“The ME worked it like an archeology dig, three skeletons were uncovered.”
“Do we have them identified?” Wilcox asked.
Max lit another Chesterfield and talked with smoke falling out his nose and mouth. “I got the report from the Carrollton PD this morning and shared it with Albert.” He passed it to Elliott.
“Through dental records, they positively identified Harry Tucker and the missing Texas Ranger. They were unable to get a positive ID on the third skeleton—they lacked DNA and dental records for Betty Duncan. However, that person in the hole was a female of medium stature, and the facial reconstruction fit Miss Duncan.”
I know Gilgamesh has Betty’s DNA, Albert thought. I wonder if they have any new information.
“Betty’s son is still unaccounted for,” Max said. “Carrollton police think he snapped, killed everybody, hid the bodies and cars, and ran.”
“Pass the picture around, Max,” Albert said.
“What’re we looking at?” Elliott asked.
“A Polaroid taken July 4, 1982. Gentlemen, this is Betty Duncan’s son. He is fourteen. His name is . . . Adam.”
“I’ll be goddamned. Didn’t see that coming,” Wilcox blurted as he studied the picture. “We’re looking at the Bluff City Butcher as a teenager. And your bastard son is the author of your love notes, Albert.”
“Do we have a cause of death on the three?” Elliott asked.
“Not definitive, but there were identical puncture fractures on top of each skull. They think it was put there with an ice pick.”
Elliott took a close look at the boy. He saw more than he would share. His demons were stirring. He had to keep emotions in check.
“We interviewed an elderly couple who lived in the mobile park in ’82. They heard about their neighbors going missing but knew nothing. They did say Betty was raped in 1974. After the incident she rarely left the mobile home. Adam was pretty much on his own after the rape. They said he started living under the mobile home when he was five. Harry only left for work or to buy groceries. Adam was alone except weekends. He’d go to work with Harry, at Sanderson’s Meat Processors. Harry was a butcher.”
“Holy mother of God.” Tony looked at Elliott. “What else?”
“Adam was kicked out of school October 3, 1982, two weeks before the incident.”
“What happened at the school?” Tony joined Max at the fireplace with a cigarette.
“Adam attacked a teacher with a knife. He cut off a finger.”
“Not surprising,” Tony said staring into the popping fire.
Max sucked down another Chesterfield and threw in the butt. “I think this last bit of information will answer the rest of your questions.”
“Great. Thrill me,” Tony said.
“Adam went after his English teacher, Raymond Munson. Seems Adam had a learning disability, undiagnosed and therefore untreated. He was dyslexic. Adam struggled all through school because nobody cared enough to notice and evaluate him.”
“Damn screwed up system.”
“When Adam discovered his problem on his own, he blamed his English teacher for not doing his job, for letting him suffer.”
Elliott was ahead of the others. He analyzed Adam’s mental stagnation and emotional destruction. With a calm demeanor he asked, “What do you know about his time at the slaughter house?”
“Tucker took him every weekend from age of five to twelve. We met with people who retired from Sanderson’s. They had no idea until much later. Having a kid there broke every rule in the book. They said in the ‘70s and ‘80s they processed a hundred head of cattle on a Saturday. Harry Tucker hung them by their back leg, shot them with a stun gun, and cut their jugulars. Adam watched everything over and over again.”
They sat silent in Albert’s study. The making of a serial killer was laid out in front of them. The Bluff City Butcher was identified. He was Albert Bell’s bastard son.
He left Texas in October 1982, Elliott surmised. Adam started killing in Memphis one year later. He knew Albert Bell was his father. Felipe Ramirez was a convenient connection to his roots. But how did he know? How did he get to Memphis? He was only fourteen when he left the mobile home park. Someone had to help him with everything: the cleanup, burying the bodies, and moving the cars. Someone brought him to Memphis.
Wilcox’s cell phone vibrated. It was the MPD. “Excuse me for a minute. Don’t say anything.” He stepped out of the room to take the call.
