From behind a pillar in the shadows near Salsa’s Mexican Restaurant, Dunn watched Loman’s Phaeton enter the empty lot. It stopped. He got in. His first mistake; he failed to confirm the identity of the driver. His second mistake; he looked out the passenger window as they departed. Dunn would never get a third mistake.
The crashing blow to the back of his head would render him unconscious for most of the night. Dunn would awaken just in time to experience the methodical and painful removal of his entire digestive system. He might die halfway. Loman had it much easier. He would die instantly. The moment his lungs were yanked from the gaping chest wound, he would be gone.
The box containing a digestive system and pair of lungs arrived at the front gates of the Bell mansion. DNA confirmed the owners. This time, all cameras pointing to the gates were pulverized. Albert could only appreciate that the Butcher spared his guards. They were found unconscious in a pile behind the quaint stone guardhouse.
Forty-Seven
Voss recruited Phillips for his covert operation. The disgruntled FBI information systems man irritated him, but there was no other way. Computer geeks, especially the stratospheric caliber employed by the bureau, knew their technical stuff but were dumb as rocks on everything else.
The FBI had no reason to suspect Voss knew about the bugs planted in his rental house in 2005. Phillips flew to Memphis under an assumed name and used the side door to the stand-alone garage behind the house. Voss made sure he had one bug-free environment.
“What do you mean there’s nothing on it?” Voss exploded as Phillips tried to explain the technical condition of the Medino hard drive.
“You told me differently six months ago, when you first examined the hard drive. You said the ingredients and formulas for the LIFE2 compounds were there. The specialized treatment regimens were laid out in detail. We were good to go back in December. What the hell happened between then and now?” Voss demanded.
“Like every hard drive the FBI acquires, I processed the hard drive you took from Medino’s farm. I ran all diagnostics by the book to circumvent any security software, and to avoid traps compromising data recovery. As planned, I copied and transferred Medino’s database onto the FBI mainframe into our secret lockbox. I saved a second copy off line. The detailed formulations and treatment regimens were in code. We were going to deal with that later. I validated all data transfers,” Phillips said, as he paced back and forth on the paint drop cloth spread on the garage floor.
“Then why six months later is everything gone?”
“Medino’s security is sophisticated. The standard FBI diagnostics triggered some unknown stealth virus embedded in his database. At the 140-day mark the bomb went off. His virus awakened and consumed everything in ten seconds. Medino had security beyond anything the FBI has seen. The man wanted to keep his secret.”
“But, you copied it onto the FBI mainframe. How did you lose that data?”
“The virus traveled with his data. This is my world. There is nothing we can do now. The Medino database is gone. His hard drive is toast. His security system did as intended. We need another plan,” Phillips said.
Voss had no other plan. His unsanctioned and covert decision to take the Medino hard drive had to work—he needed a retirement program. His plan to negotiate a billion dollar deal with the federal government had flown out the window. Phillips let him down. The brilliant computer geek did not navigate the Medino security. Voss did not possess the anti-aging biotech breakthrough. It did not sit in the caverns of the FBI computer system, where nobody would ever think to look.
Phillips lost everything: Medino’s database, precious time, and Voss’s confidence. The silencer screwed on the dirty gun sat behind the coffee can. Phillips never saw it coming, because Voss shot him in the back of the head. He rolled the body in the dropcloth and tossed him in a dumpster behind apartments on Poplar. If there were loose ends and questions on the breached FBI mainframe, it would explain the sudden disappearance.
Dexter Voss had twenty-five years with the FBI. The director position over the midsouth regional office would be his last stop. Although it sounded impressive, the low value sector had a reputation as the FBI graveyard. The screwed up assignments over his career left him desperate. His midlife crisis, divorce, and abandoned kids in Newark left him despondent. Taking and selling the Medino hard drive had to work.
Voss got all the weird assignments. He lost count of the UFO investigations. He had to look into every Bigfoot, vampire, ghost, and zombie sighting, and spent most of his time chasing invisible Communists or little people living in the woods waiting to take over the country.
