The Bluff City Butcher

by Steve Bradshaw

The elevator stopped. Jack pulled the hammer back on the gun in his pocket. He had never shot a man, but now he had a reason. When the doors opened, he was on the third floor. His access card had worked—he bypassed the security system.

  Willie sipped coffee at his monitors watching Jack get off on three. Willie had found the old operator’s manual and the right paragraph in time to turn off security on elevator number one—nobody would mess with Jack Bellow tonight.

  Jack entered the boardroom and sat in his old leather chair at the end of the long conference table. This time he sat alone in the dark looking out the window. Like a moth attracted to light, his eyes moved to the only street lamp he could see on Second Avenue. The park looked like a ghost town. A panhandler dragged a piece of cardboard under the light and into the bushes next to the building. Jack’s mind did it again; objects enclosed in a package may require some degree of protection from shock, vibration, compression, temperature, water vapor, dust, dirt, chemicals, biologics and more. Because permeation is a critical factor in the ultimate composition and design of a wide variety of packaging materials, including corrugated cardboards, each may contain—STOP.

  Jack smiled. He had learned a long time ago how to control his eidetic memory. But each time he wondered about his biological parents—the genetic source of his gifts. Maybe if he had known them, he would have learned more ways to manage his innate gifts, the ones he never talked about.

  Like Medino, Jack expected he too would miss out on the benefits of the life-extension biotechnology they possessed. Things were getting dangerous. He pulled a pint of Jack Daniels from his coat, downed a third, and set the bottle on the polished cherry table. He savored the warmth of the Kentucky bourbon surging through his body, and accepted the reality Gilgamesh and other covert interests would stop at nothing to take their secret. Now Dr. Medino was dead and the LIFE2 corporate takeover would be public in twenty-four hours. Each shark circling the boat would make a move. Jack had a clear view of the future, but never his own. He did not know he was one of five in the world who carried an immortality gene—the precursor to Medino’s breakthrough. If Jack had known, he would have made different decisions.

  He picked up the bottle, downed another third, and waited for the next warm surge. His eyes adjusted to the dark boardroom, and he relived some of the many critical decisions that had made LIFE2 possible. The smells of a hundred-year-old building—his home for five years—helped. In a strange way the familiar mix of mildew, old dust, and Lemon Pledge gave him strength. He would protect Enrique Medino’s breakthrough at all costs. He would make sure it got into the right hands.

  The last of the bourbon went down smooth even though he felt shattered into a million pieces, and each piece shattered a million times more. Jack had nothing more to hold onto in this world. His last connection to a civilized existence had been severed. The rules never mattered to anyone. People crushed what they did not understand. The greedy, high net worth investors had one goal; to steal his company. They would take the last thing in the world that mattered to him.

  It would be in there. He used his cell phone to light the way into his office. His large oak desk, buried under a dozen distinct piles of documents sat across from his credenza with a keyboard, three flat screen monitors, and more piles. Two taupe sofas and four oxblood leather chairs completed the sitting area where he had led the company through numerous stormy moments. The wall with double doors into the main hall had built-in bookshelves to the ceiling, loaded to capacity—he read everything many times. All the walls were adorned with colorful oil landscapes. They were for distraction.

  Jack turned on a lamp and went to one of the small groupings of pictures hanging by the window above the credenza. Each picture had a story, a special time or person or place in his life. But Jack moved to the least of them, a small black and white photograph mounted in a bland, glass frame. It was a view of the Grand Canyon over the back of a woman. Only he knew it was a picture of his mother, the most important figure in his life he never met. Although he had searched, he had never found her or his biological father. The picture of his mother had a greater purpose. The frame on hinges covered an equally small wall safe.

  He worked the combination, opened the safe, and removed a palm-sized, leather-covered box with G I L G A M E S H embossed on the front. It contained an external storage device and booklet—the alphanumeric codes, a thousand characters on each of the twenty-five pages. On the first page was the only readable message: “Tampering with this device activates self-destruction. Access requirement is multifactorial alphanumeric, deca-code, authentication sensitive. This device is lined with tamper-proof volatile plastic explosives and will kill or maim parties of an unauthorized attempt to access.”

