Evil Like Me

by Steve Bradshaw

  “I spent a few days in Stringtown talking to people. You’re right. Nobody knows much about what happened or who did it, not even the Atoka County Sheriff’s Office.”

  “Do you think I know something?” Bone asked.

  “I think there’s a possibility you do know something. I am here because your name keeps coming up, Bone. You are one of Hunter Keller’s few friends in the world, maybe his best friend.”

  “I am his friend, but Hunter’s always been a loner. We grew up together. Would go fishing and look for Bigfoot. We always enjoyed the outdoors. I don’t see him much anymore.”

  “What happened? And why’re you out here alone?”

  “Things happen. After high school I went to Norman—Oklahoma University. He went to Tahlequah—Northeastern. Now I teach at Oklahoma State. After the parents were killed, we lost track of each other. Hunter took it hard.”

  “I was told you were the only one he trusts.”

  “Well, I don’t know about that. He has other friends—Hennings, Dacus, and Tinderson. The five of us ran around together growing up. I guess I lost touch with them, too. People do grow up. We’re in different orbits now.”

  “I’m sorry to tell you, all three are dead.” Baily watched for Bone’s reaction. Would he show surprise, fear, sadness, curiosity, or would he show nothing?

  Bone set down his beer and looked up the empty dirt road. “They are dead?” he said under his breath as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

  You’re upset but don’t appear to be surprised, Baily thought. Were their deaths an expected outcome? If they were, Wilcox was right to get me to Stringtown. But maybe there’s something much bigger going on here than either of us imagined. Maybe our four connected homicides just became seven.

  “People in Stringtown don’t know about these deaths,” Baily said. “I got the names from my interviews. Then I had them checked out by my people in Memphis.”

  “How did they die? Were they all together?”

  “Hennings committed suicide in Chicago a year ago, a gun in the mouth. Dacus died in a car accident 300 miles away, St. Louis, around the same time. Dacus ran his car off a bridge into the Mississippi River—no witnesses. They found him dead in his car on a sandbar about three miles downriver.” Baily noticed Bone’s fingers trembling.

  “I don’t know what to say. What about Tinderson? What happened to him?”

  “Last month they pulled him out of White Rock Lake in Dallas. The police report said it was a boating accident. I found that odd because Tinderson didn’t own a boat. The DPD found his body floating by the dam. Tinderson was chewed up by a boat propeller.”

  Bone picked up his beer in his shaking hand and stared at the empty road.

  “I think someone killed all of them, Bone.”

  “But you said one was a suicide, one an accident, and one still an open case. You also said the deaths were in three different locations at three different times.”

  “That’s right, but I think their deaths were staged,” Baily said.

  “Why would someone kill them?” Bone barked. Then he turned back to Baily. “Do you think I did this? Is that what this is all about, why you’re here? You think I killed my best friends!”

  “Everyone close to Hunter Keller is dead except you. Keller’s parents and friends are gone. You’re still kicking, Bone Jackson. I think that is an issue.”

  “I did not kill anybody, Detective Baily.”

  “Well then, if that is the case, you are next on someone’s kill list. I tend to think that is the case. I don’t believe you killed your friends. I believe you’re on a kill list … and I believe you know why.”

  Bone crushed his beer can. “And I think you’re over thinking, detective. If anybody’s trying to kill me—which I doubt—they would have one hell of a time trying to find me out here. Trust me; I can take care of myself.”

  “I found you,” Baily shot back. “I think your luck’s running out, Bone. I ran into the guy who sold you that crappy camper. He works at the only damn gas station in Stringtown. He gave me three places to look—this was number one. He said you hunt Bigfoot every fall semester break. The guy even gave me a map and highlighted the route to your camper in the woods.”

  “Jacob Smyth did all that?”

  “Yes he did. And he will do it for other people claiming to be your buddies wanting to join in on another Bigfoot expedition. Best you start talking, Bone. They’re coming for you next. You don’t have long to live. These people are determined to eliminate you boys, and I think you know why.”

  “I don’t know why they would want to kill us,” Bone declared.

