“Impressive,” Albert said.
“Not really. Speed reading is something many people do,” Elliott said.
But few remember every single word. Albert tilted his glass knowing his homework on Dr. Elliott Sumner was worthwhile.
“Their biotechnology, I have some observations, questions and recommendations. Is that good for you?”
“It is what I hoped for this evening.”
“Good. Observations first. This PPM is not telling the whole story. It is a veiled attempt to sell stock without selling-out the technology. The technical section is written by one person—odd—a medical doctor. I assume the author is Dr. Medino.”
“Why odd?” asked Albert.
“New ventures raising capital fold pieces of their business plan into the private placement documents. Corporate attorneys and SEC specialists pour over draft docs and clean them up: make sure claims are sufficiently vague but tempting, informative, and legal. Then they fix grammar and punctuation and position ideas properly. That means each discussion stream in this document has a beginning, middle and end. Dr. Medino’s words are unedited throughout the entire document. That is suspicious. I see beginnings, vague middles and incomplete endings.”
“Why is that significant?”
“Not knowing the man, I can only guess he is shielding something. He is writing to other scientific types and is extremely careful to protect knowhow and any underlying intellectual property.”
“Wouldn’t that be expected from a scientist inventor?”
“To some degree, yes.”
“But what?”
“He is hiding something more than he is protecting something. If I were you, I would try to find out what he is hiding. It could have a bearing on your investment. It could be an unanticipated risk or a significant problem.”
“‘Hiding’ is a very concerning word.”
“Development of Ossi2 had to be an enormously complex project taking several decades of research. Dr. Medino presents the Ossi2 biogenic mechanism as limited to the repair and regeneration of chondroblasts, only one human cell type. If you read between the lines he is avoiding discussion of the obvious broader applications. That behavior is illogical. Why avoid the discussion? I assume future universal applications of the root-technology would have value for investors. Those discussions are missing.”
“‘Universal’ meaning it works with other types of cells?”
“Yes. The genetic on-off button for chondrocytes exists in all cell types.”
“Why would he hide that?”
“The most obvious answer is to protect secrets and staging rollouts.”
“And the less obvious?”
“It could be hidden product failure. Or, it could be there is a much broader application for their biogenic breakthrough. If that’s the case, there is an undisclosed future of expensive testing and enormous need for a wide variety of fresh, human tissue.”
“And why is tissue an issue?” Albert asked.
“Human tissue is regulated and tracked. It is not readily available and not as fresh as it must be for delicate biogenic testing. It is extremely expensive, and some tissues are simply not available.”
“I see.” So Enrique Medino did not abandon his work on life extension as he told me. He has been working on it since 1965. . .
“I suspect LIFE2 has the broader application under wraps. They could have biogenic treatments for various other medical conditions: cerebral-vascular disease, diabetes, atherosclerosis and cancer. To be certain, I would need to spend quality time with Dr. Medino and Jack Bellow.”
Ossi2 is a way to get the international network in place for the ultimate product, Albert thought. Is Dr. Medino close to a biogenic solution for life extension?
The man in the black knit cap returned to the private dining room as seamlessly as he departed. “Excuse me, sir, someone to see you.”
“Can it wait?”
“He said you would want to know. It should take one minute, sir.”
“Will you excuse me, Elliott? I will be right back.”
After Albert left the room, the table was cleared and reset for coffee and dessert. Elliott got up and meandered examining the oil paintings: originals, unknown artists, dark, gothic, Italy landscapes. He neared Albert’s chair and saw through the cracked door. Albert was talking to a short man with a handlebar mustache. Elliott stood next to his chair. There was an open briefcase. In it he saw a manila file. On the tab he read the name, “Carol Mason”.
Albert walked in and reached for his drink noticing Elliott’s exploring eyes. He said nothing. He picked up where they had left off. “Is LIFE2 technology real, Dr. Sumner?”
“Based on my limited review, it looks promising. However, the whole area of cellular regeneration is new. Breakthroughs can be fleeting. Failures can be anything from lethal side effects to long term results far worse than the disease they are designed to treat. I just don’t have enough.”
“Do you believe the Ossi2 technology has much broader applications?”
“Yes if it can wake up chondroblasts and reverse the natural degenerative process in joints. You may really be dealing with a life extension breakthrough. If so, I’m sure other biogenic experts know Dr. Medino is working on something very significant.”
“And what were your questions?” Albert asked.
“I have many. But you will not have the answers. I want to know more about the animal testing and human clinicals. What mechanism encourages damaged cells to repair and repopulate? I would ask Jack Bellow to share his vision; where are they now, and how do they get to the next level? Albert, there is more going on at this company than is revealed in the documents. I cannot determine from the PPM if it is a good thing or bad.”
“The LIFE2 Corporation has an investor meeting scheduled the fourth quarter. Jack said one more round of funding. I can arrange for you to attend.”
