The killer had gone to an all-male college. Although he was majoring in business studies and accounting he was also a performer in the campus amateur theatrical society which liked to put on light musical comedies and modern farces. Being an all-male school the men played the female roles.

It was during one such a production that his fetish began to intensify. The play was a nonsensical musical comedy in which he was playing the role of a school jock who is besotted by the head cheerleader. For most of the play the boy playing cheerleader is dressed in only in a little pleated skirt, leotard, and tights with big hair and heavy makeup. The boy playing the part of ‘Susan the cheerleader’ was slim and effeminate; perfect for the role. If the killer hadn’t known that it was an eighteen year old boy under the makeup and wig he would have sworn it was a young woman. It was easy for the killer to think of Susan only as a girl because she was so convincing.

The killer was raised in a very wealthy conservative household, hence his enrolment in the all-male college. His father wore suits and his mother wore dresses or skirts and blouses, never pants. She wore hosiery as a matter of course and high heels, full makeup and coiffed hair were the convention. Growing up he had sometimes seen his mother dressed only in her lingerie: pantyhose with high-cut satin panties worn over and a matching bra. He’d been fascinated by his mother’s smooth mound. He knew that hidden under the layers of satin and nylon was something forbidden, otherwise why would his mother go to such extremes to cover it up and to scowl at him if she saw him staring?

That mound had captivated him. The shiny nylon pantyhose stretched across his mother’s firm thighs, the little crinkles in the crease where her legs joined her torso, the smooth lustrous V-shaped satin covering her pubis. He knew that something wonderful existed under there, something forbidden. He’d sneak into his mother’s bathroom and caress the garments he found in her laundry hamper. He’d hold them to his face delighting in the feel of the delicate fabric and the scent of his mother’s perfume and something else… something musky and decadent.

He’d wrap the silky garments around his turgid member and masturbate into them, imagining that his cock was pressed against his mother’s satin-clad pubis.

When their housekeeper told his mother that she had found ejaculate in his mother’s underwear his mother knew immediately who the culprit was. She’d fired the maid and even though he was nearly a grown man she had put Mitch across her knees and spanked him until his buttocks were red raw.

There was one night when he’d come downstairs because he couldn’t sleep and heard his mother crying. He’d padded his way barefoot to his father’s drawing room to investigate the noise. His mother was on her back with her legs high, her dress rucked up. His father was between his mother’s legs, his trousers around his knees and he was thrusting against his mother who was whimpering and crying, but not in a bad way.

He’d stood in the doorway staring at his mother’s legs sheathed in sheer nylons, red nail-polished toes pointed to the ceiling while his father grunted and groaned between them. The look of alarm on his mother’s face when she saw him sent him racing back upstairs to bed.

His mother had pulled him from under his bedclothes and laid him across her lap and paddled his ass. All he could think about was the feeling of her silky nylons on his bare flesh as she beat his buttocks until they glowed pink and felt like fire. He knew that between her legs was that silken mound that had somehow attracted his father to the extent that he’d put his wife on the couch, pulled down his trousers and put his thing inside it.

After this episode he became more fascinated with his mother and was caught again and again by her spying on her and each time she put him across her knees and spanked him.

There was a scene in the play where they kissed. It was a superficial, fatuous scene where the footballer kissed the cheerleader and at first she welcomed his advances but then pushed him away, rejecting him. Their tutor Mr Fabisher, who all the boys suspected was gay, told them it was ok if they just air-kissed or if he kissed Susan’s cheek.

They could both feel the tension whenever they rehearsed the scene. At first his lips brushed Susan’s cheek while he held her at arm’s distance. They both agreed that it was unconvincing so he held her closer, at first awkwardly, but soon her tiny body seemed to fit perfectly against his when he held her.

They both knew. They never spoke about it or admitted it but they both knew immediately that they were attracted to each other. Why else would they need to run-through the scene continuously and then agree to dress-rehearse the scene repeatedly alone in Susan’s dorm. She was always Susan, never Grant, the boy whose body Susan inhabited.

The killer could recall their first fumbling embraces, neither of them willing to admit what they felt for each other. He recalled his lips brushing her soft cheek, the feel of her soft body pressed against his, his lips moving to the side of her mouth, feeling her tremble when they did. He recalled the first time they kissed properly, his lips closing over hers, the taste of her lipstick, the scent of her perfume, which she really didn’t need to wear for the role. Then the day she opened her lips tentatively and he slipped his tongue into her sweet mouth, her arms around his neck, her body pressed against his, standing on tippy-toe in her high heels. Why was she wearing high heels with a cheerleader’s costume? He didn’t care.

He recalled the first time Susan's hand brushed against his cock. They had both pretended it was an accident but the next time they rehearsed in private his hand ‘accidently’ glided across her mound; the feel of the hem of her little skirt on his wrist, the caress of her tight smooth lycra-clad mound and her soft silky gossamer-clad thighs on his fingertips.

Susan had gasped into his mouth and he had pulled her tighter into his embrace. She made no pretence of it being accidental when Susan gripped his cock through his pants and squeezed it. He ejaculated into his trousers whispering obscenities into her sweet mouth. The next time, at his insistence, Susan had taken it out and stroked it while his fingers caressed her pubic mound. He could feel the heat coming from the thing between her legs but as long as it stayed safely tucked away it didn’t matter.

That time his seed had spattered across her belly and she had trembled in his arms whispering endearments into his mouth as he kissed her. Then came the time she allowed him to guide her to the bed and lie on top of her. She’d helped him undress, neither of them caring to admit that what they were doing had nothing to do with their characters in the play. The first time he had pressed his cock against her mound and she had locked her legs around him, encouraging him to rut against her. He suspected that she had ejaculated into her tights but he didn’t want to know.

Then the time she rolled over and unsnapped the clasps on the crotch of her leotard and pulled down her tights exposing her soft buttocks. It was Susan who had taken him in her fingers and guided his throbbing manhood into the cleft between her cheeks and pressed it to her puckered sphincter. It was Susan who had pushed back against him so that his cock slipped into her pre-greased hole like a knife through butter. The killer had felt the warm moist flesh of her anus envelope his cock and had experienced the most intense orgasm he had ever felt as he gripped her thighs and pulled her ass against his body so could empty every single sperm into her.

