Jean: The Box Cutter Murders Ch. 01

Content Warning: The following novel-length tale is an erotic murder mystery with graphic violence and gratuitous non-consensual sex. Since I am writing for Literotica, the story contains more sex than mystery.

This story is in Nonconsent/Reluctance for a reason. Sensitive readers should look elsewhere for entertainment.

This story took place in 1977. There were no cell phones, no internet and computers were scarce.

I was clearing out the junk in our basement and came across an old box that belonged to my wife. It was filled with law school notes, an old diary and a strange notebook written in code. The notebook was illustrated with drawings of beautiful naked women. The subject in the last few drawings looked like my wife. My curiosity piqued, I read the diary. I edited the material and filled in a few details, but otherwise, this story is from Jean's diary, almost word for word. Until I read the diary, I was unaware of most of what had transpired that summer beyond a few terse comments from Jean and what was published in the newspapers. I am amazed at my wife's determination and courage. God, I love her!

Chapter 1: The Rent Party

I felt a wave of nausea as I read the horrors detailed in the trial transcript. Inesa was a young woman from Eastern Europe about my age. She had been promised a better life in America only to be forced into prostitution. She worked on the streets of Philadelphia for less than two months before she was butchered. She had been raped and almost cut in two before she died from her prolonged torture. I was grateful the document did not contain the photographic exhibits referenced in the text.

I am an intern to a liberal professor who opposes the death penalty on moral grounds, no matter how gruesome the murder. In this case, he believes the legal system had rushed to judgment and convicted the wrong man. I wasn't convinced of the young man's innocence, but if the professor was right, a monster was walking the streets of North Philadelphia, free to kill again. Whoever killed Inesa, deserved a quick journey to hell. The professor had liked the case summary I had written, and wanted me to perform a thorough analysis of the prosecution's case. Tonight, I didn't have the stomach for the grisly task. The heat and humidity of a summer evening in Philadelphia made the assignment too oppressive. I closed the court record and tossed it aside. I wiped sweat and tears from my eyes and sat back to stare out of the window.

I'd been raised by my mother who was a high school teacher in an Upstate New York college town. The only thing I had in common with the victim, besides being a young white woman, was that I had left my hometown hoping for a better life. Unfortunately, getting my law degree required passing contract law which I had flunked once already. I was also short another three credits. So, I was stuck at Temple for the summer following my third year in law school. I was retaking contract law and working as an intern to a criminal law professor to earn the required credits.

I reached for my thick textbook on contract law and forced myself to study for next Monday's quiz. I couldn't afford to bomb another exam. Unfortunately, I found contract law to be the most boring subject I had ever taken. I didn't even manage to stare at the tedious book for ten minutes before my I started to fall asleep. I wish someone would just shoot me and put me out of my misery.

A stream of sweat fell from my face and ran down the valley between my breasts. OK, I understand offer and acceptance, but even after reading the chapter on promissory estoppel and nonreciprocal promises three times, I realized I would probably never comprehend the material. I dreaded the three-hour classes every morning of the week since the small class size guaranteed you would be called on. Unfortunately, it was a required course. Most of my classmates had earned their law degrees in the customary three years and moved on to begin their careers. I was desperate to earn my law degree. Without it, I was doomed to a future of meaningless, low-paying jobs.

The only stimulating part of the summer was working as a legal aid to a professor who was passionate about helping people who had been wrongly convicted. I had loved his class on criminal law and hoped to use what I learned to help oppressed women after I graduated. Unfortunately, the prospect of finishing law school at the end of the summer was getting more remote by the day, as it appeared likely that I would flunk contract law a second time. Even more disheartening was my feeling that my attempts to impress my advisor were doomed to failure.

Since I had grown up without a father, I had always been intimidated by male authority figures. The professor's forbidding behavior, when I met with him daily, terrified me. He had quickly crushed my assumption that working as a legal aid was an easy three credits. He stated that successful completion of my internship required that I delivered significant progress on one of his death row appeals. He didn't care if it took a year or eternity.

