“Yes. I thought it interesting, but you’re still not addressing my question. Why should I be overly concerned with one serial killer?”
Elliott smiled as he chose his words. “Not one animal in modern history has taken so many lives and escaped. The Butcher kills at will. He is a one-man army, and we are his enemy. In the simplest of terms, he is the top of the pyramid, the alpha male, the meanest animal in the jungle. Mr. Pate, you have a better chance to survive 400 serial killers than one Bluff City Butcher.”
“I don’t know if I can believe . . .”
“He’s listening right now, Mr. Pate. Your words may be upsetting him—they’re demeaning. If he wants you, well, we have not stopped him for twenty-five years.” Pate sat down staring at the ground.
In spite of the waving hands and yelling media, Elliott left and Tony took back the podium. Somewhere in north Shelby County the volume turned down and a dirty thumb pressed against the TV screen covering Tony Wilcox’s head. The Butcher managed a slight smile, although the reason escaped him. He could feel Tony’s heartbeat through the screen, as he stood there pushing his gnarly toes into the powdered dirt floor.
The sweat dripped off his scarred chest as he stared at the press conference he made happen. Behind him a pile of refuse in the corner of the dirt room oozed onto the stack of battered and frayed books: Gray’s Anatomy, Webster Dictionary, the Bible, and Einstein’s Life by Isaacson, Michener’s Texas and the Dalai Lama, and mountains of the old classics: War and Peace, Moby Dick, and Huckleberry Finn. Adam had read them all many times, and hundreds more. But he always had the same experience—he felt nothing.
It was time to kill again. They hid it well. They made him the monster. But he would not let them prevail. He would take Michael Bell and skin Nicolas Heller next.
Forty-Five
At 9:37 p.m. Officer Cannon got the call, a body hanging in a tree. The Collierville police dispatcher gave him the address, a vacant lot on a side street off Byhalia north of Poplar Avenue. The dispatcher said a homeowner walking his dog saw someone hanging in a tree. Probably another suicide, Cannon thought. He only had one homicide in Collierville over his six-year tenure. But tonight his years with the MPD would come in handy.
Cannon made a U-turn on Dogwood and hit the lights and siren, ETA three minutes. His heart rate, blood pressure, and facial expression never changed as he raced to the death scene weaving through traffic on Houston Levee and shooting east on Frank Road with one thought—poor son a bitch.
The ambulance got there seconds before him. They dropped a patient at Baptist a few blocks away, and got the call. As Cannon rolled to the edge of the property, he saw the shadow twenty feet off the ground near the center of a tree, at the back of the lot. He also saw the nearest streetlight twenty-five yards away from the tree. Under it, the homeowner who had called 911 stood in his pajamas and slippers with a dog.
If he hadn’t been waiting for the dog to finish taking a long piss, probably never would have seen a thing. Or, maybe the old guy’s the Bluff City Butcher in disguise. Cannon chuckled to himself grabbing his clipboard off the front seat. He credited his sense of humor with keeping him sane over the years. All the talk of a Memphis serial killer had everyone punchy.
Cannon had parked diagonal. He blocked the side road ten yards from the edge of the property. He called for backup to keep traffic and media away from what was an active crime scene until proven otherwise, although it looked to Cannon to be another suicide. They were rarely newsworthy.
Although in his mid-fifties, Cannon looked like he could stop a bull with one punch. Few knew aching joints from old football injuries made getting in and out of the squad car a challenge. The tough looking old cop slid off the seat and used the door to get upright. He put on his hat and headed for the tree with his trusty clipboard and long flashlight. The crime scene and the poor son a bitch in the tree were going to get first class attention from Officer William Cannon—old school.
The emergency medical technicians knew their roles; one pulled things together on the ground and the other headed up the tree to check vitals. The dead guy hung by the neck, swinging in the breeze. The climb appeared somewhat arduous but Cannon watched the young EMT move like a monkey with an eye on a coconut. When he reached the victim, Cannon got closer for the news, a move that turned out to be a bad idea. The EMT fell out of the tree.