Max took the stuffed chair next to Elliott. “What’s your opinion of this serial killer, the Bluff City Butcher?”
Elliott stared into the fire. Albert stood next to the desk crestfallen. “The Bluff City Butcher is a physically gifted, psychopathic genius who must kill. He is the most dangerous man I’ve ever encountered.”
“Why the most dangerous?” Max pushed.
“Try to imagine the meanest animal in the jungle, Max. Now make him the smartest, too. Adam is the lion with the brain of Einstein, and he needs to kill to feel alive. The Butcher’s killed many people, and he’s young. The man is unstoppable.”
Wilcox flew into the study. “I’ve got to go. We have an officer down.”
“Can you tell us anything?” Albert asked.
“High speed chase. They cornered a white van on the bluff.” Tony turned to Elliott. They knew who was driving the van. “It rammed a wall and rolled halfway down the bluff. They just found one of our guys. He was cut up pretty bad. We have people combing the area. The guy in the van is on foot. But there’s more. Carol Mason’s there. She was attacked, Landry’s Seafood parking lot on the bluff. I don’t have details. It was five minutes after our guy went down a few blocks away. Albert, Carol Mason’s car, the hood and top were torn up bad—opened like a tin can. My partner had to get off the phone. I’m sorry. I don’t think she made it.”
“I am going with you.” Elliott went out the door first. Wilcox followed.
Twenty-Seven
Carol struggled with the puzzle. Surely I’m not the first to figure this out. Dr. Sumner is guarding information, Detective Wilcox is unresponsive, and Albert Bell is spoon-feeding me and keeping his distance. Do they already know what I have? Do they have more?
Working alone had always been her style, but the MPD collaboration had more risks than anticipated—she could get blindsided. If her theory was correct, a psychotic serial predator in Memphis had been around for more than two decades.
If I get too close he would have ample opportunity to kill me. Is he the one following me, or is it Albert Bell's people keeping an eye on me?
The first day at The Tribune she had noticed the old, white van following her. A failed attempt to paint over the Busy Bee Plumbers logo made it stand out. The van was always parked across the street from The Tribune in front of a vacant lot. She saw it outside the Peabody Hotel on Second Avenue and other places.
She was in a hurry leaving the Peabody. At the valet stand she saw the white van again. Smoke fell from its exhaust pipe. When it registered, she turned away choking on her spit and trying to act natural. Who are you? Am I getting close to something? Are you the MPD tracking me? Or are you the serial killer of urban legend? She had to find out.
It was parked in her path out of the Peabody driveway. The valet slid to a stop. She got in and adjusted the mirror. The van lights popped on. What are you doing? Don’t leave now. Let me get a little closer. She put the car in gear and circled the courtyard to exit onto Second Avenue. Her headlights would point at the van. Carol eased up to the sidewalk. Her lights poured into the front seat of the van three lanes over.
“God!”
Tires spun. In the screaming smoke, the van shot into traffic clipping two cars and pushing three more off the road. Carol pulled up her skirt and wrote LHK 244 on her leg in scarlet-red lipstick. The van headed south past Beale Street. Before she could leave the Peabody parking lot, three squad cars passed with spinning lights and blaring sirens. Carol got in line. She would hang close enough to maintain a
visual but far enough to avoid interference with a police chase.
Then more squad cars converged from all directions. Carol stayed behind the original three squad cars, her BMW flashers suggesting she had good reason to be involved. She turned on her police scanner:
* * *
227 . . . Code 9 . . . we have a 10-57, late model white Ford van running south on Second at Beale . . . Code 3 pursuit
10-14 on Tennessee License: Lincoln, Henry, King, two, four, four—over
HQ—copy that
HQ, we have a 10-16—over
227 . . . stolen . . . why am I not surprised—over
227 . . . got a Code 20 South Main at Vance . . . (inaudible)
227 . . . Code 30, Code 30, subject hit squad car Talbot and South Main
227 . . . MPD upside-down spinning, possible injuries—over
HQ, check that, EMT on the way—over
227 Copy that . . . 10-60 anybody, help—over
554 . . . hello people, I got the 10-60, happy to assist—over
Holy Mother of God—can’t give a brother some lead time
554 checking in, how we doin’ 227—over
227 here, sorry about your vehicle 554, you turned him—over
Van heading north on South Front . . . someone turn him west—over
West on Butler, anybody, need help—over
998 here . . . squad car and fire truck blocking South Front at Butler
227 . . . should be good, copy that—over
998, no time, here he comes—over
HQ . . . officers converging 227—over
227 . . . block north at Vance and south at Carolina . . .