I leaned back in my chair and faced my noisy fan. I was used to hot summers in Upstate New York, but the heat and humidity in Philadelphia were in another league. My skimpy outfit exposed a lot of sweaty skin to the struggling fan. Because of the heat, I was wearing a farm girl costume I had put together to fulfill a fantasy of my boyfriend, Steve. I had found the skimpy outfit in the bottom of a drawer at home while packing for summer school. I decided it would be perfect for studying in my dorm room on hot summer nights. I wouldn't be caught dead wearing it outside of my dorm room.

I had sewn the halter top using lightweight, red and blue cotton. It had string ties behind my neck and back. The skimpy top barely concealed my ample breasts and was designed to exhibit as much cleavage as possible. The colorful top left my trim stomach bare, and Steve also claimed it revealed a significant amount of side boob. The top was cooler than a tee shirt or blouse, but the lightweight material still made my braless breasts sweat. The night's overbearing heat and humidity plastered the thin material to my flesh.

The cutoff jeans were not quite as skimpy as the Daisy Dukes my ex-boyfriend had wanted me to copy from Playboy, but even so, they barely covered my low-rise panties. I had lost weight in law school, and the once snug shorts were in danger of slipping off my narrow hips. In the heat of passion, Steve had ripped the ragged jeans up one side nearly to the waist. I used a safety pin to hold the gap closed. Even so, the tear revealed my white panties. The whiteness of my underwear was the only evidence that my pale body had any hint of a tan. My bleach blond hair was fastened into my customary ponytail.

I had lived with Steve during my senior year at Cornell, but we had separated after we got our degrees. He went to work in a research laboratory in Palo Alto, and I went to Temple Law School. He insisted that we should be free to date other people while I was in school because three years was too long for either of us to remain celibate. The last time we were together, he declared he was excited about dating hot California girls. What a jerk! At the time, I thought our relationship was over.

However, I had the last laugh. The fact that we still talked every week by phone suggested Steve was striking out with the hot chicks. In fact, I had spent the last two summers with him in Palo Alto. I love sex, but even I was surprised at how horny he was. His randy behavior added to my conviction that poor Steve was having little success with California girls.

I wasn't having a lot more luck being single again either. I dated a few guys while I was in law school, but none of them were keepers. A few of them were interesting enough to make it into my bed. Currently, my sex life was so bleak I reverted to my old practice of frequent masturbation. I was still holding out hope of continuing my relationship with Steve. He was supportive of my decision to become a lawyer. He explained that being a success in the San Francisco area required both partners in a marriage have a professional degree.

I stared at the ceiling and for the hundredth time and tried to comprehend why I was in law school. Anything was better than reading contract law, even revisiting old wounds. Originally, I thought I was interested in fighting for women's rights in rural America, but Freud suggested otherwise. My father was a lawyer, and I was desperate to impress him. He divorced my mother when I was four. He insisted on exerting his visitation rights to infuriate my mother. He had sexually abused me for a couple of years before my mother got a court order terminating his parental rights. I had managed to suppress all memories of his abuse until a couple of years ago when they came flooding back. A shrink at the college health clinic suggested my childhood abuse explained my promiscuity and frequent urge to masturbate.

I had tried to connect with my father as a teenager, but every attempt had ended in rejection. He didn't see me as an individual and assumed I was like my mother and after his hard-earned money. When I got accepted to law school, I thought he would be proud and offer to help with my tuition. I visited him at his law office and nervously told him I had some news. He assumed I was pregnant and needed money for an abortion. I left his office in tears. As always, dwelling on the cruel memories brought tears to my eyes.

My eyes were still wet when my roommate came crashing through the apartment door. Dana was a law student from a wealthy Long Island suburb. She was loud and brash, but what really annoyed me about her was how everything came easy for her. She had a natural talent for the law. The only reason she was taking summer classes was to finish law school in two years. She already had a job offer from a big firm in the city and a rich boyfriend who wanted to marry her.

Dana yelled, "Jean, how's contract law going? Need any help?"

"The only help I need is a massive dose of coffee in the morning. You did remember you promised to pick up a can."

