The Bluff City Butcher

by Steve Bradshaw

  * * *

  “How do you think it went?” Carol asked in the Peabody lounge.

  “As well as could be expected,” Elliott said. He stayed back with Albert. Wilcox and Taft had more to say.

  Carol reached over and touched his hand, sliding her thumb under his shirt cuff. His eyes met hers. “I have something I must tell you, Elliott.”

  “You do?” He set his drink down and put his hand on hers.

  “I wanted to tell you at the mansion, but the time was never right. I thought once we were alone it would be better. It still feels wrong.”

  “We tell each other everything, remember? You are a professional, and I care deeply for you. It will be fine.”

  “I saw the Butcher on the bluff a few feet away. I saw his face. I did not allow fear to blind me. I will never forget his face. I know it perfectly.”

  “I know you saw the Butcher. What are you trying to say?”

  “I know who he is, Elliott. You know him, too. We were just with him.”

  Forty-One

  “Do you expect Marcus tonight?” Barry asked entering the seedy, second-floor office on South Main above Pandora’s Hair Salon. WKRC put them there a few years ago—a temporary location.

  Jimmy looked up to acknowledge the arrival of his portly program director. He then returned to the book in his lap. “I didn’t think so at first, Bear. But I’ve got a feeling about this man.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s a Navy Seal, hundred and ten percent military man. Mr. Pleasant spit shines his wallet, for God’s sake.”

  “Okay. So what?”

  “He gave me his word. I think he’ll show up unless he’s dead.” Doyle flipped the pages in volume IV on serial killers. “This one’s about the hunters.”

  Bear busied himself half listening. If there was gonna be a show, he had to have the paperwork done.

  “Says here Dr. Sumner is the biggest and baddest. The dude is responsible for taking fifty of the meanest serial killers off the streets in the last ten years. He actually killed twelve of the bastards because they were trying to kill him.”

  “I read some about him, too,” Bear said looking up from his pile. “I think I would listen to anything he had to say, if you know what I mean.”

  “Bear, I’ve got to tell you something. It happened early this morning.”

  “Sounds ominous.” He lit a cigarette. “What, Jimmy?”

  “I got called to a private meeting at the Bell mansion. They even sent a limo to pick me up. An hour later the limo dropped me at my place.”

  “Like an alien abduction,” Bear said choking on his smoke.

  “There were a dozen people there.”

  “Like who, besides the billionaire patriarch Albert Bell?”

  “Sumner, for one. The badass I just read about, the most successful forensic pathologist in the whole damn world. One-hundred percent success rate when he’s after your ass. The BCB is the only serial killer he hunted and not caught.”

  “Then it’s not a hundred percent.”

  “He’s not done, Bear. This book says Sumner hunted him ten years in six states.”

  “What about the meeting you were gonna tell me about?”

  “You can’t say a word about any of this.”

  “I got it, Jimmy.”

  “The Butcher wrote a letter. Delivered it to the Bell mansion last night. It had a list of people.”

  “A kill list?”

  “Yeah. And I’m at the top of his goddamn list.”

  “No way, Jimmy. We gotta leave town right now.”

  “No. Not gonna work. I got Sumner aside. Asked if I should leave Memphis. He said location will not stop the Butcher.”

  “Then you need police protection until they get him.”

  “They are parked outside, Bear.”

  “I didn’t see anybody out there.”

  “And if they’re doin’ their job right, you won’t.”

  “They’ll be outside the station and my apartment. Sumner said it’s the best way.”

  “I don’t like this. You never should have had Marcus Pleasant on the show.”

  “They had a video of the Butcher, Bear. He’s a freak of nature. He’s got physical assets. Runs faster than any human measured. Strong as ten men.”

  “How do they know?”

  “Albert Bell has cameras around his estate grounds. They got him on one. The FBI looked at it in DC. They’ve got some kind of secret technology. They enhanced and assessed every frame. The Butcher pounded the camera with his fist when he found it hidden in a tree knothole. FBI did compression on the pulverized wood. They calculated the Butcher’s strength that way. The video showed he ran an average thirty-seven mph.”

