Two
“People only see what they are prepared to see.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson
* * *
4,375 miles and twenty-three hours later Elliott sat in the Peabody Hotel with an Irish coffee, an unopened Memphis Tribune, and a bruised neck. On the fourteenth second, the butt of Orca’s rifle met the back of Serpentine’s skull. The crushing grip went limp as the serial killer flopped over like a cheap lawn chair. A few slaps later, Elliot saw the smile that went with the familiar voice.
“Welcome back, sir,” Orca had said. Scotland Yard had closed on the Serpentine Strangler before he could open his beady eyes.
Well rested on the flight Elliott had tossed a travel bag on his bed at the Peabody, and changed clothes before his meeting with Detective Tony Wilcox—jeans and blue blazer and no tie. He always wore his Merell Kaolins, no socks, his official uniform when not in scrubs.
The headlines caught his eye: Usain Bolt sets 100-meter record 9.69 seconds at Beijing Summer Olympics. Although fast and interesting, it was not the story he was looking for. Elliott flipped the paper and found it under the fold.
In the early morning hours a young black male was found dead in Tom Lee Park, multiple knife wounds, he read. Panther McGee was a visiting musician on Beale. The knifing occurred at another (unknown) location. McGee’s body was left moments before discovery . . .
If it had been the whole story, Elliott would still be in London tying up loose ends and getting drunk with Orca.
Over the brim of his coffee mug Wilcox navigated the buzzing crowd and fluttering applause. The Memphis detective had local celeb status—too many TV cameras in his face at too many homicides.
His rangy stature, wispy brown hair, and boyish, shaggy brow hid the rock-hard persona constructed over twenty years as a Memphis cop, the last ten a homicide detective. Their eyes met. “Great you could make it,” Wilcox said, his words sincere.
“Wouldn’t miss it.” They embraced, holding a firm grip as Elliott’s penetrating eyes leveled with an intensity few could understand—Wilcox was one who did.
Both stood solid at six-four projecting a natural deterrent. The Peabody minions’ heads turned and curious eyes hovered. The usual clamor and bustle of the five-star hotel mezzanine dropped off a cliff and was replaced with sizzling whispers and splashing of the cascading fountain at the hotel’s epicenter.
The fortunate audience gawked as they put things together. The Tribune reported another dead at the end of a knife. The crowd knew Wilcox had a good reason to meet with Dr. Sumner, the international forensic pathologist and serial killer hunter. They could only watch and wonder what the MPD held from them. Would they ever admit the obvious—Panther McGee died at the end of the Bluff City Butcher’s knife?
The Peabody crowd expected an older man, a doctor type, one who spends his life in a cold, dark morgue with dead bodies and microscopes. The one behind thick glasses using filthy saws and scalpels and suction devises. And the one who goes outside only at night to poke around blood and guts and murder scenes. They expected Dr. Sumner to have corpse-like features: pale complexion with thinning, translucent hair, blue lips, pearly eyes and powdery skin, a man with atrophied muscles from sitting and thinking and solving sick and hideous death puzzles. But the man they expected to see was not the man sitting with Detective Wilcox in the mezzanine of the Peabody hotel.
The man sipping coffee was in his late thirties. He had a deep tan, athletic build, and thick brown hair combed back with a casual pass of his hand. His chiseled brow, high forehead, cut jaw, and square chin better fit an NFL quarterback than a doctor of death. Memphians expected a Dr. Bates type, their Medical Examiner and model.
Few knew Elliott Sumner was a genius with a perfect, photographic memory. By age twenty he had graduated Southwestern Medical School. By twenty-five he had completed residency programs in clinical and anatomical pathology and a dozen medical/legal specialties—forensic pathology, criminal psychology, serial homicide behavioral sciences, and modern crime scene investigation. Some read about the youngest medical examiner in Texas history and his perfect record solving three-hundred homicides. They knew the story that had launched his career as an international serial-killer hunter.
