by H. B. Berlow
There was probably not going to be any other reference for the two murdered men but I had to be as thorough as possible. By mid-afternoon, I had gotten all through with Winfield. This report from Parkerfield was the only instance which referenced Bottomley and Sutton. My task now was to locate Collins and see what he knew. I asked Elmore if I could borrow the file. He looked it over, saw the date printed on the front and nodded affirmatively.
“Fifteen years old and two of the men dead. I don’t think we’ll be needing it anymore.” I turned to walk upstairs but he still had his hand on the edge of the folder. “Of course, when you are done with it, I’d like to get it back. You know, just to keep everything in order.” I was certain I would be able to accommodate.
Chapter Eight
I was torn between thinking Jeremy Collins was some kind of despicable bum or he was in grave danger. I never gave much thought to considering both might have been true. It wasn’t for me to determine his character or worthiness. It is why the system had judges. Protecting and serving the public was the only dictate we were given. Still, I couldn’t imagine why a rabble rouser would be the target of someone’s vicious vengeance. Seems like all they did was scare a bunch of schoolgirls and use language more fitting for a refinery or a gin mill late on a Saturday night. At the very least, we had two names: a possible target and a spinsterish schoolteacher.
I gathered Dave Morton, Lee Jones, and Jay Davis just outside the chief’s office.
“Lee, you and Jay will need to locate a—” I looked down at the file. “—Julia Brayfield. She was a teacher…”
“Mrs. Brayfield,” Jay burst out. “She was old when my brother Phil had her.”
“Isn’t Phil older than you?” I inquired.
“Yep.” Lee and Jay knew her well enough to be able to locate her, although she had retired nearly twelve years before, not long after the incident in the file. I took a more sober approach with Dave.
“This Jeremy Collins is the only thing that connects Carl Bottomley and Tom Sutton. If anyone knows anything, it’s him.” It was largely speculation on my part but at this point it was all we had. Dave had given the file the once over and was as perplexed as I was.
“I guess you can’t really know what happened out there to stir someone up so bad.”
“Find him,” I said, practically gasping. “We need him.”
I had an extended conversation with Chief Richardson. He listened patiently, trying not to appear as frustrated as I was. No one of importance, per se, was breathing down his neck on this one, not like when Mr. Hallett was Councilman Hallett and this sort of thing was bad for business, corrupt or legitimate. It was more like the chief’s own sense of personal and professional pride that drove him to getting this thing closed. An unsolved case was one thing. One reeking of violence and hatred would leave a stain on his legacy.
For the next two nights, I sat in an empty office reading medical reports and looking at the photos, hearing Dr. Brenz’s voice running through my mind. I was trying to imagine, if I could, what had taken place during these men’s death. By putting together a step-by-step story, so to speak, I might be able to consider what kind of man it would take to commit these crimes. Hopefully, I would actually be able to find him.
They had each been hit on the back of the head, presumably to knock them out. That might indicate surprise but they were each found in a remote area. They wouldn’t have just been out there meandering about while the madman stalks them like a hunter and hits them on the head. Why would the killer hit the victims from behind? Bottomley and Sutton both must have known or trusted the man, enough to go with him to these areas. The forceful blow did more than surprise them. It incapacitated them.
Bottomley was six foot four inches. Sutton was five foot ten. Each was struck on the right side but closer to their ear. It meant the man was shorter and right-handed. Dr. Brenz counted fourteen stab wounds about Bottomley’s neck and chest. Sutton had twelve in his back mostly between the shoulder blades. So after hitting them on their head to knock them down, the man feverishly stabbed them in a fit of anger. But it wasn’t the thing that caused their death because no major organs were struck. If it all that had been done, each of the men would have bled to death, most likely in agonizing pain according to Doctie.
Something like a straight razor was used to remove their genitals. In reading this particular section of the report, I kept thinking back to all the blood on the floor of the room in the Gladstone where Heather Devore met her end. Jake Hickey’s moll dressed in a negligee and lying in a pool of deep red blood the likes of which I had never seen before. It was a sinister way to die, one she certainly didn’t deserve. Someone thought otherwise of Carl Bottomley and Thomas Sutton.
The medical report indicated cause of death was extreme loss of blood. Dr. Brenz figured there was also shock and other trauma. Was that intended or was the killer sloppy? It was hard to determine if making them suffer by bleeding to death was the actual point or if the castration had the greater meaning. I assumed a deep hatred more than a mental illness. It was, after all, something I could relate to from my recent past.
There was a point where I hated Jake Hickey not so much for what he had done in his past but how he was disturbing my life and those of the people around me. I didn’t care if the people of Arkansas City, Kansas found out I was Eric Kimble from Chicago instead of their beloved Baron Witherspoon. I was going to kill Hickey. It took a special kind of hatred to bring out such anger. In this regard, I shared something with this man: We were both driven to the furthest point of our anger.