227 . . . pursuing from east ten cars back, bluff will block van—over
998 . . . we got him boxed in—over
227 . . . Holy shit, van rammed brick wall, repeat van rammed brick wall
227 . . . van rolling down bluff to Riverside Drive, block traffic—over
495 . . . Riverside shut down five minutes ago, we’re good—over
227 . . . Code 8, going down bluff on foot, injuries likely—over
HQ . . . copy that—over
227 . . . approaching van on side, need Fire ASAP—over
227 . . . I don’t see anybody, repeat . . . no . . . (inaudible)
HQ . . . 10-13—over
HQ . . . 227, 10-13—over
HQ . . . 227, 10-13—over please
HQ . . . Code 30 Tennessee at Butler, bluff—over
HQ . . . Repeat, Code 30 Tennessee at Butler, on bluff—over
HQ . . . Repeat, Code 30—over
* * *
Talbot Avenue was where Carol gave up the chase. She struggled to keep up, and after seeing two squad cars spinning on their tops thought it best to leave the chaos.
She drove to the 200 block of Wagner Place and pulled into the vacant lot by the abandoned Landry’s Seafood Restaurant. Carol parked at the southwest corner, her black BMW blending with the shadows of the only shrubs. When she slid the car into park, the courtesy lights came on. In desperation, she pulled the keys from the ignition and tossed them on the seat. The car eased back into the darkness.
If her stalker left the van and ran, there were two logical routes—north or south on the bluff. Carol waited. If you run five blocks north, I’m in the perfect spot to see. Who am I kidding? The odds of that happening are infinitesimal.
She turned off her police scanner after the van rolled down the bluff and before the police found one of their own—butchered. Carol was seconds away from starting her car, when she heard something on the bluff. Was he coming? Were feet pounding on the hard ground? Were legs thrashing through tall brush? Was that panting?
Glued to her side window, Carol peered through a small opening in the bush. She struggled to separate swaying foliage from movement on the bluff. The pounding and the thrashing stopped, but the panting remained and was near.
She turned her head to the monstrous silhouette. The hood of the car hit below his knees. The long coat and long hair lifted with the wind. The massive arms hung at its sides. Carol prayed she was part of the darkest interior of her car as she sunk deeper. What are you?
The monstrous torso faced her car, the legs anchored like rooted trees. The head aimed south to sirens. The hot breath shot into the night. Her eyes moved down the sloping forehead to the overhanging brow and squared chin. She followed the chiseled jaw to the thick, muscular neck, and then the head jerked to the car like a wild animal picking up a scent or demon picking up a presence—either fatal.
He looked at the car as if he were seeing it for the first time. Then he looked where Carol would be sitting. Oh God. Do you see me?
He knelt, only bending his knees, and he put his open hand on the hood.
It’s warm. And you know this is my car.
Carol’s hand trembled when she reached for the ignition.
I’ve gotta leave now or die.
But her keys were somewhere in the dark. And her doors were unlocked. She did everything wrong.
He raised his left hand. Moonlight found the ten-inch blade. The Butcher was four feet away on the other side of a thin piece of glass.
Maybe if Carol’s cell phone had rung a few minutes later, the light would not have confirmed her presence.
Maybe if she had left her keys in the ignition and locked the doors, everything would have been different.
