The Bluff City Butcher

by Steve Bradshaw

  Is this Carol Mason?

  His heart raced. He tried to hide his emotions as he scanned her like a doctor would—her arm in a sling and hand wrapped in gauze, a two-inch bandage on her forehead, the blouse missing a sleeve, and blood on the ripped dress. But her nails were intact. There were no defense wounds on her arms or hands. And her green eyes sparkled. She tossed her long, blond curls over her shoulder with a sense of confidence and resilience.

  Now, say something brilliant, Elliott. It’s been five, long seconds of staring. “So, I see you decided to let him live, Miss Mason.” He smiled. She stepped closer. They both enjoyed the view.

  “Well played, Dr. Sumner.”

  She had seen pictures, but they did no justice. From afar she admired his profound accomplishments in a dangerous world. But now she was lost in his icy blue eyes. His handsome frame filled out the black pinstripe suit in all the right places, and his loose tie and open collar were perfect. Elliott’s presence would be missed in a photograph on the front page of a newspaper. With no effort, he projected strength, confidence, and high intellect, and he carried empathy in his eyes. His coffee-brown hair was in perfect disarray, and the dash of silver in his sideburns revealed his budding wisdom. Carol’s nostrils flared and pupils contracted. She liked his smell too—dreamy.

  “I saw him,” she said.

  “And who is him?”

  “Elliott, you need me.” Oh God. That could be taken too many ways.

  “This is not a game, Carol. The man you saw tonight is dangerous. I have hunted him for a long time. If he wanted you dead, believe me, we would not be talking now.”

  “I’m not a school girl looking for something cool to do. I have a job. And I can take care of myself. So please drop the macho approach. It is demeaning, and you called me Carol.” Okay. This is new. I’ve never felt this way before.

  “Excuse me, but you called me Elliott first.” That sounded real mature. “Therefore, I assumed we had progressed to a first name basis . . .

  “And, if you knew me, you’d know I have no macho cards. I speak truth. A top investigative reporter who did her homework would know I don’t manipulate. I have a protector personality. It is a big part of why I’m going crazy. I am sorry if it offends you. I will try not to care about you, Carol . . . Miss Mason.”

  “Elliott, you’re right. I don’t want to fight. We just met. I take it all back.”

  “Okay.”

  “Elliott, I saw the Bluff City Butcher. He stared into my eyes from four feet away. I saw his face. I saw his body and his strength. If you want details, make room for me at the table. Not many alive today have seen this guy. And, what are you doing in Memphis anyway? You’ve been missing?” And I’ve been worried about you for reasons I did not understand until now.

  “I’m here helping a friend.”

  “Great. Thank you for all the detail again, Elliott.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry. I should have told you more when we talked on the phone. I was going to tell you more to help keep you alive, and then something came up.”

  “Well, that would have been nice. Maybe I wouldn’t have parked on the bluff tonight knowing the BCB is more than a myth.”

  “I thought he killed you tonight, Carol. I was feeling responsible for you.”

  “Elliott that’s sweet, but you need to stop blaming yourself for all the tragedy in the world. You can’t save everybody. Fact is, you have already done more than your share. Just think about all the lives you saved by catching fifty serial killers. Stop thinking about the people you could not save. The bad guys win sometimes.”

  “Thanks, but I do need therapy.” They laughed. “You want to get out of here?”

  “Yes, but my car is broken.” Weight shifted.

  “And, I don’t have a car. Guess it’s safe to walk.”

  Officer Brentwood interrupted. “Excuse me, Dr. Sumner. Detective Wilcox asked me to give you his car keys. He had to go to the other end of the bluff where the van went over the side. He said he would catch up with you later at the Peabody.”

  “Okay, thanks.” He turned to Carol. “We are in luck. I have a fast car with a siren.” I can’t remember the last time I really wanted to be with someone.

  “I’m at the Peabody. I can drop you at your place to rest, or we can get a coffee or drink. Your call."

