Brush Creek Charlie - D. B. Reynolds (best pdf reader for ebooks TXT) 📗

old tunnels here in Brush Creek can stretch for miles.”
“Yes, I’ve been informed.”
“Officer Lockhart, how much area have you covered?”
“Within the last hour, I’ve covered a perimeter from Brush Creek over to The Country Club Plaza, and then from south Kansas city over to the southeast part of town.”
“I’d say that that collectively covers about a ten to fifteen mile radius.”
“Approximately, yes.”
“Lockhart, tell me something.”
“Shoot.”
“The tunnel that I perp ran into, do you know where it ends?”
“Jerry, that I don’t know. Only the engineers who designed this part of our city knows that. As far as the dynamics of any of those tunnels, I don’t know much at all.”
“Is there anyone living who might know?”
“Sure there is. The Corps of Engineers who build and maintain projects here in K.C. would have knowledge about that.”
“Then The Corps of Engineers is who we need to talk to. Officer, we’re not going to find nothing out here tonight. We’re gonna finish processing the scene and get the hell away from Brush Creek.”
“Ten-four.”
The chopper provided its work in the air. Lockhart was ready to land and call it an early morning.
Overstreet wasn’t satisfied with the information Lockhart fed him. The man he desperately wanted to catch had many tricks in his bag. The game grew more intense. Treated like a valued human being, crime scene investigators carried Bruno away in a bodybag for further investigation. Tears rolled concurrently down the flushed cheeks of Jacobson. He thought of Bruno as an animal with a good personality which loved to go to work.
Jacobson had to close another sad chapter in his life.
Bruno served his time on the force and it was time to move on.
“Officer Dolan, do you have any clue as to where that tunnel ends?” Overstreet inquired, the need for solid answers aching in his bones.
Dolan moved the small gauze to the side of his face. “Jerry, I know as much about those tunnels as a baby born thirty seconds ago. Just like Barry, the engineers who deal with the sewage and water flow of Brush Creek would know better than any of us.”
“Better yet, the animal that we’re chasing after, the same sicko who butchered up those two women, probably knows those tunnels better than anyone in the whole city.”
“Who’s to say that he hasn’t been through any of these tunnels several times? From the look of things, he knows every inch of Brush Creek. He knows every tunnel, every bridge, every tree, and every walkway and bush, too.”
“Lately, he’s done made fools out of all of us.”
“Not for long, Jerry. He’ll slip up and let his guards down. We’ll have his ass brought to us on a silver platter.”
“What’s with you and Seth being ambushed by this creep?”
Dolan pounded the side of the ambulance. “Jumped from the top of the tunnel and whacked both of us across the back with a tree branch. The sonofabitch leveled us to the ground like some soldier trained in guerilla warfare.”
“Suffice to say, my guts tell me that we’re dealing with a shellshocked war veteran.”
“A war veteran who’s gone mad.”
Others had long secured the crime scene. Overstreet and Carey took a trip inside the dark and smelly tunnel leading to Satchel Paige Memorial Stadium. A CSI team and other KCPD personnel followed behind them. Stepping over and around raw sewage was no delight to their senses. The bright floodlights lit up the walls and ground.
Two huge sewer rats galloped through a stream of murky water. The rodents brought about a heightened sense of awareness.
Overstreet clutched the handle of his .357 glock. “If any of those rats come charging at me, I’ll pop one of them on impulse.”
“They’re probably all over this tunnel,” Carey said. “Sewage systems are where they set up their nests.”
“Better watch our backs every step of the way.”
“That’s to say the least.”
Carey spotted a short trail of blood at the middle of the tunnel. “Hey Jerry, come take a look at this.”
Overstreet stepped over the mound of disgusting sewage to look at Carey’s discovery. “Something tells me this blood came from our perp.”
“What about the canine Seth sent in here?”
“Our perp snapped the dog’s neck and killed him. Little or no blood came from the dog after he broke his collarbone.”
“Good point, Jerry.”
“I never went to school for forensics, but I know human blood from animal blood. The dog got some vicious bites in before he died.”
“All this blood is evidence of that.”
Overstreet cupped his mouth in frustration. “This monster operates in a covert and clandestine way. He knows when and where to strike.”
“There’s got to be a motive here.”
“Sickness in the mind is his motive.”
“We put Brush Creek under surveillance and this prick still gets away.”
“How much of our resources will we have to use to catch this guy?”
“Who knows?”
“Question now, who’s going to be his next possible victim?”
“Only him and the vic will find out.”
Detectives working under Overstreet and Carey photographed long and medium and close-up shots of the blood splattered across the floor of the tunnel. Overstreet ordered the lab to thoroughly test the DNA of the blood. For the sake of the KCPD and citizens of Kansas City, Missouri, a match could be made from someone with a criminal file.


