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

is like trying to assemble a Christmas toy without directions. Ask my opinion, I’ll tell you that this guy’s different from other types of serial killers. From the beginning, Jerry and I didn’t wanna go around ‘what ifing’. The complexities of solving the Brush Creek murders start with the victims themselves.”
One-by-one, the attendees gulped down their last swallow of coffee.
Everyone felt confident knowing their experts were putting forth substantial information.
Overstreet flopped a digitally-enhanced photo of the first victim on top of the large screen. “Let’s take a look at our first Brush Creek murder victim. Lisa Wallace, fifty-one years of age, gainfully employed with the IRS for twenty-eight years. She lived alone, was never married or had children, and attended church regularly.”
“So, what would be his motive to kill her?” Carey questioned for anyone willing to answer.
Dr. Madrey threw his arm into the air. “Lisa Wallace could’ve been an easy target for him. Upon first glance, he could’ve figured out that she was single and lived alone. Maybe he saw that she had strong tendencies of vulnerability.”
“And you could be absolutely right, Doc Madrey,” Overstreet concluded, placing the second photo up for viewing. “Men do pick up on women who are weak and vulnerable. Our second Brush Creek murder victim was Kimberly Deanna Barr, a twenty-seven year old known drug addict and prostitute who frequented the corridors of Independence Avenue and Gladstone Avenue. Kim had several priors for prostitution and drug possession.”
“Kim had to be one of his easiest targets,” Dr. Madrey addressed. “Prostitutes lead nomadic, unscheduled lives. Most don’t check in regularly with friends and relatives.”
“Think about it, how many cars do prostitutes get in and out of on a regular basis?” Carey added, his point very conclusive.
Overstreet slid the third digital photo on top. “Our third Brush Creek murder victim was Amy Alex, a Chicago native, twenty-five years of age, did some college in Chicago, and lived in Kansas City for the past several years. Amy appeared to be the anomaly type. No known ties were to drugs or prostitution.”
“Could the killer have mistaken her for a prostitute?” Carey questioned his boss.
“Maybe a hooker or a woman looking for a good time. Our fourth Brush Creek victim was Chloe Harden, white female, thirty-two years of age, a native of Emporia, Kansas. Chloe was a known prostitute and drug user who also frequented the corridors of Independence Avenue. Records show she’d been arrested numerous times for soliciting and possession.”
“One thing’s for sure, Independence Avenue is one of his hunting grounds,” Carey said.
“If the department had one wish, I’d wish that we’d find evidence to work with and get grounded into. Doc Madrey, what’s the story behind this puke hacking these women apart? I can’t figure it out for the life of me.”
Dr. Madrey fixed a perplexed wisdom across his face. “Perhaps his wife, his sister, or his mother was in a wheelchair and he had to be like their servant. He possibly had to dote on them and couldn’t have a life of his own.”
“Doesn’t quite fit with him, doc.”
“Another possibility is that he feels abandoned. The underlying psychological reason may be that this is a man whose mother or sister or aunt ran away from him. To vent his anger, he promised himself that another woman would never run away again. He’s someone who feels deserted.”
“When we’re dealing with serial killers, they’re someone who’s killing for a reason that none of us might not quite understand.”
“Right you are, detective.”
“Doc McKinnis, he’s opened my eyes a little wider on this case,” Overstreet praised. “Our lame brain psychopath has been using a Full Tang Monster Machete to chop these women apart, and that’s according to Doc McKinnis.”
“Objects such as a machete can be sexually arousing to him.”
Overstreet displayed a graphic autopsy photo of one of the Brush Creek victims. “Doc McKinnis showed me and some of my staff how precise he makes his amputations on these women. These cuts are to the point of being painstaking. Could the killer have been in the medical field or had surgical knowledge? This was the exact question Doc McKinnis and I turned to ask one another.”
“It’s obvious that these cuts are not hacking or just spur-of-the-moment,” Dr. Madrey explained to everyone. “Skilled would be a much better word for it.”
“But why dismember all four of his victims and throw them in large trashbags?”
“Either making transportation easier or trying to make a statement.”
“Why Brush Creek as a dumping ground?” Overstreet excruciatingly misunderstood. “Why not public parks? Why not the woods? Why not the Missouri River like a lot of other victims from the past?”