When the butcher knife came down with the force of ten men, it pierced the BMW hood like tissue paper. When he pulled the knife to him with animal rage, Carol could only scream in desperation.
When the Bluff City Butcher jumped onto her hood like a lion pouncing on a lamb, and when he plunged his knife into the roof and peeled back the steel, Carol’s cries were lost in the cacophony floating from Beale Street a few blocks away.
Twenty-Eight
“It is our illusions that create the world.”
Didier Cauwelaert
* * *
Tony got from the Bell estate to the bluff in seven minutes . . .
MPD rerouted traffic. The downtown search quadrant was flush with spinning lights, screaming sirens, crawling Kevlar, and raised guns. In twelve minutes, six officers were in serious condition, one dead, four squad cars totaled, and five million dollars in damage to the city amassed. The high speed car chase evolved into an armed brigade combing the bluff. Police lights crisscrossed the night creating a giant web nothing could escape, except the Butcher.
Wilcox pulled up and stopped on the edge of the parking lot busy with police, fire, and EMTs. In the southeast corner, Carol Mason’s demolished BMW and CSI agents sat beneath flood lamps. With the car running, Tony rolled down the window to the approaching Memphis police.
“Evening, Detective Wilcox. I think they need you on the bluff at Butler.”
“First tell me what you got here.”
“A mess, sir.”
“I see. Give me the facts without the color, Officer Bentwood,” Wilcox ordered, as Elliott opened his door and kept one foot in the car. Elliott would leave if he felt medically compromised. The fear of emotional overload hung over him.
“We found Miss Mason’s BMW over there. We believe the guy we were chasing left the van and found her. He went crazy. He pierced the hood with a knife. He climbed on the hood and stabbed at Miss Mason through the roof. He got her in the head."
On that word, Elliott shut the door and left. Tony watched Elliott cross the parking lot as he halfway listened to Bentwood. Elliott stopped next to Mason’s car with his head down. He told Tony in October he had held back important information from Carol Mason, information on the Butcher. He said she had no idea what was out there. Now, Wilcox knew Elliott would blame himself for her death.
“Sir, should I wait a minute?” Bentwood asked.
Tony turned back to the young officer. “Sorry. Keep talking. You said he stabbed her in the head. When did the ME take the body?”
“There is no body, sir.”
“No body? Did he t
ake her with him?”
“No sir. Miss Mason is not dead. She survived. He got her once, a scratch on her forehead. Miss Mason is fine. She’s with paramedics in the back of that ambulance. They are patching her up. Last time I checked, she’s a little upset they’re taking so long. Sir, I don’t mind saying she is a knockout.”
Unbelievable, she survived the Butcher. “So, she made it out of that demolished BMW? I’ll be damned.”
“She said he nicked her head and she scooted as far down in the seat as she could. Apparently she bumped her headlights switch with her knee by mistake. Then she got the idea to hit her horn to get attention.”
Tony smiled, looking over at Elliott. I love it.
“She made all kinds of ruckus, and was lucky three squad cars were cutting across Wagner Place.”
“Did they see the guy that did all this?”
“No sir. Only the demolished car. They couldn’t believe it when Mason crawled out.”
Detective Harris pulled up alongside. “Thank God I found you. We need to get to Butler. Our guy died on the bluff. They want us on it before things get screwed up. Will be easier to ride with me.”
“The bastard got one,” Tony said as he jumped into Harris’s car and tossed his keys to Brentwood. “Give those to Sumner. Tell him I’ll catch up at the Peabody.”
Elliott stood alone next to the BMW. Brentwood triggered negative emotions that awakened his demons. Mason’s death was enough for Elliott to give in. He had killed her by not sharing vital information.
The Butcher easily pierced the roof and got you. He only needs one opportunity. Why didn’t I warn you? What kind of man have I become?
“Is this what I have to do to get your attention?” He recognized the voice and turned. She emerged from the chaos, the flashing lights and running rifles. She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.
The Bluff City Butcher Page 14