The killer drove slowly down Bridge Street Balwyn studying the talent. The north end of the street was well lit and populated with fresh trade: pretty young girls who were not yet ravaged by drugs, beaten ugly by their pimps and johns or world-weary of a life walking the streets and selling their bodies. They strutted their stuff confidently. The west side of the street was occupied by older but still presentable women who could still make their pimps a decent buck. The east side was where the women who were well past their use-by-date worked, offering twenty dollar blowjobs and fifty dollar half-n-half behind the dumpsters.

The killer was only interested in the girls working the south side. This was where the transsexuals worked. He passed a couple of good-looking girls with big hair and heavy makeup wearing short skirts, fuck-me heels and nylons. They weren't what he was looking for and he shooed one of them away when she approached his car.

Then he saw the girl he wanted. She was obviously a crossdresser, easily clocked, but her face was pretty and she was proudly displaying the parts of her body that attracted him. Her long legs were sheathed in high-gloss tan pantyhose and her snatch was swathed by tight black velvet hotpants. It was this that fascinated him, titillated him, drew him, captivated him, compelled him. He was captivated by the illusion this presented. The perfect curve of a pubic mound, how it so agreeably mimicked the contour of a woman’s labia.

He loved their pretty faces, their makeup, the hair, their long legs and their asses but it was the perfect pubic mound that pressed all of his buttons and made this man-woman so desirable. He knew that the illusion was created by careful tucking of male genitals but as long as he didn’t have to see them he didn’t care. He found the sight of their male genitals repulsive.

He pulled to the curb and the girl approached his car. As she got closer he could see her flaws. Her wig-line wasn’t quite straight, her makeup was not blended properly, one leg of her pantyhose had a runner in it, her high heels were scuffed from walking the streets.

The killer didn’t care. The woman was still pretty even if she wasn’t polished; ‘let’s call her a rough diamond’ he thought to himself. He was mesmerised by the V of her crotch as she stood next to his car checking him out, making sure he wasn't a vice cop.

“You got a place hon?” when the woman leaned into the car he was shrouded in a miasma of perfume.

“I’ve got a place,” the killer gave her his best smile.

He knew that he presented well to the hooker. He was middle-aged with a dad-body, he was wearing good clothes and the stolen BMW he was driving was a sweet ride; she’d think him a rube.

“What ‘chew want?” the transvestite was using her femme street voice.

“I want you to suck my dick until its hard then I wanna fuck you in the ass,” the killer gave her his best smile.

“How’s a hundred sound?” the hooker tested the waters.

“Sounds good to me,” there was no need to haggle; he didn’t intend to pay this girl.

In his hurry to leave the dingy hotel he had forgotten to take the two hundred dollars from April’s purse. She was only his second murder and he was still learning. This one would go better.

He knew that it was a big risk taking another girl so soon but he just couldn’t control the impulse and now that he’d seen her there was no turning back. He had to have her. He didn’t have to kill her but he knew he was going to. He fingered the cheap nylons in his jacket pocket and his hard cock became stiffer.

The hooker walked around the car and slid into the front passenger seat and the killer drove off.

“Where we goin honey?” the tranny slipped her hand between his legs and stroked his thigh.

“There’s a place in Battersea Park,” the man’s throat was thick with lust.

“Thought you said you had a place?” the hooker leaned in and nibbled his earlobe.

“There’s a place in the park I know. There’s a bed and that’s all we need, somewhere to fuck comfortably,” the man put his hand on her thigh and stroked her gossamer-clad flesh.

“Shit honey; I done it standing up against a wall in Battersea Park, I done it in the underpass, shit I done it in the bushes so if you got a bed, that's luxury,” the hooker nipped his ear.

The killer drove into Battersea Park along a gravel track until he came to a Park Services hut. He’d cased the place earlier, ensuring it wasn’t alarmed and had broken the lock before he went hunting.

They both giggled as he led her into the dark hut using the torch function on his mobile phone. It was filled with tools and smelled musty. Both sides of the hut were fitted with workbenches but at the back of the hut there were two battered lounge chairs, a stained and scratched coffee table and an older model flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. There was a small kitchenette in the corner and a steel framed camp bed propped along the back wall. The maintenance staff used the hut as a workshop but also as their lunchroom and changing room. A small toilet and shower had been fitted as an addition.

“Honey, this is the Ritz compared to some of the shitholes I’ve been in,” the transvestite hooker giggled as she pulled off her fake fur bolero jacket.

The killer switched on a lamp beside the bed so that they had some light.

The hooker put her thumbs in the waistband of her hotpants preparing to pull them down.

“No! Don’t!” the man put his hands on her wrists to stop her.

“Sure sugar. You want some foreplay before we get down to the nitty-gritty,” the hooker smiled at him.

“Here. A little extra if you do just what I ask,” the man gave her two hundred dollars.

The hooker broke into a grin and took the money.

“Ok honey; I can get kinky but nothing that leaves a mark and no fuckin’ scat!” the hooker stuffed the twenties into her purse.

“Just lie on the bed. Don’t take off a thing,” the man said as he started to disrobe.

The hooker did as she was told and lay on the bed with her head on the musty pillow. The man, now naked with his erect penis standing proud climbed onto the bed and lay on top of her.

“Well this is nice,” the hooker smiled up at him and he kissed her.

She tasted like Marlboro Menthols and Juicy Fruit but the man didn’t care. He placed his hard cock in the V of her crotch and began to rut.

“Don’t cum on my hotpants honey, ain’t no way to get that shit out of velvet,” the hooker complained around his kisses.

The man rutted at the hooker and she closed her legs around his cock so he was stimulated by the smooth velvet of her hotpants crotch and sleek slippery nylons on her legs. He had to stop a couple of times because he was so close to coming. The feel of the woman’s body, the smell of her perfume, the smooth pubis pressing on his penis felt divine. The knowledge that that under her hotpants and pantyhose was a cock and scrotum intensified his pleasure but the thought of seeing or touching her genitals was repugnant. It was the illusion that fascinated and excited him.

“Roll over and get on your knees,” the man panted.

