The Bluff City Butcher

by Steve Bradshaw

  Elliott had to defuse the hostilities before he could ask the important questions. He needed Doyle’s trust or the interview would be useless.

  “Thank you for that, Dr. Sumner. I guess I can appreciate this guy is a real freak. I’m sorry for taking the cheap shot.”

  “We’re fine. Your comment is accurate. The Butcher has toyed with me for years. He is always a few steps ahead and a breath away.”

  “I read you captured or killed fifty of these assholes over the last ten years. That number’s gotta be more than all law enforcement agencies combined, including the FBI.”

  “Don’t believe everything you read. There were a lot of good people making it possible to find them, people like you Mr. Doyle.”

  “And I read you carry those sick bastards in your head. That’s gotta be awful.”

  “It is rough, but harder for the victims.”

  “How do you keep from going crazy?”

  “Is this an interview?” Elliott asked.

  “Sorry. Habit. If you guys don’t find this guy soon, you are gonna have to look at my white, naked ass next.” Wilcox couldn’t hold it in. The light moment helped everyone.

  “As you learned at the Bell mansion, we’re dealing with a highly intelligent homicidal maniac. He maintains an advantage by killing at random. The kill-list is the first time we’ve held his plan in our hands. He had some form of guidance before the list. I believe he’s now working alone. His needs have changed.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “His low profile, random kills are moving to high profile, targeted kills.”

  “Now you can wait for him, right?” Doyle asked.

  “Yes, but he still controls the variables. Killing your friend and Mr. Pleasant are variables. Mr. Branch’s death is about you. Mr. Pleasant’s death is about the Butcher—something happened between them on the bluff in 1983.”

  “Do you know Jack Bellow, Jimmy?” Wilcox asked.

  “No, I don’t. But why do you ask?”

  “We found Mr. Branch and Mr. Pleasant in his penthouse.”

  “That seems very strange.”

  “Do you know anything about Jack Bellow?” Elliott asked.

  “He’s the president of LIFE2 Corporation. Those guys are working on mind-blowing biogenic stuff. I was the last person to interview Dr. Medino before he and his family ran off the road. I interviewed him that night in Covington.”

  Tony and Elliott sat up. Jimmy Doyle froze.

  “Tell me about Dr. Medino and the last night you spent with him in Covington.”

  “I can tell you he loved attention. Was an easy interview. I could get what I wanted by playing the crowd surrounding our live show. We were in a huge reception hall. It was a very big night for the doctor. He was receiving a special recognition award for his pioneer work in genetic engineering and biotechnology solutions.”

  “I know you answered questions for the Shelby County Sheriff’s Office and Memphis police following the accident,” Elliott said. “I’m interested in the less notable moments. I want you to tell me your personal, off the cuff observations. The kinds of experiences we all have, but never share because we think they are inconsequential.”

  “Let me think. It was a busy day, setup and all. I remember Dr. Medino chomping at the bit to brag about himself. One of my best interviews ever. I got him to say what he was dying to say but fighting to hold back. I got him to say he was close to solving the secret of biogenic immortality.”

  “Yes, I heard the interview—a very big statement, indeed.”

  “My personal observation, Dr. Medino was a lot closer than anyone will ever know. I think he found the secret in 2004, the year he hooked up with Mr. Bellow, the business brains of the operation. Dr. Medino was a scientist. He was dying to tell the world about his discovery, but he was coached to keep it a secret for business reasons. Scientist types do not like business.”

  “This is good, exactly what I want—those passing thoughts and judgments. I want you to close your eyes and let them flow. Release them to me now.” Elliott rested his open hands on his knees and dropped his shoulders. Doyle took the same position and closed his eyes—Elliott had him. Tony witnessed the power of suggestion for the first time. Elliott had just hypnotized Doyle.

  “Dr. Medino is the smartest man I had ever met,” Doyle mumbled. “I felt it right away—the way he spoke, the depth of his ideas. It was like interviewing Einstein. He struggled for the simple words to communicate with us mere mortals.

  “His concepts and world of thought are beyond us. We were children in his eyes.”

