The Bluff City Butcher

by Steve Bradshaw

  * * *

  “In the fall of ‘83, I received a hand-written note mailed at a roadside postal unit, downtown Memphis. I thought it peculiar at the time and held onto it.”

  Albert Bell, Jr., a young seventy-six and billionaire, international cotton merchant, turned from the second-floor window and paused. The tall, willowy-framed man with bronze complexion and wild silver hair looked like Mark Twain’s older brother or an eccentric, elder statesman. He returned to his desk and the discolored folder. With one finger he opened it and pinched a corner of a plastic bag. Inside was a single sheet of tattered stationary. He held it up like a dirty diaper.

  “Gentlemen, before I continue, I want each of you to examine this document . . .” He walked it to Dr. Sumner, who sat in one of the three high-backed, hunter green leather chairs dwarfed by the mahogany monstrosity at the center of the cavernous study. The desk was the primary site for everything going on in Albert’s life of privilege. And it held the only lamp in the most strategic room in the mansion. The walls were a mix of priceless oil paintings, dusty bookcases of first-edition classics, large urns holding exotic plants from around the world, and two fireplaces cloaked in deep shadows on the edge of creepy. Wilcox sat in the next chair. Max Gregory sat in the third.

  “Mr. Bell, I am honored with the invitation this evening and pleased to look at whatever you have, but handwriting analysis is a talent I do not possess,” said Elliott as he accepted the protected document from Albert as if it were an original copy of the Declaration of Independence.

  “Please Elliott, call me Albert.” This was the first time they had actually met, although both knew of the other’s status and accomplishments.

  “Albert,” he confirmed.

  “I assure you such an expectation I do not have. However, a man of your unique talents and considerable experience may have a worthwhile observation.”

  “I see. Sure, that’s fine,” said Elliott.

  Albert returned to his chair and scotch. Elliott studied the page for several minutes as the room watched. He then passed it to Tony, who gave it to Max. The room was quiet, all eyes on Elliott. His hand made the crystal goblet look like a shot glass and his other hand propped his chin, a finger moving back and forth on his lower lip. Max cleared his throat like a smoker paying the price.

  “Albert, as you said at the onset, you have information to share relevant to unexplained events in the Midsouth—the Panther McGee homicide was mentioned. Is it your contention this twenty-five-year-old note has some bearing?” asked Max.

  “I have the same question,” Tony said. “A man of your wealth and notoriety must receive ‘love letters’ like this all the time. What possibly could make this special?”

  “I am confident you both will agree this note is special once you have the opportunity to digest all the information.” They nodded.

  Max Gregory had met Albert Bell by accident in Tel Aviv, 1982; they were barefoot on the beach of the Mediterranean. Business suit pants were rolled to the knees, and socks were hanging from pockets. It had been a day of meetings for both, they needed an out. Albert was puffing on an expensive cigar when he bumped into Max with an unlit Chesterfield hanging from his frown. The strike of a match launched a friendship that endured the next twenty-five years. They met each year at the same bar in Tel Aviv to complain and solve world problems; Albert was a scotch man and Max vodka. After Max retired from CIA Secret Ops, he started Spyglass, a private investigation agency.

  “You have everything and I have nothing. I will kill you slowly,” Elliott quoted a line from the letter while looking at the ceiling. “My first impression, the message says little that should alarm a billionaire or anyone of wealth and privilege. Seven of thirteen words have errors: one misspelled, three missing a letter, and three with backward letters.

  “The fifty-four percent error rate suggests the author desperately crafted the message for you, Albert, making it more personal and thus more important. It makes it relevant. Let’s consider the line ‘I have nothing.’ It implies a bad condition that could be changed for the better. ‘I will kill you slowly,’ implies you are responsible for the bad condition, and the author will make it better at your expense.”

  “I felt the note was unique,” Albert said.

  “A legitimate threat, but as Max pointed out, a twenty-five-year-old threat.”

  “I would have agreed, but there is another letter. This time it was delivered to the mansion, wedged in the gates the morning of August 3, 2008.”

  “The day Mr. McGee was found in Tom Lee Park?” Elliott said.