  Baily turned to the weed-covered, rock-strewn, deep-rutted, dirt road that connected to the interstate fifty miles out. Sitting on the boulder at the edge of a hundred-thousand acres of tangled scrub and woodlands unfit for a wild goat, he knew it was the perfect place for a murder.

  “I suggest you stop stonewalling and start talking.”

  With beer suds on his beard, Bone said, “I don’t like the idea of being hunted.”

  “Like you do to Bigfoot? What goes around comes around.”

  Bone stroked the weather-worn table like a cherished pet. “This is the one thing I got left. My parent’s house burned to the ground. Lost them and everything else but this.”

  “House fire. What happened?”

  “I don’t know. I never found out how the fire actually started. It happened the year the Keller’s were murdered, a month later. I was a little suspicious, but I didn’t quite know what to do about it.”

  “We don’t have a lot of time. I don’t need the epic version of things. I’ve got questions. Your answers will decide if you’re going to spend some time in a Memphis jail, or if I’m gonna help you stay alive.”

  “I need to talk to somebody. Go ahead. Let’s do this.”

  “What do you know about the Stargate Project?”

  Bone flinched at the topic. “You’re going there?”

  “I know you’re heavy into parapsychology stuff—the paranormal and psychic phenomena. You know all about telepathy, precognition, clairvoyance, psychokinesis, near-death experience, apparitions, and reincarnation just to name a few.”

  “True. But I’m not interested in apparitions and reincarnation,” Bone muttered. “Those areas are even a stretch for the open minded.”

  “Your three dead friends and Hunter Keller were into paranormal stuff too.”

  “We were attracted to ‘fringe science’ all our lives. Is that a problem, detective?”

  Baily ignored the shot. “You believe in cryptids, too. And you’re a devout Bigfooter.”

  “You act like there’s something wrong with us. Cryptozoology is the study of animals and plants not yet known. Most discoveries are eventually accepted by the scientific community. We consider ourselves explorers.”

  “Yes but you teach cognitive psychology.” He unfolded a tattered paper and read. “Cog psych is the scientific study of mental function—learning, memory, perception, reasoning, conceptual development, and decision making.” He looked up. “Did I get most of them?”

  “Close enough,” Bone muttered. “Is there a question in there somewhere?”

  “You gotta be smart to teach cognitive psychology at a major university.”

  “You think?”

  “You’re not the dumb redneck you try to project with your beard and attire, Dr. Jackson.”

  “Is there something wrong with my appearance?”

  “You’re not hunting Bigfoot. I think you’re a PhD hiding in the woods. Tell me, doctor. Do you believe the human brain is capable of things science cannot explain?”

  “I think so.”

  “No. You know so,” Baily said. “Stop the bullshit. We don’t have the time.”

  “Okay. I know so,” Bone said.

  “A lot of people in Stringtown talked to me about the Stargate Project when I asked them about Hunter Keller. I had to wonder why. First, why do so many people in a smal
l town in southeast Oklahoma have an interest in a top secret government program? And second, how does it relate to Hunter Keller?”

  “The U.S. Government does a lot of speculative research with our tax dollars, Detective Baily. In the early ’70s they recruited psychics to study the paranormal. They put ads in the newspapers looking for these people. We had a few psychics in Stringtown. They applied. As you can imagine, there’s not a lot to talk about in a small town. It was an event to have some people participate.”

  “So this is how you want to play it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean … you are a PhD in psychology teaching at a major university. I mean … you need a damn good reason to dabble in the loony world of parapsychology.”

  “Dabbling in the ‘loony’ does not put my reputation in jeopardy, detective.”

  “But none of this is ‘loony’ for you, Dr. Jackson. Your best friend’s psychic abilities were driving him insane. You had to get involved to help him. Isn’t that true?”

  “You are reaching, detective.”

  “You’re trying to help him. But now he is out of control. He is unfixable. Now he is some kind of monster. Hunter Keller is killing people and you know it!”

  “Oliver Wendell Holmes once said insanity is the logic of an accurate mind overtasked. You are reaching.”