  Elliott spoke in monotone, easing Doyle along. “That is very interesting. I’m feeling it too. You were with the Albert Einstein of modern genetics. You are sure this man has solved the immortality puzzle. And you know he wants to tell the world. You want to help him. Continue.”

  “I know it sounds bizarre, those kinds of thoughts flying through my pea brain. I don’t ever tell people what I’m thinking. Some things are stupid.”

  “What things that night are stupid, Jimmy?”

  “Like when I went outside to have a smoke that night. I saw these people. I thought they were cat burglars.”

  “Let’s go with that, Jimmy. Tell me what you saw that triggered that thought. You’re sitting outside. It’s night. You just finished the interview of your career. You earned a moment alone and a good smoke.”

  “Guess I did. I was waiting for my crew to finish packing so I could get back to Memphis and into bed. I sat out front in the shadows of the building. That’s when I saw the white vans. There were two on the other side of the highway. There were a couple of guys dressed completely in black. It looked suspicious. That was my first feeling. Why are you guys in black? It reminded me of the movies, I guess. They were moving white jugs from one van into the other. I counted five white jugs. I think they dropped one. That’s when I smelled kerosene. The breeze was in my face. I thought maybe they spilled kerosene over there. Reminded me of camping out and my old lantern.”

  Tony stirred on the sofa. He froze when Elliott held up a hand. Doyle’s eyes were closed. Elliott held him in a resting place. He would take him deeper soon.

  His interview technique, honed over years, took subjects to a specific place and time. Once there he stimulated a deep memory dive. His subjects would have total recall. Unlike an interrogation that numbs the senses through intimidation, Elliott controlled his subjects by projecting wisdom, safety, and trust. He could hypnotize with words and tone.

  “I smell it too, Jimmy. What did you do about it?” Elliott asked.

  “I was suspicious. I hid my cigarette so they wouldn’t see the burning ash.”

  “What else did you learn about these two men?”

  “It didn’t sink in until I got back to Memphis. I knew one guy. That’s why it had to be some undercover thing and none of my business.” Wilcox squirmed with impatience.

  “Undercover . . . ?”

  “Yeah. Like a covert government operation.”

  “And why did you think that?” Elliott asked.

  “Because the guy I knew is with the FBI. Met him last year. He’s Dexter Voss. He kept looking in my direction that night, but I don’t think he saw me. I assumed my tax dollars were at work.”

  Elliott’s eyes flickered. Tony took a deep breath.

  “What else caught your attention?” Elliott asked.

  “Ah. I went back inside. We got the bus loaded, and we headed to Memphis.”

  “Were the white vans still there when you left?”

  “Funny. I thought they were gone. Then I saw them. They moved off the side of the road. They were in the woods with their lights off. I think they were waiting for someone.”

  Waiting for Medino, the bastards, Tony mused.

  “You really had to be looking or you would never see them back there.” Jimmy’s head sank to his chest.

  Elliott gave Tony the “go for it” nod. He was done.

  “Did you tell
this to anyone?” Tony asked.

  Before Jimmy could respond, the door swung open. The station manager rushed inside and Tony got to his feet.

  “You said I would have an opportunity to talk to my staff about Barry before . . .” The TV popped on. A picture of Barry Branch filled a corner of the screen. A news reporter with a microphone stood in front of the Exchange Building. Two gurneys wheeled by on their way to the medical examiner’s van. The words on the bottom of the screen said everything: THE BLUFF CITY BUTCHER GETS TWO MORE.

  “Oh shit, here we go,” Tony said under his breath, as he pulled out his cell. At least they don’t have a picture of Marcus Pleasant up there.

  Elliott helped Jimmy Doyle to his feet. The radio talk show host was exhausted. He shook the forensic sleuth’s hand as if they had just met. But Doyle had something for Tony Wilcox. It was floating around in his head.

  “Detective, the answer is—no one.”

