Each victim had been sexually assaulted before being strangled to death, and their bodies had all been disposed of in dumpsters. He hadn’t left a trace of himself behind, and his victims had nothing in common- they were not of the same age or ethnic group, nor did they share any physical similarities like hair color, weight or figure, and they all had different occupations. When the FBI Profiler delivered “What we have here is a male, white, or black, perhaps maybe hispanic but probably white, between eighteen and forty-five years old, who rapes and murders women, all different types of women…” the police officers and special agents all stared blankly at him -he might as well have been addressing a school of mackerel.
Meanwhile, a blonde accountant was on the slab down at the morgue; she’d been found earlier that morning with one leg hanging out of a dumpster in the Strip District.
Eileen McClain slipped into the back seat and after making herself comfortable, she launched the PGH Singles website on her smartphone and eagerly checked her chat messages. To her delight, JimP, a man whom she’d been trading sexy messages with during her lunch breaks that week, was “ready when U R.” She sent him a winkie-face emoticon, and waited.
JimP wasted no time at all returned the volley, telling Eileen what he’d like to be doing to her.
She responded in-kind, giggling to herself as she typed.
It’s not that Eileen needed the Internet to help her meet men. She didn’t. She was a knockout with a bubbly, charming personality and she met new men all the time at the bars she frequented, the gym, through introductions by mutual friends here and there, or Hell, even the grocery store. She liked variety and she had an insatiable sexual appetite. PGH Singles was just another avenue and it afforded her not only the convenience of “auditioning” men ahead of time, but also the exciting diversion of trading lurid messages with them on her lunch break, which always broke up the monotony of a rough workday.
JimP had quite an imagination and Eileen was swooning over his dirty, 200 character-or-less erotic missives.
“OMG I have to meet you!” She typed, and then hit “Send!”
“LUV 2 baby!” Was JimP’s response.
“Tonight. The Belgian place on Penn, 7:30. Bring Viagra, ‘cause I’m gonna fuck your dick off, Jimmy!”
The howls of laughter that echoed from Brandon Stuckey’s bedroom in the basement of his parent’s house in the North Hills were audible for a mile in every direction. He and his three chums had been snickering together throughout the entirety of the conversation and Eileen’s Viagra quip pushed them all right over the cliff. They shouted “I’m gonna fuck your dick off, Jimmmmaaaay!” in unison and fell over, chortling.
Brandon and his merry band of idiots had just wrapped-up their Freshman year of high school. None of them had ever had a girlfriend, and their only insights into female sexuality had been gleaned from Internet porn. Imagine the impression Sasha Gray makes on an awkward fourteen year old boy when he watches her lick the rim of a dirty toilet bowl while gazing seductively at the camera. Posing as grown men and trolling chat websites like PGH Singles, exchanging dirty messages with lonely women and then arranging fake dates that would leave said lonely women a little lonelier and a little more dejected when they were inevitably stood up, was good fun for them.
Brandon had created the persona of JimP specifically for this kind of tomfoolery. The best part of it though, the capper, was that he’d carefully crafted the profile in exacting detail after his former Sunday School Teacher, one Mr. James (“Jim” to his friends) Peterson. He’d even used a real photograph of Jim for the profile picture. Brandon enjoyed the idea that one day Jim Peterson might just bump into one of the broads he and the gang had been chatting-up, perhaps at the supermarket or hey, how about at church while she was dropping off her son, and she’d remember him from the photo. Oh what a laugh that would be, right?
Eileen wore her favorite white blouse, a flattering little number which showed just enough cleavage to intrigue you but not so much that she looked like a whore, her black pencil skirt, and the red pumps she’d picked up at the mall a week earlier; the one’s she’d worn for Antonio the night before. She’d styled her blonde locks like Mamie Van Doren circa “Sex Kittens Go To College,” and she felt altogether sexy and quite confident in herself. JimP was already ten minutes late but she was unconcerned. She was a reasonable woman after all, and after some brief deliberation she decided that she’d give him until 8, and if he hadn’t arrived by then she’d chat-up the smartly-dressed executive who sat nearby, proposition him for a quickie in the alley (she’d been thinking about it since seeing him when she first walked into the bar), and do her best to salvage the evening.
That wouldn’t be necessary, though.
