The Bluff City Butcher

by Steve Bradshaw

  From his old desk he perused his coveted wall of accomplishments: college and medical degrees, specialty certificates, recognitions and awards. But this time he stayed on his medical degree—The University of Tennessee College of Medicine, Memphis, Tennessee, 1983. Gilmore would never forget the tragedies on the bluff his graduation year, the horrific atrocities behind Captain Bilbo’s Restaurant, the place where he and friends downed many a beer on many an occasion. A little girl had been kidnapped and three men butchered. Gilmore believed then the urban legend was based on fact. Now he knew the Bluff City Butcher had survived the Mississippi River.

  I pray you find a way to leave the harbor. We need you . . .

  Thirteen

  It was as if he had been abducted by aliens. August 27, Dr. Sumner walked out of Parkland Memorial Hospital and vanished. Blackwell, Stone & Associates closed the doors and books of SFI seven days later. All consulting contracts were cancelled, confidential files returned, and monies refunded. The twenty-four SFI employees were terminated. Each valued member of the team received a $1,000,000 severance package and letter of recommendation from the renowned forensic sleuth—provided there were no questions asked or terms disclosed. The termination arrangement was 100 percent acceptable to employees.

  His medical condition was known only by Gilmore, Dodson, Bennett, and Wilcox. Bennett took lead as his primary physician. She released to the media the agreed-upon story. Dr. Sumner suffered a severe allergic reaction, triggering anaphylaxis and a grand mal seizure. The medical emergency received immediate attention, and all serious complications were averted. The famous Texas medical examiner was treated and released. Parkland Hospital would share no more information regarding a patient’s private medical care.

  Dr. Sumner’s disappearance could only mean the forensic icon was recovering at an undisclosed location. The revered serial killer hunter was expected to return to work. However, days later SFI World Headquarters closed its doors and no one was talking. Everything on the forty-seventh floor of the Renaissance Tower building was taken at night, even the frosted SFI letters on the glass entrance.

  Speculation ran from relocation to restructuring the global forensic enterprise. Some were convinced the Western Sherlock was downsizing or going underground. Rumors circulating claimed SFI operations were moving to Memphis, Tennessee.

  On September 24, Elliott decided to kill himself. On September 27, he settled on method and means.

  The cold steel pressed into the roof of his mouth—his 357 magnum Smith & Wesson, Model 686 double action revolver. Elliot had used it to kill monsters. Now he would use it to blow off the back of his head.

  His blood, shattered skull, and brain matter would spray across the bed and walls of the cheap motel room, but remnants of the fifty demons living in his head would remain invisible to the rest of the world. Elliott had considered all the options. Blowing his brains out was the only way. He could no longer live with his demons.

  The hollow-point is an expanding bullet designed to disrupt tissue and transfer kinetic energy to the target area. Only one was needed. Neither Elliott nor demons would survive. With the gun in his mouth and finger on the trigger, they dared him to shoot. Before he squeezed he remembered the Butcher—he was still out there. If Elliot killed himself now, the worst of the worst would win.

  The Butcher was the last one with Elliott before his collapse. Did he know how to take Elliott to the edge? Had the BCB manipulated the forensic sleuth? The Mud Island meeting was bizarre to say the least, but was it more than an opportunity to play the game they played for a decade? The Butcher said their relationship would evolve. Maybe this was part of a more elaborate plan.

  Are you doing this to me? I don’t remember anything after your hot breath hit my face, except reaching for your knife. Then I’m on a park bench by the river. What did you do to me, Adam? What are you planning?

  Fifty monsters and six-hundred victims sat with Elliott on the edge of his motel bed. Like a snare drum, the rain tapped on the window unit that spat wet air into the dank room. Elliott’s hands trembled. The four-inch barrel clicked on his teeth. He pushed the monsters back one more time and squeezed out a tear that found the hand holding the suicide note. Elliott opened an eye and saw the man on the other side of the room.

  Who are you? How did you get in my room? Why are you looking at me? I know. You’re just another drunk looking for a place to stay.