The next time she had lay on her back with a pillow under her. He liked this better because it was more like she was a woman. He recalled the images of his father lying between his mother’s legs. He liked it because he could kiss her while he fucked her, she could wrap her legs around his and he could gaze into her pretty eyes enhanced by her colourful eyeshadow, mascaraed eyelashes and eyeliner. He insisted that she keep on her tights and panties and keep herself tucked. He’d make a little cock-sized hole in her tights so he could fuck her tight little ass.

Susan was his. She was his lover, his sweetheart, his mistress and his whore. He never wanted to see her undressed without her wig and her makeup, her male counterpart did not exist. He certainly did not want to see the repugnant thing she kept taped between her legs.

Then one day she had ruined everything. She had let it spring free and tried to guide his hand to it. He told her it was disgusting and repellent and that he didn’t want to see it never mind touch it. She’d told him that he was a hypocrite. That she didn’t mind him pretending that she was girl but not touching her genitals was unreasonable and tormenting given that she gladly offered him her mouth and her anus.

They argued. They fought. Lucky for him their raised voices were not heard over the loud music and cacophony of booming male voices coming from the other rooms in the dormitory.

He entered a fugue, coming out of it to find Susan lying dead on the bed with her legs spread wide, her skirt hiked up and his drying semen on her panty-clad pubis and nylon-sheathed thighs. Her neck was red-raw, the marks of his fingers evident, his hands stung where she had scratched him during the struggle. Later that night when the dorm was quiet he had lifted Susan into his arms and carried her out to nearby woods where he had put the noose around her neck and put the end of the rope over the branch of an elm tree. His muscles had burned as he hauled her up and tied off the rope.

He’d tried his best to wipe away any evidence on her body; he didn’t leave any footprints because of the soft mat of dead leaves on the forest floor.

He was euphoric when Susan’s death was ruled a suicide. He never thought of Susan’s male persona, she was only ever Susan to him. So when the other boys talked about Grant’s suicide it felt as if they were talking about someone that he didn’t know.

So he rationalised the killing that way. He tucked it away, deep in his subconscious. He tried as hard as he could to supress his fetish, to drive it away. He concentrated on his studies and then on work. After graduating he did a three-year stint in the Army because all of the men in his family had served and it was expected. He served as a logistics officer and completed a deployment to the Middle East, leaving the Army with an honourable discharge. He started working at an accountancy firm where he dated the pretty office girls but they never stayed with him for long. They found his fascination with their panty-clad mound pubic mounds and insistence they keep on their nylons and panties during sex a little freaky.

He moved frequently until years later he found his dream job. He was managing a bar in Balwyn Texas called Ride em’ Cowgirl where every day he was surrounded by beautiful men-women who wore provocative costumes as a matter of course. Even his boss was a beautiful trans-woman.

He let his fantasies run wild but he never acted them out until he was finally overcome with the urge to find release. He was smart enough not to engage with any of the girls who worked at the club, they just fuelled his fire. He sated his lust with professional ‘ladies’ but the memories of Susan slowly crawled out of the hole in his brain where he had buried her and eventually he had no choice but give in to his primal urges. He called them tranny whores, he raged at their lifeless bodies, he shouted obscenities at their corpses after he had finished with them.

Including Susan, Mitch Freeman had so far killed only three of the special girls that were his addiction but he knew that he couldn’t stop. He would kill more.

*****

Steve pulled up to the curb outside his apartment block and sprung the locks on the car doors. Wendy Beaumont lifted herself up from the tiled steps like she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. She was wearing a denim skirt and matching jacket with a flannel shirt, matte black tights and low cut high heeled ankle boots. The blue denim she was wearing accentuated her flaming red hair.

Wendy opened the passenger door and leaned in. Her heavy eye makeup had run down her cheeks. She had been crying. She was wearing some sort of exotic perfume that excited him, even though it was inappropriate.

“What are you doing here?” Steve asked the obvious question.

“I’ve been to Police Plaza every day but they won’t tell me anything. They say I’m not related to April and because the investigation is ongoing they wouldn’t tell me anything anyway,” Wendy’s voice was hoarse from crying and smoking too many cigarettes.

“Did you call Alice?” Steve asked.

Wendy shrugged.

“She put me onto someone called Penelope Bishop who gave me the same line I got from Police Plaza,” Wendy produced a battered pack of Marlboro Menthols from her pocket.

When she saw that it was empty she crumpled it and dropped it in the gutter.

“You know you can be fined for littering,” Steve tried to make light of the situation.

“Arrest me,” Wendy forced a smile which lit up her face.

“Go home Wendy. I promise I’ll call tomorrow and update you,” Steve tried to suppress a yawn.

“I don’t want to go home. Everything there reminds me of April,” Wendy mumbled.

Steve paused and contemplated what he should do.

“Get it,” he finally conceded.

Wendy slid into the seat, her skirt riding high on her thighs. Steve couldn’t help but look and she saw him looking and he snapped his eyes away.

“I don’t wanna go home,” Wendy pouted.

“I’m not taking you home but I’m not parking on the street,” Steve stared ahead, already regretting his decision.

He drove around the block and entered the underground car park and parked in his assigned place. He opened the door for Wendy and helped her out of the car, his eyes once again drifting to her firm thighs sheathed in the black matte tights. Wendy knew he was looking but she said nothing and didn’t look at him. He guided her to the elevator and used his pass card to activate it.

“Nice place,” Wendy whistled as she strode around the open-plan lounge room softly touching the tchotchkes and baubles that Felicity liked to collect.

She ran her hand along the back of the white leather sofa and Steve once again noticed her chipped acrylic fingernails, the red nailpolish pared back to halfway along the nail.

“Take a seat and I’ll make us some coffee. I’ll update you on the case then I’m calling a taxi or an Uber to take you home,” Steve said from the kitchen where he was fussing with the coffee maker.

“You got anything harder?” Wendy asked, sitting herself down on the couch and pulling off her boots.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s late,” Steve replied snapping the little button to turn the coffee maker on.

“They took April’s laptop and Penelope asked me about Alan,” Wendy picked up the current edition of Vogue off the coffee table and fanned the pages without really looking at them.

“You mean Alan Wright? The man who performed with April on her OnlyFans,” Steve found cups, cream and sugar and put them on a tray.

Wendy didn’t answer; she didn’t need to.