  “I’ll make this easy for you, Dr. Jackson.” Baily leaned over the table. “You did your thesis on the Stargate Project because it was connected to Stringtown, Hunter Keller, your dead friends, and my four unsolved homicides in Memphis. I guess you can live with all that. But now it has to do with you living or dying. As far as I’m concerned, you have chosen death. I’ve decided to leave you here to die. We will stop Hunter Keller without you.”

  Bone jumped to his feet. Baily was ready for Bone to start talking. But instead, Bone stood there staring at the west horizon. He whispered, “We gotta go.”

  Baily turned in time to see the headlights bounce across the creek on the rutted dirt road.

  Nine

  “Man is manacled only by himself; thought and action are the jailers of fate.”

  James Allen

  *

  Memphis, Tennessee

  *

  If Ben had looked at the overdressed man taking a walk in the middle of the night, maybe he would not have gotten a knife in his back.

  The Super 8 on West Illinois was the most inconspicuous choice. A few hundred yards from the Mississippi River the weathered hotel in ill repair blended with the abandoned buildings, scraggly trees, and barren grounds. The location, and less scrutinizing clientele, made it the perfect place for Swenson and associates. They could come and go as they pleased, and they could monitor tails. The Dr. Petty visit was unsanctioned.

  Ben Nutley checked-in the three but paid little attention. His primary interest was under the counter, the warm bucket of chicken and a cold beer. The sooner he got rid of the three suits paying in cash the better.

  The retired Memphis school system janitor took a night manager position for supplemental income—Ben’s Social Security would never be enough. Last spring his wife had been diagnosed as morbidly obese. She tipped the scales at 512 pounds. She lived in bed 24/7 for several years. Unless something drastic changed, Ben would feed and clean her until the day she died in their doublewide down by the river.

  At three in the morning Dr. Green asked for the best way to walk to the river. Ben still did not look at the man. With his nose in a newspaper, he pointed. “You go out the front doors, go left across the parking lot and across the field. Head to the trees. River’s on the other side.”

  Ben did not see Dr. Green’s $2,000 three-piece Zegna suit, or the starched cotton shirt with diamond studded French cuffs, or the $1,200 Louis Vuitton alligator wingtips. Even if Ben had studied the doctor from Bethesda, he would not know he was looking at a four-figure outfit. Ben was too busy living his miserable life to think it odd a man would walk to the Mississippi River at three o’clock in the morning.

  The three had gotten separate rooms on separate floors. The plan was to meet for breakfast each morning. Only then would they review the prior day’s findings, discuss strategy, and plan the current day’s agenda. At the end of each day they would leave the Shelby County morgue together and in complete silence—the bugs. At the hotel they would go to their rooms. Nothing could be said there until breakfast.

  On the third day in Memphis, Dr. Green deviated from the agreed routine. He left his room at three in the morning for a meeting he would not share with his associates. Green failed to plan ahead. He did not pack casual clothes, and his scrubs were left in his locker at the morgue. Regardless, he would not risk drawing attention wearing them in a cheap hotel in the wee hours.

  When the night manager kept his nose in the paper, Green could only smile inside. He would not be remembered. Heading out the glass doors he found a new worry, soiling his expensive suit.

  Dr. Green sailed across the crumbling driveway and empty parking lot as instructed. Light from the half-moon and continuous sweeps of headlights turning onto the Arkansas-Memphis Bridge helped him avoid mud puddles and debris in the poorly cut field. As he approached the west edge, he saw the lights on the Hernando de Soto Bridge a mile to the north. He could hear the river sliding by a hundred-yards away. Green entered the stand of trees and found the fattest one with the darkest shadow. There he waited like an unfortunate fox stranded in an unfamiliar neighborhood surrounded. When he felt comfortable, he would make his phone call.

  He hit speed dial and waited, his eyes darting from one shadow to another.

  The phone crackled. “Do they know where he is?”

  Green shivered in the breeze that swept up the bank and lifted his hair. Was it the cold or nerves? Did he feel a presence? Was it nothing?