The media called him the Western Sherlock. They found their perfect hero; a handsome, humble doctor from the heart of Texas making news every day. He was different from most forensic pathologists. Elliott got out of his scrubs and latex gloves after autopsies, slicing organs, and looking in microscopes. He spent most of his time in the field with law enforcement hunting the bad guys. Elliott’s innate gifts, extensive education, and hands-on approach gave him a remarkable edge. He honed his skills of observation and was known to identify, collect, and process more useful evidence in an hour than a CSI team in a day.
From the crime scene to the autopsy table and into the forensic laboratory, Elliott used his superior analytical and deductive reasoning skills to produce astounding results. His success catching killers was unparalleled. Requests for his expertise poured in from law enforcement across the country and governments around the world. In ‘96, he left the county medical examiner office and opened a private practice. From that day forward Elliott Sumner hunted serial killers around the world, the worst of the worst.
Someone had cut Panther McGee’s heart out of his chest and tied the man to a park bench. When an organ is removed from a body, it gets the attention of law enforcement and the county medical examiner. When organs are removed through pristine incisions closed with intricate sutures, and when there are several cases, they call in a specialist.
“Congratulations on number fifty,” Wilcox said. “It is an unbelievable accomplishment. I never realized there were so many serial killers in the world.”
“Not sure what it means. From where I sit it’s just a drop in the bucket.”
Wilcox sensed the topic bored Elliott. He changed the subject. “You look good, except for the handprint on your neck. A little parting gift from the Serpentine?”
“Let’s just say a limited edition print.” They smiled.
“Talk to me about Memphis. I’ve been out of the country a while.”
“I started liking the quiet around here.” Wilcox slid back into the sofa. His legs poked six inches above the seat and his gun pushed his coat out. “You know, him being gone and all. I assumed the Butcher was somebody else’s problem.”
“I’m not ready to say he’s here.” Elliott would hold his opinion until he got a closer look at McGee, although Tony rarely missed things.
“I think he came home for a reason. I want you at the beginning. If he’s here, we gotta stop him this time. I think he’s working up to something.”
The attractive waitress leaned over in all her bountiful splendor. Wilcox ordered. “Coffee, black for me, and give my friend another Irish.”
“What is the early thinking among the brass?” Elliott asked.
“You know the drill. They see all that stitching on a corpse and think surgical roots. Their killer is an intelligent, wacko, medical professional. It’s a bunch of highbrow, esoteric bullshit.”
“Still not buying into a genius psychopath with an obsessive-compulsive disorder sewing up his victims?” The two loners chuckled as they scoped the Peabody foyer.
In twenty-four hours, Elliott would know more about Panther McGee than anyone on the planet—his life, how he died, all the forensics, and every piece of physical evidence.
Wilcox’s and Sumner’s paths had first crossed in ’98. Elliott visited Memphis to meet with the police officer who worked the ‘83 triple-homicide on the bluff. Officer R.L. Thornton was the only MPD eyewitness. He spent some time with the fleeing suspect on that infamous night in October. Thornton watched the Butcher jump into the Mississippi River. Later, he found the three bloody bodies on the bluff. Elliott’s string of homicides in Texas fit the Memphis carve-fest. Soon they shared the belief the man they call the Butcher had survived the Mississippi River and was takin
g his skill sets on the road.
Drawn into the mystery, Wilcox had sat in the Sumner-Thornton meetings. His personal research uncovered more cases in the Midsouth with possible linkage to the Butcher. When Wilcox took his findings to MPD top brass, his theories were rejected and he was directed to stop wasting time on a myth.
Over the ensuing years, unsolved homicides fitting the Butcher mounted. Rather than entertain a possible connection, department heads clung to their position—a serial killer of legend did not exist, regardless of the evidence to the contrary.
Wilcox and Sumner had developed a long-distance friendship sharing their theories and findings. Both were certain they were on the trail of the most dangerous serial killer in American history. If they were right, the Bluff City Butcher had already killed almost one-hundred. If allowed to continue, the monster of urban legend could double the number.
