The Bluff City Butcher

by Steve Bradshaw

  “You remember what Doyle told us the night we found Branch and Pleasant?” Elliott spoke as he methodically processed the death scene.

  “About seeing Voss in Covington?”

  “My caller said Dexter Voss confessed to killing Dr. Medino. Said the FBI made him do it,” Elliott said.

  “Think the Fed’s involved?” Wilcox mumbled as he explored the carnage.

  “No. I doubt it.” Elliott held a finger up as he felt under the edge of the patio table. He removed a small listening device and handed it to Tony. “I’m sure Mr. Voss went rogue a long time ago. Memphis is not the best assignment. I do think this kill is a message from the Butcher.” He handed Tony the bug and winked. “He doesn’t like our friendly FBI.”

  Others listened in Washington DC.

  Tony smiled. “The big guy shouldn’t take it so personal. You get their attention when you kill a hundred people and cross state lines.”

  He dropped the listening device in the bottle of rum. “Get the people out here,” he said to the patrolman. They finished walking the death scene in silence.

  After the medical examiner and forensic team arrived, Elliott and Tony met at Barksdale’s for a cup, and to share notes without the FBI listening.

  “Tell me about your phone call,” Tony said.

  “Talkative tonight.” Elliott waved off a menu, just coffee.

  “How so?”

  “Voss got a shot off. Guess he didn’t consider the Butcher’s skill sets.”

  “Explains the mess. He’s usually such a neat and tidy slayer.”

  “He said he watched Voss hide the gun under his newspaper before the sunset. He waited several hours. Voss drank four tall glasses of rum.”

  “Guess Voss was feelin’ no pain, when the BCB let his presence be known.” Tony sipped coffee. “And he’s out there in daylight, Elliott. We always assumed he traveled at night.”

  “I suggest your people revisit recent kills to look at security camera footage in a three block area, starting eight hours before time of death.”

  “Okay. What else?” Wilcox asked, as he punched numbers on his phone.

  “He approached Voss sleeping. He stood there a long time. What was he doing?”

  “Voss was asleep? The Butcher stood there a long time? How do you know this?”

  “You saw the impressions in the grass, off the patio?”

  “Yeah. I saw the bent grass.”

  “If fescue lies flat for more than an hour, it’s damaged.”

  “Okay. And?”

  “The Butcher damaged the grass, his weight on it for at least five minutes. Less time, it would have sprung back up. You can see where he stood, but not where he came from. The toes of his boots pointed north. I assume he came from the south. No tracks. I found where he went over the fence.”

  “You said Voss was sleeping. How did he manage to get a shot off?”

  “He woke up. Something snapped him out of his drunken stupor—maybe a firecracker, or mosquito bite, or a dream. It could have been a single spoken word important to him. In a split second Voss saw the Butcher and executed his plan. He filled in the story around his semiconscious actions.”

  “So, Voss believed he had an open shot at the Butcher. His FBI training took over from there,” Tony said.

  “He probably believed he was victorious,” Elliott said. “It happened in seconds. The human mind fills the empty spaces.”

  Tony shook his head. “I know you’re good, but how can you be so sure Voss woke from sleeping to do all that. Maybe the guy was awake the whole time. Maybe the Butcher stood there talking to him for ten minutes before he killed the guy.”

  “It is a possibility, but not a likely one.”

  “Educate the idiot,” Tony huffed.

  “Follow the logic. If you were Dexter Voss, could you grab your gun, get a shot off, lose an arm, get your head cut off, and take a knife in the chest with your feet casually crossed at the ankles? I’m betting you’re half asleep and half drunk.”

  “Damn, I missed the feet.”

  “And someone else was here, Tee.”

  “Here we go.”

  “Voss was drinking to get courage. He knew the Butcher was coming for him tonight—the people in front of him on the list are dead or missing. Voss set his trap. He sat there alone in his misery. The booze sneaks up on him. He dozes off in a drunken stupor. The Butcher’s not talking to Dexter Voss. And whoever he is talking to, they have a relationship.”