“An invite would be good. I’ll be in Memphis this month working with the Memphis PD.” Although I have no interest in the investment opportunity, I want time with Medino. I want to know how he fills his enormous need for fresh, human tissue. A visit with Jack Bellow could shine a light on this stealth business plan. Something big is going to happen after the last funding event. The research expense going forward is covered with revenues. Why another capital infusion? Why international distribution now? It is far more than a company needs to commercialize one biogenic orthopedic product.
“Albert, I promised you a recommendation. I will save it until after the investor meeting.”
Seven
“Revenge is a confession of pain.”
Latin Proverb
* * *
The rusted and faded NO BOAT LAUNCH sign leaned toward the river at the north end of Mud Island across from the only bend in Island Drive, three miles from downtown Memphis. A shotgun blast had taken out the NO a long time ago. Now, very few people traveled by the crippled sign, and fewer knew about the hidden trail behind it.
The narrow opening in the thick brush turned into a trail dropping into the ravine. The trail snaked through a hundred years of river debris and wild growth and opened onto a small, isolated clearing on the east bank of the Mississippi River. That’s where Elliott saw the little girl on display.
It was after two in the morning. The milky, moonlit surroundings moaned as river winds pushed anything that would move. From the trail he was sure the girl was dead. She was taken twenty-five years ago off the back deck of a restaurant on the bluff. Why present her to me here, this way, and why now?
He approached the mound of sand where she lay on her side in a contracted, fetal position. She wore the same dress and single red shoe as described in the 1983 police report. Sabina Weatherford had been five when she disappeared. The smell of natron was thick. But it was the sight of a mummified child that made his eyes water. Kneeling over her in a wary silence, Elliott took in every minute detail including the victim’s pain—one day it would kill him.
Elliott
thought back to the phone call hours before, the one that brought him to Mud Island. It had been late. He was prepared to go to Dallas in the morning to handle loose ends with other cases. He would return to Memphis at the end of the week. He drifted off and then his cell had vibrated across the nightstand. Only four had the number: William and Martha Sumner, Tony, and the Bluff City Butcher.
“Hello, Dr. Sumner, miss me?”
Elliott knew the voice well. It was deep, confident, and edgy. Two years passed since the last time they had spoken. Elliott sat up in bed anxious for something new—another clue, an error, or a thread of insight into the recent kill and Albert Bell’s letters.
“Always,” Elliott said with no emotion.
“Does my heart good.”
“I’m glad for that.”
“How are the Brits?”
He wants me to know he’s been following me. “Wet.”
“Cute. I’m pleased to see you made the Royal Parks of London safe again.”
“I’m pleased you’re pleased,” Elliott taunted.
“Another obnoxious, disgusting animal taken out of service by the world-renowned serial killer hunter,” the Butcher said with false disgust.
“I’m sure you didn’t call to sing my praises.” Elliott ignored the taunt and pushed enough to have a chance at substance. The Butcher could not help himself. He needed to be in control, the only predictable behavior after ten years of scrutiny.
“Welcome to the City on the Bluff, home of the King.”
“Thanks. I came when I heard you were in town.”
“So you did miss me?” The Butcher released a puff of sick joy into the phone.
“Why the call?”
“It is time our relationship evolved, Dr. Elliott Sumner.”
Everything you say has meaning. The only time you speak without thinking is when you’re angry, and then you struggle with an all-consuming rage. It controls you. Where are you going with me tonight? What do you want to accomplish? It’s time for me to go fishing. You will not get away again. This stops in Memphis . . .
“I believe in evolution, too. What do you have in mind?”
“I will call back tonight with instructions. Goodbye.”
“Goodbye . . . Adam,” Elliott said like ordering a burger. The Butcher stayed on the phone. It answered Elliott’s first question. The next words would answer more.
“I don’t like you using that name,” he said with controlled rage.
“Then why did you put it out there for me, Adam?”
“Maybe it was a test and someone failed.”
“That someone is Albert Bell. He can’t fail with you. Do you think you are some important secret he must keep? You have no power over a billionaire, ADAM.”
That should stir you up. Now I know your name is Adam and you’ve known Albert Bell for twenty-five years? But why kill Ramirez and Panther McGee? What could these people mean to you?
“Maybe you’re the one who failed,” Elliott taunted.
“I expect more from you, Sumner. You are slipping. Keep it up and I will lose interest. I don’t fail at anything. Who got everyone here?”
Elliott would keep him off balance, not give him the satisfaction of winning a debate or completing a thought. “Saw you on Beale this week. You need a new battery for your van. Seems to me you would have better wheels, a man of your talents.”
“I have plans. If you want a chance at me, be ready for my call tonight.”
“Maybe I’ll pick up.”
The phone went dead.
Can the Butcher diagnose his mental deterioration, Elliott wondered. Can a genius, psychopathic anthrophobe with agateophobic tendencies know he is unraveling? If he can, he may be even more desperate to accomplish his sadistic mission.
Elliott looked down at the little girl. She had been thirty-nine inches and forty-one pounds when she disappeared in 1983. Now she was a leathery, desiccated carcass, twenty-eight inches and less than ten pounds.
