Evil Like Me

by Steve Bradshaw

  Seventeen

  “What happens to the hole when the cheese is gone?”

  Bertolt Brecht

  *

  “We got off to a bad start,” Petty yelled over the pounding chopper blades as they crossed the Mississippi River on a straight line to Broken Bow. “We can’t do our jobs without trust and communication. When I was in Dallas I …”

  “Maybe you need to go back to Dallas,” Wilcox said and turned to his small window.

  “I can’t believe you would say such a thing,” she huffed. “You’re mad because I didn’t tell you about the Bethesda Research people.” Petty turned her back. “I did not keep information from you. I was directed by a sitting U.S. Attorney General to maintain confidentiality. It was a matter of national security.”

  “You think you’re better than me,” he said. “That’s what this is all about. You’re a big, important doctor from Texas working with a big U.S. Attorney General, and I’m some stupid, backwater cop who cusses, and smokes, and drinks scotch, and has nothing to give but trouble.” He jerked his head back to his window.

  Petty grabbed his arm. Wilcox flinched. He wasn’t expecting such a painful grip or the nails clamping into his bicep like a jaw trap.

  “You do have a filthy mouth. And you do smoke cigarettes. And everybody knows you’re a scotch man.” She loosened her grip. “I personally prefer Chardonnay.” She squeezed again. He tried not to wince. “But this goes back to the Deckle case, the first time we met. I caught you looking at my legs. You got embarrassed and still haven’t gotten over it.”

  “Are you kidding me?” They sat in silence pressed against their windows for an hour long thirty seconds.

  “I personally prefer Chardonnay,” Tony mimicked. “I could puke! It’s so hoity-toity to say that. And for the record, I was not looking at your legs. I was thinking and looking in the direction of your legs.”

  “You were looking at my legs,” Petty muttered.

  “This is all about you screwing up with your Bethesda boys. The big, smart medical examiner, new to Memphis, screwed up big time in her first ninety days—boom!”

  Wilcox waited for a response. “If you touched base with me, I could have told you they were fakes ten seconds after I met them. But I never got the opportunity to meet the clowns, did I doctor? The highbrow, forensic genius on heels did not feel like telling Detective Magoo a thing.”

  “That’s not true,” she whispered as she stayed at her window watching treetops whisk by.

  “You may be medical smart, but you got zero street smarts. You did not live amidst the scumbags and sneaky, conniving, wheeling and dealing freaks. It’s why the smart forensic docs team-up with the scurrilous homicide dicks. Shit happens in this dark damn world, Petty. It comes in all flavors. It has always been about the good guys against the bad guys.”

  “You looked at my legs when I climbed into the helicopter,” she said.

  Wilcox spun around. “What is it with your legs? Granted they are pretty good, but I was strapped in the damn chopper in a shoulder harness. You were late—as usual. My head can barely move four inches left or right. You climbed up here and put yourself in my face.”

  “Oh, I got in your face. What a contumelious explanation,” she scolded.

  “Contum—what? There you go again with the big sophisticated words. Why not just say I’m insulting or got a dirty mind? I’m not near as stupid as I look, Petty. And another thing, if you don’t want men looking at your great legs, you need to wear pantsuits.” Wilcox turned back to his window snickering, and heard Petty doing the same.

  The small speaker crackled alive. They turned. Their eyes met for the first time. They stared and listened.

  “This is the pilot. Welcome aboard Dr. Petty and Detective Wilcox. We are cleared for a direct flightpath to Broken Bow, ETA 1800 hours. We’ve got clear skies and zero turbulence. We’ll try to stay above the trees and keep things interesting. Sit back and enjoy. It’s our privilege to transport you. If you need anything, press the yellow button on this speaker—over and out.”

  “I despise pantsuits,” Petty said.

  “Me too.” They laughed.

  Petty opened her purse and pulled out a small bottle of scotch and waved it at Wilcox. “If you stole that from Delta I will need to arrest you.”

  “Actually, I collected them on my trips between Dallas and Memphis the last few months after I heard you were a scotch man.” She passed one to him and pulled out a small Chardonnay.

  Wilcox eyed her Chardonnay. “Now that’s just ridiculous.”

