“And generate new leads.”
“Yes. We could take more bad people off the streets and give our community and families of the victims’ closure. What do you think of the idea?”
“Director, you are the subject matter expert. I’m sure you have given this a lot of thought. As you know, The Memphis Tribune has been in the Bell family a long time. We have done all we can to support the community and that will not change.”
“And we appreciate the help, Mr. Bell.”
“Well then, I will call Ed Cole this evening. I suggest your people meet with him Monday morning so he can get your information in the paper.”
“I’m sorry. I guess I’ve been unclear on the role of the Tribune in this collaboration. I propose the decade of cold cases be reviewed by your best investigative reporter without direct police involvement.”
“I don’t know if it is something we could or should do, Director Wade.”
“Mr. Bell, an independent review is the key. A non-biased, unencumbered, outside review of these cases is the giant step outside the ‘box’ we need.”
“How many cold cases are we talking about?”
“Looking at the Metro Area, eight counties in three states, I estimate fifty to sixty unsolved homicides over the ten-year period.”
What are you really after? Albert thought. Police don’t turn protected case files over to city newspapers.
“What is the role of the Memphis Police Department in this collaboration?”
“We manage the proprietary information flow from metro area law enforcement agencies to The Tribune. I will guarantee unfettered access to all case files and evidence chains.”
“And The Tribune’s designated specialist can focus on the investigation?”
“Yes.”
“What about matters of confidentiality and city liabilities?”
“Shared confidentiality with your specialist only. What we know, they will know. My only requirement is The Tribune agrees to present all findings, conclusions, and recommendations with the Memphis PD prior to public release of any information.”
“And liabilities?”
“After a presentation to the Memphis PD the Tribune is free to disclose any and all findings at your own risk. You must release the department from any culpability. We may ask you to not release information, but the final decision is yours. I am confident we could work through the sticky situations.”
“How big is the access window for case files and evidence streams?”
“I think two years is reasonable with one year extensions by mutual agreement.”
“We may have someone for this,” Albert said.
“Excellent,” Wade said.
“Assuming Ed Cole gets on board, I have two requests. First, the city and county mayors must sign-off on this program in advance. Second, the Memphis PD must hold a press conference. I want you and Ed to launch this collaboration. At that event you two introduce the designated Tribune specialist to the community. This person must have the support of everyone from the start.”
“Agreed.”
Albert watched Wade’s black Lincoln drop over the crest of the estate driveway. “Janet, get G.E. Taft on the phone, please.”
“Right away, sir.”
Albert pulled a file from his briefcase, Carol Mason on the tab. He thumbed through the inch stack: letters, newspaper clippings, magazine articles, a dozen childhood photographs, college transcript, resume, PI report, and recommendations. Albert had been watching her a very long time. She was a talent brought to his attention by Rudolph Kohl, an old friend of the family. Albert had interviewed Carol ten years ago. Then he watched her grow as a freelance reporter on the west coast. He wanted Carol Mason on staff one day.
Janet poked her head in the door, “Mr. Bell, Sheriff Taft is on line one.”
“Greetings, G.E.”
“Albert, how in the hell are you?”
“I’m very good. Thank you for asking. It has been a while. Are you up to tasting some old scotch and smoking a Cuban cigar?”
“You talked to Wade, didn’t ya?”
“Smart as a fox. Yes. The director just departed.”
“I’ll see you in an hour.”
G.E. met with Wade three days earlier and did not like the lamebrain program. It was a desperate attempt Albert Bell would see through. The call was expected.
Albert stared at the stack from Mason’s file. He fanned it out until he found the old picture of Elliott Sumner. A rusted paperclip held it to a three-page report written on faded stationary. This time the embossed watermark on the lower right corner was large, and with a tagline: Gilgamesh—Confidential Vessel Preparation.
Nine
“Justice delayed is no justice.”
Unknown
* * *
“The most important news stories are found in the dark alleys of life. I have rarely found them under the bright lights of Main Street,” Carol said.
“Probably the most dangerous too,” Albert said.
“That would be a true statement, as well.”
Carol Mason had climbed to the top of her profession as a nationally syndicated, freelance investigative reporter known for taking the tough stories: unsolved murders, drug smuggling, kidnapping, banking scams, and government fraud. She earned a Pulitzer, and a mountain of journalism awards, ten years after graduation from Ole’ Miss.
The position at The Tribune was created for her—vice president of investigative reporting. It was set up as equal to the editor in chief, and reported directly to Albert Bell. From the start, the MPD/Tribune cold case collaboration was a high-profile project. She got on the first plane from LA after Albert’s call. They met for the second time in ten years at the Bell mansion.
Albert lit a small cigar with a steady hand. After a few puffs, he turned to her, cigar in one hand and burning match in the other.
“Miss Mason, my family is primarily in the cotton business, and then there is a parade of less interesting ventures around the world. We are most proud of The Memphis Tribune. Did you know we have been in the newspaper business for a century?”
“Yes, I believe your grandfather, Alberto Antonio Bella, purchased the Memphis Daily News in 1905.” Her due diligence was fresh on her mind.