The archaic mummification process had been implemented perfectly. The original incision scar was barely visible on the lateral aspect of the abdomen, the port for removal of internal organs and infusion of sawdust, natron and other embalming salts. With a penlight Elliott confirmed the brain removal through the nose, another practice thousands of years old. He could feel the oils and resins on her amber skin signs she had been wrapped tightly during the dehydration phase after death.
The child’s face had been replaced with an old man’s, her skin stretched over edgy, protruding facial bones, and her eyes were wide open and fused to surrounding tissue. Her small, dried lips were still taut from the agony endured. Her throat scars showed she was cut ear to ear, the clean edges twenty-five years later confirmed it was a single pass of a sharp blade deep enough to sever the jugular for total exsanguination.
Elliott inspected the small skull. Beneath the sparse, straw-like hair fused to dried skin he found the Butcher’s signature puncture wound. It was in the usual spot, the medial aspect of the coronal suture. The small entry hole in the center and top of the skull was consistent with twenty-two other homicides in the area.
A crisp wave of river wind ran across Mud Island, spraying loose sand and lifting his hair. Elliott’s attention moved from the child to the Butcher and immediate danger. Like prey sense a predator is near, his heart beat faster. Somewhere between courage and conviction, Elliott feared death like all men. A decision to accept the Butcher’s invitation was tantamount to opening the lion’s cage at dinner time. But he had no choice. Time was more important than before. Elliott’s inner demons were gaining strength, and the Bluff City Butcher was evolving.
Shadows moved and dark waters slapped the banks. The river breeze mixed the smells of the wild and combed the brush with an eerie rhythm. Then Elliott smelled the foul odor, an acrid stench laced in a stream of warm air. Sounds came from the nearby brush. Elliott reached for his cell phone and moved his penlight from the girl to edges of the sandy clearing. He pressed “record” and set it on the sand by the child. If he died here, Wilcox would be another step closer to stopping a monster.
Elliott slid his free hand to his ankle holster. His gun was gone, the strap unsnapped. When? The holster empty. Where? His heart beat faster. He was never good with guns. He rarely used them. And it really did not matter. The gun would only buy him seconds, not stop the Butcher.
Stick to the plan! You’re not going to kill me tonight. It’s too early in your sick game. It’s too easy. No, you want something. You have some sick objective. This is my chance to get closer to you so I can take you soon.
It happened fast—splashing water, thrashing weeds, and flying sand. Before Elliott could spin around, the Butcher lunged from the black river’s edge. Like a predator pouncing on its prey, the hideous, gurgling squeal crossed twenty yards in less than a fraction of a second and the Butcher planted his feet deep on the sandy mound.
On the foggy moonlit island Elliott smelled the sweet stench of bloody kills clinging to the steaming hulk in front of him. Elliott had ruled out an attack from the river. Surprise was impossible and too risky. A lethal defense could be deployed. But the choice was vintage Butcher. It was illogical, the least expected.
After a decade of misses, Elliott had to see the face of the demented creature, and he had to get him to talk. Elliott had come to Mud Island risking everything to find an unexpected advantage. Fighting his fears he got to his feet, his head inches away from the steady thrusts of hot, rancid breath.
The Butcher’s size was crippling. Are you more animal than man? He blocked the early morning sky looking down at Elliott. The moon centered in each glassy, black eye and reflected off the Butcher’s muscular brow which dipped with demonic passion. Maybe Elliott had miscalculated. Maybe the Butcher was done with him.
With eyes locked, Elliott reached for the ten-inch knife in the Butcher’s left hand. He caught it halfway—it was moving toward his belly. The strength behind the thrust was steady, deliberate, and insurmoun
table. Time stopped. Elliott never had a chance. His world went dark and sound faded.
Is this death?
Eight
Unannounced, he pulled up to the gates in a black Lincoln. It was 6 o’clock, another steamy August evening after a short, miserable sprinkle in Memphis. The Director of the Memphis PD was known to be a man with every minute planned; there was no other way to lead the city’s 2,300 law enforcement personnel or to manage a $200 million budget. This visit was odd. Albert directed security to take Collin Wade to the study; he would join him after excusing himself from an international conference call. This was Albert’s second meeting with the director over his five-year tenure. He had not liked the first.
“Thank you for seeing me.” Wade approached, hand extended and eyes everywhere but on Albert. The greeting was predictably awkward.
“Good to see you again, Director Wade.” Something awful has happened, Albert thought. Why else would you drop by without even a phone call?
“I don’t know any other way but to just start. It’s time to think outside the box.”
“Outside the box?” Albert leaned back in his chair and studied the man.
“In 2005, there were 154 homicides in Memphis. In 2006, we had 160. Last year we went to 164. I’d say we do a pretty darn good job solving ninety-six percent. But, over the same period nineteen homicides were unsolved. Yes, we may reduce the number over time, but most will remain cold cases.”
“The cold case process’ is your ‘box’?”
“Yes. Mr. Bell, I propose a collaborative effort between the Memphis Police Department—representing all metro area law enforcement—and The Memphis Tribune. I want a new look at a decade of cold cases, 1995 through 2005. The high-profile collaboration would raise community awareness.”
The Bluff City Butcher Page 5
