You look more like a Sidney than a chief of neurosurgery. I probably beat up a few Sidney types along the way. Some of you survived.
“We met for breakfast at the Hyatt at 8:00 a.m. He had scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, orange juice, and coffee. We left for Parkland at 8:45 a.m.”
“And the events leading up to the collapse please,” Gilmore asked.
“We were walking down the corridor on the third floor, a normal pace. I remember Elliott was talking. He was in mid-sentence when he stopped and clutched his chest like he had been shot. I went to him right away, held him up against the wall. I got in his face and asked what was wrong. He was blood red, eyes bulging. He gripped my arm with a God-awful iron claw and forced four words through clenched teeth, ‘cardiac arrest get help.’ Fortunately, damn doctors were everywhere. I yelled. They got to him on the spot.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“No. His lights went out. Those guys started ripping off clothes and hitting his chest, pinching his nose and blowing in his mouth as others wheeled up all sorts of stuff. They zapped his chest with those electric paddles, he jumped a few times and then everything got crazy: needles, syringes, IV bags, rubber tubing, white tape, sheets, towels, tanks of oxygen. Monitors and gurneys came from all directions. Then someone took me to the lobby. I haven’t seen him since.” Wilcox slumped back in his chair. A drop of sweat rolled from his sideburn.
“Okay. And he is still unconscious in ICU. It’s best we keep going. Was he acting like . . . ?”
Tony cut off Gilmore. “No, goddamn it. I told you he was same as always.” He grabbed the steaming coffee in front of him, downed it and slammed the empty mug on the table. He pushed it at Gilmore. It slid across the table stopping at Gilmore’s clasped hands. He did not move.
No more questions. My friend is dying.
Dr. Dodson sidestepped Wilcox’s wood-chipper anger. “Was he under any pressure? Did he have any significant stress in his life?”
“That’s it! Who are you people? What kind of game are we playing? Do you have any idea who is lying in your ICU?”
“We know Elliott Sumner is a forensic pathologist. We remember his time here as a medical examiner, 1994 to 1998. Until you told us, we were unaware of SFI and his international activities,” Gilmore said. Dodson and Gilbert nodded in affirmation.
“Do you ever leave your building? Do you ever watch the news, listen to a radio, or read a goddamn newspaper? Do you have any exposure to the real world around you, the things changing peoples’ lives every day, the things that take everything away?”
The three moved in their chairs, each hoping the other would somehow calm Wilcox’s growing anger.
Dr. Gilmore cleared his throat and moved to the chair next to Tony. “I know it will be hard for you to accept, but most of our life is spent in an operating room or with dying patients, or teaching at the medical school. Like your profession, ours is all consuming. We rarely experience the world outside of these walls. I am sorry we do not know what you think we should know.”
“I’m not buying any of it. There is no excuse. You should know the man you have in your ICU is the world renowned forensic pathologist and the premier serial killer hunter of our time.
“You asked if he had pressure or stress in his life. Hell yes! Pressure and stress is his life. Over the last decade he hunted and captured fifty of the world’s most dangerous serial killers. And he’s just touched the tip of evil. The FBI estimates four-hundred sick bastards are active today. Each one Elliott hunted tried to kill him first. His nemesis, the only one to escape him, is in Memphis now. This one is the most dangerous of all. He has killed a hundred people and is still at it. Yes, Elliott’s under pressure. The psychopathic killing machine in Memphis is smarter than all of us. Elliott is the only one with a shot at stopping this monster. Does he carry stress? Damn right. That unstoppable serial killer is always on his mind and his ass.”
Wilcox started to stand. Gilmore grabbed his wrist with a firm grip, much more powerful than Tony expected from a little man. They locked eyes. “Son, he’s at death’s door. Dr. Sumner may be thirty-eight, but he has the body of a twenty-year-old and you know it. Put your anger away and tell me his secrets. Your burden is the source of your anger, not us. If you hold back now, I can promise you the next opportunity you will have to help your friend will be to carry his casket.”