The hooker scooted herself up the cot, awkwardly rolling over onto her hands and knees. While she was distracted the man reached for his coat which was neatly folded on the foot of the bedframe. He took the nylons from the pocket and stuffed them in the coverlet beside him.

“Let me get my stuff,” the hooker reached for her purse and took out a Ziploc bag containing a tube of lubricant and a package of condoms.

She tore open the condom wrapper with her teeth.

“An extra fifty if we go bareback,” the man said excitedly.

The bitch was getting it bareback whether she wanted it or not but it would be easier if she acquiesced.

“Sure honey, I’m on PrEP and I was at the free clinic last week,” the hooker tossed the condom on the floor.

“Just stay like that,” the man ordered.

He pulled down the hooker’s hotpants as far as they would go exposing her buttocks encased in the sheer-to-the-waist pantyhose. She hadn't bothered with panties. Her genitals were tucked along her perineum held in place by the tight pantyhose, out of sight.

The man rubbed his cock on her shiny ass and enjoyed the tingling feeling of the gossamer pantyhose against his sensitive penis.

“Feel good sugar? You like that?” the hooker wriggled her buttocks for him.

The man poked his finger into the girl’s anus pushing the sleek material of her nylons into the puckered crevice. He snagged the fabric with his fingernail and made a little hole.

“You like them nylons don't you sugar?” she wiggled her ass at him appreciatively and cooed when he dropped a dollop of lubricant onto her sphincter and began to massage it in.

He pushed his middle finger all the way inside her and wriggled it around and smiled when the hooker groaned appreciatively and pushed her ass back against him. He was pleased to see that his finger was clean when he pulled it out.

“Just be careful when you… oh Jesus!” the hooker sighed as the man pushed his lubricated cock into her anus all the way.

He wasn’t as big as some she had taken but he was no lightweight. His cock stretched her anus and the hooker felt herself full. She didn’t usually get off with her johns but this guy knew how to fuck, slowly driving his cock in and out of her anus, pulling it nearly all the way out then pushing it all the way back in, grinding his pubis against her buttocks.

She was becoming erect and she put a hand between her legs trying to free her penis. She wanted to stroke it while the john fucked her.

The man slapped her hand away angrily.

“Not part of the deal honey,” the man growled as he began to fuck her harder.

The hooker just shrugged and raised her ass higher for him; she would likely come in her pantyhose without even touching herself.

Which is exactly what she did when she felt the man push his penis all the way inside her as he orgasmed; grinding his pubis into her buttocks, howling like a banshee. It might not have been the most intense orgasm that she had ever felt but it was certainly her last. She drummed her feet in the bed and clenched her sphincter as the delicious orgasm radiated from her prostate, into her loins and washed over her.

The killer quickly slipped the pantyhose over her head and wrapped them tightly around her neck. He twisted them once and then pulled back on them as hard as he could. The hooker managed to get two fingers under the nylon before it became embedded in her flesh but it was to no avail. She was vaguely aware of the man ejaculating inside her before she lost consciousness.

The killer kept the hooker’s body in the hut until just before sunrise, using her corpse for his pleasure. He took the money from her purse and left her cold and dead on the bed face down with her legs spread wide.

“Fucking tranny whore!” he shouted at her lifeless body for probably the hundredth time as he slammed the door shut.

The killer drove the BMW to a quarry on the outskirts of Balwyn where he had parked his own car. He splashed gas into the BMW’s interior, threw in a match and ran to his car. He could see the flames from the BMW receding in his rear vision mirror as he drove away.

*****

“What have we got Alice?” Steve hung his coat on the rack and joined Alice at her workstation in the Special Task Force office.

“We ran the DNA and the fingerprints through the system but there is no match. The perp’s a non-secretor which he may or may not be aware of. He’s not careful with his bodily fluids or fingerprints so I doubt they are on file anywhere but I’ll have them sent out to all of the national databases: medical, military, education, employment agencies and so on,” Alice didn’t sound confident.

“The semen found in April’s anus and on her body and clothing came from the perp. There was a lot of it. He likely ejaculated several times, at least once inside her anus and at least once on her legs and backside. The semen was confined to the lower extremities of the body.”

“The tox screen revealed no alcohol or illicit drugs in April’s blood,” Alice alternated reading from both the pathology report and the CSI crime scene summary.

“The fluid on the front of April’s panties was her own pre-ejaculate.”

“The pantyhose used to strangle her were L'eggs Everyday Regular. Cheap pantyhose sold at Walmart in an eight pack. I don’t think they have any real significance other than they are a convenient means of strangulation and easy to conceal. They can’t be traced to any particular store or date of purchase.”

“I’ve entered the autopsy and scene of crime reports into the case file and checked on the physical evidence in the evidence room to ensure it’s all there. I read your interview with Wendy Beaumont prior to meeting her at the apartment and processing April’s bedroom,” Alice stopped speaking to take a sip of coffee.

“Did you do anything this weekend other than work? You’ve been a busy girl,” Steve felt guilty.

He’d spent all day Saturday with Felicity and spent Sunday at home online reading the CSI and autopsy reports which Alice was doing a good job of summarising for him.

“Weekend? What’s a weekend?” Alice continued her case summary.

“Come and look at this. It’s April’s OnlyFans,” Alice fired up April’s laptop.

Alice logged in as administrator to April’s OnlyFans account and then opened a separate tab and logged in as a user.

“I set up a user ID so we can see what her OnlyFans looks like to a member. I’m using PD funds to pay for it,” Alice smirked and Steve grunted, staring at the screen.

The home page was simple enough. Once you registered and paid a joining fee you had the option to view pictures and videos of April in provocative poses and having sex with an unidentified male. There was a link for contact details which listed an email address and a phone number.

Alice clicked on a random video thumbnail. The video began with April and the man kissing and engaging in foreplay. Alice forwarded the time bar stopping randomly throughout the fifteen minute video. April was dressed in sexy lingerie, stockings and heels and her makeup was heavy. She was wearing a wig. The couple engaged in fellatio which progressed to coitus in various positions with the obligatory ‘cum shot’ with the male shooting his load over April’s face.

Throughout the video a banner ran along the bottom of the screen inviting the viewer to contact April to engage in the same activities in real life. The stills were similarly logoed.

