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Tony Bulmer

Copyright 2012 Tony Bulmer

Smashwords Edition


Nude and glistening, they had tied him to the bed with piano wire. A rubber ball gag strapped tight in his mouth. The killer had sliced him good, sternum to crotch, then pulled the body cavity wide: an intestinal theatre for all to see. The wound gaped cruel and ugly. A crime scene snapper in a white plastic hot-suit leaned in for a close up; his camera strobing on auto wind—flash, flash, flash, Ramirez winced, ‘Hey get that thing out of my face.’ The CSI flipped him a furrowed look and masticated gum. Again the flashgun fired, picking out the corpse on the grizzled bed, in high contrast. Ramirez queezed: thinking about the late lunch at Larry’s Taco Canyon, as he pondered the unzipped body cavity. He thought about the no good croaker his insurance had landed him with and the Peptic ulcer eating through his stomach wall. Sucking peppermint to ease the corpse stench, He watched the crime-scene crew crawling the room. An ugly mess, thought Ramirez, the last kind of thing you wanted to look at end of shift Friday, with the Dodgers facing a World Series home game.

Welcome to Bel-Air.’ A heavy set detective in a blue sports coat and stained chinos sidled up alongside Ramirez, slurping noisily at the dregs of a giant soda. Ramirez gave him a sideways glance. ‘What have we got Cullen?’

We got contact is what we got. The One-eighty-seven is Ronald Weismann, fifty-four, looks like he had a yen for the kinky stuff: bondage, butt-plugs and BDSM. We got a closet full of kinky costumes and a computer hard drive with pervo-smut like you wouldn’t believe. Plus, and you are gonna love this one; the dude is an E-date veteran.

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