“Penelope eventually found him in Wisconsin visiting his mother; he’s been ruled out as a suspect,” Steve continued.

“Alan wouldn’t hurt a fly. He just likes to fuck us but he’s friendly too… a real fuck buddy,” Wendy dropped the magazine back on the table.

Steve wasn’t fazed by Wendy’s profanity but he did pick up that Wendy had used the word ‘us’, implying that Steve was the lover of them both.

He carried the tray over to the couch and put in the table. He’d put two tumblers of scotch on the tray alongside the coffee.

“I thought you said it was too late,” Wendy said, picking up the scotch and ignoring the coffee.

Steve just shrugged and took a sip of his scotch and then picked up his coffee. Wendy had curled her legs under herself and was sitting on the couch just like she had when he had interviewed her in her apartment. She’d made no effort to smooth out her denim skirt and her legs were openly on display. Steve wasn't sure if this was done purposely or she just didn’t care.

“I’ll be honest with you we haven’t made as much progress as I would have liked with the case. We have a ton of forensic evidence but we don’t have a viable suspect to match it against,” Steve explained.

“We’re working through a list of men who solicited April’s services from her OnlyFans but it’s difficult, some of them used blocked numbers or anonymous email accounts set up specifically for that purpose,” Steve admitted.

“There’s a lot of so-called straight guys out there who wanna fuck a tranny,” Wendy swallowed the last of her scotch.

“Sorry I shouldn’t have said that, it’s disrespectful to April,” Wendy sighed.

She eased herself off the couch and went into the kitchen and found the bottle of scotch and brought it back to the couch and settled back into it, pouring herself a hefty slug. She held the bottle out to Steve and gave him a questioning look.

“No thanks,” he finished his coffee and poured another cup.

“And to you,” Wendy said, her voice flat.

“What?” Steve at first didn’t understand what she meant.

Wendy nodded to a life-size framed poster of Felicity Goodnite dressed in her best eleganza. She looked radiant and was wearing a jewelled crown and holding a sceptre having just won a pageant title.

“I know her. She was all April could talk about that last week before… before she died. She was so excited that she was going to work at the club owned by Felicity Goodnite,” Wendy downed her drink and made to pour another.

Steve reached across and put his hand over the glass.

“Just one more; then I’ll go,” Wendy said.

Steve nodded.

“You didn’t say,” Wendy said not looking at him as she poured her drink.

“I didn’t say what?” Steve was nonplussed.

“You let me explain to you about April’s drag like you were some novice and all the time you’re living with…” she nodded at the poster.

“I don’t make a habit of sharing my personal life with potential witnesses to a crime,” Steve said a little harshly.

“But here we are,” Wendy sighed.

“Yes, here we are,” Steve sighed too.

“Do you have anything positive?” Wendy steered the conversation back to April’s murder.

“We have something else. I wouldn’t say it’s positive but it’s linked,” Steve said tentatively.

“Go on,” Wendy looked at him intently.

Steve took a beat to study her face which was surrounded by a shock of red hair. Her bangs came down over her wide blue eyes, her nose was a little too big and crooked, and her pale skin was sprinkled with freckles, her lips were full, remnants of her pink lipstick in the corners of her mouth. She was by no means a beauty but she was uniquely alluring.

“There has been another murder. It will likely make tomorrow’s news cycle. It’s the same guy,” Steve said solemnly.

Wendy reached out and squeezed Steve’s wrist.

“You’re certain?” Wendy drilled her gaze into Steve’s eyes.

“Yes we’re certain. Same signatures, same fingerprints, some other stuff that I can’t tell you and we’re waiting for a DNA match but it’s him,” Steve said.

“And the victim?” Wendy asked expectantly.

“Trans woman prostitute,” Steve didn’t go into the specifics.

“Jeeze. Oh my god! Is there a serial killer out there?” Wendy sounded genuinely frightened.

“We aren’t saying that and technically a killer isn’t serial until he had killed three victims,” Steve blurted and instantly regretted saying it.

“Anyway you don’t fit his victim profile,” Steve realised he’d just made it worse.

“But he’s a killer! What if he knows where April lived? What if he comes there for some reason… I don’t know looking for evidence or something?” Wendy sounded paranoid but Steve understood.

“You can stay here tonight but I’m not sleeping on the couch,” Steve volunteered, a little angrily.

“Don’t bother!” Wendy recognised Steve's begrudging tone.

She tried to get up off the couch and stumbled back onto it.

“You’re staying here,” Steve said, determination evident in his inflection.

Wendy looked up at him with her panda eyes.

“I always was a cheap drunk,” she mumbled.

Steve moved her to a lounge chair while he pushed the coffee table out of the way and pulled out the sofa-bed which was already made up. They didn’t have a second bedroom and Felicity had the white leather sofa-bed custom made for such eventualities.

Steve pulled down the covers and turned on a table lamp beside the bed which he dimmed right down to a pool of pale yellow. He turned off the overhead lights.

“You can sleep here tonight. I’ll bring out a towel and some toiletries tomorrow morning,” Steve said.

Wendy was already on her feet. She had peeled off her jacket and shirt and was in the process of removing her skirt.

“I’ll leave you to it. Goodnight Wendy,” Steve said and hurriedly left the room.

Steve was awakened about an hour later by the rustle of the sheets and then the perception of someone climbing into his bed. Wendy scooted across the big bed and spooned him. He could feel her soft breath on his shoulder, her hair tickled his neck, he smelled her beguiling perfume. Her breasts were soft pillows pressed into his back and she put one leg over his as she snuggled against him. She was still wearing her tights and the smooth lycra caressed his sensitive skin.

“This is a bad idea,” Steve whispered into the dark.

“I don’t want to be alone. I just want you to comfort me; I don’t want your babies,” her breathing was heavy, her breath like a zephyr on his shoulder.

“We shouldn’t. My partner nearly lost her job for doing this; her husband left her,” Steve murmured.

“Would Felicity leave you if she found out?” Wendy rested her head on his shoulder.

Steve remained silent.

“Would she?” she nipped his ear and he flinched.

“We have an arrangement,” Steve hissed; a little angry.

“An open marriage?” her hand slid along his belly and found him hard.

She squeezed and Steve gasped.

“Something like that,” Steve sighed and rolled over.