“Yes, that he did, Miss Mason.”
“In 1915 your father was twenty. He was given full responsibility for fixing the faltering city newspaper. The first thing he did was change the name to test Alberto’s pledge to let go completely. Your grandfather never said a word.”
“Very good, Miss Mason. It is well known Grandfather did let go. What you might not know, is he never gave Father the satisfaction of using the name in a sentence until the day he died. In his final moments he pulled Father close and said, ‘Never let the Memphis Tribune go, son. You have made it our family’s single, greatest asset.’ Thank you for bringing up Father. I think of him often.” Albert tossed the match into the fireplace.
“There is more going on here than you are sharing, sir. If I am going to sign up, I need to know everything.” Carol sat in the chair next to the fire with her long legs crossed and her green eyes following Albert’s every move.
“You are quite right. More is going on than collaboration. Miss Mason, I am one who protects by nature. My motives here are quite different. I must bring you in my way if we are going to benefit from fresh eyes. Anything less will be disastrous.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“The police hold their cards close. Either they know something and are very worried, or they know little and are desperate. This collaboration is their idea. I believe Director Wade was pushed into it by the mayor. I don’t expect his full cooperation.”
“This is a bizarre arrangement, to say the least.”
“My methods never vary. I find the best people in the world for a given task, give them all I have, and get out of their way. I am not a hands-on type. After my information transfer process you’re in a position to take the invest
igation wherever it leads you. Be assured my support is unwavering.”
“That is why I am here. I’m comfortable with your approach. But you probably know already, my nature is to push.”
Albert smiled. “What is your initial view on the topic of cold cases?”
“The first homicide investigator on a case has the greatest prospects of catching a killer. Each hour that passes is another wave reaching across the beach of justice taking away another truth. When we talk about ten-year-old, unsolved homicides, the prospects of solving them are slim to none.”
“Sounds defeating.”
“Each year about ten percent of all deaths in our country are trauma induced—homicide, suicide, and accidents. Homicides are about one percent of all deaths. About eighteen-thousand people are murdered every year. The killers try to hide their work in all the other death categories and in missing persons.”
“I assumed today the medical examiner system—modern forensics and advanced crime scene investigation—caught up with most,” Albert said.
“They often do, when those types of resources are available. Fact is, that level of professional scrutiny is rarely available in rural America. The best forensic investigators are in major cities. The Midsouth is a cluster of rural counties. Most handle their cases alone. Although basic investigation skills have improved, many have very limited experience with death and killing. And the bad guys are getting smarter.”
“You say homicides are often made to look like accidents and suicides?”
“Yes. This collaboration must include a review of all traumatic, unwitnessed accidental and suicidal deaths in the region when a medical examiner and forensic team was not involved. We should also take another look at deaths ruled ‘undetermined’, and review all ‘missing persons’ files over the same period.”
“Why ‘missing persons’?”
“Memphis reports close to 4,000 people missing each year. Two thirds can be eliminated as typical runaways. We may find homicides in the remaining third. All together—unsolved homicides, questionable accidents and suicides, undetermined rulings and missing persons from 1995 to 2005—we should plan to investigate 150 case files. If you can get agreement with the MPD, I can get started right away. If not, I am not interested in the collaboration and would recommend you back out.”
On September 1, 2008, Carol stepped off the elevator onto plush, hunter green carpet, the executive floor of The Memphis Tribune. She walked through the renovated suite of offices for the vice president of investigative reporting and staff. Looking out the third floor window, she could feel the tremor of the presses rolling two floors down. She could smell the ink. Carol loved the newspaper business: the electricity in the newsroom, chasing stories, the sources, and the pressure of deadlines. Surrounded by boxes of cold case files, she knew there was more going on than Albert Bell was willing to discuss; no police agency turns over case files to a newspaper, and no billionaire patriarch has more security than the White House.
Carol Mason always did her homework. Albert Bell had failed to mention Dr. Elliott Sumner left London for Memphis hours after he was attacked by the Serpentine Strangler. Nor did Albert comment on the Memphis urban legend haunting the midsouth for more than a decade. Looking at the majestic Mississippi River in the distant haze, she smiled. Carol always liked a challenge. He’s real. You guys are going after the Bluff City Butcher. . .
Ten
“Not the power to remember, but the power to forget, is a necessary condition for our existence.”
Sholem Asch
* * *
“We need to know everything.” Dr. Sidney Gilmore, Chief of Neurosurgery at Parkland Memorial Hospital took lead; Chiefs of Cardiology and Internal Medicine, Dodson and Bennett, sat at his flanks with the intensity of soldiers disarming a bomb ready to blow.
“You know him better than anyone and were there when it happened. He is dying in my ICU and I don’t know why.” With that declaration, Gilmore sucked the rest of the oxygen out of the room. Tony Wilcox was already crippled with the unexplainable events of the last twenty-four hours. None of it made sense.
“Dying . . . ?”
“Yes, dying . . .”