The bizarre inventions were unending: voodoo cures for cancer, antigravity machines, the five-hundred-mile-per-gallon carburetors, drug-sniffing crickets, mind-reading spectacles, and blood substitutes stimulating superhuman strength. The nut cases wore him out. In June of 2004, when someone claimed they held the key to immortality, Voss booked the meeting like a dental appointment and drove to Nashville.
The assignment had come to the Memphis field office from 935 Pennsylvania Avenue, FBI Headquarters. It had arrived as an embedded message in the designated spam of the day. His instructions were clear: meet with Dr. Medino and find out if the Vanderbilt geneticist had anything of interest. They had met at a Starbucks in an obscure location east of the city.
If Voss had paid closer attention in 2004, he would have avoided the need to kill him four years later. When Medino introduced himself, Voss almost laughed out loud. The man claiming to hold the key to immortality had weeks to live. Only Voss’s twisted mind could enjoy the irony.
Medino had explained his battle with pancreatic cancer and the chemotherapy killing him. He had talked about his research and claimed to have solved the puzzle three months earlier. He told Voss he would be cured in six months. But Voss had stopped listening. The Nashville meeting was another wasted day.
Medino had told Voss his biogenic solutions were applicable to all somatic cells regardless of age, sex, race, or medical condition. Because his treatment regimen replaced damaged cells with healthy cells, disease-free life could be possible. Medino believed his biogenic induced process could go on indefinitely—thus immortality.
Medino’s brain had impressed Voss, but his immortality mumbo-jumbo had a zero chance. Although the premise got him laughing inside, the offer of exclusive rights to the U.S. Government made him choke. Medino had three requirements. First, he would get full credit for his discovery in the form of a national monument, national holiday, and a life enrichment facility. Second, following proof of concept, Medino would receive a payment of $1 billion tax free. Third, upon reaching agreed-upon success targets, Medino would receive an additional $3 billion tax free.
Voss had told him the government was interested—like he always did—and promised he would get back soon. Once in Memphis, he had filed a brief report rejecting the viability of Medino’s wild claims.
Six months later, Voss had a hot date with a high-priced prostitute—dinner at the Crescent Club and sleepover. He had saved a long time for the big night. At the corner table in the main dining room, he had seen Jack Bellow. He knew all about the successful biotech entrepreneur always in the news. But Bellow’s appearance had caught his attention. The man looked anemic. His eyes were locked on his guest.
At first, Voss had thought the friend could be an athlete or professional wrestler—crew cut, dark tan, thick arms, bulky shoulders, and muscular neck. When he turned Voss’s way, Voss recognized him but could not place him. It had eaten at him so much, he forgot his hot date. Voss never forgot a face. When the two left the dining room, they passed his table, and the mystery intensified.
He had waved over the manager. “Good evening, Murray.”
“Director Voss, always a pleasure.”
“Just curious, who is Jack Bellow’s guest? He looks very familiar.”
“Dr. Medino out of Nashville,” Murray had said.
Voss choked on his water. “N
o, I think you’re mistaken. I know Dr. Medino. He’s a much older man, battling pancreatic cancer, a terrible thing. Maybe his son,” he said.
“No. He is the Dr. Enrique Medino. He beat cancer. He’s a very proud survivor. It’s a miracle. Ever since remission he’s been dedicated to working out and eating right. I think he looks great,” Murray had said, as he scraped bread crumbs from the table linen and smiled at the hooker.
“I don’t know. He sure didn’t look like the Dr. Medino I met this summer.”
“I understand the shock. When Jack Bellow saw him in the bar tonight, he collapsed. Dr. Medino caught him on his way down. Held up the big guy with one hand and threw a chair under him. He stayed until help arrived. I guess Mr. Bellow expected the sick Dr. Medino, too.”
Voss did not feel well. The elevator ride down made it worse. He paid the prostitute and puked in the bushes as her taxi pulled away. After gathering himself, he’d gone back up to the Crescent for more drinks knowing Medino had found the secret to life extension and he had missed it. Voss’s career was over.