Wendy smiled at him and squeezed him again.

“This is a bad idea,” Steve began to say again but Wendy’s lips were on his and the words got lost as he reached for her.

He pulled her close and kissed her. Her body was so different to Felicity’s. Wendy was wide hipped and she had broad shoulders, her breasts were matronly, she had a little pot belly, her skin was so soft; she felt bigger. There was more of her to hold, to explore. Her areolas were huge and her nipples were as big as blackberries when he suckled on them. Wendy cradled his head and cooed.

His mouth moved down to her belly and Wendy lay on her back as Steve kissed and licked her midriff, exploring her belly-button with his tongue. He could smell her sex. Steve hadn't had sex with a genetic woman for a long while and the difference between Wendy and Felicity’s genitalia was enticing. He nuzzled her belly and tweaked a nipple with one hand while his other traced the outline of her sex through her tights.

Wendy moaned and her body shuddered. She entwined her fingers in his hair.

Steve’s mouth travelled down to the crease at the top of her leg where he used his tongue a little before moving towards her sex.

“No! I stink! I haven’t washed since this morning,” she yanked on his hair.

Steve pressed on anyway and his tongue traced the outline of Wendy’s labia through the sheer tights.

She did stink. But it was a good stink: the pungent musky smell of womanhood that Steve hadn't smelled for quite some time. When he tore open the crotch of her tights and put his mouth on her cunt Wendy groaned. He opened her labia and his tongue found her clitoris. He lapped at the sensitive nubbin, hardly touching it. Wendy’s fingers twisted in his scalp pushing his face into her pubis. She was no longer embarrassed by her smell; she wanted Steve to use his mouth on her.

Steve slid a finger then another into Wendy’s gaping wet vagina while he suckled her clitoris, putting his whole mouth over it and using the tip of his tongue on the little pink protuberance. Wendy’s feet drummed on the bed as a mighty orgasm swept over her.

Steve rode the orgasm along with her, using his mouth, his fingers and his tongue to evoke a shattering climax as Wendy writhed on the bed, moaning and squealing, her fingers pulling painfully on his scalp.

When she began to descend from the plateaux of her orgasm Steve slipped his fingers out of her and began to snake up her body.

He lay on top of her and kissed her, driving his tongue into her mouth at the same time as he drove his cock into her sodden minge. Her cunt was hot, fleshy and buttery and enveloped his pulsing iron-hard cock. She wrapped her arms around him and lifted her legs, clamping them around his torso.

Steve put his hands under Wendy’s buttocks and gripped them, squeezing them as he drove his cock in and out of her steaming cunt. His body crushed her fat breasts, her nipples like ripe berries against his flesh. She moaned into his mouth and cycled her legs against his flanks, her silky slippery tights triggering the delicate nerves which amplified the pleasure he was feeling from her fleshy vagina clenching his cock. Her lips and tongue worked his mouth.

He dug his fingers into her buttocks so hard that her tights ripped as he drove his cock all the way inside her and ejaculated. Wendy pushed her pelvis up and ground her pubis against him, her cunt quivering, milking him of his seed, her vaginal juices flowing freely as she too climaxed.

It was hot, messy, stinky, violent sex and it was what they both needed.

Neither said anything as Steve finally lay still on top of Wendy gasping as he recovered from the earth-shattering climax. Wendy stroked his sweat-soaked hair with one hand and held him close with another. Their bodies were stuck together by sweat and sex juices. Steve fell asleep on top of her and Wendy gently rolled him off, pulled up the covers and snuggled up to him.

They both slept dreamlessly for the rest of the night.

Steve woke up to find Wendy standing at the edge of the bed. She was freshly showered and she smelled of expensive soap and perfume.

“I used Felicity’s makeup and borrowed some pantyhose. She has so much lingerie in that walk-in robe that I’m sure she won’t miss one pair,” Wendy smiled down at him.

She had her purse slung over her shoulder ready to leave.

“So you’re going to replace the pantyhose then, because you only borrowed them?” Steve tried to keep things light.

In the morning light Wendy’s unique beauty was more evident. The fresh makeup and shampooed hair had taken away the haggard look she’d had last night. Her legs were at eye-level. She was wearing flesh-toned shiny dance tights and Steve felt a stirring in his groin but he knew that pulling Wendy onto the bed would be an even worse mistake than last night had been.

“Thanks for last night… I just didn’t want to be alone,” Wendy sighed.

“Look… I’m sorry if I took advantage, I…” Steve stuttered and Wendy shut him down by bending over and kissing him on the lips.

“If anything, I took advantage of you. Get up. Go to work. Go and find out who killed my girl and arrest him,” she leaned down and rubbed her lipstick from his mouth.

Steve watched her ass in the little denim skirt as she walked to the bedroom door. He heard her heels click-clack on the Scandinavian pine then the front door open and close.

He climbed out of bed and ripped the sheets and pillowcases off the bed and dragged them to the laundry. He got the washer going then he went over to Felicity’s vanity table. He cleaned the used makeup brushes on Kleenex and put them back in their little crystal cup, he put the cap on a tube of lipstick and closed the cosmetics cases that Wendy had left open. He reached into the little tidy beside the table and removed the empty package of Weissman shimmer tights. He would throw the packaging in the trash on the way to work.

One of the rules of their open marriage was that they didn’t fuck other people in their home.

Steve had broken two cardinal rules.

*****

In the Task Force office Penelope and Alice were ready for the morning update. Gary Rasmussen had decided to attend and sat at Steve’s desk broodily drinking coffee. Steve knew better than to ask him to move. Alice Leasingham began the briefing.

“The DNA at the Park Services hut and the Abacha Motel are a match. Still no correlation in any of the State and Federal DNA and fingerprint databases,” Alice took a deep breath and continued.

“The signature appears to be the same. The perp has anal sex with the victim; there is nothing to indicate that the sex is non-consensual, he strangles the victim from behind, in both cases using a pair of L'eggs Everyday Regular pantyhose which we are assuming he brings to the crime scene.”

“In both cases it is evident that he also ejaculates on their clothed bodies post mortem. In the case of Loretta Dubbin it would appear that he interfered with the corpse sexually multiple times before he left the crime scene,” Alice completed her brief and sat down.

Penelope stood up and approached the crime wall.