  Forty-Three

  “What is play to a cat is death to the mouse”

  Danish Proverb

  * * *

  Pictures of the three-headed man hanging from the Hernando de Soto Bridge were all over the internet before the police could reel in the sick, pathetic joke that was perfect for YouTube. Someone thought it would be fun to scare people weeks after the Memphis police released information about a serial killer in the area. Waking up to local news coverage of a three-headed dummy swinging fifty feet above the Mississippi River could have been funny to a few, but terrified most midsoutherners. No one has three heads.

  Just days after the Memphis PD press conference there were two high-profile deaths; The Memphis Tribune suggested linkage to the Bluff City Butcher. Local law enforcement and city officials discouraged crediting the heinous acts of a common criminal to the ridiculous urban legend—but their long standing policy of silence had done its damage. They had no credibility. Only after provocative ramblings of a radio talk-show host, and the persistence of an investigative reporter at The Tribune, did information start to flow to the community at risk.

  Every day 50,000 vehicles crossed the Mississippi River at Memphis on the Hernando de Soto Bridge. The six-lane structure, three football fields long, rose a hundred feet above the largest river on the North American continent. On the morning of April 8, 2009, a river pilot approached the structure pushing a line of empty barges. He floated a northbound course along the east bank, a route taken a hundred times before. This trip would be very different.

  As the hidden sun painted the morning sky, a dark object descended from the bridge in measured increments like a fat spider leaving his web. The river pilot struggled to make sense of the potential obstacle. He zoomed in with his camera phone. Over the years he had seen unusual things. This had to be the most peculiar one yet.

  The three-headed dummy hung. The life-like creation had to be a pitiful attempt to harass the riverboat traffic. And the sign on its chest made no sense: “I NEED A PIECE OF YOU.” The river pilot videoed his approach and sent it to YouTube for the hell of it. He even tried to ram the river piñata, but it hung just out of reach.

  He made the 911 call when the stuffed hoax crossed over the stern of the long run river boat. Six squad cars, a fire truck, and ambulance got to the top of the rope in six minutes. TV traffic choppers got to the bridge in two. Live coverage of the three-headed joke ran on every Memphis channel. In the next two minutes, the networks snapped up the unfolding oddity with trailer—“More breaking news following bizarre developments in the Bluff City Butcher story coming out of Memphis.”

  Local news condemned the elaborate prank and described it as a twisted effort to play on the fears of the community. Reporters encouraged anyone with knowledge of the responsible jokesters to step forward. Obviously, no one would and every station in Memphis kept rolling as the repugnant curiosity continued to drive ratings into the stratosphere.

  A nation watched a cluster of firefighters hoist the man-sized dummy to the bridge. When it reached the railing, three let go of the rope. One was pulled perilously close to the edge before rejoined—all caught on live television. The second time the dummy reached the railing, one of the three heads fell off and rolled. People scattered. After regrouping, they pulled the abomination onto the bridge.

  TV commentators pitched theories based on no facts. They held their audience with meandering narratives and wild explanations of the unfolding event. From an elaborate prank to a terrorist act, the country watched bedazzled and on the edge of its seat. When Paramedics covered the dummy with a sheet, the country took a deep breath. When the white tent concealed the three-headed dummy from the world, networks scrambled to change schedules. And when the Shelby County Medical Examiner’s white van pulled onto the bridge escorted by spinning lights and sirens, the country knew the three-headed dummy on the Hernando de Soto was no hoax.

  Was it a freak of nature, a carnival sideshow who committed suicide? Or was the oddity killed and put on display? Or was it a sick message from the Butcher? Memphians wanted to know. The national media billed it as the work of the most prolific serial killer in American history, the only monster capable of pulling the world-renowned forensic investigator Dr. Elliott Sumner out of retirement.

  The Butcher wanted his story on primetime. Few knew this would be act one. Elliott got the call at sunrise. The message came from the BCB. “Guess who went for a walk on the bridge.”

  He didn’t get called often, but he kept his old phone number for the Butcher. Although ten years was a long time, Elliott still hoped for a mistake. As he threw on clothes, he turned on the news. It was on every channel.

  “Doyle is missing,” Tony screamed into the phone.