  He had set up the new sequence the day after Medino died. The FBI got close in June 2004. Four years later Jack knew Dexter Voss killed his partner after stealing a duplicate hard drive from BelMed, their Nashville facility. The embedded beacon had tracked the movement of the hard drive. Jack assessed risk and sent the self-destruct command after he confirmed Voss’s involvement. The destruction of the hard drive would lead to the termination of Dexter Voss by the FBI or Gilgamesh. Jack concluded Gilgamesh acted first. They engaged the Bluff City Butcher. Jack had one more task; get the hard drive and new access codes into the right hands.

  He went to the elevator knowing everything needed for the mass production and global dispensing of their world changing, life-extension compounds hung in his pocket and time was running out. Before the elevator doors closed, his cell phone rang.

  “Mister Bellow, the Memphis police are surrounding the building. I don’t think I can help you out of this mess, too many of them around here.”

  Jack heard the voice in the background demanding Starnes put down his phone.

  “Willie, meet me at the hole in five minutes.”

  “Okay Mama, I’ll pick up bread and a dozen eggs when I get off duty.” Willie closed his phone and stood up and up and up. He towered over the policeman with the big mouth. “You wanna take my mama some bread and eggs?”

  The officer backed away and joined the others on the elevators.

  “I didn’t think you wanted to mess with my mama,” he said as the doors closed.

  When the lobby forgot about him, Willie stepped inside the small coat closet. Not many knew about the three-quarter door to the basement, but first the coats and mops and buckets had to be moved. Willie squeezed through the narrow opening and went down the rickety staircase built a hundred years ago.

  Covered in dust and cobwebs, Jack stood with a smile next to the abandoned laundry chute. He had slid down from the third floor. “That was fun.”

  Willie saw the iron cover off the access hole to the sewer pipe that ran under the building. If he remembered right, it came out somewhere near Poplar and Main in an alley. But he could be mistaken. “You goin’ away a while, Mr. Bellow?”

  “Willie, I have a favor to ask, my friend . . .”

  Fifty-Two

  “A good plan violently executed right now is far better than a perfect plan executed next week.”

  George S. Patton

  * * *

  Elliott memorized everything in Carol’s suite. Since she had been taken, he could not eat or sleep. His cell could ring any minute. He had to be ready. Midnight mattered. The Bluff City Butcher saved important things for the seventeenth of the month.

  Elliott parked a rental on Third. He had a fifty-fifty chance his destination would be north of the city. The Butcher always did his homework—he would know the precise travel time from the Peabody. Perhaps Elliott could cut minutes off the trip and get some small advantage.

  Jack Bellow and Elliott Sumner were the next two names on the Butcher’s list. Like Barry Branch, Carol had been used to lure. Was Bellow already dead? Or would Elliott die before him? Or would the Butcher’s plan kill them together? Sitting in Carol’s apartment Elliott had to accept the facts. He would never understand the rants and raves of the homi
cidal maniac he hunted for so long. He knew soon it would all be over.

  He had one focus, to keep open his lifeline to Carol. One missed ring, and he could lose his chance to save her. Elliott let all other calls roll to voicemail. He could not risk one mistake. But if he had answered just one of Sheriff Taft’s three calls, or if he had listened to just one of the numerous voicemail messages, the night on Mud Island with the Bluff City Butcher could have ended much differently.

  * * *

  Only two people in the world knew his DNA matched the Butcher’s.

  The tuft of hair found on the railing of the Hernando de Soto Bridge—snagged when the BCB lowered Doyle over the side—had adequate tissue for a valid test. But later, when Elliott gave the lab blood from the attic window at Tony’s condo, he submitted a second hair sample and lied.

  They met October 11. Elliott explained to Jack Bellow the messy complications when two decapitated men were found sitting at one’s dining room table. Regardless of innocence or lack of knowledge or claimed absence from the country, Jack’s life got more complicated. It had gotten even worse when Elliott told him about an eyewitness claiming Jack and the BCB were one in the same.