  “Are you kidding? I couldn’t sleep if I tried, and there’s no way I am going to pass up an evening with the great Dr. Elliott Sumner.”

  Flattered, Elliott rolled his eyes. “I think you use the term great way too loosely.”

  “I live at the Peabody, too. Let’s go there.”

  “By the way, what is LHK244?”

  “I do believe you’ve been looking at my legs, Doctor.”

  “Well, I couldn’t help but notice.”

  “You’re a genius, Elliott Sumner. You know the answer to the question, and I am certain you know more about me than a lady would want you to know. But, no guessing weight, got it?”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Elliott said as they started to the unmarked cruiser.

  Carol slid her arm through his—bicep rock hard. They walked in a comfortable silence. That’s new. I feel safer than I’ve ever felt.

  At the Peabody, after the third glass of Pinot Noir, Carol told Elliott more shocking details of her last minutes with a monster—how the Butcher found her, his rage and aggressive behavior driving him to go in for the kill. She described her desperate attempt to get under the steering wheel when the Butcher peeled back the metal roof and looked in. She said she smelled urine, and feces, and sweat. She did not know the Butcher’s knife had grazed her forehead until blood got in her eye. She was trapped, ready to die. Then her knee hit the lights. They popped on and broke the spell of terror. She pounded the horn. The Butcher disappeared. MPD pulled up, her car covered in white light.

  “You say he was there and in seconds gone.”

  “It makes no sense.”

  The man towing Carol’s BMW from the parking lot had squatted three feet from the most vicious serial killer in the country. Even if the Memphis police had looked closer, they would have missed the master of concealment. He clung to the branches deep in the cluster of thick bushes next to Carol’s car.

  At 3:45 a.m. the bluff was quiet again. The Butcher left the bushes and slipped into the river mist.

  Twenty-Nine

  “Boldness is a child of ignorance.”

  Francis Bacon, Sr.

  * * *

  Albert Bell and Carol Mason walked into the main conference room at the Memphis Police Department. As set forth in the cold case collaboration agreement, after today The Tribune was free to use information presented at their own risk.

  The facilities were typical for a metropolitan law enforcement agency: white walls, gray linoleum, fluorescent lights, and the smell of floor wax. The podium with the MPD seal stood at the front of the room, flanked by the American and Tennessee flags. A dozen rows of stainless steel tables and folding chairs were already full. The buzz in the room started when the Bell patriarch entered; they didn’t get to see a billionaire every day. Director Collin Wade stood next to the podium. He welcomed Albert, and coldly acknowledged Carol Mason, the outsider.

  When she glanced up at the audience the first time, she was surprised to see Dr. Sumner. From the back of the room, he smiled when their eyes met. Detective Wilcox interrupted her gaze, when he stopped to welcome her and Albert. Tony went to the back and sat next to Elliott.

  Dr. Henderson Bates was on the front row with his nose in a file. He wore green scrubs and a white lab coat with Shelby County Medical Examiner and his name embroidered in red above the pocket packed tight with pens, rulers, and gadgets. Next to him, FBI Regional Director Dexter Voss and his expensive, three-piece suit glared. Others in the room held pens, their eyes darting. They were the note takers.

  Director Wade started the meeting as stragglers found seats and the buzz died down. “We are honored to have a great Memp
hian with us today, Mr. Albert Bell.” The room applauded long and loudly. Albert nodded, but remained seated. “We also have a new friend with us today. Miss Carol Mason, one of the top investigative reporters in the country, is now on the payroll of The Memphis Tribune.” The dribble of applause sent the message—Carol was going to have a bad day.

  Director Wade looked down at his notes and then up at the pensive crowd. “In July, I met with Albert Bell to discuss a joint venture to unite resources and expertise of the public and private sectors to benefit the midsouth region. Our vision is to build a stronger community, one that watches out for all our citizens . . . including those lost to us over recent years. The Memphis Tribune and Memphis Police Department have united to launch a collaborative review of a decade of unsolved homicides. These lost citizens can never be forgotten. They must be represented. Maybe this joint initiative can make the difference.

