening before.
He was also hungry. Very Hungry.
He recognized hunger as one of the responses he experienced after the high he got from killing women. When he ‘offed’ them in the Poconos, in his mansion he thought that the ravishing hunger came about because of the energy he expended in getting them ready to dump into the river. But apparently that guess was wrong. There was something in his system that triggered wild hunger no matter how he did them in. He considered that. It could be an interesting scientific paper: “Homicide and the Hunger response.”
Stupid idea. Who would print such a paper? Who would take it seriously, and besides, the research was not broad enough. You can’t write a scientific paper, Carl, based on one participant. He stopped speculating and turned to the need at hand.
He needed food.
He picked up he phone and called the desk.
“Is there a decent place around here to get something to eat?”
“Yes sir. There is a famous diner right up the street. It is called Padio’s and you can walk to it in just a few minutes. It is directly beyond the light, on the other side of the street. If you go out of our front door and look to the right, you can see it up there. It has pretty good food, sir.” “Thank you.” he said. And hung up.
He slipped into his clothes. He still had the scent of her on him, and he enjoyed that. He would put off showering it away as long as he could.
he might be able to wait several days.
He found the diner it was a big place, lots of glass, sparkling clean and even though it was early for lunch and late for breakfast, the place was full. He had to wait a few minutes for a comfortable booth so he could have his meal. The coffee the waitress served him was very good. He drank a couple of cups and ordered a big meal. He was feeling very fit and self satisfied.
Sandra Lee Olson earned pretty good money as a dancer, striptease person at the peep show. She had worked there for some time and was familiar and friendly with most of the other women who worked there as well. She was the Ginger’ on the daytime shift. She usually ended her workday at 6 in the evening. Those were the best working hours. She got the horny lunchtime crowd of men and the on the-way-home- to-dinner guys as well. That was when Betty Louse--in her mind the Alabama beauty Queen--took over and became the evening Ginger.
She and Betty Louise were good friends, and had partied together and entertained together from time to time. She was surprised when she pulled into the Employee parking section of the bookstore to see Betty Lousie’s beat up old Plymouth parked in the customer section.
For one thing, Betty Louise worked only until 2 AM. She should be home sleeping by now, since it was nearly lunchtime. Secondly, the car was parked in the wrong place. One of the company’s business rules was the dancers and the staff parked a short walk from the door. The business was built on traffic, and if the parking lot was full, that could cut down on the men stopping. Betty Louise knew better than to leave her car there where it could take up a spot a customer could use.
She looked at the Plymouth carefully as she walked past. It was Betty Louise’s, certainly. She knew it from the somewhat silly bumper sticker:
“Fooling around is family fun: if you get caught, abort!”
Sandra Lee walked into the bookstore and said to the clerk:
“Albert, where’s Betty Louise?”
“Beats me, honey. She’s not here now. She’s not due here for hours,” he lisped at her.
“Well, how come her car is parked outside in the customer’s lot? She has to be here, or something strange is going on.”
She picked the phone up and dialed Betty Louise’s home number. If she woke her up, she could get an explanation about the car. The phone rang through the six-ring cycle, and then the answering device cut in.
Betty Louise was obviously not at home. Sandra Lee began to feel some alarm. She went to the floor supervisor. There were always a couple of strong-arm men on the floor of the peepshow. Their job was to ‘police’ the area, make sure none of the customers got rowdy or too personal with the girls.
She was friendly with both men working the shift. She knew them quite well, in fact. Sandra Lee had shared her favors with both of them, from time to time, so they were always in her camp, always in debt to her. Always willing to help. “What the hell,” she thought “a quick screw never hurt her much, and it kept the guys in line.”
“Clifford’ she said to one of them, a six foot tall, muscle bound weight lifter who pumped iron for an hour every day of his life, “something strange is going on. Betty Louise’s car is parked out front. It’s in the customer lot. And she’s not here. She don’t answer her phone, either. Maybe we should check it out, dontcha think?”
“In the customer’s lot? She knows better than to leave her car there. Are you sure it’s hers?”
“Yeah, it has that stupid bumper sticker about abortion on it.”
“Oh sure. I remember.”
