CHAPTER 1

Hi darling. It's so good to see you again. Thank you so much forcoming at this late hour," Christian Rookwood, CEO of RayfieldIndustries, softly spoke.

"I don't mind, sweetie, that's what I'm paid for. It really doesn't matterthe hour, as long as you love me for what I'm about to do. My, don't welook handsome tonight. That is a beautiful suit," the sultry-voiced personreplied.

"I don't want to rush you, but it will be morning soon, so please hurry.Anyway, I can't wait much longer. I've been thinking about this all day."

"My goodness we are anxious, aren't we? Sit on the cutting table,because I can do the "lollipop" so much better when you sit up higher. Youstill want the lollipop, don't you, honey?"

"Yes, yes, and I hope it's as good as the last time."

"Oh it will be. Now sit back and relax, sweetie. You know how muchyou like me doing this; and I get my fulfillment too."

Christian squirmed and wiggled his butt as he positioned himselfcomfortably on the hard cutting table. He unbuckled his belt, thenhurriedly unzipped his trousers. He promptly removed his member fromits warm bondage, and gently pulled and massaged it a few times to makeit larger. Almost immediately, in anticipation of the most wonderful sexualpleasure ever received, his member stood tall, at full attention. At hisage, he felt proud glancing down at the large muscle as he waited for hislover.

"Ummmmmm, that looks soooo good," his guest responded. Thentaking a tube of lipstick, his guest highlighted around the already purple-coloredhead and then down the back of his member.

Christian loved the feel and his member responded. He leaned back,placing his hands behind him, anxiously waiting for that special warmsensation that would eventually flow throughout his entire body. Only ahighly-skilled person can provide perfection, and Christian never acceptedanything less. That had been Christian's trademark his entire life.

He sat impatiently on the table, his feet dangling over the side justoff the floor. Christian didn't like paying for sex, since it made him feelsecond-rate. However, this was an exception; it was the ultimate in sexualgratification.

His guest began "the movement," and it didn't take more than twominutes before Christian began moaning loudly and soon he ejaculated.His eyes were closed and his member began jerking uncontrollably. Thespasms took control of his weakened body, and he felt his inward tensionbeing swept away like an gentle ocean wave spreading across a sandybeach. His face was tilted slightly upward, and his smile showed completeecstasy. The wonderful afterglow that spread over his entire body wasbeyond description. He opened his eyes slightly, and in dismay, saw a largepair of cutting scissors plunging towards his chest. There wasn't time tomove. He tried to bring a hand up to stop the downward thrust, but was asecond too late. His loud scream was heard only by the killer, as the soundreverberated throughout the large open bay.

"I'm sure that didn't hurt too much, sweetie. God knows I am not oneof those pacifists you read about. However, I didn't want to prolong youragony, Christian. But who gives a shit about being a peace lover. Now yourlying mouth will be forever closed, you fucking bastard!"

The scissor blades were embedded so deep into Christian's chest thatthe rivet could barely be seen. Since the blades of the scissors were seveninches long, his death was almost instantaneous.

After his loud scream, the only other sound that was heard was theloud thump of his head striking the cutting table as the force of the blowcaused Christian to fall backwards. He was no longer handsome as he layon his back, eyes wide open, and blood oozing from around the embeddedscissors.

"Thank you, Christian, that was so nice of you. Now let me makeyou more comfortable, my love," the killer whispered, lifting the deadman's heavy legs up onto the table, and turning his body parallel to it.Christian was now laying flat on his back, as if he had placed himself inthat position.

"Okay now. I want to clean your privates. You wouldn't want toappear unclean when the police look you over. Don't you agree? Oh,I almost forgot, I want to make sure you never talk again, you lying,overbearing pervert!" The sharp, half-moon shaped needle, normally usedin upholstering, easily penetrated his lips. The strong thread was pulledtight, binding his mouth firmly closed. The pucker between the stitchesmade his mouth look like a small tied pork loin roast. There was threadleft over, so his guest meticulously tied a neat bow.

"There now, Christian, I'm sure that didn't hurt very much. You oughtto see yourself, sweetie. You look sooo cool."

CHAPTER 2

William "Bear" Zebrowski has been the Chief of Police in themetropolitan Raleigh, North Carolina area for over twenty-fiveyears. During his many years on the force, he had encounteredalmost every type of murder that could be imagined. However, when hewas informed that the body of the CEO of Rayfield Industries, ChristianRookwood, was lying dead on one of the cutting tables with his mouthsewn shut, he had to personally see what the hell was going on. He glancedat his watch. It was 7:30 a.m. As Chief, he normally didn't get to work foranother two hours.