  “Miss Mason comes to our city with strong credentials. She came to launch this important initiative on September 1, 2008. If you are in this room, you are cleared for the confidential information to be discussed here. According to our joint agreement, Miss Mason will report on the first hundred days.” He turned to her. “We look forward to your presentation on the regions cold cases from 1995 to 2005.”

  Carol stepped to the podium, suffocating from the silence. After laying down her thick leather binder, she first looked at Albert Bell. He winked. She was ready.

  “Thank you, Director Wade, for the introduction. The Memphis Tribune shares your vision, your hopes, and your enthusiasm. And I thank you for your assistance in obtaining the cold case files and cooperation of all area law enforcement.

  “Today, in accordance with our joint mission, I am pleased to present new and important information. I will talk about nine unsolved deaths from the one hundred and eleven cold cases I have reviewed. These nine tell a story and merit our most immediate attention. This morning, there are no rules of procedure. You are encouraged to ask questions at any time. This is a journey we must all take together.”

  She opened her binder overstuffed with dog-eared pages. “I looked at unsolved homicides, suspicious and traumatic accidents, unwitnessed suicides, missing persons, and traumatic deaths ruled undetermined manner. Our target decade had three hundred and seventy-eight cases qualified to be part of this collaborative review. The first group examined is composed of fifteen accidents, twenty suicides, twenty-six missing persons, fifty unsolved homicides, and one undetermined death.”

  Carol began with the 1995 Buford Forester death in Blytheville, ruled accidental drowning. Then she reviewed the 1996 abduction of R.L Thornton in Millington, changed to a homicide six years later when his remains were found in the Wolfe River. Next, she covered the bloody details of the 1997 suicide in Hernando, Mississippi, when Ted Morgan plunged knives into his eyes. To a quiet crowd, she presented the details of a 1999 farm equipment mishap in Marion, Arkansas, claimed to have caused the death of William Delmar. The unwitnessed, bizarre accident left Delmar’s bloodless corpse in a corn field—his pancreas was gone.

  She guided the room through some of the most macabre and questionable traumatic deaths she had researched to date. Carol went into graphic detail. Harvey Barnfield of Desoto, Mississippi, a truck driver, was killed by a knife. He was almost decapitated while sitting behind his wheel at a truck stop. Trenton Brent was found in 2002 decomposing in his garage. He was sitting in the front seat of his Mercedes. The medical examiner ruled manner of death undetermined. Suspicious circumstances made it impossible to know. Carol took the room through a 2003 unsolved homicide in Bartlett, Tennessee. Chris Black was found in a hotel room, his heart missing. She presented the 2004 Germantown homicide. Jackson Woodall was found in his swimming pool—skin was taken from his back, chest, and thighs.

  The last case of Carol’s nine was the 2005 unsolved homicide in Collierville. They believed Gordon Wilton was a home-invasion victim. The only thing taken was his digestive system—from his mouth to his anus. The case was odd enough, but they found Mr. Wilton in his bed. He had been bathed and all wounds sutured. They found him three weeks after death. The neighbors reported a foul smell.

  Director Wade cleared his throat and Carol stopped mid-sentence.

  “Miss Mason, I do not want to interrupt your hypnotic flow, but for many, you are taking us through terrible cases we know well. The information you are sharing is not new. Do you have something new, Miss Mason? Or, is this it?” The buzz in the room was mixed with soft laughter. “We were hoping this joint effort would be more productive. Now, I hope we have not made a terrible mistake. Please tell me you have something new, Miss Mason. Please tell me you have recommendations that will help area law enforcement.”

  There you are, she thought. Voss and Bates could not hide their pleasure. There’s the politics I suspected. You three and your minions thought you could set up something to confirm you were doing nothing short of a spectacular job. Well, that’s not going to work, gentlemen. Not today. Your worst nightmare is coming. Everything I uncovered only confirms your woeful incompetence has placed the midsouth in enormous danger.

  “Director Wade, I have new findings and recommendations to share today. How helpful they are will depend.”