“Here is her OnlyFans email account,” Alice opened a Gmail account.

She opened emails at random. Some were from men who genuinely wanted to hook up, most of them were just fan mail complementing April on her performance and wishing they had the fortitude to actually meet with her. A few were downright derogatory, calling her a whore, an aberration and threatening her with damnation or worse.

“Why join a site that advertises itself as a transsexual porn site and then vilify the performer?” Alice asked.

“Who knows? I’m no psychiatrist but I’ll bet a lot of the anger directed at April comes from people who have self-loathing issues and are disgusted that they find the material appealing,” Steve surmised.

“We can’t rule out that the murder is related to the site’s content,” he extrapolated.

“Are there any requests for April’s services on the day of her murder?” Steve asked.

“Not in her email but I’ve downloaded her mobile phone records into the computer. She has two accounts. One is a pre-paid Gen Mobile account that she runs from an unlocked cheap mobile phone linked to her OnlyFans. That’s the phone we found at the scene. The other is with AT&T which she uses only for legitimate business and personal reasons. The two are kept separate. Her OnlyFans website and email account is accessed through the burner phone; her private phone has no ties to her OnlyFans,” Alice held up the phones, one in each hand.

“There are a series of texts organising the meet at the motel. They start the day before and culminate with April providing the john with the hotel room number at 1300 on the day of the crime,” Alice pointed to a list of texts on the screen.

“Bingo!” Steve finally thought they were getting somewhere.

“Not bingo I’m afraid. The perp’s phone is a burner and can’t be traced to its owner. I’ve checked the pings from the cell towers to the burner number and it was only ever used in public places: shopping malls, public parks, gas stations, etcetera. It was purchased five days before the murder and April’s is the only number ever dialled or texted,” Alice explained.

“It was last used in the parking lot of the motel and hasn’t pinged since. I’ll bet it’s been destroyed and disposed of,” Alice sighed.

“So we need to set up several lines of investigation. We look at the registered members of her OnlyFans. There are several thousand but only three hundred or so in Texas. We go through her email and look for any messages that raise our suspicion; those that are threatening or particularly vitriolic. We also look for other ties and links that might lead us to someone who is smitten with her,” Alice stated the bleeding obvious.

“Can we work up a profile of the perp?” Steve asked.

“We can do all sorts of stuff Steve but we can’t do it on our own. I’m good at tech stuff and analysis but you need at least one other detective who is a skilled investigator to work the case with us. You need a partner,” Alice got out of her seat and went over to the Bunn to pour coffee.

“Tell me what I don’t know,” Steve sighed.

Why did Sylvia Bickle have to be on vacation? He wasn't used to leading an investigation. He was a good detective, a good street cop and had great investigative skills but he needed someone with organisational skills to help him run the investigation.

“I’m going to see the Chief of Detectives. Don’t go anywhere,” Steve began to put on his coat.

“Where am I going to go?” Alice settled back down at her workstation with her coffee and began clicking keys.

Gary Rasmussen was on the phone when Steve arrived at his office. He signalled for Steve to sit, barked into the phone for another minute or two and then hung up.

“What’s up? How’s the case going?” Gary asked spinning a pen through his fingers.

“Alice sent you a summary in an email but the gist is we have plenty of leads but nothing solid. I need another investigator to assist. Someone experienced. I have a few patrolmen running errands for me between calls for assistance but I need a trained investigator,” Steve explained while Gary read the case summary on his screen.

“I need a vacation somewhere where there are warm sandy beaches, tanned women in itsy-bitsy bikinis and cocktails with little straw hats but I ain’t gonna get it. Budget cuts, manpower ceilings, cops on furlough, compassionate leave, sick leave, whatever the fuck… I don’t have anyone Steve,” Gary sighed.

Steve knew that arguing would get him nowhere. He stood up to leave.

“I’ll approve overtime for a couple of uniforms. They can run-go-fetch while you and Alice work the case,” Gary opened his desk drawer looking for his cigarettes.

Steve paused at the doorway, nodded, and walked away.

Back in the Task Force office Steve began to set up a crime wall on the whiteboard that took up nearly the entire wall. It was an old fashioned technique but Penelope Bishop and Silvia Bickle had put it to good use in the past and when he was seconded to the Task Force during the hunt for the Lipstick Killer he had seen the value of it.

Data on screens and in files was good but having a visual reference with photographs, timelines, clues and deductions represented pictorially in one place gave a succinct observable summary of the case. Alice came over and began to help, sticking up pictures of the crime scene and linking them to thought bubbles while Steve put a horizontal timeline at the top of the board.

They had just about finished when Gary Rasmussen came into the office. He was sweating as if he’d run down the three flight of stairs from his office. He paused to catch his breath.

“Ok you got your trained investigator,” his breathing was still hitched.

“That’s the good news. The bad news is that we’ve got another murder, this time in Battersea Park. The MO looks like it might be connected to the motel case. Go and prove me wrong. Please prove me wrong,” Gary wiped sweat from his brow.

At that exact moment Alice Leasingham’s phone pinged as did Steve’s.

“It’s Bob. He needs me at a murder scene. Battersea Park,” Alice looked at the screen of her phone.

Steve pulled out his phone and saw a text message also from Bob requesting he come to a crime scene at Battersea Park.

“Fuck!” Steve checked he had everything he needed and snatched up his car keys whilst Alice quickly checked the contents of her CSI crash-kit.

“Let’s go!” Alice and Steve brushed past Gary Rasmussen who was leaning against the door-jam praying to whatever god looked over policemen.

“It ain’t a serial until there’s three,” he whispered.

The scene at the Park Services hut was nothing like the scene at the Abacha Motel and everything like the scene at the motel. The area was fenced off with crime tape and uniformed cops were treading carefully around the exterior, putting little orange neon flags on potential clues. A CSI tech was pouring plaster into tire tracks. The path leading to the doorway was laid with crime scene tiles.

Two police cruisers and a crime scene van were parked just outside the taped off area; a Park Services truck was parked next to the work hut. A CSI tech was cataloguing evidence bags before putting them away. Two men in Park Services uniforms were being interviewed by police officers. They both looked pale and shaken.