She was wearing a charcoal short-skirted power suit, white blouse, tan hosiery and heels. Her makeup as usual was on the heavy side and Steve studied her for any sign of hangover but she seemed bright-eyed and sharp.

“The burned-out SUV found at the quarry is a positive match for the tire tracks found in Battersea Park. There was no other useful evidence obtained from the wreck. I’ll get Jaylene Foster to confirm it was the same make and model used by our suspect to pick up Loretta on Bridge Street when she comes in today to work with our sketch artist on the facial composite,” Penelope pointed to the relevant pictures and notes on the crime wall.

“So far Jaylene Foster is our strongest lead. We’ve interviewed everyone listed in the Abacha Motel guest register on the day of April’s murder and drawn a blank. I interviewed Wendy Beaumont, April’s flatmate, and she was very forthright but not very helpful,” Penelope looked over Steve’s way and he blushed.

She couldn’t know about last night, Steve thought.

“The man having sex with April on her OnlyFans, Alan Wright, has an iron-clad alibi but we’ve asked the Wisconsin Staties to get a DNA sample anyway. The clients from April’s OnlyFans have been, shall we say, a little reluctant to talk to us but we have ascertained that April used the Abacha Motel on at least four other occasions for her liaisons and this was confirmed by the clerk who took cash and didn’t enter her details in the register,” Penelope read from her notes.

“So far all of the clients we have located have alibis, there are still a significant number of clients who used blocked numbers and once-only email accounts to solicit April Summers and I doubt we will find them all.”

“The pings from the Battersea Park cell tower linked to the burner phone used to solicit April before she was killed link the perp from Loretta Dubbin murder to the April Summers murder, I think we are wasting scarce resources chasing down anymore OnlyFans clients.”

“Our best bet is to get a composite drawing and description from Jaylene Foster when she comes in this morning and try to work the evidence that links the cases,” Penelope sat down, smoothing her skirt under her and crossing her legs which drew the male gaze of Steve Edwards and Gary Rasmussen.

Steve stood up and cleared his throat.

“Chief, there is no doubt in my mind that the same perp killed both April Summers and Loretta Dubbin. He’s preying on transsexual prostitutes, at least for now. There being only two murders that we know about we can’t be certain of his MO. I’m going to issue a state-wide bulletin requesting the details of any unsolved murders involving trans women where the same or similar signatures are evident,” Steve announced.

“Now hold on a minute Steve. As soon as you do that tongues are going to wag. We can’t be absolutely certain that this guy is still operating in our jurisdiction, that he’s even still in the state for that matter,” Gary held up his hand like a stop sign.

“Chief, we need to warn all of the trans sex workers, in fact probably the whole of the trans community, that there is a killer out there targeting them,” Steve said heatedly.

“No one has said serial yet!” Gary banged the table.

“Chief we have deliberately shied away from using the words serial killer but if it looks like a duck, swims like a duck, and quacks like a duck, then it probably is a duck,” Steve rose to his feet.

Gary was seething. He knew that Steve was right but the political hierarchy were pressuring him to play down the significance of the murders. As far as they were concerned it was just two tranny hookers and their deaths were not significant.

Gary looked at Penelope who nodded and then at Alice who also nodded.

“Fuck it! Put out your state-wide request for assistance and get the composite out to the trans community and warn them, especially the sex workers. But no fucking press! No fucking publicity! Do it on the QT,” Gary picked up his coffee and headed for the door.

*****

Mitch Freeman had been rightly pissed when Felicity Benson hooked up with Steve Edwards. She had fired Mitch and given his job to Steve. That is Mitch had been pissed but also relieved. He was pissed because managing Ride em’ Cowgirl had been his dream job surrounded by beautiful drag queens who fired his imagination. The club’s financials weren’t that difficult to manage: wages, profit and losses, property administration, asset management, hiring and firing the servers, cooks and bartenders, security and of course taxes.

Mitch was relieved because being around those gorgeous drag queens fuelled his fantasies. Felicity managed that side of the business: finding and auditioning the talent, engaging with choreographers, DJs, lighting technicians, stage managers and costume designers. Anything to do with the drag performances was managed by Felicity and her assistant Panti Down. But Steve was still around the girls periphery, watching them, lusting after them.

Mitch had a rule that he would never use the services of any of the girls who worked at the club. When he sought out those special women who offered their services online he meticulously checked their pictures against the girls who worked at the club. He’d often visit the bigger cities to find those special women there to service his needs or if he couldn’t wait he’d pick up a girl off Bridge Street.

April Summers had been a mistake and he knew it. He’d subscribed to her OnlyFans and become besotted with her. He’d been careful, he’d used a VPN, used a bogus email account and being an accountant he knew how to pay for services online without it being traced. He’d used a cheap burner phone to make contact with her and set up the rendezvous at the Abacha Motel.

She’d selected the location but he’d surveilled the place before the meet and was content that there were no security cameras and that it was the kind of place where people minded their own business. He was confident that he could do what he desperately wanted to do and get away with it.

He’d lied to himself. Said to himself that killing April Summers had been an impulse, even though he had purchased the eight-pack of L'eggs Everyday Regular pantyhose at Walmart and put a pair in his pocket prior to going to the motel.

There was nothing impulsive about the murder. The need to kill a tranny whore had been blossoming inside him ever since he had come back to work at Ride em’ Cowgirl. He pretended that he was grateful to get his old job back and in some ways he was. But he resented that this trans woman had power over him; that she was the boss. The drag queens who worked in the club ignored him, treated him as if he was part of the furniture. Some of them gave him sass when they saw him ogling them.

But they’d loved Steve Edwards. They’d fawned over him, teased him and behaved like the coquettish sluts they were around him. Even that supercilious bitch Jill Graham was hot for Steve; even though she tried to hide it. Mitch was an excellent observer of human character.

The drag queens at Ride em’ Cowgirl reminded him of Susan. Susan had become demanding and wanted him to do things that he didn’t want to do. Susan was his plaything not the other way around. She had taken out that disgusting thing when he had told her not to and look at what had happened to her.

Mitch didn’t know what had triggered the lust to kill. For many years he’d been content to satisfy his urges using prostitutes and callgirls. Maybe it was the humiliation of being replaced by Steve and having to come back when Steve couldn’t do his job. Maybe it was the jealousy and resentment he had for Steve when the ‘girls’ fawned over his handsome athletic visage whilst they treated him as if he was an underling.