  “Or they’d be sliced and diced too,” Tony said.

  “The FBI is in this, Tee. I have information they met with Dr. Medino in 2004, the year LIFE2 was formed. Voss blew the deal for the government that put Medino with Bellow. Voss fell out of favor a long time before, but that was the end for him. I believe certain elements within the FBI used him until they didn’t need him any longer.”

  “Why is an orthopedic product important to the FBI?”

  “Dr. Medino had more. He was a top geneticist going to anti-aging conferences. You heard his interview with Doyle.”

  “You believe that stuff, extending life and all?”

  “It is possible, I suppose. The relevant scientific specialties are now accelerating and merging. Computerization allows for the millions of calculations necessary to understand the human genome, complex biochemistry, and even more complex molecular biology. Something controls life and death, Tony. If a cell can turn off, it is logical to conclude the genetic switch can be found and turned back on.”

  “So you’re saying Medino found the secret to life extension, and the government wants it.”

  “The FBI would be the agency within the government likely to take lead role because such technology would be viewed as a potential national security risk.”

  “But why kill Medino?”

  “Dexter Voss killed Dr. Medino for his own purposes. Knowledge gleaned from his negotiations with Dr. Medino could have been his sole motivator—his retirement program. He probably stole the technology—software, hardware, formulas, codes—and thought he could sell it back to the government.”

  “Something went wrong?”

  “Looks like. Why else would he get drunk and wait for the Butcher to kill him? Dexter Voss invited death. He was a broken man.”

  Tony held up his finger for the check. “That would explain the bugs.”

  “The FBI was there, Tony. After the Butcher killed Voss, they swept the house for Medino’s property or a treasure map.”

  “Then they called 911,” Tony said.

  “And the Butcher called me. Maybe he did them a favor on purpose.”

  “You think there’s more to this kill list than meets the eye?”

  “Adam could be taking direction now.”

  “I guess if I had the secret to immortality it would be worth a lot.”

  “Countries have gone to war for less. Extending human lifespan two or three-fold would be a world-changing event. If we’re talking immortality, it would be the greatest advantage a nation could obtain. Imagine a race of immortals in an endless universe.”

  “And I used to think we were hunting a serial killer,” Tony said.

  “The Butcher may be a small part of something much greater,” Elliott said.

  Forty-Nine

  “I know one day I’ll turn the corner and I won’t be ready for it.”

  Jean-Michel Basquiat

  * * *

  He had trouble believing that, fifty-eight days ago, the Bluff City Butcher had slain Dexter Voss in Midtown. Tony Wilcox did not like looking over his shoulder, but his name was next on the kill list. Five of the first six were confirmed dead. Michael Bell had disappeared in April. His body had not shown up.

  Hanging Doyle off the Hernando de Soto Bridge had accomplished two things—the Butcher got national attention, and the midsouth got terror. The full disclosure press conference after the horrific incident had crippled the community. The new police tactics were necessary to put more eyes on the demented predator.


  The city of Memphis had sunk into a whirlpool of panic and despair as more Butcher killings made headlines. After Doyle, Branch, and Pleasant, the targeted killing of three millionaires and the disappearance of Michael Bell had a devastating impact. When the regional director of the FBI became another victim on the Fourth of July, some Memphians had had enough; they packed their bags and left town.

  In August, officials said four percent of the area population had relocated permanently and seven percent temporarily. The Munson family filed their class action lawsuit against the city and the downward spiral gained momentum. The Butcher had changed the course of an American city.

  With no new progress, feeling down, Tony left the office at 6:55 p.m. Maybe one good night’s sleep would make a difference.

  He drove straight to his condo. Turning into his driveway, he waved to the shadow in the driver’s seat of the patrol car across the street. The wipers were on. It had rained all day. Now, the MPD watched Tony 24/7.

  He didn’t stop to talk. He pulled into the garage, closed the door, and sat behind the wheel, exhausted. All the little things were starting to slip through his fingers, even the date with Elliott and Carol at the Peabody for drinks at seven.