When Carl parked Betty Louise’s car, he decided that it would be smart to leave the keys in the ignition and the door unlocked. He was hopeful that someone would steal the heap, and take it far away on a joy ride before they opened the trunk. Keys in his possession were a hazard. He did not expect to be nabbed, but if he were caught and had strange keys in his possession, the cops would really search far and wide for the car they belonged to. So long as there was no body, he was in far less danger than he might be. But with the keys he was somewhat vulnerable. If he didn’t have them, they couldn’t trace them to him or trace him to the car and the dead body arranged so bizarrely in the trunk.
Clifford went out with Sandra Lee to look at the car. Clifford put his hand on the door handle, and pulled the door open. He looked in.
“Lookee here,” he said. “She left the keys in the car.”
“Oh my”, Sandra Lee said.” That’s not like her. I think something’s gotta be wrong.”
“What makes you think that?” Clifford asked. “Maybe somebody picked her up and she was so involved in that that she just forgot the keys. She could be off having lunch with some guy, or even a nice roll in the hay.” He leered when he said that.
“No, not her. Not Betty Louise. First of all, she is too sensible for that. Secondly, she needs her beauty sleep, and she is very careful to get as much sleep as she can get. No, something is wrong.”
“Women's intuition, huh? Well, I think I better get this car over to the employees parking lot. The boss sees it here I’m gonna get my ass in a sling.”
“Cliff, no. Don’t move the car. Leave it here. Let’s call the cops and have them check it out.”
“Ain’t it possible she ran off with some guy and got so excited that she just forgot.”
“Okay,” he said. “Let me check the trunk out, maybe she left her bag there, or something and that might give us an idea of what is going on.”
He took the keys from the ignition, walked to the trunk, opened it and glanced in.
He gagged, slammed the trunk down and shouted “Call 911.”
He moved to the side of the car, and was violently sick.
“Cliff, what’s wrong?” Sandra Lee asked. “What’s going on?”
“Go call 911, ask them to send cops,” he gasped. “Do it now, damnit.”
Sandra Lee was about to open the trunk and look for herself.
Clifford stopped her. “You don’t want to look.” he said. “Go call 911. Like I said.” And he was sick again.
Sandra Lee made the call, telling the 911 operator that there was some sort of problem at the bookstore parking lot. Within minutes a black and white police cruiser was there. Clifford having gained some composure waved them over to where he was.
A young cop sauntered out of the cruiser.
“You better check the trunk of this car officer,” Clifford said
The cop opened the trunk and looked in. He took one look and signaled his partner to come over and look too. “Rocco,” he called, “You gotta check this out.”
“Dear God,” he said crossing himself. “Do you know that woman?”
“Yeah,” Clifford said, “she works here.”
Rocco, looked into the trunk. He turned to his partner and said:
“Jimmy, have you ever seen anything like that before? Some real sicko did that.”
“Yeah i know Rocco. I’ll go over and call it in. Get the Lou out here and a detective. Pretty god damn strange.” He closed the trunk and went to his car where he picked up the police radio.
“Don’t touch nothing,” he said before he picked up his radio and called it in. Within minutes, the parking lot was crawling with police cars and police investigators.
By the time Carl had finished his breakfast and was ready to go back to the hotel, the parking lot was swarming with official vehicles. There was a crowd of people standing on the diner steps, looking across the street at the police activity.
Carl had to squeeze through a knot of people gawking at the bustling activity in the bookstore parking lot.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “What’s happening?”
No one seemed to know. Some of the people in the diner had crossed the street and were standing in the parking lot, trying to see what was going on. Cops were moving them out of the line of sight, making sure there was nothing for them to see.
Carl crossed the busy highway and mingled with the onlookers.
He heard one of the cops say. “That’s the weirdest thing I ever saw. Must be a Real sicko leaving the girl like that, with that thing stuck in her like that.”
Carl stood with the crowd of people watching for a few minutes.
An ambulance arrived, and he watched as the police tried to decide what to do with the dead woman in the trunk. Apparently rigor had set in, and it was difficult to get her legs together so she could be moved easily put in a body bag and on a gurney.
He decided he should move along,so he turned and walked to the hotel.
He began to wonder how they had found the car and the body so quickly.
He was still not at risk, he figured, but he wondered about it.
And then he wondered if perhaps, just perhaps, the silly bitch had told one of her coworkers that she had found a well heeled John and was going to meet him at the Day’s Inn parking lot.
If that were the case, as soon as the word was out, that person would be sure to tell the fuzz. That information would certainly be a valid lead for the cops, and and they would start to check, for real.
He decided he better move on, and quickly.
