Dying For Love

By Dr. Ira May

This twisted, thrilling read will plunge you into the unraveling mind of a psychotic female serial killer.

 

Joanne Hawkins, sexually abused as a young girl by Joe, her drug-addicted stepfather, develops multiple personalities to deal with this horrific tragedy. 

Years later, as an adult, she uses her beauty and sex to attract men like Joe. Once Joanne seduces them, she binds their hands together while she makes love to them, and when they are defenseless, she strangles them with barbed wire. Once they are dead, she draws a happy face on their bodies.

 

When several known pedophiles are found murdered in the Austin, Texas area, there is an all-out effort to capture the woman the press calls the Happy Face Killer. 

 

Fear runs rampant after she escapes, and the killings begin again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dr. Ira May
• Release date: Dec 15, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393449478

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

***

A thunderous bolt of lightning illuminated the outside of the Lone Star Motel as a blue neon sign flickered in the night. Whipped by gale-force winds, the rain came down in torrents, nearly obliterating the sign. Inside the seedy motel, a blue hue from the neon light was all that kept the room from being pitch black. Through the window, flashes of white light illuminated a naked woman sitting atop a massively built man with both his hands and feet shackled to the bedposts. Except for a pair of worn size fourteen Ariat cowboy boots that dangled off the end of the bed, the man was completely naked. Hanging on the headboard's corner post was a strand of barbed wire and a sweat-stained Stetson hat. Between the flashes of lightning and the strobe-like effect of the blue neon sign, it was as if they were moving in slow motion. As the woman arched her back, sweat ran off her face and dripped down onto her breasts. She slowly ran her latex-glove covered hands over her taut nipples, twisted them, and moaned. A heart-shaped locket that hung around her neck partially concealed numerous barbed wire-shaped, jagged scars.

As she ground her hips into the man, he moaned and said, Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah. When he was ready to climax, the woman, breathing rapidly, stopped, and sat atop him without moving.

What are you doing? Why did you stop? he asked angrily.

Do you want to feel an ecstasy like you’ve never felt before? she replied.

I don’t do drugs.

Oh, this is much better than any drug, she said as she picked up the strand of barbed wire and dangled it in front of his face.

What do you plan on doing with that? he asked curiously.

Wouldn’t you like to know? she said as she smiled and slowly ran her tongue across her ruby red lips.

You’re fuckin’ twisted, he said.

She reached down, lifted his head, and looped the barbed wire around his neck. As she tightened the noose, he clenched his teeth together and reflexively contracted his muscles as the sharp barbs pierced the skin on his neck.

You want it? Then beg for it, she said.

All right, I’ll play along. Give it to me, bitch. I’m begging you.

As she ground her hips into him, his moans became moans of pleasure, and his mind forgot about the pain being inflicted upon him by the sharp barbs on the wire. All he could think about was exploding inside her.

Call me your little girl. Call me, Cindy, she said as she leaned forward and whispered to him.

Just shut the hell up and do it, he shouted.

Her face took on an evil appearance, and she twisted the wire tighter and tighter, using all her strength.

The pillowcase beneath his head turned a crimson red as blood trickled down his neck. As the barbed wire cut deeper into his skin, he strained at the bindings that bound him. Struggling to speak, he whispered, I... can’t... breathe.

Obviously, she enjoyed the pain she was inflicting on him as she watched his face contort and felt his body squirm beneath hers. Beg. Beg for your life, she said wickedly.

Please... don’t kill me. I’m begging you, he gasped.

I detest perverts who beg.

The more he gasped for air, the higher he arched his back. The higher he arched his back, the tighter she twisted the wire. You... bitch, he mumbled, barely getting the words out of his mouth.

Struggling to breathe, she rode him like she was riding a wild bronc as he bucked, convulsed, and bucked again. His hands tugged against his restraints, and he tried with all his might to free himself, but slowly, his movements began to slow down as his energy ebbed. He made one final gasp in a desperate attempt to breathe, and then his body went limp.

Her face twitched, her head jerked, and she began to speak in a different voice. Why? Why did you have to kill him? asked the voice.

Because perverts like him don’t deserve to live, she said wickedly.

When is it going to stop? asked the voice.

When I say it does, she shouted as she dismounted the man and began to dress. After she put on her clothes and her rain-slicker, she surveyed the room, walked over, picked up the dead man’s pants, and rummaged through his pockets. He owes me, she said to herself as she opened his wallet and stuffed the cash in her pocket. She picked up a canvas bag sitting on the floor, reached in, and removed a yellow magic marker.

What are you going to do with that? asked the voice.

You’ll see, she said as she walked over next to the body and drew a happy face on the corpse. She placed the cap on the marker, put it in her canvas bag, turned, and walked out into the pouring rain.

CHAPTER 2

***

Inside a large, homey living room, a fire roared in the fireplace. Maurice Washington, a black man with handsome features, sat on the sofa's edge as he typed away on his laptop. The glow of the white screen reflected off of his tired face. As a public defender, he hated bringing his work home, but he had a deadline to meet and didn’t have a choice. The case he had been working on had been dragging on for weeks, and he just wanted to get it done.

A drop-dead gorgeous black female dressed only in a pink, baby-doll nightgown held onto the railing as she walked down the stairway that led to the living room. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, looked over at Maurice, and said, Baby, when are you coming to bed. I’m lonely.

Maurice continued to type on the keyboard without looking up and replied, Pearl, please, I’m not in the mood for interruptions. Just give me a few minutes, and I’ll be up as soon as I finish this report.

Pearl continued down the steps, walked over, and stood in front of him with her breasts in his face. She pushed the lid down on his laptop and said flirtatiously, You work too much. Come to bed, and we’ll play for a while.

He looked up at her and smiled. Give me about ten minutes.

I’ve got a better idea, she said as she closed the lid on the laptop and placed it on the table. She returned the smile, sat on Maurice’s lap with her legs straddling his, and kissed him softly, sexually. Why don’t we just play right here?

Lightning flashed through the window, and thunder boomed, shaking the house. The lights flickered and then went out. Flames from the fireplace illuminated the room with a warm glow and made her sheer gown appear almost invisible.

You’re timing sucks. You know that, don’t you? he asked.

If I wait for the right time, we’ll never make love, she said as she cupped his hands in her face. Maurice, I want a baby.

We’ve talked about this before. You know what the doctor said.

I don’t care what he said. Just make love to me.

Maurice slowly began to slide the straps of her nighty off over her shoulders and then down over her breasts. He lifted her gown over her head and dropped it on the floor. Then he kissed her lips, her neck, and her breasts as he submerged himself into her beautiful ebony body. He could feel every curve, every inch of her firm body as he let her unzip his pants and slide them down to the floor. I can’t get enough of her, Maurice thought to himself. It almost felt like the first time as he thrust into her again and again. A flash of lightning illuminated the two of them lying on the sofa wrapped in love’s embrace as their bodies moved as one.

CHAPTER 3

***

Detective Roger Torrez, a suave Hispanic man in his middle thirties, had gotten the call just as he pulled out the driveway of his home that morning. He had been with the elite FBI’s serial