“Got some info on the way out here. Tell me what you have, Officer Holt.” Wilcox stood a head above most everyone at the crime scene and projected an aura of dogged confidence befitting the most productive homicide detective on the force. Only his crunched-up brow revealed his anger toward the person who stirred up so much attention early in the morning.
Officer Kent Holt was the lucky patrolman in the area—he took the call. Equally unshaken by the growing dimensions of the crime scene, he responded unemotionally. “A 10-31 came in at 05:22, Memphis Central Library, Poplar 3000 block. An elderly white male was found by Lamont Otis, the night watchman, on 05:00 rounds.” Holt looked up from his notes. “The poor guy is messed up bad. He never saw anything like it, a man butchered and hung like a scarecrow.”
Tony kept staring up at the fourth floor. Holt flipped the page and continued. “Otis found the deceased the moment he stepped onto the fourth floor. The body was in a chair about twenty feet from the east staircase. At the same time he heard a squeaky wheel moving in the stacks. The floor was dark. Otis said he ran down four flights and out the building as he called it in to the MPD. SWAT said all exits are locked. Otis kept a watch on the front doors. SWAT thinks the perpetrator is still inside.”
“Wonderful. Tell me about the dead person.”
“Only saw him for less than a minute.”
“You sure he’s dead? Anyone check on that?” Tony locked his eyes on Holt.
“He’s dead. No need to take any pulse, sir.”
“You’re that certain? You a doctor or something?”
“No sir. But I am certain. The guy’s hands were cut off at the wrists. The stubs were stitched up like he had an operation.”
Wilcox backed away from the building to get a view of the body, to see what everyone else was looking at. “That’s it?”
“Same thing was done to his feet, sir. Cut off at the ankles and sewn up.” Holt stared blankly at his clipboard. “The victim was drained of his blood, but no blood anywhere up there. I ran tape around the death scene and came down.”
Tony put a hand on his shoulder. “How many have seen the victim?”
“Five. Me, Otis, a couple of SWAT and an EMT. We kept everyone off four. Told them the medical examiner needed a clean death scene—especially this one.”
“Find the other four and remind them no one talks to anyone.” Elliott was right. The bastard struck October 17, like clockwork.
“Yes, sir.”
Wilcox walked to the front entrance of the library. A path opened in the undulating crowds of Memphis police and fire. It was his crime scene. He owned the place. The last person he passed was the MPD tactical squad leader.
“Wilcox, where you think you’re goin’?” Delaney barked.
“In. Bye.” He didn’t look. He recognized the voice.
“You do that and you compromise my scene. I’d have to shoot you in the ass.”
“You couldn't find an ass during a lap dance.” Tony kept walking.
“You're tempting me to practice on your skinny ass, boy.”
Tony stopped at the glass doors and turned back. “Franco, can you focus please? I need you to keep everyone off four until I hook up with your finest on three. Then we can all go up holding hands.”
“You got it, Tee. And be careful. I think the sick prick is up there somewhere.”
“I pray to God I find him first. Dr. Sumner will be pulling up any minute. He’s the only one you let in, Franco. I give you permission to shoot everyone else.”
“And who said Anthony Wilcox is not a thoughtful man.”
Been a long time since we got caught in that crossfire, Franco thought. You almost took one for the city that day. I saw the guy behind the pallets. Had no choice but to tackle you and get one shot off. Thank God it was my lucky day—got the homicidal maniac right between the eyes. But I didn’t feel my leg. He got the femoral artery—his miracle shot. All I remember is the blood, then I was gone. He watched Wilcox pause at the glass door and take a deep breath. If you hadn’t put a belt around my thigh and got me to The Med right then—damn. Docs told me nobody survives a femoral artery sliced in half by a bullet.
Delaney pulled down his head-set mic. “T 3030, hold your positions. Wilcox is in the building. I need a hookup on L3. Wait for signal, Franco out.”