Dave and I reviewed personnel files of the refinery and finally came across a couple of possibilities. Robert Morgan was in his fifties, a former bare-knuckle boxer and had been in and out of jail for minor offenses, mostly fighting when it wasn’t in the ring. One skirmish was with Sutton. Nothing came of it. Tim Kruger was in his late sixties, pretty much a drunk with bad teeth and bad breath who was surprisingly still able to hold down a job, and had numerous citations for Disturbing the Peace, Petty Theft, and Discharging a Weapon in the city. He worked with all three at one point or another and had done some work on behalf of the Wobblies shortly after the war. However, it was a stretch to connect labor union activists with murder, and I just couldn’t see an old man having the wherewithal to commit these crimes.
There was a mental image of this man, this vicious killer, in my mind. But I could not see him clearly, just a well-built shadow with evil red eyes seeking revenge. Or justice. There was smoke in the trees, and this creature was hiding behind it. I needed a name to attach to this ghostly figure.
While Officer Davis and Officer Jones finally located Mrs. Brayfield, there was a reason to worry. A niece indicated Mrs. Brayfield was now in the Ponca City Hospital run by the Sisters of St. Joseph. She had cancer and was dying. This would mean another trip, over thirty miles south into Oklahoma. Into the land that bred Wilber Underhill Jr. and Charles Arthur Floyd. I knew the Sisters of St. Joseph would have more compassion. I was hoping Julia Brayfield would live long enough to help me catch a killer.
Chapter Nine
I had seen death before. Countless times. Watched the closest thing I had to a brother, Baron Witherspoon, get blown to bits just after pushing me into a foxhole and saving me by literally landing on top of me. Seen other comrades fall. Was staring in the face of Jake Hickey, ‘Crazy’ Jake, a madman of a gangster, when Big Ray Vernon shot him in the back of the head. In war and crime, death was expected. But I had not seen the dying. My dad, actually Baron’s dad, fell ill from a stroke while I was on patrol. By the time they found me and brought me to the hospital, he had expired. Now, I would be in the presence of a woman whose life was ebbing away. She needed to hold on, just long enough to help our case. I would be there to witness her pain and suffering. Perhaps not all of it was from the cancer.
The sisters spoke as quietly as librarians but their tone was soft and comforting. It was as though they had the kind of voices necessary t
o walk hand in hand with death. Sister Leary was perhaps in her early sixties with a stern face yet gentle eyes, almost tired. Yet there was nothing that could pull her away from her duties. It was evident she could balance protocol and compassion. She explained to me Mrs. Brayfield had been diagnosed with cancer of the bowels which had progressed too far to warrant an operation. The Ponca City Hospital was providing comfort, both physically and spiritually.
“I have important questions to ask her. It could help solve a case.” My voice was almost as gentle as hers.
“We can’t afford to upset…”
“She may help us catch a killer.” I hated to interrupt a nun. She was the kind to save souls. My job was to save lives. My eyes must have resembled a boy’s favorite bloodhound.
“I will be in the room. The interview will cease when I say.”
I nodded. It was all I could do.
Julia Brayfield, I was told, was seventy-four years old yet she looked ancient. Her deep-set eyes looked beyond tired, and a blanket of wrinkles made me look like Clark Gable. The illness may have worn her down but I recall Jay and Lee referencing her as looking old years ago. There was a slight tremor in her lips and her eyes were filled with tears. Perhaps she could see her savior and was overjoyed at the thought of stepping over.
In the discussions with Sister Leary, there was never any mention of how my appearance might affect Mrs. Brayfield. Part of me was glad about that. By the same token, I didn’t want the dear lady to believe the devil was coming for her.
“Mrs. Brayfield, I’m Officer Baron Witherspoon from Ark City.”
Her eyes fluttered as she looked at me. It was as though a haze were clearing.
“I know you.”
“Ma’am?”
“The boy who came back from the war.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I was able to put a smile on my face for her. It put me at ease perhaps more than her.
“You’ve done your parents proud.”
It was a sentiment I’m sure every schoolteacher has hoped to have.
“Do you recall a time when three men disturbed a school picnic way back?”
Her lips clenched in bitterness. It was still a strong memory.
“Very bad men.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She shook her head in defiance. Then tears started to roll gently down her face.
“I was supposed to keep them safe.”
“But you did.”
“No.” She repeated it over and over. “I didn’t. They got her. I just know it was them.”
“Who? Who did they get, Mrs. Brayfield?”
“Little Kimberly.”
Her head was moving from side to side and she was sobbing fully now. She was recalling a failure of some kind but not the events of the picnic. I couldn’t continue any further because Sister Leary stepped in right then and pulled me back from the bedside.
I certainly wasn’t going to try to make arrangements to come back. It would have been too much for the dear lady to bear. I already hated myself for allowing her to think she did anything less than her best to protect those girls. I was starting to hate those men even more.
At least I had a name. I didn’t have the case file with me but it was something. Mrs. Brayfield felt she didn’t protect Kimberly, whoever she was. I might have been able to go back to Winfield and visit with my new friend, Officer Elmore, but it could have taken yet another full day. Then it dawned on me I was overlooking one of my favorite resources: Sandy Clevenger from the Traveler, the long-time secretary who had all the old editions and knew every bit of history and gossip from the last forty years. Sandy knew anything worthwhile there was to know.