  Elliott’s cell phone buzzed, waking up the loose change and rental keys on the nightstand next to his leg. Keeping the gun in his mouth and watching the man watching him, he reached for it. The note slid off his lap and made a perfect arc under the bed.

  Damn. Nobody will look down there, he thought. Tony would come. He would check. He’d think the Butcher paid me a visit. Tony would find the letter.

  UNKNOWN NUMBER flashed on his small screen.

  Like a terminal disease, the serial killers living in Elliott’s head had devoured the good: the innocence, wonder, the capacity to love, his humanity. Although the flow of emotion triggered even more pain, the loss of a reason to live brought the crushing blow. With his finger on the trigger, Elliott recognized the man on the other side of the room.

  Fourteen

  “If you can find a path with no obstacles, it probably doesn’t lead anywhere.”

  Frank A. Clark

  * * *

  “I’m no longer active in forensic pathology and homicide investigation,” Elliott said with as much edge as he could muster. He had ignored the phone calls and half-dozen text messages over the last two days, but Mason had persisted.

  “Dr. Sumner, do you know who I am?”

  “Yes. Someone calling me incessantly and won’t take a hint.”

  She ignored his sarcasm. “I am Carol Mason, Vice President of Investigative Reporting for The Memphis Tribune.”

  “Congratulations to you. And that’s important to me, why?”

  “The MPD and Tribune have launched a collaborative program to review unsolved homicides in the metro area for the ten-year period, 1995 to 2005. I joined The Tribune September 1 to lead the project. I’m working for Mr. Albert Bell.”

  “Okay. Good. Congratulations and good luck with that. As I said, I am not in the business anymore. I suggest you contact Memphis Homicide Detective Wilcox.”

  “Buford Forester is dead in Blytheville, Arkansas,” she said.

  “How was he murdered?”

  “I never said he was murdered.”

  “Miss Mason, you said you were investigating unsolved homicides. You then said a man was dead. My question is logical.” Nice try on her part—quick recovery on mine.

  That was so stupid. Now he’ll be on guard. I need to be more direct. “Does October 17 mean anything to you, Dr. Sumner?”

  “Is this a courtroom? No. It means nothing.” Yes, it means something to me, but I’m not about to tell you.

  “I find it odd that October 17 is your birthday and also the same day Buford Forester was killed.”

  “So Forrester was murdered?”

  “I have a prediction,” Carol said.

  “You can see into the future, too? How impressive.”

  “A man with your capabilities and passion for justice must be in the hunt. I do not know why you stepped away, but I have important information to help you with your decade-old quest. But first, I need some help from you.”

  “Miss Mason, I have no idea what you are talking about and can assure you I have no interest in your information. I will say goodbye, now.”

  “Buford Forester’s death was investigated by an insurance adjuster, the elected coroner. He botched up the whole investigation. He confused, ignored, or destroyed every piece of physical evidence the killer left behind. He did such a great job on his first case that he saved money by not sending the body to the Shelby County Medical Examiner’s Office for an autopsy. The coroner ruled the death an accident.”

  “And it troubles you, why?”

  “Buford did not fall out o
f his fishing boat and drown. Both carotid arteries were severed, and his feet were tied at the ankles with the anchor line—a packer’s knot.”

  “It is difficult to tie your ankles accidentally. Did you consider a tangle?” I heard packer’s knot, but maybe it means nothing to you. I’ll let it be.

  “A packer’s knot by mistake is a miracle. I’ve already found three more with similar injuries and circumstances. There is one person killing these people, Dr. Sumner. When I’m done with my review, there could be thirty homicides made to look like accidents or suicides.”

  She is sharper than most. “I think you have an overactive imagination, Mason.”

  “I really don’t know much about you, Dr. Sumner, and I’m certain you know nothing about me. However, if you are trying to mislead me or play games, then I’m not helping the real victims. I need little from you. I will move on if you don’t want to help.”