Steve parked outside the crime scene perimeter. Alice went over to the crime scene van and Steve approached the two men being interviewed. One of the police officers met him half way.

“They picked up their truck at the depot this morning around seven, drove out here and found the door had been jimmied. Said it’s not the first time it’s happened and figured it was kids or junkies but then they found the victim. Said they didn’t touch much but we’ll take them downtown and get detailed statements and print them,” the officer summarised what he knew.

“Good work. You don’t think they're suspects?” he had to ask.

“Not a chance but we’ll confirm the facts once we have their statements,” the officer smiled grimly and turned on his heels and went back to continue his interview.

Over at the crime van Steve put on Tyvek over-boots and surgical gloves and Alice stepped into a full hazmat suit. He waited for her and they logged into the scene and entered the hut together.

It smelled of two-stroke gasoline, decaying vegetation, old sweat and fried food. Steve surveyed the brush-cutters, chainsaws and other power tools hanging from hooks on the wall and some others laid out on the workbenches for repair and maintenance. Yellow PVC raincoats and orange hi-vis work vests hung from wooden pegs next to the power tools.

He followed Alice to the scene of the crime at the back of the hut where the workmen had set themselves up a little kitchen and rec space. He observed the two battered lounge chairs, the reclaimed coffee table, the old flat-screen mounted on the wall and the salvaged appliances in the crude kitchenette.

Alice went over to join Bob Tanner, carefully putting her pelican case down and opening it up.

The deceased lay face down on a steel-framed camp bed propped along the back wall. Her legs were spread wide. Her pantyhose and hotpants had been crudely pulled up over her buttocks. The smell of semen was strong. He noted the condom wrapper and unused condom on the floor.

The setting was different but the signature was the same, Steve would bet a year’s pay that it was the same perp.

“The strangulation is identical, the staging of the body, the sexual rituals appear the same although he spent a little more time with this one,” Bob Tanner came over and summarised what he’d observed already.

“Can we turn her over?” Steve asked.

“Brendan, you finished? You got enough pictures and taken all the trace?” Bob asked the ME and crime scene techs.

They all nodded.

Steve and Bob carefully turned the victim over on her back.

As they did her wig fell off. The victim had a buzz-cut under a pantyhose skullcap and was obviously male. His face had been feminised by the heavy makeup and the wig. He was flat-chested, the satin blouse he was wearing clung to his ribcage; there was no bra.

“This one’s different,” Steve mumbled to himself.

Steve, Bob, Alice and Brendan took a while to observe the victim whilst a CSI tech took a series of photographs.

They couldn’t help noticing that the victim had stubble on his chest.

“The victim shaves their body but hasn’t done so for a couple of days. That wig is a cheap store-bought synthetic, shake-n-go, the makeup is heavy but not professionally blended,” Steve began making notes on his tablet.

“Shake-n-go?” Alice asked.

“Straight out of the box, no styling,” Steve’s knowledge of wigs came from Felicity and the drag queens at the club.

“The victim presents as female but I don’t think they are transgender. More like a transvestite… a crossdresser,” Steve surmised.

“The face is very attractive, the figure slim, good legs and buttocks. In a dark room she’d pass as femme,” Steve continued.

“Or a dark street corner?” Bob pointed to the track marks on the inside of the victim’s arm.

“Could be a pro?” he speculated.

Steve surveyed the scene again and took it all in including the cheap fake fur bolero jacket on the table.

“Another prostitute but this is no April Summers. I bet this one is street,” Steve sounded confident.

Steve deliberately used neutral pronouns. Until the victim’s chosen gender was established he didn’t want to disrespect the dead.

Steve and Alice worked the scene until their presence was no longer needed and then they left the CSI techs to continue doing what they did best. Brendan Scott left with the body and advised that he would conduct the autopsy first thing the next day.

They drove back to Police Plaza and began to download their evidence and observations into a new case file which they linked to the April Summers case file.

“We need to link all of the similarities between the two cases but also identify the differences. We can’t assume the crimes are linked until we prove it,” Alice said as she tapped her keyboard.

“First off we have to ID the victim and inform the next of kin,” Steve replied as he worked through the list of items he had found in the victim’s purse: condoms, lubricant, chewing gum, a small baggie of crack cocaine, a crack pipe, cigarettes and lighter; nothing to identify the victim.

“He’s Leroy Dubbin or Loretta when he’s working the street,” Penelope Benson said from the doorway causing both Steve and Alice to jump with surprise.

Penelope was wearing her Balwyn PD police officer’s dress uniform which was the mandated uniform for officers undertaking administrative duties or attending official functions and parades. The uniform hadn't changed since the 1970s, the PD stubbornly stuck to the past, calling it tradition.

It consisted of a navy blue skirt and jacket with badges and insignia appropriate for her rank and grade. Steve noted the numerous citations and decorations on her left breast. Her white blouse was wrinkled and grimy from lifting boxes in the evidence room. Tan pantyhose and black low heels completed the ensemble; she held her service cap in her left hand. Her makeup was on the heavy side but she was still a good looking woman for her age.

“What are you doing here Bishop? I thought you’d been assigned to administrative duties,” Steve bristled.

“Rasmussen assigned me to you on temporary duty. Apparently you need a trained investigator and I’m the only one available. Funny how when the shit hits the fan they break the glass and bring out the bad penny,” Penelope entered the room uninvited and perched herself across from Steve and Alice.

Like most of the female police officers Penelope had her uniform tailored to fit and had shortened the skirt to just above regulation length and had cinched the waist of her jacket. She dropped her cap on the desk and dragged a stool up between Steve and Alice. When she sat the hem of her skirt rode up revealing the dark band of her control top pantyhose. Her perfume was cloying, deliberately applied heavy to mask the stink of last night’s bourbon. She chewed gum to freshen her breath.

Steve had worked for Penelope when she headed the Task Force and although they had never hit it off they had a mutual respect for each other. He was particularly impressed with how she had overcome the prejudice against her being a transgender woman early in her career. She was respected by everyone in the PD and her recent fall from grace, marital breakup and lapse in sobriety was tolerated but she was on borrowed time. She needed to clean up her act or she was likely to get fired, heroine or not.