Dana was speechless for a moment, "Oh shit! Our study group ran long, and I just forgot. Well, it was your turn anyway."

"Damn it, Dana. Your boyfriend used up the last of the coffee, and you promised."

Dana said, "Just get up a couple of minutes early and hit the cafeteria before class."

"You've got to be fucking kidding. It's on the other side of campus. I'll be late for class."

Dana said, "It's not my problem you cannot get your lazy ass out of bed in the morning."

I slipped my feet into a pair of flip-flops before I grabbed a twenty and my apartment key.

I yelled, "Fuck you, Dana. You're a real bitch."

I slammed the door and headed for the stairs. The stairwell faced the sun and was baking hot. I felt like I had been punched in the chest. It was only a little better once I got outside. The sun was setting, and the temperature had maybe dropped one or two degrees. I heard thunder in the distance. I was drenched in sweat before I got to the street.

My anger at Dana carried me for a couple of blocks before the heat forced to slow down. I was headed for a corner market a few blocks from campus. If I remembered correctly, it was open late. I had been to this small store a handful of times during the regular school term when there were lots of students on campus, but I had never been there at night. The problem is that Temple University is in the middle of a ghetto. Because of the heat, there were a lot of people out on their porches and standing on the sidewalk. Some guy whistled and invited me to share a beer. I walked faster when I realized how little I was wearing. I was also the only white person in sight.

Steve said my biggest character flaw was my stubbornness. I consider it a virtue. Without a lot of grit, I would have quit law school after I flunked contract law the first time. Damn it. I had to have the coffee, and I only had two short blocks to go. I took a deep breath and plunged ahead. I was greeted by a steady stream of whistles and catcalls the rest of the way to the store. It was all Dana's fault I was traipsing around the ghetto dressed like a whore. Damn that bitch!

Across from the store, there was a group of women wearing outfits every bit as revealing as mine. They were shouting encouragement to a crowd of men in front of the store. When the women saw me, one of them cursed and told me to find my own corner. I hurried across the street.

The men milling around in the parking lot were blocking the entrance to the store. They looked like they were dressed for a game of shirts and skins, but it was far too hot and muggy for basketball. Half of the men were proudly displaying the muscles on their sweaty black torsos. Many of them sported gang tattoos. All of them were wearing the tiny shorts worn by professional basketball players. I was greeted with more catcalls and whistles as I crossed the street. I was incensed that they assumed I was there to sell my body. I was wearing more than most of these assholes. Someday women would win their right to appear in public dressed as they wanted without being harassed. Unfortunately, tonight wasn't that idyllic era.

The men grudgingly parted to let me through. The price I paid was being groped. One idiot cursed and jumped back when the safety pin on my shorts came open and stabbed his greedy fingers.

Once inside the store, I headed straight for the coffee. I was shocked at the price, but coffee addicts cannot be fussy. As I was leaving, I saw a display of baked goods and grabbed a couple of chocolate muffins for breakfast. I was in too much of a hurry. When I turned around, I ran into a towering wall of black muscles. I staggered from the impact, and a massive black hand grabbed my bare shoulder. I fought the urge to run.

I stared at the floor and uttered an apology, "I'm sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going. Are you OK?"

I heard a deep guttural laugh. "Ms. Miller, what brings you out into my neighborhood late at night?"

My eyes darted up to see Michael Williams, my criminal law professor, towering over me. He was looking at me with an amused expression. Professor Williams was a middle-aged, former football player who's curly black hair was turning gray around the temples. This massive Afro-American easily outweighed my 110 pounds by maybe three times. His rugged good looks were the motivation for considerable gossip among the hand full of women in the law school. Unfortunately, he was a stern taskmaster and seemed immune to womanly charms. On campus, he was always sharply dressed in a suit, vest, and tie. Tonight, he was wearing a designer outfit consisting of short sleeve explorer shirt and matching shorts. His running shoes even looked expensive.

I swallowed hard. The professor's hand was still gripping my shoulder. I was aware of the difference in power between us. I held up the can of coffee and murmured, "Coffee. It's the only way I can stay awake during Contract Law."