April had deserved what she got. He’d told her to leave her genitals tucked but she’d taken them out and tried to pleasure herself. She’d taunted him. He remembered what she’d said just before he killed her: “You don’t like to see it do you? Are you scared that it’s bigger than yours?”

It was all her fault. But was it? If he hadn't planned to kill her why had he brought the pantyhose to the motel and hidden them under the pillow when she wasn’t looking? Why had he gone to extraordinary lengths to ensure that their communication could not be traced back to him? Why had he cased the Abacha Motel to make sure he could come and go without being noticed?

Mitch smiled to himself. He’d always intended to kill the bitch!

The only reason that killing April Summers had been a mistake was because Felicity had hired her to perform at Ride em’ Cowgirl. Steve didn’t know that because Felicity handled that side of the business. There was an outside chance that her murder would lead the investigators to Ride em’ Cowgirl and look who had showed up… Steve Edwards. Felicity had told Mitch that Steve had asked her about April Showers but that she couldn’t help him. She’d only ever met April at her audition.

Even so that didn’t stop Mitch going out and killing Loretta or whatever the fuck she called herself. He’d planned that better. He’d scouted a good place to fuck her and kill her, he’d stolen a car in which to solicit her and he’d remembered to take the cash he had given her. He’d had more time with her after he had killed her. He had been able to do things to her after she was dead. Things he’d dreamed about doing for quite a while.

Mitch’s cock was throbbing painfully in his trousers as he thought about the atrocities he committed on Loretta’s body. He’d need to take the crusty nylon stocking out of his bottom drawer and go to the men’s room and take care of it. Then he’d be able to come back to his little office located at the back of the bar and concentrate on his work.

He looked up and saw Jill Graham’s tight ass in her little skirt as she skittered about behind the bar stocking shelves. That was it! He opened the bottom drawer and his fingers foraged around for his wanking stocking whilst he ogled Jill’s ass and her long legs sheathed in those shiny pantyhose. He stuffed the stocking in his pocket and made his way to the employee men’s room and locked the door.

*****

Steve volunteered to pick up Jaylene Foster at Balwyn College at ten in the morning after her first class and drive her to Police Plaza. Nothing was actually articulated but Steve knew that Penelope wouldn’t want to go anywhere near the college where she had first met Melissa Doyle and set in motion the calamity that had wrecked her life.

Jaylene was not wearing her cooch cooler hooker attire. Far from it, she looked quite respectable in a knee-length pleated grey skirt, white blouse and navy blazer. Her makeup was toned down. She wore red opaque tights and black Mary-Jane’s.

Steve got out of the car and opened the door for her. She looked a lot younger and fresher out of her street makeup.

“How long is this gonna take, I got classes again this afternoon,” Jaylene tossed her satchel onto the back seat.

“Good morning to you too Jaylene,” Steve smiled at her.

“You look nice today,” he complimented her.

She paused halfway into the car and glared at him, trying to determine if he was being serious or sarcastic.

“I once had a guy offer me two hundred extra if I’d wear a school uniform while we fucked. This is the closest I’ve got. He gave me half the money but I had to use twenty of it to dry-clean the jizz out of this skirt,” she folded the skirt into her lap and slammed the door.

Steve got into the driver’s seat and appraised Jaylene critically.

“I think you behave like a cunt as a means of defence. I bet underneath that hard shell there is a nice person,” Steve smiled at her.

She turned and appraised him in return.

“I think underneath that rugged handsomeness and pleasant disposition you’re just an asshole who wants to get into my panties,” she gave him a cutting grin.

They glared at each other for a full minute before they both broke into peals of laughter.

“Sorry, thanks for the compliment Steve. I hear Felicity’s knocking them dead in Vegas,” Jaylene popped a stick of gum into her mouth.

“Yeah she’s got another week before they fly over to London,” Steve had spoken to Felicity on Skype and of course the whole time he had felt guilty about shagging Wendy Beaumont in their bed.

“Strange pairing… a detective and a drag queen,” Jaylene opined as Steve entered the mid-morning traffic.

“Penelope Bishop is trans too and she’s currently my partner, isn’t that just as strange?” Steve replied a little tersely.

“You said it not me. Do you have a thing for trans women in particular? Should I be worried that you want to get into my panties?” Jaylene needled him.

“What are you studying?” Steve changed that subject.

“Fashion design,” Jaylene snapped, waiting for Steve to ridicule it.

“Felicity took fashion design part time after her stint on Drag Race. She hated that she was sent home because she failed a sewing challenge,” Steve said levelly.

“I watched her season. She deserved to go home for wearing that hot-glued piece of shit on the runway,” Jaylene chuckled.

“You watched her season?” Steve sounded a little surprised.

“Hey there have been plenty of Texas queens on the show but she was our girl from Balwyn. I was just a queer little boy who liked to play dressup at the time, but she inspired me,” Jaylene admitted.

Steve wondered if Jaylene’s comment was a blunt way of reminding Steve of their age difference. Steve had watched Felicity’s season on their streaming service not long after they had got together, Felicity refused to watch it with him. Jaylene was right; Felicity’s runway garment for the sewing challenge was indeed a hot-glued mess.

“Hey? She ever get the call for All Stars?” Jaylene asked enthusiastically.

Steve steered well clear of the subject.

“Here we are, Police Plaza. I’ll sign you in and hand you over to Penelope who will take you to the sketch artist. After that she’ll get you to look at some mug shots,” Steve explained, showing his badge to the rent-a-cop guarding the underground car park.

They wanted Jaylene to work with a facial composite technician who wasn’t the kind of artist who drew faces on paper. Although the technician was trained in classic drawing techniques he used a computer based facial composite system to produce the likeness. Penelope didn’t want to show Jaylene any mug shots until after she had finished with the sketch artist because she didn’t want Jaylene’s memory tainted by looking at other pictures.

The mug shots Jaylene would be looking at were composites of unidentified sexual predators complied by their victims. It was useless showing her pictures of known predators from the sexual offenders register because their fingerprints and DNA were in the system and the man they were looking for wasn’t.