Steve had never been physically attracted to Penelope Bishop but as he studied her time-worn but still attractive face, her glacial-green eyes, the heft of her bosom, her curvaceous figure and long legs, he could see why so many men in the PD lusted after her.

Penelope was aware that Steve was studying her but she ignored him. She leaned across him and clicked the mouse and bought up a mug shot on the screen. Her arm brushed Steve’s chest and he felt a spark of something and he swallowed and leaned away from her, giving her some space.

“Leroy Dubbin, aged twenty eight, no fixed address, just completed a one year parole period after a two-year stint in a medium security prison near Austin,” Penelope tapped the screen.

“He’s a junkie and street level dealer and he’s gay. As soon as he was incarcerated he knew that he would be grist for the mill being overtly gay. For his own protection he voluntarily became the prison wife of Alexi Sales who was his cell block boss,” Penelope explained.

“Alexi smuggled in female clothing and makeup and feminised Leroy who after lights-out became Loretta. As well as tending to Alexi’s needs, Loretta was prostituted to the other inmates.”

“When Leroy was released he dropped Loretta’s persona but he continued to sell his fag ass for drug money. He soon realised that if he hit the streets as Loretta he could make more money. So Leroy became Loretta at night as a matter of financial convenience; he has no gender dysphoria per se, he just crossdressed to make money,” Penelope slid off the stool and straightened her skirt.

“And you know all this how?” Steve asked.

“Leroy was also a snitch. Not really ever a CI but he sold the odd titbit of information to supplement his habit. I’ve used his services now and then over the years,” Penelope took off her jacket and hung it on a coat hanger.

“So boss? Am I hired?” she smirked at Steve and pulled up a seat at her old workstation and fired up the computer.

“Do I have a choice?” Steve replied.

“Not really. It’s me or some dumb-ass rookie,” Penelope smiled at Steve.

“You’re hired. Welcome back to the Task Force,” Steve returned her smile.

The three-person team went to work chronicling the evidence, putting together a timeline and calling in supporting agencies, lighting fires under bureaucrats. A police patrol found the burned out BMW at the quarry. Two of the tires hadn't burned and were identified as being a preliminary match for the tire tracks in Battersea Park. Penelope searched the DMV records and found the owner.

“Why do idiots keep their spare car keys under the inside fender,” Penelope shook her head and hung up her phone.

“The BMW was stolen from a house in Forest Gardens two nights ago. It’s getting trucked to the compound but it’s burnt out and we’re unlikely so retrieve any evidence,” Penelope pinned a downloaded picture of the burned out BMW on the wall.

Alice Leasingham’s phone rang and she took the call.

“Preliminaries in from CSI. Fingerprints from the Park Services hut match those taken at the Abacha Motel. They're still waiting for a DNA match,” Alice looked expectantly at Steve.

“Do we go ahead and tell the Chief that it’s the same killer?” Steve said to Penelope who had her head buried in her computer screen.

She held up a finger signifying Steve should wait.

He took a beat and let Penelope work the keyboard and mouse. He didn’t want her to assume that she was back in charge but he valued her input.

“Bingo!” Penelope’s smiling face looked up from the screen.

Steve noted that she was pretty when she smiled, which was seldom.

“The burner phone used by the perp to lure April Summers to the Abacha Motel,” Penelope snapped her fingers at Alice Leasingham who obediently came over to look at Penelope’s screen.

“Shit I should have found that!” Alice berated herself.

“We’ve all been busy Alice. I only just thought of it myself,” Penelope consoled her colleague.

“You ladies want to let me in on this,” Steve sniped.

Penelope nodded at Alice.

“The perp’s burner phone pinged off a cell tower in Battersea Park two nights before he killed April Summers. He was already casing the park service hut even before he killed April,” Alice announced.

Steve rubbed his chin. The two murders were now intrinsically linked.

“Maybe he considered using the hut to meet April,” Steve opined.

“From what we know of April she wouldn’t have met him there. She may have been a prostitute but she was no street walker,” Penelope offered a contrary opinion and Steve nodded his agreement.

“Was our killer already planning his next murder before he killed April?” Steve tossed out another postulation.

“Or he could have been scouting for somewhere to use whenever the occasion arose,” Penelope countered.

“Keeping it for a contingency. Then he found Loretta on the street and she triggered something that caused him to act out,” Steve went along with her hypothesis.

“We need to narrow down the signatures that trigger him,” Alice agreed.

“We need to hit the streets and talk to the other hookers. You fancy a date tonight? A rendezvous on Bridge Street,” Penelope smiled at Steve.

He nodded.

“Ok. I’m going home to get changed out of this fetishist dream of a uniform into something more suitable. Pick me up at eight?” she asked Steve who looked at his watch and saw that it was nearly 7pm.

Steve followed Penelope outside into the corridor and pulled Penelope into the stairwell by the crook of her arm.

“Stay off the sauce,” he growled.

Penelope just glared at him and shook off his grip.

He watched her walk away down the deserted corridor and couldn’t help but stare at her ass and legs.

“Fuck!” he hissed and began to climb the stairs to tell the Chief of Detectives that the same man who had killed April Summers had killed Leroy Dubbin.

When Penelope arrived at the small bungalow that until recently she had shared with Bradley Wilson she saw Ellery Gamble’s motorcycle parked in the driveway.

“Fuck!” she hissed and got out of her vehicle.

Didn’t Ellery know that he was just a convenient fuck whenever Penelope got drunk and melancholy? He was a boy-man: young, handsome, fit and about as intelligent as a sack of hammers.

After her first husband Randy Cole had died on the job Penelope had used alcohol and sex to try to numb the pain; to try to ease the guilt. She was already drinking heavy and catting around before Randy was killed by a hit and run driver.

FBI agent Bradley Wilson had rescued her. She had hated Bradley when she first met him, seconded to the Task Force to help solve the Sleeping Beauties murder case but she fell in love with him. With Silvia Bickle, her partner and best friend supporting her, she had driven off her demons.