As I drove back, it started to make sense. Kimberly, whoever she was, suffered in some way other than what was listed in the file. I considered she may have had a mental breakdown due to the trauma of the three men. I’m sure she had a father or brother or uncle who was upset at the outcome. After thoroughly going over all the reports and looking at the photos until my eyes were red and feeling burned by the sun, I could not accept the notion of some raving lunatic who killed two men in the most brutal fashion I had ever seen simply out of randomness. Now it was just a matter of identifying Kimberly.
It was late when I got back to Ark City. I had made the mistake of not getting something to eat before I left Oklahoma. There were feelings of remorse for the sufferings of Mrs. Brayfield. I was just plain tired and certainly not prepared to greet Dave Morton at the Municipal Building. He had a look of anticipation. It was actually the face of defeat.
“Well? Did you find Jeremy Collins?”
“Yeah.” There was an eerie silence like in a graveyard. “He’s with Dr. Brenz.”
Chapter Ten
He was laid out on a table in the back room of Dr. Brenz’s office. Sheet covering him. Blood stains, red but almost rust colored. Doctie was looking down toward the floor but not at it, shaking his head, surely at the frustration more than the sight of death. Dave had a blank look on his face. He’s a smart guy but I could tell he was out of ideas. Never thought I’d ever have something like this fall into my lap and feel utterly useless.
“Same as the others?” I asked.
Dr. Brenz brought his file up and put his glasses on.
“Not quite. There were far more stab wounds than the other two. I counted twenty-six.”
Dave was impressed enough to whistle and then realized it might have been considered inappropriate.
“Well, what about major organs?” I continued, recalling the previous medical reports which had been burned into my mind.
“The aorta was punctured and the spleen and liver were severely damaged. Mr. Collins probably died much quicker than the other two, uh, gentlemen.”
“What about the—?”
“Yes, well, more crudely done. Something more akin to a steak knife as the edges seemed ragged. Overall, I would speculate the degree of anger was greater than before. The sequence of the assault was the same. However, as it is more than likely Mr. Collins expired quicker, the killer continued his stabbing and proceeded with what appears to be the ultimate act which is, of course, the castration.”
Dr. Brenz spoke with the eloquence of a college professor attempting to be as professional and discreet as possible. The long and the short of it was Jeremy Collins was the main target of the three, just by virtue of the excess of stab wounds.
“You think this is going to continue?” Dave’s question was relevant but even he could see the overall picture. At this point, if Collins was the primary target and perhaps the final one, our killer was going to slink back under the rock he came from. Our time was limited. The only person I needed to see now was Mrs. Collins.
The walk felt like a forced march in the Army, the steps practically beating into the ground, making my own ruts in the road. Dave was hard pressed to keep up with me. He had never seen me this way. It wasn’t a knock on the door like a pastor coming for a visit. I was rattling the walls of the castle, an invader demanding entry. The mouse that answered the door had eyes sunken into her face and skin as pale as death itself. She resembled her late husband even though she was still breathing.
“We need to talk, Mrs. Collins. It’s about your husband.”
“He didn’t do anything,” she said while shaking her head as though to dry her hair. “He never did.” I didn’t wait for her to invite me in. I walked past her, brushing her shoulder with mine. Dave followed and quietly closed the door as Mrs. Collins followed me dutifully.
“What makes you think we’re here because he’s done something? Has he done something, recently or in the past?” She was talking about guilt without even knowing why we were there much less asking.
“No. Never.” I swear her head was going to snap off her neck from the force of her denial.
“That’s not true. I’ve got court records to prove it.”
“It was he and his drunk buddies getting out of hand. That’s all. They didn’t do nothing.”
&nb
sp; I looked around the house. It was plain and had only what was needed. There was nothing hanging on the wall. Not a cross or a sampler or a photo of the grandparents or children. Nothing. An emptiness as though real flesh and blood people weren’t living there but some kind of ghosts making up for their past. For all I knew she was as dead as her husband.
“Jeremy’s dead, ma’am. Your husband’s dead.” Dave had a peaceful way about him when he had a mind for it. Maybe he saw me being too mean or this woman being too innocent. But I was figuring opposite. I was guessing she knew all about her husband, knew what kind of man he was, at least to her and maybe his own kids. I was thinking when everything happened all those years ago and her husband and two drunk buddies were brought up before a judge, she had a good idea exactly what they were up to and what they were meaning to do.
She looked like someone pulled the plug on a cistern and emptied it dry. As pale as she was to begin with, she appeared almost invisible now. We stood there in silence for a long time, just me and Dave and a woman who had stopped being herself for a very long time.
“He was just drunk is all,” she finally said, almost whispering. “They all was.”
“That’s what the judge figured.” I wanted to keep her talking. By agreeing with her, I was hoping she’d feel safe. She sat down on the divan, more like fell into it, allowing it to be her confessional.
“They went back afterward.”
“Afterward? After what?”
“After the trial. After they done their time. They went back to the school.”
“Why?”
“They was mad. Mad at the teacher. They was going to…” She looked up at me hoping I knew what she meant, unable to say it aloud. I nodded for her to continue. “But instead they followed this one girl. Sweet girl she was. Grabbed her and drove her out to the spot where the picnic was. And they…”