  Tony sat up, the first sign of life since his arrival.

  Albert returned to the window and looked to the far reaches of the estate. “To get where I am it requires some setup. I’ll be brief.

  “I was in El Paso, Texas in December 1967, attending our annual Texas Cotton Banquet. Mr. Felipe Ramirez was the meeting planner handling the event. He was a wonderful individual, hard worker. He had a severe degenerative disease of the hip. I wanted to help. We brought Felipe to Memphis for surgery, it was a success. He decided to stay in Memphis and joined the Bell family business as our meeting planner. Sixteen years later Philippe’ disappeared without a trace.”

  “Albert, if I may,” Max interrupted. “Gentlemen, Albert asked me to look for Mr. Ramirez. Our agency specializes in locating missing persons. We are good at it, a ninety-nine percent recovery rate. Unfortunately Philippe’ fell into the dreaded one percent.

  “His apartment sat on the bluff downtown. He was last seen by neighbors on October 14, 1983. Spyglass got involved five days later. There were five newspapers on his doorstep, dirty dishes in his sink, the TV on, and a two-inch ash clinging to a cigarette filter in an ashtray next to a chair. There were no signs of a struggle or disturbances reported by neighbors. Ramirez was a quiet, friendly man of petite stature whose last moments in his apartment were spent in front of his TV after dinner. What happened was sudden, unexpected, and overwhelming. We dusted the place for prints—nothing. Ten years later we could assess DNA on the cigarette filter. We confirmed Ramirez.”

  “Albert, what does all this have to do with the August 3 letter?” Tony’s patience left. He had a serial killer to catch. Every minute counted.

  “It is on the same stationary as the ’83 letter, the same handwriting and errors.” Albert pulled out the second plastic bag; “‘I have been busy but all are stupid and do not see. I want YOU to know.’” Albert passed it around the room, not mentioning the dried finger in the bag. “I was shocked to see the similarities twenty-five years apart.”

  “My God, is this a joke?” Tony asked holding the bag with the human finger.

  “Actually, it is mummified, prolonged refrigeration.” Elliott tilted the shade of Albert’s desk lamp and held the specimen to the bulb. “Did you get a look at the ring?” He enjoyed how Albert let them discover the finger without a prelude.

  “Yes, we gave it to Philippe’ on his ten-year anniversary.”

  “And the string, does it mean anything to you, Albert?” Elliott asked. The string is tied at the proximal end intended to stop drainage when it was amputated.

  “No,” Albert said.

  “Unusual knot.” Max peered over Elliott’s shoulder.

  “It’s the Knot of Isis.” He passed the bag back to Tony.

  “And what is a Knot of Isis?”

  “Isis is an Egyptian goddess—protector of the dead. We need DNA testing to confirm the finger belongs to Ramirez.”

  “We’ll get it started tonight. I’m sure they have Max’s ’93, profile in the system.”

  “Albert, it’s safe to assume your pen pal killed Mr. Ramirez—for reasons unknown—and now he seeks your undivided attention.”

  Why is the Bluff City Butcher reaching out to Albert Bell? Elliott wondered. Why twenty-five years ago and now? And why did he kill Philippe’ Ramirez? More importantly, why does a demented, psychopathic serial killer want a relationship with Albert Bell? What are yo
u not telling us, Albert?

  “Gentlemen, this brings me to why I asked you here tonight.”

  “There’s more?” Tony asked.

  Albert removed a third note from the file, encased in another plastic bag. He read from his chair. “‘I am keeping the one I got on Beale for now, left ring finger that is.’” The signature was ADAM.

  Max jumped out of his seat. “Tony, can you tell us? Was Panther McGee missing his left ring finger? The information will stay in this room, sir.”

  “Only those in a very tight circle around the McGee investigation knew a finger was taken along with the heart. Yes—since we are sharing—the killer took the same finger from McGee taken from Ramirez.”

  “May I see the third note?” Elliott asked.

  “Of course.” Albert started to get up but Elliott was already on his way as Max started with the predictable barrage of questions. Elliott understood the old CIA guys. They couldn’t stand surprises or being the last to find out anything. Max would scramble to connect the dots, but he would never have enough. The three-way conversation gave Elliott the diversion he needed to do his own work.