The old pendulum clock behind Gilmore’s desk took over the room as a cloud killed the sun and the air blower shut off. Seconds were an eternity as Wilcox and Gilmore locked eyes.
I never knew what any of it meant, Tony thought. Elliott started telling me things. I was the brother he never had. We saw the world the same way: good guys, bad guys, and monsters. We wanted to fix things our way. At first I thought the stuff he told me was interesting. I didn’t believe any of it for a long time. But then it got scary. I got worried, especially when I realized it scared him, the stuff he could do.
Eleven
“Everything stays in this room,” Wilcox said.
“Of course.”
“How do I know you can do that?”
“Doctor-patient relationship, confidentiality is protected. And I give you my word, anything you tell us will be only used to save Elliott,” Gilmore said.
Wilcox leaned back and closed his eyes. “November 5, 1968, Martha and William Sumner found a baby on their front porch at their ranch in Abilene. He was two weeks old. The note said, ‘This is Elliott. Please give him a good life.’ That was it. All efforts to find his natural parents were unsuccessful and continue to this day.”
“Tell us his story.”
“He could read at age four. Soon, he could read a book as fast as he could turn the pages—age seven. He read all the books in the Abilene Public Library by age twelve.”
“Was he tested, genius IQ?” Gilmore asked.
“Yes. The Sumners were educated people. They knew what to do. William was a retired prosecutor and Martha a retired family physician. They owned a small cattle ranch, a thousand acres. After they observed his gift, they had him privately tested. His IQ was measured at the 175 level, a gifted genus, top one-tenth of one percent of the tested population. Elliott was home-schooled by a parade of tutors and specialists. Every decision the Sumners made about Elliott’s development was preceded by protection of privacy contracts—he would not be someone’s sideshow.”
“An exceptional IQ is rare, but not lethal,” Dr. Dodson said.
“Elliott also has a perfect, photographic memory.”
“Total and instantaneous recall?”
“Yes. He remembers everything and can retrieve it fast and perfectly. The Sumners hired specialists to teach him to manage his gifts, how to suppress the automatic flow of data and images. He learned to access only the information he wanted.”
“Please continue.”
“Memory is one of his assets. His mental processes pertaining to observation and perception, analysis, deductive reasoning, and judgment are advanced too.”
“Have theses been measured?” Bennett asked.
“I will say yes but with a caveat. M.I.T., Harvard, and Stanford tried to measure them, but Elliott was already functioning beyond their tools. He was still a teen. Elliott helped those schools upgrade their tools. They never knew his real name.”
“Tell us about physical assets, liabilities,” Dodson asked.
“He avoids talking about physical gifts. I never pushed. I think he avoids it because they are tangible. He’s always aware and tries to minimize them.”
“That makes sense. We do know he is aging slowly. What do you know about that?” Gilmore asked.
“I didn’t notice. He looks thirty-eight to me. I do recall an eye examination. About two years ago, we were at a forensic medical conference in San Diego. His dinner date lost a diamond stud. Elliott walked across the ballroom and picked it up. I saw him do it. Later, he pretended to find it under our table. I asked about it on the return flight.”
“
Did he see the diamond across the room?”
“Yes. Fifty feet away on floral carpet in poor lighting.”
“Interesting,” Dodson said.
“He told me he had his eyes examined. Actually, he said analyzed. Elliott said he has five times the retinal light receptors as the average human eye.”
“And how does that manifest?”
“He said his retinal construct is closer to an eagle. Humans see three colors, an eagle five.”
“I don’t know much about eagle eyes, but I think I can imagine the benefit.”
“An eagle can see a brown rabbit in a brown field a mile away. Elliott said he can see the proverbial needle in the haystack. His visual assets are huge in field of forensics. He can process a death scene and examine a body unlike anyone. He sees things some never see, vital clues never found.”
“Are his other senses enhanced?” Gilmore asked.
“I don’t know, but suspect they are.”