He found a few limbs and Officer Cannon on his way down. After they recovered, both sat on the ground with a light on the swinger. The EMT had no need to check vitals. In his shoulder mic he called for more backup, a Collierville homicide detective, and the CSI unit. He got to his feet, sent the witness home, and pulled out his cell. His next call went to his old friend—Tony Wilcox.
The victim’s glossy pizza neck was stretched to its limit like taffy. The battery cables were looped under his jaw, tied at the back of the head and looped up around a tree limb. The neck managed to hold onto the two-hundred-sixty pounder. The man had been skinned from his neck to the ankles and wrists.
When the raincoat flapped opened they could see the raw, bloody muscles, tendons, ligaments, and the yellow adipose tissue. Both feet and both hands were missing. Body fluids dripped from the tight sutures at the ends of the stubs.
The neighborhood block closed to traffic after Wilcox and Sumner pulled onto the scene. Cannon waved them to the base of the tree where he recapped. They set a forty-foot perimeter—everything by the book.
“Hey Billy, how are you?” Tony said with a rare smile.
“I’m good, Tony. I’m real good. Sorry to get you boys out of your warm beds on this crummy night.”
“You know I never go to bed. Billy, this is Elliott Sumner. He has been . . .”
“Say no more, Anthony, the Western Sherlock is known. Seriously, it is good to meet you, Dr. Sumner. You have done more to make this world safe than anyone could ask a man. Guys like me appreciate guys like you.” Cannon had a firm grip.
“Thank you, Officer Cannon. We’re in this together.”
They looked up at the victim swinging in the tree. Cannon gave them the few details he had. Both Tony and Elliott took off their coats and climbed.
After rifling through pockets, Tony had the ID. “We found Heller.”
“He live in the area?” Elliott asked as he inspected a suture line.
“Local address,” Tony said.
“We can send a car to his house,” Cannon said.
“Good. It’s off Winchester. Maybe where the Butcher did his work. Better send a CSI team,” Tony yelled.
Harris walked up and caught the ID. “I can take the house.”
“Glad you could make it, Harris,” Tony harassed.
Elliott moved his penlight to Heller’s head. “Give me some time up here before we take him down,” he said.
“Enjoy, my friend.” Tony climbed down.
Elliott needed time alone with Heller and the Butcher.
It is your work, no doubt. Now give me an unexpected advantage. That’s all I’m looking for. Your dissection work is meticulous. Removal of the dermal layers without disturbing the underlying muscle or adipose tissue demonstrates your skill. Who taught you this? Was it Dr. Enrique Medino?
And you carefully rinsed off Heller at the end. He was on his back, maybe on a gurney. You have a special place. The cranial puncture is in the usual place. The carotids and jugular are sliced open with a single pass of your blade. Why take the feet and hands? Why the careful dissections? The stubs are always sutured with U.S.P #2 non-absorbable nylon, and always vertical mattress stitching, packer knots, and Knot of Isis. You left me nothing new—Adam.
At midnight they lowered the body to the ground and placed him in a crash bag. As they pulled the zipper, a teal Ford pickup pulled to the curb in front of the vacant property. A tall, lean man in jeans, white shirt, and black cowboy hat met Officer Cannon on the grass.
“Who do we have here?” Elliott asked Tony.
“They found Heller’s brother. Said he wo
uld like to come out now. Cannon knows the guy. Said he could handle it.”
The paramedics were ready to move the body. Tony waved them back. “Give us a minute. We have a family member.” The paramedics unzipped the crash bag a few feet for the positive ID.
* * *
The thick fog beaded on the windshield enough to make the wipers necessary, and adding to the already difficult situation. The old Ford pickup struggled to stay on the narrow road. He tried to keep the left tires on the centerline, as he snaked the back hills of west Tennessee. Merle turned north on Mt. Pisgah to his sister’s place in Fishersville. The night road had more curves than ever before. Mary would be in bed. A phone call would never do, not now. Merle wanted her to hear it from him—our successful brother is dead. Nicholas is in heaven or hell.