  “I thought MPD tucked him in bed last night.”

  “They did. Our guys saw nothing—ten officers. When we heard the crap on the Hernando Bridge, they busted down Doyle’s door. He’s gone.”

  “How?”

  “The back window.”

  The brick wall is forty feet, Elliott thought.

  “Shit, Elliott. How could he?”

  “See you on the bridge.” Elliott grabbed his coat.

  “You gonna tell Mason?”

  “She’s in New York on a long shot. Thinks Albert’s daughter did not die in the Trade Center.”

  “I thought she was in the tower when it came down.”

  “Carol says no.”

  “Guess she knows about the Hernando shit. It’s viral.”

  “Adam’s running the show now. We’re public, Tee.”

  “Doyle would like that. I hope we can find him in time.” But both knew Jimmy Doyle was lost to the Butcher.

  They pulled up to the white tent at the same time, one lane shut down, traffic stacked ten miles east and west on I-40. They had to see before anything could move to the county morgue and the flow of commerce be restored. Field Agents, CSI, and the ME were in the tent when Tony and Elliott opened the flap.

  * * *

  Jimmy Doyle’s throat had a five-inch vertical wound that had been neatly sutured. Bates confirmed the larynx had been removed (as promised). The carotids and jugular were severed—total exsanguination. Sumner touched the puncture wound on top of Doyle’s head and examined the surgical attachment sites for the two heads, one still intact. He confirmed identities—Marcus Pleasant and Barry Branch.

  Bear’s thawing head was attached to Doyle’s left shoulder. Marcus’s head had broken loose from the right. Two metal rods protruded five inches from Doyle’s shoulder and extended to his groin. Elliott could tell Doyle experienced the procedure.

  He found trace blood on the rope missed by CSI—it could belong to the Butcher. Although Doyle’s clothing had been laundered, Elliott discovered trace particles on the lateral aspect of the left leg, medial right leg, and left shoulder. If they were lucky, CSI could use it to narrow down the search area where the Butcher operated.

  “Are you done yet?” Tony asked.

  “I’m good.” Elliott broke concentration and returned to the world
of mortals.

  “Okay.” Tony turned to the morgue clerks. “If Bates agrees, transport. We’re done here. Put the heads and sign in the crash bag with the body. The media’s witnessed enough bizarre stuff for one day.

  “What’s with the sign, Elliott?”

  “Not sure. It’s new.” Elliott continued to pour through the initial information and scenarios. “The Butcher’s confused, not sure what he wants.”

  “Talk to me, Elliott. Look away from the light.”

  “Sorry.” They left the tent.

  “We touched on it the other day,” Elliott said. “Somehow Adam is connected to Dr. Medino. When he died on Austin Peay, Adam’s transition accelerated. We’re dealing with the same killing machine, but he’s on a new mission. Probably an extension of his lifelong mission, the final phase.”

  “How does this sign fit in?” Tony asked a second time.

  “‘I need a piece of you,’ is not Adam talking.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Adam never needs, he only wants. That’s his core struggle. We know his story now. Adam found himself in a world alone, one he did not understand and never wanted. I think Dr. Medino became a surrogate guardian. With him gone, Adam is more lost and desperate. His mission has become urgent—he has specific things to do.”

  His cell rang. “I gotta take this.” Elliott walked to the railing out of earshot. “Hey, good looking.” His heart raced even though she had only been gone one night.

  “Elliott, I heard about the Hernando. Did the Butcher strike again?”

  “He got Jimmy Doyle, number one on the list.”

  “God. And I’m sure he was protected.” Carol’s voice went to a whisper. “I am sorry, Elliott. I am sorry for Mr. Doyle. He really led the way getting the word out. He started the fire under Director Wade.”

  “Three in three weeks.” Elliott leaned on the railing and looked down.

  “Are we ever going to stop this monster?”

  He saw a tuft of hair snagged by a bolt jutting out from the bridge railing where Doyle hung minutes before. The hair was long and jet black. He waved at a field agent and pointed to it. “Get this hair sample. I want a DNA profile STAT.”