Rayfield Industries, a custom suit and trousers clothier, and the largestmen's clothing manufacturer in the United States, had been headquarteredin North Carolina since its inception over seventy years ago. Financiallyit had weathered its ups and downs like most garment companies. Whenthey hired Christian Rookwood in 1995, he was touted to be the company'ssavior. He was full of new ideas, and energy, and got along well with theunion. Within six months the company was in the black, and Christianwas appointed CEO.

The economy flourished, and Rayfield Industries, under Rookwood'sexcellent stewardship, grew proportionately.

The Board of Directors thought the company should diversify. Theywanted to included other interests to supplement the garment industry.More managers and employees were hired. The overhead kept climbing,along with the CEO's salary.

Even though Christian Rookwood was an expert in the garmentindustry, he wasn't as knowledgeable in the other new business activitiesA few years later, the economy slowed and Rayfield Industries followed.However, this did not seem to bother Christian Rookwood, since therewasn't any change in his gambling and track betting. The bevy of beautiesstill clung to his arms, none resembling his wife, as he strutted around theclubhouses and stables from New York to Miami. Times were changing,but Christian didn't seem to care. Life was good.

Chief Zebrowski wondered if his death could be related to the demiseof the company. "It's a thought," he muttered out loud, looking at Christianlaying on the cutting table scissors seemingly growing out of his chest.With his mouth sewn closed, he looked ridiculous. Whoever did awaywith Christian either wanted to make sure he never spoke again, or wastrying to send a message to someone. "This killer is sick, mentally sick,"the Chief said aloud, turning to look at the officer in charge of the ForensicDepartment.

"Who in the world would take the time to sew their victim's lipsclosed?" the Chief yelled out to Lieutenant Charles Orman and threeother detectives inspecting the body and the murder scene. This wasLt Orman's last case with the Raleigh Police Department since he hadturned in his request for retirement. Lt Sally Michaels, who had workedin the department for almost two years, was selected to take over whenhe retired.

"Does seem a bit strange," the Lt yelled back, not caring if he ever knew.He turned his attention to the other members of the forensic team.

"There's no question he was dead when his lips were sewn shut, becausehe only bled slightly when the needle passed through one lip to the other,"Lt Michaels commented, as she looked for other marks on the body thatmight give clues as to who killed Mr. Rookwood.

"Whoever sewed these lips closed didn't want them to separate. Thestitches must be a quarter of an inch deep," Lt Orman said, motioning forthe photographer to take close-up pictures of the victim's mouth and thescissors protruding from his chest.

"Look him over good, guys. I have a feeling this one is going to betough. Once these tables start to be used again, it's too late to come backand look for more evidence," the Chief said, loud enough for everyone tohear.

"No problem. We'll tape it off for at least two days. That should give usplenty of time to come back for further investigation," the Lt answered.

"When do you think he got it?" the Chief asked.

"I'd guess sometime around 3:00 a.m. Rigor mortis is already settingin. I understand the air conditioning is computer programmed to comeon about thirty minutes before opening at 7:00 a.m., which would slowdown the process some," Lt Orman said. No one said anything for a fewminutes. The team continued to poke and probe, look and scratch aroundthe body, like a flock of chickens trying to find a worm.

"What do you think, Sally?" Lt Orman asked.

"About what?"

"When he got it," the Lt said, frowning at Sally.

"Maybe 2:30, maybe 3:00 a.m.," she said, shaking her head from sideto side. "Look at this," she said, holding a red hair taken from the insideof the custom-tailored suit the victim was wearing.

"Well, well. That might turn out to be a woman's hair, Lt. Ormansaid, smiling at Sally.

"I don't think a woman would have the strength to plunge scissors thatdeep into his chest. Second, from the angle of the entry, it would seemour murderer was as tall or taller than the victim, which I measured at 73inches," Sally replied.

"That's earth-shaking news," Orman replied.

"Harry, get a photograph of the table, and how the victim was laid outso neatly on it," the Lt almost yelled.

Flashes were popping off every few minutes. Harry DeLuca, the policephotographer, tried not to take a picture when anyone was looking in hisdirection. He had received too many verbal lashings in the past. Harry hadbeen with the police department for six years, but hated it, as he consideredfreelance photography much more appealing and far less demanding.However, this job did put meat and potatoes on the table.

Sally continued to search everywhere for a clue that might help solvethe case. She looked at the victim's hands, under his fingernails, but foundnothing suspicious. She wondered what they would find after opening thevictim's mouth.

"I've searched his body as best I can here. Might as well cart him offto the morgue so we can take his clothes off and do a more thorough job,"Sally said.

"You are always wanting to take men's clothes off. What other kinkythoughts do you have?" Lt Orman asked, smiling.