  The typically observant homicide detective had a long week. Now, all he could think about was bed. Tony did not notice the front porch light was out. If he had, he would have discovered the bulb unscrewed. Once inside, he locked the door in a trance. Any other time, he would have seen the drops of water on the marble entry leading to the bedrooms.

  Nothing happened until after he tossed his sport coat on the bed and hung his holster on the hook deep in the closet. When he turned, the cold steel swept across his chest and the sting took his breath away. Then the blade sunk one inch, clipping his ribs like cheap cardboard. The peritoneal cavity opened with a sucking sound—he gasped for air. On his way to the floor, he felt his cell vibrate in his pocket.

  The Butcher took his time with Wilcox, wanting to keep him alive as long as the human body would allow. The second pass of the knife opened the abdomen. Contents of the stomach flowed out and mixed with blood. Feces from lacerated intestines followed. The Butcher preserved the major arteries. Tony’s journey began.

  He watched and waited for Wilcox to break, to pass out from the pain. But Tony’s eyes stayed open, locked on the sinister eyes of the monster now sitting on the edge of his bed. The Butcher pushed the blade into the right chest cavity. The lung collapsed. Tony struggled for air and fought to keep his eyes open with a defiant determination.

  The sirens grew louder, but they were not coming to the Wilcox condo. The BCB had killed the policeman out front hours ago—Wilcox should have looked closer.

  Who would be concerned about a guarded, off-duty, big shot homicide detective, the Butcher thought as he leaned over another number on his kill list. Can you survive this?

  Tony drifted in and out. The punctured lung and blood loss were taking him down fast. He struggled to stay conscious. He knew death would come when pain stopped and his interest in the world left. He wanted to see the Butcher’s face. He had to understand how a man killed so easily and so often. Would the eyes give him answers?

  The Butcher sat on the edge of the bed. Tony lay on his back on the cold floor between the Butcher’s boots. The dim light reflected on the abdominal blood pool, and blood streamed from the ten-inch skin flap onto the polished wood. Each time his body fought for a parcel of air, another piece of life left him. Tony’s brain struggled to give instructions to his body.

  He looked a last time into the Butcher’s eyes as he felt the sting of the blade deep in his belly. But something in the face of the demon confused Wilcox. Was the monster summonsing death, or was he doing just enough to keep him on the edge, to keep him alive for some twisted purpose?

  Wilcox watched the Butcher open his coat and touch the ice pick in his belt.

  Fifty

  “Death knocks once, dying countless times.”

  Martin Dansky

  * * *

  The Memphis police buried their top homicide detective and a seasoned patrolman on Saturday, September 12. The BCB made sure Detective Wilcox had died a slow and painful death. Although the community would never know the gory details, this one sent a chilling message—not even the top cop on the case could stop him. The patrol officer watching the condo never had a chance. He was collateral damage.

  If there ever could be a good day for a funeral, it came the second Saturday in September. The MPD honored their own under a cloudless sky on a perfect seventy-two degree day in the midsouth.

  Led by fifty silent squad cars with blues flashing, the funeral procession began outside City Hall and went down Second Avenue to Beale. Downtown sidewalks were packed, and heads were bowed as the black hearse passed in a sea of police shields in full uniform. They marched in formation with hats over their hearts and eyes locked on the setting sun.

  The procession concluded at Elmwood on South Dudley, the oldest cemetery in Memphis. Graveside services were held for Detective Anthony Wilcox and Officer William Hanson—standing room only. Over a hundred-thousand lined the streets. They gave their last respects to the fallen protectors. They showed their unending support for their Memphis Police Department humbled and rejuvenated by the tragedy in their city.

  Tony Wilcox had solved hundreds of homicides in Memphis. He held an unshakable commitment to the rules of law and a person’s right to be safe in their community. Up until this day, he had always got the job done. Sometimes his Dirty Harry approach got him in hot water with top brass, but the city and county mayors, and the city prosecutor knew his heart. They knew they needed a man like Wilcox to take out the trash.

  After the two twenty-one gun salutes, everyone went home saying Tony would have been proud. His brethren did him well.