CHAPTER—27

Charlie had already marched across the concrete channels of Brush Creek just upstream from The Country Club Plaza. Inside his apartment, he fished out large bottles of rubbing alcohol and peroxide to pamper the deep bite marks Bruno inflicted on him. The clock read 5:15 a.m. He stood before a full-length mirror inside his bathroom analyzing the painful rips which leaked blood across his arms and chest. Working in Charlie’s favor, the trained canine had all of its shots. Large soaked cotton balls were smashed onto the wounds to slow down the bleeding.
Severe concrete scrapes from crawling inside the tunnel formed big red patches around his elbows and knees. Poor Charlie. Fighting with the canine before killing him, and then fighting his way through a dark, rat-infested tunnel, reminded Charlie of fighting his way through the thick hot jungles of Vietnam. Survival remained top priority. Only the strongest of them all survived. Each time he poured alcohol or peroxide on the scrapes and bite marks, it made him grit his teeth and bite his lips from the severe stinging.
Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome from the Vietnam War. The memories wouldn’t leave Charlie alone. Worthless and guilty. It’s how he felt. Nightmares and flashbacks. They poked and nagged at him each time he opened and closed his eyes. Illusions and hallucinations of flashback episodes. Traumatic events in Vietnam reoccurred through these wicked conditions.
“Ummmmmmmm!” Charlie mumbled in anger. “War has no fucking beginning, and it has no fucking ending!”
Why did Charlie have to be victimized? Why, of all the humans ever born onto this Earth, did he have to stay alive and suffer? The living and fighting and playing in Vietnam were long over. The war demons followed him back to the United States. Death might’ve been the best thing to ever happen to him. Erasing anything from his memory which dealt with the war became harder than performing Integral Calculus.
“Daaaaaaaaaaam!” Charlie snarled in big rage. “My mind’s fucked up, my body’s fucked up, my spirit’s fucked up, and there’s nothing that I can do about any of it. What could I have done so bad to have deserved this?”
Yet another unexpected flashback entered his mind. The memory stuck to him like plaster. The 25th Infantry Division Operation chopped their way through the thick green vegetation of the jungles west of Saigon. Operation Saratoga gradually approached the Cambodian border with their M-60 and M-16 machine guns drawn, ready to open fire at a moment’s notice. Charlie and other casualties entered a dark underground tunnel with black grease paint to camouflage their faces in the dark.
Sure, Vietnam too had their share of huge rats, creatures which fed off garbage and anything to survive. The American troops moved their way through the pitch black tunnel with torch lights to lead the way.
A stench hit their sense of smell like a sledgehammer pounding directly into someone’s stomach. It became almost unbearable. Charlie and two of his fellow troopers noticed how the stench intensified the closer they got. With no warning, whatsoever, a handful of troops stumbled upon three decomposing bodies belonging to young Vietnamese soldiers, the abdomens and chest cavities all being devoured by thousands of hungry maggots.
“Gross, man, gross!” wailed an American trooper standing behind Charlie. “Wonder how many more chinks are lying dead in this tunnel?”
Charlie stared down at the three young Asian men. “Some men from another casualty company killed these Vietnamese militias from the Viet Cong.”
“Question is, are there anymore militias here inside the tunnel?”
“Could very well be. Just keep your ears and eyes open.”
Charlie and the others traveled further into the darkness of the underground tunnel. The stench began to dissipate the further they went. Familiar squeals rung out through the floor and walls.
“Charlie, Charlie, what’s that noise?” asked a soldier from the end of the formation.
“Rats,” Charlie interpreted. “Those are rats, and I’ll betcha they’re some big sonofavitches, too.”
“You know rats are a man entrée over here in Vietnam?”
“Yeah, so I’ve heard.”
“Charlie, let’s hope we don’t get gobbled up by an army of rats.”
Charlie broke a slight grin. “Back home, we’ve got a place that’s called Brush Creek, and down in this creek, rats can get as