Wilcox eased through the glass doors and moved through the foyer to the south side of the elevators where a team hunkered down in the shadows. He came up behind his new partner, the only one who didn’t see him. Tony gripped Harris's shoulder. “Hey, you young guys ever sleep?”
“Shit, sir!” Harris jumped throwing his glasses to the tip of his nose. The four flanking SWAT held positions. Harris pushed his glasses back with a pudgy finger. “Shit, sir.”
“You said that, Harris.” Wilcox looked around. “Let’s go, gentlemen.” They pulled out their 38s. He signaled SWAT—we’re going up now.
The front reception area of the library was open air all the way to the top of the building. Two sets of suspended staircases began on the second floor and end on the fourth. The place was lit up like a Christmas tree. They had people everywhere but floor four. The suspended stairs and glass walls made the climb risky, but it was the best option. Wilcox led the way. They climbed each level without incident and stopped at three. There he held up four fingers and pointed up. Four SWAT in black jumpsuits, flak jackets, helmets with rifles moved into position. If anything was going to happen, it would be within the next minute.
The climb to four was textbook. It took longer than the first three. If the perpetrator wanted to make a statement, anything could have happened from an impossible number of directions. Wilcox and Sumner were the only ones who knew the climb to the victim would be uneventful.
Heads emerged on four, eyes at floor level. The victim was on chilling display. One SWAT lifted his helmet visor and puked. He spat, closed his visor, and took aim awaiting for Wilcox’s signal. “We good?” he asked. All four nodded.
From the stairs the SWAT team scanned the fourth floor as Wilcox studied the victim, yet another chapter in the monster’s pathetic life story. The puffy, pale face was stitched up like a stuffed rag doll. The outstretched arms were suspended from the ceiling creating an illusion of welcoming. The old man was meticulously transformed into a hideous ghoul, a Halloween character. The creation was an abomination.
Wilcox gave the signal. The SWAT team rushed the floor fanning out like ants leaving a mound. A dozen more poured onto the floor from other portals.
Wilcox moved to the victim. He and Harris knelt and looked around the immediate area—they didn’t need surprises. They faced opposite directions with guns out. “Keep your eyes open until SWAT gets done with the sweep. It’s going to take a while. Pay attention. Did you call the medical examiner?”
“Dr. Bates is down there. He will be sent up when the place is secure.”
The boy’s learning. Not bad for three months keeping up with me. Third generation cops sometimes aren’t a fit, but I think Alex has it. The kid got the highest scores on the detective test. Even memorized the goddamn police manual. Got good police sense. I still need to shake him up some. He needs to think and move faster.
“Why do you think this guy’s put on display like this, sir?” Alex leaned closer to the body and touched the arm with a finger. “He’s cold. Been dead a while.”
“We’ll let the ME tell us, Harris. But I’d say we have someone who likes his knife and hates this old guy.”
“You think this is the work of a serial killer?”
“Most murders are crimes of passion, fits of rage. Few murders are planned. This kill is personal and elaborate. The killer was mad at the guy. When we identify the victim we’ll have paths to investigate.” Not ready to bring you in. I’d prefer to get you off the serial killer angle, but I guess when Elliott gets here you’ll put things together.
“This had to be carefully planned to get the man up here like that. I think he was cut up somewhere else
and brought to the library. I bet this is the work of a serial killer.”
“Harris, why do you want to push the serial killer angle first?”
“I may be new, but this is nothing like the shootings or stabbings in the books. This is weird and elaborate. If it is the work of a serial killer, we get FBI resources.” Harris wiped the fog off his glasses with his thumb.
“Harris, you better hope we don’t have a serial killer. No one knows how to catch those sick bastards.”
Eighteen
“It’s a new, damn world Harris. Killers are smarter, meaner, and crazier than ever. Serial killers are worse. They hide among us. They’re in every country in the goddamn world. The freaks are more efficient today because of movies and internet. The sick bastards are even more unpredictable. Although their targets are often defined, their timing and selection is random. Their obscure movements are generally impossible to predict. FBI and all other law enforcement agencies across the country have done a pitiful job catching serial killers.” Wilcox looked down at his watch. I wish these boys would hurry it up, and where the hell is Elliott? “Don’t wish one on us.”