  On that fateful Friday night Elliott had a bad feeling. Tony would never be ten minutes late for anything, much less drinks at the Peabody. When the second call went to messages, Elliott knew the Butcher had him. He anticipated the kill site would be the condo at night.

  That night they got there five minutes after the first missed call. When they broke down the door the Butcher crashed out the bedroom window and dropped from the second floor hitting the ground in a dead run. Squad cars swarmed the area like bees protecting their hive. They fanned out, a containment parameter was set up four blocks out. The canine squad, choppers, and TACT units were operational seven minutes after Elliott’s call to Wade. Although dark, thermal imaging devices and dogs would level the playing field. Memphis patrol cars crawled streets and alleys with spotlights and loud-speakers, warning residents the Butcher was in the area.

  On that fateful night Elliott reached him first. Tony lay in his blood—dead. Seconds would determine everything. Elliott cocked back Tony’s head, opened an airway, hit his chest, and launched aggressive CPR while ripping off the bloody shirt. He saw the bubbling brew. The chest wound robbed precious air—pneumothorax. Elliott pressed his palm over the hole to allow Tony to breathe. He responded.

  Tony gasped for air. He coughed blood. Elliott found the faint heartbeat. Tony blinked but could not see. His body jerked on its own. It fought to live.

  Elliott kept pressure on the chest wound and turned his attention to blood loss. The major flow came from the ten-inch abdominal wound. Elliott’s anatomical expertise and honed skills guided his blind probe deep in Tony’s belly to locate the primary bleeders.

  Elliott found the major problem and pinched the massive artery above the left kidney. It would buy only a minute. Now, with both hands committed, Elliott had done all he could do alone. He knew if he did not get help, Tony would slip away.

  If the BCB had Tony five minutes, Elliott knew Tony would have a severe blood supply problem. Leaving the Peabody, he called the standby ambulance and spoken with his handpicked paramedics. They picked up twenty units of O-negative packed red cells held at the Regional Blood Center for just such an emergency. The director of the blood bank
met them on Madison a block east of the Baptist Hospital complex. The paramedics grabbed the ice chests on the way to the condo.

  The beehive moved out of the way creating a path for his STAT medical team. They exploded through the front door with arms full and saw Sumner over Wilcox in a sea of red, one hand over a pneumothorax and the other deep in the belly. The two knew he had a bleeder. Mike Primeaux and Mike Hinton were the best in the city. Without words or wasted moves they moved into action, one patching the pneumothorax and passing a surgical clamp to Elliott for the bleeder, and the other flushing blood clots and mucus from Tony’s airway, bagging, and taking control of respiration. Hinton passed a bag of O-negative and transfusion kit to Elliott. They would push a unit in each arm and had a dozen more ready to go.

  Alex Harris had entered the condo last, but prepared. He closed the door and went into the dining room. Harris dragged the table into the kitchen along with all the lamps he could find. He closed blinds, draped bed sheets, and started boiling water—the operating room was open for business. The four moved Tony to the table, cut off the rest of his clothes, and started IVs pushing Ringers lactate. Tony’s blood pressure stayed low. Elliott blindly navigated the abdominal cavity in search for more bleeders and lacerations. One by one he located and surgically repaired each. He then turned his attentions to the damaged organs and cavity repairs. Although the heart was untouched, the large intestines, stomach, liver, and kidneys needed immediate attention.

  Mike and Mike had anticipated each of Elliott’s surgical moves while maintaining CPR, monitoring vitals, and communicated changes. They pushed red cells, fluids, and administered the life-saving pharmaceuticals.

  Tony’s condo had become an operating room that night, and Elliott had limited access to three—Primeaux, Hinton, and Harris. The two paramedics were battlefield tested and among the few to know the potential dire futures of Tony and Elliott. Both sleuths anticipated the Butcher’s moves, but could not be certain who would be first. Mike and Mike were prepped to function in the impossible conditions. If Elliott had been the first victim, they were ready to save his life, off the record. Elliott knew their capabilities well.