  Elliott considered combined implications of the evidence. The third message identified the author, but more important the stationary possibly opened a door into the Butcher’s world. Then he saw what appeared to be a smudge—one present on all three letters in the exact same place—the lower right corner. The faint, oval discoloration the size of a grain of rice was an embossed containing a word. It was on the edge of microscopic, but for Elliott visible. The word was “Gilgamesh”.

  His photographic memory took him back to his junior year, University of Texas, English lit. Gilgamesh was the king of Uruk (Iraq) in 2500 BCE. He was a demigod with superhuman strength who reigned 126 years. The Epic of Gilgamesh was a story about the pursuit of immortality. What does this have to do with the Bluff City Butcher?

  Six

  It was scheduled for Saturday night, Grisanti’s Italian Restaurant, Midtown. Elliott had nothing planned. He accepted Albert Bell’s dinner invitation—something about new biotechnology, a risky investment, and input from a non-biased medical professional. And Albert said he wanted to know more about the international forensic sleuth.

  It suited Elliott. He too wanted one-on-one time with the billionaire patriarch. Revelations from their first meeting had opened new areas to explore. Why did Albert have a twenty-five-year relationship with a serial killer? What more was there behind the three cryptic letters? And the elaborate security measures at the mansion suggested he was desperate to keep something or someone out. Albert Bell had a secret.

  Elliott was met at the front doors of the famous Italian restaurant. The plump smile, red cheeks, and white apron took him the opposite way of the dining room. They snaked through the bustling kitchen and down dark halls with piped music. When they rounded the last corner, he saw the stream of soft light pour from an open door. She left him there, unannounced.

  Albert Bell sat at the far end of a long, empty table that was draped in crisp white linen and sprinkled with elaborate place settings. Little light came from the ornate, cut glass chandelier in the center of the long narrow room with blood-red walls. Most fell from the small lamps above the small oil paintings surrounding the table. From the dark hall Elliott studied the man leaning over Albert’s shoulder. He had sunken eyes beneath a black knit cap pulled over his ears. His black sweater and pants clung to his wiry body.

  Elliott estimated the six-two, hundred-fifty pound man to be in his early seventies. He wore a Rolex and no wedding band. The two were close, in a trusted relationship. When Albert whispered, the man wrote in a small binder. Elliott stepped into the light.

  “Good evening, Dr. Sumner.” Albert was the first to see him. His words were more for the benefit of his associate than Elliott. The binder snapped shut and the wiry man stepped out a side door. Although the moment seemed odd, Elliott had little experience with billionaires—could as easily have been normal.

  “Hello again, sir,” Elliott said. Albert extended his hand, their grip equal in size and surprisingly equal in strength.

  Elliott returned the smile and saw his place setting in a subordinated position, Albert at the head and he the side. A scotch on the rocks awaited. It was new, the glass and napkin dry next to a sweating glass of ice water. Albert’s controlling nature was obvious.

  “I hope you don’t mind, I took the liberty of assuming you to be a scotch man.”

  And, how did you know I am a scotch on the rocks man? “A correct assumption and liberty well taken.” They clicked glasses with intense, steel blue eyes locked. What have we here? Elliott wondered. I need to know more about you, and already I sense the task may be one of my more challenging.

  Elliott knew he was unlike any other man to sit across from the patriarch. But he had not yet considered the same was true for Albert Bell.

  After the customary courtesies, dinner was served and the evening progressed. Elliott admired Albert’s worldly ways, humble demeanor, and razor-sharp intelligence honed over a lifetime of opulence and absolute excess. Elliott was impressed with the effortless projection of a durable confidence, tranquility and measured patience few in the world would ever know.

  He yielded to Albert’s command of the evening’s conversation because his skills of observation and deduction delivered results without the need for a predetermined path or controlled examination. Elliott extracted slivers of relevance and assembled multiple puzzles at one time. Although the content of discussion had value, the words used or avoided had more. The inflections, a flicker of the eye, the misplaced reactions, awkward transitions, and knowledge denied were all captured, assimilated, and assessed.