Steve handed Jaylene over to Penelope and drove over to Ride em’ Cowgirl. During their Skype conversation this morning Steve had promised Felicity that he would drop by the bar and make sure everything was ticking over. Felicity trusted Mitch Freeman to manage the bar-nightclub in her absence. Why shouldn’t she? Mitch had Jill Graham managing the bar itself, the head chef Manuel Ramirez had been at Ride em’ Cowgirl since it opened and Panti Down, a drag queen whose legal name was William Russell, booked the performers and produced the shows. Mitch had great support staff.

But it was still her business and Felicity wanted Steve to just make sure that everything was ok. Steve had managed the bar himself long enough to get a feel that all was fine or otherwise.

There was no matinee today and the lights were up in the club so that the place could be deep-cleaned and planned maintenance conducted. A contractor was steam cleaning the floor, a lighting tech was in the rafters over the stage adjusting the gel lights, drag queens are very particular about how they are lit and lighting them was an art, according to Felicity anyway.

Steve stopped by the kitchen. The caterers were busy packing away a food delivery but Manuel still offered to make him lunch. He was tempted to get a burger and fries but he asked for a chopped salad and made his way to the bar where instead of his usual beer he poured a Coke Zero Sugar over ice. Jill Graham came out of the adjacent stockroom with a bar code scanner, she was conducting a stocktake.

“Hey, help yourself big boy. You here for a free lunch?” the bantering had begun.

“Surprise visit to make sure you ain’t slipping a case or two of liquor out back to your boyfriend,” Steve retorted.

Jill was dressed for her current task. She was wearing denim Daisy-Dukes, a ZZ Top t-shirt, tan pantyhose and sneakers. Her hair was up and her makeup toned down except for her signature heavy eyeliner.

“I don’t have a boyfriend, I find them high maintenance. I find it’s easier to just get the men I fancy to do the job and move them on,” Jill deliberately brushed her breasts against Steve as she squeezed past him behind the bar.

“You have a runner in your nylons,” Steve fingered a little hole in the pantyhose on Jill’s thigh.

He slowly traced the runner up to the stringy edge of her cut-off shorts.

“That another job Felicity gave you while she was away? Checking the girl’s nylons for runners?” she looked down at his hand then into his eyes.

“No but I think it’s something I’d be good at,” Steve met her gaze.

“Yeah I bet you would but maybe you should just concentrate on being a cop. Get good at that first,” she gently removed Steve’s hand from her thigh.

If Jill wasn’t one of Felicity’s best friends and trusted employee, Steve would have been tempted to take Jill into the stockroom and investigate where that runner led and Jill would likely have let him but both he and Jill knew that despite their ribald banter they would never disrespect Felicity in her own club.

“Ahem,” Mitch Freeman was sitting at his desk in his cramped office.

He could see directly into the bar and had witnessed the interchange between Steve and Jill. He knew that Felicity had sent Steve to check on him but he choked down his resentment. He had his dream job back. He just wished Felicity would get over her infatuation with the lanky cop and things could go back to how they had been before Steve and Felicity had hooked up.

“Hey Mitch,” Steve called out and extricated himself away from Jill.

“How’s it all going?” Steve gave Mitch a genuine smile.

Despite Mitch’s dislike for Steve it was not reciprocated. Steve was grateful that Mitch had taken his old job back which allowed Steve to return to the job he did best which was policework.

“Fine and dandy, how’s the missus?” Mitch forced himself to smile.

“Fine and dandy also, living the high life in Vegas; she sends her regards,” Steve sipped his Coke.

“Yeah we spoke yesterday. She was so sorry to hear about that girl we were going to hire… April something?” Mitch went digging.

“April Summers, her drag name was April Showers which is one of the reasons I came to the club. Is Panti around?” Steve asked.

It was not unusual for the performers to mix their drag names and their birth names and Steve had fallen into the habit.

“Yeah, Will’s working with the DJ putting together tonight’s mix I think,” Mitch got up from behind his desk and led the way into the club.

Manuel had set up Steve’s lunch on a table near the front of the club and Steve put his Coke down next to his salad and followed Mitch to the edge of the stage where William Russell was talking to the DJ who was fiddling with his sound equipment.

“Hi Steve,” Will was genuinely glad to see Steve.

Even out of drag Will dressed very effeminately. He was wearing black dance tights accented with pink tiger stripes, an oversized long-sleeved t-shirt with a picture of Allyssa Edwards on the front, and pink Adidas. His black hair was razor cut with bright blue highlights and he was wearing eyeliner and lip-gloss.

“Hey Will; come and join me for five minutes will you?” Steve waved him down off the stage.

Uninvited Mitch Freeman sat down with them at the table but Steve didn’t mind.

“I want you to talk to all the girls,” Steve said, using the inclusive term for all the drag queens who worked at the club.

“I know some of them are subsidising their income with their bodies and that’s really none of my business. But we strongly suspect that there is a serial killer out there who targets trans women, transvestites and crossdressers,” Steve said gravely.

Both Will and Mitch leaned in and gave Steve their complete attention.

“A serial killer?” Will arched his plucked brows.

“Technically not yet but he’s taken two and I don’t think he’s going to stop. They were both doing sex work when they were murdered, one was advertising her services online and the other was working Bridge Street,” Steve explained.

“I’d really like any of the girls involved in sex work to stop until we catch him and I’d like all of the girls to be very vigilant, I’d prefer it if there weren't alone when in drag,” Steve said gravely.

“Are you going to get him?” Will asked, his eyes wide.

“We have some leads,” Steve embellished the truth.

“More importantly I’ll have a composite of the guy by the end of the day. I’ll email it to you and you can send it to all the girls. If any of them recognise the man in the picture they should contact me immediately and if they are approached by anyone who looks even vaguely like him they should not go anywhere with him and make sure they are safe,” Steve tapped his finger on the table to emphasise his point.

“You say you have a picture of the guy?” Mitch sounded excited.

“A composite. A drawing from someone we believe has seen him,” Steve explained.

‘The hooker who had approached his car on Bridge Street’ Mitch immediately thought.

Mitch didn’t listen to the rest of what Steve had to say he was too busy with own thoughts. He knew that even some of the most accomplished killers made mistakes that got them caught, no matter how careful they were and that some of the sloppiest killers got away with it. He was pissed that he had taken so many precautions and still might be caught because some tranny hooker saw him behind the wheel of a stolen car.