That night Murray, the undercover FBI plant, watched Voss on the monitors as he downloaded the audio/video feed from table seven. Murray prepared the encrypted file for transfer to a top secret location in D.C. This time, he had quality information: Medino spoke in detail about his biogenic breakthrough, and Bellow laid out an elaborate business strategy.
Murray had leaned back in his chair with a smile—a promotion would come soon. The Crescent Club operation had gone well. It had taken three years to get in a position to manage the club, and three months to convince Jack Bellow to meet Dr. Medino there.
The FBI had been following Dr. Medino for more than three decades. Using Dexter Voss for the Nashville meeting was strategic. Sending heavyweights from D.C. would only attract attention and add validity to the “immortality project”. That would elevate outside, covert activity and jeopardize the mission. The Bellow/Medino meeting had confirmed everything. Medino had a reproducible event—it was real. The government would put the package together. They fully expected the $4 billion price tag would be doubled now that Jack Bellow was involved.
Forty-Eight
He never smoked. He decided only one thing could kill him now. The Bluff City Butcher had him on the list, and he knew why—Voss had killed Dr. Enrique Medino.
He imagined it almost exactly like it happened. He sat alone in the backyard of his crummy rental house in the crappiest part of Memphis. The neglected, weed infested neighborhood with its tight alleys provided the perfect network of shadows. Dogs were always barking and cars squealing, and neighbors didn’t care what went on next door. Dexter made it as easy as possible for the Butcher to make his move.
The fourth of July was just another excuse to take a day off. For reasons Voss could not fathom, people liked to sit around lighting firecrackers, drinking beer, and cooking on a grill. He liked his alone time on his plastic patio furniture and crumbling, cement slab holding a glass of aged rum and looking at his shitty backyard. He called it a miniature Brazilian rain forest. The two bottle rockets crossing his airspace were enough of a celebration for him, but this night was extra special. Voss intended to get drunk, because his luck had finally changed.
He dedicated his first glass of Neisson Rhum to Jimmy Doyle, the poor bastard he’d met at the Bell mansion—number one on the Butcher’s list. Voss downed it in one gulp, wondering if Doyle had fought when the Butcher hammered the steel spits into his shoulders down to his balls. The medical examiner said both rods missed all vital organs on their way to the pelvis where they were anchored.
He raised the second glass in memory of Michael Bell, Albert’s little brother. That poor bastard would be forever number two. Even the Butcher had made him number two on the kill list. When he got Michael, the others on the list could officially bend over and kiss their collective asses goodbye. Michael Bell had had more protection than a sitting U.S. President. Now, they were waiting for his body to show up at the gates. The second glass of Neisson went down smoother than the first. Voss felt better already.
Heller, Loman, and Dunn—numbers three, four and five—were dissected exactly as the Butcher had promised. Voss despised all of them. They had been given much, and it was never enough. He had the opposite life experience. Voss had been given little, and it was all taken from him. The third glass of rum crossed the palate for the three jerks now in hell.
What a night—July 4 would be Dexter’s turn. The Butcher’s message to Voss was cryptic to everyone but him. “The FBI loses a man for proprietary and confidential reasons known only to him. Voss is number six.”
How did you know I killed Medino? There had been no cars around when I ran his Lincoln off Austin Peay. I had walked alone in the field—nobody. I had rammed the ice pick in the five heads, still I was alone. Even after I had spread and lit the kerosene, I left before anyone came.
Now his backyard was dark. Superman sat alone on the crumbling patio. He was ready. Make your move, freak.
When the glass touched his lips and he sniffed the rum, Voss opened his eyes and saw the Butcher standing a few feet away. The serial killer finished circling before the first toast.
Voss swallowed and set the glass on the patio table next to the folded newspaper. The BCB was much bigger than he had envisioned. Even after seeing the video at the Bell mansion, Voss did not expect such a hard face and cold, black eyes. But he was just a man. Voss did not need to die this night.