  “Miss Mason, I don’t know what you want from me, and I will ignore your last inflammatory comment.” Does she know how Forester fits in all this? “I will listen, but will not promise anything.”

  Elliott tossed a shirt over the screaming bottle of Dewar’s, set the full glass of scotch in the bathroom, and put the pillow over the gun—for the moment. “Tell me what you know about Forester.”

  “He retired from the restaurant business. He left Memphis to live in Blytheville in the spring of 1990. Mr. Forester was a loner, never married, lived the simple life. He cooked every day, bowled Tuesdays, played checkers, and fished every weekend.”

  “Where’d they find him?”

  “Mallard Lake. His special spot on a corner of the lake.”

  “Continue.”

  “October 17, 1995, Buford did not show up for the Mississippi County Regional Bowling Championship, the competition he and teammates started preparing for weeks before. The morning after the competition they pulled him out of the lake. Found him at the bottom tangled in his anchor line under the capsized boat. He had a terrible gash across his neck. Coroner concluded Buford bled to death.

  “They reconstructed best they could and decided he fell out of his boat, tried to climb back in and his arm slipped thus forcing him down on an unprotected edge of the aluminum boat. It was supposedly where he sliced his neck open. They surmised he panicked, capsized the boat, and got tangled in the anchor line. He passed out from loss of blood and died.”

  “No autopsy?” That’d be why Wilcox missed it. The people in surrounding counties don’t talk.

  “No autopsy. The coroner had no experience.”

  “He concluded no foul play?”

  “Yes. The report describes Buford Forrester as a quiet old man with no enemies. When they pulled him out of the lake, he had his wallet, Rolex, and diamond ring.”

  “Nothing taken from his mode of transportation?”

  “His truck—no. The keys were in the ignition. His expensive fishing gear was not touched. The coroner felt confident the neck injury had come from the boat. He explained the other trauma to the body as turtle-induced.”

  “What did the turtles do to Forester?” Elliott asked.

  Carol flipped through the open file on her lap in the middle of her suite at the Peabody Hotel; her new home. It came with the employment package. “Here it is. I will read the relevant paragraph. ‘Forester body found 0900 at bottom of lake 3.65 meters beneath capsized aluminum fishing boat with ankles entangled in anchor line. The body was recovered from 16.67 Celsius water. Skin was mottled and wrinkled with slight petechia. The straight-line neck wound, 7.63 cm length, 2.21 cm depth matched the exposed, sharp edge of the fishing boat (see photographs). Marine life (fish and turtles) fed on body for twelve-hour period. When recovered, body was missing eyeballs, lips, nose, both ears and finger-tips. A small, inconsequential puncture wound was noted at the top-center portion of head, likely caused by head hitting the underside of boat during resurface attempts.’”

  “That’s a lot more detail than I expected. Anymore on the head wound?”

  “No. I looked. It is familiar,” Carol said.

  “Familiar? You’ve seen it before?”

  “Yes.”

  “When and where..?”

  Carol had his attention. “I’ve seen it enough to know it means something. Just like the October 17 date you are dodging.”

  “I think you may be chasing ghosts if this is all you have.”

  “I have more.”

  “Okay.”

  “You know R.L. Thornton?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know him?” Carol asked.

  “We met in ’95, homicide cases of mutual interest.” I remember everything about him: smart, committed, empathetic, detail oriented, believed there was good in everyone, cared about the inner-city kids—reason he stayed in the field. He gave me good information. Was the only one alive who looked in the eyes of the Butcher before the serial killer jumped into the river.

  Carol felt Elliott’s relationship with R.L. Thornton would be important to her research. “In 1995, the national media was all over you, Dr. Sumner, the youngest medical examiner in Texas history who solved five-hundred unexplained deaths, one-hundred percent success—a perfect record.”

  “That was hype. I was given credit for a lot of other people’s work. You know how the news media operates. I was a story that sold newspapers and moved TV dials. I was a walking train wreck in those days.”