  After laughing at the absurdity, Jack explained his reasons for resisting a DNA test. As a president/CEO of a successful, privately held enterprise preparing to go public, a DNA test could create uncertainty. It could change company valuation and harm investor interests. Jack did not need to explain to Elliott how markets are driven by emotion. He didn’t need to explain just the act of him submitting to a DNA test to rule him out as a serial killer would do irrevocable harm.

  After a long dinner, and open airing of each other’s needs, they found common ground. A confidential DNA test could work. Elliott assured Jack his hair sample would enter the system creatively. If it exonerated Jack, Elliott could eliminate Jack from any further conjectures.

  At 2:00 p.m. on October 15 Elliott called Jack—the test was completed. Bellow’s DNA was a 99.9997 percent match to DNA known to belong to the Butcher.

  “Jack, I think I can explain the anomaly.”

  “It’s a huge mistake, some kind of mix-up. The error will destroy me and my company.”

  “I won’t let that happen. We must talk. If we can confirm the specimens were not mishandled, the only other explanation is you are related to the man we call Bluff City Butcher. He would have to be your identical twin brother.”

  “Identical twin! This monster is my brother?”

  “You know you were adopted. I have more to tell you, and I have more questions.”

  “Okay. But now I’ve got meetings with board members. They’re waiting. Then we have a series of investor meetings I must attend. My absence would be problematic. Can we meet tomorrow morning at my place?”

  “I’ll be there at nine. We’ll get this resolved,” Elliott said.

  * * *

  Later that night the Memphis police reported seeing Jack Bellow on camera footage. He entered the LIFE2 facilities after hours. Bellow’s Lexus was parked at the Exchange Building when the MPD arrived. The night watchman claimed they were mistaken. That night Jack Bellow disappeared.

  Elliott sat alone in Carol’s apartment waiting for the BCB to call. Did Jack skip their meeting for a reason? Is it possible he is the Butcher? He is big enough, and strong enough. But when we met, he did not display the typical psychopathic traits.

  Elliott paced the apartment eyeing his cell phone. Jack is a sophisticated, intelligent man, he thought. Jack is accomplished and keeps a high profile, unlike any other serial killer. Could he have a dual-personality, or a psychiatric condition unknown to modern medicine? Carol had been adamant. It was Jack Bellow who stood on the hood of her car that night on the bluff.

  Maybe Carol sees through you. Maybe I’m too close. You were a few blocks away when Carol was taken. She would have gotten in your car if you stopped. That would explain why no one saw the Butcher take her off that busy corner.

  DNA doesn’t lie! You are Adam Duncan. Your travel has to be your cover.

  Elliott’s mind raced over dozens of scenarios and multiple variables. This mystery involves Betty Duncan and Albert Bell, their forty-year old affair, and the birth of Adam Duncan. Dr. Medino and his biogenic breakthrough connects Gilgamesh, the FBI, and Jack Bellow. But how does Adam connect with Dr. Medino? Is this all about life extension? Is Adam involved in some kind of secret war?

  * * *

  At 3:00 a.m., October 17, 2009, Elliott got the call. He answered in the middle of the first ring. “This is Elliott.”

  “I have two. Get here at 3:15 and both live. Come early, I kill one. Come late, I kill both, and save you for another day.”

  “Where are you, Adam?”

  “Nice touch, but it does not matter. Meet me where we met one year ago.”

  Mud Island, Elliott thought immediately. Take the trail behind the ‘NO BOAT LAUNCH’ sign. The clearing on the east bank. “Very creative. How could I forget?

  “I’m watching everything.” The Butcher disconnected as Elliott stepped off the elevator. He bolted across the lobby and into his car.

  Mud Island was always a potential meeting site. Because it was at the bottom of the list, the Butcher chose it. Elliott could shave three minutes. If he was lucky, it would be enough to get the unexpected advantage he had to have.

  Whatever happened on Mud Island, Elliott would first negotiate Carol’s release. The Butcher would expect it and be amenable—she already served her purpose. Elliott would stay out of reach until her release. Then he would stop the BCB.

  As Elliott sped north on Third Avenue, his inner demons began to stir. The stress opened the door—they seemed to know he was going to die. Elliott struggled to suppress the interference that would weaken him or kill him. He focused on Carol to push back the horrific memories that had triggered his heart attack in Dallas. Up until now, she had been the only light in his dark world. This time he had to go it alone.