"Ah, so I'm sharing you with Professor Stone. That's too bad. I would prefer having your total commitment to the David Brown appeal."

"Sorry, I flunked Contract Law the first time. It's so dry and boring I have trouble staying awake in class. That's why I'm desperate for coffee."

I heard the professor laugh again. I was disconcerted by the difference in his demeanor from what he exhibited on campus.

"Tell me, Ms. Miller, do his students still call him Monotone Stone behind his back?"

His laughter was infectious. I laughed at his jibe and said, "Oh, definitely. Still, I doubt even you could make Contract Law interesting."

The professor gave my shoulder a squeeze and said, "Contract Law would be a simple matter of offer and acceptance if it weren't for the messy aspects introduced by human beings. Of course, without people's complicated emotions there wouldn't be any murders, and I would be out of a job."

I was perplexed by the professor's warm smile and casual conversation. He was a legend as a fierce defense lawyer for the poor. He was known to set traps for prosecuting attorneys and unprepared law students. I had never seen him in action before my internship, but I had heard stories of district attorneys brought to tears in court. He had even managed to win two cases in front of the Supreme Court. I was wary, but his warm conversation soon disarmed me.

"Ms. Miller, I'm surprised to see you in my neighborhood, but I'm glad you are here. I appreciate the work up you did on David Brown's file. It's a pleasure to read a document written by someone who knows how to write English. I'm an old friend of his aunt, and I have a good feeling about the boy. I think with some hard work, we have a chance to get his conviction overturned."

I blushed as I said, "Thank you, Professor Williams. I'm glad to help in any way I can if you think David is innocent. Defending women and minorities was the reason I came to law school."

I blushed for two reasons. My father had left me desperate for an approving male figure in my life. I had never managed to get close to my father. Every time I tried to talk to him about a success in my life, he turned the conversation into an outburst of complaints about my mother. The professor's compliment thrilled me. Maybe I had a career in law after all. The second reason I blushed was that the professor's eyes were scrutinizing my scantily clad body with obvious enthusiasm. I shivered when he licked his lips.

"Ms. Miller, can I call you Jean? We're not on campus, and I'd prefer you call me Michael."

"Please, call me Jean, Professor. I mean Michael."

"OK, Jean, the reason I'm so happy to see you is, I really do need your help to free David. I have a strong feeling in my gut that he was wrongly convicted of that poor girl's murder. However, my feelings won't count in a court of law; I need facts. Unfortunately, my other intern is overloaded. Besides, when I sent Rachel to Holmesburg Prison to interview David, he denied killing the prostitute and then refused to say anything more to her. I want you to step up and take the lead in this case. Get me the evidence I need to win an appeal and get him released before prison crushes his fragile spirit. Being a successful intern requires more than performing library research to find relevant cases. Fieldwork is often required. I assume you want to succeed in freeing David and earn credits toward your degree?"

Rachel was one of the top second-year law students, and I knew that she was researching several of Professor Williams' cases for him. I was flattered that he would give me a case that meant so much to him.

I said, "Of course, I want to free David if he is innocent. When I read the police report, I was surprised how little investigation they did, but what makes you think David is innocent?"

"I know that the police often get it right, but in this case, I believe David was railroaded. The public's revulsion to the brutal murder made it a high-profile case, and the police rushed the investigation to appease the politicians. That is why their reports don't mention that David has developmental issues. His mother is a drug addict, and he was born prematurely. David was raised by his aunt, along with her two sons who are about the same age. From what I've seen, he is a follower with little or no initiative of his own. The crime was too creative for David. My gut says he is innocent. You just need to prove it."

"Why didn't his lawyer or someone in the legal system object to the lack of evidence? What about the judge or the DA?"

"The public defender was inexperienced and overloaded with cases. The judge is a drunk, and the DA is only interested in having a high conviction rate and running for mayor. None of them cared about the rape and murder of an immigrant prostitute. The police hardly bothered to investigate, once they had David. Now that the boy is on death row, the authorities have closed the book on the murder of an insignificant prostitute with no family to demand justice."