  “The world’s a big place,” she said. They unscrewed their caps and clicked bottles.

  “How many of these did you bring?” he asked.

  Petty rolled her eyes. “We have some work when we land. I was hoping we could talk this through, have a drink, and start over.”

  “If you stop with the big words, I’ll try not to look at your legs.” He downed his bottle.

  Her smile faded as she changed gears. “I’ve got information you need to know.”

  Wilcox swallowed. “You got my attention.”

  She passed the letter. “This is a copy of the attorney general’s letter to me. I sent the original and envelope to a friend at Vanderbilt Medical School. Dr. Richard Tanner is the head of the advanced genetic research program. I asked him to check it for DNA. I wanted to know who handled the sealed letter. I wanted to confirm it was from Alfred E. Baldwin—the acting attorney general—and I wanted to confirm the identity of Dr. John Swenson, the Bethesda team leader who has disappeared.”

  Wilcox nodded as he read the letter and Petty sipped her Chardonnay. When he finished, he passed it back and asked, “What did you find out?”

  “Alfred Baldwin’s DNA on the letter and the envelope has been confirmed.”

  “You do know the bad guys expect forensic pathologists to look for DNA.”

  Petty nodded. “Dr. Swenson handed me the letter.”

  “You got his DNA, too?” Wilcox asked.

  “No. Swenson’s DNA was not on the envelope, only the letter in the sealed envelope.”

  “Okay. Swenson was with Baldwin when it got signed. Not a big deal.”

  “I agree. However, what is peculiar is the letter was handled by a third person.”

  “And the plot thickens. Got another scotch in there?”

  “The third person’s DNA belongs to Dr. Benjamin Proust.”

  Wilcox leaned back forgetting his scotch. That name’s familiar.”

  “He’s the medical examiner—Okmulgee County, Oklahoma.”

  “Yes. I remember. The name came up during the Deckle investigation.”

  Petty grabbed his arm and squeezed. “Tell me what you know.”

  “Damn.” He pulled back. “Please loosen your grip and remove your nails from my skin. Do you work out?” He gently pried her hand from his arm like he was opening a bear trap.

  “I’m sorry—a reaction. And yes, I do work out. Now, talk to me Detective Wilcox.”

  “Here’s what we know. The dead man in the bank on Main Street is not Donald Deckle. Oh. I’m sorry. Did I forget to tell you?”

  “And I’m sure you had good reason, detective,” she shot back. “And you know this how?”

  “I never bought the ‘wife act’ on the phone. We talked on my way to my eyewitness—Keller. She was faking emotions. Women do it all the time. I can always tell.”

  “There’s so much wrong with that, but I just don’t have the energy. Get to the part he’s not Donald Deckle. Who is he and what does it all mean.”

  “For someone claiming to have talked her husband all the way from home to him parking his car downtown, she just didn’t breakdown enough when she got the news of his death.”

  “Very perceptive,” Petty said under her breath and exasperated at his chauvinism.

  “She did not fit. I put her in the category—intending to mislead.”

  “So you have categories for people?”

  Wilcox ignore
d the dig. “She had an agenda. There were multiple possibilities. Maybe she didn’t love the guy and could care less he was dead. Or maybe she had the poor bastard killed. Or maybe she was an imposter involved in some bank scheme and my corpse was someone else entirely.”

  “You got all that from a minute phone conversation?”

  “Yes. I don’t trust easy. You remember the photograph on the wall—the Memphis Tiger football team?”

  “Of course I do. You pointed it out to me. There was a smudge on the glass over a face. I remember you thought it could have something to do with the case.”

  “Well, I found a guy who had played on the ’68 team. He was the captain. He knew everyone in that picture—had the same one on his desk. We talked. Turns out the man under the smudge is Bradley Johnson, a booster.”

  “I’m sure this is an interesting football story, but …”

  “Bradley Johnson died in a car wreck this year, a one-car accident without witnesses. The car was found burning in a field.”

  “It happens.”

  “Not really. Few burn in a field after a fender bender.”

  “And this matters why?” Petty asked.

  “Bradley Johnson’s son Randle Johnson was not in the car that day. Randle Johnson was the dead man in the Benton Bank & Trust on South Main.”