“As I said before, your invitation came from the top, Elliott. The political environment has been temporarily neutralized.”
Memphis Police Director Collin Wade and Shelby County Medical Examiner Dr. Henderson Bates were self-appointed protectors of Memphis turf. Wilcox believed their decision process put jurisdictional control above catching the bad guys. His opening comment to Elliott on the phone meant everything. Anything less than a commitment from the top would have kept the renowned serial killer hunter from making the Memphis trip. Elliott loathed politics. He did not want to see bad decisions kill good people.
“How’s the local FBI weighing in on this one?” Elliott asked.
“Dexter Voss is regional director. He still opposes outside interference. At one time his positions aligned with the turf gods. Times have changed. Voss is often ignored. He can’t stop anything anymore.”
Elliott spoke into his coffee mug as if eyeing a pesky bug. “Apparently he failed to make the progress Wade hoped for.” They continued to scan the mezzanine, looking for the unusual or suspicious. “Politics gums up the works for most things. I’ve got no appetite for the ramblings of the lost standing on the sidelines.” He was already in hunting mode. After they finished their coffees, the topic of politics would be dead.
“Wade’s hanging by a thread,” Wilcox said.
“He too has fallen from grace?”
“The mayor thinks he’s had enough time to solve this mystery—the cold cases are piling up and the community is not happy. That short, round, cop-politician prick may be losing his hair, but he has no intention of losing his job. That’s why he’s okay with you coming on board and driving the investigation wherever it goes.”
“Too bad Director Wade forgot the principles attracting him to law enforcement in the first place,” Elliott said.
“He forgot what got him to the top.”
“Is Wade still clinging to the policies and procedures book?”
“Tighter than a frog’s ass . . .”
“That’s going to change, Tee. What else?”
“Memphians know nothing,” Wilcox said.
“Look around. They know more than you think.”
“What I mean is, the lion’s loose in their neighborhoods and they are still lacing up their running shoes for an evening jog.”
“Not good,” Elliott said. “There was never a time when low profile treatment of serial killer investigations had benefits. Today these psychopaths are even more educated and have access to information—social media.”
“I’ve connected five more homicides over the last two years.”
“The real number is probably ten times that,” Elliott said. “You know he hides his work: missing persons, suicides, accidents, natural deaths.”
“These fit his five-step kill process.”
“Stunned, abducted, tortured, exsanguination, and organs harvested?”
“And Dr. Bates is starting to get it—can’t deny the facts too long.”
“Their fear is apocalyptic, Tee. Few people can handle the horrible truths in the world. I’ve been hunting the Butcher a long time. Before I ran into him, I was blind.”
“The urban legend’s still intact. 1983, he came into our world. Been the buzz of Memphis ever since.”
“Still convinced he took Sabina Weatherford and killed Cory Fortis, Roger Kent and Teddy Morgan?” Elliott asked.
“Nothing’s changed. Memphians blame him for all unsolved homicides with a knife, and missing persons.”
“Facts get lost in fantasy, superstition, mistrust and ignorance. The Butcher is your Bigfoot,” Elliott said. “He’s out there, but where?”
“Educated people around here believe he survived the river. They’re convinced the guy has superior physical and intellectual assets that allow him to avoid capture. I think he put McGee on display. It means something.”
“If he did that, something changed in his world. Living in the shadows no longer meets his twisted needs. The obvious answer is he wants attention.”
“He sits on top of the proverbial food chain, Tee. He’s smarter and stronger than anyone out there—his prey, law enforcement, and me.”
“I was afraid you’d say—” Tony’s phone vibrated again. “Another text. Damn people keep killing each other around here.”
“I’m going for a walk on Beale where Mr. McGee was last seen alive.” I need to climb into the Butcher’s head, his most recent hunting grounds.
“Be careful when you leave the neon. I’ll meet you back here at ten . . .”