“I thought the FBI was successful catching serial killers. They got Ted Bundy, the Zodiac Killer, BTK, and others.”
“You disappoint me, Harris. I assumed you were well read. Ted Bundy killed two dozen college girls over a seventeen-year period. BTK killed at least ten we know about over twenty years, and Zodiac killed thirty over his most active ten years.”
“That’s my point, sir. The FBI caught those serial killers.”
“Let’s see, Bundy and BTK were caught by chance—they made stupid mistakes—and the Zodiac was not caught. You tell me—seventy-five people killed over three decades by three serial killers, one of which is still loose. Is that a system working?”
“No, but today we have profilers and forensics to help us.”
“I’ll give you that, Harris. Open your damn eyes. When a boat’s sinking a bucket helps, but the boat is going down.”
“I guess I never thought of it that way.”
“Have you ever heard of Carl Eugene Watts?”
“No sir.”
“Watts is one of the most prolific serial killers in American history.” The Butcher may have more kills, and he’s just getting started. “Wonder why people know about Ted Bundy and not Watts—he killed four times as many women. The freak started killing at the age of fifteen. Just didn’t like girls.”
“I’ll bet an FBI profile and forensics caught Watts.”
“Mr. Watts was an African American and did not fit an FBI profile,” Elliott said from the stairs. Tony didn’t move. Harris turned to Elliott with his gun. “Detective Wilcox, please tell your partner not to shoot me. I’m one of the good guys.”
“Sorry, Dr. Sumner,” Harris said. “I’m a little edgy.”
“I can see why.”
“We were talking about serial killers.”
“I believe Mr. Harris won the debate. DNA caught Watts. Forensics did come into play.” Elliott studied the body as the others watched. Harris stayed behind Wilcox and kept an eye on the surroundings.
“True,” Wilcox shot back. “But if the idiot had not attacked two girls in an apartment complex, neighbors would not have complained about the loud party, and police would not have charged Watts for a domestic disturbance.”
“Yes, but they did run his DNA in the national database and got a match, unsolved homicide in another city,” Elliott said.
“But the idiot told the police everything—who he killed, when, how and where to find the bodies.” Tony walked with his gun watching SWAT team members dart in and out of book stacks. “I don’t think the police asked the right questions. He just spilled his guts.”
Elliott examined the dismemberments, trimmings, and cleansings. The stitch work was intricate, tight, and in sequences of seventeen. Packer knots were prevalent, and the Knots of Isis were reserved for the face: ears and corners of mouth.
Why have you gone overboard with this one? Elliott wondered. What are you trying to say? This kill is on display like Mr. McGee, but you’ve got to know none of this will go public. MPD is not about to let this get out.
“You know he died in prison last year, prostate cancer,” Elliott said as he scrutinized the victim’s back.
“How’d you find that out?” Wilcox asked.
“Checked every year. I wanted to be sure he never got out.”
The SWAT commander approached Wilcox. “We’re secure. There’s no one in the building. Hello, Dr. Sumner. Good to see you with us, sir. We can send up Dr. Bates when you’re ready, Detective Wilcox.”
He holstered his gun. “We’re ready. Remind your men to forget everything.”
“We saw nothing, detective.” He disappeared down the stairs with a dozen guns trailing. Two stayed behind. They would be the last to leave the building.
The library would open late if at all. Tony watched the crowds below thin out. The sun peeked into the city and burned off the morning mist as traffic again flowed on Poplar and Walnut Grove. Wilcox worked hundreds of cases, but only five had been pure evil. This made six.
Something bothered him. He stepped away from Elliott, Harris, and the body. Wilcox needed his quiet time to gather his thoughts, to focus. His instincts had never failed him—and something was not sitting well. He walked a slow circle around the death scene. I feel you. You are here, aren’t you?