He knew not to panic. The girl wouldn’t have had a good look at him. It was dark and she didn’t get that close. He’d seen police composites before and they often weren't worth shit. They were too generic, they could be anybody or the witness misremembered what the perp looked like.

“Make sure you forward the composite on to me and I’ll get it circulated around the staff, maybe he’s been in the club,” Mitch said excitedly.

Steve looked at Mitch quizzically for a beat and then he nodded.

“Good idea Mitch. If this guy is sweet on trans women and crossdressers he might have been in here or the gay bars on Bridge Street,” Steve nodded his head appreciatively.

Will seemed a little excited to be drawn into the intrigue of a working murder case. He was also a little sweet on Steve as where most of the drag queens. Felicity knew this and that was why she had mandated that Steve was not to fuck any of the girls who worked at the club. She wasn’t jealous of them; she just didn’t want them being jealous of each other. It was another reason Mitch resented Steve. It was obvious that the girls had the hots for Steve, some them had blatantly propositioned him during the brief period that he had managed the club. The girls all thought of Mitch as a father figure, he’d never once been propositioned by any of them.

When Steve left the club to go back to Police Plaza Mitch followed him. He parked in the employee parking lot across from the imposing building, an annex of City Hall, where he could see the entrance and exit from the underground parking garage used by police vehicles.

He saw Steve’s vehicle nose out of the exit about two hours later. There was someone in the front with him. He couldn’t be sure that it was the witness but he followed anyway, keeping a discreet distance behind. He was surprised when Steve tuned into Balwyn College and even more surprised when the young woman wearing the knee-length pleated grey skirt, white blouse, navy blazer, red opaque tights and black Mary-Jane’s alighted from the vehicle. She leaned into the back of the vehicle and collected her satchel.

Mitch wasn’t close enough to get a good look at her but she certainly didn’t look like a hooker. But that meant nothing. He didn’t look like a serial killer.

The rest had been surprisingly easy. He’d waited for Steve to leave and then followed the girl around the campus until she went into the library. The college was crowded enough that he could blend into the background but not so crowded that he risked losing sight of the girl; her red legs made her easy to follow. He quite liked those red legs.

Mitch was eventually able to get a good photograph of the woman on his phone. He called the club and spoke to Jill Graham and told her he was done for the day and went home.

Mitch Freeman lived in a modest townhouse which he owned outright. He made his way to the basement which he had converted into a studio office. He downloaded the picture of the woman in the red tights and used an editing program to crop and enhance the image then he used a sophisticated image search program to search the web for comparisons.

It took the program a while to complete the search and he poured himself a drink and took off his jacket and tie and made himself comfortable while the program did its job. His phone pinged and he opened the email that Panti Down had sent to him and downloaded the attachment. He smiled to himself.

The facial composite wasn’t that great. The face structure was the same, but it was the same as countless other faces. The eyes were a little too far apart, the hair was parted on the wrong side and the nose was a little too long. Did it look like Mitch Freeman? A little… yes. At a stretch... but it looked like hundreds of other people too. Because the woman had only seen his face she had no idea how tall he was or his build. There were no tattoos or identifying features. He was hardly recognisable.

Mitch went back to his image search program and when the search was completed he sorted the results by date posted and started to work through the images.

It took him less than five minutes to find Jaylene Foster. She had a Facebook account and was active on Twitter and Instagram. She was an advocate for LGBT rights and identified as a transgender woman. That would explain why she had approached his car on Bridge Street, she was working the streets there.

He studied the images of Jaylene Foster that his program had found. She was an attractive woman in her early twenties and she didn’t mind showing off her assets. If you looked closely you could see that her breasts were too perfect to be anything but augmented but she didn’t mind showing them off. Same with her tight ass and long legs and although none of the images he had found of Jaylene approached being pornographic, there were plenty of cheesecake photographs of her posing provocatively.

He enhanced an image of her wearing a bathing suit taken on the beach at Lake Brindle. The suit was bright orange and clung to her body like a second skin. She had recently got out of the water and her long dark hair glistened in the sun, droplets of water shimmered on her limbs, her eye makeup had run a little but it just made her look sultry and sexy. The bathing suit clung to her firm breasts, her nipples conspicuous. The suit was hewn to her flat belly and her pubic mound.

Mitch knew that her pubic mound was a falsity, a fabrication, an illusion that Jaylene created by tucking her penis along her perineum and retracting her testes into her inguinal canals. He didn’t care about the mechanics of it; he just loved the aesthetic, the way the orange lycra clung to her pubis, defining the shape.

He reached into the drawer and took out a packet of nylon stockings and extracted one of them. He put it over his erect penis and brought himself to extremis in a few strokes, filling the gossamer garment with his semen which darkened the silken fabric as it extruded into a glistening white gobbet. He cleaned up and put his manhood away and went back to work on the computer. He had things to do. Jaylene Foster might have provided the police with a lousy identikit facsimile of his face but he was almost certain that she would be able to identify him in the flesh and that just wouldn’t do would it?

During his time in the army Mitch had learned discipline, planning, organisation, prudence and risk management. He had learned about contingency planning: always have a backup plan, a means of escape, diversionary tactics.

He’d always knew the day would come when he would either be caught or have to make a run for it before he was caught. Mitch had a stash of false identity documents and cash reserves in a storage locker in Austin. He was a man who covered all contingencies. If he had to he could move to another state; another country even, and assume a false identity. There were plenty of special girls out there for him enjoy.

But it hadn't come to that yet. There were other courses of action. Mitch had also learned how to use subterfuge and misdirection to take objectives and the ability to react quickly and think on one’s feet. He’d applied those skills when he’d lured April Summers and Loretta Dubbin to their deaths.

Mitch had other contingencies too. He’d scouted suitable locations where he could take his special girls and spend some time with them secure in the knowledge that he would not be disturbed. One such location had been the Park Services hut in Battersea Park; another was an abandoned Texaco service station on a seldom used back road just off Route 190 and yet another contingency was an old lumber storage warehouse north of Balwyn.

Jaylene Foster was ripe for just such a contingency.

He went into his garage and grabbed his go-bag. He opened the eight-pack of L'eggs Everyday Regular pantyhose and took out a pair and put them in his pocket. There were only five pairs left now. He wandered if he would use all eight before he was caught?

To be continued