Lt Michaels never liked Orman. He was always injecting snide or offcolor remarks. "Your mind has turned kitschy again, Lieutenant. Plus, it'snone of your damn business," she quickly responded, without looking athim.

"Have you checked every inch of the floor and surrounding area?" theChief loudly asked. Every one ignored him, since ninety-nine percent ofthe time the Chief was never around to give orders. A few minutes later,they all began to tidy-up to leave.

Gary Wilkins, a recent graduate of the Criminology Course at DukeUniversity, was new, but he was as good as any seasoned operative. Hehad meticulously vacuumed the area, to include around the body and onthe cutting table. All the dirt and fine pieces of shavings or lint, would beanalyzed when they returned to the lab.

Lt Sally Michaels, the youngest Lieutenant on the force in both yearsof service and age, started putting her instruments back into her smallequipment bag. She was considered one of the best investigators in thestate. She was smart, and she would listen, but if she believed in her theoryshe would not back down.

Sally was thirty, blonde, almost petite, with a striking figure for hersize. Sally had divorced her husband a few years ago when she found himin bed with their neighbor. Her untimely return home became a lifetimeexpense for her husband of six years.

"That piece of ass cost him thousands of dollars, and more thousandsas time goes on," she said, after a few drinks one evening; though talkingabout herself was not Sally's habit.

CHAPTER 3

Mike Whitehouse had been working for the Raleigh Times for lessthan two weeks. He was an experienced journalist, coming fromthe Chicago Tribune, where he had been the senior investigativereporter. He accepted a similar position here at the Times, even though itwas a lower paying job due to the size of the newspaper. He was never askedwhy, nor did he offer an explanation as to the reason he transferred.

Mike was six-foot, and a little lanky. He didn't fit the character of atypical reporter: a cigarette dangling from his mouth, wearing a cheapwrinkled suit with his tie half undone. Even though lanky, he was solidlybuilt, and most people would agree Mike was handsome, though nothingresembling a Greek God. Yet women flocked to him large get together.But, up to now, women were not his number one priority.

He picked up a copy of the Special Edition of the Times, which hadbeen dropped off by the copy boy. Not every subscriber of the Times wouldreceive a copy of a special edition, since some carriers would not have accessto the copy for another 24 hours. Mike slid into his large, leather chair, andunfolded the paper. The headline spread across the top of page one read:RAYFIELD'S CEO DIES FROM HIS OWN SCISSORS. He hurriedlyread the two-column article, grimacing as the writer related his versionof the story. I could have written a better article when I was a freshman incollege. Wonder if Tom McNulty read this before it went to press? he whisperedsoftly to himself, as he sipped the hot coffee he had just poured.

"Another misspelled word, and the sentences are so poorly written,"he said, just loud enough to catch the attention of Mary Lou Steiner,whose desk was just in front of his. He had been promised a private officeas soon as it was cleared of years of accumulation of papers and junk. Hepreferred privacy.

"What's your problem, Mike? Is mumbling your style?"

Mike looked at MaLu, as she wanted to be called, and wondered if shewas as good a lay in bed as she looked. The thought surprised him, sincesex had not been on his mind for the past few years. These Southern womenmust have some hidden magic, he thought to himself. She was pushing forty,but still had plenty of sex appeal. She wore her makeup well, and she hada stride that made a statement when she walked. Her figure was supple,probably envied by a lot of women. Even during his short time here, hehad overheard the men talking about her at the water fountain. You know,men's talk. Like touchable, what a smooth ass, give a month's pay, greattits; important items of interest like that. He understood, from what littlehe learned from gossip at the Onion Ring Bar, she had been married toa fireman, but it hadn't worked out too well. The Onion was where mostof the Times staff hung out after they were not working. Maybe her excouldn't put out the fire at home. Regardless, MaLu was a good, hardworking reporter, and she loved her job, according to Tom McNulty,Assistant Editor, and Mike's boss. Even though they had only known eachother for a few days, MaLu had impressed Mike with her no-nonsenseapproach to her job. She had been assisting him in gathering informationconcerning an old wound for the Tobacco Industry; lawsuits.

"Have you read the paper this morning? Seems the CEO of Rayfield isno longer among the living," MaLu said, picking up her coffee cup.

"Yeah, I just finished reading about it. It makes good news, but itwasn't written very well," he said.

"I agree. I'm not tooting my own horn, but I could have done a betterjob," she said, as she unwound her long legs, to get up for another cup ofcoffee.

"Let's see, according to the by-line, the article was written by LarrySizemore. Have I met him?" he asked.

"I don't know, but Larry has been with the paper for a long, long time.He is the nephew of one of the owners, which might explain his ineptness,"she said, quickly looking around, possibly afraid ears might be tuned in.