After he relooked up each aisle near the body, he heard shoes shuffling up the stairs. CSI photographers popped their presence sending a hundred lightning strikes across the death scene. The whirring buzz of recycling strobes added to his eerie feeling. Then the forensic entourage fanned out and the medical examiner stepped onto the fourth floor in his white lab coat.
“Morning, Detective Wilcox,” the ME said with eyes on the body and Dr. Sumner. “Is that man going to be at all my homicides?”
“Get used to it. He’s the best in the world, Dr. Bates,”
“Did we wake up on the wrong side of bed?” Bates continued on to the death scene. He could not argue the point.
A few hours later Tony and Elliott stood alone at the stairs. The sun shot across the fourth floor. Now both were unsettled. Something did not feel right.
“This is worse than I thought, Tee.”
“You were right, October 17. But we could not have expected this. He must be really pissed-off at this guy. This is not your normal kill.”
“This is not anger. This is vengeance. He took the heart, hands, and feet. He took the senses: sight, sound, smell, taste, and touch.”
“And all of the blood,” Wilcox mumbled.
“What bothers me most is he put another victim on display—a public library.”
“He wants the world to know. He is ‘going public’.”
“‘Vengeance is in my heart, death in my hand, blood and revenge are hammering in my head.’ Shakespeare,” Elliott quoted. “And he’s still here, Tony.”
“I feel him, too. But they’ve been all over this building.”
“Not everywhere,” Elliott said.
They watched the body descend the four flights in a black, crash bag. The cleaning crews followed, after removing all signs of a horrific death scene from the public library. Then the last of the Memphis police pulled off the campus. Elliott and Tony stood at the steps for one last look.
“We gotta stop the bastard,” Wilcox said.
“We will.”
They turned to descend the steps in the glass building. There were thousands, but only one ceiling tile above them softly reseated.
Part Two
THE SECRET TO KEEP
Nineteen
“The first person to live to be 1,000 years old is certainly alive today, whether they realize it or not.”
Aubrey de Gray,
Geneticist, Cambridge
* * *
The streets were steaming in Las Vegas after the brief morning shower. Sparse lines of suits and high heels tri
ckled through the Venetian hotel lobby and casino, noses in BlackBerrys and carrying boxes almost too big for one to manage. Like bees heading to the honey pot, dutiful sales representatives descended upon the exhibit hall to set up their company’s booth. The 12th Congress of Anti-Aging Biomed Therapeutics was anticipating over 25,000 attendees. The doors officially opened in three hours.
Jack Bellow preferred running through exhibits alone, pre-convention hours on the first day. Although such practices were strictly prohibited and security measures were in place, Jack was never one to follow rules. It was more important he scope out technology space and competitive landscape with the fewest hassles, exhibits free of annoying personnel and literature free for the taking.
New, leading-edge technology would be missing from the meeting—why educate the competition? These meetings were for repositioning marketed technology and cutting deals. Although Jack was a master of surveillance, this trip was different. The stealth visit would supplement prior due diligence. Jack was in Vegas to meet with Dr. Enrique Medino, a quiet pioneer in the Anti-aging Med segment. Dr. Medino had a breakthrough to discuss with one of the most sought-after biotech entrepreneurs in the country. And Dr. Medino was about to die.
The American Association of Anti-Aging Medicine was formed in 1992 and had become a driving force in the promotion of science and research to prolong the healthy lifespans of humans. Jack knew of the space but had little time to give it until the summer of 2004, his fourth company sold to another market leader making him even wealthier. Now he had time to kill.
Although membership steadily grew, attracting respected healthcare practitioners and top scientists from all parts of the world, the anti-aging proponents were discredited by the status quo. The pioneers were accused of taking advantage of the aging population, making promises of impossible human lifespans, and treating aging as a grotesque human condition to be eradicated like the measles.
The Bluff City Butcher Page 10