JimP, otherwise known as James (“Jim” to his friends) Peterson, Sunday School Teacher, also otherwise known as the man who the Pittsburgh Police, the State Police, and the Federal Bureau of Investigation would very-much like to have a word with, arrived at 7:48.
And who’s eye should he catch, the moment she swiveled on her barstool to scan the crowd?
“Jimmy!” Eileen exclaimed, flashing a big, bright smile. “There you are! I thought you’d never get here!”
Jim was not prepared for this, and gawked at the leggy, blonde knockout as she giddily bounced over to him. Nope, he was not prepared for Eileen at all. He’d had no intentions of hunting when he left work, the blonde accountant he’d taken the night before last had satiated his appetite nicely, for the time being of course. All he wanted to do that evening was to drink a beer or two and unwind after a less-than stellar day at the office, before heading home to Millie. And at the risk of stating the painfully obvious, for the sake of those of you who may have been half-assedly scanning the afore-written paragraphs and not paying enough attention, he had no clue whatsoever that he’d be Eileen’s date that evening, either…
…It was Brandon Stuckey’s wet dream come-true. Too bad he wasn’t there to witness it.
And there Eileen was, looking him up and down excitedly while squeezing his upper arms and giggling. “I’ve been thinking about you all day!”
Jim backed slowly away from Eileen, and stammered-out “Uh, if you wouldn’t mind excusing me for just one minute, I uh, I need to visit the restroom.”
She advanced, sidling on up to Jim in a gentle but firm manner, and while she pressed her belly against his hip and rubbed his chest over his sport coat she asked, coyly, “Aw Jimmy, you’re not going to play hard-to-get with me, are you?”
“I, uh… I… …No?” was all he could squeak out.
“Good!” she said with another giggle. “Walk, don’t run. I’ll be waiting right there at the bar for you when you’re done. Can I order you something?”
“I’ll order you a Heineken.” she said decisively, and flashed him another of her great-big, enthusiastic smiles.
Jim ambled his way through the bar, navigating the crowd and the mental fog of bewilderment, toward the men’s room.
The cold water met Jim’s face with a friendly, refreshing splash that cleared-up his mental logjam. He regarded his reflection in the mirror and began asking himself where the Hell he could’ve met Eileen previously, how the Hell could she have known who he was, why the Hell he had no idea who she was, and how the fuck she could have possibly come under the impression that he would be meeting her there that evening. And it didn’t take long for him to ask himself what was, of course, the most pressing question of all -one which, on that particular evening, surpassed even the greatest and most important of man’s inquiries like “Is there a God?” and “Where do we go when we die?”-
“Is this bitch a cop?”
…and the realization that the answer might very well be a resounding “Yessiree!” dawned upon him and tied his stomach up in a slipknot, and the more he mentally circled the idea, the tighter it got.
Jim had been careful during each of his many expeditions. He hadn’t left clues. He never drew an inordinate amount of attention to himself when selecting, and chatting-up, a victim. He did things like wear gloves and condoms. He obeyed the posted speed limit and came to a complete stop at every stop sign whilst transporting his victims. He strangled them to death with a ligature made from pantyhose that can be purchased at any drug store. He drove his van through the maze of city streets, making sure that he was never followed, to the dumpsters he’d thoroughly checked-out ahead of time. He only disposed of his victims during windows of time in which locals would be least-likely to observe him. He was a Sunday School Teacher, a pillar of the community if you will, and he couldn’t afford to be sloppy.
And yet, somehow, they were onto him. He didn’t know how, but they had to be. “Why else would they send that leggy piece of ass out here to meet me?” he thought to himself. “Maybe they don’t have all the pieces to solve the fucking jigsaw puzzle yet, but they’ve sure got a few! Enough to follow me, study my habits and stage a meeting just like this one to bring me in and ask me questions … Fuck!”
His heart was racing. The inner monologue was causing his adrenal gland to pump what felt like nitrous into his fuel mixture and when it hit his engine, whoo-whee, his pulse started redlining.
An ache in his jaw became evident, and it began to radiate insistently down the side of his neck and into his left shoulder.
Eileen was getting antsy. Jim had been in the men’s room for nearly ten minutes and unlike him, her last conquest -Antonio- hadn’t done much to satiate her appetite at all. She glanced at her watch and noticed a slight tremor in her hand. Her anticipation was approaching a zenith, and she didn’t know how much longer she could wait for the man who’d marveled her with his wildly vivid and erotic imagination, on PGH Singles.