  “Usain Bolt just set a record at the Olympics—I think twenty-seven mph.”

  “The police can’t do much to protect us. Butcher’s too smart and unpredictable.”

  “I still think we need to leave Memphis. You can’t be that important to him.”

  “He said he would take my voice and show my body to the world. He said others would be a part of me or it. I can’t remember exact words.”

  “He’s a demon from hell, Jimmy.” Bear got up and grabbed his coat. “I can’t sit around here. I’m going out. Got some things to do before the show. You want to come?”

  “I need to finish reading this stuff. If I don’t see you back here, I’ll see you at the station. Butcher works in the dark. Tonight the place will be wall-to-wall cops.”

  “He only works in the dark?” Bear asked. “You mean night, right?”

  Doyle returned to the book. “Yeah. Night, I guess.”

  Bear went out the door, keyed the deadbolt, and walked the narrow short hallway to the narrow staircase. Halfway down the creaky risers, the lone light bulb hanging on the twenty-foot cord flickered and went out. “Perfect.”

  Bear estimated he had come and gone from their crummy office a thousand times in the last five years. Although he had to feel his way, he was confident he could navigate the rest of the way with his eyes closed.

  Like he was descending into a cold, empty basement with no windows, he felt his way down the wall. Mops and buckets and stacks of crushed boxes blocked the back door for years—no one used the alley. Towering weeds and piles of garbage were taken over by vermin years ago. The front door opened to South Main at the other end.

  Maybe if the light bulb had not gone out, Bear would have seen the mops and boxes were pushed to one side and the chain hung from the door—pulled from the wall. He would have seen the shattered molding. Bear felt his way to the front door. When he opened it, light poured in. Before his eyes could adjust, the large shadow left the wall and closed it.

  When Jimmy Doyle left the office an hour later, he too felt his way down the dark hall and staircase to the dark entry. If he had thought to tighten the light bulb, he would have seen the blood.

  Doyle never looked back that day. He didn’t see his red tracks on the sidewalk from his office toward the studio. And he didn’t even see the dried blood on his shoes.

  Forty-Two

  Elliott called Tony from Bellow’s penthouse—he went to voice mail. “Get to the Exchange Building, North Second Street at Court. I’m in Bellow’s penthouse with two bodies.”

  They were sitting at the dining room table set with the good china and silverware. Both wore business suits, white shirts, and ties. Both were missing their heads.

  Officer Starnes, the night watchman for the LIFE2 Corporation since inception, sat at the desk in the lobby. He recognized Dr. Sumner from the papers and let him go up to the penthouse, no questions asked. Elliott thought the call had come from Jack Bellow—the voice on the phone. He said come to his penthouse or someone could die. When Elliott arrived, the cracked glass doors allowed access to the secured office and Jack Bellow’s private quarters, where he found the bodies.

  “Tony. Get up here now.”

  “You kill a couple of guys, Elliott? Need help with t
he cover up?”

  “Funny. Where are you?”

  “I’m parking. You want me to call the boys or talk first?”

  “You can call the boys. No need for lights and sirens. I can assure you the two I’m looking at are dead. And we don’t need media. Get forensics up here, and Dr. Bates. He needs to see for himself.”

  “We’ll have five minutes.” Tony entered the building. “Hey Willie, this place will be crawling with cops any minute. You good with that?”

  “Guess so, detective. You need anything from me?”

  “Try to keep the media outside.” He waved as the elevator doors closed.

  Tony walked in on Elliott processing. “Is this what I think it is?” He asked as he walked around the table looking at the two well-dressed, headless corpses.

  “If you think it’s the work of the Butcher,” Elliott mumbled. “The heads were removed with one sweep. He has done it before—usually when he’s in a hurry or the victim is a secondary target. I believe Adam is getting ready to tell the world something.”