  “Why would anybody … ?”

  “Did I tell you Bradley Johnson and most of his family died in Okmulgee County? The ME who worked the case was Dr. Proust. I say ‘worked the case’, but there was no investigation. There was only a routine accident report.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “I had a friend do some digging. Bradley Johnson was not your typical guy. He took part in a secret government program back in the ’70s. It had several names. Most know it as the Stargate Project.”

  Petty wanted to see if Wilcox’s had connected Stargate to the Attorney General and the Bethesda boys. “And why is that significant?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Wilcox muttered. “Imagine the United States Government spending our tax dollars on paranormal bullshit for twenty-five years.”

  “Imagine that,” Petty said passing a scotch. Should I tell him what I know now, or wait?

  “Do you know why Cam Baily was in Oklahoma?” Wilcox asked.

  “To look for your eyewitness—Hunter Keller.”

  “Right. He lived in Stringtown, Oklahoma. Do you know Keller’s parents are dead?”

  Petty lowered her little bottle. “I did not know that. How is that relevant?”

  “Five years ago Arnold Keller was stabbed in the back on the front porch of their farmhouse and Alma was strangled in a bedroom. I think we will find the forensics tie back to our four unsolved homicides.”

  Petty sat up straight. “You think Hunter Keller killed his parents and our four?”

  “Baily and I talked the day before he was shot. He gave me a brief update. He went to the Keller’s farm to look around. I gotta give the boy credit. He poked around the place for a day determined to find something important to the case. He was following his instincts. Things stunk.”

  “He was alone?”

  “Yes. We didn’t need to waste time looking at nothing with the locals. Baily climbed up into the attic and found a box of papers tucked deep in the back, a place people did not look. Inside the dusty old box Baily found a government contract. Turns out Alma and Arnold Keller were part of the same government program as Bradley Johnson. They joined in 1972.”

  Petty downed her Chardonnay. As the Arkansas treetops slid beneath the chopper, she processed the chilling connections and realized she needed Wilcox as much as he needed her.

  “What really got me scratching my head was that Dr. Proust came all the way down from Henryetta to Stringtown to do Alma and Arnold Keller’s autopsies. I find that very odd.”

  “Okay,” Petty said. “You’ve made a point. There is more going on here than any one person can pull together alone.”

  “Full disclosure,” Wilcox said. “I have not been completely forthcoming either. I knew about your Bethesda-boys the day they showed up at your door.”

  “What’re you talking about?” She asked.

  “I had a car watching the morgue 24/7.”

  “You spied on me?”

  “Yes I did. You were new, dragging your feet, not talking to me. Very suspicious.”

  “I didn’t have anything to give you, or I would have.”

  “Not true. The Bethesda pricks, you had their information. I knew they were not legit day one. Bethesda would never send three to Memphis. They wouldn’t even send one, the tightwads.”

  Petty opened another Chardonnay and passed Wilcox a scotch. “I guess I should have found a way. You’re right. I am new and don’t know you. Maybe I could have benefitted from your Memphis experience.” She checked her watch. “We have a half-hour before we get to Broken Bow. We best make good use of this time.”

  “Randle Johnson is the owner of Benton Bank and Trust on South Main.”

  “Why the Donald Deckle masquerade? It was only a matter of time before we would have uncovered the true identity,” Petty said.

  “Maybe the killer needed twenty-four hours. Or, maybe the killer was hanging around South Main for some other reason. Deckle’s in this somehow. I found him in the national registry. There were prints and DNA, but pictures and personal data have been erased.”

  “Who can do that?” Petty asked.

  “I don’t know, maybe a sitting U.S. Attorney General.” Wilcox downed his scotch and eyed the sunset through the bottom of the empty bottle.

  Dr. Petty pulled out the last one from her purse. “I’m sure you’ve developed a tolerance.” She slapped it in his hand. “This is it.”

  He cracked the seal. “Tell me more about the Bethesda boys.”

  “I don’t know much. According to my Vanderbilt connection Dr. Green and Dr. Blanchard do not exist, and Dr. Swenson is known but his files are sealed.”