  “As you would surmise, the Bell family is presented with investment opportunities and participates in numerous ventures around the world,” Albert said.

  “I would imagine it is a full-time job keeping billions working and out of harm’s way, depending on point of view.” Elliott held little interest in financial matters unless they were relevant to a diabolical puzzle. Serial killers were rarely in it for the money. Navigation of a P&L and balance sheet was easy enough, but engagement of a certified public accountant the preference.

  “In March 2005, I invested in a startup—the LIFE2 Corporation—conveniently headquartered in Memphis.”

  “How obliging.” They laughed as plates were taken.

  “LIFE2 is a biotechnology company focusing on genetic engineered solutions for medical conditions. Their first target is osteoarthritis.”

  “They certainly know how to pick them. That is the number one degenerative condition,” Elliott said.

  “Their exact words.”

  “When I was in medical school my rotation through orthopedics exposed me to an impressive array of medical devices and wonder drugs to help these people. Today, the advances in restoring pain-free mobility are miraculous.”

  “LIFE2 has one product they will talk about. Ossi2 is for regeneration of cartilage. Their research has steadily progressed since 2004, laboratory testing and animal studies completed. Controlled human clinical studies are underway in Europe. So far, the results appear to be favorable, but I’m not a scientist. I only know what they tell me.” Albert downed the rest of his scotch. A wisp of a waiter eased in and out of the light. A fresh scotch on the rocks replaced the empty without a word spoken. By Elliott’s count, number four in an hour.

  “So, they claim they are regenerating cartilage?”

  “Yes. Their studies show new cartilage cells populating bony surfaces where old cartilage had been obliterated.”

  “Do you know the people heading up this company?”

  “Jack Bellow is the President/CEO and a friend of the family. I have invested in two of his companies. He is a revered biotech entrepreneur. LIFE2 is his fourth.”

  “Who is the top technical guy?”

  “Dr. Enrique Medino, a Vanderbilt geneticist. I never heard of him before, but he checked out during
the 2005 due diligence process—University of Texas El Paso, Southwestern Medical School, and Vanderbilt. He’s an M.D. and PhD.”

  “Molecular biology and geneticist?”

  “Yes. He’s the director of the biogenic group working on the human genome project. Dr. Medino studied organic chemistry, cell biology, and molecular biology. He obtained a medical degree and practiced as an OB/GYN doctor for a few years.”

  “So he did practice medicine?”

  “According to the private placement memorandum, Dr. Medino had a clinic for a few years in Pecos, Texas.”

  “Pecos, Texas. Wonder what took him out there?”

  “1968 to 1970,” Albert said without thinking first. Why did I do that? Now he has dates, locations, and a name. If he’s as good as they say he will connect the dots . . .

  “The company was formed December 2004, a fifty-fifty proposition between the two founders. Jack Bellow put in $10 million seed capital and leased the Old Exchange Building for a dollar a year, LIFE2 global headquarters. Dr. Medino brought in the intellectual property, the proprietary know-how, and leased his private research facility to the new company, a farm in east Nashville. The Series A preferred stock offering raised $50 million in April, 2005, and the Series B brought in another $150 million. I’m in for $35 million.”

  “I’m sure you didn’t bring me here to help with the financials,” Elliott said as he leaned back and studied the Bell patriarch.

  “No. I am curious to know what you think about the biotechnology and the company.” Albert produced a half-inch bound document and set it next to Elliott with an encouraging nod. Elliott turned it with one finger and read the cover; LIFE2 Corporation, Private Placement Memorandum, Series B Preferred Stock Offering. Their eyes met as he picked it up; he knew what Albert wanted to witness. For Elliott, it was not a spectacular feat. For the rest of the world it was between dazzling and mind-blowing. The PPM was 275 pages: twenty pages of investor notices, five index, twenty-five exhibits, thirty forward-looking statements, and the remainder routine legal disclaimers. That left 195 pages of substance: business plans, technology, risks, use of proceeds, management, and capitalization. Elliott fanned through the pages allowing for a complete view of each. He was done in two minutes. He pushed it back to Albert with one finger.