Elliott navigated the same fog traveling west on Poplar to the Peabody. He got the call he expected. Adam didn’t have much to share. “Heller is in hell and Michael is with me. Three down and seven to go.”
Forty-Six
“I’m not comfortable meeting with an FBI Agent,” Loman said.
“He called us. We just sit and listen,” Dunn said. He looked up. Voss navigated the tables coming their way.
“Hello, gentlemen.” He walked through the Crescent Club as if he owned the place. Voss took a seat at their table by the window. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
Over his career, Dexter Voss had held hundreds of meetings like this. First he scared hell out of them, and then gave one way out, and always with something good for him. He knew the greedy, cold-hearted bastards would take the most expedient path, their personal preservation valued above all else.
They had dinner and light conversation: world events, Memphis sports, and the weather. Loman’s discomfort made Voss happy. Dunn’s negative attitude would soon be squelched.
Dinner arrangements were made by Voss. He even secured a private room for after dinner drinks and more candid discussions. After they were seated behind closed doors with brandy in hand, Voss wasted no more time. He had sized up Loman and Dunn long ago. The FBI had had their eye on them and Heller since the Tennessee United Bank & Trust scam. A Mississippi Congressman died a year later, strangled.
“We’ve been watching you for a while. Looks like your buddy Heller is off the hook now, thanks to the Butcher skinning him in April.” Voss laughed. Loman squirmed. Dunn stared like a snake waiting to release his venom.
“Watching us? What do you mean?” Loman asked choking on his brandy.
Dunn sipped with shifty eyes. If the FBI had anything, dinner and drinks were not the standard operating procedure for booking felons.
Voss started on Loman first. “You killed Mr. Bishop in Destin.” Loman didn’t move. Voss leaned back in his chair and watched a bead escape the hairline. The next one to talk would lose.
“Are you crazy? Bishop died on the beach. I didn’t kill the man. He stayed at my house, a private meeting for LIFE2 investors. He disappeared. I even told him not to take a late night walk on the beach alone. I didn’t know he was missing until breakfast the next morning. I have witnesses on my whereabouts all night. I told everything to the Destin police.
“Save it for your attorney. We have you on video stabbing the poor bastard twenty-seven times. Loman, we have you running up to him, and can count each time you plunged your nasty little knife into the man.”
Loman turned white and slumped back in his chair. Dunn didn’t react.
“Bishop kept moving when you rifled through his pockets and dragged him into the surf. You pushed the poor bastard out in the gulf and stayed there to make sure he didn’t drift back in—shark bait. Did I miss anything, Loman? The poor guy didn’t agree with your takeover scheme so you killed him. I’ve met some sorry people in my life, but you are scum. You enjoyed every minute.”
“Nights are dark in Destin. It wasn’t me. Someone else.”
“You’re a real prick, Loman.” Voss held up his iPhone with the video running and sound. “What is really sad is when Bishop called you by name and begged you to let him live. He promised he would stay out of your company takeover scheme.”
They watched in silence as the terrible event unfolded on the beach.
“By then you had stabbed him twelve times. I believe we can hear your special words now; ‘I never liked you, Bishop.’ I think that’ll get you a lethal injection in Tennessee, son.”
“Turn it off,” Loman said. He downed his brandy with the same eyes he had when he killed Bishop.
“Okay, Mr. Dunn, now you. My goodness, you were a bad boy too.” Voss laughed hard with his back to both of them as he poured another brandy. For effect, he took his time looking out the window at the cars swishing by in the light drizzle. “Lawrence Fleming deserved to die. Isn’t that right, Mr. Dunn?”
“Yes. He did deserve to die,” Dunn said.
“Well then, you should be acquitted for your role in the rightful execution of a criminal. You are the self-appointed judge, jury, and executioner. I’m sure you have nothing to fear from me.”
“Mr. Voss, I appreciate that you have extensive resources at your disposal, but I was nowhere near Mr. Fleming when he died, and I have no traceable connections to anyone who could have been involved.”