“Brush Creek could be a place of tranquility for him. It could be his inner sanctum, a place that he marvels after.”
“Doc McKinnis and Doc Purvis told me that our perp is definitely a Vietnam War Veteran who’s carrying around Agent Orange. Both docs said that he could be a dying man.”
“He’s sick in the mind and sick in the body.”
“The pieces to the puzzle are starting to come together. We get the few missing pieces and we can solve this case. Being a veteran, especially in a foreign war, I might can convince a federal judge to sign a warrant that’ll allow us to subpoena medical records from the VA Hospital.”
“But how many Vietnam War Veterans do we have walking around K.C. with Agent Orange swimming around inside their system?” Carey quizzed Overstreet, raising a substantial point.
“Less than those with HIV, but greater than those with the rarest of diseases.”
“Or maybe equal to those with a war-related sickness.”
“We get that warrant, that composite sketch of our suspect will be a big help.”
“The nightmare-of-a-face?”
“Yes, the mug scary enough to make a horror movie. Time’s running short, and we don’t have much of it to waste, especially since other lives are depending on us catching this guy.”
The meeting went down the stretch. A few yawns and stretches refreshed their bodies. Still, the most important evidence was missing. Overstreet and Carey exited through the garage of the headquarters on the side of the building.
As they approached their unmarked detective’s car, Overstreet whipped open one of his leather binders. “Think the chief will let us set up command posts again around Brush Creek?”
“Depends, Jerry.”
“This psychotic prick isn’t going to stop killing.”
“We all know that.”
“Anyone else in the city could become his next victim.”
A strange woman, someone unlike the average woman, approached the duo of detectives with her arm erect and her finger wavering. “Not if I can help it.”
“And you are?” Overstreet asked her, sizing her up from head-to-toe.
“Let’s put it this way, I’m the person with the answers you’re looking for.”
“It’d help if you were more specific.”
“My name’s Sandy Barnholtz. I am the president and co-founder of a group called S.A.V.E.”
“S.A.V.E.?” Overstreet repeated.
“Sisters Against Violent Encounters.”
“Didn’t your group have a prayer vigil at both Gillham Park and Brush Creek?”
“Sure did,” Sandy yelped with pride. “We are a group of women united to stop all the senseless violence against women from every walk of life.”
Overstreet extended out his hand. “My name’s Lieutenant Jerry Overstreet. I’m in charge of the homicide division within the KCPD. This is my friend and partner, Detective Carey Schroeder.”
“The pleasure’s all mine’s, detectives.”
“You said you had all the answers we’re looking for. What exactly were you talking about?”
“The Brush Creek killer, I think I might know who he is.”
“Do you think or do you know?”
“Let’s play devil’s advocate. I know exactly who he is.”
“What information do you have?”
“Can we go somewhere and talk in private?”
“Sure.”
Sandy hinted how she wanted to speak in private to Overstreet. He gestured to Carey to carry on with his normal detective duties.
“Jerry, I’ll have that paperwork on your desk by tomorrow morning.”
“Superb, Carey.”
“Alright, take care.”
Carey disappeared and Overstreet escorted Sandy over to the driver’s side of his car. Strange occurrences just kept on happening to Sandy. Walking up the sidewalk adjacent to the police headquarters was a man wearing a KC Royals cap and a thick black trenchcoat. No! It couldn’t be him. Yes! It was the man who popped up out of nowhere whenever she came out in public. She polished her vision to see if he was Charles “Charlie The Machete” Rastelli.
The badly-pitted face and scar-embedded into his neck gave him away every time. How could he have known the exact time and places she’d appear?
“Sandy, is everything okay?” Overstreet asked Sandy, firing the car up and ready to tug with traffic.
“Uh, I’m not sure, detective,” she responded with fright.
“Did something frighten you?”
“Yes and no.”
“I guess some of these downtown homeless people can be a little scary. The City Union Mission is only a few blocks away.”
Within the blink of both eyes, the man she feared so greatly had disappeared. She started to believe he had magical powers to vanish like a cloud of fog.


CHAPTER—46

The business and residential crowds had cleared from the bars and after hours places during a certain time of the evening. Overstreet dissected downtown K.C. into a million pieces and put it all back together. He found a nice and quiet Japanese restaurant right off Main Street in the heart of the Power and Light District. The lights in the upscale establishment were low.
Music played at soothing tunes. Overstreet and Sandy went to a section where they commanded complete privacy.