  “What’s he want us to think about now?” Tony asked.

  “Safe to assume he wants us to ponder why these two are in Bellow’s penthouse, and how they got here. They didn’t walk up in expensive suits with no heads.”

  “You think?” Tony patted pockets of the deceased.

  “The Butcher did slip a note down the esophagus of both. I wasn’t going to open presents until you got home.”

  “And they said it would never last.” Tony pulled a wallet from a back pocket and started picking through the contents.

  Elliott pulled a leather case from his breast pocket and removed long, narrow tweezers. From his other pocket, he removed disposable gloves and three envelopes. “I never know when the need will arise.”

  “You lab geeks kill me. Go ahead. Do your magic.”

  Elliott removed the first note. He unrolled the six-inch tube and read; “‘Hello, Elliott and Tony. This is the beginning. I know you had a good meeting at the mansion. I will work from my list. This is for Doyle. They will be united soon.’

  “They will be united soon—that means something. Did Jimmy Doyle have a close friend, associate, or partner?” Elliott asked.

  “Partner. We got a call tonight. His program director—Barry Branch—did not make the 6:00 p.m. show.” Tony put the contents of the first wallet on the table. “And now I have Branch’s driver’s license.”

  Elliott inserted the first note into the envelope and went fishing for the second.

  He read; “‘Hello again. How did I know you would open me second? Tony, I told you I did not want Marcus talking about me on the radio. I told Marcus twenty-five years ago to stay away, or I would send him to be with his friends. Do you wonder why I let him live? He was going to tell you tonight—too late.’”

  “Marcus Pleasant never made it to The Talk of Memphis tonight,” Tony said. “Doyle wasn’t as worried about him. After the other night, they didn’t expect Marcus to show. The poor bastard had plans to come, and the Butcher knew it.”

  “Before people start arriving, I have to tell you something. Carol met Jack Bellow for the first time, our meeting at the Bell mansion.”

  “And that matters to me why?”

  “Carol saw Jack Bellow on the hood of her car.”

  “November on the bluff? Bellow’s the Butcher? Are you kidding me?”

  “I’m not saying that exactly.”

  “Then what are you saying?”

  “We need to consider all possibilities.”

  “That’s crazy, Elliott.”

  “Carol is a professional observer. If she said she saw Jack Bellow, she did. Or, she saw someone who looked like Jack Bellow.”

  “Okay. I’m listening. It is something I never would have thought about. It is a reach, but I will keep an open mind.”

  “Did you ever take a close look at Jack Bellow? The man is six-five and easily two-hundred and fifty pounds. He is in incredible, physical shape.”

  “But how does a monster kill so many people and live a high profile life as a successful entrepreneur? He is one wealthy son of a bitch, not a nutcase.”

  Elliott placed the second note in another envelope, removed gloves and put them in the third envelope, and left all three on the table for the forensic team.

  “What if the Butcher wanted Carol to see Jack Bellow that night? Here we are, standing in his penthouse with two dead bodies.”

  “I don’t know, Elliott.”

  “I’ve never seen Carol so certain and wrong.”

  “I guess when you factor in Medino’s execution, he was Bellow’s partner.”

  “We now have a triangle of interest—BCB, Medino, and Bellow. But keep in mind, the Medino family killings were staged to look like the Butcher’s work.”

  “How can you say that?”

  “The cranial puncture wounds are the wrong diameter. The executioner purchased the wrong ice pick. Keep it quiet until we figure out who else benefits from Dr. Medino’s death.” The elevator doors opened on Bellow’s floor. A half a dozen badges got off.

  “You think Medino had some tie to the Butcher?” Tony asked.

  “Yes. And I think he witnessed Medino’s execution. Adam’s needs are evolving, Tony. After Medino died November 22, he’s on a new mission.”

  “He’s gonna do somethin’ with these heads, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. And it’s gonna be big. I’ll see you later.” Elliott stepped back as the MPD, CIS, and ME filed into the room with mouths open.