  “Is that right? Well, I’m not buying any of it, doctor. Help me understand why a Texas forensic pathologist makes time for a Memphis street cop.”

  “First, at that time I was just getting SFI started. I traveled a lot. Memphis is a hub, a central point with the most convenient international connections. Being from Dallas, I passed through Memphis International Airport several times a week. A short visit with a colleague was not only feasible, it was as convenient as picking up a barbecue sandwich.”

  “Okay, I’ll buy that for now, but why meet with Officer Thornton?”

  “He worked a triple homicide in 1983 that had some similarities to cases I was investigating at the time, killings in Carrolton, Texas. It was a long shot. I wanted to know more.”

  “How many meetings did you have with R.L. Thornton?” Mason asked.

  “We met three times that week.”

  “Did you ever see or speak to him again after that?”

  “No.” Elliott sat up. You’re not going to tell me Thornton was looking into the Forester case, are you? You’re going to tell me something I don’t want to hear . . . I can’t hear.

  “Did you know Officer Thornton took early retirement after your meetings, the spring of 1996?”

  “I did not know he retired, but I am glad to hear it.” Maybe I’m letting myself get worked up for no reason. I thought Mason was going to say something bad happened. Thank God, Thornton retired—he was a good man.

  “He and his wife moved to Millington. He disappeared on October 17, 1996.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you. I know he was a friend.”

  “What happened, Miss Mason?”

  “Officer Thornton was taken from a golf course. He was walking the back nine alone. The Millington PD found his golf clubs thrown into the bushes behind the eighteenth tee. Some clubs were broken and covered with blood. He put up a fight. The blood trail went into the woods where he was killed, a gruesome site. DNA confirmed it was Thornton. CSI came up from Memphis. They estimated twelve pints of blood at the scene—total exsanguination. They recovered a variety of tissue types: skin, muscle, bone, and cartilage. He was butchered, Dr. Sumner.”

  “Was his body found?” Elliott was sober now. He recognized the man on the other side of his hotel room; it was him, his reflection in a mirror hung on the floral wallpaper.

  Carol emptied her wine glass in three gulps. Elliott sat quiet.

  “In 2002, some boys fishing the Wolfe River north of Mud Island found a skull. The water level was down. CSI recovered an adul
t male’s skeleton. It was Officer Thornton. All bones were accounted for except the spinal column.”

  “Did it float away?” Elliott knew the answer to his question.

  “The ME determined the spine was removed at time of death in 1996.”

  Elliott sat on the edge of the bed, the phone pressed to his ear. He stared at his feet pressed into the carpet. He was starting to lose control, like the Parkland doctors predicted. If the door from hell opened a crack, he would unravel—first the tremors and rapid respiration, and then heart rate and blood pressure would ramp. He would begin to hallucinate. It would launch the arrhythmia. He would slip into unconsciousness. No one would be there for CPR. Elliott would die. He wouldn’t need the gun.

  “I guess an ex-cop has enemies,” he said. “Did they find who killed him?”

  “Don’t mislead me, Dr. Sumner.”

  Although he just met her, he had a strange desire to risk something to help her. He fought the feeling. The consequences for her would be great.

  “The killer is out there. It will be twelve years next month.”

  “Twelve years is a long time. Sounds like a tough case to solve,” Elliott said.

  “Thornton had a puncture wound on the top of his skull too,” Carol said. “It was in the same location as Forrester’s and others. I studied the brain, Dr. Sumner. Learned some interesting facts. The cranial puncture wounds are associated with the part of the brain that controls major motor skills—the ability to move. A person with damage to that area of the brain experiences paralysis of the arms and legs, and loss of speech. But they retain their sense of awareness and feel pain. You probably knew that.”

  “I have politely listened. I see your strong desire to find answers to these horrible crimes, but the October 17 date for two deaths is not so bizarre. Thousands of people died that day in this country. Hundreds were murdered, committed suicide, or died in a suspicious accident. Thousands were reported missing on October 17. You cannot build a serial killer case on a date.