“Does he explain the origin of these gifts?” Bennett asked.
“Genetics—natural parents he does not know,” Wilcox said.
Gilmore leaned over and whispered to Dodson, who then leaned over and whispered to Bennett. “Did Dr. Sumner have contact with his nemesis recently?”
“August 11, on his cell, and I think they met face-to-face.”
“Why would you think that?”
“Well, I have him watched in Memphis—protection. He ditched my guys around midnight one night and didn’t get back until the morning. I had lunch with him that day.”
“How was he?”
“He was behaving oddly. He was quiet, lethargic, distracted, and puzzled.”
Dr. Gilmore made a notation. “That could be helpful. We have a starting point.”
“I assume serial killers take many lives,” Dodson said.
“By definition they kill three or more, with cool-down periods between.”
“How many lives did Elliott’s fifty take?” Bennett asked.
“He estimates six hundred victims.”
“According to your definition, I thought much less.”
“Elliott had criteria. He only focused on the worst of the worst, those with ten or more victims. Many connected to thirty or more victims. Elliott did not want to waste his assets. He wanted to rid the world of the monsters first.”
Dr. Gilmore held up his hand to his colleagues. “Detective Wilcox, we will need time to ponder what you’ve shared. If you agree, my assistant will take you to see Dr. Sumner. We can get back together this afternoon.”
Tony entered the ICU and saw Elliott tied to his bed. He lay motionless on a thick foam pad, green sheets pulled tight over his torso. His arms were outstretched and fists clenched. There were tubes hanging from him everywhere. Mechanical pumps and a mix of robotic noises jerked his chest forcing him to breathe. The beeping and monitors with jagged lines meant he was still alive, but taped eyes and his bloated face said he was almost dead.
Did Gilmore send me here to say goodbye?
Twelve
“A ship is safe in harbor, but that’s not what ships are for.”
William Shedd
* * *
“Rita, hold my calls.”
“Certainly, Doctor.” Rita deposited Tony Wilcox in the alcove he had learned to hate. She smiled and vanished. The three doctors sat with perfect posture, wearing white coats and blank faces. They were experienced purveyors of bad news.
“I won’t keep you waiting,” Dr. Gilmore said. Wilcox looked at Dr. Bennett and Dr. Dodson. They gave nothing away.
“He’s going to die. I know. I’m not blind. I just saw him.”
“No. We do not believe Dr. Sumner is going to die, not this time anyway.”
“You don’t? But he looks almost dead now.”
“Let’s back up. Thanks to you, we now understand what is happening to Dr. Sumner.”
“You do?” Tony sunk in his chair. Gilmore looked like a God, not a Sidney.
“The best way I can explain this to you is to say Elliott Sumner is rebooting.”
“Rebooting like a computer?”
“Yes, rebooting like a computer, one that crashed. I believe the crash will not be fatal this time.”
“Okay, I think.” Wilcox said.
“We are certain Elliott Sumner had a neurological overload. It induced the coma, a natural protective function in his case.”
“It is natural?”
“A coma is the body’s way to manage damage and redirect limited resources to repair something broken. The cardiac arrest was a secondary event. Left alone, Elliott could have survived the event, the first time anyway.”
“Then why does he need all the damn equipment upstairs?”
“When we got him, we did not know what we were dealing with. We just about killed the man,” Gilmore said as Bennett and Dodson looked at their hands.
“You almost killed Elliott?”
“Let’s just say we each have our secrets now. It should give you more assurances our little meeting will remain confidential.”
“I understand,” Wilcox said under his breath. “But what’s going on with Elliott?”
“Allow me to speak in simple terms, otherwise this can get complicated. This is about the human brain. It processes an enormous amount of data entering through our senses: sight, sound, smell, and touch. A good deal of this information is inconsequential. Some is much more significant. All is stored in our memory forever. Some can trigger biophysiological events.”
“Biophysio . . . ? You’ve lost me.”