Three
Standing in front of the brick two-story, Elliott blended with the throbbing chaos of beer drinkers and dawdling tourists oblivious to their surroundings.
You started here, the corner of Second and Beale. You were dining out—had to see the buffet. You’re a perfectionist, start at the beginning. I smell the smells, hear the sounds and feel the crowd. The exposure was a risk, but you like that . . .
Elliott moved in inches processing pieces of information missed by most. It was often meaningless, but sometimes important. He learned early to look for the unexpected advantage—sometimes he only needed one.
Did you stay in the shadows on the sticky sidewalk surrounded by these eyes and smells: meat slow cooking over hickory, funnel cakes frying in old canola? Or were you drawn to the alleys and abandoned property, the parallel world with its own unique aromas: spilled booze, dried vomit, and urine soaked garbage . . . ?
In both worlds, the Blues flowed from BB Kings and mixed with light jazz and hot rock ‘n roll pouring from the bars crammed onto three blocks of blazing neon and wandering hordes.
Which way did you go? When did you choose Panther McGee and why? Was his heart for you or someone else?
When the Butcher stepped onto the hot asphalt Saturday night, the herd was thicker and flow slower. His prey was distracted, and there was an abundance of undercover cops watching.
No one saw all of you at any one time. You stayed by or in the shadows. You crouched to hide your mass. You did not look directly at anybody . . .
An hour passed. Elliott approached the entrance to Handy Park, the last place McGee was seen alive. He froze. A familiar chill ran down his spine. The hair on his neck stood up. He knew he was close.
You stood right here—this is the best spot outside the walls. From here you saw McGee. But the park was too confining, more risk than you should take. But you wanted McGee. The pull was too great. You would not leave this place alone. You found another way in.
“That nice black singin’ man is dead, ya know.”
Elliott heard the thin puff of a voice and turned to a pile of dirty rags in the shadows of the wall. He found the red bandanna and matted hair.
“Hello there,” he said.
“Not a bad singer, ya know. I heard worse.”
“I bet you’ve heard many.” Elliott eased closer.
“They all start here like that, on the grass in front the cement stage.”
Elliott took in her view.
“Them in charge round here don’t let the new ones use the cement stage. Not till they got
them a paying crowd or a name that peoples know.”
“That’s how it works?”
“Yup. Always been that way long as I can member.”
She was in her late fifties, but looked seventy. Her teeth were in bad shape, a roaring gum infection, and her black-and-blue eye crusted over—probably one of many wounds from life on the streets. She crossed her skinny arms tight on her chest hiding a pint of bourbon in her armpit, the uncapped neck poking out.
“Tell me about Panther McGee.”
“Watched him ’bout an hour. Got no respect. Peoples not nice to the new ones.”
“I agree with you.” Elliott knelt by her and took in her toothy smile.
“Yup, world’s different now. Peoples don’t care much ‘bout others no more.”
“Were there many here Saturday night?”
“Plenty, but not many watchin’ the black man sing.” She looked to her left and right, pulled out her Jack Daniels, took a swallow. She showed her teeth again and stuffed her pint away. “This keeps me alert. I don’t need it, ya know.”
“I see that. Do you come here often?”
She was back on Elliott’s first question. “I counted thirty-two peoples here Saturday night. I like countin’ things. Twenty-seven drinkin’ and twenty smokin’ and all of em talkin’ while that poor man sang his song.”
“That’s amazing,” Elliott said. “Thirty-two out here that night?”
“That black feller was pourin’ his guts out. It was pit-tee-full.”
“Because people were talking?”
“Countin’ me, he had five watchin’ him. A teenage pair sittin’ over there, a black lady in white tights standin’ over there, and a big man in a long coat was squattin’ by that tree over there.”
Did she see the Butcher? Only two people alive have seen him—Marcus Pleasant and R.L. Thornton . . . and it was twenty-five years ago.
The Bluff City Butcher Page 2