  * * *

  Sheriff Taft went into the city with his 44 magnum double-action revolver stuffed in his pants under his tweed sport coat. Earlier, Pilsner had overheard him talking to Albert Bell. Ten minutes later G.E. gave instructions. He never left his post for the weekend.

  Over the years, Pilsner had gone to the shooting range with the sheriff. He knew his boss was carrying the big gun. The 7.5 inch barrel on the Model 629 Smith & Wesson was a hard thing to hide on a short, round body—it always poked out somewhere. But the knowledge of the sheriff’s stealth behavior did not matter. Pilsner never questioned the man he worshiped, especially on Friday, October 16, 2009. He had a good idea what G.E. was up to. Everyone up to number seven on the Butcher’s kill list was dead or missing—only Jack Bellow, Elliott Sumner, and Albert Bell were left. The Butcher always killed on October 17.

  They spoke at 6:45 p.m. Albert told G.E. the Butcher had called directly—he had Mason, and Sumner was to wait for a call—no police, or she would be the next to swing from the Hernando. Carol Mason’s abduction put Dr. Sumner and Albert Bell in the mix. G.E. told Albert there was nothing either of them could do but wait. But when he hung up the phone he ordered Pilsner to take over. G.E. left strict orders not to call him unless it had something to do with the Butcher. All other matters were Pilsner’s to handle.

  Before he left, G.E. inspected each 44 magnum hollow point and slid them into one of the six chambers of the largest American handgun ever made. He rubbed the coveted weapon with a soft rag and linseed. Before he stuck her in his pants he leveled her on his lucky raccoon head across the room and said his customary prayer.

  “Lord, give me the strength and the time to get off one clean shot. If you give me two, I’ll know you’re standing next to me. If you give me three, I’ll know you’re just showin’ off—Amen, sir. And tell Sophia I love her and will see her soon.”

  As he pulled away from the substation, he saw Deputy Pilsner in the window. They made eye contact. G.E. left things in good hands.

  Pi
lsner hung around the office. It was a quiet night in the county and a good time to move old files off his desk. In the shuffle, he tripped over a missing persons reports stuck in the wrong place—and it would change everything.

  He thought it odd the two missing people were last seen on the grounds where he was sitting—the north substation. One man had disappeared in February and the other, April.

  Winston Jones was a day laborer. He worked a few times for GreenWay, the contracted groundskeepers—odd Winston never picked up a paycheck. After two weeks, GreenWay called his emergency contact named on his employment application. The last time they had seen the man was the first day on the job at the Shelby County Sheriff’s new substation. Pilsner could think of a lot of reasons why Winston disappeared. All were legal and personal choice. Most day laborers have problems with alcohol or drugs or misdemeanors. But Pilsner had a problem, day laborers never miss a paycheck.

  The second missing person case made the Winston Jones case even more relevant. Hank Breslin also worked for GreenWay, a full time employee with a three-year work history. When Breslin didn’t show up for his carpool to go home, the GreenWay crew went looking. They searched the substation property and outbuildings to no avail. The only thing found, in a ravine behind the substation, was Breslin’s rake and work glove.

  With ten minutes of daylight left to burn, Pilsner lit a cigarette and took a walk. His curiosity grew. Because he spent his life at his desk or in his cruiser, exploring the grounds would not only give him a look at the ravine where Breslin disappeared, he could also get a better appreciation for old man Brent’s estate—his home, so to speak.

  The abrupt change seemed odd. Moving to the rear of the property, the grounds transformed from pristine and manicured to neglected and overgrown. He found himself surrounded by large, deformed bushes and dense trees running from the back of the mansion to the woods fifty yards out. He pushed through the thick brush to the back of the mansion, no windows or doors. The ground sloped, a ravine. A wall of giant junipers crowded the back side, probably had not been trimmed for a decade or more. The horror film setting behind the Brent mansion was the last thing Pilsner had expected. The two worlds had gone unnoticed since the first time he stopped by to see his future assignment.