  “We know Green and Blanchard were executed at the Super 8. Were you at a turning point? Was there anything different the day they got stuck?”

  “Bethesda had an interest in the five Memphis cases, the four homicides with amygdala lesions and one natural death—Frank Pella. As you know, we exhumed the body the day Blanchard and Green were killed.”

  “And Pella was delivered to the morgue that evening?”

  “Yes. He was lying in my refrigerator.”

  “Dr. Swenson could have visited Pella and obtained what he was looking for?”

  “Yes. He could have.”

  The speaker between the seats crackled alive. “We are approaching Broken Bow. Touch down, five minutes. Chief Daryl Strider will meet you.”

  The sun was now down. They stared out the small window at the lights dotting the horizon—the town of Broken Bow. “What’s going on, Tony?” Petty asked.

  He finished the last of his scotch. “Something very big, Dr. Petty.”

  Flying over Arkansas, Petty got a good look at the real Tony Wilcox. He used distance, dry wit, and a gruff persona to hide his sharp mind and sensitive side. The man she got to know today was at the top as a Memphis homicide detective for a reason. She needed to stay close.

  “You can call me Victoria.”

  Wilcox stared at the sparkling lights. “We have seven more bodies.”

  “The Randle Johnson family, the Kellers, and two dead a Broken Bow,” Petty whispered.

  “We need to get our eyes on the two at Broken Bow and their boat.”

  “Why the boat?” Petty asked.

  “We have two common denominators. We need to narrow it down to one.”

  “The Stargate Project is one,” Petty said. She crossed her legs and left her hem above her knee. Wilcox smiled. Their lips were inches apart. “What’s number two?” She asked.

  They lingered. “Hunter Keller,” Tony said.

  *

  The Memphis Tribune

  Groundskeeper Finds Bodies at Elmwood


  October 29, 2014

  *

  Memphis, Tennessee: At 5:30 a.m. a groundskeeper at Elmwood Cemetery found a dead body on one of the graves. Memphis police were called. Soon after their arrival a second body was found. Police believe the deaths are connected and may be a robbery and beating of the homeless.

  The dead are white males in their seventies, identities unknown. “We are dealing with two homicides,” said MPD Detective Steven Marcus. “I cannot discuss details of an active investigation. The medical examiner is out of town but will return tomorrow and we will learn more.”

  The groundskeeper that found the first body said, “I was not startled when I saw the man. It happens around here. I thought he was sleeping. He was lying on his back. When I got closer, I saw his eyes were open real wide and he was smiling. It was kinda scary. Then I saw he was not moving. He was dead. I called the police and got out of there fast.”

  Elmwood Cemetery was established in 1852. Today the 80-acre grounds are on the historic National Registry and the final resting place for 75,000 inhabitants. Anyone with information on the Elmwood deaths is asked to contact the Memphis police department at 901-MPD-HELP.

  Eighteen

  “Death is the cure for all diseases.”

  Thomas Browne

  It was the perfect place to kill again, without those messy details—witnesses.

  Built in 1928, the Queen of Memphis was the pride of the Midsouth skyline. Now, the Sterick Building was not even an eyesore. The twenty-nine story, gothic edifice on the corner of Third and Madison was invisible to Memphians. Dying from within, the renovation nightmare abounded with acres of poisonous asbestos, structural impossibilities, and miles of legal entanglements. The only future for the forgotten landmark was suicide by implosion.

  Even though they knew he was coming, Hunter Keller would wait for his time to be right. He slow walked the streets of Memphis watching (and feeling) his surroundings like no other could. On his last pass down Madison Avenue he stepped into the alley, stood in shadows, and confirmed he was alone. He backed along the dark, brick wall of the Sterick Building to the last dumpster in the line of three.

  Keller always did his homework. From the top of the dumpster he could reach the second floor window and loose board. Braving the putrid stench rising from the battered metal box used by neighbors, he climbed the paint-chipped wall and shimmied into the decrepit building through broken glass, matted webs, and a disgusting trail of rat droppings. Gagging on the stale mold and ancient dust he found the north stairwell in his dream. There would be metal doors on each level. All would be closed and locked except the nineteenth floor, that door would be off its hinges resting against the wall.