Voss had figured Dunn would be more of a pain than Loman, but he knew how to handle the various personalities and their defensive tactics.
“Mr. Dunn, do you really think I would have you here tonight if I did not have your balls in my vice grip?” Voss approached Dunn seated in his chair.
“I have no idea what you think you have, Director Voss. But I have no more time for these games. I am going to call it a night.”
Voss grabbed his throat with the speed of a rattlesnake and lifted the fathead up. He turned to Loman. “Move and I kill you next.” Loman sunk in his chair.
“Dunn, it is people like you who make me sick. You think you’re better than me. You think the world belongs to you and we are all in your way—a nuisance.” He tightened his grip. Dunn’s face turned read. “You had Fleming killed. I have everything I need. But that’s not why I’m so mad. You killed a United States Congressman. The poor guy rezoned a parcel of land you owned. It would have cost you a couple hundred thousand in taxes. You did this one on your own. You pinned the congressman under your fat ass and strangled him with your hands.”
“I’m choking. I can’t breathe.” Dunn could do nothing but begin to pass out.
Loman watched with a sick grin. Voss dropped Dunn back into his chair.
“What do you want?” Loman asked as Dunn recovered.
Voss straightened his tie, brushed off his suit, and took a seat. He looked at both with contempt. “For your transgressions to go away, you are going to do something for me. You are going to kill Jack Bellow.”
“Kill Jack Bellow?” Loman spilled his brandy.
“Why kill Bellow?” Dunn asked.
“Let’s just say the man is more than he appears.”
“What is he?”
“Not your business.”
“If we do this for you, what’s in it for us?” Loman asked.
“You are one dumb guy. You’re in no position to negotiate a damn thing.”
“I meant to say, when we do this can you do us a favor?”
“My favor is your past transgressions go away.”
“That’s all you got?” Dunn said.
“You’re greedy bastards. I’ll throw in LIFE2 Corporation. We will make some accounting adjustments—undetectable—leverage assets giving more power to investors, a legal takeover. That and the termination of Jack Bellow will let you take the company public. I know Bellow has been standing in your way.”
“You can do all that?” Dunn asked.
“Yes. But I want Jack Bellow dead. I’ll give you to the end of June. If he’s still walking around, your incriminating videos will be planted where you least expect. Search warrants will be issued. The videos will be admissible in a court. You both wil
l be convicted and live the rest of your days in a Tennessee State Prison. Or, I may show mercy and kill both of you when you least expect it.”
Loman looked at Dunn. They both looked at Voss and smiled. “Is a week fast enough for you . . . ?”
* * *
Leaving the Crescent Club—and the nightmare meeting with Voss—Loman walked alone into the parking garage. He had an important phone call to make. Arrangements to eliminate Dexter Voss were now set. The negotiation went well—only three times the going rate. $330k included running the body through a grinder and feeding it to the catfish in the Mississippi River. In all the excitement, Loman forgot his spot on the Butcher’s list.
The Dodge Sprinter parked next to his Volkswagen Phaeton took up two spaces. The overhead lights in the garage were working except one. Loman didn’t notice. He started his car remotely upon entering the garage. When he arrived, the dark image between his car and the Sprinter didn’t give Loman time to look up.
The Butcher speared Loman’s skull with a single, precise thrust. The ice pick found its mark as always. Loman’s arms and legs locked. The Butcher had five seconds to remove the ice pick, wipe it clean, and slide it in his belt. Loman’s legs went limp and the Butcher loaded the paraplegic into the Sprinter—and onto a dissection table. He never needed gags or restraints. Loman lost control of his bowels and the twitching subsided faster than usual.
The Butcher left the Sprinter and Loman in the garage, the appropriate sticker prominently displayed on the rear bumper. Vehicle registration and parking renewals were always handled online. The Butcher borrowed Loman’s cell and car. He would return everything soon.
Within the hour, Dunn called Loman’s cell. “Don’t talk. Pick me up at Salsa’s now. We need to synchronize on taking this asshole out tonight.”
The Bluff City Butcher Page 26