Wait just a minute, hold on. JimP’s erotic imagination, his lurid and explicit fantasies; they were all spelled-out for Eileen in sticky, graphic detail. He’d described all manner of different scenarios, had he not? He wanted her to give him a hand job at the movies. He wanted to get it on with her in the back seat of her car, in the parking garage, on her lunch break. He wanted to tie her up and spank her. And how about the time he told her all about how he wanted to bend her ass over the sink and do her in the bathroom at the Consol Energy Center during a Penguins game? (Brandon Stuckey was a huge Pens fan.)
She’d gasped and swooned over all of those messages but man, that public restroom fantasy, wow! JimP sure knew how to push her buttons, didn’t he? And after further consideration, it didn’t take a huge leap of logic for Eileen to arrive at the conclusion that he wanted to fulfill that fantasy in particular, that very evening. It was obvious, wasn’t it?
“Well then!” she said, leaping up from her barstool. “We’re not at a Pens game, but here I come!”
Jim was having a great deal of difficulty breathing. He felt like a silverback gorilla was giving him a hug and wouldn’t let go. He didn’t notice the men’s room door swinging open just he was loosening the painfully tacky necktie that Millie and the kids had given him the previous Father’s Day. Eileen beheld him there, as he tore off his tie and fumbled at the top two buttons of his blue oxford shirt. He was heaving for breath. Jim looked up and seeing her, stopped cold. He couldn’t form words, and the fact that she’d started feverishly unbuttoning her blouse didn’t register with him at all, well, at least not in his conscious mind anyway.
“Perfect timing!” Eileen joyfully quipped, and sashayed over to him while he heaved violently for precious oxygen.
“Let me help you with that shirt, Jimmy” she cooed as she began to unbutton the rest of the buttons, pausing after each one to stroke his aching chest with her fingernails.
She pressed her belly against him and moaned “Oh Jimmy” gently, over and over, as she kissed his neck and his chin.
Under normal circumstances, a randy babe like Eileen conducting herself in this manner would drive him wild with a lustful and homicidal fury. But taking into account his current predicament, all he was able to manage was a rudimentarily serviceable erection, one which, I might add, he had absolutely no desire whatsoever to put to good use -and really, at the end of the day, who could blame him?
Eileen had engaged her sexual autopilot, and lost herself in the feeling of his body quaking uncontrollably against hers and the faint scent of his aftershave. Every tremor that issued forth from his fast expiring corpus spurred her on, and she kissed him harder.
Jim hadn’t slipped out of consciousness just yet, but he was still unable to fend her off as she maneuvered him into the stall while he gasped desperately to take-in enough air to choke out the words “Please no,” which of course, he couldn’t quite manage to do. His knees buckled, and he landed squarely on the toilet with Eileen in his lap. She pressed her bosom against his face, nearly smothering him while she hiked-up her skirt, and deftly worked at unbuckling his belt and opening his trousers.
The lights were growing dim for old Jimmy, but through eyes which in that moment showed pain and sheer terror he could still see her- wide-eyed, with that great, big, bright, winning smile, bouncing gleefully up and down in his lap while she shouted “Oh Jimmy, oh Jimmy yes!” between fits of joyful giggles. A bolt of lightning tore through his chest, just as that feeling of being hugged by a great ape felt so strong that he was positive his heart was being crushed. Eileen took no notice at all, and bounced up and down in his lap faster and harder as his body spasmed violently. The pain was unbearable and the horror was too much for his mind to comprehend. One more bolt of lightning in his chest and Jim Peterson was dead, with his pants around his ankles, and Eileen McClain in his lap, riding-out the last waves of what she would later describe as “a ridiculously amazing orgasm.”
Jim’s body slumped over toward the toilet paper dispenser, and Eileen paid him no mind at all as she dismounted him.
After a moment or two at the bathroom mirror to fix herself up, she was sashaying out of the restroom, saying casually over he shoulder “It was great meeting you, Jimmy! Message me tomorrow, I’d love to get together again, sometime!” as the door closed behind her.
After returning to her seat at the bar, her eyes fell on the smartly-dressed executive she’d spied earlier, and not another thought was given to JimP.
The police and the Federal Bureau of Investigation remain baffled.