It all came crashing down when she had been seduced by Melissa Doyle who was Silvia’s lover and life-partner. The scandal and backlash against her had ruined Penelope’s life; she had lost her second husband and her best friend and had been demoted and relegated to the evidence room as punishment.

She was using alcohol and sex yet again to ease her conscience but maybe she had a chance to redeem herself now that she was back on the Task Force.

The problem was that Ellery Gamble had taken her advances as some sort of declaration of love. He was nearly half her age for fuck sake!

She found Ellery sitting in the swing on the back porch. Penelope bristled. That was where she and Bradley sat on quiet evenings, holding hands, content with each other’s company.

Ellery scrambled off the swing, nearly falling down in his haste. He was so clumsy that Penelope wondered how he managed to stay astride his 1200cc BMW motorcycle.

“You look kinda sexy in that uniform,” Ellery held Penelope lightly by her elbows and looked lovingly into her green eyes.

“I suppose you do too,” Penelope admitted.

Ellery’s blue uniform clung to his muscled torso like it had been painted on.

“I gotta get changed and get back on the job. I’m back working as a detective again with the Task Force,” she eased herself out of Ellery's embrace and found her keys.

When Ellery followed her inside Penelope got a little angry.

“I don’t have time to fuck around Ellery,” Penelope tried to push him out the door but he was far too powerful for her to succeed.

“We can fool around a little before you get changed. You gotta take your clothes off anyway,” he grinned at her and she noticed the thick bulge in his tight pants.

For some reason she looked over at the kitchen counter. There was half-bottle of cheap whisky on the counter and she desperately wanted to bring it to her lips and feel the liquid burn her throat as she chugalugged it. She knew that she should end her relationship or whatever it was she had going with Ellery but fucking him seemed the lesser of two evils.

Penelope pounced on him, kissing him viciously as she furiously unbuckled his duty belt and fumbled with his pants. Ellery tried to speak but she drove her tongue into his mouth to shut him up. She didn’t want anything from him except his penis.

She yanked his tight motorman’s pants down to his knees and took the girth of his huge cock in her hands and squeezed it. Ellery sighed into her mouth, she could feel the pre-seminal fluid begin to flow and she massaged it into his flesh. His hand went under her Penelope’s skirt, inside her pantyhose and found her cock already elongating along her perineum.

Ellery had been useless at first. As much as he had wanted to pleasure Penelope he had been afraid to touch her penis. The fantasy of fucking a trans woman was a lot different to the reality but Penelope had cured him of that in the few days that they had been lovers.

He eased her cock from between her legs but left it nestled inside her pantyhose and satin panties. He began to stroke it though the silky layers of delicate fabric knowing it would drive Penelope wild

And it did. The feel of slinky diaphanous nylon and satin on the sensitive flesh of her erect penis felt magnificent. Penelope nearly forgot that she was in a hurry as she let Ellery stroke her through her undergarments, feeling his hard cock throbbing in her hand.

Their kisses became frenzied and Ellery began to guide her towards the bedroom but Penelope had no time for that.

She dragged him by his shirt to the kitchen countertop and he took the hint. He put his hands around her slim waist and hefted her onto the countertop without even breaking the kiss. Penelope rubbed his cock on her pantyhose-sheathed thigh and felt him shudder. He let go of her penis and began to yank at her panties and pantyhose, wanting to get them down, to get access to her ass.

Penelope shook her head and grunted. She tore a hole in the crotch of her pantyhose and eased her panties aside, exposing her sphincter. Ellery’s fingers scrambled around the countertop until her found the butter dish. He scooped a dollop of margarine into his fingers and rubbed it on his cock as Penelope frantically guided it to her sphincter. She wanted him inside her desperately.

She opened her legs wide, lifting her feet high, putting her ankles on his shoulders, offering herself to Ellery like a slattern.

Ellery positioned his cock at the entrance to her anus and pushed, ramming his huge cock into her ass in one thrust. Penelope bit her hand to stifle a scream and lay back on the countertop and let Ellery ravage her.

It was over quickly. Ellery gripped her thighs with his big meaty hands and held her while he savagely rammed his cock in and out of her anus. Even with the margarine her anus was tight and gripped his large appendage snugly as he plowed his cock in and out of her, delighting in the feel of her sphincter gripping his tender flesh, the feel of her panties and pantyhose on his scrotum and thighs, her pretty face contorted in pleasure and pain.

Ellery’s cock was bruising Penelope’s anus. It was almost like being raped but she craved the forcefulness of the act; the brutality, the animalistic rutting. Ellery’s cock stretched her sphincter, eliciting ripples of pleasure which combined with the deep rings of delight that radiated from her prostate every time Ellery’s glans rammed against it.

“Oh god!” she cried as her penis, standing proud and erect, erupted without her even touching it.

She came so hard that she didn’t care that she was ejaculating her seed all over her skirt, blouse and jacket. She felt a second orgasm building as Ellery’s cock expanded inside her, quivering as it blasted his issue deep in her ass. Her body convulsed on the countertop and she moaned like a banshee. Ellery stifled her screams by putting his hand over her mouth.

The feel of her nylon-clad legs on his torso and her pulsating anus gripping his cock was tremendously arousing. Fucking her in her policewoman’s uniform was kinky. He’d never tell Penelope this but she reminded him of an Aunt who he used to masturbate over in his teens.

As Penelope’s orgasm began to subside and her breathing began to return to normal she realised what she had done. She had used Ellery to slake a different kind of thirst. She knew that she was addicted to sex as much as she was addicted to alcohol and all she had done was swapped the witch for the bitch.

She pushed Ellery off her even as he tried to be tender with her, wanting to hold her and kiss her in post-coital bliss.

“Get off me. Go home! I have to work!” Penelope struggled out from underneath him.

Her uniform was a mess, wrinkled and spattered with semen. If she didn’t get the semen off her skirt and jacket soon they would be ruined. An image flashed through her mind of the last time she had descended into a period of alcohol-fuelled sex addiction: using a black sharpie to cover dried semen stains on her navy skirt before she went to work.

Penelope got to her feet and began to rip off her clothes. Ellery attempted to help but she pushed him away.