  The room quieted. Carol had to make a decision. There would be no turning back.

  Do I hold the bombs for another day, or do I hit hard with the horrible facts? Her eyes met Elliott’s. He dipped his chin one time. She knew what to do.

  “The nine traumatic deaths presented have a common thread. They are homicides of the worst kind. These people were hunted, captured, tortured, harvested, and executed. Deaths thought to be suicides or accidents were staged, intended to be low profile. They were precision organ harvesting events for unknown reasons and purposes. The killer intended to hide it from the world. These nine victims were killed by one.”

  Whispers floated in the room. Wilcox stopped chewing his gum and leaned forward. Dr. Bates put down his file for the first time. Dexter Voss stared with an odd grimace. Director Wade froze holding his chin. One finger moved to his lip.

  “What are the common threads linking these horrible deaths? Each is traumatic and unwitnessed. Each happened on October 17 in different years. Organs are surgically removed from the victim and the death scene. All wounds are precision cuts. The victims were found with no blood, exsanguination. And possibly the most macabre connection of all, each victim had a circular, puncture wound of identical dimensions and location, the top of the head.

  “Why is this head trauma significant? I checked with the medical experts—the top neurosurgeons in the country. I knew it was a sick thing to do; to push an ice pick into the top of someone’s head, but there had to be more. Unfortunately, I was right. The hideous puncture wounds are positioned to inflict specific and diabolical damage.

  “If we drew a straight line from the entry site, the hole in the skull, to the end point, the place where the tip of the ice pick came to rest, the line intersects the large motor control centers in the brain. Damage to these areas renders the victim helpless. They are aware of everything happening to them—they feel pain—but they are unable to move their arms or legs, and they cannot make a sound. How perfect is that for a killer with a delicate surgical procedure ahead?”

  Whispers grew. Wade, Bates, and Voss turned to each other and then aimed their scowls at Mason. She had shined the light on the sick, demented circus the people were afraid to talk about. The light fell squarely on the three clowns responsible for allowing it to continue. Seething with embarrassment and anger, Wade realized he underestimated Mason. She was more capable than he thought. She had to be controlled.

  The room returned to an eerie silence on Carol Mason’s next word. “The killer pushed an ice pick into the skull with great force. There were no stress fractures around the entry wound—just a clean, round hole. The ice pick scrambled the brain of the victims and gave the killer total control. The victims became anesthetized patients—they could no
t move. Organs were removed—heart, kidney, liver, digestive system, skin, eyes, and even reproductive organs. They were cleaned up for discovery. Some were made to look like suicides, accidents, and natural deaths. But there were those so heinously mutilated the killer just let them be what they were—homicides. Why not? Nobody had been looking for this killer for the last twenty-five years!”

  Thirty

  Wade could not allow Carol Mason—some glorified newspaper reporter—to destroy his reputation and career. The MPD/Tribune collaboration was supposed to go differently. The newspaper was supposed to get lost in the minutia and ten years of incomplete, sketchy police records.

  The director did not intend to be taken to school by someone with zero law enforcement background. From Wade’s vantage point as the top cop in the midsouth, the outsiders had no business telling him how to do his job. Nobody but Director Wade could begin to comprehend the complexities of the world he managed every day.

  He might have inherited the horrific nightmare—people dying around him and the killers not found—but for the first time in his life, he was hopelessly lost. The mounting cold cases hung over him with no answers in sight. So Wade had developed his own strategy. He would treat all unexplained deaths as disturbing but separate incidents. He would ignore and downplay any efforts to establish linkage and create a monster. He knew that would not play well with the community and he would be fired.

  Director Wade had prayed every day his nightmare would go away on its own, but it never did. Five years after taking the helm, the fog of denial was being lifted by a newspaper reporter, someone he could not order around. Wade’s credibility was now being challenged, and his career was at risk. He had to retake control.

  “Miss Mason, if you don’t mind, I have some observations I would like to share, and then a few questions for you,” Director Wade said.