“Are you going to talk to me before you kill me?” Voss asked. “You can tell me. Dr. Medino, was he your friend?”
The Butcher’s eyes narrowed and brow dipped, like a lion ready to devour his prey.
“Was he your Guardian? I think he had a role in your life.” Voss kept the Butcher’s attention as he moved his right hand down the arm of the plastic chair, his fingers inches from the loaded and cocked Colt hidden under the newspaper before sundown. It was Voss’s lucky day because the barrel pointed at his target.
“You hurt him,” the Butcher said. His lips did not move.
Voss had practiced hundreds of times before. His only real talent was marksmanship. The FBI training required 1.2 seconds to grip a loaded weapon within ten inches of an opened hand, aim, and shoot. Voss held the record: his best was 0.83 seconds.
“The FBI made me stop him. They control me. They threatened my family if I did not follow orders. People don’t know, they do that all the time. They said I had to stop Dr. Medino in Memphis. His science threatened national security.”
Why do I know the voice? I think I know you, he thought as he tried to see more of the face in the shadow of the house.
God, is it you? Holy shit! Man, you fooled a lot of people for a long time. The Medino connection makes sense. Everything makes sense—why you kill and why you guys are close. All that time you got him fresh meat. What a sick person.
“You’re Jack Bellow.”
Voss had never had a lucky day in his life until July 4. After he said the name, the bottle rocket zipped into the backyard and exploded. It was enough. Voss gripped his gun perfectly and got the shot off through the newspaper in record time.
He saw the bullet hit between the eyes—a perfect shot. Dropped like a rotten oak tree. You’re not a real monster. You’re just another guy like me, but with sick needs. You got a hobby and a knife. You’re just a guy nobody could stop until now.
Voss would never forget the most perfect moment in his career as an FBI man. It felt like he hit the three-point shot at the buzzer, or sunk the sixty-foot putt at the Masters, or crossed the finish line a fraction of a second ahead of the fastest man in the world.
The kick of the gun killed his arm. And the smell of burnt gunpowder stung his nose. The explosion shocked his eardrums and muffled the world. Everything seemed to move in slow-motion. His life was perfect. His plan worked.
Like a true professional, he had lured his victim. He had artfully distracted and waited for the precise moment to use his gifts. Dexter Vo
ss would kill the most dangerous serial killer in American history—the one Dr. Elliott Sumner could not stop. Dexter Voss would be forever revered by the midsouth community and law enforcement across the six states where the monster of legend took hundreds of lives. Voss could go home and be received with the respect he deserved from the Bureau and his family. The FBI would forget Dexter’s past. And they would even forget his colossal failure to secure the Medino deal. Everything would be different. Dexter Voss would be an American hero. He stopped the Bluff City Butcher with one bullet. But what did I do with my gun . . . ?
* * *
The FBI got to the house before the Memphis Police knew anything. The bugs caught the whole thing. They swept the place clean before placing the anonymous 911 call on a disposable cell a block away. Wilcox pulled up behind a squad car, third on the scene. Elliott waited for his friend in the front yard.
“How did you get here before me?” Wilcox griped.
“I’m smarter than you,” Elliott said, knocking the chip off Tee’s shoulder.
“Real funny. I think Mr. Voss surprised all of us.”
The patrolman met them at the front door and walked them through the house to the backyard patio. “I did not call the paramedics,” he said with a hard swallow.
Blood covered the crumbling, cement patio. Dexter Voss sat in a plastic chair, his right arm amputated at the elbow and lying in the grass. His hand still held the gun.
“The arm had to be the first pass of the knife,” Wilcox said.
“The second pass made the five-inch gash across his neck. Much deeper than usual,” Elliott said.
“Never saw a head hinge back like that before,” Wilcox said.
“The final thrust of the knife traveled through the center of his heart and out the back of the plastic chair.”
Wilcox circled staying away from the physical evidence. He knelt and sniffed the barrel. “He got one off. I think Voss actually managed to piss off the Butcher.”
The Bluff City Butcher Page 27