“Fuck off! Go home! Go to the Longhorn and tell the guys you nailed Penelope Bishop again if that’s what you want,” she screamed at him

“You are one cold hard bitch!” Ellery hissed as he adjusted his clothing.

“Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out,” Penelope called over her shoulder as she made her way to the bathroom.

*****

Steve Edwards watched Penelope Bishop as she walked down her driveway towards his unmarked police cruiser. She had a determined look on her face and despite the heavy makeup which was her signature, she looked strained. Her weight had fluctuated over the years and it looked like she was replacing meals with booze or just plain forgetting to eat. She was far from skinny but she was lean except for her bosom and buttocks, both of which he suspected had had work done on them.

She was wearing black lycra leggings and black high heels and when she turned to lock her front door he appreciated the way they that they clung to her ass. Her legs were long and well-formed, her breasts were hidden under a fleecy parka but the heft of her bosom was pronounced. Her long blonde hair was piled under a woollen beanie. In a pinch she could pass as one of the streetwalkers they intended to interview.

“Any more news?” she asked as she settled into the passenger seat and checked the contents of her handbag.

“I’ve got Alice chasing down Leroy Dubbin’s last known address from his parole officer.”

“I assume it was a halfway house and maybe one of the tenants knows where he moved on to when his parole period was completed,” Steve put the car in reverse and backed out of the driveway.

He noticed that her perfume was similar to a scent that Felicity sometimes wore and he imagined Felicity lounging around her hotel in LA. They’d spoken on Skype while Steve ate a TV dinner at the kitchen counter. He cleared his head and concentrated on the case.

“I know a couple of the trans hookers who work the south side of Bridge Street where Loretta sold her ass,” Penelope looked pointedly at Steve.

Penelope knew that Steve lived with Felicity and that Felicity owned Ride em’ Cowgirl. It was quite the scandal when Steve had come out publicly about his relationship with Felicity because she was a minor celebrity in Balwyn and popular with the LGBT community. Penelope had been popular too until the scandal involving her relationship with Melissa Doyle had hit the media.

Penelope had met Felicity a couple of times at Balwyn PD social functions and they had circled each other warily and arched their haunches like two alley cats about to fight. The fact that they were both trans women did nothing to endear themselves to each other. Steve had deliberately withheld from Felicity the fact that Penelope was back on the Task Force.

Steve drove through the suburbs and into downtown Balwyn. Located on Interstate 10, two and half hours west of Austin with a population that hovered around 150,000, Balwyn was a mid-sized city. The city’s affluence and the high police to civilian population rate meant that street crime remained low for a city of its size. People felt safe on the streets of Balwyn and Balwyn PD used unorthodox methods to keep it that way.

Unable to completely stamp out prostitution and recreational drug use the PD went to great efforts to keep it confined to one location: Bridge Street which was unofficially known as the Bridge Street free zone. The street was lined with titty bars, adult stores and greasy spoons. Visitors and locals alike cruised the street looking for something spicy. The police deliberately kept a low profile on Bridge Street but diligently patrolled the adjacent streets and were intolerant of any miscreants who attempted to bring their unsavoury behaviours outside of the delineated area. Silvia Bickle called Bridge Street an island of crud in a sea of resplendence.

Steve parked his car and he and Penelope walked one block over to enter Bridge Street from the north, the blaring music emanating from the bars and the smells of fried food gave the place an almost carnival atmosphere. The streets were full of working class men and the occasional businessman looking to blow off steam. Some of the more affluent students from Balwyn College bar hopped looking for cheap beer and weed. They passed working girls out plying their trade, the standard of the hookers steadily declining as they worked their way south.

“Ok you see that girl across the street? I know her. She isn’t a CI but she helps me out now and then. Let’s not spook her or compromise her in front of the other girls,” Penelope lifted her chin pointing across the street.

Four women in ‘cooch-cooler’ skirts, stripper heels, open blouses with big hair and heavy makeup walked slowly back and forth from corner to corner. Penelope and Steve watched as a man approach one of girls and talk briefly to her before she led him down a dark alley.

“Think they’ve gone to play scrabble?” Penelope surprised him by putting her arm through his and sidling up to him.

“We’re a couple looking for an adventure to spice up our life,” she said by way of explanation.

They crossed the street and made a beeline towards a girl Steve estimated might be in her early twenties. At first she smiled as they approached hoping to make a good score but when she recognised Penelope her smile turned into a scowl.

“What you want?” the woman adopted a distinct street accent that didn’t suit her.

Although she wore the uniform of a hooker: cooch-curtains, fuck-me heels, tits-out blouse, nylons and face paint, she didn’t have the weathered look of the street.

“Jaylene, play nice and make it look like you're working a trade,” Penelope kept a false smile fixed on her face.

“We’re just two women haggling over the price of a threesome,” Penelope said through her fixed grin.

“I ain’t sucking your dick Penny but I’ll throw your man a freebie. You can watch,” Jaylene looked Steve up and down like he was a piece of meat.

Penelope opened her palm to reveal a small roll of bills and gave Jaylene a questioning stare.

Jaylene looked at the money, licked her lips and nodded her head curtly.

“Let’s go to our car,” Penelope continued to smile.

Penelope hugged Steve and kissed his cheek, a charade for the other working girls to make them think she was pleased that she and her man were about to embark on an exotic threesome. Steve blushed and when Jaylene took his other arm his face flared red.

“Don’t look all heathered honey, you supposed to look like we goin’ for a good time,” Jaylene breathed into his ear sultrily.

Her breath was warm and smelled of bubble gum, her cheap perfume was cloying. Despite the situation Steve felt his dick twitch. Another time he might have been susceptible to the premise of taking on these two women but the thought was fleeting.

They walked the block and half back to Steve’s car, they checked to see that no one was watching and got in, Steve in the front and the women in the back.

“This about Loretta and the other bitch?” Jaylene rummaged in her purse and Steve rolled down the front windows in anticipation that she was going to smoke.

He was surprised and annoyed that Jaylene didn’t feel sorry for the two murdered women.

“What? You think all trannies are in the same club? We hang out together at the coffee shop swapping recipes and talking about the price of pantyhose? Ask your girl here… ain’t no sisterhood of the travelling tucking panties,” she tucked a stick of gum under her tongue and Steve rolled up the windows to keep out the cold.