  “No,” Green whispered. “They have no idea who they are dealing with.”

  “Where is he?” The voice demanded.

  “Memphis Detective Wilcox tracked him to Sikeston. He hitched a ride with a trucker. We know he got out at the Hayti exit. About thirty minutes later the trucker, dead. Killed in a freak accident.”

  “He had a reason for being there—always does. What do we know about this dead trucker?”

  “Name’s Billy Dodson,” Green said. “He’s got a record in Louisiana. He’s a serial child molester, although he’s never been prosecuted.”

  “Parents protecting their kids, not going to trial.”

  “Dodson’s been charged a dozen times over the last five or so years. Always walked.”

  “That history’s not admissible, legal loopholes. Appears our Mr. Keller wanted to have a little chat with this child molester.”

  “Dodson will never talk to us. He ran into a herd of deer crossing the highway. It was reported as an ‘unexplainable migration’. Dodson’s truck flipped onto its side, slid down the road, caught fire, and blew up. The police report, we obtained surreptitiously, said he was hauling illegal combustibles.”

  “Keller knew it was going to happen.”

  Green took a deep breath. Another gust lifted his hair and rattled leaves. He scanned the field between him and the hotel. It appeared to be empty.

  “Did Dr. Petty mention her ‘parking lot’ visitor?”

  “No. Who visited Petty?”

  “It’s not important now.”

  A twig snapped. This time it was not the wind or the river. Green leaned out and surveyed the small stand of trees. He whispered into his phone. “Dr. Petty’s on board. She’s cooperating, but cautious. She is gathering her own information.”

  “That’s to be expected. It’s manageable. What about Blanchard? You know he cannot leave Memphis.”

  “The timing’s not right. They exhumed Pella today. Body didn’t arrive at the morgue until late. I need Blanchard for the inspection. Trust me. He won’t be a problem in twenty-four hours. What about Swenson?”

  Another twig snapped. Closer.

  “What are you doing out h
ere, Dr. Green?” The words floated on the river breeze cutting through the cluster of trees. Green spun around and recognized the silhouette. Stumbling backwards he left the woods. Green dropped his cell phone. He didn’t stop. He just ran without looking back. He could only pray he would not fall—that would be his end.

  Tripping over the crumbling asphalt, he crossed the empty lot and went for the darkest shadows by the hotel. Green was no athlete. He awkwardly skirted the brick wall dodging the shrubs until he reached the back of the building. He hid behind a dumpster and stared at the only light—it flickered above the only door on an empty loading dock.

  I will wait here until daylight and a crowd. Moving now would be suicide, he thought. How did they know?

  He had crouched in the shadows for an hour, when the backdoor whined opened. Green tried not to move, but the temptation was too great. Maybe he had waited long enough. Or was the quiet and rank smell too much? Were the unknowns lurking in the dark more than Green could bear? He was no secret agent. Green rationalized that staying too long would expose him more.

  I will be safer in the company of another. I don’t care if it’s just one, he rationalized. They wouldn’t do anything in front of an innocent bystander.

  Ben Nutley held the door with his foot as he flung the fat plastic bag into the top of the giant dumpster onto the garbage heap. Before the bag hit the pile, Green had bolted up the steps with arms waving. “Excuse me, sir. I’m afraid I got turned around.”

  Like he was watching an alien step from a flying saucer, Nutley stood half in and out at the metal door staring at the man in the suit waving his hands.

  “Excuse me, sir. You do recall I asked for directions to the river earlier. I wanted to take a short walk. Get some fresh air. Maybe see the river at night. Somehow along the way I got lost. Here I am. I would like to enter the building, please sir.”

  Ben Nutley stood in silence. Green leaned closer. Nutley’s eyes widened as if he was ready to respond. Then Nutley’s eyes rolled into his forehead. The man swayed inches and dropped forward like a dead tree. Green had stepped aside in time to avoid Nutley making contact. He watched Nutley’s face slam into the concrete and blood fill the back of his shirt. When Green turned back to darkness of the opened door, the knife sunk into his belly.