“An illustration may help. A memory of a burning car at the city dump is insignificant information with little or no physical impact. However, a memory of a burning car with your mother trapped inside is very different. It is emotionally charged information that triggers physical responses beyond your control: change in heart rate and blood pressure, circulation, body temperature, respiration, and mental confusion. We store these emotionally charged pieces of information in our subconscious. If we did not, we would live on a biophysiological rollercoaster.”
“Unfortunately, some people do,” Dr. Bennett said. “They could need therapy and medication to cope. They can go insane, die young—commit suicide. It is a terrible way to live, being constantly aware of every terrible experience in your life.”
“Are you saying Elliott’s experiences did this to him?”
“Yes. And they are vast, detailed, and perfectly retained. We believe they moved from a subconscious to conscious state—his neurological storage capacity exceeded. The dam broke, so to speak. He was deluged with a lifetime of pain and terror. It triggered a massive biophysiological event.”
“On the third floor Dr. Sumner’s last thoughts put him over the top.”
“He was overwhelmed with his version of a lifetime of mothers trapped in burning cars. It triggered an autonomic nervous system response, or ANS, the body’s mechanism to cope and protect. His sense of peril was equivalent to being eaten alive. His ANS response was designed to disassociate him from unbearable discomfort. He entered a biophysiological survival mode.”
“And it was killing him,” Wilcox said.
“It should not have caused a cardiac arrest. That outcome reveals a fatal flaw in his otherwise astounding, physical makeup—an ANS error, a short circuit,” Dodson said.
“Can that error happen again, if he survives this time?” Wilcox asked.
“Yes.”
“Is Elliott going to survive this time?”
“Yes. We have him on the right program now. We expect a full recovery. He is on the edge of neurological capacity,” Gilmore said. “He must avoid pain and terror-laden events from this day forward. One more bad experience could kill him. I recommend he abandon his chosen career if he wants to live.”
“And that still may not be enough,” Dodson said.
“He’s not going to like it. His work is his life. There must be some other way. Can he expand his subconscious capacity?” Tony asked.
“No one knows the answer,” Dr. Bennett said.
Gilmore closed the notebook in which he jotted thoughts and observations. As he pocketed his Mont Blanc he looked over the tops of his glasses at the haggard homicide detective. “How do you suggest we handle this with Dr. Sumner?”
“There’s only one way. You tell him everything. Don’t forget he’s a genius. I wouldn’t be surprised to find he already knows what’s going on.”
“Tell him all we know?” Dr. Dodson asked.
“Yes. He is a practical and realistic man. He will want to know what you think about all this. And he will understand the medical issues and their implications. I’m pretty sure he knew he was up against limits. He pushed them.”
Gilmore stuck out his hand. “Detective Wilcox, you are a good friend. Without your help, Elliott Sumner may not be leaving this hospital on his own. Take a moment for yourself, sir. You found a way to help your friend live with his astounding assets and liabilities.”
“Thanks for that, Dr. Gilmore, but the most important thing going forward only Elliott can decide. William Shedd, an American theologian, said something that carries me through the tough times as a homicide investigator. He said a ship is safe in harbor, but that’s not what ships are for . . .”
Dr. Gilmore walked Wilcox through the maze of offices to a long and empty corridor leading to a set of double-doors. At the far end, the sun pierced the two small windows shooting blinding lines of light into the dark, sterile world.
“I’m curious,” Dr. Gilmore said. “Do you recall what you and Dr. Sumner were talking about the morning he collapsed?”
“His nemesis. He’s still out there.”
“I see.”
They shook hands. Tony walked down the long, dark hall and disappeared in the blinding light of the Texas sun.
Gilmore returned to the quiet confines of his now empty office and sat for a moment of reflection before checking on Elliott Sumner. As his eyes adjusted to the dark office, he thought of the day he had come to Parkland—twenty years ago. He smiled, realizing the smells and sounds and office furniture were still the same. He was the only thing in the room that changed.
The Bluff City Butcher Page 7