“Knock it off Jaylene; I know you’re enrolled in the adult degree program at Balwyn College,” Penelope poked Jaylene in the ribs and Jaylene shrugged her shoulders.

Jaylene’s inflection suddenly changed from street to a refined Southern accent.

“That’s right Penny and this is how I’m paying for my BA. Stocking shelves at Brookshire's sure isn’t going to pay for it,” Jaylene snapped her gum.

Penelope hated to be called Penny but she let the dig go.

“So tell us about Loretta?” she asked calmly.

“Leroy? That fuckin’ crossdressing faggot!” Jaylene sniped.

“Your man here knows about gender identity versus gender expression?” she reached out and stroked Steve’s shoulder affectionately.

“My girlfriend is Felicity Goodnite,” Steve took a little illicit pleasure at the surprised look on Jaylene’s face.

She took a beat and continued.

“In that case you're all over it, right?” but Jaylene continued to lecture them both anyway.

“You see girls like myself, Penelope here and your girl Felicity identify as female. Our gender identity is how we see ourselves; our own internal sense and personal experience of gender. That's what makes us transgender women,” Steve put up a hand to stop her but Jaylene continued to lecture.

“Gender expression includes all the ways a person communicates their gender based on societal factors such as gender norms and perceptions. Penny, Felicity and I live our lives full time as women, presenting as women.”

“Now as you would know from the girls who work for your missus, gender expression is not binary. Most of those drag queens are homosexual men who present as women to entertain but when they do their behaviour and outward appearance such as their dress, hair, make-up, body language and voice is female.”

“I know that for some of them, their actual gender identity switches depending on how they express themselves. They have a femme side that only manifests itself in drag. Just like the fetishic transvestites who hang out at some of the Bridge Street bars. For a couple of hours a week they like to present as women and maybe suck a dick or two and take it up the ass but for those few precious hours Manny has become Mary,” Jaylene rattled on.

“Is this going somewhere? We don’t need a lecture on gender identity,” Penelope interjected.

“You know I don’t really hate those men who like to slip into a corset, nylons and heels, put on a wig and paint their faces to fulfil some sexual fantasy. But I hated Leroy Dubbin,” Jaylene would not be knocked off her soapbox.

“That man didn’t have a modicum of femininity in him. He hijacked the identity of Loretta just to make money so he could stick that shit up his nose or in his arm. There was no real transformation when he changed from Leroy to Loretta, he just put on those clothes every night and sucked dick for money. It’s men like him that promote the prejudice and hatred of the transgendered. Every time I hear about a trans woman getting beat up I blame Leroy Dubbin,” Jaylene let out a long sigh.

“Surely you’re not proposing that Leroy got what he deserved?” Steve was astonished.

“I feel truly sorry for what happened to that drag queen got killed in the motel but there’s no sympathy on Bridge Street for Leroy Dubbin. He took away our trade, he stole from his clients, he sold drugs, he was a shit stain. He was hated by everyone who knew him so don’t expect any help from us,” Jaylene talked as if she represented all the hookers on Bridge Street.

“He was still a human being,” Penelope reasoned.

Jaylene paused and took a deep breath.

“On the night of, I approached a man cruising the street driving a white BMW SUV. It was good car, he was well dressed and he was kinda gawky lookin’. You know, a Poindexter type, safe. It looked like a good score. He waved me away and picked up Leroy... Loretta. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. Maybe he was a cheapskate or was looking for rough trade because Loretta presented rough,” Jaylene said.

Penelope and Steve looked at each other knowingly. Jaylene had witnessed Loretta getting into the killer’s car. She had actually seen the killer.

“Would you be prepared to come down to Police Plaza and make a statement, provide a description of the man, maybe look at some pictures or help our sketch artist put together a facial composite?” Penelope asked.

“Not tonight. I’ll come in tomorrow. Tonight I gotta earn. That designer vagina won’t pay for itself,” Jaylene said obstinately.

She tapped Steve on the shoulder.

“So now we done talking you wanna hop in the back with me and bang tidy honey?” Jaylene reverted to her street talk.

Penelope handed Jaylene the roll of bills and reached across to open the door for her.

“Given the circumstances maybe we should drive Jaylene back to her corner,” Steve said.

“You got yourself a real gentleman here Penny. You treat him right and you might steal him away from that snooty-ass drag queen he calls his missus,” Jaylene cackled.

“Be careful. Warn the other girls ok?” Steve said as they pulled up to the curb.

“Isn’t that your job?” Jaylene said just before she slammed the door closed.

“She’s got a point. We need to get the word out that there is predator preying on trans women,” Steve said to Penelope who had joined him the front of the vehicle.

“Yeah. Good luck getting Gary Rasmussen to convince the city bureaucrats to make public that there is possibly a serial killer killing trans prostitutes,” Penelope growled.

“Maybe you can warn them all at the next club meeting,” Steve said dryly.

Penelope punched him in the arm. She begrudgingly admitted to herself that Stave wasn’t really the asshole she thought he was.

Steve drove Penelope home; he pulled into her driveway and killed the lights but left the engine running.

They sat there in the dark. The silence was awkward.

“There’s a bottle sitting on the kitchen countertop,” Penelope breathed.

“So what? Leave it there or put it away. Better still, pour it down the sink,” Steve replied.

“I’d feel stronger if you came inside with me,” Penelope whispered.

She put her hand on his forearm and turned to him.

“I can’t do that Penelope,” Steve gently removed her hand from his arm.

“Why?” Penelope looked at him but Steve stared resolutely ahead.

“You know why,” Steve switched on the headlights and put the car in gear.

“Yeah… I know,” Penelope sighed and opened the door.

Steve tried to concentrate on the case while he drove home but he couldn’t. He tried to think of Felicity but he couldn’t conjure an image of her. All he could see was Penelope in her tight uniform skirt or her black leggings.

The images of Penelope abruptly disappeared as he approached his apartment block.

Wendy Beaumont was sitting on the Italian marble steps out front of the building backlit lit by the fluorescents in the lobby.

To be continued