  * * *

  The headless bodies were taken from the Exchange Building in black crash bags, protected from both the heavy downpour and news cameras. The ME scheduled the inquest for seven in the morning. Dr. Bates had another long week, and no one had been crossed off the Butcher’s list.

  Tony and Elliott met at the WKRC parking lot to finish. They would tell Doyle his program director had been found dead. No details. And Tony had orders from Wade to sit on the Marcus Pleasant homicide. The death of the only survivor of the 1983 massacre would throw gasoline on flames of fear already spreading across the midsouth. But Tony owed Jimmy more. He would tell him about Marcus. Elliott said he would take the heat.

  You could see the entire floor from the glass entry. Behind the etched WKRC logo—even late on a Saturday night—buzzed a beehive of activity: people, papers, phones, and computers. Everything stopped when Tony and Elliott were spotted. With wet hair and dripping coats, they stepped onto the floor into a frozen sea of wide eyes and statues. They were escorted in silence to the owner’s glass office in the back—a trepid walk and the worst part of the job. As they approached, the office emptied except for the boss standing behind his desk, white as the driven snow. The station manager came in behind and closed the door.

  Jimmy Doyle, on air in the broadcast booth, saw the station manager signaling to shut down. For the listeners, the March 21 edition of The Talk of Memphis had gone off air due to technical difficulties. A tape of a prior show went on. No one talked, as Doyle followed the owner’s administrative assistant to the big office, the one nobody wanted to visit, ever.

  “Is Bear dead?” Doyle asked.

  “Yes, Barry Branch is dead,” Tony said. He looked at the owner and station manager. They got the message and left closing the door behind. “Jimmy, sit down.”

  “Was he killed by the . . . ?”

  “Bluff City Butcher? We think so.”

  “When Bear missed the show we looked everywhere. I called his cell. He never answered. I left messages until it was full. That lousy son of a bitch serial killer. Bear was not on his goddamn list.” Doyle held his head with his fingers spread and palms crushing his eyes.

  “The medical examiner will do the autopsy tomorrow,” Tony said.

  Elliott sat in silence on the other side of the room studying Doyle.

  “How did he die?” Doyle asked.

  “A knife. He lost a lot of blood.”

  “Oh God, why kill Bear? The bi
g guy’s harmless. Damn perverted freak.”

  Tony leaned toward Doyle on the sofa and whispered, “There’s more.” Doyle lifted his head. “It cannot leave this room.” Doyle nodded. “Barry Branch and Marcus Pleasant died together.”

  Doyle fell back on the sofa and looked at the ceiling. “The Bluff City Bastard got Marcus Pleasant, too? After twenty-five damn years he still had to kill the poor guy. How sick do you gotta be to carry a grudge that long?”

  Doyle looked over at Elliott for the first time. Up until then, he had only seen Wilcox and the dark nightmare he knew would be delivered.

  When Tony saw Doyle staring at Elliott across the room, he made the introduction. “Jimmy, this is Dr. Elliott Sumner.”

  Elliott sat in the brown leather chair with legs crossed and his long arms draped on the arms. His eyes were sharp and his chiseled face strong but concerned. He nodded.

  “I know who you are, Dr. Sumner. I saw you at the Bell mansion. You are a serial killer hunter. The Bluff City Butcher has toyed with you for more than a fucking decade.”

  Elliott let it go. Jimmy Doyle spoke the truth. “Yes, that’s me.” He caught Tony’s slight smile before the head turn. Tony always enjoyed the moments when someone tugged on Superman’s cape. They didn’t know who they were dealing with.

  “Do you remember me, Dr. Sumner?” Doyle asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Of course you do. You have a photographic memory.”

  “I’m sorry about your friend. I wish I could tell you something that mattered.”

  “Thanks, I guess.” Doyle’s anger waned and pain grew.

  “If it means anything, we will keep at this until we get him. We will get him.”