“That’s not possible.” You’re the strongest guy I know. Come on now, you can pull out of this somehow, Tony thought.
“This is a medical dilemma, one we’ve never seen before.”
Never seen? What the hell does that mean? You are chiefs, the top dogs, and the best at this shit. Tony knew nothing about medicine or doctors. This man is thirty-eight, for God’s sake. You guys are supposed to be able to do anything. You’re surrounded by all these damn diplomas and this incredible hospital complex.
“What are you going to do?” Tony asked, loosening his tie.
“We are going to listen. Our hope is you say something to point us in the right direction,” Dr. Gilmore said. He leaned over the small conference table crammed in the tight alcove surrounded by three walls of packed bookcases.
Wilcox was numb. He took in the wall of medical books and piles of dog-eared journals and scattered patient files. Then Gilmore’s short, gray-haired assistant emerged with four coffees on a silver tray. She set them on the table and vanished.
Although you’re a small man, you speak with the conviction of a giant killer, Wilcox thought. But I see desperation in you—I read people for a living. You’re chief of neurosurgery for the most prestigious hospital in the country and you’re lost.
“What do you want from me?” Wilcox bellowed. Two weeks after Panther McGee’s heart was cut out of his chest in Memphis, you collapse. Now you’re unconscious on life support in Intensive Care in Dallas.
“Your friend has now been in a coma for twenty-four hours. He’s at risk for another cardiac arrest triggered by unknown factors. The next one could be fatal,” Gilmore said. “Just start talking to us. Tell us about you and everything you know about Elliott Sumner: his life story, career, interests, habits, physical constitution, gifts, problems and idiosyncrasies.”
“That makes no sense. I could meander all day and give you nothing. How could it possibly help Elliott? Your plan is pitiful. Is this all you’ve got?” Wilcox’s anger surfaced. He didn’t like the direction of things, but had no idea how to change it. He hated dependence. From his perspective, the doctors had him.
Chief of Cardiology, Dr. Dodson, held up a hand to get Gilmore’s attention. He wanted his shot at Wilcox’s mounting frustration. Dodson looked like Santa Claus, red cheeks and white beard wearing a lab coat, scrubs, and white Crocs.
“We understand your confusion and discomfort, but please work with us. Do as we say. We will guide you based on medical relevance. We must define a critical path treatment plan ASAP.
“We will keep you from wandering, Mr. Wilcox. We’re on a slippery slope with Elliott Sumner—we’re losing him because we’re not sure what is keeping him alive. All textbook treatment regimens take him down faster. We need to work outside our comfort zone if we are going to save this man.
“The decisions we make going forward will be risky. The selection of one route eliminates others.”
Dr. Gilmore nodded. “Elliott Sumner is on a high wire. An error on our part could be the gust that pushes him into the abyss.”
Dr. Bennett, Chief of Internal Medicine, sat next to Dodson. She was a hardy woman in her fifties with expressive, deep-green eyes that revealed the greatest angst of the three staring. Her soft facial features, framed in a gentle flow of blond curls, projected a sense of calm with confidence.
“Mr. Wilcox, all his life systems are functioning perfectly, yet he requires life support to keep breathing. If I were only looking at his numbers on paper, he would not be in a hospital. We are disarming a bomb. We hold a handful of colored wires with one chance to cut the right one. Your job is to help us find the correct wire.”
Wilcox jumped to his feet. Dr. Bennett smiled. He was ready. “Please, go ahead Mr. Wilcox,” Dr. Gilmore said.
“You should
know I am a twenty-year Memphis cop, the last ten a homicide detective. First week of August we engaged Dr. Sumner as an expert consultant. He flew in from London the day after we spoke.”
“Flew in from London?” Gilmore asked.
“Yes. Elliott’s agency is based in Dallas—SFI, the Sumner Forensic Institute. He provides specialized services to law enforcement, government agencies, and private interests around the world. Elliott was in London working with Scotland Yard. He found a serial killer—the Serpentine Strangler.”
“I see, please continue.” The three leaned closer. Wilcox was not surprised. Homicides and serial killers fascinated everyone regardless of education. It was human nature—like watching a train wreck.
“I called Elliott on a Saturday evening. It was after midnight London time. He was in pursuit of the Serpentine at the time, but he took my call. Twenty-four hours later we met in Memphis.”
“Are you saying Dr. Sumner booked a flight out of London well after midnight and after chasing a serial killer? He was in Memphis the next evening?”
“Yes. He has a private jet. His pilots took off the next morning. It was a nine-hour flight from London to Memphis. He picks up seven hours. Elliott is a smart guy. He did the math in his head. He was essentially two hours away and would get seven hours sleep on the plane.”
“Please continue.”
“He worked on the Memphis homicide case over the last two weeks. Had to head back to Dallas for a day to handle other SFI commitments.”
“You came to Dallas on a critical matter that could not wait?” Dodson asked.
“Yes,” Wilcox said.
“What brought you and Dr. Sumner to Parkland Hospital?”
“He was scheduled to interview a witness and invited me along.”
The Bluff City Butcher Page 6
